Writing, Reading, and Smiling . . . It's Contagious.


Sunday, March 28, 2010

Seanachaí's News


On the last Sunday of each month, I compile "Seanachaí's News," a status report that assesses my work during the current month and also formulates my plans for the upcoming months. It will also give you a peek at my works in progress.


My Work During the Current Month

  1. If you haven't checked out the awesome new cover for Dead Bird in the Weeds, be sure to do so.
  2. Haunted Voices from My Past is also sporting a brand new cover. Don't miss it!
  3. Have you read my latest work of fiction? "March Madness" is my latest short-short and is about much more than basketball.



My Plans for the Upcoming Months

  1. Dead Bird in the Weeds and Haunted Voices from My Past are in the final production stage. Look for their rerelease early next month at Sunflower Footsteps' website.
  2. Sunflower Footsteps is currently undergoing a complete website overhaul and will be up an running stronger than ever upon the rerelease of all of its titles.

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As always, I love to hear from you. If you’re in the cyber-neighborhood, drop me a line.

In the meantime, keep writing, reading, and smiling.
It’s contagious.


Sunday, March 21, 2010

"March Madness"



How are you?


I've been so busy this week editing books and redesigning a website, that I'm officially burned out. I've been averaging five hours of sleep each night and this morning when I woke up I realized I hadn't written anything for today's blog. I was irritable at breakfast, sick and tired of EVERYTHING, and ready to go back to bed.

Instead, I regrouped somewhat and took a shower. While trying to gather some sanity, an idea came to me for a short-short. The result is "March Madness" and it was written in about twenty minutes,  real-life inspiration fueling its speed.

You may call the work fiction, but for some of us, it's real.

***


March Madness





She is tired.

She is tired of getting up every dismal morning and facing the same movie poster on the wall. She grimaces. The four-piece slip-on frame on Ginger’s side is always on the floor, hiding behind the chair. After it’s fixed, she twists her frizzy brown hair into a bun. Feet slip into dark blue slippers and arms push into a ratty, quilted robe that’s too short in the sleeves (she has monkey arms).

She is tired.

Bathroom next. Take out the twenty-year-old retainers that ensure teeth do not become crooked, blow nose, wince at the rusty well-water stain in the toilet that is supposed to have a superior finish. Trudge down the hall, pull the rug from the wall because he’s too lazy or whatever, shield eyes from the light glaring through the dusty black curtains.

She is tired.

Plug in computer (thunderstorms can happen in March—no, that would be too different), log in, check the social world. She doesn’t feel social. Everyone talks; no one listens. Get offline.

She is tired.

Now put away the dishes from last night. The yellow mixing bowl won’t fit into the blue one until you pull out the entire freaking mess, including the square, glass baking dishes that are only for corn on the cob or rice squares at Christmastime or Labor Day or one of those holidays. “Do you have to bang those dishes?” he asks. Ping-pang. She throws the last fork into the drawer. They don’t fit properly because both mothers insisted on buying silverware. “I’m going to get me some sausage.” Shut up. Just freaking SHUT YOUR FACE! She doesn’t say it.

She is tired.

Open the fridge (the chocolate stain from his birthday cake is still on the handle), yank out the cotton candy container that’s good for leftovers. Toast half of the bun, throw the other half back in the sack, make faces behind his back. Cold french fries on bun lengthways and eleven seconds later they’re hot. Wait ten seconds, eat, get up, take vitamins (she doesn’t need medication), brush teeth so they won’t rot, take clothes off the line over the heater. Back down the hall and pull the rug again.

She is tired.

Throw clothes on the armchair. Take clothes from dryer, dump them on couch, put clothes from line into dryer to soften. Fold clothes. He’s watching March Madness. Why does no one wear pink jerseys? Arms full, so kick rug in hall and put away clothes and towels and underwear with blue and yellow stars.

She is tired.

Shower. Shave legs but don’t wash hair because it’s Sunday. Put on clothes from yesterday. Who cares? “Did you take your blood before you ate?” she asks. “Did you know they’re not showing women’s basketball because of the men’s games?
he answers.

She is tired.

Hide in office for a while.  Find Sunday Baroque on the radio that’s beneath the stereo because the stereo won’t pick up much even though it has a longer antenna. Get online. Check social media again. No one is listening. “You got a tape for the game?” I hate you. The tape is on the TV. Throw it at him. “This isn’t the bad one the machine ate, is it?”

She is tired.

Go to medicine cabinet. Make cocktail. Takes three paper cups to wash it down and makes the water taste like wax or envelope glue or whatever. Enter bedroom. For the first time the frame on Fred’s side is off. Ginger despises Fred.

“Can you believe they lost?” he shouts from the den.

 She lies on the bed and won’t be tired anymore.


***

As always, I love to hear from you. If you’re in the cyber-neighborhood, drop me a line.

In the meantime, keep writing, reading, and smiling.
It’s contagious.

Sunday, March 14, 2010

Haunted Voices from My Past: A Sneak Peek



Last week the new cover for Dead Bird in the Weeds was released. This week, Haunted Voices from My Past: True Narratives of an Ohio Family makes its debut. . . .







From the back cover:

 I Don’t Believe That Anybody’s Soul
Stays in a Graveyard

    A presence crept through the leaves blanketing the earth, lingering behind the man and woman. The couple paused. Scarischle. The presence halted behind them.
    The man looked wildly around the cemetery. Chest heaving, he grabbed his wife’s arm. “Is it my dad?” the presence heard him ask the woman.
    “I don’t know who it is or what it is,” the woman whispered.
    The presence left the couple and slipped silently from the cemetery.

***

Haunted Voices from My Past: True Narratives of an Ohio Family will torment its readers long before the nightly moon has risen and the bedside lamps are switched off. Join J.E. Seanachaí on a chilling procession through one hundred years of true family narratives that delve into the supernatural, macabre, and unexplained.

***

As always, I love to hear from you. If you’re in the cyber-neighborhood, drop me a line.

In the meantime, keep writing, reading, and smiling.
It’s contagious.

Sunday, March 7, 2010

Dead Bird in the Weeds: A Sneak Peek


As you all know, my novel Dead Bird in the Weeds is being rereleased in an easier-to-read format. One thing you may not know is that it's going to have a great new cover. So, without further ado . . . the unveiling of Dead Bird in the Weeds. . . .






From the back cover:

Birds no longer live in the trees.
They lie dead in the weeds.

According to ancient Irish tradition, the wren would command the birds and the king would become the pauper for one day. For life to be restored to its natural state, the wren must be hunted and slain.

Dead Bird in the Weeds relates the tale of trodden people rising as wrens to win freedom from the tyranny of England during the 1798 rebellion in Ireland.

This is the story of one such wren named Aisling Doran, a peasant in Wexford, Ireland. Compelled by the murder of her father, the loss of her faith, and the yearning of her being to end the anguish she must endure, this daring young woman joins the revolutionary United Irishmen. Throughout the fields, hills, meadows, and mountains, she and her family wage war for liberty.

During this struggle for independence, Aisling discovers the courage to love, to die, and most important, to live.


Sunflower Footsteps proudly presents one of its introductory titles,
Dead Bird in the Weeds

*** 
As always, I love to hear from you. If you’re in the cyber-neighborhood, drop me a line.

In the meantime, keep writing, reading, and smiling.
It’s contagious.