Crow's Rest News

I got my finished, author copies of Crow's Rest in the mail today, squee! It feels so REAL!

But that's not the only news--you can also get a sneak peek at the first two chapters of Crow's Rest, either on this blog on the Novels page, or on the Goodreads site (click the "Read Book" button).

And...

To celebrate the release of Crow's Rest, from May 11-14 we'll be holding a blog hop! It will feature an excerpt where Avery shares some spooky encounters at a local haunted castle, and the hop participants can share their own experiences with ghosts or other unexplained events. I'm really looking forward to reading everyone's stories! I'll have a post on Operation Awesome on May 12, release day, and if I can find it I'll include my photographic proof that the Fae are real. ;)

If you don't have a blog and would like to participate, never fear--there are plenty of other ways to take part, including on the Crow's Rest Facebook page. Please sign up for the hop through the Google form.

Crow's Rest is now on NetGalley, so if you want to request a copy before the bloghop, you can do that here.

Hooray for good news!

Let the One-Month Countdown Begin!

Crow's Rest releases on May 12, and that's only a month away! I spent yesterday leading a bird walk, but today I'm celebrating the countdown with a few posts.

Brenda Drake is hosting a reveal of the first five pages of Crow's Rest on her blog today--thanks, Brenda, for sharing my book!

On Operation Awesome, I have a post On Contests and Community, where I talk about how much the friends and connections I've made in the writing community have meant to me.

And there's more to come this week--watch for some other news on Wednesday, and then on Friday my post for Fearless Fridays will go up on the Fearless Fifteeners blog. You won't want to miss that, if you'd like to see me sing on camera!

A Sneak Peek at Crow's Rest for Teaser Tuesday!

I've created a handful of teaser images for Crow's Rest, and will be posting them every other week through to the book launch! Here's the first one (click to see it bigger):

I can't believe that Crow's Rest comes out in three months! Things are about to get even crazier around here as I celebrate, and try to finish the sequel. I think I'll need to go sit out under that tree occasionally and take a break!

Oh, Is It Teaser Tuesday Already?

Crow's Rest is getting close to ARCs, so I think I'll wait to post any teasers from it. ;)

BUT, I'm working on the sequel, No Man's Land, and thought I'd share something from it that I wrote last week:


The Court was one of the few fixed points in Faerie, a trait I was cursing right now since it meant an actual journey instead of willing ourselves there. At least the Queen took advantage of the approach to give travelers a hint of what they could expect: the way wound between dark and thorny trees, with sinister limbs crowding the road, until sudden clearings of breathtaking beauty opened before you.

And just when you were lulled into a sense of wonder and awe, you’d come around a bend and find a gibbet bearing the corpse of a unicorn—its dazzle rotting away into tufts of felted hide. 

What the hell could a unicorn have done to deserve that? Farted a rainbow in the queen’s direction, perfuming the air like fruit candy? 
 
Not a single view on the way to the Court was straightforward—always a flash of unbearable loveliness among the dark leaves, or a touch of blight among the delicate blooms. But where her design sense really held its own was the fanciful wall of briar roses that surrounded the Palace proper—a Rococo explosion of carven figures cavorting among the crepe blossoms and thorny vines.

A closer look—which I’d only braved once—revealed those figures weren’t so much cavorting as writhing in agony, as the briar rose slowly absorbed them and made the creatures part of its barrier. Why let your enemies’ heads shrivel on a pike, when this is so much more lasting? Preserved for every one of the victim’s families to pass by on their way to Court—a reminder of what it means to displease Queen Maeve.



Thanks for stopping by to read the teaser! :)

2012 Katherine Paterson Prize for YA & Children's Writing

I've been busy gearing up for the Pens for Paws Auction that starts on May 7, but wanted to give a heads up on an upcoming contest deadline. Hunger Mountain's Katherine Paterson Prize for Young Adult and Children's Writing offers a chance to win $1,000 and publication in Hunger Mountain.

Here are the quick details from my post last year:

*One overall first place winner receives $1,000 and publication! Three runners-up receive $100 each. One runner-up from the YA (young adult) entries, one from the Middle Grade entries, and one from the Picture Book or Writing for Young Children entries chosen.

*$20 entry fee.

*Entries must be postmarked by June 30th

*Submit one story or novel excerpt up to 10,000 words. You may include a synopsis if your entry is an excerpt, but an excerpt should still work as a stand-alone piece

*Work must be original, written in English, and previously unpublished

*Your name or address should not appear anywhere on the work

*Once submitted, entries cannot be altered

*All entries will be considered for general publication as well as for the Katherine Paterson Prize (My MG short story, Hornworms, was published in Hunger Mountain and it was a genuine pleasure to work with the editorial staff)

*No artwork, or translations please

*Multiple entries allowed—each entry must include a separate entry fee

Good luck if you enter!

Special Valentine's Day Teaser Tuesday from Crow's Rest

Haven't done a Teaser Tuesday in a long time, but in the spirit of Valentine's Day I thought I'd share a first kiss. Not mine--this is from my WIP, Crow's Rest. Avery's recollection of her first kiss with Daniel:

Memory dropped me into that afternoon last summer, when we hid from a freak thunderstorm in the barn behind his place. We'd kneeled on the hay bales, each pressing an eye to the cracks in the weathered boards to watch the roiling clouds and flashes of lightning. We "oohed" and "aahed" like little kids at a fireworks show.

Until I noticed that I was the only one saying anything, and turned to find Daniel watching me instead of the storm. I could almost see the steam rise off his damp clothes, but he looked away once I was staring back at him. Like he wasn't sure if kissing me, as he so obviously wanted to do, was such a good idea.

Not a good idea? It was about friggin' time. I'd had a crush on him since he moved next door to Uncle Tam's seven years ago. We only saw each other during the summers and holidays, but I'd always felt like we could make it as a couple. And maybe he'd finally come around to my way of thinking.

"Well?" I asked, with one eyebrow cocked. But, for once, he stayed tongue-tied.

So I crawled over to his hay bale, and he looked truly terrified as I closed the gap between us. I laughed—a low, husky sound that I'd never made before—and leaned in.

Once our lips touched, Daniel's doubts seemed to disappear. He grabbed onto me like a drowning man, and we toppled from the bale.

"Hey!" I said, as my elbow and tailbone hit hard on the floorboards.

"Sorry," he mumbled, untangling our limbs.

"I didn't say you had to stop," I said, pulling him back in. "Just trying to avoid having my ass in a sling."

"My dad will have my ass in a sling if he catches us—" he'd started to reply, but I cut him off with a deep kiss, using plenty of tongue.

After that, our lips were too busy for talking. And were pretty much inseparable over the next few days before I headed home.


Happy Valentine's Day, and maybe you'd like to share your first kiss in the comments? Mine was a boy who said he'd give me his pocketknife if I kissed him, and I really wanted a pocketknife at 7 years old so I did. I remember feeling less warmth in that kiss than I did when kissing the back of my hand. Not a stellar beginning to my romantic life.

P.S. Not sure I want to fess up to that artwork, but it took me a whole minute so I guess I should say it's mine!
P.P.S. I posted this as part of the effort to revive Teaser Tuesdays on Absolute Write, but it happened to fit YA Highway's Valentine's Day Blog Lovefest, so I hopped aboard the love train!

Happy Halloween!

To celebrate Halloween, I thought I'd post a tiny teaser from Spirits from the Vasty Deep:


As I was drifting to sleep finally, I felt someone sit on the edge of my bunk and heard a woman softly singing in Spanish. "Mamá?" I called sleepily and reached out. But the hand that clasped mine was cold and dripping, and my nostrils filled with the scent of sodden wool and brackish water. I came awake and scrabbled against the wall, my heart pounding.

The dim light from the corridor showed me I was alone in my bunk. A strange sensation crawled across my skin, over the entire length of my body. As if many spirits were trying not just to talk to me, but to grab hold of me as well. Never had the veil between the worlds felt so thin, not since the haunted room back in the boarding school.

That's when Ruby started screaming, in a long drawn-out wail of horror.


Hope you enjoyed it! Any plans to celebrate Halloween? We don't even get kids coming to our house any more, since it's on a dark country road.

RTW--Senses Working Overtime

Road Trip Wednesday is a "Blog Carnival," where YA Highway's contributors and followers post a weekly writing- or reading-related question and answer it on their blogs. You can hop from destination to destination and get everybody's unique take on the topic.

This week's topic: The Five Senses. How you use them in your writing, how you are inspired by them, pictorial essays, that character with smelly socks, books that have used them well, the ones that are currently missing from your work, etc.

Since I pay a lot of attention to details around me in real life, I think I do a pretty thorough job of covering all the senses in my writing. Sometimes, too thorough--I had a crit partner complain about all the bad smells in my historical novel: vomit, sewage, rotting food, animals, etc. His complaint only made me more proud of those sections--I'd actually grossed him out with writing on a page!

But not all of the sensory descriptions are gross-out. I have some tender touches, gorgeous scenery, whispering ghosts, comforting smells like the love interest's balsam shave soap, and my favorite, FOOD.



In this last dive into revisions, I noticed how much I talk about food in Spirits from the Vasty Deep. How could I not, when she goes to such exotic climes as Spain, Jamaica, and Antigua? The MC, Olivia, is lucky enough to board with a fantastic cook and here's a little teaser section of when Olivia first arrives at her home (this one doesn't go into the taste and smell as much as other sections, but be glad because she's been seasick and vomiting):


The grand name of dining hall led me to picture a richly formal room, but it was quite the opposite. A large sturdy table, like you might find in a farm kitchen, dominated the room, groaning under the food laid out. Pottery dishes held the local fare of baked yams, fresh mangoes and melon, scones and clotted cream. Hard-cooked eggs, a cold chicken and loaves of dark, soft bread rounded out the meal.

"Are we waiting on others to join us?" I asked as Duncan held the chair out for his mother.

Before Mrs. MacInnes could answer, Duncan laughed out loud.

"I warned you she would put out a spread at tea to welcome me home. She believes I eat nothing but moldy salt pork and hardtack when I am at sea," he said in a stage whisper as he held my chair for me.

"Well, you are always thinner when you come back," she said.

"Only because sailing is hard work—not because I starve. I'm all muscle."

To demonstrate, instead of sliding Sonia's chair in he picked it up with her in it and placed her closer to the table. She squealed and said, "Otra vez." Instead of fulfilling her request of "again", he patted Sonia's shoulder and took his place beside his mother. As Duncan filled his plate, he did nothing to disprove his mother's notion of starvation. He took servings of everything, eating with impeccable manners—but much gusto. I confined Sonia and myself to the eggs, melon and bread.

"Aren't you hungry?" Mrs. MacInnes asked.

"I'm sorry we can't do justice to your offering, but Sonia and I suffered from the ‘mal de mer’ on the entire trip from Jamaica to Antigua."

"Then you are wise to stick to bland foods," Mrs. MacInnes said. "Are there any interesting new delicacies from the States you can share with me when you're recovered? I hear brown bear is popular in California."

I gaped at her, spoon raised halfway to my mouth. I had never even seen a real bear, except the stuffed one standing in the corner of my father’s study, let alone tasted one.

"Mother, surely you don't expect us to have a bear haunch in our baggage?" Duncan said.

"Of course not, young man, I merely thought she might have some good receipts to share." Well used to his teasing, Mrs. MacInnes did not take the bait. Perhaps she could teach me how to do that—he always seemed to be able to get the best of me with his banter.


Hope you enjoyed my tease! And no, that's not a typo above--they used "receipts" rather than "recipes" in this time period.

What about you--do you find yourself using one sense more heavily than others in your writing?

P.S. Don't forget, I'll be out of touch electronically for a bit. I've set up auto posts for the next two Mondays (including a recipe on the 15th--more food!)

Katherine Paterson Prize for Young Adult & Children's Writing

I've been so caught up in revisions that I haven't been able to stay on top of contests and such like I used to, sorry!

The KP Prize has a postmarked deadline of June 30, but since you can submit novel excerpts as well as short fiction, I'm going to post the details anyway. There just might be someone out there who has the perfect story or stand-alone excerpt ready to go! So here are the details from their contest page:

*One overall first place winner receives $1,000 and publication!
Three runners-up receive $100 each. One runner-up from the YA (young adult) entries, one from the Middle Grade entries, and one from the Picture Book or Writing for Young Children entries chosen.

*$20 entry fee.

*Entries must be postmarked by June 30th

*Submit one story or novel excerpt up to 10,000 words. You may include a synopsis if your entry is an excerpt, but an excerpt should still work as a stand-alone piece

*Work must be original, written in English, and previously unpublished

*Your name or address should not appear anywhere on the work

*Once submitted, entries cannot be altered

*All entries will be considered for general publication as well as for the Katherine Paterson Prize (My MG short story, Hornworms, was published in Hunger Mountain and it was a genuine pleasure to work with the editorial staff)

*No artwork, or translations please

*Multiple entries allowed—each entry must include a separate entry fee

*Winners will be announced in September

This year's judge is Kimberly Willis Holt. Good luck to everyone who enters!

Crows at Rest--a Teaser from Crow's Rest

Since today is once again devoted to revisions on Spirits from the Vasty Deep, I wanted to do a tiny teaser from Crow's Rest here. This scene is fairly close to the beginning, and Avery has already had some weirdness that day from Bobbin, the neighbor's Corgi.

Outside, the stars unfolded without the interference of streetlights, and a chorus of insects buzzed in the summer night. I grabbed my bag from the car and went around to the back of the cottage, since the bathroom was right next to the sleeping porch and I could avoid going through the kitchen and talking to Mom and Uncle Tam again.

I turned my gaze to Daniel's house without meaning to, and I saw Bobbin standing with his paws on the fence, watching me silently. Above him, the leaves of the sycamore shifted and rustled without the wind's help. A sound like muffled croaks and squeaks—or whispers—joined the rustling.

I stowed the bag inside the screen door, and grabbed the high-powered flashlight that Uncle Tam kept for emergencies. The beam played across the leaves and branches, glinting off of countless eyes and ruffled feathers. What the hell? I caught myself clutching my chest like a B-movie star.

Taking a few steps forward, I squinted to get a better look at whatever was watching me from the tree. A barrage of caws and croaks rang out from the flock of crows. As the light shone on them again, they snaked their heads in my direction and made a rattling sound in their throats—like I was a red-tailed hawk after their nestlings.

"All right, hush," I called to them. "If you'll be good neighbors, then I'll be a good neighbor."

The birds quieted instantly, making the hairs rise on my neck and arms. Glinting eyes focused on me with an air of anticipation. This was just beyond weird. I turned and ran back to the house with my arms covering my head, half-expecting to feel sharp beaks bloodying my scalp at any moment.

But I made it to the screen porch safely, and hastily drew closed the old sheets that served as drapes. I'd probably stifle in the heat and need to open them again later, but for now I didn't want all those dark eyes trained on me.

Teaser from Crow's Rest

Haven't done a teaser in a long time, but since I'm working on revisions for Crow's Rest, I thought I'd offer up a tiny sample with bonus photo. It takes place in the historic cemetery where Avery's uncle is the caretaker:


Even as a kid, I'd never really been creeped out by the graves, or the thought of death for that matter. Maybe because so many of the old-fashioned monuments had tranquil faces: lambs on the graves of little children, angels and cherubs on pillars, the ones I'd called "ladystones" that were statues of classical-looking women.

I took a seat on the cracked slab beneath one ladystone. Her upward-rolled eyes were supposed to direct your own gaze Heavenward, and if that was too subtle for you, she held her hand with the index finger pointing straight up. But the finger was close enough to her face that it looked like she'd just sniffed it and was offering it to you, saying, "Does this smell like Doritos?" I'd captioned it in photos as "Smell My Finger".

Welcome to Crow's Rest, California

I thought I'd offer up a glimpse of my WIP, Crow's Rest, with a teaser from the opening of Ch. 1:

Mom woke me as we hit the outskirts of Crow's Rest, saying, "Brace yourself, Avery." It's what she'd said the first time we'd come to visit Uncle Tam, and every time since, as we got close to Crow's Rest and the Castle. A tingle of anticipation and dread rushed through me and I sat up.

For weeks I'd begged her to let me drive part of the way on this trip; bicycling was nearly a cult in Davis, and I hadn't gotten much use out of my new driver's license at home. But I'd been so wiped out from last-minute packing that instead I fell asleep as soon as I settled into the passenger seat.

As I opened the window, the June air streamed in, tasting of iron-rich dust and heat. Houses flashed by: a few McMansions that had probably been foreclosed on before they'd even been built out, along with the farmhouses that dated from the 1840s on. Buzzing insects circled the weeds, already drying and brittle among the oaks.

As we took that last curve on the approach, tree branches arched over the road, blocking our view until suddenly there it stood—a castle, an anamoly glowing red in the afternoon light. Looming over the Gold-Rush-era town from the top of a hill, making my shutter finger itch. The usual complement of turkey vultures and ravens soared above it, sinister-izing the turrets even more.

I adjusted the vanity mirror, watching the Castle recede for as long as possible as it flashed through the trees, and slouched into the seat with my feet up on the dash.

Blatant fishing: What do y'all think, am I onto something good?

"I Have Walked Through Many Lives . . ."

My husband and I went to see a program at the new venue down the hill, 3 Stages in Folsom. Ensemble Galilei performed while Neal Conan read selections of poetry, Shakespeare, and other works. We enjoyed the entire program (well, not the severe lack of leg room) but what really struck me was a poem called "The Layers" by Stanley Kunitz. It describes the writer's experience for me so well:

I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle not to stray.
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings. . . (more here) or click the video below to hear Mr. Kunitz read his poem

Wow! I've often felt that a few of the stories I tell belong to someone else's lives, and somehow I'm privileged to glimpse them. And have the responsibility of telling them. The conclusion of the poem really captured the conflict of trying to get the stories right: the frustration coupled with optimism.


Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written,
I am not done with my changes.

Do you do "self checks", looking back on how far you've come in your writer's journey, and looking ahead to where you think you'll be? My road has had a lot more twists and turns (and sidetrips) than I expected but I can still see the Promised Land on the horizon.

Squeamish Tuesday

Squeamish Tuesday: a Teaser Tuesday that is not for the squeamish, because it contains stinky things and injuries.

The set up: Spirits from the Vasty Deep is an historical (1851) and this section is newly-added. Olivia has taken a position as assistant to Mr. Oakleigh, an obsessive naturalist who has asked her to tackle some preserved specimens for cataloguing:



I was not generally squeamish, which had served me well thus far as Mr. Oakleigh's assistant, but some of these specimens had been pickled haphazardly at best. Today's selection included those so poorly preserved that merely cracking the seal and releasing the fumes nearly knocked me from my seat. Then I had to reach into the sludgy mess with a pair of long forceps, and extract whatever flesh and bones could be saved.

But fortunately not all were so horrible, and a few of the fish must have been truly beautiful in life. I recognized one or two from the fish mongers, so I was able to guess their original colors more accurately.

One particular particular denizen of the sea fascinated me; with its lumpy appearance and frilly attachments it resembled nothing so much as a disanimated section of reef. I stood and placed it on a blotter where I could spread it out and examine it more closely, curious to see if the bits of what looked like lichen were part of its skin, or another organism attached to it.

But as I articulated the dorsal fin, I felt a sharp jab in the meat of my thumb, followed by a burning sensation racing up my arm. I drew in a sharp breath and cradled my hand to my chest, but the pain grew so intense that I wobbled on my feet.

"Mr. Oakleigh . . ." I hissed.

"Hmm?" He did not look up from the stack of papers he was sorting.

"Mr. Oakleigh," I said more firmly, "I'm wounded—that blasted fish stung me."

"Oh?" Now I had his attention. "Let me take a look at that."

I held out my throbbing hand as he approached, but he reached past me to the specimen I'd been handling. "Fascinating," he commented. "Which part injured you?"

"A spike in the dorsal fin, I believe." When he continued to poke and prod the fish, I said, "Mr. Oakleigh, the fish will still be there later, but my hand needs attention now."

"Hmm? Quite so, but we'll be sure to document your symptoms." He examined the puncture and surrounding tissue, already red and puffy past my wrist.

"There do not seem to be any spines or barbs left behind," he said. "This looks to be a reaction to venom."

"Can you do anything for it?" I asked through gritted teeth.

"When I was collecting specimens in the field and one of us got stung, there were two remedies that helped," Mr. Oakleigh mused. "One was to immerse the hand in very hot water, and the other was to bathe it in urine."

I recoiled. "I'm willing to try the hot water treatment."

At my expression, Mr. Oakleigh hastened to reassure me, "Oh, it doesn't have to be human urine. I could send down to the dyers for a jug of bovine urine."

"The. Hot. Water." I spoke clearly and firmly.

"Suit yourself," he said, shrugging. "I'll have Mrs. Chatsworth heat some."

In the meantime, I sank into a chair and laid my swimming head on the upholstered arm. Mr. Oakleigh sat across from me and proceeded to interrogate me.

"Now, what are your symptoms? Describe any neurological, mental, and physical complaints as best you can."

"A burning pain shooting up my arm, lightheadedness, nausea, dizziness, and a lack of patience for more questions," I said waspishly.

He looked up from his note-taking, and raised his eyebrows. "I believe I must add irritability to the list of symptoms."

"If you must."

Rejoining the Teaser Tuesday

This one's longish for a teaser at 500 words, but I wanted to give a little glimpse into a new section from revisions. They are on Antigua, leaving English Harbour for St. John's:

Even through my tiredness, the town piqued my curiosity as we drew away from the harbor. The houses were a hodge-podge of styles: some looked a hundred years old, and others looked like flimsy huts erected that morning. Occasionally an overgrown drive led only to a pile of rubble or a blackened shell collapsing in on itself. Right next to such a sad sight would be a freshly-plastered house brimming with sounds and activity.

"I have heard about the dwindling fortunes of sugar growers—is that what those abandoned houses reflect?" I asked.

"Parts of the town are still being rebuilt from several disasters," Duncan said. "Ten years ago, a fire swept through and claimed a lot of the oldest buildings. Then a few years later, an earthquake shook apart more buildings—including our St. John's Cathedral. Plus, every hurricane season a few more houses get blown or washed away."

"Is it hurricane season now?"

"Yes, but it's been a while since we've had a really bad one. Of course, that probably means we are overdue."

I met his mock-concerned tone with an eye roll, since I knew any other response would only encourage him.

He turned back to his tour guide duties. "That one is said to be haunted." He pointed to a ramshackle stone house, overrun with vines, and a gaping blackness seeping out of the windowframes.

I studied it as we went past, but I didn't feel any particular presence. "Do you believe in ghosts?" I asked. Because no matter how hard I try not to, there they are tugging at my proverbial sleeve, I added to myself.

"There are a number of superstitions in the islands—and among sailors, too, of course," he said.

"Is it all just superstition, then?" I pressed. "What do you believe?"

"I have heard some strange stories from men who were otherwise truthful. About witches, and duppies, and making the dead walk—if it is true, it's not the sort of thing I'd like to have dealings with."

I sank back into the cushions without a word.

"What a topic of conversation for a sunny day," Duncan said, and gestured to the view. He described Shirley Heights and Fig-Tree Hill, popular spots to look out at the beauty of the whole island.

"Such vivid names—what do they call the area where your mother lives?" I asked.

"It was originally my father's place on Scotch Row. A lot of Scottish families set up their shops in the same area, with living quarters attached to the storefronts. The part that used to be my father's office is where my mother teaches music."

As we climbed higher, a refreshing breeze lifted my hair from my sweaty brow. Duncan said the lower elevations at this time of year were often hot, but the breeze cut through the heights. Seeing my heavy eyelids, Duncan let the rest of the trip pass in an agreeable silence. I dropped off once or twice, and when the coach came to a halt I woke to find myself nestled against Duncan's shoulder.

Teaser Tuesday, new section from revisions

I've mentioned that I'm working on revisions for Those Lost at Sea and Drowned, and I wanted to post a section I've redone. The original version had Isabelle hearing her father's voice about a month after he'd killed himself (if you're new to the story, she can hear spirits but has renounced her powers after a terrifying childhood encounter in a haunted room) and shutting him out instantly, but I realized I'd missed a good opportunity to shed some light on what kind of relationship they'd had. So I'm trying this out:



Hoping that a good night's sleep would take the strain from my features, I went to bed while it was still light. As I was drifting off, I heard someone whisper my name.

"Papa?" I was still half asleep, but even in my groggy state my father's death seeped into my memory. "No—"

A pressure in my ears, and the voice came again, "Isabelle, listen . . ."

"No, I won't listen." I curled the pillow around my head. "Not even for my own father. That way madness lies, and I can't bear it."

"Filial ingratitude! In such a night to shut me out! Your old kind father . . ." His dramatic delivery ended in a chuckle and I wondered if he'd gone mad.

Despite myself, I sat up and was about to question him when I recognized his words from Shakespeare's King Lear. We'd made a game of it since I was a child—entire conversations trading lines from literary works.

"No, I will weep no more," I said, keeping to the same passage. "The tempest in my mind doth from my senses take all feeling. No more of that."

He must have gotten my meaning that if I let him in it would open the way for other spirits, for Papa did not speak up again. I squeezed my eyes shut and rolled into a ball, and eventually I dropped off to an undisturbed rest.

--------------------
P.S. go to the Novels page above or click on the Teaser Tuesday label to see more teasers from this book

Teaser Tuesday!

I'm having a harder time selecting teasers that aren't also spoilers! This section picks up shortly after the disastrous dinner with the captain.


After that disastrous meal, Captain Lee invited us to dine in his cabin quite frequently. Repulsed by him and his friends, I rarely accepted again, but Doña Catherine often went by herself or with the other women.

I was given permission to go above as long as I stayed out of the crew's way, so I spent most of my evenings on deck. I found a spot in the bow where I could nestle down among the coils of anchor rope. From there, I could watch the sea roll to either side of the prow, or look up as the clouds streamed amongst the stars. Anyone climbing in the rigging could probably see me if they looked, but I could not be seen from the deck.

If conditions were just right, the crew's words fell on me like cinders on the wind. Too bad it was mostly ugliness I heard from the men. The longer we were at sea, the meaner and baser the crew became. Coarse jokes, petty quarrels, and drunken fights were the norm.

A typical example was a man called Taylor, a braggart who thought himself an artful wit. His group of hangers-on treated every one of his words as if it were on a par with Mr. Beau Brummel’s. If Taylor made a jest and someone didn’t laugh, he was bound to take his annoyance out on the humorless man’s flesh—his knife being much quicker than his intellect.

I felt safer walking the decks in the morning, when the watch changed and most of the crew were too groggy to bother me. I always stopped at the stall that held Doña Catherine's horse: a white Moorish stallion, gentle and patient. Doña Catherine loved Alud because he had faithfully carried her husband, not just for his value as a stud. Devoted to her in turn, the horse would nuzzle me all over, searching out every last essence of her scent on my clothes.

Tease from Ch. 3

Kind of a low-key section today, featuring an early conversation between Isabelle and Duncan (the Love Interest). The rescue ship is nearly to Jamaica, and Isabelle is worried about finding a way to support herself and Sonia, and a place to lodge, while they wait for word from the States on the sinking of the Empyreal.



"If you go to Antigua, my mother sometimes takes in boarders," Duncan said. "She can be very flexible about the rent."

She would have to be, since I had no money and little chance as yet of making any. "I should like to meet her," I said, "but I'm not sure how we'd even get to Antigua from Jamaica."

"Can you swim?" He sounded reasonable, but there was that mischievous light in his eyes again.

I had to smile. "Not well enough for that, I'm afraid. Besides, aren't there large fishes in these waters?"

"That depends on your meaning of large—there are certainly large whales, but they eat creatures small as your fingernail. To see a big fish, though, you should've been there when I caught the biggest grouper ever seen in the West Indies. I was just a boy and it outweighed me by fifty pounds —"

And so I was treated to an account, illustrated with gestures, of his ultimately unsuccessful encounter with a giant fish. At one point, another crewman walked by; he must have recognized the story.

"The big fish story. May the Lord have mercy on you, Miss—he's not even halfway through."

I laughed, but the crewman's comment only earned him a scathing look from Duncan as he continued. By the time he was finished, I had gotten into the spirit of the thing and he accomplished his mission of making me forget my cares momentarily.

Teaser Tuesday from Chap. 2

I was planning on posting the results of another exercise from the dialogue and POV class, but there wasn't anything else I was very excited about. So this is from Ch. 2 of my novel, Those Lost at Sea and Drowned. The women have barricaded themselves in their cabin, but Isabelle emerges to see what the crew is up to. . .



At this point I was so nervous that I no longer felt hungry, but my friends were expecting me to bring back some food. After tying a loose knot to hold the boat canvas, I snuck down to the galley. The cook snored in the corner, his head lolling side to side with the motion of the ship. I quickly grabbed bread and cheese, wrapping it in a bundle with a few boiled eggs.

As I reached for a large meat knife, the ship rolled heavily and I bumped a pot. It crashed to the floor, the clang waking the cook. We stared at each other, and he opened his mouth to call an alarm.

"Oh, please don't give me away," I whispered.

He licked his lips as he considered.

"I won't," he said, "as long as you're nice to me, girl."

I backed away at his approach, which only made him more eager.

"Now, now, you wouldn't want me to holler and bring some of my friends running," he said.

I shook my head and stood rigidly as he pinned me up against the wall. I gagged as his foul breath enveloped me, his hands squeezing my breasts painfully. He shifted to unbutton his trousers, and I twisted from his grasp. Grabbing the bundle of food, I ran from the galley.

"Come back anytime, and bring the other gals." His voice chased me. "We'll have us a party."

Teaser Tuesday (Part 4 of 4)

And now, the conclusion of "Never Buy Another Self-Help Book Again!™," my short story. Some sexual language in parts one and three, so skip those if you're put off by that sort of thing.
Part One
Part Two
Part Three



I was still on the phone with Tammy when Steve came back in the door. He looked upset, so I got off the phone quickly. It turned out he wasn't mad at me; it was the cruise people.

One of the kitchen workers was diagnosed with hepatitis and all the passengers had been exposed to it. The cruise line was going to cancel the trip and give us vouchers for another ship, but the passengers raised such a stink that the new plan was to bypass Catalina and just cruise on to Mexico. Since we were going to be stuck on this ship together, Steve and I called a truce and tried to get along.

I thought we were doing fine until my phone rang at dinner. Before I could even find out who it was, Steve snatched it out of my hand. He ran over to the rail and pushed the talk button before he threw the phone over the side. I didn't say anything, though, because I hadn't heard him laugh like that for weeks.

Steve suggested that maybe he could do the planning from now on, and I agreed. I said I didn't care what we did, as long as it was spontaneous. He wasn't sure what I meant by that, so I told him all about the article I'd read and how it gave me the idea to plan this cruise. He goes, "Let me get this straight—the author says that to be spontaneous you have to make plans in advance?" I ignored his smart-ass comment for the sake of our truce.

The next day was better between us, but then the captain announced that because of the hepatitis we couldn't go to any of the cities we planned. One little coastal village was willing to overlook the chance of infection for the chance at some tourist dollars, but they would only let us anchor offshore, and we would have to go to town in lifeboats.

The first day in the pueblo we went to an old colonial church and then got something to eat from a street vendor. I ordered a burrito, but I got some kind of tough, grilled meat. The second day we went to a religious art museum, and that about covered the points of interest in town.

We did a lot of walking in the park instead. At first I was really bored—I mean, when you can start to tell the pigeons apart, you’ve spent too much time watching them. I kept wanting to pick up the remote and change the channel.

It was good in one way, though, because Steve and I talked and listened to each other better than we had in a long time. I rediscovered that in his way Steve is kind of wise, like Yoda but without the funny voice.

Steve told me there wasn't a self-help book in the world that held the secret to perfect happiness and that I would have to find it on my own. He even made a joke about how much money we would save by me giving up my habit of buying every new book that came out. When he put it that way, he almost made it sound like my relying on self-help books so much was some kind of addiction.

That was when I got my best idea yet for a career. I came up with a whole motivational workshop and video series on breaking the addiction to self-help books and called it "Never Buy Another Self-Help Book Again!"™ After we got back from the cruise and I started mapping out my plans for the "Never Buy Another Self-Help Book Again!"™ workbook, Steve seemed really supportive at first. But when he got to preview the finished video and workbook, he totally lashed out.

He had the nerve to say I wasn’t curing people of their addiction to self-help books, I was just regurgitating a bunch of ideas from other people’s books—in video format. And then he topped it off by mocking my workbook, laughing hysterically at the way it’s called "Never Buy Another Self-Help Book Again!"™ and it just happens to be a book. All he had to do was open the cover to see that it’s not a self-help book, it’s an individual-support companion to my videos.

Kristal was there for Steve’s tirade, and she warned me that I needed to get his bad spirit out of my life. So I divorced Steve, but I’m not alone on the road. Kristal quit her job and goes everywhere with me. Officially she's my manager, but emotionally she's my anchor. She even handles all the finances so that my math phobia doesn’t kick in and undermine my self-image. And who cares if we’ve been audited two years in a row—it’s got to be a government conspiracy.