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Book store signs.

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I love this ❤

North Carolina teacher has personalized handshakes with each of his students. “It was just one or two students and then it became contagious. I saw how much it meant to them.” http://abcn.ws/2jxFDgt

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                                                FAULT LINE

From Cape Mendocino to the Mexican border, the San Andreas Fault runs up California like a thread-worn seam. For years the Pacific and North American plates have been locked in a standoff as they test each other.      

I’ve been in a few small earthquakes. According to geologists, we’re due for the ‘big one’. We have random drills just in case, as if any of us will ever be truly ready.

An icy blast of air hits my face. The water below reaches out like a worn tapestry in various shades from peacock to cobalt. Whitecaps stitch the waves together in a seductive dance, luring me closer, closer, closer.

The seagulls call out, urging me to look up, to focus on the beauty and not the end. To hold on for one more heartbeat, two, three, four…

My mother has an earthquake-emergency pack ready to go in the car and another in the garage. Three day of water and food for four people. Just in case those plates shift and the world crumbles around us. In the Great San Francisco Earthquake of 1906 nearly 3,000 people died. Most of the deaths were due to fires raging through the city after the quake. It’s a lesson for all of us – what kills you might not always be the obvious.

From where I stand it’s difficult to imagine anything destroying the buildings across the bay. They’re filled with people living lives of boring complacency, ignorant and blind to what’s happening right before them.

Everyone says I have my whole life ahead of me. When my AP English teacher says it, she means I’m barely hanging on to my B average.

“Cara, you’re such a bright student. If you just put a little more effort into studying for your tests, who knows what would happen?” Her long nose twitches whenever she speaks, conjuring up images of witches casting spells.

When my ballet teacher says it, she means I’m not practicing enough and will never reach my dream of dancing professionally.

Her long neck slopes like a middle-aged swan and she dips into a plié shouting, “Practice my dear. Practice, practice, practice! You need to lose five pounds and come in for an extra hour everyday. You have such potential.”

When my parents say it, they mean I’m not who they thought I was. Not pretty enough, not smart enough, not talented enough.

Not enough.

“Did you finish your homework?” Mom says.

“Yes.”

“Are you going to eat all of that? Perhaps a salad would be a wiser choice.”

“Yes.”

My father says, “It’s not your fault. Sometimes adults need different things in life. They outgrow each other.”

I disappoint them. I stand up here on the tip top of disappointment and it engulfs me like puffs of fog drifting in. Winding around my arms and legs, choking me.

Soon, the fog will thicken and hide the boats dotting the water. They look like toys bobbing around, and I feel like God above them all. Does he care about me? Did he care about the 3,000 people who died burning to death in the fires ripping through the city? I like to think he does. I like to think I’m a fault ready to tear open. I can only hope things will be better after I shift and shake the world around me.

My brother is a pest, but I love him anyway. He loves geology and rocks, studying them every chance he gets. He understands why the earth moves. He gets why it has to, why it’s necessary.

I think about it all now. How he can only sleep with headphones on because music blocks the yelling. How I sneak in his room every night after he’s fallen asleep, and take them off, afraid he’ll go deaf before he turns twelve.

I step back, grabbing the red, metal bridge of my escape, wondering who will take his earphones off now. I want the idea of making a difference to one person to be enough. Only… the cracks spread faster than I can fix. The subtle fracture along the fault line of my soul.

The pressure builds. It pushes relentlessly until the plates of my heart slip. The earth shakes. Quakes. Tears open those stupid enough to ignore it.

I refuse to ignore it. I embrace it, opening my arms. The wind whips my hair in a tangled cloud around my face and I jump.

I fall and fall and fall.

I don’t think about the fire consuming those who survive. I don’t think about anything at all.

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[A writer] can’t sit around doubting the quality of his writing. Rather, he has to love his own writing. I do.

Isaac Asimov (via psliterary)

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So true!

5 Quotes on Editing That Will Always Be Relevant

During January of our “Now What?” Months, we’re here to give you some inspiration and resources as you dive into those daunting edits on your novel. While we usually share lots of advice with you from contemporary authors, sometimes it’s nice to take a look back through history and realize that editing problems have always been the same:

1. James Baldwin

“Rewriting [is] very painful. You know it’s finished when you can’t do anything more to it, though it’s never exactly the way you want it… The hardest thing in the world is simplicity. And the most fearful thing, too. You have to strip yourself of all your disguises, some of which you didn’t know you had. You want to write a sentence as clean as a bone. That is the goal.” 

Keep reading

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Short story:   MY ONLY SUNSHINE by Jen Camiccia

My daddy dropped like a stone. They said later he was dead before he hit the ground. I suppose they said it to give me comfort, as if his loss is somehow made easier with the knowledge he didn’t suffer.

If I were a little less selfish this might be true, but the reality is - I want him back, suffering or not. Instead, I’m left with Bo and a baby who sucks the life out of me on an hourly basis.

Bo looks at me now like he doesn’t recognize me, like he doesn’t know me and wouldn’t care to. Everyone tells him to be patient because I’m still grieving.

‘You know how Sunshine is’ they say. High strung gets thrown around like it explains everything about me.The truth is, no one will ever love me again. Not like my daddy. Not my stupid, slack-jawed husband and not my big-headed baby with his endless supply of green eye-boogers.

He stares at me, my baby does, and I can see he knows it too. That I’m unlovable.

“Take him,” Bo says, thrusting him at me. “He’s hungry.”

“Can’t you feed him?”

“A mother is supposed to feed her baby.” He turns and stomps off, not waiting for my reply. Not caring really, if he’s honest about it.

“Okay, little booger,” I say, plopping him in his high chair and smashing some bananas.

I’ve forgotten to buy baby food again, but this is healthier, anyway. Fresher.

“Open your mouth,” I say, but he twists his lips, thwarting every pass of the spoon, more bananas in his ear and hair than his mouth.

“Fine. Starve see if I care” Tears burn my throat for the millionth time that day. I slam the bathroom door, sinking to the ground, the shaggy carpet tickling the bottom of my feet.

I shouldn’t leave him alone. Can he choke on banana mush?

I’m drowning in the mundane. How does anyone expect me to keep on cooking and cleaning and having sex and gardening and eating and giving a crap about any of it?

“Sunshine! Where are you?”

I peek my head out. “In here.”

My sister walks around the corner, holding the baby. “He was slipping under the tray. You forgot to buckle him.”

“He’s okay.”

The baby clings to Raina as if he knows he’s not safe with me. He’s right to prefer her.

“He was my daddy too,” she says, blowing on her bangs as they swoop over one eye. “Just because you were his favorite doesn’t mean you’re the only one suffering here. I miss him, but I don’t mope around the house with my old, ratty bathrobe.”

“I know.” I bow my head, but don’t let her see my face. She’s jealous of how much Daddy loved me, always has been.

“Don’t make this about you. Bo says you aren’t eating or taking much of an interest in anything.”

“He just wants me under him every night and acting like… like…”

“Like you love him?” One eyebrow arches.

“He makes it hard to love him.” The words burn my mouth, blistering my lips. “I think I might hate him.”

“You’re not thinking straight. After a while, this will all get better. He’s your husband. You promised to love him in good times and bad. You can’t just check out without trying” She pauses and says, “What would Daddy say?”

My hand itches to slap her face, wipe the fake smile right off of it. “Daddy never liked Bo. He would be happy if I left him.”

“And then what? What about T.J.?” She jostles the baby up and down, kissing his bald head. “You going to leave him, too?”

“He would be better off without me.”

She can see I mean it. Her mouth makes a perfect circle as she thinks about what this means. My sister is a fixer. She’s happiest when she takes over and bosses everyone around. “I think you need a little vacation. How does that sound?” She takes her phone out and looks something up. “I know of just the place. You can sleep without the baby waking you, the ocean right outside your door. I’ll stay here and take care of everything. How does that sound?”

It doesn’t sound terrible. Sleeping all day without guilt, without everyone wanting something I can’t give. I tell her she’s right and she smiles. She loves this. The feeling of superiority she has when I’m failing.

I can’t drum up the energy to care. I pack and she drives me the three hours to the hotel. The car drives away before I can even kiss the baby goodbye.

I open the window in my tiny, perfect room, and seagull’s calls blend with the rhythmic crashing of waves against the hotel’s foundation. Salt and seaweed perfume the soft air and the combination lulls me into a stupor. A hint of sun peeks through the fog, promising something it can’t deliver.

I sleep for three days straight. Room service drops off a meal here and there and I stumble over and eat before I fall back in bed. I ignore my phone, not caring about anyone else. The only person I need is dead.  

When I wake up I wish I can fall back asleep and recapture the perfect bubble of happiness of my dreams.

The door shakes, the knocking goes on and on, before my name if finally bellowed. “Sunshine!” “What?”

Bo stands there. “You haven’t answered your phone for three days. You were supposed to be home this morning.” He muscles past me, taking in the unmade bed and piles of dishes. “Don’t they have maid service here?”

“I put the do-not-disturb sign out.” I wipe my eyes, my hand almost too heavy to lift.

He grabs clothes from my suitcase, throwing them in my face as if he wishes they were heavier. “Get dressed, you’re coming home. I should never have agreed to you coming here in the first place. You need to be taking care of your baby, not wallowing.”

The clothes drop to the ground and I make no attempt to catch them. “I’m not going home with you.”

The words give me the first sense of peace I’ve had in weeks.

He sputters, staring at me with his square jaw and soft brown eyes. Those eyes were what first made me love him, made me think I knew a thing about him.

“Then…what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you better figure it out because I’m not waiting around forever for you to snap out of this.”

“I’m not asking you to.” I sit down on the bed and wish he would leave.

“It’s been three months, Sunshine,” he says, as if grief has a time limit. “You need to keep going. If I stopped every time something bad happened we would starve and have no place to live. Sometimes you just have to suck it up and move on.”

Slippery tears burn my neck and chest. My grief is a fiery lye to everything it touches.

“I don’t want to move on. I never want to stop crying. If I stop then he’s really gone.” I fling the words at him until I’m screaming, shaking, holding my hands up as a shield.

He backs up a few steps. “You’re as crazy as your mother.”

He knows this will hurt more than anything else he can say. “I should have listened to my brother. He said you would go psycho one day.”

I fold over at the waist, trying to keep my heart from falling out. “Leave,” I say, crawling back in bed.

“You can’t have the baby,” he shouts. “He’s mine. I don’t want you anywhere near him.”

I don’t answer. I don’t need to because he’s finally gone.

My mother is the one who picks me up. I hunch down in the car, saying a silent goodbye to the ocean and the place where sunshine hides.

“Raina says you left Bo and T.J.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Is this about your father?”

I sigh, not knowing why I expect her to listen, to understand.

“Because you were blind when it came to him. He wasn’t perfect.”

“I don’t want to do this.”

Her jealousy fills the car and chokes me. This isn’t about her, everything doesn’t  always have to be about her. My dad worshipped her. He told her everyday how much he loved her, how beautiful she was. Even when she was in one of her dark periods, he never had a bad thing to say about her. He kept all of us away from the darkened bedroom where she would hole up for weeks, sometimes months.

He cooked for us, drove us to school, and made sure my mom didn’t slit her wrists or take a whole bottle of pills like the time when I was seven and came home from first grade to firemen and sirens.

“You were a selfish little girl and now you’re a selfish woman,” she says, each word clipped and bitter. “Your father is gone but you still have a husband and my grandchild. Don’t let it all go because you can’t let go of a dead man.”

“He’s only been dead three months,” I mumble, wishing I could scream at her, wishing she didn’t still terrify me. She shouldn’t have this power to make me feel like nothing. Like less than nothing.

She drops me off at home, not even bothering to come in and see the grandchild she throws in my face.

Raina is there whispering in Bo’s ear, bouncing T.J. in her arms. Bo walks upstairs without looking at me and Raina bites her lip, staring after him. It’s the same look she’s had ever since I first brought Bo home two years ago.

“He wants you out,” she says, her mouth drooping as if she feels bad for me. “You can go stay at my apartment. I’ll stay and take care of the baby.”

I nod, wishing I were numb again. “Can you pack me a change of clothes?” I hold out my arms to T.J. “I’ll hold him.”

She hugs the baby close, kissing his cheek before slowly handing him to me. “I’ll be right back,” she says more to him than me.

I place his sturdy body on my hip, the familiarity of his weight squeezing my heart. His arms wrap around my neck, fat hands patting my cheek.

“Ma ma ma ma,” he says, his new tooth peeking white and shiny against his swollen red gums.

“Hi there boogie.” I kiss his soft, sticky cheek and gently wipe the green crust from the corner of his left eye.

He stares at me, his eyes shining and full of trust. He offers me all the love in his heart without expecting anything n return.

He keeps up a steady stream of noise from his car seat as I drive away. I sing softly at first, the words heavy in my mouth. “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…”

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This book is addictive!

Do you ever just miss the characters in a book? Like a lot? And want to revisit them as much as possible? Basically my life after reading THE HATING GAME by @sallythorneauthor 😅🍓

If you are feeling like this, know you are not alone – we can all suffer together 🙃 If you haven’t read this book yet, 1) what’s your deal???? 2) one-click this asap (http://amzn.to/2g7iSd1) then return with feedback after you’ve devoured it, thank you 🤗

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Book recommendations: 

1) I loved MY LADY JANE so much. It is a delightful blend of humor, fantasy, and romance. The whole feel of it reminded me so much of THE PRINCESS BRIDE. 

2) The first book in THE WINNER’S CURSE series. If the other two books are anything like the first, I’m going to be sing from the rooftops (okay- maybe not because no one wants that) because it’s lovely. I was riveted.

3) My son is reading TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD for the first time and I’m so jealous. This is one of my all time favorites. I think I’ll read it again…

4) This is a less known book, but I love it and was devestated when I found out the author was dead and I’d never get to read anything else from her. She was wonderfully talented. COLD SASSY TREE evokes the south in a way that made me feel like I grew up there. 

5) THE NIGHTINGALE was sad, thoughtful, beautiful, and something I’m so happy I read. I didn’t quite realize how much the french people were devestated by World War 2. This really paints a realistic picture of how some people are capable of more than they ever thought possible, or even what others thought possible of them.

I’ll post other book recommendations next week.

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Love this show!!!!

I have the sort of face if I'm not smiling... 😂

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Count Umberto Morra di Lavriano’s villa in Cortona, Italy.

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how can you support Veronica Roth's book? It's racist. Do you even know what racism is? You should revoke your support of her book.

I’m going to answer your second question first. Do I know what racism is?

Being called Paki, Sand N*****, Camel Jockey, etc. and hearing my family being called that since I was a small child, having people vandalize my parents’ motel; having them trash my brother’s car; my father getting assaulted and arrested for being brown in white town; my teachers telling my mother I didn’t belong in their classes when I was 5 years old because I didn’t speak English even though I was 100% fluent; having a checkout clerk tell my mother I was stealing when I was a 3yo because I ate a grape at a grocery store; a teacher attempting to sabotage my education by forcing me to spend a year in remedial classes in junior high to put me behind despite having high test scores; being harassed, insulted and attacked by a group of teenagers as a 7 year old walking with my brother in the desert; getting ordered out of a store in my hometown for ‘looking like a gangbanger’, getting pulled over and hassled with my best friend for driving around my home town because she was white and I was not; having a group of guys surround me on a bus in college and mock me for my appearance;  being told over and over  GO BACK, GO BACK, GO BACK; Even now, dealing with micro-aggressions and getting regular messages and anon asks (b/c I choose to keep an open line of communication with fans) telling me that I don’t deserve any of my success, that I am a ‘diversity case’ or that I am, somehow, inferior because I am brown.

Does that constitute as racism? If so, then yes, I know what racism is.

Now that that’s out of the way: I have had many people asking my thoughts on Carve the Mark, the book in question, or telling me my thoughts are wrong, so here’s what I have to say:

I read Carve the Mark critically and did not find the book to be racist or ableist (which was the other criticism leveled at it.)   To be absolutely clear–I read the criticism thoroughly and found that I did not agree with what it was saying. I thought that there was plenty of evidence in the book that the exact opposite was true, and that the cultural groups represented were varied and nuanced and open to many different interpretations. (One example: I felt that the cultural group portrayed as more “violent” was comprised of many skin colors and reflected a hodgepodge of different societies, and that the main character was portrayed both critically and sympathetically. And I felt that the group portrayed as more “peaceful” also had an array of skin/hair types, and again, was portrayed as nuanced–both good and bad.)

(Re: the issue of ableism, more informed folks than I (see Leigh Bardugo and Kody Keplinger) have spoken about the issue. I direct you to them because they are more knowledgable about issues of ableism than I am.)

What is happening here is a difference in opinion. It is a normal thing in a free and fair society. For some reason, this upsets a few people, as they apparently think that people of color are some sort of Borg Uni-mind who all think exactly the same way. Here’s a tip: we don’t. POC can disagree with one another, guys. And we can discuss, and we can learn from such disagreements.

This is a case in which I disagree with the criticism that another POC has for this book. Not because I like the author of the book. Not because I haven’t read the book. But because I just don’t agree with the criticism. This, by the way, does not mean I don’t like or respect the people who have leveled the criticism. Quite the opposite. It. Is. A. DIfference. In. Opinion.

As the wise Somaiya Daud said, “there is no One Reading”, meaning that people can read the same book and have different takes on it.

Example:  I read a book a couple years ago by a POC author that unintentionally denigrated my language and people. Other people read this book and did not see this at all. In fact, some of you might have read it and not noticed it or found it offensive.  To me, that’s ok. You read and interpreted it differently than I did. I can inform you of how I feel, and discuss it with you (I actually did with the author, and the author was receptive) but if you read it, and hear my opinion and ultimately don’t agree with me, I’m going to respect your right as a free citizen to have your own opinion. I do not expect you to trash the book or not read it because I was hurt by it. In fact, I’d rather you read it, because then you’ll have an informed opinion about it and speak about it intelligently.

And that’s sort of what this comes down to:  In dealing with other POC, not all POC opinions are immediately the ONLY opinion. We are not a monolith.

As a WOC who has dealt with racism, often violent, since I came to this country, and as a WOC who has spent much of her life being told to sit down and shut up, I find it very odd that some of the people who consider themselves allies are essentially telling me to sit down and shut up. (Not all of them. I’ve had many civil and intelligent conversations about this.) Essentially, they want me to revoke my opinion about the book.

So here’s the thing: You can criticize me. You can say “Sabaa, you are an idiot and I disagree with you.” That’s fine. You have that right and I absolutely support you being able to voice your opinion. But don’t tell me to undo my opinion. Because by doing so, you are, in effect, attempting to silence me, and I am sick of people trying to silence me.