In the case of the excerpts, maybe hoping that you will like it enough to want to read some more. But then on Friday, I have slipped in something about the act or business of writing.

The last couple of Friday posts are things like Vella and the Story Arc, And on Vocal…, and Sometimes they are Bad. During the same period, the Monday and Wednesday posts were stories like Widow’s Walk, First Date-Again, and an excerpt from The Call.

Of course, there are always a few other treats mixed in, and there have been a few posts announcing book sales, and soon I hope to have a bonus post announcing a new book. But I’ll try to stick mostly to that formula for a while.

But what I would REALLY appreciate is you subscribing. If you subscribe to the free weekly newsletter (goes out Saturday morning around 10am Eastern) you can catch up on the posts, and pick up a FREE ebook called Escape. Don’t tell anyone, but I’m thinking about changing to a new ebook, and subscribers will get that one free, too. I’m also almost ready to offer the ebook up in another format aside from pdf to make it more friendly for Kindle app and device readers.

As a very quick reminder, Vella is for “episodic fiction.” That means that each individual work will be shorter. Under 5,000 words. There is some speculation that 2,000 to 3,000 words would be ideal. Users will pay per word (in credits) for the stories that they read, and the first three installments will be completely free. After that, the user will buy an installment, and the writer will be paid a percentage of the revenue it generates.

I see a lot of writers thinking about taking an unpublished book and using it for Vella. And that is not a bad idea. Assuming the chapters are of an appropriate length, and there is enough of a hook to push the reader from chapter to chapter, that might work out really well.

There are two issues I see, and the best illustration I can use is the differences between a TV series, a TV mini-series, and a movie.

A novel is much like a movie. There might be some mini-stories, but there is a base story arc, and it is the entirety of the movie. The next thing is that a novel typically has about 75k to 100k words (there are certainly epics that are MUCH longer). Keeping in mind that the first three episodes are free… and that could be 15k words, 15-20% of the book might be free.

A mini-series is somewhat like a movie, but more like an epic novel. It would translate much better to the episodic treatment. The writers have to engage the audience to tune in tomorrow for the next installment. Usually, there is a two hour “intro” to get us hooked on the premise, and invested in the characters (like the three free chapters) and then we have a few nights over a couple of weeks where we invest 10 or 12 hours in the show… much longer than the 2 hour movie. It might be like a 300k to 500k epic. The free 15k word intro is a drop in the bucket.

Then there is the TV show. Every week. Sometimes for a season, other times for a decade.

In a TV show, though, we have several differences. We have the weekly story arc… the episode. We might also have a story that takes the season to unfold. Relationships between the characters may develop over several episodes, or even seasons.

So, we have an overall story arc… like Sam getting home in Quantum Leap. Then, within the episode we have a story arc… like what problem Sam has to solve in order to make the next leap and get closer to home. During the run of the show, there are changes in the relationship between Sam and Al, forming mini-arcs. And the next thing is that each episode teased the next one at the end. We knew where Sam leaped, and the signature line “Oh boy…” told us he had a problem to solve.

I think that the most successful stories on the platform are going to utilize a TV episode model. There will absolutely be stories that will be wildly successful that do not. But the TV episode style could develop into many hundreds of thousands of words, with a miniscule portion of them being “free”. It could go on forever, assuming that the premise is strong. If needed, it could even be divided into seasons, allowing multiple types of story arcs, and making more of it free.

Compared to the 2 hours of a movie, or the 12 hours of a mini-series, the 26 hours run (or more) of a single season of a TV show is huge… and shows that go multiple seasons can produce hundreds of hours of episodes. That would translate into millions of words of the story.

I have actually knocked out a variety of posts on Vocal since I last mentioned it here four weeks ago. In fact, aside from Lucinda’s Choice, all of the others were written since my last update… I think. So, that should put me around 15 postings there in the last month.

Today I wanted to highlight a few posts I’ve done about writing.

This one is older than that, but Just Write the Book… And doesn’t everyone want to know Why I Write…

But the two I’m more interested in revolve around Vella, an upcoming platform for episodic fiction from Amazon. The details are still in flux, but it is something I am seriously looking at, for a variety of reasons. Episodic fiction would be like a TV show or mini-series, but written. Shorter “episodes” of under 5000 words, but lots of related stories… episodes. It would be a paid platform, in that readers would pay for the episodes (after the first couple) and the writers would share in the revenue. So… here are the posts I wrote about that. Kindle Vella and Vella and the Story Arc.

any moment her father or her mother could climb the steps and see us.

That was more than forty years ago, and I can still smell her perfume. I’ve never known the name of it, but I can’t pick up its scent without thinking of her. I can feel my fingers slipping through her blonde hair. I see her bright green smiling eyes. I hear her joyful laugh. The soft crush of her lips on mine.

Sunrise was the best time… the sun coming up over the Chesapeake Bay, over the beach only a block away. But it was rare that I would be there that early in the morning. Second best was sunset. The fiery color was behind us, but the boats and the star would twinkle against the deep blue of the evening sky as it faded from blue into black.

Even now, just the idea sends me back in time. Looking at her as the last rays of the day filtered through her hair, lighting a halo around her angelic face. Sitting across from her, holding hands across the divide… her feet next to me, mine next to her. Her smile.

“So, what is a widow’s walk?” I asked her father one night as we stood next to the grill on their balcony. They had a small thrift shop on the first floor of the building, an apartment occupying the two floors above that, and finally the widow’s walk snaking along the peak of the roof.

“This house was built by a sea captain a hundred and fifty years ago. Looking around,” he continued, “you can still see a lot of his touches… the joinery in the wood, the details.

“He built it for his wife, Ophelia. Her picture is in the hallway. Beautiful woman, dark hair and eyes. And he built the walk on top so that she could look out to the sea. If you look, over in the southeast corner, there is a socket set into the rail. She had a telescope in a locker in the cupola that she could set into the socket and watch the sea when he was gone.

“The captain disappeared on one of their voyages. I guess that would have been around 1830.

“When the ship was due in, she went to the roof, out on the walk, and scanned the horizon with the telescope. A day turned into a week. A week turned into a month. ‘He’s lost,’ they told her. A month turned into a year.

“Every day, rain or shine, she would go up to the walk and scan the horizon for a sign of the man she loved.

“Even before that she was a widow of the sea. She knew her man couldn’t leave his first love, no matter how much she wished he would. And like any widow of the sea, she wanted to know when her lost love would return.

“That’s why it’s called a widow’s walk,” he finished. He had a far-off, wistful look in his eyes.

“He loves to tell that story,” Holly said softly in my ear as she snuck up behind me, wrapping her arms around me and squeezing.

“I guess I do,” he said. “I guess the romance of the sea has a place in my heart.”

After that, sometimes when I was riding my bike to her house, I would catch Holly on the walk watching me come down the street… sometimes with a telescope. I would wave and she would raise her hand to me. Even from the ground, I could see her brilliant smile.

***

Ophelia looked through her telescope in the failing light of the evening. It had been so long. Day after day she waited, watching. James had never lied to her, and he said he would come back. His last voyage was to be three months. Cuba, Brazil, the Canary Islands, Italy, Portsmouth and then home. Then he was retiring.

But the three months turned into four, then six. Then a year. She didn’t lose faith. Even when sailors came back talking of a storm in the Atlantic, and word filtered in that his ship never made it to the Canary Islands, her faith was steadfast.

James would return for her.

A decade passed, then two. Every morning at sunrise and every evening just before sunset, she would be on the walk, her eye to the spyglass. Her spyglass trained on the horizon. She knew every ship that sailed the bay, but none of the sails were the ones for which she was looking.

In 1853, she disappeared. A dinner for two was set on the table, uneaten. Everything was perfectly placed. All the captain’s favorite foods were laid out. A single candle burned much of the way down in the center of the table.

Clarinda, Ophelia’s best friend, looked from her window at sunset. She didn’t see Ophelia and rushed across the street to her house. She rushed up the stairs to the private apartment over the small shop Ophelia owned, calling her friend’s name.

That was when she discovered the dinner laid out. She quickly looked around the apartment, then ran up the outside stairs to the walk.

The telescope was heeled over in its mount. She scanned the horizon, then looked through the telescope. She almost thought she could see something at the edge of the sea, where it and the sky met.

Ophelia was never found. Locals combed the shoreline, thinking she had lost patience and swam out to sea to join her husband. Clarinda never uttered what she saw while looking through the telescope that evening on the widow’s walk, only leaving it in her journal.

But later, she would say that she could see Ophelia pacing the walk, usually at sunrise, but sometimes at sunset as well. She would always be wearing a black dress, as many had seen her in, wrapped in a bone-colored, lace shawl. And if she looked to the sea, she would see those same sails on the horizon. When she would look back to Ophelia’s house, her friend would be gone.

***

I had never seen Ophelia, but Holly said that she had seen her a few times. I thought maybe one evening when we were sitting in the cupola, holding hands, quietly watching the light fade, we might catch a glimpse of the woman that had so loved her captain.

“What is she like?” I asked one night at the sun dipped below the horizon behind us, a cargo ship’s light rolling slowly south in the bay.

“Sad. She was heartbroken. She would walk along the course, looking to the sea. Sometimes, she would bend as if looking through a telescope that was no longer there. Then, the last time I saw her, she was looking, as she normally did… and she jumped.

“Her movement, solid, but ethereal, startled me. She looked directly at me, but also through me. I could see the joy on her face… it emanated from her. She glowed. Then, she ran along the walk to the steps, spun and climbed down them… and disappeared.”

“You haven’t seen her since?” I asked.

“I thought I caught a glimpse of her glow out in the bay that night, but I don’t know.”

Holly slipped off the bench opposite me in the cupola and sat next to me, my arm wrapping around her. She snuggled into me as I held her tight.

“I think she found her happiness. I think her captain came back for her like she knew he would,” I said.

Holly turned to me. Her hand touched my cheek. I pulled her close and felt her soft lips with mine. Everything about that moment burned into my memory.

“I hope so,” she said after the kiss, as I took in her perfume and felt her hair between my fingers.

***

Holly is long gone. Her parents passed away a decade ago and she has her own family on the other side of the country. I’ve moved away as well, with a family of my own. But I still visit my mother nearby.

The shop her family owned is boarded up, the house in dire need of a renovation. It was built over two hundred years ago, and its age showed forty years ago when I was last inside. But it is sadly abandoned.

I often stay in a hotel a few blocks away, overlooking the beach and the bay beyond. It isn’t far from my mother’s house where I grew up. Sometimes, I sit on the hotel’s balcony so that I can watch the light fade to night, see the sky go from brilliant blue to black, and watch the twinkle of stars and ships on the water as they grow and take over the night.

But one night was different.

As I sat on the wicker chair, an ice-cold beer on the table next to me, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something move on Holly’s widow’s walk. I spun… Ophelia was walking the course. I watched her look out to sea. After a few minutes, I saw her jump and could see her aura brighten.

I set down my drink and sprinted from the room. I ran down the stairs from my fifth-floor room, not willing to wait for an elevator. Reaching the ground floor, I tore through the lobby and out the door, sprinting down the boardwalk.

The glow from Holly’s roof passed in front of me, a hundred yards away. I chased after it as fast as my aging body would allow. She moved over the ground like a shimmer, quickly, but not hurried.

Forty yards away, she crossed to the sand. I angled toward the water, cutting diagonally to where she was headed. I needed to be closer… to see her.

Twenty feet away, I skidded to a stop. My hands were on my knees and my heart thudded in my chest.

Ophelia turned to me. “Thank you,” she said.

I looked up, and there was a glowing launch from the ship sliding onto the sand.

“The love between you and Holly allowed us to be reunited,” the captain said. “This is our celebration.”

He lifted her onto the boat, a moment later it slid back out into the bay, cutting through the waves.

***

“Hi Holly,” I said into my phone, sitting again on the balcony.

“Oh my gosh… I haven’t talked to you in forever,” she replied.

“I saw Ophelia… and Captain Morgan. They told me that we freed them to be together again. I think it was that kiss.”

“That was forty-one years ago tonight,” she said. “I was actually just thinking about it.”

***

Clarinda’s Journal:

There, upon the horizon, lit by the setting sun were the sails of a schooner. As I continued to watch, I could see a woman on the aft deck, her hair dark, flowing in the wind.

The two-masted ship began to turn out to sea, away to the south.

If I didn’t know better, I would have thought it Capt. James Morgan’s ship. She was as sleek and beautiful a vessel as I ever saw sail. Watching through the spyglass, I could see the woman and the captain kiss. If it were Ophelia, she was twenty years younger. Always a beautiful woman, she had again the radiance she’d lost when all thought her love gone.

I turned back, an otherworldly boy and girl sat in the cupola, intertwined. There was a flash as they kissed, then they were gone. It was calm.

Beth had been Lincoln’s dream girl. In elementary school, they’d been buddies… she was ‘one of the guys’ and did the same stuff as the rest of the gang. But by junior high, things started changing. Their relationship morphed from ‘buds’ to something completely different. One day, in sixth grade, they were walking home from the bus stop, just the two of them. He’d tripped, and she pulled him back up… and for the rest of the walk, until she turned to go up her front walk, their fingers were interlinked.

It all crashed to a halt at the end of ninth grade. Linc’s dad was transferred to Great Britain. Trans-Atlantic calls were expensive, and even though he tried, writing was something he did like just about every other fifteen-year-old boy… he didn’t.

***

She wrote a few letters, at least a few more than she received. She was still in love with Linc, but he wasn’t there. She didn’t know if he was ever coming back. Eventually, life moved on for her.

Steve Ogden took her to her first dance, and while her mind wandered to Lincoln Royce, she pushed it down. He was gone and she didn’t know if he even thought about her anymore.

Beth Thomas graduated and went on to college. She started using her full name, then met and married Tim Willis. He had been a good man, until he wasn’t. But they had three wonderful children together. After college, she never went back to Virginia, at least not until after the divorce. Her kids were grown, and had scattered to the winds, and her father’s health declined. Her parents needed her. When she thought about it, she needed something different. Someplace different.

***

Lincoln Royce picked up the loaf of bread and set it in his cart. He had a lot more things to get. It wasn’t his first trip to the grocery store since moving back, but each time, it seemed like the list got longer and he realized all the things he was missing.

“Lincoln Royce?” he heard from behind him.

He spun around. His eyes landed on a woman that seemed familiar. He looked at her for a moment, eyes probing, trying to see through the years. It had been a month since he’d moved back, transferred to the place he’d lived until he was fifteen. He’d left thirty-nine years before.

“Liz Jones… right?”

“Pretty good, Linc. It’s Liz Garrett now. I almost forget… twenty-five years. Are you visiting?” she asked.

“No. I moved back a few weeks ago. How have you been?”

“Good… like I said, married. Two kids. Grandson on the way,” she said, smiling wide. “Never left. What about you? We kind of lost track of you after you moved to England.”

“Yeah… wow. That’s been a minute, hasn’t it? I was actually living outside of London until coming back here. I got married, we had a son. My wife passed from cancer two years ago. The company was looking to expand, and here I am.”

“I’m so sorry, Linc. That must have been devastating,” Liz said, reaching out and taking his hand. “Have you seen any of the old crowd?”

“No. I wouldn’t even know where to start. And work has been a little crazy. And getting my house in order. I bought it without having set foot in it. It was still a good deal, but needed a little more than I thought, you know?”

“Hey, why don’t you come over for dinner. You and my husband, Gil, would get along great. What do ya say? Friday, I won’t take no for an answer.”

He knew her determination. He also knew she had been Beth’s best friend when he left. If anyone knew where she was and how she was doing, Liz would have the inside track.

“Sure,” he replied.

She tapped his phone with hers, passing along her address.

“Casual. We’ll grill or something. It’ll be fun.” Her eyes glinted with the mirth he remembered.

***

Elizabeth Willis was sitting in the kitchen of her best friend’s house, a glass of merlot in her hand. It was her second.

“You are up to something, Liz. I have known you too long. I can see it in your eyes,” Beth said to her friend.

“Moi?” Liz replied, her hand on her chest, her eyes wide. “Aside from setting you up on a blind date, nothing at all.”

“Blind date? You are kidding me. I’ve been in town a week.” She shook her head. She wasn’t mad. More than just about anyone, she knew that Liz loved her. They were both only-children, and they had been like sisters their entire lives. Even when Beth lived across the country, the two of them remained incredibly close. “Fine… who is it?”

“I’m not telling… But he is tall, quite attractive. Light brown hair threaded with silver. He has gorgeous hazel eyes.”

“And why is this beautiful hunk of masculinity not married?” Beth asked, her eyelashes fluttering.

“Widower. His wife died of cancer. He has a son, twenty-eight. I really think you’ll like him. And he is going to love you.”

“I don’t know… but I guess it’s too late now. You owe me, though,” Beth said, refilling both of their glasses.

They moved out to the deck, overlooking the bay. Gil was manning the grill, cooking up a few steaks. The awning was rolled out, and with the breeze, it was a perfect evening to sit and listen to the waves lapping on the beach as the sun lowered in the sky.

“Doorbell,” Liz said as she jumped off her chair and headed back into the house.

“I don’t know a thing,” Gil said, laughing as Beth turned to look at him. “I’m just the hired help. But my wife might know you better than you know you.”

Beth turned and looked back toward the sliding glass door as Liz came through. A moment later, her date stepped through the door. She hadn’t even seen his face when she knew who it was. The way he reached for the door was enough for her.

“Linc!” Beth cried as she launched from the tall chair into his arms. His arms wrapped around her as she buried her face in his chest, squeezing him. “Are you real? Are you really here?”

“Hi, Beth.” He pulled back a little and looked at her. “My God, you are beautiful.” Beth reached up and wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “I’ve missed you.”

Beth pulled him back to the table and sat down next to him, her fingers intertwined with his and her eyes locked on him. Her other hand reached out and touched him tentatively. “I missed you, too.”

***

Linc looked at Beth in the pale light of the approaching twilight. Her golden hair, now streaked with touches of silver, a few wrinkles emanating from the corners of her beautiful blue eyes. But he saw the same girl he’d fallen in love with forty years before. He saw the girl he was never able to forget. She sipped her merlot, her eyes coming back to him and she set the glass down. Her smile was as brilliant as ever, and her eyes held the same playful shimmer.

Gil laid out the plates, grilled flat-iron steaks with a blue-cheese butter, rosemary and garlic, along with roasted potatoes and grilled, homemade bread.

“Gil, this is amazing,” Linc said.

Through dinner, with Liz and Gil only occasionally bumping into their consciousness, they had talked about their lives. The thirty-nine years that had escaped them. School, college, work, kids. Their eyes seldom left the others.

After dinner, they sat close and held hands, the conversation continuing. Every once in a while, Gil or Liz would get a thought out, but they were all but invisible to the two lovers.

Liz brought out the warm, dark chocolate brownies, their aroma mixing with the merlot.

“Do you want to walk on the beach?” Linc whispered in Beth’s ear as dessert was finished.

“Yes, she does,” Liz said quickly. “Gil and I will take care of this.”

“I can help…” Beth tried to say.

“No, you can’t. I’ve never been so happy to be ignored in my own house in my life. Go… walk… fall back in love with each other,” Liz laughed out.

Beth blushed deeply as Linc held her hand, helping her from the chair. “Too late,” she whispered to her friend. “Thank you.”

Beth slipped her arm into Linc’s as they turned and walked down to the beach, their shoes sitting on the front porch of the house. They walked the length of the beach, slowly, enjoying each other’s touch as they talked about the old days, both together and apart.

“It must have been devastating to lose your wife like that,” Beth said, her head leaned over on his shoulder as they strolled across the sand.

“It was. It was almost as hard as losing you when I moved. Don’t get me wrong… I loved Bianca… I still do… but we had a good life together. We were married for almost thirty years. But I never forgot about you.”

“I never forgot about you, either,” Beth replied, stopping, Linc turning to face her.

For the first time since they were both fifteen, she reached up and wrapped one hand around the back of his neck, the other around his shoulders. His hand fell to her waist, then encircled her, pulling her tight. She stretched up and tasted his lips, the first touch tentative. He leaned down, returning the kiss, longer and deeper. They kissed again, each kiss more intimate and comfortable than the last.

As they walked away from the beach to collect their shoes, Liz stepped onto the porch. “How was dinner?” she asked, her eyes gleaming.

“The pairings were amazing, Liz,” Linc said, his smile broad.

“The merlot was perfect with the steaks and pairing of it with the dark chocolate brownies was exquisite,” Beth added.

“Of course, pairing me with Beth again was the one that put the night over the top,” Linc beamed.