I covered my face with my pillow. It was well past one in the morning and those wenches on the top deck had finally had their fill over singing hiccup versions of "Deck the Mizzenmast" and "Silver Cannonballs". Now all was quiet as they passed out in a drunken state of Christmas bliss. It was of no wonder to me why the pirates of the RWR were never taken seriously as writers.

Because they never got any writing done!

Ridiculous!

I got up, sat at my desk and stared at the cursor blinking back at me from a blank document. It was bad enough that those wenches kept me awake with their caterwauling, but I was still suffering from a mild case of missing word muse. Would this day never cease to end?

I tapped my fingers over the keys hoping for inspiration yet nothing came to me. I closed the screen down on my laptop and pushed it away. I needed a short nap to rest my eyes before I tackled ripping down all the festive decorations while the wenches slept. I meant it when I told them earlier I didn't want to be reminded it was Christmas. The day was memory enough.

I closed my eyes and enjoyed the peace and quiet for a change. I dreamed everyone was quiet and concentrating, hunched over laptops and notebooks. No merrymaking or carousing or drunken lunacy. Just hard work and determination to get to the end. Peaceful dreams- I reached out for a blanket.

Except there was no blanket, only crumbled papers, an open marker that soaked into the palm of my hand and a laptop.

"Blast!" I muttered and let my head drop to the desk. The thunk echoed in the empty cabin and I groaned. Clearly a nap didn't do me any good. When had anything good ever come to me?

Exactly.

I slowly straightened up in my chair, bones cracked and muscles screamed in agony. I stretched my arms over my head and noticed my window was wide open. The sliver of moonlight streamed onto the dark wood floor, the rustle of palm tree leaves lulled the rest of the pier to sleep. Everyone awaited a visit from Santa. But I knew he wasn't coming. No such thing is Christmas cheer. The whole idea of Christmas was nothing but... ridiculous.

I stood up and hobbled over to my captain's bed, both legs were asleep. I tossed and turned on the uncomfortable mattress. My mind whirled from my overactive imagination, images of a monster with three heads quoting lame sonnets and tittering nervously danced through my head.

No way was a Ghost coming to visit me tonight. What a bunch of crap.

I rolled over and punched my lumpy pillow back into shape. I couldn't believe I was actually giving this any real thought. Ridiculous!



The hour ticked by. Then the next. I laid there in silence, waves lapped at the ship hull, seagulls bellowed in the distance. The moon was just a slice of light in the sky, stars twinkled faintly. It was dark. A perfect night for sleeping. Yet, sleep wouldn't come to me.

I blame that blasted figment of my imagination earlier filling my head with thoughts of Ghosts.

Tick. Pause. Tick. Pause. Tick. Pause. Tick. Pause. Tick.

I rolled over onto my stomach and buried my face into my pillow. I should just get up. After all, sleep was just overrated. I needed to complete this first sex scene between my hero and heroine tonight so I could write in the big fight tomorrow to keep on my deadline. I thought about the scene in my head, figuring the position. Figuring the finesse, the moving of bodies...

Gunshots blasted in the distance.

One. Two. Three. Three in the morning I could believe. My eyes felt like sandpaper rubbing against cashmere.

"Damnit! Every night that flippin' racket... A pirate ninja tart can't concentrate with all that bloody noise!" Sin shouted from the Crow's Nest. "Randy Andy, cut it out! No one cares what time it is!"

Four. Five. The sun would be up any minute.

"Shut your bleeping mouth you nagging wench!"

I heard growling and heavy swearing. Sin lost her temper- what a shocker. "I'm going to poison your rum you one armed worthless bag of seaweed!"

Six. Seven. Wait. Seven?

"Shut up the both of you!" Bo'Sun shouted. "I'm trying to get my beauty rest."

Eight.  Nine. Okay this was just getting a little weird. Even for the ship.

"Eat it, Ter!" Sin yelled and something thumped onto the deck and hissed.

"Oh, hell," Hal swore. "It's the undead monkey!"

I could hear Sin laughing.

Chance shouted to the crew, "Someone get the baseball bat and rotten bananas!"

Chaos broke out and the monkey's claws skittered along the deck as footsteps thundered around.

Ten. Eleven. I didn't sleep Christmas away, did I? My luck wasn't that good.

"Hold him! Hold him!" Marn shouted. "Holy Nikes! He's trying to bite me! Help!"

"Don't let him go!" Lisa screamed as nails scratched the top deck.

Twelve.

I let out a sigh of relief. I could deal with midnight. It would give me enough time to pass back out and sleep through the supposed haunting of the RWR in my honor.

One.

All the noise on the top deck died. Dread weighted me down into my bed. I waited in silence for the noise to resume but minutes ticked by and nothing happened.

I groaned. This was a dream. All a dream. In the morning, I would chalk this up to Chance's special spiced rum cider.

I rolled over and came face to face with a floating black hoodie.

I blinked once. Twice and the hoodie floated closer. I wasn't sure quite how I landed on the wood planked floor, but it shocked my system enough to get me standing.

"Who the hell are you?" I couldn't see its face. Only the cloak smoldered as though it were on fire. Darkness filled the inside, and hovered at the edge of my bed. "And what the hell are you doing in my quarters!"

"Will you dare to come with me?" The voice was angelic, soft and hung suspended in the air as if waiting to be caressed. "I cannot wait all night, dear Captain. For I am the Ghost of Christmases Past and I have something for only you to see."

I rubbed my eyes and focused on the voice coming from the hoodie. Crap. Emily Brontë was the Ghost of Christmases Past. This wasn't going to be easy.

"Thanks but no thanks." I laid back down and willed the aberration away. Damn, Chance. Tomorrow, after I pulled a Grinch and threw away all the Christmas decorations, pitching the rum rations to the Kraken would be my next mission.

A feathery touch of fingertips brushed my forehead and I nearly wet myself when I slowly opened one eye and saw the cloak hovering above me. No hand in sight.

Goosebumps broke out over my body. I refused to be scared. Pirates do not get scared.

"Don't touch me."

I sat up and blew out a breath and the hoodie smacked against the ceiling in a burst of flames. I rolled off the bed and grabbed the hoodie around the neck. I slammed it to the floor boards and beat the flames with my pillow. The hoodie lay still at my feet, all signs of life gone. I stood over it, Capt'n Morgan style and breathed a sigh of relief. I had to say it felt pretty damn good to one up ole Ebenezer Scrooge.

I kicked the scorched hoodie in the corner and flopping back into the bed. At least one good thing came of the ghostly visits; peace of mind there would be no more. This just served to remind me I didn't need a hero to save me. I could do it for myself.

I snuggled into my Capt'n Jack blanket and my eyelids drooped. Visions of Jack Sparrow in nothing but his boots danced in my head.

"Not so easy Captain," a soulless voice caressed my ear. "The dead cannot die again."

I flopped over on my back and glared at the hoodie hovering above me.

"Do I have to spell this out for you? I'm not interested in a smarmy walk down memory lane. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm a pirate. I have no need for warm fuzzy memories."

"It's my job to awaken you to what you missed," the ghost replied.



"You've got to be kidding me." I rolled my eyes. "This is ridiculous!"

The cabin went black and the scent of coconut suntan oil permeated the room. A tranquil vision of ocean and sand appeared before me.

I glanced to my left, and the cloaked figure hovered at my side.

I crossed my arms over my chest. "So enlighten me if you must."

I saw the pirate girls of the RWR soaking up rays of sunshine, cabana boys flocked all around them. They were decked out in skimpy bikinis and holding different colored drinks and I sat away from them underneath an umbrella laptop situated in my lap waving off two really hot guys.

I shrugged. Who needed guys when you could write the perfect one yourself?

Chance looked up from her drink and elbowed the rest of the RWR pirates. Lisa took her straw out of her mouth and yelled over her shoulder, "Hellion! Come over here where the sun is hot and the men are hotter!"

"No," Hellion mumbled. "I'm almost done with this paragraph and then I'll be over there. Gimme five more minutes."

"You always say that!" Marn whined.

"Get your rear over here!" Chance waved a couple more guys Hellion's way, but they came back sulking.

"Alright, that's it." Sin went to her knees and brushed sand off her as she stood. "If she won't come over here on her own will, then I'll drag her skinny butt over here myself."

"If you pirates would worry more about your writing and not so much about the cabana boys hanging all over you, you'd be finished with your manuscripts by now. Sin, you're the worst of them all." Hellion didn't bother to look up from what she was typing, but I noticed the look on Sin's face. Pissed off didn't cover it.

Bo'Sun reached up for Sin's arm and pulled her back down to the sand. "She didn't mean it. Christmas time always gets to her."

"She's gonna think Christmas time is what is getting to her," Sin hissed through her teeth.

I watched Hellion continue to write, ignoring the happiness and laughing and couldn't say that I blamed the younger version of myself. Christmas was just another day. I waited for the day when everyone else would realize it too.

I looked to the Ghost of Christmas Past, "This is the best you can do? I've seen better on the Hallmark channel."

"Don't you feel bad that you hurt your friend's feelings? That you didn't share in Christmas with your the pirates you consider to be family?"

I looked at Sin and the Grinch in me softened a little before I snuffed it out.

"You can't be mad if it's the truth." I picked up a seashell and chucked it back into the ocean. "Next memory and it better be good."

The Ghost gave me a look and I crossed my arms over my chest. "Ebenezer was a punk."

"Alright," The robed arm reached out to me and wrapped around my torso tight. "Don't say I didn't try to warn you."

Everything went black and faded into night. The smell of the sea salt was heavy in the air. I stood out in the cold watching people walk by as they poured down the sidewalks, linked arm and arm. Women dressed in their best wench dresses, lots of skin showing, hair bouncing with each step as their hips swayed in five inch come-fck-me-pumps. Men dressed respectably as a pirates can get, refraining from scratching themselves or tugging at the collar of their button up shirts their dates forced them to put on.

The streetlights were lit, wreaths and garland hung with care and tied with red velvet bows. The only holiday pirates got respectable for- Christmas.

Ridiculous, if you asked me.

I wrapped my arms around me, and rubbed my hands over my shirt sleeves to warm up. You could hear the racket a mile away. The laughter. The singing. And worst of all, the smell of happiness. I wrinkled my nose. Idiots. All of them. Didn't they know the holidays were just regular days not paid merrymaking time to go out and squander what little coin they had?

"Now what are we doing?" I shot the Ghost a nasty look. "This is ridiculous!"

The Ghost of Christmas Past set its gaze upon me; the black hood rippled with the breeze. "Come with me."

The Ghost turned away from me and floated away. It made its' way over the sidewalk before hovering over the bricked road towards a house with every room lit up in decoration. My eyes followed the Ghost to the house in question and I stood frozen on the sidewalk.

I knew this house. It once had been my home.

A terrible feeling sank into the pit of my stomach. Oh God. The one memory I never wanted to revisit and I was here about to relive it.

My heart skipped a painful beat.

"I will not ask you again. Come forward so we can end our night." The Ghost's robed arm stretched out in my direction, an endless abyss of darkness met my eyes and I tore my eyes away from it and forced myself to step off the sidewalk. I held my breath as I stepped closer and closer to the front door.

We slipped inside with another couple, warmth of the fireplace raced over my skin. Firelight flickered against the walls from candles burning bright in the chandeliers hanging overhead and lights twinkled on the Christmas trees scattered about.

Sin's laughter echoed out of the house and I watched her run past a group of masked guests with a male right on her heels as they ran into a room and slammed the door behind them. Bo'sun sat at the DJ booth and spun a mixture of Christmas music and pirate booty music, drink firmly planted in one hand as she moved to the beat. Chance ran behind the bar, tossing out drinks faster than a pirate should be able to move, Silent as Sins and Bo'Sun Burners, Glittery Hoohas were traveling the length of the bar in lightening speed. Marn, Lisa and Hal were up on the bar, dancing around in little elf outfits teasing the hell out of everyone as they twirled around tinseled poles. Santa and JP doled out little sample treats to guests, smiling and flirting and wrapping everyone around their pinky fingers.

Everyone was present except for me.

Gatherings were never my thing, I reasoned. I made a rude noise in the back of my throat and looked to the Ghost. It gestured for me to move forward and I dropped my eyes to the floor. My heart pounded a little harder with each breath I took. I licked my lips nervously.

He was here.

Even after all those years, I was painfully aware of him being in the room even if I couldn't see him. When I walked into a room, my eyes automatically looked for him. I wouldn't do it this time. I couldn't. I couldn't do this again.

Ridiculous, I told myself. Memories never got your anywhere in the world.

I looked up and there he was, standing at the edge of the dance floor, empty drink in hand. His hair was messy from the wind, his button up shirt unbuttoned at the cuffs and rolled up, three buttons undone and opened without a care. He smiled over at Chance and lifted his empty drink cup and Chance nodded and started him another.

He looked my way and I couldn't breathe. His dark eyes searched the crowd, mouth twitched into a frown. He looked to his watch and back around the room. I stared at him, unable to tear my eyes away from him. He was perfect, without being perfect. On track to be a successful agent, he just needed a big break.

I wanted so badly to do that for him.

I felt my face flood with color. It may have been a long time since I'd seen him, but never in a million years would I forget the way he made me feel inside.  I could conquer the world as long as he was standing by my side.

My nose burned and my eyes started to water and I looked to the Ghost of Christmas Past. "Well, let's get on with it. I've got a chapter to write."

The Ghost of Christmas Past looked to me; hood a vacant black hole and voice soft, "Learn the error of your ways, Hellion or your life will never change."

A Brontë line if I ever heard one.

The Ghost gestured beyond the crowd and I found the younger version of myself easy among the crowd. My hair was a wild mess softly waved and flowing loose over my shoulders. Even though I'd spent the day in the office working on my first manuscript I'd taken the time to run upstairs and slip on my Santa Baby outfit with a short red velvet dress with the white pom-pom bracelets and black come-fck-me heels.

I smiled sadly to myself. The younger version of me looked distracted as she made her way through the crowd. She chewed the tip of her fingernail. Tossed her hair over her shoulder and laughed at what was being said but with a distant look in her eye.

It wasn't hard to recall what I was distracted by. It was the end of my first manuscript and I was trying to work out the Happily Ever After between my hero and heroine. For weeks, it eluded me. Christmas was my deadline and I'd tried to get out of the Christmas party but everyone looked forward to the distraction for weeks.

I couldn't take it away from them.

Ridiculous, I reminded myself. You should've. You would've saved yourself a heck of a lot of heartache.

My younger self looked for him in the crowd. He found her and smiled in her direction with a sparkle in his eye as if she lit up his entire world with one look.

I had been such a fool.

He moved towards her, the crowd parted and the women sighed as he came up beside her.

He smiled at everyone and made pleasantries. She grinned up at him as if he hung the moon and stars and nothing else mattered in the world.

I felt sick. I was going to be sick.

He leaned in close to her, his lips brushed against her ear and she melted into him. He took her hand and led her out to the dance floor.

I put my hand to my ear and found it difficult to breathe. He asked me to dance so sweetly. I remember how he felt against me. How his words affected me. Every time my heart beat in my chest it broke a little more.

She smiled and shook her head. I told him I only had time for one dance.

He grinned and pulled her out to the dance floor. They moved together, made for one another. If only I'd realized that then and not taken the time we had together for granted.

The music wound down and she turned to go but he held onto her hand. He brushed the backs of his knuckles across her check and swept the hair away from her eyes. I read his lips, heard his voice as though he were speaking to me. He asked her to stay until after one. He had something very important to ask her when the clocks chimed one.

She stared at him, her lips parted, red stained her cheeks. She dropped her eyes to his chest and put her hand over his heart. I saw her lips move. I saw the way the light died in his eyes.

I told him to meet me in my room at dawn and we'd celebrate Christmas the right way.

I wanted to interfere. I wanted to shake her and say, "That wasn't what he was talking about!"

I later found out he was going to ask me to be his pirate and sail away to the seven seas while we conquered the writing world together.

Fate was so cruel.

I looked away from them and sniffed. Ridiculous. "I've had enough and I want to go back to the ship."

The Ghost of Christmas Past looked upon me again, and I felt a chill to my very marrow as the consequences of my actions settled onto me. "Oh no, Hellion, you've yet to see the best part."

I swallowed hard as I watched him watch her walk away from him. All I wanted to do was run to him and throw myself in his arms and apologize for how dumb I'd been. "No." I couldn't take my eyes off of him. "I can't do this anymore."

"You can do this and a lot more."

She never looked back. She never turned to ran back to his arms. And as if our love were a candle to be snuffed out, I saw it die right there.

"No."

"You're going to miss it."

I looked up as he pulled the ring out. The firelight from the fireplace flickered over the stone and played against his features. I tried to not cry but felt tears slide down my cheeks one right after another.  "He never married."

"You broke his heart."

The Ghost of Christmas Past stretched its robed arm out towards me and I slipped from its grasp.

"He broke mine!" I spat as I looked towards the office door that slowly closed. I wanted to break it down and drag the younger version of myself out by her hair. "I waited for him!"

"Maybe you don't understand, dearest Hellion, that he waited for you to return to him but you never did."

"If only he could've given me another day."

The robed figure of Christmas Past wrapped around me as it whispered, "He would've given you a lifetime of time but you walked away."

The truth hit me like a Mack truck. All these years I spent blaming him were wasted in one short second. I left him.

The room faded away and I closed my eyes. The smell of wood smoke and cedar wrapped around me and as I opened my eyes firelight greeted me. The room was tastefully decorated, heavily masculine and warm neutral colors. But dead of any emotion.

I knew where I was without asking.

The Ghost of Christmases Past was no where in sight. The room was empty save me and him. I could hear Christmas music playing on a radio somewhere in this place, but there was no sign of Christmas in this room. No tree. No lights. No stockings. Or pictures of family. The only personal item in the room was a ring box sitting on the fireplace mantle.

My knees trembled as I stepped closer to his chair. He sat with his forearms balanced on his thighs, head dropped to his chest. The glass in his hand was half full of amber liquid. The firelight played on his face, danced off the cut crystal of the glass. I wanted to touch him. To run my fingers through his hair, brush my lips against his 5 o'clock shadowed cheek.

But I couldn't do those things. He wasn't mine.

I sank to my knees in front of the chair and watched him in silence. I bit my lower lip to keep from crying and reached out. My hand rested on his wrist, but he didn't move. I memorized every line of his face. The tilt of his lips into a fine line. I noticed the sad look in his eyes as he stared past me into the fire.

"I'm so...," I choked on the last word. I couldn't breathe as I dropped my head in defeat and covered my face with my hands. "I didn't mean for it to be this way. You have to believe me."

The fire cracked and his phone rang and I froze as I listened to it click over to voice mail.

"Hey, it's me again. Mother wanted to know if you were coming over for Christmas." In the background was laughing adults and screaming kids. "Please. Just this once come home for Christmas. You don't have to spend it alone."

There was a pause and I looked at him, horribly saddened and desperate to hold him.

I heard a sigh on the other end of the voice mail. "Okay, I'll call later. Love you brother and Merry Christmas."

"I'd do anything to make this right." I reached up to his face; his eyes were on the ring. "Anything."

He looked at me and my heart skipped a beat, but the room started to fade and I struggled to hold onto him. "No. Don't do this!"

The air around me started to cool and I pressed myself closer to him as I whispered against his neck, "Don't take him from me."

I closed my eyes and held onto his memory only to wake up staring at the walls of my cabin. If only I hadn't burned the house to the ground the next day and set everyone permanently to the ship. Things could've been different.

But time will never tell a story not written and ours never had a chance.

Who's played your favorite version of the Ghost of Christmases Past? Who would make a great Ghost to make you change your ways?

Christmas was tomorrow. That was the first thing to be remembered. Christmas was tomorrow, and all my crew had lost their ever-lovin’ minds.

 

A chill was in the air—a mere 68 degrees on the Caribbean shore where we were currently docked to spend the holidays. You could tell it was Christmas, could practically smell the evergreen even though we were surrounded by palm trees. If it had started snowing, I was sure it would have the feel of a Dickens novel.

 

I hated Dickens. Mr. Anti-minimalist; that man must have been paid by the word. Jane Austen, now there was a fine novelist, and she wouldn’t have any sappy Christmas stories like the ones Dickens bandied about, manipulating perfectly rational pirates into decorating for weeks on end and making copious amounts of treats. Ridiculous.

 

I watched the ship festivities like I watched all the ship’s festivities: with suspicion and crankiness. This was a working ship, not a pleasure cruise. We were pirate writers! And here the crew was completely larking about, putting up tinsel, eating bon-bons, and singing. It was nauseating.

 

I was going to put a stop to it.

 

I opened the door to my office—and it was almost as if the theme to The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly whistled across the deck, ooolie, ooolie, oooo—and all frivolities stopped. Santa clutched her ceramic bowl a little tighter to her chest, the butter and sugar within only half creamed. Sugar cookies, I suppose. Hal straddled the mizzenmast, a coil of evergreen and tinsel over one shoulder, but she was as still as a statue, as if she thought I wouldn’t notice that the top half of my ship was wrapped in garland and blinking colored lights. Honestly. Mo stood stock still, stirring a bowl of milky substance, though unfortunately for her when I came out of my office, she’d been pouring rum at the time. In her bid to pretend she was frozen in time, the rum bottle continued to pour. Then again, knowing Mo, that was probably the standard dosage of rum needed for an RWR eggnog punch.

 

I noted Terri and Sin were conspicuously absent. Probably buying nanos for all the orphans in China or something. As if orphans cared for the latest iTune by the Jonas brothers.

 

“What are you pirates doing?”

 

Mo put down the rum bottle and held her arms wide. “Does somebody need a hug?”

 

“I do not. Tell me what is going on.”

 

“It’s Christmas Eve.”

 

“I am aware what calendar day it is, Hal, but what are the pirates doing? What type of ship do you think I’m running here? Do you think I pay you to tack up gaudy decorations and eat bon-bons instead of write? Ridiculous!”

 

The trapdoor opened and Marn popped from its depths like a victorious Jack in the Box, waving a bit of greenery in her hand. “I found it! The mistletoe was where I thought. The Captain keeps it pinned above her bed and considering where above the bed it was pinned, I bet it’s a hint to Jack of where she wants to be kis….” Marn paused. “The Captain is standing right behind me, isn’t she?” She turned. “Good morrow, Hellie, how are you today?”

 

“Vexed.”

 

My gunner visibly swallowed. “I’m sorry to hear that, Hellie.”

 

“Do you know why I’m vexed? Because I have a shipful of crew who’d rather make cookies and sing God Rest Ye Merry Pirates than write on their manuscripts! How is the publishing world going to take us seriously when we lollygag all the livelong day?”

 

An odd cat-screeching sound vibrated up from beneath the floorboards. What the hell…were there ghosts on the ship? “What is that?”

 

Marn gave a wicked grin. “It’s more who is that. It’s Terri. She’s auditioning the Christmas Orgasm Elves to make sure none of them are duds.” The other pirates smirked. “So far, none of them have been.” Worse, they then started giggling. “The Bo’sun takes her job very seriously.”

 

They burst into raucous laughter as I narrowed a gimlet stare and said nothing. One by one, they hiccupped into silence, trying to look contrite. “Good. Now I trust you will remember yourselves for the rest of the day?”

 

“It’s just Christmas Eve,” Mo reminded me.

 

“Yes, and tomorrow’s Christmas. Tomorrow is the day you have off. Today you need to be writing.” I gestured to all the garland and cookies and eggnog. “Now put that away and get back to work—or I’ll have you fired! Ridiculous,” I muttered under my breath.

 

I stomped back to my cabin, slamming my door behind me. Sin bounced up and down in the chair before my desk. She was holding a brightly colored package in her hands. She looked…happy. Gah. I did not have the patience for this today.

 

“That package better contain the manuscript of your newly completed novel, my little spider monkey.”

 

Sin grinned, clearly not listening to the threat in my voice. Of course, she never had. Why would she start now?

 

“It’s even better! It’s your Christmas present!” She put the present in front of me.

 

I stared at the vivid paper and curling ribbons, then folded my hands on my desk. “What day is today?”

 

“Christmas Eve! Go ahead, open it!”

 

“That’s right, so tomorrow is Christmas.” I pushed the present back toward her. “Today is not a holiday, and you need to go back to your room and continue writing. Do you think your Nika Riley books are just going to manifest themselves? What is it you pirates have against working anyway?”

 

I opened my laptop to demonstrate what a hardworking pirate was supposed to be doing and stared at the cursor on the page. I had no idea what Adam should be doing next. Apparently he was taking the day off too. Was nobody working today?

 

“It’s Christmas!” Sin said, shutting my laptop. “It’s time for bon-bons and noodles and mashed potatoes and New Moon.”

 

“It’s time to finish our novels.”

 

“All work and no play makes the Captain a cranky ass.” She pushed the present back toward me. We began a small shoving war, which ended when the door opened again and in came two visitors. Landlubbers by the look of them, and jolly to boot. Was there no end to this hellish day?

 

“’ello, Captain Hellion, we are so pleased to meet you. Second Chance has told us so much about your ship. We know someone as successful as you are, running a blog about writing and managing a crew of novelists, you would be just as generous in your donations to those not as well off as you are.”

 

Just what I needed. Door-to-door telemarketers. This is what comes in asking rhetorical questions in which you know the situation is bound to get worse.

 

“People like who?” I asked, though I knew I would regret the answer. Still running them through would be frowned upon, even with my cantankerous reputation.

 

“You know. Fledging writers, those who don’t even consider themselves real writers. I know you’re more than willing to lead a seminar or donate money to send well-deserving….”

 

I better cut this off while I still had a chance. “Are there no more suicide hotlines? A dearth of chocolate? Are you suggesting these well-deserving wannabes are unable to avail themselves to bottles of rum?”

 

The two men exchanged frowns. I could only surmise this meeting was not going as they had planned. The bald one cleared his throat. “Well, yes, of course, there are hotlines….”

 

“Good. You had me worried. Have those doubting writers call the hotline then. I’m sure they’ll fare better than Virginia Woolf did. Best of all, it keeps those positive Pollyanna counselors working and off the streets, and in this economy every job counts, right?”

 

“But….”

 

“Ernest Hemingway wrote several books with rum as his major character development and if that misogynist could get published, anyone can. Drink more rum. That’s what I always say. Now if you’re through trying to bilk me out of my hard-earned money, please find the plank and never return. Thank you.”

 

The skinny earnest one stared at me like I was the devil, only meaner. “But the writers….”

 

“If they want to write, they will write. They don’t need my coin to do it. Good day.”

 

The men left reluctantly with Sin showing them out. It was about time the wench remembered her place. I opened my laptop again and tapped out another four pages before I decided I was done fighting with Adam. Perhaps it was just as well that I had some supper and went to bed. It was too late to get any work out of my crew, and tomorrow was Christmas. I better rest up for it.

 

The ramen noodles I fixed were overcooked. I squirted in a bit more of the cock sauce to drown out the mushy flavor and settled down in my bed to read a little Sense & Sensibility. Colonel Brandon was always good for a nightcap. A lovely book—such a shame that ridiculous sea monsters version had come out. The Bo’sun had gotten me the Zombie Pride & Prejudice as a joke, but I found nothing funny about it. Jane Austen must be spinning in her grave.

 

The room felt drafty, a frosty chill in the air, and I pulled my comforter tighter around me. It was good to read Austen as she was meant to be enjoyed. Ah, to be as successful as she was. That is the most a pirate could ever hope for. Even she knew you had to choose one over the other. Love and family was better experienced in fiction, where everything turned out right in the end.

 

Not like real life.

 

A pirate couldn’t count on love, but writing, writing was always there. Tomorrow would be a good writing day, I knew. Oh, wait, it was Christmas. The crew would undoubtedly have a fit if I tried to write on Christmas. Ridiculous. I would write any day I wanted to. Christmas was just another day of the year. I sniffled and turned my face in the pillow a moment. Not that I was crying or anything, because I was not a weeper. The cold was just getting to my eyes, that’s all. And Christmas was a stupid, ridiculous holiday and I hated it. I opened my book back up and began reading the organized lives of Austen’s characters.

 

I must have dozed a little because I woke and realized I was not alone in my room.

 

Jane Austen frowned at me from my Captain’s chair. “I hope you’re happy.”

 

I screeched, clutching at my blankets and flipping out of my bed. I bounded up, barely noticing the pain. “You’re…you’re…you’re dead. You’re Jane Austen…and you’re dead.”

 

“It’s sad really. You seem intelligent—what with knowing who I am and my living circumstances, and yet like the others, you live in such a way that I have to visit you instead of having a nice and normal Christmas like other ghosts.”

 

I pointed at her and then around the room. “But…I…what….”

 

“Calm yourself, Captain. I am merely here to tell you two things. One, if you do not mend your ways, you will die like me: successful perhaps, in the narrow scope you view the world, but miserable, chained to the deck of this ship, bound to sail the perilous waters in search of treasure that can never be found. There is a chance that you can mend your future, but only if you listen….”

 

I was really going to have to stop eating ramen noodles so late at night. And definitely a no to the cock sauce.

 

“And two, you will be visited by three spirits this night.”

 

“Three more spirits? Are they, are they how I mend my future?”

 

“Yes. The first will visit you at the stroke of one of the clock. The second will visit you at the stroke of two; and the third…”

 

“The stroke of three?”

 

“No, actually he’ll be here at four. He’s always a little late but considering who he is, no one argues.”

 

“Who is he exactly?”

 

“You will see. My time grows short, and I must return to the Afterlife I have created for myself. One without any Mr. Darcy of my own, and one in which I live in infamy in having a book that was turned into a zombie satire. Ms. Hellion, do not make the same mistakes I have made.” Jane Austen went to the window, rest a hand against the sash. “Do not waste your second chance at true happiness.” And she disappeared as if she were never there.

 

I ran to the window and checked every edge, but the window was closed. Locked. There was no evidence at all that anyone had been in my room, although I thought I could smell the faint whisper of lavender.

 

It was the ramen. Sleep. That’s what I needed. I crawled back up into my bed and dismissed all absurdity from my mind. Three ghosts…ridiculous.

 

Stay tuned on Tuesday as Captain Hellion is visited by the first of the three spirits: the ghost of Christmas past. In the meantime, who is your favorite Scrooge and/or A Christmas Carol?

This is the time of year that many of us share needed time with loved ones. We often spend hours at the mall looking for the perfect gift for each person on our shopping list. I enjoy giving more than receiving. I count down the days until I can see the joy on my son’s face as he rips into each present. To me, Christmas isn’t just about giving material items; it’s about giving from the heart. Some of the best presents I’ve ever received or given were priceless. They were random acts of kindness that meant far more than any material possession. They opened my eyes to the important things in life that I often take for granted.

I thought about writing this blog as a letter to Santa. We could have shared our favorite things as Oprah does with her viewing audience once a year, but I wanted to make it more real. I wanted to think outside the box about issues that are often beyond our grasp. Those issues we view on the nightly news, and shake our heads at the atrocity. Issues that we feel are out of our control, but in reality, we know that if we took up a cause we couldn’t save the world, but we might make a difference.

So many elderly people need assistance, not just financially but emotionally. The hospitals and extended care facilities are at capacity with elderly individuals who will never see a family member this Christmas. I’ve been fortunate enough to join church functions that reached out to these individuals, and I have never experienced a more wonderful gift than seeing gratitude and a smile for just singing a Christmas carol.

If your children, nieces, or nephews have used books, consider donating them to your local school or library. They could be a vessel that will foster a desire to read. You can clean off shelves in your home for new Christmas toys and provide another child with the gift that keeps on giving.

If you have teenage children plan a holiday party so they can extend an invitation to several friends. In a nation where teen violence in schools is increasing at an alarming rate, every random act of kindness is needed. The invitation might reach a child that has a disappointing family life. We often don’t realize the magnitude of hospitality.

Have you ever considered volunteering your time to help serve a holiday dinner at a local soup kitchen? If you can’t spare the time, consider giving a donation to a favorite charity or food bank. You will provide funds or a meal to those less fortunate, and benefit from income tax relief.

Do you have a garage or attic full of unwanted Christmas decorations? Find a local charity taking donations, maybe that old star that used to perch on top of your Christmas tree could bring the light back into another family’s Christmas.

Christmas is a time of joy, we don’t want to dispel that fuzzy feeling with a startling peek at how the less fortunate live, but when we take much needed time away from the tinsel and glittering lights, a feeling of even greater joy is unearthed.

I’ve missed the crew, and my cyber peeps. Even though I’ve been pulled away from the writing world by my day job, I’ve missed this world and all of you, tremendously. Hugs all around! Peace and joy to all of you this holiday season.



 

 

 

My lil’ pirate has been potty training this week.  Not the easiest venture.  Sorta like threading a needle with a rope.  I blame my husband for my kid’s stubborn streak though I’m sure when he’s not getting pushed around later in life, I’ll be thankful and taking all the credit.  But now, said stubbornness is not conducive to potty training.

I’ll spare you the gory details but I was thinking yesterday about how potty training is like writing a novel.

First, at the start, I could only focus on how cool it would be for him to be potty trained.  I mean, no more dirty diapers (well, until my next kid is born in May).  But I’d get a break, a couple blissful months sans diapers.  Then he’ll be potty trained, well, forever.  This optimism is kind of like the beginning of a novel, when you focus on how cool it will have been to have written a novel.  An entire novel.  What an accomplishment.  And once it’s done, no one can take that experience away from you.  You’ll have done it.

But, as I’m in the middle of it, it’s not as glamorous as I’d hoped.  With potty training, there have been accidents, stumbling blocks.  My kid’s gotten frustrated; I’ve gotten frustrated.  There have been some clothes changes and fresh pairs of cute Thomas the Tank Engine underpants.   Just like the middle of my stories, when I run into all kinds of stops and starts, moments when I feel like it’ll never be done.

There have been shining moments too.  DS has managed to go on the potty the majority of the times during the day and every time you’d think he scaled Mt. Everest.  When he conquers an obstacle, his enthusiasm is unmatched.  I feel the same way when a chapter/passage/sentence feels just right.  Like I could do anything.  Like it’s all worth it.

I’m sure when we’re done potty training, we’ll both be thrilled with this step into the “big boy” world.  Just like when I finished my first novel.  The accomplishment filled my chest with pride. 

And, just like my son’ll keep looking for that next step of growth, so do I keep looking for my next step in growth as a writer.

What else do you think writing is like?  Any analogies to share?  Any past experiences that parallel your writing experience?  Any horror stories about potty training?  I could use a laugh….

 

Musical Influence of the Week:  In The Middle of the Night- Track Fighter- Between Lies and Melodies.

Okay, so that's what I've been up to lately. Meet the outside of our "new" house. We're in the process of giving it some TLC but I love it.

Every story has to start somewhere. Lives being born. Relationships blossoming. New homes. Babies. Somehow when I was being built, someone forgot to put the "Ability to write beginnings" chip in me.

Give me a middle. Tell me to write a blind ending. I can sit down and pound out twenty thousand words before I know what happened.

Now, you tell me to start something and a cold sweat settles over me.

Don't get me wrong. I've managed to write beginnings before. They suck. Horribly. I have a friend who once told me, "I don't know what the deal is with you. It's like the first 1500 words of when you start cold on something just suck. And you know I love you, but your beginnings suck."

I would rather stand on the corner of Ninth and Cherry at midnight in a vinyl mini skirt and halter than write a beginning.

Beginnings are about knowing how much to share and when to share it. I'm an info dumper. I like to put everything and the kitchen sink in the beginning. You can't do that unless you want a reader to go running in the opposite direction.

I need insider tips. What sort of tricks do you use to pound out a beginning? Who writes the best beginnings that inspire you? And be honest, are you a beginner, middler or ender? Which do you find the easiest?

If there is anything a man knows something about, it’s how to close the deal on a climax because believe you-me, the climax for them is the important part of any of their stories. Me, I can agree that the climax is very important to me right now because I want to get to the end of this bloody story. So what can I learn from men and their all-intent focus on getting to the climax? How is it they’re able to close the deal and I can’t get to the end of the current bloody chapter I’m on? Inquiring minds want to know.

 

Let’s break it down, shall we? I believe the “Closing the Deal” System men implement can be broken into three identifiable parts:

 

1.)    The Hook

2.)    The Funny-Serious Charm

3.)    The HEA

 

Now if it’s a good looking guy—and say he’s got some animal magnetism like Taylor Lautner, the only hook he needs is to whip off his shirt at an opportune moment and then move onto 2 and 3. But never worry, a guy doesn’t need major pecs and a pair of guns (though they help) to win a girl’s attention. He just needs a hook. Could be a Porsche or a law degree, or for those of us unimpressed by those things, a crooked smile and a helpless manner at the mailbox. Just something that will get the girl to pause long enough so they can implement stage two: The Funny-Serious Charm.

 

The Funny-Serious Charm has to be good because a Hook will only get you so far. (Unless you’ve got Taylor Lautner’s pecs.) Marilyn Monroe once said, If a man can make a woman laugh, he can make her do anything. And how right that statement is. A man who can make me laugh is almost as effective as pouring me shots of tequila and waiting for the clothes to come off. Occasionally it’s more effective. I’m not sure what it is that makes it’s so effective. It could be that a lot of jokes are slightly self-deprecating, so it gives the illusion he’s humble; and there is the possibility if he’s telling a joke, he’s not talking about how much money he makes every year, which can be tiresome. But it’s imperative to follow this laugh with something serious. Give a girl time to catch her breath and realize there is a wounded man beneath. After all, that’s why people are funny; they’re trying to cover for a broken heart. Girls can resist men with broken hearts about as much as they resist a guy who’s funny. Which is basically not at all.

 

Lastly, men close the deal with The HEA. And Lord, they better, because if they get to the crux of the situation and don’t deliver a HEA, there will be no second opportunity. If you’re going to get a girl all invested in your hook and your funny charm, not to mention your wounded broken heart, you better be bringing the goods for the climax, my friend, or you’ll have to take your show to another state.

 

So back to writing.

 

How does a girl close the deal with a publisher or agent? Same way. You need a hook. Like women, these guys are looking for a reason to shoot down your pick-up line so it better be good. And it better not be lame like, “Did it hurt?” or “Wait, I have to call my mother.” You better have something original. Believe me, these guys have seen every pick-up line imaginable.

 

Then, once you have their attention, for God’s sake, don’t lose it. Bring out the Charm—both the funny and the serious. Don’t be dumping a whole bunch of backstory—nobody needs to hear that out the gate; and do keep it interesting. You can be dark and mysterious; or you can be light and entertaining—but foremost, be yourself. (A charming and highly-entertaining version of yourself, but yourself nonetheless.) Don’t be James Bond—he’s been done and you won’t do a good job. They’ll know you’re being a fake; and no one likes big, fat fakers.

 

Once they’ve fallen in love with you—and you can do it, believe me, men do it all the time—close the deal. Deliver the Happily Ever After. Don’t be lame about it. Don’t skimp on the foreplay and action. Give it all you’ve got, because if you shank the HEA, you’re going to have one grumpy-ass publisher or agent. And don’t dither around getting to the HEA. Don’t be giving us foreplay and action for the sake of foreplay and action—okay, some women just argued with me there (“I’ll take foreplay”)—but honestly, don’t you hate to be naked, writhing, and so close—and then the guy goes, “Well, that’s it for today. Later.”  Imagine ending a book like that. I’d kill someone. That’s the number one rule, right there: Don’t do anything that will make your readers want to kill you at the end of the novel. If you’re going to have all that build up, it better be a Fourth of July ending.

 

Important questions of the day: Best or cheesiest pick-up line you ever used or heard. Best book you’ve ever read that “closed the deal” and you couldn’t wait to get in bed with that author again. Are you having trouble closing the deal on your current manuscript? Share your woes here.

While I was writing my fist manuscript, I had a particular secondary character I loved, named Josephine. She's quirky and tough and a genius bomb-maker. She's Irish, and makes bombs for the IRA. She's an unflinching bad-ass. She wasn't one of the bad guys, but she certainly wasn't one of the good guys. Somewhere in between. And that was cool -- she wasn't the heroine, so she didn't need to be a good guy. At the end of the first book, she got arrested along with the bad guys.

But since finishing, Jo's story has been rattling around in my head, begging to be told. So now she's a heroine, and frankly, she's entirely unsuitable to be the heroine.

Entirely unsuitable.

1. She's in jail!

2. She's a terrorist!

3. She young, only 25. I generally prefer heroines old enough to be smarter than the average twenty-five year old. Though Jo's been in jail for a few years, so she's pretty damn mature.

4. She is also, however, a full 20 years younger than the hero. She has a thing for older men. Hmm. Wonder if that has anything to do with her dead father?

5. She was sleeping with the hero of the first book at the beginning of the book.

6. She's extremely promiscuous. Heroine's sleeping with other men isn't usually joyfully recieved.

7. Her moral compass is way off -- making her a fairly compassion-less and unkind woman. Some of it is a front. Maybe most of it, but she's not overly kind.

8. And finally, she's a smoker.

There are genres and romance sub-genres where any or all of these characteristics would be fine for the heroine or main protagonist. I can think of some urban fantasy books with similar heroines. But I write suspense, where characters or cops, or FBI agents, or someone equally upstanding and law-abiding and justice-seeking.

Not terrorists who are cutting deals to lower their prison sentence.

But forget all that -- forget that she's Ireland's underground bomb expert, or that she's had more one-night stands than she could possibly remember, her one attribute that might really trip me up is the last one. She's a smoker.

I haven't before written a protagonist who smokes, and the more I thought about it, the more I realized I hadn't read a contemp romance with a smoking heroine. I'm sure they're out there -- I'm curious what they are.

So what do you guys think? Should heroine's smoke? Is that one of those character things?  If they smoke they smoke -- you can't change them. Or do you have to explain why a character is stupid enough to be smoking in the first place?

I recently read a dark romantic suspense and the hero smoked. His sister showed up, and they had a really terrible relationship. They couldn't hardly say two words to each other, but they could sit in silence and smoke together. As soon as they spoke, they would start fighting and hurting each other. But every time they needed the other's support, they would sit and smoke silently. I thought it was a really great way of showing the tension and contradictions in their relationship.

Josephine smoking doesn't play a role like that, but still, I hesitate to just explain the habit away by saying she quit in prison. I also hesitate to make her quit during the book.

Yet, despite all these reasons, Josephine's story is one I need to tell. So she's my new heroine. She's entirely unsuitable, and frankly, I think that's wonderful. I'm going to have a hell of a good time writing her.

So what do you guys think? Do I need to make her stop smoking? How do you feel about heroine's who smoke? Do you think Josephine sounds like a suitable heroine? What would you put on the list of no-no's when it comes to heroines?