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Novel Development From Concept to Query - Welcome to Algonkian Author Connect
Haste is a Writer's Second Worst Enemy, Hubris Being the First
AND BAD ADVICE IS SECONDS BEHIND THEM BOTH... Welcome to Algonkian Author Connect (AAC). This is a literary and novel development website dedicated to educating aspiring authors in all genres. A majority of the separate forum sites are non-commercial (i.e., no relation to courses or events) and they will provide you with the best and most comprehensive guidance available online. You might well ask, for starters, what is the best approach for utilizing this website as efficiently as possible? If you are new to AAC, best to begin with our "Novel Writing on Edge" forum. Peruse the novel development and editorial topics arrayed before you, and once done, proceed to the more exclusive NWOE guide broken into three major sections.
In tandem, you will also benefit by perusing the review and development forums found below. Each one contains valuable content to guide you on a path to publication. Let AAC be your primary and tie-breaker source for realistic novel writing advice.
Your Primary and Tie-Breaking Source
For the record, our novel writing direction in all its forms derives not from the slapdash Internet dartboard (where you'll find a very poor ratio of good advice to bad), but solely from the time-tested works of great genre and literary authors as well as the advice of select professionals with proven track records. Click on "About Author Connect" to learn more about the mission, and on the AAC Development and Pitch Sitemap for a more detailed layout.
Btw, it's also advisable to learn from a "negative" by paying close attention to the forum that focuses on bad novel writing advice. Don't neglect. It's worth a close look, i.e, if you're truly serious about writing a good novel.
There are no great writers, only great rewriters.
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Death of the Kraken, A Love Story, first two chapters
You have lived for so long in the cold pleasant deep that time means nothing. You glide past dark shapes and your large eyes see only the luminescent ripples they leave behind. Your supple skin tells you where to find sustenance, and your movements become quick and deadly. Deep under the water, in the narrowest of valleys hidden below a kelp forest that you know nothing about, you float. The low rumble of ships passing by far above you tumbles through the water and momentarily surrounds you. You watch for the whales that would eat you if they caught you, an old instinct, and unnecessary now that they’ve left these seas. For some time now, you have been collecting treasure. You glide from one end of your trench to the other and back again, picking up the hard transparent cylinders you find and bringing them back to your nest. Some of them have glyphs and symbols inscribed on their shells, which you ignore. Some have a soft rotting skin that flakes away over time. Most of the empty cylinders have an opening at one end and contain no edible remnants, but others have a small shell that you have learned to twist off, letting your tendrils enter the vessel to taste the strange sweet or bitter flavors that linger there. You are the last of your kind. If there were a mate for you, you would have ejected your eggs in a joyous eruption by now and then drifted to the bottom to be eaten by the crabs and starfish. Emotions are things felt but unexamined. There’s no realization of loneliness. But sometimes, remembering the songs of the ancestors brings a feeling of something like melancholy, if you could name it. Fish scatter away from you as you sing – songs of battles with whales and of large schools of blinking and glowing fish. There is a song you hardly remember, the song of sunlight, the miracle, the unimaginable. The cold water presses against you from all sides. You catch a deepwater grouper in your tentacles. You glide and float. Your large eyes peer into the darkness. Chapter 2 The air in Santa Ana was always blue and white. Shaped like a fat boomerang, the island lay just beyond sight of the mainland, an arrow pointing east. The northeastern shore rose to rocky bluffs where surfers lolled in the water, while to the southeast, wide flat beaches baked in the sun. On the western side of the island, the water was smooth and deep, with a marina that was the center of town. The fertile soil in the island’s middle valley was fed by underwater springs that filled a large freshwater lake. What I would want you to know about the afternoon that OnHigh appeared is how ordinary it was, a Tuesday in February, cold and bright as a diamond. I steered The Little Gem northward from Libertine’s dock for the afternoon patrol, cutting easily through the glittering chop. At this time of year the island was quiet as the year-rounders caught their breath, recovering from and preparing for the raucous summer to come. I skirted the edge of the island passed Apollo’s Arch to my right. On my left the vast Atlantic, with nothing but blue between me and Europe and the life I’d left behind over three hundred years ago. I waved at the surfers in the waves. Nothing was amiss, all of the wards held. In the distance a trio of tropical orcas surfaced. And then behind me, OnHigh’s voice. “It’s just me. Don’t be afraid,” she said in her charming and unplaceable accent. I hadn’t expected her until the equinox at the earliest. She was an old and beautiful woman, although often her age seemed to shift. Her eyes and skin were clear, her hair dark and swept away from her face. The flowers on her embroidered silk coat seemed to be continually blooming, releasing a faint scent of jasmine into the air. “Dearest. What brings you so early?” She smiled brilliantly. “It is so good to see you, Catherine my love.” She squinted at the horizon and leaned on the railing. “It’s still so beautiful here.” “What brings you, OnHigh?” I asked again. “We have a final task for you.” I inclined my head. “Final?” The bluffs and pebble beach had given way to the broad flat expanse at the tip of the island. Behind the dunes, pastel houses slumbered. “We’re winding it down,” OnHigh said. “You and your Regiment will be going to Chapter 42 no later than the autumnal equinox. In the time from now until then you’ll unwind the Wards.” She looked at me sadly. “We’re sorry, Catherine. You are the oldest Guardian; did you know that?” “I did not,” I said. It seemed the wrong thing to respond to. She sighed heavily. “You have a strong and generous heart. No one could have done more. You have always put the Work before yourself. And now I must ask you to do the most difficult thing. The Guardians are leaving this world. You know what that means, yes?” I gripped the steering wheel tightly. “I’ve only read of this,” I said. “I’ve never done anything like it.” She nodded kindly. “We know. We will make certain that you have all the support you need. You will unwind the wards. Sea, land, sky – all of them. You will have choices as to where you go in the next Chapter – no small thing. Think back to when this planet was healthy and choose your most favorite place. There may also be the possibility of going into the next Chapter with some of your Guardian comrades. Everyone has to agree, of course.” She opened her eyes wide. “You understand?” “Just like going back with our Beloveds,” I said. “I understand. But why now? Aren’t we making headway with the weather?” She shook her head. “The last glacier will melt before the summer is over. This world is done.” “What about the other Regiments?” “Japan, New Zealand, Cape Town, and Madeira have already begun their work to unwind the wards,” she said. “And now you begin as well.” “Whidbey?” She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. “You know about the flood?” she asked. “Recoverable?” She shook her head again. “Complete loss.” Her eyes sprang open. “So now you see why this world is done for us. It won’t keep stitched together anymore. We have to go.” “OnHigh,” I said. “Please. Things here are staying stitched. There’s more we can do.” She shook her head. “You could hang on here for six or seven more years. But all around you the world would continue to disintegrate with an infinitesimal chance of reversing it.” “That’s not nothing.” We rounded the southern tip of the island, and now the town was on our right. The water rushed against us and it seemed to me that we were nearly stationary, so that the storefronts seemed to float past us instead of the other way around. OnHigh directed her kindest expression at me. How is your Second? We’ll put you together in Chapter 42 if you like.” “OnHigh, please. Our bee colonies are thriving. The Koenig family will ship over fifty new colonies to the orchard regions this summer. The Institute has discovered a new form of cephalopod whose ink has amazing antibiotic qualities, unlike anything we’ve seen before and likely to be useful against the bacterial forms of blood fever. And it can be harvested without killing the animal. One of the Fellows is doing work on a water purification system that harvests humidity from the air to create sources of drinkable water, even in areas where particulate pollution makes it impossible to be outdoors – and the system appears to have beneficial effects on the air quality – “ She waved a hand at me. “Your Institute has been doing beautiful work. And so have you, Catherine. You are a favored child. You have always been so. We treasure your work, your sense of duty and responsibility. We could ask nothing more. But there have been too many missteps among the Unknowing. We should have made the stakes more apparent to them long ago. I said, “This has been my life for over three hundred years. I can’t leave it.” In all these years, there were still things I hadn’t done. And I thought of Sarah, my Beloved niece, and bundling ourselves close to the fire in her father’s house in England so many years ago. OnHigh looked surprised. “You know you could have left at any moment,” she said. “Or that we could have asked you to. Now we’re asking you.” She paused. “But of course you realize, we’re commanding you.” I bowed my head. “I remain committed to my duty, OnHigh, as always. But if there’s still a chance, then we should stay. What do we have to do to stay?” She looked puzzled. “I didn’t expect such a passionate rebuttal,” she said. She laughed. “You could clean the water, restore the ocean currents, clear the air, repair the holes in the ozone, and dial back the temperatures. And then the earth would heal itself and you could stay.” “We should try.” “Catherine, I’m a custodian of the worlds. There are so many, too many to name. Think of a library filled with books, and each book writes itself as we read it. Some of them are beautiful, like this one, and yet they still end badly.” She pulled me into an embrace. “This one is ending badly, my love. You don’t have to end with it. Your story can continue in a different book. But first you will unwind the wards, so that our influence will not hinder what is to come. Earth, sea, and sky. All of them.” She cocked her head to the side. “Do you hear me, daughter?” In her embrace it was impossible to do anything but agree. I bowed my head. “Yes, OnHigh. It will be done.” “Good,” she said. “Gather your Regiment and begin right away.” And now The Little Gem headed toward the marina without any help from me. OnHigh was bringing us to the pier herself. “Will we have a new cohort?” We’d been preparing for a new group of Guardian trainees, printing the guides and books they would need and gathering the kits they would take with them into the world. “Unnecessary,” OnHigh said. “All new Guardians from this Chapter are being deployed in others.” “How will we explain this to the Unknowing? They’ll be expecting the usual interns.” “You’ll tell them that Libertine is undergoing a renovation this season.” She shrugged. “They won’t so much as much blink. Your focus is on the unwinding of the wards.” She smiled at me. “You know, you won’t even miss this world. You won’t have it in your memory to miss. You’ll blink your eyes as though wiping away a dream and you’ll be in your life there. It will be as though you’d always been there.” We were nearly at the dock. “I’ll be back no later than midsummer. I’ll be looking for a certain level of unwinding by then, but of course you have until the autumnal equinox, as I said before.” The boat slipped next to the pier and held steady. She stopped to look at the the town, the row of shops, the Art Institute across from the marina, and the houses in neat rows behind. “Such a lovely place,” she said. “Now I leave you, Darling. I’m going to run into a man I know. It’s been a long time since I last saw him.” OnHigh held my hands and gazed into my face. “You have your work ahead of you but remember, you can choose not to suffer.” I held to her tightly. Once she disappeared this part of the Work would be over, all of it to be unwound as though it had never been done. “We could still heal it,” I said. She pulled away and her eyes were sad. “Part of me hopes you’ll find a way, even now,” she said. “But we both know the odds.” In the next breath she was gone, and I stood on the deck of the boat alone. -
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Write to Pitch 2024 - June
Assignment 1: József, a young intellectual man beyond his years, lived with his parents and three siblings in a small town in Hungary near the Austrian border. He comes from a powerful and influential family that lives a comfortable lifestyle. Unbeknownst to them, their lives will be threatened by WWII. József is taken to a forced labor camp, where he’s stripped from his aristocratic veneer, revealing a core of resilience he never knew he possessed. Assignment 2: The echo of bombings haunted József’s dreams. Even decades after the liberation, he was transported back to the bleak expanses of Auschwitz. The horrors of the war were etched into his soul, an indelible mark left by an antagonist who, though long gone, continued to exert a malevolent force over his life: Adolf Hitler. József’s days were lived between normalcy and the shadows of his past. He lived in a world away from the barbed wire and watchtowers of his youth. Yet, Hitler’s specter lingered, manifesting in unexpected moments in József’s classrooms. Holding on to his principles, and with a trembling voice, he began to speak. At first, each sentence was a struggle. But soon, the memories flowed, and each tear he cried became a cathartic release. He spoke of his family and friends he had lost; their faces still vivid in his mind. He spoke about the small acts of defiance, the glimmers of hope that had sustained him. Through his lectures, József began to see himself not as a victim, but as a survivor—a testament to resilience in the face of unimaginable evil. József reclaimed his narrative to grasp control from the lingering shadow of his tormentor. Assignment 3: 1. József, the Pocket Watch, and Their Journey: Based on a True Story 2. From Chains to Freedom: the Story of József, a Hungarian WWII Survivor 3. A Pocket Watch for Freedom Assignment 4: Ticket to the New World by Tánia Juste-The story is about 20th century migration from Spain to Argentina and the challenges faced by the main character while settling. The Time in Between: the Seamstress, and Sira by Maria Dueñas- These are books (and TV series on Netflix) about a seamstress turned spy in times of war. Although my character didn’t turn into a spy, due to the nature of the historical setting, Dueñas’ narratives are ‘ongoing’ with several ‘cliffhangers’ along the way. Paula by Isabel Allende- As so many other books by Isabel Allende, most of her stories are inspired by her personal experiences. Allende’s historical fiction/thrillers are often cited as magic realism; a genre associated with the works of Gabriel García Marquez. Assignment 5: József walked several times along the periphery of the temple and looked at the hands of those present hoping to see his mother’s watch. It was useless: the pocket watch was gone. József felt the lump in his throat choking him. Assignment 6: Inner Conflict: József is a typical adolescent who questions authority except, in his case, with confidence and intellect. But his comfort and security are threatened by the Nazis. He’s soon captured and sent to a forced labor camp aware that he will never see his family again, or will he? He doesn’t know what the future holds, but he knows one thing: that he wants to survive. Secondary Conflict: The close relationships József builds with friendships (Jani, then the priest, Vittorio) and family, are always threatened by the character’s uncontrollable fate. However, every lost relationship leads to something new. Is József’s destiny causal or circumstantial? Assignment 7: WWII is the historical setting that drives the plot forward because it serves as the catalyst for the storyline, creating conflict and influencing József’s' journeys. The circumstances József endures during WWII ground the narrative (in a specific time and place) that allows an understanding of the societal conditions, the political climates, and religious controversies. The storyline revolves around József grappling with other political, economic, and societal turmoil that threatens his principles post-war. The historical circumstances are the force that force József into becoming who he becomes, allowing for a deep understanding of his character development. Furthermore, József’s character continues to be influenced by his grappling with oppressing forms of government in various countries. As he escapes from one, he seems to find himself in another political upheaval, which affects his motivations and decisions. -
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The Best Historical Fiction of 2024 (So Far)
We’re halfway through 2024, but in these books, we’re still in the (generally terrible) past! Its been, as usual, a great year for historical fiction, and I’ve assembled the best historical fiction of the year so far. The following books are as great as the history they depict is awful, and the beauty of their sentences can be matched only by the grotesqueries of their contents. For those of you who have noticed a certain 20th century sensibility in past incarnations may delight in the plethora of distinguished novels featuring 19th century settings that have been released this year. Clare Pollard, The Modern Fairies (Avid Reader Press) Setting: Paris, 17th Century While debatably gothic, this novel set in 17th century ancien regime France is most certainly suited to the damp—after all, it was an era long before dehumidifiers (of which I now possess four). The Modern Fairies features the great historical salons of Paris, in which literary luminaries mingled with the demimonde and mixed witty repartee with inventive storytelling. Pollard’s characters are reinventing their nation’s traditional stories and creating the modern fairy tale, even as the details of their lives show the the rot of French society before the Revolution. Niklas Natt Och Dag, 1795: The Order of the Furies Translated by Ian Giles (Atria) Setting: Stockholm, 1795 1795 is the devastating conclusion to Niklas Nat och Dag’s historical trilogy of late 18th-century Stockholm, a divided city on the precipice of revolution and beset by a conspiracy of violent libertines who feel themselves to be above the law. Nat och Dag’s one-armed watchman, Jean Michael Cardell, with assistance from Emil Winge, brilliant watchmaker and former alcoholic, are hell-bent on bringing the evil mastermind of a hedonistic cabal to heel, but they face numerous set-backs in imposing justice on someone so powerful, and as well as lingering guilt over their past failures. Few historical novels are willing to plumb such depths of depravity (or include quite so many descriptions of bad smells), and I’ll be thinking about this trilogy for many years to come. Michael Crummey, The Adversary (Doubleday) Setting: Newfoundland, Early 19th Century A remote Canadian fishing village, deliciously christened Mockbeggar, is the setting for this epic tragedy of Shakespearean proportions. The small town is ruled by two siblings, a brother and sister. Both are terrible people, but their malevolence finds expression in vastly different forms, as their take-no-prisoners rivalry and intense mutual hatred inevitably destroys their community, their family, and their souls. Joyce Carol Oates, Butcher (Knopf) Setting: New Jersey, mid-19th Century Sure to be known as one of Oates’ greatest works! And based on some very real, very awful history. In Butcher, a variety of perspectives depict the life and crimes of doctor and misogynist Silas Weir. After an ignoble start in a posh Massachusetts town, Weir heads to New Jersey to be resident doctor at a women’s asylum, a hellish prison in which his determination to succeed at gynecological surgeries will lead to unfathomable amounts of suffering. While any depiction of 19th century medicine is horrifying, the ways in which bad science and worse prejudices combine in the surgeon’s practices make for one of the most disturbing novels I’ve ever read. Carmella Lowkis, Spitting Gold (Atria) Setting: Paris, 1866 All is not what it seems in this lush and twist-filled tale. Two spiritualist sisters, famed in their teen years for their convincing seances, must come together for one last con. Spitting Gold is carefully plotted, fully characterized, and incredibly satisfying. Let the ectoplasm flow! Elizabeth Gonzalez James, The Bullet Swallower (Simon & Schuster) Setting: Texas and Mexico, 1895 Growing up in Texas with a historian father, I longed for novels like The Bullet Swallower, based on a legendary outlaw in the author’s own family history. In The Bullet Swallower, a bandit on the run from the Texas Rangers must do whatever it takes to save his family, while two generations later, his descendant confronts an ancient entity determined to make him pay for his ancestors’ crimes. If you like this book, check out With a Pistol in His Hand, Americo Paredes’ classic history of folk hero Grigorio Cortez, subjected to the largest manhunt in US history after a wrongful accusation of horse theft left a Texas Ranger dead and Cortez on the run. Shubnum Khan, The Djinn Waits a Hundred Years (Viking) Setting: Durban, South Africa, early 20th century and present day In a crumbling South African mansion, a young girl brings the house’s denizens together in quest to learn the history of her home. A discovered diary’s yellowed pages slowly reveal the tale of love and murder that has left the house, and its djinn occupant, grieving for decades. L.S. Stratton, Do What Godmother Says (Union Square) Setting: Harlem, 1920s L.S. Stratton’s new gothic thriller is divided between the Harlem Renaissance past and a writer in D.C.’s present. In the past, a young painter is taken under the wing of a mysterious socialite; her new hopes for the security to pursue artistic freedom are quickly dashed as she learns how controlling her new patron can be. In the present, a journalist comes into possession of a valuable painting, only to find herself beset by collectors who seem ready to engage in unscrupulous methods in order to get their hands on the piece of art. Do What Godmother Says is both a prescient critique of artistic appropriation and a darn good mystery—in short, an immensely satisfying read. Joseph Kanon, Shanghai (Scribner) Setting: Shanghai, 1930s Jewish refugees fleeing Nazi Europe settle in Shanghai in Kanon’s latest novel, a deeply engrossing tale of corruption, violence, and doomed love. The story begins on the first class decks of an ocean liner but soon runs headlong into the city’s warring gambling operations. Kanon always situates his political clashes and spy games in a fully realized human drama. Shanghai proves one of his most powerful stories to date. –Dwyer Murphy, CrimeReads editor-in-chief Vanessa Chan, The Storm We Made (Marysue Ricci Books) Setting: Malaya, 1930s and 40s In one of the best espionage novels I’ve ever come across, a bored Malayan housewife lets a Japanese spy charm her into giving up the secrets necessary for her nation to be invaded; later, as the war continues, her guilt grows monstrous as her children suffer. View the full article -
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Henry Wise on bridging the inner divide and defining justice in Holy City
In Holy City, Henry Wise honors the Southern gothic tradition with a captivating and lyrical debut rooted in rural Virginia. At the heart of this gritty thriller, deputy sheriff Will Seems returns home after a decade in Richmond, Virginia, to restore his dilapidated family estate and face his grief and guilt over long-ago tragedies. After Will pulls the body of an old friend from a burning house, he finds himself at odds with the sheriff who has arrested an innocent man for the murder and seems pleased to move on. The town’s Black community hires a ruthless private detective from the city to help Will find the true killer, but their partnership proves fraught. Complicating Will’s dueling loyalties to his morality and public duty, he remains indebted to a Black friend who saved his life years ago. All the while, Will wrestles with his reluctant connection to the impoverished, swampy landscape he again calls home. Featuring a diverse cast of complex, soulful characters, Holy City offers both a tightly woven crime plot and a deeply felt treatise on loyalty, justice, courage, and humanity. This dark, lush novel has already garnered impressive blurbs and reviews and I suspect it’ll soon earn more accolades. Henry Wise is a graduate of the Virginia Military Institute and the University of Mississippi MFA program. His poetry has been widely published. I connected with the author over Zoom to discuss his debut. This conversation has been edited for clarity and length. Jenny Bartoy: The theme of home pervades this story. Will returns home where a variety of ghosts and guilts await him. For several of the characters, home is fraught — whether that home is a house, a family, a culture, a county. Can you tell me more about how you played with this theme? Henry Wise: Will’s got a foot in two different worlds, so he doesn’t really belong entirely anywhere. He’s held suspect in what he considers his home. He returns to it and it’s not what he expected entirely. And he’s got a foot in Richmond, he’s been there for 10 years, but he doesn’t really belong in Richmond either. This idea of inner division between urban and rural Virginia, and how he doesn’t really belong in either place — that sort of ended up controlling a lot of the narrative. You know, Thomas Wolfe said, “You can’t go home again,” but what happens when you do? What happens when you try to get back in touch? Drug use is a theme in the story, and Will is not a drug addict, but returning home in a way is almost like a relapse. He probably shouldn’t go back if he knows what’s good for him. But he does. There’s this thing that’s pulling him. We think of “Home is where the heart is,” and “There’s no place like home.” But what if home is also toxic? JB: This novel feels very intimate, in that you dive deep into each point of view (POV) that is shared, but the story rotates through an impressive number of POVs. This felt to me like old-school narration, almost omniscient, but with a modern emotional depth. How did you navigate this balance? HW: I think POV is one of the hardest things for writers. If you’re writing a memoir, it’s probably going to be in first person, it’s a little easier to make that decision. But in fiction, you can do almost anything, that’s wide open. There was a time that I thought about writing in first person from Will’s POV and the limitations there. I think what is achieved by the third person, and being able to freely follow different characters, is far greater than what it would be just following Will. I ended up realizing these characters are fascinating, and I think there’s something in the world that connects them. Will’s our lead but he’s not the only interesting character. I didn’t set out to say, okay, I’m going to write about each one of these characters, but it’s so organic to the process for me. I ended up writing from other perspectives. I had to find something in each character, whatever made them human, even the most despicable or the most troubled. Is there a glimmer of hope in this person? Is there something I’m rooting for in this person? Writing about the complexities of each individual was also the fun part for me. Each one of them emerged from the two-dimensional to really form three-dimensionally, and I felt that I had been dropped in this fictional county, and that I was meeting everybody there. I’ve realized in my rereading of Joseph Conrad’s Lord Jim recently, how deeply he gets into the psychology of these characters and explores cowardice and heroism and the thin line between. Authors like him and William Faulkner and Willa Cather, they really get into their characters. And so maybe there was a more contemporary psychology [in Holy City] but definitely influenced by some older authors. JB: Holy City isn’t a traditional whodunit in that we discover who the culprit is fairly early on. The mystery becomes instead whether they will be caught, and then whether the characters will get justice. Tell me about this narrative choice. HW: Yeah, I think the crime almost takes a backseat. You think it’s going to be a whodunit, but then you’ve still got something like 100 pages before the novel ends. There is that mystery that drives the book at first, it gives us a reason to follow Will on a bit of a shallow level, a little closer to the surface. But we learn fairly early on as well that Will is driven by his past. And that’s really what the story is about, not just about Will, although he is the one coming back to face his past, but it’s really about this return home. The crime and his past collide, and he has to deal with both. And in fact, the crime functions to bring his past to a head. Some might fault some of his past behavior as cowardly, but at the same time he’s returned to face these traumas and tragedies of the past, and I think there’s a real courage in that. JB: This is one of the darkest, grittiest novels I’ve read in some time. You cover a variety of tough topics: murder, suicide, addiction, necrophilia, incest, poverty, racism, family estrangement, to name a few. How do you keep your own head above water when exploring such darkness? HW: It is a very dark book, but these characters are trying in their own way to deal with their lives. And I wouldn’t say that this book is uplifting, but I think there can be inspiration in the courage of a particular moment. People deal with messy lives all the time. And people deal with grief. I’ve been touched by it, everybody has, and I think it’s worth exploring. I met Richard Ford a few years ago and I asked him, “What advice would you give somebody who’s writing a first book?” and at first he said “Don’t do it” like a joke, but then he gave me some of the best, most meaningful advice I’ve ever received as a writer: “Write about what’s most important to you, because that will sustain you.” And I think, if we’re going to write a book, let’s get in there and write it and get dirty. I didn’t want to just throw all these dark things in there — some books do that and it feels almost gimmicky — but the characters emerged organically and they surprised me. I had pictured [some of them] as 100% villain or 100% corrupt, and then this person shows a glimmer of love or wants to protect somebody. That to me as a reader is an enriching experience. JB: You write with such compassion for each of your characters. For me, that really balanced out the darkness. There was such heart to the story. You just touched on this a little bit, but I’m curious: what’s your approach to character development? HW: It’s a long process. [I spend] a lot of hours exploring each character and trying to see them almost as a movie. I write a lot of scenes. Everyone’s got a different approach — I write for surprise. There are a lot of pages that are written and never make it in. Kurt Vonnegut said in his eight rules for creative writing to “be a sadist” towards your characters. To some extent, you need to find out what they’re made of. And to do that, you have to challenge them. That pressure is so important, especially for Will. He’s the deputy sheriff, and he doesn’t agree with what the sheriff and many others think about the crime at hand. He’s also doing some things illegally. He’s also facing his past. All of these things kind of put him in a vise and something’s got to give. And I feel like the setting itself also does that. The [small Southern town] setting helped me explore these characters, because they’re either stuck there and trying to get out, or they’re just stuck there and falling into the ruts of life in an economically challenged area. JB: This novel is a delight for the literary reader. One blurb said you “bring a poet’s ear to the Southern landscape” and that encapsulates your writing style perfectly. What is appealing about the South for you as a writer? HW: As a Southerner, I wasn’t just born in Virginia, but I was raised as many Southerners are with a real sense of “This is where you’re from” and “This is home.” I think for me, there’s always been a division within, as a Southerner, partly because I grew up outside of Richmond, Virginia, but I’ve got family and deep roots in rural Virginia. My grandmother grew up in the house that my cousins now own, that goes back to 1834. It’s got the original French wallpaper and nothing has been renovated in the old part of the house. You step into these places or into a family graveyard, and you can feel the centuries and what’s beneath them as well, the fact that Native Americans were there before. Buffalo used to roam even in Virginia. I’ve been aware of all of these layers of history for a very long time. I think I was tired of the Civil War the day I was born! The South to me can be convoluted. It’s also a beautiful place, with beautiful people. And I think the writing almost has to be a bit convoluted as well and poetic. It’s almost a snake bending over itself — you think it’s one thing but it becomes something else. And the writing became a lens through which to see this world. I think Holy City is a book where the writing itself is a necessary component. It’s not just the story. It’s not just the plot, the writing itself also colors how you see this world. And I think it makes sense in the South, but I might write a very different book set in Wyoming or something. JB: You have a great line in the novel, about how “Justice had no meaning, only consequence.” At first, this seems to imply revenge, but by the end justice seems to be more about redemption or maybe karmic balance. What’s your view on justice after writing this novel? HW: There are different kinds of justice, and this book grapples with a few of them. One is of course, legal justice, which seems not necessarily the purest form of justice. And I think Will is after something pure. He doesn’t know what that is, he’s really searching for it. And it seems that the more he tries to achieve it, the more he drives people away or hurts them. Justice goes far deeper than legal justice. I think you’re right in redemption. How can you live with yourself if you’ve done something unspeakable? But we’re also talking about historic justice. There’s a sense of being oppressed by one’s own legacy and history, which is also tangled up in that landscape. I think eventually Will realizes that he’s got to do something to get out of his head. And finally he does, and I don’t know if it’s the right decision, but it’s his decision. [The writer] Chris Offutt one time said to me: “The perfect ending is both surprising and inevitable.” I hesitate to say that something is always true, but for me, that is a really good thing to strive for. To his credit Will seems to maybe achieve some sort of redemption by the end. JB: What’s next for you? HW: I’m working on another book set in the same area. So this will be a series of sorts, but I want every book to be a new story. Some characters may come back. Certain threads may come back. This one is going to take place primarily in the Snakefoot region, which appears in Holy City. I’m really fascinated by that and how it harbors misfits, outcasts, secrets, and the potential of the supernatural even. It’s fictional, but there were places, particularly the Great Dismal Swamp in Virginia, where entire communities of Native Americans and escaped slaves would retreat and actually live there. And I was thinking, what if we see the continuation of that? And that’s the power of fiction to me. It’s fun to write about places that may not exist, but absolutely could have. View the full article -
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Rachel Howzell Hall on Grief, Strength, and the Purifying Nature of Fire
Rachel Howzell Hall had what can only be described as an annus horribilis while writing What Fire Brings, which was published on June 11, 2024. Her father, both her in-laws, and her dog all passed away during that year. But, like the protagonists who persevere in her novels, Rachel prevailed. That’s not to say there wasn’t a toll: for the first time ever, in a writing career on top of a full-time job during which she often wrote in the car before going into her office, a battle with breast cancer, and all the varied vicissitudes of life, Rachel couldn’t make the book’s deadline. Knowing Rachel, that’s not a big deal, it’s a huge deal. Rachel’s herculean challenges are mirrored by Bailey Meadows, the protagonist of What Fire Brings. Bailey arrives for her undercover assignment posing as an aspiring crime fiction writer at the Topanga Canyon compound of one of the genre’s most successful scribes, battered, bruised and with a knife wound to her side that she’s not sure how she got. Wounds notwithstanding, Bailey is determined to find Sam, a woman who went missing in Topanga Canyon more than a decade before, for an organization called The Way Home. Neither Hell nor high water will stop her. Well, maybe Hell—in the form of a canyon wildfire—just might. Nancie Clare: Writing this book was a challenge, to say the least. Your father, in-laws and dog passed away during the year What Fire Brings was written. Rachel Howzell Hall: I mean, we write about death [in our books] all the time, but to actually be involved in it, while trying to manage your work life? So yeah, [that year] was extra crispy. It’s been extra, extra crispy. Because of the multiple layers of What Fire Brings—it’s the twistiest story I’ve ever written—I couldn’t get it together. My brain wouldn’t. I was totally exhausted. I’ve never missed a deadline in my entire writing career. My life was one big, big strand of fish line that refused to untangle. I tend to repress [my feelings]. I have to keep going because people rely on me. And it just gets worse and worse, and then you’re stuck, which is why we use writing in the first place: to get unstuck. I had been so invincible, but no matter how smart and talented and invincible you think you are, there’s always that thing that’s going to stop you. And you’ve done nothing to deserve it. It just is. And for What Fire Brings, it was kind of like a perfect in-class tutorial of what? Grief and being unable to solve it, to think through it, to see the fires and know that they’re fires. Until the last minute and then you pull it out with the grace of God and the grace of family and friends! That’s how it felt. I put a lot of myself in my stories, and I want to earn my twists organically. And I think that me having so many deaths back-to-back, if I didn’t experience it, I would’ve said, “That’s impossible. How could something like that, death after death after death, happen? Really?” But yeah, it did. What do you do with that? That’s going into this book. This is how it is to be lost and in the dark and needing to get going. Nancie Clare: Bailey Meadows is complicated. She’s posing as an aspiring writer, arriving at a literary event at the Topanga Canyon home of Jack Beckham, a famous bestselling crime fiction writer. And she’s the only Black woman there. Only she’s not an aspiring writer about to take up a writing residency. She’s an undercover P.I., there on behalf an organization committed to searching for the missing, looking for a woman named Sam who had disappeared in this same part of Topanga Canyon. And, unlike earlier in her investigation, instead of talking to sketchy people in sketchy places, Bailey is going to embed herself in the world of Topanga Canyon. Where did that come from? Rachel Howzell Hall: My first real job out of college was with the PEN Center USA West. And the bulk of the writers and boards of directors were wonderful, wonderful white folks of Los Angeles. They lived in Beverly Hills, they lived in Topanga Canyon. And as the administrative assistant, it was my job to go to the parties with the envelopes of tickets and take notes or show people where the bathroom was. So that comes out of my real-life experience of going to these spaces where I’m typically the only Black person there. And a famous LA novelist who’s now passed, Carolyn See, [lived] in Topanga, and I loved her. She was one of the most wonderful writers I’ve ever met. And I just remember hearing her talk about Topanga, and I’m like, “What is it? Topanga Canyon?” I’m a native, but I live in South Los Angeles. I don’t know nothing about Topanga Canyon! [Laughs] It was always that place in the woods somewhere that I could kind of see as I passed by on [Pacific Coast Highway]. Growing up in the church, especially as a Seventh Day Adventist, Topanga Canyon felt like this kind of forbidden place for Black Christians down in South Los Angeles. I wanted that for Bailey: to be in a place where she’s an “other,” in an “other” place. That’s me, my career going to book events in these places where you’re the only Black person. It’s like, “I’m smart, but what is happening right now?” It was just a weird kind of thing for me. And then, Topanga is a place that’s always on fire, now more than ever. The hills are alive with fire all the time. Nancie Clare: For someone who is obviously fond of your protagonists, you do beat them up. Mercilessly! Rachel Howzell Hall: I do. You know why? I feel beat up sometimes. I think: is God just putting me through my paces because He knows that I need material? I don’t know. But I think things that don’t bother other people bother writers. And because of that, we make things a little harder for ourselves. I reflect that in my characters. They’re professional women, they’re lovely people, but bad things happen to lovely people all the time. And I want to figure out how someone who seems to have it all fights to keep it. I get bored with characters who don’t have to fight for anything. I feel like I’ve fought for every success that I’ve had. I’ve fought for it being a Black woman in this field, a woman, period. I fight for space in everything. I guess that’s just my nature. And I want people to look at my characters and say, if not a hundred percent, I’ve experienced fifty percent of what this character’s going through, and this is how she’s solving it, huh? Let me think. Can I figure something out that will help me in that? It’s part me seeing myself, part public service announcement, part making interesting stories about interesting people. People are incredibly interesting, even the most boring ones. I think [boring people] are hiding something! Nancie Clare: One of the things about your characters in general, and Bailey in particular is that she is continually underestimated: because she’s Black, because she’s not wealthy, or connected. She’s not a nepo baby. People assume she’s there because it’s Affirmative Action or DEI. Someone actually says to Bailey at the party, “you’re only here because you’re Black.” Your characters fight that sort of preconception and underestimation, and to me it seems that your stories travel on two tracks: Your protagonists are investigating, looking for truth; and the fight they have with the people surrounding them. It’s as if they have to say, “yes, I am a legitimate person regardless of my sex, regardless of my color, regardless of my economic background, this is who I am.” I can feel Bailey’s frustration. Rachel Howzell Hall: Women especially can read this and say: I know what it is to be in a room like that where people are like, “oh, you’re only here because of whatever.” You feel it going into a space, you feel it even outright when someone reviews your book on some website and says, “I haven’t read it, but it’s probably woke, so one star.” Or “I haven’t read it, but it’s affirmative action, one star.” You can’t reach those people, but the people who leave two stars, three stars, those are the people who are like, “oh, we vote [the right] way,” but they still see you as an interloper. It’s frustrating. For Bailey, she can’t even look for a missing woman without having to deal with her legitimacy. Nancie Clare: Sam, the person that Bailey is looking for, is suspected of having Dissociative Fugue Syndrome. To quote from What Fire Brings, it’s “a condition that causes people under great stress or experiencing trauma to lose their identity and impulsively wander away from home.” How did Dissociative Fugue Syndrome come to your attention and what caused you to use it in the story? Rachel Howzell Hall: It’s a real thing. I read about it a long, long, long time ago. It’s always kind of been [in the back of my mind]. And then I saw Memento, and it’s like, “Ooh, what? I like that story.” And then I read Shutter Island, and it’s like, “okay, but how do I do something like that?” Then about two or three years ago, I read a story in the New York Times about a young teacher who wandered off after a hurricane down in the islands. She showed up somehow in the New York Harbor and had no idea how she got there or where she’d been. And then it happened again, and no one knows where she is. Then when I read that PTSD tends to bring it on, and everything that my family had been going through, it’s like sometimes you wish you could just [say] “I don’t even know what all this is or who you all are. I’m going to just create this new existence just so I can have a breath.” There has been this back and forth over whether fugues are real or not, because you can’t see it on a CT scan. I mean, what keeps us all from just pretending to space out and wander away and not return to something that’s hard. I mean, I find it fascinating that it can’t be seen, and yet it happens. Nancie Clare: Let’s talk about Jack Beckham, the best-selling crime fiction writer. He’s a handsome white guy with a tragic story and a creepy vibe. Fortunately, in real life there are very, very few unsavory characters in the crime fiction community—but there are some. Was Jack Beckham inspired by one of these guys? Was he taking advantage of Bailey because having a writing partner who is a Black woman is going to appeal to a demographic that his books might not have? Rachel Howzell Hall: He was inspired by some of our peers as well as writers [who came] before us. Jack Beckham is [the guy who says] “I want to teach you how to do this thing, and so come to my house and I’ll show you.” Maybe I don’t know what their intentions are, but it always comes out that they are assholes; they’re not doing it for you. They do it because they will look better politically and sociologically. Beckham wants to use Bailey, to appropriate her Blackness for his own. I was trying to come up with a character who, on his face, looks benevolent and generous because he opens up his home and he has this tragic backstory about his wife, and [the reaction he expects is] “oh my gosh, you’re so wonderful. Thank you for giving me this opportunity.” And it’s all bullshit. It’s all fiction, it’s all lies. And again, as fire comes, fire cleanses, and I wanted his whole estate to be burnt down, and never have it rise again. But eventually, if there is another story, a sequel to this book, there’d be someone like him to take his place, because that would be interesting. Nancie Clare: You’ve been nominated for the Los Angeles Times Book Prize a time or two, the Lefty, Barry, and Anthony Award… Rachel Howzell Hall: Yes, I have. Yeah. Yeah. I just like trophies, period. My dad was a trophy hound, and so I grew up in a house of trophies, and so that kind of burns me. It’s like, ah, I have to win one! But at the same time, my readers, people who enjoy my books, they really do enjoy them. And I like that. I like being able to do interesting things with each book. I don’t ever want to write the same book. As a writer, you’re also learning new ways of telling a story because you read a lot. I remember reading Dennis Lehane and saying, “oh, man, I want to write a story like that!” And it takes me years to figure out how to do it. When I finally do it, it’s like, did I land? Did I do it right? Am I honoring my heroes? When I’m feeling like, “oh, man, why can’t I win something? Why do I constantly compare myself?” I’ll just go over to GoodReads and read reviews on Shutter Island, which I think for me is one of my pinnacles. I see how some people just didn’t get it. It’s like, okay, well, if they don’t get him, then I’m good. Because I think he’s one of the most talented writers in the existence of crime fiction ever. So that’s how I soothe myself, by looking at the Dennis Lehane reviews! View the full article -
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How Lab-Grown Diamonds Upended the Industry and Could End Up Changing the World
The diamond world was stunned when De Beers, the storied diamond miner, announced this month it was ditching its lab-grown diamond business. De Beers had been selling lab-grown gems online through its Lightbox brand for six years, at prices its competitors found hard to beat. But the lab-grown diamond price was crashing, and De Beers will now focus its $94 million Oregon diamond factory away from gemstone production and onto something much more exciting: diamonds for targeted industrial uses. Among these new and often secret uses is the place of diamonds in the race to develop a quantum computer—the mind-boggling doomsday machine that China and the United States are desperate to get to first. De Beers diamond-technology experts have put the company in the forefront of this race, with their ability to manipulate tiny diamonds at the atomic level. Characteristics such as “vacancies”—missing atoms—allow such stones to perform a crucial function for quantum machines, which will complete in minutes calculations that today’s fastest supercomputers would take years to finish. The plot for my new novel, The Lucifer Cut, revolves around these developments. But first—how did diamonds get where they are now? I started writing about diamonds in 1991, when a discovery in the Canadian Arctic sparked a winter staking rush. Loaded with posts, planes flew out into the frigid wastes. At isolated tent camps, diamond geologists and staking crews shifted the posts into helicopters and clattered off to distant coordinates, often just flinging the posts out into the snow when they got there and inking another claim onto the staking map. Tens of millions of dollars in speculators’ money poured into that rush, all of it riding the same belief—that diamonds were valuable and hard to find. In other words, rare. Rarity is the basement attribute that supports the diamond industry. Without that concept, the whole idea of a jewel is under threat. That threat became real when a virus invaded the sparkling domain of diamonds, destroying the very idea of rarity. The virus was lab-grown diamonds. Diamonds depend for value on distinctions of rarity. D color costs more than F because there aren’t as many Ds; a two-carat stone is rarer than a one, so you pay more per carat. Absurdly, lab-grown diamonds shadow this pricing system, even though the supply of lab-grown, in any practical sense, is infinite. There is no such thing as rarity. Diamond growers can make as many stones as they like, and even advance a stone from one category to another basically by leaving it in the oven a little longer. By that I mean that industrial processes involving heat and pressure, not the casino of natural formation, determine what a stone will look like. The only value of a lab-grown diamond is that it looks like something it is not. How do you even sell such a stone? In an industry whose mother ship is the idea of eternal love, you don’t want the whole retail pitch to just be that it’s cheaper than the real thing. So the makers of lab-grown found another story: namely, that that the stones are more ethical and greener than natural diamonds. It was a ridiculous claim. The Federal Trade Commission ordered lab-grown manufacturers to drop it five years ago. Yet somehow the belief that lab-grown have a moral edge has stuck. The truth is that most lab-grown diamonds come from factories in China and India that rely on huge amounts of electric power. That power comes from coal-fired generating plants. So much for the eco edge. The other idea, that lab-grown are more ethical, is laughable. It’s a hangover from the blood-diamonds scandal, which exposed the trade in conflict diamonds. But anybody who thinks a diamond made in a Chinese or Indian factory is more ethically sourced than a mined one hasn’t been following the relentless campaigns of persecution against ethnic and religious minorities by governments in New Delhi and Beijing. Buyers flocked to lab-grown anyway, pushing the category’s share of the global diamond market last year to more than twenty percent. Since the supply is essentially limitless, manufacturers responded to the boom by producing even more. Choked by oversupply, the wholesale price collapsed, and as sure as night follows day, the retail price began to follow it. Since the price of natural rough diamonds had also taken a haircut, this meant the whole industry—natural and lab-grown—was caught up in a price retreat that looked like a rout. Into this dangerous moment stepped the only force in diamonds that could stop it—De Beers. De Beers invented the modern diamond business. For decades they ran it like a private fief. They are still a powerful force—the pre-eminent natural diamond company and a successful lab-grown maker too. This made De Beers the only power that could calm the seething waters of the lab-grown diamond price, and in May they tried. They slashed the price of their standard range of lab-grown goods from $800 a carat to $500. How did that work out? Not great, I guess, since a month later they threw in the towel and got of lab-grown altogether. When lab-grown diamonds appeared, I thought they would turn out to be the virus that ate itself—a commodity whose basic worthlessness would ultimately push down prices until the enterprise went bust. I didn’t see the other threat, the more insidious one, which was how good they would get. It was that penny finally dropping—that fakes might actually get good enough to beat the tests designed to catch them—that convinced me to set my new thriller, The Lucifer Cut, in that world. Here’s an example. One recent fake—a six-carat white—appeared in Tel Aviv. The fakers had found a natural diamond just like it on an online data base. Their fake even had flaws positioned where the natural stone’s flaws were. The online stone was identified, as any large diamond would be, by a certificate whose number was lasered on the stone. No problem. The fakers lasered the number on theirs. This fake was caught when a trader brought it to a lab, which detected minute differences between the natural and the fake, and ran some tests. But in an intensely secretive art whose sorcerers can reposition atoms, one day the tests will fail to catch it. From that moment the diamond business is finished. The Lucifer Cut dives into this dark realm as Treasury agent Alex Turner and his lover, the millionaire Russian diamond thief known as Slav Lily, pursue an elusive genius who can make any diamond—including one that could give its owner the power to rule the world. In The Lucifer Cut, nothing is stranger than fiction! *** View the full article -
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Two Faced Lovers
Chapter One (Katya POV): Losing a twin is a kind of suicide. Alexi loved the woods. I only ever liked it because he was there with me. There was no other reason I’d be loitering alone in the Adirondacks on a balmy summer evening if not for him. I preferred the beach. I dialed Alexi’s cell and swatted a mosquito away. “Алло. Alexi here.” I leaned into the phone. “You have my number, so text me like a normal person.” The line cut to a beep. I texted him. Again. I kicked another pile of leaves. “Cука!” Two birds stopped foraging to offer beady-eyed condolences. I doubted anything would make me feel better. Cursing him out wasn’t cathartic like it was when I could do it to his face. I wandered off the trail, past a stretch of missing-persons tape. It had withered to the tree in the time since his disappearance. This was the unremarkable spot where he vanished. I pulled our brand of tequila from my pack, popped the cap, and took a swig in his honor. Even obfuscated by conifers, ferns and moist air, with a gummy forest-bed of dead needles and moss beneath me, I felt closer to him here. We may have been fonder of the apartment, but this was the last place I saw his feet on earth. Sacred ground. The sun dipped below the canopy and bled a gold wash into the sky. What I wouldn’t give to be sharing chilled sips of vodka over dinner with him, instead of drinking alone in the woods. I missed sharing midnight cigarettes on the fire-escape of our Brighton Beach apartment. I missed our exam study-sessions listening to his Spotify lists, and our beach trips to Long Island, and our petty fighting over the remote because his Netflix picks were always stupid. The tequila burned. I sunk to the base of a tree trunk, as tears pricked at my eyes. What a miserable fucking summer. The worst of our lives, when it should have been the best. Graduating college. Getting jobs. I never learned how to live without him. I thought that by returning to where Alexi went missing, he might’ve come strolling out of the forest, hands in his pockets and hair a defiant mess. He’d return from a missing persons bout in the Adirondacks like some people return from a trip to the corner store – casual, undaunted. But my text remained unread. I slumped back. Golden rays streamed over the canopy. My phone startled the birds in my periphery. Mom was on the caller ID. I swiped the ringer to silence. I couldn’t stomach the sound of her unhappy sobs. Papa was easier at least, with his quiet mourning. After the Park Police called it quits, and SAR moved on, Babka and Ma’s bleak wails filled the Dacha like a funeral parlor. I couldn’t handle it. I swallowed another sip and grimaced. Alexi would say I was being overdramatic with all the tears, but I missed him. Losing a twin is brutal. If he were dead, part of me would be dead too. That’s how I figured Alexi was alive somewhere. I could feel it. I eased to sleep against the bark, under the weight of the week’s unbearable sadness. I didn’t dream. I drifted in the quiet, hoping I’d see my brother’s face again. Time became a liquid thing and in the abstract chemical dark beneath my eyelids, I saw him clear as day. I recalled making dinner together, or him at the piano playing Rachmaninoff like it was some casual thing. I could never figure out the keys. Not even to start. Excerpt from Last Chapter (James POV): “I don’t get you.” Dimitri cautiously left the water’s edge. “I tried to kill you every time we met. You know all of my secrets, through you’ve yet to blackmail me – which I find suspicious. And despite my strongly held opinion that you’re a try-hard piece-of-shit royalist, you’ve consistently put yourself in harm’s way on my behalf. That’s a lot of effort for a man you’ve never met before.” Dimitri holstered his gun and produced a lighter. He lit James’ cigarette. The flame warmed their corner of the garden, however briefly. Dimitri took the cigarette and inhaled a long drag. “I’ve had a long day, too,” James said. “Do you just get off on being a dick?” “You want to know what I get off on, hm?” Dimitri said, dry as dust. He blew the smoke into James’ face. Despite his icy façade, his posture indicated that all of his earlier fury and loathing had passed like a summer storm. “No. You just reminded me of…” “Of who?” James didn’t enjoy being trapped between Dimitri’s prying stare and the brick. “of when I was deployed…” James felt instant regret in his bones. The words were immediately like uneven ground. His tongue felt as clumsy as his scattered thoughts. “There were times where we gave everything we had, but…” James shrugged. “It didn’t work out. Bad policy. Bad people. Bad calls… And you can be two things at once.” James paused, unsure how to continue. Finding the words was new to him. And sitting with it hurt like it hurt to breathe. But Dimitri watched him, quiet and attentive. The possibility that Dimitri might want to understand spurred him on. “You can be part of a community that you come to love more than yourself, and at the same time be an instrument in a system that hurts that community… or helps it, depending on the day. Depending on a change in the weather... You’re not a monster, Dimitri. But you are part of something monstrous, and you fed it. You can’t run from that. Killing yourself won’t absolve or erase it. You just have to carry it.” Dimitri took another drag and passed the cigarette back in quiet contemplation. The cigarette quickly dwindled down in the thick silence between them. The heat of its embers tickled James’ skin. Dimitri stared into the hungry dark. “What if it’s too heavy?” He lingered on the glow bugs and the fragments of their light reflected on the dark water, and the soft orange burn of James’ cigarette. “I didn’t say you had to carry it alone. Just that you had to carry it.” The heat bit at James fingers the same as the pain in his ribs. It was an easy quiet as Dimitri ruminated. “It was easier when Rowan…” He choked up and went stubbornly silent. “I get it.” James ground out the stub, killing the embers. “When I got back, I couldn’t talk to other vets. I’d listen. I agreed with a lot of stuff they said, but I couldn’t…” Dimitri lingered on each word. “…share my own experiences. I only told my sister. Dunno why. Other vets say it’s hard to lean on family, but Rachel and I were always close. After she died, I leaned on my ex more than I should have.” Dimitri chuckled. “She ditch you for someone with less trauma?” “No.” James smiled despite the pain. “He emptied my accounts and fucked off to go do it to someone else I guess.” Wherever David was now, James hoped he was happy. He was a thief and a savior, and it was possible to be two things at once. Dimitri stared in awe. “You… fell for a confidence game?” James didn’t dignify Dimitri with a response. Dimitri burst out laughing. A lyre bird weaved out of his path as he stumbled and held his sides with laughter. He composed himself, wiping tears from his eyes. His mood was decidedly better. -
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Guardian of Elendria
The mist hung low over the town of Birchwood, casting an eerie glow under the vintage lampposts lined along the streets below. The usual great horned owl glided along the overcast sky overlooking the townsfolk as they hurried to load salt-filled sacks into their trucks and cars. Frank shuffled down one of the cobblestone streets in a hurry, careful not to slip in the newly fallen snow. The ivy-clad buildings loomed over him, their intricate woodwork seeming to hold old spirits trapped within, their hands asking for some kind of release from the time-stricken world. His breath was visible in the cold air and his hands were nestled deeply in the pockets of his jeans. He’d forgotten to bring a jacket, of course. He’d run out in a hurry as he always did. This time he was running from a little brawl he’d had with Zack Primrose, just another one of those stupid fights. He’d promised himself that he wouldn’t react to Zack’s taunts about his father leaving him and his mother, or more like abandoning them. But being fourteen and caught in the storm of some adolescence-fueled anger, he couldn’t help but snap back and fall into his trap, again. Sofia had warned him about this, she had warned him so many times. “Can you stop, Frank?” she asked. “It’s not my fault! Stop what?” “I know that you taunt him too,” Sofia said as she pointed a long finger at him. “How? I don’t even look at him.” “Oh…no…you don’t, you just run past by him, knocking the coffee out of his hand!” “I didn’t see him.” “Sure, you didn’t see him.” “Fine…he’s bad news, Sofia.” “I know that. But you don’t want to get into trouble.” “I can’t stand him,” Frank said loudly as he picked up a rock from the ground and pitched at some invisible target. “His parents spoil him, that’s all.” “That’s for sure, the Primrose’s are probably the worse parents out there.” A shiver ran down Sofia’s spine. “Yes the mother is strange. There’s something not okay about her.” “There’s something not okay about everyone in that mansion.” Frank stopped to catch his breath, feeling as if his lungs were filling with ice. He couldn’t warm his hands, no matter how much he rubbed them together. The cold was biting through his clothes as if the very air around him was trying to freeze him in place. His steps were labored, passing along Main street lined with the usual quaint, old-fashioned shops. He glanced at the warm glow emanating from a small restaurant, where the scent of freshly baked bread wafted through the cold air. The temperature had dropped fifteen degrees in a matter of two hours. Sofia had been right about that too: she had “foreseen” some kind of unusual arctic front. “I’m telling you, there’s a cold front coming. I can feel it.” “But it’s seventy degrees outside!” “And it’s December.” “Yeah, but it’s seventy degrees.” “I’m just saying.” Ever since he had met Sofia in first grade she had had these uncanny insights and predictions or moments of “seeing” or “foreseeing” or as she would say, “I foresee…,” and, then, she would ramble on about some event that would immediately or eventually take place in the future. She had foreseen (and seen) so many other things and situations, too, especially strange phenomena that seemed to have been happening a lot lately. Frank was tired of having to constantly confront the inexplicable, longing to return to those days empty of responsibility and “things to do,” or things to understand. A sudden jolt brought Frank out of his mind. He had stumbled over a hidden rock, nearly falling face-first onto the ground. He forced himself up, shaking off the powdery snow clinging to his clothes. As he walked back to look at the rock that had made him stumble, he realized it wasn’t a rock at all but something entirely different, unexpected, so unreal that he almost turned back around to continue rushing home. And he did, but after a few steps, he glanced back to see. And it was still there: a frozen cat, motionless on the sidewalk with a small tin can tied around its blue collar. He was a tabby, short-haired cat, with an unusual stare. His fur was a patchwork of dark stripes and lighter hues, and seemed as if he had just stepped out of a wild forest. Snow crystals that had accumulated on the cat’s head and on the tip of his nose sparkled in the dim light. The strange frozen feline stood like a statue at a museum, as if waiting for something to be given to him; his green eyes, piercing and unwavering, wise and old, ancient maybe. Frank ignored him and tried to go back to his thinking state. But this was a strange thing. Was it dead? But the cat’s eyes seemed so bright and alive; it couldn’t be dead. Frank knelt beside the animal, his fingers trembling as he reached out to pat him. He has indeed frozen, very much so. The tin can, about four inches in length and three in height, clinked softly, and all the snow fell from the little barrel revealing tiny words that had been inscribed onto it. He hesitated, glancing around to ensure no one was watching, and he read: Dear Frank, Open the barrel on Christmas Day. Take the midnight ride. E.E.E. -
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Guardian of Elendria
The mist hung low over the town of Birchwood, casting an eerie glow under the vintage lampposts lined along the streets below. The usual great horned owl glided along the overcast sky overlooking the townsfolk as they hurried to load salt-filled sacks into their trucks and cars. Frank shuffled down one of the cobblestone streets in a hurry, careful not to slip in the newly fallen snow. The ivy-clad buildings loomed over him, their intricate woodwork seeming to hold old spirits trapped within, their hands asking for some kind of release from the time-stricken world. His breath was visible in the cold air and his hands were nestled deeply in the pockets of his jeans. He’d forgotten to bring a jacket, of course. He’d run out in a hurry as he always did. This time he was running from a little brawl he’d had with Zack Primrose, just another one of those stupid fights. He’d promised himself that he wouldn’t react to Zack’s taunts about his father leaving him and his mother, or more like abandoning them. But being fourteen and caught in the storm of some adolescence-fueled anger, he couldn’t help but snap back and fall into his trap, again. Sofia had warned him about this, she had warned him so many times. “Can you stop, Frank?” she asked. “It’s not my fault! Stop what?” “I know that you taunt him too,” Sofia said as she pointed a long finger at him. “How? I don’t even look at him.” “Oh…no…you don’t, you just run past by him, knocking the coffee out of his hand!” “I didn’t see him.” “Sure, you didn’t see him.” “Fine…he’s bad news, Sofia.” “I know that. But you don’t want to get into trouble.” “I can’t stand him,” Frank said loudly as he picked up a rock from the ground and pitched at some invisible target. “His parents spoil him, that’s all.” “That’s for sure, the Primrose’s are probably the worse parents out there.” A shiver ran down Sofia’s spine. “Yes the mother is strange. There’s something not okay about her.” “There’s something not okay about everyone in that mansion.” Frank stopped to catch his breath, feeling as if his lungs were filling with ice. He couldn’t warm his hands, no matter how much he rubbed them together. The cold was biting through his clothes as if the very air around him was trying to freeze him in place. His steps were labored, passing along Main street lined with the usual quaint, old-fashioned shops. He glanced at the warm glow emanating from a small restaurant, where the scent of freshly baked bread wafted through the cold air. The temperature had dropped fifteen degrees in a matter of two hours. Sofia had been right about that too: she had “foreseen” some kind of unusual arctic front. “I’m telling you, there’s a cold front coming. I can feel it.” “But it’s seventy degrees outside!” “And it’s December.” “Yeah, but it’s seventy degrees.” “I’m just saying.” Ever since he had met Sofia in first grade she had had these uncanny insights and predictions or moments of “seeing” or “foreseeing” or as she would say, “I foresee…,” and, then, she would ramble on about some event that would immediately or eventually take place in the future. She had foreseen (and seen) so many other things and situations, too, especially strange phenomena that seemed to have been happening a lot lately. Frank was tired of having to constantly confront the inexplicable, longing to return to those days empty of responsibility and “things to do,” or things to understand. A sudden jolt brought Frank out of his mind. He had stumbled over a hidden rock, nearly falling face-first onto the ground. He forced himself up, shaking off the powdery snow clinging to his clothes. As he walked back to look at the rock that had made him stumble, he realized it wasn’t a rock at all but something entirely different, unexpected, so unreal that he almost turned back around to continue rushing home. And he did, but after a few steps, he glanced back to see. And it was still there: a frozen cat, motionless on the sidewalk with a small tin can tied around its blue collar. He was a tabby, short-haired cat, with an unusual stare. His fur was a patchwork of dark stripes and lighter hues, and seemed as if he had just stepped out of a wild forest. Snow crystals that had accumulated on the cat’s head and on the tip of his nose sparkled in the dim light. The strange frozen feline stood like a statue at a museum, as if waiting for something to be given to him; his green eyes, piercing and unwavering, wise and old, ancient maybe. Frank ignored him and tried to go back to his thinking state. But this was a strange thing. Was it dead? But the cat’s eyes seemed so bright and alive; it couldn’t be dead. Frank knelt beside the animal, his fingers trembling as he reached out to pat him. He has indeed frozen, very much so. The tin can, about four inches in length and three in height, clinked softly, and all the snow fell from the little barrel revealing tiny words that had been inscribed onto it. He hesitated, glancing around to ensure no one was watching, and he read: Dear Frank, Open the barrel on Christmas Day. Take the midnight ride. E.E.E. -
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Write to Pitch 2024 - September
Introduction to Pre-event Assignments The below seven assignments are vital to reaching an understanding of specific and critical core elements that go into the creation of a commercially viable genre novel or narrative non-fiction. Of course, there is more to it than this, as you will see, but here we have a good primer that assures we're literally all on the same page before the event begins. You may return here as many times as you need to edit your topic post (login and click "edit"). Pay special attention to antagonists, setting, conflict and core wound hooks. And btw, quiet novels do not sell. Keep that in mind and be aggressive with your work. Michael Neff Algonkian Conference Director ____________ After you've registered and logged in, create your reply to this topic (button top right). Please utilize only one reply for all of your responses so the forum topic will not become cluttered. Also, strongly suggest typing up your "reply" in a separate file then copying it over to your post before submitting. Not a good idea to lose what you've done! __________________________________________________________ THE ACT OF STORY STATEMENT Before you begin to consider or rewrite your story premise, you must develop a simple "story statement." In other words, what's the mission of your protagonist? The goal? What must be done? What must this person create? Save? Restore? Accomplish? Defeat?... Defy the dictator of the city and her bury brother’s body (ANTIGONE)? Struggle for control over the asylum (ONE FLEW OVER THE CUCKOO’S NEST)? Do whatever it takes to recover lost love (THE GREAT GATSBY)? Save the farm and live to tell the story (COLD MOUNTAIN)? Find the wizard and a way home to Kansas (WIZARD OF OZ)? Note that all of these are books with strong antagonists who drive the plot line (see also "Core Wounds and Conflict Lines" below). FIRST ASSIGNMENT: write your story statement. ___________________________________________________ THE ANTAGONIST PLOTS THE POINT (Photo : Javert from "Les Misérables") What are the odds of you having your manuscript published if the overall story and narrative fail to meet publisher demands for sufficient suspense, character concern, and conflict? Answer: none. You might therefore ask, what major factor makes for a quiet and dull manuscript brimming with insipid characters and a story that cascades from chapter to chapter with tens of thousands of words, all of them combining irresistibly to produce an audible thudding sound in the mind like a mallet hitting a side of cold beef? Answer: the unwillingness or inability of the writer to create a suitable antagonist who stirs and spices the plot hash. Let's make it clear what we're talking about. By "antagonist" we specifically refer to an actual fictional character, an embodiment of certain traits and motivations who plays a significant role in catalyzing and energizing plot line(s), or at bare minimum, in assisting to evolve the protagonist's character arc (and by default the story itself) by igniting complication(s) the protagonist, and possibly other characters, must face and solve (or fail to solve). CONTINUE READING ENTIRE ARTICLE AT NWOE THEN RETURN HERE. SECOND ASSIGNMENT: in 200 words or less, sketch the antagonist or antagonistic force in your story. Keep in mind their goals, their background, and the ways they react to the world about them. ___________________________________________________ CONJURING YOUR BREAKOUT TITLE What is your breakout title? How important is a great title before you even become published? Very important! Quite often, agents and editors will get a feel for a work and even sense the marketing potential just from a title. A title has the ability to attract and condition the reader's attention. It can be magical or thud like a bag of wet chalk, so choose carefully. A poor title sends the clear message that what comes after will also be of poor quality. Go to Amazon.Com and research a good share of titles in your genre, come up with options, write them down and let them simmer for at least 24 hours. Consider character or place names, settings, or a "label" that describes a major character, like THE ENGLISH PATIENT or THE ACCIDENTAL TOURIST. Consider also images, objects, or metaphors in the novel that might help create a title, or perhaps a quotation from another source (poetry, the Bible, etc.) that thematically represents your story. Or how about a title that summarizes the whole story: THE MARTIAN CHRONICLES, HARRY POTTER AND THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS, THE WORLD ACCORDING TO GARP, etc. Keep in mind that the difference between a mediocre title and a great title is the difference between THE DEAD GIRL'S SKELETON and THE LOVELY BONES, between TIME TO LOVE THAT CHOLERA and LOVE IN THE TIME OF CHOLERA between STRANGERS FROM WITHIN (Golding's original title) and LORD OF THE FLIES, between BEING LIGHT AND UNBEARABLE and THE UNBEARABLE LIGHTNESS OF BEING. THIRD ASSIGNMENT: create a breakout title (list several options, not more than three, and revisit to edit as needed). ___________________________________________________ DECIDING YOUR GENRE AND APPROACHING COMPARABLES Did you know that a high percentage of new novel writers don't fully understand their genre, much less comprehend comparables? When informing professionals about the nuances of your novel, whether by query letter or oral pitch, you must know your genre first, and provide smart comparables second. In other words, you need to transcend just a simple statement of genre (literary, mystery, thriller, romance, science fiction, etc.) by identifying and relating your novel more specifically to each publisher's or agent's area of expertise, and you accomplish this by wisely comparing your novel to contemporary published novels they will most likely recognize and appreciate--and it usually doesn't take more than two good comps to make your point. Agents and publishing house editors always want to know the comps. There is more than one reason for this. First, it helps them understand your readership, and thus how to position your work for the market. Secondly, it demonstrates up front that you are a professional who understands your contemporary market, not just the classics. Very important! And finally, it serves as a tool to enable them to pitch your novel to the decision-makers in the business. Most likely you will need to research your comps. If you're not sure how to begin, go to Amazon.Com, type in the title of a novel you believe very similar to yours, choose it, then scroll down the page to see Amazon's list of "Readers Also Bought This" and begin your search that way. Keep in mind that before you begin, you should know enough about your own novel to make the comparison in the first place! By the way, beware of using comparables by overly popular and classic authors. If you compare your work to classic authors like H.G. Wells and Gabriel Marquez in the same breath you will risk being declared insane. If you compare your work to huge contemporary authors like Nick Hornby or Jodi Picoult or Nora Ephron or Dan Brown or J.K. Rowling, and so forth, you will not be laughed at, but you will also not be taken seriously since thousands of others compare their work to the same writers. Best to use two rising stars in your genre. If you can't do this, use only one classic or popular author and combine with a rising star. Choose carefully! FOURTH ASSIGNMENT: - Read this NWOE article on comparables then return here. - Develop two smart comparables for your novel. This is a good opportunity to immerse yourself in your chosen genre. Who compares to you? And why? ____________________________________________________ CORE WOUND AND THE PRIMARY CONFLICT Conflict, tension, complication, drama--all basically related, and all going a long way to keeping the reader's eyes fixated on your story. These days, serving up a big manuscript of quiet is a sure path to damnation. You need tension on the page at all times, and the best way to accomplish this is to create conflict and complications in the plot and narrative. Consider "conflict" divided into three parts, all of which you MUST have present in the novel. First part, the primary dramatic conflict which drives through the work from beginning to end, from first major plot point to final reversal, and finally resolving with an important climax. Next, secondary conflicts or complications that take various social forms - anything from a vigorous love subplot to family issues to turmoil with fellow characters. Finally, those various inner conflicts and core wounds all important characters must endure and resolve as the story moves forward. But now, back to the PRIMARY DRAMATIC CONFLICT. If you've taken care to consider your story description and your hook line, you should be able to identify your main conflict(s). Let's look at some basic information regarding the history of conflict in storytelling. Conflict was first described in ancient Greek literature as the agon, or central contest in tragedy. According to Aristotle, in order to hold the interest, the hero must have a single conflict. The agon, or act of conflict, involves the protagonist (the "first fighter" or "hero") and the antagonist corresponding to the villain (whatever form that takes). The outcome of the contest cannot be known in advance, and, according to later drama critics such as Plutarch, the hero's struggle should be ennobling. Is that always true these days? Not always, but let's move on. Even in contemporary, non-dramatic literature, critics have observed that the agon is the central unit of the plot. The easier it is for the protagonist to triumph, the less value there is in the drama. In internal and external conflict alike, the antagonist must act upon the protagonist and must seem at first to overmatch him or her. The above defines classic drama that creates conflict with real stakes. You see it everywhere, to one degree or another, from classic contemporary westerns like THE SAVAGE BREED to a time-tested novel as literary as THE GREAT GATSBY. And of course, you need to have conflict or complications in nonfiction also, in some form, or you have a story that is too quiet. For examples let's return to the story descriptions and create some HOOK LINES. Let's don't forget to consider the "core wound" of the protagonist. Please read this article at NWOE then return here. The Hand of Fatima by Ildefonso Falcones A young Moor torn between Islam and Christianity, scorned and tormented by both, struggles to bridge the two faiths by seeking common ground in the very nature of God. Summer's Sisters by Judy Blume After sharing a magical summer with a friend, a young woman must confront her friend's betrayal of her with the man she loved. The Bartimaeus Trilogy by Jonathan Stroud As an apprentice mage seeks revenge on an elder magician who humiliated him, he unleashes a powerful Djinn who joins the mage to confront a danger that threatens their entire world. Note that it is fairly easy to ascertain the stakes in each case above: a young woman's love and friendship, the entire world, and harmony between opposed religions. If you cannot make the stakes clear, the odds are you don't have any. Also, is the core wound obvious or implied? FIFTH ASSIGNMENT: write your own hook line (logline) with conflict and core wound following the format above. Though you may not have one now, keep in mind this is a great developmental tool. In other words, you best begin focusing on this if you're serious about commercial publication. ______________________________________________________ OTHER MATTERS OF CONFLICT: TWO MORE LEVELS As noted above, consider "conflict" divided into three parts, all of which you should ideally have present. First, the primary conflict which drives through the core of the work from beginning to end and which zeniths with an important climax (falling action and denouement to follow). Next, secondary conflicts or complications which can take various social forms (anything from a vigorous love subplot to family issues to turmoil with fellow characters). Finally, those inner conflicts the major characters must endure and resolve. You must note the inner personal conflicts elsewhere in this profile, but make certain to note any important interpersonal conflicts within this particular category." SIXTH ASSIGNMENT: sketch out the conditions for the inner conflict your protagonist will have. Why will they feel in turmoil? Conflicted? Anxious? Sketch out one hypothetical scenario in the story wherein this would be the case--consider the trigger and the reaction. Next, likewise sketch a hypothetical scenario for the "secondary conflict" involving the social environment. Will this involve family? Friends? Associates? What is the nature of it? ______________________________________________________ THE INCREDIBLE IMPORTANCE OF SETTING When considering your novel, whether taking place in a contemporary urban world or on a distant magical planet in Andromeda, you must first sketch the best overall setting and sub-settings for your story. Consider: the more unique and intriguing (or quirky) your setting, the more easily you're able to create energetic scenes, narrative, and overall story. A great setting maximizes opportunities for interesting characters, circumstances, and complications, and therefore makes your writing life so much easier. Imagination is truly your best friend when it comes to writing competitive fiction, and nothing provides a stronger foundation than a great setting. One of the best selling contemporary novels, THE HUNGER GAMES, is driven by the circumstances of the setting, and the characters are a product of that unique environment, the plot also. But even if you're not writing SF/F, the choice of setting is just as important, perhaps even more so. If you must place your upmarket story in a sleepy little town in Maine winter, then choose a setting within that town that maximizes opportunities for verve and conflict, for example, a bed and breakfast stocked to the ceiling with odd characters who combine to create comical, suspenseful, dangerous or difficult complications or subplot reversals that the bewildered and sympathetic protagonist must endure and resolve while he or she is perhaps engaged in a bigger plot line: restarting an old love affair, reuniting with a family member, starting a new business, etc. And don't forget that non-gratuitous sex goes a long way, especially for American readers. CONTINUE TO READ THIS ARTICLE THEN RETURN. FINAL ASSIGNMENT: sketch out your setting in detail. What makes it interesting enough, scene by scene, to allow for uniqueness and cinema in your narrative and story? Please don't simply repeat what you already have which may well be too quiet. You can change it. That's why you're here! Start now. Imagination is your best friend, and be aggressive with it. ________________________ Below are several links to part of an article or whole articles that we feel are the most valuable for memoir writers. We have reviewed these and agree 110%. MEMOIR WRITING - CHOOSE A SPECIFIC EVENT (good general primer) How to Write a Memoir That People Care About | NY Book Editors NYBOOKEDITORS.COM Are you thinking of writing a memoir but you're stuck? We've got the remedy. Check out our beginner's guide on writing an epic and engaging memoir. MEMOIR MUST INCLUDE TRANSCENDENCE Writing Memoir? Include Transcendence - Memoir coach and author Marion Roach MARIONROACH.COM MEMOIR REQUIRES TRANSCENDENCE. Something has to happen. Or shift. Someone has to change a little. Or grow. It’s the bare hack minimum of memoir. WRITE IT LIKE A NOVEL How to Write a Powerful Memoir in 5 Simple Steps JERRYJENKINS.COM When it comes to writing a memoir, there are 5 things you need to focus on. If you do, your powerful story will have the best chance of impacting others. MEMOIR ANECDOTES - HOW TO MAKE THEM SHINE How to Write an Anecdote That Makes Your Nonfiction Come Alive JERRYJENKINS.COM Knowing how to write an anecdote lets you utilize the power of story with your nonfiction and engage your reader from the first page. ________________________ -
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Know Your Story's Selling Points
What are your selling points? Good Question! -
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Narrative Pages - beginning of manuscript
Chapter 1 - November 2015 “Run all you want, I’ll always be at the finish line.” Sierra jolted upright in bed, gasping for air, her gray Calvin Klein t-shirt and shorts soaking wet with a nervous sweat. She hadn’t slept through her alarm - her room was still dark except for a familiar glow from the streetlights below on Venice Boulevard, softly trickling through her sheer turquoise curtains covering the window behind her. Instinctively, Sierra reached beneath her white down duvet and pinched her stomach. It was still flat, for now, just… wet. Wiping the sweat beads now dripping from her forehead, Sierra had two immediate thoughts. “Thank god I’m sleeping alone, any man would be repulsed by my sweat puddle.” A quick shower and changing the sheets if Sierra felt ambitious enough at 3am would clean that simple mess. But there was no male guest over, so Sierra flipped the duvet over to the non-sweaty side and grabbed one of the countless bed pillows. The second thought presented a haunting realization sending a fear down Sierra’s spine that no ghost or goblin could compete with: After a decade of blissful silence, Alice had tracked Sierra down all the way on the other side of the country in Los Angeles. Sierra was certain, she was back. Sierra had no choice. Digging into her nightstand drawer, Sierra grabbed the only weapon that could combat Alice at this hour: a Xanax. —-------- May, 2002 Alice first visited Sierra thirteen years earlier, after her freshman year of college. Ignorantly beautiful and blessed with feminine curves throughout high school, the college lifestyle had other plans for the naive freshman. Along with a rigorous daily academic curriculum as a Business major, Sierra also received extra credit in late night pizzas, pints of Ben & Jerry’s ice-cream as study aids, and above all, beer from frat parties laced with the ability to permanently bloat stomachs. Entering her fall semester at a healthy, eye-turning size six, Sierra finished the spring semester at a puffy size 14. Maybe I’m overreacting, Sierra thought, staring in the mirror as she packed sorority memorabilia and now too-small clothes for her parents to collect her for the summer. Sierra’s father, Ira, an avid skier and tennis fanatic, took one look at his only daughter, his only child, and said, “You could lose some weight.” It didn’t matter that Sierra’s mother had admonished her husband for his insensitivity. A tattoo can be covered. Piercings can be taken out. Clothing didn’t hide fat. One look into Ira’s now cold and blackened eyes, and Sierra could see he no longer wanted to announce to anyone who would listen, “This is my daughter,” with pride. Sending Sierra to fat camp, if that even existed for college students, would have been a trip to Bali compared to the visitor who barged in the first night she returned to her childhood bedroom for the summer. Sierra crept into her parents’ bathroom while they were still watching TV and eyed the scale her father so loved to use. “I lost two pounds!” he’d exclaim after playing three sets of tennis in July, denouncing the notion it was mere water weight. With her right foot, Sierra stepped onto the evil white contraption with trepidation. The needle moved to the right. Oh fuck. Sierra knew stepping on with the left foot would only make the needle move to reveal a higher number. She was in college, after all. With two feet on the scale, Sierra looked down at the number where the needle was pointing. The intensity of the pang in her stomach as she read the number could have easily been an ulcer, kidney stone, anything. This can’t be right. Sierra lifted a leg in the air, maybe her sock was adding an extra fifteen pounds, right? Oh, that still doesn’t make sense, she realized. Sierra stepped off the scale and slipped off her must-be-fifteen-pound-each socks and tossed them in the corner, missing the trash can. Taking a deep breath, Sierra stepped onto the scale on her tip-toes, like her elegant ballet days. When she peered down at the evil needle, it hadn’t budged. So my socks don’t weight fifteen pounds each and I can’t will myself to be ballerina thin, Sierra realized. Frantic, she stripped naked, hoping the spilled water droplets on her shirt from washing her hands or the elastic in her shorts amounted to a surprising amount of pounds. But the stubborn scale didn’t wouldn’t budge. Sierra kicked it. The fuck does that thing know, Sierra thought as she put her ratty t-shirt and shorts back on. No wonder why Zachary Jansen doesn’t like me… I am fat. That was the first night Alice visited Sierra. Thinking she was safe in her room after having an argument with the bathroom scale, Sierra flopped like a starfish on her bed, with only the soft hum of the ceiling fan swirling above her in the dark. Sierra would have preferred an evil witch flying into her room over what happened next. Without warning, Sierra’s thoughts were racing, bouncing off the walls of her brain so fast she didn’t have time to process each one until the next zoomed by. It was Nascar, but much worse. Round and round they went, bringing a sensation of dread and doom so intense that Sierra found it difficult to breathe. Is this a heart attack? Sierra would have done anything to escape being in her own body, the racing mind that at one time was hers and hers alone. It wasn’t a heart attack, or anything remotely close. Over the coming weeks, after seeing a doctor and obtaining a Xanax prescription, Sierra kept quiet about the visits from Alice. But that didn’t make her any less real. It was as if Alice was a detested old aunt, barging in, carrying two extra large bulging suitcases, the worn fabric ripping along the zipper seam. Her equally bulging frame was always draped in a heinous peach linen suit. A matching wide-brimmed hat may have shaded her face, but it didn’t conceal the smell of cheap drug store perfume. She may be a detested guest, but no one turns away family. When most extended family members come for a visit, they usually have the decency to stay in the guest room. Not Alice. She went straight for Sierra’s room, tasking her to lug the suitcases up the staircase each and every visit. There were never any clothes in the suitcases. Instead, they were filled with thoughts even uglier than her peach linen suit. At any chance, Alice would unleash their nastiness at Sierra. “Yes, you are fat.” “Don’t think any of the hot frat guys will be taking you back to the house with all that pudge.” “Your pants are giving you cameltoe.” “No father could love a daughter like you.” Alice even quoted Kate Moss. “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels… not that you would know.” ___________________________________ Chapter 2 - That evening, November 2015 “My dating life is more unfair than the California state income tax rate,” Sierra complained to her roommate Vee, which was a rather stupid thing to do. Vee doled out sympathy about as often as it snowed in Los Angeles. But of course, Sierra continued to bark up the unresponsive tree as she paced the living room carpeting. “You’d think I had daddy issues or something.” “Jeremy told me when he dropped me off that he wanted to hang out again. We had a great time at the museum and the brewery, blah blah, kisses me good-bye, and it’s been like… FOUR days? That’s a whole day past the three day rule. I mean, this is the guy that texted non stop since we matched on Bumble. I just don’t get it.” Sierra flopped dramatically on the beige couch that had seen too many knocked over drinks and spilled plates of pad thai. “Sierra, just move on. Sometimes people don’t want to seem like assholes, so they say things they think the other person will want to hear just to save face. I’ve done it before.” Even with her tightly pursed lips, Vee always had luck dating men. Perhaps it was her zero tolerance for bullshit and knack for being worshiped by suitors. Take her current boyfriend of six months, Gregory. On Sunday mornings, he religiously prepared Vee avocado toast topped with a sunny-side egg. “But why, Vee, why? I don’t get it. Like save me the time, energy, and bullshit from staring at my phone for four days wondering when a text will appear. God, I’m going to be thirty-two soon, so I’m like almost forty. Before you know it, it’s just a bunch of ugly cats and me. I don’t even like cats.” “First of all, Sierra, don’t wait around for guys. That’s dumb. You have your own life and a very beautiful one at that so why are you wasting your time worrying over one person you barely know?” Sierra’s mind knew this. However, that whole mind and soul connection hadn’t yet clicked. “Come on, Sierra, I think it’s time for a gratitude list.” Begrudgingly, Sierra got up from her office area, a desk against a portion of the living room wall, and joined Vee at the kitchen table, who tore a sheet out of one of Sierra’s loose notebooks. “Okay Sierra, don’t think, just say what comes to mind.” As each item came to mind, Vee nodded approvingly and wrote it down. Hot body from running Hot body from not eating pizza, pasta, or any other evil carb Hot body from Adderall’s magical side effect of appetite suppression (as needed) Tight in all the Right places. Friends that know how to get lit on a Sunday Funday Bye-bye to the 9 - 5 grind by starting Roth Media Solutions 7. Oh duh, Los Angeles weather Escaped Pennsylvania After looking at the list, Sierra’s mood lightened, especially re-reading number eight.
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