"Bad Book. Poor grammar is the bane of this otherwise fine exploration of love and loss." - A Customer

I hesitate before adding dialogue, unsure of the line I need to walk when representing dialect. I am worried about my characters' inherent readability. I am worried about my own "poor grammar" reviews.

Wedding Jitters

The minister reads from his book. Guests fan themselves with programs. A strand of hair drops into my bodice, keeping company with beads of anxious sweat.

...Is it hair? Oh god.

Drake eyes my cleavage in terror.

Then, my new husband faints.


More Than I Can Chew

I thought it might be helpful, or at the very least interesting, to keep track of the writing projects that I've been plugging away at. I don't often just sit down and write a thing. I cobble together minutes here and there throughout the week, which means I'm not often in the right "space" to work on the same thing twice. I write to channel and release my emotions, so if I'm having a shitty day I need to work on something where I can get out all the shitty.

The Ghast

There is a corridor now, where there used to be patio, backyard, outdoors. It is narrow, made of plywood and scrap lumber, and leads from the basement steps to the garage.

It is exactly the kind of thing that Ian would have never let happen to our house. I have let this happen to our house.

An Entirely Different Eden

The baby was not coming home from the hospital. It was time they faced the facts.

Cort handed the parking ticket to the front desk attendant. It was the only thing he could do with any certainty. He could watch the young, heavyset man press the validation sticker into place and he could keep quiet when it wound up crooked. Those were two things that he had grown accustomed to doing over the past three weeks. That, and reading the sign above the scrub sink over and over again as he lathered with the iodine soap he dispensed into his hands with a foot pedal.

Part One: Bethany's Baby

[Written for Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month]

“Mom, I need you,” Bethany said through a sob. “Can you and Dad come here?”

Helena booked two seats on the red eye and walked to the closet, heavy with her daughter's heartache. Standing in front of her good dresses and her husband's old work slacks, she sank her hands slowly between garments, into the narrow space created by a silver support bracket. She pushed in either direction, hangers skidding noisily away from center. Tears already brimming over her dark eyelashes, she looked at the picture frame mounted years ago when a grief-stricken Leo had brought it home from his office. She smiled sadly at the curvy handwriting on the bottom of the matting, then pulled a tired gray suitcase down from the shelf.

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