Author Archives: EarthGirly
My old friend, Kathryn St. John-Shin, recently posted about plotting. She added a great infographic flowchart for good plotting that’s totally worth the look.
Anyway, her post got me thinking. I mentioned last time that I’ve been having major writer’s block. At first I thought it was a plotting problem, so I super-plotted the story I was working on (“The Shot Heard ‘Round the Planet” from the 13 Colonies series). It turned out pretty well, and I was happy with it. So I sat down to write it, and…nothin’. Finally, I decided it must be a problem of confidence because the story was too big for me right now. I decided to set Shot aside for a while and started a new story. So much stress had seeped into my writing, I wanted to do something fun. What started out as a 99.99% unplotted YA/NA romantic paranormal serial story became a study in non-linear structure. Cool stuff, but not exactly without pressure. 30,000 words in, I hit a wall.
I’ve pursued every route I know of to get back to
Pooh Corner creative space. I’ve journaled. I’ve jotted. I’ve brainstormed. I’ve come up with new stories, looked up new words, read over old work. Read a book. Learned new approaches. Immersed myself in writing/publishing blogs and listened to podcasts. Nothing worked!
I’ve been wallowing in self-doubt and angst for the last week or so, until I finally hit the Black Moment. That point at which an artist looks at their work, picks up the towel, and prepares to throw it in because they ‘obviously’ don’t have what it takes to succeed. I thought back over all my stories and thought, “What’s the point? I’ll never be able to do this for a living. I need money, like, yesterday, and I have to choose between writing and a day job, and what if I get a job and can’t find a way to work in writing? What if I slip backward and become a wannabe writer again, unwilling to work hard to make it happen? What if it stops mattering??”
And then I read Katie’s post today and I smacked myself in the forehead (literally, facepalm!). I’ve been such an idiot.
With every book – long or short, old or new – I hit a point where I hate everything I write. I loathe every word I type, every character I’ve ever written. Nothing will EVER be good enough! The WOE! The ANGST! I curse the heavens, berate my inner muse for being too lazy and too sassy to be of any help, and cry over the keyboard. It’s pretty pathetic, and it happens with every. book.
You see, my Black Moment is part of my writing process. It’s been so long since I’ve had heavy writing time that I’d forgotten. But somewhere between the one-quarter mark and the one-third mark, I lose all hope. My momentum hits a wall. My creativity dries up. I question every choice I have made and was planning to make, and most of them come up wanting. And then, after enough time has passed, that Black Moment of self-doubt metamorphoses into something beautiful. I make the decision to keep fighting, to keep writing, to keep trying. Suddenly, I become possessed with a wealth of determination, perseverance, and fortitude. I know my story’s strengths and weaknesses; I know where I’m going and what I want to accomplish. And I write. And I write. And I write.
Without that End of the World, Write No More, Black Moment, I wouldn’t have the energy and commitment to finish the book. If I don’t face those feelings and work through them, I end up with Story ADD, unable to get into a story let alone finish anything.
If you’re serious about having a writing career (as opposed to writing a book, which is its own legitimate goal), you need to know your process. To do that, you have to write. A lot. And then write a lot more. Just as importantly, you have to FINISH things.
My process looks something like this:
1. Get blinded by an awesome story idea.
2. Percolate idea, let the characters settle into the casting office with a cup of tea.
3. Assemble, in my head, a variety of scenes and necessary turning points (almost always character-based).
4. Begin writing.
5. Remember how hard it is to shut off the internal editor, but try hard anyway.
6. Fall in love with my characters. Make myself laugh.
7. Shove it at the husband for a little external validation (and so I can see if I’m accomplishing what I want).
8. Cheer as I pass 20k.
9. Black Moment of Doooooom.
10. Days, weeks, months down the road, have an epiphany/surge of determination and get back to it.
11. Get lost. A lot. Write a bunch of really boring stuff until the middle is over and the story has transitioned into exciting territory again.
12. Write. Write. Write.
13. Cease being able to think about anything but all the threads coming together, all day long.
14. Ignore everything else possible in life to get to the end faster.
15. Suddenly discover 80% of my plot in two scenes during the climax.
16. Breathlessly write the last few chapters.
17. Discover more info than expected in the denouement (and possibly find the plot of book 2 buried inside).
18. The End (eventually…my denouements tend to go on and on and on…).
19. Sleep, laugh, and socialize – a lot – to make up for the near-total isolation and extreme concentration of the last few weeks.
20. Start thinking about edits.
Knowing your process means you can accommodate it. For instance, #9 is where I’m most likely to give up. #11, I’m going to need calculated spurts of limited distractions followed by lots of distractions to stay somewhat focused. Starting at #14, my husband knows not to expect me to do anything but work. I also know when that rollercoaster starts down the mega hill at #15, everything’s going to be okay; I won’t freak out about how to make all these ideas and threads and subplots work because I know from experience they’re already in the story; all I have to do is remind myself I can fix it in edits, and then put my hands in the air and yell “woooooo!” as it all rushes in.
Not remembering my process has brought me perilously close to giving up. It’s going to be a little different, now I’m a mom and now I have a professional side to think about. My blogs are going to be really long and rambly, and I don’t beat myself up (much) over it. I could write them more professionally, edit them better, but I know I won’t and cut myself some slack (this post has been written over the course of making and eating lunch and watching Tinkerbell: The Pirate Fairy, interspersed with potty training breaks and fights over how much he has to eat in order to keep watching). It’s going to be somewhat discombobulated, and I’m okay with that – at least the post got written. I’m going to read over it once while rubbing my son’s back and trying to convince him that naps are fun. Then I’m going to hit Publish and never think about it again. And all of that is okay. Not ideal parenting and not ideal writing, but workable.
Know your process. Embrace it. Work with it. It’ll make your life a whole lot easier.
What’s the worst part of your process? The best?
I just looked at the calendar and discovered it’s been almost 5 months. 5 MONTHS since I last published an installment of The Celluloid Files.
You have my deepest apologies, dear readers.
My original goal was to write enough and publish it weekly so that we could have a whole story before us by the middle of July. Obviously, that’s not going to happen.
I’ve been struggling with a pretty phenomenal case of writer’s block. This particular block involves a lot of stress and worry over finances (the sort that ends with crossing all major body parts under the covers at night and whispering into the darkness, “Please let us be able to pay rent this month,” over and over again). Part of this comes with the territory, of course – we chose, early in our marriage, to follow my writing dream instead of financial security (how I feel about that choice now, nearly a decade later, is a post of its own). We’ve never expected to have a surplus of greenbacks rolling around in even the smallest of backyard money bins. We’ve made sacrifices we didn’t think about having to make, and survived…and we’re okay with that. But there eventually comes a point where we sit back, take a look at our bigger picture, and, well, totally freak out.
From a writer’s perspective, that means I’m forced to take a hard look at my projects, my goals, my intentions, and my trajectory. What was supposed to be three novellas released a year ago was actually one novella published six months ago. By now, I aimed to have a successful Kickstarter under my belt and be two weeks away from the release of my first novel. Instead, I discovered the book – nay, the entire series concept – needed a return to the drawing board. My writing time slowly eroded beneath the sharp winds of job hunting and other serious life concerns.
So where does that leave Celluloid Files?
I’m sad to say that as much as I love the idea, it’s not close to the top of my priority list. It’s fun, absolutely. I love sharing it. I want to be able to share more. But right now, there isn’t any more. I have to write it, which takes brainstorming, plotting, and, well, a lot of time. Because of our financial situation, I need to use that time on something that has earning potential…even just a smidgen. Since I’m committed to never charging for Celluloid Files, I can’t logistically support its creation (short of taking donations, which is…possible, I suppose, but feels…weird).
It’s not off the table completely – in fact, it’s hanging out with the salt and pepper and sugar packets as a staple of possibilities. But it is on hold until I get a paying story finished.
Sorry, guys. 😦
I’ve been promising updates, exciting information, and reasons to check back…and none of it’s happened. Many humble, tummy-to-floor prostrations for my silence! Life got stressful, as it’s wont to do. We had to decide if it was worth it to move (it’s not) and then figure out how we’re going to pay for our rather ridiculously expensive apartment. Which means I’ve been searching for a day job. I found one that is *perfect* for me, so fingers crossed and happy thoughts for me that I get an interview. Because otherwise, I’m about two breaths away from applying at Chick-fil-a. (Not to knock them; they are a FINE, TASTY emporium of savory chicken…we eat there way too often. But I’d really like to make more than minimum wage…ah, to dream!)
The awesome thing about not moving means that we’ve turned our now-vacant third bedroom into an office for me to write in. It’s doing double-awesome duty because I now have room to work AND my son has room to play Hundred Lego Pick-Up at the same time. Except I’ve discovered my office chair is absolutely HORRID, and largely responsible for A) my shoulder issues and B) my neck problems (and possibly C) my lower extremity circulation troubles). I’d love an ergonomic chair (heck, so long as I’m dreaming, what I REALLY want is one of these spectacular Zero Gravity Workstations…), but they’re pricey. I should probably get a new desk, too. As it is, I’m making do with my old, crumbling desk, my cheap new monitor raised on a pair of old bed blocks, and my exercise ball. I just read that sitting on a ball for too long can put undo strain on your lower back (more than simply sitting in a chair, even), but I guess we’ll deal with that when we come to it. Right now, the only problem I’m worried about is how to type comfortably and remain in the same place. Typing comfortably means holding the keyboard on my lap, but then I come close to dropping the keyboard all the time and falling off the ball. Remaining stationary means leaving the keyboard on the tray but makes my back and shoulder ache before too long. Ah, the woes of a modern writer!
I’ve still got some big news coming, but I decided to hold off until I knew more about it and was ready to do a full reveal. Or at least close to. The change of venue plus futzing with my setup plus all the stress of finding a job means I’m having a killer case of writer’s block. It doesn’t matter what I try to work on – and I’ve tried lots of options. I can’t get ANYWHERE with ANY of it. Practical, day-side me says I should stop worrying about it and focus on getting a job, paying the bills, figuring out daycare, blah blah blah. Creative-side me says, “Don’t you dare! You can’t just publish a book and give up!” Unfortunately, they’re both right. I have yet to determine how to reconcile this conundrum.
Rest assured I’m TRYING. I really am doing my best. I’ve sworn off Facebook and computer games for all of June in the hopes it helps me concentrate. I’ve resolved to blog at least once a week. And I’m going to try REALLY HARD to balance my fitness needs with my writing needs (there’s never enough brain power in the day, it seems). Come hell or high water (or extreme heat, as is looking might be the case right now), I will have a story to talk about come July!
Here’s a jumble of possibilities, just to give you a glimpse at my plate:
The Shot Heard ‘Round the Planet: A tale of Colony 1 (13 Colonies, sci-fi) – I’ve been working (and subsequently stuck) on this for what feels like FOREVER.
Secret, Unnamed Project (Paranormal YA/NA) – This is the one I started a month or two ago to give me some fun outlet while stuck on Shot. Except I’m now stuck on this one, too.
Gryphon’s Overture Rewrite (Steampunk Romantic Fantasy) – This is my Kickstarter project…the one I realized needed a complete rewrite from beginning to end before I can ever consider running the Kickstarter. (That was a very sad day.)
Unnamed Traditional Project (Urban Fantasy) – I started this one two years ago, and I LOVE it. But it also doesn’t contribute to my indie career, soooo… (Plus, my long-time friend, Kathryn St. John-Shin, is working on a Greek-mythology-based traditional novel right now, and I don’t want to cross wires. It kills me that she won’t let me read it. Argh! But I suppose that’s best…for now…at least until I come up with some mastermind scheme to snatch it from her clutches…) I still get caught up in the protag’s succubus call from time to time, though.
And of course, there’s Celluloid Files. I should really do a post regarding its status, shouldn’t I? Slacker, Girly, slacker!
So that’s where I stand right now. A little dazed, a lot confused, and just plain stuck. But looking forward to (hopefully) getting a lot done in the bright, sunshiney months ahead!
If you have any questions, please do leave a comment and ask them – I’m gonna need content for future posts. 🙂
Remember that Twitter challenge from my last post? I forgot about the Twitter part. Ha…
To be fair, I’ve been posting to Twitter almost every day I write. That hasn’t been every day, but it’s been a lot more than I was worried it would be!
As of today, my new story contains about 23,000 words. Woohoo! Not as many as I hoped, but who cares?? It’s 23,000 new words!
(Personal aside: This is me, on a challenge. Some people set rigid goals; I only look like I do. I told myself I wanted a whole novel done, but will I say, “Gosh, what an awful writer I am – I only wrote half a novel in six weeks!” ? Of course not. My goals are simply motivational tools so I shoot high and land higher than I would have without them. In fact, I purposely set goals I know are pretty much impossible. Maybe it’s the “gifted slacker” mentality I grew up with. Whatever it is, I’m not actually a goal-oriented person. I don’t need to beat records or show up other people or their expectations. It’s nice to engage in word sprints with other people and be named the winner, but…enh. I’m in it more for the camaraderie. I get my warm fuzzies from the journey, not the destination. So just remember that: I will never “win” a challenge I set for myself, but I only “lose” if I forget about it or give up. I find this is much more motivational for me than things like NaNoWriMo, which emphasize the finish line. That’s just me and the way I work; YMMV.)
It occurred to me as I sat down for today’s session that 23k is almost a novella. In fact, that’s about how much I have left to write on the next 13 Colonies story. And how cool would it be if I released “The Shot Heard ‘Round the Planet” on the same day as the actual shot heard ’round the world was fired? Pretty darn, at least for the history buff I am. 🙂
Granted, it’d be close. I’d have to upload it April 17th or 18th to ensure it went on sale the right day. I have exactly 6 weeks to finish the sandpaper draft, revise to rough, edit to beta, wait for beta response, edit to gamma, polish, format, and upload. As well as contract art to be finished in 2-3 weeks. That’s a pretty darn tight time frame.
But then, wasn’t that the whole point of the novella series to begin with, at least in part? To be able to release something new within my zany home schedule that won’t take an eon to create?
I say, let’s do this thing!
Now I just need to find my notes, import into Scrivener, and get a better handle on the plot so I can figure out what was wrong with the last scene that made me stop writing it. (I think it had something to do with the central character of the scene being a Person of Color and my getting bogged down in what message I wanted to convey with him. But that’s just a guess.)
Wish me luck!
My plan to spend this month writing has crashed and burned. Miserably. I am therefore handing myself a parachute and a flame retardant suit to salvage my month. Parachute: a new story. Anti-burn suit: a challenge.
Will these two things offer me greater motivation? Will they pave the way to greater glory? A better routine? Stellar consistency? No idea. But we’re gonna find out!
Today, I’m issuing myself a challenge.
Every day, I will post once (minimum) to my Twitter account (@TheEarthGirly) to update my monthly tally. The Twitterverse can then lament, cheer, or ridicule as they will. This will hopefully provide me with accountability that comes with just enough pressure that I’ll be truthful and not pad my state-of-writing for the day. (Yes, I let myself count stuff I shouldn’t when it’s a “write or not” option. Never numbers, ’cause that would be cheating, but a general, “Sure, I wrote today,” when I’m referring to blogs or notes or just general stuff. It’s the guilt of slackerdom, and I’m working to slay it.)
I’m only allowed to count new words. On a STORY. My original intention was to spend February on rewrites of Gryphon’s Overture so I could run the kickstarter next month. But the more I thought about ways to improve it, ways it needs to be improved, the more I realized I should start from scratch. And that’s a MUCH bigger project than I’m prepared to tackle right now. Instead, I’ve come up with a whole new story idea just for fun. Something to plink away at without pressure, without worrying about what it’s going to do for me (and therefore what it has to do for me). Something to use to rebuild a daily (or close to) writing habit so that I can learn how to write when I have to instead of when the stars of our household cosmically align (so, like, never). It’s a fun idea. YA paranormal. Part of me wants to serialize it, part of me wants to not worry about that kind of schedule. For this month, though, I’m just going to write it and worry about the publishing side later (if ever).
To win this challenge, I have to tweet on 13 of the 15 days remaining in February and write new words on at least 10 of them.
When I win, I get two more weeks to play in this world before I have to go be a responsible adult and find a day job.
Come cheer me on @TheEarthGirly!
(Catch up on previous installments by clicking the link at the top of the page!)
S. O. Teric’s housed a collection of books on everything from astrology to ghosts to UFOs to traditional healing methods – the usual fare for spirituality stores and new age enthusiasts. But as I wandered down the high rows of books all tucked snugly and untouched in their dusty spaces, I realized this was something more. Cozied in with small-press paperbacks and best-seller hard covers I found the odd leather-bound tome, the occasional unbound, typewritten manuscript. Nora had pulled together a variety of sources on exotic philosophies, ancient civilizations, and extinct belief systems. S. O. Teric’s wasn’t simply a new age store for lonely middle-aged cat ladies and young Goth mind-expansionists who thought the best way to shun the established adult regime was by falling in love with demons and gods. This was a trove of knowledge, collected in her travels around the world. If I sold it or closed it down, her life’s work would be scattered back to the far-flung corners from which she had rescued it. At the very least, I would have to box it up and take it with me, maybe donate it to some historical society somewhere.
The store held an upper level supported by silver-scrolled pillars. I wound my way up the iron circular stair and found myself surrounded by candles. Thankfully, they were all unlit. Sconces sat on display tables, staring at me with the faces of gargoyles and cherubs, cats and jackals and creatures I had no name for. Similar engravings and figurines clustered here and there, flickering in and out of shadow with the movement of a flame in a tall, slender oil lamp. The lamp sat on a table in the center of the floor, the black silk cloth beneath it shimmering faintly. I thought of myself here, surrounded by such images and effigies. I imagined whispers slipping from the book pages, creaks coming from the statues. Goosebumps were inevitable.
I couldn’t stay here, in this place that reminded me so much of Nora and yet also gave me the heebie-jeebies. Even if I toned down the décor, I still didn’t know how to run a business, even a small one with little income and a highly specific clientele. Just how much did I owe my aunt for being a horrible niece? For being her heir? Her blood? Her favorite?
The bell over the front door tinkled happily. I ignored the voices downstairs as I examined a deck of tarot cards on the table. I flipped the top card, revealing the Queen of Pentacles. To be fair and forthcoming, I do actually know how to read a basic tarot spread. I don’t claim the psychic powers that go along with it and I have to look up most of the meanings. Pentacles looked scary to modern Western society, so a lot of decks changed them to coins. Either way, the interpretation involved security and prosperity. Sometimes the “face” cards were interpreted as actual people. In this case, a woman granting prosperity.
I drew a second card, a little weirded out by the first. Death. Contrary to popular belief (and every paranormal-esque movie ever), the Death card doesn’t mean literal death. I suppose it might, once in a blue moon. Its true representation is of an ending that makes way for a beginning. Like the winter that culls the weeds and brush and makes way for spring revitalization. Death…but not without rebirth.
My hand hovered on the deck for a third, final card when the discussion downstairs grew into shouts.
“Get the hell out of my shop, Dark River!” the sales clerk shouted. She followed it up with several choice names and descriptions of the recipient’s mother.
A man answered, but I only heard the deep rumbling of his voice. The darkness seemed to absorb his words.
I stepped over to the railing to peer down from the loft. From there, I could tell the shelves were arranged in a star pattern with a reading table in the middle. That was one thing I shared with my aunt – we both found beauty in the details, even if no one else every saw them.
“Miss Ambray!” A tall man, half-shrouded in shadow, stepped out from under the overhang to raise his hand toward me. “I thought I saw you come in here. I would like a word, if I may?”
Cautiously, I descended the spiral staircase. Who or what made Ivy try to throw a person out?
The man met me at the bottom. He was at least a head taller than me, and, though the lighting stole away the exact facets of his face, he looked to be in his fifties. A black or maybe dark blue suit made him more difficult to make out in the dim interior. “My name is Albert Dark River, Miss Ambray,” he said in his deep voice, extending his hand to me to shake.
I took his hand, felt calluses against my skin. “How do you know who I am?” I asked. Small towns spread gossip, everyone knows that. But the only people who knew my identity were the Terminator cop and Vinny the bad pinball player at the diner. The first I didn’t take for a blabbermouth, and the second had been too busy taking a ribbing when I left.
“It’s my business to know things, Miss Ambray. I work for Majestic Vista Realty.” He handed me a business card that I couldn’t read in the dark.
Ivy appeared suddenly at my elbow. “I told you to get out!” she spat at him.
“Yes, I believe you said of ‘your’ store. But unless I’m mistaken, this store actually belongs to Miss Ambray here, does it not? My business is with her, not her petty employees.”
I didn’t need to see it to know Ivy balled her fists in preparation to unleash a small fury on the man. “He’s the devil, Annika, don’t listen to him. Tell him to get out.”
“What business would that be, Mr. Dark River?” I asked, ignoring her.
“I have a client very interested in purchasing this property,” he said. “Its location is excellent. With the passing of your aunt, for which I am sincerely sorry, I understand its fate is in your hands. A young woman from the city like yourself might not wish to be burdened with such a white elephant as this.” He flicked his hand in the direction of the books. I didn’t need a lot of light to see the distaste written clearly in the pursing of his lips.
“My aunt loved this store,” I said, stalling. “I haven’t yet decided what I’m going to do with it.” I directed the last part more toward Ivy than the man.
“Well, when you do, please give me a call. My client is anxious to begin developing a venue that would better benefit the town.”
I nodded at him, not sure what to say to that. My neck tingled at this oddly fortuitous meeting. My first day in town, having only recently learned of my strange fortune, and I was given an easy out. As much as I might decide I wanted to sell, I hesitated to actually make that decision. Too much spun far out of my control, and I couldn’t make any concrete decisions until my brain stopped whirring.
Mr. Dark River made like he was tipping his hat to me, except he wasn’t wearing one. “Good day, Miss Ambray. I hope to hear from you soon. Ivy.” He didn’t look at her, merely dropped her name like dirty handkerchief as he left.
“Let the door hit you on the way out,” Ivy shouted after him. Under her breath she added, “And crush your spine, ‘cause you don’t have any balls.” To me, she said, “When you sell this place, Annika, do me a favor and don’t sell it to that guy. He’s nuts. And an ass.”
Refraining from mentioning pots and kettles, I simply nodded. The business card felt heavy in my hand.
“I don’t suppose you’re interested in having a cup of tea with me?” Was she getting chummy because she imagined we now had a common enemy, or because she saw an angle she needed to play?
“Sorry, Ivy,” I said, listening to chimes in one window twinkle in the breeze. “I need to get my pizza home.”
“Sure.” I could hear the hurt in her voice. “Maybe next time.”
“Maybe,” I said. Secretly, I didn’t think there would be a next time.
I spent the rest of the day familiarizing myself with Nora’s home and went to bed early. She had two spare bedrooms. I picked the larger of the two, unable to make myself stay in the master bedroom. The queen-sized bed welcomed me like a cloud welcomes a fat baby cherub. I was asleep as soon as my face snuggled against the cool pillow.
I overslept. My plan had been to rise early and meet some of the older townspeople. They might be able to advise me in how to go about fixing the broken parts of the town. At the very least, they could tell me which parts were actually broken, and which belonged in the quirky, strange category. Unfortunately, the bedroom sported no alarm clock and I had forgotten to set my phone.
When I rolled out of the bed, my body aching faintly from the previous day’s drive, the sun streamed through the lace curtains with a cheerful glow. I made a face at it, my eyes kept to slits to ward off the light as well as the cheer. Of my possible choices for emotions to begin my day with, today did not include carefree glee.
I showered again to help me wake up, this time making an effort to look more than simply presentable. Makeup, hair, a dark blue sundress. I wanted to make a good impression. Though the swollen blue eyes staring back at me in the mirror denied my high hopes, I at least looked like I made an effort.
Without perishables in the kitchen, I settled for organic oatmeal and water for breakfast. Not the most pleasant way to start my day, but I supposed it could be worse.
I stepped out onto the porch to find a note tucked under the flower knocker. It had my name on it, making me frown. Opening it, I read, frowned, snorted, then tossed it on the front table before closing and locking the door.
If Ivy really wanted to help me, she should have made a better first impression. Maybe we could work up to being allies…eventually. After the irritation had worn off. Besides, I didn’t have time to meet her for a noon lunch; it was already five minutes past.
As I turned to take the stairs two at a time, I accidentally kicked the morning’s paper onto the lawn. Careful as I tread across the grass, I gingerly picked up the heavy roll and shook it open. The Goode County Gazette had served the area for ninety-seven years. It said so right there below the title. I intended only for a quick glance, to discover what this strange backwater found newsworthy.
It was me.
(Click the link at the top of the page to catch up if you’ve missed a week.)
Outside the diner, I contemplated my options. If I was going to revitalize the town, I needed to know its streets and buildings and people. But the box of pizza in my hands was unwieldy and would go bad long before I got back to Nora’s if I set out to see the town now. If I went back to the house first, I might lose daylight. I had a year, but for some reason I felt like I needed to use every moment at my disposal. I blamed it on impatience with Aunt Nora’s silly, unmeasurable stipulation but deep down, I knew there was more to it.
I decided to make the most important stop first then drop the pizza off at the house. That way, no matter how much time I had left, I’d at least have gotten the big item off my list. The only problem was, I had no idea how to get there. I could go back inside the diner and ask Blondie, or approach the cluster of women down the street. Neither made me feel confident and energetic.
I sighed, tucked the box under my arm, and trotted down the sidewalk.
Three women stood outside a short building with big windows. The sign above the door read, “Goldilocks.” Of course it was the beauty parlor; this town didn’t have enough cliches already.
“Excuse me,” I said, doing my best to sound normal. “Could you tell me where—“
“Oh my gosh,” the tallest of the bunch exclaimed, her eyes going wide as she saw my pizza box. She was on the dark side of brunette and thin as a rail. Some spiteful part of me hated her on sight. She could probably eat whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted and not gain an ounce, whereas I expected to be several pounds heavier once my pizza was gone. Her makeup was perfect, her hair an exquisite, glossy fall of soft curls that looked effortless. “Are those boys still playing that stupid game?” she asked. “Why do they do that? The ball just goes up and down. It’s not like it can go anywhere but in the hole.”
“They seriously need girlfriends,” a shorter, thicker woman said. I thought she was a brunette, too, but the mass of curlers and foil in her hair made it hard to be sure.
“What happened to Pam?” the first woman asked.
“Took off at the end of the semester,” a third woman said, her blonde hair tucked under a shower cap. “They really need to try for older girls.”
“Women,” the shorter woman corrected.
“Don’t they have jobs?” I asked, satisfying my curiosity as well as making sure they didn’t forget I was standing there.
“Vinny and Joey do,” the first woman said, peering at the sky as she thought. “They work with dirt and electricity, or something like that. I don’t know about Tony. What does he do all day?” she asked the blonde.
The blonde shrugged. “I have no idea.”
“You dated him, Lori. You have to know something.”
“Correction, I went on dates with him. The only thing I know is that he drives a crappy old SUV and he has a pet ferret.”
“A ferret?” the shorter woman asked, her tone expressing disgust.
Bean Pole mistook the question. “It’s like a weasel. Right?” She didn’t wait for a response. “Yeah. I’ve never seen one, but my dad and brothers used to take me camping up north in the summer with a bunch of friends, so I’ve seen a lot of weasels. They’re funny looking, and they move like they have no bones.”
The other women exchanged glances and started giggling.
“What?” Bean Pole said, confusion on her delicate features. “They do! And they’re greedy. I think ferrets are just hairy weasels.”
“So Tony has a big, hairy weasel, huh?” the short one said, elbowing Lori.
The women burst out laughing. Bean Pole stamped her foot. “You guys! What’s so funny?”
I struggled to keep myself at the fringe of the group instead of walking away. There was no way I was going back in the diner now that my brain contained echoes of Tony’s hairy weasel, but if I didn’t get directions I could be walking all day. Then my poor pizza would be unfit to eat, and I couldn’t let such tragedy take place.
“Can you tell me where the new age shop is?” I asked Bean Pole.
“Sure,” she said, though she didn’t look at me. She was too busy frowning at her companions in consternation. “It’s a block over that way.” She pointed behind herself, away from Nora’s house. “Just go to the end of the street, go left, and it’ll be on the other side of the street. It kind of stands out.”
“Thanks,” I said, and started to back away.
“Be careful,” she said. “The girl who works there is…”
“Weird,” Lori the blonde said.
“Mean,” the shorter woman said.
“…loud,” Bean Pole finished.
I smiled and nodded, assured them I would be careful, and scurried away. Curiosity wanted me to ask why they were doing their gossiping outside of the beauty parlor when it was clear two of them were in the middle of a style. I clamped down on it with a vise of willpower and hurried down the street in search of my aunt’s shop.
S. O. Teric’s was Nora’s pride and joy. She opened it when she was barely out of high school, or so I had been told. Back when bell-bottoms and fringe were in and expanding the mind was a life pursuit instead of an excuse to experiment with drugs…okay, instead of just an excuse to experiment. How it had survived in a little town in the middle of nowhere was anybody’s guess. Considering what I had learned about her bank account, I guessed it probably floated on the income from some secret, unknown source I wasn’t yet privy to. Like blackmailing the leader of a small country, or a really big lottery win nobody in the family had ever bothered to mention.
Bean Pole hadn’t been exaggerating when she said it stood out. It was a small shop on the corner of Aspen and Grove with a vibrant blue front door smack on the corner of the building. The building’s trim was silver and gold, the sort that gleams in the sunlight and is liable to blind a person at the wrong time of day. When I got closer, I saw that the bricks, painted black, were covered in tiny scrolling designs, like a silver henna tattoo. Crystals of different hues hung inside the open windows, dancing in a light breeze. The lack of security surprised me more than the shop; the exterior shouted Aunt Nora did the decorating. My nose started tickling and I found myself swallowing repeatedly to chase away a sudden cough that got stuck in my throat. With a deep breath, bracing myself for what lay inside, I crossed the threshold into S. O. Teric’s.
It smelled like Nora.
That was all I could think before the tears welled in my eyes. Her house held a delightful smell, but it wasn’t what called her up in my memory. This was. This poorly lit, cramped, musty hidey-hole with too many knick-knacks on the shelves and not enough space to move around them; with its buckets of incense sticks and racks of candles and decorative puddles of crystals and rainbows; this was what smelled like Nora. Lavender, sandalwood, old books, dark corners…all the scents combined to paint her in my mind’s eye.
“Can I help you?” asked a sunny voice from behind a tiny counter.
The girl matched the counter. She barely came up to my shoulder. Her floaty clothes both showed off her figure and made her look sweet and innocent.
“Um,” I said, buying time to regain my composure after nearly breaking down from the smell of the place.
“If you’re the new pizza delivery girl, you’re late. You can tell that slacker in front of the oven that I’m not paying for his damn cigarette breaks.” She threw in a few other choice words I wouldn’t be repeating. Ever.
“No, not,” I said, intelligently, taken aback by the words so incongruous with her appearance.
“Oh. Come to have your palm read? Your chart drawn? I don’t do the Chinese stuff yet, but I’m learning. Our Reiki services are no longer available.” She abruptly shut up. Then, as if her speech hadn’t been strange enough, she petted a small golden frog on the counter like it was a beloved friend.
As my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I noticed the black sashes tied around columns holding up the second story, the cloths draped over certain lumpy stands. A sign affixed to the front of the register read, “A light in the darkness, an angel beyond us.”
I cleared my throat, unable to tear myself away from that sign and the little golden frog. “My name is Annika,” I managed to say.
Her response was not what I expected.
“Shit,” she said.
My mouth hung open for a moment as I attempted to find a reply to that succinct reaction. “Uhh…” was all I could come up with.
“You’re here to close the store, aren’t you?” She swore up a storm, muttered something about her horoscope, and slammed her fist into the counter. Then she took a deep breath, shook out her hands and closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, she smiled sweetly at me. “Sorry. I’m on a Zen cleanse. You ever fasted?”
I shook my head.
“It’s a bitch on the blood sugar. But seriously, you’re here to shut us down, right?”
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly.
“I loved Nora,” she said, almost as if I hadn’t spoken. “We were a part of each other’s spirit group. She was kind of like my aunt, too. I’m Ivy, by the way.” She waved her small, many-ringed fingers at me.
That rankled a little. Nora was my aunt. My blood. Some remnant of my childhood self insisted she was mine and no one else’s. Except I hadn’t felt that way for a decade. I hadn’t cared enough to call her on major holidays, let alone enough to visit. I didn’t deserve to feel possessive.
I quelled the rancor and forced myself to smile. “She was a good person. I’m glad she had someone close who was like family.”
“She talked about you a lot. How she wished you would follow your light. When she told me she was leaving you the store, I forgot about Mars’ influence and refused to come to work for a week. Wish I hadn’t done that now.” She ran a finger over the golden frog. “I told her you have too much water in your chart to stick around, but she didn’t listen to me. You’re going to sell, whether you know it or not.”
Nora had always preached the importance of an open mind; she lived by the creed, “To each, her own.” She spent time with Wiccans and Neopagans, nudists and Christians, Democrats and Republicans. I couldn’t discount the possibility of my astrological influences suggesting my future, but I would go no further than that. The stars didn’t tell me what to do. I didn’t appreciate having my choices dictated to me, especially not by a stranger the size of a large, surly leprechaun.
“Look,” I said, battening down the hatches on my anger. “You don’t know me. My aunt asked me to come here and see the shop for myself. I’m here.”
So many possibilities flew through my head – choice, savory words that begged to pierce and bite and stab. I couldn’t say any of them. If this girl was as close to my aunt as she claimed, then she, too, was grieving. Maybe more than I was. As much as I wanted to wring her short little neck, she deserved the benefit of the doubt. Plus, she might be my only ally in my new-found, hare-brained quest to save Meadowhaven from extinction.
“Here it is,” she said, gesturing around herself with wide arms. “Look all you want, but you’re going to sell.”
Spite became a flaming snake in my belly, coiling around my stomach as if getting ready to hatch fireballs. I clenched my teeth to keep its exit route blocked and said around them, “I’ll make myself at home, then.”
I could tell a similar serpent possessed my small opponent. Her round cheeks flushed, bright enough to see in the dim light. “Enjoy yourself.” I caught the hiss in her words, but I refrained from striking out at her.
Instead, I smiled and set to the task at hand.
I’ve been told I’m exceedingly good at presenting a cold shoulder. I used it now and left the little clerk in my icy wake.
Once upon a time, I started every day off right: I read industry blogs over breakfast. This got me into the writer mindset immediately, kept me up-to-date on what was happening in the world of publishing, and, if I was lucky, gave me ideas to put into my own writing.
Ever since my baby turned into a rambunctious toddler, I’ve stopped doing this. There are now too many things to fit in immediately upon waking that I don’t have the space to sit and “just read.” I feel like I only get a few spare moments to read in peace (deceptive and untrue as it may be), and I don’t want to use it up on “frivolous” things. Because my husband and I made a choice when we first got married that I would write instead of work, we’ve lived the life of the starving artist. I didn’t regret that decision at all…until the economy fell apart and I suddenly had zero job prospects when I needed them. I still need them, years later; I would like to no longer worry every week about whether or not we have money to buy things like food and toilet paper. I would like to be able to take my son to the zoo occasionally without saying, “Here are the animals! Now expect nothing but nutrition-less pasta for the next week.” (Then again, he’d be excited: “What? Animals AND pasta with NO veggies to hide from? Best. Mommy. Ever!” In his own toddler-like, non-verbal way, of course.) When faced with the necessity of finding a job, reading industry blogs really does seem sort of frivolous.
For the first time in years, I have no one but myself to look after (the boy-folk are visiting the in-laws). And what did I do? I woke up, fixed myself breakfast, and read industry blogs.
Immediately, I was struck with how different it makes me feel. Within five minutes, I’m both student and professional. I feel confident and energetic. I want to go play with my words, explore my worlds, pal around with my characters! I’m optimistic about my future prospects, and I can’t wait to get started!
Which tells me this: In order to be successful as a writer (as an author is another matter entirely, one I’m still learning about), I need to begin my day in the writing world. I need to make thinking about writing as much of a habit as I’m trying to make the act of writing. I need to begin with wordsmithing so it will be easier to smith words when I find the time later in the day.
I’m also hoping this will help me squeeze words in where I can, rather than waiting for an opening. We’ll see!
This week, I want to start every day with industry blogs. At least two posts on nothing but writing. I have a link of publishing folks on my side bar; these are the people I find helpful, inspirational, informative, or just plain fun. Some of them I’ve been following for over a decade while others arrived in the last couple of years. I’m going to actually start reading all of them again!
If you’re a writer, I want to stress how important it is to delve into the minds, hearts, and professional opinions of other writers. Especially the ones who write better than you do. Because someone out there always writes better than you do. Maybe it’s just one aspect – character, description, dialogue – but somebody (and probably many, many somebodies) does it better than you can. Find those people. Read their work. Read their blogs. Learn what you can and let your unconscious mind absorb the rest. Because eventually, it comes in handy. You may not even realize you’ve learned something until one day you look back over your writing and say, “Great gobs of galleon grease! When did I learn how to show vs. tell so well? I rock!” There is no substitution for learning by observing in writing. While we can take classes and be taught the rules of our elements, there is no guarantee we will actually understand how to bring them together. Observation, letting our critical thinking happen when we’re not being tested on it, is crucial to becoming better writers.
Speaking of which, I also need to start reading books more often (read: again). But that’s a tale for a different post.
Last time, I talked about how my Kickstarter campaign idea came to be. Today, I want to share the actual story.
This is the blurb I’m using on my KS preview:
Gryphon’s Overture is the story of Paige Montgomery, the bookish sister with every expectation of forever remaining a spinster. Intelligent, introverted, and a solver of puzzles, she’s not exactly the picture of Bellflower Bay’s “perfect wife.” So when her sister hands her the perfect puzzle – a dusty warrant for their deceased father’s arrest – Paige jumps at the chance for a little adventure…and to escape the accusatory eyes of the village women. With family scandal erupting all around her, she sets out to discover the truth of the Montgomery past. In the process, she awakens a whole lot more than her own curiosity…and the interest of a lying knight dedicated to an order long dead.
Magic is knocking at the mortal door, and the Montgomery girls hold its key. They will need their mother’s forgotten heritage and all their father’s tinkering lore to hold magic’s would-be destroyers and possessors at bay long enough to let it blossom. Which would be a lot easier if their parents hadn’t kept so many blasted secrets…
That’s it, in a nutshell. It’s not perfect; it’s probably not the eventual sales blurb. But it gets the gist across.
Gryphon’s Overture was conceived of two ideas: 1. The Grecian Muses, and 2. Peter and the Wolf.
When I originally sat down to create the characters, I decided I wanted to do a parallel to the muses, whom I’ve always loved. Each sister therefore has a corollary muse (and their brother has parallels to Apollo). Paige, for example, is the Monty version of Clio, the muse of history. This connection dictated the sort of magic each sister possesses. I’m not going to give away exactly what they are, but I will say Paige’s has to do with the past. Her sister Mercedes is Erato, the muse of lyric/love/erotic poetry, and her magic has to do with romance. That formed the foundation of my character creation.
When I was little, I had a dramatized record of Peter and the Wolf. I’ve always loved the idea of a character embodied by an instrument, so when I created the Monty girls, their music became the basis of the magic and, from there, the plot. Each sister plays an instrument; more than that, each sister is embodied by a song of her soul, the music that represents who she is. In Paige’s case, her song is the Gryphon’s Overture (see how that works? :D), played on the flute. These songs and instruments feature prominently in each story, and when they’re all combined…well, that’s a secret! For now, I’ll just say that this is a core goal in the story.
Those two points – the muses and the music – are really what the girls are all about. Just as the muses inspired the Greeks to greatness in the arts, so the Monty girls inspire greatness in those around them. They – and what they bring with them – are the catalysts of change. Their music…actually, I don’t think I can go into that without giving important twists away! We’ll have to save that for much later in the series. 😉
The third concept came a little later as I put the girls into the RP world I played in. The setting was Medieval(ish) and rife with romance. Having watched the same romance story play out time and time again, I wanted the girls to be different, to tell a more compelling story. Not just boy meets girl, boy pursues girl, girl falls for boy, and they live happily ever after. BORING! I wanted to explore the many ways in which we, as humans, fall in love; not just the typical fairy tale, but the more realistic (and sometimes much more fantastical) sort. When Gryphon’s Overture opens, for example, Mercedes is a widow. Her husband, the absolute love of her life, has been killed in action. What sort of love story does that leave for her later? Does she love the next man just as much, or does she settle for a marriage of convenience? Are they just as happy? Does she let herself love again? What happens when one loses one’s soul mate at a young age? That, to me, is a much more compelling story than the one I could have given Mercedes if I started the series sooner in the timeline. She loved Wil with all her heart, but what’s she going to do now that he’s gone? That was something I wanted to find out.
Each book in the series will be about a different sister. Each sister will do her part to save or improve the world through her gifts and magic, and each sister will fall in or pursue love in her own way (though their actual love stories progress beyond their starring roles). Which led me to foundational pillar number 4: What’s the best period in which to explore the fanciful and tragic points of love and romance? The Regency period. In particular, Jane Austen’s Regency. High waists, soft colors, manners, tea time, letters flying back and forth; scandal, rebellion, men in uniform (and all those uniforms entail); and, above all, matchmaking!
And thus the world of the Montgomery Girls was born.
Next time, the world! Or maybe the changes I’ve planned for my major story overhaul. Come back next week to find out!
(Miss part 2? Click here to go back! Or click the link at the top of the page to read the story so far.)
Aggie’s words were not a figure of speech.
As I took to the streets on foot – the better to gauge the work before me – I immediately noticed the dilapidated nature of, well, everything. Unlike Aunt Nora’s lovingly tended abode, the houses on her street and the one beyond were sagging, sad creatures entirely lacking in charm. Most of them sported gaps in the roofing where shingles had clattered away in storms or beneath the sliding weight of heavy spring snows. Grass stood yellowed and shriveled, showing pale, dusty dirt beneath. Paint chips flecked half-empty flowerbeds and many of the trees on the block died long enough ago that even the woodpeckers had vacated their dry husks.
By the time I reached Main Street, my mental list of obvious fixes overflowed. The town’s housing was just the beginning – Main Street stretched out like a ghost, faded and half-forgotten. If I squinted, I thought I could almost see through it to the future. A future wherein Meadowhaven had ceased to exist. I knew I needed to see the past; to recognize the glory Aggie had mentioned and with which Aunt Nora had so often regaled us. Try as I might, it eluded me. All I saw were boarded-up windows, signs with missing letters, and weeds half as tall as I was.
There seemed to be four shops still in business. One I marked but ignored for the moment, a hairdresser, and two others. My growling stomach distracted me from paying closer attention; the second building across the street on my left let loose a smell I could only describe as mouth-watering to the point of near-delirium. But maybe that was my stomach talking.
I crossed the street after looking both ways before I realized I probably would never need that habit here. Two cars sat hunched on this side of the street, both old enough I doubted they came with seat belts. A cluster of women stopped their chatting a few doors down to cast interested looks in my direction. I ignored them. Gossiping women were the last things I wanted to deal with. I was confident I looked clean and together, but there would be the telltale redness to the eyes, the bags under them that proved I hadn’t slept recently.
Food and then sleep, I promised myself. I just hoped at three in the afternoon, the emporium of delicious smells would be as deserted as the road into town.
A sign on the window that needed a serious touch-up told me this was Benny and Cheese, which sounded like a bad rip-off of a kid’s play place. The moment I set a strappy sandal on the linoleum floor, however, it could have been called “Cheese ‘R Us,” and I wouldn’t have cared. I found myself enveloped in a puffy cloud of pizza heaven.
My mouth watered. My stomach churned in demand. My body took a seat at the diner-style counter without conscious direction. I didn’t see the duct tape holding my stool together or the sauce stains indelibly scarring the cracking floor, though I think my subconscious did. I only had eyes for the menu waiting for me and even that I saw only partially. The cover had something to do with gangsters. Whatever. The inside bore the phrase, “Chicago-style pepperoni,” and it erased all other thoughts in my head.
I ordered a large all for myself with a side of Diet Coke from the wiry blonde guy behind the counter.
“Expecting friends?” he asked.
“Nope. And even if I was, they’d have to get their own.”
He gave me a lazy half-grin and said, “Cool. Be up in a few.” He left me with my glass of icy soda pop and disappeared out the swinging door to the side of the counter.
I expected him to hand off the ticket to someone in the kitchen, but he didn’t come back. Either he was smoking something in the bathroom or the diner ran on an employee base of one.
My fingernails made a delicate tick-tick-tick sound on the counter as I drummed them along its cool surface. The whole place had a ‘50s thing going on. The counter bore a hint of stylized chrome, the stools were round and spinny. Underfoot, the linoleum looked a little newer, more like ‘70’s cheap, making Benny and Cheese decidedly less appealing. The more I looked, the less I liked. The booths were an ugly pinky maroon, faded from years in the sun and patched together with duct tape. The linoleum stains weren’t just pizza sauce; I had a feeling the beige color had once been white and decades of foot traffic had taken its toll. The place was clean, though, and that was a major plus. I’d hate to find out the only place to eat in town was a nasty gastrointestinal disaster waiting to happen.
The only other people in the diner – a trio of guys about my age – were clustered around an old pinball machine. Every now and again, the one playing did something right, lighting up the machine’s backboard and eliciting a sound like a cat’s death knell.
I pursed my lips. Not exactly the best digesting atmosphere, but anything more than cozy silence wouldn’t have met my standards today.
An undefined amount of time later – the clock on the wall, its neon dead, kept telling me time had stopped at four-thirty – my pizza arrived. I blinked at it in astonishment, then transferred the expression to the blonde guy. He gave me that same lazy half-grin.
“I guess I won’t need to buy food for the rest of the week,” I said. The thing was a monster with a deep dish crust as thick as three of my fingers, at least two cheeses that oozed and gleamed without being rubbery, and a full layer of overlapping pepperoni. It also had about the same diameter as my car’s tire. “You didn’t have to go to any special trouble,” I added, rubbing my cheek to hide a quick check for drool.
He gave me a quizzical look that upgraded my opinion from stoner to slacker. Then he lifted a shoulder and said, “It’s the usual.”
Again, I blinked at the pie and then back at him. This was usual? I didn’t want to argue. It wasn’t like I was disappointed he hadn’t brought me a special pizza to flirt with me; dating wasn’t currently on my menu. Especially now that I had a town to save in honor of my dead aunt.
The thought sobered me. I had to bite my tongue to keep the tears out of my eyes.
“Thanks,” I said when I trusted my voice again.
Blondie shrugged again, laid out a plate and silverware, refilled my glass, and went back to making a pyramid out of playing cards.
I dug into the pizza, barely pausing to breathe on the first slice. It wasn’t to drown my brain in a food coma – at least, that’s what I told myself. I knew it was a lie, but I let the gullible half of myself believe it. This was just an incredibly tasty, probably-incredibly-bad-for-me pizza and I was enjoying it after a long, long drive.
I nearly choked on it in surprise when the dying cat suddenly went into heat. The trio of guys clustered around the pinball machine gave manly shouts in perfect unison, one in despair and two in triumph. The tall one slapped the player on the back before shoving him out of the way for a turn. The third just kept laughing. He tried to talk, but only more laughter came out.
I glanced at Blondie, who just shrugged back. I lifted my eyebrows at the pizza. It went on seducing me with its well-rounded pepperoni and impressive carbs, leaving me with no choice but to eat more of it.
The losing player bought a round of beer from Blondie, obviously his punishment for not hitting the buttons fast enough. I had never been a fan of pinball; with only a pair of paddles at one’s disposal, it was as rigged as a poker game in a strip club. Plus, the constant clicking and shushing and, in this case, the sounds of feline death, gave me a headache. Or in the current case, made my headache worse.
“Don’t miss Riverglen Road,” the guy said to me as he gathered the open bottles in his hands.
I forcefully swallowed a too-big bite of heaven and croaked out, “Sorry?”
“On your way out of town. Whichever way you’re going, it’s got great scenery.” He was cute in a scrawny, lost puppy sort of way. That last part was probably just my recent loss adding a sad filter, but he put it to good use with his boy-next-door charm.
“Oh, I’m not leaving. Not for a while, anyway.” A year, if I wanted to be a millionaire. I hadn’t decided yet. Millions would look good on my sister; there wasn’t a lot that didn’t. If I failed in my quest, the responsibility would pass to her. That was about the only part of the legal documents I had retained.
His face seemed made for innocent but pleasant surprise. I was wary of the innocence, but he seemed like a nice guy. Besides, if I was going to stick around – and especially if I was going to appease my aunt’s spirit in the Great Beyond (her term, not mine) – I might as well get used to being chatted up by locals. “Really? How come?”
I wiped sauce from the corners of my mouth with a too-thin napkin and nodded as I took a swig of Diet Coke. The combination of flavors, pizza sauce and soda pop, sizzled on my tongue and helped calm my frazzled nerves. I went over three different ways of saying it before finally just blurting, “My aunt died. I’m here to take care of her stuff.” Who needs grief when there are awkward social moments to help get over losing a loved one?
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, and actually sounded most of the way sincere. “Wait.” He took a long look at me, and by long I mean head-to-toe. Somehow when he did it, it wasn’t at all creepy. “You’re Nora’s niece? I’m really sorry. She was an interesting lady.”
I could tell by the way he said “interesting” that what he meant was “crazy.” I let it slide. There were lots of times I thought she was crazy, too. Who else but the half-insane would require such a task as saving a town to earn an inheritance?
“Thanks,” I said.
“I’m Vinny.” He shook my hand once I managed to drop my napkin in my lap.
“Annika,” I said, shaking back.
He grinned, and I suddenly knew what ‘like a schoolboy’ looked like. “Nice to meet you, Annika. The tall guy over there is my brother, Joey, and the jerk who’s still laughing like an idiot is Tony.” He raised his voice on the last introduction, throwing Tony a disgusted glare to go with it.
Tony took that moment to turn and bellow, “Where’d you go to get those beers, V?” I didn’t think he could have heard his name over his own laughter, but some people have remarkably good hearing. Others simply seem attuned to hearing their name regardless of circumstances like dogs when someone says, ‘treat’ or ‘walk’ from three rooms away. He joined us at the counter without looking at me. He was too busy giving Vinny a spot-on impression of a Stallone glare. In fact, the Stallone thing was more than just the glare; he had the same sort of dark good-looks melded with boyish charm. The kind that usually went with pulled pigtails, maybe, but I found it strangely uplifting.
“Here, ass,” Vinny said, handing off two of the beers. Then he tipped his head toward me and added, “I didn’t want to be rude.”
“Since when?” Tony took a swig of the beer. With a great show of satisfaction, he leaned against the counter and waggled the bottle in Blondie’s direction.
“Keep ‘em coming, J. On Vinny’s tab.” He clapped Vinny on the shoulder before he busted up laughing again.
I went on eating my pizza. Attractiveness aside, I thought I had better start elsewhere in town than with these guys. I made it a point to avoid involving myself with the immature, loud, or obnoxious. A trifecta meant a beeline for the hills. Even – or maybe especially – when wrapped up in a Stallone-like package.
“Sorry,” Vinny said to me under his breath. He went to join his brother as he was called for another turn.
Tony tipped the beer back again, watching the game with one elbow on the counter. “New in town, huh?” he asked without looking at me.
I nodded. It seemed a rhetorical question at this point. Plus, I had that no involvement thing working for me.
“Want a beer? He’s buying.”
A glance at the clock on the wall to confirm my suspicions before remembering that, oh yes, it was perpetually four-thirty here. I don’t drink a lot, generally, and even then not usually before six in the evening. I’d left my phone at home, but the sun streaming through the scratched window told me it was still well before six.
“No, thanks,” I said before stuffing another bite of pizza in my mouth.
“He’s a good kid. Funny.”
I had a feeling Tony meant that Vinny made a good mark for jokes, not that he told them well. I kept on chewing in a ladylike fashion with my mouth closed and no words falling out.
Tony finished off his beer and waved to Blondie for another. Finally, he looked at me. This annoyed me more than his lack of eye contact; the directness of his dark-eyed stare went deeper than my clothes, deeper than my skin. My cheeks flushed in spite of myself.
“Do you swing?”
A bit of cheese went down the wrong pipe. I spluttered into my Diet Coke and swallowed hard several times to clear the cough. Tony slapped me on the back to help. Then he started laughing again, a low, deep sound to match his voice, like the rolling of stormy waves on a black night.
“Sorry?” I coughed, wiping tears from my eyes. I hesitated, then remembered I hadn’t bothered to put on eye makeup before embarking on my quest for food. That only made me more self-conscious. My back felt warm where he’d slapped it; the sensation merged with the heat of embarrassment in my face. What the hell was wrong with me?
“Dancing,” he clarified with a self-satisfied grin. “Do you swing dance? I always forget that last part.”
“I’m sure you do,” I muttered. I was torn. Did I admit my ability to Charleston and rock step, leave myself open to getting to know this Stallone-faced jokester, or did I play dumb? I hadn’t been dancing in a couple years. I hadn’t been out with members of the opposite sex in…longer than I cared to comment on.
“There’s a club in the city, the Venutian. We drive up there every Friday if you’re interested.” He left me his second beer and returned to his cronies. The space beside me filled up with cold air, chilling the exposed skin of my arms.
I wasn’t sure how I felt about the offer, but I knew one thing. I was way too tired, too sore, and too stained in tears to worry about turns and lifts and flirting.
The three went on playing pinball like nothing else in the world existed but the beers they routinely chugged down. I finished off my slice and had Blondie box up the rest – a good three-quarters of the monster. After I paid, I stared at the bottle of beer still sitting next to me, untouched.
Finally, I pushed it toward the waiter-host-chef and said quietly, “Tell him thanks, but it’s not a good day for beer.” I was sure Tony would disagree, but I didn’t let that stop me. What I wasn’t sure about was why I cared at all about assuaging Tony’s his feelings.
Ignoring my internal question, I gathered up my enormous doggie box and made my exit from Benny and Cheese.