Pricing the Ebook

For writers who self -publish their books on mediums such as Smashwords, CreateSpace, Kindle and the Nook, there is much more to think about than just editing and formatting.  Along with self-publishing comes self-promotion and the ultimate question:  What should I charge for my blood, sweat and tears? 

Unfortunately, there's no real answer to that question as, like the fates of the characters in your book, it's entirely up to you.  In fact, some mediums will even allow you to offer your book for free--which isn't a bad idea to do for a limited time as it can greatly assist in drawing readers to your book.

What price is too low?  Too high?  Of course, like many other issues in the literary community, opinions on the pricing topic vary from person to person.  Obviously, as a brand spanking new indie author, $10 is a tad unreasonable and won't draw readers unless you develop one hell of a hook and your sample pages are out of this world. Yet, pricing too low also has its drawbacks.  $.99 seems to be a popular price for ebooks, but is it the best price?  When I asked regular members of the consuming public this question, their overwhelming response was that anything short of a dollar seemed 'inferior' and that pricing a book at $1.99 instead would, in people's minds, make them think that the book was of 'higher quality'.  While it is a proven psychological fact that people perceive goods and services priced at a lower rate to be not as good as their more expensive counterparts, I believe there are valid arguments to be made for pricing your book both at and above $.99.

Reasons to price your ebook at .99 cents

1.  Impulse Buys--There are many instance where I've found myself looking for something to read only to pick up a $.99 book as I wasn't entirely too sure about that $10 book everyone's been talking about.  People are impulsive by nature, however, impulse has its limits. If readers have to wait until their next payday before they can afford your book, there may be something wrong.

2.  Getting your name out there--The beauty with social networking and indie writers is that it gives you a platform upon which to stand.  You can get your work and your name out there to countless individuals of whom you wouldn't have been able to reach just a matter of years ago.  Think of it as free advertising--advertising of which you will want to utilize to the fullest extent. A low price is universal, and setting your book at $0.99 will make it that much more accessible to the reading public.

3.  People are cheap--Let's face it, I'm cheap. Actually, I prefer the term "thrifty"--you say potato, I say potahto. Anyway, my point is that I don't like spending money.  In fact, I idolize those extreme couponing freaks and, if I didn't have a life to tend to, I would so jump on that reality television bandwagon.  I mean, come on, who wouldn't want to get $879.49 worth of groceries for a buck fifty?  Moving on...Nowadays, people are looking for a bargain and, as an indie author with the capability to set your own price, you may find that you tend to capitalize on the thriftyness of others.  After all, anyone can afford to take a $.99 gamble.

4.  Testing the waters--As a reader, I'm more apt to take a chance on a new author whose book is priced at $.99 than one who has a book out there for $5 because, if I don't care for the book, I won't feel cheated.  Think of it as buying a ticket to a boxing match that ends with a knock-out punch in the first thirty seconds.  You paid all that money for virtually nothing (no, $5 is not a lot of money, but you could have also purchased five $.99 books of higher quality for that price). As a new author, you're just beginning to build your fan base--a fan base who will be more forgiving of you if they don't particularly care for your writing style, but only paid $.99 to figure that out. Word of mouth is everything to an indie author. But to an unsatisfied customer--and potential reviewer--the blow they could deal to you based upon the fact that your book didn't appeal to them could be a lot softer if they paid virtually nothing for it.

5.  People like feeling like they've gotten a bargain--When I got my Kindle for Christmas, I was excited.  When I turned my Kindle on and saw that I could download Pride and Prejudice--a classic!--for free, I was ecstatic (yes, I'm a dork). Consumers appreciate feeling as though they've gotten some kind of a bargain.  And, if your book really is the well-written, well-edited novel that you believe it to be, the excitement from your readers will resonate just as mine did when I opened my freebie Jane Austen.

6.  If you don't care about making money--Believe it or not, not everyone writes to get rich.  And for those of us who write because we love what we do, we know that the only people who get rich are New York Times bestsellers and those whose books have been given the Hollywood treatment (the two usually go hand-in-hand).  Obviously, if you price your book at $.99, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that, even if you sell a thousand copies, you still aren't going to bank a whole heck of a lot of money (especially with only receiving a certain percentage of that amount).  Long story short, if you were working at McDonald's before the book was published, it's likely that you will still be there a month after publication. But, hey, a true love for writing is fueled by passion, not Benjamins.

7.  It's your first book...ever--I'm not saying that all first novels are horrid, just a nice chunk of them.  That's why it may take an author two or three tries before they land a traditional book deal.  And as I prepare to publish my first ever novel, I'm mindful of the fact that I'm not perfect and, no matter how well I edit, there will be something that I miss.  I believe that first novels are a learning experience, one in which a writer grows and discovers what their true strengths and weaknesses are.  And, if you find that your book is selling well and the reviews are good, then you can always up the price a tad.

Reasons against pricing your ebook at .99 cents

1.  The "Free to a Good Home" effect--For some reason, we've been programmed to believe that if something is marked as "free", there must be something wrong with it.  Frequently, as I find myself driving home from work, I see random objects on the side of the road marked in this fashion--in Michigan, these objects are most often couches or other random pieces of furniture. And the first thoughts that go through my mind when I gaze upon these weathered items consist of vermin infestation and the bubonic plague. However, slap a sign advertising that sucker for $20 and you'll have to beat the crowds of people off with a stick.  Why?  Because $20 for a couch is one hell of a deal.  This same principle applies to your book. A .99 book is very often looked upon as being of low quality and frankly not as good as a book priced at $5.  Is this my personal opinion?  No.  But I have heard this issue discussed amongst others and you'd be surprised by how many people hold this thought to be true.

2.  Shortchanging yourself--Stop and think to yourself, "Why am I setting the price of my book at $.99?"  Is it because you think it will sell more copies? Or is the real reason because you really don't believe it's good enough to warrant a $2 or $3 price tag?  If you want to price your book low, that's your prerogative, but if you're doing so because your self-esteem or nerves are getting in the way, then you need to take a step back and ask yourself whether or not you truly believe your book is as polished as it could be. If it is, perhaps you should rethink the price as you may be shortchanging yourself in the long run.  If the book isn't quite up to snuff, edit it again and then reassess the pricing conundrum. 

3.  Your time is worth more--How long did it take you to write your book? Weeks? Months? Years? How much research did you have to do for it?  What about editing?  Now, how much was that time worth to you?  Does $.99 seem about right?  Sure, not all of us who write expect to get rich off of it, but don't you think your time is worth more than a penny short of a buck? 

4.  People may take you less seriously--This goes along with the "Free to a Good Home" effect.  Even if they don't want to pay for it, people tend to have a little more respect for those who charge higher prices for their products or services.  I see this all the time with law firms.  A lot of the time you can tell how successful an attorney is based upon their hourly rate.  For example, if I was approached by an attorney who charged $20 an hour, I'd run like hell as that would tell me that they value their work very little.  Price your work based upon what you think it's worth and how you want others to perceive you. If you're just writing for fun, take that into consideration and price accordingly as well.
For those of you who have published your books on ereaders, how did you arrive at the price you set?  Did you later change it?

If you're still finding yourself perplexed with the pricing conundrum, check out the following links for further discussions on this topic:

http://www.susankayequinn.com/2012/04/indie-dime-novels-of-2012.html
http://jamarlow.com/2012/04/amazon-47north-pricing-analysis/
http://www.deanwesleysmith.com/?p=6391
http://www.teleread.com/publishing/pricing-the-indie-ebook-whats-fair/http://allindiepublishing.com/ebooks/revisiting-99-cent-e-book-pricing/

The Versatile Blogger Award--Take 3

Gone from blogging for about two months, gain more followers and an award. I'm not sure how I managed that, but I am truly grateful to you all for following me.  There's been several reasons why I haven't been blogging lately (with the main one being outlined below).  However, now that I'm back in the swing of things, I hope to have regular posts once again whether you want me to blog or not ;-) 

Another reason why I haven't been blogging is due in part to my trying to finish the editing process for my book, Enigma Black.  Given some of the events of my life, I'm about a month or so behind schedule, but I am working to catch up quickly.  Writing, I'm beginning to learn, has a mind of its own.  The process works on its own schedule and you just have to deal with it and enjoy the ride.

With that being said, in my absence I was nominated for yet another Versatile blogging award by the wonderfully talented Robert Pruneda.  Rob recently published his heartwarming book (of which I had the honor of beta reading) entitled Victory Lane: The Chronicles--Pursuit of a Dream available on Kindle.  Pursuit of a Dream is the first book in Rob's series about young man's quest to become the next great NASCAR star.  It's a very well-written, wholesome family story with some of the best dialogue I've read in a long time.  Be sure to check both the book and Rob out at http://sharkbaitwrites.com/sharkblogs/ and the link listed above. 

Thank you, Rob.  Your support is always an honor that is greatly appreciated.

Now on to the rules of acceptance for this prestigious award:

Nominate 15 fellow bloggers for The Versatile Blogger Award.

1. Display the Versatile Blogger Award (see picture above) with pride.--Check
2. Thank the blogger who nominated you in the post with a link back to their blog.--Check
3. Share 7 completely random (and hopefully true) pieces of information about yourself.--See below
4. Include this set of rules.--Check
5. Inform each nominated blogger of their nomination by posting a comment on each of their blogs, tweeting them, or sending smoke signals. Whatever floats your pirate boat.--See below.  I prefer to include a blanket nomination. ;-)

Seven Random Facts About Moi:

1.  I'm a new Mommy again-Part of the reason why I've been MIA from blogging is because of Mia, my new daughter.  Mia (pronounced Me-a, not My-a) was born on February 22, 2012 and, needless to say, I've been pretty busy. *Contemplates whether the lack of sleep will make her blog posts a tad more interesting and slightly more coherent.* It's easy to forget how time-consuming babies are when your only other child is five-years-old. Of course, the sleep deprivation and constant worrying probably aided in my conveniently blocking those years out.

2.  I hate all reality television with the exception of one show...--Alas, it's true.  I am no fan of the so-called "reality" television shows that we seem to find ourselves inundated with. Why, you ask? Because, in my opinion, they are jam-packed with some of the most simple-minded, shallow individuals who have ever walked this planet.  For some, that translates into great television; for me, it translates into an hour (30 minutes if I'm lucky) of eye-rolling and flashbacks to middle school where even the most annoying kids were still leaps and bounds ahead on the maturity scale than the morons making millions off of these shows. Don't get me wrong, if someone dangled a multi-million dollar carrot in front of my face, there would be very little I wouldn't subject myself to.  However, I'd like to think that I wouldn't completely sell myself out and that I would maintain a certain level of dignity that would make my children/loved ones proud of me.  But, above all, if I wanted to watch scripted drama (and if you honestly believe these shows aren't scripted I have a timeshare in the Bahamas I'd like to sell to you), I would watch CSI, Law & Order, or Murder, She Wrote (don't judge) and not the fabricated, seemingly written by five-year-olds drama that comprises reality television.

3.  And that exception is Hoarders--The only way I can rationalize my fixation with this show is that it makes me feel better about my own inadequacies.  Because no matter how bad I am as a housekeeper, organizer, or at life in general, at least I know there are no dead cats, cockroaches, or rooms piled high with trash in my home.  For me, watching Hoarders is like watching a Michael Bolton concert:  I can't stop looking at it no matter how gruesome it becomes. (Show of hands.  Who among you would find a moldy refrigerator more entertaining than Mr. Bolton?)  All joking aside, it's not as though I like seeing how awesome my housecleaning  skills are compared to these obviously ill individuals.  There are those on the show who do change their lives for the better, and who doesn't love a heartwarming story?  Heck, if a person can overcome living in a virtual garbage dump, it gives me hope that I can overcome my own personal demons, too.


4.  I'm OCD with Skittles--Okay, so maybe it wouldn't be considered quite OCD-like, but I'm pretty sure it comes close.  When I get a pack of Skittles (or any other fruit-flavored candy for that matter), I immediately take out all of the red and purple (or pink) colored ones as they usually represent the flavors that I'm quite fond of (strawberry, cherry, or grape, for example).  If I'm still desperate for sugar after their consumption, I will then eat the orange, green and yellow ones.  Although the orange ones are okay, for the life of me, I can't understand why they even bother making lemon-flavored candy as, in my opinion, it always seems to taste like Pledge.  No, I will not tell you how I know what Pledge tastes like...


5.  I've been told that I resemble Susan Sarandon--I'm not sure whether I should accept this remark as a compliment or as an insult.  Personally, I don't believe the woman is particularly attractive.  However, she's a spokeswoman for a major cosmetics line--whose identity escapes me now--so I shouldn't be too ungodly angry about being compared to her, I guess.  I suppose it could always be worse...

                                                              You're looking very Jabba the Hutt today

6.  I'm a vampire--Okay, so I'm not literally a vampire. Given their popularity, though, that may not be a bad thing.  Lord knows I need all the popularity I can get my hands on. Although, in reality I am incredibly pasty and could probably pass as a member of the undead.   By the vampire statement, I mean that I'm more of a nocturnal creature by habit.  I function better at night than I do during the day. Otherwise known as being a night owl, I find that I gain a second wind during the late night hours and am absolutely useless any other time.  This is why most of my writing is done at night.  Well, that and the fact that I have a day job as well as a family to tend to while the sun's up.

7.  I believe that there is absolutely no sound worse than snoring--I love my husband to death, but there are just some nights where I want to smother him with a pillow.  It's not as though I'm an ultra-sensitive person who needs absolute silence in order to fall asleep.  Hell, I've slept through a storm that caused a tree to fall through our roof, house parties during my single years, and our neighbor's little rats', I mean dogs', incessant barking.  But there's just something about nasally, ear-splitting snoring that drives me Kathy-Bates-in-Misery-crazy.  I've tried earplugs, those nose strip things, background noises, and drugs, yet nothing seems to drown my husband out.  And, since murder is frowned upon, I've found myself spending plently of nights on the couch in order to catch some Zs.

Since I've been awarded this award a couple of times in the past, I won't be nominating 15 other bloggers.  Instead, I would like to extend this award to every one of my followers or readers who have not yet received this award and of whom would like to display it for bragging rights on their blogs.

My next post will focus on finding the perfect pricing points for indie authors (which hopefully will be ready in the next couple of days).  This is something that I've been personally grappling with and I'm eager to read your input on it as well.

Getting Through the Editing Process

As I find myself with only ten'ish chapters to go in the editing process, I'm realizing more and more just how absolutely essential it is.  It's not that I didn't think it necessary for one to edit their manuscripts, it's that I didn't anticipate the amount of editing my particular manuscript would need.  As writers, we're often either blind to our own flaws, or they mask themselves so cleverly within the pages of our manuscripts that only fresh eyes can find them. 

Try it for yourself.  Tuck your "brilliant" novel away in a drawer for four months and then pull it out and tell me it's still brilliant because I can guarantee you that your whole perception of it will have changed.  Once snappy dialogue will seem bland and your originally bulletproof plot will now have more holes in it than a slice of Swiss cheese, leading to the consumption of an entire bottle of wine and a feeling of utter inadequacy.  This is why we edit.  We edit to polish, to fill in the gaping holes, and to make our readers experience the "wow" factor that our novels are intended to elicit.  But how do we get through this arduous process without wanting to slit our wrists? Well, we all have our own preferred techniques, but the six that I've personally found the most helpful are as follows:

1. Think of it as turning the mediocre into a work of art.  This is something I keep having to repeat to myself.  As much as we hate to think that what we write is anything but spectacular, the fact is, that's not always the case.  This is why we edit.  We edit, edit, and edit some more.  We add commas where they are lacking, quotation marks that were forgotten, and more "showing" where there was once "telling".  We remove paragraphs that are unnecessary, words that do nothing to add to the story, and dialogue that's more weighty than uplifting.  Truly, the editing process allows you to add that extra dash of paint to the canvas, turning your work from humdrum to astounding.

2.  When in doubt, simplify. Too many times, we as writers tend to make the uncomplicated an enigma by adding mud to crystal clear water.  We want everything we write to be poetic while failing to realize that true poetry isn't forced.  So, it's no surprise that when editing time rolls around and we re-read the "masterpiece" that we swore we wrote, it sounds more elementary than Frost.  This is when frustration kicks in making us wonder what exactly it was we were drinking when we wrote our first draft.  But, instead of doing what we can to make it better, we either scrap it completely or complicate it even further.  Simplicity is key. Instead of trying to be elegant or mistakenly believing that throwing random commas on the page will make your mess more organized, keep it short and sweet.  Your point can be powerfully conveyed in just five words, but completely lost with twenty.  Besides, editing 100,000 words is a hell of a lot easier than 200,000.

3.  Break out the vodka.  This only applies to those who aren't pregnant and of age, of course.  I'm one of those people who tends to push themselves until something is done.  If I don't accomplish what I've set out to do (whether it be writing, running an errand, or just taking a shower that day) in the time period I've allotted for it, I feel as though I've completely wasted my time.  As a writer, it's good to set goals for yourself, but just because you've set those goals doesn't mean they can't be subject to change or modification.  If you keep pushing yourself to meet unreal expectations, instead of meeting them, you'll find yourself on a one-way ticket to burn-out city before you know it.  Trust me, I've been there and it's not pretty.  I liken it to being on a cruise ship in the middle of a hurricane.  Take time to unwind. If you can't figure out where your plot went wrong or what one of your characters should say to lighten the mood, don't beat yourself over the head.  Instead, remove yourself from your work for a little bit. Talk a walk, take a nap, take a chill pill.  Just don't let the editing process consume you until you  begin to loathe it entirely.

4.  Read the works of others.  If you're like me, you learn by example.  There are times that I find myself stuck on sentence structure.  I know how I want to word something, but it just seems awkward.  Reading the works of other authors, especially those who write in a similar style as you, will help you with your structure conundrum, thus pulling you out of an editing funk.  Plus, it's always a good idea to take a break and read in order to clear your mind and make it fresh for another round of editing.

5.  Have a good bitching session then get on with it.   Let's face it, the vast majority of writers hate editing.  It's tedious, time consuming, soul-sucking, and it brings our faults as writers to light.  However, with that said, it's a necessary part of being a writer and, unless you have your own personal editorial staff, it's unavoidable.  The good news is you're not alone.  Right now (and at any given time), there are thousands of writers going through the same process as you are who are pulling out similar fist fulls of hair all while starring blankly at their computer screens.  The beauty of this is that these same writers are most likely online on Twitter, Facebook, Absolute Write, or any one of the gazillions of social media sites out there.  Reach out to them.  Have a good bitching session as, chances are, you'll find that you have a lot in common with other writers and it's always good to have someone in your corner in your time of need.

6.  Remind yourself that dreams are worth chasing.  There is a reason why you chose to write.  Whether it be in pursuit of becoming the next bestselling author, because there's a story brewing in your head that you feel needs to be shared, or because it helps you maintain a healthy level of sanity, we all write for one reason or another.  We all have dreams and the best dreams are those you have to work to attain.  There isn't anyone, shy of a celebrity, who's had their dreams handed to them.  They had to work for them.  And it takes hard work, dedication, and hardcore patience to get where you want in life.  Just think of editing as a stepping stone towards publication or fuel for the rocket ship that is poised to blast you and your novel into orbit. 

I'd like to hear from you guys and gals now.  How do you get through the tedious editing process?  Are you one of those rare anomalies who actually likes the process? 

My next post, assuming I don't go into labor in the next week or two, will focus on the great genre dilemma for writers.

Have a great week!

The Unveiling of the Cover for Enigma Black

First of all, I'd like to wish a very Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to all of my followers.  You've all aided in truly brightening a rather dismal year for me. Here's to hoping that 2012 is a million times better.

Every writer develops a vision of their work at some point in time during the writing process.  A vision of their characters (whether they're short, awkward, have freckles, or jet black hair).  A vision of the setting (in the middle of a bustling city, a blooming meadow, or lost in a galaxy far, far away.  A vision of  each scene in the novel (the looks on their character's faces during a pivotal moment, the intensity of a fight, the beauty of the summer day when the hero and the heroine share their first kiss).  When and where this vision occurs depends upon the writer and can vary, being as fickle as a Bachelor contestant. For some, this vision may change repeatedly during the writing of the first draft and again during the final editing process.  For others, it was the vision that inspired the book to begin with:  A photograph taken on a beach overlooking the aquamarine shimmer of a wave hammering the shore; watching a mother and child holding hands in a hospital bed; or the malevolence of an abandoned building rising toward a darkened sky.

In my case, Enigma Black (a science fiction/dystopian/superhero novel about a woman who transforms from victim to assassin) was born from images; a series of dark images, coupled with my admiration of the music of Evanesence and a brief detachment from reality.  Of course, just as the characters, setting, and scenes are visualized, naturally, so are the covers encasing those visions. I have to admit, when it came to the cover, I had several different visions in mind.  I'm more of an abstract person.  To me, a little can say a lot.  With that in mind, I didn't want my cover to be too busy, but more of an accurate reflection of the inner turmoil faced by each of the characters with a hint of mystery attached to it.  I also wanted the colors (red and black) depicted in a painting in one of the later chapters to be represented as they represent the good vs. evil struggle that is prevalent throughout the book and the series as a whole. 

With all of that in mind, a wonderful graphic designer came up with the amazing e-book cover shown below that I believe is the perfect culmination of all of my visions for Enigma Black:

The aforementioned designer assisting me with bringing my vision to fruition is the very talented George Arnold, graphic designer at WGA Designs (and the husband of the equally as talented author, Carolyn Arnold).  To see more of George's wonderful work, click the link to Carolyn's blog or contact him at george.arnold@rogers.com. 

Actually having a cover is motivating me to work even harder on my final edits.  As the time draws nearer to my novel's actual release, I'll post a brief synopsis and sample chapter on my blog. 

My next post will return to business as usual for my subscribers and will focus on getting through the daunting editing process.  Have a great week!

A Second Chance

Well, between my husband's truck and our refrigerator breaking down, as well as an ever-so-wonderful nail embedding itself into my tire, I've finally made the time to do the final edits on the first novel in the trilogy I'm working on entitled Enigma Black.  Of course, it doesn't hurt that a cover for my e-book is being made as I write this--talk about motivation.  At first, I thought about scrapping the novel and going with something else, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it.  As the first novel in a trilogy (which is obviously important to have or there would be no trilogy) it's a story about love and sacrifice (and superheroes) that I'm truly proud of and, unless they're bs'ing me, one that my beta readers enjoyed too.  Currently, I'm about a quarter of the way through edits and anticipate having it available on Kindle and Nook early next year (February/March'ish).

With that said, in focusing on getting my novel ready for publication, I've been neglecting my bloggery duties and am going try to attempt to make up for that.  This post is a little different than what you're used to in that I'm not going to preach/bitch about writing (although I will be returning to that very soon).  Instead, I wanted to post a short (in my opinion) story that I worked on this summer and just recently completed.  Yes, I'm the Queen of Procrastination.

For those of you who want a Wednesday night read or a cure for your insomnia, I hope you enjoy A Second Chance.

A Second Chance

　
“Push, Marion.“ Dr. Clark --or Pete as he requested I call him at nearly every prenatal checkup--breathes heavily through his surgical mask. His raspy breaths were strangely as heavy as mine in the throes of labor fast approaching the two hour mark. “Just a couple more strong pushes and you’ll be able to hold your new baby boy.”

“You’re doing amazing honey,” my husband, Craig, whispers in my ear. He dabs my forehead with his shirt sleeve. I’m drenched in sweat, my body trembling severely. Too late for an epidural, the pain coursing through me is intense, and I’m beginning to question my Lamaze coach’s assessment of birth being a “beautiful process”. “We’re almost there.”

What’s with this we crap, I think to myself. It’s me who’s lying here spread eagle with my body being ripped to shreds on this poor excuse for a bed, not we. Craig means well, but the poor man can really be clueless sometimes.

“One, two, three push!” Pete commands. I comply, bearing down with all I’ve got. But, as with all the innumerable pushes before, what I had wasn’t good enough. I lie there noticing for the first time that I’m moaning. The determination that had overtaken me two hours ago had been erased revealing a woman defeated. “Christ,” Pete bemoaned. “I have the head in my hands. It’s right here, Marion, don’t stop now.”
The head. He had the head. I was in the homestretch; there truly was a light at the end of this dark tunnel. Miraculously, my body refueled itself, responding to this new ray of hope. Leaning forward, I grabbed my knees for leverage while I pushed with every fiber of my soul. Within mere minutes all of those months of dietary restrictions, caffeine aversion and vitamin popping would be paying off. Soon, I would get to taste the fruits of my labor.

“Now we’re talking.” I hear Pete proclaim in the midst of my determination. However, instead of the crisp, clear voice I’d grown accustomed to, all I could hear was a whisper carried by the winds of my own little world. My being was no longer confined to the monochromatic hospital room, but was instead floating in a world that defied explanation. I was within an ethereal prism of violet winds and transparent skies; a place I’d never see again, but whose memory I’d always attempt to relive. Looking back, I truly believe the reason behind my transportation to the utopia accompanying that final push was to brace me, numbing my nerves for the hand I was about to be dealt. For, with that last push, my body collapsed instantaneously upon itself. Somehow managing to dislodge themselves from their stirrup prisons, my feet hung limp from the edge of the birthing bed betraying any last shred of dignity I’d managed to cling onto. Without turning my head, my eyes wandered in their sockets to the newborn warmer where, instead of routine monitoring and joyous revelry, a scene of utter chaos erupted.

“I need Dr. Sherman in here now!” Pete snapped at an unsuspecting nurse and every other poor soul who dared reveal themselves in the delivery room at that moment. “God, how the hell did this happen? This doesn’t happen. He went from having perfect vitals to being a full code in only a matter of seconds!”
Pete‘s frantic words hit my body like a bolt of lightning. I felt the adrenaline returning to my body; the fog encompassing me lifted. In that instant, I flung myself from the birthing bed.

“Marion, no.” Craig’s voice cracks. He flings his arms around my chest forcing me back a couple of steps. Not to be deterred, I wriggle free. I’m dizzy, in excruciating pain, and have intermittent streams of blood making their way down my legs in macabre rivers. On the floor is a pool of blood roughly the size of a soccer ball though not nearly as round. I shrug off the encroaching nausea that seeing my own bodily fluids creates and continue toward where Pete is frantically working on the boy we’d dubbed Jacob Thomas--J.T., for short.

“Let me in!” I demanded shoving away nurses and NICU staff.

“Marion.” Pete grabbed my shoulders forcing me to look him in his eyes that, like mine, were beginning to water. “Marion, I’m so sorry. There’s nothing we can do. He’s gone.”

#

My body jolts violently upward, erect in my bed. Inside my chest, my heart is beating erratically as though I’d just come off of a dead sprint. In the haunting darkness of my bedroom, I glanced at the illuminated numbers displayed on my alarm clock: 3:03 a.m. At least I’d gotten a couple of hours of sleep before the nightmares hit tonight. Next to me Craig was softly snoring making me envious of his undisturbed slumber. Night after night, while he remained tucked away safe and sound in dreamland, I traversed a virtually worn path in our home’s oak floors in the vain attempt to walk away from the demons haunting my dreams.

 Tonight, it appeared, would be no different.

Gingerly rolling myself out of bed--even though I could have bounded out of it without rousing Craig--I planted my feet on the familiar wooden floors. Chilled in the depths of the night, a shiver ran up my spine prompting me to throw my house coat on over my nightie. Then, as I always did upon enduring yet another night of torment, I ventured into the darkness of our home passing just narrowly by the coffee table in our living room. From there, a left turn was made down the hallway where, by the grace of God, I seem to perpetually avoid knocking my mother’s antique vase off of its perch. Finally, at the little white door adorned with a personalized sign reading “Justine”, my nocturnal journey comes to an end.

Grasping the brass handle in my hand, I gently turn it attempting to create as minimal a disruption as possible. To those more sane people, the whole prospect of doing a wellness check on your four-year-old daughter night after night would seem like pure lunacy or the product of overprotective parenting. But I’m not one of those sane people. And besides, I’m willing to bet that none of those nay-sayers of my actions had ever experienced the absolute insanity-inducing pain the loss of a child impacted upon the psyche. The door creaked open and, in the light of the moon, I could make out a small form in the bed. Padding as lightly as possible, I dodged puzzle pieces, dolls, and various other random treasures a preschooler accumulates, while making my way to the form in the bed.

This room had once been meant for a baby boy. Sky blue walls adorned with border depicting cartoon-like trains once encircled its perimeter. Craig had inherited his love of locomotives from his grandfather who once worked as a conductor collecting train memorabilia on the side. After he passed away, Craig was the recipient of most of these trinkets, many of which had added a nice touch to the room. Near the window where Justine’s bed now sat, an oak crib had stood complete with matching locomotive-themed bedding. We’d gotten rid of it all.

Too heartbroken to look at it ourselves, our friends and family members came in and disposed of everything we couldn’t bear to look at. First on the hit list were namely those items of a personalized nature we‘d received just weeks prior to Jacob’s birth: a teddy bear with “April 2006” displayed on its stomach and a baby-blue baby blanket with “J.T. Ellison” embroidered in one corner. Now, the atmosphere was the epitome of polar opposite. Blues had been transformed into different hues of pink; trains turned into unicorns; and any personalized items present throughout the room were not permitted until after Justine was well over a year old.

When I felt my knees brush against the sides of her comforter, I guided my fingers over the mattress making contact with the back of my daughter’s pajama pants. Lifting my hand, I guided my finger tips to her stomach. In, out, in, out. She was breathing. For most parents, this would signal the end of their nocturnal quest, but for me the possibility that something could still go wrong during the night--though I knew how slim--was still very much present. Positioning myself in Justine’s minuscule-for-an-adult-but-adequate-for-a-child-sized bed, I tried my best not to disturb her from her dreams. With my feet hanging over the edge and only a mere quarter of my body covered by her unicorn-embroidered comforter, I put my arm around her, allowing the smell of her lavender -scented hair to lull me back to sleep.

#

“Marion.” A hushed whisper lured me from my sleep. I opened my eyes just as the sun began peeking though Justine’s bedroom window. “Marion,” Craig uttered again in a tone an octave higher than before.

“Yeah,” I turned my head to see him standing in Justine’s doorway, staring at me in frustration mixed with resignation. In his neatly ironed Docker’s and dress shirt, he was already dressed for a day at the office.


“It’s seven o’clock. You should probably start getting around.”

“I know what I need to do, Craig. I’ve only been practicing the same routine for the last four years.”

He throws his hands up in the air in defeat, muttering something inaudible under his breath as he leaves the room leaving me with the guilt I always seem to feel by abandoning him in the night.

“Momma.” Justin’s fatigue-laden voice appeared next to me.

“Good morning, Babycakes. How did you sleep?” I asked running my fingers through her knotted hair.

“Good. I dreamed about penguins! she exclaimed.

“Dreamt,” I corrected her, although the broken grammar she routinely displayed regularly brought a smile to my face. “You dreamt about penguins? What were they doing?” I leaned on my elbow, combing her hair with my fingers. She’d watched Happy Feet a couple nights ago and I presumed her avian visions were a projection of that.

“Yeah. And you, and daddy, and Maxwell, and Larry, were all there too. We were all watching the penguins dancing around in the snow…and…and Maxwell tried to chase them!” I had to stifle a giggle at her candidness and the inclusion of Maxwell, our cat, and Larry, the older-than-dirt goldfish in the fray. If there was one thing to be said about Justine, it was her inability to allow anyone to feel excluded; two legged, four legged, or finned.

“Well that all sounds like a lovely dream and I’m sure you kept Maxwell in line.” I kissed the top of her head, pulling back the comforter.

“Yeah, he’s a silly kitty,” she giggled.

“Okay, honey, it’s time to get ready for preschool.” I gestured to a child-sized recliner in the corner of her room where I’d laid out her clothes the night before. “Get dressed and come to the kitchen for breakfast.”

“All right, momma.” Just as I reached a door, her tiny sing-song voice echoed across the room. “Momma.”

“Yeah, baby?”

“Why do you sleep in my room every night? Do you not like daddy anymore?”

“No, no, honey, that’s not it at all.” I turned around facing her wide, inquisitive, blue eyes. “It’s just that, during the night Mommy really misses you and can’t get back to sleep in her own bed.”

“Oh.” She seemed satisfied with that response and proceeded removing her shirt while stumbling to the chair.

Thankful to have avoided that bullet, I turned back around to join Craig in the kitchen.

“Hey, momma?” Justine’s tone signified that yet another uncomfortable question was on its way.

“What?’


“If you’re scared, why don’t you just go to bed with me at night?”

Sometimes children had all the answers.

#

“You know, I think we’re the only family who has an issue keeping a parent from wandering out of their room at night,” Craig remarked pouring as much out of his freshly-brewed pot of coffee into his travel thermos as would be allowed.

“Please don’t start with me today, Craig,” I said all but slamming my coffee mug down on the counter out of frustration. Opening the freezer, I scanned it for frozen waffles to make for Justine. Locating them underneath a bag of frozen, peas, I threw the box angrily onto the counter to get my point across.

“I’m not starting with you. It’s just,…it’s been over five years now. Don’t you think it’s time to move on? I mean…maybe you should see Louise again. You seemed to do slightly better after your sessions with her.”

“You’re telling me to see a shrink? Why? Because I love my daughter and care about her safety? Because sleeping in the same bed as her makes me a candidate for a padded room?”

“You and I both know this has nothing to do with Justine.“ He paused as though first contemplating the intelligence of his next statement. “Tell me, Marion,” he finally said. “Is it Justine you’re lying next to night after night or is it J.T.?”

I slammed the handle to the toaster down with enough force to make it jump up from the counter. “Aren’t you late for work?” I asked.

“Well…that answers that question,” he sighed. Although I didn’t turn around, I knew he still remained there, starring at me, boring holes into the back of my head. A moment later, I sensed him turning around to walk out of the room, but he didn’t leave before getting in one last retort. “He was my son too.”

#

“C’mon, Justine. Mom’s got to get going.”

“I’m coming, Momma. I just got to look at this flower first.” Justine answers me in the midst of bending down to caress a daffodil along the side of the building. Craig and I have speculated that Justine is either an extremely aware child or a potential candidate for ADD. “I like yellow,” she announces. “It’s the same color as our fish, Mr. Sparkles.”

“Sure is kiddo,” I say to her. Balancing her lunch pail, blanket and, backpack in one hand, I took Justine’s hand guiding her into Little Wonders Daycare in the hopes of avoiding any further distractions.

“Justine!” A thousand children--or so it felt like this early in the morning--rushed at us upon our entering the center.

“Hi guys,” Justine says with a slight giggle in her voice. She meets the oncoming swarm of children head-on displaying an err of confidence that would make any adult envious.

“Come play house with us,” a slightly ratty-haired little girl says, grabbing Justine by the arm.

“No, she’s going to play hopscotch with us,” a tow-headed boy contests, grabbing her by the other arm.

I had to laugh quietly to myself for, even at the height of my popularity, I still had nothing on Justine. She always managed to have all of the children at her mercy, waiting with baited breath for her final decisions.

Almost all of them that was.

In the corner of the room, sitting on a foldout table, sat a little boy who I’d not seen at the center before. Appearing to be around Justine’s age, he sat at the table uninterested in the events unfolding around him. Trying not to blatantly stare at the poor boy, I hurried to a classroom to deposit Justine’s belongings in her cubby.

“Mommy, I want a hug goodbye.” Justine threw her arms around my legs on my way out. Leaning down, I embraced her. “I’ll miss you today, she says.”

“I’ll miss you too, baby girl,” I say giving her a kiss on the cheek.

My eyes wandered to the corner, back to the mystery boy. To my surprise, he was starring at me too this time, but what was reflected in his eyes was nothing short of hatred.

　

#

“Who’s that new little boy in your class, honey?” I asked Justine during dinner that evening. Craig looked up from his concentrated efforts at cutting through his slightly over well-done steak to shoot a curious glance in my direction. It wasn’t in the norm for me to casually begin dinner conversation and I think he felt slightly relieved that it didn’t have to rest squarely on his shoulders tonight.

“What little boy?” Justine asks shoving a forkful of mixed vegetables into her mouth.

“You know, that new little boy who was sitting by himself at the table when I dropped you off this morning.”

“Oh, I dunno. I think his name is…uh, Jonathan, maybe. She took her fork and stirred the vegetables in with the remnants of her mashed potatoes. “He’s kinda weird.”

“Justine,” Craig says with a warning tone to his voice.

“What do you mean by weird?” I asked ignoring Craig.

“It doesn’t matter what she means by weird, she knows better than to talk about other people that…”

“I’m just asking her a simple question.” I cut Craig off focusing my attention on Justine. “Was this Jonathan’s first day?”

“Yeah,” Justine appears more bored now than interested in anything that’s going on around the table. “He wanted to play with me, but all he wanted to do was sit at the table and ask questions about you.”

“What about me?” I asked, stunned.

“I dunno…uh your name…whether your nice or mean.” She paused looking toward the living room. “Can I go watch cartoons now?”

“For a couple minutes,” I say. Justine hops from her chair and skips into the living room seemingly happy that her mini inquisition was over. “She’s right. That kid is weird.”

“Keep your voice down, our daughter doesn’t need to hear that.” Craig says obviously irritated with the course our conversation was taking. “Besides, you don’t know what kind of life he’s had. Maybe his parents are hardwired wrong. It‘s not our place to pass judgment”

“He just kept looking at me with such anger in his eyes…” I trailed off, starring out the dining room window. “You would have thought I’d stolen his favorite teddy bear then set his house on fire for sport. It was probably one of the more unnerving experiences I‘ve had in a long time.”

“Like I said, you don’t know what kind of life he’s had.”
　

#

I arose early the next morning from my place next to Justine with Jonathan still on my mind. Who was this little boy with the clear anger issues and what did I do to invoke that particular response from him? Were his parents to blame or just deep-seeded psychological issues? One thing was for sure, if Jonathan had wanted to get under my skin, he’d truly succeeded.

In more of a rush than normal, I readied Justine and pushed us both out the door. I’d given myself some extra time to get to the office in order to speak with the center director. Somehow, I’d get the answers I was looking for to quench my parched mind, or at the very least, quell my thirst. Although I really doubted it, I thought that maybe just seeing Jonathan acting normally would ease my curiosity. Perhaps he was just having an off day. But then, why was I the focus of his ire?

Giving Justine a kiss on the forehead, I did a quick scan of the center. At the table in the same corner as yesterday sat Jonathan with his back to me. He appeared to be engaged in some sort of art project and was coloring feverishly with far more concentration than I’d ever seen in a child of his age. A part of me was happy for his distraction despite the absurdity of it.

Upon approaching the office, I noticed that the door was wide open. Peeking inside, I saw Mrs. Traley, the director, sitting at her desk. She had a pen in one hand and the telephone receiver in the other taking down notes from her voicemail. I waited until she set the receiver back down before slightly knocking on the door frame.

“Oh, Mrs. Ellison,” she said in a startled tone.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” I said entering her office. “And it’s Marion by the way. There’s no need to be formal with me. Justine has been here way too long for that.”

“You’re not interrupting me at all. Is there something wrong with Justine? Is she sick?” she asked worriedly.

“No, no, it’s nothing like that. I…well…I’m not so sure how to ask this without making it sound strange.” Mrs. Traley arched her eyebrow sliding a steno pad from the corner of her desk to where she sat poised to document our conversation. “The new child. Jonathan, is it?”

“Yes, Jonathan Harold,” she answered. “Oh my, what has he done?”

“He’s done nothing, really. It’s just that he seems…”


“Troubled,” she interceded, rubbing her forehead as if the admission had pained her to reveal. She let out a deep sigh, lifting her head to look me in the eyes. “We knew before he came here that we’d be in for a…challenge; for lack of a better description. Jonathan is an intelligent boy. And I believe that with the right family, he may even flourish, but those he’s been placed with so far don’t know how to handle a child who requires the special attention he does.”

“Wait…families? How many has he had, and why? What happened to his biological parents?”

“No one knows. Apparently, he was found wandering down a rural roadway when he was around two years old with nothing but the clothes on his back and a backpack containing some of his personal belongings. He appeared to be in such a poor state of health that the couple who found him took him to the nearest hospital. Aside from minor malnourishment, the only thing abnormal about him was the fact that he couldn’t speak yet. It’s as though he’d been raised without a shred of human contact. The police came and took photographs of him to run on the evening news. Not a sole came forth to claim him.” Like myself, tears were beginning to form in her eyes. “I mean, can you believe it? A beautiful baby boy like that and no one wanted him. It’s sad that prospective parents aren’t given some sort of screening process first.”

“Someone adopted him though, right? His story has some sort of a happy ending at least?”

Mrs. Traley shook her head. “I wish that were the case, but unfortunately his story hasn’t concluded yet. Actually, he’s still stuck in the same chapter he was three years ago. Her pen fell between her two fingers where she see-sawed it, creating a thwap, thwap sound as each end struck the steno pad. “When no one claimed him. He was made a ward of the State. He’s been in three different foster homes since then. If you do the math, that’s been a new home per year.”

“Why?” I shook my head in disbelief. “Surely a five year old can’t be that bad.”

“Well, he has some anger issues as you saw yesterday, but mostly it’s due to him constantly running away from his foster homes. They describe him as some sort of mini Houdini.”

“But, he’s a child. Maybe the State needs to reevaluate those individuals they allow to participate in the foster care system.”

“If it had just been one family, I may agree with you. But the fact that he’s now with his third family sways my opinion a little. Word has it he’s attempted to run away from his current foster family as well.”

“Where is he going exactly? Perhaps if he tells them, they’ll take him?”

“They’ve tried asking him but he never says a word. All they know is that he’s hell-bent on getting there. When he’s picked up, he erupts into these violent rages. One of his fits resulted in his last foster mom’s nose getting broken. You can say that was the final straw that broke the camel’s back.”

“His last name is Harold? Are those his current foster parents?”

“No, Harold was the last name of his first foster family. Since no one knew his last name, he was just given one and, instead of changing it each time he’s transferred to a new home confusing him further, the social workers decided to leave it until he’s formally adopted. Jackson is his current foster family’s last name. Hank and Lauren Jackson.”

I recognized the name as a couple who lived in the same plat as I did. Although we never spoke, we cordially exchanged head nods when passing each other on the street.

“That’s a coincidence,” I said. “They’re neighbors of mine.”

“Then I suggest you keep an eye out for a wayward child.”

I looked at my watch realizing that I’d spent far more time here than I’d meant to. “Thank you so much for you time, Mrs. Traley. You’ve given me some pretty good insight to go by when Justine comes home with those inevitable questions she has.”

“I don’t usually divulge this much information about my center’s families, but knowing the history of this particular child and the frustrations Justine and he had yesterday, I figured it may be in his best interest if you knew.”

I appreciate it, thank you.” Closing the door to the office behind me, I hurried down the hall. To my surprise, as I approached the door to the parking lot, a small voice from behind me caused me to stop in my tracks.

“Hi.”

I turned around to see Jonathan standing before me. Although he was over a full year older than Justine, he was shorter; almost too short. And if it weren’t for the fact that he had a slight grin on his face, I would have attributed his lack of height as the reason why he seemed less menacing than he did yesterday.

“Hello there. Jonathan, right?” I approached him, kneeling down until I was nearly face-to-face with him. He nodded his head in approval pleased by my knowledge of his name. “What do you have there?” I asked pointing to a drawing he held clutched to his chest.

“It’s a picture I drew for you,” he replied matter-of-factly, presenting the drawing to me.

“For me? Jonathan, that’s so sweet.” Taking the picture from his outstretched arm, I couldn’t help but marvel at the artistic talent portrayed within the drawing. Where most children would have drawn a stick person, Jonathan captured each slender finger; the fullness of each pair of arms and the overall correct proportions of the beings heads in relation to their bodies. But, above all, what stood out the most about this particular drawing were the khaki dress pants and lilac v-neck blouse the woman in the picture was wearing. It was identical to that outfit I’d worn yesterday. “Jonathan?” I asked taken aback. “Is this me?”

His slight smile turned into a tooth-bearing grin. “Yeah,” he proclaimed proudly.

My eyes shifted to the other being in the drawing, obviously male and not Justine. His only reasonable identity was starring me in the face. “And, is this you, Jonathan?”

“Yup,” his eyes sparkled as though I’d just presented him with a puppy. “It’s you and me holding hands. Do you like it?”

I smiled, putting my hand on his fragile shoulder. “I love it. You’re quite the artist. This is going right on my refrigerator when I get home.”

The smile faded from his face making me wonder if I’d said something wrong. “Do you have to leave?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, but I do. If I don’t, I’ll be late for work. And you need to get back with the other kids before they send a search party after you.” I stood up. “It was nice meeting you, Jonathan.”

“Nice meeting you too,” he sounded dejected. “Are you coming back tomorrow?”

“Of course,” I nodded. As long as Justine comes here, so will I.”

“Okay. Well, see you later.”

“Bye, Jonathan.” I stood in the hall watching as he sauntered back to the table. Glancing back down at the drawing between my fingers, I wondered what made him turn from hating me to being my biggest fan.

#

　
“I don’t care if he’s just a kid, that’s just plain creepy,” Craig said reaching for his steak knife.

“Would you be quiet,” I admonished, giving him the look I usually reserve for Justine. “We’re not exactly alone here, you know.”

“She’s not paying attention to our conversation right now. He waved his hand in front of Justine’s face in an effort to tear her away from her zombie-like gaze at the television. SpongeBob Squarepants was on. Aside from Dora, that was Justine’s show and no one dare interrupt her without inciting her wrath. “Yoo-hoo.” He waved his hands in front of her face. “See, she has absolutely no idea what we’re talking about.”

“Still, it’s not nice. He’s a child for crying out loud. A very troubled child at that.” I had to marvel at the irony of the conversation of this evening as compared to the last.

“A weirdo. Don’t sugar coat it. Lord knows when he gets older no one else will.”

Disgusted, I pushed my chair away from the table. “Oh come on, Marion. Sit back down. I promise I won’t make any more inappropriate comments.” He made the quotation sign with his fingers to accentuate the word “inappropriate” fueling my inner fire even more.

“The only one who’s being inappropriate here is you, Craig.”

He let out a strained sigh--a sign that I was winning our little argument. “Okay, I know he’s just a kid and it’s not entirely his fault that he has the issues he does. But don’t you think the drawing is a tad disturbing? Marion, he captured your hair color and the color of your eyes. He drew the entire outfit you wore yesterday down to the bracelet you had on. Hell, I couldn’t even draw it with that much detail, capturing the intricate rose designs near the clasps like he did, and I’m the one who bought it for you.” Craig purchased the bracelet for me the week we found out I was pregnant with J.T. and his admission that he couldn’t remember the details of such an intimate gift irritated me. “That kid must have been checking you out big time.” He laughed, cutting into his pork chop.

“At least I’m getting some male attention.” I stood up from the table, picking up the empty serving dishes.

“Marion, I…”

The doorbell rang cutting Craig off at the pass. Setting the serving dishes down, I glanced back at him. “Are you expecting someone?” I asked.

“No, not that I’m aware of. Poker isn’t until next week. It’s probably a solicitor or something.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll get it,” I said slightly exasperated. Behind me, Craig sighed, his fork striking the plate.
I opened the front door fully expecting to see a large, burly man standing before me with sweat dripping down his brow and a vacuum in his free hand. But, instead before me stood the unexpected: Jonathan. Standing on our porch, he stood starring up at me with a wide-eyed, hopeful expression on his face. Right then and there, Jonathan looked well beyond his age; like something of a thirty-year-old trapped in a child’s body.

“Hi.” he greeted me, a smile spreading over his pale face.

“Jonathan?” I replied in disbelief. “What are you doing here? How did you get here? Do your parents know where you are?”

Jonathan’s brow furrowed; the smile faded from his face. “They aren’t my parents.”

I didn’t know what to say, but I knew that attempting to reason with a five-year-old would be like trying to shovel snow during a snowstorm. “Okay,” I said, opening the door further. “Come in.” Jonathan walked timidly into our house taking in everything within his field of vision. It struck me how alert he was. I’d never seen a child so aware of their surroundings; not even Justine possessed the same ability.

“What’s he doing here?” Justine asked looking up from the television long enough to shoot Jonathan an icy glare.

“Justine, watch your manners. Jonathan’s a guest in our home and we will treat him like one,” I called back to her.

“So this is Jonathan,” Craig walked from the kitchen to inspect our guest. “I’ve heard a lot about you. You’re quite the artist.”

The smile returned to Jonathan’s face. “Thank you,” he says in a voice barely above a whisper.

“Jonathan, why don’t you have a seat on the couch here and watch cartoons with Justine, okay?” I shot Craig a what do we do now look as Jonathan made his way to the couch.

“But…” Justine began, immediately silenced by a look from her father.

I walked to the kitchen to retrieve the cordless phone Having had little contact with the Jacksons, I didn’t readily have their number available. “Shit,” I uttered as I pulled open drawer after drawer in a fruitless effort to locate a phonebook.

“Looking for this?” Craig stood in the kitchen door with a familiar, yellow book in his hand.

“Thanks.” I grabbed it from him scouring the pages until I found listings under “Jackson”. There were about a million and a half of them. Thankfully, however, there was only one Hank Jackson and I dialed the number. On the first ring, the frantic voice of a woman, whom I presumed to be Lauren, answered. After explaining to her that Jonathan was safe and watching cartoons on our couch, I could almost feel the weight of the world being lifted from her shoulders as she stated ‘I’ll be right there’.

“How did he find us?” Craig still stood in the doorway.

“His family lives in the neighborhood. He probably just saw us in the yard one day.”


“Maybe.” Craig shrugged his shoulders.

“He seems at home here,” I hesitated for a moment before looking back up at Craig whose raised eyebrow told me this wasn’t a topic he cared to discuss. “Mrs. Traley said he never seems content wherever he’s placed. He’s combative, filled with hate. I don’t see that here. It’s almost as if…he’s found what he’s been looking for.”

“Marion, we lost a child, but we didn’t lose that one, ” Craig stated in disbelief at my insinuation.

“Have you forgotten what it’s like to have compassion?” I stormed out of the kitchen reaching the living room as the doorbell rang again.

“Who is that?” Jonathan asked with a hint of concern in his voice.

“Your parents.” Justine replied bluntly.

“I’m so sorry about this,” Lauren Jackson said entering our foyer. “Jonathan is a foster child who’s only been with us for a few weeks.“ I gave her the customary ‘Oh really’ answer as to not let on to the fact that information was already known to me. “Yeah, we knew before we accepted him into our home that he was prone to running away. I guess we just thought we’d be different.”

“I’m not going home with her! Please don’t make me go home with her. I want to stay here with you!” Jonathan shouted from across the room startling both Lauren and myself.

“Jonathan,” I walked toward him. “You can come over any time you want. It’s just getting late right now and your family was worried about you.”

“I told you, they aren’t my family.” he muttered.

“Jonathan, I know we can’t replace your real family,” Lauren said, “but we’d like to try.”

“No.” Jonathan shouted. Craig approached Jonathan silently from behind. Scooping him up in his arms he proceeded to walk him to the door. “No!” Jonathan kicked the air making contact with Craig’s thigh. He grunted, but still maintained his grip on him. “I don’t want to go back there, I want to stay here.” By now, tears were streaming down Jonathan’s cheeks and he was nearly breathless.

“Put him down,” I pleaded with Craig. He didn’t listen to me. Instructing Lauren to open the door he carried Jonathan out into the night air, abruptly pausing when the next words spilled from Jonathan.

“Mommy, Mommy,” Jonathan cried extending his arms behind Craig in my direction.

“I’m so sorry,” Lauren said with tears in her eyes. “This won’t happen again.”

In stunned silence I remained in the doorway. Too numb to cry, too weak to go after them, I watched the car lights disappear into the distance and probably would have remained there had Craig not interrupted me from my trance.

“Let’s get Justine into bed.”

#

Craig took Justine to school during the first couple of days following the incident explaining the situation that had unfolded at our home to a bewildered Mrs. Traley--who helped diffuse matters further by doing her best to keep Justine and Jonathan apart. However, despite the lack of further incidence and any repeated escapes by Jonathan, it was strangely I who felt as though they wanted to run away. I’d find my mind wandering to the scared yet determined little boy who, for some reason, had taken to me as though my mere presence resolved all of his troubles. I wanted to go over to the Jackson’s home; to embrace him; to tell him that everything was going to be okay. When I drove past their house, I had to stop myself from pulling into the driveway, fighting my soul tooth and nail. What was going through this little boy’s head and did he honestly believe that I was the solution to his problems?

“Forget about it,” Craig said to me after the fourth night of him catching me starring trance-like into space.
“He’s okay. Really, Marion, everything is going to be fine with him.”

“Somehow I don’t believe that,” I said without looking at him. “They’re going to let him go back into the system, I just know it. That little boy is going to be bounced around from foster home to foster home like he’s in some sadistic pin ball machine until his childhood is a thing of the past.”

“Well, what do you propose we do about it? It’s not like we’re his foster parents.”

My head jerked in Craig’s direction in a near involuntary response to his last statement reflecting what my mind was thinking before my mouth could even make a sound. I felt a smile spread across my lips.

“What?” Craig asked. “What are you thi…oh no…no…no. Marion, you can’t possibly be thinking that we should propose adopting that boy.”

“Jonathan.” I corrected. “His name is Jonathan.”

“Right, Jonathan. Honestly, you can’t be serious?”


“Why not? He’s obviously happy here. I think he may be exactly what our family needs.”

“Needs? For what? I for one think we’re complete as is. And what about Justine? She can’t stand him. What do you think this will do to her?”

“All brothers and sisters fight. She’ll learn to get used to him.”

“Brother and sister? They aren’t brother and sister and I don’t think you should make her accept any different. Look, I feel bad for the boy, but you can’t expect Justine or I to interrupt our lives because you’re trying to recapture what you lost by chasing some crazy fantasy”

I felt my cheeks burning; the sudden explosion imploding inside of me yearned to burst forth.. “I’m sorry the burden of others is too much for you to bear,” I said through clenched teeth. Tell me dear, if you believe me to be a crazy woman, why are you still with me?”

“I didn’t mean it like that. I just don’t want Justine to suffer because we’re taking on a virtual stranger in our home.”

“He has no where else to go. Do you propose he stay in the foster care system? It seems as though he’d be the only one suffering in this scenario.”

Craig sighed in defeat starring at the floor silently for what seemed as though an eternity before finally saying, “I’m not saying we’re going to take him on right away, but, why don’t you call the Jacksons to see if they would at least be receptive to him coming over for a weekend.”

“I’ll call Mrs. Jackson this weekend.” I smiled with the knowledge that, for now, I’d won the battle.

#

“Where’s Jonathan?” I asked Mrs. Traley’s college-aged assistant while dropping Justine off at daycare the next day.

“He doesn’t come here anymore,” she replied in a tone peppered with relief.

“What do you mean he doesn’t come here anymore? My stomach sank like a stone until I swore I could feel it dragging across the floor.


“I guess things just weren’t working out. The Jacksons are having him removed from their home. He‘s apparently wreaking quite the havoc there.” She looked up at me and I swore I could see a sort of approval reflected in her eyes. “You don’t have to worry about him bothering Justine anymore…”

“He was never a bother,” I called to her as I quickly made my way out of the building. When I reached my car, I promptly called the office to utilize one of the four sick days I usually didn’t need and peeled out of the center’s parking lot. I didn’t know whether I was too late to intervene or what I would even say to the Jacksons for I knew that I ultimately had no say in Jonathan’s affairs, but I knew I had to try to do something. There had to be someone out there willing to advocate for that misunderstood little boy.

My car sailed past the familiar landscaping and sprawling Victorians comprising my neighborhood until I reached the Jackson‘s driveway where I killed the engine. Taking a deep breath, I opened the car door bracing myself for the inevitable truth: I was most likely too late and Jonathan was most likely already gone. My heels hit the cement with thunderous crescendo in my near endless walk up the driveway; a sound that was nearly drowned out by the racing of my own heart. What I was going to say or how I was going to approach Mrs. Jackson with my unusual request were not matters of which I’d given much thought. And they weren’t going to matter now for any attempt at putting much thought into them vanished with the opening of the Jackson’s front door.

“Hello, Mrs. Ellison ,” Lauren Jackson said. She looked at me with an err of caution as though she expected me to come bearing bad news. I couldn’t blame her. It wasn’t as though I’d gone out of my way to be neighborly in the past.

“Good morning, Lauren,” I said. “I’m sorry to just drop by unannounced but…well…I heard about…”


“Jonathan. This is about Jonathan, right?”


“Yes, actually, I’ve..."

“Look, we’ve decided that we’re unable to provide him with the care and special attention he needs. His social worker is coming tomorrow morning to pick him up.”

“He’s still here?”

“Yeah, but don’t worry. He won’t be a bother to you anymore.”

“No, no, no, you misunderstand my intentions. I’ve come to see if we could possibly take Jonathan for the night.” Lauren Jackson raised her eyebrows signifying to me that she was either very confused by my request or she’d thought I’d completely lost my mind. “He just really seemed to enjoy it at our home when he was there and, well, Craig and I were talking and…”

“Are you thinking you may want to adopt him?” she asked bewildered. “What about Justine? She didn’t seem to be taken with him.”

“We weren’t thinking that far ahead, but we wanted to give him a chance.” Lauren studied me through striking green eyes and pursed lips. It was the first time I’d noticed just what a classic beauty she really was

“You know,” she finally said, “I know all about your little boy.”

“Word travels fast in this neighborhood,” I laughed half-heartedly already seeing where this conversation was going.

“He’s not your son nor is he going to bring him back. You understand that…right?”

“Lauren, of course I do. I just…I know all about his past and he really took a liking to Craig and I…” She winced at the weight of my last statement.

“Word really does travel fast.”


“I didn’t mean to make it sound the way it did. I’m sure he could be happy with you as well.”

“No, that’s just it, he’s not. And he’s not going to be. You’re the first person he’s ever taken to. I even mentioned the incident to his social worker and she was just as amazed as I was.” A thin fluid covered her eyes and she turned her head to discretely wipe it away.

“I’m sorry to have upset you, Lauren.

“You didn’t upset me. In fact, I’m somewhat relieved. When we first brought Jonathan home, I told myself that we would be different; that he ‘d finally found what he was looking for. When it became apparent that wasn’t the case, I blamed myself for failing him.” She wiped her hand across the bridge of her nose without even attempting to hide the tears welling in her eyes this time. “But, perhaps I didn’t really fail him.” A smiled spread across her face. “If, through being with me, he has truly found where he was meant to be, then I wasn’t a failure after all.”

#

“Marion?” Craig called my name upon his coming home from work after meandering through the house without having found me.

“In the guest room,” I said.

“Have I had a day. One thing after ano…Oh, hello, Jonathan.”

“Hi.” Jonathan said without taking his eyes away from the cartoon he and Justine were watching on our portable DVD player.

Craig motioned for me to follow him with his eyes. Setting down a half-folded shirt, I followed him out into the hallway.

“So, we have ourselves a visitor?” he asked.

“That’s pretty obvious.”

“How long?”

“I have to him back to the Jackson’s tomorrow morning to meet with his social worker.”

“And then what?”

“We’ll take it from there, see how it goes.”

“So, in other words, we have another mouth to feed.”

“If all goes well, I would say so.”

Craig nodded, trying to take in the gravity of the situation. “And if it doesn’t work out?”

“I honestly don’t see that as happening.”

“We’ll see,” he said slightly rolling his eyes.

“Okay, Mr. Optimism,” I grumbled. “I’m going to start getting them ready for bed. Do you mind grabbing Jonathan’s pajamas out of his backpack?”

“Sure. Where is it?”

“In the living room, on the couch.”

Walking back into the guest room, I took satisfaction in seeing Jonathan and Justine still lying together on the bed watching a movie as though they’d been doing it their entire lives. At this moment, everything seemed perfect. My mind became clear. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but for some reason I felt whole again.

“Marion,” Craig’s voice carried a frightened undertone down the hall. “Marion…”

“What’s wrong?” I asked rushing toward the living room. All the color had drained from his face as he stood examining the object he held in his hands.

“I think it may just work out after all.”

“Craig, you’re not making any sense.”

Craig turned around allowing me to catch a glimpse of the fragile object he held in his arms: a worn, baby-blue baby blanket with “J.T. Ellison” embroidered in the corner.



　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　


　
　
　
　
　
　

Why Social Networks are Important for Writers

Image Source:  howtofindfriends.wordpress.com

When I first began writing I naively believed that all it entailed was for one to write a book, send it off to the agent/publishing company of their choosing, and then reap the rewards of sweet publication. After all, how many millions of other books are there out there on the shelves already? Of course, with experience comes wisdom and with rejection comes the harsh reality: I may never be published...at least, not by conventional methods. Thankfully, we live in a time where new authors have many more options available to them. Their voices can be heard and the works they believe in are no longer silenced by a simple form rejection letter. As a writer, I feel blessed to be alive during this time and shudder to think about all those other aspiring novelists born decades ago who never had the opportunity to be heard in a society hampered by the limited technology available at the time. Who did we miss out on reading? What epic story was never told? We truly live in a time of limitless opportunity.

In the forefront of this technological boom social networking sites emerged. Like many, when I first heard of social networking sites, I immediately thought of their less productive uses: chatting with friends, playing games, catching up on gossip, venting frustrations, looking at cute photographs of babies, and listening to others brag about their lives. I didn't understand their instrumental and flat-out necessary role in launching a new author's career nor did I get why having your own blog was essential. My how a lot has changed. The truth is, in order to be a successful writer, you must also possess an ability to market yourself. This is especially true if you're self-published. Since most of us budding authors don't have a Trump-sized bank account, the best medium for us to get our names out there consists of the use of the universally accessible and affordable world of social networking.  Not surprisingly, this is not the only reason why social networking sites such as Facebook, Twitter, Blogger, Tumblr, and MySpace are useful. Every day, writers are finding more and more uses for these forms of technology. I've outlined some of the more popular uses below:

Networking--I'm one of those people who believes that everything they do needs to have some level of productivity attached to it whether minuscule or not (anal, I know).  So, when I joined Twitter I decided  I would make my account solely to network with other writers, authors, publishing companies, agents, and whomever else was associated with creating/marketing the written word.  Networking is one of the most valuable tools there is for anyone looking to promote themselves or get their name out there. It can open doors for you or point you in the direction you need to take to get you where you want to go with your work.  Through networking, I've met individuals from publishing companies who've invited me to send in my novel, beta readers to assist with editing, resources to submit short stories for publication, contact information for agents, and many, many other wonderful writers.  I've connected with people who've I've come to consider friends and of whom I know will be there to lift my spirits or knock me back down to reality when I really need it.  Get out there.  Network. Follow those people with similar interests as you and talk to them.  You'll be surprised at how close you may become with them or what vital doors may open up for you through their advice.

Maintain a Healthy Level of Sanity--Let's face it, there are times where you need to remove yourself from sinking plot lines you just can't salvage, dialogues that don't seem to be going anywhere, or from starring at a blank screen after a serious bout of writer's block rears its ugly head. This is a good time to connect with those writers you've been networking with to share your innermost insecurities (as they most likely share similar ones as well), gather advice, or just not talk about writing at all.  Losing yourself in the social aspects of social networking sites is sometimes just as good as therapy in that any mental break at all from something that's causing you strife tends to recharge your inner battery allowing you to find clarity and insight where it didn't seem to exist before.  It's also always good to know that you aren't alone and that there are other individuals out there who share the same insecurties as you do.  In a way, this often has the ability to help you regain you own confidence so you can tackle your own obstacles head-on.

Getting your work out there--Before the advent of social networking sites and the Internet in general, if a writer wanted to get their work read, they were at the complete mercy of the publishing companies.  If their work was rejected, it wasn't heard outside of the writer's own social circle.  It was as though an invisible gag was being placed over their mouths, silencing all their hard work.  Today, be it a short story, epic novel, or a couple of mindless sentences, a writer has the ability to reach hundreds of thousands of people through a click of a mouse.  For those who lack confidence in their writing this can prove to be quite a booster as well as a learning experience from the feedback of those who read your works.  Writing was meant to be shared and with social networking that's now more of a possibility than ever before.

Promoting yourself--Unless your last name's "Kardashian" you probably have no idea how in god's green earth to promote yourself and/or your work.  You're a writer not a marketing entrepreneur after all.  Well, it's time to wake up and smell the reality show because there's more to writing than just actually writing (as any writer who's experienced instant recognition of which they were totally unprepared for will tell you).  For those of us who aren't lucky enough to have an agent, publicist or army of people assisting us with our every step, there's the wonderful world of social networking.  Social networking sites have made everyone from Justin Bieber to Amanda Hocking household names.  Aside from counterproductive gossiping machines, they're also useful tools to get your name out there to the world and to showcase your talent.  Think of them as free advertising to a wide variety of prospective readers and those who's attention may benefit you in future projects.  In order for your voice to be heard, people have to first know that it even exists.  Make them aware of it by promoting both yourself and your work.  Just return the favor for those who help you spread the word.

Learning/Improving yourself--Sharing your work naturally welcomes feedback.  Feedback is like manna from heaven for writers.  It brings all of your strengths and weaknesses to light (and trust me, there are plenty of writers/readers out there who are just aching to give you their opinions in that regard).  Social networking sites connect you with both your biggest critics and your most devoted fans.  They can humble you while also serving to inflate your ego.  By gaining these different perspectives, your abilities will grow and your eyes may open to crucial errors that you may have otherwised missed. 

Aside from sharing your own work, these sites also allow you to read the writings of other aspiring authors.  Reading the works of others is extremely beneficial as, like fingerprints and personalities, everyone has their own unique writing style and ways in which they tell their story.  Studying how others write can teach you a lot about your own style serving as a form of research tool  for you to hone your craft (not to mention it's just plain fun to read the work of others).

Ideas--I've learned quite a bit about how to market myself and my writing (as well as how not to) along with how to set up my blog as well as a plethora of other useful information about the industry through social networks.  Seeing how successful authors market themselves and interact with others in this profession has been incredibly helpful and the knowledge I've gained will greatly come in handy when the time comes for me to start marketing my own book.  Whether your publishing through conventional methods or self-publishing, there's always something that can be gained through others on social networking sites.  Look at the profiles of other authors; read their blogs; follow them on Twitter.  Go straight to the horses mouth for all the questions brewing in your mind as opposed to turning to Google for all the answers.

What are some other useful ways you've discovered to use social networking sites?

As promised, I'm ready to announce my first ever giveaway winner! I've been promising a giveaway since I was at a mere ten followers (or so it seems) as a way to bribe/plead with y'all to join my blog and it seems as though it worked!  By utilizing a purely scientific, highly mathematical equation (a/k/a pulling a name out of a hat), I'm happy to announce that the winner of a $10.00 Barnes & Noble gift card is Erin!  Congratulations, Erin!  I'll be in contact with you soon!

Thank you again to all of my followers.  Without you I'd just be talking to myself.  Since this one was so much fun, I'll announce another giveaway when I approach 200 followers!