The Artist’s Corner – Visionary Editor, Kori Frazier Morgan

Prior to meeting Kori Frazier Morgan, I heard her name mentioned several times by fellow writer, Don Ake. Then I had the pleasure of hearing her speak at the writing group Don facilitates, The Write Stuff. She was quite professional and pleasant. I, however, wasn’t in the right place to receive what she talked about. Finally, at the annual Christmas party hosted by The Write Stuff, Don insisted that I sit down next to Kori and talk with her. He even cleared a chair beside her so we could speak uninterrupted face to face. Well, all I know is that I can only avoid so many divine appointments before the lightning bolt successfully strikes through my thick skull. Kori was exactly what my novel needed, and I am so thankful to God for her. She’s also what I needed, and she came along at just the right time. Take a moment to meet this marvelous woman through her interview.

Welcome to the Artist’s Corner. Tell me a little bit about yourself.

I’m Kori Frazier Morgan. I grew up in Kent, Ohio and now live in rural northeast Ohio with my husband, Curtis, who is a machinist and craftsman. We have three pets—two cats, Anastasia and Moe, and Gus, a basset/beagle mix. I hold a B.A. in creative writing and professional writing from Ohio Northern University and a Master of Fine Arts in fiction writing from West Virginia University. Aside from reading and writing, I enjoy long-distance cycling, watching movies, seeing live theatre, and listening to vinyl.

How did your work experience contribute to your desire to write?

I have been blessed to pretty much work in some area of the writing field since graduating from college in 2007. I have created educational content, taught writing classes, and worked as a copywriter and content developer. Even when I worked in retail, it was at a bookstore, so I was still operating within the writing world. All my jobs have helped me get better at writing and learn new things.

Have you always wanted to be a writer? When did you develop your love of writing?

I have enjoyed making up stories and writing them down since I was a kid, but I didn’t start to really think seriously about writing as a career until eighth grade, when I found out that creative writing was something you could study in college. Up until then, I just thought it was a cool hobby. I was blessed to have some wonderful teachers in middle school and high school who helped me develop my talents. I worked on the newspaper staff, took acting and communications classes, and loved being in AP English and history courses, where writing essays was a big part of the class.

Have you ever worked as a freelance writer?

All the time. Every day. In 2012, I left academia to pursue freelance writing full time. I returned to the classroom for a few years to teach at a career college and later worked in marketing, but I can’t say I’ve ever totally left the freelance world. Now I run a small business (more on that later) and freelancing is a big part of my life.

What genre do you write?

I have primarily written fiction in the past, but I am now working on a collection of flash nonfiction essays. I also run a weekly blog, Creativity Matters, as part of my business, Inkling Creative Strategies.

To which writing communities do you belong?

I am a member of The Habit, a worldwide community of Christian writers. We work together to study writing, encourage each other, and help each other to become proficient in our craft. The fellowship at The Habit is extraordinary. People care not just about helping you write excellent work, but about you as an individual. We take writing classes, share our writing on a forum, and have virtual writing time on Zoom, where we hang out and work on our projects.

More in our immediate area, I’m part of A Writer’s Life NEO and The Write Stuff, groups based in the Akron/Canton area that meet monthly to critique members’ work. You can either bring something to share or just read and comment. It’s a very low-key, informal way to get some feedback on your writing and The Write Stuff goes out to eat afterward.

Who or what influences your writing?

I am a big fan of music and film. I listen to music while I write and try to put together playlists that help shape what I’m working on. My novel-in-stories, The Goodbye-Love Generation, is heavily based on my dad’s experiences as a member of the Northeast Ohio music scene around the time of the Kent State shootings in 1970, and I have a whole Spotify playlist devoted to the songs that are in the background of the story. When I’m not writing, I enjoy listening to everything from classical to classic country to hymns to Metallica.

My favorite movie is The Shawshank Redemption, which I’ve seen an obscene number of times. I think it is the perfect film for writers to study to learn about narration, character development, foreshadowing, and just how to deliver a satisfying story in general.

How have your favorite authors and/or books shaped your writing?

My favorite author is Flannery O’Connor, and my favorite book is her novel, Wise Blood. I love that she is a Christian author who is not afraid to look at the darkness of the human heart. All of her characters have to face the question of what we are to do with Jesus Christ and His death and resurrection on our behalf, but she does so in a way that resists sentimentality. Many of the stories conclude in a way that is open-ended, leaving room to speculate about what their answer might be. I’m not sure exactly how her work has directly impacted my writing. I just know it has.

What’s your dream goal as a writer?

I want my books to get to as many people as possible whose lives will be impacted by them.

Which authors/genres do you enjoy reading?

I like literary fiction, memoir, and books about theology and spirituality that will help me grow in my faith. I also love studying the Bible. It is God’s inspired Word and contains everything I need to learn more about Him and receive His direction for my life.

What are you reading right now?

I am reading The Door on Half-Bald Hill, a novel by Helena Sorensen. Helena is a member of The Rabbit Room, an organization I support that provides encouragement and edification for Christian artists of all kinds.

What have you published and where?

I have published two books: Bone China Girls, a poetry chapbook, and The Goodbye-Love Generation, both through my independent imprint, Bezalel Media. Numerous individual pieces have also appeared in literary journals such as Shenandoah, SN Review, Switchback, Rubbertop Review, Blanket Sea, Up the Staircase Quarterly, and more.

Describe your journey to publication.

I have been writing professionally for more than 15 years, and the landscape of publishing has changed tremendously in that time. I am an independent author and do the majority of the work to publish and promote my work. During my MFA program in the late ‘00s, we were told that self-publishing was not a legitimate way to publishing a book and that going that route would destroy your credibility. As a result, even as time passed and it became more accepted and prevalent, I was reluctant to pursue publishing my own work.

Things changed after my chapbook, Bone China Girls, was still being rejected after five years. The book recounts the true story of the tragic death of a sixteen-year-old girl in the mid-’60s at the hands of teens and children in her neighborhood, and I felt that it commented on issues such as sexual abuse, bullying, and violence against women that were widely discussed and that I could provide insight into. I decided to publish the chapbook myself because I saw it as an urgent matter. The book’s message was important, and I simply couldn’t wait around for the gatekeepers to tell me I could share it.

I am an independent author and I enjoy publishing my own books. As a marketer and editor with a desktop publishing background, I have the majority of the skills necessary to do the work on my own. I would certainly not recommend this path to everyone—there are some truly hideous books out there that have resulted from authors taking on the responsibility when they are not equipped to handle being the entirety of their publication team. You have to be able to do it professionally in order to be taken seriously.

Have you faced any challenges with writing and/or publishing?

I have struggled with superimposing my own will on my work—trying to make my writing do something that, within the context of a particular project, it is simply not able to do. The Goodbye-Love Generation was like this. I had an agent turn it down when I was finishing grad school because it was a novel composed of short stories and not a traditional novel. As a result, I assumed there was something wrong with that format and spent ten years trying to make it work as a novel or abandoning it for periods of time because I was so frustrated.

Eventually, I realized that I had it right the first time. It was supposed to be a collection of interconnected stories. The fragmented nature of the story fits the characters’ own fragmented perception of the world and themselves. No other format would work to tell this story. Instead of just working with what I had, I let one person’s opinion dictate what I did with my book for ten years. You have to believe in your vision for your writing even if it isn’t what the powers that be seem to want.

Are there any comparative titles to your work(s)?

I am a big fan of two other authors who have written fiction about the Kent State tragedy. Sabrina Fedel has a book called Leaving Kent State that addresses the year leading up to the shootings from the perspective of a high school senior dealing with a friend who returns from Vietnam with PTSD and a debilitating injury. I was also thrilled to receive an endorsement for my book from the fabulous Rita Dragonette, whose novel The Fourteenth of September impacted my revisions. The book is about a college student in the ROTC nursing program who secretly becomes involved with an anti-war group on campus and is caught between her family’s traditional conservative values and her growing feelings that the Vietnam War is wrong.

Describe your research process.

I like to get immersed in places. When I was researching The Goodbye-Love Generation, I felt it was necessary to get the reader out of Kent for some of the stories and move away from the politically charged narrative of the shootings. I can’t remember exactly how it happened, but some thread or another of my Google searching led me to Chippewa Lake Park, a now-defunct amusement park that played an active role in giving local musicians exposure back in the ‘60s and ‘70s. It found its way into two stories in the book. That wasn’t something I planned on, but I think it brought an element of innocence to a story that is otherwise very violent and full of loss.

I also wrote some of the book at a cafe in downtown Kent across the street from the former site of J.B.’s, the bar where my fictional band, The Purple Orange, performs in the book. Downtown Kent is very different now than it was in the ‘70s but being able to imagine the characters there really informed how I described the setting.

Tell me about your newest business venture.

Inkling Creative Strategies is an author services company that offers editing, project development, consulting, typesetting and interior book design, mentorship, and more. My inspiration is the Inklings, the writing society that J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, and other writers at Oxford started to encourage each other in their work. My goal is to help writers reach their full creative potential so they can impact and inspire readers. We have been in operation for almost two years, and in that time, authors have released books, completed manuscripts, developed short stories, and started blogs. It’s been awesome to see how it’s developed!

Where can one find you on the Internet?

You can visit my website to learn more about Inkling Creative Strategies. On my website, I offer free writing tools, including workbooks and checklists, as well as the opportunity to schedule a free Zoom consultation.

For more information about my book, visit The Goodbye-Love Generation.

You can also find me on Instagram @inklingcreativestrategies.

What advice can you offer for someone seeking an editor?

I think an ideal editor balances being knowledgeable about the English language and creative writing with understanding the author’s vision. It isn’t about being correct all the time—it’s about collaborating with the writer to make their work exactly what they want it to be. Editing has to be an ego-free process, and you can’t be married to the rules. You need to show the author grace in terms of helping them execute their ideas. I would strongly advise writers to not take on an editor who is rigid and not willing to collaborate.

What’s your dream job as an editor?

I would love to see an author I work with just totally blow up with their work—get tons of readers and attention, and maybe even become a hit nationally. Not because Inkling might get some credit for that, or that even I would, but because I would have accomplished my mission of helping someone reach their full creative potential.

Where do you see yourself in the world of writing in ten years?

I would love to see Inkling grow enough that I can partner with other editors who share my vision. I also, of course, hope that I will continue to write and publish work that will make an impact on readers, whatever that looks like. I also fantasize about The Goodbye-Love Generation being made into an Amazon or Netflix limited series.

Those are great goals and dreams. Wishing you all the best in your pursuits!

Dunkirk – Movie Review

An unusual movie, quite brilliant, and one for which you should probably come prepared, Dunkirk drops the viewer into the middle of action already far underway.  If you don’t know you World War II history, you’re going to spend the rest of the movie trying to figure out what’s going on.  Or perhaps you’ll give up and go with it, but you’ll be cheating yourself on the importance of what is taking place on the screen.  I’ll provide a small clue and tell you it’s a movie about survival and how far an individual and a group will go to achieve it.

The storyline doesn’t follow one particular character through his experiences and struggles during the war and evacuation.  Rather it presents the events taking place from multiple POVs, both military and civilian, thus providing a wonderful angle from which to view the scenes.  With this technique, the viewer is also treated to a variety of reactions about what is occurring.  Again, if you’re not familiar with World War II history, you may be surprised to find this isn’t an action movie with battle scenes like you were possibly expecting.

Dunkirk is an intense fusion of visuals and sounds.  At first I thought the cinematography looked too new, but the clarity of the shots appealed to me long before the movie was over.  When combined with an amazing soundtrack crafted by Hans Zimmer, the experience draws one in mind and body.  I found myself tensing up in my seat to the musical equivalent of the sound of gunfire, the groaning metal of a sinking destroyer, and a dive-bombing plane.

The movie doesn’t downplay the heroism of the men serving in France, but shares the valor with the civilians who rushed to their rescue for the evacuation effort.  And instead of presenting Germany as the soul antagonist, Dunkirk relays the various forces of antagonism that worked against the soldiers and civilians alike.

With a great cast of actors including Kenneth Branagh, James D’Arcy, Cillian Murphy, and Tom Hardy, Dunkirk is not for the casual movie goer.  However, if you’re a World War II history buff or a history buff in general, you’ll leave the theatre feeling like you walked every grueling step with the soldiers, and you’ll be glad you did.

The Music of Life

the-music-of-lifeSeveral years ago while shelving AV material at the library where I used to work, I came across a CD titled The Goat Rodeo Sessions. What caught my eye, besides the unusual title, was Yo-Yo Ma on the cover. I was familiar with Yo-Yo Ma as a classically trained musician, but here he was featured on a CD devoted to music of a completely different genre. Without hesitation, I checked out the CD and couldn’t wait to listen to it on the drive home. What I heard started a love affair with a type of music I’d previously tiptoed around.

Probably what kept me from exploring this genre earlier was the fact that much of it was labeled Bluegrass. My opinion of Bluegrass included all things twangy and hick-i-fied. Yes, that is a word. What I discovered that day was something called Classical Crossover. Classical Crossover is a genre that hovers between classical and popular music, and is usually targeted at fans of both types of music. In the most common type of crossover, classically trained performers sing or play popular songs, folk music, show tunes, or holiday songs.

Chris Thile, Edgar Meyer, and Stuart Duncan also contributed to the CD’s eleven tracks of music based on English and Irish fiddle music that gave birth to what we know as Appalachian fiddle music. The closest I’d ever come to anything like it was the little bits of fiddle I’d heard in songs by Clannad and The Chieftains.

After listening to The Goat Rodeo Sessions, I went in search of other CDs by the same artists or those featuring similar music. I discovered Appalachian Waltz, Short Trip Home, Appalachian Journey, and Heartland: An Appalachian Anthology all of which are now in a playlist that became the soundtrack of my mind as I wrote my novel, The Secrets of Dr. John Welles. One song in particular, “Sliding Down” featuring Béla Fleck, Edgar Meyer, and Mike Marshall, epitomized John Welles’s experience in the later years of his life.

By the time John lived in the Appalachian Mountains of West Virginia, his life had taken so many downward turns that he believed he’d never dig himself out from under them. Yet through it all, he retained a shred of hope buried deep in his heart. “Sliding Down” is the musical representation of what John felt during those years:  melancholy with a touch of optimism on the horizon that he was too afraid to reach for.

Other tracks from the above-listed CDs also played perfectly to the scenarios I wrote whether it was John as a boy on the family farm, as a student at the University of Maryland, during his relationship with the beautiful, enigmatic Garland, or the months following the D-Day Invasion. I don’t doubt that the music shaped what I wrote as if the songs were indeed a custom-made soundtrack. However, I finished writing over a year ago, so I haven’t accessed my Appalachian playlist in some time.

Last week, I had the opportunity to re-read To Kill a Mockingbird. It had been over thirty years since I had done so as an Honors English student in high school, but thanks to one of my book clubs, we revisited the classic. During one scene, Scout mentioned that Atticus liked listening to fiddle music on the radio. Suddenly my forgotten playlist rushed back to my memory. A quick check on Google confirmed that the Appalachian Mountains extend as far south as northern Alabama. As I read, all my favorite pieces became the background music for Scout, Jem, Dill, and Atticus’s adventures, and I listened to my playlist for two days straight.

By the way, the term goat rodeo refers to a chaotic event where many things must go right for the situation to work, a reference to the unusual and challenging aspects of blending classical and bluegrass music. Yo-Yo Ma described a goat rodeo saying, “If there were forks in the road and each time there was a fork the right decision was made then you get to a goat rodeo.” In the case of The Secrets of Dr. John Welles and To Kill a Mockingbird, the right choices weren’t always made, but somehow life worked out for the majority of those involved. This fact further reinforces my belief that the music of Appalachia is truly the music of real life.

Moving Day

Thunderstorm_in_sydney_2000x1500Thunderstorms of a Noachian proportion blast the city for three days, washing the sun from the sky. White water eddies cluttered with trash swirl around the tires of cars abandoned until the deluge subsides. Undulating sheets of rain reduce all human activity to that of water-logged muskrats scurrying from building to bus stop and back again.

When the skies finally clear, the ancient apartment building smells like books stored in the basement. Tenants prop open their doors with fans to shift the staleness from corner to corner, never allowing it to settle on the pages of their lives. Cycling dehumidifiers placed by the landlord lure the saturated air with the promise of stagnation in the too-small reservoirs.

Joel’s fingertips rest on the windowsill; his eyes scan the street three stories below. Part of him wants to go downstairs to search for the movers’ truck. They were scheduled to arrive at nine that morning but probably couldn’t find a place to park out front. For all he knows, they’re circling the block or double parked, ticketed, and arguing with a cop. His fingers drum impatiently, and he sighs. His own lack of punctuality over the years has not made him lenient toward other people’s lateness.

Another stack of books is removed from the shelves, the void outlined in dust, and absentmindedly placed in a cardboard box. All week things he’d rather be doing kept popping into his head, but he doesn’t have the leisure of avoiding the chore, and no one else is going to do it for him. The zip of duct tape brings Kirsten from the bedroom. Her eyes are red and swollen.

“Can I help?”

Joel kneels to press the duct tape along the seam of the cardboard flaps. When he looks up, a forced smile twists his mouth sideways.

“I got this.”

“’Cause you know I’ll help. It’s not like I wouldn’t or something.”

“I know.” He stands and places his hands on her arms. “It’s why I love you.”

A quick peck to her forehead conceals his cringe at having misspoken, but now he’s afraid his kiss also sends the wrong message.

“You don’t have to be here right now–or stay–if you don’t want.”

“I came out ‘cause I thought you’d enjoy some tea, but I’ll go back if you want.”

“That’s fine, tea is fine.”

She shuffles to the doll-sized kitchen, the slap and scuff of her slippers grating on Joel’s already frayed nerves. Gray sweatpants and hoodie render her dancer’s body shapeless. Her unwashed hair is pulled into a sloppy ponytail, exposing her long neck as she stands at the sink filling the kettle with water. Damn he loves the sight of her neck. It was the first place he ever kissed her, right where the long, sable strands stopped and the micro fine, colorless ones began. She had been wearing a ponytail then, too.

He could spend hours making love to her neck alone, her warm flesh goose-pimpling beneath his parted lips, and the sweet scent of lily of the valley residing behind her ear. Being with Kirsten felt like standing in intense, bright sunshine, and looking at her like viewing diamonds of light dancing on water until his eyes teared, the pain so sweet. He believed he possessed something truly worth having when he held her in his arms; he was free and bound all at once in his love for her.

Joel’s eyes close like a stage curtain dropping on the memory.   He remains motionless for several seconds listening to the click and ragged woof of the burner. When his body sways, his eyes flick open. Dizziness on the fringe of his senses is replaced with the claustrophobia of the stuffy living room crammed with packed boxes of his stuff.

“The tea should be ready in a jif.”

He nods at Kirsten and wanders about the room gathering the last few items that defined his space in their home. A high school swimming trophy, the book on Albert Einstein he is currently reading, a chipped clay dinosaur he made in first grade, the teak kaleidoscope Kirsten gave him for Hanukkah, a Lego pirate, his Call of Duty video game; all these items are cradled in his arms. Again he looks out the window wondering where the hell the movers are.

“Where’s your favorite mug?”

Kirsten searches the cupboard where it should be and all the ones in which it was never stored, opening and slamming the doors shut, making little noises in her throat every time she doesn’t find it.

“I already packed it, but I know right where it is.”

“Never mind; you can use mine.”

Gathering clouds and the return of soft rain diminishes the light in the narrow room, fuzzing the crisp edges of the long shadows. Joel listens to the patter against the windows, his thoughts disturbed by the remembrance that she doesn’t have a favorite mug. Another lie.

Kirsten removes the kettle from the burner when the metal begins to tick and hiss with the strain of the boil inside. The simple process of drinking tea will draw them together one more time when all Joel really wants is for Kirsten to leave so he can focus on packing. Anything would be better than the haphazard orbit they’ve danced for the past three weeks, tactfully avoiding each other but never able to escape the other’s pull.

A few dunks of the tea bag and Kirsten plops down on the loveseat with both legs tucked beneath her. She splashes the hot tea on her hand and winces with childlike poutiness. The mug intended for Joel stands alone on the countertop. He can feel a bee swarm of bitterness rising in his chest as he dumps the gathered items in his arms on the countertop next to the tea. He knows Kirsten wants him to join her on the loveseat, but he resists her wishes. Much to his surprise, he has to resist his own as well.

To drink the tea means he’s yielding his will to hers, but he doesn’t know what to do with her simple offering. It’s just tea, though; green tea with jasmine, his favorite tea in her pretended favorite mug. The unspoken request for forgiveness swirls upward with the coils of fragrant steam.

The thing is, Joel wants to forgive Kirsten. The knotted rope of muscles between his shoulders would finally be eased; his stomach would stop roiling like a bad chemistry experiment. And how many times has he heard in life that forgiveness is as much for him as it is for the other person? Countless. Just do it, he thinks and chuckles at relationship advice coming from a Nike ad.

Kirsten reaches between the loveseat cushions to retrieve the remote. She points it at the stereo releasing Monica’s voice into the room. Angel of Mine fills up every ounce of space not already taken up by moving boxes and furniture. Joel’s shoulders sag, and his weight shifts to one hip. When she pats the space beside her, he obeys.

“More than anything–no wait–I just want, hope rather, that we can part on…if not good terms exactly, um, happy?”

“Friends? You want us to leave as friends, Kirsten?”

“Well at least friendly. Kind to each other would be nice. There’s no reason anymore to be angry or bitter. Not now that you’ve decided to leave.”

Joel seriously considers a scalding gulp of tea to keep from saying what he truly wants to say and to keep the conversation from deteriorating into an argument. Monica has given way to Marvin crooning about sexual healing.

“You’ve conveniently made this my fault because I decided to move out.”

“I don’t believe this is a matter of fault, Joel. I’m not pointing fingers or laying blame.”

“No, Kirsten, that’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“Just forget it, okay?”

He stands too quickly, spilling tea on his cargo pants. As he pauses to brush at the blossoming stain, she jumps up to follow and runs into his bent back, dousing his ratty cardigan with tea.

“Ow–that’s still hot!”

“Oh, baby, I’m so sorry.”

Her hands join his in trying to wipe away the liquid, but he pushes her away bodily with his arm.

“Never mind, Kirsten, I’m gonna have to change. It soaked through to my t-shirt.”

“But your clothes are already packed.”

The stupidly obvious statement silences him; he stares at her as if she suddenly grew scales on her lovely neck. With exaggerated precision of movement, he walks to the boxes stacked three high. The top two are removed with great flourish, and then Joel pauses to make sure Kirsten watches.

“Look, honey, they can just as easily be torn open.”

He grabs the doubled-over, duct tape handle he fashioned and rips it from the box removing a great deal of cardboard with it. The ragged scar across the edges will be difficult to reseal. All manner of clothing is flung about the room until he locates a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. The neat freak in Joel stalks past the mess without stopping to pick it up. He heads for the bedroom with Kirsten in tow.

“Joel–I can fix this. It’ll be okay.”

“You can’t fix this, Kirsten. It’s ruined.”

Janet calls from the stereo reminding him that’s the way love is.

He tosses his clean clothes on the dresser then sheds the drenched cardigan and throws it at her feet, turning his back on her to remove the rest of his clothes. When he faces her, she has his sweater, pants, and shirt clutched in her arms, pressed to her face. Her muffled voice comes to him edged in tears.

“It’s not ruined, Joel. It just needs cleaned.”

Cool air makes his skin prickle; he feels like a fool in just his socks and underwear. A shiver makes him cross his arms. She lifts her face from the soggy bundle.

“And I can sew on another button where you lost one, put some Fray Check on the cuff where it’s unraveling. Please let me fix this.”

Every fiber of his being wants to beg her for forgiveness, no longer caring that the blame has shifted to him. He accepts it willingly, never questioning how he came to be the one needing to explain his actions.

“It’s just that that sweater was my Grandpa Joe’s. I’m named for him, you know.”

“I know.”

“He wore that thing every day of his life. I can still smell him on it.”

“That cologne he wore?”

“Yeah. It was like his signature scent or something. His calling card before he entered a room. And his sweater…”

“I get it, Joel. Really, babe, I do.”

“My Grandmother Judith made that sweater for him. It’s been around for like–ever. It’s endured a lot.”

“And it’s well made. That’s why it’s survived.”

“Exactly.”

Kirsten tucks Joel’s shirt and pants under her arm. With the clothes pressed against her body it’s difficult to properly fold the sweater, but she does. The precious garment is placed on the dresser, the ordinary clothes dropped. She stand before him for so long that he doesn’t know what to do next.

Instinctively, his arms pull Kirsten against his chest where his skin quivers at her presence. His mouth seeks her forehead, her cheek, her earlobe. Joel slips outside of his own body, watching his hands sneak under the draw-string waistband of her sweatshirt, caressing her back as they move upward. He sees with his fingers that she isn’t wearing a bra.

Luther tells him all that matters is here and now. So Joel submits to the sacredness of the moment, the opportunity to occupy the same space as Kirsten, the chance to reknit the warp and weft of the fabric of their life together. Time stops, and the morning is lost to work more satisfying than packing boxes.

There is no before, no after, only rain drumming a cadence on the roof of their building, the sound dulling Joel’s consciousness as he sinks into the softness of Kirsten’s embrace. He spirals downward toward sleep, aware of the sensation overtaking him until his body jerks. The buzzing cell phone vibrates on the hardwood floor, demanding attention.

A missed call is followed by three rapid-fire texts. Joel slips from the tangle of Kirsten’s arms and legs, twisting on the bed to pick up her cell phone where it fell when she undressed.

Emilio: Hey babe is he gone yet

Emilio: Call me when the jerk leaves

Emilio: Are we on for tonight

Joel’s thumbs work at punching out the message: screw u Emilio

Plastic and tidbits of circuitry fly in every direction when the cell phone hits the closet door.

“Hey!”

Kirsten sits up in bed and points at the debris of her new iPhone freed from its hot pink paisley cover.

“What the hell are you doing, Joel?”

“You’re worried about your damn phone right now?”

“What the hell else should I be worried about right now? Oh, how about the fact that my boyfriend has gone psycho?”

“Unbelievable, Kirsten; you are just so freakin’ unbelievable.”

Joel grabs his tea-stained, damp pants from the floor and jams his foot into one leg, hopping around on the other foot.

“This is so typical of you, so typical, and I am so tired of being your computer geek patsy. How cliché for the principal dancers to fall in love with each other.”

“What–What did you say? You’re muttering, Joel.”

He spins around and loses his balance, his feet tangled in both empty pant legs as his knees crash into the bed, and he lands on his outstretched arms. His face is only inches from hers. Kirsten laughs and places her palms on either side of his face.

“Oh, Joely.”

“No–don’t you Joely, me.”

“It was just a cell phone, honey; I don’t mind, although I do feel bad since you paid for it.”

“How could you? This isn’t even about the stupid phone, Kirsten.”

“Then why don’t you tell me what it’s about? And why don’t you either put your pants on or lay back down with me?”

Her arms assume the fifth position as she reclines on the bed, but her legs are in second beneath the covers. Disgust contorts Joel’s face, and he pushes himself upright.

With his back to her, he finishes dressing. A sneaked look in the mirror on the bedroom door reflects her image with drawn up knees and her chin resting on her crossed arms. Wide-eyed, innocent Kirsten has returned.

“Joel, I know I’m not perfect–”

“You got that right–”

“–but I believe what we have together is worth saving.”

“That may have been true at one time, but I’m not so sure now.”

“If you’re not sure, then why leave? Why make a hasty decision you’ll end up regretting?”

“Because I don’t want to stay here and end up regretting us.”

“Is that your final decision?”

Joel sits on the caned chair by the window. The torn seat gives under his weight but does not break. His eyes search the view outside, his back still toward her, as Tina asks what’s love got to do with it.

“Kirsten, I have allowed this to play out for so long, that I don’t even know what I’m looking for anymore. I want–I need–a sign or something to tell me what am I supposed to do?”

Joel squints when sunlight slices through the partially drawn bedroom curtains. He stands to lift his face toward the brightness like a sunflower. His chin drops to his chest as the squeal of brakes on the street below signals the arrival of the moving van.

Welcome Home, Dr. Welles

I’d like to share one piece of inspiration to which I returned repeatedly while writing my novel, The Secrets of Dr. John Welles.

Welcome Home, Dr. WellesThe Lark Ascending, by Ralph Vaughn Williams, is an exquisitely beautiful and haunting piece of music that perfectly captures the joy of returning from war and the pain of what had to be endured.  I believe it was nothing short of Divine coincidence that this piece played while I attempted to write what my main character, John Welles, would have experienced as he returned from the European theater of World War II.

John’s participation in the war was brief due to a horrific tragedy that leaves him scarred both physically and emotionally.  Nothing could have prepared him for the burden he must bear; he alone is responsible for the terrible secret.  His one wish is to escape the pain he caused by seeking refuge with his family.  Unfortunately, the memories at home plague him every bit as much, if not more, than his time in the war.

English poet George Meredith’s 122-line poem, also titled The Lark Ascending, was the inspiration for Williams’s musical work.  The poem is a hymn to the skylark and his song.  I admit that I’m no poet and certainly not qualified to decide what makes good poetry.  However, I am pleased that Meredith’s poem led to the creation of music that led to the writing of one of my favorite scenes in my novel.

Please take a pause in your busy day to listen to The Lark Ascending above and read The Lark Ascending below.  Enjoy!

The Lark Ascending, George Meredith (1828 – 1909)

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