So Monday morning (my birthday), I'm driving along, listening to the radio -which is rare because I'm usually hooked into the I Phone and I hate the radio- but I am listening. The Clash's Should I Stay or Should I Go, comes on. Instantly, I'm thirteen.
I can picture myself then, little black Witchie Poo boots on, long black skirt, army green wife- beater with Mom's antique silver crucifix (stolen in an opportune moment) dangling between my budding breasts. My fifty black rubber Madonna bracelets are creeping up one arm and I'm pissed because I don't have money to get more. I could get a job baby-sitting but I don't particularly like kids very much -too snotty, whiny, and let's face it, annoying. My hair is in its trademark A-line bob and I AM Hell On Wheels. Oh yeah.
My dreams are well established. When I am thirty-five I will be rich (obviously), live in New York City (never the suburbs!) in one of those fabulous expansive apartments I've seen in the old movies that play on PBS each Sunday morning. I will NOT be married, NO kids (cause there is nothing worse than being a stay-at-home-mom). I have a dozen boyfriends vying for my attention. I'll be a fashion designer whose designs will grace the cover of Vogue and under no circumstance, let me be dipped in oil and burned alive, will I ever, ever, fuckin' never own a mini van, aka the worst vehicle known to man.
So as I drive across my suburban neighborhood in my mini-van to take my first born to preschool, I have a laugh. I am everything I did not want to be, and I'm happy. I love my husband, my kids are the loves of my life, and I love, love my mini-van. That's right, little slam dancer Kristen, I love it. I've just blown away a BMW 3 with it! And all the while my butt is gently warmed by the seat heaters. Ah, the luxury of it.
Is there a point to any of this? Embrace who you are, I suppose. And a slight caveat, that which you fear you bring to you. Of course, that might not always be such a bad thing, but be cautious; focusing on something always brings it to you. So focus on the good and let the fear fall away.
Now as for my dreams for 45...
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WIP: West Club Moon
West Club Moon, a romantic adventure in which a man plagued by an immortal curse seeks redemption by wining the love of a beautiful merchant’s daughter who hides unnerving secrets of her own. While a vengeful enemy on a murderous spree threatens to tear them apart forever. A gothic retelling of Beauty and the Beast with a Jack the Ripper style twist set amongst the fog choked streets of Victorian London.
A Snip: West Club Moon
“You have not asked why I was following you,” I said as the cab headed up Piccadilly. It had rained while we were in Burlington House and the cobbled road before us glistened like black snakeskin.
Archer settled in more comfortably and his arm brushed my sleeve. “I know that well. It is because you are the most stubborn, impetuous, overtly curious creature I have ever known.”
Something rude passed over my lips and the corners of his eyes crinkled. I pulled my gloves on tighter and gazed out the side window at the massive Georgian building we passed by, its limestone face painted onyx by coal’s black hand.
“I shall take that as a complement,” I decided aloud.
The coach turned on Shaftsbury and into lighter traffic.“As you should,” he answered. “There is enough complacency in this world.”
I turned my eyes on him but kept my expression bland.
He sighed in resignation. “All right. I’ll play your game. Why are you following me?” Despite his jesting, I heard the anger carefully contained in his voice.
“Lord Merryweather’s murder,” I said without thinking. “And…the others,” I added, feeling my heart sink.
Until Archer, I hadn’t thought of stillness as explosive. The black mask faced me, the eyes behind it flat as pewter as the wide expanse of his chest rose and fell.
“You think I had something to do with them?”he asked in even, awful tones.
“No!” I gripped the handle of my parasol. “No. But Lady Clearwater….I overheard her say that you were the most likely candidate and…”
“You thought her intellect without measure?”
I flinched at the coldness in his voice. “She made her assumptions based on your appearance.”
I looked down at my clenched hands. The ivory kid leather of my gloves pulled tight enough for the little lines of graining to run like tiny rivers over my knuckles. “Her skewed logic galls me. So I plan to prove her wrong.”
Archer’s form swayed lightly as the coach rounded a bend. His shoulder pressed into mine then moved away. “And what have you found,” he asked in a voice as rough as the road.
“That…that you attend lectures on science and anatomy. You are a patron of the arts. You keep an excellent cellar and are generous with your staff. You eat food enough for two men, though were it goes, I cannot know. You drink Port after dinner, brandy to relax, and whiskey if you are agitated. You prefer the romantic poets to the classics, read the morning papers if only to complain about the incompetence of the press. And you visit Burlington House every Wednesday afternoon to study portraits of young red-headed women, portraits that you own but will not remove from the Academy.”
I did not mention West Club Moon. Something held me back, fear perhaps that he’d go off shouting, or worse, leave me in utter silence.
“Is that all?” He was amused now. I felt it coming off him in waves.
No. Your sharp mind and wit keeps me on my toes, you drive me to fury, make me laugh –I haven’t laughed this much since I was a child. In short, nothing I could tell him and retain my dignity.
I cleared my throat. “Give me time,” I said. “I’ve only just started.”
***
Archer settled in more comfortably and his arm brushed my sleeve. “I know that well. It is because you are the most stubborn, impetuous, overtly curious creature I have ever known.”
Something rude passed over my lips and the corners of his eyes crinkled. I pulled my gloves on tighter and gazed out the side window at the massive Georgian building we passed by, its limestone face painted onyx by coal’s black hand.
“I shall take that as a complement,” I decided aloud.
The coach turned on Shaftsbury and into lighter traffic.“As you should,” he answered. “There is enough complacency in this world.”
I turned my eyes on him but kept my expression bland.
He sighed in resignation. “All right. I’ll play your game. Why are you following me?” Despite his jesting, I heard the anger carefully contained in his voice.
“Lord Merryweather’s murder,” I said without thinking. “And…the others,” I added, feeling my heart sink.
Until Archer, I hadn’t thought of stillness as explosive. The black mask faced me, the eyes behind it flat as pewter as the wide expanse of his chest rose and fell.
“You think I had something to do with them?”he asked in even, awful tones.
“No!” I gripped the handle of my parasol. “No. But Lady Clearwater….I overheard her say that you were the most likely candidate and…”
“You thought her intellect without measure?”
I flinched at the coldness in his voice. “She made her assumptions based on your appearance.”
I looked down at my clenched hands. The ivory kid leather of my gloves pulled tight enough for the little lines of graining to run like tiny rivers over my knuckles. “Her skewed logic galls me. So I plan to prove her wrong.”
Archer’s form swayed lightly as the coach rounded a bend. His shoulder pressed into mine then moved away. “And what have you found,” he asked in a voice as rough as the road.
“That…that you attend lectures on science and anatomy. You are a patron of the arts. You keep an excellent cellar and are generous with your staff. You eat food enough for two men, though were it goes, I cannot know. You drink Port after dinner, brandy to relax, and whiskey if you are agitated. You prefer the romantic poets to the classics, read the morning papers if only to complain about the incompetence of the press. And you visit Burlington House every Wednesday afternoon to study portraits of young red-headed women, portraits that you own but will not remove from the Academy.”
I did not mention West Club Moon. Something held me back, fear perhaps that he’d go off shouting, or worse, leave me in utter silence.
“Is that all?” He was amused now. I felt it coming off him in waves.
No. Your sharp mind and wit keeps me on my toes, you drive me to fury, make me laugh –I haven’t laughed this much since I was a child. In short, nothing I could tell him and retain my dignity.
I cleared my throat. “Give me time,” I said. “I’ve only just started.”
***
About Me
- Kristen
- Writer and Mom, pondering minutiae from A thru Z.
The Petal Falls -a love story
Illinois, 1850. When Molly Bishop's father dies, the adventure she's always craved becomes a reality she can't escape. An exquisite ruby necklace he left her is attracting undue attention. From debt collectors and thugs, to malevolent army officers, all of them want not only the stone, but Molly as well. And just when she needs them the most, the psychic powers she's relied on since childhood to keep her safe are going haywire. Fortunately she has John Stanton, a loyal lieutenant who served with her father. As an officer and a gentleman, John is determined to protect her; Molly is equally determined not to play the damsel in distress. Despite her protestations of self-reliance, Molly is in more trouble than she realizes.
As the pair fend off thieves and decipher clues left by Molly's father, they discover the ruby is part of an ancient quest that has led many a man to his end --and one nasty pursuer resorts to murder to get what he wants. Somewhere between danger and intrigue, Molly and John's friendly alliance soon crackles with a passion neither of them can deny. John would have her heart, if she would give it to him, but this Molly cannot do. Even though her body reacts to the lieutenant in a manner no lady's ever should, a heartbreaking vision of the future shows Molly his death, caused by her --leaving Molly torn between the love she yearns to share with John and the sacrifices she must make to keep him alive.
As the pair fend off thieves and decipher clues left by Molly's father, they discover the ruby is part of an ancient quest that has led many a man to his end --and one nasty pursuer resorts to murder to get what he wants. Somewhere between danger and intrigue, Molly and John's friendly alliance soon crackles with a passion neither of them can deny. John would have her heart, if she would give it to him, but this Molly cannot do. Even though her body reacts to the lieutenant in a manner no lady's ever should, a heartbreaking vision of the future shows Molly his death, caused by her --leaving Molly torn between the love she yearns to share with John and the sacrifices she must make to keep him alive.
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