Gone But Not Forgotten

I haven't been forgetting to blog, I've just been insanely busy! I'm getting the book ready to release on Kindle and it's quite a process...but it's fun!

More updates to come very soon :)

I'm Back and I Posted A Video!

Sorry I haven't been blogging for the last week or so, I was bogged down with some other projects and such, but I'm BACK and I posted a proof of life video :)

Finally Posting a Poem :)

If you are new to reading the blog... I will post the warning again...my poems are dark (I'm not a depressed person, it's just freeing to tap into other people's emotions and utilize the full creative spectrum). So, you've been warned :) But this is one I wrote over the weekend because I had just read an article about a mental institution and I was wondering what the people inside of those places felt like. Enjoy!!

Pain and suffering pounce at the door

They ooze through your skin-- from the walls, from the floor

The stark monotony of the halls and the cells

Where “commitment” means shackles and not wedding bells

Locks and bars cannot prohibit

Malicious intent against oneself

And pharmaceutical drugs cannot inhibit

The soul’s regretful journey

Through its own cranial hell

They battle through life—

Every torturous breath

While freedom for them

Lives only in death

So these talking heads
Lay in hospital beds---

It’s not safe where they lie

It’s not safe where they hide…

Scared to be together, terrified of being alone,

They’ve nowhere to stay, but nowhere to go--

Nowhere to stay, but nowhere to go…

Another New Video :)

Bella is back by popular demand!

New Video Up Today!

Sorry it took so long...not much news on the writing front, but I promised I'd do a video every week :)

Researching E-Books

I've been doing a lot of research on e-books the past few days and I'm really starting to get comfortable with the idea. I actually set some firm deadlines for myself and if this agent decides to pass (I'm still hoping she doesn't)...please don't pass, agent, if you're reading this!!!!! ...and if I don't get picked up by another agent that I'm comfortable with in the interim between the end of this exclusive and the writer's conference, I've decided I'm going to go the e-book route. 

I've been trying to get this book published for over a year now and call it vanity, call it whatever you like, but I really think that once people read it, they will like it. Every time I have explained to someone the concept of the book, they go crazy. It's completely unique and I think it will blow people's minds. I think it's book club material, honestly. Is it the best book in the world? I'm confident, but I'm not crazy....I know there are better books out there, but I also think I have a good concept and strong characters and that people will enjoy reading it if I just put it out there and give them a chance...but I'll never know if it just sits in a file folder as a word document on my computer. 

I promised myself that I would try EVERY possible avenue to get my writing out there...and I'm going to fulfill that promise...So, if all else fails, I will be publishing an e-book in early Spring...stay tuned :)

Minor Technicality

Sometimes I forget that whoever is running this whole operation--be it God, the Divinity, Mother Nature, your own higher power, whatever you believe in--definitely has a sense of humor. Either that, or this omnipotent being really has it out for me. I prefer to believe the former.

So, yesterday I posted about how I was SO happy about leaving the corporate world and pursuing my passion. I was feeling really great about that...and I still am, because I LOVE to write. All day I was kind of on this high about writing and the thought of never having to sit in a cubicle again. It felt amazing! I pictured what my life was going to look like now that I had truly committed to this and removed the "corporate" option from my game plan. It was bliss...no matter what I was doing, I knew I'd be happy and more fulfilled. I was on Cloud Nine!

...and then...

The Universe flipped me the giant bird!!!!!!! I got home yesterday evening and checked the mail and I got hit with a monster credit card bill. To make matters worse, it was one of those one-two punches where I also got a bunch of annual bills (car registration, insurance, etc.) in the mail along with that. So, all of a sudden I feel like I'm being robbed at gunpoint every time I open an envelope.

In short, corporate jobs pay the bills MUCH better than writing does, that's for sure! But I'm not ready to give up just yet. That being said, I have set a more firm deadline for myself where if I don't get a book deal by a certain time, I'm going to publish my stuff as e-books and just go that route...and maybe pick up little (non-corporate) side jobs while I do that.

I suppose everything has trade-offs, but having been on both sides of the equation, I still don't believe that a great paycheck feels better than the feeling of fulfilling your dreams.

For the people who have been able to do both, hopefully I'll join you someday :)

Pursuing Your Passion

It's funny, I was at a party this weekend (the party that ended up being my sister's engagement party) and I had always kind of been quiet at parties. I never wanted people to ask me what I did for a living because I wasn't happy about it (I was originally heading to law school and then I was a corporate analyst). I either avoided the question altogether or answered very abruptly and changed the subject whenever I was asked because I felt like I spent enough time doing that stuff during the week, I didn't want to waste another second of my free time, the time that I should be enjoying myself, talking about something that made me so miserable.

I had even kind of flip-flopped the past few years being afraid to really commit myself to writing or my creative side in general, being worried that if it didn't work out, I still needed to cling on to that corporate, cubicle-dwelling part of myself just as a safety net. I even kept my "business wardrobe" hidden away in boxes because if I "didn't get a book deal" I thought I would need it.

So answering the "what do you do?" question was always something I dreaded. I almost wanted to tell people  that I was writing, but had the cubicle "plan B" in my back pocket just in case, so I wouldn't lose their respect...because I had some fallacy that it was contingent upon that.

Well, now that I'm finally doing something that I love, writing, I find that I love answering that question and I actually get more respect when I just end the sentence there..."I'm writing and I love every second of it!"

I look forward to the question now.  In fact, sometimes it's all I want to talk about :) At one point during the party, I was talking to this sweet girl that my sister works with and I said in my head "ok, SHUT UP about the writing, already!!" --which was probably some rudimentary form of mind reading because I guarantee she was thinking the same thing, but she was too nice to say anything :)

It was so neat, though, because I even found other people at the party who were similar to me. Honestly, I had always kind of had trouble finding my "niche" of friends because the people I was "supposed" to be hanging out with (the other corporate people) I just never really fit in with. So, I would try to hang out with them and it just never really felt right.

Now that I'm finally pursuing what does feel right, though, I'm gravitating more toward people who are similar to me. In fact, I met the coolest person at the party who does make-up for a living and she was the most fun, outgoing person ever. I kept thinking "why haven't I been hanging out with people like her all these years?"

I guess it's because I've been denying that part of myself even to myself this whole time. I've been trying to be the corporate, left-brained person and trying to fit "that" stereotype and not letting myself be the more creative/artistic person that I am who surrounds themselves with people who are more right-brained...who, as it turns out, I get along with REALLY well :)

Not that there is anything wrong with people in the corporate world, it's just not for me. As it turns out, I'm "one of those creative people" :)

The More I Write...

Ironically (or maybe not), that sentence ends exactly the same way it begins. The more I write....the more I write!

When I'm really heavy into writing a novel, whether it is forced or just flowing really well, the pace will naturally pick up more quickly. My weekly word counts (I will talk more about those in another post) will go through the roof. It is not unusual for me during those times to double, or even triple, my self-imposed quotas, which are not lackadaisical by any means. Also, when I am making more time to write, even if the focus is elsewhere, I will find myself taking other times to sit down and write more poetry, short stories, ideas for other books, anything, really.

It's not that I'm feeling extra creative during those times...in fact, it's often the opposite. Sometimes the fact that I'm writing more means that I'm not feeling creative and have literally forced myself to sit down with a pen and paper or in front of the computer for a certain amount of time and write because I know that if I don't, days, weeks, or even months will pass before I write something substantial again. Truth be told, the goldmine might not be what comes from one of those forced writing sessions--I have had it happen, but it's rare--it is just that it keeps my brain in writing mode and it breaks through that wall of avoidance that I'm building up so that I can sit down naturally to write either later in the day, or maybe the next day and then every day after that, whereas if I would have avoided it as I wanted to in that moment, my creativity would have stagnated.

I look at writing as sort of panning for gold in one's own brain. Sometimes you get all of your tools and you sift and sift and sift and nothing. Sometimes you write hundreds of pages and there is one tiny nugget in there, but it's there and it's beautiful. Other times, you  have a day where you mine just a little bit and you have these solid, gorgeous pieces that you didn't have to work very hard at all for. But the point is that you have to go in there and continue to pan because there is a lot of sand and other junk that has to be sifted through. You're not going to get the gold every time and that stuff HAS to be cleaned out. So every time I write, even if it is muck and sand and dirt, I appreciate that because it hopefully changes the ratio of junk to gold of what is left up there and maybe next time I go panning, I will strike it rich!

Stephanie Lynn Nicks

...or better known as Stevie Nicks.

If you didn't know who I was talking about before, I bet you do now.

She is known for many things, most notably, a rock and roll icon. Many musicians even cite her as being their inspiration in terms of voice or style, so how can it be that me, who has zero musical ability whatsoever (for any of you who have heard me sing or play an instrument, you know there is solid empirical evidence to support that statement) has been unwavering in my insistence for over 10 years that Stevie has been my inspiration to write?

I was sixteen years old when I was first introduced to her music...in fact, her career had arguably hit its peak before I was even born...although she's still going pretty strong even now. But what did this woman have to offer that nobody else did?

Rhetorical brilliance, that is what.

The only way I can come close to even vaguely capturing the essence of what Stevie does is by saying she is a Michelangelo with words. She takes pain and makes it beautiful "Rock on gold dust woman, take your silver spoon and dig your grave..." [Gold Dust Woman], she takes struggle and turns it into something verbally aesthetic "...well I've been afraid of changing 'cause I've built my life around you..." [Landslide], she even makes heartbreak hauntingly alluring "I know I could have loved you but you would not let me...I'll follow you down 'til the sound of my voice will haunt you. You will never get away from the sound of the woman that loved you..." [Silver Springs]. But the best part about Stevie Nicks, believe it or not, isn't her beautiful voice because it does convey all of those emotions and really make you feel what she is singing. She has an incredible gift for doing that. What she is even more gifted at, however, is writing those words. Stevie doesn't walk into the studio or on stage and sing what someone else wrote. She isn't an actress with a good voice. She is a writer, through and through.

In fact, I believe that is what makes her performances so much more compelling. But even when other people are singing Stevie's songs...even when Dixie Chicks are singing Landslide (which I thought was well done) or Lindsay Lohan is mangling a cover of Edge of Seventeen, Stevie's words are still there, the message is still there. Brilliant writing shines through, no matter what.

Stevie is a masterful artist with words. When I am struggling or get stuck, I just sit and listen to her music or read through her lyrics and I'm always inspired. Truth be told, she's inspired me in more ways than one. My most precious thing in my life, my dog, Bella Donna, is named after her first solo album. In fact, there is a little bit of her in everything that I write. I feel like that helps me raise the bar every time I put pen to paper. You can't read Stevie's stuff and follow it with something terrible of your own. It's like playing baseball and going up to bat behind the person who just hit a grand slam and striking out. It simply isn't an option. So many times, I have been reading through her lyrics and thought to myself "if only I could have written something HALF as good as that..." The crazy thing is that she kept surpassing even her own best and making it look easy...and still is.

Is it crazy that as a novelist, my absolute idol in the writing world isn't a novelist at all? Perhaps, but being as I started as a poet, I suppose that explains some of it. As for the rest, go read some of Stevie's lyrics and then try to find ANYTHING in the literary world that weaves words together more beautifully :)

"Once in a million years a lady like her rises...." [Rhiannon]

Writing and...Chocolate Cake?

Writing a book is a funny thing. It sounds so easy, yet when you actually sit down to do it, it's really not very easy at all. 

I thought it was going to be a very simple task. I thought, "I have plenty to say, I'm creative and I've always been a good writer...or at least everyone (teachers, etc.) always told me so. This should be a piece of cake." Well, if it was a piece of cake, it was one of those giant pieces of cake that you see on TV (for those of you who know the slices of cake at Claim Jumper, think of it as one of those) where it seems delicious at first and then you realize you have too much of a good thing and even though it's all good and enjoyable, you're not sure you'll be able to finish it because it actually becomes too difficult. Imagine that...eating cake becoming an impossible task?

That's what it starts to feel like, though. Think of it this way. You have a HUGE piece of chocolate cake...I'm talking enormous... and you're sitting there and you  have to finish it all. Well, maybe about halfway through, you get full, or you wish you could eat vanilla instead. That's what happens when you're writing. You have good characters, a good plot, a good story going and then a few months in, you might get stuck, you get bored with them or you think of something else that is pulling at you MUCH stronger and it doesn't fit into the current storyline, yet you can't just abandon the one you're working on for fear that the two will get tangled or one will become contaminated with hints of the other...so you're stuck. 

Is writing still the greatest thing in the world? In my opinion, there is probably no other way I'd rather be spending my time....so don't get me wrong...in fact, as much as I love food (I'm Italian, it's in my DNA), I'd even pick writing over eating, so that says a lot about it. I'm just saying that everyone hits that wall where you're devouring something you love and it is such a huge task that it actually becomes so tedious, you wonder how that piece of chocolate cake could have ever looked inviting in the first place. 

For those of you who are chocolate fans. This is what it feels like when you sit down to write a book..imagine putting this in front of yourself and not being able to stray until you finish the whole thing. It seems like a good idea....at first :)

Young Adult Fiction?

I've been giving this subject a lot of thought lately.

As I go through the "wish lists" of agents, where they state in their profiles what exactly they are looking for, the amount of agents looking for YA fiction is pretty overwhelming. I suppose this could probably be attributed to the Harry Potter and Twilight crazes, but if that's what they're looking for, I'd guess that is what is selling. I'm sure the agents have their finger on the pulse of the market. So, I'm leaning toward marketing the current book I'm writing as YA fiction.

While I'm writing it, there have been things I've had to do to not cross over into commercial fiction, but as a larger concept, I think there is a pretty fine line between YA and "adult" fiction anymore. Perhaps the vocabulary is a bit understated in YA fiction, and maybe there are A FEW subjects that aren't broached...but even in those categories, I think the current generation of YA readers needs to be given more credit.

It's not that vampires and wizards aren't entertaining, but what is to say that a book can't be YA fiction if it covers pregnancy, marriage, sex, drugs, alcohol or anything of the sort? I know a lot has changed since I was a teenager, but it seems that these days, people in that age group probably know more about those things than even their parents do. Albeit, we all thought we did at that point in our lives, but for the first time ever, it might actually be true.

I've been shocked lately as I've watched episodes of True Life and Teen Mom on MTV as I watch what these "teenagers" have to endure before they are even old enough to take a sip of alcohol. Many of them have children, have been in rehab and have endured things some people in their 50's and 60's know nothing about. So, perhaps, they COULD relate to more mature subjects and we just aren't feeding them what they need. I don't see many YA books that address those issues, even on a fictional level.

Perhaps at this point, the only subjects that would be "off limits" in YA books are those which they might not find interesting, such as college being as they haven't reached that point in their lives, or politics since it's unusual to be into politics before one can actually vote, but as for the rest, I think they should have the option to read stories about the things that are affecting their lives the same way that adults do.

I think that genre is undergoing an evolution...or at least its readers are, which makes it an exciting time to be a writer, especially one who is looking to enter that particular arena.

Halloween and My First "Book"

With Halloween approaching quickly (it was just summer--how did that happen?), I was thinking about the first "book" I ever wrote :)

I always had a passion for writing...I used to write poetry even as a very young child...in fact, I wrote some poems that were so intense, I think my parents might have wondered what the heck was going on in that little head of mine. Often, I would watch Jerry Springer and being so young that I actually believed the storylines, and so sensitive that I felt bad for the people, I would often write poems about the pain I thought they were feeling... had the scenarios been real...and I was like seven :)

So anyway, my first book was around that same time. Technically, I guess I could say that means I've been a novel writer for over twenty years...nevermind, that makes me feel old! I'll go with when I wrote my first REAL novel, which was two years ago...there, that feels much better.

I was SO proud of my little book, though. I actually illustrated it, too, which I'm happy to highlight...even if prospective agents or publishers are reading this is NOT my strong point. I drew a little witch and I think there was a dog/dinosaur looking thing that popped up on every few pages, but the story was mainly about the witch, so by about the fifteenth page, I had that drawing nailed. I actually remember most of the story, but....and I'm sorry if the suspense becomes too much...I'm going to try to dig it up because my Mother is Italian, so something tells me it's still in a drawer somewhere :)

I guess the point I'm trying to make is that I've always known what I wanted to do...it just took me awhile to get the courage to finally commit to going down that path and not looking back. If I do find this story and post it, you will also see that I had passion at a young age, but I wasn't necessarily a prodigy...let's just say if I post this story, it will be for the same reason I posted that disaster of a rejection letter...to make you smile and for no other reason :)

Special Surprise...Preview of a New Book

So, I've been working on another book and I thought I'd share part of it on here. I'm really excited about it and the plot has some very exciting twists and turns. I haven't done any editing yet, so bear with me :) But here is a sneak peak...

                As the final preparations were being made, the executioner became increasingly nervous.  He felt as if he were the one awaiting his own death rather than that of Prisoner #6602.  Although hidden behind a black cloak, he felt naked in front of the crowd of witnesses.  The cloak was something they always wore so that neither the chosen witnesses, the prisoner, nor any media reporters could identify the executioner.  Only he, the warden and his accomplices knew his identity. 

None of the others had the luxury of anonymity.  A four by eight foot window framed their faces and entire bodies for the viewing crowd.  In addition, their credentials were worn in a plastic pouch on their sleeves and their full names were embroidered above their breast pocket.  It didn’t matter, though.  They had nothing to hide.  Nobody cared who buckled the final straps or who checked the pulse, or lack thereof, after the fact.  It was the one who pushed the button who needed to be concealed.  Hence, the executioner’s cloak.

 They were accompanied by other prison officials who were not part of the plan, which was going to make things much more difficult, but not impossible.  The first time they had tried this, it failed.  There were too many variables and they hadn’t planned carefully enough.  Fortunately, only they knew that they had failed.  To everyone else, including the warden and viewing group, everything went according to plan.  This time, though, they were ready.

                Only the executioner and his accomplices were aware of the plan. They were paid off well enough so the executioner knew they would all keep their mouths shut.  Prisoner #6602 himself didn’t even know about the plan, and they wanted it that way.  While it might seem safe to confide in an inmate on death row who is mere minutes away from being executed, the executioner and his accomplices knew otherwise.  They couldn’t take a chance of having this plot be exposed.  They had worked too hard, for too long, on perfecting the procedure and the plan.  They simply couldn’t risk it.  Not even for the person they were risking it all because of.

                The clock was ticking loudly, painfully loud, as it drew closer to midnight.  They always carried out the sentences at midnight.  The executioner knew he couldn’t linger in the chamber.  He did one last quick check to make sure his accomplices had done as they were supposed to do.  He looked over at the EKG machine.  He discreetly checked for the white dot on the back to ensure it was the right machine. 

                It was.   

He made his way to the anteroom, the room behind the chamber where the lethal cocktails were stored and administered from.  He checked for the white dot on the bottom of the IV solutions.  He pretended to merely be examining each bag for holes or other impurities so those around him wouldn’t know what he was doing.  They seemed to be oblivious to his actions anyway. 

                During executions, everyone was always in sort of a zombie-like state.  The prison staff, the witnesses, the execution team, even the condemned was generally quiet and reflective during the preparations.  Nobody was particularly thrilled about the fact that a life was about to be ended or that they were about to participate in a murder of sorts.  After all, the death certificate did state murder as the cause of death. 

Some members of the team had religious or moral objections to the procedure, yet they carried them out as mandated in the capacity of their job function.  They presumably made peace with it privately.  The handful of those who were happy to be carrying out the execution didn’t show it.  They couldn’t.  The mood in the room was solemn, the witnesses were silent by order and the air was made thick by the impending death.  Showing exuberance during a time like that would have likely resulted in some sort of repercussions either by the other witnesses or prison officials. 

Surprisingly, even the family members of the victims were almost always quiet and buttoned up during the procedure.  The executioner presumed this was more because of the reason they were there than the fact that they were actually mournful over the death of the convicted.  After all, this whole event was taking place because they themselves had lost someone they loved.  They had been profoundly hurt in a life-altering way by the events leading up to this.  There was certainly no joy in that.         Closure, perhaps, but joy? Doubtful.

The time was drawing closer.  The warden assembled the team and quickly briefed them.

“Gentlemen,” he said.  “I presume all final preparations have commenced.”

He looked to the prison officials responsible for handling those tasks, the executioner’s accomplices, and they nodded.  The executioner worried that they nodded a little too emphatically, which worried him.  Fortunately, the warden didn’t take notice of it.  He wondered if his mind was playing tricks on him.  He was all too aware of the phenomenon that occurred when someone was doing something wrong, and that feeling they got where it seemed as if their every movement was being displayed on a giant theater screen with their secrets in big red letters on a marquee below for all to see.  He had to trust that nobody who wasn’t supposed to be was privy to his plan.  He had to maintain the calm, collected façade that he was crumbling to pieces behind.

“The condemned refused his last meal and is being escorted to us as we speak,” the warden continued, completely devoid of emotion. 

The executioner presumed that the warden was one of those who enjoyed putting prisoners to death, yet tried to hide this fact from the rest of the staff.  He envisioned him toasting every execution with a flute of champagne when he was in the privacy of his own home.  Tonight, he would likely do the same.

“Wilson, will you please make the final call to ensure that a stay has not been granted?” the warden demanded.

“Yes, sir,” Officer Wilson responded as he picked up the phone.

He spoke quietly into the receiver, reading the prisoner’s information from an index card that he held in his hand.  He hung up the phone seconds later.

“No stay, sir,” he said to the warden.

“Very well then, does anybody have any questions before we proceed?” the warden asked.

It was a rhetorical question.  They had all done this many times, it was just standard procedure to ask if anybody had questions.  Not once in the executioner’s career had he ever seen any of the prison officials ask anything during that time.

“All right, then, let’s move. We’ve got a job to do.” The warden said.

Everyone scrambled to their respective positions as he gave the last order.  The executioner had his eye on the staff members who went out the side door to meet the escorts and strap Prisoner #6602 to the gurney. 

They were not in on the plan.  They didn’t need to be. 

Before he took his place in the anteroom, the executioner purposely brushed shoulders with one of his accomplices.
                “Everything’s set, right?” the executioner asked.

“I think so,” the accomplice replied.

“You think?” the executioner whispered from under the cloak.

“As much as it can be, we didn’t have much time and there were eyes all over us,” the accomplice responded.

“What about the coroner, and the morgue?” the executioner asked.

“All set,” the accomplice replied.

“If he dies, you die, got it?” the executioner demanded.

“Got it,” the accomplice gulped as he forced the words out of a tightening throat.

The executioner took his place in the anteroom and waited for the condemned to be brought in.  A few seconds later, the gurney was wheeled in.  The wheels squealed loudly and the executioner damned the sound.  If they were wheeling someone to their death, couldn’t they at least do so on a gurney that didn’t scream across every single inch of the floor as it crossed? 

The executioner could not see Prisoner #6602’s face.  He had seen it many times before, though.  Without seeing him today, the executioner could sense his fear.  That was good, he had not been tipped off about the plan. 

When the gurney squealed into its place in the center of the room, IVs were inserted into the man’s arm, one into each.  After they were securely fastened in place, the viewing curtains which had been closed while he was wheeled in were now re-opened.

“Any last words, statements, or testimony?” the warden asked the prisoner.

They didn’t waste any time.  Once the gurney was brought in, the process was started immediately.  In fact, the IV lines were already flowing with saline when the question was asked.  Prisoner #6602 likely didn’t even know how much time he had to spit out his last words. 

“Radcliffe. Darren Radcliffe,” the prisoner simply said.

That was not Prisoner #6602’s name.  Nobody knew who ‘Darren Radcliffe’ was or what the he meant when he muttered the name. 

“Darren Radcliffe?” the warden asked.

“Yes,” the prisoner muttered.

“Care to elaborate?” the warden asked coldly.

“No, sir,” Prisoner #6602 said confidently.

“All right, then.  If you have no further words, the intercom to the viewing audience will be disabled and the process will begin.”

The prisoner acknowledged with a slight head nod.  He seemed to be at peace with what was about to take place. 

The warden exited the chamber and appeared in the anteroom.  He tapped the executioner on the shoulder and said, “It’s time, start the sequence.” 

He was referring to the sequence of IVs that would deliver the ‘lethal’ part of the lethal injection.  The executioner pushed the buttons that corresponded to each of the IV solutions.  One by one, he pressed a stiff, shaking finger down on the buttons, praying that the plan would work.

The process was relatively uneventful.  Prisoner #6602 kept his eyes closed the whole time and there wasn’t any spectacle of sorts to be seen.  After about fifteen minutes, the accomplice went over to the heart rate monitor and checked it.  He gestured for the physician to come over and declare a time of death.  The physician nodded at the other accomplice as he did this.  He put his hand on the wrist of Prisoner #6602 and gestured for the intercom to be turned back on.

“Time of death, 12:17 a.m.,” he said with his hand still on the wrist of the condemned.

The executioner put his hand to his own pocket.  His fingers cupped the small device and wanted desperately to pull it out and look at it.  When he was sure he wasn’t being watched, he removed it from his pocket and kept it tucked in the palm of his hand as he glanced at it.  His stomach almost leapt through his throat as he read the tiny display.

Heart rate, sixty-two beats per minute. 

The plan had worked.