South Florida isn´t exactly the Promised Land that forty-nine-year-old newly widowed Keri Anders had in mind when she decided to transplant herself from the Northeast. Lonely and lost, she is the perfect victim for a string of mishaps that in a matter of days strip her of job, cash, credit cards – and credibility. She doesn´t even have to look for trouble; it comes to meet her head-on. Tripping over a beer bottle on an early morning run and getting badly cut up lands her in the arms of David Chipperton, a surgeon married to a wealthy Palm Beach socialite: the perfect lover for any neophyte on a crash course in self-destruction.

Frustration and fear is a match made in hell. Keri is a writer and “Chip” wants to become one; Chip is wealthy and Keri needs to pay her bills. The co-dependency begins and although friends come to the rescue, Keri has no desire to be saved. Only after she gets down on her hands and knees and starts scrubbing away at her own snobbery and elitism, does she begin to see why she planted herself in this “swamp of human refuse: aliens, drop-outs, drunks and drug pushers.”

A tough action-packed novel that is far more than a love story. You will want to read this book more than once.

Bio:
Sarah Daniels is the pen name for a Woman with Qualities.

Excerpt:

            Chapter Nineteen

Every time I dressed for my prison workshops, I thought about the photocopied instructions I´d received in my orientation packet about appropriate attire. "Do not wear anything revealing. Be conservative.  Wear only inexpensive costume jewelry.  Slacks are permitted if they are loose-fitting." 

It sounded absurd; as if all women were call girls or playboy bunnies who would show up in skintight spaghetti strap cunt-length costumes. But I knew what they meant. These men didn't get many chances to see women.

It was a long walk from the security entrance to the schoolroom.  In good weather the inmates would be idling on the grounds after a hard day's work and chow time.  Like zoo animals momentarily released into a larger area of captivity so the guards could get their cages cleaned out and hosed down, they sat hunched over on the benches or stalked aimlessly back and forth, up and down the walks, gathering together here and there for a smoke and small talk.

As soon as I entered the yard with my uniformed escort, all eyes turned.

Desperation has X-ray vision and female odors are what they are. By the time I´d reached the schoolhouse entrance where my workshop members were eagerly awaiting my arrival, I had been expertly stripped and skinned, fricasseed and served up in a tasty sauce.

My students were different. They couldn´t have cared less what I looked like and which type of genitals my body happened to have. They´d already be waiting for me outside the schoolhouse, and like children obediently they´d follow me through the hall and file into the classroom. All week they'd waited for this workshop. Excitedly they'd hand in their assignments, eager for my comments. Every word of praise gave them renewed faith in themselves.

           

It was already raining by the time I was ready to leave, and as soon as I passed Royal Palm Village, the last densely populated area, the sullen drizzle turned into a blinding downpour. Even on high speed my wipers couldn't clear the window. Pulling over to the side of the road was just as dangerous. There was no way of gauging mud ruts and it wasn't exactly the best place to get stuck alone in the dark. There was nothing for miles except trailer camps, bars, tattoo artists and palm readers.

            I slipped Vivaldi's "Seasons" into the tape deck and my heart sang as I listened to the solo violin. Who cares about the rain? Who cares about anything but love? I love you, Chip. I love you, world!

             Slowly I inched along, peering carefully through the windshield for the red tail lights of the car ahead.

            The flashing yellow light at the Glades entrance was scarcely visible. My car labored over the puddles and ruts of the long narrow dirt and gravel driveway that led to the prison sheds, administrative buildings and double watchtowers with the dormitories and schoolroom beyond.  I parked in one of only spots that was still free from puddles and glanced at my watch. Ten minutes to spare.

            Fortunately at the guardhouse they saw me coming and snapped open the gate so I didn't have to shout through the bulletproof glass window. I looked like I'd just emerged fully clothed from a swimming pool.

            A guard hatch snapped a four-by-six hole through another bulletproof glass window and shoved the sign-in clipboard into the opening. I was always amused by entry procedures. How did they know they could trust me? Only twice had they searched my purse and briefcase. They probably assumed if I were foolish enough to waste my time teaching a writing workshop I wouldn't have enough smarts to hide anything that might be useful or dangerous.

            "Hel-LO Missus Anderson!" The water streaming off his poncho, Willy banged through the prison yard door. Short white potbellied middle-aged mustachioed and mischievous, Willie had somehow made it between drinking bouts to the position of senior guard. "Some naht ta be out," he drawled.  "Some naht. Y'know what Ahd lahk ta be doin raht now, I'd lahk ta be with m'honey. M' honey's in My-yami, that's a long ways away tanaht, dijd Ah tella ya about Hair-yet?  Hair-yet Coons?"

            I could smell the liquor on his breath.  Tonight he couldn't even pull off his usual tight-jeaned cowboy swagger without looking like a drunk sailor on a sinking ship. "Ah'd lahk ta be in My-ami with m'honey," he repeated. "You got a honey?"

            "Sure I've got a honey," I replied. "I've got lots of them. I've also got a husband. But he's dead. I think I told you."

            "No, Ah don't reckon Ah remmemer that. Ah toldju Ah was married once, married to Mary, she worked in Denney's which was right nex' door to th' Wendy's Ah use to manage b'fore Ah come here.  Ah toldju 'bout the holdups, three of em, three tahms Ah was held up, an sixteen tahms Ah was robbed."

            "Yes, I remember you told me that."

            "Yeah, that's gonna be my layif story, the one that you said you'd help me with, memmer?"

            "Your life story. I remember." 

            "Here, take this." He handed me a poncho. "Put this over yer head, it'll keep you from gettin wet."

            The poncho's rubbery smell was disgusting. I shook my head. "No, thanks, I'll be okay. I have an umbrella."

            "Lotta good that's gonna do you with a win' lahk this-here. Gonna whip raht away inside out.  Put it on," he commanded.

            Reluctantly I obeyed and we started out.  Willy was right. As soon as I stepped out into the yard my umbrella was whipped inside out.

            "M'honey's workin at onea those topless joints, I don't lahk it, but the money's good, she says," Willy shouted over the wind. "When we get us enough green stuff collected between us we're gonna take off somewheres nahce, an maybe even tie the knot."

            "Oh don't do that," I shouted. "Then it won't be fun anymore."

            "Say, Ah got an extra ticket ta the rock concert in Lauderdale. Watch yer step, there's a hole there. Here, let me help ya." Willy took her arm. "It's nex Saturday, you don' happen ta be free by any chance?"

            "No," I lied. "I'll be in New York."

            "Too bad." Willy gave my arm a squeeze. "Ah would've lahked ta escort a nice lady like you, you say you got a dead husband?"

            I nodded: Yes, Willy, that's what ahz got. We turned onto the walkway leading to the schoolhouse. My stockings and sandals were already soaked so I didn't even try to avoid the huge puddles.

I wondered how many of the inmates would show up. If Willy were drunk there must be a few orgies going on in some of the dorms. I'd already learned about the underground springs here that magically produced alcohol and drugs.

            And why not? What else should they do for recreation besides fuck each other and get drunk or wired? If they weren't gay or couldn´t pretend to be, they really had a problem.

            I was wrong about attendance. Both blue-and white-uniformed groups were waiting. I would have expected mostly the whites. They were the instructors or administrative assistants who had evidently earned enough brownie points to shed the blues.

            "We didn't think you'd come tonight."  Bill Williamson, a former journalist, handed me a sheaf of notebook paper. He wrote mostly about his family. Holiday stories, memories of vacations they'd taken together.

            "I've been working hard this week." Joshua Franklin, a young fellow who was serving forty years, placed his work on top of Bill's. Joshua was a natural but in school had only gone as far as seventh grade. Then he was out on the streets picking up extra cash to support the alcoholic habits of his father. His mother was a sickly woman and there were six siblings. "I want yer honest opinion, whether you think any of these poems is ready to be published, I worked hard on em," he repeated. His eyes glowed excitedly as he searched my face. Hopefully, his eyes pleaded, I would tell him that he deserved to exist.

            A half dozen others circled the desk, all talking at once, telling me what they'd written that week. It reminded me of my elementary school days when all of us would crowd around the teacher´s desk, our fists filled with daisies and buttercups, shells, stones, birds' nests, remainders of hatched eggs…

            "And you, Judson?" I nodded at the scrawny dark-haired boy standing apart from the rest and waiting.  A latecomer to the group, he'd stalked into the room in the middle of one of the sessions and announced he was a writer.

“It´s just shit,” he sneered. “and true shit. Nothin´ ‘creative.´ And furthermore,” he added, glancing around at his fellow inmates, “it´s all about death and some of it is pretty gory.

            “I've been told I'm crazy." Judson's eyes glittered. "And I've been told I have a death-wish."

            "So that's what you're writing about?" I inquired.

            "Yes."

            "I'd like to see some of your work. Poems? Stories?"

            "Both. Are you sure?" He stared at me incredulously. "Like I said, it ain´t worth nothin´."

            "Bring it with you next time.”

            That had been two sessions ago.  Thus far he'd only handed in three innocuous poems about poisoned prison food and one about Jesus' second coming, which, he said, was an orgasm; and a long ballad about a woman who had drowned her infant son.  Then during the third session, suddenly he stood up, strode to the front of the room and delivered the story of his life.

            He had been an adopted child. At the age of seven he had been lifted up by his angry stepfather and hurled through a plate glass window while his stepmother passively watched from the other room. In the middle of his story the tears started to roll down his face. By the time he finished he was crying.

            This evening after everyone had sat down, he came forward and slapped a sheaf of paper on the desk.  "Here. This is for you, if you really want to read it," he said.  "If you don't like it, I don't blame you.  No one would ever publish this shit.”

            "We'll see." I smiled. “Thank you, Judson.” He was so young, so frightened. 

            I walked over to the door and closed it. Even if it was against the rules for anyone except a guard to close a classroom door I didn't care. There was so much commotion in the hall I didn´t like having to shout over it.

            I was shivering. The combination of air conditioning and wet clothes always made me cold. The dampness also intensified all the foul prison odors.  Later at home when I opened my briefcase, the stench would pour out. Odors of fear, anger, rejection, self-hatred; and sperm. Dried sperm…

            The first time I'd gone to one of the prisons to conduct a session I'd had a nightmare that the walls had been plastered with semen, thick gooey layers that exuded a raunchy putridness.

            "Be careful, these guys are great con artists," warned one of the attorneys I´d interviewed in my quest for funding more workshops. "I wouldn't be surprised if most of they write is plagiarized. You know they get extra credit by attending those workshops. Everything constructive goes on their parole records. Criminals can be parasites who prey on compassionate kindhearted persons such as yourself."

            At first I argued with anyone who thought I was wasting my time. Soon, however, I realized I was wasting my time arguing with them. It didn't matter if a person were liberal or conservative, educated or illiterate. Almost everyone here in Florida felt the penal system was too lax and they truly believed anyone who got a prison sentence was a criminal. 

            The truck driver who'd shot a cop the other day was an escapee from Lantana, my other workshop location. He'd managed to steal one of the guard's guns and had walked away from a work release job. Lantana was one step higher than the Spanish Inquisition. When the inmates came to my classes they´d usually just finished with a physical beating or solitary confinement. None of the fellows at Lantana were supposed to be dangerous and most of them probably weren´t when they arrived.

            Just as we'd begun to go over some of the papers a bolt of lightning bounced on the table in front of me. The lights flickered and heavy rain pounded on the roof.

            Another bolt raced up and down my spine. I shivered as it spread through my shoulders and back. Instant thunder landed in my stomach. What if the lights went out and didn't come back on? Was the schoolroom building on the main generator, and was there an emergency one? I pressed my hands together and tried to keep my teeth from chattering. Bravely I continued. "We were talking about character development last time, and I -- I -- asked each of you to describe someone you know well. Then, to uh… develop a plot or story about that person." 

            More lightning, instant thunder.

            Willy popped his head in the door to report that one of the sugar cane factories had been struck.  He stood beside my desk, leaned close and placed one of his arms around the back of my chair. "Miz Anders," he whispered, his whiskey breath punctuating his words, "I jus wanna tell you, you got nothin ta worry about, s'long as Ahm here. Ah'll take cara you an see that nothin happens. Don't you worry. An remember, Ahm armed, Ah got a gun."

            "Thank you Willy," I murmured, smiling weakly. Thank you, thanks a lot, Willy.  Thanks for getting drunk. You slippery slimy goddamm fucking bastard, how dare you treat me like one of your whores? I bet even if you tried, at this moment you couldn't walk a straight line. I bet at this moment you're so god-damned sex-starved yourself, if the alcohol wouldn't have made you impotent you wouldn't hesitate to give me a good punch in the stomach or whambo in the spine and knock me down flat so you could heave and sprawl all over me with your limey slimy god-dammed fucking paws. Go take your fucking gun and shove it up your -- and get away from me before I –

 I smiled at the inmates and continued. "As I've stressed before and I can't repeat it enough times, if you don't have strong characters, characters you believe in yourself -- real individuals who are gutsy, interesting, exciting -- wrestling with conflicts the reader can identify with -- The reader has to be able to say, ‘Hey, yes, I know someone like that.´ Or, 'Yes, that's me! This writer really understands me.' If you don't have believable, red-blooded characters, your readers are going to yawn and turn on the TV."

            I paused for breath. More lightning and thunder. This time when the lights flickered they turned off for a moment before coming back. "And then love," I faltered, breathing deeply and raising my voice. "And a sense of humor," I continued, feeling a release inside. My voice soared. "If you don't love your characters for who and what they are, regardless of their shortcomings, how can you expect your readers to feel anything at all for them? And remember, have fun. Lighten up.  If you can't develop your characters and their circumstances with a sense of humor, if you can't laugh at yourself and then have enormous compassion for your own tragic plight, whatever it is… If you can't laugh and cry and transfer your full range of feelings to your characters -- if you can't transmit this -- your work won´t—”

            I jumped. The lighting and thunder were right here in the room. The lights flickered several times in succession but miraculously held.

            No one seemed to notice. All eyes were glued on me. They were hanging on every word I said. "…grip the attention of your readers and hold them spellbound. Yes! You want to cast a spell over your readers," I continued excitedly. "But you have to love yourselves first, before you can begin to love others. You must really love the characters you´re developing. Let them feel the whole spectrum of emotions. Let them live through you.  Let them feel your loneliness, despair, desperation, depression… Let them be everything you are -- and more.  Put all your energy into it. Then and only then, will you have the true satisfaction of being a writer."

            No one stirred. "Do you think just because you ended up in prison, God and everyone else has given up on you?" I cried, my eyes circling the room. "It isn't true!  Don't you dare even let those thoughts enter into your mind anymore. Otherwise you'll never be able to create anything. The creating goes on inside, where there's light and joy and freedom – and hope. This life inside has nothing to do with what's happening anywhere else."  The thunder drowned out my words. I repeated the last statement and the group stood up and gave me a round of applause.

            By the end of the session the storm had passed.

Even more drunk than before, Willy walked me out to the guardhouse, again pushing close.  He placed an arm around me. "Mrs. Anners… I wanna tell ya somethin, an I wanchu to memmer this. I wanna tella ya these guys are no good, none of em. If Ah had my way, y'know what Ah'd do wid em, Ah'd dig a hole an bury em alahv, jus throw em in the pit an cover em up. Or Ah'd line em up ´gainst a wall an shoot every godamm one uv em. Yeah, that's the only way ta get ridda dem. Ta get ridda the godddam bastards, an ta get ridda drugs an crahm in this state. In these Unahded States."

            All the way back to West Palm, I sang Schubert lieder with my Jessye Norman recording, and offered prayers of thanks to the rain gods and my special angel of mercy who had shown me how much courage and faith all of us really have when we´re put to the test.

I recalled another time, at Lantana Correctional, when I´d also panicked. It was a Saturday afternoon and they were short of security men. The guard had left me at my classroom with instructions that at the end of my session I should go to the elevator, which was kept locked, of course, and could only be electronically operated from the control desk on the main floor. The guard told me to speak into the voice box to inform the desk person that I was ready to come down.

            I did as directed. No answer.  Again. No answer. And again. No one was around.   The inmates from my class had already vanished through the double doors to another section of the building. I knew if I walked through those iron doors where the rest of the inmates were locked up, they would slam shut behind me.

            After twenty minutes with still no response, a maintenance person appeared on the elevator with a cleaning cart.  He'd been holding the elevator while he was scrubbing the waiting room, and for some reason my message had never been delivered.