Okay, then. I sincerely hope this helps some of you today.








And no, I'm not saying I'm perfect. I make mistakes too.




















I'm just doing my part to make the world a little more grammatically correct.









Now I'm going to kick back and do some editing, some writing, and then I'm going to relax.











In fact...

Ciao for now!

_ 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.

_ 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.

I've been trying to write as much as possible this week, so I didn't have much time to plan a Thursday Thirteen. On short notice, this is what I've come up with:

_1) "Oh, no. I've left my mobile in the room." Charles patted his trouser pockets and stood next to our table, looking around as though he'd dropped something.

"Why not leave it? I mean, we're only going to be down here a short while. Surely you could just return any missed calls?"

He hesitated, his hands momentarily frozen over his pockets, his expression blank. I understood at once the source of his agitation. He was expecting a call.

Scratch that. He was expecting her call.

"Fine," I said, pretending not to notice his guilty composure. "Go on up. I'll take my time over the menu, then."

Another hesitation, and then he was walking away from our table with obvious restraint.

I sat quietly, unsure how to feel. Charles had never before been quite so transparent about her. Part of me was quite hurt by this, and yet part of me was relieved. Of course, now I had my own mental diversion, and while it wasn't exactly the same it did seem to ease the pain a bit.

There was scarcely more than a moment for me to consider this before a sizeable group of men passed through the dining room and headed toward the exit. Stunned, I sat and watched them file by, chatting amongst themselves while their names ticked off a mental list, one by one: Meijer, Browdowski, Mendoza, Mendoza…

How was it possible we'd stayed in the same hotel and I hadn't even known it?

So much for any "psychic connections," then. I had to smile at my silliness, and that was when Renard passed by the table, one hand raised in a subtle greeting. My smile stayed in place even as my heartbeat sped up and my own hands shook on my lap.

He didn't seem to notice – he only smiled and continued out to the lobby. He glanced back at me before stepping through the doorway, and I heard the rumbling of what I presumed to be the team bus outside the front doors of the hotel.

_2) In retrospect, the benevolence of being granted a few free hours the night before now made sense. It had been our last chance at that kind of freedom.

"No way should that stage have taken us out like it did. You've all been letting things slide, acting on your own, not following orders." Jerzy turned his cold gaze to Rom, who ducked his head onto his chest. No understanding of English was necessary to know how he'd screwed up, and no doubt the message hit home. "This is what happens. As of today, you get one hour of free time after dinner. That's all."

Adrie's scowl behind Jerzy's back surely hadn't gone unnoticed by the rest of the team, but no-one would rat him out. Any rider with a family, or at the very least a girlfriend, was bound to resent such a limit on the time we could spend with them privately.

With surprising calm, Adrie cleared his throat, and Jerzy slowly turned to face him. James tensed next to me, and Alvaro, seated next to Adrie, shifted his seat away to one side after a skyward glance.

"You have something to add, Major?"

"What about our families? An hour a day is hardly enough time to spend with my wife and my daughter, and we all know there will be days we don't see them at all, anyway."

Silence spooled out in the meeting room, and I wondered if anyone else had neglected to breathe, as I had. As quietly as I could, I drew a long breath, waiting to hear Jerzy's response.

"I'm being generous. I could make it one hour a week," he said, and turned again to face the rest of us. "You all need discipline; that's clear. You should be supporting the team leaders, and instead, you fell apart!"

I couldn't help bristling at the plural. Leaders? I screamed mentally. That's the whole fucking problem!

"As far as families go – I don't want to keep any of you away from them. If you want to be with your family, go." He gestured toward the door and Adrie dropped his gaze to the table. "If you stay, you need to remember this: I am your father, your brother, your best friend – even your mother! I am your family. This team is your family. You depend on them, and they depend on you."

The composure with which he spoke was chilling. This was not ranting Jerzy, not blustering or manic Jerzy.

This was Jerzy at his angriest, and I'd never been more aware of walking on a knife-edge than I was then. The rest of the team seemed to be, too. No one spoke, whispered or so much as coughed in the silence that followed.

"Get out to the bus. Now."

Jerzy stalked away, and we all stood, not a chair scraping across the tiled floor before we filed out as quietly as possible.

_3) "You can give him my apologies, if you like," he said, not looking at me.

I laughed and shook my head. "He'd never believe me if I tried to."

"What, that I apologized?"

"No, that I sat here with you as if we knew each other or something. He'd never believe it. I mean, I hardly believe it myself."

He smiled again and my heart lifted.

"We do know each other, don't we? You're Abigail. I'm Federico."

"Acquaintances at best," I said, drawing the words out and shaking my head. I didn't want to delude myself into believing anything too far-fetched, even if he was encouraging it.

"Yes, but…. It has to start somewhere, doesn't it?"

"What does?"

He licked his lips, took another drink and set his glass back on its coaster with exaggerated care.

"Friendship," he said with an air of finality, his gaze meeting and holding mine. "And don't you think these coincidences are enough to show maybe we could be friends?"

Or something else altogether, if your eyes are saying what I think they are.

I pushed the idea aside and tried to focus on the inherent sweetness of the statement he'd just made. Friendship was a lovely option, wasn't it?

"Well, going back to the hotel thing…" I began, unsure why I wanted to return to the topic.

"Hmm?"

"Where is the team staying tonight? That is to say, I doubt we're in the same place again, but it's probably a good idea to be sure."

He laughed quietly, nodding, and I understood he wanted to put me at ease. Something changed in that moment and he ceased to be "Renard" in my mind, becoming "Federico" instead.

That's one step closer to something, but what?

Friendship?

_4) For a short while, Brunn and I rode shoulder to shoulder, chatting amiably. He asked whether I was still considering moving to Italy, and if so, where? I said I hadn't changed my mind, but was undecided about where exactly I wanted to go.

Behind me, Schlessinger barked a short, disapproving laugh. I glanced back at him and returned my focus to the ride, only to have him pull alongside. I paid no attention to him, but let him get ahead of me and take his turn at the head of the group.

Brunn looked back at me, shrugged, and when the time came he took over at the head of the group again.

"You never did answer my question, Ciccio," Schlessinger said, dropping behind me once more.

"Which question was that?" I asked, filling my voice with as much bored disinterest as I could.

"How's your girlfriend?"

A ripple of chuckles went through the group around me, but I pretended not to notice. Evidently, word had gotten around.

Now I understood who had sent the magazine to me at the hotel.

I took my time answering him, prolonging my silence by taking a long drink from my water bottle, then meticulously replacing it in its cage. It was my turn to lead again, and I did, noting Brunn's questioningly-raised eyebrow as I passed him.

I waited until my turn was over, and then Schlessinger's, before responding.

"She's fine. I wish her the best."

5) "I thought we were supposed to be on holiday. Or at least that you were treating it like that," I said, sitting opposite him. "You never said you'd be working the whole time."

Charles rubbed his eyes slowly, then lowered his hand to the tabletop. "Abby…"

I stiffened. What on earth was coming, now?

He took a deep breath and looked out the window again. "I might have to go home."

"Why?" I asked, my heart pounding so hard it hurt. Was he going to tell me about the other woman? Was he going to ask for a divorce? Should I be feeling almost eager to hear, one way or the other?

"Work, darling. Always for work."

There were no words. I sat in silence for what felt like an eternity before a question finally formed.

"When were you thinking of going?"

"I thought we'd leave from Torino."

"'We'?"

"Of course, 'we'. I couldn't possibly leave you here alone, following that bunch of miscreants –"

"I'm not going home. Not until the Tour is over."

"Abby, be reasonable-"

"I am. If you need to go home, then go home, but I'm not going with you. I'm following this through, all the way to Paris."

He sighed again, and I resisted the urge to stand and slap him. "Abby, Abby… Of all the things to see through, you pick this?"

For just a moment, I hated him. The moment passed, but it passed slowly.

6) My confidence grew with every step I took, and by the time I passed through the lobby, a sense of invincibility had begun to sink in. All these years, I'd convinced myself that Jerzy had some sort of sixth sense going for him. He'd caught so many of my teammates when they'd misbehaved, hadn't he? Why the devil wasn't he down here now, dragging me back upstairs and threatening to break my legs or something?

Because I am doing what I am supposed to be doing, I thought. Not even the desk clerks saw me go by on my way to the front doors.

I stepped out and watched the entrance of the restaurant across the street. I was suddenly sure that were I to simply start walking across the street – without so much as a glance in either direction – no harm would come to me.

Still, I checked. No point in pushing my luck and getting mown down by a bus.

Once I'd crossed I glanced back at my own hotel, fully expecting to see Jerzy at his window, scowling down at me. Or perhaps waiting at the front door with a hangman's noose in his hand. Or the bucket.

I shivered a little, unable to stop, and then went inside.

7) "I'm glad I found you, Abigail."

"Abby," I said, my lips forming my own name in spite of the fact I couldn't feel them, any more. "My friends call me Abby."

That smile again – innocent, not sly or seductive – and I couldn't pull my gaze away. I was distantly aware of the heat rising to my cheeks. And a few other places, as well.

My heart was pounding to the point I almost couldn't hear when he spoke again. The din of rushing blood in my ears and the rattling of suitcases as they were pulled through the lobby behind me had rendered me nearly deaf.

Then he rested his hand on my arm, just below the short sleeve of my t-shirt, and I snapped out of my daze.

"Abby," he said, my name sounding awkward as he used it for the first time. "Could I buy you a coffee, or something? I'd like to see more of your photos, if I may." His eyes flicked in the direction of my computer bag, and I followed a moment behind, uncomprehending.

"Oh," I said, half-laughing as I understood at last. "Of course you can. We could go in the restaurant here, or in the bar in the back. I think they might have some booths free."

"Perfect." He started across the foyer with me, one hand rising to touch the back of my arm, just above my elbow. It was an innocent, gentlemanly gesture, nothing more, but it sent a small shock through me.

8) My heart was beating triple-time as I hurried across the street and into my hotel. I put my hand in my pocket and felt my keycard there, then took it out and grasped it tight in one hand. Scanning the lobby to reassure myself, I went straight to the stairwell and unlocked the door with my keycard, then took the stairs two at a time, bounding up as quietly as I could.

When I reached my floor, I paused, forcing myself to take slow, deep breaths until I could hear the air-conditioning hum echoing around me. There was no other sound on the floor, as far as I could tell.

I opened the door carefully and poked my head out, harbouring a momentary, insane desire for a mirror to check around the corners with. No sign of Jerzy. He wasn't lurking behind the decorative ficus, nor was he standing by the door to my room. The corridor was completely empty.

Easing the stairwell door shut behind me, I took a few tentative steps toward my room, the keycard against my palm now slicked with sweat.

More silence. Only silence. The quiet padding of my trainers across the carpeted floor barely registered. A sudden, blatting fart – reminiscent of an angry duck's quack! – made me jump as I passed James and Phil's room.

I bit down on my lower lip, hard, to stop the laughter which threatened to erupt. I didn't know if I wanted to laugh because of the noise, or because the noise had actually startled me.

I had to be crazy. This was the biggest risk I'd ever taken – none of my races even compared to this. I knew as well as anyone that Jerzy's wrath wasn't something to be trifled with – contract or no contract, if he wanted you off the team, you were gone.

And here I'd acted against his very explicitly-expressed wishes. I'd broken one of his biggest rules by defying the team curfew.

9) Hollowness carved itself into my stomach at the thought. Could I really be so pragmatic? Could I really let him go so easily? Living alone was something I could handle, no doubt – I was already doing so, wasn't I? – but truly being alone?

I shivered at the thought as Charles replaced the receiver in the cradle of the phone. The bed sank beneath his weight as he shifted and stood up, and I pulled the covers up over my shoulder. I listened to him padding to the window, heard the shick of the curtains opening and the soft patter of rain against the windowpane.

"Abby, you need to get up. We'll want to leave for Avignon as soon as possible this morning."

I ducked under the covers a bit more, sighing. He was right. The stage was starting there today, and it wasn't likely we'd arrive early enough to beat most of the crowds. Perhaps I'd have to shoot further along the route instead?

I shook my head. The logistics alone made it unlikely that Charles would agree to change any plans at this late hour.

With a groan, I extracted myself from the covers and shuffled across the room. My lack of sleep the night before was going to be problematical. Charles laughed softly behind me and I turned to face him.

"What?" I asked, allowing myself a smile at the sound of his gentle mirth.

"You're becoming an old fart like me, darling. The late nights aren't agreeing with you as much as they used to, eh?"

"I guess not." I nodded, stepping onto the cool, tiled floor of the bathroom. "Maybe I just need to get back into the habit?"

"Maybe."

He stood in the doorway while I took off my nightgown. I felt his gaze, steadily assessing, slide over me while I turned on the water in the tub and pulled the lever to send the water up to the showerhead. I stood straight and faced him, making no attempt to hide myself. Why should I? He'd seen everything a thousand times before, and had shown his appreciation just a few days ago, hadn't he?

And yet… The desire to cover myself up, a perverse demure impulse, flitted through me. The words were there, on the tip of my tongue, waiting to be spoken.

Who are you? Where did you come from? Why did you go?

And the worst, most painful question of all came as he turned away, half-smiling.

What did I do wrong?

10) I wondered briefly how Schlessinger thought he might fare on the descents this time. Would he manage his nerves better this time around? In the team meeting on the bus that morning, Jerzy had alluded to the descents as being of key importance. I was climbing well – stupendously well, in fact – and a touch of that sense of invincibility returned as I worked my way up the ascent.

I don't really believe in luck – good or bad – but I couldn't deny the feeling which had wrapped itself around me this morning. Aware I was smiling again, I wondered if I looked as oblivious and simpleminded as I feared I might.

The day came into sharp focus: the green of the mountains, the white peaks in the distance, the deep grey of the tarmac rolling slowly beneath our wheels all had a clarity which I would have sworn wasn't there moments before. The air itself was crisp and sharp, magnifying the approaching summit until it seemed as though we were there a thousand times over.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, her voice was whispering her name to me.

She was in Grenoble by now. She was waiting.

I had to reach her. Forget everything else.

And if I happened to snatch a little time and close the gap a bit? If I happened to get a bit closer to the Royal in the process? All the better.

11) There were still three weeks before the race was over, too. Could I really do it on my own? And if I did, what would I be coming home to? In a way, it was almost better not knowing. At least then I could imagine whatever I wanted, and deal with the reality later.

It was a foolish way to address the situation, but there it was. I'd made my choice by not saying anything. It was already too late. Whenever I told him (tomorrow? the day after? the day after that, when he left?), there was no way to know how he'd react.

We'd have to hash this out eventually, but I was reluctant to set it all in motion.

Or I could just go home with him and be done with it.

I shook my head. No, that would never do. I'd hate myself forever if I did. How many dreams did I have to let die to find the dream I wanted most? I'd given up the idea of children when his career made it clear I'd be raising them alone, and now it was nearly too late. I'd passed on owning a photo lab in our small town because he felt it was too risky and besides, "The chemist's got that covered, hasn't he?" Artistic photography? Too arty-farty and I'd need a proper patron in order to make it work. "And what would you photograph, anyway? Backsides and landscapes?"

I sighed, remembering. He'd methodically shot down each and every one of them with stunning accuracy. I still didn't understand why he'd gone along with the Tour project. Maybe because the magazine had liked my demo shots and put up some funding for this project? Or maybe because his job had all but pushed him to take a holiday in the first place?

Most likely he'd thought I'd get bored and abandon it, just like I'd done with other half-hearted projects in the past; furniture refinishing, an attempt at watercolour paintings of landscapes, volunteering at the local crafts club.

But this was different. This was my passion reborn, but he couldn't see it at all.

He couldn't see the changes in me, either. I reckon we'd grown too far apart for him to see me clearly any more.

12) "I saw what happened with Solange. Her pictures are all over the 'net right now."

Was it possible I had no idea what she was talking about? Did she mean the AvantMode – if one pardoned the unfortunate choice of word – spread?

Abby blushed again, deeper this time.

"I saw the photos of her with that Conway person. They were on the entertainment news on TV, too."

"They were?" I asked, strangely incredulous.

Abby nodded, guiltily this time. "Yes. Some sort of art show or premiere or something? I hadn't heard anything about that until today. You're taking it rather well, though."

"Well, you know. I wish her the best. Really, I do. She'd never have been happy with me, anyway."

I don't know why I said it, but as soon as I had, I realized it was true. Solange had hated cycling – she hated most sports, except for figure skating and diving competitions – and she had admitted it from the start. That was, once her gig as a Tour d'Europa podium girl was over, of course. It wouldn't have done for the public to know that the smiling girl in the royal blue dress, giving kisses to each cyclist on the podium, thought that the sport itself was boring and the competitors were egotistical bastards (her words, not mine).

"How can you say that?" Abby's face held a sincere confusion which I found both puzzling and endearing. "You shouldn't be so hard on yourself."

"I'm not being hard on myself," I said, and a small chuckle wormed its way out of me. "Honestly. It's very kind of you to defend me, though. Even if it is against myself."

"Well, you seem like a decent enough person to me. I mean, you're nice, you're accessible, you're attra-" She cut herself short, but not before I understood what she was about to say.

The ever-deepening flush in her cheeks only confirmed it.

"Maybe I'm not so nice, Abby."

"What do you mean?" she asked, turning the computer so she could see it without looking up at me.

"The fact I've hardly thought about her the last couple of days should mean something, shouldn't it?"

13) I was thankful Charles had gone up to the room to do some work, particularly glad he hadn't put up much fuss about the fact one of the teams was staying there. That they would be on the bottom floors and we would be at the top seemed to help, too.

The team came into the lobby while I was sitting in one of the overstuffed chairs by the dining hall entrance, just passing the time before I went up to get changed for dinner. I put away my computer, resisting the urge to go up to Federico and…do what? Throw my arms around him and kiss him? Ask him to take me away?

I shook my head and laughed to myself. Ridiculous. I'm absolutely ridiculous.

But when I got up to leave, he turned around and spotted me as though he'd expected me to be there all along.

Stopping short, I stood there, his gaze holding mine across the lobby's parquet flooring and wooden furnishings. In spite of the chaos of a couple dozen people checking in at once, the lobby seemed silent and still. He broke eye contact with me to face the receptionist and take the keycard she'd slid across the desk to him, and then he turned and pushed through his teammates in order to come over and join me.

A swift rush of dizziness came over me and I realized I'd stopped breathing for a moment. I drew a long, deep breath before he stepped up to me, smiling his usual sweet, warm smile.

And there you have an additional thirteen excerpts from 27 Stages.












I hope you've enjoyed them.























I'm working hard to get the book finished and then, of course, out for all you fine readers to enjoy in its entirety.































In the meantime, I'll have to give the ladies a little something to tide them over.






















Just a little somethin'-somethin'.

_"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.

This week, I've found inspiration in a number of places, not least of which include the opening pages of the novels I've read recently. I shared the source of inspiration which made me want to be a (better) writer in an earlier post this week, and that in turn got me to thinking about what makes a book grab you and want to keep reading.

I wanted to do this post to share the opening paragraphs of the books which are currently strewn about my desk at the present time. Some of them I read last winter, others I read just yesterday. I thought maybe it would be interesting to show how different writers have constructed that all-important first paragraph (or, to be fair, first page or so). For this post, however, I skipped any prologues or forewards in order to get right to the story itself. (And, yes, my own book is on my desk, in both printings.)

So now, please allow me to present to you:

1) Blackeberg.

It makes you think of coconut-frosted cookies, maybe drugs. "A respectable life." You think subway station, suburb. Probably nothing else comes to mind. People must live there, just like they do in other places. That was why it was built, after all, so that people would have a place to live.




Let the Right One In - John Ajvide Lindqvist:

2) "Have you seen it?" asked Samantha.

I leaned close to my computer so my editor wouldn't hear me on a personal call.

"Seen what?"

"Oh, nothing. Never mind. We'll talk when you get home."

"Seen what?" I asked again.

"Nothing," Samantha repeated.

"Samantha, you have never once called me in the middle of the day about nothing. Now come on. Spill."

Samantha sighed. "Okay, but remember: Don't shoot the messenger."

Now I was getting worried.



Good in Bed - Jennifer Weiner

3) Hollyhocks don't grow in the desert. Yet hundreds and hundreds of their red satin blossoms line a wide stone path to a flung iron gate. I know this is a dream. Through the gate lie astonishing, sweeping gardens. There are roses. Ivory and white and the color of burnt cream, they climb trellises and sprawl in beds, spill and ramble and entwine. Boxwood parterres, hedges of yew, clumps of lavender, fat and tall, and white foxgloves nod among dahlias, among white peonies. I know that the castle and the roses and the hollyhocks are sun-stroke illusions. The hallucination will pass. We'll climb back in the car and drive away from this madness of silence and mockery. But while the hallucination endures I want to look over there, where gnarled trunks of wisteria and jasmine and grapevines tent a pergola, make a dark, shady room from whose depths laughter comes. How many days has it been since I've heard laughter? Even my own? I walk toward the pergola, and stand at the opening to see a clutch of women in long black dresses who sit 'round an oilclothed table. Tremulous light insists among the leaves, spangles the women's fingers flurrying over a heap of yellow beans.

"Buongiorno," they say before we can.



That Summer in Sicily - A Love Story - Marlena de Blasi

4) Jude had a private collection.

He had framed sketches of the Seven Dwarfs on the wall of his studio, in between his platinum records. John Wayne Gacy had drawn them while he was in jail and sent them to him. Gacy liked golden-age Disney almost as much as he liked molesting little kids; almost as much as he liked Jude's albums.



Heart-Shaped Box - Joe Hill

5) I can recall the exact moment I got hooked on the sport of bike racing. It was 1968, and I was eight years old. My cousin brought his ten-speed racing bike to my grandmother's house one summer day. It was the most foreign thing I had ever seen, with its crazy handlbars, skinny tires, tiny seat and angry-looking cogs. Everyone in my neighborhood rode Schwinn Sting-Ray bikes, so I stood awestruck in the driveway and looked at that bike like it was from Mars. And though the top of my head barely came up to the tip of the saddle, I knew right then and there that this thing "fit" me.



Roadie - the Misunderstood World of a Bike Racer - Jamie Smith

6) 'It's your mother.'

Three simple words that chilled me to the core as I accepted the phone from Joyce, the school receptionist. Point one, my mother never, ever  called me at work, and point two, she'd never say she was my mother. She was always Marla -- even as a child I had never been allowed to call her Mum.


Crystal Clear - Nell Dixon

7) They used to be called the Firefly Lane girls. That was a long time ago--more than three decades--but just now, as she lay in bed listening to a winter storm raging outside, it seemed like yesterday.

Firefly Lane - Kristin Hannah

8) Dan Swansea came awake in the darkness, not knowing for a minute who he was or where. He lifted one hand to his head and groaned when it came away sticky with blood. Slowly (or at least it felt that way), things returned to him. His name. That he was outside in a parking lot, on his back in the gravel, and he was freezing. Also, except for his shoes and socks, he was naked.

Best Friends Forever - Jennifer Weiner

9) Restlessly, Emily’s feet slid over the pockmarked concrete of the Rovigo train station platform, chips of disintegrating cement gritting under the soles of her shoes. Two hollow blasts of a distant whistle shook her out of her daze and she sat up on the bench to focus on the pinprick of light emerging from the fog.

Ask Me if I'm Happy - Kimberly Menozzi

10) In June of 1980, Lydia Arnaud travelled with her parents and two brothers to a critérium - a town centre, short-circuit race - in Longjumeau on the southern end of Paris. Born into a cycling-mad family in Conflans-Sainte-Honorine, a large suburb on the north-western outskirts of the French capital, fifteen-year-old Lydia was the only daughter of André and Marie-Louise Arnaud, and her weekends were invariably spent supporting her brothers, Thierry and Michel, at various amateur bike races around Paris.


Inside the Peloton - My Life as a Professional Cyclist - Nicolas Roche

11) My suffering left me sad and gloomy.

Academic study and the steady, mindful practice of religion slowly brought me back to life. I have kept up with what some people would consider my strange religious practices. After one year of high school, I attended the University of Toronto and took a double-major Bachelor's degree. My majors were religious study and zoology. My fourth-year thesis for religious studies concerned certain aspects of the cosmogony theory of Isaac Luria, the great sixteenth-century Kabbalist from Safed. My zoology thesis was a functional analysis of the thyroid gland of the three-toed sloth. I chose the sloth because its demeanour--calm, quiet and introspective--did something to soothe my shattered self.


Life of Pi - Yann Martel

12) It is early morning.

I have been dozing. I open my eyes.

For a moment, I don't know where I am.

Then I remember the night before, the hands on my shoulders, pushing me, shoving me, the rage and the abuse, my heart racing, my palms sweating.

And then, my guts in sudden freefall, I recognise where I am, the bare walls, the rough blanket, the hanging light bulb.

I am in a French police cell, below Biarritz town hall, in an empty basement. A smell of piss and disinfectant hangs in the air. A drunken man shouts relentlessly in a cell somewhere down the corridor.


Racing Through the Dark - David Millar

13) The primroses were over. Toward the edge of the wood, where the ground became open and sloped down to an old fence and a brambly ditch beyond, only a few fading patches of pale yellow still showed among the dog's mercury and oak-tree roots. On the other side of the fence, the upper part of the field was full of rabbit holes. In places the grass was gone altogether and everywhere there were clusters of dry droppings, through which nothing but the ragwort would grow. A hundred yards away, at the bottom of the slope, ran the brook, no more than three feet wide, half choked with kingcups, watercress and blue brooklime. The cart track crossed by a brick culvert and climbed the opposite slope to a five-barred gate in the thorn hedge. The gate led into the lane.


Watership Down - Richard Adams

And there you have them. I hope they've intrigued, baffled or otherwise claimed your attention for whatever reason.















And I'm not crazy. I know other things get your attention, too.





















Shiny things. Pretty things.

























Pretty, pretty things.

_ 
When I was very young – about the age of nine or ten, actually – I saw the film version of Richard Adams's Watership Down. I was entranced by the often disturbing visuals (my parents had no idea what the film was like, as they never bothered watching it with me, thinking it was "just a cartoon") and captivated by the story. The idea that rabbits had such traumatic lives (and deaths) was something so absolutely foreign to me, I simply couldn't grasp it. I loved the film so much, I was inspired to try to write my own story with similar themes – the problem was, I could barely understand what the film was really about, and so my pale imitation remained just that: an imitation.

After I'd watched it countless times (I literally lost track of the viewings), I finally noticed that the film was in fact based on a book. The emotion which followed this discovery was indescribable, as though I'd just had a moment of divine intervention in my life, because I loved books. I carried my favorite titles around everywhere I went, reading them every chance I got, even though I'd long since memorized them.

Finally, I found myself in a bookstore, perusing the titles away from the children's fiction section, and after standing on my tip-toes and craning my neck, I spotted it, way up high on a the top shelf. The spine was an autumnal mix of yellows and golds, the title framed in a box of brown so dark it was almost black. I know I must have gasped, or made some sort of sound of surprise, because a man browsing in the same aisle was startled to hear it. I stretched out my arm, cursing the fact I was so short, unable to reach the top shelf even though I hopped up and down to the best of my ability. The man gave me a funny look, then, understanding my dilemma, smiled at me.

"Do you want one of these?"

Oh-my-goodness-yes-yes-YES!!!

"Yes, please."

"Which one?"

"Watership Down." I was so excited I could hardly stand it. He kindly pulled the book off the shelf and handed it to me, and after I managed to squeak out a "Thank you!" I went barreling down the length of the store looking for my mom, clutching my treasure close.

I found her at the front of the store, looking through the bargain books.

"Did you find anything?" she asked, then turned her head and looked at me while I danced in place like a hyperactive bundle of pure energy on a sugar high, needing to pee. Desperately.

"Iwantthisoneplease!"

Mom frowned. "Oh, Kim. No."

WhaaaaAAAA???

"Why not?"

"That's a book for grownups."

"So?"

"You'll never read it."

"Sure I will!"

One hand on hip, she turned to fully face me. "How many pages is it?"

I opened the book, still jogging in place. "Four hundred seventy-eight pages."

Mom sighed. "It's too big. There's no way you'll read that whole thing."

"I-will-I-will-I-will! I promise! And I won't ask for another book until I'm done with it!"

Mom sighed again. "Fine. But you can't get any more books until you're done with that one. And I want to see you reading it."

She knew this was the biggest threat she could level at me. I got a book at least every other week. I looked forward to those books as much as I did Christmas or my birthday. "Okay. You will."

And so I went home with my very own copy of Watership Down in my hot little hands, resisting the urge to open it until I could get home and savor the first pages. On the ride home, I stared at the cover, committing it to memory, loving those earthy colors, the rabbit on the front, the golden grass in watercolors on the back cover, the red outer edges of the pages.

Once I was home, I bolted to my room and sat on my bed, then turned on my bedside lamp. I perused the maps on the first few pages, stumbled over the segment of Agamemnon quoted before the chapter's start, and then dug in and started reading:

The primroses were over. Toward the edge of the wood, where the ground became open and sloped down to an old fence and a brambly ditch beyond, only a few fading patches of pale yellow still showed among the dog's mercury and oak-tree roots. On the other side of the fence, the upper part of the field was full of rabbit holes. In places the grass was gone altogether and everywhere there were clusters of dry droppings, through which nothing but the ragwort would grow. A hundred yards away, at the bottom of the slope, ran the brook, no more than three feet wide, half choked with kingcups, watercress and blue brooklime. The cart track crossed by a brick culvert and climbed the opposite slope to a five-barred gate in the thorn hedge. The gate led into the lane.
                                                 
Time passed. My confidence was a tad battered, but I emerged from my room after completing the first few chapters, feeling strange. It wasn't at all what I had expected, but not in a bad way. It was like the movie, but different. It was also very different from what I'd written for myself, in so many ways. It was richer, layered, full of details which – when I understood the words, and there were a few I honestly couldn't fathom at the time – pulled me in and made me feel like I was really, truly there in that doomed warren of rabbits, needing to escape but not sure how to do so.

"So? How is it?" Mom asked, and I know now she expected me to say "It's too hard!" or "I don't understand it!" or something along those lines.

"It's very… descriptive. There's lots of description in it."

"Oh, really?"

"Uh-huh." I nodded and then looked down at the book, still in my hand. I looked up at her again, wishing she could understand what I felt at that moment. The wonder, the rightness, were beyond my ability to explain. So I settled for "Thanks, Mom," and went back to reading in my room.

I read the book more than twenty times that summer. I re-read it every year, and even now, thirty years on, I discover something new and beautiful with every reading. To this day, it's the detail in the descriptions I savor. I read those details, and the way they unfold, painting the scene, makes it seem as though I've closed my eyes and opened them in another time and place.

Yes, I can appreciate the allegory, now. I can see the symbolism and understand the themes threaded through the narrative, almost all of which flew over the head of my nine-year-old self. I no longer try to write in the same style, but in the back of my mind, as I describe a place and try to set the stage, a desire to draw the reader in as Adams drew me in, so utterly and completely it was a shock to stop reading and find I wasn't actually there, remains.

One day, I might just manage it. But until then, the primroses are over, and there's a gate leading onto a lane I need to stroll down. It's been a while since my last visit.

(This article originally appeared on the Power of Language blog in 2010.)

1) Ypsilanti, Michigan was nothing like this. For that reason alone, Emily Miller knew the scene before her should have been perfect. Beyond the Basilica di Santa Maria della Salute, the sun faded from the sky. Streaks and splashes of orange, pink and red darkened and drained down into the sea. The water of the lagoon deepened to violet and then to indigo at the base of the dock – the Molo, she corrected herself – while the black-and-white striped shirts of the gondoliers glowed ghostlike over the sleek black boats drifting silently toward the Bridge of Sighs.

With a little imagination, it would be easy to be lost in a fantasy of timelessness and forget that it was Nineteen-Ninety-Eight. Forgetting the past year – or at least to forget the last six months or so – would be a blessing, anyway.

2) Dreamlike, watery voices drifted and echoed, calling to each other and reflecting off the walls in a language Emily didn't understand. Dull splashes followed, accompanied by jeering, teasing shouts before the rumble of an engine rattled the windows in their frames for a moment. She squinted through sleep-heavy eyes and behind the fine lace curtains of her window made out a woolen grey sky over the rooftops of the next building.

3) She shook her head and paused atop a bridge to watch a pair of gondolas pass at the end of the canal. Raising her camera she framed the shot, feeling a momentary embarrassment for taking such a "touristy" photo.

Ah, what the hell? Why not? It's not like I'll ever come here again.

Another gondola passed beneath the bridge a moment later and she stilled herself, waiting for the perfect image. An errant breeze lifted her skirt just as the gondola emerged. The gondolier looked up at her, and Emily dropped her free hand down to protect her modesty. His blue eyes flashed with mirth at her reaction before he turned back to focus on the task at hand, taking his crooked grin out of her view.

She couldn't resist the smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth before she crossed to the other side of the bridge.

Finally, a reaction that's just for me - but only because of a panty-flash? That figures.

4) "Emily." His soft voice carried above the sounds of the crowd to feel like a caress in the relative silence after the engine's shutdown. "Let me help you up."

Stone steps ascended from the water to the walkway, and Jacopo's steadying hand kept her from losing her footing on the slippery surface. Once on the pavement he held her hand secure in his own, placing his other hand at the small of her back to steer her along the bridge.

In spite of herself, she was compelled to pause at the top and push through the crowd that had gathered along the wall to have their photographs taken with the Grand Canal as the backdrop. She wished that she had brought her camera with her, but smiled to think how silly her bulky camera bag would have looked with her outfit.

"Che peccato," Jacopo said, taking her hand and drawing her away from the wall. "What a shame. If only we had a camera to make your photo."

Her eyes widened at the statement.

"Besides," he continued when she remained silent, "this light is quite flattering to you." His smooth fingertips slid from her hand to her wrist and back again. "It is like your skin is made of roses."

The thudding of her heart had to be noticeable; it was thumping so hard in her chest. Emily had a vision of his lips on her wrist, just grazing there before continuing along her arm, and she shook her head to dispel it.

This is going to be quite an evening, I'm sure of it.

Her silence didn't seem to disturb him in the least. Jacopo gazed wordlessly into her eyes for a moment before he took her hand in his once more and led her off the bridge. He guided her down a darkened calle, full of twists and turns, until she lost all sense of direction in the coming dark.

5) Jacopo's eyes held hers over the flickering candlelight. "So, Emily… It is just you and your friend traveling? Why isn't your boyfriend with you?"

Pushing her reflexive scowl off her face at the word "boyfriend," Emily shrugged. "I don't have one."

"No boyfriend? Your lover, then."

His bluntness threw her. How was she supposed to answer that?

Her gaze fell to the tablecloth and she fussed with the placement of her cutlery to avoid meeting his eyes. Cheeks burning, she took a deep breath and spoke.

"No lover, either."

Their host rushed out of the kitchen and set a serving plate between them. Emily noted the assortment of appetizers with a wary eye.

Jacopo picked up her plate and placed a few items on it before handing it back to her. "Capesante, aringa affumicata, patè di fegato," he recited, pointing at each in turn. "Scallops, smoked herring, veal liver patè."

She regarded the offerings for a long moment before reaching for the patè. Might as well try something new.

He filled his own small plate, then ate with his eyes on her all the while.

"No lover?" he asked, continuing as though there hadn't been any interruption.

Emily selected the herring and stuffed it in her mouth. She nodded, then shook her head, unsure of the proper response. Jacopo's smile embarrassed her further and the familiar heat rushed to her cheeks again before she swallowed.

"Nope. No lover. You?" She asked this last with a bravado she wasn't sure she felt. She swallowed another sip of wine and wondered if maybe that was why.

His only answer was a sly grin.

6) The streets were virtually empty, the campi deserted. They crossed the Rialto Bridge again, Jacopo guiding her as before, but this time he steered her to a place at the wall. The bridge was aglow, the ghostly pale stone surface softly illuminated by strategically placed lights. They stood and looked out at the reflections on the water which rippled, rose and fell with soft, gentle lapping against the boats moored nearby.

"Emily," he said, his voice scarcely carrying above the soft murmurs of conversation around them. She drew her gaze away from the hypnotic dance of light on water to face him.

Yes? she wanted to ask, but the word never formed on her lips. Instead, his hands framed her face and held her still as he brought his lips to hers in a soft kiss. She raised her own trembling hands to cover his as he kissed her again. At once, the other people vanished, along with the bridge, the water and the city itself.

His hands slipped from under hers to stroke her hair, tangling in the length of it while his kiss deepened. Her heartbeat was distant and remote, somewhere else. There were only his lips, parting hers and lingering while he pulled her to him and held her securely in his embrace. Emily trembled as eagerness, anxiety and need warred amongst themselves, threatening to breach the surface at any moment.

7) After lunch, they strolled across the campo toward the rio where he'd docked the runabout. A narrow bridge spanned the water, with a wrought-iron gate on the campo side and a huge arched wooden door on the other. The elaborate scrollwork of the iron in the gate revealed countless hours of work and a lifetime of training in every fine turn.

Emily longed to have her camera in her hands, to photograph the details of the ironwork.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" she asked, trailing her hand along the spirals and twirls to feel the movement in the metal.

"Sì, it is. It is very old, too. At least one hundred years – but it has been treated well and does not rust, unlike others."

She turned to ask how he knew that for sure, but stopped upon seeing the large iron key in his hand. His gaze held hers as he stepped forward and slipped his key into the lock with a rather provocative gesture, a wicked grin on his face all the while.

Her throat went suddenly dry and she swallowed hard, a pleasant tingle sweeping through her body at the unspoken statement in his actions. The sound of the iron key in the lock had an audible heft to it, and she pictured the key pushing the tumblers about to unlock them.

8) "My mother wishes me to marry," he said, his words echoing slightly in the grand room.

Even though she was sitting, Emily's knees went to water. Had she been standing, she would have hit the floor in a graceless slump. As it was, she found herself sliding back to sit in the armchair.

"Really?" she asked, hoping the delay wasn't noticeable.

"Sì, è vero." Jacopo looked up at her at last. "That is; yes, it's true. She is fond of saying that she wishes for me to find a wife, before she dies. She wishes for me to be an honest man, with an honest woman." His expression was full of dark humor, a bitter turn to his mouth.

"Wow." At a loss for words, Emily wiped her suddenly clammy hands on her thighs, pulling the fabric of her skirt taut.

"This has become her favorite subject, with me: 'Find a wife, give me a grandchild.'" Jacopo's gaze drifted to the open window, focusing somewhere over Emily's left shoulder. "I can't believe it, but she said it again, just now when she was leaving."

"Just now?" She trembled, her pulse already racing. She drew a slow, deep breath, hoping Jacopo wouldn't notice. The light sweat along the back of her neck felt positively chilly, now.

What is he leading up to? It can't be, can it?

Jacopo blinked and his eyes shifted to her face, regarding her in silence before a short bark of laughter escaped him.

"Oddio! Emily! I didn't mean that she wants me to marry you."

9) The gelateria's storefront lit the entire street in a soft neon glow, and the benches propping the doors open allowed artificially-cooled air to seep enticingly outward. Emily shivered when they entered, her eyes widening at the colorful display in oblong stainless-steel bins that filled the refrigerated cases. Dozens of frosted tubs of bright colors were lined up inside, the flavors they contained written in Italian or what Emily guessed was the local dialect.

She thought of Jacopo, speaking with the man in the restaurant in an utterly incomprehensible and somehow still more foreign tongue. The recollection brought with it both a hint of warmth and pull of longing for him.

Jenn debated her choices for an embarrassingly long time. Emily ordered by pointing out her selections and fumbling through her pronunciations of their names. The server was curt without being rude, and Emily was certain that, were Jenn not there being, well, Jenn, his patience would have run out much faster. When more patrons entered and Jenn still hadn't decided, the server simply took his spatula in hand, slathered some random selections precariously onto a cone and thrust it into her hand, waving her off.

"I got a freebie," Jenn said as they turned to go out of the shop. Her expression was childlike, full of surprise and delight.

10) It all passed in a whirl: the lion over the archway, the musty stairs leading up the chilly stairwell to the upper floors, even the plain front door which Jacopo heaved open and closed with a show of impatience. Emily clutched his hand in hers, focusing on his warmth in the darkness, her excitement warring with anxiety as Jacopo switched on the light in the foyer. He led her through the long corridor with the open windows, taking her past the grand sitting room and into unknown territory.

Now they stood in a room she hadn't seen on her visit earlier that day. The light from the foyer barely reached the doorway. Most of the illumination came from the windows, reflecting off the pale walls to give the room a hazy, unfocused glow. Heavy brocade curtains framed the windows; an aged Oriental carpet lay atop the shining marble floor, and an ornate wrought-iron bed frame draped with luxurious silk bedcovers stood against the wall, a gauzy canopy over the head of the bed shifting ghostlike in a scarcely-felt breeze.

Jacopo's bedroom resembled a museum display rather than a place to rest.

11) Her sleep-weighted eyes adjusted slowly. Still peering through her lashes, she spied Jacopo sitting in the wing chair next to one of the windows. In spite of the faint chill of the early morning he was nude, and a pleasant tremor shook her as she regarded his body from a distance. His hair was in tousled disarray, and her fingers tingled with a desire to stroke it into place again. His gaze fixed upon some midpoint between himself and the bed, but his face appeared utterly without expression.

A small shiver ran through her from head to toe, followed by a prickling of her skin so intense it pulled at the sheets under her.

The sheer curtains shifted in the breeze pushing through the open shutters. A stronger gust followed, flipping the edge of one panel up to obscure Jacopo from her vision, and she closed her eyes while the fine hairs of her arms raised as if someone had walked over her grave.

12) "Dimmi," he whispered, sliding his arm around her waist and picking up her cappuccino to sample it. "Tell me."

Emily took a deep breath and met his gaze with hers, then plunged ahead.

"I was wondering why you chose me over Jenn."

He laughed aloud, drawing a glance from the barista and two older women seated on the bench by the door. "This is what you looked so serious for? Dio bon!"

"Well?" Emily felt the blush rise to her cheeks, a flash fire on her cool skin. "It doesn't make any sense, does it? Men follow her around everywhere she goes, and then the best of the bunch chooses me?"

"'Best of the bunch'?" Jacopo echoed, and her blush intensified. "Emily, cara…" he framed her face in his hands, still laughing. "This, I think, is your true flaw."

My face? she thought, and swallowed the goony laugh that threatened to erupt.

13) Emily didn't need to see the bags beneath her eyes – she felt them there, swollen, containing the bulk of a restless night. The sleepless hours she'd passed alone were nearly enough to convince her that she'd started losing her mind.

The cardboard tube rested next to her as it had since Jacopo left, still unopened despite the loving caresses she'd imparted from time to time. Emily reviewed his giving of this gift over and over again, trying to guess what it might contain. She was certain it was one of the prints that had fascinated her in the shop, and this mattered, for some strange reason she couldn't quite fathom. She desperately wanted to guess the contents before opening the tube, but didn't know why.

It was just a little gift, right? Nothing special about it.

Except for what he'd said, when he gave it to her; "I just thought you should have it, after I saw you admiring it in the shop."

How did he see me looking at the prints? I was talking to the old man when Jacopo came in – I could swear it.

The prints had been lovely, though. One, of a bridge to the square where the shop itself stood; the other, a watercolor of Proserpina eating the pomegranate seeds that would confine her to Hades.

So which was it? The bridge, or Proserpina? Proserpina or the bridge?

The question echoed in her head, an all-consuming thought, until at last the sun shone on the buildings across the canal, and she slept and dreamed.

You can't go wrong with Raoul, now, can you? ;)

Ciao for now!

ACK! <scramble, scramble>

Yep - I've been caught unprepared again this week. There's been a lot going on "behind the scenes" as it were, so I didn't have time to do a heavily-detailed Thursday Thirteen this week. I'm afraid I'll have to repeat a theme I've done before, but with new material. (Does that make sense?)

So here are

Ciao for now!

10) Dilute and delude.
To "dilute" or to be "diluted" means to be watered down or spread out.
To "delude" or to be "deluded" means to be fooled or to confuse (directly related to "delusion/delusional").

All righty then. I feel better after getting that off my chest.













I'm sure many of you understand, and probably agree.






















I appreciate that, truly.




















And while we're on the subject of getting things off our chests...

Ciao for now!

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.