Creep Reading: Newsletter 2

 

 “There was a hand in the darkness, and it held a knife.” The opening line from The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman.

Books can be scary in more ways than one.

I’ve heard horror stories about novelists that received rejections in the mail with the word no scrawled across the manuscript in large, blood-red ink. The scariest thing that happened to me came into my inbox—a rejection. Lots of them. No ink, but it did stink!

Sharon tiptoed into the carnivorous room, her eyes adjusting to near blackness. In the center of the room, a small lamp illuminated a cluttered desk like a ghostly halo. Dusty books and loose paper, pencils, pens, and an assortment of abandoned coffee cups covered the desk, with a sacred laptop in the middle.

Sharon took another step, leaning to place a thick manilla envelope on top of the desk as if she were Bilbo Baggins discarding a gold ring into the fires of Mordor. “It’s done,” she whispered.

Something scampered in the dark; heels clicked; fabric chaffed. Sharon stood frozen.

There was a hand in the darkness, and it held a knife. Air whooshed toward Sharon’s face as the foreign hand lifted and slashed, sluicing and tearing. A loud thump emanated through the room like a heavy object heaved into a trash bin. It started snowing. She felt a flake melt on her cheek. Except, it wasn’t snow; it was a fresh tear. Tiny bits of animated paper floated, falling to the floor. Sharon stiffened, realizing the confetti was her prized manuscript stuffed inside the manilla envelope. Laughter erupted. “Your manuscript stinks,” said the literary agent before she swiveled on her heels, slamming the door.

Thank God I don’t have to worry about real-life query nightmares anymore! Real life is always scarier than fiction.

 This October, I’m painstakingly editing my manuscript before I hand it to my editor for more editing. Sigh. I’m applying the suggestions from my sensitivity read. Thank you, Veronica. The cover art is finished, and after countless revisions, I love it. Has there ever been a book cover in the history of the world that has a depiction—albeit small—of toilet paper? Being weird is a bonus for a writer. Plus, Ten16 Press added the title type, and it looks beautiful. I can’t wait to show and tell. My next newsletter should appear in your inbox on Monday, November 20.

Keep it, Gory!

Happy Halloween!

Sharon

“I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers.” – L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables

Don't forget to visit Sharon Wagner Books!

Buy The Levitation Game!

 

Death House: Newsletter 1

When I was a kid, I wrote a story called DEATH HOUSE. I remember sitting on the shaggy blue carpet of my bedroom, narrating the creepy story into a tape recorder, manifesting my best Edgar Allan Poe. I wasn’t alone. My friends surrounded me, emitting guttural, spooky sounds like a Hollywood seance. Thanks, Tammie, Barb, and Michelle. Little did I know how popular audiobooks would become. Alas, the tape recording went the way of my Which Witch Game, my high school class ring, and the poor Barbie that didn’t survive the dryer. Gone Girl. But something survived: my love of the supernatural. Eventually, my dad’s battle with Parkinson’s became the catalyst that put pen to paper after years of sad Poelessness. CHORUS OF CROWS unfolded. It’s the story of a retired farmer with Parkinson's and his difficult daughter, who battle mysterious and malevolent visitors, that may or may not be real. Write what you know works sometimes, and other times, you need to defy gravity, like with THE LEVITATION GAME. 😊 Writing a novel is one thing; publishing one is akin to pulling a bullet from your abdomen without anesthesia, like in old Western movies. Luckily, after many self-surgeries, Ten16 Press said yes! THE LEVITATION GAME will be an actual book, and it all started with my weird compulsion for the supernatural. I blame it on the Bermuda Triangle, Sasquatch, and Alien Autopsies. Now that my website is up and I’ve figured out my new blog, I’m conquering Mailerlite and newsletters. It turns out that it's handy to be able to illustrate my own book cover. :) Best of all, local author Peter Geye has agreed to give my book a sweet little blurb before it hits the press. Christine Brunkhorst of the Star Tribune said this about Peter Geye:  "If Geye is Minnesota's Thoreau, then his pond is a frozen lake." I love that line. Plus, I don't have to worry about negative Goodreads reviews for a long time. Gulp. "Any fear that I felt in presenting my first two books to the world was overcome by my dream of being an author." Kern Carter, author of Boys and Girls Screaming Sharon Wagner Books Buy The Levitation Game!

 

Hooray!

Discover me at Sharon Wagner Books

 

Painted Words

 

The crowd goes mild.

😑(expressionless face) 

I'm talking about you, literary agents. Sigh. But that was yesterday. 

I haven't signed with an agent. Even so, I feel blessed. Gary Gilson wrote about me and my beloved words in the Minneapolis Star Tribune. You can read the article here!

Maybe someday I can report the crowd goes wild over my words - like this...

Dominicalito

Dominicalito

 

 Dominicalito Beach is not as infinite as Baru Beach and not as hang-ten as Dominical. It doesn’t have roaring caves like Ventenas, and it certainly doesn’t have a sweeping Whale's tail.

     Upon my first visit, I ditched my flip-flops and traversed the sand, walking left until I reached the rocky end. I looked around. Any thoughts of beach inferiority melted away. Years later, Dominicalito is still my favorite beach in Costa Rica; it is the beach I always visit first.

     When you reach the Marina on Dominicalito, a dramatic coast materializes. You can see jungle hills melting into the ocean and, beyond them, hazy blue mountains. Weathered fishing boats sit moored to the sand at low tide, but not for long. There is a flurry of fishing activity on Dominicalito, an ongoing mission to keep local bellies full of fish.

     However, even with all this activity, vultures still outnumber people. The ominous creatures are always close, waiting and watching, with a sinister vibe and a stinky, foul smell. Fish guts are a beach vulture's favorite typical plate. The ocean cleanses the gunk away. If you walk past the vultures and boats, you'll reach a tiered rock shelf at the end of the beach. You can navigate the rocks at low tide, and later, select a secluded tide pool for a mid-day dip. The pools will be shared with tiny fish. There is a magnificent dead tree lying prone at the end of the beach, with weathered arms reaching toward the sea. Climb the trunk, and for a moment in time, you'll be the figurehead of a ship, surveying your kingdom. Take a breath.

     At this point, you might as well hop down and walk to the other end of the beach. Be sure to take photos along the way. You may find an old boat abandoned on the sand, filled with nets and anchors, set against the vast coast, or a weird bone, leftover coconut, smooth stone, or seashell at your feet. At low tide, big rocks dot the sand like the surface of a chocolate chip cookie, and overhead, inaudible trails of pelicans skim the sky. If you time it right, you’ll witness an orange orb sinking into the sea. Sunsets are beautiful in Costa Rica.

     These are the images that I remember. I live in Minnesota, a land of lakes, farms, forests, seasons, and snow. The coldest thing on Dominicalito is the refreshing stream that meanders over countless pebbles until it reaches the ocean. I want to walk through life barefoot. That's why I always return to Costa Rica.

     But back to you. How many beaches have you explored? Have you walked Dominicalito yet? Take a break, park close, throw a blanket or chair in the shade, and watch the fishermen clean fish. Buy some pipas frias from a vendor behind the beach and drink. Stay long enough to watch the surfers at high tide. Leave only footprints.

    A day on Dominicalito is Pura Vida to me.

 

 Ballena Tales, my favorite travel magazine, published my Dominicalito article last March. I'm an author because it says so in print! 

Hooray!

 

Norfolk Island Pine

 

Furious Fiction

December 2021 challenge criteria:

Your story must include a tree. Your story must include something being taped. Your story must include the words DANCE, SEARCH and CHANGE. 500 words. 55 hours. Go!

A young girl named Sparrow crept through the quack grass until she reached the tallest tree in her yard, a Norfolk pine with emerald limbs attached to the tree like perfectly combed mustaches. Sparrow stopped by the tree trunk and knocked, placing a box in front of a tiny birch bark door. She stuck out her tongue, fiddling with the shiny red bow taped to the top. “Perfect. This gift is for you, Mr. Elf,” she stated with conviction, rising to her feet and rubbing her snotty nose.

Sparrow rubbed both hands across her stomach and danced a little jig, turning and shuffling back towards her house.

Inside the tree, an elf the size of a stick of butter leaned a pointy ear against the small door, opening it to peer outside. The elf watched the human girl’s pigtails wiggle as she walked most peculiar, like a penguin. But there were no penguins in Florida and not many elves.

As soon as the girl slipped into her house, the elf opened the gift, finding two walnuts the same size as his hands. Martin the elf removed his green cap and scratched his head. His mission was to give gifts, not receive them, and he wasn’t the kind of elf to change his life’s purpose now. Martin looked up into the branches of the towering Norfolk, grabbed the walnuts, and touched his nose. Poof! He was gone.

Now, Martin was twenty feet high, sitting on a branch. “Excuse me, Ms. Bark Beetle, I’m your neighbor Martin. Would you like my walnuts?”

“Oh, no. Yuck,” said the beetle.

Martin frowned, then raised his eyebrows, waving at a Mockingbird. Unfortunately, the bird flew away. This time, Martin touched his green boot, finding himself at the top of the tree, surveying the lush mangroves littering the bay and the majestic royal palms scattered below. Martin wasn’t alone; a serious-looking osprey was clinging to the precipice of the Norfolk. Martin held out his hand. “Hello, I’m Martin the elf. Would you like these walnuts, you know, for a Christmas gift?”

“No,” said the osprey. The bird glowered at Martin. “I only eat fish.”

Martin furrowed his brows and touched the soft, spongy part of his right ear lobe. Pop! Martin found himself halfway up the tree, clinging to the bark. “Sir. Mr. Pine Weevil, would you like these nuts?” asked Martin.

“Don’t be silly. The nuts wouldn’t fit inside my tiny mouth,” replied the bug.

Martin kicked at a pine needle, searching the branch for other critters. He pulled up his shirt and touched his belly button, vanishing again. Now, Martin was out-on-a-limb, staring into the beady eyes of a fluffy gray squirrel. Martin smiled, holding out his sweaty hand. The squirrel inched closer, ruffling needles in his wake. “Are those for me? Oh, thank you so much,” said the squirrel with a whisker twitch.

Martin puffed his chest. “Merry Christmas!”

The Moon Ritual

 

And here they come now – your AUGUST story challenge criteria: Your story’s first sentence must contain only four words. Your story must include something being shared. Your story must include the words PAINT, SHIFT, WAVE and TOAST. It must be 500 words of less.  You have 55 hours. Go!                                               “Manifest with the Moon. We are water, and tonight, we will be one with the shifting waves,” said Owletta, glancing at each flickering face, hoping the seeds she planted on the new Moon would come to fruition.  “Yemaya hears our prayer,” said Willow, pushing her candle into the sand near her bare feet, reaching into her beach bag for another. The coven sat, crossed-legged in a circle, whispering unintelligible prayers to the East wind, chanting, and beating their bare thighs like a drum. Willow swayed, lifting her arms over her head. Across from Willow, Wren threaded her long blond hair behind her ears, waiting for the East wind to blow away the cobwebs. Nettle of the North stared at the irregular star, etched into the sand between them, beating her thighs harder and jiggling her loose flesh like Gelatin. Across the circle, Owletta closed her black eyes, praying to Yemaya, Goddess of the ocean, water, and tides. After several minutes the coven stood, breaking from the circle, collecting the water-filled mason jars, unscrewing the caps. Each Witch placed a jar in a corresponding corner of the sand-drawn star: North, East, South, and West. The moon water waited under a darkening sky. Again, the coven formed a circle, staring at the horizon painted with a thin strip of orange. The rise of the Moon was nigh. “Wren, your vanilla-scented candle smells cheap, like toast,” scolded Nettle. Giggles erupted. “Someone’s coming!” said Willow. The coven giggled louder, rushing to hide amongst the cemetery of gnarly driftwood, covering themselves with beach towels and goose-pimpled arms. “Bare skin is a Witches’ Sunday best,” said Nettle in a low voice. The coven hid, listening to the waves until the silhouettes of two mysterious beachgoers disappeared into the night. The group took their places on the ground again, tipping the towels from their shoulders, looking to the horizon. They waited. “Should we disperse our intentions?” asked Wren. Owletta withdrew a tiny seashell from beneath her bare butt, throwing it towards the shore. “Yes,” she said. The coven ransacked their beach bags, pulling handfuls of bay leaves from within. Willow came away with a single leaf, kneeling near a candle, reading the tiny message she had scribbled on the leaf in pencil. Willow kissed the leaf and stood, running towards the waves; the rest of the coven followed. Warm water washed over their feet, splashing eight legs with salty kisses. The women threw the bay leaves into the waters of Botany Bay. Simultaneously, a Full Moon crested over the horizon like the eye of a cyclops. “Look!” shouted Wren. The coven stared, watching the disc rise, a ribbon of white flowing over the water like a coil of rope. Owletta wished she could pull it into her body, harnessing all the power of Yemaya. Owletta’s dreams for the coven felt as deep as the ocean. The Moon symbolizes my inner world, and what happens in the dark stays in the dark. She thought with a smile.