Day 1

I write every day. It wasn't until a few friends of mine stared in uncomprehending shock when I said as much that I realized it wasn't entirely normal. It has come to my attention that I spend very little time in the world most people know. I have gone beyond finding shapes in the clouds and layered thousands of other worlds over what's actually in front of me. I can't wait to finish my work for the day so I can sit down at my computer and escape into my mind.

Not that reality isn't great, mind you. I have a wonderful family, loving husband, three fur babies (cats) and an opinionated tortoise. I'm lucky that the people in my life are so accepting of my need to escape to my other worlds. My husband will bring me food when I've been binge writing for hours and don't realize I'm starving. My cats are less understanding, but as long as there is room on my legs for one or two, the third will find a way to wedge herself under my arm to join the writing party.

I am publishing my first novel, Catching Bodel, this coming May. I am incredibly nervous about it. I want to share my words with people. I want my readers to get lost in the story and laugh and cry and enjoy themselves. My words are very much a part of who I am, so sharing them with strangers is intimidating. It's also exciting, which is the emotion I am trying to concentrate on.

So here is a short piece from Catching Bodel, Hope you enjoy.

            It took some yelling and hand motions to get his attention. He pulled off the safety glasses.

            “What?”

            “The wicked witch of the west is on the phone for you,” I muttered.

            He grimaced. “My grandmother?” He ran a hand through his hair, dislodging some wood chips. “How did she get this number?”

            “I don’t know, but she’s mean. And holding.”

            Zach looked like he might swear. I followed him back upstairs and stood in the kitchen, shamelessly eavesdropping.

            He braced himself and picked up the phone. “Hello, Grandmother.” He pulled the phone away from his ear as yelling erupted from it. He glanced at me and shrugged, setting the phone on the counter and getting a Coke out of the fridge. After opening it and taking a long sip he picked the phone back up.

            “Glad you got that out of your system,” he said. “Why should we have told you? What does it matter? You hated him, what would you want with his house? It’s a nice place. James likes it here.” There was more yelling. “She was living with Walter before he died. No . . . No. . . No. Did you miss the fact that I am thirty-one years old?”

            The comment seemed to light a fire under the bitter old woman. Zach set the phone back down with a resigned sigh and leaned on the counter.

            “She sounds lovely,” I said.

            He rolled his eyes. “I never answer the phone when she calls.”

            The yelling on the other end of the phone quieted and I distinctly heard, “Zachary Ethan Cutter, did you walk away?”

            Zach snatched up the phone. “No, ma’am.”

            I couldn’t help it. I started to laugh. Zach clamped a hand over my mouth, shaking his head. He was so distracted by his grandmother he didn’t realize what he was doing. I wanted to run my tongue along his long calloused fingers. That would give his grandmother something to bitch about. I knew I shouldn’t do it, but he was so close. He smelled of sweat and sawdust, which had always turned me on. I gave in to impulse and licked my tongue along his fingers.

            He swore right into the phone. The dead silence on the other end was ominous.