R.S. Carter's Blog

I’ve dropped my Child Soldiers project for now and find myself completely absorbed with a new project.

I’ve had an idea in my head for a story and now I find myself completely lost in it.  I can’t stop thinking about it.  Daydreaming, smiling, writing, daydreaming again…

The story was influenced deeply by two of my favorite authors:  Jasper Fforde – thanks to his Thursday Next series, and Haruki Murakami – thanks to his epic novel 1Q84.  Although my novel will not be the hysterical satire in which Fforde elevates to a genius all his own, it is the world of literature – his bibliophile milieu – that has influenced my thoughts.  How I would love to live in Thursday’s world.  So now I am, in my mind anyhow.  Not the same (for nothing could be equally awesome as the world of Thursday Next), but the influence persists.  As far as 1Q84 goes, it was an inspiration of metafiction that I received after reading his novel – and the fact that I thought the end was going to be entirely different.  It is that imagined end that led me to the premise of this book.

I’m excited about this new project!  And my first attempt at metafiction.

Sometimes books can pull old memories to the forefront and then you just can’t shake them. I recently read Going Under by S. Walden which described a girl laden with guilt, having a deep desire for atonement.  It caused a certain memory to surface, one that is not going away with any ease.

It’s an old memory of an incident that transpired on a school bus.  I was only a child.  I was in first grade and my sister was in kindergarten.  We were sitting next to each other as usual, both of us quiet, always quiet.  Our father had recently been murdered and we were still putting the pieces back together in our minds.  We huddled in shells of our old selves, self-sustained cocoons of solitude, still unsure of the world.

Kids were yelling, laughing all around us.  My sister and I stared at our feet, sitting in the back row. Suddenly, the boy in front us reached back and pulled the hat off my little sister’s head and threw it, for no apparent reason.  At first she tried to lunge for it, but the boy was too quick. When she started to cry, other boys got in on the game and threw the hat back and forth.  She looked up at me, begging me to help her.  It seems like no big deal, but to us it was.  We were still scared, terrified.  We were frightened of every intent; we saw evil where no one else did.  I looked down at her and saw the tears in her eyes, the pleading.

I wasn’t going to let her down.  I was going to break out of my shell.  I was going to do something, if only for her.  I would show her how strong I was.

It was a simple thing, really.  I stood up, swung my book bag, which was loaded with library books, behind my back, threw it over my shoulder in a sweeping motion and landed those books on top of the kid’s head.  As hard as I could.

He never saw it coming because he was sitting down again, face front.  After the impact, I waited. I waited for him to jump up and hit me back, or do something.  But he didn’t.  He looked up at me with these eyes, these eyes.

I will never forget that look in his eyes.  Wide with confusion, and pain.

“Why?” was all he said.  All he could say.  He grabbed his head and his eyes faded from the look of surprise into wretched humiliation and pain.  He began to cry.  The bus was suddenly silent.  Everyone was staring at me.  My sister didn’t even say a word as her hat was tossed back.

I was only in first grade but the boy – I don’t remember what grade he was in.  He could have been in first grade as well; he wasn’t that big.  I don’t remember who he was or even his name, but I will never forget his eyes and the sudden silence on the bus.

My reaction was all wrong.  It just told everyone to stay away from us; we weren’t normal.

I’ve never been able to rid myself of this awful memory because I never apologized.  At least, I think that’s what it is.  I don’t remember who the boy was in order to make amends.  Another reason it stays with me is because now that I’m older and have children, I look back and see the eyes of a child whom I hurt.  I was a child then but seeing the memory as an adult is painful. Seeing a child hurt, and knowing that I was the cause, disturbs me.

Whoever you are, and for what it’s worth 33 or some odd years later, I’m so sorry.

We run and run and run and run.  Always running.  Always trying to stay in the lead, stay on top of things.  Hurdling deadlines and budgets, navigating the labyrinthine schedules of work and family, prioritizing what comes next.

Is it time for a hard and fast sprint through the next project or is it time to slalom the gauntlet of emails, phone calls and bills?

It doesn’t matter, you’re winning.

And then you trip.

You fall behind.

You get up but everything seems so far out of reach, like you could never catch back up.  You’re not used to being behind and it makes you nervous.  You fall again.  And again.  And again. Everything blurs.

And then you give up.

Things go sailing past at breakneck speed.  Deadlines come and go.  Bills pile up.  Your nice, neat and orderly life falls apart.  And you no longer look ahead because you’re looking down.

And your feet are still carrying you.

When you finally look up, things look different.  You’re moving slower now.  The race is no longer important.  Instead of looking straight ahead, you look around and see things you’ve never seen before.  Your family smiles and waves to you from the sidelines.  This time you see them and wave back.

You look ahead again and things look different.  You’ve always seen the race as the leader.  Now you’re in the back and you can see which way to go.  The path that’s easier, the path you should be on but couldn’t see until now.  There it is.  Go.

It’s okay to fall behind.

Many years ago, when I was in my mid-twenties and had been, for the most part, on my own for a while, there was a moment of mere seconds that I can recall with great clarity.

I had left home when I was eighteen and although I had a small smattering of family on both U.S. coastlines, I was alone in the great state of Texas and had been for many years.  Because of distance, seeing family was restricted to holidays every couple of years.

I wasn’t lonely.  I had a lot of friends and a healthy social life.  I was active and filled my days with work and play.  I lived by myself and preferred it that way, as opposed to having a roommate.  Having my alone-time was a precious necessity.  But there were times when I missed … something.

I had begun dating a very nice young man with Texas in his blood.  He wore cowboy hats, big silver belt buckles and boots and he would take me to the dance hall on weekends.  I learned how to two-step and waltz quite well.  He was a good lead.  The man came from good stock and his family was as kind as he was.

One weekend, I traveled with his family to College Station for a Texas A&M football game and the annual bonfire tradition.  It was the last year A&M would have a bonfire, and I was lucky enough to have witnessed one.  A year later, the bonfire collapsed and the fatal disaster ensured its discontinuance.

His family had a small getaway home there.  The evening after the game, we came home weary from the day’s excitement and his mother allowed us to sleep in the same bedroom, but in two separate twin beds.  For propriety’s sake, she stayed between us as we crawled into our separate beds to ensure it was our own beds we were getting into.  As I put my head on the pillow, she turned off the lights and sat down on my bed.  In motherly fashion, she leaned over and, to my surprise, kissed me goodnight on the forehead.  She looked at me and I stared at her.  She smiled gently.

It may have been nothing to her.  Just instinct.  And I wasn’t a child but a grown woman.  Yet, in that instant – I felt as warm and peaceful as a child in the arms of a loving mother.  How many years had it been since I felt that way?  I wasn’t sure, but I knew it was long before I even left home.  A goodnight kiss may not seem so remarkable to most people, but for someone whose childhood was unusually devoid of such simple affections – the act stood out.

As quick as it happened, the moment was gone.  But not truly gone because I will always remember that simple act of kindness and the way it made me feel.  I felt normal.  I felt loved.

It is amazing how such a simple thing can create such a wonderfully indelible memory.

After watching image after image on my newsfeed of the horrific damage in Oklahoma following the devastating tornado that hit on Monday, obliterating two schools – I can’t help but think of the teachers.  The news of more child deaths en masse has me in an overly emotional state, having two small children myself.

My eldest is in kindergarten and he loves his teacher.  We love her, too.  And we know that she loves the children in her class as much as her own.  I’ve written her a short letter this evening.

Dear Mrs. Lane,

This year, we’ve seen teachers shield their students from bullets with their own bodies.  We’ve seen fallen teachers hold students in their arms so that the children didn’t have to die alone.  We’ve seen a principal fling herself at a gunman to stop him from shooting her children, making the ultimate sacrifice in the process.  Most recently, we’ve seen a number of teachers try their best to shelter children in the face of a monstrous storm rather than running to save themselves.  These teachers, some might say heroes, stayed directly in the path of death and threw themselves on top of the children when it hit.

Thank you for being a teacher.  You are more than a teacher.  You are the fearless guardian and protector of many.  You are the real-life angel that walks among our little ones while the parents are away.  Thank you for giving so much love to our children.  It is times like this when we think about the ones who give so much and receive so little.

Thank you,

Joshua’s Parents

Feel free to use this letter.  Change it up if you like.  Reword it.  Rewrite it.  It doesn’t matter.  But it would be nice if teachers everywhere were recognized with personalized letters this week.  As many as possible.

There is no official rating system on BlogCritics, no five or four stars, but the review is positive and that’s what counts.  I’m not sure how it managed to capture the attention of the book reviewer but I’m so glad it did.  And what a wonderful review!  Click the image below to read the review.

So far there hasn’t been a bad review.

I hope I didn’t just jinx myself.

Days of Love and Blood has received another five star review, this time from The Jeep Diva website.  I can’t deny it.  Five star reviews turn me into a quivering jar of marshmallow fluff.  I feel all gushy, like a swooning teenager in love.

“If you have been enjoying the various zombie books on the market as of late —as I have— Days of Love and Blood should be at the top of your zombie TBR pile.”

Click the image above to read the review.  Psst – there is a distinct possibility that the horror magazine Fangoria® will be doing a review to be included in their print publication!

GoodReads is site for readers and authors alike.  It is a place to share books you are reading, books you’ve read and books that you want to read.  Your home page on GoodReads is equivalent to your Facebook news feed, in a way.  But instead of random status updates, you are seeing only updates on reading progress, reviews and new books to be discovered.  You’ll find out which books seem to be “hot”, who added a certain book to their to-read list and who just finished another book.  Then you get to read what they think.  You can also compare books that you have read to books that your GoodReads friend has read.  There are a bunch of little book-related features like this.  And once you start on it, it becomes really hard to step away from the site.  Especially for book lovers.

I can recall being a little obsessed with MySpace when it first erupted into mainstream usage.  And then I remember moving onto Facebook.  I still use Facebook.  But I don’t obsess over it like I do with GoodReads.

I will sit for hours (seriously) and pore over my to-read list and examine the lists of others.  I do not know why I find this site so powerfully addictive but I do know that it has broadened my reading landscape in a wonderful way.  I’m finding and reading books that I probably never would have known about, and it is through my GoodReads’ friends updates.  And I get to interact with other people who love books just as much as I do.

Seriously – try to talk to someone you barely know in the real world about a book you recently read, one that you are super excited about.  Perhaps your hair stylist or a coworker.  You’ll get a whole bunch of “uh-huhs” as their eyes glaze over, and while you ramble on about the high points of the main character or the details comprising a new world, they are silently plotting ways to run away from you.  Not so in the world of GoodReads.  Your avid love for the written word will finally be appreciated.  That’s why I love it.

As an author, reading is my favorite pastime.  You might think that an author’s favorite pastime should be writing.  And maybe you’re right.  Maybe it should be writing.  But not for me.  I would spend all day reading, if I could.  I don’t know what that says about me as author, but I don’t really care either.  I love to read and I will never apologize for it.

On that note, GoodReads is great for authors too.  Not only do I get to feed my to-read list, I can also interact with people who have read my book or plan to.  They can contact me and I have been able to set up giveaways through GoodReads which has created a lot of stir about the book, simply because the giveaways tend to create a month-long viral buzz.  It is a wonderful feature!

They give you a GoodReads Author Profile:  R.S. Carter on GoodReads

And each book has its own page:  Days of Love and Blood on GoodReads

Still, I prefer using GoodReads to find more books to read rather than promote my own.  It feeds my addiction.  It is where I can connect with other like-minded book addicts and it is where I feel normal.

Are you a GoodReads addict?

Another five star review, this one from Mom’s Reading Corner.

Some of the fabulous feedback book review Ashley provided:

Carter is brilliant.

..Carter touches on some pretty raw emotions..

..when I tried to put it down, I just could not, and believe me I did try to put it down – it was about 4 am when I finished it.

Thank you Ashley!  I’m thrilled that you enjoyed it!

I’ve been interviewed on Tribute Books where Days of Love and Blood has been featured.  If you have a chance, go check it out!  Thanks to Tribute and the enormous exposure they provide, I’ve seen a nice rise in sales today.

R.S Carter Interview at Tribute Books

One thing is clear:  I need to get a better picture.