Dare to Share: Loss

*Post inspired by the Lightning and the Lightning-bug Dare to Share prompt, "Loss." One of the themes throughout one of my novels, November Rain, is Loss, so I thought it appropriate to share some of that. In fact, I'm posting the prologue to it--the introduction to the main character and her story, that sets the tone for the rest of the novel (though it's not all dark). It was a bit longer than this, so for the sake of too many words, I cut some out. As always, critique is welcome!


For more of November Rain, visit the page above.

Alone for the first time in days, Raegan Fairbanks dug her nails into the palm of her hand, staring into the blackened storm.  Through a thunderous crack of white, she hardly flinched.  She placed her hands on the frigid windowpane, absorbing the house’s vibration.  The lightning was close, just overhead, but her vision stayed loyal to the white bench, its luster holding her eyes.  It had been his, and hers, and now it was the storm’s.

Her mother was asleep upstairs, and Justice was on the couch.  It was the first time Raegan hadn’t been watched like a fragile infant since Russell died.  They hadn’t left her side the past three days, even laid next to her when she sobbed herself into a nightly coma.  But tonight was different.  Tonight they sensed her desire for solitude, and though their leash still choked her, she reveled in the temporary abandonment.  In that moment with the bench.

The thought of her mother in her own bed—their bed—brought some of her fury to life, and a piece of numbness flaked to the ground.  But she’d do anything to keep her mother at a distance, even if it meant tarnishing the place where her late husband once warmed her.  Besides, now it was empty, cold.  More fitting for the bitter woman atop it. 

Her late husband.  A woman in her twenties shouldn’t have to think that profane term.  It aged her, pulled her to the ground.  It gave gravity a win as it had its way with her.  Three days and she went from twenty-eight to eighty-two.

Rain pelted the glass pane in a sideways fury as it had the last three days.  It was unusual, but fitting.  The universe seemed to mourn with her, letting her know Russell’s undue absence was known to the heavens.  It seemed to threaten her fondest memory, consume the bench as though it was its own.

Three days.  It didn’t matter how short the time was; there was no way she could go back and change it.  He’d been there, in that very kitchen, and now he was…where?  

…

His things haunted her, the memories tearing through her.  She looked back to the sinister yard, puddles swallowing the browning lawn.  The white bench at the base of the cottonwood tree replaced the sting of trivial reminders with the throb of a precious memory.  It’d been her birthday surprise last year, handmade.  He’d apologized for its crooked panels when lifting the sheet, revealing the thoughtful token of his love.

She wanted to keep it forever, wanted to take it back from the storm. 

Riveted by the bright, crooked panels, she unlatched the back door and walked outside, shivering as the almost frozen November rain beat against her.  Russell had always said rain smelled of a cleansing shower, of a new start.  But tonight it reeked of loss.

Surrounded by darkness, she warily made her way to the bench, her bare feet sloshing through the muddy puddles.  Water cascaded relentlessly down her face and blurred her vision, the bench appearing as a smear of white.

She mindlessly sat, saturating her clothes—his clothes.  She ran her hands over the sopping panels, feeling the rough, splintery spots as affectionately as the pieces still glazed in glossy finish.  Her fingers took in every touch, extra sensitive to embrace the feel she once took for granted.

Her tears poured to match the vibrancy of the rain as she imagined his solid, sturdy figure, hunched to carve her gift.  She imagined white paint stains in his hair, speckling his arms and callused hands.  As if able to connect her to him, she laid against the uneven panels, planting her cheek against the sodden wood.  Creaking, it spoke of the many memories.  Sunny afternoons, late nights, and even an early morning.

In the fetal position she sobbed, trying to press every inch of her aching body against it in the hope its touch could heal her, in the hope that the material reminder would feed his void.  Like a roaring freight train, the rainfall intensified and buckets poured over her, attempting to take it back.  Attempting to revive a lost cause. 

Lightning flashed and thunder cracked—temporarily lighting her surroundings.  Strings of hair hindered her view, but she was sure a figure was beside her.  Unable to force movement of her limbs, unable to turn to see more clearly, she let herself believe it was him. 

“I’m sorry,” she hoarsely cried at the apparition, her teeth chattering.  She hardly noticed her fingers and toes numbing in the icy rainfall, hardly noticed as her swollen eyes closed and her body deadened in drowsiness.

She heard a murmur above her, maybe even her name.  And before blacking out, she dreamed the added pressure of a warm hand on her shuddering back was Russell—there to wake from her nightmare.

The Battle of POV...along with some music.

*Post inspired by the Lightning and the Lightning-bug Dare to Share prompt, "Music."

We’d like you to share a post, new or old, that focuses on music in some way. You can post a poem, fiction, memory, or essay. Dare to Share is anything goes link up…as long as you stick to theme.

This is the first installment I'm posting to my second novel, November Rain. No, I didn't steal that title from Guns N' Roses.

The reason I'm posting this is not only because it fits with the music theme, but November Rain needs more work than any of my other manuscripts. I'm struggling with a POV issue and I could really really use some help.

I keep going back and forth on the issue. I originally wrote this novel in omniscient POV--back when I was even more of a rookie than I am now and I thought omni was actually an accepted POV in modern fiction. Turns out it's not, except for very rarely, or if it's done very well.

And though sometimes, when reading through the novel, it feels choppy, sometimes it feels to flow pretty well, so I think if I can work out the parts that don't flow, it just might work.

And this piece below is one of those scenes that feels a little choppy to me. So having some outside eyes looking it over would help a lot. The opinions I've gotten from others, who've read the piece as a whole, are that it works, and they feel, as I do, that it would take away some of the depth if changed to third person.

And that's my dilemma. The subject matter of this novel is grave (not so much here, however), and both main characters have equal part in the emotion and story. So, unlike my other novels, this one feels impossible to convert to third person without losing some of that emotion. So I struggle.

Okay, enough rambling. I need some feedback. I know this is only a small segment, and a very raw one at that, but I'm not sure my omniscient POV works, and I need you to tell me if this small bit feels disconnected or choppy, because that might give me an idea for the rest of it.

And be nice and tell me it's perfect truthful. I wouldn't be asking if I couldn't take it.

Just a little background: Lucas and Raegan have both experienced some harsh losses in their lives and, through the deaths of certain loved ones, have built a strong friendship, to say the least. But certain complications prevent them from exploring beyond that.

Raegan stood at the bar with a Grey Goose martini as her friends danced to the slow rhythm of the band.  She tried ignoring the man from her peripheral vision that had been steeling glances at her all night, his eyes mysterious over the rim of his glass.  She tried ignoring Lucas and Hannah.  She tried ignoring the ping of disappointment that betrayed her once firm desire to remain single the rest of her life. 

Instead, she lingered on the moment, her atmosphere.  She lingered on the overwhelming excitement that she would be published.  She lingered on Russell, how extremely unfitting, but attractive, he’d look in this club as they bore it together.  She let her mind imagine him there.

The end of the song easily segued into the next, the band barely pausing to change the tempo.  Only a short second passed before Raegan recognized the tune and she immediately looked to Lucas, her heart sinking.

As if connected once again, he stopped dancing with Hannah and turned to meet Raegan’s gaze.  The vocalist started the evocative lyrics to Come Rain or Come Shine, her voice oddly similar to Billie Holiday’s, and a whirlwind of emotions hit the both of them.  Raegan smiled feebly, trying to read the intensity of the storm in his sapphire eyes.

Lucas looked down in thought, hardly aware of Hannah inquiring of his sudden concern.  He brought his eyes back to Raegan at the same time that a man removed himself from the bar and offered his hand to her, smoothly speaking unheard words.  Raegan shook her head ruefully and turned away from the stranger, her back now facing Lucas.

There was no question in his mind, no doubts or reservations as he approached her.  Sensing him, she turned.  “Rae?” he asked, raising his hand.  “Dance with me?”

“Of course,” she murmured, somewhat reluctantly.  As she took it, his heat thawed her.

Neither of them noticed her admirer gritting his teeth as he turned away in disappointment, or Hannah standing on the sidelines with cross moisture in her eyes.  Lucas softly pulled her into him, only aware of the spell she put him in, the power of his parents’ song as it became theirs, and the memory of them dancing to it with the same level of adoration his eyes now held.

It didn’t matter how much he tried to bury his love, or that he used his desire for her to fuel his moments with Hannah.  Raegan was the first and only woman that, since Adele, would hold his heart, and she was here in his arms—a vision in canary satin. …

He could almost taste her as he brushed his lips against her cheek and buried his face in her hair, the locks falling onto her bare shoulders in a wave.  He consumed himself in her energy as he held her close, let it flow through her back and into his palm, then through his other hand and into hers—a cycle of renewal.  In response, he tightened his fingers through hers and held her hand close to his heart.

Closing her eyes, Raegan slightly angled her head, willing the warmth of his breath against her neck as it weakened her knees.  Fused together, she melted into him, forgetting in that much too brief a moment that he was merely her best friend friend.  He was Lucas, the man that held her heart in a way she didn’t understand. 

Both were speechless, communicating through the lyrics of the music and the simultaneous rhythm of their hearts.

As the amazing writers you all are, what is your opinion on omniscient POV? And to those of you who are just readers, do you notice the head-hopping enough to break you away from the story? If this isn't working, what might make it better? Thanks everyone for the feedback!

Dare to Share: When I Grow Up

*Post inspired by the the Lightning and the Lightning-bug Dare to Share prompt, "When I grow up."

This week for the Dare to Share Link Up I'd like you to link to a post about your dream job, what you wanted to be when you grew up as a child...what you want to be now. Tell us about your dreams and how you're going to make them come true. This post can be old or new, fiction or nonfiction, poetry or prose.

The lights are blinding, but I know what's before me. So many voices, all screaming my name; a sea of adoring, shouting fans. All chanting. For me.

I try not to squint into the spotlight and instead smile, widely. I even take a little bow; not too overdone, but tasteful. Elegant.

As I bring the microphone to my mouth and a hush washes over the crowd, I feel my quickened heartbeat. I raise my hands in anticipation for the first note of the song I just wrote and recorded last month.

And I sing my heart out, the feel of the microphone in my hand and the stage beneath my feet the best sensations I ever experienced. My voice carries, to everyone and everything, and it frees me. And I hope it frees them, too.

And that microphone is the best gift the universe has ever given me.

That used to be my dream. As a child, a teenager, and even as a young adult. I loved the rush that singing on a stage provided and whenever I was presented with the question, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" a singer/songwriter was all I could fathom. Nothing else fit. It was unrealistic, I knew. And so did everyone else, telling me it was impossible to make it in that industry. And they were right. But it was all I wanted.

And then I got married, had kids. I realized that my new responsibilities could never allow for that, not with the amount of attention I wanted to devote to my family. Besides, I wasn't that good anyway.

So I took my love for words, prose, literature, and reading, and turned it into a hobby. I decided to start writing, just for fun. I was a SAHM and drowning in a lack of hobbies. And writing was a perfect solution.

But then I became hooked. I realized just how much I actually loved it. Who knew I could write?

I couldn't stop, even though I did it all in secret. I told no one of my new passion, not even my husband. And I'd quickly hide my work whenever he'd enter the room, in a oh-no-I'm-looking-at-porn sorta way. I was too much of a rookie and had way too much to learn. Really, I was a joke. And people would laugh at me if they knew I was writing.

Or worse, they'd ask to see my work.

But then my husband got suspicious I was looking at gorgeous hunks on the internet it came out. And surprisingly (though it shouldn't have been surprising), my family was more supportive than ever. My husband even allowed me time away from the kid to feed my passion, because he wanted to be married to a famous author who'd rake in the dough so he could quit his job cared about my interests and wanted me to feel like me again.

And I did feel like me. More me than I'd ever felt, actually. Finally, I had found MY passion. THE thing that made me me and allowed me to express myself. I'd thought it was in singing (don't get me wrong, singing and music is still a huge love of mine), but I was wrong. And it only took me until I was twenty-four to find it.

Eventually, I finished my first novel. Then I wrote another. And another. And though the road from start to now (I don't say "finish" because I know I'm still at the beginning of this journey) has been eye-opening, painful, and a huge learning experience, it has been so rewarding.

Because with writing, I've found out who I really am and what I'm capable of. Because of writing, I feel I have purpose, aside from being the mom of three boys and the wife to another boy.

I fell in love, and even though we argue and have cold spells, I continue to fall in love every moment I spend with it.

So, instead of doing the career that's nearly impossible to make a living in, I chose a career dream that's even more impossible to make a living in: novel writing. This is a difficult time to be heard as a fiction writer, more difficult than it ever has been. Renowned editor and author, Pat Walsh, said that out of everyone trying to publish with a traditional publisher, only 2% will succeed. Yes, that's right. TWO PERCENT.

And that was a few years ago. It's even harder now.

So, though the odds may not be in my favor, I will continue to write, revise, submit, revise, and revise (did I say revise?). Because if I don't, I'm not so sure I'd survive.

Okay, I would. It just wouldn't be pretty.

And who knows, maybe I'll even go the new and more recently accepted route of self-publishing. Or even self-epublishing (seems to be the new trend). We'll see where the road takes me.

So until then, I go back to revising.

So that, just maybe, one day my dream of seeing my novel on a Borders Barnes & Noble shelf can come true.