Life in Words

Circle of Fire review

2011-08-18T23:36:00.000-07:00

   Recently, I tweeted about a wonderful YA author by the name of Michelle Zink and her books. First book, The Prophecy of the Sisters. Second book, Guardian of the Gate. And the third and final book Circle of Fire.
Now, to begin with, I must say the the first two books caught my attention. Yes, they may be a tad bit wordy, but from the get go, I was drawn in like a mouse to cheese. There is such an allure the fantastic to these books and honestly...they scared me a bit. As I have asked so politely before...don't judge me.
   There are many books about "The End Times" but Zink has these characters down pact. She utilized some of the stories passed down from biblical times unto our generation to make a hell of a great trilogy. (Pun intended : ) )
   The Prophecy of the Sisters is the story of set of twin that come from a long line of doubles decedents. One is the guardian and one the gate. In other words, one is evil and one is good. It goes as it has for years, until there these two twins, Lia and Alice, are born by cesarean and the good one comes out in the bad one's place. So the purposed guardian--who is good--is actually the gate. And the evil one is the guardian.
   With magic, death and the Victorian Era, this is a trilogy spun in pure gold.

   The Circle of Fire was entirely difficult to put down. Don't you just love those books that take you to that place in your head, where you might never have thought to go before? That is what happened with this last installment. With the sisters at odds and Lia--the burdened Gate--already losing the battle to stay on the right path, they are pitted against each other; good vs. evil.
   Although you root for Lia to follow her true calling and close the gate for good, you also sympathize with her struggle to just chuck it all and let evil win.
   But that isn't the worst of her problems...in order to close the gate, she must have the help of her twin sister, Alice, who is betting high on Samael and the souls and is out for blood.
   If you haven't read the story, then I suggest you do. And if you haven't read ANY of them, go, run to your bookstore and buy a copy.

   Happy writing everyone and be sure to check these books out as soon as possible.

-C.

New Book Entry--Judas

2011-08-18T23:11:00.000-07:00

I wanted to post another entry of my book. I was wrong to label the first portion as a book chapter. Truth is that I haven't decided where to break them for chapters yet. I'm just rolling along, trying to tell Sally's story and get to know her myself. In the meantime, here is another glimpse of Willow Tree, North Carolina...and Shanda's disappearance. (If you haven't read the first portion, please look under book chapter or Judas. You'll find it there and will be able to understand where I have left off.) Enjoy!

Today starts like this:

This morning I woke up to rain. It pounded the tin of the roof and beat against the glass of the windows. When the wind blows, it shakes the house down to its core. It’s Saturday and I know it will be like no other Saturday I’ve ever passed before.

I feed the pigs, the chickens and check in on the horses. Daddy is passed out on the couch again—another late night out with Felix. Since Momma died, he has taken a shine to whiskey. When he falls asleep, it is always with her picture in his hand.

I don’t bother him, instead I finish up my chores and dress in my warmest clothes, taking one of his lumberjack shirts from his closet and pull my grey wool hat over my ears.

Today they are searching the woods for my friend. A team out of Charlotte comes with blood hounds and horses. The animals breathe in the air and it comes out of their noses in pants of billowy clouds. The horses neigh when their owners pull at the reins. The men are dressed in thick jackets, ones I wish I could afford to buy Daddy.

Cars line the sides of the highway about a mile from my home. I stand among the crowd, my hands stuffed in old work gloves to fight the cold.

“We’ll take the northern perimeter,” I hear one say, using a map spread on the hood of his truck.

Next to him, sitting haphazardly on the hood, is a cup with steam escaping through a small hole on the lid. It makes my mouth water and makes the air feel colder somehow.

“Your team can take the west. Use your radios if you find anything.”

The man looks different from the rest of us. He is older, with gray hair along his temples which is nothing new. But the look of him—as if he had his whole life handed to him without asking—is different from the others who stand huddled together to beat the cold.

When I turn around, Ben Theodore—Shanda’s boyfriend—is standing against one of the hardwoods with his eyes to the sky. Even if he doesn’t speak it, I know he’s praying. They all are. I can see their lips moving with no sound coming from them.

Shanda’s father is sitting on the bumper of his Ford. His eyes are tired and rimmed red. He’s been crying and I wonder to myself why he bothers to pray at all. No god would take his daughter…not her.

I think about life and what this will mean for me now. In the end, I can see a white casket and thousands of baby pink roses and white carnations surrounding a mound of turned earth. I close my eyes and shake my head to erase the picture.

There are so many voices jumbled together here and all I can think of is her…the girl with the golden hair…my friend.

“Do you wanna come over today?” she asked me and I missed my footing, tripping on the lip of the doorjamb of our English class.

“What?”

“Wanna come over to my house today?” I studied her face, the way her skin glowed; her eyes sparkled with sincerity and her pink lips pulled apart—her teeth straight and white. She had a shower of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

The song comes into my head again. Sally Sue Judas prances around town…

Had she ever sang it with the others when we were children? Was she asking me to her house because they planned on making a fool of me? Nowhere in her face could I see those signs of cruelty. Those innocent freckles dictated my answer.

No one with sweet freckles like hers would lie.

“Alright,” I said.

That afternoon I skipped the country bus and headed for the parking lot. On our way to her car, I heard the monsters talking. Shanda has a new charity case. I wouldn’t be her friend if you paid me. They said things, but never really looked at us.

When I looked at my friend, she smiled over the top of her car and nodded so that I would get in. It felt unreal. I gripped the door handle and it didn’t make one sound when I opened it. Not like Daddy’s truck whose seats moved when you didn’t want them to and doors squeaked loudly in protest when you opened them.

Her car smelled of flowers whereas my father’s reeked of pipe tobacco and week old whiskey.

We drove through town and onto Brewster Street where her house perched on top of a small hill. The outside was soft white with light blue shutters. The porch wrapped around and a set of six steps that led to the light blue front door. On the three front windows were flower boxes with white peonies.

The inside smelled like a mother lived there—fresh baked cookies and cinnamon. The walls were the color of wheat and I wondered if they chose the color to match Shanda’s hair. In the kitchen was a small round table with a window that let the sunlight stream inside. It was warm and cozy, just like a home should be.

“Let’s go up to my room,” she said and we climbed the stairs up to a hallway with four doors, two on the right and two on the left.

She chose the first door on the left. Her room was light, airy with clean lines and mature taste. There were some pictures on her built-in shelves and I smiled when I saw that she had one of the two of us in a frame.

“When did you take that picture?” I asked because I couldn’t remember.

“A couple of months ago,” she said as she hung her purse off the chair at her desk.

I gazed at all the pretty little things she had on her shelves. Tiny wooden horses and miniature glass blown ballerinas in soft pink tutus. On her walls were pictures of horses and on her desk was a picture of a strong looking steed with chocolate and vanilla spots.

“Is that your horse?”

“Yup. That’s Daisy,” she said and I heard the pride in her voice.

In that moment, I wished I had a horse I felt that way about. I wished I had anything to take pride in so I would sound that way.

“She’s beautiful,” I said.

“Thanks. She’s real gentle. You should go riding with me sometime. You gotta horse?”

“Yeah, I do. But he ain’t this pretty,” I chuckled.

“Oh, any horse is pretty. If you give ‘em enough love and show them kindness, they’ll be as beautiful as a thoroughbred.”

How I wanted to see things just the way she saw them. How I wanted to dip my hands in the well of wishful thinking and positivity that she did every day of her life. But I live in the real world. In the real world, things are just that black and white.

“Have a seat,” she said and patted the empty space on her bed.

I accepted her offer with a weak smile because I still had no idea why she asked me here.

“Sally, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.”

I liked the way she left out my middle name. It made me feel all grownup.

“What did you want to talk to me about?”

She sat cross legged on her bed and picked at a loose thread on her blanket with her eyes down.

“I suppose you heard what those girls said on the way out of school.”

It was my turn to look away.

“Yeah, I heard.”

“Does it bother you much?”

It was an innocent question; one that deserved an honest answer. But I just couldn’t give it to her. How could I admit how weak I really am to the one person who made me feel a little stronger?

“Not really,” I said and prayed a hole would open in the floor and swallow me up. My voice betrayed me. She read through the cracks.

“I would venture to guess it does,” she said with a sad smile. “It has to because it bothers me a lot.” She frowned then and looked out her window. “The thing is, Sally, they just don’t see you the way I do.”

“And how’s that?” It was out of my mouth before I had a chance to stop and count the costs. I wasn’t sure I really wanted to know how she saw me.

“You are like a drop of sunshine,” she said in her sweet voice. “People don’t see how wonderful and smart you really are.” Shanda looked down again. “I know they only see what’s on the outside because it’s easier.”

I turned my eyes away from her again, my cheeks flaming red from embarrassment. That—at least—she agreed with them on.

“Not that what’s on the outside is bad,” she said with a firm tone. But that didn’t help. “What they judge you on is not only how you look, but how you carry yourself.”

She used her finger to lift my chin until I was looking into those startling blue eyes.

“Sally, you walk around the school with your shoulders hunched and your eyes down. You literally hide behind your hair!” she said, as she playfully mussed my knotted mane. “Don’t you realize how beautiful you are?”

I stared at her in disbelief and shook my head uncertainly.

“How do you expect those people to see it, if you can’t see it for yourself?”

Then, Shanda took me by the hand and led me through the door to the left of her closet. Her bathroom was covered in products I had never seen. Different kinds of make-up and brushes and bows and rubber bands all neatly stacked in clear plastic boxes atop of a granite vanity.

“Sit down,” she said and I took a seat on a chair fit for a princess.

The large space was done up in pale lavender colors. The tub was claw footed and bright white.

Quietly she took a bottle that was scented with something like honeydew melons. I realized it was how her hair always smelled and I was excited that she was using it on me.

After twenty solid minutes, she brushed away every tangle that I had. The pain was minimal and I would take it any day.

“Can I see now?”

“Not yet,” she said with a determined voice. “Let me finish it up and then you can see.”

I don’t know how long I was in that chair but I would’ve stayed forever if she’d asked me to. When I turned to look in the mirror, I didn’t recognize the girl staring back at me. Her hair, the color of chestnuts, shined under the muted light of her bathroom. And her skin was ivory and her cheeks were rosy with blush; her lips as pink as Shanda’s.

It couldn’t be me…but it was.

“Whatta ya think?” she asked and looked nervous.

“Shanda, I…” There were no words.

“Do ya like it?” I nodded and tried hard not to cry.

Sally Sue Judas prances around town/up the street and down the street in her ugly nightgown.

No one could say that about me anymore. No one could ever make me feel ugly again when I know what is underneath it all. My friend showed me exactly what happens when you find a wildflower in a patch of weeds. And I was grateful to her for finding Sally.

Daddy wasn’t home when I got back that night and I was glad. I didn’t want him to see me this way. I didn’t want him to see the woman I was when Shanda was through with me. I knew this would only happen once. But once was enough to last me a lifetime.

Once was enough to show me that deep inside I was just as beautiful if not more than those monsters that lurked about our school. And if I wanted to fool them, all I had to do was comb my hair and dab on some cosmetics.

It was enough to know I had that option.

“Alright,” the stranger says to the rest of us. “You all got your maps and areas. Now go and use your radios if you find anything. Please be on the lookout for animals and watch your step. Don’t want anyone stepping on bear traps.”

We all take a position and when he heads forward, we do to.

My head is so full of thoughts right now I can’t tell which way is up or down. On my right are men with hounds that sniffed some of Shanda’s clothing before heading forward. On my left are another pack of strangers except for Ben whose eyes are down and hands are stuffed in the pockets of his jacket. For a moment, they drift towards me and I look down quickly when he meets my gaze.

My thoughts are on his heart and how it must be aching worse than mine.

We walk along the perimeter set for us and search for clues. We are one line of people with no one exactly ahead or behind. We are like one giant comb with corneas and pupils that search the bracken and dead leaves and branches.

We search the area for hours, all the while I am hoping we find some clue, some ray of hope that my friend is alive and well. That she maybe got lost in the woods on a hike or fell off her horse while riding, even though I know her horse is at the stable where it belongs.

Hope is heartless. It encourages you to believe in things that cannot exist in the rational world. My whole life I’ve lived with rationality. Now, I am in danger of hoping that she isn’t how my subconscious has already drawn her picture for me.

A corpse, her body gray with decomposition and hair no longer the color of sunshine.

“No,” I whisper to myself. No because she can’t be gone. Not if I can still feel her around me.

When she befriended me, I never noticed the connection. I never felt it because she was always right there next to me. If I’d been paying attention, I would have realized it the moment the black crow sang his warning to me. It was our connection that ached in my bones. It was because of it he came to me in the first place—my warning that soon this connection would be tested and maybe push my sanity as far as it could stretch.

With a deep breath I trudge forward, looking beyond that picture my head drew of her and listen to the quiet pining voice of hope that nestles into my ears like a whispered lullaby.

“Shanda, where are you?” my heart calls out silently to hers.

Maybe she’ll hear me and call back. I vow to keep my spirit open for the sound of it.

The day ends on a somber note. Not one clue, not one ray of hope so far. But tomorrow is another day and we’ll be out there again, searching the woods to the east.

I climb into the bathtub full of hot water. My toes are still numb from the cold but I’ll do it all over again...and again. It’s the least I can do—the only thing I can do to keep from going insane with worry. How I wish Nana were here to guide me. She’d know what to do; point me in the right direction.

My bedspread is scratchy on the underside. I pull it up over my head, as if it would help to keep those images out. Images I fight to keep from resurfacing. A light mist showers the window and I watch it gather until it forms droplets that run down the glass, making clear wavy paths all the way to the bottom.

Frustrated, I turn onto my back and stare up at the ceiling then close my eyes and open my spirit up the way Nana taught me. I relax my legs and arms, fingers and toes and work my way up until my mind is clear of everything except what I want.

Silently, I call out to her again and wait.

Where are you my friend? Where are you?

In the middle of the void, in between the sounds of my thoughts and my labored breaths I hear a small whimper of recognition. My heart thumps wildly in my chest and my eyes stay closed until I can make out a whisper.

Sally…help me. I need you…

I gasp—suck in a large gulp of air—and sit up quickly, trying to listen as hard as I can.

Just as quickly as it began, the connection is broken. When I open my eyes, tears blur my vision and my heart begins to ache uncontrollably when I catch the distinct smell of her perfume in the air.

STUPID PEOPLE

2011-08-07T02:25:00.000-07:00

   So, I think that I've had enough of--for lack of a better word--bullshit. I find it hard to believe that so many people have neither the courtesy or decency to treat other people like human beings.
   There are just sometimes when it feels like I'm carrying a million pound globe on my shoulders and my mind is tired and distraught. It never ceases to amaze me that there are just some people who see this, use it and push my buttons so hard I'm ready to punch them in the face!
   I am normally a nonviolent person and you would be hard pressed to catch me in a fight--they are beneath me--but sometimes, don't ya just feel like laying it on someone who possesses the exact traits you despise? Like people who grab your basket--the last basket--at the supermarket when you turned around to lift your child to put her into the little seat. Then you stupidly tell them that it is your basket and what do they say? "Does it have your name written on it?" REALLY?!?! THAT'S the extent of your reasoning? You see me struggling to lift a 35 pound child into a basket and you have the guts to steal it?
   Or, take a parking space...We've all had this happen.
   You waited 10 minutes for the douche bag in the space to finally drag their lazy butt out of the way and what happens? Some OTHER douche bag comes along and cuts in front of you, thus stealing the parking space you waited 10 minutes for while dealing with screaming children complaining that it's taking too long!
   Okay, so maybe I'm oversensitive. But how hard is it to remember that we are all on this earth together...one unit? And why do so many feel the need to make you look stupid?
   Not so long ago, I walked into a convenience store with a winning $5 lottery ticket and a 5 dollar bill to buy a pack of smokes. I lay the five dollars on the counter along with the ticket and tell the clerk what kind of cigarettes I want and that I want another ticket to replace the old one. That's when my cell rings. I answer it, and then tell the person I'm speaking with that I'll call back later all the while watching the clerk and what she's doing. Meanwhile, she takes the five dollar bill to pay for the cigarettes thinking that it is the same five dollars she was supposed to pay me for the ticket but didn't. I tell her that I wanted another ticket with the winnings and that I wanted to pay the cigarettes with the cash, she hands me back the five she took from the counter and tells me that it is the winning  five, and that I owe her five bucks.
   This is where it gets...tricky.
   I calmly explain that she had used MY five to pay for the cigarettes and that she never gave me the cash for the winning ticket. The line behind me is getting longer as I try to rationalize that I did indeed have a five with me that she took to pay the damn smokes and she refused to believe it. HELLO!!! Then some idiot who wasn't there when I arrived at the store starts to say that he saw her lay the bill down and I turn to him and say "Yes...MY bill!"
   Then she proceeds to say that her manager can look at the video footage to prove it and I say okay. This is when she realized that she screwed up. Why would I wait until the line had shortened to prove that she was wrong unless she was? Oh and then she does the greatest thing in the world! "Just take it. I'll get the money out of my purse."
   B.R.I.L.L.I.A.N.T.
   So not only did she call me a liar, she embarrasses me by acting like the victim and says she'd pull her OWN money out to let me go with what I went into the store to purchase.
   Here is where I start to really lose it. I tell her "No, I don't want you to do that. Just go ahead and let these people pay, and I'll wait right over there so that your manager can look at the video footage."
   She just refuses, trying to look all innocent and make me look like a giant ass in front of a group of complete strangers...just to save face.
   I left for two reasons. One, my husband and kids were in the truck. Two, I knew she was wrong and had the mind to go back into the store to prove it. (My husband talked me out of it). I came back to the truck with no money and a ticket and pack of cigarettes. That's what makes sense. That's what was supposed to happen.
   I have and will not go into that store again. But I use this long, drawn out story to prove my point. People can be mean spirited for no reason at all and instead of saying, "okay, I'll be done in a moment and we'll sort this out," she instead chooses to embarrass me so that I am red-faced and fuming.
   Will people ever change? No, probably not. But I'd like to think that one day, we'll understand that we are in this together and that in order to make the world a better place, we just have to respect one another and not cigarette bash each other.
   My rant here is done.

John Hughes

2011-08-01T22:09:00.000-07:00

   Gone are the days of geeky guys with jock straps on their heads and borrowing a pair of girls underpants for 10 minutes.
   I was born in 1978, so I remember the eighties: E.T., Jaws III, Sixteen Candles, The Breakfast Club...
   These movies always put a smile on my face, but none other than John Hughes films.
   Pretty in Pink is my all time favorite movie. I love how he was able to show the differences in social classes and the epic struggles between the rich and poor and how love conquers all.
   Most romances today consist of cheesy lines and totally absurd situations that don't flavor my movie pallet. In the time of Pretty in Pink I was a child and grew up watching that movie so often I memorized the lines. I know many of you did the same thing...don't judge me. : )
   But come on!!! Didn't you ever dream of a guy like Jake Ryan waiting for you across the street and kissing you over sixteen burning candles? Or the feeling justice seeing Stef (James Spader-Pretty in Pink) finally get his?
   What happened to these characters?
   I think I know...
   John Hughes is no longer here to right wrongs, expose social issues.
   Some Kind of Wonderful is one that's on the top of my list of faves. The Breakfast Club? Who can forget Judd Nelson holding onto that diamond earring and shoving his fist in the air?
   John Hughes took with him a legacy of memorable movies and an ache in our hearts for the days of the eighties.
   So rest in peace Mr. Hughes...Hope you're writing us more stories for the hereafter.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d8wSwdv-S2k

New book

2011-07-19T15:36:00.000-07:00

So, I've been working on a new book aptly named Judas and have already written about 8,000 words. This book is like nothing I've ever written. Here's a peek at it...hope you enjoy.

-C.

Judas

The song goes like this:

Sally Sue Judas prances around town

Up the street and down the street in her ugly nightgown

She raps upon the table and stares up at the clock

And deals with the devil a dollar to rest her head upon

It is almost as haunting as a nursery rhyme—those with impatience and a story to tell.

My name is forlorn and funny and unkind.

My name is an anvil that reeks of old blood and is stained with memories. Most of them too old to accept as truth, but still too young to believe are lies. It is fraught with sin and stuffed with ancient betrayal.

Daddy used to say my great-great-great grandfather earned the name when he betrayed his friends and alerted the town sheriff of their role in a train robbery for a thirty dollar reward. We don’t know if that’s where it came from but it sticks to me like rubber cement and leaves me with ten thousand questions that sing silent songs when all is dark and cold.

Where I live is a hole in the ground; a pitch in the dirt that might eradicate the pretty, pretty pictures of the hardwood tree hills and Smoky Mountains you might find on postcards.

Here there are no pretty pictures.

Here there are monsters that trot around in fashionable apparel. They lurk in the schoolyards and in the locker room of the gym. They eat and drink and shit the way normal humans do, but they can’t be human because there isn’t a shred of humanity inside them.

In this place I am not a person to them at all, but an entity that requires exorcism and a boil on their perfect existence. I am not seen with sympathy or empathy but rather with disgust and hatred for all that I am…for all they wish they could pretend didn’t exist.

My name is Sally Sue Judas. My town is Willow Tree, North Carolina, just southeast of the Smokies. I am a senior at Willow Tree High and the monsters I speak of are the girls and boys that go to school with me.

I am an outcast and a loner. I did not choose to be born into poverty, but I was just the same. My hair is dark and knotted. I do not smell of perfume or soap but instead of horses, chickens and hay and go to school like this with no choice as chores need to be done.

Poverty does not afford me the luxury of new clothes or a prom dress. It does not afford me new supplies for school or the idealistic world of technology. What I have learned I read in books and my self-taught discipline is not rewarded with regard but instead with ridicule.

In this town I am a bane on their picture perfect dream of transcendence from tragic to superior.

I had no friends to call my own. There was no room for me in their circle. No one saw me and when they did it is just to torment me with names and comments about my smell.

I had no one…except her.

My friend is this:

Once upon a time, there was a family who lived in our sleepy little town. They bore children and raised them to be good people. They had a son, John and a daughter, Shanda. Their son was grown up and went to college on the West Coast.

Their daughter grew up in our town just like John. She was the girl with golden hair and cobalt blue eyes. She loved riding horses and hiking the mountains. She was raised a Christian and had no reason to hate her life.

Their daughter was kind and gentle. She couldn’t see behind the veil of goodness her parents shrouded her eyes with and never saw the monsters lurking about her.

When she actually spoke to me that day, I was sure she had made a mistake. It was an unseasonably warm October day. The leaves on the trees outside had already shifted and turned gold and orange. I thought about their transitioning and how they only became more beautiful right before their death.

“What’s got you so intrigued?” Her voice was honey, warm and soft on my tongue. I turned to look at her with my eyes down, my teeth gnashed so she wouldn’t see me shivering.

“The leaves,” I had said.

“What about them?”

“They’re dying.”

“I guess they are,” she said and I nodded, turning back to the window. “Do you suppose they feel death coming?” she asked after a long silence.

“No.” My voice was a whisper. “I think it’s more like metamorphosis. Like a butterfly that buries itself in a cocoon and then comes out new and beautiful again.”

I don’t know why I jabbered on, but she didn’t stop me from talking. She listened like she liked what I had to say.

Days go by and she continues to talk to me; starting conversations about the most insignificant things. But I listen and pretend to understand and do not show my fear about her intentions.

I passed these people in halls every day and every day they commented on my clothing or hair; anything to make me feel less than human. I want to hate them but am afraid to. Hate only gives them power and I don’t know how to defend who I am without looking foolish. Shanda begins to walk with me and people notice, stop making comments, stop telling me how worthless I am.

It feels good not to feel so despised.

The day my friend doesn’t show up for school starts like this:

On a cold March day, the skies are dark with ominous clouds and my heart squeezes just a little at the sight. I know that something is coming. I can feel it in my bones as surely as the blood that runs through my veins. It’s a chill, like right before a cold comes on and you ache in places you didn’t know you could ache.

She met up with me every morning and I was grateful for it. With Shanda I didn’t have to be afraid of anything, including my own shadow. She made me strong with kindness and when she isn’t there to greet me, I know something is wrong.

My coat wasn’t warm, but it sufficed. I pulled the collar closer to my neck and waited, missing my first class, watching the parking lot for her small red car.

It never came.

In the distance, a crow squawked and its voice tore a hole in my chest...

My nana used to speak of the black crow and foreboding. Nana was raised by the Brule Sioux Indians on a reservation in South Dakota. She said that once the crow was all white and cousin to the buffalo that the tribe fed off of. The white crow warned the buffalo of hunters and their approach. Their cousins were able to escape and for that, the tribe went hungry.

One day the old chief decided to capture the white crow and used a buffalo hide with head and horns, placing it onto the back of a young brave and sent him into the pasture. When hunters approached, the white crow squawked and called for their retreat. But one buffalo did not listen and when he came down to warn him again, the young brave grabbed his feet and tied him to a rock with string.

The council held a meeting and one—flushed with hunger and anger—threw the bird into the council fire, singeing the rope and allowing the crow to go free…but not before charring its feathers black. It swore that it—and the rest of the Crow Nation—would never interfere again.

But another legend surfaced from those blackened feathers. Nana used to say, “Sally Sue, when the black crow is near and it ought not to be, it is a telling of death fast approaching.”

There he was, with his shiny black feathers and tiny jeweled eyes, staring at me from his perch on a hardwood with sprouting new leaves.

I did not ask him why he was there because I already knew.

The search began like this:

Leaves were gathered in heaps and dusted by a light snow that made the roads too slick to drive upon. The sirens blared through the chilly afternoon and I stood outside the school, shivering and torn apart through the inside.

Shanda never came to school that day and never returned home that evening. The next day, the sheriff was at the school, asking questions and expecting answers no one could give.

My hands shook when it came up to my turn.

“Sally Sue Judas,” he said, clucking his tongue. I nodded, because I couldn’t do anything else. “I’ve heard you is friends with Shanda Malaise. Is that true?”

I nodded again.

“When was the last time you saw her?” He sat in a chair in front of me, leaning against his knees, his black pants tight against his thighs.

“Day before yesterday,” I whispered.

“What was she doing?”

“Going home.”

“That what she said?”

“Yes,” I said because it was the truth.

“No stops along the way that you know of?”

“No, sir. Shanda is a good girl. She would never get herself in any kind of trouble. It’s not her to do anything foolish.”

He nodded, looking at me suspiciously. I suppose with my family’s background I can’t blame him. But I never cause a fuss; never make them work for those paychecks.

My cousins, Billy Joe and Mack have had their run-ins with the law…so has my daddy. But I avoid these suits like the plague.

I am cursed by name and by relation. The good sheriff’s thinking is this: the apple doesn’t far fall from the tree.

“But your tree is not full of apples, it’s full of maple syrup,” Shanda told me when I explained my situation to her.

Most don’t want to admit it, but they are scared of my family. When Nana was alive, she used to hold ceremonies on our land. She used languages no one ever heard before. Sometimes, when the moon was at its peak, her fires would glow blue with magic. She used the fruit of the Hawthorn tree to alleviate female troubles and stomach aches. She was known to cure things like flu and once even cancer.

The sheriff knows this; his momma used to take him down to the hollow when he was a boy. When his legs were in braces and Nana helped him walk without them.

The room was cold, the skin on my arms rose with goose pimples. On the table, there was a can of pop and a half eaten doughnut. My stomach growled and I realized I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast the day before. Before my friend didn’t show up for school.

“Okay, Sally Sue,” he said with a smile. “That’ll be all. But keep yourself handy, ya hear?”

“Yes sir,” I said and walked out the door with my arms around my stomach.

Book Review--The Other Life

2011-06-29T05:52:00.000-07:00

   I have read so many books these last couple of years it's ridiculous. But I just can't seem to put them down. They are like a powerful and addictive drug...one that feeds my craving for the worlds of fantasy and realism.
   I just finished the book THE OTHER LIFE by Ellen Meister and here is my review.

   Life is full of tough choices. But what if you could change all that? What if you could return to the road not taken? That is what Quinn Braverman faces in this emotionally charged and highly addictive book that offers you an answer to that age old question "What if?"
   The Other Life is spellbinding, captivating and easily one of the best books I've read so far this summer. Meister spins a tale of loss, love and forgiveness that touches the heart and literally feeds the soul.
   Quinn's life is a picture perfect wall she has built around herself. Very few understand the depths of her pain or the realistic way she misses her mother. And when her second pregnancy doesn't go as she hoped, she escapes into the 'what if' world where she chose another path...and her mother is still alive.
   This book takes a hard look at the family dynamics of bi-polar disorder and how its effects are like gentle webs of silk, spun out with points; chain reactions without reversal. And guides the reader into the understanding that every decision has a consequence...but not all bad decisions are the wrong ones.
   Look for it in e-book format or visit http://www.ellenmeister.com/

The Boy

2011-06-22T01:03:00.000-07:00

So, I was listening to The Cure and was inspired to write this story. Hope you enjoy.

The Boy

It all began with the boy.

When she was a girl, Mary used to hang off the window ledge, listening for the squeaking sound of his bicycle—the chain whispering in the dying wind.

The world looked big from where she sat; the trees blowing their leaves like a shower of fairies. Here she could imagine what it would be like to fly. Instead of a bird, she wanted to be a paper airplane with its irregular wings and stiff body. She imagined that when it fell, it never felt pain.

The chains ran their course until she could see the boy in the distance, his dark hair blowing in the breeze. He was the only one to talk her down from the edge of the world and she listened, took his hand and ran down the dirt road to the lake at the first turn.

His eyes are the color of mud, but it did not bother her. All she saw were the wildflowers that grew from that mud—their beauty and grace all flowing together, harmoniously.

The boy convinced her to take off her shoes and plunge her bare feet into the cold water. Her toes grew numb until her body accepted its fate and slowly let loose the shackles of the frigid ache and met those muddy brown eyes again.

The boy stood farther that she could reach, his soft tendrils of dark curls nestled around his smooth face. Mary never knew fear when he was near. She never knew life without his presence.

His lips are blue from the cold, but he smiles and she moves forward without thinking, the water rippling around the ruffles of her summer dress. There he stands, without a word; without a sound and she realizes that he has never spoken to her. But even in his silence, she felt she would recognize his voice anywhere. He spoke to her heart without words, just gesture.

When she reached the boy, he spread out his hand and ran his fingers through her blonde hair and moved closer until his blue lips were warm against hers. How young she is to be feeling true love’s kiss! But within her, the small child sang with reverence for the boy with the muddy brown eyes and her heart soared above the cottonwood trees and into the distance…a paper airplane.

Where her home existed was within his chest, stretching out for eternity. But she wondered while she—a mere child—lay in his arms, why no one else saw him.

It all ended with the boy.

In the distance thunder rumbled and dark ominous clouds blocked out the sun. In the distance, the birds began to sing frantically, but she did not hear them; the warning that with the sweet comes the sour.

The boy pressed her against his cold body and she could hear his smile as the lightening crashed above their heads. But there was no fear, only peace.

Below a tree on the bank of the river they rested upon, the water reached their toes and churned with ferocity.

The town spoke of her often…of the foolish, pretty girl with golden hair. They spoke of the shame and of the poor parents who are no longer burdened with the little girl who wondered into places she was never meant to go.

But the boy was there, arms spread wide and another seat on his bicycle just for her.

The Rio Grande

2011-05-09T21:03:00.001-07:00

The Rio Grande

The sun is fading fast, reflecting off the river like thousands of glittering bugs. My feet are tired, my eyes dry from the heat and my hair knotted against my scalp. I can feel the sores on my toes and the scorching afternoon sun has baked the scaly shrubs and vegetation around the rocky bank of the river until they are nothing more than twigs and dead leaves.

Every day is the same. The fear of being caught….the fear of dying. But now I have my chance. Now I can see the murky water of the Rio Grande over the steep embankment. I can see the promise land just past it.

Two months ago, in the middle of the night, my oldest brother was taken by armed men from our home.

“Sarita,” he had said, “go and hide. Do not let them find you.”

The fear in his eyes, his voice, forced me out of bed. I hid in the pantry of our kitchen. It was the hardest I ever prayed for my parents. It was the first time since their deaths that I was truly frightened. My brother Juan refused to pay them for protection and from the small window of our kitchen I could see them beat him in the backyard we used to play in as children. When one of the men pulled a machete from a leather strap on his back, the moonlight caught on the metal and planted that image in my brain like the seed of a poisonous vine that grows and grows until it wraps around its host, killing all the good memories and leaving blood stains instead.

My brother begged them not to take his life. I could hear his voice muffled by blood and gaps where his teeth had once been. They took no pity. The man lifted the machete up to his neck and sliced into his flesh until his head lay on the ground, his body twitching in the dirt.

I swallowed the scream and rage that flooded my throat, placed a hand over my mouth so they did not hear me cry while they looted our home, taking everything of value. Then they were gone, like ghosts in the night and I stayed in that pantry until the sun rose and fell twice, unable to move and hardly able to breathe.

Now I am here, knowing that on the other side of that river, salvation awaits. In Mexico, I was a dentist. In America, I will be nothing. But what are we without family? If I have no one left, then do I exist at all?

I pull up the bag hanging from my shoulders and climb down the rocky surface of the river’s edge. The water is warm. I can make it, I’ve always been a strong swimmer and it calls to me. I stare at the open plain of the river, mindful of its power and the undercurrents that await me below.

The sun is already beginning to set and I find myself torn between fear and understanding. I can feel the Rio’s power and my mind fills with stories of my countrymen…some of who died trying to cross.

From my bag, I pull out the letter I found in my father’s belongings. It was from a man named Pedro, my father’s brother. My parents, my grandparents never spoke of this man. After reading the letter, I realized he was what the Americans would call “the black sheep”, disowned by my family for choosing a lifestyle they did not approve of.

I don’t care if he is American, gay or blue, I just know I have to find him. He’s my only hope of survival.

Carefully, I slip the letter into the plastic zip bag and put it back into my bag. He would help me…I know he will.

There is a strange silence before the wind changes and catches the branches of the mesquite trees and brush that resembles green tumbleweeds. And then the air is thick with perfume; a smell so familiar it begins to eat at my fear and pull forth my courage.

It is the scent of my mother’s favorite perfume.

My head swims for a moment and bit by bit I gather my senses. It is time to swallow my fear and go forward. It’s time to brave the river and learn her secrets.

The ledge is steep but I manage to make it down and come to a small embankment about the size of my feet. My bag is strapped tightly to my shoulders. Inside are pictures of my family, all of us smiling, before the wars got so bad we couldn’t seem to find that smile again. My brother, who realized early on that we might have to flee, began exchanging our Mexico currency for the American dollar. I had enough to pay a Coyote to drive me this far and I will meet his partner once I get to the other side. He will receive no payment, this one had said, because he is a missionary and understands what is happening in our country.

God has answered my prayers. He has kept me safe. I’ve heard stories of girls who are raped riding with Coyotes and so far, it hasn’t happened to me.

So far.

The water is warm on the surface and I take a deep breath, say a prayer and walk further into the Rio until I am waist deep in water. It feels cold on my feet and I am mindful of the undercurrents.

I wade until I am almost across. When I look up at the sky it is filled with countless stars, obscured by a few silver clouds that reflect the light of the moon.

The moon and I haven’t been friends since the day my brother was murdered.

Suddenly, there is no ground and I feel myself falling under the water, my arms flailing, my legs beating against the currents until they burn.

All is fading and in the darkness I hear my brother’s voice. “Sarita, keep swimming. Do not let them find you.” When I open my eyes, there is a light floating on the surface. It gets brighter and brighter until it is in front of me and I can see Juan with his hand out.

I do not hesitate. I take it, mold mine into his and he pulls me up until my lungs burn with air. I am coughing, the river taking its place in my mouth and nose. Slowly, I manage to pull myself out of the water and rest against the rocky wall of the embankment. My eyes close, my mouth is grainy, full of dirt and water. I keep spitting to rid it of the taste of sediments.

When I can breathe again, when it doesn’t hurt, I realize that I am on the other side, that I have made it. Now I must climb up the rocks and over the edge. My limbs are tired but my heart is racing and I find the edges of rock and dirt and my hand catches on a thorny cactus. But I keep going until I am over the edge and past the brush and trees.

I wait well into the night, hiding behind a boulder until I see the signal light flashing three times.

The man is short, with a long beard and a kind smile. “Are you hungry?” he asks and I recognize the word ‘hungry’. I nod my head and he hands me two sandwiches with ham and a bag of chips and a bottle of water. My stomach knots, my head swimming with possibilities.

I am free now, without my family, but I am free. I have left behind all I know, my home, my dead mother, father and brother. I have left my mother Mexico.

“You’re in Texas,” the man says when I ask him where I am in Spanish. I understand now. I am exactly where I’m supposed to be. My uncle is just a few miles away. I can feel invisible strings cutting the ties to everything I was, who I used to be. As we drive towards Laredo, I can see the lights of the city and I know things are going to be different, for better or worse.

Short Story: The Nature of Things

2011-04-28T22:43:00.000-07:00

In honor of Earth Day, I decided to write a little something. Hope you enjoy. : )

The Nature of Things

There are always things floating in the air, specks of dirt that find their way to a flat surface and settle together-like the bonds of a family. Then there are the fireflies that swarm around at night filling the night sky with alien lights, sweet and kindness all brought together from their stark green eyes.

Technically, Lily shouldn’t be sitting here in the cool night air, pondering fireflies and dust. She should be six feet under, with the worms and bugs burrowing into her coffin and eating at her dead flesh. But here she sits, legs crossed, her long blonde hair falling softly around her shoulders and her heart beating lively in her chest.

The backyard has always been her favorite place. Here she can be anyone she wants to be: a princess, a bird or a part of nature that breathes life into the world.

That day she lay still in that hospital bed, clinging to life and yet praying to die for the pain that radiated throughout her body. It was fire and ice, pin pricks and razor slices and there was no end to it. Her body was broken, every limb covered by plaster and glue. Nothing worked. Her fingers and arms broken, her leg bones snapped in two.

As she waited for the end to come-for God to remember she was there and mercifully end her suffering-the door flung open and in walked a statuesque woman with long legs and brown, short cropped hair. Her eyes were what really struck Lily as odd. They were bright green and almost glowed in the dim light of her hospital room.

“What do you seek, Lily?” For a moment she couldn’t answer. She just stared into those eyes and waited for something…anything that might explain the extra fire that now burned across the delicate planes of her skin.

The woman smiled and suddenly she felt the heat rise to her head, filling her mind with possibilities.

“I seek the truth,” she said before realizing her mouth could move. “I want to know more than this life. I want to know what is out there…past the void.”

The woman nodded and walked towards her bed. Her skin was ivory; her dress hugged her curves and was the color of lily pads, like her nails. Not the fungal color of rot, but the kind of green that reminded her of sweet grass and spring leaves.

“So you shall have it,” she whispered and placed a hand upon Lily’s chest.

The fire spread evenly throughout her limbs, fingers and toes and settled deep within her chest, aching and pulsing, killing the pain of her accident and pulling her away from the room and into a light brighter than the sun. Here she felt temptation, saw the want of her life and flowed into another realm of consciousness. When she opened her eyes she was standing in a field of golden wheat, the warm sun beating down on her bare shoulders. The pain was gone and her hands worked. She could feel the rough texture of the grain, playing with the ends between her fingers. Ahead, she could make out the outline of an oak tree, tall and broad with leaves sparkling green.

“It is here you will find your truth,” a voice whispered next to her. “It is here you will make your choice.”

Lily turned to find the woman standing next to her, this time in a long flowing white gown, her hair long and auburn against her back, tender curls hugging the ends. Her face was peace and serenity, her smile sweet and kind.

“Go to the tree and find your answers.”

Without understanding or hesitation, Lily walked across the field to the large tree where she felt cool green grass beneath her toes. Under the leaves was a small man with a pale, pinched face and a childlike smile.

“You have come,” he said, his voice weak. “I have waited for this moment my entire life.”

There was familiarity here, a sense of knowing and enlightenment. She never felt more at home.

“Who are you, sir?”

He twitched, his chest rising and falling with shallow, unsteady breaths.

“I am the light,” he said. “I am your truth. You seek knowledge and a way out of the pain. I can give it all to you...” he hesitated, his green eyes dim. “However, you must do something for me in return.”

“Anything,” she whispered.

She thought of her little sister, huddled next to her in the bed, breathing softly into her hair, of her mother, soft and strong and warm with arms like steel cages when needed. She thought of the warm summer sun and green grass under her feet and the shock of cold that hit her when she jumped into the lake at the edge of spring. All the things that made her who she was, all the people that gave her hope and reason.

Yes, she would do anything to have it back, pay any price not to see them suffer for her mistakes.

Most of all she thought of Alan and the mangled way the accident left his car…of how he managed to escape unscathed while she was left in the car to die. Just to see his face, to let him know it wasn’t his fault and she survived would be worth any price.

But when she turned to the tiny old man, his face is grave. “What I ask does not come without a price.”

“I don’t care. Anything,” she said, her head reeling with possibilities.

He breathed a sigh of what she thinks is relief. “My time is done, but yours is just beginning. Fate has granted you a second chance, but you must make the choice.”

“Name it.”

“You must take my place.”

Her eyes narrowed in confusion, but her pulse began to speed, unsure of what this stranger was asking. “Take your place?”

“I am a creature of nature…since the beginning of time we have given our lives to protecting the spirit of all that surrounds you. We live this life not for ourselves, but for the spirit that allows the rebirth of the earth.” He smiled but it was weak, like a fading leaf and she started when she noticed that his face was now paler, thinner in the few minutes she had stood over him.

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“We live in the air, the trees and the soil. We are the keepers of the earth.”

And for a moment, she understood…of course she did. It was the story her grandmother told her so many times before. It was the story of the nature gods; the keepers of the spirit of Mother Nature. The protectors of what fueled hopes and dreams…of what life had to offer.

“And how do I do that?”

His smile was weary, his voice barely a whisper. “Take my hand and bind our spirits. Choose to be more than your life…than yourself. But be warned that it comes with a great responsibility.”

There was no answer more pure than the moment her fleshy hand settled onto his leathery, otherworldly skin. A spark, an answer to all of her burning questions shot through her brain, incinerating any untruths of what she was brought up to know.

“What happens now?”

“The light will build,” he said, his teeth now yellow with age, his face so thin it caressed the bones of his face. “Over time, it will continue to grow until it begins to flicker out. It is then you must pass it on to another worthy of the spirit. Here is where it begins anew and with the transfer, it will end for you and begin anew for someone else.”

His hand was shaky, but he brought hers to his lips, chapped and rough, and kissed it gently. “Be kind to others, Lily. Be true to yourself and most of all remember to always give to the Earth the way she has given to you.”

He was gone before she took another breath, his flesh gathered in dust on the ground. The soil came alive, feeding off the remains of his body. In his place, a plot of blueberries blossomed.

“He will be missed,” the woman said, her eyes leaking silver tears.

“Who was he?”

“He was Bel,” she said serenely, “Celtic God of the sun. He was the reason the sun shone on your backs. He was the reason the crops grew plentiful. When he began to fall, so did the sun. Therefore the soil hardened and turned to dust and the crops began to fail.” She turned to Lily with understanding. “You were chosen from many years of searching. We are the keepers of nature…of fire and ice. Now it is your turn to bring forth the sun, to wake the animals from their slumber into the warmth of the light.”

Lily gazed at the woman, who was kneeling by the plot of berries. “I can’t do those things. I’m just a girl.”

“Not anymore, Lily. You chose to take his place. It was your choice to give him peace.”

She felt selfish and ashamed for wanting everything he offered for her own gain. But inside there was a tiny spark of something just beginning to glow, a fire flickering to life. It would be years before that light grew too bright, she knew. But now she had the chance to right the wrongs of man and create another world where crops were plentiful and the sun glowed bright in the sky for all mankind to witness.

“Who are you?”

“I am Blod, Goddess of the Earth in bloom, of wisdom and lunar mysteries. I cannot do it alone. He,” she said, her hand sweeping across the wild blueberry patch, “was the other half of who I am. Bel was the reason my powers allowed the Earth to bloom every spring.” She turned to Lily. “Now it is you that will make it shine. It is you that will help me to fulfill my purpose.”

Blod wiped the tears away with the sleeve of her gown. “Go now, Lily. Return to your human form, but remember all that you were taught here, all the knowledge you gained.”

The wind shifted, the smell of wild flowers and berries filled the air and the tree shimmered until she was staring at the beige walls of her hospital room.

Lily walked out of there completely healed. Her doctors couldn’t believe her progress. For weeks they thought she was on the brink of death. They called her parents and told them to prepare for the worst. They call her a medical miracle.

Under the lights of fireflies, she smelled the edge of summer fast approaching. In the midst of night she closed her eyes and prepared for the dawn, her face quiet, her heart thudding softly in her chest.

When the sun crested over the horizon, she smiled and set out on her journey to begin the job she had chosen. It was time to wake the animals, the ground, the fairies. It was time to begin healing and prospering. It was time to live.

Out of Time

2011-04-10T02:48:00.000-07:00

It's been said so many times, "Always tell the ones you love how much you care, because it may be the last time you will be able to." or "Cherish everyday like it was your last."
   It's cold in here, under the plush of the blanket and the sheets are rough, but my pajamas are made of silk and make my skin itch.
   I feel out of sorts, torn between reality and wishful thinking. My heart is beating fast; so fast I can hardly breathe. My chest is tight and it hurts when my lungs expand. My eyes are heavy...so heavy; the lids are closing and my heart is racing faster and faster until I can no longer feel the bed beneath me. And now the ceiling is coming closer, until I can make out the tiny particles in the grainy tan paint and my mind feels free; free to make choices and free to feel unburdened by my life of pain and misery. Yet as I rise higher and higher and vanish through the ceiling, the silver clouds part and I am one with the moon and it is coming closer...closer still. So close it hurts my eyes and stuns my mind.
   When I bring my hands up to my face, the skin is transparent and it feels so good just to let go.
    I am weightless, floating on gentle waves of an invisible ocean. I am cool, my skin without hurt and cool to the touch.
   I am flying...
   I am free...

   Rest now, my friend. One day we'll see you again.

-C.

Living With Fibromyalgia

2011-03-29T08:21:00.000-07:00

   In October of 2008, I took my three children to the park after school one day. My oldest son was in kinder, my middle in preschool and my daughter had just turned 2. It was a hot South Texas fall day, one that changed everything for me.
   I remember the park, the heat of the metal slides, the merry-go-round and a tire swing my kids were dying to get on. It was a regular day, except for the pain in my lower back. At first, I thought it was just after effects from carrying my children (two of them born over 8 lbs.). But the longer it lasted, the more I became concerned it was something more.
   Fifteen minutes after we arrived at the park that sweltering fall day, I began to sweat profusely, my stomach turned and the pain in my back radiated to my thighs and slowly crept up to my arms and worked its way down to my feet until I could hardly stand anymore. I shuffled my protesting children in the truck and went home.
   I lay in bed, praying, begging God to alleviate the pain as it was quickly spreading to my fingers and toes...my spine. It was like nothing I had ever felt before. Excruciatingly raw and so vivid I could do nothing but weep.
   When my husband arrived home that day, I asked him to take me to the emergency room. There was something wrong, I knew it but couldn't really describe it. My hands and feet were purple and swollen and every muscle, tendon, bone and joint throbbed, ached with a fiery hatred.
   All I could do was weep.
   After that first trip, I saw doctor after doctor, took test after test, all of which came back normal. I was at my wits end. So was my family. This thing was killing my body, my spirit. And I continued to pray.
   Six months after that hot October day, my Rheumotologist finally gave me a name for my problem...Fibromyalgia.
   "Okay, so what can we do to fix it?" I asked.
   "I'm afraid there's nothing we can do. The pain can be controlled with medication, but it's just something you are going to have to live with the rest of your life," she said. My whole world crumbled, my heart sinking so far into my chest I thought I'd never feel its beat again.
   Three years and seven different medications later, I am still dealing with this little known disease. Over the years new problems have surfaced. There are strange lumps on my lower back, one small one very close to my spine and when I get a flare-up, I tend to swell, my hands, feet and legs turning a light shade of purple.
   There are a lot of different things that come with this disease. But the worst of it is the depression, the feeling of helplessness and the feat question that will never find an answer...Why me?
   Most days filled with what I call 'easy pain'. It has become the norm for me and I can handle it. It is not until my muscles feel tight as piano wire and my joints ache so bad I think I might scream that it becomes unbearable. And those day, like today, I just wish I could crawl into a dark hole and sob.
   One day there may be a way out of this, but until then, I am just going to have to grin and bear it.
   That's just the way it goes, I guess.
-C.

Puzzle Pieces

2011-03-25T17:59:00.000-07:00

   I realize that as a newcomer I must delve deep into the complicated world of the publishing industry. However, I am not completely terrified by this prospect. Research is less complicated since the invention of the Internet. : ) That is not to say I don't read as many books that I can get my grubby little hands on anyway. Books on how to get an agent, how to keep an agent, how to write a query and how to polish your manuscript. They are essential tools to help a budding writer break into the market (besides a hell of a story).
   If you are looking for a book on writing, try On Writing, A Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King.
   If you are looking for books on agents, try How to Land (and keep) a Literary Agent by Noah Lukeman. Mr. Lukeman also wrote a wonderful e-book titled How to Write a Great Query Letter. I suggest you look this one up. I found my copy at http://www.barnesandnoble.com/.
   If you are searching for agents, I suggest a copy of Writer's Market. You may also decide to buy a membership at http://www.writersmarket.com/. It is helpful and informative. Just make sure before you query an agent based on the info you receive on this website, you checkout their website just to be sure they are still handling your genre. Some change their minds...as is their right.
   This all feels overwhelming to a newcomer, but they are just small pieces to a puzzle on the road to becoming a published author. I am still working out my kinks, but have learned invaluable lessons about the process and am grateful for people like Mr. King and Mr. Lukeman for affording me the opportunity to better myself.
Hope this was helpful.
Happy Writing,
-C.

The Stomach Virus

2011-03-24T18:15:00.000-07:00

   Last night my oldest came to me crying that his head was hurting. So, like any good mother I medicated him and sent him to bed with a glass of orange juice. All night long I checked his temperature which spiked at 103.7 early this morning. Every two hours I alternated between Tylenol Jr. and Ibuprofen. It was at the butt crack of dawn that the orange juice, which had sat quietly in the confines of his stomach decided to pay us visit. It was as if it said, "hey! I'm not through with this world yet! Let me out! Attica! Attica!" Needless to say my son wretched it all up, leaving small peticial hemorrhages around his face (this happens with the pressure).
   Some may not know this, but two years ago I was diagnosed with Fibromyalgia and every so often I get what are called "flare-ups". These are excruciating, causing widespread pain throughout my body. There isn't one part of me that doesn't hurt...this includes my hair! As luck would have it, three days ago I started with another one.
   What I find amazing is that when one of our children becomes ill, we forget about our sickness and focus on what's wrong with them. There isn't a moment when you say "I'm too sick to take care of them", even though there are times when I feel that way.
   Mother's are special people, who in most cases, leave themselves for last. They don't think about what is happening with their own bodies in that moment. They just know that their baby is sick and needs care. How amazing is that?
   Thanks to my mother who always scratched my scalp gently, tucked me in, rubbed vapo rub all over my chest when I was a child. It really DOES make a difference.

Happy Writing,
-C.
P.S: FINALLY reading the follow up to "The Forrest of Hands and Teeth" by Carrie Ryan called "The Dead-Tossed Waves". I'll let you know how it goes. : )

Review of THE REPLACEMENT by Brenna Yavanoff

2011-03-23T16:29:00.000-07:00

   I mentioned a few days ago that I was reading Brenna Yavanoff's THE REPLACEMENT. Here is my review of this book in one quote...
   "Wickedly mesmerizing. Yavonoff's style is sinfully sleek, with characters that draw you in from page one."
   In the beginning I will admit I had my doubts. Only because I am not the biggest fan of fairy stories. But this one...oh, it doesn't give you a name, just the idea of what these creatures are. It has all the thrills, chills, mystery, gore and desire ANY good book requires. It will make you feel hollow, heroic, tempted and enchanted all at the same time. Yavonoff tells a tale of how following the 'in crowd' can lead to tragedy.
   Please, go now...run to your nearest bookstore, go online, buy and download this book. You won't be disappointed.

Happy Writing.
-C.

*On a side note, visit http://community.livejournal.com/merry_fates/ where Brenna Yavanoff, Maggie Stiefvater and Tessa Gratton publish short stories every month!

Goodbye to a Legend

2011-03-23T07:34:00.000-07:00

   Ask anyone I know and they will tell you, "Chandra watches too many movies." And they'd be right. I am a huge movie buff. I love everything from The Godfather Trilogy to Forgetting Sarah Marshall. Every movie has it's place in Hollywood, as every actor/actress has a special place in our hearts.
   Most of us will remember Lindsey Lohan for her shinanagins, drinking, drugs...stealing. Most won't remember the characters she played in Freaky Friday or Georgia Rule. Just as most people remember Elizabeth Taylor for her friendship with Michael Jackson or her failed marriages or substance abuse.
   But there is a difference between me and other people...I remember her for her what she was, a legend, a face so lovely that graced the silverscreen and promised an award winning performance regardless of the role.
   The first movie of hers I can remember watching was A Place in the Sun (1951) with Montgomery Cliff. I remember thinking how elegant she was, how carefree her character seemed. She was so beautiful, poised and screamed of Hollywood Royalty.
   I can still remember her commercials for White Diamonds, which my mother always used to wear, until she developed an allergy to perfume. Most of all, I remember her humanitarian work and the battle she waged in the fight against AIDS. When so many were afraid, wouldn't touch the subject, she forged ahead, forcing others to take another look and do something to make a difference. She raised millions for her AIDS foundations and made a difference, made it matter.
   She died today, in Los Angeles with her family by her side.
   I pray for her family as they mourn her loss and as the world loses one more legend, I hope we come to realize it's not the bad they did, but the good. It's not the failed relationships or the substance abuse, it's the way every young girl looked up to her and how she used her talents to make the world a better place...if only for a few precious hours.

Rest in Peace Elizabeth Rosemond Taylor (February 27, 1932-March 23, 2011).

A Day In The Life...

2011-03-22T00:31:00.000-07:00

   Today wasn't especially busy. My husband came home from working the night shift and I ended up falling asleep with him again. I find I haven't been able to sleep much lately so the extra sleep was appreciated.
   After I pick my middle son up from school, he informs me they will be selling chocolates...again. I complain, as I usually do, because I have 2 children in the same elementary and how the hell am I supposed to sell so many damn candies?!? I only know a certain amount of people...some of whom are tired of paying a dollar for caramels and chocolates not only because my children sucker them into buying more than one but because they are also diabetics.
   Anyway, I drive to the other side of town to make a payment and realize I am twenty dollars short, so I have to go to the ATM, where there is a long line, and I only 15 minutes to make my payment and make it back to the school to pick up my oldest son from the 25 Mile Club.
   Thankfully, I made it on time.
   After I pick him up, I make my way home and take a quick shower, blow dry my hair, straighten my hair, fix my daughter's hair and get her and myself dressed. We head off to cheerleading practice 45 minutes early, because if I don't, there won't be any parking.
   I wait and wait and wait...thank the Lord for my laptop.
   I continue to read The Replacement by Brenna Yavankoff to pass the time.
   When practice is over, we decide to go out to eat because it's late and I don't have time to make supper.
   There wasn't time to write today, which is a travesty, in my underrated opinion. But a travesty nonetheless.
   So, there is the rundown of my day which will start again tomorrow. : )
   Happy Writing!
   -C.

Blah, blah, blah, blah, bl-ah!

2011-03-20T21:04:00.000-07:00

   Ramblings, easy to do, hard to understand.
   I have this idea in my head that most people use the Internet to voice their opinions on issues pertaining to their life as it is. Personally, I find most of their commentary amusing. More often than not, I feel we read these rantings because it makes us feel better about our crappy day. But, maybe it's just the injustice we see everyday that leads us to others who have the guts to rant about the injustice...(I'm just talking out my mouth here.)
   One of my books, Chasing Hannah Stein, tells the tale of a young man whose star has risen and is stuck in the unfortunate limelight of the paparazzi. I pity this boy, who has never been in a serious relationship in his life, due to the fact that he cannot trust anyone with his "fragile fame".
   Which leads me back to the rantings and ravings of severely depressing/quirky personalities we so freely read. Most people might see the latest tidbit on their favorite actor/actress and turn the other cheek. Where as others are DYING to know what makes them tick. I find it odd, how some people believe they literally KNOW these men or women and that they have some kind of connection to them. Beats the hell out of me.
   I can't say in all honesty that I don't pick up a mag here or there and read the latest gossip. (People magazine in particular. In my defense, I love the puzzler). To be honest, it was an interview with David Letterman that Kristen Stuart gave (with her hand constantly brushing through her hair and her legs shaking at every moment) that a seed was planted and then fertilized in my brain (ergo, Chasing Hannah Stein). It doesn't bother me that these people ask for privacy; they are human after all and deserve some respect. What really freaks me out is the amount of attention that some receive.
   How can any self-respecting parent allow their child to stand outside a movie theater for DAYS just so they can glimpse their favorite person of interest AND allow that child to ask "Bite Me" while they move their hair aside and slant their necks just so? I don't find this cute...I find it appalling.
   Is there a moral to this blog? No. But, are we not free to write whatever we want? Yes. So, here are my rantings for the day. : )
   Happy Writing!
   -C.

Late Night, Book Date Night

2011-03-19T23:34:00.000-07:00

   I am sitting next to my window, my laptop open on a small table, writing about reading. As of right now, I have successfully downloaded The Replacement by Brenna Yavanoff. So far, I am liking it.
   Now to bring you up to speed on what I have been reading lately, it is a variation of genres. I am addicted to YA novels, but I do love me some Charliane Harris (The Sookie Stackhouse Series) and Michael Kuyota's book, So Cold the River, was excellent. On the YA front, I have finished two of three books by Michelle Zink, titled, The Prophecy of the Sisters and Guardian of the Gate. Wonderful books. I have read all the Twilight books and I have grown an attachment to Maggie Stiefvater's Mercy Falls Series. And, not to forget Carrie Ryan's book, The Forest of Hands and Teeth. (I have yet to read The Dead-Tossed Waves). After Yavanoff's book, I will begin After, by Amy Efaw.
   I have tackled angels in two series, Lauren Kate's Fallen series and I have read the first of two by Becca Fitzpatrick, the first one being Hush, Hush. Once I move past these two YA books, I will finish reading Alice Sebold's Almost Moon and The Good Doctor, by Elizabeth Brundage.
   I read all types of books, so if anyone has any suggestions, I'd appreciate it.

Happy writing,
-C.

P.S: Check out Melissa Marr if you are looking for books on the Fae. : )

On Writer's Block

2011-03-18T21:15:00.000-07:00

   There always comes a point in every writer's life when they eventually hit a brick wall. Lately, I've been asked this question over and over again. How do you work through writer's block?
   Here is my take on it.
   When I get up in the morning, whichever character I am thinking of, is the one I usually write about. I work on more than one manuscript simultaneously because it gives me the freedom to basically come and go as I please. If I stay on one manuscript too long, I end up losing my focus and (as I write next to a window with a pack of smokes and a cup of tea or cold soda next to me at all times) end up watching birds as they wrestle their way through the sometimes heavy South Texas winds.
   I am not claiming to be a master of the craft by any means, but because I write as much as I can everyday, I've found that with that comes learning experiences. You might find yourself picking up on better plot lines, figuring out that marketing is important BEFORE you begin writing your book. You might also learn that taking the time to figure out where your book will be placed on the shelf of a bookstore, should it get published, is important because you can be sure that what you are writing is worth an agent's/publisher's time and attention. I spend most of my time surfing the Internet for answers to many of my questions. Sometimes, this leads me to another idea.
   So, my way of coping with writer's block is to just, well...write. If at a certain point you feel overwhelmed with your story, then stop, take a breather and work on something totally different. It helps to "clear the clutter" and when you are ready, you will come back to your story with renewed interest and a fresh look at anything your characters are lacking. Maybe even a new idea on their persona or interests.
   There is something you have to remember, though. Every person is different. Some may use different methods to clear out the clutter and others just give up all together. Personally, I prefer using my method. I hope this has been helpful.
   Happy Writing!
   -C.

The Last Cymbal

2011-03-15T16:04:00.000-07:00

   I have accomplished a feat...my second completed novel has my head spinning.
   Most of you who write understand the joy that comes with entertaining ideas of characters in your head and then taking the time to bring them to life on paper (computer). I thoroughly enjoyed writing and rewriting this book. The main characters are so...vivacious. They are complex, yet normal and their situations are so far from MY norm, I find myself enjoying them all the more.
   For a rundown, I'll go over the basics.
   Nashville "Nash" McKenna, drummer and founder of the internationally famous rock band, Tantra, has a heart full of sin. After years of drug and alcohol abuse (and screwing up his family royally), he sets out on a quest to find the one thing his money cannot buy him...salvation.
   As his journey to forgiveness goes on, he comes to terms with the mistakes of his past and finds peace within himself with the help of William, leader of the Yakama tribe. He sees himself for what he really is and figures out that even though others speak of forgiveness, it is up to him to decide to forgive himself. Until he does, his soul will never be at peace.
   After his soul is healed, he sets out to tell his children, Marley, Billie and Lennon and his ex-wife, Sophia of his new found freedom. But fate has other plans and when Marley (the most revered of the three) finds his body, the whole world learns of his death and his family begins to spin out of control.
   The story is not only about forgiveness, but of strength and family bonds that CAN be mended, no matter how large the hole.
   It was an emotional ride for me, pulling all the things that made them a McKenna from the furthest regions of my mind. But even though the story isn't cream and roses, the heart of it sets me free. I was fortunate enough to come across these people in my thoughts and in a single idea that flourished with the help of friends and family.
   I invite you to read the first two chapters posted on my website, http://www.chandramgarza.com/. However, keep in mind that it is still in the editing phases so there are an abundant amount of mistakes. But I think you'll get the gist of the beginning and hopefully, you'll develop a relationship with the McKenna brood as I did.

   Happy Writing.
   C.

First Dates

2011-03-14T12:09:00.000-07:00

   Beginning early this morning, I started works on Gilly's first "real" date with Rob, the video game king of her dreams.
   Research has been fun, searching the net for the perfect dress to match her frame, shoes, make-up and even purse. To peek into her closet, you'd understand why this is such a big deal. Let's take a look, shall we?
    Left side of closet: jeans, jeans, jeans. Right side of closet: tee shirts, tee shirts, tee shirts. Are you getting the picture? Finding a dress for my tee shirt-and-jeans-clad girl, has been interesting.
   Imagine, if you will, a girl who has NEVER had a boyfriend, let alone gone out on a date. And when she meets an older guy, handsome to a fault, she now has that gushy, syrupy feeling of wanting to be a girl...of wanting to dress up and show him what she's really made of. It takes me back to first dates consisting of dinner and a movie. (I watched a lot of movies back in the day). I remember those days. I remember looking through the closet in earnest, trying to pick the perfect outfit (my closet had dresses) and making sure my hair was in place, then giving up because my bangs never stayed the way I wanted them to all of the time. And there I am, halfway decent with a voracious and idiotic grin on my face. (I had major fashion issues). Now, it is time for the date and the feel of their hand in yours, maybe a kiss or two at the end of the date.
   Since Gilly (pronounced Jilly) and Rob are already a couple, it makes the date more interesting. They've already experienced their first kiss, and boy was it something. However, I can add the moment she feels totally at peace with her new found girl power and I love the way he treats her: opening doors, placing his hand on the small of her back to lead her into a room. We forget these things when the world grows up for us. Things that make us feel young again and wish that maybe we had done things a little different. That we had gone out on more dates and experienced more first kisses.
   The other day, my friend and critique partner Jessica and I, spoke about YA novels and sex. Most of these novels (to be fair, not all) have the heroine consorting with a boy and either flirting with the idea of sex or just giving in to temptation and saying, "To hell with it." It bothers her that so many characters jump this decision so quickly. And to be fair, in my first book, they do have sex. But it takes years before they decide to do this and they are already in love. What happened to love? What's wrong with romance and wanting to feel special?
   Jessica's right. The first time they hold your hand, the first time they look into your eyes and smile with satisfaction is the sexiest part. The physical relationship can wait...for my characters at least.
   This is a LONG drawn out thought. Sorry. : ) But I am curious to know if there is anyone out there with a story about first dates. If you don't mind sharing, please e-mail me, chandragarza@yahoo.com. Who knows? It may end up in one of my books.
   Until then, happy writing.

   Chandra

Work, work, work

2011-03-12T00:30:00.000-08:00

   Today I have completed another chapter of the rewrite for Concerning Amity. I'm really enjoying this process.
   If I am being honest, I have to say I really adore my characters. How lucky am I that these wonderful creatures managed to find their way into my head? Gilly, spunky, sharp and quick witted is like most high school girls, always seeing the worst in themselves. But what I enjoy about her is that she's comfortable with it. She may not get what others can plainly see about her (beautiful, smart, funny) but she's too comfortable in herself to care.
   On a side note, if you have read the severely unedited manuscript I have posted on my website, Gilly might come across as, well, ungrateful. But this is not the case. If my parents demanded as much from me as hers do, I don't think I'd be able to handle it. Furthermore, she is a teenager and as we all know, teenagers (and you have to admit this guys) think everything is the end of the world. We've all been there.
   On that note, I'd like to say that I enjoy reliving my youth. At that age, I had great friends, some of whom I am still friends with till this day. My only question is, how do teens today differ from us? If anyone has any input on this subject, I'd like to hear it.
   As for writing, I am lucky enough to have found a critique partner that knows her stuff. She is the coolest and I'm grateful I have found another "nerdy" mind like mine.
   Thanks, Jess. You're a life saver.
   I am also grateful for my new writing family. I enjoy our conversations on the craft, spilling out ideas through chat or phone conversations. It's a major release from stress.
Goodnight all and happy writing.

A Tale of Two Books

2011-03-10T11:13:00.000-08:00

   About a year and a half ago, shortly after I published my first book The Locket, I began a story about a 16 year old girl with overwhelming responsibilities and a HUGE chip on her shoulder. The story ebbed and flowed as all stories do and soon I had a 135,000 word YA novel.
   As many of you know, this is not the norm for YA novels which run from 50-95,000 words.
   So, as of last week, I have begun revisions on Concerning Amity (Formerly Gilly McNeill) I'm really enjoying this rewrite and have noticed how long and drawn out the original manuscript was. And then I thought about it: How many writers experience this?
   I see spending time with my characters as a privilege rather than a burden. Each and every one of them has a story to tell and I am just an instrument they voice themselves through.
   The title of today's blog is "A Tale of Two Books" because I want to talk about the follow-up to Concerning Amity, appropriately titled, Concerning Love.
   As many of you may know, computers can be our best friends OR our worst enemies and as Sophia Petrillo used to say, "Picture it, Texas, 2010..."
   I am sitting in my little corner of the world, putting the finishing touches on the epilogue of my latest achievement, Concerning Love. When I am satisfied, I close the file and sigh, elated that I have finally put two files together and created one whole book.
   The next day, when I open up the file to start revisions, a box pops up on the screen: Microsoft Works cannot open this file. The file may be corrupted.
   I feel my head detaching from my body. A solid week of work is now stuck somewhere inside my old computer, screaming from its place in the great void for rescue. And I let out a string of obscenities, some my neighbors were able to hear, I'm sure.
   The moral of this story? ALWAYS backup your work on a separate drive!!!!! A lesson I learned the hard way.
   Because I still have the original file of the first half, I am not too bummed. But I have learned to keep abreast of the latest technology to avoid further tragedy.

http://www.chandramgarza.com/