Wacky Wednesdays!

Hello, hello. The Rain -- She has returned.

To make it all better, Awesome Novelist Phillip Thomas Duck posted my interview for his Wacky Wednesday Series over on his blog Excuse Me, Miss. He asked really cool questions and I, hopefully, gave interesting answers.

Here's one of those question:

Phillip: What kind of candy represents your character? Why?

Me: A Sour Patch Kid. I can be a little cranky, a bit of a (socialized) hermit but after you get past the sour and the pucker, I’m actually really sweet and I have a tendency to stick around but just when that stickiness gets annoying, I melt away and become nothing but a sensational memory. At least that’s what this fortune cookie says.

(Note: Sometimes I forget I am not my character since I write in first-person. And so I answered in first-person without realizing that I had. Scary Writer Stuff, y'all.)

Pop over to Phillip's blog to read the rest!

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.

My Writing Life

Awesome blogstress Syria interviewed me over at her awesome blog, Syria Says. Check it out as I bare my soul with anyone who cares to see my bared soul.

Here's one of just several questions and thrilling answers!

Syria Says: What was your earliest attempt at writing?

Rachel Howzell: I wrote my first play in third grade -- “A Blue Monday” It offered a glimpse of my stories of the future. The heroine wakes up and everything goes wrong… I still have it and read it to my 6-year old daughter the other day. As a child and teen, I kept diaries (again, which I still have) and they provide a great source of background material for my novels.

Go now! Please.

Stand Up Straight and Stop Twirling Your Mustache!

On Friday nights, I watch a DVD from either the Life or Planet Earth series.

In one very-special Planet Earth episode, walruses had to protect their babies from a hungry male polar bear. There was much roaring and gnashing of tusks and ripping of hides and blubber flying. In the end, the polar bear lost and the baby walruses survived. Music swelled and I cried because baby walruses are just so dang cute.

On another Friday, I watched a very-special Life episode that followed the hardships of a family of lions in the Namid Desert. So harsh out there, in the desert, and the lions were close to starvation. One cub died as the tribe hunted for food, another got separated from the tribe. Just when you were depressed and crying and packing a trunk of rib-eyes to send to the lions, the tribe came upon a watering hole fat with wildebeest. Glory, glory! The lions ate and their bellies filled and you didn't see their ribs and they found the lost lion club.

In one story, the hunter was the villain. In another story, the hunter was the hero.

Let's look at the second story about the lions.

The producers and writers of this particular episode wrote the narrative so that viewers would have sympathy for the meat-eaters. We wanted the lions to succeed, we understood that they were what they were -- meat-eaters -- and we wanted them to find food. The polar bear had the same needs, the same journey and as the viewer, you understood that, and it kinda sucked that the bear couldn't live off the snow, but we wanted the walrus to protect the babies.

As a novelist, you have to do that with your villains -- even if the character is the polar bear. I still FELT. I still CARED.

Gregory Maguire did the same thing in Wicked -- taking mega-villain Wicked Witch of the West and giving her the name Elphaba and making her a woman who has been wronged and discriminated against. You understood why she hated Glinda and people and on and on.

A writer must remember this:

The villain is the hero in his story. He has reasons for everything he does. The reader should care about him even if the reader doesn't care for him, dig?

Write a scene from your villain's point of view. Why is she trying to steal the MacGuffin? Why is she trying to kill the good guy? What happened to her that has made her so bitter and vindictive?

By doing this, you create a complex character, someone who isn't simply evil. The reader will feel for them even if they want the villain to lose.

Writing In My Car... With Thea Atkinson

All writing is not the same. Sometimes, you try and you just can't cross genres. Yes, there are verbs and nouns and adverbs (not too many) but if you write suspense, it's very difficult to write romance. Just like it's difficult for a romance writer to pen a dark and edgy mystery.

Novelist Thea Atkinson knows what I'm talking about and she'd like to share her writing journey with all of us. So. let's welcome Thea, author of four novels, including the most recent Anomaly.

What is Anomaly about, you ask? J isn’t your run-of-the-mill, everyday kind of troubled GenXer. He’s a recovering addict who is more concerned about his encroaching gender relapse than his meth addiction. That is, until his best friend comes to visit and gives him worse things to worry about. Anomaly is a litfic tale of self-acceptance. Discover how one week can change a man for a lifetime.

Here's Thea!

I spent some time writing this up so I didn't forget it over the holidays. I hope it's something like what you were looking for. Let me know if it wasn't what you expected and I'll rewrite.

Alas, I'm no Jodi Picoult

I have a friend who keeps asking me to write a book for her. Let’s call her Alicia. Alicia keeps saying things to me like, "Write me a romance, Thea. Write a good relationship book with lots of romance. Write me a good love story."

I keep having to answer her back in ways she doesn’t want to hear. I keep saying things like, "That's not the style I write; I don't have a romantic bone in my body. I don't even remember my own wedding anniversary."

She's persistent. It's one of the things I like about her. So a few years ago, while I was bemoaning the fact that my agent hadn’t found a publisher who wanted to take a chance on a new literary writer, she piped up again: "You need to write a romance. A good story like Jodi Picoult."

I told her I would try a short story first, see if I could do it before investing the many months it took to write a novel. I was excited. Maybe if I tried hard enough, I could write something that people all over the world would want to read; no, would want to pay for.

I settled down to write, then filled my mind with Alicia’s encouraging words: "You’re a good writer, Thea. Surely you can write a love story."

I could. Of course, I could.

Imagine my discomfort a few days later when I had to admit to Alicia of the path that this little "romance" actually took. There I was, sipping tea, feeling sheepish as I confessed that the couple in the story were both octogenarians and that he accidentally broke a few of her bones while being romantic. Worse yet, that she ended up dying during the encounter.

I think Alicia might have blinked once or twice the way they do in cartoons when they've experienced a shock. I think I might have shrugged comically, helplessly.

I did try, after all. As much as I might like to believe that I could write a mass appeal novel and sell multiple copies, enough to buy me a new laptop, a brand-new thesaurus, and maybe a little trip to Petra, I have had to make my peace with the fact that I write dark literary fiction: a genre that by some descriptions is: that which does not sell.

Every now and then, Alicia still brings the subject up. She still persists, God bless her. She says I'm capable of writing the kind of story she loves to read and I feel so humbled every time she tries to support the writer in me by believing in me.

Now, I just remind her that the tale will end up in some very strange places. It won’t have mass appeal, it won’t sell a million copies, but despite the fact that I can’t write romance, it will be an honest-to-goodness Thea made story.

And then I ask her if she's ready to read that.
-30-

bio:
The first thing you should know about me is I'm a Canuck--and one from the Maritimes where the water means almost everything to the people who live here. It shows up in my fiction a lot.

I have a dog. I wish I had three or four. I love dogs.

Some of my earliest memories are my fondest: like when my older brother put snakes in my rubber boots and I felt them slithering up my ankle when I put one on to go outside to play. Or when my younger brother pilfered every bit of babysitting money I'd hidden until I discovered the only safe hiding place for money was in the pages of a book. Or when my baby brother somehow got into my Dad's wine and threw up in the bathtub. Ah. The life of a sister. Those boys have given me some memorable images to take with me into old age.

Can I help it then, if bits and pieces of these also characters show up in my fiction in some way or other?

I tend towards literary fiction--or at least I try to. My agent thinks I write dark, and one day we'll find the perfect match of story and darkness to make us both happy.

I've been fortunate enough to write for money, but I prefer writing for passion. I've published throughout the US, the UK, and my home country of Canada in various lit journals, but I'm a novelist at heart.

At present, 4 of my novels are available on Amazon.com and 3 are available from Smashwords. All offer free sampling if you have an ereader of some sort. You can also check me out on goodreads, or Facebook, or my blog.

http://www.amazon.com/Thea-Atkinson/e/B0046DIT0U/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1
http://www.amazon.com/Thea-Atkinson/e/B0046DIT0U/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Theas-Writing-Page/122231651163413
http://theaatkinson.wordpress.com/

Thanks for sharing, Thea!

Please stop by Thea Atkinson's blog. There, you will find more essays on writing, as well as posts on the life of a writer.

So...

I wanted to post an essay about villains today but alas, I am SICK.

But not the bad sick.

The good sick. The kind of sick that comes from having the flu shot two weeks ago. And even though I'm coughing and hacking and trembling and my ribs hurt and my head feels tight, it's ALL GOOD. Cuz I have the Lesser Flu. A demon, not the Devil.

But!

Something may be up tomorrow -- it's all on a pink Post-It, just waiting... waiting...

Until then, have you bought your copy of The View from Here yet? It's getting great reviews over on Amazon...

Writing in My Car... with Steve Emmett

I don't know about you, but I am always eager to learn about another writer's process. What inspires them. What they find interesting. Legal pad or straight to the computer. And so, I've reached out to writer-friends across the galaxy and they will be sharing their writing lives with you and me.

Let's welcome Steve Emmett, the author of Diavolino.



What is this novel about, you ask? The chance to build a dream home on a private island in Italy’s most beautiful lake offers architect Tom Lupton the fresh start he’s been yearning for. But when he arrives with his family on Diavolino, he finds the terrified locals dead set against his arrival. The island, whose very existence has been shrouded in secrecy for half a millennium, has a dark history that no one cares to remember, and as their opposition to Tom grows, so grows a brooding evil that will lead them to the very doors of hell…

Here's Steve!

To reach the age of fifty as the world implodes is not the greatest thing that can happen to anyone, yet that is precisely what started me off on my writing career. We had just celebrated my half-century at the charming Chateau de Camon near Carcassonne in south-west France and were driving eastwards towards Italy where we were living at the time. I turned on the car radio to hear that Lehman Brothers had collapsed. Prone to drama from an early age, I turned to my partner and said, “It’s the beginning of the end of life as we know it.” And it was.

I’d been in the real estate business for over twenty-years - the luxury second home market - and I knew that we were in for a rough time. We relied heavily on the UK and US markets and, as I expected, those buyers simply disappeared overnight. As it happened, I had grown tired of what I was doing. I was bored and derived no intellectual satisfaction from it. So I made the decision then to change. I’d fancied being a writer for a while and thought I’d try.

I have always believed in getting good advice when venturing into new territory, so I signed up for a novel writing course which I thoroughly enjoyed and completed in super-fast time. At the end of it I was about a third of the way through my novel. Over the coming months, as one life disintegrated another began to take shape. At times I thought I would never finish writing the novel but I pressed on. Rewriting, polishing, studying critiques from trusted readers. Eventually, I sent out a few queries and received the rejections back promptly.

Around this time we returned to England and I had to take a break from writing just to get organised. It was so hard to get back into the novel after weeks of doing mundane tasks. Fortunately, my partner pushed me. Approaching it with refreshed eyes I spotted what were, for me, weaknesses and set about a rewrite. God, it seemed endless!

The next round of submissions brought rejections. I could so easily have given up but I just had a feeling that I would find a publisher in time. I really believed in my novel. Another round of polishing until I could find nothing else to do with it. I sent out six queries and said, “If one of these doesn’t come in then I’ll have to put this novel aside and move on.”

The rest, as they say, is history. Diavolino, my supernatural thriller set in Italy, is published by Etopia Press. I’m now writing the sequel and it’s developing so well I may produce a trilogy. So, as I keep saying to aspiring authors - don’t give up.

Thanks for sharing, Steve!

Please stop by Steve Emmett's blog. There, you will find more essays on writing, as well as gorgeous pictures of Italy (and you will shake your fists at the rainy sky and the traffic and the noise).