The UnSpoken Drive…..
When asked to give the story as to where my debut novel began, we first must roll it back to 2020 because initially this fictional tale started out as a non-fiction memoir of healing. Each chapter was set to be a period of time in my life, with a letter to the person who had the greatest impact during that time. However, after a year of writing this memoir of sorts, it began to take on a whole new life, one where on a drive to take my daughter to her dance studio at the time, one that was half an hour from our home—so clearly a lot of thinking time—, the novel you will now know and hopefully love, was posed with one singular question….
What exactly makes a man, man enough?
You see when it comes to writing, I almost come at it with a philosophical yet scientific sort of approach. Each book I’ve written poses some sort of question to challenge society, stereotypes, and stigmas. And thus Christian Jamison Arrow was born. As with many romance novels, I of course made him rough around the edges with a soft spot for a select few that found ways to break through those tall barriers of his. When you meet Christian in book one, you start with the flashback of him as a child, but eventually you get to see the past and present collide. You’ll find the ways I challenge society in the “Your only man enough if….”.
I took what started as a journal, then flipped into a non-fictional memoir, and after a year of writing and also Alexandra Kay’s song ‘Everleave’, and gave you Christian. A man who has weathered the worst of the storms. Whose internal compass feels broken, and trust within himself fleeting. While much of what Christian experiences is a mixture of lived experiences of those I know, as well as myself, some of it was done with flipping the script, and hopefully in a way that is digestable, yet relatable and starts the conversation.
Cause at the end of the day my 5’10’’ broody man just wants a mother who loves him, a father who is proud of him, and a partner who sees him. However, if a sassy, 50-60 something town grandmother is all he gets…for now, than I suppose that’s ok to.
And with that, I give you a peek into my debut novel Broken Arrow, book one in the Whispers of Redemption series. A series that upon it’s completion will have taken me 6 years to fully write, perfect, and publish following some pretty amazing characters that through struggles don’t just find “redemption” but find healing and what it truly means to be so much more than what society, their peers, their internal dialogue, stereotypes, stigmas, etc. have stated they are and placed them to be.
“The most painful thing is losing yourself in the process of loving someone too much, and forgetting that you are special too.”
-Earnest Hemmingway
Excerpt from the Chapter “Not all of us are monsters”(Unedited)
“Why couldn’t my mother be you?” I whisper. I’m not even sure she’s heard me until I see her eyes. So many questions hide behind them. All of which I know she’s been itching to ask but never has since she bombarded in here for our very first dinner together. Not taking no for an answer. She’s going at my pace, which is precisely a snails. Scratch that, it is worse than a snails. I’m sure it’s so slow that dust would win if we were competing.
I’m the towns mystery who just showed up one day and took the old rickety fixer upper cabin home in the woods on the outstretch of town where isolation and quiet can engulf me and never left.
Beyond the questions, I see the sadness my words have caused. She may not know all but I suspect she plays dumb for my benefiting. Suspicion that the road hasn’t been exactly the least bumpy of them all. Not that life is ever smooth, but some do have a more gentle ride compared to other somes of people. People like me, the freak who can’t keep the girl or the career.
Setting down her small ice cream scoop looking thing she uses to measure out the precise amount of meat goop into the tortillas, she wearily comes over with her arms stretched out, as if asking permission to give me a hug. I’m not sure how she expects to give the hug she wants with her five foot two frame compared to my six foot five lean athletic build, but a hug doesn’t sound all that bad right now.
Which is odd because I’m most definitely not a touchy feely sort of guy.
Thanks pops.
Giving her a slight nod and small smile of my approval, her arms attempt to circle and encompass my entire waist, arms and hands barely reaching around to my lower back, her fingers not even able to clasp together let alone her finger tips having the ability to touch.
Her head rests just a little below the middle of my chest. Squeezing as tight as possible she whispers “Christian I may have not been your mother as a child, and I certainly don’t know everything you’ve endured as a mother should know of their child, but that never means you can’t have a second mother. Family is all of what you make it and none of what you were handed. Genetics is just a make up of who you were created from. Not who you were meant to be or who you must be. They don’t even get to determine who you keep in your life as you grow.”
Releasing me, she reaches up and pats my cheek. Her eyes glistening slightly with a barely there smile filled with sadness. Resting her hand there, the warmth from her hand is something I wish to nestle into. I feel parts of myself falling into the touch and the wetness form just under my eye lids. Me the former Marine getting all mushy. Crying is for the weak. It’s for women. It’s not for me. Not for men. Pulling away, I give her a small smile. I need to take a walk before I go and fuck up something else good in my life.
Throwing on my Marine Corps hoodie and a jacket over top of that to try and minimize the bite from the October air, I head out the door but not quick enough before Mrs. Shultz throws over her should, back to filling up her tortillas, “Christian not all women are monsters like the boogeyman who hid under your bed as a child. Some are monsters. Some are lost and in need of direction and some are lost and in need of protection. Those ones, the non monster ones, who are simply lost, or simply content within theirselves, are the good ones though. They are just in need of someone to love, protect and defend them and their honor as fiercely as they would love, protect and defend you and your honor. Not all of us will break you, then toss you aside as if you never mattered.”
Looking over my shoulder, I see the moment she quickly wipes away a tear going down her cheek. I want to believe her and past me would if it wasn’t for her and what she did to me. If it wasn’t for my mother and what she didn’t do for me. Between my mother and Cassidy, women hold nothing more than a form of release when my hand or a shower just won’t do.
Mrs. Shultz just doesn’t get it. Life isn’t like a Disney movie. There are no fairytales or happily ever afters with a princess. Ultimately the Beast, me, doesn’t get the beauty. Instead I got the wolf and just like Little Red Riding Hood, I died while she continued to live just as a wolf does.
