Moose Gets Fan Mail (or is it?)

“Moose,” Blake calls, “you’ve got mail.”

I guess he and Alex are back from their coffee run. We decided to treat ourselves this morning with specialty coffee with our sausage gravy and biscuits.

“I’m in the kitchen,” he calls back.

He turns toward me, his apron smeared with flour and a spatula dangling from one antler, a cellphone from another. “Me get mail? I wonder who it’s from?”

Blake and Alex enter the kitchen setting down the coffee.

“Here, mate. It’s from the court.” As he hands him the envelope, he asks, “Are you sure you finished your community service?”

Earlier this year, Moose was ordered to do a minimum of forty hours of community service as a muse to a summer high school writing class. He had pleaded guilty to a charge of vandalism at the Donnybrook Golf Course. Long story, but to sum it up, Moose cannot swim and emergency vehicles had to traverse the sixth hole to save him. Damage was done. (And I’m still paying for it.)

“Of course, I did. You were there when the group graduated.” He staring at the envelope like it’s a poisonous snake.

“I wonder what this is then?” he asks.

“Good coffee,” Alex says before she adds, “Maybe your judge friend wants you to help him writing his novel again.”

Oh, yeah. As part of a side deal, the presiding judge, Gerald R. Ford (Not that one, he’s dead.) asked for help in writing a thriller. He wanted to borrow Moose to be his muse. Well, how could you say no to that?

Moose turns the envelope over, studying the back.

“It’s an envelope, Moose,” I tell him, “not a postcard. You’re not going to find ‘Wish you were here’ on the back.”

“No, that’s on the inside.” Moose opened the envelope as I was speaking. “I’ve been called for jury duty.”

“Really,” Alex bounces on her toes. “How exciting. Maybe you’ll get a murder case and then you and Terry can write a crime novel based on the events. Wouldn’t that be exciting?”

“No,” Moose says flatly, “that does not sound exciting.”

“Maybe you can get an exemption for you job?” Blake suggests. “Hey, are those biscuits ready yet? I’ll never get used to calling them biscuits.”

“Oh, yeah,” I say. They’re probably getting cold.

“Right.” Moose seems to be talking to himself right now. “Maybe I could be excused for being your muse. After all, we can’t afford to take that much time off.”

Personally, I think he’s stretching. Our hours are flexible.

“Okay, I guess I have to appear tomorrow.” This is the most serious I’ve heard Moose sound in a long time.

“We’ll go with you, mate.” Blake wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Great breakfast, by the way. Thanks.”

Alex has dished herself out some too. “Of course, we will.” She takes a bite. “These are great. You two have outdone yourself.”

“Thanks.” Moose hangs the letter on his antler. “You’ll be there, won’t you, Terry?”

I sigh.

“Of course, she’ll be there,” Alex answers for me.

“Of course.”

****

We’re all dressed in our best. Blake is wearing a sports jacket. Alex has on her favorite red dress. I’m not wearing jeans. And Moose? He’s rocking a tie like he shows up for work every day in one.

Moose is sitting in the jury box, playing with said tie. And we’re in the sitting on the benches watching. They’ve already interviewed several people and dismissed two. Fingers crossed Moose isn’t the right type of juror for this trial, which as it turns out, is a murder case.

“The next potential juror is,” the clerk calls out, then stammers. “Moose T. Muse?” Yeah, it comes out as a question.

“I just love this voir dire process,” Blake whispers to Alex. Not soft enough because I heard it.

“Voice what?” Alex asks.

“Voir dire,” Blake says, “that’s the questioning process we’re watching.”

“Well, why didn’t you just say that.”

The judge, who is not Gerald R. Ford, hushes Blake. “Sorry, your honor.”

Moose raises a hoof. “I’m Moose.”

The clerk scratches his head, while the judge, Harry S Truman (no not that one. He’s dead.) sits straighter in his chair. The lawyers are whispering among themselves.

“Please step forward.”

“Excuse me. Sorry.” He’s in the middle of a row. “I’m so sorry.” “Thank you.”

Now his standing mere feet from the clerk.

“Do you have ID?”

Moose nods, his cellphone, his diploma from Muse Academy, and his ID sway.

He plucks off his identification and hands it to the clerk.

“Are you sure this is you? I don’t see antlers in this picture.”

I stifle a giggle. Moose showed me his card after he got it updated. In the picture, his snout is literally inches away from the camera, being set up for humans, not the occasional moose. So it’s all blurry. His brown eyes are wide and all that shows of his antlers are the stems.

“My antlers wouldn’t fit in the photo,” he explains to the clerk.

“Step forward, please.”

How much forward does he want the moose?

Moose complies and the clerk straightens his arm and holds it parallel to Moose’s face. Trying to align the picture with the face?

“Yes, I see it now.” He hands the ID back to Moose.

“If you’d take that seat, we’ll continue.”

The judge clears his throat. “Uhm, Mr.—”

“Please, just call me Moose.” He nods and everything on his antlers sways.

“This is a very unusual situation. We normally don’t get creatures? Animals? Uhm…non-humans on juries.”

A lawyer leaps from his seat. “Your honor, his status should not eliminate him from the jury pool. I say his unique circumstances would make him a fair and open-minded juror. I’ve consulted with my colleague and we believe we’d like this man…uhm, person…uhm…moose as a member of the jury.”

Judge Truman asks the prosecution, “Are you accepting this juror without any questioning?”

The prosecutor nods immediately. “Yes, your honor. I am.”

“Well, then that’s final. Make it so, number one.” He chuckles. “Sorry, I just love saying that.”

The clerk nods, looking annoyed, but he makes it so. “Moose T. Muse, is hereby considered Jury Number Four. You are to report for jury duty Friday morning at 9 am. Please do not be late.”

Blake, Alex, and I all moan.

“Is there a problem back there?” Judge Truman asks.

“No, your honor,” we all say at the same time.

****

On the ride home, we all give our apologies to Moose for having to serve.

“I’m excited about it,” he says, “this is like being on a television show.” He appears pensive, the asks, “You guys will come every day, won’t you?”

“How can we say no, mate?” Blake asks. “Of course, we’ll be there.”

I sigh. I’m no psychic but I don’t see much writing in my future.

“Don’t worry, Terry,” Moose says. “We’ll all take notes. And we can turn this experience into a crime novel.”

“Are you reading my mind, again?” I give him a hard stare in the rear view mirror.

“Sure am.” He smiles, raising his moose eyebrows.

I’m Terry Newman, author of romantic comedies with a splash of fantasy. Thank you for visiting my newsletter where I talk about my writing, books, and topics that have grabbed my attention.

Drop the dating app. Pick up a hobby. The IRL meet-cute is back.

That’s right. Gen Z, those individuals born between 1997 and 2012, have resuscitated the in-person meet-cute. And according to Eventbrite, the site that makes it possible for people to come together, a whopping 77 percent of people say they’ve met their match at one of the site’s organized in-person activities.

And get this. Experiences that explicitly use “meet-cute” language in their promotions have skyrocketed by 117 percent in just the first six months of this year. What’s meet-cute language? “Come solo.” “Singles.” “Find your people.”

In this revival, the hobby or activity attracts the person. And if a spark ignites, it does so naturally.

So why is the first generation that grew up with the internet and smart phones leading this revolution?

Apparently, three major factors.

• The appetite for a spontaneous connection.

And I get it. When every aspect of our lives are predicted by some seemingly unpredictable algorithm, it’s only natural to crave unscripted activities and see if magic happens. And it’s not just the Gen Z who feel the sway. Hollywood has caught the spirit with rom-coms like Anyone But You and The Idea of You.

• A distinctive shift to “soft socializing.”

A majority of young adults—58 percent to be exact—want socializing to be a secondary part of the meet-cute. And even more—69 percent—want events that combine a variety of interests. Traditional singles mixers are giving way to structured activities explicitly created for social connection. This not only makes the events less stressful, but gives participants built-in conversation starters. (Goodbye the pickup line?)

• Niche interests are the new compatibility test

When the internet has lowered us to the most common denominator—where we all look like we’re interest in the same, few activities—discovering a niche interest is a way to stand out. Trying your hand at a trivia night, going birdwatching, or making ceramics just to find something different means you can meet different types of people. You start with small talk and who knows what happens after that.

What events are attracting people?

• Mahjong

You may be surprised to learn that Eventbrite-organized Mahjong gatherings have increased 235 percent while attendance has soared to 272 percent in the past year.

• Trivia night

If you think, Mahjong is having a moment, the event-management site is has seen a 403 percent increase in trivia night events. And attendance has boomed by 388 percent. C’mon, who doesn’t love a robust game of trivia? (Oh, is it just me?)

• Birdwatching

Once thought the hobby of the retired, birdwatching has gained traction as a way to meet your true love. Eventbrite organized 131 percent more this year alone and attendance has soared (pun intended) 82 percent.

• Pilates socials

How about this? Do your Pilates workout, and after have a smoothie and talk to other participants. Who knows? You might feel a spark with someone. Eventbrite-organized Pilates socials have risen 84 percent with attendance increasing a healthy 87 percent so far this year.

• Plant swaps and terrarium workshops

Want to build a terrarium? Have a plant you’d like to exchange? That’s another way to meet people and maybe, just maybe, create a spark. Eventbrite says it’s organized a blossoming 117 percent more of these events this year with attendance sprouting by 24 percent.

• Pottery & craft circles

Interested in making vases, mugs? Or do you just love crafts? Even if you’re only thinking about taking up a craft, the odds are you’ll strike up a conversation with a fellow participant. The attendance at Eventbrite sponsored events has grown by 116 percent while the events themselves have grown by 38 percent.

Now I want to write a romance about a meet-up at a Mahjong event. Do I need to know how to play the game to write the book?

Save the Date: Nov. 7

If you live in the northeast Ohio area, save this date: Nov. 7. It’s the first ever Mahoning Valley Book Bazaar.

• I’ll be there with all of my books. I’m excited for this event and I hope to see you there.

What I’m reading…

I’ve finished Love and Other Conspiracies by Mallory Marlowe. And I loved it.

• First, it talks conspiracy theories, but more than that, the two main characters have great chemistry. And they’re surrounded by amazing friends.

• If you want to escape reality for a while, Love and Other Conspiracies is your book.

Last month, I told you I started to read The House in the Cerulean Sea by T. J. Klune.

• And I really, really, did try to read it. But I lost interest. The author’s style got tedious for me. Which is weird. Because I loved the style when I first started it.

• The first several chapters are a masterclass on how to develop a character by showing their personality through actions, mannerisms, and dialogue. Brilliant. Will I return to it? I hope so. Because I know there’s a good story there.

That means I’m back to focusing on The Someday Garden by Ashley Poston (one of my all-time favorite authors).

• Honestly, the book started out slow, at least for me, but now it’s getting really good.

• How can a man stuck in a garden behind a wall that’s never in the same place twice in an even larger garden not be good?

What I’ve been writing…

I’m a little more than 37,000 words into Love at the Speed of Light.

• This is a rework of my first draft. A pretty drastic rework, I’d say. While I’ve kept all the main characters, I’ve added a couple more.

• This book focuses more on Alvin and a new development in his life. He’s one of the co-owners of the Physics Café, a staple in all my Alex and Blake books.

• By the first quarter of the book, he’s in for a big surprise. I’ll explain more as a get more of the book written.

My promise to myself

• And I’ve made myself a promise. I have a lot going on, my writing, a humongous nonfiction freelance project, and book trailers. Sometimes, my own writing gets shoved to the bottom of the to-do list.

• I’ve promised myself my first order of business every day is to write a minimum of 500 words on my own manuscript. I know that doesn’t sound like much. I started it this week and I have written more than 3,500 words.

• Of course, they’ll be days, even weeks, when I can focus solely on my own work. And believe me, I will. And my word count will be higher. But when every other task is tugging for my attention, I’ll start out with my own writing.

• And you know what I’ve found? When you sit down and make a commitment, it doesn’t take as long as I thought it would because I’m more focused. And yeah, it’s enjoyable and satisfying. Exactly what writing should be.

Do you follow me on Instagram?

I’ve been making posts there about Rewrites of the Heart, the book that introduced Alex and Blake.

• As you probably know, they’re the main characters in a romance JJ Spritely is writing. She falls asleep at her desk on day while writing and when she wakes up, Alex Zurich and Blake Teesdale are sitting across from her on her loveseat? They want to help her write her very own love story.

• Follow me by clicking here.

Rewrites of the Heart Excerpt

In the spirit of revisiting that story, here’s an excerpt from it. In this piece, JJ’s still in the early stages of dealing with Alex and Blake’s presence and refuses to believe they’re her characters.

JJ nodded. “Exactly. If no one else can talk to you, then I can be pretty comfortable that I’m the one going through this, well, whatever it is. But, if everyone can talk to you and see you, then I’m not entirely sure what’s going on here. Up until now, you were my personal, private hallucinations. I’m just not sure what to call you now.”

“Try calling us real,” Alex said, one hand on her hip.

“But real is impossible. It defies all the currently known scientific laws. What if everyone could see you, not just me, as I just naturally assumed so far?”

Alex sat on the arm of the couch, near JJ. “I’m still confused. I don’t get what the big deal is.”

Blake paced the room, his head down, hands behind his back. “Aside from your conversation with JJ’s sister, love, we haven’t had an occasion to have contact with anyone.”

“Right,” JJ agreed. “I assumed you couldn’t interact with others. Now, I wonder if others could see you, too.” She rubbed the back of her neck.

Blake rose and padded to the front door. Alex watched as he unlocked and opened the door. Then he turned. “Alex, let’s test out my theory.”

“Me? What are we going to do?”

“You’ll see.”

Alex shot a quick glance at JJ, who only looked amused by her perplexity. She figured she had little choice and met Blake at the door. He took her hand and they stepped on onto the small porch. She scanned the neighborhood. Everyone had at least a little patch of yard.

One house sported the stereotypical white picket fence. The house directly to the right wore a shiny metal flowerpot of purple petunias, yellow and purple pansies, and a few tall dark pink snapdragons. A few houses down she saw that one house had a wraparound porch with baskets of red geraniums adorning it.

Finally, she saw an older gentleman who lived directly across the street. He was out with his golden Labrador retriever.

“Good afternoon,” Blake called out to him, waving as if he were the proverbial friendly neighbor.

“I’m Bob Higley, and this is Moses.” The man gave the dog a good rub.

“I’m Blake Teesdale and my fiancé, Alex Zurich. She’s JJ’s cousin from Kansas and we’re here on vacation.” Alex smiled meekly and gave the man a tentative finger wave. She was amazed at his ability to create an entire backstory on the spot.

Mr. Higley took off his baseball cap and scratched his head. “You don’t sound like you’re from Kansas.”

“No, no sir. You are right. Mine is definitely not a Midwest accent. British.”

“I’ve always loved England.”

“Thanks, I love your country too.” And then Blake gave Mr. Higley a friendly good-bye wave and he and Alex went back into the house.

Once inside, he rolled on the balls of his feet, a small, smug smile slowly forming on his lips, hands in his pockets.

“We just passed the can-they-see-you test with flying colors. And yes, they can see you—I mean, us.”

“Yes, you two did and I’m amazed.”

Thanks for reading! What have you been reading? Anything good? Anything you’d like to share?

Happy Reading!

Emergency inspiration needed. ASAP!

I tiptoe into Moose’s bedroom. It’s 5:30 am. Not sure why I’m tiptoeing. He’s going to get up anyway. But I really want this to be a surprise.

Moose, by the way, is my writing muse. And he’s a real live moose who happens to walk upright, not unlike Bullwinkle. How I came to have a muse, let alone a muse who’s a moose is a long story best left for another time.

Wow, I haven’t been in his room for quite some time. He has posters of the covers of all our books on the walls, as well as a group photo of the high school class he was a muse to recently.

And he has some award on top of his dresser. Nice. The moose is a decent decorator.

Anyway, I tiptoe to his bed and carefully lift his eyelid. He grunts and snorts (I’ve checked it out. Evidently, moose snort when they’re annoyed). He flails his front legs, as if batting away a mosquito.

Then it’s as if he realizes what’s happening.

“What in the blue blazes are you doing?” He bellows.

I jump back a step startled.

“I need your inspiration. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”

Moose sighs. “Neither you nor I are goose or gander.”

“The better phrase…” a new voice has entered the conversation. And it’s Blake. But of course, it’s Blake.

“…would be what’s good for the human is good for the muse.”

“Thank you, Blake.” Subtext: who asked you?

“I heard Moose bellow. I was worried something happened to him.”

My muse sits up. “Terry happened to me.” He glares at me. A toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste dangle from his antler. Ugh. Not very sanitary. But then again, he’s a moose.

“I need you’re help. Your inspiration. Your creativity.” I do my best sad puppy-dog eyes, but truthfully, I don’t think it’s helping.

Moose sighs. “What could you possibly need my help with. We just finished writing that scene with Alex and—”

“Don’t say it. Not yet. I don’t want everyone to know just yet what’s up in the new improved Love at the Speed of Light 2.0”

“What do you need at this ungodly hour?”

Momentarily my need for help is secondary to my need to make a point. “See. You think it’s an ungodly hour when it’s not your choice to wake up this early.”

He rolls his moose eyes as he lowers his hind legs to the floor. “What. Do. You. Need?”

Blake laughs. “A little testy there, mate. Terry’s only asking you to do your job.”

Moose opens his mouth, but I raise my hand quickly. “No need to get personal. Moose is a great muse and he’s always doing his job. I just surprised him this morning.”

“Sorry,” Blake says, his unruly mop is flouncing everywhere. Bedhead? “I just was getting into the spirit of a row. Nothing personal, mate.”

“Apology accepted.” Moose rises. “So what are we doing, Terry?”

“It’s Friday.”

“Yeah, I know. It usually comes after Thursday. And your point?”

“My point is we don’t have any ideas for your column.” I’m hoping my labeling his column, he’ll give this priority in whatever he was planning to do today.

“Well, it is my column,” he says, reading my thoughts. “It’s not Fridays with Terry, is it?”

“No, it’s not. It’s not going to be anything this week if we don’t think of something to write. I’m out of ideas.”

“I know,” Blake says, “I’ll make breakfast. You guys come on down when in a bit. Maybe food will help you think.”

I cock my head. “Are you channeling the spirit of my grandmother? Because that’s something she’d say.”

He shrugs. “Maybe. It just seems that food helps everything.”

“I’ve got to agree with him,” Moose says. “Let’s get something to eat while we think about this.”

I sigh. “I do need some coffee. Let’s go.”

We follow Blake out the bedroom and down the stairs. Peggy the squirrel is perched on the banister.

“What was going on up there?” She places her little squirrel arms on her hips. She’s upset, I know, but she looks so damned cute like that. Squirrels are the least threatening animal I’ve ever met.

“I needed Moose’s inspiration on a project,” I tell her.

She huffs. And before she can say anything—and I know she was thinking it—Alex comes down the steps.

“I thought that efficiency plan of Moose’s ended,” she says. Moose had a brilliant idea that if he woke me up every morning before the crack of dawn and he “downloaded” his ideas (his words), we’d be more productive. We weren’t. It hindered our progress. Surprise. Surprise.

“I needed…oh never mind. I’m sorry I woke everyone. Let’s just go and make some coffee.”

“And breakfast?” Alex asks. “I’m hungry.’

“Yes, and breakfast.”

Moose and I are sill on the stairs. She sprints past us to Blake. “Morning, honey.” She kisses him. Perhaps a bit too long.

Peggy taps a little squirrel foot. Her irritation is so cute. “Will you two stop? Don’t tell me you do this every morning? Gross.” She makes a gagging noise.

Alex sighs. “It’s just that—”

“Never mind,” Peggy says.

“I need my coffee.” I walk purposefully into the kitchen. As I fill the coffee maker with water, I run through in my mind the list of topics I could possibly write about for today’s column.

The others have gathered. Blake is pulling out eggs from the fridge. Peggy’s perched on top of it. Alex is getting the plates ready. And Moose? He’s just watching it all.

Finally the coffee’s ready. I pour cups for Blake, Alex, and Moose. Peggy refuses to partake of the caffeine. Which is good, she’s hyper enough. And finally I pour mine. I sit down and take a sip. And then it dawns on me.

“I have it.” I rise. “And I’m starting right now. Let me know when breakfast is ready.” I grab my coffee.

“Love, I’ll bring you your breakfast.” Blake is cracking eggs.

“Thanks.”

Moose rises. “Need my help?”

“You’ve already helped. Thanks. Enjoy your breakfast.”

Nobody will believe the morning I’ve had anyway. At least it’ll make good fiction.

The Great Creativity Experiment Continues

It’s 5:30 in the morning (the morning, mind you!) and Moose just brought in the coffee. Two cups and a carafe on his antlers, just like yesterday.

Apparently, he got up extra early to make it “so we don’t waste time.”

If this sounds like what we did last week, well, it’s very similar. As you might or might not recall (because I’m sure my creativity is not on your mind twenty-four seven), Moose, my loyal, if eccentric writing muse, read a book on productivity. It is unfortunately titled “Organizing the Inner Muse: The Secret to Being up to Three Times More Efficient.”

Have you ever noticed that so many self-help books have the word secret in their titles? Yeah, me too. But I digress.

So now that you’re caught up, let’s see how day two of the Great Creativity Experiment goes.”

“Are you done talking to our readers?” Moose asks. “We’ve got work to do.”

“Yes, so what kind of inspiration did you come up with while you slept?” My fingers hoover over the keyboard, ready to start recording his words.

Moose sits in the chair next to my desk, coffee cup poised at his lips. “Last night I had a dream that…” He narrows his eyes. Studies his coffee. “It was…”

I smile at his hesitation.

“No!” He jumps up and spills coffee all over himself. “I can’t remember the dream!”

Hmm?

“Well, let’s go on to something else then. You’re sure to remember it later.”

“Right. Right. Of course.” He sits down again. Stares at a photo of all of us—Blake, Alex, he and I—at some event we did a couple of years ago. Who knew fictional characters would show up on camera.

Again, I digress, our creativity session is less than stellar.

“Last night, right before I fell asleep, I was thinking about Cassidy and how she could react to Rick’s comments.”

“Great.” I type that onto the document. “And what were Rick’s comments?”

Rick by the way, is a rival of sorts to Alvin in my work in progress, Love at the Speed of Light. It’s currently going through an extensive editing process. Cassidy is very interested in this man. And he is romance-cover, drop-dead handsome.

“What?” He shakes his head. His cell phone swaying. “I can’t remember now. What’s wrong with me?”

I suppress a laugh. Okay, so maybe a snicker sneaks out.

“What? What’s so funny?” Moose’s eyes are wide. “This is your book we’re writing?”

I think I’m in trouble now.

He glares at me.

“I tried to tell you. You can’t force creativity.”

“But I wasn’t forcing it,” he argues, “I was giving it the optimal chance to occur.”

“I’ve written books when no wonderful inspiration has happened. It’s okay. A bolt of inspiration is wonderful. And you give me that. But you do sometimes you inspire me, just by using a phrase, or by the look you give me.”

“Really?” Moose tilts his head.

“Yeah.” I nod. “Sometimes when we’re out of ideas, I sit and write anyway. And as I write the story pulls together, the characters react to their situations, and before you know it, I’ve got a scene or an entire chapter done and I know what I’ll write the following day.”

“Really? So you don’t need me?”

“No, I do need you. Didn’t you listen to a thing I said? You just can’t force ideas by sitting down and thinking. Sometimes you have to walk away and put it out of your mind. And when that happens—”

“That’s when things start clicking.” That’s Blake at the doorway. “It’s really not a mystery.”

He steps inside. Moose is staring at him.

“Look, mate, when you concentrate on an issue—in your case ideas for writing—your brain is working on Beta waves. They’re fast and they’re high-frequency.”

Moose nods. I’m all in on this. I’m thinking this might even make sense.

“But when you step away, to say get a cup of coffee,”—Blake points at the carafe—“your brain waves slow down. They go into the Alpha and Theta waves. Which just happen to be the very same frequencies that unlock creativity.” He nods, his black wavy hair flouncing.

“Really?” Moose leans forward. “So when I go snorkeling or do ballet, it sparks the creativity brain waves?”

“Exactly, mate.” Blake smiles broadly.

“And you read this in one of those books you’re always reading?” I ask.

“That’s the personality you gave me. Thank you for that.”

“You’re welcome. Thank you.” He may have just saved me from any further forced early morning writing sessions.

“Now that we’ve taken care of that,” Blake says, “I’m making breakfast.” He turns to go, then stops. “I’ll bring it in to you when it’s done. That way—”

Moose stands. “No, we’ll take a break. In fact,” he says, “I think I’ll help you today.” He glances my way. “As long as you don’t mind, Terry. The break will do us good.”

What a relief. “I don’t mind at all. I may come in and help, too.”

As we follow Blake out of the door, Moose stops me. “I think I may take up those ballet lessons again.”

I smile. “I think you should.” He looks adorable in his yellow tutu.

“Hey, I heard that thought.”

I’ve got my Moose back.

Let the efficiency games begin!

“Yoohoo! Any one in there?” Someone—and I have a good guess who that someone is—is lifting my right eyelid.

“What time is it?” I ask, but I can guess the answer.

“It’s 5:30 of course. Time to rise, shine, and create.”

Yeah, right.

“I’ve got some great ideas for us today.” Moose sits on the end of the bed. “I’ve had dreams, visions, characters have been talking to me. It’s been a grand night of creativity.”

Before you tell me I’m missing a wonderful chance at creating, because after all, Moose is my muse, I need to fill you in on something. Moose read a book on efficiency and productivity and now he believes we can crank out novels like they’re on an assembly line. Hint: I’ve worked on an assembly once (only once) and it is not all it’s cracked up to be. Efficiency, yes. Thank you, Henry Ford. Boredom? Oh, heck yes.

This is our first day under his new, improved idea-generating and writing system. Wanna see how it’s going to turn out? C’mon. This should prove interesting.

“Okay, I’m up,” I tell him. “Can I take a shower? Is there coffee yet?”

“Who needs coffee when we’ve—”

I raise my hand. “I need coffee. A woman can’t live on inspiration alone. Please get the caffeine going while I jump in the shower quickly.”

“I’ll agree to coffee. But a shower and even getting dressed can wait. We’ve got ideas to mold.” He rises. “I’ll make the coffee. You get the computer booted up.”

I blow out a breath. Seems I have little choice but to go along with this.

I trudge into my home office and open my laptop. As it’s coming to life, Moose enters with two cups of coffee and a carafe on his antlers. I can only assume that the carafe also contains coffee.

“It is full of coffee.” Moose hands me a cup, reading my thoughts again.

“Thank you.” I inhale the life-giving aroma.

He places the carafe on the desk. “It’s so we don’t waste time running back and forth for refills.”

Okay, I guess.

“I do sense you’re not enthusiastic about this.” Moose puts his hooves on his hips.

“I’m trying to keep an open mind.”

“Good. Good. Because this could be our big breakthrough.”

Oh, he shouldn’t tease me like this. “Let’s get started. I have a document ready. I have pen and paper ready. What’s on your agenda?”

“Okay, now that’s the spirit. I think for Love at the Speed of Light we need a grumpy social worker who appears at the most inopportune times.”

“Good,” I said. “Good. I agree. Let’s see how Alvin gets out of it.” I write all that down.

“And then, I had this dream last night. And I think it would be—”

“What are you two doing up so early?” Alex walks into the office, stretching and yawning.

“We’re working,” Moose snaps. “Efficiently. We’re busy here.”

Alex runs both hands through her early-morning hair. “All right. You don’t need to get so nasty about it.” I’m leaving. Do you need—”

“We’ve got coffee, thank you.” Moose holds up the carafe.

“Okay. Have fun,” she says as she leaves.

“We’re working,” Moose replies, “we’re not having fun.”

Well, truer words were never spoken.

Moose eyes Alex as she leaves. “Now, about my dream last night.” Moose’s cell phone rings. “I forgot to turn this off.” He plucks it from his antlers and shuts in down. “There. That should take care of that.”

“Now, again. My dream had a woman carrying a large heavy box, when a man comes along and takes it from her. I thought that could be Alvin and Cassidy in the café restocking something.”

“Not bad.” I write it down. It could work.

“Okay, now here’s the best idea of all.” He puffs out his chest. “I’m so excited about it. It can transform the entire trajectory of the story. We have Alvin ask Cassidy—”

“Love, mate? Do you know what time it is?” Blake’s black hair is the unruliest I’ve ever seen it. He has rogue waves sticking out all over the place.

“Yes. We. Do.” Moose says loudly. “It’s”—he picks up his phone, which is turned off— “Terry, what time is it?”

Blake snickers. “It’s six in the bloody morning. Does the creative process really work well at this hour?”

“Actually, we have got a few things done,” I say. I’m as surprised as anyone.

“Well, I’m making you both breakfast. You need your energy.” He pivots and walks out the door.

“He can’t do that,” Moose says. “We have to work.”

“Moose, we can work and eat at the same time. Now tell me, what was that idea we were so excited about?”

“We have Alvin ask Cassidy…to…to…” Moose slaps his forehead. “I’ve forgotten it. It’s right here on the tip of my tongue.”

“It’ll come to you,” I say.

“If people would stop interrupting us, maybe we could get some work done.”

“Those people, Moose, are our characters. And more than that, they’re our friends. They only mean well.”

“But they’re sidetracking the creative process. We did not increase our efficiency by at least three times.” He sighs. “That book promised—”

That book, by the way, is the book is “Organizing the inner muse: The secret to being up to three times more efficient.”

“We’ve only started this. We’ll get better at it. Why don’t we go and have breakfast. It’s already starting to smell good in the house.”

Moose studies the floor. “This was supposed to work.”

“It is working. We’ve captured a couple of ideas. And as I work with those, the scenes will expand.”

Moose retrieves the carafe and puts in on his antler. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Change doesn’t usually happen in one big leap. It happens slowly, it evolves. We’re evolving.”

“Yeah.” He smiles. “We did make a bit of progress today.” His sniffs the air. “Hey, that’s bacon. Let’s go eat.”

He heads out of the room, then pivots. “But we’re doing this again tomorrow morning.”

Now, there’s something to look forward to.

The Rocky Road of Organization

I’m gripping several grocery bags with several more hanging from my arms as I unlock the front door. It’s amazing how much fictional people eat.

I push the door open and enter. Blake and Alex come out of the kitchen.

“It’s about time you came home,” Alex scolds.

“Yes, love,” Blake agrees, “we thought you were in an accident.”

“Do you know how much food you guys go through? Every single one of you have different tastes. You, Blake, like Honey Nut Cheerios. Alex, you insist on trail mix—no raisins.” Not that I can blame her there. I hate raisins, too.

As I sigh, Peggy the squirrel glides to the banister. (Yeah, that’s as far as I’ve gotten in my own house.)

“What?” I ask. Probably a bit more sharply than I needed.

“I was going to tell Alex and Blake to take those bags from you.” She gives me an if-looks-could-kill glare.

“Of course, love.” Blake takes the bags on my right arm.

“Let me help.” Alex relieves me of the remaining bags.

“Thank you, Peggy.”

“You did remember to get my nuts, didn’t you?” She raises a squirrel eyebrow.

“Yes. Yes, I did.”

“Great. Thank you.” And she glides off to the kitchen.

“Terry.” Moose is in the living room in front of a self-standing white board. Curious.

“Yes, Moose. I bought your rocky road ice cream. A gallon of it.” He has his notebook, a pen, several markers, and a book dangling from his antlers.

“Thanks. But that’s not what I was asking about.”

Oh, how refreshing. I take a seat on the couch. “So what are you doing? Brainstorming a new idea?” He doesn’t like white boards, hates committing his ideas in writing. He’s more of a fluid muse. Sometimes, I make notes while he’s not looking, because I’m afraid I’ll forget a great idea.

“No, I’m getting organized.”

“What?”

“I’ve realized I could be up to three times more efficient as your muse if I only organized myself. Organize us.”

Us? “Uhm, organize us?”

Now granted, I am notoriously unorganized but I seem to be muddling through just fine.

“But don’t you want to just muddle through your writing, do you?”

“Stop reading my mind,” I say, “and what’s wrong with muddling.”

“It’s inefficient. From now own, I’m getting up at 5:30 and feed you the best of my overnight ideas. Inspirations.”

“Does that mean I have to get up at 5:30 as well?”

“Yup. You want to be efficient, right?”

I’m buying some time with this one. I can’t think at 5:30 in the morning, let alone create. Those days are long gone.

“So what’s the white board for?” I ask.

“Our priorities.”

“Okay.” I didn’t know we had priorities.

He plucks a marker off his antlers. “We’re currently working on Love at the Speed of Light.” He writes that down.

“Two point oh.” And I add, “It’s fundamentally different from our first stab.”

“Well, we won’t be stabbing anymore.” He adds 2.0 to the title, then pivots. “We’ll be creating and every stab”—he gestures air quotes— “will be a winner.”

“I don’t think that’s how creativity works.”

“That’s how things get done.”

I sigh. Blake comes in with two cups of coffee. “For you. I thought you might need it.”

I gratefully accept the cup.

“Mate, I made you one too, though, I’m not sure why.”

“Thanks.”

Blake sits next. “He’s been like this ever since you left to buy groceries. Mumbling about efficiency, productivity. Getting things done.”

“Do you know what brought this on? Is it contagious?”

“I’m right here, you know.” He waves. “Here look at this.” Moose pulls the book from an antler and hands it to me.

I read it out loud. “Organizing the Inner Muse: The Secret to Being up to Three Times More Efficient, by I. M. Productive.” That can’t be the author’s real name.

I glance at several of the pages. It’s written for, well, I’m not sure who it’s written for. But I hold my tongue.

“Now, as I was saying, after Love at the Speed of Light, we’ll be working on Murder at the Bigfoot Convention.”

I raise my hand.

He points a marker my way. “Yes, Terry?”

“I was thinking putting that on hold while we write the Claymore House.” It’s just a placeholder title. But the idea for this book popped into my head about a month ago.

“I don’t think we should hold up the production of books for that. After all, we’re not getting one out this year.” I’m keenly aware of that.

“But that’s where my enthusiasm is.”

“See, Terry, that’s where we’ve been going all wrong. Production isn’t about enthusiasm. It’s about consistency, even if we’re not totally enthusiastic about it.”

Huh?

“So, after that the Bigfoot story, we’ll dig into the Claymore House. Are we all on the same page?”

Blake has been sitting next to me staring blankly at the board.

“I suppose so.”

“Great. Tomorrow morning oh five thirty, we reconvene in your office. I’ll download my overnight ideas and we’ll write a heck of book.” He places the cap back on the marker, and hangs it on his antler.

“Now, I’m ready for some rocky road.” He heads toward the kitchen.

It certainly is going to be a rocky road.

I’m Terry Newman, author of romantic comedies with a splash of fantasy. Thank you for visiting my newsletter where I talk about my writing, books, and topics that have grabbed my attention.

The Quest(ion)

“Hey, Dick!” A voice boomed, waking Rick up from a sound sleep.

“What? Who’s there?” He looked around the room. He lived alone—so whose voice? As the grogginess slowly lifted…no, not again…

“Dick, I have a quest for you.” The voice was so loud the walls shook.

“Look, Bob,” Rick said as patiently as he could, “my name is Rick.”

“I am Bob, god of Bowling Alleys, and I will call you what I see fit.”

Rick sighed. He’d been through this before. Bob, god of bowling alleys, was a rather recent addition to the council of gods. Okay, not really. He had been known as Robert, god of accounts receivable, but there was that little issue of embezzlement going on right in front of his eyes.

“Dick, I know you think that issue of embezzlement was my fault.”

“Bob, they downgraded you., Maybe in the 1950s, god of bowling alleys was a big deal. But my god—and not you—we are a quarter way through the twenty-first century.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Rick sighed.

“Doesn’t time fly when you’re immortal?”

Bob cleared his throat. “Anyway, I have chosen you for this quest. You, Rick Jamieson as the Chosen One.”

Rick climbed out of bed and stretched. “Yeah, yeah. Just like the other six quests you sent me on. And all of them failed.”

Rick walked into the bathroom and started the shower.

“Okay, so maybe those quests were—”

Rick laughed. “Seriously flawed. That’s what they were.” He stepped into the shower, the water pelting him.

“Listen, I’ve learned from my mistakes,” Bob said.

“Hey, I’m taking a shower here. Show some respect.”

“No can do, Dick.”

“It’s Rick.”

“We gods are all-knowing, all-seeing.”

“If you are all-knowing how come you didn’t know your previous missions were flawed? Seriously flawed.”

“Hey, the plan sounded good at the time.”

“And,” Rick continued, “if you’re all-seeing, how come you didn’t see that embezzlement scheme playing our right before your eyes?”

“Now you’re hitting low.” Bob sighed.

Rick shut off the shower. And wrapped himself in a towel.

“Look, you have to help me.” Bob said.

“I do? Give me one good reason.” Rick got himself dressed. He prayed—not to Bob, god of bowling alleys—that he wasn’t going to get bamboozled into going on another stupid quest.

“The gods job board has an opening for god of health food stores.”

“And you want me to take it? Become Rick god of health food stores? Sure, I can do that.”

“No, I want you to help me get that promotion.”

“What happened to the other god?”

“He retired. He’d been in the spot for forty years. Watched over the stores from when they were nothing more than strange little holes in malls to the huge conglomerates they are today. He leaving them in good shape.”

“I see.” Rick headed for the kitchen. Talking to gods, even minor ones, like Bob, made him hungry. The only problem was Bob followed him.

“But, here’s the catch, Rick,—”

“It’s Dick—wait no, you got that right.”

“I know. I have to find an object. A rare and sacred object. And I can’t do it alone.” Bob sighed. The sound of pins being hit by a bowling ball echoed throughout the house.

“Hey, you did that?” Rick looked up from his cereal.

“Yup, that happened when I became Bob, god of—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know what you’re the god of.” Rick put down his spoon. “So what’s this rare and sacred object?”

“The Eternally Ripe Avocado.” Bob snapped his fingers and a pair of bowling shoes appeared on Rick’s feet. “You’re now endowed with the Holy Bowling Shoes to guide our way. Are you ready?”

“I haven’t agreed to anything.”

“Yet.” Bob smiled and snapped his fingers again.

Murphy’s Laws Takes 5th Place… And It’s on Sale!

Murphy’s Laws, my latest romantic comedy, came in fifth place in the National Excellent in Story Telling (NEST) contest sponsored by the Central Region Oklahoma Writers (CROW). See what they did there? Clever.

• And just in time for Beach Reads Season (yes, it’s a real thing) Murphy’s Laws is now only $0.99 on KOBO until the end of July. Grab your copy now and pack it in your vacation bag.

• What? You say you aren’t going anywhere? Well, grab a copy anyway and let the beach come to you. Bookcation, if you will.

• Click here for the KOBO link.

• And here’s the universal link. If you’re not on KOBO, the regular price of the book is only $2.99. That’s what I call a cheap vacation.

Save the Date: Aug. 16

If you live in the northeast Ohio area, save this date: Aug. 16. The Book Nook’s Indie Author, Artist, and Maker Market on the square in Warren, Ohio.

• I’ll be there with all of my books. I’m excited for this event and I hope to see you there. Fingers crossed there’s no rain!

What I’m Reading…

A lot. I’ve started three books.

• Last month, I told you I was reading The Someday Garden by Ashley Poston. And I’m loving it. But I put that aside because to start The House in the Cerulean Sea by T. J. Klune.

• The reason? Well, I searched for books with a story from the house’s point of view. That popped up. I may be, just may be thinking about writing a story about a “magical” house that knows when two people should be a couple and does things to push them together. Yeah, I know strange. Different. I’m still in the development stages. I promise if something good comes of it, you’ll be the first to know.

• Anyway, I put The House in the Cerulean Sea aside when I was gifted a copy of Love and Other Conspiracies, by Mallory Marlowe. A woman working for a company that produces web-based shows finds a man who’s deeply into conspiracy theories. Well, you had me at conspiracy. It’s fun and touching. Exactly what I love about a romcom.

What I’ve Been Writing…

Ah! That’s the question.

I’m slowly rewriting Love at the Speed of Light. I’ve given Alvin, co-owner of the Physics Café, a bit of a surprise.

• The story’s taking a different turn from what I originally envisioned. No, let me rephrase that. I had this idea all along, and should have just gone with it. So now the story is exactly where it was meant to be all along.

• And yes, Cassidy is still there. So are Alex and Blake, though their subplot changes substantially.

• And, yes, I am very happy with the new story line. I’ve just got to make sure of its timing.

What have you been reading? Have you got any recommendations?

Happy Reading!

At least they don’t have tiki torches

“That was an interesting session,” Blake says when we get home from Moose’s class. He’s already in the kitchen looking for something to eat.

If you recall, every student in the summer course, Writing with Moose, created a character. And yeah, you know that Moose is a muse for the class because he damaged the sixth green at Donnybrook Golf Course when we played out there last month.

He can’t swim and the fire department and EMTs were called out to drag him out of the lake when he jumped in after a golf ball. He nearly drowned. Seriously, it had to be embarrassing for him.

“Maybe I should make grilled cheese sandwiches? And some of the Physics Café Marconi and Cheese?”

“Ooh! I love their Marconi and Cheese,” Moose says, “almost as much as I love your chocolate mousse.”

“That’s settled then,” I say, as I sit in the wingback chair. I know I’m writing later today, but I need to just clear my head. Every student got the chance to tell us their story and we heard from every character. So many stories. So many points of view. It was exciting really.

“I’ll help you with the sandwiches.” Alex drops her purse on the couch and scurries into to the kitchen.

Moose is in the recliner playing with the adjustments. “That was a great class today. I’m so excited for all those kids.”

“Yeah, you really worked your magic.”

“Nope, I didn’t. That’s one thing you still haven’t learned. They did it all by themselves. I’m just a bit of inspiration. You created all your characters by yourself. I’m just standing in the background.”

“Perhaps,” I say. Moose is now fully reclined. His notebook, pen, and cell phone dangle behind the recliner. “But I couldn’t have done it without you.”

He’s about to argue with me, when the doorbell rings.

“I wonder who that could be?” I sigh.

Then it rings again. And again. And again.

“Okay, well I guess I better get that.”

As I hurry over to the door, Moose is adjusting the recliner so he’s sitting up.

The doorbell is continuously ringing now.

“What’s going on?” Alex pops out of the kitchen.

“I’m about to find out.”

I open the door—wow—to a group of people crammed onto my small stoop. Could they be the students’ additional characters?

Alex gasps. Loudly. Which brings Blake out of the kitchen. He’s wearing a “kiss the cook” apron and a toque that he found who knows where. His waves curl around the hat.

“M-m-ay I help you?” The crowd doesn’t look friendly. If they’re characters the students conjured up, they may be villains.

“Are you Terry Newman?” One of them asks.

“Yes.” I nod. I’d love to say I’m not and she lives down the street, but I kinda do have to be an adult here. And now, I’m getting a little better idea of what this is all about.

“Who do you think you are?” A woman in the back yells.

Oh, I want to be snarky and say I just told her, but I don’t think anyone in that group would appreciate my humor. My characters barely appreciate it on most days.

“Why did you allow my child to come home with a character?” This comes from a father standing in the back.

At least no one is holding a tiki torch. I call that a win.

“It was part of the assignment. Your children are very talented.”

Moose appears at the door. Every single item still dangling.

The people gasp.

“W-what is that?” A woman in front points at him and takes a step back. Unfortunately, she bumps into another mom, who then…well it looks like bowling for parents.

They all scramble to their feet, but they keep their distance. Moose laughs.

“This is Moose my muse,” I tell them. “And he’s been teaching your children writing.”

“When they came home with the course title, Writing with Moose,”—the man scratches his head—“I thought it was just a metaphorical thing. You know just figurative to lure the kids into summer school.”

“Nope.” Moose gives them his most charming smile and shakes his head. The items sway.

“Wow. Amazing.” One short woman is totally mesmerized by it.

“Lucille,” another exclaims, “do not get too friendly with these whatever they are. Remember, we’re here to demand they get rid of those no-good characters.”

“Excuse me,” Moose takes a step forward, “you’re children’s characters are not ‘no-good.’”

I cringe at the double negative, but it can’t be help.

“They’re lazy. They’re just hanging around.”

“Everyone just calm down,” I say. “Why don’t you come in and we can talk about it.”

Moose gives me a side glance. “I know what I’m doing.”

He shrugs. “Yes, please, come in.” He whispers to me, “This better work.”

He’s read my mind. And I do believe it will work.

They come in and I ask Alex and Blake if the food’s ready. “Yeah, but we don’t—”

“You don’t have to. Can you just plate it well? Make it look pretty?”

“But of course, love. What are…got it. I see what you’re doing.”

Blake’s a smart man.

It hits Alex a moment later. “Gotcha!”

“When I’m ready for you, I’ll call.”

They’re off to the kitchen. And I take a deep breath as I meet with this angry mob.

They’ve crowded onto the couch. Some are standing behind it, and two parents have claimed he recliner and wingback. So I guess we’re ready.

“I understand your frustration with your children’s characters. I not only live with my muse, but also my characters. They come and go. It depends on who I’m writing about. So your children’s characters won’t always be living with you.”

“But they are now!”

“Please, let me continue. But they can also be very helpful. Currently, Alex and Blake, who were standing near the door earlier, are living with me. The others are out creating their stories.”

“You mean those two were characters?”

“Blake is a great cook and Alex helps him. Alex also helps around the house with laundry and other small tasks.”

“Really?” One mom asks. “Do you—”

“Let’s invite them out. Blake just made lunch. Grilled cheese and Marconi and Cheese.”

“You mean—”

I interrupt and explain the reason for the dish’s name. Everyone seems impressed. I call them out. They both hold a grilled cheese sandwich grilled to perfection and the side dish.

Some people move a bit closer.

“I’m sorry we don’t have enough to feed all of you.”

“Love,” Blake says, “there’s plenty of everything. If they don’t mind waiting, I can whip up some more sandwiches and I made quite a bit of Marconi and Cheese. Enough for everyone, I’m sure.”

“And I’d love to talk to these parents about what it’s like to be a character.” Alex bounces on her toes.

“Do you really help with laundry?” One woman asked.

Alex smiles. “Of course.”

“Then it’s settled,” Moose says, “more sandwiches and conversation.”

****

I’m seeing the parents out. They’ve eaten and talked and laughed. They are no longer an angry mob. They’re actually friends.

“Thank you, Terry,” one woman says, “I’m going home and creating a chore schedule. If Bob wants to keep his character, they both have to do some chores. And then they can write the story.”

“You know, you’re brilliant,” another person says, “I think my son’s character has a knack for cooking. I’m going to find out.”

“My daughter created a gardener,” a mom says as she exits, “I’ve always wanted roses and I don’t have a green thumb.”

The last parent has left and I close the door.

Nobody warned me about this before I became a writer.

Character-building…even more consequences

“Who’s coming to class with me?” Moose stands at the front door, a briefcase dangling on one antler (He’s taking his writing course with the high school students very seriously).

“I’m in.” Alex leaps off the couch (and I mean leap). “Let me get my purse.”

“Of course, I’m in, mate.” Blake rises from the couch.

“How ’bout you, Terry?” Moose asked. “The kids really liked you. I’m sure they’d love to see you again.”

I can feel the pull. I’m going to get sucked into the black hole of going. It’s going to be inevitable.

“Remember, I can read your mind.” Moose raises a brow.

“Remember, I’m still paying for the damage to the sixth hole.”

His brow plummets.

Yes, I’m sure you recall earlier this summer, we went golfing and Moose dived into the lake on the sixth hole to retrieve a golf ball, and well, nearly drowned. A firetruck and an ambulance careened onto the fairway to pull him out.

Well, you can imagine the amount of damage those vehicles did to the green. And as you might guess, I’m stuck paying the bill for repairs. Moose got community service for his little antic. He’s now the muse to high school students. They even made a summer school course around him: Writing with Moose.

Anyway, I went to the last class to see how he was doing. And he was doing fantastic. The students are enthusiastic and one girl even created her first real character, who went home with her. (We’ll not talk about what the girl’s mother thought of it.)

“And I deeply appreciate you helping me out. But you do know deep down you love seeing the kids create. And their enthusiasm is contagious.”

Darn. He has me there. When I visited them the last time, I was excited about writing again. I’m planning a new story while I rewrite Love at the Speed of Light, thanks to them.

So? I think I am going.

“C’mon.” Alex has her arm around Blake’s waist. They’re all not so patiently waiting for me to decide. “You know you want to.” She said that the last time too.

And you know what? Secretly I do want to.

“Told ya,” Moose smiles.

I really wish he’d stop reading my mind.

I rise slowly. “Okay, I’ll go.”

“Of course, you will, love. There was never any doubt in any of our minds.”

I blow out a breath. Never any doubt…

Am I really that predictable?

“Why, yes you are” Moose laughs.

“Enough. Let’s get going. I’ll drive.”

Why did I even say that?

Alex and Blake cram themselves into the front seat with me, which leaves Moose in the back seat. And he barely fits.

“Lean to the left, please,” I say as I try to back out of the driveway. His antler is blocking my view.

He obliges and the street is empty of vehicles.

“You know,” Alex says, “I think Willow’s success in created her character will encourage the others.”

Blake agrees. “I can imagine each student at home giving their characters distinctive traits and mannerisms, hoping they’ll come to live for them.”

“They’re still young,” I say as I turn left at a corner. “They may not be able to have a character come to live yet.”

Moose leans forward. “I’m not so sure about that. You can’t discount peer pressure. And a young mind is much more imaginative than an adult’s.”

He’s got a point there.

“We’re here,” Alex cries out, as I pull into the parking lot. Moose has a faculty parking sticker so we get a good parking spot.

People are milling about the parking lot. I know there are other summer classes in session, but it seems like a lot of people.

I get out of the car. Alex gets out of the passenger side, then pulls Blake out. His unruly black wavy hair is even more unruly and wavier than usual. He’s tall, and I bet his hair and the top of the car (would you call it a ceiling) have created their own static electricity.

We all wait as Moose slowly extracts himself. Honestly, if I could afford it, I’d get a bigger vehicle—maybe a pickup truck?–but, well, I can’t.

“I made it out alive,” he says as he stretches his legs. “Who are all these people?”

“I figured they were teachers and students.” Alex shrugs.

“Maybe…” Moose studies them carefully. “Well, let’s get to class.”

Moose leads the way into the room. We’re early. None of the students are there yet. Not even Willow and her character, Bobby. I expect Willow to bring him to class, unless her mother threw him out. Which is a distinct possibility considering how angry she was when we talked.

Moose sits on the table, and Alex and Blake turn to desks around so they face the group. Yeah, it is a tight squeeze for Blake.

Ah, the children are arriving. I recognize them, but…

Did they bring friends? Because there’s a lot more of them than I remember.

“Terry,”—Moose nudges me—“do these people look like the ones that were in the parking lot?”

I take a hard look at them. “Yes, they do. They were just waiting to come in. What’s—”

“Welcome,” Moose interrupts me. “We seem to have more students than normal.”

“Mr. Moose, this is my character, Eric.”

A girl raises her hand. “My character’s name is Chara.”

It takes me a moment. But Moose has already figured it out. “So did everyone go home and create a character and bring them to live?”

The students all scream yes.

They’re all characters?

“Good job,” Alex says, as she jumps out of her seat. “I want to meet you all.” She walks up to the closest character, shakes their hand, and introduces herself.

Blake gets the idea. “Mate,” he says to a young male, “I’m a fictional character too. Nice to meet you.”

“Good job, everyone! You can all call yourselves writers.”

Yeah, they can. And their parents will call me something else, and all too soon.

Serenity and Bailey's Magical Adventure by Jessi and Rayven DiVencenzo

Once upon a time in a small, cozy town, lived a little girl named Serenity and her faithful dog, Bailey. Serenity loved exploring the world around her, and she believed that magic could be found in even the tiniest of things.

One sunny morning, as Serenity and Bailey were playing in the park, they stumbled upon a magical key hidden beneath a colorful flower. Serenity’s eyes sparkled with excitement as she picked it up, and she knew that it would unlock a great adventure.

Curiosity filled their hearts as they turned the key in an old, dusty book, revealing a hidden passage to a magical world. Serenity and Bailey stepped through and found themselves in a land full of enchantment and wonder.

Their first stop was the Forest of Whispers, where trees whispered secrets and animals spoke in rhymes. Serenity and Bailey met a wise owl named Oliver, who guided them through the forest and taught them to listen to the magic all around them.

Next, they ventured into the Crystal Caves, where shimmering crystals illuminated the path ahead. Serenity and Bailey discovered a mischievous gnome named Gizmo, who loved playing tricks on visitors. With Serenity’s gentle kindness, they convinced Gizmo to join their quest instead of playing pranks.

They sailed across the Sparkling Lake on a magical boat made of leaves, singing songs with the water fairies. They reached the Floating Islands, where fluffy clouds carried them high above the ground. Serenity and Bailey met a kind-hearted unicorn named Stardust, who gifted them with a magical star necklace to protect them on their journey.

Their adventure led them to the Rainbow Valley, where vibrant hues painted the sky. They met a friendly dragon named Ember, who was a master of fire and warmth. Ember taught Serenity and Bailey the importance of bravery and standing up for what they believed in.

As Serenity and Bailey traveled, they collected magical tokens from each place they visited. These tokens held the essence of the magic they encountered, and Serenity knew they would bring joy and wonder to others when they returned home.

Finally, it was time for Serenity and Bailey to say goodbye to their newfound friends and return home. They closed the book, and the magical key disappeared, leaving them with memories that would last forever.

Back in their little town, Serenity shared their incredible adventure with friends and family. She spread joy and wonder by using the magical tokens to create enchanting stories and games for others to enjoy.

And so, Serenity and Bailey’s magical adventure came to an end, but the sparkle of magic remained in their hearts forever. They knew that no matter where life took them, they would always carry the spirit of adventure and the belief in magic in everything they did.

Creating characters has consequences

“I’m just a writer,” I say.

Here I am, helping Moose with his community service. Yes, the community service he has to serve for nearly drowning on the sixth hole of Donnybrook Golf Course and bringing out half of the firefighters in our little town along with the ambulance. It seems, unlike his cousins in Sweden, he can’t ford a stream, let alone a lake.

Anyway, he—along with Blake and Alex—have cajoled me into meeting with his summer school students. A special class has been created for him: Writing with Moose.

One student raises her hand. “But you’re published, right?”

“Yes, I am. I have several books out, most of which are about Alex and Blake.”

Alex finger-waves to the group of about ten students. Several of the girls finger-wave back.

“That’s so cool that your characters come to life,” says a student who’s seriously studying Blake. “Can we ask them questions too?”

Well, why didn’t I expect that?

“You can, but first we should probably talk about the process that goes into bringing characters to life. I’m sure Moose has mentioned this.”

I know all of you reading this know, so I won’t bore you with the details.

“Yeah, I tried it the other day,” one boy said, “but my guy never came to life.”

He didn’t have to tell me he was disappointed. I could hear it in his voice.

“Maybe you couldn’t see him in your mind,” I suggest. I turn to Moose for more help. After all, this is his class.

“That’s right.” He seems startled I spoke to him. He was busy playing with the pen dangling from an antler. “Why don’t we all do an exercise?”

Everyone in the class nods. “Sure.” “Of course.” “Anything you say.” They all retrieve their pens and appear ready to write. Moose’s command of a class is impressive.

“Okay, take the character you created as homework from our last session and give them one very specific trait.”

They all nod.

“See what Terry did here with Blake,” Moose points to Blake sitting at a desk with his legs folded several times over. “She gave him very distinctive hair.”

The students seem to hang on his every word.

“And with Alex,”—she’s sitting on a desk and waves to the group—“Terry gave her a deep and abiding belief in the idea of romantic love.”

“Ooh! I get it.” One girl bounces in her seat and scribbles something down.

The others are a bit more pensive. But they eventually also decide on a trait. At least they’re writing. Once all the pencils are down, Moose takes charge of the group.

“Who wants to go first and tell us the trait you gave your character?” He scans the room. No one is biting.

“It would help if someone volunteered,” he says. “You know this is a safe place for ideas. No one is going to make fun of you here, regardless of how outrageous you may think your ideas are.”

“Trust me,” I add, “I’ve thrown some truly horrible ideas at Moose. He’s never once made fun of me. That’s the only way to be truly creative.”

One of the girls raises her hand, but before Moose can call on her, there’s a knock at the door.

“I’ll answer it.” Blake extracts himself from the chair and ambles toward the door, his hair bobbing along in rhythm.

“Hi, I’m Bobby Langston. Is Willow Jones here?”

What am I hearing?

A girl leaps out of her chair and dashes toward the door. “Bobby, I’m Willow.”

“Hi, thanks for thinking of me.”

“Come in,” she says.

He’s about ten and has a head of unruly read hair and a face full of freckles and he is just about the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.

“Look Blake,” Alex says, “he could be your son.”

“I told you, love, we’re not talking about children. Not now.”

Wow. I am now very curious about what goes on with my characters when I’m not there.

“Willow,” Moose says, “would you like to introduce Bobby to the class.”

Every other student is on the edge of their seat. “Everybody, this is Bobby Langston, and he’s my character. He may be small now, but he’s going to grow up to be the president of the United States. He’s going to have to go through a lot of struggles first.”

“Whoa, lady,” Bobby says, “I don’t like the sound of that. I’m just a ten-year-old.”

Willow shakes her head. “Don’t worry, you’ll come through them with flying colors.” Her hand covers her mouth. “Sorry, that was a cliché. Didn’t mean for that to come out.”

Hmm. Moose has taught them well.

“Besides, don’t you want to be president?”

“Heck yeah, that sounds great.”

Moose looks at his watch. “I’m sorry but our time’s up. In fact, we’ve run a bit over. But you’ll be back on Tuesday. Keep writing on your projects. You’ll read them out loud next time. And Bobby, we hope to see you here, too, aa on Tuesday.”

The kids pack everything up and then gather around Willow and Bobby.

And I’m ready to head home.

Later in the day, I’m at my laptop working on Alvin’s story when my phone buzzes. It’s a number I don’t recognize, but it’s local so I answer it.

“Are you Terry Newman? And is your muse Moose?”

It’s a woman at the other end and she doesn’t sound happy.

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“You can’t get out of talking to me by pretending not to be yourself.”

“I’m not,” I said, “I’m just asking your name.”

“I’m Rosemary Jones, Willow’s mother.”

“Hi, nice to meet you.”

“Do you know Willow brought home a little boy from your class today?”

Uh oh. “Actually, it’s Moose’s class. I was just a guest today. She created a character, Bobby Langston.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do with him? With ground beef as high as it is, I can barely afford to feed my family, let alone bring in another kid?”

“Uhm…I’m sorry he’s a burden. But he’s expanding your daughter’s imagination. She’s very talented to have a character come alive on the first try.”

“First try? Do you mean they’ll be more of these…these…characters? Do you have any idea of how intrusive they are?”

“I know they can be a pain. I have several living with me. And Moose.”

“What do you expect me to do? They’re up in her bedroom right now writing.”

Ah, that’s so good. But I don’t think Willow’s mom wants to hear that.

“Your daughter has a future as a writer. As I understand it, Bobby’s going to grow up to be president. He’ll be able to repay you then.”

“But…”

“I’m sorry, but someone’s at my door, I have to run.” I hit the end button.

No one is at my door…I don’t have a way to help her.

I rise and walk into the living room, where Moose is sitting in the recliner eating popcorn and watching a movie.

He looks up at me, and I say, “Houston, we have a problem.”

Welcome to StoryQuest, a weekly publication highlighting short stories of different genres by a variety of talented writers. If you have a short story, I’d love to read it and publish it here. Just comment below. Thanks.

Serenity and Zola’s Seaside Adventure by Jessi and Rayven DiVencenzo

Once upon a time, in a cozy little town by the sea, there lived a curious and adventurous little girl named Serenity. Serenity had the most wonderful companion, a loyal and playful dog named Zola. Together, they were always searching for exciting new adventures.

One sunny morning, as Serenity and Zola explored the sandy shore, they stumbled upon a mysterious seashell with a shimmering glow. Serenity couldn’t resist picking it up and, with a gentle touch, a brilliant burst of magic surrounded them both.

As they blinked their eyes, Serenity and Zola found themselves in a world filled with enchantment. The once familiar beach had transformed into a magical wonderland. The sand sparkled with golden dust, and the waves whispered secrets in a language only they could understand.

Excited and filled with wonder, Serenity and Zola embarked on their extraordinary seaside adventure. They frolicked through fields of seashells, where each shell sang a cheerful melody. The seagulls danced in the sky, leading the way to hidden treasures waiting to be discovered.

As they walked along the shoreline, they encountered a friendly mermaid named Marina. Marina had a shimmering tail and a voice that sounded like a thousand seashells tinkling together. She offered to guide Serenity and Zola through the magical underwater world.

Together, they dove into the crystal-clear ocean, where colorful fish and sea turtles swam gracefully. They explored vibrant coral reefs, discovering tunnels made of pearls and caves filled with glowing jellyfish. Serenity and Zola’s hearts were filled with excitement and joy as they witnessed the mesmerizing beauty of the underwater kingdom.

After their underwater adventure, Serenity, Zola, and Marina returned to the shore, but they couldn’t resist exploring more of the enchanting seaside world. They wandered into a mystical forest, where talking trees whispered ancient tales and mischievous fairies played hide-and-seek among the flowers.

Serenity and Zola climbed a hill and found themselves at a magical lighthouse that reached up into the sky. The lighthouse keeper, an old wizard named Merlin, welcomed them and shared stories of his travels across the sea and the wonders he had seen.

As the sun began to set, casting a golden hue over the horizon, Serenity and Zola knew their time in this magical seaside world was coming to an end. They bid farewell to their newfound friends, promising to return one day.

With a gentle touch of the glowing seashell, Serenity and Zola were transported back to their familiar beach. They gazed at the setting sun, grateful for the incredible adventure they had experienced.

From that day forward, Serenity and Zola cherished every moment spent by the sea, knowing that even in their ordinary world, there was always magic to be found. And as they curled up together under the starlit sky, Serenity whispered to Zola, “Thank you for being the best adventure buddy in the whole wide world.”

And so, the little girl and her dog continued their journey through life, their hearts forever filled with the memories of their seaside magic.

The end.

It’s a conspiracy, isn’t it?

“They want to meet you, Terry.”

Moose sits down on the recliner. He’s just gotten back from his community service work, inspiring high school students to write. They even created a special summer school course for him. Writing with Moose it’s called. A notebook, a pen, and his cell phone hang from his antlers.

He adjusts the recliner so he’s lying nearly horizontally. Does he plan to take a nap?

“Who wants to meet me?”

The recliner slowly rises. “The kids. The budding writers. The fledgling minds.”

“Why?”

Alex laughs. She’s been curled up on the couch with a good book. “Because you’re an author?”

Did I really write that snarky attitude into her. I wonder if it’s too late to take it out.

Moose snickers. Well, as well as a moose can anyway. “Yes, it is too late to fundamentally change her personality.”

“I hate it when you read my mind…so why do they want to meet me, seriously?”

“Because,” Moose enunciates slowly, “You. Are. A. Published. Author.”

“Nah, nah, na, nah, nah,” Alex sings with an incredible level of maturity. Not.

Okay, I stepped right into that one, now didn’t I?

“They’re really excited.” Moose says.

“That’s sweet,” I say, hopefully noncommittally.

“Who’s ready for lunch?” Blake steps into the living room. “Moose, you’re back. I just whipped up a new batch of chocolate mousse.”

For reasons known only to Moose, he loves chocolate mousse. Is it the name? Who knows.

“And how was the community service?” he adds.

“It went great. The kids are naturally imaginative. And—”

“And,” Alex broke in, “they want to meet Terry.”

“Great. So when are you going?” Blake asks me.

I begin to talk but…

“Get this,” Alex says, “Terry doesn’t want to. Can you imagine that?”

“Why not?” Blake asks.

“I never said I didn’t want to.”

Alex sighs. “I can read people, you know. While you haven’t said no, you’re getting ready to state some flimsy excuse about why you can’t help mold young creative minds.”

She’s sitting up now and folded her arms over her chest. “What would have happened if Hemingway had said no?”

“What would Hemingway have said no to?” I’m lost in this conversation. That’s not a good sign. That’s how they’ll corral me into going to talk to these kids.

“I bet when he had the chance, he molded young minds.”

“Oh, I’m sure. What would he tell the kids? That they too could do the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona so they too could write a classic like The Sun Also Rises?”

Silence. No one has a comeback.

“And that’s the reason,” Moose says, “is why they requested you and not Hemingway.”

“Breaking news. Hemingway is dead. And by the way, who’s community service is this? I’m already draining my savings paying for the repairs to the sixth hole of Donnybrook Golf Course.”

Oh, yeah, I forgot to mention that his community service was part of his recent court appearance for damaging property while we were golfing several weeks ago. It seems, unlike most moose, Moose cannot wade through a stream, let alone a lake, without drowning.

We had to call 911. Firefighters and an ambulance tore through the sixth hole to save him. And his only real punishment is helping inspire high school students. And now, it seems, he can’t even do that alone.

“Love, it could be fun.” I shoot Blake a dirty look.

“We could go to, Alex and I. You can show them what happens when you write a book.” Blake nods and his hair bounces.

“That’s a great idea,” Moose says. “It’d make the act of writing more real for them. If they knew they could bring characters to life, they may be more enthusiastic about writing.”

Why do I get the feeling the fate of the literacy of the Western World rests on me?

“C’mon,” Alex pleads, bouncing on her toes, “you know you want to do this.”

“No, I do not know I want to do this.”

“But I do,” she says. “I can’t wait to see the kids. Blake, don’t you want to see the children?”

“Love,” he says, “I’d love to go. But don’t start with children again. Please. We can’t do that.”

Ooh. Have they been talking without me? Is there a little Alex or Blake in the future? Highly unlikely without me pushing their storyline along. My initial worry fades.

“Okay, okay,” I finally say. “I guess I’m forced to go.”

“Ah, Terry,” Moose says, “don’t look at it that way. I bet you can come up with an idea for a novel once you meet these kids.”

“I’ll go, but I doubt if I’ll get a novel out of it.”

Alex jumps up and hugs me. “I’ll have to figure out what I’m wearing for the event.”

“It’s not an event,” I mumble.

“Let’s eat now,” Blake says.

I rise. Maybe, just maybe, one of those kids will be inspired to be a writer. Who knows?

Defending your Habit: 7 Benefits of Reading

Need some ammunition to justify your reading addiction…I mean hobby?

Thankfully, the twenty-first century’s view of novels is not the eighteenth-century’s. In the 1700s, reading fiction was seen not only as a waste of one’s time, it was thought to distort a person’s view of the real world.

Still, even today there are individuals out there who don’t understand why people read. And worse yet, there are those Debbie Downers (my apologies to all the reading Debbies out there) who believe you can actually read too much. Pshaw!

We don’t need such negativity. So here are seven benefits of reading you can spout off to the next person who tries to ruin your day.

1. This is your brain on books.

• Tell anyone who thinks you read too much that you’re improving your brain. While that may seem obvious, research is now confirming it.

• Have you ever wondered what happens to your brain while reading? Or am I the only weird one?

• Emory University researchers were curious (thankfully, I’m not the only one), so they scanned the brains of people who read. Specifically, they took a group of individuals, assigned them all the same novel, and instructed them to read a certain number of pages each night. The following morning, they reported to the research facility to receive an MRI.

• The result? Reading strengthens your brain. Just the act of reading alone activates many parts of your brain. And the farther you get into the story, the more of your brain is activated.

• But wait, that’s not all. These areas stay active for several days after you’ve finished reading—even if you’re not actively reading. And not surprisingly, the more you read, the stronger the complex networks of activity become.

But here’s the curious part of the results…

• Reading also strengthens the areas of your brain that respond to movement, sensations, and pain: the somatosensory and motor cortex.

• Weird, right? The researchers believe it’s because when you read, your brain puts you in the body of the protagonist, the person you’re reading about, and changes the activity in these parts of the organ as a result.

Who knew all this was going on while you’re curled up on the couch under a blanket?

2. This is your memory on books.

When you read, you use both your episodic memory, that stores and retrieves the unique personal experiences of your daily life, and working memory—that keeps information in your brain while you work on different tasks. These are the two types of memory that, sadly, decline as we age.

But reading cannot only help with that, but improve both memories, it seems. In one study, older individuals were asked to read every day for eight weeks. At the end of that period, both their episodic and working memories significantly improved.

The more you read, the more you work those memories and strengthen your neural pathways, which can boost your overall cognitive functioning and help you to recall information with ease.

The bottom line.

• Reading consistently can help you prevent age-related cognitive decline.

3. This is your stress on books.

Got six minutes to read?

• That’s all it takes for your body to react. In that short amount of time, your stress levels are already down by 68 percent! Your heart rate slows. Your muscles relax. Even your blood pressure drops.

• What about audiobooks? Not to worry, listening to them affords your body the same benefits. Thirty minutes of reading a day, according to research, can help alleviate the physical symptoms of stress.

• There is one caution, though. You need to be able to read for the full half-hour without any interruptions. (Be prepared to cite this fact the next time someone tries to talk to you while you’re reading.)

4. This is your concentration on books.

• It’s not just your imagination. Our collective attention spans are getting shorter. A Canadian study showed that between the years 2000 and 2015, the average attention span was shortened from twelve seconds (already seriously short) to a mere eight seconds.

• Part of this, of course, is the effect of technology. Anyone who has tried to post on TikTok has been warned that you must grab your audience’s attention in the first three or four seconds, or they’ll scroll away.

• Now, let’s talk about those annoying, distracting phone notifications. Did you know that, once distracted, it takes the average person twenty-three minutes, nearly half an hour, to get refocused? And every time you stop for one of those, you’re only training your brain to do just that. In essence, you’re rewarding distraction. The future implications are grim, to say the least.

• But all is not lost. When you sit to read for a half hour or more, you’re exercising the muscles that are responsible for your focus and concentration. And the longer you read, the more you’re rewarding that focus and not the distraction. In the long run, you’ll discover your attention span will lengthen again, and you’ll be able to concentrate more fully on even the most difficult of your daily tasks.

5. These are your communication skills on books.

• Books are a wealth of word choices and writing techniques. They show us the communication of thoughts and emotions. And they do this through body language and dialogue. Your parietal lobe, located in the upper rear part of skull, is activated while you read. This just happens to be where your ability to write originates.

• Interestingly, your brain stores the linguistic styles of the books you read. On the surface, this may seem of little consequence, but never underestimate the power of the human brain. This helps strengthen your ability to communicate clearly, and not just in the written word. Your verbal communication benefits from your reading as well.

• But that’s not the only way you use that stored material. What you gain is not unlike a snowball rolling down a hill. By reading, you’re aware of new perspectives. You see things from another person’s point of view. And you not only discover new ideas, but you gain empathy. And the next thing you know, you’re looking for people who share your reading interests, and you begin talking more with others.

And poof!—before you know it, you’re communications skills are sharper than they’ve ever been.

6. This is your vocabulary on books.

• Books are amazing because you discover words you may have never have used before, or better yet, never have seen before. But from the context of the story, you can get a pretty good idea of what it means (even though you might not be able to pronounce it).

• Could you imagine sitting down and memorizing those same words?

• Adolescents who read just for pleasure in their spare time, according to one study, knew 26 percent more words than their non-reading friends. That should come as no surprise.

• And it’s only common sense that the more you read, the more words you discover, the larger your vocabulary becomes. Want to increase your vocabulary? You’ll see the results if you read as little as fifteen minutes a day, experts say.

7. Your creativity on books.

• Another no-brainer of a benefit here. Of course, reading stretches your imagination. But now, we’ve got science backing us up on this fact.

• When you read, you activate your occipital lobe. This is the part of your brain responsible for processing visual information. You can see how this works when you read fiction. As you read about other worlds, characters, and their actions, the occipital lobe helps you visualize it all. Those abstract concepts become very real in your mind.

• A recent study found that undergraduate students who read for pleasure possessed higher levels of creativity than those who didn’t. But the benefits didn’t end there. They also were more eager to learn and achieved their academic goals easier than those who didn’t.

• And of course, the more you read, the easier you’ll discover it is to be creative. Not only that, you’ll find yourself applying your creative visualization to all areas of your life.

• Oh, and get this, the occipital lobe is also used in decision making. So the more you exercise it, the better you’ll decisions will become. And it all starts with reading.

Whether you read just six minutes a day or a half hour or more, you’re strengthening your brain, boosting your imagination, busting stress, and more.

So the next time someone mentions you’re wasting your time reading, let them know what’s really going on in your brain on books.

What I’ve Been Reading…

Last we met, I told you I was reading The Marigold Mind Laundry, by Jungeun Yun (translated by Shanna Tan).

• Well, it seems I put that aside when I was able to get a copy of Father Material by Alexis Hall on Hoopla. Now, it had just released so I was shocked it didn’t have any holds on it.

• It’s the last of his trilogy. Boyfriend Material and Husband Material were both excellent.

• I almost gave up on it because it started a bit slowly. But I’m so glad I didn’t.

• The series follows the relationship of Luc O’Donnell, whose parents are both ‘80s rock legends (he’s a bit maladjusted) and Oliver Blackwood, a barrister. Definitely opposites attract.

• I love Hall’s writing as much for the plot and main characters as I do for the hilarious, over-the-top secondary characters. That includes his mother and her friend Judy.

• Luc, by the way, works for a charity called C.R.A.P.P. which solicits donations for to keep the dung beetle population healthy.

  

What’s on my TBR…

• I received a copy—a signed copy—of Ashley Poston’s new release The Someday Garden. It was one of my birthday presents. (Thank you, Ree!) She writes magical realism and frankly, the descriptions of her books sound, well, different. But the books always have me hanging on every page.

• She wrote about an apartment that slips back or forth in time seven years, depending on when you enter it, a woman who finds her way into a fictional town, well, get the idea.

• This time, it’s a garden on the grounds of Lilymoor House, that has a door that appears. But never in the same place twice. And oh, yes, there’s a man trapped inside.

What I’ve been writing…

• You had to ask. I’ve been busy working on making book trailers lately. You know, like movie trailers, but for books, and squeezing in writing when I can.

• I’m making a few fundamental changes to Love at the Speed of Light, my current work in progress, so I’m still in the thinking-the-whole-thing over stage.

• I’m also ghostwriting a project for a financial planner. It’s a huge undertaking and financial planning isn’t necessarily my area of expertise. But then, I’ve ghostwritten on a wide variety of topics, natural health, meditation, glamping, soapmaking, and making whiskey. So I’m sure it’ll be just fine. But I have to put the time in. And I will.

I realized I don’t talk much about Hearts on the Rocks, the second Alex and Blake book I wrote. So here’s the first chapter. If you like it, you can grab a copy here.

Chapter 1

Cagney

Cagney Adler knew this blind date would be like all the others. Agonizingly long. And it would end just like every other one. Tragically.

She might have exaggerated slightly. It certainly wouldn’t be a Pearl Harbor, or even a Watergate. But Mr. Rock Nerd to her left had all the charisma of, well, a box of rocks.

She wondered if the recent rash of blind dates had given her combat fatigue. Brian, no wait, Brad, was the fourth one in two months. Okay, maybe that didn’t seem like a lot, but every man could have been a cardboard cutout of Brian, no that’s not right, Bradley, it’s Bradley Townsend.

She knew it would be a disaster the moment her friend, Molly Driscoll, began the conversation. Molly had talked her—no, cajoled her—into this. By the way, it appeared she had looked forward to this pitiful occasion. Molly had dressed for it. She wore her favorite grunge jeans, striped short-sleeved blouse, and a snappy short jacket. It hung perfectly on her five-foot-seven frame. Cagney had dressed in her best T-shirt—it was a dark pink—and her jeans. She dressed for utility, not show.

“Brad, I hear you’re a geology major,” Molly said.

Cagney should have run then.

“Yes, I’m working on my dissertation.”

Bradley’s body did not match his area of interest. Weren’t scientists, especially those in geology, supposed to be less than attractive and more nerdlike? That’s how television shows portrayed them. Every single one she had ever watched.

He was easily six feet, and the gray button-down shirt only highlighted his deep-blue eyes. His dark brown hair had a relaxed and attractive wave that she actually envied. He wore a tightly cropped beard that gave the man a hint of mystery. Dammit, even his glasses didn’t detract from his good looks. And the body? It looked as if he worked out in a quarry. She might be watching the wrong television shows.

“Did you know Cagney’s working on her dissertation, too?”

That was Logan Adams, Molly’s boyfriend. She suspected he engineered this fiasco.

“Really?” He sat up a bit straighter and almost smiled. “What area of science are you in?”

Cagney shot Logan a quick glare before she answered. “I’m in the history department.”

“Oh.” The disappointment echoed in his voice. Then he smiled, as if he’d just thought of something. “Egyptian history? I love Egyptian history.” For the first time, he turned his body toward her. The curl on his right side teasingly tugged his ear as if defying the comb.

She pursed her lips. “No, American history.”

“Oh.” His body slumped.

Silence.

Why did she agree to this? Again. Brian, no Brad, wasn’t the bottom of the blind-date barrel. That position would always and forever be assigned to Morgan Belmont, zombie apocalypse prepper extraordinaire.

Surprisingly, this bizarre version of the end of the world didn’t come from a movie or television show. Nope. It came straight from The Centers for Disease Control. The CDC gives instructions on how to survive such an event on its website. Apparently, he intended to follow them to a tee.

“Why don’t we go up and order?” Logan pushed his chair back and stood. He nodded to Molly.

“That’s a great idea.” She got up too.

Her blind date rose and the three of them headed toward the counter. She forced herself to follow.

Molly hung back and waited for her. “Isn’t he cute?”

She cocked her head and studied his cute butt for the first time, all tight and taut. He could have easily been mistaken for a model. And in that one moment he thought she studied Egyptian history, he smiled. And it looked good on him.

But, my God, they lived in different universes.

And in her universe, her thoughts revolved around Alonzo Reichard, the leading expert on Warren G. Harding, the subject of her dissertation, and when he would get around to answering her email. And the one paragraph she couldn’t get to sound right for Dr. Bremner’s nineteenth-century social history class. And she wondered when the hell that book would come in that she had reserved on interlibrary loan.

So she just nodded and agreed.

“I think you two are going to hit it off just fine.”

“Really? He’s into geology and already disappointed I’m not studying Egyptian history. How’s that hitting it off just fine?”

“You’re just a little nervous. Relax. Logan said he thought you two would make a great couple.”

Cagney rolled her eyes. “You do remember I’m not looking to become a couple with anyone, let alone Brian the rock nerd?”

“His name is Bradley.” Molly’s voice spat out irritation. She pursed her lips. Hard. It looked as if she had just sucked a lemon. “You could at least do him the courtesy of getting his name right.” Molly usually gave her an admonishing look when it came to Cagney’s dating habits, or lack of them. But this look went beyond admonishing, crashing into new territory.

Apparently, she had crossed the line. It was one thing, she supposed, to be recalcitrant in accepting unsolicited help on the dating scene. It was completely another thing to get the name of your rock nerd and amateur Egyptologist date wrong. She should make a mental note of that so she didn’t make the mistake again. But she really didn’t care.

And yes, the evening certainly would be agonizingly long.

****

Brad

As he waited for her to arrive, he questioned his sanity. Why did he allow his roommate, Logan, to arrange a blind date for him…again? To be fair, saying no to Logan when he had made up his mind was like trying to stop a tornado in its tracks.

That’s how Brad Townsend found himself out on yet another Friday evening waiting to meet a woman who would ultimately reject him. It was a foregone conclusion, regardless of what Logan thought. Oh, his roommate always thought that the next blind date would be the woman Brad would fall madly in love with. “You two will make a great couple,” Logan blurted out every time he proposed a double date. Every damn time.

And every damn time, he and his date had decided they wouldn’t make a great couple, mumbled a few apologies, and never saw each other again. It would all replay over again tonight with Casey Adler. The only thing he knew about her was she was a friend of Logan’s girlfriend, Molly.

Logan’s nudge in the ribs interrupted Brad’s internal whining. “There they are now. They just walked in.” You’d think by the excitement in his voice, he was the one meeting someone new.

Brad glanced toward the door, not eager to meet his date. He did a double-take, though, when he saw the woman next to Molly. Short and slim, she wore her dark blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, accenting her high cheekbones. She carried a certain je ne sais quoi that gave her a natural elegance. Her simple T-shirt bore a striking resemblance to a dark pink quartz. While she didn’t smile—she probably felt the same way he did about tonight—she looked beautiful.

He gulped. Logan greeted Molly with a kiss on the lips as Brad shuffled his feet awkwardly as he stared at Casey. Her eyes were the color of expertly cut emeralds.

“Hi.” What a lame thing to say. “I’m Brad.” He paused. “Brad Townsend.”

He glanced over to Logan and Molly, already involved in the start of a conversation. They didn’t even bother to introduce Casey to him.

“I’m Cagney.” He barely heard her soft voice over the excited Friday-night buzz at the café. “Cagney Adler.”

Did she say her name was Cagney? He thought it was Casey.

Molly must have remembered them because she finally acknowledged them. “Cagney, this is Brad.”

She called her Cagney. Well, that’s it. He furrowed his brow as he recalled Logan’s announcement of the date. He never asked if I were available, or even interested. Anger and frustration gnawed at him, and he might have heard him say Casey.

He needed to remember her name was Cagney. He could do that. At least for the evening. He knew he’d never see her again. Guaranteed.

When Logan suggested they order, Brad had followed his lead. Keenly aware Casey—damn it, Cagney—lagged behind, he knew why. He had acted like a major ass, asking her the area of science she studied. Then he had to ask if she studied Egyptian history. Where the hell had that come from? He must have pulled it out of his middle school memory.

He had been anxious and awkward on the other blind dates, but this one rattled him in ways he couldn’t understand.

Everyone’s waiting for an answer

“Well?” Moose’s head is tilted to one side, his notebook and pen dangling from his antlers. I’d say he’s giving me a puppy-dog stare, but that’s exactly what Blake is doing at the moment.

You might not remember because a lot goes on in a week, but when we last talked Moose and Judge Gerald R. Ford (not the historic one, he’s dead) were trying to persuade me to allow the judge’s character to live with me and my characters.

Confusing? Yes. But here’s the gist to get you caught up. As a side deal of Moose’s charge of destroying property, the judge in the case, Gerald R. Ford, asked him to be his muse. The judge is writing a thriller.

Of course, I said yes.

Now, he comes the rub. The judge’s character is a known felon who’s playing a modern-day Robin Hood. Think The A-Team. Gerry (as he insists we call him) argues he can’t have a known felon currently wanted by the authorities living with him. As a judge, he can’t be party to harboring a dangerous criminal.

Oh, so he wants us to believe. There are extenuating circumstances. And the honorable judge is about to hear them.

“You know you’re going to say yes.” Blake folds his arms over his chest. He looks pretty smug.

“Do you know how much fun it’ll be to have another person around? And a man with a checkered past? Wow!” Alex is bouncing on her toes.

“I’d be indebted to you,” Gerry says. “I’ll dedicate my book to you.”

“Calm down, everyone.” I sigh. “If you all stop begging me, you’ll hear my answer.”

A chorus of “sorry,” “but of course,” ripple through the room.

“That’s better.” I take a deep breath. “No. Absolutely not.”

“What?” Moose whines.

“Well, I didn’t expect that answer,” Blake says.

And Gerry begins to speak, but (Lady Liberty, please forgive me), I shut him down.

“Everybody sit down a moment and I’ll explain my answer.”

They all hustle to find a seat. It’s not unlike musical chairs.

“Okay,” Moose says, “we’re all sitting. Now why won’t you do this?”

“Because, it breaks all of the rules you taught me about creating and developing characters.”

“What? No, it doesn’t. We are literally making a character so real that he comes to life.”

“Who is we?” I ask. And there’s a reason I ask.

“Gerry and me.”

“Yes,” Gerry says, “Moose and me.”

“Exactly. I had nothing to do with it.”

Moose stands. “I can’t believe you’re so jealous that I’m working with Gerry that you’re going to sabotage his book.”

“Really? You think that’s what it’s all about?”

“Isn’t it, love?”

“This is beneath you,” Alex says.

“It is in no way about jealousy, professional or otherwise.”

“Well, why else would you act like such a little person.”

Was that a jab at my height?

“I’m not. Listen for one minute.” I take my time and glare at all of them, one at a time.

“Now that I have your attention, I’ll explain myself.” I clear my throat. “Moose, do you remember what you told me when we created our first character together, JJ Spritely?”

“Sure, it’s the same thing I told Gerry. She has to be real enough that you see her, that you can talk to her.”

“Right.” I nod. I’m making a point here. “And you also told me the way to really get to know a character is by interacting with them. Living with them. Remember that?”

Moose slowly nods. “I do.”

“What did you tell me?”

Moose shakes his head.

“I’ll tell you, since it seems to have slipped your mind. You told me that for the characters to be real to the readers they have to be real to me. That means, you said, that I need to know what they eat for breakfast, how they take their coffee, what their favorite colors are…” I wave a hand.

“Getting the idea? That can only come from living with them. Gerry, how are you going to know what your character likes if he’s living with us. You’re not going to see how he reacts under stress when he can’t get a real person on the phone for customer service. Those little details go a long way in creating an authentic character.”

“Wow,” Moose says, “you’re right.” He says it like he’s in a trance. But then he stands. “You’re absolutely right.” This time his words carry more conviction.

Gerry sighs. “Moose told me all of that. You’re both right. But I’m not sure what to do now.”

“You’re still worried about harboring a fugitive?” I ask.

He nods.

“But he’s fictional. There’s no record in real life of his crimes, is there?”

“I guess not.”

“You can introduce him as your character,” Alex says. “Think of how jealous everyone will be when you have a character.”

Gerry laughs. “I never looked at it that way.”

“Did he really commit those crimes, mate? Or did he just get wrongly accused.” Blake quirks an eyebrow.

“He was wrongly accused, of course. And he’s trying to do good. You know fight evil.”

“Then I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” I tell him.

“I guess you’re right. I think I will create him. Thank you.”

He stands to leave, when the timer in the kitchen goes off. Blake leaps out of his seat. “That’s lunch. You can’t leave, Gerry, until you have lunch.”

“What did you make?” Alex asks.

“The guys gave me the recipe for Marconi and cheese.”

“You mean macaroni—” Gerry starts.

“No,” Moose says, “Marconi and cheese. It’s a new menu item of the Physics Café.”

“The…?”

“It’s the restaurant in Terry’s books,” Alex says.

Poor Gerry looks very lost.

“Why don’t you stay and have lunch?” I say. “Then, we’ll tell you how all of the places and characters in my books have become insanely real.”

Wait. Is this becoming a conspiracy?

“Well, how did it go?” Blake asks.

“Surprisingly well. For an amateur.” The last sentence sounds derisive. He settles into the recliner and fools with the button. He’s almost entirely horizontal before he decides on his angle of lounge.

“Excuse me,” I say. “I was an amateur once.”

“Oh, Terry. Don’t be so dramatic.” He sighs. Evidently, he’s had a hard day musing.

He’s just returned from his first session with Judge Gerald R. Ford, the presiding judge at his hearing last week. You might not remember, but Moose was charged with destroying property when we all went golfing a couple of weeks back.

As part of his community service, Moose is serving forty hours as a muse to high school English students. I know. That still doesn’t explain what’s happening at the moment.

It seems our Gerald R. Ford (not to be confused with the historic one) has a longing to write thrillers. He’d asked if I would lend Moose out for that purpose. Standing in the courtroom, looking up at the robed judicial figure, how could I say no?

I was just taking a break from my own writing when Moose walked in. And before you even ask, it wasn’t going so great without him. Then it wasn’t going so great earlier with him either. You make your own decision on that.

“You going to talk about?” I ask. “Or just sulk.”

“Not fair.” Moose reaches for the recliner button and sits up. “I’m just regrouping, that’s all.”

I nod. Yeah. Regrouping.

“Hey, mate,”—Blake walks out of the kitchen—“you’re back. How did it go?”

Alex is right behind him. “Yeah, was it fun?”

Moose groans. “No, it was not fun.”

“Are you going to talk about it,” Blake asks.

Moose lifts his eyes toward the ceiling and shakes his head.

“Is that a manuscript on your antler?” I ask.

“Yes. It’s Ford’s manuscript.”

“And how is it? And why did you bring it home with you?” And am I going to like this answer?

“I brought it home to read over again. And hopefully get your opinion on it.” He snatches off his antler and hands it to me.

“It’s not bad,” he says, “but the main character is flat. And before you even read it, let me tell you who the main character is.”

I nod and set the manuscript on the coffee table. “I’m listening.”

“So, his name is Robert Mahood. And he’s a wanted felon.”

“That’s the main character? Wait, tell me more.” I’m not an expert on thrillers. Maybe Moose should be talking with Jack Sorbet.

“And he’s an advocate for the poor, the downtrodden, those who have injustice done to them, but can’t seem to get any help.”

“Ooh, Alex says. Like The A-Team.”

“Or Robin Hood.” Blake is eyeing the manuscript. I know he wants to read it.

“Exactly. Get the name? Anyway,”—Moose stands and paces—“the problem came in when I told him what I always tell you, Terry, about characters.”

“Be careful who you create?”

“Should I be offended by that remark?” Blake asks, his hair bouncing.

“No, Blake, you should not. You’re obviously in the room with us…Go on, Moose.”

“Something like that, though. That to make the character real for your readers, the character must be real to you.”

“Okay, what? He doesn’t have the room for a character? His wife doesn’t want one? She might like him.”

“No, consider the nature of his character. He’s a wanted felon. He can’t justify bringing him to life. He feels he can’t be harboring a known, wanted felon in his home. As a man of the court, he’s obligated to report him. Get him arrested.” Moose waved a hoof. “We haven’t even got to the part about telling his wife, though.”

“But it’s a fictional felon.” Alex shook her head. “Certainly, that’d be an extenuating circumstance.”

“I tried to tell him that. But he was having none of it.”

I shrugged. “I guess he isn’t writing a novel then, is he?”

That’s when Moose gave me a hard stare. “No, no. I don’t like that look.”

“Listen, here’s the deal—”

“No deal.” I sigh. There’s going to be a deal. I’m such a wimp.

Ding! Dong!

The doorbell. Who could that be?

“I’ll get it,” he says.

“No. Blake, you answer the door, please. Moose is telling me about the deal.”

“Right-O, T,” he says.

“Now, tell—”

“Oh, your honor,” Blake says, “What an honor. Do come in.”

“Please, call me Gerry outside of the courtroom.”

Personally, I think that’s an awfully long name, but…

“I’m looking for Moose,” he says as he steps in.

“I’m right here, Gerry.” He raises a hoof, as if the man couldn’t pick him out of a crowd.

“Hey, we’ve got two writers whose names rhyme,” Alex says. “So cool.”

“I was just wondering if you’d broached the subject with Ms. Newman yet?”

Oh, I’m in deep trouble now.

“Please, call me Terry.” I shrug. “After all, we rhyme.”

“No, we were only discussing it right now,” Moose says. “Would you like to ask her yourself?”

He stuffs one hand in his pocket and jangles his change. “It seems forward of me.”

“I thought it might sound more convincing if the argument came from you.”

What the confident judge is now sounding like one of the characters in my novels?

“Your hon…I mean, Gerry, what were you going to ask me?” Do I have any choice but to ask him?

“Well, I’m sure Moose told you of my dilemma about Robert Mahood.” He shakes his head ever so slightly. “I just can’t have a known felon in my house. I’d have to turn him in and then I’d have no novel.”

“Yes, he did. But I don’t—”

“I was hoping I could create him and he could stay with you”—he scans the room— “and your characters.”

“I’m not sure—”

“It’d be like having Face from The A-Team here.” Alex bounces on her toes.

Or Hannibal, I think. George Peppard.

“I know it’s a huge imposition. And I’d be really indebted to you. I’m also willing to pay you room and board for him.”

“Say yes, Terry,” Alex says. “This is so exciting.”

Gerry says nothing more. Moose is staring at me.

Blake breaks the silence. “You know you’re going to say yes.”

I am?

Moose Appears in Court

“Moose T. Muse.”

The bailiff scanned the courtroom for the defendant.

“That’s me!” Moose called from the back.

“Good luck,” I whisper to him. “Just be yourself and explain the situation. I’ll pay for any damages.”

“Good luck,” Alex says.

We’re all at court to support Moose. If you recall from our last get together, the golf course owner sued him for damages. Yeah, it was his fault. But he didn’t mean to cause such destruction. Who knew my muse wasn’t a great swimmer? They had to call the fire department to get him out of the lake. And the trucks did a number on the fairway.

Moose approaches the bench (I’ve always wanted to write that).

The judge looks over his reading glasses, and raises his eyebrows. “Sir, we do not accept nicknames in court. What is your legal name, please?”

Moose shrugs. Dangling from his antler, is his ticket for his court appearance, and his ID. “That is my legal name, your honor.”

Blake nudges me. “Did you see the nameplate of this judge.”

I hadn’t noticed, but I squint to see it.

“Judge Gerald R. Ford,” I say a bit too loud.

Judge Gerald R. Ford bangs his gavel. “There will be order in my courtroom.”

I sink low into the uncomfortable bench seats. It’s worse than church.

Moose plucks his ID from the antler, and offers it to well, you know his name, who studies it. “It does appear to be your legal name.” He sighs. Heavily.

“What’s your occupation?” he asks.

“I’m a muse, your honor.”

“Excuse me?”

“A muse. I’m a writing muse.”

Out of nowhere, his certificate from the muse academy appears on his antlers. He takes it off and hands it to the judge.

“I see…and who are you a muse to?”

“Terry Newman.”

“Is he here today?”

He nods.

“Where is he?”

Moose points to me.

“Would you please stand?” the judge asks.

“I am standing, your honor. And I beg your pardon, but I’m a she, not he.”

“My apologies. Can you testify this is your…your muse?”

“Yes, your honor. He’s been with me about…well many years.”

“And does his input and, I suppose, inspiration—Would that be the right word?—help?

“Yes, sir, Immensely.”

Moose stands a bit straighter.

“Thank you.” The judge nods.

“And a question for you, Mr.…” he looks down at Moose’s ID, “…Muse. Do you offer your services full-time to Ms. Newman?”

“Yes, I do.”

He studies Moose a moment. “We’ll come back to your muse status in a moment.”

“What’s happening?” Blake asks. “Is this normal in the American justice system?”

“Not sure. He does seem to be spending a lot of time on Moose’s occupation.” I’m as puzzled as Blake.

Ted, sitting behind us, nudges me. “I don’t think he gets many moose as defendants. You have to admit, it’s a bit, well, different.”

I’m willing to admit it’s a bit bizarre. Ted’s point is well taken.

All this time the judge is explaining the severity of Moose’s actions. And I know I’m about to get hit with a humongous bill for the sixth hole…and probably the costs for the days the place has been closed for repairs.

“But your honor, in my defense,” Moose says, “why would someone name their place of business Donnybrook, if they didn’t expect some sort of excitement?”

I try hard to stifle a laugh. The muse has a point.

Judge Ford leans back in his seat. “Point well taken.”

See, I told you.

He scans the courtroom and I swear he’s looking right at me. I’ll pay. Don’t worry. I’ll pay.

“Considering the fact that you held no malice intentions, I do believe I’ll go a bit easy on you.”

Whew! I’m relieved.

“And considering the nature of the defendant, I would like to propose a rather unconventional solution.”

“Yes, your honor.” Moose nods, and I’m holding my breath.

“Of course, the payment of damages still stand. You should reimburse the owner for that.”

I knew that. There goes my savings. I slump.

“But I will suspend the jail sentence if you do community service. Are you agreeable to that?”

“Yes, your honor.”

“The community service I have in mind is also a bit unconventional, but will utilize your talents.”

Moose nods. I can only see the back of him, so I can’t tell what he’s thinking.

“I would like you to perform forty hours in the local high school English classes as inspiration to the young minds. I’d like you to be their muse. Help them discover writing. How does that sound?”

“Good, your honor. I can do that. Thank you, your honor.”

“I believe writing is beneficial. Too many students start and then quit because they think they have nothing to say.”

“Yes, your honor.”

“Good. I’ll contact the principal of the high school, make arrangements, and they’ll get in touch with you.”

“Thank you, your honor.” Moose nods.

“Oh, and one more thing. Would you approach the bench, please, Mr. Muse?”

I can’t make out the conversation between Judge Ford and Moose, but Moose nods.

The judge looks up from his conversation. “Ms. Newman, would you approach the bench also, please?”

I suck in a breath. Alex lets out a tiny squeal. I rise and well, approach the bench. I’m liking that phrase a lot less right now.

“I understand Mr. Muse is your full-time muse, but I was wondering if you’d be kind enough to loan him out. I’ve been trying to write a thriller for several years now. I think he can of tremendous help.”

I glance at Moose, who nods.

“But, of course, your honor, it’d be a pleasure.”

“Great,” the judge says, “I’ll be in touch in a few days. Thank you.”

I jump when the judge slams his gavel. “The court is in recess until one p.m.”

Alex and Blake run up to us. “Love, are you in trouble?” he asks, his hair bouncing everywhere.

“Yeah, is there anything we can do?” Alex asks.

“If you’re going to jail,” Alvin says, “we can bake you a cake with a file in it so you can escape.”

“No, Moose is going to help the judge write a novel.”

“Really,” Ted laughs.

“Hey, that’s not funny,” Moose says, “it’s my job, What I was trained to do:”

Gerald R. Ford has no idea what he’s getting into.

I’m Terry Newman, author of romantic comedies with a splash of fantasy. Thank you for visiting my newsletter where I talk about my writing, books, and topics that have grabbed my

Flash Fiction: God’s Mysterious Ways

Father Greene’s cell phone jolted him out of a deep sleep. He fumbled for his phone, examining it bleary-eyed.

2:30 am.

Who needed counseling now at this ungodly hour (Forgive me, Lord)? His sleep wasn’t interrupted every night, but it wasn’t an unusual occurrence, either. A parishioner unable to sleep, plagued by some fear, asking for prayer.

Father Greene didn’t recognize the number. Not only that, it wasn’t a call, but a text message. How odd. He opened the app.

I miss you, baby. I’m so sorry. It was all my fault.

Smiling, the Catholic priest quickly told the person they had the wrong number.

The person responded almost instantly. Bridget, you can’t fool me. You’re no priest. Don’t toy with my feelings. Can I come over? We could talk. I’m looking forward to make up sex.

Father Greene frowned. No one ever talked to him like that. Still, the poor man.

He texted back. No, really. I’m not Bridget. I’m a priest.

He had just hit sent when the phone rang. The same number. He pushed the button. Before he could speak…

“Bridget, really are you—”

“Sir, I tried to tell you. You have the wrong number.”

It took a moment for the man to stop talking. “Excuse me,” he said, “Bridget? Where’s Bridget? Is she cheating on me?”

“Sir, I’m a priest.”

“She’s cheating on me with a priest? Put her on the phone now!”

“You have the wrong number.” The father used his sternest voice. The one that sent fear into heart of altar boys.

“Hold on. I’m getting a text,” the man said. An unnaturally long silence followed.

“Oh, my God. It’s from Bridget. She wants to get back together.”

The father made the sign of the cross.

“Wait,”—panic filled the stranger’s voice—“you really are a priest?”

“Yes, my son.”

“And I…let me make this up to you. What’s your church”

“Our Lady the Provider.”

“Do you accept online donations?”

“Yes, my son.” Father smiled.

“I’m looking you up online right now.” The click-clack of the keyboard sounded through the phone.

“There.” The stranger sighed. “I’ve just made a donation. A substantial one at that. I’m so sorry to have bothered you and accused you of…well, I’m sorry.”

“No worries, my son. Enjoy your make up sex.” The father disconnected the call.

Crawling back into bed, he looked up to heaven. “You certainly do work in mysterious ways.”

Beach Reads Season is in full swing.

And we’ve got twin celebrations going on.

• First, Murphy’s Laws Murphy’s Laws is on sale for only $0.99. That’s right. You can download the book now, by clicking here to find your favorite online bookseller. Just in time to take it with you on vacation—or to your patio.

• The book is also on tour. A virtual tour, that is. I’ve partnered with the fabulous Maia, at Silver Dagger Book Tours.

• And you have the chance to win a $10 Amazon or PayPal gift card.

• Click here to visit the post and enter the giveaway. While you’re there, check out some of the nearly 50 amazing sites Murphy’s Laws is visiting. You can even watch the book trailer.

What I’ve been reading…

Can you believe I’ve never read The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy?

• Neither could I. And it’s been out in the U.S. since 1980. But I remedied that earlier this month. I loved it. It’s the most absurd thing I think I ever read. And I think everybody should read it. By the way, 42.

Currently, I’m reading The Marigold Mind Laundry, by Jungeun Yun (translated by Shanna Tan).

• Jieun is born with powers she doesn’t understand. When she accidentally causes her family to disappear (oops!), she vows to live a million lives to find them.

• She magically creates the mind laundry so people could remove the stains, that is sorrows, from their hearts.

• With its own style, it’s an interesting and thought-provoking read. I highly recommend it.

What I’ve been up to…

I had a fantastic Mother’s Day.

• My daughter and I went book shopping, enjoyed a great lunch and overall had a spectacular time.

• The photo above shows you what I got. The ones stacked came from an independent bookstore. The two standing are from Barnes & Noble.

• And a quick PSA: Independent book stores are vital to the life of every community. If you can, please visit the ones in your area.

I still spend the second Thursday of every month with my writing group.

• They are a fantastic and extremely talented group of writers. We have a great time reading our stories and then writing prompts. This month’s flash fiction was a writing prompt from the group.

What I’ve been writing…

If you read my Fridays with Moose, you know I received my edits back from my editor. And I need to rework the story.

• So I’ve decided to change the love story of Alvin and Cassidy. They say (I’m not sure who they are) the best way to get to know a character is to take them out of their comfort zone. So I’ll thrust Alvin out of his.

• Perhaps Cassidy will pull him onto a dance floor. Or she’ll take him out golfing. After all, Cassidy is from Georgia. The home of the Masters.

• I’m working on several other projects at the moment, so right now, I’m figuring out the logistics out in my head. But I’m excited about the potential for this story.

• If you have any ideas of what Alvin could do that would be out of character, I’d love to hear them.

Rewrites of the Heart

In case you were wondering how Alex and Blake came to be…

…here’s the first chapter of Rewrites of the Heart.

Chapter 1

“Good morning, sunshine.”

That voice, even muffled, indistinct, and distant, sounded eerily familiar. Yet, JJ couldn’t quite place it. Had she imagined it? She held still a moment, as she tried to decide where she had heard it before.

Silence.

Shifting her weight, she snuggled her head deeper into the pillow of her crossed arms on the desk, rolled her chair about a bit, finding the perfect position and posture. Then, sighing deeply and contently, she prepared for the return of sleep.

As she floated in the dream-like world between sleep and wakefulness, she sensed she must have dozed off while working on her novel. Perhaps my sister is right, she thought, maybe I am working too hard. This was becoming a habit.

Nobody was calling her. Nobody needed her. She wrapped herself in the comfort of peaceful slumber. The manuscript could wait a little longer. All she needed was a few more minutes of glorious rest…and then…

“No use ignoring us.”

The voice cracked the silence like a hammer hitting a slab of ice. The words jolted her awake. She sprung into a full sitting position. It was the same voice again. She was sure of it. Only now it sounded closer than before, sharper, more commanding.

Another moment of silence—this time not so peaceful. She felt goose bumps run up her arms at the thought someone might actually be talking to her. She lived alone. How could anyone be calling her? Tension and fear paralyzed her. She tried to move an arm but couldn’t.

“We’re not going anywhere.”

She tried to blink away the blurred surroundings, to focus her eyes on her home office. She could feel the rhythm of her heart increase as it beat faster. The echoing of it in her chest vibrated with panic and pulsed through her body. Could it be she wasn’t alone?

She blinked several times more. It was difficult to focus. Last night’s long hours still fogged her thoughts. The scenes and the characters of her novel still dancing, center stage, through her head.

Her sense of reality languidly returned. Cobwebs stubbornly clung to the innermost recesses of her mind. She sat completely still for a moment longer, unnerved by the very possibility that someone was watching her.

Then slowly, eyes finally adjusting, she scrutinized her surroundings. She carefully surveyed the eclectic mix of elements that made this office a welcoming work room for her. She gazed at the mahogany bookcase against the far wall, filled with college history books and romance novels. The photos of her late husband and herself mounted above the credenza made her smile. She glanced at the man and woman on the loveseat blithely staring at her, before she turned her attention to the large pile of papers on her desk.

A couple sitting on her loveseat? Was that right? Her eyes immediately shot back to the pair. She gazed at them for what seemed like an eternity but was merely a few seconds.

“It’s about time you acknowledge our presence,” the man said.

She let out a blood-curdling scream and shot up out of the chair like a rocket, the full impact of what she saw finally hitting her. The stack of papers scattered aboutt the room like huge dandelion seeds on a windy day. The chair clunked down, falling to one side.

She couldn’t get out from behind the desk quickly enough. “W-w-who are you? How did you get in here?” She also wanted to know why they were drinking from her favorite coffee mugs, but that seemed far less the issue at the moment.

The man spoke first. “Why, you were right, love,” he said, directing his remarks to the woman sitting to his left. “She doesn’t recognize us.”

The young woman just smiled and sipped her beverage. Swallowing slowly, her gaze caught JJ’s. Then she looked at her companion. “Well, Blake, it’s not every day characters like us drop in out of the blue.”

The woman crossed her legs, lightly tugged at her red dress and glanced back at JJ with a smile that was so disarming she had to fight the urge to smile back.

“It really is a shame.”

“Indeed, Alex, you would think that she would know us instantly, now, wouldn’t you?” They continued to talk between themselves, purposely and calmly, ignoring her presence.

“No,” she said, “I don’t recognize you two because I don’t know who the hell you are or how the hell you got into my house.”

“But we know you.” The gentleman brought the cup tohis lips, but pausing before sipping. “You’re JJ Sprightly, the romance author.”

“H-h-how do you know me?”

Fearful of making any sudden moves, she slowly inched towards the telephone on the desk, ensuring she was within a hand’s reach of it. Instead of reaching for its receiver, though, she reached down, towards her foot.

She struggled to gain her composure and try to direct her mind to work. She felt as if her brain were scattered along the better part of two states. She wondered how she would defend herself if they were dangerous. She had read that high heels made an effective weapon. What was she wearing? Bunny slippers. She couldn’t hurt anyone in those things. When was the last time anyone had been “fluffed to death”? Still, she was hesitant to make any quick moves, not knowing what these two characters wanted.

“I’m Blake,” the man said flatly, as if that name should mean something to her. “Blake Teesdale.”

“And I’m Alex. Alex Zurich. Remember me?”

JJ leaned her head forward, scrutinizing the pair. “Oh. My. God. You’re not. You couldn’t be.”

The last thing she heard before she fainted was the man who called himself Blake say, “Didn’t see that one coming, did you, Alex?”

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Moose did what?

“That was a great golf outing.” Blake unlocks the front door, and allows Alex to enter. We all trudge into the house after them.

We’re returning from our golf excursion. And I’m not so sure I’d call it great.

“Yeah, great.” I put my clubs back in the closet where they should have never left.

“Wait.” Alex turns around—we’re still at the front door. “Are you telling me you didn’t have a good time?”

Cassidy coughs. I see she shares my view on the success of our early morning trip.

“Considering only two of the eight of us know how to golf, I suppose it went as well as could be expected.”

“You’re being generous,” Cassidy says.

“We probably shouldn’t have tried to play eighteen holes.”

“Especially since Moose lost interest after the third hole.” Cassidy stares at him.

Moose, by the way is my writing muse. He is, in fact, a real Moose who stands on his hind legs, and carries things on his antlers. Right now, he has our scorecards, and a restraining order from the owner of the golf course.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “But someone hit their ball into the lake. What was I supposed to do? Let them swim out to it. I’ve crossed many a lake in my day.”

Alvin laughs. “Yeah, maybe your Swedish cousins have.”

“Or your ancestors,” Blake says.

“But you?” Ted says, surveying Moose from antler to hoof. “I don’t think you’ve ever forded a lake.”

“Give the moose a break,” I tell everyone. “Maybe he learned it in muse academy.”

I try hard not to smile at Moose. “Well, did you learn it in muse academy?”

He sighs. “No, I didn’t learn that at the academy. But it’s an innate trait. I was born knowing how to cross a lake.” He crosses his front legs over his torso. “Or any other body of water, for that matter.”

Peggy laughs. “You know how to cross a lake about as well I know how to squirrel away nuts for winter. And I don’t know a thing about that.” Then she whispers, “I’d be lost if you guys didn’t take me in.”

“We love having you, Peggy.” And I mean it. Sure, this little squirrel is feisty. But feisty can be good.

“Look, mate,” Blake says, “it’s not that you tried to help a fellow golfer. It’s that you found all the balls in the lake and scattered them around.”

“And,” Simon says, “people started arguing over who’s ball was whose. Everyone was claiming golf balls.”

“And those two old ladies got into a wrestling match on the fairway fighting over the balls.”

Cassidy stifles a laugh. “That doesn’t sound right.”

“But it was awesome to watch.” Peggy lands on one of Moose’s antlers. “And then the cops had to come to pull them apart. Fun times.”

I close my eyes. Not exactly fun times in my book. “Yeah, right.”

“Look on the bright side, Terry.” Alex has an arm around Blake’s waist. “You may be able to put some of this into a book.”

“It would make a great scene,” Blake says, “and best of all no one would ever believe it actually happened in real life.”

“Yeah,” Alex says, “you’ll look like a creative genius.”

That is something to think about. “I may do just that.”

“So, Moose,” Alvin says, “not to change the subject, but…when’s your court date.”

Moose moans. “Next Tuesday, 9 am. I’m telling you none of this is my fault.”

“The balls all over the course. The women brawling. The…”

“Don’t say it. Please.”

“You mean don’t say the fire department had to pull you out of the lake because you thought you were drowning.”

I’ve never seen a moose blush before.

“I think that was the point of no return for the golf course owner.” Ted nods.

“I think you’re right. The fire trucks ruined the sixth hole.” Alvin chuckles as he says it.

“Not funny.” And I don’t think it’s funny. That’s what Moose has to appear in court for. Destruction of private property. “Who do you think will be responsible for paying for the repairs?”

Everyone looks at Moose.

“No,” I say rather loudly, “the muse has no money. Moose is a moneyless muse. Me, it’s me. I’m the one paying for them.”

“Oh, sorry,” Alex says, “I didn’t realize. Should I go out and get a part-time job?”

“I will too, love. After all, we all thought golfing would be a great idea.” Blake nods, and his hair moves ever so slightly.

“No, I’ve got some savings. Nobody has to go get any type of part-time job. I need you all here so I can write your stories.”

“In that case, love, I’m hungry.”

“Me too,” says Cassidy.

“I’ll make something,” Alvin volunteers. Simon and Ted say they’ll help.

“Thanks, guys, I appreciate it. If you don’t mind, I’m going to write for a bit.” I think it’ll be cathartic.”

Of course, my characters understand.

“Moose, you coming with me?”

He sighs.

“I’m not going to lecture you. That’s for the judge to do Tuesday in court.”

He smiles brightly. “I’m right behind you.”

The golf scorecards have disappeared from his antlers. In their place is his notebook and pens. Of course, the restraining order is still there.

“Today,” I tell Moose as we enter my office, “I’m writing my newsletter for our readers. Boy, do I have a story for them.”

Why is everyone up at 5:30 in the morning?

“Yoo-hoo! Anybody in there?”

Something is lifting my right eyelid, waking me up from a dead sleep. It’s…

“What time is it?” I open the other eye to find myself staring nose to muzzle with Moose, my writing muse. But of course.

“It’s 5:30. I’ve got to go, before the place fills up.”

I rub my eyes. I’m not ready to raise my head. I have no idea where he has to go and what place will fill up. And I don’t think I’d even understand it if I were fully awake.

“Go where?” As I ask this, my eyes are finally focused. Moose is wearing a driving cap and dangling from his antlers are several golf balls and a few tees. I let out a sigh. I’m not sure how he does that.

“You’re going golfing?” I ask. Really?

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

“Uhm…” I point at his antlers and the top of his head.

He frowns and touches the tees. “Oh, yeah, well, mammal, not marsupial, you know.” He shrugs.

“I know.” I nod with as much seriousness as I can muster. I swear Moose believes he should have been born a kangaroo.

“And then there are those pants you’re wearing.” They’re baggy and come down just below his knees. That is, if he had knees.

“Oh, the Plus Fours?” He raises an eyebrow. “I’ve always wanted to wear these. And well, you can only wear them when you golf…Anyway, we have to get to the course before it fills up.”

I look out my window. “It’s dark o’clock. I don’t think anyone is out there now. You have plenty of time.”

“Yeah, I figured we’d have to wait, but—”

“Oh Terry, you’re up,” Cassidy says.

If you call this awake.

“I just wanted you to know we’re leaving now.”

“For the golf course.” I nod.

“Yeah.”

“How come I didn’t know about this before? Not that it matters,” I add hastily, “it’s just y’all could have slipped out without waking me up at this ungodly hour.”

“Oh, I thought you knew.” Cassidy shrugged. By the way, she’s the girlfriend, or will be the girlfriend, of Alvin. I’m sure it’s all very confusing for her. And for that matter, Alvin too.

I had finished their story and they experienced their happily ever after. But after edits, we discovered we have to do some rewrites. Which means, of course, that Alvin and Cassidy’s story starts from scratch. They’re back, at the moment, to being acquaintances. He keeps telling her she looks familiar, but can’t place where he knows her from. Despite what people may believe, it’s not easy being a fictional character.

“I’m sorry. It was my idea to golf. I want to teach Alvin.”

“But, of course, you golf,” I say. How silly of me not to realize this earlier.

“Yeah, it’s a family thing. It was almost a requirement for my dad’s job. Being an attorney, he makes lots of deals on the links. He would take me out on weekends when I was just ten or eleven.” She sighs. “It was his way of teaching me some attorney habits. Just assuming I’d go to law school.”

I nod. It can’t be easy to defy your parents’ expectations of you.

“And of course, we live in Georgia.”

I nod like I know what she’s talking about. “Oh.” It finally dawns on me. “Sorry, still half asleep.”

“Yeah, Augusta. The Masters. My dad gets tickets for us every year.”

“Oh, Terry, you’re up.” Alex enters the room now.

“Yes, I’m up. I’m up.”

“Well, you don’t have to get all cranky about it. Maybe you need more sleep.”

Maybe I do.

“I guess you already know we’re going golfing this morning.”

I nod.

“So this is where everyone is.” Blake walks in. Great. Just great. He’s wearing a driving cap. His unruly waves peek out here and there. He’s also wearing Plus Fours, but he’s added the knee-high argyle socks to go with it.

“Terry, you’re up,” he says.

Alex nudges him. “Don’t go there. She’s not in a good mood.”

“Sorry, love. Anyway, since you’re up, I have a proposition for you. Well, we do. Alvin, Ted, Simon, and myself.”

“Oh, yeah?” I ask.

“You see, we’re all going out to golf. And well, there’s an odd number of us, love. Seven to be exact. And while in spiritual matters it’s—”

Alex nudges him again. “Just ask her.”

“Of course. If you joined us, we could create two foursomes. A sevensome in golf is just not great.”

All eyes are on me.

“Hey, where is everybody?” Alvin walks in.

I sigh.

“Cassidy, have I told you you look so familiar?”

“Actually, you have, Alvin.”

“Sorry.” He studies his shoes.

“It’s okay. We’re in here trying to get Terry to go golfing with us.”

“Take Peggy with you,” I say.

Peggy is the squirrel we’ve adopted (or did she adopt us?) after the live action remake of the Rocky and Bullwinkle show got cancelled. She was cast as Rocky, of course, opposite Moose’s Bullwinkle.

Speaking of Moose, he’s been suspiciously quiet since he opened my eye.

“I know,” Moose says, reading my thoughts. “Are you coming with us?”

“I don’t seem to have much choice.” I study everybody.

“Great,” Moose says, “let’s get going.”

Everyone is staring at me.

I clear my throat. “I need to get dressed.”

Alex shrugs. “Okay.”

“Like alone. With my door closed. And you guys on other side of it.”

“Oh, so sorry.” Cassidy was the first to get it. Thank god, one of them have some common sense.

“I heard that, Terry.” Moose harrumphs.

“I want to hear your hooves on the floor leaving.”

“Wait,” Alex said as she reaches the doorway, “do you know how to golf?”

“Yes. Yes, I do. It’s been a while. But I know the essentials.”

“Oh, great. Maybe you can teach Blake and myself. Cassidy’s going to be busy with Alvin.” She winks at me. “If you know what I mean.”

“Leave, so I can get dressed.”

“All right. But, do you plan to be this disagreeable on the golf course?”