Book in a Month Mom

NEW BLOGSPOT LINK!

2012-03-02T00:22:00.002-05:00

Hi again! Thanks to the relentless late-night efforts of my brother (Jon, I owe you big-time!), I now have a new blogspot! Still ironing out the kinks, as exporting and revamping isn't easy, BUT...I'd love for you to check it out! Comment if you want (and tell me if it doesn't work!)! Follow me somehow, even without my lovely Google friend connect gadget!

And seriously, please let me know any problems. One thing--the search box won't be working for at least a week, due to Google finding me or something like that.

With no further ado, here's my link! Now I need to post over THERE...maybe about my new agent!

http://heatherdaygilbert.blogspot.com/

New Blogspot Forthcoming!

2012-02-29T23:08:00.000-05:00

Hello all my faithful followers!

I've actually setup a new blogspot, as per my agent-to-be's instructions (YES, I am SUPER-excited and will give all the details when I get it rigged up...actually, if you want a sneak peek, just goto the FB page below). But for now, you may be unable to comment on here.

In the MEANtime, you're welcome to visit my new FB Author Page,
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Heather-Day-Gilbert/255797467834948

And I've discovered that Google Friend Connect will soon go the way of the dinosaur (thank you, Jami Gold--for more info read her post here: http://jamigold.com/2012/02/goodbye-google-friend-connect-now-what/

So, instead of panicking about losing the thousands of followers I've gotten (Okay, maybe it wasn't THOUSANDS!), I'm hoping you'll all keep checking back here till that new site is functional (should be very soon).

Also, when you visit me at the new blogspot, PLEASE follow me somehow, either e-mail or RSS feeds, twitter, FB, I don't care! I just want to keep all you lovely followers!

Thanks so much for listening to my passionate pleas!

--Heather

Writing Newbie Mistakes Monday

2012-02-26T21:30:00.000-05:00

I wanted to do this series as a vlog, but since I have no clue how to rig that up, for now, I'll use my words.

Mistakes...if you're anywhere along this writing road, you've made some. I've made quite a few. Today, I just wanted to talk about one newbie mistake that should be quite self-evident.

Don't ignore the guidelines of the agency you're querying.

There was a recent post at Steve Laube's blog about this, http://stevelaube.com/why-do-i-have-to-jump-through-your-hoops/.

When I first started querying, I laughed in the face of danger. More like, I laughed in the face of agency guidelines. If they'd ask for a mere query, I'd think What's wrong with sending them the first chapter, pasted along with my query? After all, that first chapter is KILLER. Shoot, why don't I just send those first three chapters? That'll blow their socks off.

WRONG. Problem is, some agents won't even open a document that has a bunch of stuff pasted into it. Query-length stuff, yes, but not those first chapters.

And what about those agencies that requested a proposal, along with your initial query e-mail?

Since I wasn't quite sure that my make-shift proposal looked right, I'd just send the query and sample chapters. I figured that once the agents took my writing prowess seriously, they'd beg to see that proposal. At that point, I would grant them access to my (feeble attempt at a) proposal.

And synopses!? Don't get me started. Somewhere I'd read online that a synopsis could be six pages. Which turned into about twelve pages, double-spaced. I give kudos to any agent who managed to sludge through that lengthy attempt at capturing every last one of my lovely characters, even the not-so-important ones.

(Hint--For your synopsis, just focus on those MAIN characters, since the MC and his/her closest peeps are the ones we'll be following through your book).

I wish I could say that I'm now a querying/editing/writing expert, but for goodness' sake, I learn something new almost every day of this arduous writing journey.

But please save yourself some newbie time and trouble by following, to the best of your ability, those agency guidelines. Agents will notice your respect for their requirements--after all, they've put some thought into the exact things they want to see from you (and *understatement of the year*, each agency is unfortunately very different!).

They might not find your MC "compelling" or your storyline "something they can represent at this time," but at least they'll see that you're willing to work with guidelines to get your stuff out there.

***Have any of you, my faithful followers, blatantly (or inadvertently) ignored agency guidelines? Did it work out for you or not?

Guest Blogger--DE JACKSON--Scribbling in the Margins (Of Life)

2012-02-22T17:40:00.000-05:00

I am so excited to introduce my guest blogger today, I can hardly contain myself. I found De's blog when I wrote my tritina poem for the Writer's Digest blog. De's poems were knock-your-socks off incredible. I'm picky about poets, having an affinity for Emily Dickinson, Theodore Roethke, Edna St. Vincent Millay, and many others since college. And I'd put De right up there with those heavy-hitters, folks.

Here's an introduction to a poet you're going to want to read!

De Jackson wanted to be aPoetPiratePrincess when she grew up, but is (mostly) happily settling into therole of Mom/Freelance Writer. (Some days that slash cuts deeper than others.)When she’s not busy raising a budding Bug Scientist and a Dancer-Singer-Songwriter(10 and 9, and spaced just 16 months apart), she writes advertising copy, runsgleefully with scissors, plays well with poems…and has also penned a couple ofchildren’s books that need a little magic fairy dust to find illustrator andpublisher. You can read her poetry at whimsygizmo.wordpress.com

Scribblingin the Margins (of Life)--by De Jackson

Everfeel like the day is specifically designed to make sure you never, ever haveany writing time? Like your kids, your family, your day job, your Everest-sizedmountains of laundry, your workout schedule, your (insert issue du jour here) are all part of one giantmuse-snuffing conspiracy theory? Yup. Me, too.

Inaddition to all of these…distractions,I’m convinced that my poetic muse is actually a mermaid, and only willinglyshows up along the shores of Lake Tahoe or the Pacific Ocean. Since I’mhopelessly landlocked in the middle of Southern Nevada, this is an unfortunateset of circumstances that requires frequent cajoling, pitiful bargaining, andsometimes, ridiculous amounts of caffeine.

So what’s your Whimsy Gizmo? What gets your muse on themove, your creative juices flowing? Is it nature? Reading the amazing creativeworks of others? Making sure there’s always a notebook in your car, your purse,your pocket? I’ve got a worn moleskine I fondly call “Parking Lot Poems,” filledwith tiny pieces doodled in the few minutes before picking up my kids orheading into an appointment.

Maybe foryou it’s regularly meeting with a friend who also writes, or who encouragesyour writing, and holds you accountable to tangible results. I’m blessed tohave several supportive friends, as well as an understanding, creative husbandwho knows that a writing De is a happy De.

Forme, the most effective quill nudging comes in two words: prompts and deadlines. Imake sure my creative ‘inbox’ is filled with plenty of inspiration via weeklyprompts, and write frequently for sites like Poets United, Flashy Fiction,Poetic Asides (http://www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides), Poetic Bloomings, dVerse Poets and The Sunday Whirl, amongothers. I subscribe, so that these little daily challenges come directly to myemail inbox, where they can’t be forgotten or ignored.

When Ifind a Write-Something-Everyday kind of challenge, I join it (River of Stones, Poem-a-Day,Haiku-a-Day). Anything to place a deadline on writing something, anything. If you’re a fiction writer, NaNoWriMo(National Novel Writing Month) might be for you. But don’t let that be anexcuse to wait until November. I find I’m not only my own worst critic, but asa Pro Crastinator of the highestorder, also my own biggest hindrance.

Thesesites also provide two other things I find I need a great deal of as a writer:encouragement and camaraderie. Writing can be a lonely gig. It’s good to knowI’m not the only one sitting here staring at the vast white space in front ofme, trying to figure out how to coax some words out to dance.

Find away to put some boogie in your writing step today. Buy a new journal. Call afriend. Find a new blog to follow. I’ve been at this thing somewhat seriouslynow since spring of 2009, and I’m still learning what works for me. I’m alsostill unpublished, but I’m writing.Almost every day. Sometimes in big, everything-else-can-wait chunks. Sometimesin those tiny little margins. But always with a bright turquoise pen.

(Take that, you stubborn mermaid of a muse.)

And here are a couple of De's poems--I know you'll enjoy them as much as I did:

ink

by de jackson

i am sans serif

10-point type

often italicized

never bold.

i am onion paper

see through

fragile, easily erased

truths untold.

i am words

in margins

scribbled outside

conspicuous lines.

i am ellipses

rough draft

work in progress

pending approval

…most of all, mine.

Don’tyou lick that trash can, young man!
(and other things that should go without saying)

by de jackson

Don’t you lick that trash can,

Young Man!

And don’t paint pudding on your sister.

Don’t pour your milk in the toaster.

Hey, I mean business, Mister!

Don’t put lipstick on the dog, Little Miss.

And don’t give a cockroach a great big kiss.

Don’t pee on the petunias

or wash your hands in the loo.

And if you try to “fly” again

I don’t know what I’ll do.

Also:

Don’t lick your brother.

Don’t kick your mother.

Don’t jump on the couch.

Don’t call Dad a grouch.

Don’t tape the fridge shut.

Don’t put frosting on your butt.

Don’t climb on the living room drapes.

Don’t use my silk blouses as superman capes.

Don’t sled down the stairs.

Don’t shred teddy bears.

And don’t you DARE

Fill my shampoo bottle with Nair.

And don’t say “She’s touching me!”

One more time,

Or I mightpull out my hair.

Don’t take a pair of scissors

and give the cat bangs.

Don’t stuff your mouth with real shark teeth

and pretend that they are fangs.

Don’t.

Please don’t.
Seriously?

Just don’t.

“We don’t hit, we don’t spit,

we don’t spy, we don’t lie,

and we don’t feed the baby coconut cream pie.”

As moms, we dosay all the crazy things

we swear that we won’t.

To which our little hooligan sweetly replies,

“But Mommy, WHY do we don’t?”

As a parent, maybe it is my job

to say things that others daren’t.

But sometimes I just have to ponder…

shouldn’t SOME things be apparent?

Don’t

get me wrong,

I’m not complaining

a wink

I’m just hypothetically, (frenetically) praying

That before each long day as a parent is through…

I think

some things should just go WITHOUT saying.

Don’t you?

***What’syour Whimsy Gizmo? Share here what works for you! And let's give De a huge round of cyber applause for sharing her writing tips and poems!

Lovely Blog Award

2012-02-19T14:04:00.001-05:00

Thank you very much, Donna Martin, at On the Write Track blog, http://www.donasdays.blogspot.com/, for giving me a lovely blog award! So now, I need to tell you seven things about myself and pass this award on to three other peeps with lovely blogs. But before I do, I need to thank my brother for redesigning my blog by adding tabs...you "lovelied" it up considerably. And now, let me think of seven shocking or wonderful things about myself..

1) I thought I wanted to be a vet, until I passed out observing a spaying surgery.

2) I also wanted to be a cop, and enjoyed Criminal Justice camp. Although I love guns, my aim stinks. And so I play Halo, Black Ops and Tomb Raider--I can waste all the ammunition I want that way.

3) I was a nerd in high school because I loved Doctor Who. Now, I see tons of bloggers who love him too.

4) Jeremiah is probably my favorite prophet in the Bible.

5) I was a vegetarian in college.

6) Sometimes I think I could live on bread, cheese, and strawberries.

7) All my life, I've wanted an indoor, underground pool.

And NOW, I shall pass this award on to other lovelies:

Faith Hough: http://faithehough.blogspot.com/
Tracy Jo: http://www.evolvingsoul11.com/
Catherine Denton: http://wingedwriter.blogspot.com/

Please copy the badge on the right-hand of my site and post it on your own blog, tell us seven things about YOU, and then pass the award on to three other deserving bloggers. Oh, and refer back to my blog, if you don't mind! And have fun hopping to these beautiful blogs! Thanks, Donna!

ORIGINS Blogfest...In Which a Poet Morphs into a Book-Writing Mom

2012-02-13T08:27:00.000-05:00

For the Origins Blogfest (link on the right), we're supposed to chronicle our earliest remembrances of our writing superpowers...okay, maybe not superpowers, as you'll quickly find out below.

As you can tell from my monkey bar photo above, I had a highly cerebral childhood! Seriously, though, I was ambidextrous till K-4 (they made me choose), I read a LOT, and I liked phonics. This lent itself handily to my fascination with writing.

My dad went on a business trip and brought me back a chinoiserie (always wanted to use that word), burgundy silk-looking diary. I faithfully scribed all the highlights of my eight-year-old existence into it. Many entries simply said, "Today, Mom made me take a nap again." I also kept detailed lists of all my Christmas gifts, realizing their importance for posterity.

The first time I hit the big-time was in fifth grade, when we had to write an essay titled "A Teacher Is." I won a $25 savings bond and got to read my winning essay on the radio. This would be the exact same essay I whipped up the very morning it was due. I'd written about how our teacher loved us because she disciplined us, perhaps harking back to sermons I'd already internalized about "Whom the Lord loves, He chastens." Or it could've been the fact that I was in a rowdy class and couldn't concentrate unless the teacher pulled rank.

Once I figured out how to type, I amused myself and my family with personally typed newsletters. But I had my epiphany moment after returning from the beach when I was probably eleven or twelve, when I wrote this poem:

As I look at the clouds,
I think of how
The ocean lapped at my feet.
I remember how
The salty water tasted on my tongue.
I remember
The bright moonbeams dancing on the waves.

But all that is gone.
I am looking at a space
Between two trees
That allows me to see
Limitless potential.

The clouds move swiftly on
To new horizons.
I look at them and know
That some other person
Is looking at them, too.

The golden sunsets,
The red light of dawn
All assure me
That time moves on.

This very poem cinched the deal. I ran over to inform my mom and grandma that I was, in fact, a WRITER! I had been all along--who KNEW?

Fast-forward to my college years, in which I wrote goth stuff (before goth existed!), wore black, and started drinking coffee. I will spare you a lengthy poem, but here's a little glimpse into my mind at that time:

--what is a pessimist?
am I?
good night I hope not.
but optimism is a trivial jeopardy
--a risk
taken by a blind and ignorant few...

Um....yeah. Moving right along. I won the extemporaneous essay contest my senior year in college, finishing my essay about fifteen minutes before everyone else and turning it in without a backward glance. I like to write fast.

Then I volunteered at a local newspaper, running a popular series called "Of Beds and Breakfasts." It was rather infuriating to discover that my relatively error-free copies had accrued alarming numbers of grammatical and spelling errors when printed, thanks to the editor's changes. 'Nuff said on this particular small-town editor's ability to edit.

After that, I strode into the editor's office at a larger newspaper and convinced him of my writing qualifications. He proceeded to create a job for me covering county news. I'm nothing if not ambitious.

Around this time, I did try my hand at novel-writing. Here's a blip of one of the MYRIAD stories I started:

That one hit.

I stand at my French doors and let the hailstones beat a rhythm into my brain. I remember the last storm--I remember Nicholas. We had been sitting on the front porch, not fearing because we had each other. He had been working on a new song--he sang it to me, loudly, as if to overpower the elements.

"Shattered rainbow
shining in moonlight
luring me inside
your colorless splendor
to the heart of the ocean...
the heart of the storm
the eye of fate."

I had laughed. "What a melodious compilation of nonsense!" He grabbed my arms. His blue eyes were sharp, chastising. "Oriana, this is real. Not nonsense. I sing to nature, for myself, of you."

Yes, the mysterious artist in love with the beautiful girl with an impossibly exotic name...not a new theme there. And I must say that was almost the extent of this story.

Then I got married. My romantically overblown poems and stories stopped, because I had a tangible love now. Someone who accepted me, pessimistic poems and all. I loved marriage and, it turns out, I loved having kids. So then I was a homeschooling mom who happened to write poems as an outlet. They were a bit more disjointed, but here's one I'm still fond of:

West Virginia is
a hard place to know
It welcomes you with sunlight
And punishes you with snow.
It holds you in its vision
And blinds you with its trees
It shows off its baby birdies,
Then kills them, if you please.
Dogs don't stop to wonder
And I can't stop to care
Because in leaving West Virginia,
I've finally moved in there.

Then the rest is chronicled on this blog. My kids got bigger and more independent. My friend challenged me to write a book in a month for NaNo--and we have established that I like to WRITE FAST. Thus, Otherworld was my first completed novel, though I'd come close a couple of times before. And now I've finished my first historical fiction novel, God's Daughter. I'm getting ready to start on the sequel. And I hope I"m on the cusp of finding my second agent (had one for Otherworld).

I'd love it if you could follow my blog, or at least leave some comments of how your writing journey has paralleled mine (or perhaps diverged greatly!). And let me know I'm not the only person who loves to write poetry (though I rarely share the super-personal stuff, okay?).

Enjoy the blog-hopping!

--Heather

Lessons from Homeschooling

2012-02-08T13:29:00.000-05:00

Many homeschooling moms/dads will tell you that they've learned a lot by becoming their child's primary teacher. Granted, some lessons will be things along the lines of, "I learned that my child is not fully awake by seven a.m.," or "I learned that my child should NOT drink Mountain Dew during a school day."

But homeschool parents have all learned things we SHOULD have learned in elementary/middle/high school; things like, "Vikings insulated their houses," or perhaps some clever math tricks about the nine times table that would've opened up a whole new score level on our SATs. Or we've discovered books we WISH we could've read as children, like Island of the Blue Dolphins.

I've learned some things in my eight years of homeschooling my illustrious children, but every time I try to write some kind of article about it, it sounds like I know it all. And believe me, I don't. But I've seen things that work and things that don't. I've seen kids who've been homeschooled all the way through high school, and the end result of that schooling. And there is no across-the-board way to classify homeschooled children, just like there's no across-the-board way to classify public or private school kids. So I won't attempt to.

First of all, you're either supposed to homeschool or you're not. Don't try to do it or feel guilted into it if you have a strong HS community and you're not part of it. But don't say I don't have the patience to homeschool. It's a total cop-out, and I've seen no less than three moms who've said that, but eventually homeschooled and LOVED it. Will you need distance from your kids? Sure. But that's what grandparents, friends and activities are for!

Don't worry about socialization--most of the homeschooled kids I know are as involved in (if not MORE involved in) activities than others, because they have more hours in the day to do sports, drama, groups, etc. But watch out for becoming OVER-involved and neglecting the actual schoolwork.

My view was always this: I'm preparing my kids for college. And, as we do this, we have to maintain balance. We have to push, but not so hard that our kids begin to hate us and hate reading/writing, whatever. We know their strengths and weaknesses (just like any parent), and we can work on those weaknesses and bolster those strengths, all the while aiming for the big picture of college/career.

Support is key. If you have questions, go online or find some HS friends and ASK them. Chances are, they've tried that curriculum, struggled with those lonely days, and can recommend resources for you.

Classical, traditional, or unschooling? These are the primary homeschool curriculum choices. I love the classical approach (Susan Wise Bauer), because it makes sense to me. You need the tools, the memorized facts, before you can put them together in meaningful ways. And I love how the classical curricula incorporate CLASSIC books and languages. Do I stick to that? No. I modify what I teach based on the child.

The key is to know for sure what you're doing, why you're doing it, and stand by it unapologetically, until you can't anymore. No one has ever given me any substantial grief over my choice to homeschool. I think they can read it on my face: I know this is right for my kids. But one of my children is in Christian school now. It was the right choice. And I'll stand by that, till things change!

Let's quit fighting about these things and recognize all the teachers who are using their time and energy to encourage learning in kids--homeschool, private or public school. Quit slamming people because you don't understand the choices they made. But be steadfast and determined in your own choices for your kids.

***What about you? Do you homeschool? Would you? What about those teachers you've never forgotten--what did they do right?***

A Classics Challenge--EARTH ABIDES by George R. Stewart

2012-02-04T12:05:00.000-05:00

For this month's Classics Challenge, we're supposed to answer questions about a character we found interesting in our classic of choice. I'm going to review Earth Abides, by George R. Stewart, which I would define as an apocalyptic sci-fi classic from 1949.

What phrases has the author used to introduce this character? What are your first impressions of them? Find a portrait or photograph that closely embodies how you imagine them.

The main character in this book has the charming name of Isherwood Williams (nicknamed "Ish"). I love the name--different and memorable without being wacky.

We're thrown into Ish's world in a dramatic way--he's bitten by a snake. We know he's smart, because he immediately knows enough to cut himself and suck the poison out, calming himself so it won't spread faster into his bloodstream.

As the book opens, Ish is a young man in a post-plague world. We follow him from the woods into civilization, where he finds everyone has disappeared or died. We're rooting for him as he discovers what's happened.

The cool thing about Ish is that I pictured him as an average guy with smarts. Not really distinctive in looks, etc. But let's see if I can find a photo of how I pictured him...Okay, this isn't quite perfect, as I pictured someone shorter and somewhat nerdier. But he would've had a beard, from living in the woods for awhile (for his thesis research).

How has the character changed? Has your opinion of them altered? Are there aspects of their character you aspire to? or hope never to be? What are their strengths and faults? Do you find them believable? If not, how could they have been molded so? Would you want to meet them?

As we get to know Ish, he seems kind of disconnected emotionally. He enjoys watching the world and learning, and is not greatly moved by death. He also toys with the idea of acting as a god to the simple people.

As the book goes on (Ish becomes a dad, ages, etc), I don't appreciate the way he favors one child and neglects his non-cerebral children (all in his attempts to save the human race, of course). But as the book ends, his thoughts shift away from that mentality, as he sees how his wife's simplistic, yet stable views have been more important than his cerebral ones.

Yes, I would want to meet him, and I would've hung out with him if the human race was mostly wiped out by plague!

Try writing a short (four sentences +) note or letter as the character, addressed to you, another character, the author, anyone.

Dear Emma (his wife),

I wish I would've told you that I couldn't have survived without you. I was ready to give up in this barren new earth we inhabit. You restored faith and humanity to me, and I've always drawn all my strength from your comfort. Sorry I wasn't the leader and example I could've been.

--Yours,

Ish

DON'T GIVE UP--Guest Post by Amy Sonnichsen

2012-01-31T20:54:00.001-05:00

I'm so excited to introduce my guest blogger today, Amy Sonnichsen. She's a fellow writer who runs a brilliantly titled blog called The Green Bathtub, http://alsonnichsen.blogspot.com. Her blog is positively addicting, and such a great resource for writers.

Amy is a stay-at-home mom of five who lovesto cook, but often neglects housework so she’ll have more time to write. She isrepresented by Emmanuelle Morgen of Stonesong.

Amy's wonderful at sharing her experiences as a writer, and now that she's locked in her agent, she's going nowhere but UP!

And now, over to Amy...

A.L.S.--I’d been writing stories all my life (well, since I wasthree) and was even a writing major in college, but I didn’t start writing forpublication until I turned thirty. Like most people, I began the journey withlittle knowledge of what it would take to actually get published.

I’m not saying my first attempt at a full-length novel wasgood. I might hazard to say, in full humility, that the writing was good, becauseI had lots of practice writing. But there’s a big difference between a novel withgood writing and a good novel.

What I didn’t have practice with was PLOT and SALEABLE,ORIGINAL IDEAS and WRITING A PITCH and AUDIENCE AWARENESS and CHARACTERDEVELOPMENT.

What I quickly learned is that a whole lot has to click inorder to have a publishable piece of work.

This fact isn’t meant to be discouraging. It should inspireus to KEEP TRYING.

Chances are, our first attempts at writing novels have a lotgoing for them. They might be great ideas with great writing, but might nothave a specific-enough market. For instance, a friend of mine is writing a bookwith eleven- and twelve-year-old protagonists. The writing is beautiful, butshe has a meandering, descriptive style that I’m not sure will work with amiddle grade audience. (Of course, this is totally fixable. It’s just a matterof how she decides to fix it.)

Is she a great writer who deserves to be published someday?Absolutely. But she has to hit her stride and find her market.

We all have our weaknesses to overcome. I struggle withplot. I like writing long descriptions and I don’t like being mean to mycharacters. BIG PROBLEM if I ever want anything I write to sell.

When we attempt to write a book good enough for traditionalpublication, we have to give up writing purely for ourselves. We have to keepin mind the standards and operate by the rules, so to speak, if we’re going tohave something on which the general public will want to spend money.

So, when you get those rejections (I’ve received morerejections than I can count!), keep writing. Don’t settle on a pet project andlet it entrap you for ten years. Try new options, develop your voice, find yourperfect age-group and genre, and above all practice your writing.

None of your early attempts will ever be wasted. You’llalways be practicing and improving.

Just don’t give up.

Thank you so much for your encouragement, Amy!

***How about you? Have you locked in your audience? Do you have a writing weakness you're trying to strengthen, or a pet project you just can't let go of?***

TRITINA POEM--BLOGGER

2012-01-28T21:27:00.003-05:00

For fun, I decided to flex my poem-writing muscles over on the Writer's Digest blog (link down on the right, just look up poetic asides--tritenas). They were practicing tritinas, in which the last word of the poem lines go in this order:

A
B
C

C
A
B

B
C
A

(Last line uses ABC in any order).

So here's a little ditty I whipped up. As yet, however, they still haven't gotten my comments moderated, so who knows if they'll show up over on the Writer's Digest link.

Nothing personal, but sometimes I feel like blogging consumes a bit too much of my writing time. You know I love MY blog followers! I hope you enjoy this, and I know you other writers out there know what I'm talking about!

BLOGGER--

Come visit my blog--
There's a give-away.
If you follow me, I'll follow you.

I really don't know you--
But on my blog,
My whole life's a give-away.

In very fact, I hate to give away
So much of me to you.
I don't know why I blog.

I'm going to write books, not give away my words, blogging just to please you.

Straight-Leg Jeans are not MY Staple

2012-01-21T19:13:00.000-05:00

Straight-leg jeans aren't a trend, they're a staple.

I recently ran this magazine quote by my husband, lamenting the fact that I have yet to find straight-leg jeans that flatter me.

His response? "The minute they say something's a staple, a new must-have item will come out."

He's right--I've already seen a baby bell-bottom backlash.

What does my obsession with French chic and the perfect pair of straight-legs have to do with writing? you may ask.

The point is that for me, straight-leg jeans will not ever be a staple. I might not ever look as French as I'd like to (though I can rock a scarf, people!). And sometimes, just sometimes, we do the same things to our characters, trying to fit them into molds where they don't fit.

This often happens mid-book, when you find one of your secondary characters has become far more important than you thought, and you cannot get him/her to quiet down. Or when you figure out that your MC is going to mess up, royally, and you hadn't even planned that twist yet.

We have to let our characters breathe.

I know that sounds like some kind of writerly mumbo-jumbo. But you can plot and plan and get all your ducks in a row, and then realize that your character is totally irritating in some way. Or perhaps unrealistic, and thus boring, in his/her perfection. That's when we need to step in and make that character real!

The coolest thing about humans is that beauty comes in so many shapes and sizes. So do characters. Embrace that slightly psychotic character; find the truth in his sputtered words. Or make us feel sorry for that perfectionist who has to make everything just-so. Have your MC fall for someone whose teeth aren't gleaming white and professionally straightened.

And keep wearing those boot-cut jeans, if you aren't a straight-leg kinda gal.

Children's Books--Some of my Earliest Friends

2012-01-15T11:26:00.000-05:00

I learned to read when I was four, since K-4 was offered at my Christian school. I have clear memories of sitting in our basement, reading slightly mildewy books as if they were my best friends. One of my favorites was the book above, The Innkeeper's Daughter. I remember the little girl, Abigail, was a wild child who liked to run around upsetting carts and generally making messes. Naughty, naughty Abigail was a recurring line throughout the book. But then her father, the innkeeper, decided to house a pregnant lady and her husband overnight...and of course it was Mary and Joseph. Once naughty Abigail looked in baby Jesus' face, she knew she was looking at something spectacular, and wanted to turn her life around.

I've since lost that copy of the book, but I'll never forget it. It was the story of the prodigal son, before I even understood that story from the Bible.

My kids have loved different books. Richard Scarry was probably my son's favorite, as he loved looking at all the trucks/cars in the pictures, and the stories were hilarious.

My daughter loved Dr. Seuss' One Fish Two Fish, Hop on Pop and just about anything Dr. Seuss. I love the fact that he wrote those books as early readers, but broke the Dick and Jane traditions with his semi-surreal pictures and storylines.

My other daughter loved her kindergarten readers, a set of books called Fun Tales.

There are so many other wonderful children's books, I know I haven't begun to scratch the surface. I also loved Arnold Lobel's Mouse Tales and Owl at Home. Not to mention all those Little Golden Books, Little Bear books...the list is endless.

Hope you enjoyed this trip down memory lane!

******Which books do you still remember from your childhood? Can you explain why they still stick with you?******

AND PS--As of 5:15 pm on Jan. 16th, the comments aren't posting right on here. Please leave one as a reply, I think that will work. And let me know if you still have trouble! Thanks!

Follow-Up on Christian Romance, In Whence I Eat My Words

2012-01-10T11:35:00.000-05:00

I realize that in my previous post, http://bookinamonthmom.blogspot.com/2011/09/christian-romance-like-it-or-leave-it.html, I majorly dissed Christian romance. As you may recall, I took issue with the unreality of the convenient widower-seeking-babysitter who meets his feisty yet loving soul-mate scenario...or the girl who's dropped into the ranch at JUST the right moment to meet the perfect guy (emphasis on PERFECT).

While you will probably never catch me reading Amish fiction for fun, I did recently win my own copy of Montana Marriages by Mary Connealy. I have to say, I was planning on giving this to someone in my family who likes Christian romance. But I decided to read the first few pages and see what the big deal was...

Just like that, I was HOOKED.

Yes, it might have something to do with the fact that the male main character had red hair. I will admit that. But it really had more to do with the WAY Mary writes--it's very tight writing with a quick plot. Is there a widow? Why, yes, there is. Does the male MC say things a real guy might not say? I believe he does. Is it possible that the bad guy will turn his life around and become a Christian? Yes, there is.

However, I can tell Mary knows what she's talking about when she describes life on the ranch. I appreciate this. I love the idea that they built their house into a cave. She also uses rich details and words from that time period.

I will have to eat my words on Christian romance. It can be a good read. The characters can have believable psychological depth (this MC in the first part of the book lived with a domineering/abusive husband). I love it when Christian romance takes on the big issues. I also appreciate that the MC in Montana Rose is married.

The marriage is not 100% realistic to me, because I suspect most husbands do NOT always say the right thing at any given moment (WHAT?!!). Nor do they always act as protective as we might want, or as deeply spiritual. And we wives don't always look gorgeous, cook beautifully or welcome romantic overtures (WHAT!??).

But I think that if we, as readers, recognize that in a romance the MC would by necessity know the right things to say, just like Jacob or Edward (hee, you Meyer fans know who I'm talking about), we can overlook that. As long as we don't expect OUR SPOUSES to perpetually say the right things or innately divine the secrets of our female minds, we can read without repercussions on our own marriages. Although I will add that I will always find MC guys with major flaws (like Mr. Darcy, Mr. Rochester and ESPECIALLY Gabriel Oak in Far from the Madding Crowd) more intrinsically interesting than extremely verbal and emotive guys. However, maybe that's just me.

BUT I'll apologize for throwing the baby out with the bath-water (what a horrid visual picture, sorry!). And thank you, Mary Connealy, for repairing my views of Christian romance.

please CHIME in with comments below:

*Do you enjoy Christian romance? Why or why not?
*If you're a writer, what kinds of male MCs do you write?

In High Spirits--My NaNo start...

2012-01-06T09:23:00.000-05:00

Hi all, just wanted to refer you on over to the blogspot:

http://diannesalerni.blogspot.com/2012/01/first-impressions-untitled-ya-but-its.html

Dianne Salerni posted the first maybe 250 words of the YA novel I started for NaNo in November. People seem to like it! It's got the whole Mothman-creepy vibe going on.

Please check out her awesome blog and comment on my writing...for those of you who liked Otherworld, you would like this novel (if I EVER finish it! I need to know it's worth my time! So tell me if you like it!).

--Heather

A Classics Challenge--GEORGE ELIOT

2012-01-05T20:26:00.000-05:00

I'm participating in A Classics Challenge, in which we read seven works of classic literature in 2012, only three of which can be re-reads. This is courtesy of the literature-loving blog, http://novembersautumn.blogspot.com

My January is already off to a frantic start, as I attempt to revise my 41-chapter novel in five days. Is it possible? Why yes it is. In fact, I'll be done tomorrow. Will my astigmatism worsen from looking at these black letters all day and into the night? Quite possibly. But I'll complete my goal, which is hopefully going to get me where I need to go (that being straight into an agent contract).

SOOO, I haven't gotten to read much. But the book I chose to read first is Daniel Deronda by George Eliot. So for the January part of the challenge, we will answer the following questions (levels are how far into the book I am):

Level 1
Who is the author? What do they look like? When were they born? Where did they live? What does their handwriting look like? What are some of the other novels they've written? What is an interesting and random fact about their life?

Level 2
What do you think of their writing style? What do you like about it? or what would have made you more inclined to like it? Is there are particular quote that has stood out to you?

Level 3
Why do you think they wrote this novel? How did their contemporaries view both the author and their novel?

So here we go. George Eliot was the pen-name of Mary-Anne Evans, born November 22, 1819. Here's what she looks like--seems a bit pensive to me:

I found it interesting that she chose a male pen-name to escape the stereotype that women could only write light-hearted romance. Sounds like a kindred spirit.

She's also written Silas Marner (I loved that one, short but very touching and rather optimistic on the whole), Middlemarch (I saw and loved the movie), Adam Bede (haven't read it yet), and my FAVORITE, The Mill on the Floss (which I thought captured sibling friendship/love perfectly).

I love her writing style because she can be extremely witty and sarcastic, yet very vulnerable and optimistic. She captures characters so vividly and so true-to-life, you feel like you know (or like you ARE) the MC.

I saw the movie of Daniel Deronda and I have to say the strong-willed, bossy main character, Gwendolen, KIND-OF resonated with me, just a tad. Of course, she makes some bad choices and winds up in a not-too-happy place.

I've found some zinger quotes in this novel. Here are a couple...okay, a FEW:

"Genius...comes into the world to make new rules."

"Gwendolen had not considered that the desire to conquer is itself a sort of subjection."

"You could hardly have seen his face thoroughly meeting yours without believing that human creatures had done nobly in times past, and might do more nobly in time to come."

AND AT LAST...

"He could no more dream of her giving him pain than an Egyptian could dream of snow."

So I hope you've enjoyed our little tete-a-tete with George Eliot. And I'm so glad I don't have to use a guy's name to be taken seriously now. See you for another Classics Challenge the 4th of February!

****So what about you? Have you read any George Eliot novels/seen any of the movies? Do you like her stuff?*****

Nothing New under the Sun

2011-12-27T23:36:00.000-05:00

Did cubism originate with Picasso? Did short, pithy poems originate with Emily Dickinson? Did vampire stories originate with Stephenie Meyer? (Okay, you knew I couldn't resist that one.)

The truth is something no artist wants to hear: there really is nothing new under the sun. Yes, cubism was NEW! But I gotta think there might be some cave art somewhere that looks a little cubey. Surely there were short, pithy poems before E.D. (Viking runes, anyone?). And vampires...well, you know they've been around awhile.

So really what we do as writers, painters or creators is imitate stuff around us. In fact, the best art does that. Even sci-fi, you ask? Yes, especially sci-fi. You've got to keep it grounded in reality, even if the plot/art/song is fantastical in many ways. As humans, we have to relate. After all, we don't LIVE on Neptune (I hope you don't!), so it's kind of hard to write about Neptune without including human references, if only emotions exclusive to humans.

Case in point--I started another novel and was shocked, yes SHOCKED, to see that someone else writing a novel was using my main character's first name. Could I still use it in my book? Of course. Will I? Probably, unless her M.C. also has the same last name as my character. Then it's time to shore up the trenches and rethink things.

The comforting thing is that, even though creators are reflecting life as they know it, they're putting it together in new, inimitable ways. Because each of us is unique! There will never be another writer like Emily Dickinson, though many may try.

Nor will there be another Stephenie Meyer, though MANY MORE may try...

Point is, we have to keep creating, even though our particular yellow dwarf sun shines on us all, and has done so since the beginning of mankind. We just need to reflect those beams with our own particular slant.

Whose Muse?

2011-12-19T21:53:00.000-05:00

I think most writers gather certain muse-y things about us when writing novels. Be it a special soundtrack on your ipod, a painting or photo that moves you, or even the traits of real people, usually some characteristics get locked in along the way as we progress in our stories.

Here are some of my muses for God's Daughter. Here's how I pictured my main character, Gudrid. SORT OF! I haven't found the perfect face for her yet.

(This is Amanda Seyfried, from Letters to Juliet.)

For Gudrid's husband, Finn, I kinda pictured this guy, only with longer, curlier hair. (I've showed you this one before) This guy is a Scandinavian actor of some kind:

And for the illustrious Leif Eiriksson, I needed an uber-male...i couldn't find a great photo until I finished writing my book. And here he is:

Yes, this is some guy named Clay Matthews, an NFL player of some kind. As you may guess, I know nothing about the NFL, but quite a bit about inspiration. Runner-up for Leif was:

Yup, it's Kellan Lutz from a famous movie series based on a book series...now WHAT series could that be? Something about vampires?

Sometimes, you just can't find a photo of what you're looking for. I can picture Aurora (from Otherworld) so vividly in my head, but haven't found a photo capturing her red-headed gloriousness yet.

I even have theme songs for Leif and Finn loaded onto my ipod, for inspiration as I stare at the wall on my elliptical machine. I won't release the details on those yet, but IF a movie's ever made, listen for the soundtrack!

It's interesting to see how the movie version of books often changes things that were probably vivid to the author, such as hair-color or eye-color. I won't even go into how disgusted I am with the makers of Percy Jackson for changing the haircolour of Annabeth from blonde to brown. HELLO! Did you even read the book??? Same for the dude who tried to remake The Bionic Woman TV series, and he never bothered to watch the original with Lindsay Wagner first. Well, here she is, you dolt, and that's why your series bombed:

But I digress.

**Do you, as a writer, have muses you turn to while writing? Music? Photos?

**Do you have any favorite movies based on books that totally captured the main character JUST as you imagined him/her?

Deja Vu Blogfest

2011-12-15T14:34:00.000-05:00

Today, I'm participating in the Deja Vu Blogfest, in which myriad bloggers hop, skip and jump about the internet, searching for blog-gems they didn't realize existed. I'm looking forward to finding and following other writerly blogs. I'm also hoping bookinamonthmom will entice some weary wanderers in to become followers, too.

Our challenge was to re-post old blogposts that we loved or wanted to bring to light once again. I've decided to re-post the first two chapters of the very book that kicked off this "Book in a Month Mom" blog in the first place. Yup, the book I wrote in a month (NaNo January 2009).

For those of you who haven't been here before, Otherworld is a paranormal fiction novel about Aurora, a woman who gets obsessed with the ghost next door. The italicized inner monologues at the start of each chapter hint that someone or something is equally obsessed with Aurora.

I've revamped the chapters a bit, but no massive overhauling has been attempted yet, since the book logged in too short to query as adult fiction at 50,000 words. I still love the book, but when I read it, I realize how much I've learned about writing and even formatting since then! If you want to read more chapters, I've incrementally posted chapters 1-13 on this blogspot. Just enter "Otherworld" in the search box. Hope you enjoy!

And please give me a return visit now and then, to keep up with my novels and to comment on the grueling, yet hopefully rewarding, process of writing, querying, revising, proposing, revising...ad infinitum.

OTHERWORLD

By

Heather Day Gilbert

copyright Heather Day Gilbert--January 2009--all rights reserved

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

“If thou doest well, shalt thou not be accepted? And if thou doest not well, sin lieth at the door.” Genesis 4:7

CHAPTER 1

I know she has to be the one. She, with her glossy long red hair and sparkling green eyes. She, with her heart open and ready to be filled. She, with a beautiful blonde daughter and loving husband.

I want to feel bad for her. But there is nothing I can do to stop it.

------------------------------------------------

He moved me so far from Gap Kids, I have no idea where to buy Phoebe’s clothes anymore. Who ever heard of Wood Knob, West Virginia? He had to trade our van for a four-wheel drive Suburban just to get to his job in Troy Mills. His new job, which pays only slightly more. But he’s higher up in the union now, so we do have better benefits. I still don’t think it’s worth it, and he knows what I think.

“Mother,” Phoebe says from her little loft room in our cabin. I made sure she called me Mother right from the start. No slang for her.

“Yes?”

“Can I watch Barney?”

“We don’t have the TV hooked up yet.”

“Can we play dollies?”

“Not now,” I say, and straighten a longer piece of my hair. I refuse to let her think her needs should dictate what I do. She needs to learn young that the world doesn’t revolve around her.

After lunch, which was leftover chicken cordon bleu for me and peanut butter and apples for her, I decide we may as well see what’s outside.

Our cabin sits on two acres of woodland. Not that I really care much where it sits. But my husband wanted land. He wanted to “get away from it all” in the city. Basically, he forgot to acknowledge the fact that I am, and always have been, a city girl myself. Sometimes he forgets to consult me in major decisions. The few times he does, he usually doesn’t approve of what I want to do. This is a far cry from what I knew growing up, when my mother pretty much got whatever she asked for.

I round up Phoebe and we put on Polartec jackets and rain boots. It’s still a little muddy out. Our moving truck almost got stuck on our dirt driveway. We’ll have to get it paved.

In the pine woods to the right of the house, there’s a little creek. Not too much underbrush. Phoebe climbs over dead trees and jumps in the shallow part of the creek. We see some tracks, maybe a raccoon or a small dog, I have no idea what.

“Alright, Phoebe, let’s keep going,” I say, and we head out for the woods to the left of the house. This woods has some pines, but more deciduous trees, it seems. It’s also smaller--we come to the end pretty quickly. There’s a pretty wide hay field ahead. I only figure this out because of the big white bale-sized things lying around everywhere. Past that is a big hill with a light purple house at the very top. I guess that would be our new neighbor. Phoebe runs into the field and starts doing cartwheels. We should probably go ahead and introduce ourselves while we’re out.

“Come on, Phoebe.” She’s actually in front of me, but I get ahead of her and grab her hand. “Let’s head for that hill.” Phoebe shoots me a glare, but I ignore it and keep walking.

A couple of big black birds seem to be eating something dead near one of the bales. The sky is a rather oppressive shade of grey with some heavier charcoal clouds.

As we get to the hill, Phoebe tears off around the side of it. I refuse to chase after her. There are some old stone stairs, overgrown with moss and dead grass--I decide to go up here. When I get about halfway up, I check to see if I see Phoebe anywhere. I don’t.

There is a small treeline ringing the hill, and I’m getting close to it. I decide to yell.

“Phoebe!”

She still doesn’t come. I continue toward the house. The small trees now completely block my view of the sides of the hill.

I can see the house clearly now. It seems this is a side stairway, winding toward the front door.

There is no porch. It’s a bit of a Victorian monstrosity, a pale purple house with black shutters. It has two side turrets, but neither one has a door or any apparent windows.

At the front door, there are three small steps and a tiny stoop. The front door is black. I imagine there’s some feng shui reason people shouldn’t have a black front door. I don’t see any kitschy welcome signs or flags or cheap patio chairs, which I was fully expecting. There is just the stoop, the ornate ironwork doorbell, and the black door.

About this time, Phoebe runs up the left path out of the trees. Her blonde hair looks wild and has leaf bits in it. She offers no explanation for her willfulness and I decide not to ask for one. She just smirks at me as I press the doorbell. Heavy chimes ring inside.

Almost before the chimes ring, the door opens. An old woman with blue-tinted hair peers out at us. “Hello?” she asks, and her pale blue eyes squint a bit.

“I’m your new neighbor,” I say. “My name is Aurora Himmel. We just moved into the log cabin a couple days ago.”

Her eyes unsquint a little. “Oh, the log mansion over there? And this is your daughter?”

“Yes,” I say, and ignore the mansion quip. “Her name is Phoebe. Say hello, Phoebe.”

Phoebe just looks around at the trees.

“I wondered,” she says, “because I just saw someone down by my pond."

So that‘s where Phoebe was. I‘ll let that one slide. “Well, nice to meet you,” I say. “Your name is…?”

“Dollie Massey,” she says. “Would you like to have some tea? I was just getting a pot going.”

Before I can come up with a reason to refuse, Phoebe says, “Please can we get something to eat here, Mother? I’m soooo hungry! Please…?”

Dollie smiles. “Sounds like you need a little snack break.”

I look at her blue hair, yellow cotton apron, and floral dress that must be about forty years old. But her shoes aren’t the grandma brogans I expect. They’re actually stylish brown clogs. Her earrings are chandelier-style--something I’d buy myself.

Who is this woman?

“Alright,” I say.

Chapter 2

I always knew I was meant for better. She feels the same way. I know she hates her husband for bringing her to this godforsaken place. She cannot hide anything from me. I am so much older than she is, and I have so much I can teach her.

----------------------------------------------

Dollie shows us the “parlor,” as she calls the living room, and heads into the kitchen. Phoebe starts climbing on the couch. I examine some of the photos. There are no knick-knacks. Just photos, on the walls, on the dresser, on the coffee table. Where on earth did this woman get all these friends and family? She’s not even wearing a wedding ring.

I open a photo album. It must be as old as her dress. There's a photo of a woman who vaguely resembles Dollie looking sideways, away from the camera. Right next to her is a man. Wonder who that is?

“Here we are!” Dollie announces, bringing in a tray with a couple mugs of tea on it. There is also a smaller orange Tupperware cup with water in it, presumably for Phoebe.

“I just put sugar in both teas, I hope that’s alright,” she says, starting to unwrap the three Little Debbie cakes on the side. They are Christmas tree-shaped, though Christmas was about ten months ago.

“Those are my most hatable-est kind,” Phoebe says, as she stops couch-climbing long enough to look at the cakes.

“Well,” says Dollie. She looks at me pointedly.

“What a lot of pictures you have here,” I say, and try to eat a bite of my red-and-green-sprinkled tree.

“Oh, lawsie-daisie, yes!” she says.

“Are they all family?” I ask, and gulp some of the weak tea to wash down the cake.

“Mostly,” she says. “We had ten kids in our family. I never did get married. But most of them did.”

She stops and pats her hair, then glances behind the couch, where Phoebe must be hiding out.

“She surely has a lot of energy,” she says, and looks intently at me.

I’m not sure if she’s fishing for an explanation. I could explain that Phoebe has ADHD and impulse control problems, but I don’t really want to. I’ve explained her behavior so many times, to so many people, I simply don’t want to anymore. I’m making a new start in West Virginia.

“May I look in your dining room?” I ask. It’s right across the hall and has a wonderful chandelier and an antique buffet I can barely see from here.

“Of course,” she says, looking out of the side of her eye to see where Phoebe is again.

I walk across the hall and take my time looking at the furniture. It looks like cherry, very glossy and dark. The walls are painted a sort of marmalade color, which seems dated but somehow works. There is a large round mirror in front of me, and I can see a person in it. I turn to ask Dollie if Phoebe is doing alright, but she’s not there. I turn back. The person is still there, right behind me in the mirror. It is a man.

“What the…?” I ask, and whirl around as quickly as I can. There is no one there. But it feels like someone is.

I run. “Dollie!” I yell, and scuttle across the wood floors into the parlor. Phoebe is on the couch, picking a Little Debbie cake apart into little pieces. Dollie is on the chair, sipping tea. She quickly puts it down and jumps up.

“What is it?” she says.

I look at Phoebe and control my voice. I don’t think she’s paying attention to me anyway.

“I just wanted to ask you a question,” I say, and steer her out into the hallway between the rooms.

“What?” she says again.

“I just saw a man in your mirror in there,” I say.

“A what?”

“A man.”

“That’s impossible. There are no men in my house!”

She looks at me steadily, obviously trying to figure out if I’ve lost my mind.

“Are you sure?” I say. “Maybe I’ll check outside the window.”

“Go right ahead,” she says. “But no one comes up the hill but my cleaning girl, and she only comes on Saturdays.”

I quickly head to the door, black inside and out, and peer out. No one is there, and the wind’s not even moving. I head back to Dollie, who is in turn heading toward Phoebe. Phoebe has put crumbs from the Little Debbie all over the coffee table.

“Well, that was strange,” I say.

“What did he look like?” she asks. I’m a bit surprised, because I thought she didn’t believe me.

“He had black hair and dark eyes. He was really tall and skinny.”

“Hmmm,” she says, and starts picking up Phoebe’s crumbs and putting them in a napkin. “Doesn’t sound like anyone I know.”

I’m shocked she’s not more fearful than I am, since it is her house. But she’s old, so maybe she doesn’t know how dangerous the world is now compared to when she was young. There are always murders and scandals these days. Or maybe things are different in the country.

Phoebe gets up and runs around the coffee table and Dollie about five times. Then she runs up to me and says loudly, “I want to go now.”

Dollie looks up from the cleanup. “Thank you all for stopping by. So nice to meet some neighbors.”

“Does anyone else live near here?” I ask.

“No, like I said, there’s a pond at the bottom of the other side of my hill, then there’s a huge wooded lot, and some more farmland. The next house is at least two miles away.”

I wonder how she gets her groceries, but I noticed a garage, so there must be a driveway down the back of the hill that heads toward town.

“Well, we’ll be going,” I say, and wonder if I am going crazy. I saw that man as real as any man could be, just standing behind me in the mirror.

“Until next time,” she says cheerily, and walks us out the door. We take the path toward our house.

Phoebe immediately begins running down the stones. I turn to take a last look. And I could swear I see a tall man looking out the dining room window.

copyright Heather Day Gilbert--January 2009--all rights reserved

Hook, Line and Sinker

2011-12-12T10:33:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I bungee jumped for the first time, and all would've gone well if that cord hadn't....

Did I hook you yet?

Nope, I didn't REALLY go bungee jumping (although it's been a wild-girl dream of mine for awhile now). But the purpose of hooks in writing is to pull the reader in so tightly, they don't want to let go of your book.

Let's think of some famous hooks, right smack at the beginning of books.

"It was a dark and stormy night"--THE RAVEN, by Edgar Allan Poe

"Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again."--REBECCA, by Daphne Du Maurier

"Scarlett O'Hara was not beautiful, but men seldom realized it when caught by her charm as the Tarleton twins were."--GONE WITH THE WIND, by Margaret Mitchell

These sentences draw you in and make you want to know MORE about the what on earth the main character is all about.

In writing novels, I've discovered that in modern books, there's usually a substantial hook at the end of every chapter. Old books aren't necessarily this way. In reading over some end sentences of classics, I find they do have hooks, only not as dramatic as modern-day tales, perhaps. See if you spot the hooks in these end chapter sentences:

"But now he felt confident enough to say inwardly, 'I will take odds that the marriage will never happen.'"--DANIEL DERONDA, by George Eliot

"Anna looked at him with dreamy, shining eyes, and said nothing."--ANNA KARENINA, by Leo Tolstoy

"But with all the hopes of cheerfulness, and all the present comfort of delay, there was still such an evil hanging over her in the hour of explanation with Harriet, as made it impossible for Emma to be ever perfectly at ease."--EMMA, by Jane Austen

I was actually surprised to find these obvious hooks at the end of classics. Some classic writers do have a habit of droning on and on, making me give up entirely. Even though Moby Dick starts with "Call me Ishmael," I think it kind of loses speed at some point (thus explaining why I've never forced myself to finish it). Charles Dickens also tends to lose me occasionally.

Today's novels generally have more obvious hooks. I'll show you a couple (first one isn't the end of a chapter, but part of a chapter).

"A bitter seed was planted inside a me. And I just didn't feel so accepting anymore."--THE HELP, by Kathryn Stockett

"Choking on the sudden hope that dizzied me, I lifted my eyes to the man's face."--THE HOST, by Stephenie Meyer

**Do you have any examples of favorite "hook lines" from books you couldn't put down?
**If you're a writer, would you share one of your favorite "hooks" from your novel, unpublished or published?

Who Cares?

2011-12-01T13:17:00.000-05:00

Every good writer wants to find a way to make people care about something, even if said author seems to hate life and think that everything is futile.

Case in point: Sylvia Plath. "Plath-y" writers do care about something: the fact that life seems random and unfair. They want to make you jump on the apathy bandwagon. Plath-y writers typically make you want to bang your head against the wall for days after reading their stuff. I sank into a two-day depression at the end of Jude the Obscure, by the ever-cheery Thomas Hardy, but the tragedies in that book stick with me to this day. In Hardy's case, tragedy has a point--it's often a direct result of bad behaviour. Thus, it says something.

I do want to say something with my novels, to reflect the world accurately by using characters who act in realistic ways while they grow and change. Although sometimes, they'll refuse to do so, which brings some serious consequences.

Here's what I'd like to know: Do you have a big idea you could build an entire novel around? Grandparents who get dropped off in nursing homes and are forgotten like yesterday's news? Pet overpopulation? Media trying to make girls grow up too fast? In other words, what do YOU care about in this day and age?

A Writer Gives Thanks

2011-11-19T20:26:00.000-05:00

Tis the season for Thanksgiving--though the Christmas music is already playing in Wal-Mart! Let's not skip over giving thanks as we get closer to the end of another year.

As a writer who's experienced my fifth tumultuous year on the road to publication, I'm going to stop and give thanks.

1) I'd like to thank every writing blogspot I've frequented, for putting up with my sporadic comments that sometimes come from a sad and dejected place. I like to debate things, so sorry if I tend to stir the pot a little too much. It's all the angst from waiting to hear from agents. I'm actually normal!

2) I'm thankful that I don't have to worry about agent rejections on God's Daughter, because I've already packed up and moved on to my next book. No more revising queries, proposals or synopses for now. It's actually quite liberating. Not that I've given up on it forever--I surely haven't!

3) I'm thankful that I can write in completely different genres and feel quite cozy in each. Except Amish fiction. I'm not going there. Yet.

4) I'm also thankful for a husband who supports ME, and not just my books. Though he might like those too, if I ever gave him a chance to read them, or if he had time to read them in the first place. When the first one gets published, he's first in line for a signed copy.

5) You knew I was coming to this one, because I'm so grateful for all of you! Fellow writers, friends, followers...you uplift me. Writers feel all crumb-bummety if they can't reach anyone with their writing. It's nice to know there will be some people in line behind my hubby for that first book!

So happy Thanksgiving, all! Enjoy the turkey or the parade or the sauerkraut (wait, you don't have sauerkraut?). And let's be thankful for both good and bad things, though I know it's easier said than done--I've been trying to do it all year. But I'm figuring out that the bad things push us to places where we can reach more people and accomplish greater things.

--Heather

Shaka-POW!

2011-11-10T15:39:00.001-05:00

I can't really think of any other words for this post. I'm giddy with excitement, like I'm in love for the first time. Why? I can't stop writing! I've got the seed of a new novel in my head, and ideas are pouring out nonstop.

Is this the initial infatuation phase? You'd better believe it! I was recently infatuated with an idea for a YA novel for NaNo. I started it, felt good about it until day five, then shelved it for now. Because a bigger and better idea came to me, something that would reach more people and stay more in line with my audience.

For those of you who loved Aurora's sassy-girl ways in Otherworld, my new main character also has a little spice with her sugar.

I'm writing in past tense (new to me!), but still first-person. I'm trying to integrate all the dialogue techniques I've learned along this ever-arduous journey.

Let me state for the record, that though I love God's Daughter, I'm having so much fun getting out of the Old Norse mindset, back into the twenty-first century, with all its Jimmy Choos and mohair throws.

Oh, and did I mention that this novel starts off in Manhattan? Yes, like every popular romantic film you've ever seen! Cliche? Maybe! But it's going to work because I did actually live there for awhile. I didn't love it, like my MC, but that makes no difference. She's not me!

Just wanted to give a thoroughly upbeat and boom-a-licious update on my writing journey. I would NOT be doing this, if it weren't for the uplifting words offered by my husband, my friends and other writing peeps out there! God bless you, every one!

--Heather

Not So Much...

2011-11-07T15:27:00.000-05:00

So, as far as my writing a NaNo novel this month...not so much.

As far as moving ahead in the agent-search contest...not so much.

BUT...suffering from a lack of encouragement from loving supporters...not so much!

I'm so thankful for all the unexpected words of encouragement that float me through days like this--days when I really can't concentrate on moving laundry to the dryer, figuring out the supper menu, or helping my daughter with math because my mind is elsewhere. Days where my book's been either inadvertently or ADVERTENTLY (word?) rejected.

So, I just want to say thanks to all of you. And will I stop writing? NOT SO MUCH.

--Heather

Here's Lookin' At You, NaNoWriMo

2011-10-29T20:35:00.000-04:00

For those of you just warming up your keyboards, ready to start pounding out your novels for National Novel Writing Month, I wanted to do a little retrospective of my NaNoWriMo novel experience.

It was January, 2007. Nope, I didn't do it in the proper month. Nor did I even register with NaNoWriMo. But I did finish the book in the month of January! My writer friend Sara (also mentioned in Jan's post) challenged us to join her online, as we all wrote a book in a month. Jan helpfully broke down the math side of things for me, which looked like this:

Day 1-Write 1,613 words
Day 2-You're up to 3,226 words
Day 3-You're up to 4,839 words...
And so on and so forth until on day 31, you're at 50,000 words.

This worked well for me, because I knew exactly what day my plot needed to take fateful twists and what day I needed to wrap it up with the epilogue.

I wrote in the freezing cold basement, constantly swathed in a plush red robe and slippers up to my knees. Since my husband didn't find this look particularly attractive, I had plenty of uninterrupted time with the keyboard and the three cats, who loved me so much they thoughtfully waited until I was in the basement with them to use their litter box.

Because my book dealt with the supernatural, I spent the entire month praying over what I wrote and over our house. I didn't want to open the doors to any unwanted visitors.

If you've read some of my completed book, Otherworld, you know it's paranormal fiction, in which the main character, a redhead named Aurora, can't stop hunting the ghost next door. Lately, I've considered just posting the rest of the novel on here for those of you who were a little addicted to it.

Why have I given up on getting Otherworld published? I learned some things from NaNoWriMo, and here they are:

1) Agents and publishers do NOT want adult fiction novels that come in at 50,000 words. It's too short. They've told me so, in no uncertain terms. Unless you're doing a short romance, it just won't work. 75,000 words is minimum for an adult fiction novel. But Young Adult and Middle Grade novels can be 50,000 words. Something to bear in mind when writing your NaNoWriMo.

2) It's not easy to simply add 30,000 words to a finished novel. You already have the plot wrapped up, you've told what you wanted to tell. Yes, you can change it somewhat and add scenes, but it's very difficult if you like to write straight through, like I do.

3) NaNoWriMo is the best way to motivate yourself to actually FINISH a novel. IF you like to write quickly. If you take longer to plan out every bit of your plot, it's only going to frustrate the living daylights out of you by day seven.

4) If you have something you feel strongly about and you're ready to work into a book form, NaNoWriMo is a great jumping-off point. But the process doesn't end there. You'll need to get a handle on how to write a great query and proposal for future agents, and joining a critique group in your genre is a great way to polish up your work. But posting all your chapters for critique, as well as critiquing others' chapters in return, can take months.

I used to think I would be a reclusive writer, holed up in a corner somewhere, only to emerge with a book ready for publication. But the more I write, the more I realize that writing is a COMMUNITY. Reading other writers' blogs has been encouraging, as I see others who've gone through this process on the road to publication. One of my favorites is http://www.novelrocket.com
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Bottom line for NaNoWriMos out there--you're going to love the writing process, as a book takes shape in your mind! I loved it so much I named my blog after it! (Now I realize that doesn't look great when agents/pubs think I only took one month to write my current book.)

NaNoWriMos of the future, I wish you a very productive month of learning, growing, and realizing how a book can take over your life for a little while. And I hope to see you published someday! You're always welcome to do a guest blog here about your NaNoWriMo experience!

--Heather

Point of View--What's your Favorite?

2011-10-16T15:41:00.000-04:00

As I'm editing my historical fiction novel, I'm running into quite a few people who are genuinely shocked that I'm writing in FIRST PERSON point of view. This means that my main character, Gudrid, talks like this:

"I smell ocean salt and sweat from ship-work on him. The darkened circles under his eyes tell me that he hasn’t been sleeping enough."

Instead of THIRD PERSON, which looks more like this:

"Gudrid smells ocean salt and sweat from ship-work on him. The darkened circles under his eyes tell her that he hasn't been sleeping enough."

Now, if I really wanted to be wacko, I could do SECOND PERSON, and it would be like a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure book (man, I loved those!)

"You smell ocean salt and sweat from ship-work on him. The darkened circles under his eyes tell you that he hasn't been sleeping enough." (At which point, you'll have to choose if you'll drug him so he can finally sleep, or just feed him to angry crocodiles....just kidding).

I also go way out of the historical fiction comfort zone by writing in present tense, instead of past. Why do I write this way? I did it in Otherworld. I'm doing it again in God's Daughter. Bottom line is that I write what I'd want to read. I like the immediacy of first person POV in the present tense. It makes Gudrid come alive for me. Or Aurora, in Otherworld.

Will I ever change? I just might, if it means I could finally get one of my novels picked up! Makes me wonder how many famous writers "sold out" on their personal preferences in POV or even genre style, just to make a buck and "fit in" with the trends. Yes, true writers write what they want and don't care what anyone thinks, but true writers don't always make money on their books right away. James Joyce wrote stream-of-consciousness, and you either like him or you hate him. There's no in-between. Would he get published today? Something tells me he wouldn't. Maybe Thomas Hardy couldn't, either, with his dense descriptive paragraphs. I can't imagine my life without Hardy in it, so I'm thankful he lived then and not now.

I'd love to know the POV and even the tense of your favorite book. I'm thinking that by far the most popular style of writing is third person, past tense (Jane Austen, et all). However, To Kill a Mockingbird is first person, past tense, I believe.

Please fill us in on your favorite style! And maybe next time, I'll just write a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure for adults...

Getting to the Polished Product

2011-09-29T13:16:00.000-04:00

I don't know what I'm doing blogging, since I have to majorly, MAJORLY rewrite my first chapter of GOD'S DAUGHTER (my Viking novel, if you're just catching up).

BUT I want to share that I've joined a historical fiction critique group, and I love it. Who would have thought that this writer (who previously believed that all her words were perfect the minute they hit the page) would be so ENAMORED with having her work chewed up and spat out? But the truth is, these people know the genre. They've been working in it longer than I have, for the most part. And they really don't "spit" things out--they give those specific comments I was stupidly hoping an agent would make.

I've also gotten a wonderful editor to look at my first 55 pages. I love her too! Now I know what's working, what's not, what holes need to be fixed.

True, occasionally it hits me what I'm attempting to do by mid-October (there's a contest I'd like to win, to get an agent), and at these times I become like a raging Medusa or some unleashed maelstrom within my very small house. Well, not OUT LOUD, but in my head. I am nothing, if not restrained, for my children's sake.

So. Bottom line is--to chip the crud off the gemstone of your writing, a critique group is almost essential (and blast you again, Stephenie Meyer, for not needing one--I'm not jealous, seriously). And my writing has improved. Just don't judge it by this post, written with this peculiar concoction of allergies, headache and humility that has recently overwhelmed my brain.

Christian Romance--Like it or Leave it?

2011-09-24T13:14:00.000-04:00

I recently replied to a blogpost by Sally Apokedak on the blogspot Novel Rocket. I've enjoyed this blogspot: http://www.novelrocket.com. She was asking what kind of fiction we like to read: books w/a glaring gospel message? characters that do or don't change for the better? I'm posting part of my response below. Let it be known that I didn't have issues w/bad parents/abandonment! But the point was that I think Christian fiction needs to be realistic. Or maybe not even be categorized as Christian fiction at all--thus transcending the market and reaching more people with the truth.

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HG--"The problem I have w/Christian romance (most of it), is that the main guy character is unbelievable, and not representative of a real guy at all. I think running our male character's actions through a trusted male friend/husband is an important step. MOST guys don't normally know exactly the right words to say or romantic/protective gestures to make ALL the time. Also, I don't like that alot of "romantic" books are about single women. Don't married women know something about love? And I mean REAL, sacrificial love? Or are we just too boring to write about? I just wish more marriages, with their struggles, were portrayed in Christian fiction. I know there are several Christian books out there like that, but those usually aren't the ones I see touted in Christian bookstores/libraries.

I love Gina Holmes' "Crossing Oceans," b/c it dealt with the real problems of cancer and divorce, etc. I love Frank Peretti b/c he deals with spiritual warfare in ways most of us hadn't even thought about. I love C.S. Lewis b/c he was REAL (and deep!).

For what it's worth, I write character-driven fiction about married MCs (main characters, in writers' speak). But I don't think it's what Christian agents are looking for right now. I've definitely thought about selling out and writing romance about some single girl going to NYC (don't they all!??) and her Cinderella story...but that's just not me, and it's not something I would want to read.

I think alot of people who've grown up reading the classics (like Hardy, Eliot, etc) are looking for characters we can sink our teeth into, who have flaws and strengths and struggle with things we all struggle with, like death and abandonment and bad parents, etc.

I realize I'm saying "I think" a lot, and obviously there are many people who feel otherwise. I'd just hate it if women read Christian romance (or any other kind of romance) and think that if their husbands aren't acting as romantic/thoughtful/protective as the main guy in the romance, they're falling short. This kind of thinking usually winds up in divorce--I've seen it happen.

I'd just like it if the demand for multi-faceted characters with multi-faceted plots gained momentum in the Christian market.

Thanks for asking, sorry to go on and on, but this is something I do feel very strongly about. How many Christians wind up skipping the Christian bookstore and reading best-sellers from the library/bookstore b/c their favorite genres just aren't represented in Christian fiction? Christian writers can change the world, and not just from the confines of the Christian bookstore. We don't have to preach, but everything we write should come from a Christian worldview, b/c that's what we have!"
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I'd love to get your comments on this. How do you feel about Christian romance? I understand that people are attracted to different genres. I'm just wishing the Christian market would reflect what Christians are ACTUALLY interested in...thus, "Otherworld." Plenty of Christians are interested in ghosts, but they won't come out and say it. Frank Peretti blew a hole in "standard" Christian fiction with his supernatural thrillers. What kinds of fiction do you read and why?

Googling Handguns for the Greater Good--by Guest Blogger JANET BERRY

2011-09-10T15:48:00.000-04:00

I'm thrilled to present you with my first guest blogger, Janet Berry. If you want to share something from your writing journey on my blog, just comment on here or contact me on FB and I'd love to get something posted! And thank you, Jan, for sharing the ups and downs of writing a book in a month!
--Heather

JB--When I graduated high school, my mother handed me a small, spiral bound journal in which she had kept records from each year of my schooling up until junior high. Jumbled amongst the scatterings of unflattering school photos, less than stellar report cards, and crumpled award ribbons were her neatly scripted notations of the various occupations I wanted to pursue when I grew up. Ballerina made the list often, along with mommy and teacher. Once, her records show I wanted to be a football player; I can only assume that was at the height of my sarcasm stage. One career topped the list, every year without fail, and that was my dream, my goal, of becoming a writer.

That all changed once I reached high school and was told in no uncertain terms by my English teacher that I had been placed in her honors class by mistake. She was very clear that I had no talent and was not worthy of her time and attention, so I abandoned the long held dream and rarely showed another person my writing from that day forth.

Fast forward almost two decades, to a few years ago. My friend, Sara, invited me to try out this crazy sounding idea with her. It was called National Novel Writing Month or NaNoWriMo for short. In essence, the idea is to sit down and just write every day, no editing or backtracking, and in one month, you will have produced a 50,000 word book.

Initially, I was hesitant; I hadn’t written anything other than grocery lists and checks to the electric company for a very long time. However, and I share this with you at the risk of sounding mentally unstable, I almost constantly keep some type of running story line in my head, so figured I could just jot down some of the happenings of those characters and see what happened.

On day one, I was pumped up, excited, ready to go! I sat down and quickly got a few paragraphs punched out. Then, I made the mistake of stopping and rereading what I had just written. It was rubbish! I backspaced the entire thing and sat staring at the blank screen for many minutes. It was frustrating; the scenes in my head were so vivid, but once I put them on paper, they became wooden and colorless.

I realize now, that I made a grave error from the start. The stories I think up are innocent and sweet and suitable for children to read. Instead of going with my natural inclinations, I wanted to impress and produce something edgier and hip, two things I should never pretend to be. I had settled on revolving the story around two siblings, bent on finding out who was responsible for their father’s death. The culprit, unbeknownst to them, had assumed a new identity as the minister of a small church. So yes, just that synopsis can probably clue you in as to why I stick to reading instead of writing! Nonetheless, this insight did not occur to me, and I labored on with the story, in spite of being uncomfortably out of my element.

I confided in another friend, and to my happy surprise, he joined in the project, sharing a few small samples of his work along the way. He had an astounding story in the works whereas I was growing increasingly dissatisfied with mine. The characters had gotten completely out of hand. The main female protagonist had entered into an illicit tryst with the guilt-riddled minister, who happened to be her mother’s ex-lover, so now I was dealing with affairs, church corruption, extortion and all sorts of things completely foreign to my normally peaceful way of thinking. I don’t read mysteries or watch scary movies or daytime television yet here I was attempting to write a soapy psychological thriller and googling types of handguns on the internet. It was madness! I can find the humor in it now, but at the time, I was existing on only a handful of hours of sleep each night. I lived and breathed this story. My children got shorted on attention and we had far too many fast food meals. My friend received many an angsty email bemoaning how I couldn’t do it, I was going to quit, my story was horrible and so on. Somehow, he managed to get me back to writing, mainly because we had a word count competition going on, but also because it helped just to vent the frustration and have someone to talk to about it.

At the very end, just when I wanted to quit, I got a sudden surge of energy and finished up the story, one day early. I amazed even myself by doing that. The end product was horrible, so choppy and ugly that I couldn’t even bear to reread the entire thing myself, much less share with anyone. It met its demise in the recycle bin of my computer about a year later. The main thing though, was that I did it! I finished something that I started. As a chronic procrastinator, this was a rare accomplishment indeed. I was proud of myself, if not my story.

In summary, I would have to say that NaNoWriMo was a good experience, albeit similar in the way cod liver oil is good for you. I was finally able to fully accept that my English teacher’s truthful, if tactless, assessment of my skills was accurate and that for every writer, there needs to be a proportionately larger audience. I happily count myself among the latter these days, with perhaps a bit more appreciation for the blood, sweat and tears that go into the making of a great book.

Have Your Cake and Eat It, Too

2011-08-24T21:59:00.000-04:00

You would think that with two very computer-savvy brothers, I would've received some of those "techie" genetics. Alas, that is not so.

You may wonder what happened to that last post about Kathryn Stockett, The Help, and the fact that Heather will continue to write, despite rejection? Well, I managed to delete that post while figuring out how to label stuff. The good news: I think I figured it out. The bad news: my encouraging article link is gone. But I'll re-paste it here:

http://shine.yahoo.com/event/poweryourfuture/kathryn-stocketts-the-help-turned-down-60-times-before-becoming-a-best-seller-2523496

It seems everything and everyone is lining up behind the sentiment that, if you're a real writer, you won't stop when you meet slam-on with somewhat targeted rejection. I say "somewhat targeted" because I'm realizing that the two negative comments I've had on this book have been said before, to many other authors, some of whom have gone on to get published anyway.

It makes sense that agents/publishers are subjective--after all, isn't everyone? We're choosy about our spouse (hopefully!). We're picky about what foods we love or despise (sweet or salty? chocolate always wins for me). And given how many different genres we love (classics, Amish fiction, vampire romance, sci-fi, biography), no wonder the responses from agents are all over the board.

I'm keeping my hopes up for my book. But not for understanding computers like my bros--everyone has their limits! And now excuse me--I've got to find something chocolate and label all my posts.

--Heather

On Rejection and My Attempts to Deal With It

2011-08-03T10:35:00.000-04:00

After a stellar and astonishing week, when no less than FOUR agents were requesting my sample chapters/pages, and my children and husband would attest that my happiness was through the roof, I have had a letdown, reject week of almost equal proportions. Two of the bigger historical fiction agents rejected my book, leaving me once again questioning my skill (or lack of it) in writing.

I do realize that Kathryn Stockett's "The Help," as well as J.K. Rowling, John Grisham, etc. have met with numerous rejections before publication. They did not give up. But then I am reminded of Stephenie Meyer, who maybe had 14 rejections. I've probably reached that number (between my two novels), so in my mind, if I can't beat Stephenie Meyer, I'm useless. Okay, maybe not QUITE that bad, but I am competitive, you know. Mostly with myself.

And so, I begin to think that maybe this blog was a bad idea, especially if I have to take it down, hanging my head in shame. "I can't write, why did I ever think I could?" keeps running through my mind. I know you all believe in me, and many of you have offered encouragement on Facebook and elsewhere. However, I have to determine in myself if it is worthwhile to continue pouring months into these writing endeavors, only to have no one read my book. E-books are tempting, but I do want a hard copy of the book in the end.

I love to write, and even now I walk around with new ideas for books about every day. Once you're locked in the writing mode, it's hard to get your brain out. However, this does not bode well for a home-schooler who needs to teach her children all the stuff they need to know before college!

So, I have concluded that for now I am taking a break. Maybe I'm not quitting. Maybe I'm just recuperating. I still have queries out, and I may still get bites. I'm still trying to keep some faith. I hope my next post will be one of jubilation, where I have found the agent who really "gets" my books. I just gotta know that what I'm fighting for is worth it! If it is, I'll come back swinging, and if it's not, I'm willing to concede defeat. Well, at least I think so.

--Heather

Just a Taste

2011-07-14T11:15:00.000-04:00

Hello all my faithful fans! Just wanted to give you a little bite of my next book. The first 250 words of the first chapter are up on the blogspot link below, and open for comments! Id love to get some positive feedback on there, as I believe there is an agent who reviews these entries. Lets hope for the best! And my apostrophe isnt working today on this keyboard! Dont you love freedom from punctuation! Whee!

In case my link doesnt post, its on Miss Snarks First Victim blogspot, entry number 18--Gods Daughter.

http://misssnarksfirstvictim.blogspot.com/2011/07/july-secret-agent-18.html#comments

Check it out!

--Heather

An Edit a Day...

2011-06-17T00:12:00.000-04:00

I would like to blog, on my birthday (okay, we're actually into the next day at 12:22 @ night) that I have finished the editing of my Viking book. Well, the first edit. My own personal edit, which may not be too edit-y. I will now follow in the footsteps of my great-aunt, who is also a writer, and interview myself, as she did for the newspaper recently.

Q--Is it difficult to distance yourself from what you have spent months writing?

A--You'd better believe it. However, reading the entire book aloud, while typing in the corrections, certainly helped w/the overall flow of the book.

Q--Was it worth all the coffee, the late nights, and the general stress, trying to get the book finished by May?

A--Yes and No. Yes, I have a finished product I enjoy reading myself. And no, I got shingles from the stress of editing myself and I'm still hopelessly hooked on coffee.

Q--So you enjoy reading your own book?

A--I do, and I would like to say that the only reason I write is to entertain myself. This reasoning works with poetry, which is often too personal and too stinky for anyone but myself to ever lay eyes on. However, books are written to be read. Even though I know what's going to happen, sometimes I surprise myself with the way I've written it down. Usually, it's either shockingly spot-on, or horridly lack-lustre.

Q--Will you be starting another project soon?

A--Well, that depends. If this book doesn't get picked up quickly, it will confirm my deepest fears that I cannot write worth a lick and I have shot two years of my life down the toilet attempting to do it. On the other hand, there is this idea rolling around in my head...teen fiction...

So there you have it, my faithful readers. An interview with the author who HOPES to be a "real" author someday. I don't think I'd wish this life of writing and waiting and waiting and writing on anyone. Once all my query letters get rejected, then I'll probably want to stop writing novels. Either that, or I will tell myself that agents are blind and publishers are unrealistic and you have to have money and connections to get published these days, and then I'll wind up writing another book.

--Heather

THE WRITER WHEN FINISHED--PALE, LACKING MAKEUP OR RECENT HAIRCOLOR, BUT SMUG NONETHELESS

2011-05-19T11:22:00.000-04:00

I am tempted to write this entire post in caps, because I am definitely shouting inside. Months have passed, exactly how many, I'm not sure, but at least six. And my historical fiction book on an awesome Viking woman named Gudrid is now done. Writers keep so much bottled up, pouring forth their imaginatory prowess into their works, that when the book is done, it's all I can do to emerge from my darkened room and blink in the sunlight, drive my car without crashing, and come down off this perpetual coffee high.

I finished my last chapter at 12:30 last night, only one hour later than I'd planned. I then proceeded to stay awake, thinking about the book and life in general, for another two hours.

Reading Writer's Digest recently, I read that Mary Higgins Clark, prolific mystery writer, wrote while she was single with five kids to care for. This is mildly encouraging. I was calculating how many famous writers are not married, or have no children, going all the way back to Thomas Hardy (don't think he was), Jane Austen, Daphne DuMaurier...well, not sure about that one. Yes, there are some who were married, but even fewer who had kids.

I also enjoyed a quote from a writer (first name is Harlan) who said that you're not a writer if you can't make time to write. Harsh, but I think it's true. Yes, there are dry periods where nothing much is written, and you're just going about the business of changing diapers, going to work, or surviving. But I do believe that the writing juices are still there, even if they only come out sporadically in emotional diary entries that should immediately be pulled out and burnt.

And so, I rejoice that another book is written. Let's hope it meets more publishing requirements than my beloved Otherworld. And you know I'm going to have to keep writing.

--Heather

Surreal Stuff!

2011-04-09T15:37:00.001-04:00

I'm a little delirious today, and I don't think it's just from fumes from my husband's lawnmower repair in the basement. I have reached the 50,000 word mark for my new Viking book--it's the same length as Otherworld now. 30,000 words to go. No problem, I say to myself in my delirium. NO Problem, I can teach my children at home and cook for them and maintain my appearance for my husband and keep the toilets clean, as well as whip out the last 30,000 words in a month.

I have a lovely little short story that came to me in a dream one night--I guess it's kind of a sci-fi fantasy/superpower type thing. I want to post it on here, despite the fact that I've entered it in a contest. This would probably be highly inadvisable. But I want to give you a little something to sink your teeth into, a bit of my writing to make you think. It is a surreal story, I know--think Salvador Dali or Rene Magritte, if you're into painting--it's dreamlike. But I'm rather fond of it. So, I'm gonna post it. Give me some thoughts on it--I haven't gotten many comments lately on here! I'm hungry for comments! Good or bad, post away!

Thanks--
Heather

SHORT STORY--

Plastic

I am a plastic man. I work in the mall.

I have a job at a pizza shop. I use the powers my mother gave me to make plastic into cheesy fillings for strombolis. Pizza pies, really. No one knows, as they eat them, what my secret is. My pies are known all over this town. Businessmen eat them. Mothers and their children. My boss loves how I’ve brought in new customers.

I have this magic, and I want to share. I have a big idea. So big, no one can understand it.

I look a little nerdy. I’m short, have glasses, and hair that would be called “nondescript” in color. My mother tells me I am a magical boy, destined to do huge things.

I want to have a party. A big mall party. Everyone is invited. I tell my boss, and she agrees. I have given her some of her own power.

The day comes. We blast the music: Madonna’s “Secret.” My song of choice for today. It echoes over the whole mall. People pack the pizza shop, wanting more and more of the pizza pies. I smile as I serve them. They are trapping themselves and they just don’t know it yet.

Finally, my moment. The boss transforms into two huge lion-claw pylons at the entrance to the mall. I take over. The plastic in my body goes into everything. Almost every bit of this mall is mine now. No one can leave. They will have their home here, with me. Everything they want is here.

The biggest reality show ever. I can see everything, hear everything. I AM everything.

As people try to leave, they start to shout. They can’t get out! They try every store, every door. I see them running down hallways, punching buttons in elevators.

I announce it on the intercom: “You will live here now. You are a part of this building. There is no way out. This is a reality show.”

Well, that last part is just in my mind. But it’s my reality, right?

Everyone who ate the pizza pies has the plastic inside them. There are a few who did not, but they do not know how to get out. They don’t know that there is a small hallway, on the ninth floor, in room 913.

Did I say that out loud? There is a dark-haired girl who has taken off to the elevator. She did not want the pies, said they looked gross.

I see her hitting buttons. The elevator goes wherever I want it to, usually. Except when she hits the buttons. Must be because she’s not plastic yet. She hits the ninth floor.

Others have found it. I watch as they go into the hallway, but I cannot see them after that. The hall is made of metal. It is very old, and there is no plastic. I am locked out.

------------------------------------------------------------

This day started like any other. I decided to go to the mall and look for a dress, since the mall has this one store with dresses that don’t wind up looking like miniskirts on me. On my way there, I saw this guy in the pizza shop. He was mixing filling for the pies. I’ve heard of these pies, supposed to be the best in
town. Well, the stuff looked weird. Bright yellow, not like any cheese I’ve ever seen. It turned my stomach, and I must’ve muttered something about it, because the guy stared at me. Weird, watery blue eyes with almost no color.

Looked like a stalker.

Well, I’ve had enough of those. I date guys who have issues. Issues with control and whatnot. I’m so over that now. I want to be free. I hate feeling confined in a relationship, like I’m being watched all the time.

And then, the whole mall went crazy. I was in my store, looking at dresses. Pink, what is up with pink? Can’t stand it. Anyway, this music started blaring over the loudspeakers, and people were dancing everywhere. Madonna. Who on earth listens to Madonna? I looked over at the pizza shop and saw something I still can’t believe.

There was this woman, maybe the manager? She jumped up and became these two pillar things over the door. She was gone, but the pillars were there, and kind of moving a little.

The guy in the shop was smiling this freakish smile, while people ran by him. They were pounding the front doors of the mall, but the doors were obviously stuck.

I got low to the ground, under a rack, and watched. In the middle of all the chaos, the guy at the pizza shop was just standing, arms outstretched. No one was sticking around to watch him but me. I could see his lips moving. And I can read lips.

He said something about plastic magic. But then he looked upset, and said something about the ninth floor. About room 913 being metal or something.

It was enough for me. I ran out, to the elevator. Don’t know why I went there, since usually electrical systems malfunction in emergencies. The stupid Madonna music was on repeat, even in the elevator.

There were people already there, pushing B for basement, or trying to get to the very top level. I had to ride the elevator all over the place before I could push my floor, 9. There was a 9A and a 9B, so I took a chance and hit 9B.

The elevator sparked and seemed to jump around a little, but it finally stopped. I got out, only to see there were no lights on that floor. There was a narrow hallway ahead, with rooms off the sides. I went all the way down to the right. There was this old-fashioned bathroom, complete with seafoam-green and black tiles. I could see the colors because of the skylight. More like a huge window in the roof, with a metal grille over it.

I jumped up on the toilet, pulled the window down, and pushed. The grille came off. By this time, an old woman had joined me. She must have been following me. The fresh air rushed in, cool and clear as the blue sky above. I saw people below, shouting and pointing. I barely had time to scan the roof for places to stand, when the old woman pushed her way past me. And then she jumped.

------------------------------------------------------

Freedom is a curious thing. It seems people want it more than life itself. And yet, they are slaves, almost every one of them, to plastic. To me.

My party is over. The people follow the dark-haired girl outside. Outside me. My reality show is not reality anymore. I pull myself in, lock myself down into my body. My boss is too stupid to know how. She can remain a pylon forever, for all I care. She was only my means to an end.

I can go anywhere I want, be anyone. I’m the only one who will know about the mall party. I have a secret I have to keep. But someday I will be great, like my mother says.

I am the plastic man.

--copyright Heather Day Gilbert 2011

E-Books vs "Real" Books

2011-03-06T14:25:00.001-05:00

You know you're getting attached to your book when you hate to leave the world you've created to actually live your own life! I'm definitely at that point in my book (just one chapter from being HALF DONE! almost 40,000 words down!), where my characters just take on lives of their own.

I understand how Stephenie Meyer felt when she said "Jacob" was originally just a side character that started to grow and develop. I have a guy who is doing just that in my book.

Still no title yet, though. I knew the title for Otherworld very early in the game. And usually I'm keen on getting my title nailed down. This time, I think it'll be the end of the story when I see how things fit together. My personal preference is a one-word title, but sometimes one word just doesn't get it all.

Still debating putting up the intro on my blog for you to read... I know how some of you don't want to start reading, get hooked, and not get the ending! I'd love to promise that this one will be published, but I think the industry is very difficult to get into right now.

My friend sent me a very interesting link about a girl who made millions, just publishing her own e-book and skipping the traditional route. Just wondering--how many of you would prefer e-books to regular books? I personally want a book in my hands at the end of this! However, I totally understand the ease of picking your books online--you don't have to trudge to a bookstore, and you can often read excerpts and see if it's something you'd like.

Let me know your thoughts on ebooks in my comment section! And, until next blog, I'll be writing!

--Heather

THOR!

2011-02-07T22:35:00.000-05:00

Wow, I am so excited! I just saw two video trailers for the upcoming movie, "Thor." Now, whether or not this movie turns out to be any good is not what I'm excited about. First, we have some Viking lore making it to the big screen. Second, we have a blonde hero, FINALLY. And third, if I get my book written by summer, it's going to look mighty good given all this Viking hype.

I'm going to try to post a link to the movie--enjoy! And know that my Viking story is going to be cooler than this! I'm loving creating it!

--Heather

http://www.hulu.com/watch/213575/movie-trailers-thor---trailer-2

FEEDBACK, please!

2011-01-19T14:36:00.000-05:00

Hello my faithful readers! I know things have been a bit boring on the updates here, with no new chapters posted.

I would love some feedback from you. Well, from men in particular, but women will be welcome too. What kinds of things do you love to find in a story? Romance? Murder? Deep philosophy? Wit? Being a woman, I do write from a woman's perspective. But my main character in my new book is by no means a "girlie girl."

I am now on chapter eleven, and have some major plot twists mapped out (finally). I am still very excited about this book--I want it to reach men and women, and I know that a lot of men don't read a lot of fiction.

Thinking of movies that men love, I came up with "Braveheart," "Gladiator," "Black Hawk Down," etc. The themes typically include a loss of life for a bigger cause, like family or the country. I'm encouraged that some men are also interested in relationships, because there are quite a few in my book. But there's also fighting and murder, etc.

Here's looking at something for everyone! And please comment and let me know what makes the difference between a "good" book and a "great" book for you!

--Heather

Querying for Dummies

2011-01-05T21:51:00.000-05:00

Speaking of dummies, yes, I totally did query my book to some agents, even in its unfinished state. This is because I got a little crazy when I realized there is another book about my heroine coming out soon (I got this from the underground, can't reveal my sources...). Thankfully, it's young adult fiction. Mine is definitely adult.

My husband tells me this is a good thing. If this other book is successful, my book will be right on topic (ie: writing vampire books on the heels of Stephenie Meyer). However, I hate being the caboose on this Viking train. In fact, I refuse to be. Thus, my frantic querying, using my first couple of chapters as bait. So far, no bites. This is doubtless because I still believe I am the one person who can NOT follow the rules of the publishing industry and still expect to be rewarded for sheer genius.

Well, the plot is definitely thickening and I would LOVE to share some of this new book with you. However, I'm keeping this one a bit "closer to the chest" since my other baby Otherworld is currently just floating out there in cyberspace, just waiting to be noticed by someone who can snatch it up and present it, in its entirety, to the general public.

I am about 16,400 words into it now. Chapter Nine has begun. So I am rolling, and setting a deadline for myself of getting it written by this summer. At which point, I can query it as a FINISHED, 80,000 word novel. And from there, well, let's just pray for the best.

--Heather

How long does it take to write a chapter?

2010-12-14T23:23:00.001-05:00

This question may just be burning in your brain: how long does it actually take to write a chapter? Well, with Otherworld, it took me about one to two hours, unless I was in a particularly intense part. Since my book was about 50,000 words, and I had about 40 chapters...well, it averaged maybe 1,000 words per chapter.

For my new book, I'm aiming for 2,000 words per chapter. You kind of get a feel for how long you need to write to get that amount of words. Tonight, it turned out to be about four hours.

The good thing about historical fiction, since I'm basing on the sagas, is that I don't run into writer's block. Actually, I didn't have any with my last book. Once I get into my characters, I'm just trying to figure out what I need to do to them next. With my last book, I had a very rough outline, knowing which chapter needed to have my "turn-around" action.

I'm at the point in my life where I really enjoy writing. Unlike poetry, which I write for myself when the spirit moves me, I write books for people to read. And yes, it would be nice to get paid something for it!

So right now I just finished chapter seven, and I'm about 13,500 words into the book. Looking forward to getting to chapter 40 on this one!

--Heather

Brainstorming

2010-11-28T23:45:00.000-05:00

Trying to write historical fiction is a whole different animal than paranormal fiction, I'm finding. It seems like I'm constantly turning up new info I'm wanting to incorporate into my book. And the key is that I have to turn those facts into the actions I know my characters would do.

My characters are always the most vivid part of my books. Well, characters and location. I've been trolling around the internet, googling photos of Norwegian/German/Swedish actors, in hopes of having faces that match up with some of my main characters. I'm a bit shocked and appalled that most men actors tend to be scrawny and there are few, if any, red-haired men. Also, blondes aren't so popular. What, do they think all women are looking for tall, dark and handsome? And where are bearded men? It's hard to visualize Vikings when these guys don't have beards.

So I find myself constantly brainstorming, wondering what my people are going to do next. I think I need to set a goal date for getting this book written, and push myself to get it done. At this stage of my life, however, I'm finding it hard to set fixed goals of any kind.

Speaking of which, better go to sleep since it's past midnight. I'll post a photo of a possible "model" for the husband of my main character, just to let you in on the brainstorming process over here...

--Heather

The Vikings are Back in TOWN

2010-10-19T12:22:00.000-04:00

Hi there everyone! I am deep in the throes of writing my next book, which I have decided will be the Viking book--historical fiction. I love the paranormal idea of Mothman, but I'm thinking it's easier to kick my "foot in the door" with historical. (And yes, I'll have to kick the door in, since I'm an unpublished writer.)

So I'm trying to sort out sagas right now. I have an excellent resource book by a woman who went on archaeological digs in Iceland, and she writes in NONfiction about the woman I'm writing about in FICTION--Gudrid. The book is called "The Far-Traveller". I'm even hoping she might deign to read my manuscript when I finish, and back the book. I'm trying to keep the book as historical as possible, but it is frustrating, as the sagas don't really have a timeline that makes sense.

While it may be too much to hope this book will kick off such a Viking frenzy that vampires pale in comparison, I am hoping for it anyway. HA. I'm nothing, if not rabidly optimistic, that since God gave me the desire to write, I will write until something gets published. It is rather shocking sometimes which writers are getting published, sometimes people who cannot spell and have no grammar sense. Good thing there are editors in this world.

Stick with me, folks, and I will produce an 80,000-word book. It will not be in a month! Historical fiction definitely limits you as you can't just fly by your own imagination. You have to know how things were done. Fortunately, I've been a Viking fan for a long time, and I've even taught a home-school co-op class on the subject.

Here's a cool word that originated from the Vikings: "ransack." Just say that once or twice throughout the day in casual conversation, like: "I'm just going in to ransack the kitchen," or "Let's ransack Wal-Mart and find that 'How to Train Your Dragon' video."

Keep the Viking spirit alive!

--Heather

Another Book-Baby

2010-10-06T15:02:00.000-04:00

After pouring my life into my last book, I've been slow getting "back on the horse" of writing. No one wants to give birth (even to a book) and have their beautiful, seemingly perfect baby rejected by the big publishers and agents. Unfortunately for me, I now have TWO new books swimming blissfully about in my head at any given time.

I have started both of them. One is the one I've mentioned in my last post, the modern Mothman tale. The second is historical fiction, and much more along the lines of something traditional Christian publishing houses would want.

So, I'd love your comments as I'm trying to pin down which book I want to focus on. What would YOU rather read, historical fiction or paranormal fiction (much like Otherworld)? I'd love some feedback from you all! I'm starting to get a bit more obsessed with the historical fiction (can anyone say I LOVE VIKINGS?). Please comment on here and give a very confused writer some help!

Thanks--
Heather

The Next Book Cometh...

2010-09-06T10:00:00.000-04:00

Hello, my fine readers! Here's a little photo of my latest book endeavour. It is a follow-up to Otherworld. It is going to be a very fresh take on the Mothman tale of West Virginia.

Do I like setting my books in West Virginia? Yes, there's not a creepier, more isolated place around, in my opinion. The perfect place for the supernatural to intrude in a very LOUD way on our lives. I just took a trip to Point Pleasant to gather some research with my mom--thanks, Mom, for believing in me! I have a ton of ideas rolling around in my head, so I'm excited to get started on something new, without putting Otherworld behind me just yet. The two books will be stand-alone, but connected, if that makes much sense.

So, just a little update for you!

--Heather

REJECTED

2010-08-28T14:56:00.000-04:00

here's a fun little poem about the depths a writer feels when agents/publishers don't like their work. a little rhyme-y, but it was the mood i was in...

UPON ANOTHER BOOK REJECTION:

There is no beauty in despair
I am thwarted everywhere.
What I want to do, I can’t, I won’t.
What others think about me, don’t.

All around this big green earth
I seek the place, I want my birth.
I want to own the clouds, the trees.
I have nowhere to bend my knees.

There is no happy ending here.
And, although I don’t feel fear,
I realize that my dreams now lack
That faith, and I don’t want them back.

--hlg july 2010

(PS--don't worry, i'm okay now, and planning to continue to write. this is the melodrama of the author...)

Update on Otherworld

2010-08-11T22:45:00.000-04:00

Well, here I am, still agent-less and crestfallen. However, I feel remarkably chipper when I re-read your lovely comments on Otherworld. The sad truth is that this book is on the very short side of adult fiction (at 50,000 words, as opposed to 80,000). So, my options are...

1) Add about 30,000 more words to my basically complete story--half the size of my book.

2) Write another book--definitely longer in length, and POSSIBLY more Christian (in other words, don't mention Wicca or anything that doesn't fit into the Christian fiction "box").

3) Write another book, of sufficient length, throwing caution and possible popularity with Christian pubs to the wind, about something I think is important.

So, I think option three is looking the best right now. I'm thinking of writing a follow-up book to Otherworld or something completely different.

I love that you all are so hungry for more of the story. I wish I could give it to you! For free! But I think it's something that people may pay money to read. The end is just something that I don't think you'll see coming.

And a huge SHOUT-OUT to my pre-agent, Diane, for picking up the pieces of my miserable self-esteem as a writer and telling me that I can write, that I'm a good mother, and that the world is just not as black as it seems sometimes.

I truly appreciate you all and love all your comments. Someday, I will get a book into your hands, written by Heather Day Gilbert. And hopefully, it's the end of this book you've been following faithfully!

--Heather

The little things that strike me....

2010-06-27T21:56:00.000-04:00

Does a writer ever really stop writing? I'm always noticing small little things, like the older man's green suit in church that he probably got about fifty years ago, but he still wears out to look spiffy (and yes, he does). Or the way people in upstate NY stare at me like an alien when I open my mouth in the Tim Horton's to ask for a mocha coffee--yes, I do have an accent. Yes, I may very well be from The South. And yes, I am wearing flip-flops and summer isn't officially here yet...But I love the South and the North, let me just clarify that one. I'm a Yankee Rebel, or a Rebel Yankee.

I love the way my children are quiet in the car on eleven-hour trips right up till the very end, when they get excited Grandma and Grandpa's house is close. They let mommy listen to her purple iPod in silence as she muses on the events of her future characters' lives.

I like looking at flowers, so much so that my daughter recently asked me why on EARTH I'm always looking at flowers (and no doubt mumbling things like "yes, that's a type of lavender I've never seen" or "Look at that purple beebalm!"). I explained that flowers are beautiful things God has given us to look at and enjoy. Someday I think she may understand.

I love the look of complete trust dogs can give. I love the smell of rain in the air. I love to stop and look at people's faces when they're totally unguarded.

I love finding little things I never saw before in the Bible, like when I recently read that Cain TOLD Abel what God had told him about obeying (this was before he killed him). I'm thinking Abel may have suggested that he straighten up and fly right...and he didn't take it very well (this is in Genesis 4:8). I've read Genesis multiple times and never noticed that little phrase.

So let's keep looking for and enjoying the little things in life. And someday you may just read about an old man in an old green suit in one of my books!

--Heather

Otherworld Chapter 13

2010-05-10T23:15:00.000-04:00

Well, I do believe this chapter will be my "last hoorah" for now. I think this is a great point before the critical turning point of my book to stop posting chapters. Much to my chagrin (yes, I did just say "much to my chagrin" in a very cliched way!), my book has not been picked up and I am just flat-out tired of trying to talk it up every which direction. I believe it's a great book whose subject matter is a bit ahead of its time.

On that rather despondent note, I would like to thank all you readers for your support. You have encouraged me all the way with your interest in this story. And I'm not about to give up on it. I'm planning to write another book in an entirely different (and more acceptable to mainstream Christian publishers) genre as soon as I gear up for it.

So, with no further adieu, here is the final chapter I'll be posting. I hope you someday get to read it in book form!

--Heather

PS--Disclaimer! Aurora's use of a Ouija board is not any kind of justification to use one. In fact, this little venture of hers is going to get her more than she bargained for in future chapters...

Chapter 13

I am thrilled just thinking about traveling with her. The two of us, connected forever, in a way she only dreams about being connected with her husband. I decide to show myself to her again, when the time is right. But maybe in a different way.

-------------------------------------

Aurora--

I wait until he walks Phoebe to the bus stop. I actually kissed him goodbye this morning, hoping he will forget about counseling. Phoebe just holds his hand every time he is around. I hate that she is so fearful of me.

I grab my portable phone and go out onto our back deck. It is low, overlooking the woods behind us. I feel more private here than in that house. I still wonder if it actually was Dollie I saw somehow.

I pull the card out of my purse. I could not find a local psychic, and I have a feeling psychics don’t make house calls anyway. I dial almost all the number on Melody’s card, then hang up. Maybe there actually is a way I could do this myself.

I just remembered a game I’ve had since college, back in the days Phi Beta did all those sorority late nights. Somehow I wound up keeping it. It’s the Ouija board. I remember asking it some question, like who I would marry, and it said his name started with a J. Funny thing is, it was right. I remember it being right on some other girls’ info, too.

It’s worth a try. If I can smuggle it up there, then use it when Dollie’s not around, I could ask him a question. Maybe I won’t have to know his name that way--maybe he’ll just tell me.

I try fitting the board into my purse, but it’s just a little too big. I change purses, to my turquoise leather tote, and it works like a charm. I throw on my old clothes and head toward the house.

In the field, I can see a couple of deer standing near the woods. One is a male, I can see his horns from here. What do they call them? A bull?

They both look right at me. I’m sure they’ll run away, because I don’t stop walking. Instead, they just stand there. Run, you stupid animals, I think. You should be afraid of humans. I know deer-hunting is as important as football around here. It may even be hunting season now.

Still they stand, even as I get to the bottom of the hill. Now I understand the phrase “sheep heading toward the slaughter“, but I can’t remember where on earth I heard that one.

I go once again toward the stairs. I’m getting to know the moss formations by heart now on these lower ones. I’m hoping Dollie had some errand to run. I have her key in my pocket.

Once again I get turned around, coming out at the back door. Strange how the steps seem to be a maze I still haven’t figured out. I keep my eyes on each step in front of me, but so far, no blood.

I’m almost to the top of the hill when I look up toward the back porch. I can see Dollie walking around in the kitchen through the larger window there. Must be getting a late breakfast. I head up toward the door and knock. No answer. I peep in the window, but see no one. She must have gone upstairs and can’t hear me. I decide to walk around to the front.

I go around the turret, keeping a rather wide berth. I’m not as psyched up for what I have to do today. Something, maybe it’s the stuff Phoebe has said, is telling me to stop while I’m ahead.

I approach the familiar black door and insanely think for a minute about buying Dollie a colorful wreath to put on it, or some kind of plaque that says “Dollie’s Place.” The thing is so dark and oppressive.

I ring the doorbell and wait. I even work up the nerve to peek in one of the skinny windows, after a few minutes. Nothing is going on in the hall, thankfully. I guess she won’t mind if I let myself in.

I fish the archaic key out and twist. The door doesn’t open, so I twist again. In the meantime, there starts one of those quick and heavy downpours they get sometimes around here. The key gets slippery. I keep trying. I need to just get this thing done.

My hair is sopping and so are my clothes by the time the key actually works. I half-walk, half-fall into it. I stand on the rug Dollie has and wonder how I can get dry in a hurry. I cannot make it to the towels in the bathroom without getting the floor wet. I decide to drag the rug along under me, hopefully catching the water as I move.

This turns out to be a bad plan, as underneath the rug is a place that doesn’t get swept much. So I wind up smearing black dirt across the floorboards in the hall. I finally give up and start walking to the bathroom. I’ll just have to towel up where I’ve walked when I dry off. By this time I’ve concluded that Dollie isn’t home and who knows what on earth I was seeing in the kitchen.

I get in there and try to figure what clothes I should change. It seems I’m soaked, top and bottom, since I didn’t even wear a jacket today. I finally decide to strip to my underwear and put a towel around myself. Then I can sneak up to Dollie’s room and rummage for something. I don’t think she’d mind. Maybe I can dig up a stylish apron for myself.

I head very slowly and carefully up the shin-busting stairs, since I still have a couple nasty bruises from my last walk up. I should have brought the cleaning bucket and just cleaned her bathroom while I’m up here.

I get to the top and head into the pink room. She must have repaired that doll somehow, because the cabinets look full again. I decide not to look too closely for the red-haired doll, and focus on where her clothes might be.

She has a walk-in closet, so I go to that. There are many assorted dresses and skirts hanging up in a haphazard way. But her shoes are in labelled boxes, which cracks me up. I push the clothes around to find something old, or at least some kind of pants. She isn’t quite my size, but I’m sure something big and junky will fit okay.

Over in the corner, she has a beautiful dress hanging. It looks like a turn-of-the-century dress, all ivory lace. It looks, in fact, a lot like the dress the woman in the painting is wearing.

I can’t resist picking it up. Immediately I feel some kind of charge go through me, almost electrical. I drop it. But it has to be hung up again. My towel is dropping off, and I decide to put something on before I attempt picking it up. Maybe I’m conducting electricity through the clothes hanger or something. I rummage toward the back, and find a sweatshirt with sweatpants hanging under them. The sweatshirt says, “50 is Fantastic,” and is definitely some shade of teal.

I throw the shirt on, facing the closet wall. But I feel again that I’m being watched, so I turn to face the front, pulling up the pants. The dress is hanging up again. And it’s on a plastic hanger.

This has to be the work of a person. What if Dollie is in the house? What if my vision of her in my kitchen was some kind of premonition? She does have that gun for some reason, after all. What kind of old woman has a gun?

I grab the towel and bolt over toward her bathroom. It has one of those ancient stand-up showers and sink faucets from the 50s. I peek under the sink and find a cleaner and sponge. Might as well go ahead and clean while I’m up in creepy land. Then she’ll know I’ve been working, at least.

It takes no time to clean, then I head back downstairs. I want to get on with my mission while Dollie at least appears to be out of the house. On my way to the right room, it hits me that I’ve never even seen the left turret room. What if I’ve been supposed to be dusting in there? I can’t remember what Dollie said was in that room. Storage or something.

I go over to its door and turn it gently. It opens without a creak, and the light shines on the switch near the door. It’s at the same place the one in the other turret is--a bit high.

I push the button and look around. Sure enough, there are quite a few boxes in this room, which is painted a dark blue. Dark red and dark blue, how morbid somehow. As if having no windows isn’t dark enough already.

I wonder if I should do the Ouija in here. Then I won’t be distracted by the painting, worrying about what it’s going to do next.

I decide to go get the board from my bag in the bathroom. It’s a bit damp, but it’s made of real wood, so none of the painted letters seem to be messed up. I forget the rules, but think I put my hands on the pointer and ask a question or something.

I open the door to the blue room again and put the board on a lower box. I kneel in front of it and place my hands on the pointer. What on earth should I ask?

“What is your name?” is what I finally decide on. The pointer doesn’t move. Maybe I need to be more relaxed.

I stretch my arms in front, then behind me. I do a couple of yoga poses I’ve learned over the years. Then I try again.

This time, the pointer seems to slide a little to the left. “O,” it points to. I realize I should’ve brought some paper to write stuff down on, but I can’t write when I’m letting it move.

“C” comes next, then, more smoothly, “A” then “S” then “T” then “A.”

“Ocasta?” I ask.

The board points to “yes.”

Must be a last name. Sounds like a town in Florida or something.

“Are you a man?” I ask.

“Yes,” the board says.

“Were you married?” I ask.

“Yes,” it says.

Now what? Did your wife die a horrible death? What are you trying to tell me? I need some short-answer questions.

“Have you been here long?” I ask.

“Ever,” it spells.

I should be weirded out that I am talking to myself through a board, but it really seems pretty logical somehow.

“Do you want something?” I ask.

“YOU,” it spells, and flies to the side and off the board.

Then the lights go out.

--copyright Heather Day Gilbert--January 2009--all rights reserved

Posting Next Chapter Soon??? Hmmm....

2010-04-29T16:07:00.000-04:00

Hi there guys, thank you so much for asking about the next chapter. I'm trying to figure out how many to post as I check into publishers, etc. I may post one more or two, but I'm coming to a huge turning point in the book and I don't want to give it away!

In the meantime, I'll update you on my journey. Checking into a couple of publishers who will publish me, for a price. A rather hefty price. Not quite the same as self-publishing, at least with one of them, because they would also do publicity. So I'm thinking about that.

Also, I contacted Anne Rice (the vampire author who now writes about Christ--I really liked her first book and need to get the second one), because I thought we may be on the same page as far as mission in life. We actually are not on the same page in our views on ghosts, as it turns out. But we exchanged some e-mails and had a little Biblical debate going on, so I'm thrilled that my book is controversial enough for Anne Rice to even ponder it (I told her where I'm going w/the ghostly part). She couldn't even read it, given her views, but she was very nice and I'm glad I actually "talked" to a real author about my book!

So I may very well post Chapter 13 soon. Busy week here, but I will let you know if I post it!

--Heather

Otherworld Chapter 12

2010-04-11T21:41:00.001-04:00

Well, here it is April, and still no word on a new agent. I'm still trying, because I still like my book! I'm posting Chapter 12--tell me what you think! I'd love some feedback, either in comments on here or on my facebook wall! Thanks!

Chapter 12

I have decided that she is more interested when I show her less of my theatrics. It makes her want me more. Her plaintive “how are you?” and her fumbling at the painting just entice me even more. I will have her now.

---------------------------------

Aurora--

All the way down the hill, I think about things I hadn’t noticed before. For instance, the way the mountains just loom around the edges of this valley we’re in. I think they block out half the light. I hadn’t realized that before. It’s so oppressive somehow.

Plus, something has brought to my mind an old Agatha Christie book I’d read as a teen. By the Pricking of My Thumbs, or something like that. In it, I just remember the old woman is the murderer in the end. The innocent, hunched up old woman. I remember being totally shocked with that twist, because I’d never seen it coming.

I’m starting to wonder if I’m living an Agatha Christie book here. All these ghostly sightings happen when Dollie’s conveniently not around. Well, even if she’s around, she’s mysteriously not looking. And she’s so limber for her age. Maybe she’s sneaking around doing all these things. After all, she’d have the key to the china cabinet, right? I can’t explain the man in the mirror--maybe it was a disguise? The blood on the steps she maybe put there quickly if she saw me coming up? But the painting--how could that be? Or maybe she’d painted them herself, and she actually has two paintings.

My mind is whirring with the possiblities. But why would she want to do that? Maybe she’s just maniacally crazy, like the old woman in the book. Maybe she hates me for some reason. Maybe she just gets a kick out of luring “cleaning women” into her house and then freaking them out.

I’m almost to the bus stop. I can see Phoebe, around the little bend, sitting on the low stone wall. She is looking up at the mountains with a big smile.

She turns as I come into view. “Mother!” she shouts, and runs toward me, unintentionally head-butting me. “Look what I did!” She pulls a construction paper picture out of her backpack. It looks like a big log cabin with three people standing in front of it.

“Oh, it’s Mother, Daddy, and you, right?”

She looks surprised. “Oh, it’s actually Miss Dollie and Daddy and me, Mother. Remember when she came over to make me not be alone?”

I get mad. What on earth right does she have to take such an interest in Phoebe’s life, anyway? Maybe she’s plotting to steal her from me or something. Maybe she can see us with binoculars right now from her house on the hill.

“That’s great,” I say, and determine to always be there for Phoebe at that bus stop. “Want to walk in the woods?”

“Yay, Mother!” She throws her backpack to the ground and races off. I pick it up and put it on my back, following her as quickly as I can. I have to get to the bottom of this thing. I need to know if the ghost is real.

I decide that the best way to do this is to call in an expert of some kind. I’m sure even if I did conduct an amateur séance in Dollie’s bathroom, it wouldn’t have the same effect as someone trained in that kind of thing.

Later that night, after Phoebe and I eat, I start absently washing up the dishes. I’d cooked a chicken in the oven during the day--it’s one thing I’m pretty good at. As I reach into the sink and pull out the big carving knife, I start to feel like someone is watching me. Is he home already? I turn quickly. There stands Dollie, with a wicked smirk on her face. She turns and runs at top speed into the living room, where Phoebe is doing homework. I grip the knife and run out after her, screaming like a banshee.

Once I get in there, all I see is a horrified Phoebe, cowering behind the coffee table. She is looking at me the way a daughter should never have to look at her mother--with complete terror.

I walk back into the kitchen and dry the knife and put it in the drawer. Then I walk back out into the living room. What on earth should I tell her?

“Mother was sort of having a nightscare, Phoebe,” I say. “I wasn’t yelling at you.”

She sits up a bit higher behind the table. “Why did you have that big knife, Mother?”

“I thought someone was in the house, going to hurt us,” I awkwardly explain.

“Okay,” she says, and stays behind the table.

“Okay,” I say, and go back into the kitchen.

That night Phoebe wants him to put her to bed, not surprisingly. I hope she doesn’t tell him why.

He comes into the room when I’m checking for local psychics online. I try to quickly pull up my home page instead. But he comes straight to the computer and looks at the screen.

“What on earth is this?” he asks. His eyes are blazing.

“I’m just trying to figure something out,” I say.

“Figure out why you’re running around scaring your five-year-old to death with a butcher knife, maybe? And why do you need a psychic?”

“There is a lot going on up at Dollie’s house that I can’t explain,” I say.

“What does that have to do with what happened in our kitchen? And a psychic?” he asks.

“Well, I’ve been seeing some ghostly things. At least, I think they are. That house has supposedly been haunted for a long time, you know. And I’m just wanting to get to the bottom of it.”

“What sort of things?” he asks.

I have no idea where to begin. So I lie. It’s easier. “Oh, just objects moving around, that kind of thing. It bugs me when I’m cleaning.”

“Did you tell Dollie?”

“Um, I’ve sort of asked her but she doesn’t know anything about it, she says.”

“So you’re looking for a psychic?”

“Um, yes.”

“Good night, Aurora. You don’t have any idea what you’re messing with. When I was growing up, we stayed as far from that sort of thing as we could.”

“’That sort of thing?’” I ask. “What sorts of things did you see growing up?”

“Well, not really much. But my mom always told us to avoid it.”

“Your mom,” I say, injecting a bit of scorn. “She doesn’t know anything about that. She’s been in church all her life.”

“And so was I,” he says bitterly. “We need to find a church here, Aurora. Maybe that’s why you’re seeing all this weird stuff.”

“What, you think I’m crazy?” I say. I stand and pull myself to my full height, which is a bit taller than he is. I also brush my hand through my hair, a move I know he cannot ignore.

“No, of course not,” he says. His eyes seem lighter now. “I’m just worried about you, that’s all. I don’t know what’s going on with us, Aurora. Maybe we need to find a counselor, not a psychic.”

I let that one pass. I decide it’s time for a bath, and brush past him to get my pajamas.

“I mean it, Aurora,” he says quietly. Then, louder, he says, “I’m going to look for one.”

“I suppose your mommy told you we need one, right?” I say, glaring.

“This has nothing to do with my mom, Aurora. Why do you hate her so much? Didn’t she do a good enough job raising me for your liking?”

I cannot talk to him when he gets like this. I grab my things and head for the bathroom, flipping on my double row of vanity lights. It is as bright as sunshine in here. And I’ll just pretend my life is, too.

--copyright Heather Day Gilbert--January 2009--all rights reserved

Latest Thoughts

2010-03-27T09:49:00.000-04:00

Just wanted to update any of you who subscribed to the authonomy.com site to support my book. I'm thinking I'm going to take it off the site. It basically seems rigged, in that once you join, you get loads of people supporting your book because it makes their rating go up. Then it drops off, as everyone scurries around to support the next new book. So to rise to the "editor's desk," it seems you have to be willing to back/support practically all the books on the site (so those authors will, in turn, back your book), which isn't very selective. Not to mention, it just goes against my morals. Many of the books have profanities or are just plain old bad writing!

Now I realize what a hard job editors have. Basically, if they want to read past the first chapter of a book, it may have a slight chance. I really think that my book has a chance with publishers and I don't want to sit around worrying if it's climbing the ranks on authonomy to garner a few paragraphs from a Harper Collins editor. Think I'm going to look for a shorter way to getting published!

Once again, thank you all for your support and kind words!

--Heather

Otherworld Chapter 11

2010-03-23T21:43:00.000-04:00

I've read this chapter and I realize it is very connected to chapter 10, so I'm going to post it! You'll want to re-read chapter 10 if you forgot what just happened. Still checking into options for this book and praying like crazy about it! I love my faithful fans and I promise I will update the blog the minute I get any positive news!

--Heather

Chapter 11

I can tell she’s coming, and I know she’s in the house alone. I think I’ve impressed her with all my abilities. I couldn’t help breaking the doll, it was just too good an opportunity to pass up. Too bad she didn’t go back into the white bedroom, I’d planned a treat for her there as well.

----------------------------------------

Aurora--

I basically run back down the stairs, and try to compose myself. Is this all him? Or another ghost? What are they trying to tell me? I test the flashlight outside the door of the right hand room. It shoots out a very small, halogen blue light at the door. Okay, well, at least I’m partially ready. Maybe I should just try talking to him. He did talk to me, after all.

I creak open the door and wait for the familiar cold-air blast. Nothing happens. I click on the flashlight and hold it in front of me, pointing it to the sides of the wall. I don’t go in the room yet. Sure enough, there is an old-fashioned light switch, the kind you push the bottom button and the top pops out. That thing has to be 60 years old.

I reach in and push it. It is higher than where you would expect a switch to be, probably why I had no luck last time. The fluorescent blinks on slowly. Saving the environment never looked so bad.

I let my eyes sweep the red walls. All the paintings seem to be rearranged. The one of him and the woman is right next to me. I guess I’ll start dusting. Sure enough, her face is the same one I saw in the water.

I continue to dust all the paintings, with only the slightest feeling of being watched from the painting behind me. It seems he’s not here, or if he is, he’s just laying low.

Maybe I should say something. “Hello,” I say, sort of faintly. “How are you?”

How dumb that sounded. “My name is Aurora, and I was wondering if you are trying to tell me something. I don’t even know your name.”

No answer. I don’t know what I expected, anyway.

I finish dusting and head back toward the light switch and the painting. It seems the fluorescent light has gotten dimmer, so I squint to see it. It looks almost as if the woman in it is standing, and the man is sitting. I get closer. Sure enough, she is standing, with her hand on his shoulder, and he is sitting. They are perfectly posed for the portrait. At this point, I begin to wonder if I have lost my mind.

I go closer. The air gets colder.

I decide to touch it. Maybe that will make him real or something.

I touch the tarnished gold paint on the frame, nothing. I touch the canvas itself, still nothing.

The light flickers. I pull my flashlight out of my pocket, ready for action.

The light goes back on, and it gets warmer. I wait a few minutes, eyes fixated on the picture. It doesn’t change. I realize it must be getting late. I reach for the light and back out of the room, shutting the door behind me.

I bump into someone. It’s Dollie.

“Oh, Dollie,” I say quickly. “I had to get a flashlight so I went upstairs and one of your dolls somehow fell on the floor and broke. I left it on your bed. I couldn’t find the light in the painting room.”

Her hair is looking almost glow-in-the-dark blue, so I’m wondering if she got it done in town. She looks at me strangely, but says, “Oh, that’s alright. I have plenty of other dolls.”

“I need to get going, for Phoebe,” I add, and hand her the flashlight. “See you tomorrow.”

“Alrighty,” she says. As I turn to shut her front door behind me, I can see her heading into the right turret. What is she doing in there?

--copyright Heather Day Gilbert--January 2009--all rights reserved

Update on the Book

2010-03-09T16:30:00.000-05:00

Hi, all, just wanted to give you an update on the book. My agent sent it to a couple more publishers, but I'm thinking it might take a miracle to get picked up by one. Not to fear, however. I'm spending most of my waking hours concocting different plans of how to get noticed by all the right people.

One of my efforts was to join authonomy.com, a place for authors to publish the first few (or sometimes, all) of their chapters. As more and more members "back" your book, it rises on the booklist. If it makes it to the top five, editors from Harper Collins will check it out and comment.

You're welcome to check out my page at this link:

http://www.authonomy.com/ViewBook.aspx?bookid=18144

Not sure if it actually works, or if you have to have a member ID to get there. If so, you're welcome to setup an account. You don't have to post a book to read them and give feedback. There are MYRIADS of books on this site, some good, some bad, and some ugly, but you can usually tell by the first chapter if something looks good to you.

Enjoy this gorgeous weather!

--Heather

Otherworld Chapter 10

2010-03-01T19:40:00.001-05:00

Here we go! Not sure how many more I'm going to post, but you know I love you all for reading and staying with me!

Chapter 10

I am not happy with her absence. I fill the days with rearranging things. I think about throwing them, but that is pointless. She’s not here. Maybe I scared her too badly. I need to tempt her back into the house.

--------------------------------

Aurora--

After the last couple of days, I feel I have to get out of my house. I decide to do some more research at the library. I put on my cream V-neck sweater, an orange scarf, and some khakis. I’m always shocked I can wear orange with my hair, but somehow it works. I actually take the time to wash and straighten it before I put on my makeup, too.

At the library, the grand puba librarian is not there. It is a mere minion, and she is very timid and quiet. She signs me up for a library card so that I can use the computers. She makes some small talk, then I notice a charm on her necklace.

“How pretty,” I say. “Where did you find that?”

She looks embarrassed. “It’s actually for my religion,” she says.

“Do you go to a church around here?” I ask. He has been asking about churches, since he grew up Baptist and can’t bear to be away for long.

“Not a church,” she says, and looks up sort of guiltily. “I’m Wiccan.”

“Oh,” I say, and visions of a goth party I got invited to in the city flood into my head. She looks nothing like a goth. I don’t see any black on her.

“It’s basically paganism,” she explains. “Women, really. The power of women, the power of nature, you know.”

“Really?” I say again. I cannot fathom where in this little town of West Virginia the Wiccans meet.

As if she reads my mind, she says, “It’s sort of an independent religion, but we get together for new moons and other holidays.” She says “holidays,” but I gather she’s saying “holy days.”

“There are a lot of woods around here,” she says, more quietly. “We really have to meet in nature to get the full power of it all.” She looks at me again, taking in the scarf, the nice outfit, and the makeup. I must look like a possible pagan. “You can call me anytime at this number,” she says, and presses a business card into my hand. It looks like the card for a psychic, with a giant eyeball surrounded by a crystal ball in the middle. I almost lose it right there. A Wiccan pagan in the woods of Wood Knob, with a kitschy business card! “Melody Spears,” her name reads. I wonder if it’s an assumed name, for business purposes.

“Thank you,” I say, as seriously as possible.

As I get online at the library, I think about telling him I found a Wiccan church for us! Something tells me that business card would not make him laugh, though.

I look up séances again. I wonder if Melody Spears ever conducts séances in any pagan ceremonies. I wonder if she could make a house call to the purple house. I wonder if I am going mad, with all these kooky thoughts.

I feel someone looking at me from behind. I figure it’s Melody, so I ignore it. Awhile later, as I read about the ins and outs of séances for amateurs, I peek out of my peripheral vision and see Rick, just gawking at me.

I hastily turn around, but it’s too late. He walks over, body odor reaching me before he does. I actually feel embarrassed for anyone to think we are in any way connected.

“Hello there, ma‘am,” he says with a half grin. “You still wonderin’ about that purple house?”

“Not so much,” I lie, without turning from the computer.

“I got something I forgot to tell ye,” he says.

“Okay,” I say quietly. “Go ahead.”

“Well, one time my wife went up to meet the new owner--that was when Miss Dollie moved in.”

It takes a minute for it to sink in that Rick actually has a wife.

“She was going to take one of her ramp casseroles. Those will melt in your mouth, yes sirree.”

Ramps? What on earth are ramps?

“Anyway, she went up toward the evening. I parked down by the lake and watched her walk all the way up them steps. The woods looked totally still, not a bit of wind in them. Well, my wife come back down and she said, ‘Rick, I saw a haint,’ just as plain as you please. ‘What?’ I said, because I saw her go all the way up and back. ‘There in that tree out front,’ she said. ‘I felt the wind pick up something fierce and then I saw a black man hanging in that tree with his head all goggly.’ Yes, she said all goggly, just like that. Now, what do you make of that?” he says, and gets closer to me. His eyes look a bit more crossed as he tries to focus on me.

“Um, I guess that would fit in with the stories,” I say.

“You better believe it,” he says triumphantly, and strides back over to his table.

The smell of Rick is so overpowering that I really have to logout and go outside. I whisper goodbye to Melody, minding my library etiquette. Once I get out, I actually wish I were a smoker so I could rid my lungs of the awful smell. It seems to linger around me.

What on earth? Now there’s a wandering black ghost as well? I could care less about that. I haven’t seen him. I decide I need to get back to the house on some kind of pretense. What if my ghost has been active? I realize I’m calling him that now, “my ghost.”

I get in the car and roll the window down, even though it’s pretty brisk out. I pop in a CD of his and some song comes on about how I’m drowning in a flood or something. I shut that off.

I park at the bottom again and decide to really look at the pond. It is a murky green colour, sort of frog green. I can’t see any fish or anything in there, but no lily pads or weeds either. Just thick greenish water. The day is sunny, but the water is still opaque.

I walk out on the dock. I lean over to look in. Surprisingly, I can see my red hair reflected like a halo around my head. But my face is sort of warbly. I squat to look closer. It is not my face. It’s the woman in the painting. She is not smiling.

I turn quickly and book it from the pond up to the stairs. I go up the left set of stairs, as fast as I can. What is her problem? Why am I seeing her? It bugs me. I need to look at that painting again.

I get to the door and ring the bell, not even bothering to look in the glass. For all I care, there’s a whole zoo walking on the ceiling.

Dollie answers at once. She is dressed up, in a burgundy dress with some stylish heels--they seem way too high for an old woman who has to walk down a hill. She has a purse tucked under her arm.

“Oh, dear, I was just going into town,” she says. “I need to meet with my lawyer. I’ve switched life insurance,” she explains.

Okay. “I was thinking about dusting some today so I could just clean the bathrooms tomorrow,” I say.

“Yes, yes, go right ahead,” she says distractedly. Apparently she forgot my little fainting debacle the last time.

“Just lock up when you’re done,” she says. “I’ll give you my extra key. You may as well keep it, since the last cleaning girl won’t be coming back.”

She fishes around in her fashionable brown clutch and pulls out a rustic looking key. “You have to turn it completely around two times,” she says. “I really need to get a new one made sometime.”

“Thank you,” I say. “I’ll get to work.”

“Yes, I imagine you need to get home to meet your Phoebe from the bus,” she says cheerily. I had forgotten that, actually.

“Bye,” I say to her back, as she heads out the door.

I can’t resist peeking out the skinny window to see her walking down all those steps in her heels. How on earth does she do it?

It seems she does it just fine. If I just saw her from the back, I could swear she was only in her 40s. She must work out, somehow.

I go straight to the bathroom and grab some dustcloths. I think about starting in the dining room, wondering if I’ll see him in the mirror again. But I’m strongly drawn to the room on the right, with the pictures. This time I decide to find a flashlight first, then figure out where the light switch is.

I search all around the kitchen and living room, with no luck for a flashlight. Not even in the pantry. I decide to go upstairs for a look.

The stairs are very narrow and very steep. I hit my shin a couple times on the metal strip running along the outside of each one. There seems to be only one bathroom up here, and two bedrooms.

One bedroom is entirely pink. I think it must be Dollie’s. It happens to be filled with dolls. She must collect those fancy porcelain ones. They are all in two china cabinets. They must be worth something, because the cabinets actually have little padlocks on them.

I look over by the bed, and debate checking in the nightstand. I feel like a horrible snoop, but I really need that flashlight. I pull open the drawer, and am shocked to see a big black handgun, just sitting there! Right next to it is a tiny flashlight. I pick it up very carefully, like I’m playing Phoebe’s “Operation” game.

I quickly turn to head downstairs. I’m curious about the other room, though--must be the guest bedroom she keeps for her elusive sister’s visits. I decide to just peep in the cracked door.

I open it and see a lovely dark four-poster bed, with curtains around it. It has the loveliest ruffly white bedspread I‘ve ever seen, and I’m really not the ruffly type.

Suddenly, I hear a crash from Dollie’s room. It sounds like glass breaking. Blast, did I knock something on the way out?

I run back in. There, in the middle of the floor, lying faceup, is one of the dolls from inside a cabinet. Her unnaturally bright red hair is all over her cracked face. And there, on the floor, looking right at me, is an eyeball from that doll’s head. I could swear it follows me as I go over to pick up the white piece nearby. I quick grab the eye and put all the stuff on her bed. She’s just going to have to fix it herself.

copyright Heather Day Gilbert--January 2009--all rights reserved

RE: My Next Chapter

2010-02-28T00:55:00.001-05:00

I'm in a bit of limbo here as my contract with my agent runs out this March. In the meantime, I'm searching for the best avenue for my book to be published. Some have suggested self-publishing. I love the idea but have two major problems with it: 1) It costs money, and 2) I don't think a self-published book is going to hit the market I'm shooting for. This book is basically a crossover sort of book, like "the Shack" or Ted Dekker/Frank Peretti books. This is a book that makes you question why you believe certain things are the way they seem to be.

Sooo...I'm contemplating just how much of this book to post. I can easily post another chapter or two, but I really want this to be an extended preview of what you'll get once "Otherworld" is published.

As I am blogging this at 1 am, after a bout with a stomach virus, I think it would make sense for me to stop typing now! Just wanted to update you and let you know that I will post another chapter soon, but I'm trying to slow things down a bit as my agency contract runs out.

Hang with me, my faithful readers! We will get this thing published yet!

--Heather

Otherworld Chapter 9

2010-02-19T15:20:00.000-05:00

Hello all my faithful fans! Thank you for your encouragement to post the next chapter. There is "adult" content in this one, and it is not for the squeamish. Just a warning! I decided to go ahead and post it in its entirety. Still looking for just the right publisher for this book!

--Heather

Chapter 9

I have decided to play with her mind a little bit. She is convinced I’m trying to tell her something. Now that I’ve touched her, I think I actually can. Just from touching, I see things she’s been hiding, even from her husband. Things only I know. I don’t think it would be cruel if I make her even more crazy to get to me.

-------------------------------

Aurora--

I think Dollie may have called him about the incessant doorbell-ringing. She must've gotten our number when she came over yesterday.

“Aurora, honey, why did you go back up there today? You were supposed to stay here,” he says, as he turns down the sheets.

“And were those doctor’s orders?” I say.

“You know what I mean. Dollie is worried about you. She says you were ringing the doorbell for five minutes. She had to run out of the bathroom to open it.”

I laugh a little.

He looks at me, bewildered. “You seem so far away from me since we’ve moved. You won’t have sex with me. Are you seeing someone? Chatting online?”

Chatting online? That cracks me up. Even if I did chat, our slow connection would shut me down in the middle of the conversation.

“No, the only people I’ve been seeing are the loyal employees of the Kroger in town and the helpful CVS worker. He did show me where the lipsticks are, in a very friendly way.”

I can’t help poking fun at his possessive streak.

“Aurora, you are enough to drive a man mad.”

I feel a sudden urge to make everything up to him, all the deliberate shunnings I’ve been giving him. I feel like an imp as I say, “So you’re feeling deprived?”

He turns and grabs my arms, not hurting me. Just pulling me. He has always been a man of few words.

Later that night, I wake myself up with a scream. I never have nightmares, never remember my dreams. But this one I can never forget. It was the baby. The baby I aborted. She was hanging by the umbilical cord, drenched in blood.

He wakes up, groggy. “Aury?” he says, and reaches for me.

I roll over, away from him. I had not thought of that for fifteen years. If I ever see that again, even in my mind, it is enough to make me want to kill myself.

I don’t go to Dollie’s the next day. I sit in the house, with the blinds shut. I wear my old sweatpants and yellow sweatshirt that I’ve had since college. And I just rock, back and forth, back and forth, like an old woman myself.

I do throw a coat on and go meet Phoebe at the bus. She looks at me, aware that Mother does not look her normal glam self. She grabs my hand, almost supporting me back to the house. She opens her lunch box and pulls out an oatmeal cream pie she must have been saving. “Are you hungry, Mother?” she says, and pushes it toward me.

“No, Phoebe. Just tired,” I say.

“You lay down on the couch,” she says, like a little mommy herself. I can’t get over how mature she is becoming all of the sudden. “I got some homework to do.”

I do lay down, and then wake up when I hear him opening the front door. I can hear Phoebe coming down the steps from her loft. She has changed into pajamas by herself.

He looks from her to me. “Had a good day?” he says.

“Mother’s tired,” she says, and I see her give him a glance.

“Okay,” he says.

That night, I decide that if I stay up later, maybe I won’t go into the REM or whatever cycle it is where people dream. So I stay up until 3, surfing the net to the best of my dialup‘s ability. I look up quite a few ghost hunting sites, but none of them talk about upside-down cats or blood on the stones. Also most of them have nothing to do with actual ghost sightings, just ghostly auras and objects moving and things. They do seem to indicate that perhaps a séance in the affected house might bring whatever issues the ghost has with people to the surface. That might not be too hard to do with the blissfully unaware Dollie.

I wonder if the man in the painting has a name. I can’t find anything in the article on the purple house. I don’t even know if the painting is original to that house. But it must be, since the ghost is one and the same as the thin man in the painting. I wonder if something happened to his red-haired wife, and now he’s roaming the halls, looking for her? He might think I’m her.

I finally can’t keep my eyes on the glowing screen and climb into bed, still in my sweatpants and shirt. He has been snoring away for a few hours. I lay down and finally hit that in-between stage, where I’m almost asleep. But then I see a big hand fall on me. It is a heavy hand. It is ONLY a hand. It is right in the middle of my chest. I can’t get up. I can’t breathe. I think I’m making choking noises, but no sound is coming out. It is pushing harder. I try to roll over, I try to shove it off, but I cannot move. I think I may have a heart attack.

Suddenly, I see Phoebe’s outline in the doorway. I need to warn her! She reaches over and turns on the light. There is nothing on top of me. But she looks like she saw something. She looks like she is scared to death.

“Mother,” she cries. “I just had a bad nightscare. I needed to know you’re okay.”

He wakes, sits, and pats the bed for Phoebe. “Come on over, baby girl,” he says. I am still laying on the bed, completely flat, not moving.

“See,” he says, his eyes still squinted with sleep. “Your Mother is just fine.”

copyright Heather Day Gilbert--January 2009--all rights reserved

"Credentials"

2010-02-17T13:55:00.000-05:00

My husband encouraged me to list my "credentials" (such as they are) for writing! Well, I started writing poetry as a teen and won a couple of contests. I majored in Humanities at college, so that included taking a wide variety of writing classes, from News Writing to Short Story writing. Not to mention a lot of English literature classes that I highly enjoyed. I won the Extemporaneous Essay award my senior year in college.

I have written for two newspapers. I think the highlight of those experiences was a series of articles I did called "Of Beds and Breakfasts" about bed & breakfasts in our local town. I also loved interviewing people one-on-one. I find it's very intimidating to be a member of the press! People realize that if they treat you badly, it might show up in the paper for all to read about!

I've started multiple books in my lifetime. This book was one I was strongly motivated to finish. Some of the events are actual ghost stories associated with the house I grew up in, so I think that lends an air of authenticity.

Most of all, I feel driven to write, and I believe I always will. I'm so thankful to get to use my "abilities" to hopefully make people think about bigger issues going on in their lives.

I hope this helps you all understand a bit more where I'm coming from and why I wrote this book!

--Heather

Love the Title Graphic!

2010-02-12T16:51:00.000-05:00

Just want to "shout out" to my brother, Jon, for designing the creepy "Otherworld" title/picture at the top here. He definitely gets the mood of this book! Thanks, Jon!

Otherworld Chapter 8

2010-02-11T22:35:00.000-05:00

Here's a longer chapter to tide you over!

Chapter 8

I finally gave in to the desire to touch her hair. She seemed to sense my presence, even as she fumbled for the light. Then I just felt this burning desire to pull her toward me, so I did. I think she fainted then, so I caught her before she hit the floor. I had to touch her hair, it goes so far down her back. I couldn’t help it. Then I was sitting near her, stroking it, talking to her. I really didn’t think she could hear, until her eyes opened. She couldn’t see me. I heard someone coming, so I got out of the way. It was enough.

-------------------------------

Aurora--

When I woke up, I was home. He was hovering over me, pressing a cold washcloth to my forehead.

“Aurora? Honey? What on earth happened? I got home from work and Daisy was here with Phoebe, who must’ve gotten off the bus and walked herself home. She said you were knocked out up at her house and you were okay but still not awake. I wanted to take you to the hospital, but I guess Daisy had been a nurse and she said you were still responsive, only sleeping or something. Are you okay?”

I look up at his exceptionally dark blue eyes, and those curls, and really have no idea what to tell him. He looks so concerned, and he just spouted off almost the biggest paragraph I’ve ever heard come out of his mouth.

“It’s Dollie,” I say, rather incoherently.

“What?” he says.

“The old woman is Dollie.”

“Oh, okay,” he says, and sits down on the end of the couch. It seems dark out. I wonder what time it is.

“Well,” he says, then sighs. “Well, do you feel okay? Phoebe is in bed, but she was really worried about you. She has some kind of phobia about that house. But she likes Dollie well enough, it seems.”

“Okay,” I say, not sure if that’s the right answer. I feel a bit light-headed still.

“I made chicken noodle soup,” he says helpfully. He reaches over to brush my hair out of my face. Why does that remind me of something?

“Well,” he says again, looking completely clueless as to what to do next.

“I could have a little soup,” I say.

“Alright,” he says, and jumps up.

At least his mother taught him how to fix his own food sometimes.

That night, he puts me on the bed, very gently, for a man his size. He crawls right in next to me, and curls around me. He lays one big bicep over my own scrawny arm, protectively. I should feel safe. I should feel loved. Instead, I just feel a constant yearning to find out what that poor ghost up at Dollie’s house needs to tell me. I vaguely remember a voice, not like anything I’ve ever heard. But I can’t remember what it said.

The next day, Phoebe is very quiet as she comes into my room to say goodbye. “Are you better, Mother?” she asks.

“I’m really feeling a lot better, Phoebe.”

“Are you going to meet me at the bus stop?”

I see the shadow flit across her huge eyes.

“Was Miss Dollie there yesterday?”

“No,” she says, and I see her lip quaver. Please don’t start crying right before school. “I had to walk down the road by myself. But I waited till the bus left.”

I’m not sure why that’s important, but it seems important to her. “Well, good job, Phoebe. Did you like school?”

At this, her eyes light up. “Yes, I like my teacher. She’s called Miss something, but we can call her Miss P. for short. She has yellow hair just like mine.”

I can hear him calling her. “Alright, Phoebe, you go have another great day. I’ll be there to meet you.”

“Okay, Mother,” she says, and reaches up and hugs me.

He peeks into the door. “You alright?” he says.

“Just fine,” I say. He’d brought me eggs and toast in bed this morning, as well as the coffee.

I decide to wait till 10. Then I’ll get myself ready. I’m not sure how Dollie is going to react to my coming back up there. She seems completely oblivious to the goings-on at her famously haunted house. Maybe I can convince her I actually am an uber-devoted housecleaner.

It takes me till past eleven to get up the hill. It took awhile to shower and put on my makeup, since I refuse to go anywhere without at least foundation and mascara. Plus, I have to take it easy up the hill steps. I go up kind of slant-wise, looking below and above before the next step. I think I’ll come out at the front door.

Sure enough, I make the right turn and emerge from the trees at the front stoop. I ring the doorbell, but Dollie doesn’t appear directly on cue this time. I decide to look around. There is a little row of windows going down the sides of the door, presumably so one can see who is waiting outside. They are so skinny and cloudy I wonder if anyone can see through them anymore. I look in the glass as closely as I can without pressing my nose against it. That would rub off my foundation and give me something else to have to clean.

I see something moving in the hallway, something small and black. I look a bit closer. What on earth? It looks like a big spider on the ceiling. But it’s too big to be a spider.

These blasted windows, I can’t tell what I’m looking at. Maybe a bat? But I didn’t think bats were that big. I decide to throw caution to the wind and press my face against the glass at the least warped part. Now I can see perfectly well what it is.

It is a black cat, walking upside down on the ceiling. And it is coming toward the door.

I think about running, but steel myself and start ringing the doorbell furiously. At the very least, it might hurt the freakish cat’s hearing.

After what seems like ten minutes, Dollie opens the door. She looks at me and says, “What on earth are you doing out today? Didn’t that man of yours tell you to stay home? You were passed out cold, dear.”

“I know, I know,” I say, trying to think what to say next. “I just felt really good and energetic and thought…I could get your groceries,” I add.

“Oh, well, if you’re going to town, I did make a list,” she says. “Come on and sit in the parlor. No cleaning for you today!” I follow her in, checking out the ceiling. There is nothing to be seen.

“I was thinking you had a cat?” I say.

“Oh, no, dearie, I’m so allergic to animals, I can’t get anywhere near them. My brothers were always trying to give me puppies from their hunting dogs. ‘You need some company,’ they’d say. But no, I never had anything of the sort.”

“Oh,” I say.

“Now you just sit down there and I’ll run get the list. I have it up on my dresser,” she says.

I decide to sit completely still and try not to think of anything I have seen in the rooms right next to me.

Dollie returns amazingly quickly with the list. Mostly old woman food, like corn meal and beans. There are also a few cleaning things on there.

“Here’s a $50,” she says. “Just bring me the change with the groceries.”

I really don’t feel like shopping, but she’s not going to let me clean today anyway. I could stop by the drug store and get that Light Espresso lipgloss I’ve been wanting, while I’m out.

“Thank you,” I say.

“No--thank you,” she says, and wipes her hands on her apron. It’s green today, with polka dots. On her hand, I notice a large red ring I’d never seen before.

“What a gorgeous ring,” I say, shocked again by her good taste in jewelry, if nothing else.

“Oh, it’s a genuine Alexandrite,” she says. “My brother got it when he was in Russia during the war.

Genuine Alexandrite! And that size! That would be enough money to buy a whole new wardrobe for her!

She smiles. “You know, there’s more to life than things, though. I don’t even wear it all the time. It’s just special because it makes me remember him.”

I smile back, hopefully convincingly. “Oh, I know what you mean,” I say, and head for the door. As she closes it behind me, I turn and see that smile still plastered on her face.

copyright Heather Day Gilbert--January 2009--all rights reserved

A Great Compliment

2010-02-07T20:53:00.000-05:00

I just have to post that one of my friends (whom I will not name!) said the nicest compliment on this book: "It's like crack! Thanks for the hit!" Though we both do not in any way endorse the use of drugs, I am so happy that you all are getting excited about the chapters I post. You all are so encouraging to me as I go on this journey toward getting published (it takes so much longer than I thought!).

I wrote this book in January of 2009. Now it's already February 2010 and I've gotten about 13 rejections so far! But I will not ever give up on this because I really believe this is an important book, with a very loaded topic. I think if I would have set the book in Amish country, it may have been picked up a lot sooner! But this is just not that kind of book.

John Grisham and even Jan Karon are examples of people who were rejected by numerous publishers. This shows that if you believe what you have to say is important, and if people enjoy reading it, it might eventually make publishers look your way!

So that was just a little update and I will post another chapter before long. Thank you for your compliment, my anonymous friend!

Otherworld Chapter 7

2010-02-07T13:47:00.000-05:00

I'm posting chapter 7, which is where things really start to heat up! I really appreciate all you "fans" out there, and hope this will help get the book published soon. I've thought about self-publishing, but really want to reach as many people as possible. Here we go!

Chapter 7

I think I am getting a bit out of control. I can’t stop thinking about her lovely body, her vibrant hair, and those nice long fingers she has. I find myself wanting to do violent things to something or someone. I have to see her. Where is she?

-----------------------------

Aurora--

Phoebe is all set for her first day of kindergarten. He took some photos of her with our new digital camera. At least she’ll look really put together. I put her in her cutest blue Gap dress and little striped tights and her new mary janes I got online. That dress really makes her hair look almost white, it’s so blonde. She has her new Hannah Montana lunchbox stuffed into the hot pink backpack we actually did find at Big Kmart.

“Bye, Mother,” she says. She reaches up for a hug. I give her one, and kiss the top of her head. “Now do what your teacher says, Phoebe. None of that biting or kicking you used to do.”

He shoots me a glance. He’s walking her to the bus stop at the end of our road. “Bye, Aurora.”

“Goodbye, all! Have a great day!”

I feel a bit giddy, because I’m sure I’m onto something with the ghost’s obsession with me. I can hardly wait to get up to the big house.

As soon as they disappear from sight, I get dressed in my oldest Tommy jeans, and a green turtleneck sweater that has a tiny rip near the collar. It used to be my favorite, since the forest green looks great against my red hair. I do wonder if Dollie has all her own cleaning stuff, since I have no idea what I’d need up there.

I head out through the woods at a brisk pace. That treadmill really keeps me in shape, I have to say. I feel I could run for miles. Maybe I just had too much cappuccino. He always makes me a mug in the morning.

I get past all the hay bales and start the trudge up the stairs. Someone should pull all the dead grass, or weed-eat it or whatever you do to it. Then the moss would actually look pretty cool. I feel a little breeze picking up as I get to the treeline. Weird how the weather can change around here. It’s actually a pretty sunny day for once. But once I get in the trees, it gets pretty shadowy.

I stop and think about checking out the pond. I just walked past it last time, didn’t really stop and look around. It had a little dock and a few ducks, I think. I remember what Raunchy Rick said about the body floating on it, and wonder if he and his friend were doing dope or something. And what was that his mom had said? It sounded like she’d seen the same ghost I have.

I’ve been so deep in thought I don’t realize I’ve gotten onto the path going around the back of the house. I don’t realize it until I look at a step and almost slip on the blood all over it.

I cannot bring myself to touch it. I look up--sure enough, there’s the back of the house. The windowless turrets, the little patio Dollie has. A scraggly leafless tree. This was where the sympathizer got shot. But I’m a Yankee! Why would someone be mad at me?

I look back down. There is nothing there. I check all the steps around. Just some leaves. Maybe they just looked like blood. Maybe I’m getting too freaked out here.

I power-walk up the rest of the steps and knock a bit too loudly on Dollie’s door. I think this would open into her kitchen.

It takes awhile, but she finally opens the door. She looks a bit shocked to see me standing on her patio.

“Oh, it’s you! What is your name again, dear?” She seems a bit discombobulated this morning. Her hair is not as blue and looks a bit dingy. She is actually wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt that has some kind of stain on the front. Maybe I’m here too early?

“I’m sorry, Dollie. It’s Aurora. Aurora Himmel.” I take a breath. She waits.

“I was coming to help clean your house? Today Phoebe went to school.”

“Oh, yes, your Phoebe.”

She still stands. I wonder if she’ll invite me in.

“I’m sorry if it’s too early…” I look at my watch--it’s 10:17. I would think an old woman would be up at this time for sure.

“Oh, not too early, not too early,” she says. “I was just on the phone with my sister…”

I’m beginning to wonder if this mysterious sister actually exists. She never says her name, anyway.

“Well, come on in,” she says, and opens the door wider for me. I follow her into the kitchen. It’s chilly, like she hasn’t had the heat on in here.

“The cleaning supplies are all under the bathroom sink downstairs,” she says. “It’s just a tiny door off the hall. I’ll be needing you to clean the upstairs and downstairs bathrooms, and dust the dining room, the big left and right round rooms, and the parlor. Then maybe later on in the week I’ll have you get some groceries, if you don’t mind.”

I think about asking about pay, but wonder if that’s too tacky. Maybe she thought I was volunteering to help out.

“I’ll pay you what I was paying my other cleaning lady,” she continues, as if she reads my mind. “It’s $20 a week.”

Woah. Suddenly I’m thinking I understand why she left.

“Thank you, that would be great,” I lie. I guess we don’t really need the money anyway. Though it would be nice to be reimbursed for something I hate doing so much.

“Okay, then. Well, I need to call my sister back,” she says, and heads up the stairs.

I’m still pretty shaken by seeing the blood, but decide it’s my imagination. Everything seems ominous these days to me.

I go into the pint-sized bathroom, which has a toilet practically on top of the sink. It is decorated with various sizes of Home Interiors brass fans. There is also a fan sewn onto a Kleenex-box on the top of the toilet. Even the soap dish is shaped like a fan.

Underneath the sink is a surprisingly large bucket, filled with bathroom cleaners and disposable dust cloths. I also find a pair of latex gloves, but I’m allergic to latex. I figure one old woman can’t make that many potty germs, and decide to get to work.

Two hours later, I’m heading toward the picture room. It took awhile to figure how to dust around all Dollie’s pictures. I didn’t see any glass cleaner, so I figured she wanted me to use the dust cloths for them. They smeared, so I had to stop doing that. I eventually decided to dust the tops and get what I could reach underneath.

I still haven’t seen or heard from Dollie. I’m getting hungry and a bit light-headed. I think I took too many Tylenol for my cramps.

I stick the bucket back under the sink and grab the dust cloths. I’ll have to pick up more of these at the grocery store.

I twist the metal knob and wait for the creak. Then I stick my hand into the darkness and feel for the light switch. Then I start to feel cold air whooshing toward me. There cannot be a draft from this room--it’s practically airtight. I decide to pull back and find a broom. Maybe I can hit the switch with it, instead of feeling around the plaster walls.

I close the door behind me and the cold air stops. Weird.

I search Dollie’s kitchen for a broom. I check behind the door, in her pantry, and finally, on the patio. Sure enough, there’s a pretty worn-down broom out there. I grab it and head back to the room. Something propels me to get that room dusted today.

I turn the creaky knob, and stick the broom in. Almost as soon as the door cracks open, cold air rushes out. Sort of like the room is letting out its breath. I stab at the walls with the broom, and hit something. It has to be a painting, since it moved. I try again. This time, my broom gets pulled, hard. I get pulled in with it.

Next thing I know, I feel someone stroking my hair. It’s just what my husband would do to wake me up. I must’ve passed out. Maybe I’m at the hospital. I try to open my eyes, but it’s dark anyway. Completely dark. I probably have tunnel vision, which I always get before I faint. I’ve only fainted twice in my life, once when they cut into me for Phoebe’s C-section, and once when I was on a crash cleansing diet.

Then I hear a voice. It is low. I can feel it vibrate almost inside my body. It is male, and it is nearby.

“I know who you are,” it says. And I faint again.

copyright Heather Day Gilbert--January 2009--all rights reserved

Otherworld Chapters 5-6

2010-02-06T11:51:00.000-05:00

I'm posting the next 2 chapters because people are snowed in and have been asking to read more! I'm so glad you are enjoying this story. Just a disclaimer--this is an adult book, with some adult scenarios. Also, it has some pretty creepy scenarios!

Chapter 5

I am really getting impatient. I have nothing to do here by myself. This house is far too clean and empty for me. But I cannot leave it. She has to come to me.

-----------------------

Aurora--

I decide to head up to Dollie’s again and ask some more questions. Maybe she’ll let me poke around some more. I really don’t know why I want to do this.

But first, I pick up a loaf of fresh bread at the little bakery, “Le Petite Patisserie.” The owner is actually French. How she wound up Wood Knob, I’ll never know. The door is wood, painted sky blue, and there is a huge red flower pot full of mums by the door. I pick up some croissants for myself, as well.

When I get to Dollie’s, I park my car at the bottom of the hill, and decide to walk up the pond side. I have a phobia about driving straight up hills. I hate roller-coasters for the same reason.

Dollie opens the door, again on the first ring. She is wearing a navy polyester skirt today, with a gingham blouse. This time she has her blue hair pulled back in a red bandanna handkerchief.

“Oh, hello! It’s you!” she says, and starts pushing her sleeves down. Apparently she has been cleaning.

I hand her the bread. “Just wanted to stop in for a minute,” I say.

“Of course. Come in, come in!” she says, and gestures toward the parlor.

Instead, I find myself heading toward the dining room.

“Like that room, do you?” she asks.

“It’s so lovely,“ I say, then decide to get real with her. “I’m just trying to figure out what I saw. Have you ever seen any ghosts or anything here, Dollie?”

She squints up her eyes a bit. “No, I never have. I’ve always wanted to. People tell me the most fantastic stories about this house. But I’ve never been bothered by any of it. Guess I have to miss the fun!”

I don’t know if I’d look at it quite that way, given the history of this place.

“That mirror…where did you get it?” I say.

“Oh, it was here when I bought the house,” she says. “It fits in so well, I didn’t even want to move it.”

“I can see that,” I say.

“It’s even the cherry, like my dining room set,” she continues. “It’s a bit warped, but you wouldn’t know it.”

I go over and look at it again. All I see standing behind me is Dollie, who starts dusting the table with a rag in her apron pocket.

“I wish I could see more of your antiques,” I lie.

“Oh, this house is quite full of them,” she says cheerily. “Feel free to look around. If you go straight down the hall you’ll find my kitchen. Upstairs are the bedrooms. To the left down the hall, past the parlor, is the door to the left part of the house. I usually keep it closed off, since there’s not much in there. And to the right down the hall is a door to the right section. It has some paintings in it that were here when I came. I have my cleaning lady dust them once in awhile. It’s too expensive to keep the whole house heated when it gets cold.”

I assume she’s talking about the two turrets you can see on the outside of the house. Maybe I should check those out.

“Could you show me the paintings?” I ask.

“Sure, dear,” she says. She takes a last swipe at the table and leads us out of the room. I glance back at the mirror and see nothing.

We walk down the hall and to the right door. Dollie twists the old metal knob and it creaks open. The walls are huge and dark, since there is only one large fluorescent light on the side of one wall, and the walls are painted dark red. The paintings go about halfway up toward the ceiling. Most of them are poorly done landscapes, which make me think some mother along the way had an “artist” child and felt the need to show off his work. There are a few family portraits, but one painting catches my eye. It is of a thin man with dark hair and eyes. He is posed next to a woman sitting on a chair. He has his hand on her shoulder. And she has astonishingly red hair.

“I really need to get back to work,” Dollie says apologetically. “I have my sister coming to visit tonight. She’ll be staying for a week. The cleaning lady was supposed to be here by now.”

“Oh, of course,” I say. I don’t know if I should stay or go. I want to look at that painting more closely. But I’m just a little nervous of a repeat of last time.

I decide to follow Dollie back out. I can’t handle feeling someone behind me again. Dollie turns off the light, but before I go out the door I look around. The light from the hall shines on something. It looks like the painting. But it is actually a face. It is his face.

Chapter 6

I can’t pretend to know what it’s like for her. The anguish of leaving her family out of this quest, the feelings of fear and yet fascination. Unlike her, I have always been alone. I have been perfectly content here in this house. I have only lately started to think about leaving, about going somewhere new. Somewhere with her.

-----------------------------

Aurora--

I cannot explain to him what is going on, but I am so distracted these days. He seems to sense that something is not right with me. He actually found a school for Phoebe, and she will start next week. I have to get some school shopping done. I used to always go to Target. I have a feeling there’s no Target anywhere in these mountains.

“How did you do it?” I ask him one night.

“Do what?” he asks, looking up from the local Times. He always reads when he eats dinner. It bothers me, but it shouldn’t, since he’s always eating alone anyway.

“Get her into that school,” I say. “Did they not go over her records? Or do any tests?”

“No records needed, since she’d only been in preschool. They took my word on that. And I guess they don’t test here either. It’s just a public school, Aurora.”

Of course he is insinuating that it isn’t as hoity-toity as the kindergarten I’d hoped to get her into back in the city. He’s gloating, I know it. So public school is good enough for his girl now.

Whatever. I have a PMS headache, and I don’t even want to go there. I turn to get a bath.

“What about Phoebe?” he asks. What on earth is he talking about?

“What?” I say.

“Tonight,” he says. “Who’s putting her to bed?”

Oh, right. It’s almost 10:00 and she’s been surprisingly quiet up in her room.

“I guess you can,” I say. “I don’t feel like it.”

I’m almost through the French doors when he says to me, “I don’t feel like it either.”

He never talks that way to me. Who does he think he is?

“Someone needs to check on her. She’s way too quiet,” he says.

“And just what someone is that?” I ask.

“Well, I’m eating,” he says, as if that justifies everything.

“And I’m going to get a bath,” I say.

He jumps up. For just one minute I wonder if he’s thinking about hitting me. He doesn’t grab me, though. He just moves in front of me.

“You will go and check on your daughter, right now,” he says, very quietly and calmly.

I think about saying something, just one more thing, but decide not to. I head toward Phoebe’s room and climb the ladder to the loft.

Her door is closed and the light is off. I can faintly see the glow-in-the-dark stars on her ceiling. He helped her make a Big Dipper and Orion’s belt with them.

“Phoebe?” I ask. No answer. I flick the light switch.

Apparently she’s been playing Barbies, but she’s currently laying across the bed. I can see a family scenario in her dollhouse. The little girl Barbie is also on her bed. The daddy is at the kitchen table. The mommy is naked, in her room, with red lipstick smeared all over her chest. She looks like she’s drowning in blood. But maybe I’m just seeing things that aren’t there.

“Phoebe, what is going on here?”

She turns, and her eyes are red, like she’s been crying. “Mother, why do you keep going to the purple house?”

How did she know I’ve been back? She wasn’t even here.

“What do you mean?” I ask, and sit down next to her, trying to get in a motherly mood.

“I mean,” she says, and looks right at me with her big grape green eyes, “I mean that I’ve been having nightscares that are bad about it.”

She got that word off some show, and still can’t remember the correct term is “nightmares”.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” I say, hopefully reassuringly. “Why do you think Mother shouldn’t go back there?” Maybe she knows something I don’t. Maybe she’s a psychic child.

“Because something bad will happen to you,” she almost whispers, and puts her head in her hands and sobs.

“What happened to the Barbie?” I can’t stop myself from asking her.

“That’s enough,” I hear him say from the doorway. So he’s followed me up here, to make sure I’m doing a good job of parenting.

Phoebe continues to sob, and I pat her head a bit. He looks at me strangely, then says, “Just go get your bath.”

Whatever, again. My headache isn’t getting any better in here.

The next day, I get dressed up in my best black Banana Republic shirt, and the Seven for All Mankind jeans I bought when I was working. They still fit, because every morning I’m sure to do 40 minutes on the treadmill. I will not get old and fat and unfashionable as long as I can help it. I find some Gymboree leggings for Phoebe and a little minidress to go over them. We both put on our boots and head for town. She seems to have forgotten about last night. He must have spent another hour in there with her, talking.

I drive all over town, even down some side roads named “Lily Pond Road,” or “Mechanic Road,” almost all guaranteed to be winding and dead ends. There is nothing like a Target. All there is, in the center of town, is a Big Kmart. Kmart! I guess I’ll have to go in and get some kind of school stuff. We have a list, and she’ll probably be using it soon, since school already started.

I find pretty much everything in the art supplies aisle. Phoebe is shockingly well-behaved. She walks alongside the cart, instead of climbing in and out of it like she usually does. It’s almost like she wants to be close to me.

As I wander through the kids’ shoes, wondering if I should buy some rubber-smelling new tennis shoes for Phoebe, I see Dollie in the women’s section. Phoebe sees her too, and tries to scrunch under me.

“Hello there,” I say, and wave. Dollie looks up from her cart that has only one package of toilet paper in it, and says, “Oh, hi!”.

“Is your sister here yet?” I ask.

“She decided not to come,” she says. “And my cleaning lady never showed up. I’m afraid she got pregnant. These young girls always are.”

I have no idea how to respond to this, given the fact that Phoebe is nearby. I look down, and she has her hands over her ears anyway, and is humming.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “Can I help?” I have no idea why that popped out.

“Well, I could use some help cleaning and dusting my house. But I usually have someone come in once a week. Usually they bring groceries, too. And supplies. That’s why I have to be out shopping today.” She looks rather pained by the thought of shopping on her own.

“Well,” I say, and look down. Phoebe is now starting to climb into the bottom rack on the cart. “Phoebe has to start school next week. Maybe I could come over sometime and help, just till you can find someone regularly.”

I realize there is only one reason I’m offering help. I hate cleaning, despise it. I always let my husband do the cleaning. His mother taught him when he was a boy. She had to give them chores, with all those children. I just want to figure out what that ghost is trying to tell me. I know it’s a ghost. I saw him in the painting. He probably likes me because I have red hair like his wife. Maybe he has unfinished business, like the ghosts in movies.

Dollie starts nodding furiously. She seems relieved at the idea of not having to go out and shop again. “That would be wonderful,” she says. “Just stop by sometime next week.”

“Okay,” I say, and start wheeling my cart away. Phoebe isn’t that heavy, but it surely makes it more difficult to push her when she’s crammed in the bottom like dead weight.

That night I tell him when he comes in the room. He seems in a mellow mood, sort of sending me come-hither glances. He can do that with those blue eyes somehow.

“I’m going to be doing some part-time work,” I say.

“You are? How did you find something so fast?”

“It sort of dropped in my lap. You know, helping an elderly housebound woman. She’s actually our neighbor on the hill I was telling you about.”

I throw that “housebound” part in, hoping it makes her sound more desperate for my help.

“Well, that will be nice. What do you have to do?”

“Just clean, get groceries, that sort of thing.”

I see him squelch a grin. “That sounds nice,” he says. I know he’s wondering if I even know how to clean a toilet.

“I used to be single, you know,” I say.

“Yes, and you had a very helpful roommate, as I recall.”

Tina had frequently picked up the slack for me as far as apartment chores went. But I didn’t think he’d known that.

“C’mon, Aury, I’m just kidding.”

He only calls me that when he wants something. Of course he’s in the mood, at this time of the month.

“Headache,” I say.

He comes a bit closer, and touches my hair. He is looking at me intently, but I don’t look up from my dresser mirror. He turns and leaves the room. Why do men have such one-track minds?

copyright Heather Day Gilbert--January 2009--all rights reserved

Otherworld Chapters 3-4

2010-02-04T23:53:00.000-05:00

Alright--here go the next two chapters. Please comment on my blogspot or become a follower! That way I know you're reading it and interested. Thank you! Enjoy.

Chapter 3

She was so close, I could almost touch her hair. I want that hair, that red, flaming cascade of waves. She saw me. It was risky, but part of the plan. She will want me soon enough.

----------------------------------

Aurora--

That night I tell him I went to meet the neighbor. I describe Dollie, in detail, and her house, in somewhat less detail. I leave out the one little detail of the man in the mirror. And I’m not talking about the Michael Jackson song.

Phoebe climbs all over him as he reheats his spaghetti. We always go ahead and eat these days, because it takes him so long to get home. It gets dark so early, and I get tired.

“Daddy, daddy, I saw a lake today! And some fish in it!”

“What is she talking about?” he says. “Is there a lake on our property?”

“No, it’s our neighbor’s.”

“That’s nice, Phoebe.”

“And I runned out on the dock and almost fell in!”

Great. That part I did not know.

“WHAT?” He looks at me for an answer, an explanation of some kind.

“She was running ahead, she got too far away from me…”

He looks at me, hard. His eyes get really icy, which only happens when he’s irate.

“Do you have no thought for our child’s safety? Most mothers would have run after her, or at least known where she was.”

Here we go. Always comparing me to “most mothers.” I don’t have to listen to it.

“I have to go to bed early. I’ve had a hard day,” I say, and head into our room and shut the door as loudly as possible. Let him deal with putting Phoebe to bed. I know he won’t come after me. He is far too passive for that.

I decide to take a bath. I pour in the rest of my peppermint bath oil, and get a magazine. I have about 13 subscriptions, but I still have to change the address on about half of them.

After about a half hour, I get out, put on my purple Victoria’s Secret silk pajamas, which I know he loves, and climb into bed.

I can hear Phoebe running all over the house, up and down the loft ladder. I decide to get up and see if Dollie’s house is on the internet. Maybe it’s haunted. It is an old house, who knows who could’ve died there.

It takes awhile to get online, since we have only the slowest of dialups here. No one could afford to run broadband through these mountain passes.

I look up West Virginia haunted houses. Nothing. I look up Dollie Massey. Nothing again. I look up haunted purple houses, West Virginia. Finally it brings up something that looks like Dollie’s house. I can’t really tell, because the picture is so full of bits or bytes that you can’t really see it. I can discern that it seems to have black shutters, so I click on the photo.

“West Virginia House a Cozy Place for Haints,” is the title. Looks like a small personal interest story by a guy named Gordon Plummer. I take it “haint” is the West Virginia word for ghost.

“This seemingly charming purple house is full of murder stories, dating from the Civil War,” it begins. “From a Confederate killing to a black man’s lynching, it seems wrapped up with evildoing from the time it was built.”

Not very well written, but interesting.

Basically, it says that a man who was thought to be a Confederate sympathizer was shot in the back of the house by the Union soldiers. Later on, a slave who was hiding out in the house was arrested and lynched in one of the trees by some of the locals.

I knew I hadn’t seen the ghost of the black man. Maybe it was the rebel?

“These ghosts have been thought to haunt the purple house for decades. The current owner, Dollie Massey, claims she has never seen anything. But visitors in the past have seen trees swaying wildly with no wind in sight. Stories also have been told about blood stains on the back lawn.”

I’m so engrossed, I don’t hear him come in. He looks over my shoulder and coughs. “And what is this?” he demands, obviously still ticked.

“Nothing,” I say, and shut the laptop.

“I put Phoebe to bed for you. It is now 11:15 p.m. Why do I always wind up putting her to bed?”

“Maybe because I have to deal with her all day,” I say.

“Well, she’s going to kindergarten as soon as we can find one,” he says.

“Find one that takes her, that is,” I say.

“Why do you have to be so hard on her?” he says. “Why can’t you just show her some love?”

“I am. I am showing her love when I don’t give in to her every whim. I show her love when I live my own life. Don’t you read anything?”

“Certainly not the tripe you must be getting from those magazines,” he says, and gestures toward the open one on my bed. “My mom never acted that way toward us.”

“Well, your mom had four children and home-schooled them all. She was with you every second. She had no life of her own. I will not become that kind of woman.”

“And what kind is that?” he says, and I know I’ve pushed it a bit too far.

“Just one who has no memories apart from her kids,” I say, to soften it a bit.

He puts his hands on my head, absentmindedly smoothing my hair. I look at his dark curls, at his smooth tan chin, and think about touching him back.

His hands slip down my silk pajamas, and I know where this is headed. I am a little interested, but mostly not. So I decide to respect myself, and I tell him to stop.

“Aurora, we’ve been married for eight years, and you still do this to me all the time,” he says. Poor whiny baby.

“Yes, because you still haven’t learned what I like or how to treat me,” I say.

“How can I when you never let me come near you?” he says.

“Maybe read some of those magazines,” I say, and head over to bed.

“Maybe I will,” he says, and goes out of the room. I know he’ll sleep on the couch. I think that’s why he bought an extra-comfy couch for this new house--brown leather, very cushy. It’s because he was planning to sleep there, a lot.

Chapter 4

I really want to see her again. I’m hoping her own curious mind will bring her back to me. No one knows how alone I am here. She is perfect for me.

------------------------------

Aurora--

The next week, he decides to take Phoebe to the local kindergartens. That would be a grand total of two. One is 30 minutes away, and one is 40 minutes, in the opposite direction. In the meantime, I decide to go to the library and ask for books about Dollie’s house. Surely someone knows something.

The librarian is in her 40s, and obviously proud to be a librarian. She has the pince-nez type glasses and wears the palest of pink lipstick. I ask her if she knows anything about the house on the hill.

“Oh, honey, that’s a ghost house, alright,” she says. She looks down over her glasses for added effect. “I don’t have any books or anything on it, but there are plenty of stories around town from those who’ve grown up in these parts. I take it you’re not from around here?”

She can hardly conceal her curiosity. She is looking at me like a cat ready to pounce a mouse.

“No, I’m not,” I say, as if my black turtleneck, black ankle boots, and Vera Wang purse don’t give it away.

“Well, if you want some more information on it, you can always ask Rick,” she says with a grin. She gestures to a man who is sitting at the “homework table” and looking at a book. He is wearing a very dirty red cap (in the library!), some overalls, and looks like he hasn’t ever thought of washing his yellowish beard.

I decide to take her up on it. What could it hurt?

Rick looks up from his book and watches my every step. He is looking at my hair as if he’s never seen red hair before. I guess it’s a tit-for-tat, though, because I really have seen nothing as gross as his beard before. It seems to have chewing tobacco stains running through it, giving it a marbled look.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” he says.

I stop dead in my tracks at that “ma’am,” but then remember that in the south every woman over 20 is a “ma’am.”

“Um, yes. I was actually wondering if you knew anything about the purple house that’s up on the hill outside town?”

He looks contemplative, with his hand on his beard. Then he pulls out the seat next to him.

“Sit yourself down, ma’am, and I’ll give you an earful,” he says with a grin. He is missing some teeth, and I don’t think it’s because of crystal meth usage.

I decide to sit, but pull the chair away from him quite a bit. He seems not to notice, and launches into a story.

“My brothers and I grew up on the other side of town,” he says, as if it were the wrong side of the tracks. This town isn’t even big enough to have a wrong side or a right side.

“We used to deliver milk up there.” He pauses, no doubt for effect. “This was before Miss Dottie lived in it. She only moved in about twenty year ago.”

He continues. “There’s been haints in that house as long as anyone remembers. So we wanted to see some. We would go up there before dawn, a’creepin up them steps. One time, my brother swore he saw a human body floating in that pond. And I myself saw someone sitting on the porch, but when we got up closer, no one was there. Then one time, my momma had to deliver milk, because we all had the fever. We needed that milk money. So she had to go up later of the evening. She saw something that scared her so bad, she dropped the milk and ran all the way down that hill. I never got it out of her what it was, till she was an old lady and going soft in the head. She told me, ‘I saw a man. He was watching me. He was coming for me,’ and that’s all she said.”

He stops, and looks closer at me, or maybe my hair, I can’t tell. His eyes are a bit askew.

“And did she say what he looked like? Or where he was?”

Suddenly, Rick draws himself up and has an idea. “Are you some kind of reporter?” he says. “Because I talked to one one-time about it. He didn’t pay much attention to what I said.”

“No, just wondering.” I don’t want to tell him I just moved into the house next to it. “I’d read an article on it, that’s all.”

“That’s probably the one he wrote. Didn’t pay much attention at all,” he repeats.

“Well, thank you so much,” I say, and push the chair back in. He holds out a hand to shake, but I look the other way as if I’m looking for something.

“You’re welcome,” I hear him say as I walk the other way.

copyright Heather Day Gilbert--January 2009--all rights reserved

Comments on the Book

2010-01-28T10:26:00.000-05:00

Okay, folks, I will officially retract my "kind words only" stipulation and open the floor to comments. As my husband said, "Any publicity is good publicity," or something like that! I would like feedback as long as it's not something that I totally have to revamp about the book.

Also, this book does eventually veer toward an adult book as we follow Aurora's life and choices. At that point, I will probably stop posting and hope my book is published! So please become a "follower" and have your friends join it too. I really want to show publishers that people are interested in this! Thank you for all your support.

--Heather

Otherworld Chapters 1-2

2010-01-27T14:48:00.000-05:00

OTHERWORLD

By

Heather Day Gilbert

copyright Heather Day Gilbert--January 2009--all rights reserved

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

“If thou doest well, shalt thou not be accepted? And if thou doest not well, sin lieth at the door.” Genesis 4:7

CHAPTER 1

I know she has to be the one. She, with her glossy long red hair and sparkling green eyes. She, with her heart open and ready to be filled. She, with a beautiful blonde daughter and loving husband.

I want to feel bad for her. But there is nothing I can do to stop it.

------------------------------------------------

He moved me so far from Gap Kids, I have no idea where to buy Phoebe’s clothes anymore. Who ever heard of Wood Knob, West Virginia? He had to trade our van for a four-wheel drive Suburban just to get to his job in Troy Mills. His new job, which pays only slightly more. But he’s higher up in the union now, so we do have better benefits. I still don’t think it’s worth it, and he knows what I think.

“Mother,” Phoebe says from her little loft room in our cabin. I made sure she called me Mother right from the start. No slang for her.

“Yes?”

“Can I watch Barney?”

“We don’t have the TV hooked up yet.”

“Can we play dollies?”

“Not now,” I say, and straighten a longer piece of my hair. I refuse to let her think her needs should dictate what I do. She needs to learn young that the world doesn’t revolve around her.

After lunch, which was leftover chicken cordon bleu for me and peanut butter and apples for her, I decide we may as well see what’s outside.

Our cabin sits on two acres of woodland. Not that I really care much where it sits. But my husband wanted land. He wanted to “get away from it all” in the city. Basically, he forgot to acknowledge the fact that I am, and always have been, a city girl myself. Sometimes he forgets to consult me in major decisions. The few times he does, he usually doesn’t approve of what I want to do. This is a far cry from what I knew growing up, when my mother pretty much got whatever she asked for.

I round up Phoebe and we put on polartec jackets and rain boots. It’s still a little muddy out. Our moving truck almost got stuck on our dirt driveway. We’ll have to get it paved.

In the pine woods to the right of the house, there’s a little creek. Not too much underbrush. Phoebe climbs over dead trees and jumps in the shallow part of the creek. We see some tracks, maybe a raccoon or a small dog, I have no idea what.

“Alright, Phoebe, let’s keep going,” I say, and we head out for the woods to the left of the house. This woods has some pines, but more deciduous trees, it seems. It’s also smaller--we come to the end pretty quickly. There’s a pretty wide hay field ahead. I only figure this out because of the big white bale-sized things lying around everywhere. Past that is a big hill with a light purple house at the very top. I guess that would be our new neighbor. Phoebe runs into the field and starts doing cartwheels. We should probably go ahead and introduce ourselves while we’re out.

“Come on, Phoebe.” She’s actually in front of me, but I get ahead of her and grab her hand. “Let’s head for that hill.” Phoebe shoots me a glare, but I ignore it and keep walking.

A couple of big black birds seem to be eating something dead near one of the bales. The sky is a rather oppressive shade of grey with some heavier charcoal clouds.

As we get to the hill, Phoebe tears off around the side of it. I refuse to chase after her. There are some old stone stairs, overgrown with moss and dead grass--I decide to go up here. When I get about halfway up, I check to see if I see Phoebe anywhere. I don’t.

There is a small treeline ringing the hill, and I’m getting close to it. I decide to yell.

“Phoebe!”

She still doesn’t come. I continue toward the house. The small trees now completely block my view of the sides of the hill.

I can see the house clearly now. It seems this is a side stairway, winding toward the front door.

There is no porch. It’s a bit of a Victorian monstrosity, a pale purple house with black shutters. It has two side turrets, but neither one has a door or any apparent windows.

At the front door, there are three small steps and a tiny stoop. The front door is black. I imagine there’s some feng shui reason people shouldn’t have a black front door. I don’t see any kitschy welcome signs or flags or cheap patio chairs, which I was fully expecting. There is just the stoop, the ornate ironwork doorbell, and the black door.

About this time, Phoebe runs up the left path out of the trees. Her blonde hair looks wild and has leaf bits in it. She offers no explanation for her willfulness and I decide not to ask for one. She just smirks at me as I press the doorbell. Heavy chimes ring inside.

Almost before the chimes ring, the door opens. An old woman with blue-tinted hair peers out at us. “Hello?” she asks, and her pale blue eyes squint a bit.

“I’m your new neighbor,” I say. “My name is Aurora Himmel. We just moved into the log cabin a couple days ago.”

Her eyes unsquint a little. “Oh, the log mansion over there? And this is your daughter?”

“Yes,” I say, and ignore the mansion quip. “Her name is Phoebe. Say hello, Phoebe.”

Phoebe just looks around at the trees.

“I wondered,” she says, “because I just saw someone down by my pond."

So that‘s where Phoebe was. I‘ll let that one slide. “Well, nice to meet you,” I say. “Your name is…?”

“Dollie Massey,” she says. “Would you like to have some tea? I was just getting a pot going.”

Before I can come up with a reason to refuse, Phoebe says, “Please can we get something to eat here, Mother? I’m soooo hungry! Please…?”

Dollie smiles. “Sounds like you need a little snack break.”

I look at her blue hair, yellow cotton apron, and floral dress that must be about forty years old. But her shoes aren’t the grandma brogans I expect. They’re actually stylish brown clogs. Her earrings are chandelier-style--something I’d buy myself.

Who is this woman?

“Alright,” I say.

Chapter 2

I always knew I was meant for better. She feels the same way. I know she hates her husband for bringing her to this godforsaken place. She cannot hide anything from me. I am so much older than she is, and I have so much I can teach her.

----------------------------------------------

Dollie shows us the “parlor,” as she calls the living room, and heads into the kitchen. Phoebe starts climbing on the couch. I examine some of the photos. There are no knick-knacks. Just photos, on the walls, on the dresser, on the coffee table. Where on earth did this woman get all these friends and family? She’s not even wearing a wedding ring.

I open a photo album. It must be as old as her dress. There's a photo of a woman who vaguely resembles Dollie looking sideways, away from the camera. Right next to her is a man. Wonder who that is?

“Here we are!” Dollie announces, bringing in a tray with a couple mugs of tea on it. There is also a smaller orange Tupperware cup with water in it, presumably for Phoebe.

“I just put sugar in both teas, I hope that’s alright,” she says, starting to unwrap the three Little Debbie cakes on the side. They are Christmas tree-shaped, though Christmas was about ten months ago.

“Those are my most hatable-est kind,” Phoebe says, as she stops couch-climbing long enough to look at the cakes.

“Well,” says Dollie. She looks at me pointedly.

“What a lot of pictures you have here,” I say, and try to eat a bite of my red-and-green-sprinkled tree.

“Oh, lawsie-daisie, yes!” she says.

“Are they all family?” I ask, and gulp some of the weak tea to wash down the cake.

“Mostly,” she says. “We had ten kids in our family. I never did get married. But most of them did.”

She stops and pats her hair, then glances behind the couch, where Phoebe must be hiding out.

“She surely has a lot of energy,” she says, and looks intently at me.

I’m not sure if she’s fishing for an explanation. I could explain that Phoebe has ADHD and impulse control problems, but I don’t really want to. I’ve explained her behavior so many times, to so many people, I simply don’t want to anymore. I’m making a new start in West Virginia.

“May I look in your dining room?” I ask. It’s right across the hall and has a wonderful chandelier and an antique buffet I can barely see from here.

“Of course,” she says, looking out of the side of her eye to see where Phoebe is again.

I walk across the hall and take my time looking at the furniture. It looks like cherry, very glossy and dark. The walls are painted a sort of marmalade color, which seems dated but somehow works. There is a large round mirror in front of me, and I can see a person in it. I turn to ask Dollie if Phoebe is doing alright, but she’s not there. I turn back. The person is still there, right behind me in the mirror. It is a man.

“What the…?” I ask, and whirl around as quickly as I can. There is no one there. But it feels like someone is.

I run. “Dollie!” I yell, and scuttle across the wood floors into the parlor. Phoebe is on the couch, picking a Little Debbie cake apart into little pieces. Dollie is on the chair, sipping tea. She quickly puts it down and jumps up.

“What is it?” she says.

I look at Phoebe and control my voice. I don’t think she’s paying attention to me anyway.

“I just wanted to ask you a question,” I say, and steer her out into the hallway between the rooms.

“What?” she says again.

“I just saw a man in your mirror in there,” I say.

“A what?”

“A man.”

“That’s impossible. There are no men in my house!”

She looks at me steadily, obviously trying to figure out if I’ve lost my mind.

“Are you sure?” I say. “Maybe I’ll check outside the window.”

“Go right ahead,” she says. “But no one comes up the hill but my cleaning girl, and she only comes on Saturdays.”

I quickly head to the door, black inside and out, and peer out. No one is there, and the wind’s not even moving. I head back to Dollie, who is in turn heading toward Phoebe. Phoebe has put crumbs from the Little Debbie all over the coffee table.

“Well, that was strange,” I say.

“What did he look like?” she asks. I’m a bit surprised, because I thought she didn’t believe me.

“He had black hair and dark eyes. He was really tall and skinny.”

“Hmmm,” she says, and starts picking up Phoebe’s crumbs and putting them in a napkin. “Doesn’t sound like anyone I know.”

I’m shocked she’s not more fearful than I am, since it is her house. But she’s old, so maybe she doesn’t know how dangerous the world is now compared to when she was young. There are always murders and scandals these days. Or maybe things are different in the country.

Phoebe gets up and runs around the coffee table and Dollie about five times. Then she runs up to me and says loudly, “I want to go now.”

Dollie looks up from the cleanup. “Thank you all for stopping by. So nice to meet some neighbors.”

“Does anyone else live near here?” I ask.

“No, like I said, there’s a pond at the bottom of the other side of my hill, then there’s a huge wooded lot, and some more farmland. The next house is at least two miles away.”

I wonder how she gets her groceries, but I noticed a garage, so there must be a driveway down the back of the hill that heads toward town.

“Well, we’ll be going,” I say, and wonder if I am going crazy. I saw that man as real as any man could be, just standing behind me in the mirror.

“Until next time,” she says cheerily, and walks us out the door. We take the path toward our house.

Phoebe immediately begins running down the stones. I turn to take a last look. And I could swear I see a tall man looking out the dining room window.

copyright Heather Day Gilbert--January 2009--all rights reserved

Welcome!

2010-01-27T14:24:00.000-05:00

I know you're new to this blogspot, because so am I! I really wanted to start a blog about the book I wrote in a month. I did this with some Facebook friends for the "NaNoWriteMo" challenge, based on a book about writing books in a month. I actually did complete my entire book of 50,000+ words in the month of January, 2009.

Have I mentioned that I am a homeschooling mom of three? I've always wanted to write a book. I've probably started at least six books, but they've never taken off because I just don't make it a priority. This challenge was just what I needed to keep the creative juices flowing.

I'm also one of those obnoxious writers who believes that once the words hit the page, they need little, if any, editing. I'm currently in the process of trying to find a publisher for my book. At some point, I am fully aware that this will entail having an editor EDIT my book. For now, I just want some of my friends/family on Facebook to be able to see what I've written and give me some encouragement.

I'm hoping to post the first couple of chapters on here if I can cut and paste them on. Please feel free to read them, then either: 1) Beg me to read more, because it is just such an awesome book, or 2) Let me know in the nicest way possible that it is not something you are interested in reading because you're not into supernatural fiction, etc.

I hope to get some followers on here so that I can show publishers that there is a market for this kind of fiction. I believe my book has an important message but I know it doesn't fall into any typical category. I hope you enjoy it!