More distractions

My little world is more chaotic than usual. I write to comfort myself. And I read a lot. Right now, fairy tales with a twist are very popular in the young adult market. That makes sense to me.

Oh, how I long to escape back into the world of fantasy that I alone create. I miss writing. House repairs were done today - until I had the first shower in my own bathroom in over ten days. It leaked. Just a tiny puddle at the corner by the tub but it came from behind the tub surround. ACK!

I haven't finished the quilt, been busy with the bathroom repair which had segued to the living room floor as we used the laminate from the middle of the living room. The varnish nearly killed me but didn't bother the birds. I protected them much better than I did myself.

Now the shower leaks. Again. We were so sure we'd got it. Nothing leaked before we reinstalled everything. It has to be the showerhead.

I'm anxious to return to the suburbs of North Carolina so that Nymphs can battle each other. I control all the variables there and rarely, not never, but rarely, does something happen in that world that takes me by surprise.

Endurance

Closing Ceremonies of London 2012 are over. I feel bereft. 17 days of believing in the best of sport, and the best of humanity. Someday, we'll hold onto that energy longer.

I didn't finish the quilt. I was derailed by emergency bathroom renovations. I had a couple of bad days feeling sorry for myself. Olympic athletes put that back into perspective. No matter how disappointing their day, or their finish, they pick themselves back up and complete their task.

Think of my quilt as a marathon. I may finish last but I will finish.

And once the floors are replaced, I will return to writing. During the Beijing Olympics, we had a Writing Olympics. Many words were written, pages turned in. Maybe that could be my paralympic gold.

What about you? Are you going to continue to enjoy London 2012 and cheer on the para-athletes?

Threads of memory

My great-grandmother was a milner. She loved fabric and thread, and was brilliant at creating the most wonderful hats that suited each woman perfectly. Last year's hoopla over the Royal Wedding would have filled her with glee. I'm sure her fingers would have itched to be part of that. I've barely worn a hat since she died when I was in my mid-twenties. She was 105 and sharp as a tack for the first 100 years.

Mumma raised my mother when the latter was a teenager. That's a delicate and difficult age and massive kudos to a woman in her seventies taking on such a task. Fortunately, the two had a lot in common and the tough times were minimal. During that time, Mumma taught my mom to quilt.

Fast forward to my own difficult teenage years. My mom hauled out a box of fabric from her grandmother and taught me how to piece them together. Mumma donated a quilt of butterfly applique that she'd never finished towards my education. It was an Olympic year so we set up the quilting frame in the living room and kept busy while we watched Nadia Comaneci, Bruce Jenner and Canada's own Greg Joy. For the next few years, I sewed, embroidered and quilted through the confusing times.

Then I stopped.

I'm not sure why exactly. I know that's about the time I started knitting. I was older and my interests were more outside of the house. I was busy exploring the world.

Last year, I inherited bolts and bolts and remnants of fabric from my friend and her mother. I recognized some of the scraps from different projects but a lot of it was brand new and never been cut. I knew right then what I would do with it all. Well, as much as I could manage.

Part of the challenge lay in the fact that I'd never learned to use a sewing machine. No matter how often my mom walked me through it, it was something I simply couldn't grasp. All of that material had to be hand-sewn. I recruited a friend to help with some of it. She took half the material to cut and machine sew. I took the other half and stared at it for several months.

Then the Olympic ads started. My mom came home from the hospital and helped me organize the fabric into weights, colours and themes. My goal was to get the project pieced together in time to quilt during the Olympics.

I put it on the hoop the night before the Opening Ceremonies. Every day while I watch Michael Phelps, Gabby Douglas and the Canadian women's soccer team, I quilt. I've been posting the daily progress on my Facebook page which caused my aunt to remind me of my great-grandmother who started it all.

My mom is back in hospital. My friend is gone. My great-grandmother long gone. But the threads they have woven in my life are as strong as the thread that pulls three layers of fabric sturdy and true.

The Daily Tree

My friend Theresa and I started a blog that features a different tree each day.  All of the photographs were taken  by us.  I personally have over 500 photos taken in the last three years. I'm not likely to run out any time as I'm always snapping away at trees. I love them.

I love their resilience, their strength, their vulnerability, their multi-tasking, their home-building, their scent, their food, their complete and total existence.  I LOVE them.

Theresa is the one who wanted to marry one she met in Scotland.

Neither that story nor photo have appeared on the blog yet but go over and check out the lovely trees we've shared so far.  You might recognize some.

The Daily Tree

Music heals

As there is no such thing as a stress-free diet, I recommend you take two Motown Icons and call me in the morning.

Not only were my friends and I able to hop on stage with Mary Wilson at her concert in Detroit the other day, we toured Hitsville the following day with Martha Reeves. For a few hours I was able to forget all of my troubles, worries and cares. Do not underestimate the influence their music had on the turbulent 60's. It's easy to dismiss the happy lyrics and bubbling beat as frivolous. I know losing myself in that music, and the experience of rubbing elbows with those two incredible women, put my troubles on the back burner for a few hours. When I had to pick them back up, I had a new optimism, some compassion and a better perspective.

Motown isn't to everyone's taste but I think music appeals to everyone in varying degrees. Even deaf people feel the rhythm. (Marlee Matlin on Dancing with the Stars) What's your musical preference when you need a break from the stress?

Many years ago, there was a quiz making the rounds about what kind of flower you are. I posted mine here, in part because it was a great way to connect with my characters. And yes, I liked the attention.

Due to circumstance beyond my current control, I am in a situation with people that are completely unlike me. (See the flower mentioned above for more explanation if necessary) I am a weed in their garden of flowers. When I said that to a friend, he reminded me that weeds are survivors. They grow in the most horrendous conditions, with inconsistent quantities of food, water and sun.

I am a thistle. I'm prickly, purple and thrive regardless of circumstance. I can wilt in great heat but a few drops of water or some shade will revive me. I grow tall and strong and proud. Oddly, I never saw a single thistle either time I visited Scotland.

Because the current project is so plant-based, I am immersed in plant-lore and surrounded by leafy greens, bright splashes of colour, weeds, flowers, flora and fauna of all kinds. It helps that so many of my friends have green thumbs.

If you were a plant, what would you be?

This is growing by my pond

Random thoughts

If you're a plant-based life-form who eats vegetables, are you a cannibal?

Mulberry trees are condominiums. They support several different species of birds, silkworms, squirrels and raccoons. They protect the house, gobble up carbon and excrete oxygen. You can make jam from their berries. Not that I ever have. I don't get to the berries as fast as the afore-mentioned creatures.

Worry is like a rocking chair - lots of movement, no real activity. Yet we all line our porches with those bits of furniture and talk about spending our retirement in them.

Why are some poorly constructed/plotted/written books HUGELY popular? (not all hugely popular books are badly constructed/plotted/written)

On a related note, education can be entertaining and vice versa. I'm thinking of you, Museum Secrets.

There is simply not enough time in the day to work on all of the projects that are crowded into my brain and work to keep a roof over our heads. Yet somehow, I spend a ridiculous amount of time each day staring at an Osprey chick on the other side of the world.

What's your favourite form of procrastination relaxation?

I'm not sure about my heroine's personality yet. That makes it difficult to write from her pov, or even her reactions to the hero's actions. I thought I knew her but she's more formal than I expected. And odd. She's odd, quirky odd but odd nevertheless. I blame Big Bang Theory. I watched all three seasons in two weeks and it might have coloured my thoughts about scientists. Where do I get off writing about a scientist? I failed math and science all the way through school. They fascinate me* but I do not understand them. She's very odd. I can't follow her thought processes. Yikes. I might just spend the afternoon writing down her day and stuff so I can get a handle on her.

I do know the music she likes, and what weather makes her most happy. I know what she likes about places and people. I know what motivates her. I know who she loves.

Ah, but she's in the middle of a major identity crisis. No wonder I can't get a handle on her. Any suggestions for how to write from her perspective?

Here's another tree photo. The hero hails from close by

A few observations

This week I learned that if I make plans to write at a particular time for a specific length, then tell people, I will do it.

Peer pressure works on me.

I also learned:

I may never be done research. One thing leads to another then another and somehow everything I've written up to this point dovetails nicely with what I've just learned yet somehow I still need more information so that my characters don't sound like idiots. Although I wonder what the scientific community knows that I don't (plenty!) that they're not making the same connections I am and curing cancer.

Walking the terrain gives me a few shortcuts. I don't have to puzzle out logistics. My characters don't drive 300 miles out of their way to go for dinner. Or to work.

I do not have a large enough vocabulary to describe that awkward first meeting between two characters who will change each other's lives. The descent into cliches is swift and deep.

Some days the words flow. Other days they must be chiseled out of stone with a toothpick.

Taking those observations into consideration, what cliched scene have you read that really worked for you regardless of flaws?

Father`s Day

My dad was posted to Egypt a month after his wedding. The man faced a lot of adjustment when he returned a year later. I was three months old.

A few weeks ago, I found some postcards and letters he wrote to his parents from Egypt. Coincidentally, my aunt came across another one Dad wrote to his brother around the same time. She sent me a copy this week.

Reading them, I`m struck not only by how young he was, 21, but also how much his tone changed. He`s always been a serious man, with moments of great silliness. The letters were much lighter than I expected given his situation. I bought a hassock the other day. Ìf I can`t figure out a way to get rid of the smell, I`m chucking it over the fence.

It was amusing to read about his thoughts on my embryonic self. Mom was convinced I was a boy. He didn`t care as long as I was healthy. His great-grandfather was unwell(in his late 90`s)and Dad hoped he`d that we`d get to meet. We did.

Reading how much he loved the country, the people, I`m reminded of the stories I grew up hearing - sandstorms, camels, and coffee that tasted like seaweed. There was one brief allusion to the Middle East in the 60`s - Everyone changes over here...I think sometimes that we all leave here a little bit crazy.

But he was anxious to come home and be a family with Mom and I.
I`m really happy about the baby. I received a signal Thursday morning at 7:30 am and a telegram at 11 o`clock. We had quite a celebration in the club. It started at 7:30 in the morning and lasted until midnight.There were an awful lot of people who didn`t go to work...I want to know all about our daughter. I`ll be home in fifty-one days. Hurrah!

Dad was stationed at home when my brother was born. As a big sister, I remember all of the excitement. Dad never cared about our gender, health was his concern.

We tested him plenty over the years in that area and many others. We butted heads about politics and house rules, yet he supported us in all of our choices, even when those same choices baffled him.

It`s easy to forget our parents were young, had dreams and expectations of life. Reading my dad`s letters written when he was a young man has provided me with a great deal of insight into his character, a glimpse of the man, as opposed to the dad.

I`m going to transcribe the letters so that my niece and nephew can add a piece to the puzzle that is their grandfather. I wish I`d thought of it sooner to give to Dad for Father`s Day.

The letters confirmed what I already knew. He is quite the interesting man, my dad. I do love him.

True Love

The reason I write romance, and believe heart and soul in true love:



Fifty years, and many challenges later, my parents are still in love with each other

Front door

I'm thinking of starting a blog called The Front Door. It will simply be pictures of people's front doors.

The idea was inspired by this one

What do you think?

Plotting

Life is kicking my ass. That happens sometimes. This will come in handy later when I torture my characters. I'll draw on life experience to add depth and reality to their scenes.

In the meantime, I'm plotting what lies beyond this gate...

Contemplating

Spring is here. The weather is lovely, plants are growing, sprouting, blooming. I'm still contemplating all the information I gathered on my research trip to North Carolina. I have to figure out some backstory as it's essential to the why of the plot. I'm piecing together some information and looking at how certain trees thrive in multiple and diverse climates. Once that's done, I plan to sit down and write until the words dry up. Or for a minimum of two hours every day.

In the meantime, here's Brynja's home in Carrboro, North Carolina.

What does it tell you about her personality?

Research

I was away for two weeks then sick when I came home. My head is awhirl with ideas,not only for the book I went to research but also a few that reached up and grabbed me.

Two weeks ago, I did this

That was my first time ever kayaking. Odd, considering Alex, my last hero, did that for a living. Post-book research. I'm ahead (or behind) of my time.

Last week, I did this

I drove the route to work that my heroine will ride on her bicycle. There were street signs indicating the best way to do that but sadly, I did not have a bike handy. Still, it was beautiful and I'm so glad I was able fill up an SD card with pictures of Brynja's home, work, restaurants and hang-outs. I found the perfect neighbourhood for her as well as a nice clump of ferns in which Bracken can hide his charges.

Nothing beats the experience of walking the terrain your characters inhabit.

Next year, Iceland!

Writer's vacation

I'm going to be offline for a couple of weeks while I tromp around the Chesapeake Bay area. I'm back to working on Rootless Trees so I'm off to walk the terrain. Iceland, sadly, was out of my budget. I have excellent notes, photographs and memories of Scotland so all that's left is the place where Brynja and Bracken land on their feet. Armed with research notes and plot outline, I'm going to park myself on the beach and writewritewrite.

But first, I plan to explore the area, stay up all night chatting with friends, and immerse myself in a completely different world from the one the characters and I are used to inhabiting.

Anything in particular you want me to take note of?

100 years later

I've always been fascinated by the Titanic. There is something about the tragedy that has held my attention for as long as I can remember. I think it's responsible for my first awareness of our mortality. "1500 Souls Lost" was the headline that struck a chord. All the movies and documentaries, books and articles, hit at the heart of the fascination. Those souls belonged to real people with real families, real dreams and real plans for the lives ahead of them.

All of their stories deserve to be told. All of their stories need to be heard.

1500 souls, 1500 hearts, 1500 lives.

Photographs

Last week, I went to a concert. We had tickets to both the afternoon and evening shows. I spent some time on hair, make-up and dress because I knew we were going to meet the Supreme Mary Wilson between shows. I've been eating better and walking every day. It shows. Not a lot but, my goal of being healthy is definitely noticeable. I felt good about my appearance. Until I looked at the photographs taken between shows. I had no idea that I am so large. Honestly. I'm still agile, fit into older clothes and don't get winded. I was horrified that picture was out there for the world to see.

Then I remembered something someone said to me several years ago. She used to hate having her picture taken for similar reasons. After she lived in Europe for a while she noticed how happy people were to see her, in whatever form they could get. She told me that when people look at photographs, they aren't critiquing your weight, clothes or posture - they see the face of someone they love. The bigger the smile you wear in the photo, crooked teeth and all, the happier it makes the viewer. I started paying attention to how I feel whenever I see anyone's picture and my friend was absolutely correct. I see who they are, not how they look.

So when a video surfaced in which I hopped up on stage for my moment as a Supreme, I overrode my initial reaction of horror and watched it. It was fun. It was clear that we were up there goofing around and having a good time. It didn't matter that I can't dance to save my soul or that I was wearing the only splash of colour up there. Nothing mattered but the memory of how much fun it was to be up there on stage acting out every little fantasy I'd had as a kid. I was a Supreme!

Remember this next time you're reluctant to have your picture taken. You're capturing a moment, an emotion, not a look.

Supreme Joy


Blogger wouldn't let me embed the file but if you click on it you can view it on your own system's video player

Mirror, Mirror

Life can be hard. It can be full of sorrow, anguish and disappointment. The only thing we can truly control is our reaction. I've been struggling to hold on to my natural optimism. Cynicism had planted seeds, taken root and ruthlessly hogged the sun.

The other day, a good friend shared his view of me and my life. To hear his admiration, and respect, reminded me that there's so much more to my life than the stuff that's been dragging me down. I joke about our mutual admiration society but honestly, we are good mirrors for each other. We reflect the enthusiasm, talent and joy the other feels whenever we think of the other.

Everyone should have someone like that in their life - the mirror that sees you as fairest of them all.

Who is your Mirror, Mirror?

More to the story

Passing the church on the way to work the other day, I noticed a pile of used toys and a wooden bookcase on the side of the road. A pickup pulled up to the curb and a crew of older men hopped out. One grabbed the bag of toys; another hefted the book case onto the road to shatter it into pieces. My first thought was, "Why didn't they recycle those things?" How wasteful. A few steps further down the road and I wondered if perhaps the book case was irreparable. The truck bed had stacks of broken wood. There's a place in town that pays for wood scraps. It's possible the church had generated some income. I could be wrong with any or all of my conclusions.

It made me wonder how often the conclusion we jump to is the right one. There are so many snap judgements made each and every minute of the day. I don't know what the real story is about the church belongings but for the rest of the day, I made up opposing stories about random things I observed.

The employee walking out the back door and crossing the street towards a coworker's house. Three blocks later, the severely-clad woman reappeared, turned another corner then headed back towards work. Clearly, she was out enjoying the gorgeous Spring weather, not sneaking out to meet up with someone.

The car parked in a neighbour's usual space despite the fact that everyone knew it was the only place the van could park to safely unload the wheelchair. Three days later and the car was still in the spot. Just as the van owner was about to hunt down the car owner and share a piece of their mind, an impartial third-party mentioned the car had been dropped off by a tow truck. The best anyone could hope for was that the car could be pushed forward into another space.

Minor observations but conclusions had been erroneous because there was more to the story than what was initially observed.

What's the strangest thing you've observed that you wish you new the rest of the story?

Found treasures

My friend and I were out for a drive the other day. Headed in no particular direction we were catching up on sad news more than happy stuff. We weren't particularly distressed but both of us mentioned we were drained. We took a right turn, then a left turn and another left. The entrance to a protected woods was before us. The strange quacking call of the wood-frog beckoned us forward. We shrugged, entered and parked the car. There were comical wooden soldiers piled by the mini-putt to the left. Several families were enjoying themselves over there. To the right was a pond with little bridges that led to three separate viewing platforms. We locked our belongings in the car and strode forth. Turtles sunned themselves on a log. With our backs to the mini-putt, it appeared that we had dropped down into an enchanted forest. The frogs sang. The turtles sunned. We recharged. We looked at the other two viewing platforms. One was named Serenity (which always makes me think of Firefly, which is fun but not necessarily soothing) I've forgotten the name of the second. The space where we stood said Be Thankful. We were.

Ignoring my flip flops, we opted to walk along the cleared path and breath in the fresh Spring air. Leaves had curled on the branches of the beech tree like little cocoons. A squirrel had commandeered a bird house for an afternoon nap. One particularly vocal wood-frog revealed his hiding place so that we might marvel at the small body that produced such a deep and powerful voice.

By the time we turned back towards the car, our spirits had risen, our souls been replenished and our worries eased. The external had not changed but we both drove away knowing that we were better equipped to handle the challenges we face.

Have you found some special place that fills you up when you most need it?

The skunk at the garden party

It's hard to laugh in the face of overwhelming sorrow. It's considered disrespectful to give into the urge. I can remember laughing at my grandfather's funeral. So many disapproving faces turned my way. I had remembered my grandfather in a way that gave me joy yet my laugh stood out amongst all the sniffling and tears like the rank odor of skunk at a garden party. I am often that skunk.

Most sorrow comes from losing a loved one. The happier the memories, the greater the anguish. It seems to me the disrespect comes from banishing the good memories to focus primarily on the sense of loss.

There are so many stresses in our lives it seems silly to ignore the things that alleviate any of that for even one moment. I do believe in surrounding myself with joy, love, laughter and animals but that's because they work for me. Good friends are invaluable. Great memories a boon.

Laughter banishes negativity. It doesn't get rid of the health concerns, money worries, mounting pressures but it turns things on their side so that you can see past their huge bulk to a solution.

It always comes back to perspective for me. I need the laugh to remind me life can be full of ridiculous situations. Death comes to all of us. So does life. There are creatures in the dark, delightful creatures who remind us not all is bad or scary. Sunshine burns. Flowers heal or poison. We choose which to ingest, and when. There should be laughter at funerals, tears at birth and skunks at garden parties.

Don't you agree?

Contrasts

My thoughts today are like the snow falling gently outside my window. Disjointed and scattered until they hit the ground to form some kind of mass that annoys some people while delighting others.

I've loaded my Sony reader with a couple of new books; Demolition Angel by Robert Crais and Spindle's End by Robin McKinley. They are both new-to-me authors and so far I've devoured Crais. I will definitely read more of his. McKinley came highly recommended by several people whose tastes are similar to mine. I finished A little Night Magic by Lucy March two weeks ago and am still thinking about those characters. That's a good thing.

I googled Liselotte von der phaltz. Many years ago, we saw her portrait in the gallery at Heidelberg Castle. She looked a great deal like my great-grandmother. Mumma was alive at the time and confirmed the possibility that the Prussian princess could be a distant cousin. There was an long dead uncle who'd been a bit of a roué which had led to his being exiled from several countries for impregnating daughters of the nobility. Family legends.

I'm on my third cup of tea. I usually only have one for breakfast and one in the evening. My sleep was beset my violent nightmares. I stare out the window and watch the snowflakes flutter past. They are fluffy and the brilliant white that blots out the red horrors of the night.

I continue to glance at the white infant jacket that lies on the table. Three white pearl buttons lie beside waiting for me to sew them on. A shower gift for a friend, I need to finish and wrap for this evening. Perhaps a bit more snow gazing to ensure my energy is focused on the sweetness of a newborn.

Maybe one more tea. Raspberry white tea, full of anti-oxidants and the sweet burst of summer fruit and a healthy contrast to the cool winter morn.

Book reviews?

Elen Grey and I were discussing book reviews last week. Is it a good idea for one writer to review another? Given how subjective the entire process is, it's a tough question to answer. I tend to like reviews - by people who think like I do. It takes some experimenting to figure that out.

I read a book recently that entertained me to the end. I adored the characters. The drama was real and intense. Yet one character had the ability to shut the story down halfway through the book - and the author never addressed it. I won't review the book because it's a big glaring mistake It didn't bother me until the day after I'd finished the book. I waited for the author to pull that trick out of the hat at the end of the book but the magician used other magic. Excellent, satisfying magic that dazzled and delighted me.

There are some people who would have thrown that book against the wall. The omission would have overshadowed everything else.

I couldn't review the book without mentioning that problem. If I mention it, the reader's enjoyment is diminished as they search for something that might not have bothered them in the first place.

Would it bother you? Does the storytelling supercede the plot?

Lazy Sunday

I'm sitting at the dining room table with two dogs at my feet - Ky and his Golden friend, Gracie Allen. My friends are out for brunch and I've just had a delicious bowl of bean barley soup. The sun is shining. The air is brisk. Adele is serenading me about daydreams. The laptop is opened on a word document and the wip in question is waiting to be input.

It's a beautiful, relaxing Sunday. I'll take advantage of the peace to do some revisions before the conversations about good writing, marketing, the industry and life fill the rest of the weekend with their intelligence and enthusiasm.

It's odd to be both stimulated and serene simultaneously but I'm enjoying it.

Perspective

I despise confrontation. It makes me incredibly uncomfortable and the anxiety makes me forget all of my good points. Rarely do two people get into those situations prepared to listen to what the other person is saying. It makes me crazy because I do listen. I do consider the other person's position. Partly because I grew up behaving like Switzerland, always neutral. I didn't pick sides in debates. Don't get me wrong, I had my own opinions. In fact, my dad and I would get into yelling matches about a variety of subjects. I lost all perspective when he opened his mouth.

It's that very dichotomy that gives depth to my writing. Unless I'm writing first person, there's always more than one perspective to every scene. I may not write from both points-of-view but I definitely need to know and feel what each character believes to be true. The more passionate they are, the more committed the arguments and the decreased possibility they are listening to each other.

The same is true for three dimensional human beings who live and breathe with contradictions. There are more sides to a story than you can ever possibly imagine. There are triggers and flashbacks, misunderstandings and focus issues. Sometimes there are health considerations as well. No matter what you believe otherwise, unless you authored all of the players (and sometimes not even then) you have little idea all that is at play in any given scene.

I listen to my dad now, even when he says something I find abhorrent. His life experience is so different from mine. On a couple of subjects he used to believe exactly what I do. Then he lived inside a situation that showed him three different points-of-view. How all the players handled things changed his belief system. I'm being deliberately vague. It's a volatile political debate within these four walls, never mind out in the rest of the world. My point is more about how we shape our views than the specific detail of that view. I still don't agree with him but we don't fight about it anymore. I understand his point-of-view, and respect it.

I imagine all of that comes across in my writing. I take characters who are polar opposites, throw them into situations and circumstances in which they rely on each other in order to survive so that in the end they have a better understanding of each other. I don't know that they change their basic differences so much as they focus on their commonalities.

Cursing

I try not to swear. First and foremost, I have a parrot that repeats most everything we say. Someone jokingly said to him, "Come here big boy," once and it's now one of his favourite expressions. The second reason I try not to curse is that swearing shows a decided lack of imagination. Or a limited vocabulary which is horrifying to a writer.

So the other night when my phone rang at 1:30 in the morning, my first thought after concern for family was relieved by caller ID was "inconsiderate assholes". The caller was a 20-something male looking for a family member who was sleeping. Some verbal abuse followed my refusal to wake them. I was quiet and polite when I took them to task for calling so late and being rude. Then I hung up.

For the next half hour, I stewed and cursed them out. Lowlife, piece-of-shit, pond scum. But pond scum is superficial and can be skimmed off the top of the water. I usually toss it into the garden to become fertilizer. That didn't seem vile enough for my opinion of the caller (whose late night call merely underscored my already bad impression of his character) I also didn't like that I'd been reduced to cursing in the dark. Scum of the earth can't be scraped off, it's internal and runs deep. Lowlife, piece-of-shit, scum of earth doesn't have the same rhythm. I played around with it, substituted lying for piece-of-shit, which made me happier about losing the swear word. Too many syllables.

It amused me greatly that my bad mood was overwritten by word play. Two AM and I'm fighting the good fight. The pen is indeed mightier than the sword. Just as I decided that lowlife, lying scum-of-the-earth packed a nice punch even with the extra syllable, the phone rang. The little shit miscreant had called again. Other than trying out my expanded vocabulary, I didn't see any point in picking up the phone. So I didn't.

Instead I thought of new descriptions:

idiot
moron
thoughtless
self-centered
rascal (too mild)
misguided
cretin
jerk
criminal
boor
harsh


I could have spent hours adding to the list but that wasn't bad for a sleep-deprived middle of the night instant thesaurus. Feel free to use any of the afore-mentioned titles. I only hope you don't need them at the same God-awful hour I did.

Progress

When last we met, I challenged everyone to do something that challenged or excited you. I needed to kickstart myself and what better way than a public declaration of intent?

In the past two weeks, I've made a couch shrink to fit inside a personal van so that no one would have to pay the delivery charge. Trust me, that was a challenge.

I made an effort to dress nicer. It's difficult to bother with hair and make-up but this post shed a new light on appearance. So I've been paying attention. Another challenge.

I'm also trying to say yes more often. Not to the people who know I don't know how to say no but to myself and the opportunities that come my way. A friend suggested we go see Mavis Staples on a school night and I accepted. This video could have been shot on the night we attended. While it's not showcased here, that woman has an amazing range. A whole new world opened up to me that night. And I was reminded of a hot sultry night by the banks of the Mississippi.

I'm back to writing every day. Some days, it's just a paragraph or two. One day last week, I went through my desk and found all of the notes to Rootless Trees and the sweater book. I already know which one is going to garner the bulk of my attention, it's been planting ideas and scenes in the fertile soil of my imagination.

Most significantly, I did something that both challenged and excited me. I sent Heal Casey off to several publishers. The gimpy little pup's story is out there for others to read. I'm making an agent list to send to next. That might be a bit backwards but it's the route I took. It was past time to send him off.

How did you do with your challenges?

Busy living

For many years I worked and wrote. I was so busy writing that I wasn't out living. Last year I was so busy surviving that I was neither writing nor living. This year I'm determined to find a better balance. I am working. I am writing. I am living.

I urge you all to do the same. Go out this week and do something that challenges and/or excites you. I will do the same. Let's meet back here next week and compare notes.

How did this happen?

For all of you wonderful people who got Kindles or Nooks for the holidays, I direct your attention towards this little gem

How did this happen? Lunch with Imaginary Friends and other (mostly) True Stories. This is the Amazon link.

The Barnes and Noble link.

Written by my good friend, KD James, it contains her trademark sense of humour and insight. This is a great opportunity to look back in a few years and say you'd been reading the phenom right from the beginning.

Go. Enjoy.

You can thank me later.

Casy update

I was in the process of putting Casey's package together to shop around when a new development occurred. He wore a hole in his brace right through layers of fiberglass and rubber. I took him to Pawsability to see if Janice could repair the prosthetic. The hole was the back of his heel as if he was scuffing instead of lifting his foot. I was concerned that meant his leg had turned to an angle that was three steps backwards. Because of unavoidable and unrelated circumstances, Casey hasn't been swimming in some time. Had that resulted in irreparable damage to his recovery?

With the brace off, Casey walked around the studio to show Janice his gait. Approximately seventeen out of twenty steps came down on his foot instead of his carapace. We were astounded.

Did walking with Ky's Sporn harness account for the difference? It might have given me more control so that Casey didn't gallop up and down the floor but it wasn't responsible for his foot striking the surface.

Janice suggested both the damage to the existing brace and Casey's gait were indicators that his leg had healed closer to his body in a more natural position. She feels that he no longer needs the support of a toe-to-shoulder brace. Tomorrow we go to pick up his new brace, one that immobilizes the area above and below the carapace so that he is forced to use his foot all of the time. He's a bit flat-footed so we've been doing toe-strengthening exercises for the last two weeks.

This is one time I don't mind going back to a project and re-writing the end. While it's true his therapy will be ongoing, Casey continues to amaze us with his improvement and natural joie d'vivre.

Winter projects

Heal Casey is done and ready to go out. Publishers or agents first?

When writing non-fiction, things can be a bit trickier as fact is indeed stranger than fiction. One occasionally wonders who is going to believe a word written. As it pertains to the lions, how do I tell the story accurately and truthfully without being sued? It was not a good time in my life and revisiting has turned out to be more painful than I expected.

Fiction is more fun as there's a guaranteed happy ending. In my romantic world there is!

Right now, I'm surrounded by projects. There are some shawls and jackets that need to be knitted, dog hair to be spun, quilts to be sewn and scenery to be photographed. I want to paint again. My nephew has been spray painting on canvas and his creations have inspired me to drink from that well again. I bought some purses from a thrift shop and am currently giving them makeovers. Right now, that's all on paper because all of my brushes seem to have disappeared...

What are you working on? Do you find immersing yourself in one medium opens up your creativity to others or locks you into just one?

Changing the names

I'm thinking about writing about my experiences with lions in my garage. It's a great story with great characters, a little danger and some suspense. A few of the characters were complete and total morons. There could be a lawsuit in my future if I use their real names. Although, it's not defamation of character if it's true, enough time has passed that proving it would be more difficult. Those people have held me back from writing the story. Most of it is about my experience, about my interactions with the big cats but the morons do appear from time to time.

If I change their names to protect myself, I must also change the names of the lions as well. Any suggestions? What would you name a bunch of big cats - lions, tigers and cougars?Oh my.

Sprayntings

My nephew has been painting with spray paint. It's not graffiti. It's art. It's not on the sides of buildings. It's on canvas. And it is truly some incredible work.

He calls them sprayntings. He occasionally mixes mediums but the foundation is always spray paint. A local art gallery has several on display. He sold two in his first week.

This one is my current favourite - Celestial Waterfall

To see more, go to http://sprayntingsbymikal.wordpress.com/

Enjoy

Autumn along the Niagara River

The sun is shining. No rain in sight. A lot of leaves on the ground. It smells wonderful out there. Go. Enjoy the day. We'll talk again next week.

These were some of the images from a walk along the Niagara River.

Don't they make you want to take a deep breath...

Ahhh. That's better.

A book judged by its cover

I was putting some books away at the library a couple of weeks ago when this one caught my eye.

The dog obviously caught my eye. Nice clean graphics made it easy to remember book title and author. The back cover copy piqued my interest.

A German Shepherd police dog witnesses a murder and if his owner--an Iraq war vet and former cop-turned-thief--is convicted of the crime, the dog could be put down. Few rival Andy Carpenter's affection for dogs, and he decides to represent the poor canine. As Andy struggles to convince a judge that this dog should be set free, he discovers that the dog and his owner have become involved unwittingly in a case of much greater proportions than the one they've been charged with. Andy will have to call upon the unique abilities of this ex-police dog to help solve the crime and prevent a catastrophic event from taking place.

I checked our catalogue and discovered another book by the same author. But this was a series and we didn't have the first book. We did have the first five books in e-book format. The Sony reader saved the day and I've been hooked on the series ever since.

David Rosenfelt's voice is light, amusing but with a conscience. The books don't take themselves too seriously but entertain me with the mystery and a modicum of suspense. They're perfect for boosting me out of my current funk.

Wallowing

I've got nothing witty or insightful to say. My brain is still reeling from the loss of two good friends in the space of a month. The fact that both of them came to me through writing kicks my creativity into a corner. I cannot write a single word without thinking of either one of them.

Both of them would kick my ass for wallowing in the anguish and using it as an excuse to miss my deadlines. Kate, in particular, would demand I make another deadline and stick to it. She was always good about staying on point no matter what the distractions. Some of her best writing came when she was on chemo and in need of a different focus than her health. Bryan was more laid-back and trusted the love of writing to bring us back to the process.

Last night, after staring at my open document for an hour, I took a deep breath and got my head back into the synopsis. It's done now. I'm in desperate need of an editor and Kate is no longer here to provide me with sharp insight, clear logic and straight truth. Kate's legacy is stronger than ever. We formed a writer's group together and over the years we've all grown closer, honed our skills and sharpened our focus. It may take us a beat or two longer to see the fix but we can do it. We rely on each other.

Bryan's faith in the art has been proven true over the past week. I find myself using other creative forms to express myself. I'm writing in photographs and paintings and simply breathing the experiences.

The best way I have to honour and cherish both of them is to allow all that we've shared together continue to shape me as a writer, a photographer and a friend. It's time to stop wallowing and get on with it.

Worth the drive

Raising a glass of the best scotch to a good man, a talented man, a friend who I will miss terribly.

Bryan J. Weitzel June 2,1964-October 8, 2011



Thank you, Bryan. It was all worth the drive

Happy Thanksgiving!

It's been a rough year full of lost and I've been drowning in sorrow for months. Yet as I think of my blessings on this weekend of gratitude I am filled with hope and appreciation.

I have a job I love.
Live in a great house that easily accommodates three generations.
Am surrounded by fur, fin, feathers and scales that teach me every single day that humans are not the only species of value.
I am gifted with amazing friendships.
My time is spent with people and in activities that lift my spirit.
I know that my presence makes a difference in people's lives.

And all that loss reminds me how valuable those individuals have been in my life. I have been blessed to have loved and been so loved that the loss is felt to my core.

Thank you.

Rest in peace, sweet Kate

Kate Weichelt November 3, 1961 - September 8, 2011

Next step

The reviews are in from the beta readers for Heal, Casey. Apart from some misplaced commas and a title discussion, it appears the book is ready to be sent out.

Now the fun part - writing a synopsis. Despite the fact that I won a synopsis-writing contest a few years ago, I'm not looking forward to the process. One of my critique partners gave me a mug that reads, "What's worse than writing a synopsis? Nothing" which contributes to my dread.

Then I started thinking about the process. I have to encapsulate the story all the time for people who are asking me about my latest project. Agents and editors aren't going to publish the book just because there's a cute dog on the cover. They want to know why they should care about the cute dog.

Tawna Fenske wrote a great blog about query letters. Her points can also be applied to synopsis.

Plus, writing the synopsis is good practice for when Casey and I go on the Ellen DeGeneres Show.

Kate

How do you sum up a lifetime of memories in just a page?

The movie montage of images runs through my mind teasing me with the promise of Kate. Tobogganing on the hill. Mulled wine by the bonfire. Racing the squirrels to the strawberries. Meandering through the hosta gardens. Picking up seashells and stones along the shore. Watching her sign her winning Beetle story in the back of Duets at an RWA convention. Watching the dogs play with sticks. Listening to frogs by the pond. Feeding chipmunks while on a writer's retreat. Pondering character names and plot-lines. Celebrating. Laughing. Crying. A quick smile. Swimming with squid. Watching the hummingbirds. Fireflies. Writing at the Butterfly Conservatory.

So many more images than I can ever share. Words can't sum up a person's soul, their impact on another. That's something to be felt.

For everyone who has ever been touched by Kate's soul - we were privileged.

A small reminder

Write with passion.

Write over-the-top. Use all the adjectives and active verbs you've ever heard.

Pour your heart and soul onto the page.

Edit later.

Just W.R.I.T.E.

We can change the world

I'm in the midst of losing two people I love deeply. Losing the Leader of the Opposition was hard for me, if for no other reason than that. Yesterday's televised funeral was truly a celebration of Jack Layton's life. I want that for my friends. I want the world to know how precious they are, not just to me, but to everyone who was ever lucky enough to know them.

Layton left a letter to Canadians. Regardless of your agreement with the man's politics, how can disagree with his closing statement? There's a reason it has gone viral. It's not just a rallying cry to his political party, to Canadians, but to people everywhere.

My friends, love is better than anger. Hope is better than fear. Optimism is better than despair. So let us be loving, hopeful and optimistic. And we’ll change the world.

All my very best,

Jack Layton

We can change the world.

Bryan and Kate, you have changed my world, and made it better, by sharing it with me.

Thank you.

Ugly Eyes

I'm often accused of seeing the world through rose-coloured glasses. I only see the good in people, places and events. That's not entirely true. I'm aware of the ugliness in the world. I don't focus on it. I do focus on the positive.

Of course there are times when I have my ugly eyes on and nothing is rosy. Everything is nasty and depressing. I only see vindictive behaviour or cruel intentions. I see oppression, depression, and obsession. Ugly eyes only see ugliness no matter what else is around, or what is true.

How you see the world is dependent upon your expectations. If you expect to see only the negative, that's what you will see. You look for it. Ugly eyes block out light and colour and throw things into shadow.

It's difficult to swap out that view when you're looking at the world that way. You can't hand rose-coloured glasses to someone with ugly eyes. They will think you're trying to scratch out their retinas. Ugly eyes have a strong survival instinct. They expect everyone else to conform to their world view.

I usually take my rose-coloured glasses out of their line of sight and play with all of the colours until Ugly Eyes get tired and fall asleep. That's when dreams can give some perspective and restore vision to a more balanced view of the world.

If you have Ugly Eyes, or know someone with Ugly Eyes, don't despair. The world won't stay this dark and nasty forever. Pain will subside and beauty will slowly creep back in.

Good reads

I've been slowly going through my TBR pile. Every single book has been a keeper. That's not helping me make room for new books but I don't mind. I've been enjoying every single read.

I've already mentioned When stars go blue by Caridad Ferrer.

but equally worth savouring, I recommend:

Backseat Saints by Joshilyn Jackson. That woman has such a wacky, and insightful, way of looking at the world. Her characters are unusual in expression but at heart they are the same as each of us. I love her voice. You don't have to have read Gods in Alabama to understand Backseat Saints but as they're both great books, why not?

The map of true places by Brunonia Barry. I can never quite figure where she's going with her characters but am never disappointed with the ride. Her voice has a dreamlike quality that fits in well with the character's uncertainty.

Garden Spells by Sarah Addison Allen also has a dreamlike quality to it. I loved the tree that was sentient being, the little girl who knew where everything belonged and the adults who didn't.

Then there was Blackout and All Clear by Connie Willis. It's hard to believe that 1100 pages were infused with such fast-paced urgency. Incredibly well researched and full of detail about WWII England it would be easy to imagine Willis was a time traveler herself.

I cared so much about the welfare of the characters in all of these books. The settings were great and diversified, as were the story-lines but well-drawn characters were the common denominator.

Go get yourself a copy of each of these books. You can thank me later.

Dog tears

I've been lax with writing the last few months as you all know. There's no real excuse but plenty of reasons. However, now that my writing group is meeting every two weeks, I have to have something to share. That means that Casey's story is back out of the drawer.

Two things I've noticed. 1) Writing non-fiction is the same as writing fiction. You need to have lots of drama, emotion and a hook. Casey has that. 2) I forgot the emotion in all of the facts. The reason we stuck it out through everything was the emotional aspect of having Casey in our lives.

A simple thing to remember yet so essential. How did I forget that? Even for an instant?

I took the laughing dog to the hospital to see my mom last week. They've been separated for fourteen weeks. While he doesn't understand what's going on, he did seem to grasp the idea that there was something wrong. Or at least something that required him to be gentle and cautious around her. None of the wild enthusiasm he's noted for was on display.

He sidled up to her chair and sat down beside her, on guard and protective. She petted his head. They were together. And when we separated them again, he cried.

Emotion. The motivating factor for so much in everyone's life. It's time to put it back in Casey's story. He certainly feels it.

Love Letters

I was going through an old trunk filled with photographs and found an envelope from a very dear ex. He was the Love of my LIFE (I was in my 20s and the teenage exuberance was still very present) A few years after we'd broken up he mailed me copies of family photos and some love letters I'd written. Copies. Despite the fact that he'd been the one to end things, he kept the originals.

I started to read them last night and was embarrassed. Partly because of the content, there was so much love on those pages it was hard to read. Partly because I felt like a voyeur, so much passion and a window into my soul. Yes, I wrote that but it's such a younger version of me that it felt like I was intruding on someone else's private correspondence.

But what really embarrassed me was the language and structure of the letters. Wow. The internal editor really never shuts up. Instead of appreciating the honesty of emotion, I was critiquing the word choices. So flowery and unimaginative. No wonder I never got a book contract back then.

The most important thing about those letters truly is the feeling I had when writing them. I couldn't hold all that emotion inside. I didn't want to jump on a couch but I knew if I tried to contain it I would explode. So I used the tool with which I was most comfortable and wrote.

Words, even cliched ones that have been overused, are evocative, powerful and can take one back in time.

I'm glad I found those letters. I'm going to burn them because they really were private and written only for us. We've both evolved since then, changed and matured. But it was nice to take a quick glimpse at the past me who believed LOVE was everything. She's still in here. Perhaps it's time to invite her out for a glass of wine and see what happens.

An author worth savouring

You all know of my love for The Art of Racing in the Rain. It's a book that has stuck with me for three years and one that comes to mind often. It's not just the storyline but the rhythm, cadence and voice that have embedded themselves into my psyche.

Last week, I read something else that is destined to linger. When the stars go blue by Caridad Ferrer. The prose is as visually stunning as the cover. I finished the book earlier in the week and haven't been able to read anything else since. The characters have lingered in my reading palate and I want to savour them for as long as I can.

Caridad Ferrer's writing first came to my attention several years ago when she guest blogged on a blog I followed regularly. I made a comment and won a copy of her debut novel, Adios to my old life. I was hooked. Her strong characterization and evocative description drew me into a world with which I was completely unfamiliar(teenage Latina musician trying to make her mark on an American Idol type reality show). Bear in mind that I'm a middle-aged tone-deaf Caucasian woman to understand how surprising is my connection to that book.

Caridad Ferrer's writing captures the culture and flavour of that world while making the reader a very real part of it. You cannot teach that ability.

Do yourself a favour. Whether the cover copy appeals to you or not, read this book. The writing alone will make the journey worth your while.

Beginning

Don't keel over from shock.
I've been writing again.

It started with a commitment to write for ten minutes a day. I blew that off for two days in a row then sat down and wrote until that draft was done. Yeah, I don't know how to ease into things at all.

I'm at the point where I need to input all of the notes, edits and maps into the computer. I've re-read all of the comments from my beta readers and contemplated their suggestions. Only one thought that the book should really have started at page three. The other four readers felt the context was important so that the significance of that starting point was stronger.

I'm torn. I tend to agree with the one lonely reader. Your book starts with the first step of the journey. However, an argument could be made that the first step occurred when my mom fell as opposed to when Casey arrived. A strong argument, because if all of our living conditions hadn't changed so radically we wouldn't have been capable, let alone receptive to Mom's desire for another dog. In this instance, I think context is vital.

On the other hand, that backstory can be told throughout the first chapter.

I'm great at playing devil's advocate for both sides. Making a decision about which is the better choice is a lot harder for me.

Do I start with the hypothesis - Healing takes many forms
or
the action - His calm steady gaze looked through the monitor's screen and straight into my mother's heart

Which grabs you more? Yeah, I thought so. That's a lot more editing.

Next week's blog - how editing makes a much stronger story.

Reading formats

I've spent a ridiculous amount of time in waiting rooms over the last two months. While they are usually loud rooms with lots of people talking or demanding answers, I observed an interesting trend. Cell phones, tablets, books and puzzles were all in use. One family of 27 (I'm assuming it was extended) talked amongst themselves as well as to others on their cell phone. A woman in her late 70's was texting someone while a young man approximately nine or ten years old was reading a 39 Clues book.

At another table a young woman in her 20's was on her cell phone. The three year old beside her was putting a puzzle together.

A different family group was playing a Solitaire tournament on their ipads. Again, it was the youngest group that was reading a book.

We all had paperbacks but my brother and I were texting each other about the family of 27. If only 2 visitors were allowed at a time, how long would they take to all see their loved one. It was 11pm at the time of our texts. Five more people came in to join that family. Too much math for me.

That was just one particular night. In the time I've been consciously observing the trend, it is the older generation using electronic devices while the pre-teens are reading books. It's not hard and fast, empirical data, just my observations.

It gave me hope for the future of books. In multiple formats.

Guest Post - Nursery Crime writer Karen Mauck

Karen Mauck is my guest today. There has been a LOT of buzz the last year or so about self-publishing. I thought it would be nice to hear from Karen about why she took this route and how it's worked for her so far. Nursery Crimes is her fourth book.


When you hear someone has self-published a book, what’s the first thing you think?

I might know your answer, because I’ve heard it before: some people think self-publishing is for lousy writers who couldn’t get an agent or “real” publisher to give them the time of day. And believe me, I have seen some self-published books that fit into that category. But not all of them. Ever heard of Amanda Hocking? You will.

So you may ask, knowing that I admit there is ongoing debate about the value of self-publishing, why did I choose that route with my latest book? Or, for that matter, all four of my novels?

Oh, I tried the traditional route, querying agents and attending conferences. I was always rejected. But that doesn’t mean I am a lousy writer. (I hope.) The few rejections that were not form letters but were instead directed at my material mentioned things that I consider personal preferences, such as “It’s not long enough for what I’m looking for” or “There are too many stories with cops.” I’ve heard from other writers who received rejections that were not so nice, so I’d go as far as saying those are good rejections.

Another reason for the rejections, in my probably underinformed opinion, is that so many people are trying to pitch a novel to an industry that lately somehow seems to be both oversaturated and in flux. Everybody and their sister thinks they can write a book (Snooki, anyone? And yes, I am including myself as one of the sisters), and yet bookstores are in bankruptcy and publishing models are being debated (paper vs. e-book, traditional vs. independent, which is what I am).

There were several hundred people at just one regional writer’s conference I attended, all hoping to be published. Multiply that by however many other conferences, regional and national, in a given year, then multiply that number by genre – thriller, romance, mystery, childrens, biography, literary fiction, etc. – then divide by how many books a publisher releases in any given year, and that’s a lot of rejections. I’m not alone.

Even if I were lucky enough to get a contract with an agent, who was then able to successfully pitch it to a publisher, my novel wouldn’t see the light of day for a couple years. A book accepted today might not make it to print until 2014. And one thing I have learned is, life is short. Doing it my way means I have an actual book with my name on it in my hot little hands in less than 4 months.

This reminds me of another reason I chose to self-publish: my recent release, Nursery Crimes, has been completed since 2007. It sat, forlornly languishing, in the bowels of my computer since then (long enough that I had to update some technology references I made). I figured that was long enough. It was time to do something. I spent all that time writing it, I might as well let someone actually read it.
And why not now, when self-published books are losing the less-than-stellar reputation they had when I first started publishing this way 10 years ago. There will always be people who deride them, but others are giving them some respect, national best-selling authors with recognizable names, no less. Just ask JA Konrath or Bob Mayer how well sales of their self-published novels are going. (Hint: Very well indeed.)


There are now a great many companies that offer various levels of self-publishing services, many more than when I started out. Back when the rejections were piling up on my first book (Scraps), someone pointed out to me one of these then-new companies, iUniverse. I checked them out and liked what I saw, so I tried it out. I liked it so much that this is now the fourth time I’ve used them.
I like them because they do a lot of the work for me, and I am inherently lazy. I could have done it all myself, applying for the ISBN number and asking retailers to carry it and designing the cover and all that. I know someone who did that, and after several years of good selling she has yet to break even, plus she has a few thousand copies of her book in her basement. The company I chose did it all for me, for far less money that what she spent going it alone, and I don’t need to stockpile anything. They did an editorial review and made suggestions to help me make it better. I told them what I wanted the cover to look like, and they did it. They listed me on amazon.com and other Web sites like Barnes and Noble and Borders, plus Ingram’s Books in Print so anyone can walk into any bookstore and order it. They formatted it in both paperback and e-book. They also provide me with opportunities to advertise in magazines, newspapers, and e-mail blasts, if I so choose. I couldn’t figure out how to do that (well, I probably could, but you’ll remember that I’m lazy), let alone afford the rates I’d be charged if it did it myself. They handle the orders and the shipping for me, and deposit a check into my bank account at the end of the quarter if I’ve sold anything. And if a “real” publisher somehow stumbles across my stuff and wants to publish it themselves, I am free to accept their kind offer. (Other companies offer similar services at various costs; if you are interested in doing this yourself, I suggest you do some research to see which one is right for you.)

Now, there are other, newer services I could have used that would have cost me less, much less; if I had wanted to create my novel as an e-book only, I could have done it for practically free with services such as createspace. But I am admittedly technophobic – I will carry my flip-style cell phone until either I or the phone die – and still prefer the traditional paper book to e-book (although I do read e-books – mainly authors who publish e-book only). Using this option allows me to offer the book in both formats. Plus it was a known entity; I’d used them before and knew what to expect.

Sometimes self-publishing is called Print-On-Demand (POD) or even “vanity press.” I find that last term somewhat dismissive, but on the other hand, perhaps it fits. Because I printed my books just for me.

I guess that’s not entirely true. I asked local bookstores to carry my books. I made bookmarks and postcards and gave them to every person I knew, and a few I didn’t. I bought a fun shirt with Velcro letters that I used to spell out “Ask me about my book”, then actually wore it in public. I put up signs on coffee shop bulletin boards. I set up tables for book singings at art shows, book fairs, and garage sales. I’m posting about it on Facebook and various blogs.

But.

I don’t expect to sell a lot. I don’t delude myself into thinking I am the next Nora Roberts, or even the next Snooki, for that matter. I’m not doing this to get rich. I’m doing it because I like to write stories. And if I make a few dollars in the process, that’s just an added bonus.

All this is not to say I won’t ever publish the traditional route. I still have one completed manuscript and a couple languishing works in progress up my sleeve, just waiting for the right time, the right stage, the right platform to publish. Maybe I’ll go with the same press, or try one of the many other companies. Maybe I’ll finally embrace technology and try this new-fangled e-book-only route that’s been so successful for Miss Hocking and others. Or, who knows? I may yet have a shot at the big leagues the traditional way. Maybe one day I’ll be rich and famous despite all my best efforts to the contrary.

Karen Mauck writes sexy romantic suspense and is the author of Scraps, Pomp and Circumstantial Evidence, Last to Know, and her latest release, Nursery Crimes. She lives in southeastern Michigan.


BackCoverCopy:
With only twisted nursery rhymes as clues, a tough, dedicated cop puts his life, and his heart, on the line to protect a schoolteacher and her young students from a killer calling himself Father Noose.

Jillian Hobart is passionate about teaching and devoted to her class of kindergartners. But someone else is showing a more deadly interest in her students, leaving eerie nursery rhymes behind as her students begin to disappear.

Deputy Sheriff Peter Dack is attracted to Jillian's quiet intensity even though his job requires he keep her at arm's length. But working together to stop the killer brings them into close contact, increasing the heat even as it becomes apparent that the intended target may not be Jillian's students — but rather Jillian herself.

Children's Movies

Last week, I was going through the movies at work and marking them as one of the AFI Top 100 movies. Two were children's movies. I got to thinking that there should be a list of Top 100 Children's movies. There is but I don't agree with it. A significant portion are from the original list.

So I thought about what I consider a great kids' movie. My criteria were simple. The movie had to entertain, engage and linger. It had to stand the test of time. Was I still thinking about those characters/story/plot for months or years afterward? Would my niece, who is ten years old, be as thrilled/entertained/entranced as I? I've only been able to run the last test by a few of them but one surprised me by not making her cut. ET bored her to tears. ET! While a singing Sean Connery amuses me no end, she found the effects on Darby O'Gill and the little people to be too clunky.

My brief list includes, in no particular order,

The Railway Children
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
Shrek
Napoleon and Samantha
Mary Poppins
Bedknobs and Broomsticks
Babe
Beetlejuice
Chicken Run
Gremlins
Nightmare before Christmas
Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory
Lilo and Stitch
Monster's Inc.
How to train your dragon
Cars
Swiss Family Robinson
The Princess Bride
Finding Nemo
Bridge to Terabithia
Herbie the Lovebug (the original)
The one and only Genuine original family band
The Parent Trap(Hayley Mills)

There are some great classics in that list, and others to see in the trailers. I feel like spending the afternoon with some old celluloid friends. Which movies would you add to this list?

One format, multiple ereaders

I've complained about them before. I'm still not satisfied that any one reader is going to do what I want it to do. My request is simple - read the books I buy.

I don't want to be tied to Sony, Amazon, Chapters, Barnes and Noble. I want to buy books from whatever store I want then read them on whatever device I prefer. I don't want to be tied to one reader and one reader only. There's a hardcover book I've been reading from the library, Harmony. It's a coffee table book full of weighty issues. I could use it as a tray table, it's so big. I'm enjoying it immensely but am exhausted from carrying it. I was going to buy the ebook version but was stopped by the need to commit to a particular reader.

Right now, I'm reading pdf files on my laptop and smartphone. I have a Sony PSR-350 Reader that freezes all the time. It may have been run over by my mom's wheelchair when she was rushed to the hospital a few weeks ago. I'm not sure as I wasn't with her but her purse has a big tear in it. Regardless, the Sony Reader is frozen. I cannot reset it. I cannot power it down. I've been staring at the same page for the last two days trying to figure out how to fix it. I've followed along on all the Sony forums looking for a solution. So far, nothing has worked.

All of the books are saved to the laptop but they were purchased from the Sony store. I can't transfer them to my phone and read them there. I can read from the laptop but who wants to lug that around everywhere? If I replace the reader, I'll have to replace it with another Sony so that I don't lose all of my purchases. That doesn't seem right.

So I ask, why aren't all ebooks in the same format? They've done it for CDs and DVDs. Why not for books?

I've purchased several items from Who Dares Wins Publishing for several reasons. One, I like the way both Bob Mayer and Jenni Holbrook write. They provide entertaining reads. Two, and equally as important for me, I can buy their books in pdf versions. This means I can read them everywhere I want, on whatever device I choose.

They dare. I win.

Why doesn't everyone else offer that option? It's clearly possible.

Volcano

Despite the fact, that I have had absolutely nothing to do with it, I'm very proud of my friend, Jon Gustafsson. His footage of the latest volcanic eruption in Iceland has made news around the world. It's been voted one of the top videos at several different sites.

It's incredible footage. Fantastic. Awe-inspiring. Beautiful. Maybe a bit scary.

Go look at it. If you're not impressed, well then, I don't know what to say. Mother Nature is something else. She has a way of putting life in perspective.

Alex's home and Nea's tree

I popped by the site of Hell to Pay last week to remind myself of that book's existence.

Spring has bloomed around Alex's place

The wind that tore across North America a couple of weeks ago did some damage to Nea's tree

It's not bad by most standards but she did lose several limbs. They'll grow back.

Mother's Day

Apparently, this is the day I'm supposed to honour my mother. Huh. I thought I was supposed to do that every day.

My mom is ill and has been for some time. For the last few years, I've been treating our time together as precious. My parents moved into the apartment downstairs. My day begins with a hello to and from Mom and ends with a kiss goodnight.

In the last ten years, several of my friends have lost their mothers. We're not old enough for this but who ever is? When my grandmother died two years ago, my dad became an orphan. It doesn't matter that he's a grandfather. He no longer has his parents to turn to in those moments when only your parents truly understand how you feel/what you need.

When I was a kid, I'd whine because there was a Mother's Day and a Father's Day but no Kids' Day. My dad said every day was Kids' Day. Oh, how right he was. In turn though, we should honour our parents and grandparents every day, not just on the day designated by greeting card companies.

There are some people who don't have parents, who grew up without the comfort and certainty of their mother's love. They didn't hatch in the cabbage patch but they didn't have moms either. The hype and commerce of today's fake holiday is a bitter reminder of what they don't have. It's bad enough that the rest of us feel like inadequate slackers because we didn't buy Mom a diamond necklace, a houseful of flowers and angels singing her praises. The brilliance and necessity of mothers is everywhere right now. It can be overwhelming.

I'm not a mom. This is not my holiday. I'm okay with that. I have a mom I do adore. I have children who I'd fight tooth and claw to provide for and protect. I have the best of both worlds.

I realize it every single day, even if I don't tell them how blessed I am. I do my best to show them how much I truly love them each and every day, not just once a year.

Heal Casey progress

I actually did a fair amount of editing last week. I worked on Casey's story every night. I even made a google map, or tried to, of Casey's journey from his birthplace on the reservation in Northern Ontario to our little town in the Niagara Region. Google couldn't handle it. As the only way in or out of the reservation is by air, the Mighty Search Engine was unable to calculate the trip. I was able to estimate the distance to the nearest town and determined the mileage from there. Score one for the human. Score another one for the dog who took a plane, train and car for over 2,000 kilometers to reach us. No wonder he's such a good traveler.

There are just a few more chapters to edit. Then the opening has to be made far more dynamic followed by another read-through and a polish.

Holding myself accountable on this blog does keep me focused and productive. I'm less distracted by,

oh, gorgeous man in chain mail.

What was I doing?

Inspiration

My nephew has being staying up every night writing. Like me, he does it in layers. Unlike me, he's actually writing.

Last weekend was spent with some very creative people in my life - filmmakers, spinners, designers...people who inspire me on many levels. I came home fired up to finish Casey's story. (And to get back to Sturla's Sweater as the sweater book is called) Neither impulse lasted long.

Heal Casey is just in need of polishing edits. So why do I continue to ignore it? Part of the problem is that the story of how he healed my mom and vice versa is no longer true. She isn't healing. She's been going through a really rough patch. Not even Casey's antics can help her at this point. It's hard to revisit optimism and enthusiasm in the face of reality. As that's not going to improve any time soon, I need to suck it up and finish. For the first time in months, Casey is going swimming on Tuesday. I will use his joy to propel the editing process. I promise to check back in here with a progress report.

Stasholic is coming for a visit next week. There will be much wine, wool and more than a few freeze frames of Sturla's Sweater as we enjoy another viewing of Wrath of Gods. It's spectacular. If it doesn't inspire me to hit the keyboard, nothing will.

Labels - not a fan

I mentioned the other day to a friend that I'm not getting along with writing. She suggested I redefine myself - spinner, knitter, caregiver. I didn't like those definitions. For one thing they don't fill my life(okay, maybe the last one does)like writing did and none of them feed my soul. Or pull my brain out through my eyes so perhaps that's not a bad thing.

I'm not a fan of labels. I find them limiting. We're told to claim our identity, embrace it. Own it. I am a writer. I am a knitter/spinner/crocheter/photographer/painter. I am so much more than all of those things. I'm definitely creative but as previous posts would suggest, I don't exactly like to be tied to any one thing. I follow the Muse wherever she may take me.

I'm also reliable and meet deadlines. I can be practical. I have a job that pays me enough that I can indulge my creativity without stressing over whether it will pay the bills.

I'm a tree hugging conservationist. Who happens to love auto racing in its variety of forms.

I love animals but still eat meat (though I'm one of the few chicken-eating vegetarians out there)

As soon as you stick a label on me, regardless of what it is, I feel stifled/confined/restrained by that label. I'm a contrary bitch who will cut off my nose to spite my face(not literally, I'm too vain for that). It doesn't make sense but I've learned that about myself. I'm a rebel at heart. Yet I'm not an anarchist either. Some rules are there for good reason. It's the labels to which I object.

It all started when I was a wee mite in the 60's(ah, yes, that does explain so much) The idea of gender was presented to my young mind as something over which I had no control. I couldn't run around without a shirt because I was a girl. I had to swelter in the heat while my boy friends were FREE. Being a girl didn't seem like as much fun. I didn't want to be a girl(I'm not so sure I wanted to be a boy either but those were the only options presented to me at the time)

This isn't a blog about transgender, it's about labels and the idea to 3 year-old me that I was limited in my abilities because of my gender was the foundation for my hate affair with all labels. It's ridiculous to suggest that because one thing is important to me, or a part of my identity, that another thing can't be as significant.

Okay, yes I am a girl. I do not have a penis, and despite what I told my other 3 year-old friends I did not have one and it fell off. I like being a girl. I liked being a tomboy and climbing trees and wearing dresses and halters and high heels and playing goalie for the road hockey team and being defense on the soccer team and all sorts of other things that had nothing to do with the label of gender.

So while I do think it's important to acknowledge who you are (I am a writer) don't let that limit you in your experience. I'm taking some time to simply experience life instead of recording it. Be who you are. Don't limit yourself. Experience yourself to the fullest.