Computer Whiz

Today is one of those pat myself on the back kind of days. A proud and boastful day.  In song, instead of the words: "Don't cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me?" (Pussy Cat Dolls) the lyrics would be "Don't cha wish you were smart like me?" Okay, that's an exaggeration, I'm not all that smart--but I'm willing to overlook that small fact.  Because at the moment I'm feeling quite smug.

Those of you who caught my blog yesterday would have heard me say that I was hoping to turn Grace's Ruin into an e-book sort of affair.  I wanted it to be user friendly. So, last night I went on a mission, one I wouldn't abandon until the job was done.  And I'm proud to say that, I--me--all by myself, figured it out. That's right, I converted a Word Doc to pdf and then obtained a url for it.   Google is the land of milk and honey for an inquisitive mind such as mine.

While I was at it, I changed the title from Grace's Ruin to Grace Ruined (like this better) and you will find the link over on the right hand side of my blog.  How cool is that? I have now decided that I am capable of anything.  A scary thought for anyone who knows me on a personal level, I'll admit.  Computer whiz will now be added to my resume of conquests, along with plumber, mason, painter, landscaper, and all round cool mama!

Can I hear a WHOOP! WHOOP!?

Procrastination does pay off!

Exciting things have been happening around here.  First of all, I have decided to move Grace's Ruin to another blog, and if I ever get it figured out, it is my goal to set it up more like an e-book--with page numbers etc.  My apologies, but this is the best I can do for now.  Secondly, I have come to realize that by setting up this new story, I am breaking my promise to myself that I would not write anything new till I get my revisions completed on Bound, my latest YA fantasy novel.  I'm sneaky and need a slap on the hand for this latest maneuver.  I actually found myself online doing research last night.  However, the good news is that I am almost finished with revisions and I should be able to send the manuscript to my test market within the week. Cross your fingers!  Third, my 8 year old has First Communion this Sunday and I'm in freak out mode.  People are coming.... Here! The house is a disaster, the yard needs to be mowed, the laundry has taken on a life of its own.  Not to mention the grocery shopping and I need to clean my car--father in law always checks it and has loud opinions on this.  Ahem.  Freaking Out!

But on the bright side--very, very bright side--yesterday I was finally able to track down my dear friend from childhood.  I can't tell you the number of times I've googled her name and come up short.  Yesterday, while procrastinating on revisions, my mind turned to her yet again, and I thought, what the hell? I should check for her on Twitter.  I've only just begun using Twitter a few weeks back and so this was the first time this had occurred to me. Yes, I am a genius! (Yeah, right).  So I punched in her name and lots of people came up. I searched the list two or three times and was just about to give up, when something popped out at me.  I seriously almost missed her.  She'd put the number 75 at the end.  Our birth year.  Could this be her? Her profile photo was grainy, but I found a familiarity in the way she held her shoulders, and who besides my one of a kind friend would wear such humongous sunglasses.  Are there brown eyes behind those shades? Is there auburn hair under that scarf?   What a lame picture, what was she thinking?  Didn't she know I'd be looking for her?  Couldn't she have worn a t-shirt saying "Hi, this is such and such, and I am your long lost best friend.
Sort of embarrassing to admit, I actually trembled as I sent her a message.  But what to write?  I had to keep it brief, after all, no one on Twitter wants to see a ton of someone else's personal stuff flashing across their home feed.  And I would be lying if I didn't admit that I was worried this person may not know who the heck I was and would send back a message accusing me of being a stalker chick.
For three agonizing hours I kept checking for a reply.  Turns out she had answered me right away but for some reason it hadn't shown up on my phone.  Grrr..... talk about frustrating.  It wasn't until this morning that I found a second message and I knew for sure it was her.  This has been an emotional morning for me.  Even now I'm tearing up thinking about her.
There are so many things I want to tell her.  So many things I want to ask.  If only she would click the follow button on Twitter so I can give her my contact info.  I think I may just send her a link to this.

If you're reading this Helen....move your arse!

Grace's Ruin Continued!

I added to Grace's Ruin today and made a few corrections to yesterdays submit.  Please check back tomorrow for more! :)

A Story is Born

Is it just me, or has tuning into the news lately become a frightening venture in and of itself?  Forget the magical stuff that makes up fantasy, it's the events happening in our world today that fuels my nightmares. Werewolves, zombies, and vampires suddenly seem like cuddly pets you might turn to for solace in the wee morning hours--anything to get away from the reality of things.

It probably doesn't help that I drift off to sleep with the TV on,  Glen Beck's voice in the background, warning us of where were heading.  And simply put, it doesn't look good.  Basically, we're all screwed.  George Soros has become a thorn in America's side, and a disrupter of a good nights rest.  I shouldn't make light of what is really happening, I don't mean to.  I guess this is just my defense mechanism kicking in--when things get stressful, I tend to start cracking jokes.

But all kidding aside, for months now I've been watching on in horror as our beautiful nation falls to pieces around our ears.  The warnings and threats, wars, terror, sky rocketing gas prices, and rising food costs are only the beginning. It would seem, given the path we're on, things are bound to only get worse. And it doesn't matter who you are-democrat, republican, independent--we are all going to pay the price.  For better or worse, this is where we are united, we're in this together, my fellow Americans.  However, don't fear, we are made of sturdy stock, and we will move upward and onward.

So, this brings me to my latest idea. It's rather unorthodox-or at least, it's unorthodox for me, anyway. All of these news headlines and breaking stories  have been inundating my thoughts for quite some time. Those fragments of  information stewing and bubbling in this overactive brain of mine, growing bit by bit, to the point I can see the beginning of something exciting.  A possibility of a story, perhaps.  I thought it might be kind of fun to blog this new tale.  In doing this, I will be straying from the comfort of my usual genre, but I think this might be a good thing.

Tonight I will flesh it out, and hopefully by tomorrow I'll be ready to begin writing. Each day I will try to set aside half an hour to dedicate to our little project. Be warned: most of it will be crap!  But I'm slightly obsessive compulsive, so each day I'm sure there will be revisions.  It will be a work in progress, and so there should always be something going on. The title will be... Grace's Ruin  (until I think of something I like better) :)

See you tomorrow!  For now, I'm off to Sam's Club to stock up on canned goods...


Inspiring quote for this project:

The stern hand of fate has scourged us to an elevation where we can see the great everlasting things that matter for a nation; the great peaks of honour we had forgotten - duty and patriotism, clad in glittering white; the great pinnacle of sacrifice pointing like a rugged finger to heaven.  ~David Lloyd George

Out of Time

I want to know how many minutes I have left in this world.  Is my time up in a day (1,440 minutes) or a week? (10,080 minutes).  Am I lucky? Do I have years left? Maybe thirty or fifty.  At first glance that seems like a long time.  But with how quickly these first thirty years have passed, I'm thinking the next thirty will be over in a blink.

Things were different when I was eighteen, I thought I had all the time in the world--and I was only invested in myself, I had nothing to lose.  Now, with children who rely on me not only for practical reasons, but also to just be here, I have everything to lose.  I often think that if I can survive long enough to see them married, then they'll be okay.  I could drift into the sound, become a part of the backdrop of their lives, and eventually disappear like a puff of smoke, and they would be just fine without me.

But there's no guarantee that I'll last that long and so I must admit that lately I have this sense of urgency about me.  It's the time, you see, it's pressing in on me. Stealing my breath.  Just now I wasted an entire minute turning on Ratatouille for my two youngest. (BTW: No school on Good Friday, TV is allowed today according to my kids. Mom is outwitted yet again.)  The stupid DVD producer guy set it up so that I couldn't fast-forward past some commercial. I literally watched the green line at the bottom of the screen tick off the sixty seconds as I pondered how I could have better spent that precious minute.  That desperate feeling leeches into every part of my life.  The last time my husband dared to ask me to go for a walk, it was almost perilous.  I'm not sure how he survived it.  I set out at this crazy brisk pace, comparable, I suppose, to one of those speed walkers you sometimes find coursing the mall.    I was in a hurry, a really big hurry.  There's no time, no time you see... I have turned into Alice in Wonderland's white rabbit with the pocket watch.

This is the very reason I have written so many books and not one is perfected.  I've been afraid to stop, that I won't get these stories down on paper before I'm taken from this world. Five manuscripts written in less than a year and a half.  The last two took about a month and a half each to complete.  And they aren't short, I'm talking ridiculously full, complete novels. Approximately 85,000-95,000 words a piece.  Those who have read my work, love it.  If only I could slow down enough to polish these books, perhaps others will get the chance to read them too someday.

I would like to be around to see that. There's something about the idea of a reader breaking away from the terrible reality of  this world, landing instead in my world, that I find slightly overwhelming.  So I've put on the breaks, I'm slowing down, at least long enough to finish what I've started. Who knows? Maybe I'll even stop to smell a rose.

Climbing Stairs

Last night I dreamt about my blog (sad but true).  I'd thought of a subject  that I found interesting and I couldn't help but work it like a puzzle, piecing  it together in my mind.  It was fabulous, the sentences danced into place, each so eloquent and divine (this was a dream after all).   This post promised to be stupendous!  It was so good, in fact, that I became afraid I wouldn't be able to recite those perfect words that described my perfect idea, and it was simply too fantastic to leave behind on the plains of dreamland. I wanted to bring it home with me, and I remember telling myself, "don't forget, don't forget."  But when I woke this morning, I had forgotten. Disappointed, I sat on the edge of my bed for a few minutes wracking my brain, trying to dislodge some bit of the dream.  However, all too soon it became apparent that it was hopeless, there was nothing left of my dream except the promise it had failed to keep.  

So I gave up, and as I got the kiddos ready for school, I read a terrific blog by Margo Candela titled Reading Made Me a Writer (linked below).  In the blog, Candela wrote about what spurred her on to become a writer.  Her description of her second grade teacher struck a cord within me. For I, too, had a cruel teacher in second grade.  But while Candela remembers so many details of her abuser, I can't even recall my teacher's face, I only remember the feelings she invoked within me. 

Fear, dread, nausea. 

As a military brat I moved around a lot. And I mean a lot... three high schools in as many years, don't even get me started on junior high and grade school.  To be honest, I couldn't tell you the actual number of schools I attended, I simply don't know. But I do remember second grade and the walk to school each day with my big sister.  Sometimes I would beg her to stand outside the door and listen.  Just listen. Please.  A few times she did listen.  I felt braver those days, less alone, knowing she hovered outside my classroom.  Not that she could change anything...no one could.  

I had the invisible voice of a child and was not heard when I asked for help.   So I returned each day to that frightening classroom, where my 'teacher' had the unfortunate tendency to pick me up by the collar of my shirt and shake me.  Most days it was because I was late, other days because I worked too slow.  I was the only one treated this way.  I was also the only one pulled from class for speech therapy every day.  Apparently, moving back and forth across the ocean, over and over, had taken its toll on my articulation.  But I was happy for it, I loved going to speech because it got me out of that classroom and into the hands of a woman who actually deserved to be around children.  It was safe there in that small room, with it's kid sized crescent desk and tiny chairs.  

Unfortunately, while I was away at speech therapy, my teacher would go over our math lesson for the day.  I would return in time for the end of the lesson and found that most times I had to wing it, desperately studying the test, trying to find a connection in all the numbers.  Needless to say, I made poor marks in math that year.  Mine were the papers she held up.  Big F's written in red for the entire class to see. It was humiliating.  Actually, for a sensitive child such as myself, it was devastating.  

In the classroom that was my hell, I remember a loft of sorts, set up in the corner of the room.  I remember thinking it was like a small version of heaven.  It had stairs similar to what one might find attached to a bunk bed, and at the top were cushions and soft places to sit.  Students who had completed their work were allowed to go up there to read quietly while they waited for the others to finish.  I longed to go up there too, and would find myself looking at that spot frequently throughout the day.   At that young age I already had a love for books and reading, and that little nook called to me.  A friend in the dark, a great place to hide.  I struggled to catch up, always behind.  And each day I would watch all the other students get their chance and think my time was coming.  I worked harder than ever, but it seemed my teacher always had some math assignment she'd wave in my face that I hadn't completed to her satisfaction.

When my family moved mid-semester from England to California I was overcome with relief.  I was crossing the ocean, getting away from her.  Surely I'd never see that woman again for the rest of my life. And I was right.  I left her behind.  Yet, similar in a way to my dream last night, her presence remains within me still, lingering, a phantom thing of the past that once  was.

I never did climb those stairs, I never sat on those cushions, and I never curled up with my favorite Judy Blume book there.  But that's okay.  I moved on to climb other stairs. With a future full of teachers who actually taught, I thrived.  I took honors classes and was on the Dean's list. I graduated from college and married my college sweetheart and had children of my own.  I'm whole and happy, and finally, after all these years, I have created my own nook. 

Reading Made Me a Writer 

Muse Attack

Words are powerful. Period. Nothing else in this world is so capable of building a person up one moment and tearing them down the next. 


My favorite words are those that are positive.  I love praise, it is a glorious thing, sometimes even better than a hug. And I think it should be given freely. I live each day by this code, wanting to make others happy and thrilled to do so. If I have one ambition in this life, it is to leave my mark, and to leave this world a better place for it.  (This is the main reason I began writing to begin with) However, I don't think praise should be given when it isn't deserved, or when it's a total lie. Because then the words tend to lose their power, becoming these weightless, plasticky things with absolutely no meaning at all.  There's nothing sincere about lying.  It only ever does more harm than good.


On the flip side, when given for the mere purpose of being cruel, criticism is equally bad, and just as devastating.  It cuts like a knife, creating a festering wound and those words are the ones that stay with you long after the glow of praise has faded away. They eat at your spirit.  Those are the words that pick on us night and day, badgering and driving us into the ground.  Sometimes we never get over them.  


And then there's the in-between.  Constructive criticism.  Last night I was privy to a blast of this.  It felt like my muse aimed right at my heart and pulled the trigger, each word stinging.  How could he be so cruel?  But after the initial shock wore off, I noticed that mixed in with the criticism were shimmering words of praise.  And I realized then that I wasn't under attack, he was only just attempting to show me something I'd missed.  It wasn't personal.  He was trying to give me sound advice, to help me hone my craft.  I blinked back my tears and took a deep breath. Then I actually moved past my pride, and absorbed the meaning of his words. Some suggestions I took and some I left. 


I have no doubt that his advice will better my writing.  But most importantly are the words he'd used, and the tact with which he'd expressed his ideas.  Today, instead of feeling like I'm a shoddy writer who should give up altogether and pursue something else, I feel motivated.  No harsh feelings and no resentment remain--only hope for the future of my work and its place in this world.

Mind Fake

Okay, so this is a first for me.  As I sit down to blog this morning, all I can think about are the revisions awaiting me.  How I should be concentrating on my work, not squandering away this precious time writing something that no one really wants to read anyway.

Wow, I just read that last sentence and I sound completely bummed.  Time to turn on Down by Jason Walker.  (Wish it was available for my playlist, but it isn't). This song about sums up my life as a writer. Gloomy and sad, wishes unfulfilled.  But it's also putting me in the perfect mood to write a tear jerking scene, setting the stage.  Maybe if I stubbed my toe that would help, too.  My dog just got ran over by a car--oh wait, I don't have a dog.  Not since the last one died of bone cancer six years ago.  Still not over Caesar, my faithful ass kicking rottie, who would have gladly ran into a burning building to save any one of us.  Oh, there it is, now I'm tearing up.  Seriously.  Didn't take much today. Time to go grab a frosty D. Coke and hit those revisions!  Hope your day is opposite mine and you have a Happy Tuesday!

Disconnect

I can hardly believe that Monday is already here again. As with most anything in my life these days, the time has flown by and it feels like only yesterday that my blogging endeavor began.  Perhaps that's because I enjoy it so much. Where else can I go to dump my thoughts, all for my own amusement, with absolutely no regard for spelling or punctuation?  I'd have to say the one aspect of blogging I find most pleasurable is how it allows me to write whatever the heck I want to write. And after spending both Saturday and Sunday stealing smidgeons of time to do revisions on a manuscript I'd set aside to rest, I've decided to address a subject that I find kinda ugly but inescapable nonetheless.

As I worked on corrections this weekend, I began to see a major flaw developing within the very premise of my book. Something really bad, and as a reader something quite unforgivable.

You see, as a reader, there are certain mistakes in other's writing that I let slide: spelling errors, grammatical uh-oh's, a clumsy sentence here or there.  However, when it comes to character development, I'm somewhat of a stickler. There's something about witnessing the progression of a character, watching them grow, unfurl their wings and eventually fly, that I find to be absolutely satisfying.  That's probably the reason I prefer to read a series in lieu of a stand alone novel, any day. Over the course of a series I can really get in there and grow to love the protagonist.  Personally, as a reader, this is what makes me come back for more, this is what makes me buy the next book, and the next.  But when that character, the one I'm invested in-- the one I know inside and out, does something out of character or makes a decision that makes no bloody sense, I find my interest waning.  Every single time.

I've found this within many bodies of work.  One example that comes to mind is the Evermore series by Alyson Noel.  First of all, I just want to say that this in no way is a knock on Ms. Noel's writing ability, style, or creativity.  I am not critiquing her with my writers hat on, I'm simply looking at this from my own personal point of view as a reader, and she just happens to be the one who came to mind. (BTW: I must warn that if you haven't read the Immortal series and plan to, this contains spoilers!)

From the very first line I was hooked. I found myself intrigued by the heroine, Ever, and by the enigmatic Damen.  I adored the idea of immortals and past lives, and as the story continued, I found myself swept up into it. I finished Evermore and without hesitation, I purchased the second book, Blue Moon, and then the third, Shadowland. But that's where it ended for me.

Ever, Noel's protagonist, made a decision that didn't jive. I didn't buy it.

Before I go any further I want to make it clear that although a certain character I'm about to discuss, annoyed me, that wasn't the actual reason for the disconnect. All along my reading career I've had the opportunity to meet many characters that have irked me, but that's just part of the fun.  Usually.

In this case, I find it hard to believe that Noel ever intended for the reader (me) to foster such a strong dislike for this character.

Haven, Ever's cupcake eating, selfish best friend.  She lacked even one redeemable quality.  I couldn't stand her.  With a best friend like that, who needs enemies?  I practically did a little jig when it looked like Noel was going to give her the axe. YES! YES! please put me out of my misery and kill the chick off.  Everyone would win:  Ever and Damen could actually touch each other again, a change that needed to take place anyway, since the idea was growing old (besides, it's nice to be able to hold hands with your boyfriend without the need for mittens or a strange layer of energy), Haven would move along, never to be heard from again (hallelujah), and Roman would have to reassess his strategy--he seems awfully resourceful to me, I'm sure he'd come up with something.

But best of all, if Ever had simply allowed Haven to die, her decision would have been viewed as noble. Ever would have remained in character while managing to save her best friend from the chance of going to that dark hell--you know-- the one guaranteed to any immortal who has the unfortunate incident of getting struck right in their sensitive chakra.

I just didn't get it.  Why? Why would Ever give Haven the elixir that would turn her immortal? It makes me question Ever, I thought she cared about Haven (although I'm at a loss to know why).  And here I was under the impression that Haven was the selfish one...

So here's the deal. One of two things might have changed this for me:  1)  If Haven had been remotely likable, maybe then I could have sympathized with Ever's choice, or 2) If Ever already had the tendency to make stupid decisions.  But she wasn't the stupid type--young and foolish, yes--stupid, no.

I'm sure I must  have some sort of weird glitch in my brain. That for most this wasn't an issue, and that those lucky readers went on to find the fourth book a treat.   But try as I might, I couldn't get past it.  Now the actual premise itself, the bones of the story, did nothing but irritate me.  I kept imagining how things could have gone.  How Ever and Damen's relationship would have deepened, but with Roman constantly in the way, their love affair remaining just out of reach, never fully fulfilled.  How Ever's decision to allow Haven to die startles Roman, upping the ante.  How this time it will be different--after all, Ever was never immortal in those past lives, things should be different.   This time she's changed and won't fall for the same crap.  Although, this is probably what happens by the fifth book.  But I'll never know.  Because I can't bring myself to read it.  Ugh.... so frustrating...

So this brings me back to my own writing and my own problem, and the fact that I better get off of here and onto repairing my mess.  If I don't fix it, no one will want to read it.  And aren't readers what this is all about anyway?   Tootles!

Sacrifice

This week I had an epiphany.  Unfortunately, it wasn't the kind I had been hoping for. Mary didn't float on celestial clouds with the message that I, out of millions, had been given special dispensation--that I didn't have to stick to my lenten sacrifice.  There was no tempting pot of peanut butter to be found in her spectral hands.  No, like everyone else, I'm still on track and am abstaining from my addiction-- second only to Diet Coke, peanut butter is my all time fav. You can bet your biscuits that come Easter morning you will find me in the pantry with a big spoon and a full jar of Jif. It will be mine! Oh, yes, it will be mine! (insert maniacal laugh)


No, the message didn't come in the form of a holy vision, instead it came in the form of a question.

On Wednesday, two of my kiddos had their annual doctor's appointment.  Everything was going as badly as I'd feared, if not worse. As the nurse went down the standard list of questions such as: do you have safety gates, do you have the poison control number, do they eat their veggies, etc... my four darling children ran amuck. Wrestling, arguing (rather loudly), on the examination table, off the examination table--shredding the paper. One's digging in the trash can in search of old lollypop sticks to suck on while another watches a cartoon on the ipad (again, rather loudly).  Six people in one very small examination room is never a good idea, especially when four of those people haven't mastered the skill of remaining still for more than three seconds at a time.

It was all I could do not to run screaming from the room, claiming I didn't know who those impudent, savage children belonged to- but their mother really needs to get a handle on them. Maneuvering my kids two at a time is nothing like all four of them at once without the expanse of a house to buffer the volume. Anyway, shouting above the mayhem, the nurse asked about television. How many hours a day do they spend watching TV or playing video games. And the question gave me pause. Because the answer, in all honesty, is too many. Countless. I had to wager a guess, and it wasn't pretty. I mean, my four year old was currently watching Tangled over on the examination table--the telly followed us everywhere.  Had I turned into one of those moms who uses TV as a sitter? I must admit, it's much easier to be around them when they're staring zombie eyed at a screen instead of punching each other and yelling for help every time I turn around.

Yet that simply isn't good enough.  Like any other caring parent out there, I want my children to not only have what I had as a child, but I want it to be better.  And as of Wednesday afternoon, they had so much less.

So Thursday I made a tough decision.  Television and video games (and yes, even including the Nintendo 3DS, thank you very much) are restricted during the school week.  They've been banned.

With collected resolve ( I practiced this in the mirror before going to pick them up from school) I notified them of the new house rule. At this point, all hell broke loose in the car. To my dismay and alarm, I would have to say I actually witnessed gnashing of teeth through my rear view mirror.  Apparently the lack of Pokemon and Olivia being piped into our living room was the end of the world. In no uncertain terms I was told that I was "ruining their life".  This actually made me smile.  Finally, I'm doing something right.

The lamenting continued all the way home, at which point I sent the two eldest to their rooms until they could speak to me in a courteous tone.  Despite the closed doors, I had the displeasure of hearing them up there, hollering and howling.  You'd think I'd chopped off an appendage or something.  I began to view it as some kind of detox, like their little bodies were being purged of some sort of poison.  After a few minutes, my eleven year old braved leaving his room but couldn't still his tongue, so had to be sent back two or three times, the eight year old didn't come out for hours.

I was stoic, refusing debate or discussion. Last night my house was ruled by a dictator.  And I'm fine with that, because after the crying and belly aching, after the shock of the news wore off, something wonderful happened.  My kids began to play with each other.  It was as if a veil had been lifted and they suddenly noticed there were other potential playmates in the room.  The fond memories I hold dear from my childhood came to mind. Climbing trees, riding bikes, reading, running and rolling in the grass, frolicking in the sun, each day promising a new adventure.

With this new opportunity, my children will have this, they'll have those warm joyous memories of carefree days, and because of this one solitary 'sacrifice', someday down the road they may find themselves bestowing the same precious gift upon their own children.

Getting Lost In The Storm

This morning, Jo Knowles offered up a beautiful post entitled, "If You Whisper, No One Will Hear You" and Other Terrible Things Not To Believe". In my opinion, it's well worth reading, I linked it below for those interested.

In her post I loved the effortlessness with which Knowles expressed her idea, and found myself struck by the simple truth of it.  She wrote about Casey Abrams, a contestant on American Idol. Apparently, on the show last night he stuck to his guns and boldly performed a song he was told would 'make him small'.  But as it turns out, his risky decision blew him into the spotlight, showcasing his talent while making him shine! There was no 'smallness' in that move.

The way I interpreted Knowles' post, and please forgive me if I'm way off course, is that you don't necessarily have to conform to societal norms to succeed. Be yourself and the rest will fall into place.

And I agree with the premise. I do.

But there seem to be an awful lot of big voices out there.  And amongst writers, there appears to be a collective sentiment that if you don't get on the bandwagon and make yourself heard, you will never prosper. I'm referring to media as it relates to writers.  Some might call it a platform.
This may seem off topic, but I think the very fiber of Knowles' blog applies to this issue. "You don't have to be a hurricane to be heard."  Or do you? As I enter this new technological realm, the idea of getting lost in it weighs heavily on my mind.  I'm like one small drop of rain in a tumultuous storm, attempting to change form while remaining transparent.

Being new to the media world, I often find it a little overwhelming, accompanied by the sensation of being trampled underfoot.  Don't get me wrong, I'm not technologically stunted, I've met my computer and I know how to e-mail. However, in today's age, e-mailing has become somewhat antiquated.  Now most of the world is connected by way of facebook and twitter, blogs and google buzz.  The ability to exchange dialogue is easily accessible, it sits at our fingertips, and with the punch of a few buttons, all our friends and business associates could know we just drank a cup of coffee and are currently watching Fox News. It comes so easily in fact, that words tend to fly, they're everywhere and sometimes I find myself ducking just so I don't get hit in the back of the head with one of 'em.

As with any career, promoting oneself is a part of the job. This isn't a criticism but merely an observation. To tell the truth, I enjoy it. It has me doing something I like to do anyway-and that is to write. I'll admit that at first I was hesitant to get on board, worried that I might lose my voice in all of this chaos. That I wouldn't stay true to myself and my beliefs.  But I've discovered  in the eye of the storm such a wealth of support and acceptance that my fears have fallen to the weigh-side. In the last five some-odd days I've learned this: Get yourself out there, but do it your own way and do it at your own pace.  As Knowles so eloquently wrote, "Believe what's in your heart." Remember who you are and try not to second guess. And if you find you've lost your way, why not ask yourself, what would Casey Abrams do?

 "If You Whisper, No One Will Hear You" and Other Terrible Things Not to Believe

All for the Love of Writing

Today my intention was to blog so early that the birds still chirped out my window. But, alas, it wasn't to be so. I woke with this weird blurb on the left side of my vision. I'll admit, that made the drive to school rather interesting. Without the ability to focus, I had to 'use the force' to finagle my way along the well known six minute drive. I felt like a donkey in a coal mine, finding my way in the dark by memory alone.  The image of driving off the road kept flashing in my mind, me in my pajamas and flip flops trying to explain to a cop how I'd ended up with my gas guzzling Suburban in a ditch off the side of the road.  I'm not sure if a migraine is a legitimate excuse for a traffic accident-would I be eligible for a deferment?

I'm happy to say it didn't come to that. My two eldest safely made it to school, and I eventually made it home where I popped several pills and lied down to read the end of a novel I simply couldn't put down.  (Probably not smart to read fine print on a bright ipad while dealing with a migraine-but still that didn't stop me.) And so this leads me into my topic of the day.

Obsession. As defined by Dictionary.com: the domination of one's thoughts or feelings by a persistent 
idea, image, desire, etc."


A mighty big thanks to Dictionary.com for that highly applicable explanation for those of us who write for the love of writing. Not just the love, though. If you're anything like me, you're compelled, driven. The story is there, almost tangible, shimmering in the air. You can taste it when you breathe, feel it on your tongue, swallow it down and feel it warming every fiber of your being. It fills you to the brim, loading you down, drowning everything else out,  and then when you can't contain it any longer, certain you'll explode if you try, it flows out. Delicious, indelible letters on the page. Your writing, it haunts you, consuming your every thought and action, calling to you until you find yourself at the keyboard, yet again.

And this obsession is different from the ones in the past. LOTRO was great, spider solitaire somehow satisfying. But writing is altogether a different beast. On its own plane, in its own dimension. Writing is a place where you live and it's all your own. You make it your home, fill it with furniture and appliances. There are no compromises. You can paint the walls to your liking and throw your underwear on the floor (though that may prove for some sloppy writing).

Mundane chores fill you with resentment.  Every second away from writing is only spent yearning to get back. You find your eyes anxiously drawn to the clock on your phone at least ten times as you wait in the grocery line checkout. Could the cashier be any slower, do they have to chat with everyone in line like they're best friends? You bite your tongue against the onslaught of impatient verbiage begging to make itself known. Reminding yourself that you're not that kind of person, you don't like to tear others down, that they are simply trying to do a good job. At the same time you barely resist the urge to shove them out of the way and do the job for them. Two words: Self Check.

So, today I send out an accolade to all those writers who despite the every day obstacles that get in the way, still manage to tune into their creativity and get those words on the page. For without them, the world would be an awfully dull place.

Monday Madness

Let it be known that yesterday I was blindfolded, gagged, gassed and shot--all before my third diet Coke. Indeed, it was a busy day. Not only did I have an appointment with a man in a surgical mask, I also had an expectant child awaiting the delivery of 'Ben Ten' birthday cupcakes at his school. By 8 am it was already shaping up to be one of those guilt ridden, painful Mondays. Somehow I'd managed to schedule a dental implant at the same time as my son's lunch--the optimal time to bring goodies for birthdays. And as fate would have it, for the first time ever, my son actually told me that he wanted me to be there. He wanted me...around. Grrr

But this specialist is only in town once a month and I've already gone toothless (well, without one molar to be exact) for three months. What's a girl to do? Compromise, of course. I am woman, hear me roar! -Or drive like a bat out of hades, whatever. I raced with my two youngest to the grocer, swept up the cupcakes, charged through the express lane to pay. Super mom was on her way! However, my son's teacher had other ideas, popping my grandiose plans in the rear with a sharp tack. Apparently serving cupcakes right before P.E. isn't the trend. I would like to start one though, cupcakes all around. I'll bring enough for the entire school and then we can spend the rest of the day covered in red, green and blue frosting.

One stern look from the school secretary landed me right back into humdrum reality, and defeated, I left the cupcakes for the unwavering teacher to pass out at lunch with one screaming two year old swung over my shoulder, and a four year old repeatedly asking why we couldn't see 'big brother'.

Feeling like the worlds worst mother, I dropped my two youngest at a friends and drove--slowly this time-- to the dentists. And that's where I was assaulted. They claimed the blindfold was to keep 'the flying bits' from getting into my eyes. The flying bits? As in my gum and bone? Disgusting. And the nitrous oxide I had refused? Well, the good doc seemingly thought I was wound too tight. Blindfolded, I didn't see it coming. Next thing I knew, I was sucking in laughing gas, tingly all over. About seven shots of novocain later, a wad of gauze they'd shoved into my mouth, shifted, and I was suddenly oxygen starved. Arms and legs flailing, clearly indicating I couldn't breathe, the dentist had the audacity to calmly cease his constant drilling and asked in a bored voice what the problem seemed to be. 

As if I could answer. My mouth was wedged open, full of what felt like rubber blocks, steel clamps and rolls of toilet paper. Eventually they dug enough out that I was able to breath again and demand they remove the laughing gas.  

The rest, as they say, is history. I left the office an hour later with an ice pack pressed to my cheek and what I affectionately refer to as 'dead face'. You know, where you're so numb you drool out of one side of your mouth because your lips aren't quite as closed as you thought they were. A few hours later I was in pain, but after being such a crummy mom, I figured I deserved it. 

By three pm I was almost in tears, worried about how my absence at lunch had psychologically damaged my son. I'd resigned myself to the fact that he'll need therapy for abandonment issues later in life. Does our insurance cover that kind of thing? I'll have to check.

After school, he crawled into the car and I asked the question I ask everyday, dreading the answer this time. "How was your day, honey?" and his response? "Great, how's your mouth?" In shock, I almost drove off the road into the side of the school. Wounded complaints were expected. A tantrum, snotted tears, snide comments. But empathy? As it turns out, my eleven year old son is starting to grow up. 

Songbird

As a writer I must admit that music plays some part in providing my inspiration. The tone, beat, and sometimes, but not always, the words, often help with the task of keeping within the vein of the scene. For example, when I write about sixteen year old Lillian, a heroine from my Lillian Riece series, I tend to select playful tunes. Her personality is that of someone youthful, someone in high-school, someone just beginning to live--neither woman, nor child. Eliza Doolittle's 'Rollerblades' is a perfect little ditty for Lillian.
In my opinion, music is a medium that transmits in all forms and kind. Even from the most unexpected sources, such as my muse. For those of you who haven't heard this about my spectacular husband, you might be interested to know that one of his alias's is Songbird.  Yes, that's right. On occasion he prefers to go by Songbird, but it could just as easily be Nightingale. Or at least that's what I've been told...many, many, times. According to him, he comes by it honestly, it's in his blood.
This story is actually worth repeating and to tell you the truth, I thought he was making it up until I actually cross googled the name Jenny Lind and Songbird this morning.  According to several sources, Johana Maria Lind (Jenny Lind for short), was a swedish operatic soprano who in 1850 took the eastern U.S. by storm. She was a hit not only here, but also in her home country where she was even featured on a 50 Swedish Kroner bill.

To think that all these years I've rolled my eyes and snickered behind my husband's back every time he's mentioned his natural born talent.  Here I was thinking he should stick to basketball and leave the singing to the professionals - or to anyone else who might be able to sing in key. But he's related to "The Swedish Nightingale", so there may just be something to his claims. ...hmmm....I wonder if by marrying him I might have picked up on some of that singing talent, too...

Dialogue Problems and How To Fix Them 1: All your dialogue sounds the same.

Dialogue Problems and How To Fix Them 1: All your dialogue sounds the same.

The rantings of a lone writer (or more like, a writer wannabe) :)

Welcome to my very first blog! You may not know me, and I may not know you, but regardless of this I'm just going to put something out there, get it off my chest and all that  (shhhh...this is the part where the room falls silent and I peer furtively behind to make sure no one is reading over my shoulder). You see, the truth is:   ...I don't know what I'm doing!
Whew! I said it. You may be scared now, but I sure do feel better.
In the spirit of starting fresh(which I am) with this brand spanking new blog, I'm going to admit some truths.
The biggest truth of all is that I'm new to this writing stuff. Another truth, though not astonishing, but still equally frustrating, is that it isn't the art of creating a novel that has me stuck, it's the part that comes afterwards. Finding an agent. Writing a synopsis, a query letter--and not just any synopsis and query letter, but the best ever invented, the most astounding, ground shaking, brilliant synopsis and query letter my lucky future agent will ever have the privilege of reading. The words should pop off the page and smack 'em in the face, they'll be lining up in droves and begging me for my time.
If only it were that simple, if only those ingenious, enlightened words weren't quite so elusive.
It seems no matter how many times I try to condense those 90 some odd thousand words into something like 250 words, I bomb. The plot is too thick, I say, the characters too rich. How could I possibly narrow it down enough without neglecting certain critical concepts. It's ridiculous, I know. After all, I've heard it said that if an author can't summarize their novel into one well written sentence, then they don't have any business writing in the first place.
Ahem. Could someone kindly point me in the direction of the exit?
Just kidding! Oh, no, don't be fooled, I'm not that kind of gal. I happen to like obstacles and greatly enjoy rejection. So here I am.  Tah dah!!!