A page from my book! (And other life updates!)

Apparently the months of October and November have a track record of not being great months for my blog writing!

I do have an excuse: I moved. Not just down the street…1,400 miles away! I started a new job and have been on operation: MAKE FRIENDS.

I was able to do a bit more editing on my novel and thought I would share a page I recently was touching up! For those of you who don’t know I’m writing a Romantic Suspense Novel set in the 1920’s. My first book is called, “Just A Dream” and is the story of a wealthy southern girl, Angel,  who after recovering from a car accident which robbed her of 11 months of memory, returns to her home of Charleston, SC to marry the wealthy and family favorite,  Kale Desmin. As the wedding day approaches, Angel is haunted by dreams of being in love with a man she has never before seen and of the unsolved murder of her future father-in-law. Will she solve the the secrets of her past, before it is too late? (I know that sum up sounded a bit cheesy! It’s a good story…I promise! =) Or I like to think so…)


 

From Just A Dream by Autumn Komzik

He touched the tip of my nose. “So, when you fell asleep I realized you never said what are you most afraid of?”

I stared up at the sky, still engulfed in a sleepy euphoria. What was I afraid of?

I saw her face–those crystal blue eyes looking at us, staring at me as if I was disgusting.  Watching me with him.

Mother. I whispered her name.

I bolted up to sitting position, suddenly awake.

“Mother!” I cried, jumping to my feet. “She’ll kill me!”

At my command, he dropped me off on the very edge of my driveway. I flung myself out of the car without muttering a good bye and ran along the grass and twisting oak trees that lined our road. To my relief, the house was engulfed in darkness. Mother had gone to bed. My heart hammered against my ribs at the thought of how late it was. What excuse could I tell her in the morning? I could say there was car trouble at the movies and Pearl and I were trapped there for hours. Would she believe it? I tried to silence the sick curls of terror that twisted in my stomach.

As I rounded the back of the house to enter through the staff’s doorway I smoothed my wrinkled dress and touched my hair. It lay recklessly about my shoulders, the bobby pins jutting in and out, suspended loosely against the tangles. I plucked out the bobby pins and reinserted them, my fingers shaking. If anyone saw me, they would see him. They would see him in my eyes, my swollen lips, and my tangled hair. It would all be over.

I slid through the door and down the hall way without one creak. I moved into the main area of the house which was thick with warm air and darkness and the twisting shadows of the furniture which was touched by the moon light. I sneaked towards the staircase and clutched the rail.

Clink.

The sound came from behind me, paralyzing me instantly. In the corner of my eye a bright ember glowed against the blackness and moved as if it was suspended in air. Smoke touched my nostrils. As if on cue the moon light eased through the windows, illuminating the room in silver.

There she was. The glowing end of the cigarette cast a shadow across her face, distorting her fine-boned features and darkening her crystal eyes. Her fingers from her other hand clutched the smooth glass neck of a bottle of Vodka. Mother. Was this my Mother, the very woman who stood in line and waved signs to end alcohol production…who forced Father to smoke outside? Was she even real? Or was this the frightening production of my imagination?

“Angelina,” her voice shattered any doubt of her reality.

A gasp escaped from my lips.

She tapped at the cigarette, sending ashes fluttering on the table. “Tell me the name of that young man with whom you have clearly been either fornicating with or are on the brink of fornication?”

I tried to say something, form words but the paralysis I felt in the rest of my body seemed to find its way to my lips. That boy she referred to was pure gold. He had never been anything but gentle and honorable.

Mother stood to her feet. “Tell me his name.” Her command was direct, her voice as sharp as a knife. “You know I’ll find out.” She stood to her feet, her eyes locked onto mine. “Angelina, tell me his name.”

My mouth opened. I tried to keep it closed, fought to keep it closed but it opened against my will. “W-W…”


I hope you enjoyed!!

 

Where the rubber meets the road

Where the rubber meets the road.

“The most important point for something, the moment of truth. An athlete can train all day, but the race is where the rubber meets the road and they’ll know how good they really are.”-UsingEnglish.com

On average, according to all those studies the universities put on, women talk an average of 20,000 words a day…and men roughly 7,000. Before getting into this post I just have to say it: is it possible that us girls say 13,000 more words than guys a day?!?! (I’m kinda shy though…so maybe this is why this number gap is hard for me to fathom.) My basic point of these statistics is to simply point out: we talk an awfully lot.

As I was thinking about where the rubber meets the road kind of moments, I kept thinking about all of the hopes, dreams, ambitions I’ve shared with people. I’m gonna get my master’s degree…I’m gonna write a book…I’m gonna travel hear or there…etc. But it’s not just the big dreams or plans…it’s the little ones too: I’m gonna try a new look, I’m gonna loose weight, I’m gonna help out some good cause, I’m gonna call so-and-so because I haven’t talked to them in forever, I’m gonna fix up the mustang, I’m gonna talk to the cute guy that sits across from me on the subway, I’m gonna start running every morning…IT COULD BE ANYTHING. Anything you think you could, should, or might just want to try doing.

But realistically, how many of us actually get around to doing these things? How many of us just end up talking about doing them instead?

Where the rubber meets the road. The moment of truth.

NEVERUNDERESTIMATE the power of action.

At the end of the day, Words are just words…all 13,000-20,000 of them.

Action is what turns words into reality. 

Actions accomplish goals.

Actions will get you where you want to be.

Actions will make you a better person.

Actions will help you find the right person.

Actions will help you write your book.

Actions will help you get into a new career.

Actions will help you get healthy.

Actions are what dreams are made of.

Actions will make your dreams come true.

Don’t just talk about what you are going to do. Do it.

Let’s not be people with hopes and dreams and well…people who just end up with hopes that never happened or dreams that never came true. Let’s stop talking and get to work. Let’s put some action behind our words. Let’s accomplish things, let’s be someone who did something about their hopes and dreams….and all the little things.

Whatever that thing is that you’ve been talking about doing…just DO IT (stealing from Nike, I know).

 

 

The Voice of the Office, story of inspiration

There are a lot of us who feel or realize maybe our job isn’t anything special– we aren’t preforming surgeries on a day to day basis that save lives, we aren’t flying jets, manning businesses that literally make the world go round. We are the people that maybe sit in an office or flip burgers, cut trees–whatever our occupation is, it isn’t quite our dream job and it doesn’t really feel like it is that big a deal to the world.


 

Her name was Bev, short for Beverly. She had been 25 for exactly 1 month. Twenty-five. A quarter of a century. Five years until thirty. Barely managing to cling onto being able to say, “I’m in my early twenties.” Bev was an average girl, with brown hair, blue eyes and freckles. Bev was also a girl who at one time believed she was going to be one of those people who change the world.

Bev stood in the small office of her job as of a week ago, glancing around the room.  The walls were made of giant bricks which had been painted the exact color of gray which brings to mind a day filled with endless rain. In the small room there were two windows draped with  sun-dyed green curtains, providing an excellent view of the dumpster below. She turned to face her desk where a phone, computer and key board sat, letting out a long sigh. The sigh of a person who realized life was no where near she imagined. The sign of a person who realized her dreams might not come true. She felt the tears rush in, threatening to spill out. She took a deep breath, holding her head slightly back attempting to somehow send the tears back where they came from. She inwardly reminded herself of how when she cried even just a couple drops her nose, eyes–face would be swollen and red as a beet for a the rest of the day. What if someone would stop by? Then she remembered her bosses’ words, “Yeah, at this job you’ll sooner see a cow walk through those doors than another person!”

Bev burst into tears, letting them spill freely down her cheeks.


Boom-boom. Boom-boom. Boom-boom. 

“You here it?” Bev’s Dad asked, his coppery colored eyes crinkling at the corners like they always did when he smiled.

Six-year old Bev nodded, her brown curls swishing. “What is that, Daddy?” Her blue eyes where wide with curiosity.

Her Dad touched the round, metal object pushing it along his chest.

Bev’s eyes got bigger. “Boom-boom, boom-boom….Daddy what is it?!” She clutched the tubes of the stethoscope which were lodged into her ears, trying to figure out where exactly the boom-boom was coming from.

Her Daddy smiled, eyes crinkling, dimples carving alongside the corners of his mouth. “That’s your Daddy’s heart beating,” he said softly.

Bev’s mouth dropped open as she stared at her Dad in stunned silence.

Boom-boom. Boom-boom. Boom-boom.

“That’s your heart, Daddy?”

He nodded.

Bev smiled, pushing the tubes deeper into her ears in an attempt to hear the beat better. Her eyes ran over the purple scars barely inching out of the neck of his button-up shirt. “That’s your new heart beating, Daddy isn’t it?”

Tears were touching his eyes, but she didn’t notice. “Mmmhmm.”

“I can tell it’s BIG and HAPPY–and it’s not gonna get tired like your last one. It’s strong– just like you, Daddy.”


 

Bev had wanted to be a doctor. Since the day she heard her Dad’s new heart beat, since the day she discovered how her Dad’s life had been saved by a heart transplant, since the day she received her first stethoscope, since for as long as she could remember. Bev wanted to save lives. Bev wanted to give people the gift her family had been given. Bev wanted to make a difference in the world.

And here she was sitting at a small office, her stethoscope buried in the back of her closet at home; buried under piles of bills, back luck, her Dad’s death, and the resentment and pain she felt from dropping out of medical school from grief.

What would her Dad think of her? She was working somewhere where she saw more walls than she saw people. Where her boss called her the “voice-literally” of the company because her duty was to manage the phone lines and any other form of communication, yet no one saw or would see her face.

She turned on her computer, and flung herself in the chair feeling hollow and missing her Dad more than ever.

She pulled up her personal email account, breathing heavily. Her eyes fixed onto the last email from him. The last email her dad had sent before he died. She let out a deep breath and clicked onto it, reading over words she had nearly memorized by now. He had spent the last two years before he died traveling, volunteering with mission groups that brought food and medical supplies to children. He had been at a remote village in the Amazon Basin, his email filled with the story of his struggle to communicate with the locals in the village. “After hand motions…talking louder and louder and slower and slower (why we do we automatically do that? Hah! NEVER, EVER WORKS but we still give it a go anyway)…the whole nine yards–The chief smiled. And I smiled. He laughed. I laughed. Smiling–it was just about the only thing we understood. I tell ya…if you wanna make a difference, make someone smile.

At the end he had put the quote, “Everyone smiles in the same language”-don’t you forget it, Love Dad =)

Bev read the quote again and again.  Could she ever really have an impact on someone’s life when her career involved practically zero human contact when it did not involve the phone or email?

She read it again.

smile

 

Bev logged out of her personal account and signed into the office email. As she was replying about a client’s question, she decided send out a smiley face next to her name. Before long, Bev decided to send out a smiley face with as much communication as possible, when appropriate. Whether it was through email or by her personal signature, she always sent out a little smile. She didn’t really think it would make a huge difference, but she felt like maybe she was at least sending a little happiness someone’s way.


 

Two years later…

Bev looked into the tiny office with it’s gray brick walls, sagging curtains, and old computer one last time, her heart swelling with happiness and sadness all at once. She had just learned what a difference that smile made. She received hundreds of calls, emails, gifts, and notes of gratitude from so many people she never even met. Hundreds of people had flooded her with gifts, memories of small conversations or shared laughs, saying they would miss “the girl who sent smiles”. Notes which said, “I will never forget the girl who made people smile.” “I know we never met, but we became friends, how amazing is that.” “Bev, you made me feel like I mattered,  you are an amazing young girl.”

Apparently that smile mattered to some people a lot, a lot more than Bev realized.

Today Bev is a cardiologist, making her dreams a reality, and signing her name with a smile.

Wherever you are you can touch someone else’s life. If you can brighten someone else’s day or make them laugh or smile, or complement them in some way, you are a world changer. Even if it was just for a moment, you made someone feel like they mattered or that they were special. We need more of that in the world.

Wherever you are…whoever you are…you can make a difference!

Happy Wednesday!

Boy meets girl 

Boy meets girl. Boy and girl fall in love. Boy and girl get married and live happily ever–boy and girl get a divorce. 

When I was in high school I knew a couple who were madly in love, Dean and Bobbie. They were that couple that made you believe fairy tale love complete with Princesses and Prince Charmings does exist. Both in their early twenties, Dean and Bobbie were successful, attractive, adventurous, and best friends. Even though every girl I knew secretly wanted to end up with Dean, we all knew he and Bobbie belonged together. They were soulmates. Anyone else would be wrong. 

In 2006 Dean and Bobbie had the most beautiful wedding and started their happily ever after. 

I went to college and only saw them occasionally over Winter and summer breaks. They were still madly in love, still living the fairy tale.

After I graduated I realized I hadn’t seen them in a good long time. What do you do when you haven’t seen someone in a while? You look them up on Facebook. When I pulled up the names I saw one thing: DIVORCED. 

I was STUNNED. They were so in love. They completed each other. There was a time when they couldn’t live without each other. WHAT HAPPENED? 

Love is the most powerful thing in the world. If so many people believe in this, why can’t it seem to last forever? 

Because we starve it. 

A general principle in life on keeping something alive, strong, healthy is that you have to take care of it. You have to feed it. Remember those gigga pet things (sorry about the spelling!)- the electronic pet that died if you forgot to feed it one time? Hah! But in all seriousness how many of us got our gigga pet with the determination and devotion that our pet would live forever? Anyone still have a “living” gigga pet? Case and point. 

I think we think and treat love as if it somehow is self sustaining. For years we never feed it, never give it nutrition and we wake up one day to find its just gone. 

What is the key to staying in love? Feed it. What does love thrive on? ROMANCE. 

Why is love dying? Because romance is dying. Romance doesn’t necessarily mean chocolates and hearts and poems. Romance is finding out how to make your mate feel like a million bucks. Not just once, not just twice…but for the rest of your life. 

You may say, “I suck at romance! I am just not a romantic person, I don’t even know where to start with being romantic!” 

Romance is something you can learn. And if you want love that lasts a lifetime, it’s something you’ve got to learn. 

   Love isn’t how much you say it. It’s how much you prove it true. 

 

A really great book I found a while back is 1,000 Ways To Be Romantic. Literally exactly what it sounds like. Another great read on learning romance is The Five Love Languages. everyone is different, including what ways make us feel loved. 

Just remember the key to romance is the other person. Find out what makes them feel special and what makes them feel loved. 

Happily ever afters still exist. They are hard work, but the best things in life rarely come easy! 

Cheers and best wishes to your happily ever after! 😊❤️ 
  

Disapearances, socks and other mysteries of the universe

The universe contains many mysteries…

One show that scared the living daylights out of me when I was little was Unsolved Mysteries.

Apparently his name is Robert Stack

Apparently his name is Robert Stack

For those of you who ever watched this show, do you remember THAT MAN, the host? He was a rather frightening individual. I call him THAT MAN because I don’t know his name or anything about him. All I know is his voice had a way of sending chills down my spine, his face haunted my sleep, and he had a way of making the unsolved mysteries forever seem unsolvable.

1958, Northern Wisconsin

Norma Jean is thrilled about her brand new laundry machine. Her dear husband who bought it for her, has been away on a business trip in Chicago and will be arriving in just a few hours. The children were packed away a hours before and are spending the weekend with Grandma. Norma Jean is all alone in their neat little house on the end of the street. The laundry is washed and dried, all that is left to do is fold it. She sits in front of the television, and folds.

The house is quiet.

Too quiet.

And dark.

Too dark.

Norma can’t help but notice how her heart seems to be beating much to quickly and her arms dot with goose bumps at every creak and groan the house makes. She turns on the television, to drown out the silence. I Love Lucy. Norma groans, Lucy has always reminded her of that little tart of a secretary at her husband’s firm. The girl wears nothing but skin-tight red skirts and blouses, and spends her day giggling at Mr. Jean while blowing kisses with her red lips, tapping her red nails, and puffing her red hair. Norma’s cheeks flood with heat at just the thought of the little hussy. At least her mind has moved on from the strange creaks throughout the house.

Lassie, the collie has growled twice now. Every time she walks past the laundry room, she whines. Norma’s hands shake and she folds faster and faster. She tries to focus on the annoying little giggle the secretary makes each time Mr. Jean smiles at her. Speaking of Mr. Jean, where is he? She glances at the clock on the wall. He was late, half an hour late.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. The incessant clock’s ticking has seemed to become louder and louder, barreling in through Ricky Ricardo’s smooth Cuban accent. Lassie stands outside of the laundry room door, looking like a soldier on duty. She is stiff, ears twitching, listening.

Bark! Growl! Bark! Lassie’s bark is so loud, Norma jumps. Lassie sniffs at the air then sniffs her way out to Norma Jean and the basket of laundry sitting in front of her. Norma tells Lassie to pipe down and turns the television up higher.  She folds and folds, casting a glance towards the laundry room every now and again. Her fingers have hit the bottom of the laundry basket to find the only thing left to fold are her husband and children’s socks.

I sock, 2 socks…bundle. 1 sock, 2 socks…bundle. 1 sock, 2 socks…bundle. She pairs together the socks, one after another. 1 sock, 2 socks…bundle. 1 sock, 2 socks…bundle.

The light above her flickers. At the same instance the house groans, the floor boards from upstairs creak. Norma freezes. She stares at the laundry room. “It’s just the wind,” she whispers to herself and Lassie. She can’t help but feel something is wrong– something horrible is about to happen.

She resumes folding, her fingers trembling. 1 sock, 2 socks…bundle. 1 sock, 2 socks…bundle. 1 sock….

Norma Jean’s scream pierces the air. She stares at the object in her hand, her entire body is shaking. “NO!” She screams. She bolts up and dashes to the laundry room, throws open the lid to the washing machine and looks in. She screams again, sending little echoes throughout the room.

Vanished. The word forms in her brain and lodges it’s way into her throat, refusing to come out. Vanished.

Right from in front of her.

Never to be found.

A sock’s soul mate was stolen in the night, never again to return.

The Vanishing Sock has never since been found…and remains an unsolved mystery to this day. Still one of the biggest unsolved mysteries in the world, hundreds of people have attempted to come up with products to ensure the protection and survival of socks, to little avail. Disappearance of socks with little or next to no explanation has become a global matter, and haunts each and every sock on laundry day. Not one sock is safe. The journey through the wash cycle is a dangerous one for socks, there are no guarantees and there have been no recoveries.

To the lost socks of the universe, we have not forgotten you.

This story is a contributor to the thousands, millions of case files trying to solve the age-old mystery of the disappearance of socks–a mystery which has gone quite cold  and may remain forever in that old storage room filled with mysteries of the universe.   Missing

Bathrooms, wall to wall carpet and other mysteries of the universe

The universe has many mysteries.

One such mystery is why…oh why, did people ever decide wall to wall carpeting in the bathroom was a good idea?

bathroom-carpet

I suppose this mystery isn’t completely unsolved to the masses of the world. You may be one of those individuals who put carpet in your bathroom. WHY???

I am bringing up this topic today because I am one of those people who own (I guess I should say rent? but that sounds strange!) a bathroom in which the entire floor is blanketed in carpet. I should note that I DID NOT put the carpet there. I’m pretty sure it’s been there for nearly 50 years. (Along with all the appliances in the house! The house is like a well preserved view of life and interior designing in the 1960s.) At one point I think the carpet was pink, matching the tiles on the wall and shower; slowly it has faded into a dull, liver and pink colored monstrosity.

You ask: Autumn, why not just rip the carpet out and tile the floor? Stop fussing!

My answer: I rent.

The people I rent from are ever so nice! They are literally the nicest of the nice. But they like the carpet in there. I cannot bring myself to ask why. It might change my opinion of them. I’M KIDDING! They like it because tiles are cold and hard and carpet is a softer, warmer option. All I can think is: True…but what if the toilet over flows? What if you spill your hair gel on it? And again…what if the toilet over flows???

Another reason I am bringing up this topic today is because over the weekend an incident occurred involving the said carpet.

It all started on Friday.

As I was getting ready to head out to work, I run into my bathroom and do a final “did I unplug the curling iron & straightener check.”

Whoops! I didn’t! Glad I checked. The cords are ripped from the wall and I am whirling around to turn off the light and leave.

But then…

Huh? Is it just me, or does it look like a section of the carpet is extra dark– more liver colored than the rest?

Perhaps it is just the lighting. I inch closer. Strange. Then I remember the time. Got to go! I will investigate later.

Later…

I return from work, walk into the bathroom and jump back.

Yeah…that’s not discoloration. Or the lighting.

It’s Lake Eyrie.

A sopping, puddle of what I imagine probably emerged from the toilet has taken over more than half of the bathroom.

The only thing one can do in this situation is scream in horror.

Toilet water. It may be clean looking, but we all know the word clean should never be used to describe toilet water. Oh! And how the carpet loves it. It is drinking it right up.

I have no idea how the water has escaped its ceramic prison, as no one used the toilet at all that day, but the fact of the matter is… it has.

I am an adult. And being an adult means you have to do things you don’t want to do. You have to pay for things you don’t want to pay for. I had to clean this mess up. After soaking up the water the best I could and pouring sterilization cleaners on the carpet I realized…how can it ever possibly get truly clean? Carpet has so many nooks and crannies, twists and turns.

Light bulb!

I could burn it. I could burn the blasted carpet and be rid of it FOREVER and the bathroom would be clean once again.

It is too bad burning it was out of the question. But I think I just might have the winning argument for ripping the carpet out and tiling. Cross your fingers!

I’ll end my story now, and put it in that lovely storage room of case files filled with the mysteries of the universe. With a big permanent marker I’ll write across the top, “This file contains information to solving the mystery as to why people carpet their bathrooms wall to wall…and evidence on how this practice SHOULD BE ILLEGAL!” Lengthy, but necessary.

The little seed that sprouted into a book

I was thinking today about the first little thought I had that led to the creation of my book. What was it? Where did it all begin? What was that one little seed of an idea that led to something huge–hopefully really huge, as in published huge–?

The idea of my book literally came from a dream I had a long time ago, when I was in my teens. 

Several types of people show up in dreams…there’s you, the main character; then sometimes, many times your best friends, they are the side kicks or the Robin to you, Batman; then there’s the people you think about ALOT, the Prince Charming of your dream. Of course you have your dream villains who come out in every shape and form (cafeteria lady, random customer, your arch nemesis, a cupcake….etc.). Beyond these main players in a dream you also have random people–the fillers; they make up the backdrop. I don’t know about you but half of the time I am like “who are these people?!?!” I don’t recognize them at all…not a bit! I’ve told myself they come from images my mind retained but I don’t remember at all. For example–the people you pass by in Walmart. 

Getting to the point, one of these filler people appeared more and more in my dreams….slowly working up to becoming Robin status. And I wondered if the person really existed out there somewhere. 

There was the idea. 

My book is about a girl who in her dreams is madly in love with a guy who in real life doesn’t exist….or does he? I threw in a murder and a wedding, to spice it up. 

So that’s my story on how a little thought sprouted into the creation of my book. 😀

What about you? What was the idea, life moment that led to your book?