For those who have been asking about my next novel here's an update: The above image shows the chapter, page, and word count of a novel I sent off to my editor on Wednesday. Last night I commissioned a very talented individual to work on the cover. If all goes according to plan, this means I should have a finalized cover in the next 30 days and a finalized book ready for market in July or August.
Stay tuned for updates.
The ebook version of Room for Two is currently on sale for 99 cents at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Apple's iBooks, and Smashwords. Sale runs through June 4.
This is a great time to buy it for yourself or someone else. But hurry because the book won’t be put on sale again.
Here are the links to purchase, if interested: Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Apple's iBooks, Smashwords.
The weather warmed in March, and it seemed everywhere I went, I saw either happy couples walking hand in hand, or single women, alone and wishing for someone to date. Or so I thought. Maybe it was hope. When I was shopping for groceries, for example, my eyes would roam from one woman to another, and with those I found attractive, I imagined myself asking them out. They always said yes, of course, and from there I would conjure up a whole life for me and whoever had caught my eye. From our first date, to falling in love, marrying, and living happily ever after, I planned out my life with each woman at a glance.
Read More
In a college communications class I had read about couples who spent most of their lives together. After one died, it was common for the other to pass on soon after, even if he or she was in good health. At the time I couldn’t comprehend how someone could lose their will to live after their spouse was gone. But I began to, at least partially, understand how they felt. Krista had been a significant part of my life for seven years — four as my girlfriend and three as my wife. My life had become completely entwined with hers. Now that she was gone, I didn’t feel complete. I had to force myself to live.
Read More
The evening before I flew to Phoenix, I walked through the house and examined the work that had been accomplished. All the walls had been repaired and painted white. The old carpet had been torn out, and new floorboards installed. The bathroom had been gutted, and a new shower and toilet had been put in. The house smelled of fresh paint and was finally looking habitable. I was pleased with the progress.
As I paused in each room, I realized Krista had been right. The house had great potential. She had been able to look past the dead insects and neglect to see its true beauty. I had been too preoccupied with its disrepair to see that a little work could make the place livable.
Read More
Per my request, only close friends and family members were invited to Hope’s funeral. After a large funeral for Krista, I wanted to keep this one private. Officially saying good-bye to my daughter was going to be the most difficult thing I had done, and I wanted as few people as possible to witness it.
There was another reason I wanted to keep Hope’s funeral small. Krista’s suicide had made everyone uncomfortable in my presence. I felt like a leper. People acted as if coming near me would spread some unexpected tragedy into their life. By this time, I realized their hesitation was because they didn’t know what to say. When a loved one dies from a tragic accident or an illness, most people can find words to express their sympathy. "It must have been his time," or "The doctors did everything they could." With a suicide, everyone avoided me, almost as if they blamed me. Most people couldn’t even choke out, "I’m sorry." In place of comforting words were a lot of questions no one dared ask. I saw them in the sad faces of family and friends. They wanted to know why Krista had done it. Why hadn’t I prevented it? How could I not know she was suicidal? Everyone looked to me for answers. I had none.
Read More
I didn’t sleep much that night. In the morning I told my family it was because the living room couch was uncomfortable. But the real reason was that when I closed my eyes, I relived opening the door to the apartment, hearing the gunshot, running back to find Krista’s body. The only way to stop the images was to keep my eyes open and think of Hope. I thought about the last time I saw her before she had been taken to the waiting helicopter. The nurses had brought her out in a transportation unit where, if possible, she looked even smaller and more helpless. She was attached to a large machine that would keep her on life support during the short flight. I pressed my hands against the plastic shell that encased her. I wanted to hold her in my arms and whisper into her tiny pink ear, "Everything’s going to be all right. I’ll see you soon."
At some point sleep must have overpowered me for a few moments because at two thirty in the morning I awoke suddenly. I walked to the kitchen and stared out the window at the street, which was dark and quiet. I noticed my dad’s truck in the driveway and wondered when he had arrived and why he hadn’t come and talked to me.
Read More
I expected the maternity wing of the hospital to be bustling with proud, bleary-eyed fathers and grandparents carrying stuffed animals for the newborns and flowers for the mothers. But when the elevator doors opened, the hallway was empty. As I followed the police officer down the hall, every room we passed was dark and vacant.
There were six nurses clustered in a tight circle at the nurses’ station. Their conversation abruptly stopped as we approached. All six turned and looked at me. Their faces showed something between sadness and rage. It was then I realized they had been talking about me, or, at the very least, about Krista and the baby. The police officer said something to a nurse in purple scrubs. The nurse opened the door of a postpartum room and motioned for me to enter. I could feel the gazes of the rest of the nurses as I walked past.
The room contained a bed, a couch, and a few plastic chairs. A television was mounted on the wall opposite the bed. There were three framed photographs hanging on the walls. One showed a green field with bright yellow flowers. The others were of a river winding slowly through a valley and the peaks of snowcapped mountains.
Read More
I’m honored to be a small part of Sheryl Sandberg and Adam Grant’s new book Option B. The message of the book is one that everyone can benefit and learn from: We are stronger and more resilient than we think. We not only have the ability to cope with devastating life events but can rediscover joy and find greater meaning and appreciation for life after experiencing tragedies. The book teaches readers learn how to own situations instead of having situations own us.
Since many of my readers are widowers or are in a relationship with a widower, the book is about how Sheryl Sandberg was able to put her life back together after the unexpected death of her husband. The book has some good ideas that can help widowers overcome the loss of their spouse and count the blessings in their lives. It contains tips and suggestions on how to talk to those who have lost a loved one or struggling with serious life events.
Thankfully the book looks beyond simply losing a spouse and you don’t have to have lost a spouse to appreciate the message Sandberg and Grant convey. Anyone who’s suffered from or had a friend or family member who’s has a serious disease, lost a job, is going through a divorce, struggling with addictions, victim of sexual assault, etc. can benefit from the message in this book. Highly recommend read.
I don’t remember the last thing I said to Krista, but I know it was not "I love you." Even when I think long and hard about our final conversation, our last words to each other elude me, which is probably for the best.
The last time we spoke was on the phone. There was shouting. A lot of shouting. Though in hindsight it seems like it was all on my end; I don’t remember Krista sounding angry or frustrated. Our conversation ended when I threw the phone down in disgust. When I arrived at our apartment twenty minutes later, I was furious. I slammed the door to the car, feeling the muscles in my arm clench.
In the pale light of the November afternoon, the fourplex had a dreary, mournful look. Brown leaves, having long lost their cheery autumn reds and yellows, were scattered over the matted grass. I looked up at the apartment window, hoping to see some sign of Krista. The blinds were closed and the lights were off. The place looked deserted. My anger began to morph into fear.
Read More