"Jamie Raintree Newsletter" via Jamie in Google Reader

A Birthday and a Case of the “Almost There”s

2013-05-17T22:07:33Z

That’s right, today is my 27th birthday. I’m not yet old enough to hide it or lie about it! So far, today has been a wonderful day, full of sweet birthday messages from friends and all the gifts every writer hopes for: coffee, chocolate, and books!

But the best gift is the one I gave myself: a completed Draft 3 of my novel! (pictured left) Yesterday, I finished the “final for now” edits and printed the whole thing out, then ran to Kinko’s to have it bound. This is the first time I’ve printed it out after working on it for 3 years (this draft for the past 6 months) and it feels so good to finally have something to hold in my hands and say, “I did this!”

Of course, a couple of weeks ago, I was not so optimistic. Actually, it was exactly two weeks ago today that I still had 15 scenes of major edits to do and at the rate I had been working, it would have taken me three or four more weeks to finish them. Not all that long, considering, but after working tirelessly on this version of my story for a year and a half, I was positively burned out, not moving forward at all, and sure that another month of editing before I could even step back and look at what I’d created would kill me.

So I made a decision. Knowing that my NaNo-trained brain works better under pressure, and more than ready to get this thing done already, I set a crazy goal to finish those 15 scenes in ten days. And then I got to work. As usual, once I put my mind to it, the words came flooding in and the story lines practically tied themselves up. I was flying right along until the final day when–as if the universe was testing just how bad I wanted it–my entire family came down with food poisoning and I spent the next few days nursing them, cleaning up after them, and…well, I’ll leave out the gory details. But finally, on Tuesday, still overcome with nausea, I wrote the last words of my rewrite!

Today is the first day I feel like myself again and the first day I have that big stack of paper sitting on my desk, waiting for me to do something with it. I wish I could say it was ready to be shipped out, but alas, it is almost there. I feel like that is the motto of my writing career. It has been particularly hard the last few months as I watch so many of my friends getting their publishing contracts and landing their agents and here I still am, picking away at the same manuscript. It’s not for nothing, I know. I have learned so much while writing this manuscript that it still astounds me. But this final stretch has been the hardest part so far. I just want to be there, you know? Almost there…almost there…

So tomorrow I start Draft 4. Now that the story structure is complete and everything is there, this draft will be a matter of cleaning up things on the scene level and I know (I hope) it will go much quicker. I plan to have it finished before I go on vacation a month from now. Then, after a couple of weeks away, I will do a final pass for continuity and flow before I finally–finally!–send it off to beta readers!

Thanks to all of you who have been so kind to think of me on my birthday, and I look forward to sharing another year of writing adventures!

My Greatest Achievement So Far

2013-02-20T15:00:18Z

Over the last week, I spent some time reorganizing my website and clearing out old, unnecessary content. I have some blog posts that date all the way back to 2008 that don’t (and probably won’t) get looked at anymore, so it was time to retire some of them to keep things fresh. I skimmed through a lot of them to decide yay or nay and it was more fun and informative than I would have imagined to see how much my writing and my views on writing have changed over the years.

When I set out to complete my first novel five years ago (right around the time I started blogging), I had no idea how far it would go. I just loved it. I still do. I still can’t live a single day without writing at the forefront of my life. Since then, I’ve had time to grow as a person and a writer, enriching my life experience with two amazing daughters, and improving my writing craft with classes and books and practice. And now finally, ready or not (but hopefully ready), I submitted my partial manuscript to The Sandy contest where, if I final, my work will be read by an editor for an imprint of Simon and Schuster.

I’m about 10% nervous and 90% excited. Maybe I should be more nervous but it’s such an incredible opportunity and I’m thrilled to be a part of it. I feel like just the act of putting myself out there and taking the next step in my career is already a win. It amazes me how such a seemingly small feat has changed my outlook on who I am as a writer. It’s impossible to know how far away a publishing career is at this point, but I have taken the first step into the life of a professional and the possibilities are exhilarating.

As the daughter of an entrepreneur, I have been told to “act as if” more times than I can count. So that’s what I’m doing. I’m writing, scheduling my days, putting my work out there, and presenting myself as if I have a positive answer to that inevitable question, “do you have anything published?” Because I feel (and hope!) it is just beyond the horizon.

———-

The reformatting of my website means there is now a stronger division between content geared toward writers and that geared toward readers. If you would like to follow my news, journals (such as these), and stories available online, please subscribe via email in the sidebar to the right. If you are interested in articles pertaining to writing and publishing, please visit the updated page For Writers and subscribe via RSS. As always, I really do appreciate your support more than I can say.

The Stretch Mark Club Featured on Wattpad.com

2013-02-20T07:48:29Z

Last week The Stretch Mark Club, my short web serial following the struggles of three new mothers, was chosen to be one of fifty stories featured during Wattpad.com’s Chick Lit genre launch. Over the last eight days, my story has received an astounding 3,000 new reads which makes me a very happy writer momma!

If you are a member of Wattpad.com, you can visit Wattpad.com/ChickLit to read The Stretch Mark Club as well as forty-nine other quality chick lit stories written by published authors and everyday writers who, like me, just want to share their work with people who appreciate it. If you are not a member, you can still read my completed story right here on my website at JamieRaintree.com/TheStretchMarkClub.

Chapter 6: Like a Kiss From a Butterfly

2013-02-08T00:40:42Z

Mick sends my newest track over a few days later than expected but as soon as I hear my voice come over the speakers and sing the first line, I understand what he meant the day I recorded it. I do sound different. The words are coming from a deeper, more honest place–a place I haven’t opened myself up to since those days with Nate and for the first time in a long time, I think there’s something there, something people could connect to. Even as a woman who writes love songs, to me love is still impossible to describe, to define, to capture. But somehow, Nate’s presence has brought the breath of life to my lyrics again. And now, on my way back to the studio, I have inspiration in my grasp.

As I pull into the parking lot of the nondescript building, my phone rings and it’s Nate’s name on the Caller ID. Even though I’m expecting his call, my heart skips a beat.

“Did you make it back okay?” I ask when I pick up the phone.

“I did. I just wanted to give you a call and make sure you didn’t give me the wrong phone number.”

I laugh. “I thought about it…but then I realized if I had, you’d be pouring your heart out on YouTube again and I didn’t want to put all those poor girls through it.”

His chuckle is music to my ears. I get out of my car and walk toward the studio door.

“Listen,” he says, “After I left yesterday, I realized something.”

“Yeah?”

“We never really went out on a date. Not an official one.”

“Having my dad drive us to Homecoming didn’t count?”

He laughs. “Will you come see me?”

“Come see you? Where?”

“I’m in Florida now. But I’ll be in New York tomorrow.”

I stop walking. “New York?”

“I’ll fly you out here, of course. If you have time, you could stay the weekend. We could…get to know each other again.” His voice is bashful and it creates that familiar fluttering feeling in my heart.

I’d tried to walk away from Nate yesterday. It probably would have been the best thing for both of us. He could have gone on with his career, knowing I was sorry for letting him go all those years ago. He could have moved on. He could have told me he’d forgiven me and released me from the guilt I’d been holding onto. I never would have forgotten him, but maybe I would have found someone else to make me happy.

Instead, he’d asked me to take a chance.

“Okay,” I say.

“Really?” he asks.

“Yes.”

The line is quiet for a moment, nothing but movement and static. Finally, he says, “I’ll have my assistant send you the details.”

“Okay,” I say, biting back a grin.

“And Katie?”

“Yes?”

“You asked me yesterday if I was mad at you and I didn’t have a good answer.”

My stomach is uneasy as I wait for him to continue.

“Unresolved. That’s the word I was searching for. Not mad…unresolved.”

***

I walk into the studio with stars in my eyes. I’m humming the song I wrote for Nate, the one that already has over a million hits on Youtube. Mick looks up from his mixing board with a questioning smirk.

“I have my last song,” I say.

For updates on upcoming fiction, find me at http://facebook.com/jamieraintreeauthor

Thank you for reading A Song For Butterflies! This is as far as I have planned at this time. If it is something you would like to see continued, please let me know!

Chapter 5: She’s Like a Whisper on the Wind

2013-02-06T00:00:48Z

“Remind me why you started calling me butterfly?” I ask as we walk our familiar path around the pond. I know the answer, but I want to hear him say it. I want to know if he remembers.

Nate laughs. “Because the-girl-who-lives-in-a-cocoon was too long?”

I smile and roll my eyes. “Seriously.”

“Because…you used to come alive around me. You would break out of that shell you always had around you at school. I wish you’d get out of it now.”

Is it that obvious? We walk in silence next to each other for a while. We should be holding hands. It’s the way we used to walk together, with our guitars slung over our shoulders. I build up the courage to say, “I miss you.”

He narrows his eyes at me, furrows his brow.

“You’re surprised?” I ask.

“Well, yeah. You’re the one who broke up with me. You’re the one who didn’t answer my calls for months afterward until I finally gave up.”

“Nate, c’mon. It wasn’t like that.”

“Yes, it was,” he says, raising his voice, not in anger but with conviction.

I don’t know where my tears have come from but they sting my eyes as I say, “I just wanted you to have your chance. And I’m glad I did. Look at you.” I motion to him, this statuesque, vision of a man that I’ve ached for every day since he left. It can’t be true that he’s standing in front of me now. I thought I would never hear my name on his lips again.

He stops walking. “I didn’t need you to make my decision for me. I’m a grown man.”

“You weren’t then. And you have to admit, it made it a lot easier, didn’t it?”

He doesn’t answer and I know I’m right. But now, here we are, neither of us children anymore, holding onto a love between two people who no longer exist. And yet, it feels like they’re still here. At least some form of them.

We start walking again. “My mom still asks about you,” he says.

“I miss her too. Please tell her hi for me.”

“I will.”

“She didn’t like that tattooed girl you were dating?”

Nate laughs. “She never met her. But she sure did have a lot to say about her over the phone.”

I smile. “I bet she did.”

“What about you?” he asks. “You dating anyone?”

He walks with his hands in his pockets, kicking invisible rocks along the sidewalk.

“No.”

“Have you dated anyone?”

I’m hurt by his question. Is it impossible that anyone else could have wanted me? Or should I have been sitting around waiting for him?

“Nothing serious,” I say. Because I have been waiting around for him. No one has come close to comparing.

Nate stops and reaches out to grab my shoulders, his grasp soft but firm. “Katie, I’m trying to understand what’s going on in your head.”

His nose is inches from mine and he’s so close I could kiss him if I wanted to. I almost do, just to see if it feels the same, or if that has changed too.

“I don’t know, Nate. Does it matter? When you leave here in a few minutes, what possibilities are there? You’ll go back to your superstar lifestyle and I’ll be here, finishing up my album. Maybe I’ll play at some local venues. Maybe I’ll do a radio tour, if I’m lucky. And then I’ll go back to my minimum wage job and watch you live our dream.”

“You are still stuck in high school, aren’t you? We aren’t kids anymore. You can have whatever you want, if you’d just believe in yourself, the way I always have.”

He makes it sound like it’s so easy but all he’s doing is reminding me that I’ve searched for my spot in the world every waking moment of my life for the past three years, only to find closed doors. And he shouldn’t have to hold my hand as I try to find myself.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to pull you back into this.” I take a step back. “It was nice catching up with you.”

Nate lets go of me and runs his fingers through his hair roughly. “You’re doing this again? This is it?”

“What else is there?”

He ponders me, slowly moves my hair from my face, and speaks softly when he says, “Our worlds aren’t that far apart, you know.”

“Yes, they are.”

“They don’t have to be.”

I frown because he’s saying all the right things at the worst possible time.

“What are you saying, Nate? What do you want?”

For updates on upcoming fiction, find me at http://facebook.com/jamieraintreeauthor

Chapter 4: Though I’ve Done My Best to Move On

2013-01-31T23:30:27Z

If you still want me,
If you love me enough to care,
If you still miss me,
Come and find me,
I’ll be waiting there.

I wait for Nate every day for almost a week at the park we used to walk to after school, where we sat near the water’s edge, fed the ducks, and harmonized the lyrics to love songs dripping with teenaged angst. The neighborhood has gotten rougher in the last few years but people leave me alone as I sit cross-legged on a bench near the pond.

I know he isn’t coming. Of course he isn’t. He probably never saw the video and even if he did, why would he want to see me? And even if there was some small chance he did want to see me, he’s too busy with his tour–too big a celebrity–to search for me now in our small corner of the world. Who am I? He could have anyone.

But on the fifth day, I stiffen when I hear my own words being sung back to me in a soft, male voice that is as familiar to me as my own breath. I turn and there he is.

“Nate.” I stand up. He is smiling a new smile–one he never used on me, but is familiar, I’m sure, to all his fans. He exudes a new confidence I never knew him to have. His hair is longer and his clothes–jeans, a t-shirt, and a leather jacket–are designer, but somewhere under there is my Nate. At least that’s what I’m hoping for.

“Katie,” he says.

I take a step closer and almost reach out to touch him, but I stop myself. My breath catches in my throat.

“You don’t seem real anymore,” I say.

He laughs, then sighs, and I see a glimpse of my one and only love shining through.

“This is embarrassing,” I say once we’re sitting side-by-side on the bench. He’s leaned back with his legs out in front of him and his arm draped across the bench, so close to my shoulders that the knowledge of its presence there is burning through my sweater.

“Why?” His grin is dangerous.

“Youtube? Really?” I say, shaking my head.

“How else was I supposed to talk to you? You changed your number, your parents moved…”

“How did you…?”

He shrugs, unabashed at having looked for me. It sends a thrill through me. I wish I had known.

“So you did write that song for me.”

“How many first loves do you think a guy has?”

I smile, blush, look away. I run my fingers over the seam of my jeans, so he won’t see the uncertainty wrinkled between my eyes.

“You seem different,” I say.

“It’s been three years, Katie. It would be weird if I wasn’t. You’re different too.”

“I am? I don’t feel different.”

“Yes. You’re more mature. Still quiet, but in a wise way, not a shy one.”

I dare to look at him. His eyes are penetrating and I can’t believe, no matter how much time has passed, that he could ever make me feel nervous. The awkwardness in our intimacy makes it seem like it has been much longer since we last talked. It’s the awkwardness of two people who used to be best friends–soul mates–but who now have too many unanswered questions in the air between them.

“The guy I knew never wore a smile unless he had a guitar to hide it behind,” I say.

Nate laughs and it lights up his face. “Well…life is good.”

“I’d say so. Your new album is selling well. Headlining a tour.”

“So you’ve been following me, huh?”

I smile. “Of course I have.”

“I’ve looked for you online too,” he admits.

“Not much to find, is there?”

“That’s why I had to write you that song.”

“Or…” I raise my chin daringly. “You could have just said hi.”

“At the Celebrity Theater.” His voice turns dark. A light breeze rustles his hair, brushing it across his forehead as his eyes squint pensively. “I’m sorry. You caught me off guard.”

“You’re still mad at me.” I uncross my legs and pull my knees together to put some space between us.

Nate doesn’t answer right away. He brushes his fingers across my arm, sending a jolt through my body.

“I’m not…mad,” he says. “Mad isn’t the right word. Honestly, I don’t know what the right word is.”

I watch the ducks float lazily by. How ridiculous that for a moment there, I almost had hope. Hope for what, I ask myself, but I don’t have an answer.

“I’m finishing up my first album. Next week, actually,” I say, changing the subject.

“Wow. That’s–”

“It’s just some indie record label. I’ve been sending out demos since the week after graduation and they were the only ones to offer me a contract. But, hey,” I say with a shrug, “I’m singing my own music. One day I’ll be able to tell my kids I was a singer once upon a time.”

“Katie…you can do better than that. You will.”

I shrug. “We’ll see.”

He’s quiet for so long that I’m forced to look at him. His dark eyes remind my heart of the times they used to speak directly to one another. I’m making sure that doesn’t happen again unless I know, without a doubt, that he still carries a torch for me, the way I do for him. The tie is too hard to sever.

“C’mon,” Nate says. “Let’s take a walk.”

For updates on upcoming fiction, find me at http://facebook.com/jamieraintreeauthor

Chapter 3: I Can’t Let Her Go

2013-01-30T00:00:06Z

She was here one minute,
and gone the next,
I can’t let her go,
though I’ve done my best
to move on.
She’s like a whisper on the wind,
like a kiss from a butterfly.

The video stops and, even after the fifth playback, I have tears in my eyes. I look to Sophie who is sitting across from me on her couch, wearing a smug grin.

“This can’t be about me,” I say, wiping my tears away.

She nods. “And which part doesn’t exactly describe your relationship with him?”

I look back at the screen, his face is frozen again, his eyes staring directly into mine…and all the millions of other girls out there who have watched this video.

Still, Sophie is right.

We found ourselves,
and we found each other
in music.

The day after I played Nate’s guitar on the quad, he’d found me at lunch and invited me to walk around campus with him. We’d talked, mostly about music, a little about ourselves. We’d played a song or two.

After a few weeks, we began to meet outside of school. He taught me how to fingerpick. We wrote songs together and sang them to each other, our passion for each other building as our love for the music grew.

She said goodbye before it was over…

It still hurts like a fresh wound when I think of the day I said goodbye to Nate. Halfway through our senior year, a talent scout had heard him at an open mic night and handed Nate his business card. After a phone call and an audition they’d offered him a recording contract and just like that, our relationship was over. It had to be. He’d wanted to stay until we could go to Los Angeles together but this was his chance to follow his dreams. I had to stay to finish high school. I didn’t want to be the reason he let the opportunity of a lifetime slip through his fingers.

In one week, my whole life changed. The future I thought was certain had vanished, and I was left wandering the halls, alone.

“The song is for you,” Sophie says quietly.

“But why? After all this time. And when I saw him…he didn’t say anything.”

“Maybe he was just surprised. And it was dark. Who’s to say that he saw you at all?”

“If he didn’t see me, then why did he write this song now?”

She nods in concession. “So what are you going to do about it?” she asks.

“Do about it? What is there to do? I broke up with him. He’s gone. I wouldn’t know how to get in touch with him even if I wanted to.”

“Yes, you do,” Sophie says.

“How?”

She leans forward and rotates the laptop to face me. I reach over and close it.

***

I spend the rest of the day walking around downtown Scottsdale where the hustle and bustle makes me feel less alone. Sometimes I think I hear one of his songs playing in a car passing by. No matter how much I wish I could stop thinking about him, I can’t. He’s everywhere.

I go home. I keep the TV off and unplug the stereo. I hide my laptop under my pillow, and then I pace back and forth across the living room floor, eyeing my guitar as it watches me, taunting. Finally, I can’t fight it anymore. I’ve lived every experience in my life through song. It’s the only way I know how. Shaking my head as I do so, I pull my laptop back out and set it up on the coffee table. Then I pull my guitar onto my lap and I strum a tentative note.

For updates on upcoming fiction, find me at http://facebook.com/jamieraintreeauthor

Chapter 2: And Gone the Next

2013-01-25T00:00:33Z

“I don’t know what’s different with you today, Katie, but I think you got this one first try,” Mick says through the intercom. Mick is the producer on my debut album, an unshaven older man with squinty black eyes who looks as greasy as his name sounds and reminds me of my dad’s best friend from college. It has been a week since Nate left me standing at the gate, embarrassed, cold, and drowning in a loss of hope. But apparently my melancholy mood is good for one thing–making music. I nod to Mick and squeeze my guitar and myself out of the shower-sized sound booth.

When I emerge, my manager, Christine, is perched on the arm of the couch, talking on her cell phone, which she usually is. I take a seat on the couch and wait while Mick manipulates the recordings on his computer, and even though I am now twenty-one years old, working with people who are twice my age makes feel like I’m still waiting for my parents to pick me up from the attendance office.

So this isn’t exactly my lifelong dream of being label-mates with Faith Hill, selling out concert venues, and lining shelves with Grammys. But not every artist gets it as easy as Nate. I’ve wanted to be a singer-songwriter since I was old enough to strum the strings of a guitar. It took a considerable number of years after that to stretch my fingers across the fret board but by twelve, I’d taught myself to play by ear and could follow along with any song I heard on the radio. Still, my parents wanted me to finish school before I got caught up in the fast-paced world of show business.

I met Nate during my junior year of high school. He carried his guitar with him everywhere and some days, during lunch period, I heard him playing it on the quad on the outskirts of the lunch crowd. High school didn’t know what to make of him. Some people loved his gritty sound and gritty views of a world most of us had yet to truly see. Others mocked him. He kept to himself most of the time but had dated a cheerleader or two. It never lasted long once they realized that behind his glossy, unkempt mane and mysteriously dark eyes, there was a boy they didn’t understand.

I didn’t talk much about my love for music–not even my close friends had heard me play guitar–but one day, after the lunch bell rang, I felt compelled to sit down next to Nate, lift the guitar from his hands and play a song, which we both hummed along to. Before the final bell rang, I had slipped away to fifth period Science.

I hear my phone chime in my purse so I get up and cross the room to get it since no one is expecting any feedback from me.

Sophie: What was it you said River used to call you?

My heart leaps at the mention of his stage name. I’ve told her many times that his name is Nate but I guess to people who didn’t know him growing up, he will, from now until forever, be the famous River.

I text her back, Butterfly. Why?

I tap my phone impatiently against my hand as I wait for her to respond. Mick and Christine are both still engrossed in their own work but I fear they will look up at any moment and catch the redness in my cheeks.

When my phone chimes again, I open the text so quickly, I almost drop it.

Sophie: I think he posted a song for you.

Me: What do you mean?

Sophie: A Song for Butterfly. He just posted it on Youtube.

My fingers are shaking as I click on the link she sends over. I only have enough time for the page to load and to see his frozen face with a guitar in his hands before Christine calls my name again.

“Katie, did you hear me?”

“What?” I ask, turning to her while putting my phone in my back pocket.

“We’re good here,” she says.

“I’ll email you a copy in the next couple days,” Mick adds.

“We just need one more song and we’ll be ready to cut the album.” She says this enthusiastically, as if she’s been counting down the minutes. “When do you think it will be ready?”

My heart picks up speed as the pressure bears down on me. It’s not as if I can schedule inspiration to fall into my lap.

“Next week?” I say.

They both seem satisfied so I escape the room before they change their minds. As soon as I’m out in the midday sun, I dash across the parking lot to my broken down Honda. I stick the key in the ignition and roll down my windows to let the cool breeze break through the stifling heat of my sunbaked car. Then I pull my phone out of my pocket.

I fumble with it as my anxious fingers mistype the password several times, and drop it onto my legs as I try to open Youtube. I close my eyes and force myself to take a long, calming, deep breath, then I pick it up again and hit play.

For updates on upcoming fiction, find me at http://facebook.com/jamieraintreeauthor

Chapter 1: She Was Here One Minute

2013-01-23T00:00:29Z

There are two types of people in this world. First, celebrities. The actors, politicians, reality tv stars, artists…the singers. Even the high school football players, cheerleaders, and the token bad boy we all love to hate. They are the people that seem untouchable, the ones we feel thankful just to know exist and are content to watch live the lives we wish we could from a distance.

And then there are the rest of us.

I was immune to the high school celebrities, content with the one and only boy I wanted. To most, he was nameless. To me, he was thoughtful, and lovely, and passionate about his guitar and about lyrics that meant something. But boys like that don’t stay nameless for long. And then he was gone.

***

“That was…amazing,” Sophie says as we emerge from the Celebrity Theater, the crowd flowing out from behind us and dispersing into the night. “I know I’m not supposed to say anything, but it was.”

I pull my sweater tighter around me to protect myself from the cool winter night–the coldest we can expect all year in Phoenix.

“Yeah, it was,” I have to admit. It was amazing for so many reasons that I can’t express just one. To avoid egging Sophie on, I keep them to myself.

“I’ve never gone to a concert in such a small theater. You could almost reach out and touch him on that stage. And, I know it sounds ridiculous, but sometimes it felt like he was singing right to me. Well, you know what I mean.”

She laughs, oblivious to the overwhelming longing that pushed every other thought out of my mind the moment he walked onstage. Sophie has fallen under his spell too, but her perceptions aren’t ridiculous. There were times I felt like he was singing to me too. Except in my case, it might have been true. The love songs used to be about me. Maybe the heartbreak ones were too.

“Do you think he knew you were there?” she asks.

I shake my head. “Why would he? It’s been three years.”

People continue to file out–talking, laughing, smiling, and all because of a man they know as River. I find myself slowing as we approach the parking lot.

“You should ask to see him. Get backstage passes or something,” Sophie says.

I grin and roll my eyes at Sophie’s unshakeable optimism. “Why would they just give me backstage passes?”

“Because you know him.”

“No I don’t,” I say. “I used to.”

But I’m stuck, unable to step off the curb, walk out to my car and drive away when I’m closer to him now than I have been since that November day when we said goodbye. Even if I could get to Security and send a message to him, would he see me? I was the one who broke his heart. I am the girl people write sad love songs about. I am the girl who writes sad love songs about him.

“The tour bus hasn’t left,” Sophie says enthusiastically, and I feel her tugging on my sleeve.

“Maybe he hasn’t gotten on it yet.”

I pretend I’m not interested, but I let her drag me around the outside of the theater, seemingly in slow motion, my heart pounding harder with every step we take. I would utter words of discouragement if I could find my breath.

“There,” she says. “That’s the door.”

We reach the black iron gates that separate the celebrity world and ours. I place my hands on the bars and wait for an eternity, watching crew go in and out, almost sure that he left in another bus long before we got here, until the door opens and he steps down from the heavens, here to our level. He is a walking music video. Dark hair, stylishly tousled. Smokey eyes that used to hold mystery for everyone but me. A stride worthy of the rock star he’s become.

“Nate.” His name escapes me out of shock before I’ve had time to think it through. And he hears me. He looks right at me, stops walking. His expression reveals nothing as he looks me over and I search for the right thing to say. But nothing else comes to my lips and without another word, he turns from me and disappears onto the bus.

For updates on upcoming fiction, find me at http://facebook.com/jamieraintreeauthor

Chapter 10: Beautiful, Inside and Out

2012-01-26T07:23:56Z

Chapter 10

It breaks my heart to think one day Zoe will hate the body I made for her.

Shea

6 1/2 Months Old…

It seemed like a good idea at the time. Three overworked mothers going to the spa. Everett planned it for my birthday and even performed some trickery to get Hector to agree to watch the twins for a few hours.

Riley, Jasmine and I met that Saturday in front of Breathe. We stood outside and stared up at the building for five minutes before we walked in–me, because I felt like a man at Home Depot; Riley, because she was trying to come up with a clever way to make fun of the name, and Jasmine, because she thought spas were a myth. Our elation deflated when we got to the point of taking off our clothes.

“Somehow I forgot that people get naked at the spa,” I said. Riley looked at the locker and wrinkled her nose.

“We’re supposed to get naked?” Jasmine asked, and Riley and I burst into laughter.

“Bathrooms,” Riley said, and each of us took a stall to change into our robes like we were back in high school gym class.

“Enjoy your massage,” I told them as we split in the hallway and headed to our separate rooms.

The therapist was a tiny little thing. At first glance I wondered if her hand could make it around my wrist, but once I closed my eyes, she could have been using her feet or elbows or knees and I wouldn’t have noticed the difference. I felt uncomfortable in the beginning–her touching the still-dark marks on my hips–but she quickly put me at ease with the sweetness of voice. It’s my personal belief I fell into a coma. She assured me that a lot people snore on her table.

After our massages, we met up for a lunch of Cobb salads and iced tea, and then it was back to our private rooms for facials and body scrubs. By four o’clock I was so relaxed, I could have melted into a puddle. The final event on our schedule was half an hour in the sauna, where we all met up again.

“Did you have a male masseuse?” Riley asked me in a whisper. I smirked and shook my head.

“I did,” Jasmine said.

Riley gasped. “Not fair!”

“He was cute too,” she added.

We all filed into the sauna where there were several other women sitting on the benches. The sound of the door closing behind us made of all us jump, and we stood there looking at the other women, their robes spread wide, lounging around in nothing but the skin their mothers gave them.

“Um,” I mumbled and glanced back and forth between Riley and Jasmine. Jasmine plastered on a tentative smile and shuffled forward politely. One of the women, a redhead about the same age as us, lifted her head, smiled and then closed her eyes again. Riley shrugged, so we tip-toed to the bench in the corner.

The three of us sat there, not speaking, not moving, our legs close together and our arms wrapped tightly around the fronts of our robes. The pressure to get naked pushed in on us from every angle, but we were determined to maintain our dignity.

And then it started to get hot. Really hot. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead and upper lip. Jasmine waved her hand in front of her face to no avail. We stared at each other, willing ourselves to be strong, but it was too much. Riley gave a frustrated sigh, stood up and pulled the belt of her robe loose.

It’s a weird thing seeing your friend naked for the first time, but I couldn’t help but stare at her in admiration. Her stretch marks weren’t as bad as mine, but they moved in tiny metallic slivers from her belly button to her pelvis, like they were years old, not months. Her breasts hung slightly from the weight of breastfeeding, but she was beautiful. Really beautiful. She gave an unapologetic shrug and sat back down, her robe loose beneath her.

I swallowed hard. Was I brave enough to bare it all in a room full of strangers? I looked around. At first, all I saw were perfectly toned bodies straight off the pages of a Victoria’s Secret catalogue. But when I looked closer, I noticed not every body was perfect. Some women were older than me, some heavier, yet every one of them had embraced their figures, imperfections and all.

I stood up shakily. My heart pounded and my fingers fumbled as I loosened my belt inch by inch. Riley looked me in the eyes and nodded in encouragement. My robe fell open and though her eyes never wavered, I felt her scan me in her peripheral vision. She smiled her approval. I turned to the room waiting for everyone to either scorn me or burst into spontaneous applause, but mostly, they were just enjoying themselves, oblivious to my life-changing accomplishment. I sat back down, smiling, my pride tingling on my skin.

Jasmine continued to wave her hand in front of her face. Riley looked at me with a glint in her eye, and I smiled. We leaned in on either side of her and whispered, in unison, “Do it, do it, do it.” Jasmine blushed and waved us away but we didn’t give up. We chanted until finally, she rolled her eyes and slipped her robe of her shoulders.

***

When I opened my front door the next day, I stepped back in surprise.

“Mom,” I said.

“Hi,” she said simply. Her hair was a few inches shorter, and she had lighter streaks in her usually dark bob. Her nails were bright red with freshly applied polish. She’d been at the salon all day.

“Do you want to come in?” I asked.

She stepped around me without a word. The cool autumn air trailed in behind her, and I closed it off with the door. My mom stood in the corner of the living room, her hands folded at her waist, silent. She wouldn’t look directly at me.

“Would you like something to drink?” I asked. She shook her head. I opened my mouth to offer her some other pleasantry, but she spoke before I could.

“I didn’t come to apologize,” she said, like she was forcing herself to say it before she lost her nerve, and any hope I had of making a breakthrough disappeared.

“Okay. Then why are you here?”

She took a deep breath. I’d never seen her like this before and honestly, it made me nervous. She squeezed her eyes shut like she might cry, and I took a step toward her.

“No,” she said and held out her hand. I stopped. I furrowed my brow when she untucked her lacy, white shirt from her rose colored skirt. She looked up at me hesitantly, and then stared into my eyes as she slowly lifted her blouse. My mind screamed out at me to stop her, but my mouth was too numb to say a word.

When her stomach came into view, I sucked in a breath, and my hand flew to my mouth. She continued to pull up her top until it was at her bra line, while a tear trailed down her cheek.

“Oh, mom,” I said.

She brought a hand down to run her fingers across the thick, dark lines on her stomach. Tears filled her eyes. “I’ve been so hard on you,” she said. “It’s just…I didn’t want this for you.”

It didn’t make up for all the things she had said, but, somehow, I understood. My mom had spent her entire postpartum life trying to feel beautiful again–something I now knew too well. Tears blurred my vision, and in that instant, I forgot everything we’d argued about. I ran to her and wrapped my arms around her, burying my face in her perfectly highlighted hair.

“I’m sorry,” she cried. “I’m so sorry.”

***

We decided to throw Jasmine an “I quit my job” party. We went all out. Everett and I rented a small party space, and Riley decorated it streamers and balloons. She even got a mat for the babies to play on. It was all very over-the-top.

“You two are hysterical,” Jasmine said when she walked through the door and saw what we’d done. She hugged us both and kissed us on each cheek.

“You deserve it,” Riley said.

“Oh please,” she said, “not having to deal with my boss anymore is reward enough.”

I eyed Hector as he walked over to the guys, his countenance gloomier than usual.

“Is he okay?” I asked Jasmine. She looked at Hector and frowned.

“He was the sole breadwinner before. He can do it again. We have more reasons than ever for me to be at home.” She smiled at Andrea resting on her hip and kissed her forehead. “Who’s that over there?” Jasmine asked. We looked at the guys again. They were passing around a cooler of beer. I turned back to Jasmine with a smirk.

“Yeah. Who is that, Riley?” I said.

She shrugged, noncommittally. “Tim. We’re on a date.”

“A date?” Jasmine asked. “I didn’t know you were dating.”

“Not really date-ing,” she said.

“Wait…please tell me it’s not your first one.” When Riley smiled mischievously, Jasmine balked. “You brought him to hang out with babies on your first date?”

“He oughtta know what he’s getting into,” she said. I stifled a laugh.

There was steak and potatoes and salad. There was ice cream and cake. There was coffee and champagne and wine. There was enough beer to talk the guys into babysitting. Riley, Jasmine and I retreated to the corner and watched from afar as the guys got on their hands and knees in a circle around the kids.

“Tim really is cute,” Jasmine said.

“Yeah…” Riley said. “I still haven’t decided.”

We laughed, and I passed the wine bottle to Jasmine.

“I’m supplementing,” I said out of nowhere. I’d kept it hidden for so long it was like it finally clawed its way to the surface and broke free. Either that or the wine had gotten to me. “With formula, I mean.”

“I know what supplementing means,” Riley said. “Are you okay? Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I don’t know.” I sighed and took the bottle of wine back. “Breastfeeding was so important to me but when it came down to it, we just never could get it right. I felt like a failure.”

“You’re not a failure,” Jasmine said.

“I just wanted to do everything I could for her. I wanted to be…”

“Perfect?” Riley finished for me.

“Is that so much to strive for?” I asked.

Jasmine raised her eyebrows. “There’s no such thing as a perfect parent.” Jasmine leaned close to me, and I felt the chemical heat radiating off her skin. “If we all make it out alive, that’s the best we can hope for.”

I snorted a laugh and took a long pull on the wine bottle.

“But why does it feel like motherhood is a constant uphill battle?” I whined.

Jasmine and Riley both laughed. “Because it is,” they chimed in unison. I burst into laughter, and we all giggled until our eyes filled with tears.

“I think we’ve had too much wine,” I said and set the bottle on the table behind us.

When it was quiet, another nagging thought slipped out.

“I was thinking,” I said, “about that day at the spa.”

“What about it?” Riley asked.

“About how embarrassed we were to take off our robes.”

“Ay Dios Mio,” Jasmine said, crossing herself. “Don’t remind me.”

“No, see,” I said and pointed my finger at her. “That’s exactly my point. Why should we feel so bad about showing off our bodies?”

“You got a good look of what’s left after carrying those two,” Jasmine said. “Why shouldn’t I be embarrassed?”

I turned in my chair to face her. “Why? Because we’re no longer shaped like girls? Because we have hips and loose skin and stretch marks?”

Riley blinked hard. “Uh…yeah.”

“Do you really hate your stretch marks so much that you’d give up bikinis and lingerie?” I asked Riley.

She opened her mouth to say something snarky, I’m sure, but catching the seriousness on my face, she stopped to think about it. “I did. At first,” she said. “But now that I’ve gotten used to them, it’s not so bad. Not that I have anyone to wear lingerie for.”

“Maybe so,” Jasmine sang and pointed toward Tim. Riley blushed and smacked her hand.

“What about you, Jasmine?” I asked.

A dry laugh burst from her lips. “Like I have time to worry about what I look like,” she said. I narrowed my eyes. “Okay!” She held her hands up defensively. “When I start to feel down about it, and I do, I just remind myself that it’s worth it. If I could trade my angel babies and have the body I used to have…I’d take the stretch marks every time.”

I sat back and smiled, their answers confirming what I hoped was true–that there was womanhood after motherhood.

“What about you?” Jasmine asked.

I looked over at Zoe playing with Everett and a stuffed giraffe. “I know it sounds silly, but I like to think I gave some of my beauty to her.”

I waited for them to laugh at me for being overly sentimental, but instead, Riley reached across Jasmine’s lap and grasped my hand. “She’s very beautiful,” she said.

I smiled at the light of motherhood aglow on my friends’ faces. It didn’t shine everyday but when it did, there was nothing more real.

“I don’t think any mother should feel bad about her body,” I said, thinking of one mother in particular. “What we’ve done is so incredible and so much more important than looking perfect without a robe on.”

They both nodded though the uncertainty still showed in the lines on their faces. I knew it would take more than a semi-drunken confession to convince them fully.

“Here’s what I propose,” I went on, feeling a little braver than I should. “Six months from now, when our kids celebrate their first birthdays and the weather warms up, we put on bikinis and go swimming, stretch marks and all.”

Riley barked a laugh. “You’re crazy,” she said.

“No I’m not. I want to prove that being beautiful is more than being a size two and having flawless skin…for other moms out there and for us…and for our daughters.”

We turned our gazes toward our children, growing up already before our eyes. I put my hand out in front of them, palm down. It was one of those cheesy moments, like in Now and Then, right before the drawing of blood and the calling of the spirits. Riley smiled, all cynicism gone, and placed her hand on top of mine. Jasmine looked from Riley to me to Andrea, then placed her hand on ours.

Chapter 9: There’s a First For Everything

2012-01-19T07:00:07Z

Chapter 9

I keep wishing Xavier’s 20-year-old self was here so I can show him how amazing he is.

Jasmine

6 Months Old…

“Da-da,” I heard Everett say from the kitchen. “Da-da,” he said again. I moseyed in, my head tilted, eying him.

“What are you doing?”

He looked at me like he’d been caught wiping crumbs between the couch cushions (I know this from experience).

“Nothing,” he said.

“You’re trying to get her to say Dada first.”

He stared blankly at me, and I shook my head.

“Unbelievable,” I said with a laugh and left the room.

***

“Look how big she’s getting” was the first thing my dad said when we met for lunch later that day. He’d called earlier that morning to tell me he would be in town. I hadn’t seen him since the big blowout with my mom, and he missed me. It wasn’t until now that I realized how much I missed him too, reminding me that not only had he not seen me, he’d been missing some of the most important moments of Zoe’s life.

“It’s grandpa,” I whispered in Zoe’s ear and pointed to my dad. She looked at him and smiled before she buried her face in my shoulder. That made him laugh, and the tension disappeared just like that.

“How are you?” Dad asked once we got a table.

“Great,” I said.

“And Everett?”

“Good. Working a lot.”

“I bet he is. He has a family to take care of now,” he said, solemnly–almost proudly. “You did good with that one, kiddo.”

I smiled. “I know.”

“So how’s the little one?” he asked, and we spent the rest of our lunch talking about Zoe. I told him everything that had been going on–about Zoe’s weight and my breastfeeding problems and our little bed mishap. Like Everett, he simply laughed and said, “We all go through it, Princess, and look…you turned out just fine.” It was so easy to talk to my dad. I hated how often I forgot that.

“Everett is trying to get her to say Dada first,” I told him.

“Oh, really?” he said with a laugh.

He looked at Zoe sitting in her high chair, smacking the table in front of her with both her hands spread wide. Dad leaned in closer to her face.

“Gram-pa,” he said. “Gram-pa.”

Zoe looked at him for a moment, then went back to smacking her hands on the table and reaching for the napkin. I laughed.

“Sorry. That’s about the same response Everett got.”

“She’ll say it when she’s ready, and I can promise you this, it won’t be because of any goading from any of us. And she’s a free spirit, this one. Her first word will probably be ‘elephant’ just to prove a point.”

When our laughter faded, it got really quiet, and I felt like I knew what was coming next.

“Your mom wants to see you,” Dad said, not looking at me because he knew I didn’t want to hear it. But he loved my mom and he loved me, so he said it anyway.

“Great. We’d love to see her,” I said. “As soon as she apologizes.” The callousness of my own voice startled me. It was like something had clicked in the overly-polite side of my brain and I couldn’t go back, no matter how much easier it would be.

The hopeful looked that crossed Dad’s face disappeared as quickly as it came. He picked at his napkin.

“You know how she is, Shea,” he said.

“I know, Dad. But it’s not just me anymore. I have a daughter of my own to think about. I don’t want her teaching Zoe it’s okay to disrespect me.”

My dad nodded. “I know. You’re right. I just hate to see you two fighting like this.”

“All she has to do is apologize and start treating me with respect. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”

“No,” he said. “It isn’t.”

Ten minutes later, Dad kissed Zoe and me goodbye and promised to have Mom call me. I wasn’t holding my breath.

***

The next day Riley called and told me I had to meet her at the coffee shop immediately. The uncertainty in her voice made me anxious, and the look of confusion on her face confirmed it when she sidled through the door and dropped into the chair across from me.

“What’s wrong?”

“She slept through the whole night,” Riley said.

“Alexis?”

“Of course, Alexis. Who else?”

I thought about it. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

“No. I don’t think you understand. I mean the whole night. She didn’t wake up once. When I woke up this morning I thought she was dead.”

Alexis shook her plastic keys and we both looked down at her.

“Clearly she’s not,” I said.

Riley and I smiled at each other.

“So is that why you dragged me out of the house at the ungodly hour of noon?” I asked.

She shook her head, saying nothing.

“What?” I pushed.

“I met a guy.”

I gasped so loudly the people at the table next to us looked over. My enthusiasm faded when I realized Riley didn’t look as pleased.

“Are you wired backwards today?” I asked her. “Why aren’t you happy about this?”

Riley sat up and leaned toward me with intensity. “What the hell am I supposed to do with a guy?”

I tried to be serious, but I snorted behind my coffee cup.

“Don’t be cute with me,” she said, bordering on desperation.

I smiled and sat back in my chair. “What’s his name?”

“Tim.”

“Well that sounds promising. Is he cute?”

She raised an eyebrow. The what-do-you-think look.

“Ahh. So that’s the real problem. It’s not that he’s interested in you. It’s that you’re interested in him.”

“Is it too soon?” she asked. “Alexis is only six months and who knows if Derek will decide to show up one day. Do I really want to bring another man into Alexis’ life and risk both of us being disappointed?”

“First,” I said. “Don’t you dare wait for Derek to come around again. And if he does, you turn him on his heel and send him off in the other direction.”

“I know. Trust me, the last thing I want is to deal with him. If I wanted two babies in my life, I’d just get pregnant again.” She let out a maniacal laugh. It was the same laugh we all used when we talked about having another baby. “He left before he even met Alexis, so as far as I’m concerned, he’s not her father. Besides, I think the fear of child support will be enough to keep him away.”

“Let’s hope so.”

Alexis let out a cry. Riley pulled her out her car seat and sat her in her lap.

“And as far as too soon,” I continued. “Only you can know that. Do you feel ready?”

Riley groaned. “I always hated it when people asked me that when I was pregnant. What does ‘ready’ feel like exactly?”

“It feels like…scared out of your mind but willing to give it a shot anyway.”

“Oh, well, in that case…” she said sarcastically. She took a long sip of her coffee. “I don’t know. I feel like I want Alexis to have a family. I never realized how important that was to me. I grew up with a single mom, and it took me having a baby to see how much I wish I’d had a father figure in my life. I want that for Alexis. I want that for me.”

“I think you have your answer,” I said.

We sat quietly for a moment. Zoe babbled in her car seat on the chair next to me.

“So where did you meet him?” I asked.

“Here,” she said. “About 20 minutes ago.”

“But…” I pointed to the door.

“I drove around the block.” I stared at her in disbelief, and then we both burst into laughter.

“Call him,” I said.

***

Zoe babbled in the car all the way home and I made the “gaga” and “baba” noises along with her. I even threw a “dada” in there for good measure. She squeaked and squealed and it made me so happy to hear her so happy. The little things that make them smile…

We got home half an hour before I expected Everett and I still hadn’t gotten her down for a nap. She was wide awake, still singing her songs as I unbuckled the car seat.

“A ba ba ba,” she said.

“A ba ba ba,” I said back to her.

“Goo goo goo,” she said.

I repeated it back to her. I had her out of the car seat with her head over my shoulder when she said it.

“Ma ma ma ma.”

My heart skipped a beat, and I held her out to look at her. “What did you just say?” I asked her. She looked away and smacked her lips. “Did you say mama?” I asked. She looked at me like she’d only now realized I was there. She continued to smack her lips. “Mama,” I said. I said it again. And again. She just smiled, stubbornly. She was like her mother that way.

I never told Everett. he worked so hard for our family and I knew he’d miss some of her firsts. She’d say Dada eventually and I wanted him to have that. It was important to him. I already had her every moment of every day and with that, I had everything.

Chapter 8: I’d Give Anything

2012-01-12T07:01:16Z

Chapter 8

Sometimes Zoe makes a facial expression and I get the uncanny feeling I recognize it. And then I remember where I’ve seen it before–the mirror.

Shea

5 Months Old…

Everett was at work and the house was quiet. I lay in bed with Zoe asleep in my arms, thinking how much she had grown already. Five months old. Wow. She’d discovered her feet this week and even started to sit up on her own for a few seconds at a time.

Already I can see her learning about the world. Examining it, cataloging it, trying to understand it. She looks at everything like it’s all so new. And it is to her. It’s a new world for me, too. But I feel like I’m starting to get the hang of this mothering thing. Finally.

I slipped my arm out from beneath her head and sneaked out of bed. The early morning is often the only few minutes I have to myself all day, so when I can, I like to take my time getting ready. Maybe shave my legs if I can work up the energy. Maybe.

As I combed my hair, I thought about my friends. Each of us moving along on our mothering journey, yet none of us dealing with the same situations. Even Jasmine’s twins are so different from each other that I’m beginning to understand why there’s no rule book for parenting.

Andrea is as fussy as ever, which could be attributed to either colic or being a girl. Neither of which, Jasmine can do anything about so she just has to ride it out, which she still isn’t convinced she can commit to. Xavier is finally coming out of his shell–probably a good thing before Andrea runs him over. Jasmine keeps hoping Hector will step in to raise him to be a good man but it seems like she’s seeing less of him than ever. I’m worried about her.

Alexis is already exactly like her mother, which is hilarious. She has all kinds of things to say about when she eats and how, whether or not her mother is changing her diaper correctly, how amusing her toys may or may not be depending on the time of day. Riley’s finally getting a dose of what it feels like to be in the crosswinds of her lightning storm, and it has truly humbled her. She’s still as snarky as ever, though, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Me. What can I say about myself? It seems I’ve finally loosened my grasp on how quickly the world turns. No matter how many parenting books I read or how much I baby proof the house, I can only control so much…and the rest I just have to let be.

A thud jolted me from my thoughts, and I stood up, listening. It took a second for the screaming to start, and when it did, my heart stopped. I shot out of the bathroom and my breath caught in my throat when I saw Zoe face down on the floor next to the bed. I said her name and picked her up cautiously. As soon as she was in my arms, her crying stopped, which made me feel even worse. How could I be such an easy solution to her problem, when I was the cause of it? I examined every single inch of her, and when I was sure she was okay, I slid down to the ground and burst into tears.

***

A few hours later, Zoe had a doctor’s appointment. I almost cancelled, certain he would see my failure written all over my face. Or worse, on hers. Is there tamper-evident packaging on babies? I went anyway. She’d been rubbing her ears a lot lately, and while she didn’t seem to have an infection, I wanted to be sure.

One thing I have to say about my pediatrician’s office is they’re prompt. I remember when I was pregnant, sometimes I would wait in the doctor’s office for an hour, or approximately three trips to the bathroom. In Dr. Meyer’s office, though, I was usually sitting in the back room with Zoe stripped down to her diaper in ten minutes or less. One of the nurses took Zoe’s weight, height and circumference, and then we waited in the bright blue office while the walls closed in on me.

“How’s the little one?” Dr. Meyer said as he came in the door, laptop in arm. He’s an older man with stark white hair and dimples. Some women might call him handsome.

“She’s good. I mean, well, she’s okay. I mean…I think something wrong, I guess, or I wouldn’t be here,” I said with a laugh, and snugged Zoe’s little body closer to me.

Dr. Meyer smiled. “All right. Why don’t we start with why you’re here then?”

I shifted in my chair. “It’s nothing, really. I feel sort of stupid now that I’m here.”

“A mother’s intuition is best,” he said. “Trust it.”

“Okay. She’s been rubbing her ears.”

“So you think it might be an infection?”

I shrugged, and he laughed at my sudden indecisiveness. Usually I pelted him with questions and self-diagnoses like a tennis ball machine.

He asked me to put her up on the table, so I did. I hovered nervously nearby as he listened to her heart and lungs and felt her abdomen. I kept waiting for him to turn on me with a glare and an accusing finger, but he never did.

“Okay, let’s take a look at those ears,” he said finally. I don’t know why doctors always wait until the end to look at the problem that brought you to the office in the first place, like they’re waiting to see if you’ll die of impatience first.

He looked in one ear and then the other.

“No,” he said simply.

“Really? I was sure–”

“Just ear wax. Either that or she might be teething. Sometimes that will cause ear pain.”

“So much for my mother’s instincts,” I said, and he laughed. “Is there anything I can do?”

Dr. Meyer shook his head. “Not really. If she seems to be in pain you can give her some baby Tylenol.”

He motioned toward her, indicating I could dress her so I did. He made a couple of notes in his laptop, and I thought he was going to leave, but instead, he sat in his chair until I was done.

“There is something I want to talk to you about,” he said and my heart sank.

“Oh?” I put on my best surprised face.

“Is Zoe breastfed or formula fed?” he asked.

“Oh.” I stood up straighter. “Breastfed. Exclusively,” I added.

He made an mmm-hmmm noise and I sank into a chair with Zoe in my lap.

“Is something wrong?”

“Well, Zoe’s a little underweight for her age.” He turned his laptop around to face me and pointed to some brightly colored lines. “Do you see this dot here?” he asked. I nodded. “This is where she should be…and this is where she is.” He pointed to a line significantly lower than the average.

“Oh.”

I looked down at Zoe. By looking at her, no one would know the difference. She was smaller that Alexis, but she was about the same size as the twins. Although, now that he mentioned it, the twins were also small for their age, being multiples and born early.

“Is she okay?” I asked.

“Oh yeah. It’s nothing to worry about. Some babies just have a harder time putting on weight. Or there’s the possibility your milk production is low for whatever reason. But it’s probably time to start supplementing with formula.”

I had stopped listening around the time he started talking about my milk production. Suddenly, the small room that had just been suffocating me felt like an open field, and Dr. Meyer, a million miles away. His voice echoed brands of formula and how much to give her, but I wasn’t really listening.

I left the office and went straight to the grocery store. I picked out a few cans of baby formula and put them into the cart. Paid for them at the register. Drove home. I did all of these things with my brain on pause. It was like I was in a walking coma. The thought of calling Riley floated through my mind, but I was too afraid to say the words out loud.

“How was your day?” Everett asked when he got home.

“Fine,” I said.

“How was Zoe’s doctor’s appointment?”

“Good.” I stirred the white liquid in the pot, my eyes crossing as I watched it swirl together.

“What are you making there?” he asked and kissed me on the cheek.

“Formula.”

It took him a moment to answer. “You mean, like, formula? For Zoe?”

“Mmm hmm.”

Everett gently took the spoon out of my hand and turned me around. “What’s going on?” he asked. He knew how much I loved breastfeeding. I’d never given Zoe a bottle even once.

I buried my face into his chest, and though I willed myself not to cry, my tears wet his shirt. “I’m a horrible mother,” I said, my words muffled by his shirt.

“What are you talking about?” he asked and tried to pull me off him so he could look at my face. I only clung to him harder. “Shea, what’s going on?”

“She’s underweight,” I moaned. “It’s my fault. I’ve been starving her all this time.”

“Shea,” he said and finally managed to pull me off of him. “What did the doctor say?” Before I finished telling him everything, he cut me off and said, “Shea, c’mon. You can’t blame yourself for this. There’s no way to know how much milk you’re producing or if that’s even the problem.”

“I know it is. I’m sure of it. Maybe I’m not drinking enough water. I could drink more water.”

He frowned and pulled me back against his shirt. “Honey, we’ve got to put Zoe first. Whatever the reason, we have to make sure she gets what she needs to be healthy.”

“I know,” I said. “I just feel like I failed.”

“You’re doing everything right,” he assured me.

When I started crying again in violent sobs he put his hands all over me like he was afraid I’d been hurt.

“She rolled off the bed,” I moaned into his shirt. At first his body tensed, but then he relaxed again and, unbelievably, he laughed. I stopped crying and looked up at him. Seeing the shocked look on my face, he laughed even harder. My first thought was to slap him, but it soon dawned on me what his smile meant.

Zoe was fine.

We all make mistakes.

And laughter is the only way we make it through them.

So I laughed with him.

***

Before bed, I gave Zoe her very first bottle. I expected her to reject it, but maybe I just wanted her to. More than anything I wanted to hold onto the idea that I was sole source her life. And that she needed me. She didn’t reject it, though. She took right to the bottle easier than she’d taken to my breast. A tear landed on her cheek, and I wiped it away with my thumb. She suckled, her eyes closed with sleep and happiness and I couldn’t help but smile. That’s the thing about being a mother. Somehow, as long as your child is happy and healthy, even your failures feel like accomplishments.

Chapter 7: Oh No She Didn’t

2012-01-05T07:01:55Z

Chapter 7

Every mom has to parent in her own way.

Riley

4 Months Old…

We were all invited–Everett, Zoe and me. It was Jasmine’s birthday. Hector set the whole thing up, which gave him a certain amount of redemption for his surly mood and lack of involvement, but I was still skeptical. I’m Jasmine’s friend. It’s my job.

It was initially supposed to be a surprise party–Jasmine, her mom and her sister all went dress shopping for her sister’s upcoming Quincenera as the ruse–but I don’t think Hector fully thought that one through. You try hiding three 4-month-old babies silently behind the couch. Jasmine sure was surprised when she walked in and heard a chorus of wails coming from the corner without a baby in sight. After that we all sort of meandered out of our hiding spots and waved.

Half an hour later, I knew what my next pregnancy food would be. Not that I was thinking about my next pregnancy–God, no–but with each bite of authentic Mexican food all I could think about was how badly I wanted an excuse to eat as much of it as possible.

“Seriously, I forgot how hot your husband is,” Jasmine said behind her hand as we stood in the corner, eating off of paper plates and looking at out the party–in particular, Everett narrating his dinner to Zoe, who sat in his lap.

“Well, when Ashton Kutcher got married, I said, ‘what the hell?’”

Jasmine’s family was there–her mom, her three younger sisters and her grandparents–and Hector’s family too–his older brother and parents. Everett and I didn’t exactly fit in, but they all accepted us graciously. In fact, Jasmine’s mom, Claudia, insisted I sit next to her and tell her all about life as a mom.

“Are you still nursing?” she asked me, which I thought was a little forward for someone I’d met forty-five minutes earlier but hell, I’d been through it all. What was a little over-sharing?

I nodded.

“Good. If I had any say, I’d have Jasmine nurse for a year. Even up to two years. That milk…it’s so nutritious.”

I smiled, hoping my politeness overshadowed my disbelief. “Nursing can be a lot of work. And Jasmine has twice as many mouths to feed.”

She waved my comment away. “I had three girls, and I nursed every single on of them to two years. Actually, Daniella was a year and a half but only because I got an infection.”

I hadn’t thought about how long I planned to nurse, but two years seemed a bit excessive to me. And the last time I’d broached the subject with Jasmine, I’m pretty sure she said, “As soon as I can pry them off the things.” But I didn’t argue with her mom. It wasn’t my place.

“How does she sleep?” Claudia asked.

“Well,” I said.

“I hope she’s sleeping in her own crib in her nursery by now. The longer you wait, the harder it gets. Escuchame. If you spoil her now, you’ll be fighting her for the rest of your life. Just look at Jasmine.”

I did. She had Andrea in her arms and was rocking her back and forth, nothing but love in her eyes, despite Andrea’s screaming. Just then, Everett came over and held Zoe out to me.

“Can you hold her while I go to the bathroom?” he asked. I gave him my best “rescue me” eyes, but when he didn’t get the hint, I agreed.

“So does she?” Claudia prodded. Sleep in her crib, she meant.

“Mostly.” What else could I say? She was searching for something to pounce on and I wasn’t going to give it to her.

Jasmine came over, Andrea still pouting in her arms.

“Hector wants me to set her down for the cake,” she said to her mom. “Can you hold her?”

“Of course,” she sang and took Andrea from her. As Jasmine walked away, Andrea’s cries grew louder and louder. “See,” Claudia said over the noise. “Spoiled already.” She shook her head.

I watched in confusion as Jasmine’s mom sat Andrea on her knees and reprimanded her, saying things like, “Now, that’s not how we get attention, is it?” and “Your mommy needs to teach you better than this.” My confusion turned to horror when she picked her up and placed Andrea in the corner of the couch, turning away from her. Andrea only screeched louder and flapped her arms up and down until she was red in the face.

I looked around the room for Jasmine to put an end to it, but she was nowhere to be seen. I felt sick to my stomach, and beads of sweat formed on my forehead every time Andrea leaned to close to the edge. I opened my mouth to cut in but every time I did, the woman looked back at Andrea and said something like, “Crying won’t get you what you want, my dear.”

Everett took a step into the room, looked at what was happening and then glanced at me. I saw everything I was feeling mirrored on his face. “Find Jasmine,” I mouthed to him and he left the room.

“Don’t you think we should check to see if she needs a diaper change,” I finally built up the courage to say.

“As soon as she stops crying, she can have whatever she wants,” she said with finality.

I felt so relieved when Jasmine came in, I literally sighed. Everett filed in behind her. Jasmine spotted Andrea and stopped in her tracks.

“Mom…” she said tentatively, but she didn’t make a move to pick up her daughter.

“Jasmine, she needs to learn and if you’re not going to teach her–”

“She’s a baby,” Jasmine tried again, but still, all that fire I knew she possessed had been stifled like a lid on a pot. Where was the strong woman I knew?

Then I remembered–none of us were as strong as we’d like when it came to our mothers.

“You know what?” I said and stood up. I handed Zoe to Everett, who, for the first time ever, wasn’t the biggest noisemaker in the room. “I just remembered, Hector asked me to put Andrea in a special outfit before the cake.” Jasmine’s mom flinched when I moved to pick Andrea up but I said, “I promised” and she finally conceded. As soon as Andrea was in my arms, she calmed down. Indeed, she was wet.

Jasmine followed me into the nursery and closed the door behind us, silencing the party.

“Hurry,” I said. “Pick out something special for her to wear.” Jasmine smiled at me in a way that looked more like a frown and turned to the dresser.

“Has your mom always been this…overbearing?” I asked while strapping Andrea down on the changing table.

“When I was pregnant, she kept buying me boy clothes, even though I told her over and over I was sure it was a girl. It’s only gotten worse since she found out she was half right.”

***

“Thank you for doing this,” I told Riley as we stood at the counter in the dentist’s office. Neither of us had been to the dentist since we’d had the girls, so we decided to book them together and play the dual roles of patient and babysitter in a single afternoon. “I don’t know how I could have done it without you.”

“No problem,” she said. “You have a baby and every little appointment is like organizing the Olympics.”

I nodded emphatically and laughed. Zoe was kicking in her car seat, although, finally quiet. No matter how much Riley had rocked her while the dentist cleaned my teeth, she wouldn’t calm down–probably all the macabre-looking machines–so finally the dentist, growing more frustrated and impatient by the minute, had suggested I lay back and she’d get it done as quickly as possible. Now that it was over, I wanted to go home. I wistfully imagined taking a nap while Zoe cleaned the house and drummed my fingers on the counter.

“Your babies are beautiful,” an older woman said from behind me. The woman’s hair was died so red, it looked almost purple and she had used so much hairspray on her curls they looked like they could hold up through a hurricane. I pulled the over-the-shoulder smile and then looked back to the woman behind the counter, who was meticulously comparing her prices to what my meager insurance covered. As new mothers, Riley and I were used to the ooo-ing and ahh-ing. I had gotten to the point where I just pretended they were talking directly to the baby, a conversation for which my response wasn’t necessary.

“I have one of my own,” Purple said. “He’s three.”

This time I nodded, still looking straight ahead. I shot a glance at Riley who wasn’t even attempting to make conversation. She was smirking at my undying need to be polite. I fought back the urge to stick my tongue out at her.

Purple leaned in until I could feel her breath in my hair. Instinctively, I took a step forward.

“He’s a little monster,” she whispered with a laugh.

Have you ever heard that fifty percent of what people say when they’re joking is true?

I smiled curtly again and nodded. This was all the encouragement the woman needed.

“I don’t know what’s with that boy. He doesn’t listen to a word I say. The other day he was about to touch the oven, and no matter how much I yelled, it didn’t make a damn bit of difference. It was like talking to a brick wall.”

“I hope he was okay,” I said quickly, in that way that sounds like you’re asking for more information but you’re really not.

“Oh, he was. But I’m telling ya’,” Purple said, unabashedly, “spank ‘em while they’re young.”

My eyes bulged before I could think to be polite. Riley looked at the woman, mouth agape, out of the corner of her eye. Purple didn’t seem to notice and continued to rattle on.

“My mother-in-law won’t let me spank him,” she said.

The administrator behind the desk seemed awfully intent on the form in front of her, though she wasn’t writing a thing. I noticed, then, the framed picture of a little boy on the other side of the desk.

“She used to beat the hell out of her kids but she won’t even let us give him a swat.”

Was she listening to herself? I’d gotten my fair share of unsolicited advice since I’d become a mother, but this was too much.

Riley cleared her throat but nothing could stop the freight train steaming ahead in front of us.

“We’re seeing a family counselor because we just don’t know what to do with him. We have a sixteen-year-old son, and he wasn’t anything like this.”

The woman stopped, waiting for a response.

“Yeah, well, every child is different,” I said quietly.

“Well, anyway,” the train blared on, “I just can’t understand why my mother-in-law makes such a big deal about it after what she did to her kids.”

Finally, Purple took a breath and looked like she might be finished. I searched for anyone with my bill so I could get out of there before it started up again.

“Did it work?”

I startled when Riley spoke and turned to her, aghast. Purple looked taken aback, as if she’d forgotten she’d been talking to actual people.

“Excuse me?” the purple woman asked.

“The beating. Did it work?” Riley said again.

“I don’t think I know what you mean,” she said, her cheeks flushing pink.

“I mean is your husband a good guy? Or does he have mommy issues?”

The woman stammered and took a step back.

“Does he have an anger problem?” Riley went on. “Has he ever hit you?”

My hand flew to my mouth, and I stared at Riley. Purple’s face almost matched her hair.

“I can’t believe you have the nerve to ask me that,” the woman said breathlessly. She adjusted her glasses, and we all heard her hair crunch.

“I can’t believe you have the nerve to suggest I so much as misplace a hair on my daughter’s head.” Riley lifted her chin, and I imagined her as a third grader in a schoolyard fight. Winning. The woman stared at her for a long moment, her jaw slack, before she turned on her heel and left without another word.

For a moment everything was still while the dust settled. Then Riley smiled and turned to the administrator.

“Do you have that bill yet?” Riley asked. Just then it shot out of the printer across the room. The administrator pulled it off the machine and handed it to me. As we left, she whispered, “Thank you,” from behind the counter and I was sure it had nothing to do with business.

***

That night I stood helplessly in front of Zoe’s crib in the dark. Zoe had her little hands wrapped around the bars, crying. All the words of the moms who had come before me–my mom, Claudia, the purple-haired lady–ran through my head. No matter what I did–pick her up, let her cry, spank her–someone would be convinced I wasn’t doing it right. There were entire forums online dedicated to remind new moms to ignore the advice and go with our instincts. But it was so hard to trust my gut when every morning felt like starting a new game I didn’t know the rules to yet. The door clicked open behind me, and Everett switched on the lamp. He stood next to me silently, watching Zoe, watching me.

“Just pick her up, baby,” he said.

I pushed the voices away, stepped forward and swept Zoe up in my arms.

Coming in 2013

2013-01-01T07:05:41Z

This year was my fourth year of noveling, blogging and generally devoting my life to the written word. According to my Writing Progress Spreadsheet, my total tracked word count for the year is sitting right at 120,000 words, an accumulation of a novel, National Novel Writing Month, regularly posting to two blogs and some web fiction. No little accomplishment, I’d say! I’m pretty proud, considering I managed to do all that while also giving birth to my second child, losing my home, an out-of-state move and the everyday struggle of keeping my house from exploding into a ball of toddler-induced flames.

There are a couple of other things that have made this year an amazing one in terms of my writing ventures. First, the move allowed me to finally let go of my old business that wasn’t making me happy anymore to pursue writing as full time as my munchkins would allow me. I’ve even recently claimed 8 whole scheduled hours out of the house each week to dedicate solely to my novel. Second, in my new hometown, I have been so blessed to have finally found a support system that most writers only dream of. I have two critique partners that I meet with once a week, each of them bringing their own strengths to our group, and already we have accomplished some incredible things together. I love them like sisters.

I can only hope this year will bring even more progress and fulfillment. Here are some things I plan to achieve in 2013:

- Enter The Sandy Contest
- Participate in a Savvy Authors Workshop
- Edit my current novel to completion
- Query agents (and get one!)
- Write the 1st Draft of a new novel (during National Novel Writing Month)
- Continue regular blog posts on Hugs & Chocolate and on my personal blog
- Post regular web fiction here and on Wattpad.com

With any luck this year will be a big year for my writing career. After years of my back and forth feelings about publishing, I finally feel ready and excited about the prospect. But my heart has always been in making my stories available in a way that I can interact directly with readers so I’m excited about bringing new fiction to online readers as well. I hope you’re excited too!

To stay up-to-date with my progress and to get updates about new fiction online, be sure to also find me on Facebook at http://Facebook.com/jamieraintreeauthor and on Wattpad at http://Wattpad.com/jamieraintree.

What New Year’s goals have you set for this year? I wish you all the creativity and perseverance in reaching them! Here’s to another great year!

Genre Guessing No More

2012-10-25T06:05:24Z

Last weekend, I had the pleasure of attending my very first writing event. Ever. I was warmly welcomed at the Colorado Romance Writer’s annual Romance Lover’s Tea. Never have I been in a room with so many writers, let alone romance writers, and I have to say, it felt amazing. The thing I love most about writers–and this was further proven on last Saturday–is that we are a unique group of people who set life goals and work our asses of to chase them, no matter the cost. What an energy to surround myself with!

The other thing that floored me was that people knew what I was talking about. Oh, yes. I walked up to a complete stranger and when she asked me what I wrote, I said, “You know, sort of, Romantic Women’s Fiction.” My hesitation stemmed from the fact that I’ve been trying to pin down my genre for years, as I tend to walk the tight rope between Romance and Women’s Fiction. This other writer said, “Oh yeah, Women Fiction with romantic elements,” and nodded enthusiastically. I refrained from embracing her and crying into her hair, “Yes! You get me!” It was a very fulfilling moment in my writing life.

A very sad moment in my writing life was when I spoke with another member about the Golden Heart and found out, indeed, I would need to have a completely polished manuscript to submit. Highly unlikely given how far I am from the end. I hadn’t completely given up hope, though, so I did some more research about the contest and as I read over the genre definitions yet again, I had to face the fact–in light of my previous conversation–that I just don’t write contemporary romance no matter how I hard I want to squeeze myself in there. I write Women’s Fiction. I love Women’s Fiction. And while I also love to drench it in romance, my stories still aren’t about boy meets girl, and may not always have the most wrapped up endings. And so I’ve nixed that goal in the hopes of fully embracing my label.

But I do have a new goal and it’s probably the goal I should have started off with anyway. Now that I don’t have a contest deadline to keep me motivated, I’m back to a self-imposed one and it may or may not start with a big, fat Q.

Agents, be prepared.

The Jamie Raintree Project

2012-10-05T22:57:00Z

I’m sitting here watching Julie & Julia again and it got me in the mood to blog, as it always does. Honestly, it’s about the twentieth time I’ve watched it but there are just some stories that strike a chord every time. Repetition hasn’t dulled it.

There are a million things I love about this movie. It highlights the time in Julia Child’s life when she lived in Paris and isn’t France amazing? The little details in every design, the old buildings, the love of food. It makes me want to live another life in another country where I sit around in cafés and philosophize about people that walk by and be so moved that I must immediately pull out my laptop and write a novel about it all. No dishes that need to be washed, no kids screaming at me, no grocery shopping to be done. Does that life truly exist out there, for anyone? I think Danielle Steele has an apartment in Paris. No wonder she writes so many books.

And talk about romance. I have this ridiculous crush on Stanley Tucci as Julia’s husband. The way he fawns over her, supports her dreams without question, and would do anything to make her happy. And, really, who has that much sex? Maybe it’s all that French air and food. Add that to my imaginary life, too.

My favorite thing about this movie is that it’s about two women working toward their dreams, no matter how many obstacles get in their way, no matter how many discouragements. Eventually they both get their careers in publishing (sorry to spoil it for you) after years of hard work.

But why is it that even the challenges in their lives seem more interesting than the ones in my life? There’s nothing inspirational about toddler meltdowns or petty arguments with my husband or running through the house trying to get it clean before nap time in the hopes of getting a few words written before he gets home and my world returns to its normal state of chaos. The closest my life ever gets to the inspiration of a Parisian café is sitting in the back room of the coffee shop with my headphones blasting in attempt to drown out the chatter. How does anyone write anything inspired in these conditions?

Yesterday I put a pot roast in the slow cooker and by dinner time it was only half cooked. That’s why I feel like my life is like right now. I only have the time and energy to do things half way. A smart person would forget about this insane dream, or at least put it off for another five years until the girls are both in school. But every time I think about not writing, even for a week, I dissolve into tears. I’m about as willing to give it up as I am to shave my head.

I know things will get better. I know I’ll miss these days when my kids are young and I don’t have a deadline hanging over my head. But right now it’s an all out battle to get this story out of my head, which I must say, despite the need for another rewrite, is starting to sound legible.

I don’t have the answers. I don’t know if there are any, and if there were, I don’t know if I’d want them. It may not be pretty or wrapped up in a bow, but for better or worse this is my conflict, a chance to build my character arc. This difficult life is where the ideas come from. So I’ll just keep living it and writing it and believing that one day it will look like a book.

The pot roast is ready.

Pre-New Year’s Resolutions

2012-09-26T06:05:49Z

Most people get motivated to set goals at the beginning of the year but for me, it’s always around this time when the weather starts cooling down, I start craving hot drinks, and NaNoWriMo does it’s annual reset in preparation for the big event in November. You know I’ll be there.

This year is a bit crazier than usual for me. First, this is my first year with two kids so there has never been more people demanding my time. Second, this is the first year where I’m actively preparing for publication. Never thought I’d say that, huh? Third, this is the first year I’ll have a team supporting me. I have two critique partners helping me stay on top of things, and now I don’t have to drive an hour and a half to go to a NaNoWriMo write-in. Here, they are only five minutes away.

I’m also planning to enter the Golden Heart before the end of the year. This Romance Writers of America annual contest honors unpublished romance manuscripts. Editors and agents judge the final round, which often leads to requests for the full manuscript. That’s what I’m hoping for. My first 50 pages–the ones that are judged–are just about finished. One more quick edit ought to do it. Then I just need to get the manuscript finished, which is what I plan to do in November.

So here’s my rough plan:

- Write as much as I can before November
- Win NaNoWriMo and add 50,000 words to my manuscript
- Finish up my manuscript in December
- Make one more pass over the first 50 pages
- Write the Synopsis
- Turn it all in by January 2

Then I will have from January 2 to about April to finish up the edits on my manuscript in the hopes that I final and get a request (A girl can dream). If I don’t, then I’ll be well prepared to start querying. Because come January 1, I’ll be making a whole new list of plans and getting an agent will be one of them.

How are you doing on your 2012 goals? What are your plans for the rest of the year?

Back to the Writing

2012-06-22T22:20:29Z

Every time I take a break from writing and social media, it seems I come back with a little more perspective. I guess I’m the kind of person that has to feel both extremes before I can find a happy middle ground.

The past couple of months have been completely devoted to my family–having a baby and moving. We’re finally getting settled in our new home and new life so I’m getting back to my regular routines, which, of course, include writing and reconnecting with my writing friends (it’s so reassuring to know that no matter how many breaks I take, they’ll always welcome me back graciously). This time, like previous times, I’m a little hesitant.

I love social media. I think for writers it’s especially important. It isn’t easy to find our kind in our natural habitats. But social media takes time, which is something I find less and less of as my familial responsibilities grow. And, oh yeah, that pesky dream of being a novelist. It’s an hourly struggle to keep my priorities in order. But no matter how tough my day, I always know this to be true:

Family
Me (read: novel)
Everybody Else

Family takes up about 90% of my time, which leaves little time for other things but when I moved and left my day job behind, I made a commitment to myself to give writing a real shot…to make it happen for myself. I’m so excited about this!

In order to do this, I’m making some vows to myself. The obvious one–cutting back on social media. I find I connect best with my writing friends on Facebook so my Twitter and Google + profiles will lie dormant for a while until I find value in picking them up again. Second, I’ll have to minimize my projects, which means I may or may not start up my fictional blogs in the near future. Right now, I want to focus my fictional writing attention on my novel.

Here’s what I will be doing–writing. Connecting with my story. Putting myself in the middle of my inspiration and following it to wherever it leads me. And, as always, I’ll continue to blog about it and on Hugs & Chocolate, in a more personal way.

With all that said, I’m contemplating doing Camp NaNoWriMo in August. I honestly don’t know whether I can manage it or not but it would be a great way to get a jump start on my rewrites. Maybe even do the “past” half of the book in August and the “present” half in November. Thoughts? Is anyone else doing NaNoWriMo in August who would help keep me motivated?

Also, I jumped on the bandwagon after all and created a Pinterest account. I’m keeping it in check by only using it to collect specific things to inspire me to write my characters and my setting and my story. My characters have become completely different people than I originally envisioned them so I had to start fresh and this has been the perfect way to do it. Have any of you used Pinterest this way?

Okay, time to get back to the writing but here’s one last question. What inspired you to write today?

Find me on Facebook at http://facebook.com/jamieraintree.

A Letter From My Muse

2012-05-22T06:05:58Z

A few weeks ago, on Hugs & Chocolate, Tonia Marie Houston was talking about how to “Conquer the Revision Blues” when she said, “Ask yourself what pulled you into that world in the first place.” As excited as I’ve been about my story, I’ve been stuck on how to get started with Draft 2. For me, the first draft is so easy, so free. With the second one, I feel a lot of pressure to get it right this time.

I’ve been suffering from the Revision Blues.

And I knew Tonia was right. I had to remind myself what it was that originally inspired me to write my story. I had to get out of my head and get back to the heart of it.

So I decided to write a letter from my muse. I gave her permission to use my fingers to tell me exactly what inspired me to write this story the very first time it popped into my head. It might not make a lot of sense as I wrote it in a made rush and haven’t done much proofreading but I thought I’d share with you what she had to say.

How could he cheat on her? The person I admire more than almost anyone I’ve ever met. She’s smart, funny, talented, beautiful, educated, well-dressed, compassionate and hard-working. She’s the type of woman I strive to be.

My husband is the one who told me that her husband had cheated on her. Apparently everyone knew about it but me. I wondered how she could stay with him after that. How could she forgive him? Had she? Or was she simply staying with him because they’d been together so long? Or because they had a kid together. Had it happened before their son or after?

And how could she continue to face everyone knowing they knew about his affair. Was she humiliated? Did people ask her about it or did they simply pretend they didn’t know like I did? Which was worse to her? Would it have been better to just get it all out in the open and move on?

She seemed so strong to me. Like the kind of woman who took the hard times, lifted her chin and put on stronger armor. But she’s a woman and I know what it feels like to be a woman. No one is that strong. How many times had she cried herself to sleep at night? How many nights had she slept in another room or stayed late at work so she didn’t have to face him? Had they fought about it or just pretended it never happened? Or did they have a heart to heart and agree to get past it?

The more I got to know them, the less I understood. Because after everything, despite all my questions, they still seem to love each other so much. The first time I went to their house, I saw a home they built together. I tried to imagine her there. I’d only ever seen her in professional situations with her work hat on. What was she like with her family? What was she like alone? What was she like with him?

He told me about one of their date nights. Date night. I hadn’t even thought about it. Somehow I thought they simply tolerated each other but no. They had date nights. He told me about one in particular where she had to leave as soon as their food arrived, leaving him alone, without a car, stranded at the restaurant. Only when he had finished his dinner and boxed up hers, did she return.

A glimpse. A glimpse of what it must be like to be married to the most successful woman in the world and another question of what really defined success. Infidelity is never acceptable but could it at least be understood and empathized with?

While I’m still struggling with getting the first new words just right, I feel like I’ve come a long way since I wrote this letter a few weeks ago. I’ve spent many hours brainstorming and looking for inspiration, and now my story is completely different than it was originally, and different even from my other Draft 2 ideas. My heroine has become more real, more likable and my hero is finally starting to fit into his cape. And I know that inspired draft is not far behind.

Give the Pen to a Busy Person

2012-02-21T07:01:17Z

I’ll tell you a little bit about what’s going in my life right now. First and foremost, I am about a month and a half away from delivering my second daughter. Seriously–when I walk into a room, my belly is first and foremost. Secondly, my husband and I are beginning to make preparations for an out-of-state move (something I’ve never done before) that could be happening as soon as a month or two after the baby is born. Throw in tax season, both our jobs, keeping up with my online writing communities, and raising a toddler that is–as I always say–too smart for my own good, and it’s pretty crazy around here.

Yet somehow, I’m managing to keep up with the writing schedule I’ve set myself: working on my characterization skills, writing and posting a chapter of Holding My Breath every couple of weeks, and maintaining my blog here. But because that wasn’t enough, I also took on two group blogging commitments for an extra three blogs per month. I must be a glutton for sleep-deprivation.

But the truth is–and maybe you’ve noticed this about yourself too–I get so much more done when I’m busy.

Writing More When I’m Busy

Have you ever heard the saying, “If you want to get something done, give it to a busy person?” I’m that busy person. It seems like the more balls I have up in the air, the more I can take on. But if I stop for a second, they all come tumbling down. If I even slow down a little bit, I start to lose my grace.

I find this especially true for my writing. Oh sure, I always dream of locking myself away in a cabin in the middle of the forest with rain pouring down as I stare out the window and write the most amazing story ever written. But honestly, if I do manage to get a chunk of free time, it’s like my brain goes into Flan mode and I can’t think straight long enough to get a word down. Like today–I spent all day running errands with my 20-month-old (you’re impressed, right?) and then as soon as I got her down for her nap, I sat in front of my computer and began writing. This will be my second completed blog in the last two hours. Yesterday I laid around the house and wrote nothing.

It’s hard to make time for writing but I think when I’m busiest is when I’m most capable of getting my writing done. I try to take advantage of the fact that my brain is already well-awake, I’m on my toes, and my productivity endorphins are pulsing through my veins. There are times when an easy-going day gives the right side of my brain time to feel things out and let the story stretch, but on most days, I need to buckle down and getting the words on the page. And if my theory is correct, it looks like the next year will be the most productive of my life!

When do you feel most productive? Are you a “busy person?” Do you get Flan brain if you have too much time “write,” like I do?

New Places to Find Me

I hope you’ll come check me out at my new blogging homes! I am now writing at Hugs & Chocolate, a writing community for “inspiration, information and motivation” where I post every 2nd and 4th Monday of the month. I’ll also be posting a monthly blog on productivity at Routines for Writers on the 1st Tuesday of each month. I’ll update with the links for all of my new posts on Facebook and Twitter, so I hope you’ll find me there!