I don’t write to be famous, I don’t write to be known, I write because I am and I want to be read. How sad to fill a room with paintings no one sees or play music no one hears. Writing is talking without sound, singing without score and dancing without movement and yet, it is all of them. It is a solitary art conjured from thought and expressed by the need to communicate.

HEAD SLAPS, SPEED BUMPS and LIGHTBULBS, one woman's WTF, oops and ah-ha moments of life.

They were published once, and as every writer knows, once is not enough.

Friday, May 2, 2014

I found me

This small suitcase is similar to the little black makeup case which held my mother's manuscript for over twenty-five years. It was discovered in my attic on the eighth anniversary of her death, April 16th (check out my post on that date), I explain why I am writing about my mother's lost and forgotten novel.

I’m the beginning of chapter 8.

I’m the tall, full-figured Abigail who didn’t date much in high school. I’m intelligent and excited about starting down a new path. Oh, I’m from New Jersey.
There I am standing on a high porch behind the inn overlooking the Connecticut River. I see movement in the tall grass of the field behind the inn which leads to the water.

I had almost given up on mom’s book until I read chapter 8. What Abigale found in the field and how she and Marty got it back to the inn captivated my attention. That we’re back in Uncle Toby’s room has also sparked my interest.

In my words:
It is morning and Abigail searches the field for the movement she saw. She is drenched from wading through the dew soaked high grass, and ready to turn back, when she hears something, when she sees something. (Sort of like me discovering Chapter 8).

In her words:
She gaped at it, her hand over her mouth holding back the scream she felt rising in her throat.
It was a man. The lower part of his body was covered in blood. His wet clothing was torn and filthy. He made an effort to raise his arm, as if pleading for help. The arm fell helplessly as the man groaned trying to say something. She dropped to her knees. At least he is alive, she thought.

In my words:
Abigale and Marty, with great effort help the man into the inn and up to Uncle Toby’s room. Marty has not been in the room since Tobias died. It had been straightened and the bed striped by one of the inn-workers.
I am shouting in my head, look under the bed Marty, look under the bed.

The pages of the book are copies. Page 103 has handwritten edits I can barely read because the writing is so faint. Seeing her handwriting reminded me that she is here with me, looking over my shoulder, and I know this because the scent of the pages, stored so long in the make-up case is the scent of her, a mixture of face powder and Chantilly.

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