Hey all… It’s been a busy couple of weeks here, with getting the kids back to school and soccer schedules and all. Ive still been writing though, and I wanted to let you in on a little secret. I’m starting a book.
It’s always been a daft little dream of mine to see my name on a shelf at Powells… Maybe I can make it come true.
I hesitate to call this a “romance” but it is a romantic story. It starts with the events of 9-11. Being myself, it is a romantic story with a poly twist, and I am interested to see where my characters go with it.
So, I present to you, chapter one, or at least a little bit of it. It may be a bit triggery for some people, as it talks in detail about the morning of 9-11.
I woke that morning with a sense that something had shifted. Before I stumbled downstairs and kissed my wife good morning, before I drank my coffee with Katie Couric and Matt Lauer chattering at me from the East Coast, before selecting a simple broomstick skirt and lightweight cotton blouse, before everything.
I could hear, through my open bedroom window, the sounds of someone crying next door. Loud, gulping sobs. And the sounds of TVs and radios all over the neighborhood, turned up too loud.
I woke up thinking “something has happened”.
It was a half an hour before my alarm should go off, and I needed the extra rest. I pulled the comforter over my head, to try and block out the sounds, the news voices, the crying neighbor, the barking dogs. But the damage was done, I was irrevocably awake. Time to start my day.
I scrubbed my hands against my eyes and fumbled for my glasses so I could see to go downstairs. Pulling my skirt up over my lean muscled legs and hips, the sense of something off congealed into a ball of dread. The too-loud TV was in my living room. And I hear the words “planes” “New York” and “attack”. The crying person wasn’t a neighbor, it was my wife, Beth.
And then, then I knew, something had gone terribly wrong.
The downstairs smelled of coffee and Eggo waffles and Beth’s own scent of oil paint and vanilla body wash. She was already dressed for work in overalls and a tank top. It was supposed to be hot that day, and she was working on a mural in one of the new office buildings downtown. Her thick blonde hair fell like curtains around her red and tear-streaked face.
“Zoe, they’ve attacked New York. Zoe, it was the World Trade Center. So many people, someone flew a plane into the building, and so many people are dead or dying… Brian. Brian was supposed to be there today. He flew into New York yesterday.”