Memory Lane

It’s after midnight and I have to leave the house in just a few scant hours to drive to the airport so I can fly to New Orleans, where my daughter is getting married this weekend. I should be sleeping. But I’m too wound up with last minute preparations and, frankly, too excited to sleep.

It’s hard to believe my little girl is getting married. Then again, it’s entirely believable and welcome and wonderful and something we all have been happily anticipating for a long time. What I can’t believe is that it’s all going to happen just a few days from now.

I’m too distracted and exhausted at the moment to write anything meaningful about the occasion, other than to say all of us are just delighted. But when words fail, sometimes pictures are effective.

One of the charming traditions of weddings these days is to create a video or slideshow of pictures of the bride and groom at various embarrassing stages of their lives and play it during the rehearsal dinner so all their friends and family can laugh at them. So of course we did this.

Digging through old photo albums to find pics was a lot of fun and I thought I’d share a few of the less blackmail-worthy ones. It’s tough to find pics of my daughter that don’t also include my son — they’ve always been best friends — so he’s in several of these as well.

I’m very protective of my children and their privacy and hesitate to post pictures of them online. But I sincerely doubt anyone could identify them from the pics below. Luckily for them.

Hope you enjoy the pics! I’ll be back in a week or so to report on the festivities. Or something.

Scan 37

Scan 1

Scan 72

Scan 75_2

Scan 19

Scan 32

Scan 13

Scan 22

Scan 42_2

Scan 49_2

Scan 55

Scan 57

Scan 60

Scan 52_2

Oh, look! I found a couple pics of ME while going through old photo albums. Here I am with all three of my sisters. I’m the demure one on the right with her mouth wide open. I must have been about five years old.

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And this one is me on my birthday when I was . . . 16? Maybe 17? Ready to eat some homemade-from-scratch birthday cake. My mom makes the absolute best cake and frosting I’ve ever eaten. Ever.

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OK, time to close my eyes for a couple hours a few minutes before heading to the airport. I hope I end up sitting next to a handsome single man on the plane who won’t mind if I fall asleep on his shoulder. I’ll even try not to drool.

 

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Filed under just for fun, parenting

Writers on the storm

We here in the South are supposed to get some nasty weather later today. Several inches of snow followed by the dreaded coating of ICE. Or so they say. But even 1/4-inch of ice is cause for concern, as that’s enough to bring down power lines. And when the forecast predicts there will be a significant coating of ice over a large geographic area, well, it means people here are sort of freaking out.

1226000844I grew up in Minnesota where winter was just something that happened every year. Cold, snow, wind, even ice. It wasn’t really a big deal. But I’ve lived in the South long enough to know how traumatic and disorienting it is to suddenly have to cope with the arrival of something other than daffodils in early February. So I decided this was a good time to give you all some advice about how to prepare for and handle icy winter weather.

This advice is specifically directed to all the writers out there. Because I know how vulnerable we writers are when faced with the harsh implacability of the real world. Writers on the storm, so to speak. We need all the help we can get.

At this late date, mere hours before the onslaught of precipitation, if you haven’t yet made a trip to the grocery or liquor store, you’re flat out of luck. And honestly, if you’re a writer and you don’t have at least a week’s worth of liquor stocked up at all times . . . what kind of writer are you, anyway?

You’re going to have to make do with what you have at hand. So let’s start with some basics.

Run the dishwasher. Yes, really. Do I even need to explain this? Do this now while you still have power.

Do a load of laundry. If you lose power, in the winter, even in the South, it’s going to get cold in your house. You might need to actually put on a pair of pants. I know, desperate measures. But if someone needs to come rescue you, for whatever reason, clean pants are a lot easier to explain than . . . well, that’s sort of the point. Clean pants won’t need explanation. Unlike your current laundry pile.

Make soup. Yes, soup. Surely you have some quantity of chicken or beef in your freezer, festering, waiting for you to do something with it. So make soup. Right now, while the stove still works. Add some thyme and sliced carrots and barley. Dumplings, even. Yes, the prospect of eating cold leftover soup is rather unappetizing. But it’s infinitely more palatable, and less life threatening, than eating thawed raw meat.

Hard boil some eggs. You do have eggs, right? The unequivocal accompaniment for bacon? Same concept as the soup. No one wants to eat raw eggs. Hardboiled eggs are a good source of protein and . . . other stuff. You can even use the egg decorating dyes and stickers leftover from last Easter to add some festive colour to your power outage.

Take a shower. I know, it hasn’t even been a week since the last one. But weather extremes sometimes cause people to have to interact with strangers — calm down, this is just a possibility and not some dire portent set in stone — and it’s best not to frighten the neighbours unnecessarily.

Update your spreadsheet of food sources. Speaking of neighbours, I assume you’ve been keeping stats about which ones might be the best targets in terms of easy takedown and tender flesh. Avoid drug addicts and alcoholics and extreme athletes who tend toward gristle. Families with small succulent children are likely sources. Um, wait. Sorry, that’s advice for the zombie apocalypse. Heh. Never mind.

Locate sources of combustibles. Identify which neighbours have random unattended cords of firewood. Or a less than sturdy weathered deck. Or a rotting fence that’s on the verge of falling down. I know you’ve been too distracted writing the latest story to stock your own woodpile, so you’re going to need access to a supply of seasoned firewood that doesn’t necessitate taking an axe to granny’s rocking chair or the dining room table.

Keep your curtains closed. People will tell you this is a buffer to keep the warm air inside, or to keep the cold air outside. Nonsense. This is to keep your neighbours from spying on you to determine whether you have any small children or meaty pets. What? You think they don’t have their own spreadsheets?

Have a backup heat source. Speaking of pets, it has been scientifically proven by people who wake up in the night, sweating, with a cat plastered to their side, that cats generate enough BTUs in one night to power a small country. Of course, if you show any sign of wanting them to keep you warm, they will ignore you. Indefinitely. So be clever. Tell them how pretty they are. Dole out treats judiciously. Lull them into a state of complacency before you burrow your icy cold hands into their soft warm stomach fur. Caution: Be sure you’ve stocked up on antiseptic and bandages before using cats as a heat source. As with any heat source, use proper ventilation at all times.

Wear a hat. If you lose power, you will be cold. Wearing a hat, especially if it’s a particularly stylish hat, will make you feel better and keep your brain warm while the rest of your body slowly freezes to death. Also, socks are something to consider if you are overly concerned about retaining use of your lower extremities.

Download more ebooks. You’ve charged up your ereader of choice, right? So you might want to stock up on new stories to read during the impending power outage. Might I suggest my latest novella? Coincidentally, it’s a short sweet story of two people who get stuck in a remote mountain cabin during a snowstorm. Perfect reading for this weather! Ahem.

Play games! After hours (or mere minutes) without electricity, your laptop and cell phone batteries will die and you’ll no longer be able to play Words With Friends. Okay, settle down. I know this seems like extreme hardship. But this is a great time to dig out the actual Scrabble board game that you forgot you even had. You live alone? No problem. You can play with yourself! Er, that is, play against yourself. And since those pesky tiles will slide all over the place if you move the board, you’ll burn calories and generate heat by running back and forth from one side of the table to the other as you take turns. This is the perfect opportunity to use all those creative words the #%$^@ computer says aren’t really words, or to play words that go off the grid by just one space. Or three.

Write!! Of course, this should be the first thing on any writer’s list of things to do during inclement apocalypse weather. Of course it is. Who needs a computer, anyway? Did Plato have a computer? Did Shakespeare? Austen or Hemmingway? Did Franzen— okay, never mind. Harsh weather is punishment enough. But seriously, severe temperatures and lack of electricity are not sufficient reasons to stop writing. Dig out that pad of paper and a pen. Or pencil, if the ink and quill have frozen. Who cares if your handwriting is indecipherable? You’re going to re-write the damn thing anyway, right? This is your chance, maybe your only chance, to experience first hand that whole romanticized starving artist living in a freezing garret with a broken heart and shattered innocence and surviving on a heel of moldy bread and cheap bottle of wine lifestyle we’ve all heard so much about and foolishly envied.

Um, you did stock up on the broken heart and cheap wine along with the bread, right? I figure there are some basic survival techniques I just shouldn’t have to enumerate.

So, good luck surviving the impending weather. At the very least, wrap up your sense of humour in a soft wool scarf and offer it a dram of the finest whisky. After all, the chances are slim to none that you’ll make it through this storm intact without it.

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Five Things I Learned Writing A Place to Start

Chuck Wendig recently announced a new series over on his blog, where writers tell five things they learned while writing a story. I like this idea. I like it a lot. He’s only opening it up to traditionally published writers, and I get that. He has sound reasons for that. And honestly, I doubt the highly experienced crowd over there has much to learn from self-pub newbies.

But since I just finished writing a story, I decided to make a list of my own. Because I did learn some stuff that’s maybe worth contemplating.

I don’t feel qualified to give writing advice, that’s not my intent here, but perhaps some other embryonic writer will stumble across this someday and find it helpful.

1.) Deadlines are more effective with significant consequences

Obviously, not everyone has this problem. But I’m pretty much an expert-level procrastinator. I’ve set writing goals before, with mixed success. This time was different, for two reasons.

First, I publicly promised people I care about that I was giving them something for the holidays (goal: 12-25). Pretty sure they knew it was a story. Since it was supposed to be a short story, I figured I had plenty of time. HA! Writing short is hard and I don’t have the skill for it. I should have known this would be a longer piece, that it would take more time. I started writing it on December 3. What was I thinking? Talk about a ticking clock.

APTS cover pngSecond, I asked one of my sisters, a graphic artist, whether she’d make a cover for me. She not only agreed, she started working on it immediately. Even though I told her there was no rush, because I WAS STILL WRITING THE STORY. But no, she was off and running. Er, drawing. An original hand-drawn creation (and it’s gorgeous) is no small undertaking for an artist who has MG, as my sister does. No way in hell was I going to tell her I didn’t need a cover after all.

Those two things combined were a perfect storm of unacceptable consequences for not finishing. I hesitate to even say this, for several reasons, but I learned that I can indeed write 25,600 words in two weeks and spend a week editing it down to 27,000 words [sigh] and then publish the thing.

2.) Sometimes speed is your friend

I don’t necessarily recommend writing and editing and publishing a novella in three weeks. Really. I guarantee you, there are sensible people reading this right now who are recoiling in horror at the very thought. Hell, I’m a bit horrified myself and I’m the one who did it.

However. If you’re like me and tend to take forever writing a thing and edit it to death as you go and then second-guess yourself into paralysis, this approach might be something to consider.

I didn’t have time to stop and edit. Each day, I’d briefly skim over the previous day’s work and wade right back into writing. At the end of the day, I’d jot a few quick notes about things to come. There were a ton of notes that said “XXfix this later.”

But I learned that my brain is doing things I’m not consciously aware of and that some of the things I would have deleted if I’d had time to edit as I went turned out to be important to the story. I’ve heard other writers say this, but didn’t quite believe my brain was doing that.

For instance, early in the story when Jo was lost in the snowstorm, she thought longingly about finding a loving family who would offer shelter. It was a stupid thought. If I’d had time, I would have deleted and re-written that part immediately. I realized later, much later, that finding a community of loving people who treated her like family turned out to be an important theme. That’s not something I set out to do.

There were a bunch of things like that, so many that it was sort of shocking. Little seeds planted unintentionally that turned out to be significant.

When I decided Jo wrote stories for children and then named the rabbit Steve, I added a note: “XXthis is stupid, fix it.” I had no idea at the time how important that would be. Or that Mac knew how to whittle. And it turns out people kind of liked that stupid rabbit.

And you know what? It was fun. I had a blast writing this story, free from the self-criticism of constant editing.

3.) Editing is SO important

Okay, this isn’t something I learned writing this story. I’ve always known this. But I can’t just not say this, in light of item #2.

I like to think the mechanics of my writing are pretty solid, in terms of spelling and grammar and (unless you’re overly fond of commas) punctuation. I’ve had years of practice. When I say I wrote the story in two weeks, what that really means is it took me a dozen-plus years of writing and studying craft and a lifetime of reading to write it that fast.

With the deadline I’d given myself, and it being right before the holidays, there wasn’t time to find a professional editor who wouldn’t try to have me killed just for asking. Possibly a dumb decision, but in this particular instance (see #4), I have no regrets. At all.

A week to edit a novella? That’s really pushing it. You can’t just run spell check and be done. That’s not editing. I did enlist the help of a very savvy reader friend and she gave great feedback on an early draft. But as a writer there are things I’m aware of, and responsible for, that a reader might never notice.

It helps that I know the type of stuff I tend to screw up. I skip words. Just leave them out entirely. It’s hard to catch that, even when you know to look for it.

I write things like, “She stood up and walked over to the window and looked out and saw…” GAH. That’s fine for a first draft, but you need to fix that crap.

Also, after reading so many romances, I tend to use familiar or clichéd phrases. It’s lazy writing. At one point, I wrote that Jo “wrenched away” when Mac put a hand on her arm. It sounded like he was being physically aggressive. Only he wasn’t. In the final version, she “shrugged it off.” Little thing, big difference.

And since my mind is always in the gutter and I see innuendo everywhere, I changed “he turned his phone on” to “he turned on his phone.”

Word choice, word order. It matters. I spent more time editing in the span of a week than I spent writing during the previous two.

That said, I am absofuckinglutely sure there are still mistakes in it, both large and small. Especially on the developmental, story structure level. I have no doubt whatsoever there are things in that story I’ll look back on in the future, probably next week, and wish I’d done differently or better or not at all.

3-1/2.) A bonus thing, since the last point wasn’t a new thing I learned

It’s a bad idea to publish a 27,000-word story in 11 posts on your blog. What can I say, it seemed like a good idea at the time. I was wrong. Don’t do this. It’s irritating and frustrating and breaks the flow and is not the way you want readers to experience your story.

4.) It feels so fucking good to “finish your shit”

Credit to Wendig for that particular expression, but it’s a universal truth. This story isn’t the first thing I’ve finished. It’s not even the first thing I’ve published. But it is the first time I’ve finished a piece of fiction and then shoved it out into the world. (I’m being quite literal here. I’ve never even sent out a query.)

It’s not perfect. It might not even be particularly good. But, you know what, no one died. The sky didn’t fall. No one came to my house and kicked my cat. Well, not yet. Early days.

It feels indescribably good to just be done. I don’t mean “done” as in one more lingering done-but-not-quite-ready dark blot of indecision on the hard drive. I mean irreversibly done. No more endless editing. No more angst about whether to re-write that one part. Or that other part. Again. It’s out there and gone. DONE. I needed that. You have no idea how badly I needed that. Far more than I needed another edit.

5.) I have got to stop taking this whole writing thing so seriously

I struggle with this. Yes, I take it very seriously. Probably too much so. I feel an almost overwhelming obligation to the people who invest their hard-earned money and irretrievable time into the reading of a story. There’s a level of trust there and I’m trying my damndest not to violate that.

Plus there’s that ever present fear of failure. Or success. Or both. Whatever.

But still. It is just entertainment. It’s not open-heart surgery where someone could die if you get it wrong. And it’s as ephemeral as it is eternal. Every story is just one small drop in an endless flow. No matter how good it is, a story will never be so good that a person who reads it will feel like they don’t ever have to read another. They might re-read it, but there will always be another. Always. And I want to be the one who writes it. Now that I know I can. Without, you know, endangering the cat.

I’ll be working with an editor on the next one, so it will take more time. Perhaps not to draft, but definitely in the editing stage where the real writing happens. No doubt I’ll learn more than a handful of new things. Maybe I’ll even learn to write short. Don’t anyone hold your breath.

PS- The story in question is available here:

AMZ | BN | Kobo | Goodreads | Smashwords || Sony & Apple… coming soon

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Let’s worry mom! (New Zealand edition)

So, my daughter and her fiancé are leaving next week to spend some time in New Zealand. Seven weeks, actually. As you can see by this picture she sent me the other day, she’s pretty excited about it:

photo-6 calendar

This is technically their honeymoon, happening before the wedding because that’s just how their schedules worked out with time off. Two weeks after they return, they’re getting married. I mean, c’mon, what else would you do during the two months leading up to your wedding, if not leave the country?

This is their favourite kind of trip, one that involves hiking and camping. The kind where you don’t even bring a suitcase. You just stuff everything into a huge backpack, including a tent and sleeping bag and your food and a stove and an emergency hobbit, and carry it with you at all times while you climb mountains. They plan to do five of the Great Walks, although apparently one of them is really kayaking rather than walking.

EDIT TO ADD:  My daughter informs me that all five Great Walks they’re doing are indeed hiking. The kayaking is a separate thing. Because of course it is.

Am I worried, you ask? Who me? Pffft, I never worry. Much.

Besides, she assures me there are NO BEARS in New Zealand. Of course I believe her. Nonetheless, I did a google search of my own and discovered this isn’t strictly true. Apparently there is one particular type of BEAR in NZ.

BEAR GRYLLS!  [I love this video, great promo by Air New Zealand]:

He looks relatively harmless, except maybe to himself, but did you see those mountains? They’re very . . . mountainous.

I’m actually more than a bit envious. I’ve heard nothing but good things about New Zealand and have seen video and pictures showing how beautiful it is. I know they’ll have a terrific time. Luckily, her fiancé is just a few months shy of being an MD and is entirely capable of handling any incidents requiring band-aids that might ensue.

Not that I’m worried.

Now I just need to find something to wear to an outdoor spring wedding in New Orleans. I’m thinking maybe something that accessorizes well with hiking boots and a camelback. Any suggestions?

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A Place to Start, the cover

When I first started writing A Place to Start, I intended to just put it up on my blog. But it turned into a novella and it was cumbersome and irritating to read. I’m hoping that was just due to the format and not the story itself.

So I decided to publish it with all the various online retailers as well. But I’d need a cover for that. So I asked one of my sisters — Annie Gray, who is a graphic artist — whether she’d make a cover for me. To my surprise (and delight!) she said she would.

Why surprise? Well, the thing is, this sister has MG (myasthenia gravis), which makes it very difficult for her to do the time-intensive detailed work of drawing. And since she was determined that there were not going to be any copyright issues, this is not a photoshop cut-and-paste of stock photos. The entire thing is an original hand-drawn creation.

This led to dozens of emails back and forth (because I hate talking on the phone) in which I tried to describe the look I wanted, and kept changing my mind, and saying things like “remember that picture you took six years ago, I liked that colour red, I think,” and generally just proving what a pain in the ass I am to work with.

I had a vague idea what I wanted. You all know this is dangerous. I do not have any artistic talent. I told her sort of Christmassy, but not really. Simple, but not stark. Like winter, but with a warm feel. Red and green and charcoal. No, not that green. I can’t even tell you how many emails went back and forth.

She’d send me a rough draft and tell me to JUST look at the format. Or to ONLY look at the colour. Because it’s a process and you do one step at a time. Like layering. So, of course, I’d email back asking whether we could use a different font.

At one point, she said something like, “Are you sure you’re a writer? You’re not doing a very good job communicating. You know, with words.”

I swear, it’s a wonder she didn’t come down here and kill me in my sleep.

She was doing all this work while I was still writing the story and it turned out to be great motivation for finishing the damn thing. It’s likely she really would have killed me if all her hard work had turned out to be for nothing.

Here it is. It’s gorgeous and I absolutely love it. It’s everything I wanted, only better.

APTS cover png

Speaking of exciting events, it’s now up for sale in three places!

Amazon  |  Barnes & Noble  |  Kobo

I can only list it for free if I publish exclusively with Amazon, and I don’t want to do that. [Sorry! You can still read it for free on the blog.]

So, are there other retailers where I should list it? What other devices do you all use?

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A Place to Start, the ending

IN WHICH we find out whether I can stick the landing at the end of this story.

Happy New Year! We’ve come to the end of things here today, on a day symbolizing the beginning of new things. May this new year bring you many amazing new stories, to read or even to live out.

I hope you’ve enjoyed following along with these posts and reading this story . . . this story that was meant to be a short story and ended up being a 27,000-word novella, the first in a trilogy.

Ah, well, these things happen.

If you want a copy that isn’t broken up into eleven blog posts, a copy you can read straight through in one sitting, I do intend to publish it on all the various online sites in a week or so. I’ll let you know once I do that.

This story was offered here as a gift, a thank you to my long-time readers, my imaginary internet friends who seem to have an endless inexplicable supply of faith in me. Granted, it’s been sort of like those gifts of dried beans and macaroni glued to construction paper in the shape of the words “I love you” that your kids bring home from kindergarten and you put up on the fridge for a couple weeks and then shove into a cupboard and hope the ants don’t get into it. But it’s the thought that counts, right? And my thoughts are filled with gratitude.

If it made you smile or laugh or even tear up a wee bit there at that one part, if it distracted you for a few moments from the reality of daily life, then I’ve done my job and am absolutely delighted. If you liked the story, my fondest hope is that you’ll tell someone else about it, share it with a friend who you think might also like it, in whatever manner suits you.

Because stories, by their very nature, are meant to be shared.

Here it is, the eleventh and final installment of this particular story.

A Place to Start

A McIntyre Novella

Book One:  Winter

by KD James

Mac arrived back in town just ahead of the next cold front. He stopped off at Charlie’s place to return the propane canister and couple extra water bottles he’d borrowed. Everything else he needed for a few days hiking and camping, he’d already had in his Jeep.

Charlie was sitting on the front porch cleaning one of his rifles when Mac drove up. “See you had the sense to come down ahead of the snow.” He paused to spit and then went right back to what he was doing.

“Just barely. It’s already pretty heavy west of the ridge.” He set Charlie’s gear on the table and leaned on the porch railing, facing him. “Thanks for the loan.”

Charlie grunted in acknowledgement. “You manage to clear your head?”

“Hell, Charlie, I don’t know. Life used to be so simple. No responsibilities, no obligations. No guilt.”

“No death.”

“Aye. No death on my conscience.”

“You’re takin’ on burdens that ain’t yours, son.”

“It’s there all the same, Charlie. There’s no turning back from it, no denying it.”

“Life is chock full of pain and death. You can spend all your days anticipatin’ it and, by God, you won’t be disappointed.”

“I don’t spend time anticipating it.”

“Sure you do. That’s all you been doin’ these past three years. Waitin’ for someone else to die. Ain’t no way for a young man to live.”

Mac couldn’t even remember the last time he’d felt young. “We all grieve in different ways.”

“That’s the truth. But after a time, it’s just purely selfish. It ain’t helpin’ those done gone and it sure ain’t good for the people still here. Wallowing, is what it is.”

Mac couldn’t argue with that, but still. “Harsh words.”

“Truth often is.” He spat again. “Fact is, you got a choice, the way you look at things. And you been focused for so long on those moments of pain, waitin’ on the next one, you done lost sight of the happiness and peace in between ‘em.”

“Aye. Haven’t seen much of either, lately.” Except with Jo.

“That’s ’cause you ain’t been looking, son. There are whole long stretches of it, between the pain, days and weeks and even years of it. There’s love mixed up in there too, if you ain’t too dense to see it.”

“I’m not ready for love, Charlie. I’m not even sure I know what it is.”

“Hell, Mac, ain’t a man alive was ever ready for love. Women, now, that’s a whole different story. They’re all the time lookin’ for it and know it when they see it. It’s one of the many things they’re right good at, thank the good Lord. Though it ain’t much use if you’re not payin’ attention.”

Mac wasn’t sure about Charlie’s assessment of women. He knew plenty of women who weren’t looking for love. Didn’t he? It’s not like he went around asking them about it. How would he know? Bloody hell, he didn’t care about other women. The one woman he did care about had told him, literally and emphatically, to leave her alone. He wondered what Jo was looking for.

Charlie stood and picked up his reassembled rifle. “Snow’s started. Best get on back to town.”

“I’ve got one stop to make, then I was planning to drive straight though. Back to Atlanta.”

“Not in this, you ain’t. You’ll be lucky to get down as far as John’s old place ‘fore this catches up with you.”

Mac turned to look at the snow, falling heavily now at this altitude and already accumulating, and swore under his breath when he realized Charlie was right. Looked like he’d be spending at least one more night in his cabin after all. No one would be going anywhere on the mountain tonight. And he suspected the old man had distracted him with conversation just long enough for it to be true.

Charlie’s next words confirmed it. “If you’re lucky, once it stops, I’ll wait and plow that place out last.”

Mac scowled, ready to set the man straight about where he’d be staying, but decided to just let it go when he saw the sudden relief on his friend’s face. “And there’s my woman, now. Best get dinner started.”

Mac saw Maybelle’s truck pulling into the drive and gave Charlie a teasing grin. “You cook? When you could eat your wife’s fine cooking instead?”

“Hell, yes, I cook. Man don’t stay married long as I have, he don’t learn how to cook a few meals.”

“You’re one lucky bastard, Charlie, to have found a woman willing to put up with your ugly mug and your cooking.”

The old man let out a cackle of laughter. “Damn, son, you know that woman was the one what found me. Get on with you, now. And try to pay attention.”

Mac would be paying attention, all right. But he didn’t think there were enough apologies in the world for Jo to forgive him for the way he’d deceived her. Or for his arrogance. That door was closed and he’d best get used to it. Still, he owed it to her to say the words in person.

He owed it to himself to try.

* * *

Jo had just returned from her daily run and was doing cool-down stretches outside in front of the cabin when the snow started falling. Thick heavy flakes that looked like they meant business. Unlike the first storm, the old men at the diner had been predicting this one. Unlike that first time, this time she was prepared.

What she wasn’t prepared for was the sight of Mac’s Jeep driving up the road toward the cabin. He parked and got out, hesitating before he walked over to her.

He scowled at her. “You’re going running? In the snow?”

“No, I just finished.” God, she’d missed that scowl. “You came back.”

“Aye. Headed up onto the trails, hiked and camped a bit.”

He looked good. Actually, he looked better than good, with a three-day beard and tousled hair and something fierce in his eyes. She cleared her throat. “Thank you for the rabbit. And the apology.”

He gave a brief nod of acknowledgment and started to say something. Then stopped. Then said it anyway. “Steve? You named a rabbit Steve?”

She felt her cheeks flush. “Yeah, I did. I first started writing a simple version of those stories after I left here that summer. As a way to remember. There was a boy in school that year named Steve and I sort of, you know, had a crush on him.” She shrugged. “I was nine. The boy moved away, the name stuck.” And she was rambling on again, nervous.

“That story and your characters struck a chord with me, Jo. Reminded me of things I’d forgotten. Good things that deserve to be remembered.” He paused. “So, did they survive the encounter with bears, then? Your characters?”

“You’ll have to read it and find out.” She smiled as she said it, flattered that he’d asked, but it wasn’t what she’d hoped he might say to her.

“Aye. I’d like that.” But he looked uncertain. Like maybe he was nervous too. “I’ll say it again, Jo, so we’re clear. I’m sorry. Sorry I hurt you. It was wrong of me to deceive you and try to make you want to leave.”

She huffed out a breath of surprise. “Is that what you were doing? Trying to make me leave?”

He nodded and then stood there, rigid and silent, as if he had braced himself to accept the onslaught of her anger.

“Mac, those days in your cabin . . . I’ve never felt so cared for, so pampered, in my entire life. There wasn’t a single moment when you made me want to leave. Believe me, if you had, I would’ve been gone in a heartbeat. Not from the mountain, but from your cabin. You made me want to stay.” She studied his face, considered his actions. “It’s like you’ve got this huge protective streak and don’t even know it.”

His posture, his tone, everything about him was unrelenting. “I don’t enjoy seeing people suffer.”

She saw the shadows in his eyes and ached to lighten them. “I heard about what happened to your fiancée. I’m sorry for your loss.”

She watched as the shadows gave way to surprise and disbelief.

“Fiancée? Is that what people are saying? Bloody hell. Carly and I weren’t engaged. In fact, we had words about it that night. She’d driven up as a surprise, wanted things to be more serious than they were between us. I thought she had gone outside to walk it off, but she got in her car.”

“And you blame yourself.”

“I should have stopped her.”

“You can’t always stop people from making foolish decisions. That doesn’t make it your fault, Mac. And one accident doesn’t mean this is a dangerous place.”

Mac looked down at his boots, his jaw tight with emotion. “It’s not just that.” He stopped and stared up at the sky, seeming oblivious of the snow swirling around his face. He exhaled a long breath and looked out over the mountain. “I have two younger brothers. But I also had a sister. She was the baby of the family and had always been frail. One winter, she came down with a cold she couldn’t shake. It settled in her chest, like it did with John. It was icy that winter. Maddie died before the roads cleared enough to get her to the hospital.”

His voice cracked a bit on the name and Jo put her hand on his arm. “Oh, Mac. I’m sorry.”

“But it’s not just the weak and elderly, Jo. This place is tough on everyone who lives here. My dad, he worked with the crews building the Parkway. It’s why he and Ma settled in this area. There was work here, even for immigrants.”

“The Blue Ridge Parkway?”

“Aye. It was hard work, but it paid well enough. He was a master carpenter and he took odd jobs on the side. He worked harder than any man I’ve ever known. And one day in December, a week before Christmas, he came home and ate his dinner and sat down in the big easy chair he’d made with his own hands and died. Just like that. Massive heart attack.”

Jo felt her eyes tearing up at all the loss this man had endured in his life. But it didn’t feel right to let him blame it on this place.

“Mac, people die everywhere, all the time. You know that. My dad was shot in a convenience store in Atlanta, a statistic in a robbery gone horribly wrong.”

“John told me. But your dad was a cop, Jo. That’s different.”

“No, it’s not. He wasn’t on the job that night. He was off duty, stopping for a soda and a bag of chips on the way home. The entire world is harsh, Mac. There are no safe places.”

He put a hand over hers where it rested on his arm. “I can’t help that I’m not comfortable with you staying up here alone, Jo. I won’t be apologizing for that.”

She made a sound that was a mix of laughter and the pain of remembered of loss. “Hardly alone.”

He pulled his hand away and took a step back, horrified. “You’re involved with someone?”

“God, no. That’s not– no. I meant no one could ever really be alone up here, not with all these people, this community.” She watched the hard planes of his face soften with relief and let herself hope that maybe he cared.

“Aye, that’s the truth.”

“Besides, I won’t be living here year round. Just coming up for long weekends and holidays when I can get time off.”

“Time off? But you’re a writer. You could work anywhere.”

“Yes, well.” She ducked her head briefly before looking him in the eye. “I am a writer. But you’re not the only one who hasn’t been completely honest. I’m also an accountant, a CPA.”

Mac frowned, his confusion apparent. “Is that a thing you’re ashamed of, then?”

“I’m not ashamed. I make a good living with it. It’s just— you know how they say to dress not for the job you have, but the one you want?”

“Do they.” He seemed amused by this information.

She smiled. “Yes, they do. This was sort of like that. When you asked what I did for a living, I told you what I want to do. Like, if I said it, out loud, it would come true.”

He seemed to think about it and then nodded seriously, as if her wishful thinking made perfect sense. “And if I were to say, out loud, that I’d like to see you again once we get back to Atlanta, do ye think that would come true as well?”

Oh, God. She was falling for this man beyond the point of no return. “I think there’s a very good chance that it would.”

“That’s good to know.”

They stood there for a moment, quiet and awkward at the prospect of a first date after what they’d already shared.

He reached up to gently brush the accumulating snow off her knit cap. “Are you sure you don’t want to sell? John knew your mom wouldn’t want this place. He intended for the two of you to have the money from it.”

She tensed, wanting to trust his motives. Desperately wanting to trust her instincts about the man. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

He simply nodded, accepting her decision. Confirming her judgment of him. “I’m going to miss this place. I surely miss the man.”

“You loved him.”

“Aye. John was a friend. A good friend.”

The sadness and loss he felt were almost palpable. “He loved you too, you know. He shared this place with you.”

“That he did. It’s just a place, lass. And it belongs to you now. Maybe one day I’ll build another.”

But it was more than just a place and she knew it. For both of them. It seemed too soon for what she was feeling, for what she wanted to say. But she felt a sudden sense of urgency, a certainty that if she waited it would be too late. And, for once, she didn’t stop to consider all the possibilities. “Or we could share this one.”

“Share?”

“Yes, share. It’s a simple concept. Most of us learned it in kindergarten.” She tried for insouciance, but she’d never felt a more gut twisting apprehension than she did in that moment.

“Ach, but we’re not five years old any more now, are we?” He attempted a smile but the look in his eyes was full of pain and longing and regret. “It’s a generous offer, but I don’t think it would be a good idea.”

The thing was, now that she’d said it, now that she’d taken that chance, she was sure it was the best idea she’d ever had. She refused to let go of the possibility, the opportunity, the reckless hope. “You shared this place with my grandpa.”

He ran a hand over the back of his neck and turned away to stare out over the mountain again, his jaw clenching with tension. “I didn’t want to kiss your grandpa.”

She exhaled a short laugh of relief. He still wanted her. “I suspect my grandpa didn’t want to kiss you either.” Her expression grew serious as she pulled on his arm until he turned to look at her. “But I do.”

“Do ye, now.”

“Yes. Very much so. Right now, in fact.”

His look was hesitant, uncertain. And at the same time, threaded with promise. “Jo, ye can’t mean–”

“I do mean it. Kiss me, Mac. Share this place with me. It’s a start.”

She saw emotion flare in his eyes and it looked like desire. It looked like the seeds of hope and love and a future and in that moment she felt herself let go of all her careful plans. And then his hands were on her, pulling her into his embrace there in the falling snow, and it felt like coming home.

“Aye, lass, that it is. A fine place to start.” And then he kissed her.

As beginnings went, it was pretty spectacular.

* * *

The End

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A Place to Start, part 10

Okay, you voracious readers, as promised, this is the second post of the day. Which is also the second-to-last post of the story. Yes, that’s right, I’ll post the ending tomorrow, on the first day of a new year. Seems fitting.

As FL surmised in the comments, this is indeed the first book in a series. I didn’t set out to write a trilogy, any more than I set out to write a novella instead of a short story. But in the writing of it, it turned out that Mac has two brothers. They just showed up, these McIntyre men. And they seemed like interesting people who might have a story of their own that needed to be told, so . . .

I don’t have titles for the other two books yet, but they’ll be subtitled Spring and Fall. Not sure when, exactly, they’ll be available (other than sometime in 2014), but if anyone is interested in being notified via email when they are, there’s a link on the sidebar to sign up for my newsletter. I’d say I send it out infrequently, but the fact is I’ve never sent it out even once. Just ignore the nonsense I wrote on that link about sending it quarterly (I’ll fix that later), my plan is to limit it to news of book releases — hopefully, the kind of email you’re happy to see arrive.

I honestly don’t think I’ll be posting any more stories of this length here on my blog, as it has proven to be a cumbersome method of delivery. But you never know. Maybe a first chapter. Or two.

And please, if you’re out celebrating tonight, take care. Given a choice, I’d happily lose all my readers due to bad writing rather than lose even one of you to an accident.

Here it is, the tenth installment. I hope you enjoy it.

A Place to Start

A McIntyre Novella

Book One:  Winter

by KD James

Jo had barely taken two sips of coffee when her mother called the next morning to check on her. She made reassuring noises and promised to come for dinner once she got back in town and then ended the call in less time than was strictly polite, but she was anxious to see Mac.

She warmed up the truck and retraced the route back down the mountain to Mac’s cabin, almost missing the turnoff. His Jeep wasn’t parked in its usual spot. She decided to go inside and wait for him to get back. She knocked on the door just in case and, when no one responded, hoped it wasn’t locked. On closer inspection, she realized it didn’t even have a lock. She turned the knob and went in.

The cabin was empty. Not only was Mac not there, it looked like he’d never been there. Like she’d never been there. The cabin had been cleaned and straightened, the ashes shoveled out of the fireplace and new kindling laid. The chairs at the table were neatly pushed in and the couch had been moved back into position along the wall. The greenery was gone and the blankets were folded with military precision at the end of the bed. The perishables had been cleared out of the fridge, the dishes washed and put away.

She stood there in the middle of the cabin, feeling bereft. It had been stripped of the simple things that had made it a warm and familiar place and she felt the echoing emptiness as if it were a physical presence. But it paled in comparison to the aching void in her heart.

Mac was gone.

* * *

Jo drove into town, assuming someone there would know where Mac was and when he’d be back. Assuming he was coming back. It hurt too much to bear, the thought that his apology had also been his way of saying goodbye.

She stopped in at the diner, hoping the fondness for gossip would be in full force and she wouldn’t have to reveal her interest in the man to get information. Everyone was just as open and friendly as they’d been the night before, but in a place where everyone seemed to know everyone else’s business and didn’t hesitate to talk about it, not one of them mentioned Mac.

She waited until there was a lull between orders before she broke down and asked Maybelle about him. “You haven’t seen Mac around, have you?”

“Haven’t seen him, love, but there was a sack of groceries at the door this morning when I opened up, with a note saying he hoped I could make use of them. Always been considerate, that one.”

Jo hesitated, trying to be nonchalant. “Did the note say anything else?”

“Sure didn’t. Mac’s not one for being all wordy. But he never leaves until after New Year’s, so I expect he’s around somewhere.”

Fred, the man from the grocery store, spoke up from where he sat a couple stools down, finishing a cup of coffee. “Heard Charlie mention earlier that Mac went up the mountain for a spell. Said he’d be back.”

Maybelle nodded. “Not surprised he’d favor camping over that cabin of his. Most like to be warmer outdoors.”

Jo couldn’t contain her curiosity. “You all know who he– you know he’s an architect, right?”

“Well, sure, hon,” Maybelle said. “Of course we do. But up here he’s just Mac.”

“No pretense in that boy,” Fred agreed. “Solid now as he ever was.”

“But, with all his experience, why is his cabin so . . . primitive?”

“Built it that way on purpose,” Fred said, the admiration evident in his voice. “It’s a smart man who knows what he needs and stops at that.”

“He built that place for warm weather,” Maybelle said. “Two weeks in summer and the occasional weekend in spring and fall. Come winter, he always stayed up with your grandpa.” She frowned and shook her head. “None of us can quite work out why he’d keep you there this time of year.”

Jo felt a sudden inexplicable urge to defend him. “But I’d hurt my foot and couldn’t wear my boots. And there was the snow.”

Fred snorted. “A little snow never stopped a McIntyre.”

“It’s possible he might pop in here,” Maybelle said. “He likes my cooking well enough. You want me to give him a message if I see him?”

“Oh, no, it’s just—” Jo tried to think of a reason why she’d be asking about Mac. Any reason other than the truth, that she cared about him far more than he apparently did about her. She felt miserable enough without adding anyone’s pity to the mix.

She settled for a partial truth. “I stopped at his cabin and he was gone, but the door was open and there didn’t seem to be a way to lock up. There’s the heavy bar on the inside and I just thought, maybe, someone might know how to secure it.”

“Oh, he don’t ever lock it,” Fred said. “Leaves it open and stocked up year round, in case some wet-behind-the-ears tourist gets lost out on the mountain and needs a place.”

Jo wasn’t sure what to say to that. It sounded exactly like something Mac would do. And she’d been that tourist. Nothing more.

“You sure I can’t give him a message, hon?” Maybelle’s look was kind.

“No, there’s nothing, thanks.” Nothing he’d want to hear.

She saw Maybelle and Fred exchange a long look but they didn’t say anything more as she got up and left the diner.

She stood outside and briefly considered going back to Atlanta a week early. Her car had been repaired and returned yesterday, in spite of it being a holiday. So even though she was still driving her grandpa’s truck, getting home wouldn’t be a problem. And she’d learned enough about this place to make a decision. She loved it here and she wasn’t ready to sell. She might never be ready to sell.

She tried to ignore the little voice asking why, if she loved it so much, was she thinking of leaving before she had to. Her grandpa’s place was quiet and peaceful, a sanctuary where she could escape the constant noise and hectic pace of the city and just focus on writing. The people were friendly and welcoming and there was a real sense of community, something she’d never had before and would miss when she left. The place was everything she’d hoped it would be. And more.

But being up here wasn’t the same without Mac.

For someone who had always enjoyed solitude and was content with her own company, the realization was unsettling. As was the realization that she wanted to spend more time with a man who didn’t want to get involved with her. It’s not like he hadn’t warned her. It’s not like she hadn’t agreed to the stipulation. She missed him anyway.

She spent the next few days writing, finishing one story and starting on another, making random notes for a third. She went into town every day for lunch, getting to know her neighbors and feeling more at home. She went to bed early and got up with the first rays of dawn and tried not to think about Mac.

And failed miserably.

She saw evidence of his presence in every room of her grandpa’s cabin. Remembered his touch every night in her bed. She missed his gruff taciturn attitude and his rare devastating smiles. And she was very much afraid that, wherever he’d gone, he’d taken with him what was left of her heart.

* * *

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