Turning Point

Most novels have at least one scene that is a turning point in the story. Something changes.  It could be an outer turning point where something happens to change the way the story evolves or an inner turning point where the person’s inner resolve or attitude changes. Maybe this change affects a character so that after this point, nothing will ever be the same for him or her. Some turning points are dramatic; some are more subtle. – Anneli Purchase

EMBROILED by Darlene Jones

Emily doesn’t believe in heaven, but she has an insane desire to go “up there.” A yearning that’s so strong that she can no longer function in daily life. Even the wonderful Dr. David can’t help her find the answers she needs.

Then a stranger arrives claiming to be her soulmate, claiming to have loved her in other lives. She is inexorably drawn to him even as she runs from him.

To prove what he says is true, Yves takes her to his world. There she meets gods and Powers and people rescued from doomed planets—living the perfect heavenly life. She knows she belongs “up there” with Yves, but all is not as idyllic as it appears. Emily is the only one who sees the danger. Can she leave her family and friends to stay with Yves? Will she be able to save him and his world?

Turning Point

Excerpt from Embroiled

Yves ordered a second round of liqueurs. They sipped and sat in tense silence. At least, for Emily, it was tense. She clasped her hands in her lap. It’s now or never, girl. “Yves, did you … did you make the kids … that is … did you influence the kids to go back to school?”

“Yes.”

Emily felt her mouth drop open. “How on Earth did you do that?”

Yves hesitated. Emily’s heart dropped and her stomach fluttered. What story was he formulating in the pause? What lies would he tell?

“That’s not an easy question to answer, Em.”

“Emily.”

“It has to do with your world and mine.”

Emily frowned. “Your world? What world is that?” She laughed nervously. “Are you saying you’re an alien?” Asking the question, she felt like an idiot.

“Sort of.”

Emily went cold. Her heart seemed to drop right out of her. “Sort of!?” She was so flustered she choked on her words. Aware of odd looks from the people at neighboring tables, she struggled for control. She took a deep breath and hissed, “What the hell does that mean?”

Yves winced at her sharp tone. “It’s a long story.”

“They always are.” Emily gathered her handbag and keys and slid from her chair, more disappointed than she ever thought she could be. The keys fell from her trembling hand. She reached down to scoop them up.

Yves was faster. He caught her hand and wrapped her fingers around her keys without letting go. “Please don’t leave.” He slapped some money on the table and stood. “I promised you an explanation, but I think it would be best if I showed you.”

“Showed me what?”

“My world.”

Emily stalked off to her car, as majestically as one could stalk off in flat sandals. “From another world. Yeah! Right!”

“Em, wait up,” Yves called. “You said, you believed.”

Without slowing down or looking back, Emily clicked the fob to unlock her car, opened the driver’s door, and tossed her purse inside. If Yves wanted to show her where he lived, she’d go along. Truth be told, she’d go anywhere with him. God, girl, you are so stupid. What if this guy is on the lam from some loony bin? “Where to?” she asked.

Yves’s face lit up. A sort of halo wavered around his head. Too much alcohol tonight, she thought. She closed her eyes for a moment and gave herself a mental shake, but, when she looked again, the halo was still there.

“You’ll come?” Yves asked. She nodded and saw his face glow. “We won’t need your car.” Emily clicked the lock button and pocketed the keys. “Take my hands and close your eyes.”

With a shiver of apprehension, Emily did as he asked. Her feet seemed to lift from the ground. The air felt cool on her face. Then grass tickled her toes and Yves was telling her to open her eyes. Emily glanced down. Yes, it was grass. But they’d been in the paved parking lot just a second ago. Turning full circle to examine her surroundings, she knew she wasn’t in Kansas anymore. Maybe if she clicked her heels together…. “Where are we?”

“This is my home,” Yves said softly.

Christmas far from home

                                                  Balafon

My first Christmas away from home was in Mali. My friend and I were volunteers with CUSO*. We made pie crust from buerre de karite (yes, the same karite that’s used in skin care products). We found the karite oil in a big barrel at the market, bought some and took it home not knowing what it was. We put it in the fridge and a few hours later decided, by the texture and taste, that we had a perfect shortening. We bought canned apples from China and made a pie. It was a huge success with all the Canadian CUSO volunteers. And no, we did not have a turkey.

Two years later I celebrated Christmas in Hawaii. Santa wore red shorts, red flip-flops and a perfect Santa hat to go with the long white beard that covered most of his bare chest. Pineapple and poi for dinner? No. Instead, we enjoyed a traditional turkey feast at the hotel.

A number of years later it was back to Mali and off to the village of Faladye to spend Christmas Day with our friend’s family. We took French bread and bottled water with us. Raymond’s mother butchered a chicken Christmas Eve and we gnawed on the tough old bird which was served with millet liberally mixed with sand and grit.

While most Malians are Muslim or animist, Raymond’s family is Catholic and the village boasts a large brick church. I’m not religious, but as we walked to church along with the villagers that night for midnight mass, it seemed perfectly natural to anticipate meeting Mary and Joseph around the next corner. Turning our gaze from the mud-brick walls to the star filled sky, a sense of peace washed over us, heightened no doubt by the silence of the savanna. 

The service and songs were in Bambara, the carols played on a balafon. When we joined in the “fa la la la“ chorus, the children in front of us spun around to stare, wide eyed, mouths agape. We winked and continued singing. After the service everyone lined up outside the church to shake our hands.

For the past number of years, we’ve been in Mexico for Christmas. We have had tamales and flan, both of which are delicious, but we missed the traditional dinner especially the leftovers for breakfast the next morning which is the best part of a turkey dinner so now we cook a turkey on the barbecue.  We also have a piñata on Christmas Eve for the kids and we spend part of Christmas afternoon body boarding.

All so different from the white Christmas of home in Canada, with snow, and frost and sleigh rides, and Santa’s reindeer, but all equally enjoyable.

Joyeux Noël! Felix Navidad! Merry Christmas!

Wanted: Book Assassin

Yes, you read right. Please come and bash my books. Tell everyone they are anti-religion, profane, and wicked. The louder you yell, the more strident you are, the better. Tell the world they’re more than sci-fi with otherworldly beings. Say that the action and love story are a ruse to disguise subversive social commentary.

Someone needs to write to the New York Times and complain about my books, slam them for all depravities contained therein. I don’t really care what you say as long as it garners attention.

Oh, wait. It would be best to brand them anti-Christian. I’d sell millions. Just ask Dan Brown. Religious controversy worked for him.

I didn’t think I’d written anything controversial until readers gave me feedback. Some say my books are very anti-religion. Others ask if Yves is God. I admit that my goal was to get people thinking about world conditions. But, such strong responses from what started out to be an adventure romance with a little sci-fi thrown in for the magical element it could bring to the story?  

These reactions startled me and beg the questions for authors.

Is there anything controversial in your book?

Should there be anything controversial in your book?

Can your novel be successful without controversy?

I’ve heard it said that if you want to stay friends with someone, you must avoid three topics—sex, politics, and religion. Is the same true for novels?

Doesn’t seem so when it comes to sex. Many novels, certainly not just in the romance genre, are replete with sex and they sell.

Novels featuring political themes are popular too. Who doesn’t love the intrigue of political machinations? Add some sex and you’ve got a best seller on your hands and, in real life, juicy headlines that threaten to topple even those highest on the ladder.

And religious controversy in books … well, remember Salman Rushdie?  

Controversy grabs attention. Controversy sets people talking and arguing. Controversy sells.

Should an author deliberately write something to cause controversy? And, if so, what? 

Humor in Novels

Humor can be anything from a belly laugh and the giggles to a chuckle or a smile. As long as it makes us happy to some degree, humor is doing its job. Here’s an excerpt from my novel EMPOWERED—an example of humor in a book that is not meant to be a comedy.

Victor grabbed Jasmine’s arm and dragged her to his office. “Don’t you guys all have something to do?” he said over his shoulder, but none of the men moved. He saw Jasmine look back at them and wink.

“You tell her, Vic,” one of the guys hollered just as he slammed the door.

“Woman, what were you thinking when you came here? It’s not safe and you stand out like a sore thumb.” Victor glared at her. “Please, tell me you’re not that dumb.”

“Belize, I think.”

“What?”

“Belize for our honeymoon.”

“Honeymoon!” He heard the guys hooting on the other side of the door and imagined a whole lot of high-fives taking place out there.

“Yes, good snorkeling. We’ll have to have a society wedding of course. But we can keep it small and limit the photographers.”

“You’re totally nuts.” Victor shook his head in disbelief.

“We’ll make beautiful babies,” she cooed smiling up at him.

“Babies?  Babies!” Victor screeched. “Get this straight. We. Are. Not. Getting. Married. We. Are. Not. Making. Babies.” What did it take to make her understand?

“We are,” she said in a matter of fact way that enraged him even more. “We have to.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Victor, I love you. I can feel you in every atom of my body. My bones feel like jelly when I’m with you. Can’t you—?”

“You don’t even know me,” he yelled as he yanked the door open. The guys scrambled out of the way. With one hand on Jasmine’s arm and the other on the small of her back, he propelled her out the door to the waiting men. Jasmine stopped abruptly and Victor’s forward momentum caused him to press against her. He jerked back as if scalded. Jasmine turned to the audience in the doorway and mouthed, “I’ll be back.” Five thumbs turned up.

“No, you won’t!” Vic deposited her with her bodyguards and stomped back to his office. “Jesus H. Christ! Miss Jasmine Wade Berdin you are one hundred percent certifiably insane,” he said to no one in particular as he sagged heavily into his chair. His bones felt like jelly.

The Benefits of Moving

We’re moving. As I contemplate the demands and logistics of organizing, packing, and notifying friends, family, agencies of our new address, I wonder if there is an up-side to moving. The answer is, yes.

I haven’t moved often as an adult, but throughout my teaching career, I did change schools and that isn’t a lot different than a house move. Packing up the classroom – files, books, teaching materials necessitates much the same organizing and sorting.

Classroom contents such as textbooks belong to the school, but every teacher has a truck load of their own materials. My own books, posters, manipulatives, pictures, etc. go into boxes. Then, with each move, I face the filing cabinet, go through each file carefully—something I often haven’t had the time to do in years. Many things can be discarded as obsolete. Files I’ve used often and know I’ll use again get packed along with the rest. And often I stumble across gems that elicit an “Oh my, goodness, I’d forgotten all about this.” Ideas for teaching that I’d used with success in the past and somehow let fall by the wayside. They’ll be put to good use again in the new school.

Our last move was from a house to a condo and the process not much different from that described above. Decisions were made regarding which pieces of furniture to take and which to sell. The accumulation of “stuff” in the basement sorted, some of the items to be sold, others to be donated or junked. Cupboards and closets opened and emptied.

“I didn’t know we had this,” I said (more than once) as I sifted through boxes from the bottom of the closet.

“If we didn’t know we had it, do you think we can live without it?” my husband asked.

Settled in our new home, everything unpacked, pictures hung, I’m determined to keep our belongings minimal, to avoid the “acquiring” mode of my younger self.

Now as I prepare for this move, I see that I’ve partially succeeded. We still have too much stuff and much of it will have to go as we sort and pack. Some of the decisions will be harder than others. Do we really need those glass plates that were wedding presents, but never used? Do we really need two sets of dinnerware? We haven’t used the fancy ones more than once a year. What to do with those afghans Nana knit for us? Ah, we’ll give them to the grandchildren.

Where, in all this work, is the up-side of moving? Is it in the flood of memories that come with the finding and handling of items we’ve had for so many years? Is it in the freedom of parting with items we’ve had for so many years?

For me, the process of moving has invariably been positive—a cleansing of sorts. It’s rejuvenating to leave the old behind and move to the new. It’s liberating to divest oneself of material acquisitions. Of course I’ll keep the things I hold dear—family antiques, books, special souvenirs of Mali—but the rest will be downsized once again and I won’t miss any of the things I leave behind. Perhaps this is a piece of the freedom we all aspire to.

Picture taking - virtue or vice

Writers create worlds with their words.  And if the writer is a master at his or her craft the words allow the reader to “see” a vivid picture of the scene, understand the characters, and thrill with the action. For many readers, creating their own images and impressions from word pictures is what makes reading superior to visual media.  

Yet, as I type this, the saying, “a picture is worth a thousand words” reverberates in my head.

How do I feel about picture taking?

Very guilty:

Many years ago, I sat on the upper deck of the General Soumare plying its way up the Niger River to Tombouctou. We docked at Goundam and watched, fascinated by the desert life on shore. Without moving from my chair, I reached down into my purse for my little camera. I had it partially out of my purse when someone in the circle of Touraug women spotted it. They began to rise and depart. I dropped my camera back into my purse and they settled into their circle again.

Guilty and angry:

I time travelled to the Dogon area of Mali. I use the words “time travel” deliberately as we were among people surviving in Stone Age conditions. What they lived on was hard to fathom. Of course I wanted pictures. I raised my camera to capture a mother and her child. The moment she saw my camera, she picked up her child and posed, then held her hand out for money. I put my camera away. It wasn’t surprising that she would want money—any little bit would help the villagers to survive, but I was angry too, furious that careless camera toting tourists had created this situation. There are many better ways to support the poor.

Angry and insulted:

At one time we lived in a unique river-side community in our city. Cyclists on the trails careened to a stop to talk about our houses. Cars drove by slowly, passengers gawking out their windows. Invariably, cameras appeared—the tourists ready to take pictures of the quaint locals infuriated me. Is that how others felt when I wielded my camera?

Guilty again:

I take pictures for my blog—many of them in Mexico. They’re not very good photos, because I feel that I’m intrusive of people’s lives and homes so I snap quickly and hide the camera. I don’t believe I have a right to invade their lives in this way.

Regretful:

Of course I come home with regrets for the photos not taken.  I would dearly love that picture of the man on the horse waiting at the red light alongside my car or the man walking his cow across the main street of town.

Pictures are important, providing glimpses into the past, evidence of crimes, sights to marvel at, an opportunity to travel from your armchair, but at what cost to the subjects of those pictures?

Construction of a Novel

To the layperson observing a construction site, it's often difficult or impossible to visualize the finished project. In small town Mexico, where most construction is by done by manual labor, the dichotomy is even more pronounced as evidenced in these pictures.

As an author, I can say that the before and after of constructing a novel isn’t all that different as evidenced in these examples.

Before:           Em is forced to fight.

After:

The man uttered a crazed laugh as he loomed over her clearly expecting her to cower and plead for mercy. Instead she flowed into his attack, blocked his swing with her left hand on his wrist, blended her body to his and used his forward momentum to throw him over her hip to the ground. He was a big man and her throw, though clumsy, slammed his head against the door jamb knocking him unconscious.

The guys I trained with should see this. Hell, they should be here with me. Jake too.

The man’s body blocked the one behind him. In her peripheral vision she caught sight of another man attacking from her right, with an arching back swing. She blocked his motion, grabbed his wrist with her right hand, his upper arm with her left and slammed his elbow against her raised knee. The blow was not strong enough to smash the joint but it did send the knife flying from his hand. He bent forward reflexively tucking the injured elbow into his side and she hammered his head with a closed fist sending him sprawling across the church doorway.

She spun to face a third man swinging wildly at her, ducked, slammed her shoulder into his hip, grabbed his legs behind his knees, lifted and sent him back down the steps. His falling body flattened two of the men still pushing forward and momentarily slowed the advance. A man grabbed her from behind. She reacted with a head butt and knew she had broken his nose when she felt warm blood and snot splattering the back of her neck.       From EMBATTLED

Before:           Jasmine tries to explain her visions to Victor.

After:

“I have never told anyone about this, Victor. Not even Steph. They started when I was in first grade and continued almost daily for exactly two years.”

“What started?” Vic asked when she fell silent.

Jasmine sighed and a look of utter contentment came over her. “I would call them dreams, but I can’t because they happened when I was awake. They were more like experiences, like I was living someone else’s experiences along with them. I say that because I never felt I was alone. I was always with her. Maybe in her would be a better way to describe it.” From EMPOWERED

Before:           Love scene for Abby.

After:

“You’re so beautiful.” He kissed her hand, her hair, her eyelids. “I love you,” he whispered. He didn’t need to say it. She knew.

“You must.” She giggled. “If you say I’m beautiful. I like the lie.”

“Abby, please, don’t joke. It’s not a lie.”

“Sam, give it up.” They were silent for a time.

“Abby, know this, I love you. I have for a long, long time and I will forever.”

“Sam,” Abby raised herself on one elbow to look down at him. His eyes were closed. “Sam? Look at me.”

“I don’t need to open my eyes to see you, Abby dearest. You are in my heart where you belong, where you will live forever.” He smiled. “It’s all right Abby. Everything is fine.”

“Sam, open your eyes.”

“I love you.”

That was the last thing Abby remembered.  From EMBRACED

Before:           Emily is forced to face the fact she might not be able to or want to go home again.

After:

Tory took Emily’s hands in her own. “Can you stay away? Tell me honestly. You’re in love with Yves. You’ve got the kids and Essan sleuthing for you. You’re training with CC and me. You’re friends with Elspeth and Teeg and Exelrud and Zo. You’re embroiled in our lives whether you like it or not. Not to mention that you think something is dreadfully wrong up here, something none of the rest of us sees.”

Something is wrong.

“If you are right, you’re needed here. Desperately. And if you’re not, you’re still needed here. Yves needs you. He won’t be able to function without you.”

Emily sniffed. “He did before.”

“No, he didn’t. He was never without you.”

“You’re talking about those other women?”

“You, it’s always been you. No matter your name, no matter the time, it’s always been you.”

From EMBROILED