Apology

   This blog is all about the writing process and the evolution of an author.  As many of you know, it's not always a step forward.  There are several setbacks, and one of them is the reason for this post.
   Some time ago, another author asked to read THE GAZE.  When the author was through, I received an email like no other. 
   Thankfully (I think), I was given a lot of credit for my writing mechanics and other elements that may have softened the blow.  GAZE is not a story that will connect with everyone brave enough to read it, after all.  
   One of the things the author brought to my attention was my reference to certain song lyrics.  After consulting with my friends and supporters, I decided to stop publication of GAZE and NEXT CHAPTER in order to take the necessary steps to lower any risk of copyright issues. 
   I credited the song lyrics to their respective musicians, thinking that it was more than enough.  After all, I'm not trying to sell the music.  I was merely trying to give the story a musical aspect.
   I take full responsibility for my ignorance in copyright matters, and therefore I will do what I have to do.  
   The timing could not have been worse.  My closest friends know what a trying period my family and I are getting through, but that's no excuse.
   GAZE and NEXT CHAPTER will be re-published once I have the blessing from my incomparable copy editor.  
   Speaking of blessings, I'm grateful for the support of so many readers who found a connection to my characters, my stories, and I owe everyone who invested the time in reading my long novel.  
   There are no hard feelings towards my fellow author, who spent quite a bit of time on that email, and as difficult as it was to get through it, I'm glad I have the chance to fix a few issues.  I'm grateful for the input, the evaluation, and the advice.  I'm just sorry she hated the story so much and it's beyond me why she even finished reading it.
   I apologize to each and every person out there who has an interest in reading my novels, for this interruption in publication.  Please know that I'm working as hard as I can to make this only a blip in time and nothing more.

   Javier A. Robayo
   

9/11 Tribute from THE GAZE

Writing a novel pulls many things out of your heart and mind, even your soul.  THE GAZE happens to be one of those novels and I took the opportunity to add things that touched my life.  I remember exactly where I was on that Tuesday morning.  I remember the fear and anger that dominated my thoughts that entire day.  Perhaps as a writer, I wanted to remind a reader about those events in the spirit of never forgetting 9/11.  

Here's that tribute, in the words of Samantha Reddick during a conversation with Tony Amaya...

“Tuesday, September 11th,” Tony said slowly, looking up from his notes.

“September 11th.”  I echoed, vividly remembering entering the appointment into my planner.  I even drew a smiley face next to the date.  A lump formed in my throat.

“I’m sorry, Sam.” 

His hand closed over mine and I was grateful for the contact.  “Do you believe in destiny?”

He mulled over the question for a moment.  “More than a few things in my life seem to confirm we all have a destiny.  There may be a plan we are supposed to follow, though we may not always see why things happen the way they do until we reach that destiny, and everything becomes clear.”

An image of Gwen floated in my mind.  “Okay, but do you think we can change that destiny?”

“I’m not sure,” he said, his brow furrowed in thought. 

I moved the empty glass aside and leaned forward on the table.  “There have been times that made me think perhaps I cheated my destiny and that’s why certain things happened to me.”

“Like what?”

I said nothing, but the name Brooks Waldenberg came to mind.

“I don’t think so, Sam.  I mean, I’d hate to think that my life has been somehow written as a list of instructions I simply follow until I reach the end.  But I don’t think there are consequences for making a decision that alters a certain pattern.  I don’t believe in the existence of fates.  I don’t believe they’re up there ready to punish us when we cheat them out of the destiny they had in store for us.”  His gaze bore into my eyes.  “But I know if you didn’t make that appointment on that day, it was for a good reason.  I’d take it as you’re supposed to do something else with your life and that wasn’t your time to go.  I mean, I can’t think of anything else I would like at this very moment than to sit here with you.”

I squeezed his hand in return, warmed by his words.  There was no secondary intent in anything he said, but I wanted to find one anyway.  I couldn’t remember ever feeling the things he made me feel.  “Thanks.”

“Would you like to tell me more?  You don’t have to.”

I sighed.  “I want to.”

-----

On Monday, the 10th, I received a phone call from one of the deans of the Columbia University English Department.  Dr. John Miller was my 18th Century Literature professor, a very bright individual who demanded the very best out of his students.  I congratulated him on making Dean and accepted his request to speak at a career orientation presentation for underclassmen.  The presentation was scheduled for the next day. 

I called Dupree’s office and got his daughter Josette.  I explained my predicament and she laughed it off, telling me it was no problem at all and that if anything, her father would be adamant about my speaking to the students.  I thanked her and changed my appointment for that Friday.

The next morning I got up early, laced my running shoes and battered the cobblestones of the Esplanade, marveling at the sun dappled waters of the harbor during a three mile run.  The sun was bright, the sky a clear endless blue and the air fresh with just a hint of autumn.  I remember thinking what an incredible day it was. 

Once I was back in my apartment, I called my boyfriend and asked him to meet me for lunch later in the day.  I changed and quickly composed an outline for my presentation.  I would have thirty minutes to speak and thirty minutes for questions and answers.

All I had to do was to describe my career as a junior editor for Tennenby and credit my education at Columbia.  Easy as pie.

It was just past eight and I didn’t have to be at the university until nine-thirty.  I figured about a twenty minute walk to Park Place to take the number 2 subway for a twenty minute ride up to Roosevelt Park, so I had time for a long bath and for doing some work reviewing a new manuscript before I had to leave.  With only twenty minutes to go on the hour, I grabbed my bag, my folder, my keys, and I set out for Park Place.

I was walking east on Murray Street just past Saint John’s University when I heard something that sounded like thunder.  Knowing there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky, I looked around like everyone else on the street that had suddenly stopped when the ominous blast hit.  I saw a man standing on the corner of Greenwich Street, pointing at something high up in the distance.  When I looked up I saw a column of dark smoke marring the sky.  I wanted to run to the corner but I ran the risk of breaking a heel, so I shuffled along and joined a growing group of people with shocked faces, looking in the direction of the World Trade Center.  The high rises on Greenwich Street prevented us from getting a clear picture of what was happening and our collective first impulse was to run down for a better look, but most of us stood frozen in horror. 

Must be one hell of a fire, I thought, as the morning exploded with sirens, seemingly coming from everywhere at once.  There were people running down the street towards the Twin Towers and others running in the opposite direction.  A man behind me shouted questions and one woman stopped, looked around uncertainly, eyes wide with fear.  “A plane crashed into the towers!”

Ice cold fear coursed through me at the terror in her voice.  Police cruisers sped by along with officers on motorcycles.  One officer parked near us, dismounted and began ordering us to leave the area.  The radio clipped at the shoulder strap on his jacket chattered nonstop.  The stone face cop commanded us to clear the street only meeting a wall of shouted questions.  The officer requested back up, yelling into his radio, his voice taut with anger.

I heeded his command and navigated through the growing crowd of onlookers.  People flooded out of buildings and ran down Greenwich towards Park Place for a better view.  I didn’t know where to go since my apartment lay to the South where all the police barricades were going up. 

What kind of idiot pilot lost control of a plane and crashed into the towers?  The question was on other minds when I started hearing words like “hijacking” and “terrorists”. 

The smoke grew thicker and more sirens echoed in the air.  I couldn’t think of a time when I had seen so many firemen and police officers in one place.  Just then, I heard screams and then another massive explosion.  I whipped my head up, but all I could see was smoke billowing over the tall buildings to the south. 

A second plane hit the towers.

Panic took hold of the city after that.  There were less gawkers and more runners.  I sidled along the buildings, fearing getting trampled if I stayed on the street or sidewalks.  Fear curdled my blood as everywhere I looked I saw another tall building that could be hit by another plane.  I was caught between wanting to put as much distance as possible and wanting to stay.  As the shock slowly wore off, I suddenly remembered where I would’ve been if Columbia hadn’t called.

I could hear Josette’s cheerful voice over the phone when I had last spoken to her to change my appointment.  I could see Rupert Dupree sitting on his comfortable leather chair with his thick glasses perched on the edge of his nose as he intently read a manuscript.  I could hear his voice in my head, boisterous and animated.  It just couldn’t be.

A daze fell upon my senses but I forced myself to take two steps before standing and looking back at the cloud of smoke darkening the horizon.  All around me people that normally would never give one another a second look stopped to speculate and offer another piece to the puzzle.  There was an impassable gridlock to the north as police turned traffic around and prevented it from entering Lower Manhattan. 

I could see open windows where more shocked faces stared at the ominous dark cloud growing over the city.  Time seemed to slow to a crawl and sound came to me as though I was at the end of a long tunnel.  More police and firemen arrived and some stayed behind to push the crowd further north.  It seemed no one wanted to move.

I saw a woman run barefoot to an officer and almost knock him over as she called out a name, James.  Her screams were pointed by a heart wrenching pain that reduced me to bitter tears of my own.

“What’s going to happen to those people trapped up there?” A woman asked a tall man standing next to her.  “Those buildings are on fire.”

The man said nothing and I didn’t want to imagine such inferno. 

“I talked to my girlfriend on the phone.  She said people are jumping out of the windows,” said a shocked male voice from somewhere behind me.

“Oh, dear Lord…” an older woman moaned.

I tried desperately to tune out the ongoing comments.   I held onto the hope that firemen were going into the buildings to help those people, and I prayed for the safety of Rupert Dupree and his daughter Josette. 

I managed to look around me and saw a group of people kneeling on the sidewalk.  They held hands and bowed their heads in prayer.  I stepped up to the group and went down on one knee, but I couldn’t pray, I could only cry.  The only reason I joined them was to feel some sort of comfort.  It felt like time stood still.

Time hadn’t stopped, however, only my perception of it.  In fact, more than an hour had gone by.  The fear of more airplanes hitting buildings dissipated as word got around that air traffic had been halted.  Our thoughts were on the people trapped in the towers.  It seemed everyone became a news outlet, shouting out details and filling in the blanks adding to the collective shock.  Before anyone could speculate on how to save those people, the North Tower collapsed, raining fire, death, and fear into the very heart of the nation. 

Much has changed over the past 11 years, and that Tuesday morning was a turning point that may have left us scarred, but it also gave us perspective as to what is truly important in our lives.  Don't take anyone for granted, particularly those people who dedicate their lives to the service of others, our police force, firemen, emergency medics, and our armed forces.  Live for today the best way you can, and love our nation, flaws and all.  America is still the best place to live.  

PS.  These chapters in the novel were inspired by true events in the life of a very dear friend, who still mourns her losses from that day.

Javier A. Robayo

  

Gwen (an Interview)

  Western Pennsylvania offers a serene setting in the fall.  Mild temperatures and brisk winds bring with them shorter, but cooler days.  The small town of New Engburgh is picturesque enough to bespeak of the Pennsylvania of old, yet sprinkled with enough modern touches thanks to the evolution of the local college. 
   I'm on my way to talk to the one and only Gwen Amaya, one of the memorable characters from my two novels, THE GAZE and THE NEXT CHAPTER.
   The house at the end of the cul-de-sac is inviting, charming in its small town elegance.  As soon as I pull up  into the drive, I hear the gruff bark of the Amaya's dog, a chocolate Lab named Bailey.
   The door opens and Bailey bounds up to me, tail wagging.  I offer my hand to her snout and after a moment of careful consideration, I see approval in the furry face.
   "You're punctual," Gwen Amaya observes from the front porch.
   "Tony mentioned you appreciate punctuality."
   She smiles, producing two deep dimples that crease her right cheek.  Her eyes are a pale blue, the icy hue is at odds with the warmth her bright smile exudes.
   "Have a seat," she offers me one of the rocking chairs."
   We exchange small talk to work off the nerves.  I've been looking forward to this interview for quite some time.  Gwen is a busy mom and homemaker and summer has demanded her every waking second.  With her two little girls at school, she's finally agreed to this interview.
   "Well, I guess you'd like to get started," she says after placing a mug of coffee before me.
   "Thanks.  You ready?"
   She tucks a strand of brown hair behind her ear and nods after taking a deep breath.
   "Okay..."


JR: Despite only a short time in circulation, you have become a fan favorite.  How does it feel knowing people are speaking your name with a smile on their faces?

Gwen:  I can't really believe that.  I mean, the competition would be pretty fierce.  Samantha is practically Ms. Center of the Universe, and there's Lewis, who easily upstages the rest of us.  It's definitely nice to know I made an impression.

JR: You most certainly did, especially as a person of integrity.  Most notably, a lot of readers wonder what makes you so forgiving or accepting of someone like Samantha.

Gwen: Oh, it wasn't easy at first, but through it all I did get to know her and really care for her.  Samantha is the definition of hot mess, but she's also a terrific friend.  She can be funny, pushy, and who wouldn't get drawn to her drama.  It totally gives you a better perspective on life as an adult.  I think I started seeing her as a kid who refused to grow up.  She sort of drew me into the same role and there was a lot of self-discovery as our friendship progressed.  I got to love her like a sister, and whatever wrongs on her part... Well, she just has a way of getting into your heart.  I'll say one thing without spoiling it for anyone.  We all have histories, and sometimes they need a certain closure.  I don't want to go into specific details, okay?

JR: Understandable, thank you.  So, readers get to know you as Tony Amaya's wife and mother of Brooke and Emily, and although we get glimpses of Gwen, the woman, who would you say she is?

Gwen: She started out as a girl without direction.  That aimless path led to more than a few mistakes until I found Tony.  We had a rocky, but intense start and suddenly life seemed pretty clear.  Gwen is an everyday woman who wants to live the best way she can by providing for her family.  She is an honest friend, someone solid, dependable even.  But don't let all that fool you.  She does have a wild, and even minxy side. (laughs)

JR: I've gotten more than a few comments from readers who wish to have a friend like you.

Gwen: That's really sweet.

JR: After everything that happened in The Gaze, you return, this time as not only Samantha's Matron of Honor, but also as a compass for Lewis.  How did your friendships evolve with them during The Next Chapter?

Gwen: There was a lot of soul searching done before I agreed to go.  I love Samantha like a sister, and our bond became more relaxed, even more meaningful.  I had my fun putting in my little digs although she expected much worse, and I had my chances, don't get me wrong, but... (shrugs)

JR: Yes, she did say you gave her plenty of frights.  Something to do with a black eye?

Gwen: (laughs) You know Samantha.  She's a total drama queen.

JR: How about Lewis?

Gwen: Oh, Lewis... (sighs)  I love that man.  He's just everything anyone would want in a friend.  He most definitely helped me through my hard times, so when things got to him, I was determined to be there for him. I'm glad he trusted me enough to let me in.  It was amazing to get to know him like I did and we've become very close. I really can't say enough about him.  I'm kind of jealous that Samantha saw him first, and that she's had him by her side for so long.  I met him as some kind of a lovable flirt, but when I was in London, he  uncovered so many layers until I got to know the real Lewis.  It's something I will never forget, and he and Samantha will be forever a part of my life. 

JR: What's next for Gwen Amaya?

Gwen: Hmm, you tell me.  I still have a home to keep, two girls to raise, and a husband to put up with, who's always giving me something to read.  Ah! The man can write! Sometimes the fragile ego of a writer is more than I can take, but I'm glad to give him the encouragement to keep going.  

JR: Behind every good man, there's a great woman?

Gwen: Samantha did say you have a way with words.  So, same question for you.  What's next?

JR: As Tony could very well tell you, more writing.  I've a few more ideas to flesh out, along with two manuscripts that need revised.  I'm glad you had the time to share a few things with us about your role in the lives of Samantha and Lewis.

Gwen: Happy to do it.  Now, do I get the books?

JR: Absolutely.  

   Gwen stares at the cover of The Gaze for a long moment.  
   "Before you leave, tell me.  Who's this supposed to be, Samantha or Gwen?"
   I grin in reply.  "Some mysteries should remain mysteries.  Don't you think?"
   Gwen actually pouts.  "Will we see each other again, Mr. Author?"
   The breeze pushes her hair over her face, forcing her to sweep it back.  That Tony is a lucky man indeed.  "The best thing I can tell you, Gwen, is that those pages haven't been written yet.  Say hi to Tony and your girls."
   I pull out of the drive looking through the rear view mirror at Gwen, crouching down to scratch a grinning Bailey behind the ears.  I have the image of a blank page in my mind, and as I leave New Engburgh behind, I know just what to write.
   If you want to get to know this wonderful woman, I recommend you read The Gaze and The Next Chapter.  Maybe you can find out what she meant by "minxy side".

Javier A. Robayo

 
 
 

My Two Flags (an excerpt)

Summer sun...

This alone is a new experience for me.  The heat is intense, the humidity oppressive and there is no getting away from it unless you roam the malls to mooch off their A/C.  I must be out of my mind to be riding a bicycle today.  The heat makes me miss Quito’s mild weather more than the infinite stream of memories playing in my mind.

I make my way to the Derby-Welkerton Bridge before the blues get the best of me.  I have the nighttime for that, and I’ve been a loyal victim of nostalgia every single time I’m alone in my little bedroom.  I’m sure my pillow will deteriorate soon from all the tears I’ve been leaving upon it.

After riding back to the house, I change out of my sweaty shirt and leave the bike to walk around the block then back down on Main.  Before I realize how far I’ve walked, I find myself crossing Pershing drive into the commercial area of Ansonia.  It’s strange that you can walk through three or four towns in less than an hour, just one more of the many differences I was finding.  A few feet away from me, I spot the golden arches and remembering my money, I decide to face my fear and buy myself some lunch.

I use the bottom of my shirt to wipe at the streams of sweat, growing self-conscious of my presentation.  I wish I would’ve brought the bike.  Maybe I wouldn’t be so sweaty.

"One cheeseburger, one Coke", I practice the line my aunt taught me, out loud.  "One cheeseburger, one Coke."  

The R's are tricky but I hope to get by.  Rolling my tongue feels uncomfortable and the sound feels phony.  "One cheeseburger, one coke"

I step inside, soaking in the cool air and the cooking scents while I stand at the end of the line.  I burn with envy as the woman in front of me lets out a litany of words that the girl behind the counter transforms into an array of burgers, fries, and drinks. She says something with a smile and receives one in return. The woman takes the tray and saunters away, another satisfied customer.

"How may I help you?"

I'm sure she said something prompting me to order, so I mutter the mantra from under a heavy boulder of trepidation that seems stuck in my throat, "One cheeseburger, one Coke... please," I say in an almost inaudible voice.

I am so proud of myself. "Please" wasn’t part of the line I practiced. I see this as a major improvement, a step in the right direction, a small but significant triumph.  I square my shoulders and lift my chin.  I’ve got money and by God, I’m about to have my first productive English conversation with a total stranger.

"Would you like to make it a value meal and get fries?"

The blood drains from my face and her voice sounds like the echoed warble you hear from teachers on any Charlie Brown cartoon. 

I freeze

"You know, French fries?"

Oh the horror...

She might as well be speaking Mandarin.  I can’t tell where one word ends and another begins.

I simply stare at the girl, a false smile plastered on my lips, my five dollar bill shaking in my hand as new rivers of sweat trail down my temples.  My heart is hammering a painful beat in my chest.

The girl looks at me uncertainly and repeats her question.  Whatever courage I had, flees along with my dignity.  My feet spin me in the direction of the door out of their own accord and I take off like a shot without looking back or heeding the girl's calls.

I pump my legs up Division Street and don’t stop until I find my way back to Main Street in Welkerton.

I sit in defeat on a stone pier that decorates the bank's parking lot.  Bitter tears threaten to spill but I hold fast, conjuring an image of my Mom, smiling as she goes to work; Dad looking tired and a bit haggard, doing factory work instead of dressing up to go to his posh office on Avenida Amazonas in Quito; my little sister following my cousin around like a lost puppy in the name of companionship.

Damned if I’m going to cry.

The only things that spills for now are the rivulets of sweat that drench my brow and soak my shirt.  

I come close to despair as I realize how long this road is going to be for us.

As I make my way back to the safety of the house, worn out by the stifling heat,  my stomach growls in mockery. 

It’s not fair.

It was just one cheeseburger and one Coke.

Author's Note:  This is the most difficult novel I'll ever write, for it's so challenging to open up these vaults, but as a writer, I simply have no choice.  This story must be told.

Javier A. Robayo

Breathe

"When you opt to change everything, always remember to breathe, and embrace it all with eyes wide open".- T.L. Tate

   For the past three days, my life has consisted of furnishing two bedrooms in my parent's home where my girls and my Sheri will be until I rejoin them in October.

   After a long, slow drive pulling a trailerful of belongings, and fighting a major bout of uncertainty and utter self-recrimination, reorganizing and living the days side by side with my parents slowly made me realize I had not taken a deep enough breath.  I hadn't even allowed their unconditional love and support to allay my fears. 

   No transition is easy.  It was all I could think of, but I didn't count on the closest people in my life to make it an experience so filled with laughter and hope.  No one knows how to make you feel more welcome than my mom, and no one, I mean no one, can elicit a laugh like my dad.
   I've missed being around them far more than I thought. 
   Once I finished putting the new furniture together for the girls, I left Sheri to organize the girls' clothes.  It's not that I didn't want to help.  I'm just a man.  No good when it comes to girlie world and its many aspects.  If I had tried to help, Sheri would've undoubtedly kicked me out anyway.
   I finished sanding the last coat of polycrylic on the new workstations, where I'll hopefully be editing or writing the last of a fourth novel.  Once I was somewhat pleased with the shine and smoothness of the desktops, I went out and came across four ornaments that my mom has set up in her never ending efforts to decorate every space over which she's given domain.
   The first one said "Welcome".  I smiled at the sea shells above the letters.  Mom loves the ocean and its limitless secrets.  She often pointed out that one drop of ocean would eventually touch every coast in the world, given enough time.  We could all learn a lot of patience from the blue seas.
   I climbed the steps to the back yard and on the railing there were three stone planters, each sprouting a posy.  One had the word "Hope" inscribed upon it.  Hope, I thought to myself.  The same reason my parents took me out of my adolescent world in Ecuador and brought my sister and me to America. 
   Next to Hope, another stone planter had the word "Believe".  I've never fully believed in myself or what I could do, but I've had some incredible people infuse me with a confidence I've never had. 
   Jo VonBargen, who has to be one of the most amazingly unique human beings on this planet, stuffed me full of belief by writing a review of The Gaze that shook me the very core.  To hear that you've done well from someone so talented is priceless.  I allowed myself to believe, for others have been believing in me all along.
   Heading to the yard, the last stone planter gave me a glimpse of what my new life in Connecticut will be with one word: "Happiness".
   It seemed as though some higher power, along with my mom, set those signs before me, doing away with the dark, cold shadows of regret I've fought day in and day out for the last two years.
   As I stood there, choking back tears at the signs before me, my best friend from high school, 25 years in the making, sent me a text with the familiar words we've written, spoken, and texted to each other every time we faced a transition, everything's going to be all right.
   Even my dog, Her Highness Bailey, looked over at me with her eerily expressive eyes and I could almost hear a voice in my head saying, "Quit worrying so damn much."
   Her Chocolate Furry Highness just chuffed and plopped down on the grass, staring at the treetops blanketing Ansonia.  I followed her gaze and soaked in the sounds of the Connecticut traffic, the screams of seagulls announcing our proximity to the Atlantic, and the singularity of the moment. 
   "Yeah, Bay," I said, crouching down to scratch Her Highness behind the ears.  "Everything's going to be all right.  We've been welcomed here, a place of hope where belief will lead us to happiness."
   In reply to my flash of half-baked poetry, Her Highness simply rolled her large brown eyes at me, giving me an I-knew-it-all-along-you-hopeless-human snort.
   Old Tate's words flashed in my mind as I ran a collage of the past two years, the lows, the desperation, the constant fretting, and the avalanche of what-ifs that stole entire nights of sleep... and I finally exhaled.

   Javier A. Robayo


  
   

You Called Me 'Home'

   I was a two story cape whose family was moving away when you came.  You brought your bride and a small dog, a weiner dog as I recall.  My landscaping was lacking, my bushes overgrown.  You somehow saw beyond the cracks in the driveway sprouting weeds.  I noticed you grinning when you claimed the single detached garage.
   Your eyes found my skin tired and chalky, and my windows were drafty.  My doors had never seen a coat of paint, but I opened them wide for you.
   You walked through my rooms and saw beyond the dim fixtures, the blemished walls, the small kitchen, and the closet size second bath.  You saw beyond the musty cave of my basement.  I liked your smile at the challenge before you.  I nearly recoiled at the thought of the transformation to come, but it was your right for taking a chance on me, and after a time of formalities I'll never presume to understand, I became a house you called home.
   Your bride lovingly brought my counters to shine, and she went to great lengths to make every space welcoming with her unique touch.  I watched you replace every fixture, and their light chased shadows away.
   Each of my rooms was smoothed and painted in hues that brightened the once present gloom and soon I felt the vitality of your young age infused into my tired frame.
   The painted brick of my fireplace was dressed up in stone.  I looked forward to warming your hands in the winter cold.  You gave me a new mantle and a matching bookcase made with your own hands.  Perhaps you don't know this, but I knew then what you thought.  I saw that dream of one day filling those shelves with your books.
   For five years I enjoyed the sound of your laughter.  Your two mutts trampled my grounds left and right, and always found the sun coming through my new windows to warm their backs.  I apologized for every old part of me that made the new basement such a task, but you did it and did it well, and the cavern was gone, in its place more space where laughter and joy reigned supreme.
   My fires burned bright and I watched you two dance to soft music into the early hours of the morning.  I sighed at the messes you made as you hurried your way out to work.  I felt your motivation and determination to keep me, and keep me well, updating every part of me.
   The once empty room facing the street, transformed to welcome your first little girl.  How I adored the little voice, each coo, cry, and giggle.  I smiled each time a pencil was used to mark where that little head reached on the trim of the closet, month after month.
   Soon there were two little voices, my every room held one of you and soon your daughters called this old house their home.  I watched in awe as each one grew, one willowy and tall, one elfin and fair.  They ran through my rooms, they splashed my bathroom floor, they crayoned my walls, and they looked out my window, celebrating each snowfall before curling around the fireplace, looking up at the Christmas Tree eagerly awaiting that precious day.
   I stood proud, my siding in a rich brown, my trim a darker shade.  I even had a full head of hair, every shingle brand new.  On rainy days, I liked watching the water flow down the new smooth driveway, dancing around the new contention wall and the walkway.
   I watched you laugh.  I watched you cry.
   I felt alive when company came and you worked so hard to make me look my best.  I felt special, for you brought two new lives for me to shelter, to inwardly laugh when their riding my stairways tickled my frame.  I was now a better house and you called me home.
   I knew when times got tough, for the discussions were serious in my little kitchen.  I heard the promises you made as you held your bride in your arms, hurting with the impotence to do more than you did.  I know some decisions were made that you didn't want to make.  I missed you while you were gone for so many hours out of the day.  Your girls ran into each of my rooms trying to find you.  You worked so hard and it wasn't enough.  Little did I know you had something else in mind.
   I watched as you sat in front of a glowing screen.  Night after night you were down in my basement, hammering at the keyboard even when you started to look at me sadly, knowing our parting was imminent.
   I remember it well, when you revised that last page.  You ran out to the backyard, past the pool where the summer laughter and splashing echoed even in the dead of winter, and you ended up on your knees behind the garage.  You did what you set out to do, and my shelves by the fireplace held one book, then another, both bore your name on the spine, just as you dreamed that day when you set that last nail into that oak board.
   Wherever you go from here, whatever you do, started right here within my walls.  I'll think of you fondly, I'll miss being yours, but through sixty-six years, I've learned that people come and people go.  But you and your bride, along with your little girls, have been a joy to shelter.  I'll take eternal credit in the fact that your family started here.  Your first books decorated my shelves, along with your portraits, and I know you won't forget me, the way I won't forget everything you did to this old two story cape.
   I'll forever remember, with more love than you'll know, that for thirteen happy years, you called me home.

   Javier A. Robayo

#@&%!!! I can't believe I missed this!

   If you have ever written for someone, from a grocery list to a schooldays' love note, to a short story or a novel, face it, you've gone through this, but as an author this little comic has a whole other significance.

   I remember toying with this idea, urged by a good friend to write what eventually became THE GAZE.  I went through the "my writing really sucks" stage for a solid month before I was able to move to the "hey, I'm not so bad after all" stage.  Some eight months later, BOOM!  I felt like I was definitely in the "wow, this writing is brilliant! I rock!" stage.  I finished it, I took my Sheri and my dad's impressions and compliments from another author, the incomparable John W. Huffman as validations and published it.  

   In my eagerness to shout it from the rooftops that I wrote a novel, all by myself, I picked a cover, had it printed and put it out there.  Of course, my family and friends, supportive souls that they are quickly asked for an autographed copy and I was more than happy to oblige.  Riding a high, loving this little glimmer of fame, I picked up my own copy and began reading my own novel...

   Oh...the horror... Officially, the "wow, my writing really sucks. sigh..." stage set in with a bloody vengeance.  

   In the relative privacy of my home office (the basement) I tamped down the urge to scream #@&%!!! I can't believe I missed this!

   Once the shock wore off, a wave of embarrassment and shame crushed over me, like a tsunami on an unsuspecting tropical paradise.  I wanted to crawl under a rock.  I wanted the ground to open up and let me jump into its depths.  I wanted to refund everyone who bought my atrocity, plus interest!

   I couldn't believe it...

   It made no sense.  I'd read the script over eleven times, easily.  I magnified each and every page (and there are a ton!) looking for errors.  

   I wrote "form" instead of "from".

   I wrote "piece" instead of "peace".

   I wrote "Toni" instead of "Tony".  The Spanish side of my brain took that one over.

   I omitted some "me"s, and let's not go to the comma usage.

   I found things like "was did..." probably because my brain was still fighting over which tense to use long after my fingers danced on the keyboard and moved on.

   I almost felt as though the clean pages were severely outnumbered by the dirty ones, making me reconsider what had made me think I could edit my own work.

   When I related these avalanche of typos to my advance readers and even my editor, they told me, to my shock, that they didn't really notice until I brought them up.

   "How can that be?" I asked biting my tongue before questioning their collective sight.  In essence, they all sort of gave me the same answer:  "I got caught up in the story..."

   Taking advantage of the forgiveness born of friendship and family ties, I immediately went back and cleaned up the body.  Once more, I improved the cover and with a little more confidence, let it fly.  I tried hard not think of it, but I kept wondering how many mistakes I missed.  I was reading other authors' work, even a couple of best sellers, and I found glaring mistakes that made me feel a little better.  It seems it happens to the best of us, unless we have teams of proofreaders combing through every page.  With a book of over 255,000 words, I could not in good conscience fatten the wallet of a professional proofreader.

   I tossed in bed every night, recalling the way Mom would tear my pages out of my notebook if she found one smudge of ink, one misspelled word... She often lectured me about the importance of presenting a clean body of work.  My conscience tortured me every night as I was writing THE NEXT CHAPTER in a much more careful way.

   Three months after releasing GAZE, I downloaded it to my Kindle and read it for fun for the first time since releasing it.  Soon I found out I had not gotten out of the last stage of our comic.  I found new mistakes.  To add to my mortification, a great friend of mine kept track of errors in an effort to help me.  Christine Fiefield Winn, whose Coffee Break Series are flawless, gave me a list of pages where errors mockingly danced before my eyes.  I might have screamed, but I don't remember exactly.

   I dissected my novel yet again, and found a minimal number this time.  By then, I had gotten a fifteenth 5 star review of GAZE on Amazon and there was no mention of the glaring typos, none!

   The compliments poured and I knew I owed the novel the best possible presentation with people seeing such potential in it.  I stopped all my projects and went page by page, cursing the proofreader ads advertised on the web.  Their calculators came up with astronomical prices, so I bit the bullet and carefully went over each line.  At the end of the revision, I decided to remake the cover and although I may have very well missed something, I can say I am very proud of the presentation of GAZE.

   I've offered many of my first readers a new copy, citing the mistake which they unbelievably missed.  I feel very fortunate that Samantha's story was found so engrossing that my glaring mistakes were forgiven, but by God, I don't want to go through that again.

   So, for those of you starting out, don't make the mistakes I made.  Accept the fact that this learning experience demands a lot of patience and attention to detail.  The time spent in polishing and cleaning your novel will go a long way in ensuring that you experience that fourth stage for an entirely and perfectly normal reason.  No determined, conscientious writer lacks a perfectionist's streak, and we all know we could've written some passage differently or we could've added another little detail to the plot.  We never stop writing, especially when we grab our book and read it again, but believe you me: typos and poor presentation will really have you screaming #@&%!!! I can't believe I missed this! leaving you bewildered as you enter the "wow, my writing really sucks.  sigh..." stage.

   Javier A. Robayo