… solipsubmissive …

Totally blew off the deadline on my third book yesterday in favor of prepping my local mini “book tour” for my second book (due on shelves December 29th, and already shipping from Amazon.)  This involved driving around Charlotte, visiting bookstores to drop off promotional covers and business cards, and meeting (or, in one case, reacquainting myself with) the managers.  This takes a great deal more time the weekend before Christmas than usual.  Finding a parking space, for instance, was an adventure.  But, for the most part, it is handled.  I still have to branch out toward the western area, and maybe venture north to the University area … we’ll have to see.

The drive afforded me some time to relax, too, which was nice.  I hadn’t had a chance to just listen to some new music i’ve been intending to get to in more depth.  I’d given it a once through, and loved it … but I hadn’t listened to it.  Yesterday gave me that chance, and I bopped along in the Hybrid, singing at the top of my lungs, between bookstores.  Good stuff, good times … and a great album, by the way.  If you don’t have it, I strongly encourage you to pick up Paramore’s brand new eyes.

When I do things like this, I tend to avoid the freeways, preferring to tool along the surface streets and see what I can see.  I’m a back roads kinda girl, despite my penchant for the culture and quirks that tickle my creative soul one can typically only find in or near a large city.  Driving soothes me, and I become an extension of my car (or vice versa, perhaps.)  It was, all in all, a pretty wonderful day.  And now Sunday is here.  Back to the deadline.  I’ll take the time the evening to make a pot of Christmas gumbo for my friends at work who donated funds so that I could do so, but, for the most part, today is dedicated to that third novel.

Those of you who pre-ordered my second book Amazon have likely already received it.  Some of you have let me know (i’m lookin’ at you, sassy!) … so thank you.  I hope you enjoy.  I become incredibly nervous at this time.  Some compare a book hitting the shelves to birthing a child.  I don’t.  For me, it is more like … nudging that child into kindergarten for the first time.  You hope you’ve prepared him/her well, and that he/she will shine.  Because, for the first time, it’s out of your hands.  I’m so grateful to all of you, whether I know you or not.

~kisses for the world~

i miss you.  And i miss your words.

Full on crisis deadline mode!  Take cover, my beautiful friends … I’m goin’ in!

Somehow, I always manage to push myself into a frenzy the last month before something is due.  My history on this is long and storied.  Any high school teacher can tell you I either didn’t finish in time and got points off for turning reports in late, or I handed them in, breathless and scented of fresh ink, the final thoughts jotted in a messy hand as I dodged students and slamming lockers on the way to the class in which they were due.

I’m no different with writing deadlines, though I am certainly less inclined to simply blow them (sorry, Mrs. Pichon, for wasting so much of your time in that journalism class. ~wince~)

So … less than a month until my second novel hits shelves.  First book signing is scheduled for January 2nd, right here in my (current) home town.  Zip on by if you know the area, know me, etc …  I’d love to see you.  I may look a bit frazzled and frumpy, since my deadline on finishing the third novel is just a couple days before that.  With the holidays, the preparations for putting my house on the market, and the wicked stress at work … yeah.

Full on crisis deadline mode.  I can sleep when I’m dead, right?

Right.

In other news, my son got his driver’s license.  Those of you who have been through this know quite well the worry I’m experiencing.  You also know the decided convenience I’m enjoying, as well.  For the first time ever, he can get himself to his dental appointment on Monday, and I don’t have to do the timecard math and the supervisor gymnastics in order to get him there.  Nope.  All I have to do is toss the insurance card and copay at him and, like magic, it’s handled.

My publisher has also updated their website.  The first thirty pages of my second book can be found there if you’d care for a sneak peek.  I’m not putting the link here, for obvious reasons, but if you’re interested, leave a comment or pop me an email and i’ll send you the details.  Coolness, eh?  I’ll try to keep y’all updated on my deadline progress (mainly when I hit a wall) and to let you know of any additional book signing dates as they come available.

In the meantime, be beautiful.  ~kisses for the world~

Not ignoring y’all.  No, indeed, i am not.  Just got lots going on with my little life just now, and haven’t been able to post much.  Family, holidays, putting my house on the market, blah blah blah, etc.  Oh, and there’s that teeny little deadline thing in the background.

Yeah.

i’ll be back soon, my darlings.  In the meantime, be beautiful.

~kisses for the world~

This is a continuation; you might wish to follow this link to the beginning: Part one

After Matthew left, Stephen settled into a chair in a corner of the room to watch and wait for Elizabeth to awaken.  She was still … oddly still.  Still enough that he eventually realized she was not asleep as he had supposed.  He steepled his fingers, pressed them against his lips, and contemplated what that might mean.  She could certainly have overheard the discussion he’d had with Matthew.  He thought back, trying to remember what they’d said, and heard his own words echoing through his mind.

All she knows is that I’m the man who killed her grandparents.

He sighed.  ”Elizabeth.”

She didn’t respond.

“Elizabeth, I know you’re not sleeping.  Even the dead don’t lie as still as that.”  He stood and walked around the bed to face her, watching her cautiously as he did so.  If she’d felt the need to feign sleep, it was likely because she wanted him to let down his guard so that she could arm herself with the element of surprise.  Arm herself.

Stephen narrowed his eyes and allowed them to rove over her body.  She was still clad in his robe, her left arm resting lightly atop the blankets.  Her right arm, however, was tucked under the pillows.  He glanced quickly at her face, which remained peaceful, than followed her right arm to the point where her hand disappeared.  While he watched, a muscle in her forearm tightened, confirming his suspicions.

Cursing inwardly, he looked again at her face just as her eyes flew open.  Elizabeth sat up and raised her arm, the sharp point of the scissors she held clutched there glinting in the dim light from the single lamp.  Carefully, she moved from her seated position to her knees, her body taut and ready to spring.  ”You might overpower me in the end, but I won’t make it easy,” she warned in a hiss.

Despite himself, Stephen’s lips tugged upward in a reluctant smile.  ”Have you any idea how gloriously fierce you look, querida?”  He stood his ground, a tinge of pride etched into the chiseled lines of his face.

Elizabeth tossed her head in disdain.  ”Release me,” she commanded in an imperious tone.

“No, Elizabeth.  No.”

As she watched his lips form the words, blind fury overtook her.  She lunged forward, slashing the scissors down in his direction, then cried out in frustration when she felt his fingers close around her wrist.  She began kicking him and pounding at his chest with her free hand while he worked to uncurl her fingers from around her purloined weapon.  ”No,” she sobbed, then abruptly stopped fighting and looked up at him.  ”Why?  Why don’t you just kill me, too?”

Her eyes, rendered impossibly blue by her anguished tears, were nearly his undoing again.  He finally managed to pry the scissors from her grasp.  He tossed them across the room, watching ruefully as she followed their direction with her eyes.  ”I didn’t kill them, Elizabeth.”

“I saw you.”  Her voice was devoid of emotion, now.

Stephen shook his head.  ”No.  You saw me find them.  They were dead when I got there.”

Elizabeth shook her head wildly, her disheveled curls dancing around her face and neck.  ”I don’t believe you.”

“I know you don’t.  And you deserve the truth.  I’m not sure you’re ready.”  He watched her carefully, then asked the same question he’d asked of her in the closet of the media room.  ”How old are you, Elizabeth?”

“Twenty-three,” she answered without hesitation.

Stephen groaned inwardly.  He’d have to consult with Matthew before he tried to explain the situation.  She was dealing with far too much, emotionally, for him to pile on the knowledge that she was missing a full ten years of her life.  Ten years manufactured and controlled by him.  He pushed her ahead of him back around the bed to the door that led back into the media room, his hand still clamped around her wrist.

“Where are we going?” she demanded.

“You need to sleep.  I need to sleep.  Neither of us can do so under these circumstances.”  He turned the knob, pushed open the door, and pointed at the bank of monitors.  ”So you have a choice.  You can go back in there … or you can sleep in my room, comfortably restrained.”

Elizabeth bit her lip and looked at the closet door, recalling the items she’d seen in there.  Manacles, she remembered.  Cuffs of some kind of dark leather, lined with soft lamb’s wool.  Ropes.  He would use those to keep her from escaping, if she chose to sleep with him.  Unbidden images of the other time she’d slept in his arms crept into her mind, and she closed her eyes against them, even as she ached to be held that way, to feel warm and comfortable and … safe.  Her eyes flew open.  ”In there.  I want to go back in there.”

Though her choice didn’t surprise him, Stephen still felt a little pang of disappointment, which surprised and concerned him.  Eventually, when it was safe, he was going to have to let her go.  And, since there was no longer a need to try and lull her back into a state of blessed unawareness of her circumstances, seducing her was unnecessary.  ”As you wish,” he said only, and then led her through the room to the hall that ended in the door to her prison, nodding at the guard who stood when they appeared.  Without another word, he unlocked it, pushed it open, and released her wrist, allowing her to precede him into the room.

Elizabeth looked at the unmade bed, wondering if she would ever be able to sleep again.  She whirled around when she heard Stephen speak to the guard.  ”Here,” he said, handing over the keys.  ”Keep it locked.  Matthew will be here in the morning.  Leave a message for him to join us.”  The guard took the keys and Stephen closed the door.

“What are you doing?”  Elizabeth’s eyes were wide, her voice a little breathless.

“Getting ready for bed.”  He walked toward the bathroom.

Elizabeth followed him.  ”You’re sleeping in here?  But … I thought I had a choice.”

Stephen smiled.  ”You did, querida.  It was your choice where we would sleep.”

Part 15

Been a busy girl with all the little things that invade one’s life.  This week found me shopping for a car.  The car I have been driving since my nearly twenty-year-old daughter was in 7th grade has been a very good car.  215,000 miles good … and it’s still running fairly well with only some minor maintenance issues.  But … you know.   It was time to put her to rest.  She was gasping and coughing and being generally un-nice to the environment, and that’s just not good.

So, because the dear thing was still chugging along, I wasn’t in a terrible rush, and had time to play around with possibilities.  I knew I wanted something incredibly gas efficient, something under $10K, and something not ugly.  Hondas were high on my list, for obvious reasons.  I found a couple, but there were little issues that just had me holding off.  Until Wednesday.  (Hm, sensing a little theme there.  Snap snap.)

I found the first car with which I have ever fallen in love.

It is a  2004 Civic Hybrid in opal silver blue metallic.  Yup, that’s the actual color … it can look sky blue in the sunlight, silver in the moonlight, and it has this opal effect that just makes it shimmer.  It’s like fairy tale magic on a car.  The ad said “light blue,” which had me cringing, and i might have just passed it by, but the Hybrid part sucked me in, the test drive enchanted me, and the color just sealed the deal.  Color me happy.  Drove it off the lot with a 1 year warranty for under 9K, and am all set to enjoy an average of 40mpg.  Zip zip!

Suck it, SUV lovers.  ~beaming~

Now, with that out of the way, I can get back to the writing with a vengeance.  Be very afraid.

Stephen and Elizabeth have been on my mind, occupying space that should be used on my professional work, especially with a deadline looming.  i’ve tried to work around it, but it appears they are going to be stubborn.  i’m afraid it’s out of my hands … i’m going to have to toss another piece of the story out into the world.

i’m going to sleep on it.  Perhaps when i wake, the installment will have coalesced into a viable continuation.  In the meantime, if you’ve followed me for any length of time, you might want to brush up.  If you’re new, perhaps you’d like to bring yourself up to date.  Either way, look for part fourteen in the coming days.

the lesson, part one

This is a continuation.  You might want to go back to the beginning by clicking on this link: Part one.

“Hush.”

Her heart was pounding in her ears, the blood rushing to keep up with the adrenaline, to keep pace with the rapid pulse, as Zoe struggled against the hands that held her down.  She opened her mouth to scream, but before she could make a sound, his mouth descended on hers, stealing her breath with a kiss more cruel than caressing.  Still it shocked her into momentary immobility as she felt herself begin to respond.

An instant later, she realized what she’d done.  Zoe recoiled in horror and began struggling again, kicking and bucking against the body that pinned her, pulling with all the strength she had against the large hand that held both of her wrists in a single, strong grip above her head.  She turned her head to the side, finally wrenching her lips from his.  ”Who are you?” she managed on a choked gasp.

He chuckled softly, close to her ear, and pulled back.  She lifted her eyes, allowed them to rove up the front of the black broadcloth, to follow the glittering row of obsidian buttons, past the stark white square at his throat to his chin, strong and set and stubbled with a day’s growth of beard …

Zoe sat bolt upright with a gasp and clutched the covers to her chest with shaking hands.  Beside the bed, her cell phone rang with steady insistence, but she didn’t reach for it.  After the sixth ring, it stopped.  A moment later, the alert sounded that let her know the caller had left a voice mail.  She dropped her head into her hands.  ”Jesus Christ,” she muttered and looked at the window.  From the position and color of the rays slanting in through the small space between her curtains, she guessed it to be about 3pm.

She sighed, pushed back the covers and got out of bed, pieces of the dream still floating about.  No less than she deserved, she thought with a silent snort, after her nocturnal conversation with that priest.  Without bothering to pull up the sheets and make the bed, Zoe headed for the shower.  If she didn’t get to the market before it closed, she’d have no fresh produce for dinner.  Quite forgetting the message on her cell phone, she stepped into the bathroom and closed the door.

Twenty minutes later she emerged, her dark hair piled on her head and wrapped in a towel, her skin flushed a becoming shade of pink from the heat of her shower.  She flipped upside down and unwound the towel, gave her head a cursory rub, then straightened and began gathering it into a knot at her crown, knowing she hadn’t time to let it dry.  She stabbed a couple chopsticks into the mass, then hurriedly pulled on a pair of sweats and her sports bra.  She was just reaching for her t-shirt when the cell phone rang again.  Tugging it over her head, she walked over to the nightstand, glanced at the display and winced.  Her agent.  She jabbed a finger at the button to answer it.  ”Hi, Gracie.”

“Finally!  I’ve been calling all day.”  The older woman launched into a rant about the many times she’d called, her voice rising and falling as she described the worry, the anguish, the despair, the need to know exactly where she was on the novel, and did she realize her deadline was approaching at an astonishing rate.

Zoe waited for an appropriate pause, then said again, “Hi, Gracie.”

The woman on the other end signed in exasperation.  ”Could you at least tell me when you’re going to go off the grid for weeks at a time?”

Zoe scooped her keys from the counter, grabbed her purse and nodded, then realized Gracie couldn’t hear her head move.  ”I’ll try to remember,” she said as she stepped into the hallway.

“Where are you going now?”

“To the market.  If I don’t get food, I won’t be able to write, and you’d have to find a new writer about whom you can worry.”

Gracie paused.  ”All right.  But call me tomorrow so we can discuss where you are on this project.  I need to narrow down the release date so I can start the promotional projects.”

“I promise,” said Zoe.  ”Bye, now.”  She found the off button with her thumb without waiting to hear a return good-bye and slipped the phone into her handbag.  She skipped down the stairs and popped out the access door, almost running into a rough-looking red-headed boy in the process.  She gave him a distracted smile of apology, and headed down the street, her mind already slipping into the scene she was currently writing.

As she’d feared, the fruit was dreadfully picked over, but she managed to find enough to make up a quick fruit salad.  She picked out some zucchini and eggplant for roasting, slipped them into her mesh bag, and paid for them.  The little old lady behind the register gave her a reproachful look, and Zoe realized it was a few minutes past the time they usually closed.  Sheepishly, she smiled, took her bag and slung it over her shoulder.   She left the market and headed for home at a jaunty pace.

She’d paid little attention to her surroundings on the walk to the market, but she’d managed to work out the scene she’d write that night, and now she looked around with interest.  Her daily walk to the market normally took place in the late morning or early afternoon.  The neighborhood was a different place at this hour.  The buildings and pedestrians cast long shadows, and everyone seemed in a hurry to end their day, to get home, no doubt to their families and evening meals.  Zoe looked wistfully at the whizzing cars as they passed, wondering if they all had someone to whom they were going home.

No sense revisiting her melancholy of the night before.  She fixed her eyes on the sidewalk in front of her, watching the way her elongated shadow stretched before her.  She felt the warmth of the setting sun on  her back, and realized it would likely dry her hair by the time she got home if she released it from the sticks that confined it.  She reached up and plucked them out, one at a time, then stopped to slip them into her handbag.  As she let them go, she realized there was another shadow next to hers, it’s head even with her feet, that had stopped as well.

Instant alarm hit her, but she forced herself to remain calm.  She took another dozen steps, watching as the shadow kept pace, then stopped again.  It stopped, too.  The cars continued to speed by, and there were no other pedestrians on this street.  Zoe bit her lip, then decided that if she was going to be a victim, she wouldn’t be a willing one.  Without warning she whirled around to face her pursuer.

The boy she’d bumped into outside her building stood there, his hands shoved into his pockets, his face in shadow because of the setting sun behind him.  For a moment, they stared at one another.  Zoe opened her mouth to ask why he was following her, but he didn’t wait for her question.  One moment he was standing a dozen feet away, and the next he’d taken off running down an alley between the buildings.

Perplexed, she watched him go, then turned and headed home.  With a little shudder, she picked up the pace a bit.

Continue to:  Part five

There are times my fingertips fairly ache to stroke the keys, when the words are tumbling and churning and reeling inside me, when emotion crowds upon emotion, when those feelings fight over the dancing words, each wishing to claim the best for itself.

It is physical, this need to capture this whatever it is, to cage the right descriptive phrases that will convey to you and you and you my anguish, my sorrow, my joy, or my bliss.  i can feel my tummy flipping and this steady gripping tightness in my chest, almost an anxiety, because one never knows if the words will be friendly, if i can lightly link them and properly twist them until you can feel it, feel what i feel, when you read.

i think of you when i write, as i will forever … even when i feel my resolve begin to crumble.

You make my words beautiful.