Bats in the Belfry

BATS IN THE BELFRY

By

David J. Gibbs

THE POINT: 1989

It wasn’t something she liked to talk about, certainly not at her advanced age. They would send her to the loony bin for sure. And her brat Andrew would smile, as he wheeled her in. No, she wouldn’t let that happen. But there was no denying something was happening. And it was something she couldn’t readily explain away or even control.

Ida had been born just south of the 20th-century mark and witnessed war swallow the known world twice over. She had witnessed a level of poor she had once thought impossible and had endured hunger leaving her too weak to move. She had witnessed three assassination attempts of presidents, two of which were successful. She remembered being a little girl and the world stopping as the Titanic took a nosedive to the depths. Ida remembered being scared when the astronauts died on the launching pad in a terrible fire and then just a few short years later, being so excited when Neil Armstrong took his giant leap for all mankind.

She could recall all of it, but somehow the more time passed the less real it seemed. It was as if she became more and more removed from it each time she thought about those things. There were even times when she almost questioned whether it had happened or not. And still, other times when she felt the things around her were whispery thin. It was almost as if she could push her hand through the lamp on the end table or her book would fall to the floor, her hands suddenly unable to grasp it. And it was that in part which made her start to begin wondering about how fragile a state of mind could be.

Could there be too much whispering?   

When she had been a young girl, she remembered her Aunt Lottie and how her parents had whispered about the aged woman behind her back. They would constantly talk about how they didn’t think she was safe by herself out on the farm being so far away from neighbors and doctors. It was the same small farm Lottie had been born on, and the same one both of her parents were buried on, but that didn’t matter when there were bats in the belfry.

Thankfully, Ida had been quiet about those certain little things and so no one was the wiser. Well, no one, save herself. And she wasn’t foolish enough to think she would be able to outlast the darkness she knew was coming. But for now, she was in control.

She could still cook and not worry she would burn the house down. Honestly though, if it did burn down, as long she was in it, she didn’t care. It was hers, bought and paid for, well before Lyndon had made his appearance in the White House, and it would remain hers until she was no more. Yes, and then Andrew could gut it or sell it or do whatever he damn well pleased with it.

Ida looked up at the small framed picture of her late husband Edward, or Eddie, as she had fondly called him. In the picture he sat on an old wooden barrel beside a split rail fence, one foot resting on another smaller barrel, both arms crossed on one of his knees. He clutched a worn cowboy, a wry smile crossing his face. She’d always wished he would’ve waited for her to sit down on the barrel beside him before the photographer had taken the picture, but he was in too much of a hurry.

Smiling, she turned on the gas for the stove and then lit it with a diamond tip kitchen match. Andrew always insisted on having her use one of those butane lighting sticks, but she thought they were unsafe. As the blue ring of flame danced around the burner, she shook the match out and then put the kettle of water on it.

The wind always tended to catch the south corner of the house and whisper through almost constantly. The incessant handfuls of sand wrought with the wind’s venom had worn the wooden shingles along that part of the house to an almost impossible smoothness. The whispers were music to her ears and she longed for more of it each day.

She knew Andrew had never liked it on The Point while growing up. He had hated the sand and the wind, but mostly he had hated the isolation. He had hated her and his father for keeping him in such a place. As if they were punishing him for something he had done. It had so little to do with him that he probably wouldn’t understand even if she tried to explain it to him.

It was more than a little frustrating her son couldn’t understand her love for the place. The thrill she felt each time the sun fell to the sea’s edge and spilled color across the sky. The way she felt when she watched the lightning crash to the sea, the flickering light show making the sea spark and the clouds glow. The ebb and flow of the tides every day and the way the sea would take away sand in one storm season only to deposit three times as much sand the following season. It was all something wonderful to her. It was as if each day was a secret slideshow for her and her alone.

Ida breathed with this place.

It was her air.

It was her.

She knew she was but a fraction of the person she had been thirty, forty, fifty years earlier but she was still more than able to take care of herself. God, she hated when one of the snooty visiting nurses would say things like ‘hey you’re really with it’ to her. The comments which might seem like compliments were like quiet daggers in a dark room. ‘No bats in the belfry’. ‘No rust upstairs with this one’. ‘Oh, you seem sharp as a tack darlin’. She’d like to show her a tack a time or two as much poking and prodding the nurses did all over her. Ida never understood how if her hands or elbows ached why they needed to check her feet or listen to her heart.

She had always had nervous hands. A smile burrowed across the weathered landscape of her face as she thought of Eddie again. He had always asked her if she had ants in her pants because of the way she would tug at the hems of her dresses or pick at her fingers. He’d been dead almost thirty years now, but she could feel him with her every step of the way, even more so lately it seemed. It was odd how many voices she heard in the wind each night. His was one of them.

The days no longer held much difference to them. They were becoming more and more, one long strange voyage, through which she walked. She didn’t go anywhere and had very few visitors. She spent long hours just sitting on her porch and watching the tides as they would come in and then softly shuffle out just as easily and was more than content.

She hated when her son came to visit because he was only interested in where she had her money and what she planned to do with it and oh yeah by the way did you forget to sign the power of attorney forms and did you finalize the updated last will and testament?  If she had her way, she’d leave it all to the damned seagulls that cried across her small finger of beach.

She knew Andrew was going to sell it all when he had the chance. Developers had been after her eleven acres of The Point, for as long as she could remember, always raising their price to something they felt she couldn’t possibly refuse. Ida never failed to surprise them. Oh sure, she’d listen to them. Her mother raised her to be polite. But once they were done with their folding easels and big glossy pictures and gave her the bottom line, she always politely thanked them for their interest and then showed them the door.

She heard a car door shut and knew the nurse was about to make an appearance. It was Thursday, so that would mean it was Mary Jane who would be coming through the door.

A large smiling woman dressed in white stepped through the door and said, “Well good morning Ms. Ida. I brought you the paper from your stoop.”

“Morning,” Ida said, resting her elbows on the arms of her chair, her eyes looking out at the ocean. “Thank you.”

“You’re looking well this morning. Did you eat anything yet?”

“I had something earlier. Was just waiting on the kettle to warm up for some tea.”

Mary Jane nodded her head and said, “I’ll just tidy up a little bit and then we can do your blood pressure and other things while you drink your tea. How about that?”

The question came in a voice that sounded like the woman was talking to a toddler. Ida nodded, hoping the conversation would end so Mary Jane could finish up quickly and get out of the house faster.

“My goodness but the wind is sure whipping out there. ‘Bout blew me off the bridge coming across to see you today,” Mary Jane said, as she went into the other room. The sounds of her putting things away could be heard, as Ida continued to stare out the window. The sunlight was making the small ripples sparkle. She loved when that happened. Mary Jane was right the wind was talking plenty outside.

Just then, she heard footsteps coming up to the porch, and for a minute and Ida wondered if Mary Jane had brought some help. But that thought quickly went to the wayside, as she suddenly recognized the footfalls. She heard the spring creaking as the storm door opened to the screened-in porch. Ida heard him dutifully wiping his feet on the small worn welcome mat. She knew it was Eddie coming up the steps. She knew it for certain in her heart. She had heard him follow the same routine hundreds of times before.

It was him.

Mary Jane’s humming came to her as Ida waited for the doorknob to turn and her Eddie to walk through the door. He hadn’t turned that doorknob in three decades and although part of her knew he couldn’t be there, another part of her that had been listening to the whispering wind all this time, knew he was there nonetheless.

Her heart shuddered with that sweet ache, as the doorknob turned and she watched Eddie step into the room. He was so handsome, always had been. She’d oftentimes wondered how she managed to hold onto someone with such dashing good looks. Ida knew she was no looker. She was a Plain Jane if there ever was one. Her sister Marie had always had the boys fawning over her, but not Ida. Not until Eddie walked into her life that is.

“Hey there Peaches,” he said, his voice hinting at laughter just below the surface. He tossed his worn hat onto the table beside her. She loved when he called her Peaches. It was his pet name for her.

She could only smile.

“What do you say we take a walk?  Weather’s nice and the water looks beautiful. It always is this time of year. We shouldn’t waste the day now should we?”

She could only nod, as she reached for his outstretched hand. It was so warm, and rough from labor, just as it always had been. They left together side by side and stepped down from the screened-in porch. The pair headed for the sparkles in the water.

“I’ve missed you,” she said her voice almost a whisper.

“Well, I’m right here. No reason to miss me now when I’m right here with you Peaches.”

They stumbled down over the rise of the dune and she could feel the water kiss her toes. Her one hand pulled her dress up so it wouldn’t get too wet, while her other held on to Eddie’s hand for dear life. The wind still talked to them as they walked through the shallow water near the shore. They walked through the shimmering water that glittered with the sunlight. The sun-warmed water teased her feet as they walked together. Lost upon the pair, the wind continued to lash out across the sandy expanse of beach with even more strength.

***

“I can’t believe the wind finally died down,” Mary Jane said a little loudly from the other room so that Ida could hear it.

She grouped the magazines neatly and tucked them into the side pocket of the Lay-z-Boy chair by the television before trying again, “Miss Ida that wind finally gave up I think.”

She walked into the small sunroom just inside the screened-in porch. It was Miss Ida’s favorite spot in the house. Mary Jane saw her sitting in the chair, her cane with four rubber feet stood dutifully at her side.

“Miss Ida?” she asked, with no response.

It was eerily quiet with the wind completely gone. Mary Jane had never known The Point to be this quiet. It was always windy, always.

As she moved closer, she heard a few drops of water tap against the floor. She knew that Miss Ida was prone to fall asleep and reached out to gently rouse her when she saw the water dripping from her bare feet. The bottom few inches of her nightgown were wet as well.

At first, she thought Miss Ida may have had an accident, but she knew that wasn’t the case almost immediately, she could smell the saltwater. But that wasn’t what chilled her heart. The first was the worn hat on the table. She knew it wasn’t there when she had come in just a few minutes earlier. The second was the wet sandy footprints that came in from the screened-in porch. There were two sets of them.

She picked up the phone and dialed Andrew’s number. As she waited for him to answer, Mary Jane looked up at the framed picture on the wall. In it, Ida was leaning against Eddie’s shoulder and they were sitting on two old wooden barrels. Her arm was tucked inside of his, and his large hands held a heavy saw. There was something that struck her about the photograph, but she couldn’t say exactly why. Something about it seemed different.

And then, the wind finally mercifully began to pick up again, whispering around the edges of the house.

Why Should I Care About Your Story?

Writing can be a difficult endeavor to navigate. Spending hours at the typewriter or computer or even the trusty note pad throwing words left and right to carve out a story in hopes of making the reader feel something. In doing so, there are so many things to consider. It’s not for the faint of heart and definitely not for the easily distracted. Maybe you’ve been at it awhile and haven’t had the kind of success you envisioned. It isn’t an easy vocation.

Think about it.

We have to come up with a gripping story, one that hasn’t been told before which holds the reader’s interest until the end. It can be as daunting as it is rewarding. We have to do things like incorporate the five senses throughout to make sure we have the reader engaged and come up with an intriguing setting as a wonderful back drop for all the character interactions. What about creating a narrative crackling with possibility? Snappy dialog. We certainly need to all of those things. They are important. They truly are.

But the question remains, why doesn’t anyone like my stuff?

Why am I not getting published?

In some cases it could just be the harsh reality that everything we write doesn’t strike a chord with publishers or friends. In other cases it can be the writing isn’t strong enough yet and we need to hone our craft a bit more. But other times, we might have everything in alignment–the setting, the narrative, the writing, the story–but something is missing. In many cases it can be the characters themselves.

The characters can make or break the piece.

If the characters are one dimensional it makes it hard to relate to them. Think about it. If you have an accountant, named Barry, who is happily married and lives in an affluent neighborhood with manicured lawns and a three bedroom house with a lovely supportive wife, where’s the fun in that? Where is your conflict? Where is the draw to that character? I personally want to punch the guy just to give him something to worry about.

Now, if we use the same Barry, but change a few things, we can make him more interesting. Let’s say he hates working with numbers, but only got his degree in accounting because his father wouldn’t pay for anything else. His father wanted Barry to cook the books for his butcher shop because he’s into drug trafficking or maybe it’s prostitution. And maybe Barry’s a recovering alcoholic because he despises what he does for a living and is miserable. His home life is crap. His troubled second marriage is on the rocks because of his drinking. His wife’s wandering eye has made her distant and more attentive to the men in the neighborhood than to him. He likes to think he doesn’t care, but he does. Barry’s thirty-five pounds over weight and a chain-smoker who is stretched thin with spousal support payments and child support payments to his first wife and is looking for a quick fix. He’s bought a gun he keeps in the locked glove compartment of his car and takes it out and holds it in his lap while driving to and from work. He’s thought about killing himself but is too chicken to pull the trigger. He hasn’t even bought bullets for the gun because he’s too afraid he might use it. One of his high school buddies has come to him with a business proposition which is questionable in the eyes of the law but would take care of his money problems. All he has to do is sign a few papers and file the paperwork anonymously and he’d be on easy street with a cool two hundred grand. He hasn’t made up his mind yet.

That’s a lot of meat to chew on, right?

Think about the conflict and the intrigue and the minefield the character has to navigate each and every day. The second Barry is far more relatable than the first. No one wants to read about perfect characters.

Make them imperfect.

Make them real.

Make them like us.

Give them flaws and hopes and fears and have them make mistakes and deal with the fallout.

If you add flawed characters to the mix, it will make your writing more relatable. Give it a try.

Never give up and always remember to…

Write ON!

Perfect is not Possible

Hate to break it to you but no draft is perfect. Ever.

Yeah, I said it.

Perfect is not possible.

As writers we strive to be, don’t we?

But it’s a myth.

Our narratives build worlds and characters flecked with pieces of ourselves. As we write, our hearts have soared with our character’s triumphs and wilted in their defeats. We live and die in those moments as we should. If we aren’t emotionally invested in what we write, then it’ll never resonate the way we want it to with our readers.

However, there is an important point in the creative process that needs to be addressed. In the course of creating, we cannot allow ourselves to be swallowed by the myth. If we do, if we succumb to the notion that somewhere in the sea of words, there is perfection, then we will never finish the manuscript. We will forever seek the perfect word or turn of phrase or witty banter and we will smother the flickering flame of what made our story truly shine.

In the process of finding the perfect word we can choke the life out of a perfectly good manuscript.

Now, I’m not saying don’t edit. We all need to edit (and love every minute of it, right?) but what I’m suggesting is instead making five hundred editing passes on the same manuscript let it go at five. I’m sure that might’ve send some of you screaming for the exit doors and that’s okay. We all have method to our madness and if yours is to edit it five hundred times then go for it. I think the manuscript will suffer for it though.

Just get the words down and finish the draft. Messy or not. Get it down.

I know some authors who agonize over every word. Some are great writers but they get mired in perfection and lose sight of what made the story great in the first place. In many cases, they can’t even finish the book they started. The one which had so much promise. That’s because they’ve choked the life out of it.

Get the words down. Let the story breathe. Let it be a little messy. Live is messy. Our characters shouldn’t be perfect either. Let the characters live and die on the page as they’re supposed to do. And somewhere in the course of all that, believe it or not, perfection will live and the story will thrive.

Always remember to write ON!

What’s so Important About a Tree Stump?

Writers are some of the most creative people on the planet. Everything around them is fuel for their inspiration. It might be the way the sky looks in the morning or an overheard bit of conversation at the grocery store. It might be something their kids said or a dream they had overnight.

They take the inspiration and create something out of nothing, whether it’s a character, a setting, or an entire story. And no matter where the inspiration comes from, writers have to use words to bring them to life. The movie playing in their head has to appear within the lines of prose in a way that the imagined becomes the real to the reader. They want the reader to be able to picture what they dreamed up inside their head, both in appearance and mood.

Sometimes writers get lost in getting the words down without taking a moment to think about how their words are perceived by the reader. Does the reader see the same movie? Do they feel the heartache of a breakup? Do they experience the joy of winning the heart of another? Do they see the landscape beyond the window the same way the writer does? Do they know what the monster on the bed looks like?

It’s important the author’s imagined world be conveyed in a way the reader sees, hears, and experiences them as they were intended. When they don’t, the reader doesn’t stay engaged in the story and the author loses them.

What if you were reading a passage like this?

‘I stumbled upon a tree stump in the woods.’

You’d probably imagine something like this, right?

Just a boring, run-of-the-mill tree stump. Not very exciting, is it? I mean who hasn’t seen a tree stump like that? But, what if I told you that’s not even close to the tree stump I stumbled across.

Let’s try something a little different.

‘Lost, wandering in the thick woods for hours, I stumbled across something of nightmares, a stump with a twisted frenzy of tentacles grabbing at the earth, trying to pull the insatiable, squid-like beast into the light of day, its hellish eye watching closely.’

The passage is a little more engaging isn’t it? And after reading it, your mind isn’t filled with the first image above is it?

Writers need to always keep in mind how their work reads to others, which is why it’s important to have other people give feedback on the work. Whether it’s friends, other writers, or beta-readers, their opinions and feedback can be invaluable to the writers to ensure the intended picture they imagined and painted with words doesn’t read like an ordinary, boring tree stump.

The Magic Bullet

What is the magic bullet? Haven’t you heard? It’s the super-secret way all successful authors have to get published. You learn about the magic bullet the same day the SAC teaches you the secret handshake. What’s the SAC? Well, it’s the Secret Authors Coalition of course. If you don’t know about the secret handshake or the magic bullet, you obviously are not a successful author.

Yes, I’m kidding. Don’t go Googling ‘magic bullet’ and ‘SAC’. I cannot promise the search results that might come back if you do.

It would be nice if there was an SAC and a magic bullet, wouldn’t it? I mean, if everybody could have that knowledge then every author out there would be successful, wracking up the publishing credits and becoming a best-selling author, right?

Right.

The only problem is there is no magic bullet, no super-secret handshake, and no SAC.

But hold on. There is still hope. Don’t go running off to cry in the corner.

If you are a new author who is finally ready to begin submitting work and hoping to get that precious first publishing credit, you might feel like you’re navigating a dark warehouse with just your cell phone for a flashlight. It doesn’t illuminate much and your progress is slow. You keep bumping into things you can’t see and getting frustrated. It is a learning experience like no other and no instruction manual to go with it.

The good news is, even without a guidebook, anyone can be successful as a writer. Every writer has a different concept of success. Some, merely want to finish a story or their first book while others want to have their story published online or in print. For some, success is selling their first short story and getting their first royalty check. And still, other writers want to make a living putting words down on paper. The writer needs to define their version of success.

When writers get brave enough to start submitting their work, all the anxiety they’ve kept in check while shaping the story and getting it ready escapes. Is my writing good enough to be published? Will anyone want to read my story?

All of those are valid questions. Writers can spend hours upon hours poring over their work trying to make it perfect before sending it out. Well, I have news for you, it never will be perfect. There are always improvements that can be made. I know some writers who struggle so much with making it perfect, they choke the life out of the piece. Sometimes, it is better to give it legs before it gets killed during editing. There are no perfect drafts, there are merely finished drafts with hope.

So, I have a confession to make. I lied when I said there is no magic bullet.

What is it?

You’re probably not going to like the answer. The magic bullet is simply hard work coupled with never giving up. Keep writing. Keep improving. Keep submitting. You will learn as you go and the lessons you learn will guide you, the cell phone flashlight growing stronger, the darkness of the warehouse slowly dissipating. The publishing doors will open eventually and when they do you can feel the joy of having a first publishing credit.

And then the second.

And the third.

You get the idea.

Don’t get discouraged.

We are all in this together.

Stop reading this stupid blog post and get back to writing.

And always remember to write ON!

Short Story Free to Read!

2015 Story of the Year Award from FictionMagazines.com

MR. GARRET’S INTERVIEW

by

David J. Gibbs

@Copyright 2015

Garret watched her shift in the chair, apparently not liking the way the arms embraced her. Gladys took off her glasses and let them dangle from the chain around her neck. The elderly woman didn’t want to be here.

“Can you tell me what you remember from the other night?”

“Oh. You mean my spell?”

He nodded, hoping she would just naturally start talking. He didn’t want to coax her too much. It would make the interview look unnatural and forced.

“Well, I awoke on the nightstand.”

She paused for apparent effect. He motioned for her to continue. After clearing her throat, she spoke.

“I honestly don’t know how it happened. I’ve been paralyzed from the waist down for over a decade. I’m not a young woman anymore. The only thing still spry in this body of mine is my bladder and my mind. And I’m here to tell you neither could move this bag of bones up on top of the nightstand.”

“Interesting,” he said, tugging his earlobe. “Were you prone?”

“Was I what?” Gladys asked, the gray halo of hair picking up the camera’s light making it appear almost golden.

“Were you lying stretched out across it?” Garret asked, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees as he looked at her. It was just the two of them in the small room. In his experience, the fewer people present during the interview the more comfortable and therefore confiding the subjects were.

“No, I wasn’t. I was standing on the small table.”

“But, you just said-,” he began.

“I know what I said and I certainly didn’t stutter young man,” her words were an icy whip cutting through the quick of his resolve.

“I wasn’t suggesting you had, Gladys.”

“Good.”

“How did you manage to get down?”

“I didn’t. I stood on wobbly legs and had to wait for rounds to find me. I was so terrified I’d break something again so I just waited. Besides I was too shocked to try and do anything.”

“Of course,” he agreed.

“It’s when I noticed the boy in the reflection.”

“What can you tell me about him?” Garret asked with arched brows.

“He looks like someone I knew a long, long time ago. Far too long ago.”

That was the opening he was looking for and he took it.

“Who might that be Gladys?”

“You already know this. We’ve been over it already.”

“No, we haven’t.”

“Well, you got the reports from the staff,” she spat sharply, a bit of spittle glistening on her upper lip.

He continued, “Yes. Yes, I did, but I want you to tell me again so we can record it with the cameras.”

“And what good would that do young squire?” Gladys asked, her voice holding an underlying bit of laughter.

“I’m not sure. But, would could it hurt?”

She fixed her eyes on him and never once looked away, not even while she picked up the glass of water beside her and took a long drink. It was a little unsettling the way he looked at her.

“Can you tell me who he was?”

“You know I can, but you’ll call me mad and have me committed.”

“That’s not why I’m recording this and you know that.”

“He was my brother,” she said quickly as if the words were burning her tongue and wanted to get rid of them as quickly as possible.

“You never had a brother Gladys. There are no records of any siblings.”

“Of course not,” she said, her gaze fixed on some unseen point on the wall.

“How do you explain that?”

“Which part?” Gladys asked, this time in a coy tone of voice. He imagined her suddenly as a schoolgirl on the playground talking with the boys.

“How can he be your brother if you never had a brother?”

“When I was young things were different you see. If children were born and were unwanted, they simply were carted off to children’s homes or orphanages or reformatories. Left there with no explanation and cut off from the world to fend for themselves.”

“I see,” Garret said, not sure exactly why.

“Don’t placate me, Garret. It doesn’t fit very well on you.”

Garret couldn’t help but wonder what kind of a ball breaker she would’ve been back in the day. There were men all over the county that probably bore the scars of those days. He didn’t envy them at all.

“I wasn’t trying to. I was just trying to say that I understood where you were coming from.”

“How could you? Did your parents send your brother away before you were two years old? Mine never told me a thing about him until I stumbled upon the shoebox in the back of my mother’s closet when I was ten. I never even saw a picture of him until then. I had no idea.

“It’s when I found that box that he started showing up in places. He’d show up at the end of the aisle in the supermarket or on the opposite of a busy street. I’d see him but could never get to him. That bothered me at first.”

Her face faltered for a moment before tumbling down into a sea of wrinkles. It only lasted for a few seconds before the controlled façade was back in place again. He felt cold, not reaching out to her to comfort the poor woman, but he didn’t want to interfere. It seemed like she was right on track with the material he wanted her to talk about.

“It wasn’t until my twentieth birthday that he started to get closer. Instead of being across the street, he would be on the same side as me. Even so, he kept his distance, staying on the other side of a crowd of people at a crosswalk or in an elevator car. His pale face looked at me, his skin beginning to turn.

“I didn’t start getting scared until somewhere in my thirties. I found him outside my bedroom window standing in the bushes. Waking up to that face pressed against the glass, those fingers gently raking against the frosted glass. Still gives me shivers thinking about it.”

She took another sip of her water and Garret sat upright, using his hands to smooth out his worn jeans. It was hard not to let the excitement of the moment take over and start making his leg pump up and down. He couldn’t believe he was catching this all on video.

“Then by the time I was fifty he would be next to me and I could feel his cold breath against my face. It only took once opening my eyes to catch him staring intently at me that my heart would clench inside my chest. I had to turn away from him keeping my eyes closed before getting out of bed so I wouldn’t see him.

“The accidents started happening in my sixties and everyone thought I’d started to go soft upstairs, but it was him. He started to grab the steering wheel while I was driving or pull the cord to lower the garage door while I was standing there in its path. He lit one of the burners on the stove and even left the gas on all day once. Thankfully, I noticed the smell when I came home and aired out the house before starting dinner.”

Her eyes had that faraway look in them. It seemed as if she were in that time reliving what she was recounting from memory. Garret thought she looked decades younger in those few moments.

“I wasn’t quite seventy when the first serious accident happened.”

Garret folded his arms and started to nibble on his thumbnail, the excitement overtaking his resolve.

“He pushed me down the stairs. I could feel his quick breath just behind my ear and almost make out the words he was trying to whisper to me. I broke my hip and eventually needed surgery to repair it. I didn’t know it then, but that was the beginning I think. It was the beginning of my understanding as to what he wanted. I suppose it was then I realized that he would eventually have his day.”

“What do you mean Gladys?” Garret asked, almost before he realized he spoke aloud. He didn’t want his voice to break the spell. Thankfully, it didn’t.

“It was getting worse, but I knew then what he wanted. He wanted a playmate. All that time. Those seventy-odd years he had no one to play with. He was waiting for his baby sister to come and play with him on the other side. He was lonely. It broke my heart that realization.”

For the second time, he wanted to comfort her and held back his hand. He didn’t want to dare break the spell she was under while telling her tale.

“That sympathy, or empathy I suppose, changed the night Charles died. He didn’t believe me any more than any of you do that something was happening. My sweet Charles shared my bed and my heart for the better part of five decades and even he didn’t believe that I saw my brother. He didn’t believe in any of it, not even when the ladder shifted beneath him while working on the eaves of the second story. I doubt he even believed it when his neck snapped against the driveway, but I’m sure he saw him. I know I did. He stood over my Charles as I sobbed, his hideous likeness a beacon to the other side.”

The stern mask held this time, Gladys’s face a steady bit of stone this time. Only her eyes hinted at the turmoil raging inside her.

“Well, it wasn’t more than a week later that my next accident happened and I tumbled to the bottom of the basement stairs. Along with the pain of a broken pelvis and three broken ribs, I spent a day and a half crumpled, unable to move from where I lay, having to smell the fetid breath and feel the chill of my dead brother. I made myself the promise if madness didn’t take me that night, it would never have me. He came so very close to having his playmate then.

“I was in the hospital for almost three months and though the doctors did their best to repair the damage, I was in my eighth decade on this earth and I was forever hobbled. The canes and the walkers seemed to sense this and began showing up beside my chairs and couch at the ready. I didn’t like them much at first but eventually realized that without them, I wouldn’t be mobile at all. Chilling thought it was, I knew I had to keep moving or my brother would finally take me.”

She grew quiet and Garret stopped gnawing on his thumbnail now a wet red mess. He moved in his seat as quietly as possible.

“It wasn’t until the bus depot that I realized the inevitable. I had just come back from visiting my sister Ida Mae in Copper Toffey, Indiana. I hadn’t been paying that much attention to things, but I know I didn’t walk out in front of that taxi. He pushed me. His little hands at the small of my back. He pushed me and the taxi clipped me. Broke two vertebrae in my back and paralyzed me from the waist down.”
Her breath was coming faster and her eyes were a little wider than before. One hand clutched near her throat. He wondered what she was seeing or reliving.

“He stood there and tried to hold my hand. I honestly think that he thought he had done it this time. He was almost giddy the little bastard.”

Garret realized her breathing was even more labored, but he didn’t want to stop recording because this was the best interview he had ever done. He could see himself giving interviews about Gladys and what she said to him. This was going to be his big break. He could taste it.

“Well, he was wrong. I lived. I lived and he was still alone. And, that brings us to tonight. It’s taken him almost three months to build up his strength, but I know it won’t be long now. If he can move this tired old body and position it the way he did on the nightstand, there won’t be any stopping him. He’ll have what he came for and what he’s waited so long for.”

Gladys seemed dazed for a moment and blinked a few times slowly. Her ragged breathing continued to sound even more labored. Jaw lax momentarily, her hand balled itself up into a fist over and over again.

“I figured out how to beat him at his own game though. He won’t have a playmate after all. He can’t have me. No, he won’t have me. Not this night. Not any night.”

That snapped Garret out of his daydreams about television interviews and his imminent fame. He realized something was wrong.

“Gladys, what do you mean?”

“I took the liberty of taking some meds before you came Mr. Garret.”

“You took some meds.”

“Let me correct that. I took all of the meds. Every last pill. As you notice there are only empty pill bottles on the table,” she said, her words coming with more and more effort, a noticeable slur beginning to creep into the tone.

“What did you do?” Garret shouted.

“I know my Bible Garret. Do you know yours?” she asked, an odd smile crossing her lips. “He does too. He won’t get to play with me since I’ve committed suicide.”

“You haven’t committed anything. Gladys!” shouted Garret standing up and coming to her side as she slumped over the arm of the chair.

“I’ll be in purgatory forever. Not even his reach is that strong. No sir.”

Garret stumbled over the edge of the rug as he shouted for someone to help. The nurses and doctors rushed in but it was too late. She had ended the game.

A few minutes later a gurney was brought in and she was taken away. He reached for the button on the recorder to rewind the tape when something in the viewfinder stopped him. He blinked a few times and looked more closely at it. The blood ran like chilled molasses through him as the image of a small boy sobbing appeared in the corner. His face was covered with his hands, apparently sad that his game had ended, sad that he didn’t have his sister back as a playmate.

Garret felt a pang of guilt work its way through his chest until the boy dropped his hands and looked right into the viewfinder at him offering a chilling smile.

Rejection? I’ve Got Your Rejection, Right Here

Rejection at any level sucks, right?

You see someone you’re attracted to and ask them out, and you get the thanks but no thanks response. You interview for your dream job, and they go with someone else. You raise your hand to give a high five and you’re left hanging. All of it sucks. But the kind of rejection I’m talking about has to do with writing.

Your writing.

Your creation.

Your soul.

We, as writers, are an odd flock. I mean, surely you’ve realized that by now. And if you haven’t, you will. There is no denying it. No other vocation requires people to spend hour upon hour in solitary confinement locked away inside their heads, their own worlds, talking with people who don’t exist anywhere else but on paper.

Dutifully, we pound out words and sentences to bring these people, places, and things alive. We agonize with our characters, don’t we? We feel them at the worst and champion them at their best. At times, we will them to make decisions, but once fully evolved, they have minds of their own, becoming unwieldy bits of bothersome fodder to our tale. (It is magic, by the way, when that happens)

For some writers, it is enough to begin writing.

For others, it is enough to finish the first short story.

And others still it is enough to finish their first novel.

But for others, there is a need to be published, to let the world judge their work.

And it’s to the last group, I’m speaking. Writing is incredibly personal. Why? Because it’s flecks of ourselves, our pain, love, hopes, dreams sprinkled across the page for everyone to see. It’s a glimpse into our innermost secrets, the locked inner chambers of our minds and hearts.

And that’s why it hurts in a very personal way when we have our writing criticized and rejected. It matters not if it comes from our fellow contemporaries, our writers in arms, the ones who are supposed to be helping us improve and grow as writers. It hurts, even more, when our writing is rejected by the insurmountable wall of the publishing industry.

It is important to realize how brave we are as writers. It took a lot to bleed on the page for the sake of our art, to agonize over the wording, the tone, and mastering the proper voice. It took even more courage to submit a story to a publication with the hope we would earn the right to appear in print.

Some writers might say, “Oh, that’s such a shame.”

Others might say, “Tough tittie, deal with it.”

I’m kind of in the middle. I’ve been on the receiving end of brutal rejections, which stung for quite a while. I have amassed quite an impressive array of rejection letters from magazines, journals, anthologies, agents, and publishers alike. If you’ve been wading through the trenches of fiction publishing, I’m sure you have too
The important lesson learned–and it’s a hard one to swallow–is rejection is part of the writer’s growth. It truly is.

Think of the rejection as the publication saying right now, at this point in time, with this story, in this shape, the answer is no. It doesn’t mean you can’t write. It doesn’t mean the story sucks. It means, right now, it’s a no. So, leave the story to simmer, go back over it with a fine-toothed comb and submit it again.

The first rejection is always the hardest. For me, it took me about a week to get back to it. The writing I mean. Submitting again took me a little longer. But it became a rallying point. Other writers get rejected. Everyone does. It’s part of the game.

I’m incredibly stubborn. Ask anyone who knows me. I have Scottish, Irish, and German blood running through my veins. The only person more stubborn than me is my mother, the daughter of a U.S. Army Colonel. I didn’t let it deter me. When the rejection came in, I took it to heart and buckled down. It drove me to write better and to come up with better ideas. I began to read books on writing and incorporate things to improve. I read about how to better focus my query letter and how to word it so they would have a hard time saying no.

I began to submit more pieces, and although I received even more rejections, they didn’t sting as much, and I started to wear each one as a rite of passage.

Don’t let rejections get in the way of what you love.

So, join me. Wear your scars proudly and keep writing and keep submitting. The acceptances will start coming.

Never stop.

And always remember to write ON!

Sorry, No Shortcuts Here

A lot of people say they want to be writers.

Typically, these are the people who have taken a creative writing class in high school or a course or two while in college. Maybe they’ve watched movies, or read books, where the writer’s life is romanticized and fluffed into something unwieldy and unrealistic. No, we don’t all live in an oceanside estate, sipping brandy from a sifter, beside the fireplace, writing bestsellers. It just doesn’t happen that way.

If truth be told, most writers cannot make a living from their craft. Many times, they don’t make any money. The people who say they want to be writers have visions of writing the next bestseller at their seaside estate or mountain retreat. The people who say they want to be writers don’t understand what it takes to be one. You see, they envision the muse flitting about their head, whispering the next lines of their book. That’s not how it happens. It’s a wonderful notion, but unrealistic. They don’t see the late nights, the agony of each rejection, or the torture of wondering whether you can do this or not with every word you get down.

For the true writer, the ones who add words to blank pages every day, there is no romance to it. There is nuance but not romance. There is no magic muse whispering sweet nothings in our ears and no seven-figure contract waiting once our manuscript is complete.

It’s just us against the blank page.

We grind out words each day–sometimes painfully, sometimes effortlessly–but it’s a commitment like no other. It’s a commitment to ourselves that we can fill another page, write another story, and make another sale.

So, why do we do it? If there’s not much money in it, why do we write?

For me, it’s a need. It’s undeniable. I have to write. Even when I had a day job, I still had to write every day. I had to get words down. Even now, on those days when I can’t write until late, my fingers get itchy, and I get restless. There is something wonderfully cathartic about creating something out of the blank space of a white page. Characters, dialog, places, and events. All at my fingertips. All mine.

For those of us lucky enough to make a living as writers, there are no shortcuts. There are just words to create and stories to conjure.

For those out there who say they want to be writers? Stop talking about it and start doing it. Put the words down and fill the page.

And then another.

And then another.

You get the point.

Never give up. And always write ON!

It’s Not Your Muse’s Fault

It isn’t your muse’s fault.

I know some authors would completely disagree and, that’s okay. It’s their opinion and ultimately their loss.

The authors blaming their muse for their inability to continue writing are missing the point. They are overthinking it. Maybe they lack self-confidence. They worry they can’t finish the story. They struggle to put pen to paper to fill the empty spaces. Maybe they don’t believe in their abilities as a storyteller or as a writer. In short, they don’t trust themselves.

I used to be one of those writers.

After all, it’s romantic to think of a muse whispering the most incredible things in your ear as you frantically fill page after page of beautiful prose, right? Who wouldn’t want something as cool as a winged fairy to help them write?

I used to think the same way. I’d say I was stuck while writing a particular piece because my muse wasn’t talking to me. I’ve come to realize the muse is nothing but a romanticized excuse, a notion that isn’t true. It’s a crutch brought out when the writing gets tough. Blame it on the muse when the section of your book isn’t going as smoothly as you originally planned.

Stop giving some imaginary make-believe thing all the credit. The muse isn’t whispering the story to you. You are the one breathing life into the work. It’s your mind creating something magical out of nothing.

I once complained about my muse not cooperating. I said I was stuck and an author friend said, “Choke the bitch and put her out of YOUR misery.” Hearing that struck something inside. Once I took control of my muse and pressed the mute button, my writing output increased tenfold. I no longer doubt I can write the story. I sit down and write every single day. It’s liberating not having to rely on some pixie to open the story for me.

So trust me. Throw away the crutch and stop using the muse as an excuse. You need to trust yourself as a storyteller and as a writer and write the story.

Stop making excuses.

Take back your superpower.

It’s you writing the story.

It’s you that’s the author.

It’s you.

Write ON!

The Sting of Criticism

As writers, we all have a strong connection with what we write. Anything we create comes with bits and pieces of us. Every word, every sentence taking the reader on a journey we conceived by crafting a story is humbling and rewarding. It’s impossible to separate the author from the work and vice versa. That’s not a bad thing. It’s quite the opposite.

Think about it.

As an author, if you aren’t emotionally invested in the story as you’re writing it, how can you expect the reader to be? It’s as simple as that. And, because so much of ourselves is in our work, criticism can sting. A lot.

After all, we’ve taken this idea and built it into a story by pruning, editing, and polishing it until we’ve felt brave enough to unleash it upon the world. The reason for setting it free upon the readers of the world doesn’t matter. Maybe we enjoy writing for our self-satisfaction. Perhaps we’re hoping for a publishing credit. It doesn’t matter. In the end, it’s all the same.

When we let someone else into our world, the one we’ve created from thin air, the one we breathed life into, it can be a little scary. Their opinion can shake our confidence and wake up the self-doubt lurking in every author’s mind.

And that’s where a lot of writers struggle.

About five years ago, I started to focus on my writing. I had soured on the publishing industry and, why not? I had a best-selling novel through Northwest Publishing twenty years prior. I was on the bestseller lists with Stephen King’s Green Mile and Danielle Steele’s Lightning. I’d thought I’d made it. The owners of Northwest had embezzled millions and stolen from hundreds of authors. Inmeshed in a class-action lawsuit, I’d had enough.

I didn’t write for close to fifteen years. It was too painful. But, the itch came back. The idea factory wouldn’t let me sleep. And while I was recovering from the first of multiple neck surgeries, I cracked the laptop open and started again.

I began putting myself out there. I started submitting short stories to magazines and novels to publishers and literary agents alike. The treadmill of submissions, as any author can tell you, can be a daunting one. A proven track record doesn’t always mean a lot in this business.

I received a particularly harsh rejection letter for a short story entitled ‘Slippage’. It suggested I pick up a book on style and take a class on form and substance and that I should take the story out of my rotation of pieces to submit.

I took it hard. I loved the story, a first-person tale set in the late 19th century about an obscure artist and the things he could create with his hands. There wasn’t anything constructive in the rejection at all, nothing I could build on. What was I supposed to take from that? Self-doubt started to snowball as more rejections for other stories began to roll in.

It would’ve been easy to drown in self-doubt. I went over the rejections and realized these were just opinions. Everybody has one. And while I took the criticism they contained personally, I didn’t let it stop me. Some were positive and others negative. It’s important to realize who is giving the criticism. If it’s someone who doesn’t tend to like the genre you’re writing in, they might not be able to relate well to your story as well as someone who loves it. If it’s a family member, they might tell you everything you’ve ever written is genius. Most likely, you’re not a genius. They are just trying to be supportive.

I learned to take every opinion with a grain of salt. As a writer, you have to realize it’s impossible to write something everyone will love. You can create something some people will love, but that’s not the most important thing to keep in mind. You have to write something you love because when you do, it shines through the work.

In the end, the most important critic is in you. You have to have faith in what you write and confidence in your ability to tell a good story. Don’t let the negative reviews or criticism detract you from putting words on paper. Stay the course and keep writing. You’ll improve with every story, every paragraph, and every word you write.

Never give up.

Always remember, write ON!