Tuesday Teaser

Although the book I'm writing falls in the literary fiction genre, some scenes will require the characteristics of other genres. It will include, for example, suspenseful scenes with a lot of action. Over the past two years, I practiced my hand at different genres through short stories, working on the skills I'd need when I wrote my novels. The following excerpt is from one of them, an action/adventure piece entitled "The Way Forward."



They made their way to the head of the trail in high spirits. "White rectangular blazes mark the trail over the entire 2100 miles from Georgia to Maine," Michael read from the trail map. "Turns are marked with double blazes and side trails and approaches use blue." Michael stopped. Kaitlyn was no longer walking beside him. Turning, he spotted her heading off the path into the woods.


"Kait, honey, you're not supposed to leave the trail. Hon?"


Kaitlyn put her finger to her lips and looked back into the woods. A moment later she rejoined him.


"I thought I heard an animal, but it must have gotten scared and scurried off." Her flushed cheeks glowed with excitement.


"You never know what could be hiding in these woods, babe. There are snakes and bears living up here with the bunnies and squirrels." Michael wasn't sure if the look on Kaitlyn's face said his concern endeared him to her or simply amused her.


Kaitlyn's suppressed smile lingered in her eyes. "Tag! You're it!" she suddenly shouted, taking off down the trail.


Kaitlyn's playfulness infected Michael, and they made their way through the quiet woods, talking and joking. By noontime, they had hiked into Sosebee Cove, a remote nook protected by a wall of rock and ablaze with the colors of flourishing springtime bloomers.


"Do you hear water?" Kaitlyn asked.


Michael consulted the map. "It looks like DeSoto Falls is about a quarter mile from here." He looked to the left. "There, see that tree with the blue blaze on it? That trail will take us to it."


Ten minutes later they were heading down the side trail. It was harder to follow than the first one. The woods were thick with forbidding underbrush. The din of rushing water grew louder with each step, until its source came into view.


Melted snow from higher elevations had swelled the river to twice its normal size. Above them, raging water rushed over a promontory and crashed in billows of roiling white foam fifteen feet below. The noise was deafening. Kaitlyn pulled her camera from her pack and began snapping pictures. The air was much cooler here, and after a few minutes they turned to go.


"God! It's beautiful here," Kaitlyn sighed when they could hear each other again. Then, she sucked in her breath.


Following Kaitlyn's gaze, Michael saw the brightly colored butterfly she had spotted. She raised the camera to her eye as it settled on a trillium bush. No sooner had she focused the lens than the butterfly took flight again. Kaitlyn stepped off the path in pursuit of it.


Closer and closer to the river, the insect flitted from one blossom to the next. Finally, it alit on a branch at the water's edge. Looking through the lens of the camera, Kaitlyn edged closer. Michael called out, "That's close enough, Kait," but his voice was lost to the river. As she snapped the picture, her foot slipped on the moist embankment. She let out a high-pitched yelp that never made it to Michael's ears. All he saw was one of Kaitlyn's arms shoot out awkwardly before she disappeared below the bank.


Michael sprang into action even before his mind had time to process what had happened. He sprinted toward the river, ploughing through branches that tore at his face, shouting Kaitlyn's name. She was nowhere to be seen. He searched the white water churning with the vengeance of a stampede of beasts, mirroring the panic coursing through his body. Suddenly, Kaitlyn's head broke the surface of the water several yards away. There was an outcropping of rock visible further downstream, and Michael bolted for it.


"Swim for me!" he shouted as he ran, never taking his eyes off her. He threw himself onto the rock's edge, yelling, "Kaitlyn! Grab my hand!" He was flat on his stomach, reaching as far out over the water as he could manage, as the fast-paced current carried Kaitlyn toward him.


Terror was etched in every furrow of her contorted face. She could see Michael's hand but she was powerless over the current dictating her trajectory. The river slammed her like a rag doll against a rock, pitching her violently under the water. When she resurfaced moments later, she was heading straight for Michael.


Kaitlyn was floating impotently past Michael, but she managed to stretch her hand out. With astonishing timing, Michael heaved his weight forward and caught her firmly around the wrist. She dangled heavily there, her frightened eyes locked with his. The nightmare from years ago was brutally triggered, and fear threatened to rob him of brawn and confidence. He forced the old memory out of his mind and his resolution stoked his strength. "I've got you, baby! I've got you!" he gasped. Fighting the current and the water-logged weight of her pack, he struggled to pull her in. It wasn't until he got his hand around the back of her belt, that he realized he had denied the arrogating river of its quarry.

And the Winner is...

Shelley, I'll contact you via email to get your mailing 411!

To all my blog followers and new friends, thank you so much for your warm welcome into the world of blogging. I look forward each day to reading what you have to say on your blogs and drawing inspiration from your comments on my posts. You guys are the best!

In particular, let me say thank you to those who have reached out to me since Friday. I'm crossing one of life's rough patches and your words of encouragement have eased the heaviness in my heart more than you know. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart!

Here's to a GREAT week, for everyone!

Life (In)Balance

The duality of life is inescapable. There is nothing that's all good or all bad. As a Libra, I appreciate the light and the dark, the joy and the sadness, life and death. I'm earthbound, unable to focus on only one side of the scales. Some days, finding the sacred balances in life prove more challenging.

One sister, bursting with joy, lies in hospital today awaiting the arrival of her first baby. I wish I was there with her.

One sister, her heart in ribbons, checks into hospital this morning, her first baby now nine years old, taken from her. If only I could be there, too.

Angels and demons teeter totter on my scales.

Writing soothes my conflicted soul. Today, I'll remember each character has in her both good and bad, the capacity to succeed and the ability to fail, talents and shortcomings. But above all else, they need love in their lives. No matter what they've done or what they plan to do. All of Life's characters, fictional and real, need love.

Saluting Capote's Descriptive Voice

For me, the characteristic that sets an author's writing above the others is a strong descriptive voice. Descriptions captivate me when they flow like water down the riverbed of a story. I want to be pulled into the characters' world through all five of my senses, until my imagination is alive in their reality.

I aspire to write what I'd want to read.

One of the masters of literary fiction was Truman Capote. His penchant for prolific prose was astounding, and his rich descriptions permeate his short stories, novellas, and novels. I'd looked forward to reading Breakfast at Tiffany's this week (the local library's copy was checked out), but settled on a collection of short stories based on Capote's childhood. Here is an excerpt from A Christmas Memory that illustrates perfectly why I admire Capote's descriptive genuis:

Silently, wallowing in the pleasures of conspiracy, we take the bead purse from its secret place and spill its contents on the scrap quilt. Dollar bills, tightly rolled and green as May buds. Somber fifty-cent pieces, heavy enough to weight a dead man's eyes. Lovely dimes, the liveliest coin, the one that really jingles. Nickels and quarters, worn smooth as creek pebbles. Bost mostly a hateful heap of bitter-odored pennies. Last summer, others in the house contracted us a penny for every twenty-five flies we killed. Oh, the carnage of August: the flies that flew to heaven! Yet it was not work in which we took pride. And, as we sit counting pennies, it is as though we were back tabulating dead flies. (Truman Capote, A Christmas Memory, page 10)

The poetic descriptions for the various pieces of money not only held my attention, but they brought the narrating character into sharper focus. Clearly, the narrator was not a city dweller. Only a country boy would see springtime buds in rolled dollar bills or equate worn coins with the smoothness of water-eroded stones. The narrator was not wealthy in the traditional sense, otherwise he wouldn't have kept coins hidden in a beaded purse, had a scrap quilt on the bed, or accepted a job paying only a penny per twenty-five dead flies. We're shown so much in such a short paragraph.

When I read his work, I glean a lesson in creative writing in every paragraph of a Capote story.


Who are your author champions, the writers who exemplify what you'd like to achieve in your own work?

Tuesday Teaser

It's been a productive week for me. Since deciding on a new profession for my MC, I had to scrap close to half the chapters I wrote during NaNo. This week I researched her new line of work, wrote a new outline, and began writing a new chapter.

So far, I think these changes are good for the project.

It's still to early to begin sharing teasers from the WIP, so today I'll offer a snippet from a short story I wrote in 2009, called Stopgap.


Liza pulled the Studebaker up to the gas station's store front. As Van yanked open the passenger door he saw the cashier watching him through the plate glass window. Van managed a smile as he folded into the car; the clerk didn’t smile back.

“I thought I’d drive. Hope you don’t mind.”

Van grunted, his attention on a black SUV at the pumps, where the man who'd smacked his young son in the cashier line stood shouting into his phone. Van’s father used to say, “Get your ass in the car and wait.” Silent or spoken, the threats had been fierce. Eventually, when he was about that kid’s age, the threats had evolved. He’d known, even at that innocent age, that his father liked knocking him around. It got the tension out; made life easier to deal with. If Van’s mother had lived, things would’ve been different. She’d have protected him. Isn’t that what mothers do? Where was that kid’s mom, he wondered. Liza’s voice broke into his thoughts.

“Alright, we made it, babe! We’re home free: me, you, and all that cash!” She slapped a manicured hand on the steering wheel. “Damn, we make a great team!” She glanced over, her smile faltering. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing,” he grumbled as the filling station disappeared from sight in his side view mirror. “How about some music?”

Van turned on the radio. He cranked the large, grooved knob and the red needle moved across the FM dial with jerky motion. Elvis’ voice issued suddenly from the scratchy speakers. Van noticed Liza’s fleeting grimace, but the nostalgic strains lightened his mood. He turned it up.

“Perfect, right?”

Liza lifted the hair back from her temple and hooked it behind an ear. “Yeah. Perfect.”

Two songs later and Van’s smile had returned. The conversation focused on how they’d spend the money. As they began the climb into higher elevations, the Studebaker’s underpowered engine showed signs of complaint.

Liza’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. Van checked over his shoulder and scowled as if he got a whiff of a rancid odor. The black SUV came up fast behind them. It swerved across double lines and edged alongside the Studebaker.

The driver’s attention was fixed forward. What an asshole, Van thought with a sneer. As the SUV pushed past them, the small face in the backseat window came into view. For a suspended moment Van stared at the boy whose eyes appeared pleading to Van for liberation. A knot of remorse choked him as the truck shot forward and around a bend.

They heard the screeching brakes and sickening metallic crunch before the Studebaker hauled itself around the curve. Liza clapped a hand over her mouth and gasped as the scene came into view. The SUV lay on its side across the highway, its front end rumpled like sheets of an unkempt bed. Smoke hung in the air and angry splatters of blood wet the road between the vehicle and the dismembered deer whose eyes stared into nothingness. Van had the door open before Liza slowed to a stop. He ran around the top-side of the car.

The driver hung out the front, the jagged windshield embedded in his torso as if the car had tried to bite him in half. Van blinked hard and shouted, “Liza, don’t come over here! It’s bad.” The cell phone lay on the pavement. Snatching it up, he moved around the nose of the SUV, peering through the windshield. Seeing nothing, he clambered up onto the passenger side. The window was cracked so he was careful to place his knees on the door frame as he looked down into the back seat. He spotted the boy, lying in a ball on the window now flat against the road. The doors were locked. Van tapped the glass, and the youngster stirred. Van straightened and located Liza pacing in circles next to the Studebaker.

“Liza, the boy’s alive! I’m calling 911!” He placed the call then jumped down and ran to her.

“An ambulance is on the way,” he said.

“Good. Let’s get out of here.” She moved toward the car.

Van grabbed her elbow. “We can’t leave! That little boy may be hurt. He’s trapped in that car and his dad’s dead.”

Liza glanced at the wreck with tear-filled eyes. “Van, are you crazy? The cops will be here any minute. We have stolen money in our car! We need to get away from here!” Her voice rose an octave with each statement.

Van shook his head. “No. I’m not leaving that kid alone. I won’t do it.” His tone was even, determined.

“Well, I’m not staying!”

*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

Thanks for reading!

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Spotlight on Literary Fiction

Literary Fiction is often thought of as a catch-all genre for writing that doesn’t fit comfortably into easily designated genres like chic lit, mystery, science fiction, political drama, speculative fiction, etc. Most people’s definitions for works of Literary Fiction include phrases like: “provocative writing with heavier language and lush descriptions”; “complex character-driven plots”; “leaves a deep, powerful impression on the reader”; and “multilayered novels that wrestle with universal dilemmas.”

I consider myself a Literary Fiction writer because of the characteristics that naturally arise in my work. I’m drawn to the complexities of a character’s personality, and my focus is foremost on the inner conflicts pulling the person in opposing directions. My writing style tends to include desciptive language that shows more than tells, and I like to indulge in literary devices. Also, I want my work to say something. Usually, I don’t start a story with a character or plot idea. Instead, a theme forms in my mind and the story becomes a vehicle to deliver that theme.

My greatest challenges within the genre are coming up with interesting plots to support my characters’ journey of self-discovery, and finessing my writing so the tone and language aren’t pretentious or convoluted. Many of my rewrites concentrate on voice and making the writing sound poetic and beautiful instead of grandiose and ostentatious.

Goodreads.com defines literary fiction as: "serious fiction with claims to literary merit, and focuses more on style, psychological depth, and character. (As opposed to genre or popular fiction)." Here are the top ten Literary Fiction novels, as determined by site member votes. Are any of your favorites here?

To Kill a Mockingbird -- Harper Lee
The Catcher in the Rye -- J.D. Salinger
The Power of Persuasion -- Shelagh Watkins
Crime and Punishment -- Fyodor Dostoevsky
Jane Eyre -- Charlotte Brontë
Lord of the Flies -- William Golding
Gone With the Wind -- Margaret Mitchell
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe -- C.S. Lewis
Memoirs of a Geisha -- Arthur Golden
One Hundred Years of Solitude -- Gabriel García Márquez

To read the entire list of the top 100 member picks, click HERE.

I enjoy experimenting outside the genre of Literary Fiction, and have written short stories that include Horror, Speculative Fiction, Erotica, Action/Adventure, and Comedy. Even then, I noticed an aura of Literary Fiction aglow in each story. It's definitely true that an author's voice is as unique as her fingerprint, and its evidence can be found on everything she touches.

Do you experiment outside your genre? Can you still hear your author's voice loud and clear?

F.Y.I.

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And, Lindsay's Show Me Your Dangerous Contest is so much fun; share your "dangerous" story, scene from your WIP, poem, etc. I had a blast reading everyone else's posts! Zip over there before March 15th to play along!

Remember this....

Check your blogger profile page! When you sign on as my follower, I like to return the favor. I'm always sad when a new follower joins me on my blogging journey, and I click their picture... only to find there's no blog link to lead me chez eux. If you don't edit your profile page to include a link to your blog, I won't be able to find your corner of cyberspace :(

If you follow me and I don't follow you, please leave a comment with your blog's URL. Thanks!!

Have a great weekend, everyone!