Cake

You can’t have your cake and eat it too. Who came up with that expression? What’s the point of cake if you can’t eat it? Is it decoration? Do some people sit around looking at cake because they think it’s pretty? I want to know! Who doesn’t eat the damned cake? If you’re out there, reveal yourself!

Cake is a metaphor, of course. At this juncture in my life, cake is someone I deeply care about. Someone who wants more than I can give in my present state. It’s been a rough year on so many levels, my friends. Losing a twin changes your DNA. I’m no longer the person cake met years ago. I don’t know myself anymore, but I’m trying to figure out this new version of me and it’s hard. Like, being-a-teenager-without-a-clue kind of hard, and I’m exhausted.

People say when you ‘end’ a relationship, you have to cut ties with that person to allow for healing. But what if you don’t want to cut ties? The end of one thing is the beginning of something else, right? What if you want to redefine the relationship? Can’t we keep what was good and let go of what wasn’t working? What if the good boils down to companionship? What if obligation and expectation doesn’t work anymore? I guess some would call those two elements…commitment. Is that what I want? Companionship without commitment?

Wow.

At this point, I’m sure many of you are thinking, Yes, Jayne, that’s exactly what you’re saying. To which, I reply, Unless…that’s what cake wants as well? Now you’re shouting, Wishful thinking, Jayne! And you’re probably right.

Well…fuck. I guess I can’t have my cake and eat it too.
Which sucks, because I really love cake.

Snapshots

I have never written a book (start to finish, draft to publication) while in a relationship. When I was single, I cranked out four books in three years. I didn’t have to worry about offending my partner or wonder if readers would compare him to my characters. Many have tried to match the characters to my exes and that was okay. Have at it. However, writing about relationships while in a relationship? That was a much more difficult undertaking. I was in a relationship for almost five years. During that time, the best I could do was produce a first draft. It was a solid draft and I thought it was ready to send out to beta readers for feedback, but something stopped me. I couldn’t pinpoint what was wrong with it, I just knew something was. Recently, I reread the manuscript and recognized the problem. In trying to protect my significant other from unnecessary scrutiny, I wove a tale of pure fiction, staying away from and/or sanitizing anything that hit too close to home. It felt fake and I don’t do fake.
Writers write what they know. I write about relationships. That’s what I know.
I’m fifty-one years old (that was painful to type!) and have been in several relationships over the course of the past three decades, each one different from the next. I observe the workings of my friends and relatives’ relationships, the strong ones built upon friendship, others, unsatisfying unions of convenience. I’ve experienced the euphoria of being in love and the agony of heartbreak. I write what I know, but that doesn’t mean I’m writing an autobiography. My books contain snapshots of real life woven around a fictitious story. My feelings are reflected in some characters more than others, but the characters aren’t me. They are not my family. I include snapshots, that’s all.

Am I a single mother? Yes.
Did I have a husband who cheated on me? Yes.
Am I divorced? Yes.
Have I been in unhealthy relationships? Yes.
Do I find motherhood challenging? Yes.
Have I ever been in love with someone who doesn’t love me? Yes.
Have I ever been unfaithful? No.
Do I struggle with depression and anxiety? Yes.
I definitely can identify similarities between me and my characters, but part of the reason I write is to escape reality! I love a happily ever after because I WANT a happily ever after, whether it includes a significant other or not.

I don’t usually read reviews of my books. Honestly, I hadn’t read any over the past five years, not until last week. I couldn’t believe how many there were! Lots of good reviews, some bad reviews. Either way, I don’t take it personally. I’m not everyone’s cup of tea. But I was surprised by how many people thought my second book was a true story. As it Seems is my most popular novel (by far) and though in real life my ex-husband cheated on me while I was pregnant, and I’ve suffered bouts of serious depression, absolutely nothing else about that story is true. Ted and Libby were blissfully happy until her unplanned pregnancy and subsequent revelation of her husband’s infidelity. I was miserable in my marriage long before either of those events unfolded. Did I have a Truman in my life to get me through it all? If only! I had a babysitter, friends and family to help out. Did I walk away with half of everything when I finally left him? Not even close. Three years post-affair/birth of my youngest daughter I finally sprinted to the door without much of anything. I was hanging on by a thread with three kids to raise. If not for my incredible mother…I don’t know where I’d be now. She is my angel, now in heaven, watching over me and her grandchildren.

As it Seems is fiction, my friends. Little snapshots of reality mixed with a whole lot of fantasy.

I recognized another pattern while perusing the reviews. People like the characters I created who are wronged, not the characters who DO something wrong. I found that extremely interesting because I’ve yet to meet a person who lives a truly pure and honest life. Some of the most wonderful and interesting people I know are deeply flawed. I am deeply flawed. I also discovered that people are seriously triggered by infidelity in my book(s), probably because most people have been cheated on or know someone who has. Infidelity is wrong but it’s not a black and white issue. I’ve been cheated on and still understand why people stray. They are unhappy and either looking for a way out (consciously or subconsciously) or a way back in, hoping to get the attention of a partner who is not fulfilling their needs. The damage is usually irreparable by that point, but not everyone leaves. Some couples do come back from infidelity.

I like complex characters and just as people fuck up in real life, so do the characters I create.

Readers also had strong feelings about characters showing weakness of any sort. Staying in a bad relationship for your kids. Doing what you believe is right versus doing what is right for you. People make choices every single day, some simple, some life-altering. It’s not weakness to make a bad decision, it’s reality. People are complicated. My characters are complicated. And when I’m done tearing apart my four-years-in-the-making-first-draft and put some of the pieces back together in a whole new way, I hope to create honest, flawed, complex characters that you, my readers, can relate to.

My work isn’t done. Until next time.

Prologue - The Other Side (abridged version)

I can’t feel my body. Meredith stares blankly ahead of her, eyes darting from bureau to bed to the artwork hanging from her bedroom’s whale gray walls. I didn’t read that correctly, she tells herself and returns her gaze to the screen of her cellphone, but it has gone dark. She swipes her finger along the scratched surface to unlock the device, but her face isn’t recognized, and the ocean wallpaper stares back at her. She swipes up once more and waits for the facial recognition software to identify her, but again, it asks for her passcode. My phone doesn’t recognize me? Has her face transformed so much in the space of five minutes that she’s actually unrecognizable?

Her fingers visibly shaking, she slowly pushes in the six-digit code and at last her screen comes back to life. The text message she received minutes ago, revealed again. Meredith holds the device level with her face, squints her eyes and reads its’ contents once more. Three words. Annie should know better than to send these particular words in a text. These three words should only be uttered after consuming copious amounts of wine. These words should only be said in person, so her best friend can wrap her arms around her while Meredith more than likely has a nervous breakdown. Meredith reads the words again and this time, her heart starts racing and tears well up, threatening to spill onto her cheeks. No…a voice in her head whimpers. Not now.

Meredith turns the phone over on her nightstand, praying the message simply disappears. Why not? The subject of the message simply disappeared an entire lifetime ago. All of these years later, no matter who she is with or the path life has taken, their relationship haunts her and she’s subconsciously waited for the words that have taken her phone hostage for the better part of…god help her…fifteen years? She does a little math in her head thinking that can’t be possible. But it is. She hasn’t seen him in almost fifteen years.  

Her memory plays tricks on her these days. Most years blend together; some racing by, a complete blur…others more distinct. The year she met him was significant, a year she will never forget. She remembers almost every detail of the following four years, a movie reel repeating over and over in her mind. She may go a year without playing the figurative movie, but then she’ll see something that reminds her of him, a North Face parka, a soft-top Jeep, the smell of lilacs, and the film picks up as if it never stopped. And when that happens…Meredith cringes at the thought…it’s not good. But she’s learned some coping mechanisms over time. Journaling helps. So does exercise. Moving to another state did wonders. It was her home state, a mere forty miles away, the tiniest state at that, but it was the symbolism that gave her strength. What helps Meredith stop the soundtrack to that particular movie is creating new memories that have nothing to do with him.

The past three years have been good. Better than good. Distinct. Memorable. He can’t re-enter her life now in any capacity. He overtakes her thoughts at the most inopportune times, even now. She can’t allow the slightest possibility of him to enter her imagination. Not when things are finally going right in her personal life.

Technology is pretty intelligent these days, she thinks, picking up her cell phone once again. It should know better than to deliver such unsettling news. “Go away,” she shouts at the phone, tossing it aside, covering it with a blanket. Like a child, out of sight, out of mind. If only it was that easy. With a heavy sigh, she leans back against her pillows, closes her eyes for a moment, and tries to conjure up a vision of her fiancé in her head. Several seconds pass and she fights against the vision crystalizing behind her eyes because it’s not Toby’s face appearing, it’s his. With this realization, her chest tightens with anxiety, squeezing more air from her lungs with each passing second. She can feel her heart knotting in her chest.

Before panic seizes her entire being, she grabs the framed photo of Toby from her nightstand and runs her fingers over the contours of his face, finding comfort in the love shining in his smiling eyes, his full lips parted with delight, for her. Because they are together. Meredith takes a deep breath in, a sense of calm enveloping her. Toby has that effect on her. Their relationship is the most grown up, functional and healthy one she’s ever been in. She studies his image, holding the frame in front of her, head tilted, a corner of her mouth turning up.

…..

Meredith takes a deep breath in, holds the picture frame against her chest and relaxes into thoughts of Toby and the feelings he evokes within her. Feelings of safety and comfort. Feelings she waited a long time to feel. About fifteen years, she thinks, her heart hardening, a flood of memories washing over her once again.

Three fucking words.

Graham is divorced.

Graham. Always Graham.

Damn him.

Writer's Fog

I started writing my fifth book (still untitled) about four years ago, before Covid. I thought I knew where the story was going when I began writing, but the pandemic and life events ended up changing the trajectory…several times. I now have a first draft that is poignant but not cohesive. In the past I could churn out a first draft in two months, laser focused on character development and the story arc. As I wrote, I could picture what was happening like a movie reel in my head and the pieces just fell into place. With this book? Not so much. Not yet.

I want to deliver the goods. For me…and for the people who’ve been asking for my next book for a long time. But I want it to be good. Not just good. I want it to be the best damned book I’ve ever written and it has the potential if I can ever clear the fog from my mind and focus on the main thread of the plot. Tighten up the loose ends. I’ll get there. I know I will.

In the end, what is most important to me is publishing something real, not some contrived romantic drivel. I want you, the reader, to feel the pain, the joy and the inner conflict my characters feel. I don’t particularly care if you like them (that’s a bold statement!). They are flawed ‘humans’ who fuck up and make bad choices and love people they shouldn’t and hurt people who care about them. They can be selfish and whiny and contrary at times. They may want what they can’t have and suffer from depression and anxiety and have melt downs. You may want to smack them or rip your hair out in frustration because they can’t stop getting in their own way.

They are you and me and your friends and family.

I want you to read my book and say, ‘yeah, that happened to me (or my sister, or my friend) and it sucked.’ Or ‘I know someone who went through that and it was for the best.’ When you turn the last page, I want you to say I can relate. What I write may bring back unpleasant memories, it may give you hope for the future, or maybe you’ll feel as lost as I do at times. But it will be real.

At least…that’s the goal.