by anesamiller_wuhi6k | Mar 23, 2015 | Blog, Series: Drawer no more!
Just over a year ago I started the DRAWER NO MORE! series on this blog to record my journey on the path of self-publishing (SP). That jaunt led to the creation of two books—an achievement both thrilling and frustrating—usually, in that order. At the time, like so many contemporary writers, I had struggled for over a decade to get a foot in the door of traditional publishing, honing my craft, perfecting query letters, researching markets, and pitching my work to agent after agent. All to no avail.
So even though SP was not my first choice, I embraced the option and gave it my all. Of course, the “vertical learning curve” presented a challenge. Like all independent authors, I grappled with the ins and outs of ISBNs, e-book formats and conversion, design, POD, marketing and distribution—enough new concepts to fill a dictionary.
My head was spinning for months with no comfort zone in sight. But in the immortal words of Édith Piaf, “I regret nothing!”
“Rien de rein!”
True, my SP journey brought disappointments. In the beginning, I was planning to launch three books with more to follow. Instead, I’ve called a halt after the first two. That’s because an unforeseen development has now occurred along the publishing path—a very exciting development, but one that entails its own new concepts and challenges.
I’m back at square one, but this time, it’s a whole new world.
My old dream has come true at last: I have a publisher! Two of my books have been accepted, and one is already in production.
Isn’t there a proverb about wishes coming true when you finally give up striving? That’s more or less how it happened. Within weeks of saying, “No publisher? No more self-pubs? So be it. Back to the drawer…” I received an acceptance from Booktrope Publishing of Seattle. No, the news didn’t fly out of a clear blue sky; I had submitted work and 
gotten a recommendation from one of their long-time authors. But I had trained myself to harbor so little hope for good things that the acceptance knocked me over with the proverbial feather.
I’ve featured discussions of Booktrope here on the blog before, but—truth be told—I didn’t understand how it worked until I signed my contract and found myself admitted to the online inner sanctum of Teamtrope, where authors recruit managers, editors, and designers to help bring their books to fruition. This process is complex and can be confusing. I have yet to master all of the details, but already I can energetically dismiss the most common misperceptions—
BOOKTROPE IS NOT A VANITY PRESS. REPEAT: NOT A VANITY PRESS.
In other words—
Booktrope does NOT require or accept upfront fees of any kind from authors.
Booktrope does NOT keep an unduly large share of net revenues. In fact, at 30%, they keep far less than traditional publishers.
Booktrope does NOT allow poorly edited books to go to press. Nor do they accept every manuscript that comes over the transom from writers unprepared for the publishing process.
Some of my fellow self-publishers may ask, “But why give away almost one third of the proceeds when you could run the show yourself and keep it all?”
The answer, of course, is that I get something valuable in return: an imprint, a reputation, a well-informed and readily available staff, an advertising budget, and access to media opportunities I could never dream of on my own. Does this mean I’ll sell exponentially more books than I did as a self-publisher? I have to admit the answer is, “Hopefully, yes…but not necessarily.”
Now, however, I’ve got my team all invested with me and ready to navigate the rough seas of marketing. None of us will make a penny unless we all make sure the book finds readers. Even more important, I’m no longer alone on the daunting journey of self-expression. Experienced professionals have considered my work and said, “Absolutely! We want to bring this to the world.”
No guarantees, but no regrets. I’m still at Square One with Booktrope, head spinning as I adjust to new procedures. No one knows how the venture may unfold. Even so, as the Russian saying goes, I like the “feel of a shoulder” beside me. I’m not alone, and that feels like a whole new world.
by anesamiller_wuhi6k | Jan 19, 2015 | Blog, Series: Drawer no more!
Don’t get me wrong: I love singing in choirs, and I’m all about the mutual back-scratching that group support implies. In terms of publishing and social media, this means retweeting, following back, posting comments, inviting guests to contribute to blogs, or simply clicking the ol’ LIKE button. At the high end of the scale, this list includes downloading freebies or purchasing books, reading and posting reviews on Amazon.
♥ Sign on for my excellent GIVEAWAY throughout April 2015: WIN $50 in books from Powell’s Independent Bookstore! Click for details! ♥
Over the past year, I’ve done all these things as often as I honestly could without lapsing into obsession. Well, okay, I admit I did become obsessed with socmed for several months—bewitched by its alleged potential for launching my self-published books beyond the circle of personal acquaintance. I craved a wider readership of people who’d never heard of me before. I wanted to launch off the ground, if not into the stratosphere.
If tweeting and posting could help me achieve that, then I was more than willing to try. I gave it my all.
At one point, Twitter suspended me for seeking new followers “too aggressively.” Even then, I made an effort to exchange individual messages and welcome every new follower who joined my flock. For weeks on end, I issued 30 tweets a day or more on an array of topics aimed to engage a diverse range of folks, many of whom were (Surely!) just waiting to “convert” into readers of my books.
There were rules to follow: I never tweeted promos more often than 3:1, the magic formula. And I kept it up in spite of a growing sense of nausea as I struggled to devise clever ways of saying, “Check out this great read!” In fewer than 140 characters, of course.
I had consulted a PR guru. Social marketing was the tsunami of the future: the quickest, cheapest, and most surefire way to establish my reputation as a writer and promote my books throughout the virtual universe. Expectations were high since I got onto Twitter not long after Bella Andre and others made their big splash. Everyone was hoping a reliable strategy had emerged—”Grow your online tribe!” Sales and readers were sure to follow.
Once the euphoria began to wane, it was important to remember that success still depends on genre, luck, and elusive factors like one’s affinity for self-promotion.
No doubt it’s obvious that this account of my socmed career entails a trek down the stony path of disappointment. Did all those tweets and posts sell books? In a 14-month period, between two titles, I sold just under 300 copies. Scarcely a handful of those sales can be credited to socmed activity of any kind. Instead, my family-wide email campaign generated numbers, as did face-to-face events like festivals and signings.
And yes, I tried an online giveaway.
Really, I don’t mean to whine. I am grateful for every purchase, every comment, every review. Still, fellow writers may want to realize that I fell far short of my dream: the great majority of my customers are folks who already knew me, or knew of me through secondhand acquaintance. Ongoing word-of-mouth did not take off, however, and my work remains earthbound.
Basically, a failure to launch.
“Indie authors” are supposed to be entrepreneurs, dividing our time between creativity and marketing. For me that balance has become precarious. Call me old-fashioned, but tweeting and posting are incompatible with writing as I once knew it. While thousands of us send out the same plea, day after day—”Buy me! Read me! Ditto all your friends!”—socmed has recruited precious few readers to my cause. So I hereby announce an extended vacation. The air waves will be a tiny bit less crowded with @anesam98 no longer adding to the clamor.
This blog has been great fun and will still enjoy a future. Please feel free to weigh in below with comments, disagreement, or personal experience. I love to host debate in these pages.
Disappointment means nothing when I recall the wonderful people I’ve met online. In the course of my socmed career, I enjoyed these encounters more than I ever expected. Connection has brought me delight and a sense of genuine, if intangible, success. Sincere thanks to all, especially—
The generous and brilliant writers who contributed posts to this blog and made my website a far more interesting place than it could have been otherwise. These include @jbchicoine @BradParker @thesuzettebrown @dumbbumcomics and @PMCoomer
Thoughtful and compassionate commenters who made my day, time and again, creating a priceless sense of engagement: @KVaselopulos @hectorhoraciova @Micsova @AyersEdits @PinchinLane @TerryTyler4 @PoeticFlow310 @Karenlsullivan9 @JacqueeT @medarlinv @TreeTop Orchid @mikeydbii @markvanderpool and, of course, the intrepid @FredWebster10
Tweeps who reached out to me across continents, from entirely different walks of life, with humor, fellow-feeling, and encouragement. The list would quickly cover this page, so forgive me if I mention just a few shining examples: @Corkytp @TamieDearen @ALittleMissie @tomkohlt @KlaraCharlton @MarkTheShaw @seams16 @Kindlemojo @JAEL488 and @Billward10Bill
Also, special thanks to Sage Adderley and all the wonderful bloggers who took part in my online tour. Each feature was a treasure and much appreciated.
Best wishes to all. I hope we’ll be tweeting together again in the literary choir some day soon.
by anesamiller_wuhi6k | Dec 17, 2014 | Blog
Most of us find ourselves beset by a dreary attitude once and a while. The holidays—with all the stress, family obligations, and expectations good or not-so-good—can pack a hefty punch to one’s psychic equilibrium. But things get especially dire when the season delivers a double whammy, like like when you’re trying to launch a new project amid the post-partum blues. The year’s end itself can sometimes bring on that post-partum feeling of emptiness and dislocation.
If these are troubles you deal with, you are certainly not alone. All kinds of endings (and beginnings, too, come to think of it…) plague me with despondency. Having been there many times, I’ve got a few helpful hints to share. Please add your own suggestions in the comments section. We need all the tools we can get to keep our productivity going!
As writers, we know it’s not fun to find ourselves stumped on a scene halfway through a book that’s been going well (more or less) up to that point. When this happens to me, it usually means I’ve procrastinated on some essential piece of research that can’t be delayed any longer. For example, 200 pages into my novel, Our Orbit, it came time to write the scene in which two young girls visit their father in prison. I had put off drafting this episode as long as possible, but once I got out from behind my desk and went to visit a prison myself, that influx of information gave me the confidence to send words flowing freely out my fingers and onto the page.
Such blocks to the writing process are bad enough. What’s even worse—in my case, at any rate—is the paralyzing letdown that lies in wait after the completion of an important project. I call this “post-partum writer’s block.” It can devolve into a fallow period of months’ duration.
This is understandable up to a point: there’s bound to be a sense of dangling at loose ends after a big job that has occupied one’s mind for a long time, perhaps years. One positive interpretation is that the springs of creativity need to recharge before one feels ready to start something new. Unfortunately, a chorus of nagging voices may tend to overwhelm the mind:
Why aren’t you writing? How long can this drag on, this doing-nothing?? You really don’t have another book in you, after all! I knew it—everybody always knew it!!
On & on, ad nauseum…
Some of my writer-friends swear by planning ahead for these pitfalls: keep the next project simmering on the back burner—make notes, maybe an outline, engage with the characters just enough so they’re ready to pop when the time is ripe. As soon as a front burner frees up, move the simmering project forward and carry on like nothing has changed.
Voilà —post-partum blues outsmarted!
This is surely sage advice…indeed, it’s a bit too wise for the likes of me. My psyche seems to require a fallow time to grieve, as it were, for the fruit of my imagination that is now separate and independent. For the characters that have grown up and moved on. Or maybe for my unrealistic expectation that life would glow forever golden once I managed to publish the novel. This grieving process seems to entail a very low word count for as long as it takes.
I don’t mean to discount my friends’ advice. Shifting a new project rapidly to the front burner may prove very helpful for some. I’ve actually followed this advice as best I can. But when I need more time to get the next creative endeavor up and going, here are some of the things that make my days pass productively and hopefully hasten the joy of finding my way back to the writing zone—
• Don’t begrudge yourself plenty of rest. Other obligations permitting, sleep as much as you like at least a few nights per week. Ditto on relaxation. I would recommend avoiding addictions (especially electronic ones), but if TV dramas help you unwind, now’s a fine time to soak up that expert plotting without self-reproach.
• Go outside for a few minutes every day, minimum. It’s true that winter is setting in across North America, but try to find a sheltered place to get a bit of sunshine on your skin.
• In a related move, get some exercise whether indoors or out. Your next book is likely to require a lot of unhealthful sitting, so shape up now in order to withstand those long writing sessions to come.
• It’s fashionable these days to recommend meditation for whatever ails us. Personally, I never cared for it—in the past when I tried it, I always fell asleep, or just wound up fretting over the same problems I’d fretted over all day without benefit of meditation. More recently, though, I’ve allowed myself to sit and count breaths for a modest ten minutes at a stretch without any big expectations. I find it does give rise to a serene state of mind.
• Indulge yourself in something you’ve never done before: try a new craft or sport, listen to some foreign-language lessons, visit a place you’ve never seen. Or if novelty doesn’t attract you, page back to an old neglected hobby, a creative road perhaps tried but not taken in the past: quilt a pillow, build a birdhouse, bake a pie.
• And no matter what, keep journaling! It doesn’t matter what you write—some of it will no doubt be drivel, but the first sentence for your next book may turn up there soon. And your fingers will stay limber for the words you’ll eventually want to share with the world.
by anesamiller_wuhi6k | Dec 8, 2014 | Blog
In the mid-1990s (way back in my early childhood—lol), I completed a graduate program in Russian literature. To prepare for comprehensive exams, I devoted three years to reading my way through a list of novels, short stories, and poems by such luminaries as Pushkin, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Turgenev, and others. Once I had passed the exams and found a spare moment to think back, I came to a startling realization: it had been ages since I last read a book by a woman.
Aside from a tiny handful of poets (poetesses, as they were often called at the time), the classics of Russian literature included no women.
Of course, I loved the Russian masters just as I’ve loved and enjoyed many other books by male authors over the years. I wouldn’t dream of boycotting them, but it did seem appropriate to play a bit of catch-up by making a point of reading more books by women.
Now that 2014 has entered its final season, I want to remind readers of a special meme that aims to correct the ongoing gender imbalance among reviewers and books selected for review at major newspapers and literary magazines. Variously known as #readwomen2014 and #ayearofreadingwomen, this meme originated last January with blogger, writer, and illustrator Joanna Walsh. The purpose has been to introduce more readers to fantastic work by female authors.
The bookmarks Walsh created to promote #readwomen2014 appear above, featuring Anne Carson,Djuna Barnes, Gertrude Stein, and others. She celebrates a newer set of authors in more recent designs here. And click here to read her introduction to the project overall.
Since I’ve always been intrigued with world literature and foreign lands, I’d like to share a short list of novels I’ve enjoyed this year by women writers of diverse international heritage. All of them count English as heir native language, so these are not works in translation. From crime and intrigue to spiritual redemption, each of these books offers a thrilling glimpse into different ways of life. And, of course, each provides a wealth of reading pleasure—
A Tale for the Time Being by Ruth Ozeki
A strikingly original and evocative story. Chapters alternate between a schoolgirl’s journal, washed ashore on an island off British Columbia, and the novelist (not coincidentally named Ruth) who finds the journal and tries to discover what became of the author. Zen Buddhism, World War II history, and Japanese pop culture all come to bear on the young girl’s struggle to overcome bullying at school and mental illness in the family. A backdrop of natural disasters and the Fukushima reactor meltdown heightens the drama. In recounting dire and serious problems, the narrative voice strikes an endearing harmony of flippant and childlike tones, by turns depressive and humorous.
Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
This celebrated novel tells the story of a star-crossed Nigerian couple. Zed and Ifemelu are lovers as well as best friends, but the oppressive effects of corruption and organized crime drive them apart like powerful ocean currents. Ifemelu emigrates to America and finds professional success but can’t bring herself to put down roots. Back home, the friend she remembers so tenderly struggles to make a living without losing his soul. Gradually, the two resume contact as the heroine ponders a return to her troubled homeland.
The Lowland by Jumpa Lahiri
Action shifts between Calcutta and the rural campus of an unnamed university in Massachusetts as we follow the lives of two brothers, Subhash and Udayan. They are intimates and confidants until Subhash—the elder by one year—goes abroad for postgraduate education. He leaves behind a staid and traditional family profoundly challenged by the Maoist rebellion that flourished briefly in the 1960s. This movement attracts and ultimately destroys the younger brother. The novel’s social material is informative, but even if one knew all the historic details in advance, Lahiri’s narrative skill could make any tale engrossing. She favors extensive development of character and leisurely unfolding of events, yet manages to build these elements into scenes of stunning emotional power.
Kinder than Solitude by Yiyun Li
Here again is a story that spans continents. Three friends grapple with the aftermath of a mysterious death that claimed one of their friends in the prime of youth. Two emigrate to America, while the third manages to make a life in Beijing, but all are marked by doubt and a sense of dislocation. With international and psychological twists on the crime/mystery genre, Li creates a gripping intrigue and moving story. A native of China who now makes her home in the United States, Li has published several acclaimed books of fiction.
** English is so widely spoken in our day and age, there are more writers around the world working in the language than ever before. With so many unusual stories to choose from, don’t let 2014 come to a close without picking up at least one new book by a woman! (A version of this post first appeared on the lovely blog SHELF PLEASURE. I remain grateful for that opportunity!) **
by anesamiller_wuhi6k | Nov 24, 2014 | Blog
CHAPTER 29 of Our Orbit
That evening the Daniel Winslows were first to arrive. They pulled into the Fletchers’ driveway in a navy blue Lincoln Town Car, driven by a surprise guest. At the door, Deanne found the old couple flanked by Rachelle on one side and on the other by a tall, thin woman of about Rick’s age, early thirties, in a black pantsuit and emerald crepe blouse. Her wrists jingled with gold charms that matched the chains and pendant around her long neck.
Miriam dashed forward to hug the unexpected visitor. “Cousin Corinne!” she exclaimed. Next to her heavyset parents, in their customary sweatsuit and work clothes, Corinne resembled a queen among the peasants. She wore a wave of ash blond hair sculpted above an angular face.
Aunt Melanie handed Deanne a pie plate under a tent of aluminum foil—“Just a little something”—and a stack of holiday napkins with designs of Indian corn. In a whisper, she added, “From the Senior Center. They can spare a few.”
In the living room, it proved tricky getting conversation underway. Deanne and Melanie both started talking at once, then both fell silent. Rick and Corinne did the same thing. Relief arrived in the form of Kayla and Chad running into the room. They shook hands with Corinne and gave the elder Winslows willing hugs. Miriam led them in a performance of “You Are My Sunshine” (without costumes or make-up) and “Little Rabbit in the Woods.”
The doorbell sounded again. Rick and Deanne both went to greet the new guests, a young couple who looked like teenagers headed to a semi-formal dance. In contrast to his straight-laced brother, Isaac wore his hair loose to the shoulders. It was nearly black, shiny and lank, in the manner of a dashing violinist. He wore a pristine white T-shirt, indigo jeans, and a black satin windbreaker with a red and gold dragon embroidered over the shoulders.
“Good to meet you,” Isaac said with a crooked but sincere-seeming grin. “Better late than never.” He looked delicate beside his wife. Stephanie stood some five inches taller and easily outweighed him by fifty pounds. She wore a long skirt and matching over-blouse in a sunflower print that complimented her burgundy hair.
“What a nice yard you have,” Stephanie said. “And what a nice house.”
On their feet again, the earlier arrivals came to greet their relatives. Everyone talked at once. Miriam jumped up and down, clutching Isaac’s hands. Introductions were repeated, and Kayla and Chad collected more hugs. When things quieted down, the children performed their songs again.
Melanie Winslow suggested they all sing “We Gather Together.”
“Remember?” she said, turning to Rachelle. “Your momma’s favorite.”
On a variety of pitches, they made it through three full verses. The Winslow girls struck up a harmony.
Lovely, Deanne thought. I did the right thing, inviting everyone over.
The Winslows did look pleased, and the children were in their glory with all the positive attention. Only Rachelle seemed withdrawn. Her eyes skirted people’s faces, then dropped to the carpet. In a denim skirt and shapeless, rust-colored sweater, she looked like a thrift-store waif. Bet some nicer clothes would cheer her up, Deanne thought. She made a mental addition to her Christmas list.
Josh and the Weavers had not RSVP’d. Since Deanne invited them, she’d learned about the complaint Josh had filed with the Children’s Services office. It seemed unlikely his branch of the family would put in an appearance, so at a quarter to eight, she invited the guests to the dining room. She had made a pumpkin and a pecan pie with vanilla ice cream and a can of whip on hand. Melanie Winslow’s pie was banana cream. Stephanie contributed a plate of candy buckeyes. The three women poured coffee, tea, and cider for the men, children, and Cousin Corinne, who took the seat offered her at table, vowing to “help by keepin’ out of the way.”
“I remember you from high school,” Isaac told Rick. “Guess I would’ve had you if I’d got up the guts to take chemistry.”
“Did you go out for a sport?” Rick asked. “I coach track and field.”
“Nah.” The young man laughed. “Way too lazy.”
Aunt Melanie quizzed Kayla and Chad about the dishes their grandma cooked for Turkey Day. Corinne leaned close to Rachelle’s chair, one arm stretched over the backrest, as the two of them exchanged quiet words. Deanne did her best to engage Uncle Dan. He allowed as how he used to hunt over by her family’s pastureland. Deanne was intrigued, if also repelled, to learn that he’d cured hides the old-fashioned way—with fresh brains.
“Ever’ critter got enough brain to do its own skin,” he said.
When seconds were passed around, Corinne got up and headed for the kitchen. She dropped a hand to Deanne’s shoulder.
“Can I get you something?” Deanne asked.
“Thought I’d step out for a smoke. Keep me company?”
It was dark outside and cold. Deanne switched on a light over the back step. She slipped on a fleece jacket from one of the hooks by the door and offered her guest one, as well. She brushed a pile of curled-up leaves off the picnic table.
Corinne sat on the end of the bench. She pulled cigarettes from a neat leather purse and lit up, exhaling a long whoooo.
“I think it’s great what you’re doing,” Corinne said. “I want you to know that.”
“Thanks,” Deanne said.
“I can tell Miriam’s doing real good here. She’s happy. Blossoming.”
“I appreciate you saying that.” Nice to hear, of course, but it was not hard to sense a flipside coming.
“I suppose you think our family is pretty much a train wreck.”
“Not at all. We’re very fond of your parents.”
“I’m not saying that to be nasty. When a man gets hauled to jail and leaves his kids? That’s my definition of a train wreck.”
“I’m glad we could help.”
Corinne shot Deanne a sharp look. Again she blew a gust of smoke. “I’d like to fill you in on a few things.”
Deanne’s eyebrows went up.
“You probably noticed my dad has some wacky ideas. It’s not mental illness, doesn’t run in the family. He’s a disabled veteran. It’s connected to that.”
“I had no idea,” Deanne said. But what a relief!
“And the thing with Levi… Well, I guess you know he’s a fanatic.”
“Was he part of this militia movement, like up in Michigan?” Those guys with their campouts and gun-love were more than a bit scary.
“Arm-chair supporter,” Corinne said. “What you need to understand is, Levi raised the boys to be as fanatical as him. With Isaac, it didn’t take, but Josh buys into the Christian patriarchy business. That’s why he thinks he can boss the girls around.” She flicked ash into the grass, ignoring the saucer Deanne had placed on the table. “I’m sure you noticed the kids all have Old Testament names. That includes Rachelle. You know why they decided to spell it with two L’s? It’s not for pronunciation.”
Corinne paused, gave a look like she had some hilarious secret.
“Why?”
“To give it more of a French-type spelling. Levi wanted it to look less Jewish.” Corinne stamped her foot, snorted with laughter.
My God—surely this was an embarrassment, even if the woman thought it made a good story. Should I laugh? Deanne wondered. Act surprised?
“Don’t you get it? He loves the old patriarchs. He’s named for one! But he doesn’t like their names to look so Jewish!”
Deanne gave Corinne’s forearm a squeeze. While she was casting about for something to say, she heard the backdoor swing open. Miriam and Kayla leaned out at the top of the steps.
Kayla called, “More people are here for pie. Josh and his girlfriend.”
Rachelle came up behind the little girls and pushed her way out the door, nearly knocking Kayla down. She crossed to the picnic table and stopped beside her cousin. With a stiff jerk of her foot, she gave the bench a mute kick.
“Josh here?” Corinne asked in a low voice.
“That’s right,” Rachelle said.
Deanne stood and touched Rachelle’s shoulder. “I wanted to invite everyone,” she said. “It didn’t occur to me there might be…friction.” She stepped toward the house and ushered the children inside. With a look back she added, “You two take your time.”
* * *
Josh was at the table with Isaac and Rick and Uncle Dan. Words like “Japanese maple” and “tons of tulip bulbs” sounded in the conversation, so things seemed cordial enough. Melanie had hunted up clean cutlery, and Deanne lifted slices of banana cream pie for the latecomers. She sat down next to Rick.
The backdoor opened and closed softly. Corinne returned to the table. Rachelle could be heard cutting through the kitchen to the living room, where Stephanie had started a board game with the children.
“Let us pray,” Josh said.
Above a white dress shirt, his face wore a grave expression. Who could tell what the guy was thinking, Deanne wondered, showing up like this after so many refusals?
Josh took Bekka’s hand on his right and Isaac’s on his left. Those still eating set down their forks and closed the circle.
But Josh looked toward the living room and raised his voice. “Could we all join in, here? Let’s thank the Lord for bringing us together.”
Deanne caught Rick’s eye. He gave a dry smirk.
“Steph’s got the kids occupied,” Isaac said. “Let ‘em play.”
But Stephanie seemed ready to accommodate. She came to the table, took Chad on her lap. Kayla and Miriam scrambled together on a vacant seat. Last of all, Rachelle stationed herself between Corinne’s chair and Deanne’s.
Everyone joined hands again.
Josh furrowed his brow and spoke. “How righteous are Your ways, Lord, to bring Your children together for a time of thanks after long days apart. We praise Your divine wisdom. We ask that You look down on us with favor and teach us every day to be Your faithful people. To guide us on the one true path.”
“Amen,” Melanie said.
“That You teach us to forsake every form of evil.”
“Amen,” Melanie repeated.
“And help us through Your Holy Word to reject the ways of Satan. Let us shun sin and repent of its power to defile. For what we do in the dark will be brought to light. Damnation in the lake of fire awaits—”
“A-men,” Rick said decisively. He rapped the table twice with his knuckles, rose to his feet, and spoke in a hearty tone. “I’d like to add that Dee and I appreciate all of you joining us to celebrate the holiday. I know Miriam is glad to see everybody, and so are we. And please—” He gestured toward the remaining desserts. “No calorie-counting tonight.”
Restrained laughter rippled over the table.
Deanne gave Rick a veiled smile. Good job, babe! The look on Josh’s face was an odd mix of smugness and disgust, like he expected no less from the infidel foster family than to have his prayer cut short in favor of pie and ice cream.
Stephanie and the children returned to the living room. Rick fetched the coffeepot and refilled Uncle Daniel’s cup. Deanne urged Bekka to enjoy her cider while it was still warm.
But Rachelle hadn’t moved. She made no effort to mute the anger in her voice as she said, “Can we leave now, Uncle Dan?”
When Josh shot her a look, Rachelle said, “What? What do you want from me?”
He fired back. “I want God’s grace for you. God’s forgiveness.”
“Peace,” Isaac said, his hands raised in the air. “Let there be peace, you two.” He stood and clapped his hands on his brother’s shoulders. Then he turned to Uncle Dan and started his good-byes.
Deanne felt relieved to beat a retreat through the kitchen, if only to fetch coats. One step into the living room, however, and she was waylaid by Corinne. Now the woman was looking for the powder room. Deanne showed her to the hallway and reached in to flip the light switch, a simple courtesy. To her astonishment, Corinne shoved her into the bathroom, pulled the door behind them, and pressed the lock.
“Listen,” the woman said, “I need to finish telling you something.”
“What is it? Just tell me.”
At the sink, this strange guest turned the faucet so water gushed at a noisy clip. Even so, she kept her voice quiet. “You heard that whole sin-and-forgiveness routine? Pulls that every time he gets Rachelle in his sites. He’s out to wear her down.”
“What’s he trying to prove?”
“He suspects. Doesn’t know, but he suspects. I’m sorry to say—he’s right.”
“Right about what?”
“One night last winter, Rachelle turned up at my folks’ house. Begged my mom to go to Columbus and visit me. ‘Could she please go stay with Corinne? Oh please, could she go?’ So I said sure. Drove down, brought her home with me. Supposedly for a weekend.”
“But she stayed longer?”
“Not only that. Turned out she had a whole special reason for coming. Wasn’t just to get a break from the trailer.” Corinne’s eyes burned into Deanne’s, then skated away. “The kid had been running wild since before her mom died. Naturally, she discovered boys. You know what I’m saying.”
When Deanne just frowned, Corinne leaned so close tobacco breath flooded the air. A lock of blond hair broke loose from its wave. My God, Deanne realized, the woman is actually frightened.
“Why do country girls come to Franklin County? Don’t you know? We got a special institution called the Women’s Choice Clinic—”
Deanne gasped.
Corinne bent over the counter. The gold chains swung from her neck and seemed to tremble. “I take full blame. Claimed I was Rachelle’s mother, gave my consent. My parents must never find out. It’s the worst sin there could be. But no one has the right to tell that child she profaned her momma’s grave—”
Talk about unwelcome confessions!
“I give my word,” Deanne said stiffly. “I won’t invite Josh over again.”
“There’s something else you can do.”
Deanne gave a broad shrug.
“Don’t let Josh get Miriam on his side.”
With that, Corinne shut off the faucet. She whirled to the door and peeked out in one motion. She flipped off the light and stepped from the room, leaving Deanne in the dark.
gotten a recommendation from one of their long-time authors. But I had trained myself to harbor so little hope for good things that the acceptance knocked me over with the proverbial feather.
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