Deadly Elite

Thursday, July 28th, 2011
Deadly Force

Closeup of pistol, Photo Credit: Constantin Opris, Dreamstime.com

 

James Bond, Jason Bourne; entertaining extremes of my reality. Like them, I’m trained to get in, get it done and get out – without getting killed. Unless the only other alternative is getting captured. In that case, I know what to do. By necessity, special forces covert operations are lethal – either for the attacker or the target. I’ve been both. I’ve survived. So have others. Some are old friends, some I’m just meeting. All have served our country.

Now, an elite squad of protection agents, we serve differently. Expert in the stealthiest of the deadly arts; licensed to kill. Our clients are a select, vetted few – found to have no involvement in illegal or even questionable activities. To protect them, we must believe in them. I will not put myself in harm’s way, nor ask others to do so for anything less.

Took a hell of a lot of money to get our agency started. Stumbled into a surprising partner. Rich, yes – but also tough. Tough enough to become one of us until he got found out. But that’s his story. My story? I’m an action junkie. I live in the field, running ops. Time for sex, but not for love.

Maybe I’ll want it one day. But not today.

 

Masquerade

Thursday, July 21st, 2011
The Mask

Venetian Mask, Photo Credit: Dmitry Rostovtsev, Dreamstime.com

Hidden in plain sight; cloaked in layers of misdirection. Not what she appears to be; but yet is her real self. Deception is her protection. Necessary because of the family she had been born into and the multi-billion dollar empire they had built.

Tired of the charade, she envied those with simpler lives. A mask, no matter how beautiful, was still a mask. Even so, it was ridiculous to be ungrateful. She had freedom that many could only dream of. Her personal yearly allowance was more than most made in a lifetime.

But it was lonely to always keep her friends at a distance. It felt seedy somehow that they shared their lives with her; yet she hid hers from them. She had opened up to other ‘friends’ once before. It had gone badly. They resented her and her need for secrecy.

Friendship disappeared and a dependent guiltiness took it’s place. She paid and they took. Finally she ended it; suffering their harsh, jealous accusations. But her new friends were different. They had their own lives; were building their own careers.

Certainly they can accept me for who I am. Can’t they?

 

Reading Palms

Thursday, July 14th, 2011
A Guest Post by Diana Lee

 

Man's Hands

 

a man’s palm
cool and firm as marble

muscled mount of Venus
carved for lips tongue teeth

plain of Mars hollowed
cradle for my cheek

heart line furrowed
deep crevasse of love

Jupiter Saturn Apollo Mercury
fingers, long and supple

line of fate through Saturn’s core
magnet to my own

simian crease, heart / head fusion
emotions in check awaiting release

a man’s palm
reading me

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Diana was born and raised in Pittsburgh and is part of a large family, most of whom are still located there. She lived away from home for 20+ years and finally moved back to reconnect with her roots. She has always wanted to write, even from childhood, when she wrote a short story about autumn and created a little book of pages in the shape of maple leaves.
Writing became especially important to her a few years ago after the death of a family member. Putting pen to paper was an emotional outlet. Tears morphed into ink.

Photography, another interest of hers, is something else she has always wanted to explore. She likes the idea of looking at everyday things and places and watching them appear in a different form through a camera lens. It’s a guilty little pleasure that she has enjoyed more and more. Visit her writing blog, Diana’s Words; her photography blog, Life Through Blue Eyes;  and her Flickr photo stream. You’ll also find her as @Diana605 on Twitter.

Flirtatious

Thursday, July 7th, 2011
Flirtatious

Silhouette of Young Sensuality Beautiful Woman, Photo Credit: Kamarulzaman Russali, Dreamstime.com

Men are fascinating.

She needed no other entertainment, content to spend entire evenings observing them, conversing with them. They were so uncomprehendingly ‘other’. The more complicated ones were disturbingly good at keeping their thoughts to themselves and she sensed those thoughts roiling behind carefully managed expressions. Just out of reach.

At 5 feet 8 inches, with shoulder length wavy hair, she had the graceful, athletic figure of a dancer. Eschewing tight, form strangling body wrappers that only a contortionist could appreciate, she preferred clothing with looser, more fluid lines; unaware that they accentuated her form in a way that heightened male attention. Sincerely and overtly friendly, she rarely lacked a companion (specimen?) for her evening perusals.

Most made the mistake of being enamored only of her facade; completely oblivious to the purpose behind every witticism, every gesture, every slightly shocking utterance. The unexpected was to her advantage, throwing the selected prey off his game long enough that he revealed more than intended.

All a man initially said in her presence was “Yes”, “No” or her personal favorite, “It depends…”. There was no mistake that whatever fueled their urges was of primal origin; but she refused to believe…no that wasn’t right…she knew that it was not all – or even only – about sex.

In single-minded pursuit, she spent hours…days…weeks coaxing a man into lowering his guard. But instead of claiming victory when he did, she wandered on to a new challenge; leaving the last poor soul unsure of what had happened.

It wasn’t that she meant to leave a trail of unfulfilled promises behind her; it was more that she was searching for the one, sure that she would know him when she found him. She cared not at all that those left behind suffered unanticipated pangs of rejection, that she had caused their hearts to harden.

Who’s next?

 

It’s Complicated…Or Is It?

Thursday, June 30th, 2011

Warrior. That’s what the Cowardly Lion is in comparison with me last week. I’d been hiding from my manuscript since that Monday. More than one hundred pages into a four hundred page rewrite, and I choked – scared off by this one scene. I had outlined it, decomposed it, and placed its elements in my scene table; so I knew exactly what had to be done. But…reveals and irony and subplots – oh my! Could I possibly have made it any more complicated? In this scene, one subplot is in denouement, one is winding down, another is in exposition and the last one is slowly ramping toward its climax. But wait! There’s more – dramatic irony is being installed, and the heroine learns a couple of jaw-dropping facts that had never even been hinted at in her version of reality. A turning point of the story, it had to be deftly written – or it would kill any interest in the rest of the book.

The bar was set so high – for me, anyway – that I backed way up to get a good look at the height before attempting to clear it. Then…ooh – look a forest of distractions to lose myself in. Of course, I jumped at the chance to get away. I finished and posted a character sketch of the main antagonist. I had been avoiding it because he’s not likable and I didn’t think it fit on my blog. Once I patted myself on the back for going ahead with it, I went back to the story and included foreshadowing and subtext for the problem scene in earlier ones. Then I found lots of non-authorly diversions. Movies and dancing and games – oh my! The week flew by and I still hadn’t faced writing that scene.

But…it was hard to enjoy having fun (yes, that’s what I meant) with the scene continually gnawing at me. So this week, I made myself attack it. I jumped right in without the slightest idea of how I would get out. To my surprise, instead of finding the job way over my head, I found clarity. A single writerly truth that experienced authors already know: No matter how much there is to show, it can only be shown linearly. Then I saw the pattern. What worked for the scene was to show the subplots, dramatic irony and reveals in the order that placed the most emotional tension on the heroine. Duh… So that’s how I wrote it. It has taken a fair few iterations to get it just right, but now I’m happy with the way it reads. Whew…no easy button for that one. On to the next…

Master of the Game

Thursday, June 23rd, 2011
Master of the Game

Running on the Beach, Photo Credit: Silvia Ganora, Dreamstime.com

Pounding through the damp sand, he closed in on the halfway point of his daily six-mile run. Craving the adrenaline rush that came from punishing physical exertion; he pushed himself to beat his best time. The landmark boulder near the southern end of the beach drew closer and closer…then he was there. Picking up the pace yet again, he circled it and headed back the way he had come.

The fat-assed brainiacs who only ever pushed pencils didn’t get it. Running kept him fit; sharpened his mental agility, helped him to go into negotiations with a keener edge than everyone else. That’s why he was unbeatable. That’s why the Skye Pointe snobs – the ones who had looked down on his family for generations – refused to meet him at the bargaining table.

Unfortunately for them, they had something he badly wanted. Something that would make his legacy far more valuable. They worked hard to avoid him, but it was inevitable that they would lose. He ticked through his options as he retraced his steps back up the beach. Nearing the northern end, he veered off and headed up the steep trail through the foothills.

Fiercely protective of his wife and children, he was absolutely convinced that every company he crushed, every deal he made or undermined directly benefited their welfare, and that of the generations to come. It didn’t matter that the Skye Pointe assholes declined to step into his game.

They have what I need. I’ll just take it – by any means necessary.

 

The Glass Box

Thursday, June 16th, 2011

The Glass Box

The ‘glass box’ he had called it when they were together. The twenty-fourth floor condo with views all the way out to the eastern coast; and to the south, the city skyscrapers with their nightly, sparkling display of lights. Now with the windows opaqued, her glass box in the sky was a tomb filled with memories of him.

Listlessly she sank into the over-sized chaise near the eastern windows where they had spent many love-filled nights, then whispered their innermost thoughts to each other far into the morning. But he left, as she knew he would. She stayed, to the heartbreak of them both. He wanted her, but not her life’s work; after all this time, not understanding that they were one and the same.

Wasting her days on Facebook, she followed his every adventure in the new town. Vicariously along as he made new friends and found a new love; unable to tear herself away from their whirlwind courtship.

Spending her nights on their chase, lifeless as a cast away doll, she mourned. Tonight though was different. Tonight, he and his new love had announced their engagement. Tonight, the pain in her heart tore so deeply that death could only have been a relief. He had gone on. So must she.

It’s that simple.

Morning came far too quickly; announced in the darkness only by the chiming of the Westminster clock, one of his contributions to the decor.

It – and all the rest – must go.

She left the chaise, this time with a sense of purpose. At the window controls, and for the first time since their parting, she moved the slide from ‘opaque’ to ‘clear’. The sun burned through the now transparent windows, searing her agony deep into her heart. For the breath of a second, it felt as though she has tried to horizontally balance on the point of a knife – and slipped. Abruptly, the pain lessened to a deep throbbing. She would bear it.

Welcoming back the light is the first step. It’s time to live again.

At Sea

Thursday, June 9th, 2011
At Sea

Sloop, Photo Credit: Roy Hulsbergen, Dreamstime.com

 

She wasn’t the one. It’s that simple.

His second breakup already, and there were still almost four months before the end of the year. The time span of his relationships was shrinking – as was his patience. The problem was always the same. He hadn’t been enough in love to commit.

Now notorious for transitory relationships, he was a condition to be avoided – except by the spoiled, expectant debutantes who were raised to be corporate wives. In spite of that, he refused to accept that he was destined to live the rest of his life without passion; without desire.

If he allowed that future to play out, he would get the few children that he wanted, but they would exist merely to strengthen the nails holding him bound to the trophy wife’s trophy wall. She would eventually expect him to fulfill his craving for intimacy elsewhere.

That wasn’t the life his parents had led – they were fortunate. Both had been little more than half his current age when they had met; neither knowing much about the other until after love bloomed. But he was already approaching forty and well established in running his share of the family business.

A powerful son of an even more powerful family, he had – simply by the circumstance of birth – that which so many worked their whole lives for. Some achieved the life he was born into, most did not. But many had something that, for him, did not yet exist.

The one.

The one with whom he would gladly commit to an exchange of hearts. Certainly, it wasn’t too much to ask. Certainly, she must exist.

Screeching sea gulls interrupted his reverie. He looked up, his gray eyes following them as they slowly traversed the coast, looking for left-behind scraps to scavenge. They may find nothing, but they were always hopeful.

Hopeful…

The wind gentle slapped against the sails; the waves lazily buffeted past the sloop. Finding the one could be as difficult as searching the ocean beneath it for a single, special drop of water.

Whoever and wherever she is, I shall find her. I shall not concede.

Spazzing Cats…Pun Intended

Thursday, June 2nd, 2011

Without a doubt, Kimba – our semi long-haired stray cat, was the most nervous animal I’d ever met. It had nothing to do with hot tin roofs; she just couldn’t adjust to surprises. Her earlier life was a mystery; she adopted us when she was fully grown. But it can’t have been stable. Whenever I cleaned, it was a race to get her bed back to its permanent spot by the fireplace before she noticed it missing. If she did notice, she would find me; and just stand there trembling and dropping her hair. I often wondered if there was a need for cat toupees because during the time she spent with us, she shed enough hair to clothe many bald cats. She’s passed on now and I miss her.

Earlier this week, I freaked out – just like Kimba used to do. Good thing I’ve got lots of hair. What happened? I recalculated the word count on my story. Yep – through the roof. I’d just spent a few days combing sites and advice posts on word count, and it seems I’ve disregarded yet another rule. Even with all the chopping and and more refined slicing; the word count is holding steady at about 120,000 words – up from the 115,000 with which I started the rewrite; and well beyond the 80,000 to 110,000 recommended for romantic suspense novels. Revision is supposed to reduce word count! Except that six scenes have been added – and according to my scene notes, there are several more to come. Yes, I know it’s my debut novel. Yes, I know that the larger the book, the more expensive it is to produce – and the less likely it is that I’ll be able to go the route of traditional publication.

What do I DO M-E-OW N-O-OW? The length of the story isn’t caused by excessive exposition, meandering dialog, or overly prosy scene setting. It’s all solid story. Just when I was doing a better Kimba than she ever did, I knocked over my notebook. All my stickys fell out, so I pulled myself together enough to re-assemble them. They’re the notes from the editing session I had last November, and the nostalgia for simpler days (before I fully understood the journey I was undertaking) made me take the time to read them one by one as I put them away. The one that stopped me just short of spazzing myself into a frazzle said, “Forget about word count. Just wrt the best book u can & work it out w/ editr.” Can you believe it? Wish I’d read it a few hundred hairs ago….

Obstinacy, Lunacy, Prologuecy?

Thursday, May 26th, 2011

Consider a clear, still mountain pool. Beautiful, isnt it? A disturbance – maybe a passing automobile – causes a rock to slide down the mountain side, hit a ledge and bounce into the water. Immediately, there are easily discernible ripples from the point of impact.

Now visualize that the pool has several waterfalls at one end. Each splashes down into the pool, creating its own area of turbulence. This time, a much larger rock slides down the mountain and bounces into the pool. If it lands too far away from the falls, there may be no impact on the patterns they cause. If it lands too close, any effect it has may be totally obscured by the already agitated water. In order to see any disturbance caused by the rock, it would have to be sufficiently large and land far enough away from the waterfalls that the resulting undulations ripple out to meet and temporarily confuse the existing ones.

The splash caused by the rock crests and eventually disappears; leaving the pool in it’s original – or a new – state. If one is too close to the rock however, all that can be seen is the disruption – without any knowledge of the waterfalls as a contributing source. One last thing I’ll ask – imagine the pool and it’s waterfalls as the world of my characters as revealed in the prologue, and the rock as the inciting incident.  

I know, I know – you’re right. Prologues are typically the kiss of death. But still, I have to keep it. Not from bull-headed obstinacy (lunacy?), but because I really believe it fits the story; showing readers that the characters are already pursuing various goals and intrigues in the ten months leading up to the ten days during which the story takes place. Interesting that the story started off to be only seven days. But while I was setting up for revision, it became clear that there weren’t enough hours in each day for all the events – even though I’d left out events for Sunday afternoon.

But back to the prologue – outlining the story and blocking out its scenes have given me a solid indication of what the pacing is supposed to be. The already complex world of the characters is thrown off-kilter by the inciting incident of the action plot; which happens in the first sentence of the first chapter. The characters all scramble to regain control of their world and maintain their previous pursuits. There’s precious little time for scene setting and exposition. It’s important that readers already have enough backstory in which to visualize the snippets that can be supported during the acceleration to the climaxes of both plots.

For the attorneys among us, I do have precedent. The romantic suspense genre is one which accepts prologues as an intrinsic part of the novel. Anti-prologue purists may say that I should just call it the first chapter. It’s hard to explain – especially when I’m the only one to have read it yet – but the prologue reads like, well, a prologue; not a first chapter.

Though it’s not at all about Eve, writing this novel has been a fasten your seatbelts kind of a ride. Who said an author’s life is dull?

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#ROW80 update, 05/29/2011:

  • Goal 1: Now rewriting chapter 5. Chapter 4 took two weeks because it was basically just glossed over – no depth.
  • Goal 2: After all the distractions of school end activities, back to my three hours per day average.
  • Goal 3 – Haven’t missed a post!

Now it’s time to bid you adieu. It’s not the end of the round,  just the end of my participation. Kait Nolan has put together a great group and I was happy to be a part of it for a while. I’ve found rewriting claims so much of my time and energy, that I need to cut everything else back except my blog. I’ve met good online friends whose blogs I now follow, so I’ll be keeping up with you. Have a wonderful summer!

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