Making It Up: A Novel

Jessica Ringle wrote Making It Up in longhand during a two-year stint in the Peace Corps in Morocco. She had wanted to write a novel since she was ten years old and writing this novel fulfilled a dream. No one spoke English in the little walled village, population 250, where she had been assigned. There were no computers and no internet and no one spoke English. She struggled with intense loneliness as a foreigner.

Writing this story kept her from going crazy as she could have a conversation in her own language, have company, and live in a world of her own making, All of this aside, she wouldn’t trade those two years for anything!

In the meantime, Jessica is hopeful that readers will relate to the characters and situations in the novel and looks forward to hearing from some of you. You can get in touch with her on her Contact page or on Facebook.

About Making It Up

The sins of the mothers…

What would you do if everything you thought you knew about your past was something else entirely and the people closest to you weren’t really who you thought they were?

The family in the novel, Making It Up, finds the answers to these questions and unlock long-held secrets as they make the journey to finding themselves and each other…

Excerpt from Chapter One

She didn’t think she’d ever be able to walk through that door, even with her mother at her side, but here she was. She thanked god or whatever there was that she didn’t have to go into the garage. She didn’t know if she ever could.

“Are you OK, honey?” Her mother reached for her hand which was cold and clammy, held it and then said, “If you’re not ready for this, I can take you over to Melinda’s.”

“No, I think I’m OK, just feel a little dizzy. Maybe I’ll sit down for a minute once we get inside.” With a visible effort, Cady stood a little taller, squared her shoulders and followed Angie through the door into her grandmother’s house.

Dust motes floated on a bar of late afternoon sunlight casting the rest of the small living room into shadow. The air was still and the house seemed to be holding its breath. Though all was as she’d last seen it, the familiar objects seemed diminished somehow, nearly two dimensional, almost without substance. The warmth she’d always known here was gone, replaced with a flat and chilly vacancy. She shivered a little as she sank down on the old green couch that Dana had bought at a favorite secondhand store.

Angie, meanwhile, was storming about the house opening curtains, muttering, “God, when did she clean this place last?”

“Mom.” Cady’s jaw tightened as she struggled to hold back the tears that were beginning to fill her eyes. “Can’t you stop? She’s dead.”

Angie, who had begun to rifle through the piles of junk mail on the coffee table, turned to face her daughter, “Go ahead and cry. Do it for both of us. God knows I can’t right now. I don’t think you’ve cried once since…” She broke off and looked toward the door that led to the garage. “Go on. It’ll do you some good, I know.”

And as though she had only been waiting for permission, Cady cried and cried. For her grandmother. Her mother. Herself and the world as it used to be, the way it was right before she opened the door to the garage that day and saw what shouldn’t have been.

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