How I spent my week

Hiking along the Niagara Gorge with my nephew...

*playing with puppies...

staring into these beautiful brown eyes...

and writing. Three more pages on one book and some really strong insight into character development on the other. It was a good week.

Today I'm off to HotDocs in Toronto. This documentary film festival is the setting for the climax of one of my projects. It's going to be a great week.

*To clarify - these are NOT my puppies. I am not keeping a puppy. I was merely visiting them. They were warm and soft and cuddley. They belong to other people. I already have my hands full with a puppy that does not belong to me. It is Casey's first birthday on the 14th, he gets his new splint on this Tuesday. Yes it really will be a great week.

All photos taken with my Blackberry Storm which I adore. Remember when phones were these big black clunky things with rotary dials and sat on a special table downstairs in the hallway? I do like convenience the Storm affords. And quality photographs.

Again with the perspective

Life is good. I don't have to trek overland through drought parched terrain for a drink of water. Or lose my footing and slide on my belly right into the sharp claws of a hungry cheetah. Why yes, I did go see Disney Earth at the movie theater last night. The cinematography was amazing. Absolutely stunning. There's just something about watching nature in all its tooth and claw on the big screen that makes me realize how easy my domesticated life actually is.

I have my health, mobility and all of my senses. A friend of mine is struggling with ALS, cancer and the stupidity of a drunk driver who punched him in the face last week. The driver almost ran down my friend who was crossing the intersection on his medical scooter. Harsh words were exchanged. Then one brutal punch. Who hits an old man in a wheelchair? Fortunately, the primary witness was a police officer.

I have friends and family, jobs I like, food, shelter and wonderful companions. I'm easily amused and entertained. I get out. Travel. Life is good.

It's not perfect. We all have our trials and frustrations. Watching my friends cope with the imperfections in their lives helps me get perspective on my own.

How many times as writers have we struggled with scenes or characters failing to do what's best for the story? Often, switching the point of view will strengthen it. Who has the most to lose? The most to gain? Who is altered most?

After tossing the impaired driver into the squad car, and taking care of first aid for my friend, the cop asked him,"What's your story?" And that made me think. No matter what angle you see something from, there's always another way to look at it. I'm looking forward to hearing the driver's version. Was it fear, guilt anger or relief that made him get out of his car in the first place? What was he thinking? I'm curious about his point-of-view.

Perspective keeps life, and good reads, interesting.

Rainy days are made for reading

It's finally a rainy day - perfect for reading. I am grossly unmotivated to do anything else. This past week has been a study in frustration as far as Casey's Journey to a Healthy Leg goes. Unlike my other writing projects, the non-fiction account of Casey's leg trials is ongoing, demanding and exhausting. Nor can it be put aside because I keep dropping the spindle, can't figure out genetics or how Iceland shapes the character of two protagonists.

We are running out of time. Casey will be a year old soon and his bones will start to set. Because of the atrophy in one of his shoulder muscles, he turns his leg at roughly a 35 degree angle. I'm swimming with him every other day, using a Pilates ball on alternate days and sending him out for daily walks and shoulder stretches. The brace keeps his leg straight but the boot does not. The consequences of walking him with the foot turning inside his boot are painful (yay, he has feeling in his foot;boo, it hurts)and damaging to tendons and ligaments. "It's always something."

SO, I'm trying to redesign the entire leg/foot support system.

Which is why I spent last night and today reading.
Travellers Iceland
Let's visit Iceland by I.O. Evans
Lucky Man by Michael J. Fox
Basket Case by Carl Hiassen
Save the Cat: The last book on screenwriting that you'll ever need by Blake Snyder
DK Eyewitness Scotland - Why do they not have one about Iceland???
Fool by Christopher Moore and finally
Men in Kilts by Katie McAlister.

Really. In the last 24 hours I've picked up, started or finished every single one of those books. Somewhere in there lies the answer to this current Casey riddle. Because thinking of it directly has failed to net any results. And Michael J. Fox makes me think I can accomplish anything. It's all attitude.
Truly.

Research, research, research

First of all - someone needs to write a really good travel guide to Iceland. I went down to Chapters the other day and looked at the only three books they had on that beautiful country. I bought one as the other two weren't that helpful. I ordered three more through the library. I'll let you know how useful they are but from the quick look I got at all of them, they are lacking.

Stashaholic was here for the weekend. We did the usual red wine, ChedaCorn and a movie. We crocheted our fingers to the bone to finish up a couple of comfortghans. I dropped the ball, or more accurately, ran out of balls, so that I had to do some shopping before we could finish the last one. It's almost done and spread out on the spare room bed.

We also played with fiber and her spinning wheel. Wow, that's a workout. I couldn't believe the pull in my calves, thighs and butt. Way better than Pilates. I reacquainted myself with my three spindles and looked at plenty of sheep. Stashaholic is a walking encyclopedia of knowledge on all of the above. I wish I'd taken notes. She's an invaluable resource.

We talked a lot about Sturla's Sweater; both the book and the actual article of clothing. So much of our own interactions, interests and activities are the basis for that book. We watched Wrath of Gods again and tried to freeze the DVD to get the perfect shot of that sweater. It was so like the opening scene that I'd already written, I couldn't help but laugh. No, I don't think he bought this sweater at WalMart.


Thanks to Jon Gustafsson for the still from Wrath of Gods

The importance of good research

Last week was incredibly productive but not in the way I had expected. Thanks to the mindless bubble popping game I had found the solution to Kelli's identity,as well as a flicker of insight into DNA sequencing. It should have been a simple case of sitting down and writing what I knew.

For some unfathomable reason, Kelli's name was still giving me trouble. A quick email to Jon revealed the problem. Women's nicknames don't end with an "i" but rather an "a". That stopped me cold. He sent me a great link with Icelandic female names that led me to Brynja -which means armor. As her name was changed to protect her, that works. I've spent the last couple of days thinking of Kelli as Brynja.

In the meantime, I spent some time online researching airfare to Iceland. It's an essential scene in Sturla's Sweater. How does Callie decide that they should begin that journey? August has the best deals if anyone is interested. I have to watch Wrath of Gods again soon as that film precipitates the entire story. The opening scene involves that film, a bottle of wine and two life-long friends.

I'm not quite ready to go forward with Rootless Trees. Jon's input made me realize how much we depend on intrinsic knowledge to flesh out our writing. This book has two unfamiliar settings, Iceland and North Carolina. While I'm blessed to have friends who live in both locations, I've never personally walked the ground at either one. There are bound to be mistakes that have the potential to rip the reader out of the book.

That explains why Sturla's Sweater is progressing better. A large chunk of it takes place in surroundings with which I am familiar. The research I have to do is similar to the process one of the characters will go through so it's actually a part of the storyline. It's easier. Not to say it's without its own set of challenges. It does require some footwork in Iceland as well. And some quality time with sheep. But at least I won't blunder character names. Or have to worry about a hard science like genetics. You know that's going to take some serious research.

Distractions

One of the children at the library introduced me to Poppit. Do not click on the link unless you want to lose days.

Pond scum can be skimmed from the surface to reveal clear fresh water beneath the slime. Scum of the earth oozes up from somewhere well below the surface. It's better to date pond scum.

Writing a scene that has its origins in an actual event is much harder than it would seem. It took me awhile but I think I've managed to detach from reality(stop snickering) and start Sturla's Sweater with two wonderful characters who are unique in their own right. They are not Stashaholic and I with younger bodies.

These are three of the things that have amused me while I looked at new names for Kelli. You were all most helpful in that department, even emailing me privately with links and suggestions. Nothing clicked. Absolutely nothing. Because she's Kelli. That's her name. It's been her name for years as she formed and grew in my mind.

Round 12,893 of Poppit and I realized that was the solution. Her name is Kelli. I'll make it the derivative of something Icelandic, or a nickname, then give her a Latina birth name in honour of her mother's roots. Just another connection that was stolen from her.

The moral of the story - follow the distractions. It frees your brain up to work out a solution.

Family

Families are the foundations on which we all grow. Embrace them, reject them; there's no getting away from their influence.

Bracken has turned his back on his family. Kelli has been ripped from hers.
He grew up surrounded by family at every turn, beneath every leaf, inside every tree. His entire life was practically incestuous.

Kelli, on the other hand, was adopted when she was three years old. She has a dim recollection of the petite, accented brunette who ruled her life with love and precision. After her mother's death, Kelli lost everything that was familiar. Including her name.

I'm stuck while I try to find the right name that is completely Icelandic, sounds nothing like Kelli and yet suits her.

Suggestions?

Honesty

A lot of people mistake meanness for honesty. As in "You're already fat. Wearing orange just makes it worse. You look like a short fat pumpkin." No one has said that to me but I've certainly heard it enough. It goes along with, "You're barely literate enough to write your own name. What makes you think you could write a book?" Again, not something that's been said to me.

It would be so much nicer, and just as honest to say, "I like the way you look in red. It really brings out the colour of your eyes." or "There's a great writing course being offered at the community college. At the very least you could make some good connections there." Wait a minute, I have heard the latter. Hmmm.

Rude is not a necessary component for honesty. It's not manipulation to make someone feel good about accepting your opinion. I like bold up-front characters who can be counted on to tell the truth. They call a spade a spade. (I usually call it a shovel but that may be a regional thing.) They're colourful, dynamic characters who really liven a piece up.

How one shares their opinion is one of the many little clues to people's personality. If your character is "painfully honest" be careful with that. Those are difficult people to be around over a long period of time. There's an edge to them that should manifest in other ways. I was toying with giving that trait to one of my characters but hesitate because it's uncomfortable for me to write harsh edicts - which is why I should do it.

Writing outside my comfort zone might make the community college writing course unnecessary.

Heroes

A hero is the protagonist, or main character, who overcomes immense challenges to win the girl and save the world; whether it's on the gridiron, the court, the field, or even out in space. He must beat the bad guy, defeat the obstacles and push on no matter how bleak the outcome appears. He is the hero. That is what he does.

Hero is a word you hear everywhere. Sports figures are heroes. So are entertainers, scientists and businessmen. Anyone whose actions change the lives of others is a hero. Cops, firefighters and soldiers are obvious subjects for romance writers. The men come with their own mythology and code. They define heroism.

It's a word I've heard a lot this week. Three more Canadian soldiers were killed in Afghanistan on Tuesday - Warrant Officer Dennis Brown, Cpl. Dany Fortin and Cpl. Kenneth O'Quinn. The image of WO Brown's widow, Mishelle standing tall and proud as she called her husband, "My hero" has been all over the news media. A true military wife, she was as prepared as she could be for this eventuality. Her husband believed that he had no other choice in life than to protect and defend those who needed him to do so. In his civilian life he was a special constable with the Niagara Regional Police. In the military he was a reservist with the Lincoln and Welland Regiment.

Growing up military, the loss of every soldier is personal. We belong to a community that exists outside of borders, isn't hampered by distance or geography. It's a community that stands together, shoulder to shoulder and back to back, against all threats. While I've never agreed with a lot of where our troops go, they are my family.

When the call came, the men rallied to their fallen brother. They flew in from all corners of the globe to surround his family, his friends and each other. They took care to see he was carried home with respect and compassion. They gathered their grief close and banded together. Four van loads of men drove from the regiment to Trenton so that he came home to familiar faces. Fellow officers were on hand to ensure the police escort was made of guys he knew. People lined the Highway of Heroes to thank the three men for their service to our country.

Heroes. All of them. The people, faces twisted in anguish and grief, who put aside their politics to pay tribute to the three men. The men with red-rimmed eyes and rigid jaws who locked arms to carry the body of their friend. The mothers who stood tall and proud with roses and flags as they welcomed their sons home. The boys who held the salute while their young eyes followed their father's casket. The wives and girlfriends in their bright red scarves determined to stand strong; the friends and families who held tight despite the pain that overwhelmed them all; the ones who stood for hours in high winds to honour the men who passed below.

If heroes overcome adversity to win the day, each and everyone of those people did so this week. And will continue when Dennis finishes his journey home and is laid to rest.

Non Nobis Sed Patriae
Not for ourselves but for our country

Innovation

I've never been a fan of improv or jazz. The structure is too chaotic for me. Last night, I went to see my friend Jim Slominski jam with his buddies in Fa Crowned. To be quite honest, I thought it just sounded like a lot of loud noise when I first walked in. Once I'd been there awhile, and had relaxed, I was able to hear the way the three men played off each other. One would take off one musical direction then the others would follow, sometimes racing past. It was exciting to listen to the interplay. I was glad I adjusted my listening and could enjoy their style.

Reading can often be the same. We pick up a book with certain expectations of an author. When they aren't met, disappointment sets in. Jennifer Crusie is discussing this very thing right now.

It's all subjective. We don't all like the same things. Add to that the fact that people read for different reasons; comfort, entertainment, educational. I have books from multiple genres for a variety of moods. It's the same for music.

There's a trend to find something that works then clone the living hell out of it. Even as a writer, I look to what's popular - style, voice and subject matter. I rarely fit in that category but I've always looked to include elements that people are comfortable with.

The reality is that all of the innovation in the world won't see the light of day if it doesn't appeal to someone. It has to sell somewhere. And it's a real balancing act between originality and popularity. It's important to take chances so that we don't stagnate. Not just creatively but in every aspect of our lives.

Fortunately, I stepped away from my preferences last night and found something new. I'm going to do the same thing with an author tomorrow. Just grab something that doesn't fit into my usual pile of familiar reads. I'm certain it will make me a better writer.

Dueling projects - still

The pre-writing has begun its transition. I changed my desktop photo away from the gorgeous Icelandic sunset to a rich contrast between a fern and a birch. Although both projects start in Iceland, that photo sustained me through the final stages of Hell to Pay. I needed a fresh image.

I spent a significant portion of Tuesday and Wednesday pouring information on to the page about Rootless Trees. There's a strong outline to start from. I plan to start writing the first scene from Kelli's perspective on Monday.

On Thursday I switched to Sturla's Sweater. The characters are Tess, Callie and Nick(who was first Mark then Eric). Poor Tess changed names a couple of times as she and Stashaholic argued over the correct one. Tess is very self-assured, and quite adamant that her name was one syllable. It was funny to hear the two of them get quite heated about it, when one of them is imaginary. Ouch. That head slap hurt. Tess doesn't want to meet a man. She's doing quite fine in her life without that complication. Her money, her time, and her bed are her own. NO one is messing up her schedule.

So the characters, setting, premise and turning points are there for Sturla's Sweater. The starting point hasn't jelled, before Iceland or there - but I'll just continue to jot down notes until I'm sure where the story truly begins.

I'm having fun alternating between the two projects. Neither one of them has solidified to the point where I can go full steam ahead. As both have significant time in Iceland, I've been watching a lot of video to get a feel for the location. I'd prefer to walk around there but that will have to wait. While airfare is reasonable(that's one of the perks of the Internet - quick ticket info)the travel is out of my budget. In the meantime, my imagination will have to do.

No, Tess you cannot spin camel hair. This is a book about sheep.

Brainstorming

I'm sorry the blog is a day late but I was busy watching this and then this while I was in Dayton, Ohio for the Dogs and Goddesses book signing. It was a fantastic weekend with some good friends. There was cheesecake. And margaritas. Other people saw men in uniform.

A good time was had by all. During the drive down, Me and I discussed our current projects. We brainstormed the Big Bad in Rootless Trees. That means I shot down every single suggestion she had. My reasons were valid but it was frustrating for both of us. Her ideas were sound but failed to resonate.

While shampooing my hair Saturday morning, I found the answer. Without a shower crayon in sight. I repeated it several times, rinsed, dried off and dressed quickly so that I could burst into the living room to share it with the eager masses. We ran through the Big Bad from several angles. It worked every time. We were unable to shoot holes in it. It makes sense, gives a credible backstory, sets Bracken and Kelli up for danger and makes them allies despite their conflict.

The only remaining hurdle was setting. And thanks to Jenb's generous offer to use her home on Ocracoke Island in the Outer Banks, I think North Carolina may be a winner. We had several conversations about the the state, its geography, environment and the beauty it has to offer. She even has a brilliant brother who can answer some of my scientific questions.

All in all, it was a great weekend.

Two projects

Right now I'm working on Rootless Trees which is connected to Heaven Coming Down and Hell to Pay. I couldn't continue with the theme in the title but as a previous post explained, this was the perfect title for Bracken and Kelli. I'm still not sure who threatens, and unites, them.

While my brain puzzles that out, it came up with another idea. Sturla's Sweater is based entirely on a film idea I was trying to sell to Stashaholic and Jon. Given that it could take two years for filming alone, it's not a project that is likely to materialize. Neither Stashaholic nor I want to be on-camera either, but the idea is so good I don't want to lose it. After a great deal of thought, I decided to write it as a book. Two women decide to make a documentary about spinning wool from fleece to sweater. Trust me, it will be fascinating.

I keep going back and forth between the two projects because neither one has solidified to the point where it can no longer be ignored. I hit a snag on one (the villain in Rootless Trees) then move onto the other where I write an outline. Until I hit a snag (better names than Stashaholic and Keziah)Back and forth I go.

Part of my dilemna is the difference in tone and genre between the two projects. The first is a paranormal romance in the vein of the other two books. Sturla's Sweater is not. It's women's fiction. Perhaps some romance and woo-woo stuff because those are elements that are integral to my identity. My story. My rules. There's nothing out there like it. I know because I looked. And while it sets me apart from the rest, publishing houses don't like to take risks. Especially not these days. So it will probably take me two years to write it(hey, we could have filmed the documentary after all) because my focus will naturally go to Rootless Trees.

What do you do when you have multiple projects?

Challenge met

Despite the dedicated procrasti-writing that I did last month, I did reach my goal for the second annual January Write off the Deep End challenge.

I finished revisions on Hell to Pay, started re-reading its predecessor Heaven Coming Down which entailed a few minor edits as well, and jotted a few notes about the successor, Rootless Trees.

Most importantly, I wrote every day.

Despite the trauma of losing my parents' dog Tara at the beginning of the month, a return of therapy for Casey, an injured wrist, a dentist trip from hell then book ending the month with a critical trip to the vet for my cat Hera, I wrote every day.

Every day. Even when it was procrasti-writing. That eventually turns into decent words on the page.

As my brilliant poet friend Jim Slominski reminded me, as writers we are ALWAYS (his caps)writing. No matter what we're doing, it's all absorbed into our psyche, which in turn gives depth to our writing.

Writing is not what I do, it's who I am.

I am a writer.

Book rage

Some people suffer from road rage, I suffer from book rage. It's the curious buzzing that occurs when someone slams a genre or style of writing. I certainly have my own preferences but after working at a library for eight years I've learned that there's no such thing as "frivolous reading" as one of my colleagues suggested. Her stance is that romance is trash(red haze descended that day), that the only fiction worth reading is mystery or suspense.

In the eyes of many people romance is mindless reading or unrealistic. Because so many of us have been stalked by a serial killer and so few have ever fallen in love. Okay, I'll cut the heavy sarcasm.

Reading, whether it's a gossip magazine, scripture or anything else with words between the pages, is never frivolous. It's not mindless either. Because the very act of eyes moving across the page and brain processing those letters is far more than some people are capable of doing. Imagine what it would be like to be illiterate. Imagine no words, just symbols. Worlds of knowledge would be closed to you. Reading is a privilege.

It's also great exercise. Your brain is engaged in a myriad of ways. You learn with every single word that is revealed. It might not be earth-shattering or life-altering but it's still important. Geography, cuisine, fashion, family dynamics, astronomy, classical music, artificial intelliegence, theology, zoology; they're all subjects I've learned about from mass market fiction. Little tidbits of information are stored for future use. Because I read about a heroine who had to walk ten miles in high heels shoes during a blizzard, when traveling I've always made sure to wear footwear appropriate to the weather. That actually paid off when my car wouldn't start and I had to walk across town. Before that book I would have worn the shoes I wanted to, not the ones that were practical. Silly example but that's my point. You never know what sticks with you.

Tomorrow is Family Literacy Day in Canada. Read with a friend, even if it's not up to your usual standards. You might learn something interesting. Or not. But you'll exercise your brain regardless.

Progress?

This is what I'm working on.



It was supposed to be a quick read-through but I can't stop myself from editing. I still don't know whether Alex or Gabriela is older. I am enjoying the story. That's encouraging.

After this, back to revisions on Alex's story so that I can send it out. Kellie and Bracken continue to bubble away on the back burner while I revise and edit. Sounds painful.

Moving forward

I had a great dream last night in which an editor actually approached me. She could see an old manuscript in the clear plastic bag I was carrying. It was in dire need of a rewrite but I did end up selling her the two most recent works. I actually remembered the name of the publishing company when I awoke and have since added it to my list. Interesting dreams.

My office is in a real state of flux at the moment. The room has been taken over by a friend and repainted. I moved the computer into the attic which has a beautiful view of the Welland Canal, provided you look past the neighbour's back yard. In the summer his pear tree is in full bloom and blocks most things from view. In the winter, ice covers my windows so he still has his privacy.

Part of the moving process involved a relocation of some files. A binder spilled open onto the floor and revealed a manuscript that would actually make an interesting screenplay. It's no surprise that's the story I dreamt about last night.

I also rediscovered a more in-depth article about the differences between men and women than the thoughts I shared here a couple of weeks ago. I'm not sure what to do with it. Languishing in a drawer seems unfair to its brilliance.

As part of the revisions on Hell to Pay, I've had to re-read Heaven Coming Down. I wasn't sure which sibling was older but then I fell back into the story. I'm really pleased with it. I'm going to submit it to a couple of agents this week and get it back out there. It also deserves better treatment than an antique hatbox.

As I ease into this new calendar year, I'm slowly building momentum and moving forward.

Life and death

It's been a strange sad week with a big moment of euphoria. The contrast between the two moods means I've done little writing and a lot of reflecting.

On Monday I learned that one of my long time patrons from the small rural library died. On Tuesday my friend told us her husband had passed on Boxing Day. That was the same day we made the appointment to have Casey's canine companion put down. Not that the two even remotely compare but grief was unlimited in our house that day.

The next day, Wednesday, another friend of mine was thrilled when she went to the doctor and was pronounced cancer-free. I was over-the-moon thrilled and we celebrated a lot that day.

I felt guilty about it at times. So many people I cared about were devastated by their losses. Other people I know continue to wage a battle against that disease. Our joy seemed callous in the face of all that grief.

Thursday and Friday were solemn around here as we prepared ourselves and Tara for her passing. It's a cruel twist that our non-human companions, those who teach us about unconditional love, live but a few glorious years by our side.

Tara was a good dog. A smart dog who was loyal and dedicated to my parents. A dog who protected my mom and heeded my father's command to keep the house free of space invaders. It was his only real demand of her and to my knowledge we never once had an alien choose our home as an intergalactic B&B. She did her job well.

A dog reminded me that life, no matter how short or long, is to be lived to its fullest. That we are here to share ourselves with others, to protect and guard and love those we hold dear.

I know my friends mourn the loss of their husbands. I know they had wonderful lives together full of joy and sorrow throughout the years. I know a dog's life doesn't compare to theirs. I do know that my one friend has many years ahead of her to share with those she loves. And those she hasn't met yet.

Her joy in no way diminishes everyone else's sorrow. In a way it highlights the losses. She is well aware of not only how fortunate she is, but of the opportunities that lie within her grasp. I'm not sure who said it but, "A life worth living is worth living well."

The lives we mourn were well-lived. The rest of us should do the same.

Show and tell

One of the most difficult things to do as a writer is balance showing versus telling. If there's too much action and not enough interaction the reader doesn't connect with the characters. Too much introspection and the story doesn't move the reader along. They get bored.

It's the same with men and women. I have this theory that men hold tight to their emotions because their anatomy expresses their interest as soon as awareness passes through them. The female anatomy is not as easy to read so women tend to verbalize their thoughts. Men show, women tell.

Men are generally action oriented. They're in a near constant state of movement, even when just sitting around; pages turn, channels surf, and worlds are invaded. Women talk;about their day, how they feel, what they wore. Men eat. Women discuss the menu.

These are generalizations truly but for the most part the hero makes the plan and enacts it. The heroine discusses the plan, the emotional ramifications of said plan and then talks all the way through it to make sure that the plan has not changed.

Oftentimes men and women encounter a few difficulties in their interactions because of these generalizations. It makes for great fiction but rocky relationships. I'm exploring new characters in two different projects. In both cases the heroines are more introspective than the heroes. There's a lot of analysis on their parts as they explore all of the changes in their lives. The heroes picked up stakes and moved to explore new worlds when they couldn't fix what was wrong with the old ones.

It's not that men are incapable of talking about how they feel. They are more comfortable with showing. They bring flowers and chocolates, build a potting shed, or drive to the dentist. Women say "I love you".

If you're struggling to understand the opposite sex watch the man, listen to the woman. You never know what you might learn.

Merry Christmas

It's been three weeks since I finished reading The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein. While I don't think you need to care for motorsports, I do think you need to appreciate dogs as the entire book is told from the dog's point of view. I don't need to tell you why it resonated so strongly for me.

Subject matter aside, it was beautifully written. A nice clean writing style that used every word. Nothing was wasted or extraneous. I was impressed with the way the author carried the racing metaphor throughout without overdoing it.

"Your car goes where your eyes go." Every driving instructor tells you that in driver's ed and it's true. If you're looking to the left, the wheels will drift in that direction. I've been looking forward with Casey and it's paying off. (thank you all for the words of encouragement) In racing winning is important but so is finishing the race. You never know when you'll need those points further down the road to the championship.

Right now my eyes are on my family and friends. The car is parked for the next week and I plan to enjoy the holidays. I wish you all the opportunity to do the same.

In that vein, Merry Christmas

Opening sentences

Nathan Bransford, an agent with Curtis Brown literary agency had a contest in which people posted the first paragraph of their novel. There were 1364 entries.

I had a difficult time deciding between Alex's story and Gabriela's. They're both good. Her's had a better opening but his was more recent. I tweaked the heck out of Alex's beginning.

I've always loved the opening sentence. It's rhythm, word choice and energy sum up Alex's mood and set the tone for the book.

By the time the Niagara River rushed northward, spilling over itself and careening off rocks in its haste to crash against the base of the old power generating station less than a mile from the crest of the Horseshoe Falls, its anxious roar was the perfect accompaniment to the mental state of the building’s lone occupant.

The other thing it did really well was slow down the action and jar the reader when the second sentence was from Alex's perspective. I cut it.

In the end, I was entry number 11-something.

Commitment

Writing non-fiction has it's own set of challenges when the subject is on-going. It's difficult to set writing goals when I don't know what each day will bring. I haven't written much in Casey's journal this week because I've been too busy experiencing it all.

Wednesday's vet trip took the wind out of everyone's sails. He suggested the atrophy in Casey's shoulder is too severe to be overcome. Suddenly the entire healing team deflated. Everyone was depressed and defeated.

I was angry. We agreed to give it one month of intense daily therapy. Swimming, acupuncture and chiropractic. Not to mention daily massage. The plan was to throw everything we had at the problem, surround it with positive energy and get the job done.

Yet everyone was talking like there was no point in continuing. It didn't help that he'd had his vaccinations and was unable to swim that day. The next day we were overwhelmed with vermin and had to resolve that issue. On Friday he was dry-heaving so three days of swimming were lost.

It was suggested to me by several sources that perhaps it was time to quit. What happened to giving it a month? It's a lot of work for Casey and I. Battling negative energy is a drain we don't need right now.

It's taking a toll on both of us. On our enthusiasm and strength. It's below freezing outside right now and the trip to and from the hot tub in the garage is an endurance race. Our swim today was lacking.

As I was stepping out of the hot tub I heard a man's voice. "You're not giving up already. Why are you giving up so easily?" I quickly realized it was my neighbour's boyfriend talking to her not me but that was the full extent of the conversation I heard. Timely.

Every published author I know got that first contract, and kept it, because they refused to listen to the naysayers. Their personal vision of holding their own published book in their hands was stronger than those who dismissed that belief. They were positive, committed and determined regardless of how "realistic" that was.

I've been struggling this week to hold on to my personal vision of Casey running along the canal with Ky. I've given in a time or two to the edited vision others have of three legs instead of four.

This isn't about whether he'll adapt to that vision. It's about the commitment we all made to reassess in a month. The first week of January. That was our goal. Sometimes you have to continue, climb obstacles, find alternate routes and stop being realistic. The impossible is possible. Commit to it and follow-through.

If the expectations of others are holding you back, just bite through those restraints. Or get a friend to help you.




Casey's commitment to Beowulf's freedom entertained obedience class

Fine line

Every time I take Casey to the chiropractor she asks me if I've figured out why he's come into our lives. I have several answers; he's healing us, he's not limited by his disability,he doesn't recognize he even has a disability, not to give up even when it's hard.

As writers we show that which serves the story best. I don't know the end to Casey's story. I hope it's triumphant - with four legs running along the canal beside his brother Ky. When I write in the journal the victories that lead to that happy ending are the ones I record. The hiccups and obstacles that could lead to the loss of his leg are glossed over; not even written until they are hurdled.

Today was different. And I'm recording it here, without edits and as few slants as I can manage, for a variety of reasons. I'm no longer sure that my optimism isn't delusion. I'm no longer certain of his commitment to the battle. The big picture is still influenced by my will.

He cried in the car all the way to the appointment which isn't like him at all. He's great in the car, neither his bladder nor bowel needed emptying. Once there he sniffed around outside then jumped up to hug his beloved healer with both front legs. Inside her office he lay down on the adjustment table and whimpered. His shoulder hurt. A thorough examination revealed that on top of everything else, Casey has slipped his rotator cuff(that was not the technical diagnosis). A specific massage was added to the rest of his therapies. And this time when asked why he came into my life I answered, "Because he teaches me not to give up."

On the way out to the car, we were approached by a woman who does quantum healing from a distance. While I have little idea what that is, we agreed to let her work on Casey. She didn't need our presence, only his name and we're grateful for every positive thought sent his way.

Driving home, he started to cry again. I glanced in the back seat to see him lying on his injured side. "Silly dog. Get up and lie on the other side. It will hurt less," I told him. He immediately did as I suggested and stopped crying. Smart boy! I was so impressed he listened.

At home I changed, clipped him into his life jacket and jumped into the hot tub. This was the first time doing it on my own. I couldn't reach the jets and hold him. I forgot the timer. So he swam while I counted. Slower and slower until he just stopped.

No matter what I said, he wouldn't swim. I lifted him, turned him, stretched my arm to reach the jets. Nothing. He hung there limp and stared at me.

I sank to my knees and let him drift his weight onto my thighs. He tucked his head on my shoulder and we sat on the bottom of the hot tub. And I wondered if maybe he wanted to quit after all.

So I asked him. I told him there was no shame and that it was okay. That if he was tired, we could stop. If he wanted to give up the leg and run fast with three that we could do that too. I told him it was his body and up to him how we proceeded.

With just each other in the relative silence we sat together and I let him decide what to do next. I have no idea how long we sat there while the water boiled around us, bubbles popped around his chin and my arms. Mist hung over the garage and tears blurred my vision.

With a tentative kick, Casey slid off my knees and started paddling. Slow at first, then stronger, steadier, faster. I stood up and supported him. Cheered him and praised him.

There may be no quit in Casey but today he reminded me that there are times when you need a little break.

Creativity

It takes many forms. Right now as I revise one book and pre-write the next, I'm letting my brain free flow. I'm working on some knitting and crocheting because the textures open my mind up in a way that is beyond visual. I don't create patterns or stitches but the twist and turn of the yarn around the needle reminds me of story lines. Right now I'm using yarn that has a plethora of knots in each ball. I'm forced to stop, untie the knot then weave the ends in as I pick the shawl back up. As you know, I prefer to write in layers, clean up the loose ends when I'm finished. It's the same for yarn work. It's a personality trait, I'm sure. It's made me look a bit more closely at the two writing projects to see what I can work in as I go along.

Casey as a writing project is also moving along. I'm writing in the journal more often and with a deeper slant than merely reciting his therapy. The poor boy has one challenge after another and I can't help but learn from his response to all of it. There is no quit in Casey. As I'm the one jumping into the hot tub with him every day and holding his fifty plus pounds above the water slightly so that he doesn't touch bottom(puppies grow inches overnight)I'm directly affected by his determination. And it adds to mine. We've had to get quite creative to keep him in the hot tub that is not big enough to accommodate his length. I'll post pictures next time we take some. We're quite the sight. We're going to increase his acupuncture treatments as cutting back coincided with a step backward in his progress.

He's still such a happy pup. Full of energy and joy.

I have my hands full of creativity these days. And I am incredibly grateful for it all.

Critiques

Just when I figure out Bracken and Kelli's theme is betrayal, I get back the critiques on Alex and Nea's. I sent it out to several readers before I submitted to the editor. I want Hell to Pay to be the best possible piece of writing it can because the characters deserve that. And after the fifty-eighth read-through I'm no longer objective.

In the meantime I critiqued two full manuscripts for other writers. It's hard to shut off editor brain and read simply for joy sometimes. Every nuance and word choice is studied like it contains the recipe for gold. Characters are put through rigid examinations worthy of parole board hearings. The entire process can take as long as writing the original draft.

Three of the four readers who had Alex and Nea have returned them along with comments. Thank goodness they all liked the story. The most interesting aspect of the suggestions were how each person interpreted the story-telling. Two loved a particular technique and the third was lukewarm. I'm revisiting that to see if I can keep the elements the two loved while strengthening it to excite the third reader. It's all about what serves the story best. It's not like I can enter into a dialogue with each individual reader once it's published and explain what I meant in that scene.

Constructive criticism is invaluable. It's great to reach the reader and involve them within the story but when that fails to happen, the criticism is one more tool for unearthing the gold.

Writing, like life, is a never-ending journey full of adventure.

Connections

I had a burst of brain storming this week. I know where the story starts and where it ends. I know who both characters are and what they want. I even know how they oppose each other. The old Gift of the Magi conflict. I'm really psyched about these two. When Bracken stepped out of the forest into the scene with Nea and her mother in Hell to Pay, I knew his story was next.

I still don't have my setting. While I was location scouting in my brain, I got tangled up in some entertainment. When I followed them the plot took shape.

It started with Gerard Butler. As you all know, an interest in that fine actor led me to the brilliant documentary, Wrath of Gods. That film hooked me up Jon Gustafsson's blog Live from the Arctic Circle.

I've been playing over there for months, losing track of time in his photographs and running through his blogroll. None of it is research. It's all been for fun. I've been particularly fascinated with the genetics link, deCODEme. You might not know anything about yourself or personal history yet your DNA can reveal all. And what it reveals could save your life.

While I was researching Bracken ferns last week, I was focused on its environment and physical properties. Almost every hit on google mentioned it's carcinogenic component. Hmmm, aren't fiddleheads a delicacy? Seems a bit of a contradiction to me. More research is required.

Meanwhile, I've always known that Kelli was adopted. Last week I discovered it had something to do with her nymph ancestors who posed a very real threat to her.(still working on that part) So much so that her father had her sent to live with friends of his above the treeline - in Iceland. I wasn't trying to use Iceland as a jumping off place for the story but it made so much sense. Once I accepted that premise it naturally followed that she work for the genetics company as she knows nothing about her heritage. When she learns the truth about her origins, at the beginning of the book, she leaves all that is familiar (still not sure where she ends up) to search for her own truths.

All of this was running around in my head, bumping into ideas and themes but nothing stuck. Until I was driving home from work, listening to a CD by an artist I discovered through Jon's blog - Damien Rice. The song? Rootless Tree And with that all the pieces fell into place. Now it's just a matter of sitting down and writing it.

I celebrated by completing the circle to watch Mr. Butler in his latest flick, RockNRolla. Life is good.

Thanks Jon.

Spinning

My friend Stashaholic is visiting. It's a wild weekend of wool. We're playing with a variety of fibre then spinning it on spindles. Very old fashioned.

She brought me a book about natural dyeing to use as a reference for a book I'm writing about a spinner. I'm not writing a book about a spinner. According to a dream she had I will be. I would have laughed except that as I played with the fibre and loaded the spindle I lost myself in the interplay between the two. Colours and textures changed in the spin and I could feel a character take shape.

We're on disc four of Most Haunted Season One. It's hilarious yet creepy at times. I could so set a book in that environment. So far there hasn't been a single haunted spinning wheel but lots of hooded figures. Last time Stashaholic was here we watched Wrath of Gods countless times so she could get a still shot of Sturla's sweater. She hasn't recreated the pattern yet but I'm sure that's simply a matter of time.

It's never a dull moment around here. My brain is circling closer and closer to the conflict between Kelli and Bracken. Both of their internal conflicts are shaping up. No one is a spinner in that book either, but they're both very tactile so we'll see how that works out.

You never know how one creative act affects another. Happy spinning to you all.

Never Surrender

When I was in film I wanted to make a movie that would change people's lives. Not a giant blockbuster that would bring me fame and fortune but a quiet little flick that had a profound impact on individuals. And I did it with my second documentary which is a good thing because making that film changed my life in a variety of ways; one of which was that I had to get out of that business due to health reasons.

It was a half-hour documentary about multiple sclerosis that came out at a time when the disease was terrifyingly misunderstood. The drug treatments were as debilitating as the disease itself and a diagnosis led people to despair. The film was entitled Never Surrender and showed three individuals and their families who were living successfully with the disease. Don't google it. You won't find it. The section with the state-of-the-art testing is hopelessly out-of-date and the film is no longer available.

I met one of my closest friends while making Never Surrender. I met a really cool band,just starting out, who agreed to provide music for the soundtrack. As their career grew so did their involvement with the Multiple Sclerosis Society of Canada. There were no websites, no google,no positive resources and very little awareness of the disease. My film came along at the perfect moment. It garnered a lot attention, won awards. But most importantly, it gave people reason to believe they could manage the disease and go on to live full productive lives. I still have letters from people thanking me for that.

So when I was diagnosed this week with a plethora of ailments I couldn't help but think of Never Surrender. The attitude behind that film came in handy. I've read up on things, talked to people I know who manage the ailments and done a fair amount of research. There are so many more resources today than when we made that film. And what influenced my outlook wasn't a film at all.

It was a book that had nothing to do with any of those things. It was a work of fiction about a woman whose coping skills were so self-destructive I knew that I'm doing well. I'm older, wiser and my situation is neither dire nor severe. It simply happened to be the book I was reading this week. Yet it changed my perspective.

I want to write fiction that changes people's lives...

Photographic memory

This is how I spent my week, with my camera in hand.

Autumn is still here in all it's glorious colour.



And I have a thing for trees.


So while I try to figure out where Bracken is going, and why Kellie can't allow that, I've been focused on Casey's therapy.


Today it was the hot tub. He's growing. I'm not sure how much longer he's going to fit.

How was your week?

Comfort zones

As I've mentioned before there are some authors - JoAnn Ross, Greg Iles, Maggie Shayne, Lisa Gardner, Jennifer Crusie and Susan Wiggs - whose works I buy as soon as they hit the stores. There's another author I've been reading since she was first published - Karen Marie Moning. You don't have to be a romance reader to enjoy these writers. They are all gifted as well as skilled when it comes to the written word. They never fail to enthrall and entertain me.

I'm savouring Faefever, the latest from Ms Moning. It wasn't a series I was expecting to fall into so completely but I have. The next one won't be out for another year so I want to take my time to enjoy the characters for awhile. The fast pace and constant danger don't lend themselves well to that plan. It's almost impossible to put down.

The thing is all the above mentioned authors can suck me into their worlds so completely that I feel like I'm part of the story. They're all known for brilliant characterization as well as intriguing plots. I was thinking about how they manage to make me care so deeply about the growth and well-being of their characters. The emotions are real and messy, not romanticized or polished.

Of course that realization took place in the shower and suddenly I was reaching for my bathtub crayons. Bracken's first scene took shape right there on the back of the shower wall - full of action that showed all of his emotion. He's leaving his comfort zone(thank goodness because I have yet to travel to Scotland) with a ticking clock bundled within his cloak.

I have yet to figure out how Kelli prevents him from reaching his goal or even why for that matter but I'm not too concerned. Once I look at her and how she feels I should be well on my way.

I write in layers. Every book is different from the one before. I suspect this time I'll be writing the emotion first, then the setting and finally dialogue. I have no idea where Bracken is going to end up but I think I need to write outside my comfort zone so it won't be here. My roots are in Niagara but it's time to pull up stakes, fictionally speaking, and check out somewhere new. I just have to figure out where in the world best challenges Kelli and Bracken to grow.

Thanksgiving

It's Thanksgiving weekend. The leaves have turned orange, red and yellow. The fish in the pond are sluggish. The tomato plants are leggy and ragged. I sat outside with Hell to Pay yesterday and started the final read-through. I didn't get very far. It's so warm outside and the dogs wanted to play ball. Or dig in my garden. Or share chestnuts with me. They were so active that I decided to take a cue from them to live in the moment and enjoy the bonus nice weather while I could.

At dinner later that night, my nephew informed us that he'd like to go work in Australia for a year. This is not the first time he'd said that. It's a plan I heartily encourage. By traveling a great distance to leave home and all that is familiar, he'll truly learn his strengths and desires. The experience will be life changing. I was only eight years old when we moved back to Canada from Germany but those three years taught me valuable lessons that still hold true today.

Living so close to the border, we are heavily influenced by the United States. Our cultural identity can be overwhelmed at times. Listening to my niece's interpretation of Thanksgiving was one of them. Ultimately whether the holiday was started by the Pilgrims and Indians or as a celebration of the harvest isn't as important as giving thanks for all that we have.

I've been particularly blessed this year with great friends and a good family. There have been some tough times and these are the people that have helped me keep perspective or brought me back from the brink of insanity. These are the people who inspire me to keep going when all I want to do is lie down for a month or two. These are the people who point out the irony of injuring my back while setting up a hot tub. Who fly across the country for a house-warming party. Who remind me that spinning and knitting are valuable talents. Who show me the world through amazing photographs and brilliant films. Who bring different cultures into my awareness. Who spend most of Movie Night sharing their own healing trials so that I can benefit from their experience.

These are the people who bring laughter and sorrow, wounds and healing, challenges and rewards, anger and love into my life. These are the people who bring out the worst and the best in me so that I'm as well-rounded as I am.

These are the people for whom I give thanks. You are these people.

Thank you.

Autumn colours my world

There is something about Autumn that has always appealed to me. I suppose the vibrant colours are a huge part of it. Perhaps it's the beginning of the school year. Or maybe the fact that we always moved at the end of September(the military wasn't worried about dependents or their education) It's been a long while since I was a kid getting a hair cut and a new wardrobe to impress the kids at the new school, but the smell of wood and lead as I sharpen pencils is as important today as it was back then.

I like to start new projects in Autumn. It's the season of pre-writing for me. I go out with my camera, play with the colours and lighting and think about the new characters. I imagine how they'd be spending the day, how they feel about the crisp Fall air; the scent of apples, grapes and decay. I wonder whether they enjoy the quiet or abhor it.

It's a season full of opportunities, beginnings, and reflection for me. This is the time of year I fall in love, start fresh with my exercise regime and celebrate the harvest. I try new foods, listen to unfamiliar music, play with textures. I absorb Autumn through my pores and my senses are sharper than at any other time of year.

We bring in the summer's harvest, fill our storehouses and prepare ourselves for the long months of dark to come. While the plants become dormant, the animals hibernate and winter winds keep us indoors, it is Autumn that provides us with the tools to survive. Mulch the flower beds; carpets of leaves and nutrients leach into the ground to feed the roots.

My roots, both literal and figurative, are sustained by the excitement and vibrancy that is Autumn. I stretch and grow and breathe deeper now. I suppose some would consider me to be in the Autumn of my life. Great. This is when I feel most alive. Alert. Exhuberant.

I have no desire to fly south.

Tangental thinking

My brain is all over the place. Not literally. No need for shovels to clean up the mess. But my thought processes are not linear. I don't think they are at the best of times. It seems worse at the moment largely because I'm between writing projects. I'm unraveling from Nea and Alex. Bracken and Kelli don't have their hooks in me yet.

Casey's physiotherapy is a full time project in and of itself. When we're not actively engaged in massage, chiropractic, acupuncture or hydrotherapy we're reading, researching or playing with him. He's a puppy and full of energy who hates his new splint. It means he can't sleep on his back with his front legs over his head. He likes to dig. He likes to pounce on Ky.

I managed to squeeze in some reading time this morning and whipped right through the latest Tess Gerritsen. It was brilliant as usual. Archaeology is a fascinating subject and I'm enthralled by the ancient past.

It's an interesting contrast to the Hadron Collider. It's an incredibly complex machine that hopes to recreate the milliseconds after Creation. It's also fascinating and fraught with opportunities for disaster. Conversely, the possibilities for knowledge are incredible.

For some reason both make me think of my great Grandpa Fenton. He came to Canada with all of his worldly possessions in a trunk which now holds my craft supplies. He had a sharp mind and a strong curiosity. At least we know who to blame for my constant questions about the past and the future. Sometimes I'm even interested in what's happening right now.

A good day

Elen posted a great picture of a puppy with a stick. It reminded me of a good day with Nikka and Ky this summer. Maybe this will tide Merry over for a few days while we scramble through Autumn preparations.

Autumn

I was just going over the ending of Hell to Pay the other day when it promptly disappeared in a puff of logic. Five points if you correctly identify the source of that quote. Fortunately the answer was right there in all of the contradictory and confusing dialogue. This is a heavy work week for me so I'll be lucky to get that straight-through read I want before I pass it off.

My brain has been busy problem solving several things this week. Casey is responding well to his treatments. He's now aware that he has a paw on the end of that leg even if he hasn't got the strength to stand on it. It is now officially Autumn in Canada and it's too cold for us to continue swimming in the unheated outdoor pool we've been using up until now. Pity because he's actually paddling with that paw. I'm working on a way to continue with hydrotherapy without risking hypothermia.

Kellie and Bracken are doing the pre-writing dance. I have a good sense of who they are and how they interact. I have absolutely no idea in what context they meet or how their goals exclude each other. I'm working on the Conflict Box that Crusie/Mayer discussed in their online writing workshop last year.

The house renovations are finally all done so that's one less distraction. I've figured out how to use the gorgeous new camera so pictures should show up on the blog while I contemplate all my writing options.

Autumn is one of my favourite seasons. I love the smell of the earth as it tugs the blanket of decay over itself in preparation for the ice and snow. Colours are both vibrant and subdued at this time of year and everything is so crisp. The crunch of apples, crackle of leaves and snap of wood in the fireplace.

It's a good time to gather everything together for the coming winter. Plot ideas, characters and conflicts are necessary to the story I plan to tell around the hearth while the cold winter blows. Metaphorically speaking of course.

My new project

I've got three projects to choose from. An old manuscript that needs a major overhaul. Bracken and Kellie's story which has a major question mark as to conflict. It's strange. I have internal but not external. I even have an inkling as to resolution so I'm working backwards from that.

Right now, I'm working on a non-fiction project. It started quite suddenly last Monday (did you hear the whoosh?) and derailed my last deadline. Life doesn't always play fair.

I'm documenting the care and rehabilitation of this little guy.

Casey is undergoing extensive alternative therapies to save his damaged leg from amputation. He was seriously injured after being hit by a car and suffered severe nerve damage in the front left paw. As he's less than six months old, and has deep nerve response, we're guardedly optimistic about his prognosis.

Deadlines and committment

One of my favourite quotes comes from Douglas Adams. "Deadlines. I love the whooshing sound they make as they go by." I just like his irreverence. Deadlines make me comfortable. I need that goal to work towards. Otherwise, I'd spend all my spare time on the couch listening to the rain and reading. That's not entirely true but it's accurate today.

I blew off two deadlines this week. One was for the library course. I thought the registration deadline was Friday. Instead of confirming that date, I signed into the website Tuesday night, three hours after the deadline passed. The good news is I'll have lots of time this Fall to work on my next project(still trying to decide which to go with), send out some queries and play with my new camera. The bad news is I'll have to take two classes in January in order to complete the certificate within five years.

The other deadline was to finish inputting and polishing Hell to Pay by Wednesday. I really worked on it. I could hear Wednesday whooshing up behind me. I ducked and wove but it still pushed past. I tired to catch it but no luck. It's frustrating. This Wednesday looms in my rearview mirror but I think I'm far enough in front to win this race.

No one has given me the deadline. It's self-imposed. I am committed to finishing this book. Dedication. Persistence. Commitment. They're all catch words of success. Everyone wants to know that you can deliver regardless of what life tosses your way. No one wants to hear the excuses, although they can be entertaining.

Mine aren't. There are only so many hours in a day and I spent too many of them on Monday looking for songs by Damien Rice and drooling over other people's photographs. Procrastination is a very bad trait I possess in equal parts to the persistence, dedication and commitment.

The real reason I dallied that day was my reluctance to let Alex go out into the big bad world without me. We've been together a long time. I'm going to miss him. But it's time to let him go. I have no doubt he'll do well. Maybe he'll drop me a postcard from time to time. I've enjoyed traveling the world with him.

Conflict

There's a huge difference between conflict and excitement. In fiction, there's supposed to be plenty of both. In real life it's nice to have plenty of the latter and little of the former. The odd thing is how often we mistake one for the other.

I'm inputting and editing as I go. By this time next week I should be done and floundering around for a post. I tripped across a scene that was heavy on conflict and not all that exciting. Too much drama and not enough substance so I broke it up, twisted perspectives and allowed the conflict to generate excitement through the internal turmoil as the characters played out the action.

Nea is conflicted just by breathing. That's not always interesting, let alone exciting. She's drawn to situations that feed her combativeness.

Alex has a strong sense of adventure. Everything to him is exciting. He rises to the challenges that are part and parcel of those adventures. Until recently, he wasn't particularly conflicted.

Reconciling the two of them is fascinating to me. All too often in life, we're attracted to people and situations that keep our blood pumping. We seek adventure and conflict thinking that we have to overcome in order to be either exciting or excited. That's where all those Bad Boy Heroes come in. The more dangerous he is the more exciting.

Oddly, I've never been drawn to write dangerous bad boys. My guys usually end up in conflict between doing their job and the heroine's goals. Sometimes his values are challenged by hers but I don't think there's been a badge-wearing, gun-carrying, motorcycle-riding, black leather jacket in the lot of them. They've all been strong men drawn to strong willed women.

It's a good thing I've been around to teach them all the difference between conflict and excitement so that they all get their requisite Happy Ending.

Fans

A friend of mine made the observation the other night that there's a fine line between optimism and delusion. She illustrated that with the idea that meeting Gerard Butler was optimistic but expecting him to instantly fall in love with her was delusional. He'd have to go out with her a few times. Which made me laugh.

It also dovetailed nicely with my recent thoughts about fans. Not the ones that blow around air and make you feel cooler, although that description could apply. I'm talking about the people who make it possible for artists, authors, musicians, sports figures and film people to make a living from something they love.

There's a strange love/hate relationship between those two groups. They each satisfy a need in each other, and seem to carry a great deal of resentment for it. I don't quite understand it. Admittedly the Keziah Fenton fan club is small at the moment and I'm not getting hate mail deriding my penchant for the colour purple(the actual colour not the movie or book of that name). There aren't a lot of expectations built up around my behaviour, personal life or productivity.

People sometimes mistake celebrities for the roles they play(even musicians and authors play at a public persona). It's easy enough to do I suppose. I certainly joke enough about the aforementioned gorgeous Scottish actor. I do realize the man has a private life that should be all his own and not fodder for speculation from a bunch of people who don't know anything about him other than his job.

My major concern about fans is the way they've been handled in all the NASCAR books I've been reading. Yes sports fans love to embrace the fanaticism aspect of their moniker. They decorate their homes, cars, clothes, kids and pets in their team colours. Some of them tattoo their bodies or shave logos into their hair. But I watched the cash flow at the track a couple of weeks ago and the disdain TV announcers, authors and sometimes crews had for the fans irritated me.

I wasn't feeling well that day and inhaling exhaust behind the pits didn't help so I spent a lot of time wandering the park observing people. Pit crews ogled the sweet young things in their tight tank tops and skin tight jeans then punched each other in the arm whenever one of them got a phone number. Vendors rolled their eyes at the guy with Die Cast cars glued all over his ball cap. The TV hosts re-read the same page thirty times rather than interact with the crowd in the audience. There was a definite us versus them mentality.

People lined the gate back to the driver's RVs hoping to catch a glimpse, maybe even obtain an autograph, of their hero. Some drivers obliged, some ducked. A couple even sent out decoys and slid out the side. It must be difficult to be in such demand.

I'm not being facetious. When I get home from a long day at work, I can go upstairs, pet the dog and relax. I don't have to run the gauntlet of people congratulating/commiserating/clamoring/waiting/expecting. I can wear sloppy clothes, no make-up and a messy ponytail. I don't have to fulfill anyone's expectations.

As someone who admires another's work, I try to remember the fine line between fan and fanatic. I can appreciate one driver's skill over another. One actor's style, look, persona. I can even share that admiration with other people. I'm not sure at what point that makes me an object of ridicule.

Actors need an audience. Drivers need to fill the stands. Authors need readers. They are symbiotic relationships and as such shouldn't be taken for granted nor mocked. They deserve each other's respect and until we've been on the other side of that relationship we would do well to remember that.

I know I'll do my best. I trust you to remind me if I slip up.

Writing Olympics

My friend Me drove in from Detroit, S the Ky-ropractor(so called because she adjusts Ky's spine) came from Niagara-on-the-lake and I came home after work so that we could participate in the first annual Writing Olympics.

The Opening Ceremonies and lighting of the orange pillar candle(for creativity and success) were followed by a nice glass of Italian wine and homemade spaghetti. We had tortilla chips and salsa as well as sushi for appetizers, which we didn't end up eating, in keeping with the International flavour of the weekend.

It took a while for us to settle into writing. The athletic Olympics were on the television as background noise mostly because we wanted to watch Michael Phelps win his eighth gold medal. I'm not really used to a writing marathon that full of distractions.

We talked a fair amount about our individual projects. While writing isn't a team sport, it can certainly benefit at times from external input. Our genres are vastly different. Me is writing romantic suspense, I'm writing paranormal and the Ky-ropractor writes non-fiction. Some very interesting parameters and writing styles to choose from. There are times when another perspective can help clarify a scene for you.

We had a very productive night. Three gold medals in all.



Me for Distance(self-explanatory), S for gymnastics(there are a lot of mental twists, flips and jumps that she has to go through to write this book)and a Gold in the Decathalon for myself as I'm usually doing nine other things when I write.

Today was a great day. I finally figured out how to destroy a forest, trick a demon and save two souls in the process. I talked it through with Me to see if she bought my machinations and it worked for her. This sticking point has held me back from the last five scenes in the book. It was a major turning point for all of the main characters.

We watched the NASCAR race from Michigan while I wrote a fight scene then we took a break with Wrath of Gods. Again. Because it's brilliant and I want everyone to see it even if I have to show it to the world one person at a time. It makes me want to be a film maker again.

However, I took that creative spurt and poured it into Nea's breakdown. The Ky-ropractor has left the Games to do more research. Me is in the other room working towards her ending. I heard her curse at a character awhile ago so that was entertaining. One more night then she goes home tomorrow. I plan to have this draft done by then.

These have been excellent Writing Olympics. I think we'll do it again in two years for the winter games and see what we can dream up then.

More kissing

A lot of people are reading my First Kiss post. Which is interesting because kisses have been part of my thought processes a lot lately. I'm having quite an interesting dream relationship with a man I've only met online. All of whom are now wondering if it's him. Unless you're quitting your job, cutting your hair and going off to Connemara to play a lawyer on television, it's not. At least that's what you did in the dream.

There was some good-bye kissing. But that was also the first kiss. There was no kissing until the latter half of the dream. To be perfectly honest, it wasn't that good. Too awkward, too much pressure, too quick. The second kiss was better. The third was a real kiss and the fourth was so wonderful that I can still feel it hours after waking.

I'm sure the whole kissing aspect of the dream was inspired by a conversation with a young friend of mine who has never been kissed. She's built the First Kiss up to such an ideal that she knows she'll be disappointed. I told her there are so many kinds of kisses, and rarely is the first one the best. Awkward, brief, too wet, nose bumping, glasses locking together, does-he-really-like-me? thin-lipped, over-analyzed first kisses are not unheard of. Once you get that behind you and relax the fun begins. But not for everyone. Some people don't ever like kissing.

Nea has never seen the appeal. If she wanted to spread germs, she'd send in thousands of rats to affect more people in one swoop. Demons are not noted for their sense of romance.

I'm in the home stretch of editing, should get it done this weekend provided the sore throat doesn't develop into anything more brain-fuddling. The very thing that saves both Alex's and Nea's souls is a kiss. A life-changing, True Love kiss. The perfect kiss of which I dreamt last night. That kind of kiss. I should go write it down right now. Except I don't want to share that kiss. I want to savour it, enjoy it and keep it for my own. Even though it wasn't real and came from my imagination. Strange, huh?

PS If you're a man who knows me online and you woke up with a sore throat and the imprint of lips on yours, let me know cause that would be strange.

Motivation

My love affair with motorsports is an apparent contradiction to the rest of my life. I was a tree hugging environemntalist before it was cool. My idea of heaven involves lots of trees, a lake or ocean and an assortment of wildlife. Doctor Doolittle and Swiss Family Robinson were my ideal living conditions growing up. Now I want to live on Nim's Island and not just because Gerard Butler is her father.

Yet, the one sport I have more than a passing interest in is the least environmentally friendly one out there. I don't have the statistics at my fingertips but I'm sure that one weekend of racing does more damage to the environment than I do in a year. Yet the sound of all those engines makes me crazy. I completely lose my mind. Where does that passion come from?

When I was little, my grandmother watched Formula 1 on Sundays. I can remember sitting on the arm of her chair cheering for one driver over another because that's who she told me was best.

Bright lights changed the dark track to a daytime setting on several excursions to stock car racing with my parents when I was a kid. We didn't go too often because the roar of the engines hurt my brother's ears. Spilled fuel filled my small lungs and I was hooked for life.

When my nephew was seven or eight years old, I took him to Toronto for the Molson Indy race. Nothing like spreading the addiction. The grin on his face the first time he heard the call, "Gentlemen, start your engines<" was worth every penny. We went every other year until three years ago.

That's when we went to a NASCAR race at historic Watkins Glen. Last year, he insisted on buying his dad a ticket to the race as a Father's Day gift. Now we are three.

I didn't take too many photographs as my camera decided to crash at the track. Maybe it was the pictures I was taking of the television cameras and photographer's lens. My envy made the little point and shoot feel inadequate and quit. My nephew used his cell phone so we have lots of pictures of the scenic setting. And some cows. No sheep. Sorry Stashaholic.

As I was flipping through the photographs I do have, I realized why I adore a sport that is so unlike the rest of my philosophies. Many great bonding moments have occurred with several generations over the scream of engines, whine of air guns and through a thick screen of tire smoke. Sunday is Race Day. I usually go downstairs to my parents' apartment to watch it with them, not despite my father's rants at the TV, but because of them. Racing means family.

Next time you give a character a characteristic, passion or hobby that is so alien to their personality, think about my example and root it well. Make it believable. Give it a history that defies convention. People are more complex than we tend to write.

Thoughts

I was up an hour earlier than usual this morning so that I could take the rescued Quaker parakeet to the vet. Yoda spent six months of his life in a custody dispute before he ended up coming to live with me almost a year ago. It was supposed to be temporary. Stop laughing. I knew what I was getting myself into. Or so I thought.

He's been attack parrot the last couple of weeks. No one has been safe from his vicious beak. I had a sneaking suspicion about what ailed him but wanted confirmation from a trained professional. And to be completely honest, there is so much more I don't know than what I do know about birds. I could have been wrong.

The little demon has reached sexual maturity. It turns out he's two years old instead of the three I thought he was. Should have read his band.

Driving home I took Highway 8 along the base of the Niagara Escarpment. It was beautiful and if Yoda hadn't been abnormally subdued I might have stopped and snapped a couple of quick photographs to share here. I felt the stress of the morning drop away as I drove past orchard after orchard. I had forgotten how much I love the western part of the region. Alex has kept my focus in the Falls. I don't enjoy all the developments. It's all grape vines, wineries and monster homes, the occasional sheep or Highland cattle notwithstanding. For those of you not from this area, the old homes, stone outbuildings and ancient trees are exquisite. They soothe me.

With a demon bird in the cage beside me, I couldn't help but think of my fictional demon. We're getting to the end of our journey together. I wondered if Nea would have identified with her nymph heritage more had she been raised in amongst all those trees. It's more likely she was responsible for all the plum pox that destroyed so many orchards. She makes no apologies for that. I hope that given all she's learned she will make different choices in the future.

Driving always makes me think. I've been accused of over-thinking things. Isn't that part of being a writer? One has to view each scene, action and emotion from every perspective in order to understand the characters well enough to tell their story. I don't think I'm the only one who does that.

Perfect day

Have you ever had one of those perfect days that defies description?

My friend Stashaholic is in town for the long weekend. We've known each other too long to count and while we're vastly different in our approach towards life, we're eerily similar. My parents call her their other daughter(they have several).

I didn't sleep much the first night as she felt the need to tell me(the person who never watches the news or reads the paper) about a horrific murder that has made headlines around the world. Canadians don't have much a violent history but when we do commit murder we make up for it in spectacular ways.

The horror hit me repeatedly throughout the night. When I woke up in the morning I wondered what I was doing with a fictional demon who was no where near as gruesome as this real life person. I ended up writing dialogue all over the back of the shower wall addressing that issue.

A few cups of tea later, Stashaholic proposed we go to a yarn store in Fonthill. I was lukewarm. We had been invited to a friend's house for Sushi and wine later and it was going to be a rush to get from one place to another before the winery closed. My sense of adventure was challenged (perhaps even mocked) so off we went.

Google maps let us down consistently throughout the day. The store doesn't have a website and I had forgotten to write down the phone number but we found our way. Eventually.

Stashaholic was thrilled with all of the variety in wools. Possum, corn and milk were all new to me but by then I'd decided to embrace her addiction to texture. It was fun. The darling man who followed us from room to room kept the shop open a bit late to accommodate our dithering. She bought some gorgeous stuff and sent me home with a hank of plant dyed wool.

We meandered from Fonthill to Niagara-on-the-lake to check out Frog Pond,an organic winery. More wrong turns, messed up directions and much laughter. We passed sheep. Twice. The same sheep. I'm not sure if this is when Stashaholic's plan to get some Icelandic fleece was born but it took root as we drove the countryside. At some point I'm going to have two pounds of fresh fleece in my spare room so we can clean it, card it then spin into wool for sweaters. She's already done plenty of research on that subject.

We tasted the wine, purchased a couple of bottles and began the journey to my friend's house. More country roads, a rainbow, and a Quest for hairy beasts(Highland Cattle)and more laughter. We stopped at an Irish tea shoppe and sat out the torrential downpour. Too bad I left the car window down for some air.

At one point I'd seen a man standing beside a metal sculpture of a man that looked like a great picture. Stashaholic kept asking if we were going to go back to see the alligator which threw me off because it was clearly a man. Another circuitous route and we pulled into the driveway to realize we were each looking at something different. The sculptor came out into the yard and shared his creations with us. The details were incredible. Personality glinted in metallic bugs' eyes. An iron dragon shimmered and clawed his way up a tower. And the artist himself stared at us from Don Quixote's face. He was a character.

By the time we got to my friend's house for sushi, I was savouring the day's adventures. I'd been so reluctant to embark on anything that morning but as the day unfolded I discovered so much pleasure in all that surrounded us. Every day things that so many of us take for granted.

We reached each of the destinations but the journeys defied structure. Most of my joy came from rolling with the experiences as they occurred. We talked about life, about writing, knitting, spinning and wool. Relationships, friendships and careers. Our conversations were as linear as my driving, yet they always made sense to us.

There are times when you just have to throw structure aside and simply experience life. I wonder how that will work with editing.