Short Story – Anne and Renee

Anne and Renee: The Soulmate Series

 

 

 

Renee slammed the bedroom door and kicked her stilettos toward the closet. She ripped at her black lace garter and stockings, tearing them off in frustration and throwing them into the trash. The little black mini dress got balled up and thrown on the floor. She stomped into the bathroom and started the shower. As steam filled the master bath, she sat down on the toilet seat and let the tears come. The love of her life, her soulmate, and partner simply did not want her, no matter how hard she tried. Stepping in front of the full-length mirror, Renee took off her black push up bra and used it to wipe away the fog that was already clouding her reflection.

Her breasts were still full and firm. Admittedly, they were a little lower than they were the first time Anne had taken her, up against the wall in the bathroom of Catch-22, the previous incarnation of The Kitty Klub. It was ten years ago today, in fact. Halloween. Anne had been pursuing her for weeks, but Renee had held off. She was fresh out of bad relationship, and she was dead set against getting involved in another one. Anne was gorgeous and charming. She was older than Renee by a couple of years, but sometimes she seemed ages wiser. She had a compassionate and kind air about her and a simmering sensuality that seemed to thrum under her skin. Renee guessed that most people didn’t realize the depths of feeling under the quiet exterior. When Renee met Anne, she was alternately intrigued and anxious and she did her best to keep Anne at arm’s length. Renee claimed they were better off as friends, but every time Anne’s hand slid over Renee’s neck as they were hugging hello, the tremors would start in her toes and shudder through her body like lightening.

Finally, Renee agreed to a date. They decided to go as a couple to a mutual friend’s giant Halloween party at the club. Renee wanted them to dress as something sexy, but Anne wanted to be playful and funny. They ended up dressing as ketchup and mustard. Renee wore a red mini dress and red tights, with a big K on the front and Anne wore a bright yellow t-shirt with an M, and jeans. They had pointy hats to match their costumes and they won second place in the contest and everyone laughed and wanted to try on their hats. Anne was charming and funny and Renee found herself laughing more than she could remember laughing in years. When the contest ended, Renee somehow found herself in the club bathroom, backed up against the wall, with her ketchup dress around her waist and Anne’s mouth locked on hers, as Anne reached down and slid her fingers inside of Renee, getting them wet before moving them up to her clit and circling it until Renee came hard, her teeth locked into Anne’s neck to keep from screaming. It was a hell of a first date.

Renee shook herself out of the past. There was no sense dwelling on a part of her life that was obviously over. She let her eyes slide down her naked body. She wasn’t bad looking, even now on the downhill stretch to forty. Her hips were full, she was a little rounded at the belly. But she had looked like this when she and Anne met and Anne had always wanted her then. The mirror was fogging up again, so Renee shook her head and jumped in the shower. She reached down with her fingers as she let the hot water run over her head. If Anne wasn’t going to give her any, at least she could give it to herself. She stroked her clit softly, then harder. It got hard under her fingers and she reached out one hand to brace herself against the wall as she quietly made herself come. She felt released, but sad. Renee had always loved masturbating, but doing so because she couldn’t get Anne to make love with her was a lonely business.

It wasn’t as if their sex life died all at once, either. They made love constantly in the beginning. Anne would sneak up on Renee while she was making dinner and kneel on the ground behind her, running her tongue up the length of Renee’s thighs, searching between her legs. Renee would go weak at the knees and drop, allowing Anne full access. Sometimes Renee would put her head on Anne’s lap in the car, biting and pulling on Anne’s jeans with her teeth, then pressing one hand hard against Anne’s cunt, rubbing it through her jeans, trying to make her come while Anne tried to keep her eyes on the road….

 

Do Anne and Renee get their groove back? Want to read the rest of their story? Check out the erotica series “The Soulmate Series” by Olivia Craft on Amazon.com. Free for Kindle Unlimited Users – only 99 cents for everyone else.

 

 

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Jennifer

Many years before The Love Sucks Club was even on my radar, before I had even entertained the idea of writing any novels at all, I wrote a short story called “Dreams.” It started in high school, with a short story about a woman who told her dreams to her partner every morning when she woke up. The main character was Jennifer and my teacher found it fascinating – as did I – it stayed in my head for almost twenty years until I wrote the following story.

A few years after writing this story, a conversation with my best friend Aj led to the idea of The Love Sucks Club and Jennifer popped into my mind again. Something about her appealed to me and though I didn’t see her having her own book, I wasn’t quite ready to put her in the bottom of the dead ideas pile. I pulled it out, polished it off, and opened a novel with it. Jennifer from this story became Esmé in The Love Sucks Club and the narrator became Dana.

I found this story again tonight while going through the old “fragments and short stories never published” folder and decided to bring it out to show how sometimes the writing process really can take over twenty years from start to finish.

 

Dreams

       It all comes down to this. Her body under mine is slim, yet soft. Her wet bikini leaves smears of water on my clothes. I push salty strands of hair out of her face and as I press my mouth against hers, I think, “This is the moment in which my entire life changes forever.”

Jennifer looked a bit like a teenage boy. She was slim and long. Her legs seemed to bend at strange angles when she sat and somehow, she always seemed in danger of knocking something over with her elbows. Jennifer’s deep brown hair, longish over the face, short everywhere else, stuck up in impossible pieces all over her head. Yet, there was something so female about her, something in the curve of her jaw, or the length of her neck, or the perfect shape of her ears.

I saw Jennifer for the first time at a beach bar on Strand St. I was sitting alone with my notebook, nursing a beer. I heard the men in the bar muttering to themselves, but I didn’t pay much attention. On an island as small as this, any new girl is a reason for a press release. I continued to scribble dream worlds in my notebook. I fancy myself a writer, some cross between Robert A. Heinlein without the nipple fixation and Robert B. Parker without the testosterone.

I didn’t look up again until a few droplets of water across my page interrupted my thoughts. I blinked against the glare which was outlining the most striking woman I had ever seen. I don’t think I thought she was beautiful, or even hot, not then, but she left me stunned. Her mouth was full and smiling, and her face completely open. Her eyes, hazel, with flecks of gold were full of amusement and vitality. I just looked at her, my face impassive.

“Hi, I’m Jennifer.”

I nod. Look pointedly down at my notebook and back up at her.

“The guys at the bar told me not to talk to you.”

“They were probably right,” I answered, looking back down at my notes.

“They said you believe that your dreams tell the future.”

I ignored her and  sat, trying to write, trying to think of anything that could take my attention, while she stood there for several moments. I could feel her eyes on the top of my head and I fought against every impulse in my body that was telling me to look up. Finally, I heard her leaving. I waited a few minutes, then got up and left. They know me here, I spend enough time at this table, drinking their booze and eating their overpriced fried food to warrant a tab that I pay on a monthly basis. There are advantages to being the local celebrity.

Three days later, I took my morning coffee onto the deck and Jennifer was sitting on a lounge chair. I glared at her.

“You’re on private property.”

“I asked the bartender where you live. She said I couldn’t miss it. She was right. It’s beautiful up here, do you live alone?”

“I live alone because I prefer to be alone, “ I snapped. “What do you want?”

“I read Annabelle’s Lies,” she said quietly. “I had a dream that we met and fell in love.”

I sat down, and passed a hand over my eyes. Annabelle’s Lies. I didn’t want to be reminded of Annabelle or her lies. I glanced at Jennifer, resisting the urge to straighten the hair that was blowing across her face.

Several hours later, Jennifer was still occupying my space, drinking my booze and rummaging in my refrigerator. She moved constantly, opening and closing books, looking at my artwork, touching the glass frames. Her hands were always in motion, she had a frenetic energy that kept me in a constant state of anticipation. Everything she said, everything she did seemed like a prelude to something else. My head was spinning.

Five days later, she hadn’t left. I took her back to her hotel to get her clothes. I took her to K-mart, the island’s only store to stock up on bathroom supplies and makeup and postcards. She cleaned my kitchen and cooked for me. I didn’t eat fried bar food for five whole days.

During the day, we went to secluded beaches and snorkeled and swam. On shore, she fed me fruit and wine from her picnic basket, while I rubbed her pale skin with suntan lotion. She jet-skied while I watched.  She went diving. She jumped off of a cliff. She learned how to kite surf and parasail and skydive, and I paced obsessively on the shore, sure she was never coming back. At night, I made love to her on the porch, under the stars and let her gently mock my awkward fumbling.

“It’s been three years,” I muttered. “And there was no one before Annabelle.”

“I know,” she whispered back. “I know.”

Every morning, she made me tell her my dreams, sure that there was meaning in every one. She quoted to me from my novel, in which I wrote about my dream of the Old Man and the Sea. I was a young boy, and I sat in a boat, and the old man wanted to tell me something, but I could never understand what it was. After Annabelle died, I finally figured it out, but it was too late. I talked about the old man, but I wouldn’t talk about Annabelle. I wouldn’t talk about those dreams. I talked about all of the others, though. Jennifer loved to hear about my dreams, and I elaborated on them, weaving her into my tales of lucid dreaming, precognition, and fairy tale worlds.

Five days.  This morning, I refused to tell Jennifer about my dream. I didn’t want her to leave the house today, but she insisted we go out and be among people. Jennifer didn’t want me to be a hermit, she didn’t want the others to hate me, to tell the tourists not to talk to me. She wanted to go snorkeling, she wanted to be in the water. Jennifer insisted. It is important to remember that Jennifer insisted.

It all comes down to this. Her body under mine is slim, yet soft. Her wet bikini leaves smears of water on my clothes. I push salty strands of hair out of her face and as I press my mouth against hers, I think, “this is the moment in which my entire life changes forever.” I breathe hard into her mouth, then switch my hands to her sternum. I fall into the rhythm of the CPR. Push, push, push, breathe, repeat. The familiarity weighs on my shoulder. I breathe into her mouth over and over, until the ambulance shows up and the EMTs take over. This is it, this is the pattern of my life.

I don’t think I will dream tonight.

Eating Life excerpt

Eating Life CoverLater, as they were lying in bed eating yogurt and granola, Anna asked Brilliant why she always laughed when she reached for the dildo.

“I never told you that story?”

“Come on,” Anna said. “I want to hear it.”

Brilliant opened her mouth and Anna obliged by spooning some yogurt in. Clearing her throat, Brilliant straightened up a bit, stretching one long leg over Anna’s thigh. “Columbus Gay Pride, 1996. I was there with a hot butch mechanic.”

“I forgot you date butches, too,” Anna said, smiling. “Is that weird?”

“I like women, Anna. Butch or femme or, like me, something in between.”

“I don’t have a problem with that. It’s just strange to picture you with anyone that isn’t me,” Anna replied.

“Yeah, imagine how I feel,” Brilliant said.

“We made a pact that we wouldn’t talk about Megan,” Anna said, shifting slightly away from Brilliant.

“I’m sorry. I keep breaking the rules. First I fall in love with you. Then I start a dialogue about your partner. Next thing you know, I’ll be asking you to leave her.”

“That can’t happen,” Anna said. “And I don’t want to have a dialogue about it.”

“Everyone leaves me, Anna. Everyone. My parents, my grandparents, my brother. Why don’t you just promise to stay with me?”

Anna glared. “Why don’t you start dating women who are unattached?”

Brilliant sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe I would rather date someone I know is going to disappoint me than put my trust in someone and be let down again.”

“Are we going to process your bad relationship choices all day?” Anna asked.

“We’re lesbians, Anna.” Brilliant grinned. “We process everything.”

Anna leaned over and tweaked one of Brilliant’s nipples. “Process this,” she said.

“Ahem. Continuing my story,” Brilliant said, pulling Anna snugly against her. “Gay Pride. Some dude in a leather thong was walking around selling raffle tickets.”

“Okay.” Anna giggled. She dipped her finger into the yogurt and smeared a bit on Brilliant’s nipple. Leaning down to lick it off, she motioned for the rest of the story.

“Of course I bought a few. They were only a dollar. I had no idea what they were for, but I couldn’t resist a man in a leather thong selling raffle tickets for a dollar apiece. It was so stereotypical gay pride.”

“I can see that,” Anna said, releasing the nipple. “So, what happened?”

What happened? Pre-order Eating Life on Amazon or ask for it at your favorite local bookstore and find out

Something Lost

By Beth Burnett

The Queen’s Guard glares at me again
As I cross the street in front of him.
Back and forth
My hands clasped against my rib cage
I’m well aware that I look a fool
In my house dress
And Doc Martin boots.
A fat, flowered widow who can’t let go.
Every chime from Big Ben seems to ring in my throat
around the lump I can’t quite swallow.
I went to Stonehenge last week,
perhaps I thought I’d sense something there –
A spirit, a guide, energy.
Instead, I saw a lot of tourists and
a man in purple robes
who held out his hand to me and implored me
to take this crystal
for the one I seek.
Remembering, I stare into the guard’s face
and imagine asking him to hold me.

Authors helping authors. The Golden Crown Literary Society 2013 Conference.

My favorite author.
My favorite author.

I crawled into bed with Linda Kay Silva. Sure, there were other takeaways from the Golden Crown Literary Society conference in Dallas this year, but let’s face it, there isn’t much that can top crawling into bed with Linda Kay. Sure,I flirted with Georgia Beers, traded quips with Andi Marquette, and almost knocked Lynn Ames over in the hallway, but those things were just icing on the cake.

I participated in a incredible panel that I, unfortunately, had to leave ten minutes early because of a migraine. The panel was fantastic, though. I remember people laughing and I think it was when I was actually saying something funny.

I danced ceaselessly. You have got to love a gathering of lesbians… even of woman of size doesn’t have to sit out a dance, not one. I slow danced. I fast danced. I danced in the dining room. I danced in my room. I had one short, but memorable dance in the elevator with a woman who prefers to remain nameless. I danced at the awards banquet. I dragged one woman onto the dance floor though she insisted she felt self-conscious and next thing I knew, she was out there doing the electric slide. I danced with everyone who wanted to dance. I even danced at karaoke.

And speaking of karaoke. I road tripped and roomed with Dutch, a woman who is so far beyond crazy, it will take the light from crazy seven point three billion years to reach her. On Karaoke night, Dutch came back to our room about an hour after I did. Thinking I would be interested in hearing every single little thing that had happened in that hour, she decided to recap. She was so enthusiastically reenacting her karaoke debut that she slid across the room on her knees singing, “You’re the one that I want.” Moments later, we got a call from the front desk telling us very politely to shut the hell up. Dutch made history, though, when she wore her Army dress uniform to the awards ceremony. It’s a reminder that gays and lesbians have made major leaps forward in the fight for equality, and the fact that an out lesbian can now wear her uniform to a gathering of lesbian literary people is huge.

I finally met my publisher in person and learned that I truly like her as a person. She is kind of like the Godfather…. “My loyalty is to the family.” (Picture Marlon Brando, only tall, slender, and sexy.) It feels good to be part of the Sapphire Books Publishing family; like I can point out someone who was mean to me and they’ll end up with a horse head in their bed. In all seriousness, though, when I broke my glasses on Liz McMullen’s breasts, the first thing I did was turn to Isabella with the two pieces and a pout and she took them and tried to fix them. When my migraine made me sick to my stomach, she showed up with a cool rag and a glass of water. After that, I kept referring to her as a nurturer… perhaps because of that, I felt comfortable enough to talk about personal subjects with her. And one of my favorite memories of Isabella was sitting in her room, telling her all about my love life (or lack thereof.) She gestured to herself, sitting cross-legged on the bed with her arms wrapped around her knees and said, “What about my body language says, ‘please share this with me?’”

I made contacts and I made friends. I networked, I laughed, I shared meals, I hugged most everyone. Some more than once. I signed autographs… lots of autographs, actually. Some of them were even requested. I met so many wonderful people that I can’t possibly begin to list them all. Schileen who kept coming out with zingers that made me spit out my drink. Aschleigh who for the first time got to see what it’s like to hang out with a bunch of lesbians. Jaynes who gave me a neck rub and cured my migraine… And yet…

My takeaway from this conference is that I crawled into bed with Linda Kay Silva. I’m not going to tell the story. First of all, the actual story is way more mundane than the first sentence. Second, I want to leave it to the readers’ imaginations. Perhaps they’ll write fan fiction about it. (If so, could you make me a tall, buff blond with large but perky breasts? And make sure to write a whole scene in which LK pursues me with panting ardor. Thanks.) Suffice to say, there I was, in bed with Linda Kay Silva, my hero, my mentor, my former professor, and now my dear friend. Linda has the distinction of being the reason I even wrote my first novel in the first place. She forced me to work and rework every line of every chapter. I spent several long days cursing her out as I labored over my (ALREADY) edited manuscript. She helped me put out a better product. Her online persona is that of a powerhouse who is larger than life. Her real world persona is exactly the same.

The reason I’m gushing over LK (I mean, besides the obvious fact that I have had a huge crush on her for many years) is that she said something in the acceptance speech she made for her award that I feel needs to be readdressed. She said that older and established authors should mentor someone. I can’t stress enough how much her mentoring did for my writing career. I can’t begin to imagine where I would be without that support, that teaching, that love. And I am going to carry that forward and mentor someone else. When a young writer asked me to read her manuscript recently, I thought about it for a second. I thought about working full-time, going to school full-time, trying to cram in time to write, and the sheer volume of time it takes to nurse my new and borderline unhealthy fascination with author Yvonne Heidt… I almost said no. I almost said, in the politest way possible, that I don’t have time to read someone else’s manuscript right now. And then I thought about Linda. She’s a full-time professor, a full-time writer, a friend to many, a turtle rescuer, a chronicler of the adventures of Alan, and a fastidious perfectionist in regards to  her own work. Yet, she still found time to offer me some really valid criticism of my first novel. She made time before we were even friends to encourage me to write and to keep encouraging me when the self-doubt started kicking in. She spent many hours on the phone, walking me through the ins and outs of being an author and putting out a great product. It’s not an exaggeration to say that I don’t believe I would be here, writing this blog, if it wasn’t for her.

So, I called my young friend back and I said that I would absolutely love to read her manuscript. In the course of the conversation, I was able to tell her some advice that I’ve now embraced since becoming an author. I spent a great deal of time offering suggestions and tips and yes, friendship. And I realized that my takeaway from Linda Kay is that as lesfic authors, it is our duty to care about and be willing to help other authors. And maybe someday, my young friend will be a published author and she’ll turn around and help someone else who wants to be a part of all of this magic.

Or maybe someday, she’ll be writing a blog about crawling into bed with me. A girl can dream, right?

My Personal Year in Review

I’ve been seeing a lot of posts lately on Facebook that offer to show me my “2012 year in review.” Well, I have to admit that I tend to keep the Facebook world pretty well-informed as to what is going on in my life, so there’s probably a pretty thorough accounting there of my 2012. Yet, I have hesitated to click on the link.

The question is whether or not I really want to go back over everything that has happened this year. My grandmother died. My long-term relationship ended. I finished writing my novel. I found deep wells of strength and love within myself. I worked on throwing all of the truly negative people out of my world and embracing the positive and loving ones. I made the Dean’s list in school every semester. I self-published my book as a ebook. I got a job, then quit it a few months later when my novel’s royalties started coming in. I got a publisher and now, a printed book.

I went to an amazing womyn’s music festival. (There is another blog about that on this page.) After many years with a partner who didn’t like people, I was pretty used to being solitary. I was definitely anxious about spending a week in the woods with thousands of womyn. But it was one of the best things I have ever done in my life. The consequences of that festival are still guiding me every day. I went deeper into my own spiritual quest. I met several womyn who helped me to solidify what I was really searching for in my life. I started questioning God and managed to reconcile my own beliefs about spirituality with my own previous misconceptions about the term. I went to church. I wrote a blog about Christianity and Homosexuality that went viral and was actually read aloud in at least two different churches.

I absolutely embraced being single. I made a loud and very public announcement to all of my friends and family that I was not even going to consider dating until I had at least finished my degree. (Another couple of years.) Two months later, I realized that I had fallen in love. That figures. My love is a woman whose spiritual journey is a lot like mine in a lot of ways and very different in many ways. But we converge in several key areas and we are able to respectfully and lovingly disagree in others.

I drove with my friend Kim to the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival. I drove by myself to visit a friend in Michigan. I drove by myself to visit (visit? It was a six week stay) my love in Iowa. I drove back to Ohio in the snow. Oh, and snow! After ten years in Phoenix and seven in the Virgin Islands, I got to relearn about snow. Driving back to Ohio from Iowa in a small snow storm, I called my sister and said, “I just slid when I was changing lanes.” She said, “The rule of lane changing in the snow is to take your foot off of the gas and casually drift over. And at no time should you put your foot on the brake during the maneuver.” It’s important to note here that before this, I had always had driving anxiety. Or at least, I think I have had driving anxiety for the past several years. But I haven’t had a moment of anxiety behind the wheel this year, not even during that snow storm.

Is there more? There is so much more. I lost 45 pounds between May 29th and the present. I found several pairs of jeans in a drawer at my mom’s house that had been shoved away because I couldn’t fit into them. They now all fit and some of them are too big. I became a vegetarian, then started eating meat again and now I am going back to the veggie lifestyle again.

I started taking yoga while living in/visiting Iowa. I found the library. I quickly discovered which stores I preferred. I made some friends. I learned that six weeks is either way too long or way too short of a visit. I started building a life there and I miss it. Now I have been home for three weeks and I am rebuilding my life here again. In a few days, I am going back to Iowa. And I will miss Ohio again when I leave. I’m learning that it is okay to miss people and that I still carry their love when we are far away.

I learned that everything is within me. Everything. Success, failure, fear, love, sadness, happiness, disappointment. Everything that I feel is my choice. Everything that I do is my choice. I knew this, but I think I had suppressed it. I relearned that I can only do something because it is what I must do, not because other people expect it of me. I’ve embraced my own power. I’ve moved more into myself. Self-knowing. Not that I am perfect at it… at any of it. I just know its importance and I am mindful of it almost all of the time.

Is there more? Yes. I reveled in the joy of being around some of my biological family again. It was extremely expensive and very difficult to get back to Ohio from St. Croix, so I didn’t get to see them very often. I expressed my joy and gratitude for their presence often and unreservedly. I thanked the universe for the chance to live with my mother again as a grown up and realize how very much I love her. (And how much alike we are.)

What else? I entered a couple of short story contests and lost. (But at least I entered, which I had never done before.) I won a big LGBT literary award for my novel. Actually, I won two… and got an honorable mention in another. I went through the whole editing process.I made it to number 8 on the Amazon list of bestsellers in lesbian fiction. I went to speak to a transgendered support group about my book and they loved me!  I made the terrible realization *after* the novel had gone to print that the “about the author” was completely wrong. At the time that we were gathering the information, I was on my way to California… my epic road trip. So, the about the author has me living in California. However, stopping in Iowa became more than a stopover and other things converged that suddenly made the California trip seem better postponed. Of course, I didn’t think to change the “about the author page.” But that’s all right. I figure it will make an interesting topic of conversation when I go on Ellen.

Is there more? Yes.

But I’m done now. It was an amazing year of joy, love, self-discovery, and peace. There was some turmoil, but I found I recovered quickly. I do believe that we choose our own attitudes and I choose to be happy as often as possible.

And what’s next? I don’t really want to make New Year’s resolutions. I believe I should be striving for betterment throughout the year. But here is what is on my plate for 2013.

I want to learn to meditate. Confession: It makes me nervous when my heart rate starts changing while meditating. I want to learn to stop worrying about that and find a way into my own soul. I want to continue my yoga classes. I want to branch out into other yoga classes. I love the gentle yoga that I take, but I am ready to take a class that challenges me. My yoga teacher teaches other, more difficult classes, so I am going to check out one of those. I want to finish my second novel so I can move onto the third one that is consuming my brain. I want to collaborate with my friend Jenny on our idea of a book that reconciles and merges her God and my Creator. (We aren’t as far apart as you would think.) I want to continue with my weight loss journey. I want to complete P90X again. I want to take a zumba class. I want to get back to being fully vegetarian. I want to be a kind and mindful person as often as possible. I want to be a friend my friends can count on. I want to be a loving and respectful partner to my girlfriend. I want to continue to be the world’s most awesome dog mom.

I want to work at, or continue to work at, being healthy in my body, my mind, and my soul. I want to fuel my body with vitamin rich, natural foods. I want to fuel my mind with learning new things. I want to fuel my soul with love and empowerment and gratitude.

I want to learn sign language. I would like to learn to speak Italian. I want to become better at playing my banjo and when I have gotten more proficient at that, I want to learn to play the guitar.

I want to (and I will) go back to the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival. In my heart, I believe that it is one of the best ways in the world to reaffirm my desire to keep moving toward who I want to be. It is possible to find like minded womyn there, no matter which aspect of myself I am hoping to share. Banjo players, sure. Spiritual questers? Absolutely. Writers…. you know it. Fest is what you make of it, and what I made of it last year was a desire to meet soul sisters. I did. Next year, I want to do more workshops, meet more incredible womyn. I’ll do it.

I want to go to Arizona. I want to go to California. I want to go to Asheville, NC. I want to tour bookstores and sign books. I want to sign your book.

Is there more? Yes. But that’s enough for now. It seems ambitious. But it all boils down to one resolution after all. I want to live my life truly alive.

Or as Mr. Thoreau once said:   I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practise resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life.

This year, I want to suck out all of the marrow of life.

The One About My Publisher

Okay, I officially love my publisher. Seriously. So. As most of you know by now, I have been struggling with the second book. I keep turning it over in my head, trying new stuff, fighting myself about it, wondering about it, writing, erasing, rewriting. I just couldn’t seem to wrap my mind around this story.

Finally, I knew that I needed some professional help. I did two things. I sent a plea for help out to a trusted friend (and there will be more on that in a later blog, I’m sure.) And, I send a message to my publisher telling her that I was having a crisis.

She came back with a request (?) to see what I have so far. I sent it to her. She sent me back several questions asking where I was going with it. I answered the best that I could. Just trying to answer the questions helped give me some clarification. She countered with a reason why I really shouldn’t go with one of the plot points I had been planning. She was right. She gave me several more pointers as a writer. She gave me a couple of pointers as a friend…

And then…

She put on the publisher’s hat and gave me a deadline.

Well, shit.

A deadline.

A deadline. You know, a deadline is actually a REALLY FANTASTIC IDEA! I had a deadline on my last book. I imposed it on myself, but I sat there and worked my butt off every single night to finish it because I told myself that I was going to be done with that book before I left the Virgin Islands. I didn’t want to be trying to work on it while getting rid of most of my stuff, moving overseas with a dog and a cat, extricating myself for a long-term relationship, leaving behind my home, and going back to my old home and family. It was too much. I knew it would be tossed aside. So I finished it *before* I left island and I did set it aside and forget about it for a month. Then I started editing it. And working on figuring out how to publish. And all of that took a long time, mainly because I had no idea what I was doing, but the very important thing… the MAIN thing, the fact that I should not have pushed out of my head is that I wrote the book on a deadline. And it wasn’t a leisurely deadline, either. I pushed myself. *AND* I was working and going to school full time. So now that I am not working and I have all of this free time, I somehow seem to find it easy to tell myself that I will work on it “later.”

Well, no longer. I have a deadline now. I have a job. I have actually written out a schedule. This is my work schedule. I do not get to skip work. From now on, certain hours are devoted to writing and I will be writing during those hours. No Facebook, no phone calls, no errands, not even blogging or marketing for the last novel. That stuff can be done after hours.

As of right now, I am employed again. I am a writer. This is not my hobby, this is not a game. This is my craft. It’s important. And I’m going to do it.

So, thank you Chris at Sapphire Books Publishing who is not only a fantastic person, but a tough, take no shit publisher. I needed that kick in the head. I needed it.

And for the record, I wrote 1500 words today after I got that message. Hey, I’m on a deadline now.

An Award-Winning Novelist

Yep. That’s me. An Award-Winning Novelist. I’m pretty sure I speak it in all caps, too. See, I submitted my little novel to the Elisa Rolles LGBT Rainbow Awards and guess what happened? I won three. Yep. Number one in one category, number two in another, and honorable mention in yet a third. Am I stoked? Yeah.

Not that this really changes much. I’m still living below the poverty level. I’m still trying to get my homework done on time. I’m still trying to figure out how to market my book so people will buy it. And I am still fighting tooth and nail with the second book. I swear that for every thousand words I write, I go back and delete eight hundred. Despite my power of positive thinking that I have been trying so desperately to practice, I am still floundering on that one. The editor who worked on Man Enough sent me an email the other day asking how it was going and I told her that it was going badly. She emailed me back that she was sending me good vibes. It helped. I wrote well that day. Maybe it was just the centering from knowing someone was sending me good thoughts. Or maybe she helped me focus my own good thoughts. Either way, it helped. I need to figure out how to do that every single day on my own. So, that’s where I am with that. My goal for the next week is to maybe spend a few minutes of each morning (maybe during morning yoga) just focusing positive thoughts and maybe some visualizations on Andy’s Song.

In the meantime, I am now an  Award-Winning Novelist! Boo-ya! I am kind of coasting on the excitement of that. I did scream (loudly) when I found out, causing Lucretia to come tearing in with her hand over her heart thinking I was dying or that I had seen a snake or something. I then forwarded the email to my mother, my stepmother, and my publisher. (That’s telling, isn’t it?)

Well, being an *A*ward-*W*inning *N*ovelist definitely comes with some responsibility. I have a responsibility now to get the word out there about Man Enough. I have a responsibility to finish Andy’s Song so I can move on to the next novel that is already pushing at my brain. And I have a responsibility to be absolutely fabulous at all times. (That’s the easy part, at least.)

So, keep your eyes open. Who knows? Maybe soon you’ll see me strutting across the stage of the Ellen show or Oprah’s new show. Hey! It could happen!

Creativity Begets Creativity

So, I’m dating a guitarist. This is probably not as cool as you’re thinking. I’m not backstage at a Melissa Etheridge concert, watching my woman rock out while barely dressed women throw their underwear around. Mostly, I just hear a lot of really great music coming from the music room. Sometimes, I hear “strum, strum, strum, shit. Strum, strum, strum, shit.” Still, I love it. Something amazing happens to my brain when I am sitting at my computer, working on school work or a short story or my novel and there is live music coming from the next room or across the breakfast table from me. Live music does something to me that just listening to a CD or my Ipod cannot quite recreate. Perhaps it’s the fact that it’s being played by someone I love… or maybe just the fact that it is personal and imperfect, yet beautiful. Whatever the reason, listening to it opens my creativity and allows me to work with ease. The ideas flow better; it is easier for me to think and create.

I think that it is because creativity begets creativity. I am in the presence of someone who is audibly learning and discovering and digging into those deep places where learning takes place. Writing is a pretty quiet activity. (I mean, except for those times when I am suffering from writer’s block and I grab my hair and say, “fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.”) Music is a shared activity, whether the musician intended it to be shared or not. Writing is not. I can call a friend and read a passage out loud to her or send a short story to a friend, but it still isn’t the same as immersing someone in my creative process, the way I can become immersed in my girlfriend’s process.

It’s kind of changed my outlook, though. Sitting with a couple of her friends, listening to them play and sing together, it struck me that I could probably write song lyrics, too. I mean, why not? It isn’t really any different than writing a poem, and unlike poetry, people actually *like* songs that rhyme. Of course, I’m not discounting the fact that I dislike writing poetry so much that I once wrote a poem about hating poetry for a class assignment. Granted, I did get an A.

But it isn’t just branching out into other writing genres. I’ve recently borrowed a banjo from a friend and have been practicing it for a little every day. My notes are getting a little cleaner. I think I’ve kind of fallen in love with the instrument. I’ve already decided that I need to buy a banjo and find someone to give me lessons when I get back to Ohio. And I got a drum. A djembe. That’s next on my list of instruments to try to master. I am going to a drumming circle in a couple of weeks. I figure they will either tell me that I suck, or welcome me into the fold. Either way, it will be something new and exciting and why the hell not?

I honestly never thought I would be trying to learn a musical instrument at the age of 42. But then, I never thought I would write a novel at the age of 41. And I never thought I would one day be living on the royalties of that novel while I write my second novel. And I certainly never thought that one day, I would be able to say that I am only ten classes away from getting my BA in English at the ripe old age of (if I graduate at this time next year) 43! Well, creative does beget creativity and the more you stretch and flex those creative muscles, the stronger they become. Who knows? Maybe next, I’ll learn to play the trombone. Or perhaps I’ll become fluent in Italian. Or maybe…. well, maybe I’ll just focus on finishing my second novel and mastering the banjo for now.

Check back with me next year, though. You might be amazed.

http://www.sapphirebooks.com/beth.html

Asking the Right Questions.

I believe the Universe, the Creator, the spirits, your own soul, something, gives you what you need when you need it, as long as you know what to ask for. Maybe you don’t get it right away, or maybe you were asking for the wrong thing, but eventually, you will have everything you need. And a few things you just want.

And I think the creator has a sense of humor. A small example: Lucretia and I went hiking the weekend before last. As we were walking on the trail, I said, “I really want to see a wild turkey today.” A few minutes later, Lucretia spotted something on the ground, reached down to pick it up and handed it to me. “A wild turkey feather,” she said. Well, I *did* say that I wanted to see a wild turkey. Perhaps I should have specified that I would like to see one in its entirety.

Fast forward, we went to the hootenanny that I talked about last blog. I loved it so much that I decided that I want to learn to play the banjo. Now, banjos are pretty expensive, so I told L that I was going to find one, probably in a thrift store or something, for like thirty bucks. I figured that way, it wouldn’t be so expensive that I would feel bad if I turned out to hate it. Well, it didn’t work out quite like that, but a couple of days later, we were at a friend’s house and I mentioned how I really want to learn to play the banjo and Lynda told me I could borrow her banjo for a couple of weeks to try it out and see if I like playing it. First of all, I didn’t even know that she had a banjo! Secondly, thank you, Universe. I needed that.

The universe listens. This is probably important to note, because lately, I have been having a lot of problems with my second novel; I have been having trouble getting into my characters and unlike my last novel, I am not really sure where it is going. So, what I have been thinking in my head is “I don’t know if I can finish my second novel.” Well, I didn’t think that about the banjo. I merely said, “I’m going to learn the banjo and I am going to find a banjo so I can start practicing.” With the turkey, I simply said, “I want to see a wild turkey.” Somehow, the universe always provides what you put out there that you want.

So, when I am putting out these negative thoughts, I am bringing them back to me. Instead of thinking that I can’t finish this book, I am going to start putting it out there that I *am* going to finish this book, and then move on to the next one that is already bouncing around in my head. I am going to start saying that I *am* going to do this, I *will* do this, I am mostly certainly going to do this. And the universe will respond in kind.

Your thoughts are probably your most powerful tool to creating your own world and making your own dreams come true. Make sure they aren’t working against you.

P.S. I *love* the banjo.

http://www.sapphirebooks.com/beth.html