I confess. HAWTHORNE would not exist if not for charity.
Okay, that might sound like a bit of an exaggeration, but in this case it's the absolute truth. Because when Elaina asked me to contribute a short story, if her request hadn't been followed by "for charity" I'd have left tracks in the opposite direction. Short stories and I simply do not get along. At all.
And for weeks the hostile standoff between myself and my blank "charity short" file did not improve. In fact, one month and the full 10,000 words from the deadline, I had nothing. Considering to that point in my career I'd been lucky to write one thousand words a WEEK, my lack of progress was, uh, worrisome. Had I not given Elaina my word—and were it not for charity—I would have quietly gone back to the novel I'd been working on and considered myself defeated, yet again, by a short story. But that wasn't the case and quitting wasn't an option.
But to just write any old thing? Nuh-uh. Another side-effect of the charity angle was an insatiable urge for the story not to suck. Now, I know that's not particularly original—I doubt many authors actually want suckage attached to their names—but for a good cause, well, I didn't want anything forgettable. Or, worse, regrettable.
So I wrote … and I tried to write well. Heck, I even finished on time. And somehow, through the magic of it all, I ended up with a short story worth publishing—for Japan earthquake victims, but also for myself. I did it, y'all!
Would I do it again? Of course! In fact, I almost feel guilty because I've gained so much from this experience that it can hardly be called a selfless act, LOL. This project pushed me out of my comfort zone and showed me what I can do when I stop angsting over every word to just write. It showed me I can create a plot in a small space, and that I can keep readers interested without the depth of a novel. It proved to me that I can, in fact, write a short story. Helping others through the process just makes it so much better.
But neither my story nor HAWTHORNE's ends there, because readers are waiting for a sequel. I'll write it, but there's one thing I can promise you about that particular title.
It will not be a short.
Woohoo! I know I for one can't WAIT for Sarah to write that sequel!!! I'm also discussing this same topic over at Sarah's blog, the reason why I wrote a short story charity. Be sure to check it out!!!
~ About Hawthorne ~
After a terrifying encounter with the unexplained, it took ten years and the news of her grandmother’s passing for Emma Grace Hawthorne to return to her childhood home. She sought peace in saying a proper goodbye, but what she found was an old love, a sordid family history, and a wrong only she could right.
Living in the shadow of Hawthorne Manor, Noah Garrett never forgot about Emma Grace. In a house full of secrets, his search for missing documents revealed a truth that could cost him everything. What he found gave Emma the freedom to walk away from the mansion, her heart free and clear, but at what price to Noah?
The car slowed to a stop and a decade's worth of memories tumbled onto the sun-blanched asphalt.
The hand-painted sign hadn't changed in years. In the thick, damp air filling the Louisiana landscape, the wood display remain inexplicably unaffected. There it sat—every meticulously scripted letter as crisp and clean as the stark white walls of the manor it lauded, oblivious to the passage of time.
Emma Hawthorne tensed in the seat of the Mustang convertible, staring at her past with ice sluicing her spine Anywhere else, the view would have been gorgeous. The drive, lined on both sides with live oak laden with Spanish moss, was the South personified. At the end, Hawthorne Manor held court. Pristine, proud, the boastful antebellum home beamed, lording over its acreage.
But it harbored the unspeakable. No amount of time could erase what happened to her on the other side of the expanse of green lawn. Nothing could change what she'd seen there. Some might say she was crazy—that she'd imagined or invented the whole ordeal—but her scars were all the proof she needed. Whether the shadows lurking behind the façade of the picturesque plantation were real or born of an overactive imagination, there was no way she was going back into that house.
Especially not for a dead woman.
Sparing a glance in the rearview, Emma steeled herself against a trembling in her hands that threatened to overtake her body. She released a pent-up breath, her heart settling into a less acrobatic rhythm at the thought of leaving. She didn't have to stay here.
Let the South win this one. She was going home.
A split second after she decided to go, something caught her eye. She blinked, trying to see through the swaying canopy of leaves and moss, certain a figure stood atop the widow's walk straddling the roofline of the house. But no one—
Something brushed the car, rocking it. Swallowing panic, Emma tried to tear her focus from Hawthorne Manor, but fear kept her from looking anywhere else. Time and distance hadn't done her any favors; she was a fool for coming anywhere near this place, much less with the ragtop down.
The car rocked harder. The something refused to be ignored.
Fighting the grip of panic tightening her throat—fighting the ghosts of her past—Emma forced herself to look away from the house, toward the intrusion over her left shoulder.
The first thing she saw was an aged set of gnarled fingers resting on the door, blue automotive paint showing through an ugly translucence.
The second was the face—withered, centurion, and expressionless. Haunting.
It couldn't be her.
Noah Garrett tore down the drive, slapping through a muggy afternoon haze comprised of mosquitoes and humidity. He couldn't know that scream, but he felt the connection the moment the sound of her fear pierced the thick air.
The one reason he allowed himself to stagnate on the old plantation, long after life and reason moved on without him. Long after she had.
A blue Mustang sat at the end of the driveway. He wondered if it could be hers—even as he knew it impossible—but she was nowhere in sight.
He slowed to a trot. The sprint left him drenched with sweat and not entirely disappointed his imagination had gotten away from him. His dream of one more chance to see Emma Grace had never included himself as a dripping mess. He wiped the moisture from his brow, fast concluding the car must belong to a tourist. They often parked at the end of the drive and took pictures of the condescending mansion most thought beautiful. He assumed the intrusion seemed small to their frequent guests, but the constant ding of the hidden bell announcing a visitor could drive a man to the edge.
As if losing Emma Grace hadn't already accomplished that.
Noah closed in on the convertible, giving the nearby grounds a cursory look. The lawn was meticulous, the beds overflowing with sprays of purple garden phlox which trailed around the bend in the road and disappeared. A riot of white and rust-red irises backed the smaller purple flowers, their leaves deep green and glossy. Overhead, Spanish moss swayed only occasionally atop a maze of live oak, more likely a result of a passing swarm of insects than an actual air current. The land was still. If there were tourists snapping photos of the historic plantation—or doing anything else—he didn't see them. But someone had been there, the seemingly familiar scream so real.
Wasn't it always?
Resigned to another night alone with his memories, Noah pivoted.
And found himself nose to nose with Emma Grace.
Astounded, he opened his mouth, then closed it. He wanted to reach for her, but his arms refused the notion; they hung uselessly by his sides, the effort futile. His mouth wasn't much on cooperation, either. Finally, he found his tongue. "Em—"
Her expression cut him off. Green eyes wide, skin pale, her small frame shaking, she spoke. "I saw her, Noah. She's back." The words, nearly soundless, seemed to catch in the thick air. Lingering. Threatening.
And ripping the heart from his chest.