I finished twelve books in February:
The Post-Birthday World by Lionel Shriver
The Wolf of Tebron by C.S. Lakin
The Dirt on Ninth Grave by Darynda Jones (audiobook)
The Ruins by Scott Smith
Like Water For Chocolate by Laura Esquirel
Compulsion by Martina Boone
Harry Potter and the Cursed Child by J.K. Rowling, John Tiffany, and Jack Thorne
End of Days by Susan Ee
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone by J.K. Rowling (reread, audiobook)
No Easy Target by Iris Johansen (Digital ARC)
Innocent by Scott Turow
Bright Young Things by Anna Godbersen
An impressive count for a month that only had 28 days, if I do say so myself.
Here’s the part where I say something profound about my favorite book, or one that made me think about something important, or feel something deep.
This is awkward. I am looking over this list, and I really just don’t have much to say.
Yes, there were books that I really liked (Compulsion might have been my favorite read of the month).
Yes, there were books that I didn’t like so much (names withheld to protect the innocent).
But there is nothing here that I feel I want to rave about. There is nothing here that made me have deep thoughts.
I just read. I’m okay with that. That is a large part of the purpose of stories, right? Entertainment. Escape.
In other news, I started writing a new novel this week. This is my fourth novel. Which is terrifying. And exciting. And feels completely unbelievable.
This novel is set in a school of the arts. Which makes the story both easier and harder to write. It’s easy because that was my high school experience. It feels like coming home and having everything be exactly the way I left it.
It is harder because I feel obligated to do it right. I am the voice of the world I loved in this story. (Not to mention everyone I went to school with may read the story, looking for themselves in it.) I have to create a fictional world that is every bit as rich as the real one I came from.
Now that I have made myself sound like an alien from another planet, I think I’ll stop.
What did you read this month?
Tuesday, February 28, 2017
Monday, February 13, 2017
The Gallows Girls
In today’s episode of Chuck Wendig made me write it, I was given a choice of ten titles and told to go forth and write a story to match one. Go here to see the list of titles and what other writers have created. Here’s my story.
Sometimes we leave bits behind. Pennies. Stubs of pencil. Bites of bread. Things we tuck into our pockets to save for later. Things we forget about, at least on the surface.
The things are shaken loose when the rope snaps tight, our weight heavy on the noose. The rebound bounce of our bodies frees the prizes. Or the rustling of the boys as they swing our bodies, cut the rope, drag us away.
Sometimes we leave. But our bits are there, lying on the ground. In the pit.
It’s disgusting. The waste. Worse, the attitude. Helena and her boys have so much that they can’t be bothered with the bis we leave behind.
We bother.
We pick up after ourselves.
Today I watch. Like always. Yes, our presence is mandatory. But most of us avert our eyes, or just turn our gaze inward.
Most of us can’t bear to watch.
There is no way to avoid the sounds. The smack of wood on wood. The rush of skirts falling through air. The sharp crack of spine.
I find it easier to take if I can see the drop. I can blot the sounds a bit if my eyes are full.
Plus I can see the bits. See what falls, where it lands.
I am careful to keep my eyes away from her face as she stands waiting for the floor to drop. Meeting Sarah’s eyes would only speed the cycle. So I watch her hands. Sarah’s fingers twitch, memories of the signs and symbols that put her in he noose dancing through them.
My hands echo hers. I clamp the damp fabric of my skirt to silence them.
The floor finally falls.
Sarah falls.
I watch the hem of her skirt. A bounce. A continued sway.
Two objects fall from her to the pit below. Two bits of Sarah. Two bits of us.
I stand silent and staring as the crowd filters away, the sea of skirts retreating home. The boys come then, joking and jostling as they pull Sarah down, cut her free, drag her away. They don’t notice the single skirt still standing in the square.
Once they are gone, I slip forward, slide down into the pit. A glint of silver catches my eye. I let my fingers graze the surface of the the soil, the water, the fluids and lift the shiny.
I polish it on a fold of my skirt and turn it on my palm. A small mirror. Twice the size of a penny. Infinitely more valuable. I lift it to my lips and press a kiss to the glass. Into my pocket it goes.
Two bits fell.
I scan the muck, looking for the missing piece of Sarah. I don’t see anything. No sparkles. No shines. Not even a nub of brown bread.
Just mud. Endless mud.
I shuffle forward, sifting with my naked toes. Grit. Slime. Nothing with any sort of form. Nothing of substance. Nothing of Sarah.
Where is it?
I lift my hem and drop to my knees, plunge my hands deep. I close my eyes, let my fingers do their work. They dance, sing, call through the soil until the bit is in my hand.
I have Sarah back.
I open my eyes and smile, lift my face to the straggling rays of the sun.
“Oh, looky. Another one.”
My smile drops away. Two of Helena’s boys stand at the edge of the pit.
They watch as I scramble out of the pit, slip the bit into my pocket, smear the slop from my hands onto my skirt.
Then their hands are on me, wrapped tight around my arms as they pull me away.
I wonder which of us will come to retrieve my bits.
Sometimes we leave bits behind. Pennies. Stubs of pencil. Bites of bread. Things we tuck into our pockets to save for later. Things we forget about, at least on the surface.
The things are shaken loose when the rope snaps tight, our weight heavy on the noose. The rebound bounce of our bodies frees the prizes. Or the rustling of the boys as they swing our bodies, cut the rope, drag us away.
Sometimes we leave. But our bits are there, lying on the ground. In the pit.
It’s disgusting. The waste. Worse, the attitude. Helena and her boys have so much that they can’t be bothered with the bis we leave behind.
We bother.
We pick up after ourselves.
Today I watch. Like always. Yes, our presence is mandatory. But most of us avert our eyes, or just turn our gaze inward.
Most of us can’t bear to watch.
There is no way to avoid the sounds. The smack of wood on wood. The rush of skirts falling through air. The sharp crack of spine.
I find it easier to take if I can see the drop. I can blot the sounds a bit if my eyes are full.
Plus I can see the bits. See what falls, where it lands.
I am careful to keep my eyes away from her face as she stands waiting for the floor to drop. Meeting Sarah’s eyes would only speed the cycle. So I watch her hands. Sarah’s fingers twitch, memories of the signs and symbols that put her in he noose dancing through them.
My hands echo hers. I clamp the damp fabric of my skirt to silence them.
The floor finally falls.
Sarah falls.
I watch the hem of her skirt. A bounce. A continued sway.
Two objects fall from her to the pit below. Two bits of Sarah. Two bits of us.
I stand silent and staring as the crowd filters away, the sea of skirts retreating home. The boys come then, joking and jostling as they pull Sarah down, cut her free, drag her away. They don’t notice the single skirt still standing in the square.
Once they are gone, I slip forward, slide down into the pit. A glint of silver catches my eye. I let my fingers graze the surface of the the soil, the water, the fluids and lift the shiny.
I polish it on a fold of my skirt and turn it on my palm. A small mirror. Twice the size of a penny. Infinitely more valuable. I lift it to my lips and press a kiss to the glass. Into my pocket it goes.
Two bits fell.
I scan the muck, looking for the missing piece of Sarah. I don’t see anything. No sparkles. No shines. Not even a nub of brown bread.
Just mud. Endless mud.
I shuffle forward, sifting with my naked toes. Grit. Slime. Nothing with any sort of form. Nothing of substance. Nothing of Sarah.
Where is it?
I lift my hem and drop to my knees, plunge my hands deep. I close my eyes, let my fingers do their work. They dance, sing, call through the soil until the bit is in my hand.
I have Sarah back.
I open my eyes and smile, lift my face to the straggling rays of the sun.
“Oh, looky. Another one.”
My smile drops away. Two of Helena’s boys stand at the edge of the pit.
They watch as I scramble out of the pit, slip the bit into my pocket, smear the slop from my hands onto my skirt.
Then their hands are on me, wrapped tight around my arms as they pull me away.
I wonder which of us will come to retrieve my bits.
Wednesday, February 1, 2017
The Book Thief (and other January Reads)
I finished 12 books in January:
Reversible Errors by Scott Turow
The Book Thief by Markus Zusak
The Dark Tower by Stephen King (reread)
Everything Leads to You by Nina LaCour
Behold the Bones by Natalie C Parker
Limitations by Scott Turow
Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk
The Grimm Legacy by Polly Shulman
The Ketogenic Diet by Kristen Mancinelli
The Silver Witch by Paula Brackston
Winter by Marissa Meyer
The Story Grid by Shawn Coyne
Two of these books were monsters- giant books that wrapped up a series (The Dark Tower and Winter), so I am surprised that I managed to read this many books this month. Two of these were audiobooks (The Book Thief and The Grimm Legacy), so that did help.
Overall, the month was full of great reads. But I’m going to talk about just one.
The Book Thief. If you have not read this book, it is set in World War II Germany. It focuses on one girl who has been sent to live with an older couple. This couple also takes in a Jewish man, hides him, protects him, saves him.
While the story focuses on young Liesel, it is told by a narrator who stands just outside her story. He does not clearly identify himself, but we know his job. His job is to gather the souls of those who have died. His job brings him near Liesel at the start of the story, where she catches his attention. Intrigued by her, he keeps an eye on her over many years and tells us her tale.
Like every book I have read set in World War II, there were parts of this story that horrified me, parts that made me cry, parts that made me angry, furious. What was different with this book was that it planted a little niggling nugget of confusion. A worm has lingered and wandered through me, growing and changing as time has passed.
All because of when I listened to this story. I started listening in late December and finished in early January. Unlike previous WWII stories I have encountered, this time I lived in a world where I could see the potential for the events of this story to happen in my world, my country, in my lifetime. This time, I wasn’t reading a story that showed me a piece of history, that gave me an opportunity to learn from past horrors. This time, I was presented with a past that could be repeated. I saw how it could happen.
Since I finished this book, our country has changed dramatically. The thing that maybe, might could happen has started to happen. I feel like I am at the scene of train wreck. I am watching the slow-motion slide into disaster. I want to be rid of this worm.
None of my lingering response to The Book Thief is what Markus Zusak intended. There is no way he could have, no way he could have seen the world shifting in the way it has.
Had I read this book in 2006 when it was released, my response would have been completely different.
Which has me thinking a lot about storytelling and what it can do. Stories have the ability to change people, change the way they view themselves and the world around them. That’s huge.
It’s a huge responsibility as a writer. The words that you write have power.
This responsibility has made me question what I am writing. My stories are not political statements, they are not morality lessons. I worry that the stories I tell don’t say enough.
I considered changing what I plan to write next. I considered writing a story with an agenda. A story that had a clear point, a clear moral. A call to action, perhaps.
I hesitated. Those aren’t the stories I am driven to write.
And that is okay.
My stories still have something to say. Their message is smaller, quieter. But no less valuable.
Some stories give us a message of hope. A promise that we can have the lightness, the joy, the happy that we want. They remind us what we are fighting for.
My point is, write your story, no matter what it is. We need them all. Make us laugh. Make us cry. Make us smile. Make us frown. Make us love. Make us rage. Make us dream.
“Stories make your heart grow.” — Winnie the Pooh
Reversible Errors by Scott Turow
The Book Thief by Markus Zusak
The Dark Tower by Stephen King (reread)
Everything Leads to You by Nina LaCour
Behold the Bones by Natalie C Parker
Limitations by Scott Turow
Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk
The Grimm Legacy by Polly Shulman
The Ketogenic Diet by Kristen Mancinelli
The Silver Witch by Paula Brackston
Winter by Marissa Meyer
The Story Grid by Shawn Coyne
Two of these books were monsters- giant books that wrapped up a series (The Dark Tower and Winter), so I am surprised that I managed to read this many books this month. Two of these were audiobooks (The Book Thief and The Grimm Legacy), so that did help.
Overall, the month was full of great reads. But I’m going to talk about just one.
The Book Thief. If you have not read this book, it is set in World War II Germany. It focuses on one girl who has been sent to live with an older couple. This couple also takes in a Jewish man, hides him, protects him, saves him.
While the story focuses on young Liesel, it is told by a narrator who stands just outside her story. He does not clearly identify himself, but we know his job. His job is to gather the souls of those who have died. His job brings him near Liesel at the start of the story, where she catches his attention. Intrigued by her, he keeps an eye on her over many years and tells us her tale.
Like every book I have read set in World War II, there were parts of this story that horrified me, parts that made me cry, parts that made me angry, furious. What was different with this book was that it planted a little niggling nugget of confusion. A worm has lingered and wandered through me, growing and changing as time has passed.
All because of when I listened to this story. I started listening in late December and finished in early January. Unlike previous WWII stories I have encountered, this time I lived in a world where I could see the potential for the events of this story to happen in my world, my country, in my lifetime. This time, I wasn’t reading a story that showed me a piece of history, that gave me an opportunity to learn from past horrors. This time, I was presented with a past that could be repeated. I saw how it could happen.
Since I finished this book, our country has changed dramatically. The thing that maybe, might could happen has started to happen. I feel like I am at the scene of train wreck. I am watching the slow-motion slide into disaster. I want to be rid of this worm.
None of my lingering response to The Book Thief is what Markus Zusak intended. There is no way he could have, no way he could have seen the world shifting in the way it has.
Had I read this book in 2006 when it was released, my response would have been completely different.
Which has me thinking a lot about storytelling and what it can do. Stories have the ability to change people, change the way they view themselves and the world around them. That’s huge.
It’s a huge responsibility as a writer. The words that you write have power.
This responsibility has made me question what I am writing. My stories are not political statements, they are not morality lessons. I worry that the stories I tell don’t say enough.
I considered changing what I plan to write next. I considered writing a story with an agenda. A story that had a clear point, a clear moral. A call to action, perhaps.
I hesitated. Those aren’t the stories I am driven to write.
And that is okay.
My stories still have something to say. Their message is smaller, quieter. But no less valuable.
Some stories give us a message of hope. A promise that we can have the lightness, the joy, the happy that we want. They remind us what we are fighting for.
My point is, write your story, no matter what it is. We need them all. Make us laugh. Make us cry. Make us smile. Make us frown. Make us love. Make us rage. Make us dream.
“Stories make your heart grow.” — Winnie the Pooh
Monday, January 16, 2017
Dry
This bit was written in response to a Chuck Wendig blog post asking people to write about something that scares them. This snippet is fiction, but feel free to pull tendrils of my broken psyche out of it.
I forgot my water bottle.
Not a big deal, really. I can pick up a bottle of water in the lobby of my building. I won’t even have to pay for it. Courtesy water for guests and employees. That’s me. An employee. Definitely not a guest.
I still need to drink.
I’m pretty sure I can make it through this fifteen minute bus ride. Fifteen minutes to a bottle of water.
My throat is parched. There is a tickle of a cough lurking there, threatening to burst free. A single swallow of water would wash it away, send it swirling down to my stomach.
I swallow. The trickle of saliva in my mouth is nowhere near enough. I cough. A single sharp bark.
Four heads turn to look at me. The eyes are nervous.
I meet the eyes of the man next to me. His eyes are a soft brown, they should be comforting. The skin around them is pulled tight, pinched at the corners into a frown. There is no welcome there.
I let my gaze drift down to his hands, to the stoppered blue glass held in them. His fingers tighten, curl around the cool surface.
I swallow again. I am not the only one to hear the click in my throat.
The man stands and moves away, taking his water to the safety of a seat further away from the thirsty girl.
A quick glance around shows all the bottles are guarded, held close. They are not for me.
A second quick glance to my arm shows that I have twelve minutes to go.
I close my eyes and try not to think about water. All I see on the inside of my lids is a vast ocean. Clouds overhead drip down, adding to the already swollen sea.
I want to wade in and dip my head, drop my jaw and take it all in.
Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink. Imaginary water, anyway.
I open my eyes and check my watch again. Nine minutes.
I lift my hand, intending to wipe sweat from my brow. My hand shakes, trembles and tumbles against my skin. There is not a single bead of moisture there. The skin on my forehead feels thin, fragile, stretched tight.
My hand falls, the tremors accelerating as it sinks to my lap.
I feel that same tremor inside. My cells quivering, quaking as they shrink ever so slightly.
I slump in my seat, my head tipping back against the unforgiving glass of the window. The heat from outside seeps through, scorching my skin. It steals more of my moisture. I have none to spare. I am dry.
My eyes drift closed. The lids scratch and scrape, sand blowing across the Sahara.
I was wrong. Fifteen minutes is too long.
I forgot my water bottle.
Not a big deal, really. I can pick up a bottle of water in the lobby of my building. I won’t even have to pay for it. Courtesy water for guests and employees. That’s me. An employee. Definitely not a guest.
I still need to drink.
I’m pretty sure I can make it through this fifteen minute bus ride. Fifteen minutes to a bottle of water.
My throat is parched. There is a tickle of a cough lurking there, threatening to burst free. A single swallow of water would wash it away, send it swirling down to my stomach.
I swallow. The trickle of saliva in my mouth is nowhere near enough. I cough. A single sharp bark.
Four heads turn to look at me. The eyes are nervous.
I meet the eyes of the man next to me. His eyes are a soft brown, they should be comforting. The skin around them is pulled tight, pinched at the corners into a frown. There is no welcome there.
I let my gaze drift down to his hands, to the stoppered blue glass held in them. His fingers tighten, curl around the cool surface.
I swallow again. I am not the only one to hear the click in my throat.
The man stands and moves away, taking his water to the safety of a seat further away from the thirsty girl.
A quick glance around shows all the bottles are guarded, held close. They are not for me.
A second quick glance to my arm shows that I have twelve minutes to go.
I close my eyes and try not to think about water. All I see on the inside of my lids is a vast ocean. Clouds overhead drip down, adding to the already swollen sea.
I want to wade in and dip my head, drop my jaw and take it all in.
Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink. Imaginary water, anyway.
I open my eyes and check my watch again. Nine minutes.
I lift my hand, intending to wipe sweat from my brow. My hand shakes, trembles and tumbles against my skin. There is not a single bead of moisture there. The skin on my forehead feels thin, fragile, stretched tight.
My hand falls, the tremors accelerating as it sinks to my lap.
I feel that same tremor inside. My cells quivering, quaking as they shrink ever so slightly.
I slump in my seat, my head tipping back against the unforgiving glass of the window. The heat from outside seeps through, scorching my skin. It steals more of my moisture. I have none to spare. I am dry.
My eyes drift closed. The lids scratch and scrape, sand blowing across the Sahara.
I was wrong. Fifteen minutes is too long.
Sunday, January 1, 2017
A Year of Words
I finished twelve books in December:
Cress by Marissa Meyer
90 Days to Your Novel by Sarah Domet
Company Confessions by Christopher Moran
Bossypants by Tina Fey
The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien
George by Alex Gino
Isolation Ward by Joshua Spanogle
Code Name Verity by Elizabeth Wein
The Winner’s Kiss by Marie Rutkoski
As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner
Splendor by Anna Godbersen
Linger by Maggie Stiefvater
This puts my total for 2016 at 123 books! I made it to my GoodReads goal, with a little room to spare. Of those books, twenty-two books earned a five-star rating from me (the list of five-star reads is at the end of this post).
Choosing a favorite read of the year is tough. I read a lot of books that I loved. But if you are mean enough to make me choose a favorite, I would have to go with The Raven Cycle by Maggie Stiefvater. Close behind is the The Winner’s series by Marie Rutkoski.
Both of these series have unique stories set in slightly odd worlds that have enough in common with the world we live in to pull you deeply into the story. Both of these series have characters riddled with flaws and issues. Both of these series have a lovely use of language, though Maggie wins my heart here for her unexpected and exactly perfect turn of a phrase.
These two series have colored how I see the world around me. And who I am as a writer. They have become the point of comparison for my own work.
Which brings me to the other number news of 2016. I wrote over 230,000 words this year. That includes the rough draft for a novel that I am pretty sure will never leave the virtual shelf it sits on as well as two? three? eight hundred? revisions of the novel I am currently querying. Tossed in there are a few shorts as well.
That seems like a huge number, but it was not far over half of my word count goal for the year (420,000). That goal was a little huge, considering I work full time, and have a house full of humans and cats that like my attention now and then.
The goals for 2017:
Read 120 books.
Draft the contemporary YA story that has been swirling in my brain for the last year or so.
Revise said draft.
I would love to put sign with an agent on this goal list, but that involves too many things that are outside of my control to qualify as a goal. Instead I will list continuing to query.
What are your goals for the year?
Twenty-two 5 star reads in 2016 (not in order of favoritism, in order by authors last name for fairness!):
The Naturals by Jennifer Lynn Barnes
The Light Fantastic by Sarah Combs
Saint Anything by Sarah Dessen
The Weight of Zero by Karen Fortunati
X by Sue Grafton
Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen
Lisey’s Story by Stephen King
The Art and Craft of Storytelling by Nancy Lamb
The Birth House by Ami McKay
Cinder and Cress by Marissa Meyer
Isla and the Happily Ever After by Stephanie Perkins
Fangirl by Rainbow Rowell
The Winner’s Curse and The Winner’s Kiss by Marie Rutkoski
The Raven Cycle by Maggie Stiefvater (all four books in the series)
The Scorpio Races by Maggie Stiefvater
Shiver by Maggie Stiefvater
Code Name Verity by Elizabeth Wein
Cress by Marissa Meyer
90 Days to Your Novel by Sarah Domet
Company Confessions by Christopher Moran
Bossypants by Tina Fey
The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien
George by Alex Gino
Isolation Ward by Joshua Spanogle
Code Name Verity by Elizabeth Wein
The Winner’s Kiss by Marie Rutkoski
As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner
Splendor by Anna Godbersen
Linger by Maggie Stiefvater
This puts my total for 2016 at 123 books! I made it to my GoodReads goal, with a little room to spare. Of those books, twenty-two books earned a five-star rating from me (the list of five-star reads is at the end of this post).
Choosing a favorite read of the year is tough. I read a lot of books that I loved. But if you are mean enough to make me choose a favorite, I would have to go with The Raven Cycle by Maggie Stiefvater. Close behind is the The Winner’s series by Marie Rutkoski.
Both of these series have unique stories set in slightly odd worlds that have enough in common with the world we live in to pull you deeply into the story. Both of these series have characters riddled with flaws and issues. Both of these series have a lovely use of language, though Maggie wins my heart here for her unexpected and exactly perfect turn of a phrase.
These two series have colored how I see the world around me. And who I am as a writer. They have become the point of comparison for my own work.
Which brings me to the other number news of 2016. I wrote over 230,000 words this year. That includes the rough draft for a novel that I am pretty sure will never leave the virtual shelf it sits on as well as two? three? eight hundred? revisions of the novel I am currently querying. Tossed in there are a few shorts as well.
That seems like a huge number, but it was not far over half of my word count goal for the year (420,000). That goal was a little huge, considering I work full time, and have a house full of humans and cats that like my attention now and then.
The goals for 2017:
Read 120 books.
Draft the contemporary YA story that has been swirling in my brain for the last year or so.
Revise said draft.
I would love to put sign with an agent on this goal list, but that involves too many things that are outside of my control to qualify as a goal. Instead I will list continuing to query.
What are your goals for the year?
Twenty-two 5 star reads in 2016 (not in order of favoritism, in order by authors last name for fairness!):
The Naturals by Jennifer Lynn Barnes
The Light Fantastic by Sarah Combs
Saint Anything by Sarah Dessen
The Weight of Zero by Karen Fortunati
X by Sue Grafton
Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen
Lisey’s Story by Stephen King
The Art and Craft of Storytelling by Nancy Lamb
The Birth House by Ami McKay
Cinder and Cress by Marissa Meyer
Isla and the Happily Ever After by Stephanie Perkins
Fangirl by Rainbow Rowell
The Winner’s Curse and The Winner’s Kiss by Marie Rutkoski
The Raven Cycle by Maggie Stiefvater (all four books in the series)
The Scorpio Races by Maggie Stiefvater
Shiver by Maggie Stiefvater
Code Name Verity by Elizabeth Wein
Monday, December 19, 2016
When Vivvie Met Bryant
This is a scene I wrote last month during NaNo, knowing that it would never belong in the final book. It might be the best bit I wrote....
This is my spot. Midway between two guard towers. Which means moms and dads and babysitters shy away from it. They want to be near the guardians.
I don’t.
I want my own spot on the sand. A place that I can pretend is my own private island. Me. Sun. Sand. Crashing waves.
No voices.
No chaos.
Someone is in my spot.
Well, not exactly in it. But close. Close enough that I feel crowded as I toss out my blanket, settle onto my back. Not close enough to touch. But close to hear.
He is humming. Nothing that I recognize.
I try to close my eyes and imagine that the humming is a radio. But he keeps getting distracted by what his hands are doing. He pauses, slows down, speeds up. It ruins my illusion.
I give up and roll onto my side and watch him.
He is closer to the water than I am, down where the sand is saturated. He is using the soggy sand to build something.
Like the song he hums, I can’t identify it.
I stare at his hands. Browned by the sun. Strong. Long. Agile. They sculpt and smooth the sand in a way that makes me wish I were a fragment of silicon.
I shake my head and make myself look away from his hands. The rest of him is just as troublesome. He is shirtless. Which lets me see that he is all sun-kissed. All strong. All long. All agile. His whole body moves, following the lead set by his fingers. His whole being is invested in using the sand to create.
A sea shell emerges to his touch. A giant, open clam shell.
I expect to see a pearl appear.
Instead, he begins to sculpt two long legs.
His hands form every line of those legs. I imagine them running over legs made of flesh instead of sand.
I force myself away from his hands again. This time my eyes land on his face. The look there is magic. He is a god creating the woman of his dreams. I can’t imagine his face would be any more intense, more expressive, if he were gazing at a real woman. I suppose to him, she is real. She is his.
I am lost. Not the way I intended to be when I came to the beach today. Instead of being isolated, alone, and calm, I am lost in the world this man is creating before me.
The man never looks away from his creation. I don’t think he knows I am watching him. I hope he doesn’t know how intently I am staring.
Then his gaze pulls away. I follow his line of sight. A wave touches his bare calf. Tide is coming in.
I suck in a desperate breath. He’s going to lose it all.
He begins to move faster, sketching in the bits that remain. The torso remains armless, reminding me of David. But he adds enough detail for me to finally figure out what he has created. Venus. On the half shell. She is missing the arm that protected one breast from view, so both are bared.
But only for a moment.
A wave crashes into the man, tipping him into his sculpture. He is soaked. Venus is crushed.
I scream.
He is laughing.
He lays sprawled in the remains of his goddess, laughing up at the sky. Then he rolls in my direction.
He catches me with my hand raised to my mouth as if it can push back the scream that already burst free. He is still laughing as he looks at me.
I know that he knows I’ve been watching him. I know that part of this is a show for me. But there is no way that laugh is fake. It comes straight from his soul and bubbles out into the air.
I finally get a clear look at his face. Hazel eyes surrounded by laugh lines. A heavy layer of scruff lines his jaw. His hair is dark, lightened by the sun where it tops his head. But the hair on his face is dark, almost black.
My hand wants to touch, feel the scrape of it along my palm.
I look away.
I swallow hard.
His laugh follows me. I will hear it in my dreams tonight. Maybe until the end of time.
“Hi.”
I lift my eyes and he is standing in front of me.
“My name’s Bryant.” He is holding out a hand to me.
“Viv,” I say. I lift my hand to his, thinking he wants to shake it.
He wraps his fingers around mine and I know how Venus felt. He leans over, rests his lips against my knuckles.
I have never had a man kiss my hand.
I am surprised to find that I like it. At least when it’s this man. I feel the touch of his hand, his lips all the way to my toes. It makes my heart tremble in my chest, makes my breath flutter a little too fast.
“Sorry about your sculpture. She was beautiful.” I gather just enough oxygen to make the words.
“Not as beautiful as you.”
Heat pours over me.
He is warmer than the sun.
He might be more embarrassed by his words than I am. He drops my hand and looks away, brushing his hands over his shoulders and chest to wipe away the bits of Venus that are still clinging to his skin.
I follow his hands, looking at the skin he touches. There is a web of tattoos draped over his left arm. I can pick out some individual pieces. A cupcake. A cigar. A hair dryer. The images are tied together by vines.
He must look back at me and see my stare. “These are the things I love,” Bryant says. “Well, the people I love. They are my family.”
“A cupcake?” I ask.
“My mom. She likes to bake. She makes these amazingly complicated desserts for the restaurant.”
“The hair dryer is your sister?” Please, don’t let it be a girlfriend.
“My brother. Benedict. He’s a stylist in Miami.”
I feel myself blush yet again. “Oh.”
“My sisters are back here.” He turns, shows me his back. A pair of dice and Spiderman are etched on his shoulder blade.
I raise an eyebrow. I have no idea what that means.
“They own a comic book shop together. Their lives are full of role playing games and superheroes.”
“Oh.”
That seems to be all I can say. I can’t imagine being surrounded by a family this rich.
Bryant drops to the sand beside me, pivoting as he sinks to look out at the ocean. Waves are still crawling in, inching closer to us. The last of Venus has been washed away. It’s as if he never built a thing. So easily erased.
“What about your family?” he asks.
“I don’t have any tattoos,” I answer.
He laughs. “That’s not what I meant.”
His eyes trail over every inch of my exposed skin as if he is looking for ink that isn’t there.
More blushing.
“Any brothers I should know about?” Bryant tries again.
“Nope. No siblings. Just me.”
“A dad with a shotgun?”
I smile. “A dad in Pennsylvania. Too far to shoot you. You’re safe.” I look away from him again when I realize those words sounded like an invitation.
He takes them as one.
“Are you hungry? It’s just a couple of blocks to this dive that has the best crab cakes.”
I should tell him no. I should tell him I need to get home. I need to study, to get a good night’s sleep. I need to be sharp tomorrow.
Instead I look into his eyes. I see the laughter etched around them. I see the heart bubbling inside.
I say yes.
This is my spot. Midway between two guard towers. Which means moms and dads and babysitters shy away from it. They want to be near the guardians.
I don’t.
I want my own spot on the sand. A place that I can pretend is my own private island. Me. Sun. Sand. Crashing waves.
No voices.
No chaos.
Someone is in my spot.
Well, not exactly in it. But close. Close enough that I feel crowded as I toss out my blanket, settle onto my back. Not close enough to touch. But close to hear.
He is humming. Nothing that I recognize.
I try to close my eyes and imagine that the humming is a radio. But he keeps getting distracted by what his hands are doing. He pauses, slows down, speeds up. It ruins my illusion.
I give up and roll onto my side and watch him.
He is closer to the water than I am, down where the sand is saturated. He is using the soggy sand to build something.
Like the song he hums, I can’t identify it.
I stare at his hands. Browned by the sun. Strong. Long. Agile. They sculpt and smooth the sand in a way that makes me wish I were a fragment of silicon.
I shake my head and make myself look away from his hands. The rest of him is just as troublesome. He is shirtless. Which lets me see that he is all sun-kissed. All strong. All long. All agile. His whole body moves, following the lead set by his fingers. His whole being is invested in using the sand to create.
A sea shell emerges to his touch. A giant, open clam shell.
I expect to see a pearl appear.
Instead, he begins to sculpt two long legs.
His hands form every line of those legs. I imagine them running over legs made of flesh instead of sand.
I force myself away from his hands again. This time my eyes land on his face. The look there is magic. He is a god creating the woman of his dreams. I can’t imagine his face would be any more intense, more expressive, if he were gazing at a real woman. I suppose to him, she is real. She is his.
I am lost. Not the way I intended to be when I came to the beach today. Instead of being isolated, alone, and calm, I am lost in the world this man is creating before me.
The man never looks away from his creation. I don’t think he knows I am watching him. I hope he doesn’t know how intently I am staring.
Then his gaze pulls away. I follow his line of sight. A wave touches his bare calf. Tide is coming in.
I suck in a desperate breath. He’s going to lose it all.
He begins to move faster, sketching in the bits that remain. The torso remains armless, reminding me of David. But he adds enough detail for me to finally figure out what he has created. Venus. On the half shell. She is missing the arm that protected one breast from view, so both are bared.
But only for a moment.
A wave crashes into the man, tipping him into his sculpture. He is soaked. Venus is crushed.
I scream.
He is laughing.
He lays sprawled in the remains of his goddess, laughing up at the sky. Then he rolls in my direction.
He catches me with my hand raised to my mouth as if it can push back the scream that already burst free. He is still laughing as he looks at me.
I know that he knows I’ve been watching him. I know that part of this is a show for me. But there is no way that laugh is fake. It comes straight from his soul and bubbles out into the air.
I finally get a clear look at his face. Hazel eyes surrounded by laugh lines. A heavy layer of scruff lines his jaw. His hair is dark, lightened by the sun where it tops his head. But the hair on his face is dark, almost black.
My hand wants to touch, feel the scrape of it along my palm.
I look away.
I swallow hard.
His laugh follows me. I will hear it in my dreams tonight. Maybe until the end of time.
“Hi.”
I lift my eyes and he is standing in front of me.
“My name’s Bryant.” He is holding out a hand to me.
“Viv,” I say. I lift my hand to his, thinking he wants to shake it.
He wraps his fingers around mine and I know how Venus felt. He leans over, rests his lips against my knuckles.
I have never had a man kiss my hand.
I am surprised to find that I like it. At least when it’s this man. I feel the touch of his hand, his lips all the way to my toes. It makes my heart tremble in my chest, makes my breath flutter a little too fast.
“Sorry about your sculpture. She was beautiful.” I gather just enough oxygen to make the words.
“Not as beautiful as you.”
Heat pours over me.
He is warmer than the sun.
He might be more embarrassed by his words than I am. He drops my hand and looks away, brushing his hands over his shoulders and chest to wipe away the bits of Venus that are still clinging to his skin.
I follow his hands, looking at the skin he touches. There is a web of tattoos draped over his left arm. I can pick out some individual pieces. A cupcake. A cigar. A hair dryer. The images are tied together by vines.
He must look back at me and see my stare. “These are the things I love,” Bryant says. “Well, the people I love. They are my family.”
“A cupcake?” I ask.
“My mom. She likes to bake. She makes these amazingly complicated desserts for the restaurant.”
“The hair dryer is your sister?” Please, don’t let it be a girlfriend.
“My brother. Benedict. He’s a stylist in Miami.”
I feel myself blush yet again. “Oh.”
“My sisters are back here.” He turns, shows me his back. A pair of dice and Spiderman are etched on his shoulder blade.
I raise an eyebrow. I have no idea what that means.
“They own a comic book shop together. Their lives are full of role playing games and superheroes.”
“Oh.”
That seems to be all I can say. I can’t imagine being surrounded by a family this rich.
Bryant drops to the sand beside me, pivoting as he sinks to look out at the ocean. Waves are still crawling in, inching closer to us. The last of Venus has been washed away. It’s as if he never built a thing. So easily erased.
“What about your family?” he asks.
“I don’t have any tattoos,” I answer.
He laughs. “That’s not what I meant.”
His eyes trail over every inch of my exposed skin as if he is looking for ink that isn’t there.
More blushing.
“Any brothers I should know about?” Bryant tries again.
“Nope. No siblings. Just me.”
“A dad with a shotgun?”
I smile. “A dad in Pennsylvania. Too far to shoot you. You’re safe.” I look away from him again when I realize those words sounded like an invitation.
He takes them as one.
“Are you hungry? It’s just a couple of blocks to this dive that has the best crab cakes.”
I should tell him no. I should tell him I need to get home. I need to study, to get a good night’s sleep. I need to be sharp tomorrow.
Instead I look into his eyes. I see the laughter etched around them. I see the heart bubbling inside.
I say yes.
Thursday, December 1, 2016
November and The Light Fantastic
In November, I only read six books:
Naked in Death by J.D. Robb
The Complete Short Stories by Saki
The Girl on the Train by Paula Hawkins
Carry On by Rainbow Rowell
Lisey’s Story by Stephen King (reread)
Beware the Wild by Natalie C. Parker
I say only, because that is a much smaller number than normal for me. But as I look at that short list, I realize most of those book are big, big books (500+ pages). So maybe not so bad.
Plus, I wrote the entire first draft of a novel in November, but that’s a different post.
Probably my favorite read of these was The Girl on the Train. I have seen this book compared to Gone Girl. A lot. It is so, so, so much better than Gone Girl. This is how to make an unreliable narrator work. Paula Hawkins managed to write a character that is deeply flawed, and unable to give us the whole story for the majority of the book. I still like her. She has good qualities to balance out her flaws. I was very much rooting for her to get her act together, to survive the story and find the truth.
A close runner up was Beware the Wild. This is a southern gothic recommended to me by Ashley Hearn. This book was deliciously creepy in all the right ways and felt a little bit like coming home.
I currently have a whole slew of southern gothics on my to-be-read list and am toying with the idea of writing my own…
In other news, in September, I read and wrote a review for The Light Fantastic. It has been published! You can find it here: The Light Fantastic
Naked in Death by J.D. Robb
The Complete Short Stories by Saki
The Girl on the Train by Paula Hawkins
Carry On by Rainbow Rowell
Lisey’s Story by Stephen King (reread)
Beware the Wild by Natalie C. Parker
I say only, because that is a much smaller number than normal for me. But as I look at that short list, I realize most of those book are big, big books (500+ pages). So maybe not so bad.
Plus, I wrote the entire first draft of a novel in November, but that’s a different post.
Probably my favorite read of these was The Girl on the Train. I have seen this book compared to Gone Girl. A lot. It is so, so, so much better than Gone Girl. This is how to make an unreliable narrator work. Paula Hawkins managed to write a character that is deeply flawed, and unable to give us the whole story for the majority of the book. I still like her. She has good qualities to balance out her flaws. I was very much rooting for her to get her act together, to survive the story and find the truth.
A close runner up was Beware the Wild. This is a southern gothic recommended to me by Ashley Hearn. This book was deliciously creepy in all the right ways and felt a little bit like coming home.
I currently have a whole slew of southern gothics on my to-be-read list and am toying with the idea of writing my own…
In other news, in September, I read and wrote a review for The Light Fantastic. It has been published! You can find it here: The Light Fantastic
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