Tag Archives: excerpt

‘Cause I’m Short On Time, I’m Lonely and I’m Too Tired to Talk

Image by Natania Barron — CC BY SA

The above lyric is from Keane’s “Can’t Stop Now” and it’s apropos for more reasons other than I just like the song. Life, in short, these days, has been nothing short of OMGWTF. I really don’t want to go into the details, ’cause honestly, this blog ain’t that sort of thing. We’re okay. We’re managing. But I hadn’t been able to write a lick in the last almost three weeks due to the insanity of life as of late but… BUT! (Oh, shit, she’s whippin’ out the caps) I wrote last night and came close enough to the middle mark in the novel that I will call it 50% finished. Close enough for rock ‘n’ roll, as they say.

Anyrot. Music has been one of the things I feel like has been keeping me going the last few weeks. I am so grateful for it. It’s been something constant in my life since I was a child. No, even before I was born; music was around me in utero. When I was less than two, I used to rest my head on my dad’s knee while he played guitar, listening to the vibrations. It really is a part of me. Something that runs in my blood. It’s a marvelous, marvelous gift.

Rock Revival has taken some curious turns in the last few weeks, including the almost death of my heroine, a visit to rehab, and a total detour in the ways of love that I hadn’t anticipated. I’m realizing that sometimes the best stories are found when I veer as sharply as possible from romance and the expected. It’s a good thing.

A bit of an excerpt, and a live version of “Can’t Stop Now” with a very sticky Tom Chaplin being very rockstar with the crowd.

James greeted me at the front door; I’d managed to avoid him entirely since I got back, sneaking late into the studio and corresponding mostly by text, and sparingly at that. He smelled like cardamom and was wearing a way too warm wool sweater that scratched my face when I hugged him. He hugged me for a long time, long enough for me to take in the smells of curry and roasting meat and hear the sound of the rest of the guests in the back of the house. It sounded like more people than just Kurt and Tom.

“Please don’t hate me for this,” James said, pulling me away and holding me out by the shoulders. “I tried to keep it intimate. But Tom’s got some ideas, and he really wanted everyone here.”

“Everyone? Please tell me this isn’t some fucked up musical version of ‘This is Your Life’…”

“No, hah. Nothing like that. Just everyone that’s, you know, part of us. This. The band.”

“Fun.”

“And it’s a dry party — so everyone will be sober.”

I blinked at him.

“Please don’t leave,” he begged.

I didn’t leave. I followed him like a dog shamed after pissing on the carpet, and saw that indeed, “everyone” was there. Kurt and Tom, of course. And Dusty. And Jeff and Ian and Clarke, our engineers in Nashville; also, Peter and Clive, our producers in the UK, Denny our agent, Ralph our head roadie, and our own personal label executive, a chick by the name of Kelly, who, in attempt to look casual, had donned a lovely J. Crew ensemble to set off her positively middle-American girl next door looks.

There were hugs and well-wishes, and some tears, but really I could see through it all. Likely Dusty got wind and wanted to use this as some kind of proof to the label folks and everyone else that we’re working with on the album that I’m not dying, or dead, or incapable of working.

The food was really good. James had my favorite Indian restaurant cater, and so we all ate way too much. There was zero alcohol to be found anywhere which, I knew, was an attempt to keep me from feeling weird but, honestly, it just made things feel stranger.

Do you ever have those moments where life just seems to turn a page? You know, it’s like you’ve just reached the end of one chapter and started a new one. Even if you’re in a familiar place it’s like you wake up, or turn around, or open a door and everything just looks slightly different. That was that night in a nutshell.

Thursday poetry, 5/7 “Delight and the Word”

To keep my brain nimble and, um, creative, I’ve decided to start a Thursday poetry tradition here. I can’t promise the poetry will be awesome, or inspiring, or even good. But once upon a time I fancied myself a bit of a bard. So, here goes.

Delight and the Word

Delight and the Word met in a fever dance
under the shadow of the ship’s mainsail–
the creak of weathered wood and the hum of the engines
played counterpoint.

When the Word’s mouth opened, all was
softness and breath, the hushed moist maw of
the Beginning and End.

But Delight was wilder and her hands were fleur de sel;
her eyes stood out like marbles of joy in her mottled face.
And it was she who began, pulling apart the Word’s
mouth with her hard, delicate fingers and pressing down
on the prow of the ship, frenzied and shaking.
Her rough fingers traced
glittering trails down the Word’s spine,
and each shuddered in turn.

Though they both felt the
wood give way beneath them, it was only the Word who
cried out–for it was then she knew that the ship was Pain.

And Pain was everything.
Delight punched through Pain’s rumbling engine,
ripped at the hoses and belts, and the Word wept
as gasoline flowed through her lips, down her throat.
Pain had come.

The Word plunged beneath the ship while Delight struggled
above, tearing Pain apart chunk by chunk;
metal and plank, rope and tattered cloth.
The Word watched with bubble eyes as
the swirl of Pain and Delight churned the waters.

The Word waited. She breathed a whirlpool
and spoke: “I am. I am. I am.”

And when Delight sank lifeless into the
depths below her, the Word loosed a single word:
Delight shattered–she refracted, diluted, dissolved into
a billion grains of sand and salt–and was whisked away.

A Tuesday short story WIP excerpt

But Alice was practically obsessed with exposing the truth and making a name for herself as a journalist, one who plunged into the deepest, darkest corners of the city to expose the maggot-ridden underbelly. She would grab opportunity by the scrotum, and direct it where she wanted to go, never relenting in her pursuit of cold, hard, facts.

Of course, first she’d write a few fluff pieces, just to get the papers interested in her work, but then she’d go for the jugular.

The instruction card was hand-written, and stamped with a government-issued seal of authenticity. Alice turned it over again in her hands and read the opening paragraph:

Congratulations on the purchase of your Waffton Wisp. This certificate ensures that you have purchased a government regulated Waffton Wisp. You are guaranteed freedom from belligerent, unwilling, or unstable Wisps. Every Wisp has been raised and screened for optimal performance and cooperation. Waffton Wisps are the preferred provider for all Tryton machinery, including, and not limited to, clockwork, factory, and home products. If you need assistance in setting up your Waffton Wisp, or have an inconvenience to report, please visit one of our locations in Manhattan.

Then, there was a diagram; hand-drawn, again. Alice flipped it over, running her fingers over the ink. It was fairly straight-forward. Tip, shake, then press the jar down into the receptacle until a low hiss is heard, then turn two times. At that point “a dull glow” would emanate from the tube, and voila! Work could commence, Wisp-wonderful.