The Deepest Hue

What's my problem?

I said I'd wait until Feb. 1 to start writing this book. I wanted one month--JUST ONE!-- to live like a normal person, instead of being consumed by this insane need to write. But noooo. I had to go and type away. Like an idiot.

Oh well. It's in my blood! I'm just a writer, whether or not I like it. It's my therapy, my creative outlet, my passion. Hopefully someday I'll get to make it my full-time career. Guess we'll see.

So here's the first little teeny snippet from the new book. It's FRESH (as in, I wrote it ten minutes ago) and un-edited. Comments are much appreciated!

Love, Lisa






She didn’t leave a note.

Mom had done this before. She was always abandoning us, but usually there were warning signs. An argument with Dad. A hushed phone conversation, with the door closed and the shades drawn. An open suitcase in the middle of the bedroom. There were always indications. Big, ominous clues that weighed on my mind like a cement slab.

But there was nothing this time.

I walked home from school that gray February day, obsessing over the fact that Michelle Jenkins didn’t like me. She was the most popular girl in the fourth grade. In fact, she was the most popular girl at Forrest Elementary. I helped her with her science homework and basically gave up recess to show her how ecosystems work. Yet she acted like I wasn’t alive. It didn’t make any sense.

I sighed as I hopped up our porch steps. Then I knocked on the door and waited for Mom to greet me. Sometimes she took a little while. Sometimes she’d show up with bloodshot eyes or flushed cheeks. Then she’d run to her bedroom and lock herself inside, leaving me alone with my homework. Which I always did two times. Once to get it right, and twice to get it perfect.

But that day was different.

Nobody was home. With no way to get inside the house, I ran over to Mrs. Herman’s yard. I waited with her ‘til Daddy returned from work. My nine-year-old heart was aching so badly that I believed it was going to stop beating. Just flat-line, like on those medical shows.

Why hadn’t I seen it coming? How long would Mom be gone this time?

I didn’t say a word to Mrs. Herman, even when she offered me some sweet tea. I just chewed the straw and pretended to concentrate on my English homework. I pored over the same two pages for about an hour. After that, I wrote an essay that wasn’t due for another week. Then I proof-read the whole thing until every sentence was grammatically correct.

It was the only way to keep the tears from falling.

Daddy came home at five. We ate a silent dinner. He didn’t talk about Mom, didn’t address the fact that all her clothes had been removed from the house. Her car was gone from the garage and her cell phone was smashed on the floor. It was broken into about twenty pieces. This was her way of telling us not to try to contact her.

It was really over this time. There would be no coming back, no happy reunion a couple weeks later. I knew this; I sensed it as I lay awake in bed that night. Mom had walked into and out of my life so many times. But she wasn’t walking anymore. She was running now, in the other direction.

I had lost her for good.