Under the Spotlight: Having my Writing Critted

Having my Work Critiqued - 

A Frightening (?) Experience

The Ten Copies

Several months ago, I joined a local writer's critique group. I'd been looking for a group for some time, searching for other dedicated writers who would meet in person on a regular basis, discuss writing-related issues, and who could help me identify flaws and weak spots in my writing - as well as give me the thumbs-up when a piece is working well. It was time to bring more people onto the "Gail Bridges, author" team.

My husband is my primary developmental editor. He does a stellar job treading the dangerous waters between: "This is wonderful! Send it to your publisher - now!" and: "This chapter goes nowhere, does nothing, and is boring. Do you even know where your story is heading?"

He isn't known for mincing words. 

When I approached him about joining a critique group, he agreed with me that it would be helpful to bring in other voices, other opinions, other feedback.

"Give it a try," he urged. "What can it hurt?"

An online friend invited me to join her critique group. The group - No Safeword Writer's Group - seemed like a perfect fit. They're affiliated with (or used to be, it's hard to tell) The Center for Sex Positive Culture in Seattle, Washington. According to the group's blurb, a person is a good fit for the group if he or she has:

1. Written something that you thought was erotic,

2. Read erotica at least once. (Your own stuff counts!)

3. Learned to respect yourself...along with other people and their writing,

4. Decided you're ready to share your work.

Okay. According to those parameters, the group would be a good fit for me and my work.

I went to an introductory meeting. Nice people, great conversation, and an interesting, well-informed critique session for the person who was sharing her work (which turned out, coincidentally, to be my internet friend.) I joined the group, right then and there. I also signed up to share a chapter of my novel-in-process, Over the Edge, at the next meeting.

The Meeting

The Chapter...With Plenty of Red Pen Marks

The day before the meeting, I went to the copy shop and made ten copies of the fourteen-page chapter. They made a nice little stack.

I wasn't nervous. No. Not me. Uh-uh.

The day of the meeting, my husband and I went to the restaurant, a dingy, dim, throwback fifties-style place with booths running along each long wall and a jukebox in the front corner. We went into the back room, the room with surprisingly charming stone fireplace, and took our seats. My internet friend was already there, wearing a gorgeous hand-knit scarf. We ordered lunch, chatted, got to know the other people - and all the while those ten manuscripts were getting heavier and heavier, burning a hole in my shoulder bag. I had a hard time concentrating on the conversation. My thoughts were running rampant: What will people say? Will they like the chapter or will they tear it to shreds? I won't burst into tears...right?

No, I wouldn't. I could take whatever they'd dish out.

I knew how to take constructive criticism. I'd done this sort of thing before. In Art school I had my work critted (the way the cool people say it) many, many times.  I'd even had my writing critted in Creative Writing courses at the University of Washington. So I'd had plenty of experience - but, somehow, that didn't make it any easier as I looked down the table at the faces eager to see my work.

It was time. Catching-up-and-chatting time was over. The food had been served. The group leader motioned for me to pass out the chapters, and she handed around red ball-point pens. "For the next hour or so, we'll eat our lunches and read your work - and write comments," she explained in her rich Texan accent. "Then we'll discuss it for maybe another hour after that. All nice and tidy. Sound good?" She turned to me. "Ready, hon?"

"Yep," I said, smiling, trying to seem confident. "go for it."

"I can't wait to read your work," said my internet friend, settling in with the manuscript. She popped the cap off her pen and held it at the ready.

Then passed the longest hour in the history of writing.

It was grueling. I nibbled at my hamburger while the people around me slashed and burned their way through my manuscript. At least that was what it looked like from the clandestine peeks I stole. Every time someone put pen to paper, I cringed. One person made slashes so large I could see them from where I sat. Another person wrote a paragraph of tight red writing on the margin of the page. Yet another had an entire list of things. When I couldn't take it any longer, I ate a French fry.

And then there was my husband. He had a red pen too. He, also, was slashing and burning. "Weird," he murmured, raising an eyebrow my direction. "...I didn't see this when I read it before."

Lovely.

The Critiques

All in Good Faith

"It's time," said the group leader. "Put your pens down. Who would like to start the discussion?"

A slim man immediately spoke up. He looked from the manuscript to me, his eyes bright. "I'm looking at the first sentence. It could use work." He tapped the paper with the pen, leaving little red dots on it.

"I liked it," said the group leader.

"I don't know...I think if she switched the words around, it would be stronger."

"She could use a stronger word, maybe," said the man sitting at the end of the table.

"Or eliminate the sentence altogether," said the first man.

The woman shook her head. "Don't listen to them, hon. Keep it like it is."

"I agree," said my internet friend.

And so it began.

I took notes, my husband took notes. We filled our own copies of the manuscript with hurried, cramped, barely-legible writing, trying to put their suggestions into our own words. These people were good. The suggestions were right on, most of them. One after another, without respite, they suggested places I could tighten up this, expound on that, provide a bit more background...and so on.

After the discussion wound down, the leader collected the marked-up manuscripts. She patted them into a neat bundle, set them on edge, and tapped the top. "Remember what I said, hon. It's your story. It's your voice. You get to make the decisions." She handed the bundle to me. "But here's the thing. If only one person has a suggestion about a particular thing, think about it. If six people all say the same thing...really think about it."

"Thanks," I said, stuffing the papers into my shoulder bag again. "This was amazing. I'll think about everything, for sure. I'll go over the notes with a fine-toothed comb."

"We both will," added my husband.

The leader put her long-nailed, black-polished fingers on my arm. She leaned in close. Her breath smelled like French fries. "Hon. They loved your work. They never get this excited unless it's for something they're absolutely crazy about."

I grinned. Nice to know.

Working on the Changes

Was it worth it? Absolutely. 

Was it frightening? A bit, but in a good, helpful way. 

Will I do it again? As often as they let me!

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.

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

Over the Edge - The First Excerpt

To my dear blog followers:

The time has arrived! 

I am ready to share the first few sneak peeks of my work-in-progress, Over the Edge. It is erotic horror, bound for the Ellora's Cave "Shivers" line. This full-length novel takes place in the same exotic world I created for Inn on the Edge and features the same manipulative sex demons. The setting is completely new - and it's deliciously chilling.

The Blurb:

Dahlia is a novice Healer who is accepted into a mysterious school in Seattle that teaches Curative Touch - only to realize too late that 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.

Over the Edge - The First Excerpt 

(the opening two pages of the book):

     I stopped in front of a door painted in darkest, richest green.

     It wasn't the same entrance I'd been to before. The door before me was on a busier, wider, noisier street than the one around the corner that I was already familiar with. This door stood out from the others surrounding it—for one thing, it was enormous. Three people could pass through it side by side and not touch the doorsills, not even close. For another thing, the door itself was heavy and official-looking, as if it had been lifted from some building back in the old country and installed in this busy street in Seattle, with no care of how out-of-place it looked.

     Or maybe it gave the exact impression the Institute was going for?

     On either side of the door were other businesses. A restaurant on one side. A gift shop on the other. Beyond that, a second-hand clothing boutique. Further down the street, a pet shop. They all had signage and windows and crisp awnings—normal-looking entrances, all of them.

     Unlike mine.

     For months I'd been wondering about this strange place, this Institute. It had suddenly appeared without warning or fanfare in a downtown neighborhood I frequently passed through—I remember well the Friday afternoon I'd first seen this green door. I'd stopped in my tracks on the sidewalk, wondering where it had come from, wondering what lay behind it, curious to know what sorts of mysterious things went on in a place called the Institute of Curative Touch.

     And wondering if I'd ever work up the nerve to study there.

     Well, I did work up the courage. I went on-line. Found their website. Discovered to my joy that the Institute would be running an intensive eight-week Curative Touch session that summer. The students—only twelve would be selected—would stay in the Institute's living quarters, eat the Institute's food, have limited contact with the outside world, and would attend daily lectures, practicums, and healing demonstrations. The website warned that students were expected to "live and breathe" Curative Touch so they could participate in a "rigorous learning experience like no other".

     It sounded like heaven.

     I studied the website for hours, feeling like it was written with me in mind. Do you gravitate to people in pain? Lord help me, but I did. Do your hands itch to touch people? Yes! Sometimes I had to sit on my hands to keep them from roaming. Do you long to harness your inborn healing talent? Do you desire to be effective in your healing efforts? Are you willing to learn from those who have vast experience in the healing arts? Yes! Yes! And yes.

     Jumping-up-and-down-yes.

     Best of all, I could afford it.

     It wouldn't be difficult to schedule a hiatus from my freelance journalist work—I was my own boss and I was long overdue for a vacation. I checked with myself, and of course I said yes. Besides, I might write an article about my experiences at the Institute—it was bound to be interesting. I set up a tour, as requested of all potential students. On the appointed day, a delightful fellow named Jobeem met me at the side entrance. He led me through the main lecture hall, several classrooms, and a library.

     I approved.

     The next day I filled out the Institute's registration form and wrote three get-to-know-me essays—The First Time I Thought I Had Healing Touch, The first Time I Knew I Had Healing Touch, and The First Time I Was Shunned For My Healing Touch. The instructions had been to write a page or more about any three topics. Prospective students were urged to be as honest as possible, to delve deep, and to explore their feelings because everything would percolate to the surface when the coursework started and there was no sense hiding anything. So I told them everything. I put everything I had into those essays, even the thing about my grandmother who also had healing touch, and her mother, and hers, and so on.

     I bit my nails.

     Four months ago I received my acceptance letter and immediately sent a rather hefty deposit.

     I gushed about my summer plans to anyone who would listen.

     And it didn't even bother me much when people said I was crazy.

     Two weeks ago a stack of handouts arrived in the mail—among them, What Should You Pack?, What to Expect While You're With Us, The History of Curative Touch, and How Much Can a Touch Healer Accomplish in Today's High-Tech World?

     I devoured them.

     Yesterday, I took Pretty Kitty—my cat—to stay with my grandmother.

     All of which led me here, today, to this green door and to the new-student orientation. My adventure was about to begin.

     I tucked my hair behind my ear and took a calming breath, wishing I'd taken the time to eat something before coming here, wishing I had my camera, wishing that someone could take a picture of me by this antique door, all daring and poised on the threshold of my new life. As soon as I went in, I'd begin transforming into a newer, better version of myself. I'd be Dahlia Rehnquist, future healer. But I didn't have a camera. It hadn't been on the packing list.

     I was about to go in when a man came from behind me and reached for the doorknob, startling me.

     "Oh! I'm sorry—I didn't mean to make you jump," he said.

     I stepped aside. "It's okay."

     He looked at his watch, then at me. He didn't say anything.

     I gave him a sidelong look. I liked his eyes. He was a bit older than me, probably. He was tall, with wavy brown hair just long enough to brush his collar. He wore a dark jacket and had a sleek, many-pocketed backpack slung over his shoulder. He was handsome in a sandals-and-socks-in-winter athletic sort of way, a very Seattle look. A look that I'd always been partial to. Was he a student at the Institute, like me? Was he heading to the orientation?

     "No worries," I said, hoping.

     "Shall we?"

     I nodded.

     He opened the door and offered me a fleeting smile. "After you."

Thank you for reading. 
The Second Excerpt will come next week...