Meh

I didn't get chosen to continue to the second round of the Gather.com contest and I've gotten another rejection for RJC. Yes, it smarts, but onward. I had one agent months ago say she loved RJC, but I haven't heard from her since. I'm going to start scoping out more possibilities and start again. Maybe I should start sending out others, for works that aren't done? I don't know.

Rejection's the name of the game, folks. Some days it's easier to take than others.rjc

Updates and Reviews

I have been doing writing, just none of it original. So, I've been on a mini-hiatus, re-reading old works to hopefully get myself back into the swing of things. I've also entered a Contest on Gather.com, bit late notice since the voting for Round One ended two days ago, but I figure I should tell you anyway. Again, I've pretty much been avoiding anything having to do with writing in order to get a creative refuel so to speak.

Finally, I have a review from Cocktail Reviews for Being Plumville. Go check it out and spread the word about Being Plumville or me in general :-P.

I hope everyone is having a great day and wearing black to support the Jena 6 (I am.)

I am . . . (or what I discovered in Maui)

A literary fiction writer with an emphasis on romance, according to Manus & Associates, anyway.

Romance: Romance is unabashed escapist fiction, following the love story of a (usually female) protagonist, and intended to sweep women readers away from their day-to-day
problems. The Romance Writer's Association defines its genre simply as "a love story with an optimistic and emotionally satisfying ending." However, also key to Romance novels is an absence of moral ambiguity. Courage saves the day, justice triumphs, good defeats evil, and it is always readily apparent who and what is good and who and what is evil. Almost uniformly, Romance involves the "taming" or "civilization" of a wild man by a woman. Sub-plots and minor characters are kept to a minimum; these are not multi-layered works. Romance readers are seeking to relax and enjoy. Romances should be easy to read, but should strike strong emotional chords. Marriage is almost without exception the desired goal of a Romance plot.

Literary: Literary is, of course, a qualitative term, arrived at not by formula or definition but by aesthetic judgment. But, in general, a literary novel tends to be much more character driven than a commercial novel. But just what qualifies a book as literary is difficult to identify, and open to debate even among well established literary writers. Some cite moral ambiguity, an effort to grapple with dark and light and to see a situation in its full complexity, as a key characteristic. Others might point to layers of meaning, or resonance, of the careful use of language itself. Many speak of the "truth" of a novel, of an ability to address the human condition. Still others might stress universality. A dozen other qualities of "literature" might be discussed, but with most of them, whether a book possesses it and in what degree can never be an objective matter.

That fits me, right? The type of work I do? I don't think my romance is escapist, although there is much romance and love an intimacy. I don't tend to, or like, for that matter, escaping from real-world problems. It grabs me more when the real world tries to impede, but the characters, somehow, someway, make it through those problems to their "happily ever after", even if that "ever after" is peppered with more trials and dark times. Those moments do not outweigh, strip, or even diminish that happy ever after. How else can people know they are happy without the sad times to highlight and underscore it? The hope is the happy days are far more numerous than the sad, and that is the arc I want the characters to have; the hope and see that hope come into fruition, or at least the beginning of it.

At the Maui Writers Conference, I had the ability to talk with agents, editors, other fellow writers on the continuum of the writing enterprise. There were screenwriters, LGBT writers, Inspiration writers, Horror writers, Nonfiction writers, Romance writers, and me. LOL. I didn't know what kind of writing I did, although I knew I wasn't fitting as neatly into romance as I apparently I should've been. Few of my "favorite" books were written by romance writers. To Kill a Mockingbird certainly isn't; Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry isn't, but there is love in those stories, hope. They spoke to me because they moved beyond romantic love, they wrestled with the humanity of things, the good and bad, but somehow, they managed to end on that bend of hope. When I spoke to the agents, editors, and fellow writers about my writing, I always said "I THOUGHT I was a romance writer, but . . ." They helped me work through my confusion, the murky area of why couldn't I place myself in one genre or another. One agent told me to put myself in the broadest genre possible and let the publishing houses figure out the rest, and though romance is pretty broad, it's not broad enough.
Or at least not yet.

Another thing agents and editors said was writers should think of themselves as a brand. Shoppers tend to buy by brand, or buy products that complement or are comparable to each other. A big thing is P-n-Ls (Profit and Loss reports). A house isn't going to buy a book unless they think it will sell, and the best indicator of that is when an author writes a book of a similar brand to another author. In romance, for example, Susan Edwards and Cassie Edwards are comparable brands because they both write historical romances with mainly Indian men/White women as the theme. For me, that is hard, because I don't know of many writers who do similar things as I do. And when you are a writer who has a hard time finding comparable authors, it makes you that much more of a risk to an agent or a house. They want originality, but not TOO much originality. Understandable because it's a business. Frustrating as hell because I'm a writer.

True, there are many who write IR fiction, but there is the "don't mention race" school and the "only mention race" school. There is the "old school" IR and the "new school" IR. There's paranormal IR and very few historical IR. It's all over the place. With my writing, I try to pull from all the schools into one. There is something I like about each school, but as a reader, I want all (or as many of) those YES! buttons pushed, not just some of them. The button that pushes me the most, however, is style and how an author puts words together to make my reaction visceral, whether it's a good/pleasant reaction or not. If I don't, I come away with, "it's all right . . .". I don't like that feeling, and I try not to leave my readers with that feeling. I'm well aware some of my stories will be more successful at not leaving that feeling than others, and I have MUCH more to learn, but that's my goal.

Anyway, Maui is gorgeous. The hotel was beautiful, Wailea Marriot Resort and Spa. It was a very, super-quick weekend, but I learned much about myself and met some wonderful people and got great advice. God willing, I'd go again. This conference was just what I needed to get me excited about writing again, especially since I have more of an understanding of what kind of writer I am.

A Six Minute Short Story

This is an exercise I did while in Maui. It is unedited and raw. I promise to share more about what I learned, but I won't be able to decompress until this weekend. In the mean time, I hope you enjoy!

~~~

The chords didn't sound right to him, the dissonance painful instead of uncomfortably soothing. He pounded his fist against the keys, and his ears twitched from the racket he caused.

"Damn it!" he cursed, rubbing the red key prints on his hands.

"Caress the keys," a smoky feminine voice said in his ear.

He jumped, surprised. He'd thought he'd been alone all this time.

She smiled at him, his mentor's daughter, and stood next to him at the piano. She stroked the keys almost erotically, and her fingers fell into place. The chord she played made him shiver with delicious discomfort, the seventh just perfect and accessible to her whereas it'd been elusive to him.

"Sheet music, my ass," she chuckled, patting him on the head before sauntering away.

Growling slightly, he took the paper down.

Where did the past twenty-five days go?

I know it's been a while since an update. I apologize. I've been busy, busy, busy, and trying to write and all that jazz. Right now, I'm a little over three hours away from getting on a plane to attend the Maui Writers Conference in Hawaii. I've never been to Hawaii, and I'm going alone. I'm nervous, and excited. Hopefully, I'll make some very good connections in the writing world to help me break through. It's hard with the constant rejections, knowing you have a good piece of writing, certainly no worse than much of the stuff published now. If the people have a face to the name, perhaps that would be better? I don't have a bad face, and my haircut is fierce, if I do say so myself!

I'm working on projects still. Gym Story and Vietnam Story are in a semi-hiatus because I haven't had the time necessary to work on them, and I've been trying to write shorter stories to post, but those have turned into longer stories. Funny. Anyway, maybe this trip will inject some "hop-to-it" in me. I hope so.

I entered a contest on Gather.com for Romance First Chapters. I encourage everyone to join and then vote for me! :-D You loff me, I know ;). It's free, but in a probably "shooting myself in the foot" move, please only vote a ten if you'd like to see the next chapter. Also, please comment. I'd like to know what people think, since I don't know how you specifically vote. You don't have to tell me, but comments are nice :).

The novel I chose was Manna Tree. Was that a good choice in your opinion? Let me know!

Finally, I wish all my US folk a happy and safe Labor Day. Can't believe the summer is basically over. What's up with that?!

Aloha!

Sav

Nice (June 29, 2005)

I'm trying to find inspiration, and for me, sometimes that means reading old writings/stories/logs, etc. This one is old, two years old to be exact, written based off characters not completely of my own creation. Fan-fiction-esque as it was. Anyway, it's a bit . . . racier in terms of what I usually post on this blog, but I stumbled upon it again this weekend and I actually liked it. Shock. I did write this one, though, which is why the fact it is old is important, back when I was more shy about this type of writing than I am now (still shy, just not quite so shy). Anyway, some of you may recognize it, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. Happy Monday!

~~~~~~~~~~~

His hand is warm on her bare back . . . warm and large, and she smiles as she feels her skin drag across her back muscles, nestling her head in the pillow her arms hug to her face.

His lips kiss her shoulder blade—whisper-soft like a snowflake—and she purrs at the delicate action.

“What are you thinking?” he asks against her skin, that warm, large hand sliding across her back and underneath to her stomach. His fingers play with the area around her navel, dipping inside and causing her to clench her abdominal muscles. The cotton sheets slide lower down her body as she stretches out her leg, bringing her stomach more fully into his hand and touch.

She hums. “This is nice . . .”

His lips are now at the nape of her neck, using his free hand to smooth the hair away and expose her flesh to him. His tongue darts out, warm and moist, and she thinks briefly of the tropical Bahamian sun she experienced when she was 18. She loved that sun . . . wishes she had the opportunity to experience again.

“Nice?” he asks on a chuckle, the hand at her stomach sliding up to cup a bare breast. “Is that all?”

His front presses against her back, and she feels the male curves and valleys of his body. Smooth chest, shredded abs, hard penis all in concert to bring her body and mind into a new awareness of him. His thumb on her nipple also serves that purpose.

“You sound disappointed,” she says, muffling a giggle, eyes still closed as the hand now travels south to the juncture of her thighs. His fingers meet no resistance, her body growing accustomed to the pleasure his gives hers, and wanting more of it. She sighs, spreading her legs a little wider so his fingers could have better access.

“I was hoping for bloody brilliant,” he admits with a laugh, his teeth closing over the shell of her ear as his tongue soothes away her injury. She shudders at the sensation of a wet mouth on her ear and his fingers inside of her. Soon, that mouth blazes a trail to the crook of her neck, and she feels his tongue tracing . . . something . . . and she shivers again.

“How do you know ‘nice’ isn’t ‘bloody brilliant’?” she asks, peeking at him over her shoulder. “Perhaps I was only trying to be efficient . . .”

“Efficient,” he mutters in her neck before kissing it again. “There’s no need to be ‘efficient’ now . . .”

Indeed not, for they have been lazing in bed for the better part of the morning. Usually, she is up with the sun, taking a walk in the park to get her ready for the day. Now the thought of leaving the bed . . . leaving him . . . is entirely unacceptable.

He applies pressure with the hand on her stomach, and she complies, turning over so she lies on her back. He stares at her as if seeing her for the first time, and she says nothing. His eyes caress her almost as effectively as his hands do, roving over her eyes, nose, cheeks, ears and lips. They move down to her neck and he licks his lips before tasting the area where her Adam’s Apple would be if she had one. The tongue trails down to the valley of her breasts, and his nose nuzzles one nipple, then the other, before flicking the last with his tongue. She moans, spreading her legs so he could settle between them, his length hard and pulsing against her inner thigh. She winces at the feel of him because she’s still tender from their first joining—her first ever—but the wincing dims in comparison to the pleasure he has given her . . .

Those large, warm hands, drag down to her hips before cupping her bum, bringing her pelvis closer to his, making his heat touch hers and making them both groan.

“I can’t stop touching you, love,” he whispers against the underside of her breast, meeting her brown eyes with his. His teeth nip her before kissing away the injury, and her hands rake through his black hair, now spiked every which way from sleep and other activities.

“You don’t have to,” she says, the last word on a gasp as his maleness slips into her womanhood. She clamps around him immediately, loving the sensation of him filling her.

“Even if I touch you here?” he asks, letting her know where “here” was as he thrust into her.

She giggles, the sound husky, and brings his head down to hers. “Especially there . . .”

He grins and kisses her, his tongue sliding inside and mimicking the thrusts he makes into another pair of lips. She has always loved his kisses, the feel of his tongue against hers, his lips on hers, his arms holding her . . .

He shifts positions, pushing himself to the hilt inside her before getting on his knees then on his bum, the new position causing him to swell and go even deeper inside her.

“This is new,” she says, partly on a moan as her body adjusts to him.

“Just trying to keep it fresh and not-so-efficient,” he says cheekily, pressing a chaste kiss to her lips before pumping his hips again.

She hugs him tightly, her lips hovering above his and one hand clutching the hair at the back of his head while the other grips the small of his back. She works her hips, trying to get the best friction or to make him go deeper or for him to stroke her just there . . ., all the while trying not to explode at the feel of his mouth and tongue now at her neck, tracing the word she finally recognizes:

Mine.

She is his—completely now—just as he is hers . . . whether he knows it or not. She kisses and bites his shoulder alternatively before clasping her to him and trembling violently as she succumbs to the bliss he gives her.

“Guh—” She doesn’t know what she wanted to say—the pleasure removing all ability to think at that moment—but it was probably his name . . . or God’s name . . . she buries her face into his shoulder.

He continues to pump and she continues to let him, for although she’s reached her peak he hasn’t, and quite honestly, she loves the feel of him inside her. His breath is now ragged and harsh in her ears, and she caresses the space behind his because she knows he’s extra sensitive there. She whispers, “come for me” against his lobe.

He grunts, hisses, and then slams into one last time before she feels jet after jet of his release hit her inner walls.

She pulls back, wiping away the moisture from his face, and her lips pull into a smile. His follow hers, and he rests his forehead against hers.

“Nice,” he says. “That was nice.” His hand sweeps against her sweat-slicked back, bringing her closer to him even as they remain intimately locked together.

She giggles and kisses him, nodding when she pulls away. “It was . . . and it is.”

It is the first of many nice moments.

Just . . . Something . . . forgive errors

Utopia

Neither had thought to bring a blanket, so the fresh-cut grass itched their skin a little bit, and random ladybugs and other insects used them as pathways, and thankfully little else. She’d had the foresight to search for anthills and dog poop, and he had smiled at her consideration for him.

After all, he was to be her pallet for that afternoon, anyway.

She was sleeping, snoring softly. Her breath was warm against his chest, tickling him slightly. Her body curved around his so completely, their legs tangled, her arms around his torso, her cheek atop his beating heart. Some of her hair had fallen out her chignon, and he brushed it behind her ear. Her hair, her skin, everything about her was soft and pliant, and when she snuggled further into him, he smiled and kissed the top of her head.

It was moments like these, contraband and dangerous, that were so precious to him, not only for their rarity, but for their substance. Now, he was just a boy and she was just a girl, his girl. There was nothing but the sun and a breeze with them, along with buzzing of flying insects or the sporadic calls of birds as they flew above. No need to keep up appearances now.

A large cloud passed overhead, darkening the shadow they were under even more. Soon they would have to make it back. It didn’t take that long for her to go to the post office, and his parents would be home soon. It wouldn’t do well if they arrived to an empty house.

“Baby,” he murmured against the top of her head. She barely stirred. “Darlin’, wake up.” He shook her shoulder gently.

She nuzzled her cheek into his chest before she opened her eyes. He tilted his head back as she rested her chin where her cheek had been. She gave him a drowsy grin.

“Mornin’.”

He chuckled low in his throat. “Afternoon.” A kiss to her forehead. “We have to go soon.”

Her face crumpled right before she placed it in the crook of his neck. “Five more minutes.”

Her lips were soft and slightly moist, and he felt his body shudder from the point of contact throughout his body. He slipped his fingers to her nape, the heavy plait she wore brushing against his knuckles.

“A lifetime,” he murmured, resting his forehead to the top of her head. “Unfortunately, that cannot start now.”

“Or this lifetime,” came her muffled response.

Sighing, he pulled her face away from his neck. His thumbs caressed the swells of her cheeks, her brown eyes sad and wistful. He hated he put this expression on her face, especially when not minutes before it was the perfect picture of peace.

“Sweetie,” he breathed, brushing his nose against hers, then tilting his head so his lips grazed hers. She clung to him and deepened the kiss, grinding her hips into his in reaction. He groaned low in his throat, knowing his body was more than ready to give her what his heart, in good conscience, could not. He would not take her innocence from her. That belonged solely to her and to her husband, and unfortunately, he could not be the latter.

They linked fingers together as they broke their kiss, and he placed their joined hands over his left breast. He looked down at their connection, she dark, he light, and he saw nothing of the ugliness and the abomination folks in their town saw.

“Beautiful,” he whispered. He ran his thumb along her knuckles and his blue eyes met her brown ones. “Absolutely beautiful.”

She smiled brightly at him. “Can we be beautiful for five more minutes?”

He didn’t answer her, instead returning to his prone position and cradling her body back atop his.

No smart man should ever be in such a hurry to leave his utopia, no matter how fleeting its time there actually was.

~~~~~~

Can be anyone, but yes, I did have a couple in mind. I hope you enjoyed it.

Quagmire

That's been my life for the past week, so I apologize for dropping off the face of the proverbial earth. Yes, this week was sent Priority mail from hell, complete with getting more rejections for Manna Tree and RJC than I ever thought possible, so I'm going to need a weekend to recover. All e-mails and such will be answered, now that I have my computer back *snuggles*, and maybe, just maybe, I'll gathered the tatters of my imagination and creativity and write something worthy of posting.

Don't hold breaths, though.

Two bright spots--saw a dear friend of mine at the bus stop yesterday. She's in town for a year, yay! That makes me happy. Also, RAWSISTAZ gave Being Plumville a five-star review on Amazon. I'm not upset at that, either :).

Anyway, I hope everyone's week has been way better than mine.

Oy.

I need an infusion of inspiration in the worst way. I cannot write, though I so want to write, but I am stuck. I am a sputtering car, and I can't go anywhere even in neutral. I don't know how I'll get that inspiration back, but all of my personal creativity has been sucked completely dry. I detest the feeling. I don't like it. Now that the free read is completed, I do miss it, and I've opened up just about all of my WiPs and . . . nothing is biting. Maybe I need to reread some, I don't know. I just need to get back to writing, or I need something to happen so I don't feel so suspended.

Well, anyway, I hope things are going well with you out there.

The Book Squad Interview

Check it out! I'm on around minute 17 or so. I will say I enjoyed the interview! Karyn and Wendy were very fun and their show is fun as well. I encourage you to check out their show every Friday at noon EST, I don't think you'll be disappointed at all! I think I'm getting more used to talking about my work, although I still find it a little uncomfortable because I am shy and I am not generally my favorite subject, but I do know if I want to"turn this hobby into a career" as my uncle says, I'll have to bite the bullet on numerous things, this being one of them.

I am a beautiful woman and a good writer.

That has been my mantra for weeks now, especially when I'm often the only person who will ever say those things to me on a given day.

But anyway, I hope you get a chance to listen and that you enjoy!

AJ's Serendipity 12--Finale

It's finished! :'(. I'm a little sad about it, actually, and a whole lot more relieved! I would like to thank Ms. Aliyah Burke for letting me use her character for this "fling" of a story, and I want to thank you all for sticking with me! This is it. I doubt there will be more, and there will be no Frankie or Spyros story. Sorry! That was never in the plan and it still isn't. Just AJ and his Samara. Anyway, I hope you enjoy and please forgive errors. For one final time, please check out Ms. Burke's site or go to SYG to read the final chapter.

Enjoy!

~~~~~

“Samara?” he asked cautiously. What did this mean? She wasn’t dressed to go out, but given the time, it was after eleven-thirty at the very least.

Samara made to stand, and he helped her, grasping her hand gently in his. He didn’t let go once she was settled on her feet.

“I told Frankie I wasn’t feeling well,” Samara said quietly and without preamble. “It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t a complete truth, either. I needed time to think.”

AJ felt as if his lungs were in a vice, and he squeezed air out and sucked it into his body. “Okay . . .”

A deep breath. “Instead of me coming with you, why don’t you come with me . . . to meet my family?” Samara said in a rush.

Involuntarily, his hand squeezed hers in surprise. “What?”

“I asked if you wanted to meet my family . . . my parents . . .”

“What are you really asking me, Samara?”

Samara blew out a breath and glared at him. “Look, I don’t know if you know this or not, but women don’t like ultimatums, especially Black women. Shoot, we can do bad all by ourselves, and most of the time, it’s not even a choice. But you listen and listen good, Alejandro Kyriakos Melonakos. Just because I love you, don’t think your shit don’t stink, got it?”

The Book Squad

Hi everyone!

I'm going to be on The Book Squad tomorrow from 12-1PM on WMET 1160AM with Karyn Langhorne and Wendy Coakley-Thompson. I should be on in the first thirty minutes, but I encourage you to listen to the entire show. Also, if you miss it, there should be a podcast up of it at some point on the web site.

I hope you can check it out!

AJ's Serendipity 11 and Chat!

Hello everyone, happy Sunday! Here is the next chapter of AJ's Serendipity for you. You can find it in the usual places, Aliyah Burke's site or SYG. Also tonight at 8 PM there will be an author chat featuring me hosted by The Sweetest Taboo. For those who are not registered at the site, the link to the chat room is here: Sav's Chat--8 PM. You will need Javascript in order to participate. I hope to see you there!

Enjoy the rest of your Sunday!

~~~~

The next morning, a knock on the door roused them. Dimitri, the earlier riser of the two, was more functional, having already showered and dressed, and he answered the door. It was a little after eight in the morning. AJ, though still suffering jetlag, seemed to lack the energy to do anything but roll over and steal more shut-eye.

Moments later, he felt the bed dip, and he was more than ready to tell Dimitri to go away when he felt gentle lips upon his cheek.

He smiled. “Frankie . . . what would your sister say?”

“Meh, I’ve had better . . .”

Amid Dimitri’s whoop of laughter, AJ flipped Samara onto her back and gave her a thorough kiss. “Better than that?”

“I think I might need another kiss in order to make a fair judgment,” Samara said, even as she brought his lips to hers. This time, AJ was gentler, savoring her taste of mint and fresh breath.

He winced in apology. “Does my breath stink terribly?” he asked, even if it seemed a little moot.

“I wouldn’t complain if you brushed your teeth,” Samara laughed. She pressed her nose against his. “Good morning, AJ.”

“Good morning, agapi mou,” he murmured, kissing her forehead quickly before leaving the bed and going to the bathroom. He brushed his teeth quickly and washed his face.

“Agapi mou, what does that mean?” AJ heard Samara ask Dimitri.

“My love,” Dimitri replied, then AJ heard him chuckle. “You’re adorable when you blush.”

“Cousin!” AJ said, coming out the bathroom and giving Dimitri a playful glare. “No flirting with my woman!”

“I’m merely stating a fact!” Dimitri said, wrapping his arm around Samara’s shoulders. “Your woman is insanely adorable, actually, whether she blushes or not!”

“Y’all need to stop,” Samara mumbled, averting her eyes and blushing furiously.

AJ sat on the edge of his bed and tugged Samara to him. He kissed the palm of her hand, his eyes locked on her visage. “You’re right, though, Dima,” AJ said, his voice full of wonder. “She is adorable, and kind, and giving, and gorgeous . . . and mine.”

Putting it out in the universe

1.) I am a beautiful woman.

2.) I am a good writer.

3.) One day, I will say these two things with far more conviction than I do now.

Happy Fourth!

I hope everyone is enjoying the day off, and if you don't have the day off . . . sorry? I hope at least it's overtime you're earning today!

Well, update on my writing . . . got another rejection for RJC from an agent. I didn't get passed the query stage with this one. It's a little disconcerting, but meh. I know it happens in the lit game. I just got shoved back a few steps, but I'm keeping on trucking.

On Monday I met with David Updike, he's a coworker of my godmother's sister, and his son actually works where I work, and he went to Harvard and he's John Updike's son. It was good to talk to him, to talk about self-publishing and the themes about it and how agents do and publishers do and how much it's about politics and business as much as talent--probably more so. I'm glad we got to talk. I'm reading his book Ivy's Turn and I like it so far. He has a good voice for teenagers, since that is the age of the two main characters.

And I'm writing, sort of. I'll leave it at that :).

Again, have a great day!

AJ's Serendipity 10 and Yesterday

Hi everyone, Happy July! It's Sunday, which means there's an AJ's Serendipity update. You can go to Aliyah Burke's site and read it or SYG. I hope you enjoy and please forgive errors!


Also, yesterday I had the Harlem Book Fair at Roxbury Community College. I really enjoyed myself, and yay for my sister being so nice and great to be my partner for all six hours. It was also great to meet folks from the SYG (hi, Sharon-divisionred!) and meet other local authors in Boston. I sat next to a woman who wrote poetry, and it's fantastic, so I encourage you to check out Tichaona Chinyelu. Also, I was on a panel about self-publishing, and I learned as much as I hopefully informed. What I've learned most about it, is I have to be less shy and more assertive, or at least I'm learning to do that. Even at the book fair, when people walk by and pass my sis kept telling me I had to speak up. If I don't believe I have a good and worthwhile product, why would anyone else? I'm a work in progress, I admit--not just in terms of my writing, but in everything, but that's another topic :-P. All in all, I'm glad I had the opportunity to be part of the Fair.

And, now, the excerpt! :)

~~~~

“Ready?” Dimitri asked, clipping his pager and mobile to his belt. He shoved his wallet in the pocket of his khakis. His black Polo shirt accentuated his fitness despite Dimitri’s casual look. The Melonakos men were broad by nature, but Dimitri’s Navy training had defined his more.

“I look all right?” AJ asked.

Dimitri quirked his lips. “What, you turned into a woman after using the bathroom? Now I know to avoid it!”

AJ growled at him and would have huffed if he hadn’t caught himself. “I’m serious!”

Dimitri smiled and nodded, as if seeming to understand his opinion was important to AJ’s peace of mind. “You look almost as good as I do, cousin.”

AJ smiled as well, and clapped Dimitri’s shoulder as they left the room. “You’ll love her, Dima.”

“Sorry, I’m already taken.”

Harper Lee: Dropping the Mic--A Tutorial

I just finished reading To Kill a Mockingbird today. Harper Lee is the most GANGSTA white woman evar in life. Okay, one of the most gangsta. I loved the book. Absolutely loved it. I'm in love with Atticus Finch. Do I care the man is fictional and old enough to be my great-granddaddy? Hells naw. His sense of humor was fantastic, but more than that, his sense of decency and respect. I just . . . you don't see people like that NOW, let alone back in the day, and him being a white person at that. The way he taught his lessons to Scout and Jem . . . the way he led by example, with quiet humility . . . they don't make me like him like that anymore, or if they do, they're invisible. Got to be.

But back to Goddess Lee . . . sheer brilliance to use a young white girl to narrate the story, someone who has yet to be prejudiced in the ways of the older generation, whose lessons are tempered with a man who is far ahead of his (and, let's face it) our time, whose older brother is a sponge to his father's lessons, to Dill, whose little heart is broken by the things he saw take place in the courthouse. Even Dolphus Raymond and Miss Maudie Atkinson and Mr. Heck Tate and Link Dees . . . Mr. Walter Cunningham who all teach Scout something about the politics and nuances of living in the South, nay, the country, and in turn, the reader. "Good" people do bad things, allow things to happen, place the onus on one so the entire community can go on like it does. That a town has no problem sending a man to his death because it's "inevitable", the speech Atticus makes, his closing argument . . . *fans self*. I wish there were more Atticuses in the country.

And THEN The fact she was one and done . . . I mean, does she need a follow up? She wrote what many writers aspire to write in one go. Do I care if Truman Capote helped her? Not one damn bit. HER name is on that book. Nothing wrong with assistance . . . Symbiotic relationships, if you will

Yeah, if you haven't read it, read it. This is a book I'm going to read again because I KNOW I missed some things the first time. Speaking of, I need to read Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry again. So overdue. That's a Comparative Lit paper if I ever read one!

AJ's Serendipity 9

Update! Go to Aliyah's site or to SYG to read the entire chapter. Have a great Sunday!

~~~

“What are you reading, handsome?”

AJ looked up to see a stunning redhead with smooth, alabaster skin; bright, blue eyes; and perfectly bee-stung pink lips grinning at him. There was a dusting of freckles on her bare shoulders that added to her attractiveness. Her hair was a heavy, wavy curtain draped over one shoulder, clearly meant to entice. If there was no Samara, he would’ve been.

Returning her smile, AJ showed her the cover of the book, and she appeared to nod in approval. “Do you like it so far?”

“I’ve not been displeased.”

The redhead’s smile widened and she held out a hand. “Noelle.”

AJ used the index finger of his left hand as a bookmark and shook Noelle’s hand with his right. “AJ.”

“A strong grip,” Noelle said, her blue eyes looking at their joined hands briefly before meeting his gaze again. “Nice.”

AJ smiled again and eased his hand from hers. “Thanks.”

It was odd not to have the desire to flirt. He felt decidedly out of his element. Flirting had been as second nature as breathing to him before he had met Samara. Now, all he wanted to be was left alone with the book Samara had insisted he read. He knew the woman was interested in him, but AJ didn’t know how to tell her he wasn’t—he’d never had to do such a thing before.

“Leaving or going?” Noelle asked.

He blinked at the text in confusion before turning his green eyes to her. “Sorry?”

“Home. Leaving or going? Although I hear a faint accent, so I’m assuming leaving . . .”

He smiled genuinely as an image of Samara appeared in his mind. “Going. Definitely going.”

What kind of writer am I?

Or more specifically, if you had to categorize my writing, where would you put it? There's no wrong answer per se, although if you say "horror" I think I'd cry a little lol. As I start submitting manuscripts to agents, etc, I find it is difficult to categorize some of my work. Gym Story, I think is obviously a romance, but is RJC? It's a little frustrating, because I just write the stories and worry about the other things such as genre later, if at all, but as I realize agents/editors/publishers like categories, it makes someone like me a little more challenging I suppose. Anyway, I'm in a reflective mood. I hope everyone is having a great weekend, and AJ's Serendipity will be up tomorrow as usual.

AJ's Serendipity 8

Here is an update. You can either go to Aliyah's site or my group. The excerpt is below, and Happy Father's Day!

Sav

~~~~

Samara took a deep breath, and then buried her face in his chest. AJ held her fast to him, his face concealed by the top of her head. He loved her. He loved this woman. Somewhere deep inside him, he knew she loved him in return. It wasn’t right they had to be separated like this.

“I’ll be here in the morning,” he vowed. “Don’t worry about the taxi; I’ll get it for you. Four-thirty.”

“Thank you,” Samara said. “But you don’t have to, though—”

“I do,” AJ murmured, kissing her temple. “You know I do. We’ll exchange information then.”

She nodded and pulled back, sliding trembling fingers to his cheeks. They then went across his lips and his nose, and his eyelids fluttered shut.

“Wow, I’m going to miss you,” she sighed.

“Not for long,” AJ said, lifting up his mouth to kiss her palm. “We won’t be separated for long.”

Her eyes held her skepticism, but she mercifully kept her mouth closed. AJ bent his head and kissed her softly. “Sweet dreams, Samara. See you in a few hours.”

Both he and Spyros were solemn and quiet on their way to their flat building. When they reached their individual doors, AJ decided to break the silence.

“Are you coming with me tomorrow morning?”

“Yeah,” Spyros said. “I’d like to say goodbye.”

AJ nodded once. “Then I suggest we’d get some sleep then.”

But sleep didn’t come, at least not for AJ. As soon as he entered his flat, he placed a call to a local taxi service and requested a pick up at four in the morning in front of the flat building. Afterwards, he undressed and climbed into bed, but he was too wired to rest. His mind kept thinking of things he wanted to do, of the life he had begun to plan with Samara since seeing her in the market. Five days? Five days might as well be five minutes as far as AJ was concerned. It wasn’t long enough, yet he shouldn’t be ungrateful for God’s gift. That was what Samara was, a gift. His and his alone. How could he in good conscience let her get on that plane to be flown out of his life for who knew how long? But he would, because it was to be.

For now.