My bragging series has finally brought us to the publication of my first book, Maya's Vacation!

It is a romance novella, reaching just about 50 pages in all, and it was published by Astraea Press in March of last year. The whole process of having a book published was so exciting, from perusing the editor's suggestions, seeing cover art for the first time, and watching as the reviews come in. Maya's Vacation is available in e-book only, but you can get it for your kindle, nook, or in basic PDF form -- however you want it! Here are the buy links from Astraea Press (direct from the publisher is where I get the biggest cut, hint hint), Amazon, and Barnes and Nobles. The novella will cost you a whopping $1.99. And if that's too much, I'll be giving away 5 $0.01 copies in next Thursday's post!

We'll be on Maya's Vacation in the bragging series for a while, because it brought me much to brag about! I plan to repost the recordings of myself reading from the book, highlight a few of the reviews, and highlight a few of the interviews at other author blogs to promote its publication in the next few weeks on Thursdays. For this first post on my book, I'm including an excerpt from it. I hope you find your romantic leanings intrigued!

At 4:45, the three of them made their way out of the cabin. Opal led them on the trail to the dining hall. The smell of sap on the pine trees made Maya smile, and she wondered if anyone had ever made a sap-based paint. It would be dreadfully hard to work with, but the smell would be so much better than oil ones. Dean used to smell of nothing but oil paints and sweat.

It was strange how being here made her think of him when she hadn’t in ages. He had come back those many years ago, but it was a year after she’d accepted her parents’ check, and by then she was already engaged to Chuck with their blessing. Dean had found her at her parents' home in New Rockford. She didn’t know how he found the house — she’d never mentioned which development they lived in — but she wasn’t surprised when she saw him striding up the walkway, holding a large, polished conch shell that must have been for her. Maya wanted to run to him then, everything within her screamed to go, but she’d made her decision months ago.

She’d wept in her bedroom, behind the curtain sheer, as he rang the bell. Her father opened the door then stepped outside and closed it behind him. Dean’s hopeful expression dissolved into one of shock as she heard her dad say, “. . . engaged . . . her life’s on track now . . .” in an increasingly louder voice. Somehow, Dean knew which room was hers, and she could feel him staring at her window, his blue eyes pleading silently with her through the pulled sheer.

“I came back for you, Maya,” he called out in the voice that used to inspire her to paint the sun cresting over a sand dune. She stood and ran toward the front door but stopped short when she heard her father threaten to call the cops.

Dean left.

Her father came back in a few minutes later and threw the shell in the kitchen trash. Maya wiped away her tears and forced her thoughts toward floral arrangements for the reception. Later, when her parents were asleep, she fished the shell out of the garbage. Painted on its pink lip was a miniature portrait of herself in profile, with a slight smile on her lips. It doesn’t look like me, she had thought, at least not anymore.

“You okay?” Esther whispered as the three women reached the dining hall. It was roughly four times the size of their Downy Woodpecker cabin. “You look pale.”

“I’m fine,” Maya answered, though she felt a little shaky. Odd how thinking of Dean could still affect her after all these years. “I was daydreaming a little. The fresh air feels good, you know?”

Opal opened the door to the Toucan, as the sign above it read. Maya was amazed by the set up inside. She’d been imagining the summer camp cafeterias of her adolescence, long plywood tables and a stainless steel buffet of indiscernible foods in the center of a large, colorless room. This was much more intimate. The left half of the cabin was filled with a cozy, open kitchen, and the other side held a few scattered, high pub tables and a larger table of polished cherry wood that could seat at least ten. The windows were floor length, exposing a view of the tops of pine trees and storm clouds gathering along the mountainous horizon. It was gorgeous. A handful of people stood around, chatting.

“I'd forgotten how lovely that view is!” Esther gushed. Maya nodded in agreement as she watched an older woman in coveralls pull a tray out from the oven and place it to cool on the counter. The woman caught sight of them and clapped her hands together.

“Oh, more guests!” She scuttled over and exclaimed, “Opal and Esther! You both look wonderful.” She gave them each a warm hug. Then she introduced herself to Maya. “I’m Catelyn, Cliff’s wife. We are so excited to have you here.” Her gray hair was in a loose bun. She gestured toward the pub tables. “Please take a seat!”

Opal and Esther sauntered off, and Maya offered to help with dinner. Cooking had been a passion of hers ever since she and Chuck had moved into their first home. Its kitchen was almost completely enclosed, and she had loved how the different spices lingered in it, making her feel like she entered another world every time she stepped inside, one that she wanted to contribute to each day with fresh flavors and experiments. Catelyn set her to pouring flights of wines for the guests, eighteen total counting her and Ranger, though one of the men wasn’t due until tomorrow morning.

“He’s a bit of a strange one,” Catelyn whispered to her. “Just called yesterday, hoping we could squeeze him in and sounding all flustered, too, like he couldn’t explain why he was coming. Now, who would act so weird about coming to a retreat?”

“I don’t know,” Maya laughed. “Sounds like a head case! Guess we’ll see tomorrow, huh?” She recorked the bottle of zinfandel and took a seat at an empty table. Opal was chatting with a skinny man wearing a bowtie the next table over. She gave Maya a wink.

Ranger came in with a few stragglers, a young-looking couple and a short man with a smile so large, it looked like he’d swallowed an orange.

“The wine's all poured? Well, get out of town,” Ranger exclaimed. “Time to take a seat then, everyone. Let's get this show on the road.”

By the time she'd finished her slice of mocha cheesecake and drank her port at the end of the meal, Maya had made fast friends with John, the short man. He'd taken the empty barstool next to her and spent the evening charming her with stories about his granddaughter and her new puppy. When he found out Maya was contemplating a reunion with her ex, he let out a low whistle and cried, “That's a damn shame! If I’d have known that earlier, I wouldn’t have wasted the last two hours on you.”

“Am I the only person who came here to paint?” Maya replied with a laugh.

“Yes,” John answered then whispered, “but don't tell Ranger Cliff.”

Consider this a potential glimpse into Catelyn's kitchen.

It's been a few weeks since the last installment in my Thursday Bragging series. We are now almost caught up to a year ago in my published works. This one is a fantasy flash fiction piece that happens to be one of my favorites, likely because it stems from my love of poetic prose and abstract plots. Enjoy the first few lines of "Apocalypse," published at Yesteryear Fiction.

Corena sits on a bench in a field of marigolds and cement. She sits and watches the people walk past her in the same direction, which is away. They tread on the endless sidewalks lying between the rows of marigold planter boxes. Their expressions are serene as they stare ahead, wearing shapeless clothes the color of corn silk. Some of the people turn and look at her; they turn their heads but don’t stop walking. Most continue onward, focused on the path that is the future. Corena sits. She records the sky’s markings in her notebook. There are many clouds, dark and light grays swirled together like mixing paint. They give her comfort, though the wind is strong today. She fears the time is near, but she hopes the clouds will stay.

You can read the rest of "Apocalypse" for free here. And because I've developed a habit for adding a possibly scene-setting photograph, here is a potential view of Corena's bench as she waits for the world to end.

And here might be the sky on this fate-filled day.

Enjoy!

You may have missed it last week---I know I did---but my second review for WRAL's Out and About was published. This time, I visited Southern Rail in Carrboro to check out their dining scene, knowing full well that the drinking scene is worthwhile! Here are the results:

Southern Rail is a nightlife and dining complex in downtown Carrboro. The Station, their main bar, is housed in a refurbished train station, and the dining takes place in vintage railroad cars. They also have a large beer garden space and two more bars housed inside the facilities. On a warm night with a DJ or band playing outside, Southern Rail and the Station are happening.

I hadn’t tried the food since they first opened five years ago, so I decided to remedy that and investigate whether Southern Rail offered good options for a bite between drinks.

You can read the rest of the post and check out the pictures at Out and About.

My bragging series or "How I Attempted to Embrace Self-Promotion" continues with an entry from my nonfiction creative writing, published online in 2010. This one is a short piece on the disappearance and recovery of Loki, our orange tabby cat who went missing for 8 months back when he was a year and a half old. Here are the first few lines:

Loki is the Norse god of trickery and mischief. He's a shape-shifter, and I'm pretty sure our tomcat is one of his chosen forms. We picked out the name Loki before we went to the shelter, and yet it fit him perfectly.

I wanted an orange tabby because I'd always heard they were the friendliest cats. At the shelter, I was drawn to the loudest meower, a runt of a kitten with a deafening purr even from behind cage bars. He was the only orange tabby there. It was fated that we'd take him home, and he worked his charms to ensure it.

He proved to be a mischief maker just like his namesake. He claimed all of Woodcroft as his domain. Loki was well fed and well loved, but he still fooled many unwitting humans into thinking his easy purr and plaintive meows were signs of hunger. The neighborhood became his personal 24-hour buffet.

The rest of "the Trickster" can be found in online Independent Weekly as part of their annual Dog Days of Summer issue. "The Trickster" appears about halfway down this page. Interestingly, my initial blog post here when Loki first went missing has always been one of my most popular entries. Plenty of people have swung by it when they've also lost a cat, and I'd like to think they found some hope they'd find their pets again from it. Not quite as popular, but much more hopeful, was my post on finding Loki again, and the injuries he suffered and recovered from, getting back to the same crazy animal he always has been with a lessened sense of wanderlust, luckily.

Of course, all this is really an excuse to post a more recent picture of Loki---the cat, the monster, the trickster. This is him with his sisters on either side during a rainy January day.

Time for the next entry in my self-promotion series! She Could Be Me is a short story published by Flashes in the Dark back in May of 2010. And it's available online for free! It's a horror story with a Twilight Zone feel to it. Interested? Here are the first few lines:

“I’m delayed,” Tom said over the phone. Celia could barely hear him with the thunder on her end of the line and the airport loudspeaker playing an endless stream of announcements in Spanish, a language she didn’t understand, on his. The announcer’s voice sounded ethereal and discordant at the same time, like a slightly off-tune harp being plucked.

“I’ll be home tomorrow,” he continued. “Don’t get bent out of shape, okay?”

What was a strange thing to say. She never complained when Tom was delayed.

You can read the rest at Flashes in the Dark here. Perhaps these photos will help you with the atmosphere for enjoying She Could Be Me.

The walk toward Chez Mer:

Celia's drink at Chez Mer:

Now that those pesky recent publications have stopped getting in the way (yes, yes, I wish I could complain about more of them!), I can return to my pattern of posting oldest to newest credits in this self-promotion series. Next up is a short little guest blog post I did back in the fall of 2009 on the Muffin Blog. It was written as a way to vent my frustration after losing years of creative writing due to a hard drive failure.More importantly, it was an ode to all the characters I lost from the crash. Here's your lead-in:

I lost six years of my life. Okay, I’m being a tad dramatic. I lost six years’ worth of word processor documents. They’re gone. They left for the great recycling bin icon in the sky and some jerk emptied it. I’m the jerk.

A few years ago, I decided the old college laptop had to go. It had been wacky since my roommate borrowed it for a night of feverish essay typing and spilled a mug of coffee on it. The keys sank down like molasses when you pressed them and came up 1. . . 2 . . .3 seconds later with a loud click. The down arrow key would possess the cursor, sending it on a race down the monitor, which no control-alt-delete combination could halt.

If your interest is peaked, read the rest at the Muffin Blog! And for your visual pleasure, I give you kitten Verdandi expressing the same rage at dirty laundry as I felt when I realized the files were gone forever.

Would you like to know how good of a year 2012 has been so far? This is the second time I've had to replace one of my planned bragging posts with a just published one instead!  Let's hope this is a trend that continues.

This week, I'm directing you to an essay I wrote for our local independent newspaper, sensibly named the Independent Weekly, or the Indy if you're a local. The Front Porch column is open to readers to send in 500-word essays on any topic, and it's often a great place to get a sense of what others in the community are thinking about or just taste a little slice of someone's life. This week, it's my life you can dig into, or at least my opinions on the running craze and the constant fundraisers around us. Here is your teaser:

On Facebook, I complete the circle of life every day by reading the status updates of friends and acquaintances. Births, weddings, deaths, more births: They're all there on display. Lately, it seems, there's a new element of living that I'd previously neglected. I'm talking about races, the running kind—anything that ends in "-athlon," "-K" or red-faced racers clutching their stomachs as they breathlessly pass a finish line.

Ostensibly, it's both the method of choice to raise money for every known charity and the trendiest way to announce a transition from out-of-shape blob to exercise hound. Watching from the sidelines, it's a little bewildering . . .

For the rest of the Front Porch, either pick up a free copy of the Indy at pretty much any coffee shop and many local businesses or head over to the web version. Thanks for reading!

Two weeks ago, I posted the first in my series of self-promotional blogs on Thursdays, titled the Bragging series, because I always feel less self-conscious about anything if I just embrace it fully. This week, I'm pointing you toward the interview I did with WOW! Women on Writing as part of placing third with the story I shared two weeks ago, Last Complaint. Here's a little snippet from the interview where I describe what some of my thoughts were in forming the main character:

WOW: That's so true. Creating a hook that keeps readers invested is the goal. Your creation of the main character is brilliant. She's self-centered, lonely, demanding, and vulnerable. That's a powerful combination. What does her attitude say about the state of humanity?

Rebecca: Since she spent her life not taking other people's feelings into consideration, she essentially removed herself from humanity and they no longer wish to consider her feelings, either. Through rejecting the simple human connection that comes from things as basic as treating the people around you with respect, she has essentially lost the right to that same treatment herself. Not that I want people to read about a murder and cheer on her death, per se, but I do like that it's a bit of a comeuppance for her and the way she's lived her life.

Read the rest of the interview here. If you do, you'll learn about my other motivations for writing Last Complaint (hint: they aren't that deep), why I started this blog in the first place, and my long and sordid history with General Hospital. This was the first interview I did regarding writing, and it's still one of my favorites, even if I gave the dreaded "Write, write, write" answer for what advice to give new writers. I still hang my head in shame when I remember it.

Last Thursday, my first post for WRAL's Out and About--their blog on the Triangle's entertainment, food, and nightlife--went live, and I didn't even realize it! If I had, you can bet I'd have let you all know about it then. I'll be contributing a couple more pieces for WRAL during the course of the year, and I look forward to it! This first one is on 604 West Morgan, a fancy and delicious Italian restaurant hidden in downtown Durham's warehouse district. Here is your teaser:

I have a compulsion when dining out in the Triangle – I must try a new place every time! We are spoiled with amazing options, and I’m lucky enough to have friends just as excited to try them all as I am.

My dining companions on this particular evening all work in the American Tobacco District in downtown Durham, so we wanted somewhere nearby. The usual suspects like Revolution, Rue Cler and Dos Perros were quickly eliminated – we’d all been to them before!

Where we hadn’t been is an Italian restaurant just half a mile away in the redeveloped West Village warehouses. Unless you happened to glance into the courtyard between the Flowers Warehouse and Cooper Shop buildings as you walked down Fernway or Morgan streets, you wouldn’t know 604 West Morgan was tucked away inside.

For the rest of the review, and pictures, head to the post!

I wouldn't call it a resolution, but I am attempting to do a better job of that self-promotion part of writing. I hate self-promotion. I want people to magically find all my published work, become instant dedicated fans, and beg me to create more stories for them. Funny enough, that doesn't happen on its own! Or at least not at this stage in my career. But this stage in my career is actually pretty awesome, because I've been published several times now, and that's a huge building block in terms of ego and confidence to keep going.

Here's my plan: I'm going to point you all to my published pieces one by one in case you missed them the first time they were published. I'll report links to my interviews on other blogs as well, maybe revel in that time---ok, two times now---that Durham magazine interviewed me on the Triangle dining scene or those times---ok, two times now---that the Independent Weekly mentioned my name. Eventually, I'll even  tell you all about how I'm writing the occasional post for WRAL Out and About, the first of which will be coming out soon. Yes, I've known that for weeks, submitted my first review last week, and I still haven't told the interwebs about it---I really am that bad at self-promotion, folks.

Consider this the first installment in my bragging series, to be posted at least every other Thursday. Our first installment is Last Complaint, a horror short story that won me third place in WOW! Women on Writing's Flash Fiction contest back in 2009. In it, a grumpy old woman finds out that airing her grievances isn't always the wisest plan. Here are the first few paragraphs:

She parks her station wagon under the "No Vacancy" sign. This is the first inn she's passed since dinner at that horrible truck stop diner. Her bowl of clam chowder had been lukewarm and the waitress had the gall to try and make her pay for it. She doubts she'll be treated any better at this place, but she can feel her eyelids drooping.

"Bellboy!" she yells into the dark lot. No one comes. She sighs, then pulls out her suitcase and wheels it towards the small front office that glows with a pale green fluorescence.

"Can I help you?" grunts the middle-aged man wearing a stained gray uniform at the desk. He flips the channel on an old television set that's perched on the countertop behind him.

"I need a room," she says. "How much?"

"We're full up. No vacancy," he gestures towards the sign outside then stares at her, his mouth hanging open.

"That's ridiculous," she insists. "I have a nephew who manages a Hyatt." She waits for this to affect him but his expression does not change. She continues, unperturbed, "There are always extra rooms available, that's what he told me.  Even at the Hyatt."

To continue reading, head here, and scroll down the page about halfway. You'll find my picture and the rest of Last Complaint there. This picture was not taken with the story in mind, but it captures the mood of the latter half of the story, stumbling through a dark hallway half asleep.

Enjoy! And let me know what you thought.