herbeautifulmonster
A young writer just getting started ... Through shameless self-promotion
All posts for the month January, 2014
On taking sneaky peeks.
Published January 25, 2014 by mandileighbean
As a thank you for all the support and all the time spent reading this blog, I'd like to offer up a small sample from the project I am currently working on, entitled MOODY BLUE. It's about a young man whose fiancée's life is cut short, and how that impacts him and his other relationships. The tragedy also forces him to confront brutal and ugly truths he'd been hiding and running from.
Enjoy, and as always, PLEASE let me know what you think.
Melissa was disturbed by the lack of human interaction. Hell, Adam only talked to her when it became absolutely necessary, and those occasions were becoming rarer and rarer. She worried that the viewing and funeral would be too much, debacles, spectacles, horrible memories Adam would never be able to recover from. When the day of the viewing dawned, uncomfortably warm and overcast, she rose silently and began to make coffee in the kitchen. As she scooped dark grinds from one receptacle to another, she noticed her hands were trembling. She dropped the stupid, little, plastic scooper and brought her hands together, determined to make them stop. After all, why should she tremble? It was not her fiancée being mourned and then buried. It was not her life being upended. Why should she shake? She gave herself a moment to stuff down her sorrow at Lily's passing, which seemed nonsensical and illogical. Could it be that all this grief was for her brother? That didn't seem quite right, either. Was she marveling at the inevitability of her own mortality? She supposed that could be true, but truth be told, Melissa was not one for deep thoughts. When it came to life and death and all that, it was what it was and that was that. Melissa mentally repeated that mantra and bent to retrieve the scooper. For the time being, she was back to normal and set about to keep things as normal as possible for Adam, especially on the day of Lily's viewing.
Melissa gave Adam another twenty minutes of sleep, of blissful unconsciousness, as she enjoyed the solitude of and the absence of emotional turmoil in the empty kitchen. She generously filled her mug with fresh, steaming coffee and slowly sipped from it. The moment was peaceful, but neither it nor the caffeine would be enough to carry her through the day. She anticipated needing something much stronger, and that need became especially poignant as she rose from the table to rouse Adam, the undisputed but unexpected second victim of Lily's selfish and heinous act.
Melissa's slippers scuffed down the hallway. She always hesitated now outside Adam's bedroom door to steel herself against the horrible possibility that she would find Adam dead, driven to suicide from grief over Lily's suicide. Suddenly, Melissa hated Lily, was glad Lily was gone, and wished that Lily had never existed at all. The cruelty and savage nature of her own thoughts surprised and bothered Melissa, as did the nagging and reluctant admission that it was not the first time such brutal thoughts about Lily had crossed her mind. She shook her head to clear it. She chided herself for being superstitious and silly. She knocked on Adam's bedroom door.
"Come in," he said. The response was certain and immediate. Melissa was sure Adam had been expecting just such a wakeup call, and that expectation explained his preparation, explained the immediacy of the response. As Melissa opened the door, Adam was revealed to her, sitting on the edge of the bed nearest the door. His feet rested upon the floor and his elbows pointedly dug into his thighs from the weight and effort of cradling his poor head, cradled by lined, shaky hands. It was a pitiful sight to behold, what with Adam's red-rimmed eyes and their vacant glare that cleverly pointed in the appropriate direction, but did nothing more than emptily roam over the area. Adam looked, but he did not see. Melissa saw that he looked like hell, and was now fairly certain that Adam had been prepared for her intrusion not because it was expected, but because simply, Adam had not slept. By the looks of him, it was hard to tell when the last time he slept was, but it certainly had not been within the last day or two.
Posted in: Drama, Suspense, Writing
Tagged: Adam Petersen, Aspiring Author, Aspiring Authors, Aspiring Writer, Aspiring Writers, Author, Authors, Avid Reader, Avid Readers, Avid Writer, Brother, Creative Writer, Creative Writers, Creative Writing, Debut Novel, Depression, Disassociative Identity Disorder, Elvis Presley, Excerpt, Family, Funeral, Health, Her Beautiful Monster, Imaginative Writer, Imaginative Writing, Insomnia, Inspiration, Love, Mandi Bean, Manuscript, Martin Sisters Publishing, Melissa Petersen, Mental Health, Mental Illness, Moody Blue, Music, New Jersey, New Manuscript, New Novel, Novelist, Preview, Read, Reader, Readers, Reading, Romance, Sample, Second Novel, Sister, Sneak Peek, Suicide, Trailer, Viewing, Work in Progress, Write, Writer, Writers, Writing
On looking for bruises and blood.
This is going to seem like an incredibly odd way to begin this post, but I was honestly shocked by how difficult it is to find a picture of men and women dressed in fancy clothes while displaying bruises and blood. I know that is a terribly creepy image to search for, but when you read this week's writing prompt, I'm hopeful you will understand.
That being said, I have a favor to ask. If you enjoy these weekly prompts, or read and enjoyed HER BEAUTIFUL MONSTER, please review my work! Add something to Amazon, or Goodreads, or even just leave a post on my Facebook page. The best way for a writer to be successful is to be known, so pretty, pretty please with sugar on top, spread the word if you enjoy my writing! And if you don't, that's cool, too! Please feel free to add critiques and tell me how I can get better. Both praise and constructive criticism are always welcome.
WEEKLY WRITING PROMPT #11: "Yes, and that's why she broke the plate over his head."
Gerard walked over slowly, limping ever so slightly, with one bottle of beer in each hand. Cold and wet from a cooler, the dripping water exploded against the searing pavement and made Gerard's movements incredibly easy to trace. Kristen watched him advance with a bemused, bright smile, raising her hand to shield her squinting eyes from the sweltering sun. He offered a boyish, mischievous grin in return and Kristen knew she had to be careful now, because falling in love with someone like Gerard would be foolish, and her mother would be right, and she would most likely end up weird and alone. She shoved all that down and unnecessarily moved over on the second to last stone step of the church. Gerard took a seat and handed Kristen one of the amber-colored bottles. She took it and said thanks. Another moment was all she could stand before she just had to ask, "Why is it that you have cold beer in your car?"
Gerard threw his head back and laughed, not caring who was in ear shot or what those who gazed upon him might think of him, sitting in a tuxedo on the front steps of a church beside a beautiful, young woman in an incredibly expensive dress, drinking a beer. Kristen envied the total freedom he exuded, regardless of whether or not it was authentic. He clanked his bottle against hers, drank from it greedily, and then said, "Weddings are brutal, man. One must always be prepared."
"Isn't that the motto for the Boy Scouts?" Kristen asked,
Gerard nodded, taking another long drink. "Indeed it is, but my intentions were never so honorable or innocent." He shot her a playful wink and she blushed appropriately, playing the game and being as coquettish as anyone would expect. Inside, though, it was murdering her and humiliating her. She wanted it to be more, to be substantial, to be the beginning of everything important, but she was terrified it meant nothing more than sharing a beer to Gerard, and all the conflicting thoughts and emotions and desires only served to make her nauseous. So she turned away. Gerard noticed and asked, "Is it that bad? Am I that hard to look at?"
Kristen turned back towards him. She understood that he was referring to his swelling bottom lip and left eye. The skin was puffed and quickly discoloring, turning from a normal kind of cream color to a gross, rough-looking black and blue. Blood was dried and flaking at the corner of his mouth, and it trailed down to his chin. She ran her fingers along the outside of her bottle, ensuring they were wet, and gently rubbed Gerard's chin clean of blood. She let her fingers trail the lines of his jaw for just a second before coming back to herself and reality. She shrugged. "It's not so bad. You definitely have a black eye, but girls are into that, especially if you make up a really cool, heroic story. Say you beat someone up because they said the kitten you rescued from a tree was stupid." She gulped at the alcohol in the bottle, hating herself just a little more each time she opened her dumb mouth.
Gerard laughed. "Oh yeah, because that's totally cool. You've always had your finger on the pulse of incoming trends, Kristen; that's you all over." Coming from anyone else, the sarcasm would have stung. But when it came from Gerard, it felt safe and warm, like belonging somewhere or being accepted. Kristen should have been happy, but she was never one to leave well enough alone.
"So what did happen? Why did Mark start swinging on you?"
Gerard immediately dropped his gaze, suddenly unwilling to look Kristen in the eye. He cleared his throat and swallowed hard, depending on his body to stall for time. He shifted in his seat and readjusted his grip on his bottle, so that the thumb of his right hand covered the circular opening. "Well," Gerard began but wet his lips to pause, "it's complicated. I'll tell you everything later, especially if we're drunk, but for now, let's just say I was trying to encourage Mark to behave in a certain way, and he literally fought me on it."
Kristen nodded and then dropped her gaze as well. What was that supposed to mean? If it was vague enough to be infuriating, but she supposed that was Gerard all over. He was enigmatic, but it was now at the point where it was no longer exciting. It was tiring and confusing. She rolled her eyes and drank. Gerard had seen. He had, in fact, been watching Kristen's reaction very closely, eager for the blind loyalty she had always displayed, but expecting and dreading a negative judgment. He knew it was only a matter of time before she caught on to his bullshit and faded him out. "What the hell was that?" he asked, hurt and unable to keep it from his tone.
"What?" Kristen asked, honestly surprised.
"You just rolled your eyes at me. What gives?"
"Oh shit," Kristen groaned. She covered her face with her hands, still holding the bottle. "I didn't think you were looking."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Gerard's voice became higher the more offended he became.
"No," Kristen said, sounding miserable. "I just wish you would just tell me the truth, you know? I don't need the games or intrigue, man. Just tell me what happened to your face."
Gerard stared at Kristen, open-mouthed, while she stayed as she was, eyes closed and face covered. He was about to answer when one of a pair of bridesmaids, wearing dresses identical to Kristen's dress, said, "Yes, and that's when she broke the plate over his head!" The women laughed and continued on, apparently oblivious to the fact that they had just passed the topic of their conversation. Gerard shrunk as if the blows had been physical rather than of the verbal variety. Kristen let her hands drop and she turned back to Gerard, watching him suffering. A smile that honestly lacked amusement draped itself across her mouth.
"Gina did that to you? Not Mark?"
Gerard nodded.
"Oh my God," Kristen laughed. "Why? And why did you lie?"
Gerard took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and spoke very quickly, as if rushing through it would minimize the consequences of revealing what had transpired. "I told Mark about how Gina had been sending me crazy text messages and how she had been trying to get me to meet her alone, but he didn't believe me, so when he asked Gina about it, she flipped and attacked me, and said I was the crazy one, that I was stalking her, and what a mistake it had been to ever invite me."
Kristen dropped the bottle she had been holding. It did not shatter, but rolled away quickly, leaking suds and foam and alcohol as it went. Kristen used her newly free hands to cover her mouth and stifle the inappropriate gales of shocked laughter that were threatening to overcome her. Gerard popped one eye open and chanced a glance at Kristen. When she didn't seem completely disgusted, he relaxed. "Do you believe me?"
"It's a weird thing to lie about," Kristen said. "And it was kind of a dick move to wait until the wedding day, don't you think?"
"It just started happening!" Gerard retorted defensively. "I thought it would be laughed off, chalked up to cold feet! I didn't know I'd get roughed up and kicked out!" He ran a hand across his wearied face, but then stopped suddenly, as if something had just occurred to him. "Why did you follow me out of the church, by the way? No one was mad at you; no one was kicking you out. Why disgrace yourself by aligning with me?"
Kristen shrugged nervously wiped her palms against her dress, which was spread smooth across her thighs. "Well, it's complicated. I'll tell you everything later, especially if we're drunk, but for now, let's just say I was sending a message to everyone, you especially, but naturally, you missed it." She stood and began walking away.
Gerard panicked. "What? Where are you going? You're coming back, right?"
"I'm getting another beer," Kristen called over her shoulder. Gerard asked her to bring back two and patiently waited.
Posted in: Humor, Romance, Writing
Tagged: Amazon, Amazon Reviews, Aspiring Author, Aspiring Authors, Aspiring Writer, Aspiring Writers, Author, Authors, Avid Reader, Avid Readers, Avid Writer, Best Man, Blood, Book Review, Book Reviews, Bridesmaid, Broken, Bruises, Challenges, Creative Writer, Creative Writers, Creative Writing, Creative Writing Prompts, Debut Novel, Facebook, Facebook Posts, Fan Reviews, Fight, Fresh Boiled Peanuts, Friends, Goodreads, Goodreads Reviews, Google, Google Images, Health, Her Beautiful Monster, Images, Imaginative Writer, Imaginative Writing, Inspiration, Internet Search, Love, Mandi Bean, Martin Sisters Publishing, New Jersey, Novelist, Prompts, Publicity, Read, Reader, Readers, Reading, Review, Romance, Search, Searching, Spread the Word, Success, Weekly Writing Prompt, Word of Mouth, Write, Writer, Writers, Writing
On art and crime.
It has been a week since the last time I wrote anything substantial, and I am incredibly pleased to say it is because I have been busy, and not just with work and other ordinary, expected responsibilities. As of late, I have been noticing more and more that an important and integral part of being a writer is striking a healthy balance between living and working, especially because the two are inextricably linked. That symbiotic relationship can prove to be a vicious kind of cycle if that healthy balance is not struck. Writing, at its heart, is a terribly lonely profession. When a writer is hunched over a keyboard or a notebook, fervently typing or scribbling, that writer is utterly alone. He has created a world he can only enter until the work is complete and, if he is any good at what he does, becomes accessible to readers. The process varies in time and intensity, but no one can argue that writing is not time consuming. And writers write what they know, meaning that life experiences serve as inspiration and fodder for creation. Time must be spent away from the writing desk among others, being social and being daring. But then time must be spent recording and manipulating these observations and events into art. Both exercises must be constantly, consistently, and congruently adhered to. This past week I've been away from my desk and consequently, I firmly believe I've learned quite a bit.
WEEKLY WRITING PROMPT #10: "The owner of a puppet theater goes on a crime spree with an inanimate accomplice."
Charles sat in the back of the police car with his knees rammed up against the divider. There wasn't much room and he was terribly uncomfortable. He realized this should have been expected, but then again, he honestly had not believed he'd be caught. Charles had assumed that when the call came over the radio that a man with a dummy had robbed four banks in four hours, the attentive officers would laugh, shake their heads, and tell a joke or two at the rookie dispatcher's expense. What else could a story like that be other than good-natured, old-fashioned hazing? Charles figured the disbelief and incredulity would buy him time and by the time a squad car reluctantly arrived on scene to assess the comedic situation, he'd be long gone with enough money to live comfortably for quite a while. Unfortunately, poor Charles had been wrong, just as he had been wrong about so many other things in his life. The cool, metallic cuffs suddenly felt tighter against his thin wrists, and they were pointedly digging into his lower back, so he leaned forward for relief. Charles was only afforded a few inches and the new posturing only served to complete the appearance of complete and utter defeat.
The rear door on the opposite side of the car clicked open and a jovial-sounded cop carelessly threw Buster in beside Charles, and then slammed the door shut again. Buster was splayed out and resembled a chalk outline, the accomplice made victim. His left arm stretched out and over his head towards Charles, as if he were asking for assistance in shallow gasps as the air or blood rushed out. His other arm lay uselessly by his side, and his legs were twisted around themselves. What bothered Charles the most about Buster's inadvertent positioning were the eyes. Painted on, they were soulless and only stared. Currently, they were staring up at Charles and the manufactured grin, meant to be welcoming and disarming and friendly, looked cruel and like it lacked compassion. The dummy lacked all empathy and sympathy, and his cold eyes were locked on Charles.
Charles hadn't meant for Buster to get wrapped up in any of this. When the bookings stopped – hell, had they ever really started? – and the savings dried up, Charles knew he and Buster were in for a rough patch. But when Myrtle had kicked them to the curb, hollering something about Charles needing a real job and always picking a wooden boy over her, Charles finally grasped just how desperate his situation was. Walking the rain-dampened pavement in the twilight, with Buster cradled carefully in his arms, Charles knew he needed a fresh start. It would be best if he was somewhere else, where his art would be appreciated, where ventriloquists were in high demand and often admired.
Charles needed to get to Las Vegas. Charles also needed money. He had no way of doing that; his mother had cut him off and Myrtle had very recently done the same. He might catch a gig in the next month, but that time frame wouldn't cut it. He needed dollars fast. Hence the robberies with a fake gun Buster had as a prop for when they did their cowboy and Indian routine, which upon reflection, Charles realized was incredibly dated and most likely not funny. Well, he certainly had all the material he could handle now, didn't he?
Charles hung his head and cried.
Posted in: Humor, Writing
Tagged: Alienated, Alone, Art, Aspiring Author, Aspiring Authors, Aspiring Writer, Aspiring Writers, Author, Authors, Avid Reader, Avid Readers, Avid Writer, Balance, Bank Robbery, Broke, Career, Challenges, Conversations, Creative Writer, Creative Writers, Creative Writing, Creative Writing Prompts, Crime, Crime Spree, Debut Novel, Desperation, Events, Experiences, Extrovert, Fresh Boiled Peanuts, Fresh Start, Friends, Healthy Balance, Her Beautiful Monster, Imaginative Writer, Imaginative Writing, Inspiration, Introvert, Invitations, Isolated, Mandi Bean, Martin Sisters Publishing, Money, New Jersey, Novelist, Poor, Poverty, Prompts, Puppets, Read, Reader, Readers, Reading, Responses, Robbery, Social Gatherings, Travel, Ventriloquist, Ventriloquist Dummy, Week, Weird, Work, Write, Writer, Writers, Writing
On connections.
Published January 6, 2014 by mandileighbean
I am a writer, in part, because I believe that life is all about making connections with other human beings. Love is what matters, in all its varying forms and intensities. Writing, for me at least, offers an opportunity to explore those connections and to invent such connections. When lives become entwined with others, it is a beautiful, brilliant, terrifying and almost surreal realization. We matter to others, and others matter to us. How can that relationship ever be ignored or dismissed? I don't think it can, and I think a lot of my writing expresses that. That theme becomes a constant in my writings, and I apologize if it becomes redundant, but I think the importance of love bears repeating.
Enjoy this week's writing prompt.
WEEKLY WRITING PROMPT #9: "An air force pilot is ordered to destroy a public building in a major metropolitan city."
Michael Ryan loved to fly. It was the only reason that he joined the air force and became a pilot. It hadn't been so much about patriotism, or a fervid desire to destroy any enemy, or even the way ladies reacted to a young man in uniform. For Michael, it had always been about the sky. Riding high and knowing there were others looking up and wondering about whom you were and where you were headed was an amazing sort of ego trip. There was something completely self-indulgent and simultaneously totally freeing about being alone in the clouds with just your thoughts and instincts. Michael Ryan truly loved to fly. The opportunity to do so, coupled with the benefits of working for the government, made the career choice a no brainer.
He was flying high when word came over the radio that he was to destroy the Geysler building. Momentarily, Michael had been shocked. The peace and privacy of the cockpit had caused him to temporarily forget the absolute madness and chaos ensuing below, back on the ground. Enemy forces had surprisingly invaded from the shores. Ships had landed and once boots were on the ground, blood ran in the streets of so-called important shore towns. It had been an impressive, coordinated, and alarmingly secretive attack that, from Michael's point of view, was remarkably successful. Smoke billowed from burning buildings and flames shot toward the sky. Michael was able to observe the certain carnage occurring below with a cool detachment because of his position; he was literally looking down on everyone else. His mind had eventually drifted to other things – whether or not those things were more important was fodder for a different story, for a different day – but the order over the radio brought him back into the present moment and current conditions.
Apparently, the government had ample reason to believe that the Geysler building was a base of operations for enemy sympathizers. Being that the building offered numerous amenities and was a safe haven for the enemy where there should be nothing of the sort, the government decided it needed to be neutralized and removed. Made sense as far as Michael could tell, and he radioed back in the affirmative, that he was on his way and would destroy the Geysler building.
A few minutes later, Michael had positioned himself appropriately and was resting his finger on the trigger, waiting for approval to fire. Through the windshield, he could see into the windows of the building. He was fairly close and was beginning to wonder if he was too close and if he should alter his position – after all, he was still green around the gills and hadn't destroyed anything outside of practice targets and the like – when something caught his eye. In a window to the bottom left of his vision, was a young woman. She had blonde hair pulled back in an effortless ponytail and a full face. She was wearing a green sweater and on her lap, she held a toddler. The toddler had blonde hair as well, and that shared genetic trait made Michael assume the two were related, even though he was too far away to discern their facial features in any kind of conclusive analysis. As Michael watched, the woman smiled as the toddler stretched out a pudgy hand with splayed fingers and placed it, in a gesture that could only be described as lovingly, upon the woman's swollen-looking cheek.
It was a touching image, poignant though brief, and it gave Michael pause. Were they the enemy? How could a child and his mother be the enemy of anyone? What sort of tactical maneuvers could those two possibly be planning? What other sort of children and family were in the building? For the first time in his career, Michael was putting real thought behind he was doing.
As he watched and thought, the woman turned to the window and for just a second, Michael thought he knew who she was. The woman bore an uncanny resemblance to someone Michael had known in college; a beautiful and brilliant girl who had lived on the same floor as him junior year. He remembered that she liked to paint and usually had it all over her hands in all sorts of shades. Either because she didn't know or didn't care about her filthy, multi-colored hands, she would constantly use them to pull her hair back, only to let it fall freely about her face. She was beautiful in a careless, dangerous way. Michael had called her Bohemia before he learned her real name at a party, because of her predilection to wear printed tunics over yoga pants or leggings. As a matter of fact, he had announced loudly that Bohemia was alive and well once he had noticed her presence at the party. She had smirked – she never really smiled, like smiling was thoughtless and too easy of an expression to offer to the world – and walked over to challenge him and ask him what he thought he knew about bohemia.
They talked for a while about all sorts of things, things Michael had not discussed with anyone since, and ended up in her dorm room, where they had passionate and amazing sex on a gross futon Bohemia had saved from the curb. In the morning, she had made him tea in a cool, antique-looking teapot and after some awkward pleasantries, they parted ways. He saw her occasionally in dining halls and in the quad in the warmer weather, but the most they would exchange was a small nod or tiny wave; nothing more. What if that was Bohemia in that window? What if that was her son? What if, after college, she had fallen in love with a beautiful man and had a traditional wedding and started a family? What if that family was in that building? How could he blow that to smithereens?
Michael did not think he could eliminate Bohemia. As a matter of fact, he had decided that he wanted to find Bohemia and see how she was, to find out what had happened to her. That had been a real connection Michael had made, no matter how short lived, and as he hovered above life exploding and imploding beneath him, he felt depressed. He felt no connection. There had been no tether composed of love or brotherhood or anything so noble to keep him grounded, and so he had found isolation and alienation – not solace – away from the Earth in the air. He was missing so much.
He didn't listen for the approval. He didn't wait for an order. He turned around. Michael Ryan was heading home.
Posted in: Drama, Romance, Writing
Tagged: Air Force, Air Force Pilot, Aspiring Author, Aspiring Authors, Aspiring Writer, Aspiring Writers, Author, Authors, Avid Reader, Avid Readers, Avid Writer, Battles, Bohemia, Carnage, Casualties, Casualties of War, Challenges, Child, Children, College, Commands, Connect, Connection, Connections, Creative Writer, Creative Writers, Creative Writing, Creative Writing Prompts, Debut Novel, Destroy, Dormitories, Elimination, Existential Crisis, Existentialism, Explosions, Family, Flight, Flying, Fresh Boiled Peanuts, Friends, Government, Her Beautiful Monster, Human Connections, Imaginative Writer, Imaginative Writing, Inspiration, Invasion, Love, Mandi Bean, Martin Sisters Publishing, Meaning of Existence, Military, Mother, Mothers, Novelist, On-Campus Housing, Orders, Parties, Pilot, Prompts, Purpose of Life, Read, Reader, Readers, Reading, Reconnecting, Relationships, Romance, Sex, Son, War, Write, Writer, Writers, Writing
On playing tiny violins.
On battling back against disappointment.
On "Castle Rock."
On the end of a decade (dramatic though it may sound).