The singer, who died a few days ago, had a way of making those words spear straight into you. You didn’t just listen, you ached.

One of my favorite songs is one of her most famous, “At Last.” This song ate me up during a time in my life when I felt it utterly described the love I was feeling.

I’m glad my “I’d Rather Go Blind” days are behind me, as that is sometimes the way that “At Last” feeling ends up. That one did for me.

I can finally listen to it now without feeling the misery of it. But there was a time when this song would force me to pull over my car, as I couldn’t see to drive anymore.

I’m lucky now. Today’s “At Last” moment will actually last. I’m getting married (again) in June. Let’s hope we can keep it going like this. Thank you, Etta.

• Crazy interviews!
• Play lists with parental warnings!
• Unnecessary reveals!
• TMI in every line!

I still have three slots left in the tour if you would like your little corner of the interwebs to be a part. Email me, and we’ll set you up with the details you need to host!

This is going to be a blast!

Soundtrack for this post: Bad Romance

Single Edged Blades is available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble and iTunes.

My Facebook family was instrumental in helping me develop the list that you’ll find in the e-book of Single Edged Blades: 7 Stories for a Broken & Angry Heart. Each story has a sound track and a thorough listing appears at the end of the book.

I’m going to put my top choices in each category here for your listening pleasure or derision. The full list runs from Punk to Country to Hair Metal — every genre. Feel free to add suggestions for other songs in the comments.

Misery

Rage

Revenge

You can pick up the story collection for 99 cents at your favorite vendor, Amazon, Nook, or iTunes.

But I do have plans for this year, hopefully on my timetable:

1. Complete Stella & Dane, my honky tonk romance that is a prequel to my published novel Baby Dust

2. Create a short story anthology of indie writers of middle grade light fantasy to benefit Dell Children’s Hospital

3. Complete Marcus Mender, the sequel to my published middle grade book Jinnie Wishmaker

4. Create an anthology of essays on loss by various leaders in the baby loss community to benefit a miscarriage/stillbirth organization

5. GET MARRIED! The big day is June 9 in Manhattan! Everything is already selected except the photographer. Sigh. The hardest part.

I hope your 2012 is eventful and full of joy!

I remember as a child, having a very clean joy. I was full of anticipation of presents and cookies and days off from school. In Texas, we never knew if it would be cold, or if we’d be wearing short sleeves, and I only recall one white Christmas in all those years living at home. In fact, I was lucky. Because my parents were young, my grandparents young, I didn’t lose anyone close to me until I was an adult, the biggest loss of all.

But the Christmas prior to the bad year was not too happy either. We’d been trying to get pregnant since March. Babies were popping up all around us. My parents finally knew not to ask anymore, realizing something was awry.

There is a picture of my husband and me that year, by the tree. I’m wearing a shiny gray outfit, my hair up in a bun, and I look perfectly miserable, annoyed that someone is taking my picture. I’m devastated to be around family, but grateful that babies are not appearing yet. Tucked just a room away, within the drawers of my nightstand, were sheafs of basal body temperatures. I was trained to recognize ovulation and pregnancy, but only years later, when I became much better at reading the charts, would I see what was happening. Early miscarriage after early miscarriage. Cycles that I thought were wildly erratic, going from 25 days to 45 days, were not normal cycles at all, but low progesterone cycles, failed implantations, and early losses that were not even picked up on the tests of those days, where 100 was the minimum hormone threshold for a positive (today it is 20.)

What I didn’t know as I took that frowning picture was that I was indeed pregnant. And that by some miracle, it would stick for twenty long weeks. But only twenty weeks. And by the next Christmas a new ornament would appear on my tree. Casey’s.

This year, Elizabeth found Casey’s ornament first. She tugged it out, puzzled over the name for a second, then realized whose it was with an elongated, “Ohhhhhh.”

She brought the little plastic soldier bear to me. “I think you should put this one on,” she said.

I could not have pictured this moment that Christmas, that one day one of my children would hand me the ornament bearing the other’s name. I just knew then that I couldn’t carry babies, and that yet another one in my belly that year, the second or sixth, however you might count them, was in danger. My high-risk doctor was hopeful that I would make it to 25 weeks and give the new baby a chance of surviving. But that Christmas was strained and frightening, and the holiday never returned to that purity of joy I had before my twenties.

Now, with two lovely daughters and so much to celebrate, I make sure their Christmases are as lively and pure as my own (although this year it looks like we might be wearing SHORTS!) Elizabeth hands me an ornament, but the pain doesn’t stick to her. And once I put it on the tree, and admire it for a moment, I also return to our task, decorating and cooking and wrapping, for a holiday that can be as merry and bright as I am able.

While I had not really planned to self-publish, this seemed like a great opportunity. I could always pull the book if it wasn’t chosen. But my novel for 9-12 year olds was indeed selected to be one of the first ten books in their program under their own imprint, Travis Press, and then I was one of five authors chosen to be spotlighted with an author page.

Within just a few days of their marketing push, Jinnie Wishmaker rose to the #2 most popular book in Youth/Young Adult and #120 in books overall.

I’m not sure of their plan for the book beyond this, if they will move the title to Amazon and Barnes & Noble. It’s all very new. If you’d like to stay on top of what happens with Jinnie, as this is a series that will continue in the spring, go hang out at my kids’ blog (I had to use a pen name for obvious reasons, given THIS blog. ) If you are a subscriber, you will get information about those books as well as the progress on Stella & Dane, and the short-story collection coming out in 2012, Single Edged Blades. Now that I’ve embraced the whole indie movement, I figured I might as well move forward with all the previously published things I have the rights back to, and get them out there.

It’s a very exciting time to be a writer!

Two kids. A split household. Two small businesses.

Sometimes you can’t see my sink.

Okay, usually you can’t see the sink.

But despite the day-to-day essentials of lunch packing, homework helping, books balancing, order filling, photo taking, and household managing, I know that what is most essential about me must also be nurtured. And that is the writer.

The trouble is, I’m the must-really-focus-and-be-bathed-in-silence kind of writer. I wish I weren’t. I’d love to be a put-on-the-headphones-and-shut-out-the-world type of writer. I’d also like to be able to write in short bursts, say, in between dropping off and picking up for trumpet lessons.

But no, I need to feel my time won’t be disturbed, to settle in. If I get on a roll, then sometimes, if I’m super lucky, I can keep that momentum, gliding through the day slightly above its rushed activities, doing what must be done but still keeping the story whirring in my head. It’s a delicate balance, much like riding a unicycle on a tightrope.

With people tugging at your elbows for a snack.

National Novel Writing Month re-prioritizes my world for 30 days.  I’m supposed to write 50,000 words. I’ve achieved that five times. Last year I only managed 35,000. (But I added moving to a new house and setting up a new studio to the month—priorities didn’t budge.)

All of my novels have started out as NaNoWriMo projects. I don’t draft by the seat of my pants, but using an outline. I always have a direction for my stories, so I’m not writing total blather. While often I end up keeping 15% or less of the November words, they still serve an excellent purpose. Several, in fact:

1. It tells me whether my story idea is one I want to live with for the next year through editing.
2. It gets all the “junk” out. We often reach for familiar story lines and overused character types in our first drafts.
3. It helps me find the “voice.” Slow drafting with breaks in between often means the character will pick up characteristics and mannerisms based on the new experiences and influences around me. Fast drafting helps me keep the voice consistent through the first version.

I never “come down” from the story. I leave my laptop powered up and open to the novel document at ALL times, sitting on the dining room table. Passing it keeps the action fresh in my mind, so when I sit down again, it all starts flowing, as if I’d never stopped.

Usually I take December off from the book. Most years the story isn’t done, as an adult novel is 80,000 words, so I’ll review what I did in November, edit the story line, make notes on changes, and finish out the draft by March. Usually by summer I have a good first draft, revised and rearranged, to start presenting to my critique group.

Stella & Dane, my current project, has been part of an experiment to keep readers involved since I’m writing a prequel to a novel just published last month. I’ve released bits and pieces of it, knowing that those scenes may not end up in the final draft at all, and certainly not in their current state.

Editing them, which is usually forbidden, has slowed me down just enough that I might not make the 50,000. But I’m very deep into this book, and the characters live with me now. And that’s the single best part of NaNoWriMo—immersing myself in a writing world, making it the first thing I do each morning, if only for 30 days.

This is my seventh year to do NaNoWriMo. Last year I failed to make my 50,000, and it’s looking kind of close for this year!

But my novel Stella & Dane is going well. I’ve got several hundred subscribers getting installments of the book. (You can subscribe too — you’ll get the e-book for free before it goes on sale in 2012 plus my super-deluxe stuffed-turkeyfied Thanksgiving edition has free reading from THREE novels.)

Now, I’ve joined the Smashwords Project! You can download the first three chapters of Stella & Dane (including two chapters I didn’t send to subscribers!) for FREE at Smashwords!

So, what you are you still doing staring at THIS page?

Go download some Thanksgiving reading for free!

Grandma asks for Stella, and she rushes over, hoping for a last bit of guidance about this dangerous new man in her life, Dane, and a bit more time with the one person she considers family.

_____________________________

Stella’s mother opened the door to Grandma A’s house, her face twisted into a warning. “This is probably going to be her last good day. Don’t upset her.”

Stella pushed past, pissed as hell. Like she would be the one to ever bring a moment’s grief to Grandma. That was her mother Vivian’s job. Vivian, who had screwed half the population of Holly while Stella’s father watched television. Vivian, who hadn’t paid close enough attention to one of those men, and he tried to get in Stella’s sister’s pants. Vivian, who decided Bible beating was better than dealing with her real issues.

Grandma A was sitting up, surrounded by TV trays full of beads.

“Grandma! You’re jewelling!” Stella set her bag on the floor, then picked it again, extracting a felt bag. She’d kept the pieces of Grandma A’s broken bracelet with her until she had a chance to restring it. She didn’t have all the parts.

“I am.” Her hand quivered as she tugged a tray to her lap, the beads nestled in the flocked partitions. “I have all my favorites.”

Stella perched on the edge of the bed and ran her fingers on the edges of the tray, the flecks of felt wearing thin. The colored rows of square boxes were filled with crystals, seed pearls, bone beads, spirals, balls, and shells.

Grandma A grasped Stella’s wrist as if divining a secret from her bones. “A new boy.” She always knew.

“Yes.”

“Have you made a bracelet yet?”

Stella reached for a spool of fine wire. “I was waiting for you.”

“Aaaah.” Grandma ran her hands across the rippling surface of the beads, as though she were reading Braille. “Usually you do them alone.”

“This one’s different.” Stella heard the words and wondered why she’d said them. Dane couldn’t be all that different. Cheated on his girlfriend already. Bad news. Totally bad news. She should stay away.

“He torments you. You are not in control of this one.”

True. “I thought I could use your help this time. For this bracelet.” Stella made each bracelet for each boy, just like some people compiled mix tapes. Each bead had its significance, an observation or a hope.

And when each relationship ended, she smashed them to pieces.

“Let’s start with the clasp,” Grandma A said. “Box clasp, subtle, gentle?” She held up a gold ball.

Stella shook her head.

Grandma’s fingers fluttered through the largest partition, full of metals. She showed Stella a silver loop on a hinge. “Lobster claw? The most secure, more functional than beautiful?”

“Nope.”

Grandma nodded knowingly. “I didn’t think so, not for you.”

She knew Grandma was thinking of Stella’s father. They had often talked about Vivian’s choice of husband, especially during the tough years, when strange men, not realizing Vivian was married, would show up at the house. Stella practically lived with Grandma A then.

“Toggle?” Grandma held a braided circle and a matching t-bar in antique gold.

“Too risky,” Stella said.

Grandma tucked the toggle away and laid three ornate clasps on the flat panel of the tray, where finished pieces could be admired. “S-clasps,” she said. “The most beautiful, simple, strong.”

Stella run a finger along each of them, two silver, one gold. “Possibly.” One of the silver ones had an edgy look, rows of tiny balls encircling the center of the “s.” She touched it again. “Especially this one.”

“I have one more,” Grandma said, reaching behind Stella to tug a tiny velvet bag from another box. “I have never used one like it. Unusual. Strange. Strong.”

She pulled the clasp from the bag. “I’ve had it a long time. I bought it on a vacation, from an old woman selling bone jewelry near the Grand Canyon. An Indian woman. She had the most beautiful Wampum belt.”

The clasp was a slide lock, one of the more elaborate types. Intended for bracelets with multiple strands, the slide lock had two pieces that fit together perfectly, creating one slender bar.

“Most slide locks are plain silver or gold,” Grandma said. “But this one is actually done by a silversmith.” She rolled it out of the blue velvet. “See?”

The slender clasp was still apart, each rod with three small hooks. Carved on each side were four stylized swirls, like the form a woman’s body might make if she curled up on a bed.

Stella picked up the pieces and fitted the slots together. They slid in place as smoothly as a caress, locking in with an almost imperceptible snap.

__________________

Subscribers will find out the signficance of the special clasp and how it will be important to Stella & Dane. Sign up!

The welcome email will include links to exerpts you have missed. And you’ll get the finished e-book of Stella & Dane before it goes on sale in 2012.

In the first excerpt, you met Stella, who wanted to climb the water tower during the day as a parting experience before she blew out of her small town of Holly, Missouri. Her plan to leave is delayed when her grandmother is sent home for hospice care.

Prior to this excerpt, Stella has met Dane at the garage where he works. Despite a pretty serious attraction, Dane’s current girl arrives to establish her territory. Stella isn’t interesting in fighting over a man, so she lets it go.

Chapter Five marks the first time we’ve heard from Dane in his voice. He goes out with Darlene, all the while knowing something has just happened with Stella, and feeling pretty wary about how his girlfriend will react to the threat.

_______________________________________

Dane bought himself some time by checking the other tires. He didn’t want to look Darlene in the face, afraid his withdrawal might show. She’d been all right for the two weeks since he’d come to town, and he’d made a show of keeping her with the gift. But her claws were out, and after Stella’s obvious interest, no doubt she’d try to sink them into him.

His boss seemed to understand, and instead of releasing him as Darlene had suggested, asked him to vacuum the car before he took off.

Darlene rolled her eyes and settled in a chair in the waiting area. Dane attached the wand to the vacuum, taking great care in cleaning the creases of the already impeccable seats. He didn’t put too much stock in women, overall. The one love of his life had run off inexplicably, and not even for another man. She’d just…gone. Didn’t want anything to do with him.

Dane shook it off. Five years gone. Screw her. Too immature, or messed up, or whatever. Water under the bridge. And if Stella made him think of Pam, then that was one hell of a sign. Run the other way, fast.

He glanced at Darlene. She’d been all right, not too clingy, just fun. He didn’t blame her for reacting sort of strong to Stella’s intrusion. In a town this small, those two probably had a history. She dug through her purse, extracting a nail file. Not so bad to look at. Interesting enough in the sack. She’d do for a time.

He shut off the vacuum. In fact, she’d do for tonight. Quite nicely.

__________

They rode the highway back to Holly. Dane had wanted to go somewhere bigger, and Darlene had been up for a bit of traveling on the bike, about an hour to the next town. To her credit, she hadn’t complained about the discomfort of the ride, even though he knew she had to feel it. She wasn’t used to the rumble of an engine between her legs for long periods. She’d be sore tomorrow.

Dinner had been pleasant enough. Small talk. She hadn’t brought up Stella, or been bitchy. She carried that perfume bottle in her purse like it was some great treasure. She’d pulled it out after dinner and excused herself to spritz it again. Not that she needed it. He might be regretting the purchase before long.

Summer was long gone, and while the days were warm, the chill of night bit his cheeks as they approached town. Darlene kept her face in his back and clutched him tightly. Girls wrapping themselves around him on the bike was one of the reasons he loved motorcycles. That and the view, and the smells. A bit of oil, lots of pine, the wetness of a hidden pond in the dark. When they slowed, he could catch that perfume. Hopefully it had faded a bit.

The sky over the treeline was a jagged field of stars. In the distance, he could make out the craggy outline of the Ozarks. He’d made a good decision, leaving Texas, his oppressive boss at the Harley shop, the dead mother. Ryker had convinced him at the funeral to come on up to Holly, start over.

He didn’t have much tying him down other than a girlfriend who’d pleaded that he stay. But he hadn’t relaxed into her, moved in any closer than he had to. Something kept him away, distant, like the way you approach a stray dog or an overheating radiator. So he’d moved on, using his mother and brother as the excuse.

Darlene tugged on his jacket. He turned his head slightly, and she pointed to a dirt road to the right. He nodded and slowed, turning onto it, dodging the worst of the ruts.

The road narrowed, so little used that the trees encroached on them, occasionally whipping across his face like a slap. He slowed again, but a break in the trees revealed a ramshackle cabin. He pulled up. “This where we’re headed?”

Darlene swung her leg over the bike, stiff and awkward in her steps. Not a complainer. He liked her better than he had even earlier in the day, or yesterday when he’d gone to the perfume place. Her hair was calmer now, the hair spray blown right out of it, now brown and long and flowing down the sides of her head instead of all high on top.

He killed the bike and followed her. “This yours?” he asked. No telling what sort of squatter could be living there. It looked like an old hunting cabin.

“My uncle’s. He off in Colorado.”

She lifted a flower pot, showering dead leaves across the porch, and extracted a key. The moonlight lit the face of the cabin, but barely. She seemed to know it all by feel. Dane figured she’d brought a man or two out there before. He didn’t care. This was about the here and now.

The door opened with a squeal that set his teeth on edge. She flipped the light, but it didn’t come on. “He often shuts off the power,” she said. “We can find the box if you want.” She turned, fumbling with something, then a beam of light crossed the room. “Or we can go by flashlight.”

“Works for me.” Dane stepped in the cabin, musty and dank. He stifled a sneeze and closed the door behind him.

Darlene took his hand and led him to a sofa. This place was a good find, actually, as Darlene lived with her mom still. Seemed like half of Holly was grown and still at home. And Dane bunked with his brother, who seemed to have a different woman there every weekend. He didn’t know where he even found them all. After a month, Dane still didn’t have a good sense of the town’s size, or the number of available girls.

 But without even a car, privacy had been tough to come by. Even though they’d been together two weeks, she hadn’t brought him here before, making do with quickies while her mom was shopping or playing bridge next door. Or taking over Ryker’s bedroom at their rundown duplex during lunch breaks. Maybe she hadn’t trusted him before, and wisely so, to be alone in the middle of nowhere. Changing her mind about it probably had to do with Stella.

__________________________________

Subscribers will find out if Darlene succeeds in knocking Stella out of Dane’s mind. Sign up!

The welcome email will include links to exerpts you have missed. And you’ll get the finished e-book of Stella & Dane before it goes on sale in 2012.