Debut Novel Progress
And some life musings… and a free STORY for YOU
My debut novel
is making progress! After languishing for several weeks without any attention from me, I am thrilled to share that it did not grow wings and flee the chaos of my computer, desk (where a hard copy is currently printed) or home. I was concerned about the paper shuffling noises I kept hearing and at one point may have found the manuscript trying to make a break for it with my car keys (I kid, but we’re at the point where I feel like my manuscript has a mind of its own.)
In a huge next step, I was able to book the author of one of my favorite WWII historical fiction novels to complete developmental edits for my story! The fabulous Caitlin Miller who wrote Our Yellow Tape Letters and offers freelance editing services for authors is going to be working with me! (Really! Me! I still can’t believe it!)
Reach, my debut novel’s working title, is moving up in the world!
Life
This past month my family had the opportunity to visit Universal Studios where we spent time at the Wizarding World of Harry Potter. Seeing books come to life and so many people enjoying it on a random Wednesday in February more than a decade after the last book was published, was incredible and a great reminder that good stories last. I have been thoroughly encouraged to continue to work towards my publication goals for stories I truly believe in!
Here’s a few photos of us enjoying Universal Studios!
A GIFT for YOU
I have a deep and abiding love for middle grade fiction. Sadly much of the market involves toilet humor and some questionable morality/ethics! With my own kids reading this genre, my response is to 1) find the good stuff (which I share on insta @olivia_read_run_write) and 2) write middle grade with depth of emotion and real themes. Just because they are young doesn’t mean kids can’t feel empathy for characters! In fact I argue that reading is one of the best ways to help kids develop empathy!
As a gift to my subscribers, I’ll be sending a chapter (or two) of this work in progress every newsletter! It would make me so happy if you’d share with your middle grade readers (it’s a great serial read a loud!) and let me know what they think!
🙂
Thanks for being here, and enjoy:
Polar Bear Summer
By: Olivia McCarthy
Tears are streaming down my face- again. I finish putting my gear in the pack. Earlier dad handed me an inventory and gruffly told me to ‘make sure you’ve got everything’. I sigh as I try to zip the black zipper around the mound of arctic equipment in my bag. I can’t help it. I try not to. But I think of her. Specifically how this would not be happening at all if mom were here.
But she isn’t here. She’s gone and she’s never coming back.
The bristles of shadow on his jaw and the dim eyes of my dad are reminder enough of what we miss without her. Now this.
Why did you have to die, Mom?
At eleven years old, I’m not very tall and grief has left me undernourished- so I still wear kids clothes from years ago- one’s mom bought me before she got sick.
Dad’s not a good cook and quite frankly I’m not either. We’re good at eating ramen though. At first Mrs Stein from the apartment next door tried to bring over food every so often. It was delicious. Then one day I heard my dad tell her we were grateful but ‘didn’t need charity’. The food stopped and Mrs Stein doesn’t smile at me anymore. I miss her smiles. They filled something in me. Sometimes I see her look at me with a different look. It’s one I don’t like. It’s pity. She looks away when she sees my eyes. I see something that she tries to hide. I think it’s shame. Shame for what, I can only wonder. I do not speak the thoughts that rattle my brain day and night like a prisoner trying to escape.
Then, six months ago Dad told me he had accepted a position as a researcher on an island. That sounds great, except this island isn’t warm with sandy beaches. This island is in the arctic. Cold. Snow. Polar. Northern lights.
What kind of researcher goes to an island in the Hudson Bay? A meteorologist. A weatherman. That’s what my dad is. What kind of kid goes there? That’s what I don’t know.
He can’t leave me here. There’s no one for me to be with. I am in the unique position of being the only child attached to the research mission.
We are leaving at the beginning of May, in two weeks. And I don’t know what to do. I go to school most days but sometimes I don’t. I just walk down the block and sit on the benches, staring at the people and thinking about how stupid it all is.
Sometimes I go to the cemetery. Peach trees line the paths and presumably give passersbys a break from the already stifling Atlanta humidity. No one ever comes there though. It’s a taboo place, but Mom would have come for me, if she was here. Sometimes I sit in the cemetery by her grave and pretend she will come and talk to me. Sometimes I can almost hear her voice scolding me and telling me to go to school.
Dad doesn’t care if I go to school or not. He cares about one thing right now. “Annette,” he says when when discussing the research mission- “we have to escape.”
I look at him with a question in my eyes. ‘Escape what?’ But I don’t speak. I have words in my mind but I cannot make them come out of my mouth. I haven’t said a word since…mom.
Dad reads my eyes and answers: “The sadness.”
Everything he does is about getting rid of the memories and grief.
But what if I don’t want to escape it? Leaving the sadness means really leaving her.
Muruaneq
My name is Muruaneq. It means soft, deep snow. It’s always been my favorite kind. The type where you can dig a comfortable burrow and watch the world around you disappear into fuzzy white.
This year, I have two cubs. Twins. They scamper and roll and play. I like them very much. Being a mother isn’t easy for a polar bear, but I do find myself enjoying it.
Before I denned down for the winter I traveled a long way from their father. He is a big bear. Very fierce and I do not trust him with my cubs.
The sea ice will be breaking soon and me and the cubs need to move to a summer location. One of them climbs on my back. I lower my head to the ground and she slides down my neck, plopping on her bottom in front of my nose. I nip her playfully, but also to remind her that I am in charge. Forgetting who’s the authority means death in our world.
I grunt and begin to lope out of the cave where we’ve lived for the winter and much of spring. The cubs amble along without complaint. Everything is adventure to them.
We make our way down to the shore. Before now I have always snapped at them to remind them the sea ice is dangerous and they should not go on it. Today I grumble the command to follow me and step onto the ice. It’s not very thick by the shore anymore. But it will be enough for us as we move over deeper water. The cubs slip and slide on the ice before they gain confidence with this new terrain.
We lumber along, the ice creaking and shifting as the sun warms our fur. We walk for hours, the moon rises and lights the way. Finally I stop. The cubs curl up around my warm body right on the ice and we spend the night in between winter and summer. The sun rises and we begin our trek again. I sniff the air constantly for walrus, seal, something. The cubs could use more fat and I have learned never to forgo a chance at food. We walk for three moon rises.
I smell it. Seal. The cubs have grown weary but doggedly follow my tracks. I point my snout to the rocky shore and they perk up. I suspect they smell the seal too. The more seal I eat, the longer I can give them milk. The more they can grow. In my heart I feel things changing, I am unsettled. I need to raise two strong cubs to adulthood.
When we get to the shore, I scout among the rocks, walking for a mile or two on the pebbly land. I find a cave on the northern side of the island and nudge the cubs inside. They collapse into a puddle of white fur and paws, tangled up together. I snarl a warning not to leave the cave but I know they will sleep while I’m away.
I step onto the shore and notice that the ice is broken here, cracked by currents and wind. I will have to swim. I relish muscles moving powerfully under my coat as I swim to the ice. From the ice I sniff out the seal colony I smelt earlier, water dripping from my fur with plink, plink, plink. I cover my nose with my white paw.
It’s a good day to hunt.
With great joy,
Olivia