#SaturdayScenes No. 13

For #SaturdayScenes this week, I bring you Patricia O'Neill, from my WIP: Her Father's Daughter. Patricia was kidnapped in one of the first chapters of the book. Let's see where she was taken:

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Patricia awoke some hours later, strapped to a hospital gurney. A bright light burned above her. There was a whooshing sound behind her and off to the right. She arched her back a little trying to see behind her, but couldn’t make out anything other than more bright lights. The room smelled sweet and Patricia remembered the pink powder. That bitch! To think she’d been feeling all sentimental, worrying about what had ever happened to her good friend, worrying that she was lost to the system or dead somewhere.

She was going to wish she was dead when Patricia was done with her. Apparently the Cindy she knew was gone, if she had ever existed. She was taking all her plays straight from the crazy handbook. And she was crazy if she thought bright lights and gurney straps were going to keep Patricia O’Neill in a place she didn’t want to be in.

Patricia closed her eyes to channel her anger and upset and trigger her transformation into what she’d come to think of as the Dragon Lady. It wasn’t like she had to dig for it. This was fresh hurt, new betrayal. It was right there, barely beneath the surface. It was only a matter of seconds before she felt the gurney beginning to collapse beneath the weight of her fully armored self. The Hyde to her Jekyll. The metal supports squealed as they bent and Patricia stood, shaking off the remnants of the restraint straps like ribbons.

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She took a strong stance, arms at the ready and weight balanced on her toes to facilitate quick movement and waited for the attack. But none was forthcoming. The bright lights were painful. Patricia shielded her eyes with one taloned hand, but couldn’t make out any details of the room. She stalked to the nearest light and pushed it over, knocking it into the neighboring light. That one hit its neighbor in turn and before long Patricia was standing in a pile of broken glass and steaming light poles, grinning.

The lights extinguished, Patricia began to be able to make out the details of the room. She seemed to be in a medical observation room. Above the operating floor she could see a glassed-in observation area. The whooshing sound she had heard when she first regained consciousness was coming from a machine against the far wall. It was glowing a pale yellow color. Patricia walked towards it, still fuming and looking for more things to smash.

The machine had a glass top. Something about it seemed a little familiar. In spite of herself, she felt curious. There was something to be said for looking for answers before smashing the place up, after all. She’d need to know where she was and if Cindy had anyone else helping her. As she moved nearer the machine, she began to hear another sound intermixed with the whooshing, a metallic tapping. It seemed to follow a pattern, but she couldn’t parse it. She stood still, listening. Was it Morse code? Who the hell would be trying to communicate with her in Morse code? She only barely knew what Morse code was, and certainly couldn’t translate it into words.

Patricia stopped and examined the machine from where she stood in the middle of the room. It was a long rectangular box, maybe four or four and a half feet long. It appeared to be silver, though it was hard to tell in the diffuse light. The only illumination came from the observation area above her now that Patricia had broken all the other lights. There were industrial handles on the top of the case that somehow reminded Patricia of outer space. Or maybe it was just the other-worldly yellow light that emitted from the glassed in portion of the top. Whatever the device was, the tapping was definitely coming from within.

Patricia looked around again. She felt apprehensive, though she couldn’t have said why. Nothing about the sounds or the lights had changed. She saw and heard no one. Other than the tapping, and the whooshing noise the functioning of the machine seemed to make, it was deadly quiet.

Shaking off her foreboding, Patricia moved towards the machine. The spikes growing from her upper back and arms seemed to grow longer. She was aware of them in a way that she usually wasn’t. But she made no effort to calm herself and pull them in. She still felt that some kind of attack was imminent and she wanted to be ready for it when it came.

Alongside the machine, she wiped a layer of moisture from the glass and peered through it. Inside was an Asian girl, approximately age eleven, her face tense with concentration. She was tapping against the metal tubing that ran over her head. Her movements corresponded with the sounds Patricia was hearing. Patricia felt her heart begin to race. The girl turned and met Patricia’s gaze through the glass. She stopped tapping and spread her palm against the glass, tears filling her eyes. It was Cindy Liu.

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If you would like to check out more scenes by some really great writers, you should search under the hashtag #Saturdayscenes. The movement is the brainchild of +John Ward , who suggested that writers should share their work each Saturday.

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My other #SaturdayScenes contributions:

Week One: Elopement Day from WIP, Cold Spring

Week Two: Linda Makes a First Impression from WIP, Her Father's Daughter, sequel to Going Through the Change

Week Three: Claiming Alex, from unpublished novel His Other Mother

Week Four: Things Get Hairy for Linda, from unpublished novel Going Through the Change

Week Five: a poem: A Clear Day in Kodiak, Alaska

Week Six: a snippet from an idea barely begun, Lacrosse Zombies

Week Seven: Mathilde's Visit, from WIP, Cold Spring
Week Eight: Sherry bakes, from His Other Mother
Week Nine: I Said So, Didn't I? (a scene in dialogue)
Week Ten: Losing Faith (a poem)
Week Eleven: Shop Girl, from WIP, Cold Spring
Week Twelve: Mary Braeburn, from WIP, Her Father's Daughter

In the Writing Bubble

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After a good writing session, I surface with a gulp of air as if I've been deep sea diving for the past few hours. I'm so immersed in my imagined world that the real world doesn't quite make sense to me. I can't figure out why my dog doesn't look the one my main character owns or why the children in my house are the wrong ages and genders.

On a really good day, I stay in my story all day. While I'm walking the dog, I'm plotting the next big thing, or figuring out how to complicate the lives of my characters in the most interesting ways. It's like living in two worlds at once, where I move this one doing the right things, but my mind is still in the bubble.

So forgive me if I don't seem quite "there" when you talk to me. I'm probably still somewhere else.

Summer Reading: Week Seven

I've mostly been reading my own work this week.  Last week, I finished book one of a historical fiction trilogy I'm working on. So this week was a shifting gears week, back to my superheroes. As you would imagine, that's a completely different world and style. Making the shift was harder than I thought it would be.

When it became clear I wasn't going to be able to just jump in and pick up where I left off, I re-read a lot of the first novel and what I had written so far on the second and made myself some charts. Charts are vital for me as a writer in following all the different threads and making sure I don't make silly continuity errors, like having some appear in a scene after he already died, or having a character in two places at the same time. In a sequel, it's even more vital because I can't contradict what took place in book one.

I also read a few stories for an online critique group I participate in for developing my short stories, and worked on another beta read. I do read a lot! Mostly, it's just not yet published.

So far as published books, I did manage to read more of Greatshadow by James Maxey--I'm in the end battle now and still really enjoying it. James has created an interesting band of adventurers with a variety of motivations and abilities. In a recent part I read, a man transformed into a worm and was cut in half. When he turned back into a man, there were now two of him.

I'm also reading Don Quijote, the next choice for my library's Monday classics book club.  I'm doing a lot better with Cervantes than I did with Faulkner. I last fully read Don Quijote in college and I've been trying to read it in Spanish for years, but it's a serious stretch for my Spanish skills, so it's slow going. For book club, I'll stick with the English. Mine is translated by Tobias Smollett. It's the same one I read previously, just a new copy since the old one fell apart on me.

Book clubs are a great motivator for me since they give me a deadline and help me prioritize time to finish things. As my blog title suggests, I'm always trying to balance the hours of the day for everything I want out of them: sleeping, working for pay, writing, playing, reading, social life. Even in summer, when most of my hours are mine to arrange, it's difficult to balance things so that each day feels comprised of the right things and leaves me feeling good.

Now, NJ is a reader! Books are her life.  We took in our reading log to the library a couple of days ago, so she could get her prizes. Over the course of twenty days (since we'd last turned in our count), she read over 1900 minutes. That's practically a full work week! Her obsession with Tiny Titans continues and we decimated the graphic novels section, picking her up old favorites like Babymouse, and a few new things to explore like Geronimo Stilton and Squish. For our audio book, we chose a Ghosthunters that we had missed: The Moldy Baroness. It promises to be very exciting.

M had a camp all this last week, so read less. She did finish Fangirl by Rainbow Rowell while she was traveling and said she really enjoyed it, though Eleanor and Park was better. She's been choosing more emotional storylines lately after a lifetime of being an adventure fan. Watch out Rick Riordan, you might be replaced!

Summer is beginning its wind-down now, sadly. One of us starts school on August 18.  We'd best get back to our books if we're going to get it all read by then!

#SaturdayScenes: No. 12

For #SaturdayScenes this week, I bring you Mary Braeburn, a new voice in my WIP: Her Father's Daughter. Mary's been trying to find her mother, the fire-wielding henchwoman, Helen, from the first novel. Digging in the wrong places got her captured by the Department. Here's where she ended up:

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“She’s awake.”

Mary heard the voice, but, when she tried to open her eyes, she plummeted back into darkness. Waking felt like a steep climb up a slimy-walled pit. It took several more tries before she was able to convince her eyelids to lift. When she finally succeeded, she immediately closed them again. She had to still be asleep.

She sat up in bed, ducking her head into her hands and rubbing at her eyes with the heels of her

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hands. She opened her eyes again. She was in a child’s room. The walls were painted pink and decorated with a border featuring white fluffy bunny rabbits. The bed she was in had a canopy made of white lace and the bedsheets were a shade of pink that matched the walls. It looked like someone had painted the room in Pepto-Bismo. “Where the fuck am I?” she asked the walls.

Sliding her feet out of the bed, she sat up. She felt a little dizzy and her mouth was dry and cottony and tasted terrible. She stood, gripping one of the posts of the bed to support herself as she found her balance. She was wearing a hospital gown, she realized. One that was too short for her, and printed with pink checks and white daisies.

She could see a bathroom a few steps away and pushed off towards it. Her knees wobbled, but she was able to stumble to the doorframe and into the bathroom. She made it just in time to relieve her suddenly painfully full bladder into a too small toilet. She was washing her hands at a sink that only came up to her thighs when she heard the door open.

“Ah! I’m glad to see that you’re awake. Here.” The woman handed her a pile of pink hospital scrubs. “These will fit you better.”

When Mary just stood there, dumbstruck, the woman smiled. “It’s alright. I’ll wait.” She pushed Mary back into the bathroom and closed the door to the smaller room.

Mary stood behind the door listening. She heard the sound of bedsprings creaking and figured the woman must have taken a seat on the bed. Mary had no idea what was going on, but figured whatever it was would be better with pants that covered her ass, so she pulled on the scrubs as quickly as she could, gripping the towel rack for balance. She banged her elbow painfully, scrambling to open the door.

The woman was, indeed, seated on the bed. She was a short, slender woman with big squarish black glasses and brown hair pulled back from her face in a severe bun. She didn’t look any older than Mary, though she wore a lab coat and a badge that announced that she was Dr. Kimberly Sugg.

“That must feel better. Please sit down.” The woman patted the bed beside her and pulled a small medical light out of a pocket. “Just follow the light, please.” Mary cooperated with a series of small commands, similar to what the doctor had asked her to do when they’d thought she might have a concussion after that car wreck last year. Her mind tried to form questions, but it was like her thoughts were too spread out and she couldn’t quite rein them in and form something coherent from them.

“I’m sorry for the confusion. When they told us they had Ms. Braeburn’s daughter, we assumed you were a child and you were placed in the girl’s room. I’ll have you moved to another room soon.”

Mary finally managed to speak. “Does that mean you have my mother?”

“Us? No. She’s being held at another division. We’re the pediatric division.” The woman tapped her ear then, apparently activating some kind of ear piece. “She’s fine. Is transport ready?” Turning back to Mary, the woman smiled. “I know you must be confused. They’ll explain everything soon.” There was a tap at the door. Dr. Sugg stood and opened the door, admitting a tall, thin man who had to duck to get through the doorway. He was pushing a wheelchair. “You probably don’t need the chair, but we don’t want to risk you falling. The drugs can affect your nervous system for a few hours after waking.”

The man approached the bed, and place his arm under Mary’s, presumably to help her stand. His grip was gentle, but firm. She let him lead her to the wheelchair. Dr. Sugg waggled her fingers at her as the man rolled her away. “Bye bye now!”

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If you would like to check out more scenes by some really great writers, you should search under the hashtag #Saturdayscenes. The movement is the brainchild of +John Ward , who suggested that writers should share their work each Saturday.

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My other #SaturdayScenes contributions:

Week One: Elopement Day from WIP, Cold Spring

Week Two: Linda Makes a First Impression from WIP, Her Father's Daughter, sequel to Going Through the Change

Week Three: Claiming Alex, from unpublished novel His Other Mother

Week Four: Things Get Hairy for Linda, from unpublished novel Going Through the Change

Week Five: a poem: A Clear Day in Kodiak, Alaska

Week Six: a snippet from an idea barely begun, Lacrosse Zombies

Week Seven: Mathilde's Visit, from WIP, Cold Spring
Week Eight: Sherry bakes, from His Other Mother
Week Nine: I Said So, Didn't I? (a scene in dialogue)
Week Ten: Losing Faith (a poem)
Week Eleven: Shop Girl, from WIP, Cold Spring

GenCon Bound

I had never heard of GenCon before my husband and I began dating. This is kind of funny when you consider how close I lived to one of the largest gaming conventions in the country during long portions of my life. Of course, before my husband came into my life, I was a girl who enjoyed games, not a gamer girl. Even now, compared to hard-core gamers, I have barely put my toes into the water.

The year we married, T and I went to GenCon. In fact, we joke that we brought our daughter home with us as GenCon swag (the timing almost works).

That first year, I was startled, to say the least. This is a HUGE event. Overstimulating doesn't begin to cover it. The dealer's hall alone can take an entire day to fully explore. It's visually overwhelming, too, with cosplayers and demonstrators everywhere. Luckily, I had a great tour guide, who set me up with a tourney to enjoy (Dreamblade!) and understood that I'd need to retreat to our room from time to time to read in the quiet.

We've only been back once so far. (Children are expensive and take up a lot of time.) But the second time we went, I learned about the Writer's Symposium, sort of an event within an event there at the con.  It features seminars and workshops for writers. Of course, it concentrates on genre writers . . . after all, it is a gaming con. But the advice is applicable to any kind of writing. I attended a few sessions that year. There was one about writing physical combat scenes (the session was called Mano a Mano) that proved invaluable to me two years later, when I was writing the final battle scene in my superhero novel. I can't wait to see what I can learn this year!

The best part is the price. Most writing conferences are too rich for my blood. It's a catch-22 in that I don't feel I can justify the expense when I'm not yet making money on my writing, even if that's a good way to learn how to make money from my writing.

But, I can go to the Writer's Symposium for the cost of my $80 pass, and little else.  Most of the

Writer's Symposium events are free. The few I chose that did cost, were $8 each. Now, that fits my budget. Plus, now I have a cousin in Indianapolis. She'll let me crash with her and save me the hotel monies as well.

So this year, I'm in an odd spot, heading to the Best Four Days in Gaming, without my gamer guy. I'll be spending most of my time in the Writer's Symposium, learning about the business of writing from writers who are maybe just a little ahead of me in this venture, and from bigger names in the field. I'll get three days of focus on writing in an environment full of my potential readers. I'm one lucky girl.

Summer Reading: Week Six

I had writing critique group this Sunday (hurray!), so my top priority was to read the excerpts from my fellow writers. It's a different sort of reading than just reading. I'm reading to provide feedback, so I read each piece at least twice, making margin notes as I read about my reading experience: what bumped, what was awesome, what I don't believe, what errors my friends made, etc. It's really useful for my own growth as a writer, and not just on the days that it's my work being critiqued.

I learn a lot from being forced to define as precisely as possible what the problem is in the piece. I learn even more trying to come up with suggestions about how best to fix it. The discussions open my brain in the most exciting ways. My critique group is the best!

I also had a huge writing week. I wrote an average of 2,000 words a day, and, as a result finished the draft of Cold Spring that I was working on. In finishing the draft, I did a lot of nonfiction reading (web articles and books) about various historical details that came up. How did writers write historical fiction before the internet? I'll have a lot of research to do before I can really take on book two in that saga.

So, the only novel reading I did was casual and light. I didn't finish anything at all this week! I continued to read Greatshadow by James Maxey and Mothers by +Michelle Read  but can't really report on those yet as I've not finished. I can tell you that I'm still engaged with both and intend to finish them. That's saying something as I've become, in recent years, more willing to abandon a book that doesn't really pull me in.

My other reading was online: blogs, articles, etc. I followed the Hobby Lobby decision and the opinion articles afterwards. I grew up thinking our society was past the most blatant and rampant sexism of our past, so this and other recent political volleys have been a bit of a shock. Politics is exhausting. It's worse than housework for that Sisiphyusian feeling of futility--you win a fight, and immediately have to fight it again.

NJ's reading was much more fun. After the success of Captain Diaper Baby, we were back at the library looking for everything else we could find in that vein. Captain Underpants was all checked out, so we got Ook and Gluk. An unfortunate side effect has been rampant caveman speak from my normally articulate seven year old, but it comes with lots of laughter, so I can't complain too much.

One of the hard things right now is convincing NJ to give books back to the library. I've had to make a rule that she can't have more library books without giving back an equal number of library books we already checked out. Each trip to the library (and we go at least twice a week during the summer) requires a good twenty minutes moving the books into different piles and deciding which ones she is ready to part with. Sometimes there are tears when I insist that certain books have to go back this time because they are actually due. That girl loves her books!

Our neighborhood also has a Little Library in the community park now, so that's another place to exchange a book we're finished with for a new one. She wants to go every day, worried she'll miss a really good book, but it's even harder to let go of books she owns than it is to rotate library books.

M, the teen, is back home now (another hurray!), so soon I'll be able to update about her summer reading. I'm happy to be able to report that she does read things longer than a text message :-)

I hope you're all finding time for books in your lives this summer, too. What are you reading?

#SaturdayScenes: No. 11

I finished a draft of my new novel on Thursday. So, in celebration, I bring you a #saturdayscenes from Cold Spring, my historical fiction piece. This scene comes near the end of the book.

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Chapter Thirty-Two: 1930, Shop Girl

Freda liked working at Whitaker’s. She liked her striped apron and little white cap. She liked listening to the women talking as they shopped. She liked the thousands of small ways that it had brought she and Simon together over the past two years. Working by his side was like getting a taste of what it would be like to be his wife someday. They worked well together, finishing each other’s sentences and knowing which way the other was going to move. It was good to see that they could work as well as play together. Of course, Simon wasn’t in the store that often anymore, his duties for City Council taking a lot of his time and energy.

When they were in the store together, Simon never failed to treat her respectfully, as he might any other employee. The occasional rumor still floated by within Freda’s earshot, but she didn’t let it worry her, trusting to her future with Simon. When they were alone together, he had began to call her “Miss Wurth,” mocking the formal tone they used with each other at the store, until her touches had him calling out her first name again. “Oh, yes, Freda.” Simon had still not yet broached the topic of their marriage again, but Freda believed in him, and trusted that he would choose the right moment. In the meantime, she could be a wife to him in spirit, if not in fact. She tried to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach that sometimes came upon her when she thought about her position. She had to trust to the goodness of the man to whom she had given her heart. Some days that worried her more than other days.

When Simon had first proposed that Freda take the job as shop clerk, two years before, Freda had expected that he would have to fight for her. On the contrary, Mr. Whitaker hadn’t objected at all. In fact, he had welcomed her warmly, seeming glad to have the opportunity to know her better and to train her in the store management. He had paid her a good wage, too, one that Freda suspected was a little higher than another woman would have earned for the same work. It was enough to let Freda take care of the farm taxes and refill the emergency fund in the coffee can in her kitchen.

In her two years at the grocery, Freda had worked most of the jobs in the store. She had weighed the vegetables and bagged them up for delivery. She had helped fussy ladies choose material for their dresses and cut the requested amounts from the huge heavy bolts. She helped Mr. Whitaker count up the money at day’s end and do the inventory. He said that she had a better head for figures than his son did. Freda had beamed all day from the compliment. Most days it was wonderful.

This, however, wasn’t one of those days. Freda had been alone in the shop most of the day. Mr. Whitaker had stayed home nursing his sore back and Mrs. Whitaker had excused herself late in the morning to see to her husband. The store had been very busy, and Freda felt like she had been running all day. It was going to be very good indeed to get home and put her feet up.

Her tiredness made it hard to muster a smile when Mary Perkins, the mayor’s daughter, came in at nearly the end of the work day. Mary had been rude to Freda over and over again during her tenure at the store. While other women who shopped in the store called Freda by name if they knew her or “Miss” if they didn’t, Mary always called her “shop girl.” There was something in Mary’s tone that made the two innocuous words sound more like “insect” or “mongrel.”

She didn’t speak to Mr. and Mrs. Whitaker with that tone. In fact, she seemed to become simperingly sweet if one of them were nearby. She was also polite and even somewhat friendly if young Mr. Gibson, the other shop clerk, waited on her. Freda had no idea why, but Miss Perkins seemed to have singled her out as the target for all her sharp-tongued ill-nature.

It was even worse when Mary simpered at her Simon. If Simon were in the store, she’d always manage to make sure it was he who helped her with her purchases. She’d touch him more than was necessary and flutter her eyelashes at him. Sometimes, Simon seemed to flirt back. Freda reminded herself that Simon was a politician now and that his personal charm was essential to his success, but she wished he would be a little less charming when it came to Miss Perkins. She didn’t complain directly, but she was sure Simon knew how she felt about it.

Given this history, Freda tried to keep herself busy in another part of the shop whenever Mary was in the store and let someone else wait on Mary and her friends. Today, though, she was alone in the shop. Freda would have to deal with the mayor’s daughter herself. Taking a deep breath, Freda drew herself up straight and waited for the strident call of “Shop girl!”

Freda knew that Mary had been to a finishing school in Boston. She overhear her lamenting to the other town girls about the lack of refinement and breeding in Cold Spring. Obviously, she didn’t think much of the small Kentucky town her father had brought her to. The fabrics Whitaker’s stocked were never elegant enough for her. The home goods were not appropriate for the home of a lady of sophistication. Even the produce, apparently, was of larger size and higher quality in Boston.

Though she dearly wanted to, Freda never spoke up to defend her store, her employer or her town. She knew that Mr. Whitaker would want her to provide quiet service, not give her cause for complaint. So, she bit her tongue yet again today, listening to Mary chatter to her friends as they made fun of the new table linens the store had just gotten in the week before. Freda thought them lovely and often fingered them when she was alone in the shop, imagining buying them to use on her own table when she hosted a fine dinner party for her husband and his friends. It hurt to hear them disparaged, almost as if they were already hers.

Fighting down her anger, Freda stepped to the back of the shop and brought out more bags of beans. It wasn’t really necessary. There were still five on the shelf. But, it gave her something to do and took her out of earshot for at least a few minutes.

She was surprised when she turned around after placing the beans and found Mary standing directly behind her. “Can I help you, Miss?” Freda asked, her voice even and her face carefully blank.

“No. It simply can’t be true,” Mary said.

Freda blinked. What couldn’t be true? She held her tongue, giving Mary the opportunity to speak her mind, but not asking. Curiosity killed the cat, she thought. There was definitely something cat-like about Mary Perkins, and Freda felt instinctively that, were she to respond, she’d see the claws up close.

Mary seemed disappointed by her response, or lack thereof, and flounced away, speaking loudly as she left to make sure that Freda heard her hurtful words. “They say that frumpy spinster once had the heart of Mr. Whitaker’s handsome son. I simply refuse to believe it!”

Freda leaned heavily against the counter. It was a relief the woman had left, and at least now she knew why Miss Perkins hated her so much. She was interested in Simon. She could hardly wait to tell him what had happened. He would laugh with her over the idea of a silly and shallow little thing like Miss Perkins setting her cap for her Simon. She was everything he’d always said he’d hated. She lowered her hand to her stomach, trying to quiet the strange feeling that had erupted there. Had. She was quite sure that the girl said had. Not has.

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If you would like to check out more scenes by some really great writers, you should search under the hashtag #Saturdayscenes. The movement is the brainchild of +John Ward , who suggested that writers should share their work each Saturday.

_________________________________

My other #SaturdayScenes contributions:

Week One: Elopement Day from WIP, Cold Spring

Week Two: Linda Makes a First Impression from WIP, Her Father's Daughter, sequel to Going Through the Change

Week Three: Claiming Alex, from unpublished novel His Other Mother

Week Four: Things Get Hairy for Linda, from unpublished novel Going Through the Change

Week Five: a poem: A Clear Day in Kodiak, Alaska

Week Six: a snippet from an idea barely begun, Lacrosse Zombies

Week Seven: Mathilde's Visit, from WIP, Cold Spring
Week Eight: Sherry bakes, from His Other Mother
Week Nine: I Said So, Didn't I? (a scene in dialogue)
Week Ten: Losing Faith (a poem)