An Excerpt from My Latest Short Story

This is an excerpt from my latest short story, Simon and the Gift. It happens in the Hidden in Plain Sight universe, about 10 years after the novel I will be publishing on January 1, Reclaiming the Balance.

Simon Albee had never eaten of the Apples. He had rejected the ritual of belonging to Barn Swallows’ Dance, the collective he had become the sysop for many years ago. He had fought the Apocalypse with them, a low-key event for humanity to hang in the balance. Simon had almost died answering a call from InterSpace, where the Archetypes who could end the Apocalypse came from.
What made me change my mind? Simon thought of the years he watched the others with their Gifts, from animal empathy to spinning illusions. He knew why he didn’t choose to eat from the Trees. It wasn’t just that he didn’t trust things people referred to in capital letters.
He rejected the Gifts because he was afraid they would reject him.
I have always been weird. Neurodivergent was the official label these days; although that included people like Gideon, whose differences lay in the stability of his emotions. Simon’s differences were in how he dealt with the information flowing into him from all channels. He had come to terms with the sometimes overwhelming world, taking refuge in his office when he couldn’t take any more input.
Josh, the keeper of the Trees, had asked Simon earlier that week why he hadn’t gotten a Gift from the Trees. “I don’t like losing control,” Simon said, which was both true and a lie. He didn’t like losing control; he also didn’t see gaining a gift as losing control. A Gift was like any other new competence, and one worked to get better at it. But he, in his strangeness, would not get a Gift.
“I want to go in by myself,” Simon said to Josh as they stood at the edge of the food forest, an oasis of fruit trees and edible plants with a secret in the middle.
“We can arrange that.” Josh paused for a moment, and Simon wondered if he talked to the Trees in that moment of silence. The skeptic in him thought not.

As he walked through the trees toward the Garden, he heard a screech as a woodpecker flew overhead, then the clear, melodic note of a yellowthroat. Various birds chattered, and Simon wondered how anyone would think the orchard was silent.
Until he reached the clearing at the center, surrounded by the food forest. He had been there before, in the Garden with its two Trees, but only in a group. Once, the collective played an improvised concert in the Garden, and once or twice, they sought it in a group for solace. The place was as verdant, green upon green, as he remembered.
Now, the clearing stood in a stunning silence. He thought it glowed faintly, which he accepted without trying to explain. If he didn’t question, just accepted it in the way he accepted the noisy world, it didn’t disturb him. It just was.
He sat cross-legged in front of the Trees, thinking about how he didn’t move as easily as he did when he first arrived at the collective. It had been ten years, and he was almost forty. It was bound to happen. He stared at the Trees for some moments, capturing the improbability of ripe apples in May, one peculiarity of the space. One yellow and one red, hanging from branches as if waiting for him. That gave him goosebumps, because it was not rational. He dismissed it as another thing that just was.
He stood, slowly, and walked to the Trees. The ritual, which everyone at Barn Swallows’ Dance knew, was to pick one apple from each Tree and take a bite of each. One bite was all it took. He wondered if he would like the apples.
One apple in each hand. They seem on the small side, but they didn’t need to be large for one person. He sat back down with his back against one tree. He had forgotten, he realized, to ask the names of the Tree from Josh — their names always changed — and hoped that he didn’t spoil part of the ritual.
He took a pocketknife out of his pocket and peeled the yellow apple. From a young age, he had rejected apple peel; it was tough and had a bitter taste in his mouth. He took the peeled apple and cut it into slices, then took one bite. He remembered the first time he had eaten an apple; he was three years old. His parents despaired of him ever eating healthy food until they discovered he would eat apples without the peel. The apple tasted sweet and tart and juicy, and his teeth made a satisfying crunch as he bit into it. This yellow apple was that apple, that first apple.
He did the same with the second apple, the red one. The second apple reminded him of haroseth, the apples and honey and cinnamon of Passover. But then other things: it tasted the way mint smelled, and violets, with a touch of wood smoke. All things that he liked, but in odd combinations. He hugged to himself the experience.
Then, he took a deep breath.
He didn’t feel any different.

An Upcoming Writing Retreat

It looks like my summer vacation^* is about to end. I have a little over a week until meetings start. In fact, next weekend is my last weekend before school revs up. But I will have a writing retreat in Kansas City that weekend!

Writing retreats are when I spend a weekend some place with cafes where I can spend a good part of the day writing and where I can eat excellent ethnic food. My husband gets coffee and ethnic food out of it^**.

I’m working on short stories right now. The stories I’m working on reside in the Hidden in Plain Sight universe, to be published in a future collection. I’d rather write stories for competition/publication in journals and the like, but I don’t feel inspired. To read the first collection and get an intro to the universe, look here.

I will come back Monday just in time for meetings two days later. And the first day of meetings lasts all day and is followed by a picnic^***. Summer needs a last hurrah.

^*Such that it is. I work all summer, but at least I get to set my own schedule.
^** My husband doesn’t write anymore. I wish I could get him to write again, because I think he needs a flow activity in his life.
^*** The first day of meetings is not a picnic, however.

Back to Writing

I have arrived back home after a week of road tripping to New York Hope and back, and after a 14-hour nap, I am back to writing. I have a short story to finish, and then maybe I will start another short story.

I’m writing short stories lately because I’m all noveled out, and because I need some shorter compositions for entering for publication and contests. The last story I had published was in Fall 2023 by Flying Ketchup Press, Inner Child. This story answers the perennial question, “What if my inner child is a brat?”

I need some inspiration for short stories. Perhaps a trip to Starbucks, but not today. I’m still recovering from the trip. That’s life after 60.

Two days in a van did not yield any inspiration. However, a couple new developments in my writing life occurred, one good, one bad.

The bad first: A submission of mine on Submittable was rejected. I’m not surprised; I haven’t been able to find this particular story a home. Maybe it’s not a good story. I like it, but I consider myself a proud mom of what might just be an unlikeable kid. I get lots of rejections as a writer; I keep trying.

The good development: my niece is working on the sketches for the cover of my latest novel, Reclaiming the Balance, and it is coming along nicely. Looks like I have no excuses for not publishing it this January.

I don’t know a single writer who doesn’t have imposter syndrome (Ok, I know one who appears not to; he’s insufferable). We all take rejections hard, and when facing success, we feel like we don’t deserve it. I’m not sure why the insecurities but they seem like a universal.

I will keep on plugging, keep on editing the novels I have in reserve, and keep on waiting for inspiration for some short stories.

On the Road

I’m trying to think about writing as I sit in a van barreling down the rural road. I’ll be here for seven hours or more today and tomorrow, so I might as well be productive.

I want to write some stories not relating to my world (the Hidden in Plain Sight stories). They aren’t coming to me. I seem to be on a hiatus writing-wise these past few days.

If life plays as it usually does, I should get an inspired idea just as I’m in a place where I can’t write, like the middle of applying fake blood on people. I’d rather inspiration show up during idle time.

Wish me a brilliant idea!

An Excerpt from Kringle Through the Snow:

Wade Nelson stretched his 6‘4“ frame over the back of the chair, feeling the tension of a workday subside. He straightened up, realizing he’d made a spectacle of himself. He shrugged and peered at the laptop in front of him.

Wade wanted to type the notes down so he could keep this scenario with the others he had written over the years. To write a dungeon, he had to juggle the abilities of the players’ characters with the statistics of monsters, magic users, and weapon-wielders. The idea was to create a challenge, not annihilation. Sometimes the party got annihilated anyhow. Foremost, in his opinion, he had to come up with a story.

He looked up, remembered he was in the café. He had lost track of time and place. Looking up at the big clock, he realized he had little time before he had to go home to feed his dog. He still had plenty of time before Saturday, when he would try out this new campaign on his players.

He walked up to the counter, where Geena with her red braids stood at the counter. “I’d like another café au lait,” he said.

“Have you ever considered a London Fog?” Geena suggested, wielding a large coffee mug.

“What’s a London Fog?”

“Earl Gray tea, steamed milk, and vanilla syrup.” Geena smiled. “It’s your new favorite drink.”

“I’ll have that.” He rummaged for his billfold.

“You have a smudge on your nose. Looks like a big pencil smudge -”

“It is kinda like a big pencil smudge.” When his work at the battery factory brought him to the bays, sometimes he was in contact with tons of the graphite mixture that went into the cores of the batteries. He excused himself and went into the men’s room to wash the smudge, which turned out to be considerable, off his nose.

He saw medium light hair, very short, and a beard, closely trimmed. He looked, to his eyes, like an engineer. Which he was, a well-polished geek.

When he returned to the counter, his London Fog was ready, and he liked the smell. Maybe the London Fog would be his favorite drink.

He sat back at his computer and flipped through the pages of the book. “Is it time for the Aspect of Tiamat? I think it’s time for that, right in the next room with lots of tempting treasure. And some minions…” He saw the Chromatic Dragon in all its multi-headed glory and grinned. Hopefully, the party would survive.

He figured his players played Dungeons and Dragons for the strategy or for leveling up. To him, though, the game would always be about the role-playing. About the story-telling.

Satisfied with his progress, he packed away his laptop and books and stood up to leave when a woman in a kelly green suit halted him. “You’re Wade Nelson, right? I remember you from the Grinch auditions.”

“Yes. How did you know I was going to be here?”

“Kris Kringle — I mean Kriegel — at the toy shop. He told me you were a regular here on Thursdays. Can I talk to you?”

“Uh, sure.” They sat back down. Wade wondered how Kris Kringle — Kriegel — knew him.

“I’m Sally Perkins from Rolling Hills Improvement Committee. I wanted to tell you that you’re our Grinch.”

“Great, I think. I’m not sure what a Grinch is supposed to do. I was at the interviews because my boss picked me to represent the factory, so maybe you can help me. How do I grinch?”

“Well,” Sally paused. “Well, you are going to attend several community functions. Like the December Chamber banquet and Thanksgiving at BesMart, the parade, and the Charity Holiday Gala. In a Grinch costume.”

“I think you’re going to have to make me a new Grinch costume, then.”

“Why is that?” Wade hadn’t even noticed the clipboard on which Sally took notes, but there it was.

“I’m 6‘4″, a size 2xl, and I’m betting your Grinch costume won’t fit me.”

“Oh,” Sally said, writing. “I hadn’t thought of that. Let me get on that. I’ll see you later,” and with that, Sally had left as abruptly as she had arrived, and Wade had become the Grinch.

Now all he needed to know was what Rolling Hills expected of their latest Grinch.

Knowledge Base and Writing

There is a phrase among writers: ‘Write what you know’. The cop focuses on the precinct, the Parisian on Paris, and the college professor (like me) on college campuses because we have the details in mind.

The above examples all focus on settings. I want to focus more on the knowledge base — where plot points and themes are informed by knowledge of a specific area. For example, I have some basic background in disaster management. I teach disaster psychology and case management. I know how people do triage in a mass casualty event because I have had CERT training. Because of my training in disaster mental health, I can spot the psychological symptoms of acute and post-traumatic stress. (I want to emphasize that I am not a therapist or counselor, and that I can’t treat people with these disorders.)

I have written two books where mass casualty events come into play. One is Apocalypse, where an impending battle threatens to cause the loss of all the women of the world. Characters looking at that possibility project how they will react, with both despair and resiliency. In my most recent book, Carrying Light, two mass casualty events happen. Characters have to deal with emergency response, which includes the sobering truth that responders will have to leave some people to die. Acute stress reactions figure in both books.

When I use my knowledge, it provides more than just background knowledge and convincing details. It helps set the plot and the theme of the books. Plot points include recovering from working a mass casualty event; and themes include the toll that extreme circumstances take on those experiencing it. Writing what we know should, in my opinion, shape our stories to add to the realism of what’s presented.

Now, the issue of fantasy needing some basis in reality, or at least a consistent rule book, is an essay for another day.

A Little About Politics

I’m trying not to write a lot about politics in this blog, because it’s a blog about writing. But if you read my works, you will get the idea of my political stances. In my writing, they look like this:

Diversity is necessary for a healthy society.
Compassion, especially for those not like you, is a virtue
People should be free to express their opinions, but we should guard against hate speech.
Violence starts with words.
Self-defense is the only reason to inflict bodily harm, and even that is a last resort.
A society takes care of its vulnerable members.

That many of my stories occur on a pacifist collective (that still struggles with these concepts) might help explain as well.

Some might argue that this list is not about politics at all, but about values. But that’s where our politics come from. The political climate in my country (US) tends to act as if one side has values and the other does not, but this is not the case. In some cases I am a political minority (with my pacifism stance, as I am a Quaker) but in others I’m a pretty average Social Democrat (if we had that party in my country.)

I know it’s controversial for a writer to talk about politics, but how can we not? Even in a genre like fantasy, where supposedly we’re divorced from real world matters, politics can seep into the writing. If you read me, it will be obvious where I sit.

Excerpt from Kringle Through the Snow

This is an excerpt from the latest Kringle romance, which will be published October 1, 2024:

Surprised by the visitor, Sierra DuBois stood up from her desk at the Venue Barn, where she worked as general manager and event planner. Sierra looked neat, from her shiny brown bob to her crisp white blouse and slacks, against the room strewn with fabric samples, receipts, and white tulle. The red-headed woman at her door wore an emerald-green suit and carried a clipboard.

“Sierra DuBois?” she asked. “I’m Sally Perkins, head of the Chamber of Commerce and vice-president of the Rolling Hills Improvement Committee.”

“Yes, please, come in.” Sierra noted Sally had already started walking into the office.

The two sat, and before Sierra could speak, Sally introduced her topic. “You know the city wants to start a fun little initiative with the community for the Christmas season. A Grinch initiative?”

“As in, green guy who doesn’t want the neighbors to celebrate?” Sierra had watched the animated TV special about the Grinch since she was Cindy Lou Who-sized.

“Yes. He’s a favorite among kids and adults alike. Quite the thing.” Sally looked down at her clipboard. “We would like to incorporate him into holiday events. He’ll already be riding the fire truck in the Christmas parade, and -”

“What happened to Santa Claus?”

“They’re on the truck together.”

Sierra couldn’t imagine they could both fit in the truck’s basket, given that Santa’s belly was quite jolly. “What can I help you with?”

Sally took a deep breath, and Sierra felt a bit of apprehension. “We would like it if you could incorporate The Grinch into your gala.”

“Oh.” Sierra said. “The charity gala. You know the gala is an elegant event that raises hundreds of dollars for community philanthropies.”

“Yes, I know. The Chamber donates to the setup every year. As I recall, Ray’s Liquors donates 75 bottles of bubbly every year.”

Seventy-five bottles of Cordon Negro wasn’t Dom Perignon, but it was still a hefty donation. And when someone receives that big a donation, one gives back. “Sally, let’s work together on this. How can we incorporate the Grinch into this gala without losing the panache?”

“That’s your job.” Sally stood. “I would hate to get in your way.” And with that, just as abruptly, she left.

The Tyranny of the 24-day Writing Streak

In WordPress, I click on the purple bell at the right corner of my home page to find the announcement:

You’re on a 24-day streak on Words Like Me!

I never intended to blog for 24 days straight. Normally, I don’t have enough ideas for 24 days in a row of content. But after the first four days of steady content, I found I didn’t want to break my writing streak, and so I kept writing. Now I’m looking at my 25th day, and I feel chained to my laptop for the next update.

I am naturally a competitive person, and the person I vie with is myself. Write a novel? (There was a time when I had never written one, and that was only 12 years ago at age 48.) Walk 60 miles in three days? (I’ve done that too, at age 40.) So that writing streak counter in WordPress makes me want to write another day.

The horrible part is that if I decide to not write one day, my streak goes down to zero. That didn’t bother me when I only wrote every other day. A 1-day writing streak broken doesn’t feel like a tragedy. A 100-day streak? Or even a 20-day streak? Much more impactful.

Oh, no! What if I run out of words?

My husband assures me I will never run out of words, as I have never managed to during long car trips. (He’s correct.) But what more do I have to say about writing?

I haven’t let you read any of my writings lately. That’s certainly one thing I could blog about. I haven’t written down a character interrogation lately, either. Or talked about any one of a dozen other things. I want to stay interesting, though, which is a pressure that almost equals the pressure to write another day. Almost.

I’ll write daily as long as I can stay interesting, and I’ll try to write about writing as much as possible, because I think it’s more interesting than hearing about my very uneventful life.