Ina Zajac's Blog
February 27, 2015
Please, Pretty Lights Chosen For AmazonEncore
I’m so excited to share some news I’ve been quietly savoring. Please, Pretty Lights has been selected to be reissued as an AmazonEncore title. This is made possible through a mutual licensing relationship between Booktrope and Amazon Publishing.
What this means is the digital version of Please, Pretty Lights is being exclusively reissued under Amazon’s imprint AmazonEncore; and with a drop-dead-gorgeous new cover, to be revealed soon.
So, what is AmazonEncore? According to Amazon Publishing’s AmazonEncore page,
“AmazonEncore helps readers discover extraordinary, previously published overlooked books by emerging authors.”
This licensing agreement also includes potential audiobooks, but not print copies, still available through Amazon as well as local independent booksellers. Booktrope will retain credit as original publisher.
I am so grateful to the Booktrope community, especially to my stellar editorial team: Samantha March, Julie Molinari, Steven Luna and Loretta Matson. Loretta created the glorious new cover I’ll be sharing soon. I am excited to work with AmazonEncore, and am thrilled about this opportunity.
Thank you to my readers, friends and family for your continued support of my writing. It means the world to me.
Forever is now,
Ina
What this means is the digital version of Please, Pretty Lights is being exclusively reissued under Amazon’s imprint AmazonEncore; and with a drop-dead-gorgeous new cover, to be revealed soon.
So, what is AmazonEncore? According to Amazon Publishing’s AmazonEncore page,
“AmazonEncore helps readers discover extraordinary, previously published overlooked books by emerging authors.”
This licensing agreement also includes potential audiobooks, but not print copies, still available through Amazon as well as local independent booksellers. Booktrope will retain credit as original publisher.
I am so grateful to the Booktrope community, especially to my stellar editorial team: Samantha March, Julie Molinari, Steven Luna and Loretta Matson. Loretta created the glorious new cover I’ll be sharing soon. I am excited to work with AmazonEncore, and am thrilled about this opportunity.
Thank you to my readers, friends and family for your continued support of my writing. It means the world to me.
Forever is now,
Ina
February 8, 2015
Bob Marley One-Question Quiz
Today (Feb. 6th) would have been Bob Marley’s 70th birthday. I adore him, and I can’t help but throw my two cents up onto the interwebs. I offer a one-question Marley quiz for you. When you hear the name Bob Marley, what word first comes to mind?
A) Jamaica
B) Marijuana
C) Dreadlocks
D) That overplayed commercial for a certain cruise line
E) None of the above
If you answered A through D...
Please consider digging below the surface. Get to know Bob Marley. I think you’ll be happy you did.
Parts of his story are far from pretty. Born into extreme poverty, half black and half white, he endured the pain of rejection by neighbors and family. Music provided a sense of belonging; and turned into opportunity and expansion, but the more popular he became, the riskier his path. He had powerful enemies, and even survived an assassination attempt.
He loved women, many of them. His first love was a dirt-poor Sunday school teacher, Rita who became his wife and back up singer. Another was Cindy Breakspeare who was later crowned Miss World. They were both at his bedside when he died of cancer at 36 in May 1981. In those final days, he had been in Germany receiving experimental cancer treatment. They attempted to take him home to his beloved Jamaica. Sadly, he made it all the way to Miami, but died there.
A Rastafarian, Marley held strict and controversial religious beliefs. For him, smoking marijuana was a spiritual undertaking, not a slacker’s escape. A fierce rebel in many ways, he was also said to exude the sensitively of a shy child. He was also quite the soccer player, good enough to play professionally. Of course, there is another little thing--his music. His pure, comforting, brilliant voice. As a songwriter, he pulled no political or emotional punches. Soulful is the word that first comes to mind, but that's not quite right. What word could I find to do Marley's lyrics justice? Transcendent, perhaps.
NOTE: Back to that quiz, there really is no wrong answer, though the word I think of first is: love. I am listening to “Legend” as I write this. While writing Please, Pretty Lights, I listened to Bob Marley’s Legend album EVERY SINGLE time I worked on a love scene between characters Matt (a quirky bass player) and main character Via. See below for a “Stir It Up” excerpt. Of course, no Marley lyrics were ever used without permission.
I’m going to Seattle’s Nectar Lounge tonight for the Bob Marley 70th Birthday Celebration. If you can’t get out and listen to live music tonight, consider this: I highly, highly encourage watching the documentary “Marley” which came out in 2012. It’s received excellent ratings and with good reason. It’s not glossy. It shows his humanity, which isn’t always smooth or melodic. It provides perspective into the man, his world, and his place in history as a political and social catalyst
http://www.amazon.com/Marley-Bob/dp/B...
Please, Pretty Lights, pg. 73 (Booktrope Editions, July 2014)
“If you hear me practicing, you probably won’t even recognize the songs," Matt said as he came over to the desk. Via stood up so he could sit down. But he just leaned over the desk and opened the laptop. Standing next to him, she felt pretty shrimpy. The side of her face met his shoulder. His shirt smelled like fabric softener. “But, when you come hear us, the whole band, then you’ll hear me. The baselines will pop.”
He felt so familiar. “You should be a teacher,” she told him.
“I teach at Seattle Kidz Rock, but, just on Tuesdays,” he said. “I want you to hear a song.”
In one fluid move, he sat down in the desk chair, reached over, hooked his right arm around her waist, and brought her down onto his lap. It was sweet yet confident.
“A lot of people don’t give the bass a second thought, but in reggae the bassist and guitar player switch roles,” he continued. “The bass is more prominent. A good example is ‘Stir it Up.’ Listen.”
God, he felt good, and she was content to just sit there while he found his song. He nuzzled into her side, and she felt little kisses just behind her earlobe. Something shifted within her. Like he had correctly entered some secret code she didn’t even know she had. She heard the sound of the Wailers start in, and then Bob Marley’s distinctive voice.
She relaxed into him. He was her sexy beanbag chair. “Do you hear it?” he asked.
“Hear what?” she wanted to say. How was she supposed to concentrate while his lips worked down the side of her neck? Their warmth made her want to turn her face to meet them.
“Do you hear it?”
Of course, it surrounded them. Rich and real. Warm and fuzzy. “I love it,” she finally said. Reggae would never be the same.
http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_nos...
A) Jamaica
B) Marijuana
C) Dreadlocks
D) That overplayed commercial for a certain cruise line
E) None of the above
If you answered A through D...
Please consider digging below the surface. Get to know Bob Marley. I think you’ll be happy you did.
Parts of his story are far from pretty. Born into extreme poverty, half black and half white, he endured the pain of rejection by neighbors and family. Music provided a sense of belonging; and turned into opportunity and expansion, but the more popular he became, the riskier his path. He had powerful enemies, and even survived an assassination attempt.
He loved women, many of them. His first love was a dirt-poor Sunday school teacher, Rita who became his wife and back up singer. Another was Cindy Breakspeare who was later crowned Miss World. They were both at his bedside when he died of cancer at 36 in May 1981. In those final days, he had been in Germany receiving experimental cancer treatment. They attempted to take him home to his beloved Jamaica. Sadly, he made it all the way to Miami, but died there.
A Rastafarian, Marley held strict and controversial religious beliefs. For him, smoking marijuana was a spiritual undertaking, not a slacker’s escape. A fierce rebel in many ways, he was also said to exude the sensitively of a shy child. He was also quite the soccer player, good enough to play professionally. Of course, there is another little thing--his music. His pure, comforting, brilliant voice. As a songwriter, he pulled no political or emotional punches. Soulful is the word that first comes to mind, but that's not quite right. What word could I find to do Marley's lyrics justice? Transcendent, perhaps.
NOTE: Back to that quiz, there really is no wrong answer, though the word I think of first is: love. I am listening to “Legend” as I write this. While writing Please, Pretty Lights, I listened to Bob Marley’s Legend album EVERY SINGLE time I worked on a love scene between characters Matt (a quirky bass player) and main character Via. See below for a “Stir It Up” excerpt. Of course, no Marley lyrics were ever used without permission.
I’m going to Seattle’s Nectar Lounge tonight for the Bob Marley 70th Birthday Celebration. If you can’t get out and listen to live music tonight, consider this: I highly, highly encourage watching the documentary “Marley” which came out in 2012. It’s received excellent ratings and with good reason. It’s not glossy. It shows his humanity, which isn’t always smooth or melodic. It provides perspective into the man, his world, and his place in history as a political and social catalyst
http://www.amazon.com/Marley-Bob/dp/B...
Please, Pretty Lights, pg. 73 (Booktrope Editions, July 2014)
“If you hear me practicing, you probably won’t even recognize the songs," Matt said as he came over to the desk. Via stood up so he could sit down. But he just leaned over the desk and opened the laptop. Standing next to him, she felt pretty shrimpy. The side of her face met his shoulder. His shirt smelled like fabric softener. “But, when you come hear us, the whole band, then you’ll hear me. The baselines will pop.”
He felt so familiar. “You should be a teacher,” she told him.
“I teach at Seattle Kidz Rock, but, just on Tuesdays,” he said. “I want you to hear a song.”
In one fluid move, he sat down in the desk chair, reached over, hooked his right arm around her waist, and brought her down onto his lap. It was sweet yet confident.
“A lot of people don’t give the bass a second thought, but in reggae the bassist and guitar player switch roles,” he continued. “The bass is more prominent. A good example is ‘Stir it Up.’ Listen.”
God, he felt good, and she was content to just sit there while he found his song. He nuzzled into her side, and she felt little kisses just behind her earlobe. Something shifted within her. Like he had correctly entered some secret code she didn’t even know she had. She heard the sound of the Wailers start in, and then Bob Marley’s distinctive voice.
She relaxed into him. He was her sexy beanbag chair. “Do you hear it?” he asked.
“Hear what?” she wanted to say. How was she supposed to concentrate while his lips worked down the side of her neck? Their warmth made her want to turn her face to meet them.
“Do you hear it?”
Of course, it surrounded them. Rich and real. Warm and fuzzy. “I love it,” she finally said. Reggae would never be the same.
http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_nos...
February 5, 2015
Sweet cereal; Tom Brady's balls; other 1st world problems.
I haven’t written a blog in so long that I forgot my Wordpress password. The thing is, I've been hunkered down like a mole rat--writing, writing, writing; haven’t had much to say. “Go Hawks” obviously, but everybody is writing about football (and Tom Brady’s balls) this week. This one is about cereal, yoga pants and getting happy.
Typically, I’m an upbeat person, but every so often I’ll slide into a period of “grumpy monkey-ism” when my sense of humor scurries into hiding. My law of attraction friends would call it “being out of alignment.” I have been feeling out of alignment all week. My routine has been disrupted, and I haven’t been able to write.
Super-awesome author Conrad Wesselhoeft (Adios Nirvana, Dirt Bikes, Drones and Other Ways to Fly) once shared a favorite writing quote with me. Forgive me for not citing it, but Google didn’t know. Comment if you do, and I’ll send you a pen--just a random pen from my desk. “Anything that gets in the way of your writing is the enemy.” It may sound extreme, but sometimes I totally feel that way. Like, “WTF, my kid has another day off from school? What is this, a conspiracy?”
It’s true. My second grader had today off. She had last Monday off, too, and only half days the rest of last week. Two weeks before that she had no school one day because there was a man with a gun seen loitering at a neighboring elementary school. The Shoreline School District cancelled classes, which was a good call. Still, it was so odd. Upon hearing the news, my daughter danced around, chanting, “No school, No school,” like it was a snow day. Oh wait, I shouldn’t have said, “snow day.” Knock on wood. God, that’s the last thing I need.
So, today we had two of her friends over for the morning, which would have been awesome, but they kept singing a Taylor Swift song— enough said, right? I sat at the dining room table with my coffee and a bowl of cereal, but kept having to get up because the dog wanted to go outside to chase squirrels – then wanted back in – then out again. The sunlight through the window was like RIGHT in my eyes, so I sat squinting, partaking in my Special K. I should clarify: not the kind of Special K Via snorts in Please, Pretty Lights; the kind makes her hear colors. I mean the cereal; this kind is actually kind of magical because it has little chocolate bits inside. I got the last bowl of the box through because my son has been mad-grubbing it as of late. My coffee wasn’t hot anymore. I frowned and turned to my cereal but soon realized the flake-to-chocolate ratio was all wrong.
“There is way too much chocolate in my cereal,” I heard myself complain. Sucks to be me.
I was soon struck with my own ridiculousness. Talk about first-world problems: too-sweet cereal; life-giving sunlight; happy children; warm coffee; and a playful dog.
What was I doing? Grumpin’ out, and for what? I decided to take two minutes to appreciate the things around me that were going well. This little trick works for me when I remember to apply it. Appreciation, even of little things, is the fastest pathway out of the bad-mood badlands because I can’t feel appreciation and irritation at the same time. Obviously, there are the big things such as the fact I have cereal in the first place, and shelter, and good health and family and friends. It’s even more fun for me to think about the little random things, like the yoga pants I was (and still am) wearing. They’re a joke, a cliché, and the uniform of the suburban soccer mom. Though I prefer the term “rocker mom” because my son plays the bass and my daughter plays the drums. Anyway, I appreciate my yoga pants because they symbolize freedom. I love working from home. I’ve done the corporate gear: skirts, jackets, stockings, heels, full make up and hairs did. No thanks.
From the comfort of yoga pants, I move on to other things, and there are many. Ultimately (four hours later) I found half an hour to get some writing in. Sure, it’s just a blog, but it felt good to write all the same. It’s not a perfect blog, it’s just half an hour, but that’s ok. My little girl is watching Rio, and I think I’ll join her.
What little things can you appreciate right now? Comment here and/or @InaZajac.
Typically, I’m an upbeat person, but every so often I’ll slide into a period of “grumpy monkey-ism” when my sense of humor scurries into hiding. My law of attraction friends would call it “being out of alignment.” I have been feeling out of alignment all week. My routine has been disrupted, and I haven’t been able to write.
Super-awesome author Conrad Wesselhoeft (Adios Nirvana, Dirt Bikes, Drones and Other Ways to Fly) once shared a favorite writing quote with me. Forgive me for not citing it, but Google didn’t know. Comment if you do, and I’ll send you a pen--just a random pen from my desk. “Anything that gets in the way of your writing is the enemy.” It may sound extreme, but sometimes I totally feel that way. Like, “WTF, my kid has another day off from school? What is this, a conspiracy?”
It’s true. My second grader had today off. She had last Monday off, too, and only half days the rest of last week. Two weeks before that she had no school one day because there was a man with a gun seen loitering at a neighboring elementary school. The Shoreline School District cancelled classes, which was a good call. Still, it was so odd. Upon hearing the news, my daughter danced around, chanting, “No school, No school,” like it was a snow day. Oh wait, I shouldn’t have said, “snow day.” Knock on wood. God, that’s the last thing I need.
So, today we had two of her friends over for the morning, which would have been awesome, but they kept singing a Taylor Swift song— enough said, right? I sat at the dining room table with my coffee and a bowl of cereal, but kept having to get up because the dog wanted to go outside to chase squirrels – then wanted back in – then out again. The sunlight through the window was like RIGHT in my eyes, so I sat squinting, partaking in my Special K. I should clarify: not the kind of Special K Via snorts in Please, Pretty Lights; the kind makes her hear colors. I mean the cereal; this kind is actually kind of magical because it has little chocolate bits inside. I got the last bowl of the box through because my son has been mad-grubbing it as of late. My coffee wasn’t hot anymore. I frowned and turned to my cereal but soon realized the flake-to-chocolate ratio was all wrong.
“There is way too much chocolate in my cereal,” I heard myself complain. Sucks to be me.
I was soon struck with my own ridiculousness. Talk about first-world problems: too-sweet cereal; life-giving sunlight; happy children; warm coffee; and a playful dog.
What was I doing? Grumpin’ out, and for what? I decided to take two minutes to appreciate the things around me that were going well. This little trick works for me when I remember to apply it. Appreciation, even of little things, is the fastest pathway out of the bad-mood badlands because I can’t feel appreciation and irritation at the same time. Obviously, there are the big things such as the fact I have cereal in the first place, and shelter, and good health and family and friends. It’s even more fun for me to think about the little random things, like the yoga pants I was (and still am) wearing. They’re a joke, a cliché, and the uniform of the suburban soccer mom. Though I prefer the term “rocker mom” because my son plays the bass and my daughter plays the drums. Anyway, I appreciate my yoga pants because they symbolize freedom. I love working from home. I’ve done the corporate gear: skirts, jackets, stockings, heels, full make up and hairs did. No thanks.
From the comfort of yoga pants, I move on to other things, and there are many. Ultimately (four hours later) I found half an hour to get some writing in. Sure, it’s just a blog, but it felt good to write all the same. It’s not a perfect blog, it’s just half an hour, but that’s ok. My little girl is watching Rio, and I think I’ll join her.
What little things can you appreciate right now? Comment here and/or @InaZajac.
October 16, 2014
Domestic Violence is SO Embarrassing #WhyIStayed
#whyIstayed is a popular hashtag these days. I commend those who are sharing. Now it’s my turn.
I’ve been asked often since the release of “Please, Pretty Lights” the same question. Where did you come up with this story? I know what they are really asking. “Have you ever been punched in the face?” I like to remind readers that it’s fiction and not memoir. Still.
I have never been slapped or hit in the face. He skipped that part. He went from shoving to attempted murder. He never actually hit me though. The progression of domestic violence isn’t always as predictable as people like to think.
It was many years ago. We had been out at a sports bar. He had been furious with me. I can’t even remember why. He had been drinking. On the way to the car he shoved me so hard I ended up sitting on my ass on the sidewalk; my dress grimy from the wet cement. I had braced my fall with my hands, so they were bleeding. Just a little. Someone came over and asked me if I needed help, but he stood in their way saying, “She’s fine, her heels are just too high.”
“I’m fine, thanks.” I told the guy who knew otherwise. He shook his head at me and walked away. I didn’t want help. I wanted the nice guy to just go away because I was embarrassed. Back in the day, embarrassment used to override every other emotion for me: including fear.
Embarrassment made me want to work it all out in my head somehow. Maybe these shoes are kind of high? The pavement is slick. It’s so much easier to have that be the story instead of the truth: the man who is supposed to love me and care for me is treating me like trash. But that night, as I stood up and picked the bits of sidewalk out of my palms, I knew I couldn’t lie to myself anymore. This wasn’t okay. This was never going to be okay. I was too afraid to tell him though. I just kept my mouth shut. On the ride home he spoke the words that I used in Please, Pretty Lights. “I’m sorry you made me do that.”
The next day I returned to my childhood home and confessed the awful truth to my mother. She lovingly took me in just as I knew she would. I begged her not to tell a soul. I was one of the lucky ones. I had a job, a college degree. I had a place to crash. So many women don’t have that luxury.
So, I left. He let it go. No worries. The end. Right?
Wrong. What many don’t understand is that the most dangerous thing an abused woman can do is leave. Yet it’s the only salvation. It’s the paradoxical nightmare that keeps smart, strong women from getting help. My case offers a clear example. A few weeks later, he came over and pounded on my mother’s front door in the middle of the night. My mother worked the graveyard shift and wasn’t there. As I went to the door, my heart felt like it was trying to escape my body by way of my throat. I looked out the front window and saw the neighbor’s lights coming on. He was yelling and threatening to kick the door in. I was terrified, but also mortified.
And then I did the most idiotic thing I’ve ever done in my entire life. I unlocked the door and let him in. I had to calm him down. His cursing was reverberating through the cul-de-sac. Everyone would know. I had, after all, chosen this man. Built my life with him. I didn’t want my failure broadcasted.
He had been drinking. A lot. He grabbed my arms and started shaking me. The light above my head finally clicked on. He was out-of-his-mind furious. He was going to hurt me. I considered screaming, but STILL feared having my private life cracked open like a Jerry Springer Show piñata. I didn’t want my neighbors – the same folks who gave me candy on Halloween and cookies at Christmas – to know I had chosen this crazy man. Instead I pulled away and ran for the phone. This was before cell phones, so the phone was attached to a wall in the kitchen. Until he pulled it out of the wall, that is. He blocked my way and came at me.
It was time to scream.
He backed me up against a large second-story picture window that looked down over the back yard; the back yard where I had played as a kid. Where I lounged in the sun as a teenager and dreamed of falling in love. He said he was going to push me through the glass and down onto the concrete patio below. He wanted to break my neck. He pushed, but I pushed back as a swirl of my own questions taunted me. Was the broken glass going to slice me up? Would I land on my head? Why had I let him in? How could I have been so stupid?
And then someone pulled him off of me. It was a police officer. What? There were two of them holding him down on the kitchen floor. Another officer took me into the living room. It was then I heard the sirens. I looked out to see three squad cars. Red and blue lights flashed across the faces of my neighbors who lined the sidewalk. I don’t know which one of them called 911. I’m just so thankful they did.
These kind, concerned neighbors of mine witnessed my darkest moments. They watched as the police stuffed him into the back of a squad car as he yelled, “I’m going to fucking kill her!”
I was shaking uncontrollably. An officer put a blanket over my shoulders. I was too shocked to cry or speak. I was embarrassed – humiliated. But, I just didn’t care anymore because, god dammit, I was alive.
He did 10 days in jail. He did counseling. He still isn’t legally allowed in my home state, which works for me.
Why am I sharing this story now? I rarely think about that night. It feels like a lifetime ago. My world is amazing these days. My husband is safe and supportive. But, October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month. Also, I’ve been watching the recent National Football League (NFL) coverage with great concern. Stereotyping and shaming victims only perpetuates the cycle of abuse. Domestic violence comes on gradually. First there is a subtle eroding of a woman’s support network, then her confidence. Enter children and financial dependence into the equation and the abuser is in control. From there, the emotional manipulation is easy. I didn’t even realize it was happening until I was committed. Stuck. Too ashamed to admit I needed help. It seemed my fault. I should have known better. This shame is what kept me quiet.
I want women to know that domestic violence can happen to anyone. It doesn’t define you. It doesn’t make you weak or stupid or trashy. I’ve been there. So many of us have, but it’s humiliating and so we just don’t talk about it. I’m thinking that we should because information is power.
Please share this and/or comment if anything I’ve said strikes a chord will you.
For information about support services and counseling, call the National Domestic Abuse Hotline at 1-800-799-7233.
www.inazajac.com
I’ve been asked often since the release of “Please, Pretty Lights” the same question. Where did you come up with this story? I know what they are really asking. “Have you ever been punched in the face?” I like to remind readers that it’s fiction and not memoir. Still.
I have never been slapped or hit in the face. He skipped that part. He went from shoving to attempted murder. He never actually hit me though. The progression of domestic violence isn’t always as predictable as people like to think.
It was many years ago. We had been out at a sports bar. He had been furious with me. I can’t even remember why. He had been drinking. On the way to the car he shoved me so hard I ended up sitting on my ass on the sidewalk; my dress grimy from the wet cement. I had braced my fall with my hands, so they were bleeding. Just a little. Someone came over and asked me if I needed help, but he stood in their way saying, “She’s fine, her heels are just too high.”
“I’m fine, thanks.” I told the guy who knew otherwise. He shook his head at me and walked away. I didn’t want help. I wanted the nice guy to just go away because I was embarrassed. Back in the day, embarrassment used to override every other emotion for me: including fear.
Embarrassment made me want to work it all out in my head somehow. Maybe these shoes are kind of high? The pavement is slick. It’s so much easier to have that be the story instead of the truth: the man who is supposed to love me and care for me is treating me like trash. But that night, as I stood up and picked the bits of sidewalk out of my palms, I knew I couldn’t lie to myself anymore. This wasn’t okay. This was never going to be okay. I was too afraid to tell him though. I just kept my mouth shut. On the ride home he spoke the words that I used in Please, Pretty Lights. “I’m sorry you made me do that.”
The next day I returned to my childhood home and confessed the awful truth to my mother. She lovingly took me in just as I knew she would. I begged her not to tell a soul. I was one of the lucky ones. I had a job, a college degree. I had a place to crash. So many women don’t have that luxury.
So, I left. He let it go. No worries. The end. Right?
Wrong. What many don’t understand is that the most dangerous thing an abused woman can do is leave. Yet it’s the only salvation. It’s the paradoxical nightmare that keeps smart, strong women from getting help. My case offers a clear example. A few weeks later, he came over and pounded on my mother’s front door in the middle of the night. My mother worked the graveyard shift and wasn’t there. As I went to the door, my heart felt like it was trying to escape my body by way of my throat. I looked out the front window and saw the neighbor’s lights coming on. He was yelling and threatening to kick the door in. I was terrified, but also mortified.
And then I did the most idiotic thing I’ve ever done in my entire life. I unlocked the door and let him in. I had to calm him down. His cursing was reverberating through the cul-de-sac. Everyone would know. I had, after all, chosen this man. Built my life with him. I didn’t want my failure broadcasted.
He had been drinking. A lot. He grabbed my arms and started shaking me. The light above my head finally clicked on. He was out-of-his-mind furious. He was going to hurt me. I considered screaming, but STILL feared having my private life cracked open like a Jerry Springer Show piñata. I didn’t want my neighbors – the same folks who gave me candy on Halloween and cookies at Christmas – to know I had chosen this crazy man. Instead I pulled away and ran for the phone. This was before cell phones, so the phone was attached to a wall in the kitchen. Until he pulled it out of the wall, that is. He blocked my way and came at me.
It was time to scream.
He backed me up against a large second-story picture window that looked down over the back yard; the back yard where I had played as a kid. Where I lounged in the sun as a teenager and dreamed of falling in love. He said he was going to push me through the glass and down onto the concrete patio below. He wanted to break my neck. He pushed, but I pushed back as a swirl of my own questions taunted me. Was the broken glass going to slice me up? Would I land on my head? Why had I let him in? How could I have been so stupid?
And then someone pulled him off of me. It was a police officer. What? There were two of them holding him down on the kitchen floor. Another officer took me into the living room. It was then I heard the sirens. I looked out to see three squad cars. Red and blue lights flashed across the faces of my neighbors who lined the sidewalk. I don’t know which one of them called 911. I’m just so thankful they did.
These kind, concerned neighbors of mine witnessed my darkest moments. They watched as the police stuffed him into the back of a squad car as he yelled, “I’m going to fucking kill her!”
I was shaking uncontrollably. An officer put a blanket over my shoulders. I was too shocked to cry or speak. I was embarrassed – humiliated. But, I just didn’t care anymore because, god dammit, I was alive.
He did 10 days in jail. He did counseling. He still isn’t legally allowed in my home state, which works for me.
Why am I sharing this story now? I rarely think about that night. It feels like a lifetime ago. My world is amazing these days. My husband is safe and supportive. But, October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month. Also, I’ve been watching the recent National Football League (NFL) coverage with great concern. Stereotyping and shaming victims only perpetuates the cycle of abuse. Domestic violence comes on gradually. First there is a subtle eroding of a woman’s support network, then her confidence. Enter children and financial dependence into the equation and the abuser is in control. From there, the emotional manipulation is easy. I didn’t even realize it was happening until I was committed. Stuck. Too ashamed to admit I needed help. It seemed my fault. I should have known better. This shame is what kept me quiet.
I want women to know that domestic violence can happen to anyone. It doesn’t define you. It doesn’t make you weak or stupid or trashy. I’ve been there. So many of us have, but it’s humiliating and so we just don’t talk about it. I’m thinking that we should because information is power.
Please share this and/or comment if anything I’ve said strikes a chord will you.
For information about support services and counseling, call the National Domestic Abuse Hotline at 1-800-799-7233.
www.inazajac.com
September 4, 2014
Six Awesome Moments
Blessed, humbled, and gratefully astonished. I have been all of those things since the Please, Pretty Lights launch party last week. Here are my six favorite moments of awesome in chronological order: Awesome moment number six: The day of the party, a gorgeous bouquet of flowers arrived from my mother-in-law Lynne who lives in Arizona. […]
August 3, 2014
Ina’s quiz: “Are You Phonotized?”
Ina's quiz: "Are You Phonotized?".
Ina’s quiz: “Are You Phonotized?”
I wonder if my relationship with Iphona is becoming obsessive. Yes, she has a name. Is that weird? You haven’t named your mobile device? That seems cold considering how close you two are. The other day I got up from the couch to get a glass of water from the kitchen – not 15 feet […]
July 14, 2014
Sneak Peek: Please, Pretty Lights opening scene
This week Booktrope releases my debut novel Please, Pretty Lights on Amazon and bookstores will be able to order through Ingram. I have been given permission to leak the first few pages. I hope you enjoy. Chapter 1 SoHo, New York City, December 21, 2004 Via Back to the wall, Via shuffled through the […]
Sneak Peak: Please, Pretty Lights opening scene
This week my debut novel Please, Pretty Lights is being released on amazon and b&n.com and booksellers will be able to order it through Ingram. I have been given permission to leak the first few pages. I hope you enjoy. Chapter 1 SoHo, New York City, December 21, 2004 Via Back to the wall, […]
June 24, 2014
Drummers: part workhorse, part pack mule, part unicorn.
Next time you’re watching a show, check out the drummer and watch them work their magic. Give thanks to the bringers of the beat. It’s easy to be enthralled with the cocky lead singer slinking the stage like a wildcat in heat. But if you do, I’m afraid you’ll be missing the real star […]
