The DNA of DNA

After completing a novel, I always arrive in this abstract place where I can't focus on anything right away. Some might construe this to be a type of recovery, a vacation from thinking; but in my case that wouldn't be accurate. I am unfamiliar with the experience of not thinking. And Recovery implies that something has been negatively altered in you. Writing always alters me in a positive way. 

What happens for me, is more like this: I have created something wonderful that took a long time, was sometimes difficult and even painful, but which has produced something beautiful. It's very much like childbirth. But then, there is the afterbirth (pardon the image). But there is a big mess to clean up. Things need to be wiped down, put back where they go and the room tidied up again. Except all this takes place in my head.

So I ruminate about that book, and several others, think about how it felt, wonder what might be the next thing I do from scratch, consider the possibilities of marketing, that I might want to read someone else's book now, and generally organize the scattered thoughts in my head into a functioning unit again. Once that happens, I can begin anew, to create something else.


~ DNA ~

At the heart of any novel, is the stuff of life. The details are what gives it its uniqueness. Often, the hardest parts about writing a full-length novel are those maddening details.

In my most recently completed book, Also Known As DNA, there was another level, in that it was a sequel. These were characters who already existed in my fictional world. I had to take them through another series of challenges, but also keep track of the facts that existed in the first book, to make sure it remained consistent in the second one. When you write a sequel, there is an amazing amount of detail that has to be recalled or accessed. You have to juggle those details together, and yet be able to separate them and not confuse them with each other.

There is also the usual attention to detail in the plot and character developments that are unfolding in the book you're writing.
Examples:

• That destroyed or lost cell phone in one chapter, cannot magically appear five chapters later.
• The camera someone has cannot have magically been transported into the hands of another character.They have to have made the exchange at some point. 
• That character who had three guns--they have to be accounted for later, when guns are being used.
• That character could not have been at Point A, when she was just at Point B a few minutes ago.

There are other myriad considerations as well. One of them has to do with the psychology of characters. For instance, the villains. There's a hair-thin line between creating sympathy for a character and creating understanding, while still loathing them. I was worried about that one. I wanted to show a theme throughout the story--how everyone can have bad parents and some people will deal with it well, and some people will become psychos, and this result depends on what's organically/ psychologically in place in that person, to begin with.

I don't want to excuse the bad behavior--but I do still explain how, if they were already unstable--experiences can be responded to understandably, but still in a messed up way --(in Character A) or the experiences distorted until the lie becomes the truth in their minds (in character B). 

Kahlil Gibran said, “Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.” My friend Emily C Jones said, "the rest of the quote is And the remaining 98% of sufferers are either dead or traumatized - hard to tell which is which from the massive amounts of scarring.  

[laughing] Fair enough.


~ HOW I BEGIN ~

When writing a new book, I will often start with whatever scene inspired me to write it in the first place. Then I will begin to write dialogue between the characters until I get a feel for them (or in the case of this sequel, until the reader gets a feel for them, since I already understand who they are. New characters, excepted). The story becomes largely a running dialogue, with very little description, unless it's some scene that comes to me later. I believe wholeheartedly in the ability of characters to tell you their story. I am often as surprised as a reader would be when a character says something. But what they choose to say, often guides the plot.

I will also use bits and pieces of notes I've taken about people and places, and filed away. One of these scenes I used in this book. I shared it with another writer-friend at the time i wrote that odd scene, and she said,"Who is that guy and why is he chasing her?"
"I don't know," I said.
"Well, what's the point of her climbing through that window?"
"I'm not sure," I answered.
"Then how do you know what you're writing about?"
"I don't."
That's the point. I knew that scene would be useful at some point in one of my books. 

I write organically, and I want to experience the story as it unfolds, so that I can enjoy it just as a reader would. That way, I have a clear idea of how it might affect the reader, by knowing how it is affecting me. And this method also insures that I will never tire of the process, or get bored with the story because I don't really know what's going to happen, or where it's all going to end. This doesn't mean i don't clean it up and make everything work in concert later, but I just save that for one of the editing passes.

On this book, I initially jumped ahead to a halfway point and wrote a few chapters and then ahead again, to the end. I actually got to the end of the book. I usually don't like that, because, as I said, I don't want to know what happens that quickly (though, having finished the book, the ending took place elsewhere and was slightly different, so it was still quite satisfying, even though i had an idea of what would happen. For this story, it was more about the journey than the end).

Writing to the end gave me only around 100 pages, and naturally that's not enough to make it a book--and it's tempting to say "maybe this is just a long story...or at best, a novella." But I know from experience that it only indicates I have not fleshed it out enough, haven't done the hard work. The story will fill out after I find all the right components to make that happen. I research and I use details about places and people that are largely authentic, as much as possible. In those researched details, more ideas usually emerge. For instance, I found a location, that quite by accident, had the same name as a meaningful word in the previous book. What I call a Happy Accident. And I used it, allowing the character to notice that synchronicity. I wrote about using Google maps when I write my books. There's a reason for that. I can get all the details I need for moving my characters around, and in the process, I gain grist for the creative mill. I trust that process because I've done it so many times.

So--the initial problem, after that first 100 pages, was that the first-person point of view was limiting the story. Somehow it worked for the first book, but this one seemed different. I still did not want to lose that POV, though, because it was such a integral part of the first book--that voice. That main character. So I used first-person with that main character, and when I needed to show the other characters without her in the scene, I would tell their story in third person omniscient, always cuing the reader by using a different chapter each time I did that. That opened the story up immensely, and solved the problem.

Then, I had to start looking for several things:

• were there enough characters to fill out the story? Did I need to add a few new ones? Yes. And I did.
• where are the gaps of time? When that character spoke of the two weeks that had gone by, I had to ask, what did she do during that time?
• How did the new characters interact with the main character, and what's their backstory?
• Can there be an unexpected alliance between two characters? What's that dynamic like?
• are there any Happy Accidents in the text just straining to be explored?

This is, of course, not the complete picture of what goes on in the process, but it is a portion of it.

~ AFTERGLOW ~
So, after I have completed a book, I am beset with a sensation of afterglow. I feel I have just had sex. Good sex. So far, I've copulated 15 times.

The DNA of DNA

Characters: Names & Numbers

I have noticed this issue with seasoned and novice writers alike: a tendency to not only confuse the reader with changing character names and designations, but to use too many characters when it's not necessary.

When you introduce characters, it's okay to use their full names, but at some point you should try to settle on one name by which to refer to them. Otherwise your reader will be confused and might have to page back to the previous pages to hunt for who it is. This is not something you want your readers to have to do. I know that as a reader myself, I certainly don't want to do it.

When you mention a character for a second time, and it's been a while since the first time or the last time, give the reader some cue, like, "John, ever the nutty professor, joined them." --assuming of course that John is a professor, and has been known to be nutty.

This caveat about character names and clues should be used with even more attention when you have more characters, as it becomes harder and harder for your reader to keep them clear in her mind. Some books do seem to require quite a few characters to tell the story, however. My first few novels had only two to four characters and the rest were peripheral or nameless (i.e., the "waitress"). --a definite indication of my greenness as a writer back then. Probably wise, though, to start those projects with only a few main characters, until I learned how to handle them better, and with more discernment. But I have come to recognize that more complicated plots require more characters, (not always, but usually), and likewise, more characters can help you create that sort of plot. Now, this is from my viewpoint of being an organic type of writer. I don't plot out all my books down to the last detail. I feel that sucks most of the joy right out of it. So, keeping this in mind, that organic process tends to take root when you have different characters playing off each other. Sometimes the solution for being stuck in where your story is going, can be solved by some interesting juxtaposition in two or more characters, or by just allowing them to converse, until something pops up that offers you a solution.

In my novel, Achilles Forjan, I think there were about 33 characters, even though some were tertiary, and some were talked about, but no longer present in the story--they were victims of a killer. But all those characters were necessary to the plot, and I was careful to remind my reader in subtle ways, who they were when they were out of the picture for a while.

Another method I used to great success in Baggage, was to try to go to a different character in each chapter until I established them all, and then allow them to merge in chapters as their relationships intertwined. I learned this little trick from one of my favorite authors, Dean Koontz. (see blog entry on the Koontz Dangle).

No matter how you handle the characters in your books, just be certain that they are there for a tangible reason, and it's clear which one is in the scene, and in relation to what other character or situation. No need to confuse things for the reader.

Characters: Names & Numbers

Voice: First & Third Person

One of the most difficult things to master for me (and many other writers) is VOICE. This challenge trudges through the morass of other subjects like past tense vs. present tense, or past perfect tense, flashbacks, omniscience. . .

Which Person? In fiction, the overwhelming majority of books are written in Third-Person. There are cogent reasons for this. One pertinent reason is that when you use First-Person, you are restricted to only what your main character is privy too. So if you need some clandestine goings-on, this wouldn't serve you. In First-Person, your main character has to be present all the times. It can work if the story follows that character and you need the reader to align with them in a certain way. For instance, I knew that science fiction was not a genre I was used to writing in, nor do I feel qualified to do it very often. But of course, i had to write something in this genre because I have an overwhelming need to say one day that I've tackled all of them. You have to be a bit of science geek to pull it off, though. But, if you have a character who is like you, in that he or she is also not all that knowledgeable, but is getting pulled along by events, then this can be an effective voice in which to write. I used this voice for Quintessence, the science fiction novella I am currently writing. I knew that the only way I could pull it off is if my character was just as much an amateur as I am with most of the scientific subject matter surrounding Quantum Physics. For example, When my character Jason Beasely finds himself in an unusual predicament, Professor Pritchard tries to explain it to him:

"Can you just give me some kind of layman's explanation?"

"Well. . .the antecedent of the process is based upon the DNA Phantom Effect, which was developed by a Russian researcher named Poponin. He provided the best evidence that our genetic makeup possessed a subtle energy on the quantum level. . ."

"Okay. . ." Barely making sense of that…

"In one of his experiments he placed light in a vacuum, and found that its distribution was random. When he added DNA material into the vacuum with the light, the light particles shifted into wave patterns, and then when he removed the DNA, the light particles didn't return to the previous random pattern, but were actually changed into another form."

"That's interesting." What a crock. The guy had a brain tumor for God's sake. He really WAS a mad scientist. I just came along, this bored Alabama country boy with two years of college, and wanted it to be more than it was. I couldn't explain the letter, or the synchronicities that had occurred. But even if this guy knew my father, they were both gone, both dead. I couldn't spend the rest of my life chasing ghosts. I had places to go, things to do, women to pleasure.

So, using First-Person, the character of Jason doesn't really get half of what the professor is saying, but neither will most readers. So this creates an immediate sympathy with that character, while allowing me (the writer) to avoid knowing a bunch of details that would take a lifetime to learn. It still allows me to tell the story, which isn't so much about the scientific details, as about the people. Now obviously, if you are not a quantum physicist, or at least intimately familiar with the concepts and information surrounding this discipline, you shouldn't take on a project like this unless your focus is to be on the characters. You will be blasted out of the water by any geek who reads your story.

First-Person is also more immediate, and the reader can feel like she is going along for the ride. Just make sure your character and the events that character experiences, is enough to keep the story moving forward, or you might have to change the tense to Third-Person, just for the quality of the story itself. It's a judgment call, and one which will become more an more natural to you the more you write.

Early on, when I was honing my craft, (a process that should continue, no matter how many books you write) I would have many different readers read my work and then fill out a form about what they liked and didn't like, and anything that was confusing, or anything they felt was missing. This gave me insight into what it was to be an objective reader of my stories, since it's hard to get yourself out of the way and do it in your own head.

In the Third-Person Omniscient Voice, you can move around between characters and tell a story that has both past, present and future, even if your main character doesn't know about all of it. As the Narrative voice, especially an Omniscient Narrator, you can fill in the gaps. There is much more autonomy in this voice, especially if the plot is complicated, or the story can only be told with information belonging to several characters. That's why it gets used as the primary mode of storytelling in fiction, though First-Person is enjoying a bit of a resurgence in popularity. But along with the benefits of Third-Person, there come inherent stumbling blocks. Tenses can begin to make you...tense.

This is no more apparent than when you must use a flashback to tell your story. There's the past tense of the narrator telling the story and the the past tense of the narrator telling an older story.

"She was thinking about that time long ago, when things began to change. It was on a Friday, and she remembered that, because Friday was pay day."

Now, is this character talking about payday being on Fridays now, or just then? A reader will probably understand, but this can get hairy. For me, using past perfect tense can get so complicated that I avoid it altogether. If, in the case of a flashback, I need to relate something that happened before the story that is currently being retold (did you get that?) then I will delineate this by saying something like,

"I remember when everything changed on that cold September day."

...and then I start a new chapter and head it "September, 1994". This, after establishing that the main story being told happened after that longer-ago time. Did I just confuse you more?

Basically, you must make it clear to the reader when you are jumping far back in time and then let them know when you are again in current time, by saying in the chapter or paragraph following the flashback, something like,

"Now, she wondered why all that seemed so important at the time."

...and then giving some clue as to the current setting you had previously departed from, so the reader can come back to your storyline, now. To use past perfect by saying,

"She remembered how everything had changed on that cold September day. She had been washing her car, when an old man had approached her wearing clothes she had not seen since the seventies."

The "hads" in these sentences are not only cumbersome stylistically, but they serve only to confuse the reader, so if you make some kind of indication that you're telling something farther back in time, and then leap into that time to tell it in past tense, then come back and draw your reader to the current storyline with clues of settings and objects and people, then it will be clear what you are doing.

So, as a rule of thumb, about 80% or more of novels are written in Third-Person. Mostly, I believe this stems from our own ancestry, where oral tradition was about telling others what happened in the past. It is the most comfortable voice for readers to understand, and always a good idea to keep your style from obstructing the reader's Suspension of Disbelief.

Voice: First & Third Person

Achilles Forjan (mainstream novel excerpt)

Achilles Forjan
(mainstream novel)
(c)Kelli Jae Baeli

REVIEWS

Another great book by Kelli Jae Baeli!


This is the third of Ms. Baeli's books I've read and I plan to read more of them. She is an absolute MASTER of characterization! After I read her books, I catch myself wondering about the characters as if they were real people. And, no, this is not a sign I need to be in a mental ward somewhere; rather, it is a testament to how authentic her characters are. This authenticity extends to her plots as well. I can especially speak to the authenticity of the plot and characters in this particular book because I work in the emergency services field myself. This book in it's entirety, down to the smallest of details, is real enough to be based on people whom I know and work with daily.

One final big plus!... more often than not, I can guess "who done it" before the ending of a murder mystery and that just ruins the whole book for me. I also view it as a weakness in the writer's talent. However, not so in this gem of a psycho-thriller/murder mystery! I was totally and happily surprised! Reading this one was time well spent!

~Tanya Gotcher,
Little Rock, AR

"We believe this is a marketable story. It has all of the necessary elements: good characterization; interesting (and well-described) settings; authentic-sounding dialogue. What’s more, Baeli is a superb writer! This is some of the best work we’ve ever seen here at KIWI!"

--KIWI Club Reviews

"Baeli has outdone herself with the new offering of Achilles Forjan. Prepare for an quickly paced, psychological thriller that captivates the reader with dynamic characters and sleight-of-hand clues covering a gamut of genres. This witch's brew of medical, legal, psychological, and mystery motifs, is rendered more tasty by the pinch of romance Baeli adds. The result is a potpourri of all things found in the news, too strangely absurd to be fiction. Achilles Forjan is a modern day, forensic packed who-done-it that will tug you by your hair through each scenario. I was left with a lingering taste for more as the dichotomy of Amy Jane Spenser engaged all my senses."

~ Justice Harlow
    author of The Recipe & Shall We Consummate?

"Achilles Forjan was a quick read and maintained my interest. I felt many different emotions, especially through Amy's character--sadness, regret, concern, happiness...I really wanted her to be okay. The story kept me on the edge, and it was an attention grabber. When I wasn't reading the book, I was thinking about it. Kelli Jae Baeli's novels are easy to get interested in, and hard to put down. They always have an unpredictable but happy ending. This ending was a big surprise- I was very pleased with it. I'll be looking for the sequel!"

~Shell Smith
Truman AR

"Enjoyed the story very much and did have trouble putting it down when I had to. Had that 'want to read more by this author' feeling when I reached the end. I was actually hoping Baeli would include a preview at the end, with an excerpt from one of her other books there. I also felt that the ending came too soon; I wasn't quite ready to be done with Amy and her friends. That's a good thing!

The plotting and pacing is excellent. Love her characters and the tension/conflicts revolving around them--very three-dimensional. Spicy details tastefully employed. Well done! The setting was great, too--fit her story perfectly.

Overall, "recommended." Say, four outa five stars? Baeli spins an engrossing tale, moves it right along, and mixes things up splendidly. Any sex she included was used to further the plot, without being offensive or prurient. She's a good, solid writer who deserves to be published. That's my take on it."

~Jim Bessey
Fairport, NY

Burlington, Vermont was a city known for its near-nonexistent murder rate. So when bodies begin to appear along with a mysterious note and a humiliating gesture from the killer, local authorities scramble to discover who is responsible.

A complicated series of events points to Amy Jane Spenser as the prime suspect. She is troubled by sleep deprivation and frequent memory lapses. Her job as a paramedic feeds her compulsion to help people, but ultimately only renders her a crippled witness to the human condition. Amy struggles with doubt over her own mysterious behavior, and is left with no alibi for any of the murders.

Her friend, Karma, uses her degree in Criminal Psychology and a gift for psychometry to search for clues to Amy's innocence, in spite of a persistent detective. The suspense builds as lives intertwine, and destinies dangle precariously over an abyss of secrets and suppositions, until nothing can ever be the same again.


EXCERPT:

Ashleigh knew it was him. His gruff, slurring baritone voice. His fat fist against the door. He'd be waking the neighbors, and they'd be calling the cops. She was still too weak from her trip to the emergency room three days ago, and didn't have the strength to deal with this. She stayed with Jeremy because it was easier than staying with Leonard Huff. Safer.

Jeremy had offered Ashleigh a ride home from work seven months ago, and she had told him she didn't want to go back to her father's house. He suggested they go to his apartment and get high instead, and she agreed. It wasn't long before Ashleigh was spending the night at Jeremy's Southside apartment. The choice between a sweet guy who provided a good high, and a raving, nasty, controlling drunk, was an easy one. She didn't even call him 'Dad' anymore, but 'Leonard.' His all-nighters and recently, his affiliation with a group of bikers, was a pain in the ass; and although she had vivid memories of his hands on her when she was a little girl, he had stopped pursuing her for his need to touch innocence.

This didn't stop his biker-buddies from crossing the line, though. At a nubile eighteen, she was now a young woman, and considered ripe for the picking. When one of the leather-clad animals came by the house and put his hands on her tits, she packed her stuff and went to Jeremy's. That's when she decided that Jeremy had his flaws, but at least he wasn't violent. He'd never hit her, even when she'd smoked the last of their weed. If she kept him smoking, she could pretty much do what she wanted. He didn't make much money as a night shift stocker at Handy's Grocery, but she didn't make much as a cashier there, either. She didn't really do without anything, and the rent was only $350 a month. A few days ago, Jeremy got extra pot from his dealer so they could make a little cash, because Ashleigh needed time off to recuperate from her fall down the stairs.

With the pounding outside growing louder, she snatched the door open and Leonard Huff barreled in, headed straight for Jeremy, who was finishing the removal of marijuana seeds from the marred glass coffee table, sweeping them onto a metal serving tray and shoving it under the ratty Goodwill sofa.

She put herself between the two men, hoping to prevent anything that might have cops snooping around. The last thing she needed was to go to jail for possession.

Leonard Huff pushed her out of the way, and she fell into the glass top of the coffee table.

* * *

Roy peered in the window, and saw the boy hovering near the kitchen, saw the girl sitting on the chair with blood on her arm. With one last glance at the street, hoping to see the police cruiser, he knocked on the door. "EMS!" he called.

Jeremy opened the door, and Roy stepped in first, carrying his jump bag fully stocked with an intubation roll, already assessing the damage to Jeremy's face. Amy came along behind him, trying not to look at Jeremy; all she could see now was him beating off to kiddie porn.

Ashleigh was sitting on the chair across from Huff, still in a robe and on medication from her recent trip to the hospital. Now, she had one hand pressed to her bleeding elbow. Amy knew the girl would need sutures. Ashleigh looked up at her with a mixture of embarrassment and relief. Embarrassment, that the nice female paramedic she had poured her heart out to was coming to the rescue again; and relief, that somehow everything would be taken care of and some semblance of normalcy would return.

Even before the staircase fall at the apartment a few days ago, Amy and Roy had been to the Huff house to patch up Mrs. Huff when Leonard directed his anger at her. Police had escorted her to the Battered Women's Shelter that night, and it was unclear whether or not she was still residing there.

Perhaps it was why Leonard Huff was at the apartment now. His anger needed a target, and he couldn't get to his wife. He had pounded his beefy fist into the young man's face and made a real mess of the living room of their tiny apartment. He was at the end of a nasty binge, having burned up the fuel of whiskey, and was sitting on the sofa nearing a nap. Amy stepped over the fallen ashtray and remnants of potato chips dotting the floor, and sent up a prayer that he would not find any reserve tank in his body before they got the job done, or at least not until the cops arrived to stand sentry.

The ashtray, along with two smoldering cigarettes, lay on the dirt-colored carpet, amid shards of glass. Amy picked them up and tossed them in the tray to be safe.

Roy saw that Jeremy was lucky not to have a broken nose. He might get away with some butterfly bandages on the cut above his eye, but the rest of his injuries were the usual contusions when a fist contacts the skin. He had the young man sit at the kitchen table while he set to work on him.

As the two medics donned surgical gloves to cleanse wounds and apply compresses, Huff muttered expletives and warned Jeremy that he was not even close to being finished with him. "She'll never be clean again," he said. "You made her dirty."

"You're not worried about me, Leonard," Ashleigh hissed. "Look what you did to my arm!" She held up the lacerated elbow, causing Amy to drop the gauze roll and forcing her to gather it and start winding it around again.

Huff lit a cigarette awkwardly and let it dangle precariously from his inebriated lips. "You brought that on yourself, little girl," he said around the cigarette. "You need to learn when to stay the hell outa the way."

Jeremy leaned away from Roy's cotton swab and snarled at Huff, "You're fuckin' going to jail."

"Oh yeah? What for?"

"Assault and battery. You're a sorry-ass excuse for a father. It's a good thing Ashleigh met me."

"Wors' thing ever happened to her." The glowing ash fell off Huff's cigarette and landed on his blue shirt, stained with sweat and booze. A wet spot doused the cherry, making a sizzing sound. Amy was afraid he would burst into flames.

"You're goin' to jail, you sorry piece a shit!"

"Be still-" Roy reprimanded, pressing the last butterfly bandage on the boy's head, anxious for he and Amy to get out of there.

"You're goin' to jail," Jeremy repeated.

Amy wanted to scream, You belong in jail, too, you sick pedophile! She knew she'd have to bite her tongue until they finished the call. This situation had become too personalized to her, now that Ashleigh had spilled her guts. She didn't want that kind of investment in her patients. It was hard enough without that.

Huff tried to push himself up, but rocked back, and had to scoot to the edge of the sofa before he could manage to stand. "I ain't goin' to jail if I ain't here when the cops get here-"

"Sit down," Roy ordered him in his best authoritative voice.

Huff paused, considering him, then staggered over. Roy got up to prepare for evasive action, when Huff took the cigarette from his mouth and threw it at Roy.

Roy held up a warning finger. "Now you just behave yourself. You've caused enough trouble."

"You ain't seen trouble yet, boy." Huff lurched forward and pushed Roy aside, reaching for Jeremy, who bear-crawled away, scattering the top-most contents of Roy's jump bag. Angry that the young man had scampered out of reach, Huff grabbed Roy again.

Amy tapped on the big man's shoulder, and he turned around unsteadily. "Could you do me a favor, sir?"

Frowning, he swayed slightly. "What?"

"Your hand looks terrible. Could you go over to the sofa and sit down so I can take a look at it? It looks like it hurts."

Still holding Roy's shirt at the shoulder, he looked at his free right hand. His knuckles were red. "Yeah. My hand needs some nursin'." He released Roy and went to the sofa, sitting and holding his hand out to her.

Roy blinked rapidly like some cartoon character, and Amy tried not to smile. There was little she could do for the sore knuckles, but she made a production of wrapping gauze around them, hoping to stall long enough for their cop friends to arrive.

Roy kept a close eye on Huff as he gathered the items that had been knocked out of his bag.

Finally, the police arrived. Sergeant Kenneth Branch and his Rookie, Jimmy Tackett assessed the situation quickly. They were also familiar with this family and their various degrees of in-fighting.

A glint of morning sunlight reflected off Branch's bald head. Before taking a razor to his hair after losing a bet, Kenneth Branch never fully appreciated the creative genius of eyebrows. They were crucial to keeping sweat out of the eyes, and in his line of work, vision was sometimes the only thing between you and a bullet. He even fancied the idea of God as a bald entity. A tall, muscular man with thick arms and legs, Branch was intimidating; a comfort to have around if you needed help, and a frightening presence if you were in trouble with the law.

Tackett was short and boyish-looking, and ripe for a bullet from some street thug. Tackett's best chance for survival was to be partnered with Branch. The contrast of the two was almost comical. Like Batman and Robin. Not much older than Jeremy, Tackett was the mirror image of the young man cowering in the kitchen, with slight alterations based on the application of free will. Two young men who took different paths. It only took one wrong turn to create that kind of polarity.

"What can we do to help out, here, folks?" Branch asked.

Huff was suddenly aware of where the new voice came from, and got up, knocking Amy back to her rump on the floor. He gestured angrily, the end of the gauze around his knuckles dangling in the air. "Don't nobody touch me, goddammit." He gestured at Ashleigh. "Come on over here, girl. I'm taking you home."

"Now hang on-don't I know you? What's your name, sir?"

The big man turned around, his comb-over flailing upright. "Name's Huff. I come to take my little girl home!"

"I'm not goin' anywhere with you!" Ashleigh shouted.

Jeremy moved over to Ashleigh in a show of support, and she moved away, almost imperceptibly.

Branch met Ashleigh's eyes. "Is he here with your permission?"

"Well I didn't know he was gonna try to kill Jeremy!"

To Jeremy: "Do you intend to press charges?"

"Hell yes."

Tackett asked Ashleigh for her ID. He turned to Branch. "She's eighteen."

Branch held up both his hands to Huff. "Now, Mr. Huff, your daughter is at the age of consent, so you can't force her to-"

"I don' care what consent she is, she's comin' home!"

The sergeant swiveled his right hip so that his firearm was out of the man's reach, and planted his feet as if he was about to perform a Jackie Chan movement. "Mr. Huff, let's do this the easy way, okay? Please turn around and put your hands behind your back."

He shook his head. "Nope. I ain't goin'."

"Sir, I'm not asking you. I'm telling you. Turn around and-"

Huff swung an arm at Branch, but he leaned back and the blow missed. Branch snatched the wrist and twisted it behind Huff's back as he spun him, pushing him toward the sofa. Tackett was beside his partner and in a few swift seconds, they had his face in the cushions, and were handcuffing him.

Officer Branch had just celebrated 10 years on the force; nine of them in New York, and had transferred to the Burlington P.D. to hedge his bets. He considered himself lucky: lucky to have lived. That luck was now bolstered by the low rate of violent crime in Vermont. Still, Branch was looking forward to his training as a Detective. He intended to spend the last ten years on the force wearing his own clothes, and sitting at a desk rather than in a squad car.

"Am I under arrest?" Huff bellowed into the smelly foam.

"Yes you are, sir. Drunk and disorderly, assault and battery, attempted assault of a police officer, for now. You have the right to remain silent--"

"I ain't gonna be silent!" he shouted.

Branch continued to Mirandize him as he and Tackett half-dragged, half-led him to the door, the drunk man's flailings managing to knock Amy off balance and onto her rump again.

As Tackett returned with the forms for Jeremy and Ashleigh to fill out, Roy pulled off his surgical gloves and tossed them in a Ziploc bag for later disposal. Moving over to Amy, he looked down at his partner, who was still seated on the floor. He plucked a jerky strip from a pen protector in his breast pocket and popped the end in his mouth. "No sitting down on the job, Spenser," he cracked.

Achilles Forjan (mainstream novel excerpt)

Armchair Detective (novel excerpt)

,
(Lesbian Sleuth Erotica)
(c) Kelli Jae Baeli

A wannabe Private Investigator has to start somewhere. If that means incurring the wrath of her suspects, then so be it. When Jobeth O'Brien awakens from the floor of her kitchen, her battered face and the memory of an angry visitor tells her that she is close to something important in her investigation. She pulls herself together and goes to run her paper route--a job that pays the bills while she pursues her other vocation. Her romps in the backseat of her Falcon with a wealthy socialite, Phoebe, are a welcome distraction from her excursions into the developing facts of the blackmail and prostitution operation. As the case progresses, Jobeth fends off her growing need for Phoebe, as well as the advances from her barracuda landlady. Amid these challenges, she stakes out her prey and runs for her life, continuing the investigation that pulls her into close calls, unexpected allies, and more secrets. But Jobeth has secrets of her own, and only love can excavate them.


EXCERPT:

The Falcon rested in the alley across the street like a big metal dog. That's how I viewed this paragon of antiquity. It was like the pet I never had. I bathed it, fed it, communed with it, talked to it, even stroked it every now and then, although not when anyone was watching. If it wasn't so big, I'd let it sleep on the foot of my bed.

Hunkered low, I checked that the film was loaded properly and advanced a frame or two, laid the camera beside me and poured myself a cup of brew from Phoebe's green thermos. I loved her coffee. Hazelnut, I think, from fresh ground beans. I couldn't imagine someone like Phoebe dipping grounds from a metal can; it wasn't chic enough. More likely, she had it delivered to her door by Juan Valdez himself.

Halfway through my second cup, I decided it was time for a little evidence-gathering. Hanging the camera around my neck by its wide strap, I stepped quietly out of the car. crossing the street, blending with shadows, until I entered the alley beside the Salon. Behind the structure I found the garbage cans. Smiling, I freed the two full bags and started back to the car. Squinting around the corner, I lurched back when I saw a distinguished gentleman with short-cropped hair approaching the front door of the Salon. I lifted my camera and snapped a shot of him before he slipped inside. A teenaged boy came around the corner and went in soon afterward, and I hurried across the street with my treasures, sure that things were about to become a bit more interesting.

Warming my coffee again, I kept an eye on the front of the shop while I opened one of the garbage bags. I donned a pair of surgical gloves from a dispenser in the glove compartment, and put them on before reaching into the bag. I recalled the scene earlier when Phoebe had found the gloves while searching for a lighter.

"What are these for?" she had inquired with salacious interest.

"Not what you think," I had told her.

"Mmm-hm," she had said, unconvinced.

"But I'd be happy to use them for that. Is it time for an exam?"

She had grinned, "Maybe next time."

Now, glancing up every few seconds, I began to wish I had a partner; I wanted to look through the garbage without missing anything going on at the front door. It could be an advantage, I had to admit, but the bad outweighed the good on that one.

Thirty-five minutes later, the sound of the Salon door brought my attention away from the bags. The distinguished gentleman emerged and hurried into the darkness around the corner, his shirttail hanging loose, holding his coat in one hand. I snapped a shot of him before he got away. A tall, blond man opened the door and hauled another man out with him, gesturing angrily and pointing down the street. He looked like the same blond man that had been talking to Stacey that day. The man he talked to seemed to sigh, shook his head, then turned and headed in the direction of the gentleman.

The blond man lit a cigarette and remained outside the front door, agitated. I tried to get a close shot of him, and decided it would be a better picture if I could move outside the car. I removed the cover from the interior light and pulled the bulb out, then quietly, I opened the door, and kept my head down below the level of the front fender. Lifting the camera, I bumped the wheel well and the camera toppled to the pavement. The zoom lens separated from the body and I stifled the curse that came instantly from my mouth. The lens was history, for the moment. I discarded the injured mechanism into the car, and grabbed the regular lens, hurriedly screwing it on the body of the camera. Pushing the door almost closed, I took a position by the front of the Falcon again, peeking over the fender. He still stood there, smoking. I'd have to get much closer, for a clear shot. I waited until he turned around, then crept over to the blue mailbox at the corner, concealing myself behind it. Ebon cloaked the street, but dawn approached with a luminous mist, and left me with one chance for a clear picture of him.

I tilted out from behind the mailbox and focused. His eyes swept over my area, and then seemed to pause. Click! He saw me then, and threw his cigarette to the sidewalk, breaking into a sprint toward me. The camera firmly in hand, I dashed down the walk and around the corner as fast as my tired legs would carry me. Rounding the building, I cut to the right across the main roadway into another alley and scrambled up the board fence and over.

Landing in a trash can, I kicked free of it and continued down the adjacent alley. I could hear him behind me-heard him climb the fence and continue the chase, cursing as he fell on the same trash can. Coming to a "T" in the alleyway, I found one exit blocked by a Dumpster, and the other by a drainage ditch.

I picked up a piece of concrete gravel and threw it hard toward the Dumpster, producing a telling thwang, then leapt feet first into the shallow water of the ditch. Stooping to enter the concrete culvert pipe, I scurried through, pausing thirty yards later to listen for approaching steps. I waited, catching my breath and listening, certain I'd lost him.

I imagined him pausing at the end of the alley, having heard the noise of the gravel against the Dumpster, and stealthily raising the lid. I also imagined the grimace on his face when he lifted the lid and found only putrid garbage. He would no doubt assume that I jumped the fence. Men can't imagine women doing things like jumping into watery ditches and scurrying through culverts. I used this narrow-mindedness to my advantage whenever possible.

Navigating the concrete piping to its end, my exit was blocked by a barbed wire fence. I climbed through the strands with some difficulty and found myself at eye-level with a yard full of farm machinery. I climbed out of the watery trench and paused by a John Deere tractor to survey the area. The grounds of the co-op were spacious, reminding me of a rodeo arena. The front fence stood about 50 yards across the grass in front of me. Heaving a sigh of relief, I patted the camera smugly and started for the far gate. Near the middle of the grounds, I heard a low growl that made me wish I had stayed inside the pipe.

Turning toward the sound slowly, he came into view. A pit bull of the large killer variety emerged from one of the sheds. The variety that tears the limbs from small children and pulverizes housecats. He dipped his square black head low, baring a set of exceptional fangs.

"Shhhhhhit," I whispered like a slowing steam engine, measuring the distance to the front gate. The phrase from here to eternity erupted in my mind. I turned back to him, placating meekly, "Nice doggie-"

He lunged at me and I broke into a run, making a beeline for the precious, distant gate. The dog caught the bottom of my jeans, and swung me to the ground like sack of Idaho potatoes. From the feel of it, he intended to tear the fabric away first, then slice and dice my bare leg. By the look of his canines, a steak knife had nothing on him. I kicked him hard in the head and swung the camera. It caught him in the eye and he yelped at the thirty-five millimeter infliction, freeing me long enough for me to struggle up and run again. The chase resumed and I stopped to swing at him again, missing as he ducked. Where is an M-16 when you need one?

He jumped and clamped his teeth onto my arm, the fangs piercing the layers of fabric. I growled back at him and knocked him in the head several more times with the camera. Eyes closed, his teeth made contact with the skin below the flannel and thermal shirts, blood appeared on his head, for which I was uncommonly grateful, but it didn't make him let go of my arm.
I kicked him frantically in the ribs, but his mouth rivaled a bear trap, except bear traps didn't jerk savagely at fabric. And they didn't chase you across a machinery yard like some miscreant from the center of the earth.

Desperate, I dragged him toward the fence. Looping the camera strap around my neck, I clamped my fingers on the chain-link, and placed the toe of my sneaker in one of the wire diamonds to pull myself up until the dog dangled in the air. I could feel the excruciating tear of my skin each time he shook my arm, still mauling me from his place in mid-air. Bile swelled in my gut and threatened to rise like green mercury into my esophagus. With one last swing of my free leg, I kicked him in the stomach, and the yelp this evoked opened his jaws enough so that I could wrench myself free as he fell to the ground.

He recovered from his fall without the slightest hesitation and vaulted toward me again, and I barely pulled myself up beyond his reach, scrambled over the fence, to land with a breathless thud on the grass.

Armchair Detective (novel excerpt)

Plethora (Info & Excerpt)

Plethora
(c) Kelli Jae Baeli

Brenna Clay, a quirky bisexual writer, escapes with her lover to the remote Ozark area of Hogscald, near the quaint tourist village of Eureka Springs, known as "The place where misfits fit"--a place where Mother Nature is not always nurturing, there are sniper squirrels, newspaper- stealing mutts, and her nearest neighbor lives in a treehouse and thinks she's been inseminated by aliens. As an added bit of entertainment, the Bubbas have out their binoculars, and are watching from the knoll, having never seen a real, live "Lezbean Homo-sek-shul."

Meanwhile, Micah Rose Royce lives in Eureka Springs and works as a masseuse. Fresh off a prolonged disibility, she is anxious to feel human again, but has difficulty getting started. Her best friend, Scarlet, suggests she get a reading from Righteous Clementine, a medium- cum-sorceress, who promptly lays her hands on her and utters, "Plethora." Micah trudges through the exasperating and often comical dating scene in real life and on the Internet, still desperately searching for a suitable partner.

"Erotic, funny, thought-provoking and insightful..."
~LightSwitcher Books

16
The Last Take-up

"Here's your spline, spline roller, and awl," Kori said, dropping the items one by one on the old brown Army-issue towel that lay crumpled upon the wood planks of the porch. "I felt stupid asking the guy at the hardware store, but he knew exactly what they were."

"Great!" Brenna clapped her hands together and reached for the torn screen door that she had removed and leaned against the decrepit railing.

Kori carried another armload of sacks up the front steps and paused over Brenna, already at work on the screen. "Do you know what you're doing?"

Brenna gave her a irritable expression. "Of course. I told you I've done my research on this. I Googled it. This little rubber gasket do-hickey is called a spline-" she explained, prying it out of the groove around the screen with the awl. "I just replace this ancient aluminum screen with some of this new nylon screen." Kori shifted the sacks for a better hold, as Brenna continued, "Why nylon, you ask? Well, see, it has better solar penetration."

"Sounds good to me," Kori said, lifting her eyebrows suggestively.

"That just means that more sunlight can come through it," Brenna went on. "And this is the little roller that puts the spline back in." She held the tool up proudly.

"I'll make us some lunch," Kori said evenly, carrying the packages inside.

Brenna sighed. She hadn't seen much of Kori lately. This was the first Saturday in a while that Kori hadn't gone in to work overtime. Since returning to her job from vacation time, and making the roundtrip into Fayetteville each day, it was little more than a hello and an air-kiss before Kori watched the news and then went to bed. They hadn't had sex in so long, that Brenna was having fantasies about the UPS guy.

Resolving to open a discussion about that very thing today-not fantasies about the UPS guy, but their own sex life-she bent back to repairing the screen.

Minutes later, Brenna sat back and congratulated herself on a job well done. The screen was replaced, and she would only need one Band-Aid this time. She squeezed the puncture made by the awl atop her thumb, and wiped away the blood absently. When she lifted her head again, she noticed the movement from the direction of the knoll. Someone was headed toward her on horseback. As the horse drew nearer, Brenna could see that the rider was a young woman with short blond hair, clad in faded, ripped jeans and a T-shirt. Brenna thought she bore a striking resemblance to the actress, Mary Stuart Masterson, from her role in Fried Green Tomatoes. As the woman urged the animal close to the porch, Brenna stood and wiped her palms on the front of her jeans. "Hello. . ." she offered cautiously.

The young woman grinned with one corner of her mouth and continued to smack at a wad of pink gum. "Hi."

Brenna noticed that the T-shirt the woman was wearing had the image of a hot air balloon on it with the words Up Up and Away written below it. "Thought I'd come see what all the hoopla was about."

Her country accent was strong, and Brenna tried not to seem entertained by it. "The hoopla?"

The woman patted the chestnut's neck affectionately. "Me and ole Sassafras been hearin' bushel baskets a' stuff about the two sisters that moved into the old Pate place." She crooked one leg easily over the withers of the gelding. "Name's Tilly. What's yours?"

"Brenna."

"Pretty name, that." The young woman took a deep breath and squinted into the sun, casting a sidelong glance at Brenna. "Am I yer first viz'ter?"

"Actually, no. We met Harvey Hunsicker last month."

"Sorry to hear it."

"What?"

Tilly licked her lips and tried not to grin. She jerked her head away in a mannerism of forced self control and cleared her throat. "He's a handful, he is. Fize' you, I'd keep a ditch `tween ya."

"Oh? Why do you say that?"

"He's kinda loose in the upper story. Got a mean streak a mile wide and twice as ugly."

Brenna nodded slowly, her brain busy deciphering the colloquial assertions Tilly shared. "That's. . . good to know."

"Mind if I sit a spell?"

"Not at all." Brenna indicated the rockers, and knew that this Tilly- character would appear someday in one of her novels.

Tilly pushed her leg the rest of the way over and slid off the pony, dropping the rein to the ground. The Chestnut wandered across the yard in search of edible greenery. "Been too pooped to pop since the last take-up." She sighed heavily and dropped into the chair, rocking.

Brenna sat in the other. "Since what?"

"The last take-up." Tilly said this matter-of-factly, pulling a seed-like burr that was stuck to her shirt like Velcro. As she turned her head to mop her neck with an old bandanna, she saw Brenna's bewildered frown. "I get took up ever now an' then. Been happenin' since I was knee-high to a toad. Mighty spooky at first," she continued, smacking her gum. "But a body gits used ta stuff after a while."

Brenna was blinking rapidly, trying to compose her next question, when Kori came out to the porch, testing the new screen door a few times before she noticed they had company. "Kori, this is Tilly."

Kori nodded in her direction. "Would you like a glass of tea or something?"
"If it ain't no trouble." She half smiled with the corner of her mouth again.
Kori stepped back inside, giving the screen door another skeptic's perusal.
Brenna considered Tilly as she sat there, chomping her gum and watching Sassafras graze in the front yard. She kept trying to make sense of Tilly's phrase about being 'took up', and wondered if it was just a backwoods colloquialism that meant being tired, or sleepless, or ill, or maybe it meant having sex--

Kori came out with tea for each of them, and took a seat at the top of the steps. Brenna cleared her throat after a swift drink and decided to be abrupt. "Hey, Kori, Tilly was telling me about being took-up."

"Took up?" Kori parroted.

"Dang! I reckon I have to explain it to ya'll, too." Tilly pulled the wad of pink bubble gum from her mouth, and stuck in under the rim of the chair, unaware of the almost comical dismay this action incited in both the other women. "I know nobody takes me serious, but I ain't tetched like they say. Some say I'm crazy as a bessie-bug, but don't ya'll swaller that for minute. They's all just green 'cause they ain't the one's bein' took up." She nodded, as if she had just released some sensitive information.

Brenna tried again, "Uh, Tilly, I think we are just confused about . . .what you mean by 'took-up'. Took where? By whom?"

Tilly turned and studied their faces with surprising thoroughness, her lids contracting into slits over her hazel eyes, then nodded slowly. "In that flyin' machine. They come and take me up 'bout once't a year or so."

"Oh! An airplane!"

"Naw. Ain't no air-o-plane. And don't nobody use it fer crop-dustin', neither. It's round."

"Helicopter?" Kori offered weakly.

"Ain't no heelacopter, neither, I tell ya. Ain't got no swangin' blades on the outside."

Brenna and Kori exchanged animated glances. "Uh, Tilly, are you talking about a UFO?"

"You-ef-oh?" she repeated carefully. "What's that?"

"An Unidentified Flying Object-"

Tilly leaned back and swept a derisive hand in their direction. "Course not!"

The two breathed a sigh of relief.

"Don't take no genius to figger it out. . . Once't ya see it, ya can identify it right enough."

Kori began to play with a loose board on the porch, and Brenna pretended she had something in her eye, so she could mask a burgeoning giggle.

"Last time was Sundee last. Thangs were dif'ernt that time. They done some stuff to me they ain't never done before."

"Who? What stuff?" Brenna asked, clamping a hand over her mouth.

"Them white varmints with buggy eyes. They ain't as big as me, but they don't have no trouble keepin' me in a bridle. Last time they done some funny stuff, and now I think I'm nailed."

Kori looked up suddenly. "Nailed?"

"Yes'm. Lord knows how long it'll take that young 'un to hatch. They never told me nothin' about it." She sipped her tea calmly. "But it's in there, shore as shootin'." she patted her stomach. "I can feel it."

Plethora (Info & Excerpt)

ISO (In Search Of)

ISO (In Search Of):
The Art of Dating, Relationships & Sex
For the Discerning Lesbian
by
Kelli Jae Baeli

CONTENTS


The Contradictory Art of Being Lesbian
Art Does Not Imitate Life ~ Butch, Femme,
Androgynous or Femepicene? ~ Hide & Seek.

The New Art of CyberCruising
The Misnomer ~ The KISS Method, With Perhaps Not So Much Kissing ~
Sour Milk From the Cyber Teat ~ CyberCruising Caveats ~ CyberCruising ~
Red Flags & Deal Breakers

The Lost Art of Dating
Desperation & Expectations ~ 17 Dates ~ Minding Your Manners ~
Dating Caveats ~ Dating Red Flags & Deal Breakers.

The Applied Art of Relationships
Friends ~ Lovers ~ Partners ~ Friends with Benefits ~
Fuckbuddies ~ Stalkers ~ Understanding Yourself Orientation,
Identity & Behavior ~ The Five C's ~ Relationship Caveats


The Dubious Art of Keeping it Together,
When It's Falling Apart
To Mend or Not to Mend ~ Lesbian Bed Death Boredom, Conflicts
with In-Laws, Finances, Infidelity ~ Listen, Sleep On It, Use Humor
~ Caveats for Relationship Angst


The Stolen Art of Sexual Prowess
Safe Sex & STD's ~ Good Sex ~ Affection ~ Kissing ~
Heavy Petting ~ Digital Penetration ~ Oral ~ Phallic Penetration ~
Fisting ~ Ass Play ~Yes Baby, Tie me Up


An excerpt can be had at my site

ISO (In Search Of)

My Friend, the Synesthete

[this article was sold recently]

My best friend is also an author, but she has unusual abilities that not only make her an anomaly among writers, but an anomaly among humans.

First, she is a synesthete. Synesthesia is an involuntary joining in which the real information of one sense is accompanied by a perception in another sense. Some synesthetes will "taste" a sound. Some can "see" a sound. Others "taste" a word, or "smell" a word. A synesthete might also see certain shapes and objects and colors whenever they hear music. Various forms of Synesthesia have been known to occur in some individuals who have had seizures.

For those Synesthetes who receive visual images from touch, could this explain psychokinetic and/or clairvoyant skills? For those who see visual representations of sounds and words, could this explain uniquely vivid artistic renderings? Was Salvador Dali a Synesthete? Vincent Van Gogh?
These questions might never be answered, because it seems common that Synesthetes remain unaware that the way they process sensory input is any different than the average person; they are only aware of this unique brain condition when they actually have a conversation wherein they compare notes with others, or when they stumble across descriptions of the condition, and recognize themselves.

Synesthesia is not new; seemingly not a product of positive ions, artificial sweeteners or a depleted ozone layer. The scientific community has been aware of it for around 300 years. After a renewed interest in the mysteries of the human brain, Synesthesia has again become a topic of interest among neurobiologists, psychologists, and the scientific community, et al.

My best friend's Synesthesia manifests in a way that I feel is even unusual among other Synesthetes. At least, I've never heard of any of them who experience things the way she does. When she writes a novel, she is not writing out of her imagination, per se, but literally transcribing an ongoing "film" that plays in her field of vision. This visual representation exists a short distance in front of her, and is much like those Plexiglas strategy boards common on Navy submarines. The film "plays" there, but is transparent enough, that she can see through it to the other things that might be in her environment on the other side.

When she gets an idea for a novel, it appears in full cinematic form. This film is a complete production, start to finish, and she has to find a way to transcribe what she sees and hears and smells and feels onto the page. This is not a visualization in the standard sense. This film appears involuntarily. It's as if she puts a DVD in a player, watches it, and then writes about what is happening. It makes me wonder if there are any famous and respected movie directors who might be Synesthetes, after I am floored by their ability to visualize an entire film pre-production, and manifest that film into the final form for the rest of us to enjoy.

But this ability is often frustrating to my friend on many levels. She can pause this film, rewind it, fast forward. (I don't have this ability, so when I get phone calls during a writing session, even from HER, I lose my flow). A character walks into her "movie" and she instantly knows everything about them as if she's read their bio before the movie began. I've seen her do it. She can stand there and get an idea and then describe the entire book to me, verbally. She can do that because it plays in front of her and she merely describes what's going on.

The first pitfall for her though, is it's distracting when she is "transcribing" this film. Perhaps she is describing John Doe, talking on the phone, and some other character in the room is dropping a pencil and eating cake. She then has to ask herself, "Should I put that in the text? Is that part of the story?"

Another frustration is that since her novels are already in screenplay form and she knows what is going to happen in every detail, it feels as if she's already written it, and that sucks a lot of the joy out of the writing process.
I am an organic writer-I love to be just as surprised as a reader about the story the characters begin to tell and where it all goes. . .but I'm still making it up.

My Synesthete author friend can also turn the volume down on the "film" or mentally press pause, when she has to answer her own phone. Just as if it's on TV. Sometimes she'll have a character (say, "Doreen") from another book, walk into the scene and say, "Why are you giving that to her? I wanted that." -and then she'll feel guilty that she's hurt Doreen's feelings.

Her Synesthesia also manifests during conversations with others. When she is having a debate or exchange of ideas, she sees a chess board, suspended a few feet in front of her, and as the conversation progresses, so do the men on the chessboard, according to who is saying what, and how that might translate into a chess game.

There are still other abilities that I feel are directly related to her Synesthesia. She has an almost photographic memory. She can recall conversations, verbatim; she can bring up an image of how a place looked she's seen only once, many years ago. She recalls even the smells that were in that room. She is also dyslexic, and has some pretty impressive intuitive skills that border on psychic.

Once, I played a tape recording of a live songwriter's performance I was part of. Although she had never been to that venue, nor even to the state or city in which it was located, when she heard the tape, she was able to describe the room in which it took place with frightening detail. It struck me as a gift not unlike Remote Viewing. The only error in her description was that the "floorplan" she described was inverted. What she described on the left, was on the right, and vice versa. But it was an accurate mirror image of the location. Could this have merely been her dyslexia interfering? She has joked to me before that when she is making a repeat journey somewhere and has to decide whether she is supposed to turn left or right to reach her destination again, she doubts her first instinct, because she's afraid her dyslexia is giving her the opposite information.

My friend also has lucid dreams. Lucid dreamers can "Come awake" in their dreams, and are aware that they are dreaming, while they are in the dream. But she can control her dreams. Sometimes not the outcome, but she can control the players, time of day, what she's wearing. She can pause her dream, get up and go to bathroom and then go back to it.

My only claim to fame in this arena, is that I have been the one to point out that Synesthesia existed as a unique condition in two different friends of mine. They have always been this way, and both were unaware that they were unusual in the way their senses intertwined. Through conversations with them, and through independent research, I discovered that most other Synesthetes aren't aware they are different, either, until a certain conversation arises and it becomes clear that most other people don't have these abilities.

I can't imagine having these gifts. It must be exhilarating in some ways, but my friend sees it as both blessing and curse. She struggles with the sensation that her writing is not really her own, since it is created in some mysterious place in her Synesthete brain before it actually appears. This strikes me as a potent example of the muse that artists speak of; information and creations channeled to them from some other place in the collective consciousness. What if the "muse" artists refer to is merely something that exists in each human brain, but is not always available to each of us, unless genetics or brain injury releases it?

There have, indeed, been cases of brain injury causing changes in brain functioning; sometimes even savantism; and autism are conditions that commonly cause unique abilities in those who have it, usually in the area of memory and visualization.

There is still much to be learned about how the cerebral cortex, neurons, synapses and other mechanisms really function, and the many ways in which it can perform feats of extraordinary skill. But whether blessing or curse, Synesthesia is not just an oddity, but a distinctive and fascinating peek inside the human brain.

My Friend, the Synesthete

No, the Other Baggage...

I sat down with my coffee and noticed no mail yet from the source of my current vexation. Within 5 minutes, (last night after our phone call, I sent the txt: Thank u for being u. I get a text from her- Got ur txt. : Training 2day, No email. grr. I text back: Rats! Guess I'll work on writing, music, sculpture & my self. Have a good day! . . .

So I'm spending the day trying to be productive. I have to stop obsessing on this woman. Baggage still needs another 20,000 words or more, unless I'm going to let it be a novella. It did occur to me yesterday that I might consider writing novellas. . .i have this idea that I have to write full-length novels because that's what "real writers" do and with the idea that potential publishers/agents won't take it seriously if you don't. . .well, it's not like they've been beating down my door. I've been doing it all myself. And then there's the argument I make frequently, that a book should only be long enough to tell the story. I don't believe in "padding" as I think it contradicts the act of creation. . .so. IF it becomes clear that Baggage is complete before it reaches standard length, I guess I'll have to let it be a novella. I'm also trying to get A Random Act of Blindness done. It needs to at least double in size to even be able to reach novella size in order to print it in paperback. It's around 50 pages, and needs to be at least 100.

No, the Other Baggage...