I remember it was a Monday morning in early June of 2010 when I received a call from the president of the Pacific Northwest Writers Association telling me I was a finalist in the romance category with my entry of Seeing Julia. “What?” She asked me if I planned on attending the conference. “Well, I guess so.” Lucky for me, I attended the summer conference, bought a new outfit, and won the Zola Award and first place with Seeing Julia the night of the awards dinner. It was a surreal moment, when I had to go up to the front of the room with those seven hundred people watching and accept my award. But, truly? I was more concerned about navigating all those tables and chairs on my way up to the podium than actually seizing the moment. As word spread about my writing award win, self-doubt had already set in. It was a fluke. It was dumb luck. As high as my emotions soared about winning; they fell just as fast when literary agents still rejected my work. Yes, the win opened a number of literary agent doors for me, but I wrote several different versions of that novel when a number of them took greater interest, but then wanted to change everything about the story. One agent called me up and lectured me for forty-five minutes about the book and then promised to take a look if I made more changes. I sent her the revised manuscript, but she never called again.
This was a year ago. I was at a crossroads with my writing and myself. I kept thinking if I did what they said and changed it, yet again, I would get to the next step—literary bliss. But I wasn’t getting anywhere.
Discouraged, but still determined, I reviewed what the critiques and feedback about Seeing Julia had been. Based on those, I sifted through what I thought would need to be changed and began rewriting the story, working day and night through most of November. With just getting a few hours of sleep each night, I kept up the intense pace and by the time the novel was finished; I knew it was. I’m extremely proud of Seeing Julia. During the process of rewriting it for the last time, I reached an important pinnacle with my writing: I trusted myself. Confidence entered into the realm. And, along with it, swift understanding: I had to make my own literary bliss.
Two additional things became clear. First, it was essential for me to have complete control over the publishing of my work; and second, the publishing industry was in the midst of a perfect storm because of e-books and I needed to take full advantage. And, so I did.
In late April and early May of this year, I released two novels: Seeing Julia and Not To Us. These books are available as e-books as well as print trade paperbacks.
Many wonderful readers have responded to my work. They often reach out to me and let me know how they love my novels. I love and cherish their enthusiasm for my work.
This is literary bliss.
Of course, my family’s number one complaint is that I write too much and all the time. Now, add to that the twittering and the facebooking and the wordpressing and now google plus-ing, and checking Amazon, and taking writing classes; it’s a full-time gig. But, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
The good news is that with the encouragement of my readers and confidence in my writing, I’m working on my third novel, When I See You, and hope to release this book before the end of this year. And, I already have drafts for two other novels, Saving Valentines and Finding Amy.
Oh yes, there are occasions, rare ones, when I’m not writing. That’s when I like to drink a fine wine, check in with my family, and look at my awesome view which I can see when I look up long enough from my computer screen in my writing refuge.
And so, welcome. Welcome to my little piece of the universe.
I’ll leave you with this—a philosophy I now live by, borrowed from one of the greatest women tennis players of all time: “You’ve got to take the initiative and play your game. In a decisive set, confidence is the difference.” Chris Evert
Oh, Chrissy, you are so right!
About the Chick
Katherine Owen has written two novels, Seeing Julia and Not To Us. Owen’s writing delves into the complexities of relationships and often from both love and loss perspectives because as an author she enjoys the unpredictability and uniqueness she finds there. Owen’s writing is not for the faint of heart; it’ll take readers through a proverbial emotional ringer before reaching resolution and the endings are somewhat surprising. Owen’s writing tends to be dark, moody, and sometimes funny. Sometimes, it can be a bit lyrical or even literary. It’s often edgy, so be forewarned. Her stories are comprised of broken heroines, who are often lost and not always intent on finding their way back; even the heroes in her books have a few flaws that cause trouble or disappoint. Many of her readers complain they can’t put the novel down or just when they think they’ve figured the story out, it changes and becomes something else. Owen has garnered a wonderful following of readers who enjoy her work, but she’s always looking for more.
Last July 2010, Owen was recognized by the Pacific Northwest Writers Association’s 2010 Literary Contest where she was awarded the coveted Zola Award and first place in the romance category (women’s fiction) for her novel, Seeing Julia. She lives near Seattle and is hard at work on her next novel, When I See You.
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Seeing Julia
Katherine Owen
An Excerpt
Prologue—Before after
There was before. And, there was after.
Before was magical, embraced promise, and bequeathed good things.
Before was for the innocent.
After was haunted, and relinquished all promise.
I had led a magical literary life in New Haven—a college town admired for its Ivy League status and an innocent sentiment held by its residents that nothing bad ever happened there. I had two famous novelists for parents. In one of the last days of before, my father’s best friend from Yale came to visit with his family. At seventeen, the man’s son, almost two years older than me, would inspire one of the last carefree days of my life and exemplify a touch point for me for all the ones that followed. All of him would captivate me—his crooked smile, lean tall build, and clear blue eyes. He wore denim blue jeans with a black Nirvana t-shirt that professed his nostalgia for the band while his golden hair swung around his face impersonating the revered Kurt Cobain. I remember sweeping it out of his eyes without thinking, overcoming my normal shyness, and being spellbound. I’d never known enchantment before, but somehow, he stood in front of me that day.
While our two families talked inside my imposing house, the golden boy and I hung out in the backyard under the sweeping branches of our cherry tree on a swing. Hidden, we were. Secret, we were. His lips tasted of the cherries we’d eaten earlier, when they first met mine. My first real kiss. He stirred feelings inside of me I’d never felt before and I remember wanting to kiss him forever to savor the surprising desire that overtook my body and mind.
No one my own age had ever taken that much of an interest in me. He’d asked me all kinds of question about my life. Where did I want to go in the world? I told him all about my travels with my parents to Madrid, Paris and London and the upcoming trip to Athens. I blushed thinking he would find me boastful, but he had only expressed admiration for my worldliness. When he asked me what I wanted to do when I grew up, I’d shared my secrets to be a doctor and save people; a ballerina if I managed to get up on toe shoes by the end of summer; a veterinarian if only to fulfill my love for animals; and of course, the ultimate, I hoped to be a famous novelist, just like my parents. He asked about my favorite music, but by then, I was too captivated by this strange rush of feelings for him so I said I loved Nirvana, even though I never really played their music. One of his last questions had been what was my favorite movie? I had stammered out Jerry Maguire, before I could rein in the truth about my secret fascination with romance. His engaging laugh was not at me, but with me. He stole the second best line from the movie when he said: “You complete me.” I stole the first, when I said, “You had me at he
llo.”
I remember being so awestruck by him. He gave me the courage to share myself and my secrets. Why he took an interest in me, I would never know. I had always been the bookish girl with famous writers for parents. As a freshman, everyone in the exclusive Hopkins School I attended had known who I was, who my parents were, but they hadn’t known me.
I blushed under his gaze, as he held on to my hand. Already, his familiarity and possession of me was so complete as he’d tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear and kissed me again. I laughed more that day than I ever had before and drank him in like fresh cold water on a hot day. I remember the feeling of being forever altered by him. And, when he said goodbye and reluctantly left with the rest of his family with a promise to write and call, I believed him. How could I have known he would be the last of the magic that had been my world? It would be a sliver of time I would never get back. A modicum of happiness in the before I would never fully let myself experience again. How could I have known that it would be the last of before? And, in the after, everything I had ever loved would vanish. In the after, I forgot his face, even his name. There would be no letters. No phone calls. I’d never reach out to him again. I would only be able to recall his words, ‘you complete me; you’re all I see’, and that acknowledgment, alone, would save me in the aftermath and serve as an everlasting promise of how things could have been. My new reality would take away the magic, turn my dreams to nightmares, make my memories imagined, when before ended and the after came. He saw me that day. And then, the after came and I disappeared.
Chapter 1—In the after again
I’ve been here before. I’ve done this before. At sixteen, I buried my parents, at twenty-three, my fiancé, Bobby. And now, almost four years later, my husband, Evan. I’m here, again, in the after. Here’s what I know: death abducts the dying, but grief steals from those left behind. There is less of myself with every loss.
I stare at the red glow of the cigarette for a long time and then, inhale deep. A rush of nicotine courses through me. I don’t smoke. Except today, I do.
The lit cigarette provides the only light in the church stairwell where I take comfort in the cloak of darkness and estimate having another five minutes of anonymity before Kimberley comes looking for me. Five minutes to get it together to let the Oxycodone and nicotine do their thing—one to get me to an anesthetized state; the other because breaking the rules seems like the one thing I should do for him on this day. I lay back and willingly suffer the sharp metal edge of the stair that digs into my back. The pain is real enough, but it’s nothing compared to the steady ache pulsing inside of me already. I close my eyes. This stairwell sanctuary envelops all of me.
Christian Chantal’s distinct French accent and the southern drawl of another man’s voice a few flights above pull me from my reverie. “I’m glad you came. He’d be glad you were here,” Christian says.
“I had to come. I still can’t believe he’s gone. I just saw him.” The stranger’s voice catches with emotion. “I’m taking the red-eye flight back to London tonight. There are many things that need to be taken care of over there. Here, too. What does she want to do about Hamilton Equities?”
“I don’t know. She’s pretty broken up, right now. I haven’t had a chance to talk to her.”
“What will she do?”
“I don’t know. She’s been through a lot, even before this happened. She’s amazing that way. We just have to help her get through it,” Christian says.
“I don’t know…Evan getting married again so soon after Elizabeth’s death and no pre-nup with this one.” The way he says this one causes me to wince.
“He wanted to give her the world. He really loved her. Julia’s the real deal.”
“And she loved him?”
“You’re so cynical,” Christian admonishes. “Of course, she loved him.” The men’s voices get farther away. The echoing sound of a metal door opening and banging shut drowns out the stranger’s response.
Weary, I lean my face against the cool cement wall. How many others at this funeral were going to be suspicious of me? How many would question my motivation in marrying Evan so soon after we first met? Do I really care? Does it even matter? I just want to rewind back time to ten days before, when it was just Evan and me playing with our baby and watching the storm rage outside.
The light bursts on overhead and I sit up, startled, even though I knew she would find me. My respite ends as Kimberley runs up the stairs toward me. “There you are.” She appropriates the lit cigarette from my hand and takes a few tokes of her own. Then flicks it to the ground and steps on it with her black Stiletto. “It’s almost time.” I nod. She flashes me one of her I-know-this-day-sucks looks. I allow myself a wan smile as she helps me up.
“Did you find her?” Stephanie leans through the doorway below and wrinkles her nose at the smell of smoke still drifting in the air. “Julia, you don’t smoke.” She fishes out fresh mints from her handbag and adroitly hands them out to us.
“I can do whatever I want.” I manage to say, though raw emotion constricts my throat. I think our kindergarten teacher is at a loss for words as my assertion reminds her of why we are all here. The empathy for me emanates from both of them. No one wants to be me on this day. “I need a drink,” I whisper to Kimberley as she pulls me up from my sitting position.
“Julia, we all need a drink. In another hour, we’ll do just that.” If anyone can make something better out of this day, it will be Kimberley Powers.
We enter the foyer at the back of the church. I glimpse all the people inside. A mixture of panic and sorrow rush at me. I will not cry, not today. My two best friends link their arms with mine and bestow me with their strength. The Oxycodone begins to kick in and man-made serenity slides over me. We enter the hushed church of four hundred restless strangers. All eyes are upon me, as the three of us, dressed in variations of designer black, make our way down the middle aisle to the front pew. I keep my head bowed, not wanting to be here, not wanting to be any part of this day. Yet, I am here and Evan is not.
*
Kimberley has outdone herself, even against the high measuring bar as one of the best public relations specialists on the eastern seaboard. I expected a nicely planned gathering after the funeral, but I look around amazed at the opulence of this get-together on the Upper East Side and muse Evan would have loved it. There are more than a hundred people here to honor him. I have already thanked and been hugged by most of them—family, friends, and employees.
Now, I’m flanked by my entourage. Kimberley, to my left, dispenses a continual stream of a chocolate martini mixture in my glass, fulfilling the role as my personal bartender. Christian’s older brother, Gregoire, sits on the other side of her, intent on keeping Kimberley entertained. Stephanie and Christian are to my right attempting to ply me with food. Mr. and Mrs. Chantal take turns, encouraging me with, “try this, Julia.” I do not openly refuse their offerings. I eat a little, but drink more.
*
I cannot feel my toes any longer. I vaguely try to contemplate if this is due to the vodka or the Oxycodone. I give the group a reassuring smile as my head swims with a mixture of pain killers and alcohol. This is a non-smoking lounge. I lament that fact as I dangle an unlit cigarette between my fingers. The bartender continues to eye me in this vigilant way surely wondering of my intention with the forbidden cigarette. I’ve already shared with him my theory about breaking the rules. I think he would like to agree with me. Rules are meant to be broken when your loved one dies, but the hotel general manager hovers twenty feet away from all of us eyeing me in particular with uncertainty.
Kimberley orders another chocolate martini and slides it over in front of me. I look up at her reflection in the mirror behind the bar and lift my glass in gratitude and take a sip. I try not to grimace at the amount of alcohol that assails my tongue with this semi-sweet concoction. I’m a light-weight. Kimberley knows this, but we keep going. I have not informed my co-conspirator about the v
ial of Oxycodone—an inheritance—a gift from the god, himself, from a knee injury Evan suffered skiing the winter before. I’ve already pilfered two more pills from the vial in the last hour. I catch the edge of the bar as grief plunders me with this fresh memory of Evan, whose life we celebrate. He is gone. I am still here. I cannot reconcile these two incongruent thoughts.
I hazily continue with my performance for my two best friends and their significant others showing them all I will survive this, though I am not at all sure how I will. Despite all of these people around me, I feel alone. The thought cuts across me in a peculiar ominous way. I am alone in the after. Again.
*
The crowd has moved on to dancing—the signs of a good wake so I’m told by one of Evan’s nostalgic uncles. I perform a waltz in a semi-daze in the older gentleman’s arms. Even when his hands stray to my right buttock and give it a firm squeeze and I feel his hard-on accost my right hip, I keep up the pretense of dancing with him for a few more minutes with a fake smile pasted on my face. Evan’s Uncle Joe gives me a lustful look and mutters under his breath that I am a sweet young thing and he can show me a good time.
I step back away from him, more unsteady now, but too weak to actually slap his face because my imbibitions are beginning to catch up to me. I sway and take another precarious step. Someone comes up behind me and squires me away from the lecherous old man.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” drawls the voice from the stairwell in my ear. He puts his arm around my waist and we move together across the dance floor. “The old guy is a real dick and to do that to you here on this day, unforgivable. He’s perfectly harmless, I think, though I would have thought Evan would have warned you about him long ago.”
Invoking Evan’s name upsets me and I pull away from my intended rescuer, intent on making it back to my appointed place at the bar. “Don’t talk about Evan,” I say in alarm.
Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories Page 19
