The Other Side of the Curtain
by Meredith Ellsworth
What informs my fiction writing? So many things: my childhood, the places I’ve lived, my family and friends, my schools, my hats, my jobs—oh, and my invisible friend. I began writing stories when I was perhaps ten years old, and every story or poem contained two elements in varying combinations: fantasy and my “take” on life. (I am careful not to say “reality” because how I saw the world around me was, naturally, different from the way everyone else did.)
I don’t know whether other writers do this—I imagine they do—but every person I meet I study carefully and any interesting bits are filed away in a kind of mental clipart board. I do the same with adventures. For example, when I was 21 I lived in Egypt and used to go horseback riding on the edge of the desert in Giza. One day my stallion and I took off and galloped past the Sphinx, racing a friend, barely evading its great paws. I kept that scene like a snapshot in my memory, and when I write my fourth book (set in Cairo) it will be recreated. Of course, being fiction, the friend will be my lover, or perhaps the Sphinx will awake, growl, and bat at me in feline anger.
The other element that deeply infuses my writing is that which hints at the existence of an invisible force that plumps down in the midst of chaos and spreads its peace like a soft chenille scarf over the sturm und drang of life. My favorite stories incorporate the belief that when you most fear your life is not under your control a hidden magic materializes—an aura, a ghost of mist, a sense that a benevolent presence is hovering near, a presence, rather less than God and more than pixies.
This quiet magic—unassuming, unadvertised—represents the other dimension, the romantic world. It may not appear to everyone: or rather, some may never taste it, live in it. But it does exist—on the other side of the curtain. And my job as a romance writer is to give that curtain a little nudge, push it aside an inch or two, so us mortals can breathe in the scent of magic and believe in living happily ever after.
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Excerpt Lost In His Arms
Chloe pulled his arm closer. “It is not just a cut. It’s a gash. Look at all the blood you’ve dripped on my floor! Come here.” She held his arm under the faucet and carefully washed the grit out of the wound. “Now just stay there. Press this paper towel against the cut. I’ll go get some Neosporin and a bandage.” She slipped up the stairs and through her bedroom to the bathroom. As she came out with the supplies she stopped short. He was sitting on her bed.
“I thought I would save you a trip.” He spoke diffidently.
“Oh…that’s…okay.” Chloe willed herself not to touch his thigh as she sat down on the bed next to him (too close?). She applied the ointment and bandage, trying to keep her hands from trembling. He must have noticed anyway, because he put his larger one over hers and gently squeezed.
“Is the blood bothering you?”
She hesitated, breathless. He looked into her eyes, and before she knew it his arms went around her and she was kissing him. No, he was kissing her. She lost all sense of time and place and clung to his mouth as though she were drowning and it was a lifeboat. She felt herself falling, landing on his chest. He held her tightly, squeezing the life out of her. Or was it her soul he was drawing into his own? How could she tell him it was not his blood that was bothering her but her own, boiling up in waves of desire? He let her go reluctantly, but she held onto his buttons, tearing them off. She opened his shirt and buried her face in the soft black hairs of his chest. His hands went to her arms and gently moved her off him to the side. Slowly he undid her blouse, unhooked the bra and brushed each breast with his lips. She lay back, her eyes unfocussed, waiting for the touch, living for the scent of his hair. He looked up through his bangs and blasted her heart out with a glance of those azure eyes.
“May we?”
She did not need elaboration. She nodded mutely. He kissed her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, and down her stomach. A thousand butterflies fought to escape from her belly. He pulled down her zipper and tugged at the skirt. She still lay quietly, lost in pleasure. It all seemed to pass in slow motion. Everything felt perfect. Then he stopped. She opened her eyes. “What?”
His expression had altered. He was glaring at her, his face only inches away from hers. “What the Hell am I doing? This is nuts!” He sat up, facing away from her. She saw that she had taken his shirt off and his belt and zipper were undone. For some inexplicable reason his shoes were neatly arranged at the foot of the bed. She put a hand on his back. He stood up abruptly.
A sudden flash of panic hit her. He couldn’t leave. Not now.
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Although Meredith Ellsworth has traveled and lived in Chicago, Boston, Europe, South and Central America and the Middle East, the last 30 years have been spent in the Washington area as a librarian, Congressional staff assistant, speechwriter and editor. She worked for the U.S. Senate, for the Department of the Interior, and in several library systems, both public and academic.
Writing as M. S. Spencer, she wrote Lost in His Arms, now available from Red Rose Publishing, Bookstrand, and Amazon. Her second novel, Lost & Found, will be released in 2010.
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