What I’m Working On

You all know that I have been in the writing cave for some time now. So, I thought it might be a good time to share what I’ve been working on.

In Between Octobers, readers were introduced to Evan, aka Rhys Matthews. If you remember, he is an actor who has never received any real recognition for his body of work, then you should understand what and why he is so angry in this opening scene . . . .

Here’s an excerpt from Book 3 in my Savor The Days Series: November Mourning.

NOVEMBER

CHAPTER ONE–“There is no loneliness greater that the loneliness of a failure. The failure is a stranger in his own house.” —Eric Hoffer

There’s a storm brewing inside me.

Hot and cold fronts are clashing.

It’s the heat of my temper flaring against a cold reminder.

There is a roaring wind climbing up my throat, aiming to tear through the thin veil of my lips to make its’ presence known in the quiet if this house. That glower from the mantle, so cruelly illuminated, makes me want to scream.

I literally feel mental because like the storm there is also this calm—small though it may be—in the center of me that I must cling to. Cling just as plainly as my white-knuckled grip on the edge of the mantle over the living room fireplace.

Control it. I command myself and work on a deep breath.

What’s got me so twisted is the simplest, most benign thing: a ray of sunshine. The way it brashly shoots through the window that overlooks the back garden is bloody dreadful. It’s not so much the light itself—it’s rather gloomy this time of the year; an early morning in November—it’s that the damned light has found a way through the patchy fog. It wouldn’t bother me if this seemingly inoffensive ray simply floated through the window as most shafts of daylight do, but it’s not.

This ray is taunting me in the way it callously lasers past me to hit a glass portrait on the opposing wall of the great room where I’m standing. The golden beam is then bounced directly from the glass that protects the image of my late wife to land again on the object of my gaze: a golden statuette. Something I once coveted.  

I’ve kept the thing hidden away since I got it because I can’t stand looking at it, but I’ve been gone for several weeks and in that time someone—Lily, I’m sure—must have found it and placed it atop the mantle of the fireplace to be illuminated by this ridiculous stubborn beam of sunlight that first strikes my wife, then the award.

Like it knows.

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