Tag Archives: creative writing

First Review of THE WAITING ROOM!

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So happy and excited to read my novel’s first review by author and journalist S.K. Gregory.

Read it here.

HIGHLY RECOMMENDED?! Well, my Wednesday is clearly MADE.

I’ve also pasted it here:

The Waiting Room by Alysha Kaye

What happens to us after we die? Are we reunited with our loved ones? In The Waiting Room, Jude, a thirty year old man, is killed in a car accident. He awakens in a ‘waiting room,’ where the dead go before they move on to their next life. Except, Jude, isn’t moving on.

He spends his time watching his wife Nina, wishing he could be reunited with her. From the variety of waiting room assistants including his friend Joe, he learns that people move on quickly. Everyone except him. Is he an anomaly? Or is his love for Nina keeping him there?

Alysha Kaye creates an interesting concept on what the afterlife is like and how love doesn’t die. A thoroughly enjoyable book that makes you think. Highly recommended.

The Waiting Room is out on July 1st 2014 and will be available to buy through Amazon.
@alyshakaye7
https://www.facebook.com/AuthorAlyshaKaye
www.alyshakaye.wordpress.com

 

Thanks again, Sam!

Check out her author website http://www.skgregory.com/

‘The Waiting Room’ Back Cover

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Presenting the back cover of my novel (coming soon!) complete with the book summary and author bio.

The Waiting Room front/back cover

I’m pretty happy with it 🙂 Although it was extremely difficult to write both the summary and bio…still might need tweaking.

Now, just waiting on the author website to be wrapped up along with the interior design. Stay tuned!

Authors Need Photos? Ugh.

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Author bio photos- gag me. No, I don’t want a boring as hell head shot. No, I don’t want to be reading my favorite book while wearing my glasses and sitting atop Poe’s grave.

C’mon, do I really have to have a photo at all? Turns out, yes. Unless you’re Salinger.

I’m not sure why exactly I was surprised by this, but I had zero professional pictures on Facebook. If my outfit was professional, I was holding a beer. If the background was a perfect mix of muted and artsy, my dress was revealing. If my smile said, “Hello, I am an author. Bitch.” then the background was undoubtedly filled with chaos. Le sigh.

There was no way that I was going to pay a photographer- so voila, Jennifer, my co-teach extraordinaire stepped up her game.

We headed to Castle Hill Graffiti–AKA the Hope Outdoor Gallery–and got some pretty amazing shots.

I do believe this is the winner:

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Yes, black and white. It somehow…looked…more…like someone who would write a novel and be serious about it goddammit. While standing in front of graffiti.

“Oh, look at me, I just wrote a novel and now I’m publishing it and I’m standing in front of Austin graffiti art to represent…art and stuff. ‘Cause I’m a writer. And I do that sort of thing.”

Keep your eye out for The Waiting Room, y’all. Should be out this summer! I mean, how can you pass up your own personal copy of that picture?!

Book Cover Winner!

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And the book cover winner is…..

Drum roll please…

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Everyone on WordPress and Facebook overwhelmingly voted for this option. I switched out the white background for a sky and I love it! Thank you to everyone who gave their two cents.

More updates coming soon!

Book Cover Options: Please vote!

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Here are the 3 book covers I have narrowed it down to! Please vote on which one you like the best! Which one would catch your attention?

If you’d like to know more about the novel, here’s Chapter 1.

Or just read this short summary:

Jude and Nina are the epitome of that whole raw, unflinching love thing that most people are jealous of. That is, until Jude dies and wakes up in The Waiting Room, surrounded by other souls who are all waiting to pass over into their next life. But unlike those souls, Jude’s name is never called by the mysterious “receptionist”. He waits, watching Nina out of giant windows. He’s waiting for her. What is this place? How long will he wait? And what will happen when and if Nina does join him? The Waiting Room is a story of not just love, but of religion and philosophy, friendship and self-actualization, of waiting.

Option #1

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Option #2

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Option #3

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Please feel free to share any and all opinions! Stay tuned for more updates on the novel.

Gotta’ Lub a Self-Pub

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***If you are an author/blogger/reviewer and you’re interested in writing a review for my novel once it’s printed, please message me and I’ll be happy to send you a free copy! Another way you can help out? Friends in low places (AKA awesome places)? Yes, please! Give me a shout.***

Yes, it’s finally happening!

I have dusted off the old novel (I really thought it might become one of those things people find on my laptop after I die) and submitted it for a proper edit. I started writing it when I was 20 and finished about three years ago, so the fact that this is finally coming together is a huge deal for me. It’s nerve-wracking to say the least.

I have some amazing graphic designers working on my book cover concepts (stay tuned for the options–I’d love to get your opinion and your vote). Pretty pumped!

And they’re making me an author website, whaaaaat?! I’m movin’ on up in the world.

 

Self-publishing is really the way to go these days. I interned at a huge pub. comp. in New York back in college and let’s just say…the market is bleak. Really depressing stuff. I watched every day as they shrugged off amazing novels only to replace them with pure crap (“This was written by Obama’s half-fourth-adopted cousin, so we can sell this and make millions!”). Plus, the writers get zero creative input and barely profit at all! After that experience, I was skeptical about any and all publishing companies.

So I started looking into the scary self-pub world.

I definitely could’ve done a LOT of this work on my own, but HELLO I also have a job wrangling 100 pre-teens every day…plus I do like to have somewhat of a social life. I also could have risked it and NOT paid for an edit…I mean, I WAS an English major, I think it would’ve been alright. But eh, why settle for alright?

 

Anyway, all this is to say that I’m ecstatic to get this process rollin’ and I’m happy you are here for me to share the journey with! Hopefully when the time comes, you’ll be reading The Waiting Room (check out the first chapter).

 

Be on the lookout for the book cover concepts, my upcoming author website/Facebook page, AND the book itself of course:)

The House of Bottles

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Oh, just another incomplete short story. Don’t know where I’m goin’ with this. Also, I don’t know how to write dialogue in Pidgin. Oops. 

(Insert Awesome Title Here)

Kapiolani had dreams of escaping the house of bottles. All the dreams were different, but one thing always stayed the same—she would never cut her feet. She’d run and run and run, through all the rooms, over all the bottles, and her legs would just bounce off of the colored glass gracefully. Her toes were unscathed, her heels smooth and soft, her arches still white frowns against the floor.

The way she felt in the dream was the way she felt when she was dancing hula. The sway of her hips and wave-like motions of her arms reminded her of the way she looked in the dreams—so much like her mother. Or at least like the pictures she had seen. There was one in the living room with writing scrawled all over her mother’s body; the only piece not touching the faded black marker was her eyes. “Tanu,” it said, and then a fancy scribbling of Hawaiian words that Kapiolani pretended to know, “-Kainoa.”

Kapiolani would make up thousands of sentences that her mother could be writing to her father all over the pink bikini and brown skin. “I love you” or “I miss you” or “I want to have a beautiful daughter with you” or, her favorite, “I will never leave you, I will always return.” She never asked her dad what the message really said because she didn’t want to know. She would see her father staring at it sometimes though, and she’d want more than ever to leave the hall, run up to him, place her hand on his unshaven cheek, and ask the millions of questions she’d built up over the years. What was she like? Do I look like her? What did her voice sound like? What did she smell like? Could she cook? Could she hula? And what, please, what does the photograph say?

But then she’d see him take another swig of his drink or hear him curse something at the television and Kapiolani would shrink away, back into the hall, back into her room, away from the bottles and into the same dream.

Tonight, she fell asleep with her feet where her head usually lies. She does that sometimes when sleep seems farther away than the mainland. Her dad had those friends over again and they were laughing beer-filled laughs and coughing up smoke and spit. She could never sleep when they were over, clinking ice and eating her lunch that she’d packed and hidden in the back of the fridge.

“Where dat pretty daughtah, eh, Tanu?” Grunts and snorts and more glass hitting glass would follow and Kapiolani would lock her door. She learned a long time ago to do that. She never forgot.

A taped-together photo of her mother rested gingerly below her pillow. It had been rescued from the trash after Tanu had gone on a ripping rampage one night. He never touched the framed one in the living room, but this one was Kapiolani’s second favorite. It used to be under a magnet on the freezer. Her mother, lips red like ahi, was kissing a tiny, tiny forehead that held a tiny, tiny red like ahi headband. These two, this mother and daughter, they looked magical, Kapio thought. They looked unstoppable together. Like ancient Hawaiian royalty or something.

Eventually, maybe after a short, whispered conversation with the photograph, she’d fall asleep. Tonight, she waited until she heard the heavy drunken footsteps leave the house of bottles. Her mind was almost lost in the dream when, “KAPIO! WHERE YOU AT?” jolted her up to a sitting position. The picture fell from her chest to the floor.

…to be finished. One day.

The Yellow of You

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Short story I wrote in college: the assignment was to write about our death from someone else’s perspective. Morbid, right? But I always tend to enjoy any excuse to be emo and dramatic:)

The Yellow of You

“I love you more than all the eyelashes in the world.” You were so random sometimes.

“You’re never out of new ones, are you?” I brushed your bangs away from your eyes, but they soon fell back into place.

“You should try it, it’s very satisfying.”

“Alright. I love you more than all the freckles in the world.” I’m not very original, you were the poet. But hey, I thought it was cute.

“Weak.”

“Oh c’mon, everyone knows there’s more freckles than eyelashes in the world.”

“Are you kidding me? There are millions of people who don’t have one single freckle.”

“Yeah but then there are other people covered in them.”

“But it doesn’t matter because everyone has eyelashes.”

“That is false. Besides, have you ever counted your eyelashes? Not that many.”

“Have you ever counted your freckles? You have way more eyelashes.”

You were probably right, but I thought I was fighting a fair fight. “Are you forgetting about the ones on my butt?”

“No, those are my favorite.”

You smiled that smile where the creases of your mouth formed fake dimples. I loved those. You always said your body tried so hard to produce something you had always wanted. I told you one day that they weren’t that special, that in Chemistry, we learned they were actually a dominant trait. You didn’t care. You got pissed, ranting about how you would have a boring recessive gene.

I probably would’ve come up with something better than freckles if I would have known. I would’ve done a lot of things. But we finally rolled out of bed and said goodbye. I only pecked your lips, thinking how late I already was for work. But you understood. You didn’t like it when I messed up your vanilla lip gloss anyway.

What college student still wears vanilla lip gloss? You’d punch me and say “This college student.”

You waved out of your window as I sped down the highway and the next time I’d see you wouldn’t be in fake dimples and sticky kisses. I only ever saw fragments of your favorite yellow dress caught in some of the glass and metal.

They said I didn’t need to identify the body, that they used your teeth or something. How CSI right? All they really mean is that the body’s too messed up and they don’t want me going psycho. As if seeing you would’ve made it harder than it already was. As if I already didn’t have a picture in my head of what you looked like. I had seen blood, it was hard to miss. So what would’ve been the difference? But I guess I’m just saying that. I probably would have gone psycho. Trying to piece you back together or something. I mean, for God’s sake, I didn’t even believe them when they said you were dead. I wanted to play fucking doctor, grab some Toys R US stethoscope from my younger brother and find your heartbeat.

I kept on thinking about time and how it all matters. The cliché, what if I would have been with her for five more minutes? Then you would’ve been on the highway five minutes later, and then there’d be no wreck. Or you’d be stuck in traffic because of a wreck killing somebody else’s girlfriend. But seriously, what if I would’ve kissed you goodbye one more time? A long, 30-second kiss. Taking off all of your Bath and Body Works “Cake Icing.” Would that have made a difference?

Someone had taken your shoes and placed them neatly by a police car.

“Young man, I think it’s time you head home,” some officer gripped my shoulder. I could feel his wedding band through my shirt and I wanted so badly to be standing in front of you in a white dress instead of you covered up with a white sheet.

I was hugging the yellow flats I bought you that year I worked at Journey’s for minimum wage. You told me that was the stupidest job ever for a “white male college junior.” You told me to go apply at a bank, and I finally did.

“Did you hear me, son?”

I glanced at the 52 card pickup of “Monty the Mazda.” You always had to name your cars. And then I headed home to curl up in bed, surrounded by everything you had ever left at my apartment.

Eventually, I took the shoes off my desk and put them in the box in my closet with all of our pictures. You forgot to take the sticker off the left one, I did that for you. It was dirty and faded, $24.99 Size 7. Later, I took the sticker out of the trash and smoothed it back on the bottom of the heel. One of the corners refused to stick, curling up, no matter how many times I laid it flat. I kissed it over and over for hours, tears soaking into every inch of yellow.