Donna Carrick- Writer's Craft

The Writer Within ~ thoughts for a cold month

2012-02-09T14:43:00.000-08:00

Sometimes eyes closed the writer within sees all knows the score needs only the movement of fingers to explore express exalt the word...

In quiet moments words drop like stones onto/into placid water each resonates with its own sound each ripple-set unique as meaning grows.

Hail the Dragon -- Happy Chinese New Year!

2012-01-19T19:42:00.000-08:00

Proceed with equal
parts joy and caution, you who
would hail the Dragon.

Crime Writer’s Quest ~ Donna Carrick, January 19, 2012

2012-01-19T09:45:00.000-08:00

The world is comprised of both good and evil.

We understand this to be one of life’s core truths.

Those of us who bear the scars of our own encounters with the latter will often search for meaning inside the random complexities of our existence.

Occasionally we’ll catch a glimmer of the order we crave. It’ll peek at us from the face of a smiling friend; we’ll taste it in a lover’s kiss or feel it in the warmth of a beloved child’s unbidden hug.

It’ll hover in the air, shimmering like after-rain rising from pavement on a scorching day.

Then, just as quickly, our sense of understanding disappears.

It gets lost in the sound of a stranger’s footstep after dark. It cannot survive the panic when our car stalls on a deserted road, or when an otherwise empty house speaks to us in the dead of night.

We Crime Writers understand this: that the fabric of our society is woven with strands of both light and darkness. We get that, as often as not, there is no ‘meaning’ waiting to be revealed in the behaviour of our fellow-man.

Human acts of kindness and cruelty have no more consistency than can be found in the wind, one moment singing to us softly and the next raging without mercy, flinging guilty and innocent alike out of its malicious path.

Still, we Crime Writers crave balance. We long for equilibrium, to adjust those scales time and again. We set our caps for justice.

We carve our heroes from 'inner nobility' and set them loose to rain perfection on an imperfect world.

And yes, we know our very concept of 'universal justice' is merely an illusion.

That’s why we call it fiction.

Donna Carrick, January 19, 2012

Maritime Waltz

2011-12-06T04:49:00.001-08:00

Last night my thoughts drove once again to Parlee Beach. Memory can be a wonderful thing. All of my senses are tuned in to the experience. I can smell the ocean, feel the sand between my toes. I close my eyes and I am there.

I hope you'll join me...

Maritime Waltz

Come dance with me
To the rhythm of the sea.
We'll savor the salty sprays.

Our hearts will swoon
At the sight of the moon
Adorned in her favorite rays.

Our love may die
With the dawn's first sigh.
"Forever" may fleeting be.

Still, take my hand
On the shifting sand.
Forever come dance with me.

Donna Carrick, December 5, 2011

Quiet of November

2011-11-11T04:30:00.001-08:00

November brings its own moments of quiet reflection:

~~

Lo, the sands of time
Speak to us of blood on beach.
Let us not forget.

~~

Donna Carrick, November 11, 2011

October Songs -- by Donna Carrick

2011-10-28T06:43:00.000-07:00

October is the perfect time for poetry.

The North country is in flux, it's mood changing daily -- even hourly. The sights, sounds and smells of a dying season fill our senses.

In Canada, these feelings may be even more acute. Some of us approach the snow and ice with trepidation, but overall there is a sense of resignation that brings a certain peace.

We want the world to pause, to hold its beauty for just a little longer. It's with this theme in mind that I offer these October Songs:

~~

I will take this love
Wherever it may lead me,
As long as I have words...

~~

October's passion:
splendor of red, orange, gold.
My love walks with me.

~~

Precious solitude.
Autumn claims the heart of me,
whispers to my soul.

~~

For awhile they held
deep cool breath of Fall -- in love --
and then she was gone.

~~

I hope you will enjoy these pieces. Please feel free to visit again, stay awhile, and share your own thought on this season by commenting below.

Thank you,
Donna Carrick October 28, 2011

This Time of Love and Laughter ~ Donna Carrick, Oct. 16/11

2011-10-16T14:37:00.000-07:00

It goes... it goes so fast,
This time of love and laughter.
It flies on silver wings
Through skies of blue.

And though we try our best
To hold the smiles, the sunlight,
In twinkling of an eye
It fades to memory...

Quicksilver joy, comradeship,
Hands that we hold today.
Eyes that watch as moments
Soar by like coloured kites.

For nothing lasts but memory,
Sweet ghost of love gone by.

Donna Carrick
October 16, 2011

As Summer Falls ~ Donna Carrick

2011-09-25T06:17:00.000-07:00

Here we are on Sunday morning,
Last in September,
Sunlight tickling the yellow and red
Till it comes out of hiding
From within layers of weary green.

So summer falls at last
Into the glory of its past.

We watch in wonder as
Autumn hails itself
The one true ruler
Of the North.

One day that changed the world....Lest we forget.

2011-09-11T06:50:00.000-07:00

Like most adults, I woke today filled with memories of that other morning, ten years ago, almost to the moment.

It had been a period of loss for our family. First my mother, unexpectedly at the age of 69 in early 2000. Next a dear aunt, then another -- sisters of my mother. Then, on September 3, 2001, my husband Alex lost a beloved aunt, follwed the very next day, September 4, by his father, Donald Carrick.

We returned to work on the morning of Monday, September 11 after a week of funerals. Already saddened, but relieved, at least, to put the heaviest of our grief behind us and get back to our normal routines.

It was just past 9 am. My office phone rang. It was one of my staff, a young lady, calling to say she would be a little late. "But Donna," she added, "there's something wrong in New York City. I don't know what, but something's happened at The Towers."

I won't pretend her first words chilled me. I had no idea, after all, what they meant. But her next sentences gave me pause. "It's really scary," she said. "Everything here is too quiet. There are no planes in the air -- none."

I put the phone down. I work for a major media organization, and at that time we were still connected with Canwest at the 1450 Don Mills Road building. I ran from my office on the 2nd floor up a half flight toward the big news screen on the 3rd floor.

Within moments, almost 200 of my friends and co-workers had joined me. In absolute silence we watched the newsman as he struggled to make sense of the first impact. He, and we, thought it must have been an accident. He spoke in reverence, pausing to find the right words. Clearly it was not a typical news report. He was just a guy with a microphone and a camera, trying to tell the world what had happened.

And then, before our eyes, in one flash of horror, the unthinkable occurred. The second plane. As he spoke, facing the camera, behind his head we saw it pass, turn, and collide with the second tower.

And we all knew.

There was no cry of horror in our building. No stifled collective gasp -- no outrage spoken in words.

There was only a deep, unbroken silence as the knowledge flooded us.

During the days that followed our hearts broke time and again, with each new discovery, each fresh image that was presented to us. We were filled with an unprecedented grief, and a love for our brothers and sisters in New York City.

The phrase "Ground Zero" came into our language. But we know the damage of that day was not isolated to the towers. Not at all. Its impact ripples to this day through the hearts and minds of people everywhere. None are left untouched.

So here we are in Canada on a beautiful Toronto morning. What has changed in our world?

Ten years have come...and gone. A heightened sense of security worldwide has restricted our freedoms in ways we might never have imagined. We've suffered suspicion... against our neighbours, from our neighbours. Friendships have grown, or have been set aside. Babies have been born, and loved ones have died.

But that moment, standing with hundreds of my co-workers, friends all, entrenched in the silent horror of first awareness, before even the newsman knew for sure.....

...that was a pivotal moment.

A moment that cannot be erased, nor can it be trivialized, nor should it ever be.

All that has come to pass since that day has been acted on an altered stage.

And now, ten years later, we still seek peace. Too elusive. Too vague a concept. Our global psyche too cluttered with offenses given and received, too filled with suspicion and hatred. Forgive us our trespasses, as we will forgive those who trepass....

Instead of a day committed to reliving that horror, as if anyone could or would ever forget, I pray we will dedicate this day to seeking peaceful solutions to our differences.

That's my fervent wish on this day, ten years to the moment later.

Donna Carrick
September 11, 2011

September #haiku ~ by Donna Carrick

2011-09-04T08:29:00.000-07:00

This one is in memory of the lives lost on September 11, 2001. Alex and I were returning to work that morning after a week of family funerals, relieved to finish a week of sorrow, only to learn the sorrow had hardly begun...

All around the world
Nature is the only sound.
Plowshares, swords at rest.

The following are inspired by the season as well as by our love of our Northern home:

Slow September rain,
tender as a memory.
Farewell summer love.
**
Grey September blues.
Half-forgotten melody.
Lyrics call for you.
**
Late summer shadow.
Memories of season gone,
passing with regret.
**
Wake to gentle rain.
Late summer, birds, cicadas.
Our North dressed in grey.
**
Yue liang lights our way.
Cool September harvest moon,
lantern in the sky.
**
A crystal moment,
subtle as a woman’s sigh.
Everything has changed.
**
Subtle September,
scarce a touch of autumn red,
in cool denial.

February the Fifth, by Derek Haines

2011-07-08T12:48:00.000-07:00

February The Fifth by Derek Haines

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Delightfully quirky....

...insanely imaginitive...intensely insightful...just plain fun.

Derek Haines employs all of his impressive writing skills in this fantastic tale of February, Supreme Potentate of the Twelve Sun System of Gloth.

I'm grateful to Amazon Kindle, which offers a platform for exciting authors like Haines to reach out to readers globally. Haines uses an elegant narrative style in this tale of February's rise to Royalty. If you enjoy a strange and ecclectic story that is both beautifully crafted and "really out there", you will love this e-book.

Donna Carrick

author of The First Excellence

View all my reviews

The First Excellence Video.MOV

2011-04-14T14:54:00.000-07:00

Making Peace with the Dancing Bears -- February 10, 2011

2011-02-10T08:24:00.000-08:00

Like most writers, I’m an avid reader. Since my earliest days of “See Spot run!” I’ve been hooked on the written word. The masters of yesteryear have shaped my conscious thoughts in ways even I can not explain.

What is it that gives a book such majesty? What injects mere words with the ability to change us, enhance us and lift our lives into something infinitely more worthwhile than what we had before?

As a writer, I’ve pondered this question many times. Is it structure, plot, character, poetry – what is the one key ingredient of a truly great work?

Here’s the conclusion I’ve drawn: on its own, none of these elements will produce an outstanding book, although each is usually blended with technical skills in the best of literary works. Mere punctuation will not sprinkle a story with fairy dust. Poetry alone, thick with personal meaning but devoid of universal appeal, will not liberate our subconscious from the trappings of the mundane.

No. The only sure way for a writer to capture his readers is to harness the power of being comfortable with his voices. Beloved books all have one thing in common: they invite the reader to sit with the author and explore his innermost workings, that menagerie of thoughts and ideas, joys, sorrows and horrors that are unique to each of us.

A writer must reach deep into his psyche – soul, if you will – and pull out whatever icky mess he finds there. A well of experience, the mucky stew of the past, is the key ingredient of any work of art.

Sometimes, on a good day, we’ll look inside ourselves and find only joy. Those are the days when our stories will be at peace, when our minds become aviaries filled with colourful winged creatures who sing to us of golden moments in the sun.

The next day we might find ourselves staring into a black pit of snakes, our guts wrenching with anger, doubt and self-loathing. Then the villains in our minds will rule the day. The world will experience their wrath

Behold the poisonous power of the serpent! He, too, is part of this universe. He, too, deserves his moment in the bright light of understanding.

Only the brave can dive into this unknown territory, day after day, never sure what we will find. The compassionate among us can view each of our inner ‘animals’ with a touch of love and a river of understanding.

Most people are unable to face what lies within their minds. They are not comfortable with the voices – they shrink from the gnashing teeth, the bloody claws of their own demons.

But, of course, those people are not writers. We are a hardy lot. We’ve learned to live in peace with all aspects of ourselves.

When we hear the rumbling of the dancing bears, we do not run in fear. Nay, not at all. Instead, we writers don our finery and dance along, grinning and growling with the best of them!

Donna Carrick, February 10, 2011

Leave a comment below to win your choice of any Carrick book found at our website: http://www.carrickpublishing.com/?page_id=57

Contest closes at noon EST on Feb. 13, in time for Valentine's Day. Be sure to let me know how to contact you, in case I draw your name out of the hat!

Two Scoops Video.MOV

2010-11-19T19:40:00.000-08:00

The Night She Died ~ A Halloween story by Donna Carrick, October, 2010

2010-10-12T12:28:00.000-07:00

“Hand me that basket, will you, please?”

I reached past Annie to the large wicker basket filled with bite sized chocolate bars: Caramilk, Mars and Snickers.

Grace took it from me without looking up. She was generous with the little ones, placing two bars and some chips in each bag.

It was October 31, 1974. A warm day had produced a clear evening, perfect for costumes and candy.

The skeleton said ‘thank you’ in a high-pitched voice. The princess just turned and ran, nearly tripping over her frothy skirt.

“Look at those guys,” Annie said, pointing at the house next door where a cluster of six children were lined up. They were dressed in home-made costumes – four witches and two warlocks.

Grace laughed, her jowls swaying like heavy fruit in the wind. Not long ago, our cousin had been a beautiful woman. People had compared her petite frame, long dark hair and contagious smile to Audrey Hepburn. In the early ‘70’s, Audrey’s trademark sprightly outfits and mannerisms were no longer stylish. Just the same, as a teen, Grace had played up the similarities by dressing in pedal pushers and fun tops.

In ’71 Grace married her high-school sweetheart. With the first of three children on the way, it seemed like the thing to do. Frank got a job at one of the big grocery stores, so they weren’t suffering for money. They bought a two-storey house on a tree-lined street in our little Maritime city and settled in to make a life.

Three years later, with the second baby not yet walking, people no longer mistook Grace for Audrey. An addiction to cola, chocolate and the Colonel’s secret recipe had taken care of that.

We still loved her, though. So when our mother asked Annie and me to help Grace out with the little ones for a few days, we jumped at the chance to sleep on her fold-out couch. Frank was out of town at a grocers’ convention and Grace, though we didn’t realise it at the time, was pregnant with baby number three.

The coven of witches flew up the stairs to Grace’s porch and we resumed our shelling out duties. Baby Sara watched the children with wide eyes, wiggling in her infant-seat on the porch. Grace's toddler Lily helped with the candy, solemnly making sure each child got the same amount.

“These are great costumes,” Grace said, touching a pointy, silk-covered hat on one of the girls. “Did your Mom make these?”

“Yes,” the little witch said. She smiled and we all laughed.

“I can’t tell who you are,” Grace said. “Your faces are painted so well, I think you really must be witches. Is that Shelly Small I see under that hat? And Tracey?”

The girls giggled.

“What about me, Mrs. Lefebvre? Can you tell who I am?”

“No, indeed, I don’t think I can! Oh, wait a moment… Is it Candice Howard? And is this your little sister Haley? Oh, my goodness, how you girls have grown! I hope you won’t cast a spell on me.”

Grace doled out a generous helping of empty calories to each of the four girls. The two boys held back shyly.

“Come on, Ricky,” Grace said. “We like wizards, too! Brent, I know that’s you. What a clever wizard you are!” The boys smiled, holding their bags up. It was obvious the children adored our kind-hearted cousin.

“Thank you, Mrs. Lefebvre!” they shouted.

“You’re welcome, dears. Say hi to your Mommies for me!”

Everyone loved Grace. She stood only five feet tall and weighed close to three hundred pounds, but it was three hundred pounds of class and heart. In his private moments, Frank must have resented this sudden physical change in his young wife, but he never complained. Adversity is commonplace in the Maritimes. You learn to live with it.

I’ve often wondered what caused our cousin to balloon up so suddenly. Why the gallons of cola, the compulsive eating? Her parents were wonderful people. I don’t believe her problems were rooted in her childhood.

The coven scattered, leaving Grace, Annie and me to chat on the porch while we waited for the next batch of goblins. It wasn’t late, but darkness takes hold early in the fall. The streetlights shed small grey rings onto the pavement, struggling in vain to illuminate the area. Of course, we had the porch light on and the walk-up was lined with jack-o-lanterns we’d helped Grace carve earlier.

Still, we were surprised when a young woman, maybe seventeen, stepped out of the night and climbed the stairs to stand in front of us. Her face was pale and her long, sandy-blonde hair fell in front of her eyes. That’s the way we all wore our hair back then. After all, the year was 1974. Coifed curls were passé.

The girl had narrow hips and a fragile waist. I wondered where she stored her food; she appeared to have no stomach or bowels.

The smile disappeared from Grace’s face, sinking into in the perpetual frown of her under-chin.

“It’s you,” she said, “again.”

The girl didn’t answer. She wasn’t carrying a trick-or-treat bag, nor was she wearing a costume. She had on a tight-fitting zip-up sweater with the hood down, her long straight hair catching the light. She stared at me through translucent silver eyes.

Eyes are a feature I tend to notice. In fact, with my own non-descript hazel pair, I often find myself envious of women who have remarkable eyes.

Annie’s eyes, for example, were perfect for her face – an uncompromising Chelsea blue that never wavered.

Grace had always been known for her perfectly sculpted, huge dark eyes. They were downright exotic, like those of an Arabian princess. Even in her obese state, Grace’s eyes were still noteworthy. Movie-star eyes, that’s what they were.

This strange girl on the porch, though, blew them both out of the water. In my entire life, both before and since that night, I’ve seldom seen anything quite like her eyes.

She looked through each of us in turn. Judging us.

Standing wasn’t easy for Grace, especially lifting herself up from the low steps where we had been sitting, but she managed. She looked down on the strange girl, her heavy arms shaking with…what was it? Anger? Fear?

Annie stood beside Grace and I followed suit. Whatever was happening, we were united with our cousin.

“You get on home,” Grace said to the girl. “Don’t you come out here tonight. Go home to your mother, right now!”

The girl looked directly at Grace. The other-worldly look left her silver eyes, transforming her. I watched as the subtle change took effect, altering her into an mere girl – haunted and sad, yes, but otherwise quite ordinary.

“You heard me, now,” Grace said, shaking her finger. “Don’t you dare come back.”

The girl turned away, but before she did I saw a tear shining under the porch light. She straightened her back and walked down the stairs. In the next instant, she was gone – the darkness had absorbed her once again.

~

We helped Grace gather up the candy and blow out the candles in the pumpkins.

“I’m glad you girls are here,” she said. “I just can’t stand to be alone on Halloween. I can’t face it anymore. With Frank gone…”

Annie looked at me, but I was too young to catch the undercurrent of Grace’s words. I didn’t know that Grace and Frank were on the rocks.

Now, of course, many years later, I understand why Grace had pleaded with our mother to let her bring the kids to our house, why she couldn’t bear to be alone on Halloween.

My mother had problems of her own contending with my father’s drinking. His volatility was a closely guarded family secret. Mom couldn’t let Grace and her children stay with us, so she offered to send us to Grace’s house instead.

In October of 1974 I was thirteen years old. Like many teens, I was not particularly good at tuning in to the drama that surrounded me.

Annie, on the other hand, was an empathetic soul. She often understood things I didn't grasp.

“Who was that girl?” I asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” Grace said, still shaking. She sat on the couch, struggling to breathe slowly, beads of perspiration on her forehead.

“Can we get you anything?” Annie said.

“Yes. There’s a glass of Coke in the fridge. Would you get that for me please?”

Annie ran to get the sugary drink that would one day send our cousin to an early grave. We had no way of knowing Grace’s sugar consumption would kill her.

“That girl...” Grace began, speaking slowly, “…the first time she came here was three years ago, right after Frank and I got married. I was pregnant with Lily. Frank was off at one of his conventions. She came up the stairs as I was handing out candy, just like she did tonight. You both saw her, right?”

She looked at us, suddenly doubting whether we’d actually seen the girl.

We nodded.

“She was nervous that night,” Grace continued. “She was with a group of children, maybe three or four. I thought she was an older sister or something. But when they ran off, she walked down the steps without a word and headed in the opposite direction. I didn’t think much of it at the time.”

She took a long drink of her cola. My stomach turned, watching her consume the flat, sweet beverage, but she didn’t seem to mind it.

“Later that night,” she continued, “the girl came back. It was around midnight. I was alone and pregnant. I didn’t know what to do.”

“What happened?” Annie said, sitting next to Grace and rubbing her back.

“We never lock our doors around here. At least we never used to. The girl pounded on the front door. I ran out to see what was going on, but before I could answer the door she was already standing in the hallway.

“I asked her what she wanted. She frightened me. You girls remember how tiny I used to be?”

We nodded again, waiting for Grace to continue.

“She said she just wanted to stay awhile. To talk with me. I could tell she was nervous. But I didn’t think about that. All I could think was that I wanted her to leave. You’ve seen her eyes. She looks like a witch. She scared the be-Jesus out of me.”

“Anyone would be scared,” I said.

“Did she leave?” Annie asked.

“Not right away. She came into the living room and sat on the couch. She kept saying ‘Just let me stay a couple of minutes. I won’t bother you.’

“I got the broom out of the hall closet and shook it at her. ‘You have to go,’ I said. Finally she got up and made for the door. The second she was outside, I locked it behind her, then I ran to the back door and locked it, too. I made sure the windows were locked. Then I sat on this couch in the dark, praying she wouldn’t come back.

“She must have stayed on my porch, that’s all I can think. I honestly believed she’d left.”

Our cousin was still shaking. She took another long drink of cola and shut her eyes.

“Did she come back?” Annie asked.

I drew in a sharp breath, waiting for the answer.

“Yes. Either she came back, or she had never left. I’m not sure which. I finally fell asleep on the couch around 12:30. I woke up again around 1:00.”

“What happened?”

“I-I just can’t talk about it anymore,” Grace said. “I’ve pleaded with Frank to sell the house – to move out of this neighbourhood. But we both grew up here. He says we can’t afford to move.

“Come on, now,” she added, shaking her head. “Let’s send the little ones to bed before they get all wound up.”

I glanced at Lily, the oldest, who had come into the room and was sitting on the other side of Grace, clutching her mother’s arm.

By 11:00 both children had long since fallen asleep and we got Grace settled into her bed with a sleeping pill.

“It’s the only way I’ll get any rest,” she explained. “Annie, would you check the door one more time?”

“I will.”

“And don’t forget the back door. Please.”

“I will.”

Annie had more patience than I could ever lay claim to. Grace had already insisted that she check all of the doors and windows. Obediently, she’d gone from one to the other without a word.

We watched Grace slip into a drugged slumber before we finally went back to the living room to make up our couch-bed.

“Holy crap!” Annie whispered.

“I know,” I said.

Annie’s blue eyes sparkled in the darkness as she pulled the covers up, trying to make a cocoon. Sleeping with my sister was enough to make me homicidal. She was a terrible blanket hog – with no remorse whatsoever.

I sighed and stomped off to find another blanket.

“Grace is terrified,” Annie said.

“Me, too!”

“I think she’s lost her mind. Seeing that girl is playing tricks on her.”

“Yeah. I wonder if she’s imagining the whole thing.”

We tried to sleep. Annie drifted off for a moment, but every passing car, every creak in the old house, had us both wide-eyed once again. Finally we gave up and just lay there, whispering girl secrets to each other to take our minds off the shared sense of impending terror.

We’d only been asleep a short time when we woke to the sound of pounding on the door. I jumped out of bed, but Annie said “No, leave it. Just ignore it.”

Before I could climb back into bed, the girl was in the hallway.

“I thought you locked the door,” I said.

“I did.” Annie was the brave one. She was used to sound and fury, having taken more than her share of our father’s crap. She jumped out of bed and positioned herself between me and the nervous intruder.

“What do you want?” Annie said. I could feel her body tensing up the way it always did when she stared down the old man. Bracing for the blow.

“I just want to talk to you. Can I come in?”

“No. This isn’t our house. We have babies sleeping here. You have to go.” Annie took a step toward the girl.

Our visitor had other ideas. She pushed past my sister and sat on the edge of our bed.

“Just let me stay a few minutes,” she said. “I won’t bother anyone. You both go back to sleep and I’ll just sit here quietly.”

My gut churned the way it always did when I was afraid. I worried I’d lose control of my bowels. Annie once again placed herself between me and the girl.

“You have to go,” she said. She was calmer now, her voice quieter, more gentle. “I’m sorry, but this isn’t our house. You can’t stay.”

The strange girl got up slowly and crept back to the door, staring at Annie, hoping for a change of heart.

“Go home, now,” Annie said.

With that the girl was gone.

An hour later we were still restless, drifting in and out of sleep, each wrestling for control of the blankets. We weren’t talking anymore – we were way too tired for that. We were in ‘hunker down’ mode, praying for the long night to pass.

Even though we were half-expecting something more to happen, the man’s voice still startled us when it shattered the eerie stillness.

“There you are!” he shouted. He was in the laneway beside our cousin’s house, just outside the living room.

There was pounding on the door and the girl’s voice, frantic now, pleaded with us to let her in. Before we could respond, the knocking stopped. We heard footsteps taking the porch stairs two at a time.

“Where were you tonight?" the strange man shouted. "I asked you a question. Who were you with? What were you doing?”

“Please… leave me alone,” the girl said.

There was a scuffle. Annie banged on the front window and shouted, “Leave her alone! I’m calling the police!"

Annie reached for the phone. There was a loud thump as the girl jumped off the porch and another as the man followed her, filling the night air with his angry curses.

He caught the young girl easily. She squealed as he pounded her against the wall of the house. Our cousin’s side window was small and high, so I couldn’t see into the laneway, but the noises were deafening as he beat the defenceless teen with inhuman force.

I couldn’t move. I looked at Annie where she stood holding the phone, a mixture of horror and fury on her face.

The shouts and the beating continued for maybe five minutes.

Then silence.

No more squeals. No more curses. Even the girl’s whimpering had stopped. In the stillness the house continued to shake, or maybe it was just the blood pounding in my ears.

“Stand up,” the man’s voice said. “Come on. Quit playing with me. Get on your feet.”

No response from the girl.

Then I heard his footsteps as he ran away, up the alley and gone, just like that.

Five minutes later the police arrived. They pounded on the front door.

This time Annie opened it.

It took twenty minutes for them to question us. During that time, an officer tried to wake my cousin, but couldn’t get a rise out of her. They searched the neighbourhood to put our minds at ease, but you could tell they were just going through the motions. They’d been called to my cousin's house before. There was no battered girl in the alleyway, no violent man to place under arrest. In fact, all that remained was the shared sense of a lingering nightmare.

Maybe we really had dreamt the whole thing...

The police did their duty: took our statements and went on their way.

~

Thirty-six years have passed since that night at my cousin’s house. My sister died a few years after that. Teen suicide. Not surprising, given our family life.

Frank ran off in 1980 and took the three kids with him, shacking up with a clerk from his grocery store. I never blamed him, even though I knew it tore Grace apart. His new wife, Shirley, was an older woman who chain-smoked, treated his children well and promised to never, never let herself get overweight.

I’ve been married and divorced twice – both times going in with high hopes. I’ve now come to grips with the fact I wasn’t meant for matrimony. I haven’t got the patience.

As for Grace, the diabetes finally got her. She died last week, drowned, more like it, in cola and potato chips. She was nearly four hundred pounds, a shuddering mass of grief and loneliness. And remorse. She’d been in a nursing home since Frank left, no longer able to climb the stairs in their house.

~

Our family moved away from the Maritimes when I was in my teens. With thousands of miles between us, I’d long since lost touch with my ailing cousin. I thought of her often, though. When I got the call from Lily saying her Mom had died, I caught the first plane home.

Frank was at the funeral. He looked like a broken man. He left Shirley’s side to greet me, his eyes searching mine for forgiveness. There was nothing to forgive. It wasn't his fault Grace had died. She'd killed herself, like my sister only more slowly. More painfully, but just as surely.

“I only wish Grace could’ve been happier,” he said. “She was always smiling when we were kids. She laughed all the time. Everyone loved our Grace.”

“That’s true,” I said, wondering how the years could have fooled us all so thoroughly.

I glanced around the room and spotted their youngest son, Andy, whom I recognised from pictures, standing next to his sister, Sara. Andy was slightly overweight. Sara, on the other hand, was stunning – the spitting image of Audrey Hepburn, right down to the tiny frame and the curve of her delicate jaw. It was like looking at Grace in the early days.

Sara glanced my way and the exotic beauty of her eyes took my breath away – dark pools in an ivory face.

Grace’s youngest children were fast approaching middle age. The realisation shook me.

Frank was saying something, so I turned to face him.

“It was that girl,” he repeated, gripping my hand. “Do you remember? The teenager that was murdered outside our house in ’71.”

“I remember,” I said. Back then we didn’t have the internet, but after the incident we'd experienced in '74, Annie and I had scoured the public libraries looking for reports of her death. Her name had been Alison Carter. An ordinary name. An ordinary girl.

Unless you remembered her eyes – those silver shafts of light that went right through you, that saw your every weakness and condemned you for the coward that you were.

“Grace always blamed herself,” Frank said. “Always said if only she’d let the poor girl stay awhile, she wouldn’t have been killed.”

“Grace was pregnant and afraid. She was not much more than a child herself. A pregnant nineteen year-year-old.”

“I know,” he said. “But she never got over it. Every year on Halloween she dreamt the girl came back. The guilt destroyed her.”

“It wasn't her fault,” I said. "She didn't murder the girl."

And what about Grace's kids? I wondered. Had they been damaged, too, by the wraith-like vigilante who stalked their mother?

Andy and Sara stood together, holding hands, two beautiful adults who looked just like their parents.

I searched the room, finally spotting the oldest, Lily, alone in the corner. I joined her. She recognised me and held out her hands.

She was taller than Grace had been – around five-seven – and stood erect. Her sandy blond hair fell long and straight, adding to her height.

“Hello, Jane,” she said.

“Hi, Lily. How have you been?”

I knew Lily had spent a lot of time with Grace in the final years. She was probably closer to her mother than anyone else had been. Still, there were no tears in her eyes, nor was there a catch in her voice when she spoke.

“I’ve been ok,” she said.

I looked away. Frank was standing at his wife’s side near the over-sized casket. I wanted to join them, to leave Grace’s oldest daughter alone with her thoughts.

Lily made me mildly uncomfortable. Something about her always had. It was just too hard, seeing those silver eyes that looked right through me. It was too hard knowing…what I knew -- what Grace must also have known.

Lily smiled and touched my hand, trying to relieve my anxiety.

“It’s ok now,” she said. “I've forgiven her.”

THE END
******

***CARRICK HALLOWEEN GIVE-AWAY!***
The first 2 readers to leave a comment on this story will receive ABSOLUTELY FREE:
The First Excellence ~ Fa-ling's Map by Donna Carrick
AND
"Three Scoops" Is A Blast! by Alex Carrick

You can learn more about Donna and Alex (And all our books!) at:
http://www.carrickpublishing.com/

Previous stop on the Halloween Blog Tour:
Intense Whisper *Featured Blogger*
http://intensewhisper.blogspot.com/

Next stop on the Halloween Blog Tour:
Dyan Garris *Featured Blogger*
http://www.voiceoftheangels.com/deardyan

For those who like to skip around a bit (LOL) here is the complete lineup!
Here's the blog tour line up

Day 1 Oct. 19
Amy Williamson *Hostess with the Mostest* ParaScream Radio, Stage Actress, TV Personality, League of Extraordinary Women of Paranormal and Horror
http://www.theleagueofextraordinarywomenofparanormalandhorror.com
Give-away: YES

Day 2 Oct. 20
Jo Lynne Valerie *Hostess with the Mostest* Paranormal Author, ParaGoddess, TV/Radio
http://www.JoLynneValerie.com
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Day 3 Oct. 21
Larissa Sarah *Featured Blogger*
http://www.larissaslife.com
Give-away: YES

Day 4 Oct. 22
Monica Koetz *Featured Blogger*
www.bibliophilicbookblog.com

Day 5 Oct. 23
Conjure Oils *Featured Metaphysical Expert*
http://www.ConjureOils.com
Give-away: YES

Day 6 Oct. 24
Scott Noir *Published Author of Erotica, Studly Man, "Smoldering Prose"
http://scottnoir.blogspot.com

Day 7 Oct. 25
Fan Spotlight Day
Featuring: Psyche Soul Goddess *ParaGoddess In Training*
http://aprilpsychesthoughts.blogspot.com
Featuring: Lily Oak *Publisher of Hope Open, owner of HedgeWitchery Books*
http://hedge-witcherybooks.blogspot.com

Day 8 Oct. 26
Kayleigh Jamison *Published Author, Spiritual Woman, Bookish Diva*
www.kayleighjamison.com
Give-away: YES

Day 9 Oct. 27
Intense Whisper *Featured Blogger*
http://intensewhisper.blogspot.com
Give-away: YES

Day 10 Oct. 28
Donna Carrick *Published Author of Fiction, Active Participant of #WriteChat on Twitter, Huge Hearted Gal*
http://donnacarrick.blogspot.com
Give-away: YES

Day 11 Oct. 29
Dyan Garris *Featured Blogger Visionary Mystic & Author of the Award Winning Finalist Money and Manifesting *
http://www.voiceoftheangels.com/deardyan

Day 12 Oct. 30
Women of Esoterica *Featured Paranormal Expert*
http://womenesoterica.blogspot.com
Give-away: YES

Day 13 Oct. 31
Ben Hopkin
*Featured Actor, Acting Coach Helping Other Actors Create Magic in Their Performances*
http://actingwithoutthedrama.blogspot.com

Carrick Publishing: To Order Books

2010-09-02T07:53:00.000-07:00

** FOR A LIMITED TIME, ANY PAYPAL BOOK ORDER WILL INCLUDE A FREE COPY OF THE NOON GOD!** See PayPal Options at bottom of page.

The First Excellence: Fa-ling's Map
~ Donna Carrick
Amazon.com: $17.99 US
Kindle: $7.99 US
{Indie}Pendent Books: $15.50 US
Mystery/suspense/
political intrigue/
Chinese adoption

"Three Scoops" Is A Blast!
~ Alex Carrick
Collected Short Stories
Coming Soon: Amazon Paperback!
Kindle: $7.99 US
**Includes The Size Of The Skip, 2010 Honorable Mention Lorian Hemingway Awards!**

Gold And Fishes
~ Donna Carrick
Amazon.com: $15.99 US
Kindle: $7.99 US
Mystery/suspense/
intrigue/current events/
International Aid/
Tsunami, 2004 SouthEast Asia

"Two Scoops" Is Just Right
~ Alex Carrick
Amazon.com: $13.99 US
Kindle: $7.99 US
{Indie}Pendent Books: $11.50 US
78 short, funny,
original stories.
Humor/lifestyle

The Noon God
~ Donna Carrick
Amazon.com: $12.99
Kindle: $6.99 US
Mystery/suspense/family saga/drama

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Parlee Beach (...and you)

2010-08-18T08:17:00.000-07:00

My heart yearns long and low for Parlee Beach

Where never was I judged, nor ever wanting;

Where sunshine stilled the days in memory haunting;

Where miles of sparkling sand ignited soul

And ears were captured by the seagull’s call.

My heart breaks soft and slow for Parlee Beach;
For rapturous moments in the salt-blue sea,
Throwing up my arms and being free;
Hearing your laughter nearby at my side;
Your sunshine-angel hair, your ocean eyes…

Oh, memory!

Donna Carrick, August 18, 2010

Invasion ~ Donna Carrick, May 2, 2010

2010-05-02T04:53:00.000-07:00

Last week on Twitter's #storycraft chat, participants were given an assignment: to write a story from the perspective of an inanimate object. "Invasion" is my contribution to the group.

A number of talented writers have joined in the fun of #storycraft's first week. Fiction enthusiasts are welcome: simply follow @Story_Craft and watch for updates from the founders: @TamaraNKitties, @Danisidhe and @IamJaymes. (You can also follow me! @Donna_Carrick!) Chats are at 6pm EST on Sundays.

It's an invasion of privacy, that's what it is. He holds me in grubby hands, turning me about. He splays me like a fish, only to slam me shut when he doesn't like what he finds.

Words, beautiful words... the bond we shared, she and I. She used to tell me all of her thoughts and dreams. But that was in another lifetime, before the jealousy and rage. Before HE came.

Now it's barely a flake of her life I'm privy to. But what I see is more than enough...

His mood changes, although he doesn't say a word. It's in the way his hands press against me. This must be what she felt when he tried to kill her, hands wrapped around her neck, fingers pressing, stars exploding behind her eyes, welcoming her to the land of perpetual night.

He curses. What is it? His filthy thumb has left a mark on me. Knowing she will understand his villainy, he scrubs it, but I hold firm. I will not let it be erased.

At last -- proof!

A door opens in another room. It must be her.

He shuts me quietly, setting me on the nightstand. So clever. She will never suspect he's been violating me, using me as catalyst for his violence.

She moves slowly, in no hurry to greet him. Words are spoken. He leaves me and I hear the refrigerator door.

She joins me, sits on her bed, too weary for tears. There were tears last week, though, the day she told me she was pregnant. It should have been a happy occasion. Instead she wept, smearing ink with salty drops, finally shredding the page.

She reaches for me. Ah, dear friend, so well I feel your pain. Even in her grief, her touch is loving. She turns to that last page – sees his mark...

For a moment her eyes are wide at the extent of his invasion, then resignation reclaims its rightful place. Reaching for her pen, she writes a final whisper, laying the words out over his mark:

"There must be something more to life than this."

Wearing the White Carnation: Remembering Mom and other amazing women...

2010-04-16T12:39:00.000-07:00

Welcome to the Twitter Chats Blog Tour, organized by Mariana N. Blaser at Mari’s Randomities and Anne Tyler Lord at Don’t Fence Me In. Today's theme is Mother's Day.

You'll be traveling with us through the blogs of some of the fantastic authors and writers who participate in our weekly -- funny, entertaining and educating -- Twitter chats. This tour will feature writers from #writechat, #litchat, and #fridayflash.

You will be directed to your next stop at the end of this post. Please feel welcome here, and have a happy Mother's Day!

As the years fly by, I am in awe of the impact this tiny woman continues to have on my life. My mother, Betty Lou, (b-Oct.6, 1931, d-Feb.14, 2000) was one of those eternally optimistic ladies we often encounter among her generation. She never rose without a cheery "Good Morning", and she sang (admittedly badly) while performing the most menial household task.

I would be lucky to possess one-half of her wisdom -- the common sense with which she approached every one of life's challenges.

But then, Mom descended from a long line of sturdy souls. I remember her grandmother, my great-grandmother Griselda, pictured here in the early 60's shortly before she died at 96.

She was especially proud of this photo of her farm, where she continued to work until her death. Having lost her husband in middle age, Griselda handled the bulk of the physical labour, assisted only by her disabled son. My mother's Uncle Archie had broken his back as a young man but still did what he could.

Uncle Archie is on the right, pictured here with a friend on the farm where he lived with his mother.

One of the most important people in my childhood was my Grammie Bessie, my mother's mother. My sisters and I loved her with all our might. She was sensible, smart, well-educated (a registered nurse who ran a team in a hospital) and carried herself with dignity. This woman taught me self-respect and kindness, lessons which have served me well.

My father's mother, Mary Elisabeth, was one of those ladies you read about in books. In the height of the Great Depression, my grandfather ran off to chase the ponies, leaving her alone to raise three children. In fairness to Grampie, he probably hoped to earn a living gambling -- there weren't many jobs to be had in 1935. He returned home in the 60's shortly before he died, and I remember him as a cheerful, loving grandfather.

Nanny Mary held three jobs for most of her adult life. She was head cook at one of the most prestigious hotel/restaurants in the Maritimes -- the Brunswick Hotel -- as well as keeping 2 permanent jobs as maid/family cook/housekeeper for wealthier people in her neighbourhood.

Although she belonged to the class of "working poor" during the Dirty Thirties, Nanny Mary taught me about charity. She never feared walking the streets of Moncton alone past midnight. Every homeless person on High Street knew her name, and they knew that Mary was on her way home from her job at the hotel. She carried food from the restaurant, which she gave to each person she encountered. She told me: Don't fear a poor man, or a working man. Share when you can. There is always someone worse off than you.

In my memory Nanny Mary is always laughing. She never saw the hard life as something to complain about.

This is me, my Nanny Mary, my Dad and my oldest son, Tom. Mom was holding the camera, as usual, wanting to get a shot of the "4 generations" on Mothers' Day 1986. Notice the carnations we are all wearing?

There have been so many important people in my life! Honouring them all would take nothing less than a book, but the "mothers" in this photo were certainly among my most influential.

Here are my Mom, my Nanny Mary and my father's sister, Aunt Betty, who was my mother's closest childhood friend. My mother and my Aunt Betty shared a bond based on perpetual good humour, kindness and devotion to their families and friends. I am thrilled when my cousins tell me I look like their mother. I think so, too!

When I was first asked to write a "Mother's Day" blog, I was hesitant. My mother's life was not one that could be easily packaged in a few sentimental phrases of 'a thousand words or less'.

I wanted to honour her, but not at the expense of the truth. How could I celebrate the spirited "Mighty Mouse" of my childhood, without turning a blind eye to the hardships life dealt her?

For purposes of this Mothers' Day Memorial, though, I'm determined to focus on the happy moments. Here (on the far left) is a picture of my beautiful mother, standing as maid of honour at her sister Helen's wedding. You can see the joy of youth in Mom's face -- the hopes of one day marrying and starting her own family. It's all there.

Here is my Mom many years later, in Saskatchewan with my older sister Debbie, myself, and my younger sister Rosalind. A stranger would not notice the sadness she tried so hard to hide. Life has dealt so many blows -- the loss of two sets of twins, 4 boys born too early; living with a volatile mate -- and has yet to deal so many more. In 1977 my older sister committed suicide, a blow from which we doubted Mom would ever recover.

On to the next generation of Mothers! This is me, on April 3 of this year. (My 50th birthday.) I'm grateful for the path that led me to my incredible husband and family, and for this smile on my face. They say all roads lead to Rome. My path has sometimes seemed impossible, but it brought me to exactly where I want to be. I have no regrets.

These are some of the people who are most important to me now: my husband Alex, who is my constant partner in this madness we call the "writing life", our oldest son, Thomas, middle son Ted, and our baby daughter Tammy-Li! Also pictured with us is our children's cousin Alexx,(the golden blonde teen) who was travelling with us that day. (Let's not overlook that other golden blonde, our puppy Daisy!)

Here I am with my darlings on our beloved beach. Yes, Alex is there as well -- he's the shadow you see holding the camera!

Where would I be without these dear children of ours? I can't even imagine....

I only hope that one day, when it's their turn to wear the "White Carnation", they will remember me with love.
**

Thanks for stopping by! Your next stop for the Mother's Day Twitter Chats Blog Tour is P.J. Kaiser at Inspired By Real Life. You can Tweet with P.J. @DoubleLatteMama !

The complete list of participants can be found at the host's blogs: Mari Juniper and Anne Tyler Lord.

On The Eve of My 50th Birthday... Friday, April 2, 2010

2010-04-02T19:39:00.000-07:00

This is a milestone, folks. Yup – as of midnight tonight, Yours Truly will crest the half-century mark.

Thanks to my beloved husband Alex and our family and friends, the week leading up to this big moment has been memorable. There have been gifts, cards, parties, lunches, dinners – I couldn’t ask for more!

Aside from the celebrations, though, there have been moments of reflection. Those of you who have already sailed past this marker will likely know what I’m talking about. There are times when one’s age really is more than “just a number”.

Achieving the age of 50 is one of those times.

I’ve found myself plunging into a near-fugue state while sitting at my computer or standing in the kitchen, walking, driving or lying in bed. One question keeps running through my mind

Am I where I should be at this point in my life?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to assess my status in material terms. I have a good day job that pays the bills, as does my husband. We have a home, car, education for our children…

In terms of material considerations, I’m more than content – I am downright grateful.

No, my ponderings have nothing to do with money or clothes, jewels or homes. Instead they are focused on the less tangible assets – the lessons of life. I review the years that led to this moment, all 50 of them, and what they should have taught me.

I’ve certainly tried to take those lessons to heart. I suppose I must hope that effort counts in the grand design. I’ve tried to be generous and loving, tolerant and truthful. I’ve bent in the storm and stood my ground in the hurricane. I’ve been sometimes stubborn, and at other times compliant, as the situation warranted. I have loved my family truly, even in my childhood, when doing so often seemed impossible.

But there is so much more I want to learn – so many pearls that still scatter past my feet, out of my reach. And now, on the eve of my half-century, it seems appropriate to chase down some of the most valuable pearls, before this moment passes and I forget what it was that seemed so pressing.

So here, for all to witness, is my “To-Do” list for the next 50 years:

1- Always appreciate the love of family and friends. Let no kindness pass unnoticed. Try to see myself as my loved ones see me. Forgive my own short-comings. They never arise out of malice.

2- When in doubt, proceed with kindness. Let gentleness be my ‘default’ position.

3- Stand tall. Make no apologies for who I am. Courage is not the absence of fear, but the facing of it. Brave is the person who rises each day without knowing what challenges lay in wait.

4- Treasure my physical health. My aging body is less than perfect, but it serves me well. Take care of it to the best of my ability.

5- Follow my passion for written words with conviction and energy. Make no excuses – place no blame.

Just keep on riding the tiger until the end of days.

Waiting for Sunrise ~ Donna Carrick, March 18, 2010

2010-03-18T03:49:00.000-07:00

Is there a more perfect time of day than this? The world is hushed, children still asleep. Clock ticks quietly, reminding me of the passing of days, slowed for a moment, but soon to resume the race from week to week, year to year.

Watching for the sunrise. A thought, captured in the darkness, one crystalline piece of mind. Scooped up in the hand, placed in a jar, covered and put away for viewing at some later date.

We know from experience that date will never come. Life will once again breathe down our necks, insisting we complete one task or another before we collapse, exhausted, into another night.

But for this moment, for this solitary golden slice of time gleaming in the darkness in my kitchen while the others sleep on, sweetly unaware that I have stolen time itself right out from under their noses, life stands still.

Thought takes shape, expands, becomes grandeur and is painted onto the screen before my eyes. No more elusive wisps of philosophy, scattering at my attempted grasp. Instead, the hero’s satisfaction at the capture of an old friend, a memory, a long-forgotten catharsis.

But now the sun is rising. Time to put away this moment, tuck it into a drawer in the hopes there will be another chance to view it, another instant of stillness….

…before this life is over.

Thoughts on "greatness"...

2010-02-14T07:34:00.000-08:00

A recent discussion on one of my favourite groups asked the question: What is it that makes a writer great, rather then merely good? After reading many of the replies, it occurred to me that "greatness" is one of those mighty intangibles that pervades all walks of life, and is not exclusive to the writer. With that in mind, here are my own thoughts on greatness:

As we witnessed during the finale of the 2010 Olympic Opening Ceremonies, 'greatness' maintains it's dignity even in the face of embarrassment.

Greatness praises often and publicly. It criticizes rarely, and then privately. In either case, it keeps a sense of humour.

Greatness hones its craft with quiet diligence, seeking to study but never to imitate what has gone before.

Greatness does not make excuses, it makes an effort. It does the best it can with the tools at hand, never giving up. Greatness is the parapalegic who laughs, the homeless person who wishes you a good day, the reader who offers encouragment. Greatness is the one-armed fiddler who finds a way...

Greatness strives to share its hard-earned fortune. It raises others up, and never seeks to humiliate or lessen another.

Greatness is in each of us, as we struggle towards improvement. It's a struggle best made in unison, but it can also be made alone.

Greatness always has a kind word for the many, though it will, on occasion, turn away from the few, if it feels that kindness is lacking.

When greatness disagrees, it does so with the courage of its convictions, but never loses sight of other points of view.

Lastly, greatness always aspires toward betterment, both for personal enrichment and for the benefit of the larger community.

To each of you I extend this wish: May you feel the surge of greatness within your soul.

Best in writing,
Donna Carrick

"Two Good Hands" ~ Vol.1: The Circling Fan, by Donna Carrick

2010-01-20T04:10:00.000-08:00

Just for fun, this week I launched my new weekly Leda And Strachan Mystery Series available for free-reading at: http://blogdc.donnacarrick.com/

This is something that I couldn't visualise as a novel, but it's been dancing around in my brain for awhile. Finally, I decided to use is as a continuing short story.

Hope you'll enjoy! As always, comments are welcome.
Best in writing,
Donna Carrick

The writer's "red badge" ~ by Donna Carrick

2009-12-06T14:42:00.000-08:00

My imagination has been captured of late by the concept of ‘courage’ – that crystalline intangible that defines some authors and causes their words to reach us at the core.

What is it that characterizes some artists as ‘brave’, in a world where so many miss the mark?

Is it the refusal to shirk the truth? For I believe ‘truth’ is at the heart of all great works, even – no, especially – those of fiction.

Is it the author’s willingness to embrace ideas that are not yet popular, whose time is yet to come? Maybe it’s a brutal exploration of the past, either personal or societal, that lifts some books to that higher level.

If I, as a writer, aspire to write with ‘courage’, then I must first understand what exactly it is that marks a work as ‘brave’, ‘honest’, ‘cutting’.

Maybe it’s the shutting of one’s eyes as one writes – the feeling of one’s inner self surging forth onto the page…the screen…the world.

Perhaps it is nothing more or less than the writer’s willingness to fail or to succeed on his or her own terms.

To those great writers who have already earned this badge, I salute you with my heart.

Donna Carrick, December 6, 2009

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The First Excellence~Donna Carrick, Review by Kirkus Discoveries, November 27, 2009

2009-11-28T08:12:00.001-08:00

Kirkus Discoveries is about to post the following review of The First Excellence!
...compelling storylines...

A complex mystery with multiple plots and a host of intriguing characters.

When Fa-ling was a child in Guangxi, China, her birth mother—fearful that her ruthless mother-in-law would kill Fa-ling and her newborn sister—abandoned the girls on a park bench before committing suicide. Fa-ling and her sister Daphne lived at a wretched orphanage where Fa-ling tolerated sexual abuse in an unspoken trade for extra food for her and Daphne. Readers later discover that their father’s heart was broken by their disappearance, and though he was too weak to stand up to his insufferable mother, he continued to search for them unbeknownst to Fa-ling and Daphne.

Forward to the present, when 21-year-old Fa-ling is living with her loving adoptive family in Canada, but feeling lost, tentative and confused about her future. Determined to resolve her feelings by revisiting her past, she returns to China. For safety reasons, she doesn’t go alone, but travels with a tour guide and a group of five couples who ironically are going to China to adopt a child. Soon after their arrival, a gruesome murder occurs at their
hotel and Fa-ling unknowingly stumbles into a three-way plot involving child kidnapping, organ theft, political intrigue and government coverups.

Enter detectives Wang and Cheng, two wonderfully rendered characters who must toe the tenuous line between uncovering the truth and risking reprisal from governmental higher-ups. The other compelling storylines quickly unfold, and Carrick deftly and seamlessly weaves these plots together. As with many other mysteries, there’s a lengthy list of characters and some readers may feel confused by the array. Though there are some lovely descriptions, there are also some jarring metaphors and similes which disrupt the narrative flow—“Her voice, never soothing at the best of times, ripped through the humid afternoon with the intensity of a chicken being plucked” and “The water shimmered, whispering like a friend in a new dress.”

Still, the conclusion is pleasantly unpredictable.
ENJOYABLY COMPLICATED PLOTS WITH SOME WELL-DEPICTED CHARACTERS.

Carrick, Donna
THE FIRST EXCELLENCE:
Fa-ling’s Map
BookSurge (374 pp.)
$17.99 paperback
September 26, 2009
ISBN: 978-1-4392-5393-9
Kirkus Discoveries, Nielsen Business Media, 770 Broadway,

A Little Write-Humour (getting all Mozart-y on you!)

2009-10-18T08:16:00.000-07:00

They say the first step toward self-improvement is admitting one has a problem. To that end, I stand in front of a virtual room of perhaps thirty people on this cool fall morning, somewhere in Canada…

Me: Hello. My name is Donna and I am a writer.

#Group: (Mild applause.)

Cindi (the moderator): Welcome, Donna. What brings you to our #group?

Me: It’s kind of hard to talk about…

Cindi: You’re among friends, Donna. You’re safe here.

Me: Ok. Well, it’s been 3 days since my last Chapter. My life is spiralling out of control. I’ve had ‘whiteouts’ -- too many errors. Sometimes I can’t tell the difference between the story and ‘reality’. I feel so…alone. My sponsor is buried in her own revisions.

#Group: (Some shaking of heads.) Yeah, man. That’s rough.

Cindi: How are you coping?

Me: Not sure I am, coping, that is. Just trying to keep busy. Trying to keep my mind occupied. Following my husband around like a lost puppy. Doing some baking, helping the kids with homework, knitting….

Cindi: Go on….

Me: (Looking at my feet) Well, a bit of blogging.

#Group: (Gasps) No! Don’t do it!

Cindi: We’re not here to judge you, Donna.

#Group: That’s right. We’ve all been there, man.

Cindi: The main thing is you realise you need help. You’ve come to this #group looking for something – some way to fill the void of empty hours.

Me: (shoulders lifting with suppressed sob) I can’t help it. I’ve always been a writer. I don’t know how to DO anything else. It’s how I identify myself.

Cindi: But you have a husband, a family, friends, a job…. Surely there are other things in your life besides this crazy dream of making a living by the Word?

#Group: (Claps loudly and slowly) Yeah! Right on, Cindi. He who lives by the Word, dies by it!

Me: I don’t think I can do this. I’ve made a mistake in coming here. (I start to leave the front of the room)

Cindi: What’s really holding you back, Donna? What’s stopping you from planting your feet firmly in the ‘real’ world and giving up this crazy addiction?

Me: (Standing up straight at last) I have to accept it. It’s just who I am. I Am A Writer.

#Group: (Loud applause) Bravo! Bravo! (Rises to ovation)

Cindi: All right. That’s enough for today. We’ve made a major breakthrough here. Now, for God’s sake, let’s all go get a drink!

Donna Carrick, Sunday, October 18, 2009

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Hung -- by Donna Carrick

2009-09-21T19:20:00.000-07:00

Long ago in my mis-spent youth, I used to exert a great deal of my passion in writing poetry. Every once in a great while I dust off some of those old sheets -- just to remind myself who I've been.

Hung

Feeling so
hung,
to find my soul
Stretched out to sunbake, brittle,
Cracked and sore. So one would
Come across me in a meadow --
Unforgiving afternoon! --
And there annoint my head with oil,
Too parched to cry aloud for rain,
And leave me there alone to perish,
Slow and languishing in pain.

So real it was -- that moment that
Was stolen from a dream!
I could have tasted it forever,
Moist and brazen like a lover.
The dream calls out, "Unhand my child!"
I must return that moment to
The other sphere. I cannot keep
It with me here.

So
hung
am
I
To steal another
Moment in the shadows as
They stretch from tree to tree across
The meadow, reaching out to shield
My dying and deserving soul.

The sun is not amused...

Donna Carrick

Writing and Parenting: An "excerpt from Trish"-- Part 1 of 3

2009-09-14T15:53:00.000-07:00

As an author, wife, mother of 3 and office manager, I am often asked how I find time for my craft. On the surface, it seems to most people that being a parent takes a toll on one's ability to write, or at least on one's productivity. The following is Part 1 of a 3-part article that hopes to capture some of the essence of what it means to be a parent and a writer.

Trish was born in Ontario, and now resides in New Brunswick. Like myself, she's lived all over Canada, a fact which no doubt lends her work a tremendous breath of "experience". In addition to geography, Trish has been blessed with another kind of experience: she is both a wife and a mother to 7 children! In her own words, here is what Trish has to say about the impact of "parenting" on her art: READ MORE...

Gypsy Love Song - something different by Donna Carrick

2009-09-13T08:14:00.000-07:00

Long ago in my mis-spent youth, I used to spend a great deal of my passion in writing poetry. Every once in a great while I dust off some of those old sheets -- just to remind myself who I've been.

Gypsy Love Song

Thank you for the kind words that
You rained like silver on my head.
They made me laugh until I cried.
Too bad they were so insincere. READ MORE...

Recalling a shared sorrow -- September 10, 2009

2009-09-10T10:18:00.000-07:00

Well, folks, here we are again, 1 day away from the anniversary of a dark mark on our history. If you're like me, you will remember quite vividly where you were on that fateful morning.

I work for a large multi media firm, and on that awful day I was at my desk, as usual. At 9:05 one of my staff members called to say she was held up in traffic on the highway.

"But Donna," she added, "there's something really wierd going on. Everything's really quiet out here, and the radio says something bad happened at the Twin Towers."

I ran up the atrium stairs -- me and about fifty other people from various departments in our building on Don Mills -- and got a spot where I could see the huge video screens in the newsroom.

Keep in mind, at that critical point we all, in fact the whole world, still believed there had been a terrible accident. (I can't believe the power of my emotions as I write this.) We watched the news man as he stood in horror with his back to the first building, which had just been struck. We could all plainly see the damage. It was tragedy in the making.

Then the unthinkable happened, right before our eyes. As the newsman spoke about the unofficial reports, the second plane flew behind his head and straight into the second tower.

You could have heard a pin drop in the atrium of our building. By this time, nearly 200 people had gathered on the stairs and in the halls, and there was not one sound. There was a beat, then another, as the newsman slowly understood what was happening -- as the dreadful realisation came over us that this was no accident.

Others have described this event with far more eloquence, and others have been touched by it on a far more personal level than I was. I was fortunate to be in Toronto when it happened, and to have no loved ones in the tower.

Having said that, it's clear to me that no one was un-touched that day. As report after report came flooding in, the world changed before our very eyes. We all changed.

We can't deny it. We are no longer the people we were before that day.

But here's the question that needs to be answered: Can we somehow move past the horror and make our way toward a better, more unified world?

I hope we will find a way. I noticed a "Tweet" by Yoko Ono ( @yokoono ) asking for signatures on a petition. The petition was very general in nature: it is asking for our leaders to work toward a more unified global society.

Big ambitions. I'm no longer as young as I was in the 60's -- I lost my rose-coloured glasses some years ago.

Just the same, one does hope...

The First Excellence: Fa-ling's Map, coming in September!

2009-08-29T05:40:00.000-07:00

My latest mystery is finally scheduled for release in late September! "The First Excellence" is set in China and features a young Chinese-Canadian woman, Li Fa-ling, who returns to the land of her birth. There she encounters murder, kidnapping, political intrigue and troubling memories of her years in an impoverished orphanage prior to being adopted. Along with Detective Wang Yong-qi and his brilliant but uncouth partner, Cheng Minsheng, Fa-ling must stop a brutal kidnapper, before another baby girl goes missing!

A larger image of the cover can be found at: The First Excellence! Hope you will all drop in for a sneak peek.

Best in writing,
Donna

Confused about Networking and Self-promotion? Don’t ‘drop your pants’ just yet – there may be hope!

2009-08-22T08:40:00.000-07:00

With so many social networking sites available on the Internet, I thought I’d do some research to discover the emerging Do’s and Don’t’s of Self-Promotion. After all, one doesn’t want to become known as a Dreaded Spammer. On the other hand, we all know that “Bench Advertising Works”, so in that spirit, I set out to uncover the mysteries of Global Networking.

According to the experts, the following are the “10-Commandments” of on-line self promotion. I have to admit, they leave me feeling somewhat perplexed. See for yourself if you don’t come away scratching your head. READ MORE...

Committed? Uncommitted? Should be committed? What kind of writer are you?

2009-08-15T06:32:00.000-07:00

With the insurgence of Twitter as a networking/marketing tool, Alex and I have been having some fun learning to promote our books and blogs to all and sundry. (See Alex's blog)

This morning I came across the following “Tweet” posted by Phillip Schofield in the UK: Wow, there's a lot of Saturday morning ironing going on in tweetsville!

To which I RT’d (Reply Tweeted, for the uninitiated): Apparently it ranks as #1 Diversion Tactic for writers! READ MORE...

The Asians are Coming! – “Adoption Group” Anniversary Party

2009-08-05T20:56:00.000-07:00

September 1st marks the 6th anniversary of the day we first met our daughter Tammy-Li.

It was hot, which is normal for Nanning, Guang Xi Autonomous Region, People’s Republic of China. I remember all of the Dad’s were wearing shorts, and all the Mom’s wore shorts or sun-dresses. Nanning is on a latitudinal par with Cancun, Mexico, so palm trees lined the streets and there were jungles just outside the city limits. READ MORE...

Your Best Shot: A Writer’s Account of Domestic Violence and commentary on Gun Control

2009-07-30T15:20:00.000-07:00

During my recent cyber-travels, I encountered a Website featuring the Coalition for Gun Control. There I found an “Interview with Wendy Cukier” posted on July 29 by Elizabeth Mandelman. The article discussed the impact of heightened gun control and registration on the incidence of gun-related violence against women in Canada.
It was the replies to this article that I found to be most disturbing. They were posted by persons in disagreement with Ms. Mandelman and Ms. Cukier. However, rather than expressing respectful debate and dissent, their overall wording showed a blatant disrespect and even, in some instances, personal attack. The replies argued it was not guns that were responsible for the 1989 Montreal Massacre in which 14 women were killed and another 10 were injured. Instead, it was the perpetrator’s Islamic beliefs that were a direct cause of these deaths.
On the subject of Domestic Violence, I have some first-hand knowledge. READ MORE...

HANDS UP, VARMINTS! Let's talk GUNS...

2009-07-26T07:56:00.000-07:00

One of the most interesting groups that I belong to is an on-line collection of Crime-Writers who gather on something called “CrimeSpace”. The group was developed by a man by the name of Daniel Hatadi, whom I consider to be nothing short of brilliant. Here, writers from all over the world get together virtually to discuss everything from ‘plotting’ to ‘character development’ to ‘manuscript marketing’.
Recently a question was raised on the group’s Forum that sparked a great deal of discussion. The “conversation” took a number of turns, and at one point it became a friendly debate on the issue of ‘gun-control’. READ MORE...