As a writer, I read. Incessantly.
This isn’t news to any other writers, but to some readers, it
might be. I’ve never stuck to any one genre or subject, or even just to
fiction. As I have the chance, I’d like to share some of my favourite reads.
There isn’t as much poetry in my collection as there are works of
fiction, but I have a fondness for the Romantic poets. Lord Byron wrote
sweeping epics (Childe Harold, Don Juan), but he also wrote witty little
pieces, such as his “Epitaph on John Adams of Southwell, A carrier, Who Died of
Drunkenness”. As it is so short, I’ll share it here. I love Byron for his use
of language, and in this particular piece, his amusing turn of phrase.
JOHN ADAMS lies here, of the parish of
Southwell,
A Carrier
who carried his can to his mouth well;
He carried so much and he carried so fast,
He could carry no more--so was carried at last;
For the liquor he drank being too much for one,
He could not carry off;--so he's now carri-on.
September, 1807.
My fiction tastes range all over the map, from existentialist
tales by Simone de Beauvoir, to erotica by Anne Rice. Beauvoir’s philosophical
underpinnings have helped me learn how to bring depth to my writing, and to
consider deeper motivations. Rice’s work (and not just her erotica) demonstrated
incredible descriptive passages, how an image can stay burned in your memory
for all time. When I think of Anne Rice, I remember a bit from her novel “The
Witching Hour”, where Rowan thinks about how little things about a man can be
violently erotic:
It was excruciating for her to look at the dark
fleece on the back of Michael’s wrist, to see his gold watch-band cutting into
it, to imagine his arm later, with the white cuff rolled up, which for some
reason made it even more sexy than when the arm was naked, and the flash of his
fingers as he lighted his cigarettes.
One sentence, and the image is so strong, I’ve never been able to
forget it from the first reading... 19 years ago.
And finally, I read non-fiction. Lots and lots of it. When I’m
researching a story, there’s nothing I like better than to curl up with a
primary source (a book, not a person, though that’s cool too) and read about
how someone has lived. Memoirs can help turn a good story into a great one,
when you have the feel of an era as told by someone who lived during that time.
For my novella, Prohibited Passion, one of my favourite reads was a book that
contained a lengthy (over 100 pages) interview with a man named Jack Woodford.
Jack knew Al Capone. He played piano for him, listened to his stories, and knew
him during his 1920s heyday in Chicago. The stories provided me with
inspiration, but the most memorable story didn’t inspire so much as shocked me
at Jack’s blase attitude. He joked about how Capone tended to kill his psychologists,
and it struck me that if you worked for a man like Capone, your ideas of right
and wrong could become distorted. However, that unaffected view of murder gave
me an insight into how a person might accept something so wrong.
The blurb:
Ruth wants to escape the boredom of Bandit Creek and the strict
expectations of her father, the local pastor. Her life changes the day she
meets CeeCee, a world-wise flapper, and an irresistible attraction develops
between them. She’ll be disowned and shunned if anyone discovers their
prohibited passion, but can they keep their growing affection a secret?
CeeCee is drawn to Ruth, but things become complicated when her
gangster companion disapproves of their liaison. He’s in town to broker a deal
with the owner of the local speakeasy, and he’s not above using them to further
his own plans. Can CeeCee protect Ruth and their budding relationship?
As Ruth gets drawn further into their world, she must decide
between her familiar life and a new, dangerous path with the woman she loves.
About the Author:
Alyssa has many passions. Fortunately, none of them are
prohibited. When she isn’t working, she’s writing dark tales inspired by
mid-20th-century noir books and films, cooking up a storm in her kitchen, and
reading. You can find her at
www.alyssalinnpalmer.com, and on
Twitter.
EXCERPT
Bandit Creek, Montana August 1929
Chapter One
Ruth thought her father looked ridiculous with his
eyes closed and his hands raised to the heavens. His thinning hair had already
gone grey and it fell untidily over his ears. A growing paunch strained the
fabric of his clericals. She knew she would have to make him new ones. Just
another task she couldn’t escape from.
Escape. She thought of little else. She wanted to
leave Bandit Creek behind but, today, she’d satisfy herself by leaving the
service. While the congregation followed her father’s lead, she rose silently
from the end of the pew and crept from the church.
She had an excuse or two all ready if he asked her
over dinner why she’d left the service.
I needed some air. I felt ill.
Not that he’d ask. As long as she had dinner on the
table when he wanted it, kept the house in order and washed his clothes, her
presence went unnoticed. If she had been a boy, he would have taken her under
his wing and taught her to follow in his footsteps. His sycophants hoped she
might choose one of them to marry, and thus receive his blessing and the
church’s leadership after he was gone. She disappointed them all. The thought
of any of those young men - or any man - left her cold. She never understood
why the other girls fawned over the attention from boys. She couldn’t feel an
ounce of attraction to any of them.
Ruth turned at the corner and strolled down to the
small rail station, slowing her steps in the hopes of seeing strangers on the
platform, hoping for a glimpse of the world outside. The platform was barren
and the ticket office shuttered. She continued on to Main Street, where most
businesses were closed for the Lord’s Day. She scuffed her toes in the dust as
she crossed over in front of the hotel, the single building showing any signs
of life.
If only she could go inside, just for a while. If
she had money, she could order lemonade and sit at one of the tables in the
tiny restaurant, pretending to be a lady on an exciting trip, waiting for her
maid to finish packing. She never pictured herself with a husband or a
chaperone; she wanted to experience the world on her own.
The lace curtains fluttered in the open window and
Ruth lingered outside, carefully peering into the restaurant without seeming to
peep. A woman sat alone at a table, a glass and a dirty plate in front of her.
A napkin lay crumpled by her elbow and she rotated her tea cup in its saucer.
She seemed lost in thought.
Ruth stared. The woman had her dark hair cut into a
stylish bob, with Marcelled finger waves. She wore a dress that left her arms
bare to the shoulder and gave little shape to her form. Ruth fingered the end
of her long, ginger braid and looked down at her homely and serviceable dress.
The women of town would shun her if she dared wear a flapper’s dress or cut her
hair, but she couldn’t help her attraction for the delicate and gorgeous woman.
Ruth’s mouth had gone dry. A tremor went through her. From where she stood, the
woman’s skin looked pale and soft and Ruth wanted to touch her hand or run a
finger down her bare arm.
Ruth remembered the grocer’s wife gossiping about
the easy women she had seen in Missoula last fall, wearing shorter skirts,
showing their arms and legs, and acting without a care in the world.
“Thank the Lord none of that sort would ever come
here,” Mrs. Williams had said. But yet, here was one of those women, in this
very hotel. Ruth smiled to herself. She so wanted to meet this woman.
She heard footsteps on the boardwalk, the loud
thumping of a man in a rush. A tall, dark-haired man in a dark suit strode by
her on the boardwalk, almost brushing her arm. He went into the hotel.
“CeeCee!” His voice carried through the open
window.
She saw the woman lift her head and push back her
chair. Before CeeCee could move any further, the man had come into the
restaurant and taken her by the arm, lifting her to her feet. He said something
else, but it was muffled.
For a moment, CeeCee’s gaze met hers, eyes wide in
surprise. Ruth gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth. The last thing she
wanted was to be caught staring. Ruth backed away from the window and down the
boardwalk, hovering by the side of the building.
The man reappeared, CeeCee in tow. A long shawl,
draped over her shoulders hid her bare arms, but her dress rose to just above
the knee and Ruth gaped.
“I told you to be ready earlier,” the man growled
at CeeCee. “You’re going to make me late. I expected you to meet me.”
To Ruth’s relief, they headed away from her,
crossing the street, walking swiftly towards the warehouses at the edge of
town. Ruth burned with curiosity and she wanted to follow them, but the bells
of the Catholic church pealed and she knew she had to get home.
* *
“Sher, slow down. Please?” Cecilia scurried to keep
up with Sheridan, her patent leather shoes sliding on the gravel road. He
slackened his pace and she smiled at him.
“They won’t leave the warehouse before we get
there,” she said, hooking her arm through his. If she hadn’t complained of her
boredom the evening before, she could have stayed at the hotel. After seeing
the girl at the window, she wished she had stayed.
“I need this partnership, Cecilia,” Sheridan said
seriously. He rarely called her by her full name, preferring her nickname which
rolled off his tongue more easily as it had done since he first met her. “This
town could easily be a link to the trade out of Whiskey Gap - I can’t overlook
it.”
“I know.” She patted his arm. He’d told her his
ideas as they rode the train across several states, each stop taking them
further from home. “But this town doesn’t seem like the type to support the
trade. Everyone I’ve seen so far looks like they should be part of the
temperance movement.”
“According to Erickson, my contact in Missoula,
there’s enough interest here. And when the rail line opens across the border to
Canada, we’ll be rolling in dough.”
They certainly weren’t rolling in dough now.
Sheridan had money from his boss in Chicago, but traveling across the country
added up quickly. Sheridan had sold the remainder of her Chanel perfume - her
favourite - when they’d arrived in Bandit Creek. She’d tucked the cash away and
if she could, she would buy it back from the shopkeeper before she left. It had
been a gift, but not from him.
She tried not to think of Nell, but seeing that
woman peering in the window, her red hair so much like Nell’s, was a painful
reminder. Nell presented her with the bottle one night as they lay in bed, a
mischievous smile on her face. CeeCee had been startled and then surprised.
Then Nell had kissed her again and the bottle was forgotten. She’d never kiss
Nell again. She could only visit her grave.
Sheridan came to a stop and Cecilia almost
stumbled. The warehouse door opened and a middle-aged man with sandy hair and
spectacles gave them a genial smile. He looked more like a teetotaler than a
rum-runner to her.
“Mr. Henderson?” Sheridan inquired.
The man nodded and waved them inside. Cecilia let
go of Sheridan’s arm. He’d expect her to spend time with the other men and
charm them into agreement. It had worked in other towns. Men always wanted to
be confident and decisive if it meant impressing a woman.
Henderson led them through to the small speakeasy
he’d set up in a section of his warehouse. It was crude by Chicago standards,
but Cecilia supposed it would do for a small town. Two other men were present:
a broad shouldered younger man, whom Henderson introduced as Mr. Dyer, his
assistant, and a raggedy old wino that sat crumpled at a far table.
“Don’t mind Jack,” Henderson said, waving away
Sheridan’s concerns. “He’s harmless. I doubt he even remembers what he was up
to yesterday.”
Cecilia noticed Mr. Dyer smile at that, but his
gaze took her in before looking coolly at Sheridan. She hoped he wouldn’t make
a play for her. Sheridan protected her against all others, and she loved him
for it, but she didn’t want this complication. The sole complication she wanted
was back in town, with a long red braid and grey eyes, her plain dress belying
the girl’s beauty.
“Get Miss Mills a drink,” Henderson told Dyer. “Now,
Mr. Sheridan, let’s talk.”
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