Till the Land Runs Out

I swear I'm not crazy

2012-02-26T13:42:00.001-05:00

I believe I've finally figured out that there really is a purpose for most events in my life if I take the time to closely examine them rather than reacting to them. The purpose may not be apparent at once, but after a while, it will become clear. Sometimes I need to add it to another "purposeless" event and the two (or three) of them together will reveal the reasons why. I had always suspected this to be true, but as of late it's become so much more evident.

Life works in very mysterious ways. That's a cliche that until recently I had passed off as just a bunch of words strung together into a rather weak observation. Then I started to go back over events in my life. Not just the big ones, but the little ones as well, the ones that didn't seem to mean anything at all. I'm discovering that all the time-travel style theories of changing one little thing, no matter how insignificant it may seem, and having that action completely alter the future isn't just a plot point that makes for interesting fiction. It's true.

Our destinies are in our hands in the choices that we make, but some of them are a combination of our choices and circumstances being just right to provide a specific outcome. If those circumstances were not in place at the time that we made a particular choice, the outcome would have been different even if our choice was the same.

I'm on the cusp of something. I can feel it in every single part of my being, my body and my soul. It's tingling through me enough to make me pause. My normally impatient self is suddenly acutely aware and feeling very calm and patient and, above all, confident. I don't have to do anything this time. I'm not in a rush. The culminating event that ties all past events together is approaching my door and the only thing I need to do at the moment is wait for it to knock. The pieces are there. I'll go about my business now with a calm understanding, doing what I still should do, but no longer anxious or worried about future events. They're already in place for me as a result of both my choices and circumstances and now it's only a matter of waiting for that proverbial ship to come in.

I know I'm talking in riddles right now, vague and unable to reveal details, but it will all become apparent in the coming weeks and months if my intuition is correct and I am, in fact, on the verge of something I had absolutely never expected and didn't even imagine. But I feel it now, with certainty. The air around me is charged. My life is about to drastically change. All of my life has been leading up to this moment.

For the record, I'm not crazy or trying to talk myself into better days. It's just that I tend to be very intuitive. Not with everything, mind you, but with some things. I've had this "on the cusp of something big" feeling before. I get them on occasion, and not only for my own life. For instance, in the two days prior to 9/11, I had a very strong "doomed/sorrowful" kind of feeling that wasn't directed at anything in particular. My life at the time was pretty much worry-free, so I couldn't attribute the feeling to anything at all. I remember very clearly when it first fell over me I was standing outside on the patio. I looked up at the blue sky and the few white clouds and had this awful feeling of doom. Suddenly. For no reason. The feeling didn't leave until 9/11. I've never been able to explain it other than it had to be that I somehow felt 9/11 coming, something in the energy, a foreshadow of such massive amounts of collective pain charging the air around me. What I did know for certain was that the doomed feeling wasn't for me; something was about to happen and it was something big and sad. That's all I could say about how it felt.

So this feeling I'm having now bears the same fingerprint of strength, but this time it's about me. I can't pinpoint what it is, I just know that it's a game-changer, a complete about-face, significant enough to alter my life, but in a good way rather than a bad one, and that's it's something that I wouldn't have dreamed of happening. It's a culmination of everything to this point, both the good and bad.

And I swear I'm not crazy. :)

The Grand Design

2012-02-21T12:03:00.000-05:00

It spreads like a brush fire in a strong wind,
eating everything in its path.
No way to drown it, and no need to try.
It has the power to push on,
to spread to every small corner,
to seek out every plot of life.
Containment is the only option,
but even that is next to impossible.
It feeds with a rabid hunger.
And when everything is finally gone
it will wave a final flame
and disappear in threads of smoke
back toward the sky.
In the deathly quiet that surrounds,
and the heat that remains,
there is nothing left to do
but assess the damage,
survey the destruction,
and bear witness to the wasteland
it has created in its grand design.

~Jayleigh Cape, Feb. 21, 2012

Losing battle

2012-02-20T11:31:00.000-05:00

Wow. It's been 19 days since I posted. I usually do better than that. I haven't had too much to say, or maybe I haven't wanted to say much because life just seems to be one big, huge heartbreak lately and I haven't wanted to address any of it.

I still wake up everyday. That's a good thing, I suppose. These past 19 days have been so fraught with emotional turmoil. Flying one minute, hurtling toward the cold, hard earth the next. More hurtling than flying. It's not just one thing, either; it's everything. Finances, work situation, affairs of the heart. Damn the affairs of the heart. Those are the worst. All I want is to be happy. However that comes, whatever course gets me there. I just want the day to come when I'm not worrying about a million different things and when all of them are of such equal importance.

I never thought I'd be here, in this place. This wasn't my intention. I didn't try for it. I was making good decisions, but Fate or God or Satan, or whatever you want to call it, keeps knocking me back. Not just a little shove that sends me a few steps backward, but a hard punch each time that sends me sailing so far away that I have to run for a long time just to get back to the same spot again.

There are days like the last several have been when I don't want to do anything but shut out the world. My heart hurts, my head hurts, I'm constantly worrying, and I feel like I'm fighting a losing battle.

All I want is to be happy. That's all I'm striving toward, my only goal. I know there will always be some worry or concern--life isn't perfect--but just one or two worries or concerns would be a huge relief. It's all of these dire situations all at once that I can't handle. I'm overwhelmed and it puts me in a dark place. I just want out of the darkness. I want back in the light.

Will it ever get any better?

The best character I ever created

2012-02-01T18:41:00.001-05:00

I am a firm believer in strong character development. Looking back over my work, I realize now that the best character I ever created was one that came to me in the middle of the night two long decades ago. The moment I set his name down on paper, I knew I had something truly special and there was no way that anyone would ever be able to duplicate him. Almost immediately I realized that he had been a part of me all along, and was in fact a combination of the best parts of me and the best parts of those around me. I began to pour my heart into turning him into a character that others wouldn't soon forget.

Over the years I've continued to work on his development. Instilling in him the traits I wanted him to have--traits that I knew would make people fall in love with him--has been a sometimes miraculous and sometimes tedious task. I wrote him into stories that weren't always happy. Sometimes they were filled with such challenges that it broke my heart to put him through them just to develop a little more character in him. At times I lost faith in my ability to turn him into what I knew he could be, but I've always managed to surprise even myself and find the right way to get him there. Character development isn't just as simple as saying this person is going to be this way and do these things. It's giving a solid reason for those traits to be there in the first place.

I made a point to write into him my quirky sense of humor and it was then, in amazement, that I watched as that trait began to transform into a voice all his own. He was still my creation, but he was becoming his own presence. With so much time and effort spent developing his character, it was my hope that someday he would become so independent of me that, while I was still the original author, he would soon begin to write most of the passages himself. I was finally beginning to witness it, to see his evolution into something beyond me. It took time for me to adjust when he became so separate from me, but I eventually did and was amazed to find that this new and unexpected character he had become still held onto those traits that I had initially given him. I was still the original author, and I took pride in my accomplishment.

That's what character development is all about, breathing such life into a character that you create something that ends up going far beyond your expectations and hopes. It's about creating a character that takes what you've given him and then takes on a life of his own, building on himself until he is so obviously independent of you, yet still very much a part of you. It is watching him grow beyond you, yet feeling such satisfaction in the knowledge that it was within your heart and hard work that he first began to exist.

Two decades ago, I created the best character of my life.

His name is Zach, and he's my son.

Lori A. Moore's Interview With Me

2012-02-01T10:12:00.002-05:00

The gracious Lori A. Moore interviewed me and, believe it or not, wasn't afraid to post it on her blog. This is proof that I come across as at least somewhat normal when I put my mind to it. ;)

Thank you so much, Lori! It was a pleasure!

Follow the link below to read the interview on her blog, "Lori A. Moore Online".

An Interview With Author Jayleigh Cape

Sneak Peek, Chapter One of "Running in Place"

2012-01-28T18:39:00.003-05:00

This will be the only sneak peek I'll releasefor Running in Place, thesequel to A Shot in the Dark.If you've read the first book, you'll notice a few things in this first chapterof the sequel that tie into it. If you haven't read A Shot in the Dark yet,what are you waiting for? :) There are links to it all along the sidebar hereon my blog. Enjoy!

-------------------------------------

Running in Place by Jayleigh Cape

CHAPTER ONE

Not just any blue, Emmy Kennett told herself as herfingertips gently glided across the smooth, slender tubes of oil paints on thedisplay rack in front of her. Abreathing name. Manganese. Hydrangea. Cobalt.

As each color’s name became a picture inher mind, she stood in one of the aisles closest to the back of the craft storeand felt safe and peaceful. Despite the longer walk, she liked this large chainstore much better than she did the smaller one that was closer to The House.Normally she avoided the large, impersonal chains because they were busy, butthis one was a specialty store, which meant it had a steady stream ofcustomers, but rarely more than eight or ten at any given time. With theexpansiveness of the store’s interior, those few people had a great deal morethan just an arm’s length cushioned between them. The independently owned craftstore close to The House was so small that, even when only a few people wereinside, it felt crowded and uncomfortable.

While she read through the color names onthe paint tubes, a middle-aged man in a business suit entered the aisle to herright and stopped in front of the canvases that were perfectly stacked withinbins on the wall several feet away from her. Emmy turned her head the tiniestbit and glanced at him out of the corners of her eyes. As long as she didn’tlook directly at him, he wouldn’t smile at her, and then he wouldn’t expect herto smile back. Avoidance was important because Interaction, especially withstrangers, always made her feel frustrated. She tucked her bottom lip betweenher teeth as she quietly waited for him to select a canvas and leave.

“Excuse me,” the man said, startling her.

Though she knew from his polite tone thathe was speaking at a normal volume, his voice seemed to boom above the soothingambient music piping through the store’s speakers. Her hand shot up to thediminutive green velvet pouch that dangled from a faded length of hemp betweenher collarbones. Nervously rubbing at the small object within it, she turnedher attention back to the paint display in front of her and pretended to be soabsorbed in her selection of a color that she hadn’t heard him. Maybe if hethought he was interrupting her concentration, he wouldn’t try again.

From her peripheral vision she saw himmove a few steps toward her holding two of the canvases. Her breath turnedshallow.

“Excuse me, miss?” he repeated. “Do youpaint?”

With no more than a quick glance at him toacknowledge that she had heard him, she returned her focus to the paint tubesand barely nodded her head.

“Do you know if these canvases are readyto go as they are,” he asked, “or do they need to be primed or something? I’mnot actually a painter; I’m buying these for my son. I don’t have the firstclue about paint supplies.”

“They’re painless,” she softly replied.

An elongated space of silence followed heranswer. Without looking at him, she was certain that he now wore a puzzledexpression. She knew exactly what she meant by her answer, but because of hiscurrent hesitation, she was sure that he didn’t.

This was why she avoided talking topeople. Most of them had a hard time making sense out of some of the things shesaid. It wasn’t that she couldn’t carry on a normal conversation, but Emmy’smind had a way of moving along paths that others didn’t quite understand. Toher, they were perfectly normal paths, but the expressions on the faces ofthose listening, the drawn-out silences, and the number of times in her lifewhen she had heard “I don’t understand” or “What do you mean?” had all made herrealize in recent years that she simply wasn’t good at interacting with people.As a result, she had stopped conversing with them altogether unless it wasnecessary. She preferred to keep herself tucked away in her own quiet worldwhere no thought she had was ever misunderstood.

After chewing over her answer for amoment, the man finally said, “I’m sorry?”

Emmy nodded her head and frowned as sheconcentrated on a different way to put it. “Painless. No pain, no gain. No workneeded.”

“Oh, they’re already primed,” he said asit dawned on him what she meant. “No work needed. I see. Thank you, miss.”

She nodded again, this time vigorouslyenough to send her shoulder-length black hair swaying against her cheeks, butstill her gaze never wavered from the tubes of paint before her. When shefinally felt him move away, she remembered the courtesy that she was supposedto extend when someone thanked her. He had already disappeared with hisselected canvases around the corner when she whispered, “You’re welcome.”

Alone again, her mind quickly returned toher selection of the proper blue hue from the paint tubes in front of her.

A breathing name, she reminded herself as she began onceagain to read over the colors. Manganese.Hydrangea. Cobalt. Cerulean.

She paused as the word Ceruleanimmediately brought to mind a picture of a beautiful dreamlike blue skydecorated with soft, cottonball clouds. A junior high art teacher had once toldher that the color’s name was a derivative of the Latin word Caelum, whichmeant sky or heaven. Emmy remembered everything in vivid color images that werecataloged in her brain and were pulled up in complete detail as she heard thewords or phrases associated with them. Ever since she had heard that teacher’sdefinition of the word Cerulean, the image that immediately came to her uponhearing it again was that of the dreamlike sky she had pictured when the teacherhad first told her about it.

Cerulean. Caelum. Sky. Air. Flowing. Abreathing name.

Reaching forward with a small, satisfiedsmile, she plucked the tube from the display and studied the color sample onthe label. It was definitely a breathing color as well as a breathing name, andexactly what she needed for the latest vision she was trying to release fromher head. Her head was full of extraordinarily detailed images that neveractually left her, but she found that if she could transfer the most prominentone of the day or week into reality, give life to it by brushing it intopermanence on a canvas, then she could sleep peacefully for a few nights afterit was finished. It wouldn’t be long before another vision settled into itsplace and begged to be released.

With a slow and purposeful glance towardeither end of the aisle to assure herself that no one else had entered it, Emmystuffed the paint tube into the pocket of her oversized jacket and headed forthe front of the craft store. She kept her head down as she passed by the lineof cash registers and pushed through the glass doors, stepping out onto thesidewalk. Once outside, her focus never lifted, but instead steadfastlyremained on her feet. Watching herself walk wasn’t a habit she used to avoidgetting caught for shoplifting; it was a habit she used to avoid eye contactwith strangers and the possibility of a much-dreaded Interaction.

She had only one more stop to make beforegoing back to The House. She had already taken a flat, white sheet from thehomeless shelter the day before. All she needed now were some sturdy boards anda pocket full of nails to build a frame. Those materials along with the pail ofwhite paint she had stolen a month before from the same construction sitetoward which she now walked would give her all she needed to stretch a newcanvas.

While Emmy made her way through thestreets with her chin tucked down against her chest, several blocks away fromher Liz Holland drove her friend Jason McCray past Emmy’s construction sitedestination on their way to what Emmy called The House. Liz had phoned herfriend the evening before and had told him that there was something that shewanted to show him. They had made arrangements for Jason to stop by the shelterthe following day as Liz was getting off work so she could take him to see thisnew discovery that simply couldn’t wait.

Liz’s job as a social worker at theshelter exposed her to all types of people from all walks of life, all of whomhad hit their lowest point. Some were drug addicts or alcoholics, others werefamilies who had lost their homes in the financial crisis and had no where elseto go, and still more were runaways just looking for a place to land for thenight, a break from prostituting, or simply a reason to continue existing. Shetried to help all of them in every way she could, but sometimes all they reallyneeded was someone to listen and understand that they weren’t bad people, theywere just in a bad way. They needed someone to treat them with kindness andrespect because they often didn’t feel deserving of either. Liz tried to makethem see that no matter what was going on in their lives that had brought themto the shelter, all people regardless of their circumstances were important toher.

Occasionally Liz would come up on one ofthem who would sneak into her heart without even trying to do so, one that sheknew without doubt had potential to be something more if she could only figureout how to break through the barriers. Emmy Kennett, the skinny and painfully shyyoung woman with dark hair and even darker eyeliner, was one of them.

Emmy had been coming to the shelter forabout a year. Though she wasn’t there every night, for the first eight monthsshe had made an appearance several times a week. When there wasn’t a bedavailable for her, Liz would invite the young woman into her office in theguise of having a chat and would allow the “chat” to continue until Emmyeventually fell asleep in the chair with her knees tucked up against her chestand her head resting on top of them.

For the past four months, Emmy hadcontinued to stop by a few times a week as usual, but she would only stay longenough to eat something in the soup kitchen and then she would head back out.She no longer sought a bed. It was only the day before that Liz was able totalk to her long enough to find out about The House where Emmy had been living.Wanting to be sure that the young woman was safe, she had offered to drive Emmyback to it after she had finished eating.

The House was a small, two-story abandonedbuilding ten blocks from the shelter. Once a home that, judging by thearchitecture, had most likely been built in the 1920s or ‘30s, the white paintwas now nearly gone from its wooden slat exterior, the roof was missing morethan half of its shingles, and the windows and doors had been covered withplywood that had long since begun to mold. Where there was once a lawn, therewere now only patches of weeds dotting the bare, brown earth. Cutting throughthe center of the dirt yard toward the front door was a narrow walkway, itsconcrete now so disintegrated that in a few more years it would become nothingmore than a memory. The House sat down the street from a police station, whichis why, Liz assumed, it hadn’t been claimed as a crack house or for some otherillegal purpose. Emmy was so quiet and elusive that Liz was sure the police hadno idea that she was staying there.

As the social worker parked her car on thestreet in front of The House, she shut off the engine and looked over at herfriend sitting in the passenger seat. Jason was looking past her toward theruined building with a pained expression.

“You’re kidding, right?” he said. “I hopeyou’re not taking me into that.”

Liz chuckled at him as she opened her cardoor. “Come on,” she said. “We have to go in before it gets dark. Emmy’s takenthe boards off of a few windows that are out of plain sight. Daylight’s theonly light we’re going to have, and you have to see this. I promise, it’ll beworth it.”

With the front door fully boarded andobviously inaccessible, Liz led Jason around the side of The House to the backdoor, just as Emmy had done with her yesterday when she had allowed Liz tofollow her inside to check the place out. Emmy had smartly revised the backdoor to appear to still be boarded, when in fact it swung open easily, if notquietly.

As the two of them stepped into the middleof what was once a tiny mudroom and then moved through another doorway into ashort, dark hall bordered on the left by a staircase, Liz called out Emmy’sname. No one answered.

“I guess she’s not here,” Jason said,wrinkling his nose against the faint stench of what he could only assume was adead animal rotting away somewhere within The House’s foundation.

“Not necessarily,” Liz replied over hershoulder as she led him toward the front of The House. “Emmy’s reclusive. Shedoesn’t talk much and when she does, she’s painfully awkward. She’s veryintelligent, but she has no common sense when it comes to people. I’m not sureyet, but the more time I spend talking to her, the more I believe she may beautistic.”

Just as they turned the corner from thehallway into what was once the living room, Liz called out Emmy’s name againwith still no response.

The primary window that overlooked thefront lawn from the living room was still boarded up, but the two smallerwindows that faced the side of the house were uncovered, letting the daylightgently filter into the room. As Jason rounded the corner behind Liz, his eyeswere immediately drawn to the only objects that sat inside the room—a dozenlarge canvases propped in sets of three against all four walls.

Liz heard Jason draw a sharp breath behindher and she smiled to herself as she recalled doing the exact same thing theday before. The paintings on the canvases were nothing short of breathtaking.

Six of them, grouped together in two setsof three, were depictions of angels painted in various styles: realism,surrealism, and impressionism. The remaining six—the other two sets ofthree—were street scenes of the city. There was one of the elaborately steepledCatholic Church that sat near the center of town, its stone and the streetsurrounding it shimmering in a fresh and cleansing rain. Yet another one was oftwo homeless men that Liz was sure she recognized sitting amid dumpsters in analleyway, sharing a bottle of wine between them.

Moving across the room toward thepaintings closest to the unobstructed windows, Jason was at first afraid tospeak. He felt as though he was standing in a museum instead of in a room wherethe floorboards hadn’t seen a mop or broom in years and spider webs thicklygathered on the walls above eye level.

Eventually he allowed himself to break thesilence, but he kept his voice quietly respectful. “She did these? All ofthem?”

“Yes,” Liz answered him with the samequiet tone. “I had no idea she could paint. She never said anything that wouldmake me suspect it.”

Jason knelt down before one of the angelpaintings and closely examined it. The detail was flawless and the use of colorand technique was something that he would normally only see in thework of an artist who had decades of experience. He knew that the sign of anextraordinary painting was one that evoked feeling. Ashe slowly turned himself around in his kneeling position to surveythe other paintings surrounding him, he realized that every single one of thempossessed that quality.

“Liz, these are amazing,” he whispered,his voice reflecting only a portion of the awe he felt.

“I know,” Liz replied. Then, with a smallsmile, she added, “There’s more.”

Looking up at her, Jason’s eyes widened. “Morethan these?”

Liz nodded. “All through the house. Jason,she’s only been staying here for four months. In four months, she’s done aboutfifty paintings and every single one of them is just as incredible as the onebefore.”

Stunned, Jason simply shook his head. Hehad been an art enthusiast most of his life and had dabbled in painting himselffrom time to time. Mostly he was a collector who had spent the past twenty oddyears serving on the Board of Directors at the Museum of Fine Arts. In lessthan a week, he would open his very first gallery in the Short North that wouldshowcase the work of local artists. There was no doubt why Liz had insistedthat venturing inside this frighteningly dilapidated house would be well worththe risk to his safety.

Liz smiled at her friend’s shockedexpression. “Through that doorway over there,” she said, pointing to an openingon the far wall of the living room, “there’s twelve more, but come on. If thesehaven’t convinced you that Emmy has talent, what’s upstairs definitely will.”

Jason eagerly stood and followed thesocial worker as she moved just outside the living room to the bottom of thesteep staircase. As he surveyed the dangerously decaying wood that ascended tothe second floor, he asked: “Isn’t there an elevator or something? I’d evensettle for a dumbwaiter.”

Liz laughed. “Watch your step. And holdonto the railing. Just in case.”

Once they had managed to successfully maketheir way to the second floor without falling through, they found themselvesstanding before the antiquated bathroom that sat at the very top of the stairs.To their left was another short, dim hallway, with a door on each side and afinal one at the very end.

Once again, Liz called out for Emmy, butThe House was quiet in response.

As they passed by the two smallerbedrooms, they stopped inside each one and stood momentarily fixed in awe.There were twelve paintings to each room, just as there had been in the livingroom, all meticulously ordered in sets of three against each of the room’s fourwalls. There were more angels, once again in various styles, but here there wasalso a set of floral paintings and a set of wildlife paintings. The rest werescenes of the downtown city, like those on the first floor. All of them werestunning in both detail and technique.

Neither of them spoke until theyapproached the closed door at the very end of the hall. It was there that Lizpaused and half-whispered, “There’s only one in here.”

The door groaned as she pushed against itand then she stepped aside into the room to give her friend a clear view.

Jason came to an abrupt halt in thedoorway. His mouth dropped open as he drew in another sharp breath, just as hehad upon seeing the first paintings downstairs, but this time he wasmomentarily frozen in awe and the rest of the room seemed to slip away fromhim. Propped against the far wall directly in front of him was a painting thatstood at least eight feet tall and spanned from one corner of the room toanother, at least twelve feet in length. It was another angel and, like half ofthe others, it was male, but this one was remarkably life-like in its detail.With his wings fully unfurled, their tips nearly touching each outer edge ofthe canvas, and his stance a powerful force with which to be reckoned, he hadan expression on his face that was both incredibly peaceful and incrediblyfierce.

Moving slowly into the room toward thepainting, Jason was captivated by the details of the face and how well theyoung woman had managed to portray an expression that evoked a combination ofsuch opposite emotions. He wasn’t sure if he was being drawn to him or beingintimidated by him, but without a doubt he had a strong urge to kneel inreverence before him.

It took a moment for him to regain hisbearings. When he did, he began to move along the painting’s length and studythe use of color and the brush strokes. He absently remarked: “I could seepeople just standing and staring at this piece, Liz. It’s so realistic, like atany moment his wings will flutter, or he’ll step out of the canvas.”

Liz moved up beside him and quietly said:“Your gallery opens next week, Jason. This young woman needs a chance to besomething.”

Jason nodded. “She’s already something,Liz. She’s just hiding it in a building that could collapse on top of her atany second.” After a moment, he asked: “Do you think she’d let me show them,though? Especially this one?”

“I don’t know,” Liz replied with a shrug.“The others, maybe, but this one might take some convincing. I asked her why itwas the only one in the room and she said because it was lost. Not he was lost; it was lost.”

“What was lost?” Jason frowned. “Thepainting?”

“I have no idea what she meant,” Lizlaughed as she shook her head. “Emmy has a strange way of saying thingssometimes. If she is autistic like I believe, it’s because she makesconnections that aren’t exactly how we see things. When I asked her once whyshe wore such dark eyeliner, she said it was because she liked the apple. Ittook me a long time to figure out that she wore it because she liked the waythe evil queen in Snow White looked, all dark and mysterious, and sheassociated the evil queen with the poisoned apple.”

Chuckling, Jason knelt down to study thelower portion of the painting. “I’m not sure how you managed to figure thatout, but I guess it makes sense when you explain it.”

“She’s not impossible to talk with,” Liztold him, “and like I said, she’s very smart. Just expect to hear a few thingsfrom her that won’t make sense to you.”

Jason turned and looked up at her over hisshoulder. “I don’t care if she’s a deaf mute who couldn’t carry on aconversation to save her life. She has more innate talent in her little fingerthan most artists have after a lifetime of study. To evoke emotion, Liz, that’swhat every artist strives toward. She’s already mastered it.”

He straightened and took several stepsback to stand in the center of the room, his focus drawn again toward theintensity of the angel’s face, the odd combination of emotions written in hisexpression. He crossed his arms as he shook his head in amazement. To find thisyoung woman, to be credited with discovering her and to have her collectionexclusively displayed in his gallery, would not only bring focus to himself andhis gallery, but to the other local artists who would be displaying their workin nearby rooms. Everyone would benefit.

“You have to help me convince her, Liz,”he said. “I want this hanging in the Showcase room of the gallery on openingday.”

From behind them, they heard a quiet voicesay, “No.”

Both of them turned in perfect concert tosee Emmy standing in the door’s threshold, her arms filled with long, narrowpieces of wood. As usual, she was dressed in the familiar blue jeans, torn atboth knees, the tattered sneakers, and the oversized jacket that she alwayswore. Her dark hair hung lifelessly around her thin face and the only make-upshe wore was the jet-black eyeliner that emphasized the distress currently setinto her caramel-colored eyes. She wasn’t looking at either of them. Insteadher gaze had settled on the floor at their feet.

Liz and Jason exchanged a brief glancebefore Liz took a step toward the young woman.

“Why not, Emmy?” she gently asked. “Youcould leave here, live somewhere that’s clean and safe and do nothing butpaint.”

“I do nothing but paint now,” she replied.

“But you have an amazing gift,” Liz toldher. “Don’t you want to share it with the world?”

Emmy jerked her shoulders up into a shrug.“It’s better if they don’t see me,” she replied. “Then I don’t have to seethem. These are my pictures.” Her eyes flickered uptoward the social worker and then quickly moved back to the woman’s blue andwhite tennis shoes. “I trusted you.”

Liz felt her heart clench in her chest.Taking another step toward her, she softly said, “I’m only trying to help you.”

Her words brought Emmy’s head up at onceto meet her gaze. Direct eye contact with the young woman was rare and when itdid occur, it never lasted more than a few fleeting seconds. But this timeEmmy’s eyes lingered on the social worker’s face, studying it for an extendedmoment before darting up to the face of the angel behind them.

I’m only trying to help you.

As she heard Liz’s words, they immediatelycalled up one of the cataloged images from her mind. As it was with all of thepictures in her head, the memory was in such exact detail and precise colorthat it was as if she was experiencing it all over again. She saw his face lookingdown at her: The creases in his forehead as he pleaded with her, the scruff ofhis day-old beard, the brown curls of his hair that skimmed against the collarof his black jacket, the fresh spots of crimson blood scattered across hisforehead and right cheek, and his vividly blue eyes that had been solid blackin the car.

When she heard Liz’s words in her head, itwasn’t Liz’s voice she heard saying them; it was his. Her guardian angel withthe obsidian eyes, the one who had set her free, the one she had transferredfrom her head onto the canvas now standing behind them during her first week inThe House. She had put him there to protect her against the frightening noiseson the street outside and the shadows that emerged after the sun went away,just as he had protected her four years ago. She gave him life so he wouldwatch over her.

Emmy promptly spun on her heels. Theystared in bewilderment at her back, clad in the oversized black jacket shealways wore, as she quickly moved away from them down the hall. Just before sheturned into one of the side bedrooms, they heard her say: “I don’t need yourhelp. I found it.”

A confused look passed between Liz andJason. The social worker thought of Emmy’s response the day before to herquestion about the painting. It was the only one in the room, she had said,because “it was lost”. She wondered if there was a connection between thatstatement and the one Emmy now made about finding something.

As they started after her, Liz called out:“What are you talking about, Emmy? What did you find?”

When they rounded the corner into theroom, they saw her kneeling on the floor, carefully placing the boards into aperfect rectangle. Once finished, she began to scoot herself around to eachside, painstakingly adjusting the placement of each board by no more than afraction of an inch.

“What did you find?” Liz repeated.

“The Black,” the young woman softlyanswered without pausing in her task. She had made a complete orbit around theboards and now she began again, still adjusting, still shifting each one soslightly that it didn’t appear that she was shifting them at all. “He lost itwhen he killed the stranger, but I found it. Now I have to hold it for him incase he comes back for it.”

Liz walked over and knelt down beside her.As soon as she did, Emmy stopped adjusting the boards, drew her hands into herlap, and looked toward the social worker’s knees from the corners of her eyes.

“You’re in my way,” she said simply.

Ignoring her, the social workerhalf-whispered, “Did you see someone get killed, Emmy?”

“I trusted you,” the young woman said, hervoice laced with bitterness. “You’re in my way. Move.”

Liz glanced over her shoulder at Jason,looking for any help she could get in making sense of what Emmy had said. Herfriend shrugged at her and shook his head.

Taking a deep breath, a frown of concernsettled on Liz’s forehead as she studied Emmy’s profile for a moment. Then sheleaned slightly forward so she could get a better look at the young woman’sface.

“Did you see someone get killed?” sherepeated the question.

“No,” Emmy quietly answered. “I heard it.”

“Heard what?” Liz gently pressed.

“The gunshot.”

The social worker looked over her shoulderagain at Jason, who was looking back at her with raised eyebrows. Her attentionreturned to Emmy as she asked: “Who was it? Who was killed?”

“I told you, the stranger.”

“What stranger?”

Frowning, Emmy said, “If I knew him, hewouldn’t be a stranger.”

Liz sighed. The young woman made a logicalpoint, but it didn’t help her. She was trying to coax more details from her—aplace, an event, a description, maybe—that would help her figure out thestranger’s identity. At least it was obvious to her now that Emmy didn’t knowthe person who had been killed.

“Okay, then,” Liz said, “What did youfind?”

With a quick and fleeting glance at thesocial worker’s face, Emmy replied in agitation: “You don’t listen. I told youthat, too. The Black.”

She had told her, but it still made no sense.“What’s ‘the black’?”

“That he lost,” Emmy replied.

Getting frustrated with the circles inwhich Emmy was talking, Liz paused for a minute while she tried to figure outanother way to understand. Finally, she asked, “Can I see it?”

Emmy shook her head. “I have to keep itsafe.”

Just as Liz opened her mouth to ask if shehad it with her, the young woman added: “I gave it back to him in the painting.Didn’t you see?”

From past conversations with the youngwoman, Liz knew that sometimes, when she was having a difficult time followingwhat Emmy meant, it would become clearer if she made one simple request. It wasthe same request that had led her to the eyeliner/apple connection. In themidst of her current confusion, she pulled out the request again.

“Show me.”

Emmy shot her another brief glance, thisone overflowing with frustration, before pushing herself to her feet. Sheimmediately brushed past Jason and started out of the room with both of themfollowing after her. In the hall, she turned back in the direction of the finalbedroom, where she walked in and directly over to stand before the hugepainting. She pointed up to the angel’s face, to the black void of his eyes.

“See?” she said. “The Black. He lost it. Igave it back to him, but I still have it for when he needs it again.”

As she came slowly up beside her,realization suddenly dawned on Liz. “Is this who killed the stranger?” she asked.

“Yes,” Emmy answered, perfectlyenunciating the word. She thought she had already made that clear.

Turning her attention up to the angel’sface, Liz studied the details of it. “Is he a real person?” she asked.

Emmy frowned, unsure why the social workerdidn’t already know the answer to that question. She only painted the picturesin her head, and the pictures of people were always of someone she had seen.Sometimes she changed what they were doing or how they were dressed justbecause she felt like it, but the people, the faces, were always someone shehad cataloged in perfect detail in her mind. She thought that was what everypainter did.

“They’re all real,” she responded.

Liz reached over and touched Emmy’s arm,trying to get her to turn toward her so she could see her face. “But is this one real?”

The young woman took a small sidestep awayfrom her touch. She still felt betrayed by her. “Of course,” she replied. “Hekilled the stranger. I told you that.”

Still not getting the clear answer shesought, Liz sighed. After a moment of contemplation, she asked, “Did he havewings when you saw him or did you add those yourself when you painted him?”

Passing the social worker a slightlyamused glance, Emmy rolled her eyes. “No one has wings, Liz.”

Liz heard a soft snort of amusement frombehind her and turned to give Jason a disapproving look.

“Silly question,” he chided her.

She smirked at him before returning herattention to Emmy. “Why did he kill the stranger? Do you know?”

Emmy let out a heavy sigh of agitation asshe turned and started for the door. She had a frame to build, a canvas tostretch, a picture to release, and she was tired of the questions. She wantedthem to go away and leave her alone so she could stop feeling so helpless andfrustrated with her inability to make them understand.

When she had left home a year before, setout on her own in the middle of the night when no one was paying attention, itwasn’t because she didn’t love and want to be around her parents and threesiblings. It was because she had made the decision that it was best for her toavoid Interactions and her home was filled with them. Without her familysurrounding her, in her solitude, she had found a peace that she had never beenable to find at home. There was no doubt that she missed them, but she wasbetter now that she wasn’t forced into feelings of frustration on a daily basisbecause she had to continually repeat herself. Conversations, theseInteractions with people outside of her quiet world, always gave the illusionof moving forward, when in fact they were standing still. For Emmy, talking topeople was like running in place—in constant motion, but never actually gettinganywhere.

Just after she breezed by Jason, she saidover her shoulder: “He killed the stranger forme. To set me free.”

People like that

2012-01-26T09:57:00.001-05:00

Ever have one of those days--

Hold on. Let me start over.

Ever have one of those weeks when everything you had planned to do at the top of it keeps getting pushed aside for one issue after another that needs your immediate attention? That has been my week so far. All of the tasks that sat in the to-do basket in my brain when I started the week are still there while my focus has been diverted elsewhere. There is absolute truth in the cliche "when it rains it pours".

So in the current quiet moment that I've discovered this morning, I decided to roll out a blog post and then move on to the to-do basket. It's been waiting for me, so this post will be short.

In the course of putting out fires this week, I've come face-to-face with several different types of people. There are those who are so self-absorbed that, while they don't deliberately hurt others, they have no true ability to look beyond themselves and their own needs to see how they are affecting those around them with their actions. There are those who are so self-absorbed that they understand perfectly what their actions are doing and do them anyway because they feel a need to hold other people down so they can appear superior (better known as jealousy, I just used a lot of words to describe it). And then there are those people who make up for the existence of the first two. They are the people who are genuinely kind-hearted and not only willing to go the extra mile to help someone, but will do so without being asked and without an expectation of anything in return. I came across two of those people this week and just those two made me truly pity the others with whom I was dealing--those that fall into the first two categories.

As a result, a new item got added to my to-do basket and this one has taken priority. After I leave this blog post, I'm heading into my email account and writing a letter of praise for those two women and sending it off to the company for which they work. So often we complain about bad customer service and we never hesitate to send letters with regard to the poor way we were treated, but how often do we send letters of praise to let a company know that they have a wonderful person in their employment, someone who is the very definition of excellent customer service?

My hope is that these two women will be recognized by the company and my letter praising them will go into their employment file. Maybe the next time their annual review rolls around, that letter will be brought up and their raises will be better because of it. They certainly deserve no less. What they did for me, they didn't have to do, and they did it of their own accord. I didn't ask for it. They took their time to do it after our conversation had ended and then called me back to tell me the good news. They took the time to care, and that alone speaks volumes about their characters.

Thank God for people like that in the world.

Versatile Blogger Award

2012-01-25T15:34:00.000-05:00

I awoke this morning to discover that Bean from Finding Your Gibbee had chosen me for the Versatile Blogger Award. Thank you so much, Bean! It's such a wonderful feeling to be noticed and appreciated. :)

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Here are the rules that go along with this award:

In a post on your blog, nominate 15 fellow bloggers for the Versatile Blogger Award. (15 isn't mandatory, but it's a nice gesture. Try and pick at least 5.)
In the same post, add the Versatile Blogger Award.
In the same post, thank the blogger who nominated you with a link back to their blog.
In the same post, share 7 completely random pieces of information about yourself.
In the same post, include this set of rules.
Inform each nominated blogger of their nomination by posting a comment on each of their blogs.

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Here are the 7 completely random and probably much more than you really needed to know facts about myself:

I used to teach ballroom dancing. This is the one I always pull out when someone asks me to tell them something random about myself that they wouldn't have already known. I was 19 or 20 years old at the time (in other words, a LONG time ago) and I haven't had a single opportunity to do any ballroom dancing since, so I don't remember any of the dances except one--the Cha-Cha--because that was my specialty.
I sleep very little. Just enough to get by, which equates to an average of 4-5 hours a night. Believe it or not, I never really need to catch up either. I'm not actually an insomniac, though. I've lived this way for most of my adult life and there are two reasons for it. First, I'm a diagnosed OCD (Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder), but my condition is primarily thought-based. My mind is always moving at the speed of light. This also means that once I'm up, I'm up. My mind starts into overdrive immediately. The second reason is that I've always felt that sleep was a waste of good time that I could be using doing something else. I hate to be idle.
I have a weakness for chocolate and peanut butter anything: candy bars, ice cream, milk shakes. I've been known to sit down with a chocolate bar and a jar of peanut butter when that's all I had available to me.
In the same context, I have a weakness for bacon. I avoid it for the most part because I know that if it's in front of me, I'll eat it. No question. No hesitation. No limits. It's a temptation I can't refuse, so I tend to steer clear.
My favorite spot to be is in a bar. Not because of the alcohol (though I'm not going to say no to that) and not because of the social aspect (though I enjoy that, too), but because I love to just sit back and observe all the interactions going on around me. The best place in the world to people watch is in the middle of a crowded bar where alcohol loosens inhibitions, fights break out (both verbal and physical), and men and women are oogling each other with lustful intent (what I like to call "The Mating Dance"). Oh yeah! It's a good, hard, down and dirty study of humanity. Don't believe me? Try it. And don't forget a pen and paper for taking notes.
At one point in my late teens, when I was entertaining college majors, I was torn between two different fields of study: psychology and law. I still have a fascination for both. Added to the mix in recent years is what I truly believe should have been my professional direction back then: crime scene investigation. In a way, it's a mix of both and adds problem-solving into it, which I tend to be very good at. I also have a very strong stomach; nothing much bothers me. I've always wanted to be a novelist, but I had to have another profession to fall back on until I could make a living at it. That profession ended up being Graphic Designer. Yep. Not even close to what I was thinking about.
I have no favorite color. Being a graphic designer and a long-time artist (as long as I've been writing, but we won't go into that because it gives away my age), I deal with color on a daily basis. I think for that very reason, I don't have a favorite. I have colors to which I'm partial, but all equally. None of them win.

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Finally, below are my 15 blog award recipients. Please be sure to visit them, and don't forget to Follow so you'll be able to easily return to them.

Support these great bloggers who are making the Indie publishing community wonderful through their writing, reading, reviewing and love of great books!

The music inspiring me today...

2012-01-24T19:53:00.000-05:00

"Landing in London" by 3 Doors Down, featuring the legendary Bob Seger. Music to get me in the mood for my writing of "Running in Place". Think Silas...

Ok, so I'm a little odd

2012-01-21T18:51:00.000-05:00

The last post. Yeah, that was a little silly. I felt the need to post something since I had promised it, but I've spent so much time lately on the new book (which, by the way, now has an official title), that I didn't have a chance to actually crank out the blog post that I had intended to write. So, after working all day on the book -- since 7 AM this morning, so were talking 11 straight hours -- I needed a break. I'm going back to it in a bit, so this may be a shorter post than I'm expecting.

The sequel to "A Shot in the Dark" has been flowing out of me in rivers over the past two weeks. Title, you ask? I did mention that I have one now, didn't I? The official title is "Running in Place" and just as with "A Shot in the Dark", the title ties into a direct thought in the first and second chapters. If the pace continues as it has been, I should be finished with the sequel in two to three months.

If you've read "A Shot in the Dark", you know that the plot takes a lot of unexpected turns and is a bit complex. Incidents in later chapters tie directly back to incidents in prior chapters and vice-versa, and there are plenty of surprises. I've had a few people bring up the complexity and the unexpected turns in the story and ask how I plotted the book. Do you want the by-the-book writer's answer or do you want the real answer? Because the real answer does two things. It comes as a bit of a surprise to most people who hear it, especially fellow writers, and it tells you how my mind works, which might be a little frightening.

The real answer is this: I don't plot. At all. I don't sit down with a pen and paper or a page of perfectly arranged story blocks to fill in or even bother with an outline. I've been told and I've read all my life that a writer should start by plotting his or her story. It's called a skeleton plot, a bare bones description of the story's pivotal points. I tried that for many years because I had been told that was the way to write. Then, just a short few years ago I made a discovery about myself. When I plot, it throws me off track. I get frustrated with myself if I deviate from my plots and then I slam into that big bad wall of writer's block. If I don't plot, if I only start with a general idea of the story I want to tell and then start writing, it flows seamlessly out of me because I'm working with total freedom. I'm unrestricted. I'm writing with reality and logic and what would normally come to pass if so-and-so happened.

The bonus to writing this way, especially when writing in the thriller genre, is that I sometimes take myself by surprise with something that comes out as I'm just barreling along. I usually leave those parts in, even if I have to go back and tweak something to make it fit. Why? Because I figure that if I'm writing the story and it took me by surprise, it'll definitely take my readers by surprise. I would give examples from "A Shot in the Dark" but I don't want to throw any spoilers out there, in case someone reading this post hasn't read the book.

"A Shot in the Dark" was never plotted. Starting with a general concept of what the story was going to be, I wrote it on the fly, just as I'm now doing with "Running in Place". I start with a general concept. I know a few incidents that I want to put in (but which may or may not make it in, depending on how the story moves along), and I know where I want to end it, but as far as putting any of that down in writing? I don't. I never fill the gaps because the gaps always seem to fill themselves if I just let them flow naturally.

This style of writing may not work for every writer. Judging by the professional writer tips and advice that you find everywhere, I'm going to venture a guess that it won't work for most writers. But it works for me and it works better for me than the process of plotting a story out. The key for me is that I have to know my characters very well and I have to spend a lot of time thinking and visualizing. Basically, all of the times when I seem lost in my own little world, oblivious to everything around me, and daydreaming, it's not the blonde in me showing through, it's that I'm working on the book. I might not be writing, but I'm working.

If you're finding yourself frequently blocking, you may want to try giving a process like this a try. Or better yet, just write however you feel comfortable and forget about every bit of advice the pros have been telling you over the years and you'll discover the process that works best for you. It may very well be outside of the norm and not the kind of advice you would get from other writers. It may be that, like me, you're a bit of an oddball.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it

2012-01-17T23:46:00.002-05:00

I know...

I said my post would come tomorrow and tomorrow was yesterday. See, what happened was this...

I woke up at 6:00 a.m. yesterday, just as the sky was starting to lighten so I could see to type up my new blog post (because I don't believe in electricity...no really). So I sit down at my computer (no, really, I don't believe in electricity) and start to type when the phone rings.

Apparently there's a multimillionaire in the Fiji Islands who needs my help in selecting a new jet ski for his yacht. I have no idea how he knew about my jet ski expertise, but he proceeds to describe his jet ski options to me over the phone. I tell him that I'm having a hard time picturing them and can he please fax me some pictures (seriously, I don't believe in electricity).

He says, "You know what? Let me just send my private jet to come and pick you up and bring you here because I don't think the colors of the jet skis will translate well in a fax."

I give him a heavy sigh. "Yeah, well, ok," I tell him, "But I do have a blog post to write, so can you just make sure you get me back by, say, eight this evening."

"Sure thing!" he tells me.

So a couple of minutes later (it's a really fast jet) I'm being whisked away to the Fiji Islands to pick out a new jet ski for Mr. Moneybags. I narrow it down to one in fairly quick order and go to tell him which one he should buy. I walk into his office on the yacht and, much to my surprise, there's Angelina Jolie sitting on his lap.

Well, I'm not one to spread gossip, but I do have a pretty big issue with cheating, so I pull out my cell phone and dial Brad's number.

"Brad," I say, "you're never going to believe what I'm looking at right now."

"Hey," he says, "I'm glad you called. Angelina's away for a few days. Do you want to come to France and have dinner?"

(Right now is where I'm supposed to insert another comment about how I have a big issue with cheating.)

"Are you buying?" I ask.

"Of course," he says.

"Okay then!" I say.

"Great!" he tells me. "I'll send my private jet to get you."

"Okay," I say, "but can you make sure you get me home by 8 pm? I have a blog post to write."

"Absolutely," he promises.

A couple of minutes later (he bought his jet from the same place Mr. Moneybags did), I'm being carted off for a romantic dinner with Brad Pitt in France.

So I just got home. What can I say? That Brad is a smooth talker.

And that's why I didn't get my blog post written yesterday like I promised.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Hidden away

2012-01-15T20:42:00.003-05:00

I promise I haven't disappeared. I've been working diligently on the sequel (yeah, still no title) to "A Shot in the Dark". I'll have a new post up tomorrow with more details. In the meantime, I'm getting wonderful responses about "A Shot in the Dark" from readers. They love it! If you haven't read it yet, you can download it to your Kindle, Nook, eReader, from Smashwords, etc. for only $0.99. In your eStore, search for "Jayleigh Cape" instead of "A Shot in the Dark" and you'll find it immediately. Or visit my website for direct links.

Free is good (book promotion at zero cost)

2012-01-05T10:48:00.000-05:00

How did it get to be Thursday already? I've been out of the blog loop this week as I've been spending quite a bit of time over the past several days on promoting my book online, connecting with other Indie authors and seeking avenues to get "A Shot in the Dark" into a broader public view. Some of the work has already paid off, but it's early yet.

I've been fortunate with my endeavor to publish. Because I'm a professional graphic designer by trade, with extensive computer and internet expertise, a solid background in website design, and a little experience with online marketing, I haven't had to hire anyone to do the things that many Indie authors have to shell out money to have done for them. I was able to design my book cover on my own and lay out my book to print specifications, convert the book into all of the various eBook formats, get my website and blog up and running, design my marketing pieces, and I even took the plunge into creating my own book trailer. I have some limited experience with video, so that task was probably the most challenging I've faced so far; that is, if you don't consider the promotional aspect.

Even with the ease I've had with most areas of publication, I still have the long road ahead of promoting my book to all the strangers in the world (i.e., not just friends and family). Thus far, a few websites have been key in that endeavor. Up to this point, Goodreads.com has been the most useful for me, but during this past week as I've spent an extensive amount of time seeking even more online avenues, I am slowly coming across other sites that seem promising.

As of yet, I still haven't spent a dime on the online promotion aspect. I take that back. I spent $8.95 to snag my domain name for a year, but I did that back in July. I simply parked it on my already existing freelance graphic design website, so I didn't even need hosting for my website. I already had it. I'm sure at some point in the future I'll have to start investing money in the promotional aspects, especially if I want to embark on book tours or visit author conventions, but for now, my current situation being what it is, I have to stick to free as my best (and only) option.

Free. Face it, that's an appealing price even when you aren't financially strapped like me. Obviously the best and most successful options come when you have the money to invest, such as signing up for paid memberships with websites that will promote you because you're paying them to do so, or paying to be considered for an Indie book award, but what if you don't have the funds to invest in all of that? Are there still options available with a Free price tag? Absolutely. You can call me cheap if you want (I'll only admit to being a cheap date, because I don't eat a lot and I rarely drink more than 4 beers), but the sad truth is that I have no choice at the moment. I have to be cheap because I don't have the means to be otherwise.

The website Author's Den has a paid membership program that will promote you, but it costs nothing to get yourself and your book listed on their site. Of course, without the a paid membership, your abilities on there are limited, but the bottom line is that, for free, you're listed there and Google regularly crawls their site. The more places you list your name and your book title and links to your website, the more importance Google places on you.

Find every available avenue to plug your book's information and a link to your website into someone else's site. Try resources like Zimbio, Digg, and Technorati. It's all free. There's a new Indie Author site out there called GenreBuds. Get on it. Create that LinkedIn profile you've been avoiding despite the fact that friends have sent you invitations. LinkedIn has a profile option that gives you the ability to link to your book on Amazon and display it on your profile. Make sure you have saturated the social networking areas, too. If you don't at least have Facebook or Twitter, you're missing out, but make sure you have both. And pay attention to them. If you have them, but don't use them, they aren't doing you any good. They can even be connected using an app. Give Google+ a whirl and then connect your Blogger blog and Youtube channel to it (if you have a video book trailer). Link everything you can together, so that someone visiting your profile on one of the social networking sites, your website or your blog can easily access your presence on any other site.

When I Google just my name, the first 5 or 6 pages are all mine, all links to me or my book. When I Google just the title, however (because it's a common phrase and there are other books, songs and movies out there with the title) it's buried. When I Google "a shot in the dark book" the video trailer appears on page 3 of the search results. Not too bad for there being so many other works with the same title. Let me interject that I would have gone with another title for the book, but that term is referenced (with importance since it's the catalyst thought that starts the whole plot moving) in the first chapter. I did consider changing the title prior to publication, but it just fit too well.

Why does any of that matter? For one simple reason. If I'm talking to someone and they ask me how to get my book, all I have to tell them is to Google Jayleigh Cape. I know not to send them Googling for "A Shot in the Dark" because it will be harder to find that way. I tell them to Google my name and it'll be right there at the top of the first page. If you haven't Googled yourself or your book title, do so. That way when you're simply talking to someone, you know exactly what to tell them to look for without writing anything down or handing them a promotional piece. This is also especially useful if you're faced with lengthy, awkward domain names for your website, blog or social networking profiles. "Google Jayleigh Cape." That's all I have to say, and it's easy to remember.

Alternately, I can say, "Go to Amazon and search for Jayleigh Cape." That works, too. Make sure you check how a search reacts on Amazon or Barnes & Noble. It so happens that my name is unique enough that there isn't a list of other people popping up. My book title? Not so much. That's information that you should be armed with as well. Without running off a website address, what's the best way to find your book online and a way that can be relayed in general conversation without a business card or pen and paper in hand? Narrow it down to something easy to remember. You don't want to have to tell them to Google your name, go to page 2 and you should be near the middle of that page. You want to fall right at the top of the search results. "Google Jayleigh Cape." Think along those lines.

As I go along in my book promotion, I'll share more details here of the information and discoveries I'm coming across. If the "Free" price tag interests you, be sure to check back because I'm all about the "Free" right now.

Muscular Monday: The artist in me swoons

2012-01-02T08:14:00.001-05:00

It's that day of the week again. I'm not one for whole body ink -- arms and chest that look like an artist threw up on them -- but a few strategically placed tattoos definitely please my artistic side.

This one is particularly appealing to me, not only because of its placement (it doesn't interrupt the beauty of his sculpted torso), but also because of it's monochromatic simplicity. The eye skims over it rather than being yanked kicking and screaming toward it; an adornment without shouting at me to notice it. On a body like his, any tat should be a part of the whole visual experience instead of a distraction to his beauty.

Oh, and the guy? Yeah. Hot.

I don't own the rights to this image. I don't know who
does. If you do, let me know and I'll put a blurb on here
in exchange for his contact information. I just want to tell
him I like his tattoo, that's all. No, really.

Making it up as I go along

2011-12-31T14:49:00.004-05:00

Thinking of karma this morning, I jotted this thought down:

Without the existence of people to acknowledge or dispute your greatness, your greatness is irrelevant. You are because they are. Without them, no matter how they treat you, you would not exist. Treat all the world as if you owe it your gratitude, because even the cruel and heartless define who you are.

This year is quickly fading away and, thinking back over it, I was struck with the incredible difference between how it was on January 1st and how it is now on December 31st. There have been so many changes this year, not just in my own life and perceptions of life, but also in the lives of many of the people I know, whether well or by acquaintance. So many couples fell apart this year, so many job situations were unexpectedly altered, so many home lives were sucked into the black hole of desperation and panic at some new situation that had sneaked up and pounced without warning. This was truly a year of changes.

As I struggle to find a new place for myself, new directions and new concepts of the world around me, I realize that I'm surrounded by people who are seeking the very same balance after some life-altering upheaval. I have always believed that life moves in cycles. People slip away from us, dreams mutate to survive amid ever changing surroundings, and the values we upheld with the greatest importance a short year ago have been replaced as we are forced to acknowledge what is needed of ourselves to continue to function normally in this abnormal world. It seems that every several years it's necessary for Time to go through an intense cleansing of our play room. We are promptly swept over to the corner and allowed to helplessly watch as all the dirt we've accumulated is scrubbed away. Once the grime is gone, we're then left to cautiously creep back into the center of the room and start the process anew, to mar the surface once again with whatever is still lingering on the bottoms of our shoes. It seems that 2011 was that cleansing time.

I have changed this past year. Not just in aspects of my life, some deliberate and some not, but also in my attitude and observations, in my views and my expectations. I've realized how sometimes the things that happen to me are happening for the purpose of tapping someone else on the shoulder. I always thought that all that occurred in my life was mine, directly centered on me and my welfare. Not in an arrogant way, mind you, but just because it was my own life event, so I automatically assumed that it's purpose was meant for me: to teach me something or show me something. I've come to realize, looking back over this past year as well as years even further past, that some of my life events haven't happened for me, but for the benefit of others.

Since my teens, at least, I have always been a very strong person, able to withstand and fight my way through every obstacle thrown in my path. I'm self-sufficient, self-reliant, independent, however you want to describe it. Simply put, I'm a survivor. Now I'm beginning to understand that it's because I am a natural survivor, because the worst of situations can't defeat me or my spirit, that I am the focus of ill luck. Don't get me wrong. I believe in taking responsibility for my actions and I do know when to call it a result of my own poor decisions, but there have been events within the past several years that have been beyond my control. Those events, intermixed with some of my own mistakes, have brought about a mandatory cleansing of the dirt in my play room. Looking back now, I see others affected by these events that were aimed at me. It's as if my struggles to break free, to survive, are vibrating through some great invisible web that covers us all, warning others of approaching danger.

I'm a survivor. I'm an observer. I'm an obsessive thinker who is by nature analytical. I don't know everything. I don't know a lot of things. Sometimes I think I don't know anything. But I have a spirit, a strength of will and a desire to understand life that can't be held down no matter what great weight is crushing down on me. This past year has taught me so much, raking me through the brambles and leaving me lying breathless and scarred on the other side, but the most important lesson I've learned is that nothing in this life is forever. Not the love, not the pain, not the good days or the bad. Nothing. Everything is in constant motion, like the ebb and flow of the tide. This lesson now fully absorbed, the new understanding with which I am marching into 2012 is that, while I can still plan ahead, and should, it's a little less painful if I just make it up as I go along.

Memories from long ago

2011-12-29T15:54:00.000-05:00

Flipping through some of my old journals (the handwritten ones), I came across a sentence in one of the entries that made me smile, as if I had found this little nugget of gold buried beneath all of my heavily tarnished private confessions. I was in my early twenties when I wrote it...

"I wish I knew what fate had in store for me so I could plan ahead."

I remember feeling that way. I still feel that way. Right now, I would place good money on the fact that a whole mess of other people feel that way, too. Here's a hint. You'll never know.

Finding that, I continued to flip through journals and then came across this poem that I wrote as one whole day's entry.

I will not write a poem for you.
I will not hope in words.
I will not give myself over
to expectation, anticipation or desire.
I cannot afford to daydream.
I cannot afford to nightdream.
I will just exist
until you find me.
~Jayleigh Cape

It almost sounds Dr. Seuss-ish, which is why it made me smile. Is it about someone in particular? Yes. Do I remember about whom I wrote it? Yes. Will I say who that was? Absolutely not. Like everything else in those handwritten journals which document large chunks of my life, it's a big fat, I-ain't-talkin' secret.

During an apparent break between prospective relationship opportunities, I also penned this one...

As my life keeps getting longer,
still alone,
my words keep getting shorter,
still unanswered.
Confusion becomes brevity
becomes experiences
too complex to decorate
with adjectives.
Loneliness is just another
fact of life.
~Jayleigh Cape

Muscular Monday: Leave your hat on

2011-12-26T14:38:00.002-05:00

I've never liked Mondays. Ever. They can be rainy or sunny, warm or cold, it doesn't matter. Mondays are just...blech. They always feel like the day after a holiday, when the fun has come to an end and it's back to boring, tiresome routine. I hate routine. Come to think of it, today is not only a Monday, but the day after a holiday as well. Double whammy. That's probably why I was inspired to make a change.

I started thinking (usually a bad thing) that my Mondays from here on out need to be perked up with a little something that would make any day of the week feel like Christmas. So I have officially (just this minute and after a brief Google image search) declared my future Mondays to be Muscular Monday. This is the first installment.

If you're of the feminine persuasion (or the masculine persuasion with alternate tastes), feel free to insert the appropriate sigh. Or, if you're like me, an emphatic "damn!" works just as well.

There's just something about a hot, shirtless man in a cowboy hat...

I don't know who owns this image, but it's not me. I also don't know who owns
this cowboy, but that's not me either. (Dammit.)

The music inspiring me today...

2011-12-25T22:03:00.000-05:00

A few of Shinedown's songs are resonating with me lately on two different fronts. Quite a bit on the personal side, but also on the writing side, as inspiration for the new novel. This is another of those songs. Dual meaning here. Oddly enough, the meanings are quite different. If you've read any of my blog, it's pretty easy to understand how this relates to my personal feelings. However, if you put this song together with the other song that I posted by Shinedown ("Second Chance") and then relate them to Silas (if you've read "A Shot in the Dark") you might get a vague inkling as to what might be coming into play for him in the new novel. The lyrics are below.

"Breaking Inside" by Shinedown

Songwriters: Huff, Bobby; Smith, Brent Stephen

I caught a chill

and it's still frozen on my skin

I think about why I'm alone

by myself no one else to explain

How far do I go no one knows

If the end is so much better

why don't we just live forever?

Don't tell me I'm the last one in line

Don't tell me I'm too late this time

I don't wanna live

to waste another day

Underneath the shadow

of mistakes I've made

'Cause I feel like I'm breaking inside

I don't wanna fall

and say I lost it all

'Cause maybe there's a part of me

that hit the wall

Leaving pieces of me behind

And I feel like I'm breaking inside

Out here nothing's clear

Except the moment I decided

to move on and I ignited

Disappear into the fear

You know there ain't no coming back

when you're still carrying the past

You can't erase, separate

Cigarette in my hand,

hope you all understand

I won't be the last one in line

I finally figured out what's mine

I don't wanna live

to waste another day

Underneath the shadow

of mistakes I've made

'Cause I feel like I'm breaking inside

I don't wanna fall

and say I lost it all

'Cause maybe there's a part of me

that hit the wall

Leaving pieces of me behind,

leaving pieces of me behind

And I feel like I'm breaking inside

I won't be the last one in line

I finally figured out what's mine

I don't wanna live

to waste another day

Underneath the shadow

of mistakes I've made

'Cause I feel like I'm breaking inside

I don't wanna fall

and say I lost it all

'Cause maybe there's a part of me

that hit the wall

Leaving pieces of me behind,

leaving pieces of me behind

And I feel like I'm breaking inside

And I feel like I'm breaking

And I feel like I'm breaking inside

She has a name

2011-12-23T16:05:00.000-05:00

Emmaline Kennett, a.k.a. Emmy Kennett. The new major character in the sequel to "A Shot in the Dark" finally has a name. I had been calling her something else that just wasn't sitting right. This one feels right, so it's officially official. Unless I decide to change it. Woman's or writer's prerogative? I guess it doesn't matter since I'm both.

And in the beginning

2011-12-22T14:26:00.000-05:00

My love for writing really started with "To Kill a Mockingbird" by Harper Lee. I was a very inquisitive child with a constant desire to absorb knowledge, a trait that has continued throughout my entire life. As a result, I started kindergarten a year earlier than I should have and was advanced enough to skip second grade, so by the time I hit 9th grade, where Harper Lee's classic book was required reading, I was only twelve years old. The first time I read the book, it unlocked a passion for the written word that has never left me. I still have that same copy of "To Kill a Mockingbird" that I read for English class in 1980, and I still pull it out about once a year and read it again. I do own a Kindle, and I do have nearby bookstores where I could pick up a new copy, but neither of those options are quite the same as reading that same worn and yellowed copy that sparked my life's ambition to be a writer.

I wrote my first book (and very badly, I might add), during that same freshman year of high school. It was handwritten on sheets and sheets of college-ruled notebook paper, tucked into a thick 3-ring binder. In actuality, it probably only equated to 30 or 40 thousand words, but that didn't matter. What mattered was that I had found my passion, discovered my gift, and knew that writing was what I was meant to do with my life. Just like my 1980 copy of "To Kill a Mockingbird", I still have that horribly written first novel in its 3-ring binder. I refuse to throw it away or even to pull it out and try to edit it. It's perfect the way it is, with its countless imperfections and overly dramatic passages and combination of blue and black ink. It's like my first child and no matter how awful it is, I can't bring myself to get rid of it.

After Harper Lee, I started to pick up every book I could get my hands on and read. My choices and ultimately my influences ran a vast spectrum of different writing styles and genres. The authors I ended up reading the most were Stephen King and Dean Koontz, and though other authors influenced me, those two were my cornerstones.

Now that my life is about half over, and I'm old enough and experienced enough to realize it, I've made the discovery in the past year that while a number of authors influenced my work, my greatest influences were the people surrounding me and the challenges life has seen fit to put in my path over the years. I now understand that, although writing style and voice are important, even more important to good writing is one's ability to tap into people: their thoughts and feelings and how they interpret those into their actions, whether right or wrong. I've spent most of my adult life paying attention to people. I love to interact with them, and will strike up a conversation with anyone, anywhere and at anytime, because ultimately I learn from them and then I translate that understanding and those discoveries into building characters that my readers can care about. I've found that no matter how strong your story idea, if your readers don't care about your characters then they quickly abandon your story.

Very much small town

2011-12-20T17:21:00.002-05:00

Small towns are so different. It's taken some adjustments, not having everything right in my back door now that I've moved from a big city to a small village, but they haven't been as difficult as I would have imagined. The island has a little grocery store, a couple of dollar stores, a liquor store, an Ace Hardware, two or three bars, and a number of restaurants. The only chain restaurants here are McDonald's, Subway and Dairy Queen; the rest are privately-owned from what I've been able to tell. There are a few gas stations, several churches, a clinic, a funeral home, plenty of gift shops and fresh seafood stands (most of which are closed during the off-season), and even a little branch of the YMCA. Basic needs are met. For everything else, I have to travel the causeway and head off of the island to the mainland.

Once over the bay, several smaller towns dot the nearby area and the slightly larger city of Pocomoke, Maryland (where I've discovered a Walmart, a Lowe's, and a Verizon store, thank goodness) is about 30 minutes away. The closest big city is Salisbury, about an hour from the island, and it's there where all of the major stores are located. Needless to say, I have to plan my trips across the bay accordingly. If there's only one store to hit, it's usually not worth the trip. I'll plan to go when I have a few locations in mind, simply for the sake of gas conservation.

I live in Virginia, but Maryland is only about 20 minutes away. I've never lived so close to a state line before and I'm still not quite used to seeing that sign announcing that I've crossed over into Maryland halfway through my trip to Walmart. Sometimes my mind thinks: "Hm, Maryland. Maryland? I'm only going to Walmart, for Christ's sake." Other times it gives me a little feeling of instant freedom, as if I'm running from the law ("Can't catch me now 'cause I done crossed the state line!"). When all is said and done, I want someone to call me up and ask me what I did today so I can tell them: "I went to Maryland. On a whim. Just because I felt like it." It sounds like such a rebellious thing to do.

The main difference that I've noticed between the small community in which I live and the big city where I lived all of my life until now is that the people here are so much friendlier. When you hear people make that observation about small towns, it's not a myth. The people here are quicker to say hi, give you a smile, or stop and talk to you without even knowing you. They'll offer a hand in a heartbeat, wish you a wonderful day, and wave to you as if you were already friends.

Just yesterday, my neighbor, whom I've met only once, stopped over to give me a plate full of Christmas cupcakes that she had baked. Just because. In all the years I lived in Columbus, I never had a neighbor do that, not even those I actually knew, let alone one I barely knew. People just seem nicer here. Maybe it's because the pace is slower. They're not in such a rush and they seem to concentrate more on social interaction than whether or not they're financially well-off or up to speed with all the latest technology and gadgetry. What seems to interest them is who you are, and that sense of being one of them, of belonging, quickly grows on you.

I make these observations because, before I moved, I worried about how difficult it would be to adjust to an entirely new area: New people, new methods of doing everything, new rhythms in day-to-day life. I am hours away from family and friends, so I knew that everything I did here would have to be on my own. I had no back-up in this strange new place. I've had a few people ask me, with the obstacles that have been placed in my path since I moved, if I've considered returning to Columbus. I won't lie. I did think about it. For all of a minute. The simple fact is that despite those obstacles (and some of them are enormous), I like it here. I don't want to move back.

It's not that I don't miss everybody, because I do. I miss calling them up on a whim and saying, "Hey, let's go do something." I miss just spending time with them just doing nothing. I miss laughing with my sister and brother and grabbing a few drinks with my friend Kris. But in the end, I really do like it here.

I like the little things that make me smile, like pulling onto a road where a policeman was waiting to pull out and seeing him wave and smile at me like he knew me. I like that the elderly gentleman down the road, whose path I cross occasionally while I'm out walking Vai, stopped to introduce himself to me and told me that if there's anything I need, to just knock on his door. I like that the woman at the gas station, after finding out that I had just moved here, took it upon herself to tell me some of the things to do during the off-season. I like that when I'm driving down Main Street into the center of town, there's a big, beautiful body of water so close to my driver's side door. I like the view of driving across the causeway, dotted with the brief interruptions of signs for vacation rentals and seafood restaurants. I like to hear seagulls making noise in the morning while I'm drinking my first cup of coffee. I like driving by the docks and boats on my way to the little post office in the middle of town and seeing a good number of those seagulls perched on the tops of the dock pilings with a backdrop of vast blue sky and shimmering water, just like you would see in photographs. I like that I can get to the beach in several minutes, whenever I want. I like that people get out and ride their bikes and walk their dogs and that when you have to go around them while driving, there is usually no oncoming traffic to hinder you. I like the romance in saying something is "on the island" or "I have to go off the island today".

Despite all that has gone wrong (and there has been a lot) on this transfer to a new town, a new state, and basically a new life, the things that have gone right have taught me that, although I grew up big city, am comfortable there and love having everything I need and everyone I know within instant reach, my heart and soul are very much small town. And I like it here.

How to become a Ninja

2011-12-19T15:14:00.001-05:00

Because my Facebook profile lists my occupation as "Ninja" (don't question it), I've been asked by people with an interest in the nimble arts how exactly one becomes a Ninja. I'm a little wary of letting this information leak, but since I also don't like to repeat myself, I've decided to post this just once. Be aware that this post is programmed to self-destruct exactly 4.25 minutes after access. So read fast.

It all starts with the 15-page psychology evaluation (23 pages if you count the Appendix, which is not necessary, but required). It must be completed online, in black ink, and then placed in an empty Pringles can and left next to the southwest escalator in your nearest mall.

After a 2-5 business day waiting period, you will receive a mysterious knock on your door, but when you open it, no one will be there. Look closer. No, not there, behind the shrub at the end of the sidewalk. Pretend you don't see the Ninja Academy representative (saying "hmph" with your hands on your hips is pretty effective). Turn and go back inside.

In another 2-5 business days, you will receive another knock on your door. This time ask "Who is it?". If you use the proper cadence when saying it (with the emphasis on "is"), you will hear "Ninja Academy" from the other side. Open the door and let them in to begin your official initiation.

This whole process is pretty hush-hush, so don't tell anyone what I've told you. If it gets out, every Tom, Dick and Jane will be sporting black uniforms and hiding behind things and all the Ninja jobs will be slim pickings due to the massive influx of mediocre Ninjas.

In the unfortunate event that you have been approached to carry out a very urgent secret mission and just can't wait for 4-10 business days, the following is the quick and dirty method of achieving Ninja status.

How to be a Ninja in 3 easy steps.

Start telling people you're a Ninja
Change the information on your Facebook profile to state that you are a Ninja (everything that is announced on Facebook automatically becomes 100% true)
Randomly throw around words and phrases such as "throwing star", "subterfuge", "secret mission", and "martial arts"

Congratulations. You're a Ninja. No uniform required.

Now move far away from your computer because you only have a couple of seconds left before the self-destruction. And sorry about your computer. I'm not liable. I forgot to mention that.

Online dating guide for men

2011-12-17T20:52:00.000-05:00

I just moved to a new town where I don't yet know anyone, so I'm on a couple of online dating sites, one free and one paid. To be honest, the quality and selection of guys isn't all that different between the two. There are good ones and bad, honest ones and bullshitters, generally happy guys and desperate ones on both and in equal amounts.

I know the paid sites like to tout that charging a fee weeds out those who are just interested in a hookup or an opportunity to cheat on their significant other. After all, they will tell you, if these people are willing to pay a fee, then they are serious about finding someone. Not so. Total myth. I've met several guys from the paid site who might as well have saved their money and put themselves on the free site.

Granted, I don't know anything about the women on the paid vs. free sites, since I don't swing that way, so for the sake of this observation, keep in mind that I'm talking strictly about the men I've come across on both sites.

So guys, this is for you. Sit up, pay attention, and if you need to, take notes. I'm only going to say this once, but the cool thing about the Internet is that you can actually bookmark this page and refer back to it whenever necessary. Some of you might have to do that more than once.

Jayleigh's Official Online Dating Guide for Men
(or "Why hasn't she responded to my message yet?")

I thought these would all be common sense, but maybe not. So here I am (by no means an expert at online dating but I'm pretty darned good at being a woman) to give you the scoop on what a woman thinks about your dating profile and your initial messages to her.

1) Get a picture up (really, this should be common sense)

Better yet, get up two or three. While that little graphic that they use in place of the picture is attractive in its seafaring mix of blue hues, if you message me without replacing it with a picture of yourself, then I'll most likely believe that you think that graphic is better looking than your real face. Get a picture up before you message someone. And don't even bother winking, because according to the graphic replacing your face, you have no eyes with which to wink.

2) Make sure the picture is of YOU

Contrary to a popular male belief, the size of a man's pickup truck has absolutely no bearing on the size of certain other body parts. If you only have one picture up, please make sure it's a picture of you and not some piece of artwork you did or your beautiful kids or some extraordinary sunset that you saw over the ocean in 2004. In addition, please don't put up a picture of you standing with several other people. I have no idea which one is you and I might just be more attracted to your brother Bob or your best friend Joe than I am to you.

3) Make sure your pictures are current

If your picture is over a year old, put up a new one. While you're at it, note at least the month and year in the comment section for each picture. You want to know that I didn't gain 50 pounds since my picture was taken, right? I want to know the same thing about you. I'll find out eventually anyway, because if we hit it off through messaging or phone conversations, I will want to meet you in person. You may win me over with your charm, intelligence and personality, but if your picture shows you slim and trim and then you show up to our first dinner date looking like you just swung by the kitchen and ate everything they had, the rest of the date is going to go very badly (that's provided I don't bail on you for your deception). Same goes for the hair situation. I happen to prefer hair to bald, so if your picture shows you with a full head of hair when in fact the top half of your head is as smooth as a baby's bottom, that's not going to sit well with me. Not that I can't be attracted to bald (or even a few extra pounds), but my point is to represent yourself in your picture as you actually are now so there are no awkward surprises.

4) Is your ex (or, god forbid, current) significant other in your picture?

With recent software advancements, you can actually crop that ex right out of your pictures now. Isn't technology amazing? By "cropping", I don't mean you should simply put a black circle over her face, or even worse, scribble across it. Your arm is still around her, you're still grinning from ear-to-ear, and that black blob where her head used to be is just a wee bit disturbing. My first thought is always, "He must really be bitter to have scribbled over her face like that." If that picture of you with your ex is the best one you can come up with, then crop the picture down to just you. Better still, find another picture.

5) The bare chest shot

Did you take picture of yourself bare-chested in the bathroom mirror? Did you make sure the picture was only of your chest, cropping out your head? Did you then think it was a good idea to put that picture on your profile? If you answered yes to any of these questions, stop it! First of all, if your chest isn't in good shape, the picture serves absolutely no purpose. If, on the other hand, you have rock-hard abs and a pecs you can knock on, then good job, dork, you just made me realize the full extent of your vanity. If you really want to show off your well-toned body, then have someone else take the picture somewhere other than the bathroom. Please, whatever you do, don't stand in front of the mirror and take it yourself. It's not impressive, it's usually not attractive, and any way you spin it, it's arrogant. Confidence = sexy, arrogance = very annoying.

6) Head and shoulders shots vs. all from a distance

Are all of your pictures taken from a distance: you standing by your aforementioned pickup truck, you standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon, you standing beside the "Welcome to Indiana" sign? This is a common trick for people trying to obscure what they really look like. If the only thing I can tell about you is that you did in fact make it into the modern age and are able to stand erect (and that you've been to Indiana), then you need to change your pictures. Head shots, head shots, head shots. I can't stress that enough.

7) Incomplete, missing or single word profile information

Fill out your profile! Missing profile information, or one or two word answers, comes across as a sure sign that you're not looking for anything but a sexting buddy or a one-nighter. That's fine if that's all you want, but that's not what I'm looking for, so I'll pass right by you no matter what you look like. Why are you even on the site if you're not going to fill out your information? More importantly, why are you sending me a message and expecting me to respond when I know nothing about you?

8) That first contact message: get it right

When making initial contact, here's the run-down of the first contact message mistakes that are the most annoying. All of these will be ignored, so please, don't open like this!

a) "Hi." --- That's it, the entire message. Just "Hi." Sometimes without the period, sometimes without capitalization, every once in a while you'll stick your name beneath it, but always just "hi". You know what I do when I get these? I say "hi" to my computer screen and back out of the message. I don't even look at the guy's profile. If you can't add at least a sentence after that, then don't bother.

b) "Hi. How are you?" --- Same as above, but with 3 additional words. I love pleasantries as much as anybody, but come on. My response? To my computer, I say "good" and move on.

c) "Hi. You're beautiful." --- Even worse is, "Hi. Your beautiful." My response? "Thank you" to my computer screen and move on.

I have to interject that there's nothing wrong with saying a, b, or c in general. The problem is that I get so many of these messages that they appear to be junk. Give me something to work with, guys. Tell me something, ask me something, mention something you read in my profile, tell me a joke, make fun of my blonde hair, whatever, just make yourself stand out. Don't just repeat what countless other guys are sending me. I appreciate it, sure, but it makes me think that all you've done is looked at my picture and you didn't bother to read anything about me to see if you actually like the type of person that I am.

d) "I really like you. Want to chat? Here's my number..." --- Hm, let me think. He must really think I'm awesome to just toss his number at me like that in his very first message. I'm probably the only one he's ever done that with. I'm sure he's not looking for a little phone sex or anything. Why would he say "I really like you" if that's all he wanted? Oh, and look, he's 500 miles away from me, so now I know he's really interested! Let me call him right away! Yep, it's that transparent guys. Stop it. They have 900-number chat lines for that.

e) Any first message where you're using really big words to impress me with your high intelligence. I don't mind them if they're appropriate, but if you've used 7 or 8 in the same short sentence or you have to pull out your thesaurus to get off a first message to me, you're doing it wrong! Write like you talk. That's much more impressive.

f) Really bad, and I mean horrible, spelling in your first message. If you're messaging me like you generally would text someone (using "u" instead of "you", "ur" instead of "you're", "2" instead of "to", "4" instead of "for", etc.), stop it! I know that some of you are sending messages from the app on your phone, but please pay attention to the fact that a) you're not texting me, you're emailing me, and b) you're making a first impression and that first impression is that you're somewhere between the ages of 10 and 21. If we get to actual texting of one another, then feel free, but don't use abbreviated texting terms in your emails to me and, for God's sake, turn your spell check on. One or three misspelled words I will overlook, but an entire message filled with them? A little hard to ignore. (Note that this is also a pretty good indication that you didn't read my profile at all, because it clearly states in the very beginning that I'm a writer.)

g) Some guys will send me second messages like this: "I haven't heard from you so I guess you aren't interested." Well, did you do any of first message don'ts listed above? If so, that's why I didn't respond. If you didn't do any of the first message don'ts, did you follow the pictures and profile completion rules I laid out way up there? If not, that's why I didn't respond. Did you answer any question in your profile with "I'm not looking for anything serious" or does any part of your screen name include the terms "justlooking"? That's why I didn't respond.

This concludes today's lesson. Don't forget to bookmark, guys. One day you'll wonder why women on these sites aren't responding to you. If you check down all of these and you've done everything right, then I hate to be the one to break the bad news, but maybe it is just you.

Beneath the blankets

2011-12-15T08:50:00.000-05:00

Not that I put a bunch of faith in astrology, but on a whim I looked up my horoscope last night. Oddly enough, it perfectly described my funk for the beginning of the week and then said that from Thursday on, things would start to ease up and my optimism would return. Note that it didn't say it would come charging in (and it hasn't), but that I would start to feel a renewed sense of determination and hopefulness.

Today is Thursday, and I have to say that I had started feeling that somewhat yesterday. I really think it began with Zach's thank you that I mentioned in my last post. Through those two simple words (and he still has no idea the effect that it had), he managed to make me look beyond the obvious crap and find deeper meaning in the simple things. I woke up yesterday with work to do. Actual work. I worked all day in fact; put in 7 hours on a project for my ex-employer and have another project from them waiting in the wings. I'll be back at it today. That helped my outlook. Though the money I earn from it won't dig me out of my hole, I feel my best when I'm working. I can't stand doing nothing.

So my horoscope, no matter how cheesy those things tend to be, actually laid this week out for me with a bit of truth. I'm not ready to give up and I never have been. I'm just on a journey now. Seeking. Searching. Trying to get through each day, but noticing more and appreciating more. Though my entries here have been dark and dismal, my days aren't filled with dark and dismal. It's just that when there's enough of that going on, it tends to be hard to focus anywhere else, and it can be overwhelming.

I still laugh every day, even through the doom and gloom, mainly because my son makes me laugh. Therein lies another blessing that I had until recently only known, but never really appreciated. My son, no matter what is happening around him, always seems to have this incredibly silly yet brilliant way of looking at things. He can spin a bad moment into humor without even thinking of it. I don't think I taught him that, but I'm so thankful right now that he has that trait.

I've always been a hopeful and optimistic person, able to see the bad stuff, but able to stand up against it and fight. That's a part of me that I seem to have lost, but I know it's still there. It's just hiding under the blankets for the time being, waiting for the storm to pass and the opportune moment to peek its head out from under the covers and check the condition of the sky. I think yesterday it must have shuffled itself a little closer to the edge of the blankets to take that peek. I have no doubt this will pass, but in the meantime, I'm seeing and learning and growing on a level that I could not have done under any other circumstances.

There are still some massive thunderheads off in the distance and I know the winds are pushing them straight for me, but for the time being, for the moment, the sky isn't quite so dark. Each day is a moment-by-moment experience now, but I'm still fighting. I won't ever stop fighting.

Something to smile about

2011-12-13T13:54:00.002-05:00

My son said "thank you" to me a few minutes ago because I did something for him that I didn't actually expect a thanks for. I'm a mom and I'm supposed to do it. He thanked me without prompting, without a look, without even stopping as he passed by me. He's nearly 20, so he's even his own person now. He didn't thank me because he had to. He thanked me because he actually noticed that I did something for him that most people would just take for granted.

It was nice to hear it, but even nicer is the smile that crept up on me after he'd already left the room. I did something right; I taught my son to be nice and respectful and to acknowledge when someone has done something for you, even if it's just a little something that is an every day occurrence.

Lately I'm finding much bigger significance in the really minor things in life, things that I probably would not have noticed before. Is this the reason I'm in this strange place? Have I been missing too much and it was time to really see what's around me? There's a reason for everything. I've always believed that. Now maybe just a bit more than I ever have before.

Thank you, Zach.

Paused at the bay

2011-12-12T18:45:00.000-05:00

Took a little trip to the gas station late this afternoon. As I approached the end of the road out of our community to make the right turn onto Main Street, this was my view (I took this picture from my car about a month ago, but this is the view from that exact spot). That's Main Street crossing right in front of me, and beyond that is the bay separating the island from the mainland. The water is nearly level with the road. Maybe a foot and a half lower. Boats and docks. The mainland far in the distance. Beautiful sight.

As I got to this point, I slowed. Stopped. Sat there for a minute looking out over the water. It was late afternoon and overcast, so the sky was darker than it is in this picture and the sun wasn't out. The only thought in my mind was not the beauty of the bay, but how easy it would be to just punch the gas.

My thoughts are in a dark place right now, a place I don't want to be, a place I'm fighting like hell to get out of. That the thought crossed my mind was disturbing, yet not as disturbing as the thought of another day with no answers. I'm not one to take the easy way out. I have to keep fighting. I want the lightness back. I want to see the surface of the bay, this view, as my solace, not the dark depths beneath it.

It crossed my mind. Without warning, it crossed my mind enough to make me pause and consider it. I can't have that. It's time to fight back.

The killing blow

2011-12-10T13:16:00.000-05:00

The killing blow. For future reference, for those of you who might someday find yourselves on the receiving end of one, I'll tell you that it's best if you look away so you don't see it coming. It's not quick and painless as the myths indicate; it's slow and excruciating and bloody. The screams you hear will be your own, and they'll fall silent long before the darkness consumes you. They won't fall silent because it stops hurting. They'll fall silent because your body and mind are spent and you're much too weak to do anything more than wait for the exhale of that final, releasing breath.

Eternally suspended in amber

2011-12-08T21:13:00.000-05:00

I hope I have more to offer the world than a life meant to be analyzed. I don't mind being eclectic, eccentric, marching to the beat of 3 or 4 different drummers that are insanely out of time, or whispers about me after I'm safely out of earshot. What I don't want to be is only that. I fear being nothing more than a study in what went wrong, a psychology paper on the various ways to waste a life and what I could have done to save myself from such a sad fate. I want to offer inspiration, a push forward, to at least one person who crosses my path. I want to leave a mark. I want to be the extinct yet curious creature eternally suspended in amber.

The music inspiring me today

2011-12-05T20:13:00.000-05:00

As I begin work on the sequel to "A Shot in the Dark", this song has been inspirational for putting me into Silas' mindset with the events surrounding him at the beginning of the book. I'll let you try to figure out its significance.

Poor man's therapist

2011-12-04T19:31:00.000-05:00

Writing is a lot like an informal therapy session. With so much time spent dwelling on the discovery of what makes a character tick, why a character would react how he or she does in any given situation, and creating a world where external influences would somehow alter the character's views or actions, I tend to discover things about myself or hit upon possible reasons for the actions of those around me that hadn't occurred to me before.

I've been spending a lot of time developing one of the characters who will have a major role in the new book. Part of the process for me when fleshing out a character is to write impromptu scenarios that may or may not have anything to do with the book. I imagine the character in a situation, and it could be something as simple as going to the grocery store, and I write on the fly about the experience. There has to be dialog as well. It helps to give depth to the character--to turn them from 2-dimensional into 3-dimensional--if I put them into everyday experiences and develop how they would react and then come up with the reasons why. It's within these simple scenarios that I create certain aspects of the character that can be weaved into what drives them, what they hate, what they love, what they do when they're sitting around and no one is looking.

For example, Silas' father's ring in "A Shot in the Dark" was something I created as a very important detail for him when I was fleshing out his character. It's mentioned almost in passing in the second chapter, but the significance of it comes to light near the middle of the book. That simple gold band holds an incredible amount of weight for him, both because of its significance to his relationship with his father and because of the way he came about acquiring it. It's little details in character development such as this that are only discovered when I spend that time dwelling on the character, taking trips with him, creating memories for him.

The ring came to be because I was writing an impromptu scenario for him one day and for some reason I had him fiddling with a ring on his hand. Not out of nervousness, but out of deep thought. That led me to wonder why I saw him doing this. It felt right, but it also seemed that there was significance to this small, barely noticeable action. Then I thought that the ring had to mean something to him far beyond just being a simple adornment. Why does it mean something? What is the most significant part of his life that above all else would make that ring important to him? Already knowing his background, the answer came quickly. It had to belong to his father. From there the history of the ring was developed before anyone reading the book even knew he was wearing a ring.

It only makes sense that when analyzing a character's behaviors in situations, I would strike upon an epiphany or two regarding my own actions (why did I do that?) or someone else's (why did he/she do that?) that hadn't occurred to me. My job as a fiction writer is to create stories, but those stories have to center around people, so my job is really to create people. In doing so, I have to pay close attention to real people and analyze why they might do what they do or think how they think. I'm a poor man's therapist, but more importantly, sometimes I'm my own therapist. It definitely gives me insight into myself, but it's sometimes more than I really need to know about other people.

Always prevail

2011-12-03T19:05:00.000-05:00

"What is that at the end of all of your posts?"

You mean this?

"Yes. It's a dragon or something, right?"

No. It's a phoenix.

"Why do you use it? Does it have some meaning?"

It's the mythological bird that rises from the ashes. I used it as my son's middle name so he would know that no matter what happens to him in his life, he will always get through it. He will always find a way to rise above the ashes. It now carries the exact same symbolism for me. I use it for both reasons.

-----------------------------------------------------

Maybe today

2011-12-02T17:11:00.000-05:00

Most days I find myself waking to a feeling of hopelessness. I reluctantly get up and tell Vai, as he watches me from the same spot on the end of the bed where he’s slept all night, that we’ll go out in a minute. I know he needs to pee. So do I. But I also need coffee. He knows the routine, so he patiently watches as I get dressed, and then follows me as I go out into the kitchen to start the coffee, move to living room to grab my jacket and then go to the front door to pull his harness down from the hook beside it. I wish I had his patience. I wish I had his calm obliviousness. I wish all I had to worry about was how soon I would get to go pee and, hey, what’s that cat doing on the neighbor’s back porch?

Every once in a while I wake up with an odd sense of hope. Maybe today something good will happen. Maybe today I’ll meet someone who enjoys my company. Maybe today a freelance client will contact me and tell me they need some work done. Maybe today I’ll find a job to replace the one that was taken away from me. Maybe today a movie producer will stumble across my book and feel compelled to turn it into a major motion picture and I’ll never have to worry about money again. Maybe today I just won’t feel so lost and alone.

A lifetime of hope is a hard habit to break.

The music inspiring me today

2011-11-30T16:26:00.000-05:00

They say the characters you develop while writing fiction inevitably have pieces of yourself in their personalities and experiences. This is one of the songs that I used to take myself into Silas Cortesi's thought processes while I wrote the last several chapters of "A Shot in the Dark". This is his song. Oddly enough, it has recently become my song as well. I've put the lyrics below since they're hard to read in the video.

Did My Time (Korn)
Songwriters: Welch, Brian; Davis, Jonathan; Silveria, David; Arvizu, Reginald; Shaffer, James

Realized I can never win sometimes feel like I have failed
Inside where do I begin? My mind is laughing at me
Tell me, why am I to blame? Aren't we supposed to be the same?
That's why I will never tame this thing thats burning in me?

I am the one who chose my path
I am the one who couldn't last
I feel the life pulled from me
I feel the anger changing me

Sometimes I can never tell if I got something after me
That's why I just beg and plead for this curse to leave me
Tell me, why am I to blame? Aren't we supposed to be the same?
That's why I will never tame this thing thats burning in me?

I am the one who chose my path
I am the one who couldn't last
I feel the life pulled from me
I feel the anger changing me

Betrayed
I feel so enslaved
I really tried I did my time
I did my time
I did my time
I did my time
I did my time

I am the one who chose my path
I am the one who couldn't last
I feel the life pulled from me
I feel the anger changing me

Oh God! the anger's changing me
Oh God! the anger's changing me

© FIELDYSNUTTZ MUSIC; GINTOE MUSIC; MUSIK MUNK PUBLISHING; EVILERIA MUSIC; STRATOSPHERICYONESS MUSIC

It's safe in here

2011-11-26T14:29:00.000-05:00

Lately I find myself struggling with trust. Who should Itrust, when should I trust, should I trust anyone at all? Everyone has theirreasons, whether valid or invalid, of why they do what they do to others.People will incessantly argue their side and insist that they were right intheir actions, but in the end, if they have handled something without care orconcern for how it will truly impact the person on the receiving end, thevalidity of the argument loses its punch. At that point, they’re spouting nothingbut hot, foul air.

It seems the vast majority of the world falls into thedefinition of self-absorption, which in turn means that the vast majority oftheir actions are solely for their own benefit and to hell with the damage theydo to someone else in the process. I always believed that people wereinherently good with occasional ventures into bad actions, but I’m beginning tosee that’s not the case. It’s the other way around. People are inherentlyselfish and only when they stop (or someone else stops them) to consider theiractions do they sometimes cross over the line into good behavior.

I think I always knew that, but I just didn’t want tobelieve it. That could be one of the reasons I struggle. I have always putfaith in people to do the right thing, believed that their innate goodnesswould prevail. That belief has left me disappointed, hurt, and betrayed moreoften than not. I now see that my expectations have been too high. People ingeneral don’t have an ethical compass. Their compass is internal and itsdiameter rarely reaches forces outside of their own black aura.

In losing my trust in people, I’ve also lost my belief inmany areas of life that rely on trust. I used to believe in love. I used tobelieve that people cared for one another. I used to believe that if you treatpeople the way you would want to be treated, you would get the same in return.I trusted people. Now I look at them and know that there is only one thought intheir mind and it centers on their own needs. That’s why it’s so easy forpeople to hurt one another; because they don’t truly care about anyone butthemselves. They can do it and go on about their lives with their explanations(whether valid or invalid) that they had good reason. They fail to mention, orrefuse to admit, that the reason was self-centered, and that they really didn’tcare what it did to someone else.

It seems that I should change my perceptions, embrace theselfishness of people, or at least come to accept it as the norm. I neverwanted to be distrusting, but the betrayal of my trust has been the source ofmost of my bad feelings, especially as of late. I’ve fought for so long againstallowing myself to become bitter, but maybe that’s the safest place to be. If Ialways expect betrayal and lies and backstabbing, then I can guard myselfagainst it and only be surprised when I find that rare individual who isn’tthat way.

So, it’s taken me more than 40 years, but bitterness setsin, trust is a myth, and I have to relearn how I look at the world. In theconfines of wariness and solitude maybe I’ll find some place that is peaceful.My walls are tall and strong and encompass the small little world in which Inow live. For the time being, I have no plans to take them down. It’s safe in here.

The Journey Begins

2011-11-05T12:08:00.000-04:00

I had to push the reset button on my life. Not just for the past number of years, but for all of it. I’ve finally come to understand that it hasn’t been others who have failed me; it’s been me who has failed them. I haven’t been good enough: As a wife, as a lover, as a woman, as a friend, as a sister, as a daughter, or as a mother. I'm in this place because there is nothing left at which I can fail; I have already failed at it all. Hitting the reset button was my only recourse.

I’ve begun to think of it as my way of committing suicide without actually taking my life. I can’t simply put an end to myself because somewhere, tucked deep down, I still have this miniscule hope that there’s something more out there for me. Every once in a while that barely noticeable hope sends out sputtering sparks and reminds me that it’s still there, that it isn’t quite dead. If there was any chance left for me to save it, I had to start over and I had to do it fast, before its little spark went eternally cold.

There is a process of self-discovery that occurs only during the middle of a sleepless night, or when you’re surrounded by the overwhelming loudness of silence. Lately, I’d experienced a lot of both and in the midst of them I realized that, in all the time I'd spent bending and manipulating my ever-changing being into what everyone needs or wants me to be, I'd lost the ability to stand upright. I had become permanently malleable and, along with the loss of the unwavering optimism that for so many years had kept me going, I've lost my sense of self. I'm no longer sure who I am, or more importantly, why I am.

I’m not afraid of change and I’m not afraid of challenge. I’m not afraid of losing everything material in an effort to discover what is most meaningful. I’m not afraid of life as a whole. What does scare me is living my life through to the end and never making an impact with it. I’m afraid of insignificance and loneliness, and I have found both in abundance.

In reality I know that, with the billions of people on this planet, my likely fate is to be just another person struggling to survive my life, like we all do, but the difference for me is that I have no desire to simply survive it. At the very least I want to know that, when all is said and done, I will have tried my best to be something more. Just the trying part will be enough, even if it never succeeds, because failure doesn’t scare me either. I know it on its most intimate level. The lack of desire to continue pushing forward and try to be a better person, the no longer caring, the folding and giving up, that’s what scares me.

It’s strange how life takes you on a journey that often repeats itself. The circumstances and paths may be vastly different, but the end results are somehow the same. I've tried to be a good person, have always tried to do what was decent, kind and ethical, but despite my best efforts I always seem to find myself on the outside looking in. Quietly tapping on the glass. Waiting for someone to notice me peering in at them. I haven’t lied, I haven’t cheated, I haven’t sat so far inside myself that I’ve been unaware of the people around me and how my actions or words might affect them. I’ve been forgiving when most people wouldn’t have been, and I’ve been more than willing to change those parts of myself that might have made someone justifiably unhappy.

I haven’t been perfect at being there for the people in my life, but I’ve tried my best, and I’ve been aware. I’ve worried and cared and stepped up when they needed me, only to discover that, when it was I who had fallen and needed that hand up, there was no one reaching down. This chasm is deep, and without a single face peering over the edge, calling out to me, wondering where I’ve gone, it’s finally hit home. I now realize that, in all these years, I must have been doing something wrong. My only recourse is to walk away and try to figure out what it has been that I’ve done or not done, said or not said, that has kept me on the fringes. Then I have to fix it within myself before I can let anyone close to me again.

Only two sources of solace remain in my life: my dog Vai and the call of a childhood vacation spot. One gives me unconditional love despite my failures; the other is a place of fond recollection, a reconnection to a carefree time of innocence. I’ve taken one with me to join the other. I made no secret that I was going; it was only a matter of making the arrangements. When someone posed the question of where I was headed, I simply said: “East. Until the land runs out.”

I ran away. It was no longer a matter of “should I go?” It was something that I had to do. Reset. Running away is a necessary provision when using the reset button. To reset in the same place, surrounded by the same people whom I have failed, and staring into the remnants of the mess that was my life, would have changed nothing. I had to reset someplace new, surrounded by strangers. It’s a rebirthing process, and it’s the only way the reset button will function.

This is the diary of my flight. I chronicle it not only to answer any lingering questions from anyone who might have them, but also in the hope that it will help me identify where I’ve gone wrong. With the constant influx of emotions surrounding this move, it will help me clarify those feelings, help me separate the bitterness and remorse from the true reasons for my isolation. I have no idea where this will end, or how long it will take me to get there, but I do know that I won’t give up until I’ve found the answers. I have to keep blowing on that spark, even if it takes me the rest of my life to send it back into flame.