Leaving Hope

Two blog posts in two days! Umm... that probably won't happen again in a while. I'm almost done the outline for Second Chances, the next book I'm working on, and I'll be busy writing again. But I did promise an update on the book I just wrote. It's now been submitted to an agent, by snail mail, so I won't have any sort of answer for another month at least. The last book I mentioned here was Piece of Mind and I've put that one on the back burner. Maybe I'll go back and work on it again sometime, maybe not.
I started Second Chances and Leaving Hope at the same time, figuring I could switch between the two if I got stuck on a part. I wrote the first chapter in each book then wrote the outline for Leaving Hope and never went back to Second Chances. The books are completely different; Leaving Hope is a young adult fantasy while Second Chances is contemporary fiction. I don't have a synopsis for Second Chances, I haven't quite finished the outline yet, but it's about a middle aged woman named Karen who has her oldest grandson Owen dropped off at her home for "a little while". Karen's daughter disappears, with her other two grandchildren, two days later only to resurface after a decade. The novel is about family ties and forgiveness.

As for Leaving Hope, it's easier to share the synopsis and the first chapter... 

Seventeen year old Aren has a secret that's about to shatter her world. Aren and her friends are half-elven; ostracized by a society that sees them as less than human. Now the mayor of her province has just declared himself king, despite having no royal blood. His goal is to take over the country and claim Avenna's abandoned throne.

His first proclamation declares it treasonous to lie with one of the fae. Any resulting baby is proof of this treason and both the mother and child will die. The fae man Aren slept with hasn't returned in moon turns and her Papa is dying, neither one can help her now.

She turns to her friend Toby, who has his own secret to hide, and begs him to claim her unborn baby as his, setting into motion a chain of events foreseen and manipulated by the fae.

While the king places increasingly stronger restrictions on the half-elven, a new church appears, painting anyone with fae blood as vermin to exterminate.

Now Aren and her friends are tangled in the webs the fae have woven, and trapped by the king's laws and the church. They hope to survive, but can they make it out of Hope alive?

LEAVING HOPE is a 65,000-word young adult fantasy. This is my first novel.

Chapter One

“Papa? What's treason?” I asked as soon as I closed our door. That was the one word I didn't understand on the notice in the town square and without it, nothing else made sense.

“Treason? It's when you go against the king,” he replied then coughed. “Of course you need to have a king for that.”

He chuckled when I flinched. “It's okay Aren, I know what Bobby's calling himself. Smallest province in Avenna and he claims he's king. I could call myself king of this bed just as easily and it would mean as much.”

“Papa,” I said warningly, glancing back at the door. Robert had brought people in for less and with nearly as few witnesses.

“Sorry,” he replied unapologetically then continued, “When King Nicholas was alive, treason was one of the few crimes with a death penalty. I assume that much hasn't changed.”

It felt like my heart dropped into my stomach. I stared at him in horror.

“It's that bad Aren? What is he calling treason?”

“Half-elven babies,” I whispered.

“ All of us or just the babies?” Papa asked worriedly, shifting a bit against his pillow.

“So far just the babies,” I replied, struggling not to touch my stomach. Not that it would make much difference, Papa's gift was seeing the truth. “Any woman who lies with one of the fae is considered to have committed treason. The baby is the proof.”

“Then any woman who finds herself in that situation better find a father for her baby quickly,” he noted.

I nodded then changed the subject. “How are you feeling today?”

He shrugged slightly. “About the same as yesterday,” he lied.

I looked at him critically. He used to glow bright yellow but the glow had dimmed over the last few months to a greyish mustard colour. Now that colour was disappearing too, leaving him fading to white. Mama's colours had faded similarly before she died. I didn't think he'd see midwinter; he certainly wouldn't see spring.

“Why don't you go out for a walk?” he suggested. “I could use a bit of quiet.”

I was about to protest that he wouldn't even hear me then realized he wanted me to do something about my predicament. I kissed him gently on the forehead and slipped outside.

It was autumn now. The air held a mellow warmth but the golden leaves said chill winds weren't too far behind. It had been spring the last time I'd seen Ferrin.

I'd felt odd that day, like I was ready for the whole world to change and take me with it. As if everything was waiting, paused on the edge of anticipation. Ferrin had his wagon parked in a field just outside the village. I'd shown him my carvings, he'd looked at them and promised he had rich buyers who would love them. Once again he'd paid me almost as much as Papa had made doing cabinetry when he was still strong. Then he took my hand and told me he had something else for me, a gift, and led me into the back of his wagon. There was nothing there except a bed, but that was all we needed.

I knew what would come from that afternoon; I didn't know of any woman who'd laid down with one of the fae and hadn't come up expecting. At that point I hadn't cared.

I looked around in surprise and realized I was almost to Toby's house. He was Papa's former apprentice and one of my few friends. He was half-elven like Papa and I but he had a harder gift than both of us combined. He could hear thoughts, which made other people almost as uncomfortable around him as he was around them.

Toby's home was in a patch of woods, just far enough away that he could sleep without hearing everyone's dreams. His house was small but in good repair, although that wasn't a surprise considering his skills at woodworking. I knocked on the door and hoped he'd answer, he wasn't always in the mood for company. Thankfully today he was.

He opened the door and smiled slightly when he saw me. His wheat blond hair was pulled away from his face and the glow around him was almost the same bright blue as his eyes. I eyed the glow critically, it was cleaner and brighter than the last time I'd seen him.

“Nate was over, wasn't he,” I commented. It wasn't a question.

Toby nodded but didn't open the door further or offer to invite me in.

“I'm in trouble, Toby,” I whispered. “I need help.”

He looked down at my stomach then opened the door and gestured inside. Without waiting he turned and stalked to the kitchen, I followed.

“I pumped some water earlier,” he said as he picked up a jug and poured himself a glass. Then he poured me one too.

“Who's the father?” he asked abruptly then blanched. “Ferrin?”

I nodded then took the glass. “I hadn't been worried before. There's never been any danger in raising a half-elven baby.” I sighed, “At least not until now.”

“Aren. There's no way that baby's going to be half-elven,” Toby pointed out gently. “I'm half-elven and Nate's half-elven. You're about as close to fae as any human could manage.” He gestured to my stomach then added, “And that baby will be even closer still.”

I watched him hopefully, knowing he'd pick up my thoughts despite the fact I couldn't articulate them.

“Your Papa stood up for you and I'll stand up for your baby,” he said finally then added, “but I won't marry you and I want you to promise I will be your baby's father no matter what.”

“I promise,” I said firmly, looking into his eyes.

He stared at me for a moment then nodded. “ Then I swear,” he began and everything seemed to pause. Even the birds stopped singing. “I am the true father of your baby. I will not be your husband but I will help raise this baby and will love and care for him.”

“Him?”

Toby's smile was almost wistful. He touched my stomach gently then quickly pulled his hand back. “I can hear his thoughts.”

“You should go,” he added. “It's getting late and your Papa's going to need you soon.”

“Thanks Toby,” I said then headed out.

I was halfway through the woods when the sound of pipes led me off the trail. I followed the music to a small clearing surrounded by scarlet bushes. Nate perched on a fallen tree, a rabbit curled up against one foot. The breeze tousled his curly brown hair and, as he glanced at me over his pipes, the sunlight danced in his green eyes. Toby was right when he said I looked fae but between the two of us I felt Nate looked wilder, like some sort of tree spirit.

“What brings you out here?” he asked curiously.

“Toby,” I replied as I leaned against him. The rabbit looked up at me then proceeded to groom itself. “We're going to have a baby.”

“A baby will be nice,” he replied. “So who's the baby's real father?” I hadn't expected him to think the baby was Toby's.

“Ferrin,” I whispered. He winced and gave me a quick hug.

“Your story might work and some might even believe it,” he mused. “But I don't think Robert will and he's the one who matters the most.”

I shifted to look at him. “Toby was the only one I could ask,” I explained earnestly.

“You could have asked me,” he pointed out.

“Not with Robert as a brother,” I retorted. “He ignores you now but I don't think he would if you had a successor; then he'd see you as a rival. Who else would I ask?”

He shrugged. “What about Dirk? He's quiet and single.”

“Dirk?” I blurted. “There's no way I'd ask him.” The colours around him were less a glow and more a stain. They brought to mind vomit in a mud puddle. Plus he'd know the baby wasn't his. He'd be more likely to turn me in to Robert than stand up for me.

“Does Mari still visit you?” I asked worriedly.

He nodded. “She's been with me for a moon turn now.”

I didn't bother to ask if her mother knew. Chances were she hadn't noticed Mari was gone in the first place.

“Make sure she stays away from Dirk,” I warned. “I know he spends a lot of time with Mari's mother.” Along with most of the males in the village, I thought to myself. “And I've seen the way he looks at her.”

“Where is she now?” I asked, looking around. I couldn't see her anywhere and considering her hair was the same wheat colour as mine and Toby's, it should stand out.

“She's over there,” he gestured vaguely, “Taking a bit of a nap. We were up late last night with a sick foal.”

He stared into the distance, his eyes unfocused. His expression was thoughtful and a bit melancholic.

“How's the foal?” I asked curiously.

He shrugged. “She was doing a bit better this morning, up and nursing from her mother. All I can do is wait and see. I think she ate something she shouldn't have but Robert refused to call in the animal healer.” He picked up a pine cone and threw it at a tree trunk. It hit with a thunk and fell to the ground.

I stared at him in confusion. Robert's horses were the best in the area and worth a fair bit of gold. It didn't make sense for him to ignore her.

“Why won't he call the healer?” I asked curiously.

“He claims that if she's stupid enough to eat something she shouldn't then she probably won't be trainable anyway,” he said then added quietly. “I think he's trying to hurt me.”

A squirrel jumped from a nearby bush to his shoulder. He reached up and petted it absentmindedly. “He doesn't really ignore me,” Nate continued sadly. “He's willing to hurt anyone I care about. But I can't stop caring.”

The squirrel chattered for a second then jumped onto another branch and ran off.

“Is it safe to have Mari stay with you?” I asked worriedly. Robert placed a lot more value on his horses than he would the half-elven daughter of the town whore. “Maybe she could stay with Evelyn?”

“I tried that,” he admitted. “Evelyn feels children belong with their parents and promptly brought her home. Mari almost beat me back to the barn.”

He smiled slightly. “I'm keeping her as hidden as I can,” he assured me.

I looked back to where he'd gestured and still saw nothing. Apparently he was doing a good job. Then I remembered something I'd overheard earlier.

“Did you know there's a bear with cubs in the area?” I asked.

Nate grinned mischievously. “Who do you think is watching her?”

I stared at him and he grinned even wider.

“You have to admit no one could keep her more safe than a bear. She's sleeping with the cubs,” he explained. “They stuffed themselves with blackberries earlier.”

A blue jay swooped by screaming and Nate stood up. “She's awake now,” he said then walked into the woods. I followed.

We walked for several minutes then Nate touched my hand. “Wait here,” he cautioned then stepped into the meadow on his own. A brown bear sat up and watched him.

I looked at the bear and froze. She was huge, at least compared to me. Nate stood in front of her then reached forward and scratched her behind the ear like I'd scratch a dog; she leaned into his hand with evident enjoyment and chuffed.

“Come on Mari,” he said cheerfully and her head popped up from the middle of the pile of sleeping cubs. She scampered across them then climbed Nate like a tree until she was on his back. Her hair was a tangle of knots and her face streaked with blackberry juice, but she was smiling which was a step up from when she'd been at home. Besides, it wasn't like her mother brushed her hair either.

“Did you have a good nap?” he asked her. She nodded then looked over at me and waved.

“She's still not speaking yet?” It was more of an observation than a question. I couldn't remember how old she was, three, maybe four years old; definitely old enough to be speaking though.

Mari tilted her head and watched me curiously. “I've never heard her speak but she talks to Toby,” Nate replied. He pushed back a branch then held it so I could pass too.

“She hears thoughts like him?” I asked. I hoped otherwise, that was a hard gift.

Nate shook his head. His curls brushed against Mari's cheeks and she giggled. “He said her gift is close enough for him to talk to her but it's not the same,” he explained.

We stepped onto the road. The sun was already behind the trees and shadows gathered. It was later than I thought.

“Do you want to come over for dinner?” I asked. “It's going to be very simple, just eggs and toast. Papa's not eating much these days.”

“Thanks for offering but I can't,” Nate said then smiled. “You have no idea how much birds gossip. If one saw me eating eggs it would be spread across the province within the hour. I'd horrify them all.”

He stepped off the road and into a nearby field. “I've got beans soaking at home and I need to get back to milk one of the goats. Nala insists Mari has her milk. I get the impression she feels Mari isn't growing fast enough, which she probably isn't compared to a kid.”

“Okay,” I replied. “I'll see you soon.”

They headed across the field and I hurried home.

I want to be a writer

I want to be a writer. I am determined to be a writer. I sit at my computer and edit and tweak my latest novel, Piece of Mind, every single day. I revise conversations, tweak descriptions, and edit transitions. I carry a notebook in my purse so I can jot down ideas when I'm out. I have a two hour commute every work day (an hour each way) so have lots of time to think. My cellphone is handy too, I was walking on the treadmill yesterday, writing conversations into my notes.

I want to be a writer. These days I don't just read novels for pure enjoyment, I look at how sentences are formed. I notice how the author sets a scene. How the author explains who's speaking. How often they have characters speak versus describing what the character's experiencing.

I want to be a writer. I think regularly about my novel and try to sort out what to write in my current chapter. I talk to my children about my novel and use them as guinea pigs.

Writing is one of the hardest things I've ever done. I love to write. I love when I get a sentence phrased exactly right. I love when I read aloud to my kids and they laugh themselves silly at a part that's supposed to be funny. I love that point when my kids start talking about my characters like they're real people who just stepped out of the room for a minute. I hate when I'm sitting at the computer and my latest attempt at conversation sounds like bored actors reading a weak script. I hate when I have a thought in my mind and the words just won't go down the way I want them to. And, conversely, I love when I move to another paragraph then come back and tweak and, suddenly, changing a word opens up new ideas and the thought just pours onto the page.

I imagine writing is like building a house. I start with the foundation and throw it up. There's a basic shape but not much else. Then I go back and add the essentials. Soon I can see what the house will look like but it's rough, unfinished. Then I go back a third time and add all the little details. The descriptions, more conversations, little things that I was thinking that somehow missed getting written down. After that I drag someone else through so they can see if there's anything I missed. And that's as far as I've gotten.

Right now I'm about three quarters of the way through Piece of Mind and have a couple of chapters to tweak in Small Dreams and then I'm onto my next writing adventure, writing query letters.

I wrote the first chapter of my novel Small Dreams into my blog back in 2011. Now I'll share the first chapter of Piece of Mind. I hope you like it:

“And I woke myself up by screaming.” A rivulet of sweat trickled down my back as I described my latest nightmare.

Nicole looked up from chopping veggies for our morning omelette and grinned. “Maybe Santa will bring you a boyfriend for Christmas,” she remarked. She brushed her straight brown hair behind her ears and turned up the radio.

“This is my favourite carol,” she added as Eartha Kitt brazenly asked Santa for a fur coat and a car.

I stared at her blankly, unable to grasp the connection between my nightmares and needing a boyfriend. Then again, talking with Nicole always left me feeling like I was following half a conversation. “Why a boyfriend?” I asked nervously, the thought filled me with dread. When I was a bit younger and my parents were still alive, the thought of having a boyfriend was interesting but after a month of rape dreams, that interest had waned. I figured I was only a nightmare or two away from showing up at a mental hospital and asking to be admitted.

“Maybe you’re lonely,” she replied. “The dreams could be your mind’s way of telling you that you want some male attention.”

Chills ran icy fingers down my spine. “Seriously, I’d rather be single for the rest of my life than be with someone like that!”

She shrugged and went back to her vegetables. I carefully measured out the coffee then added it to the machine; coffee was the only thing Nicole would allow me to make. She took pleasure in her assumed role of big sister, cooking breakfast every morning before she went to bed and dinner every night before she left for work. She tried packing lunches but stopped when I insisted I could manage that; I'd made my own sandwiches when I was still small enough to need a footstool to reach the counter.

“It could be worse,” she said, obviously trying to cheer me up. “Your nightmares are here in private, unlike mine.” She sighed then added, “I'll never be able to see a movie again.”

I had to chuckle. She'd just broken up with her boyfriend at the premiere of the latest chick-flick. From what I heard, he thought they were going to be watching a movie with lots of guns and cars, not one where the male lead cried tenderly. Apparently the fireworks were so spectacular people were buying popcorn then heading back outside for the show.

Nicole munched a piece of pepper then said thoughtfully, “I wonder if you're having nightmares because you know you’re home alone. If you’d get a job where I work, then we’d be on the same shift and you wouldn’t have to worry about being home alone at night.”

“I’m not old enough to work where you do,” I reminded her yet again. I’d met Nicole at hair dressing school but she’d dropped out and got a job at the local casino instead. She was just barely old enough to work there, which made me five years too young; something she managed to forget at least once a week. Nicole’s thoughts centred completely around her. It wasn’t that she was mean or totally selfish, she simply forgot anything that didn’t directly have to do with her and assumed that everyone wanted to be just like her.

She swirled the eggs around the pan then poured the veggies on top. “Is the coffee almost done yet?”

“It's pretty much done,” I replied, glancing at the pot.

“Good,” she said while reaching into the cupboard. “I'll just get the sugar and... oh...” She grabbed something and pulled it out.

“Tamara?” she asked curiously. “Why are you keeping pregnancy tests in the cupboard?”

I looked at the box in shock while Ella Fitzgerald crooned about how she wanted to go on a sleigh ride.

“I didn't put that there,” I stammered.

The top of the box was open and Nicole tipped the contents into her hand.

“Eww,” she said as she dropped the tests on the counter then wiped her hands on her jeans. “One of these has been used.”

I picked up the used one and looked at it.

“Nicole,” I said, confused. “This test is positive.”

“That is seriously creepy,” she said. She didn’t sound creeped out at all though. She sounded excited, like it was some mystery to solve and Scooby and the gang were going to show up to help her explore for clues. I, however, wasn’t nearly as thrilled.

I started to shake. “How could this get in there?”

“Maybe...” she started to say then stopped. “Could you have left the door unlocked?” she asked hesitantly.

I shook my head. “I never leave it unlocked, ever. You know that!” I replied. “You’re the one who nicknamed me little Miss Paranoid. I always use the door lock, the dead bolt and a chain. And we’re on the frigging sixth floor so it's not like someone just climbed in a window.”

“Those were locked too by the way.” I added. “And I had to unlock the door so you could come in this morning.”

Last night I’d checked and triple checked the locks before heading to bed. I’d looked every conceivable place someone could hide and even some inconceivable ones. When I caught myself peeking behind the toilet I knew I’d moved from cautious into the realm of paranoia. That still didn’t stop me from checking in the bathtub and the overstuffed cabinets under the sink.

I pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat down with a thud. “One of the weird things about the dream last night is I heard a voice,” I said, struggling to remember. “I opened my eyes and saw these green eyes and heard a voice.”

I fell silent. I could see those cold green eyes in my mind. Felt the weight of his body above me. During the dreams I could feel the heat from his body but looking back, all I felt was ice.

“What did the voice say?” Nicole prompted, staring at me intently.

The coffee finished dripping but we ignored it.

“Nothing that made any sense at the time. He talked about farming and how he’d planted the field but still wanted to plough it.” I replied. My mind flashed to early childhood and my Mom explaining how Daddy makes a baby by planting a seed in Mommy. Seeds… fertile ground. An image of an old-fashioned plough digging into the ground the way he pushed himself into me. I picked up the unopened test. “I think I'm going to take this,” I said while heading to the bathroom.

Less than a minute later I had a second positive test. I leaned against the counter, my legs too unsteady to hold me, and stared at myself in the mirror above the sink. My reflection gazed back in shock. I always looked a bit young for my age but terror made me look about twelve. I wondered about the man who apparently thought that was enticing. My stomach twisted and I spent the next minute trying desperately not to vomit.

Nicole knocked on the bathroom door. “Tamara? Open up.”

Shaking, I opened the door. We stood there in silence staring at the plus sign on the second test. I felt as calm as the eye of a hurricane, eerily still and quiet with devastation looming in all directions. I was single. Completely, utterly, single. There was no way I could be pregnant… except if the dreams were real.

“What are you going to do?” Nicole asked looking about as shocked as I felt.

“I’m getting out of here,” I said grimly, trying my hardest not to cry. “I have no idea how he got in here and there's nothing stopping him from coming back.”

Mid winter ramblings

I haven't been writing here in a while. Not that I haven't been writing, it's just that my writing time has been reserved for brief updates on Facebook and mostly working on my novel, Small Dreams.

Today, however, is different. Today I'm home with a cold and my thoughts are skittering around madly like cockroaches when the light's turned on. I'm not really focusing well enough to edit my novel so I'm inflicting my thoughts here where they're being read for free. Not that I'm actually getting paid for my novels yet but I'm hoping that will change some day. I've got no financial hopes pinned here.

I confess, I stink at editing. Small Dreams is continually bouncing around between 452 and 460 pages, kind of like a yo-yo dieter. I hack out some pages, mostly days where the main characters do nothing but go to work, come home, chat over dinner, and wash the dishes (what on earth was I thinking when I wrote those days?) then the pages creep back up in the form of dialogue and observations.

I've been observing my kids more and more for dialogue, especially now that they're teenagers and come up with interesting statements. My son, while hilarious, ends up saying things that don't really suit the characters so it's more my daughter I use. Son, I will share with you.

My son showed signs of his offbeat sense of humour years ago. Picture it. We're standing in a busy line at the movie theatre, waiting to buy tickets. He's the picture of innocence. Bright blue eyes, gleaming dark blond hair, and a smile curving his lips. He clasps both hands together, tilts his head and announces in the sweetest voice ever, "I'm a disturbing little boy." Right out of the blue.

Last week we were grocery shopping and I needed salad fixings (I pretty much always need salad fixings). I went to grab my usual mixed greens and son blurted, "No, you need to buy this one" then pointed at one of those packages of lettuce alive. It was fresh and green so I picked it up. That was when son noticed the root ball underneath.

His eyes widened. "Mom! We have to plant that as soon as we get home.We can plant it in the tree in the living room." Yeah, the ficus tree I have growing behind the futon. Because, a, it would grow so well behind the futon and, b, I want to do flips over the back every time I make a salad. So I reminded him that lettuce needs light and it was not the right time of year to grow anything on our balcony. He looked so disappointed I assured him we could grow lettuce in the summer then wanted to know why he wanted to grow it in the first place seeing as he treats lettuce like it's poison.

"Ben and Bean [our guinea pigs] eat lettuce and they're my friends. I want lettuce for them." He paused and we kept walking then he continued. "They're friends... friends I keep in a cage and never allow free."

Okay then creepy child.

Later on we were walking home and son informed me that his class is learning about people and who to trust. His teacher had a page with pictures of various people and asked the kids who they would pick off the page to trust. Every child but one picked the shot of an innocent looking child. My son picked the 6ft tall man with a mohawk. Curious, I asked him why. Not that I have anything against 6ft tall men with mohawks, it just seemed like an interesting choice.

Son rolled his eyes. "Doesn't anyone watch movies? You never trust kids that age, they're the ones who know where all the bodies are hidden."

The plus side is, if I ever decide to write a horror, I just need to follow my son around with a pad of paper and a pen.

Now my throat has convinced me that an ice cream sundae is a splendid choice for lunch. The chocolate ice cream has calcium and the marshmallow fluff is full of egg whites and protein. And the salted caramel sauce has... well it has... it doesn't matter I'm sure it has vital nutritional requirements my body needs.

Glued to the keyboard

It's a beautiful day, a real bonus day. When I looked at the forecast on Wednesday, today called for constant rain. I was relieved because I planned on spending today writing and that's a lot easier when the weather provides ample encouragement to stay indoors. Instead, this afternoon is calling for sunshine and a high of 17C. The only thing keeping my backside planted on a chair is my constant mental reminders that any trail I walk on will be knee deep in mud after last night's thunderstorms. Knee deep in mud and surrounded by bare grey-brown trees.

I can't wait for spring. I want to walk down trails and watch the buds unfurl while listening to birds singing their lungs out in a jubilant hormonal frenzy. Even the air smells new, like the world is taking a fresh start. But, as much as I want to appreciate this, I know today's not the day. Today's that tease of a day that feels so glorious yet looks like the back end of a camel with the runs.

And so I go back to writing again. I'm at just over 120,000 words (give or take a few hundred) and figure I need to edit out about 20,000 before I can start submitting it. I sit here going over each paragraph, line by line, seeing what I can reduce. What would make this line flow easier? Is that line, or even that paragraph, really necessary? Does this really sound like someone talking? What would Jessica be thinking right about now?

Meanwhile, a pack of chores are looming (metaphorically speaking) over my shoulder muttering "You've never been published before, never gotten paid for this. Are you sure this is more important than us? Is this work or are you just hiding from cleaning the bathroom?" It sure feels like work, although I must admit it doesn't take much to convince me to avoid scrubbing the toilet.

The good news is that after months of my page count staying the same or increasing by a page or two, I finally dropped four pages out of my novel yesterday. And now I need to publish this and go back to hacking out a few more.

The characters in my novel

This is either going to be cool or it'll make me sound like I've got multiple personalities (or maybe a mixture of both) but I'm going to introduce the main(ish) characters in my novel. Some don't show up until part way through the novel... some are at the beginning.

Jessica: She's the main character and narrator of the novel. She's young, extremely naive, and always tries to see the best in people. Which works out great for her sometimes... not so great other times. She can be a bit sarcastic and is extremely loyal.

She spends a lot of time reading in the novel. The books she reads tend to be urban fantasy with a bit of suspense thrown in. She loves reading women's magazines too.

Chris: He's the other main character, Jessica's boyfriend/husband. He's also young, not as naive as Jessica but a lot more optimistic. He's loyal, hardworking and determined but a bit of a joker. Enjoys playing cards and hanging out with friends.

He also spends a lot of time reading and enjoys murder mysteries and horror. They don't tend to swap books LOL

Darcy: Chris' friend and co-worker. Down to earth and doesn't embarrass easily. He's loyal and hardworking but young as well and still sorting out what he wants to do in life.

Darcy doesn't read much... he'd rather watch a movie.

Pete: Comes in later in the novel. Hardworking and quiet and blushes easily. He's the oldest in the novel by about a year or two but has been fending for himself a lot longer than the rest. Always wants to help others (to the point where he really should learn the word "no").

Pete's been reading too many text books to pick up a book lately. When he's not in school he enjoys biographies (of mostly historical people) and medical mysteries.

There are a bunch more characters in the novel. Some don't have a lot of character, so there's not much point in describing them. Some are only in the novel for a short time. Some characters change too much to really give a description without giving away plot (something I'm trying to avoid LOL). But that gives an idea.

I've got two hours and an empty apartment. Time to get writing!

The beginning of Small Dreams

I keep blogging about my novel but haven't really shared much about it. This is the beginning of the novel. I hope you like it :o)

Chris perched on our porch, knees bent, his back against a rotting beam. He stared intently at something in his hands, and didn’t notice me until I reached the end of the driveway. I winced as he jumped down; our landlord was not known for his stellar repairs, and I half expected the railing to collapse under his weight. It certainly didn't have anything solid supporting it.

“This is for you,” he blurted when I reached him, then he handed me the bag he’d been holding. I took a peek inside. A pregnancy test? I quickly handed it back.

“Chris!” I exclaimed, “Why did you get me this?”

He looked at me as if I were nuts. “You've been queasy all week. You've thrown up twice today alone and your period is late. Why wouldn't I get one?”

“I can't be pregnant!” I replied. “We can't afford a baby!” I could feel tears welling and quickly blinked them back before they overflowed.

His face quirked into a little half smile; one I usually found endearing, and he pressed the bag into my hands. “At least take the test. If you're pregnant you'll need to see the doctor. If you're not you'll need to find out why you're sick.”

He held the front door open then we quietly headed upstairs. I could hear our roommates, Ann and John, laughing and talking in the backyard so I knew we had the place to ourselves. Luckily Ann had been cleaning so I could no longer smell the liver she’d fried that morning. Unluckily Ann had been cleaning so all I could smell was powdered Ajax (only 79 cents a can at Bargoon Land, Jessica) and some heavy duty, catch-in-your-throat industrial floor cleaner. I tried to breathe shallowly.

Chris shuffled his feet awkwardly. “I’ll, umm, wait out here while you take the test.”

I nodded, too nervous to speak. As soon as the bathroom door was shut, I took the test out of its box. It looked easy enough to use but I read the instructions three times first. Then stood in front of the sink and stared at the test. The first line popped up right away and almost instantly a second line appeared; the pregnancy line.

I started to cry as I looked around the bathroom at the chipped paint, grimy windows, and cracks in the wall. I looked at Ann’s hairy razor and the rust stains in the tub and felt sick at the thought of bathing a baby there.

The bathroom door opened a crack and Chris slipped inside. He picked up the test gently and stared at it in amazement. His expression said it was Christmas and Santa just showed up with a Porsche. Then he looked at my tears and his smile dimmed.

“You don't want the baby?” he asked forlornly.

I rubbed the backs of my hands across my eyes before replying. “It's not that,” I protested. “What are we going to do with a baby? What sort of life can we give it? Our bedroom is tiny and looks like it held a war.”

“Could you imagine bathing a baby in here?” I gestured around the bathroom, “Or feeding a baby in the kitchen with Ann glaring at us and John's dog growling through the door?”

“We won't live here forever,” Chris solemnly assured me. “We'll make a better life for us and our baby. Things will turn out; I promise.”

Juggling words

I'm still deep into revising my novel and it's hard slogging. One issue is I have too many similar days, so I've been combining a bunch of them.

At one point I worried I'd made my main characters too perfect and threw in a fight. I've spent ages trying to make this fight sound like two people who simply got frustrated and snapped at each other. But, instead they sound like bad actors following a script. Walk in, fight, and walk off. So now I'm scrapping that whole section. Which means the tail end of that section, where they flip through the baby name book and choose names, has to get shuffled to another part of the novel. That's what I'm doing now; rewriting an entire conversation to fit a discussion on baby names.

That part has the main characters hanging out with a friend of theirs named Darcy. I figured it would be appropriate for Darcy to give some baby naming advice, that begins and ends with "don't name your baby after someone famous because he or she will never hear the end of it". The thing is, while I know there's a character named Darcy in a famous old book, I can't remember which old book. I really love Google, I don't know how many times it's kept me from looking like a complete idiot. And I'm sure it'll step up adequately again. Thank you Google! "Darcy character novel" brought up Pride and Prejudice. So I'll be doing a bit of online reading. Maybe I'll have Jessica read the zombie novelization of the book, she reads a lot.

I feel like my novel is going the same direction as my diet. Each time I think I've cut out a page, it comes back. I don't have nearly as many pages as I did when I typed my last sentence and thought "there... that's done" but for all the editing I'm doing, I keep finding myself constantly hovering around 444 to 447 pages.

I wanted to head out for a walk today but my son's making a working elevator out of lego and I figured this is a good time to write. Hopefully I'll get across the street for a walk after dinner.

And I'm back to writing again...