Theme Reveal 2024 #AtoZChallenge and #WEP check in update

I missed the window for the theme reveal hop. Honestly, I wasn't sure I'd try to participate this year.

At the last moment (today is the end of March), I decided I'd try. I didn't really know what I'd be willing to spend a month blogging about. Well, what goal in my life would my soul most regret if I'd "stroke out" 🧠🚫💀⚰👻 in April?

Back in 2016, I started writing a story. A friend of the family, actually the child of the friend, endured some... 🐮💩...unfair and harsh realities due to her stepmother. As part of the legal deal and decision, the case cannot be discussed. There's no newspaper article. (Which is like, to me, 😩😵🤯, unacceptable. How can they sweep all of this under the rug! And force a gag order on a child??)

I can't do anything about the law. I, being an outsider, am not under the legal gag order. I obtained my knowledge prior to that deal and ruling. And I am not connected. So, Freedom of Speech for my American butt says that I can whip up a fictional story. I can create a character and give her a similar situation. (The mother in my story is nothing like the real stepmother, who I feel should be in prison for multiple reasons. But I can't fix that.) 

The thing is, the girl was made to feel very alone. And that, in my opinion, wasn't right. The way communities shut out the child for something she didn't do and had no control over, it enrages me. I can use that to write a fictional story. 




There is a cropped screenshot Google result showing how I know my story has a target audience. I do not know how many of those children are teens or YA. But I know there are readers who could use a protagonist with a similar situation. 

My main character is also dealing with racism. Not only have I based that antagonist character off of a real educator I know, but the current political climate of my country shows just how much racism is on the rise. 

This story has been getting rejected since 2017.  

A big obstacle is that my main character is a Latina, and is eager to celebrate her quinceañera. As a lot of agents rejected the query because they didn't know that word (SERIOUSLY??? "Most Latino New Yorkers live in New York City, where they number more than 2.4 million strong and account for one quarter of the city's population." How can agents in NYC not know that word with a population that size living where they work? Get your heads out of the sand, people!!!), so I changed the query wording to include "15th birthday." 🤦 Then they asked if I'd make my main character a different age, at least already 15. You know why? Because non-Latinx Americans would celebrate a sweet 16, not a quinceañera! Apparently, I haven't found an agent who knows a publisher who can market to the Latina ya market. 

I didn't start writing this story so I could just have another little white girl character. I started it because of an injustice done to a real child. She is not allowed to discuss it. But I can tell her story, disguised under the protection of fiction and by adding enough secondary attributes to give plausible deniability in case someone should ever figure things out. (And yet I'm writing a blog post. Go figure.) But I really don't want to change the age.

Yet, because of the events in the story, I know it cannot be MG. Even YA might be pushing my luck.

Honestly, this could all be for nothing. The election in November could land America with political leaders who will burn every book at every school. (Seriously, see the horrors of the school libraries in Florida. They drained them. Fiction, non-fiction, doesn't matter.) 

A big reason I want to traditional publish this book is to increase its chances of landing in libraries. My target audience is more likely to need to borrow from a library, and not everyone has book money. 

ANYWAY

So I am going to try to use April to beg for help to improve this book and create a new query letter. 

Here's the latest (without a personal info paragraph, obviously). I'll be revising this story. Please help!

 

I am trying. I suffered a stroke in January. My right side has been slowly recovering since. My right hand, the dominant hand for me, is still not fully recovered. I haven't typed this slow since I was a child first learning. I had spent weeks focused on just moving my fingers. "J K L ;" the letter L and the semicolon took the longest. My typing teachers would be appalled right now, because my current finger placement is not correct. 

I don't know if I'll make it through the challenge this year. I'm trying, though. 

WEP check-in and Stroke

 (WEP LOGO HERE)

I had a stroke in January. I'm typing with just my left hand on my phone. My right hand, the "write" hand, isn't fully recovered yet. So I am half-assing this. 

My meds got all mucked up. They gave me a nearly toxic dose of asprin. I had a respiratory attack while in the hospital. I am a damn mess.

My husband is still recovering from his toes amputation. He isn't allowed to return to work yet. The shoe people, only game in town, called with the cost of the shoes he's supposed to get.

😅😅🤣🤣🤣😂😂😅😅😅

Omg. Prada? Louis Vuitton? 

And that price is after insurance. 

I don't know where they think someone would get that kind of money while out of work. 

I had to hang up on the girl. Because I didn't know what she wanted me to say. "Can I sell you a kidney?' Seriously, I did not know what to say to the girl. My husband would have never called in the first place if they mentioned the cost would be astronomical. 

For shoes he can't even wear to work.

Because they want him to wear steeltips. 🙄 

To protect toes he no longer has.

And the docs say he will lose his legs if he does that, because his toeless scars will open and get infected.

So... yeah. 

And then there's the paperwork from his job.

"Due by Feb 2 or you're kicked out." 

What is due? 

"Go to the site."

There is no information on the site.

*SCREAMS*

THIS IS WHY I HAD A STROKE. I'm not kidding. Unum and FMLASOURCE sites wanting shit, threatening me, but can't say clearly WHAT they want or from which doctors. The hospital sent them records multiple times. They don't believe my husband had surgery on more than one date. Well, he did. Sorry?? I'm not a surgeon. What do you people want???

I just... 

This is my world right now. 168/102 BP 

No clue why my blood pressure is high... 😵‍💫😡

I'm tired.

Interview with ... the Final WEP Flash Fiction

https://writeeditpublishnow.blogspot.com/2023/11/wep-december-challenge-over-to-you.html

Interview with the 🧛‍♂️

Jamie Dorner

The stench of bleach and ointment hits me first. Blinds blot out the light of the northwest facing room with flowers wilting on the windowsill. A steady beep comes from one of the many machines connected to the man. His fingers curl, beckoning me near. I hit record on my phone as I set it in the holder, placing it on the table as I sit. 

He watches me as I get settled. "I never found jeans to be comfortable. Any metal zipper, those jagged teeth, over my sensitive organ feels unnatural," he says with a wheezing cough. 

I motion to his body. "Cotton hospital gowns worn by hundreds of others suit you better?"

"Sassing me is not in your interest. These coverings help the caretakers. Another cruelty of my existence is no longer being permitted to select my own clothes." 

I nod. "You're the longest living patient in this hospice facility. Possibly the longest under this type of care in the country or world. I'm still researching. Does that sound right?"

"Records I'm sure to break. You want the story of my life?"

"The medical journal I write and podcast for is interested in you, yes. I also have a story going about a transplant patient. First one ever to get— "

An alarm sounds as his machine flatlines. In a blink, the machine goes silent. "There. So much better with these infernal gizmos shut off. Shall we begin?"

"How did you do that?" I ask as a nurse runs in. 

He hands her a paper. "Signed and notarized. Off with you."

I'm dumbstruck. "What just happened?"

"A bit of business. A signed DNR allows me freedom from the machines."

"But you'll die!" Possibly before my interview is done. I can't stream this if he dies.

"That truly would be something to behold. Imagine if you caught the first death of a vampire on your recording device."

I glance at my phone to verify it is recording. "Vampire?"

"Indeed."

"Literally?" I ask. 

"I would very much enjoy telling you my whole story."

"Are you planning to drink my blood? To kill me? To turn me?" 

He points to an empty IV blood bag. "I've already fed. Killing you would only complicate my situation. As for turning you, well, I haven't done that sort of thing in ages."

I take a deep breath. "There's a window in the room. Does that worry you? Or my crucifix necklace?"

"The sun is annoying because my eyesight is enhanced, so it's much brighter to me than you. That's why I requested a northwest facing room. Religious symbols don't bother me, which is more than I can say for much of humanity. And no, the garlic you ate with your lunch doesn't make a difference, if you were about to ask. Silver is just a metal, but mirrors from centuries ago were not as good. I'm not a bat and, most disappointing, I cannot fly. There was a time when I was the greatest jumper in the world, but my knees aren't what they once were."

"Your knees?" I cross my legs, feeling my own knees move in the process, something I normally don't notice. "But you're a vampire."

"Yes. I'm immortal. I don't die. Who started the rumor that not dying equates to healing? The parts may last longer but they still wear out. Shall we begin with my human life? It wasn't interesting. Or my vampire one? Or are you still only interested in my years in hospice after the doctors have given up, believing they can do nothing more?"

"So you will die?" I rub my head. I didn't expect this interview to go this way. 

"No. I'll leave here. Get a caretaker for my basic needs. And wait another decade or two for science to come up with something." 

"Are you lying? Did you shut off the machine so I wouldn't notice tiny fluctuations in your heartbeat?"

The question is barely asked before he has me against the wall, pinned by my neck with my feet dangling. I see darkness in his eyes as sharp fangs extend from his mouth. 

    

    

Word count = 685

Tagline= Interview With The Vampire 🧛‍♂️  opening scene with some twists

(Movie version. Though Anne Rice is listed as the main script writer.)

#WEPFF DECEMBER ’23 #OVER TO YOU

I'm very sad that this is the last flash fiction prompt from WEP. Since I joined my cousin in law in doing these, I've finally had something to blog which is comment worthy. Other than April A to Z and my political thoughts, I'm not sure this blog will see much of my time. I love that WEP gave me a reason to write a little every other month. I focus so much on others I forget to do what I love. Especially with the horrible NaNoWriMo controversy this year that resulted in a forum shutdown and many asking if they want to be affiliated.

I hope some of you will still drop by from time to time. And I really hope the book comes out!

The Phantom of the Opera #WEP #WEPFF Flash Fiction and life

https://writeeditpublishnow.blogspot.com/2023/10/wep-october-flashfiction-challenge.html

#WEP - October #FlashFiction Challenge - The Phantom of the Opera - Post October 18 - 20
"What did you find the most inspiring? Rich pickings here for interpretations - obsessive love, abduction, child abuse, period romance, horror, disfigurement and disability and their acceptance, body image and confidence, music and musical careers..."

This is what's going on in my life. My husband might have PHANTOM pains for his toes soon, because his right big toe got infected and they have cut off all the toes on his right foot (and one on the left). Diabetes is horrible. The surgeon says he'll be able to walk again, wear shoes, go back to work, etc. They say that, but they don't say when. They say he will need physical therapy, but they don't say for how long. No one mentions costs or what our insurance will cover. In fact, my husband has some kind of "hospital indemnity" (security or protection against a loss or other financial burden) that I'm trying to get activated because he pays for it every week... This is exhausting. The website is CRAP. I got 404 errors until it said to email someone. Seriously? They make getting help as difficult as humanly possible. Oh, and I thought they screwed up my husband's check this last week, shorting him by a HUGE amount. But no, it's that the first 8 hours he works (roughly) go to pay for insurance and benefits. 🇺🇲 Like the hospital indemnity one I can't get anyone to activate. 😡



By the way, if you follow me on Instagram, I was hacked. I've tried to contact them every possible way, including 📫✉📬 sending an actual postal letter.
ACCOUNT HACKED! DO NOT USE!

instagram.com/jamie.writer
ACCOUNT HACKED! DO NOT USE! Unfollow me! Ignore any messages. I am not "starting a clothing company" or any other scam the hacker says.

I'm going to try to squeeze NaNoWriMo in this year, but EVERYTHING depends on my husband's healing process. https://nanowrimo.org/participants/jamiewriter Open to Buddy requests.

Onto the story, which I wrote mostly on the Google Docs app on my phone because I've been away.

Phantom of the Boarded-Up House

By Jamie Dorner of Uniquely Maladjusted but Fun

"We dare you to follow Phantom tonight." PollyAnne rubs her chin as her lips curl into a mischievous grin. She's so beautiful. 

"You need to take a video to prove you were in the lair." Lilah wiggles her fingers and makes a ghostly woo sound. She's the youngest teen volunteer here.

"In or out?" Clint extends his muscular hand. His frayed letterman jacket cuff has a lipstick stain. It might be Lilah's. PollyAnne doesn't wear lipstick. 

This is it. My one chance to be part of their group. A chance PollyAnne will see me, not look through or past me. I shake Clint's hand. "I'm definitely in."

Phantom leaves the nursing home at eight, the same time as our teen volunteer group. The hood of a cloak is affixed around a face mask. Who wears a cloak? There's a rumor that the mask covers horrible burns. I follow Phantom onto the public bus. 

Stop after stop, the city lights brighten as the night darkens. Leaves fall as the bus pulls near the curb. I get off a moment after Phantom. Why travel all this way? 

I try to seem casual, scrolling on my phone as I follow without wanting to look like I'm stalking. Autumn leaves crunch under our feet. Phantom turns to a rusted gate. A squeaky protest rings out, sending a shiver down my spine. I duck behind a minivan. Phantom pulls out a hammer, uses the clawed end to free some nails, then pulls a boarded-up door open. 

I snap a picture for Clint as Phantom pockets the nails and slips inside.

A reply text comes. "That's the outside of a boarded-up house. You could be anywhere in the old former-rich part of town. Not good enough." 

I look around. Houses three times the size of mine crumble and rot all around me. Sale signs with years of grime flap in the autumn breeze. A rat climbs out of a decayed jack-o-lantern. Waste of food.

"Get away from my house!" 

I jump back. An old man in the minivan waves a shotgun at my face.

"This is my spot. Get your own!"

I put up my hands as I step back, sprinting once I'm far enough away. I go around the corner, locating the back of Phantom's place. Creepy music comes from within. Is that a piano? No, it's deeper, darker, a sound I've never heard. The windows are all boarded up. A tree rests against the back of the house, as if too old and exhausted to stand on its own. There are no leaves left on the branches. I jump the rusty fence. A loose board on the second floor has light flickering behind it.

PollyAnne, this is for her, this is my chance. I take off my belt and use it to help me climb the tree. I wish I were more prepared. Tools, knowledge on breaking into a house, a better flashlight than my phone can offer, anything. It's a struggle, and I nearly fall twice. Finally, I'm inside.

Cobwebs linger among moldy boxes. A small, lit lamp with horse cutouts on the shade spins on a dirty nightstand. I sneak through a path on the worn-down rug. The music pauses.

"Careful of the broken stair if you're coming down. There's nothing worthwhile to steal anymore, and you're not gonna want my body." The music restarts.

That is the weirdest response to breaking and entering I can imagine. I make my way down the creaking stairs. A centipede crawls up my leg. Phantom isn't joking about the broken one. I nearly fall through a hole as I brush off the myriapod. At the bottom, I turn on my phone's video recorder.

Phantom sits at the most peculiar-looking piano I've ever seen. Far too many keys in a strange tiered-arrangement. The wall is covered in vertical brass pipes.

"People can hear this for quite a distance. It's why they say the place is haunted. Guess I'm the ghost. Are you here to kill me?"

"No," I answer with a shaking voice. "I'm, uhh, well, it's kind of an initiation." I stop the video and press send. 

Phantom lights several candles on one holder. I've never seen something like that. 

"People once paid to learn from me. And paid more to hear me perform. Those days are long gone." Phantom pulls a thick leather book from a shelf. It opens to pictures printed out on paper. "What are you being initiated into?"

"It's this group of friends. See, there's this girl— "

"Ahh!" Phantom cuts me off. "Yes, I know something about that." Pages flip in the photo book. "That was mine. Christine. We didn't end up together, though." 

"Oh?" I choke on dust as I step nearer, the floor creaking under me.

Phantom taps the face mask. "When it's not true love, many obstacles can be too much for someone to overcome. She denied it with her dying breath. Still, I'm sure it wouldn't have worked out. I could never give her children. She should have become a mother. Terrible how it ended." 

I want to ask how she died. But what if the reason Phantom hides here is because there's an open murder investigation?

"Wow. Well, I'm gonna go." I cough as I get a whiff of a rotting stench. 

"Are you sure you wouldn't like to stay for a concert? I'm not tired yet." 

"No, no, I should go check on the initiation. See about the girl. You know?" A chill goes through me. The candle flames flicker and puff out. 

"Oh, I do know. I'm just not sure I want break-ins to become a regular habit. You leaving so easily might be a problem." Phantom pounds on the keys, filling the cold air with eerie music. 

963 words FCA

Tagline: Teen initiation includes B&E to Phantom's ghostly concert.

Recipe time

 

I love it as is, but you could 🌶 spice it up.

Pink Ribbon

 Out of respect for her, I won't mention who I left this comment for originally. 

But I am sharing it here because there are too many people (women, men, people) who get breast cancer. 

My friend was lucky that she happened on a mammogram appointment while getting other tests. Lucky because they think they may have caught it early enough to possibly do something. But the plan for that something is not yet in place. 🤞

I wanted to reply with hope and support, but also to make her smile. She has a great smile and made me laugh so many times at work. 

My comment:

Big huge hugs. I hope they are able to help you and take care of your mental and emotional needs while dealing with the cancer. I know they said not to google info, but what about looking for a support group? To have other people who have gone through this and are best equipped to help you deal? 

I'm sorry, but I don't believe anyone who (was a/ identified as a) teenage boy is capable of fully grasping what growing boobs was like, and therefore cannot fully understand what surgery on them means mentally and emotionally for most people who have boobs they like. That's just my opinion. The first time you were grateful for them. The first time you hated them and wished they go away. The first time some strange old sales lady felt you up at the store so you could get a bra. The many times after that some sales lady felt you up in a store while saying you probably don't know your own bra size.  Trying on bras and questioning what drunk crackhead designed this and how he (definitely he) got the designs messengered from his mom's basement to a fashion place where they made it. Like, you go through a lot. And I just don't think a "mister doctor" can really understand that. Sympathetic? Sure. But I've never seen a sales dude at a sports store whip out the tape measure and grab another guy's junk, "You're probably wearing the wrong size cup, most men don't correctly measure their balls before shopping. Lift your leg, dear, let me get in there." 

(Dude, if I didn't at least make you crack a tiny smile picturing sports dudes measuring balls in a store, seriously... come on... )

Holes

 There's this hole inside of me. Pain, grief, loss, darkness, ending. 

I don't remember the last time my mom and I hung out for fun. There are years where we hung out all the time. There are shows we watched together while sharing dinner many nights of the week. There were trips together, just us. We were best friends. We kept secrets for each other. We were sisters. We were so close.

But I got sick. I got chronically ill. I had problems beyond help. And it was too much. She had health problems too. Obviously. People don't just have heart attacks out of nowhere usually. 

But when was the last time we hung out, just the two of us? 

I don't know. But I feel like it was years. 

When my leg was all messed up, she took my husband to the store. For weeks. He knows the last time they hung out. 

I know we went to Shady Maple the Valentine's before she died. That's months before. Feb to Sept. That's months apart.

I know she took me to the hospital in May the year before that. That's not fun. That's not hanging out. 

The "new" 4 episodes of Gilmore Girls sat unwatched in my Netflix for a long time. I was waiting to watch it with her. We never did. She might have seen it on hers eventually. I don't know. She was busy.

So busy.

No one from her work came to her funeral. Once they had that tablet back, they never checked in again. 

She was strong for everyone. She did everything for everyone. She was the shoulder, the punching bag, the sounding board, the one who covered, the one who fixed. Sometimes the one who broke, and caught hell for it. The family keystone can't break, can't have a flaw. She inherited that role from my grandmother. I believe my grandmother got it when my great grandfather died, a few weeks before I was born. 

My dad almost died when my mom was pregnant with me. Fell asleep driving. How hard must that have been for her? 

I don't know if it ever got easier. 

The hole is so big. It's impossible to fill. It will never go away. It's never going to be okay. 

Just like the hole for my daughter.

Just sit here and watch as everyone dies. And eventually I'll be gone too. 

Who will take care of my husband? Who will be there for him when he says he doesn't need anyone? He's so good at pushing people away. I'm scared he won't let anyone help him, even if they try to help him for me, in my memory, to allow my soul to rest. But I'm also terrified that he'll go first. I don't want to be without him. I know I could, but I do not want to exist without him. There would be no point. 

The hole is very dark. And there is more than one hole. How many holes until there's nothing else? One minute it's lace, then threads, then nothing. 

Just words. I'm okay. 

Or as okay as I can be and there's really nothing to be done. 

The reason I know I'm okay? Because I can look at the pills controlling my menstrual cycle and know that the big emotions are out of balance because of where I am in my cycle. So I know all this will calm down. Without scientific evidence, I would NOT know I'll be okay. And then I would not be.  The darkness would win if I didn't have concrete evidence for my logical side to assure me that this is chemical and everything will be more manageable in a few days. I'm dependent on that evidence.