Where Angels Can’t Follow: Blog Tour Day 2

I did a guest post for TMBA Corbett on my Top 5 Favorite Books. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to narrow that discussion down to only five books, but it was agonizing for me. You can take a look here.

Where Angels Can’t Follow was also featured at Books A-Brewin’. You can check out that page for new YA reading and to see Chapter 1 of Where Angels Can’t Follow if you haven’t gotten to it yet. You can find it here.

And there’s an opportunity to register for the giveaway of Iron Shards at every stop on the tour.

Happy Reading!

Iron Spirits: Silver Linings

I’ve begun writing Iron Spirits, the book following my debut novel, Iron Shards. I’m a little bit exhausted today and not sure I will meet my daily writing goal. (The photo is my half-filled coffee mug from my alma mater. Iced lattes are fueling these pages.) I’ve set a breakneck pace–3,000 words a day–to get the latest book out to you guys this fall. You’ve certainly waited long enough. Thanks for hanging in here with me.

Insomnia has not been kind to me these last ten months, and authors don’t actually live charmed lives. (Even if that’s the picture we’d like to paint.) If you’ve looked at my poetry or my posts regarding PTSD, then you’ll know that my struggle persists. Insomnia is a common PTSD symptom; my body thinks it’s always under attack, and that doesn’t do wonders for sleep. I also need a second surgery because my nasal passages are still partially blocked after my nose was broken. And for quite a few reasons, it’s currently on hold.

The silver lining to all of this is that I write amazing traumatized characters. I know the things people do when they’ve seen death, been attacked, gone through an accident. I know what they’ll do immediately after and a month later. So, I’m penning an authentic moody, traumatized teen. But, at times, I don’t even like him much, even if I am certain he’s behaving exactly like he should be. (Think Harry Potter Book 5.)

But he’s on a journey, too, and I’m looking forward to sharing bits of his story in Iron Spirits soon.

Where Angels Can’t Follow: Chapter 2

“When it comes to art, it’s important not to hide the madness.”—Atticus

The forks clinked against the plates as we ate in silence. When my belly’s full of fried veggies and meat, I have to acknowledge that it’s bratty not to change a few light bulbs without feeling put upon. And my guilt deepened as I realized my attention’s been divided between the spiral I sent Kiah into and the angel girl in my mind, none of it on Marge. My eyes drifted to the New Orleans Daily newspaper lying on the table.

Statue Smashers Strike St Louis Number Three

The angels that once perched atop mausoleums for St. Francis’s Abbey and the Milleneaux Family tombs have been sledged off their bases. According to our source, the statues “weren’t just knocked down; they were beaten into dust!” (See p. C7 for rest of story)

Marge followed my gaze and opined, “Can you imagine what sorta lowlife goes ‘round smashing statues on people’s final resting places?” She clucked. “I just don’t know what’s got into people.”

I nodded my agreement and was looking for words when Marge continued, “I saw the old home director at the store today.”

I nod. What’s there to say? No love had been lost between Team Kiah and Nate and the New Orleans Home for Wayward Children. It actually says that on the sign. Kiah and I didn’t start out there, but when we both were placed there, we raised hell until we found our way out.

“How’s she doin’?”

“She asked about you and Kiah. Said she still thinks taking your GEDs and moving out was a mistake.”

“Dead horses we gotta keep beating.”

“Now, speaking of Kiah, don’t you think it’s about time she started acting like a girl? Made some girl friends?”

I tried not to choke on my food as her abrupt subject change left me reeling. She slapped me on the back, and I finally eked out some words, “Oh, no! You’re not dragging me into this! There’s no way I am getting involved in a Kiah—Grace dispute. There’s no winning that one.”

“Well, of course, it can be won. Don’t be ridiculous. You just have to encourage her to go to a few places where she could actually meet the right kind of girls, you know?”

Little did she know, Kiah would love to meet the right kind of girls. Just not that kind. “Uh-huh. I see. My answer is still no. I’m not gonna be responsible for my business partner getting dragged to places that make her miserable.”

Marge looked like she wanted to grab me by my ear and force my cooperation on Operation Cinderella. But we don’t have any fairy godmothers here, just the Hatters and one opinionated teenage girl.

“Well, if you ain’t gonna help with Kiah, let’s talk about the hunk of rock taking up half my garage space.”

The women in my life really know how to press my buttons. I stalled with bites of food.

“What do you want to discuss?” I finally asked.

“Are you gonna move it somewhere else? Are you gonna carve it? If so, what are you carving?” Clearly, the questions had built up while I was gone. “Oh, and did you figure out who delivered it? And why?”

“Whoa. One at a time. I haven’t planned to move it. Do you really need me to? And, yes, I think I am gonna carve it.”

I thought maybe a few answers would suffice, but Marge sat there waiting for the rest of them. She locked her steely, knowing eyes on mine.

“You know darned well that I can outwait you, Nate. And that pie I made earlier’s gonna wait, too, if you don’t answer my questions.”

I know when I’ve been outmaneuvered. Kiah and the Hatters have been working me into whatever plots they’ve had for a year now. And they know about one of my serious weaknesses—food.

Sighing, I answered, “I’ve been thinking about it, and I’m gonna carve an angel of sorts.”

Her smile carved deeper creases around her eyes and mouth, but the light of her approval warmed me already. “An angel! How wonderful! I can’t wait to tell the girls. Ooooh! Something divine in my garage!” She clapped her hands together, before drawing up short. “I have one concern though—she’s gonna be wearing clothes, right? This ain’t gonna be like that poster in your room, is it?”

Here we go again.

“Now, Marge. I already told you. There’s nothing weird about those posters. If anything, there’s something kinda nerdy about them. That naked statue that so offends you is Michelangelo’s David. The others are his work, too. There’s nothing obscene about it. It’s art!” I waved my arms around for emphasis, punctuating the last word in my exasperation.

I still hadn’t answered the question, and she mulishly crossed her arms, waiting for my answer.

“No, she’s not gonna be naked! Christ!” I ducked as Marge swatted at me with the newspaper for taking the Lord’s name in vain. “Ack! Lay off, Marge. Seriously. She’ll have clothes.”

Still clutching the paper, but the tension gone from her brows, she went to grab the chocolate pie as I wondered what kind of clothes she thought should appear on an angel. She’s happy about the clothing situation now, but she doesn’t know that I’ll basically be carving Sarah Connor with wings. The thought of her shock sweetened the chocolate in my mouth even more, and I savored my pie as I thought about the spiky blades protruding like porcupine quills on my angel’s thighs and arms.

I listened to the nuances of working in a new medium in Sculpture 2. Mrs. Carmichael droned about the benefits of working in clay and the disadvantages. I am more of a doer than a listener though, always have been, and I fidgeted with the ball of clay before me. I can’t let it go, pounding the piece between my palms, and my hands are operate independently of my mind, stroking and shaping the ovoid piece into an unusual teardrop. My fingertips pinched the rounded edges, adding rounded steps to the project, and I barely heard Mrs. Carmichael in the background as the other students began rolling their clay.

I should be worried about my instructions, but I find no space for that in my head. I only saw filaments, fibers, details of the wing. I etched the details into the outline I’ve made, the foundation for my project. I scraped with my scalpel and a tiny pick to get each filament, each feather to match the picture in my mind. I should quit. I should apologize for zoning out and find out what’s going on, but I can’t.  I didn’t want to. I wanted to practice, I wanted to see my angel finished. I needed to bring her into my world. I looked up and saw the rest of the students trying to make a basic bowl shape. I could press my clay into a hollow hemisphere. I could have still gone back, but I didn’t. I etched and fluffed the clay ridges until I have a wing. And I never learned to etch or fluff. I am more than inspired. I am driven, compelled to carve. I would say that I’m possessed of a mad angel-sculpting spirit, but who does that? That’s crazier than needing to sculpt. But I couldn’t break the wing beneath my palm. I already love her.

My reverie broke as a classmate bumped into me. The other students were filing out, and Mrs. Carmichael stared at me and my work. “What are you doing?” she asked, kindly demanding some explanation for my deviation.

“I don’t know,” I mumbled, my pulse racing as I was caught. “I just couldn’t get it out of my head.”

She didn’t give me the you’re-a-psycho look I expected though. Instead, she kindly patted my hand and her eyes filled with sympathy. “I know what you mean. I get things in my head, and I can’t sculpt anything else either. It is weird that you chose wings though.”

There it was. An acknowledgement of my inherent oddity.

She looked at me suggestively. “Would you like to see my studio?”

Curious, and more than a little cautious, I nodded my assent and scooped up my books as I cradled the wing. Is she hitting on me? I haven’t gotten any creepy vibes off of this woman before, but Kiah and I have learned the hard way that not every threat exudes violence. I towered over my petite teacher. I shouldn’t feel threatened, but I can’t shake the ominous feeling, that sense of inevitability as defining moments lurk around a corner we can’t glimpse.

We walked across the campus, in a mostly uncomfortable silence, the tension rising. I could practically hear the violins shrieking in my skull, goosebumps warning me that nothing was normal here.

An old brick building’s first floor housed the instructors’ studio, and I was prepared to see abstract pieces, nudes like David, and huge canvases, scribbles of ideas on scraps of paper. Instead, I was surprised by the number of instructors all working at the same time. Don’t y’all take time off? And then I saw the four artists in this room were shaping, sketching, painting—a room crowded with angels.

“Welcome to the Angel Guild,” she joked.

“The Angel Guild?”

“I’m afraid that you know what I mean. You were approached by the Valkyries about getting justice for someone you love, right? And, all of a sudden, you’re fixated on one project. And not just the image, the inspiration, but on how you should do it. What material, what size. You know it all, don’t you? And it’ll culminate in a marble angel.”

I stood there, dumbfounded as she told me parts of my new life story.

“Kind of.”

“And your marble’s been delivered?”

I grew cold with horror as her confounding knowledge chilled me. “Uh-huh.”

She pushed her chunky hipster glasses up the bridge of her nose. “You’d best stick with us. Not everyone will understand what you’re going through.”

I couldn’t believe that she will either. I wanted to ask if her marble pulses, if it’s alive. But I’ve concealed my obsession so far.

“Is this some kind of joke? I didn’t get a ‘Let’s Make a Deal’ offer from a—did you say, ‘valkyrie’?”

I knew my tone was biting, but I don’t like being pranked.

“It’s not a joke. And I’ve never heard of the Inspiration not coming from Valkyrie class angel, a Fury, or one of the Four. You might want to check the skepticism at the door. We are the only ones who will believe you, no matter what, over the coming weeks and months. You can carve here, or wherever you’d like. I just thought you should know that you’re not alone.”

The other sculptors chipped away at the stone. Clink, clink. But they were watching me, too.

The closest one put her chisel down.

“I’m Anna Kemp.” She introduced herself with a pained smile.

“Nate Jacoby.”

And the greeting continued around the room with Paul Stanton, Grant Miller, and Howard Trent, barely allotting time for nods and registering my name. Whatever this place is, I didn’t want to be there. After the clipped hellos from the men, I backed away from the circle of materials ringing the room. I nearly took out an easel with my backward march, but I didn’t belong. Maybe I’m full of the naivete of youth, but I’m not ready to lie down and give in to divine inspiration.

Do you hear that, Muses? I won’t carve just because you say sculpt. Nathaniel Forrest Jacoby is no one’s lapdog.

And I sprinted through the sultry air burning my lungs. I sprinted clear off of campus and didn’t stop in the neutral ground for the streetcar like I planned. I don’t have time to wait, to pause, to reflect. Because I know things I didn’t before. Whether inspiration is divine or not, it’s real, and my angel didn’t spring from my own mind.

Hell and High Water: Proofs Are In!

It’s been quite a week here with two sets of proofs arriving within three days! I feel spoiled getting to hold the results of years of writing all at once. And this little book is a rollercoaster of love, failure, PTSD, violence, and the South surrounding me.

Hell and High Water will be available on August 25th. You can pre-order ebooks before then, but the print version goes live on publication day.

Continue reading

Hell and High Water

I have been writing poetry for years. I’ve read amazing lines that left me despairing of my ability to match the skill of my favorite poets, awed by the way they bare the truth with only a few words. Mary Oliver, Sylvia Plath, Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost, and Pablo Neruda, along with so many others, taught me how to gut punch with the truth and a few lines.

I needed distance from my own poems before I was ready to separate and edit them, making cuts and looking for the most precise word. And I still might not have decided to share my poems. But, recently, I have been on a quest for any verses, any songs that capture the way I feel. And so much lacked depth. I began to wonder if maybe no one was in as much pain as I was. Living with PTSD can be isolating. PTSD on top of a pandemic made me feel singularly desolate. I’m especially interested in eradicating the lies we tell ourselves; in this case, it’s “I’m alone and no one can help me. No one else feels like this.”

Hell and High Water Cover 2So, I’ve decided to release the deepest and darkest words I’ve got. They aren’t pretty. They aren’t nice. They are concise. My poetry is a blend of Southern drawls, the fusion of science and art, and a whole lot of pain with a few glimmers of happiness. It’s not for the faint of heart. But I’m sharing it in case anyone else is on my dark path and thinks they are walking alone. If you’re heartbroken, read the whole thing. If you think you’re the poster child for PTSD, try “Fallacies” and “Ripples”. And then notice that “The Inverse” and “Benediction” follow those. I can’t hold everyone’s hand through panic attacks, but I can offer a sense of community and hope.

Hell and High Water will soon be available for pre-order and will be released on August 25, 2020.  (It’s a bit of a pandemic surprise for me, too.)



He Doesn’t Get a Book

I am so damned proud of this stack of paper. You might be thinking, “C’mon, Jessi. You write novels, and it’s a novel. Why is this one standing out?” This one is standing out first because it’s poignant. It’s got a mix of mythologies, generation gaps, Southern flavor, fights to embrace sexual and racial identities—all while packed with laugh-until-you-hurt moments.

It's real when it's all printed in front of me!

But I’m also damned proud because I had so much trouble getting back to this novel to edit it after I wrote it. I worked on it while I was in a very abusive relationship, one that culminated in nightmarish domestic violence. It’s not an autobiographical novel at all, but I wrote it in spite of my circumstances. And everything created in that time felt touched by it. I remembered what I was going through when I penned different scenes, when I tried to edit and stopped.

I am proudest because I have taken my novel back. You can’t see it, but I know I not only had to write it, I had to wrest it from an abyss of panic, anxiety, and doubt. My abuser does not get a book, much less the best one I’ve written so far. I want to share it with you all far too much. I’m living with this stack of paper for now, putting on finishing touches and recording audio soon. You’ll get a native Southerner for the drawl of New Orleans! And I am excited to share both the drawl and the story.

Years That Ask Questions

“There are years that ask questions and years that answer.” –Zora Neal Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God

I have been through what felt like years of questions and some brutal answers since I penned the ending to Where Angels Can’t Follow. In the last year, I’ve used my powers of the pen in the technical arena, and I have used my writing to empower victims of violence to not stay silent, to be screaming loud. My home was broken into a few months ago, and I was attacked quite violently by someone I was close to. It has given me perspective and deep gratitude for my village. But none of those people could have helped if I had been cowed into silence.

I still felt like I briefly lost my voice, the one I speak with and the one I write with, when I was stuck in hellish flashbacks. It’s not the kind of time loop one wants to be in. I discovered from reading The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel van der Kolk that research indicates one does indeed literally lose activity in the part of the brain responsible for speech when reliving traumatic memories. I am grateful to my caving community and every friend who reached out. You helped me find my voice again when I could barely find the air to fill my lungs.

I can think of quite a few literary greats who struggled with loss, depression, anxiety, and pain. Though it’s a hell of a crucible, the pain makes us great; it makes empathetic people who can get at the heart of any struggle with accuracy. I have my well of pain now to pull from as I write. And it’s a comfort to know that all I have been through the last couple of years will be instrumental in creating powerful new worlds and characters with depth.

Where Angels Can’t Follow is in some final editing phases now. I’m nitpicking the word choices and filling in the gaps. This one will be done this year so that I can make room for the other characters that keep trying to push their way to the front of my mind. Thank you all for waiting so patiently. And thank you to my friends who are not so patient, too. (I needed the nudging.) I am looking forward to sharing my mix of New Orleans, voodoo, archangels, classical Renaissance art, and generational differences with all of you.


Creating Escapes

I think I have white knight syndrome, a need to rescue people. This can be and has been literal rescue–hauling someone with an injury out of a wilderness environment. It can also be a desire to help my friends through tough times. And, weirdly enough, now helping people I don’t even know by providing escapes into fiction.

Books were a crucial part of my childhood. I was anomalous in a tiny Southern town that didn’t quite know what to do with me. I didn’t want to hunt, fish, or go mudding. My lifelong vegetarianism left a few people scratching their heads and deepened the divide. I had a thirst for the world, for worlds I could never see. And books were a window into places I starved for, a way to see the possibilities around me. I knew I didn’t want to go to Wal-Mart for fun or spend humid days in beat-up boats on stagnant water. But what more was there?

I immersed myself in every free moment, and it was encouraged. Who’s going to tell their kid not to read books? I ran through the local libraries’ pitiful sci-fi fantasy sections and was forced to expand my reading selections for lack of options. I read literature, children’s series, trashy romances, poetry–anything I could get my hands on. Running out of things to read was the absolute worst, and as I grew older, more adept at foraging for books, I had a Scarlett O’Hara bookworm moment–As God is my witness, I’ll never go without books again.  And I haven’t. I chuckle about my need for new material to fill my mind, piles of books in every room that I haven’t read yet, that I’m looking forward to. They are my comfort objects–at least one in every room, sometimes ten or more. Three in my van. One in my purse. A library on my phone. You get the picture.

I eventually came to realize that one can be just as addicted to books as anything else–video games, television, drinking, phones. It’s a healthier distraction, but one to pursue in moderation. And I knew that I wanted to be a person who spends her life creating, not just consuming. As soon as that thought penetrated my mind, it wouldn’t die. And, like any avid reader, I know the value in escaping rough days in the scent of pages and ink, in a world different from my own. I had no choice after that. Characters, their friends, their problems–all wouldn’t leave my thoughts. And I hope that my new worlds provide a needed reprieve from life’s stresses for some of you, that I can briefly be a white knight.