Remember when I used to post Friday Snippets here? I used to enjoy reading what other writers were writing. Unfortunately, the meme faded out of use. But that doesn’t mean I can’t still post a snippet here.

This is the opening scene in From the Ashes of Courage (my newly released novel, which you can download free for only 2 more days), where we meet Gail and Ann and their new venture.

Gail Bishop eased open the door and basked in the newness as it washed over her. She had visited the suite only once before, when she and Ann had set it up last week, every last piece of furniture in place. Very little in the room, in fact, they had bought new. New paint, and the air still smelled of it. New, colorful posters lined the walls. A new telephone, new stapler, new office supplies. But the desks, file cabinets, office partitions they had purchased on the used market—complete with scratches in the paint and nicks on the corners—from among the many poor businesses that had been going under. The computers they had gotten off eBay and craigslist. Even in the diagnostic meeting room, set off with a closed door for privacy, their nasometer, the children’s picture books they used there, and the other specialized diagnostic equipment, almost all of it they managed to find pre-owned.

But it all felt new to Gail. And that’s what she had told Ann, but Ann didn’t seem to understand.

She had started a business only once before, and at the time it excited and sickened her. Excited her, because she had known she was accomplishing something that mattered, because she would make a happy difference for untold hundreds of children. Sickened her, because she had known she could fail.

That was then, this was now. This time the newness almost felt familiar, comfortable. But despite the fact that her future did not hold the uncertainty, it still excited her beyond mere words. Because even though she knew where to look, there was still the seeking. And in the seeking, there lived her passion.

When she had told Ann this, the sweet, sensitive blonde replied with a vacant smile, that “I know what you’re saying is a profound revelation to you, but I just don’t get it” expression. Gail appreciated her fortune in landing her as a business partner. That was new, too: Gail had never had a business partner before. Ann’s unmitigated kindness and infinite patience made her an excellent SLP, though a novice businesswoman. But Gail had confidence that she would soon get it.

“You going in? Or you just gonna stand there and admire the place?”

Gail recognized Ann’s voice from behind her. She turned and beamed at her new business partner.

“You look happy,” Ann said, smiling back politely.

She and Gail stood opposite each other like black and white, literally as well as figuratively. Gail’s curly, raven hair was always poufing out in the wrong direction; Ann’s straight, blonde hair seemed to trickle like water over her shoulders. Gail stayed inside out of the sun, because otherwise her ghost-like skin would fry up like a strip of bacon; but Ann always looked tanned. Gail looked out from behind brown eyes, and her eyebrows, though well-defined, were too straight and flat, almost like a man’s; meanwhile, Ann’s blue eyes stuck out, the most dazzling feature on her flawless face, because of the arch of her pale brows. Gail always watched calories, because they always turned her thighs into lamb shanks; Ann’s super-model figure never wavered, no matter how much or what she ate. Gail had barreled her way through school through single-mindedness and hard work, and as a result she rarely dated; in school, Ann had always had a thing going with some guy or other, and she almost never studied. And after Ann graduated with honors and passed her certification on the first try, she married a simple but genuinely attractive man, worked for a couple years, then had kids and dropped out of the workforce. Now she was looking to get started again. Gail couldn’t even imagine living a life like that.

Despite their differences, the two women had become fast friends from the moment they met in a graduate course on voice disorders. Gail didn’t understand why or how it had happened. They had said “Hello” one day, began chatting, started spending time together. And no matter how much distance came between them, physical or emotional, they remained fast friends.

So when Gail’s business in Worcester started to bore her, and she began looking for a change, she turned operations over to Clarice, her friend and manager there, and she moved back East, to team up with Ann in a new venture.

“I love this!” Gail gushed. “It’s like— Like you’re finally free.”

Ann nodded politely.

“Like nothing can hold you back. You know what I mean?”

“I know,” Ann said. “You said that before.” She was smiling, half with joy, Gail was sure, but half from how silly Gail must have seemed to her. Gail knew, because she had been there before.

Ann continued. “You looked lonely for a long time, every time I saw you. It’s good to see you this way again, like the person I remember from back in college. It’s the first time you’ve seemed happy since you moved back. You should go out more,” Ann said. “Go out and meet new people—”

Gail interrupted. “I don’t think we’ll have time for much going out, Ann. There’s too much work to do.”

Ann sighed. “Yeah, I get that. But just one night, after work. I mean, we’re not going to be working all the time, are we?”

“Pretty much,” Gail said, “at first.”

“You can’t spare time for just one date? Come on. Bob has a friend who’d love to meet you.”

Suddenly, it struck Gail what was going on. A blind date. She shook her head. “Ann,” she said. “I don’t go on blind dates. You know I don’t go on blind dates. I’ve never gone on blind dates.”

“You never go on any dates,” Ann said. “And I know you. You can make time to take a night off.”

“I don’t need a guy in my life right now,” Gail said.

“This isn’t about a relationship. It’s about having fun once in a while, so you don’t implode.”

“Well, I don’t need any fun, either.”

“He’s a nice guy.”

“Not interested,” Gail sang, walking toward her desk.

Ann followed. “His name’s Eddie. He’s good-looking, easy-going, fun to be with, and he won’t try any funny stuff, I guarantee it.”

“How do you know?” Gail asked, facing her friend across the desk.

“Well,” Ann reconsidered, “not unless you want him to.”

“This is ridiculous!” Gail was reaching the end of her patience. She sat and turned her attention to some papers on the desk. She didn’t care which papers, as long as they served as a distraction from Ann’s hassling.

“Okay, so he likes to date,” Ann said, “a lot. But he’s a gentle guy, and he won’t take advantage of you. Not unless you want to, anyhow.”

Gail leered at her.

“Sweetie,” Ann said, “you have to loosen up a little!”

Gail returned to her fake paperwork.

Ann sat on the edge of Gail’s guest chair. “I’m going to keep badgering you,” she said, grinning, “until you give in. So you might as well agree right now and save us both a lot of annoyance.”

“Why do you do this to me?” Gail said. “You did it in college—”

“I never did it while you were married,” Ann corrected her.

“I don’t want to talk about that,” Gail said. “And you’ve done it every time I’ve visited since then.”

“It’s in my nature, and you’re my friend, and I’m tired of seeing you lonely all the time.”

“You want me to have sex with a stranger.”

“I just want you to meet someone, who’s fun to be with. And he is. Have a good time. The rest is up to you.”

Gail said nothing.

“I promise,” Ann added.

Still silence.

“Please?” Ann put on a pouty expression.

Gail took a deep breath and sighed it out. “Okay. Just one date. But then will you leave me alone and let me work?”

“Yes!” Ann beamed from ear to ear.

“But,” Gail added, “I won’t promise to have fun.”

Unlike many Christian memoirs, this is not a book full of feel-good experiences. It’s not always “Praise God!” and miracles, because that’s not life. As Dad said to me:

[In another book I read] everything was blessing and miracle and miracle after miracle, in his whole book. My book, you read it, and you don’t see any miracles. You see us getting beat up and knocked down and tripping up and making mistakes, which is the greater part of life. The miracles are few and far between. Where people really live is where we were.

Preachers get in the pulpit every week: ‘Praise God, what He’s going to do.’ It’s always ‘what He’s going to do.’ You know, ‘I can see revival in the air.’ It’s always ‘revival in the air.’ It never comes. It’s always ‘in the air.’ And this book was written to say: I’m not looking ahead to what’s coming. And I’m not taking one miracle in my life and letting that be the sole testimony. We went through this, and now we want to explain this in terms of a blessing from God, in terms of true ministry, in terms of achievement and success and calling. That’s the way it was. And it doesn’t deny us the fact that we were called, that we were blessed.

And sometimes the blessings were tiny. I didn’t win the lottery. Someone didn’t come to me and give me a brand new car when mine broke down. But the real blessings were, I played football with you boys across the road in Burgettstown. Or we played hide and seek in the woods. That’s life. And you lose the little things, because you’re looking for the big things.

-TimK

I owe it to you to record the final events of our ministry in the Norwood church. This is not sour grapes but a piece of personal history with which we need to be reconciled. I have said my goodbyes and am okay with what happened. Denying it or projecting blame is not an option here. So to the best of my recollection here is the short of it.

October 16, 1988, a meeting was called with district and church officers in attendance. I had received a registered letter requiring my presence, and thinking it had something to do with money, I cut a check for the district which I handed to the district treasurer just before commenting that now we can all go home. Make a mental note of my “smart” attitude. It would show up now and then when I was convinced that I had the right of way. The treasurer wasn’t impressed. He told me it was more serious than that.

It turned out that some national and district officers had met the week before to discuss the agenda, and this meeting was well organized. It had little to do with money. The short of it was they had an interest in my theology regarding the possible loss of salvation —the Calvinist-Wesleyan controversy, which I mentioned already. I understood later from another national official, who was not at the October 16 meeting, that if they could have shown that my theology had changed from what it was when I became the pastor, they would have had grounds for dismissal.

I was put on a 90-day disciplinary leave of absence, which carried little to no meaning in the scheme of things, as it turned out. Ninety days later, I spoke with a church official, who told me that I had been fired. Later, he denied this. Go figure.

What happened next is the next chapter in our adventure, but what might be worth mentioning here is my meeting with CCNA officers at the motel where I took employment after I left the payroll of the Norwood church.

National and district officials met with me on December 7, 1988 at the Howard Johnson’s Motel. The meeting was probably uneventful. Actually I doubt that it was worth their time, unless the executive board was simply inquiring about our departure from Norwood. The only question I recall is one of accountability. My response was that we are all accountable to each other. It is a fellowship, not a hierarchy where the person at the top has no one to police his actions —another one of my smart remarks aimed at the general overseer, to let him know that in my mind he too needed to be policed. After the meeting the general overseer sought out an audience with me in private, wondering if he had done anything to offend me. I told him there was nothing that I could think of, not knowing at the time about the meeting he had attended to draft the agenda for October the 16th.

Messy? Messy. But it did happen that way, and I would be careful finding people to blame. I know I seem to be pointing at the top CCNA leadership, but in all honesty I could not then nor now be sure of who took what responsibility. Since then, I have been reconciled with a number of principal players in this mini-drama.

For now, it was time to move on.

Today, if I could do it all over again, would I react or act in the same fashion? I would probably fight to keep my pulpit, by guaranteeing an audience with the Vice President of the organization. He was not called in, because he was not part of the plan to discipline me. If he would have advised my staying, I would have stayed.

And if I stayed, I would have taken this issue before the people. They had a right to know and—God knows—the grapevine was not silent. Certain board members would probably have been asked to leave the board. This would be difficult for me to recommend, since I have believed in the general goodness of Christians and still like the idea of forgiveness as a working principal in relationships.

I say this because I believe it is Scripturally the best approach in defense of the gospel message and the spiritual interest of the congregation. Attacking a pastor without cause is attacking the pastorate as a principal of Biblical leadership, and it is very wrong.

They felt they had cause. I give them that.

Let’s move on.

I’m glad Dad wrote them down before he ran out of time.

Letting our children in on the bad times of our lives requires vulnerability. And that’s what I saw most reading my dad’s memoir, vulnerability. He told me that of all the people he mentions in the memoir, no one really comes out looking bad, except for him. After reading it, I agree. But as a writer, let me tell you, vulnerability is where passion and poignancy come from.

And I’m thinking now that maybe it’s also where wisdom comes from. What if you had to reach down into your soul and explain to your kids why you quit your job to pursue your dream? Or why you work at a job that keeps you away from them? I’m not saying that either A or B is the right or wrong choice. I’m only asking: What if I had to reach down deep into my soul and explain my choices to my kids? What wisdom would I end up imparting to them?

I’m not sure I know the answers. But I do know, I’m glad my dad imparted that wisdom to me before he ran out of time, because it’s at least nice to know that he didn’t know what he was doing back then any better than I do now.

About three weeks later I brought mom and Tim back into Butler. I left Buffalo simply because I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t think that was where we were supposed to be living. I came to Butler to teach Greek, so I was determined to try again. We rolled into town in a car packed with blankets, towels, clothes, and some kitchen stuff, everything we owned. When we came down route 422, I had a terrible headache, no clue where to live, and no money. I drove through Butler and headed south on Route 8, when we saw a little rather run-down looking motel, a dozen or so apartments in a row, plain-looking on the outside, and on the inside one-room with a double bed, a TV set with rabbit ears that didn’t work well, a shower, and a little kitchen area with a small stove and refrigerator.

The manager of the motel would let us go week to week for the rent. We paid 25 dollars at the end of each week. I made a phone call to Sarver, my old boss and he, taking sympathy, lined up a couple inside paint jobs that paid the rent week after week until an apartment in Lyndora opened up for us. In natural terms, the only good thing was that spring was just around the corner.

I was too wrapped up in my own challenges to realize that I had left my young wife of 3 years and my two-year-old with nothing to do day after day, except maybe worry about what brilliant idea I would dream up next. No wonder at all that she didn’t have that much to say to me. About all I had were mini-messages on faith and trust, and they might not have been working for me, but trust was what I was learning. I wasn’t sure why we were in this situation. Did God have any real thing to do with it? Was this totally my own doing or undoing?

Regardless, our ship didn’t sink. We took in some water, but I was too busy bailing to think of much else. Every phone call from McElheny, my boss, was one more phone call that gave us one more week’s rent and groceries. Meanwhile, I was in communication with the school, and they promised us soon that a rent-free two rooms would open up at the school itself in Lyndora.

So we moved to Lyndora. We took two back rooms at the school, connected directly to two classrooms. Mom had to keep Tim quiet to avoid disturbing the students. Fun life! Going from kitchen to bedroom reading books, playing with toys, whatever, while waiting for classes to end so they could get out of this human cage.

When classes ended for the day, we could use the shower in the basement. The water source came from a pipe protruding five-plus feet off the ground from the wall. There was plenty of shivering while I, dripping wet, ran upstairs to get dressed.

One might say that the three weeks at the motel was in preparation for this step up. One might say so, if one wants to get slapped. There was no way to clean up the mess, unless it were to become clear to both of us that God was directing us, not just bailing us out of our self-made prison.

Honesty is good. Fake humility or fake praise, even toward God, benefits no one. I didn’t want to tidy up what was turning into a real mess, but I also fault no one. The benefit of reflecting on the hard times is two-fold. Learn from it to avoid the stupid parts in the future, and learn to empathize with those who made the journey with you and may not have found it to be so wonderful. As I relate this, I am beginning not to like me. But my only mistake was jumping out of the frying pan. Who knew?

There had to be some good times, right? Yes, of course. We made some life-long friendships with the Thompsons and the Davises. Denny and Amy Thompson and Gary and Jan Davis were students, and they had their own problems – or “faith walk” as we called it. We learned to join them for a time to reflect on reality, to pray together, and just to laugh over a game of Trouble. Who chose that one, I wonder.

The best thing was learning to trust God. When someone now enters my life who is fearful that things are not going to work out favorably, they get no sympathy from me. Empathy, yes, because Mom and I were there. Sympathy, no, because it is impossible for me to think that God might ignore the plight of someone who is trusting in Him to do something. I kept thinking of Isaiah 43. Sorry for the mini-sermon, but when you’ve run the rapids, still water is a splash.

What reminded me was when my computer alarm went off this morning, reminding me to post a friday snippet today. So with my sincere apologies, here’s the final-draft version of that draft-0 snippet.

This is the result a new writing method I’m trying, similar to Lazette Gifford’s Phase System or Randy Ingermanson’s Snowflake Method. It’s part of an Agile Storytelling methodology, specifically a method probably best called “Iterative Story Design.” The idea is that you go through the entire story design cycle multiple times, designing the story in layers, as it were, each layer providing more detailed story aspects than the previous one.

The “draft 0″ from two weeks ago was actually a second revision of the Spike Story, that is, a story that includes all the elements of the final version, but from a distance. The Spike Story tells, rather than shows, and writing one allows you to work out the entire flow of the story, including character and plot points, without investing too much time with details. This means you’ll have to do less rewriting afterward. It also means than you can go faster when you do write those details, and get stuck less often.

What I found is that I did get stuck less often on concept, but I still did get stuck sometimes on implementation. That is, I knew what I wanted to show (because I had already told it), but I needed to figure out how to show it. I also noticed that indeed by the time I was creating the final draft, the story itself required almost no revision. That revision consisted totally of line editing, and changes to the story (as it were) consisted of minor additions, taking advantage of opportunities that I had missed in the first draft. There was absolutely no rearranging or rethinking of the story line, because it had already been proven.

So here’s what I came up with (only the part of the final draft that corresponds to the snippet from two weeks ago).

-TimK

WARNING: This snippet is for adults only. And even if you are an adult, some of the descriptions may make you want to throw up.

The Rape of Lucretia by Titian Prints available from Art.com

As I first gazed upon her, the blood rushed from my face, my fingers trembled, my lungs refused to breath, my heart refused to pump. Pity overwhelmed me, then disgust, then anger, then sadness. I could have sworn I smelled vinegar, although I don’t know where the smell would have come from. I closed my eyes, to give them a respite, but that only burned the image on the inside of my eyelids.

I had been familiar with cases of violent rape. Hell, they were why I volunteered as a victim’s advocate, because I needed to feel I was doing something to help. I saw women come into the hospital with bloody mouths, black eyes, missing teeth, fist-sized bruises, concussions, broken bones… I’d seen it all, or at least I thought I had. The worst case I had ever seen was a girl of 14 they had carried in on a stretcher. A clump of her hair had been torn out; two of her fingers had been broken; and her right hip had been forcibly dislocated. And I won’t even try to describe the sexual violence she had suffered, or the injury to her psyche. I had nightmares for a week. But somehow I got through it, stronger for the experience. After that, I thought I could handle anything. So when they asked me to talk to a Clydene Jackson, after her condition had stabilized, I had not sufficiently prepared myself for the shock.

They called me during breakfast, the day after Valentine’s Day, 2006, and asked if I could come down to the hospital for a special case. Once there, I met with the doctor and a police detective. We stood around the nurse’s station. Dr. Ilic, an athletic woman with medium-length, black hair and a sharply defined chin, reminded me a little of my mother. I missed my mother. But the doctor spoke in an exotic accent I couldn’t quite put my finger on. The police detective was a brusque, grizzled, old codger, who wore a suit and tie. It seemed like there were other things he’d rather be doing than talking to me, but such was his job. They filled me in on the situation.

When Clydene had come in late the previous night, she was in pretty bad shape. She had malignant hyperthermia from the anesthesia her attacker had used to knock her out. A friend of mine once almost died from MH, on the operating table, and she would have died if her anesthetist hadn’t known what he was doing. Clydene would have died, too, if they hadn’t gotten to her in time and if Dr. Ilic had not recognized the symptoms and known what to do.

The “perp” in this case, the detective explained, had gotten a hold of a stash of hospital anesthetic—they were still tracing the source. The guy claimed that he used it because it was safer than the street alternatives, and he didn’t want his victims to get hurt. I shook my head in wonder, not that I hadn’t heard similar stories in the past. The criminal mind will probably always puzzle me.

Anyways, this guy had done this before—no surprise, because they usually have. Apparently, his attacks had gotten gradually more brutal and more daring—also no surprise, because that also fits the profile of a serial rapist. He was also a bit narcissistic, as if he wanted to get caught. Until they finally did catch him, red-handed at the scene with a belt in one hand and his victim in the other. When they found her, she was in no condition to fight back, even if she had not been tied to that chair.

I swallowed, hard.

“Can you handle this?” the doctor asked.

I nodded casually at her. “Yeah,” I said. “No problem.” I lied, not because I needed her to believe me, but because I myself needed to believe I could handle it.

“So, we still need a rape kit and her statement,” the detective said.

“Okay.” I breathed. “Is there anything else I should know.”

“Just that her husband is in there with her now,” Dr. Ilic said. “His name’s Ted. And I don’t think he’s taking it very well. He’s been sitting in there all night.”

“Yeah,” agreed the detective, nodding. “He may be having regrets. Just get him to see that he didn’t do anything wrong.”

I had run across similar situations before, both as a victim’s advocate and in my practice as a mental health counselor. Loved ones can blame themselves for what happened, even if it was completely out of their control. After they get over the shock of the event itself, they go on an emotional roller coaster ride that can take them through nostalgia, regret, self-blame, and depression. The danger is that they’ll never get off the roller coaster. And while they’re on the roller coaster, they tend to make poor choices. That could really complicate the situation here, I knew, where Ted was going to have to do things for Clydene that he might not want to do. I also knew he might think me the bad guy, because my primary job was to stick up for Clydene. I hated to be the bad guy.

I quietly pushed open the door to her room and peered inside. The first thing I noticed about Clydene was her face. It was almost recognizably human. Her face was striped with welts and cuts. Her tight, red curls were matted and splotched with blood. Her left eye was covered with a large bruise, which stretched from her cheek across the bridge of her nose. She wore a hospital gown, and welts sketched an irregular pattern from her cheeks down her neck and past where I could see. A similar pattern of welts and cuts traced her arms, from her hands into the tunnels of her sleeves.

Ted had pulled a chair to the far side of her bed, next to the window, and there he sat, longing after her with love and tenderness. That was the first impression I had of him, and first impressions count. And I’m sure of that impression. Love was clearly what it was. Otherwise, why would he have been there, sitting patiently next to her side? Whatever else he was feeling, he clearly loved her, wretchedly, desperately loved her, lost-without-her loved her. You could see it in his eyes, if you had been there.

He reached out and caressed her hand, not where it was sore and bruised, but along the back of her thumb, slowly, gently. Still asleep, she yanked her hand away. Ted seemed taken aback.

“She may not want you to touch her for awhile,” I said, as matter-of-factly as I could.

He regarded me suspiciously.

I added, “But she still needs you.” He had been through a traumatic experience of his own, and he needed to know she was not rejecting him.

“And who are you?” He glared at me, annoyed.

“I’m from the Sexual Assault Crisis Center,” I answered.

“You have an answer to this crisis?” Ted stood as he said it. He towered over me, still glaring, now with anger.

I instantly sized him up, saw it in his face. He felt guilt, maybe even shame. He blamed himself for some part of what happened, and he would probably blame himself for whatever happened from here on out. Even more, he seemed to be the type who needed to maintain the illusion of being in charge. He was top dog, and he wasn’t about to give up that spot voluntarily. The situation was already out of his control, which must have enraged him. And I might need to take what little control he had left away from him, because part of my job was to make sure no one, not the police, not the doctors, nor even he, bullied Clyde into a doing something she didn’t want.

His question was more anger than query. Do I have an answer to this crisis? All I could do was to tell the truth and to level with him as best I could. But I also needed to stand up to him, to retain my own authority.

“No, I don’t,” I replied, again as matter-of-factly as I could.

I had been in situations like this before, but they always made me ill. I did my best to hide that I felt anything but confidence. I absolutely hate being the bad guy.

“So why are you here?” A challenge.

I explained it to him, again as matter-of-factly as I could, without returning his anger, but also without ceding ground. I could see that he loved his wife dearly. That’s where his sympathies lay. And that’s what I focused on, what she will probably feel, what she will need.

“Because when she wakes up,” I said, “she’s going to think this was her fault, and she’s going to be as angry at herself as you are at yourself.”

He stared at me, not in anger now, but in bewilderment. He probably had never considered that Clydene would blame herself. Why would she? He probably couldn’t fathom it, even now. He probably thought she would blame him, just as he did. We all tend to project onto others the feelings we feel about ourselves.

“You wouldn’t think it,” I said, now more tenderly. “But believe it or not, that’s the most likely outcome, that Clydene will think it’s her fault.”

He shook his head. “It’s not her fault.” He sat back down.

“Who’s fault is it?” I heard myself ask. I’m not sure why I asked the question. We both already knew the correct answer. It was the fault of the rapist. But I also knew the answer Ted—I was sure—believed, deep in his heart, that it was his fault. At least I knew, if I were in his situation, I would be searching for reasons to blame myself. I had even been there, having suffered loss in my life, knowing all the reasons why it was my fault. But I didn’t want to think about that just then.

He finally answered me. “I don’t know you well enough to answer that question, Miss—“

“Miss Jayson.” I introduced myself. “But please call me Mira.” I stepped up and offered my hand for him to shake.

He didn’t take my hand, but he looked like he wanted to say something. Before he could, Clydene groaned. She began to roll onto her side, but then she stopped and whimpered, “No.” Her eyes were still closed, and I thought that she must have been dreaming.

So I thought I’d try something similar to Lazette Gifford’s Phase System, which she wrote about several years ago. This is something I call “Agile Storytelling.” Basically, I write out a zeroth draft, which tells the entire story, but in a broad, abbreviated style. I pretend like I don’t know how to write. I tell, don’t show. The result reads like crap, but in order to complete this zeroth draft, I do need to go deep into the plot and the characters. That allows me to solve all the conceptual problems quickly, without spending too much time fleshing out details that I’ll just need to revise later.

After that, I edit the zeroth draft in order to create a first draft. I add in all the details and descriptions. I show, don’t tell. I create something I would not be completely embarrassed to be seen in public with.

Today, I thought I’d show you something I normally would not reveal, part of a zeroth draft for a short story, one of the bonus extras in The Conscience of Abe’s Turn book. Next week, I’ll post the first-draft version.

-TimK

P.S. Please remember that the following reads like crap. I know it reads like crap. I omitted a lot of necessary detail and description. (I also included a bunch of details that had already been established through other stories, because those need to be retained in order for the series to make sense.)

The Rape of Lucretia by Titian Prints available from Art.com

I had seen a lot of violent abuse and battery as a sexual assault victim’s advocate, but only one other case that even approached the brutality of Clydene’s.

They told me that had arrested the perp, and that he wasn’t going anywhere soon (whatever that meant), but that they still needed a rape kit and her statement. They also told me that she was unconscious, recovering in her hospital bed.

They warned me that her husband was sitting with her in the room, and they didn’t trust his current mental state, so be careful. I’m a trained and licensed mental health counselor, so I thought I could handle myself.

I quietly entered the room. Ted touched her thumb, but she yanked it away in her sleep. Immediately, I felt a deep sympathy for her, but I knew I needed to be professional about it, or else I would not be able to be an effective advocate for the two.

“She may not want you to touch her for awhile,” I said, as matter-of-factly as I could.

He regarded me suspiciously, as if to say, “Who are you, to tell me about my wife?”

I added, “But she still needs you.” Didn’t know how he would respond, but wanted him to know she was not rejecting him.

“And who are you?” Ted asked, annoyed.

“I’m from the Sexual Assault Crisis Center,” I answered.

“You have an answer to this crisis?” Ted stood, towering over me. I instantly sized him up, saw it in his face. The situation was out of his control, and he couldn’t stand it.

“No, I don’t,” I replied, again as matter-of-factly as I could. [Explain why.]

“So why are you here?” I could see the emotion churning through his soul: anger, regret, guilt. I didn’t know the full situation, but he clearly felt victimized as well as she, a common response.

So I explained it to him: “Because when she wakes up, she’s going to think this was her fault, and she’s going to be as angry at herself as you are at yourself.”

He stared at me, closed up, probably couldn’t believe what I was saying was true, probably thought she would blame him, as he does.

“You wouldn’t think it, but believe it or not, that’s the most likely outcome, that Clydene will think it’s her fault.”

He shook his head. “It’s not her fault.” He sat back down.

“Who’s fault is it?” Of course, I knew the answer. It was the fault of the man who had done this. But he—I was sure—believed it was his fault, was currently finding, searching for reasons why it was his fault. Even I couldn’t know what all the reasons were.

“I don’t know you well enough to answer that question, Miss—“ Gotta be in control. Can’t feel vulnerable. Makes sense. But maybe he at least answered the question within his own mind.

I went with it, introduced myself. “Miss Jayson. But please call me Mira.” I stepped over to him and offered my hand for him to shake.

He looked like he wanted to say something, but before he could, Clydene groaned. She began to roll onto her side, but then she stopped and whimpered, “No.”

Note that I’m going to be giving away a limited number of copies of the book. But if you want one, you need to pre-register now!

Enjoy!
-TimK

P.S. WARNING: The following snippet contains gratuitous profanity. Not much of it, but a little. I generally hate gratuitous profanity. But In the spirit of Penn & Teller: Bullshit!, I use strong language and dirty-name-calling, because I want to say what I really think without being sued. Because if you call someone a liar or a philanderer, he can sue you, even if it’s true. But if you call him a d***head jerk, that’s just your opinion, and it’s protected free speech.

May I Feel Your Pain?

I tell people, I miss Bill Clinton. I mean, yeah, people accused him of being a liar and a philanderer and a cheat, and he certainly was a dickhead and a jerk and—worst of all—a politician. But despite all that, Bill Clinton was so much fun to laugh at:

I did not have sexual relations with that woman… I never told anybody to lie, not a single time, never. These allegations are false. And I need to go back to work for the American people.

Years later, that speech is still being posted to YouTube. And it still sets me rolling on the floor, laughing! I firmly believe that G.W. Bush would make a better president, if only he had one good intern.

And the laughs continue. Even James Bovard’s scathing treatise on Clinton-era government abuses, Feeling Your Pain: The Explosion and Abuse of Government Power in the Clinton-Gore Years, makes me guffaw. And not all the humor, I think, Bovard intended.

“Pet Pork Politics,” Linda Braucht
Prints available at Art.com

But Bovard ruins all the humor and starts talking about Waco, Ruby Ridge, Columbine, the Brady Act, Kosovo, Bosnia, Yugoslavia, the CDA (shot down by the Supreme Court), the Clipper Chip (and Clipper II, and Clipper III), Echelon, Waldemar and Loretta Watzlaff, Anna Ward, Ralph Garrison (may he rest in peace), Mario Paz (may he rest in peace), Willy Heard (may he rest in peace), Ismeal Mena (may he rest in peace)… and Bovard doesn’t even get to the COPA (a.k.a. the CDA II, recently ruled unconstitutional yet again, still being battled in the courts via “ACLU v. Reno II”—How’s that for a legacy?), the DMCA (which led to the arrest of Dmitry Sklyarov, later acquitted), Steve Jackson Games v. the Secret Service (which began during the preceding Bush years), the Amateur Action BBS raids (also crossing administrations), the Pensacola BBS raids, the Wiretap Bill, Jake Baker, Randal Schwartz (not federal, but during Clinton-Gore), Daniel Bernstein, Peter McWilliams (who finally died in 2000)…

The Bridge to the 21^st Century.

Of all these names, events, programs, and laws, you probably recognize only a portion. For every stupid and despicable thing our government does with our tax money that you’ve heard about, there are dozens that you probably haven’t.

Clinton was well out of office before I even made a first cut at The Conscience of Abe’s Turn, but I can’t help think that these events shaped the primordial inspiration for the story.

The bullshit continued after Clinton, of course. The federal government thugs’ no-knock, midnight raid against Elian Gonzalez. The USA PATRIOT Act. Osama bin Laden. Afghanistan. Iraq. Off-shore torture. Habeas corpus.

But Bush hasn’t provided the comedic folly of the Clinton years. Let’s face it: National paranoia and U.S. bombings and arrest and torture just aren’t funny. Even Hawkeye never joked about them, just about the incompetence that caused them. And I find myself unable to bring myself even to that. How does one put a funny face on pure evil? 

(It becomes Batman’s Joker, that’s how.) 

And then dissent became “unpatriotic” and even effectively illegal in some settings. 

And so I faded from politics. I just couldn’t handle it anymore. My problem is that I’m not a politician. I don’t have that psychopathy gene that allows one to stand passionately on a subject and not really mean it, to violently change millions of personal lives without regret because it’s just part of the job, to denigrate one’s opponents and then figure it’s just politics. My problem is that I actually care. 

My spirit prevented me from following Bush’s follies the same way I did Clinton’s, because I needed the light absurdity to distract me from the utter seriousness of it all, the fact that some innocent people do indeed get caught in the pitiless gears of the government machine. 

However, Abe’s Turn provides an outlet for my disapproval, my sadness, and my fears. It provides an outlet for my disapproval, because I get to say, in the voices of my characters, what I really think about the police state. It provides an outlet for my sadness, because these characters feel the same sadness. And it provides an outlet for my fears, because anyone who has been following police-loophole bullshit legislation over the past 20 years, the villain of Abe’s Turn, Sam Baedes, does and will commit the same abuses, if he deems it necessary to “maintain order.” Still I will resist employing Michael’s sardonic pun. I will not call him “Beady-eyes.”

Moreover—perhaps more importantly—Abe’s Turn provides hope. It says, maybe the good guys can win. True, the story of Abe’s Turn is implausible, impractical fiction. So what? I’m sick and tired of popular stories in which we the proletariat are forever doomed to a life of subservience to the political will. I need hope, even if a vain hope.

Abe’s Turn enables me to expose myself to politics again. In recent weeks, I’ve even found that I like it again, that I can even stand reading about Bush’s wars, and I am able to feel wretched sickness, hot anger, despondent sadness, and still not be driven to insanity by it.

During the Clinton years, I discovered Harry Browne, running for president on the Libertarian Party ticket. Harry Browne didn’t get to see liberty in his lifetime, even though he believed in it. But I don’t want that hope to die. Hence, The Conscience of Abe’s Turn.

Getting back into the groove after months of furious editing. Don’t worry; I’ve learned a lot from the experience, and it’ll go much faster next time. (At least that’s the plan.)

Just putting the finishing touches on The Conscience of Abe’s Turn. Already posted the ARC version of the text. Now, I’m finishing up the extra chapters.

So I thought I might post something unusual for a Friday Snippet, the Preface, one of those extra chapters that everybody seems to skip, but which sometimes can be interesting and informative. (Whether my Preface is interesting and informative is yet to be seen.)

Enjoy!
-TimK

I knew I was onto something when I started getting angry, disparaging emails. “Beyond improbable.” “Pointless crap!” From someone I’d never met. This person actually read a few chapters—I checked—and was so incensed, went through the trouble to send me an email. 

A scathing, negative review: Abe’s Turn is beyond-improbable, pointless crap. That’s my paraphrase, of course. As everybody knows (or so I’m told), cops and other government agents never trump up charges, never get the wrong end of the stick, never arrest the wrong guy, never take bribes, and never let their prejudices or personal feelings interfere with justice. And even if they did, they would never get away with it. And that is why (or so I’m told) law-abiding citizens like you and me never need to defend themselves. And by the way, drug laws are good for America.

Meanwhile, everything you see on TV actually could happen, especially the stuff in dramas like Alias, Boston Legal, and Lost. Not to mention everything you read in the daily newspaper.

Abe’s Turn actually has a modest premise. The story’s premise can’t be the real reason for such vitriol. But this story says something. And throughout history, stories that say something have been those lambasted, denounced, and banned. Stories that say things both in the themes they address and in their portrayal of those themes. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Uncle Tom’s Cabin. The Color Purple. The Diary of a Young Girl (Anne Frank). Brave New World. Nineteen Eighty-Four. Slaughterhouse-Five. The Martian Chronicles. The Catcher in the Rye. Lord of the Flies. The Lorax (by Dr. Seuss). Heather Has Two Mommies. Death of a Salesman. Of Mice and Men. Ulysses. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. All of these have been banned somewhere in the United States. The Harry Potter books have been the most attacked of the 21’st century.

This first volume of Abe’s Turn is the culmination of a decade of change. Its story brings together ideas from government politics, libertarian ideology, romance fiction, and Internet technology. I noted before that the story “says something.” It says that if you give someone enough power, no matter how good a person that someone appears to be, he will abuse it. I talk more about the inspiration and motivation behind Abe’s Turn in “Whatever Happened to Zorro?” a retrospective essay in the “Bonus Extras” section of this book. For now, the basic premise behind the story is summed up in two points: (1) Government officials have power. (2) Government officials are only human, just like the rest of us.

But Abe’s Turn is more than just its story, because this story as I envisioned it could not be told within the confines of the traditional novel. Rather, it’s an epic story made up of a series of smaller ones, because that reflects life. Just as none of us is converted by any single chapter, just as each of us is the culmination of all the stories he has lived, the story of the Conscience of Abe’s Turn is a series of challenges, triumphs, and failures.

This story will, if all goes well, span 24 episodes over 3 years, 3 seasons, like the seasons of a television program, each season of Abe’s Turn consisting of 8 novelette-length episodes. This volume contains only the first 4 of those episodes, the first half-season. The first of these seasons (the first 8 episodes) is entitled “The Birth of the Conscience,” because it is the story of how the Conscience of Abe’s Turn came into being.

By way of acknowledgment, I must thank my parents, my wife, and the rest of my family for their encouragement. More specifically: my father, who by writing his own book of memoirs unwittingly coaxed me to finish mine; my wife, who bore with me through months of reduced income, so that I could slog through innumerable hours of writing, editing, and marketing, instead of billing those hours to paying clients, the curse of the first-novelist; my mother, who joined my father and daughters in incessantly bugging me for news on “my novel,” thereby forcing me to keep working on it, so that I would have some news to share. 

Then there is Holly Lisle, a wonderful fantasy-romance author, who through her writing books, advice, and personal encouragement filled with been-there-done-that wisdom has done more for my writing than anyone else on Earth. And Perry Marshall, a shrewd and practical marketing consultant, who—unbeknown to him—with his newsletter and emails managed to convince me that this project is worth trying (even if it ultimately fails), that my passion is worth pursuing, and that I am worth every dollar I earn. 

I also owe a debt of gratitude to the late Harry Browne, who at the age of 61 decided to run for president of the United States on the Libertarian Party ticket. Whatever the merits of this quixotic quest, without his authentic, straightforward, reasoned, honorable, peaceable case for liberty, during my own time of inner political turmoil, I perhaps still would not know where I stand or what I believe in. 

Many others: The numerous writers who have read snippets of Abe’s Turn and have reassured me that it does have its good parts. All my friends who promised to “buy a copy” of this book, even after I warned them what it’s about. Tom Metro, one of my oldest friends and colleagues, who patiently listened while I droned on about writing and marketing and the book industry, and who picked up the slack when I couldn’t put in the hours on our shared software-development projects. Regular acquaintances from church and from synagogue, who when I said I was “a writer,” took me seriously, even though I couldn’t.

I must, however, emphasize that despite the support, advice, and encouragement I have received, I am solely responsible for everything in this book. The people I acknowledge above had nothing to do with it. Yes, they provided me love and inspiration. But if I am in the wrong, I—and only I—chose to corrupt that love and inspiration. If I am a demented, disturbed man, be assured that my parents raised me in a upright, loving home. If my characters are unlovable, be assured that my wife and children do love me. If my prose falls flat, be assured that Holly Lisle wrote not even a syllable of it. If this project turns out to be a business failure, be assured that I did not actually follow all of Perry Marshall’s advice. And if my politics seem reprehensible, be assured that I will never be able to explain them as well Harry Browne did. 

I still teeter on the edge of believing whether writer’s block even exists. On the one hand, it is truly all in your mind, and simply reorienting your thoughts will overcome it. On the other hand, overcoming it is frequently an enthusing experience, like an adrenaline rush. My latest theory is that writer’s block is one of the ways your muse tells you to reorient your thought process, because once you do, you’ll experience that rush of satisfaction.

Anyhow, I was having a huge problem with this plot thread. But when it finally all came together, and I put it down on the page… I’m still reeling from this scene. Yes, when I go back to edit it, I may decide it’s not as good as I thought it was. But for now…

This scene connects with the previous snippet in which Clyde advises Mira caution in her feelings about Ike.

-TimK

Mira lowered herself onto her chair, as Ike held it, brushing the back of her little black dress forward as she sat. The air smelled of garlic and Parmesan cheese. And candlelight cast flickering shadows on the white tablecloth and ceramic dishes. Ike sat across from her, modern gray suit, peach shirt, red-orange striped silk tie. A waiter named Giovanni arrived, asking if they would like to start with some wine or an appetizer.

“Have you ever had escargot?” Ike asked.

“No.” Mira was mildly amused. She didn’t actually believe the common wisdom that snails were an aphrodisiac, but she felt feisty and enjoyed playing along.

Ike grinned handsomely. “Do you trust me?”

Mira grinned back. “Implicitly,” she said, as seductively as she could muster.

Ike turned to the waiter. “Please bring us escargot for two, and a bottle of Pinot Noir.”

Mira was worried about the bill. Who was bankrolling this fancy dinner? Was Ike suddenly irresponsible with money? Or did he have an unknown source of cash? Oh my God! Mira thought. I hope he didn’t steal it.

She spoke up. “I, uh, don’t want to spoil the mood.”

“Okay,” Ike said. “So don’t, then.”

Mira sighed. “Where are you getting the money to pay for this?” She opened her hands as if to wrap them around the table.

“I have a job,” Ike said, clearly upset.

“Yeah, I know.” Mira began to feel a tightness in her chest. “I just meant… This is really extravagant. Are you sure it’s alright?” Her countenance reflected her distress.

Ike’s expression relaxed. “Yes, it’s fine. It’s a special occasion with a special woman. I’ve got it covered.” Then he added, “Trust me. You said you did, right?”

“Yes,” Mira agreed. “Okay, but just promise me you haven’t done anything that will get you into trouble.”

“I promise,” he replied sweetly.

The wine was smooth, earthy, and full. The escargot tasted like garlic-and-butter gummy worms. Mira gathered, that was how snails were supposed to taste, at least when they were cooked in garlic and butter. For an entrée, they each had the Chicken Parmesan with ziti. They talked about table manners, people who annoy you, embarrassing episodes from their pasts, and anything else that could deepen Mira’s feelings without forcing her to talk about Ike’s. Mira told herself that she didn’t want to plunge right into it anyhow, even though she had promised herself that before the night was over, she would ask him how he really felt.

Clyde had elicited that promise from her. Mira needed to promise to ask, because she was terrified of the answer. She was terrified that Ike would see in her eyes how deeply he had won her, and that he would freak out and bolt. She was terrified that he might say they were just having fun and that they shouldn’t get too attached. She was afraid that if she didn’t ask, he would later decide they were “just having fun,” and she would get hurt. She had been here before. She had been here before with Ike himself, though he didn’t know it.

Mira was terrified, so she put off the uncomfortable subject as long as she could. But by the time they were each sipping a cappuccino and sharing a tiramisù, Mira knew she needed to address the issue. She had promised herself as much. More importantly, she had promised Clydene, her best friend and confidant. Which was worse? To face Ike and find out early the unpleasant news, that they were not going to have a relationship? Or to face Clyde and tell her that she decided to let Ike tear her heart out, and that it was her own fault? Ike she had known for months, but Clyde had been a close friend for years. And while in most people familiarity breeds contempt, in Mira’s heart, the bonds of intimate friendship always won out over a new love, no matter how intense.

“Something wrong with the tiramisù?” Ike interrupted her thoughts, and Mira suddenly realized she had been daydreaming.

“No, everything’s wonderful.” She forced herself to smile.

“You look sad,” Ike said.

“I’m sorry. I just–” Mira searched for the words to say next.

“You wish it didn’t have to end?” Ike gazed hopefully.

“Yes, kind of, but–”

“It doesn’t have to end,” Ike said. He reached across the table and caressed the back of Mira’s hand with his fingers.

“Do you love me?” Mira blurted, suddenly overcome.

If Mira didn’t have Ike’s full attention, she had it now. He pulled his hand back, and a look of dismay covered his face.

“I’m sorry,” Mira said. “I shouldn’t have… Forget it.”

Ike said, “I like you, Mira. I like you a lot. I want to spend time with you. I–” He paused. “I don’t know if–”

“That’s okay,” Mira said. “I get it.” She could feel her face burning red. She began to stand.

“Wait,” Ike said, and touched her hand again. “Please.”

His cavernous eyes pleaded with her.

Ike continued. “Can’t we take it slow? Just get to know each other? At least for a short while? It’s important to me.”

Mira could see that he was sincere, desperate even.

“I– I’m afraid,” Mira admitted.

Ike considered this. “Is that why you were so upset about kissing me yesterday?”

Mira nodded.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.

“I know.” But that didn’t change anything.

“At least let me drive you home.”

Mira hesitated. But then she looked into his desperate eyes, and she finally consented.

Ike paid the bill, helped Mira on with her coat, walked her out to his car, opened the passenger’s door for her. He placed his hand on her upper back as she was about to step into the car.

She stopped, felt the pressure of his hand through her coat. His touch. A simple touch. How could such a simple thing evoke such powerful emotions? Mira felt her eyes begin to well up.

Ike wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to his chest. She tried to push away, because she was afraid. But he tenderly shushed her, caressed her hair. She could feel him weeping, deep inside his chest.

“If you only knew, Mira, how much I do love you,” he said. Then he whispered, “But I’m trouble, I’ve always been trouble. You don’t want to be with me.” He was crying. “You should leave, just leave, and save yourself.”

But Mira could not.

Other Friday Snippets

The way Friday Snippets works is that fiction authors can leave a link to their own snippet on others’ blog posts that are part of the meme. Many of the participating writers are using one of Mister Linky’s Autolink Widgets to streamline this process. See “Friday Snippets” at Holly Lisle’s blog for more information.

After the premier tonight, I’ll probably have more unsympathetic comments about critics. I’m also hoping for more anecdotes I can use in an e-newsletter article I’m writing about negative (and positive) reviews. (It’s partially written, but I need to finish it and clean it up.)

UPDATE: Here’s my own review of The Return of Jezebel James, which I truly enjoyed. And yes, I do have some more unsympathetic comments about critics.

Here’s a snippet from the next chapter of Abe’s Turn. (BTW, check out the book cover.) This connects with the previous snippet in which Clyde advises Mira caution in her feelings about Ike.

Cheers,
-TimK

At the sound of the doorbell, Clyde glanced at the clock.

“Oh no,” she said.

“What’s the matter,” Mira asked.

“I just didn’t realize what time it was. It’s getting late.” Her whole face felt tight.

“I’m sorry,” Mira said.

Clyde relaxed her expression. “Don’t apologize,” she said sweetly. “You did nothing wrong.”

The doorbell sounded again. After a moment’s pause, Mira said, “Maybe you should get that.”

“Right,” Clyde said. She strode to and opened the front door.

Michael entered. “Oh,” he said noticing Mira sitting in the living room. “I didn’t realize you were here.”

“Yeah,” Clyde said. “We were just chatting about Ike.” Mira glared at her. She immediately regretted what she’d said.

Michael rolled his eyes and sang, “He’s baaaack.”

Mira shook her head. “Okay, whatever. I have to get back to work.” She grabbed her coat, and Clyde saw her out the door.

“I’m sorry, Mira. You know he’s only that way because–”

“Because I refuse to be one of his bimbos.”

“That’s not fair,” Clyde said.

Mira spoke sharply. “Clydene, when it comes to relationships, Michael lives a life Aristippus would have envied.”

Clyde didn’t know what she meant by that.

Mira closed her eyes a moment. “In other words, he’s a hedonist.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t you ever wonder why he’s still a bachelor, at his age?”

“You’re the same age as him,” Clyde reminded her.

“Okay, but at least I’m trying to do something about it.”

Suddenly, Clyde saw it in her friends eyes. “You are in love.”

Mira didn’t answer right away. “Maybe, but…”

“Just find out how he feels,” Clyde reiterated.

Mira nodded.

“Are you mad at me?” Clyde asked.

Mira sighed. “No. And thanks for the advice.”

Other Friday Snippets

The way Friday Snippets works is that fiction authors can leave a link to their own snippet on others’ blog posts that are part of the meme. Many of the participating writers are using one of Mister Linky’s Autolink Widgets to streamline this process. See “Friday Snippets” at Holly Lisle’s blog for more information.

I’m emotionally exhausted this weekend, having written some pretty intense scenes in this chapter and the chapter to come. Plus there was my worst review ever, which actually ended up making me feel pretty good, a lot more focused on where I want to go as a writer. Long story short, I’m still doing the right thing and going in the right direction. I’ll probably screw up in the process, but that’s a good thing… And that’s another blog post, which I only have half-written right now.

Remember this article on Holly Lisle’s site? “Live to Write Another Day: Writers, Depression, and Suicide”? I wasn’t going to mention this, because I think it sounds pretty creepy. But maybe there’s a lot of sympathy among writers in this area. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll end up like Sylvia Plath. Fortunately, my situation has never been that dire. But sometimes, I do sympathize with Sylvia.

-TimK

Clydene paced across the kitchen floor, down the back hallway, through her tiny office, up to the window. She caught a glimpse of the picket fence dividing their property from the neighbors’ as she whipped her body around and headed back to the kitchen. Lather, rinse, repeat. As she made this round trip again and again, she had a conversation with the air around her.

“Don’t tell me not to take it personally. Beady-eyes made it personal! He comes after innocent people, because he hates us. Anything he can get away with, he just does it. It doesn’t matter whether you’re innocent. But if you’re not on his side, God help you! God help us all! He tortures the innocent, locks them up without council, without sleep, badgers them until they give in. He punishes his enemies at will. He is lawless, a criminal in uniform.”And they support him! Don’t they realize that anyone who approves of him approves of what he does? Don’t they know we will all be held accountable for the things of which we approve? And if you vote for him, you have signed your own warrant. I would not choose to face the Great and Mighty with that record on my account.

“Eventually, he’ll come after us all, hunt you down.” She set her teeth. “And there won’t be anything you can do.”

She was stomping by now. A tear streamed down the side of her nose. She felt angry and hurt, helpless and victimized.

“Damn it! I did this… It started only after I… But if I had not, how much worse off would we be?”

The doorbell rang. Clyde wiped the tears from her eyes and sniffled. She reached the door, paused, breathed, then opened it. Cold air wafted over her body, mixed with a hint of perfume. On the landing just outside stood small, dark-haired woman, bundled in a puffy, blue, winter coat. Because the landing was a step lower than the house proper, she looked even shorter than she actually was. Her head came up to Clyde’s chest. Despite that, the woman stood tall and proud. Clyde reminisced for a moment, noticing for the first time in a long time how big her friend made her feel, regardless of her physical stature.”Mira,” Clyde said. “What’s up?”

“I need your advice.”

“Come in,” Clyde said.

Mira didn’t seem to notice that her friend had been crying. she spoke as she removed her coat. “I had lunch with Ike.”

“I thought you couldn’t be around him.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“You changed your mind?”

“Kinda.” Mira paused, then blurted out, “He kissed me.”

Clyde stood, nonplussed, mouth gaping wide. That reaction just seemed right for the occasion. But truthfully, Clyde wasn’t surprised.

Mira beamed, radiated, as though she had just had sex.

“Are you sure it was just a kiss?” Clyde asked salaciously.

“No, it was just… He just kissed me. He put his arm around me and ran his fingers through my hair, and we kissed, just like that.”

“At lunch.”

“Well…” Mira giggled like a teenager.

So Mira told Clyde all that had happened that afternoon. Clyde interjected occasionally with comments like “It would be like hugging Poppin’ Fresh,” or “Was he wearing tight jeans?” Clyde knew she could be crude, sometimes inappropriately so. But Mira kept talking. It felt like they were having a slumber party.

“So, what do you think I should do?” Mira asked.

That sobered Clyde. She thought about it. There was a good reason Mira had stopped calling Ike, had stopped carpooling with him, had stopped talking to him, had cut him out of her life. When Mira was around Ike, something happened to her. His presence made her lose control of her feelings. Mira had fallen in love with this man, this man who had shown so little interest in her, and she ended up drenching Clyde’s shoulder with her tears. That had been months ago, and Mira was just beginning to get back on her feet. Clyde shuddered.

Clydene understood how her friend felt. Which one of us hasn’t fallen inexplicably for someone? Mira never lost that adolescent innocence. Mira was a visionary, and she felt deep feelings. Both sometimes got her into trouble.

“Clyde?” Mira interrupted.”Yeah… What was the question again?”

“I’m too close to it to think straight. What should I do?”

Well, she could do as Nancy Reagan and just say no. But what if things would have worked out? Mira lived in loneliness, and Clyde had often felt lonely for her friend. Clyde glanced at the tulips Ted had sent, now displayed on the coffee table. She remembered what it was like in the beginning, before Ted, before the end of loneliness.

On the other hand, she would hate for Mira to get hurt again. Yes, to love and be loved entails a certain of risk. You risk getting hurt, just as surely as you risk living happily ever after. Still, why allow yourself to fall in love with the wrong guy? It would be a shame if Mira allowed herself to fall in love again, only to be hurt again…

That is, if she hadn’t already fallen in love.

“Do you love him?” Clyde asked.

Mira blushed. “No. That’s silly.”

“But it’s Ike,” Clyde protested.”So? How much can you fall in love during lunch? It wasn’t even a real date.” Mira’s eyes seemed to light up at the thought of a date with Ike.

The next words came out of Clyde’s mouth almost without a thought. “Does he love you?”

Mira’s face froze for a few seconds. Then it fell. The color seemed to drain out of Mira’s cheeks. Then she forced a smile and said, “I don’t know. What does it matter? We can figure that out later.”

“You asked me what I thought you should do. I think you should find out how he really feels about you and how far he’s willing to take this relationship.”

Other Friday Snippets

The way Friday Snippets works is that fiction authors can leave a link to their own snippet on others’ blog posts that are part of the meme. Many of the participating writers are using one of Mister Linky’s Autolink Widgets to streamline this process. See “Friday Snippets” at Holly Lisle’s blog for more information.