Spooky season is here! I just adore this time of year, maybe even more so than Christmas.
Happy spooky season! Image from Microsoft Design
The first thing I did to celebrate was pull out Daphne’s Halloween books. We started reading them right away, including The Ghost-Eye Treeby Bill Martin Jr. and John Archambault, with illustrations by Ted Rand.
One dark and windy autumn night when the sun has long gone down, a young boy and his older sister are sent to the end of town to get a bucket of milk. As they walk down the lonely road, bathed in eerie moonlight, all the boy can think about is the ghost-eye tree...What will happen when they come to the tree? Can they run past it or will it reach out and grab them? (Blurb from amazon.com.)
This is one Daphne hasn’t always been partial too, but this year, the rhymes caught her attention, and now we’re reading it regularly.
This one is special to me, too, because I remember it from read-aloud in Mrs. Connelly’s first grade. I found it creepy then and loved the pictures.
Don’t you just want to sink into those lines?
Now, I appreciate the folksy rhythm of the verse and the sweetness of the underlying story, what it’s really about–two siblings experiencing a surprising moment of tenderness. Ellie, the narrator’s sister, runs back to the terrifying ghost tree to rescue her little brother’s special hat, blown off his head when the tree scared them on their way home from fetching milk.
A good sister
The story captures one of those rare moments many of us can relate to, when we realize our awful brother or sister actually does love us and maybe isn’t so awful after all.
The story’s atmosphere and pictures are also meaningful now because they look so much like where we live. Rand’s artwork accurately evokes the deep darkness of the countryside, where the utter lack of electric light makes the black so thick it feels tangible.
I can also appreciate the eyes in the tree, having seen ghostly, creepy eyes myself right in our own backyard. They’re only animals, of course. In our case, we sometimes see the eerie green of does’ eyes when we flash our high-powered flashlight over the fir trees on our way out to lock up the hens. In the book, the eyes in the old oak probably belong to an owl. But, from a child’s perspective–or even a fanciful adult’s–who’s to say for sure?
I also pulled out Scary, Scary Halloween by Eve Bunting, with pictures by Jan Brett.
Four pairs of eyes stare from the blackness to watch fearsome creatures trick-or-treat. (from amazon.com)
We haven’t read this one yet this year, but it’s also one of my favorites. I don’t remember it from school; I only know it as an adult, and I adore the delightful, surprising point of view from which it’s written–that of a mama cat keeping her kittens safe under the porch on Halloween night as all the strange ghoulies and creatures come and go.
Eight eyes indeed, and the real message–Halloween delights us all
It is also written in rhyming verse (all the way through unlike Ghost-Eye), so it also has that atmospheric sing-song quality, and its pictures are just gorgeous–also very much like Vermont, where we live.
Yep, looks familiar
When I used to read this book to Daphne back in Texas, I daydreamed about what it would be like to spend Halloween in countryside like this one. Well, now I do, and it is absolutely wonderful, giving our spooky days a deeper, more stirring autumn vibe.
The old English teacher in me can’t help myself when I read these picture books, either. I imagine all the ways these rich texts could be used in a Halloween unit: for inferencing, rhyming, understanding point of view, etc. It almost makes me want to develop a lesson, complete with a creative writing and art component. Like, how might you rewrite The Ghost-Eye Tree from the point of view of the owl up in that old oak? How would you illustrate it?
I also downloaded a couple old favorites for myself:Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark, Books 1 & 2 by folklorist Alvin Schwartz, complete with the original horrifying artwork by Stephen Gammell. I ate these up as a kid, as did several of my elementary classmates; I think we all bought our copies at the Scholastic Book Fair (way before they were banned), and of course the pictures were what first caught everyone’s eye. I still find them delightfully nightmarish.
Schwartz’s collection was also my introduction to a lot of American folklore–creatures like the wendigo, and urban legends like “The Babysitter” and “High Beams”–ugh, that one really got under my skin.
It wasn’t pure nostalgia that led me to purchase these digital copies. I have an idea for a little scary story of my own, a new spin on “The Bride,” a tale about a young woman who goes missing on her wedding day. She turns up dead years later in a trunk in her father’s attic, presumably after climbing in while playing hide and seek and getting trapped inside. It’s a variation on the old buried alive theme.
This artwork still chills me. Picture by Stephen Gammell
I’m considering setting my version in an old Vermont farmhouse that has a witch’s window; that window would play a significant role, of course. And, maybe, what happened to the bride wasn’t actually an accident…
I came up with the idea after coming across a call online for a themed issue of a horror magazine, and I wanted to revisit the original version before doing any drafting. I realized Schwartz’s book would be good source material.
We’ll see if I get a chance to write it. I might not be able to do anything with it, given time constraints and how it might actually turn out (I’ve been hard at work on something else, a short story epilogue to “Elspeth and the Fairy”), but getting this creepy story down would be good practice regardless. Who knows? Maybe I’ll just share it here for Halloween.
Tonight, while I enjoy an adult beverage, I plan to decorate the house.
What are your favorite titles for spooky season? I always love recs!
See you next week!
XOXO,
Jenn
Download a free e-book to read my latest published story!
The autumnal equinox occurred on Monday, and with it Mabon, the pagan celebration of balance–between dark and light, night and day. It is also a day of gratitude for the year’s abundance as observers celebrate a second harvest and prepare for the colder, darker times ahead.
I admit, I didn’t do anything special for it. My casual Wiccan rituals–more a way to meditate than anything–have gone by the wayside this year, but recently I’ve spent a lot of time outdoors, enjoying the cooler weather and jewel-hued beauty of this season. I harvested the first pumpkins from our garden on Tuesday, and that was a fun way to appreciate what the soil has given us.
Pumpkin I grew
Truly, happiness is cutting your own pumpkins from your very own patch. It’s the little things, right?
And another one
Speaking of dark and light, while I’ve continued to enjoy my writing practice, I’ve suffered some creative anxiety this year.
I don’t think it’s anything unusual; the more I read from other writers and artists, the more it sounds like we all enter this phase once we’re far enough along in our experiences. We’re wise enough to better understand the nuances and challenges of our crafts and how truly difficult it is to do them well–or even define what doing them “well” means, since there is a subjective element to all of it.
I’m reminding myself, however, not to rush anything. Creativity is a process–you must undertake it in order to learn from it, and learning from it requires time, results, and reflection. These are not things to be forced or preset. Also, the joy must be in the process, not the products. Finding, and keeping, that joy where it’s healthier is what sustains us.
I had a lot of this mindset validated by reading Amie McNee’s wonderful We Need Your Art: Stop Messing Around and Make Something. My writer friend Gloria recommended it when I was smarting from that rejection of my spicy shifter story, and since McNee’s social media had already piqued my interest, I went ahead and ordered her book. I’m so glad I did.
McNee offers some wonderfully comforting insights, especially regarding perfectionism. Basically, she argues, you just have to let it go. (Are you hearing that song in your head now?)
This isn’t news. We all know that, yes, we can’t be perfect, and we shouldn’t try. That’s conventional wisdom. But, McNee’s reasons for severing ourselves from this awful pursuit feel fresh.
She argues that perfectionism is actually dangerous.
Not only does it prevent you from doing your work–or at least as much as you might otherwise–it also leads to lower-quality art in the long run. You become overly afraid of the inevitable mistakes and failures, and you prevent yourself from taking risks.
Perfectionism will also make you deeply unhappy because what you do and what you hear about your work will never be enough.
Perfectionism is seductive, she argues, because it feels like the great preventative, that magical cure-all for all things cringe and painful. If I am perfect, I will never be hurt goes the illogical thinking. For many of us, that’s the Siren’s Call, one that promises to keep us free from anguish, but it drowns us instead.
I am the pursuit of perfection and I am horrifying. Image from Reddit
Thus, it takes a “powerful reframe,” a lot of mindset work, to overcome it. If we can, however, we are liberated. Our art will be better for it, and more importantly, we will be happier, even through the silences and rejections and inevitable discomfort that will befall us because it always does. That is art, and that is life.
One of McNee’s great suggestions for achieving this reframe is “Make shitty art. Do it every day.” Isn’t that fantastic? I love how assertive and rebellious it is.
Invite crappy work into your practice, she challenges. You don’t have to share it, but don’t shy away from it either. Don’t shut it down; it’s better to finish it and move on.
It will help you learn that it’s safe to be imperfect, not just in your heart but in your body too. You have to be physically relaxed when you’re creating, even when you know it’s probably dog doo. That way, you can amplify your enjoyment and let yourself do all the necessary work and even cross boundaries that might be too scary otherwise.
That is how we creatives make lots of “small magic,” as she calls it. When small magic, which absolutely includes shitty art, happens, we eventually make our way into the powerful, profoundly true and moving creations–our wonderful, incredible, “big” art, as I’m calling it. But first, we must make the shit. And there will always be shit. Creativity is a recursive act. Rarely, if ever, is it linear.
I’m working hard right now to embrace this.
To a certain extent, I’ve always feared failure. I’m not an obsessive perfectionist in all things like some poor souls, but I’ve wrestled with it often enough.
I struggled with my body being imperfect when I was dancing, and that led to a bout of anorexia and years of body dysmorphia that I’m finally overcoming.
I struggled with it when my daughter was first diagnosed with autism. I thought we had to figure out all the best therapies right away, and if I just used every moment with her at home in the most effective ways, she could close all those gaps–we could cure her developmental delays! She would start to speak! All of that would mean I was in fact a good mom.
I realized a couple years in, thankfully, that this was impossible. While she does need support and accommodations, Daphne will always learn and grow at her own pace, and we would all be miserable and unhealthy if I obsessed about somehow “fixing” her. That isn’t real love, anyway. She doesn’t need to be fixed.
Daphne immersed in the sea lion show at Mystic Aquarium
Now, I’m wrestling with perfectionism in my writing. It’s manifesting as reluctance to submit pieces for the final time, even after I’ve addressed all edits. I keep wanting to tinker, to rethink word choices and phrases, to make little changes here and there even when I know it’s not really helping the overall quality and maybe even hindering it. I’m holding on too tightly to some of my work because I’m afraid of its inadequacy.
But you know what? It will always be inadequate (at least to a certain extent) because it will never be perfect. Nothing is. Shakespeare and Joyce and Morrison and all the greats were imperfect, too. Perfection is a mirage; it doesn’t really exist.
At some point, a story just is what it is. I have to let it be done so I can free up time to work on new material–that’s how the growth, all that small magic, happens.
It’s hard, though, to find that balance between giving your work the time it needs so that it has the best shot–which is important– and becoming perfectionistic, even detrimental, about it by dragging it out too long. Hopefully, discerning this difference will get easier with practice.
So, in the spirit of all this–the season, the healthy creative mindset–I am working to let go of these things that do not serve me. I’m not resisting the anxiety, but I am working to move through it by letting myself share pieces that have been completed more quickly and are now truly finished. I am working on letting things be done so I can move on.
Foliage on our road
So, here’s something I composed quickly this week. It’s another seasonal haiku, this one in honor of foliage season, and I am proclaiming it officially done.
More foliage
Death becomes the leaves.
Precious fall ephemerals,
ruby and citrine.
And more
Thank you for reading, and Happy Mabon! Is there anything you’re working to let go of?
We are on a short vacation just four hours from home, here in this historical maritime village of southern New England.
Tomorrow my husband will help take the famous schooner The Brilliant out on a little harbor jaunt. He spent time crewing catamarans and other sailboats in his youth, and he has always wanted to go out on this boat, so this was one of his big gifts for his 50th birthday. Thank you, Uncle J.T.!
In preparation for this special event, we rented a seaside cottage via Air BnB that looks out on a little inlet marsh, and we arrived yesterday evening. After getting groceries and unpacking, Jer and I sipped local craft beer in Adirondack chairs looking out at the water while Daphne listened to her music and enjoyed the autumn sunset with us.
Seaside Happy HourDaphne enjoying the view
Today has been a special day for me and her especially.
AquariumSo many fish!
We spent two hours at the famous Mystic Aquarium, where Daph’s favorite experience was the sea lion show. She sat fully engaged in the fifteen minute performance totally sans iPhone or iPad, a rarity, and cried a little when it was over. It was an impressive show, with three sea lions zooming through the water, leaping out, and dancing, waving, and doing handstands on the stage behind the tank. An actual story unfolded–the animals and their trainers made up the Sea Squad, and they were all fighting to clean up the beaches of the Pacific Northwest. The environmental message was kid-friendly and well-done, and the sea lions were sleek and graceful.
Bravo!Before the show
In fact, Daph was clear she needed as a souvenir a small sea lion plushie–$20!!– from the enormous gift shop (as large as any of the exhibits). Of course, her dad said yes.
She also enjoyed the beluga tank and stingray petting zoo.
That spotted ray was very curious.
It’s always a joy to see her immersed in something new, though it also reinforced how much she loves all things aquatic.
It was a brilliantly atmospheric brick-and-mortar horror merchant’s, and I could have browsed there all day.
Heaven
I snapped a few quick pics and narrowed down my choices to Sir Walter Scott’s Supernatural Short Stories andNettle and Bone by T. Kingfisher, both perfect for spooky season.
Oh, Edgar!
We absolutely need more genre-driven, specialty little brick-and-mortars in the world–am I right, fellow bibliophiles?
Mystic itself is a gorgeous blue-blooded New England seaside village. It exudes quiet Old Money wealth, so I’m glad I brought my Tiffany pearls.
I’m viewing this weekend not only as a wonderful family trip, but as a personal treat for having just had a story published in Spellbound.
It’s important that we writers treat ourselves. The publication day of a book or literary magazine is often quiet, so much so it can feel anticlimactic, so it’s important to do something for ourselves to honor our work. After all, we created something new, with our own imaginations, that didn’t exist in the world before now, and here it all is. That is absolutely magical, especially in this era of ever-encroaching AI.
Are you doing anything special to usher in the autumn season?
Or, if you’re a book lover like me, what would be your ideal brick-and-mortar bookshop? What would it look like, contain, exude? What titles and authors would be found there?
Thank you for reading. Happy autumn, and see you next week!
“But some women only require an emergency to make them fit for one.”
That is a quotation from Chapter VII of Thomas Hardy’s Far from the Madding Crowd, which I’m currently reading.
Current read
It refers to heroine Bathsheba Everdine who, upon inheriting her uncle’s farm, is forced to deal immediately with a fire. As the quote suggests, she does so cooly and competently.
It brought to my mind, however, a main character of my own, Lady Elspeth Aiken, from “Elspeth and the Fairy,” soon to be published in the Red Herrings Society’s magic and fantasy anthology, Spellbound.
Images from Canva and Unsplash
Unlike Bathsheba and Elspeth, I do not do well under duress. I never have. If someone screams, or shrieks, or something shatters, or–God forbid–there’s any bit of blood, my insides shrivel. The couple times I’ve witnessed a car accident, I’ve turned away. We pull over, of course, and I’ll dial 911, but I’m not the one leaping out to check on passengers and administer first aid, though I was once CPR certified for my job as a Pure Barre instructor.
When I was teaching high school and, in the hallway, two students suddenly went at each other–fists flying, wild-eyed, deaf to all reason–my feet cemented into place.
When we had our mandatory district training on how to take down an armed gunman who might break into our classrooms (isn’t that awful?), I went through the motions but always thought, Heaven help my kids if a psycho enters my room. I hope one of them can handle it, because I sure won’t be able to.
I fly from emergencies, not toward them.
I wait for someone else–another teacher, a hall monitor, my husband–to swoop in and control the situation, superior in their level-headedness. I do well if I don’t lose my own shit entirely.
It’s one of the things I despise most about myself. Something that makes me so keenly, painfully aware of my worst shortcomings.
Now, in the days leading up to my latest publication, it also makes me reflect on where my character Elspeth comes from, and how much I appreciate her.
She is the protagonist of my original fairy tale, the younger daughter of a Scottish lord. After her kingdom’s heir-presumptive is cursed to suffer, endangering her land, she takes it upon herself to enter the menacing realm of the fairies, hoping she can somehow save him.
Her characterization is definitely born in part from my awareness of my own awful weakness. Elspeth is able to do what I do not think I could do myself, and as the author, I bask in her bravery and fortitude. I project my desire for my own heroism onto her.
Elspeth, image from Microsoft Design
As writers, we often craft protagonists who represent perfected or idealized versions of ourselves. They are people we aspire to be, or they are curated versions of us we can still recognize. (Why are there so many FMCs who are bookish, clumsy, yet beautiful enough to attract the sexy, morally gray hero, after all?)
I have no doubt this played a role in Elspeth’s conception. She has a bravery I naturally lack, and one I’ve been trying to develop.
When I was outlining this story, I had something else in mind for her, too.
Given the story’s genre, where virtue is often rewarded, I wanted to explore the archetype of the empath–the great natural nurturing soul I encountered again and again in my teaching career and, now, one I thankfully observe among my daughter’s classmates every schoolyear, bless their hearts (I am using that Southernism earnestly).
Photo by Curated Lifestyle on Unsplash
An empath is someone who deeply feels another’s emotions, especially their pain. It makes them finely attuned to all injustices and good in emergencies, especially ones of the emotional kind. When I was teaching high school English, there was always at least one empath among my students every year, often two or three. They were usually girls, but sometimes they were boys.
They were the ones who stuck up for anyone suffering a snide remark. The ones who offered to explain a concept in a different way to the kid who still didn’t get it, when I was at a loss for any other way to break it down. They were the ones who volunteered in organizations like PALs. The ones who never tolerated bullying of any kind and who always had a smile for me, who always took a minute to ask me, “How are you feeling today, Ms. Ashley?,” especially in those early years when I was on a steep learning curve. (Ashley was my maiden name.) They were the students who were wise and already maternal or paternal decades beyond their years.
I’ll never forget one empathetic student of mine, Erica. She was already eighteen but in my English II when I worked in our district’s credit recovery program, and she was a bright and a natural teacher herself. She’d moved to Houston from California. Unfortunately, a lot of her high school credits hadn’t transferred, so she was stuck retaking several classes she’d already passed, including mine. She took this injustice in stride, however, and quickly made friends through her magnetic self-confidence and wonderful tenderness and sympathy. In class, she did a lot of tutoring and helped maintain the momentum of discussions and activities. She genuinely loved most everyone and wanted good experiences for all of us.
She did wonders for me, one day.
My husband and I had recently received our then three-year-old’s autism diagnosis. We were reeling from the confirmation of this awful suspicion while trying to adapt to a schedule of brand new therapies, sessions where I still couldn’t believe a speech therapist had to teach my nonspeaking daughter the meaning of “Put in” by modeling a crayon going in a box… All of this while attempting to process a shadowy future terrifying in its uncertainty. For my husband, it was a metaphorical death. For me, it felt like a gaping wound that “simply would not heal” (that’s actually a line from my fairy tale), one that continued to throb with a complex mix of fear, rage, hopelessness, and even, irrationally, shame (in myself somehow, not my child).
In the face of such a crucible, life doesn’t stop. I was still getting up at 4:30 am every day, traipsing into work, juggling the stress of planning, grading, and trying to motivate kids who’d been disappointed in their academic experiences–many of whom had their own serious challenges, including an array of learning disabilities. I was raw and overloaded and exhausted, and one morning I lost it on Erica’s class. I don’t remember what I yelled, or what prompted it. The class probably wasn’t listening, or someone had given me attitude, but just before the period ended, I burst into tears.
Let me tell you, for both the teacher and students, this is one of the cringiest, most painful things that can happen in a classroom.
When the bell rang, my students filed out in silence, even Erica. After that was lunch, and thankfully I could be alone. I closed my door, sat at my computer, and tried to enter grades but only saw the names and numbers blur. I finally gave in to sobs, letting myself feel all the things washing through me.
Twenty minutes later, there were two tentative knocks at my door. Erica, accompanied by a friend, peeked in. She held up a gigantic, greasy McDonald’s bag.
Photo by Branislav Rodman on Unsplash
Her brow softly creased, she whispered, “May I come in, Mrs. Shaw?”
I smiled at her, trying to lighten things. “Of course.”
The kids shut the door behind them and pulled up desks next to mine. Erica spread out paper napkins and laid out the boxes of Super-Sized fries and 20 piece McNuggets. She handed me a sweaty Coca-Cola fountain drink. I never indulged in soda, but that day, the sweetness did more for my soul than I care to admit.
“I thought you might be hungry.” Erica’s face was lively with kindness and concern.
I thanked her profusely and tried to decline, assuring her I was fine and that I wished she hadn’t spent any money on me, but she only said, “I was going there anyway. Please eat.”
So I did. I didn’t have the energy to keep resisting, and I was famished.
The three of us ate together. Erica knew about my daughter since I’d shared a little about our situation with my classes, but she carried on a perfectly light conversation and occasionally patted my shoulder. We talked about music, movies, television, probably Game of Thrones, even Watt Pad where Erica was writing stories. By the time the bell rang for 6-7th period, we were all laughing, and most of my embarrassment was gone. Much of the tension had eased from my neck and shoulders, and I felt like I could face the rest of the day.
On her way out, Erica folded me into a bear hug, and I let myself relax in her arms. Maybe I was leaning too much on a student, and it wasn’t professional. But, in that moment, we were just two human beings, and Erica’s need to provide solace, and mine to receive it, overrode everything else.
She looked visibly relieved on her way out, too. Again, a true empath.
Erica is who I envisioned when I wrote Elspeth.
She, and all the students that came before her, and all the students after her–including all the kiddos now who, every year, befriend my autistic daughter, who rub her back when she’s crying or hold her hand at recess or toss the playground ball back and forth with her or sing her “Humpty Dumpty” for the ten thousandth time, who I count on to ease my nerves when I drop my child off everyday, which is such an act of faith–they are the many wonderful, necessary souls I pay tribute to in this story.
A note from my daughter’s classmate. She gets several like these regularly from a couple different students.
They are the ones who make this world bearable, and who inspire us to try changing it.
Another note from Kaitlynn. This one I found in Daphne’s backpack yesterday.
They are the ones who need particular care, too. Because they internalize more than the average person, they are susceptible to their own unique depression and burnout. I try to check in at least occasionally with these exceptional souls, whether it’s face-to-face with a current friend or online with former students and colleagues, Erica included.
Image from the public domain
With that said, here is an excerpt from “Elspeth and the Fairy,” one that helps showcase my protagonist’s care and sensitivity. When I drafted this scene, I was asking myself, how would Erica respond?
Late one winter, Elspeth and Fiona tramped through a snowy field, reveling in the cloudless blue sky of the first temperate day. They huffed as they trudged, breath steaming through lips parted in delightful exertion, when a figure on horseback appeared over the ridge. Hunched over, he clung to the dappled-gray’s neck, his weight slumped to one side.
As the horse galloped closer, they heard the man’s terrified cry:
“Whoa!!”
A string of furious words followed the plea, so crass that both girls, now young ladies, flinched.
“By Morrigan,” gasped Fiona, casting her eyes up to the vast blue dome, looking for crows. “What awful thing comes this way?”
“Just a man.” Elspeth squinted to see more clearly. “In distress.”
The horse, as nobly outfitted as its passenger, nearly overtook them, rearing up on hind legs to dislodge the aggrieved rider. The young man slid down, then groped madly away in the snow, desperate to avoid the stallion’s hooves. Though his mount cantered off, he ducked down, shielding his head and neck, and howled as if something from the sky were swooping down on him.
“Sir!” Elspeth rushed toward him, her sister hanging back. “Are you alright?”
“Do not you hear it?!”
“What?” cried Fiona.
“Two of you?!” The man shook his head. He did not look directly at either of them. Instead, he gaped far over their shoulders. Then he thrust his chin at the sky. “That horrible screech?!”
Both sisters looked up at the silent, empty blue, then back at the poor young man. The bluebird sun sheened his damp auburn brow and highlighted the angular lines of his fine jaw.
“I’m afraid we hear nothing.” Elspeth crouched down to take the man’s elbow, large and feverish beneath her hands. He shrank away as if burned.
“I cannot see!” he cried, “Out of nowhere, I am blind! And I hear too much—things that are not there?!” His voice lifted and broke on the question before he struggled on: “My tongue, too, is separate from myself; I cannot control it! I am cursed! CURSED!”
He screamed another volley of blasphemes so jarring they pained the girls’ ears.
“An appalling enchantment,” Fiona whispered, her eyes two enormous orbs.
When Elspeth crept forward to lay a hand on him again, the man shoved her hard into the snow.
“Fiend!” her sister hissed.
“It’s alright.” Elspeth rose, gesturing for Fiona to calm herself. “He’s only frightened.”
She stood over the panicked figure who was no better than a trapped animal, robbed of all assurance.
“My lord, I am no wicked thing, just a mortal woman who wants to help you. Please let me.”
The man flung his hands over his mouth.
Elspeth steeled her voice. “If you remain out here like this, after the sun goes down, you will not live to feel it rise.”
He only rocked back and forth.
“I am reaching out now.” Elspeth knelt again to take his elbow. At her touch, a heart-wrenching wail broke from him, and she could not resist encircling him in her arms.
“Be careful!” Fiona cried.
“You will be alright,” Elspeth soothed, her cheek against the man’s. “We will help you home.”
If this appeals to you, I hope you’ll consider downloading the free e-book. Spellbound releases September 16th.
Photo from Canva
Full disclosure: this scene is slightly longer than the version included in the anthology. I had to trim it to keep the story under a certain word count, but I prefer this version and feel it does a better job highlighting Elspeth’s nature while contrasting her to her sister.
I am kinder than Fiona, but I hate to admit that in this situation, I’d probably be right there with her, cowering back.
Before I wrap this up, here are a few additional teasers for more stories in Spellbound, penned by my talented co-contributors.
“Crimson Ink” by Kathlene Brown
Branwell Brontë has always lived in the spaces between his sisters’ talents and his father’s expectations, better at conjuring the family’s childhood magic than finding a voice on the page. When a letter stirs old ambitions, Branwell draws blood, inks an incantation, and forces open a doorway to a forbidden world created by his sister. But Emily’s dark, haunting world is restless, and it pushes back. Crimson Ink: A Brontë Tale by Kathlene Brown is a gothic short story about the cost of creation, sibling loyalty, and the brittle line between imagination and ourselves.
I’ve had a sneak peak at this one, and I thoroughly enjoyed it! Brown’s descriptions are precise and evocative, and her literary allusions and connections are clever and intriguing. I’m excited to read more about this fictional version of the Bronte family and hope the author expands this narrative into its own book.
“Eras and Echoes” by Anne Willoughby
I’m looking forward to reading this one! Who doesn’t love a good vampire story, especially when it involves a woman’s liberation?
“A Potion for Forever” by Colleen Brown
Immortality has a price. Love demands a greater one. Vespera came for the flower that could grant her eternity. Thorne was the sorcerer bound to keep it hidden. Together, they uncover a love strong enough to rival forever. …if one of them doesn’t destroy it first.
“Suddenly, eternity seemed smaller than a single lifetime with you.”
I am always a fan of my friend Colleen’s work and truly cannot wait to dive into this! It sounds like an epic, swoon-worthy romantasy!
If these have whetted your appetite, you’re in for a treat. There are fourteen tales total, all sure to be magnificent. They contain nothing beyond a “PG-13” rating, so this collection is appropriate for younger readers too.
Here is a preorder link. I’ve been assured no one will be charged anything on release day, despite Amazon’s listing as $0.99.
If you’re a writer, I’d love to hear where your main characters come from. If you’re a reader, have you ever encountered a character so relatable or inspiring (or something else) that s/he was seared into your memory?
Though the autumnal equinox isn’t until September 22nd, today, August 31st, feels like the last day of summer (I’m posting this a couple days after drafting, obviously).
It’s been a good one.
I wish I had half as much attitude as my daughter
All season, Daphne’s enjoyed going through her old books and picking favorites to read. Jenny’s Pennies by Peter Saverine has been a particularly beloved one this week, and it’s a perfect selection for closing out the warm months.
Here’s my attempt at visual artistryA well-loved bookmentioning that shift from summer to school
We’ve also practiced with all of her I Can Read! books, and she’s gotten attached to Pete the Cat: Pete at the Beach by James Dean.
Are you seeing a theme?
She’s done more painting, too. We gave a new one to her Grammy and Munka for hosting Jer’s 50th birthday celebration. The most recent one, done on the first of her larger canvases, we’re mailing to her Grandma and Grandad.
This painting of Daph’s I like to call Fairy Fire
Daph also enjoyed her half-days of July summer school, and we’ve savored lots of fun time with loved ones, including two sets of her grandparents, three of her uncles, and several friends, both old and new. It’s always good to socialize as much as possible in these easy months because we’re basically on our own in the dead of winter. It’s too hard for people to come visit us with all the snow and ice.
Beaching like a mermaid at Island Pond
Of course, we’ve done a ton of swimming–in the saltwater pool at Wildflower Inn, in Crystal, Willoughby, Island Pond, and Maidstone Lakes, and at the beach in York, Maine. At York, the waves were high and the water choppy thanks to the hurricane just off the coast. The red flags were flying, signaling that undertows were likely and swimming was forbidden.
That wasn’t going to stop Daph, though. We stayed right by her, allowing her in only waist-deep, and let her play in the waves. She loved waiting for a big one, then sitting down just as it crashed over her, sweeping her back toward the shore. Back home, she had dozens of clumps of seaweed caught in her hair, and she smelled like a fish market. I had to scrub and scrub with two applications of shampoo, and even combing out her wet hair, I was still catching pieces of ocean flora. It was everywhere–on the comb, the bathmat, the tile floor, and of course all over the shower. Quite nasty, actually.
“Now you really are a mermaid,” I told her.
She started fourth grade on Wednesday, August 28th, and had a fantastic first two days of school and a pretty good Friday. Her homeroom and special education teachers are the same from last year, and she’s with a lot of her former classmates, so that’s always beneficial. It helped to ease into a new year with a short week and a long weekend, too.
Having so much time back to myself blew me away last week. It felt like another adjustment, though a good one. I read and wrote a bit, mostly on this blog. I’m easing back into fiction because it always feels daunting after a long break, and I’m considering trying Amy McNee’s Two Week Reset Plan as described in her book We Need Your Art.
A writer friend highly recommended this, and it’s soothed my creative anxieties
I have plenty of projects in mind, but it all feels a little overwhelming right now, and the gentle and forgiving fourteen day schedule McNee recommends sounds like a good way to assuage those weird nerves that come along with creative reentry.
Speaking of books, I thoroughly enjoyed my own grownup summer reading. Alas, I only read five titles–Daph got up too early every day for me to make full use of early morning reading–but that’s ok. Three of those titles were novels published this year, and two of those were debuts–yay! I enjoy supporting new authors. The others were a bestseller from 2020 and a classic, so a good mix.
The classic, which I’m still on now, is Thomas Hardy’s Far from the Madding Crowd.
I love Hardy, and I haven’t read any of his work in several years, not since my twenties. It took me a few chapters to get back into the rhythm of that more complex 19th century syntax, but now I’m trucking along nicely, enjoying the characters and appreciating the pastoral details much more now that I live in the countryside myself. It’s an interesting little introduction to sheep farming, which I appreciate since much of Vermont’s history involved this particular livestock, and I’ve considered making one character in a potential historical novel set here in VT a sheep farmer.
I’m also amused by Hardy’s humor. I don’t remember his other novels having comical moments, but I’m sure they do and I just didn’t pick up on them, or they didn’t stick in my memory. In this novel, his depiction of the rural folk–the farm hands, carters, waggoners, malters, and their wives–is great, right down to their names and dialogue. One little boy is christened Cainy Ball because his mother, ignorant in her Scripture, mixed up who was who between the Biblical brothers, believing she was naming her son after the one murdered and not the murderer. Another farmhand, a hen-pecked man, is referred to mostly as “Susan Tall’s husband.” You can imagine what Susan Tall is like.
Here’s my favorite funny line thus far. It occurs when the heroine, Bathsheba Everdene, who has just inherited a large farm she’s determined to run herself, is handing out wages for the first time. She asks a seasoned employee about two female farmhands, meaning are they good, productive workers? He interprets her question as a moral one and answers, “Oh mem–don’t ask me! Yielding women–as scarlet a pair as ever was!”
My summer reading efforts were rewarded when I won a prize in the St. Johnsbury Atheneum’s drawing!
Sweet reward for pleasant efforts
I rarely win anything, so this was fun. I haven’t spent the gift card yet but will soon, preferably while Daph’s at school so I can enjoy my treat in perfect peace and quiet.
Finally, I received my contributor’s copy of Ditch Life Magazine, a debut literary publication beautifully summer-themed, in the mail a week ago.
I have a piece of contemporary flash fiction in it which was accepted back in April 2024, so it was amazing to finally have the publication in my hands. It arrived accompanied by a lovely thank you note and sticker, and all of it was a nice pick-me-up after that recent rejection.
Beautiful sticker now gracing my laptop
I was worried that rereading my piece after so long would make me cringe, but it didn’t. Sure, there are a few lines I’d like to go back and edit, but overall, I’m proud to have it among some gorgeous and moving work. The other contributors have impressive bios, so I’m in good company.
All in all, we’ve had a wonderful end to the summer.
One of eight pumpkins growing in my garden
The season is definitely turning. Morning temperatures are in the mid-forties and afternoons in the high sixties. My pumpkins and sunflowers are growing well, and there are even a few red and orange leaves scattered here and there in the trees. It looks like we might have an earlier foliage season, given how dry the weather has been. Today, we spent some time at a local corn maze, and it was a nice way to invite the new season in.
Farmer DaphWith Dad in the corn maze
I’m looking forward to sharing more about my fall and winter writing plans, which include a zero draft of a novel-length WIP, a gothic romance. Plus, I have an original fairy tale coming out in a few weeks in the Red Herrings Society’s magic and fantasy anthology, Spellbound.
I’m looking forward to teasing more about that, including some of the stories by my fellow contributors, so stay tuned!
I’m no Canva pro, LOL. Daffodil photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash
I truly did try my best to squeeze this post in as my fourth and final one for August, but circumstances kept working against me, so I just had to give it up and post today. The world will not end because I didn’t upload four times in August.
I did write two more August posts last week, but I didn’t send out email notifications because I didn’t want to flood inboxes. My own is overwhelming me, so I know how irksome that can feel.
If you’re interested, you can catch up on those previous August posts here:
Thanks for reading, and please feel free to share anything you’d like about your own summer or even your fall plans. I hope you’re enjoying these liminal days.
In my more serious ballet years, I often heard from teachers and guest instructors at summer intensives how important it was to be versatile.
If you were a ballet dancer, for example, it was important to take classes in modern and character dancing. The modern dance, with its frequent focus on contraction/release and fall/recovery, would help you perform contemporary pieces more easily.
Sylvie Guillem, legendary etoile of the Paris Opera Ballet, performing a modern piece. Photo from The Dance Enthusiast
The character work would serve you well in the national folk dances so often included in the older repertory–think the Russian variation from The Nutcracker, for example, and the Hungarian dance in Swan Lake.
Hungarian Dance from American Ballet Theater’s production of Swan Lake, from Youtube
The same went for any other genre of dance–if you were a student of Martha Graham, you ought to take ballet technique. If you wanted to be a Rockette or go into musical theater to dance primarily in the Broadway styles–tap, kick, jazz, and cabaret–then modern dance and classical ballet could do you a world of good. You’d have a solid and “correct” foundation from which to move.
Ultimately, dancing proficiently across various styles deepened your artistry, improved your musicality, and even strengthened your overall technique as you were forced to approach movement differently, perhaps work different muscles, and become more fluent in those new movements. All of it would make you a choreographer’s dream, since it meant you could dance almost anything well.
This idea extends beyond types of dance into the broader world of fitness and cross-training, too–dancers of all kinds are encouraged to take Pilates, for example, which is part of the standard curriculum at the School of American Ballet. Professional dancers often make time for strength and HIIT training, particularly the men who have to partner the women.
We see this in the world of sports as well. Football players are sometimes encouraged to take ballet, and baseball players to pursue in the off season any other sport that does not work their shoulders or throwing arm quite so hard. Holistically, they become better and even healthier athletes.
Kansas City ChiefsRB Darrin Reaves at the barre. Photo from chiefs.com
Could this also apply to writing?
I think it does. I think as writers, the more genres we practice and become proficient in, the better structuralists and word-smiths we’ll be.
(Notice I say proficient in, not masters in. I do think true mastery probably lies in spending most of our time, our deepest time, in one to two genres only, where we ultimately specialize.)
That is a major reason why I enjoy writing all kinds of things. I’m often drawn to genre fiction, especially the darker genres I can steep in history and compose in more elevated language, like gothic fiction. But, I also enjoy writing contemporary lit and historical fiction, informal essays, and even some poetry.
In literary fiction, I find myself considering fresh word choice and ambiguity.
In essays and other types of nonfiction, like book reviews, I tend to think more about clear structure and transitions.
With poetry–the toughest!–the challenge is pin-point precision and concision.
My hope is that all of it refines my execution in terms of rhetorical context–a particular piece’s topic, audience, purpose, and of course genre conventions, which I am still learning. Genre has been, for me, the most surprising struggle. It wasn’t until I took writing seriously that I realized how little I understood about it.
Hopefully, given the multiple genres I’m now reading and practicing, that understanding will continue to improve.
And, perhaps, a little extra sharpness, accuracy, or uniqueness that might not otherwise exist will find its way into each piece of work. I don’t think that would happen (or will happen, if it’s not already) if I didn’t choose to write broadly across styles.
Plus, it’s fun. You know the old cliche about variety. All those spices–the salt, pepper, basil, thyme, nutmeg, coriander, you name it–make the entire act more delicious.
Finally, the alchemy that might arise one day from all that practicing, from some mixing…
From the cross-pollination that might occur… the genre mashup that might, just might, grow into something that works, could be pure magic.
So, in this spirit of writing widely and joyfully, here are two summer haikus I recently penned, all inspired by things I’ve observed from my own Vermont yard.
Silent green hills nap
under shadows draped like shawls,
a languid appeal.
I took this photo on the road, not at home, but I’ve often seen Burke Mountain beautifully shadowed, when the clouds are just right.
The first sunflower,
last of summer’s several blooms,
greets slow turning days.
Our first sunflower of the year. It’s bloom has coincided with a gradual drop in temperature.
If you’re not familiar with this form, a haiku is a simple poem of Japanese origin (I prefer the simple, fixed forms because they feel manageable). It consists of just three lines. The first line must contain five syllables, the second line seven syllables, and the third line five syllables, once more.
Traditionally, haikus capture some image or aspect of nature, but they can be about anything.
These little poems I’ve written as exercises in word choice and imagery and, ultimately, for fun. They’re easy to share because I am not an aspiring poet and do not have a ton of emotional investment in any of their receptions, though of course I hope you like them. I don’t love the ending of that first one, so we’ll definitely consider it a draft.
What are your thoughts on writing or even reading different genres? Do you think it makes the entire experience better?
A couple months ago, I hopped on this bandwagon and began writing about my favorite novels from childhood, the ones that sealed my love of reading and proved the most formative in my literary tastes and aspirations.
And, here is Number One. The book with the most enduring influence, the one I loved most as an introverted, bookish kid learning to adore all things creepy yet beautiful.
The first time Zoe met Zoe Louise, Zoe was four years old. Zoe Louise was more than 100. From that day on — living in the same house, separated by a staircase and a century — Zoe and Zoe Louise have been an important and permanent part of each other’s lives.
Now Zoe is older. And although Zoe Louise never grows up, she is changing in dreadful, frightening ways. Time is running out for Zoe’s best friend — and Zoe is the only one who can help her. To do so, she must travel back 100 years in time and somehow alter the past. But in changing the past, must she also change the present? If she saves her friend’s life, will she lose Zoe Louise forever?
An “eerie and gripping time fantasy.” (Blurb and quote from original printing, c/o Amazon.com)
Oh, this novel. I’m not sure I can do justice to how much I loved it, and how much it has affected me.
It is so perfectly and profoundly bittersweet, a love story about friendship. Zoe does in fact alter the past by saving Zoe Louise’s life. The consequence, however, is that the portal bridging their times closes for good, and Zoe never sees her first, and best, friend again. I loved that resolution–it was the right one, the inevitable one. It needed to happen, but it also made my chest ache. I understood even then, it was a story about the hard sacrifices of real love.
Isn’t that so apt for a story about growing up?
This novel also uses first-person point of view, though its narration is less immediate than Hanh’s in Wait Till Helen Comes. Rather, I remember it being more reflective. It’s the older main character Zoe looking back on her experience, and that more distant, wiser frame gives the language a simple yet sophisticated, lyrical quality. It’s been described as “spare,” which I agree with, but I remember thinking it was gorgeous and haunting. I began to absorb a lot about how word choice and point of view create tone and effect, thanks to Conrad’s style.
This book also included details delicious to a little girl like me. Zoe, who lives with her grandparents, enjoys an impressive playhouse that her Pop-Pop added as a kind of outdoor annex to their actual house. Inside is a child-sized kitchen and living room, which blew my mind. I would have sold my soul for something like that. I believe Zoe meets Zoe Louise, the ghost from the past, for the first time in that playhouse, where they become friends. I also loved that–I would have killed for a permanent playmate, someone who could show up randomly, at any time, in my own home, to be my companion and mine alone.
Image from Microsoft Designer
I realize now, as an adult better versed in literary subgenres, that this story has a definite gothic element. The past is very much alive and at play in events, and the house itself, or at least that magical back staircase, has an eerie energy of its own. It seems to facilitate events, as if the universe wants little Zoe Louise’s life to be spared. There’s even a macabre scene where Zoe Louise visits Zoe in the present time (as usual), except she’s rotting. Her body drips fluid, certain bones are visible, and this causes Zoe to realize she must act soon to save her friend from something terrible. In short, this book provided my first literary experience with gothic elements, and I absolutely ADORE gothic tales now, thanks in large part to this YA masterpiece capturing my heart.
The best aspect of Conrad’s book, however, is how respectful it is to young readers. It seems she wrote it on the premise that even adolescents can draw deep conclusions on their own and handle grown-up references. For example, it opens with a meditative, ambiguous poem about ghosts, the past, and time.
Conrad’s poem, which prefaces the novel
At another point in the story, Zoe’s grandmother says their pug looks “like Emily Dickinson.”
There’s even a moment when older, pre-teen Zoe is visiting the past, her presence invisible to all except Zoe Louise, and finds herself in her friend’s parents’ bedchamber. There, she reaches out to stroke Zoe Louise’s father’s cheek. The man, after all, is young and handsome, and Zoe is growing up, feeling urges toward the opposite sex for the first time, though that is strictly implied (and something I didn’t get until much later, on a third or fourth reading). Feeling Zoe’s touch, the father lifts his hand to his cheek, in true haunted fashion.
I read this book multiple times.
The first time, I was nine, and I loved the playmate and playhouse details best.
Then, as I got older and continued to reread it, I was better able to make all the meaningful inferences Conrad intended. It takes Zoe (and readers) a while, for instance, to realize Zoe Louise is actually a ghost. Readers are also left to realize on their own, that Zoe the main character is actually named after Zoe Louise, since main character Zoe’s mother adored the name on the headstone in the local cemetery and–oh wow–that headstone actually belongs to Zoe Louise herself (though the “Louise” part is worn away).
Image from Microsoft Designer
There are more instances of implication, though I can’t specifically cite any others off the top of my head. There’s not a lot that’s explicit in this book, actually, and that made it a wonderfully layered, resonant, and sophisticated reading experience. Stonewords was a book I could revisit again and again and always derive from it something fresh. I didn’t have another deep reading experience like that until I was much older and began studying Joyce Carol Oates’s short masterpiece Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?
That says a lot about Conrad’s achievement.
This novel deserved the many awards it won: Edgar Allan Poe Award for Best Juvenile Mystery (1991), Boston Globe-Horn Book Honor Book (1990), & Mystery Writers of America’s Best Juvenile Mystery Award (1991), among others (Google).
I think it might also be out of print, but like Hanh’s and Speare’s novels, it’s still available for purchase on Amazon and in a few other places like Thriftbooks.com.
I’m so glad I still have my childhood copy.
Beloved book
***
These three books were not the bestselling sensations that JK Rowling’s, Suzanne Collins’s, and Stephanie Meyer’s were, but their fascinating premises, emotional themes, and beautiful language made such powerful impressions on me that I strive to write similar material now. Skill-level aside, the only real exception between my work and theirs is, I write my stories for adults because, hey, I want the same gorgeous, gothy, haunting vibes but with at least a dash of sex and romance.
We’re all grownups now, after all.
While writing these particular posts I realized, writing aside, how these books have even influenced my general life choices. I live in New England now, like Kit in Witch of Blackbird Pond, in an old, possibly-haunted house like Molly and Zoe both do, and my husband is a handsome former sailor, similar to Nathaniel Eaton, Kit’s love interest in WoBP and my first book crush.
That’s a lot of similarity, too much to be purely coincidental.
I’d love to hear about the most powerful childhood book that shaped you. What was it, and why?
On August 11, 2008, one of the last precious nights before the start of another contract year teaching, I went with my colleague, Kathy, and her boyfriend, Rezki, to the house party of a friend of Rez’s from high school.
“Come with us,” Kat said. “It’s Jeremiah’s birthday. I think you’ll like each other.”
I was skeptical and emotionally worn out. By then, I’d spent three years on the Houston dating scene, which meant long Friday night Happy Hours that sometimes ended in terrible decisions with co-workers, followed by primping through hangovers for Saturday nights at Red Door or Belvedere inside the loop. There, the yuppy oil/gas execs and Med Center MDs could be found trawling. These weekends usually concluded with Sunday Fundays at La Strada for boozy recuperative brunches–sometimes with a guy, and sometimes with Kat and Courtney, another young, single teacher I was close to. Lots of drinking, lots of socializing, and inevitably, lots of drama.
I rarely spent an entire weekend at home sober, though I still somehow managed to squeeze in planning and grading for two different courses. My energy levels were different then.
By that point, I’d met a lot of men. They were all either machismo-arrogant, commitment-shy, weird, besotted with ex-girlfriends, too old, or just plain sleazy… nothing had worked out. A few short-lived relationships had ended in fiery wreckage, and these guys still thought they could text me wasted at 2 am to say things like, Thought you were an 8 but you’re really only a 7…
This, from the same guy who opined that all women could be rated 1-10, though 10s didn’t exist and 9s were rare, so I should be flattered to be judged an 8…
I was sick of it all. Sick of being objectified, ghosted, you name it. This disillusion was powerful enough to finally trump the creeping anxiety I felt at the prospect of ending up alone. That was silly given I was only twenty-six, but you know how short sighted youth can be.
So, I decided I was done. No more going out, at least for a while. No more looking to meet anyone. I’d take it easy, allow myself to rest over the weekends, and focus on being the most conscientious and professional educator I could be. Only good things could come from that, I figured. I needed to get my crap together.
Then, Kat came along with that invitation, disrupting my plans.
I could have said no. But, the reality of another long, difficult school year loomed ahead, and the thought of some final summer fun was too attractive. So, I agreed to go with Kat and Rez to this guy Jeremiah’s 33rd birthday party at his garage apartment in The Heights.
I didn’t hold out much hope for him. I’d been disappointed too many times. He’d probably wear thick-framed glasses and be short, squat, and obnoxious in some way. All I remember Kat saying about him was how smart he was. For some reason, in my mind that precluded him from being nice or good-looking.
I figured, I could at least hang out with my best friend, drink someone else’s beer, people watch, and maybe let this birthday boy amuse me. It sounded better than staying home alone.
I should have trusted my friend. Kat knew me better than almost anyone else.
When we arrived at the party in that trendy bo-ho neighborhood inside the city’s loop, I was shocked at the number of people already there. Thirty at least, exuberantly packed into the small, neat yard between an old 1930s bungalow and a large garage apartment with steep wooden stairs. There was at least one keg of beer well on its way to floating and a large inflated ball pit, the kind you see at kids’ play places. Inside the pit were multiple grown-ass adults lounging and crawling over each other in drunken laughter, holding up their Solo cups in futile attempts to keep from spilling their Lonestar.
I remember grinning. This was a surprise. Definitely different, and it did look like a lot of casual fun, exactly what I needed. No need to impress anyone.
Then, Kat introduced me to Jer.
He was tall, six feet at least. Broad shoulders and a nice, slender build. Large, bright, nearly almond-shaped brown eyes that swept over everything and everyone in a way that was both friendly and pleasantly proprietary. Immediately, he smiled at me. Our friends had told him they were bringing me, and he also knew we were being ever-so-gently set up.
Oh, that smile. In that moment, it was his best feature. Large, natural, and dazzlingly sweet. Straight, white teeth, too. I wouldn’t say I was swept off my feet, exactly, but I snapped to attention.
He was also kind to me. Right away. There was never any aloofness, never any head game, not even that night when he was the star of his party. That might not sound terribly interesting, but this wasn’t the hook in some formulaic rom-com. It was real life, and I needed someone like him. A man who was sweet, transparent, ready to have a good time, and happy to avoid unnecessary conflict.
Typical. In our first house together, a rental in The Heights
Jer alternated gracefully between sitting with me and making his rounds among all his friends, who kept pouring in, more and more of them. I think in total nearly fifty guests stopped by that night. He knew so many people, and everyone adored him. There were plenty of back slaps, hugs, guffaws, and allusive friend-speak, those ridiculous, coded exchanges that meant nothing to us who lacked context. He was ultimately inclusive, though. He let no one feel overlooked.
He made me a definite priority. We talked about all kinds of things, none of which I remember exactly. But I do recall how he made me feel–welcome, comfortable, appreciated, and, by the end of the night, special, and he did it in a totally respectful, natural way that never felt weird, over-eager, or icky. He had the most wonderfully natural self-confidence I’d ever seen in anyone, and a wonderous sense of playfulness and whimsy–hence, the ball pit. He was also hilarious; his humor was quick, witty, and sometimes absurd but never biting or bitter.
He had a dog, a black labrador-greyhound named Jib, who looked even happier than Jer at all the petting and attention he received. It was clear Jer adored his pup, and that was the final bright green flag.
The ball pit, taken the afternoon of party day
Jer seemed so effortlessly happy that night, and for me, that was a powerful appeal. Neurotic and insecure as I could be, I was drawn to his kind, charismatic energy.
I gave him my number, and that was basically it. From there, we started dating. We discovered how compatible we were in interests and tastes and fell into exclusion pretty much right away. I also had a chance to witness, early on, what a noble and gracious soul he truly was, and that was the tipping point for me. It proved I had indeed met a man who was authentically good, a rare someone who was absolutely worth keeping and striving to be the best partner for (though I’ve always fallen short). We became good friends as we fell in love, and in so many ways I felt centered, maybe for the first time in my adult life.
Early pic. Who are those babies?
My professional goals went to crap that year, though. My students’ state assessments scores weren’t great; I’d been too distracted by my wonderful new boyfriend to do a great job preparing them. Oh, well.
A few dating highlights:
We spent an entire week together at his place right after Hurricane Ike, when half the city didn’t have power and school was cancelled for ten weekdays. A delicious cool front swept through, and the air was crisp and alive. We stayed up late every night talking and drinking bottles of expensive chianti on his porch, Jib falling asleep at Jer’s feet.
Later in our relationship, we spent most Saturday mornings getting coffee at Onion Creek–where Jer was an unofficial VIP who could cut the line because he was a favorite with the baristas–then bumping around The Heights in his topless Jeep (when it wasn’t too hot) looking at houses we might eventually rent together, discussing and daydreaming about all kinds of odd things.
The house we eventually rented
Finally, one September evening a year in, we were the last couple to venture toward the exit in the lobby of Jones Hall, after the Houston Symphony’s performance of Tchaikovsky’s Fifth, my favorite symphony, one I’d said was on my bucket list to experience in concert.
“Let me offer you something else from that list,” he said as he got on one knee. To the collective gasp of lingering patrons, he proposed, much sooner than I anticipated.
We spent that night in the penthouse suite of Hotel Icon downtown, sipping Dom Perignon. I still have that bottle. It was a truly perfect marriage proposal.
Picture taken looking out from our penthouse at Hotel Icon, the night we got engaged
Now, we’ve been together for seventeen years, married for fifteen–we celebrated our anniversary just a few weeks ago, on July 31st.
Closing day, new homeowners, pre-VermontFifteenth anniversary flowers. The color for year fifteen is crimson, apparently.Us now, photo taken in May at the Inn at Burklynn in East Burke, VT
Had you told me right before I met Jer that this would be my future, I would have given you owl eyes. Up to then, my two serious relationships, with my high school and then my college boyfriend, had only lasted eighteen months each. Though I wanted it, a lifetime of monogamy seemed like a feat that maybe I couldn’t pull off, restless as I always became and as objectionable as the men always were.
Wedding day, July 31st, 2010; photo by Bryan Anderson
But I’ve never considered leaving Jer. There’s never been even a hint of a reason. I trust him completely, and I’m so grateful that I can.
Honeymoon, this portion on Nantucket Island, MA, standing in front of Brant Point Light
We discuss all the important things together; there are no secrets. He still adores me and spoils me responsibly, which I respect.
Always spoiled. A birthday gift, I think, in our suburban Houston house
He won’t, however, take my crap when I’m crabby and knows how to point out when I’m being ugly, usually by gently suggesting I take a walk or a nap. It usually works. We’ve gotten good at communicating through our irritation.
Peeved about something
When our nonspeaking daughter was diagnosed with Level II Autism Spectrum Disorder in 2018, we were able to absorb the emotional impact together. We’re still very much problem-solving partners when it comes to raising our special kiddo.
As couples do, we’ve grown and changed, and thankfully that’s happened together. His most powerful appeal to me now is his enduring humor. Literally every day, he makes me laugh. Even on the days we get peeved with each other, or our patience is frayed, he’ll say something hilarious (often without realizing it), and if I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of laughing (though that’s rare), I have to grit my teeth. That humor has been our saving grace. It brings such an important levity to our lives, a much needed one given our sometimes difficult and frustrating circumstances.
On that note, Jer’s an amazing father.
Daphne print
Not perfect (neither am I), but no one is. He’s unconditionally loving, however, and as nurturing as I am, if not more so, and always open to learning and growing into the best kind of daddy for our little girl.
Daddy and daughter being goofyStill being goofy
He also just celebrated his 50th birthday.
Birthday dinner#1Birthday cocktail
It was particularly special because we had family travel all the way up here to celebrate with us, including his uncle and younger brother, who he hadn’t seen in over four years.
Jer with his brother and uncle–clearly all Shaws
He and Derek had a fantastic time running around the NEK together–no wives, no kids to drag along–utterly free for a while to be, simply, two brothers reunited. I think that was the best gift anyone could have given him.
Brothers
I will concede, though, that the lightness, the easiness Jer possessed when we first met is nearly gone. That smile of his isn’t quite the same, despite the appearances in these newer photos.
I don’t think that denotes anything awful or tragic; it’s probably natural. Of course, the responsibilities he carries now, as a husband, father, and bread-winner in this chaotic world, are far heavier than they were then, and everyone’s back bends a little under such weight.
I worry, though, that caring for us has robbed him of certain vital things. He can’t rush off on an impulse to sail a boat. He can’t go hike the Appalachian Trail. He can’t take a lower-paying part-time job in order to write a book that I know would be fantastic.
He barely has time to write now, even on his blog. I do my best to encourage him–I suggest we sprint together, or that he start a Substack for his Schooner Bum’s Guide to Project Management idea, which I think would kill it on that medium. I send him notice of publication opportunities that I think would suit the pieces he’s already done. He’s a talented writer, far better than I am. He placed second overall years ago in the Children/YA fiction category of the Writer’s Digest Annual Writing Competition with his children’s verse A Dragon Tea Party, which he dedicated to Daphne and briefly queried. Too briefly, in my opinion.
He works long hours, in a challenging job, bumping up against a salary ceiling that remains stubbornly lower than he’d like, despite all his professional accomplishments and years of promises from supervisors about wage increases and promotions. AI is already whittling down his department. But he goes on for us.
Hiking last year; a fantastic day in an otherwise difficult summer
I try to encourage him to make time for his creativity, but I also don’t want to pressure him too much. Hopefully, our work together on Mythic Moose, our online trading card game shop, is giving him some kind of creative outlet. He’s done an awesome job with the branding.
I hope Daphne and I haven’t robbed him of an amazing thing he might otherwise have done if we hadn’t come along. We love him so much and want all the best things for him.
Jer and I had lovely anniversary coffee here the morning after staying overnight at the Inn at Mountain View Farm. So peaceful
Okay, this is heading into bleaker territory, so I’m going to stop now. Suffice it to say, we cherish him, and these celebrations have been the perfect opportunity to remind him of how wonderful he is, and how lucky we are to have him.
See you in a few days! I’m making up for lost time. It’s been a busy August.
Hi, friends! Today is my fifteenth wedding anniversary, and I’d planned to write a short tribute to my loving, nearly-perfect husband, but my daughter’s not having it.
So, to get my final post for July live in as little time as possible, I’m sharing a previously-written review of a book I just finished. Next week, I will effuse about the best decision of my life: to marry one of the most wonderful men I’ve ever known.
Told through multiple points of view, this mystery follows estranged friends Callie, Meg, Tess, and Lindsey as they are drawn back together on the five-year anniversary of their friend Zoe’s disappearance. At the same time, zealous true crime podcaster Patricia Adele (who initially ruined their lives in the wake of her own exploitative investigation) also reappears. Patricia has a book about Zoe’s case in the works, and she’s ready to barb them all with fresh questions and provocative new leads, even as Callie, the group’s default leader and original Judas, plans a special housewarming memorial to honor Zoe on Block Island, where the girls had their final summer trip together and where Zoe was last seen.
This novel is the story of four grieving friends still trying to put their lives and, tentatively, their friendships back together. They face opposition not only from Patricia but one another, as each brings her own secrets and confessions to the party.
This book is nearly perfectly paced, as a mystery ought to be. Nothing ever dragged, and I ate up each chapter as the author breadcrumbed tidbits and planted a few effective red herrings. I also enjoyed all the details of the Rhode Island setting—the houses and beaches of Block Island, plus the one-way streets of fancy, touristy Newport, with which I’m familiar.
The novel also does a nice job questioning whether true crime blogs and podcasts are an ethical form of entertainment. Patricia’s desire to feed her own amateur investigations and speculations to her fans drives her intrusive, insensitive behavior, even as it comes from a strange, sad place of personal alienation and has a clearly negative impact on Zoe’s friends and family. It’s a timely, relevant issue, considering how real-life bloggers like Turtleboy affect cases like Karen Read’s. I’m a true crime junkie myself, and the novel made me consider whether my love for these podcasts is in good taste, and whether these influencers pose a real threat to the justice system.
Karen Read and blogger Aidan Kearney, also known as Turtleboy. Image from the Boston Herald
The best thing about The Housewarming, however, is its exploration of and ultimate tribute to female friendships. These women feel real, and my heart broke, then mended, over all the ways their shared tragedy and time both together and apart evolved their relationships, just as it does in real life. This book struck me as a kind of love letter to all the girls’ girls, all those who grew up with a tight-knit group enjoying their own little traditions and intimacies and struggling with their inevitable secrets and betrayals as life reshapes them.
In this spirit, I love how the missing woman, Zoe, is given a voice at the very end, her single chapter creating a bittersweet clarity and poignancy that made my chest ache. Readers find out enough about what truly happened to her, and who Zoe actually was, to feel satisfied, while the story retains a haunting, realistic degree of ambiguity. There is no single, neat bow to tie everything up, and I appreciated that.
My only real nit-pick with this book was my feeling that Patricia the blogger’s story was incomplete. Her point of view is given a chapter once at the beginning and once in the middle, and I wish she’d been allowed one more chapter of her own at the end, perhaps to complete her own arc or provide a glimmer of something she might have learned or how she might change (or not change), or to plant the seed of something she might have realized based on what she witnesses at Callie’s party.
I recommend this thoughtful, seasonal book for anyone who loves mystery and women’s fiction. Congratulations to Kristen Offiler for a strong debut!
Hello, rejection, my old friend. I’ve come to talk about you again.
But, as promised, this post is brighter.
Last week I lamented a difficult rejection I got early in July. Suffice it to say, it was for a short horror-romance I felt good about. I’d worked hard on it, and I thought it had a good shot. I also really wanted the validation from that particular small press.
This week, I’m feeling better. The sting is almost gone, and after three weeks reflecting, I’m reenergized for two reasons.
First, I get more time to make my story better.
If I still like it, then I’ll dive back in to make it more tense and propulsive, particularly at the beginning. If the editors only read the first few paragraphs of each submission, I can see how they might have thought mine was too slow.
Having listened to a fabulous podcast on effective scene work, I’ve already considered how I might intensify the conflict in that initial scene while still laying the foundation for the female main character’s arc. Right now, things are nearly perfect for Carly in those opening paragraphs; I think there’s a lack of effective tension.
These five elements must be present in every single scene. Image c/o campfirewriting.com
Such revisions could also improve Curran, Carly’s love interest and the story’s primary antagonist. Right now, I suspect he’s rather bland, especially at the beginning where he’s just pleasing Carly. That’s a definite failing because his awful backstory and inner struggle (despite the glow-up he’s experienced) make him absolutely ripe for deeper characterization, even in the story’s first section of dialogue. There’s opportunity for him to resist Carly because he desires her yet senses there’s something deeply wrong with him, so he wants to protect her, too.
Honestly, this challenge excites me. If anything, it will be fabulous practice for writing well at the scene level, even if this story never gets published.
Conflict! Conflict is the key, always. It’s the driving force, what compels the story forward, what gets readers turning pages. There needs to be enough of it, even at the very beginning. Even if it’s subtle.
More time also means the opportunity for professional feedback. I’d love to have a minor (translation: available and affordable) developmental editor who specializes in adult horror/speculative fiction review this story and tell me whether or not it lands. If it doesn’t (it probably doesn’t), someone who can tell me what might enable it.
What might ensure the story’s ultimate resonance and target reader’s satisfaction? Is either the A story or B story not clear enough? Is the horror element not awful enough? Is it missing a romance beat? Is the pacing off? Is there too much focus on one aspect and not enough on another? Does it suggest insensitivity regarding either of its harder topics (bullying, erotic asphyxiation/sexual assault)? Does this genre mashup just not work?
I truly think I can make this piece memorable and gratifying, and I’d love to start down a horror-romance path as a possible niche, if there’s promise here. While I can make additional self-edits with fresher eyes, ultimately I’d rather not rely solely on my own judgement, even as I’m reading Shawn Coyne’s The Story Grid right now (a method he claims can help writers edit their own work more objectively). I feel like I’m doing what he’s describing, but this self-perception could be totally distorted. It wouldn’t be the first time. I’d love a professional to weigh in, somehow.
So, there it is. More time, in this case, is a gift.
The other reason I’m feeling better is broader, more philosophical.
Generally speaking, rejection is protective.
Not just for the publication, but for the writer too. It hurts one’s credibility if a piece is published when it’s not ready, or the author herself isn’t ready. Even on a small scale, we want effective work out there in the world; we really only have one shot with a reader.
I already have some experience knowing a piece is in print when it needed more time. It’s not a good feeling. If we’ve already put in the effort to create something thus far, we ought to muster the patience to keep going, if that’s what the story needs. We need to delay that instant gratification, digging deep if necessary, to keep the big picture in mind, that long game. Our later selves will thank us for it.
And sometimes, rejection exists to remind us of that. Though it might feel like a slap, it’s not. It’s a pat on the head and a “shoo” out the door: Thank you, but go, please. Make this better.
I’m reminded of some advice from author Clare Beams, which I have printed and taped into my writer’s portfolio (yes, I’m the nerd who does stuff like that):
“Be as patient as you possibly can–and then try to be one degree more patient than that. This path is a wonderful one in many ways, but it is long, and will feel long, for just about everyone at one point or another. Taking the time to get the work itself exactly right–to craft the absolute best possible version of this piece of writing that this version of yourself is capable of producing–is something you will never, ever regret.”
Beams goes on in this same Writer’s Digest interview to describe the time and revisions it took to get her novel The Garden just right:
“The first glimmers of the idea for this book came to me in late 2018. I sold it as a partial manuscript to my editor in early 2021, and submitted a full draft to her about a year later. She and my agent and I then all jointly decided the book was sapping some of its own hauntedness by dipping into the wrong head for big swaths (at that time the book had two main points of view), and that the whole thing needed to be told from Irene’s perspective. This was absolutely the right course of action, though it was daunting—I wouldn’t say it represented any kind of change in my original vision for the novel, but rather a change in my sense of how best to capture that vision. The various subsequent rewrites took about a year.”
This is a fabulous example: a single novel six years in the making, involving a collaboration that resulted in major, “daunting” revisions to improve its execution. The praise for this book, however, speaks volumes about the value of that time and effort. Though I’m a newb to all this, I don’t think what Beams describes is exceptional. I think such time and effort are the professional norm.
So, I am hopeful. Rejection is normal, even beneficial, and my armor is getting sturdier, my patience better. I plan to get back into this horror-romance soon, while Daphne still has one more week of extended school year and I still have some time to myself on these summer mornings.
Summer view from the top of Darling Hill
If, in the long run, anything interesting develops for this project, I will be sure to update you.
In the meantime, please feel free to share any other reasons why rejection is good. I’m sure I’m overlooking something.
Jennifer Shaw 