An excerpt from BETWEEN HERE AND GONE!
October 21, 2015 October 21, 2015 / Barbara Caridad Ferrer	/ Leave a comment
So a long, long time ago (okay, three years), in a galaxy far, far away (well…Wattpad) I put up the first chapter of a manuscript I loved an awful lot, but which I thought had no chance in hell of being traditionally published.
I had no real audience or platform, and the genre wasn't one that lent itself well to self-publishing so that wasn't a viable option. But I was tired of having stories I knew were good sitting under my metaphorical bed. I'd seen other already-published authors use Wattpad to share excerpts or stories they loved with their readers as well as just starting out authors use Wattpad as a sort of informal publishing platform, so I figured, "Why not?"
I also figured maybe about sixteen people would read it, but hey—that's sixteen more people than who would have seen it had it stayed safely tucked away on my hard drive.
I posted a chapter a day for the next month. Slowly, readers started finding it. And by the time all was said and done, BETWEEN HERE AND GONE had nearly 300,000 views. Paltry by some genre standards, but for a sort of women's fiction/coming-of-age/culturally specific/mid-century modern set story? Might as well have been an entire universe.
I'm pretty much of the opinion that having the story up on Wattpad and having all those views is what ultimately brought BH&G to the attention of Diversion Books. (Well, that and an agent who just will not give up, bless her stubborn heart.)
And now, on January 12th, 2016, BETWEEN HERE AND GONE will be published, with its beautiful new cover. But in the meantime, we're going back to our roots as it were, and with my publisher's blessings, I've posted the edited first chapter—which is now the Prologue and I can hear Jenny Crusie swearing at me from Ohio. (Sorry, Jenny—that was one edict that needed to be broken.)
To get to the Prologue, you can either click on the cover (SHINY!) or Right Here.
Art Imitating Life (or is it the other way around?)
September 30, 2015 September 30, 2015 / Barbara Caridad Ferrer	/ Leave a comment
As a writer, one of the most common questions I get—if not the most common question—is "Where do you get your ideas?"
Those of you who follow me on social media know I have a habit of posting outrageous/interesting/sometimes horrifying news articles with a sub-title of Writers Are Such Ghouls, Part…
Generally followed up with some commentary along the lines of "If I ever submitted anything like this to an editor, it would get rejected because it's just that unbelievable."
But as most of us know, sometimes, life really is too unbelievable. And oftentimes, art skirts uncomfortably close to the truth. Both sentiments I encountered a great deal over the course of submitting BOTH SIDES NOW. It's no great secret that book had a very long road to publication, most of the rejections consisting of "This is beautifully written but…" and from there you could insert variations on a theme of "It's difficult to believe something like this could actually happen."
Sometimes the "this" had to do with the idea that the spouses of cancer patients could fall into a comrades-under-fire affair (ironically, a story element I got from an actual news article), but just as often, the "this" referred to the fact that a marriage could very nearly fall apart, stretched to the breaking point by a cancer diagnosis and subsequent treatments. I think we, as a society, have these romanticized ideals of what it's like to Deal With A Deadly Disease—a trend I suspect may have begun with publication of Erich Segal's LOVE STORY (and we won't even talk about the movie version—oy!). There's this idea that the sufferer must, you know, suffer bravely, yet quietly and elegantly, and the spouse/caretaker must Gracefully Bear Up Under Pressure.
Yeah…not so much.
When I wrote BOTH SIDES NOW, I wanted to not only write Nick and Libby's stories as the so-called "healthy ones" in their respective marriages, but I also wanted to show snapshots of how two very different relationships dealt with the intrusion of this horrific disease and how it has a way of utterly upending everything you know. To that end, I read—a lot. I spoke to a lot of people, especially nurses, about what they saw and experienced. And in the end, I tried to craft a story that wasn't particularly glamorous or sexy, but that was human.
And yet, I got "This is kind of unbelievable…" responses.
Then days like today roll around, where I'm lazily perusing headlines as I have my second cup of coffee (See: Writers Are Such Ghouls, Part…) and very nearly do a comical spit-take over a decidedly not comical moment. Because today, I saw this headline:
Amy Robach and Andrew Shue: Cancer Nearly Destroyed Our Marriage
Amy Robach is a Good Morning America anchor who, a few years ago, underwent a mammogram screening on-air as part of GMA'S October Pink Initiative. Because of that screening, she discovered she had breast cancer, underwent a bilateral mastectomy, and several debilitating rounds of chemotherapy. At the same time, she was newly married to actor Andrew Shue. To say that all hell would broke loose would apparently be putting it mildly. (See: Headline above.)
Now Amy has written a memoir called BETTER in which she describes her experience with breast cancer, from the decision to undergo her first mammogram in such a public fashion to how it affected her children and yes, her marriage. How it very nearly fell apart and how they painstakingly put it back together.
For me, it was like bringing everything full circle. I was inspired to write BOTH SIDES NOW in part because many years ago I read an article about a young woman who'd been diagnosed with breast cancer less than a year after her wedding. The strain on her marriage was such that she offered her husband an alternative—she gave him permission to have an affair if necessary, to find physical and emotional comfort with someone else while she worked on putting herself back together. He didn't take her up on the offer, but their story stayed with me. And served as the spark of "What if…?" that serves as inspiration for so many writers.
Then I got told how unbelievable it was. Until I found the editor who found it believable.
I've had readers tell me it's kind of unbelievable. I've also had readers tell me it's most assuredly believable.
And then I saw that headline. And had Amy Robach and Andrew Shue tell me, even if indirectly, that it's definitely believable. And real. And human.
That's all I ever really wanted to do, you know. Write a human story.
Regardless of any future outcome, I'm content knowing that on that level, I succeeded.
(And yes, I'll be reading BETTER in the very near future.)
RELEASE DAY! (Complete with links & an excerpt!)
September 15, 2014 / Barbara Caridad Ferrer	/ Leave a comment
'Cause I'm good like that.
Today is the release day for the Sassy Seven Boxed Set of which I (and my book Lucky Thirteen) are a part. It's a collection of seven full-length romantic comedy-esque novels from some great authors (and me) all for the low, low, low, low price of .99!
(Handy clicky-buy links go HERE)
There's also a fun Q&A on USA Today's Happily Ever After Blog where all seven of us confess why we love romcom so much, who our favorite romcom couples are, and what each of our books is about. I compared mine to My Big Fat Greek Wedding.
Of course, I didn't have the time (or column inches) to talk as extensively about Thirteen as I might have otherwise. Let's see—interesting tidbits.
This was the second full-length manuscript I wrote, close to ten years ago. (The first one lives under my bed and will never see the light of day.) If you know anything about me as a published author, then you might find yourself asking, "But Barb, this is an adult book—not a young adult."
Yes. Yes it is. Remember how I've always said writing young adult was kind of a happy accident? I not only had this manuscript completed before I ever published as a young adult author, but two more featuring the same extended cast of characters. I had hoped that publishing in young adult would help pave the way for the adult stories, but it didn't quite work out that way. But that's all right. Because now I can bring it to you myself!
To whet your appetites, a small excerpt, in which our heroine, Isabel, is having a heart-to-heart with her best friend Ciara in the wake of a most unexpected encounter with a man who a) works for her and b) happens to be thirteen years younger. To say she's conflicted would be putting it mildly. Thank goodness for Ciara.
"Oh. My. God. Then what?"
I shrugged as far as I was able to while reclined over a shampoo sink. "Nothing. I let him make the escape he so clearly wanted to make. Haven't seen him since."
"Which was?"
"A week ago."
I winced at the imperious tone—and at the increased force of the scrubbing of my scalp.
"Well, for one, I really did have the mother of all colds, so I holed up at home for a few days and now he's called in sick the last few days. Probably figuring out some graceful way to quit. That way, he won't have to worry about being the leading man in the next serial installment of Attack of the Crazed and Probably Hormonal Woman—ow!"
Ignoring my yelp, Ciara continued to scrub my scalp vigorously. "Okay, refresh my memory. Which waiter is this again?"
Stretching my arm, I was just able to snatch a towel from a nearby stack so I could wipe away the trickle of shampoo currently threatening my left eye. "The young one," I sighed.
"They're all young, babydoll," she drawled. Water began sluicing through my hair, hot nearly to the point of pain. "Which young one? And how young, exactly?"
I spluttered as she not-so-accidentally ran the spray across my face. "I'll never get a chance to tell you if drown me, Ciara."
"Fine." With a click, the chair popped upright from its reclined position, making the blood rush to my head. Dizzy, I opened my eyes only to rear back from Ciara's narrow blue gaze, hovering entirely too close.
"I'll give you condition and rinse time to collect your thoughts, then—all of it."
"Pfft." Like the death stare was supposed to impress me after twenty -five years of best-friend-hood?
Parked in the chair at Ci's station I meditatively blotted my hair with a towel while she arranged her tools. As she began combing through my damp hair, our gazes met in the mirror.
"Well?" But her tone and look were both less demanding than they'd been a few moments earlier which was exactly what I needed to loosen up. She knew me too well, the bitch. "Let's start with something easy—how young, exactly?"
"Twenty-five." Not like I'd checked the employee records I had on file or anything. Praying that I was recalling his age incorrectly even though I already knew better.
"Hmm," she hummed. "Nice. Let's move on to the physical—how tall?"
I thought back to how, even at five-seven, I'd still had to rise slightly on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "Just about six feet, I guess."
Separating a section of hair, Ci started snipping. "Okay, then. Tall enough you can wear your Louboutins comfortably. This is good." She winked at me in the mirror. "Eyes, hair, distinctive features?"
"Brown and brown and young."
"Oh come on, Isa." Ciara's voice took on a decidedly annoyed edge again—even her tiny diamond nose stud seemed to glitter impatiently under the fluorescent track lights. "You have to give me more than that to work with."
Sighing, I pulled up a mental image of Josh's face—not difficult, since it had been on my mind a whole lot more than I was comfortable admitting, even to Ci. "Well… his eyes are the exact color of dark chocolate ganache—deep and rich. Great lashes. Not girly long, but thick." Yeah, I'd done more than my share of surreptitious glancing during dinner. Don't ask me why. It's not like I hadn't seen him most every day for the last three years.
Ci kept snipping, but looked up long enough to catch my gaze in the mirror again. "Okay, keep going—because I'm still not quite picturing who this is. What about the rest of the face?"
I started to say 'young' again, but Ci's hard tug on my hair warned do not annoy the woman with the sharp scissors. Sighing, I tried to keep it quick and painless. "Wide cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes that turn down slightly at the outside corners—"
Okay, maybe not quick, because I liked mentally revisiting the sleepy, very sexy appearance that particular feature gave him and which had left me going more than a little warm every time he'd turned that intense dark brown gaze on me. However, not sharing that tidbit. That was mine.
Finally, I got to the one thing Ciara could relate to. "His hair's nearly as dark as his eyes, kind of longish and somewhere between wavy and curly."
Yep. That got her. Should've just started there.
"Wait a minute—that waiter with the gorgeous hair that women come in here begging me to give them, regardless of cost? That's Josh?"
"Um hm."
"Oh sweetie, you should've just said so. I'd have recognized him from the description of that head of hair alone—I've been dying to get my hands on it."
"Don't you dare," popped out before I could stop myself. Didn't have to look in the mirror to know I was blushing like some adolescent twit.
Not one more word. Even if she snatches you bald-headed.
She laughed as she combed my hair out once more, holding my head steady between her hands and studying the results, then snipping a bit more here and there. "Relax, darling. Just to shape it a bit—maybe rethink the sideburns. Nothing drastic. So, what about the bod, proper?"
I turned to look directly at her, scissors be damned. "Jesus, Ciara, it's not like I saw the boy naked!" Only nearly shirtless and well, my hands had gotten intimate with his fly and Lord, was it getting hot in here? "I thought you wanted to figure out who he was? Now you know."
One narrow shoulder rose, the gesture elegant even given the black baby doll tee with "Bite These" scripted in rhinestones across her chest. "Color me curious."
Color her sadistic. Forget it. The battle was lost. She was going to keep asking and honestly, I wanted to keep talking.
But only to purge myself—get him out of my system.
"Kind of long and lanky, I guess… but not in a ninety-eight pound weakling sort of way. Nice shoulders."
Shifting in the chair, I took a deep breath that whooshed out on a sigh. "Oh, and his chest—"
"Whoa. Hold up." Ci leaned forward and grabbed the hairdryer. "I'm guessing with that head of hair…." I watched myself turn beet red as her reflection leered and her eyebrows did a truly horrific Groucho Marx thing.
"My, my… I guess so. And since my chests of preference are neither hairy nor flat, you can keep that tidbit as the little private fetish I know it to be for you."
"Tit slut," I muttered beneath the whine of the dryer.
"I heard that."
Sticking my tongue out at her reflection, I remained slouched in the chair until she none-too-gently prodded the brush handle between my shoulder blades, forcing me to sit straighter. Thankfully, the task of drying and styling my hair brought a temporary respite in our never-ending game of Let's Dissect Isa's Love Life. Not that I didn't do the same to Ciara when opportunity arose—especially since she actually had a love life worth dissecting. Had to be why she was pressing so hard for the dirt given she'd been after me to date… well, since Chris and I had decided not to stay together.
Ten years ago.
One could say it'd been a dry spell.
But who had the time? Or inclination, come to think of it?
And honestly… I was perfectly good without a man. I had Alex, Mae's, friends, family; why did I need romantic entanglements? I didn't. Yeah, the physical urges got pesky from time to time, but no big.
I was nothing if not self-sufficient.
Ci shut off the hairdryer and fiddled a bit more with my hair, snipping a few stray bits here and there before finishing it off with a fine mist of spray.
"Long bangs, layers for movement, but not so much that you can't put it up in a sharp, sophisticated ponytail or twist for work if that's what you want. You like?"
I looked in the mirror at Ciara's slightly anxious expression. As if she really needed to worry. Not like I'd let anyone else touch my hair since we were teenagers. Grasping the hand she had on my shoulder I reassured her, "You know I love it."
Her expression relaxed. "Good. It's so fun to play with your hair now that you've let it grow out again." Unable to help herself, she rearranged it again. "I think last time you wore it this long was high school."
"Well, you know, Ci, once you hit forty it's time for Sensible Hair. Two more years and that'll be all she wrote.."
"Oh, bullshit." Ci's hairbrush hit the rolling cart beside her so hard it skidded a few feet away. Good thing I'd come in before the start of her business day, otherwise, she might be scaring off customers. "Girl, I swear, you are getting on my last gay nerve with this nonsense. I don't know where the fuck you've been getting these crackpot theories of what women our age are or are not supposed to do, but they're about as outdated as organdy aprons and pearls and heels while you vacuum. 'I can't have long hair. I can't fuck a younger man,'" she mocked in an acid sing-song. "It's pure, unadulterated crap, Isabel."
I spun the chair around to face her. "Always so nice to see the breadth of your Columbia University education shining through."
"It is crap. My mother's latest boyfriend, courtesy of CougerStalk-dot-com, is seventeen years younger than her and she says it's the most amazing sex she's had since her twenties."
I shuddered. "Dear God, talk about TMI."
"Tell me about it, but the woman won't stop calling me at ungodly hours and conveying all the gory details—in glorious living Technicolor. Thank God she hasn't figured out how to upload videos to YouTube or else I might have the visuals to go along with."
She paused as we both contemplated that horror.
From Lucky Thirteen ©2014 Barbara Ferrer
Home (A little piece of flash fiction)
October 3, 2013 October 3, 2013 / Barbara Caridad Ferrer	/ 1 Comment
Inspired by a discussion on Twitter today about the word "gams." It inspired this little quick vintage-styled piece.
It was Hawaii. Swaying palm trees and beaches and the ocean and warm tropical breezes that were incongruous with what November should be. It was the strange plinking sounds of ukuleles and dusky-skinned girls with straight dark hair who said aloha and called him a haole, in sweet, lilting voices.
But that night at the USO, thousands of miles from Illinois with its frigid air and barren fields buried under massive drifts of snow it was a girl who looked like home who captured Skip's attention.
All peaches-and-cream skin, honey-blonde hair caught up in a net, and wearing a cherry-red dress that perfectly matched the lips that were turned up in a perpetual grin.
Hot damn, that dress was something else. Not because it was particularly racy or showed anything it shouldn't. Outside of the color his Grandma would sniff wasn't appropriate for anything outside a bordello, it was a perfectly respectable dress. Hell, she was even wearing a small, enameled flag pin at her collar. Couldn't get more respectable than that, no sir.
But there was just something about that dress, mister… The skirt swirling as she danced, riding up and giving peekaboo glimpses of legs left bare, all the patriotic girls having sacrificed their silk stockings for the war effort. Unlike all the other girls in the canteen, however, her legs were truly bare—she'd eschewed drawing lines up the backs of her legs to give the illusion of seams. And maybe because her legs were so defiantly bare—maybe because she danced tirelessly, with flyboys and squibs alike, showing no preference—he was able to look his fill at what he could only deem the finest pair of gams he'd ever seen in all his nineteen years, and that included the burlesque dancers at that club he and his buddies had visited the night before they shipped out and found themselves here.
In Hawaii.
Where he found himself the night before he was due to ship out again, this time for God only knew where and not knowing when—or even if—he'd ever make it back, and looking at a girl who looked just like home.
Vintage Hollywood (A Wee Drabble of sorts)
June 24, 2013 June 25, 2013 / Barbara Caridad Ferrer	/ 2 Comments
Subtitled: what happens when Barb is operating on 2.5 hours of sleep and sees a photograph that captures her fancy. The photograph in question:
All credit to Arlene Wszalek (@Wzzy) who had posted a lovely full color version of this image taken during a walk around the newly reopened Hollywood Reservoir. I mentioned that it seemed the sort of image that evoked a sense of Old Hollywood and that I'd love to see it manipulated in a sepia-tint. A while later, voilà—the Lovely Arlene had tagged me in a post whereupon she had applied a sepia filter to the photograph and isn't it lovely?
My first thought was, "There's a story there." (Go on, look surprised, I dare ya.) And lo and behold… a wee drabble emerged.
This is that drabble. Please, keep in mind, 2.5 hours sleep.
With many thanks to Arlene for indulging my idle whim.
Vintage Hollywood
No one remembered what it used to look like.
The fruit orchards and citrus groves bisected by wide, quiet avenues and lined with modest Craftsman bungalows and Mission-style houses
Back before Bill Mulholland built his dam, and Woodruff and Shoults had erected that damned monstrosity up on Mount Lee designed to draw people to their "superb environment without excessive cost on the Hollywood side of the hills." Hell, he hardly remembered himself—he hadn't been that long out of short pants when the sign went up and not long after, the dam was built, changing the landscape forever.
Of course, it didn't help—or hurt—depending on your point of view, that as the popularity of the talkies grew and the industry along with it, his quiet, sleepy town had also gone along for the ride—huge swathes of acreage giving way to studios and shopping centers.
He still hadn't quite forgiven Chaplin for that.
Even so, the area had remained fairly sylvan and peaceful for quite a long time, removed as it was from the City of Angels, proper. Especially up in the hills themselves, lots of trails for a body to take a bracing walk or where a horse could still be ridden in peace. Up there, a body could get lost for days—weeks even—almost forgetting the hustle and bustle that invaded and wouldn't be beat back. Not unlike a particularly insidious strain of poison-oak.
The one invader he hadn't minded was the Observatory. There was something so regal and serene about it, clean and white and set at a remove from the ugliness. One could sit up there and feel just a little bit closer to the heavens and that was a fact.
There had been that scare some years back—that lunatic, Hughes, making noises about building up on Cahuenga Peak—something about how his princess deserved a castle so she could oversee her subjects.
Man was loopier than the yarn his grandmamma used to spin.
Then again, same argument could be made for City Council, since they actually voted to grant him permission to build.
Thank God, Hughes had all the restraint of a chickenhawk let loose in a henhouse. Ginger had caught wind of his indiscretions—not that he went to all that much trouble to hide them—and had the sense God gave a goat to give the narcissistic bastard the old heave-ho before she got in too far over her head.
Granted, he might not care for the sign much, but for better or worse, it was a landmark and a damned sight better than whatever that crackpot Howard would've seen fit to put up, no doubt overshadowing if not obliterating anything in his path. When one took into account that his next big project after Ginger cut him loose had been the Spruce Goose…
Well—everyone knew how that had turned out.
He paused for a breath and to regain his bearings. It was all changing so fast and yet, at times like this, the setting sun bathing everything in a warm gold glow, he could squint his eyes and it almost—almost—had the look of the sepia-tinted photographs so carefully preserved within the leather-bound albums that were his pride and joy.
They told a story, those albums did.
Just not the story everyone assumed.
They thought he was merely the family historian. The dotty uncle trying desperately to cling to a past about which no one cared.
Oh, but they'd care all right.
If they were smart enough to put together the clues he'd so carefully preserved on those bits of celluloid and painstakingly affixed to the heavy parchment sheets of those leather albums.
Of one thing he was certain—by the time they put it all together, that is, presuming they ever did—it would be far too late to do a damned thing about it. He'd be long gone and the biggest secret of all, gone with him.
Something about that—much like this place he loved so much—made him smile.
With that, he picked up the shovel and began to dig.
The urge to conform & the instinct that whispers its not right
May 13, 2013 / Barbara Caridad Ferrer	/ 1 Comment
There have been a couple of exceedingly thoughtful articles/opinion pieces lately that while different, are both about the pressure to conform, especially for girls. First was Amy Taylor's brilliant piece in response to the Abercrombie & Fitch "Why we hate fat people" brouhaha, An Open Letter from a 'Fat Chick' to Mike Jeffries, CEO of Abercrombie and Fitch, and then today, I read Rachel Simmons' The Damaging Message of Proms.
Both pieces are aimed a girls and young women and both spoke to me both as the young girl I once was and as the parent I am now.
Fair warning, I kind of suck at editorial/opinion pieces—there's a reason I'm a novelist and not a journalist—my type of rambliness lends itself so much more effectively to fictional narrative than fact-based or opinion pieces, so if you continue reading, my apologies.
As an preteen/adolescent, I desperately wanted to conform… I thought. I blame ABC's Afterschool Specials and McDonald's commercials. While the Afterschool specials themselves were a little too preachy/Very Special Message for me, the McDonald's commercials were like crack. They portrayed these groups of carefree, homogeneous kids (the 70s equivalent of the Abercrombie & Fitch "ideal") cavorting along safe, autumn-leaf-strewn streets in some ubiquitous New England or Midwest Small Town on their way to share a bag of fries while sipping creamy shakes.
I grew up in Miami. Palm fronds, not autumn leaves were my norm. I was the only Cuban girl in my (then) white, middle-class neighborhood. My education, while typically public school for the 70s/80s, was differentiated by the fact that I was designated "gifted" and singled out to attend special classes twice a week. I was painfully shy and bookish and didn't make friends easily.
But I had a McDonald's.
So I'd hie myself off to Mickey D's a couple times a week and pretend I was with a group of carefree friends with whom I could share my fries and cavort down autumn-leaf strewn streets. (First sign, maybe, that I was maybe destined to become a writer, but of course I didn't recognize it back then.) I so desperately wanted to conform and be like everyone else— in a way, it was an expectation desired of me by my parents as well. After all, they were both immigrants and wanted the American Dream for their kids—one reason we lived in a white middle-class neighborhood in North Dade, rather than in the Cuban enclaves of Hialeah or South Miami which would have demanded a different sort of conformity.
At the same time, however, my mother, in particular, always made a point of stressing how different I was. How special. How I shouldn't want to be like anyone else. Mixed messages, much? (Especially since "different" for her came with rules. It had to be "different" the way she wanted, not necessarily the way I actually was.) Ultimately, though, she wasn't wrong. I really wasn't like others and even as a kid, as much as I thought I wanted to conform, as much effort as I made at times, there was still an insidious voice within me whispering how it wasn't me. Factors I had no control over, such as my ethnicity, my physical build, my intellect, coupled with my own personal interests and the pursuits I chose for myself (drum corps, classically trained pianist , figure skating) conspired to keep me just outside the norm. All through high school and even into college, I was at war with myself—fighting to be like everyone else while my natural inclinations led me down wildly divergent paths.
It resulted in a deeply unhappy and wildly insecure adolescence and young adulthood. I couldn't help but make the choices I made yet found myself incredibly defensive and embarrassed about having to defend them.
I'm 45 now. I've lived in the Midwest and experienced those small towns with their autumn leaf strewn streets. I've done conventional in that I got the sort of college degree I thought I should. I realized, after a lot of trial and error how very not conventional and ordinary I am. I have reached a somewhat uneasy peace with my intellect. I have come to far more comfortable terms with my rebellious nature. I'm angry about all the time wasted as an adolescent and young adult; time spent chasing a concept fed to me as an ideal that took me a long time to realize wasn't my ideal.
I wonder what I could have been, had I been more confident and less susceptible to all those images flashed before me during all those Afterschool Specials and McDonald's commercials. Had I not had Brooke Shields and her slim-hipped 5'11" body telling us there was nothing between her and her Calvins.
On the other hand, having had the experiences I had—even the educational background I have—did give me the confidence to make choices for my own kids I might not have been capable of making otherwise. I was able to recognize their differences very early on and rather than simply declare "Oh, you're different, revel in it," and expect that to be enough, I went out of my way to give them the tools to cope with their unique gifts. (Yes, all kids are unique & wonderful & mine aren't necessarily Special Snowflakes, but they're my Special Snowflakes, dammit.)
Because I saw in them shades of how I was as a student and because of my background in education, I was able to recognize that a standardized public school education wasn't going to cut it for either of them. While it was important for them to grow up around family during formative years, we knew staying in Florida for the long haul wouldn't be healthy for them, so we moved to Seattle where they would have greater freedom to explore who they are and who they want to be and where we'd have better educational opportunities for them.
The only conformity I wanted for them was to who they are.
I look at them now, at 16 and 15 and see the people they're growing up into and while I still feel vestiges of anger for all the time I wasted trying to be someone I wasn't—someone the ads and popular culture and even my teachers tried to tell me I should be—at the same time if it's allowed me the perspective by which I can give my kids greater confidence and freedom to discover who they are, well then, I guess I'd attempt to conform all over again.
Because in the end, the rebel in me always wins.
The Great Wattpad Experiment
March 28, 2013 / Barbara Caridad Ferrer	/ 1 Comment
So, some of you may have noticed (probably more of you have not) that for the past two weeks, I've been Up To Something. That something being I've taken a manuscript of mine, Between Here & Gone that is complete and have been putting up, chapter by chapter on Wattpad. Why?
The easy answer is, why not?
The harder answer is, as you might guess, a bit more complicated. Let me see if I can bullet point this into something that makes some sense.
As I said, the manuscript is complete. *waits to hear cries of "But Barb, don't you want to sell it?* Well, d'uh, of course I'd love to sell the thing. But it's one of Those Manuscripts. The kind that has no real definition in terms of genre. It's not YA or New Adult or romance or literary or… I mean, the closest you could come to calling it is maybe a commercial women's fiction, but it's not contemporary. It's set squarely in the 1960s and it's a bit of a coming-of-age story and…Well… you see what I mean about undefinable? This is the sort of manuscript that's difficult to sell, especially when you don't have a track record in said undefinable genre. And aren't Nicholas Sparks (not that I'm bitter or anything…). It's the sort of thing that because I don't have an established audience, I suspect would make it difficult to self-publish, especially with my self-admitted suckagetude at self-pimpery. Y'all know how very, very bad I am at promo. Even this blog post is taxing my ability to jump up and down and say, "Heeeeeeyyyyyyy!! Look at meeeeeeeeeee!!! Pay attention to meeeeeeeeeee!!!! Love meeeeeeeeeeee!!!"
Another reason is because among my work, not just the YA, but the adult stories—let's call it eleven completed manuscripts and probably a half dozen more in various stages of completion—this manuscript stands alone as its own beast. By which I mean it's completely unlike anything I've written before and it's unlike anything on which I'm currently working. Something else that makes it a harder conventional sell.
It's a safe experiment. There are those who would say it's a risk—what if the story's not as good as I think it is or if I turn off readers or… Screw it. No risk, no reward, right? I'm tired of being a coward, y'all. I write. I want to show that I'm not just a one-trick pony. I can write something other than multicultural YA and if publishing won't give me the opportunity to show that right now, then it's up to me to show off what I'm capable of.
I like this damned story. A lot. I'd love to know if other people like it as well. And being one who lives in her writing cave most of the time, it's a way by which to get some immediate feedback. Okay, admittedly, I haven't gotten a lot yet, but still, it's feedback I didn't have before.
But perhaps most importantly, I'm doing this because I'm a storyteller. I had this story I wanted to tell and so I did and now I want to share it.
Is it the best novel I've ever written? I have no measure by which to decide, really. I certainly think there are elements that are among the best I've written. There are probably places it could be better, but I could say that about everything I've ever written, published or not. Maybe even especially the published works.
What it comes down to is I really, really like this story and I wanted to share it. I chose Wattpad as my "publishing" platform, even though I'm not necessarily the site's target demographic or write in what's considered a popular genre for the site, because it's basically idiot-proof. It's a glorified blog with the novelization formatting built in, which makes it an easy task for me to post the chapters so it doesn't wind up feeling like a chore or obligation. It's fun. The most work I did was putting together a cover which, if I do say so myself, I think I did a reasonably nice job on.
So there you have it. Complete story. A 100K word book up for free. There's drama and adventure and self-actualization and romance and more drama all set around the turbulence of the mid-1960s.
Between Here & Gone
In 1959 Cuba, seventeen-year-old Natalia San Martín was nothing short of a princess, sheltered, pampered, and courted by her very own prince, a childhood friend turned lifelong love. She and Nicolas made grand plans to study abroad and travel the world, secure in the knowledge their tropical paradise—the home they loved above all others—would always be there for them. All that changed on the fateful New Year's Eve when Fidel Castro and his followers seized control of the island, with tragic consequences for not only the island, but for Natalia herself.
Five years later, it's the fall of 1964—the U.S. is a country hovering on a precipice of massive change. The halcyon days of the Kennedy Administration have begun fading into memory, as the ongoing Cold War, the escalating conflict in Vietnam, and racial unrest at home begin to erode the sense of purpose and innocence that had gripped the country for three short years.
None of which really matters much to Natalia. For her, purpose and innocence disappeared five years ago; these days, she merely suffers her new existence as Natalie Martin, firmly leaving her past where it belongs—until the moment it all catches up to her and forces her to face the choices she's made.
Those of you who know me, know how difficult it is for me to pimp myself out, but here I am, donning the Purple Hat of Pimpitude: please, RT, share, babble, whatever floats your boat if you feel as if I've written something that maybe has/deserves an audience. I will forever love you (well, more than I already do) and if you're really nice, I might even give you my firstborn.
A Wee Valentine's Story
February 14, 2013 February 15, 2013 / Barbara Caridad Ferrer	/ Leave a comment
It began, as such things do, with a conversation on Twitter. The lovely and talented Janice Whaley was passing the time as she waited (and waited… and waited…) for her turn to audition for The Voice. That she was there at all was due to the Evil Influence of one James Roday, AKA the irrepressible Shawn Spencer from USA Network's psych . Many who are fans of the show or of Janice or James or all of the above also know that James is a Damned Fine Singer. Don't believe me? Just listen to the cover of Tears For Fears' "Ideas as Opiates" that James and Janice recorded as a duet for Curt Smith's birthday gift last year.
Anyhow, I digress, but not really, since this is all Very Important Information leading up to my part in the madness.
So Janice was passing time tweeting and she happened to mention what a fabulous cheerleader James had been throughout the whole process, from encouraging her to sign up for an audition to helping her figure out what to sing. Which, of course, led to envisioning James in cheerleading drag. Which begat envisioning his costar Dulé Hill in cheerleading drag. Which begat envisioning their costar Tim Omundson in cheerleading drag. (I know, I know, but look, my only defense is that we were trying to distract Janice and keep her somewhat mellow prior to the audition.)
At any rate, the madness culminated with Janice proclaiming this was all starting to edge toward fanfic territory. To which I responded if she made it through her audition, I'd write her a wee little psych-fic with Shawn, Gus, and Lassie as cheerleaders. Because c'mon, just having the guts to do what she did deserves some sort of reward, right?
Maybe chocolates would've been better.
But because writing is what I do and Janice did make it through her audition, I wrote this wee little tale—after I sent it to her, she asked if I would be willing to share with you lovelies online as a Valentine's Day gift and because I adore Janice and I adore all of you, I said sure (and promptly downed a handful of Tums).
Now, because I am a professional writer and I'm sensitive to these sorts of things, the standard
Disclaimer: Psych and its characters belong to Steve Franks & Co., NBC/Universal, and pretty much anyone else who isn't me. This work of fiction has been produced solely for entertainment purposes, no infringement intended.
And if the Intellectual Property/Copyright Police come after me, I will take this down, no questions asked.
So without further ado, I give you…
Shawn & the Valentine's Pyramid o'Doom
For Janice Whaley whose talent, guts, and good humor are a constant inspiration
Killing the Darlings (scene excerpt)
November 27, 2012 / Barbara Caridad Ferrer	/ 6 Comments
Lately, I've been working on the synopsis/story outline for the new YA novella. Unusual for me, at this point, is to be working with my editor at tweaking the story before I've even written word one on the story proper. Yet, even this early, there are things I really like about the story about which my editor is saying, "We might want to rethink this a bit."
Which just goes to show, the darlings, they can be killed at any point in the process and as an author, you have to be prepared to deal. Unless, of course, you're one of those speshul snowflakes who exists in a vacuum and has reached a point where people are afraid/don't bother to edit you any longer. In which case, I feel sorry for you because everyone can stand editing.
But that's a post for another day. Today it's about killing darlings and while I'm not prepared to share from the new story just yet (mostly because it's really such a little thing and not much of a darling to kill anyway), I am willing to share one of my absolute favorite darlings from Dorian.
Oh, how I love this scene. Like BURNING, I love it. I knew when I first wrote it that it was a hell of a scene. When my first readers started telling me that good as it was, it maybe wasn't going to work, I rebelled. It was such a good scene, dammit. How could it not work? I moved it around in the narrative—I even tried making it the opening scene—but eventually, I had to acknowledge defeat and the fact that my readers, with the distance they had from the story, were right.
Great scene. Just not working for the story as a whole. Out it goes. But I still love it and pull it out from time to time to remind myself what I'm capable of producing.
The French Quarter, New Orleans
Gabriel clenched one end of the tourniquet between his teeth and pulled tight, rapidly opening and closing his left fist and slapping the fingers of his right hand along the crook of his elbow, pausing only to feel for the telltale rise of the vein. Praying for it to come up faster, sooner…
He unclenched his jaw, the filled syringe he'd been holding between his teeth dropping into his palm. Quickly, he adjusted his grip and plunged the needle into the vein, his head dropping back against the weathered brick wall of the alley as the juice burned through his bloodstream and the familiar euphoria washed over him, ebbing and flowing in time with the rowdy strains of "Iko Iko" that drifted from some nearby club.
Look at my king all dressed in red
Iko iko an nay
"I bet you five dollars he'll kill you dead," he sang along in his head—he thought—until he heard the cheer and answering chant of "Jockomo feena nay!" from the group weaving through the lights glowing at the far end of the alley, pointing the way toward the noise and rowdiness of Bourbon. A little more subdued, maybe, but signs of life were evident, the parties of the Quarter staging a return. Celebrating survival. Shooting a big, civic finger at that fucking storm. That mean-assed bitch had blown into town, done her damage, then left them scrabbling in her left-behind shit like the goddamned Lord of the Flies. But she could just go fuck herself—she'd been banished and they were still here. Still here and not going anywhere. Not anytime soon, no sir.
Sweat trailed along his scalp and around his ear, cold and sinuous as a snake. No… no… He fucking hated snakes. Blinking rapidly, he tried to dispel the image, rubbing his back against the rough bricks to get rid of the feeling of something dark slithering down his neck and along his arm, leaving a dank, clammy trail in its wake, like it'd just come sliding up from the bayou.
The syringe dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers to join the rest of the crap littering the narrow alley—this sliver between two ancient buildings just wide enough to trap the shadows. Perfect for a quickie, whether it was with someone—or something—you wouldn't normally be caught dead with out there, even in the hedonistic surroundings of the Quarter. Their remains lay underfoot: the mélange of cigarette butts and crushed go-cups, used syringes and condoms that had a way of tripping up tourists stupid enough to try to use the alley as a shortcut.
Why was he thinking of all this shit? He was trying to forget the bad. Forget the sting of cold water against his face—cold that was alien to New Orleans in August. Forget fighting against the wind and rain, trying to convince folks to leave, that he'd drive them to the Dome, to the Convention Center, to anywhere that wasn't where the storm was trying to beat her way into their house… the House of the Rising Sun, the Crescent City, the Big Easy…
So easy… It had once been so easy. It needed to be easy again.
He never used to trust easy. Easy was for suckers and the lazy. Live long enough in New Orleans, though, and a body eventually succumbed. Easy was their way of life after all. Even when working hard, there was a welcome, sugar-drenched easiness about everything that made it home.
A screaming trumpet line wailed through the heavy, humid air bathing him in the soothing warmth of home. So warm, even late, late at night, with the shadows and ghosts as his only company. Just like he liked it.
The familiar lethargy began claiming him, sweet and relaxing, from his fingertips through his muscles and all the way down to his bones, making him feel as if he was sinking right into the weathered bricks, merging with the building. So perfect. He could be a sentry, standing guard, watching everyone go about their business… doing the things they did, good and bad, that gave the city a richness like sweet cream, that kept folks coming back, even now. She was like a lady past her prime, ragged round the edges but still damned fine enough to attract all the boys and knowing it.
He smiled, rubbing his palms over the rough surface beneath them, caressing life back into the old girl, letting her know he thought she was still hot. He'd never leave her for any of those sleeker, bigger cities with their promise of shiny and new. Hell, why would he leave? All that sleek shininess, it was bullshit—a smokescreen hiding all the same sorts of darkness. At least New Orleans, she was honest and true.
Rolling his head to the side, he peered down the tunnel-like expanse of the alley, the dark length lithe and supple, his beautiful girl reaching out to embrace him. Slowly, he began making his way toward the movement—so fucking beautiful, bodies moving together, then apart then together again, a long, graceful arm reaching out to him, imploring, beseeching—
He blinked again, smiled at her request, tried to move a few steps closer, stumbling as muscle and bone rebelled, wanting to stay, the weathered bricks tightening their embrace as if wanting him to sink into every pore and crack.
"Help me, please—"
It was the darkest part of the alley and he was still too far away. Too far and getting further, as the long arm reached out once more then fell away, the once-graceful fingers grasping at thin air, desperate for purchase. Adrenaline surged through his system, fighting through the junk holding his body hostage.
He blinked furiously trying to separate reality and the fantasy—what if it was all a fantasy? What if it was all real?
What the hell was real?
He groped at the small of his back for his piece with one hand—reached into his pocket with the other. Braced his legs. Lifted the gun in what should've been a practiced grip.
Sweated as it trembled.
"Police—" He flashed his badge. "Step away and show me your hands. Now!"
Except there was nothing there. Nothing more than the stink of piss and illicit sex and the distant wail of a trumpet that sounded like laughter on the night air.
From A Tempestuous Noise
© 2012 Barbara Caridad Ferrer
Because no writing is ever wasted.
Earlier today, I read a post from my dear friend Jennifer Echols on the wisdom on never, ever, don't-even-consider-it, throwing away any bit of writing. Go. Read. I'll still be here. Promise.
So. You see what good can come from never, ever, don't-even-consider-it, throwing away any bit of your writing? I mean, you just never know. As for myself, I've long been a proponent of the school of There's No Such Thing As Wasted Writing. Because again, you just never know. So in that vein, I decided to go digging into my own vaults and pull out a piece of writing I love (of which I have many) that fits nowhere in particular (much like Jenn's) but that I absolutely love and that I can't seem to let go. I completed this entire manuscript but as Lovely Agent kindly put it, it read like two different books—the first half vastly different from the second.
She's… not wrong. So it lives on my hard drive, waiting for me to decide how best to revise, but in the meantime, I still think the first chapter, which I dashed off in literally a couple hours when the idea hit, still remains one of my favorite pieces of writing that I've ever committed to (virtual) paper. So I decided to share it.
And I hope you like it.
Chapter One of my 1960s-set story, Between Here & Gone
© 2012 Barbara Ferrer
CROWD HAILS CASTRO AS HE REACHES U.S. FOR AN 11-DAY VISIT
"Talia, I'm going to be sick."
"Oh, no. Otra vez? How can you even have anything left?"
But Carlito was already leaning against me, the harsh, dry rattle of his heaves contrasting with the cold wet sounds of the waves slapping against the sides of the boat. While he gagged and jackknifed into my lap, I desperately groped for the bowl we'd tried to keep handy ever since we ran out of the Coca-Colas that we'd saved for him and his delicate stomach.
I was too late. He was losing what little remained, nothing but bile at this point, soaking through my skirt, hot and smelling acidic and faintly, ridiculously, of maduros. Probably nothing more than a product of exhausted and overwrought imagination. Wistful memory of the meal served at home before we left, colluding with the future.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
Everything out of the ordinary.
None of the servants any the wiser that it would be the last time they'd be cooking for us, serving us, cleaning up after us.
Or maybe they'd known. No one could trust anyone else any longer. I wonder how many of them at least suspected? Might have been watching, waiting… Papi must have sensed it was close.
We should have just flown. We should have left—long before this. I tried telling them. I had desperately wanted to leave. Almost as much as I wanted to stay. Wanted things to be the way they'd been, childish pipe dream that it was. Wanted to curl up and die.
But Papi insisted that not only could we bring more with us on the boat, but that it would also serve us well in bringing extra money since we'd be leaving almost everything behind. What we still possessed was tied to the country in ways that would all too easily rouse suspicion if we tried to make substantial changes. Another reason we'd taken so long to leave. Gathering money and items in small increments, all very cloak and dagger in a way that might have been thrilling and exciting if not for the sheer terror overlaying every step or word.
So not only was La Damisela a beautiful cruiser, meticulously maintained, but for los americanos—they would appreciate not only the beauty and craftsmanship, but also find the notoriety of what it represented entirely too delicious to resist. All certain to add up to a nice sum. Not that he directly said so. At least, not to me. Just la niña—la princessa—no need to worry my precious little head with such trivialities.
What a joke. Everything was already different.
Yet so typical that he'd still think of me in such a way. Attempting to keep me locked away and preserved in some airtight box. Even after all that had already happened. So willfully blind to the fact that I'd left innocence behind in one shattering moment weeks ago. Although how could he be so callous? Who knew? Perhaps it was for his own benefit. Protecting himself.
Mami and Abuela had always said it wasn't that the men in our lives didn't care or weren't aware. Just simply that they couldn't handle our pain. It overwhelmed them. So instead they focused on pretending we were delicate flowers requiring protection. That we were the ones who didn't understand. Even when they knew better.
Cause for more wisdom from Mami and Abuela—that, of all things, we were the ones who had to be strong. For them.
I wasn't sure I could do it. I didn't want to be strong. I wanted to howl and scratch and spit and rip flesh from bones and rail at the inhumane unfairness of it all. Perhaps I was better at this pretending than even I had imagined. Because they—Papi, Mami, Abuela, Carlito—every one of them thought I was strong enough to cope.
Using a clean section of my skirt, I wiped Carlito's mouth, dabbed the perspiration off his sweet face, trapped in that shimmering moment somewhere between boy and man. Pobrecito—there was so much he'd be missing. So much he should be experiencing that wasn't this hell.
"Let me get you some water, hermanito."
"Don't go." His voice cracked. Definitely more boy there, as his arms tightened around my waist—afraid I'd leave.
"But it'll make you feel better."
"It'll make me throw up again." Shades of a deeper tone. A surety. Almost against my will I smiled. So stubborn, my little brother. Since the cradle no one had known him as well as he knew himself—as he took every opportunity to remind us.
But I not only wanted to get him water, I wanted to change my clothes. Get out of this dress with its soaked, filthy skirt. Never mind that in sacrificing clothes in order to leave room for other items and the fact that this wasn't the first time that I'd held Carlito through a bout of nausea, I didn't have much left. At the very least, I could always borrow a pair of Carlito's pants and a shirt. Anything would be better than sitting around in sodden, smelly cotton, clinging to my thighs, bare, since I'd discarded my girdle the first hour out. It was just too damp to be wearing the close-fitting torture device. Besides, clinging to social niceties was a waste of time.
"Carlito, m'ijo, I have to change my clothes."
"Stay." A command, coming easily from the young prince accustomed to getting his way, easy for me to ignore until his gaze fixed itself on my face, eyes enormous dark smudges in the pale oval of his face. So deceptive, since those eyes, in the light of day, were the same pale, brilliant green as Papi's. The "eyes of the San Martín men" as Abuelita proclaimed time and again from her spot of honor at the foot of the French mahogany table. But in the dark, the color was inconsequential—overwhelmed by fear. Ignoring the wet and the stink and my own terror and fury, I gathered him close, my little brother, taller than me now, the future man of the family, forever the baby, holding him as the yacht bobbed quietly along the waves. We were saving our last bit of gas, I knew. For when we got close.
I closed my eyes and turned my face into the breeze drifting through the cabin's open door, breathing deep—sea air always helped. Even under these circumstances.
I blinked, not sure if I'd drifted or not. But I must have, because where before there had been nothing but endless dark—
Lights.
Through the window—tiny pinpricks of light in the distance, piercing the dark, gracias a Dios.
Lights that appeared to be standing still, only their reflections bobbing and weaving the slightest bit on the dark water. Looking like fireflies. Difficult, but not impossible to catch.
Beneath the smooth leather soles of my shoes, I felt the engines rumble to life, the distant lights continuing to beckon, reaching out, guiding us in.
"We're here," Carlito whispered, struggling to sit straighter. "Natalia, we're here."
"Yo se," I whispered absently. But where? Continue reading →