Books 'N Pieces Magazine - February 2019

Books ‘N Pieces Magazine ❤ FEBRUARY 2019

Contents • From the Publisher • INTERVIEW: TOSCA LEE | Writing, Gaming, and the Road to Success • SHORT STORY: Minor Adjustment by PAUL ALAN RUBEN • INTERVIEW: PAUL ALAN RUBEN • SHORT STORY: Paris in the Spring by JIM COURTER • ARTICLE: Wine While Writing with JERI WALKER • JILL HEDGECOCK’S BOOK REVIEW: Where the Crawdads Sing • ARTICLE: Do It Your Self-Publishing : Editing • MARKETING: Book Advertising • ARTICLE: Do You Have What It Takes To Self-Publish • BRAIN GAME: Test Your Vocabulary with this game.

• ARTICLE: Are You Killing Your Vet? • BOOKSTORE ’N PIECES | Books & Other Items You May Enjoy

Cover photo Tosca Lee by Emilee Hendrix

| Cover design work by William Gensburger. | Background imagery by Igor Zhuravlov

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FROM THE PUBLISHER: Welcome to the February 2019 issue of Books ’N Pieces Magazine. Starting with this issue we will become a monthly magazine, focused on interviews with bestselling and other published authors, short stories, and DIY self-publishing tips to help authors professionally self-publish without spending a fortune.

We’ve also started to adjust our Website as well, focusing on the DIY tips for authors. Our traffic is growing rapidly—currently we boast over 1,000 Site visits per day—encouraging us to further refine our target audience.

If we can help you with your publishing endeavors, we are happy to do so. While we do not advocate using small publishing companies—you are better off keeping your royalties, rather than sharing them—there are times when you may need our services, especially in the marketing of your work.

To that end we have tried to make it easy for you to do so, to know costs, to learn to do it all yourself, and to feel confident that we do have your best interests at heart, as attested by the many testimonials you can find on our Website at www.BooksNPieces.com. Just ask us and see where it leads you.

Enjoy this issue, and please do share it with your friends. If you would like a print copy, we have made those available on Amazon for a low price.

Best wishes,

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William Gensburger william@BooksNPieces.com

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Interview:

TOSCA LEE Writing, Gaming, and the Road to Success

Q: You have a “dark” secret. In your own words: “I was once the Overlord (Siera Redwin) of an online gaming community. And you know, I loved it.” How do the interactions in these virtual world affect the writing of your novels, and is this a good thing?

A: Oh, you are good! Man, that seems like a long time ago, but then again, I’ve said before that everything I learned about characterization, I learned from gaming in community. I spent years gaming online—meaning writing about my characters— while waiting to get published. It wasn’t a conventional way to

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learn about writing. But I interacted with some amazing writers and learned a lot about what makes characters memorable.

Q: The road to writing success has included many twists, from winning Mrs. Nebraska 1996, competing for Mrs. America in 1998, awarded an honorary admiralship of the Great Navy of Nebraska by the governor (Navy???), some modeling work. At what point along the way did the “I want to be a writer” statement emerge, and how did that come about?

A: I know the Nebraska Navy thing is weird, given that we’re a landlocked state LOL. But it remains a very cool honor.

I actually decided I wanted to write back in 1989 while home during my freshman year. I was driving somewhere with my dad, talking about The Mists of Avalon (one of my favorite novels of all time), and how a great book is like an emotional roller coaster. And it made me wonder if I could create something like that for someone else. I blurted out, “I think I want to write a book.” I was supposed to work at the bank as a teller that summer (a job I was horrible at). My dad made me a deal right there: he’d pay me what I would’ve made working at the bank if I’d spend my summer writing full time and make that my job. So I wrote my first novel that summer. It wasn’t very good and remains in my basement with the skeletons. But I wanted to try again. While all this other stuff—graduating from college, writing on the staff of a computer magazine, getting married, running for Mrs. Nebraska and Mrs. America—was going on, I was working on my second novel. And then my third—which was the first one that got published.

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Q: You received a BA in English and International Relations from Smith College in Northampton, Massachusetts, and have also studied at Oxford University. What was your career intention upon graduating?

A: By then I knew I wanted to be a novelist. I didn’t know any other novelists or people in the industry. But I had studied enough about the industry and how to approach agents that I figured I’d wear someone down eventually.

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Q: What is the hardest part of writing for you, and of your many books, which was the hardest to write, and why?

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A: First drafts. While a lot of my author friends love the discovery of a first draft, I don’t like messy. I don’t like uncertainty. I prefer having something I can work with, which is why I love rewriting and editing. Also, let me be real: there isn’t a time I sit down to write that I am not, in some measure, afraid— that it’ll suck, or be my worst novel ever, or that it won’t resonate with anyone… the list is long.

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Every book is difficult in some way or another. I overwrote my novel of Eve (Havah) by 67,000 words. I overwrote Iscariot by over 112,000. The Line Between, my new novel, was difficult for the fact that I’d just come out of a season of industry upheaval that resulted in my imprint’s entire office closing just weeks before Firstborn’s release, which happened to cricket sounds. It’s hard watching this happen to a team of people you care about, and to a novel you gave a year of your life to.

And it’s tough writing from a place of discouragement. The Line

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Between ended up requiring several rewrites, during which I wondered if the entire thing was a piece of junk. I hoped it wasn’t. I worked hard to make sure it wasn’t. Still, I was floored when the first early reviews started rolling in as I was at work on the sequel. Just overrun with gratitude.

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Q: Are you augmenting your writing income or is writing your full-time income at this point? How difficult was it to reach a point of independence and confidence to make it so? And what did you do to celebrate that moment?

A: I’ve written full time since 2010. You could say it took four years if you go by the date of my first published novel. But it’s actually 21 years of writing and learning, filled with many rejections and cumulative successes along the way. When I finally made the decision, it was hard to say goodbye to a regular paycheck—and health insurance! It was scary, too. But I celebrate it every day that I sit down to work.

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Q: Writers are often extreme introverts. Others are the opposite. For many writers the craft is therapy of sorts, allowing an exploration of the world that others may not be able to examine. Do you fall into one of these categories, and if so why?

A: I can masquerade as an extrovert, but I’m not one. And writing is probably therapeutic for me to a degree. But what I’m really focused on is giving the reader a great escape and experience.

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Q: Let’s talk fans! Good, bad, crazy? To what extent do you interact with fans, and in what forums do you find you communicate the best?

A: I love interacting with fans. I’m very bad at e-mail just because I’ve gotten horribly behind since getting remarried and becoming an instant mom to four step-children. But I love getting out to be with them, to hug them in person, and see them.

Because we get one another. These are my people, and I am one of theirs.

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Q: How do you write (process)? Pen & paper, laptop, fixed time and place? Music (which) or silence? Do you talk out loud as you write?

A: I would have loved, at one point, to be able to write by hand, but it’s just too time consuming. Also, my handwriting, which once used to be of calligraphy caliber, has devolved to something even I cannot read. So I type in silence. No music; I used to be a ballerina—music makes me choreograph in my head.

I do talk out loud if I’m doing dialogue. I’m sure I sound like a loon. Which is why it was so embarrassing last summer when I was writing an argument scene and basically fighting with myself, and I suddenly turned to see my husband’s drone hovering outside my window. Yup. The guys (I have three boys at home) were all down there giggling.

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Q: Name an author you have met that makes you become just a babbling fan, if any?

A: Lee Child. Charlaine Harris. The day I meet Anne Rice I’ll probably wet myself.

Q: What is the WORST part of being a writer!

A: Deadline. I tell myself every time: “This time will be different. I will start earlier. I will plot more. I will eat vegetables and sip tea. I will work out in the mornings, faithfully, every day, and go to bed on time and turn my manuscript in early.” None of that ever happens. Exercise falls by the wayside, I wear the same clothes day after day as I stay up late subsisting on Cheetos and wine.

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Q: And what is the one question you get asked all the time (hopefully not here) that you wished interviewers would just stop asking?

A: "What do you hope readers will take away from the story?” The thing is, I know what I enjoyed putting into the story.

But what readers take away from it depends entirely on what they bring to it and what’s going on with them at that time. Also, the thing I hope they take away remains the same from book to book: a satisfying escape. It’s the thing we turn to fiction for.

Q: Any advice to new writers with big dreams of a career?

A: My number #1 rule of writing is: Write like no one is ever going to read it. Why? Because then you aren’t watering down anything with fear about what anyone will think. My #2 rule is: finish your article/essay/memoir/book. It’s the thing that separates those who want to make a career of it from those who actually do. Those who do it as a career finish—again and again.

Also, surround yourself with the people you need: other writers to take this journey with you. Mentors, advocates, and encouragers who will remind you not to take everything so seriously. My husband is this person to me—the one who reminds me, when it seems like everything is falling apart, to have fun.

Because writing is a lot of work. If you’re not having fun, your reader won’t either. And then what’s the point?■ Our thanks to Tosca Lee. Be sure to catch up with her on social media: Website: https://toscalee.com/ Twitter: @toscaLee Amazon.com: https://amzn.to/2FX5tF6

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SHORT STORY:

MINOR ADJUSTMENT

by Paul Alan Ruben

TRENT SITS on the middle edge of his bed exactly as he sits each night for several minutes before retiring at precisely 11 p.m., and stares at his blue silk pajamas while straightening his spine’s incipient curve.

And exactly as he does each night, he discerns time itself as tangible—alive and menacing, and time itself seems to intuit his vulnerability, and stalks him like a boxer sighting blood, and catches his certitude (so implacable during the day) off guard with stupefying blows, and he is defenseless, and cannot deflect time, whose impugning fists pummel his belief that his sin—callous, unconscionable, and without justification—is redeemable, and that he is.

Trent squints, and clutches his legs, and endures what feel like sinew-tearing blows to his body, each degrading his resistance to doubt, each bullying him into questioning his purpose, each castigating his mission: to rise up like a man, a real man—for the first time in his 71 years—and initiate a healing process by presenting his child with all it will take, on both their parts, to gather their relationship’s shattered pieces, and collectively recreate father and son, one small step at a time, each small step, he reminds himself, a minor adjustment.

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He is on his back, and cannot subdue his panic, nor parry his shame, and so he reaffirms his fealty to minor adjustment, a small-steps solution that he recalls emerging from within him a year ago—like a phoenix—from the residue of his failure: as a parent, a father, a human being; and he recalls himself at the nadir of his existence, when suicide seemed the only honorable antidote to disgrace.

No, he cannot imagine the depth of his son’s anger, nor his son’s excruciating pain, nor the herculean effort it will take for his son to surmount his rancor and finally speak to him. No matter!

Reentering his son’s life is no longer an option. As a father, it is his moral obligation to leave no stone unturned, morally right— right in the way do unto others as you would have them do unto you is right. And this A-B-C simple, absurdly mundane, minor adjustment-solution he has in mind—once accepted by his son— will, absolutely will, germinate into an authentic connection between them for the remainder of their time on this earth!

Trent reaches over and watches the King James Bible vanish as he shuts the drawer to his night table.

He pulls the covers beneath his chin, and surveys the bedroom’s bare, off-white walls, and sparse furnishings—like a cell for crackpots like me, he thinks. Self-doubt immolates efficacy, and he is at least secure in the knowledge that, regardless of this ludicrous plan’s outcome, his son could not possibly despise him more than he already does.

A distant fire engine siren—the only external sound, he thinks, that penetrates his rented brownstone’s otherwise graveyard-quiet, ground-floor garden apartment—invites his

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momentary displeasure. The wailing disintegrates, and he reconciles himself to the judgment he has made his peace with, whether or not his son repudiates him: He is no hero, but merely undaunted like one—like Gandhi, or King, or Mother Teresa, or America’s most decorated marine, Lewis “Chesty” Puller, and his personal role model. So, no matter how his son rebuffs him, no matter how many times he’s rebuffed, he’s not leaving Park Slope.

He’s in Brooklyn to be near his son, forever.

He rehearses the initial small-steps words he will say to his son. Again. Again. Again. And again. His heavy eyelids finally sink.

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In the pre-dawn, Park Slope is desolate, and he feels indefatigable. First light brightens high clouds singed orangeyred: Sailor take warning, he thinks. No matter, the time is now; not another day’s delay. He approaches the northwest corner of Fifteenth Street, tottering, focusing, imagining he’s navigating a mine field, and he extends his neck like a pigeon, and peers down Seventh Avenue, and he is fazed by the sound of his shoe’s sole scraping against the concrete, as if this misstep exposes him to the world as clumsy and incapable.

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Anxiety enfeebles him; he waits it out. He tugs at his shirtsleeve, and looks at his watch. Below Citizen, he gazes left: JUN. Then right: 1. He cannot constrain the gnashing in his gut.

Shortly, his son will emerge from the distance—unless maybe he is sick, or away—and he will watch him walking up Seventh Avenue—on the opposite side of the street—from Twelfth, where he lives, and, the result of no contact with him in nearly three decades, he will, he knows, ruminate over all he’s missed, fantasize about meeting his son’s wife, and infant boy, imagine entering his condo’s interior, unlike, he hopes, the exterior of the drab, blocklong complex, a converted dull-red brick factory that is architecturally more reminiscent of old Soviet proletariat than gentrified Brooklyn.

The instant his son is recognizable to him, he will retreat, crouch against the brick wall of the Japanese restaurant, his view partially obscured by the extended brown wooden fence that encloses the establishment’s garbage hoppers. He will peek through its slats, the width of his thumb, and, when his son has turned on Fifteenth, and heads east to the Armory YMCA health club in the middle of the block, he will, like a cautious prairie dog, stand on his arthritic toes, raise his head and rehearse—as he has each Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday morning for the past five months—this final time.

His throat is dry. He swallows, and fusses with the knot of his yellow tie, and jiggles it up until it is tight against his Adam’s apple. Too tight. Or maybe it’s just the constricting humidity— first sticky day of the year, he realizes. He worms his index finger inside his collar for relief. No. He will not loosen the knot. He will

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remain buttoned up! He wipes pasty sweat on his neck. “Too fuckin’ much starch,” he mutters. Goddammit! He recalls before leaving Feng Cleaners, specifically and slooowly instructing Evelyn, who nodded like she was brain-dead. Light! Right? Yes, he was clear. Fuckin’ chinks! Never admit they don’t understand you.

He pats his birch-white hair to ensure that it’s combed straight back. He brushes and brushes the jacket of his black pinstriped suit though he knows there is no reason to; it’s immaculate. He’s being overly fastidious: So what! He’s just nervous. Why wouldn’t he be? This is it: Amends Day. In 90 minutes, having left the Y, and having stopped off at the Green Olive deli on the corner of Fourteenth Street and Seventh before heading home, his son will exit with a green apple in one hand, and a bottle of peach-flavored Vitamin Water in the other. And the father who abandoned his infant and wife—whose perfunctory Western Union telegram issued from Honolulu stated: Have fallen in love with someone. Won’t be returning to Chicago—will stand before his adult son. His explicating words will mean to beg reconciliation, initiate a healing journey, and express his resolve to right a wrong decision that bore intractable estrangement into his son’s heart, and unspeakable sorrow into his.

If only, Trent thinks, he was seated on the wobbly counter stool by the kitchen in the Little Purity diner—where he’s a 5:30 a.m. regular—drinking black coffee, munching a buttered bialy, and kibitzing with Edna, the ancient, smoky-voiced waitress whom he congenially recalls laughing like an old whore at a teenage boy’s premature mess the day he honestly revealed that “just shooting the shit” with her was an elixir for his travails, and

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then Edna welcoming him to her world: “Honey, pardon the Midwest-goyim correction, but in Brooklyn, we don’t shoot shit to relax. We kibitz. That’s relaxing.”

If only he was at the Purity now, getting an earful of Edna’s comforting Jewish slang, which immediately enamored him of her, and bizarrely made it possible for him to open up, to share with her all his son’s habits, preferences, and predispositions he’d learned about and memorized this past year, and also his most intimate fears, as he imagined he would to a shrink, and when he turned sour and reticent, being seduced, really, to speak, by her standard entreaty: “As an honorary inductee, the kibitzcommandment must be obeyed: ‘When a member of the tribe says, ‘Nu?’ You speak!’ So, nu?” Opened him up like a shucked oyster.

He yearns: for Edna’s unequivocal dismissal of his flagging courage: “No, you embody courage”; for her affirming contradictions: “You are not naive or meddling or crazy”; for her persistent encouragement: “Brave as a Maccabee, you are!” to stand solitary vigil for as long as it takes until he is absolutely confident that the time is right to engage this 33-year-old man he last saw on his third birthday.

Is that him leaving the Y? Kerin’s figure enlarges against the blurry landscape. Kerry! He cautions himself: His son permitted only his mother, and now only his wife and aunt, to use the diminutive.

Kerin nears Seventh Avenue. Trent cowers, and the inner Chesty Puller buckles; his heart pounds; he is perspiring like a pig; who is he kidding? As if this 12-word preamble to reconciliation

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will obviate his three no-show decades, his betrayal, and miraculously convene upon him a second chance he does not deserve.

No more procrastinating. It’s June 1st. No more rehearsing, no more bullshitting.

Breathless, Trent murmurs his 12 words, and his jabbered monotone reminds him of those bearded Hasidim he sees on the F train, demented-looking aliens, staring into their prayer book, and double-time jabbering, like him. Jesus!

Kerin’s image sharpens. He is handsome. Wow. Mussed tufts of coal-black hair—like tumbleweed—push from beneath his red cap. Trent can make out the white N above the bill. Kerin’s 6foot-3 frame, his muscles—defined, angular—really are a replica of him 30 years ago. My God! Is he jealous?

He recognizes the white-lettered Nebraska HUSKERS on his son’s red wifebeater T, and he remembers the confidential call to his ex-wife’s sister, his groveling: “Anything, any detail, please tell me.” He is unnerved, as he was then, by her parting broadside just before she hung up: “It is enough that Kerry will say I violated his trust if he discovers this. If you do anything, Trent, say anything to upset him— and you damn well better remember you’re talking to the responsible person who raised him after Janet’s death—I will pray to God that you die like her, in agony. And don’t think for a minute that my throwing you tidbits about his life means I give a fuck about yours.”

Trent stands on his toes before Green Olive’s window, craning his neck, spying, to get a glimpse over rows of stacked Perrier of his happy-as-a-lark son kibitzing with the animated,

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middle-aged Arab owner behind the counter, and he realizes he is no parent, just a sweat-drenched, delusional fool.

Coins silently plunk in Kerin’s open palm, and the two men laugh like comrades, confidants, he thinks. Kerin opens the door, broadly smiling.

“Excuse me.”

Kerin about-faces. They are the same height. Exactly. And Trent sees his own sorrel-colored eyes; his own chin’s delicate, oval cleft; his former pencil-thin black brows.

“I’m your father.”

“I know.”

“Really?”

“My aunt told me.” “Oh.” Silence. He is falling! C’mon. He reaches for his son’s shoulder.

Kerin leans back. “No need to touch me.”

Trent straightens like a berated soldier. “Did she tell you why I—” “No need to know.”

“I’m—” “To know what you want—” “Sorry.”

“I don’t need to—” “Are you—” “Goodbye.”

“Busy? This weekend?”

Trent follows Kerin: not too close. “Or next weekend?

Or next—”

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Kerin stops. Trent stops, and squints against the sun. Kerin turns, and squints, as if the sun is in his eyes.

“Would you like to go fishing over the weekend—you and me?”

“What?”

“A chance to—” “You had your chance. Chances.”

“Please let me talk to you.”

“No need to.”

“But I’d, I want to know you—” “No need to.”

Trent ignores a mosquito on his knuckle. “You purchase an apple, green, and Vitamin Water—peach—after you work out Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday, Sunday morning at 6:20 a.m. for an hour and a half. You … you.” His memory flees. “You, oh, you had a football scholarship at Nebraska—cornerback. You suffered a traumatic ACL injury. Couldn’t play full bore afterward.” He steps a foot closer. “You graduated Fordham Law School. Met your wife, Patti, there—a year ahead of you. She’s currently a clerk for a judge; you’re a charter school principal. You guys married in ’09, have a son, Damon, who is 2, 3 July 6th, and who will never know your stepfather, who passed away this last December 31st, who you loved. And you admired. Like a real father. I’ve learned about you, so many things, and I want you to learn about me, while we fish, because I know how much you love fishing and I can’t alter, or change, or deny the past, but I can plead for reconciliation, to begin again; I can beg.” Trent curls his lips inward, and presses on them, hard.

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The acrid stench of a rumbling garbage truck coincides with its cacophonous halt right in front of them. Trent’s wince has failed to break the ice. “Hey, remember to move the ’09 Toyota Corolla in front of your condo before 8:30 for street cleaning— that Patti’s folks got you for graduation. It’s a Monday.”

The garbage truck trundles forward. “Some stink. I’ve moved here.”

“Oh?” “Since January.”

“To the Slope?”

“Yes. I rented a studio—three blocks from the Barnes and Noble.”

Kerin is dumbfounded, Trent thinks, but he is still standing here, and he makes haste, and fumbles inside his coat pocket, and removes a folded square of lined yellow paper that includes the date, details of where they’re going, and his email.

“For you.” Trent extends his hand, and says he will park in front of his son’s condo at 6 p.m. in two weeks. “Two Fridays from this coming. We’ll stay in a motel Friday night—separate rooms— fish Saturday, then return that night, or Sunday.”

“No need to—” “Can I be your father for a weekend?”

He’ll only call attention to the paper shimmying in his extended hand if he attempts to control it. “Here’s my application.” He slips the paper between the sweating plastic bottle and Kerin’s palm, and is aware that he has touched the flesh of his boy for the first time in 30 years.

“If you insist I move—”

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His son’s shrug is limp.

“I will. Otherwise, I left you once. I will never leave you again.”

Trent shuffles, head down, along Seventh Avenue, past the Barnes and Noble, and wonders if God witnessed this encounter, and he prays silently for an answer, and is distracted by a sandalclattering caravan of three approaching black nannies—two of them top-heavy globs stuffed in spandex pants and V-shaped blouses, and the other one morbidly obese, sporting a loose-fit, sleeveless smock that accommodates her swaying slabs of gelatinous arm-fat and clings like cellophane to her medicine-ball rump—pushing four white babies in strollers. This typical urban scene—the dark and unprivileged attending to their white and privileged employers’ offspring, especially the two puckish cherubs fussing at each other in the double stroller—repels him.

He affably smiles at the passing nannies, and continues praying; he frets that he’s praying like a Christian, and stops.

Prayer, he reminds himself, is consistent with his incremental departure the past year from lifelong agnosticism to God—albeit his personal deity, one unencumbered by idiotic denominational affiliation. He reminds himself that he’s soliciting his prescient, empathetic associate, not an omniscient, controlling boss. Guided by suspicious optimism, he resumes walking, and praying, and he implores God to neither absolve nor understand, nor even love him, but to—in this life—pardon him.

He meanders through the morning’s viscous air, and nears Fourth Avenue, and respite, and he asks God if his son might somehow sense his prayer.

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Having heard nothing from Kerin three days later, Trent abandons hope, and he retreats to the outside patio.

He sits at the card table he’d purchased at Staples, and detests himself. The breeze is crispy. He sips Equal-sweetened, milky coffee, and opens the cover of his iPad. He’ll check his Schwab account, then his emails.

He peruses his holdings, and reassures himself that tithing a tranche of his net worth to have-not charities qualifies him as a selfless person, despite the fact that it has no deleterious impact on his $6 million portfolio. Before making a move, he thinks again about his meticulous estimation of what it would take for him to outlive his money, and how much he’ll require for the worst-case scenario: a prolonged death at his Hawaii home beside a private attendant who calls him Mr. Woodson. Having flirted with, and since abandoned, an oath of poverty—he remains unconvinced that dying in a nursing home on Medicaid could be rationally construed as a worthy act—he transfers another $5,000 to Doctors Without Borders.

Kerin’s email appears: This weekend, then you leave Park Slope.

The frenetic chirping of a gray and brown bird in the crabapple tree near the corner of the high fence that encloses the modest patch of unmowed grass and weedy flower garden that— only in New York—counts as a yard catches his attention. A starling? The bird flies off, and Trent stares at the oscillating branch, and then up into the china-blue sky, where he follows a wandering cloud patch, as if carefree, overhead. Fuck me. You did

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it. Yes: He botched his presentation to Kerin, came off like a flustered ninny; five solitary months of preparation—for what! But it’s all good, because from the get-go he had equated the chances of seamlessly executing his last-stand battle plan with Custer’s.

Still, he knew enough of battle—mindful of being denied that patriotic duty by his father, a coward, whose sniveling beseeching of the longtime family doctor ended in overruling his protestations, and saw to his IV-F in ’67—to realize that after the first round is fired, everything goes kablooey, so you hang in, which he did, goddammit, especially when—Wow!—was he blindsided by his son’s recognition of him, and advance knowledge of his arrival, and so he is forewarned: Expect the unexpected. But no matter! He is undaunted; his strategy is fixed: He’ll hold himself accountable on this trip: his irreversible past that includes all his pathetic, stupid, selfish choices; his disgrace; his permanently disfigured soul! And he will finally have his say. Not Kerin’s mother’s, or aunt’s, or Kerin’s friends, or in-laws, or some psychiatrist’s, but his say, Trent’s say! After three decades it is his turn, his opportunity to provide context, to set the record straight, and then his son will know of him from him, and can fairly judge him. “Finally!”

From his Mazda SUV parked by the opposite curb, Trent can’t help staring at Kerin, who appears from his building’s glass double doors, turns, and looks up. Leaning out the second-story open bay window, a delicately attractive, sandy blonde woman holds her toddler’s hand, and they wave as one. Trent averts his

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gaze. An intrusion. He hasn’t earned the right to be privy to his son’s intimacies.

The knock on the passenger window is jolting. Trent reaches over, and opens the door. “Oh, hey. I didn’t even see you.”

Kerin sits like a wary adversary. What else, thinks Trent, and he observes that they are both dressed in tan cargo pants, maybe not a coincidence, but he won’t mention it; perhaps later, after he changes from his leaf-print short-sleeved shirt into the Big Red T he’d purchased online to match the one Kerin is wearing.

“Wanna heave your bag in the back with the gear?”

The wary adversary complies, and in a current of tremulous words that rush like rapids, Trent apologizes for his callous, deaf ear: to the stunned pleas of his disconsolate wife the week following his leaving her; and years later, to her calls as she lay succumbing to metastatic breast cancer; and to his heroic adolescent’s dry-eyed, truncated pleas left daily on his answering machine; deaf to the gulps, and choking, deaf to his frantic bargaining for financial help. “ ‘On my knees, Dad,’ you said. You were willing to quit high school and repay every penny. I wasn’t deaf. I heard you.” He does not dare extend his hand. “I have some explaining to do.”

“Not to me.”

It is as if a pin has been jabbed beneath his nail. “Ya know, I’ve never suffered impudence, Kerin, even when lighthearted, harmless, unintentional. The day I announced my company’s IPO at a senior staff meeting—the corporate jet rental business I owned. Anyway, there was still some useless griping over the company’s new name, which I’d already approved: Fat Banana.

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My CFO—he was 58—I remember catching him snigger, maybe a millisecond, and mumbling, ‘Fat chance banana.’ Twenty-seven years, loyal years—terminated by me, on the spot, in front of everyone. I managed the corporate—insincere—smile, and said, ‘Take care.’ I made certain the players in our industry knew he was fired.” Trent twists the ignition key. “I’ve treated work, and people, like a war: Kill. Or be killed. It’s a reaction I am working to rid myself of.”

The empty street appears in Trent’s side-view mirror. He eases the car forward. “My past imprisoned me. I still wear it— like an orange jumpsuit—each day, and night. I can’t remove it, can’t discard it, deny it; can’t pretend my past isn’t part of me now.”

“I have no need to hear this—” “I have a need to tell you!”

Kerin looks at him—for the first time, Trent thinks. “I agreed to this trip to reassure myself I feel nothing for you; so far, so good.”

At the intersection where the red light turned green several seconds ago, Trent can now believe that his son is lost to him.

There is a honk. He rounds the corner, and contemplates jumping.

“I was thinking.” He pauses. How long can he tolerate this oneway conversation? “That we can eat together when we get to Woodstock. Meet outside the motel tomorrow morning, 5:30, I know you’re an early guy, and when I checked out Cooper Lake—” His son nods. You’ve said enough, Trent. Slow steps. Rome was decimated the day you abandoned him. You have a lifetime to rebuild it.

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Trent drives north through the Hudson Valley on the spindly Taconic, what feels more a predatory viper than a two-lane highway: twisting, shoulder-less stretches; must be deathly slippery when wet; too few lights; ramp-less entrances; and severely angled exits that seem purposefully designed to maximize hazard. But he knows that the Taconic—more scenic than the New York State Thruway, and relatively safe in daylight hours—would have been his son’s choice, despite its being on the wrong side of the Hudson for Woodstock.

Trent approaches Highway 55. He detects a smiling scar that extends half an inch from the side of his son’s mouth. Footballrelated? Kerin’s vacant stare out his window dissuades him: Maybe someday he’ll ask him about it.

“We’ll hang a Louie west, head up by Poughkeepsie, cross the Hudson, and make our way to Woodstock,” says Trent. How? How does he illuminate a dead star? “Your aunt; she’s a live wire, huh.

Anyhow, she described your love affair with the Hudson Valley —‘totally primal!’ She told me, ‘His blood’s Type B, but when Kerry’s in the Valley, the B stands for bucolic.’ How’s the country house outside Kingston? Still spend two weeks each summer with the lesbian couple—” “Patti and I consider them family.”

“They’re Damon’s godparents.”

“You know.”

“I do.”

“You know all about me.”

“Your aunt—” “You know all about me, huh Trent.”

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Trent cannot reply to a door slammed in his face: He entreats God for guidance.

Heading west on 55, Trent slows behind a herky-jerky, topdown Land Rover jeep belching oily, black exhaust. The edges of the ratty SUNY New Paltz sticker flap drunkenly on the bumper. A distant semi is approaching from the opposite lane. He depresses the pedal. As he passes the clearly adolescent driver, he wags his index finger at the pimply, peeved face, and in return is proffered a peevish middle finger. He speeds ahead, and imagines Kerin’s slap-happy assessment—Goofball, huh Pop!— and his voluble, jocular snort. He casts a furtive glance at his son, whose restive glare out his window crushes him.

Silent minutes pass; he has assiduously not called his son by name. Dare he? No. He recalls occasionally murmuring the West Side Story song and substituting his son’s name for Maria while waiting on Fifteenth Street: Kerin. Say it soft and it’s almost like praying. He recalls cajoling Kerin’s assistant principal at Stand Out and Succeed Prep, Catherine, whose initial suspicions were dispelled after he solemnly swore that what he begged from her was all he sought from his son: a chance. He knew the risk: She was Kerin’s confidant, and when she agreed, despite her obvious prejudice, and loyalty, to treat him as if he deserved this inside information, he promised that his deeds—irrespective of Kerin’s response—would never disappoint her, and he silently reaffirms his pledge to Catherine, and it is as if a trumpet—he hears it!— summons his son’s habits and traits and quirks and predispositions that he’d surreptitiously learned about the past year from Kerin’s aunt, from the confidential calls and visits to

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Kerin’s friends and colleagues, and beckons them all to shout their approval for him to speak his son’s name, now!

“Commodore Kerin,” Trent says, and he prattles effusively: about Kerin’s Nebraska clique; about its members’ endearing pet name for their high-octane, overachiever star; about Commodore Kerin’s conscientious professionalism, his rhetorical acuity, his fanatical devotion to Penn—where he and Catherine met while he was earning a Leadership MBA—and to his Penn classmates, who awarded Kerin a plaque honoring his consensus-building genius that read Perfection Is The Enemy of Good; and about Kerin’s present role as SOS Prep’s principal, and innovative guiding light, and the school’s 3Ps-For-Success mandate: “Purpose Plus Power. Succinct, and brilliantly conceived!”

Trent is intrepid, awash in pride, and he quotes an education journal lauding Kerin’s charter as “‘the model for America’s most challenged urban neighborhoods.’ Well, if anyone needs proof of nature over nurture,” he says, “your 3Ps-For-Success mandate is exactly how I’d have phrased it. Exactly!”

Trent’s eyes drift past his son’s opaque demeanor, and he observes through Kerin’s window a passing copse of clone-like trees before a verdant field, then a farmhouse, and cows by a fence. Does he fight on for his dignity, or capitulate? He concentrates on the road, and mocks his waffling fortitude. So, Kerin. So. Kerin. “So, Kerry.”

“Kerin!”

“Of course. I meant—” “Kerin.”

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“I meant to say, Kerin.”

“What, then?”

“So, country roads, huh. All the way to Woodstock.” Kerin’s silence screams. He will see his plan through; he will honor his son’s judgment—leave Park Slope, if that’s his wish. What will be, will be.

They near Woodstock, and Trent endures the screaming silence.

A few miles from their destination, while following a flashing yellow highway maintenance arrow over a rutted stretch of blacktop to the opposite lane, he petulantly abrogates his experiment with God, with prayer: Fucking pointless! He will locate faith in his own agency, or die trying.

At the Red Lobster near Kingston, Trent sits across from Kerin on the faux leather seat of a cavernous booth that could easily accommodate six. Each sequesters his face behind a jumbo, multihued plastic menu.

“Hello, gentlemen!”

Trent looks up, and is startled by the young, curvaceous black waitress with a big, dome-shaped Afro that covers her ears, and borders her eyebrows—she’s a dead ringer for Angela Davis.

Her congenial smile matches her salutation, and the alluring gap between her front teeth just can’t be coincidental.

“I’m Keisha, your server.”

Her solicitous manner evinces a guileless charm that so belies her incendiary look-alike, and Trent revisits his impression of the strident black animus that defined the ’60s. He might mention the uncanny resemblance.

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“Can I start you two off with something to drink?”

Each immaculately articulated word is a pearl. She sounds British without the accent.

“You’re, I’ll guess, 18,” Trent says.

“Twenty. I’m a junior at Bard.”

“Congratulations.” Keisha’s pen is steady, and poised on her writing pad, as if Trent was her only customer in the packed, bustling restaurant.

“Majoring in?”

Keisha’s head turns in a blur. Behind her, two toddlers are standing on their seats spitting at each other. She is harried, he realizes.

“Your table?” asks Trent.

She nods demurely—like one who assumes responsibility for what isn’t their fault, he thinks—and he must take his eyes off Keisha’s fetching eggshell-brown cheeks, and their enticing dimples.

“Sorry. Um, to start?”

“Wine. Chardonnay for me, Keisha. Merlot for my son.”

“Right back for your order.” She vanishes. The crack of a bat distract Trent, and he watches the TV as if he cares, and when he turns, and leans in to Kerin, about to speak, his elbow lands on the end of his fork, which somersaults as it shoots up, and sails over the end of the table.

They laugh. “Nice!” says Kerin.

“Couldn’t do that if I tried a hundred times.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“I’m sorry, um,” says Keisha, “who gets—”

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“White here. Red for my son.”

“You need more time?”

“Nope. Broiled flounder for me. House salad. Balsamic vinaigrette,” says Trent.

“Sir?” “The same,” says Kerin.

Keisha departs. Trent raises his wine glass, and moves his hand forward a fraction, and then looks away, and sips, and then pretends to examine his nondescript goblet’s two defective bubbles, while pronouncing himself a fool. He lowers his glass to the table.

“Beautiful waitress,” says Trent.

“Hmm.” “Reminds me of …”

Silence. They sip their wine.

“I learned something since I arrived. Meant to tell you earlier. About how one word, an expression—never heard it before —just made me feel like I belong, like a real New Yawkah. Well, not a native, but, like an honorary one. Anyway, kibitz. The waitress at Little Purity, Edna. You know her. She taught me. She said you’ve kibitzed with her, and by the way, she never fails to sing your praises—how you always make her feel important, asking her about her kids, her life. ‘Kerin’s so giving. Such a mensch.’ Oh, that expression I did know—” While their salad plates are set before them, Trent stops speaking, and Keisha’s quick departure without a word appears discreet, and he believes she respectfully intuited that his barely discernible nods were not meant to offend.

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“So, Edna says mensch, and—” “You’re kidding!”

“No—” “Is this why I’m here? To get a synopsis of what you know about me?”

“No—” “What you think you’ve learned—” “No, you see, son—” “Don’t ever call me that again!”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t call me son!”

“Kerin—” “That’s better.”

“Kerin.” He is vanquished. “Our salads. They’ll get cold if we don’t eat them.” Kerin’s quiet screams.

Keisha arrives and sets down their entrées, and disappears.

Trent eats in time to Kerin, thinking that way they’ll finish the meal together.

“I brought the letters you sent me as a child. I saved them all.

With your permission, I’ll open them. In the boat. Tomorrow.

Read each aloud. Before you. Before God. Read what I never read until a year ago. But ever since, have read a thousand times. And then, with your permission, I’ll explain who I was then. Why I chose another woman’s raging jealousy, as if there was some, I dunno, hierarchy that placed her demand before your letters—” “No need to know—” “Kerin!”

“No need to know—”

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“Goddammit! Becca loved me, touched me, acknowledged my feelings your mother rejected from the day you were born as if they didn’t matter, and when I’m finished reading your hopes, desires, prayers, pleas—all these things that I was wrong to ignore, wrong!—I will own my past before you, own a failed parent, and father. Kerin. I am not a monster.”

Trent refuses to look away. “I never intended to tell you about me, my demons, much less in a … in a restaurant. I’m sorry.”

Trent extends his tight fist across the table. He opens his fingers, and studies his weathered palm, its puffy hillocks, its leathery skin etched with crisscrossed spokes that remind him of arid riverbeds. “Nothing we say ever comes out right, huh.”

Keisha clears the plates from the table. “Excellent fish,” says Trent, and waves off her dessert inquiry, and while he is tendering his credit card, her colluding gaze caresses his.

“I know how you enjoy fishing. We can talk. About us. Get to know us; that’s all I want.”

“You already know about me, from—” “Things, but not the real—” “From practically everyone I’ve ever met—down to my school janitor.”

“I thought, if we fish, it—” “What?”

“It’s a new begin—oh, God; forgive me, Kerin.”

“You want forgiveness? From me? Is that what waiting on Fifteenth Street was all about?”

“No—”

February 2019

“You just said—” “No—” “Then what? So we can start over? Start over, Trent? What does that mean? My childhood is fixable? Or, never happened!

How’s that? Your good intentions wipe out, what? How you destroyed Mother. Destroyed me.”

“I can’t make up 30 absent years—“ “Absent years, Trent?” Kerin stabs his chest with his forefinger. “No, you reside in me. Permanently. Like a tumor.

Festering, but manageable.”

“I just thought that, if we could … get to know each oth—” “No need to.”

“Look, I don’t want you to forgive me—” “No need to know what you want.”

“Then how do I—” “ I. I, I, I! I. Do you get it, Trent? That’s what this trip is about.”

“No.” “Yes. I want to explain; I want forgiveness; I want to start over; I want Kerin to know me, so I will plan a little fishing trip.”

“I want you to talk to me, but you never do.”

“Okay, Trent. So, ask me to.”

Trent lowers his head, shuts his eyes, and wishes to vanish.

“Look at me, Trent.”

He is alone, and abandoned. And terrified—by what, he doesn’t know.

“Ask me to speak! About me. Trent? Trent? C’mon, it’s a minor adjustment.”

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This short story 1 is part of a collection of stories by Paul Alan Ruben in a book called Terms of Engagement, available at Amazon and other book retailers. The book has had many positive testimonials. ■

About the Author: Read our interview with Paul Alan Ruben on the next page.

Story Photo Credit: Katarzyna Białasiewicz

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INTERVIEW:

PAUL ALAN RUBEN Just A Minor Adjustment

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Paul Alan Ruben has published both literary fiction and nonfiction. He has completed a novel, Raising Philip, and is nearly finished with its companion novel, Family in a Grove.

Paul has produced and directed hundreds of audiobooks for every major American publisher, and won numerous industry awards, including two Grammy Awards for Best Spoken Word.

He is married to Paula Parker, an actress and audiobook producer/director. His son, Brandon, is a lawyer, and Paul’s daughter- in-law, Lianna Gomori Ruben, is also writer.

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Q: You’ve written fiction, non-fiction, audiobook production, with a couple of Grammy Award wins for Best Spoken Word (books by Al Franken and Michael J. Fox), as well as producing other authors’ audiobooks, teaching storytelling and more.... The world has gone mad and you are allowed only ONE form by which to express yourself. Which would it be and why?

A: Fiction. Narrative fiction inspires me to delve into themes I’m most passionate about, father/son/family, and also my abiding interest in the exploration of character.

Q: Your BA and MA degrees are in Theatre. At what point did you alter your path to writing, and what caused that change?

Any regrets?

A: I also have an MFA in fiction (Spalding University/ 2016). Additionally, I enjoy thinking of myself as professionally hyphenated: writer-performer-director. That said, writing fiction emerged slowly. First plays, one of which was performed off-Broadway, featuring award-winning actress, Judy Kaye. I’ve read literary fiction my entire life. About six years ago I tried my hand at writing short fiction and discovered that this form propelled my desire to investigate themes most meaningful to me. It still does.

Q: What is the worst part of being a writer and how do you compensate? And the best part?

A: The worst part of being a writer are the ever-present worries that maybe I don’t have something to say, and if I do, I’m

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unable to say it the way I want to. I compensate by reminding myself that these aforementioned worries are just feelings, and that while they are legitimate fears, they do not represent the truth. And the truth is the best part about writing fiction: the opportunity to send out into the world the themes I’m most passionate about with the hope that they’ll resonate with readers and listeners.

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Q: What’s your process like? Pen/paper, Computer, Software or basic word processor, fixed hours, set location?

A: Computer. I’m pretty disciplined. I’ve just completed a novel (Raising Philip). As with my short fiction, I began the novel by making random notes about characters and their dilemmas that peek my interest. From there, I land on the characters/scenarios that feel most energizing. I make more

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random notes, come up with various scenes, other characters (that often never appear in the final version). I then look at the blank screen and write for about three hours. I try to work five mornings a week. I re-write a little along the way, and then rewrite and re-write some more until I feel the story is as complete as I can make it.

Q: If you had to start over, what would you change about the path that brought you to here?

A: What a great question. It would be wonderful if I understood decision-making and its consequences at twenty-five the way I do now, if I was as attuned to my emotional-self then as I am now, if I imagined the notion of self-responsibility then as now: that I, not others, am responsible for my feelings/behavior.

Otherwise, I am comfortable with all the cards I have been dealt, which include a loving wife and son and daughter-in-law.

Q: Terms of Engagement is powerful and raw, and in reading it one could easily assume it is autobiographical. It is not, however, how difficult was it to generate that degree of realism and complexity?

A: The collection’s characters and locations are fictional, though it is thematically autobiographical. My experience with my father was difficult. I was afraid of him (he was emotionally, though not physically abusive). I never felt loved, much less seen.

It wasn’t a problem for me to create stories that replicate father and son trauma, especially as I favor realism. In fact, I think of these stories as ‘kitchen sink’ drama (a 1950s British expression

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that denotes characters that exhibit a kind of raw, unfiltered emotionality).

Q: Books ’N Pieces Magazine deals with a lot of selfpublished authors. What advice would you give to writers entering the field, whether to self-publish or traditional publish, and why?

A: I was fortunate to have an enormously supportive, indie publisher. My feeling is, do your best to get your work published, whether on your own or with a traditional publisher. Bringing your passion to fruition is meaningful, I think.

Q: What are your three favorite books?

A: In fiction they are: American Pastoral (Philip Roth), Disgrace (J.M. Coetzee), Drop City (T.C. Boyle).â– Our thanks to Paul Alan Ruben, and we encourage you to check out his social media links: Website: paulalanruben.com Twitter @paul_alan_ruben Buy TERMS OF ENGAGEMENT on Amazon

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INTERVIEW:

JENNA GREEN

The Dragon-boating Writer

JENNA GREENE is a middle school teacher, dance enthusiast, dragonboat coach, and semi-professional napper. She lives with her husband, Scott, and daughter, Olivia, in Alberta, Canada.

Q: In 2011 you penned an article “Panic Attack: Anxiety 101” in You and Me Magazine. Writers are often described as prime to anxiety, introverted, retrospective etc… Do you believe that your anxiety has helped your ability to convey powerful emotional

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content in your writing, and has it helped you to develop a coping mechanism?

A: I think I'm a bit of a bit of a contradiction. While I cherish time by myself, and need it to write, I'm the opposite of introverted and I am not as observant as I believe I should be.

But I believe my anxiety has assisted me in connecting the the struggles of all characters, no matter what their challenge might be.

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Q: What’s the worst part about writing and how do you overcome it?

A: I struggle with editing. It's not as much fun as simply creating. Plus, I find it hard to part with sections that aren't needed but that I put a lot of time into. I overcome it by embracing what is best for the story.

Q: What is the best part of writing and why?

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A: The best part of writing is the daydreaming about what could be and then writing it down and seeing how it turns out.

Like life, writing is never as you expect. Characters often take paths that I don't intend, or ideas pop out of nowhere.

Q: What is your writing process like? Do you research a lot, notes…?

A: I don't research much, as I create most of the worlds I write about. But I keep extensive notes so that I have continuity in the worlds that I create. As for process, I write in short stints and always wear a tiara.

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Q: When did you first start writing seriously and what prompted that?

A: I first started writing seriously when I was finished university. Though I was working full-time, I wanted other goals to strive for.

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Q: One of your listed hobbies is dragon-boating. Could you elaborate on what that is and how one dragon boats?

A: Dragon-boating is the second largest team sport in the world. (Second only to soccer). Each team consists of a drummer, who keeps the rhythm and strategizes a race, twenty paddlers who work in synchronicity, and a steersperson who guides the team to the finish line.

Q: In the process from writing to publication, aside from the writing, what is the next most important part and why?

A: Marketing is pretty important, so that people know about the work created.

Q: Books ’N Pieces Magazine offers advice to writers, especially those seeking to self-publish. What steps did you take to get published (mainstream or indie publishing) and what advice would you give newer authors?

A: I think new writers need to try every avenue and find out what works for them. I know a lot of writers who self-publish because they love having control over the entire creative process.

While I want that, I also work full-time and have a two-year old daughter, and have to manage my time. Working with small presses suits my life best, as some tasks (formatting, etc) are taken off my plate.

Q: Reborn is your latest work. Could you please share the premise and your thoughts on it?

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A: The main character, Lexil, has seven memory marks on her skin. This brands her as a Reborn, or someone who has lived before. As such, she is sold into slavery to once-borns. At first she is accepting of her fate, but to save a young child from a horrible fate she must become braver than she ever imagined she could be. With the help of a double-born named Finn, she flees to the Wastelands. There, she learns more about what it truly means to be Reborn.â–

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Our thanks to Jenna Greene. Please be sure to follow her on social media: Buy her books on Amazon: https://amzn.to/2TmM7wu Facebook: www.facebook.com/jennabutrenchukgreene Website: www.jennagreene.ca

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SHORT STORY:

PARIS IN THE SPRING

by Jim Courter

-I-

PAUL AVERY heard them before he saw them, when they were half a block distant. Their English gave them away, American English with a Midwestern twang on the loudest of them, a guy who wondered if this stop was necessary.

“Maybe not, but if I didn’t think it would be worth your time I wouldn’t insist on it.”

Paul recognized the voice of his old college roommate Andy Cochran, now professor of French Studies at Dirksen State, once again in Paris with students.

“Those of you with ambitions to write may find it inspiring,” Paul heard Andy say. “And for me it’ll be a reunion with an old friend. I beg your indulgence.”

Paul got up from the bistro table on the balcony outside his apartment, three floors above Rue St.-Georges in Paris’s Ninth Arrondisement. He leaned over the railing. Andy was the first to emerge from under a cherry tree in full April bloom. Paul called down.

“Bonjour, An-dee. Welcome to Paris.”

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Andy stopped and craned his neck backward. The students immediately behind him looked around and did a sort of pedestrian version of a pileup.

“Mon vieux!” Andy said.

“I’ll come down,” Paul said.

A minute later he emerged through the front door of his apartment building. He and Andy shook hands and embraced.

“I hope you came hungry,” Paul said. “I’ve prepared a little something for lunch.”

“Très bien!” Andy said.

After going up in the lift in two groups they were in the large combined living and dining room of Paul’s apartment. Andy said, “Ladies and gentlemen, my old friend Paul Avery”; then, individually, he introduced his six female and four male students to Paul.

“Thanks for making time to stop by,” Paul said to Andy. He gestured toward the table, made long by two leaves added for the occasion. “I borrowed chairs from a neighbor in the building who uses her place for a lieder parlor.” Then to the group, “Your first time in Paris?”

Most gave an affirmative nod. Two females were on their second visit; one had come a few years ago with her family; another, a tall, bony girl, with her high school French class.

Thuy—young, Oriental, lovely, and dressed in silk pants and blouse—set the table. Paul introduced her to the group. She smiled and bowed, her long black hair falling forward, then returned to the kitchen. Andy gave Paul a suggestive look with a hint of a leer in it.

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“She’s working her way through the Sorbonne,” Paul said to Andy, but loud enough for the others to hear. “Vietnamese, second generation Parisienne. Her grandparents were boat people.” He paused then said, “She lives nearby.” Knowing Andy as he did, he hoped to dampen speculation about any other role Thuy might play in his life.

Andy smiled and said, “Ah.” As they waited, the students moved about the room, examining the books on shelves, black and white photos of Paris on the walls, Paul’s bicycle parked in a corner, or taking in the view overlooking the street.

One of the males said to Paul, “Andy says you’re a writer,” managing to sound skeptical. He had a disheveled look and was either trying to grow a beard or simply hadn’t shaved in a few days.

“He told you right,” Paul said.

“And that you’re recently retired from teaching.”

“At age fifty-two,” Andy broke in. “Color me green!”

Paul said, “I taught fiction writing at St. Augustine College for twenty-five years. Excuse me, the introductions flew right by me. Your name again?”

“It’s Kevin Rinehart,” Andy’s student said. He seemed smug for no apparent reason. “What kinds of things do you write?”

“Mostly mysteries.”

“Literary mysteries,” Andy said. “What our modest host isn’t saying is that some of his novels have been made into films. Thus his ability to retire to Paris at such a young age.”

“Lunch is ready,” Paul said. “Let’s sit.”

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They sat down to servings of lentil soup, spinach salad, baguettes, and carafes of iced water with lemon wedges, Kevin at the head on one end, Paul and Andy across from each other near the middle. To the surprise of most and the seeming discomfort of some, Paul said a brief prayer of thanks, made a discrete sign of the cross on his chest, then, with a big encouraging smile all around said, “Bon appétit.”

Kevin picked up a carafe, sniffed it, and said, “Come on, man.

No French wine?”

“My apologies,” Paul said, “but I have to assume you’re not all of drinking age.”

“This is France,” Kevin said. “The drinking age for wine is sixteen.”

“Again, sorry,” Paul said, “but while you’re here I feel obliged to act in loco parentis. How many trips to Paris is this for you, Andy?” Paul said, hoping to change the subject.

Andy consulted his memory. “With students, seven,” he said.

“It never gets old, I must say.”

“That’s good to hear,” Paul said. “I came eight months ago and feel like I’ve only scratched the surface.”

Paul would have preferred to deflect subsequent talk away from himself and focus it on Andy’s students, but their curiosity prevailed. Still, he was more amused than annoyed by the predictable questions about his writing: “Where do you get your ideas?” Paul: “From what I see, hear and read.” “Do you write every day according to schedule?” Paul admitted that he’d never done that, but that he writes most days. Then, from Kevin, “How

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does it feel to be in the shadow of Hemingway and Fitzgerald and that whole expat crowd from the twenties?”

Paul thought a moment. “If I’m in anyone’s shadow,” he said, “it’s Georges Simenon’s.” Seeing mostly puzzled looks around the table he said, “S-I-M-E-N-O-N. He practically invented the literary mystery.”

“Are you sure that term isn’t an oxymoron?” Kevin said.

Paul was sure that it was Kevin he had heard down on the street wondering if this stop was necessary. Now, up close, he struck Paul as the self-appointed bohemian disrupter, with no use for bourgeois notions of civility and courtesy. Paul would have liked to put him in his place, but he didn’t wish to spoil the occasion for Andy. One of the other males rescued him: “Unfortunately,” he said, “these days it seems there’s a moron where ever you go.” As some of them stifled laughter, Paul shot the guy a look of appreciation. Kevin seemed satisfied, as if the remark had helped him make his point.

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Thuy emerged from the kitchen to see if anything was needed. As she moved around the table, Paul checked out the rest of Andy’s students.

He guessed to be gay the one who had wittily one-upped Kevin. The other two guys were more or less mute and unremarkable, Midwestern boys in awe of being in Paris and maybe feeling that they were in over their heads. A couple of the girls were somewhat arch in their demeanor, which Paul attributed to an attempt to come off as sophisticated. Another, Gwen if he remembered the name, was the airbrushed beauty in the group, a Scandinavian blond with high cheek bones who Paul guessed might be the object of Kevin’s designs.

Less attractive in the conventional sense but more intriguing to Paul was the tall female, only a couple of inches shorter than Paul’s five-ten, willowy and loose-jointed—she had tripped slightly on the threshold upon entering the apartment—small breasted, with dark hair to her shoulders, dark brown eyes, black-rimmed glasses, and a big toothy smile that Paul would have bet was only recently freed from braces. Olive Oyl meets Anne Hathaway. She was slightly cross-eyed and her ears stuck out prominently from her head. Paul normally eschewed the term cute—the culture of cuteness, while not one of the things that drove him from the United States, was among the reasons he was happy to have left— but it was the best term he could think of for her, especially those ears, although he imagined she was mortified by them. He guessed that most guys her age wouldn’t give her a second look; in his eyes she was a diamond in the rough. From what he thought he was seeing, his appreciation of her was reciprocated.

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When lunch was finished Thuy cleared the dishes and brought out coffee. Paul and Andy moved to a window table to catch up with each other. Gwen and another girl went out onto the balcony. When Kevin went out after them, they came back in.

After a while Andy announced that it was time to go. As they organized themselves into a group for departure, Paul saw Andy and the tall girl in close conversation; it appeared that something passed between them. She had her back to Paul, facing Andy, who looked around her at Paul and smiled.

Finally Andy said, “Okay, folks, a big thanks to Paul for this fine lunch.” Then to Paul, “Merci, mon ami. You’ve been most gracious.”

“De rien,” Paul said. “Enjoy Paris.”

Before leaving, the tall, bony one stopped and turned and said to Paul, “How long do you plan to stay in Paris?”

“I haven’t decided. Who knows, I could end up like Mavis Gallant.”

Andy brightened and said, “Who said chivalry was dead!”

When she was out the door Andy turned back to Paul, pulled a card from his shirt pocket and handed it to him. Paul looked at it. It was Andy’s business card. He turned it over. On the back side was a number written in black ink. He looked at Andy.

“Her name is Justine Walton,” Andy said. “That’s her cell phone number. She’s interested in seeing more of you.” He winked. “I think she wants to talk writing.”

-IITwo days later Justine was back, without the others.

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Andy’s speculation regarding Justine’s motive for wanting to see more of Paul was accurate but incomplete. That wink was his way of hinting that if his guess was right, her true motive had more to do with the prospect of romance. And it did.

Justine Walton had come to Paris with visions of smoking in Left Bank cafés; strolling the Champs Elysées in a beret and scarf with the insouciance of a native Parisienne; even, if she could somehow circumvent Andy’s supervision, romance with a Frenchman, ideally one somewhat older than her, experienced and sophisticated.

But then, at lunch up in Paul’s apartment, hosted by this intriguing man who could pass for a Frenchman—an expat novelist no less!—with close-cropped salt-and-cinnamon beard and hair; trim, intense, and ascetic; a seasoned and savvy air about him; perhaps most intriguing of all, eyes that suggested a hint of suffering, she found herself flexible regarding the nationality of her would-be lover.

It was late afternoon and a light rain came down. They sat at the dining table, now two leaves shorter. Justine was being coy, as if, having signaled by her presence that she was interested in romance, she must now play it cool to avoid being taken for granted.

“You came on the Metro?” Paul said.

“Oui. I could have walked—it’s not all that far—or used Vélib, but I wanted practice using the Metro by myself. Pas de problème.”

They talked of this and that for a while, Justine never voicing her intentions, Paul declining to ask what they were. In fact, Paul

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wondered if his assumptions were warranted—he reminded himself that he was fifty-two and she was, he guessed, twenty at the oldest—while Justine, who had always been insecure about her looks and body type, wondered if a man of such accomplishment and sophistication (and no doubt sexual experience) could find her attractive.

As evening approached they seemed to have run out of things to talk about. Paul suggested that they dine at a nearby café.

He put on a tweed sport coat and, instead of the beret that Justine envisioned, a black Chicago White Sox cap, and they walked through the cool, mild Paris night. After turning onto Rue La Fayette, Justine took Paul’s arm, and was pleased to have him proceed as if her doing so were natural and appropriate.

At Café Aromatique they dined on bread and cheeses. Paul had Perrier and said nothing of Justine’s ordering wine. Their talk touched on the dynamics of Justine’s group and Kevin’s potential for spoiling things for everyone; Andy and Paul’s past friendship, Paul making it clear that they had not been as close as their time at lunch might have conveyed; Paul’s neighborhood and his experience of Paris so far, which he confessed to be limited. “I spend an awful lot of time writing in cafés,” he said.

“I’d think it would be hard to concentrate,” Justine said.

“I was concerned about that at first,” Paul said, “what with house music and the temptation to indulge in people-watching.

Then I got up one morning with the itch to write, only to find that I was out of coffee. So I grabbed my notebook and pencils and set out on foot and found a place nearby, this place in fact. There were distractions, all right, but they pretty much canceled each other

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out and I ended up taking to it. Now I split my writing time between my apartment, here and some other cafés that have come to be my favorites.”

“Based on what?” Justine said.

“Price, ambience—it helps if the house music is jazz, or none at all—the quality of the coffee. I eliminated some places because the waiter grew impatient with my occupying a table for too long.”

They ended with coffee, in spite of the late hour. That finished, Paul paid and they left. At the front door to Paul’s building they stopped and faced each other. “I can walk you to the Metro,” Paul said.

With a sheepish grin Justine said, “I left my bag in your apartment.”

They rode up in the elevator. Paul stayed in his sport coat and cap, but Justine stood without making any move to grab her bag and leave.

“The Metro?” Paul said.

Justine hugged herself, bit her lower lip and with a shy, coy look said, “It’s kind of late. I’m not sure I want to be on the Metro alone. And there’s the walk to the hotel.”

“I can go with you, all the way there,” Paul said.

Justine wondered if this was his way of either letting her know that he wasn’t interested in intimacy or forcing her to state her purpose. She looked down in what seemed mild embarrassment, raised her eyes, bit her lip and said, “Um, could I stay here?”

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Paul gave her a look and held it a while. Finally he said, “What about a change of clothes, a toothbrush, whatever else you might need?”

Again, she bit her lower lip with that half coy, half embarrassed smile. She looked over at her capacious leather bag on the floor and said, “I brought some things.” *** They sat in the living room before going to bed, Justine on the sofa, Paul on a chair on the other side of the coffee table. They talked some more, but again seemed pointedly to avoid the obvious. Justine stretched out, yawned and said, “I’m pretty tired.”

Paul got up but didn’t approach her, keeping the table between them.

“I’ll show you your room,” he said.

With a bemused pout Justine followed Paul as he took her to the spare bedroom, equipped with a single-size bed and a dresser, then showed her the bathroom and a linen closet with extra towels and washcloths. They stood a couple of feet from each other.

“I hope you sleep well,” Paul said. “If I’m gone when you get up, help yourself to anything in the fridge. I should be back by early afternoon.”

He went first into the bathroom, then into his own bedroom, and gently shut the door.

Justine went into her room and sat on the side of the bed.

She considered waiting a few minutes then going in and getting in bed with him. But she didn’t. For one thing, she didn’t know if his bed was big enough; hers was too narrow for two people, and if his

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was too, then no matter his degree of receptiveness, things would be awkward. And what was his degree of receptiveness?

She stayed put, telling herself on the one hand that Paul was being a gentleman by not taking her for granted on the first night, and that the next night, maybe even the morning, would be different; on the other hand that she had figured him wrong and struck out. If the former, she decided she liked that for enhancing the sweetness of their coming together later. Surely by tomorrow night, she told herself, she would know. *** Justine awoke the next morning around eight-thirty. She found a note on the dining table: “I’m out. Back by around one o’clock.” Next to the note was a key.

She checked her schedule. The only thing on it for that day for her group was the Hôtel des Invalides and Napoleon’s Tomb.

She decided to skip it. Instead, after freshening up and breakfasting on a yogurt, she went out and walked the neighborhood.

She passed the café where she and Paul had dined the previous evening, thinking she might find him there. When she didn’t she walked along Rue La Fayette, making mental note of shops she might want to check out later. She came to a plaza where several streets came in. And there he was, at an outdoor café table.

He didn’t see her. He drank coffee and read a newspaper. He looked relaxed. She left her spot and approached from the side.

When she neared the table, he looked up and saw her.

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“Hey,” she said with a wave. “Hey,” he returned warmly. She was relieved that he seemed pleased to see her. “Join me,” he said.

She sat at ninety degrees to him.

“How do you like the neighborhood?” he said.

“I like it fine.”

“I hope you didn’t mind waking up to an empty apartment.

I’m often up and out early.”

“Writing?”

“Writing. Walking. Biking. Sometimes mass.” He gestured to a church on the other side of the plaza. “Notre Dame de Lorette.

There’s a priest there that I like, especially for confession.”

She gave him a look that combined puzzlement and disbelief.

“Mass and confession.”

Paul nodded. “Mm hm.”

“Oh.” *** By the morning after their third night together Justine was frustrated and confused. When they slept apart on the second night, as on the first, after an agreeable but unromantic day together, she tried to convince herself that her thinking about the first night could be extended, that it was only a matter of time until they would sleep together. But when on that third evening Paul bid her good night, once more without so much as a hug or a buss on the cheek, she decided that if she was going to lose her virginity to this man in Paris she would have to take things in hand.

The morning came drizzly and cool, perfect weather for lovemaking in Justine’s estimation. Unlike the previous mornings,

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Paul was still in. She peeked out and heard him in the kitchen. She ducked into the bathroom to tend to business and brush her teeth, then, back in her room, changed out of her pajamas and into a tank top, sans bra, and loose-fitting cotton gym shorts. Normally self-conscious about her body type and small breasts, in front of the full-length mirror in her room she liked her mostly bare shoulders and the way her nipples pressed through the cotton. She took off her glasses, shook her hair into a state of studied dishevelment, and walked out.

Paul was at the dining table with a carafe of coffee, a mug and a newspaper.

Justine had planned on coming to him in his bedroom or the kitchen where, in either case, she could lean coquettishly against a door frame for his appraisal, after which he would be overcome by desire and go to her. Instead, she found herself standing in the middle of that large, open room, awkwardly trying to strike a sexy pose. She felt like she was slouching; she didn’t know what to do with her hands.

Paul looked up and smiled.

“Bonjour,” she said softly.

Paul returned her greeting, and had to fight the urge to go to her. He could see that she felt awkward and self-conscious, and supposed that she would never guess that he found her thoroughly charming for being so. Flushed and aroused, he took a breath and held it while Justine stood there looking unutterably goofy-cute, seductive, and apparently willing. He needed something—a word, a pretext, a distraction—to get him through the moment. He lifted his mug and gestured with it toward the carafe and said, “Coffee?”

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*** The drizzle of the morning had by noon become a light but steady rain and kept them to an indoor table at Café Aromatique.

When Justine accepted Paul’s offer of coffee back at the apartment, she sat at the table in her tank top and easy-access shorts (as she thought of them), intending to make “coffee” the next step in her seduction plan. But Paul shook the nearly empty carafe and said, “I spoke too soon. It’s almost gone. Get dressed and we’ll go to the café.”

So there they were, at a window table, watching the rain come down from a gray sky that matched Justine’s mood.

She pouted, but Paul seemed not to notice. She sighed deeply, with no better result. She made a show of picking up her croissant then, seemingly in despair, dropping it back onto the plate unbitten. Paul bit off some of his and chewed behind a smile.

Apparently, she decided, she would have to clear the air.

“I’ve got news for Sarah, my roommate at school,” she said.

“When I told her I intended to lose my virginity on this trip she told me to go for someone older, somebody with patience and experience.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Paul said without expression.

“Disappointment’s not the half of it,” she said. “How do you think I feel right now? I can’t even . . .” She checked herself.

“Can’t even what,” Paul said, “seduce a guy who ought to be grateful at such an advanced age to have a shot at a young beauty?”

She gave him an incredulous look. “What beauty? Skinny, gawky, sticking-out ears, no boobs to speak of. Why did you lead

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me on? Why did you let me stay if you weren’t interested in sex?”

Then with a half tricky petulant pout she said, “I should have held out for a Frenchman like I originally intended.”

“I didn’t lead you on,” Paul said. “I said nothing to make you think we’d be lovers.”

“Oh, come on! This is Paris. You’re a famous writer and I’m . . . whatever it is I am.”

“A girl with romance-in-France syndrome,” Paul said. “Okay, I guessed what you had in mind and I let you stay. If that’s leading you on then I plead guilty.”

“As charged. Do you have some kind of problem?”

Paul smiled. “I’m normally equipped and have a healthy appreciation of the opposite sex and the ability to express it. What Sarah didn’t tell you is that experience can teach more than technique in bed. Mine has taught me that acts have consequences. The unromantic truth is that casual sex can lead to a mess, maybe in ways you haven’t thought of.”

“What do you mean by a mess?”

“Plenty. The initial cleanup is with towels, but that’s the easy part. Too often you end up with conflicting sets of assumptions and expectations, or in the worst cases entangled with lawyers, maybe even abortionists. That’s not my idea of romance.”

Justine pouted. “Where does that leave us?” she said.

“That’s up to you,” Paul said. “Return to the hotel and traipse around Paris with Andy and the others if you must. At least until you find your Frenchman.”

“Or?”

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“Or you can stay with me, but I can’t imagine why you’d want to, given what you’re after and what you now know.”

“Stay with you but with no sex.”

“Yes,” Paul said. “And before you answer, don’t think you’ll eventually break me down.”

“This is a twist I hadn’t thought of,” she said. “`Romance-inFrance syndrome.’ I kind of like that. I guess I’ve watched Casablanca too many times, you know, the part where Bogart and Bergman fall in love in Paris.”

Paul raised his coffee cup. “Here’s looking at you, kid.”

Justine shook her head and held up a hand. “Please.”

Paul said, “If you stay with me would you have to spend your days with Andy and the group to fulfill the requirements of the trip?”

“All we have to do,” she said, “is keep a journal then write a paper when we get back. I checked with Andy. He said it doesn’t matter if I hit the sights with you or with them.” “`Hit the sights.’” Paul said. “I wouldn’t mind seeing more of Paris, but not as a tourist.”

“I promise I wouldn’t interfere with your writing,” Justine said.

“You realize, don’t you, that everyone’s going to assume we’re having an affair, if they don’t already.”

Justine smiled.

“Let me guess,” Paul said. “The next best thing to having a Paris fling is people thinking you’re having a Paris fling.”

Her smile broadened. “Something like that.”

“Have you thought about the damage to your reputation?”

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“Are you kidding? In my crowd you’re looked down on if you’re not sexually active.”

Still unsatisfied, he looked at her hard and said, “Why do you want to do this?”

“There’s ‘the next best thing,’ as you put it. Maybe it’s that you make me feel safe. Maybe I like getting away from Kevin.”

“There’s a reason I can appreciate.”

“Why are you doing this?” she said “Let’s just say I like your company.”

“It sounds like we have a deal,” Justine said. When Paul only made a face that she took for begrudging agreement, she said, “What shall we do first?”

“Notre Dame,” he said.

“Oh, we did that the second day here, before showing up at your place.”

“Did it how?”

“Andy led us through inside and all around outside. He filled us in on the history, the architecture, the works.”

“I’m not talking about a tour,” Paul said. “I’m talking about mass.”

-IIIOver the next several days Paul wrote in the mornings, mostly at cafés, while Justine either explored the neighborhood on her own or rejoined her group for excursions. He and Justine devoted the afternoons and evenings to taking in the City of Light in glorious April bloom. They went about on foot, on the Metro, on

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bicycles—Paul his own, Vélib for Justine—and once on a River Seine tour boat.

But mostly on foot. They spent more time walking than on all mechanical conveyances combined. Justine proved to be a match for Paul as a walker. They avoided the popular tourist sites, gravitating instead to jazz clubs, gardens, the lesser-known museums, and, at Paul’s insistence, churches. Justine’s French was far superior to Paul’s, so whenever they had to use French to negotiate she took the lead.

On a fine afternoon in late April, after they had been together a week, they were seated outdoors at Café Papillon. Justine had on her SORBONNE sweatshirt. She wore sunglasses and a black beret at a jaunty angle.

“While you were writing this morning I went with the others to the Panthéon,” she said. “Monica asked if I was there because we were having a lovers’ quarrel. I couldn’t bring myself to admit that we aren’t lovers. And Andy! He seems to be getting some kind of vicarious kick out of thinking we’re having an affair.”

“Andy’s a satyr and has been for as long as I’ve known him,” Paul said. “He sees the world through a satyr’s eyes. What about Kevin?”

“Kevin was sent home. I learned that after he struck out with Gwen he started spouting off about how boring everything is and how rude the French are. Apparently he did it in public and was overheard by some Parisian guys. It was all Andy could do to prevent a fight.”

“Did you set them straight about us?”

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“No. That’s just it. As annoying as it is to have people think they have you figured out and be so wrong, the irony is kind of fun.

Still, I’m amazed at what supposedly intelligent people are capable of.”

Paul opened his notebook to a blank piece of paper and set to work on it with a pencil. Finished, he tore it out and put it in front of Justine.

“Read that aloud,” he said.

She looked at him as if she suspected a trick, then at the sheet.

“Paris in the spring,” she said.

Paul shook his head. “Try again.”

She looked slightly exasperated then read again. “Paris in the spring.”

Paul shook his head again. “You’re not reading carefully.”

She peered intently at the sheet. “Whoa! ‘Paris in the the spring.’ How’d you do that?”

“It wasn’t me. You read what you thought you saw.”

“Okay. A lesson in reading. So what?”

“So maybe we shouldn’t be so quick to judge Andy and the others. Who’s more at fault, them for jumping to conclusions or us for giving them good reason to, and enjoying it when they do?”

She didn’t answer. Instead she reached into her bag and brought out a pack of Gitanes. It was unopened and she fumbled with the wrapping but finally got one out, put it between her lips and lit it with a match. She inhaled, and immediately broke into a coughing fit.

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Paul didn’t laugh out loud, but he didn’t try to hide his amusement. “Are you all right?” he said.

Between coughs, Justine managed, “I’m not sure.”

“Good thing we’re not on the Left Bank,” Paul said. “Imagine the embarrassment.”

Justine hacked and rasped. “Okay, okay. Give me a break.” *** The next day they were at the bistro table on the balcony of Paul’s apartment on a sunny morning. They had just finished a light breakfast and were lingering over coffee. So that Justine might plan her day accordingly, Paul told her that when the coffee was gone he intended to go to a café to write.

“I’ve decided I want to write some day,” Justine said.

“Don’t move,” Paul said.

Justine watched as he cleared the table of all but her coffee cup and saucer and the carafe and went inside. A moment later he was back with a yellow legal pad and a fistful of sharpened pencils.

He set them before her and said, “Voilà.”

“Voilà what?”

“You want to write some day. This is some day. Write. I’ll leave you alone. Like I said, I’m off directly. You can have the place to yourself.”

She didn’t pick up a pencil. “Yeah, but . . .”

“But what? Maybe you need to be at a café. You go and I’ll stay here or go to a separate one.”

“But I haven’t . . . I mean I don’t know what I’d write about.”

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“Oh for goodness sake, don’t write about anything. Just write. You can decide later what it’s about. If you think it would help, try smoking again.”

She gave him a look. “I’m beginning to think you have a cruel streak.” *** On a Wednesday mid-afternoon with about a week remaining in Justine’s time in Paris, on their way to Sacré-Cœur, they stopped at Café de la Gare, the most remote of Paul’s regular haunts but one they hadn’t yet gone to together. They sat outside.

“Monsieur Paul,” the waiter said when he came, “good to see you again.” Then with a long look at Justine and an appreciative smile, “Et mademoiselle.”

“Bonjour, Bernard,” Paul said.

Bernard was about Justine’s age, very thin, with olive skin and dark eyes that suggested North African provenance and wispy hair on his chin and upper lip. Sensing Justine’s wish, Paul introduced them. Without rising, Justine proffered her hand.

Instead of shaking it, Bernard lifted it for a light kiss and said, “Enchanté.”

Justine and Bernard proceeded to a brief exchange in French that left them both laughing and Paul wondering what it was about.

Bernard took their orders and went off.

“That was bold of him,” Paul said.

Justine, flushed, said, “I rather enjoyed it.”

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Bernard brought their coffees and sandwiches. As he set things down Paul pointedly ignored him. Justine smiled and said, “Merci, Bernard.”

They ate for a while in silence. Finally Paul said, “Look, I don’t mean to be a prude, but you need to watch out for guys like Bernard.”

“What’s this, more loco parenting?”

“Sure!”

“I’ve got another name for it,” she said.

“And what might that be?”

“Jealousy.”

Paul gaped at her. “Jealousy? Ha!” Justine watched him and smiled.

Paul took a bite of his sandwich, chewed fiercely and swallowed. “Jealousy,” he said, more to himself than to Justine.

Bernard brought the check. Paul left money on the table and they rose to leave. Paul went out to the sidewalk, only to discover that Justine wasn’t with him. He looked back. She and Bernard were engaged in light-hearted banter in French. Paul waited for her to join him. When she did she declined to take his arm.

“Did you exchange phone numbers?” Paul said.

“No. We exchanged observations on stuffy American men.”

They walked, together but apart. *** Later they stood on the terrace in front of Sacré-Cœur, looking south over Paris spread out below them.

“The highest point in Paris,” Justine said.

“Mm.”

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“The lowest point in our relationship.”

Paul looked over at her.

“I’d call this a lovers’ quarrel,” she said, “except we’re not lovers.”

“No, we’re not,” Paul said.

She squinted up at him. “What exactly are we?”

“If we were on the Left Bank,” Paul said, “I might feel obliged to come up with some deep, existential answer to that question.

But not here. Sorry.”

“That’s okay,” Justine said. “It would have gone over my head.”

After some silence Paul said, “Concerning what happened back there with Bernard . . .”

“Yes?” “This is hard to admit, but you were right.”

She took his arm and pulled in close. She wrinkled her nose and gave him and impish smile and said, “Good.”

Paul started to say something but was interrupted by a loud percussive sound. Black smoke rose in the distance, about midway to the horizon. Then came another explosion and another column of smoke, close by the first one, then the rattle of automatic gunfire.

“Is that in the Ninth?” Justine said.

“I think so,” Paul said, “but northeast a ways from our place.”

They looked at each other, both realizing what he had just said.

“Is it what I think it is?” she said.

“Probably.”

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“Ah, mon Dieu!” *** Dismissing public transportation as an option, they worked their way on foot alternately south and west along avenues, boulevards and narrow streets, stopping several times to consult Justine’s Paris map. They heard sirens and saw vehicles full of police and soldiers rushing by. They lost track of how long it took to reach Paul’s apartment. When they did, they collapsed in exhaustion.

There they holed up, not knowing what had happened or exactly where. They spoke little. They tried reading but couldn’t concentrate. Paul had no radio or television, so Justine used her cell phone to call her classmates to learn what she could. Details were spotty and inconsistent, but eventually they pieced together a story: Terrorists had attacked a synagogue, a café and a market in a Jewish neighborhood in the southeast corner of the Ninth Arrondisement. Authorities believed that there had been five attackers, two suicide bombers and three gunmen. At least a dozen people had been killed, not counting the suicide bombers and one of the shooters. Another gunman was captured alive and one was believed to have escaped. English-language newspapers that Paul bought the next two days confirmed the essence of that story, with only minor differences on some of the details.

For the next thirty-six hours Paris was on lockdown. After the terrorist who escaped was tracked to an eastern suburb and killed while resisting arrest, the city began to breathe again and life returned to the streets. Paul and Justine lay low and kept to

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the neighborhood, not so much from fear as from emotional exhaustion.

On the third day after the attack Justine came into the living room carrying her cell phone. Paul was reading. He looked up at her. She was grim and serious.

“What?” he said.

“My mother’s coming to town. She arrives tomorrow.”

Paul nodded. “Probably to make sure you’re okay.”

Justine stared a moment and said, “She wants to meet you.”

-IVWhen Carol, Justine’s mom, arrived, Justine met her alone at Charles de Gaulle. They embraced. “Are you okay, sweetie?”

Carol said. “I’ve been worried sick since that awful incident. When can I meet your friend?”

Carol was registered at a hotel in the Ninth Arrondisement, close to the one Justine’s group was in. On the train ride there and during the walk from the Metro station, to Justine’s relief her mom didn’t express disapproval of Justine’s liaison. In the absence of a scolding, Justine didn’t attempt to explain the nature of her relationship with Paul.

But Carol insisted on meeting him, asking for some time first to recover from her jet-lagged state. She had arrived on a Sunday.

On Monday, as her mom slept, Justine went to Paul’s place to ask him if on Tuesday evening he would join them for dinner. He agreed. They settled on a café near Carol’s hotel.

Paul arrived on time at eight o’clock. He walked in looking for Justine but didn’t see her. He did, however, see a version of her

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that was about twenty-five years older. He went to the table, where she sat alone. She stood as he approached. He proffered his hand, she hers, and they shook, eyes locked.

“Enchanté, madame,” Paul said. And he meant it. Lucky the man, he thought, who would wed Justine and stick with her until she attained, as he was sure she would, the mature beauty of this woman before him.

“You must be Paul,” she said.

“I am,” he said. “And you must be Justine’s mom.”

“I am.”

“Where’s Justine?”

“At the hotel.”

Paul smiled with recognition. “Ah.” They sat.

“Well,” Carol said, “I came all the way from Des Moines for this. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Before Paul could respond the waiter came. They asked for more time and took several minutes to decide. Then the waiter returned, answered their questions about some of the menu items —Carol’s French, like Justine’s, was excellent—took their orders and left. By then, Carol’s question no longer hung between them and they spoke of other matters—her flight, the terrorist incident that had ostensibly brought her to town, Paul’s writing, his move from America to Paris.

“Justine said you told her that you virtually fled America because it had become too toxic and dysfunctional,” Carol said. “I believe those were the words she said you used. I’d be curious to hear you elaborate on that.”

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“Those were my words,” Paul said, “but not all of them. She left out coarse and vulgar and some others. As for elaborating, I’m not sure how much good it would do. It’s a matter of sensibility and temperament. The best I can say is, turn on the television and surf channels, monitor the news, hang out at Walmart. If you still need an explanation then we’re probably too far apart to understand each other.”

“And you think you’re escaping that here?”

“Not all of it, no. But enough to make a difference. It’s a kind of change I felt I needed, especially as a writer. Back in the Midwest, when people learn you’re a writer they look at you funny, at least off campus. Here in Paris you’re supposed to be a writer.”

Their orders came—a salad for Paul, an herbed omelet for Carol, bread, a carafe of white wine. Carol said, “Tell me about you and Justine.”

“First I need to know how much she has told you.”

“Not much. She seems to think she doesn’t owe me any explanations. I assume you two have been having an affair.”

“That’s a reasonable assumption,” Paul said, “but not an accurate one. I virtually haven’t touched her. Of course you only have my word for that. If you don’t believe me, I ask you to consider what I have to gain by lying.”

“Okay,” Carol said, “let’s say I believe you. Care to tell me what if anything has happened between you and Justine? And why you’ve agreed to this . . . arrangement?”

“It was obvious,” Paul said, “that Justine was in love with the idea of finding romance in Paris and intent on losing her virginity, preferably to an older man, ideally a Frenchman according to her

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original plan. She said her roommate at school advised her that older men made better lovers.”

Carol pursed her lips but didn’t comment.

“When she asked to stay at my place I agreed,” Paul said. “I let her believe that it would be under her terms, calculating that once she was in I could win her over to mine. And I think I did, although she was begrudging about it at first. I confess there were times when she almost succeeded in seducing me. She presented herself in some very alluring ways.”

“You might as well know you’ve struck a nerve,” Carol said.

“George, Justine’s father, succumbed to that very thing with a girl in one of his classes at the university. It’s why we split up.”

“How old was Justine when that happened?”

“Ten. I sometimes wonder if it damaged her. Poor George— he got left high and dry when his young paramour grew tired of him. Has it occurred to you that Justine’s thing for you is a way of trying to replace her father?”

“No. She never talked about it.”

“I suppose some of this falls on me,” Carol said. “Justine was raised in a very liberal, progressive atmosphere, both before and after the split. Women’s lib was practically the air she breathed in the house. The irony is that now I’m thankful you didn’t take advantage of her, assuming that what you say is true. But I’m also concerned about damage to her reputation. Let’s face it, everyone else probably assumes you two were lovers.”

“It seems they do,” Paul said. “But I like to think that doesn’t compare to the damage that might have been done if she had got

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what she was after. Do you mind telling me how you knew about me and Justine?”

“I got an anonymous letter,” Carol said.

“A spy in the group.”

“Apparently.”

“Well, there it is,” Paul said. “Do you believe me?”

“I want to,” Carol said. “But I can’t help but wonder why you acted as you did. Most men would have taken advantage of her.”

“No doubt,” Paul said. “At another time in my life I might have. What it comes down to is that I’ve seen too much damage done and I thought I saw a way to prevent some.”

Carol gave him a quizzical look. “I have to ask this,” she said.

“Are you married?”

“No.” “Have you ever been?”

“Yes.” She waited for an explanation, but none came.

“If what you say is true, then you may have saved Justine from herself, which means I’m indebted to you.”

Paul leaned across the table and covered her left hand with his right and, in a parody of a suave, romantic French accent, said, “Chérie, I have an idea for how you might, shall we say, express your gratitude. Chez your place or mine?”

Carol laughed out loud. “Nice try, buster. I’ll get the check instead.”

-V-

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Paul and Justine agreed that it might be good ironic fun to send the group off as he had greeted them, by hosting them for lunch. This time Paul prepared the meal—breads, cheeses and fresh fruit served buffet style, and carafes of ice water with lemon wedges. Good spirits prevailed, albeit laced with irony—Andy and some of the others smiling slyly at what they just knew had gone on in that very apartment between Paul and Justine, Paul and Justine smiling with their own knowledge.

After they had settled in around the table, Andy said to Paul, “I always ask my groups this,” then to the others, “What will be your favorite memory of Paris?” The answers varied: St. Chapelle, the view from atop the Eiffel Tower, the River Seine boat cruise, crossing Pont Neuf, “I can’t decide,” the Louvre, the Tuileries, the food and wine, Notre Dame.

When Justine’s turn came all eyes went to her. The room was very quiet. Even Paul was curious to hear what she would say. She smiled and said, “Mass at Notre Dame.”

No one seemed to know how to respond to that until Andy said to Paul, “It appears you’ve had a good influence on this young lady.”

Later, after lunch, Paul and Justine went out onto the balcony. They leaned with their backs to the railing and looked through the windows at the others.

“That was fun,” Justine said.

“You mean ‘What’s your favorite memory of Paris?’”

“No, I mean the irony.”

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“You may be cut out to be a writer, after all,” Paul said. “You can write your own story about your time in Paris and make it come out however you want.”

“I’ve thought of that,” Justine said. “I wouldn’t change it much from what happened.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“How about a contest,” Paul said. “You write your version, I’ll write mine, and we’ll see who gets published first.”

“No fair. You’re a famous author.”

“I’ll use a pen name.”

Justine looked skeptical. “I’ll let you know.”

“When your mom left,” Paul said, “did she seem convinced that we behaved ourselves?”

“I think so,” Justine said. “I’ll know more when I get home.”

From a neighboring apartment came a song in a female voice, accompanied by accordion, in French but unmistakably full of longing and lament.

Justine took Paul’s arm and said, “Will I ever see you again?”

“I don’t know. Either way, we’ll always have Paris.”

She looked at him, eyes wide. “Amazing!”

“What?”

“You actually said that with a straight face.” ■

About The Author

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Jim Courter is a writer and emeritus writing instructor at Western Illinois University, a Pushcart Prize nominee, and a winner of an Illinois Arts Council award for short fiction. His short stories have been published in the United Stated, Canada, and England. His essays have appeared in Byline, The Chronicle of Higher Education, Smithsonian, and on the op-ed pages of the Chicago Tribune and The Wall Street Journal. His novel, Rhymes With Fool was published in the spring of 2018 by Peasantry Press in Winnipeg.

Photo credit:Petr Kovalenkov  

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COLUMN:

by Jeri Walker

THE FICTION FACTOR Literature with a strong sense of place has drawn me to places like New Orleans and Greece. In the same spirit, novels that incorporate culinary elements as part of their milieu often reel me in. Fiction often opens the eyes of readers to new things, and the allure of wine readily lends itself to works of fiction regardless of genre.

Years ago, the movie Sideways worked its magic in introducing me to the world of wine. Rex Pickett’s book imbues Miles and Jack’s shenanigans in California wine country before Jack’s wedding with an even darker undertone than the book, but both versions pulse with wine’s seductive qualities. I can’t speak for the quality of the self-published sequels, but it’s a saga I’m compelled to keep reading.

Also central to the evolution of my interest in wine was Edgar Allan Poe’s short story “The Cask of Amontillado.” Most of the stories included in the ninth-grade English curriculum I taught featured booze, so of course I was obligated to do research to provide better context. Down into the catacombs Montresor

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draws enemy and fellow connoisseur Fortunato with the promise of a cask of the finest sherry only to chain him in a dark niche and entomb him alive. The lengths some will go to for a great vintage!

Not only do short stories like Roald Dahl’s “Taste” and Doris Lessing’s “Wine” feature vino, the Italian wine maker Librottiglia has gone so far as to make bottles with labels that feature short stories that fit the character of the drink within. Unfortunately, the stories are only available in Italian, but it’s an intriguing marketing gimmick nonetheless.

A vineyard setting lends itself to all sorts of intrigue and appeals to the various lifestyle sensibilities of many readers. While driving through wine country in neighboring states, I often fantasize about what such a life would be like and, novels like A Good Year by Peter Mayle (later adapted for film starring Russell Crowe with Ridley Scott as director) appeal to such sensibilities.

Consider picking up a book our two in the coming year that can inspire you on multiple levels. What better writing prompt could there be than wine? The story possibilities are endless. I’m planning on taking my camera out to Idaho’s vineyards more often in the coming months to see what story possibilities I can glean from amongst the vines. ■

About the Author

Jeri Walker provides manuscript critiques and copyedits for authors who value the intersection of the literary and the commercial. She also forges nonfiction ghostwriting

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partnerships where her expertise results in prose reflective of the client’s voice, experience, and authority. Authenticity is her core guiding value.

Connect with Jeri via Word Bank Writing & Editing at JeriWB.com and follow her on Linked In at https://www.linkedin.com/in/jeriwalker01

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BOOK REVIEW:

Reviewed by Jill Hedgecock | www.jillhedgecock.com

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WHERE THE CRAWDADS SING

by Delia Owens

“Where the Crawdads Sing” (2018, G.P. Putnam's Sons, hardcover, 384 pages, $16.20) by Delia Owens is the compelling story of Kya, also known as the Marsh Girl. Abandoned at 7 years old—first by her mother who walked out on all of her children and then by her drunken father—Kya learns to fend for herself with

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only gulls as companions. Resilient, smart and above all, a survivor, the spunky narrator soon discovers how to feed and clothe herself while evading local authorities.

Bullied in school due to her impoverished life, school is not for her. As she matures into a lovely teenager, her beauty lures two love interests; first Tate, her brother's good friend who befriends her and teaches her to read and then Chase, the local high school quarterback. But things don't go as planned for either romance and the book takes a turn that leaves the reader guessing what really happened. The twisty-turvy plot, the details of nature, and an infusion of poetry, makes the book a page-turner with just the right mix of tension and description.

Owens also has a knack for seamlessly weaving in sociallyrelevant topics such as the undercurrent of racism in 1950s and ‘60s North Carolina that Kya observes as she befriends Jumpin’ who not only provides her with a small income by buying the mussels that she harvests but makes sure his wife educates Kya on the facts of life. Kya’s other salvation is her friendship with Tate who not only encourages her love of nature by exchanging small marvels of nature with her such as a special feather or an interesting shell, but ultimately introduces her to a book publisher interested in her collections and observations of the natural world in the marsh.

Owens earned a Bachelor of Science degree in zoology from the University of Georgia and a Ph.D. in Animal Behavior from the University of California at Davis. She has lived in some of the most remote areas of Africa while conducting scientific research on lions, elephants and other animals. Capturing these experiences in

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writing, she has co-authored three internationally bestselling nonfiction books about her life as a wildlife scientist. Owens won the John Burroughs Award for Nature Writing and her work has appeared in “Nature, Journal of Mammalogy”, “The African Journal of Ecology”, and “International Wildlife”. She currently lives in Idaho.

The novel has received many well-deserved accolades: a #1 New York Times Bestseller, An Amazon Best Book of August 2018, A Reese Witherspoon x Hello Sunshine Book Club Pick, and the Goodreads Choice Awards List. Fans of Barbara Kingsolver’s nature novels such as Prodigal Summer and Flight Behavior, To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee, Helen MacDonald’s H is for Hawk (January 2017 BookEnds column) and Diane Ackerman’s Zookeeper’s Wife (Sept. 2017 BookEnds column) will likely enjoy this novel. If you’re an avid reader, Where the Crawdads Sing should be moved to the top of the pile.■ You can buy Where The Crawdads Sing at https://amzn.to/ 2SdzfLv

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ARTICLE:

DIY SELF-PUBLISHING Inexpensive Self-Editing Tips

by William Gensburger

Let’s face it; editing your work can be a time-consuming, and costly exercise, although one that is vital to successful writing.

There are a few things you can do to jump-start your edits.

Obviously start with the spelling and grammar checkers that come with most word processors. While simplistic, it will catch some basic errors.

There are also a number of FREE Online programs that are extensions to browsers such as Chrome. Many of these can scan your document and point out the obvious mistakes. These include After the Deadline, Grammar and Spelling by Ginger, Slick Write, Language Tool, and many more. There are also some low cost options out there as well.

Before undertaking any self-editing, you should put your story aside for a few days (at least), so that the familiarity of it diminishes slightly. While it is still imprinted in your memory, a little distance allows you to catch things you missed the first few read-throughs.

Depending on your computer system; your computer should also be able to read your work back to you in a voice of your choice. Hearing your words read back to you make it much easier to catch mistakes and poor sentence structure.

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Even better is to ask a friend or family member to read your story aloud to you.

There is a huge difference in how the brain identifies speech through auditory processing versus how the brain identifies speech through visual pathways.

My opinion as to why this happens is based on the three to five year gap between a baby/child identifying sounds heard, versus learning to read. Your ears have so much more training than your eyes, or at least your brain has more training through those pathways. Even after you know how to read, you listen far more than you read.

YOUR EYES LIE TO YOU! Here is a test for you: Read the following out loud at normal speed.

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Did you read it?

Did it say: PARIS IN THE SPRING IS LOVELY TO SEE AND TO VISIT? Are you sure? Read it again.

Aha! Did you catch it this time? Some of you are still not sure what I am talking about. Let me help you.

It does not read: PARIS IN THE SPRING IS LOVELY TO SEE AND TO VISIT! Honestly, it doesn’t. There are TWO “THE” words.

It reads PARIS IN THE THE SPRING….

The point is that YOUR EYES LIE TO YOU! As a writer you must understand that your brain edits everything you see. It ASSUMED you meant only one “THE” and so it edited out the second one. It is a brain trick. What it confirms, however, is that you cannot believe what your eyes show you.

And that is why using your EARS is an excellent way to catch many errors. It is also why YOU should not read aloud. If you read the story, your eyes will see errors that your brain will edit (again) and pass over. You need to HEAR your story from someone else.

That is why the computer voice works just as well.

Once you have passed through these few suggestions, you can re-read your work using a RULER so you are focused on line-

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by-line reading. This way you are focused on the pieces of the line/ sentence, rather than reading for pleasure, a more generalized, and higher speed, reading.

This inexpensive DIY tip is not intended to absolve you of hiring a professional editor. No matter how much self-editing and proofing you do, your brain, and your eyes, will miss many errors.

An independent set of eyes able to scan line by line will help you immensely, not just with corrections, but also tightening up your writing to improve the experience of the reader.

Check back on our Website for more TIPS.■~William Gensburger PS: As we went to production it became apparent that one of our stories in this issue Paris in the Spring utilized the same device I mention above. Small world! 

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Looking for a Love Story for Valentine’s Day? One that won’t disappoint? One that will keep you turning the pages waiting for that moment… Well you want to read Indecision’s Flame by JS Ririe. Better yet, GIFT it to the one you love! https://amzn.to/2TsUJ4o

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MARKETING:

Authors: Get Your Book Ad Here!

EFFECTIVE ADVERTISING FOR AUTHORS, PUBLICISTS, PUBLISHERS & MORE…. …promote your clients, and their work by advertising in Books ‘N Pieces Magazine (print and digital), on the Books ‘N Pieces Magazine Website, Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, Instagram & Pinterest pages, as well as in our newsletter reaching thousands of viewers.

Our magazine is geared toward writers of all stages, offering interviews, articles, writing tips, excellent advice, as well as a paying outlet for short fiction.

You can tailor your advertising in a variety of ways to suit your needs and budget. With reasonable rates and a global readership, get the word out about your new release, and know that Books ’N Pieces will help you every step of the way.

REACHING READERS EVERYWHERE “Being featured in the magazine has introduced me to new readers, which has been amazing.” ~Steena Holmes, NY Times & USA Today Bestselling author. www.SteenaHolmes.com Books ‘N Pieces Magazine has interviewed many big name, bestselling authors including….

Robert J. Sawyer, Eileen Cook, Peter James, Tosca Lee, Steena Holmes, Miranda Oh, JC Ryan, Mike Wells, Grant Faulkner,

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Jim Christina, Robin Barefield, C.S. Lakin, Devika Fernando, Jas T. Ward, Fiona Ingram, Arabella Sheraton, Kelly Charron, Joanne Pence, Tony Phillips, Alan Brennert, Stuart Horwitz, Marc Rainer, Ellis Knox, Laura Lefkowitz, A.C. Salter, Robin Melhuish, Sarah L. Johnson, Lance Thompson, Marc Watson and more.

ARE YOUR CLIENTS ON THE LIST ABOVE? “I’ve been reading the articles—what an interesting collection of authors you were able to speak with. Everyone should be quite pleased!” ~ Joanne Pence, award-winning, USA Today best-selling author.

JoannePence.com *** “The magazine, Books N Pieces, is a great read for anyone interested in the art and craft of writing. Great interviews, insights and samples of evocative writing. Give it a look.” ~Lance Thompson, Screenwriter/ ScriptDoc www.linkedin.com/in/scriptdoc88 *** “Being featured in the magazine has introduced me to new readers, which has been amazing.”~Steena Holmes, NY Times & USA Today Bestselling author. (www.SteenaHolmes.com)

• OUTSTANDING EXPOSURE •VERY AFFORDABLE RATES •EXCELLENT VALUE

For more information about your advertising options please contact william@BooksNPieces.com or call (419) 465-7361 .

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ARTICLE:

DO YOU HAVE WHAT IT TAKES TO SELFPUBLISH SUCCESSFULLY?

by William Gensburger

If you are dreaming of that big, breakout novel, earning an advance in the 5-digits, film rights, national touring, then you may want to pour yourself a stiff drink; the odds of this scenario playing out is between slim and extremely slim.

THE AVERAGE AUTHOR EARNS UNDER $100 IN ROYALTIES PER YEAR !

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For one thing the average author earns under $100 in royalties per year. If you consider that your profit per book will be between $1-2, depending on your price, you can calculate how many sales you would need to support that latte habit.

Nonetheless, do not despair. You may well be one of the minority of authors whose brilliant work is recognized by fans due to your brilliant marketing, countless reviews, and grabbed by a mainstream publisher or an entertainment company wanting the potential film or television rights. This could happen. It happens to many authors, many of whom started out in despair, barely managing to garner a notice amidst the flood of books on Amazon alone.

Self-publishing is a learned skill. Don’t be fooled by those television ads from so-called publishing companies offering you a glitz package based on empty promises. They cannot deliver any more than you can. Yes, they may have a few more tools than you, but you can learn what it takes quite quickly. Besides, who wants to pay HALF their royalties to this company who really wants to have a stable of writers in order to look “big” and reputable, and possibly discover that one superstar writer along the way. At your expense.

You need courage to self-publish. But do not do it alone. Join groups for support, and to get questions answered. Do not be so enamored by your work that you cannot see its faults objectively.

And budget yourself because you will need to have some things professionally handled: cover, editing, proofing. But there are ways you can minimize your cost.

Planning out each element is essential. Ideally you want to start marketing your book up to six months before release. But

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while this is not always possible, you can effectively market your book after release.

Read up how other authors self-published. Read comments of others who have tried all the methods available. Remember that what works for one may not work for you, and vice-versa.

But above all else, remember that you are a writer and the more books you have available the more “collateral” you have; potential sales, greater income, and, best of all, managed by your own efforts, keeping ALL your royalties. God knows you’ve earned them.■ Some links you may find useful: • 28 Resources, Tools and Tips for Self-Publishing Your Next Book: http://bit.ly/2B8wZvB • The 7K Report: http://authorearnings.com/report/the-report/ • Five Podcasts Every Self-Publisher Should Hear: http://bit.ly/ 2WsMwzi

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QUESTION…

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Have you read our PAST ISSUES?

Why not? http://www.BooksNPieces.com Some of our interviewees have included…

Robert J. Sawyer, Eileen Cook, Peter James, Tosca Lee, Steena Holmes, Miranda Oh, JC Ryan, Mike Wells, Grant Faulkner, Jim Christina, Robin Barefield, C.S. Lakin, Devika Fernando, Jas T. Ward, Fiona Ingram, Arabella Sheraton, Kelly Charron, Joanne Pence, Tony Phillips, Alan Brennert, Stuart Horwitz, Marc Rainer, Ellis Knox, Laura Lefkowitz, A.C. Salter, Robin Melhuish, Sarah L. Johnson, Lance Thompson, Marc Watson and more.

http://www.BooksNPieces.com

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BRAIN GAME Test your vocabulary against us!

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List as many words (FOUR LETTERS OR MORE) that you can.

Words MUST include the center (black) letter. If you can find a 9letter word, you are good! You should find 51 words.

Check your answers on our website (after February 5th) Example:

FRET Enjoy…and Good Luck!

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ARTICLE:

Are You Killing Your Veterinarian?

Author Warns Veterinarian Suicide Rates Highest Among All Professions.

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Laura C. Lefkowitz, Boise author and veterinarian, has issued a warning about the suicide rates among veterinarians, now the highest of all professions.

“It is distressing for me to hear that our suicide rate is climbing so significantly,” Lefkowitz says. “Most veterinarians I know are kind, extremely hard-working people, who have sacrificed a huge amount in order to be in a position to help animals and their owners.”

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Lefkowitz addresses the general misconception by the public that a veterinarian’s day is filled by playing with cute puppies and kittens. In her bestselling, non-fiction book “Bite Me: Tell-All Tales of an Emergency Veterinarian” she addresses the issues at hand in a blunt, direct, and no-holds barred manner. “It was written so that the public could have a more realistic understanding of the daily stresses veterinarians experience.”

It is the high stress emotional environment that Lefkowitz says is the root cause of the suicide rate. Financial factors may play into pet owners’ choices to euthanize pets, where medically the pets could be saved. This is an example of the emotional burden placed upon the veterinarian who must comply with the pet owners’ wishes. Accusations that it is the fault of the veterinarians––by charging fees that the owners may not be able to afford––further compounds the emotional impact upon veterinarians.

So what can pet owners do to help the situation? Lefkowitz suggests many strategies including setting up a pet savings plan.

Veterinarians often carry a high debt load from their credentialing, often having an income capacity half that of physicians. (here you could add on ….making it difficult to offer payment plans…which for some reason is what the majority of owners seem to expect from their veterinarians .) Pet owners can prepare for medical problems in their pets by carrying pet insurance, or by obtaining veterinary credit through companies such as Care Credit.

“Think carefully before leaving a scathing review of your veterinarian, which can be devastating to a veterinary hospital,”

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Lefkowitz suggests. “Not every medical condition is treatable, and some conditions are chronic requiring long-term care. Death or failure to respond to medical therapies are true in the veterinary world just as they are in the human world. A poor outcome does not necessarily mean that your veterinarian has done something wrong.”

With over sixty percent of American owning pets, and over $61 Billion dollars spent on pets each year, the issue of veterinary suicide is not one that can be swept away.

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“Bite Me: Tell-All Tales of an Emergency Veterinarian” By Laura C. Lefkowitz ISBN:978-0692602348, is available in print and digital book formats through Amazon and most major book sellers. https://amzn.to/2Wl6goA

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BookStore ’N Pieces Here are some book selections for you to consider reading. We are not endorsing any book by its placement in our bookstore. Please be sure to leave a review for the book, regardless how short. Authors need your feedback.

-NEW ITEMCollector’s Item: TINTIN COMMEMORATIVE FOUNTAIN PEN AND BALLPOINT PEN set in 1934 tin container. RARE item - you can’t find it anywhere now. Uses Waterman cartridges (available everywhere/2 included). BUY DIRECT from Books ’N Pieces. $35.00. Free Shipping. Click to BUY NOW: > http://bit.ly/ TinTinPenSet (Only 1 item available.)

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-BOOKS-

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Jim Christina: JEFFERSON CHANCE Synopsis: Severely limited by the loss of a leg at ten years old, Jefferson Greely's dream is to become Texas Ranger yet is stopped because of his missing leg. Enlisting the assistance of Thomas Griffith, Jefferson gets another chance after Griffith designs a new leg, one capable of acting like a normal leg. After proving his worth, Jefferson is sworn into the rangers and assigned to track down two killers. Accompanied by a legendary exranger, Caleb Stringfeld, they find the two outlaws and more in the guise of a marauding band of Comanche warriors led by a war chief named Mukwooru. Staying the Ranger's code, Jefferson and Caleb track the Comanches to an epic stand of bravery, perseverance and a willingness to die for what they believe. LEARN MORE: amzn.to/2SjDQvK

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H.M. Gooden: DREAM OF DARKNESS Synopsis: Tired of moving yet again, Cat McLean finds herself in the town of Valleyview when her dad is transferred.

And if that wasn't enough to deal with, shortly after their move, Cat's involved and in a near-fatal car accident which lands her in the hospital where strange visions plague her recovery. When she wakes to find that she has the ability to see auras and to heal others, she's horrified to discover an ancient evil that means to destroy her new home. Cat must join forces with her sister and a new friend in a race to save her new town. Will she learn how to harness her new powers in time? Or will she succumb to the darkness she fears?

LEARN MORE: amzn.to/2G9LNxk

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Christie Stratos: BROTHERHOOD OF SECRETS Synopsis:"Brothers in the art of keeping secrets." This is the mantra Mr. Locke's carefully chosen five employees must repeat together every day before starting work.

If you won't tell them your name for Locke and Keye's ledger, they'll find out. They have their ways—and many of them. Yes, these talented locksmiths can make a new lock and key set for you. They can even make a special padlock for a diary you never want to share with anyone. But just remember: when they make the lock, they keep a key—and it's only a matter of time until they use it. Day by day, each of these young, single, alone-in-theworld workers is being molded into the family they crave. A family in which each member has his use toward an end he doesn't even know exists. How do the brotherhood and the town's secrets interlock? Only Mr. Locke holds the key LEARN MORE: amzn.to/2DKmqAo

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Edward Willett: WORLDSHAPER Synopsis: For Shawna Keys, the world is almost perfect. She's just opened a pottery studio in a beautiful city. She's in love with a wonderful man. She has good friends. But one shattering moment of violence changes everything. Mysterious attackers kill her best friend. They're about to kill Shawna. She can't believe it's happening--and just like that, it isn't. It hasn't. No one else remembers the attack, or her friend. To everyone else, Shawna's friend never existed… Everyone, that is, except the mysterious stranger who shows up in Shawna's shop. She cannot save her world, he says, but she might be able to save others--if she will follow him from world to world, learning their secrets and

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carrying them to Ygrair, the mysterious Lady at the Labyrinth's heart. https://amzn.to/2EkgWhj

LEARN MORE:

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Tony Bussey & Mark Griffin: THROUGH THICK & THIN: HOW THE WILDFIRE WAS A WAKE-UP CALL TO TRANSFORM MY LIFE Synopsis: The destructive Fort McMurray wildfire of 2016 precipitated the largest evacuation in Canadian history. Tony Bussey tells the story of how the evacuation served as a wake-up call that challenged him to make immediate changes. Weighing 567 pounds he was so large that he needed two seats to be evacuated, potentially taking a seat from another resident fleeing the tragedy. That’s when he said, “Enough!” The skillful storytelling of this charming East-coast gentleman will inspire and challenge you. His heartwarming tale describes losing 337 pounds in a powerful journey to permanently change his lifestyle. LEARN MORE: amzn.to/2WxACnY

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Laura C. Lefkowitz: BITE ME: TELL-ALL TALES OF AN EMERGENCY VETERINARIAN Synopsis: A reality based, bestselling, uncensored look at the world of modern veterinary medicine. Follow one veterinarian's story through the course of her career and experience the dramas, the traumas and the comedies that regularly take place in a veterinary emergency room. Bite Me gives a rare insider's view of the frustrations, the

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joys and the heartbreak that veterinarians experience on a daily basis and exposes the reasons why the veterinary profession is currently facing some dire and frightening challenges. A must-read for any pet owner, any person aspiring to be a veterinarian, any veterinary student, and any person who has an interest in the welfare of both animals and people. LEARN MORE: https://amzn.to/2UjotSs

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Danielle Calloway: THE LOST CHILD Synopsis: Nicolás is a deaf boy on the run and trying to survive in a dangerous hearing world. Lily moves to Ecuador from the US to teach the deaf, full of uncertainties and trying to adjust, she meets Nicolás. Now Lily must gain his trust to save him.

"You cry, get angry, have hope again, learn, grow, cry some more and finally your pride and belief in humanity is restored. This is a must read." ~Debora Hughes LEARN MORE: amzn.to/2MJ0SqL

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JS Ririe: INDECISION’S FLAME: BOOK 1 Synopsis: Brylee Hawkins was going home, but it wasn’t for a happy reunion. She was there to confront her father so she could return to the man of her dreams and get married. But the Australian Outback wasn’t the place she remembered, and the truth behind her mother’s unexpected death wasn’t the only reality that would toss her into a quagmire of doubt, suspicion and self-doubt. Will she be strong enough to fight the demons alone, or will she sink into a dark abyss and lose everything, including her soul?

LEARN MORE: amzn.to/2QoW8ff

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William Gensburger: HOMO IDIOTUS Synopsis: A sardonic, yet humorous look at modern life, questioning how far we have progressed as a species. Featuring a close examination of such topics as “Curse of the Tall Men”, “The Spitting Image of Stupidity”, “Used Being New”, this collection of observations will leave you shaking your head in one direction or another.

“I find myself in agreement with Mr. Gensburger on practically every topic discussed in this book. His lighthearted approach enables one to be challenged without feeling confronted to overthink.” ~Cliff Hitchcock LEARN MORE: amzn.to/2WrZGMW

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Kevin Kwan: CRAZY RICH ASIANS Synopsis: When New Yorker Rachel Chu agrees to spend the summer in Singapore with her boyfriend, Nicholas Young, she envisions a humble family home and quality time with the man she hopes to marry. But Nick has failed to give his girlfriend a few key details, that he grew up riding in more private planes than cars; and three, that he just happens to be the country’s most eligible bachelor. LEARN MORE: amzn.to/2povvXK

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Dwayne Clayden: CRISIS POINT (A BRAD COULTER NOVEL, BOOK 1) Synopsis: 1976. Life couldn’t be better for Brad Coulter, a Calgary cop. Partnered with his best friend, paid to keep the streets safe from the riff raff. Until a gun battle after an armed robbery leaves him without his partner and grappling with the sudden burst of criminal activity in his otherwise quiet city. Cops are losing their lives, and Coulter is determined to catch the thugs. LEARN MORE: amzn.to/2plHKnZ

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NEXT ISSUE: MARCH 1, 2019 Books ’N Pieces Magazine is published in print and digital editions monthly by Alt Publishing. For advertising rates please contact: william@altpublish.com If you would like to have your books added to our bookstore, please contact us for further information.

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