Reality Bites (Eavesdroppers Anonymous)

The Intrepid Eavesdropper

She's at it again.

The Intrepid Eavesdropper has been gathering One-Liners, tiny little morsels that have quite a punch to them. Each of them makes me wonder about the rest of the story: What happened in Rwanda? What is a Rodeo Commissioner, anyway? So - before I give them all away - here are they are.

Reality Bites: One Liners

1: "Hey. Tell me about Rwanda."

2: "She studied so hard. She took forty-five practice tests! When she finally took the test and sent it off to them...well...she never heard back. Never heard a thing. Nothing. Why? Why is that? Why would they do that to her?"

3: "How did you write it? I mean, seriously—how did you do it?"

4. (Extremely outraged.) "You never told me you had another grandkid!"

5. "The rodeo commissioner is coming on Monday with his score card."

6. "You know what Molly said to me this morning? 'Mommy! Mommy! My goldfish recognizes me now! He just did tricks for me in his bowl!' Isn't that too cute? I couldn't bear to tell her the truth."

Looking cute is a trick, right?

Snippet Number One: We'll Do Great Things

Two men are at the next table. Both have crew cuts. They're in their fifties, or maybe their sixties. One guy is doing most of the talking. He's excited. He talks fast, his words clipped, his voice full of excitement. He teeters on his chair, leaning back, leaning forward, rocking even. The back of his neck is pink from too much sun, and the bottom of his crew cut sticks straight out from his head like a bristle brush. Evidently, the two men are Christian film-makers, discussing a collaboration.

"I was in Ethiopia, doing a project," says Crew Cut. "I was working with Jeff. You remember Jeff? We were dragging our stuff around the villages, you know, doing our jobs, talking to people, spreading the word. We had the support of five churches, maybe six. I got back to my hotel one night, looked at my camera, and ... BANG! I said, why don't we make a documentary?" Crew Cut bangs his chair onto the floor, as if he were doing sound effects.

"How did it begin?" The other man is soft-spoken, but I feel that he is the one with the power, the one that Crew Cut is trying to impress. "Tell me how you got it going."

Crew Cut leans forward. "I knew I could make a documentary about what we were doing. I sat down that same night and planned it all out. Stayed up all night. I wrote it all down on a white board, every last idea. The story board, you know. In the morning I showed the story board to Jeff. He got behind it right away. He was all excited."

"Yes. He would be, wouldn't he?"

Crew Cut is in such a hurry to tell his story to this man that his words are starting to slur. "So we began filming, like two days after. We already had a camera, you know? Other people helped us. We had a driver, and Christian kids from the local church." Crew Cut crosses his legs, then uncrosses them. He leans forward. "The locals were confused about what we were doing, but we ended up with a knock-out film, you know?"

"You showed it around, if I recall?"

"Absolutely. In churches all over the country. People loved it. Craig Wright especially put his weight behind it."

"Really?"

Crew Cut's voice lowers. "But it all went sideways. Jeff got ran over when it went sour. He took the brunt of it."

"Yes. I heard about that."

They're silent for a long moment. They drink from their coffee. Then Crew Cut leans forward again.

"We're going to start a new project," he says. "We're going to bring Rick and Bobby in."

"Good thinking."

"There's a story there - I'll tell you the whole story if we end up working together. Rick fired Bobby's guys, the specialists that he'd brought in, and that didn't sit well with Bobby. It's like politicians, you know? They're jerks."

The quiet man regards Crew Cut. He seems to come to some sort of decision. "I like you," he says. "You're a great producer, and you're part of a good community. You have people backing you. "

I can tell that Crew Cut is almost weak with anticipation. And then it comes, the words he's been waiting to hear:

"I'd like to work with you.We'll do great things."

Why don't we do a documentary?

Snippet Number Two: A Special Case

Two women are squeezed into a nearby table. As in Snippet Number One, one of the women is doing eighty percent of the talking. I find her voice very irritating, very loud and gravelly. She talks with lots of animation, hand movements, shifting around in her chair, bobbing her head - she could almost be Crew Cut's twin sister. She has neck-length curly blond hair and sunglasses perched on her head. The second woman seems to have only two positions she's comfortable in: she's either resting her chin on her hand, or she holds her hands clasped primly together on the table. It's a sunny day. I get the feeling that Prim Hands would rather be anywhere rather than here, talking with Gravel Voice. It's my guess that both of them are administrators for the Seattle Public Schools.

"Those kids were wild," says Gravel Voice. "I went in there to help the teacher because she couldn't control them. I told those kids, no inappropriate touching. Absolutely no touching, ever. No touching other kids, even through clothing."

Prim Hands nods. "There were problems in that class, yeah."

"Where was the principal?" demands Gravel Voice. "The class was eroding! The parents were in an uproar. The kids weren't happy. The teacher was falling apart." She sets her coffee cup on the table. "The Principal didn't lift a hand to help that teacher. But you know what? She wants a readerboard!"

"I heard about that."

"She wants it to be up for 2018 - so we gave the school ten thousand dollars last May."

"Right."

"But she's a worthless principal. She won't see about getting a second person in that problem class."

Prim Hands sighs. "It wasn't part of my contract, but I did look into what we could do about her. Not much. Principals are a special case."

Gravel Voice coughs. "Excuse me," she sputters. Maybe her voice sounds the way it does because she has a cold? "Sorry about that. Horrible sore throat. Anyway, they said she was having a hard time. With her daughter." She pauses. "Do you KNOW what happened to that ten thousand dollars, by the way?"

"No. I didn't hear anything."

"She mislabeled the money - can you believe it - and they lost it!"

"No way."

"They have no idea what happened to the money we gave them. They must have spent it on other stuff. So now we're out ten thousand ... and they still want a readerboard."

Sorry, not yet, guys. You lost the money.

The Intrepid Eavesdropper

And...She's Back!

The Intrepid Eavesdropper has had very slim pickings lately. Warm spring weather this past week has lured her subjects out of coffee shops and into the wild blue yonder, causing her to go days on end without adding to her eavesdropping notebook. But fear not. Today it rained. And rained. It rained so long and hard that people were driven back inside where they belong, where they could go back to having fascinating conversations for the sole benefit of an eavesdropping writer.

Oh Dear. What Shall I Do If They Don't Come?

Today's eavesdropping snippets were gathered in a few short hours at Zoka, while it was raining cats and dogs. I am sharing two short snippets and a longer one that I found particularly poignant. 

Snippet Number One:   Prime Bear Habitat

Two women are making their way slowly through the coffee shop. They're on their way out, and one of them is on crutches. She's hobbling in a slow, painful way, her foot encased in one of those newfangled shell things that isn't a plaster cast but isn't just for pretty, either. She grimaces with each step, but is trying to go quickly for her friend's sake, swinging the crutches in wide arcs with a clack-clack sound.

The friend is trying to cheer her up. "You're moving with those things! Speed Racer, you are."

"I'm talented, that's what."

They stop to let a mother and child pass.

The injured woman takes another tentative step. "But you know what? If a bear was after me, I'd be toast."

The friend pretends to look over her shoulder. "It's dangerous around here."

"No kidding. This coffee shop is prime Grizzly habitat."

They laugh, wrapped up in their own little drama. The friend holds the door open so her buddy can hobble out. I see them going slowly down the sidewalk, chatting and laughing all the way. Too soon, they're lost to sight. Lucky for them, the bears all seem to be hibernating.

"Speed Racer, you are."

Snippet Number Two:   Whatever Happened To Allie?

Six middle-aged people - four women and two men - sit at the large table across from me. The way they're carrying on, they must be old friends who haven't seen one another in a long time. I assume they're old high school buddies at a rare get-together. Loud laughter comes in waves from their table. Since my back is to them, I have a hard time attributing lines to certain people, but it doesn't seem to matter.

A woman howls with laughter. "Does anyone remember that night? Because later, people told me I had too much to drink."

"You did!" agrees a second woman. Her voice is thick, as if she's fighting a cold. "Seriously. You had way, way too much to drink."

One of the men says, "We all did."

"I don't remember that night but I do remember the night before," says a woman with a bit of an accent. She's German, maybe? "Some wild dancing, that's what I remember."

"We were drunk by the time we got there," says the man.

The first woman is laughing again. She stops suddenly. "Hey! We danced in the street outside the door, remember?"

"We did!" says the man.

There is generalized merriment, the sort of sounds made by people who've known one another for a long, long time. These men and women are comfortable together. They don't have to show off. I am surprised by a sudden desire to be part of their group. What high school had they attended, anyway? Had they gone to Garfield, my own high school? I grew up here in Seattle, so it's not impossible. I strain to hear any mention of a school, but they're intent on reminiscing about their wild party.

"I said some obnoxious things, right?" asks the woman with the loudest voice.

I hunch over my laptop, shaking my head as I type her words. Clearly, the woman could become obnoxious without too much extra effort.

"Oh my god," says the woman with the cold. "So did Allie. She said some pretty outrageous stuff too."

"Allie!" says the German-accent woman. "Allie! She was ... awful."

The comment brings forth a new wave of laughter from the entire table, and I wonder: was Allie awful in a "you're nuts but you're part of our group" way? Or was Allie awful in a "please get lost and leave us alone" way?

"Allie had such a great voice, though," says the second man, who has been quiet up till this point. "But she was so loud. God, that girl could talk. And she wasn't loud at the right times, you know?" He paused. "I wonder whatever happened to her?"

"She sent an email to me," says the almost-obnoxious woman. "Before that last thing."

"Me too," says a woman who'd barely spoken. She has a cute bleached pixie haircut (I looked). "I was going to answer her email, but I forgot about it in my inbox. I never wrote back."

The first man sounds wistful. "She sent me one too."

"And me," says the woman with the cold. Her voice sounds even more hoarse now.

"I didn't see her after that night," says pixie hair.

"Me neither," says German accent woman. "But my god. That party..."

"...was memorable," the loud woman finishes for her.

This is met with prolonged laughter. They've forgotten about Allie. They've moved on. Perhaps that was the way it had always been with them.

"I've got some video," says one of the men. "Of that night. Can you believe it?"

"You do?" says pixie hair. "Seriously? You have to send it to us!"

He promises he will. And then the conversation moves on. Their get-together goes on for another hour. But, dang it all. They have left me hanging! I want to see that video in the worst way. Is it of their "Memorable Night? It must be. What does it show? The dancing in the street? The obnoxious things they said and did?

Most of all, I want to see Allie. Awful Allie. Loud Allie. Allie who had a great voice, but whose email no-one had bothered to answer.

Which One Is Allie?

Snippet Number Three:   Have I Ever Let You Go Hungry?

There is a young family not too far away from me. Mom wipes crumbs from the table while Dad helps Little Boy, who is perhaps three years old, into a chair. Dad sets a napkin, a plate with a chocolate chip cookie, and a small glass of cocoa in front of him. Mom reaches over and breaks the cookie in half. This, predictably, sets Little Boy into a fit.

"Mamma! I want the whole cookie!"

Mom is gentle but firm. "We always cut it in half. Every time. You know that."

"But I want all of it."

"Look how big it is, honey. It's enormous. It's special."

"That's why I want all of it."

This makes me smile - I can't fault the little boy's logic. But he's getting pretty invested in the second half of the cookie - he's scowling. His arms are locked across his chest. Anyone can see that a tantrum is about to erupt.

But Mom doesn't seem to notice. "We don't usually eat so much sweet stuff," she says. "You're not used to it. You can have the other half later."

There is a weighty silence. Then, quick as lightening, the child grabs for the other half.

"No!" says Mom, somewhat less gently. "You heard what I said, Nigel. You can have half of it now and the other half when we get home."

Little Boy kicks the table leg whomp-whomp-whomp. "Daddy!" he wails. "Can I have it?"

"Mommy said no." Daddy sounds as if they've been through this before.

Little Boy begins to sob. He is heartbroken, as if he thinks he's about to die. But he quiets when Mom kneels beside him and takes him in her arms.

"Honey," she says, "have I ever let you go hungry?"

"But I want all of it!"

A Special Offer, an Invitation, and a Giveaway

Join the Inn on the Edge Group Read

May 5 - 11 

Erotic Enchants Group on Goodreads and a 50% off Sale on Ellora's Cave and Amazon

Now on sale! 

$3.99 on Ellora's Cave 

$4.99 on Amazon

(Links below)

Great News! My novel, Inn on the Edge, has been chosen to be the featured group read on the Goodreads Erotic Enchants group on May 5 - 11. Lots of fun things are planned for the week. I will be running contests and giveaways, and dropping in every day to chat with participants. I have put together a fantastic gift basket (shown below) for one lucky reader.

The Prize Basket

To participate in the group read:

Join Goodreads. Then join the "Erotic Enchants" group on Goodreads. This is a fun-loving, friendly group of readers that love everything erotica. On the Erotic Enchants forum, you will find the thread for the group read in the "Monthly Group Reads" section. I'll watch for you there!

Goodreads: www.goodreads.com

The link: Erotic Enchants Group

To find Inn on the Edge on sale:

Ellora's Cave: Inn on the Edge - $3.99

Amazon: Inn on the Edge - $4.99

What I Overheard - Number Three

The Intrepid Eavesdropper Strikes Again

More Fascinating Snippets From Coffee Shops

I Wonder If They Can See Me?

As I prepare these snippets for this blog post, one thing keeps jumping out at me: A sense of unfinished business. As my eavesdropping alter-ego, I drop into and out of conversations, never hearing one in its entirety. But it's more than the fact that conversations are often clipped short. What's most disconcerting to me is that I usually have no clear idea what the people are talking about. 

To me, the uninvited outsider, it seems as if the conversations I hear meander around a subject, never mentioning the facts, never spelling out the details of the inciting incident, never explaining things so eavesdroppers can understand. But hey. I can't complain, can I? It comes with the territory. Having no idea what is going on adds to the mystery. With that in mind, here are today's snippets.

Snippet Number One:  "Oh, Mama, Please Don't Cry"

I'm in the Starbucks in the hospital lobby. Once again, it's raining. I'm in a cranky mood - my favorite table is occupied by a man writing on his laptop, a man who looks like he's settled in for a good long stay. I'm wrestling with a difficult scene of my novel. My hour-and-a-half of writing session is almost up. At any moment my husband will glide up silently behind me, touch my shoulder with a single finger, and startle the living daylights out of me. (The sneak.) 

It's his favorite way to pester me. I invariably jump. Sometimes I squeal. His favorite is when I jump and squeal. Because one of these days I intend to catch him in the dastardly act, I turn around in my seat every minute or so to check for his sneaky approach - and that's when I become aware of the woman.

She is pacing back and forth in the Starbucks, on her cell phone.

"Don't cry. Please don't cry," she says. She's upset.

Actually, it's more than that. She's beside herself, she's so upset. Her obvious distress is painful for me to watch. Obviously, this is not good fodder for my Intrepid Eavesdropper column, so I go back to my novel. I type two sentences. I glare at them. And then I delete them.

The woman passes by me again. "Oh, Mama, please, please don't cry."

I watch her from the corner of my eye. Poor thing, she's almost crying herself.

"I didn't mean it that way," she says so quietly I wouldn't have heard her if she wasn't passing right in back of me.

She walks out the door, and then in again.

"Mama, you know I'd never say that." She stands by the potted palm, sniffing. "...Just please don't cry."

She heads toward the door.

"I'm coming. Mama, I'm coming. Wait for me."

And then, she's gone.

I'm left feeling rather devastated on her behalf, wondering what on earth happened. Why was her Mama crying? What had the woman said that started such a cascade of tears? I'm still hearing her voice in my mind when it comes: the dreaded touch on my shoulder. I jump. I squeal. Once again I've had the living daylights startled out of me.

I'm Sorry, Mama

Snippet Number Two:  "It Never Ends, Does It?"

There are two college age women sitting side by side at the next table. They're studying vocabulary for a science class, going over words such as "en vitro" and "endoplasmic reticulum" and others that I do not catch.

The odd thing? Every minute or so, the women exchange laptops. As in: they pick them up, cords and all, and pass them across the table in a coordinated effort without saying a word about it. The table is small. It only barely accommodates the two laptops, the two mugs of mocha, and the little plates that hold the bits and pieces of their leftover cookies. The passing of laptops is not a big production for the women. They just...do it...and continue typing away and studying as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

"Are you going home for Easter?" asks the one with her hair in a bundled-up ponytail. They're between vocabulary words.

Without missing a beat, they switch laptops.

"Uh-uh," says her friend, the one with the long strawberry blonde hair. "Are you?"

"No. But my Mom is making me an Easter basket anyway. Even though I'm not going to be there."

They switch laptops.

"Aw. That's so sweet!" Ponytail Girl says. "I never got Easter baskets." She types something, frowns, types some more. "Here's a new one. What is the behavior of (insert big scientific word) when under the influence of (insert a second big scientific word)? What's that again? Do you remember?"

"Um. Yes. It's (insert third big scientific word). Hey. Your touch pad is seriously f*cked up."

"I know."

They switch laptops.

"It never ends, does it?" says Strawberry Blonde.

My ears perk up. Are they talking about the constant switching of their laptops? Is that what never ends? But I am no more clued in by the rest of the conversation.

"I finished this one," Ponytail Girl picks up cookie crumbs with the tip of her finger. "But I have four more to go."

"I have five. Shit."

They switch laptops.

I'm frustrated over here at the next table. I'm none the wiser, and they're not helping me! What is it that never ends? She has five of what left? Does it have something to do with passing their laptops back and forth? Are they playing a game as they do their homework? I'm going insane over here, but I force myself to follow my self-imposed rules of listen, watch, record...but don't ask, don't get involved.

They switch laptops again and again, and again. I never do figure out what is going on. And then it all stops. Inexplicably and without discussion. Everything goes quiet at the next table. No more vocabulary words. No more switching laptops. The show is over.

Women with Laptops

Over The Edge - The Second Excerpt: The Nurturing Forces

It's Time To Share Again!

Several weeks ago, I posted the opening pages of my work in progress. I'm now ready to share another excerpt, this time from further into the book. Over the Edge is an erotic horror novel destined for the Shivers line at Ellora's Cave (my publisher).

Over the Edge: The Blurb

Dahlia, a novice Healer, is accepted into a mysterious school in Seattle that teaches Curative Touch - only to realize too late that she is in grave danger. She and the other students are being used as a Guinea Pigs for newly-adult Sex Demons in training in the usage of their own powers. But Dahlia has done the forbidden: She's fallen in love with her Demon instructor and unearthed the truth.

The Excerpt:

(The setting for this excerpt: It is the first day of lessons at the Institute. Dahlia and her classmates are learning the first exciting steps of Curative Touch, as taught by ... Demons.)

     Professor Abiba turned to his audience. "And now I shall conduct a little exercise, to get us started. Put your hands together. Like this." He clasped his hands in a prayerful sort of way and held them out for all to see.

     We copied him, a room full of pious students.

     "Now give your hands to the person sitting next to you. One of you will put your hands over the other person's hands. Gently, now." 

     I turned to Coralee. She took my hands in hers, and her skin felt warm and dry. We smiled shyly at each other at this intimate, unexpected contact. On my other side, Ellen moved a few seats over so she could give her hands to Preston.

     Professor Abiba's voice turned soothing. "This is your first official lesson at the Institute. A momentous occasion, to be sure." He waited until the last student pairing was settled, and then continued. "Rule Number One. Always ask for permission before you start a healing. Always. Without fail. Even if the person has requested your help. Even if you are only doing a practicum with your Model. It is an enormous breach of trust to not do so."

     I sat with my hands embraced by Coralee's, pondering his words and wondering—had I asked permission before touching people during my painful years of stumbling in the dark trying to help people? Always and without fail?

     I knew I hadn't.

     Sometimes—most times—I had, but not always. Perhaps I didn't have explicit permission, but I always had implicit permission. I always knew that what I had to give was something they wanted.

Professor Abiba cleared his throat. "But once isn't enough. Asking permission is a two-part process because we believe that asking once isn't sufficient. We must let patients know exactly what we want to do. But fear not, my earnest pupils, for I shall teach you the verbiage." He nodded sagely. He raised a lone finger as emphasis. "First, acknowledge your patient's suffering. Use their name if you can. Now listen closely. These are the exact words—except for the name—that you must memorize and take to heart." He cleared his throat, looked at his wife, and then spoke in a theatrical-sounding voice. "Zettia, you are suffering. May I put my hands on you?"

     Mistress Anjoli inclined her head.

     He turned back to us. "Now you do it. Go ahead. Say the words to the person whose hands you hold."

     Coralee and I shared an excited little smile.

     I took the plunge. "Coralee, you are suffering. May I put my hands on you?"

     Her eyes shone. "And I see that you are suffering too, Dahlia. May I put my hands on you?"

     The same thing was echoed all around us, with minor variations.

     Professor Abiba nodded. "Well done. Now for the second part. May I conduct a healing for you?"

     I turned back to Coralee. "May I conduct a healing for you?"

     Coralee said the words back to me.

     We squeezed each other's hands, a silent yes. Then I thought about Gage, about how he'd put his hands on me yesterday, about how he'd said these very words. He'd even used my name.

     It made me shiver.

     Professor Abiba was speaking again. "The words I just taught you will become so familiar that you will be able to say them in your sleep. They are words that will stay with you for the rest of your lives. They are potent words which will settle you into the proper frame of mind to unlock your Curative Energy."

     They'd certainly been potent when Gage had said them to me.

     Professor Abiba waited an extra moment before continuing. "But even that is not enough. You are not yet ready to begin a healing. You must obtain assent." He moved to the edge of the platform. "The assent doesn't need to be verbal, because sometimes a patient may not be able to speak, but it must be clearly given. Why do we need assent? Why can't we heal a person just because we can, because we have the knowledge and the ability, and because we wish to help those in pain?" He left the stage, taking his robes in his hands and raising them to knee height before letting them drop again after he stepped down to the lower level. He was wearing loose ankle-length white pants underneath. "Why do we wait for assent? Because the nature of what we do demands it."

     He walked back and forth, so tall that he towered above us. Coralee and I, still holding hands, craned our heads when he came our direction. Then he turned around and walked the other way.

     "You see," he said, "our art works best if a patient is complicit in their own healing."

     Oh! I hadn't known that. I wished my hands were free so I could write it down.

     "A willing patient will open themselves to you. A willing patient will be relaxed. He or she will respond to your touch. He or she will offer their energy to you, even if they do not realize what they are doing." He stopped in front of me and Coralee. "Take these lovely young ladies in the first row. Our Dahlia will utilize Coralee's energy alongside her own to do her healing work. Two streams of energy are stronger than one. Understand?"

     "Yes," I whispered. Because I did understand, and it was beautiful. It was simple. And it was so obvious, although I hadn't seen it until Professor Abiba had shown me.

     I stared up at him, transfixed.

     And then I wondered how he'd known our names.

     He moved away. "Good. My job is to teach you to direct the flow of energy. To use it for a specific purpose, targeted toward one part of the body. And to direct your patient's energy alongside your own. It's more complicated than that, of course, but that right there is the basis of Curative Touch as we understand it." He stepped back up onto the podium. "You're still connected with your patient, still holding hands. You've asked for permission. Twice. You've obtained assent. Now it's time for the next step. Ask your patient to close his or her eyes."

     I asked Coralee to close her eyes. And then I closed mine.

     His voice came out of the darkness, silky and warm. "Now we're starting the simulated healing. Keep hold of your partner's hands. Take your time. Be gentle but firm. Be mindful." He waited a good minute or two. "Your hands should be feeling heavier. And getting warmer."

     I sucked in my breath. My hands were getting warmer, just as he'd said. And they felt like they weighed twenty pounds. I wondered if Coralee's hands felt like that too. I noticed that we'd allowed our joined hands to fall to the arm rest that separated our seats. I breathed in, out. In, out. Taking my time.

Finally, he spoke again. "This is a simulation. We're not going to do any healing this time. All I want is for you to know what it will feel like when we actually do get to that point." He paused between each instruction. "Feel your partner's skin…feel your own skin…feel where your fingertips meet…feel your partner's warmth…take it in…share your own warmth with your partner. Feel it. Don't think of anything else—just feel."

     Institute Time was a funny thing.

     It seemed to stand still, waiting, poised, full of potential.

     And then, without warning, something wonderful happened. Color! Fiery vermillion! A shocking burst of brilliant red that flooded my awareness and left me dumbstruck. Even though my eyes were closed, I saw color all around, so much so that it crowded out everything else. I became a ball of pure red light with the name Dahlia attached to it, and it was the most marvelous thing that had ever happened to me.

     I made some sort of sound.

     "Ah," said Professor Abiba.

     I opened my eyes to find him standing right in front of me.

     "Tell me, my dear—what just happened?"

     "Color!" I gasped. "I see red!"

     He regarded me, looking rather proud. "Ladies and Gentlemen," he said to my fellow students as he gently parted my hands from Coralee's. "Something momentous has just happened here. A benchmark. And it happened well before anticipated. We don't usually see this occur for days yet." He tugged lightly on my arm, urging me to stand next to him. Which I did, still seeing the world tinged in that delicious vermillion. "Our Dahlia has accessed the Nurturing Forces! Let us give her a round of applause!"

     They clapped for me, all of them, as I stood dazed and happy next to my professor.

     The Nurturing Forces.

     Who knew they were red?

***

(End of Excerpt)

Working on 'Over the Edge'

Thank you for reading! I'm still hard at work on Over the Edge - I'm currently just over 40,000 words into the novel, almost halfway through. I plan to post more excerpts occasionally, so please do check back.

My Writer's Studio - A Tour

...Which Studio Would That Be, Exactly?

I don't actually have a writing studio, let me admit that right away. It's entirely my fault - over the years, I have taken over every available space in our home. Twenty years ago, I created a wonderful painting and metal arts studio in my basement (photo below). Several years later, I made a ceramics studio in my former dining room (also photo below). More recently, I've stashed my sewing and leather working materials in the living room. It goes without saying that I have the most understanding husband in the world. So how can I complain about not having a writing studio? I look at it another way: I'm lucky! I don't have only one place to write - I have five of them. 

#1  At Home: The Kitchen Table

It has its advantages: It's comfortable. It's close to everything. I'm aware of what's happening with family members. My snacks and tea warmer are nearby. But by the same token...it's the kitchen table! I'm too available. Dishes need washing and dinner needs to be started and the front door needs to be answered and the cats need attention - and just look at that mess on the counter behind me. The kitchen table is right in the middle of family life and sometimes it's impossible to keep distractions at bay.

Writing At Home - The Kitchen Table

#2  At Home: In the Guest Bedroom

When things get too distracting in the kitchen, I take myself upstairs to the bedroom my daughter vacated when she moved out ten years ago. It's now the guest room, so that can be problematic at times. Also problematic is the view out the window. In the above photo, you can clearly see the neighbor's walkway to their house. A couple of weeks ago, I was writing but I kept noticing that their dog - a large, fluffy, sweet thing - was loose. Aw. Look. She's wandering around. Don't they see her? Isn't someone going to lead her back home? No? Really? There is no-one out there? She's heading down the block! Where is our neighbor? (Sigh. Harrumph. Sigh.) So I went out and retrieved her and took her home, which pretty much put an end to writing that afternoon.

Writing At Home - In My Daughter's Old Bedroom

#3  At Home: In Bed

Sometimes the story just won't stop, and I have to drag my laptop into bed with me. I have a nifty little table on legs that I set it on, and it works just fine for a couple of hours or until my back starts complaining. The mouse (I hate the touch pad on my laptop) is more problematic - the lap table is too small for it, so I have to prop it on a book on the bed itself. That works pretty well, as long as one of my five cats doesn't bat it around as if it were a real mouse. In the photo, you can barely make out Felix, our white-and-orange long-hair. He's to the right of the mouse, in perfect batting position.

Writing At Home - In Bed

#4  Out and About: Zoka

I love this place. I try to go there a couple times a week, and I like to stay for around three hours a session. I have my favorite table (the one in the photo). It's to the left of the entrance, and is perfectly situated by a convenient electrical outlet. The light from the huge window doesn't cast a glare on my laptop screen if I inch the table a bit out from the wall. It's perfect. I can people-watch. And I can put my plate of flour-less chocolate cake on the windowsill, as you can see in the picture. It's all so, so nice. 

Two days ago, when I was writing at Zoka, I asked the the very nice barista who manages the place to take this photo of me during a pause between her customers. After the photo was taken, I wrote an entire chapter of my novel - and the new material was keepers, quality stuff. I was so pleased!

At the Coffee Shop - Zoka

(Prime Intrepid Eavesdropper Location No. 1)

#5  Out and About: Starbucks in the Hospital Lobby

I find myself at this coffee shop once a week, on Tuesday mornings. The place is small enough that I get grumpy if I don't get my favorite table by the potted palm. I wasn't so lucky in this photo. A steady stream of people pass by, which can be either interesting or distracting, depending on my mood and on how my writing is going. On very special occasions, a friend of mine who works at the hospital can pry herself away from her post and join me for a quick break.

At the Starbucks in the Hospital Lobby

(Prime Intrepid Eavesdropper Location No. 2)

Other locations:

There are other places that I occasionally will take my laptop to, such as the waiting room at the dentist's office, or to my parent's house, or to the park. But the above five "studios" are the places that I have done the bulk of my writing during the past few years.

It's funny.

Certain locations, certain tables, certain chairs even, have become associated with the scenes that I wrote at them. As clear as crystal, I remember sitting at the table to the right of the one pictured above (at the Starbucks), putting together a favorite scene where my characters were having their first banquet at the inn of Inn on the Edge. I remember sitting there, sipping the froth off my mocha, and describing luscious almond croissants ... and steaming blueberry muffins ... and buttermilk biscuits with fresh butter and honey dribbled onto them... hey. I must have been hungry at the time!

That's all for now, except for the promised photos of my metalworking studio and my ceramics area. I must go make some blueberry muffins. It seems I'm hungry all the time!

Metals Studio, With Two Cats

Ceramics Area, Also With Two Cats

Research of a Very Different Sort

I Try My Hand At My Character's Hobby

Dahlia Rehnquist, the main character of my work-in-progress Over the Edge, has a unique hobby: she makes bread dough figurines of her friends and family. Her figurines are quite a bit better than mine. As they should be - Dahlia spends hours and hours on each figurine, adding painstaking detail such as a violin for her best friend and a soccer ball for her brother. In the interest of "getting it right" - and of having a fun craft project - I decided I needed to make some bread dough figurines of my own. As research.

It's a very enjoyable kind of research. I had a great time.

First, I found directions for making the dough. I needed a recipe that uses white glue and a slice of bread. I'd seen Peruvian figurines made from this type of bread dough and the dough is much finer than the grainy recipes I remember as a child that used a cup of salt and flour and water. 

Peruvian Bread Dough Figurines

Next, I invited friends over for lunch and a crafting party. They came with their darling 4-year-old twin daughters, and - after a tasty lunch of strawberry shortcake - we got right into the project. 

Tearing The Crusts off a Slice of White Bread

I passed out a slice of bread to each person. We carefully tore the crusts off and then shredded the bread into little bits and tossed them into individual bowls. Then we measured a teaspoon of white glue into each bowl (which became much easier when my husband took the lid off the glue dispenser). I dribbled a bit extra into mine, since it seemed somewhat dry.

Shredding the Bread

Adding the Glue

Next we worked it in our fingers until it became nice and smooth and stopped sticking to our fingers. The more it was worked, the nicer it felt. After only two or three minutes of kneading my lump between my fingers, it was ready to go. What surprised me was that a single slice of white bread - without crusts, no less - made a piece of dough about the size of a golf ball.

A Bit Messy at First, But Not Too Bad

This is Me, With my Ball of Dough

My plan was to make the same figurine I was going to have my character make in the novel. It was supposed to be her best friend, Dawn, a woman with a long black braid playing the violin. I quickly abandoned that idea, deciding that the fictional Dahlia Rehnquist has a lot more patience than I do! The violin I made for my figurine to hold left something to be desired, for example. I showed the sort-of violin to my little friends, and they looked perplexed. "What is that?" asked one of them, "is it supposed to be a turtle?" Needless to say, I didn't use the violin.

Poking Fun at the Photographer

The Beginnings of My Figurine,

Looking Rather Like An Easter Island Rock Sculpture

My Figurine, With a Dashing Top Hat and a Tie

The Girls' Figurines

Their Father's Figurine - Duck Man on a Pedestal

It was a fun hour we spent playing with the bread dough. We used drops of water to stick the pieces together, but I have the feeling that it didn't quite do the trick. If I were to do serious figurine-making, I'd want to find a better way of sticking elements together. We'll let the figurines dry for two or three days, and then, if they make it that long in one piece, they can be painted. An alternate method of adding color is to add drops of food coloring to the dough as it is being mixed. I read that finished figurines can be given a protective, glossy finish by brushing them with a mixture of half water, half white glue.

The upshot of my little research-craft project? It was fun! I also confirmed my belief that Dahlia's hobby is a good fit for my novel. She will be able to procure the supplies she needs, which are few, and she'll be able to do this very low-tech craft project.

Five Days Later:

An update, just because I thought you'd like to know. Last night, I caught my top-hatted figurine (the one pictured above) with the edge of my sleeve, and the poor guy went skidding across the table and crashed onto the floor. He bounced! And then he rolled to the other side of the kitchen.

But - guess what? He survived without a mark! He didn't fall apart. His head didn't separate, his hat didn't fall off. Nothing! So I guess the water-as-an-adhesive works just fine.

Two Weeks Later:

Another update! Yesterday I accidentally doused my little guy with water. He was soaked. Saturated. Sopping wet. I set him on the windowsill to dry, turning him over a couple of times. I thought he would be a goner, all sticky and yucky and disintegrating - but when he dried off, he was fine! He's none the worse for wear. He is strong and hard. I have to say that I'm very impressed with the hardiness of the white glue - bread dough recipe for making figurines.

Looking Debonair in His New Home - the Flower Pot on the Kitchen Table

What I Overheard - Back by Popular Demand

The Intrepid Eavesdropper

(Number Two)

***

I'm at it again. Listening in on conversations. But it's okay because it's in the pursuit of a greater good - right? Improving my storytelling and dialogue skills is a viable excuse - right? Of course it is. So, without further ado, here is round two of the fascinating snippets I overheard last week in two of my favorite coffee shops. Today, I'll start with short and sweet and move to longer and more involved.

***

It's not wrong if I have a good reason.

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Snippet Number Four:  "Making It Better"

At the Starbucks in the hospital lobby, on a Tuesday morning. It's raining outside. A man is washing the windows with large sweeping motions. It's quiet in the coffee shop. All I can hear is the clicking of my laptop's keys and the swish-swish of the squeegee. There is a break between customers, and one barista is talking quietly to another. She puts her hand on her friend's arm and says this beautiful, heartfelt line: 

"You're less bubbly and happy than usual and I just want to make it better."

friends

***

Snippet Number Five:  "You're Having A Fucking Boy"

This is about as different as you can get. It's about half an hour later, and I'm still at the Starbucks in the hospital lobby, across from the Ultrasound Unit. A woman is on a cell phone, leaning against the shop's condiment bar. She's got the phone propped between her ear and her shoulder, and is shaking cinnamon and cocoa into her coffee as she talks. She stirs the coffee with quick, angry motions. To me, she seems more interested in her coffee than in the conversation.

She shouts into the phone.

"Guess what you're having?"

She listens to the person on the other end of the line, but only for a second.

"A boy. You're having a boy."

She makes a snorting noise.

"Another fucking boy."

She slaps a lid on her coffee.

"Yeah. It is."

She slurps her coffee, then stalks out the door.

***

This one still bothers me. There are so many questions that I will never know the answers to! Is this woman pregnant? She didn't look pregnant. Why is she annoyed that it's a boy? Does she already have five of them at home or something? Is she talking to the baby's father? She doesn't say "we're having a boy", she says "you're having a boy". Something seemed so wrong about this conversation.

All I can think is: That poor baby boy.

***

Snippet Number Six:  "Give Them Candy"

I am at my other favorite coffee shop, Zoka. I'm grumpy. I don't have my favorite table - I'm at the breezy table right in front of the door because that was all there was. But I'm coping. Not long after I arrive, two men pull out chairs from a large table clear across the room. One of the men - he's perhaps twenty-five years old and has the loudest voice I've ever heard - seems to be training the younger man (he's college-age) to teach an all-day-long SAT prep class. For over two hours, they discuss how to teach different sections of the exam to high school seniors - math, English, history.

"Essays," says the older man. "Some of them go on and on and on. Like this one."

The instructor flips open a four-inch-tall three ring binder, looking for a particular essay. He finds what he's looking for, then jabs the page with his finger. "You have to consider the voice. Is it too self-conscious? Too full of themselves? Look at this girl's essay." He turns a few pages. "Look at this part. She's inserting too much of herself here. Right there. See that?"

"Yes."

"And grammar. Identify the rules of grammar. Make sure they have a command of it - but then let them run with it and make it their own."

"Okay."

"That's the hard part. To know when they've gone too far."

The younger man nods and looks dubiously at the gigantic binder.

"Make a list," suggests the older man. "Put the most common things that give them problems up on the wall. Have conversations with them. Make them talk. Make them do worksheets, and then discuss them. Worksheets are good."

The younger man is scribbling notes. I think he looks flustered.

The older man leans back in his seat. "The best advice? They get tired around three o'clock. I say get some sugar into them."

"Really?"

"Always give them candy at the break."

I stop listening at this point - the minutia is mind-numbing. But as I go back to my own work, I can't help but think how lucky I am to be privy to this moment, and remember when my own children took the (very expensive) classes these men are discussing. I also know this: I would never have come up with this scene on my own. Never in a thousand years.

It really was this big.

***

Snippet Number Seven:  "You Just Have To Keep Going" 

The following snippet also took place at Zoka. It was the next day. Two men, dressed in slacks and collared, button-down shirts are sitting at the table next to me. No fancy lattes or mochas, just black coffee. Older man does almost all of the talking. He has a deeply lined face, a chipped front tooth, and steel gray crew-cut hair. He is constantly tapping his foot.

"I tell people to look at my hands." The older man holds out his hands. The nails are short and somewhat ragged, but clean. "I work with my hands. All my life, I've worked with my hands." Turns them over, shoves them in front of the younger man.

The younger man obviously knows what's expected of him and takes a good long look. "You work hard. You've done well."

Older man slurps his coffee. "Yeah. I have my guys. They go out there. Thirty years, they do their work. And people come to us."

"I've heard good things about your place."

"It's job satisfaction, that's what it is. I run a tight ship. Everything kept clean. Lots of light. No yelling at people. It's safer that way."

"Yeah."

A pause, while they both take a drink of their coffee.

"I keep the radio on to fifties type music," says the older man. "People ask me, why do you listen to that old stuff?"

"Well, why?"

"It doesn't get the customers riled up, you know? Not like that modern stuff." He talks about that horrible modern stuff for a while, then he moves on. "The most important thing is to keep the place safe. And clean. But you have to be careful. I tell my guys to be careful." He holds out his hands again. "Cause look what can happen. Look at that." He holds out his thumb. "I cut my thumb clean off! A short saw. They put it back on again."

The younger man gawks.

"See?" says the older man. "You can see where they did the surgery. The color is different."

Then was a long discourse about bone grafts, and skin grafts, and hundreds of stitches, and bandages that bled all over the place. The younger man looks kind of yellow by the time the older one is finished describing every little detail of his ordeal.

"Well. It doesn't look that good, but it works," says the older man, grabbing his coffee with the hand in question. "You just have to keep going."

The color is different all right!

***

And that's all for this time! I'll just keep going. I'll continue listening and gathering overheard dialogues and eventually I'll have enough for Intrepid Eavesdropper Number Three.

Thanks for reading!

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