WeWriWa 3/30/14

It's time for Sunday Snippets where writers of all genres get to strut their stuff!!! Take a look, there's plenty to like!

The last snippet from Bid Love's Return...it's nearly time to send it to the alpha readers..

Amanda has run away to the isolation of the Marblehead Lighthouse on the eve of her ex-husband's wedding but instead of finding solitude, she has discovered a stranger named Christian and his dog, Captain...

We stood in silence, watching as Captain chased the ball about the grounds and waiting for the sun to go down. I forgot about investigating the lighthouse and taking photographs for it was Christian that held my attention that afternoon at Marblehead, him, and trying to figure what I could possibly say that could make him remain a little longer.

Night comes early that time of year however, and as dusk settled in and the cottage behind me began to disappear into the pending darkness, I knew it was time to leave. I looked at him, without embarrassment this time, taking in his silhouette knowing perhaps I would not see him again. I wanted to remember the curves of his face, the clear coolness of his eyes. 

With nothing more to say, I whispered a simple good-bye, turned away from the shore leaving Christian and Captain behind me in the fading twilight.

I held my breath as I walked, waiting for a response from him but none came. As I reached the cottage and opened the door, I turned back towards the cliffs, hoping for one more glance of them. only to discover they were both gone.

Sunday Snippet!!

Okay, I forgot to sign up for WeWriWa this week but I thought I would post a snippet from my current WIP anyway, a gothic romance tentatively titled Bid Love's Return...

For a moment I was frozen in place, staring at the precipice below, surprised and terrified that I could have been that reckless. I wanted to step back but found I could not, my fear was such that I could not move even as the wind threatened to send me over the edge.

I once again felt a gentle caress slide across the back of my neck, the same sensation that I felt earlier as I stood upon the front step of the cottage.

This time however, I turned to look.

I was alone, the path still as empty as when I left behind the cottage minutes earlier, but even as I stood there, staring at the emptiness of the path, I suddenly had the distinct sensation of being pulled away from the edge of the cliffs.

I felt a spark in the center of my being as if a tether of heat had suddenly found its way within my chest and attached itself, pulling me safely away from the edge. I felt the warmth grow as I moved effortlessly across the icy rocks back to the safety of the cobblestone path and yet, I saw nothing.

Perhaps I should have been frightened, but I was not. I felt no sense of malice at that moment, and the truth of it was, I felt a sensation of peace wrapped inside that warmth.

I turned to look back at the cliffs and was surprised by the distance that now stood between myself and the rocky shore.  While I was no longer in danger of falling to my death, I was however, concerned for my mental state.

Flash Fiction Thursday!!!

I have to admit, the song came to mind first before anything else...and then the story developed from there...Enjoy!!

"You would not listen, you did not know how."

The variation on the classic words from Vincent by Don McLean are running through my head as I drive down the interstate. I took some liberties with the lyrics I know, but there is no one to mind, no one who cares.  I don’t blame you, it simply is, and there is no going back now anyway.

Has it been twelve years already? Since we met and married on impulse, driving to Maryland on a cold and dreary Friday in March? It was raining that night I remember, and I was worried about how the pictures would turn out. Silly really, little girl nonsense.

We built a life, we built a home. Our sweetest conversations came not from our lips but from our bodies, we touched when there were no words to say.

The lost of our child built a wall of silence too deafening for our quiet whispers of pain. When I spoke of him, you simply turned your head and pretended not to hear.

Last night we slept in separate beds, in separate rooms, the dying remains of a love disappearing in the gray shadows of ash between us.

Now I drive away on another rainy afternoon in March from an unfamiliar courthouse where a stranger that I hadn’t invited in sat behind a bench and told me we are no longer married and I am no longer a wife.

I wonder what I will be tomorrow.

WeWriWa 3/16/14

It's that time of week again...crazy, sexy, and creative snippets from the great authors of WeWriWa!!

Another little snippet from my current WIP...a  supernatural romance tentatively titled "Bid Love's Return"

I dream often of Marblehead, my broken heart trapped inside the endless rerun of my memories. I see the scarred whitewashed brick of the lighthouse tower, the gleaming knotty pine that adorned the inner walls of the little cottage, the continuous roar of the surf crashing against the rocky cliffs as the snow blows fierce in off of the Bay.

Within my sleep I once again lie beneath the downy white quilts of the large bed, the bedroom filled with the scent of the fire burning bright within the fireplace, while somewhere outside,  the faint sound of Captain barking to be let in.

There is the feeling of returning home within my dreams of Marblehead.

            When I find myself with Christian once more.

Finding My Niche...

I have always loved scary...always...

From The Uninvited to The Conjuring...if it's about ghosts and ghoulies and things that bump in the night, I am there...

I've read nearly every Stephen King book there is including the non-fiction. His books have a rhythm to them that beats in time with my own, swirling and tickling a brain that finds the same patterns in people and situation. I don't know how or why that is, it simply is.

It used to concern me. It no longer does.

I love Dean Koontz' Odd Thomas, the Mayfair Witches of Anne Rice, and the visitors in Shirley Jackson's Hill House. I adore the ghostly spirits of Peter Straub, Scott Nicholson, and Susan Hill, to name a few.

This is where I live and this is how I write.

And I write what I know.

I've written in various genres including erotica, romance, supernatural, and  paranormal, but it seems to be the combination of three or four of them where I fall the most. 

I have written stories that frightened myself. Even when I know what is going to happen, I still get a cold chill that stiffens my spine, calls forth goosebumps, and forces me to barricade myself in the house and turn on all the lights. And to me, those are the best.

I may have never have found my niche if it wasn't for the likes of Shirley Jackson, Edgar Allan Poe, and Richard Matheson, all writing stories in the key of MY life long before I realized it...

WEWRIWA 3/9/14

Visit here for more Sunday Snippets!!!

A little snippet from a ghostly romance tentatively titled "Bid Love's Return"

Do you believe?

I've asked that of myself more times in the last twenty years than I can recall, usually as I am lying alone in my bed surrounded in shadows and questioning both my memory and my sanity.  But my answer has always been the same.

Yes, I believe.

When I first returned home from Marblehead that snowy February day, I was worried that I would forget it all, or even worse, that I would come to believe it never happened. Age and wisdom have taken their toll on me, age more than the other I think, but it is just as effective for stealing my memories. I have learned the hard way however, that there are some memories that remain when all else has disappeared.  

Although I struggle more with each passing decade to remember everything clearly about those days in Marblehead; I've discovered that the sound of his voice, the scent of his skin, and how his hand felt wrapped around mine, are permanently etched on my soul. 

About Discipline...

This picture hangs directly above my desk. It is one of my favorite passages from the book, Write Good or Die, written by several of my favorite authors. (This is a terrific book  by the way, and one I truly recommend to every fledgling writer.)

Kristine Rusch included this quote from Freya North in the chapter she wrote entitled The Freelancer's Survival Guide: Discipline. 

How often do we make up these very same excuses and promises to ourselves?? An instructor once told me that discipline is really what makes or breaks us. As a beginning freelance writer and author, there is no one standing over your head beating you up every day about getting that writing done and unless you are a bestselling writer, chances are, there never will be.

When I wrote my first novel five years ago, it was fairly easy to stay focused and write my two thousand words a day and still take the weekends off to relax. But life happens and circumstances change and today I find it much more difficult to get my work done in a timely fashion.

Perhaps it is the family issues that are occurring at this time in my life, or perhaps it simply age catching up with me. Either way, these "legitimate reasons" seem more like excuses than anything else, even to myself. 

Whatever it takes to motivate you every day, do it. There is no substitute for simply sitting your butt down and getting the work done...

Nuff said...