By P.E. Kavanagh (Guest Blogger)
I
was on the grounds of the Garrison Institute, attending a creative
retreat on a surprisingly hot summer day. I had been instructed, by a
well-known photographer, to capture the light
through a camera I barely knew how to use.
There
were other people around, attempting to capture their own light, but
no one near me. I could sense bodies coming and going, like the bees
around the lavender patch, but my lack of attention kept them out of
focus.
The
day had reached its midpoint and the sun was scorching. I could smell
and taste the heat. Relief lived in the shady corners, which,
unfortunately, held no photographic interest. To
capture the beauty is
to put oneself into
the fire.
The
sweat dripped down my back as I searched for a worthy subject, the
bees intent on getting my attention. Yes, I said to no one. But how
to capture the unpredictable movements, the scales of grand field,
large bush, tiny bugs? Mostly, I worried they would smell me and find
me more appealing than the aromatic lavender. I realized that that
was ridiculous and continued behind my camera lens.
The
entire Universe shrunk down to my breath, their buzz, and the click
click click of my shutter.
A
particular bee, with a bulbously beautiful body, captured me as I
attempted to capture him. The back of my neck was burning, my eyes
were losing their focus, I was barely able to stand the heat.
And
yet, I was as absorbed as I had ever been in the bee’s movements.
Why was he doing what he was doing? What did he think of my
observation? Did I enter his awareness? Who was I… to him?
The
sun won and I retreated. The bee, I’m sure, went about his day, not
only in the lavender bush, but also in my camera and in my thoughts.
Perhaps
because that day lives in pictures, or perhaps because I left before
the call was fully answered, it has stayed with me. It is a reminder.
There
will always be…
comings
and goings,
an
invitation,
hot
pressure that demands your surrender,
fierce
uncertainty that questions everything.
With
all this going on, how will you
make your art anyway?
What
heat will you bear to fully answer the call?
This
day, which took place in the early days of my acknowledgment that I
had become a writer, keeps me clear from all the illusions of what
being an artist means. It helps me to understand that sometimes the
most beautiful creations are born under the most difficult
situations.
This
is the world that I create for my characters. They are brought to
difficult circumstances and then forced to examine what will help
them rise again, love again, thrive again.
In
my most recent novel, Coming Home, the main
character is brought face-to-face with everything that had caused her
to stay as far away from her childhood home as possible. Except now,
as an adult, she has a different awareness of what happened, and her
ability to transcend. It’s a love story – full of emotion,
romance, and steam – but it’s more so a story of a woman learning
to stand up for herself, whether it’s in response to those against
her or those trying to love her.
Blurb
Home
means many things to Ramona Barrett and none of them are good.
A
family mired in politics and ample amounts of bad behavior have kept
her happily far away. Even after her enraged mother escapes, her
drunk father sobers up, and her tyrannical grandfather dies, she has
no interest in re-connecting to those rotten roots.
A
steamy encounter with her childhood friend leaves her swooning like a
schoolgirl. He’s become a man who dissolves her logic, foils her
plans, and buckles her knees.
Too
bad he’s engaged to someone else. And that’s not even the full
extent of his secrets.
Can
the home she fled be where her new future begins?
If
you’re looking for smart, sexy characters in a layered,
emotionally-gripping story, Coming Home will
take you there.
Buy
links
Giveaway:
Excerpt
Ramona arrived at
her door and remembered tiptoeing down that same hallway, like a
delinquent teenager, the night before. Except she’d never done
anything that courageous as a teenager. Mostly she just hid. Maybe if
she’d had a chance to act out more when she was younger, she’d
have gotten all this risk-taking out of her system. She’d heed
consequences and be less impulsive. She wouldn’t find herself in a
tizzy about some guy, wasting precious moments she could be spending
with her father.
Exhaustion pulled
her into the room, longing for rest. She’d hardly slept the night
before. How foolish, going to bed all sexed-up and excited. Sure, it
had been a night to remember. Scorching hot. Great material to replay
during her many nights alone. And wrong, wrong, wrong.
Anger gave her
enough of a spurt of energy that her clothes and shoes hit the ground
with added velocity. That fucker. Lucas had made a fool of her. No.
He made a fool of himself. How had he turned out to be such a louse?
As she looked
around the room with bright pink walls, nostalgia weaved itself into
the fist of her anger and forced it open. Too many nights had been
spent cowering in her bed, wanting to be transported anywhere but
there. It was his voice on the other end of her gold princess phone
that had helped her calm down. Sometimes even his arms around her
while she cried, helping her get to sleep. The boy and the man didn’t
align. It was all too hard to believe.
She plopped herself
onto the large bed, the only item in the room she could tell had been
replaced. Even the chair she and her brother had painted with orange
polka dots still sat in the corner.
She slid between
the cool sheets, so grateful that the day was over. There’d be
plenty of time tomorrow to figure out this mess. A good night’s
sleep would help. Her eyes drifted shut as her body relaxed. Despite
her room’s history, a sense of safety, the first she’d had all
day, wrapped itself around her.
Heavy footsteps
sounded through the house. Her initial startle passed quickly - it
must be Connor coming
to check on Dad
- but the sound continued getting louder and closer to her room.
Maybe something had happened and he wanted to talk. He opened the
door and she squinted at the silhouette. Something was different
about the frame of the body, the line of the hair. Her eyes snapped
open. It wasn’t Connor. It was Lucas.
“What the hell
are you doing here? How did you get in?”
He stepped over her
clothes and shoes, strewn across the carpet, and walked over to her
bed. “Because your father has yet to ever lock the side door.”
She sat up, trying
her best to cover what was not being sufficiently concealed by her
skimpy nightgown. “What do you want, Lucas? I’ve really had
enough. Today was…”
“I know. It was a
spectacularly shitty day for you. And I didn’t help things by
coming after you that way. I wasn’t being rational. So, I'm here to
apologize.”
“Really? You
couldn’t just send me a text or apologize tomorrow?”
“No.” He took
off his suit jacket and unbuttoned his shirt, dropping them both on
the back of the chair. “Because I also came here to do this.”
Ramona watched,
mesmerized, as he stripped down to his shorts and slid into bed with
her. The shock of it stole her ability to respond. It was all deja
vu, although instead of sneaking into her room through the window, he
had walked down the hall. And instead of her house burning with the
rage of her parents, the inferno was happening inside her own body.
He
turned her away from him and enveloped her in his body. He had always
been bigger than her, but the size difference had magnified. His
breath brushed against the top of her shoulder as he held the
pressure that forced her to soften into him. Tension and anger gave
way to grief. She closed her eyes and let the tears flow.
About
the Author
PE
KAVANAGH has been a professional dancer, MIT-educated engineer,
corporate executive, spiritual teacher, and chef. These days, her
favorite titles are author, mother, and hot stuff. Find out what
she’s up to at pekavanagh.com.
Author
social links:
1 comment:
Welcome to Beyond Romance!
I love your description of the creative process.
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