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My annual embarrassing high school Valentine’s Day short story by Jina Bacarr

February 11, 2025 by in category Jina’s Book Chat, Writing tagged as , , , ,

Writers write what we know… even when it’s embarrassing.

Take my first kiss. High school. Drama class. Me, the shy new kid. And a snarky guy with a big ego.

Keep reading….it gets worse. 

Valentine’s Day is a time for kissing.

But what if your first kiss was just plain awful?

Meet Riley Murphy. She’s a kissing virgin, waiting for the right guy to come along. Until she joins the Drama Club at Holywell High and has to kiss the class dweeb on stage in front of the whole school on Valentine’s Day.

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VIRGIN KISS

Jina Bacarr

Introduction

What’s in a kiss? A kiss by any other name is—

—sweet, romantic, intimate, passionate, wet, sloppy, disgusting, probing, awful, nasty, sexy, tingly, and sometimes just plain wonderful.

But what if it’s your first kiss? And you have to pucker up in front of a live audience at your high school? What then?

Pass the Altoids, please.

The kiss-from-hell happened to me, Riley Murphy.

This is my story.

* * *

A few weeks before Valentine’s Day…

I’m the new kid at Holywell High School, a shy, skinny freshman with cinnamon-colored freckles sprinkled across my nose. Flat-chested. I’ll never be Miss Popularity with the bouncy boobs and flirty lashes.

I’m more like an olive stuck on the end of a toothpick.

Even with that dossier, I’m not a total dork. I’ve gotten pecks on the cheek and quick brushes on the lips, but I’ve yet to experience the soul-melting kisses you see in the flicks. The passionate lip-lock I’ve dreamed about, wrote about in my diary.

I’ve pined for that kiss, but it’s yet to happen to me. God knows, I’ll be in graduate school facing lifelong debt before the right pair of lips meet mine.

To overcome my shyness, my mom convinces me to try out for the Drama Club. Somehow I land the leading role in a one-act Chekhov play.Yes, Chekhov.

I play this mad, beautiful countess with passion and heart. I love it. I come alive on stage. I can do anything, be anybody, say anything, I can—

—kiss the male lead?

A gangly sophomore named Harold Brimwell with long, greasy hair and an upper lip curled in a perpetual snarl. He’s going to anoint my virgin lips with my first kiss?

Forget the Altoids. I need a stress pill.

I quit the play. They can find another dupe. Not me. I’m not going to let him use my lips for kissing practice.

Then I hear this little voice in my head telling me this is acting. Going through the motions at rehearsals and on stage don’t count on the kissing scale. I can pucker up with Harold on stage and still be a kissing virgin.

Right?

After my pep talk to myself, I sail through rehearsals, knowing my lines and ‘connecting to my character’ according to the director. He says I’m a natural, my emotions raw but real. This is amazing. Me, Riley Murphy, the kid who’s always the ‘new girl’ at school because we move around so much because of my dad’s job, found something she’s good at.

Then the trouble starts.

The director insists on method acting.We don’t rehearse the kiss. He wants a real kiss on stage, not a phony smooch.

Worse yet, we open on Valentine’s Day with a preview performance at the afternoon school assembly. Not only do I have to kiss this guy, I have to do it on the most romantic day of the year in front of the entire student body.

I dump the Altoids… along with my confidence down the toilet.

* * *

Valentine’s Day dawns rainy and cold. Perfect weather for a Russian play.

I arrive at the gym early, put on my makeup in the girls’ bathroom then, with my hands shaking, I hook up my long Victorian black lace dress borrowed from the costume department, the silk petticoats rustling around my feet. I’m way nervous, but something cool happens as I run my lines over and over, my fear slowly dissolving into a shaky confidence as I slip into my character’s skin. Humming ‘I will survive’, I check my props, my fingertips tingling as I pull on my snug dueling gloves, then twirl the dainty parasol over my head like a spinning top.

I grab the small pistol for my big dueling scene, then heave out a big breath, praying I don’t drop it and everybody laughs at me.

I save putting on my lipstick for last.

First, I gargle mint-flavored mouthwash until my lips turn green and my mouth goes numb. Next, I line my lips with Chekhovian, dark red lipstick and smack them together. Perfect. I’m ready for my lip close-up.

It’s showtime.

I’m so nervous when the lights come up, I garble my opening lines. Then I trip over my own feet and nearly crash into the backdrop. Hot tears form in my eyes, but I want this too bad to give up now. All my life, I’ve stayed in the shadows. If I fail now, I may never get the courage to try again. I ignore the smirks and catcalls and swish my long skirts around like a real countess to boost my confidence.

I can do this.

Somehow, I get my groove on and my theatre training takes over. I sail across the stage, chin up, shoulders back, my voice clear, my lines down to a T. I’m ‘in the moment’. Much to my relief, the dueling scene goes off without the pistols misfiring.

Then it’s time for…

… the kiss.

I’ll never forget the expression on Harold’s face when he takes two long strides toward me. A mixture of sadistic pleasure and baddass ‘tude comes over his face, as shiny and sweaty as his palms, freaking me out. Lower lip snarling, my co-star gives me that ‘I’ve got you now’ look all fired up in his eyes, pinning me to the wall.

My teeth chatter. My mouthwash stops working.

It’s so quiet in the high school gym you can hear the director chewing on the end of his pencil.

My heart pounds so hard I can’t get my breath on when Harold pulls me into his arms, yanking me around like I’m a dollar store rag doll and then—

—he slams his mouth onto mine.

Bile rises in my throat as he pushes my lips apart and thrusts his mushy, saliva-coated gum into my mouth, making me nauseous. I swear if my dress wasn’t hooked up so tight, I would have ralphed all over him. Before I can push him off me, he shoves his tongue down my throat, way down, nearly gagging me.

I start choking.

I can’t breathe. Oh, my God, I’m going to pass out.

No, I can’t, I won’t. I’m determined not to faint. I have to get him off me. No gum-chewing, phony-macho sophomore is going to get the best of me.

I’m an actress, I tell myself, so act!

With stars circling around in my pounding head, I pull up my strength and kick him in the shin. There.

Startled, he jerks backward, but not before he bites my lower lip.

What the—

I taste coppery blood. Fresh, oozing, smearing my perfectly-applied lipstick. I’m in shock, disbelieving. It can’t get any worse.

Can it?

It can.

Dabbing my bleeding lip with my silk sleeve, I struggle in his arms, but he holds me tight, slobbering all over me, licking my face, my throat, coating my skin with stringy gum. My ears won’t stop ringing. The audience is going crazy, yelling and shouting like they’re at a basketball game and I’m the bouncing ball.

No, no, he’s not going to take advantage of me. I worked hard to get this part, learn my lines. Practiced how to walk, how to find the core of my character. Gosh darn, this is the first time in my whole life I’ve come out of my shell and done something really special.

He’s not going to ruin it for me.

I have to do something. Fast.

The pistol.

Where is it? After the mock dueling scene, I threw the prop gun down on the round table. It has to be there, but where?

I reach out behind me, my nails catching on the lace doily… I twist my head just a little… yes, I see it. I edge the gun toward me, an inch at a time. Sweat oozes down my too-tight collar and my knees buckle, but I don’t give up.

Almost got it… there. My fingers wrap around the pearl-inlayed handle. I suck in a breath then, without losing my nerve, I jam the prop into his ribs. Hard. I yank my body with such fury, I rip the black silk sleeve right out of the armpit. It slides down my shoulder, but it doesn’t stop me.

‘Get your hands off me, you sloppy-kissing, gum-chewer!’ I yell, ignoring the script and re-writing Chekhov. ‘Or you’re getting an “F” in drama class.’

The director gasps. Loudly. But he doesn’t refute what I said.

‘Yeah, sure,’ Harold stutters, letting me go, raising up his hands and backing away. ‘Anything you say, Riley.’

‘That’s telling him!’ a girl yells from the audience.

Amy Zanderbar. His ex-girlfriend.

She’s not the only one. All the girls stand up and start chanting, ‘Go, Riley, go!’

Wow. I hit a nerve with the females sitting in the bleachers who had their share of bad kissers.

They love it.

The audience starts clapping wildly and stomping their feet and continue chanting my name. I break the fourth wall and give them a ‘V’ for Victory high sign until the chanting dies down, then my thespian instincts kick in and I get back into character, giving Chekhov his due and ending the play as he wrote it.

I’ll always remember this night when a shy freshman girl in a borrowed Victorian dress took on a snarky sophomore and became empowered to stand up for herself in front of the whole student body.

It changed my life.

* * *

Epilogue

We performed the one-act play for the next few nights without further incident, faking the kiss each time. Harold is cool, not attempting any more way-out kissing. For me, it’s strictly acting.

I’m still a virgin in lip-land.

But I’ll never forget V-Day and my experience with the gum-toting, kissing bandit. Not a bad guy, just a rotten kisser.

And in case you’re curious, next semester I do find the right pair of lips to land that first kiss.

A hottie junior. Jack Dwayne.

When Jack takes me in his arms and lowers his face to mine, I quiver with anticipation and soon discover a kiss isn’t just a kiss, it’s…

… magic.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

——————–

PS — yes, Riley is me, a shy freshman back in the day.

The Princess and the Stilettos video https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ELRFw_B720&ab_channel=JinaBacarr

Love Audio Books? My Boldwood Books are on sale at CHIRP!!

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Options

February 10, 2025 by in category Writing tagged as , , , ,

As writers, we’re living in such an interesting time. There are more opportunities to publish our work, than ever before. But, because of this there’s also more competition in the marketplace, and there’s more opportunity to be taken advantage of, so it’s important to educate ourselves.

I wanted to talk about the three best known ways to publish, traditional publishing, pay to publish, and indie publishing.

Traditional publishing

This used to be the dream of nearly every book author, and still is for many. To find a traditional publisher, preferably one of The Big Five, New York publishers to buy your work and publish it for you. There weren’t many publishing options, and this was the way.

Authors would submit their work, sometimes to the few publishers that would take unsolicited work from unpublished, unrepresented authors. It would end up in a slush pile, where the author hoped it would catch the eye of an editor, or maybe junior editor, who would send the book up the chain of command until the author either received an acceptance, a rejection with notes, or the hardest one to take, a form rejection. Did I say all of that past tense? This is still a valid way to submit your work.

Along the same lines, an author can (and could previously) submit their work to an agent, who would then submit the book to editors looking for this type of work. Having an agent gives/gave you a little more of an edge in the game.

There have always been smaller presses and boutique publishers to submit your work to for traditional publishing.

When you traditionally publish, you don’t pay money to publish your work. You sign a contract giving rights to your work to the publisher. They provide an editor, a cover, price and distribute your book. In general, you’ll still do your own marketing, although some publishers help with this. You’ll receive royalties on your book sales. Depending on the publisher, you’ll have less input into your cover, and the editing of your book. The publisher is in control until you get your rights back.

Pay to Publish

Depending on your goals, pay to publish, often called vanity press publishing, has been an option for a very long time. Pay to publish is exactly what it says. You pay the publisher based on a package you purchase. You may or may not give up rights to the publisher. They choose the editor and generally the cover for you. Sometimes they also take a percentage of your book sales and pay you royalties, even though you’ve paid up front.

If you choose to publish this way, you need to do your due diligence. There are both reputable and not so reputable publishers out there, so it’s important to do your research and be sure that you’ll be happy with the outcome.

Indie Publishing/ Self-Publishing

I tend to call it indie publishing or independent publishing, because well, back in the day Pay to Publish, was often called self-publishing. But since the advent of e-publishing, self-publishing…or indie publishing is a different way to publish. You write the book. You hire an editor. You create or pay for a book cover. You format…or have the book formatted. You distribute to book retailers of your choice. You do all of the marketing. You become not just an author, but a publisher.

Indie publishing is a lot of work, but you make all of the money and have total control of your product.

Which way is the best way to publish your work? I think it depends on your goals, what you write, and sometimes who your reader is. Personally, I’m a hybrid author. My last book, Love and Mud Puddles was published with The Wild Rose Press, and I love my publisher, and hope to publish more books with them.  I also indie published my series #HermosaForTheHolidays, and plan on continuing to indie publish. I’ve learned so much about my writing process, publishing, and professionalism through both experiences.

Having choices gives us more opportunity, but it also means more responsibility and more decisions.

Are you a published author? What paths have you taken on your journey and what have you learned from them? If you’re not yet published, do you know which way you want to go and why?

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What’s Your Reading Goal?

February 5, 2025 by in category Writing

Happy New Year. I am so excited about this year. I haven’t completed my goals yet, but I’m being careful not over estimate what I can realistically accomplish. There’s one goal I am going to expand on, leisure reading.

In 2023 I returned to serious pleasure reading. In the past, I was so consumed with writing and trying new marketing things, I hadn’t spent much time reading for fun. In an effort to read more, I paid myself $5 for each book I read. I think I ended the year with $180…36 books. I was very proud of myself. The list also included my books because I was proofing books for publication. A read book is a read book.

Last year, I attacked my task a little different. In addition to solo reading, I hooked my parents onto audio books. When we’re in the car together, we listen to audio books. My goal for last year was 60 books. I was feeling ambitious when I set the goal. To be honest, I wasn’t too sure I was going to make it, but I did. In fact, I ended the year with 85 books.

I have met readers who read several hundred books a year. Hearing that also encouraged me to amp up my reading goal. I belong to a Facebook reading group where we share what we’re reading and our reading goals. There was a woman in my group who had read over 500 books last year. The number one question in the group was “How?”. She answered, “I don’t watch much television”.

How did I achieve my goal? I read several books at a time…audio, print and ebook. Technically, I listen to two audio books at a time…one in the car and one while I work out.

This year my reading goals is 100 books, which I believe I’ll accomplish. In addition to that lofty goal, I’ve taken on another daunting task…reading the Bible in a year. I went to a Christian university and reading the Bible was a requirement. I am almost ashamed to say I skirted around that assignment, but this is the year I rectify it.

Determination to reach my reading goal introduced me to several new authors. It has also helped jumpstart my creativity. I’m working a couple of series with a strong make voice. Unlike my series The Alex Chronicles, centered around females. This series will center around men and their pursuit of love. In order to write them, I need to get into their mind and speech…language. Men talk different from women and their word usage can be a little brash. My leisure reading is also my craft homework.

What’s your reading goal for this year?

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Picture Perfect

January 30, 2025 by in category Quill and Moss by Dianna Sinovic, Writing tagged as , ,

Shaun held the framed photo of his grandfather and traced the image with his finger.

“He was such a great man.” 

Photo by Mink Mingle on Unsplash

Granddad had died four years ago, but the rawness of grief still gnawed at Shaun. He’d lost the man who had raised him when his own parents couldn’t—or wouldn’t.

And here he was, reviewing plans for his wedding, his fiancée at his side. Erin would never meet the person he owed his life to.

“I see where you got your good looks,” Erin said. “Too bad I never knew him. My own grandfather died when I was just a baby, so I never knew him either.” She paused, and looked down at her notebook. “Maybe we can honor your grandpa in some way at the reception?”

She launched into an update on the guest list, the bridal party, and other wedding details he honestly didn’t have an opinion on. They were getting married, and that was enough. If only Granddad were here . . .

Once again he touched the photograph, taken when his grandfather was Shaun’s age, his eyes sparkling in laughter, his ever-present Tilley hat pushed to the back of his head. In the background, the surf at Brigantine crashed onto the sand, a gull winging overhead. Shaun had framed the photograph after he reached adulthood and went out on his own. He wanted to be reminded of how far he’d come, thanks to the man.

Erin continued her updates, and he closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, he was standing on a beach, with the waves rolling in below a clear sky. Gulls cried above him, and a briny breeze flowed off the ocean. Erin was looking at him, her mouth agape.

“Where are we?” she squeaked. 

“Not sure,” Shaun said. “The Jersey Shore, I think.”

The beach was deserted except for a man walking toward them—the guy definitely had them in his sights. As the man drew closer, Shaun knew who it was, but not how or why.

The face was younger but unmistakable. “Granddad?” 

In the warm summer sunshine, the man wore jeans and a tee, his head topped with his usual brimmed hat. His smile enveloped Shaun, and he followed that with a bear hug.

“Shaun, my boy,” the man said. “Good to see you.” He turned to Erin, shock still etched across her face. “And this must be your fiancée.” He extended a hand. “A pleasure, miss. You’ve got yourself a real catch in Shaun.”

Erin slowly put out her own hand, and the man covered it with both of his. 

“But how . . . ?” Shaun said, his voice trailing off until the roar of the surf absorbed it. “You’re young—my age. And you’re here. It’s impossible.”

“Not impossible, but complicated,” his grandfather said. To Erin, he said, “You can call me Paul. I’ve known Shaun for years.” He offered his arm to her and winked. “I think it’s time to take a walk on the beach. Beautiful day for a stroll, don’t you think?”

For the next few hours, that’s what they did, talking and laughing as the waves tugged at their feet. With every step, Shaun tried to make sense of what was happening. Erin, trading jokes with Paul, was at ease as if she’d known the man for years, not just an afternoon. 

Finally, Paul came to a halt and turned to Shaun. “You’ve done well, grandson. I’m proud of you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver dollar. “Take this. When the time comes to say your vows, this will stand in for me, since I can’t be there.”

Shaun took the coin, felt the smoothness of the metal, its unyielding strength.

“Thank you,” he said, content to remain in this must-be-a-dream state as long as he was allowed. 

The wind gusted, sending up spray from the surf. Paul grabbed hold of his hat and settled it on the back of his head.

Erin, still at Paul’s side, reached up and adjusted it. “There, that looks better,” she said, smiling. “And it keeps the sun out of your eyes.”

Shaun shaded his own eyes in the brightness, closed them briefly—and he was again in his living room, the framed photo of his grandfather back on the side table where he kept it.

His right hand still gripped the silver dollar, and he opened his palm. The coin was real enough; he hadn’t dreamt that. 

Erin shook her head, her eyes dazed. “What just happened?”

“I’m not sure,” he said. 

He glanced at his grandfather’s photograph. It was the same, and it wasn’t. The Tilley hat perched on the back of his grandfather’s head was now straightened, and his lips curved in a friendly smile.

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Never Too Late by Kitty Bucholtz

January 19, 2025 by in category Writing tagged as , , ,

A few months ago, I was wandering through the Sci-Fi Bookstore here in Malmö (Sweden) and picked up a book whose cover caught my attention. I turned it over to read the back cover and decided this looked like something I’d be interested in. Then I realized it was book fourteen in a series I’d never heard of.

I opened up the library’s website on my phone and – voila! They had the first several books of the series! The Mercy Thompson series by Patricia Briggs about a woman who shapeshifts into a coyote, was raised by werewolves, and now lives in Washington State as a mechanic with her own shop.

Moon Called book cover by Patricia Briggs

I immediately read book one and it is AWESOME!! I love it!

I’m now on book six, and the friend I told about it just finished book twelve already! I love this series so much – the characters, the character and story arcs, the surprises, and mostly just how believable it all is! I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve closed the book after a chapter and thought, I want to write this well.

My point to you, my writer friend, is this: book one was published in 2006. That was nineteen years ago. Nineteen years! And at least two people are going through the series for the first time and telling their friends. It’s never too late to find more readers. Never too late to make more sales.

So don’t give up. Keep writing. Keep promoting. Keep looking for your readers and encouraging them to try the books they haven’t read yet. It’s never too late to find new fans – or even super fans!

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