BACK JACKET HACK-JOB #11: YOU

Welcome back to our next installment of the Back Jacket Hack-Job. I decided to take a hack at my book club’s selected title for the month --- You by Caroline Kepnes. I really enjoyed this book, so don’t let my hack turn you away from reading it!

~ Carrie

I have been waiting 264 days and 1 year for you to pick up this book. There is no need for you to look over your shoulder. You won’t see me. But I am watching you, waiting to see what you will do.

You could buy this book.

If you do, then I will let you be. I will pass judgment on you as you check out, but that is all. You have done what I wanted, so be on your way with your weak and impressionable mind. You are not worthy of my time.

However, you could put it back on the shelf and walk away.

Now, you have become interesting. You have earned my attention. The kind of attention you will receive depends on what you do after you put this book back on the shelf.

If you walk out of the store without a purchase, I will resent you for wasting my time. I will remember what you look like, how you smell, how you breathe. I will not forget you, and I will wait patiently until you return.

If you put this book back on the shelf and select an inferior book, I will be forced to educate you. I will lock you in the cage, and you will read a selection of my choosing. Then I will test you. You don’t want to find out what will happen if you fail my test.

Finally, there is a small chance you will put this book back in favor of one that is far superior. A book the majority of the people who walk into this bookstore would never be able to comprehend. But you . . . you have selected it, and that means you are special. You will earn my undivided attention. I will invade your life, both physically and virtually. I will eliminate anything that holds you down. I will continue to lurk in your shadow until you surrender to me.

Now it is time for you to decide. My plans for the evening depend on your actions, so choose wisely.

My Father's Daughter

On this Father's Day (and like all others since he died) I think about my own father, who was absolutely the most important person in my life up until I met my current husband. 

Even in death he lives on in my own children's laughter and in their curiosity about all this world has to offer. There isn't a day I don't think about him, but I never think about him more than I do on Father's Day.

I was lucky to be his. And the worst part is, I never really realized that until he was gone. Here is a glimpse. I have a million stories, but this one stands out the most. 

     ***

There are people who die to the world long before they are dead. Such as it was with my father.

When I go to his grave (which has only been once, almost 2 years after his funeral) I sit on the soft earth at what I imagine is the foot of it and stare at the date of his death. I imagine being able to find a tesseract (He read me A Wrinkle in Time at least 4 times when I was a kid) and entering an alternate reality to stub out the thousands of cigarettes, to replace the cheeseburgers with salad, to replace the despondency with hope. I imagine his lungs clearing, his arteries becoming unstuck to themselves. I imagine him being able to love again. I imagine the heart attack never happening.

  ***

   The radio stayed on AM talk radio for most of Arizona. A crumpled up bag from Burger King bumped my leg until we got to Flagstaff. My father kept the windows down so he could smoke. I wished for Xanax harder than I had ever wished for anything in my life.

"...So yeah, if you're going to find a man you're going to have to drop about 40 pounds. And that's really not that much, not with your frame." Dad always had a way of saying the things that made me want to curl up into the fetal position, open the door to the car, and roll on out of it.

"Right,” I replied. “Well, that sounds awesome. Good to know my worth is directly related to the circumference of my thighs. Excuse me while I swallow all of these generic sleep aids." I picked up the tiny plastic bottle from CVS I had bought in Kingman, at the beginning of this hell trip and rattled it in his face. "If I sleep I won't eat! I'll be the skinniest person alive!"

My dad laughed his big deep belly laugh that I loved so much. When I think about the fact I will never get to hear it again my bones start to hurt.

   

 ***

When I was in college, I was in an a capella group. Baldwin Charm. I loved it, it kept me happy. I would call my dad at night and tell him about the music, the girls, how much I wished he could be there for my concert that was coming up in a couple of weeks.

"Seriously, Dad. It sucks that you live in Florida now. I would die for you to be here. I'm singing Goodbye Earl!"

I could hear him taking a long drag. I imagined him talking to me in his room before he went to bed, the only light in the room being the cherry on his cigarette.

"I'm going to be there, sweetie. Somehow, some way. Even if I have to drive 12 hours there, watch you sing, and drive 12 hours back. I don't want to miss it." I remember thinking he was just saying that. No way would he do that. I wasn’t performing at Carnegie Hall. It was Staunton, Virginia.

But it really didn't seem to matter. He did it. Drove 24 hours roundtrip over the span of a weekend.

He was right in the front row, to the left. I think about that all the time.

 ***

    I insisted on music from Flagstaff to Gallup. Twangy country blared from my brother's Mitsubishi Eclipse speakers. We were driving his car back to him across the country. He was coming back from Iraq after almost a year of being away. Our spirits were high but the car was small and stuffed to it's limits with people and luggage, so we were moody. My knees hit the glove compartment so I put my feet up on the dash.

"Get your funky, Fred Flinstone lookin', ugly feet off the dash!" My father would swat at me and I would pout at him calling my feet ugly.

There was no room for thin skin in our family. 

"Whatever. There's no room in this car. I can't believe we're not even to New Mexico yet! How the hell am I going to do this??! I'm sorry my feet are ugly and I need to lose 40 pounds to be worth a damn!"

He shook his head. We both knew that wasn’t what he’d meant, even if he had a weird way of communicating with me, his only daughter.

Elvis Costello started singing on the radio. What's So Funny 'Bout Peace Love and Understanding? I drummed my ugly feet on

the passenger floor mat. 

"Did you name me after the Elvis Costello song?" I asked as my father lit up yet another cigarette and rolled down his window, hot New Mexico (we were finally there) breeze hitting my eyeballs, making us squint.

"Huh? Oh. No. The Alison song? No. I don't even like Elvis Costello. Isn't she kind of a floozy in that song? The Costello Alison?"

I sighed. "Yeah, you're right. He talks about taking her dress off at a party. Or it was a party dress. I don't know. Never mind.”

       ***

It's not a huge secret that I was with my father when he died. I remember that day in way too much detail. I want to repress it into a tiny ball and put it in the back of my brain where the sad times go but it has remained at the front of my memory every day since it happened. 

One minute I was watching a video on YouTube of Susan Boyle singing "I Dreamed a Dream" on Britain's Got Talent and the next second there was my father turning purple, gasping, looking up at the ceiling with a look of horror that cannot be described.

It was not beautiful. It was not peaceful. I see the look on his face in my nightmares and I still scream. I am not better for having witnessed what I saw. Seeing my father die was worse than being skinned alive. I didn't feel God. I didn't feel Jesus’ embrace, like someone told me I should feel at his funeral. In the darkest moments after my father died I understood why people stop believing there is a God at all. The light in my life was extinguished without any kind of closure.

For a long time, I envied the people that lose their loved ones to cancer. Which is so messed up. It sounds horrible to admit that because I know that kind of death comes with it's own unique and unbearable pain. And how selfish of me to wish my father a slow and agonizing death. But selfishly, I wish it. I wish I could tell him everything I ever wanted to tell him. I wish I could tell him I loved him, that he was a great dad, that I always respected him, even when it didn't seem like I did.

I want more time.

I want to tell him I remember how far he drove for his children. He would have driven to the end of the world.

       ***

He almost left me on the side of the road in Texas when I informed him I was voting for Barack Obama. We argued over every social issue you can think of before we reached Arkansas. He accused me of trying to break his heart on purpose. I think it was hard for him to reconcile that teaching me to be a woman who thinks for herself was backfiring on him.

But like with all our arguments, they never lasted long. It was impossible to stay mad at each other. He was my best friend after all.

 ***

"Dad, I think I have given up on the whole love thing. I mean, look at me! I'm 27 years old and already divorced. I have a shitty job, a shitty car, and like you said, I could stand to take a few long trips to the gym. I have accomplished nothing. I have friends that have mortgages and children and lives that seem so... adult. It's like everyone went to a class I never signed up for on how to live life and now that I never learned the lessons and I am left to my own devices I'm fucking everything up," I was talking his ear off. 

We were in Arkansas, full from pecan waffles at a Waffle House in Texarkana. 

"Who the hell is going to want ME, Dad? And look what love did to you? Your divorce almost killed you. Love is just a bunch of bullshit. It's a faulty product with a shitty return policy." 

Dad laughed again. "Oh, girl. That's why I love you. You're such a drama queen. It's always all or nothing with you." He started up the car, looked over his shoulder to see if it was clear to back out. "But that's probably something you got from me. You’re definitely my daughter.”

I nodded, agreeing. My dad could be melodramatic himself sometimes.

"But you know what, sweetie?" My father rolled the steering with one hand. "You're wrong about yourself. See, you don't see what I see. You're special. Not just in the way that all kids are special to their parents. But in a way that will make it hard for someone to love you because you will make it hard FOR them. You're stubborn. You're a pain in the ass. You whine too much." He pulled out of the parking lot and looked at me again. "You're also drop dead gorgeous. Smarter than hell and literally the most talented human being I have ever met in my life.”

I was silent. My father had never told me these things. It was always about how I could improve myself. How I would be better IF. 

"Don't let my story with your mom make you think there isn't a beautiful life out there waiting for you. That life may or may not include a great man, although I don't believe there is a man that exists that is good enough for you. You always ask how you can be better for someone else. I don't want you to spend your life asking yourself that. I want you to spend your life thinking how is he good enough for YOU? What does HE bring to YOUR table?" He started fiddling with the radio.

"I have no doubt your story is just beginning, sweetie. You're younger than you think you are."

I didn't complain about the talk radio again for a couple of hours. I sat and stared at the trees swishing by my window in a blur. 

      ***

When I first visited his grave it was as difficult as would be expected. I remember getting out of the car and hoping somehow I would find the tombstone split in two, the earth spilled out where he'd been buried. An angel sitting on a rock telling me: "He's not here. Go find him elsewhere." 

I would smile and think of him living a new life. A resurrected life. A life where he could get it right this time. Where he could be everything he ever wanted to be.

Sometimes when I look at old photos of him and see the smiling freckly kid in his football uniform, or a young sailor in his dress blues, or a high school kid in a ruffly tux for his senior photo, I wish that I could tell him what direction to go in. Sometimes I even think I would sacrifice having been born for him to get it all right. To find his happiness.

That is because I am my father's daughter. 

Eek! Put a Synopsis up for Criteek!

 A Post By Jonathan

I think we may have skipped our last Eeek! Put Some Pages Up For Critique Reoccurring Segment  so I figured I'd take a crack at it. Only this time it's a synopsis. My brain literally hurts from working on this thing all day. It is the first synopsis I've written so I wanted to hopefully get some feedback before I submit it. I hear these things are supposed to be under 600 words and mine is 599, so if you're suggesting adding stuff please also suggest taking something away:) I'm submitting it on June 20th for this one day open submission event with Pushkin Press. If there are any other MG or Children's authors out there, I highly suggest you look into it. 

Thanks for taking the time to read and comment! 



Twelve-year-old MAC MAGELLAN has been shipped off to Space Camp in Huntsville, Alabama for the third summer in a row. Having zero interest in junior astronaut training, he sneaks off to work on his fast ball as often as possible. He is playing baseball with his friends when a meteor crash lands at a nearby military base. Mac and his best friend NEIL IKEHEART decide to inspect the downed space rock, but are stopped by soldiers before they can reach it. Mac is returned to Space Camp, but Neil is held back for questioning. Neil returns a few hours later to tell Mac that the meteor has been moved to a secret hangar. Then Mac gets a rare phone call from his absentee astronaut parents, warning him to stay away from the meteor. Realizing something must be up, he convinces Neil to help him sneak into the military base to get a closer look.

As they’re breaking in, Mac and Neil run into ROMIE KIRKOWITZ, a fellow Space Camper who is also hoping to see the meteor. Reluctantly, the three of them work together to locate it. When Mac finally lays a hand on the meteor he is zapped inside. Moments later, a robot appears on the ceiling telling Mac that by entering the transport pod he has accepted an invitation to the Gathering of Galaxies and will be leaving Earth now. Overcome with fear and disbelief, Mac demands the robot let him go, but it refuses. As the pod begins its escape, it nearly rolls over Neil and Romie, forcing Mac to bring them aboard. 

After exiting Earth’s atmosphere, the pod speeds through the Milky Way and flies into the Eye of Jupiter. The portal takes Mac, Neil and Romie to Galaxy Camp, where a massive meeting of peaceful extraterrestrials is underway. Mac is greeted by SIX THE SATURNIAN who reveals he sent the pod to Earth to retrieve him because he is the first Earthling born in outer space, which means he is Starborn and worthy of an invitation to the Gathering of Galaxies. Eventually, Mac learns that Six is telling the truth, bringing Mac’s entire existence into question. Without much of a choice in the matter, Mac and friends decide to stay at Galaxy Camp until the unspecified conclusion of the gathering.

Mac is just starting to enjoy learning about other worlds through Life On Other Planets Sessions (L.O.O.P.S.) when Six tells him he thinks he is the Last Starborn— the one who will put an end to the Devourers’, an ancient evil born of black holes, efforts to wipe out the Starborn and destroy Galaxy Camp. Six is still trying to convince Mac of his destiny when the Solar Corps, a band of mercenaries famous for battling the Devourers, arrives claiming they have come to protect Galaxy Camp. After some investigation, he learns that the Solar Corps are in league with the Devourers and that they have alerted them to Galaxy Camp’s location.

After warning the other Gatherers, Mac goes to Galaxy Camp’s main power source and is surprised to find it only responds to him. Galaxy Camp is on the verge of being destroyed when, with Neil and Romie’s help and Six’s sacrifice, Mac shuts it down. This activates the Gatherers’ personal escape pods, sending everyone home safely, and leaves a baseball-sized Galaxy Camp in Mac’s safe keeping. Thanks to a time portal, Mac and friends get back in time for Space Camp graduation. Mac no longer thinks outer space is boring—and he plans to have a very long conversation with his parents.   

There IS something you can do

Warning: This post may be construed as political. It's not. It may be construed as anti-guns or anti-US. It's not. It is pro-life, in the least political sense of the word. 

I had a different post planned for today, but it felt frivolous after the news from Orlando early yesterday morning. Fifty people died at Pulse, a gay nightclub in downtown Orlando, making it the deadliest mass shooting in US history.

Across social media platforms, people demanded stricter gun control laws. The shooter pledged allegiance to ISIS. World leaders and politicians denounced this shooting as a hate crime. President Obama again called for solidarity of the American people.

In other words, there was a lot of anger and sadness. Mixed with bone weariness. Absolute fatigue. And no wonder. According to VOX, there have been 133 mass shootings in the 164 days of 2016 so far. The article as a whole is worth a read because it also includes a chart detailing the numbers of people who were injured and/or died per incident. There are 14 days so far this year on which three or more mass shootings happened. Let me reiterate that.

In 2016 in the United States, there have been 14 days which have had 3 or more mass shootings.

I don't care which side of the gun control argument you fall on, this is horrific.

I'm an American living in the UK and there has not been a mass shooting in this country since 2010. Private ownership of handguns became illegal in 1996 following the Dublane school massacre, in which 17 people were killed, including the shooter. Some firearms are allowed for private use, mostly for hunting and/or recreation (club) purposes, but the law clearly states:
To decide whether a person is fit to own a firearm, the licensing authority will conduct a number of checks which will usually include interviews, visits to the person’s property, criminal records checks and references from friends. In addition, the applicant’s GP may be contacted.

A home visit is mandatory for a first-time applicant. As is a reference from a person who has known the applicant a minimum of two years. If the applicant does not have a GP (General Practitioner) in the UK, he/she cannot apply for a firearm.

In other words, procuring a handgun is a process. Again, I don't care which side of the gun control argument you fall on, why it wouldn't be?

The UK laws came into effect after the Dublane school masscre because people were angry and sad and demanded stricter gun control. The Snowdrop Campaign collected 750,000 signatures to be presented to UK parliament. The legislation was backed by then-Prime Minister Tony Blair. Illegal outlets to procure firearms lessened and public outcry remained strong. People offered thoughts and prayers -- and they acted.

The US is a huge country compared to the UK. History on both sides of the proverbial pond has proven what a group of committed citizens can do. Isn't it time to do it?

The below list is by no means comprehensive, but may be a good starting point for those who want to act:

Moveon.org has an active petition for gun control.
Contact your Congress person
Look at these 30 tips for taking action on gun control. Do two of them.
Register to vote in the November election and speak with your ballot.
Support gun violence education with Amazon Smile

An Introduction (And probably a bit of rambling)

Hello!

So since this is my first blog post here on Across The Board, I thought it would be appropriate to introduce myself.

My name is Alison Ryan and I write contemporary romance. Some of it has a suspense element to it, and my best-selling book is a sports romance, but it mostly all falls under contemporary, I suppose. It’s all romance, with extra steam.

I really love writing it, but I have to also be honest: I NEVER imagined in all my years of writing, that I’d end up being a romance author. Yet… It really is very suited to me. And I feel so fortunate that I get to make a living at it. 

Yes! A living! My full-time job is author. I pinch myself daily.

I originally thought I would be a YA author. I grew up reading tons of YA… Sarah Dessen, Judy Blume, Francine Pascal, Megan McCafferty. I wanted to write about teen angst and small town life, because that was what spoke to me. I started so many manuscripts. SO MANY.

But I didn’t know what to do with them. And I felt like they were derivative and super hack-y. (They probably were)

I self-published a YA paranormal serial in June of 2015 to kind of dip my toe into things. Why self-publish? Honestly, I was terrified to query. Agents and the entire process of acquiring one scared me to death. I followed some of the big agents on Twitter and they seemed easily exhausted and exasperated by writers. And it sounded like getting a book deal through traditional means was much like winning the lottery. In other words- not likely.

So basically I was just chicken shit.

So I self-published a YA paranormal serial called Hell’s Belles. It was about debutante witches living in Charleston. I assumed no one would buy it… But surprisingly people did. And guess what? It made me completely terrified that I wouldn’t live up to reader expectations. And I froze. After the third episode of the serial, I completely froze up. And of course, sales suffered because I wasn’t publishing fast enough. And that made me sad. 

I then published a contemporary YA series that no one bought. Which was also sad, because I thought it was the best thing I’d ever written. But it sold basically none.

So I felt defeated.

I decided that I was either going to quit or come up with a game plan to really make it work. YA in self-publishing is very very tough. For reasons that I can get into in another post. So my husband mentioned to me, “Hey. Why don’t you try writing a romance? At the heart of all your stories is a relationship. You kind of write romance already, I just don’t think you realize it. Try something new.”

So I did. I wrote a sports romance called HIS TO WIN. I wrote it in less than 30 days. I had so much fun creating it. It’s a story about a southern girl who meets a professional European football (soccer) player on an international flight to Scotland. And of course they end up falling in love and having an adventure. But him being almost David Beckham famous makes things complicated. So conflict ensues. But of course all is well in the end and they get their HEA. (Happy Ever After)

I had a ball. But I had no idea what to do with it.

I had heard of Kindle Scout. I knew a bit about the program. (It’s Amazon’s version of American Idol for books! You submit a manuscript to Kindle Scout, they put it up online for 30 days and people vote on whether or not Amazon should publish it or not) Well, if Amazon selects you, you get a publishing deal!

I figured I had nothing to lose. So I submitted HIS TO WIN. And it ended up getting selected for a contract with Kindle Press. It was published on February 9th and since then has sold thousands of copies and peaked at #21 in the entire Kindle Store for March. 

INSANITY.

Anyway, long story short, I published some romance serials before HIS TO WIN was published to build a readership for HIS TO WIN and they took off. So I have been incredibly lucky in ways that plenty of writers much better than me are not, and I feel grateful every day for this life and what I get to do.

I feel like I have written way way way too much as it is… But that’s the beginning of my story. And on this blog I would love to discuss what I have learned so far in this romance business. Because there is a lot. Much more than one blog post could cover.

I am excited to share it. Thanks for having me!

A Case of the Mondays

It's Monday. Again. Oh, how I loathe Mondays.

For anyone who really knows me, you know I struggle with depression and anxiety. Lately, both have been hitting me full force on Mondays, more so than any other day of the week. Without getting into why that may be, I've been thinking about what this means in terms of my reading and writing because, honestly, it has an impact on both.

Let's start with reading. I've found that when I shut down to everything else, one thing that really helps is escaping. And how does a bookworm do that? By reading. When I cannot function properly to accomplish daily activities, I can always read. I can step out of my own crippling world and find somewhere else and another pair of eyes to see it through. I can gain perspective through a character's situation, struggles, and triumphs. And even if things don't end in a preferred happily ever after, I can usually come out of my funk knowing I finished a book (and if you recall my book slump troubles, that is an accomplishment).

As far as writing goes, I've had a mixed bag of experiences during my low times. There are days where writing just seems like the only natural thing to do because I can be someone else, someone not struggling with depression. But I've also had WIPs that I had to step away from for months at a time because I get so sucked into what's happening that I end up in an even worse downward spiral. And that really doesn't help anything, much less make sense of escaping to begin with. I also have one WIP that is indefinitely sidelined because no matter what my mindset is going into it, the very real and equally important issues and themes slay me beyond recognition.

I actually worked today (life doesn't pause when you're depressed), so I haven't had my chance to escape yet. But I do plan on putting a nice dent in my book at bedtime tonight.

Does depression or anxiety impact your reading or writing? I'd love to hear any tricks you've found for coping or books that helped you escape!

Some Memorial Day Thoughts...

Another quality post brought to you by Steve!

Hi all!

Another Memorial Day has come and passed.  I meant to write a little something about it on my own blog, but to be frank I was too busy eating franks.

And that's okay.

I'm a veteran.  And I know a lot of veterans.  I'm not a vet who gave his last full measure of devotion, but we really can't ask any of them what they think.  I have a suspicion about what they'd think, though.

I can tell you one thing with certitude: I never met a Soldier who didn't love a good hot dog and a beer.  Well, maybe I knew a few Mormons who didn't drink.  But they still came to barbecues, and we had barbecues a lot.  Sometimes the boss had a barbecue.  Sometimes the base had a barbecue.  Sometimes we had barbecues just because.  Hell, we even had a barbecue in Iraq.  The dining facility people wouldn't give us anything that wasn't already cooked, so were just charbroiling boiled steaks, but it was still a nice time, just to be able to do something different.

I don't think any of the vets who have passed on would feel bad about you honoring their memory by pulling up a lawn chair with your friends and family and having a hot dog and a beer.  I mean, maybe the guys from the Revolution would be wondering what kind of odd sausage-type comestible you were partaking in, but I don't think even they'd mind.

There's a lot of poo-pooing this time of year.  It's mostly on Facebook, where people seem to prefer to do their poo-pooing, cushioned from one another by hundreds of miles and a computer screen.  And it goes along the lines of, "If you're not weeping into your veil and wearing black all Memorial Day you're not a real American."

Well, you know, I can think of better ways to honor our war dead than posting a meme.  But I really can't think of a better way than gathering together your loved ones, maybe at the beach, maybe in your backyard, and enjoying the fine weather and the free country that they wanted us to have.  I suspect if they had anything to say about the matter, they'd say, "I'm glad you're doing it because I don't get to anymore."

There's no reason to feel bad or to try to make other people feel bad about how they want to spend their holidays.  That's always just smacked of grandstanding and holier-than-thou bullshit to me. 

Should you go to a parade or a wreath-laying ceremony at a local cemetery?  Sure, if you want to.  Should you listen to the speeches at Arlington or watch a war movie on TCM?  Why not, if that's your bag.  Should you raise a cold one in honor of your family members who were vets, maybe old Uncle Bart who probably loved nothing better than a Memorial Day barbecue with his family?  Hell, yeah, you should.

But should you spend even one instant telling somebody else they're doing it wrong?  No.  No, I don't think you should do that. 

Happy Summer, everybody!  Let's make it a good one.