Excerpt from “Stet:” Hibiscus blossoms

It was like when you think you smell smoke in one inhale, but then never catch a whiff of it again — but you’re sure you smelled it, and now you’re looking for fire.

I find the fire: She’s dressed in all black, form-fitting and intimidating. Her dark hair is exactly as Agatha had described it, cropped in the back and dangling long in the front, stick-straight and glossy.

As she steps up on the porch, heeled boots clump-clumping on the soft wood, something in the corner of my eye hooks my attention. The blossoms on the large potted hibiscus bush have puckered like raisins, wilting down under the weight of whatever demon she’s brought with her.

“You must be Agatha’s editor,” she says, dark cherry lips lifting, as Agatha said they did, to reveal perfect white teeth. “She spoke very highly of you.”

“Only one of those things are true,” I say, settling for a tight smirk that won’t betray my coffee-yellowed smile. “From what Agatha told me, you must be Maeve.”

“I’m certainly not Handel,” she smiles. “He’s finishing a call in the car. Another client needs our help, and rather desperately, so we won’t take up much of your time today.”

I wonder if the client actually exists or is their escape route when I start asking harder-hitting questions than Agatha ever posed. I’ve listened to all the interview recordings, remember: I know the softballs she lobbed about whether they believed in an afterlife (obviously) and what their most challenging house was to purge (“They’re all challenges, but they’re all learning opportunities”). I prefer to play fast-pitch without a catcher’s mit.

“I don’t think you have to worry too much about that,” I say.

“No, I don’t suppose we will,” Maeve said. “Unless, of course, you want to come with us to this client?”

Now I understand how Agatha fell under her spell, as I feel a strange pull around my shoulder, as if Maeve has put her arm around me to gently guide me toward their car, even though she’s still standing three feet in front of me. I have no doubt now that the client is fake; that I’m being tricked into my own abduction; that Handel is in the car, ready to drive me to an undisclosed location where I’ll either die or be driven mad as Agatha was; and that all of this is exactly as it should be, exactly as I want it to be.

“Good? Good,” Maeve said, turning on a heel. “We’ll take you with us. You’ll enjoy it, I promise.”

As we walk down the steps, I feel something crunch under my foot. It’s one of the hibiscus blossoms, just moments before a Tropicana pink saucer, and now a shriveled, veiny ball of tissue player crumpled beneath my heel. A puff of black smoke seems to cough out of it as my shoe grinds it into the floor.

Excerpt: Agatha’s apartment

The apartment yawned stale, sunbaked air in our faces as the maintenance man unlocked the door and swung it open.

“When was the last time you saw her?” I asked. In the dim glow of the hall light I could read the embroidered script on his work shirt: “Chuck.” I didn’t even know there were people under 50 named Chuck anymore.

“She was home when I had to fix the smoke detector last month,” Chuck said. “It kept going off in the middle of the night, waking everyone up on the floor.”

Adam handed him the thrice-folded $20 as he passed him on his way across the threshold as a thank you, and Chuck got the hint that it was also to guarantee privacy for our investigation.

“I’ll wait downstairs for you so I know when to lock up,” he said, leaving us to explore alone.

From the entrance, Agatha’s apartment looked like the typical 20-something writer’s studio, with style taking a backseat to convenience. Three mismatched pressboard bookshelves groaned under paperbacks and stacks of Vanity Fair, Wired, Mother Jones, The Atlantic, Ms., Bitch, and Fast Company back issues. Her vinyl couch had likely been assembled with an Allen wrench that came with it in the IKEA box. A mattress and box spring was jammed like an afterthought into the corner and covered in a faded kaleidoscope duvet cover, sans duvet inside. A plate, red wine glass, skillet and wooden spoon collected dust on a drainboard, and the refrigerator hummed under a layer of half-formed grocery lists and someday-I’ll-need-it business cards.

“You must have really made out in the divorce agreement,” I said to Adam. “Or did you just get all the good furniture?”

“We didn’t have any ‘good furniture,'” Adam replied shortly, continuing his way into the apartment.

Walking in behind him, I felt like I was easing myself into a bubble bath drawn with ice water. The small studio looked like it belonged to an ambitious 20-something writer, but as I submerged deeper into the apartment, it became clear that before her disappearance, Agatha had been descending into a chaotic obsession.

The notes on the fridge weren’t grocery lists: They were seemingly unrelated words and phrases that formed a cloud passing from the fridge, across the backsplash, around the corner and filling the wall above a desk that looked to have been rescued from a curb on garbage day. There were no webs of string, no highlighted portions like the conspiracy walls in the movies, and this perhaps made it more ominous: Agatha didn’t need to connect these things visually because either she was able to keep them straight in her own head, or because there was really no reasoning to why she had written “Caravan” and “chauffeur’s daughter” in the blank spaces of a Chinese takeout menu, then pinned it next to a torn green Post-it listing “Burt’s Bees / KIND bars / fire plug on Hollyhock Lane.”

“Did she used to do this when you were together?” I asked Adam.

He shook his head, mouth agape at his ex-wife’s handwriting scrawling across the scratch-paper wallpaper.

“Sometimes she’d start a notebook, use about five pages of it, then put it in a box and start a new one,” he said absentmindedly as his eyes flitted from note to note. “Always said it was the creative in her and that lots of writers did that. The only book she’d actually fill up was her—”

Adam stopped and looked at the desk. It was covered in mail (both open and sealed), receipts, packing slips, a set of knit gloves likely left there since last winter, and more notes like the ones on the wall. And that was just the top layer of the bric-a-brac cluttering it.

“She kept a journal,” Adam said. “Not every day, but she’d fill it up in a year and need a new one. I’d usually get her something nice for Christmas — leather-bound, or hardback — but she’d always pick up a composition notebook from Target or something. Said there was less pressure to be perfect that way.”

He started shuffling the papers on the desk like playing cards, stacking them and lifting them and gently placing them on the floor. More little notes slid on unseen air drafts, yelling “MORE COBWEBS!” or matter-of-factly stating “Ranch = spirits from 1960s.”

As he meticulously shuffled through Agatha’s desk contents, I began to wander the rest of the tiny apartment. One of her dresser drawers was ajar, and I slid it open, slowly as if hoping Agatha wouldn’t notice — which was silly, of course, as she wasn’t there.

Nothing seemed to be missing inside the drawer: Rather, it was hard to tell if anything was out of place, as the entire thing was filled with sloppily folded T-shirts and sweaters. Close to the top was the green argyle pullover she’d been wearing the day she came to tell me about meeting someone at a housewarming who would make a great story. My stomach flipped at the thought that if I had just said “no,” I wouldn’t be bribing her maintenance man to let me and her ex-husband into her apartment so we could figure out what happened to her.

“Hey, I found something,” Adam said. I turned around to see him holding not a composition notebook but one of the flip-top reporting notebooks we stocked in Deus Ex Machina‘s office supply room. “Doesn’t look like her journal, but the notes in this are a lot more coherent than the ones on the wall. And there’s a whole drawer of them, look.”

Excerpt: The housewarming

Tonight was Meera’s housewarming party. Ended up going straight from work, so I had to drag my whole computer bag with me. Stopped at Mariano’s on the way to the train to pick up a bottle of wine — bad call, because the cheapest “nice” bottle I could find was still $17. That’ll be an extra hour of copy editing this weekend. At least I could avoid buying dinner on the way home by eating the hot appetizers they were serving.

“Someone’s got an appetite,” Meera laughed when she saw me walk into the family room with a plate full of those tiny hot dogs wearing puffer coats of corn dough. They were easier to eat than the meatballs swimming in Meera’s signature barbecue-sauce-and-grape-jelly sauce (that makes it sound bad — it’s not!).

Jake brought me a tall glass of sangria with lots of fruit floating in it. He spent five years as a public safety reporter at the reader, so he gets how it is, calculating how far your paycheck will go in terms of Chipotle burritos, city-priced beers, and hours of extra Freelance.com work.

And now here he was, married to Meera and moving into a quaint two-bedroom house with a backyard and utility room. Still not sure what Meera does, apart from dress nice for a 9-to-5 and attend monthly advocacy board meetings for a bajillion social justice organizations. Apparently it’s enough to afford a mortgage.

This was unlike any housewarming I’d been to, in that was for an actual house, not a tight studio apartment with an empty liquor cabinet to fill. And this was a spankin’ new house, too — I felt like my nose was filling with the slate-gray carpet fibers still hovering in the air. Lean against the plum accent wall and you’ll ruin the fresh paint. Suddenly drenching my plate of cocktail wieners in ketchup and mustard seemed reckless, almost daring.

The kitchen was safer. Hardwood floors don’t hold condiment stains as well as carpet, and I wouldn’t have to keep ducking out of conversations to refill my plate with tiny quiche and fruit kebabs. I found a spot leaning up against the dishwasher where I was within arms’ reach of the veggie platter that no one was touching. From here, I could watch the screen door open and close as more guests arrived to trample down the new carpet and compress the sofa cushions.

Don’t know how long I was standing there. Talked to some people. Jake’s boss seems nice. Met Meera’s mom and stepdad for probably the fourth time, though they never seem to remember me. I guess her stepbrother just left for a semester abroad in Spain and is trying to fit in. Reminded me of Adam’s stories about his disaster roommates. Funny how four years later, “Spain” just makes me think of him. Maybe because I’ve never been myself — only had his stories to associate with an entire country.

Eventually I was alone again. Front door opened, and a pretty big group came in: Two women I recognized from Jake and Meera’s wedding — one of their couple-friends, Jackie and Noreen, I think? — an older woman, and another couple that looked as out of place as I felt in this monument to suburbia.

He had the look of someone who’s recently discovered they’re attractive and is work. ing. it. Complete with the kind of strategic stubble you see on TV heroes, and the Paul Newman eyes that wouldn’t need photoshop in a magazine ad. He was dressed like every other guy at the party, jeans and and casual T-shirt just tight enough to put a hetero-approved emphasis on his fit physique. A hint of a tattoo on his bicep peaked out from under his sleeve. And, of course, a nice thick gunmetal wedding band on his left hand that caught the light as he ran a hand through a perfectly messy head of thick, partially wavy auburn hair. I’m sure every straight female in this house, married or not, was about to go home thinking about that hair.

But the woman next to him was entirely different. Clearly his wife, though she wasn’t doing anything to make that clear — not holding his hand or touching him in any way. They just fit naturally together, even though they couldn’t look more different.

She had stick-straight black hair sliced into a bob that reminded me of Charlize Theron’s Aeon Flux ‘do. She dressed on the professional side of punk, her black jeans tight and clean, with moto-pleats on the thighs. Also zippers that matched the hardware on her leather jacket, which had so many studs and spikes on the shoulders that it reminded me of a porcupine. Her lipstick was the kind of dark cherry only confident women wear, as if they don’t continuously worry their teeth aren’t white enough for it.

I didn’t know if I wanted to be her or fuck her, but one thing was certain: I needed to meet her.

I’m mad as hell, and I can’t write it anymore

Another non-creative piece this week, folks.

Originally I planned on doing a whole post about new horizons and starting fresh. As of this week, I’m officially an agent-free free agent after mutually deciding to part ways with my two-year literary cheerleader.

But this post isn’t about that. Or me.

OK, it’s about me.

The last week has led me to read and reflect on a lot of ways that systematic racism embeds itself in white artists’ work, whether or not they realize it. I’ve also learned more about “copoganda” and how popular media centers around police power — both as heroes and as the plot-drivers in anti-hero stories like Breaking Bad and The Sopranos — and fetishizes Black pain, even when trying to point out that brutality is wrong. Law enforcement has a pervasive presence in our stories: Just look at network TV lineups. At least one law procedural airs every night on every channel.

I couldn’t help but reflect on my own work. Those who’ve read parts or all of Nobody’s Hero know it’s about vigilantes, but they’re still overseen by the Federal Vigilante Agency that helps process the criminals they catch. Cops aren’t the focus, but they’re in the background, and even though my Black FVA agent has a conversation with her sister about the use of Black people as cops in popular culture, the very nature of vigilanteism is linked to violence-based responses to crime.

There’s probably a number of scholars who could better explain that, but the TL;DR version is: “I’m not sure Nobody’s Hero accurately represents my opinion on America’s law enforcement complex.”

So while I grumble a bit about being back to Square One on my journey to being a published novelist, I also thank my lucky stars that no editor or publisher wanted to pursue putting my latest project out into the world, particularly now that I’ve continued educating myself. Maybe I’ll go back to Nobody’s Hero and try to adjust it to my new view of the world. Or maybe it’ll get tucked away with so much other work.

I do know that my next project will contain no references to police whatsoever. It’s a supernatural mystery centered around journalists, and I’ve been struggling to gain the courage to write it for more than seven years now, and I think it’s time to buck up and write. No cops allowed.

Excerpt: Eddie Fitzjohn

We trudged up the stairs, each step echoing on the concrete. Every door was in varying degrees of decay: A couple paint chips here, a fully rusted door handle there. A few looked as though they belonged to tenants refusing to acknowledge they lived in a shitty rundown building — a “Welcome to Our Home” hanger dangled from Apartment 409’s door, while a wreath of wine corks clashed with the mint green of Apartment 419 — but for the most part, no one was keeping up appearances.

Raff stopped in front of Apartment 428. The paint was in good shape, but the knocker was missing. As he raised his fist to rap on the metal, I looked to see a letter jammed in the tenant’s mailbox. Part of the addressee’s name was visible, halfway out of the slot, and suddenly the identity of the “muscle” that Raff had been talking about was no longer a mystery.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “You’re an asshole, but not that much an asshole.”

“We need Eddie,” Raff shrugged.

“Like I need a hole in the head, no thanks,” I said. My face was burning, my knees radiating with the desire to either kick him in the nuts or sprint out of the building and down the street — maybe both, in that order.

“What do you have against talent?”

“Nothing, if it doesn’t belong to your—”

I didn’t finish, because the door opened, and I came nose-to-nose with “talent.”

Here’s what I knew about Eddie Fitzjohn:

Eddie was born Edmunda Fitzjohn seven years before I was born Sylvia Erris, and by the time I popped out of my mother’s womb, she had a six-figure contract with a top ad agency as the face of Puppy Love, the hottest clothier for kids between five and eight years old. At 12 she had her own Disney sitcom called “Everything Eddie,” and by 17 she had renounced the Mouse, emancipated herself from her parents, and turned up at some small liberal arts college in Canada, where she extracurricularly ran an underground fight club for women sick of being prey at frat parties.

Graduation came and went, and she not only had two degrees in economics and philosophy, but also a blossoming mixed martial arts career that ended abruptly when she took to the internet to expose her manager as a pussy-grabbing sexual predator with a thing for 14-year-olds. He got three years probation and a life ban from the league. She got three months of internet trolling and a life sentence to self-imposed anonymity.

Of course, all of this knowledge was readily available on Wikipedia for anyone interested, which I wasn’t until a year ago, when I found out that Eddie Fitzjohn had been in a long-term relationship with one Raff Manning — and it had ended less than a year before Sy had entered his world.

Excerpt: In need of a witch

Some people, when they leave you, take a piece of your heart to fill a hole in their own. Others take a piece, plop it into their pocket and forget it’s there when they store their coat in the closet for the summer.

Raff Manning was the kind with the rotting chunk of my heart in his parka pocket, so when I saw his name light up my phone for the first time in six months, I assumed he had been cleaning out his closet and wanted to know if I’d like it back.

Actually, the text message preview showed a single line: “Hi: been a long time. Need your…”

Need my what? The part of me that hadn’t gotten laid in half a year liked to imagine the next word was “pussy,” but even when we were buck-naked in my bed he had never been that forward. And from the fact I was, as of that morning, “terminated “with cause” from the job I had worked for more than four years, I highly doubted even Raff needed my expertise or skills — especially when my resume centered around staff analysis and succession planning.

I let the message languish on my phone while I unpacked the sad cardboard box I’d trekked home from my ex-office. Half of it was useless junk I should have left behind — the fake plant I dusted rather than watered, a Funko Pop of Ginger from Gilligan’s Island, and since when did I own a hacky sack? — but it did the trick of covering up the ingredients I’d need to exact my revenge whenever I’d had enough wine to feel pissed enough to override the guilt.

So my boss believed that asshole Billingsly in the accounting department that I had forged my paid time off count, huh? I had a crumpled napkin filled with danish crumbs and a single hair that I had gotten off of my boss’ desk while he was in a meeting and a sliver of fingernail I had watched Billingsly bite off and spit out as he talked to me. There were two voided reports with both their signatures, a sample of the fern my boss walked into almost every day when he entered his office, and a scrap of loose fabric that dangled off the bottom of Billingsly’s chair. When mixed with a few of my own ingredients — ballpoint ink, dried and diced highlighter tips, Eucerin hand cream, and a skimming off the top of a cup of creamed coffee left to sit for a week — they’d both have to use all their paid time off to recover from the irritable bowel syndrome that had suddenly befallen them. Always treat your co-workers with respect, I smirked to myself: You could never tell which ones were witches.

But that project would have to wait.

The message floated there ominously, that “your…” looming like the foggy rim of a cliff: I knew a drop laid just beyond the edge, but I couldn’t be sure just how far down I’d fall.

I opened it.

“Hi: been a long time. Need your help on a job. $$. Meet at Ravish around 7?”

So it was a job, then. The same hook in my pelvis that had regrettably pulled at the thought of Raff wanting me back was now in my stomach. I never liked his line of work — found it dirty, despicable — but my last paycheck was currently in my handbag, and my half of the rent was due in a week. Magic could only get you so far, and a little cash wouldn’t hurt.

I changed out of my work slacks and button-down into my best-fitting jeans and a tank top in Raff’s favorite shade of green. As I checked to make sure I had locked the front door, I dashed off a text to Philippa letting her know that I wouldn’t be home until late. Her job at the lab kept her past 7 most nights anyway, but I didn’t need this to be the night she decided to bring home a takeout feast for us.

In her role as best-friend-and-avenger, Philippa had sworn that the minute she saw Raff again she would inject him with whatever pharmaceutical misfire she had cooked up at work. Forever my warrior, she was indefatigable in her hatred for him, despite how long they had gotten along in the two years I dated him. Philippa implored me to delete and block his number, and maybe she was right, but deep down I also knew that maybe one day I’d need his professional skills. You never knew when you’d need a bounty hunter.

Halfway to our meeting, I got a text from her asking if I was meeting with anyone she knew — she was almost done and wouldn’t mind joining us for a happy hour drink. “Friend from work,” I said. “Long story.”

After all, if this assignment was worth the trek up north, it wouldn’t be too far from the truth.

Walking into the bar was like stepping out of a time machine. The tables were in the same place; the bartender was the same; the TVs were even playing the same rerun of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia — a naked Danny DeVito was lying face-down in a puddle of hand sanitizer. And there sat Raff, in the same black leather jacket as he’d worn the day I met him, in the same spot he always sat in at the bar, and with a can of the same milk stout he always ordered when we came here.

I had avoided Ravish since the breakup. I didn’t want to have to answer the bartender when she asked where he was, as she was accustomed to seeing us at least once a week. I didn’t want to stare at the same wall of drawn-on dollar bills that I’d stare at when his eyes got too intense while we dissected whatever movie we’d just seen across the street. And yet here I was, walking in to act as if six months hadn’t passed.

Just to be safe, I took the stool on the right side of him, rather than on his left like I had all those times before.

“You look—” his eyes fluttered up to my hairline. While debating how much vengeful cleavage to display, I had totally forgotten that in the month following our breakup, I had chopped my hair into a punky little pixie and dyed it a luscious aubergine, then crimson, then green. I had recently experimented with turquoise. “Nice hair.”

“Thanks,” I said, running a hand just over the pompadoured front. “Thought I’d change it up.”

“Well now it’s like old times,” the bartender came over — same butterfly tattoo on her wrist, same nose ring. “Loving the hair! What can I get for you, babe?”

“Whatever Three Floyds is on tap,” I smiled at her.

“And I’ll take another one of these,” Raff said, lifting what turned out to be a near-empty can that he easily crushed in his fist.

“Sure thing,” she said. She had been privy to every thought we had in the early days when we clung so hard to each other’s sentences that we lost all grip on time, and now she was trying to determine if this was a date or detente.

“You shotgun the first one?” I asked, nodding at the crinkled can.

“Got here early.” It was like old times, I thought.

I watched the amber slosh into the pint glass as I waited for Raff to start talking. By the time the foam had started to crest the top of the glass, I had grown impatient.

“So this job?” I prompted him, smiling in thanks as the bartender placed the glass in front of me.

“I need some information from you.”

“Raff,” I said, shaking my head as I lifted the draught to my lips. A brief touch to my lips and I knew the strawberry-tinged hops flavor immediately: Zombie Dust, the first beer I’d had here. Nostalgia really had to bust my ass today, didn’t it? “If this this about Spencer, you can forget it. I don’t know what he’s up to; I don’t know where he is; and even if I did know, I would sure as fuck not tell you.”

“It’s not like that,” Raff said, tapping his nail on top of the fresh stout can in front of him. He once said it was to keep it from foaming over the top when you cracked it open, but now I realized it was likely just a compulsive ritual for him. “It’s nothing to do with your brother.”

Step-brother,” I corrected him. Spencer and I were never close, but on the scale of who was annoying me most right now, he was far from where Raff sat, which granted the amateur fireworks maker and trafficker amnesty in my head.

Raff opened the beer can and took a tentative sip. His eyes flitted to my hair with every blink.

“I really do like it, actually,” he said, as if admitting something to himself more than to me.

“What’s the job, Raff?” I needed to refocus so my face wouldn’t go pink.

“Have a bit more beer before I tell you,” he said.

I knocked my glass back hard, sloshing more than a sip or two down my front as I chugged half of it down. Even though I closed my eyes, I could still see this place on the night of our first date, when we had stayed talking at this bar until they closed. Him in that leather jacket, smelling of paper and pepper, and not only enthusiastically talking about his life, but also enthusiastically listening to me talk about my own.

Half the beer gone and my stomach roiling in discomfort, I put the glass down.

“Now?”

Raff chuckled. “OK, here’s the gig. There’s a guy up in Edgewater who’s been fencing stolen cars, and I’ve been monitoring his place all week so I can bring him in. Except I’m not the first one to try it. I’ve seen pairs of cops show up almost every day, warrant in hand, marching up to the house looking like they mean business. They go inside, and they come out looking like they’ve just had lemonade and cookies out on the back porch with the guy.”

“Maybe they are,” I shrugged. “Cops can be dirty, you know.”

“If he’s got this many cops as pals, how’d they ever get a warrant approved in the first place? Nah, something witchy is going on here.”

I twinged at the word and took another sip of beer to clear the bitter taste in the back of my throat before I spoke.

“So that’s why you need me. To do something ‘witchy’ back.”

“No,” he said, almost too quickly. “I just need you to come to the house with me so we can see what he’s got going on out there. If I know what I’m up against, I might stand a shot at getting him into custody.”

One more tip back, and my beer was nothing but suds sliding down the side of the glass.

“How much?”

“I’ll give you $600 if you come with me right now.”

That would be almost all my rent this month, and while the thought of helping Raff with his greasy bounty hunter assignment made me want to immediately take a shower, I also needed that $600 to afford the running hot water. But I wasn’t about to let my ex know I was that financially distressed, so I ran my finger around the rim of my pint glass as I smiled coyly.

“You must be desperately in need of a witch,” I said, turning my head around to see if I could find the bartender to order another pint. I didn’t want to leave yet. He’d likely walk out with me, and I’d be forced to remember in stereo the first night we left here together and he kissed me on the sidewalk outside, and the last night we left together and he told me it was over on the same patch of pavement.

At the word “witch” his eyes flashed cautiously toward the bartender, who had just reappeared behind the bar to ring in a kitchen order.

“Oh, come on,” I said. “She’s one, too, you know.”

“Serious? How do you know?”

“Witchy-sense,” I said sarcastically, adding a particularly exaggerated jerk-off motion. The truth was I had seen her add a little something to a drink if it was headed toward a particularly awful customer: whether it was to loosen their wallets or slam shut their sphincters, I didn’t know. Maybe both. “You seriously can’t tell? She must be better at hiding it from you dim people.”

“You know, ‘dim’ isn’t exactly an endearment.”

“In your case, no,” I said. “You didn’t figure me out for upwards of two years.”

He took another sip from his beer to avoid responding, but I could see his neck flush with embarrassment.

“I moved in with Philippa, by the way. She had an extra room in that brownstone she inherited from her grandma. We’re very happy and have satisfying casual sex with each other every night, in case you were wondering. I think we might take the next step and adopt a hamster next week.”

This made him crack a smile.

“Are you still living with Benjamin and Theo?”

“Yep, though the band’s long finished. We posted that music video on Youtube and got laughed off the internet.”

It didn’t take any prophesy potions to know that that was going to happen. I had seen the storyboards for their project, and it was laughable even on paper.

“They miss having you around, though,” he said quietly. “Didn’t get off my back for weeks after we broke up.”

“Was it really because of the witch thing?” I asked, figuring that I might as well put it out there now before we decided to try to haul in a car thief together. The beer had loosened me up enough to decide I’d rather regret things I said than things I didn’t say.

“Maybe,” he shrugged. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault, Sylvie. I think it was just our time to end.”

He hadn’t called me Sylvie since the height of our romance: Otherwise it had always been “Sy” or the dreaded “Sylvia.” I had no intention of starting over with him — six months had been enough time to brew and drink the right potions to detox him out of my system — but I didn’t mind him hoping this misadventure would bring us back together. Maybe we’d get through this together without going for each other’s throats, after all.

As long as he never put two-and-two together and realized that he stopped loving me shortly after he shaved all his hair off for that damn music video.

Worth the weight: On slowing down and dropping deadlines

Two things about me, one that I don’t like to admit, and one that I love pulling from my hat whenever I need to feel superior to others:

1. I am highly superstitious about some things, and typically in the opposite way as other people.

2. I used to be a journalist.

Now that you know these two things, you’ll understand when I say that I’ve always considered Friday the 13th to be a lucky day to accomplish things, such as ask a boy to prom (he said yes) or send a novel manuscript to an agent (he, too, said yes). And as a former magazine editor and reporter, I also function best with deadlines. If I miss them, I spend a debatably healthy amount of time berating myself for being forgetful, dysfunctional or just plain lazy.

In April I told my agent I’d have a full manuscript of Nobody’s Hero to him by Friday, Sept. 13. By the time I finished extracting marrow from my bones and putting it on a page — how else can you describe writing the first draft of anything? — I had less than a month to edit it, send it to my beta readers, incorporate their suggestions, copy edit, and ship it off to Ross via the Gmail Express.

In other words, to make my deadline I’d have to go on a leave of absence during a high-stress time at my day job, stop sleeping, cut ties with all my friends, and retreat to my apartment like Johnny Depp in Secret Window. And if you’ve seen that movie, you know that it’s best for everyone that I don’t become Johnny Depp in Secret Window.

So a couple weeks ago I looked at the 2019 calendar again and saw with relief that Dec. 13 is also a Friday. The year has given me one more lucky day, and it means that I can make Nobody’s Hero exactly as I want it to be before sending it off. And that’s the point, isn’t it?

Mom keeps asking me if I’m enjoying the writing. Not if I’m doing it, or if I’m almost done with it.* She wants to know I’m having fun, and now that I’m allowing myself the pleasure of time, I am.

*Lesson to friends of writers: Don’t ask how close they are to finishing a project. Ask if they’re enjoying it. My mother is a wise woman who has dealt with the many Creative Moods of Kate.

I’ll admit that the editing process started painfully. That’s what happens when you write a book over 18 months — and may be why Stephen King insists that he writes a book each “season” rather than a year and a half. When you take that long to write a story, the tone changes, and although the characters morph into what you want them to be, they don’t always do it the way they should. Case in point, Pru Mornay is absolutely heartless in Chapters One through Four, and while having a flawed main character is interesting, having an irredeemable one is off-putting. The structure was all off, with the perspective shifting between characters from paragraph to paragraph instead of section to section, and innumerable details were flat-out wrong.

In the end, I had to rewrite those chapters, and in the process, kill multiple darlings. Farewell, Foster’s glib and uncharacteristically cold remark about Pru’s dating life. Au revoir, Opal’s penthouse apartment. You were once a gorgeous description and massive plot hole.

But the revisions are becoming easier, or at least more fun, to make, and as I read through what’s already on the page, I find more opportunities to organically world-build and bring in snippets of commentary that I wanted to make clear but never had time to develop when working off plot alone. I’ve had a couple revelations and added some minor characters that help deepen the personalities of my supporting cast. There’s a notebook on my beside table that I use to write down words in the books I’ve been reading (Donna Tartt’s The Goldfinch and Robert “JK it’s Rowling” Galbraith’s Lethal White) that I want to incorporate into my own work. “Gawping,” for one. “Indefatigable,” for another. Anything to liven up the writing.

And I’m sticking to editing a chapter a night, maybe more on the weekends, fueled by scotch, whiskey or limoncello. Sure, Hemingway said “write drunk, edit sober.” These nights it feels like I’m doing more rewriting, so as far as I’m concerned, he can put that in his Cuba libre and sip it.

Because dammit, I’m having fun!

A coda: Jidenna released a new album, 85 to Africa, the week after I finished the rough draft, and the first track was called “Worth the Weight” featuring Seun Kuti. While the song focuses on the experience of displaced and emigrant Africans around the world, particularly in America, a line really spoke to me as I came to terms with having to let go of my personal deadline in favor of drawing even more marrow from my bones to bolster Nobody’s Hero to its full strength:

“And I pray that I’m the brightest sound that you ever felt / I’ma take a million flights around, ’til that shit is felt / That’s that lead the way, ayy / That’s no piece of cake, ayy…”

Excerpt from Nobody’s Hero: Niku the Nuke

I saw a tweet today asking writers “If your novel were made into a movie, which scene would you hope readers should demand to see on the big screen?” I’m a third done with Nobody’s Hero, and so far this is my answer:

Niku the Nuke blasted through the rooftop door off its hinges, armed with his usual set of knives and grenades. But Nightfire had deterrents that didn’t need to be thrown to work. One tap of her wrists together, and a blinding shock of light made him stagger backward and almost tumble down the stairs he had just ascended.

Nightfire grabbed him by the front of his white button-down shirt — Niku was known for donning a bullet- and fireproof suit lined with his weapons — and dragged him through the gap in the copper chloride line she had drawn. At the center of the roof was an air conditioning unit that she leaned his groaning body against. Aiming her knuckles at his throat, she squeezed her fist, and a collar sprung from her gauntlet and snapped around his neck, fusing to the metal unit.

“Are you going to kill me?” he coughed, yanking at the collar. 

“Nah,” she said. “Not my style.” She started to walk away, stepping over the thick stripe of copper chloride grains. 

“Not from what I heard,” he yelled after her. 

Pru shrugged — these high-stakes villains were always trying to get in a good last line. If it wasn’t Quartz telling her she’d regret this, it was Flashbang telling her they needed to talk. He hadn’t contacted her again, but she kept using that as the thread along which to string Foster’s curiosity. 

Anyway, she didn’t need to speak to have the last word tonight. One scrape of her heel along the roof’s rough concrete, and sparks landed among the copper chloride. She watched gleefully as blue flames sprung up, coiling themselves around one of the most wanted criminals in Centropolis now strapped helplessly to an A/C unit. 

Kurt Warren had been flying helicopters for the Centropolis Broadcast Network’s news team for almost twenty years, starting when he got back on his feet after a decade in the Air Force. He didn’t know how else to use his best skill, and according to his doctor, he needed to find an outlet. Truthfully, his pension and his wife’s family’s money were enough for them to live on comfortably, but he needed something to do with his time. Volunteering at the American Legion was no longer an option after he had belted that protestor who came in trying to get people to come help him fight “a real battle” against the murderous Planned Parenthood facility across the street. So he signed on to fly the pretty redheaded traffic reporter from Channel 5 above the major highways.  

He saw plenty of car crashes, jack-knifed semis and tire fires in the morning, but nothing like what he saw flying over mountainous deserts in the middle of Operation Desert Storm. Which made the job a perfect fit — skill-oriented, but relatively peaceful. 

Until tonight, that was.  

The night-shift chopper pilot, Sameer, was in an operating room with his wife at that moment while their fourth child was being born. So Kurt was behind the controls, bobbing above Centropolis City College’s campus while a reporter he had never met angled her own smartphone camera out the window. He tried to remind her that they had a real camera loaded onto the chopper and that it was probably getting better footage for the broadcast station’s internet and TV feeds. 

“Yeah, but this is for my ’gram,” she said. “Four thousand people are watching my personal feed right now. That’s more than all of my last month’s work combined.” 

Kurt shook his head, flying around to give her a better angle. All these young reporters were the same, trying to prove that they personally were there when something like this happened. Though to be fair, this was truly an eight-in-six-billion chance to see what was below with your own eyes instead of on some screen.  

The whole world would have to rely on Kurt’s helicopter or one of the other three circling the top of the Chemistry Building to see the beautiful blue flames burning like neon in a 500-square-foot outline of Nightfire’s symbol. 


Character sketch: The Debutante

It felt like yesterday despite being almost 15 years ago when Billie Jean Carusoe walked down the country club’s grand staircase — left standing just for this purpose — in a white satin gown with matching gloves. Head-to-toe in status symbols, from a great-grandmother’s add-a-pearl necklace to her very own diamond tennis bracelet, Billie Jean floated along with ten other girls her age, all competing to outdo each other with the perfect blend of Mommy and Daddy’s dream and teenage rebellion.

Thanks to the full white skirt, no one could see Wendy Jackson’s black lace thong, shoplifted not because she couldn’t afford it but because she couldn’t risk her mother finding the receipt. The white satin bodice hid the diamond stud in Trina Sawyer’s navel (though her mother didn’t mind that, as she had been the one to take her to Spencers for that little 16th birthday gift). Sniff close enough and you might detect the weed Loretta Debs had smoked the night before, if you didn’t suffocate from the smell of Ed Hardy perfume she had bathed in before slipping on her bespoke gown.

And as for Billie Jean? The white gloves hid her knuckles, bruised and swollen from the week’s boxing matches at Arturo’s. Her slight black eye had healed in time, and with an extra coat of makeup expertly applied by her sister, no one was the wiser as to what the tallest of Poppleton Fields Country Club’s debutantes did after school every day.

Now Billie Jean silently guarded an event filled with the same kind of tycoons, socialites and ladder-climbers who politely applauded her ability to be 17 and walk in a glorified Disney princess costume. Her gloves were no longer white satin, but indestructible teflon-coated fibers that firmed up when she made a fist so that every punch landed twice the blow. While the gown decayed in her mother’s closet, her cowled coat fluttered in the night air. But despite leaving that traditional Southern lifestyle behind, Billie Jean refused to forget the feeling of satisfaction she had when her parents beamed all summer after her debut.

Her enemies knew her by the beatings she delivered in dark alleys and on slum rooftops, but she prefered another monicker: The Debutante.

#NaNoWriMo2018 Day 27: Amorous Congress

Having been a bartender for ten years, Nick Matthews could tell when a date was going well, and when the dude should just put down his card and call it a night. It usually had to do with how long either person took to look through the ten to twelve cocktail cards and pick their drink. If only one of them picked it right away, it meant they wanted to get the hell out and on with their separate life. If both were antsy to order, it meant they wanted to knock it back and leave to the next thing (depending on the hour, dinner or bed). And if both mulled over the menu because they were too busy talking about other things, it meant that this was a long-term relationship in the making.

The couple that had come in tonight — Lou, the owner, had told the hostess to move them up the list for a coveted spot at the bar because he recognized them from TV — were so busy talking that Nick wasn’t sure if they’d ever order. Finally they decided on something and put the order in. Two cocktails with egg whites. Nick would have to strangle whoever decided the menu tonight should have three different shaken egg white cocktails on it. His arms were killing him. 

“An Amorous Congress and a Screaming Mimi,” he said, pushing the drinks across the bar at the couple. They hardly noticed him, but the man flipped a card out of his wallet.  

“Tab?” Nick asked. 

“Sure, why not?” the man said with a smile.  

The name of the cocktails were also a sign of where things were going. If the woman wasn’t interested in her date, no way would she have ordered a drink called Amorous Congress. There were others on the menu sometimes — Or Gee, It’s Punch!; the Boot Knocker; and the Bondage Night Special — that could be used to subliminally tell a drinking partner (or partners) what you might be up for, but there were others like Not Tonight, Satan, and We’ll Never Have Paris that hinted the other direction.  

Two Amorous Congresses, one Screaming Mimi and a draught of Whistle Pig scotch later, Nick was hoping they’d either get another round or get the fuck out. His girlfriend had texted to say she and a friend wanted to stop by, and he could use the two seats. 

That wasn’t to say he wasn’t thoroughly entertained by the couple. They had turned out to be all right folks: well-versed in their brown liquors and convivial toward him. Unlike some of the more stomach-churning dates he had seen, there was never a dull silence or barbed comment. He didn’t know where some of these guys got the idea that insulting a woman was the best way to gain her favor.