#ExcerptWeek – #Harbinger, A Work in Progress

January 4, 2016January 6, 2016 / Marcia Meara / 11 Comments

Starting #ExcerptWeek with the opening pages of my current WIP, Harbinger, book three of my #WakeRobinRidge series. This is a totally unrevised or edited draft, and will probably be shorter and tighter by the time it makes the book, but I thought it might be fun to share something no one else has seen (except my wonderful beta readers). Enjoy!

Early June, 1994
North Carolina Mountains
~~~

With a loud whoosh, the doors on the big, yellow bus pulled closed, and it rumbled away down the graveled, two-lane highway, leaving the shrieks and laughter of the last few kids hanging on the air behind it. Sissy Birdwell stood on the dusty berm, waving goodbye to friends she wouldn’t see again until the fall, and watched the bus disappear around the curve.

Reluctant to start the mile-long trudge up the narrow, red dirt road toward her home, she kicked aimlessly at a few pebbles and twigs. Part of her was happy her mother had finally agreed she was old enough to walk home alone. After all, she was eight years old now, and certainly able to find her way to their house, which sat at the very end of the uphill track. But part of her shivered at the thought of the lonely, winding road ahead, which curved up and up through the thick woods until it reached their clearing near the top of the ridge.

She would never tell her mama this, but in her heart, the dark beneath the trees scared her. She was afraid of bears. And coyotes. And snakes. And lots of other things that might decide they wanted to share the road with her on an early June afternoon. But nobody in the whole Birdwell family would understand that. Not even the women. They’d been part of these mountains forever, and she was sure nothing scared them at all.

Squaring her shoulders, she scolded herself soundly. You’re the one who said she was a big girl. Mama woulda been here to meet you, if you hadn’t begged. Standin’ here bein’ scairt, is dumb. Dark’ll catch up with you, if you poke along too much, an’ that wouldn’t be no fun at all. Even for a big girl.

With that thought in mind, she trudged up the drive toward home, refusing to look at the dusty trees and bushes that crowded close on either side. Instead, she pictured the litter of sweet, new pups their hound had presented them with last week, and tried to guess if any might have opened their eyes today. Continue reading →

First Official #ExcerptWeek of 2016!

January 4, 2016January 4, 2016 / Marcia Meara / 3 Comments

books2

Well, that’s it for another year. Christmas is safely back in the boxes and tucked in the attic. My 300+ Santas have been put to rest, alongside various shiny baubles and strings of now-darkened lights. One spray of evergreen boughs are still in the wall vase by the kitchen entryway, where they’ll stay until they are replaced by new greenery next year, and thus will keep Christmas in my house throughout 2016.

I hope your holidays were everything you love and cherish, and you are each ready to see what the New Year will bring. I know I am.

Here on The Write Stuff, I have ideas for some new features that I hope will be both entertaining and inspiring, and I’m eagerly waiting to see what each of you might contribute, as well. To start things off, I hereby proclaim that this is Excerpt Week, and I’ll be sharing one with you shortly. You are all invited to share excerpts of your own between now and Sunday night. Of course, you can always share excerpts, any time you wish, but during this week, I hope we’ll see bunches of folks taking the time to contribute, and lots of stuff coming through.

You may share excerpts from published work, or a Work In Progress, whatever you’d enjoy having us read and comment on. Please feel free to include your Buy Links for your books, as well as a bio to let new followers know a bit about you. And EVERYONE can participate. If you are already set up to publish new posts here, have at it whenever you like. If not, and you’d like to be, just email me and I’ll explain your options. mmeara@cfl.rr.com

My only restrictions on subject matter are these: Nothing political, and nothing erotic. Sexy is okay, and I trust you to know where to draw the line. Other than that, feel free to share what you’d like, and we’ll pass it along on Facebook, Twitter, or by reblogging. Hopefully, you’ll find some new readers that way. Most of all, have fun sharing!

I wish you all a happy and fulfilling 2016! Now let the fun begin.

#Excerpt Week Finding Hunter CH 8

September 19, 2015September 19, 2015 / Marcia Meara / Leave a comment

A shorter one this time…a scene from CH 8, from Hunter’s POV, and giving you a bit more insight into who Hunter Painter really is. Another of his secrets, exposed. 🙂 Poor Hunter. He’s so befuddled.

******

I duck, climbing in, nod my thanks, but don’t speak.
He talks enough for both of us. My head hurts.
I yell at him, see his shocked face.
He stops, pushes me out, drives away fast.
Walking again.
~ Traveling Man ~

~~~
Chapter 8
You Write
~~~

Saturday, January 19, 2013

HUNTER WATCHED WILLOW stroll through her herb garden, basket over her arm, and small, sharp scissors in hand. The weather had been mild this winter, and there were plenty of hardy herbs still green and fragrant. She gathered bunches to hang in the kitchen, and the snip-snip sound followed her as she moved along each row.

Sitting at a white wrought iron table in the shade of a young laurel oak, legs stretched out in front of him, Hunter’s sharp eyes missed very little. Admiring Willow’s graceful movements had been a pastime of his since the first day she came into his life, an activity as familiar as breathing in those days. Today, it brought a perspective that was new—and completely unanticipated.

Today, she was his, as he was hers. Today, his heart was at peace, even if only temporarily, and the constant, unfulfilled longing from years ago was gone. She loved him, which made everything different, and he refused to let anything steal this moment from him.

His gaze lingered on the silky blue fabric of her skirt, blowing around her slim legs, and the pale gleam of her unbound hair, cascading down her back. Words tumbled through his mind, and that familiar need to commit them to paper took over.

With his small, spiral notebook and pen in hand, Hunter wrote, spilling his thoughts onto each narrow blue line, still as in love with the process as he had been as a young child. Then, as now, random marks turned into letters in front of his eyes, and letters into words. Words became sentences, then thought, then pure emotion. His pen flew across the paper, capturing every image and feeling, so he could revisit them later, at will.

Hunter Painter loved to write. It helped convince him he wasn’t simply taking up space on this planet, and it was as much a part of him as his gray eyes and brown hair. When he was lost in the process, the rest of the world disappeared, which is why he didn’t realize Willow had finished her herb gathering, and stood behind him, reading over his shoulder. Oblivious, he scribbled on, trying to capture each word before it got away.

When she laid her palm on his shoulder, he shot straight up, pen flying from his hand, and spiral notebook dropping to the ground. “Geeze, Willow! Didn’t know you were there!”

He scrambled around, retrieving pen and notebook, hoping she hadn’t had a chance to see what he was doing, but one glance at her expression told him he’d been caught. Running wouldn’t help. He’d tried that. She would follow.

Willow took a seat at the tiny table, the basket of herbs by her feet. “You write.” Amazement was in her voice and shone from her eyes. “Poems.”

Cheeks burning, he eased back into his chair, uncertain how to respond. “Yeah … I guess I do.”

“You guess? You write, Hunter. Why are you so embarrassed? What I read was wonderful.”

He stammered, face flushing redder. “I never … show anyone. It’s just … something I do.”

“For how long?”

“Always. Long’s I can remember.”

“You’ve been writing as long as you can remember, and no one knows about it? No one has read any of it?”

Hunter sank lower in his chair, groaning inside. She wasn’t going to let this go. “No. Never.”

“Why on earth not?”

He shrugged, face still hot. “Never showed it to anybody.”

Brow slightly furrowed, she uttered a noncommittal sound. “Hmm.”

“What’s ‘hmm’ mean?”

She rose, picked up her basket, and beckoned to him. “Let’s go inside. I’ll fix us some lunch.”

Left alone, he had little choice but to follow her, muttering under his breath the entire way. “Done it again. Never showed anybody a word I’ve written for thirty years, and somehow, after only a few weeks, Willow knows all about it. How does this keep happening?”