The Ghost of Literary Past

Sorry I haven't written in, whoa, a really long time, but I've been busy growing a human.  Yeah.  Put your adoption process on hold, and you'll get pregnant! :)

Last night, I was thinking about all the books I used to read when I was younger and how my particular writing style developed. 

The first think I remember really captivating me was mythology.  Yeah, if you think that's weird, just wait.  I had found some mythology book for kids at my elementary school's library and could not get enough.  I read stories about Eros and Psyche, Narcisuss and Echo, Athena, and many others.  I think I got this love of mythology from my mom.  She took Latin in high school and knew all about the origins of words.  When she would explain a word's meaning, like narcissism, she'd tell me the story of Narcisuss.  I enjoyed learning that there are so many stories behind words.  I think reading mythology helped develop my imagination.  They were more interesting to me than Grimm's Fairy Tales. 

But I do love Grimm's Fairy Tales--and on an unrelated note, I love the show Grimm.  If you haven't seen it, you should watch it.  One Thanksgiving, my Uncle Wyatt gave my sister and I a giant book.  It was a collection of Grimm's Fairy Tales.  At first, I was thinking "Um, thanks for the big ass book," but on the car ride home, I actually started reading it, and it was awesome.  I found "Cinderella" (a.k.a. "Aschenputtel"), a story that I thought I was familiar with, and began reading.  Dude, Disney did not do this story justice.  Those Germans were brutes.  For instance, did you know that the evil step-sisters' mother made them cut off their toes and heels so that their giant man feet would fit into the glass slipper?  Morbid, right?  I loved it.

One day, I got my hands on an Edgar Allan Poe collection.  I really enjoyed dark literature.  In elementary school.  Yeah, I told you I was weird.  I thought the "Tell Tale Heart" was wickedly creepy.  I stole my sister's copy of Jane Eyre and began reading it.  I loved the Gothic undertones and the subtle ghostly presence that existed in the Bronte sisters' books.  Of course when I read the book again in my British Literature class, the feminist in me was appalled by how Rochester kept his crazy ex-wife locked in the attic.

I also enjoyed stealing my sister's R.L. Stine books and reading the murderous ghost tales.  Goosebumps was just not scary enough for me.  In fifth grade, I bought a book called Time Windows by Kathryn Reiss at a library sale.  It was a non-traditional ghost story about a doll house and dealt a little with time travel.  I had always been interested in time travel, but I had never seen it in literature until I read this book.  I also read some tales by Lois Duncan and other young adult mystery writers.

I was not introduced to the fabulous works of J.K. Rowling until I was nearly out of high school.  It was the best literature I had read up to that point.  Arguably, the best literature I had read ever.  I'm a bit of a fan, if you haven't noticed.

What is interesting to me is that the dark, Gothic literature I used to love now creeps the buhgeezes out of me.  I had to read Dracula for the first time in my Brit Lit class.  We had about a week to read it, and I don't think I slept all week.  I couldn't even finish it.  I was a married, 20-something college student, and this book gave me nightmares. 

I think there is something about having the innocence of a child when reading Poe and other scary tales.  When we are young, we are taught that these stories are completely make believe.  Evil doesn't exist anywhere but in literature, and the world is full of good.  Now that I'm an adult, I know that people really do chop up other people and hide them in their walls and floor boards.  There are people who actually believe they are real vampires, and they kill people and drink their blood.  Psychos and crazies don't exist only in literature.  They are real.  If you noticed, the "vampire" novel I've been entertaining does not and will not glorify vampires.  After reading Dracula, vampires will always be evil to me.  I knew I was "team Jacob" for some reason....

Well, now you know a little more about me and from where a lot of my inspiration stems.  Feel free to share your past literary encounters with me!  I don't hate comments. :)

-JGP

The Only Thing I Can Think About....

I can't write.  The only thing I can think about is if my child will ever come....

http://waitingforbabypettus.blogspot.com/

Months

1, 2, 3, 4…

Months pass by.  Nearly a score.

Wondering if we will wait 20 more.

5, 6, 7, 8…

It seems impossible, death from wait,

Dying slowly from something I hate.

9, 10, 11, 12…

Waiting for Heaven while sitting in Hell,

Hoping for hope and faith as well.

13, 14, 15, 16…

Searching everywhere and in between

This journey was not as it seemed.

17, 18, 19, 20…

God save me from this road so lengthy.

Don’t leave me dying with my arms empty….

-JGP

Introducing Russ

Hey Y’all,

I haven’t known Jana terribly long – graced by meeting her at a career fair at Athens State University where I was representing The University of North Alabama.  Either way, I’m thrilled to pieces she asked me to be a guest writer for her blog.  But maybe I’ve picked up in the middle of a conversation we haven’t even started.  Allow me to introduce myself.  

I am Russ Darracott – an Old Fashioned Southern Gentleman trapped in a 25 year old body in the wrong generation altogether.  I’m a hopeless romantic who moves at two speeds (slow and stop) and a firm believer in Southern hospitality.  If someone is uncomfortable around me – I’ve failed at my job as a Southerner.  If I neglect to open a door for another person, smile at a passerby, or wear white after Labor Day, I’ve failed at my job as a Southerner.  If guests leave a party I’m hosting after only two hours (and God forbid hungry), I’ve failed miserably at my job as a Southerner.

I come from a family of healthy eaters (I’ll let you draw your own conclusions) who know how to throw a party.  Our party typically begins at noon and doesn’t end until midnight.  No one leaves hungry (one typically leaves with a notch taken out of his or her belt) or without telling at least one good story.  Cards begin around sevenish and conclude at midnight…or until your pockets, your wife’s purse, and your car is empty of all spare change (we aren’t hardcore gamblers….we have a quarter limit on all bets.)  I’ve lived in the same small town in the same house and attended the same Baptist church my whole life.  It is a town where the sweet tea and gossip flow freely…most of the residents know the dish about you before you do.  If you have nothing to hide, it is a wonderful place – if you have something to hide, we welcome you…and your scandalous stories.

And writing is my passion, well hobby more or less.  My truest passion is taking old things and making them new again. I’m restoring my grandmother’s old home and furnishing it with nothing but antiques.  Maybe it is because I believe everything deserves a second chance.  Maybe it is because I’m cheap. Or maybe it is because I long to live in a past I never got to see…only read about and hear about through stories passed from generation to generation. My next greatest passion is as an outdoorsman.  Whether it be fishing, hiking, or just mowing my grass I’m much more at home out of doors rather than being cooped up inside.  I don’t know how many passions one person is allowed to have, but writing would follow after that (no, I take that back…it would follow after cars…I’m a car collector so that is definitely a passion.)  So I say writing is a passion, but it may fall more in the hobby category.

I don’t believe writing is this “spectacular gift of divine intervention” awarded to only a select few people.  I believe it is hard work. And I believe it is the undying belief that you as a person have a story that is worth sharing and worth being told.  Writing isn’t a concept that is only mastered by those who are master linguists.  Writing is mastered by those who are great story tellers.  A great story teller is a person that can take cold, black and white words and transport a reader to a land full of color and bold characters whether they be people who could pass as neighbors, ancestors of a past long gone by, or someone who would be a perfect best friend from a land which only a child could dream.

I write the former…stories of the South and of characters who I wish were true to life friends instead of living only in my imagination.  But they aren’t always fictitious…the best stories come from what you know.  I know Southerners.  I know hospitality, gossip, and scandal.  No offense to our Northern counterparts (or anyone who may read this above the Mason-Dixon Line), but the only place a Yankee (Good Lord, but does that word leave a bitter taste in my mouth) will ever have in any story of mine is as a villain who plays against the good nature of a Southerner.

So writing isn’t a miraculous gift – it is a passion to write what you know and stories worth being told.  I truly believe each person may not write – but every person can tell a story (or at least Southerners can).  So write what you know.  Don’t keep those stories to yourself.  There is an old saying that every time a person dies, a library burns down…and I believe that with all my heart.  Every person and every thing has a story worth being told – so tell it. (Just remember to change the names to protect the innocent.)

I’ve enjoyed our time together.  I hope I’ll be invited back.

Warm Southern Days,

Russ

You can read Russ' blog "This Old Southern House" at http://thisoldsouthernhouse.blogspot.com/.

Hopefully, I can convince Russ to come back and give us a teaser of his new novel Moonlight Serenade.  I am in the process of reading it and can't wait to finish!  Thanks, Russ, for gracing us with your presence at "The Writers' Block."

-JGP

Holy Expletive, Batman!

So, (don't you love how I start every post with "so?"  It's kind of my thing.)

SO, I was checking my email a few minutes ago, weeding through the oh so many rejection emails I receive a day, when I opened once that said this:


Dear Jana,

Many thanks for getting in touch with The Blair Partnership.

We look forward to reading your work.  Please submit your manuscript when you feel it is one hundred per cent complete as this way we will be able to make our best assessment of it.

Best wishes,

The Blair Partnership

I got excited.  It's always exciting when someone requests your stuff.  But then I sat there trying to figure out which agency this is because I've contacted like 70.

Blair Partnership...Blair Partnership... I sat and thought for a few minutes.  Then I looked at the address: London.

You ready for this?  It's J.K. Freakin' Rowling's AGENCY!!!

Are they serious?!?!  They want my stuff?  Like REALLY?!  I am still shaking from excitment and nervousness.  I got to get this mug finished like ASAP!

I realize there is a one in a million chance that they will actually want to sign my book, but STILL.  This has given me a major confidence boost.  And a swift kick in the butt to get moving!

So, as of right now, I will be writing non-stop for the next who knows how long, and I would REALLY appreciate your prayers :)

SO EXCITED!!!

-JGP

Excitement

*            TWILIGHT AND JANE EYRE SPOILER ALERT            *

(Just in case you haven't read them and evenutally want to.  I hate being spoiled, so I thought I'd give a heads up.)

So, I started jotting down my little idea yesterday, and today I've been elborating on it because my computer software at work has decided to have a 'tude with me today--seriously, like every other day, it does not work.

I am so excited about this new book.  It has just been a fun idea of mine that I've had for years.  I'm not huge into the vampire thing.  I loved the Twilight books (except the last one--don't work up to some huge fight scene and then not have it, k?  And don't even get me started on the movies and Kristin Stewart now being the most paid actress in Hollywood....)  I've never really wanted to jump on the vampire crazy train, so that's why I never put words to my little idea until yesterday.

To me, it's just a fun project to work on while I figure out where Maggie's book is going.  I don't think I will ever pursue publishing it or anything, but I am having so much fun researching for it.  It's set in New Orleans, which I find to be one of the most mysterious, creepiest, coolest cities in America, and many of the characters are of Cajun descent or Lousiana Creole.

In college I had a "History of the English Language" class, and we discussed Pidgin, which I believe is where the Creole language originated--from the West Africa and Carribean slave trade (don't quote me on that; it's been years since I've had that class, but I think that's where it came from.)  And I also read The Wide Sargasso Sea in my Lit Crit class which is a kind of prequel to Jane Eyre (very interesting book anyone who is a Jane Eyre fan should read.)  It takes place in the Carribean and tells the story of Mr. Rochester's crazy, Creole, attic wife.  I love knowing both sides of the story, so I'm glad someone decided to elaborate on hers.  But don't even get me started on that love triangle and how I never liked Rochester and think Jane could've done better....

I really don't want this to be a vampire novel that glorify's vampires.  I've thought about having some kind of vampire love interest, because it seems like that would be the natural course for the book, but I don't like vampires.  I was Team Jacob.  I didn't trust the vampires.  While reading the Twilight books, I kept waiting for Edward to turn on Bella and attack her.  I think this goes back to an episode of "Are You Afraid of The Dark" I watched when I was like 7 and parts of "Interview With a Vampire" I saw when I was 10 which seriously scarred me for life.  I slept with my sheets pulled up around my neck for years.   Bottom line, vampires are not good or nice or make great husbands.  They are bad, and I don't like them.

So, to recap, having fun researching for the new book, Kristen Stewart has the personality of notebook paper, you should read Wide Sargasso Sea, and I don't like vampires.

-JGP

Boredom and A New Idea

Here's what I did for the past 30 minutes.  I've had this idea in my head for a while, and decided to get some of it out:

            I am not a vampire.

            This is something I tell myself often.  Whenever I can hear someone’s heart beating in the next room.  When I can spot a fallen nickel from 10 yards away.  When I have the urge to snarl at someone who made me angry.  I am not a vampire, and I refuse to be called one.

            My story is complicated, and it starts before my birth.

            My mother was an orphan.  She spent her life being bounced around from foster family to foster family.  Some not so bad, others not so great, but her last foster family was the worst.  When she was placed with a seemingly perfect couple at age 15, she thought that just maybe it would work out this time.  To her surprise, her foster mother turned into a raging alcoholic behind closed doors, and for good reason, as she lived with a physically and sexually abusive psychopath that brought my mother’s not so great life into a new level of hell.

            She suffered through the first few months, bravely taking the constant abuse, but one night, shortly after her sixteenth birthday, when the man and woman got into an alcohol infused fight that eventually led to the psychopath setting fire to the kitchen, she left.  In the midst of the commotion she packed her bags and made her way out her upstairs window and down the fire escape and into the streets of New Orleans.

            She started out as a waitress/stripper, then eventually started selling her body for top dollar.  It wasn’t ideal by any means, but at least now she was the one that held control of her own body, or so she felt.  For two years she lived the life of a high-priced street whore at night, and numbed the pain with drugs and alcohol during the day. 

When she was 18, she became pregnant with me—ending her night life.  She got away with it for a while, but she could only hide me for so long.  Her pimp kicked her out of her apartment, so she was forced to take shelter with the homeless addicts in a basement on 5^th.

When she was about six months pregnant with me, she was afraid of losing me to starvation.  She went down the alleys behind the strip and looked for restaurants who could spare some leftovers, expired goods, anything to get her by.  She built a good relationship with a young, Cajun restaurant owner, Lisette.  Lisette would always put her leftovers aside for my mom, and every evening she would come by.  Lisette took pity on my mom.  She helped her sober up and offered her a job waiting tables at the restaurant.  Things were finally starting to look better, but it didn’t last long….

One night while mom was taking the trash out back, she was met by a tall, handsome man with jet black hair and dark coal eyes.  His appearance was pleasing, but his aura menacing.  He lunged at my mother and silenced her before she had the chance to scream.

Lisette noticed she hadn’t seen my mother for some time, so she went out back to check on her, and that’s when she found my mother—neck mutilated, body drained of blood, cold, and lifeless.  Almost.  Lisette saw movement in my mother’s belly.  She went into labor in the midst of her attack, and I was struggling to get out.  Lisette ran to the kitchen to grab alcohol and a knife and in the back alley, performed my C-section.  She got to me just in time.  I was blue, suffering from affixation, nearly dead.  She revived me, cleaned me, and brought me in.  She called some of her less than respectable regulars to come clean up the mess, and they dumped my mother’s body into Lake Pontchartrain.  After all, it was New Orleans.  Who cared about the nobody whore who was killed in Leftover Alley.

Aunt Lisette, as I know her now, raised me as her own.  She was a hero for taking in the abandoned baby left in the trash behind her restaurant.  Only she and I know the real story, and why I am the way I am.

Mom was attacked by a vampire.  She was drained of blood.  I was filled with venom.  Because of my newborn age, my size, and my current state, I wasn’t turned by the attack.  But I was changed.

My name is Anika, and I am not a vampire.

Thoughts?
-JGP

I Got One!

I got my first snarky response from an agent:

Hi Jana,

I just glanced at this since I am closed to queries, but you should know that it is a big faux pas to query incomplete work. It must be finished (and revised!) before you query. Many agents request quickly and you're expected to send it within a day or three. 

M

I sent her an email back explaining my situation:

 

M,

Hi.  I know some agencies require the manuscript to be completed, but I've had several agencies request my work knowing that it is incomplete.  I would never submit an unfinished work to a publisher, but I am looking for an agent that wants to be part of the writing process and help me develop my story.  I apologize for inconveniencing you.

-JGP

 

 

I realize that a lot of agencies won't request anything from me because my work isn't complete, but I'm looking for assistance.  A small little agency that wants to develop me. I realize that may be a tall order, but I think that person is out there, and in the mean time, I will continue to work on my stories and characters. 

 

Besides, I've never been known to do things conventionally anyway. ;)

 

-JGP

Noah's Song

This is a song I wrote for my nephew, Noah, who passed away from complications of brain cancer on May 18, 2012.  I will always love you, and you will always be my hero, sweet boy.

You can see his memorial on http://www.prayfornoah.com/.

The Bravest Boy That Ever Lived (Noah's Song)

We are never promised tomorrow.

You always lived for today.

Running through the valley

With a smile on your face

Arms open wide

Waiting to embrace

Whatever life God gave you,

And you did it with grace.

I can only hope that one day

I can be that brave.

When I feel like giving up,

When I feel like giving in,

And it seems like the battle I cannot win,

When I think I’m losing strength,

I give it all that I can give,

Because I remember who I am

To the bravest boy that ever lived.

I always worry for what’s to come.

You took one day at a time.

Fighting this battle

While having the time of your life.

Ready for anything,

You kept running the race.

You pushed fear aside,

And laughed in the enemy’s face.

When I feel like giving up,

When I feel like giving in,

And it seems like the battle I cannot win,

When I think I’m losing strength,

I give it all that I can give,

Because I remember who I am

To the bravest boy that ever lived.

And you gave everything you had

With every ounce of strength you had left,

Loving, and hoping, and fighting,

Until your last breath.

So when I feel like giving up,

And when I feel like giving in,

And it seems like the battle I cannot win,

When I think I’m losing strength,

I give it all that I can give,

Because I remember who I am

To the bravest boy that ever lived.

Because you never gave up.

You never gave in.

You never lost the battle.

Victory was yours in the end.

You never lost your strength.

You gave it all that you could give,

Because you knew who you were

To the bravest Man that ever lived.

Learning Experiences

So far I have submitted 31 query letters, received 3 requests for material, had 11 rejections (2 after material was requested), and I am still waiting to hear back from several more agencies.

I recently received the nicest rejection letter yet the other day from an agent that read my first four chapters.  He said about my book "There was much in it that I enjoyed, and I admire your writing."  He may have rejected my book in the end, but hot dang!  I'll take that compliment!  I've never been "admired" by an agent before.  He also wished me well in finding "the right agent and publisher."  Maybe I'm reading it all wrong, but I take that to mean he feels like my work should, at some point, be published.  And that is awesome!

So despite rejection, I am learning more about my work and myself as a writer.  Positive criticism (I realize that sounds like an oxymoron, but there is such a thing) is healthy and helps us grow into the writer we can be.  I have yet to have anyone tear me down (not in the writing arena anyway), and overall, even though I am being rejected left and right, this has been a really good experience for me.

I'm still working and tweeking and just waiting for the right agent to come along.  I believe in myself, I believe in Maggie, and I believe that eventually, it will happen....

Query Letter

I have had several people want to see my query letter since I have gotten quite a few responses, so I am including it below.  I have received both good and bad responses, but to me that's better than no feedback at all.  And most of the rejection letters have been quite nice.

I use "Young Adult Novel Query" as the subject to my email.

Query Email:

To Whom It May Concern,
(or Dear Ms./Mr. So-and-so if I actually know their name)

I am writing to request representation for my young adult trilogy entitled The Maggie McCauley Chronicles.  This series follows the life of Maggie, a young girl who learns she has inherited the ability to time travel from her late father.  This discovery reveals many family secrets, including the family’s history with the malicious Van Alstyne.  With the help of her eccentric guide, Philip, Maggie must discover how to handle her new found abilities so she may fulfill her place in the “Travelers Ordinance.”  Within Maggie’s journey to unearth the past and find her future lies a relationship with the father she never knew.

This book has been described as “the Time Traveler’s Wife meets Harry Potter.”  It has fantastic elements that will capture the reader’s attention along with real-life issues that will connect the reader to the otherwise ordinary Maggie.  This series will resonate with readers both young and old.

I would like to submit to you the first four to five chapters of chronicle one.  Once completed, the first book should contain 24 to 28 chapters and be around 300 pages in length.  I truly believe in this book and think it could be great.  I just need someone who can help me along.

Thank you for your time,

Jana Gordon Pettus

It's really short and sweet, gives a quick synopsis of the book, provides a genre and targeted age group, and offers an estimated length.  I also elude to the fact that it is not a completed manuscript when I say "once completed..." but sometimes they request a full manuscript anyway (see post below.)

Oh and DO NOT pay attention to the spacing, because Blogger is stupid and doesn't know what it's doing.  I've tried to fix it like elevendy billion times, and it never works, so whatever.  It's supposed to be spaced like a typical business letter.

So there is a sample you can go by.  I don't claim to be an expert on query letters.  I just googled one and used that a template for mine.

Enjoy!

-JGP

Rejection

I've received several rejection emails, but today I got the my first rejection from an agency that actually wanted to read the first four chapters of my book before lowering the hammer.  I'm a tough girl, and I can take rejection, but this one hurts more since they actually read my story--not just a query letter.

So you know what I did?  I sent out 19 more query letters.  "It only takes one."  That's what my mom told me, and she's right.

I sent one query letter at about 3:00 p.m. and received an email back about 20 minutes later asking for the entire manuscript.

Well, crap. I thought.  I don't have the entire manuscript done yet!!  I've always held the philosphy of "why write the whole thing if no one wants it?"  So now I'm trying to figure out what to tell the agency.  I'm torn between not responding until it's done (but who know's how long that could take?) and telling them it's not done and sending what I've got thus far.  Of course there is a chance they will tell me to wait until I'm finished to send it in.  I already had one agency tell me to contact them again once the manuscript is done.

I figure that after rejection, this is probably a good dilemma to have, so I'll take it.  I'm just trying to figure out what to do next.

-JGP

Maggie and Me

Today I want to share a little about myself and my character, Maggie.  We have a lot of similarities but also a lot of differences.  I think Maggie is a compilation of me and many of the people I love.

First off, Maggie looks nothing like me.  She is about 5'6", gracefully thin, has long, wavy, golden brown hair, big brown eyes, and a crooked nose.  Ok, she may have my eyes and my crooked nose.

She's sarcastic, sometimes sardonic, but compassionate, merciful, and caring.  She's introverted, a go-getter, and extremely stubborn.  She can really be a little bit of a spitfire sometimes, and she loves animals.  These characteristics we share.

I have also instilled some of my husband's traits in Maggie.  She is incredibly good-hearted.  And this isn't to say that I'm not, but my husband's heart is so good, it's saintly.  That man deserves a medal.  She's also ridiculously smart, and I'm no dummy, but my husband is a freakin' genius.  Seriously.

And there is something about Maggie that reminds me of my sister, but I can't really put my finger on it.  I think she can be very motherly and nuturing, but that really hasn't been characterized in the book just yet.

Maggie is also very brave, loves the cold, and wants to get as far away from home as possible.  These are all characteristics of a "traveler," and all the things that I'm not.  I'm a wuss, I absolutely HATE cold weather (I'd move to Florida in a heartbeat), and I'm definitely a homebody.  She also has the heart of a leader, and I'm not a fan of leading people.  I love being a delegator though.  I'm definitely a "behind the scenes" girl.

There is one very common thread between Maggie and me and that is the loss of a parent.  My father died from brain cancer when I was two, and this book was birthed from a daydream I'd always had: being able to travel to the past and spend time with the father I never really knew.  I've always been told how much I am like him, but I would love to find out for myself.  This crave for a relationship is what led me to write this book.  By living vicariously through Maggie, I can finally do what I've always wanted to: truly experience the man who gave me life.

-JGP

A Little Freebie - Chapter 1, Chronicle 1

Chapter 1

            18 is a weird age.

I thought this to myself as I climbed the stairs of my ancient home.  Well, it's not exactly ancient; just old I guess. 

            My mom fell in love with the small two-story home in the historical district of a small town outside of Savannah.  The house barely qualified for a two-story home; my bedroom and an adjacent bathroom were the only upstairs rooms.  It was white wood siding with two parallel windows out front that were flanked by navy blue shutters.  The matching door was painted red about two seconds after we moved in:  “It has personality,” she said.

            It didn't stop with the red door.  My mom was an artist, a painter and a photographer, and from the sunshine yellow kitchen to the granny smith living area that extended to the hall, her artistry was evident in the contents of our home.

            I ran my hand up the walnut stained rail of the staircase and trudged up to my lone room—the only walls my mother's paint brush did not meet.

            My room was a mousse shade of beige, and the one window was draped with sheer aqua blue curtains.  The bed was covered with a chocolate brown comforter and an assortment of aqua and rust colored pillows.  My taste was a little less extravagant than my mom's.

            I walked into my room, my sanctuary, and tossed my giant school bag into the antique rocking chair in the corner.  I soon flipped on my computer and crashed on the bed.  The clock read 6:15, as usual.

It's been the exact same routine since January: go to the local community college in the morning, work my shift at the book café downtown, make the fifteen bike ride home at 6, and check my email to see if any of my old friends remembered me.  What a life.

            Ever since I moved here the summer before my senior year, I have never felt so alone.  The few friends I had back home quickly lost touch after they went on to their universities and party schools.  I thought college would be better than high school, but here, it's exactly the same.  The same girls who made fun of my sneakers on my first day of school still ignore me in biology, the same guy who I've had a crush on for almost a year now doesn’t even know I exist, and I have finally realized that I will always be the nerdy girl who keeps to herself. 

            It never really helped my popularity that my mother named me after her favorite flower.  Every time “Magnolia McCauley” was read from the roll, the girls that sat behind me (the same sneaker girls) would snicker and whisper back and forth.  "It's Maggie," I would always correct them.  You would think that after a year they would know better.

            After reliving the passing day in my mind, I got up from my bed, walked over to my closet, pulled out a comfy pair of sweats and a tank top, turned on some music, and started sifting through a box of pictures I found hidden in the bottom of my closet.

            I had always meant to put together a scrapbook, but I always found myself so distracted by the organization of photos that I never actually started the “scrapping” part.  I just always found myself drowning in a sea of memories—memories that seem so distant and foggy.  I kept trying to grasp hold and hang on as long as I could.

            I could never actually remember if my memories were real or if they mere wandering ideas that were pieced together from the photos, films, and trinkets of who I used to be.  The things that I could believe never made sense to anyone but me…

            It was soon dark.  I pushed aside my photos and flipped on my bedside table lamp and grabbed my worn out copy of Jane Eyre and started reading it for the twentieth time.           I remember when my mom first gave me the book.  It's ridiculously old.  I think it was hers from high school or something.  It's practically falling apart.  I don't know why I continued to read it.  I guess maybe I see a lot of myself in Jane—the lonely misfit who really didn’t belong anywhere.

            You’d think I would have had a ton of homework to do, taking six classes and all, but I do most of it at work when it's slow…which is most of the time.  My classes aren't very challenging either.  Mom says I'm a genius, I think I just apply myself well.  I know my dad was smart.  He got into medical school a year early.  I'd like to think I could be that smart.  Maybe.  My mom is smart, too, just in a different way.  She's good with the checkbook, and taking care of me, and she's super creative.

            But me, I'm different.  I can remember millions of facts it seems.  Tiny things people don't even notice.  Things from years and years ago.  And even though my dad died when I was just a baby, I remember him, and I swear it’s not just from pictures.  I can still remember how he smelled, the texture of his arm hair when he held me, the midnight formula feedings.  It's really weird.  I don't usually tell anyone that—not anymore.  I told my older sister once, but I don't think she believed me.  I told my aunt once, too.  She said it was a gift from God.  Maybe.  I never told my mom.  We don't really talk about my dad.  It's too hard for her.  I still see the mist in her eyes even if I casually mention him.  It's just an avoided subject.
            My mom and dad had dated since middle school.  They were only twelve or thirteen.  They dated all throughout high school and got married when they were only 19.  She had my sister at only twenty-one and me six years later.
            My dad was all my mom ever knew.  I think that's why it's so hard for her.  That kind of love doesn't just go away.  When you experience a loss like that, it doesn't fade with time. It's just something you learn to deal with.
            I can't even begin to understand what my mom had to deal with.  I barely knew him and even I feel the aching loss.  But like I said, I think I knew him much better than I should.

            I always thought about these things when sifted through my pictures.  There is one picture in particular that I kept on my nightstand.  It’s of my Mom, my sister, Elizabeth (or Bess, as I call her), my Dad and me.  I was just a baby.  My skin is quite a bit darker than my sister’s peaches and crème complexion, and I have a mop of furry black hair.  It eventually lightened up to a pretty golden brown.  My eyes were very dark, too; big and brown.  Those haven’t changed. 

I look a lot like my dad.  Same unforgiving nose, same brown eyes, same down-turned lips.  People always tell me I look like my mom…until they meet my uncles.  My dad had five brothers that all bear a striking resemblance.  You can definitely tell I’m related.

            I don't mind being compared to my mom.  She's beautiful.  Her hair changes colors frequently (I assume that’s due in part to her inner artist), but I like it best when the color is closest to my own.

            Her eyes are a fabulous green and she has a cute button nose.  Now that is something I would have traded up for.  No offense to my dad, but his nose just wasn't a girl's nose.

            I realized I had just read the same paragraph three times. 

My mind always wanders when I read.

            I couldn’t concentrate, so I gave up on reading and threw the book by the side of my bed.

            I walked over to my closet, in search of the pictures again.  There, I found a box of trinkets I've kept almost my whole life.  Inside, I find dried rose petals, notes and letters, rocks and some old costume jewelry my grandmother gave me before she died.

The rose petals were from my grandmother’s funeral, the letters were some my Dad had written to my mom years ago, and the rocks were from my excavations from the extensive woods behind my grandmother’s house.  I used to want to be an archeologist, “like Indiana Jane!” I would always say.  I remember one time having my pockets so heavily weighted down with rocks that it took an extreme effort to hold my pants up the whole way home.  The jewelry was from all my play dates with Nana.  Papa let me have it after she passed away.

            I picked up one of the rings I loved the most.  A flamboyant blue sapphire and diamond ring—well not real diamonds, but they were always real to me—and slipped it on my finger.  I sat and stared at the ring, remembering when she gave it to me.

            All of the sudden, I felt something sucking at me.  Sucking at my skin, like it was trying to pull my bones out of my body.  I started to panic, wondering what was going on, and then I found myself in my grandmother's bedroom observing the original transaction.

            I could see her, I could see me.  I'm about five, maybe six.  We were playing dress up.  I was wearing a bathrobe, navy blue pumps, a long pearl necklace and lipstick on half of my face.

Just then, my grandmother reached into her jewelry box and handed me a ring.  My younger self took the ring and placed it on her, well, my finger, staring at it like it was the queen's jewels.  I looked down to see the exact same ring on my eighteen year old finger.  I didn’t know whether to feel panicked, amused, or just plain insane, and then the same vacuum sensation came, pulling me again back to my room in front of my closet.

I ripped the ring off my finger and through it back into the box.  I shook my head, trying to understand exactly what just happened.  “It was just a vivid memory,” I told myself, “nothing more.” 

Now, I have always had extremely vivid memories…but never like that, I thought.

            I denied my chill bumps and chalked it up to lack of sleep and overactive imagination then ran downstairs to dinner.
            “How was school today, Maggie?” My mom asked.  Why?  I do not know.

            “Perfect,” I said sarcastically.

            “Now Mags, I know this past year has been tough on you, but you’ve got to get out of this funk.  You could make this year better if you would only choose to.  You are the only one who can decide whether this year will be good or bad.  It’s all in perspective, honey.”
            My mom and her pep talks were enough to make me want to drown myself in my chicken stew.  I love her dearly, but she is just way too peppy for me…

            “Have you heard from Bess today?” I said quickly when she paused to take a breath.  The only thing that can derail my mother’s lectures was to talk about my nephew.

“Yes!  She put Noah on the phone today and you’ll never guess what he said!”

Huzzah!  Worked like a charm.  This question then launched my mom into a 30 minute detailed recall of her conversation with a two year old.  Since Bess’s husband, John, got a steady gig up in Nashville—he’s a musician—the separation has nearly killed my mom. 

I missed them, too.  Bess was always willing to listen to my woes.  She still would, but the phone conversations were hard.  She was usually chasing Noah or busy baking something—her side business.

I guess maybe my mom was right.  I should have friends.  It’s just harder than it looks.  I was completely uprooted from the only place I had ever known.  I don’t know these people.  I’m not sure I even like these people.

Mom knows I should be at a better college, but her unsteady artist salary doesn’t exactly get me into the best colleges, and my math and gym grades were enough to kill my scholarship opportunities.  “Two years” she always said when I mentioned how horribly dull my school was.  If I could keep my grades up for two years and get a free ride to anywhere but here then that golden ticket was mine for the taking, and she would foot the rest of the bill.  Two years…

I guess some people would find this town interesting.  It’s really old and historical…and small—population 973.  The only thing that makes it even remotely interesting to me is that it’s right outside of Savannah—a place I escaped to often.  Savannah would have been tolerable.  The community is bigger, lots of tourists, shopping, ghost stories, Paula Dean…it is just better.  I always asked mom why we couldn’t live there (something about the housing market).

Supper was finally over, so I took to the rickety front porch swing with a blanket and a book.

I soon got comfortable and escaped into my book.

Usually nothing other than my own annoying thoughts can take my attention away from a good book, but after sitting outside for a while, I got the most eerie sensation—like someone was staring at me.

I don’t know who else would be outside right now, with it creeping down into the forties tonight.  Most southerners hate the cold.  Although, I don’t know if 45 qualifies as cold.  I guess it does here in the Deep South.  I enjoyed the chill.  It gave me a reason to bundle up in an old comforter and cuddle with my poor little black and white cat, Shakespeare.  My Mom refused to let him inside the house.  I guess I should have named him Hamlet, the poor tortured soul.

I periodically looked up and around hoping I could find the source of my feelings, but nothing.

I eventually started to get cold, so I closed my book, gathered my things and made my way in.  That’s when I saw it.

There has always been a large abandoned house directly across the street.  It wasn’t creepy or anything.  It even looked like, at one point, it would have been a nice place to live.  Now, it was just a sad, old house that no one cared for.  I had never much interest in this house.  I had only ever sympathized for its worn shutters, fading porch, and melancholy grey paint that was now peeling away in sheets.  What suddenly had interested me in this old house was the fact that, when I got up to leave my porch, I saw the blinds of the opposite house move.  Now, this house was creepy.

“Mom!” I yelled as I ran in.
            “What’s the fuss Maggie?”
            “Has someone moved into the old house across the street?” I said trying to disguise the tremble in my voice.

            “No, hun.  Not in years.  Why?”

            “Oh, okay.  I just thought I saw something, that’s all,” I said nonchalantly.  “Number two on the list of ‘Weird Crap that has Happened Today,’” I said under my breath as I walked up the stairs to my room.  “I need to get some sleep…”

I paid close attention to the abandoned house on my way to school the next day, making sure nothing moved as I biked by.  Nothing did move, but I had a strange feeling that I was being followed.

What am I worried about?  I thought.  I’ve been watching too many of those ghost hunting shows or something.

It was a particularly eerie day.  It was as grey as the old house’s exterior, and a plethora of clouds littered the sky.

Maybe I should have taken the car, I thought.  At least I remembered to bring an umbrella.

I usually don’t mind the bike ride to school.  It’s only about ten minutes away, and even though it’s November, it’s rarely cold in here.  Although, most would consider today to be a “brisk” 55.

Also, my mom and I share the car.  Today she is home, so naturally she offered me the car, but I declined.  Biking is my only source of exercise.  I’m not exactly the gym type.  I also enjoy the time alone with my thoughts (as if I don’t do that enough already).

I was already halfway to school when I noticed a man walking behind me.  He was older, and very grey—grey beard, grey trench coat, grey hat, and he was carrying a worn out umbrella.  It was as if his entire wardrobe had beckoned such a gloomy day.  Despite his dreary attire, he walked with a sort of air, an extra skip in his step.  He was very interesting this man.  I couldn’t help but catch a few more glances of him as I rode on.

What was even more interesting was his unfamiliar face.  A tourist, perhaps, but they mostly migrate towards Savannah, and in this small town, everyone is recognizable.

I had reached my destination and before I took my final turn into the school parking lot, I took one glance back and saw the curious man closer than before.  As I looked at him in bewilderment, he caught my gaze, smiled, and tipped his hat.  I smiled back and continued on my way to class.

Did he run? I thought.  I guess perhaps I was being followed.

The man’s face remained in my mind throughout literature and history.  I tried to forget him during math, the subject in which I must be most focused, but there was just something about him that was familiar to me.  It seemed like perhaps I knew him—that I should know him.  I wondered if I would see him again.

After my last class, I biked downtown to the book café where I worked.  The owner, Alice, met me at the door when I came in.

Alice was ten pounds of extravagance in a five pound bag.  She was a petite young woman.  Her hair was long and black, her lips always painted a crimson red, and her eyes were cut like emerald jewels—everything about her sparkled.

Her store was about as marvelous as she was.  It used to be an old hardware store before the War.  It belonged to one of Alice’s great (I’m not sure how many greats) grandfather’s.  It was passed along through generations until it ended up with Alice.  She soon turned it into a bookstore/coffee shop.  When she took over, she completely renovated the building, adding much of her own character.  She loved art, music, and literature, had an eye for color, and enjoyed the finer things in life.  Alice’s store was a unique and very eclectic blend of old and new.  It was one of the only places in Georgetown that I truly loved.  There wasn’t anything like it anywhere, and the same could be said about Alice.

“Maggie!” she said while smiling grandiosely. “Darlin’ I need a little favor.  I know you are scheduled to close at six tonight, but I told Marylynne that she could have her book club meeting here tonight, and I completely forgot that I have to go to a dinner party in Savannah.  Do you think you can stay late and close up after they leave?”

Alice had that most refined plantation accent down.  Sometimes I still had to repress a giggle when she got into her dramatics.

I liked Alice.  She was not your typical debutant.  While most girls go to college to get their MRS, Alice majored in Literature at the University of Alabama and is continuing her education in graduate school in Savannah.  “I can’t live off of Papa forever,” she would always say.

“Sure, Alice.  I’ll just call my mom and let her know when to pick me up tonight.”
            “Thanks, sugar, I owe you my life!  I have been plannin’ to go to this dinner party for months!”  Alice then ran around the store to gather her things while she caught me up on all the town gossip and who would be at the party and how she hoped her papa wouldn’t be disgraceful to that “sugar lump” that she’s had her heart set on for ages, because his dad did her dad wrong in the bank business back in 1962.

A few more words from Alice, and she was out the door, and I was left alone in her store.  It doesn’t take much to run Alice’s bookstore.  Business is not exactly booming—the store is more like a hobby for Alice.  We usually just get the early birds in for their coffee and newspapers, the after-school kids in for their smoothies and gossip magazines, and the after-work crowd in need of their pick-me-ups and down time.

Tonight would be especially boring.  Marylynne’s book club meetings are more like gossip gatherings.  All of the ladies arrived right on time with their books and bottles, prepared to discuss…the book of course.

Tonight’s meeting consisted of about six women sitting around a table, drinking wine, and discussing so-and-so’s latest cosmetic surgery, such-and-such’s cheating husband—it wasn’t the nanny like they thought, it was the receptionist—and how old thing’s business just went under (but honestly if he had stopped peddlin’ ’round with his taxes, then he’d be a lot better off, bless his heart).  Oh to live in a small town.

About an hour into the middle-aged gossip fest, I grabbed a book from the shelf, propped my feet up on the counter and began to try and drown out the ridiculous gab.  Shortly after I got settled into my book, the front door swung open.  The ladies and I were all startled.  No, there wasn’t a closed sign on the door, but everyone knows that Alice’s closes at 6 p.m. and if the lights still happen to be on it means someone is having one of their meetings again.

Everyone looked up at the door’s chime.  It was him—the tourist.  The women stared at him like he was a dangerous alien.  He might as well have been.

“Oh, I’m sorry.  Are you closed?” he said.  His accent caused the women to gawk more than they already were.  He sounded a little Irish…or Scottish maybe.

            After a second, I realized I hadn’t said anything.

            “Oh.  No.  Well, not really.  Was there something I could help you with?”

            “I was actually interested in getting myself a cup of coffee.  Do you have any brewed?”

            “Absolutely.  There’s a fresh pot in the back.  It’s self-serve, free refills.  Help yourself.”

            He tipped his hat and made his way towards the back.  The women’s conversation had ceased as soon as he entered and they had yet to resume.  As he got his coffee, he passed the table and again tipped his hat to the women, who stared incredulously.  He just smiled and slipped into a booth up front with the local newspaper.

            He seemed completely harmless, and those women were looking at him like he had a most wanted poster hanging from his neck.  Eventually they started whispering and once someone mentioned Jean Clarence’s landscaping, they launched back into their degrading chit-chat.

            Soon the night was winding down and the women were one by one gathering their things and starting towards the door, not before stopping by the front counter and asking if they should stay and help me lock up, what with all the “riff-raff” out at night.  I told them I was fine, but they just looked reproachfully at the stranger on their way out and said things like “Betty, is that Sheriff Mike’s car outside?” and “Oh, yes.  He always runs his rounds at this time of night.”

I just ignored them and started to clean up the mess they left, wash out the coffee pots, and count the register.

“Should I go, miss?” the man said politely.

“Oh, no.  You can stay until I leave if you like,” I said.
            “Thanks.  I wouldn’t mind finishing the paper.”
            At that point, I walked in the back to call my mom for a ride home.  I didn’t tell her about my mysterious customer.  She isn’t judgmental or anything, but she would worry. 

As I made my way back into the front of the store, I noticed that my visitor had left.

Maybe he is just in the bathroom, I thought.  I waited a few minutes, and still no stranger.  He couldn’t have possibly snuck out.  I would have heard the door chime.

No one could miss that door chime.  It’s impossibly loud.

I walked up to the counter and there was my proof.  The man left a twenty dollar bill on the counter with a scribbled note saying, “I assume this will cover it.  You may keep the change if you like, or I can get it back later.”

“What on earth does that mean?” I said confusedly.

At that moment, my mom’s car pulled up in front of the store.  I quickly changed out the twenty, turned off the lights, and locked up, meeting my mom outside.

“What’s the rush hun?” she asked as I hurriedly hooked my bike to the back of the car.

“Oh, nothing.  Just ready to get home. Those women are a lot to handle after a while.”
            She just laughed as she started the car, and we made our way home.

As we pulled into the driveway I noticed a faint glow coming from one of the windows of the old shack across the way.  I wonder…

“You’ve been awful quiet, Maggie.  What’s going on in there?”

“Oh.  I’m just tired I guess.”
            “Did you have a lot of school work today?”
            “Yeah.  I did most of it at work though.”
            “Well, it is now officially the weekend.  Try and have some fun tomorrow, alright?”

My mom always worried about my not having many friends and spending way too much time in my books.

“Okay, Mom.  I’ll try and find something to do.”

I got out of the car and hung back while my mom walked into the house.  I was completely intrigued by big grey house across the street.

“Maggie?  You comin’ in?” my mom yelled from inside the house.
            “Yeah, I’m just…checking the mail!”

I walked down to the end of the road and paused.  I looked both ways and started to cross the street.  As if the house could sense my presence, as soon as my toes touched the soggy grass on the other side, the light disappeared.  Though there was no breeze, a chill rushed through my body.  I ran back across the street, grabbed our mail, and ran quickly inside.

“Why the rush, Mags?”

“Oh.  Nothing.  It’s cold out there.”
            “Really?  I thought it warmer than usual.  A storm front is moving through tonight.”

“Oh. That’s weird.  Well, goodnight!”

I ran up the stairs and into my room to peep out my window at the old house.  I thought for certain the glow would reappear.  Much to my surprise, the house was surrounded by complete darkness.

I watched for a few moments, but there was no change.  It soon started to rain, so I closed my blinds and got ready for bed.

I now knew my plans for the weekend.  I was determined to find out exactly what was going on inside that house.