A writer's gotta write... and occasionally speak too...

I spoke at my local library tonight. It was fun.

For sure the most difficult part of this book business (for me anyway) is the promoting part. Selling myself isn't something that comes natural for me--at all!

But it's part of it.

A few months ago I was talking to our local library's managing staff and she asked me to speak as part of their summer adult reading program. I happily agreed--but knew actually doing it would be an entire other story. A nerve racking, frightening story.

I planned. I prepared. Let's be totally honest and give credit where it's due--I also prayed.

I'm pretty much no one, so first I hoped people would come...

So many people I knew would come out and support me are out of town this week... so I prayed anyone would come.

Guess what?

They did!!

And most I didn't know.

Two very kind friends came and their smiling faces were seriously so comforting to see! My darling husband was there--I love that man. And then a handful of men from the community that I'd never met were there. All writers. A few of them came with pen and paper in hand.

And again I prayed that I had something to say that would be worth taking notes on.

I'm glad I planned. I'm glad I prepared.

But mostly I'm glad I prayed.

I hadn't made it through much of my written notes, when I set them down all together. I knew what I wanted to say and the men who came had questions and those two things together worked really well. Much better than me checking my notes and lecturing.

I am not all knowing.

No one knows that better than me.

But I do know more than I did a few years ago and I'm so happy to share what knowledge I can.

That, and talking writing with people who like to talk writing is really pretty fun--and helpful on the nerves. :)

So thankful for the experience.

Untouched: Chapter One

Okay... so, here is a sneak peak at my newest endeavor! I am so excited about this present tense YA novel!! 

It has 2 books ahead of it, so it may be 5 years before it's out there... but here's chapter one... just to tease you all.

Hope you like it! :)

Chapter 1

                The whispers are hard to ignore. Especially when I can hear a Thankful mixed in with their mutters. I’m not new to Glenrock—I grew up here. Seventeen years, same town, same people, but none of them know me, not really. I might as well have been a stranger, a newbie from some faraway place. At least then they wouldn’t know my name.

            Another, Thankful, floats into the air, and I’m pretty sure no one is expressing their gratitude on this early September morning.

            Clutching to the book bag my mother had me buy for this day, I walk through the foreign hallways, wishing I were home, at my desk, my mother my instructor in all things scholastic, spiritual and worldly. 

The lockers that run along the wall are a navy blue. I find locker 212 and drop my bag to the ground. Twisting the knob to the correct numbers: twenty-one, thirteen, eleven, I pull at the lever, but the locker refuses to open. Trying again, the blood rushes to my face, I can feel it burning to a pinkish red. Just open. Open! It doesn’t.

            “Can I help?”

            Looking over my shoulder, there’s a girl there. Her rectangular glasses are thick and black, but clear enough and wide enough I can still see her dark eyes behind them. Smiling, she blinks, and her eye lashes almost hit the edge of her eyebrows. Turning, I face her. “Uh, sure. I think it’s stuck.”

            “I’m Chelsea,” she says, taking the slip of paper with my combination from my hand. She twists the knob, not careful like I did, but fast, like this is her locker and she’s opened it a hundred times. Lifting the latch, the door opens. “You have to pass the second number—go around the horn again.”

            “Thanks,” I say, taking back the paper from her outstretched hand. “I’m Thankful.”

            “Yeah, the homeschooled girl, right?”

            I bite my lip. This is how I’ll be known for the rest of the year, until college. It wasn’t as if no one else in Glenrock had been homeschooled, but they’d all gone to public school at some point. My point was the last possible point—senior year. And I wouldn’t be here still—if it weren’t for Mom. “Yeah,” I say.

            “My mom never could have homeschooled me,” Chelsea says. “No way is she smart enough. I mean, she maybe could have handled English. But I’m in Calculus—Mom would have given up way back in Pre-Algebra.”

            I took Calculus last year, but I don’t say as much. I don’t say anything, because I don’t know how to respond to Chelsea’s accusation that her mother isn’t very smart—or smart enough. How does one respond to that? To agree seems insulting, to disagree—

            “Who do you have here, Chels?” Another girl I’ve never seen before asks. She’s with an old friend of mine though. Friends are few in my life. It’s not as if I have classes with—well, anyone. But Errica, I used to play with when we were kids. She lived on my block until her dad got a promotion and they moved to the upscale part of town.

            “Yeah, yeah,” Errica says, her blond hair has perfectly placed high-lights of red and dark brown. She’s taller than the last time I saw her, I guess a decade will do that. Her grown-up teeth have all come in and they’re straight—braces straight. “Who’s the new blood?” She bounces over behind the other girl and squeezes her way in. I can see her recollection when she sees me. But she still asks the question. I don’t know if I should say hello—call her bluff or just play along. As she said, I’m the new blood, so I stay silent.

            “Hi girls.” Chelsea smiles at them and points to me. “This is Thankful. Thankful, the girls.”

            Errica links arms with Chelsea, and I flash back to being seven years old again, when I wanted to play with her Fashion Place Barbie and she wouldn’t let me.

            “I’m Sonia,” says the other girl. Her hair is strikingly red, like a strawberry or the fingernail polish I painted Mom’s toes last night. And unlike Errica’s hair, I’m sure it’s her real color. “This is Errica.”

            “Hey,” Errica says, not meeting my eyes.

            I say hello and pull out my schedule. “Where’s Hunt’s class?”

            “Let me see your list,” Chelsea says, taking the paper from my hand again. I get the feeling that she’s the leader of this little posse. At least she seems a little bossy. Still, I like her. She’s honest and so far friendly. “What the—you only have five classes listed.” Errica and Sonia crowd around her to look at my list.

            “We have seven period’s a day,” Errica says, looking at me like I’m too stupid to realize that.

            “I know,” I say, my voice mimicking her why are you here tone. “I have one religious release period that I go home for. And I have enough credits, I don’t need a full seven class periods to graduate.” I wish I didn’t need any credits. If I weren’t so close, I wouldn’t be here at all. It’s not where I should be, not with Mom—

            “Impressive,” Chelsea says, and Errica snaps her mouth closed.

I’m not sure what brought on the hostility. When Errica and I parted at seven years old things were fine. In fact, in all honesty I’d missed her. I missed having any friend at all. I didn’t realize it—not until now. But as I watch Errica’s linked arm with Chelsea’s, I feel a pang of jealousy—like I did all those years ago for that Fashion Place Barbie.

“I’ve got Hunt for English too,” Chelsea says, pulling her arm from Errica’s. “I’ll show you.”

Hanging my jacket in the locker, I close it up. Chelsea says goodbye to her friends and we walk down the hall together, passing more ogling eyes and Thankful Tenys whispers. Chelsea hears them too. She rolls her eyes and makes a gagging motion with her hand and mouth.

“This school. Psha, this whole town. They’ll get over it.” She points to a classroom at our right. “I did not grow up here,” she says, defending herself. “Anything new, any change and this town goes loco. You know?”

I kind of shrug. I like Glenrock. I always have. The winters are cold and the wind is harsh, but I’ve always thought the people were… nice. Still, I can’t exactly deny what Chelsea says about change—I’ve never heard so many lips say my name. “How do they know who I am anyway?” I knew a few of them, Errica and a couple more. I recognized a few more faces, but most of them I didn’t.

“I heard about you when we moved here a few years ago. They called you all kinds of things—the shut in. The girl locked away by her evil step-mother. The girl too afraid to come to real school. And then there were others—I’m guessing the less dramatic, more truthful tales—the homeschooled girl who doesn’t come out of her house.”

Turning for the classroom, I laugh, finding the whole thing funny, of course I left my house. “Evil step-mother? Yeah, and I have mice friends and a couple of step sisters too.”

Chelsea laughs with me. It’s all so ridiculous and I’m glad she realizes that. “Is that so?” she says, feigning shock. “And I hear your mother is so deathly ill, you can finally escape her evil clutches and for the first time in years step outside.” Chelsea laughs again, but I can’t join her. Her words pinch my heart until I’m certain it must be bleeding on the inside. My mother is an angel. There isn’t an evil bone in her body. But she is sick—so sick she couldn’t teach me anymore. Sick enough that our lessons have turned into me cleaning up her vomit and giving her sponge baths. So sick I spend my days taking care of her and my nights trying my best to sleep in the crook of Grandpa’s old recliner—right next to where she lays on the couch. I wake at every sound she makes.

Chelsea doesn’t notice that I’m not laughing. She keeps smiling, keeps chuckling and then turns to wave to a boy in a letterman jacket, just outside the class we’ve entered. Turning back toward me, she swings her body around, bumping into another boy walking toward the exit. His head down, he never saw her coming, but with the hit, his face uprights, red and angry.

Jolting back, Chelsea holds up her hands. “Chill, Liam,” she says before he can speak.

Liam runs a hand through his dark hair and blows out a puff of air, a rumble escaping his throat as he does so. His hands clench into fists, and he storms out of the classroom, turning sideways through the door, so not to bump into a girl just coming in.

Taking a seat in a desk next to Chelsea, I look at her, my eyes without a doubt wide. “What was that?” I ask.

“Psha! That is Liam Gregor. He’s got more stories attached to his name than you—only unlike you, I’m pretty sure all of his are true.” Chelsea slaps the desk with her hands. “Arrhh,” she growls, shaking her hands like she might have kooties or something.

I can’t imagine what Liam’s stories might tell and I don’t get the chance to ask with Mr. Hunt standing in front of the class. He clears his throat and waits for attention. He’s large and bald—and looks nothing like what I think a high school English teacher should resemble. He should be coaching wrestling, not teaching literature. My knees beneath the table begin to shake.

Mr. Hunt is halfway through the class list—he hasn’t gotten to me yet, when I feel like I might vomit. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to do this. Forget friends—who needs them?

Springing to my feet, I shout, “I’m going to the restroom.”

Mr. Hunt goes quiet for a second, but not long. He commands attention and power like a wrestling coach too. “Sit,” he says, and continues down the list.

But I don’t listen. I can’t breathe in that room. Too many bodies. Too many whispers. I run, afraid that he’ll chase after me. Out in the hallway, I search for a bathroom and see one just a few classrooms away. Looking back, I don’t see anyone following me, still I race toward the bathroom.

The bathroom doesn’t have a door, just an open entrance that turns a corner to provide privacy. The opening is blocked though. The dark figure has their back to me. It must be a he, he’s too tall and broad to be a girl—at least any girl I’ve met. I check the sign next to the entrance again. Women.

“Hey,” I say, trying to be brave, but it’s difficult as I was just a coward who ran from my English teacher. “You can’t go in there.”

“I know that.” He spits the words and turns in a careful-like motion to face me. Liam.

I’m afraid, but with no one around to save me, I try not to show it. I stand tall—my full five feet, seven inches. “Then could you move?” I try to imitate the way Errica spoke to me when she told me there were seven class periods—authoritative.

The same growling sound he made when Chelsea spoke to him comes through. His eye brows are furrowed low and dark and his mouth is in what must be a permanent scowl. But he moves over. I scurry through to the safety of the bathroom, but I’m not alone.

I can hear the sobbing before I see anything. There are two stalls, and one is closed and locked—the sobs come from it. “Are…are you okay?” I ask. There’s no answer. I bite my lip and look at my reflection in the mirror. I look like any other senior girl at Glenrock High—but I’m not, and everyone knows it. Bending down, I turn on the sink, filling my cupped hands with water. I splash it onto my face. The sobbing continues and I ask, “Do you need anything?”

The stall door is thrown open, slamming into the wall behind it. “I could use a little privacy!” The small girl yells. She storms past me, bumping into Chelsea at the entrance. “Argh!” She screams. “Move!”

“Wow, people today,” Chelsea says. Looking at me she asks, “What’s wrong with her?”

I shrug. “I asked. You saw my answer.”

“Yeah, well, hormones. You know.” She walks over, standing next to me, and looks at herself in the mirror. Lifting her glasses she wipes under her eye, removing the tiniest bit of strayed mascara. “So, what’s your deal?”

“Oh, ah…” I’d planned a whole breakdown once I reached the bathroom, but with the girl already broken down and now Chelsea here… “I just needed to go to the bathroom.”

Chelsea turns to look at me. “Yeah, right, let’s go with that story.”

I blow out a sigh. “Okay, I got a little overwhelmed is all. So many people and that teacher—he’s… he’s huge.” I could hear myself proving everyone’s wrong theories right, and I hated it. Maybe I was the girl too afraid to go to school. I’d never thought of it that way. It wasn’t something Mom and I ever discussed before—it was never an option I was given and I was okay with that.

“I get it,” Chelsea says, back to admiring herself. “First year. You’re like the untouched. A kindergartener.”

“Kindergarten?” That was going a little far. I open my mouth to yell at her, but Chelsea starts to laugh and I realize she’s joking. “That wasn’t funny,” I say, but I’m already settling down.

“Sure it was. You’ll learn quick. Don’t stress. It’s not that terrible—all of the time, anyway,” Chelsea says. “Besides, I’ve got your back. I’ll clue you in right now. I’m funny—everyone knows it. Sonia is sweet. Errica is moody—and more often than not, pretty witchy.” She points to the door. “And Holly, well you saw, she’s hormonal.”

“So, you know everyone by their one-word-description?” I ask, thinking hormonal could cover every single teenage girl in the building.

“Yep.” Chelsea pops her lips. Leaning her back against the sink, she points at me. Bouncing her eyebrows, she says, “You’re untouched.”

I raise mine in return and look back in the mirror. My dark blond hair is pulled away from my face, running down my back in a braid by my mother. Chelsea doesn’t know how right she is. No friends—yeah, I certainly have never had a boyfriend—or much experience in anything. “Awesome,” I say. “Just what I need, more nicknames.”

“Hey,” she says, shoving my shoulder. “I am kidding. Besides everyone knows you shouldn’t call Holly hormonal—at least not to her face, she’ll punch you—and that isn’t a joke.”

“Well, at least she had her friend waiting for her. Maybe she can talk to him.”

Chelsea’s face scrunches. “Who?”

“Liam,” I say. “He was blocking my path into the bathroom before. He must have been waiting for her.”

Chelsea’s eyes are wide and she shakes her head. “Liam does not have friends here. No wonder Holly was crying. If Liam was around—she’s probably cursed.” She grabs my hand, no more joking in her voice. “Come on, Thankful, Mr. Hunt is waiting.”

***

I walk into Government five minutes late. It’s my last class of the day. After English, things went on the semi-decent side, until now—five whole minutes late. I’d gone to another class with Chelsea, then Sonia and then Sonia’s boyfriend led me to P.E. Brice didn’t see the need to find me an escort like Chelsea and Sonia had. If I weren’t clear across the building in the gym, I might have been fine searching on my own.

Miss Jackson nods me into the class, telling me without words to find a seat. But there’s only one desk left and it’s in the back—right next to Liam Gregor. I sigh, not really needing the glares on top of the whispers. Liam doesn’t glare at me though. He doesn’t even look at me. Sure, he scoots his desk-chair combo along the carpet until he’s a good three feet away from me, but he doesn’t glare. Shouldn’t I be the one scooting away from him? He’s the scary one after all.

Miss Jackson hands us information sheets and leaves us to fill them out. I don’t know where she’s gone, but the whispers and chatters begin the minute she’s out the door. The only people in the room not talking are me and Liam. I hear a whisper in front of us—again my name Thankful Tenys.

“It’s Ten-is,” I say emphasizing the pronunciation of my name.

The class goes quiet and the girl in front of me turns in her desk, looking back at me with deer in the headlight eyes—caught.

Her startled stare only fuels my courage. “Ten-is, you know, like the sport? If you’re going to talk about me, you might as well get something right.” Turning my head away from her, I’m looking right at Liam. He still doesn’t look at me, but a small grin plays at his lips, softening his face and all of its features. And I am stunned.

Liam Gregor is exquisite.  At least when he isn’t glaring.

Opening the Trench Coat

On May 23rd, (my 17th wedding anniversary) I had my first book launch. I was excited. I was stressed. I was pretty sure I'd ordered too many books. 

I could just see my family, my sister and my two girlfriends helping me, just sitting there with a pile of books in front of us and nothing to do.

Holy, I was so wrong. 

People are so kind.

And amazing.

And supportive.

And I was overwhelmed with joy!

I'm not sure how many of my friends and family would like their pictures plastered on the internet, so I'll only post 2. This one, because I'm pretty sure it shows how happy I was.

And this one:

My sweet sister and niece came to help and they were sooo much help! I was so grateful. Beck brought these T-shirts over and then they both worked for me!! 

This day was strange and exciting (getting to my title choice here...). I know it sounds dramatic, but then if you've read my book... you can tell I can do drama. Haha. Anyway, so, I know it sounds dramatic, but I honestly felt like this day was similar to wearing nothing but a trench coat and then flashing the world.

I was so thrilled my life long dream was coming true... but that also meant the world now would know what a hopeless, cheese-ball romantic I am. 

And I think I'm okay with that...

I am. 

Right?

No, I am.

It really is great. :)

The support has been amazing. The response has been amazing. People either really love it, or they are really great at fibbing. :)

Either way, I'm glad the coat is opened. I'm so glad it's out there.

Life goes on--it really hasn't changed much,

but now I can actually say I am an author.

And that just makes my heart happy.

Writing... it's a dangerous job...

I know what you're thinking-- writing? dangerous? Is she crazy?--or just that much of a coward?

Or maybe you're thinking that I should stop trying to be Jim Gaffigan, speaking for my audience. 

But I'm not kidding. Writing is a risky business. And not just because you get paid like crap for all the work you put in. But because you completely put your soul out there. You wear your heart not just on your sleeve... but all over, you cover your entire body with that heart.

It's weird and hard handing someone something you've written and saying--here, read, judge me while you're at it!

It can be fun... and scary--and nerve racking--and crazy.

I'm getting published--I'm guessing you know that.

I am thrilled.

I've been hoping and trying for this since age 8.

I want this to happen.

And yet, it's still kind of scary asking someone to read what I've written. 

I even freak a little about texts messages now. I am getting published, if I write out a quick text and I spell a "your/you're" wrong, I am so embarrassed! After all, I know better!!--I'm getting published.

I have these ARC books coming out, I need people to read them. I asked on good ol' facebook for takers. I couldn't believe how many people responded (thank you!) and then I clammed up all scared! 

What will they think?

What will they say?

Will they think I am a total cheese head?

And yet, in truth, I need honesty! I want honesty. Honesty, the good and the bad is what makes me a better writer... so I can't ask myself those questions.

But when people like my sweet cousin Wayne and my friend Marc and my kind brother in law Rhett tell me they want to read my book--it kind of freaks me out! 

It's a total chick book and they are a bunch of boys, I can't help but think--What will they think of me once they open that book?

Or my smarty-pants friends who read everything they can get their hands on. What on earth will they think of my simple little novel?

Or when my sister tells me she loves it--does she really love it? Or does she love me?

Or when my friend Fara tells me--No, it's not too cheesy. Is it really not too cheese-ballish, or does the girl just love me?

Confession- I know it's ridiculous, but when someone tells me they just read Chapter One on my blog (or anything at all that I've written!!)--I go and I reread Chapter One (or whatever) for probably the gazillionth time,but I read it thinking about them reading it and what they might be thinking while they read it.

Can you say over-thinking it? Yeah. That's me.

Or maybe just crazy.

But it also feels amazing when someone reads and tells me they love it. Or they need more. It's kind of a high for my cheese-ball dorky brain. And I either sit down and read what they wrote, or I write! Or most of the time--both. It fuels my creativity and I zealously get to work.

So, thank you for reading. Thank you for wanting to read. And if you're still with me, thanks for reading this rambling blog post. It was a little all over the place. That's kind of how I am.

Still thanks. And here's a sneak peak at LIKE HOME's cover. :)

What I've been working on....

This publishing stuff takes... 

well, let's face it

FOREVER.

Okay, not forever, but it's sort of starting to feel that way. And my publisher warned me when we got started, she said, "This isn't self publishing, it's going to take around 18 months to get your book out." 

I wrote LIKE HOME 6 years ago.

So, why does 18 months feel like such a long time?! 

It's been 13 months... so we're close!

Anyway, sorry--tangent!

My point was, I can't say I feel a super huge rush to work on my next project. The publisher already has my second book and they haven't touched it yet. So, working on this 3rd one--I don't feel the time restraints. 

Confession: I haven't even touched it since before Christmas. But I'm getting my mojo back and it's fun!

This book, Am I 30 Yet? is actually the first novel I completed.

I love the story--but it needs some major editing--being my first. 

So, that's what I am doing. A lot of rewriting.

Here's my rewritten Chapter One:

AM I 30 YET?

by me :)

Chapter 1

27 and 7 months and O so single

Shoving tools and paper work from the work bench into my old back pack, I ranted to Eve. “Can you believe Angela Bell?”

            “What do you mean?” Eve watched me with a scowl. “Hey, those are mine.”

            I continued to jam the crap around us into my worn bag.

            “Sam—Sam, hey—Sa-manth-a!”

            Looking up, I paused mid-shove and faced her glare. “What?”

            “Those. Are. Mine.” Hands on her hips, she rolled her eyes at me.

            “Oh, right. Sorry.” I took the last few items out of my ancient middle school pack and set them next to her.

            “What’s with you?”

            Slamming my fist against the metal bench, a clanging noise sounded throughout our work changing room. “What’s with me? Did you really just ask that? Were you not at the same retirement luncheon as me?”

            “Come on. Angela was fine.”

            “Fine?” I couldn’t believe Eve. Sure Angela was eighteen and sure when you’re eighteen you’re supposed to be a little stupid. I still can’t believe they asked her to speak—I mean, just because she’s Ray’s niece. “It was Ray’s day. His retirement. All she did was announce her engagement!”

            “She said she loved Ray, too.”

            I took off my boots, shoving them into my locker. Flipping the strands from my falling-out ponytail out of my face, I looked up at her. “Only because he introduced them! And did you hear what else she said? I’ve been waiting my whole life for this.” I couldn’t help the high inflection my voice took when mimicking Angela, or the gagging reflex that came each time I thought about it.

            Eve pushed my shoulder and whipped her head from side to side. “Come on, Sam, shut up. Her family runs this place, and she’s a sweet kid. You don’t want to lose your job because your volume level is stuck on high and you hold a grudge against anyone who gets married before age twenty-five.”

            “I do not hold grudges. I couldn’t care less. It was Ray I was thinking about.” She was right though, I couldn’t lose my job over Angela Bell. The Bell’s Lumber Mill was one of the few places to work without commuting to Jackson or Idaho.

            Leaning down, she whispered, “Is this about Angela…or is this about you?”

            “Me? Ha!” But my voice did that stupid high pitched thing again—making me look guilty. I slid into my street shoes and stood to follow Eve out. “We’ve got to get out of this town Eve.”

            “I happen to like the Valley,” she said. And I did too.

            Star Valley was a small community deep in Wyoming, far from anything and anyone else. Several tiny towns made up what we called The Valley. And Eve was right. It was a good place. A good place, with good people, people who married young and worked hard, people who filled their homes with children and values. I was lucky to have grown up here. But as a single twenty-seven year old woman, as much as I loved the place, Star Valley was like my own personal Happy Valley Hell.

            “I hope you like being single,” I mumbled under my breath. I regretted it the minute I said it, Eve was a whole year older than me. She hadn’t grown up here, but somehow she fit right in. And she seemed fine with the fact that she wasn’t married—or dating—and that her prospects were nil.

            She turned to take a peek at me before walking out into the sunshine. “I didn’t catch that.”

***

Sunday. Family dinner night. I was still itching with irritation after Ray’s retirement party two days earlier—now I would have to endure Nana.

Unbuttoning my coat, I opened Dad’s closet to hang it inside. It was my night to cook. I came early—maybe I could avoid confrontation if I was hard at work.

“Samantha, what is your age now?” Nana was like a super spy, I never even heard her coming.  

“Twenty-three, Nan,” I said, the closet door still blocking my view of the little silver haired fox.

Nana cleared her throat—a scolding sound and started in on me. “Let’s see, I am eighty-one, so that would make you…” Nana paused for a moment. “Samantha Blake, don’t you lie to your Nana.”

            Facing her, I placed my hands on her shoulders. I could see over the little lady’s head. “Nana, you are a very intelligent woman, you know perfectly well that I am twenty-seven years old.” She had asked me the same question last week—and I know the woman’s memory hasn’t gone yet.

            “Why would you lie to your grandmother?”

            “Nana! You know how old I am.”

            She continued to glare at me.

            Blowing a sigh through my lips, I hung my head. “I need to cook.”

            “You are right, Samantha. I do know how old you are. You are three years older than your mother when she married. You have a birthday coming. Soon you will be single and twenty-eight years.”

            “Ellen,” Dad said, trotting down the stairs. “Samantha knows this. You reminding her will not change the situation.”

            “What situation?” I turned, my hands on my hips.  Did he really think this was rescuing me? My two-day irritated mood was only getting worse. “There isn’t a situation.  Being single is not a situation!”

            “It is when your almost thirty,” Nana said, her eyes as wide as shot glasses.

            Covering my face with my hands, I muffled through my fingers. “That is not a situation.”

            “What’s going on? Situation?” My oldest sister walked into the room. Elizabeth: married Eric at twenty-three, right after serving two years in the peace core. Mother of two with one on the way—yes, she is a superhero.

            “Samantha refuses to marry.” Nana’s flamboyant hands flew through the air.

            “Oh.” Liza sighed. “That situation.”

            Scoffing, I folded my arms. “I refuse? Oh, that’s it Nana. I am just so stubborn, I refuse.” I forced a laugh at her ridiculous assumption. “Whom would you have me marry, Nana?”

            My younger sister plopped on the couch, just in time to hear my speech. “What about Robert?” Amanda: married her high school sweetheart at just eighteen.  Last year she and her husband Max adopted their first child.

            “Robert? Who the heck is Robert?” I was so glad the whole family could analyze my life—again.

            “There is no reason for language missy,” Nana said.

            “You know. Robert, junior year.” Amanda ignored Nana.

            Blinking, I stepped in closer to the couch where Amanda sat. Whispering, and hoping only she could hear me, I said, “Prom Robert?”

            “Yes. He moved back west, he’s in Jackson. I saw him in the grocery store.”

            “Really?” I said, sitting beside her. “I haven’t seen him in years.” The boy did look good in a tux, and he gave me my first real kiss.

            “I know!” Amanda sat up straighter. “And he is still so cute.”

            “Who’s cute?” Max asked, walking in carrying their little Jillian.

            “The catch we’re setting Sam up with.”

            “Ah, sorry Sam.” Max sighed.

            Scooting passed me, he kissed his wife hello. I smiled at the sight of my little sister with her husband and child. I loved my family. Fiercely. Which is why I never left the Valley. But watching their lives move on while standing still myself—well, it takes its toll. And I want what they have—I do. I just don’t know how to get my hands on it.

            “Samantha, I’ve had the most wonderful idea.” Nana appeared in front of me, her arms opened wide. “I will find you a husband.”

            “Ohhhh, no you don’t.” I stood and started into the kitchen. “Nope. No thank you, Nan.”

            Following after me, she said, “Of course I will, your sisters can help me. Your mother would have wanted--”

“Nana, I know. But if mom was alive today, do you really think her answer would be to have you, my Nana, search every corner of the state until you’ve found me a man?” I threw an apron over my head and pulled a pork roast from Dad’s refrigerator.

            “As a matter of fact, I do.” Where did this woman get her energy? “It really shouldn’t be that difficult. You’ve got her long brown hair and big brown eyes. She was always a looker. Besides, she would want you to be happy Samantha.”

            “Who says I’m not happy?” I asked, beating the meat with a tenderizer. But I could see it in Nana’s victory smile; I had already lost this fight.

            After a long night with my family, I left my sisters to do the dishes and came home to my quiet, empty apartment. Already in my pj’s, I lay on my bed. Picking up my phone, I texted Eve.

Me: Eve, maybe we should move.

Eve: In? Together? You’re my best friend Sam, but I’m too old for a roommate.

Me: No, like out of town.

Eve: Is this about Angela Bell? I’m not moving because your panties are all in a bunch over an eighteen year old getting married. I love you Samantha, now get over it.

Eve was right. I was feeling sorry for myself. Opening a half a gallon of ice cream, I flipped through the channels on my smart T.V. My insides hurt. My head pounded and all I wanted was a hug from my mother. Feeling like crap always had me pining for Mom, but she couldn’t rescue me. Mom was twenty-four when she married dad. I wonder if Nana gave her this much trouble.  Probably not, by twenty-five she had Elizabeth. By twenty-seven she had me and at twenty-nine she was done with Amanda. She had a degree in Chemistry, something I know nothing about.  She never had a career, but who could with everything else she accomplished? She worked harder than any woman I’ve ever known. But mostly, she loved her family--with every word, with every action, she loved us.

When I was sixteen, Mom got sick. Test after test, and then the diagnoses, colon cancer. She went from being sick to being a patient, to no longer resembling herself. And then she died. One night after almost a year of fighting, she asked Dad to gather us all around her, she told us each goodbye. Two hours later she was gone.

            It wasn’t even nine o’clock yet, and I was turning off my bedroom light to go to bed. Using my cell as a flash light to get back to my bed, I dropped it when it started to sing. Picking it up, I looked at the little screen. Nana. “Hello, Nana.”

            “Samantha, I am serious about helping you find a mate.  Keep Friday open, you’ll have a date.” My crazy dr Seuss grandmother couldn’t leave well enough alone.

***

“Why don’t you just get online like everyone else today?” Eve asked me when I told her about my apparent situation.

            “Well, that’s great for some people, but I’m not one of them,” I yelled above the noisy machines in the shop.

            “You’d rather have Nana setting you up?”

            “That’s not what I said.” I pushed my protective eye gear up off the bridge of my nose. “I’m just not a person who can feel sparks through a computer screen.”

            Laughing at me, Eve pulled another strip of wood through the router.

“Why don’t you take your own advice?”

Smiling, she said, “Maybe I will.” But I didn’t believe her.

I put my head in my hands. “We are going to end up old maids who work together, live together, shop together, clean together, eat together--”

“No we’re not,” she said. “I don’t like you that much. Besides, I already told you I wouldn’t move in with you.”

New Bio

Way back in the 3^rd grade Jen Atkinson was the only student in her class asked to participate in a new program for Wyoming: Young Authors. Maybe it was because she so often declared that she would be a writer one day. She wrote a sixteen page fictional children’s story that year. Since then she’s worked on multiple children’s books and a few women’s fiction novels. She loves reading a good love story, as well as those addictive Young Adult dystopians. Jen lives next to one of Wyoming’s many mountains with her darling husband, three sweet sons and trusty writing partner—her baby girl. LIKE HOME is her debut novel.

You can follow Jen at jenatkinsonwrites.blogspot.com

Knowing Amelia--> Prologue

This book is complete, but in the major first round editing process... by me, not even by my editor yet. But I love this book. Of the 3 I've written it's probably my favorite. 

If I have to work my tail off--I will see it published one day. But that day is far away. 

So, it may annoy you that I'm sharing the prologue now... with such a long road ahead. But that's the way I roll, at least today I'm rolling that way. :)

Knowing Amelia

by Jen Atkinson

Prologue

It was the coo-coos fault, or maybe the hard, creaking boards beneath me, possibly the heat from the sleeping bag I refused to leave the safety of. No matter the cause, I wouldn't be sleeping much. I knew I should have packed a flash light. I could hardly see the stack of books beside me, let alone read any of the words inside. The coo-coo clock on the wall had a pendulum that could have hypnotized me by now. Two o’clock. Three o’ clock … And then—

“Good morning sleepy head,” Mom sang.

When had I finally fallen asleep?

My baby sister skipped around us, already dressed and ready for the day. I looked beside me, Jared was gone, even his bedding had been cleared away. My brother always had been an early riser.

My hair pressed matted up against my head and my stomach turned in pain. I sat up, my eyes pounding with pain. I don’t know if I’d ever had a headache in my entire eleven years of life, but this one I wouldn’t soon forget. Yawning, I rubbed my swollen eyes.

Mom squatted beside me, her serious expression causing a wrinkle in the middle of her forehead. It didn’t look right, there- on her pretty face. “Are you okay, Olivia?”

“I think so.” I yawned again.

“Let’s get a move on ladies,” Dad said, clapping his hands so loudly my head spiked with pain.

Widening her eyes, Mom scooped her short auburn hair behind both ears. She didn’t like Dad being loud in Amelia’s house. That’s when I noticed her. Amelia. Sitting in her rocker, working on a crossword puzzle, in the same room where I’d just spent the night.

“Good morning grandma,” I said trying to be polite. She wasn’t an easy person to be polite to. Amelia had one layer to her—grouchy. Katie skipped passed me again. “Baby, stop it.” Amelia’s brow seemed to furrow more with each of my sister’s skips.

“That,” Amelia nodded toward Katie, “isn’t a baby.” She looked back to her puzzle, the angry wrinkles on her forehead staying in place.  

Glancing up at the coo-coo, I read nine-thirty. I’d slept too long in her opinion, I was sure of it, and Katie was much too loud and too old at five, to still be called “our baby”.

Mom stood from her crouch beside me. “Are you sure you don’t need anything Amelia? We’d be more than happy to stay and help out with any funeral arrangements needing to be made.”

“All of the arrangements are made.” Amelia started rocking, but didn’t look up from her crossword. There was no normalcy to her emotions. She didn’t smile after seeing my dad for the first time in four years, and I hadn’t seen her cry once about grandpa passing. She just grouched.

Nodding, Mom said, “All right then. Livy, run to the kitchen and eat breakfast. There’s a skillet with scrambled eggs on the stove. Hurry up. Dad’s ready to go.”

Jumping up, the jackhammer started again in my head. At once Mom went to work clearing away my sleeping bag. I scampered across Amelia’s wooden floor boards, making as-quiet-as-I-could taps with each step. I downed the eggs and gulped down a glass of juice, Baby Katie skipping circles around me the entire time, turning my head into a Ferris wheel. I ran up the stairs to change in Mom and Dad’s room but once at the top, I switched directions and darted toward the one bathroom in Amelia’s house, where I choked up all that I’d eaten.

Mom found me there. She helped me to my feet and into her and Dad’s room. Rolling back the homemade quilt, she helped into bed. Her cool hand pressed against my head before she left the room.

 “Olivia’s sick. I think I better stay behind with her.” I heard Mom say.

“Sick? What’s wrong with her?” Dad sounded annoyed. I could imagine him looking at his watch and tapping his shoe, his sightseeing waiting on me.

“You go on ahead, Shelly. I can take care of the girl.” Amelia’s voice shocked me and frightened me at the same time.

No! I screamed in my head, grasping the quilt and squeezing until my knuckles turned white.

“You don’t need to do that,” Mom said. “I can stay.”

“Nonsense,” Amelia said. “I’ll be here anyway and all she’ll do is sleep. That girl was up until four in the morning.”

How did she know that?

 “It’s not easy for everyone to sleep in a foreign home,” Mom said.

“Mom’s right Shell,” Dad said. “Livy will sleep, and Mom will be here if she needs something.”

Traitor.

“I don’t know—“

But Amelia interrupted her. “Nonsense!” she said again. I had the feeling she wanted her nice, quiet house back. If Mom had stayed, she would have forced Grandma into conversation.

“Well, if you’re sure. I’ll just let her know then.”

The door creaked as Mom pushed it open wider. “Livy, sweetheart—”

“I heard,” I grouched, reminding myself of Amelia. “You’re leaving. You’re going to Cody without me.”

“Ah honey, did you really stay up until four?”

How could Mom leave me there? Did we really know what Amelia was capable of—besides grouchiness? There had to be a reason we never came here. And—“How did she know I was up?”

“Maybe she couldn’t sleep either. I don’t know. But if that’s true, then all you need to feel better is rest. Sleep, and if we’re not back when you wake, you can read your books.”

I shrugged my shoulders pretending not to care, but really that plan didn’t sound half bad. Who cared about seeing a few historical sites? Romeo was just outside Juliet’s window.

Once my family left, it didn’t take long for sleep to overtake me. When I awoke, the clock told me I’d slept only an hour. It had to be Amelia’s house. It wouldn’t let me sleep.

Walking over to the one window in the room, I looked up to see just how high the elm tree outside stretched. It was my favorite part of Amelia’s. It was tall and beautiful and never grouchy. Then looking back down again, I spotted a curly, dark haired boy on the grass. He dribbled a soccer ball between his feet in Grandma’s yard. He started to laugh, and I smiled down at him as I watched. He kicked the ball, flinging it high into the air. He jumped and hit the black and white ball with his head. It hit the side of Amelia’s house.

“Logan Heyborn!” Grandma yelled.  Amelia had always been a hard woman, but I’d never heard her yell. It frightened me and at once I worried for the laughing boy.

With both of my palms against the cold window pane I whispered, “Run!” I knew the boy couldn’t hear me, but I couldn’t help it. “Run boy!”

She came into view, walking out into the yard, right under the lovely elm tree. Her cold stance and folded arms didn’t look right there, much too unpleasant for such a pretty tree. Her salt and pepper hair curled under at her neck and her head tilted, looking at the boy who now stood out of my view. I watched the top of her head, unable to read her expression. Maybe he had gotten away. I could sense rather than see her glare though. He hadn’t moved and she stood, piercing him with her gaze.

“Logan,” I could just hear her muffled voice through the glass. “When did you get home?”

The boy spoke to her, but I couldn’t make out what he said. And then to my shock, almost my horror, I saw Grandma wrap her arms around him, hugging the curly haired boy. He embraced her back. I gasped and jumped away from the window, but like a car wreck, I had to look back. Amelia kicked the soccer ball over to the boy. Picking it up, he waved and disappeared into the house next door.

Running back to my bed, a shiver crawled down my back at what I’d just witnessed. I couldn’t explain why it frightened me, except that I’d never seen her hug anyone, not even my dad. I covered my head and before I knew it, I woke from another nap. This time, afternoon had come. My head still whirled with the curly haired boy, had it really happened? I yawned and rolled back toward the door. There beside the bed sat one of Amelia’s kitchen chairs and on top of it a tray of food: a peanut butter sandwich, an apple, and a cup of orange juice. Maybe this would work out. It didn’t look as if I’d even have to speak to Amelia.

I sat up feeling like a queen as I ate my meal in bed. Ready to read, I remembered my books all the way down-stairs, in the living room. I couldn’t sit in this bed doing nothing, waiting for my family to return. I wondered, if I kept quiet, maybe she wouldn’t notice me. Maybe I could sneak down stairs and be back to the safety of my parent’s room without ever being seen.

The creaking of the bedroom door seemed to scream through the quiet household. “Shh!” I hushed at it. I tip toed down the wooden staircase without much noise, to my pleasure. I easily crept over to the living room. There were my things, lying on Amelia’s old square coffee table. And then I heard it. A horrible blubber noise coming from Amelia’s dining room. I jerked my head upright, frightened by the noise.

Again I heard the weak moan, but this time accompanied by a cry, “Oh, Seth.”

Adrenalin filled my veins. Even with the fear of getting caught, curiosity burned within me. Clutching my book, I silently snuck forward.

Peeking around the wall separating the two rooms, I saw her, Amelia, down on her knees in the dining area. One of the wooden floor boards had been pulled out of place and now leaned against the wall, leaving a hole in the floor. I was grateful her back faced me. Her body rocked back and forth with grief. A small box sat beside her, its contents a mystery.

“Seth,” she cried again.

My grandfather had died, her husband of more than fifty years, it was understandable that Amelia should be crying, more understandable than any emotion she’d shown since we arrived. Only my grandfather’s name wasn’t Seth.