Thicker Than Blood an excerpt from Charlotte's Chance

Charlotte started going into detail about doing Brenda’s house, which she had finished a week ago.  Badly.  It had been her worst work yet.  That had a lot more to do with her being a frazzled wreck than anything else.  It had all seemed like such a good idea taking care of Sandra’s things, looking in on her apartment, and seeing to Penelope at the kennel.  She had accessed her accounts, and opened online bill pay funneling the money directly from her account to her creditors.  She had needed to move several thousands from her savings to her checking.  But the woman had an almost trust fund balance in her savings from royalties from her grandfather’s shipping empire.   It hadn’t even put a dent in things.  Charlotte had gone by her apartment and watered her plants a week and a half ago, and that’s when things had started getting interesting.

Charlotte had left Brenda’s feeling pretty good about the way the room was going.  She had made a brief stop by Penelope’s kennel, which had been on the way, to pay the bill.  Sandra had given her an emergency ATM card years ago just in case.  Charlotte had locked it in the safe in the house. 

Sandra had the safe installed when she had first purchased the house eight years ago while she had been studying for her doctorate in Oklahoma.  According to Sandra Oklahoma City was dead on the weekends.  So she would travel to Dallas every Friday afternoon to stay for the weekend, and then head back to Oklahoma on Mondays.  Being tired of hotels she had spent her savings on a house in Richardson.  A few years after she had returned to Dallas by way of Scotland she had been ready to get rid of the house.

Only pure coincidence could explain just why Charlotte had been in the market for a house.  Her business had started going so well after she had met Brenda who would recommend her for all of the high money projects that she had worked on.  So it was time for Charlotte to get out of the one bedroom apartment in North Dallas, and put money into property.

Charlotte and Sandra had been casual friends from their initial meeting in the nightclub.  On weekends they would get together and talk about their pet project W.A.R.M. Soon Charlotte had brought in Brenda, and then Sandra had introduced them to Deborah and Rachel.  Suddenly Sandra had been selling her house, and their friendship had taken on a new dynamic.

It had been a funny scene because Sandra had put the house on the market. Charlotte had seen the ad, and called it up.  When she had met up with Charlotte, and not some stranger wanting to buy her house, Sandra had smiled and said she knew a sign when she saw one.  If Charlotte wanted the house it was hers.  Sandra had brokered the thing herself so that closing costs and realtor commissions wouldn’t make the house beyond Charlotte’s reach. 

This had led to she and Charlotte becoming even closer as Sandra helped Charlotte fulfill a dream she had since she had been small; having her own home.  They had been like sisters since.  Being an only child, Sandra had fancied the idea of having a younger sister, and always treated Charlotte like that.  She would tell Charlotte things first, secrets about herself, and what was happening in her life.  Asking her opinion on matters, something that the outwardly self-confident doctor didn’t like to admit needing help with.  At those times she could look at Sandra, and know that this woman would do anything for her without a second thought.

It was those kinds of things that had made Charlotte uncommonly loyal to Sandra.  As Charlotte knew first hand, sometimes your own family didn’t care about your happiness as much as they cared about their own personal gain. She loved all of her family dearly, but she could count on one hand the members of her family that would’ve moved heaven and earth to make her dreams come true; the ones who already had which were her mother, brother, and grandmother. The three of them together by begging, borrowing, and pleading had made sure that Charlotte had gotten through school at the Savannah School of Art and Design.

Her grandmother wasn’t a wealthy woman.  She and the late Dougal McConnell had come to America from Scotland with nothing but three shirts, two pairs of pants, a couple of dresses, and a few family heirlooms.  So the family had never had anything but a strong work ethic, and a desire to earn their keep.  Her mother and brother had individual trusts put in place by his father, her first husband Jonathan Clangston.  They weren’t plentiful, but they made it possible for her mother to retire two years ago, and for her brother to carry on his international affairs without much fuss.  Everyone had lived a little less than comfortable when they had decided together that Charlotte’s career goals were worthwhile; her mother even more so with the added burden of providing care for her elderly diabetic mother.

Her mother’s two sisters loved her, but they had children of their own.  Bernice and Carolyn were older than Anna Marie, and they balanced husbands, children, grandchildren, and helped Anna Marie care for their mother: children, and grandchildren that Charlotte only saw every few years at family reunions.  She always felt bad about the fact that she wouldn’t even recognize the whole lot of them if they met up somewhere, and she was quite sure that it was the same for them with her.

Her father’s family was a joke.  Just a clan of Irish and Welsh that found it nigh near impossible to conduct themselves within the confines of the law.  Even worse they would steal the shirt off of the back of a blood relative without batting an eyelash.  It seems that they had been in America for centuries robbing and cheating their way through life.  So bad that even the Irish mobs wouldn’t have them.  They had no honor at all. 

That aspect of Charlotte’s blood made her very aware of loyalty, and the importance of keeping your word no matter what.  It was one of her grandmother’s rules. Only on penalty of death should someone be forsworn, and Charlotte believed in that.  She had promised Sandra when she had helped her get her house that if there were ever a time that she should need help she would not need to look any further. 

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Tripping the Light Fantastic an excerpt from Shuttered Vision

Fiona was running, the earth was moving fast beneath her feet. She was laughing and playing.  The sun was bright and florid. The air rich with the scent of poppies.  She stopped running and started twirling in circles, just like she had when she was little.  The man that stared down at her was her favorite man in the world. She stopped spinning and threw herself into his waiting arms.

“Fee-Fee.” He said like he always had softly, quickly and yet insistently giving it all the French inclinations it desired. “What are you doing here?” he asked in his odd Spanish, Texan, French accent.

“I wanted to see you.”

He gave her that chiding look that only an overindulging father gives his child. “Petite, you have other things to do besides obsess over me.  How is your mother?”

“She misses you.”

He shielded his dark eyes. “And I her.  We will meet again she and I.”

“Soon?”

He gave her a firm look. “What have I told you about asking about the future?”

“Don’t do it.”

“You have something to do.” He stated as he gave her a final hug and then put her down.  He looked into the horizon of the grassy area that they were on.  It was like a still set almost.  Wind blew and there was grass and the smell of poppies but it was static, none moving giving cry to the illusion of the place.  With firm steps he walked to the edge of her vision and poked the sky.  It rippled from the spot.

“He’s eavesdropping.” He stated.

Fiona felt shock and surprise. “No one comes here but me, not even Momma. How--”

“He’s searching for you cherie. And he has found you.”

He moved now to stand behind Fiona, slowly he took her hand and moved it across the sky.  It felt like satin under her fingertips and like water the fabric of the sky parted and fell away to reveal her field and there was a tall blonde man standing in the middle of it.  Fiona turned to go back but it was too late, she was now in her field.

Instantly Fiona was enraged with the man. “What are you doing here and who in the hell are you?”

He stood there staring at her. “You can see me.” He said softly.

“Of course I can see you.”

He shrugged. “You were running and twirling, it looked like you were talking to someone but I didn’t see anyone else.”

Fiona felt herself take a deep breath. “What are you doing here?”

“Hiding.” He smiled back at her.

“Should I bother asking who you are?”

“I’m nobody darling.”

Fiona felt herself start to move towards him, but she didn’t walk.  It was almost as if he willed her to him and she merely floated over. She looked down and saw her field moving beneath her feet.  She tried a few times to stop the motion and was unsuccessful.

“What are you?” she asked in a ragged fashion.

“Just a man.” He said evenly.

“No way, no one does –“

“I know, no one controls this but you.”

She was right in front of him now. She was elevated so that she could look him in the eye.  His sea green eyes searched her face. “My those are amazing eyes you’re got.  With the right light, they’d film like a dream.  People would think they’re CGI’d.”

“I doubt I’m the filming type.”

“You’re right. You’re gorgeous but you’re built too much like a real woman for Hollywood.  It’s all about the illusion you see, trick the world into believing only filmable things should exist.  Very few men would even see your face with the rest of that displayed.”

Fiona felt herself blush.

“Beautiful lips.” And then he leaned into her.

Colan Abrams from an excerpt of Shuttered Vision

“Mr. Abrams.”

A pause.

“Mr. Abrams.”

Longer pause.

“Colan.”  From a different voice.

He jerked awake. “Yeah, yeah what is it.”

“I can’t even describe how rude what you’re doing is.”

Colan wiped his face and resettled himself in his chair. “It wasn’t intentional I had a rough night last night.  I apologize.”

The four people at the table stared at him.

“Please continue.” He gestured loosely at the man speaking.

“So here is where the film actually moves . . “

What movement Colan thought to himself.  Another horror film where people disembody each other in horrific ways.  There is no movement in a film about brutal death.  There is brutal death, a half to fully naked chick and oh yeah a glorified psychopath.  Alfred Hitchcock knew what horror was.  It was an element of the mind.  He understood that what the human mind could imagine was much more horrific and gruesome than what he could ever show on a screen.  Even with today’s technology he would only redefine darkness, horror, true terror.  He would create art.  Film making was an art.  True film making, movie making however was a tired racket.  He could always tell within the first 30 seconds of a pitch if he was talking to an artist or a hack.

The horror flick being pitched, “Until Dawn” was a movie, not a film.  The screenwriter had cobbled together the shock value factors of the last 4 years of highest grossing horror movies and was selling them like they were fresh stock. And because Colan was in the business he was in, he would have to underwrite it and start production as soon as the hack was ready.  Because he was not a film producer, he was a movie producer and never should the two actually met.

If he had known that a Bachelor’s from Berkeley and a Master’s from NYU would’ve gotten him here, he would’ve saved the money.  That way at least he’d be like Paul sitting next to him, none wiser about the difference between art and crap.

“You hear that Col, the ending, it’s totally unique.”

“No it was done in 1976.  It’s a variation on the original ending of Carrie, the one they didn’t have the funds to do during that time period, the one Stephen King actually wrote.” Colan corrected without really thinking about it.  He sat up straight.

“Bottom line, it’ll easily be the Halloween blockbuster the year its’ released.”  He paused as the pasty man’s excitement started to fill the room. His partner nodding in agreement.  It was always like this when he talked to these guys.  Had to be how music producers felt about most rap styles that had nothing to do with the original slam poetry and hip hop styles they so carelessly discarded yet have to thank for their future success.

“Any plans for sequels?” He asked carelessly.

The man grinned from ear to ear. “Well I was trying to produce a stand alone but if the studio would like a franchise I am more than willing to negotiate those terms.”

Colan stood. “Wonderful, you and Paul here can hack it out. I mean hash it out.”  He fixed Paul with a blank look. “In the current media market we can shoot for 3 total, with a possible 4^th upon villain restructuring.  Get me 2 in the can in 28 months.”

Paul was taking notes and nodding.  Colan stared down at his pristine bottle platinum blond locks carefully and artfully moussed and gelled into hip spikes. Reflexively he ran his hand through his own shoulder length blonde mane trying to remember the last time he’d even washed it with shampoo and conditioned it.  Felt pretty rough to the touch.

“Done.” Paul confirmed and looked suspiciously up at him with his dark brown eyes.

Colan smiled at the look of suspicion.  He was always wondering what he was up to.  What angle he was playing.  Wouldn’t he be surprised the day he told him there never had been one. He turned and left the room. 

Couldn’t blame Paul.  That was the life.  Movies made a lot of money, they also spent a lot of money.  Those two factors together drew a certain kind of person.  A land shark.  But there were levels of shark and cannibalism was not only tolerated it was often encouraged.  To reach the level and status that Colan had reached required a lot of guilty memories.  Paul was just being careful because you never knew when one of those beasts was going to turn on you.

Colan would’ve had a guy like Paul for lunch eight years ago.  He had been without remorse when it came to getting to the top and being able to call the shots.  He had been a fool to believe that being at the top of this industry would do anything but change his priorities. People have this fantasy that once they get to the top of something, they can just instantly change the entire institution and structure.  They think they have a noble cause and noble goals. 

Colan had been no different. For most of his 36 years of life, films had sustained and carried him.  He would never forget his first drive thru experience.  His mother and father had taken them to see something he thought he really wanted to see until he turned around to look at another screen in the tri screen theatre.  There he watched, without sound, Superman. Shortly there after his father had left and he fell completely into the world of moving pictures as his mother had to leave him to fend for himself as she had to work more.  So he watched movies, every kind he could watch.

He was raised in a back water Oklahoma town called Chandler right outside of Oklahoma City.  When he had become high school age he had talked his mother into letting him go to the best high school in the state located in Norman Oklahoma near Oklahoma State University.  There he had started the process to get into the University of California Berkeley. From there he had gone to Tisch with New York University with a 4.0.

Colan had graduated full of zest, zeal and an appropriate amount of artistic angst and he had hit the independent film scene a blaze.  His first three movies had been shot down instantly.  The people he pitched to insisting that America didn’t want to think, they wanted blood guts and senseless violence. He had been unconvinced.  The public took what they could get. He was going to make films again. 

All of his professors had seen the idealist in him and knew what that meant.  One by one over the years they had warned him away from Hollywood.  Make films overseas first, he had been advised. But he had been a patriot.  He had only wanted to give his creations to American audiences first. 

With the choices being Disney and Hollywood, he had chosen the later.

So there he had gone.  Hollywood was everything he thought it would be and a slew of other things he hadn’t expected.  He had expected to be disgusted to be insulted as the art he loved was being canonized and mass produced without thought or originality.  What he hadn’t expected was to be lured in by the potential of ultimate power. To be held enwrapt by the bright lights the lifestyle, the parties, the drugs, the sex.  Some of those women he had met along the way had been willing to do anything.  Anything at all for a shot. It isn’t until it’s much too late do you realize what you had to become to get there.

But the most seductive lure of it had been the competition.  Being better, doing better hopefully in a way that shows everyone how bad someone else is at this job. Colan had started as a rigging grip. After 5 years of wheeling and dealing, flaunting his degree, his good looks, and southern charm, Colan Abrams from bumfuck Oklahoma and a broken home was the most sought after movie producer in Hollywood.  He had gotten to be an assistant of a producer within a year and half of being in the company.  Produced his first film within the next six months as the man he was working for cracked under the pressure.  Pressure Colan had eagerly and liberally applied. That year he had turned a summer blockbuster that would’ve fallen on its ass with the previous producer into a multi-billion dollar worldwide hit.

The rules are simple for success in Hollywood.  Money is the name of the game and the only resume item that’s respected. Rule one summer, you got lucky, rule two summers, you might just have what it takes.  Three summers followed by a killer Halloween and an amazing Christmas showing, baby you’re a star.

Colan was a country boy at the core of his being.  And like any boy not used to women that looked like Hollywood wanna be starlets did or men willing to prostitute like Hollywood wanna be leading men did, he had lost his way. He had been exposed to it during school, but it wasn’t the same.  In the end, the purity of the art always held him first and kept him focused.  But with the purity of the art gone, all that was left was this sickening people pulsing floor show.  When the lifestyle had started not to be enough he was a little worried.  When the drugs had started to not be enough, his worry escalated.  When the sex became practically another form of currency he had started having full blown panic attacks.

Two years ago Colan Abrams, multi billion dollar movie producer, film company executive, and all around Hollywood behind the scenes badass, had a nervous breakdown.  And his perception of the world had never been the same since.  

Falling

Have you ever been here before, has life ever pulled you away from yourself?

How does one walk forward into chaos knowing what it is?

To know your devil and to face it are entirely removed from each other.

I’m falling fast, hard and painfully.

I feel my nails grating against the steel walls

I feel my legs treading as if in water

My arms flinging to either side of me

My head shaking in denial

The question in it impossible but viable

How do you stop the inevitable?

Where does comfort remain in a force like lightning?

Swift, powerful, restrained yet free

What are you doing to me?

Bring me love without a partner

One heart, one soul, no blend, no empathy

He can’t love me, has no desire to do so.

I can’t say I don’t love him, myth and lie in one

Stop falling, I scream to myself

Stop falling, he won’t help you up

Stop falling, let self-preservation kick in at any time

Stop falling, isn’t the nature of falling uncontrollable

Stop falling, I can’t

Those with Sight - Shuttered Vision

Fiona Canters dreams a lot.  Usually her dreams are plain simple and about people she loves and cares for.  All of her life Fiona has listened carefully to her dreams.  As her family knows they tell stories that the world need to pay heed to.  Fiona's art is always a pale shadow of the brilliant color and light that her dreams bring into being.  So when an unknown stranger begins to appear in them, she has no idea what to do with him.  He doesn't fit the mold and worse yet, he doesn't seem to want to be there.  And yet she can't seem to stop dreaming about him.

For Colan Abrams life has seemed to exist in a constant nightmare.  His demons remain with him on waking and seem to only be pushed away by the tide of sleep.  There he gets to see her, and she drives away all the pain and anguish for those brief blessed hours that sleep finds him. Always Colan thought this specter was a figment of his imagination.  A woman created from his dreams to pull him away from his hellish existence.  Until the day he met her.

Life Goes On

All over the world awakenings are happening.  Each day an ordinary person is waking up with new extraordinary talents.  And those who already had these talents are finding themselves much much stronger. One day the world will know it's history and this time shall be known as the shift.  The brief period of time where humanity succumbed to vanity, pride, lust, envy, anger, sloth and greed to become their own gods.  The loss of life was monumental.  The true powers of the universe stood by and let it happen.  In most situations the problem will eventually weed itself out and this time was no different than the many, many times before.

But each time humanity returns more refined.  They adapt to change faster.  They understand the theories in less time.  And they build their monuments to themselves higher and higher.  This wasn't the first time they declared themselves gods. However it might be the last time.

In the preparation for the shift a select few have been chosen.  Of course in every story such as this, there are those who have actually been given divinity. They were chosen not because of what they were but because of who they could become.  Potential is not a dirty word, it is a compliment. The bottom line is, when the universe calls on one to become bigger.  The last thing one can do is deny the request. 

The world must begin again and it has been determined that when the time comes only those born of the 9 matched pairs will remain.  All else shall perish, by decree of the seven deadly sins.  They will fall for an idea or person, for power and glory.  Only the children of the 9 will survive and only they will seed the future to humanity.  Life must go on . . 

Sergei

Clair was admiring her shoes in the mirror when she heard the loud insistent knocking on the door.  She jumped and then started over to it.  His knock wasn’t quite a cop-knocking because it wasn’t the pounding normally associated with cops, but it was only a few notches down from that.  Clair opened the door and there stood one of the most attractive men she had ever seen.  He certainly hadn’t looked this dapper when they had first met. 

Sergei stood on the other side of the door with a single rose held against his chest, which was covered in a dark blue linen shirt that made his ice blue eyes really pop.  The slacks were also a linen it seemed and in the same shade.  His hair, which he wore just a touch long, was combed over and parted on the side.  It was such a nerd thing to do and it was one of the cutest things Clair had ever seen.  He stood ramrod straight, almost military straight as he let his eyes roam over her.  Clean shaven, his angular jaw line and ridiculous cheekbones were put on display framing his full lips as he softly smiled at her, finally meeting her eyes.

“Good evening Clair.” He drawled smoothly.

For a split second as she stared into his eyes as he smiled down at her, his deep voice caressing her, Clair did something she had never done before.  She went completely blank, no thought would cross her mind as she stared into his eyes.  She felt her mouth open but no words came out.  And that was when panic had started to set in.  Blinking rapidly she stood in the door facing him as her jaw flapped without voicing anything at all. 

Sergei arched a brow at her seemingly enjoying her display.  Mercifully he asked, “Can I come in?”

The question registered and Clair solemnly nodded and stepped aside so he could do just that. As he passed her, the frozen ‘deer in headlights’ feeling she had started to fade.  What in the hell was that, she frantically asked herself.  I acted like a deaf mute for a second there, he’s not that hot!! She could feel the last thought actually being yelled in her mind.  With a deep breath and a concert smile she turned to the large man that was standing in her living room.

“Sorry about that.” She said briefly.

He shrugged casually. “About what, it’s a compliment to render a woman dumb, deaf and blind for a second.” He paused and thought about it some. “Or it’s very sad.” He frowned as he thought about the other end of that.

Other Posts on this book:

That Scene with Sergei and Clair

Sergei

Clair Fair

Love is Queen

So a Psychic and a Rocket Scientist Walk into a Bar

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Clair Fair

 ‘Rapture.  As a noun meaning delight.’

Clair thought to herself as her fingers flew over the piano keys as if she didn’t guide them. 

‘Delight as a noun meaning enjoyment, ecstasy, enchantment, contentment, joyance, relish, which leads back to rapture.’ 

Since Clair discovered the piano and the joy inherit in this instrument that could whisper and yell, sigh and resonate, she spent her spare time trying to find the word that defined the sublime elation that filled her when she played.  She searched thesauruses, other languages, symbols, whatever she could get her hands on.  But not a single word alone described this feeling of release and bliss that she experienced while she played.  So her mind would string together all of these words to try and express what was being experienced.

‘Bliss, as a noun meaning ecstasy, euphoria, felicity, heaven, paradise, which leads back to rapture.’

She was playing Mozart’s piano concerto no. 20 in D minor.  It was one of her favorites to practice on at home and loosened her up when she was ready to compose her own works.  No. 20 in D minor was special to her.  This one had been the culmination piece of her first full concert at the age of 15 for a local arts festival.

After her Aunt Mary introduced Clair to the piano it had been the passion of her existence.  She had played throughout middle school with a mix of lessons with her Aunt Mary and whoever was available.  When she had entered high school, Clair had applied for a work-study program that allowed her to spend fewer hours at school and more time practicing her instrument.  Her dedication had been noticed by several of the local musicians as Aunt Mary had made it her job to find teachers that could operate at the level that Clair had reached and could carry her beyond.

That had been when she had met Edwina Powell.  Edwina was a large maternal woman with dubious ethnicity.  She was dark in coloring with her black hair and dark brown eyes.  But it was her tan skin tone that made it very hard to place her into any particular race. Edwina had been teaching pianoforte for 15 years in the small high school in Taos New Mexico.  It wasn’t until you went to her home for private lessons did you see the fruits of a 20 year long professional classical pianist career.  She had played everywhere, Carnegie Hall, the Kennedy Center, Sydney, Paris, Japan.  Her walls were lined with accolades and world championships.

The day Clair had met Edwina had changed the course of her life.  Before that day, Clair had believed that she would not be able to become a professional artist.  She was told by school counselors and most other adults that choosing to become a professional artist was foolish and would not support her well. Everyone agreed with exception of her Aunt Mary and her mother who had both encouraged Clair to follow her passion and to ignore the call of material wealth in lieu of happiness. Still Clair had been undecided until she had her first meeting with Edwina Powell.

The first meeting had been at Clair’s home with her mother and aunt.  Ms. Powell had walked in like a ruling queen.  Her stature had been perfect, her clothing, hair and makeup immaculate. She had asked for Aunt Mary to leave so that she and Clair could speak privately.

The woman had instructed Clair to sit at her piano and then circled her seemingly looking for deficiencies.

“Clair.” She stated clearly in a Spanish accented, deep feminine voice. “That is not your full name.”

The woman waited a moment or two and then continued. “Clair is short for something, what is your full name, as it is written on your birth certificate.”

Clair had hesitated, hating what she was about to say out loud. “It’s” she paused taking a long labored breath. “Clairvoyance”, she sighed, “Clairvoyance Olivia Warren.”

The woman only stared pointedly at Clair, “This shame’s you.” She stated. “It is empowerment, a characteristic that is unique only to you.  You should embrace this name of yours.”

Moving to stand next to Clair she stared pointedly at the instrument before them both. “Does this shame you as well?”

Clair turned to her quickly denial in her heart. “No, there’s nothing embarrassing about a piano, or playing it.”

The woman sat next to Clair at the bench. “What is this instrument to you?”

Clair thought about it long and hard staring at the instrument in question.  Softly she ran her fingers over a few keys and the day her Aunt Mary introduced her to it flashed starkly in her mind.  Her entire body was filled with the euphoria that had started that day.  Her Aunt’s words ringing in her ears, ‘this does not care what color you are, it only knows music, it only knows joy.’ With that fresh in her mind, Clair had answered Ms. Powell with the only word that had summed it all up for her.

“Freedom.”

Ms. Powell had nodded. “You’ll do Clairvoyance.”

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Love is Queen

When I started So a Psychic and a Rocket Scientist Walk into a Bar is was a customary stand alone one off. Somewhere in the middle of writing this story I realized that situations like the one i'm describing are extraordinary. This wouldn't happen just to create a perfect love between two people. No two people are that special unless their connections have broader implications for not just them and their immediate environments but somehow for the world.

I began to explore the concept of prophecy and mythology.  I read origin stories from different religions and the concept of the world ending.  And on the back of this one novel I have plotted out 3 different connected series' as well as a stand alone series that can have as many configurations as I can think of.

Sergei and Clair began a lot more than they will ever know and I hope the reader gets to take the journey with them.  I hope they feel the fissure of excitement and joy I have whenever I open my laptop and see how Clair and Sergei are doing on their long road to fulfilling their destiny and the new direction of the world.  The common will no longer be common, the framework redesigned and love is queen.

Always w/Love,

Sue

Other Posts on this book:
That Scene with Sergei and Clair
Sergei
Clair Fair
Love is Queen
So a Psychic and a Rocket Scientist Walk into a Bar

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So a Psychic and a Rocket Scientist Walk into a Bar

The First book of the Balancing Acts series for Genesis 2020: So A Psychic and a Rocket Scientist Walk Into a Bar

Sergei looked at her intently. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No.” Clair said quickly and with confidence. “Not at all.” For no other reason except the compulsion to do so Clair leaned up, placing her hand on his shoulder and softly kissed his cheek. “Thank you, really.” She met his eyes as she said it and felt his shoulder tremble beneath her fingers.

He stared into her eyes for countless seconds, he pulled closer for a moment and held.  He pulled closer still and held.  Clair could feel his breath on her lips, the heat of his skin under her fingertips and wafting from his body to hers due to close proximity.  Her lips parted and his eyes darted to them.  For a few more moments they held this way.  So close both feeling the urge to close the space between them and see what happens. Then Sergei pulled back.

Clair realized that she had been holding her breath.  She hadn’t expected him to kiss her, but she realized that she would not have been opposed to it either.  And that thought within itself startled her.  She hadn’t been this close to a man in over a year.  And even then, near the end she and Johnny hadn’t been the most loving of couples.  They had virtually stopped having sex a few months before his big move. Conversation between them had been nearly nonexistent and there had been very little consideration for each other.  Well, there had been very little consideration from Johnny towards Clair.

“So you ready?” Sergei asked as he placed more space between the two of them.

She looked at this man who had placed himself before her and she considered him.  Truly considered him for the first time since their very awkward meeting. Was she actually ready to move on?  The world around her had nearly aligned to make this meeting possible.  With her schedule and her career it was a nearly impossible instance to actually meet someone outside of her immediate circle of close friends and relatives.  For whatever reason Dorrie had been in rare form, so had this man, and so had she for that matter and this is what has come of it all. Her mother would have an earful about what is all meant.

Clair’s mother, Janeene was an interesting creature. She believed in God, in Fate, in Destiny and the Grand Design.  But she believed it was more like slots in space, not truly mapped out for one person over another.  The people that we are determine who we will become.  And the choices we make determine the people we are.  Pulling all of that together is her craft as she melds herbal healing, superstition and prayer to aid people on their journey as she refers to it as.  One of the things her mother always prescribed to was the thought that the Universe tested people to determine what they were ready for.  People find it very easy to fall into habits and accept fallacies as fact instead of coping with the inevitability of change and accepting their new role in the weft of the Universe.  She says bad luck is the side car to rejecting change.  Good luck, the rewards of the Universe for following the path that your choices have decided you are suited for.  All her life, Clair had run from something.  Whether it be her gift, men, or herself.  She had been in a race to be anything accept for what she was always meant to be.  And here before her was a test of varying degrees.  With this man she had her first psychic episode involving his death.  With this man she did have a disturbing unnamed attraction she had never felt with Johnny.  The connection was stronger and deeper, perhaps because of her episode, she really didn’t know.  It was just there.  All of the stars were aligning for this and here she was with him to go out on a date.

She had a choice to make, she could reject him out of fear of hurt and rejection, in essence keep running.  Or she could finally let her fear subside and jump in without thought and trust the Universe. Was she really ready for what the Universe was trying to gift her with?  The question practically echoed in her mind.

“I think I am.” She said out loud.

Sergei smiled, which was devastating to her senses. “Alright, let’s go.”

Other Posts on this book:

That Scene with Sergei and Clair

Sergei

Clair Fair

Love is Queen

So a Psychic and a Rocket Scientist Walk into a Bar

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Learning to Not be Ruled by Genre

It is a long road that I believe never truly ends.  That road is that of a writer when finding their voice.  The best of the best say that the most important part of this journey is the journey.  No matter what never stop writing. For many writers that is almost like saying never stop breathing.  But as an asthmatic I can tell you that breathing is not always a guarantee. And over the years my writing has come and gone like a breath in some instances. Whiffed away without any hesitation or thought. My well seemingly run very dry.

However my mind still swam with scenarios of unfulfilled passions and desires. The human spirit needs passion and desire.  Creation is as much a part of living as the breathing and the beating. Most seem to not notice that life is nothing if not a lesson in sheer natural brutality. The elements that make us up crammed together in clumps and fits.  Our very systems demand the use of words like force, beat, move. As they say the struggle is real. And it is a struggle.  Nothing worth having has ever been born politely. It comes in a haze of blood, sweat, and tears screaming its battle cry ready to be heard, listened to and engaged. Life does not ask for the fight, life demands it. So the only failure is in trying to deny the fight. Because then you are truly denying life.

When I decided I wanted to try my hand as a writer I was sure that I wanted to write romance. I had a game plan like I normally do. I wanted to start as a romance writer then move into more science fiction or fantasy. As offensive as the thought is I was young and foolish enough to believe romance writing was an easier place to start. I was very very foolish years ago. As many know the genre is not well thought of by literature critics. However I dare to say that writing romance may be even harder because of how it is thought of.

It reminds me of professional wrestling in a lot of ways.  The trick to professional wrestling is that there is no trick. Its hard work, dedication to a goal and a performance. It eats up life because the only way to get better like with any craft is to continue to hone it. And yet it is not very well thought of by many people who view it as fake.  In many ways similar to how some authors view genre writers. The analogy forces me to think about the limitations provided just by perception. Because the barriers are not one sided.  All are affected by the perception and the need to justify it. As human beings we love balance and we like to know the answer. We subconsciously lean to a lie of perception as much as we may lean to the truth. Just as there is no way to convince gravity to stop working for a wrestler, there is no way to easily construct a palpable endearing emotion laden first kiss for a romance author. It is a sport of conditioning, practice, and training.  The road is long and the culmination is to tell the perfect story.

I now know that there is no such thing as an easy writing. The quality writing, the change the world stuff is a labor of intense love, commitment and selfless devotion. It is staying up all night to finish the most crucial scene you have ever written.  But they all are aren’t they? And the answer is yes, every single one IS the most crucial scene you have ever written.

I was given the advice that my heart knew was true before it was even given.  Write what you love. I started writing because of love, I write about love.  But I was looking for the trick, I was asking gravity to stop working for a moment. Sometimes in a craft you get completely immersed in your tools instead of the art giving the tool the power. It becomes about fitting in, coloring in the lines and less about expressing your unique voice. The truth is the man behind the curtain is in fact just a man.  A man dedicated and committed enough to an idea that he was able to convince the world he was an all-powerful wizard. He went outside of genre, outside what the limitations of a man should be.  In the process he stopped allowing his tools to limit him, he instead gave them new power.

I was a visual artist in high school and became a vocalist and music composer. I noticed early in my art studies that I was better with colors than with black and white.  What I understood before I left was that this was a myth I had told myself. My mind was so enrapt with technique that art was not being made. When I went into music I noticed the same. I was concerned with vocal replication of other artists and not concerned with my own sound. The girl is hardheaded. Somewhere in my junior year of high school, somewhere in the middle of performing Deep River, somewhere in the middle of composing my 3rd work technique faded and art finally took form. The moment is indescribable. For a split second you hear clearly, you feel deeply.  The world is beautiful, lovely. You absolutely matter and what you have to say bears weight and has the meaning and affluence of a living viable human soul and spirit laced throughout it. It connects you to the now, the past the future and the fountain of infinite bliss and wisdom. Pure as you and I are meant to be.

The point is have influences, mimic them as you need, read the art books, understand the style, refine your craft; use your tools. Before its over though make sure the voice is your own.  A lesson I have to teach myself over and over again. This is my ultimate love letter to remind myself why I should never give the tools power but instead use the art to empower them. I'm writing this so that when I start to forget and I'm worried about book sales, or another press or agent saying no that I stick to my declaration and follow the advice of knowledgeable others.  I embrace these tools and make them an extension of myself and what I need this world to see and understand. That I listen to the beating, pounding pace of my heart and stay with the fight. That I fill what I do with my will, my spirit; my spark. With my love, always with my love.

Annniversary of Make Mine a Heel

I get nostalgic this time of year every year.  About this time 8 years ago I was inspired to do things I never dreamed and inspired to write a book I never thought possible.  I've been on a an educational research hiatus because I don't make a living on my writing yet and I do have a passionate love of education. However considering its Road to Wrestlemania season and being a Dallas TX native, I'm thrilled my city is finally getting the big one with Wreslemania 32. That being said I see no better time than now to get myself back into the game.

So 8 years ago I met a very interesting person who inspired me to want and achieve more.  Writing was always something that I admired and couldn't quite figure out how to get started.  I had a couple of failed attempts during that time but nothing I felt I could really shop.  Then I went to a Wrestlemania. . Wrestlemania 24 to be exact.  I went to see the retirement of Ric Flair a seasoned great that I have always admired. My childhood was filled with this man's work.  It only seemed right to see him off into that gorgeous sunset.  (I'm quite a fan of wrestling check out my other blog from years ago: http://suenammirichards.blogspot.com/)

Now this wasn't my first WM,  My first was Wrestlemania 17 in Houston about 15 years ago.  See how these dates are adding up. I found my ticket stub for it not too long ago and smiled fondly at the memory and laughed at myself for not being able to actually watch but mostly listen to the infamous TLC 2 match that people still talk about to this day. Nonetheless I was indeed there.

But back to WM 24. So I was there and by chance met someone else. Totally by chance it was one of those divine fate moments because there was no way to know or even suspect who I would meet. (Long story I can't make short lol) To wrestling fans he's known as the 'Rated R" superstar and to others as Adam Copeland. . actor. Which if you know anything about professional wrestling you know that was not that far of a reach. Not to discount his work. He is a very talented man in many regards. I've watched him move on with his career outside of the ring with great pride and admiration for his courage.

The thing is meeting him gave me inspiration. It struck me that in all this time I've never read a romance novel with a professional wrestler as the male lead.  It struck me as an odd and egregious oversight because clearly this man should be someone's romantic fantasy. As well as many, many other performers. So I left inspired and about 2 years later around this time I found myself with a full blown romance novel 96,000 words and one of the best things I think I've written. 

I told a couple of stories in this book, Mostly it was about my heartache of my ending marriage. I was supposed to go to WM 24 with what is now my ex husband. But best laid plans. Instead I found a fleeting hope in my soul and a need to tell one of the many love stories I wish I had as my own. So therein is the muse the inspiration and even a beginning chapter shout out to the man that without doing a single thing made me think about love again when my life needed it the most. 

But I also talked about women and men in very basic terms. It is a story about perception and how that affects life. What we see isn't always what we think it is.  And sometimes its exactly what we need regardless of what we think is happening. I always hoped that this book would help women to see love in the many many ways it can present itself and how time and distance can never make true love wane. 

I usually put the book on sale for .99 right before Wrestlemanias as a tribute and as a reminder that no matter what you cannot ever give up on love. 

And sincerely, thank you Adam Copeland.  And in more traditional wrestling venacular, 

Thank you Edge, Thank you Edge Thank you Edge.

Always w/love,

Sue

www.maryandbess.com/suenammirichards

Make Mine a Heel is available only in ebook form from most ebook vendors including Amazon and Barnes & Noble 

Not Another Bodice Ripper - The Case for Serious Romance Part Two

THE ANSWER

Love is a personal endeavor no matter how universal television commercials would like it to seem. The nature of it is idealized for some, and wide open for others. The truth is when writing about something as profoundly intimate as love, it is really bad form to try and relate love in another voice or fashion other than your own. The truth and charm to a story comes from that bit of truth that is included. That bit of truth is the relatable aspect of any story. This is the core of your own voice as a writer. Regardless of how many people 'understand' your character's plight or not, the truth of the situation will ring forth and give the story just the push it needs to really fly.

With that in mind it is very bad form for generalists to assume that a certain plotline or story premise is in line with any pre-described social agenda. The liberation of women was just that, liberation. Liberation is the right to make choices. A woman can decide if she would like to be a public figure or a private one. A woman can choose to vote, bare children, and get married or not. The claim that the creation of or reading of romance somehow 'tricks' women into believing in self destructive rhetoric is almost more offensive than any other misogynic claim as it actually feeds into the myth that women are incapable of processing thought beyond what they know to be a fictitious account.

In laymen's terms, the claim in essence says that a grown woman is not capable of separating fantasy from reality. This is a claim usually attached to mental illness, and honestly makes light of conditions suffered by those who have legitimate hormonal imbalances, injuries or birth defects that are associated with mental illness. Reading romance is not an illness. Also it no more detracts from feminist prose as it would add to it. With that being said, no romance is the same. Like all forms of entertainment and media there are levels of content. No two books actually read the same.

The romance formula is very easy to follow. Usually two people, and in recent entries sometimes more, have a great potential for a romantic relationship. They must confront each other and often times the results are not initially positive. That is because of individuality. This is an aspect of romance that is explored more than it is in some of its traditional fiction contemporaries. You have the dichotomy of a relationship as opposed to the relationship being a side car to the dichotomy of the story. In the end the essence of the story is to confront relationship boundaries and expose them. This is a very emotional plane of existence that can sometimes hold the same trauma as a tragedy. And it should. Love is a life changing event. Seeking to experience it, and be bound to another person for all time is also a life changing event. As far as I know not a single life changing event has ever gone quietly and without lessons in humility and shame. These are human emotions that bear the weight in most situations. Yet in love they are the core of what this entanglement is about.

The way a writer creates this is wide open. This sense of growing affection and intimacy is developed from one thing and one thing only, seeing the person for who they are and loving them because or despite it. This is a truth that romance novelists understand that is rarely examined in most contemporary literature where relationships seem to be of convenience and not of necessity. Others are forced attachments where the characters are bound by seemingly invisible tendrils of emotion that are strong enough to bond yet not strong enough to carry the story.

To some degree the emergence of more acceptable contemporary popular fiction, and the need to be perceived a certain way by others has taken the blush from the rose as far as sweeping love relationships are concerned. Romance novels have long been the butt of literary jokes and recently in a twisted parody of art imitating life some have even endeavored to live up to this reputation of being incomprehensible smut with bad punctuation and grammar. But what are the far reaching consequences to this? This seeming end to fairytale as it were that now blocks the heart from even seeking some idealized contentment. Is it this lack of 'romance' being taken seriously in day to day life that has enabled a lack of respect for sex, marriage, and all romantic relationships? Has the 'replaceable' mate taken the place of the 'irreplaceable' mate?

Today more than ever in a world of revolving doorlike changes we need the purity of actual romance.

Charlotte's Chance Teaser

Charlotte left her office locking the front door with her purse held high on her shoulder.  She made it to the elevator, and frowned as the door opened just as she was about to press the down button.  The blonde haired wiry man inside didn’t move immediately, but the look he leveled at her from his narrow blue eyes said volumes to what he intended if she boarded.  Charlotte took two steps back, and the man bolted from the back of the elevator.  She turned, and ran for the stairwell. 

He was right behind her having cleared the elevator successfully. Almost in surround sound she could hear the heavy fall of his feet behind her.  No matter how much she wanted to, she didn’t look back as she burst through the door into the stairwell.  The stairwell was stark white, and went down in a circular motion almost.  You could look over the edge of the handrails, and see the three floors below.

Charlotte knew that she couldn’t just flat out run the man so she threw her weight against the door she had just burst through. She heard the man’s bellow of pain from getting his arm hinged in the door.  Frantically Charlotte dug through her purse for her keys as the door started to push her into the corner behind it.  She pulled the pepper spray, and guessed where to aim.  Sticking her arm around the door she sprayed in circles hoping that it was somewhere near the asshole’s eyes.

The pressure on the door eased, and she heard the cursing, and yelling indicating that she had guessed right.  Rushing past the man wiping his eyes at the door she started flying down the stairs as fast as she could using the handrails for leverage as she hopped the corners.   Just like she used to do when she was younger, and trying to outrun her older, longer legged brother.  She almost tripped over her own two feet in her haste to get away.  Behind her were the solid thuds of his feet hitting the steps a beat or two after her.

She reached the first floor, and was about to head out to get help from Harold.  But the door flew open as she jumped the last two steps to the landing.  Thomas in his ball cap, and oversized clothes filled the space shoving her forcefully into the corner of the space behind him, and closing the doorway in the same motion.  Charlotte watched in dazed car wreck fashion as Thomas used the man’s flight to run him into the closed door.  His now limp body fell with a crash to the ground.   Thomas flipped out his cell phone, dialed a number, and then put it on the ground.  In a practiced gesture he pulled out a pair of handcuffs, fell to one knee, and cuffed the man lying on the ground before them in seconds.  Then his golden eyes lanced Charlotte’s from beneath the brim of his plain brown low worn hat.

In the next moment he leaned over to her, and wrapped an arm around her waist as one large hand pushed against the wall behind her.  He stood up smoothly pulling her to her feet, and out of the corner. The action brought her body nearly flush with his.  Her nostrils flared filling with the scents that comprised him at that moment.  A heady musky masculine smell mixed with the scents of the air, and grass outside.  It pulled her in, this strange mix of man, rain, and freshly cut grass.

“Are you alright?”  His silky voice poured over her huskily as he slid his other arm around her waist.  
His fingertips were just a hair’s breath away from her bare skin as they ruched the turtleneck sweater that she hadn’t bothered to tuck back in up a little.

The bulky heels of her boots gave her enough height that the top of her head was level with his eyes.  

She nodded, tilting her head up so her eyes couldn’t leave his.  Her arms were pressed between their bodies putting her elbows in her gut, and crowding her hands under her chin. The most natural thing in the world to do was flatten her palms against the warmth and solid comfort of his chest.  The second she placed her hands on him though, he pushed her away.

“Don’t say anything to the guard. Go home. I’ll meet you there.” He said urgently his eyes searching her face as he pushed her beyond the circle of his arms.  Oddly he pushed a wisp of her hair out of her eyes then shoved her out of the stairwell door.

Charlotte tried to carry on like she hadn’t just run down four flights of stairs from a mad man that was trying to do God knows what to her.  She passed by Harold, and stopped, coming back.  He would think it was odd if she didn’t speak to him.

“I hope that the call I sent up did you some good Miss Charlotte.”

A bubble of nervous laughter pealed from Charlotte. “Yes it did. Thank you so much for that.”

The weathered mustached man nodded satisfied. “Glad to help. You have a good one.”

She started away not really sure she was actually pulling this off.  “You too Harold. I’m on vacation so I won’t be back for a couple of weeks.”

The weathered face broke into a grin that made him look ten years younger. “Have a great time Miss Charlotte. Hard working woman like you; it’s good to get away every once in a while.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” she muttered as she passively watched two men in suits enter the stairwell. 

After a few moments her eyes briefly connected with the intense golden gaze of Thomas Glendel. Smoothly he walked away from the stairwell, and out of the lobby door with the ease of air, and without one hint of wasted effort or motion.  Oddly it made her recall the way he had handled Deborah in the hospital.  Then Charlotte had likened him to a jaguar, all sinew, and tightly corded muscle. 

In the stairwell he had lifted her almost deadweight from the floor with an ease that attested to the power he held in that tightly coiled frame.  Then add the fact that he himself hadn’t even been stabilized when he’d done it.  He had pushed her away like they were strangers, and nearly in the same instant pushed that strand of hair from her eyes as if they had known each other forever.  What an odd and interesting man.  The thought was repeated from when he had walked her back from the hospital parking lot with Sandra’s luggage.

“Bye Harold.” Charlotte turned, and followed the oddity out.

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