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About the author:
LJ Scar is my pseudonym and alter-ego. She lives hillside in a tiny cottage that has a view of the mountains and the ocean on a sprawling spread of land where all the people, dogs, and things she loves are within reach. She makes a living off the results of her imagination. She is a morning person who has great hair even after a rough night of sleep. She loves to exercise and doesn’t love junk food.
Nah…but someday. In the meantime, I live in a place called Kentuckiana. On the Indiana border outside Louisville, Kentucky with my husband, and a rescued border collie mix who makes me laugh constantly with his daily quest to get two balls in his mouth at once. I try to think up vivid locations based off places I’ve lived or vacationed and dream up romances and complications from observing strangers.
I don’t write for the money. There isn’t much to be made self-publishing and most of my books are $.99. I write because I LOVE TO READ! I write what I'd like to read, love stories that don't always have the ending you expect about people who seem real, get hurt and get back up! I also like to make covers that won’t make you squirm if your kids see it.
I hope you any of my books you’ve read as much as I did writing them. If you did, perhaps you will recommend it to your friends. I would very much appreciate if you would rate/review my book on the site you purchased. Ratings/reviews are how indie publications get discovered by other readers.
What inspired you to write your book?
I try to think up vivid locations based off places I’ve lived or vacationed and dream up romances and complications from observing strangers. What Happened In Between was inspired by first kisses, near misses, the heartbreak and the healing power of love.
Here is a short sample from the book:
Do not make eye contact! Do not make eye contact!
“Can I help you?” A frizzy haired woman held a sign with OSA in bold black letters indicating the group location.
Peering past her into the room gave me a glimpse. The hanging heads and the stooped shoulders indicated defeat. Shaking my head no, I hurried past, pulled my baseball cap a little lower, and tucked my blonde ponytail under the collar of my jacket. As if I knew what I was doing, I entered the following room.
Taking in my surroundings, I did some hasty mental notes:
– Six rows of four seats until the aisle
– Small gathering, currently, seven people
– Intentional non-sitting in side-by-side formation by attendees
– COA doubly noted on door and front dry erase board
I decided on a chair in the last row, an aisle, easiest for exiting/escaping.
A straggler, disheveled and cute with wavy dark brown hair dressed in faded jeans and a T-shirt emblazoned with Keep Calm and Rock On excused himself in front of my seat. One of his shoes caught the side of my chair resulting in a loose expletive flying from his mouth. I stifled the urge to laugh as he took the seat two down from me.
An older man rose, closed the door, and addressed the group. “I see some new faces tonight. Just so everyone is in the right place this is the weekly meeting of Children of Alcoholics. You can be anonymous if you choose. However, if you talk we’ll need a name. Make it up if you feel the need.”
The abbreviation’s meaning was not what I expected. I started fidgeting, wondering how bad it would look if I got up and left. Resigning myself to endure the hour meeting, I slouched down in my seat.
A kid rose, gangly and unsure. Hesitant, he said, “Hi, I’m John.”
“Hi John,” the chorus of greetings startled me.
“My mom fell off the wagon this week.” His voice strangled a little as he started to cry. “Monday night she brought home a liter of rum and some dude named Clint to share it with.”
The room became achingly quiet except for John’s muffled sobs.
The older guy placed a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Has your mom sobered up yet?”
“I don’t know. She left on Tuesday and I haven’t seen her since.” As he inhaled sucking in air, the breath caught on the snot and tears leaking down his face.
My sweatshirt cuffs pulled over my hands, I hastily wiped my wet cheeks before anyone could see.
“Have you called your dad?”
“Yeah, he is coming to get me tonight,” John blubbered.
I tried to disconnect, watching the wall clock’s second hand struggling to pass the spaces between five-minute intervals. Zoning out worked on many occasions for me.
“My name is Monica,” a brunette in a business suit, mid-thirties courageously spoke.
On cue the room echoed, “Hello Monica.”
“The Topamax didn’t work as long as I hoped. He thinks I don’t know but I can smell the alcohol coming out of his pores. He carries around that coffee cup as if it is a childhood blanket. Never puts the damn thing down. I can’t even let my kids out of my sight at his house. My youngest daughter loves coffee. I keep thinking she’ll sneak a big swill from his cup when he isn’t looking and choke to death on vodka laced java.” Her own nervous giggles signaled she had finished.
Distracted by the guy near me, I zoned as he multi-body tasked crouching forward with his elbows on his knees, picking at his nails, tapping his foot without making a sound. His vein raised hands and forearms mesmerized me.
Finally, the hour was up.
In the parking lot, the damp cold felt good compared to the heat of frustration, anger and despair shared within the room. Ahead of me my Jeep beckoned, the lone vehicle under a streetlamp illuminating the spaces. I slid in the passenger seat and my key found home. As the starter went click, click, click my thoughts went crap, crap, crap!
I closed my eyes thinking, what are the odds you’ll be attacked in a parking lot at a community center filled with well-intentioned groups? I hopped out of the driver’s seat before rounding the fender, and with one deft movement lifted the hood and braced it with the support bracket. I checked all the fluid levels – good, pushed in all wire and hose connections – good. I went back to crank it with a prayer. Click, click, click.
“Do you need some help?”
Startled, I flinched.
The guy from class had one of his dream worthy hands positioned on my open door. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
I recovered enough to answer his first question, “No problem, I’m a little jumpy.”
“In answer to your question, yeah, I could use some help.”
I was barely out of my seat before he was bent over the Jeep’s grill and fumbling with the battery cables.
“When was the last time you got a battery?” he asked rubbing at the white corrosive dust covering the connections.
“I’ve never, maybe the previous owner two years ago,” I suggested feeling stupid for not knowing the answer.
“How about I give you a jump and we see if that works?”
When I nodded, he walked off between other cars hidden in the outlying darkness.
A sedan with a truck bed drove into the parking spot in front of the Jeep. The vehicle was rusting and damaged with the passenger side gouged for six feet from the quarter panel to the passenger door, no side mirror and dangling a Subaru Baja emblem. He emerged and began hooking battery cables between vehicles.
“Go ahead and crank your Jeep.”
I did as he instructed. The engine hesitated but started. As the battery charged, we stood silent between the narrow space of bumpers and engines, me awkwardly trying to think of something to say, him smiling hopefully not at my incompetence.
“You could drive from here straight to the auto parts store. I could go with you,” he offered.
“Thanks but I’ll just go to the one over by the mall and get it taken care of.”
He disconnected the cables. Both of our vehicles continued running.
“I’m Seth by the way. Seth Kintner.”
“Laken Harrison.” We shook on the introduction. “Thanks for helping me.”
We both got in our respective rides. He waited for me to turn on my headlights, and shift into gear before he flicked his brights twice. I took that as his goodbye.