Getting to know Dimitri

Ivan’s Wife is progressing nicely and is becoming my favorite work so far. It has been a welcome distraction from the pandemic and the uncertainty of pretty-much everything right now. The trepidation I had in the beginning to use a male voice quickly evaporated once I understood the character of Dimitri. I’m enjoying the rich layers of his personality and his challenges. In this excerpt, he waits to talk to the admitting doctor in a mental hospital:

Everything about the office reeked of a set-up. The ultimate symbolism to remind me that I was a suffering lunatic and he was not. It was like waiting for Wizard of Oz to heal me. The shrink’s chair was a plush black leather and inches higher than my armless one. I waited, which only tripled the anxiety I had coming in here, and the skimpy cotton gown and damn paper shoes compounded my humiliation. A mute attendant stood next to me, armed with massive muscles and an encased object on his belt which I doubted was a pop gun.

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Anna

Anna

Anna

She stood still, staring at me with her big, round eyes, cool and composed. She certainly looked like all the pictures I’d seen of my dead mother, but she was very-much Ivan’s granddaughter. Stubborn and poised with an odd, almost-confident cockiness. The girl continued to stand there, saying nothing, like she was waiting for me to say something.

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Dimitri – Finding Sanity

Dimitri, the main character in Ivan’s Wife, is a complex man. He struggles with panic and mental illness. Trying to find the source, he thinks back to his childhood and the brother he lost. 

The only one who understood was my brother, Alexander. I confided in him at twelve, told him about my spells and the delirium that followed. We’d walk along the Moskva River, near the homestead, talking for hours. I never felt judged or insane with him. He never offered me an explanation for the spells but he understood. At times, I wondered if he had them too. I hadn’t imagined how his brows would knit together and his eyes would twitch a little when he listened. But he never said anything, he’d just assure me that I wasn’t crazy and all would be revealed in time. Alexander had an inward grace, calm and reassuring.

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Clarissa

  • Clarissa

One of the most interesting characters to write in my upcoming novel, Ivan’s Wife, is the main character’s wife, Clarissa. A woman of many faces and complexities, it’s uncertain whether she is a villain or angel. In this scene, Dimitri tries to explain his attraction to his best friend. Or obsession? 

Christian was a cynic when it came to women. He’d never been married but loved to dish out marital advice. But I loved the guy and he’d talked me off the ledge more than once. He meant well but Clarissa was the kind of woman you come across once in a lifetime. “You don’t get it, meeting Clarissa in Italy changed me. I’d watch her during the movie they were filming and I knew she was the one. Looking at her was better than any sex I’d ever had. I told her when she agreed to marry me…something I didn’t think was possible…that I would do anything for her. I’d kill for her—”

The chemistry between the two is electric and perplexing. Writing from a male point of view presents new challenges, one I am embracing. In some ways, it gives me a unique perspective on defining the woman through a man’s eyes. It’s a journey, for sure. 

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Dimitri

My developing novel, Ivan’s Wife, is written from a male point of view. I hesitated, unsure whether I wanted to tell a story from that viewpoint. Turns out, I love it. Once I got into the main character, it was less about a male perspective and more about Dimitri’s. In this scene, we are introduced to Dimitri.

I started my gray Bentley and checked myself in the rear mirror. The eight-ounce glass of Absinthe had already numbed me. My black hair hung loosely over my forehead and my blue eyes were red and droopy. There was a slow hum in my head. Of course, it didn’t take much. The booze was seventy-proof and a hallucinogen although I doubted the latter. Wishful thinking maybe. Even so, it was a favorite among rebels and renegades which suited me fine. Today I needed it. Why my deceased brother left his daughter to me was anyone’s guess. I could barely take care of myself. When Clarissa and I married, I figured she would want a baby but to my surprise, she didn’t. Admittedly, I took it as a rejection. Children tie you together permanently and Clarissa was my obsession. You’d think that fixation would have dulled by now, but it’s only grown more intense. I still bring a baby up once in a while to see her reaction. Every time, she tossed her blonde hair and giggled in that low, breathy voice that makes me crazy.

I can’t wait to see where this journey takes me. Have you considered writing from the viewpoint of the opposite sex? 

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February


Certain months are just harder than most. February is my dreaded month and my heroine, Katherine Hathaway, agrees. In this scene from my soon-to-be-released novel, Brooklyn Bitters, she foresees the hardest month of her life:

I sipped hot tea, stretched out on a recliner, gazing out my bedroom window. February had arrived with a whimper. The vivid colors of fall were now raked or withered, and gray clouds and misty rain cast their gloom over the city. A few Christmas trees laid decaying on the curb and the neighbor a few doors down begrudgingly leaned an old ladder against his house to remove the holiday lights. All of the tragedies in my life happened in February, twenty-eight days holding my breath and waiting for it to be over. 

And here we are, in February. It can’t be a coincidence that February carries such a wallop.

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    Brooklyn Bitters – A Difficult Truth

     

     

     

    Brooklyn Bitters is a different coming of age story.  It covers the two year span of a woman facing middle age. Kate, the heroine, lived a conventional life until a chance meeting with a handsome and mysterious man in New York City. The relationship challenges how she sees her life and forces her to face some difficult truths:

    I saw myself in that crowd. Not just now but twenty years from now. It wasn’t that long ago I was a young college student and in a blink had become a forty-year-old woman sitting in my sister’s house with Lindsey asking me why I never got married. It would only take another blink or two, and I’d be a white-haired woman sitting in this exact barstool with my head down after a bland visit with Gunner.

    I wonder how many of us get to the point where we look back and wonder where the years went and why we didn’t take a different road. Kate is a different kind of character who embodies our most poignant thoughts. 

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    An Unlikely Comfort

    Brooklyn Bitters is in the hands of my editor, Julia McVey. She’s a talented eagle-eye editor with a creative style.

    I’m looking forward to getting Brooklyn Bitters in print. I had fun with the characters and appreciated help from Regina Farmer, my muse for Kate. She knew her, understood what motivated her, and was an inspiration.

    I’m now immersed in my next novel, Old Coattails. Of course, the characters of Brooklyn are still with me. The heroine, Kate, visits her late friend and brother-in-law, Glenn, regularly. Over the years, she has developed an unusual attachment to his cemetery.

    The English ivy, climbing along the fence, covered the latch on the cemetery gate. The plant gave me a rash every time I touched even the smallest leaf. The vine originated from a nineteenth-century church just outside the graveyard. Nobody maintained the grounds so the ivy took over, suffocating everything in its track. At least, it hadn’t reached beyond the third tree; although it was only a matter of time. Why Stacey chose this cemetery to bury Glenn, I wasn’t sure. She claimed there were fewer visitors so she could visit her husband in private. It didn’t make sense; prior to Glenn’s interment, there had not been anyone laid to rest here in over one-hundred years.

    Twenty women were laid to rest in the cemetery. Their headstones only bore their name, date of birth and death. No epitaphs. A tiny cross was engraved in the stone so I assumed they were members of the abandoned church. Twelve of the women were buried next to a family member of the same general age, likely the husband. The remaining eight women were alone and had lived from ten to eighty two years. Long lives. I imagined that someone may have felt like me, going through the motions of life, reaching for more but hindered by duty. Perhaps a woman had reached the age of forty and realized she’d let the years go by without finding a partner.

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    Mysterious Character – Brooklyn Bitters

    Glenn

    Brooklyn Bitters, a mystery due to be released soon, has interesting characters including a prominent character who died ten years ago. His death is the source of sorrow and guilt…and a mystery to the heroine, Kate. In this scene, she wonders why visiting the cemetery stirs up so many questions.

    I reached the first magnolia tree, turned, and stared back at his resting place. The lavender flowers drooped under the weight of the rain, thrashing in the holder with each wind gust. The sight made me queasy as dread swept over me. I let go of my umbrella and grabbed a low-hanging branch to regain my balance. After a long minute, my thoughts calmed and I looked at the grave again.

    I’m waiting for something. I just don’t know what.

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    The Fun Character to Write

    There’s always one character that’s easier and fun to write. In Pages in the Wind it was Doctor Lieberman, a lonely, celebrated psychiatrist with a sharp mind and tragic past. In Brooklyn Bitters, it’s Stacey, a self-indulgent narcissistic and sexy homemaker. Two entirely different characters. Why they were my personal favorites, I don’t know. They have nothing in common but just seemed to jump onto the page with ease. Here’s an excerpt of Stacey. Maybe you’ll sense why she was fun to write:

    Her hairdresser, Debbie, raised her brows. “Quit yer belly achin’. Told ya we’d be done in forty-five minutes. Ain’t easy covering up your red roots. Why not go back to your natural color? Red’s in now.”

    “No way! Men hate redheads. Besides, I was meant to be a blonde. All the beautiful actresses are blondes. You think Farrah Fawcett would have hit it so big as a redhead?”

    Debbie shrugged. “Well, stop bugging me unless you want the world to know you’re a redhead.”

    “Now, Deb! You know how I fret about these parties. Frank will die if he doesn’t make regional manager soon. He’s done everything to impress his boss. These parties give him a chance to strut his stuff. Plus, after a few martinis, the boss will loosen up.”

    “Does the dude have a wife?” asked Debbie.

    “Yeah, I know what you’re thinking…and yes, I aim to make her my best friend tonight.”

    “You’re barking up the wrong tree,” she said, waving her brush. “A strapless dress is sure to get her knickers in a knot. Women don’t like sexy blondes sniffin’ around their husbands.”

    Stacey giggled. “You might be right. She’s twenty pounds overweight with the sex appeal of an old nun.”

    Debbie nodded. “I rest my case.”

    Stacey pulled up the spaghetti strap on her purple tank top. “Well, I can’t disappoint Frank. He wouldn’t admit it, but he gets off when men can’t take their eyes off me. After all, he’s the lucky one going home with me. Tell you what…I won’t wear a push-up bra.”

    She smirked. “Hell’s bells, you got cleavage in a turtleneck.”

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