Friday, May 13, 2016

May Sale


Including my own Hailey's Comments!


From some secrets, just like from some men, there’s no escape. 

No one knows that sassy but shy Emma Clements is the voice of her grandmother’s advice column, Hailey’s Comments, until handsome Ryan Everett discovers the truth. To avoid his teasing questions and his you-can’t-fool-me remarks, Emma and her ugly dog Wyeth flee to sparsely populated Lister Island in the Puget Sound, where Emma intends to devote the summer to her painting and art. 


On Lister Island, Emma encounters a pistol packing priest, a pair of greedy organic food farmers, an octogenarian jail keeper and Ryan Everett. Soon, Emma is much more concerned about her heart than her art. After a series of disturbing coincidences, Emma suspects that the life of Helen Dunsmuir, Lister Island’s recently deceased grande dame, is tied to her own. As she unravels the secrets of Helen’s life—and untimely death—Emma learns that problems are rarely solved with a quip or platitude, and that it’s better to love than to comment. 



Hailey’s Comments, a romantic suspense reminiscent of Mary Stewart, was a quarter-finalist in the Amazon Breakthrough Contest.




Monday, May 9, 2016

My First Author School Visit

My sister is a reading specialist at Polaris High School, a school for high risk students. She asked me to come and speak to an English class. It made me nervous. (You can read about my introverted ways here.) But I'm so glad I did it. Not only was it fun, but the story the kids plotted is now my work in progress! Here's some of the notes I got from the kids (and teacher.)








Friday, May 6, 2016

When Dead Friends Visit

I had a dream last night that a dead writer friend came to visit me. (You can read more about Marilou here) We were in the home of another more successful (alive) writer. The house was chaotic, food-on-the-floor messy, and full of readers and writers--most of them argumentative and generally unhappy.

But I was so happy to see Marilou. We talked about my books and I told her I had started a new one. I was excited about it, but, for some reason, yesterday I wasn't able to focus. It took me several hours to write what I can usually write in one. She was encouraging and when she hugged me goodbye, I was surprised that she felt the same in my arms as before.

After she left, a woman from my church told me how inappropriate it was for Marilou to visit when she was dead. "She needs to stay dead." That was really sad for me. And not even true. People who have truly lived leave behind a legacy. Especially writers. Talking to Marilou reminded me of a quote I heard once that goes something like this: People will forget and ignore the thou shalt nots, but they'll remember and love the once upon a times. (That's why some fairy tales have been around for thousands of years.)

Our world, just like my friend's house in my dream, can be chaotic, messy, and contentious, but talking to Marilou reminded me that we write to try and make sense out of our world and hopefully make it a better place to be.

Here's the second chapter of my work in progress Menagerie. You can read chapter one here.http://kristystories.blogspot.com/2016/05/tuesday-teaser-menagerie-chapter-one.html


CHAPTER TWO
TEN YEARS LATER

In mid-April when the crocus began to lift their heads from the ground and the daffodils unfurled toward the bleak, not yet warm sun, a pod of gray whales splashed past the western side of the island. Liza loved this time of year when the plants and animals roused themselves from winter’s frozen grasp. The garden, still crusty with ice, yielded beneath Liza’s hoe as she worked the compost into the soil. Liza longed to be out in the dingy to hear of the whale’s northern adventures, but Rose kept her in the garden.
Liza slid her mother a glance. Worry was etched between Rose’s eyebrows, and her lips were pulled into a thin, straight line. Tension radiated from her, and Liza felt powerless against it.
Wilson sat at the garden’s edge, his ears pricked, his eyes vigilant, despite the cataracts clouding his vision. Monroe perched in the branches of the maple tree, flicking his tail and complaining about the birds swooping around him.
“A man comes,” Wilson whimpered.
Liza braced herself against her hoe and glanced out at the tranquil bay. Wispy clouds trailed across the robin’s egg blue sky. She couldn’t see an approaching boat. “Is it him?” she asked, referring to her mother’s secret lover, the man she suspected of being her father. He had come many times over the years, always following an offering of ginger root tea.
“John Lamb? No. Someone else.”
“A postman?”
“No.”
Liza resumed hoeing when she caught her mother’s gaze. She’d learned long ago that her mother couldn’t hear or understand the animals the way she did. At first, this bothered her. For years, she had believed her mother to be all-knowing and all-powerful, but in time, Liza grew to love that she had an ability her mother not only didn’t share but also discounted as a childish whim akin to make-believe friends and monsters beneath the bed.
“The whales dislike him. His boat is loud and he’s disrupting their path.”
Liza frowned against the sun.
“Tired already?” Rose asked without looking up from her work.
“No, I thought I heard an engine.”
Rose’s head jerked over her shoulder and her spine stiffened. She cocked her head, listening.
Gulls cried out as they wheeled overhead. “A man, a man, a man.”
“I don’t hear anything,” Rose said slowly, resuming her hoeing.
It had been months since John Lamb had been to visit, and Liza had yet to understand why he came and went as infrequently as a summer storm.
“A large boat, yet manned alone,” Wilson said.
“Not quite,” Monroe said, twitching his whiskers. “He brings a creature.”
Creature was Monroe’s word for dog.
Wilson’s ears pricked up. “I cannot smell him.”
“Nor I, but the Albatross spotted him,” Monroe said. “He’s wolfish.”
Wilson began to pace.
Rose lifted her face to the sun. Liza saw the questions in her mother’s eyes, but she didn’t know the answers. She wasn’t even sure of the questions.
“There’s something I need to tell you, Pet,” Rose began. “Not just one thing, actually…” She paused and twisted lips. “Things I should have told you a long time ago.”
Liza, of course, knew that her mother had secrets. The many books she read told her that very few lived in isolation the way that she and her mother did. There had to be a world beyond the island, a place peopled with more than friendly postmen and the occasional visitor.
An engine roared. A big beautiful boat slid into the cove. Sunlight sparkled off its shiny chrome and glass. This boat was bigger than anything Liza had ever seen.
“How?” Rose whispered, dropping her hoe. “He’s found me.”
“Who is it, Mama?” Liza asked.
Rose quickly bent and retrieved her hoe, but this time she carried it like a weapon. “No questions, love. I need you to run and hide.”
“Hide? Where? Why?”
Rose shook her hoe at Liza. “I said no questions! Go to the woods. There’s the old shack where Daugherty brewed her ale, go there.” Rose sucked in a deep breath. “No one can trespass the woods,” she muttered beneath her breath.
Liza’s memories of Daugherty were vague, but she knew of the shack. “But what about you?”
Rose shook her hoe at Liza. “I’ll join you soon. Now go.”
Liza picked up her hoe for no other reason than her mom had one, and ran into the woods. Wilson loped beside her.
“Who is he?” Liza asked the birds flying above her.
“A big man,” a swallow answered.
“A wolf creature,” a robin put in.
“Hide in my tree,” a squirrel called out as Liza ran past. “It’s hollow inside. He’ll never find you.”
“Thank you, but no,” Liza said, her pace slowing. She wasn’t sure she wanted to hide from this man and his large boat. A wicked part of her wanted to him to find her and take her to the cities where people and cars filled the streets. She had only read of cars, trucks and helicopters. Occasionally, an airplane would fly overhead, so she knew—sort of—what a plane looked like from a great distance. But all other vehicles were nothing more than figments of her imagination. She had a bicycle but had never seen a motorcycle. There was so very much that she’d never seen, and this man, this stranger, may have seen everything. Maybe he could show her—introduce her to this word beyond the island.
“This man is not your friend,” Wilson warned her.
A friend. Liza ached for a friend, but even as she did so, a wave of guilt washed over her because she knew that her mother should be enough. Her mother worked hard to keep her safe, to provide food and warmth, to supply the books for Liza’s entertainment and education. Liza knew that her mother had sacrificed her own life—a life with John Lamb—to keep Liza safe and sheltered from the world.
But what if I don’t want to be sheltered? The thought was so astounding, it halted her. Liza froze on the path to Daugherty’s shack.
Wilson pressed his nose to the back of her leg, urging her to go on.
“I don’t want to be here anymore,” Liz thought.
“Hurry, hurry, hurry,” the friendly squirrel chattered.
“No!” Liza found her voice.
“Go! Go! Go!” The crows swooped around her.
“No! I don’t think so.”
“Not safe! Not safe! Not safe!” The crows contended.
Slowly, Liza began picking her way toward the cottage because she knew and trusted the crows. They were much more clever than most of the animals and were almost never wrong. Although, they were self-serving, unlike Wilson.
“Why don’t you think it’s safe?” Liza asked the crows.
“A gun! A gun! A gun!” the birds responded.
“He has a gun?” Liza halted. She’d read about guns. They were mostly used and possessed by villains and soldiers, and as far as she knew, there weren’t any wars being waged on the island... which could only mean that this man meant her mom harm. “I have to warn my mom!”
“Go to Daugherty’s shack as your mom said,” Wilson said. “We’ll send the crows to protect your mom.”

Liza brushed past him, heading for the stone cottage. Her knees buckled as a blinding pain slammed onto the top of her head.

Tuesday, May 3, 2016

Tuesday Teaser, Menagerie, Chapter One


This is a teaser of my latest work in progress, Menagerie. It's the story of seventeen-year old Liza Woods who has spent her life cloistered on an island in the Puget Sound with her mom and a menagerie of animals--some domesticated and some not. 

Chapter One

The birds heralded the storm, as they always did. They liked to be the first in the know, although, as Liza had learned long ago, not all birds were created equal, and some species were much more reliable than others. Not that they lied, very few creatures had that ability or cunning, but rather in their haste to be the first in the know, some blurted out misconceptions and half-truths.
Not that Liza had much familiarity with liars—or people in general—but she’d read of several, as Rose, her mother, had accumulated an impressive library since her arrival on the island. Not that Liza was in any position to know what was and was not impressive library-wise, or any otherwise, since Liza herself had never been off the island she and Rose called home.
The howling wind drowned out the calls of the birds and squirrels’ and chipmunks’ chatter. Opossum, skunks, and fox sought shelter in the forest’s thickets. Rats and mice scurried to find hidey-holes. Liza fetched an armful of wood from the shed to stoke the fire while her mother gathered candles.
Wind rustled the tarp protecting the woodpile. The pine trees, used to standing straight and tall, moaned as the wind whipped through their canopy, and bent them in ways they didn’t wish to go.
“A man approaches,” Wilson whined, terror tainting his words.
Liza looked over the German Shepherd’s furry head to the storm-tossed sea. The Sound, normally a tranquil gray-blue slate, roiled as if shaken by an unseen hand. Liza couldn’t see anyone, but her heart quickened as it always did when a boat wandered into their cove. “Are you sure?” She saw nothing but a curtain of rain, an angry sky, and churning tide. The gulls, who generally swooped above the bay, had wisely found shelter. The otters, too, had disappeared, and for once the noisy, boisterous sea lions, were silent.
The dog nodded. “He’s lost, but hopeful.”
“Hopeful? Of what?”
Wilson shook his head. His ears flattened and his tail drooped when another flash of lightening lit the sky. He cowered as the thunder boomed.
“Come,” Liza said, “let’s go inside. Only an imbecile would be out on the water today.”
“He’s no longer on the water,” Wilson whined. “His boat has landed.”
Liza peered into the storm, saw nothing more than before, added another log to her collection, and headed for the house. Their cottage was made of stone, but the adjacent shed which sheltered the woodpile, gardening tools, and chicken feed, was constructed of recycled wood. Wind blew through the slats and rattled the shake roof. The cottage would be warm and dry in a way the shed never could.
Wilson whined again. Liza knew he longed for the comforts of the house as much as she did, but she also understood Wilson had an important job to do and he would never back away from protecting her from strangers.
“There’s no one there,” Liza said, stomping toward the cottage. She climbed the steps and pulled open the Dutch door. The warm comforting scent of the crackling fire mingled with the smell of ginger cookies.
Rose stood at the large pine table, stacking the cookies onto a plate. Liza stared at the amount, knowing that she and her mother would never be able to eat so many.
“There’s a man in the cove,” Liza said, wondering if her mother already knew, and if so, why hadn’t she told her she expected company.
Rose kept her gaze focused on the cookies and blushed.
“Are you expecting someone?” Liza demanded.
“No, not really, but I…” Rose’s voice trailed away.
Liza stomped through the kitchen and passed into the living room. She deposited her logs onto the hearth, stood, placed her hands on her hips, and marched back into the kitchen. She hated surprises, but she was also curious.
“Who is this man?” Not Leonard, the postman—her mother would never blush for the potato-shaped letter-carrier. Besides, Leonard would never venture to the island in a storm. He only came a few times a month.
“He’s someone that I used to know,” Rose said without meeting Liza’s eye.
“Why is he coming? Will he bring books?”
Rose laughed, but it sounded strange—strained and nervous. Liza decided that she already disliked this man. She plucked a cookie off the plate.
Rose looked up sharply, an expectant look on her face.
Liza studied her cookie, suddenly suspicious. Her mother studied and experimented with herbs and she’d taught Liza a variety of recipes. Lilies to lighten the mood, lavender to soothe worries, dandelions to bring sleep, basil to stimulate energy, and gingerroot to make one forget. Liza sniffed the cookie and touched it with her tongue.
Her mother watched her.
Liza smiled, took a big bite, and left the kitchen. In the privacy of her own room, she went to the window and pulled it open. A cold breeze flew in, ruffling the drapes, and blowing about the papers on her desk. Liza ignored the wind, stuck her head out the window and spit the cookie out into the storm. She slammed the window closed.
“What are you doing?” Rose asked.
Liza started. She hadn’t heard her mother come in. Wrapping her arms around herself, Liza said, “I was looking for the man.”
Rose’s lips lifted into a smile. “Don’t worry about him. Here, I’ve brought you some tea.” She set down a steaming mug on Liza’s bedside table. “Gingerroot, your favorite.”
“Thanks.”
“Want to come and read by the fire?” Rose asked.
Liza glanced back at the storm on the other side of the window. An idea tickled in the back of her mind. “In a second,” she said. After plopping down on her bed, Liza sipped from the teacup, but she didn’t swallow it.
Rose lifted her own mug to her lips and watched Liza.
Liza set the mug back down and met her mother’s gaze. After an awkward moment, Rose lifted her shoulder in a half-hearted shrug and headed down the hall.
Liza bounced from the bed, closed the door, and spat the tea back into the mug. She poured the entire cup down the toilet, flushed, and climbed back onto her bed. She lay perfectly still, waiting for her mom to re-enter the room. She didn’t have to wait long.
A few moments later, her bedroom door creaked open. With her eyes firmly closed, Liza practiced her corpse pose and didn’t even flinch as she heard her mother steal into the room. Rose tucked a quilt around Liza’s shoulders before softly closing the door.
Liza peeked open an eye and met Wilson’s steady, brown-eyed gaze. “Who is he?”
“I don’t know,” the dog whimpered. “He isn’t scared.”
“How can you tell?” Liza asked.
“The smell. All emotions have a smell.”
“My mom—what’s her smell?”
Wilson jumped up on the bed beside Liza and nestled beside her. “She loves you.”
“I know that. But I don’t know what that has to do with anything.”
Wilson whimpered again and snuggled closer. “You have to let me out so I can meet this man.”
“I can’t. If I do, she’ll know I’m awake. You’re on your own.”
Wilson blew out a breath, stood, shook himself, and jumped off the bed. He went to the door to bark and whine. It didn’t do any good. Her mother ignored him, which told Liza a number of things. One: the potion Rose had given Liza must have been so strong that Rose didn’t worry about Wilson waking her. Two: Rose didn’t want to be interrupted. Three: Rose must have been expecting this man.
Liza sat up as a thought assaulted her.
Wilson, as if reading her mind, jumped back up beside her and gazed into her eyes.
“This man is my father!” Liza blurted out.
“You cannot know this,” Wilson whimpered.
“She loves him enough to drug me just to spend time with him! Of course, he’s my father!”
Wilson moaned a disagreement.
Liza had a lot of questions—mostly because she was only seven, but also because she lived a solitary life with her mother on an uninhabited island in the Puget Sound. She had a faith that her questions would eventually be answered, but the biggest questions in her heart and mind all centered around her father.
Liza kicked off the quilt her mother had tucked around her and crawled off the bed.
Wilson placed his nose against her thigh, stopping her. “There must be a good reason why your mother doesn’t want you to meet this man.”
“She never said she didn’t want me to meet him.”
Wilson snorted. “If she had wanted you to meet him, she wouldn’t have drugged you.”
Suddenly Liza hated her mother. “She can’t keep me from my own father.”
Wilson parked his butt against the door like a giant hairy roadblock. “You do not know he is your father.”
“Of course, he’s my father. Now move.” She grabbed Wilson’s collar to pull him away.
His fur bunched up around his collar, but he wouldn’t budge.
Liza tried the door knob, but since Wilson outweighed her by nearly fifty pounds the door wouldn’t open. Liza flounced to the window.
“Where are you going?” Wilson asked, his ears poking toward the ceiling.
“To meet my father.” Liza threw open the window. The wind spat rain in her face and carried a breath of bone-chilling cold into the room.
Wilson stood, shook himself, but didn’t move away from the door.
Liza had one leg thrown over the sill, and her exposed foot was already wet from the rain.
“You’ll look like a drowned cat if you go out into the storm,” Wilson said.
She sent him a dirty look. He gazed back at her. She clambered out the window. The rain hit her like hundreds shards of ice. The cold stung her face and pierced her clothes. She ran around to the side of the house so she could look in the windows.
Inside, sitting side by side on the sofa, snuggled together in front of the fire was her mom and a man. Liza knew she’d never seen him before—not that she could remember, at least—but there was something about him that spoke to her, and called out to him.
But as she watched him laughing with her mother, Liza had another realization. She knew that even if she introduced herself to this man, because of the cookies on the platter, in time, he would forget her. She’d only be a vague recollection—a face he couldn’t place.
Liza never drank gingerroot tea again.














Friday, April 8, 2016

Mustering the Muse, Part 10


My friend wrote this about the death of our mutual friend. A friend from my high school days went to be with the Lord earlier this year. Her sweet beautiful daughter shared this song on FB yesterday. I just thought it was so beautiful and uplifting for anyone who has been through grieving, suffering or any kind of heartbreak. Isn't that all of us in one way or another? I just had to share it, too.

It reminded me of something I try to remember, but sometimes forget. I write because stories, like all art forms, can transpose us out of our ordinary world and help us see things in a new way. Sometimes it can help us forgot our worries and ease our pain. And although one little story can't solve the world's biggest problems, it can make them go away for a short time, simply because we're too wrapped up in a story to notice.

Tuesday, March 29, 2016

Mustering the Muse, Part 9

Do all things from a place of love.

  • Love – love God. Love the gift that He has given you. Show love to others by sharing your gift.