Humble beginnings: I have mentioned before that I started writing novels when I was 13. I hand-wrote them in pencil on notebook paper. (I have scanned them and saved them digitally now in addition to keeping the originals.) Between the ages of 13-15 (or 18 if you count the typing of the last novel) I wrote 7 book-length stories: Night and Day, When Does Life Begin?, Four Hearts, Jordan’s Sister, Just Taylor, One Shot, and Caroline’s Lighthouse.
As I look back at all of the stories, the first two are only salvageable if I part them out for dialogue or characters for other stories. (A polite way to say they are total crap and I watched way too much 90210 and Melrose Place-shows I was way too young to be watching-while writing them.) The third has a sweet story line, but needs a ton of work. The next three, however, have potential. Of those, two of them are about the same characters and will be combined for my next novel rewrite, Jordan’s Sister, which will be combined with Just Taylor. The story has been churning in my head and will be vastly different from the original draft, but will pull from a lot of the angst I captured at 14 to provide depth to the characters, who will be in their 20s in the rewrite. I estimate one year to complete the rewrite on that one. After that, I will work on One Shot and see what happens after that.Continue reading
Her bright safe haven should be haunted but
Warm sun breaks through the cold attic window
And over her bruised face onto the stairs.
Her best friend, though not real, once lived there with
The ghosts and dreams she had not yet foreseen.
No one knows she hides there—those steps of loss.
The hurt is fresh with agony, anger.
His cowardly grace keeps her awake nights.
She cries and thinks he could not have hurt her.
Not again, she thought she’d be happy then.
Disclaimer: I loathe writing metrical poetry. I did the best I could, but wasn’t really happy with anything I wrote during that class. I got a B for my work in class. I respect those who can write metrical poetry and those who enjoy it.
She might have lost her faith in God that night
Had life’s stopped heart not started again when
She cried and beat her fists upon his chest.
Liquor—the silent, killing distraction
That screwed his mind—left him dying, gasping.
Her heart of needles continued to beat,
But with each beat, bad thoughts and blood would clash
And clot and send rotting acidic waves
To her stomach: cancerous ulcer and death.
She has time for neither. The life she had
Chased died before she knew. She found the ghost
Of his memory—the man who could have died
Without her pleading prayers and tears. He lived,
But lost his heart—the part of him she loved.