A Little Good News...

I can now announce my very-good, very-exciting news!

From Publishers Marketplace:


July 18, 2012
Fiction:
Mystery/Crime
Rachel Howzell Hall's A GIRL IS LIKE A SHADOW, in which a LAPD homicide detective must learn the truth about the apparent suicide of a teenage girl which may be related to her own sister's disappearance more than twenty years ago, to Kristin Sevick at Forge, in a two-book deal, by Jill Marsal at the Marsal Lyon Literary Agency.

I'm THRILLED and can't wait to share GIRL with you soon!

Where I Be At?

I haven't posted cuz I'm up to my neck in words!

Words, words, words - reading them, writing them, loving them, hating them.

As for writing them? New story in the works. Yay. Almost finished with writing first draft (pen and legal pads) of this Great American Cozy.

As for reading them? Right now, I'm lost in three books:

Love in a Carry-On Bag by Sadeqa Johnson:
Erica Shaw spends her week babysitting the country’s bestselling authors for one of the top publishing companies in New York City. But on Friday nights she escapes to DC, where her sexy-lipped musician boyfriend, Warren Prince, works and performs. Their connection is fierce, and the couple promises to never miss a weekend together. But when real life walks in—an overbearing father, an alcoholic mother, office politics, and a lucrative job contract—the couple starts unraveling at the seam. Tempers flare, violence breaks, while new lovers eagerly wait in the wings—to claim both of them.

Blasphemy by Douglas Preston:
The world's biggest supercollider, locked in an Arizona mountain, was built to reveal the secrets of the very moment of creation: the Big Bang itself.

The Torus is the most expensive machine ever created by humankind, run by the world’s most powerful supercomputer. It is the brainchild of Nobel Laureate William North Hazelius. Will the Torus divulge the mysteries of the creation of the universe? Or will it, as some predict, suck the earth into a mini black hole? Or is the Torus a Satanic attempt, as a powerful televangelist decries, to challenge God Almighty on the very throne of Heaven?

Twelve scientists under the leadership of Hazelius are sent to the remote mountain to turn it on, and what they discover must be hidden from the world at all costs. Wyman Ford, ex-monk and CIA operative, is tapped to wrest their secret, a secret that will either destroy the world…or save it.


And A Deadly Game by Catherine Crier:
In this #1 New York Times bestseller, Catherine Crier, a former judge and one of television's most popular legal analysts, offers a riveting and authoritative account of one of the most memorable crime dramas of our time: the murder of Laci Peterson at the hands of her husband, Scott, on Christmas Eve 2002. Drawing on extensive interviews with key witnesses and lead investigators, as well as secret evidence files that never made it to trial, Crier traces Scott's bizarre behavior; shares dozens of transcripts of Scott's chilling and incriminating phone conversations; offers accounts of Scott's womanizing from two former mistresses before Amber Frey; and includes scores of never-before-seen police photos, documents, and other evidence.


I know: book slut.

Great Review for NOKYH!!!

Nina Sankovitch of Read All Day just posted an INCREDIBLE review for No One Knows You're Here. I was in tears as I read it. For real, though. I was. Here's is the part that really... whew.

Howzell is the Sue Grafton of her generation, with a bit more social conscience and street cred. Like Grafton’s Kinsey Milhone, Syeeda is determined to be her own woman, solving crimes and facing down danger, and protecting her own body — and heart — as ferociously as she hunts down bad guys. I hope to see more, much more of Syeeda (Ms. Howzell, you hear me?) and I look forward to reading another novel starring the scrappy, savvy, and stalwart Syeeda.

Read the rest of the review here.

A Library for the New World

So NASA found a planet like Earth last month or whenever.

Yes, yes, yes! That means more closet space, more Starbucks and a new location to Facebook about. 'Rachel checked in at the AMC Theater on the south side of Kepler 22-B." Hopefully, Groupon will offer this as a Getaway Deal cuz my bags, they are PACKED!

Isn't she pretty?

But what will I read when I get there? Kepler-22B may not have WiFi capability so my Kindle will be useless since I read all the books loaded onto it once I awakened from hyper-sleep and had to read during the rest of the journey over. So: old-school books -- we have to send a capsule full of them for the first public library in New Los Angeles, Kepler-22B (Okay, and we'll have to have a write-in contest maybe sponsored by our new overlords to change that name. Sounds like something I should pour into my camshafts).

What should we stock?

Here are my ten picks:

1. The Bible (of course, cuz we need rules and poetry and stories about sex, redemption and salvation in this new world)
2. The Joy of Sex (I'm sure we'll lose a few space travelers so we'll need to repopulate) by Alex Comfort
3. Green Eggs and Ham by Dr. Seuss
4. The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein
5. The Odyssey by Homer
6. Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy
7. The Color Purple by Alice Walker
8. The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka
9. Don Quixote by Miguel Cervantes
10. Charlotte's Web by E.B. White

What other books should we stock?

Free Tomorrow, Oh Yeah, Oh Yeah, It's Your Birthday

Just a head's up, my reading friends. The View from Here goes free all day tomorrow on Amazon, January 28!!



I'm excited about the free thing. Does it show??

Bargain eBook Hunter

The View from Here is the Book of the Day for this great site! Bargain eBook Hunter features incredible reads at low, low prices! Please go on over and make yourselves comfortable.

Frugal Find of the Day!

No One Knows You're Here is today's Frugal Find of the Day. Pop on over and find this and other great deals on ebooks!

Five Books that Influenced Me Most
by Chicki Brown

Thanks for inviting me to share with your readers, Rachel. If there’s one thing I love to talk about, it’s books. So when you asked me to talk about five books that have influenced me, I got all geeked!

Fifteen – Beverly Cleary
I must have been in the sixth or seventh grade when I read this book, my very first romance. I copied this description from Amazon.com because it explains why a 13-year-old would love it:

“It seems too good to be true. The most popular boy in school has asked Jane out -- and she's never even dated before. Stan is tall and good-looking, friendly and hardworking -- everything Jane ever dreamed of. But is she ready for this?

Suppose her parents won't let her go? What if she's nervous and makes a fool of herself? Maybe he'll think she's too young. If only she knew all the clever things to say. If only she were prettier. If only she were ready for this...”

Need I say more?

Left Behind Series – Jerry Jenkins & Tim LaHaye
Once I read the first book in this series, it put a chillingly realistic spin on what I already believed from the Bible. The events in the books come directly from biblical accounts but are embellished for fiction’s sake. This series is a wonderful yet terrifying modern account of Christian beliefs on the end times.

Milk in My Coffee – Eric Jerome Dickey
I had never read a romance written by a man before, and this contemporary interracial story made me a sold-out fan of Mr. Dickey’s work. The fact that it was written in first person with two points of view intrigued me and was partially responsible for my decision to write a few of my own novels in first person.

Topaz – Beverly Jenkins
Historical novels had never interested me on bit until a friend at Georgia Romance Writers insisted I read one of Ms. Jenkins’ black historical romances. In addition to writing emotional, sexy accounts, her attention to detail and research into actual African-American history, have made me a fan for life. The fact that Ms. Jenkins puts her research at the end of each book is just the icing on the cake.

Dark Lover – J. R. Ward
Until three years ago, I also had never read a paranormal romance. This is why Dark Lover was special and unique to me. I grew up watching Bela Lugosi’s Dracula on Creature Features as a kid, so vampires have always given me the creeps. But not the grown, sexy, urban males of Ward’s Black Dagger Brotherhood series. Once I read this first book, she had me by the throat (pun intended). Every book in this fabulous series is sitting on my keeper shelf.


Rachel says: Thanks for your list, Chicki! Beverly Cleary continues to be a favorite of mine -- I still have Ramona the Brave, the one I bought back in 1979 at the Scholastic Book Fair in my school's library. When she is old enough to fully appreciate it, I will gift it to my daughter.


Be on the look-out for Chicki's new releases on January 2. Until then, you can visit her at a few places:
Website: http://www.chicki663.webs.com
Personal Blog: http://sisterscribbler.blogspot.com
Twitter: http://twitter.com/@Chicki663
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/chicki.brown

What's on your list?

Need Reviews for Your New Book?

I've used this fabulous website to find potential reviewers for The View from Here and No One Knows You're Here.

As a special holiday gift pour vous, I thought I'd share it with you.

http://www.stepbystepselfpublishing.net/reviewer-list.html

Boom! You're welcome!

Oh, yeah. Buy my books. Did you know you can now gift books on Nook? Yes, you can.

And happy holidays!

If You Like Mysteries, Boy, Do I Have a Site For You!

So not only do the good people over at Kindle Mystery Authors feature novelists that write mysteries, my favorite genre of ALL TIME, they are featuring me and No One Knows You're Here RIGHT NOW.

Please visit. Discover new writers. Discover great books. You'll be happy that you did!

Five Books that Influenced Me
by Joel Arnold

In a way, every book I’ve ever read has had some influence on me – at least on a subconscious level. Even a poorly written book, one that barely engages the cerebral cortex (or the ‘little grey cells’ as Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot often says) at the very least makes you realize, “I can do better than that!”

So here is my list.

A House with a Clock in its Walls by John Bellairs
Not only did this children’s novel introduce me to horror literature, it also introduced me to artist Edward Gorey, whose illustrations were the perfect compliment to the novel.

Where the Red Fern Grows by Wilson Rawls
I read this in the third or fourth grade and remember how completely immersed I was in this story of Billy and his two dogs, Old Dan and Little Ann. It’s about struggle, survival, love, grief and acceptance – a lot of tough concepts for a kid, but the story is unforgettable. I hope I can write something half this powerful some day.

The Shining by Stephen King
Not only did this novel introduce me to Stephen King, it also taught me a lot about writing – about pacing and the rhythm of words and sentences. It also cemented my love for all things that go bump in the night.

Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg
Of all the books on writing I’ve read, I feel this one is the best for those beginning on their writing journey. It’s not so much about the writing craft as it is about freeing your mind up and letting the words flow, which is an important concept for those writers starting out, and is a great wake-up call for writers experiencing writers’ block.

Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry
I’m not even a fan of western novels, but this is probably one of my top three favorite novels of all time. The scope of this story is breathtaking and so well written and crafted, the characters so vivid and brilliant, I’m still in awe at this literary accomplishment. Its influence on me is simply that I wish to be able to write something as good as this someday.

Writing my own novel – Northwoods Deep – inspired me in that I felt like I was able to somewhat successfully write a horror novel with emotional depth, vivid settings and complex characters that – at least I hope – gives chills to those who read it. The novel itself was inspired (very loosely) by Hansel & Gretel as well as some Native American folklore and an early image I couldn’t shake out of my head of an old man creeping up the steps of a cellar, lifting a trap door and ascending into an old cabin in the woods. What exactly was he hiding?

Here’s the description of Northwoods Deep:
Deep in the north woods, two sisters become lost; one stalked by a murderous ex-husband, the other unable to rid herself of the leeches that appear mysteriously on her skin.

All are drawn to an old, dilapidated cabin.

Inside lives an old man with awful urges, accompanied by a Rottweiler possessed by something…unnatural.

But it’s what resides beneath the cabin that they should really be worried about.

Please join award-winning author Joel Arnold on a ride over the river and through the woods straight into terror in his newest novel, Northwoods Deep.

Kindle version:
http://www.amazon.com/Northwoods-Deep-ebook/dp/B003UHVXCE

For other ereaders:
www.smashwords.com/books/view/18433

Print version:
http://www.amazon.com/Northwoods-Deep-Joel-Arnold/dp/1463587686

My blog:
http://authorjoelarnold.blogspot.com/

Rachel says: Thanks for your list, Joel! The same happened for me with Lonesome Dove -- had never read or even liked Westerns, but this one... And then, I had to read all of McMurtry's writing! And Stephen King... can't say enough about how he's influenced me as a reader and writer.

What's on your list?

You Changed Me

Books are powerful things. I don't say that cuz I write them. I don't say that cuz I read them.

Think about it.

The fatwa on Salman Rushdie.

The book burnings in Nazi Germany.

Influenced some of the greatest movies ever made including Dracula, No Country for Old Men and The Wizard of Oz.

America's banning of books by Judy Blume, Toni Morrison, Alice Walker, Mark Twain, Richard Wright, Aldous Huxley, Stephen King, Joseph Heller, R.L. Stine, J.K. Rowling, Maya Angelou, Truman Capote and on and on and on and on and on....

Books influence how I write, how I think about life and also informs me of how others view life. For the next few weeks, I'll be sharing with you books that have changed my life. Other writers will also share with you books that affected them as well as how a book they wrote changed them in some way. Feel free to comment on influential books in your life -- and if you're interested in writing your own post for Writing in My Car, send me an email at rhowzell@gmail.com!

Until then,here's my list (which I'll add to cuz THERE BE SO MANY, OMG!):

The Holy Bible
Lucky by Jackie Collins
Devil in a Blue Dress by Walter Mosley
Flowers in the Attic by V.C. Andrews
Are You There God, It's Me, Margaret? by Judy Blume
Forever by Judy Blume
It by Stephen King
Johnny Got His Gun by Dalton Trumbo
Sula by Toni Morrison
Waiting to Exhale by Terry McMillan
Mystic River by Dennis Lehane

What say you, book-lover?

It's ALIVE!!!

No One Knows You're Here is ALIVE!!!

You can buy it RIGHT NOW on Amazon or Smashwords. The Nook and Kobo versions will be available soon!

And please visit the book's Facebook page and 'like' it!

New e-Novel a'Comin'

I've been silent. Cuz I've been working. On what? you ask?

Drum roll, please.....

In collaboration with Beyond the Page Publishing, my new e-novel will be published in time for Thanksgiving.

Here's a little more about No One Knows You're Here:

Three weeks out of cancer surgery, crime reporter Syeeda McKay is in the pursuit of Los Angeles’ most active serial killer. Over the last twenty years, the Phantom Slayer has hunted African-American prostitutes working in one of the worst parts of South Los Angeles, killing eight victims in the alleys off Western Avenue, and then disappearing into the shadows. But Syeeda doesn’t know that the killer has turned his sights on her. Detective Adam Sherwood, a hotshot investigator with the Robbery-Homicide Division of the LAPD, has been handed the Phantom Slayer cases, and together, he and Syeeda must figure out who is doing the killing… before Syeeda becomes his next victim.

And here's the cover which was designed by my husband David Hall -- who also designed the cover for The View from Here. (Psst! Need a cover for your novel. Let me know -- I'll hook you up, man!)

I will keep you posted on all thing No One Knows You're Here aka NOKYH as well as other book-related news-es.

Two Great Posts on Two Great Sites

Hey, ya!

The View from Here is all over the place today. Well, at least in two awesome places:

The Frugal eReader and Daily Cheap Reads.

If you like e-books, and you like saving money, then both of these sites will HOOK. YOU. UP. Swear.

Pop on over.

Another Great Review for The View from Here

Syria, mistress of SyriaSays, one of the funniest blog/book review sites on the interwebs, just posted her review of The View from Here:

Storyline: Rachel, I don’t know HOWzell you did it! But, somehow you took a potentially depressing premise and made it both very entertaining and enjoyable.

And she says much, much more. Good stuff. Good, good stuff that made my tired heart SWELL.

Please pop on over to SyriaSays to read the rest of the review as well as other reviews and interviews (she also interviewed me). I'm a lucky gal.

The View from Here - Chapters 3 & 4

3
I am not a science writer by training—I earned my degree in English and American Literature. After college, though, poems and novels could no longer answer my questions about life and love. Back then, I had applied for the assistant writer position at CelluTech, fifty miles north of Los Angeles because science never lied and never wavered. A molecule did this, and genes (even defective ones) did that. Sure: science often reinvented itself. For instance, quantum physics contradicts traditional physics; and some researchers believe that cancer stem cells exist while other researchers believe that there are no such things. But even in this chaos, science still followed hard-and-fast rules.

I had stayed with CelluTech since then because science always anticipated the discovery of a better life and a better cure. And psychically, I needed to belong to any effort that offered that much hope to the world.

As I left Dr. Tremaine’s office, though, I didn’t drive back to work, and I didn’t care about stem cells or quantum physics or belonging.

I had purchased tickets (third row, center) for Truman and me to see Wicked at the Pantages. I had made reservations at Providence for dinner afterward, and over lobster risotto for me and a rib-eye for him, we would talk to one another instead of throw words in the air in hopes that the other person captured them in their intended order and spirit. Because sentences like, “Will you pull in the trash cans after the trash man empties them?” were becoming interpreted as, “You don’t pull in the trash cans after the trash man empties them.”

In honor of tonight’s “date night” (Truman and I hadn’t been out together in months), my husband sent me a bouquet of white Casablanca lilies. The tiny card nestled in the fragrant bundle read, Can’t wait to get wicked with you after Wicked. I love you, babe! Tru. “I love you, too,” I said with a smile, then placed the vase on the dining room table.

In the soft golden candlelight of a restaurant, Truman would remember falling in love with me thirteen years ago. He would realize that he was damn lucky to still be married to me even though we no longer went out dancing or gave each other back rubs; or ate barbecued ribs like we used to every Monday night; even though the showers we used to take together had become solo endeavors. He used to tuck me in bed. We used to make love before he left the room. I used to fall asleep afterward, not waking until the morning.

If anything was haunting our house, it was the Ghost of Used To.

We couldn’t blame ear infections, or PTA meetings or soccer practices for our inability to communicate. We didn’t have children. We didn’t own a dog. Our recent bouts of bickering resulted from our failures to talk and listen to each other, husband to wife.

Now, instead of taking walks to the reservoir, cooking tacos together, or battling each other in rounds of Guitar Hero, I retreated alone to the upstairs den to watch The Simpsons. I’d sit there, pissed and uncomfortable about being pissed, waiting to hear the security panel ping and Truman shout, “Hey, babe! It’s me.” On many nights, The Simpsons melted into Jeopardy. Since his promotion to Executive Vice-President, Jeopardy melted into Lost or C.S.I. and then, the ten o’clock rerun of Seinfeld.

And it wasn’t as though I had nothing else to do in my life other than wait for him to come home. I had been active in my sorority. I had attended author readings at bookstores. I had worked late at my office on many nights. But I didn’t want to relax with my sorors. I didn’t aim to share a life with best-selling novelists and their fans. I had married for a reason.
Truman and I had argued about his insane schedule, and he had apologized, and he would come home at a reasonable hour to eat tacos and watch American Idol; or see a movie at The Grove; or hike up to the reservoir.

Until the next week.

But on this night, he had promised—promised—to show up.

I slipped a Jill Scott CD into the player, and sang as I showered, dressed and primped. I ignored the pipe’s strange rumblings as I pulled on a crimson silk dress that clung to my hips, caressed my thighs and boosted my cleavage. I looked hot. Smoking hot.

I sat at the dining room table, still and stiff to avoid shiny face, flat hair and sweaty underarms. I wanted to pop a Paxil, but I couldn’t. Not anymore. The positive ClearBlue Easy pregnancy tests had nixed my pill-popping. So, I stared at the vase of lilies in the table’s center, fantasized about standing in the lobby of the Pantages with Truman on my arm, and afterwards, eating lobster risotto and chocolate ganache cake.

I glanced at the clock in the telephone’s display: 7:33. The theater’s curtain rose at eight o’clock.

Where is he?

He hadn’t called, hadn’t e-mailed, hadn’t text-messaged.

I dialed his cell-phone number.

No answer.

I stomped to the living room and jabbed the stereo’s power button—Jill, then no Jill. I dialed his number again.

No answer.

I retreated to the kitchen and peered out the window to the driveway.

Just my Volvo.

Where was he? What was he doing? Are those his headlights zooming around the bend?

At 7:40, I stopped keeping watch at the window, and started pacing. Did he get in an accident? Did he get pulled over by the police? The telephone chirped and caller I.D. droned Baxter, Truman, Baxter, Truman. I grabbed the receiver, and shouted, “Where are you?”

“I’m still at the pool,” Truman said. “Trying to get in some extra dive time. I didn’t realize how late it was.”

I rubbed my temples—anger headache. “The show starts at eight.”

“I know, babe. I should’ve called earlier—”

“Yes, you should’ve.” I lurched to the living room. A tear rolled down my cheek, and my fingers picked at my lips, drying beneath coats of lipstick.

“I didn’t realize how late it was. When I got off work, we rushed down to the pool—”

“We?”

“Penelope and me,” he said.

Penelope Villagrana worked with Truman at FOX Sports Network. She partnered with him on climbs, dives and jumps. She was also single, had the body of an Amazon, and was rumored to be as adventurous in the bedroom as she was on the mountaintop.

“We got here late,” Truman was saying. “And Flex was pissed. You know how he is. He doesn’t care about anything else, and he doesn’t want his students to care about anything else, either. When you dive, you’re supposed to focus on being under.

“Plus, my allergies were bothering me, and my eyes were a little scratchy, and I couldn’t take a Sudafed, and so my mind was just… This was the first time I glanced at a clock. You won’t believe—”

“Are you coming or not?”

Truman paused, then said, “I can’t, Nic. I’m sorry. I just… I don’t want anything to go wrong when I’m a hundred feet under next week. And I know you don’t want that, either, right?”

I didn’t speak, angry that he had exploited my fears to justify his selfishness.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he said. “I promise.”

“I’ll add it to the list,” I said, hoping that he sensed my dissatisfaction.

He laughed, not sensing anything. “I’ll call when I’m on my way home. Love you.”

A dial tone told me that he had hung up.

I threw the telephone at the fireplace, but it didn’t shatter into billions of tiny pieces like I had wanted. Instead, the phone hit the brick with a thud, and landed on the floor with a crack. Anger unquenched, I buzzed around the room. My heart pounded so hard, I thought it would explode. My ears rang, and then, I couldn’t hear my heart anymore. It worked, though—knife blades were stabbing at it like freshly-sharpened Henckels in a rump roast. I grabbed my left arm and sipped air. Couldn’t breathe... Pain in my chest… I was suffocating and having a heart attack at the same time.

I squeezed my eyes shut, and took deep breaths. One… Two… Three…

Penelope Villagrana.

I kicked the coffee table, and yelped. Tears burned in my eyes as fire blazed from my toes up my calf.

The house laughed–I swear it laughed. Not the low groans of a settling foundation, but high-pitched pings. Hee. Hee. Hee.

If I didn’t leave, I would hurt myself again and destroy items more precious than magazines and telephones. Like the porcelain bowl from Paris. Or the delicate crystal picture frames from Tiffany. Or the black clay vase from Mazatlan. Exquisite, throwable things.

I limped to the breakfast bar and grabbed for my keys beneath the fruit bowl. Grabbed my purse from the pantry and stomped to the car.

Dark sky and distant stars hid behind thin, wispy clouds. Misty rain had thickened the musty smell of burnt chaparral, and in seconds, my hair lost all curl and lay flat against my head. My eyelashes clumped, the mascara liquefying into a thick, gooey paste. Melting. I’m melting. What a world, what a world.

I climbed into the car, and at the base of the hill, I grabbed my cell-phone and called Leilani. “What are you doing right now?”

Leilani chuckled. “You mean, who am I doing right now.”

In the background, a man laughed.

Leilani and I had shared a dorm room during our freshman year at UC Santa Cruz. Her working-class Pentecostal family lived in Cerritos, California. Her father, Douglas Baxter, worked in construction on the week days and as a head deacon on Sundays, and her mother Cassandra made casseroles and frittatas between prayer meetings, choir practices and world mission ministries. Leilani’s big brother, Truman, had forsaken the church and Cerritos to earn a math degree at M.I.T.

I frowned. “Okay. T.M.I. I’ll call you later.”

“It’s cool,” she said. “I’m done. He’s leaving. What’s up?”

“I need to talk or… or…”

She sighed. “What did Truman do this time?”

I bit my lip, not wanting to cry. “One guess.”

“Did you eat?”

“No.”

“And I sure as hell didn’t cook,” she said. “Let’s meet at Dan Tana’s. I’ll call Mo.”
 

4
Truman was climbing out of his car as I pulled back into the driveway. We didn’t speak as we entered the kitchen. We didn’t touch. Didn’t kiss. Just strangers sharing the mortgage payment.

The house was quiet and cold. The living room smelled of my perfume and the lilies sitting on the dining room table.

I retreated upstairs to the bedroom as Truman checked the locks and armed the security panel. I kicked off my heels, pulled off my dress, then grabbed shorts and a tank top from the drawer. In the bathroom, I scrubbed my face free of makeup, then wrapped my hair in a scarf—a nonverbal cue that I had no interest in “making up.”

Truman sat at the foot of the bed, staring at the hardwood floor. He looked pale sitting there, gazing at his blue Vans.

I hesitated in the bathroom doorway. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer at first, and continued to stare at the floor. “Tired,” he finally mumbled. “Been a long day.” He glanced at me, his brown eyes dark and troubled. Then, he stood, an abrupt and noisy motion in the quiet. “I have some work to do. You shouldn’t wait up.”

Alone again, I stood at the window and pushed aside the crimson curtains. I rested my forehead against the cold pane. Darkness and fog kept me from seeing much, and I glimpsed the meaty, red petals of my peonies on the edges of our stamp-sized back yard. Somewhere in the neighborhood, a German shepherd howled, ruining the quiet. I hated that dog, but his barks kept my mind from sifting through the tatters of the day.

“Hey.”

I glanced over my shoulder.

Truman stood in the doorway.

I crossed my arms. “Yes?”

“Where were you? Before you drove back home, I mean.”

I smirked, then said, “Out.”

His shoulders hunched at his ears and his nostrils flared. “Who were you out with?”

“Why does it matter? I wasn’t out with you like I was supposed to be.”

Truman glared at me, and said nothing.

“You haven’t even apologized for flaking on me… again,” I said. “Who the hell do you think you are, standing there, looking at me like that, being pissed?” I turned to glare out the window. “I’m the one who gets to be angry. Not you.”

“But I called—”

“Twenty minutes before the show started!”

Outside, the German shepherd’s barks turned shrill—at war with a raccoon.

“Who were you with?” he asked again.

I snorted, then placed my hands on my hips. “I had dinner with your sister and Mo. Is that okay with you? Wanna call them to confirm?”

Truman shook his head. “I apologize for my reaction. And I’m sorry for not showing up tonight, okay?”

Still angry, I muttered, “Yeah.”

“Great. See you in the morning.” Then, he retreated back down the hallway.

On the next morning, sunbeams pushed through the usual June gloom, and my bedroom blazed bright with light. I glanced at the clock on the nightstand—a little past eight o’clock. I should’ve been zooming off my freeway exit by now, but sandbags weighed down my arms and legs, and I struggled to leave the bed. Couldn’t tell whether Truman had slept beside me or not—the sheets were twisted around my hips, and the comforter had been kicked to the floor.

Morning sunshine filled the kitchen. Weird: in June, Los Angeles never saw the sun until late-afternoons.

Truman had cooked himself breakfast, the stink of eggs and burnt butter the only clues of his presence.

As I reached to open the refrigerator, I noticed that he had used words from my magnetic poetry journal to leave a message on the door.

Diamond goddess soars
Frantic turtle dreams
I worship magic
You twirl in purple
Use my sausage

Silliness as a peace offering.

Purchase your own e-copy of The View from Here at Amazon or Barnes & Noble.

New Ways to Get The View from Here [update]

Wanna read The View from Here?

Don't have a Kindle?

The View from Here is now available in several electronic formats, including:
PDF, LRF (for Sony Readers), Palm, and HTML. The Nook version is also at BN.com! Still for the low-low price of $3.99.

Visit my page at Smashwords and download away!

Talking about the Life

Hey, hey, hey!

I talked with writer David Wisehart about The View from Here and the life of a writer over at his blog Kindle Author.

Interested? Then, click away!

And thanks, David! Enjoyed sharing.

OMG, Amazon!

Guess what?

Amazon announced yesterday that you can now gift a Kindle book to anyone with an e-mail address. I know, right? Just in time for the holidays! From the press release:

Beginning today, just in time for the holiday season, customers can give Kindle Books as gifts to anyone with an e-mail address--no Kindle required. Kindle Books can be read on Kindle devices and free Kindle reading apps for iPad, iPod touch, iPhone, Mac, PC, BlackBerry and Android-based devices. For more information or to give a Kindle Book as a gift, go to www.amazon.com/givekindlebooks.

So, you know what that means? Yes! Exactly! You can give anyone with an e-mail a copy of The View from Here. All you have to do is go to the book's page (or any Kindle book's page) and select 'Give as a Gift.' Your loved one will get an e-mail announcing their Kindle book gift and they return to the Kindle store to read their book on one of the free Kindle applications (PC, Mac, iPhone, iTouch, Android or BlackBerry).

This is incredible news -- for readers and writers. Thanks, Amazon!