Sidney Carlson has hard feelings toward her last three boyfriends which keeps potential suitors at arms’ length. She loves the beach and whenever she can she spends her time on the sand. During a winter stay at her favorite motel, a storm forces her to share her room with Alder Finch, a regional bookstore manager. When they return to their lives in the real world, they begin a romance that seems to be leading to marriage. But on a business trip, Finch is thrown together with his ex-wife, a woman he's neglected to tell Sidney about. When he calls to tell her what’s going on, Sidney incorrectly understands that he and his ex are getting back together and ends her relationship with him. Back on the beach, they each search out a new place where they won't bother the other. Fate has other plans. |
Excerpt
I wrote my first book when I was in high school.
I wrote during class, on the bus, and every night in my room. My detective sleuthed through stores and warehouses and cemeteries following clues to find the thief of a priceless Grecian urn. Along the way I had him meet many interesting characters I described carefully and at length. The weather played a big part in my story. I had wind and rain and sleet, all pictured in detail. My detective regularly forgot his hat or umbrella and got soaked while he sneaked around following clues. I thought it was the greatest thing ever written.
I wrote it first on yellow tablet paper and rewrote it on white. After months of work and a book of about a hundred pages, I decided to ask Dad to edit it. Once he’d looked it over, I was going to ask to use his typewriter for the final copy that I’d send to a publisher.
I brought my stack of hand-written papers with me to supper and sat on them while we ate. I remember we talked about kites, Eddie’s newest passion, and I remember the meal seemed endless. When my brothers went to their rooms, Mom was doing the dishes, and Dad started reading the paper, I brought my one hundred pages from their hiding place.
“Dad,” I said.
“Ummm.”
He didn’t look up from the paper, and Mom didn’t turn from the sink.
“Do you think you could look this over?”
“Sure,” he said putting aside the paper. “What is it?
I handed him the sheets without a word. He scanned the first page, thumbed through the stack, scanned another page, and set them on the table.
“Wrote a story, did you?” he asked.
“A book,” I replied. I was nearly bursting with pride. “It’s a detective novel with a smart guy hero. Reese Mather. Cool name, huh?”
Now Mom was at the table. Dad handed her half the pages. She gave me a big smile and started reading the first page.
“And you want me to edit this?” he asked.
“Well, yeah. It’s a good story so you won’t need to do much,” I said. “But, yeah, I’d like you to look at it.”
I rubbed the top of my head in agitation.
“This is great,” Mom put in, still smiling at me. “When did you write it?”
“How long have you been working on it?” Dad asked.
“On the bus and after school. I started it last October,” I replied.
Now I was grinning from ear to ear. Somehow Mom’s participation made me a lot less scared.
“It took me almost the whole school year,” I said, talking fast now. “And I rewrote it once. I decided to use yellow paper for all my first copies so I’d know which one came first. Then I rewrote it on white paper left over in my spiral notebooks from last year. I’ll type it next. And the typed copy will go to the publisher. I want to keep the first copy, but I don’t think I’ll keep the rewrite.”
“There are different kinds of editing,” Dad said when I wound down. “I can read the whole thing and let you know if the story holds together. You know, whether or not the plot works. I can read it and correct it for grammar and punctuation. Or I can just read it and let you know if I like the story.”
“What do you do for most of the books you work on?” I asked.
Mom was back at the sink, but she was listening and smiling.
“Depends on what they want me to do,” he replied. “I do what the publisher or the writer decides needs to be done. I’ve started working with authors at the first idea, helping them develop the idea and get it on paper. I’ve edited books in process and made suggestions on format, layout, and flow. I’ve proofread finished books for punctuation and spelling one last time before publication.”
I sat there thinking about my perfect story and how little he’d need to do.
I wrote my first book when I was in high school.
I wrote during class, on the bus, and every night in my room. My detective sleuthed through stores and warehouses and cemeteries following clues to find the thief of a priceless Grecian urn. Along the way I had him meet many interesting characters I described carefully and at length. The weather played a big part in my story. I had wind and rain and sleet, all pictured in detail. My detective regularly forgot his hat or umbrella and got soaked while he sneaked around following clues. I thought it was the greatest thing ever written.
I wrote it first on yellow tablet paper and rewrote it on white. After months of work and a book of about a hundred pages, I decided to ask Dad to edit it. Once he’d looked it over, I was going to ask to use his typewriter for the final copy that I’d send to a publisher.
I brought my stack of hand-written papers with me to supper and sat on them while we ate. I remember we talked about kites, Eddie’s newest passion, and I remember the meal seemed endless. When my brothers went to their rooms, Mom was doing the dishes, and Dad started reading the paper, I brought my one hundred pages from their hiding place.
“Dad,” I said.
“Ummm.”
He didn’t look up from the paper, and Mom didn’t turn from the sink.
“Do you think you could look this over?”
“Sure,” he said putting aside the paper. “What is it?
I handed him the sheets without a word. He scanned the first page, thumbed through the stack, scanned another page, and set them on the table.
“Wrote a story, did you?” he asked.
“A book,” I replied. I was nearly bursting with pride. “It’s a detective novel with a smart guy hero. Reese Mather. Cool name, huh?”
Now Mom was at the table. Dad handed her half the pages. She gave me a big smile and started reading the first page.
“And you want me to edit this?” he asked.
“Well, yeah. It’s a good story so you won’t need to do much,” I said. “But, yeah, I’d like you to look at it.”
I rubbed the top of my head in agitation.
“This is great,” Mom put in, still smiling at me. “When did you write it?”
“How long have you been working on it?” Dad asked.
“On the bus and after school. I started it last October,” I replied.
Now I was grinning from ear to ear. Somehow Mom’s participation made me a lot less scared.
“It took me almost the whole school year,” I said, talking fast now. “And I rewrote it once. I decided to use yellow paper for all my first copies so I’d know which one came first. Then I rewrote it on white paper left over in my spiral notebooks from last year. I’ll type it next. And the typed copy will go to the publisher. I want to keep the first copy, but I don’t think I’ll keep the rewrite.”
“There are different kinds of editing,” Dad said when I wound down. “I can read the whole thing and let you know if the story holds together. You know, whether or not the plot works. I can read it and correct it for grammar and punctuation. Or I can just read it and let you know if I like the story.”
“What do you do for most of the books you work on?” I asked.
Mom was back at the sink, but she was listening and smiling.
“Depends on what they want me to do,” he replied. “I do what the publisher or the writer decides needs to be done. I’ve started working with authors at the first idea, helping them develop the idea and get it on paper. I’ve edited books in process and made suggestions on format, layout, and flow. I’ve proofread finished books for punctuation and spelling one last time before publication.”
I sat there thinking about my perfect story and how little he’d need to do.
Excerpt
At the hardware store, the brothers browsed every aisle. Eric took out his notebook and wrote prices on a chart stapled to the back cover. Steven was disappointed in the replica hardware. Most of it was for looks only and he knew it wouldn’t stand up to day-to-day use in the real world. They’d have to keep looking for a source they could count on and afford.
After dropping Eric at home, Steven drove to the river park. He hung his cameras around his neck, locked the truck, and started his walk down the blacktop track that paralleled the river for six miles. Now and then, he stopped to photograph the river or the trees, but mostly he walked slowly along the track waiting for the sun to set.
He turned at a commotion behind him and found two huge Newfoundland dogs joyfully leaping at each other and tumbling in the grass. The red leashes waving behind them contrasted sharply with their shaggy black hair. He snapped picture after picture, capturing the playful dogs as well as the stout grey-haired woman in a flowered peasant shirt who came running out of the trees after them. His last look at them was the woman, a leash in each hand, walking backwards toward the trees coaxing the dogs to follow her. Steven smiled at the mental image he had of her backing away from large black bears.
He passed boys throwing rocks into the river. He passed a stooped man with fuzzy white hair walking slowing, his eyes on the ground and his hands folded behind his back. He passed a teenaged couple necking on a bench with such ardor that he hoped the boys throwing rocks wouldn’t come any further down the track. Finally, he turned and retraced his steps.
The sinking sun turned the sky the color of his hair, but he didn’t make that comparison. He used first one and then the other camera to take snapshots of the sun and its reflection on the river. Clouds as thin as torn tissue paper filtered the last rays of light as the fiery orb sank past the horizon.
The spring air cooled immediately when the sun disappeared and Steven followed the other park visitors to the parking lot. His final shot of the day was the woman in the peasant skirt chasing her dogs across the parking lot, their red leashes flying loose behind their heads.
“Heel,” she cried. “Heel!”
At the hardware store, the brothers browsed every aisle. Eric took out his notebook and wrote prices on a chart stapled to the back cover. Steven was disappointed in the replica hardware. Most of it was for looks only and he knew it wouldn’t stand up to day-to-day use in the real world. They’d have to keep looking for a source they could count on and afford.
After dropping Eric at home, Steven drove to the river park. He hung his cameras around his neck, locked the truck, and started his walk down the blacktop track that paralleled the river for six miles. Now and then, he stopped to photograph the river or the trees, but mostly he walked slowly along the track waiting for the sun to set.
He turned at a commotion behind him and found two huge Newfoundland dogs joyfully leaping at each other and tumbling in the grass. The red leashes waving behind them contrasted sharply with their shaggy black hair. He snapped picture after picture, capturing the playful dogs as well as the stout grey-haired woman in a flowered peasant shirt who came running out of the trees after them. His last look at them was the woman, a leash in each hand, walking backwards toward the trees coaxing the dogs to follow her. Steven smiled at the mental image he had of her backing away from large black bears.
He passed boys throwing rocks into the river. He passed a stooped man with fuzzy white hair walking slowing, his eyes on the ground and his hands folded behind his back. He passed a teenaged couple necking on a bench with such ardor that he hoped the boys throwing rocks wouldn’t come any further down the track. Finally, he turned and retraced his steps.
The sinking sun turned the sky the color of his hair, but he didn’t make that comparison. He used first one and then the other camera to take snapshots of the sun and its reflection on the river. Clouds as thin as torn tissue paper filtered the last rays of light as the fiery orb sank past the horizon.
The spring air cooled immediately when the sun disappeared and Steven followed the other park visitors to the parking lot. His final shot of the day was the woman in the peasant skirt chasing her dogs across the parking lot, their red leashes flying loose behind their heads.
“Heel,” she cried. “Heel!”
Also available on Amazon:
Her Two Cents
Woolly Thyme
Her Two Cents
Woolly Thyme