Not a New Year post

Greetings, my friends

2019 kicked my ass to the curb. However, I remain undaunted, and committed to writing. I've discovered that the best way to survive a crisis is write through it. Some people consider that akin to burying one's head in the sand. I considered it self-care.

It doesn't always amount to a story or novel but self-care writing allows me the time to process and consider my options regarding said crisis. It occasionally also results in a well turned phrase or a creative way to call someone a self-serving, inconsiderate, piece of flea dung festering inside the hindquarters of a flatulent camel.

Sometimes, nothing good comes of it but at least nothing bad does either. For example, we all know Necessity is the mother of invention. I've added Boredom is the father of invention. Which usually leads to Emergency is the paramedic of invention. It fits the sentence structure but loses something in translation. Apparently, the actual quote is "Necessity is the mother of invention, it is true but its father is creativity and knowledge the midwife." This quote is attributed to the computer scientist, Jonathan Schattke. The things you learn when you're making up your own phrases.

Typing for any amount of time makes my wrist swell and sing of its woes in a high-pitched squeal. I carry a notebook with me at all times - and a pencil because ink dries up if a pen is not often used. I found an app that scans pen to print. I still have to transcribe it eventually. Then I found Otter. It does an excellent job of transcribing vocal notes. I read back what I've written then insert it into the manuscript. That discovery led to a renewed zest for book two in the hockey series. Sometimes, it really is the simple things.

Spits and spurts

Welcome back!

I broke my wrist a few months ago and am still in physical therapy for it. All that spare time resulted in more than a few plotting problems working their way out of my head and onto the page. I've been filling up notebooks. Typing is still painful. I reserve the bulk of my energy for work.

I'm not sure if sitting down months ago to put words on the page would have resulted in strong solutions or if the writing would have led to a lot of false starts. It certainly felt like the latter when I was doing it.

I've always maintained that we are writers, regardless of word count. The most mundane of tasks can result in some productive writing days. Showering and driving have both been good spaces for me to figure out plot holes.

I did a lot of reading on my tablet in my convalescence. "They" tell us to read constantly; that it makes us stronger writers. I usually avoid my genre of choice while I'm writing it so that I don't accidentally mimic someone else's style or story. Because I thought I was never going to get back to writing ( I can catastrophize with the best of them) I pick up a couple of good hockey romances.

Stephanie Julian writes hot, steamy hockey players. It's a wonder these men can excel at their sport when they're hot enough to melt the ice around them. Stephanie knows her hockey and it shows. I may have re-read The Brickwall, the first in her Redtails Hockey series, a couple of times.

I also spent some time getting to know the South Carolina Stingrays. My friends are season ticket holders and I usually catch an event when I visit. It seems disloyal to follow them more than my local team but I'm always working when our guys play. Thank the gods for the NHL and their long season.

To recap: writing is happening again. Thanks to my injury and subsequent physio, I have given my hero an epic injury that may, or may not, sideline his career forever. I'm writing with a lot more confidence. It's fun now that I've repaired the plot holes.

How are things with you?

Two years later

Sorry for the hiatus. Life has been challenging in the last couple of years. I'm hoping the blog will get me back to who and what I love - me writing.

We sold our house, packed it up and moved to a  heritage mansion two blocks from the Niagara River. I can stand out on the porch and hear the roar of the Falls, a sound that has always soothed my soul, and one I've desperately needed.

Our first summer here was magnificent. Mom had a freedom and mobility on the half acre property that she never had in town. We had barbecues and bonfires, walks down to the river, and so much laughter. It was the happiest any of us had been in a long time. Everything was fun.

Then it ended. Mom fell and broke her leg, developed pneumonia, and died our first winter. That Christmas and the following few months are a blur. Dad and I take solace in the memories we made that year.

The following Spring, I registered for online courses through a nearby college to get another diploma. This one ensures I can be promoted when my coworker retires. As my boss suggested it, I feel good about it. The bonus is that it's making me better at the job I currently do.

That's about the time Ky started having trouble with dementia. He was fourteen and completely deaf. Casey and Finnegan did a great job of keeping him aware of his surroundings but whenever Ky got out of the yard, he usually strolled down to the Buddhist Temple down the street. I don't blame him. It is a remarkably calm place to be. We limped through the summer together. About two weeks after I lost a good friend in a tragic motorcycle accident, I had to let Ky go. My heart is still broken.

2018 sucked dead bears.

It's 2019 now. School is going well. We've all adjusted to our new dynamic with giant holes where Mom and Ky should be. We miss them terribly but Mom would definitely kick our asses for wallowing too long. She visits us in our dreams a lot. Sometimes she has Ky with her.

My goal is to get back to writing. I have two assignments due on Monday. There is no reason (other than a crippling lack of faith in my own abilities) that I can't write for an hour every day. I promised my critique partners I would have something to share with them by the end of this week.

I figure between them and this blog, the need for accountability will keep my nose to the grindstone, no matter how painful that idiom sounds.

See you soon -ish.

Language

Apparently, Canadians say certain words with a funny accent. It's disconcerting to tell a story and lose the train of thought because everyone is doubled over laughing at your word choices. It was all in good fun with no maliciousness but it did make me hyper-conscious of words.

As a result, I took my time speaking and worked around trigger words (out, about, neighbour and colour even though the u is silent in the latter two). My awareness expanded. I realized how lazy we've become in our speech. We rely on the same group of words and patterns in our everyday speech. Text speak has invaded our vocalizations. I embarrassed to admit I actually said LOL instead of laughing the one day.

Language is fluid. It grows, changes and corrects course all the time. Even churches are moving away from Latin in an effort to reach younger parishioners. It's natural to resist the changes if you're from an older generation and eager to embrace them if you're younger.

In the meantime,I'll take my Canadian accent outside to walk about the neighbourhood.

Julia's cat

Julia ignored the doorbell. She needed to focus up the paint on the tabletop before the paw prints set.

When the cat had first jumped atop the table she was upcyclinging it with bright red paint, Julia had laughed. Until the bloody cat leapt off the table onto her grandmother's antique buffet then across the ancient damask settee, leaving bright red paw prints in his wake.

The doorbell pealed again.

She swathed the brush across the surface, evening out her strokes for a smooth finish.

The doorbell gave way to a rapid tattoo of fists against the front door.  "Mrs. James!"

 "Oh, for fucks sake." Clasping the cat to her chest, Julia set the paint brush on the lid of the can then strode down the hall.

She wrenched open the front door. "What?"

 The neighbor gasped. "Are you alright? I heard screaming. You're covered in blood."

 Julia looked at herself in the mirror hanging in her front hall. Splatters of red dotted her face and chest. Streaks dripped from her hands. "It's just paint."

 She adjusted the weight of the cat against her midsection. He'd finally stopped cater walling.

The neighbor looked down. "I heard screams."

 "I yelled at the cat when he ran across the table top." Julia moved to close the door.

The neighbor stepped into the doorway before Julia could shut her out. "But the cat -"

 "He won't do it again."

"I can see that. Let me take him from you." The neighbor gently extracted the cat's still warm body from Julia's grasp.

Brainstorming

I spent a lot of today ignoring the news by working on my outline and opening chapter. The heroine's conflict was a bit light. I looked through my notebooks and couldn't find anything. I know I brainstormed her arc.

Because I can't find my notes, I've spent some time thinking about it. In the process, I fleshed out other scenes.

The chiropractor gave me a pamphlet of exercises and therapies my hero would undertake. She also guided me in how to ruin his career as a hockey player.

Mwahahaha

Some is better than none

I had planned to get a lot more work done on the current wip. I only got so far as tweaking the outline. I need to do a bit more research before I start the opening chapter.  Fortunately I have an appointment with my chiropractor tomorrow. She'll be able to help me injure my team captain in a way that could put an end to his career. Or not. I haven't decided yet.

Torturing characters is immensely cathartic.

Surprise

Two parcels arrived in today's mail. One was socks I ordered from Sock Dreams  primarily because a portion of the sale went to Planned Parenthood - fashion with a purpose.

The other package was from a friend. She's been putting things aside for some time and finally sent them. Three pairs of socks, a stack of family DVDs, notebooks, fudge and cookies. The contents were lovely but what truly made it special was the thought behind each item. People think of you more than you realize.

In writing news, I have rough outlines for the next three stories in the current series. The opening chapter is shaping up. This paragraph makes me happy.

So do socks. It's cold here.

Fantastic

I spent some time last night thinking about the next story in a possible series. Once I changed the heroine's name, the story started to click.

This morning, I brainstormed online with a writing pal. Ideas poured out of both of us. Not all of them were suitable for the current characters but fit two other heroes. Basically,  we figured out three storylines today.

Even better, I turned down a Toblerone bar. The only thing I like better than that is Dove dark chocolate and almonds or dark chocolate peanut M&Ms. The latter two are not available in Canada. That's a very good thing.

Life imitates art

In the search for my character's motivation,  I found my own.

In other news, I didn't default to my usual coping mechanism. All the chocolate I received in the mail yesterday remains untouched. Small victory.

Right on Target

My American friends tease me about my need to stop at Target on every visit. I am not petite. Target carries the perfect jeans for my shape and size. Aside from that, there are huge differences in the quantity of items, particularly in the food aisles, between American and Canadian stores.

A few weeks ago, the pup snagged a hole in my last pair of jeans that I'd stockpiled before Target closed its doors in Canada . I lamented that on Twitter. Target shared a link to international orders.

My new jeans arrived today. Yes, I paid more in duty and shipping than I would have by driving across the border. However, I wouldn't have stopped at just jeans so I figure I saved money doing it this way. I definitely bought considerably less dark chocolate than I usually do.

I'm pleased with myself, and Target's online presence. I'll definitely use it again.

I also made progress on my new story. I can't rest on my laurels while I wait to hear how yesterday's submission was received.

Stealth writer

One Good Thing returns

It's easy to get caught up in the big picture and fail to see all the little details that give the portrait life.

To that end, every day I'm going to post at least One Good Thing that happened in that 24 hour period.

My morning started with a few giggles as Finn and I chased each other around the house then wrestled on my bed. Afterward, Ky and I snuggled on the floor.

I submitted my novel. I think the rolling stomach was from good nerves.

I made mushroom soup from scratch.

The Toronto Maple Leafs won the outdoor Centennial Classic.

The air outside smelled fresh and clean

I watched Finn chase sunbeam through the house like a cat.

Amazing stuff happened in 2016

While the year was raw and full of loss for everyone I know - some lost several family members in the span of a month - there were wonderful aspects as well.

My Imaginary Friends from the Internet celebrated our 10th Anniversary. United by a love of books and two specific authors, we've formed a ragtag group of family. There's nothing any of us wouldn't do for another. We've celebrated births, homes, jobs, held each other through the loss of family as well as group members, supported each other through divorce and other painful breakups. We've traveled borders and oceans to be together in real time. Under the same roof.

This year a friend I hadn't seen in eight years visited four times with various members of her family. She gave me the gift of laughter, something that was in high demand this past year. His name is Finnegan and that pup loves life to its fullest. Last night he leapt and froliced, poked and pawed at Casey and Ky, tossed a ball in the air and slid across the snow on his nose, then his ear and finally his back.

I met an online friend in Real Life for the first time. We hunted for ghosts, discovered some beer tastes better than it smells and explored parts of Old Town that I had forgotten about in the last few years.

The Niagara Region is beautiful, wild and barely tamed. I've seen her draped in sheets of ice, beneath a carpet of cherry blossoms and huddled against escarpment to escape the sharp wind off the Great Lakes.  I've seen her through the eyes of old friends and new as well as my own from new angles.

This year I rediscovered my love of romance. Both as a reader and a writer. Despite the horror we've seen this year, I believe more than ever in the power of love. I have witnessed it at work in people of different faith, opposing views, hostile environments and in the midst of fear and hatred.

Love. It is what makes life worthwhile. It's the well from which we draw hope, find solace, and replenish faith in humanity.

May you find LOVE in 2017.  Seek it out, give it refuge, feed and nourish it. And keep some for yourself so that it may flourish.

Thank you for your patience

Apologies for the lack of fresh entertainment over here. I've had my head down, working on a new project. It was a challenge to see how fast I could write 60,000 words from concept to polish. I started August 8, first draft was completed on November 6. This week will see the end of the polishing.

It's good, IMHO. My critique partners haven't weighed in on the final product but the opening and outline received two thumbs up. It's a contemporary romance. I've been in desperate need of happy endings.

Give me a couple more weeks and I'll be back with the follow-up to Ally's story.

Home

The stairs of the great wide white porch of the grand old hotel beckoned me forward.  Renowned world wide for its excellent service and Grecian Revival architecture as much as for its ghosts, the hotel had been my home for more years than I cared to remember.

I strode through the lobby, nodded to Gertrude whose wooden needles clacked as she knit by the fireplace.  She began and ended her day there, working on endless garments for grandchildren none of us ever met.

Joe poured lemon oil onto a soft cloth to work it into the banister at the base of the stairs. I tipped my hat towards him then climbed to the first landing, his cheerful whistle tugging a smile from my usual scowl.

I peered out the window.  Violet raced across the back lawn to her position beneath the aspen that stood tall at the gate to the garden.  I waited and watched.  Less than a minute later, Jack followed at a discreet distance to stroll away from the hotel towards the stables where he rarely toiled.  I erased my smile, the couple fooled no one, and rearranged my face into its customary look of impatience.

Joe winked at me.  As the clock began its customary spellbinding charm, we froze in our positions and waited.

A flash from the digital camera in the in the lobby caught Joe in its flare. His smile beamed bright as a ray from the dying sun then he disappeared - released from his penance as tourist attraction.

Box of promises

A well-dressed man ran into me with a box of promises. The rose inlaid box hit my hip then crashed to the wet pavement.  The lid popped open.  Some promises spilled out and broke against the harsh cement.

The promises weren't meant for me.

I still have the scar on my hip

The dead man's shirt

When I pulled the screws out of the pocket, I ripped the dead man's flannel shirt. He wasn't still wearing it. When Old Man Wilkes down the corner of our street died, he didn't have any family except for a spinster sister he hadn't spoken with in 20 years. The city paid my boyfriend and his best friend to clean out the house. Most of it went to the trash, some went to a secondhand charity shop, and most of the flannel shirts came home with Ben.

Ben and I went our separate ways a couple of years later but I kept one of the flannel shirts. Old Man Wilkes was a handyman, known throughout town as the go-to guy for everything from fixing a lamp to small engine repair. He also did all the woodwork in his house. The red, blue and white checked shirt came to me with a few small tears and a splotch or two of paint. I wore it for inspiration whenever I had small repairs to do around the house or yard. I could feel Old Man Wilkes' skills seep into my bones through the worn flannel.

When I ripped the pocket, some of the magic spilled out with the screws. My fingers turned into chair legs and I lined things up like Picasso. Duct tape. The solution slogged its way through my foggy brain. I grabbed a silver roll of versatility to secure the pocket to the shirt. Things went back to level and my dexterity returned. From that moment on, I kept hardware in my pants pockets. The shirt was precious.

One of the side effects of wearing the shirt for too long was a desperate need for a drink. Not any drink but gin. The cheap stuff too, the kind of gin you would swear Old Man Wilkes made in his bathtub. You could taste the juniper berries strong and fresh picked. I'd be able to finish my project but would sweat all the way through thinking about how bad I needed that gin. The second my work was done I'd jump into my car and head straight to the seedy bar on the far side of town.

I know you're thinking I should have just unbuttoned the shirt and walked away. Believe me, I tried. I was straight-jacketed into that thing until I got my gin, pinched a waitress and satisfied Old Man Wilkes. He wore me as much as I wore his shirt. The old man was a pervert. He'd stare at the neighbour's underage girl through my eyes and think about how he'd do her. It didn't bother him in the least that he was working with a woman's body now. That just made it all the more fun.

I'd go months without donning that shirt. Months as a normal woman who worked in high end retail, dated wonderful men and never touched a drop of alcohol. Then the downspout would freeze to the side of the house, a cupboard door would come loose or the roof would leak. I'd try to hire someone else to do it but I had a reputation. No one would dream of doing odd jobs for me. Everyone knew I could do a much better job.

I was the town's new handyman. So what if I was a little strange? I never hurt anyone and I did great work. I'd slip on the shirt and do the job.

And the dead man laughed.

Images

She couldn't get that horrible picture out of her head.  It burrowed in deep and no amount of rubbing her eyes would release it.  Like a grit of sand, it was dry, scratchy and made her eye twitch in the days that followed.

The twitch of memory nearly drove her insane.

The image was burned into her retinas.  The twitch worsened until her eye bled, blistered and eventually burst.

Pus and blood poured from her eye, slid down her face, filled her mouth with acidic taste of fear, loathing and bitterness - a molotov cocktail of despair.

The weight of it was too much to bear.  She put her head down on the kitchen table. Like a 3D printer, the image slid from her eye and landed on the table beside her blood stained cheek.

Her husband's closed eyes, head thrown back, his hands buried in another woman's hair. The woman bent forward the long line of her bare back curving round over his lap and between his legs. The wife's reflection in the mirror across from the occupied marriage bed. A glint of silver from the knife in her hand.

Forgiveness?

Alicia tightened the belt on her dressing gown. She took a deep breath then entered the living room to confront her ex-fiance.

"Hey, I'm sorry." Katie rose from the couch then tipped back onto Brad in a fit of giggles. "Really sorry."

"I'll deal with you later." Alicia added a glare to punctuate her promise.

"It's not Katie's fault." Brad rolled her sister onto the couch and covered her with a blanket.  "I used her to get to you."

"Why?"

"Because you shut me out. You wouldn't let me explain - "

"Explain what?  That you have a thing for my mother?  My mother, Brad." She walked past him to the kitchen.

Naturally, he followed. "It wasn't what you thought."

"You weren't masturbating to a photo of my mother?"

"Yes. No."

"What do you mean no?  I saw you. I heard you."  She shuddered at the memory.  "I think it would have been easier if I'd caught you in bed with my brother."

"What?" He reared back as if she'd slapped him.  "I wouldn't cheat on you."

"But you did."  She forced herself to at least appear relaxed.  "Jason is adorable. Closer to your age than mine.  It's not your fault if you're gay."

"I'm not gay."

"Honestly." She warmed to the subject.  "Who could blame you?He's fun.  Free-living. A heart as big as Alaska."

"An alcoholic." Brad interrupted her.  "I'm not gay."

"It would be easier if you were."

"No, it wouldn't. I love you Leesh, only you."

She refused to soften because of the sincerity in his eyes.  "You're hot for my mother.  How romantic.  That's exactly what every woman wants to hear."

She stepped away from him.  "I knew had a thing for older women. I am 12 years older than you but my mother!"

He grabbed her hands to prevent her from leaving the room.  "It was an old photo."

"That makes it worse."

"She showed it to me before dinner.  She was younger than Katie in that picture.  It was startling how much she looked like I imagine you did at that age."

"You imagine my mother was me?"  She tugged on her hands but he only held tighter.  "That's even more messed up than I thought."

"I've never seen you like that - young and carefree."

"You really should stop talking. And let go."

"No. I won't." He loosened his grip but held on.  "I saw this photo of your mom and I thought about she had her youth but she stole yours.  She threw the responsibility on your shoulders because she knew you'd take care of them. She can't face Jason's drinking, Katie's reckless attitude or your dad's gambling.  She can't do it. You hold the family together. You do.  Not her."

"Now I'm a martyr?  Whatever did you see in me?"

With one hand holding her wrist, he reached into his pocket.  She recoiled at the sight of the worn, crumpled photo.

"You," he answered.  "I always saw joy in you.  Love and sacrifice yes but mostly joy."  He held the picture out and she turned her head.  The counter could use a good scrubbing. A used mug sat at the bottom of the sink.

"I've heard you laugh with complete abandon, your head thrown back as if you couldn't hold all that joy in your body."  His voice was low, husky and full of love.  "I've felt you loose, generous, thrilled to be alive in the moment."

He dropped her hand.  Her fingers were cold without his touch. She was cold without his touch.  She straightened. Nothing he said would change what he'd done.

"It had been so long since you'd been like that I'd forgotten you knew how to have fun."

"Fun? Who has time for fun when they're keeping their siblings out of jail and the family from being homeless?"

"They let you.  They don't do anything to fix their own problems because you're so much better at it."  He dropped his weight back against the kitchen table. Shoulders bowed with defeat.  "I know you love them.  They're your family."

She watched sorrow chase shadows across his eyes.  "I missed you, Alicia.  So damn much. The longer I looked at that photo, the more I realized how much I missed you.  Your scent, your touch."  He looked her straight in the eyes.  "Your laugh."

"I'm not that Alicia any more."

"You could be." He placed the photograph of her mother beside her on the kitchen counter.  "For your sake, you should be.  Don't let her steal the rest of your life."

Something inside her crumbled.  He skimmed his forefinger down her cheek, followed the path of a tear she didn't know had fallen.

"I'll let myself out."

Alicia closed her eyes and let him go.

Beauty

Last night, I dreamt I was writing about an actress about to take the stage and sing for the opera.  With each word I visualized the exact scene. When I decided she'd be better pregnant and waddling out past the father of her child, I could see the actress do so. We engaged in conversation about her role and its significance to her life. Words on the page became real but dialogue appeared on the page. It was exciting. Proof that good writing comes to life. Then the floor beneath the stage gave way to a bridge collapsing over the river. Cement blocks crumbled.  Supports tumbled. The actress vaporized. Numbers erased themselves from falling pages. And suddenly the stage was in a field within earshot of another larger stage.

Real life occurred all about me, peopled by strangers I know in another world.  Words appeared in the air in front of me - narration come to life.  As I walked, talked, directed and organized, I interacted with Real Life and Imagination simultaneously to the point where I no longer knew which was which.  And when I awoke, the strange dream continued.

Living inside a matrix of life connected by thought and action, explored and influenced to the point where life and art not only imitated each other but were one and the same. We are all one. My pain is your pain. My fear is your fear. My joy is also yours. As are my desires, dreams and wishes.

I am one with the Raven outside my tree, one with the Wolf at my front door, a reflection of the Moon and as brilliant as the Sun.  We are all connected and interwoven and part of each other.  Writing is life. Life is writing.

Create beauty. Even that which is strange or ugly to us is beautiful to another. Turn your head slightly, change your perspective and behold.