A Red Letter Day

I’m up early.

Bugsy started talking, as usual, around 7 a.m. He wakes with the day, then naps between my knees until first light. He knows I'll let him out now. Any earlier would mean the basement.

As I lay in half-slumber, the wind gusted rain against my screen and its song stirred an ancient longing.

I love storms.

Instead of going back to bed, I opened the slider Bugsy-wide and we both stuck our noses in the hole. Lightning flashed, with an answering shudder from thunder.

The wind splashed water in my face as Bugsy slipped out. Then he lickity split about-faced and slipped back in. Puss isn't crazy about storms since getting caught up in one.

"Uh-oh," I thought. "Betty."

She wasn’t tucked in to her hidey hole. I had left her last night in the lonely driveway, now the rains lashed at her aged ragtop.

Her silent plea pierced the morning fog, “Bring me in. Give me shelter.”

I bundled up and wiped the sleep from my eyes. And prayed that the old girl would start. But she was happy to see me and fired right up. I could swear she purred, “thank you,” as I left her safe and dry.

Now I sit and let the symphony of the rain bathe my soul.

Oh that this light would linger, to envelope my world in its softness. Bugsy braves the storm and runs out, leaving my side.

I am surrounded by fall color, each leaf a wet jewel shimmering light.

Thunder crashes and Bugs darts back in. He makes for under the chair but leaps instead on to the ottoman at my feet.

Swiping his back a few times with pink tongue, he settles Buddha style, ears splitting the difference between door and window.

Gardenia fills the air, courtesy of a candle from Gold Rush Days. The patter outside grows stronger.

It is a red letter day.

A writing day.

A day full of portent and wonder.

A day full of water, living and alive with splashes of autumn color.

I told cousin Kek the new storyline yesterday, as we swayed back and forth on the swing on Grandmother's (and now her) porch. It seemed fitting. At first I stumbled, but then as I warmed up, out it tumbled.

She loved it. And promptly said, "I bet you sell a million copies and become rich and famous. When you do, I'll be your assistant."

Then we both giggled with delight.

It is heady stuff sharing my stories. I hadn't before, preferring to save them for the keyboard. Until now. First a trusted writer friend, and now my blood.

Guess what. The tale is growing and expanding. It's gaining a life of its own. It belongs to William, a main character, and his heirs. It belongs to the world they give their life to.

Do you know what I mean? Does this happen to you?

I am blessed. And oh so grateful. I love this story. I love this time of year. I love how the rain intensifies the brilliance of ambers and yellows and golds and reds that are still liberally laced with green.

These are my colors. My palate. That of the hunter moon.

The rain falls harder, resounding in the trees. I am humbled.

And. I am back.

Thank you, angels, for sticking around while I was off in the wild gray yonder. Thank you for listening and for all of your thoughts and your love.

And thank you for holding a piece of my story in your heart.

It is a banner day.

A red letter day.

A very good day for writing.

~That Rebel, Olivia J. Herrell

Weather Blogfest

Nick over at A Little Slice of Nothing is having a Weather Blogfest today and in his honor, I am posting an excerpt from my work in progress, "Churches, Chickens and ChiChi's".

Sammy, the main character, just rode to the emergency room in the ambulance with her mother who had a heart attack. I hope you enjoy.

http://www.weatherpicturesweatherphotos.net/

Sammy wished she had her earphones so she could listen to some music on her iPhone. And she really wished she could have a beer.

She wasn’t in the mood for a magazine full of yesterday’s news, so she tried watching television. That held no interest, either.

Restless, she wandered to the emergency room door. The sky was darkening. A storm was brewing. Stepping outside, she leaned against the sturdy brick and watched the thunderheads sweep in from the east. It would rain soon.

The wind rose, thrashing the trees and their tender leaf buds. It was going to be a good one. Sammy’s heart thrilled in anticipation and she pulled her coat tighter around her. She was glad she had grabbed it before leaving the house. The temperature had dropped and the wind was bitter.

A jagged streak of lightning split the sky. One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, she counted before the boom and the rumble of thunder. The storm was close. A grin split her wind-whipped face. God, she’d missed this.

Another streak followed the first. One one thousand, two one thousand, boom crash roll. Sammy chuckled and opened her arms to the black clouded sky. Her cares fell away as the storm raced toward her. Its first raindrops, big and fat, splattered her face as the wind delivered the storm to her. Soon the sky would let loose in a deluge. She inhaled the bitter sweetness of lightning-induced ozone.

A purple streak of lightning cracked nearby, followed by an immediate boom and several rolls. Sammy ran back in to the hospital, wet and grinning, barely escaping the pelting raindrops. She leaned her forehead on the door to watch the fury of the storm break against the glass.

Feeling someone beside her she glanced over to see Barry Rakestraw. He stood looking at the storm, dressed in eggplant scrubs, his face as brooding as the sky.

She pounced on him. “Thank God you’re here. How’s Mama?”

“Come on, I will tell you both at the same time,” he said and reached for her hand.

Her hands fluttered to her mouth. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good. For an instant Barry’s solemn face was lit by a flash of lightning. Then a deafening clap of thunder rattled the door, startling them both. What if Mama was dead?

Her knees wobbled and she almost went in to the shelter of Barry's arms. The thunder rolled, deep and long. Instead she settled for warm fingers around hers, leading her across the hall to her father.

Be an angel and leave a comment to let me know what you think of my snippet, then click on over to Nick's and read the other entries. If you haven't already, maybe you could join us with a weather scene of your own.

~Olivia J. Herrell

The Bickering Blogfest/Bratty Kids and Best Friends No More

The Bickering Blogfest is tomorrow, June 30th. That's my birthday, so I'm posting a little early. Kind of an advance celebration if you will. If you're not already following my blog, I'd love it if you would!

Thank you to Kristen, at Take It As It Comes, for hosting. When you're done reading and commenting here, please click over to read the other entries and to follow those guys, too.

Quick aside: I had set a goal for my manuscript of 22,000 words by tomorrow, which means, hmm, another 1,596 words to go. Almost there, yeeehaaa! I'll get a few more in the bag tonight, then the rest tomorrow morning. Which means I'll have the afternoon for a birthday lunch with friends at my new best fun place to eat, PicNic Cafe and Dessertery. Yep. You heard that right. DESSERTery! Bet they'll have some kind of yummy cake for the birthday girl! Then either a massage or a movie after. Or both. Why not. It's my birthday after all. :)


This entry is an short excerpt from my novel, Churches, Chickens and ChiChi's. (For those who asked, chichi's is another name for ta ta's or breasts.) The MC, Sammy, is just home from Hollywood after twelve years away to take care of her mother who's had a heart attack. 'Home' is a rural community in North Georgia. Gracie May was Sammy's best friend through school until they had a falling-out their Senior year.

Walmart was just as she remembered it; big, noisy and full of cheap stuff. Already Sammy had seen two of her classmates, Shonda Sparks, who was now Shonda Fitts and had five kids in tow, and Seth Ball, who was in charge of the Garden Department and had helped them reach a planter from the top shelf. Neither of them had left Piedmont, and neither of them saw any reason to. Thinking of it made Sammy shudder.

She found her mother in the freezer aisle of the grocery section, reaching in the case for frozen berries. Those would be for Sammy’s morning smoothies. She couldn’t eat bacon, eggs and biscuits every morning or she’d never get a part when she got back to L.A.

She waved the jumbo package of Northern tissue at her mother, “I found it over in the Health and Beauty aisle, though Lord knows why they keep it there, this stuff isn’t healthy. We’ll have to go to Kroger for the chlorine-free stuff. They don’t have it.”

Living in California had changed Sammy’s eating habits and made her aware of her health. She chose not to rub chlorine bleach in her coochie every time she peed, or support a practice that was so obviously bad for the planet.

“Well, I’ll be. If it isn’t Samantha Eubanks,” a voice drawled, dripping with venomous sarcasm. Sammy knew before turning who the voice belonged to, and sure enough, it was Gracie May.

“Why if it isn’t Gracie May Williams,” Sammy returned, mimicking Gracie May’s tone. “My, but haven’t we grown up.”

Out was more like it. Gracie May had put on fifty pounds if she’d put on an ounce. Her double chin rested on pendulous boobs and her hair boasted a jet-black dye job, a bad one that frizzed around her head.

Two snotty-nosed kids writhed behind her, slapping at each other and fighting over something the boy was holding. Just then the girl, the spitting image of Gracie May at eight, reached out and slapped the boy in the face. He squealed and attacked her, using his fists in retaliation.

“See ya later, Gracie May. Looks like you’ve got your hands full,” Sammy said, grabbing the buggy and dragging her mother with her.

“Oh. My. God.” Sammy laughed when they were away from the ruckus. “Let’s get out of here, Mama. Whatever else you need we’ll get it at Kroger.”

“Come on,” she hissed when her mother hesitated to look back in the direction of Gracie May’s bellows.

Sammy pushed the cart to the far checkout lane and got her mother out of Walmart as quickly as possible. Gracie May and the terror twins were nowhere in sight as she bundled the groceries in the trunk and slammed the lid.

Making sure her mother was buckled in, she put the bug in reverse and skedaddled.

I hope you had as much fun reading this as I did writing it. Please click on the comments below and leave your thoughts as a momento, uh, birthday present. Unless of course you hated it. And, yes, I want to know that, too.

Thanks for stopping by! Olivia
P.S. Don't forget to click over and read the rest of the entries.

More Blogfesting

I just discovered and entered two more Blogfests for the month of June.

The first is hosted by Tina Sandoval, of Sweet Niblets and it's a Bad Boy Blogfest, yaahoo! I have just introduced a real bad boy to my manuscript and am in need of developing his badness, so this gives me a deadline. The Bad Boy Blogfest is slated for June 20th.

The second is being hosted by Kristen, at Take It As It Comes. Hers is The Bickering Blogfest and it's on my birthday, June 30th. My word count goal is 20,000 by that date, which means another, hmm, only 3515 words! Wow. Maybe I should up my word goal to, say, 22,000? I mean, it's a goal, right??

Anyway, these should be fun-filled fests. I'll undoubtably meet some great new writers, get some excellent feedback on scenes from my novel, push my manuscript forward, get out of my comfort zone, and hopefully get a few more followers to boot.

Win/win/win, right?

BTW, I am apparently finding out about both of these rather late but, if you haven't already, go on over to Tina and Kristen's websites and enter your own scenes for their blogfests.

Oh Yes! And thank you to Suzie, the Writer Junkie, for the link over to the blogfests so that I could find them!

The Next Top Title Blogfest

As promised yesterday, I forged ahead on my manuscript today and broke out of the 13K zone, finishing up at 14054, yeehaa!

Tomorrow, June 12th, is The Next Top Title Blogfest hosted by Slushpile Slut. This one has to do with titles, so today, I am unveiling the title of my book, the one I've been working on since March of this year, the one that currently is up to 14054 words.

I won't be giving you any loglines or background. Just the title. And you 'get to give me your impression as to what the title invokes for you' according to the rules as set forth by our Stilleto Queen. Hmm, I'm guessing we'll be looking for things like genre, voice, plot, storyline, etc.

Okeedokie?? Here goes. The title of my current novel is:

Churches, Chickens and Chi-Chi's.

Some of you have the advantage of having read a few snippets in previous Blogfests. Some of you don't. Either way, hit me with your best shot. I'm not giving any alternate titles because, well, the title inspired the book, soooo, the title is the title. If it sucks, I'm up a creek.

And don't forget to click over to Slushpile Slut's house to read all the other entries and to enter your own.

Love to all y'all!

~That Rebel, Olivia

I Got Got Got No Time

That about sums it up for me. No time for my blog. No time to read yours. And, alas, no time to even write this week.

Tomorrow, a holiday, is more of the same. No time left for you, my dear manuscript. But soon, real soon.

Why? Because I'm working three day jobs, darn it! Yes, they're all part time, but still. Plus, there's this little matter of sleep. I must have eight hours or I'm a walking zombie and no fun to be around, even for myself.

Hmm, Tuesday is the day. I commit to carving out at least four uninterrupted hours to write. That should net me at least 1000 words, maybe more. I finished Part I last Sunday. And have the beginning of Part II in mind. Now to just sit down and flesh it out, let it unfold.

To my blogger buddies, I see your titles and blurbs fly by on my dashboard, and, oh how I want to read your posts. One day, one day soon, I know I'll be able to sit and catch up. But in the meantime, I have something to look forward to.

Till next time...

What You See is Not Always What You Get

When I closed my eyes a year ago and imagined what my life would be like today, it wasn't this.

In May of '09, That Rebel was just a glitter in my eye and an itch I'd yet to scratch. I'd had a blog a few years before, but after Mama died in 2006, it petered out. So did my motivation to continue shopping publishers for the children's book I had written. Oh, and let's not forget the income stream that turned in to a trickle that same year.

What I saw in my imagination, was me in Southern California doing what I was already doing. Or me in a little beach town somewhere in the U.S. I would escape and find work in a coffee shop or, better yet, a book store that served brewed tea and lattes, a place where the locals met to dish. I had a wild fantasy of running away from my practice and financial obligations. I'd make enough money to cover room and board, and have a beater car with no payments. My life would be simple and free from stress and the enormous responsibility of being a doctor.

My dream did not include the North Georgia mountains, nor building another practice. I was writing, but the what was a mystery. It didn't feel like another children's book, though I had a whole series of Frank and Ernies plotted out. There was love, but certainly not love lost.

Today I started a three day training class to be an enumerator for the 2010 Census. Not just an enumerator. An enumerator reinterviewer. We'll be contacting one out of ten households to confirm the authenticity of the data that was garnered on the first pass. Sounds exciting, huh? Probably not. But I get paid. Having had my own business for the last twelve years, it feels good to know I'll get a weekly paycheck for a couple of months, plus 50 cents a mile. Out here in the boonies that can rack up. The work will be done on the phone and in the field in the same small town as my practice. Meeting all those folks should be good for business, right? But, when I closed my eyes a year ago, I certainly didn't see me doing this.

I believe, along with the great teachers and religions,  that I create what I see and what I believe. It's dangerous to dwell in misery, because crap begets crap. Conversely, awesomeness begets awesomeness. I can look at my life on the surface today and recite all the reasons why what I saw is NOT what I got.

But is that true? Of course not. I dreamed of escaping and I did. I dreamed of being out from under that financial burden, and the T. Rex is down to a smaller Linheraptor. I saw myself in a beach town. While the closest beach is a few hours away, I did land in a mountain resort town. I got the paid-for beater car, ragtop and all. I am NOT building a full-time practice, just a small town, part-time one.

And I'm writing. That Rebel is my sounding board; it's where I rant, whine and philosophize and hone my writerly skills. It's the watering hole where I come to drink and my soul gets its fill. That Rebel was the springboard for my current work in progress; a southern fiction that was born right here; on these back roads in the foothills of the Appalachians.

I left the womb of Southern California and all my worldly stuff. I stepped out, in to the void. I crashed. Hard. Then I thrashed around for a while. But in the middle of all that thrashing, I found something else. I found you guys. I found my writing. And I found myself.

What I see IS what I get. Just not necessarily in the exact form that I imagine. What is your dream? Are you living it? Or are you missing the miracle by dwelling in the negative, like I was for so long?

~ That Rebel, Olivia J. Herrell

Bad Girl Blogfest

Once again, I've agonized about turning another piece of my baby loose for public inspection. This time, the venue is the Bad Girl Blogfest hosted by Andrew Rosenberg over at The WriteRunner. I have decided what the hay. This excerpt is taken from a women's fiction novel I'm currently working on. Mine seems tame after reading some of the other submissions, but, good, bad or indifferent, here she is.

It was dark when she reached Manuel’s, a juke joint blues club in Santa Monica. There were other places J.C. might go, but Manuel’s was a pretty safe bet. J.C. was a regular on stage and he liked the adulation the crowd there showered on him. Especially the skanks. He never could get over his liking for strange.

It was her misfortune that Sammy couldn’t get over her liking for J.C. Maybe this time would be the charm.

The studly valet opened her door and almost dripped drool before wrenching his eyes from her decollete.

“Evening, Ms. Starr. I’ll take care of her for you.”

“Thanks, Beau, is J.C. inside?”

“Umm, not sure,” the valet lied.

Squaring her shoulders, ready for a fight, Sammy flounced in to the bar, high-beams flashing. He was there, at a table, drinking with his musician buddies.

Ignoring him, she detoured to the bar and ordered her usual, a Budweiser.

“Cuervo shooter?” Brandy, the bartender, asked, raising her eyebrows toward the table of men in the corner. Sammy hesitated for a fraction of a second. She didn’t want to get snockered tonight, and tequila tended to do that to her.

“Ohh. Why not.” She needed liquid courage. After all, she wasn’t exactly Laura Croft. Though, she did have her moments. She hoped tonight would be one of them.

Downing the shot and sucking on the sliver of lime, Sammy shuddered. Then she turned the frosted mug up and gulped half of its contents. And belched.

“So ladylike,” Brandy giggled.

At that, Sammy wrinkled her nose and chugged the rest. Slamming the mug on the bar beside her purse, she winked at Brandy and stalked over to J.C.’s table.

“Hello, boys, J.C.” Fists planted on come-hither hips, Sammy pinned J.C. with her eyes. “Got a minute? We have some unfinished business.”

Not intimidated, J.C. shrugged.

“No, I think we pretty much finished. Me and you? We are through.”

“We’re not through till I say so,” Sammy hissed. “Get up asshole and fight.”

J.C. chuckled. The rest of the table was silent. They’d all seen Sammy in action and weren’t about to get in the middle. One had even been the recipient of a well-placed jab in the not too far distant past. They were all staying out of it.

“Get up from this table, now!”

“Or what, princess?” J.C. scowled. Looking at the other guys, he snickered. “Did you know that Sammy was once Chicken Queen of the South?”

“That does it!” Quick as lightning, Sammy reached under the table and flipped it. Drinks flew and the musicians scattered. All but J.C., who was drenched and mad as a banty rooster.

“You cunt!” he growled, wiping the front of his shirt, murder in his eyes.

“That’s more like it, punk,” Sammy purred. Taking advantage of his rage, Sammy struck, stamping a stilettoed heel in to his sneakered instep.

J.C. roared. Grabbing her by the pony tail, he yanked her around so they were nose-to-nose. He wanted to deck her, but he couldn’t. He knew he'd had it coming.

“It’s over bitch,” he ground out through clinched teeth. “Over. Done. Fini. No more. Why can't you get that through your head?” Shoving her away to keep from hurting her, he turned to right the table and gain his composure.

Sammy was on him like a banshee on crack. She locked her legs around his, toppling them over on the sticky, liquor-drenched floor. A glass exploded as they landed, with Sammy on top, peppering J.C. with her deadly jabs.

“Stop it, Sammy. Stop!” He commanded. “Stop. It. Now.” Wrapping his arms around her, J.C. pinned her flailing arms to her side. She was still on top of him, her body molded to his, that clingy top molded to hers. God, she was sexy and she still turned him on, even when she was hopped up crazy.

“Why, why, why?” Sammy wailed against his chest, the anger oozing out of her as she sobbed.

J.C. wanted to stay mad at her. It would make everything so much easier. But he couldn’t. His guilt and her tears undid him. And he knew the make-up sex would be worth it.

“Come on princess, let’s go home. We’ve given these boys enough of a show for one night.”

Ashamed, and somewhat mollified, Sammy complied. After all, her intent was to get him home again. And on that, she had won.

Yeehaaa! Olivia Herrell

Should I, Shouldn't I?

Omigod. Dare I??

Dare I enter another snippet from my manuscript to the upcoming Bad Girl Blogfest hosted by Andrew Rosenberg?



I'm pondering it. I just might. I just might do it. I am leaning in that direction.

Go check it out. And enter a scene of your own. Or read some of the great ones already submitted!

Whaddya think? Should I? Olivia Herrell

51 Followers...But Who's Counting?

On May 1st, thanks to Lilah Pierce's Last Line Blogfest, my follower count clicked over to 50, then advanced to 51 on the 3rd or 4th. I am totally thrilled and delighted. And must subject you to my rebel yell.

YEEEEEEEHAAAAAAAAA!

And, because I'm a country girl at heart, and in some circles that qualifies me as a Redneck Woman, I'll add a hearty HELL YEAH! for Grethen Wilson.



Thank you to everyone who read and commented on my Last Line submission, and to those who are now following my blog. I'm pretty sure I made it to all of your blogs, but if I missed you, please let me know so that I can stop by. And, to Terresa at The Chocolate Chip Waffle, I wanted to get a poem in to your contest, but I just ran out of time. I have my eye on those purdy bows, though, so I will definitely keep said eye out for the next one.

Something noteworthy happened to me over the weekend. Putting that little snippet from my manuscript out there for all of you to read, and sharing the first 10 pages with Postman, a trusted friend, was ginormous. I didn't get my nose lopped off or my heart broken either time, and now there's a bonfire under my behind.

It's time for me to put up or shut up. I made the commitment to a few people back in January that when I reached 50 followers I would start shopping articles for publication. That was either my lazy way of procrastinating, or my self-care way of garnering enough confidence in my writing abilities to get the hutzpah to get out there and do it.

Whatever the case may be, it's time. And, oh yeah. I finally got the courage to make my main character suffer, and that was a long time coming.

Thanks, y'all!

That Rebel, Olivia Herrell

P.S. Happy Cinco de Mayo!

Last Line Blogfest

Thank you to Lilah Pierce for hosting the Last Line Blogfest!

To my nonblogging readers, I'll put up a regular blog post on Monday, May 3rd. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this tiny sneak peak in to my upcoming bestselling novel!

To my fellow bloggers and Blogfest participants, welcome and have fun. I'm looking forward to reading your last lines and to your comments/critiques of mine. Thanks!

This last line entry is an excerpt from my current work in progress, a chick lit novel. Call me paranoid or superstitious, or just downright silly, but I am not yet ready to give away the story line or the title. Now that that's out of the way, here are the last two paragraphs of the first chapter:

Sammy wiggled her pink-tipped toes in the grass before slipping tiny feet in to the leather thongs she’d tossed down. Letting herself out the back gate, she marched to the front door, seething.

Damn. It was locked. She’d suspected as much. Maneuvering around the needle-sharp agave, Sammy reached for the fake rock where an extra key was hidden. Even J.C. didn’t know about this one. It wasn’t the first time he’d locked her out. But she bet it would be the last.

Love y'all! Rebel

Confession Time

It's raining again. Sometimes I wonder if, like the Light of Zartha, it rains because I'm sad or depressed. Or if it's the other way around. These states were barely in my vocabulary, much less life, until the last few years. My natural state of Be-ing is upbeat and positive. But at times like these, I feel like I've been wrestled to the ground.

Uncle already.

Last night I couldn't sleep. Probably that two-hour nap I took in the middle of the day because I just couldn't seem to keep my eyes open. Or maybe it was eating so late. Regardless, it was 3ish before my meditation tape did its job and lulled me under.

As I lay there in bed, tied to the proverbial stake like Joan of Arc, the flames of my recent decisions attacked me from all sides. Unlike Joan, the smoke and heat didn't kill me. Instead, I was left to the mercy of those horrible, biting flames.

I'm writing a novel. Did I tell you? As the author, it is my job to make sure the heroine, or main character, suffers. Right now I'm a bit stuck, because I just don't want to. I like happy.

I can't help but think my own suffering is a divine ploy, designed to force me to allow hers. If this is how it is for writers universally, I feel bad for Stephen King. He's earned every sheckel.

I watched the movie King of California last night. In it, Michael Douglas plays a mental patient who is sprung from his most recent institution. Believing he knows where Spanish gold is buried, he convinces his 16-year old daughter to help him find it. The movie itself was offbeat and touching. But the California scenery made me ache for home.

Why is it, that even though you know, you don't Truly Know, until something you love is gone? I mean in your bones. In your guts. In the fiber of your Being.

I thought I could come back. And be gloriously happy. Turns out, I got one thing right. I came back. Sadly, I didn't get my happy ending. Happy, I am not.

So, it's confession time. I'm stepping out of the costume of Ms. Optimistic. And admitting that sometimes, things just don't work out. At least not the way we want it.

So we make the best of what we end up with.

• My landlord split with his fiancee and wants to move back in to our trailer, which means we have to move out. So no garden. Bye bye beautiful view in Boonieville. 
• My business partner is not motivated, and almost two months and lots of (borrowed) money later, our office is nowhere near ready.
• I am out of money and out of assets. And deeper in debt.
• And the long-lost love? In a movie somewhere. Or a book. Not here. Not for me. Not now.

Time to sign off and go make that heroine suffer. A lot. Maybe it'll allay some of mine. Here's to trying.

To see where I lived, worked and played, catch upcoming episodes of the movie on TMC Extra, or rent the movie. They end up digging for the treasure under the Costco in Simi Valley. I used to shop there...