Just a Teaser

Below is a little teaser from my second book, A Friend Named Jesus.  Those of you who have read my first book, A Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges, will want to know this is Lisa's side of the story to A Night at the Theater. 

Thought you might enjoy it and... perhaps you'll want to read the rest of the story.   Check in with a response here or e-mail me at imnewkris@yahoo.com and I'll tell you how to get a signed copy.  

Enjoy!

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A NIGHT IN THE AUDIENCE

2011

 A last minute dash through a yellow-turning-red-light forced Lisa to stop at the traffic light.             

“Ah!”  with a frustrated sigh, she looked at the clock again and tried to convince herself she wasn’t going to be late.

As though joining with the drilling raindrops, it seemed everything was set to stall her. A last minute “quick project” held her at work. The stained blouse kept her from leaving the house. An empty gas tank stole minutes from her drive to downtown. And now the light seemed to drag itself from yellow to red to green.

In the park to her right, a stand of trees glowing with autumn light despite the dreary night beckoned her attention. Oblivious, she fumed within.

Of all the performances to be required to see!  She knew Minneapolis offered hundreds of venues for live performance … why this one?  She was sure he would be there, gloating in his accomplishment. She wondered who had designed his set this time. Who had he found to watch site lines and perfect all the minutia of detail to make his show run smoothly?  Would the replacement be better?

The adrenaline of an opening night had held them together long after good sense would have separated them. Neither could deny how well they worked together. But that wasn’t enough.

As her skills became acknowledged in the industry, more than praise, she drew respect, from her peers – their peers. His need to be recognized superior drove him to belittle her, criticize her publicly, and humiliate her. Privately the disdain was magnified. Piece by piece, he tore away her self-respect and identity.

As the light finally turned green, she shook her head and said aloud, “Opening nights are not the only thing you left behind. “

With plenty of time to spare, she arrived at the theater. She dawdled in the gift shop. Smiling to herself, she realized she had never been the customer, always the designer. She considered the handiwork of the PR pieces, and bought a handful of useless trinkets like any other star-struck novice might.

Carefully she timed her entry into the theater, so as not to accidentally coincide with a last minute house check. A handful of patrons sat clustered here and there chatting quietly. She made her way to the front row, checked her ticket, and settled in trying to blend.

Protected by the leather about her, she huddled in her seat hoping he wouldn’t know she was there. She wondered if her Day Class peers would fill the front row or be seated elsewhere. She hoped she would recognize the professor, so as to assure her attendance would be noted. She wished she could have been at the performance with her Week-End classmates, but she would be busy getting divorced when they were in the audience.

Lisa was startled by a deep bass voice suddenly beside her, “Good evening.”

“Hello,” she responded politely.

Writing and More Writing

It’s odd to me that I am not writing more now that I have more time.  It seems when I was rushing about, taking classes and working that I had more time to write.  I was made to write then, though, and now it’s all my own free choice.  Creative writing was a relief when academics forced me to write what I thought.

And now I keep choosing to do other things.  Unimportant or important things, but other things. 

Funny, though, the words don’t go away.   They fall out of my creativity in e-mails and notes and conversations. 

They float around my car while I’m driving, “I have an idea!”   They shout.  “How would you describe that sky?”  They ask.  “Who lives in that house?” They question.

It would be nice if they could just behave.  It would be nice if they would just wait until I’m unwinding at night.  They could remind me of their existence and I would throw them into my laptop.  Mix them around some.  Let them hang out some.  Give them form and purpose.

But that’s when they rest. 

I need a good long writing day.  I need some time at a coffee shop with a cuppa tea and a window and a cast of characters strolling by.  A time when rambly words can be brought to task and placed on paper to help someone else understand someone else. 

I have come to the conclusion that writing is an inconvenient art.  It can’t be kept inside the lines.  Stories are everywhere.  It’s a writer’s curse to draw the stories and corral the words so others might see what we see.

I’m a writer, that’s a fact.   It makes my world an interesting place.  Of all the gifts God could have given me, this is the one He chose.  I wear the burden of my art with a sense of responsibility.  It is not enough for me to simply write.  I feel my words need to encourage, uplift, build bridges of empathy and sympathy.  Words have great power to bring life and death.  I want my words to bring life.  

Perhaps that's the real key to my lack of writing.  I fear the sharing of the real words and won't let shallow phrases take their place.

And so the words push and pull my attention waiting for the time I cannot hold them still. 

NOTE TO OTHER WRITERS:  Don’t forget the writing contest.  See my post of December 30 to get the details.  

To order The Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges or A Friend Named Jesus, please e-mail me at imnewkris@yahoo.com.