My HUGE Announcement: S&S Bought My Book!

I’ve been such a sporadic blogger lately, for lots of reasons: a little gymnast who needs daily transportation; a new book idea (a middle grade!) that popped out of nowhere and has taken over my writing life; friends and family visiting from far away; a zany summer schedule with all my crew at home. But one of the main reasons for my radio silence is that I’ve been keeping a big, distracting secret that makes it almost impossible to focus.

And now I can finally tell you about it!

Guys, I have a book deal for my middle grade verse novel, RED BUTTERFLY, with Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers. 

!!!

My sweet little protagonist, Kara, is going to be in a real book! She will have a pretty cover and she will be edited and people will walk into a book store and hopefully pick her up and look at her and maybe choose to read her … this is mind boggling!

Here’s the official announcement:

Christian Trimmer at Simon & Schuster has bought world English rights to Red Butterfly by debut author A.L. Sonnichsen. The middle-grade novel in verse tells of a Chinese girl raised in solitude by her American mother, who must navigate China's strict adoption system when she is torn away from the only family she has ever known. Publication is set for winter 2015; Kate Schafer Testerman of kt literary was the agent.

I have so much to be thankful for. SO MUCH. The funny thing is, I’ve had many of these blessings all along this journey—a God who planted in me this desire to write and who has given me the strength to pursue this dream; a family who loves and supports me; friends who have been my cheerleaders, critique partners, beta readers and information specialists (I’m afraid if I’m more specific, this will become more of an Oscar acceptance speech than a blog post). Also, I’m hugely grateful to Kate Testerman, my amazing agent, whose faith in this book renewed my hope. And to Christian Trimmer, my new editor (eek!), whom I adore already.

As many of you know, the journey to this point hasn’t been a skip through the park. But I’m very, very thankful I had the encouragement from others to help me persevere. THANK YOU ALL!!

Bloggy Friends: Up Close and Personal

I've been a hopeless blogger this summer. Sorry! Between gymnastics and summer activities, I'm having a hard time keeping up.

But I did want to stop in to tell you something so fun: I get to see Janet Johnson tomorrow!

She's stopping by my house and staying with us on her way to the Oregon Coast with her family. I even get to meet her kids.

And when Janet and I get together, you better believe there's going to be some hacky sack action going on, since we're co-founders of the Hacky Sack Club. Stay tuned for the craziness!!

I'm so excited. I've met a few of my bloggy friends in person, but most of you I only know online.

Have you ever met any of your bloggy friends or critique partners in person? Was it a good experience? 

FitG Update: The Giver

I'd seen THE GIVER by Lois Lowry on so many favorite-book lists over the years, and what with it being a Newbery Medal winner, I couldn't resist adding it to my Fill-in-the-Gaps list (which I have neglected for much too long, by the way).

I can see why THE GIVER received such accolades. What a fascinating concept and world! And it was a page-turner, too. I was so curious to find out what would happen to Jonas (who was precious!).

I think what makes this book so sticky (in a good way, in that it STICKS in your head) is that the world was so haunting and brilliantly (and patiently) unraveled. As a writer, I received a good lesson in what it looks like to show-don't-tell.

Have you read THE GIVER?

Next up in my Fill-in-the-Gaps reading challenge:

I'm only on the second chapter, but the voice in this book is freakin' amazing. I'm enjoying it so much! 

What are you reading?

Summer Schedule

My parents are visiting this week from Hong Kong AND I received very helpful feedback from my critique partner, Melodie, on my work-in-progress YA novel, so I haven't had time to write short stories lately. I still have a few people's inspirational words left, so my goal is to write about one story a week until I catch up.

Just wanted to explain the delay.

If you're in the northern hemisphere, enjoy your summer. We've had some hot, beautiful weather over here!

Two of my kiddos enjoying time at the park with my mom.

I've also been spending lots of time with my seven year old at the gym -- she's third from the left.

Happy summer! How have you been keeping busy?

Short Story 9: Perfume

Sheri could still smell Grandmere’s eau de cologne from when they’d embraced. It lingered all day, bringing back the jagged memory of the old woman’s crannied face bending close to whisper, “Murder.”

Grandmere had lived half her life isolato, handing her husband a pink slip the day she turned forty that read: I’m leaving you and the children, finding my own way.

She’d lived for years now on her own desert island, which was really only in Palm Springs, but might as well have been off the coast of Iran for as much as anyone came close to her.

If Sheri had believed in karma, she would have relished this moment: Grandmere’s brain addled from her solitude, from the brabble of her vindictive imaginings.

But Sheri couldn’t bring herself to feel anything but cold.

She viewed the day in disjointed memories, as if detached from it.

There was the casket with Grandpa Jack inside.

(They’d buried him with his hunting rifle and the dead rabbit he’d shot the morning of the heart attack.)

There was also Grandmere’s dyed-pink hair in a floaty poof.

There was the embrace, the halitosis and perfume intermingling.

And there was the dread that locked around her throat, the dread she had carried from childhood but had never named.

Oh yes, it was all there.

And there, of course, was the word Grandmere had murmured.

“Murder.”

Her pink hair bobbing like she knew. She knew.

Sheri stepped into the shower, scalding hot against paper-thin skin, to wash all the smells away.

Thank you to Sheri (a.k.a. S.A. Larsen) for her inspirational words: karma, brabble and isolato. If you're wondering why I'm writing shorts, click here.

Short Story 8: Mr. Darcy

Mr. Darcy was everything Myrna wished him to be. Gray, sleek. A warm body. Even his claws against her skin was a reminder that he was alive, that she was not alone, that she had no control over what he did. He was his own. And he was choosing to be with her.

This is why she did not move for two hours.

This is also why her toosh fell asleep.

And if you know anything about Myrna’s toosh, you will know that it does not take well to sleeping.

But Mr. Darcy. Oh, Mr. Darcy. He was a luxury.

When he finally ambled away,  she tried to lurch for the phone, but found it out of her grasp.

She wiggled her toes. “All right, old woman. Get up.”

But the lecture did no good. The couch was too deep.

Mr. Darcy licked his silken paws in the doorway.

“Fickle creature,” Myrna scolded. But she didn’t mean it.

She made another lunge at the phone. This time she managed to knock it to the floor.

“Well, you could help, you know.”

He regarded her placidly.

“A dog would do it,” she said. “A dog would nose the phone closer so I could get it. Or pick it up in its mouth and hand it to me. Come on, Mr. Darcy.”

Though she didn’t know what she would do with the phone if she had it. Call the fire department?

Myrna found that if she laid sideways and pushed off, she could lift her toosh from its concave spot.

She landed with a bump on her hands and knees, the phone directly under her nose.

“Glad you’re the only one to see that. Karen would have made a brouhaha.”

It took some effort to raise herself, some grunting, but she did it.

Mr. Darcy mewed.

“Selfish creature,” Myrna said. “Hungry, I suppose.”

And she followed his long, flicking tail into the kitchen.

Thank you to Myrna and sorry for accidentally skipping your words! They were the very inspirational words: fickle, ambled and brouhaha. If you're wondering why I'm writing shorts, click here.

Short Story 7: Miracle

The miracle started with the car dying and Mother slapping the steering wheel with the palm of her hand. “Well, there you go!”

The engine shuddering to a stop woke me. “Where are we?” 

Mother sighed, but eventually pulled out her well-creased map of Arizona. “Here.” She stabbed her finger at the paper.

“Can we walk the rest of the way?” I peered out the window at the desolate landscape. We might as well be on the moon.

“No. We haven’t even crossed the border into Nevada yet, Vijaya.”

Mother and I were already wearing our saris and our delicate sandals. We were going directly to my aunt Varsha’s house to have our hands and feet decorated with henna. All the first cousins would be there. We left directly after Mother got off work, so we wouldn’t be late.

“So, we’re not going to make it.”

“Don’t say that,” Mother said. “We’ll make it eventually. They’ll have to understand.”

But the mehndi—the beautiful, intricate henna! It was my favorite part. I fought against the knot in my throat, against all the terrible things I wanted to say about this stupid, old car.

The two-lane highway snaked along a barren ridge. A dusty bank rose steeply to our right, and dropped away in a cliff to our left. Mother pulled out her cell phone and flicked a long nail across the screen.

A tapping  sound at the window made us both jerk.

A man stood, bent at the waist. He wore a thin, button-down shirt and dark dress pants. He looked Indian, but his skin was black as an African.

Mother reached across the seat to roll down the window.

“Car trouble?” The man’s accent was thick.

“Where did you come from?” Mother asked.

“Back there.” He pointed vaguely behind us.

“I didn’t see you.”

“Sorry to frighten you. Do you want me to take a look?”

“Would it be too much trouble?” Mother’s accent shifted as she spoke, like it always did when she was with other Indians. Back home, surrounded by only her non-Indian friends, her accent all but disappeared.

“No trouble at all.” He smiled—a rich, warm smile, I thought.

“I don’t have any money to pay you,” Mother said.

He swatted her concern away and rounded the front of the car, whistling through his teeth.

 Ten minutes later he was back at the window. “Just a small problem of the carburetor. You may drive now.”

“It will work?” Mom turned the key in the ignition and the engine responded with a purr.

“Good as new,” the man said, displaying dazzling white teeth.

Mother nodded. “Thank you.” She hesitated. “Will you have any trouble getting where you’re going? I could….”

“No trouble at all.” His head bobbed once. “Goodbye.”

He started back up the freeway. I watched him over my shoulder. He moved purposefully, stepping over kicked-up gravel in his sandaled feet.

Mother watched him leave, her eyebrows contracted.

“Ready?” She didn’t wait for a reply before setting the car in gear. She checked the lane before pulling onto the highway, but there were no other cars. Not a single car had passed since we stopped.

We drove in silence, until I had the courage to ask, "Mother, who was that man?"

Mother opened her mouth to answer, when the scream of sirens rushing up behind us interrupted her.

She pulled onto the shoulder again, her lips moving in prayer. But the cars whooshed past. There were three, followed by an ambulance.

It was only when they careened to a stop, forming a barricade of flashing lights in our path, that my body went rigid with fear.

Mother fumbled with the door latch. She stepped out of the car as the policeman approached. “What happened?” she asked.

I tumbled out of the backseat and wrapped my arms around Mother’s waist. Her warm skin smelled of sandalwood. The beaded silk of her sari scraped my cheek.

“Sink hole,” the policeman said. He was a white man in a uniform, wearing sunglasses like someone on television. “Went down about ten minutes ago. We’re estimating it ate up about five hundred yards of road.”

Behind the lined up cars, I could make out the edge of the crevasse, a deep, jagged fissure.

“You folks hold tight,” the policeman continued. “We’ll have to close the highway, set up a detour.”

Mother caressed the back of my hand with her thumb. Then she turned slowly to look behind.

Perhaps we both expected the Indian gentleman to appear. But no one was there. Only the empty highway, extending for miles in a dusty haze, and the gaping hole ahead. 

Thank you to Vijaya for her three inspirational words: crevasse, caress and carburetor. If you’re wondering why I’m writing shorts, click here.  

Short Story 6: Hand Bells

Faith made me do it.

She’s dreaming for me again, even though I keep saying, “Stop dreaming for me. I want my own dreams.”

But she says, “You wouldn’t do anything except if I made you, Wally.”

So, I’m stuck on that point. Because, yes, I like to sit in one place and think thoughts.

Whereas Faith made me do hand bells.

We go and sit in the third row in the white church at 1472 West Barley Street, she right next to me with her shoulder pressing my shoulder, warm, and she whispers so soft, “Now, listen close, Wally, because they’ll give you directions.”

But I’m feeling glum. Sort of stooped over in my seat because this ain’t my dream. It’s Faith’s dream and she always gets to do all the dreaming.

“Watch him, how he holds the bell. He’s trying to teach us, Wally.”

So, I peek at him. He’s a man like a beetle, with black skin and a shiny head and glasses that make his eyes look big. And his shirt is green, like the wings of a beetle that crawled up my leg one time. The only thing he ain’t got like a beetle is many legs, not to mention he's bigger, and a man. But he has two arms, and in his hands he holds hand bells, the ones Faith wants me to look at.

Faith is whispering this word over and over. “Tintinnabulation. Tintinnabulation. Tintinnabulation.”

The man said that word. Now Faith is saying it, over and over, real soft. Softer than quiet.

Faith leans over real slight and says in her whisper-voice, like the kind we used to use in school so the teacher wouldn’t catch us, “Isn’t tintinnabulation the most beautiful word in the English language?”

But I just shrug and say, “I never heard of it before.” But I forget to use my whisper-voice and everybody turns around with a creak to look at me with their eyebrows pushed together. The lady in direct front of me has real blue eyes that get squinty when her eyebrows do that. Her face looks like one of Mama’s cheese soufflés, kind of poofied out with a nose stuck in the middle, so I want to push my finger into it and say, “Are you fallen, soufflé?”

Then I remember Mama’s voice saying, “Don’t make the soufflé fall on purpose, Wally.” So I guess I shouldn’t do that to the lady’s face, neither.

Though I wish she’d turn around and quit her staring.

This ain’t my dream. It’s Faith’s.

This turned into another experiment instead of a story. But thank you to Faith for the three inspirational words: soufflé, beetle and tintinnabulation. If you’re wondering why I’m writing shorts, click here.

Short Story 5: Gossip

Such a brouhaha across the street at the Eagle Arms two nights ago. Saw it all from my window. You heard about it, surely.

That Woman and her photograph up on the wall, unveiled for all to see.

The men were over-full of ale and clamoring to look at it. Garry tried to hold them back and they all but trampled him.

Poor man.

He’s always been a good sort, Garry. Don’t mean any disrespect.

But it was a kerfuffle, and was on the second page of the Times, because one of the men did go into a conniption and had to be taken out on a stretcher.

Turned out he had knocked his head and been kicked in the stomach and burst his liver … or was it his pancreas? One of his vital organs. They treated him with something … something for the pain. What was it, Sally?

Oh yes, hydrocodone. That new thing everyone’s mad about. Terrible stuff. Worse than opiates, Mildred told me.

And what’s worse, he came out of the hospital begging for more.

No, I’m not joking.

What was his name again, Sally?

Isn’t he trying to run for parliament?

He’ll never make it now.

Not good for anything after that. And the papers all saying what a terrible photograph it was of That Woman’s, that he never should’ve been looking at it in the first place.

Filthy stuff.

I hear she’s off to America on the next ship. Can’t take what everyone’s whispering about her behind closed doors. Says she’ll be in pictures or dance on a stage.

I can tell you what kind of dancing that’ll be. Mark my words.

She won’t be missed around here, that’s for good and certain.

Poor Garry. Bad for business, this.

I’m sure he didn’t know what he was putting up on that wall. She could act like such an innocent thing. And I did have her here following the parish picnic. Pulled the wool over all our eyes, didn’t she.

He’s a good sort, that Garry. Next time he’ll have to do a check beforehand, if he ever decides to put up Some Person’s Art again. And yes, I say Art that way because it’s not art at all. It’s devil’s work, to make men stumble.

Though I doubt Garry never will fall into that trap again. We’re all about learning lessons, we humans. That’s what we’re good for.


This one turned into more of a voice experiment than a story, but still fun to write. Thank you, Garry, for the inspirational words through facebook: hydrocodone, bruhaha and kerfuffle. If you're wondering why I'm writing shorts, click here. 

Short Story 4: Social Networking

All the pictures of Claire’s children were blurry and grainy from being taken in an artificial light. Sandi had forgotten how many times she had clicked through them, her face inching so close she left patterns of breath on the screen. She tried to pick out facial characteristics she might recognize. Even a smile would have encouraged her. But there were no smiles, only glassy-eyed children in pajamas. Did Claire’s children own anything except pajamas?

Sandi drew her favorite robe with its threadbare satin more tightly about her.

“All right,” she said out loud to the empty house. “It’s time. I’ve waited long enough.” She brought her flat palm down on the desk, so the laptop rattled.

It wasn’t easy to find Claire. Not that Sandi was well-versed in tracking people. She’d tried a Google search, but it turned up nothing. Probably because Claire’s last name wasn’t what she said it was. Maybe even the location she had listed on her page wasn’t true. 

Sandi wasn’t sure if Claire would know the truth if it wrapped around her neck and strangled her. 

But she had to try.

She pulled up a different screen, slowly, methodically. The laptop had been a gift from her lawyer son. She was still working out how to use it. 

Dear Claire, she typed. 

Even with these new-fangled social networking systems, she believed in writing a letter properly. She would have preferred a real letter, written on some of her floral note paper with her own fountain pen, but she didn’t have an address. 

Send me your address, or a phone number. I wonder about you every day. I see you’re living somewhere else with a new family, a new life. 

She typed Please let me in, then erased it.

She finished cordially—

Love always,

Mother

And sat back with a puff of pent-up breath to await a reply. 
 

Thank you to Sandi for the three inspirational words she left for me on facebook: puff, artificial and satin. If you're wondering why I'm writing short stories, click here.

Short Story 3: The Albatross

“Run!” Danny cried. “Faster!” Laughing, they burst hand-in-hand through the greenhouse double door flanked in the tall Umbilicus rupestris. Jacqueline chose to call flowers by their scientific names. She found the Latin more euphonic.

Inside was luscious and warm. Danny’s arm swept out. “Here it is, what do you think?” 

He removed her hat and coat, and handed them to the waiting butler.

“How did he get here before us?” Jacqueline was still catching her breath.

“Oh, this place connects to the house through the back. Sometimes I’d rather not go outside. Other times, I’d rather.”

Jacqueline wondered what other girls he’d brought the long way. He didn’t know her at all. The only reason he was with her now was because he thought she looked like someone famous. Jacqueline accepted this fact. 

She was quite prepared to have a nice time. Danny was friends with Natasha and Jacqueline adored Natasha. She was determined to flirt and eat caviar and go home fatter than she had come.

There was a chaise lounge and a billowy chair in a clearing amongst palm trees. Danny took her hand, telling the butler to bring out truffles and champagne and the gramophone. 

He set her on the lounge and lowered himself to the brick floor to remove her shoes. She was glad she’d worn new stockings. Most of hers had holes in the toes because she always wore her shoes half a size too small. 

“Nice legs.” He straightened as he said it.

She tucked them under her skirt, out of sight. She wasn’t here to do anything foolish. Just a little wine, a little dancing, then home again to real life. The life she lived with her mama on the third floor of a brick building with no running water.

How did a girl like her end up in a place like this, with a man like Danny?

It was all Natasha, who never quite told a lie, but bragged about her friends. “You should meet my friend, Jackie. She’s the spitting image of Betty Grable.” It was nothing but pity, really, but Jacqueline didn’t mind.

“I’ll teach you to eat a kumquat,” Danny said, crossing to a large tree in an enormous Chinese pot. He plucked the fruit and held it between thumb and finger. “First you massage it, like so. Releases the essential oils….”

Jacqueline knew all about kumquats. She’d eaten them by the boatload on her trip to the Philippines when she was sixteen, before her father died. But Danny didn’t know that.

“Then you pop it in your mouth, all at once.” Danny chewed slowly. “Want to try?” He produced another from his palm.

“No kidding,” Jacqueline said. “The whole thing?” 

Danny watched her chew. Jacqueline covered her mouth with her hand.

“What’s the bird’s story?” Because it was something to say, so he’d take his eyes off her.

“Oh that?” Danny said. “An albatross.”

She already knew it was an albatross. She’d been on enough ships in her lifetime, made friends with enough captains who’d pointed out the great birds wheeling through the skies. Set on a pedestal amidst a patch of Vanda coerulea, or blue orchids, this stuffed version looked as if he were about to dip into the puddle of flowers.

“I brought that one down myself,” he said. “They’re good luck, you know … Truffle?”

The butler had reappeared, phantom-like.

“From Switzerland.” Danny held out chocolates in a gold, gilt box. “Take one.”


Thank you to Jacqueline who gave me three words (through facebook): albatross, kumquat and umbilicus. Wondering why I'm writing short stories? Click here.