It's here! It's in print! I am so excited. (I know, the picture is of the proof copy, my author copies haven't arrived yet.)
I can see why it takes a year or more to get a brook printed. The amount of times I thought I was done, only to find that I left out words, had typos, or that the story just didn't end the way I wanted.
For this one, I hired a copy editor to make sure that all my typos were fixed, or at least, she caught more than I could. That took another couple of weeks.
It is an amazing feeling to see your work in print. For a short time, it will be available for FREE on Kindle Unlimited. Please consider writing a review if you read it.
Here's an excerpt from Meant to Be, Destined to Love
The
post office where I work is in the middle of nowhere, Alabama, and when a
letter arrived addressed to Theresa Markup at an abandoned farmhouse, it just
begged to be opened.
I’ve
never been one to break the rules, but sometimes you got to bend them. Like the
time a letter came here for Gertie Malone. She had been dead for five years. As
acting postmaster, I figured it was my duty to make sure it wasn’t important
before I returned it.
Good
thing I did, too, because that envelope had five hundred dollars cash tucked in
a card that said, “Sorry this is late. Love, Earnest.”
We all
heard the lectures from Gertie about never staying with a man who won’t pay you
back. Gertie dispensed all kinds of un-asked for advice. We didn’t think
anything of it, but apparently, she gained that knowledge from experience.
I
jotted a note to Mr. Barns in California.
Dear
Mr. Barns,
I’m
sorry to say that Gertie’s been gone from this earth for about five years now.
You know, Gertie used to tell us, “Never to date a man who doesn’t pay you
back. Those aren’t men, those are snakes.” I suppose now, you are no longer a
snake.
Gertie’s
grand and great grandchildren still live here. I don’t think you intended on
getting the money back since you sent cash in the mail. It could have been
stolen by anyone. When they asked me where it came from, I told them, even
though I knew you were a former snake, that it was from a long, lost friend who
owed her.
It’s
better late than never, so thank you.
Yours
truly,
Gertie’s
friend.
We
never heard back from him. Maybe he fixed all the things he felt guilty about,
then croaked. He had to be old since Gertie died at age ninety-two.
Mostly,
deceased individuals received junk mail. I clip the coupons and special offers
and put them in a bin on the counter.
But
this letter from Teresa Markup was different. Who the hell was she anyway and
why’d she say she lived at 1 Bison Street, Neelburg, AL? That was the old
Murphy place. Nobody’s lived there since the Revolution, I think.
The
return address showed SFC Gunnerson at an APO, AE address. That meant he could
be anywhere in Europe, the Middle East, Africa, or wherever. I couldn’t
disappoint this poor soldier, so I opened it to figure out what to do.
Dear
Theresa,
I
normally don’t answer these “Support our Troops” letters but since yours was
the last in the box, and all the others had gone, I thought I’d do at least
one. I apologize that I can’t answer some of your questions.
Like,
I can’t say where I am, for security reasons you know. But I can say, there’s a
lot of sun and sand here. Sometimes there are wind storms where the sand is
whipped up like a hurricane and thrown over everything in its path.
But
it’s not always dry here. One time, the rain came down so hard, the sand turned
into rivers that flooded our area only to be bone dry in three days.
I also
can’t say what I’m doing here. But eating bagged food and drinking from a water
buffalo is the norm.
Do I
have friends here? You asked that question of a soldier? We’re all buddies.
We’re in this together, you know? Do I like them? Well, Scott’s got a bit of an
attitude about being from New York and Davis, he thinks he’s God’s gift to
women. But they are all doing their job and that’s all you can ask sometimes.
They cover my back and I cover theirs. We’re a team, warts and all.
I’ll
quickly answer some of your other questions since I don’t have much time. Where
am I from? I’m from Denver, I’m 32 years old and I have dark hair and brown
eyes.
Do I
want to get out? I’ve been in since I was 18. Someday, if the right situation
comes along, I might get out, but for now, it’s my life.
I
probably won’t ever hear from you again, so I’ll sign off now. Have a great
life, Theresa Markup.
Yours,
SFC
Gunnerson
After
I read it, twice, I slumped in my comfy office chair. It wasn’t really an
“office” chair but a padded chair at a table behind the counter in a small post
office.
I
couldn’t help thinking about that poor soldier having to read mail from a
stranger. Didn’t he have anyone writing to him? I couldn’t send it back saying
“addressee does not exist.” No way I could do that. Nope, I had to write him
back. I had to support the troops, right?
The
clock told me that I had about an hour to go. I delivered all the mail earlier.
All that I needed to do was sweep. But supporting the troops seemed more
important.
I
rummaged for some paper and the only thing I found had flowers all over it. I
decided to draw army ants holding guns and crawling up and down the stems. I
added tanks driving on the leaves. I didn’t want SFC Gunnerson to think I was a
girly girl.
Dear
SFC Gunnerson. (Do I have to keep calling you SFC or do you have a first name?)
I have
to tell you that I ain’t Theresa. I don’t know who the hell she is, but the
letter came to me, so I opened it. If you got a problem with that, then you can
complain to the postmaster here. (A lot of good that would do ya since I’m the
postmaster, ha ha. )
They
call me Bobbie because I won’t let them call me anything else. And if you ever
see me in person, I’ll tell you my real first name, but then I’d have to marry
you so you’d keep it a secret.
Anyhow,
the reason I opened the letter is because we don’t have any Theresa Markup here
and the address is an abandoned house down the road. Why would someone go and
write to you soldiers and not tell you who they are is baffling. I guess some
of those “Support Our Troops” people get crazy and ask anyone to write a letter
or maybe this Theresa was in witness protection. Who’s to say?
Except
for my real first name, I’ll tell you all about me.
I grew
up in Neelburg, Alabama and I’m number 75 in a total population of about 123.
It might be 124 by the time you get this since my older sister, Debbie, is
about to populate another inhabitant.
You
might ask why a smart, funny girl like me is still living in this podunk town,
and I might answer you that I just ain’t felt a need to leave. There’s a load
of other reasons, but they’re all boring.
You
said you were 32 in your letter. Are you married? Cause if you are, you sure
will ruin a great fantasy that I’ve been having ever since I opened your
letter.
But
that’s okay if ya are. Let me know her address and I’ll send her some home-made
marmalade (not made by me), and that will be the end of our correspondence.
But if
ya aren’t…well
Forget
it, I ain’t going there.
Anyhow,
if I want this to go out today, I have to pack it up and send it on its way.
The big city collection comes in about ten minutes. If you got time, tell me
what’s exciting over there, besides army shit.
Take
care, SFC Gunnerson and God Bless.
Yours,
Bobbie
Bransford (And no, you can’t call me BB either.)
P.S.
You can keep using that address, since I’m the one that delivers it, I’ll know
who it’s for.
I had
just finished licking the envelope when Doug, the mail collector from
Huntsville, came through. “Hi, Bobbie.”
