Keepin’ Those Plates in the Air

It’s January already, and I’m feeling the pressure of writing a new blog entry when my mind is in a zillion different places. A friend sent this picture of the beautiful area we live in here in California. It reminds me of Part 2 of my novel, Best Laid Plans(see Nov. 10, 2011 post), that I’ll be publishing this year—the setting is on two acres of unproductive vineyard land. Imagine you’re on another hill in front of this picture looking down. Great location for a recovery house for female ex-felons, right? How could a bunch of creepy things happen in such a beautiful place? Stay tuned.

So, that’s one excuse for not attending to the blog more regularly—I’m waiting for the edits on Part 2, and working with a cover artist to capture just the right imagery for a cozy mystery that doesn’t want to take itself too very seriously. We’re awfully, awfully close.

Excuse No. 2 is pulling together a band to perform my metaphysical blues piece, Start Where You Are Today, which will be performed in concert March 17. It’s thrilling to hear a bunch of notes I’ve put on a page, along with some lyrics underneath, transform themselves into a real song with the help of some amazingly talented musicians. I get all kid-in-candy-shop excited listening to them grapple with chord progressions and rhythm shifts.

And then, there’s learning new music for choir, staying in touch with friends and family, spending time with the greatest little grandtwins in the world. . .oh, yeah, and work—we can’t forget work.

One day soon, I’ll get back on track. Until then, please follow whatever creative inspiration speaks to you. I can’t think of a better use of time.

The Next Step

In my post dated Aug 26, 2011, I mentioned a sequel I was working on, The Next Step, the follow-up story to the novel I’m STILL shopping, Best Laid Plans.

In The Next Step, the residents of a recovery house for female ex-felons have relocated their digs from San Francisco to the rolling vineyards of Santa Rosa, CA. As much as they are moving away from a lot of bad karma and potentially dangerous legal entanglements in the city, they are moving to the peaceful, slower country life that intuitively seems to lend itself to deeper healing. They’re off to a rough start, however. Let me share a little of their journey(and, yes, I have wi fi in the cave):

Madigan, all two-hundred and eighty pounds of her, was stuffed into a red and white polka-dot swimsuit. It was mid-afternoon, the day after the women of The Next Step recovery house for female ex-felons, of which Madigan was one, had moved into their newly built digs in Santa Rosa. Their two-story farmhouse, on two acres of non-productive vineyard land, had been gifted to them as a tax write-off—a win/win for the vineyard owner and the women as well.

“Hey there, old woman,” Madigan turned her pudgy brown face downward, in the general direction of hell, to address the memory of their former benefactress, Florence, a wealthy octogenarian, who had run off with their bank account, gone into hiding, and put their original recovery house in San Francisco at risk. “Turns out your crazy old self is responsible for me havin’ a new swimmin’ pool. Hah!” she slapped her thigh for good measure. She stood at the edge of the lap pool and dipped her toes in. The California summer had warmed the water to a pleasant enough temperature, if you didn’t lollygag. Temperatures could reach the high nineties mid-day, and then drop to forty-six overnight.

Madigan tossed her beach towel onto a nearby lounge chair and lowered herself step by step, into the water. Squinting against the sun, she noticed a mass on the bottom, at the far end of the pool. She back-stepped herself quickly out of the water and glanced around frantically. “Hey! Help! Somebody. . .” she shouted back toward the main house.

Alarmed by the pitch of her voice, Shalese, the director of the recovery house, and Chandra, a street-wise resident with a bad-ass mouth, who’d been raking up construction debris, came charging around the corner of the house. “Effin’-A, girl, you better be drowning or something, yelling like that,” Chandra admonished.

Shalese, seeing that Madigan was safe, cut her pace back to a walk, and stopped where the two women stood, poolside. She followed Madigan’s finger which jabbed frantically toward the other end of the pool. “Come on, let’s go take a look,” Shalese said.

“Right behind ya—w-a-y behind ya,” Madigan muttered. Chandra jogged to the end of the pool, knelt down, and peered into the water. “Looks like rats, three of them,” she said.

“Rats? I almost went swimmin’ with rats?” Madigan crossed her hands over her ample breast, holding her heart. Madigan grew up in the Tenderloin area of San Francisco—she knew rats. It didn’t mean she wanted to swim with them.

“No problem,” Chandra commented, “they’re dead.”

“That’s strange,” Shalese said, squatting next to Chandra. “If they just fell in, you’d think they’d be farther apart. They seem almost tied together.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Madigan called out plaintively as she crossed herself.

“You’re not Catholic,” Chandra said over her shoulder.

“Can’t hurt,” Madigan said.

“I’ll go get the net and scoop them out, unless either of you has a better idea,” Shalese said to the women.

“I ain’t jumpin’ in to haul their sorry asses out of the pool,” Madigan said. “You could get the plague or something. We gonna have to drain the water out. . .” She rocked herself from foot to foot.

That evening, even though it was a weekend, and their regular house schedule was suspended, the ten residents and three staff met in the group room to process the afternoon’s events. Jenny, Shalese’s partner and second in command at the house, spoke quietly with Mab, Shalese’s ex-girlfriend and current staff member.

“We’ve been here a grand total of a day-and-a-half, and already something creepy happens. I thought we left all that behind us in San Francisco,” Jenny said.

“Along with our hearts,” Gabriella, who had overheard her, commented with a smile at her own cleverness. She spoke for all of them—no one had wanted to leave the city.

The suspicious deaths of several men who were coincidentally the ex-husbands of women in the recovery house, was one reason The Next Step had relocated. It seemed likely, but still not proven, that Florence and a band of her wealthy sociopath compatriots—with an agenda of righting perceived wrongs according to their own twisted form of urban justice—may have been responsible for those deaths. Florence’s vanishing act had brought the unwanted attention of law enforcement to the recovery house. The residents, as a group of formerly battered women, did not believe that the policeman is your friend.

“Baby girl, let’s not jump the gun,” Mab addressed Jenny’s concern. “We don’t really know what happened yet.”

“There were three rats, tied together by their tail, tossed into our swimming pool!” Jenny’s voice rose a notch on the panic register. “This was no accident.”

“No, not an accident,” Mab agreed. “Could be a nasty prank though. All the vineyard workers are guys. Maybe they just wanted to see if they could get a rise out of a houseful of women. You know, sort of like a hazing or something.”

“If this is their welcoming ritual, I’d hate to see what they’d do if they wanted to get rid of us,” Jenny said.

Thinking Out Loud

On Choosing A Cover For My Book (the picture won't make sense until you reach the end of this post)

I thought just writing the darned thing was the hard part, but noooo. It’s only the beginning. Of course, there’s finding the right editor to work with, a million hours of edits and revisions, locating the right publisher and following their submission guidelines to the “T,” playing the hurry-up-and-wait game for months at a time. Should I be fortunate enough to land a publishing contract, there’s the marketing aspect to deal with. How do I market my work out there in a world where books fill the shelves of bookstores, swamp the internet distribution sites, line the walls of coffee houses, even have their own nook in grocery stores—millions and millions of glorious books (not to mention the e-books that require no shelf space and are available at the click of a mouse).

You’ve heard the adage, You can’t tell a book by its cover? First appearances, however, speak volumes. If I’m not looking for a particular book, when faced with row upon row of books on a shelf, the first thing that catches my eye IS the cover—the color, texture, artwork, size of font are all absorbed by my book-hungry brain. When something catches my eye, I’ll read the first sentence. If that goes well, I’ll read the first paragraph. If that goes well, I’ll scan the rest of the first page. After that, if it’s priced properly, it’s a sale. If my eye isn’t caught, that precious first sentence we writers sweat over, lose sleep over, use up ink cartridges over, is lost on me.

I can’t be the only one who is visually seduced into choosing a book. With that thought in mind, I grapple with the imagery for the cover of my novel. Okay, so it hasn’t found a publisher yet, but as soon as it does, we’ll need a cover for the little sucker, pronto. Working title is, Best Laid Plans, inspired by Scottish poet Robert Burns who wrote, “The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley.” I remember my mother quoting this on a number of occasions throughout my childhood to address my frustration when things just didn’t turn out the way I’d hoped.

In my novel, there are points of frustration when things just don’t turn out as planned, by either the protagonist or the antagonist (or the author). So how do I “show” that? I wanted an image that I could use again, something recognizable, familiar, for a sequel perhaps, that would say, “Oh, I know that (fill in the blank image), it was on her other book.” I’ve always had a penchant for icons. My mind began its own brainstorming session while I was washing the dishes. Paper dolls, it said. Remember when we used to get hours of pleasure as a kid putting different outfits on the same paper doll? She wouldn’t wear the same outfit to the football game as she would to a tea party, right? Hmm. Different outfits, same “doll.”

My brain goes to funny places when left unfocused. A gray mouse, dressed in a pink tutu, holding a parasol overhead in one hand, and in the other a large wedge of cheese. Behind her, an obviously unsnapped mousetrap, minus the cheese. Someone’s best laid plan has gone agley. Suddenly, the gray mouse has become my paper doll, and I see a whole new outfit for the sequel, The Next Step. Picture Ms. Mousie dressed to the nines, high heels, fishnet stockings, maybe a little hat with a net, taking the first step as she descends a flight of stairs only to find that it ends at a brick wall. Very film noir.

But, I get ahead of myself (way ahead). Back to the first (still unpublished) book. Why a pink tutu? It’s sort of an inside joke. Consider it paying homage to a former lover. This woman fought tirelessly to obtain shared custody of her child after the break-up of her partnership with another woman (the biological mother of the child). The legal battles were unbelievably expensive. One of the fundraisers to finance yet another appeal, was a Dance Along Nutcracker Suite. My ex and two other extraordinarily brave butches donned pink tutus (how unlikely is that?) and danced across stage to the music for the Sugar Plum Fairy. Needless to say, the fundraiser was a smash and brought in all sorts of cash. That was a memorable example of someone dedicated to accomplishing something that was so important to her, she was willing to step out of her comfort zone—way out. The same is true for the protagonists in the book.

I wish I could share the image of Ms. Mousie with you, but you’ll just have to wait. There’s also the very real possibility that a publisher would put the kibosh on the whole idea—but it is a swell idea, nonetheless. I’d love to hear from other writers about their process of choosing a cover. If you are such a person, please leave me a comment.

Best Laid Plans

Chuckled at myself this morning as I hit the “Save” button on my sequel, The Next Step. It will follow my current novel being shopped around, Best Laid Plans. How cheeky of me to assume that 1) the first novel will find a publisher, and that 2) when it does, surely they’ll want the second installation. Maybe it’s just my Virgo-osity at work—I’m compulsively early, and not easily discouraged.

You’ll be the first to know when Best Laid Plans gets published—even if I have to do it myself. Here’s the synopsis:

Set in current-day San Francisco, Shalese is a thirty-ish, earnest, blue-collar social worker bent on establishing a recovery halfway house for female ex-felons. While writing her grant proposal, she meets and interviews Jenny, just released from prison. Shalese quickly realizes she’s interested in a lot more than Jenny’s story.

Jenny is a trust-fund baby from Ohio, who got herself in a peck of trouble when she accidentally murdered a neo-Nazi with the heel of her shoe. She turns to Shalese for help getting her life back on track, and finds her life on a track she hadn’t even imagined.

Florence, a wealthy octogenarian with a nefarious past and dirty motives, befriends them, the way a spider befriends a fly caught in its web, and offers to fund the halfway house.

The three work together to make The First Step recovery house a reality.

Things begin to unravel for the women in The First Step when Mab, a three-hundred pound lesbian bartender by night, PI by day, and Shalese’s ex-lover, looks into Florence’s past.

Murder, arson, betrayal, buried treasure, and secrets spice up the plot, along with the colorful cast of residents of The First Step. A cliff-hanger ending not only leaves the reader wondering about the role of fate in life, but leaves room for a sequel, working title, The Next Step.

See how I just sort of slipped that sequel thing in there? Stay tuned.

Gone

“Excuse me, do you work here?” the young woman with a toddler slung on one hip inquired as Jane opened the door to the waiting room to check for her Thursday, three o’clock client. It was 3:20.

“I do. Can I help you with something?” She sized up the woman—practically a child herself, undernourished physically (and no doubt emotionally) she surmised. Her limp, sand-blond hair was pulled back in a frayed-out cloth scrunchie. She wore faded jeans and a tee shirt that showed a pale stretch of belly. No make-up, no jewelry. Attractive in a ghostly sort of way.

“My therapist seems to have forgotten me...”

My client seems to have forgotten me. It’s a perfect match; come on in, Jane thought with an internal smile. “Who are you here to see?” she asked instead.

“Wendy. I mean, I could be wrong about the day, or the time, or something,” she apologized hastily, as if she were used to things being her fault.

The large-eyed toddler clung to her mother like a Rhesus monkey as she considered Jane suspiciously under eyelashes that were to die for.

“That just isn’t like Wendy. She’s as predictable as the geysers,” Jane said, glancing at her watch.

The young woman tried for a smile and failed. She looked at Wendy’s closed office door, then back at Jane.

“Would you like to leave her a note? I’ll put it in her mailbox for you,” Jane offered. “I’m sure there’s an explanation.”

The woman sat the child on the floor near her feet, searched through her bag to find paper and a pen. She scrawled a quick note, added her phone number and handed it to Jane.

“Thanks. I hope she’s okay,” she said as she gathered up the toddler, tossed her bag over her shoulder, and left through the front door.

Odd, Jane pondered, before turning to the back office where she left the note in Wendy’s mailbox. The young woman and toddler were quickly forgotten in her attempt to track down her own client who was a “no show” for the second time in a row.

“This is getting old,” she muttered to herself as the phone on the other end rang repeatedly.

At seven o’clock, Jane clicked off the Tiffany lamp, locked the door to her office and made a mental note to call Wendy. As she locked the deadbolt to the back door of the office suite, she noted the empty parking lot at the rear of the building where Wendy usually parked her Wrangler. Maybe it’s the flu, she reasoned. There’s a lot of that going around.

Jane ambled down the driveway to the front of the building and keyed the bike lock freeing her ancient Schwinn that was chained to the sign post. She secured her bag in the metal basket with a bungee cord she found in the middle of the street at the beginning of summer.

Natalie had just turned the Closed sign on the chiropractic office next door, and stepped out onto the stoop.

“Where’s you helmet?” she admonished.

“Haven’t found one yet,” Jane answered.

“Got a wing in the hospital with your name on it, girl,” Natalie called. It was a conversation they had several times a week.

“You didn’t happen to see Wendy pull in today by any chance?” Jane asked.

“Do I look like a parking monitor?” Natalie chuckled. “Why?”

“Oh, probably nothing,” Jane said. She waved as she pedaled off down the street, faster than a speeding turtle, Natalie’s favorite description.

The sun was low, but the warmth lingered. The scent of Jasmine hung thickly and mixed with dinner smells drifting from neighborhood houses. Her stomach rumbled as the scent of fried chicken wafted on the air, followed by pizza two houses later. The breeze played with her hair and she grinned with pleasure.

At home in her tiny California bungalow, Jane made wonderful dinner smells of her own. As the broccoli steamed, she sliced and heated some chicken, and forked a mound of pickled beets from a jar. She booted up her computer and opened a chilled bottle of Chardonnay. While the messages tumbled into her In Box, she typed a quick e-mail to her office mate.

Hey, Wendy, where were you today? Cute little thing was looking for you. Okay, so she was a client. You all right? Send.

Twenty messages—good God, she thought, as she closed down her computer. Jane poured herself a glass of wine, arranged the colorful food on her favorite hand-thrown pottery plate, grabbed a napkin and settled herself in front of the television. With the remote, she clicked on the Independent Film Channel. “Now this is life,” she grinned at Harley, her Tetra, who signaled his love and devotion by circling his bowl and blowing little fish bubbles at her.

Half way through Fargo the phone rang. Okay, so she’d seen the movie three times before, but still... She opted to let the machine pick up, but turned the TV volume down a notch to screen the call. Connie, who worked alternate days from Jane’s schedule, was on the line.

“Jane, if you’re there pick up. Put down your wine glass, turn off the television and answer your phone...” She was obviously going to wait her out.

“Damn,” Jane muttered, blotting chicken grease from the corner of her mouth. She wadded up the napkin and tossed it on her plate.

“Why don’t I get an evening of peace and quiet like a normal person?” she grumbled into the receiver.

“You’ve never been a normal person,” Connie bantered. “Where’s Wendy?” she cut to the chase.

“I am not my sister’s keeper,” Jane quipped, “but, funny you should ask. She missed a client hour today. Have you seen her?”

“Nope. She wasn’t around yesterday and didn’t return my phone call or my e-mail. That’s just not like her. Did she say anything about going out of town?”

“No. I usually cover for her. Maybe I’ll drop by her house on my way to the office in the morning,” Jane said.

“Tell her rent’s due at the office when you find her, okay?”

“Gee, how compassionate. Aren’t you a little worried about her?”

“I’m worried about the rent at the moment,” Connie said.

They hung up and Jane returned to the movie but couldn’t keep her mind on it. It was as if mental mice were skittering around in her brain. She had an unsettling feeling she couldn’t quite name.

“Mice do that to me,” she said to Harley. He smacked his little fish lips at her in understanding.

Wendy’s condo was ten blocks out of Jane’s way, farther by bike than by car, she figured as she puffed and panted her way up to the carport. It was empty. She chained her Schwinn to a metal post and walked up the front steps, glancing over her shoulder for neighbors who might be up and out at this hour of morning.

Five plastic-wrapped Tribunes lay at odd angles on the small porch, surrounding a potted Begonia that seemed to be suffering heat stroke. The Venetian blinds were down but not drawn shut, and Jane peered through the slats into the dark living room. On an end table near the door, a green light blinked spasmodically on the answering machine.

Without much hope, Jane pounded on the metal door frame. She lifted the lid of the mailbox next to the door and peeked in. Scrawled in spidery writing was a note on a recipe card: Wendy, I’ve got your mail. Call me when you get back. Bertha

Apparently this was the kind of neighborhood where people watched out for each other. Now, which condo belongs to Bertha, Jane wondered. She guessed Bertha didn’t know much about Begonias, and spotting the hose coiled like a dead snake under the window next to the house, Jane took the bedraggled plant back down the steps for a good soak.

Preoccupied with the plant, she didn’t notice the man approach her until his shadow fell over her like an eclipse of the sun. She turned with a start and flinched as if she’d been struck. He was huge. Eight feet at least, Jane figured, before she realized she was squatting on the ground.

“Who are you?” he boomed. The man was dressed in overalls with no shirt, and was barefooted. Copper red hair clung to his large skull in dreadlocks.

She got to her feet, the Begonia in her arms; bogish water sloshed down the front of her blouse and seeped down one pants leg.

Gathering her wits, she looked up at the giant, and said, “My name is Jane. I work with Wendy, the woman who lives here. And you would be?” The quiver in her voice belied her bravado.

“I would be wanting to change my clothes, if I were you,” he grinned, his face changing from predatory giant to overgrown imp.

Jane blushed, set the plant down and brushed at the debris that clung to the white cotton.

“Call me Bertha,” he said, extending a beefy hand. Jane’s eyes widened. They pumped hands for a moment, then he said, “She’s been gone since Saturday. Not like her.”

“No, it isn’t,” Jane agreed. “She’s been missing at the office. I thought maybe she was home with the flu or something.”

They exchanged phone numbers and promises to call if either of them heard from Wendy.

“Nice to meet you,” Jane called as she hopped on her bike. Bertha flashed a peace sign. “Live well, die with honor,” he shouted after her.

Strange, Wendy had never mentioned this neighbor to her, Jane thought. She wondered what else she might not know about Wendy’s life.

Being a Virgo had its advantages. There was a change of clothes in the closet at her office, a back-up for the unpredictable weather in the North Bay area. Jane ran a comb through her hair and sat down at her desk to check for messages. She pushed the Play button.

This is Deputy Sheriff Costa calling regarding a Wendy Philson. We have her listed as a missing person. I understand you have a business relationship with her. Please call at your earliest convenience.

Jane jotted down his number and collected the rest of her calls.
Missing person? She’d never known a missing person before. People in her life didn’t do that--didn’t just go missing. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. She expected a voice-over to say, “You are now entering the Twilight Zone.”

She gave a little shiver and checked the clock. Four clients in a row. She’d have to return the call to Deputy Costa later.

“Have a good weekend,” she called to her last client as he walked down the hall. The young man stopped dead in his tracks, his head swiveled slowly to regard Jane. A look of agitation twisted his face.

“Oh, no, Adam, that wasn’t an order—just a wish. You know, like I hope you have a good weekend.”

A slight smile smoothed the wrinkles between his eyebrows before he turned to step through the door.

Jane let out a slow sigh and shook her head. Back at her desk she dialed Deputy Costa.

“Is there anything you can tell us about your office mate that will help us locate her?” he inquired. “Like a phone number for the family?”

“Uh—well, no, actually. I’m not sure where her family lives. I’m not even sure she has a family,” Jane stuttered.

“Any pets that might be boarded with a vet or anything?” he tried again.

“Gosh, I really don’t know if she has pets. I’ve never been in her house. I’ve only looked in her window.” Oh, brilliant, Jane thought.

“Friends she may have checked in with?” he asked.

“I’m not sure who her friends are, come to think of it.” She was feeling increasingly uneasy.

“You really don’t know much about your office mate, do you?” Deputy Costa said matter-of-factly.

“Sorry,” Jane said. “Will you let us know if you find her?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Jane hung up the phone, sat back in her chair, and thought about how their group had formed. Connie, Megan, Patrice, and Jane had known each other in graduate school. They’d all gotten licensed within a year of one another and banned together to face the competitive world of private practice. Wendy was the last to join their group a year ago. She came highly recommended by someone, although at the moment, Jane couldn’t remember who. They said hello when they passed in the hallway, and they’d sat in business meetings together, twice. “Hmmm, I guess I really don’t know her,” Jane said aloud.

E-mails flew back and forth through cyberspace that night as the four therapists processed this turn of events. What was their duty to Wendy’s clients, if any? If she doesn’t return, what happens to her client files? Her furniture? When do we re-lease the office? What about the mail and the bills piling up? Should we change her out-going message?

Strangely unsettled by the recent events, Jane stayed close to home over the weekend, puttered in the garden, cleaned out a closet, baked a quiche—did all those grounding activities that helped her feel in control of her own small reality.

The following Monday, she hitched her bike to the sign post in front of the office, walked through the front door into the waiting room, and noticed Wendy’s office door ajar at the end of the hall.

Jane froze. “Burglar,” she whispered to the empty waiting room. In a panic, she backed out of the office, and inched her way down the front steps. She crept down the driveway, keeping a low profile under the windows on the East side of the building, and peered around the corner into the lot where Wendy’s silver Wrangler was parked in the shade.

“Oh, my god, she’s back!” Jane hollered. She jammed her key into the back door deadbolt and bounded through the mail room into the main hallway. The light shone through Wendy’s open door.

Jane, giddy with relief, rushed into the office. Grinning like a kid at Christmas, she said, “Wendy, you’re alive! You’re here! I’m so glad.”

“Wow,” Wendy said with a smile. “What did I do to deserve a welcome like this?” She looked up from her chair and studied Jane a moment. Something’s off, she thought to herself. Jane seems a little manic, possibly high on something, not like her usual sedate self.

“You’re kidding, right?” Jane bubbled. “Where on earth have you been? We’ve all been sick with worry. Your clients didn’t know what had happened to you. We didn’t know if you were coming back or...” she bubbled on until she noticed confusion plastered all over Wendy’s face.

“Uh, Jane—what are you talking about?” Wendy kept her voice even as she rose from her chair. She approached Jane cautiously, tried to maintain soothing eye contact like you might an injured animal. She’d never seen her like this.

“Oh, come on, Wendy,” Jane stared at her. “Where the hell have you been for the last week? Bertha didn’t even know where you were.”

“Who on earth is Bertha?” Wendy asked, trying to get a read on what was happening.

“Bertha—your giant neighbor,” Jane said, exasperated. “Your clients were calling and we didn’t know what to tell them. The Sheriff showed up looking for you...”

There was a tap on the door just then. Jane spun around to see Connie step through the doorway.

“Connie, thank god,” Jane said, her voice thick with desperation. “Look—she’s back,” she pointed wildly at Wendy.

“Were you gone?” Connie smiled at Wendy.

“Jane seems to think so,” Wendy answered.

Jane turned from one woman to the next and back again. “The rent, Connie. You said you were worried about the rent since Wendy was no where to be found. You remember that, right?” she pleaded. Jane’s eyes had taken on a wild, unfocused look. Her hands trembled.

“I banked Wendy’s check along with all of ours on Monday and mailed the rent Tuesday. What’s going on, Jane?” Connie glanced at Wendy who shrugged.

Jane’s knees buckled. The room swam and from somewhere far off, she heard a voice-over saying, “You have just visited the Twilight Zone.”


* Speaking of Gone, I'll be away from my computer next week, but I invite you to browse through my friend Nancy's blog. She just posted a wonderful piece on past lives. http://open.salon.com/blog/reluctant_earthling I think you'll enjoy it.

The Three Muses

This week, something a little lighter of heart. On the brink of self destruction, Winnie experiences an intervening force (a trio of angels? muses? guides? - you decide) that reroutes her life.


The hoot of a barn owl and her own reflection against the black night on the other side of the sliding glass door startled Winnie. Her hand jerked and Merlot leaped from her goblet onto the carpet where it was absorbed like quicksand by the cream-colored wool.

“Stupid chicken shit!” Winnie hurled at the night sky. The words ricocheted off the glass pane and splattered all over her.

“Get a grip,” she muttered to herself as she uncorked the bottle and refilled her goblet for the fourth time.

Winnie’s armpits itched and a rancid odor wafted up when she lifted her elbow. She yanked a cord and drew the vertical Venetians closed, and then stumbled toward the utility room for spot remover. Her eyes caught the slight movement, a shift in the corner of the darkened room.

Holding her breath, she took a step backward. The wood planks beneath the worn thin carpet creaked under foot and she froze. Winnie ran a hand along the wall until she reached the light switch, dreading, yet compelled to illuminate the bogeyman hiding among the Hoover attachments.

With a shaking finger, she flipped the switch. A glare of white light from the bare 100 watt bulb above her head flooded the room.

“Jesus! You could blind a person,” hollered the bag lady like visage in the corner shielding her eyes with a bony hand. She was older than dirt, dirtier than dirt too, it appeared. She wore a ragged housedress of faded indefinable print and a tattered musty sweater several sizes too large for her scrawny frame.

Her sparse white hair spritzed out in all directions. Her eyebrows, same color as her hair, were like two fat caterpillars napping above rheumy blue eyes that squinted out under heavy lids at Winnie.

“Who the hell are you?” Winnie gasped, holding one hand over her palpitating heart. “And what are you doing in my utility room?”

“Relax, missy, I’ve been sent,” the woman croaked as she stepped out of the corner, over the attachments, and dusted herself off as best she could.

“I’d planned to land on the porch. Guess I’ve lost my night vision. Call me Gwynyth,” she said, extending a liver-spotted hand with dirt encrusted fingernails.

“What do you mean you’ve been sent?” Winnie recoiled. Her nose wrinkled and her mouth tightened with judgment.

“Think of me as your guardian angel,” Gwynyth said. Her crooked smile was missing a few teeth. She dropped her hand to her side, noting that this woman was not the friendly type.

“I don’t need a guardian angel,” Winnie said in a huff. “And, if I did, I certainly wouldn’t choose you!” She pulled herself up to her full 5’5” stature and stared down her nose at the old woman.

“You don’t choose us, dearie, we’re assigned.” She took Winnie’s elbow and spun her around toward the bedroom door. “I musta really pissed off the boss to pull this assignment,” Gwynyth said aside.

“Unhand me!” Winnie cried out. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“You left a mess on the floor in there. Thought I’d sort of show you my credentials,” she said as she ushered Winnie, protesting all the way, back into the bedroom.

Gwynyth pointed at the blur of red wine diffused among the fibers of the carpet. “Spit clean,” she uttered. The spot vanished.

“My god, you’re a witch,” Winnie whimpered.

“Nah, that was another lifetime,” Gwynyth smiled amicably. I’m here to help you clean up the mess you’ve made of your life, help you with your problems, and stuff like that.”

Winnie brushed a stand of her own graying shoulder length hair back from her face. “I’ll have you know my life is NOT a mess, and I have no problems.” This creature was working her last nerve.

“Well, here’s one problem; your bed faces West,” Gwynyth sighed in disgust, shaking her head slowly.

“What’s wrong with West?” Winnie asked in spite of herself.

“Sun rises in the East. Hell, at your age, just to know you made it to the next day when you open your eyes has gotta be worth something,” Gwynyth cackled.

“At my age? I’m only sixty-two,” Winnie hoisted her chin.

“The Golden Hours,” Gwynyth continued, ignoring her, “ that’s what you want to be waking up to: sun rise; new day; fresh start; clean slate; all that crap.”

Gwynyth tugged at the cord and whipped the vertical Venetians open.

“Yikes!” she yelped at her own reflection.

She pulled, grunted and groaned until the rounded brass foot of the bed was aimed squarely at the sliding glass door where the earliest rays of tomorrow’s sunrise could not be missed.

Gwynyth wiped her hands briskly on her faded dress, surveyed the room. She lifted the ceramic goblet from the bedside table, slid open the glass door and heaved the contents out into the night.

“That was a perfectly good glass of Merlot you just wasted,” Winnie complained.

“Stunt your growth,” Gwynyth retorted.

“I’m sixty-two—there’s not a lot of growing I’m likely to do,” Winnie groused.

“‘Sup to you,” said Gwynyth. “A friend of mine said ‘whether you believe you can or believe you can’t, you’re right’. I’m here to convince you you’re not done yet.”

“A moment ago, you had me on the very brink of death,” muttered Winnie. She yawned and sat down heavily on the bent wood rocker next to the bed. This had been a very tiring evening.

“I was just messin’ with you,” Gwynyth said as she bent down to remove Winnie’s slippers. She turned down the blankets on the bed, fluffed the pillow and reached out a hand to Winnie.

“Beddie-bye time,” she said.

Too tired to resist, Winnie allowed herself to be pulled to her feet, and guided into bed where the covers were tucked up under her chin. As her eyes closed with the heaviness of sandbags, she decided this had all been a wine-induced hallucination. Things would look better in the morning. Across the room, the light clicked off softly and the last sound she heard was the shuffle of feet leaving the room.

Somewhere in the neighborhood, a rooster crowed. Winnie twitched the muscles of one eyelid, then allowed a crack of vision. A blaze of peach, melon, and mauve lit the morning sky. Before she could clamp down on it, a smile played at the corners of her mouth.

“Stunning, ain’t it?” Gwynyth’s voice crackled next to the bed.

Winnie jolted upright, groaned, rubbed her temples then collapsed back against a just-fluffed pillow propped against the head of the bed.

“Quick—what do you hate most?” Gwynyth demanded.

“Living a meaningless life,” Winnie said. Startled by her own vulnerability, she yanked at the flannel sheet and swiped angrily at the tears rolling down her cheeks. “Not fair,” she hissed.

“When you first wake up your defenses are down. That’s when I can get an honest answer out of you. By the time you leave the house, you’ve already got your armor on,” Gwynyth explained.

“Why are you still here?” Winnie groaned.

“Told you. We have work to do. Fresh start, new day. Today’s the first day of...”

“Don’t say it,” Winnie warned.

Gwynyth produced a bamboo tray laden with English muffins topped with cream cheese and marmalade, three crisp strips of bacon, orange juice, coffee and a multivitamin. A colorful cloth napkin was folded into something resembling a giant bird that stood watch over the food. The smell of hot coffee made Winnie’ stomach rumble.

“Eat up. The others should be here soon,” she said.

“Others? What others? You can’t just invite people into my home. My god, the sun’s not even all the way up yet,” Winnie sputtered.

At just that moment, a rumpled heap landed with a thwump on the deck just beyond the sliding glass door.

Winnie shrieked.

“Musta lost her landing gear,” Gwynyth mumbled as she opened the slider.

She watched as AfroDidee chortled, pulled herself to her feet, rearranged her face into a big smile and hollered, “Gwynnie!”

The two old women fell all over themselves in a clumsy, bear like embrace.

“Ya don’t look a century older than the last time we worked a gig together,” AfroDidee wheezed. “Creation sends her regards,” she reported to Gwynyth. “She got busted in a Save-the-Redwoods rally in San Francisco.”

“That girl always has a cause,” Gwynyth nodded respectfully.

Winnie, sitting propped up against the headboard, watched wide-eyed as Gwynyth and her friend entered the bedroom.

“Winnie, this is AfroDidee, Goddess of Luv,” she said, making a grand sweeping gesture toward the old woman whose steel gray hair looked like an electrocuted Brillo pad. She was dressed in a Go Raiders sweatshirt, and adult diaper covered with colorful Valentine’s Day stickers, and red sneakers.

Her walnut-colored eyes twinkled in her leathery face as she dipped a quick curtsey and said, “Hi-dee.”

“No—It’s Winnie,” Winnie corrected. “She’s wearing diapers,” Winnie stage whispered to Gwynyth.

“I can take ‘em off...” AfroDidee offered, but was interrupted.

“Oh, god no—please!” Winnie covered her eyes with shaking hands.

“I meant the stickers,” AfroDidee explained to Gwynyth, her voice apologetic. “You know, for different seasons.”

Gwynyth patted her arm. “It’s okay, she’s just a little jumpy,” she reassured her friend. They both regarded Winnie who was now squinting through her fanned fingers as if watching a horror show.

A rap on the glass slider startled the trio.

“Hey, hey, whatta ya say...” a voice boomed on the other side of the door. “...Open up or I’ll go away.”

“Fate!” both Gwynyth and AfroDidee called out.

Gwynyth slid the door open and pulled a stout old woman in a large straw hat into the bedroom. She wore a flowered muumuu and rubber flip-flops. Her skin was the color of hickory and her hair was died deep auburn like the last rays of sunset.

“Did I miss anything?” she asked, a righting the hat that had been knocked askew by the doorjamb.

“This here’s Winnie,” AfroDidee pointed to the woman who had pulled the quilt up under chin and held it there with a death grip.

“Fate’s the name, intervention’s the game,” she said by way of introduction. She turned to Gwynyth and said, “What’s wrong with her?” She crooked her head to once side then the other, studying Winnie from different angles.

“Nothing’s wrong with me except I have a room full of lunatics and I haven’t even had breakfast,” Winnie squawked.

Fate munched thoughtfully on a marmalade-spread muffin.

“I think we need a game plan,” she said. “Did she come with instructions?”

“Why me?” Winnie moaned. “Why not Mrs. Rosenblatz down the block?”

“Mrs. Rosenblatz doesn’t hate her work and drink herself silly at night or spend her weekends watching bad television all by herself with the blinds pulled,” Gwynyth explained in a reasonable voice.

“Can I help it if I’m trapped in a crappy job? I don’t have a college degree and I couldn’t run a computer if my life depended on it. My lousy ex-husband left me penniless, the bum. If I had any money, I’d retire. If I had any sense, I’d kill myself,” Winnie ranted. “So I drink a little bit at night to brace myself for the next day. So what?” she challenged.

“Hey, you are the weaver, you are the web,” AfroDidee offered.

“What on earth is that supposed to mean?” Winnie asked.

“We create our own reality by the choices we make, and then we’re stuck with it until we make new choices,” Gwynyth answered.

“All roads lead to Mecca,” added Fate.

Winnie scowled.

“Or, you might say,” Gwynyth explained, “there is a master plan, but how you get to the outcome is through a series of making one choice after the next.”

“Each choice has its own consequence,” Fate added.

“It’s like when you married Harold back in the 60ies. Remember? You wanted to be a librarian but you couldn’t afford to finish college because he couldn’t keep a job,” Gwynyth tsked.

“Harold was a toad,” Fate muttered. “A mere stumbling block on your path, but you gave up on yourself.”

“You mean I’m responsible for the way my life looks?”

“‘Fraid so, kiddo,” chirped AfroDidee.

“If you had your druthers, what would life look like?” Fate inquired.

“My druthers?” Winnie sneered. “Well, I’d be lounging on a South Seas island with my wealthy husband, sipping one of those drinks with the umbrella in them. Why?”

“And that would be a meaningful life?” Fate asked.

“Look, you’re Fate. You already know the future. Why not just cut to the chase?” Winnie asked in a pique.

“Well, I’m not really supposed to do this, but you are one pathetic case. Maybe just this time.” Fate pulled up a chair opposite Winnie. “Remember, how you get there is up to you.”

Winnie sat up straighter in bed. She had to admit; it wasn’t every day that Fate just laid it on the line for you.

“Okay, you’re not so far off. I do see you on a South Seas island with your husband. He seems to be a native there.” Fate squinted her eyes and peered into the distance. “You’re finally doing what you were meant to do. You have a fair amount of notoriety on the island,” she finished. “Whew! Plumb wears me out,” she muttered.

Just then, the phone on the nightstand trilled. AfroDidee lifted the receiver. “Winifred’s residence, AfroDidee, Goddess of Luv speaking. How may I help you?”

A pause while AfroDidee nodded her wiry hair.

“One moment please,” she said grinning hugely, “I’ll connect you.” She handed the phone to Winnie, gave a palms-up shrug and said, “Looks like my job is over.”

“No fair,” Fate mumbled. “You didn’t even break a sweat.”

On the phone, Winnie was saying, “Palo? Yes, of course I remember you. Well, how very nice of you. Tomorrow night? Oh, my. Let me check my calendar and get right back to you.”

They exchanged a few more pleasantries, before Winnie hung up. She sat in stunned silence.

“Are you going to leave us here dying of curiosity?” Gwynyth asked.

“How strange is that?” Winnie said. “I thought he moved back to Fiji. The man I met at my aunt’s funeral three years ago just asked me out to dinner.”

* * * *

Remnants of breakfast remained on the tray. Gwynyth finished the cup of coffee. Fate wiped a bit of bacon from her lower lip. AfroDidee set the juice glass down carefully. Winnie swallowed the last of her muffin.

Gwynyth leaned against the pillow at the head of the bed, her sweater draped over her shoulders. Fate propped herself against the foot with her straw hat perched on bent knees. AfroDidee rocked in the wooden rocker, a blanket snuggled over her lap, her red sneakers resting near the nightstand. It looked like a pajama party for the demented.

Winnie perched on the edge of her bed, holding her robe closed with one hand, and gestured wildly as she spoke.

“I can’t just have dinner with a man I barely remember,” she said, with an openhanded smack to her forehead. “I’m sixty-two, I’m fat, I’m wrinkled, I’m gray....”

“I’m waiting to hear something that matters,” AfroDidee offered.

“What was it he saw in you three years ago that would lead him to call you out of the blue?” Gwynyth asked.

“He said he like my droll humor,” Winnie smiled in spite of herself. “And we talked about poetry, right there at the graveyard, waiting for my poor aunt to be planted in the ground,” she shook her head in wonder.

“Sounds like he was looking at the inside of you while you seem determined to focus on the outside,” Fate offered. “Which, by the way, there’s nothing wrong with the outside of you,” she added.

“Go ahead; choose happiness just once for yourself. Step outside the box and take a little risk,” Gwynyth urged.

With a trembling hand, Winnie lifted the phone and dialed, amidst smiles and winks all around her.
* * * *

The three old women sat slumped around a wrought iron table on the plaza, lulled by the noonday sun, the trickling waters of a nearby fountain, and an icy pitcher of Margaritas, which sweated an ever spreading circle on the checkered tablecloth. A multicolored umbrella turned lazily overhead.

Gwynyth smiled and refilled her own glass before passing the pitcher on. Fate, sporting an Easter bonnet covered in bright Azaleas, fanned herself with an envelope while Gwynyth unfolded a letter, hand written on cream colored stationery. AfroDidee laid two glossy photos on the table. One was of a clump of children, Winnie, and Palo in front of a small wooden building with a brightly hand-painted sign that read LIBRARY just above the door. The other was of Winnie and Palo sitting on beach chairs at the water’s edge, smiling at the camera, each holding a tropical drink with a tiny umbrella.

Gwynyth took a gulp of her Margarita before reading the letter.

Dear Ones, she began. “Ah, she called us dear ones.” Gwynyth stopped, sniffed, and blotted a tear that trickled down her cheek. Fate moved the pitcher of Margaritas to the other side of the table. AfroDidee poured herself another glass.

Greetings from the South Seas where Palo and I have opened a small library on the island, with guess-who as Head Librarian? I’m also teaching English as a Second Language to the children. I couldn’t be happier...”

“Ah, she couldn’t be happier,” Gwynyth dabbed at a tear and blew her nose.

“That’s our girl,” Fate said.

“She looks kinda blissful, doesn’t she?” AfroDidee observed.

I’ve truly found my bliss, Gwynyth continued. She raised her eyebrow at AfroDidee.

“Hey, it didn’t hurt that you pulled Palo out of thin air just when you did,” Fate addressed AfroDidee.

“I thought you did that,” AfroDidee looked at Fate.

“What’s that little word on the bottom of the picture?” Fate squinted.

“Over,” said AfroDidee, flipping the photograph.

Here’s to better choices. Love, Winnie p.s. those are virgin Mai Tais.

“I’ll drink to that!” smiled Gwynyth.

Let Me Introduce You

I’ve written about how I receive or “catch” songs that seem to be traveling through the universe in search of a composer. I’d like to introduce you to some of the wonderful characters who appear and ask me to write their stories. My short stories and novellas are mostly character driven, the plots unfold as the individual shows me more of her/himself. Eventually, I’ll post snippets of my writing so you’ll have a sense of these folks in context of their stories. But for now, there’s:

Cory, who came to me in a vision of a small boy standing alone in front of a large mirror in the hallway of their family mansion. He’s wearing his sister, The Ice Queen’s, fuzzy pink slippers and a pair of flannel pajamas. Cory drapes long strands of shimmering, silver tinsel over his blonde hair and smiles at the reflection of the most beautiful little girl looking back at him from the mirror. Gotta love him, right? Who is this child? His story becomes one of a brave transgender woman in “Waltzing With the Azaleas,” available as an on-line read at http://www.e-lesmag.com/tocles.html.

Then, there’s Jenny, who plaintively told me, “I hadn’t planned to kill anyone when I left the house that morning.” Her life took a major reroute in a split second, and kept unfolding from that point on. She is one of the characters in “Best Laid Plans,” (still in process).

In “The Three Muses,” Winnie is about to check out with an overdose of alcohol. Her life just isn’t working and she’s tired of the struggle, until three witches/muses/hallucinations/spirits/angels (?? I still haven’t figured out exactly what they are) step in. Gwynyth, a bag-lady like visage in a ragged housedress of faded indefinable print and a tattered musty sweater several sizes too large for her scrawny frame had aimed for Winnie’s porch, but missed and landed behind the Hoover attachments in the utility room. By way of introduction, she merely states, “I’ve been sent,” and that Winnie can consider her a guardian angel. Winnie, however, is a “big job” requiring the assistance of Gwynyth’s pals AfroDidee and Fate. These three loveable apparitions entertained me by their antics throughout the whole story.

Occasionally, I choose an event from my own life that I want to fictionalize. It’s almost like a cast call—when I form a loose idea, all of these amazing characters show up to audition for the parts. By who they are, they take over the story line and do with it as they will.

Paddle, a young girl pushing chili in a roadside café, meets Lucas Plumb, a new age hippie mystic who passes through Paddle’s life and introduces her to life beyond the bayous. Paddle hitchhikes to California where her life is turned around forever. Along the way, she meets Arizona Pancake and Kiowa Sue Lafner who sign up for the zany adventure of life in Berkeley and San Francisco. “Paddle” is one of the stories in a collection called Returning that is being circulated for publication.

The amazing thing about this story is that I started with the idea of writing about a cross-country trip from California to Colorado with my friend Gerry where she lost her wallet and we wound up staying in a mission overnight. Fortunately, the “cast” allowed me that little snippet within the larger story.

If you write, please let me know HOW you write. Are you disciplined? Is it anarchy? Who is in the driver’s seat? How much control do you exert over characters? Are you plot focused? Truly, I’m fascinated and would love to hear. My e-mail is josrca@sonic.net if you can’t figure out how to leave a comment on this blog. Best to you…write on.