Kimberly Menozzi, Author
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Thursday Thirteen: 13 Questions for Christopher Allen!

13/9/2012

22 Comments

 
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Four years ago, while I workshopped the original short-story form of Ask Me if I'm Happy on a writing site called URBIS, I read some excerpts from Christopher Allen. We got to be online friends after I rated the excerpts and shared my thoughts on them, and soon we were chatting about things other than books or writing. I thought he was funny and definitely talented - ask other folks, they'll tell you the same! - and I expected to see more of his URBIS project soon.

Well, it took a little longer than expected - these things often do - but now the big day has come! So please, allow me to share with you:

Thursday Thirteen: 
13 Questions for Christopher Allen!

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1) What one thing would you want readers to know about you?

That I mean them no harm. I want them to laugh until their bellies jiggle. I want their tear ducts to be cleansed through uproarious giggling fits.

2) Is there a genre you'd like to write in, but haven't tried? If so, why not?

I’ve written in just about every genre out there except western. Is that still what they call it? I remember reading several western mysteries as a teenager, and I liked them very much. I wouldn’t want to write a western, though. Although I have dabbled in science fiction, I’ve never finished a story. Definitely science fiction. Something like Stargate. Big fan.

3) Your previous stories have often had a contemplative or bittersweet quality to them. The new book seems to be a departure from that. Was there a reason for this?

I think contemplative and crazy are just two parts of me that come out at different times. Conversations with S. Teri O’Type has been a wild book to write, and I hope it will be just as wild to read. It’s humor and parody and most of all satire. Nothing here is serious except everything.

4) How much of your real life informs your writing?

My inner life—my worries and my dreams—informs my writing a great deal, but if you mean my day-to-day life of teaching and mowing the lawn and making dinner, etc. I try to keep that separate. There are times that certain situations will spark an idea for a story. The oak in the backyard keeps giving me stories. Then the hedge gave me one. I should spend more time out there.

5) Where have you been published previously?

Most of my work has been published at literary ezines, most recently at SmokeLong Quarterly. Others include A-Minor Magazine, Blue Five Notebook Series, Gone Lawn, Referential Magazine, Every Day Fiction, The Legendary, Pure Slush and Metazen (where I’m an editor). I’ve had non-fiction published at Connotation Press and BootsnAll Travel, and several of my creative non-fiction pieces have appeared in Chicken Soup for the Soul (print, mass market). I’ve also been very fortunate to have landed in cool short story/flash collections like Flash Fiction Fridays and STRIPPED, a collection of anonymous flash fiction.

6) You live in Europe but you're from the US. Does being an expat affect your writing style?

It certainly does, I’m just not sure how. I wish I could go back and forth between parallel universes and see Christopher Allen in Nashville vs. Christopher Allen in Munich. I’m sure I’ve become a different person, so of course my writing style has developed differently. Maybe this is the science fiction novel I’ll end up writing. Or not. I am certainly more secluded her than I would have been if I’d stayed in Nashville. Seclusion is good for writing.

7) What is your typical writing workday like?

I wake up at around 6a.m. I used to get up at 5a.m. but I’ve trained my body to lie there and suck it up for another hour. I turn on my computer and let the old bag boot while I make coffee. I check my e-mails, I check facebook, I check my blog, I sip my coffee, I check Twitter. I chat with people in the US who’ve not gone to bed yet. I sip my coffee. I notice the piles of reminders on my desk. Here are the ones I’m looking at today. March AWP! Indie Author News! Check SmokeLong! Message classes about tomorrow!! Gay Book Club NYC!!! Edit “Furniture”! My notes tend to scream at me. I start checking off the things on the list, which is much longer than this. I haven’t listed the names of people I’m working with on interviews and such. I take a nap because my shoulder is hurting. You get the picture. I should be writing, but I’ve just come back from vacuuming the kitchen.

8) Which writers have influenced/inspired you?

I love writers like Chuck Palahnuik and Daniel Handler and Lucy Ellmann and Julie Innis. One of my favorite writers is Jincy Willett. I love all these people for their sharp wit and exciting prose. I want to be all of them when I get taller. I’ve never lost hope.

9) Do you have a "target audience"?

All people on planet Earth would be nice. Doing the math, I think that would make me the richest man on planet Earth. But let’s say that doesn’t happen. I would hope that people—not just gay men—who love humor and stories that break away from the mold just a bit would love, or at least read, or at least buy, Conversations with S. Teri O’Type. The cover is very pretty, so it would look great on coffeetables and bathroom shelves. It is a story about a man in his mid-forties who has never learned how to be gay, so . . . um . . . I see this is the next question. Moving right along . . .

10) What is this book about?

So Curt, a dysfagtional man in his mid-forties, enlists the help of a self-proclaimed “gayru” to help him get gay. It’s a farcical jaunt down the Road to Greater Gayness, an absurd tale, a train wreck of sorts between a guy who thinks he knows nothing and a monster who thinks he knows everything.  

11) When did you first get the idea for this particular book?

I wrote the first Conversation on an online workshop in 2008 I believe. Fifteen of the 30 Conversations were born in the online workshop, but the story actually took shape much later. It has been a long process. Deciding what Curt, the narrator, really wants came much later than 2008.

12) Was this book inspired by anyone in your life?

It’s funny you ask that. My partner, who read half of the book on a plane last week, thinks he’s Curt. And maybe there are aspects of Curt in him. I remember once when we were living in London in 1998, he hung all the pictures in the living room very very close to the ceiling. I was shocked, and we had a “little” argument about it. Everyone knows pictures are supposed to be hung at eye-level, don’t they? This may have been the first time I thought, Hmmm not all gay men can hang a picture. And this might have been the germ for the book. Other than that one moment, Teri and Curt represent an elephant-in-the-room dialogic among gay men: To Be or Not to Beyoncè—which became one of the later Conversations.

13) You really are adorable, aren't you?  (readers of Christopher's I Must Be Off blog will get that one...)

Yes! I really really am adorable. It’s true. Some people don’t believe it, but when they meet me in person, they often pinch my fat little cheeks. Just don’t shove past me in a bar. 

If you'd like to purchase Christopher's book, click on the cover above or go to any Amazon site, worldwide!
Christopher Allen is the author of the adult cartoon satire Conversations with S. Teri O'Type. In 2011, Allen was a finalist at Glimmer Train and a Pushcart Prize nominee. He blogs at www.imustbeoff.com.
22 Comments

Book Review: Dead Men by Richard Pierce

23/3/2012

1 Comment

 
Dead Men by Richard Pierce

book jacket blurb:

"Birdie Bowers is a woman with a dead man s name. Her parents had been fascinated by Henry Birdie Bowers, one of Captain Scott s companions on his ill-fated polar expedition. A hundred years after the death of Bowers and Scott, she sets out to discover what really happened to them...

The discovery of Captain Scott s body in the Antarctic in November 1912 started a global obsession with him as a man and an explorer. But one mystery remains – why did he and his companions spend their last ten days in a tent only 11 miles from the safety of a depot that promised food and shelter?

Dead Men tells the story of two paths. One is a tragic journey of exploration on the world s coldest continent, the other charts a present-day relationship and the redemptive power of love."

                                                              ***

I pre-ordered Dead Men back in February when Richard Pierce first shared news of the book's imminent release. Richard is a friend of mine since our Authonomy days, and I was thrilled that one of his books was finally going to be released. Needless to say, I looked forward to being able to sit back with my own copy of his Antarctic-set work and read it at my leisure at long last.

The only problem with reading something written by a friend is that it can be hard to separate the friendship from the reading itself. It's only natural – and human, I suspect – to give a bit of leeway to a writer you know personally. As a writer myself, it's a concern I have when my writer friends read and review my work, or when I in turn read and/or review theirs. I do my best to keep my reading objective and unbiased, and sometimes that's quite a struggle to do.

However, with Dead Men, this wasn't a problem at all. From the very first pages I was swept up into the story, and found myself moved to tears before I'd gotten through the first chapter.

The novel alternates between scenes from the past which detail events during Captain Scott's expedition in 1912 and the aftermath of its sobering end, and scenes set in the modern day which tell the story of a pair of seemingly mis-matched lovers who meet by chance on the London Underground.

The surest proof I was involved in the story (aside from my emotional reaction to how Pierce details the passing of the men at various points in the book) was the fact I wasn't sure how to feel about Birdie Bowers, the woman with the dead man's name. Her often careless and contrary – almost spiteful – nature bothered me at first. Perhaps this was because I'd already found myself identifying with Adam Caird and feared that this bothersome woman would hurt him in spite of his consuming devotion to her. His tender, sensitive nature made me afraid that no good end could possibly come from this pairing.

In time, I realized that Birdie – obsessed with understanding the circumstances in which her namesake perished alongside Captain Scott – was merely a reflection of that obsession. In fact, over the course of her life, she has come to resemble the land where he died – unpredictable, harsh and hauntingly beautiful, and utterly compelling for those same reasons.

Watching Adam change and grow through the story was also heartening. It's done subtly, not overtly, and with a natural grace, like all of Pierce's writing. Initially timid and introverted, the challenge of loving tempestuous Birdie – and understanding whether or not the effort is worth anything in the long run – forces him to make decisions which lead him to a greater inner strength. This becomes most clear when the pair make their own journey to Antarctica in search of the truth Birdie believes Scott's tent (now buried beneath 100 years of snow and ice) contains.

Pierce describes Antarctica itself in a beautifully detailed but not overwhelming way. He has travelled there himself and it shows. He is able to paint the landscape so the reader has the feeling of the stark beauty and the deceptive dimensions of the place. In fact, just about every setting is described with a precision and skill which places the reader there, in the moment, so when one closes this book after reading the final pages (and that oh-so-perfect final paragraph), one comes away with a sense of having been there.

There are elements of the story which lean toward the supernatural, but all of them are events which are subtle and believable. It's a fine balance which Pierce handles deftly; he never overdoes these moments, but instead conveys them in a powerfully understated manner which borders on being poetic.

If the reader is like me, they will also come away from this book with a sense of satisfaction and melancholy for a number of reasons. For me, my reasons included: having finished the book too soon; Birdie and Adam's final decisions; the appreciation of what those brave and foolhardy Dead Men did, not so very long ago, and why they did it; and then, finally, a sense of gratitude for Richard Pierce having shared this story with us.


I highly recommend this book.

Dead Men is available in paperback and ebook from Amazon.co.uk, for pre-order in hardcover and ebook from Amazon.com, and can be pre-ordered in hardcover through Amazon worldwide.

1 Comment

The Perfect *Imperfect* Man? Davide Magnani (Ask Me if I'm Happy)

13/12/2011

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_ Davide

One of the most surprising aspects of writing Ask Me if I'm Happy had to be the way Davide was received by the first folks to read the story. From its earliest days, men and women alike singled Davide out:

"Davide is a knight in shining armor that we all pray for to come save us."

"This Davide fella gets more attractive by the word."

The story was reworked considerably before it appeared on Authonomy, but I was confident it would – for the most part, anyway – pass muster. Again, to my surprise, people still seemed to notice Davide more than I expected:

"This man could seduce an iceberg! I'm half in love with him myself."

"Davide sounds so dreamy - good looking, sophisticated, cultured, kind, and a professor of literature - what girl wouldn't fall for him?"

"… Davide is lovely and one wants to spend time in his company."

I became concerned. Had I written someone too perfect? Had I written someone who couldn't possibly exist in the real world?

This proved rather troubling, as my intention had been to write a story which was, ultimately, very realistic. I wanted both Emily and Davide to strike home for the reader, to be people with whom the reader could identify – not in a fantastic manner, but in recognizing something of themselves as they read along.

I forged forward and the story grew and grew, giving me deeper insight into Davide's mind, his motivations and even his past. Based on "Connections" alone, it's clear he's not the "typical" Italian male. He's studious, perhaps slightly nerdy, honest and conscientious almost to a fault – not the self-involved, vainglorious and self-assured sort of man we're accustomed to imagining as the classic "Italian love interest".

No, Davide is no Casanova, no Valentino, no love-'em-and-leave-'em sort of guy. However, when the moment presents itself, he knows when to step in, when to seize the opportunity to declare himself and his intentions. When he does, he does so with all the fear and trepidation most of us would surely feel for taking such a chance.

In short, Davide is simply himself. A man who doesn't bow to the caprices of fashion and who quietly despairs for a world around him which seems to do just that; who struggles to maintain a standard of civility and propriety which he sees slipping to the wayside; who worships the woman he loves because he isn't able to see her flaws – however many there may be – and can only see her perfection magnified by his love.

Tragically, this may well be his most self-destructive aspect. Davide believes himself to be honest in all things yet his mistrust of anyone's ability to love him, or to be as honest with him as he is with them, keeps the world safely at arm's length. This, combined with his need to protect Emily, is his blessing and his curse. The very things which bring them together are what might well break them apart.

Not long ago, a friend read through Ask Me if I'm Happy and cited Davide's self-imposed isolation, his rejection of societal trends, his need for a deep emotional connection with someone – anyone – as proof that he is a man "out of his time". His initial perfection – as seen through Emily's eyes – gives way to his own view of his imperfection. His self-critical nature stifles his ability to be honest with himself – and thus, with Emily – in the way he knows he needs to be. Of course, this leads to trouble. Just like in real life.

Now, when I hear people telling me how much they admire Davide, how attractive and romantic he is to them, I have a better understanding of why that is. It is my belief that these readers, male and female alike, really do identify with him and with his struggles throughout the novel. They see themselves or their loved ones – or both – in him, and that spurs their desire to see him succeed, to work out his problems and emerge victorious on the other side of the struggle.

Whether or not he does this, I won't say here. You'll just have to read the book to find out.

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How I Got to Know Emily Miller (Ask Me if I'm Happy)

6/12/2011

1 Comment

 
_ Emily

Being one of those writers from the "my characters tell me what happens" school, I'm endlessly surprised by the things I learn about my characters while I write the story. In this regard, they really do feel like friends I'm spending time with, getting to know them over time. Sometimes, the surprises are astounding.

Emily had a lot of those surprises in store for me from the start. When I first wrote the short story which became Ask Me if I'm Happy, I confess she wasn't terribly well-formed in my own mind. Over time, she shaped up on the page, but initially all I knew about her was that she was leaving Italy after a fair amount of time there, and she spoke Italian better than I did. I didn't know whether she was married, divorced or widowed. I didn't know precisely how old she was. I didn't really know for sure what she looked like, either.

Soon enough I understood she was nervous, and scared. She was frustrated at the obstacles keeping her in Italy. She prized honesty because she'd been lied to in previous relationships. Her attraction to Davide was natural and unhurried, and it was part of her becoming honest with herself once more.

The story expanded and went deeper into her head. I found she was prone to self-doubt – well, who isn't? – and that she struggled to move forward from her own past mistakes. I learned that she'd been alone for a long time, and she'd practically been abandoned to her despair to see her worst fears come true. I also found she was stubborn and bullheaded, usually at the worst possible times.

When she described herself in the story, it wasn't Emily who provided the words. Instead, it was the voice of Jacopo, her ex, who spoke – and he didn't speak kindly. He described Emily as mousy and dumpy – words which, ironically, weren't in his English lexicon until he met her. He even used the phrase thirty-four-year-old-woman as though this were some sort of insult.

My heart ached for her. I tried to determine what exactly had happened to Emily which sent her on this downward trajectory. Why was she so vulnerable? How was she so easily manipulated? Why did Jacopo choose Emily if he would be so unhappy with a woman like her?

It came to me in a rush, while discussing the plot's possibilities with a friend of mine while we walked through the city center. In the middle of a piazza not unlike the ones she would walk with Davide, I understood the source of Emily's pain: it was all I could do not to start crying on the spot. For a moment, it was as though Emily stood there with me, her head bowed so I couldn't see her face, waiting for me to give voice to her pain.

The linchpin to the story was given to me just like that. When I got home, I sat at my writing desk and cried while I made my notes and typed them out. It really was like having a friend tell me a devastating secret she'd held back from telling, out of fear of being judged.

For all her quiet, mousy tendencies, Emily was no blushing innocent nor was she brazen and careless with her affections. She'd been devastated by her father's death when she was a teenager, and she'd acted out, as teenagers do. Her mother, who was always distant, became more so in spite of the fact that she was all Emily had, and her daughter was all she had. So, Emily sought affection wherever she could find it, and it cost her dearly.

Writing all of this was difficult for me, but with every revelation, Emily became more real, and more realistic. She wasn't at all perfect. She had her flaws, and with each choice she made, with each tough path she chose, I found myself rooting for her.

Of course I hope that anyone who reads Ask Me if I'm Happy will feel the same way. I will always hope that my efforts to put Emily's (and Davide's) story on the page will be as moving an experience to read as it was for me to write. My constant refrain, as always, is "Time will tell" – because it always does.

And what we hear in the meantime is often quite surprising.

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A few thoughts on "Ask Me if I'm Happy"

29/11/2011

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_"Felicità
improvvisa vertigine
illusione ottica
occasione da prendere…


… E infatti, infatti non dimentico
la mia fotografia
e l'amore se non ce l'ho.
Ripeterei tutto quello che è passato
comprese le tue bugie
perché le scoprirei molto prima e senza aiuto."


"Happiness,
Sudden dizziness
Optical illusion
(An) opportunity to take…

… And indeed, in fact I don't forget
my photograph
and love, if I don't have it (with me).
I would repeat all that has passed
including your lies
because I'd discover them much earlier and without help."


-        From "Chiedimi se Sono Felice (Ask Me if I'm Happy)" by Samuele Bersani (translation mine)

One of the first things people living outside Italy often say to me about Ask Me if I'm Happy is "I love the title!" Every time they do, I have to smile. I'm pleased they like the optimistic sound of it. I'm glad they'll likely remember it – or, hopefully, they'll remember something close enough for a bookseller to find it for them! And of course, I'm glad it sounds unique enough for them to comment on it in the first place.

Here in Italy, that's not the case. Here, my students and co-workers at the language school, my friends and acquaintances, have all asked me the same question: "You know that's the title of an Aldo, Giovanni and Giacomo movie (Chiedimi se Sono Felice), right?" And I have to laugh, and nod, and say "Yes, yes; I know. It's a favorite of mine." For, you see, this title had a life before my novel. I confess – much like Jackson Browne lifted "Tender is the Night" for his personal use, just as Kate Bush appropriated "Wuthering Heights" for her own haunting tune, I too have nicked this title from another source. Or rather, two.

I've quoted a few lines from the song at the start of this blog to show I'm aware of it. More to the point: I was inspired by the song. This story has nothing to do with the film in any way, but the song (which, incidentally, was featured in the film) has strong similarities. At least, it does on the surface.

I'd listened to this song many times, but I didn't think I had really taken it to heart until I had finished writing the first drafts and needed a title for what was – at the time – a novel consisting of four novellas. A couple of lines suddenly stood out to me, and I looked up the lyrics online to be sure I was hearing them correctly. With my novel in mind, these lines (among others in the song) took on a new meaning for me and were an almost perfect fit, considering the storyline. When I said to my husband that I thought it would be a good title for my story, he thought about it and eventually agreed.

So I went forward, aware that readers would bring this up if they knew about the film or the song. The title stuck, becoming known as Ask Me... in its abbreviated version. One of my students teased me, saying if the book should be translated into Italian, at least we'd already know the title.

The thing is, should I be so lucky that this book should merit an Italian translation, I doubt it'll take back the moniker of Chiedimi se Sono Felice. The fact is, most books and films translated from English to Italian rarely get direct translations of their titles. Common practice is to give it a new title – sometimes relevant, sometimes obscure – which seems to work better in Italian. I'm ready for them, though. I've already got an Italian title in mind, and it works on several levels, including English.

The best part? It was the title of the story when it appeared on the URBIS and Authonomy writing sites, where it first caught the eyes of those who would go on to support my work today. At that time, the story was called "Connections" and was a play on words, meaning travel connections, personal connections and the circumstances which connected Emily and Davide. And what is one translation of "Connections" in Italian?

Coincidenze: Coincidences.

So I invite you to go ahead, because I know you're dying to:

Ask me if I'm happy.

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Thursday Thirteen: 13 Characters from 27 Stages

13/10/2011

16 Comments

 
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Well, now I'm getting back to serious work on my WiP, I thought I'd share some of the visual shorthand I've been using while creating it. So please, allow me to present to you:

Thirteen Characters from
27 Stages

1) Federico "Ciccio" Renard - cyclist (AltaVeloCidad).

Although he's half-French and half-Italian, the inspiration for Federico comes from both a Swiss rider and an Italian rider, who happen to be two of my favorites: Fabian Cancellara and Daniele Bennati.

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2) Abigail McGann-White - amateur photographer.

Abigail is another character with a split nationality.
Her father is American, her mother is British. Born in the US, she's lived in England with her mother since she was seventeen. Now forty years old, Abigail is dealing with a number of issues of identity and working to determine what she wants from her life. My visual inspiration for her is harder to pin down, but this stock image made a good starting point:
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3) Jerzy Jankowski - lead directeur sportif/team manager/Svengali for team Alta VeloCidad. This was another instance where I saw a photo by chance and thought: That's the look, right there. Of course, Polish actor Łukasz Simlat is much, much younger than Jerzy, but the photo below shows some of the intensity I picture every time I write about the team's boss.
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4) Charles White - Abigail's husband, a barrister in the UK. I'm sure quite a few readers, should they see this, will be rather displeased with me. LOL! But I thought Colin Firth was a perfect model to build Charles on - particularly since he has that "proper" air about him at times, but could also have a slightly "deviant" side, too, as Charles does.
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5) Heinrich Brunn - cyclist (AltaVeloCidad). Brunn, a German cyclist, was much harder to pin down. I had more of an "archetype" in mind when he started taking shape, but there was one cyclist in particular he seemed to resemble - at least, physically. No matter, this is fiction after all.
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6) Romuald "Robaczku" Brodowski - cyclist (AltaVeloCidad). When I saw this photo of French actor Stanislas Merhar, I knew I'd found my Rom.
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7) Adrie "Major" Meijer - cyclist. Athough he's a different type of rider, and a different nationality, Italian Filippo Pozzato (to my everlasting chagrin) has similar physical attributes to Austrian super-domestique Adrie. Temperamentally, however, I don't think they could be farther apart. LOL!
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8) Jurgen Schlessinger - cyclist (Maxxout). This character is probably Federico's strongest competitor in the sport, and still he is someone I have a lot of sympathy for. In my mind, he's the also-ran always struggling in Federico's wake, a sort of Salieri to Federico's Mozart, if you will. (I'm seriously considering a short story from his POV, too.) He's played in my mind by Gerald Ciolek.
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9) Solange Melo - model, former "podium girl", Federico's fiancée. I don't know the name of the girl in the photo, here, but she's a podium girl for the Tour de France. Solange is a model just starting to make waves, but her ambition proves to be a bit too much for Federico's taste.
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10) Pascal Savreux - professional photographer, French, an acquaintance of Abigail's. From the start, I've had in mind a Vincent Cassel-type, just a little rounder and a little softer 'round the edges. The fact he's closer to Abigail's age makes him an appealing potential disruption to her plans.
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11) Alvaro and Teodoro Mendoza - twin brothers, Spanish, cyclists (AltaVeloCidad).
Almost in spite of myself, I wound up picturing the Haedo brothers (Sebastian and J.J.) when I wrote these characters, even though they aren't twins (thank goodness). There are loads of brother acts in cycling, though.
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12) Philip Mason - cyclist (AltaVeloCidad). Welshman Geraint Thomas is a good fit for Philip, a British rider with a bizarre sense of humor, which is shared with his roommate, James.
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13) James Bradford - cyclist (AltaVeloCidad). Alex Dowsett was another rider who came to mind when writing many of the scenes when the riders are off the road. There's just something about his facial expressions which came to mind during James' and Philip's cutting up at various points in the story.
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And there you have 13 Characters from 27 Stages - my current Work in Progress.























I think you might agree there's a little something for everyone in this story, eh?



























And if not, well, c'est la vie!
























At any rate, I hope to include something that'll please a few of my regulars.
















After all...






















I'm a giver!

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Mathis Streitwieser
Ciao for now!
16 Comments

The Devil is in the Details (part one)

26/1/2011

0 Comments

 
There are people who are surprised by how much attention I'm currently giving to details in my WiP, 27 Stages. I am teased on a regular basis about the research I'm doing (real and fanciful), because I clearly enjoy cycling so much.

Well, there are many reasons I'm putting so much time and effort into this project. Not only is cycling a passion of mine (at least, as a spectator), not only do I want to write the best possible story I can and not only do I want people to read this and really and truly feel like they are there...

I also don't want a review like this:

Zosia's Review of Amorous Liaisons.

It's not that I feel the review is in any way unfair - far from it, in fact. I think Zosia has legitimate gripes and complaints. Absolutely legitimate. While the author of Amorous Liaisons seems to have done some research, it would seem she didn't dig quite deep enough. Granted, I don't have an in-depth/expert knowledge of ballet, but even I know (courtesy of a brief but intense love of the art while I was in my teens) some of the things this author got wrong.

My point being - when it comes to research, I think it's vital to go the extra mile. Don't sell your audience short. Don't skim over details which are important to the plot. Don't assume they won't catch if you're bluffing.

Because they will.

Knowing that a good portion of my target audience will, at the very least, be familiar with le Tour de France, I know I have to maintain a certain level of realism and detail in 27 Stages. If I don't, they'll catch me out on the big things. The members of my audience who know more about cycling (perhaps are even riders themselves) will pick on the smaller details, the lesser-known things. I know it. I expect it.

And I hope I can write this book well enough to avoid it. At least somewhat.

The only way to do this is to write to the best of my ability, to find common ground for everyone and to do as much research as I possibly can. And, in the meantime, I need to create a story that'll suck everyone in so they don't care if/when I go a little wrong.

Cross your fingers for me. I could use the luck.

And now, I've got to go do some research.
0 Comments

13 Reasons to Buy Ask Me if I'm Happy

2/12/2010

12 Comments

 
Time for the tried and true. Since I'm dealing with allergies, straightening up the house for my private English lesson this evening, preparing to go to the doctor and trying to get some laundry done - I'm pretty well squeezed for time today.

So I'll have to do a "promotional" Thirteen today.

With your kind indulgence, I present:

13 Reasons to Buy
Ask Me if I'm Happy

1) Because you love Italy, or are curious about the place.
2) Because you are in the mood for a love story.
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3) Because so few books seem to be set in Italy in the winter.

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4) Because Bologna is a city you've a) never been to, b) been to and want to see again or c) always wanted to visit.

Now's your chance!

5) Because you want to read a new author! I'm new! I'm an author! It's PERFECT!
6) Because books are always great gifts! At least, they're great gifts for book lovers.
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7) Because you want to know what this is.

8) Because you want to read more of this excerpt:

Fifteen minutes later, that man was smiling at her again. His eyes tickled at her periphery like so many nimble fingers until she allowed herself to sneak a few peeks at him on the sly, using the reflection in the window. In only a few minutes, she noted he was Jacopo’s exact opposite in many ways.

He’s the other side of the same coin, though, I’ll bet.

Still, he was easy on the eyes, with a strong jaw, dark eyes and dark, boyish curls which fell along his brow. His clothes weren’t fancy, but simple in design. A pale blue chambrayshirt peeked out from beneath his red scarf.There were no fancy designer labels, no ostentatious, trendy affectations on view.

She liked that.

When he crossed his legs, she risked a direct look at him and smiled in spite of herself. His shoes were black running shoes, rather scuffed up at that. She knew too well the premium Italians placed on footwear; it was nice to see someone who wasn’t completely fussy about his appearance for a change.

When he drew out an eyeglass case from the inside pocket of his coat, she turned to the reflection in the window once more. He perused a copy of La Repubblica—not Libero, not La Padania—so she was reasonably sure he wasn’t from Veneto. Despite her fugue, this thought made her smile again. A glimpse of his dark eyes straying in her direction, followed by his own secretive smile, sent a pleasant shimmy down her spine.


9) Because the cover intrigues you. Does it not?
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10) Because you recognize the statue on the cover.
Or because you don't.
11) Because it's available in paperback, as well as e-book!
12) Because you're looking for an emotionally satisfying read. One which has made several men tear up, and several women fall in love with the male lead.
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Me, with Samuele Bersani. I got the novel's title from his song.
13) Because when you buy a copy of Ask Me if I'm Happy, I'm this happy!




And with that, I guess there's not much more I can add, is there?
















I mean, I've done my best to convince you. The rest is in your hands from here on out.






















But for the ladies in the readership, I have just one more thing to add.































Because I found inspiration in so many places.



























Including here:
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Luca Argentero. Italian actor and sometime inspiration for the character of Davide.
Ciao for now!
12 Comments

One day to go...

9/11/2010

0 Comments

 
As I start to write this, it is 10:30 in the morning. In twenty-four hours I'll be waiting to board my flight (a whole two-hour journey) to London out of Bologna.

My bags are almost completely packed (just a few items to go).

I've read and re-read my excerpts for the readings until I'm nearly sick of seeing 'em.

I've decided on my outifits for the launch and the readings. (Dressy, not fussy; quite "me", really.)

When Alle and I arrive in London, we'll find my mother and my friend who are waiting for us there (their flight gets in earlier), and we'll get them to the hotel. We'll rest, have dinner, and then?

My nerves will start kicking in and I'll become a chattering, blithering idiot, most likely. LOL! Not that anyone can tell the difference, I reckon.

No, I'm sure we'll have a quick toddle around our neighborhood before we retire to our rooms, chat and then get some rest. Thursday morning, to one degree or another, my London adventure will begin. I hope things go smoothly, and that I don't actually make a fool of myself in front of anyone.

To quote the Grateful Dead (and when you think London, don't you just think of Jerry and the gang?) "What a long, strange trip it's been..." I mean, I started out writing this little short story which I initially meant to be just for me and mine, and instead it became something much, much bigger - both literally and figuratively.

In the end, a story about Bologna is taking me to London, and then back home again where the real world will intrude once more - and regularly at that. I'll have to look on the next ten days as something out of the norm, and cross my fingers and hope and wish and pray that all goes as well as it can.

And then I'll have to knuckle down and get to writing again. I want to see where the next story takes me.
0 Comments

Just one week...

2/11/2010

1 Comment

 
and then I'll be in London to prepare for the launch of Ask Me if I'm Happy! That I'm excited is no surprise to anyone, I'm sure. This is my first published novel, and so I'm experiencing a lot of things for the first time:

Interviews - initially by my Diiarts cohorts, and soon by others.

Guest Blogs - I did one a couple of years ago for Shelley Munro, but now I've done two for Diiarts, as well. You can read them here and here.

People asking for my autograph - Honestly! It's so strange, even if they are/were friends and/or acquaintances before the fact. I'll be doing a lot of signing in London, too, on the pre-orders of Ask Me... and of course at the launch.

Public readings - I did one here in Italy last June at the End of the School Year party at the language school where I work, and that was fun - and a little nerve-wracking, too. In November, I'm scheduled to do three readings: one at the launch and two in Oxford (at the Oxford International Women's Festival Poetry Competition and at the Into the Desert Live event, respectively)!

I was in London one year ago, too. I went for the launch of Diiarts' first four titles and I had a wonderful time. Alas, it was only for an all-too-brief weekend, but Alessandro and I had fun with our friends while we were there.

This time around, my mother and my best friend will be in attendance, and with a little luck, many of my online mates will be there for the launch, too. I'll get to meet my cp (critique partner), Nell Dixon in person for the first time, and I can't wait for our lunch date together!

My appearances in Oxford were facilitated by a longtime supporter, too - the lovely and talented Dan Holloway - and I can't wait to meet him, too!

With luck, I'll also be meeting many of my longtime Authonomy and Facebook friends, and I think this event will be even more exciting as a result of finally getting to be with them, in person.

All the good wishes I've received so far, all the encouragement from friends and acquaintances are only now starting to make this feel real. I can't even begin to imagine yet how it's going to feel once I'm actually there, in London, sitting behind that table and signing copies of Ask Me if I'm Happy - and, yes, answering that very question over and over and over again - but I'm sure it'll feel good.

And I know what my answer will be.
1 Comment

13 Snippets from Ask Me if I'm Happy

21/10/2010

15 Comments

 
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Hello, all! I fell behind a bit this week, so I thought I'd share a little something from my upcoming release, Ask Me if I'm Happy, this week. So, please allow me to present to you:

13 Snippets from
Ask Me if I'm Happy!

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The best pic of said smirk I've ever seen. LOL!
1) What nerve he has—and where do Italians learn that smirk, anyway? Is it genetic or something? If I never see that look again, it’ll be too soon.



2) “Amazing… I mean, what are the odds of reading an article and having the author sitting right across from you on the train like some average Joe? Or, in this case, like some average Giuseppe?”

3) He shrugged modestly, a faint pinkness shading his cheeks. “We all read the magazines in the doctor’s office, whether we have an interest in fashion and gossip or not.”

4)  “Most of what you see in here isn’t mine. These treasures belonged to my predecessor.”

“Oh, what happened to him?”

“He died.”

Oops.

5)  “It means that I, well… I teach English at a language school in Padova. It’s nothing special, not a very big school. Just me and a few other English teachers, a Chinese teacher, a German teacher, a couple of Spanish and Portuguese teachers… I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

“Sì,” he grinned, “but it’s quite charming.”

6) Pragmatism forced away the thought, yet it returned when his eyes met hers straight-on. The draw of his eyes was almost tactile. She straightened her shoulders until she felt the back of the chair, hard and unyielding against her spine.

7) …When they stepped apart, his hand slipped down to caress her cheek, to encourage her to smile. “Emilia, dai—fammi un sorriso.”

There was no reason to resist, yet she felt the tugging at the corners of her mouth as though it was happening to someone else, somewhere else. The piazza, so bustling and noisy moments ago, seemed to have gone silent, or might have been drowned out by the rhythm of her heartbeat as Davide moved closer to her again.

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I'd have dinner with him...
8) A question lurked between them. It fidgeted behind her eyes, waiting to be spoken aloud. He wasn’t certain whether he dared invite it, no matter how much he hoped it was the same question he wanted to ask.

The waiter arrived to take their orders and Davide was grateful for the chance to focus on something else for a few moments. Still, his eyes were drawn back to hers. Each time he found it harder to breathe, harder to focus on the world around them. Each time, he realized all he wanted was to be able to look into those eyes uninterrupted for an hour, or perhaps for a lifetime.


9) In an instant, he saw it all: the two of them in the elevator, his hand stroking her cheek, then reaching and tugging at the elastic that bound back her hair away from her face. He could feel the silken smoothness of her hair beneath his fingertips as the elastic slid down the length of her ponytail at his urging, until it all fell free and loose against his palm.

He imagined twining his fingers in her hair, then, holding her in place and tilting her head back, her mouth opening to receive his, willing, wanting…

“Davide?”

“Sì, sì…” He shook his head to clear away the images, although he would have liked to see the vision through to the end.

10) “Cazzo!” he snarled, standing up just as Emily emerged from the bathroom, already dressed in faded jeans and a misshapen cable sweater that had once been a pale gray.

“Are you all right?”

“Oh, sì, sì; I just, how do you say… ‘stumped’ my toe on the carpet.”

“‘Stubbed’ your toe,” she corrected with a small laugh. “You ‘stubbed’ your toe on the carpet.”

He offered her an embarrassed smile in reply. “Right.”

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11) “Okay. Great. I’ll see you then.” Paul stood, pushed his chair back under the table and picked up the tray which had held her drink. “I’d better get back to work.”

Smiling at him, Emily watched him go, turning her eyes back to her computer screen when she realized she was paying more attention to his retreating khakis than was appropriate. A belated blush finally rose in her cheeks and she gulped down some of her cooled-down drink before logging in to her e-mail.


12) “And then,” she continued, “there’s the fact that once I’m here, I’m thrilled to be here again. Almost every time I’ve come back, I’ve had another little ‘honeymoon’ period, you know? Where everything I see just seems so beautiful, I can’t believe I wanted to leave it in the first place.

“I fall in love with this place every time I step out of the airport. Even the people who drive me crazy make me want to grab them and give them a hug. Well, except for the guy peeing under the overpass.”

“Who is that?” Davide laughed harder than ever and Emily did the same.

“Seriously, you haven’t noticed? There’s always a man peeing under the overpass—especially when you leave the airport.”

“Oddio, Emilia. This is too much.”

“It’s true, Davide! Watch the next time you go to the airport—I’m telling you, you’ll see him! It might even be same guy.”

“So you think there’s a serial overpass pisser? Really?”

“Well, okay. I’m not sure it’s him every time. I don’t look that closely, to be honest.” 

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Corrado Guzzanti will always be Miki, to me.
13)  “That’s the one?” Michele tilted his head toward the door and Davide nodded. “Wow,” he said, pursing his lips in appraisal. “Che bel tocco di –”

“She speaks Italian, Miki,” Davide interrupted, knowing where the next words were likely to lead.

“–ragazza,” his friend finished. “What a sweet girl she seems to be—that’s what I meant to say.”

“She’s a woman, Miki. Not a girl.”

“And an attractive woman, at that.”

“You thought she wouldn’t be?”

“A volte si fanno trottare anche gli asini,” Michele said, making a gesture as though pulling back on reins.

At times, even donkeys can trot. Davide sighed. There goes Miki with his charming sayings again.




There - and I hope these bits and pieces have intrigued you enough to convince you to have a look at Ask Me if I'm Happy when it comes out this November.











Or, at the very least, I hope you enjoyed seeing a few of the pretty pictures which provided inspiration for some of the characters.












And speaking of pretty pictures...






















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I reckon this qualifies.
Ciao for now!
15 Comments

13 Things I Like About My Novel: Ask Me if I'm Happy

23/9/2010

15 Comments

 
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Several months ago, I did a post called Thirteen Things I Like About My Current WIP: 27 Stages. Well, this week, I thought I'd do another post in a similar vein, to celebrate the upcoming November release of Ask Me if I'm Happy. So, please allow me to present

13 Things I Like About My Novel:
Ask Me if I'm Happy


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Neptune atop his fountain in Bologna.
1) The setting: Bologna, Italy. While there are scenes set elsewhere (Venice, Milano and even Ypsilanti, Michigan!), the heart of the story is in Bologna. This is one of my favorite places in Italy - if not the world - and I hope I've been able to show what a beautiful place it is.
2) The female lead: Emily Miller. I wanted to write a female MC who was realistic on every level. She's not a stunning beauty who makes every man's head turn, but she's not homely, either. She's approaching forty, fuller-figured, and still has an air of innocence and openness about her (even if she doesn't want to). Her sense of humor is slightly sardonic, and tends to emerge at the most inopportune times. And like many women, she unknowingly holds herself back because of troubling events in her past.
In short, she's someone a lot of women can identify with, I think.
3) The male lead: Davide Magnani. Again, I wanted to write a male MC who would be realistic enough for readers to identify with. He's also nearly forty years old, and a professor at the University of Bologna. He's not devastatingly handsome (except in Emily's eyes, perhaps?), but he is attractive. By Italian standards, however, he's slightly out of the norm. He doesn't care about fashion, and the latest trends in anything aren't of interest to him, but he takes pride in his appearance and takes care of his health. Something of a romantic, all he wants is to live a good and honest life, and to find someone who will love him the way he wishes to love her in return.
4) The "supporting cast": Michele "Miki" Lippi. There are a few minor characters on the sidelines, of course, and this one in particular stands out for me. Miki is that one embarrassing friend everyone seems to have - that friend with the tendency to say the most politically incorrect, inappropriate comment at the worst possible time. Like many of those friends, Miki has a sharp intuition and a big heart, and so is Davide's best friend in the world - as improbable as that would initially seem.
5) The Exes: Jacopo and Letizia. It's really hard to write an "ex" in a story. Trying to show why they're an "ex" - and yet show why the MC would have been interested in them in the first place - is always a challenge.

Jacopo and Emily's history was originally explored at length in "Ask Me..." but it presented a problem: Since he was pursuing Emily, he was on his best behavior, and therefore was too appealing to the audience. Not to mention that the ten years between their first meeting and the start of the "Connections" section of the story was too much to put in the novel. So, I had to cut the original first section (called "Alternate Rialto") and trim the rest of the work down a bit. (I plan on polishing that section and adding a bit more to make it a proper novella on its own - hopefully soon.) In the end, I think Jacopo isn't entirely undeserving of sympathy from the reader, but only a little, little bit.

Letizia and Davide's story was a more prickly matter, in truth. She ran the risk of being little more than an attractive, empty shell because the reader gets most of their story from Davide, who is still suffering in a lot of ways. He's not exactly an impartial source, if you get me. While I don't want her to get too much sympathy or empathy from the audience, I wanted the reader to see why Davide would have been so hung up on her. In the end, it's actually more his issue than hers - and I think she does garner a tiny bit of sympathy once we get to know her a little better.

6) The "Other Potential Romantic Interests": Paul and Elena.
Bless 'em - they never really stand a chance, but I genuinely like them both. They only have the briefest of appearances in the story, but I hope they make a positive impression.

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A snowfall in Italy.
7) The season: Winter. There are scenes set in different seasons, but the majority of the story takes place in the winter of two different years. For these characters, it just seemed right to have them bundled up against the cold weather and sharing the warmth of their growing relationship. I suppose it could be argued that there is some symbolism inherent throughout the story, relating to warming up, opening up, covering up to hide, etc, etc. Funny thing - I'm only seeing that now!
8) The chance to write about the Italy I know. While Ask Me if I'm Happy is fiction, I will admit that I drew some elements from my own life to write it. Not in the "names have been changed to protect the innocent" sense, but in the "This is the Italy I know and love" sense. It's my deepest hope that this will come across and the reader will come away feeling as though they know a little more about this place, as a result.
9) Mixing reality and fantasy. As I showed in my post last week, I name a few real places in Bologna in the story. It was a lot of fun to give those little "shout-outs" to a number of spots which mean something to me, and to see them for the first time (again) through Emily's eyes.
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This is Trenitalia green, by the way.
10) The little in-jokes scattered throughout. If you've lived or traveled extensively in Italy or speak some Italian, there are lots of little in-jokes in the novel. Some things are just references to everyday Italian life ("Trenitalia green", for example), others - such as the things Miki says - are a bit more specific.
11) The title. For those of you who haven't read past posts of mine referring to this fact, the title "Ask Me if I'm Happy" translates as "Chiedimi se sono felice" in Italian. This was the title of both a film (by Aldo, Giovanni e Giacomo) and a song (by Samuele Bersani). The story has nothing to do with either of these things, although I confess: the song lyrics are quite fitting, in some parts.

Needless to say, my students are amused that I adopted this title for my novel. If it sells well enough to merit a translation into Italian, however, it's doubtful I'll call it "Chiedimi se sono felice". I'll probably go with "Coincidenze" - the Italian word for "Connections".

12) It's a love story for both genders. Seriously. When I posted the "Connections" section on Authonomy.com a couple of years ago, the feedback I got from men was as positive (if not more so) as it was from women. While I'm sure there will be a natural tendency for the marketing to lean toward women, this is a novel I think men will appreciate too, if those initial reactions were anything to go by.
13) My publisher. I'm really glad of the fact that this book has been published by Diiarts, for a number of reasons. One reason is that they are so enthusiastic about the story. Another is that they didn't push for me to add any "typically Italian" elements to it (which is to say, the stereotypes which plague the genre) to make it more commercial. As a result, I really do feel that the story I wanted to tell, the story I felt so compelled to share, will be out there for the public to read and (hopefully) enjoy.


And there you go.











And here we go.
















As ever, I know why you're here.





















And here you go:




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Italian actor and sometime inspiration for Davide: Luca Argentero
15 Comments

Thirteen Photos Currently Inspiring Me

4/3/2010

5 Comments

 
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Hello, all! Thanks for coming by this week.

Once again, cycling is the theme of this Thursday Thirteen. Next week I hope to have a different subject for you, but this week, I'm sticking with the tried-and-true. I hope you'll bear with me, 'cause I've got my WIP, 27 Stages, on the brain. That's a good thing, right?

And so, I present to you:

Thirteen Photos Currently Inspiring Me




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1) Fabian Cancellara, waiting as an official counts down at the start of a time trial. This was actually a key source of inspiration for the first Stage of the story.

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2) Inside the SaxoBank team bus. Very inspiring, particularly when writing scenes showing the team traveling in-between stages.

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3) Fabian Cancellara's leg. Umm...yeah. I think the pic says it all, really. Quite inspiring.

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4) Cyclists on holiday, sporting their "Cyclists' tan lines." I find this shot incredibly endearing. And inspiring.

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5) God bless Tim de Waele. He got this shot of Fabian Cancellara during the Tour of Oman. (Did you know there was a Tour of Oman? Now you do. It started this year.) Very, very inspiring. ...sigh...

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6) Fabian Cancellara, again. (Have you spotted a trend, yet?) Here he's toting his stuff around. Ah, yes... He's a down-to-earth kinda guy. And that's inspiring, no?

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7) Fabian Cancellara (center) during a rainy stage. (I believe it might have been a Tour of California a couple of years ago, but I'm not entirely sure.) Nevertheless, I find the smiles here very inspiring.

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8) Fabian after winning the maillot jaune in a stage of the Tour de France last year. Endearing, and exceptionally inspiring.

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9) Jimmy Engoulvent (in green) takes a fall during le Tour in 2008. He got up to finish the stage on a new bike. I find that inspiring.

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10) Daniele Bennati, sprinter. Darned inspiring. heh.

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11) Now that's a tuck, y'all! Maximum aerodynamics at work, here. When I see cyclists riding this way, it always makes me nervous. And yes, it inspires me to write scenes in hopes of making them just as nerve-wracking to read. (I hope I can do it.)

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12) This shot brings to mind the scenes in Reus, Spain, where there are several accidents in the final kilometers of the stage. The original inspiration was provided by using GoogleMaps and their 360-degree views of the city. Very useful. Very inspirational.

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13) Cancellara, yet again. Look at his leg!!! Very, very inspirational. Heh.

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14) Fabian Cancellara, post-World Championships road race in 2009. By the time he finished, he basically had nothing left to give. He made his goal of winning the Time Trials competition a couple of days before, but missed out in placing in the Road Race. It was a bad call on his part - he "went for it" too soon - and Cadel Evans took the title instead. But the photos of Fabian post-event are exceptionally inspirational for me. (And the photos of him with his family after this are heartbreaking, in my opinion.)

And now, a change of pace, of theme, of location.










Because, ya know, variety is the spice of life, they say.












And who am I to say they're wrong?









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Sorry, ladies. No name for this pic. My bestest-best friend Anthony took this one while on vacation in Puerto Rico last week. Anthony has a talent for finding the hotties, I must say... WRAWR!!!
5 Comments

Thirteen Excerpts from my current WIP

25/2/2010

9 Comments

 
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This week, I thought I'd share a little of what I'm working on lately. These excerpts are all from the first draft of my current WIP, a novel called 27 Stages, which is set in the world of professional road cycling (if you're unfamiliar with the sport, think of the Tour de France).

I featured other excerpts last year on my Profoundly Shallow blog, and these pick up where those left off. I hope you like what you see, here.

And now, with no further ado, I present:

13 Excerpts from 27 Stages
(a work in progress)




1) (Federico)
Rom was working mightily to get me to the head of the pack, in the throes of the final kilometers on the broken-heart-shaped perimeter road around Reus. Attilio did the same for Brunn, growing more aggressive as the stretch of roadway straightened out in front of us and the peloton surged forward as a whole.

There was some confusion at the long oval roundabout, and a few riders in the back of the peloton went down. More mildly grisly footage for the fans of crashes, then. After the tight curves, the road rounded gently to the left, and we continued jostling for position, trying to reassure ourselves of maintaining our standings. It was unlikely that Schlessinger would try anything today – strategically speaking, the climb into Andorra was his best bet for a Royal finish – so it was all a matter of maintaining the status quo.

Rom, doggedly forging ahead of me to open a slot in the pack so we could advance, threw me a look somewhere between amusement and agony. Tomorrow he'd be happy – the mountain stage would be brutal for some of us, but he'd be on his preferred turf – though at the moment, he was suffering. He'd never coped well with the monotony of flat stages.

Brunn and I were riding at speed amongst the peloton, but the group containing the sprinters was well ahead of us, gunning for the finish at the end of this flat stage. From Valencia to Torreblanca, Alvaro had sparred with Teodoro, promising his own victory to even the score between himself and his brother. Teodoro had instead assured us all of his own imminent victory, going so far as to predict a one-second gap at the finish.

Braggadocio, all of it – but the good-natured teasing between the brothers was enough to entertain the rest of us for the length of the stage.


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2) (Federico)
A burst of shrieking and screaming across the team's radio frequency took me a moment to comprehend. Either Jerzy had just slipped over the edge into insanity, or somewhere closer to the line, one or more of my teammates had made a tactical mistake.

Brunn glanced at me, his expression inscrutable, save for a flicker of concern in his eyes before he turned back to the matter at hand.

Listening to the invective spewing over the airwaves, I had the feeling things weren't exactly going according to plan at the finish.

We pressed forward, the final roundabout looming ahead when Attilio gave a shout and bumped shoulders with another rider who was riding too close as the curve tightened.

Rom broke through the last few cyclists blocking us and I followed close on his wheel, the two of us making our way up to the head of the pack to lead the group through the roundabout and down the short final stretch.

We breezed our way down Avinguda di Sant Jordi, avoiding the concrete lip of the island separating the lanes of the road, but other riders weren't so lucky, judging from the shouts of the crowd and the skree of titanium on pavement, which followed the final turn.

Rom fell back behind me in short order and Brunn was soon at my shoulder, a slight grin on his face the only indication that he was pleased with how things had gone. As far as I could tell, there wasn't even a hint of curiosity regarding Jerzy's previous rant, not one iota of concern for Alvaro or Teodoro or for how they'd fared.

I supposed we'd find out soon enough.

In the meantime, for the riders who'd remained upright, it was a brisk finish. A few of the other riders picked themselves up and finished the stage with no problem. Only a handful of riders were unable to ride across the line, mostly from mechanical difficulties.

As for me, a strong sense of relief took hold once I was solidly across the finish line. The Royal was still mine, and I'd wear it into Andorra, regardless of whether I'd keep it once we got there.

As we made our way back to the team area to ready ourselves for the presentation ceremony, the source of Jerzy's dismay was made clear. Alvaro and Teodoro had gone very, very wrong and lost the sprint – which, by all estimations, had been theirs to take.

To my amazement, Jerzy hadn't quite exploded yet. We were, however, fifty miles outside Barcelona, and it looked like it was going to be a very, very long ride.
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3) (Abigail)
The end of the race was rather quiet, compared to how the other stages had gone. Only the sprint, with its disastrous turn of events for Alta VeloCidad, proved noteworthy. I was lucky enough to get photos of it all: from Putnam storming the line to Renard's quietly triumphant arrival a few seconds later, to the last, lingering arrivals after the crash in the final turn.

Wishful thinking had me almost convinced he'd seen me shortly after he'd crossed the line. I tried my best to shake the sensation – foolish as it was – and concentrated on snapping shots of the last of the peloton as they straggled across the finish line, the walking wounded, sometimes in a literal sense. I wondered at the sense of pride which could compel these athletes to soldier on this way, in some cases broken and bleeding, and not lightly injured.

Then I wondered if I was much different, since I'd been doing the same in my own way.

Charles had driven us to Barcelona, and I'd driven myself back to Reus alone. I planned to spend my drive back, and then my dinner that night, that way as well: alone.

I imagined he was in the hotel room, eating room service and talking with her on the phone, since I'd decided to leave him to it in the end. It was preferable to hearing the constant ringing of the phone, or to watching his guilty assessment of the same.

If I'd had a choice, I probably would have preferred to stay in the hotel room alone, as well.

As the situation stood, I didn't have a choice, and it probably didn't matter, either. If I let myself consider it realistically, the idea of completing the Tour alone was much too intimidating.

I lingered at the finish for a while after the end of the race, catching a few more random shots. The chaperones who ran from place to place, some of them escorting riders, some of them running errands; the fans, excitedly discussing the events of the race; the clean-up crews getting to work as soon as possible.

I belatedly made my way toward the podium and held my camera up over the crowd to capture a few more atmospheric shots before the presentations. I switched out the lens for a zoom and managed a few shots of the competitors receiving their jerseys amongst the cheering and clapping of the crowd.

A strange melancholy came over me as they stepped off the podium and shook hands with the town officials and other guests, before making their way toward the press line and their team buses beyond it. I was sure if I really tried I could get back there to ask some questions as well as take a few candid shots. When I thought of Renard's expression when he'd signed that autograph for me, I felt a slow melting inside.

Ridiculous. A schoolgirl's crush, and I was – what? – at least ten years older than he was. At least.

I made a mental note to look up his information online when I got back to the hotel. Or maybe I'd look it up on my netbook from the bar before I went up to the room. I didn't really feel like enduring any snide comments from Charles when I returned to Barcelona, tonight.

Then again, maybe he wouldn't be making them anymore, now that I'd called him on his "phone mate" and everything. Never mind. I'd play it by ear and see how things went.

Drifting back to my car, I paused as a shiver ran along my spine in a light, tingling caress. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and I turned toward the Village, where the remainder of the crowd milled around just outside the team areas.

There was no-one there, but I would have sworn I'd felt his gaze on me, if just for a moment. I clucked my tongue dismissively. I was getting potty in my old age, I reckoned, and resumed my walk to the car.

When the feeling came again, I took out my camera, aimed it over my shoulder, and clicked the shutter. I'd examine the shot when I got to Barcelona.
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4) (Federico)
The climb had been so gradual as to be nearly imperceptible. The chatter amongst the riders, which had begun with the false start and continued through the first breakaway, had quieted and then finally stopped altogether as the route trended slowly upward.

Now the mountains which had lined the horizon for the length of the day were all I saw, surrounding me and seeming to close in while I dragged myself toward the summit of the penultimate climb. The ascent grew steeper and steeper still, clawing the breath from my lungs in hot, ragged pulls through the heat-shimmer off the tarmac in the midsummer afternoon.

There was no breeze. The crowds of obscenely exuberant spectators lining the roadway blocked it from the riders. My sweat was cooled by the currents created by my forward motion, or it slowly evaporated through the layers of spandex I wore. It pooled in the small of my back and under the radio receiver taped to my ear, loosening the adhesive to a sticky drag along my lobe. With every movement I made, I could feel the radio itself, tucked beneath the shoulder strap of my bib shorts, sliding back and forth over the sheen of perspiration on my side. Unzipping my jersey did little to alleviate the heat, and it hung limp over me, seeming to absorb my sweat, adding to the weight I was hauling up the mountain.

A faint, metallic scent hovered in the air over the peloton, a humid, elemental odor of exertion and willpower. I could smell it emanating from myself, my teammates and the others. I could taste it in the dryness of my mouth between swallows from my water bottle. It ground out of me with every crank of the pedals as I maintained my place in the group, ascending the Pyrenean slopes.

After hours in the saddle, with exhaustion rearing its head, the end was finally approaching. I was sliding ever backward, into the heart of the peloton. Rom was giving it all he had, but I couldn't keep up.

Someone called out my name, and when the group I rode in had thinned out to a long, straggling line, I felt a spectator's hand on my back, pushing me forward in a gesture of assistance. I wanted to swat them away – couldn't they see they were more a hindrance than a help? – but I resisted.

Though only just.

Attilio and Brunn were ahead, maintaining their pace in a generous bid to keep me in the running, but I knew there was no real hope. Not today.

Schlessinger and his domestique, a scrawny little powerhouse named Lorenzo Motta, were just behind us. I knew they wouldn't be there for long; if my rival were going to make a grab for the Royal, it would be today. This was his clearest chance and he'd be a fool not to take it.

Even as the thought occurred to me, Motta and Schlessinger seemed to float past, their ascent on the steep grade seeming as smooth as if they were gliding downhill, instead. I watched, stunned as Schlessinger glared back at me over his shoulder and then broke into a wide grin.




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5) (Federico)
"How's the girlfriend, Ciccio?" he called back before the crowd swallowed him up, their shouts and cheers drowning out anything else he'd had to say.

I suppose my puzzlement was plain on my face, and my reaction was not the one he'd sought. His scowl returned and he put his back to me, continuing to power his way uphill. Brunn followed him slowly, Attilio carrying him along, and both of them spared me brief, sympathetic glances as they went.

What the hell is going on here?

I pushed myself harder, striving for the summit only just visible over the churning crowds. Brunn was already lost to my sightline, and Rom doggedly led me through the chaos as we climbed endlessly toward the top. Brunn would catch Schlessinger, I was sure of it. On the final ascent, they'd race to the top for the mountain finish, and Brunn would keep him at bay.

He had to, or the Royal would be out of Alta VeloCidad's hands. Neither of us wanted that, even if I didn't want Brunn to have it.

I caught a glimpse of Schlessinger just before he disappeared over the summit. Several agonizing moments later, Brunn left Attilio behind and did the same. The image of Brunn's purple-and-silver team colors in the sunlight, then winking out of existence, was burned into my brain.

When at last I crested the top, I saw Brunn giving chase below. Schlessinger was working damned hard to lose him on the descent, but it was clear he still lacked the confidence to use the steep downward slope to his advantage. I thought of nature programs which showed lions or panthers as they ran down their prey – galloping easily along before they reach out toward the hind leg of some swift gazelle and trip it up, knocking it to the ground.

Brunn and Schlessinger worked something like that: two tawny, golden beasts of speed, hurtling downhill until one – Brunn – swatted casually with one great paw, and just like that, it was over.

Not literally, of course, but once Brunn had passed Schlessinger and the final ascent had begun, the end of the stage was clear. And I was nowhere close to the scene as it played out.

All the same, I rode as hard and fast as I possibly could, to no avail. It made no difference how swiftly I descended, leaving Rom and the others behind. The next climb took me out in spite of my best efforts.

I'd lost the Royal.

To Brunn.
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6) (Abigail)
The first riders ascended the final climb, reaching the slight plateau and straightaway with some difficulty. My heart sank. The Royal wasn't amongst the brilliant colors flaring against the dark of the tarmac, which meant that Renard had lost the top spot.

I swallowed down my disappointment and snapped my shots of Heinrich Brunn crossing the line, a desperately disillusioned Jürgen Schlessinger in frame just over his shoulder. Both of them wore fixed grimaces of effort, but the expression in Schlessinger's eyes was something on the edge of sheer defeat.

For a moment, my heart went out to him in a sincere wave of sympathy. From what we'd watched on the giant screens along the finish, it had been a mighty struggle for him. Brunn had clearly had the win from the final lengths on the ascent, making the whole thing look positively effortless. That surely added insult to injury for the younger German rider.

Four more riders swept past, and still Renard hadn't shown. I turned to the screen and saw the shot being filmed by the helicopter hovering just a short distance away: Renard was nearly to the plateau, but it was a fight he seemed to be riding to a draw. His domestique, Romuald Brodowski, was working hard to pull Renard up to the finish, that much was clear.

When they came into view, I quickly switched out my lens for a zoom and focused on them as the road leveled out beneath them. Was it my imagination, or was Brodowski looking particularly frustrated? From his previous performances in the mountains, I knew he was an excellent climber, and this chore had to be draining all the enjoyment of the stage from him. Still, he did his job admirably, and managed to get them both across the line in time for Renard to stay in top five classification.

I captured them crossing the line, and then slowly riding to their handlers. Renard's shoulders were slumped in exhaustion, and this time there was neither a giddy, delirious grin or expression of victory to buoy the fatigue. I kept taking photos of the arrivals, but I couldn't resist aiming the camera to catch Renard as he slid to the ground with his back against the barriers, unable to face the people around him.

More riders arrived and I caught them as they passed, my mind continually drifting to Renard, forcing me to turn and watch him through the lens, snagging a few photos in the process. Finally the group of sprinters arrived en masse, just barely within the maximum time allowed, but when I turned back Renard wasn't there. He'd been spirited away, presumably to the team bus and his post-stage cool down.

A distinct disappointment filled my stomach, and I packed up most of my gear before heading toward the podium for the presentations. I made my way through the crowd, noting that some of the faces were becoming almost familiar to me. Some were photographers – amateurs, like me – others were just devoted fans, I guessed, following the Tour as it snaked its way across the Continent. We exchanged nods or tilts of the head whenever we caught one another's eye, silently acknowledging the slight sense of recognition growing amongst us.

The heat was incredible, made even closer and more uncomfortable by the press of bodies beneath the late-afternoon sun. At last I reached the galley where I could set up on the edge of the photographers' pit, and I saw the Frenchman I'd met a few days ago. He smiled and shrugged vaguely behind him, seeming to indicate I should set up there, so I did.

I dutifully snapped away as Brunn and Schlessinger arrived, followed by the Basque rider, Estebe Legarreta who looked delighted to be the third place finisher. All the while, my thoughts were drifting to Renard and how he'd looked when he'd crossed the line. It wasn't just losing the Royal – the margin wasn't so great he couldn't reclaim it after the mountain stages were finished, anyway. No, something else was at work beneath the façade he presented to the public.

I shook my head, feeling ridiculous. What the hell was wrong with me? Did I really think I was so attuned to him? Based on what? A one-minute meeting and a lovemaking fantasy was all we had between us, and I had to admit it was a rather one-sided deal.

But my instincts had been correct in Reus, hadn't they? When I'd checked my photos last night, I'd found him in the crowd at the team buses in the final photo I'd snapped over my shoulder before going home. Not that this meant he'd been watching me or anything, but surely my awareness of him meant –

No. It didn't. It was a stupid fantasy and nothing more, but at least it made time spent at the hotel bearable.

Charles' silent resentment was hard to take, but his absence at the last stage finishes had been a relief. I hated to admit it, but there it was: I was more relaxed without him around. Without his grousing, his pronounced disinterest – and yes, his constant phone calls from "work" – it was so much easier to focus on what I was doing. There was no need to worry about him being happy, particularly since I knew nothing I did, shy of sending him to the nearest pub, would please him.

I had the uncanny feeling that tonight would be like last night, and I would spend the better part of it alone again. I had already decided on which bar I would pass the time in, was already considering what I might have for dinner while I perused my photos from today on my netbook. Charles had told me before I left this afternoon, not long after lunch, and after he'd had two calls already, that he was going to have to take care of some work and thus wouldn't be able to have dinner with me.

"Since these bloody Spaniards can't eat at a proper time," he'd complained, "I suppose I'll just have to have room service instead of waiting until eleven bloody p.m."

"This is Andorra," I'd said in response, putting my bag on my shoulder. "We're not in Spain anymore."

"Well, then. Maybe there's hope for a meal at a proper time." His gaze met mine evenly, and I waited for him to continue. "But I'll still be working tonight, Abby."

"Okay." With that, I'd picked up my other bag and gone out the door to get some photos of the city.

And now I was sitting the bar I'd planned on all day, alternating my drinks between mineral water and white wine, examining my photos while I waited for a response to the email I'd sent my prospective publisher.

All in all, it was not how I'd imagined following the Tour would go for me.
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7) (Federico)
The fact a silence briefly fell as soon as I entered the team's section of the hotel restaurant was the first sign that something was up. It only lasted a moment or two – too short to be anything of consequence, really – but I knew I hadn't imagined it when Rom didn't meet my eyes and Attilio shifted uncomfortably in his seat, doubtless feeling some species of guilt for having got Brunn so far ahead of me.

As for the new number-one race leader, Brunn went back to talking privately with Jerzy, giving scarcely a nod in my direction. I resisted a scowl and went to the last available seat at the table along the wall, where the bulk of my teammates and the rest of the crew sat.

With everyone politely averting his gaze from me, was it any wonder I thought I must have reeked with the stench of failure?

When I reached my chair, however, I found an envelope waiting for me. I picked up the manila package and examined it, confused. There was no return address, no postmark – no stamp or postage at all, for that matter – just my name written in clear block letters across the front.

"What's this?" I asked, holding the envelope up for my nearest seatmates to see. I got a silent, shrugging chorus in response, the currents of conversation all around me never ceasing.

I shook my head and bent back the metal tabs of the seal to open the envelope. I slid out the contents onto my plate: an issue of Avant-Mode, a French women's fashion magazine.

Ah, it's from Soledad. She must be in this one.

I disregarded the lack of postage or return address in an instant, and picked up the magazine to fan through the pages, distractedly seeking her picture.

"Soledad?" Rom asked from across the table, and now it was my turn to shrug. I hadn't seen her anywhere when I'd flipped through, and now I paged through more carefully, one by one.

I stopped dead when I found her.

I'd never seen Soledad like that before, at least, never in a photograph. She stood with her legs spread wide, her bathing suit bottom little more than a sheer strip of fabric, which barely covered her (now evidently shaved) pussy, her hands behind her back holding what looked like some sort of riding crop. Her bare breasts were thrust toward the viewer, her hair wild around her face, her red, glistening mouth open and expectant.

I stared, stunned, unable to do anything else. I'd seen that expression on her face before, but none of my teammates ever had. Not until now.

This was why she was in Australia? What the fuck is this advertising, anyway?

It wasn't until I heard the appreciative whistles and applause from the others that I realized I was holding the magazine out and away from me like a loathsome, living thing. And most of the team had gotten a good, long look at my fiancée in all her dubious glory.

"That's your Soledad?" Goosh asked in something like amazement.

My first instinct was to deny it. This was not the woman I'd flirted with on the podium a couple of years ago, whose kisses had lingered just enough to be outside the professional limits, whom I'd asked to marry me after nearly a year of dating.

This wasn't the woman I'd made love to just a few weeks ago, before she'd gone to Australia for a project to pad her portfolio, with lots of presentations and art modeling, she'd said. Maybe some television work, too.

This wasn't the woman for whose call I was waiting so eagerly. She wasn't this brazen, this coarse – she wasn't this vulgar.

And yes, it was her. I knew because I knew the face she was making in this photo. I knew every curve of her body, digitally altered or no, and I saw in the photo shades of her passion that she'd shared with me. In strictest confidence, I'd thought at the time. Now I wasn't so sure.

James grabbed the magazine away from me, examining it more closely for himself, and the rude comments soon followed.

"I wouldn't mind keeping her company for an hour or so – do you reckon she looks lonely?"

"D'you mind if I take her up to my room, Ciccio? You know, just for a little while."

"I knew she was pretty, but I had no idea she was this hot, mate. Cor…"

"I've never met someone before who's had a piece of ass like that. What's she like, then? Y'know, what's she like?"

"Oi, and what does she like? I need to fuel my imagination for tonight…" Phil added with a laugh, making a rude gesture.

I kept my mouth shut, refusing to rise to the bait, but they continued, growing more and more vulgar as the night went on. It wasn't until Phil made a show of stuffing the magazine under his shirt and sneaking toward the door of the restaurant with one hand on his crotch that I finally spoke up.

"For fuck's sake, all of you – she's my fiancée! How about a little respect?" I snatched the magazine away from Phil and stormed out, making my way to my room. My ears and face burned red-hot, not cooling for a long while even after I'd flopped down on my bed and examined the magazine again.

There were more photos on the next pages. How I'd missed them – how my teammates had missed them – was beyond me. Nonetheless, I counted my blessings that they hadn't spotted the more provocative and quasi-grotesque poses after all.

I smoothed out the offending pages and stared hard at them, hating that I must have sounded like a foolish old prig downstairs. Still, what did they expect? She was my fiancée, and that they'd talk about her like that… Then again, to them – most of them, anyway, since Brunn, Rom and Adrie hadn't taken part – this wasn't anyone who actually existed. Soledad was someone they'd only met briefly, from time to time, and here she was just an image on the pages of this magazine.

Frankly, she was starting to feel just as remote to me.


Picture
8) (Abigail)
I didn't want to see Charles yet, so I delayed going back to the hotel room. Instead, just as I had the night before, I wandered down to the hotel bar and restaurant and settled into a corner booth. It was early so the restaurant was still quite empty. I set up my computer without worrying about taking up a table all by myself.

I planned on leaving once the crowds started coming in. By that time, Charles would surely be done with his "work" and I could go to bed right away. At least, I hoped so.

I transferred photos from my camera to the computer hard drive, and then to the portable external hard drive for additional backup. I couldn't be too careful, if this were a safeguard for my project.

When the file transfers were finished, I pushed my glasses up the bridge of my nose and studied the photos of the day. The heaviness in my chest persisted as I examined the photos of Brunn on the podium with Schlessinger and Legarreta.

There was no sense denying to myself that I had a definite favorite in this Tour, and this time he hadn't made it to the podium. Still, it was possible – if not particularly probable – that Renard could regain his position at the top. And the fact that his teammate had the Royal now was a significant victory.

I clicked through the slideshow on my screen until I found my first photo of Renard from that afternoon. It was – even if I did say so myself – a remarkable shot: he was striving for the finish, his face a mask of pain and determination, the muscles of his legs and arms standing out in incredible relief beneath his skin. The background was the indistinct jumble of the crowd with their signs and flags and replica jerseys – the multicolored rainbow making Renard in his Royal jersey atop the blue bike stand out even more.

My eyes were drawn to the expression on his face again and again. Such agony, such anguish was written there that my heart twisted in empathy. It was a photograph of someone losing their hard-fought dream in spite of giving all they had to hold on to it.

I was starting to understand exactly how he felt.


Picture
9) (Abigail)
"You've been drinking...?" Charles replaced the cell phone on the bedside table, and I put my bags on the loveseat by the window.

"Not much. Just a little wine with dinner. You know, as you do." I shrugged and went through my bag, digging out my nightgown and slippers.

"Are you upset about something?"

The disingenuousness of the question was almost insulting.

"Charles, how do you play at ignorance so well?"

"Come on, Abby." He stood and came over to my side of the bed to stare down at me while I changed clothes.

"You can't honestly be this oblivious." I looked up and met his eyes, daring him to pretend further.

He didn't.

Instead, he sank down to sit beside me and sighed. "This is why I thought we should consider…"

"I know what you've suggested. I've already told you why I don't want that." I got under the coverlet, and Charles kept his back to me while he did the same.

"I'd just feel better, Abby, if I thought you had someone with you when I'm away."

Bullshit.

"No, you'd feel better if I said you could have someone with you when you're away. That's what this is all about."

"No, it isn't."

"For all I know, you already have."

"Abby…"

I turned onto my side and resisted the urge to sigh.

"I didn't want you to feel this way about it," he said.

"How else would I feel? You're talking about having an affair." I turned to face him and found him staring at the carpet, shaking his head. "And me, giving you the okay."

"No, I'm not."

My throat tightened and I smoothed down my nightgown as I got out of the bed and stood up. I held up one hand and started counting off: "You put down the phone when I come in the room, you stay late at work even if you don't have to, and you get more phone calls than you need from work…"

"That's not proof of anything, Abby. Circumstantial at best."

"Give me time..." I folded my clothes and piled them into the laundry bag. "I'm sure I'll dig up ample evidence soon enough."


Picture
10) (Federico)
After the ride, my teammates' teasing resumed in full force. I endured as best I could until we'd arrived at the hotel once more. Attilio wasn't as aggressive as before; as one of my oldest friends on the team, he knew when I was reaching my limits. James and Phil, not so much. Their good-natured banter was starting to press every button with stunning precision, and I'd nearly had enough.

"Say, Ciccio?"

"Yeah?" My response came out somewhere between a grunt and a sigh as we stepped off the bus and crossed under the canopy in front of the hotel. James didn't seem to notice.

"I was just wondering if I could borrow your magazine sometime. Those of us presently unattached tend to get a little lonely, eh? D'you reckon she'd be amenable to a little – ahem – company?"

"All right; that's it!" I turned on James, heat rushing to my face with my shout. "Just fucking drop it! Give it a fucking rest and show the woman some respect already!"

Startled, James took a couple of paces back, his hands raised defensively. "Whoa, mate, steady on… I was just playing around."

"She's not just some piece of ass, you know."

"I know, I know –"

Phil cut in between us, a goofy smile on his face. "Ciccio, mate – calm down, yeah?"

"I will not! Not until you all lay off of Sunny!"

I became aware of Adrie behind me, his usual calm presence raising my hackles even before he spoke.

"You're overreacting, Chicco."

"Am I?" I spun around to face him. "She's my fiancée, isn't she?"

"It's just a photo – no big deal."

My stomach did a long, slow roll over itself as I considered this. Easy enough for him to say, wasn't it?

"You know, I suppose you're right." I shook my head and turned to go, then faced him again. "By the way…"

"Yes?"

"D'you have any pictures of your wife?"

His eyes widened, then narrowed, his jaw setting in a stern line. "Excuse me?"

"Aw, come on, Adrie. It's no big deal, right? Like James said, we get a little lonely, from time to time. Some of us like a little variety, too –"

His hand shot out so fast I hardly saw it coming, his grasp on my jersey threatening to rip the fabric alongside the zipper. I tried to pull away but his hold was too strong.

"Don't alienate everyone, Ciccio," he said, taking obvious care to use my team nickname and not my personal one. "Not unless you don't really want to get within shouting distance of the Royal again. We can all see to that."

Before I could respond, Jerzy's hand landed on Adrie's and parted us with a rough shake. Epithets streamed out of our team manager until he found a common language for both Adrie and myself and focused on it.

It took all my willpower to keep from trying to slap his hand away from me, or to shout the worst, most blasphemous phrases I could think of in return for his abuse. The childish fit of temper faded soon enough, just as Jerzy turned loose of me and spun me away from my teammate, propelling me out of the lobby and toward the stairwell.

“Your rooms, idiots!” he shouted, and I saw the rest of the team flinch, then hesitate before they dispersed. Jerzy had only been addressing Adrie and me, anyway. I took the stairs two at a time, slammed through the door of my room at the end of the hall and went straight into the bathroom to shower.

My anger puzzled me. Why was I running so hot today?

When I reached for the shampoo, I found my hands clenched in fists, my muscles trembling. The unfairness of the situation screamed from every cell in my body. I had to rectify this – and soon – or else I'd burn out before the Tour was half over.

I considered how it would feel to punch the tile wall of the shower stall, imagining how the ceramic would fracture under the bones of my hand, even as my bones did the same.

Then I thought of being unable to ride, for that same ridiculous reason, and how humiliating it would be to miss out because I'd had an injury unrelated to racing. My own stupid temper would be all I had to blame.

In spite of the heat of the water, an icy calm descended over me.

I had to focus.

I had to plan.

I had to win.

That was all I had to do.


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11) (Federico)
I tried not to show I was still upset when I stepped out onto the patio. The murmur of conversation crested and fell as I walked over to take my seat, and I felt the eyes of my teammates follow me every step of the way.

I picked at a salad, my interest in the meal waning with each passing moment. There was too much effort involved in trying to wrap my head around the events of the last twenty-four hours.

Why hadn't Soledad told me there would be that sort of photo shoot? Why hasn't she answered or returned my calls? How did I manage to lose the Royal so soon?

Okay, so some questions had simpler answers than others.

All the same, I had never felt so low.

Adrie settled into a chair nearby, giving me a brief, annoyed glance before turning his attention to his tablemates and his glass of wine.

Rom sat down, a beer in each hand before he slid one over to me. He looked at me quizzically until I picked up the glass and took a grateful sip.

A short while later one of the staff came out with an armful of letters and packages and began handing them out. As he approached my table, he sorted out a smallish box and put it down in front of me. “All the way from Sydney,” he said with a grin before moving on to the next group.

No sooner had I picked it up than Phil and James had seated themselves at my table, Attilio and Goosh close behind.

“What the fuck, guys?” I protested, not yet opening the package.

“Can't we see?”

I sighed, begrudgingly and perversely pleased by their attention, but still dreading any repeats of the night before. “It's personal,” I said, splitting the tape and pulling it back.

“Oh, come on...” Phil wheedled, and James rose from his seat to stand next to me.

"I've got my fingers crossed for something special,” Attilio joked, and James made a show of crossing his fingers, too.

“Pretty panties, pretty panties, pretty panties...” James chanted, his crossed fingers raised up to either side of his face.

I shook my head, resigned myself to their company and continued opening the package. Once I'd opened the flaps of the box, I froze. Crumpled paper on either end of the interior of the box had kept the contents from shifting.

A few pages from a magazine were folded around a smaller box. I took the paper out and unfolded them to find photos of Soledad once again. This time, however, she was dressed in a floor-length evening gown as she clutched the arm of a man I'd never seen before. He certainly wasn't me, anyway.

On the next page was Soledad with the same man, her arms wrapped around his neck while she kissed him passionately in front of a crowd at some sort of premiere. At the bottom of the page I found his name alongside hers: Daniel Conway, fashion photographer.

I reached into the box again, my hands numb, feeling as though I'd been doused with icy water from head to toe. I no longer heard James chanting, no longer felt the jovial curiosity of my teammates clustered closely around me.

My fingers closed around the only other object in the box, the soft velvet sliding slightly underneath my fingertips. I was shaking, praying all the while the guys couldn't see it.

I put the cardboard box back on the table, clutching the velvet box in my other hand.

“Oh, fuck...” Attilio's sentiment was exhaled on a slow, stunned breath. My heart was beating too hard, my mouth had gone too dry. My hands were scarcely under my own control.

I lifted the box up and pulled it close to my chest, slowly prying the halves apart for a glimpse of what was inside.

Not that I didn't know.

A faint sparkle as the diamond caught the light, and I snapped it shut once more.
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12) (Federico)
After turning a corner I stopped short, having seen a familiar but wholly unexpected face, illuminated by the light of a tiny laptop computer. I stepped back behind a tall potted plant, the broad leaves providing the perfect cover for me to study her, to be sure I wasn't mistaken. Seated as she was in a booth in the corner, a single glass of wine on the table next to her computer, she was obviously alone. And it was definitely her.

Abigail. The woman I'd signed the autograph for after the fourth stage, in Lorca.

All the drama with Soledad had pushed Abigail out of my mind for a while, but this glimpse of her was enough to bring everything back: I felt a rush of anticipation with a hint of anxiety trailing behind, just as I had the first time I'd seen her.

My hand was shaking where it rested on the wall. Making a fist, I willed myself to remain steady. A fleeting, desperate image of going to her and giving her the deepest, most passionate kiss I'd ever given faded swiftly from my brain before my shaking ceased.

I'm losing my mind. I'm too stressed. It's crazy to be thinking like this, so soon after what just happened…

And yet…

I was stunned to find myself standing next to her table, my hands in my pockets in an attempt to look calm and casual. Surely she'd see I was anything but.

"Abigail?" I queried, as though I weren't positive it was her. As though I hadn't memorized her face the first time I'd seen it, or sought a glimpse of her in the crowds before and after the start of the last two stages.

As though she hadn't lingered in the back of my mind nearly every moment since I'd signed that scrap of paper for her.

My mind went completely blank when she raised her eyes to mine, even though she needed a moment to focus them again. The lack of comprehension written there gave my heart a small, sympathetic turn and brought a smile to my face. Behind her dark-framed eyeglasses, her gaze darted to my right and my left, flicked back to her computer screen and then returned to scrutinize me warily.

"You really shouldn't look at a screen like that without better lighting around you," I said, amazing myself. "It's bad for your eyes," I almost sounded like I was thinking clearly.

"Yeah, I know," she said, her voice soft in deference to the relative quiet of the pub, and then she tapped her eyeglasses. "I guess that's why I need these." Two heartbeats later, she added, "You remember me."

That it was a statement and not a question made me feel weak for some reason.

"Of course I remember you." I wondered if she understood the depths of honesty in my words.

She continued looking up at me, her lips parted slightly in a slack expression of surprise. At last she sat up straight and looked around, the darkness around the booth seeming to throw her.

"So, um…" She gestured offhandedly to the seat across from her before she removed her glasses and tucked them away in her handbag. "Would you like to sit down?"

"Ah, yes, thanks." I sat down, hoping no to look too eager. Once more, however, I went hopelessly blank. I couldn't think of anything to say to her.

Before it was too noticeable, a server came over to her – our – table and waited patiently for me to order something.

"Una cervesa, per favor," I said and he disappeared into the darkness from which he'd emerged, presumably to retrieve my drink.

"You speak Spanish?" she asked.

"That was Catalan," I said, and instantly felt like a heel for correcting her. "I hope it was, anyway. My Spanish accent is bad enough I hope it isn't bleeding over…" I trailed off, eternally grateful for the dim lighting to hide my flush of embarrassment.

"So, you speak Catalan?"

"Just enough to order drinks. And to get myself into trouble."

"Wow… I've been speaking miserable high-school Spanish the whole time I've been here." She shook her head and I found the movement almost hypnotic.

The waiter returned and I mumbled appreciative thanks as he placed my glass on a coaster and turned away.

"That's fine, then. I'm sure most people do that, actually. I wouldn't worry about it." I advised her as sincerely and helpfully as I could. Her shy smile made my heart jump and then plunge into my stomach.

Was I crazy? Sitting here with her when anyone could see us, and then word might get back to –

Oh, right. Soledad. Why was I worrying about her? For that matter, why didn't I still feel that dagger twisting my innards?

Abigail reached to close the computer and I leaned forward, my hand resting over hers before I had a chance to stop it. What the hell was I doing?

Her eyes widened in mild surprise and I hesitated, withdrawing my hand a moment later. "What are you working on?" I asked, indicating the laptop with my retreating hand and then folding my numb fingers around my glass.

Suddenly it seemed as if she were the one blushing, her eyes evading mine by returning to the glow of the screen. "Oh, I was just… Nothing."

"Nothing?" A smile crept onto my face and settled in. "Are you sure? That's a lot of equipment for doing nothing."

This time she definitely blushed. Part of me was delighted to see it.

"Well, okay. It's not 'nothing,' exactly. It's my work. Sort of."

I nodded as if I understood, though nothing could have been further from the truth. Then again, I was having difficulty focusing on anything at the moment. Her accent intrigued me, a curious blend of British and what I presumed to be an American twang of some sort, unfamiliar as it was. She could have told me the sky was made of orange juice and I would have nodded along, just to keep her talking.

"I mean," she continued, her gaze sweeping over the table and avoiding mine, "I was reviewing some of my photos."

"Photos?" I echoed, not yet putting the word together with the "work" she'd already mentioned.

She nodded and shrugged. "I take pictures."

"You're a photographer?" I cringed inwardly. When did I develop a gift for stating the obvious?

She nodded again, with what appeared to be greater confidence. "Yes, I am. I'm shooting the stages of the Tour. The starts and, uh, the finishes, mostly."

The way she'd stumbled over "finishes" gave me a fleeting pain. My last finish hadn't been my best, after all.

"Could I perhaps see what you were working on?" I'd had no idea I was going to say it until the words were out there, lingering between us over the table. Besides, did I really want to see visual proof of me losing the Royal?

It was too late now, regardless.

"Um… If you really want to, I guess."

Again without thinking, I slid out of the booth and went over to her side, even as she half-turned the tiny computer toward me. A moment of awkward hesitation followed: should I sit back in the booth I'd just vacated, or sit next to her even though she hadn't exactly invited me?

Beh. In for a penny, in for a pound, as the Brits say.

I slid in beside her when she made room for me and turned the computer back toward us. Blessedly, my ego was momentarily spared: the image on the screen was not of me but of Schlessinger and Brunn's finish. It was a fantastic shot, the sort of thing one might manage once in a lifetime – but when she stroked the key to advance to the next picture, I realized it wasn't a fluke. The second picture was of the peloton arriving, a crisp, brilliant capture of the colors and expressions of every team member in the forefront. Everything else was blurred, giving the illusion of movement on the page.

I watched the screen while she continued clicking through the pictures, one by one. Finally she reached one and clicked swiftly past it, deliberately I thought, before the image had time to register in my mind.

"Wait, wait… Go back? I didn't see that one." I glanced over at her, my eyes adjusting from the bright glow of the screen to the ambient light it created, and found her finger trembling where it hovered over the keypad.

She pressed the key and I turned back to the screen to find a photo of myself after the initial time trial, lying on the ground, surrounded by the team staff and doctor. It was quite close up – enough to make me strangely self-conscious.

"The time trial," she said, and I turned to face her again. "It's one of my favorites."

"Why is that?" I asked, looking at the photo again.

She shrugged, her arm brushing mine as she did so. I realized she was leaning in to look at the photo, too, and I shifted my shoulder so we were almost facing each other, our necks craned to study the screen.

"You just look… I don't know… so vulnerable. I wanted to help you, some –" Falling silent, she turned away from me and I felt an indescribable pull in my chest, next to my heart.

An embarrassed smile formed on my lips and I made a point of keeping my gaze on the screen.

"Thanks," I said quietly, when I knew she'd turned back toward me. I cleared my throat and clicked through a few more photos on my own while she folded her hands in her lap. "I suppose this explains why I couldn't find you – you were behind a camera all the time."

No sooner had I realized what I'd said than my cell phone rang in my pocket. For a single, foolish moment, I hoped it was Soledad.

It wasn't.


Picture
13) (Abigail)
...I sank back down into my pillows and pulled the blanket up over my shoulder, thinking to the night before, in the pub.

With Renard.

I still couldn't believe he'd come in there, or that he'd remembered me from Lorca, and had come over to speak with me. It was unreal to think he'd sat with me and admired my photos, or that we'd chatted as amiably as though we'd known each other for a while already.

But the proof was right there in my handbag, on my little hobby camera. How I'd found the nerve to ask for a photo of him, I'd never know. But I had.

After he'd left the pub, I'd sat there for an age looking at the picture. I put it in a separate file on the computer and looked at it on the screen in a haze of disbelief.

He was just as I'd thought he'd be: handsome and charming, very relaxed and comfortable with himself. Even now I silently prayed that he hadn't noticed how nervous I'd been when he approached me, or when he sat next to me in the booth.

I covered my face with my hands, unable to keep myself from recalling the soft, spicy scent of his cologne, or the warmth of him when we'd sat so close together. My stomach did a little flip way down low, and my throat tightened.

Reaching out for Charles' pillow, I pulled it close and inhaled his scent off it, drawing his smell deep into my lungs. Still I fancied Renard's cologne clung to the back of my throat, and I squinted my eyes shut against the sudden burn behind them.

I didn't want this. I really didn't.

No matter how I tried, I couldn't shake any of it away.

How stupid I was! Nearly forty years old and I was crushing on some good-looking guy like a teenager! No wonder Charles' "boyfriend" taunts irritated me so much – they felt too true.

"I never had a boyfriend like that, though," I said quietly to the empty room, and laughed a little. That felt good; laughing made me feel a little less like maybe I might be losing my mind in some mid-life hormonal surge.

That innocent encounter the night before had been enough to keep me from reaching a deep sleep for most of the night. When I had slept, I'd dreamed of him – nothing out of bounds, just reliving the conversation we'd had, again and again.

I heard footsteps out in the corridor and released Charles' pillow, then rolled back onto my side. I tried to push the memories away: of my dream, of the pub, of whatever it was we'd talked about…

Regardless, Renard's response to what I'd said about the photo after the time trial continued to echo in the back of my mind. The softness of his voice in that moment, the simplicity of what he'd said; was it crazy for me to put so much weight on a single "Thanks"?

Why did it mean so much to me, anyway?

Charles' key in the lock seemed to shake loose another memory, and I shivered pleasantly in spite of myself, clutching the covers closer as I remembered what Renard had said next:

"I suppose this explains why I couldn't find you."


Picture
Well, that's it for this week's Thursday Thirteen.




















And now, the *real* reason you come to my blog entries.










I'm not silly enough to think you come for the story excerpts, after all. ;-)
























So, let's get to him, shall we?



Picture
I don't know his name, I admit. If you do, drop me a line. Please? :)




Ciao for now! :)
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    Kimberly Menozzi

    Author. Happily Married. Survivor of life with two deranged kitties.

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