February is usually a feel good kind of a month. At least for me. There's Valentine's Day, Mardi Gras, and spring is on the horizon. But this year, it was a little harder to muster up the warm fuzzies.
It seems everywhere I go these days, people have forgotten the basic rule of treat others the way you want to be treated or my mother's favorite, if you don't have anything nice to say don't say anything at all.
It seems this way of thinking has become pervasive, from impatience on supermarket checkout lines, to the mean spirited dialogue written for characters on TV, to the God-awful comments people leave anonymously on the internet.
I spend my days creating characters that are independent and strong, yet still compassionate. I pour myself into how I craft their nature, developing them into three-dimensional characters, tested and pushed, but still finding strength within to hold onto their humanity. However, in the real world lately, I've had a hard time convincing myself goodwill isn't dead and buried somewhere under a headstone that reads, "Here lies the Humanity." An illusion that no longer exists.
People will say, "Well, you're from New York, what did you expect to find? Please, excuse me and thank you?" This antagonistic apathy isn't something limited to my cynical city. It's all over and I don't know what to do about it. What's worse, I see it popping up in the school my children attend, in the way the kids speak to each another. Of course, the reason is they're mimicking what they hear and see around them.
As a society, have we become so soulless that our idea of humor is so entrenched in the self-serving, the lines between mean-spirited and funny are forever blurred? And where is it written it's acceptable to leave non-substantive yet hurtful commentary all over the internet and that today it's not only expected, it's considered ratings worthy?
Part of me cringes, because I know I sound like my grandparents back in the day when they protested that Rock-n-Roll Rubbish. However, in this case, it I don't think this is so much a shift in freedom of expression as much as a blatant disregard for common respect, consideration and right vs. wrong.
Some argue this is fallout from not enough accountability and too much entitlement. And while I don't know about that, I do believe the warning signs are flashing red. Perhaps it's not as bad as my experiences this past month have made it seem, and there are people out there who still believe you go farther with a kind word than a nasty one, and that a job well done is worth the effort you put in. One can only hope. At least that's what I keep telling myself.
Originally posted on my blog "Madcap Moms...What's Wrong with this Picture?' February 26, 2012
Tuesday, October 18, 2016
Where has the time gone?
It seems like yesterday my kids were these delicious little gremlins, reminiscent of cute Anne Geddes photographs as they sat in their strollers, and everything I needed to keep them happy and safe was in a compact diaper bag.
But, like everything else in life, things change...
Somewhere along the line, I traded in my diaper genie for a chauffeur's cap and joined the ranks of other suburban moms ferrying their children around from place to place. Oh, the destinations changed as the years flew by, moving from kiddie parties and mite hockey games to, "Just drop me off at the mall," and "Mom, I need a new dress for the dance," and "My hockey team is going to Lake Placid to skate the Olympic ice!"
However, all of that pales in comparison the day they turn to you and ask,"Mom, can you teach me to drive?"
If you're like me, you pretend you didn't hear them. Of course, the reality is you did hear them, but your head is swimming and you're suddenly incapable of coherent speech. You muster every conceivable argument you can find to try and stave off the inevitable, but it's a lost cause. Life just took sharp curve and pushed you out of the driver's seat...literally.
As you fight panic, along with nausea and nail-biting at the fear of everything that can and will go wrong, you stop and take a deep breath.You look at your child and find yourself muttering about where time has gone, baffled at how your beautiful, little baby grew into this gorgeous teenager, ready to take the helm and start their own life's journey.
And then it hits you. Besides the worry churning in your stomach, a cold reality dawns it is no longer your time, but theirs. The spotlight has shifted and you've been directed to exit stage right. It's a sobering moment. For me, my maternal worry was followed by an immediate sense of loss, of suddenly not being needed, of growing old. But I looked at my kids and amazingly it dissipated, replaced by an overwhelming sense of pride and unconditional love.
I guess this is what my parents meant when they said, "One day you''ll understand."
The truth of it is we were all on that same threshold at some point. Every one of us has war stories and glory days, and most of us can easily recall our own teenage battle cries, our zest for life in all its forms, regardless of consequence. The memories maybe soft and hazy with nostalgia, but catch yourself talking with friends, especially ones who knew you when, and watch the smiles blossom. They might be embarrassed, 'what was I thinking' sort of smiles, but still chuckle-worthy.
Now it's our children poised at the starting gate and no matter how much our fingers clutch at the air, we need to let them go. We need to have faith in them and in the lessons we've taught, however flawed. It's their time. Their rite of passage. We need to let them sound their own battle cry and run, fists raised into life, to make their own mistakes, their own memories, and all we can do is pray they don't get caught in the crossfire.
I taught my kids everything, from how to talk and walk, to how to reach for their dreams. It may no longer be my time in the spotlight, but it's certainly my time to watch my children soar, knowing I'll always be there for them regardless of the thuds along the way.
Originally posted on my blog 'Madcap Moms...What's Wrong with this Picture' April 17 2012
But, like everything else in life, things change...
Somewhere along the line, I traded in my diaper genie for a chauffeur's cap and joined the ranks of other suburban moms ferrying their children around from place to place. Oh, the destinations changed as the years flew by, moving from kiddie parties and mite hockey games to, "Just drop me off at the mall," and "Mom, I need a new dress for the dance," and "My hockey team is going to Lake Placid to skate the Olympic ice!"
However, all of that pales in comparison the day they turn to you and ask,"Mom, can you teach me to drive?"
If you're like me, you pretend you didn't hear them. Of course, the reality is you did hear them, but your head is swimming and you're suddenly incapable of coherent speech. You muster every conceivable argument you can find to try and stave off the inevitable, but it's a lost cause. Life just took sharp curve and pushed you out of the driver's seat...literally.
As you fight panic, along with nausea and nail-biting at the fear of everything that can and will go wrong, you stop and take a deep breath.You look at your child and find yourself muttering about where time has gone, baffled at how your beautiful, little baby grew into this gorgeous teenager, ready to take the helm and start their own life's journey.
And then it hits you. Besides the worry churning in your stomach, a cold reality dawns it is no longer your time, but theirs. The spotlight has shifted and you've been directed to exit stage right. It's a sobering moment. For me, my maternal worry was followed by an immediate sense of loss, of suddenly not being needed, of growing old. But I looked at my kids and amazingly it dissipated, replaced by an overwhelming sense of pride and unconditional love.
I guess this is what my parents meant when they said, "One day you''ll understand."
The truth of it is we were all on that same threshold at some point. Every one of us has war stories and glory days, and most of us can easily recall our own teenage battle cries, our zest for life in all its forms, regardless of consequence. The memories maybe soft and hazy with nostalgia, but catch yourself talking with friends, especially ones who knew you when, and watch the smiles blossom. They might be embarrassed, 'what was I thinking' sort of smiles, but still chuckle-worthy.
Now it's our children poised at the starting gate and no matter how much our fingers clutch at the air, we need to let them go. We need to have faith in them and in the lessons we've taught, however flawed. It's their time. Their rite of passage. We need to let them sound their own battle cry and run, fists raised into life, to make their own mistakes, their own memories, and all we can do is pray they don't get caught in the crossfire.
I taught my kids everything, from how to talk and walk, to how to reach for their dreams. It may no longer be my time in the spotlight, but it's certainly my time to watch my children soar, knowing I'll always be there for them regardless of the thuds along the way.
Originally posted on my blog 'Madcap Moms...What's Wrong with this Picture' April 17 2012
Men...Can't live with 'em, just can't shoot 'em.
The Forrester Sisters had a terrific song out a few years ago, with the best line I've heard in a long time. Men, can't live with 'em, just can't shoot 'em. Ladies, if you've been married for more than a few years, you know what I'm talking about. Oh, it's more than just a Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus thing... hell, sometimes I swear we aren't even part of the same solar system.
The realization dawned on me not too long after the birth of our first child. Now granted, this was almost twenty years ago, and the title of new parent applied as much to my DH (Darling Husband) as it did to any new father, but I remember this one poignant moment like it was yesterday. That day, I asked DH to pack the diaper bag for a family outing we had to attend. It was to be an all day affair and I had errands to run right before we had to leave. I'm sure I don't have to go into detail as to what essentials were missing, just use your imagination and picture your own face when you unzipped the diaper bag at a crucial moment and then needed to explain why more than one diaper was necessary to the skeptical face on the man standing over you.
Fast forward ten years. I'm sitting with a friend at lunch and she relates a story that had me both laughing and shaking my head. The feeling of been there, done that, resonated like church bells on Christmas...not in its specifics, but in the truth of just how 'real' it all is when it comes to the differences between the sexes. She had just come home from a day of errands, leaving her two children home with her DH for the better part of the day. He was in the yard, the house looked like a Nabisco Snack Factory exploded in the kitchen, and the kids were still in their pajamas. Dumbfounded, she walked out the back and ventured the question, "What happened today?"
"Whaddya mean?"
"Honey, the house is a disaster and the kids are still in their pajamas, what do you think I mean? Did you even give them lunch?" Her voice raising half an octave.
He shook his head.
"Why?" She asked, almost afraid of his answer.
He shrugged. "I wasn't hungry."
We've all had moments like this and the combined experiences have led my sisters and I to coin the acronym, OMC. Oxygen Mask Club. We firmly believe all men belong to this club in varying degrees of membership. But why Oxygen Mask Club? What does oxygen have to do with the differences between the way men and women view the world? It's simple. Picture an airplane. Everyone is seated and awaiting take off and per FAA safety protocol, flight attendants stand mid-aisle giving their pre-flight safety demonstration. At one point they hold up their hand and simulate oxygen masks dropping from ceiling compartments and what do they instruct next? For passengers to always "fit his/her OWN oxygen mask BEFORE assisting anyone else."
Need I say more?
While most men, my DH included, are loving, caring, responsible men who would give their lives for their families, they are nonetheless connected at different times, in one way or another, with the OMC. So, the next time your DH leaves you with an expression of stunned disbelief, just laugh and remember he may be a charter member of the club. I swear some days my own is the Grand Poo-bah of them all, but I love him dearly, regardless. ;)
Originally posted on my blog 'Madcap Moms...What's Wrong with this Picture' April 23, 2012
The realization dawned on me not too long after the birth of our first child. Now granted, this was almost twenty years ago, and the title of new parent applied as much to my DH (Darling Husband) as it did to any new father, but I remember this one poignant moment like it was yesterday. That day, I asked DH to pack the diaper bag for a family outing we had to attend. It was to be an all day affair and I had errands to run right before we had to leave. I'm sure I don't have to go into detail as to what essentials were missing, just use your imagination and picture your own face when you unzipped the diaper bag at a crucial moment and then needed to explain why more than one diaper was necessary to the skeptical face on the man standing over you.
Fast forward ten years. I'm sitting with a friend at lunch and she relates a story that had me both laughing and shaking my head. The feeling of been there, done that, resonated like church bells on Christmas...not in its specifics, but in the truth of just how 'real' it all is when it comes to the differences between the sexes. She had just come home from a day of errands, leaving her two children home with her DH for the better part of the day. He was in the yard, the house looked like a Nabisco Snack Factory exploded in the kitchen, and the kids were still in their pajamas. Dumbfounded, she walked out the back and ventured the question, "What happened today?"
"Whaddya mean?"
"Honey, the house is a disaster and the kids are still in their pajamas, what do you think I mean? Did you even give them lunch?" Her voice raising half an octave.
He shook his head.
"Why?" She asked, almost afraid of his answer.
He shrugged. "I wasn't hungry."
We've all had moments like this and the combined experiences have led my sisters and I to coin the acronym, OMC. Oxygen Mask Club. We firmly believe all men belong to this club in varying degrees of membership. But why Oxygen Mask Club? What does oxygen have to do with the differences between the way men and women view the world? It's simple. Picture an airplane. Everyone is seated and awaiting take off and per FAA safety protocol, flight attendants stand mid-aisle giving their pre-flight safety demonstration. At one point they hold up their hand and simulate oxygen masks dropping from ceiling compartments and what do they instruct next? For passengers to always "fit his/her OWN oxygen mask BEFORE assisting anyone else."
Need I say more?
While most men, my DH included, are loving, caring, responsible men who would give their lives for their families, they are nonetheless connected at different times, in one way or another, with the OMC. So, the next time your DH leaves you with an expression of stunned disbelief, just laugh and remember he may be a charter member of the club. I swear some days my own is the Grand Poo-bah of them all, but I love him dearly, regardless. ;)
Originally posted on my blog 'Madcap Moms...What's Wrong with this Picture' April 23, 2012
The Forgetful Heart
We've all had days that blur endlessly one into another. The same daily routines that leave us mind-numbed and yawning through our lives. However, every once in a while we're given a gift, a glimpse of how life should be. Like flashes from a Hallmark card come to life, these glimpses come in moments so seemingly insignificant, they're easy to miss.
I had one of these moments this morning while dropping off my kids at school. As usual, the circle was packed with cars, bumper to bumper waiting for the crossing guard to give the go ahead to move. The buses had just let out and legions of third, fourth and fifth graders herded toward the main entrance of the school. It was pretty much the same old, same old I saw every morning, but as I watched my kids join the throng, I noticed two boys holding back. They had spotted my fifth grader, and with huge smiles, waited for him on the sidelines. As my son joind his friends, they all fist punched and then laughing, headed in to start their day. I felt a stupid, silly grin spread across my face and my heart swelled. All I could think was, "Wow."
Happy, I pulled out of the circle and onto the street, but as I drove home that momentary feeling of parental euphoria ebbed as I thought about life, about how things change and how I didn't want any part of that change for my kids. How I wanted them to stay happy and innocent the way I saw them just moments before. I don't know why, but for some reason scenes from the movie, "The Breakfast Club," flashed through my mind. The random thoughts were most likely a by-product of caffeine-deprivation, but nonetheless, there they were. Those of us of a certain age remember the movie well, and though there are an equal amount of humorous and poignant moments from the film, imagine my dismay when one line in particular grabbed me as I turned into my driveway: "When you grow up, your heart dies."
I sat in my car a little stunned at where my brain had taken me, and after my initial feeling of, "What the hell...", I thought, "Huh, is that what really happened? Why I was so blown away by such a simple gesture of innocent joy?" I turned off the ignition and looked at myself in the rear view mirror, staring at my reflection as if the answer was hidden somewhere behind my eyes.
With a sigh, I got out of the car and walked halfway toward my open garage door and stopped. It hit me then. It's not that our hearts die when we grow up. It's that we forget to remember that life is simple, that joy isn't quantified by how much we know, how much we have, what we look like or how much success we achieve. We get sidetracked in our busy lives, becoming associates in our marriages and our friendships, believing that life is made up of details.
I went in the house, and shut the garage door behind me. As I climbed the basement stairs, I started to laugh. My caffeine deprived brain had done it again, but this time it was the epilogue from the movie that ran through my head.
...[Mr. Vernon] you see us as you want to see us: in the simplest terms and in the most convenient definitions...But what we found out is that each one of us is a brain...and an athlete...and a basket case...a princess...and a criminal. Does that answer your question?
Sincerely yours, The Breakfast Club
The words still speak to me, but I see them now as a token memory, encouraging me to look past the obvious and see what's really there. That perhaps these little glimpses grab our hearts for no other reason than to remind us of what's important. That joy is right there in front of us, if we have courage to look for it.
So, take inventory of the glimpses shown you and recapture the moments of joy in your own life. Trust me, your forgetful heart can take it.
I had one of these moments this morning while dropping off my kids at school. As usual, the circle was packed with cars, bumper to bumper waiting for the crossing guard to give the go ahead to move. The buses had just let out and legions of third, fourth and fifth graders herded toward the main entrance of the school. It was pretty much the same old, same old I saw every morning, but as I watched my kids join the throng, I noticed two boys holding back. They had spotted my fifth grader, and with huge smiles, waited for him on the sidelines. As my son joind his friends, they all fist punched and then laughing, headed in to start their day. I felt a stupid, silly grin spread across my face and my heart swelled. All I could think was, "Wow."
Happy, I pulled out of the circle and onto the street, but as I drove home that momentary feeling of parental euphoria ebbed as I thought about life, about how things change and how I didn't want any part of that change for my kids. How I wanted them to stay happy and innocent the way I saw them just moments before. I don't know why, but for some reason scenes from the movie, "The Breakfast Club," flashed through my mind. The random thoughts were most likely a by-product of caffeine-deprivation, but nonetheless, there they were. Those of us of a certain age remember the movie well, and though there are an equal amount of humorous and poignant moments from the film, imagine my dismay when one line in particular grabbed me as I turned into my driveway: "When you grow up, your heart dies."
I sat in my car a little stunned at where my brain had taken me, and after my initial feeling of, "What the hell...", I thought, "Huh, is that what really happened? Why I was so blown away by such a simple gesture of innocent joy?" I turned off the ignition and looked at myself in the rear view mirror, staring at my reflection as if the answer was hidden somewhere behind my eyes.
With a sigh, I got out of the car and walked halfway toward my open garage door and stopped. It hit me then. It's not that our hearts die when we grow up. It's that we forget to remember that life is simple, that joy isn't quantified by how much we know, how much we have, what we look like or how much success we achieve. We get sidetracked in our busy lives, becoming associates in our marriages and our friendships, believing that life is made up of details.
I went in the house, and shut the garage door behind me. As I climbed the basement stairs, I started to laugh. My caffeine deprived brain had done it again, but this time it was the epilogue from the movie that ran through my head.
...[Mr. Vernon] you see us as you want to see us: in the simplest terms and in the most convenient definitions...But what we found out is that each one of us is a brain...and an athlete...and a basket case...a princess...and a criminal. Does that answer your question?
Sincerely yours, The Breakfast Club
The words still speak to me, but I see them now as a token memory, encouraging me to look past the obvious and see what's really there. That perhaps these little glimpses grab our hearts for no other reason than to remind us of what's important. That joy is right there in front of us, if we have courage to look for it.
So, take inventory of the glimpses shown you and recapture the moments of joy in your own life. Trust me, your forgetful heart can take it.
Originally posted on my blog 'Madcap Moms...What Wrong with this Picture' May 1, 2012
How independent is too independent?
My daughter is beautiful, smart, athletic, has lots of friends...all the things you would think would make for teenage heaven, right? Of course, right. And on top of all that, she's a parent's dream in that she's not boy crazy yet, like many other girls her age.
Okay, okay...you can stop rolling your eyes at me. I know I should be over the moon she's focused on grades and sports and just being herself. And don't get me wrong, it's not that guys aren't on her radar, they are. She's noticed quite a few and believe me they notice her, too. In fact, just this past Valentine's Day, a guy she knows gave her a beautiful bracelet for the occasion. She was thrilled with the gift and the sweet kiss that followed. So it's not that romance isn't on her list of interests...it's just not something she's interested in chasing.
So, should I worry she's not like the other girls in her class, preoccupying themselves with incessant texts and snap chats to guys and gossiping with their friends over the latest hookups? No. That's not something I'm interested in chasing.
So what should I think about all this disinterest?
I've written blog posts in the past about being a role model for my girls, about teaching them to be independent and to develop their self-worth through action and accomplishment...that the worst thing I could do for them as their mother, is to allow them to believe their value lies in nothing more than being decorative. I think I've accomplished that well through example, rather than just through words. They've been with me every step of the way as I earned my first and second degree black belts, as I started my writing career and my books began to win awards. They've been there when I've had speaking engagements and seen the pictures from the writer's conferences where I've been featured often as a guest panelist. My interests have always been eclectic and I work at my own pace, comparing my own accomplishments against no one else's but my own.
Now I have to ask myself, with all this independence and strength...and I use the words conditionally...swirling through the way I run my life, have my girls gotten so caught up in my tornado of ideas and opinions that I've robbed them of certain rites of passage every girl should experience?
Is there such a thing as too independent?
I feel like Karen Allen, the actress from the movie, The Sandlot Lot, when she tells her son to go out and get into trouble, to get dirty and skin his knees because he's too good to be true. Do I tell my teenage daughter to stop being so focused and to start flirting or do I just let her be herself? Do I need to worry that she's so focused on the goals she's set for herself, that she's forgetting to enjoy the journey...or worse...that she doesn't know how?
Every parent questions whether or not they've made the right choices when it comes to their kids. My hope is I've prepared her enough for her future, and as far as that goes, independence and a clear sense of self-worth is never a bad thing. As to romance and heartbreak as a rite of passage, I guess no one escapes it forever, and when it does come knocking I'll certainly be there for my daughter the same way my own mother was there for me. I just want to make sure my girls look around every once in a while to see that it is there, even if it's only on the horizon. That it's worth its weight in gold to be carefree and even silly sometimes, and that you can have it all. You just have to remember to let it happen.
Originally posted on my blog 'Madcap Moms...What's Wrong with this Picture' March 8, 2013
Okay, okay...you can stop rolling your eyes at me. I know I should be over the moon she's focused on grades and sports and just being herself. And don't get me wrong, it's not that guys aren't on her radar, they are. She's noticed quite a few and believe me they notice her, too. In fact, just this past Valentine's Day, a guy she knows gave her a beautiful bracelet for the occasion. She was thrilled with the gift and the sweet kiss that followed. So it's not that romance isn't on her list of interests...it's just not something she's interested in chasing.
So, should I worry she's not like the other girls in her class, preoccupying themselves with incessant texts and snap chats to guys and gossiping with their friends over the latest hookups? No. That's not something I'm interested in chasing.
So what should I think about all this disinterest?
I've written blog posts in the past about being a role model for my girls, about teaching them to be independent and to develop their self-worth through action and accomplishment...that the worst thing I could do for them as their mother, is to allow them to believe their value lies in nothing more than being decorative. I think I've accomplished that well through example, rather than just through words. They've been with me every step of the way as I earned my first and second degree black belts, as I started my writing career and my books began to win awards. They've been there when I've had speaking engagements and seen the pictures from the writer's conferences where I've been featured often as a guest panelist. My interests have always been eclectic and I work at my own pace, comparing my own accomplishments against no one else's but my own.
Now I have to ask myself, with all this independence and strength...and I use the words conditionally...swirling through the way I run my life, have my girls gotten so caught up in my tornado of ideas and opinions that I've robbed them of certain rites of passage every girl should experience?
Is there such a thing as too independent?
I feel like Karen Allen, the actress from the movie, The Sandlot Lot, when she tells her son to go out and get into trouble, to get dirty and skin his knees because he's too good to be true. Do I tell my teenage daughter to stop being so focused and to start flirting or do I just let her be herself? Do I need to worry that she's so focused on the goals she's set for herself, that she's forgetting to enjoy the journey...or worse...that she doesn't know how?
Every parent questions whether or not they've made the right choices when it comes to their kids. My hope is I've prepared her enough for her future, and as far as that goes, independence and a clear sense of self-worth is never a bad thing. As to romance and heartbreak as a rite of passage, I guess no one escapes it forever, and when it does come knocking I'll certainly be there for my daughter the same way my own mother was there for me. I just want to make sure my girls look around every once in a while to see that it is there, even if it's only on the horizon. That it's worth its weight in gold to be carefree and even silly sometimes, and that you can have it all. You just have to remember to let it happen.
Originally posted on my blog 'Madcap Moms...What's Wrong with this Picture' March 8, 2013
When ghosts come calling....
A crisp night, a campfire, s'mores and of course...ghost stories. We've all sat mesmerized as creepy tales raise goosebumps, making us move that much closer to the warm body sitting nearest to us. Shadows, creaking branches and a soft moaning wind are enough to make some of us move inside, as if plaster walls will keep us safe from unexplained bumps in the night.
It's that kind of shiver that brings a smile to my face. The furtive glance over your shoulder into the gloom. Spooky tales, especially ones filled with history and mystery make the Halloween season for me.
Spook Rock is book three in The Legend Series, a teen supernatural suspense with splashes of horror, history and of course, romance. The series began with Hollow's End, a story inspired by historic events surrounding the village of Sleepy Hollow...yup...you guessed it....as is the famous Legend of Sleepy Hollow. Incidentally, where my family is from and my children were born. The tale moves to Time Turner, also inspired by history and legend only this time the reader is plunged back in time to 1780 and the intrigues and plots surrounding West Point and the American Revolution, and finally Spook Rock, a tale of possession and a restless spirit and the fight to free their soul from the evil holding them hostage.
I squeezed my eyes closed, shutting out the voiceless
conversation with my dead sister. Talia was killed on Halloween night almost a
year ago. It wasn’t long after that our mother started having visions of my
sister. Problem was, I saw her, too.
Or did I?
Maybe crazy ran in the family. Except, I
didn’t really believe that, and that meant Talia was really here…
Hannah Meyer’s teenage
life was shattered by evil a year ago. Since then, visions of her dead sister
have grown stronger, more insistent, the closer it gets to Halloween and the
anniversary of her death. Something is holding Talia hostage from the light and
she warns time is running out.
Angel Morales has
been Hannah’s best friend since kindergarten, but lately things have changed,
pushing the two into uncharted waters between friendship and love, and now,
light and dark.
But they’re not alone
in this fight to free Talia’s soul. Rowen Corbett and her witchy family have
joined the struggle, but will they be enough to send the most powerful evil
they’ve ever faced back to hell?
Interested?
Interested?
How about a sneak peek at book one, Hollow's End to get you started?
When Authors Kill...
A conversation I've had with each of my books...
Muse: "He has to die."
"Are you sure?"
Muse nods, then eyes me from the reflection in my mirror. "Yes."
I blink once, then shrug. "It's not like I have any say in the matter, so..."
Muse grins: "I'm glad you finally see reason." She pauses, considering me closer. "Now, the question is how?"
If this sounds like you took a ride on the crazy train, then you know what it's like for me. I'm an author. Our characters talk to us, and our muse is even worse. Mine, in particular, has no respect for day or night. She doesn't care whether I'm in the middle of a REM cycle or in the shower. When she has something to say, I listen...and hopefully I have my laptop at the ready, if not at least a pen and paper near by.
It's nuts, I know. But that's part of the creative process. I've found this notion fascinates most people. They often ask if I have to force myself to write a death scene or if I experience guilt when my story develops to the point I know someone has to die. The answer is no.
That doesn't mean I don't regret losing characters. Villain or hero, each one is my creation and like most authors I get very attached, but when the story calls for it, they have to go. I usually know who pretty quickly, and it's not always the bad guy. Killing off a character is often cathartic, both for me as the author and for the remaining characters in the story. Real life isn't always fair, and people suffer collateral damage every day. I try to keep that feel throughout my books, their paranormal settings notwithstanding.
Collateral Blood is the latest in my Cursed by Blood Saga, and from the very first chapter I knew who would die and how. Like all of my books in this series (and most in my other series) the main thrust of the story is suspense. Romance? Yeah, there's that too, but I love a plot driven thriller, and that's what I try to give my readers.
Want a taste? Here's chapter one of Collateral Blood.
Chapter One
Muse: "He has to die."
"Are you sure?"
Muse nods, then eyes me from the reflection in my mirror. "Yes."
I blink once, then shrug. "It's not like I have any say in the matter, so..."
Muse grins: "I'm glad you finally see reason." She pauses, considering me closer. "Now, the question is how?"
If this sounds like you took a ride on the crazy train, then you know what it's like for me. I'm an author. Our characters talk to us, and our muse is even worse. Mine, in particular, has no respect for day or night. She doesn't care whether I'm in the middle of a REM cycle or in the shower. When she has something to say, I listen...and hopefully I have my laptop at the ready, if not at least a pen and paper near by.
It's nuts, I know. But that's part of the creative process. I've found this notion fascinates most people. They often ask if I have to force myself to write a death scene or if I experience guilt when my story develops to the point I know someone has to die. The answer is no.
That doesn't mean I don't regret losing characters. Villain or hero, each one is my creation and like most authors I get very attached, but when the story calls for it, they have to go. I usually know who pretty quickly, and it's not always the bad guy. Killing off a character is often cathartic, both for me as the author and for the remaining characters in the story. Real life isn't always fair, and people suffer collateral damage every day. I try to keep that feel throughout my books, their paranormal settings notwithstanding.
Collateral Blood is the latest in my Cursed by Blood Saga, and from the very first chapter I knew who would die and how. Like all of my books in this series (and most in my other series) the main thrust of the story is suspense. Romance? Yeah, there's that too, but I love a plot driven thriller, and that's what I try to give my readers.
Want a taste? Here's chapter one of Collateral Blood.
Chapter One
The
Red Veil
Vampire
Club, New York City
Two am
“You
asked to see me?”
Rémy
lifted his eyes from his cellphone. “Abigail. Come in.”
The
strawberry blonde vampire stepped through the doorway, her expression guarded.
“You have news?”
“Sébastien
is not returning to New York as expected.”
She
frowned, watching the elder shrug into his trademark period-style frock coat.
His dark gold hair luminous against the dusky brocade, its silky length dipping
to hide the ruined side of his face.
“Why?
When last we spoke Sébastien claimed he had outstayed his welcome at Dominic’s
villa. I assumed that meant his exile was at an end.”
Rémy
grunted. “Exile. Leave it to my brother to invent extraneous drama. He wasn’t
exiled, Abigail. He was removed from his seat on the council and his so called
sabbatical was more house arrest than holiday. To be honest, Sébastien is lucky
he still has his fangs.”
Face
impassive, she didn’t comment.
“Your
marked lack of curiosity speaks volumes. Then again, your loyalty to your sire
was always commendable if not misguided. I will forgive your silence and answer
your unasked questions.”
Abigail
waited, eyes unblinking.
“Sébastien
is not ready to return to his place with us. The council deems him too volatile
yet, thus the delay in his return.”
“Council?”
She frowned. “You mean you deem him unfit.”
Rémy
tucked his wallet and his phone into the inside breast pocket of his coat.
“Volatile, Abigail. Not unfit. Although that particular failing does lend
itself to your interpretation. It doesn’t matter. Dominic thinks him unstable
and Carlos and I agree.”
“Dominic?
Good God,” she repeated, annoyed. “How can he make an assessment? He hasn’t
stepped foot in New York in over a century.”
Rémy
nodded. “iPhones are truly a blessing.”
She
stared at him open-mouthed. “Dominic facetimed his decision?”
“I
was as surprised as you. Over a millennium old and yet it seems he’s embraced
the twenty-first century. As the song says, The times, they are a changin’.”
He
watched her stunned silence. “Nevertheless, Sébastien has been Dominic’s guest
for six months and yet he remains impenitent for his actions against his own
kind. Humility was never Sébastien’s strong suit. Not as a human and even less
so now. You can’t spend nearly half a millennium lording over those you
consider beneath you and not ruffle a few feathers. He has much to account
for.”
“Abigail
sank into the nearest chair, stunned. “All this because he refused to let the
wolves help with the Jane Street shadow house?”
The
older vampire stiffened at her question. “Abigail, it’s time you saw your maker
for what he is. Sébastien refused help when it was greatly needed. He broke the
cardinal rule of a Council Supreme and put his pride ahead of the community. He
slaughtered an entire shadow house, vampires and donors alike, because of an
imagined insult.”
Rémy’s
irritation softened at the pained look on Abigail’s face. “You must understand,
my dear. Others have suffered much worse than Sébastien for far lesser crimes.
In this day and age news travels at the speed of light, and Sébastien’s
involvement in the shadow house destruction is no longer a secret. He may yet
face a much uglier fate.”
She
exhaled. “He should never have agreed to leave the country.” Her mumbling
earned a questioning brow from Rémy.
“You
are certainly your sire’s progeny, Abigail. Rome was the perfect choice for
what we needed Sébastien to accomplish, and Dominic the perfect mentor. He’s
nearly twice as old as Sébastien and myself, so who better to teach any one of
us how to adapt?”
Her
lips parted and she blinked, but then closed her mouth in a tight line. “I
see.”
“Our
world is very small, my dear. You would do well to remember that.”
She
exhaled again, lifting her eyes to his before nodding in acknowledgement.
“I’m
going out. Please make sure the residence is secure once the club closes for
the night. The safety of those living within Le Sanctuaire is
paramount.”
“Of
course. I always do.”
He
moved to his desk and lifted a copy of the Daily News from the top of a pile of
mail. “I’m sure you’re aware the city has a new scourge.” He turned, handing
the newspaper to Abigail.
She
shrugged. “So I’ve read. New York has always had its fair share of nutcases. There
have been gang related subway slashings for over a year now. It was only a
matter of time before a serial killer took center ring.”
“The
police came to see me today.”
“Why
wasn’t I informed? You shouldn’t be bothered with human minutia.”
“They
wouldn’t take no one’s available for an answer. You were at your rest, and my
age made me the only one available for a daytime tête-á-tête with New
York’s finest.”
Abigail
stood, leaving the paper on the chair. “I’m sorry, Rémy. I should have a
procedure in place. This will never happen again.” She inclined her head, but
jerked her chin up at the sound of his chuckle.
“Abigail,
when will you finally realize I am not Sébastien? My brother may enjoy keeping
his nose in the air, but I don’t. I was happy to help.”
At
her silent nod he gestured to the newspaper. “It seems the latest victim of
this serial maniac had a Red Veil stamp on her hand. The police came to canvas
the staff, questioning if anyone remembered seeing her at the club recently.”
“I
see. Were any able to help?”
“A
few. The detectives requested our surveillance tapes.”
“But
the backrooms…” she started.
Rémy
lifted a hand. “Those are of no interest to the police. The girl in question
was not on the VIP list nor was she anyone’s special guest. The surveillance we
provided for their investigation was of the club’s main floor and bars. No
more. Do you understand?” He fixed her with a pointed look.
“Of
course.”
“The
ugly incident was most likely a coincidence. However, I want extra security in
place just in case. Every door, inside and out, especially the ones leading to
the backrooms. The NYPD has a job to do, but I draw the line there. The Red
Veil is both our sanctuary and playground. I’d like to keep it that way.”
“I’ll
make the arrangements as soon as I get downstairs.” She watched as he finished
readying himself for the night, and a small smirk tugged at her lips. “Meeting
Jenya?”
A
genuine smile lit his face, softening the ruined flesh scarring his one side.
“She’s hunting tonight. It’s a new moon.”
“Central
Park?”
He
nodded. “She likes to clear the vermin, if you know what I mean.”
“And
who better? New York is overrun with the two-legged kind these days.”
He
shrugged. “I told her I would keep her company.”
Abigail
didn’t comment, but she understood the subtext. Rémy needed to keep Jenya in
line. The Russian vampire had come a long way in channeling her cruel
beginnings into something positive, but she definitely held the inclination to
kill creatively.
“Will
you be back tonight or should I call the Shadow House on East 81st
Street and arrange for dawn accommodations? They have the rarest blood types,
and Jenya’s favorite is currently in residence at the donor hall.”
Impressed,
he smiled at her. “As efficient as ever, Abigail, but I sense thoughtfulness in
your resourceful nature that wasn’t there before. It seems your time with the
wolves has tempered you.” He paused, meeting her eyes. “Personally, I find this
softer side very becoming.”
She
blushed, as much as a vampire can, and the two walked out toward the private
steel-reinforced doors in silence. With a nod, Abigail headed back to the club
and Rémy turned toward the exit and the alley outside.
The
scent of fresh blood and residual violence hit his nostrils the moment he
stepped into the darkness. Holding still, his fangs pierced his gums,
descending instinctively, and he peered into the encompassing shadows. No body
heat or movement registered in the concentrated gloom.
He
took a step and an unexpected crunch drew his gaze. The Red Veil’s
motion-activated spotlights lay in smashed shards on the pitted asphalt.
“Damn.”
It
wasn’t the first time vandals and thieves had tried their luck. If they knew
what horrors awaited in certain backrooms at the Red Veil, they’d avoid the
alleys surrounding the club like the plague.
Still,
the scent of blood was too overpowering for superficial cuts from a few
shattered lights. His fangs tingled.
Tall
concrete on either side of the alley made for thick darkness under normal
circumstances, but no light and no moon made the gloom nearly impenetrable.
Even for a vampire. He thought to call for Dash or one of the other wolves, but
then dismissed the idea. Night vision was not his strongest gift, but he had
other skills that more than compensated for any bump he might encounter in the
night.
He
focused his senses and walked into the murk toward the heady copper scent,
allowing his eyes to adjust.
“Damn,”
he muttered again, along with a string of other expletives. A lifeless body
dangled from the side of the building. A woman. She hung by her feet from a
steel reinforced pole, vandalized brackets on either side of her dead weight.
Rémy
exhaled and dug in his pocket for his phone. “Abigail. Have security come to
the south exit. Now.”
Slicing
the yellow nylon rope holding her suspended, he moved the dead woman to the
ground. Her throat had been slit wide, yet only splashes of blood coated the
blacktop in a hollow circle directly below where she hung.
Rémy
drew his fingers through the viscous fluid, lifting the bloodstained tips to
his nose. Still fresh and barely cooled. She’d been dead less than an hour.
But
why? Her blood was barely congealed, so it was obvious she was killed here. The
asphalt should be a river of blood, not mere spatters.
Rémy
glanced over his shoulder and frowned. Where was security? He scrolled through
the contacts on his phone again, the blue ambient light from its screen casting
shadows along the ground No doubt, the woman was murdered. They were going to
need specialized help clearing this mess.
A
flash of silver caught him unawares, a hand knocking his cell phone from his
grip. Before he could react, searing pain sliced through his cold flesh as a
razor sharp blade slashed his throat, burning silver puncturing his jugular.
Rémy’s
hand flew to the wound, his eyesight narrowing as his fingers tried to stem the
flow of black blood. He peered into the darkness for his assailant’s identity
but his vision failed. He slumped to the ground beside the dead woman, the
sound of muffled panic and footfalls thick in his ears.
I hope you enjoyed the snippet.
I hope you enjoyed the snippet.
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