This month I finished 9 books:
The Best American Short Stories 2015 ed. T.C. Boyle
Coffee Will Make You Black by April Sinclair
The Best American Short Stories 2014 ed. Jennifer Egan
Pushcart Prize XXXIX ed. Bill Henderson
The Raven Boys by Maggie Stiefvater
Cheap Diamonds by Norris Church Mailer
The O. Henry Prize Stories 2015 ed. Laura Furman
Until it’s Right by Jamie Howard
Red Queen by Victoria Aveyard
DID NOT FINISH:
The Castle in the Forest by Norman Mailer
Let’s talk about the ick first. I did not finish The Castle in the Forest.
It is very rare for me to put down a book with not intention of picking it back up and finishing it. But I could not make myself finish this one.
The first 75 pages or so is told by a narrator who hypothesizes that Hitler was who was due to the incest that occurred in his family tree. Way too much information about his parents and grandparents sex lives.
I was not really loving the book, but was trying to hang in there. Then I turned the page.
The narrator revealed that he was actually a demon and that Hitler was evil because he and other demons were present at the time of his conception.
I closed the book. There was no way I could make myself slog through another 400ish pages.
I’m not sure where the book was headed. Maybe it would have been okay in the end. I just wasn’t willing to entertain the idea that someone’s choices weren’t really their fault, that literally, the devil made them do it. I can’t even buy that excuse in fiction.
On to the good.
So many short stories. I am in the process of sending out some of my own short stories to journals and magazines, which is what inspired this flurry of short story activity. Lots of good stuff out there. And a lot that made me feel good about my own work.
Favorite read of the month? The Raven Boys.
I read two YA fantasies this month (Red Queen and The Raven Boys). Both were very good. But for me, in a head to head battle, the boys beat the queen.
Red Queen is much closer to high fantasy. The story takes place in a world other than our own. Which means there is world building that has to take place. Aveyard did a good job with this, it’s just not my favorite to read.
The Raven Boys is more in line with contemporary fantasy. It takes place in our world. But something exceptional or magical is added. This is much more my speed as a reader. I love stories that could be reality, if the world were just slightly different. This is also much closer to what I write.
I will continue to read both of these series, but I more excited to finish the raven cycle.
What’s the most recent book you walked away from? What made you do it?
Thursday, March 31, 2016
Tuesday, March 15, 2016
Countdown
I met him ten days ago. He was standing at the bus stop in the rain. I offered to share my umbrella. He looked down at me and smiled. He said he was too tall, that if we tried to share, I would end up soaking wet. He just stood there, let the rain soak into this clothes, push his dark hair into wild rivulets on his face. I was mostly dry under my umbrella. I tipped it to the side so that I could see him, watch him.
The bus pulled up before I was done staring. So I sat next to him. He told me he has nine brothers and sisters. Insane. He is the only single. The others are sets of triplets. After the first set, his mom didn’t think it could happen again. After the second set, she claimed it was statistically impossible to have a third. I wanted to tell him that nothing in statistics nothing is impossible.
We both got off the bus at eighth street. I stood first as the bus began to slow. He chuckled behind me. I turned to see him towering over me yet again. “This is my stop, too,” he said. We stood on the sidewalk and continued our conversation until the rain slowed to a stop and the street began steaming. I turned to walk to my house. He walked the opposite way. I didn’t think I’d see him again. I still didn’t know his name.
I was carrying seven pounds of butter the next time I saw him. Mom was baking Christmas cookies. In October. But, that’s a story for another day. I ran to the market two blocks from our apartment to get the butter she had somehow forgotten to purchase with the rest of the cookie supplies. He was holding a box of instant mashed potatoes. We laughed at our slightly odd purchases as we stood in line to pay. I asked him for his name. Tucker. He asked me for my phone number.
He called at six in the morning. He wanted to watch the sunrise over the lake. I said yes. We shared a bench with a lady who sang softly under her breath as she tossed out handfuls of bird seed to the flock of pigeons in front of us. When she got up to leave, they took to the skies in a flurry of grey and black feathers.
On the way home, he stopped at a flower stand and bought me a parcel of flowers. Five yellow calla lilies. When I asked why five, he told me one for each day that he had known me. One for each day that he had been able to appreciate my beauty. I won’t lie. It may have been a line, but it still earned him a kiss.
Four kisses and four dates later he gave me a ring. It was a simple silver band with what looked like a Nike swoosh on it. I turned the ring in my hand, puzzled and a little afraid. He reached into his pocket and pulled out another silver band. This one also had the swoosh-thing. He held the rings side by side. Together, the swooshes formed a heart.
I must have had a look of total panic on my face. I wasn’t ready for a ring. We’d only known each other for a little over a week. This was crazy even by my standards. He assured me that this wasn’t an engagement ring, or even a traditional promise ring. It was an acknowledgment. That I had already taken up residence in his heart. His commitment was to seeing how things turned out. He wanted to find out what we could be in three years.
I took the ring. Well, really he put it on me. He slid my ring onto the ring finger of my right hand. Then the other ring onto his hand. Two rings. Two hearts joined in a journey.
I woke up one hour ago. It is dark in here. Through the thin fabric over my face I can smell gasoline and oil. I want to feel my head, check the moisture that beads thick and sticky along my hairline. But my hands are tied. I can move my fingers just enough to spin the silver band on my finger. I can hear Tucker outside. He is still making promises.
There is zero chance that I will make it out of this alive.
The bus pulled up before I was done staring. So I sat next to him. He told me he has nine brothers and sisters. Insane. He is the only single. The others are sets of triplets. After the first set, his mom didn’t think it could happen again. After the second set, she claimed it was statistically impossible to have a third. I wanted to tell him that nothing in statistics nothing is impossible.
We both got off the bus at eighth street. I stood first as the bus began to slow. He chuckled behind me. I turned to see him towering over me yet again. “This is my stop, too,” he said. We stood on the sidewalk and continued our conversation until the rain slowed to a stop and the street began steaming. I turned to walk to my house. He walked the opposite way. I didn’t think I’d see him again. I still didn’t know his name.
I was carrying seven pounds of butter the next time I saw him. Mom was baking Christmas cookies. In October. But, that’s a story for another day. I ran to the market two blocks from our apartment to get the butter she had somehow forgotten to purchase with the rest of the cookie supplies. He was holding a box of instant mashed potatoes. We laughed at our slightly odd purchases as we stood in line to pay. I asked him for his name. Tucker. He asked me for my phone number.
He called at six in the morning. He wanted to watch the sunrise over the lake. I said yes. We shared a bench with a lady who sang softly under her breath as she tossed out handfuls of bird seed to the flock of pigeons in front of us. When she got up to leave, they took to the skies in a flurry of grey and black feathers.
On the way home, he stopped at a flower stand and bought me a parcel of flowers. Five yellow calla lilies. When I asked why five, he told me one for each day that he had known me. One for each day that he had been able to appreciate my beauty. I won’t lie. It may have been a line, but it still earned him a kiss.
Four kisses and four dates later he gave me a ring. It was a simple silver band with what looked like a Nike swoosh on it. I turned the ring in my hand, puzzled and a little afraid. He reached into his pocket and pulled out another silver band. This one also had the swoosh-thing. He held the rings side by side. Together, the swooshes formed a heart.
I must have had a look of total panic on my face. I wasn’t ready for a ring. We’d only known each other for a little over a week. This was crazy even by my standards. He assured me that this wasn’t an engagement ring, or even a traditional promise ring. It was an acknowledgment. That I had already taken up residence in his heart. His commitment was to seeing how things turned out. He wanted to find out what we could be in three years.
I took the ring. Well, really he put it on me. He slid my ring onto the ring finger of my right hand. Then the other ring onto his hand. Two rings. Two hearts joined in a journey.
I woke up one hour ago. It is dark in here. Through the thin fabric over my face I can smell gasoline and oil. I want to feel my head, check the moisture that beads thick and sticky along my hairline. But my hands are tied. I can move my fingers just enough to spin the silver band on my finger. I can hear Tucker outside. He is still making promises.
There is zero chance that I will make it out of this alive.
Monday, February 29, 2016
February Reads
I finished 10 books in February:
Illuminae by Amie Kaufman and Jay Kristoff
From a Buick 8 by Stephen King
Book in a Month by Victoria Lynn Schmidt, Ph.D.
Killer Weekend by Ridley Pearson
Isla and the Happily Ever After by Stephanie Perkins
What Happened to Goodbye by Sarah Dessen
Little Beauties by Kim Addonizio
X by Sue Grafton
The Conspiracy of Us by Maggie Hall
Second Chance at Perfect by Caridad Pineiro
My total for the year so far is 22, so I am a little ahead on my goal of reading 120 books this year.
I read a lot that I really liked this month. Isla, in particular, was a wonderful wrap-up to the trio of books by Stephanie Perkins. The three books are able to stand on their own, but the stories intertwine. Isla connects the dots and circles back to book one in a way that makes sense and serves all three stories.
Probably my favorite read this month was X. I have read all of the Kinsey Millhone books to date. It has been a while since W is for Wasted, so I was worried that I would enter X a little lost, that it would take me some time to find my bearings, re-introduce myself to Kinsey and her 1980s world.
I didn’t need to be worried.
Sue Grafton knows this character so well (she should after 24 books, but it is still impressive) that the stories are seamless. Kinsey is right there, on the page. Reading the previous books makes the reader know her (almost) as well as Sue does. Picking up this book was like having coffee with someone I haven’t seen in years, but it feels like we were just together yesterday. We just pick up where we left off.
I also really love that these books are written in Kinsey time, not real-world time. The first book took place in the ‘80s. Each book after has continued on Kinsey’s timeline, with no regard for time that has passed in the real world. This means there aren’t gaps in Kinsey’s story (and it is still the 1980s). When you pick up the next book in the series, very little time has passed for Kinsey. I think this helps keep the reader in touch with the stories.
I am a little curious what Kinsey would be like as a P.I. in this century, though. What would she be like with access to today’s technology? While I like watching her scrabble for information in a time when information was hard to find, it would be fun to see her with today’s relatively open access. Maybe once Sue reaches Z and runs out of letters we’ll get that jump forward view. I would be open to a book 27 that flies forward in time.
What was your favorite read this month?
Illuminae by Amie Kaufman and Jay Kristoff
From a Buick 8 by Stephen King
Book in a Month by Victoria Lynn Schmidt, Ph.D.
Killer Weekend by Ridley Pearson
Isla and the Happily Ever After by Stephanie Perkins
What Happened to Goodbye by Sarah Dessen
Little Beauties by Kim Addonizio
X by Sue Grafton
The Conspiracy of Us by Maggie Hall
Second Chance at Perfect by Caridad Pineiro
My total for the year so far is 22, so I am a little ahead on my goal of reading 120 books this year.
I read a lot that I really liked this month. Isla, in particular, was a wonderful wrap-up to the trio of books by Stephanie Perkins. The three books are able to stand on their own, but the stories intertwine. Isla connects the dots and circles back to book one in a way that makes sense and serves all three stories.
Probably my favorite read this month was X. I have read all of the Kinsey Millhone books to date. It has been a while since W is for Wasted, so I was worried that I would enter X a little lost, that it would take me some time to find my bearings, re-introduce myself to Kinsey and her 1980s world.
I didn’t need to be worried.
Sue Grafton knows this character so well (she should after 24 books, but it is still impressive) that the stories are seamless. Kinsey is right there, on the page. Reading the previous books makes the reader know her (almost) as well as Sue does. Picking up this book was like having coffee with someone I haven’t seen in years, but it feels like we were just together yesterday. We just pick up where we left off.
I also really love that these books are written in Kinsey time, not real-world time. The first book took place in the ‘80s. Each book after has continued on Kinsey’s timeline, with no regard for time that has passed in the real world. This means there aren’t gaps in Kinsey’s story (and it is still the 1980s). When you pick up the next book in the series, very little time has passed for Kinsey. I think this helps keep the reader in touch with the stories.
I am a little curious what Kinsey would be like as a P.I. in this century, though. What would she be like with access to today’s technology? While I like watching her scrabble for information in a time when information was hard to find, it would be fun to see her with today’s relatively open access. Maybe once Sue reaches Z and runs out of letters we’ll get that jump forward view. I would be open to a book 27 that flies forward in time.
What was your favorite read this month?
Monday, February 15, 2016
The Truth About Cinderella
Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there lived a fairy godmother.
Not where you thought this story was going to start, was it? Of course not. No one cares about the fairy godmother. Everyone cares about the poor princess and her plight. All they ever want to hear is how the princess in peril was saved by a prince.
It’s never the prince who saves the princess. That’s a myth.
And the story is never really about true love.
Let me tell you the story behind Cinderella. My story.
Here’s what you’ve heard. A lovely young lady who is treated poorly by her stepmother and stepsisters wins the eye and hand of the kingdom’s prince and lives happily ever after. That barely begins to skim the surface. It doesn’t even touch the important part of the story.
I’m the fairy godmother that was assigned to Cinderella. I was assigned to her because I saw her fate. I went to the fairy council and asked to be allowed to help her. To protect and guide her the way her dead mother would have.
Her fate wasn’t the only thing I saw. I saw my own. I saw her stepmother’s. I saw how they intertwined. I couldn’t let that witch of a woman kill me. So I interfered.
Some of you might say that I lied to the council. I just think of it as selective truth-telling. I told them the part of the truth they needed to hear. A girl. In trouble. I just focused on the human girl in trouble and didn’t mention the fairy girl.
I suppose I can tell you, though. That’s the point of this, right? To tell you the rest of the story.
I saw the fate of Cinderella. Ignored and abused until she died, alone and dirty on the hearth. The stepmother continuing to manipulate her husband and the prince. She would maneuver her daughters into positions of influence. Gain the ear of important royalty. Convince them that fairies were the cause of all the kingdom’s problems. Start a war. A war I would be forced to fight in. I am a fairy godmother. I wouldn’t stand a chance.
This is the part the fairy tale doesn’t tell you. Cinderella’s evil stepmother was more than evil. She was a troll.
I’m not talking about those creeps on the Internet that stalk and harass you. An actual, authentic troll. Lumpy, bumpy, hair in unfortunate places.
Humans couldn’t see it. Not even Cinderella. The mask she wore was amazing, crafted by hand, in the fires of hell, I presume. To any humans looking at Lady Tremaine, she appeared to be a beautiful lady. Curvy, coiffed, polished.
Even fairies had trouble seeing through the mask. I only saw what lied beneath because I saw her fate. I watched her slip out of the carefully constructed shell, watched her troll daughters do the same. They were insulting Cinderella the whole time, discussing her filth and unappealing looks, as if they weren’t responsible for them. As if they looked better. I guess maybe beauty really is in the eye of the beholder.
Once I saw Lady Tremaine for what she was, and saw what her plan was, how easy it would really be for her to succeed, I went straight to the council.
The issue was that they hadn’t seen her fate. They saw the face she presented to the world. Not the troll and the plans she had made. Anyone could see that she was far from kind to Cinderella, but no one would suspect the danger she was actually in. So this was the fate that I shared with the council. Cinderella’s sad story. Her eventual death.
Once I had been assigned to help Cinderella, I encountered another problem. She was resigned to her fate. She was content to sit in the ashes, clean and polish for her stepmother and sisters. She didn’t even bother to complain to her father, tell him the horrible things Lady Tremaine did and said to her.
How could I help someone who didn’t want to help herself?
I had to make her believe in magic.
When she stuck that branch in the soil of her mother’s grave and cried a million tears onto it, I seized the opportunity. I made that branch sprout and grow before her eyes into a beautiful silver birch. I landed at the top, presenting myself to her as a delicate white dove.
She asked me if I was the spirit of her mother, asked for a sign. I dropped a handkerchief from my perch. A simple white square of cloth, edged with delicate lace, the initials E.T. embroidered in blue in one corner.
As soon as her blue eyes took in the monogram, they welled with tears. She babbled for a bit about how the current Lady Tremaine had burned all of her mother’s things. That she never thought she would see one of her mother’s handkerchiefs again. Blah, blah, blah. If they really meant that much to her, why did she let her stepmother destroy them in the first place?
This was my problem with humans. Some of them seemed to drift through life, taking whatever was dished out to them instead of fighting for the things they wanted, the life they wanted. It was hard for me to invest myself in changing their fate when I wasn’t sure they cared about it themselves.
So there I sat. Perched on the top of a magical silver birch. Looking down on a whining, crying human. I took off. I couldn’t take any more of her simpering. And I didn’t think there was any more I could do that day, anyway.
A few days later, I was needed. The festival. The part of the story where you are probably ready to yell at me. You probably want to tell me that Cinderella did know what she wanted, that she asked for help, found a way to get herself to the festival.
That’s not how it went.
Her stepsisters were goading her, taunting her as they dressed and Cinderella did their hair. Jokes flew about what a stir her appearance would cause at the festival, dressed in rags and ashes. Her stepmother joined in, inviting Cinderella to change, clean up, and come along. But first, sort the beans from the ashes.
A stronger woman would have said “Screw you, sort your own damn beans. I’m taking a shower.” Cinderella collapsed in tears, forming rivers of soot and snot down her cheeks.
I appeared, with a flock of fairy friends in the form of doves. We sorted the beans, dressed her in a gorgeous gown, and placed golden glass slippers upon her feet. She was still so reluctant to go to the festival, that I had to give her a nudge, a command. I pushed her into the pumpkin carriage, giving her an order to return by midnight. It worked. She was so used to being bossed around, that she couldn’t resist my command. She went to the festival. She danced when the prince said “Dance with me.” She stayed when he said “Stay.”
Until the stroke of midnight. She panicked, convinced that something horrible would happen to her if she disobeyed the request of the fairy godmother who had been helping her all along. Such a whipped little puppy.
She ran. The prince followed. All he was able to catch was a shoe.
I was on edge. Would he be smart enough to find the owner of the shoe? Find the woman he believed to be his one true love?
I was there watching when he turned up at the cottage the next day. I expected Cinderella to finally stand up and claim what she wanted. But no, she remained nestled in the ashes, watching as her stepsisters fluttered around the prince. She watched the flirting, the touches, even the lick of an ear. I found it disgusting.
When the first sister cut off a toe to cram her troll foot into the slipper, the prince didn’t notice. Perhaps he and Cinderella were meant to be together, they were both clueless.
I was forced to chirp from the birch tree, get the prince to look back and see the trail of blood.
He turned back. And repeated the same dance with the second stepsister. This one cut off a chunk of her heel. Oblivious again, the prince left with his new true love. Again I chirped. Again he returned to the cottage.
He asked if there were any other ladies in the house. Lady Tremaine stepped up, offering herself. He declined, at least realizing that this was not the lovely young lady he had danced with.
He would have left, never seen Cinderella if I had not intervened yet again. I flew through the open door, brushing the prince’s hair as I passed. I circled the room, making sure all eyes were on me before swooping to the fireplace and up the chimney. That was when the ever observant prince noticed the huddled girl on the hearth.
He had to convince her to try on the shoe.
Reluctant until the end, that one. I expected her to bolt on her wedding day. To my relief, she did not. She and the prince live together, ever after. I can’t say if they are happy or not. Frankly, I don’t care.
They are together. The prince did not marry one of the troll sisters. The troll mother did not gain the ear of royalty. The war has been averted. For now.
Not where you thought this story was going to start, was it? Of course not. No one cares about the fairy godmother. Everyone cares about the poor princess and her plight. All they ever want to hear is how the princess in peril was saved by a prince.
It’s never the prince who saves the princess. That’s a myth.
And the story is never really about true love.
Let me tell you the story behind Cinderella. My story.
Here’s what you’ve heard. A lovely young lady who is treated poorly by her stepmother and stepsisters wins the eye and hand of the kingdom’s prince and lives happily ever after. That barely begins to skim the surface. It doesn’t even touch the important part of the story.
I’m the fairy godmother that was assigned to Cinderella. I was assigned to her because I saw her fate. I went to the fairy council and asked to be allowed to help her. To protect and guide her the way her dead mother would have.
Her fate wasn’t the only thing I saw. I saw my own. I saw her stepmother’s. I saw how they intertwined. I couldn’t let that witch of a woman kill me. So I interfered.
Some of you might say that I lied to the council. I just think of it as selective truth-telling. I told them the part of the truth they needed to hear. A girl. In trouble. I just focused on the human girl in trouble and didn’t mention the fairy girl.
I suppose I can tell you, though. That’s the point of this, right? To tell you the rest of the story.
I saw the fate of Cinderella. Ignored and abused until she died, alone and dirty on the hearth. The stepmother continuing to manipulate her husband and the prince. She would maneuver her daughters into positions of influence. Gain the ear of important royalty. Convince them that fairies were the cause of all the kingdom’s problems. Start a war. A war I would be forced to fight in. I am a fairy godmother. I wouldn’t stand a chance.
This is the part the fairy tale doesn’t tell you. Cinderella’s evil stepmother was more than evil. She was a troll.
I’m not talking about those creeps on the Internet that stalk and harass you. An actual, authentic troll. Lumpy, bumpy, hair in unfortunate places.
Humans couldn’t see it. Not even Cinderella. The mask she wore was amazing, crafted by hand, in the fires of hell, I presume. To any humans looking at Lady Tremaine, she appeared to be a beautiful lady. Curvy, coiffed, polished.
Even fairies had trouble seeing through the mask. I only saw what lied beneath because I saw her fate. I watched her slip out of the carefully constructed shell, watched her troll daughters do the same. They were insulting Cinderella the whole time, discussing her filth and unappealing looks, as if they weren’t responsible for them. As if they looked better. I guess maybe beauty really is in the eye of the beholder.
Once I saw Lady Tremaine for what she was, and saw what her plan was, how easy it would really be for her to succeed, I went straight to the council.
The issue was that they hadn’t seen her fate. They saw the face she presented to the world. Not the troll and the plans she had made. Anyone could see that she was far from kind to Cinderella, but no one would suspect the danger she was actually in. So this was the fate that I shared with the council. Cinderella’s sad story. Her eventual death.
Once I had been assigned to help Cinderella, I encountered another problem. She was resigned to her fate. She was content to sit in the ashes, clean and polish for her stepmother and sisters. She didn’t even bother to complain to her father, tell him the horrible things Lady Tremaine did and said to her.
How could I help someone who didn’t want to help herself?
I had to make her believe in magic.
When she stuck that branch in the soil of her mother’s grave and cried a million tears onto it, I seized the opportunity. I made that branch sprout and grow before her eyes into a beautiful silver birch. I landed at the top, presenting myself to her as a delicate white dove.
She asked me if I was the spirit of her mother, asked for a sign. I dropped a handkerchief from my perch. A simple white square of cloth, edged with delicate lace, the initials E.T. embroidered in blue in one corner.
As soon as her blue eyes took in the monogram, they welled with tears. She babbled for a bit about how the current Lady Tremaine had burned all of her mother’s things. That she never thought she would see one of her mother’s handkerchiefs again. Blah, blah, blah. If they really meant that much to her, why did she let her stepmother destroy them in the first place?
This was my problem with humans. Some of them seemed to drift through life, taking whatever was dished out to them instead of fighting for the things they wanted, the life they wanted. It was hard for me to invest myself in changing their fate when I wasn’t sure they cared about it themselves.
So there I sat. Perched on the top of a magical silver birch. Looking down on a whining, crying human. I took off. I couldn’t take any more of her simpering. And I didn’t think there was any more I could do that day, anyway.
A few days later, I was needed. The festival. The part of the story where you are probably ready to yell at me. You probably want to tell me that Cinderella did know what she wanted, that she asked for help, found a way to get herself to the festival.
That’s not how it went.
Her stepsisters were goading her, taunting her as they dressed and Cinderella did their hair. Jokes flew about what a stir her appearance would cause at the festival, dressed in rags and ashes. Her stepmother joined in, inviting Cinderella to change, clean up, and come along. But first, sort the beans from the ashes.
A stronger woman would have said “Screw you, sort your own damn beans. I’m taking a shower.” Cinderella collapsed in tears, forming rivers of soot and snot down her cheeks.
I appeared, with a flock of fairy friends in the form of doves. We sorted the beans, dressed her in a gorgeous gown, and placed golden glass slippers upon her feet. She was still so reluctant to go to the festival, that I had to give her a nudge, a command. I pushed her into the pumpkin carriage, giving her an order to return by midnight. It worked. She was so used to being bossed around, that she couldn’t resist my command. She went to the festival. She danced when the prince said “Dance with me.” She stayed when he said “Stay.”
Until the stroke of midnight. She panicked, convinced that something horrible would happen to her if she disobeyed the request of the fairy godmother who had been helping her all along. Such a whipped little puppy.
She ran. The prince followed. All he was able to catch was a shoe.
I was on edge. Would he be smart enough to find the owner of the shoe? Find the woman he believed to be his one true love?
I was there watching when he turned up at the cottage the next day. I expected Cinderella to finally stand up and claim what she wanted. But no, she remained nestled in the ashes, watching as her stepsisters fluttered around the prince. She watched the flirting, the touches, even the lick of an ear. I found it disgusting.
When the first sister cut off a toe to cram her troll foot into the slipper, the prince didn’t notice. Perhaps he and Cinderella were meant to be together, they were both clueless.
I was forced to chirp from the birch tree, get the prince to look back and see the trail of blood.
He turned back. And repeated the same dance with the second stepsister. This one cut off a chunk of her heel. Oblivious again, the prince left with his new true love. Again I chirped. Again he returned to the cottage.
He asked if there were any other ladies in the house. Lady Tremaine stepped up, offering herself. He declined, at least realizing that this was not the lovely young lady he had danced with.
He would have left, never seen Cinderella if I had not intervened yet again. I flew through the open door, brushing the prince’s hair as I passed. I circled the room, making sure all eyes were on me before swooping to the fireplace and up the chimney. That was when the ever observant prince noticed the huddled girl on the hearth.
He had to convince her to try on the shoe.
Reluctant until the end, that one. I expected her to bolt on her wedding day. To my relief, she did not. She and the prince live together, ever after. I can’t say if they are happy or not. Frankly, I don’t care.
They are together. The prince did not marry one of the troll sisters. The troll mother did not gain the ear of royalty. The war has been averted. For now.
Sunday, January 31, 2016
January Reads
I read 12 books in January, so I am currently ahead on my GoodReads challenge (120 books)!
Here’s the list:
Enthralled: Paranormal Diversions (anthology) by Melissa Marr and Kelley Armstrong
War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells
Dreamcatcher by Stephen King
Lola and the Boy Next Door by Stephanie Perkins
A Doll’s House by Henrik Ibsen
Vacations From Hell (anthology) by Libba Bray and others
Reading Like a Writer by Francine Prose
Saving Fish from Drowning by Amy Tan
Surviving First Drafts by Erica Crouch
The Alchemyst by Michael Scott
Horizon by Alyson Noel
His Lovely Wife by Elizabeth Dewberry
I initially intended to write about my favorite read of the month, but I’d rather talk about an interesting mish-mash that happened. (Yes, I know. I have a whole post about two books playing together in my mind. Apparently this happens to me often.)
I listened to the audiobook of War of the Worlds while I drove to and from work during the same time period that I was reading Dreamcatcher. I have read Dreamcatcher before, and honestly, it wasn’t my favorite. I’m not really a fan of alien stories.
Which makes it strange that I was in the midst of two alien stories at the same time…. Let’s call it kismet, shall we?
What I found is that is a lot of interplay between the two stories. Clearly, Stephen King read (or listened to) War of the Worlds. If you are paying attention, you can find it echoing throughout Dreamcatcher. The red fungus, the alien inside another being (although this plays out very differently in the two stories), and the military response (again, this plays very differently) are found in both stories.
King certainly did not copy the classic story. His story is more of an homage, just a nod to the original. I liked finding hidden nuggets. They made me smile and say “I see what you did there, Mr. King.”
I also found myself wondering how much of the echo was deliberate and how much happened without any conscious thought. I find this in my own writing all the time. I will read something that I wrote, and see things that I read months or years ago lurking in the shadows of my story.
Something else I realized about myself: I am incredibly stingy with my stars on GoodReads. The more I write, the worse this gets. I can’t help it. When I read a book, I see the spots I would tweak, adjust, nudge to make the story even better.
Maybe I need a curve for my GoodReads ratings?
Here’s the list:
Enthralled: Paranormal Diversions (anthology) by Melissa Marr and Kelley Armstrong
War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells
Dreamcatcher by Stephen King
Lola and the Boy Next Door by Stephanie Perkins
A Doll’s House by Henrik Ibsen
Vacations From Hell (anthology) by Libba Bray and others
Reading Like a Writer by Francine Prose
Saving Fish from Drowning by Amy Tan
Surviving First Drafts by Erica Crouch
The Alchemyst by Michael Scott
Horizon by Alyson Noel
His Lovely Wife by Elizabeth Dewberry
I initially intended to write about my favorite read of the month, but I’d rather talk about an interesting mish-mash that happened. (Yes, I know. I have a whole post about two books playing together in my mind. Apparently this happens to me often.)
I listened to the audiobook of War of the Worlds while I drove to and from work during the same time period that I was reading Dreamcatcher. I have read Dreamcatcher before, and honestly, it wasn’t my favorite. I’m not really a fan of alien stories.
Which makes it strange that I was in the midst of two alien stories at the same time…. Let’s call it kismet, shall we?
What I found is that is a lot of interplay between the two stories. Clearly, Stephen King read (or listened to) War of the Worlds. If you are paying attention, you can find it echoing throughout Dreamcatcher. The red fungus, the alien inside another being (although this plays out very differently in the two stories), and the military response (again, this plays very differently) are found in both stories.
King certainly did not copy the classic story. His story is more of an homage, just a nod to the original. I liked finding hidden nuggets. They made me smile and say “I see what you did there, Mr. King.”
I also found myself wondering how much of the echo was deliberate and how much happened without any conscious thought. I find this in my own writing all the time. I will read something that I wrote, and see things that I read months or years ago lurking in the shadows of my story.
Something else I realized about myself: I am incredibly stingy with my stars on GoodReads. The more I write, the worse this gets. I can’t help it. When I read a book, I see the spots I would tweak, adjust, nudge to make the story even better.
Maybe I need a curve for my GoodReads ratings?
Thursday, January 14, 2016
A New Beginning
I sit on the edge of the pallet and look down at Tomas. So beautiful when he sleeps. It’s the only time I ever really see his face at peace.
My eyes move from his closed eyes and slightly open mouth to my own hands. They are cupped together in my lap, forming a cocoon around the gift I have brought him. The gift I am not sure he will want. The gift I am not sure I should have brought him.
I catch my bottom lip between my teeth, worry the delicate tissue until I feel the trickle of warmth, taste the tang of blood. I lick my lips and blow out a breath.
“Tomas.”
His eyelids flicker, but don’t open.
I shift my hands so that the gift is held in only my left hand and use my right to brush across his brow. “Tomas. Wake up.”
He still doesn’t open his eyes. His breathing has not changed. So I lean forward and rest my lips against his.
I feel him pull in a deep breath, feel his lips curve into a smile against my mouth. “Good morning,” I whisper.
“Good morning to you, too.” I feel his arms curl around my back. He pulls me close, tucks me into the space at his side, my head under his chin. “Your skin is freezing,” he says and rubs my arm to drive away the gooseflesh.
“It’s cold outside.” I pretend that it’s not cold in our home. We both do.
“What were you doing outside?” Tomas pulls back so that he can see my face. He knows I can’t lie if he’s looking at me.
“I ran an errand.”
He raises an eyebrow and waits. I wait longer.
“Where did you go?”
My eyes flicker away from his and I bite my lip again. His hand moves to my chin, pulls my lip free. “Kell. Where did you go?”
“To the store.”
Tomas pulls his arm from under my head and sits up, his legs crossed in front of him. I mirror his movements so that we end up sitting face to face. I take a deep breath. The gift is heavy in my hand.
“The store.” He says it as a statement. In reality, it is a very loaded question.
I nod. “I got you a gift.” My hand shakes as I hold it out to him. I turn my hand over and uncurl my fingers, exposing the gift resting on my palm. “I got two.”
My eyes are locked on his eyes. His eyes are locked on my hand.
“We can do it together,” I say when he remains silent and still.
He finally moves. His hand reaches for mine and curls my fingers back over the two blue pills nestled in the palm of my hand.
Once the pills are out of sight he finally looks at me. “Kell.” Again his statement is a question. How? Why? I hear these and a hundred other questions in the one syllable of my name.
“This is our chance to start over, Tomas. We can have a new beginning. Leave this behind us.” I look away from his face, the only thing I don’t want to leave behind. Everything else I see I would pay to forget. I already have.
“We had just enough for two.” I can’t look at him when I say this. Can’t see his face when he realizes I have trapped him into agreeing. Either we take the pills or we starve.
I feel his gaze heavy on my face. Then the gentle brush of his fingers across my cheek. “Okay,” he breathes. I don’t like the sound of resignation in his voice. The guilt that coils in my gut in response.
The sooner we take the pills, the sooner the memory of this moment, this betrayal, will be wiped from both of our minds. We will be reset.
“They’ll keep us together,” I offer. “Any washed that are found together are planted together, right? We’ll just start over. Fresh. Not here.” I keep trying to break his silence. “I love you.”
Tomas pulls my fingers open and takes one of the pills between his thumb and forefinger. “Remember me,” he says. We swallow the pills.
I lean across the gulf between us and kiss him. I hope the warmth of him on my lips will stay with me, be the first thing I feel when I wake anew.
We tip to our sides. We are gone.
My eyes move from his closed eyes and slightly open mouth to my own hands. They are cupped together in my lap, forming a cocoon around the gift I have brought him. The gift I am not sure he will want. The gift I am not sure I should have brought him.
I catch my bottom lip between my teeth, worry the delicate tissue until I feel the trickle of warmth, taste the tang of blood. I lick my lips and blow out a breath.
“Tomas.”
His eyelids flicker, but don’t open.
I shift my hands so that the gift is held in only my left hand and use my right to brush across his brow. “Tomas. Wake up.”
He still doesn’t open his eyes. His breathing has not changed. So I lean forward and rest my lips against his.
I feel him pull in a deep breath, feel his lips curve into a smile against my mouth. “Good morning,” I whisper.
“Good morning to you, too.” I feel his arms curl around my back. He pulls me close, tucks me into the space at his side, my head under his chin. “Your skin is freezing,” he says and rubs my arm to drive away the gooseflesh.
“It’s cold outside.” I pretend that it’s not cold in our home. We both do.
“What were you doing outside?” Tomas pulls back so that he can see my face. He knows I can’t lie if he’s looking at me.
“I ran an errand.”
He raises an eyebrow and waits. I wait longer.
“Where did you go?”
My eyes flicker away from his and I bite my lip again. His hand moves to my chin, pulls my lip free. “Kell. Where did you go?”
“To the store.”
Tomas pulls his arm from under my head and sits up, his legs crossed in front of him. I mirror his movements so that we end up sitting face to face. I take a deep breath. The gift is heavy in my hand.
“The store.” He says it as a statement. In reality, it is a very loaded question.
I nod. “I got you a gift.” My hand shakes as I hold it out to him. I turn my hand over and uncurl my fingers, exposing the gift resting on my palm. “I got two.”
My eyes are locked on his eyes. His eyes are locked on my hand.
“We can do it together,” I say when he remains silent and still.
He finally moves. His hand reaches for mine and curls my fingers back over the two blue pills nestled in the palm of my hand.
Once the pills are out of sight he finally looks at me. “Kell.” Again his statement is a question. How? Why? I hear these and a hundred other questions in the one syllable of my name.
“This is our chance to start over, Tomas. We can have a new beginning. Leave this behind us.” I look away from his face, the only thing I don’t want to leave behind. Everything else I see I would pay to forget. I already have.
“We had just enough for two.” I can’t look at him when I say this. Can’t see his face when he realizes I have trapped him into agreeing. Either we take the pills or we starve.
I feel his gaze heavy on my face. Then the gentle brush of his fingers across my cheek. “Okay,” he breathes. I don’t like the sound of resignation in his voice. The guilt that coils in my gut in response.
The sooner we take the pills, the sooner the memory of this moment, this betrayal, will be wiped from both of our minds. We will be reset.
“They’ll keep us together,” I offer. “Any washed that are found together are planted together, right? We’ll just start over. Fresh. Not here.” I keep trying to break his silence. “I love you.”
Tomas pulls my fingers open and takes one of the pills between his thumb and forefinger. “Remember me,” he says. We swallow the pills.
I lean across the gulf between us and kiss him. I hope the warmth of him on my lips will stay with me, be the first thing I feel when I wake anew.
We tip to our sides. We are gone.
Monday, January 4, 2016
My 2015 in Numbers
A fresh, shiny new year has begun. All of the counters have rolled back to zero. We are starting anew.
Before we get too far in, I thought I should take a look at the year that just ended (and set some goals for this leap year):
I walked 3,430,462 steps. That is over 1446 miles! I could have crossed Italy twice.
Goal for 2016: 3.5 million steps
I started tracking books read through GoodReads, as well as words written in July.
In the last half of the year, I read 74 books. My last post listed five of my favorites of the year.
Goals for 2016:
Read 120 books
Monthly blog post with my favorite of the month
In the last half of the year, I wrote 144,139 words. The bulk of those words are in the first drafts of the two novels I wrote this year and over 30 short stories.
Goals for 2016:
Revisions of both first drafts
Query at least 10 agents
3 new first drafts (novels)
75 short stories
Do you have any amazing stats for the year? Goals for 2016?
Before we get too far in, I thought I should take a look at the year that just ended (and set some goals for this leap year):
I walked 3,430,462 steps. That is over 1446 miles! I could have crossed Italy twice.
Goal for 2016: 3.5 million steps
I started tracking books read through GoodReads, as well as words written in July.
In the last half of the year, I read 74 books. My last post listed five of my favorites of the year.
Goals for 2016:
Read 120 books
Monthly blog post with my favorite of the month
In the last half of the year, I wrote 144,139 words. The bulk of those words are in the first drafts of the two novels I wrote this year and over 30 short stories.
Goals for 2016:
Revisions of both first drafts
Query at least 10 agents
3 new first drafts (novels)
75 short stories
Do you have any amazing stats for the year? Goals for 2016?
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