Campaign Novel Hits the Presses

I hope everyone had a lovely Thanksgiving. If you don't celebrate Thanksgiving where you live, I hope you had a day full of blessings and gratitude.

This fall, I participated in Rachael Harrie's Writer's Platform-Building Campaign. From her website: "My Writers' Platform-Building Campaigns are a way to link writers, aspiring authors, beginner bloggers, industry people, and published authors together with the aim of helping to build our online platforms.

The Campaigners are all people in a similar position, who genuinely want to pay it forward, make connections and friends within the writing community, and help build each others' online platforms while at the same time building theirs."

Such an amazing experience. I learned so much from all the writers, but especially my genre groups: young adult fiction and women's fiction. The writing community has become a lifeline much the same way the parenting community has. We need each other, and we learn more by spreading knowledge than we could ever learn by keeping it to ourselves.

During the campaign, Rachael challenged the group with three writing prompts. At the end, fellow campaigner, Katharina Gerlach, offered to gather our answers (everything from flash fiction to poetry to essays) into an eBook. The result, Campaigner Challenges 2011, is available at Amazon and Smashwords. All proceeds go to charity. For more information, please visit the Amazon or Smashwords links.

I have three pieces included, but I wanted to reprint my favorite here. This was a show-don't-tell exercise with prompts. To see the exact rules, visit the original posting.

Drifting Away

The sun began to creep from its hiding place, warming the sand beneath her toes. She spread her fingers through the grains, moving past her bare legs to begin shifting sand over one foot and then another. Creamy vanilla and caramel colors swirled with the teals, greens, and blues of the waves moving just ahead of her.

Such synbatec beauty couldn’t stop the yawn from escaping her dry lips. Full shopping bags awaited her in the room, the credit card he gave her maxed out. She reached for her water, the cool liquid easing down her throat. A deep sigh followed.

Paul motioned for the waiter just before the cell phone went off again. “It’s Miss Raphine. I have to take this,” he whispered and walked away.

Why had she come? He said they’d get away, focus on each other. With each tacise lie, pieces of the relationship broke away.

She closed her eyes and melted into the cocoon of the expensive towel. A wave of nausea rose as the scent of bacon and wastopaneer drifted toward her. He knew she hated both, they argued about it last week before boarding the airplane.

Her head fell to the side, her eyes drifting open. She saw children she’d never have running down the beach, a man and woman trying to keep up. An old couple sat in chairs under an umbrella watching the fun.

The shutdown began, like the spin cycle of a washing machine… slowing, slowing. The orange bottle was empty beside her. The small pills once inside it were working their magic, easing her load. Her breathing began to slow, and peace came.