I don’t think anything warms a writer’s heart as much as seeing her story in print. Two stories, double the warmth. You could triple or even quadruple my warmth by clicking the links provided below and ordering a copy or two which will net me a small commission.
See here, about halfway down the page, is my story title and my name:
It’s enough to make me dance in my chair.
The short story in in this volume is “Love Me Tender,” about one morning in the life of Irene Newkirk, a middle-aged woman coming to grips with her husband’s mental illness and the weight of caring for her teen-aged daughter as well as keeping up appearances.
I wrote my first draft of this story in 1992, in a fiction workshop with the late Jerome Stern at Florida State University. I remember being surprised at how well it was received and, in particular, Stern’s enthusiasm over how well I could “do cold.” Well, yeah, I can definitely “do cold” after surviving twenty-one New York winters in a two-story house with only a first-floor furnace for heat. They say heat rises, but when you’re on the second floor and it’s double-digits below zero, heat don’t rise high enough.
Even though I do not consider myself a Southerner, even though some don’t even consider Florida as part of the Deep South given its history and demographics, and even though my story takes place in upstate New York, I think it’s kind of cool being in an anthology that marks me as an emerging writer in the Deep South. Well, it’s kind of cool being in any anthology.
“Together Forever,” is a horror story, one involving a different middle-aged woman. Vicky Brooks is a real estate agent in an economically depressed part of New York. She yearns to escape the cold dreariness of her hometown and her husband. She hopes to get that chance with Miss Smith, a potential buyer for a broken-down mansion, except there is something rather odd about Miss Smith.
If either of these stories interests you, then I hope you’ll take a chance on my writing and help me fully emerge. Here again are the links:
I have it: America’s Emerging Literary Fiction Writers! It is beyond my vocabulary to describe how I feel at seeing my name in a list of published writers. (And how grateful I am that my last name begins with “B.”) By the way, if you use the link above to purchase or any other volume by Z Publishing, I get a small commission.
The short story in in this volume is “Love Me Tender.” It’s the story of one morning in the life of Irene Newkirk, a middle-aged woman coming to grips with her husband’s mental illness and the weight of caring for her teen-aged daughter as well as keeping up appearances.
No excuses. Life is busy, and if some of my absence from social media is because I’m living in the moment, well, won’t you join me? In spite of the news (which I only see when I dare to look, which is less often these days), there’s joy to be found.
First up: orchids. About a week ago my husband and I went to Gainesville, Florida, to visit a couple of friends. One of the many fun things we did was go to the Florida Museum of Natural History (https://www.floridamuseum.ufl.edu/). The best part of the museum is the Butterfly Rainforest, a live exhibit of free-flying butterflies and birds, non-flying turtles and fish. And orchids … oh, the orchids.
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The butterflies were very active. One became rather attached to the back of my hand. I was able to transfer him to my husband’s hand. Later we learned that he was likely “drinking” up the minerals in our sweat.
Or you can view my modest attempt at filming the very active butterflies here on YouTube: Butterfly Rainforest
Well, I hope you all enjoy the photos … what, wait! Oh, I almost forgot … heh, heh.
Z Publishing House has accepted TWO of my short stories for their 2019 Emerging Writers Series. Each story will be published in a different anthology in the series. You might recall that I had a short short story published in their 2018 Florida’s Emerging Writers Series (that post is here). I know, when do I stop emerging? A friend suggested I should adopt a pen name like Chris Alys (as in Chrysalis). All I can say is, I’m happy to keep emerging as long as Z Publishing House is happy to publish my stories.
I guess I should tell you a bit about the stories.
“Love Me Tender” is literary fiction, a story of one morning in the life of Irene Newkirk, a middle-aged woman coming to grips with her husband’s mental illness and the weight of caring for her teen-aged daughter as well as keeping up appearances. Stay tuned for the link to the anthology in which this story will be included.
“Together Forever,” is a horror story, one involving a different middle-aged woman. Vicky Brooks is a real estate agent in an economically depressed part of New York. She yearns to escape the cold dreariness of her hometown and her husband. She hopes to get that chance with Miss Smith, a potential buyer for a broken-down mansion, except there is something rather odd about Miss Smith. If you use this link — America’s Emerging Suspense Writers — to purchase this anthology, I’ll get a small commission. If you prefer to use Amazon, you can pick up a copy here: Amazon link
I should also mention that the first draft of “Love Me Tender” was written in 1992 for a fiction workshop. The first draft of “Together Forever” was written in 2006 for an online writing course.
Never let go of your stories, and never ever give up.
Many heartfelt thanks to all of you have supported me over the years. And a big THANK YOU to Kevin Brennan, author and editor at Indie-Scribable Editorial Services for editing my stories and giving me the bump I needed to get published. MWAH!
I’m very excited to share that I have a 50-word story up at fiftywordstories.com. If you’re not yet subscribed to this site, you’ll want to be. Here’s the link to my fifty-word story:
The Death of Mrs. Westaway is the third of Ruth Ware’s novels that I’ve had the pleasure of reading and, at this time, it is my favorite. The novel is a modern mystery with a Gothic, even Dickensian atmosphere. Hal, or Harriet, the narrator, is an orphaned waif, barely subsisting off the business her mother had started, that of a Tarot Reader. Worse, she owes a loan shark money, too much to ever pay back. Hal then experiences what most orphan fantasies consist of: a letter stating that she is (essentially) the long-lost heir to an inheritance. Hal believes this to be a case of mistaken identity, but she’s desperate. She doesn’t ask for much, only to survive. So she goes off on her adventure, to play the part of a missing granddaughter in the hope that, if she plays it well enough, she’ll be able to pay off the loan shark and live a comfortable if lonely life.
As with her previous novels, Ware gives us an unreliable but likeable narrator. All we know is what Hal knows, although most of us are old enough to know better where Hal isn’t. She’s tough but naive. She’s very good at acting, but still flubs her lines. At the first, the reader wants to protect her and even supports her attempt at fraud if only to save her own life. Better still would it be that Hal really is the missing granddaughter.
Nothing is ever that simple. Hal finds herself in a setting worthy of Daphne Du Maurier. An old, run-down mansion; an attic room with locks on the outside of the door; a menacing housekeeper; and an eclectic group of uncles that Hal might or might not be able to trust. Ware skillfully twists the many threads of family secrets, and there are quite a few. Hal’s own connection to the family is the deepest secret of all. Again, the reader only knows what Hal knows, and by the time Hal has finally pieced everything together, it is nearly too late.
The ending is satisfying and somewhat expected because it was hoped for.
Mystery and family secrets aside, one of the themes of The Death of Mrs. Westaway that I found most intriguing was that of family. Hal’s close relationship with her mother, her shaky relationship with the men who might or might not be her uncles made me think about what ties families together. Hal has had no connection with this family ever, as far as she knows. She is a stranger to them; yet, the mere idea that she might be the daughter of their missing sister is enough for them to embrace her, to some degree anyway. Without that blood connection, she is nothing to them. Yet, Hal is the same person, whether related to them or not. The rather quaint saying–“Blood is thicker than water”–is tested over and over in The Death of Mrs. Westaway. For me, the novel reveals just how tenuous family ties can be.
When it comes to family, I am most often observer, least often participant. I have three siblings, 3, 11, and 13 years older than me. I am close with my middle sister, but not the other two sibs. I keep in touch with them (okay, one of them), but I don’t share my hopes and dreams, my fears and frustrations. The less said, the better.
Contrast this with one set of cousins, a gaggle of sisters and brothers relatively close in age and, despite being thousand of miles apart from each other, have a closeness that would be the envy of best friends.
Into another set of cousins, a stranger appeared. A secret son, the oldest of his half-siblings but unknown until after their mother’s death. In head-spinning quickness, he was welcomed into the family, embraced even by those relatives he might never meet.
Another family, unrelated to me, a small unit, where a rift between brother and sister has led to permanent estrangement, where one sibling washed her hands of the other and, as far as I know, has never looked back. The brother shrugs at the memory and moves on.
I’ve often thought that what brought families together and kept them together was shared experience. At least, that gives them an advantage. I’ve physically drifted away from most of my extended family, to the point where our shared experiences begin and end with my adolescence. Not my most favorite time of life, not a time that I want to revisit when I visit them.
This meditation on family is a result of having read The Death of Mrs. Westaway. I’ve been turning it over in my head for a long time. I envied Hal. Of course, she is about forty years younger than me, not overly burdened with a past she’d just as soon chuck into a river. Perhaps it’s that sense of her being a stranger, unknown to her presumed uncles, herself a blank slate that she writes her own story on. She is, as far as we know, committing fraud and while that is a frightening experience for her, I could also imagine it being a freeing experience as well. To rewrite oneself, one’s past, one’s family.
I’m not saying I want to rewrite my family; only that I often imagine what families are like outside of what I know. Even as a kid, I would wonder what it was like to be that popular girl in my class, or the one who was taunted because her family was poor. Most often, how would I be different if I had grown up in a different family. Would I be different? People have always been objects of curiosity for me. That’s why I write and that’s why I read. For me, families are the stuff of stories.
I’m curious: How does family figure in your writing? Or do they?
My little story “No More Tomorrows” continues to surprise me. First that it was accepted at all by Z Publishing House for their Florida’s Emerging Writers series. Then that it earned two positive reviews by writers I deeply admired: Carrie Rubin and Luanne Castle .
Now it’s slated for another publication, again by Z Publishing House. A few days ago I received this email:
Hello Marie,
It is our pleasure to invite you to join our upcoming nationwide edition of the Emerging Writers series. Out of the more than 2,000 writers who were accepted into our 2018 Emerging Writers series, yours is one of 136 writings we would like to publish in the nationwide edition, America’s Emerging Writers: An Anthology of Fiction.
I had to give permission for the reprint. Ha ha ha … you know I didn’t have to think about that for long. You can count in seconds the time it took me to respond.
So I’m feeling grateful, thankful. The past two weeks has been difficult with one tragedy after another, some very close, some very far but just as heartbreaking. Although my little short story doesn’t change anything–it won’t bring back lives or restore homes–it is, for me, one tiny bright spot. “No More Tomorrows” comes from a place deep within me, a place I feel I can still touch although it no longer exists in the real world. It’s a reminder that sometimes I should just write.
But first let me thank you, my dearest writing community, my blogging friends who have been traveling with me on this weird-ass journey of writing, sharing our fears and joys, giving each other advice and propping up. As I’ve said before and will say again and again, I couldn’t, wouldn’t be writing without your support. So now I’ll …
Yes, I’m delighted to announce that you can now display Yesterday Road, my first indie novel, on your bookshelf. Check out the paperback edition over at Amazon.
When I first decided to dabble in self-publishing, I decided to go strictly ebook. Just testing the waters. And it worked well for Yesterday Road, because I could focus on the ebook in terms of marketing and building my so-called brand. It helped me learn the ropes. I was glad I did it that way, because I was pretty intimidated by the whole thing, and keeping it as simple as I could made it all seem doable.
For my next two books, though–Occasional Soulmates and Town Father–I went ahead and had paperbacks made. Both of them turned out beautifully, thanks to covers and interior design done by the incomparable Max Scratchmann, Edinburgh’s favorite idiosyncratic artist and guerrilla poet…
I’ve been remiss in writing book reviews, and I aim to make up for it over the next few weeks. I have a fantasy that one day I will be very, very organized, and these periodic mea culpa posts will be things of the past. Right. Without further ado …
***
Linda G. Hill is a prolific writer, supermom, and all-around nice person. When I say she’s prolific, well, just take a tour of her website at https://lindaghill.com/
I moan and groan about trying to write when I have a full-time job, but Linda has three sons which means she’s on the day job 24/7. Even my cats can’t compete with that since they spend large chunks of their day sleeping. But I digress.
This review of Linda’s earliest published novel, All Good Stories, is so long overdue. I read All Good Stories about two years ago while on a winter weekend camping trip. A light, entertaining, and quirky romance, it was the perfect e-book to bring along. After a day of frolicking among the trees, I’d snuggled into my sleeping bag, fire up my Kindle, and step into Xavier and Jupiter’s world, two best friends who discover their feelings for each other the hard way.
For a story written “off the cuff,” Hill’s characters are well-developed, interesting, and, best of all, people I’d like to meet and have a coffee with. You know from the get-go that Xavier and Jupiter belong together, and you root for that to happen. The story is well-paced and, yes, there’s a lovely twist at the end. All Good Stories made me smile … often. If you need a pick-me-up, an escape from the daily drama of the world, you need look no further than All Good Stories.
In case any new readers come across this post: It’s all good. I’ve received credit for any sales made through this link: http://www.zpublishinghouse.com/?rfsn=1648278.3e0285
Patience is not one of my virtues, but I’m working on it ;)
This post is not about hawking the anthology, however. A couple of wonderful supporters have already indicated that they purchased the anthology using the links I provided yesterday. Their generosity should result in a decent commission for me; yet, those sales have not shown up and I have to wonder if there is something wrong with the URL. (Although what it could it be, who knows? Both I and a friend used the link to purchase the anthology, and those sales have shown up.)
I have a small favor to ask.
If you did click on the link provided in my blog post and purchased the anthology Florida’s Emerging Writers (or any publication on Z Publishing’s website), please email your name and order number to me at marieannbailey[at]gmail[dot]com
With your name and order number, I can follow up with Z Publishing and (hopefully) resolve this issue. I hope this doesn’t seem petty, but if anyone is purchasing the anthology in order to support me, well, it’s only fair that I receive the support.
I always think of Friday the 13th as a lucky day for me, even if the luck only extends as far as nothing bad happening on that day. This Friday the 13th started off ominously though, putting me in a funk that lasted all the way to bedtime when my luck finally changed.
As I do every morning, I was sitting with a cup of coffee in my favorite corner of our couch, a heated wrap around my neck to ease my cervical arthritis. I had been fairly upbeat the day before, since Thursday is the day before Friday which is the day before the weekend. Those two days a week–Saturday and Sunday–I practically live for. But I digress.
So I’m nestled in the corner, sipping hot coffee, poking around on my iPad as the fog from my brain slowly clears when I sniff and my sinuses contract. I quickly shoo away the first thought that comes to mind. “No, no, no! I do not want to deal with this. Not this early in the morning!” I proceeded to ignore what my nasal passages were practically screaming at me, forcing me to breath deeper as the scent overwhelmed my senses, yet I recoiled at the thought of the obvious.
Finally I took my last sip of coffee, put the mug down, the iPad away and got down on my hands and knees. Granted, I did have to put my nose practically into the thick pile of our area rug, but there was no denying it, no way to ignore it.
Cat pee. Old cat pee. I looked up at Maxine, innocently curled up on the back of the couch.
What? Who, me?
Maxine is now 14 1/2 years old and lately we’ve been having some issues around her “inappropriate elimination.” Long story short: we resolved some of this peeing in all the wrong places by doubling her dosage of Cosequin. Cats, as many of you know, are stoic creatures. They keep their pain to themselves; if they choose to let you know, it’s often in oblique ways such as peeing in all the wrong places. Our theory is that Maxine, due to her age, probably has pain or at least discomfort in her hips and the trip from the back porch or from the living room to the nearest litter box is a road too far. When we doubled her Cosequin (that is, giving her a dose with her morning meal as well as her nighttime meal), she perked up, became more alert and interactive, and ceased to pee in the living room. (The back porch is still an issue, probably because she has to use steps and a cat door to get in and out.)
But apparently that didn’t mean that we had found and cleaned up all the places she had peed on in the past couple of months. So the morning of Friday the 13th, before I went to work, I pulled the area rug from the living room, wrestling it from underneath a rather large ottoman and rolling it up so I could drag it into the garage where it can stay forever as far I’m concerned. I’m a bit of a skeptic when it comes to getting rid of the smell of cat urine; fortunately, my husband has taken on the task of soaking the porch rug with Nature’s Miracle, sucking up the residue with a shampooer, and repeating … indefinitely.
That was the start of my Friday the 13th. The rest of the day was filled with angst. I could barely motivate myself to answer emails. I didn’t go for a walk during the workday because, as per summer in Florida, it was too effing hot and humid. A twenty-minute promenade around the complex leaves me with sweat stains in all the wrong places. I almost blew off going to the gym after work. I’m glad I did go since I needed to work off some negative energy, but the road trip from my workplace to the gym is like the highway from Hell.
Eventually I made it home, disgruntled and peevish (my husband’s word). He had spent the day cleaning the porch rug. We had dinner, drank wine and watched an episode of Star Trek: Enterprise. We got ready for bed. What happened next returned the luck to Friday the 13th.
I flipped open my iPad, something I don’t often do right before bedtime and I can’t say why I did it this night. But I did. On the screen, a series of email notifications bubbled up. One was from Z Publishing. The subject line was “Your Submission Decision.” The first sentence of the email read “We at Z Publishing House would like to congratulate you for having your writing accepted into our upcoming Florida’s Emerging Writers publication!”
It’s all a blur after that. I think I started shouting. My husband ran into my room. I read him the email. We’ve been celebrating every since.
Way back in April, I received an email from one of the staff at Z Publishing, inviting me to submit some of my writing for their upcoming series of America’s Emerging Writers. She had visited my blog and thought I might be interested. Well, that was an understatement. I did a quick search on Z Publishing, found a forum on Reddit that pretty much verified the entity as legit so I went to work. I managed to pull together five short short stories–the word count is 1250–and sent them in. I had only a couple of days to meet the early bird deadline, and my husband remembers very well how I closed myself up in my room tweaking those short stories to fit Z’s requirements … and still make sense.
Ever since I have been waiting. Now I know that three months is not a long time to wait to hear from a publisher, but I don’t do this very often. Well, actually, I don’t do this. I can count on one hand the number of submissions I’ve made in the last several years.
The publication date is September 6, with preorders available starting August 6. At that time, I’ll join their affiliates program and will be able to provide you all with a link to Z Publishing so you can purchase Florida’s Emerging Writers or any book that strikes your fancy. I will get a commission for any sales that come through that link. That’s icing.
The cake is the publication of one of my stories in a printed book.
The luck of Friday the 13th has been redeemed.
One last thing: I really owe it to ALL of you for being part of my life, for encouraging me, following my blog, reading and sharing my stories and WIPs. I know this is a very small success, and I won’t stop here.
The museum has its own live web cam giving you a bird’s eye view of the rainforest canopy: 
Marie at 1 Write Way 