Back with this week’s snippet from “Yankee Doodle Darling” (still not sur about this title). This is the beginning of Chapter Two and I’m back to Cilla’s POV. Thia ia really raw, so any comments are greatly appreciated. I will try to get to everyone’s snippet tomorrow, but it’s a busy day so it will probably be later in the day.
I can’t believe Oren accused me of not getting in touch with me. He’d visited me in Boston ten years ago on the July 4th weekend. We’d celebrated my Independence Day birthday by creating some fireworks of our own. Thoase had led to my getting pregnant, and the birth of my beautiful Ana. I hadn’t told Oren about Ana because he had never contacted me. Of course, I’d had to leave messages with his mother. I’d never been her favorite person, so it was possible she hadn’t told him about the phone calls. But he should have gotten the letters. When I’d never heard from him again, I figured he’d moved on. He doesn’t know that I’d kept tabs on Dorp Dead, or that I had all of their CDs.
The phone rings as I’m setting out tonight’s dinner of grilled cheese and tomato soup. I wonder if it’s Oren.
“Hi, Grandpa!” Ana’s voice rings out. She tells him about our life in Dannville so far, and then hands the phone to me.
“Hi, honey.” At the sound of my father’s low, raspy voice, I picture him leaning back in his recliner watching a Boston Minutemen game on TV.
Continuing on with a snippet from my WIP, “Yankee Doodle Darling” (Changed the title and I’m still not sure about this one). I’m continuing on from last week when Oren confronted Cilla about not getting in touch with him for ten years. Any feedback is much appreciated–this is really raw. I wrote it when I wasn’t feeling too well.
Cilla takes another bite of her Danish, and a gulp of coffee. The guy who helped me with her when she fell answers his cell phone when it rings. Then he says “Uh, Cilla. I’ve gotta go.”
She smiles at him and and takes another swig of coffee. “Sure. Go.”
“Good luck on the new job. Call me if you need me.” He saunters out of the diner, and Cilla glares at me.
“I called somebody. I’m sure you didn’t give me the wrong number. I didn’t send e-mails because I didn’t have your e-mail address.”
At her smart-aleck comment, I see red. “Cilla, we were so much in love. Why didn’t you keep trying?”
“I did,” she insists. “I left messages with your mom and stepfather. Then I wrote letters to you here at your brother’s house. You didn’t answer. Look, I have to go to work or I’ll be late.” She takes a pen out of her small leather purse and scribbles her phone number on a napkin. “Call me.”
More on Cilla and Oren’s story, “Yankee Doodle Sweetheart.” I’m taking up where I left off last week. Cilla fell on her way into Sach’s Dannville Diner. She was wearing high heels, and she’s a klutz. She’s rescued by Oren and a guy named Greg. I just wrote some of this today, so it’s very raw. Any feedback would be appreciated. I edited to adhere to the line limit.
Cilla’s staring at me and the other dude who helped me lift her up. I ask the same question Mr. Thinks-He’s-Oh-So-Cool had asked a moment ago. “Are you okay?”
She looks at me, and is a little more focused now. “I’m fine.” She asks a waitress for a cherry danish and a cup of coffee with sugar and heavy on the cream. “I have to go to work.”
Work? I haven’t seen or heard from her in ten years, and she wants to talk about her job? She explains that she had a job as a music therapist in Boston, but the school where she worked cut the budget, so she ended up in Dannville.
“Music therapy? That sounds like a job you’d love, although I don’t know if you still like music or not since you haven’t called me or written to me in ten years.” I sigh inwardly as the snarky comment escapes my lips.
I am continuing with my WIP, “Yankee Doodle Sweetheart,” and I’ve skipped a couple of paragraphs. Now we’re in Oren, the hero’s, POV. It’s very raw and any feedback will be apppreciated.
The last person I expect to see in my sister’s diner on a Monday morning is Cilla Rayfield. We were so in love ten years ago. Sometimes it seemed like she was the only one who “got” me. She didn’t make fun of my dyslexia, and I smiled and indulged her when she wore high heels, even though she’s a klutz.
She’s wearing high heels today, too, gray ones. She walked into the diner, and she tripped, so now me and another guy are helping me to her feet.
I want to yell at her about wearing high heels, but I know better than to tell her what to do. I resist the urge to cuss at her for not getting in touch with me for ten years. After my visit to Boston ten years ago, I never heard from her again. With all today’s technology, SmartPhones and computers, I thought commnicating with me would be easy. Of course, Cilla doesn’t like technology. She says it’s moving too fast.