The Twelve I Know

January draws in cold fingers, toes curl in boots that crunch through ice crusted puddles. The year's account is full again, flush with time. Couch cushions are scattered with seed catalogs and gym contracts and dreams of a better future. This is the year!

February is melting sweet. A blushing coquette with hearts in her eyes. The youngest sister out of twelve. Scented with roses and chocolate and speaking in poems, love, LOVE, spring will be here soon.

March is green upon green with clover and moss and bursting leaves everywhere! The spring of deception has come, whispering stories of growing things and slumbering gardens that need tending. The skies tumble grey and blue and the nights bite young leaves with crystalline teeth.

April showers wash the wind clean and draw pink tulips and yellow daffodils from dense black loam. Pastel blossoms line sidewalks and store aisles in fragrant displays. Life reborn! Baby chicks and baby bunnies and eggs to treasure in woven baskets. Tuck seeds into the earth with hopes to see them again soon.

May is filled with celebrations! Ribbons weave and dance through the air, flowers crown laughing heads and fill baskets, vases, and mothers' arms. Fiesta! Picnic blankets form a patchwork quilt of color in the parks. Time for Renewal and Remembrance.

June sweeps in wreathed in lace. Clouds of white clover blossoms fill the emerald fields, fallen from the cerulean sky. White lace flowers and white lace dresses. Roses scent warming breezes and the hands of blushing brides. The promise month ends the beginning of the year and begins the hope of forever.

July is the scent of BBQ smoke in the afternoon. Sunsets long after bedtime. It is sulfur from sparkling fireworks, popping and whistling down the street. It is a chlorine breeze blowing off the public pool. Cicada songs. Bleached blue skies. Coconut oil on golden skin. A cool drink of water straight from the hose.

August sighs dryly in late summer winds. Creosote hangs heavy as thunderstorms roll along the horizon. Bats and vultures cartwheel through the sky. Camping trips and shopping trips, one last hurrah before school. The countdown to fall begins.

September is gold edged leaves and gold edged grass and gold edged twilight. Cool evenings and clear days. The crinkle of brown paper lunch bags, the scent of pencil shavings and new shoes. Apples and squash and spice.

October is open windows. Curtains billowing in a cool breeze. Pumpkins and cinnamon and chocolate. Transformation. The crunch of brown leaves. Haunted houses. Hands slimy with jack-o-lantern guts. Magic rising.

November is apple pie and pumpkin pie and roasting things and real mashed potatoes. Sweaters! Furniture polish and family gatherings. Melancholy promises to be closer next year. Secret shopping trips, and dreams of joyful eyes filled with wonder.

December appears with twinkling lights and peppermint kisses. Red and green and blue and silver. Tinsel spangled rooms filled with hope and nostalgia. Merry songs jingle jangle through glowing golden windows and off the lips of wide eyed children in puffs of cloudy breath. The passing year is launched into the infinite on the backs of rockets. Time to begin again.

Where is Happiness?

Where is happiness?

 

She asks the wall. The wall says it is in maintaining the boundaries and holding the roof up. The wall keeps pressing the world out.

 

Where is happiness?

 

She asks the air. The air says it is in traveling the world and all the breathing bodies in it. The air keeps traveling by.

 

Where is happiness?

 

She asks the man. The man says it is measured in the amount. The man keeps collecting, he tries to collect her too.

 

Where is happiness?

 

She asks the mother. The mother says it is in peace and security. The mother tries to shade her eyes.

 

Where is happiness?

 

She asks God. God says happiness is with Me. God smiles and winks and reclines in his chair.

 

Where is happiness?

 

She asks the mirror. The mirror asks back, but she doesn't know...

 

Happiness is not in the question.

 

Happiness is not in the answer.

 

Where is happiness..........?

A Wicked Change

Book Six in the Beneath the Veil Series will be available on Amazon February 13th, 2015. Just in time for Valentine's Day!

     As a wereferret, Wheeler's chief pleasures in life have always been napping and being sneaky. But things have changed since the Sodalitas came out of the closet and lifted the Veil between the monsters and mortals. Now he's developed two new obsessions: stealing cars, and stalking Sophie.

     Sophie is fully aware of Wheeler's strange penchant for spying; she can sense when someone is looking at her, a gift she received when the Veil lifted. And with the new Eyenet system of cameras that the Sodalitas installed throughout the  realm, Wheeler can (and does, weirdo...) watch Sophie's movements day and night.

     But a warning that Sophie's life is in danger sets Wheeler on a mission to save his dearest love...whether she likes it or not.

    Sophie believes that she can take care of herself. Something that she's proven time and again since going on the run a year ago. So what if it requires more than a little thievery to make ends meet? If that Hood character could get a gold star in the history books for robbing the rich to feed the poor then so should Sophie, because she was dirt poor at the moment.

    Eventually Wheeler's gift at hacking the Eyenet proves too valuable a tool to pass up in Sophie's quest to end the threat against her and her mother. But things get complicated when the Queen of Fairy takes an interest in the pair and Sophie's true nature is revealed.

     Wheeler is offering Sophie a new life with him in the passionate night world, but the cost of losing her mother forever in exchange may prove too dear a price to pay.

     Eternal love hangs in the balance as Sophie fights to hang on to all that she holds dear.

The way to a man's heart (and to the end of a manuscript, and to the beginning of a bedtime story...) is through the stomach.

Have you ever been rolling through your schedule, knocking off the to-do list, grinding forward, maybe not smoothly, maybe with effort, but you're getting there then all of a sudden it happens?

Catastrophe.

Or divergence of monumental proportion.

Momentum stops. Progress stops. Life stops.

That happened to me four months ago.

Wow. A third of a year. Gone.

What happened to me? Probably not what happened to you. No one died. I didn't lose my job or get divorced. No force of evil intruded on my world and stole my security.

No. I got nauseous.

Brief backstory- My husband and I were hoping/planning/trying for another baby. In fertility terms we're practically ancient, nearing 40. But, magically, in July, it worked! Pink line! Plans falling into place! Another check on the life list, progress!

Then a few weeks later I got nauseous.

Morning sickness is blah. I had it with my first pregnancy. It sucks, but you learn to just set your fork down when it strikes, take care of the call, and sit back down to finish your meal when it passes.

That's not what I'm talking about.

Most of us have heard about the English princess and her bouts of terrible morning sickness. Hyperemesis Gravitas. It can be deadly. It's a state of nausea and vomiting that is so bad it can be life threatening. Lucky lady was cared for in a private hospital till it passed four months later.

I wasn't a lucky lady.

I was diagnosed with HG almost immediately as my weight plummeted. I almost can't recall clearly how I made it through the last four months. Everything is washed in a sort of green haze. Literally. There's a color to the world that shouldn't be there. And certain words trigger a sort of PTSD type reaction. Like - caterpillar. Shiver. Things I experienced during my struggle to survive this all-encompassing urge to vomit twenty-four hours a day still haunt me and bring a phantom return of symptoms when mentioned.

Nothing exists beyond the center during this terrible illness. The queasy stomach and shivering muscles. I was medicated at all times, and it worked just enough to keep me out of the hospital. But it didn't do much for normal functioning. I could barely talk and read with my daughter, let alone play at the end of the day. And writing? A schedule? I am actually laughing as I type this. Seriously, it's a joke. There is no creativity. No desire to do anything besides curl around that rebellious center and attempt to smother it.

So, after I published FANGIRL_15 I basically fell off the face of the Earth. And that's why. I was nauseous. But the monster has finally passed and I've crawled back out of the third level of Hell. I received an amazing review of my Veil series by the judges of the Writer's Digest 22nd Annual Self-Published Book Awards. 4 out of 5 stars! Such an honor. And their invaluable critique ended with the judge's personal hope to read more in the series. Blew me away. Couldn't stop smiling for an hour.

I regret the time I lost, but I'm back on track. Wheeler and Sophie's story, the sixth novella in the Beneath the Veil Anthology, was slated for release in October, but that obviously didn't occur. My schedule is reset four months back. I foresee a January release, but I also believe this edition is worth the wait. I'll have a cover reveal soon, along with a sneak peek at book seven, Jekyll and Hyde's story.

Thank you to everyone for your well-wishes during this difficult time and for continuing to make Beneath the Veil Anthology so successful.

The Cutter

Thunk.
Thunk.
Swing through the air,
Slice through the hair.
I don't care.
I don't care.
How deep is the brain?
Watch for drips,
Mustn't stain.
No more pain.
No more pain.
You can't break what I have broken.
You can't steal what I have given away.
There is no pleasure for you here.
Just walk away.
Walk away.

(Chloe Wright a.k.a FANGIRL_15)

FANGIRL_15

Chloe is in love with Lucien.

He’s enigmatic, compassionate, generous and intelligent. Likes classical music just as much as kicking ass and knows his way around a kitchen, though he’d never admit it. His Samurai swords are an extension of his personality and a lifetime of heartache has taught him to wield them unfailingly. He’s gorgeous yet humble and can’t see past his own scars.

Lucien feels deeply for his chosen family and is absolutely worthy of love.

Sounds perfect, right?

The only problem is that Lucien is a character in a novel.

The Dark Riders is one of the best selling paranormal romance series of all time, and it was destined to have eight installments, one for each of the brothers-in-arms. Lucien’s story was supposed to be book eight, where he’d finally find true love and live happily ever after. Except the writer died before his story was published. Worse yet, book seven was finished by some poser that thought killing off one of the main characters would bring a more modern twist to the finale.

Chloe is absolutely devastated by the news that one of her “friends” is dead and that the series is canceled. She has a quasi-nervous-breakdown at work and ends up falling asleep in the lounge. Her midnight escape from the locked office lands her in a deserted parking lot after hours where an unseen force has been waiting. Just. For. Her...

This supernatural assault strands her in an alternate reality where the Dark Riders are real and the horrible ending created by the publisher hasn’t happened yet.

Chloe decides that she’s been brought there to fix all of the storylines and tries her best to convince the monsters around her that she’s there to help. She ends up mangling their plots more often than not and now must race the waxing moon to find a way home before Lucien accidentally falls in love with her instead of his destined mate. The Fates are working against her as Chaos interferes and the truth about what really dragged her over threatens to destroy everything that Chloe holds dear.

The Appeal of Misery, and Why I Want to Give an Agent the Heimlich Maneuver

     Who are you?

     Who are you?

     Unlike Brian, who came up with that awesome essay in response to Principle Vernon’s question in The Breakfast Club, I have yet to find the short and sweet version of novel description.

     Agent Obi Wan: What is your novel about? Make sure to “intrigue” me in one paragraph or less.

     Unpublished Author: Okay, let’s see...It’s about the universal nature of greed...no! The empowering, healing, transformative nature of true love...no! It’s a reimagining of the creation story and theorizes why monsters really do exist... Ummmm... Boy meets girl on alien world?

     Agent Obi Wan: Unfortunately you have failed to capture my attention and I won’t bother reading your (clearly crappy) story. Thank you for your time.

     So, my attempts to woo an agent haven’t been quite that bad, but from the responses I’ve received I assume they’re pretty darn close.

     I have to admit, when it comes to describing a story I’ve written, I choke. Maybe because I’m so deep into the thing that I can’t make out the broader features anymore. I’m beneath the skin, no way to pull back and tell if my creature is pretty or not.

     What I’ve decided is that instead of continuing to bang my head on closed doors, I just need to find an injured agent. Nothing too serious, nothing that would keep them from, say, reading my novels while they recuperate or anything...

     See, I’ve had this fantasy of late, it goes like this: I’m in my hermit cottage in the mountains, á la Kathy Bates. Alone. And I see this little plane fall out of the sky, neeeow boom! I brave a howling blizzard to search for survivors and, low and behold, there’s one. The pilot, who just happens to be an über successful agent out for a spin in her new toy.

     I drag the unfortunate soul back to my lair...err...cottage and bandage her injuries. Alas, the storm has knocked out all radio communication.

     Do the phones work?

     No.

     Internet?

     NO! Ahem, no. We’ll just have to stick it out together for a few days. Don’t worry I’ll take care of you. Do you need something to read to pass the time?

     My manifesto would be happily dumped into her lap, after which I’d lurk around outside the door, listening for every gasp and giggle until (dun da daaaa!) she tells me I’m an incredibly brilliant writer and she’ll be crushed if I don’t allow her to represent me.

     Storm ends.

     Agent heals.

     Success and glory rain down on me. Huzzah!!!!

     Okay. That one miiiiight be a little farfetched, but I could totally randomly run across an unfortunate agent, choking on their chicken. People choke on dried out chicken all the time, right? And I’m sure that agents eat chicken now and then. So...

     A hungry agent will be eating their dried out chicken when, gasp! They start choking! Everyone is screaming and standing around with their iPhones, filming her demise while the helpless woman turns blue. Then I step in and, womp! Successful chicken ejector squeeze.

     “You saved my life! I’m eternally in your debt. How can I ever repay you?”

     Well, it just so happens that I have this novel I’d like you to read...

     Of course! I’ll begin it tonight!

     Yeah...

     So I’ve written a few agent queries without success. Who hasn’t? You haven’t!? Well, let me be the first to tell you that it’s about an eleven on the difficulty scale. I’ve tried using bits of my blurbs. Nuh uh. I’ve tried mysterious allusions to the deeper subplots. Yawn. First person perspective on the action. REJECT. Focus on the romance. Nope. I’ve even considered stealing the awesome reviews people have written for my self-pub’d books and using those. I seriously love the way readers see the story as a whole, and also hearing what part meant the most to them. I don’t know if anyone else has gotten this before, but when you write something with all of these little subplots and details, and someone gets it, recognizes the big picture, even better than you because you have to be so hung up on each individual piece, it’s magic! It’s the best gift, to see your story through someone else’s eyes.

     So how can I tell someone what they’re going to find in my story?

     It’s a New Adult/Sci Fi Romance, complete at 94,000 words. In it you’ll find a brain, and an athlete, and a basket case, a princess, and a criminal...

     Just read it.

     Read it!

     Read it, or I’ll break it off!!!!

     What does it say about the stress of query writing when a person would rather perform life-or-death exploits than write another letter? Yes, ye virgin query-er, it’s that bad.


     By the way, I heard there’s a bungee jumping expose being held in the Grand Canyon next weekend. I’ll be there with a giant net if anyone’s interested...