...she returns

"...the most traumatic event in one's life will more times than not, become their mission."

...I was mowing the backyard over the weekend when she returned. A skinny thing, her complexion blanched as if fearing any contact with the sun. The foster girl of twelve requested, and was granted, another weekend visit. This one her third.

From a distance she appeared frail for a young lady approaching teenage status. Upon closing the gap between us however, a smile breached a set of chapped lips, her wiry frame boasting of hidden muscle. To live a day in her shoes, one would realize that most of her strength had nothing to do with the flex of her biceps.

I wrote a post of "the girl" roughly a month ago, a foster child being held under state's custody who's expressed a desire to join my family permanently, and have since been asked by many for an update.

We were granted three more days with her living under our roof. We attended one of her soccer games, watched as she assisted in the matchup's only goal. She revealed to us that she'd been grounded by her current foster parents since her last visit...punishment for a poor grade card, yet worsening an already volatile relationship within the homestead she's resided for the past two years. No outdoor activity, no cell phone, no computer, no communication. This explained her pale complexion, and my wife's inability to contact her through Facebook.

She'd also received harsh criticism for a movie we allowed her to experience the last time she visited. Twilight's New Moon. Rated PG-13. A movie we've let our own children watch countless times, considering it harmless.

As was the result of her past two visits, the weekend became an adventure. And as before, the girl and I shared a conversation upon the Sunday night of her departure. The therapy has increased. Professionals scouring for a reason behind her foster home's dysfunction, pushing pills down her throat like an ice cream in August.

The girl's relationship with her foster dad has never been a positive match, but has worsened since her twelfth birthday. This news haunts me with each passing day. He's a man of strict religious upbringing. Because of this, he expects the same compassion from every member of his household. Even a young lady who's childhood was spent under the tumultuous reign of a mother suffering from a mental disorder. Later deemed incapable of raising her daughter.

My angst dates back more than twenty years, to a time when I found myself living the very same nightmare that I hear from the mouth of this child. My younger years were also disrupted by a parent battling a set of ghosts from within her mind. An ongoing struggle to this day. Also the inspiration behind, "South of Charm," my soon-to-be-released novel.

I see this girl, and I see myself. I see her tears, and I recognize them as my own. She needs help, but not the type she's currently receiving. It's reached the point where unless alternative steps are taken, a dark future looms.

I've sent a lengthy email to our social worker. As foster parents, she's our licensed representation in all matters child-related. The letter was a jumbled mess of feelings, my point to make clear our intent to help this girl, to bring her home if need be.

A response was returned a day later. My email had been forwarded to our worker's boss, every worker in the building, and the girl's social representation as well. Accompanying the news was a one line message..."Thank you for your emotional, yet eloquent input. We'll be in touch."

I have no idea what that means. Sleep now comes a bit easier however, knowing that at least I tried.

Until then, unfortunately, the story continues...

There are those of us who are striving for goals...reaching ever closer to achieving that dream...ultimate recognition. But what of those who see goals as nothing more than glass slippers from a Disney classic...slippers left behind...goals unattainable due to lives held in Purgatory. What about those kids? Who's listening to their goals?

...thanks for reading:)

EL

Acknowledgment

...I'm only a month or three late getting this knocked out, but was finally able to pen the acknowledgment for "Charm." It's getting posted in hopes of receiving critiques and insight before I ship it to David.

:The thing about writing a story of significant length that some fail to consider, is that one must be comfortable in their solitude in order to succeed. Penning the next Pulitzer while changing Junior's diapers in one hand, and programming that new Blackberry with the other, more times than not, breeds disappointment. Despite being surrounded with such modern conveniences as high-speed internet, and GPS directions with the push of a button, when writing, there's simply no substitute for peace and quiet.

Which was why, shortly following the collapse of our economy, when the career I'd grudgingly stumbled upon, reared its ugly head and offered me a set of fangs, it was my wife who set me on course.

She sat me down in front of the computer and said, "It's time. Write the book."

In the second Rocky movie, the one where Balboa's maimed form somehow manages to find a second's worth of equilibrium as the referee finishes his ten-count, thus securing the heavyweight championship, there's an earlier scene I thought of while offering my wife a nod, my heart's pace quickening.

Long story short, when Rocky's wife, Adrian, drifts into a coma following the birth of their son, then awakens several days later and stares into her husband's eyes with a gleam very unlike Talia Shire's character, Rocky asks her if she would prefer him to retire rather than fight Apollo Creed.

From her hospital bed, newborn baby cradled in her arms, Adrian says, "There's one thing I want you to do for me."

Rocky asks, "What's that?"

"Win," she says. "Win!"

Despite sharing duties in the upbringing of our children, while generating enough funds to maintain a thumbs up from our creditors, I completed the book. But not without help. For there is no novel on earth where the writer can take sole credit.

I would like to thank Pam Vogt and Sandy Clifton for their thoughts and continued support throughout the reading and editing process. To the staff at The Wooster Book Company for their undying loyalty. To David Wiesenberg, whose tutoring and creative insight can only be described as priceless. I fear the thought of undergoing such a task without him by my side. A special shout out to my internet colleagues and the readers of my blog, whose critiques and support have been an overwhelming gesture. A nationwide family of writers, each of us holding hands and striving forward, one word at a time. To my children, whose many ideas on the life of Danny Kaufman I often encouraged, for who could possibly know the mindset of a ten year old boy more than a kid of the same age? My oldest son has requested the first copy. I'm more than happy to abide.

And of course to my wife, whose patience throughout the writing of "Charm" was an effort surpassing any favor I've ever asked of her. For the only job more frustrating than that of a writer, may in fact be a writer's significant other. I'm forever grateful...

"South of Charm" has been edited a fourth time, trimmed down a bit, its waistline now a bit roomier. I'm anxious to move forward, but hesitant of the final product. Is it ready? How does anyone ever know for sure?

These are questions I asked David, my editor. His response was simple. "When a story reads the way life travels...sometimes smooth, often a bit rough, at times twisting and winding with an unknowing future around the bend...then you've got it. Then it's ready."

I finished reading it again. This was the seventh or eighth time. There'll be at least one more. It's close. So close, but...

Thanks for reading,

EL :)

"Dumb it Down..."

...received some interesting advice from my "reader" who's involvement has sparked a fourth...kind of mini-edit on "South of Charm."

A former editor, now more or less a hired hit-man for those of us clawing our way toward some shelf space at Barnes & Noble, she finished up my novel a week ago, assembled her thoughts, and suggested to David that I should perhaps, "Dumb it down" a bit.

My response was, "Huh?"

David managed to clarify. "In a nutshell, she thinks maybe you're writing gets too cute in a few scenes. Don't huff. Overall she enjoyed it, but you know how it is...every critique has to come back with something, thus earning them their blue chip."

"So...she's wanting me to cut out some of the more colorful phrases, and replace them with, what...newspaper print?" I asked.

This sparked a grin. "Not quite that extreme, El. Her take was, during a few of the more intense moments of the story, your prose blossomed a bit too much, causing her to go back and re-read the scene, making sure she fully understood what was going on. She fears some readers may put the book down if they find themselves in the same position."

"I'm assuming you've read Wroblewski's "Sawtelle," or Susanna Clark's "Norrell," right?" I asked.

David nodded.

"Okay then, how many times did you have to go back and re-read that craziness?"

"More than I'm willing to admit."

"How about 'Tinkers?' That one won the Pulitzer, you know."

"Don't remind me."

"And those books are considered some of the best work over the past decade. So what gives?"

David expelled a breath, his patience creating the type of silence only a newborn would feel comfortable in. Then, "Who's your main character in 'Charm?'

"The Kaufman kid."

"And how old is he?"

"Ten."

Then I got it. "Wait. Okay. I see what you're getting at."

David's smile returned. "Sometimes you writers like to show off, wanting us readers to shake our heads in awe...which is fun. But sometimes, depending on the scene, and the character in question, thinning out some spice can make all the difference."

"Okay. I'm not on my deathbed," I said. "There's time. Send me another copy and your ideas, and I'll see what I can do."

Revision number 4. "The Story of Edgar Sawtelle" went through 15 rounds of revisions before getting shoved into the press. "South of Charm" is based on the troubled life of a ten year old boy with a special gift, but a family secret...more or less a curse as he sees it. And that's the key. As he sees it. Through his eyes, not mine. A ten year old boy...

"Dumb it Down." I've got two weeks and she wants to read it again.

Okay Kaufman, tell me what you see...

Birth of an Idea

...Thursday evening.

An autumn sunset has created a smudge of color across the distant skyline. Like an oil painting, variations of pink and orange blended together from the hand of an artist touched by an angel.

From both sides of the ball field, young men raise their arms into the breeze, four fingers outspread...fourth quarter underway.

As they've done throughout most of the season, the game has long been decided, both teams having already pulled their starters, allowing their second string players a chance to scuff up their cleats.

I watch my son standing along the sidelines with his teammates, helmets clutched at their sides, smiles spreading like an air-born virus. Thus far the season has been a success. Fourteen year old athletes riding a four game winning streak, dreaming of varsity ball under the lights, less than a year away.

My son turns toward the stands, spots me in the crowd, offers a grin before returning his gaze to the action. I answer with a chuckle. Sky's the limit for that kid.

Down by thirty, the opposing team is threatening to score. They line up at our ten yard line, their backup quarterback barking out the play.

The football's hiked, the passer shuffles his feet, winds up and tosses the ball into the endzone...to an awaiting receiver, hands outstretched.

A blur of blue and gold and our backup defender sweeps into the action, snags the football, and bolts in the opposite direction.

My son's backup, the boy doesn't get much time on the field in most games. An interception is a rare treat. Standing along the sideline, my son and his teammates leap for joy.

Then as the boy rumbles into the open field, I spot something else. The boy's father, unable to stand pat, stumbles to the asphalt track outlining the football field, and begins sprinting along the sidelines to the same pace as his son...as the boy hits the fifty yard line, his legs churning like the pistons of a car.

The boy's head turns, spots his father, in blue jeans and t-shirt, a ball cap turned backwards, matching his stride as he heads for the score.

The boy aims his sites on the distant goal line. Quickens his pace. The crowd rises as one, father and son on a footrace to glory.

...and I think, "This is a story."

I see the track and think, "Not a football game, but a track meet. A runner, for some reason disqualified, but running for no other reason than pride alone. Racing along beside the track, versus opposing runners, competing...but not."

The young defensive back rumbles over the twenty, no one within ten yards of tripping him up. His father keeping pace, nearly plows over a young lady balancing a plastic tray overfilled with nachos, oblivious to the drama.

And I think, "Not a boy. A girl. Really fast. But for some reason unable to participate."

Behind the endzone, an ambulance is parked, its occupants jumping up and down, their hands clapping in anticipation.

And I think, "Perhaps an injury. Or maybe a religious dispute. A family's beliefs thwarting the athletic prowess their daughter was born with."

The boy falls into the endzone. His father leaps into the air. The crowd roars their approval.

And I think..."Need a name for that girl."

Hours later. The kids are tucked in. The excitement of victory settling down for another day.

I hear my wife giggling from the office. "Hey, come in here," she calls. "Check this out."

I enter the office, follow her gaze to the computer screen, my brow rising. "What's this?"

"One of those funny emails," she says. "This one determines what my porn name would be...you know, if I'd be in that line of work."

I shake my head, "In that line of work? Really?"

Then I see the name. "Derby Wayne."

And I think, "Derby...like a race track. Or somebody's nickname. For somebody who's really fast....like a girl. Derby Wayne."

"That's perfect," I say.

"It is?" my wife asks. "Like...your wanting me to change careers, or what?"

"Absolutely perfect," I say, ignoring her.

"Perhaps I should look for an agent," she continues.

But I've already left the room, yanking a sheet of paper out of the printer, my other hand snatching a pencil from under my wife's elbow, next to the keyboard. My brain spinning somersaults. An outline literally writing itself.

And while "South of Charm" heads toward the galley...a new story begins.

That's how it works for me...

Thanks for reading,

EL

"Full Circle" (A 100 Followers Tribute)

...I've been debating ways to express my gratitude over achieving my 100th follower last weekend. Contests appear to be the norm, but with a busy calendar, I fear the results would be disappointing, if not prolonged. Then I had a thought, and rolled with it. Kind of spreading the love, announcing the new title of my upcoming novel, and...well, you'll see.

Enjoy.

...the air tasted moist, salty from the Gulf's shores, tendrils of endless water slapping sand just around the block.

With evening's approach, the temperature managed to flutter below triple digits for the first time all day, yet the humidity remained unforgiving, like crawling through a sauna. From their expressions, the locals seemed oblivious to the heat, as was I. For nothing could've dampened my spirits on this day.

An orange moon celebrating the year's harvest was rising above distant rooftops as I enjoyed the cobbled streets outlining the Riverwalk along the southern tip of New Orleans. Neon lights twinkling from shop windows, and children dashing through a nearby fountain, their proud parents hovering nearby, sipping iced teas and conversing like relatives.

Following Katrina's wrath, this area had been looted to a pile of rubble and broken glass, but along with the drowned city, her people rallied behind a spirit unwielding, and the outdoor shopping complex was resurrected.

Stepping at a leisurely pace, enjoying the evening, I rounded Canal Street, skipped over to Bourbon, and heard the jazz before spying the nightclub in the distance. A moment later and the neon sign for the Bourbon Street Blues Company rose like a beacon through humidity's mist. I grinned like a child, and made haste.

The air inside the elderly structure smelled of cigars and whiskey, sweat and the lure of sirloin from the kitchen. I considered the dim lighting, tables scattered about, a bar supporting numerous patrons, and a table in the back, the silhouette of a friend relaxing in seclusion. My smile broadened.

I passed by the stage, offering a nod to the rhythm guitarist, an old acquaintance, who smiled in return, his fingers strumming soul.

At the table I stopped, considering the shadow hunched over his nearly empty glass. "What, couldn't wait for me to get here?" I asked.

"Long day, my friend. Thirst and fatigue demanded respite."

The figure rose and extended his hand, which I accepted. "Long day, I agree," I said. "But not without reward. This idea of yours was a revelation."

Roland Yeomans grinned despite himself. "I'm so glad you could attend. Your presence capped off the festivities."

"Wouldn't have missed it for anything. My hand aches from signing."

"It's a pleasurable pain, my friend. Remember the old days, the struggles."

"Agreed."

"Don't think for a minute you'all can start without me!"

Roland and I turned as a true southern belle approached, toting an armload of novels under one arm, balancing a drink with the other.

"Wouldn't have dreamed of it," Roland said. "How's Olivia this evening?"

Olivia J. Herrell dropped the books on the table, released a sigh, and said, "Boys, that was the best damn book signing I've ever been a part of. I've no idea how many covers I sold, but it was worth the drive, I can promise you that!"

I motioned toward the pile of literature. "You were supposed to sell the goods, not bring anything back with you," I teased.

"Oh these...well, there were just too many writers here today that I wanted to read, so I made a few rounds as well."

"As did I," Roland said. He then turned as a hand clamped onto his shoulder.

"Roland, this event of yours was a marvel," Anne Gallagher said, offering Roland a hug. "I haven't sold this many copies since my debut."

"Glad you could make it," Roland said. "This was indeed memorable."

"Anne, my dear," Olivia said. "Couldn't help but notice that you were quite chummy with Charlene Harris today. You guys wouldn't be teaming up for a power novel anytime soon, would you?"

"What?" I chimed in. "Genna suddenly grows fangs and starts chewing on Pete in all the wrong ways?"

Anne placed her hands on her hips. "Well, Elliot, you never can tell."

"I'm headed to the bar," I said, spotting another group of colleagues planted on stools and conversing with the server. "Anyone in need of a refill?"

I took the order and approached the bar, placing a hand on Karen G's shoulder along the way. "So, was it worth coming down from Utah?" I asked.

I was greeted with an embrace. "Elliot, signed more copies than I thought my fingers could handle," she said. "Roland's book fair idea was spectacular."

"And House of Diamonds is doing well?"

"It's a dream come true."

At the bar I placed the order, listened to the opening segment of the next jazz hilt, then spotted a pair of fellow writers laughing over their drinks nearby. They saw me and motioned for my presence.

"Hello ladies," I said. "I take it you both had profitable outings?"

Smiles coated the faces of both Jemi Fraser and Becky Miller.

"Unforgettable," Jemi said.

"Best sales I've ever had," Becky agreed.

"Good to hear." I motioned toward our table at the back of the bar. "Roland was the brains behind the event. Don't forget to stop by."

"On our way!"

I returned to our table and recognized yet another familiar face. "Christine Danek, all the way from P.A. Tell me, was it worth the trip?"

"Just spoke to my husband," she said. "Told him if sales remained this good down here, I may not return!"

A chorus of laughter rose the decibel.

"Roland and Elliot, leave it to you two to sweet talk a band of Yankees to play jazz in a bar in the deep south!"

"Terry!" Roland exclaimed. "So glad you could make it!"

"Wouldn't have missed it for anything," Terry Stonecrop announced, accepting hugs around the table.

"Roland and I thought those boys on stage kinda fit the bill for an event like this," I said.

"Definitely a good fit," Terry agreed.

"Don't start the party without me, you rubes!"

Everyone turned as Lola Sharp found an empty spot at the table. "Talk about a gathering of the minds!"

"Where you been, sweetheart?" I laughed, greeting the writer from across the table.

"Rendezvous," she grinned sheepishly.

I arched my brow. "Does your husband know of this?"

She answered with a blush. "He was the rendezvous."

"Ha!" I laughed. "Well done!"

"Yeah, that's what he said."

Roland nudged my shoulder. "Isn't that Anita at the bar with her husband?"

"Sure is," I said. "She wrote my first review on South of Charm. I'm forever in her debt."

"Sometimes a good review is all it takes."

A whine escaped from Olivia as a pair of gentlemen passed by and lingered.

"Oh calm yourself," I mumbled into her ear.

"Can't help it," she said. Every time I see him, I still can't believe I now keep the same company."

"Neil, how are you this evening," Roland asked, accepting a handshake from Gaiman.

"Thanks for inviting us," Neil said. "This event was invigorating. A southern book fair with waiting lines into the streets. Unforgettable."

"My only question," said the man next to him. "Is how did you two manage to get my old man down here?"

"Was nothing, Joe," I said. "Told him he'd own the stage at Bourbon Street, and he agreed immediately.

Joe Hill released a whistle. "Well played."

We all turned and enjoyed the seedy tune from the stage where The Rock Bottom Remainders played front and center. Dave Barry on lead guitar, Ridley Pearson on bass, Mitch Albom on keyboards, and of course, Joe's father, Stephen King strumming the rhythm guitar. He offered us a grin as our glasses rose in salute.

"Does your dad know that Roland just surpassed him on the best-seller list?" I asked Joe.

"Might wanna wait till he's done playing before bringing that up," Joe kidded. "About time someone knocked off the old man anyway."

"Can you'all believe this," Olivia said, looking around the table. "From Blogger buddies, to best-selling writers, and here we all are, celebrating in Nawlins!"

I dug my phone out of my pocket, sensing the vibrations. I then read the text, unable to hide the grin.

"More good news?" Roland asked.

"My wife," I said. "The adoption just went through."

"Cheers!" Anne announced. "So your headed to Africa?"

"Next week. It's a dream come true for her. Adopting a little one from across the ocean."

For a second time glasses were raised, drinks toasted.

The party lingered into the wee hours of morning, a gathering of long time starving artists who's ships had at long last sailed to port. Of lives changed overnight, friendships harbored over dreams. Dreams having come true.

It can happen, my friends. Keep pounding the keys...it can happen:)

"South of Charm"-Coming 2011

Grillin & The Gridiron

...as Karen G's Blogger Barbecue winds down this weekend, considering the time of year, only fitting that we top off the Blogfest at a high school football game.

Enjoy...

...September's autumn breeze, like a newborn's touch, kissed our cheeks as we claimed our row in the stands.

On the football field, a pair of youth teams clad in helmets and their respective school's battle fatigues were preparing for competition.

Familiar faces began filing in around us. Mothers and grandparents, worrisome lines etching each brow, concerned for the safety of their loved ones. Proud fathers, their arms folded over thick chests, confident grins upon their faces, nodding to one another while sharing the same gleam in their eyes as their offspring on the field.

I followed suit. The passing of an athletic torch from a father to a son.

I turned to my wife. "Want any popcorn or a Coke before kickoff?"

She threw me a nod and a wave while chatting with a fellow mother about the latest rumor floating about. A student with a new string of flu, or a teacher suffering through a sobriety test the past weekend. I left them to it, the craving for a pre-game hot dog too urgent to pass up.

Sensing the breeze strengthening with the passing hour, I jogged out to the car and grabbed our jackets, figuring I'd get congratulated for planning ahead.

My return to the stands however was greeted with a chorus of scowls, not only from my wife, but from the entire section of hometown faithful. Then I glanced at the row behind us and determined why.

The couple was obviously rooting for the opposing team. The lady was dressed in a strapless top the color of a fire hydrant. A pair of cutoff Wranglers were riding up to just below her bum, varicose veins like sporadic bolts of lightning traveling the length of each thigh. She'd already slipped out of her sandals, a set of callused feet, gangly toe-nails bearing a layer of chipped polish matching her shirt, were propped on the back of my seat.

I assumed she would lower them with my arrival, but was denied the kindness.

"There he is now! That's my boy, number 33! Teddy Jr. Yes sir-ee!"

I cautioned a glance at the proud father and cringed. The man was shirtless, the tattoo of a soaring Bald Eagle covered the width of his chest, its beady eyes glaring at me through a patch of chest hair.

His head was shaved like Mr. Clean, however a strawberry shaded goatee drooped several inches off the tip of his chin.

A collage of artwork coated both arms. A pair of skeletons wielding rebel flags. A ball and chain, the links starting at his wrist and winding around his triceps only to disappear in a thicket of armpit hair.

I sat down, handed my wife a drink and her jacket.

"Can we move somewhere else?" she asked in a mumble.

I answered with, "I've been thinking of getting a tattoo."

"Why aren't they in the visitor's section?"

"Maybe one of those tribal things around my arm. Palm trees or something tropical."

"Will you get serious? He won't shut up about his kid."

"Yes sir-ee, my boy's gonna do some damage tonight!"

I turned around just in time to watch him lift an empty Mt. Dew bottle to his lips, a mass of used up tobacco plummeting from his mouth trailing a thread of stained saliva.

"So, Teddy?" I asked. "What position does Junior play?"

The man's scowl was accompanied with a jaw full of crooked teeth the color of mustard. "Name's Harold, mister." He shared the gaze with the woman in red. I felt a toe stab me in the small of my back. A stressful moment passed in silence, my wife quietly chuckling by my side. Then he said, "Teddy Jr. plays all over the field. No one can stop him. Fastest boy in the county. You'll see."

At this my smile faded. "All right. He's Superman, we get it. But where's he start at on the field?"

"Receiver. Gonna go pro, yes sir-ee."

"I just felt spit land on my neck," my wife hissed into my ear. "Can we move now?"

"These are our seats, Hon," I said. "And anyway, the kid's a receiver." I nudged her elbow, smiling. "Let's watch the kickoff and see what happens."

Moments later all eyes focused on a football rising into the air. Standing alone at the other end of the field stood Teddy Jr.

He caught the ball and rumbled ten yards before anyone reached him. Spinning away from the first defender, he gained the open field and hit a second gear. From behind me the couple began hooting like a pair of exuberant owls, watching their son cross mid-field.

Teddy Jr. rocketed eighty yards before finally getting pushed out of bounds. "Woo-wee!" his father barked. "I told ya! Fastest boy in the county! Now he's gonna score!"

On their first offensive play, Teddy Jr. lined up at receiver, his chest pounding like a snare drum. The ball was hiked, the passer dropped back, his gaze focused entirely on 33 as the boy faked out his defender and loped into the end zone. The quarterback lofted the ball into the air.

"Here it is!" Teddy's father bellowed, showering my wife and I in spit and tobacco juice.

We watched the football flutter toward Teddy's outstretched arms, when a player in blue streaked into the picture. Moving with the agility reminiscent of the "Falcons" logo on his helmet, the defender snatched the pass out of the air just as Teddy's hands were about to close around the ball. The boy bobbed and weaved by several of Teddy's teammates, then found himself in the open field heading in the other direction.

Within moments Teddy had taken up the chase, leaving the two speedsters in a foot race down the sideline.

They remained less than a foot apart until the fifty yard line, when the Falcon defender began pulling away from Teddy Jr. With the hometown crowd rising to its feet, the Falcon swooped into the endzone for the first score of the game.

I joined in the celebration, accepting a hug from my wife, shoulder slaps from friends nearby. Out of the corner of my eye I watched the air deflate from the bare chest of the man behind me.

"Sheesh, that boy was fast," he mumbled. "Who was that?"

"We call him Rocket," someone in the row next to us announced. "The fastest boy in the county!"

"That your boy?" the man asked him.

"Nope...his," a half dozen index fingers angled in my direction. My wife turned and offered a wave. I couldn't help but grin.

"Boy's fast," the man mumbled. "Real fast."

Before the first quarter had ended, with the good guys already ahead by two scores, I sensed a change in scenery and turned.

Without our noticing, the couple had left.

(...okay, so I dramatized things a bit. But his nickname really is Rocket, and he really did snag himself an interception. He's pretty darn fast, but he still can't beat his pop in a foot race:)

Thanks for reading,

EL

Unexpected...

...currently, there's a file in my email containing a set of cover designs, accompanied with a handful of fresh title ideas from my indie-pub. One of them I'm even quite fond of.

And yet their requests for an opinion have gone unanswered.

The manuscript is going through its final edit. A beta reader has been recruited, the project nearing completion with a press the size of a Mac truck eagerly awaiting.

And yet I've held my excitement in check.

An acknowledgment is due, and I've yet to begin.

My new manager at the dayjob, whose badge number just happens to be 666, has already issued me a verbal warning for reading Karin Slaughter's "Undone," while on the clock.

I suppose I should be concerned, but the reprimand has failed to inspire angst. (Insignificant foolishness sprayed from the mouth of an obtuse twit.)

For the past week, something's been on my mind. Something bearing far more consideration than reading on the job, or even concentrating on a dream.

...she's a lanky twelve year old. Shoulder length hair. Armed with a "quick to the plate" mouth full of spit-fire, at times harsh, but more often, just silly...and lost. She's property of the state. A girl permanently imprisoned in the foster care system, both parents no longer in the picture.

Too old for most available suiters, too young to be considered "mature enough to decide her own fate," she's been living in a foster home, sharing a spare bedroom with three other teenage girls, considered more of a number than a name.

My wife and I, licensed foster parents, accepted an invitation for a weekend of respite care for the girl a few months ago. In a nutshell, respite care is simply a change of scenery for the foster child, some peace and quiet for her foster home, a chance for reflection for both.

Prior to her visit, we were warned of a girl quick to spout off, whose mood swings hinged on bi-polar tendencies. Who'd managed to run away from home a time or two. A girl in the dark, lost and searching...for what, she had no idea. I was told of a girl uncomfortable around men, to be patient with her.

Contrary to what we were told, the girl was well-behaved. She spent the weekend playing with my daughter, the two of them like long lost soul mates, scurrying about in the field behind our house, playing the way children did before the likes of X-Box Live and Sony's latest electronic marvel.

She revealed to us that her mother has a mental disability, that her father's been out of the picture since before she was out of diapers. That she's been in counseling for years, doctors probing, medications prescribed like candy.

The weekend was a hoot. Swimming at the YMCA. A Sunday afternoon barbecue. She left in tears, hinting of an eventual return, to which we agreed.

A month later we received a call. The girl was asking for a second weekend of respite, and was requesting us. Despite a busy schedule, we agreed.

I didn't arrive home from work until 2:30 am last Friday night. The house was dark, the wife and kids in bed. I pulled into the garage, staggered out of my car, joints whining from fatigue, when I sensed the door to the mudroom quietly opening. I looked up and saw the silhouette of a girl, and remembered her visit.

"Hello," I said. "You're up kinda late, don't you think?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Couldn't sleep?"

"I'm a little tired."

"Well...is everything okay? Why are you still up?"

I watched the shadow of a bare foot scuff along the door frame, her head lowered, lost in thought. Then, "I just wanted to say hi. I missed you guys."

"You waited up for me?"

"Is that okay?"

I felt a tightness in my chest. "Yeah, that's okay. And it's good to see you too."

Despite a ten hour shift and the need of a hot shower and a night of slumber, I spent the next hour and a half on the back porch under the stars, talking with a girl whom I'd been told didn't know how to conduct herself around the company of a father figure.

Over the course of the weekend, she informed us that she'd been diagnosed with bi-polar disorder. Of how her foster family pushed for this prognosis, declaring her mood swings unmanageable. She then spent the next three hours surrounding herself in a heap of Legos with my daughter, constructing the next great metropolis.

Rather than crying, this time around, she left quietly, accepting a hug from each of us, and offering a wave from the passenger window of her ride.

Late Sunday evening, after tucking the kids into bed, my wife took me aside and informed me that before leaving, the girl had confided in her several points of interest.

She told my wife that I was the first adult man she'd ever been able to speak comfortably with about any subject. Like an actual dad. She revealed that she'd recently started her first menstrual cycle, something I scratched my head over, wondering if in fact that explained the reasoning behind those mood swings her foster family was struggling with.

Then she asked my wife if we'd ever be interested in adopting her.

As foster parents we're taught to have skin thicker than lead. To manage the unmanageable. To find a way to change the life of an unfortunate victim, earn their respect, perhaps even their love, only to release them back into the world in a year's time. And we do.

And yet...

Like the girl, I also grew up dealing with a mother stricken with mental issues, thus inspiring the drama behind my upcoming novel. I can easily see myself in her shoes, a twelve year old lost in a world boasting of cruelty.

In this state, one would find the act of moving mountains a bit easier than reaching out to a twelve year old girl already in care, with the purpose of changing her living environment, much less beginning the process of adoption.

And yet...

She immediately made friends with my daughter and younger son. Any fears of awkwardness between her and my teenager were quashed upon watching them play catch in the back yard like long lost siblings. And when she's gone, she's on our minds, like a family member's absence.

The book is nearing completion, a lifelong dream soon to be realized. The hours I keep due to writing and the dayjob should be bottled up, shelved in a closet, and not spoken of. My wife and I argue over unpaid bills and household repairs long ignored. My kids fight over the WII controllers and who gets the last scoop of Moose Tracks wedged into the bottom corner of the freezer-burnt container.

And yet to her, we're perfect in our dysfunction. Because it's something normal. It's something real and concrete, without the worry of being scrutinized by doctors, each one waiting for the next screw up in order to diagnose her with her mother's disorder.

And so we'll wait until the time is right. For if it's meant to happen, it will. And perhaps someday she'll return...this time with more than a suitcase and a pillow.

Thanks for reading,

EL