Saturday Give Away!

Hello all!

I was recently challenged to define what find of author I am.  Not by genre, because, as you may know, I tend to write a story and worry about the genre later. Romance, humor, mystery, inspirational, suspense, I love them all.  But that was not the question posed to me.  The person speaking at the time wanted all of us in the room to decide why we were writing.  Was it because we enjoyed writing?  Was it because we had stories we needed to tell?  Was it because we wanted to make pots of money?

Well, let me just say, if I were in it for the money, I'd have quit long ago.  The vast majority of people who write and publish do not do it as their main source of income.  All of the published authors I know personally have other jobs:  Teacher, nurse, stay at home parent, airline attendant, lecturer, writers' studio owner, manager, and chief instructor, museum employee, pizza delivery guy, locksmith. Me?  I work as a very small cog in the huge wheel that is workman's comp cases.  

No, if we are in it for the money, most of us are going to be sorely disappointed.  Writing, even in this day of self publishing and e-publishing is still not the sure fire way to make a fortune.  Oh sure, there are the fortunate ones, the J.K. Rowlings, the Stephen Kings, the John Grishams, who have captured the eye of readers across the globe, and their hearts and they can now write what they want

when they want and live their lives the way they want.  For the rest of us, we still write in the wee small hours of the morning, the dark of midnight, or furtively on our lunch hours.

As for my, what kind of author am I?  I'm a story teller.  Would I like to be on a best seller list?  Sure, who wouldn't?  But I've got 11 books out there right now with my name on them and it's not looking like the New York Times is coming to call any time soon.  I'm really okay with that.  I'm a story teller who gets to tell exactly the story I want to tell in the way I want to tell it.  I'm not pigeonholed, I'm not under contract (although I'm not ADVERSE to being under contract), I'm not guided by much more than my own instincts and comments from my writers' group and my lovely critique partners.  I'm free to tell my stories and that's what brings me joy in my work.

To that end, I'd like to put my money where my mouth is, so to speak.  While ultimately I would love to see more book sales, I'm really interested in connecting with my readers.  So I've decided to do a giveaway.  This is where it gets good for you, the reader.

I'd like to know what book you think is the most brilliant thing you've ever read and why. This is NOT a request for your favorite book.  (That's easy for me, "Wuthering Heights.")  What's the most
brilliant book you've read and why.  Here's mine:  Room, by Emma Donoghue.  (now a movie nominated for Best Picture.)  I find it brilliant because it is so simplistic: told from the view of a very young boy, set primarily in a single room. How can that possibly be good or entertaining?  It is. It is beautiful, it is mesmerizing. And I really wish my brain worked like that.  "Room"is one of those books that makes me want to write MORE.

So what's the most brilliant book you've ever read and why?  Leave a note for me here or contact me through my website here.  Or, if your prefer, message me at my Face Book page here. Leave your name and the country where you live. That's all we'll nee for now.

Today is January 30.  On March 4 I'm having hand surgery and

won't be able to type for a while. I won't take anymore entries after March 4.  I'll take that time to go through your messages and read about your books.  Then I will enter your names into a blind drawing.  The winner will receiver his/her choice of one of my 11 books, autographed. I will ship anywhere in the world I'm able to. (Clearly, this giveaway is going to take some time.)

So friends, let me hear from you. Someone is going to win a free book. Ready, set, GO!

A Review you can use: 13 Hours.

Good afternoon!

In keeping with my New Year's resolution, I'm determined to see more movies in the theater.  To that end,  Hubby and I have just seen Michael Bay's newest film, "13 Hours."

Like so many things in our world these days, "13 Hours" is not easily categorized. Is it an action movie?  A thriller?  A war film?  A political statement?  A dark comedy?

It is all of the above.

"13 Hours" tells the true story of the events of September 11, 2012 in Benghazi, Libya when ambassador Christopher Stevens and Information officer Sean Smith were killed in an American Embassy during a coordinated attack by militants. Another compound approximately 1 mile away was also attacked and 2 CIA contractors, Tyrone S. Woods and Glen Doherty, were killed. Both Woods and Doherty were former Navy SEALS, The event is also called the Battle of Benghazi.The movie details the events leading up to the attack, the attack itself and the aftermath.

It's a breathless, fast paced film. I checked my watch about halfway through and could not believe how fast time had gone. Surprising and excellent performances by Jon Krasinski  and former fellow "The Office" castmate David Denham.  Krasinski makes the leap from comedic goofy guy to convincing serious action guy smoothly, and his performance is one bright star in a sky of sparkling moments.  Director Michael Bay presents the film with the unblinking feel of a documentary, complete with several time stamps.  

Bay steers clear of pointing a political finger, although much of the fall out stemming from the Battle of Beghazi has been hard to avoid in this presidential election year.  The viewer is left not so much blaming one person or one party, but rather blaming the breakdown of leadership and the "cover your a**"" mentality that is so much a part of the fabric of the US government.  There is no question in the point Bay is trying to get across by telling this story about the battle that's lead to months of testimony and chest thumping about emails and phone calls and and more emails.  Bay is shining a light on the six men who managed to defend more than 30 Americans against all odds when the rest of the US refused to help.  These six men did not worry about polls or votes or politics or political correctness.  They worried about defending the people in their care even though repeated calls for help went unanswered.

As an American I am proud of those six men.  

This movie is not for the faint of heart.  It is violent.  But it is also touching, and at moments funny.  This would fall into my "important movies" category.  You should see this. You should educate yourself about the Battle of Benghazi. You should teach your children, because they aren't learning history in schools anymore, and certainly not much in the way of current history.  Watch this film.  Read what you can.  Draw your own conclusions.  For me, the last line of the movie said it all.

And I'm not going to tell you what that line is. You need to see it for yourself.

  

Sneak Peak Saturday: Missing in Manitowoc

Good morning!

I just finished watching the Netflix docuseries:  "Making A Murderer."  I lived in Manitowoc from 1982 to 1989, although I was away in college for some of those years, but the Steven Avery story was hard to miss. Was he guilty?  Was he framed?  I don't know.  The author in me has thought about this story for a long time...but even that twisted part of my brain isn't making the judgement call.

 Anyway, if you're reading "Missing in Manitowoc" and you want to know if the places in the book actually exist, I can say oh yes they do.  Because "Making a Murderer" is silly with video images of my old hometown that meant a lot to me as well, enough to make it into my book. I haven't been back to Manitowoc in a couple years, so it was nice to see color images of the places I see so clearly in my mind.

Today's sneak peak is a description of a place you'll actually see in "Making A Murderer."  I mean, you'll see the outside sign...I describe the inside. So fans of the docuseries who have never been to Manitowoc, enjoy this...and every...just enjoy!

“Welcome to the Best Western Lakefront Hotel!”

The desk clerk’s chirpiness is wildly annoying considering I haven’t had the proper amount of coffee yet this morning. Is there the proper amount of coffee to prepare someone like me for someone like her? She’s a living, breathing stereotype. Her blonde, perfect, shoulder length hair and perky toothy smile are a little too cheerleader for me. I step away from the registration desk and pull out my phone, thankful I found the charger last night and thusly am able to converse with people of my own choosing.

Right now it’s a business call I have to make. Before I check in and commit to two nights in this building, I want to make sure I am still stranded here. I check the clock. The garage should be open by now. I call the garage. A man answers. “Terrell brakes and auto repair. This is Jack.”

“Hey Jack, it’s Nora Hill.”

“Nora!” He sounds just a tiny bit too glad to hear from me. If I were a normal person, I’d probably take that as a compliment. But I’m not normal and I’m not terribly interested in making connections with anyone, even Jack Terrell. I just want my car and I’m praying, hope against hope, my car is fixed and I can make my escape.

“Were you able to overnight the parts?”

“I’m sorry, Nora, I can’t. It’ll definitely be Monday before I’ll be able to get you back on the road.”

“But it will be Monday, right, Jack?” I know I sound imperious. I don’t care. In my world I have to be very clear about things with people.

“Yes, of course.” He waits one beat. “Nora, are you sure you don’t want to go to the reunion tonight? I mean, you’re stuck in town anyway.” He waits. “I’d really like it if you came along…with me.”

I’m not made of stone. I know exactly how sweet he’s being. I close my eyes. I know he means well, so I have to be patient and not howl at him. “I’m sure, Jack, thanks. I’m checking into the Best Western Hotel, so I’ll be fine here. I’ve got plenty of work to do anyway.”

He’s quiet for another beat. “Ok. I’ll give you a call on Monday when it’s done.”

There’s a note of defeat in his voice. As I touch the “end” square on my iPhone screen, I realize I never asked him anything about his life. And I should have. My mother would have. My sisters sure would have. Jack Terrell was the smartest guy in our class and the nicest. He was headed away from Manitowoc, he was going to go to one of those ultra pricey colleges and become the next Bill Gates or something. As I shove my phone back into my duffle, I wonder how a guy like that wound up staying in town and fixing cars.

Sucking up my annoyance, I make contact with the cheerleader at the front desk and register. I then check out the complimentary breakfast. I do like a good breakfast, and my memory of this place involves a very good one. Of course, my memory of this place also involves room service, which is not going to be an option anymore.

Breakfast is my favorite meal of the day. I’m a complete sucker for eggs and hash browns and all the breakfast meats. The ones they used to make at this hotel were really special. When Rose got married we had the post wedding breakfast here. I still remember the Eggs Benedict.

Sadly, today there will be no Eggs Benedict. There will be no room service. There will be, from the looks of things, waffles I can make all on my own. I’m crushed.

In a bit of a snit, I dump my duffle in my room and head out of the hotel, again, to find food. The fog has broken slightly, the sun trying to force its way through like a single headlight pushing through…well, fog.

Hey, I write for young adults, not upper crust literary genius types.

Once outside, I realize I haven’t a clue where I can get a good breakfast. My old standby was the Big Boy. And then my memory stirs. Warren’s. Of course!

Warren’s Diner, once the arch rival of The Big Boy, is now pretty much the only breakfast place in the downtown area. Since I’m not about to take a bus all the way out to the Perkins near Interstate 43, Warren’s is my only choice.

I could wait for the bus to take me back to my original starting point or I could walk. The fog lifted a bit further and I started out. It’s half a mile. That’s not a big deal. I do a lot of walking. There have been times I’ve parked my car further than that away from a truck stop or a rest stop on the interstate, just so I don’t get dinged for overnight parking. Half a mile…bah!

Every step, however, makes me realize just how conspicuous I am to passing motorists. See, walking for most people isn’t a big deal. You walk along a street, people honk, you recognize them, you wave. It’s a lovely social exchange. It’s a little different for me. I walk along a street, people honk, I haven’t a clue, and I don’t wave. When I was a kid, people would take this as an insult from the minister’s daughter and they’d report my transgression to my mother who would then lecture me on the sins of being rude.

Here I am, in the town I swore I would never, ever return to, walking along a street and heaven only knows who is going to see me and recognize me. Frankly, I can’t get to Warren’s fast enough.

Warren’s Diner. Like many of the businesses in the area Warren’s Diner is in a dumpy, nondescript building with wide windows revealing diners to passing customers. I remember staring at those same windows from my post at the carry out counter in the Big Boy across the street. My manager cursed each morning, watching people walk into Warren’s, even as people walked into The Big Boy. In the battle of breakfast places, I knew who won day after day. I was a dumb teenager, but I could count heads. I could read the signs on the sidewalk in front of Warren’s touting this or that ridiculously low priced breakfast. Who would want to pay five bucks for eggs and toast at Big Boy when the very same meal was available across the street for a half the price AND included coffee?

And yet, all these years later, I’m standing in front of this restaurant, hoping they have Eggs Benedict.

Walking in, I change my mind. I use Eggs Benedict and Rueben sandwiches as sort of a benchmark for eateries. If a place can do one or the other well, I’ll come back. If not, well, that’s pretty much it. There’s a diner in Waukesha that touts the “best Rueben in the world.” I have tried to disprove the claim. I haven’t been able to yet.

Why those two dishes? Well, I could go into some deep foodie dissertation on how a good Hollandaise sauce is the mark of a legitimate restaurant, but that would be stupid because it’s just not true. Truth is, I liked the names of the dishes when I was a kid. I liked to picture what a Benedict or a Rueben might look like and it turns out they seemed like pretty jovial gents. As I got older I ate them out of habit. Nowadays, honestly, Benedict and Rueben are pretty much my two closest male companions on my journeys.

But even my craving for Hollandaise isn’t going to overcome the lack of confidence I have in Warren’s. I take a seat on a sticky vinyl chair and scan the torn paper menu. The electric sign outside boasts air conditioning. Since this close to Lake Michigan it rarely hits temperatures worthy of AC, using that as a selling point is setting the bar impossibly low.

Then again, they are still here, open, and thriving from the looks of things. Meanwhile, my old place of employment won’t open until four and then the special of the day is today, as it was yesterday, as it was, I suspect, every day for the last handful of yes, spicy crispy chicken.

I take a chance on the strawberry pancakes. Hey, it’s a rare person who gets food poisoning from pancakes. I’m delighted, once the polyester clad waitress with the brunette pony tail puts the plate in front of me, that the pancakes look and smell amazing. They drip from center to edge with bright red strawberries, not gooey pie filling, and the whipped cream, while probably not homemade, at least tastes fresh. Unfortunately the coffee is a disappointment because it’s burned and weak. I remember too well the lingering bitter flavor of Big Boy coffee, coffee left too long on the pot warmer.

Well , you can’t win everything. So the pancakes were good, the coffee was bad. Sure, I have a bitter, burnt taste in my mouth, but on the flip side I’m not hungry anymore. It’s all about balance.

A Review Your Can Use: The Hateful 8

Good afternoon all!

So it's the new year and one of my resolutions was to go out and see more movies in the theater.  We're on Day 2 of 2016 and I've been to two movies already.  A good start.

I'm not going to bore you with a review of Star Wars.  You're going to go see it either because you love Star Wars or because everyone else on the planet is going and you're going to enjoy it because it's a movie built to be enjoyed by everyone.  Instead, I'm going to write a review of a movie whose release was limited to very specific theaters across the US, but is genius on several levels:  The Hateful 8.  

Let me first say I'm not a Quentin Tarantino fan. I'm telling you this so that you know I'm not writing a litany for worship at Tarantino's feet. I didn't like "Pulp Fiction" much and word that there's a third "Kill Bill" doesn't make me giggle with glee.  I did enjoy "Django Unchained" and "Inglorious Basterds" is one of my favorite films.  So I am reviewing "8" with a completely balanced eye, and I'm moved to write this review because I'm a writer and frankly when I see great writing in any form I need to give it a cheer.

Set almost completely in a snowbound cabin in Wyoming, "8" has the feel of a stage play.  The movie is dialogue heavy.  We learn nearly everything we need to know about the characters through what they say more than how they look or what they do.  Costuming is simple: heavy, brown, filthy, lumpy coats and boots all around, so in the staging Tarantino has leveled the field. Everyone pretty much looks alike.  Everyone sounds similar, with the exception of a couple accents.  But in words and phrases there's no telling the good guy from the bad guy simply by looking at them or hearing them speak.  Nope, this is a movie where you actually have to LISTEN to what's being said and that's where the genius of the film comes in.

Tarantino wants to give us the old time feel of what going to the movies meant a couple generations ago, so he's filmed it in 70MM, which means all these fantastic digital screens can't handle it. Hence the limited release. Simply put:  there aren't many theaters that even have the technology to run this film, which is actually a FILM. He didn't stop there, however. The movie is over three hours long. Yep.  More than three hours. I have trouble sitting still that long. But Tarantino gives us something we haven't seen from a long movie in a long time:  An intermission.  We actually had time to get up, get another soda, use the facilities, whatever, for about fifteen minutes.  It was perfect. And the fact that the movie clips along lightening fast didn't hurt either.

So what's it about?  It's a Western...set in winter...with bounty hunters and prisoners,  former Civil War officers from both sides, and unabashed racists all find themselves trapped in a single room.  They are all taking shelter from a blizzard.  Battle lines are drawn and redrawn as, through conversation, each character sees themselves allies and then enemies with every other character.  The movie is hardly for the faint of heart, given Tarantino's love of shock language and graphic violence.  In today's ultra sensitive society, there are those who are going to decry the treatment of Jennifer Jason Leigh (Daisy) who is punched and beaten and shot at pretty much the whole film. Let's all remember, folks, this is a story, it's fiction set in a time when the N word was part of every day speech and bounty hunters had the choice between "dead or alive."  It's not like this is set in a grade school in Beverly Hills in 2016.  Oh, and yeah, dear Daisy is as bad a bad guy as any of the others.  

Tarantino's sense of humor is also prevalent.  You're going to find yourself laughing out loud at some really dark moments, and that's okay.  Samuel L. Jackson and Kurt Russell bounce off each other smoothly and it's great to see Bruce Dern in another film.  The winner of most of the scenes, however is Walter Goggins, as the former Rebel soon to be sheriff, Chris. 

It's a great cast doing excellent work in a very well written film.  If you don't have the stomach for very strong language, graphic nudity (there are a few moments of really graphic nudity, but only a few) or violence, or if you're just going to gripe that some of the characters are racist while others are violent toward a woman, then don't go see this film. If you want to see one of today's top movie makers actually produce something that's both original and nostalgic while also being entertaining, then go ahead and see it and have fun.

Of course, you can always also just go see any one of the ten billion sequels or remakes Hollywood is puking out at an alarming rate. Sure, you won't see anything new, but at least your sensibilities won't be stirred up. 

I'm giving this Five out of Five.

And speaking of movie reviews...

My very good friend, fellow author and movie lover, Linda Schmalz and I have released our first movie review book:  Two Moms, Three Glasses of Wine, and a Movie. For our first edition, we chose to review our favorite 50 films each and then 25 movies we both love.  You can get it in print or for the Kindle right now.  Our hope is to turn this project into a long series because, what we've noticed, is that there just are not enough movie reviews written by women while they're drinking wine.  

A craft fair and a book club...and me, basking in the glow.

Good morning!

It's been far too long since I've greeted you, but November wound up being wildly busy and then I got sick and then I traveled to research my next book.

But I'm here now and I have to share with you a highlight in my writing career.  See, I've never been one to do things in a normal way.  I decided at 13 I was going to be a world famous novelist.  Back in in a time when most kids wanted to be in a rock band or a professional Pac-Man player, I was sitting at my manual typewriter (Yep. no computers back then.  No spell check.  No delete button. Just a manual typewriter, a ream of paper, and a bucket of white-out.) tapping out what would eventually become my second novel, Lies in Chance. (Available in print or kindle on Amazon or for other e-reading formats at Smashwords.com)  I don't know about world famous, but since that beautiful day in 2010

when my first novel, Dream in Color, (also available in print and kindle format or for any e-reader platform at Smashwords.com) was published by the Wild Rose Press, I've managed to put out four romance novels, three novellas, two creative nonfiction humor books (under my pen name Sarah Jayne Brewester), and now, my newest, an inspirational cozy mystery, Missing in Manitowoc. (And you know where you can find it!)  

That brings my total publications to ten since 2010.  And what's in store for 2016?  At least one more Nora Hill Mystery (Superhero in Superior) and I may, I MAY start work on another Rock Harbor novel...we'll see.

The point I'm making is that in the last five or so years I've been busy doing what I always thought I'd do.  I don't know how world famous I've become, my fantasy of book signings around the world hasn't exactly happened, but I'm finding none of that matters. My stories are in print, people are reading them and the people who are reading them are enjoying them. For an author who does everything for her book, including cover art, that's a big thing to know.  

What it comes to marketing my work, however, I've found I'm taking a bit of a different road.  This past summer my mother and I worked Farmer's Markets with some success.  And this winter, a couple weeks ago, I had a booth at a craft fair. Most fellow writers and authors, when I tell them I'm doing a marker or craft fair, look at me with some disdain, as if this is the wrong way to go.  Well, when you're a self published author and you're doing your own promotion, there is no wrong way to go if where you're going is to a place where people are.  I may not have made a profit this summer, but I got my name out there and not just to people in my community, but to people all over the place.  My books are now in the suitcases and purses of people all over the US.  Isn't that what we writers want, is for our stories to be in the world?  (If you're doing it for the money and the awards, you may want to considered a job in another line of work. Sure, we all want to be J.K. Rowling or Stephen King, for the money, or some great literary person who wins the National Book Award every year, but honestly, a writer is a storyteller and we're poor story tellers if we aren't willing to share our stories with everyone in every way.)

So a couple weeks ago I was working a craft fair because they let

me have a table.  And it was the first time "Missing in Manitowoc"  was available for purchase.  I was excited. There's nothing like talking about your books to someone and there's really nothing like talking about a new book.  The first woman who came to our table listened to me talk about Nora Hill and the book and tell her everything I could about why she should buy and read this book.  She was quite excited and she told me she was the head of her church's book club. She then sent over four other members of the club to purchase "Missing" and, at the end of the day, she told me she'd be contacting me to speak at their club in September.  Now, I know September is a long time away, but I am stoked. I am jazzed, I am beyond the moon excited about this new opportunity.  I've never spoken to a book club before, and I would love to do so.  Thus, taking an unconventional route to marketing brought me to a big gold star most authors recognize as a good thing:  Book clubs, big or small, can help to make a book. Even the most skeptical of my fellow author friends had to admit, this was a big positive.

Truly, a high in my career in terms of marketing.

Anyway, now is the time of year when people go out and buy gifts for each other. No matter what you are celebrating this holiday season, chances are you have a long shopping list and you are clueless about where to start. Let me help you:  Books.  Especially books by local authors.  Especially books by authors who are willing to meet you at a coffee shop and autograph books for everyone on your gift list.  

I won't be doing any more shows this year, but I have a website which will take you where you need to go for book purchases.  And also, yes, if you contact me I would be thrilled to meet you someplace and autograph your gifts. (Provided you want to meet someplace in SE Wisconsin.)  Also, if you want to bypass the website just type my name into the search on Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes and Noble, and pretty much any other place that sells books. You'll find me.

Oh and yes, if you are in a book club, contact me.  I'd love to speak to your group!

One more time:  Books make great gifts!  

Happy Holidays all!  Let's be safe this season, and let's make 2016 joyful and bright!

Sneak Peek Week! MISSING IN MANITOWOC #2

Hello all!  

I know on Tuesday that I promised you five days of previews of my new novel, which will be available on Amazon.com TOMORROW, November 1, and is available in print for in the Create space store RIGHT NOW BY CLICKING HERE.  Unfortunately, my beloved grandmother passed

away yesterday.  Thursday I was able to go see her one last time and she had a most amazing last day with family all around her. Her mind, though she was weeks away from her 99th birthday, was sharp.  Finally it was her body that wore out. She was actually a little miffed, I think, at God for not taking her on Wednesday when she collapsed in the bathroom, but God knew her family needed one more day with her. So tomorrow, Sunday, we put her to rest next to her husband of nearly 70 years.

That said, I am managing to give you a few more pages of MISSING IN MANITOWOC right now. I'm so excited to start on this journey with Nora Hill, a woman who has been tested by God in so many ways.  I hope you enjoy it too.

Again, this book will be available for kindle on Amazon tomorrow. I'm hoping all other digital platforms will also be ready to go today or tomorrow, and that includes Nook, Apple, Kobo...all of those.

Meanwhile, here's another few pages to whet your appetite!  Enjoy!

“Is that your Subaru?”

            I look at the mechanic in his coveralls. I wonder if his wife even attempts to wash the grease and oil stains out of the heavy denim union suit. Maybe she makes him leave it outside on the back porch.

            That’s what my mother would do. “Germaphobic” is a huge understatement for her dedication to avoiding all things filthy. Probably why she married a minister, thinking he’d never come home with anything worse than maybe a small purple stain from serving Communion too vigorously.

            She lived in a very tidy world, my mother did, until I came along. My two older sisters, born in her own image, never gave her a minute of grief. I swear, if you believe anything those three tell you, they were toilet trained immediately upon exiting the womb and never left a trace of themselves anyplace in the house.    Call it my creativity, call it a willful streak, call it Original Sin…I was that kid in every family who was always three degrees off. You know, the kid who always had a scraped knee. The kid who always spilled something at a family reunion or church pot luck. The kid who was always tearing a hole in her ‘Sunday best.”

 I never felt like I was born into the right family, you know?  At  my eight Christmas during the big family dinner with all the relatives there as witnesses, I asked if I was adopted. I mean, it’s a logical question. My sisters are seven and nine years older than I am. They are both tall and well built women. I’m short and frail looking. Kinda like one of those kids on those Christian Children’s Network commercials, the ones where kids are starving and have no clean water to drink, but a buck a week will keep them fed for a year.

So I asked the question. By the time I was eight I knew there was definitely something different about me that had little to do with my physical looks. It was clear, from the shocked reaction of those around the table, I’d struck an uncomfortable chord. True to my nature, however, I managed to spill an entire bowl of black olives on myself. So before anyone could think of a good answer to my question, the tension melted into laughter. Well, except for my mother. She dragged me into the bathroom to wipe the black, oily, juice off my Christmas dress.

My questions about why I’m so different from the rest of my tribe never have been answered. I dropped the adoption question that Christmas Day when Mom growled at me, “Don’t be ridiculous, Nora.” Some time ago I just accepted it. I’m that dirty kid every family has, the kid that is just never quite clean.          Or normal.

Since then I’ve put distance between my family and me. It’s better this way. At first, sure, they protested. I shouldn’t be traveling alone. I might get hurt. I wasn’t being safe. I would one day be found dead in a ditch.

“Dead in a ditch.” That’s my mother’s biggest worry for all of us. Didn’t return a phone call? “You might have been dead in a ditch for all we knew!” Came in late after curfew? “You had us so worried that you were dead in a ditch!” When I started traveling for work, that was her biggest, and only, concern. “Nora, you have to promise you won’t camp out in your car. I couldn’t bear it if you were found dead in a ditch.”

I promised her I wouldn’t camp in my car anywhere near a ditch. She didn’t see the humor in that.

 Sure she protested. I mean, I’m her kid, right? Of course she loves me. I’ve noticed, she has returned to her tidy way of life now that I’m not living there full time. She’s as happy as a clam. I don’t go home often. I don’t like to wreck her bliss.

            Wow, I’m off track. Now is not the time for these sorts of thoughts. Now is the time to get my car out of this garage and get out of this town before anyone recognizes me. Over the years I’ve changed my look, what woman hasn’t?  But I’m still me…no matter how hard I try to change the fact.

            “Yes, that’s my car.”

            The mechanic wipes his hands on his coveralls and stares at my car as if seeing something rare and strange. While Subaru Foresters aren’t that uncommon in most of the world, around here it is. It’s not a pick-up truck, and there isn’t a boat hitched to the back of it. I don’t have to dig too far in my memory bank to recall my high school days when everyone drove a pick-up truck. Everyone, of course, except for me. Back then, the Forrester was new, a gift from my parents for my sixteenth birthday. While not wealthy, my father was one of those rare people who just knew how to save a dollar and turn it into five dollars. Each of us girls, first Rose, then Lily, then me, got a new car on our sixteenth birthdays. Rose and Lily have long since traded their cars in for an upgrade, of course, but I’m still driving mine. Some call it loyal, some call it cheap. I call it not wanting to clean out the car and put my stuff in a new one.

            “Haven’t seen a Surbaru in a long time. Most people around here drive pick-ups and minivans. I do remember this one girl in high school…”  With that, the mechanic’s voice drifts off and he turns his attention back to me. He stares at me. Hard.

            I feel the start of a headache…the kind I get when I know something I don’t want to happen is about to happen.

            “Do I know you?”

            And that thing I didn’t want to happen is now starting. My headache is getting worse. We are about to get into an uncomfortable spot here. He’s recognized me.

            “Nora?”

            That’s it. I officially want to fall through the floor. I want to hide away and not continue this conversation. I’ve had this dialogue a hundred times with people who knew me growing up, but I have absolutely no recollection of them. I remember places, experiences, and feelings with super high-def clarity. I can recall names, lists and lists of names. But faces, faces I can’t remember at all.

            It’s not laziness on my part or a quirk I have. It’s not like those funny mental ticks we all live with, like how my brother-in-law never knows where his glasses are or how my oldest sister goes through the names of all of her kids before hitting the one she wants to yell at. It’s a medical thing. I have something.

My “something” has a name that’s a mile long: prosopagnosia. That’s what they call it on the health channel. Most people call it face blindness. Simply put, I don’t remember faces, even those of people close to me. If I see someone, and then they leave the room for five minutes or so, I completely forget their face.

            This includes my mother’s face and my father’s, when he was alive, my sisters’ faces, too.  Plus, while I can differentiate between male and female voices, I have trouble sorting out specific voices. Not uncommon to us face blindness folks.  Most of us have some other “thing” along with the prosopagnosia.  It’s like God sent us through the neurological cafeteria before we were born and wasn’t just happy with us having the main course.  I’m “face blind with a side order of distorted hearing.”  Others might have Asperger’s or autism.  There’s no end to the fun combo packs available.

            When I’m home, I’m able to sort out my mom and sisters out, so long as they’re sitting in a certain spot. It has nothing to do with their faces, but rather whether or not they’re  in their favorite chairs. Lily likes the green love seat. Rose curls up in my father’s brown recliner. Mother seats herself in the white wing backed chair, a chair so pure white only she could sit in it, by the way.

If my mother ever gets new furniture, I’m doomed.

As you can imagine, this causes problems at family gatherings and whatnot. I can’t count the number of times I hear the whispers, “Oh, that’s Nora…she’s terrible with people.”

I’m not terrible with people. I’m terrible with faces.

Then again, it’s almost better to be thought of as careless and rude, as some of my relatives do, than to be thought of as mentally deficient, as some of my other relatives do. Seriously, I think everyone in my extended family would just feel more at ease with me if I got a seeing-eye dog or a helper monkey or something. I know, ridiculous. But still, it’s family, right?

            “Nora Hill, is that you?”

            The mechanic is still looking at me and I really, really want to run away. I have nothing to say to this person who may be a friend, but right now is a stranger to me.  And since he recognizes me and knows my name, I’m already at a huge disadvantage.

            This is why I don’t like being around people.

Sneak peak week! MISSING IN MANITOWOC! Part 1

Good evening!

Here we are, first snippet of my new novel, due for release on Sunday, November 1.  

Enjoy!

FRIDAY 5 PM

            If it’s true what they say, that God has a sense of humor, then He’s having a huge laugh at my expense right now.

            Fifteen years ago I swore I would never come back to Manitowoc, Wisconsin, so the fact that I’m standing here in an auto repair shop can only be attributed to some kind of twisted Divine sense of humor. That’s what my father would probably say, anyway. My mother…well, my mother would probably scold me for thinking blasphemous thoughts. She didn’t exactly share Dad’s more lighthearted approach to the Almighty, which is odd, since he was a minister. You’d think the opposite would be true.

            Meanwhile, I’ve been here for an hour. There’s no Wifi, which isn’t quite the big deal for me as it is for most people. It’s not like I spend a ton of time on social media. I’m not that social. But I could be doing some online research for work. Work would help pass the time I’m forced to spend sitting on an orange molded plastic chair circa 1977.

Oh sure, I could access the Internet with my phone’s data plan, but my phone is dead. I haven’t been able to find my charger. This, again, is not the disaster it might be for most people. It’s not like I’m going to miss some life or death text if I don’t have a charged phone for a couple days. My mother and sisters are used to not hearing from me every day. My agent is really the only person who gets frantic when she can’t reach me.

            No, my biggest problem at this moment, other than not being able to escape Manitowoc before anyone manages to recognize me, is that I’m bored.

            I’m not bored often. When you’re in my line of work, if you get bored, you get up, walk around a bit, or maybe get in your car and drive some place. Do something to change the scenery, and

then get back to work. And when I’m really into it, if I’m really in the writing zone, boredom is the least of my problems. Remembering to eat is usually a bigger issue.

Besides, I’m not built to be bored. If you’re a person who believes in Divine Intervention, you’d know what I’m talking about. God saw to it when He made me, He made a person who simply had zero chance of finding the world dull or tedious. Terrifying, yes. Bewildering, absolutely. Never boring.

            And yet, here I am. Maybe it’s some sort of evil spell that hangs over this city on Lake Michigan.

            No, that’s not the case. I don’t have to go back too far in my memory to realize that ‘terrified’ and ‘isolated’ are really the only two things I took away from my time in this burg. I was too busy being tormented to feel anything other than those two emotions. So, hey, there’s that silver lining my sisters are always telling me to look for.

Right now the one thing that’s saving me from sliding into a brain dead coma is the television in the corner of the waiting room. Granted, it’s tuned to local news and the local anchor, complete with that North Eastern Wisconsin accent, is telling us all a delightful little story about some seventh-grade school group having an exciting day at all the tourist attractions along the Lake Michigan shore. The story is pure fluff and I have zero interest in local news, school groups, or Lake Michigan while my vehicle is being poked by strangers.  But TV noise is better than the sound of a mechanic telling me my beloved Forester is dead.