Hello, Readers and Friends:

Dear Readers and Friends:

A quick update, and a preview of the Prologue.

We are well on our way to the November 15 publishing date.

I have just turned in my review of the developmental edit. It was hard to relinquish my book this time. I’ve worked on it for six years, it was my thesis for my Master of Fine Arts degree, and has been my companion. It helped me get over the sorrow of leaving Miriam’s House. And now I’m sending it out into the world.

I know, I sound like a mother sending her first-born off to college. We writers are weird that way.

In honor of my memoir leaving the nest, I’m giving you a preview of the Prologue for "Nowhere Else I Want to Be."

Best wishes.

PROLOGUE for NOWHERE ELSE I WANT TO BE

It seemed inevitable, falling from a slated sky as though no other weather were possible while I grieved leaving Miriam’s House. I watched the snow come down for hours, rocking in my glider chair, and it covered tree branches and roofs visible from the second-story sun room in the house we’d rented. Under the influence of that blanketed world, grief finally began loosening its grip on me. I let the memories in.

         Of all the things I could have remembered about Miriam’s House—Claudia’s dream or Gina dancing in the dining room or Faye nearly being arrested or Alyssa dying—I don’t know why I thought first of Kimberly and the mess she embroiled me in a few days before Christmas 1996. But as I relaxed, it was Kimberly I saw. Kimberly watching horror movies. Kimberly insisting she was most certainly not smoking in her room. Kimberly scratching madly at a lottery ticket. Kimberly, drunk, calling my name from outside the house and sounding like a lost soul.

         The life I’d participated in and witnessed at Miriam’s House had changed me in profound ways. I’d lived and worked there from 1996 to 2009, fourteen years of life at its richest, teaching me lessons I had yet to assimilate. And so, with memory as catalyst, I got up from my comfortable chair and left the sun room for the office and the computer I’d been avoiding for weeks. What impelled me, I think now, was the desire for catharsis, to process my grief and those transformative years by telling myself my stories. It was the desire not to forget, and more important still, not to let the women be forgotten. I began to make good on a silent wish of some years, and that was to let the world see what I had seen: the astounding, courageous humanity of women beset by the worst of societal and physical ills. But in that moment, these thoughts were yet to be formulated. I simply sat down at the keyboard and took dictation from my heart.

         This is what I remember most vividly about Kimberly…

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As I wait for the manuscript to come back from the developmental editor, I want to share with you one of my favorite humorous stories from "Nowhere Else I Want to Be."

Enjoy!

I was on duty one evening about a week later when Gina’s difficulties breathing made us call 911. I followed on foot to Howard Hospital, only a few blocks away, and went inside to find her on a stretcher in the hall because there were no bays available. 

We settled in for what became a long and chaotic wait that did have two redeeming features – Gina spouted endless and hilarious commentary, and a drunk patient obligingly provided her with something on which to remark. Gina first noticed him when something moved on what had looked like an empty stretcher parked in a nearby corner.

            "It’s alive!" Gina might have imagined her whisper actually was a whisper. She would have been deluding herself. 

            "Good Lord, Gina, you scared me." I noticed out of the corner of my eye that I was not the only one. 

            "Here we go again. Why do weird shit always happen when you bring me to the ER?"  She was speaking to me but keeping a cautious eye on the stretcher. Since I was on her right and the stretcher was to her left, her head was turned away from me. This meant that she had to ditch entirely the effort to whisper in favor of her normal tone of voice, always impressive in its ability to cut through ambient noise.

            "I could say the same thing to you."

            "Whatever. Did you see that thing move?"

            She was staring at the stretcher, and though I had not noticed movement, I watched it for a moment. It looked like a pile of dirty sheets plunked down haphazardly, ready for laundry services. Suddenly, as if on cue, an arm fell out from under the disorderly pile. 

            Gina jumped. "Shit!"

            I had jumped, too, along with the others around us now forming what could only be termed an audience.

            "See? See? It’s alive!"

            "Could you watch your language? Others can hear you."

     Some small part of me realized I sounded prissy, but I couldn’t stop myself and was well aware of Gina’s potential for flamboyant and dramatic scenes. Hopefully she would not notice the amused and interested expressions on the faces around her. That would be all she needed.

            She was paying me no mind, going on about the guy about to fall off his stretcher and I should go catch him. Fat chance, I thought, as she let loose another shit.

            "Would you hush? He’s drunk. Not someone I want to tangle with right now."

            Gina snorted in amusement, picturing, I assumed, me in a struggle for control over this rather large, certainly drunk man as he half climbed, half fell from the stretcher. She had no time to share her imaginings, however, because he staggered a few steps forward as though about to fall flat.

            "Watch out!" Gina’s call was far more disquieting than the poor man’s stumble and had a far more startling effect on those within earshot, which, given the piercing nature of her voice, was essentially the entire ER. "He fallin’!"

            Drawn by her stentorian tones, ER personnel rushed over to try to help the man back onto the stretcher. After a brief struggle, the guards succeeded in getting him to lean against the wall, support that seemed to please him in a way that the idea of lying down again had not. Apparently believing their help was no longer needed, the security guards walked back to their station. Soon, and with the slow deliberation of the alcohol-impaired mind, the man began to unbutton his shirt. 

            Gina made a disgusted face but did not turn from her avid watching. "Hairy beer belly. Yuck."

            At this stage I had dropped all pretense and was staring as much as anyone. I didn’t add color commentary, but then, it wasn’t needed. Gina was all over it. "That nasty shirt, who would wanna wear a shirt like that? If something crawl out of it, I’ma pitch a fit. Nasty thing."

     But not even Gina was equal to the task of maintaining running chatter when, swaying on his feet, our drunken entertainer began to fumble with his zipper. Mouth agape, she watched as he unzipped his pants. "Oooooooh, lord."

            With the settling of his pants around his ankles came the realization he wore no undergarment.

            Gina dug a sharp elbow into my arm. "I see it! I see it!"

            Another dig. "Carol, do you see it?"

            Just about then the security guards rushed in and hustled the poor man toward the bathroom. Gina dug again, elbow to my forearm, asking her question. Clearly she was not going to shut up unless she got her response. I sighed. "Yes, Gina, I saw it."

            Naturally, my admission amused Gina exceedingly, her amusement lasting through the evening and well past our return to Miriam’s House the next morning. Gina got a lot of mileage out of the story of the drunk guy droppin’ his drawers right in front of Carol, almost all of which I heard about second-hand from highly amused staff members.

~~~~~~~~

The kitchen at Miriam’s House gets really hot in the summertime. Appliance motors on the ice machine, the three-door refrigerator and the freezer, a 10-burner stove and two ovens kick out enough heat to fill even this fairly large space. Several ceiling vents releasing an air-conditioned breeze cannot keep up. So on the Sunday after our ER adventure, making breakfast in that hot kitchen and with a migraine coming on, I am struggling to maintain my composure.

            "Hey, whatcha cookin’?" Gina, recently out of bed, judging from the state of her hair.

            "Pancakes, bacon, home-fries..."

            She doesn’t let me finish the list. "Blueberry pancakes?"

            I eye her warily. "Well, no, Gina, not this week."

            Uh, oh.

            "You know that’s my favorite. Last time you made ’em you ain’t even made your blueberry syrup to go with ’em." Gina never exactly pouted, but I have never known anyone who can so effortlessly assume an air of bruised betrayal. I avoid looking at her face, aware that my control over my temper is at gossamer strength. The bacon needs tending, so I mask my unwillingness to look Gina in the eyes by bustling with great concern over to the electric frying pan, spatula at the ready.  Without looking up, I speak again.

            "Blueberries are out of season. And not all the residents like ’em, so I thought plain would be a good change."

            "But you said you’d make blueberry, remember? At the ER? When that guy took off his pants in front of you?"

            "Good grief, Gina, it wasn’t in front of me, really, and how do you expect me to ..." Suddenly, the five or six women waiting in the dining room rush in. They have overheard the phrase, took off his pants in front of you.

            "What? What?"

            "Took his pants off in front of Miss Carol? When?"

            "Naked? With Carol right there?"

            Eager interest in this juicy story makes them deaf to my pleas to get out of the hot, crowded kitchen. Gina, inveterate lover of attention, is in her element. "Falls right off his stretcher thing in the ER and stumbles around, like he ain’t know where he is. Drunk and..."

            "Get out of the kitchen! How am I supposed to cook?"

As I rarely lose my temper, at least, not in front of the residents, six chastened women leave in rather a hurry, surprised, I should guess, by my vehemence. Immediately, I feel guilty for shouting at them. I turn my frayed attention back to the bacon. The burning bacon. Time for a deep breath, a sip of tea, a gathering of the shredded remnants of my patience. Gina and her audience are huddled at a dining table for the highly dramatized, I have no doubt, denouement of the story. Great. Plain pancakes and burned bacon for breakfast and I’m hot and my head is getting worse.

At that moment, Gina’s voice rises above its stage whisper. I can hear her from my position by the stove and recognize in her tone the approaching high point of the story. A happily horrified gasp arises from the women clustered around Gina as she produces the coup de grace:

            "We saw it."

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Nowhere Else I Want to Be has a publish date!

November 15, 2016.

Inkshares has already been busy: connecting me with my editors, beginning to talk about design, planning for marketing and distribution.

I’ll keep you posted throughout the next nine months.

In the meanwhile, why not share this link with someone who would like to read this memoir?

My Inkshares author page

Have a great day, Carol

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 A QUICK REMINDER and a way to celebrate "Nowhere Else I Want to Be" going into production!

Only two more days for the January 2016 promotion:

Order either an e-book ($9.99) or a paperback ($14.99 for 1-4 copies; $10 for 5 or more) and get this mug (shipped separately when book publishes later this year):

Happy January!

-Carol

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By now you will have received your notification that "Nowhere Else I Want to Be" has reached the 750 pre-order mark and is in production. 

Whew.

Thank you to all of you who pre-ordered this memoir, who either believed in me or the story or the women I write about enough to take a chance.

You can still pre-order. There is no longer a ten-book limit, and bulk orders over five cost $10.00 per book instead of $14.99.

The January 2016 promotion is still on: pre-order this month and you'll receive a gift mug when the book publishes.

Thanks again! We're on our way. 

In 1996, Miriam's House opened its doors and welcomed Washington, DC's homeless women with AIDS. 

Wouldn't it be great if we made sure Nowhere Else I Want to Be is published during Miriam's House's twentieth anniversary year?

We can do that with only 95 more pre-orders.

Please help me put this memoir into production by the end of January. 

Will you please consider ordering one more book THIS WEEKEND? Or, if you've already ordered ten (the limit) getting a friend or colleague or family member to order?

If you order, you'll receive this mug as a gift. And the satisfaction of helping the voices of women who are to often ignored to be heard.

My dear Readerly Friends:

Fist, and most important: I hope you are looking forward to a peaceful and productive New Year.

Second and most exciting: We are very close! As of the moment I write this update, we need only 97 pre-orders to get to publication. I would love for the book to come out during 2016, twenty years after Miriam's House first opened its doors to Washington, DC's homeless women with AIDS.

So my goal is to get those 97 orders by the end of January. How?

1. The largest clinic in Washington, DC (Whitman-Walker Health) is holding a book event for me on January 19.

2. Whoever pre-orders during January 2016 will receive this mug (shipped when the book is published, one mug per order):

3. Tell your friends! Share this update on facebook and twitter and by email.

4. You have already pre-ordered, but maybe you'd like an excuse to get this lovely mug ... or make it a gift package (mug and book) to a family member, friend or colleague. In either case, pre-order another copy!

As always, thank you. 

Carol

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Dear Readers:

Because we are now in the season for finding love and acceptance in our hearts, I am sending you this excerpt from "Nowhere Else I Want to Be."  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

            "That ain't enough balls and stuff."

            "And only one box of tinsel?"

            "Ain't you bought none of that shiny garland?"

            The residents, anticipating the Trim-the-Tree party scheduled for Tuesday, survey the bags I’ve just dragged in from the car. I stop, unbelieving. Last year, our first Christmas, the women and most of the staff had said the tree was too bare. So this year I've gone to Ames, the local value store, to purchase what seemed to me more than enough to supplement the donated decorations. Really, it all looks pretty tacky to me. I cling to the memory of my family’s Christmas trees – fine ornaments handed down through generations, popcorn-and-cranberry garlands, tastefully arranged decorations – and am pretty sure this tree will look nothing but cheap. I even bought a box of tinsel, which I personally thought untidy-looking scattered on a tree, not to mention how it fell off, got tracked all over the house and then wound around the vacuum cleaner roller.

            "All this? It's not enough?"

            Certainly not.

            So I go out to get more, glad that prices are so low at Ames. Under the beginnings of a niggling shame at my snobbery, I decide to stand back and let the community have at it. 

            Tim assembles the artificial tree on the Tuesday night before the Wednesday decorating party. He winds a couple strings of colored lights on it then comes upstairs to tell me that the women want more. "Is that okay?"

            I tell him I’m staying out of it. My way of doing things seems to ruin the fun and if they want more lights, put up more lights. But the budget allows for no more decoration expenditures, so we check in our own closet. Tim grabs a string of colored twinkle lights from our supply, and returns to the living room. Next day in house meeting, several of the residents thank Tim while I squelch a stirring of envy at how easy it is for him to get approval.

            After house meeting on Wednesday, I bring out the huge can of flavored popcorn and the five-pound box of candy donated by my mother, a gift she's made to the community both Christmases so far. I put a pot of mulled cider on the stove, set out chips and dip, veggies and dip, sodas and ice, cookies and brownies, then go into the living room to check out the tree decorating.

            The room is in a state of disarray that requires some effort on my part to ignore, but I had suffered enough teasing after the fourth of July barbecue during which I’d run around with the Resolve and a cloth, attacking red juice stains on the carpet. I focus instead on the women around the tree.

            "Put this Santa on the top."

            "No. Angels go on top. Ain't we got a angel?"

            "Got a bunch of small ones to hang on the branches. The Santa is for the top."

            "We gotta put the tree skirt down. Where is it?"

            "Here. It's pretty."

            "Girl, move aside, we gotta fill that bare spot right … there."

            "They put out the food. You should go get a plate."

            "You mean, I should go get a plate and you’ll eat off it."

            "So?"

            "Where the tinsel?"

            "No, don't put tinsel on yet. Tinsel go last, after the decorations and the garland."

            "This look just like the tree my grandmother had in her place."

            "We got everything on it? No more decorations?"

            "The boxes is all empty."

            "Get the garland."

            Finally, satisfied that no more bare spots were to be found, the tree-decorators join the house-decorators in the dining room to eat so much candy and popcorn and snacks that no one wants dinner that evening.

            At ten o'clock, on the final walk-through before ending my evening duty shift, I pass by the living room where a few of the women sit in the light of the tree. I pause, struck by the uncharacteristic quiet at a time when normally the TV would be blaring and a resident or two would be clattering around the kitchen making night-time snacks or preparing for the next day.

            "Hey, Miss Carol, come sit with us."

            I sit on the couch next to Sasha to listen to the low conversation and the silence from which it unfolds.

            "I ain't had a sober Christmas since I ain't know when. Didn't know it could be so beautiful."

            "Nor remembered my kids' presents or nothin'. My mother done all that for me."

            "All I remember is tryin' to hide from my uncle. He was … nasty." The women nodded and were quiet for a while.

            "I'd be dead by now if not for Miriam's House." Nods again. More silence.

            "See the way the lights make the tinsel shine?"

            "It so peaceful like this. Wish it could be this way all the time."

            "Makes me want to put a little tree in my room. I hate the dark."

            "Put on that Yolanda Adams CD, the one with “Oh, Holy Night.” That's my favorite."

            We listen. The tree branches sag under the baubles' weight. Santa lists on his precarious perch. That garish tinsel, scattered willy-nilly and reflecting the colored lights, trembles in the draft from the ceiling vent above, and all of it so beautiful as to make my heart ache.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

However you celebrate this time of year, I wish you love, acceptance and the full measure of peace your heart can hold.

Carol

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Tuesday, December 1, is World AIDS Day. To commemorate the day, we're making public a video about "Nowhere Else I Want to Be."

I wanted you, my Readers and early supporters, to see it first:

Click here to see the video on my Inkshares page.

And if you'd like to commemorate World AIDS Day in the same way, please feel free to post the link on facebook, twitter, or by email.

As always, thank you,

Carol

ps We now have 642 of the 750 pre-orders needed! Keep an eye out for our special January promotion, coming on December 31.

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