As far back as I can remember, I had three all-important life goals; become a
wife, become a Mom {with a capital “m”},
and become an author. When I was nine or ten years old, I actually thought I
was a bit of an underachiever. After all, how hard could any of that be?
When I was nineteen years old, I believed I
had all three targets in sight. One of my poems had been published in the local
paper two years before, {I know, “Wow”,
right?}, and even though I’d dropped out of school, {dummy}, and given up my chance at earning a degree in Journalism, {idiot}, all of my friends loved the fiction I was
still writing, {bah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!}
A pretty little diamond chip winked at me from my left hand, and my fiancée was
already planning our future family, {run
away!} Success couldn’t be far away.
{Isn’t naiveté a wonderful state of
being?}
Several years, boyfriends, moves and major
disappointments later, {bye bye naivete),
I realized that lucky breaks and easy success were things that happened to
other people. Anything I wanted out of life, I’d have to earn by hard work and
heartbreak.
Marriage didn’t come until I was
twenty-eight years old, and then it came with sacrifice. Although my husband
whole-heartedly supported my dreams of future authorship, he was dead set
against bringing (more) children into an “already overpopulated society, one
political mistake from the next world war”.
At 32 years of age I was working a dead-end
retail job, helping to raise a stepson, thousands of dollars in debt, and
struggling to hold my marriage together. I’d hardly written a creative word in three
years, {unless you count the letters to
creditors, promising to make a payment ‘soon’.}
By 33 I was divorced, still deeply in debt
and losing hope of ever achieving any of my dreams within my lifetime, {welcome to rock bottom.}
So let me tell you, it’s still a bit of a
shock to wake up in the morning to two little voices screeching directly into my eardrum about breakfast,
between five and seven o’clock in the morning. It’s even more surreal to sit
down with my coffee, having made the demanded breakfast, open up my laptop and
check my pre-publishing “to do” list for the day. {Reality
usually sets in at about the same time as the caffeine.}
Being a happily married Mom, {yes, with a capital “m”}, with a book
only days away from publication is a dream come true. Every dream, however, has
those odd moments of “what the heck was that?”
There are hazards to being an Author-Mom
with two toddlers. {Nobody warned me
about this stuff!}
The first is that it’s impossible to write
when the children are awake. I can wish all I want, but toddlers will not play
quietly for more than two minutes at a time. Of course, that’s never even close to enough time to jot down that
profound thought I just had, or the fabulous plot twist I thought of. Make no
mistake either, as a Mom I most often get those epiphanies just before the
children try to kill each other, have a bathroom emergency, or hurt themselves
in some way requiring immediate attention.
By the time I get the chance to sit down
and type, I’ll have long forgotten my moment of brilliance, and I’ll spend the
few, precious seconds of peace simply trying to remember why I wanted children
in the first place.
Don’t get me wrong. I love my children with
all my heart, and that isn’t how it always works. There are also those times
when the little demons are behaving more like cherubs. Of course, that’s when I want to snuggle
them, or take pictures and video, so that when I have those other episodes, where I want to duct
tape them to a wall, I can remind myself that they aren’t always intent on
driving me insane.
All of this makes it necessary to hold most
of my writing thoughts until the little ones are sleeping, but then I have a
husband and a house in various stages of
destruction, that require attention, too.
It’s a blessing to have one of those rare husbands, who helps with every
aspect of housekeeping and child rearing,, when he isn’t at one of the two jobs
he works to support the family. Because he works so hard already, I’m prone to
frantic bouts of guilt cleaning in the early evening, pushing the writing back
until he is soundly sleeping as well. And so, the bulk of my writing is done
between ten o’clock at night and two o’clock in the morning. Of course, I’ll
always have a fantastic idea just as I’m falling asleep. I could write it down right
then, but I know I’ll want to flesh it out right away. Instead I’ll repeat it
several times in my mind, hoping I’ll remember it in three or four hours, when
I’ll wake to those adorable little screeches again.
The sacrificed sleep has caused some
interesting side effects. There was the morning I tried to put peanut butter in
my coffee maker, instead of coffee. {We don’t talk about that one in my
house.} I wore one of my lovely summer
dresses inside out for an entire day, before I noticed the size tag sticking
out at my waist. {I’m pretty sure that fella from Fed Ex noticed it, but didn’t
say anything.} I particularly enjoyed the morning my daughter woke me up by
asking me to take the cat toy out of the clip for him. I have several jaw-style
hair clips in the house, that the kiddies like to play with. Since my eyes
weren’t open yet, it took me several seconds to realize that the clip she’d
handed me was a mousetrap, and the toy …. {yeah, we don’t talk about that much
either.}
There are more hazards, but suffice it to
say that being an author-Mom is nearly enough to drive any normal person
completely insane.{ It’s a good thing I
was already most of the way there, huh?}
I still wouldn’t trade a milli-second of
it. Not for anything in the world.
Despite her secret
past, Emily O’Shea was finally living a normal life. There had been some
arguments with her husband, Trevor, lately, but no marriage is perfect. At least
the column she writes for the local paper is going well…that is, until one of
her interviewees goes missing, and a monster from her past resurfaces.
Within a week Emily’s life spins into chaos. Missing girls,
a telephone stalker, murder, a monster, and an intense ex-lover; it’s turning
out to be one hell of a summer!
Her husband is acting erratically, her boss is threatening
to pull her column, and the police suspect she’s the muse for a murderer. Can
Emily save her marriage, her job, her life and her sanity? More importantly,
are her darkest fears justified? Does Emily already know who the killer is and,
if she does; can she do anything to stop them?
About the Author:
Sinead MacDughlas is a Canadian writer with an addiction to
the written word. Though she's been honing her craft for over thirty years,
Learn To Love Me is her debut full-length novel, and the result of over two
years of intensive work. Her favourite writing fuel is coffee, with the music
she loves playing in the background, and the inspiration of a lifetime of
people watching. Sinead plans to continue writing as long as there are readers
who enjoy her work.
Excerpt:
"He was my mentor when I started here too," Greg
shrugged. "He’s pretty entrenched in the way things used to be done. I
evolved; he didn’t. He was a damn good reporter in his day, but things have
changed a lot since then. Don’t let him hold you back, Emily."
"He’s still a great reporter, Greg," I rushed to
Stan’s defense. "Not one of us can hold a candle to him, even you, Mr.
Senior News Reporter. If he was here, you wouldn’t dare talk like that!"
"Easy, girl!" Greg threw up his hands in mock
surrender. "I’m just trying to help. Your loyalty is admirable. Old Stan
is a wordsmith of the first order. I'd never deny it. I’m just saying his
journalistic ethics are a bit outdated for the times we live and work in. You’ve
got good instincts, Emily. Listen to your conscience and follow your intuition,
and you’ll do fine." He winked and picked up his phone, punching some
buttons.
This new, more gallant Greg made my teeth ache and my skin
itch. It was almost as though he was setting me up for something. I wanted to
believe he was being sincere, but the goodwill was too much like a brand-new
pair of leather shoes, too stiff, oiled, and shiny.
I was saved from having to think of a response, when my
phone sprang to life at my desk. I dashed across the newsroom to catch the call
before the automated message kicked in.
"The Herald. Emily O’Shea!" I answered,
over-bright. There was a brief period of silence, and a loud click followed by
a low hiss. I was just about to hang up when someone spoke.
"Do you love me, Emily?" It was spoken in a weary
monotone. The receiver clicked again. I didn’t recognize the voice.
"Trevor?" Perhaps he was calling from his car
phone, but it didn’t sound like Trevor. Another click sounded, like someone
tapping a fingernail on the mouthpiece.
"Do you love me, Emily?" The voice repeated with
exactly the same inflection. It was eerily like the tone you’d expect from a
robot, a machine, or an old B-movie zombie. It was unnerving. Feeling weak, my
knees gave out and I sank into my chair. My heart was pounding in my ears.
"Who’s speaking?" It took an enormous effort to
sound composed. The response was one last click, followed by the dial tone.
Fear sprinted up my spine on a thousand tiny feet, and I had the sudden, paranoid
sensation of being stared at. I spun in my chair to scan the newsroom, but the
only one on the phone was Greg and he was obviously still speaking to someone.
He caught me looking at him and gave me a grin and a slow wink. If it was
intended to charm me, it failed miserably. The chill was wiped out by the
rising heat. If this is some kind of sick practical joke, someone is going to
pay!
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