Robin's entry in the challenge
Ally and her friends did cartwheels across the lawn while David Bowie sang about spiders from Mars on the stereo speakers her mom had blasting from the kitchen. It was a weird song. She tugged her pigtails out from her halter strap, took a few deep breaths and chilled at the edge of the front lawn. Gymnastic practice was hard work even if it did look like fun. There wasn't a lot of traffic on the street below but still, it was safer to practice their moves towards the house and away from the hill.
Terry, Tracey and Tonia all did back flips. It was strange not to have a name that started with a T but it wasn't the only reason she felt like an oddball in their group. Ally's parents were still married to each other. She only ever received one set of presents at Christmas and birthdays. No trips to Disney like Tonia took with her dad so he could tell her she was going to be a big sister thanks to her new mom. No pony lessons like Tracey got from her mom and new dad when they moved out of the old neighbourhood. Terry's parental bribes were more along the lines of concert tickets and the latest albums for all of her favourite bands. They'd replaced the Bay City Rollers three times because Ally and the 3 Ts wore it out. S-A-T-U-R-
"C'mon, Ally, get the lead out!" Tonia called.
She shrugged before tucking herself into a ball like the raccoon she'd watched roll across their backyard the other night. It was annoying the way her parents treated her like a little kid when she was 12 years old, practically a teenager. Ally was going to pierce her ears for her thirteenth birthday, just like Tracey did when she turned twelve.Mom and Dad promised she could. They said she'd been really patient with her brother Greg and all the attention he got because he was slow. Terry's brother called him a retard. Ally had punched him on the nose.
She'd been expelled for three days from school because she punched him on the playground during recess. If he had said at home she wouldn't have missed any school. Mom said she was disappointed that Ally felt the need to resort to violence. Dad took her outside and told her was proud of the way she stood up for her baby brother.
Almost as if she had conjured him up by thinking about him, Greg ran onto the front lawn and tried to stand on his head. Of course he fell over. He was as co-ordinated as a piece of string. If someone didn't put his body into the right position he fell over. A lot. He followed the 3 Ts to the edge of the lawn at the top of the hill. All stopped to tie up her shoe. It would hurt if she tripped over it while setting up a cartwheel.
"Look, Ally Bally Bee! I tumble just like you." Greg dropped to the ground and started to roll, backward down the hill.
"No, Greg, stop!"Ally ran across the lawn but it was too late. He'd slipped over the side and was headed for the street.
Greg giggled like a madman. Her friends screamed and Ally ran faster than she ever had before in her life. Halfway down the hill, with every breath in stabbing her throat, Ally got in front of her little brother. Momentum barreled him right into her legs and she fell too.
Blue sky, blue car, green grass. Blue sky, blue car, green grass. They flipped past her vision faster and faster til it was just blue and green. Everyone was screaming. She could hear them but had no way to stop. Blue green bluegreen bluegreenblue.
She wrapped her body around Greg's and tucked him beneath her as they slid to a stop. The screech of tires filled her ears and she waited for the hot steel bumper to hit her.
Ally's arms shook as Greg struggled to break free. If she could just keep him still, she'd be able to keep him safe. She just needed to hold on.
Weird. She could taste the coppery strangeness of blood but she hadn't felt the car hit her. Ally listened hard, tried to hear anything over her friends screaming. Greg pounded on her arm. "Let go, Ally!!! Let me go."
She smelled the older boy before she saw him. Incense and weed, her neighbour Doug always smelled like that. Her parents told him not to come around the house but sometimes he plunked himself in a lawn chair at the end of his driveway.
Ally opened her eyes. The blue VW bug sat a good twenty feet away. No dents on the hood or the bumper. "Are you alright?" the driver asked.
She nodded and sucked in a breath. Jeez that hurt. Greg climbed out of her embrace. "That was fun."
A gasp from the driver was followed by more horrified screams from the 3 Ts. She looked Greg over head to toe. He looked alright. He waved his arms around recreating the cartwheel somersault free-for-all that had carried them down the hill.
Why was it so hard to breathe? Ally looked down at herself. Nothing strange there. Man, her back hurt. She twisted but the boy, a high school boy with long blond hair and the greenest eyes she'd ever seen, put his hand on her arm. "Don't move."
She shivered. A high school boy touched her. Just on her arm. It was no big deal. But the 3 Ts were going to ask her lots of questions about how that felt. Jeez. It hurt to breathe. Her back felt funny. The boy looked like he was going to be sick.
"Don't move. You'll just make it worse."
"Make what worse?"
Greg stopped bouncing around her friends and came back to Ally's side. "Ally Bally." He squatted down to examine her closely. "Why do you have a big piece of glass sticking out of your back? mom said we should never play near glass. Never. It could hurt you."
"Glass?" Black spots popped and hopped around Greg's head. That was bad. Really bad.
"Yeah, a great big piece of broken glass."
The driver nodded. "Someone dumped a mirror into the ditch. You must have rolled onto the jagged piece when you came down the hill."
"Ally!" Her mom pushed her way through the 3 Ts and shoved the driver aside. Her face twisted then smoothed out into her serious Mom face. "Terry, Tonia, Tracey, please take Greg back into the house. Everyone have a glass of milk. There are cookies on the counter. Please stay inside until Mr. Robbins or I come to get you. Please."
The spots were more like a lava lamp, just blooping up and down all over her vision. Hmm, her back didn't hurt as much. How big a piece of glass could it be anyway?
"I love you Ally Bally." Her mom's voice sounded like it was coming through a tunnel.
Everything was cold. Nothing hurt any more. Her last thought was of the mirror she'd tossed into the ditch the other day. The mirror she'd smashed to bits. Except for that one piece that reminded her of an icicle.
Bowie's voice drifted down the hill. "There's a starman, waiting in the sky."
Friday, January 22, 2016
Wednesday, January 20, 2016
Tires, hockey, club, bakery and ivy
Follow this link to read Robin's Results. Mine are below
Tires gripped the asphalt as the car hit the icy curve too fast. The bungee cord holding the passenger door in place stretched to its point of no return. A white box slid through the gap before the door slammed shut.
Dave watched the retreating taillights and shivered inside the light hockey jacket he'd worn non-stop for the last two years. He slowly checked in both directions for oncoming traffic before he darted onto the road and retrieved the broken box. One red velvet cupcake stood straight in the center of the box while cookie monster, minion and spiderman cupcakes lay dented on their sides. Two Olaf cupcakes had fallen from the box to hit the pavement upside down. Dave grabbed those two by their paper liners and snapped them off just above their contact point with the road. Pleased with the day's bounty, food for the aching belly and a cardboard hat, he hurried back to the relative warmth and dryness afforded by the underpass. Nothing at his Ivy League school had prepared him for the harsh reality of a wind pelting him with snow with the level of ruthlessness a homeless man experienced.
As a journalist, he'd done his research. He had expected rough conditions, a scarcity of food and cruel people. His undercover stint as a homeless man had shown him the other side of things, the compassion, decency and creativity of people on both sides of the situation.
The freedom was unexpected. No longer a slave to deadlines, cell phones and demands of family. He thrived on the streets, living like a wild man dependent on no one or nothing that his wits in order to survive. No more country club, fancy cars or facials.
The freedom had been a surprise but no more so than the realization that he liked it. Dave bit down on Spiderman's head. Eighteen months after the assignment finished, he whooped as the sugar hit his malnourished bloodstream. He was never going back to civilization.
Tires gripped the asphalt as the car hit the icy curve too fast. The bungee cord holding the passenger door in place stretched to its point of no return. A white box slid through the gap before the door slammed shut.
Dave watched the retreating taillights and shivered inside the light hockey jacket he'd worn non-stop for the last two years. He slowly checked in both directions for oncoming traffic before he darted onto the road and retrieved the broken box. One red velvet cupcake stood straight in the center of the box while cookie monster, minion and spiderman cupcakes lay dented on their sides. Two Olaf cupcakes had fallen from the box to hit the pavement upside down. Dave grabbed those two by their paper liners and snapped them off just above their contact point with the road. Pleased with the day's bounty, food for the aching belly and a cardboard hat, he hurried back to the relative warmth and dryness afforded by the underpass. Nothing at his Ivy League school had prepared him for the harsh reality of a wind pelting him with snow with the level of ruthlessness a homeless man experienced.
As a journalist, he'd done his research. He had expected rough conditions, a scarcity of food and cruel people. His undercover stint as a homeless man had shown him the other side of things, the compassion, decency and creativity of people on both sides of the situation.
The freedom was unexpected. No longer a slave to deadlines, cell phones and demands of family. He thrived on the streets, living like a wild man dependent on no one or nothing that his wits in order to survive. No more country club, fancy cars or facials.
The freedom had been a surprise but no more so than the realization that he liked it. Dave bit down on Spiderman's head. Eighteen months after the assignment finished, he whooped as the sugar hit his malnourished bloodstream. He was never going back to civilization.
Monday, January 18, 2016
Writing prompts update
Robin Berkley and I have decided to join forces to do the writing prompts twice a week and share with our combined readers. Anyone is welcome to join us. At the very least, I hope you'll be willing to toss a few words or phrases our way.
The schedule will be Monday - gather prompts for two sessions.
Wednesday and Friday post the results of all that creative brilliance.
The library's writing group does something similar with paintings. Artists and writers inspire each other. I'm not sure which comes first but the art that comes out of it, printed and painted, are beautiful.
Writing prompts don't take the place of novels but they do a great job of kickstarting the brain. We like to make connections with even the most random of things. These exercises embrace those connections. A paragraph can lead to a scene which can lead to a chapter. Occasionally, they will inspire an entire novel. Most books start from one idea.
So. Wednesday. That's when you'll see what happens when you put tires, hockey, club, baking and ivy together.
Any other words you'd like to see us string together?
The schedule will be Monday - gather prompts for two sessions.
Wednesday and Friday post the results of all that creative brilliance.
The library's writing group does something similar with paintings. Artists and writers inspire each other. I'm not sure which comes first but the art that comes out of it, printed and painted, are beautiful.
Writing prompts don't take the place of novels but they do a great job of kickstarting the brain. We like to make connections with even the most random of things. These exercises embrace those connections. A paragraph can lead to a scene which can lead to a chapter. Occasionally, they will inspire an entire novel. Most books start from one idea.
So. Wednesday. That's when you'll see what happens when you put tires, hockey, club, baking and ivy together.
Any other words you'd like to see us string together?
Friday, January 15, 2016
New Year, new goals
I'm thinking of a slight revamp to the blog. My life is no less crazy than it has been the last few months. I've got at least two more months of this insane care-giver schedule. The blog will continue to be neglected if I don't change it up slightly.
Not writing makes me cranky. To be more accurate, it turns me into a grade A bitch but I was going for creativity over honesty. Today while waiting for my car to be healed at the garage, I wrote around 300 words. It needs a bit of tweaking before I share. The twist is dancing just on the edge of my consciousness.
The other thing I did today was find the photos of Stanley. I will scan them and see what they inspire. I did pick up a crow painting by Kathleen Thorsen.(I'm having trouble connecting with her website but that link will show you some examples of her work) It's encaustic which adds so much depth and texture to the painting. Go check her out.
Every week I'll post a short story based on writing prompts provided by you, either over here or on Twitter. So Monday, send me five words on any topic. On Wednesday, I'll post the story it inspires. That way, I'm back into a routine and the blog is active, even interactive.
Today's prompts were tires, hockey, baking, club, ivy. The last two words are still missing. Once I figure them out, I'll post the answers - on Monday. This week's schedule is a bit off just because it only came to me about an hour ago.
Depending on how Stanley's story goes, it will go up as a bonus treat some time in the next two months. Trips to the garage, and a break from caregiving, are not that frequent.
See you Monday!
Not writing makes me cranky. To be more accurate, it turns me into a grade A bitch but I was going for creativity over honesty. Today while waiting for my car to be healed at the garage, I wrote around 300 words. It needs a bit of tweaking before I share. The twist is dancing just on the edge of my consciousness.
The other thing I did today was find the photos of Stanley. I will scan them and see what they inspire. I did pick up a crow painting by Kathleen Thorsen.(I'm having trouble connecting with her website but that link will show you some examples of her work) It's encaustic which adds so much depth and texture to the painting. Go check her out.
Every week I'll post a short story based on writing prompts provided by you, either over here or on Twitter. So Monday, send me five words on any topic. On Wednesday, I'll post the story it inspires. That way, I'm back into a routine and the blog is active, even interactive.
Today's prompts were tires, hockey, baking, club, ivy. The last two words are still missing. Once I figure them out, I'll post the answers - on Monday. This week's schedule is a bit off just because it only came to me about an hour ago.
Depending on how Stanley's story goes, it will go up as a bonus treat some time in the next two months. Trips to the garage, and a break from caregiving, are not that frequent.
See you Monday!
Sunday, January 03, 2016
Animal Intelligence
National Geographic has a feature every couple of years about animal intelligence. It's a bar that's constantly being moved so they don't catch, or even surpass, humans in that area. Every time I turn on the news, I thinks it's too late.
Our multi-generational household is shared with two dogs, two cats, two parrots. All are rescues. The second parrot is the only one we went in search of. While they all comfort, love and entertain, they each teach me every day. The cats trick the dogs all the time, the dogs have taught us how to give them what they want and the parrots change the tone and inflection of common sentences to get an appropriate response from us.
Give any one of them an unfamiliar task and they will all find a way to complete it. Unless it's the cats. They never do anything they don't want to do.
With all this in-house entertainment, you'd be surprised how many videos I watch online of crows at play. They know how to have fun. Windshield wipers are an amusement ride, jar lids are toboggans and car hoods offer fresh snow on which to make crow angels.
Corvids, dolphins and octopus are the top three performers in self-awareness, intelligence and play. I've been fascinated by all three my whole life. Nothing will pull me out of a story faster than an author mocking animals.
I'm not back to typing full time yet but I have pulled out my sketchbook that is full of Stanley the crow. I think its time he got his own story. A little bit of romance, a touch of horror but definitely the happy ending he failed to receive in real life.
Our multi-generational household is shared with two dogs, two cats, two parrots. All are rescues. The second parrot is the only one we went in search of. While they all comfort, love and entertain, they each teach me every day. The cats trick the dogs all the time, the dogs have taught us how to give them what they want and the parrots change the tone and inflection of common sentences to get an appropriate response from us.
Give any one of them an unfamiliar task and they will all find a way to complete it. Unless it's the cats. They never do anything they don't want to do.
With all this in-house entertainment, you'd be surprised how many videos I watch online of crows at play. They know how to have fun. Windshield wipers are an amusement ride, jar lids are toboggans and car hoods offer fresh snow on which to make crow angels.
Corvids, dolphins and octopus are the top three performers in self-awareness, intelligence and play. I've been fascinated by all three my whole life. Nothing will pull me out of a story faster than an author mocking animals.
I'm not back to typing full time yet but I have pulled out my sketchbook that is full of Stanley the crow. I think its time he got his own story. A little bit of romance, a touch of horror but definitely the happy ending he failed to receive in real life.
Thursday, December 24, 2015
Merry Christmas
Close your eyes. Take a deep breath. Let the scent of orange and clove drift through your memories of Christmases past.
Keep your eyes closed. Inhale deeper. Warm butter, a hint of cinnamon. Perhaps a dash of ginger gives way to the scent of mustard, croissants and sausage.
Old Christmas tunes fill the air. Cheerful music about St Stephen, dragons and lambs all together on the most Holy Night. And in the distance the sound of children laughing in the snow, the sharp sting of snowflakes falling into young eyes searching the sky for their source.
The crinkle of wrapping paper, hastily torn and tossed aside. The clunk of heavy boxes, the whirr of robots and shouts of joy.
Then quiet as the baby lies beneath the tree, one tiny hand reaching towards the nearest twinkling light.
Peace on Earth. Goodwill toward man.
And love for all.
Keep your eyes closed. Inhale deeper. Warm butter, a hint of cinnamon. Perhaps a dash of ginger gives way to the scent of mustard, croissants and sausage.
Old Christmas tunes fill the air. Cheerful music about St Stephen, dragons and lambs all together on the most Holy Night. And in the distance the sound of children laughing in the snow, the sharp sting of snowflakes falling into young eyes searching the sky for their source.
The crinkle of wrapping paper, hastily torn and tossed aside. The clunk of heavy boxes, the whirr of robots and shouts of joy.
Then quiet as the baby lies beneath the tree, one tiny hand reaching towards the nearest twinkling light.
Peace on Earth. Goodwill toward man.
And love for all.
Thursday, December 17, 2015
Attraction
The tang of citrus mingles with the scent of sandelwood just over my shoulder. I can feel your breath warm against my neck. Your strong arm snakes around my waist and pulls me into the safety of your embrace.
My belly quivers as your hand slides up and over the taut peak of my breast. Just a quick skim that catches my breath then your fingers trail up my throat. You tip my chin back and I open my eyes.
The shadowed blue of your gaze is filled with hate.
You know. Everything.
I open my lips to beg forgiveness. Your hand covers my mouth.
Pinches my nose.
I struggle for breath. My limbs flail. My gaze seeks yours, locks on while I search for any spark of the man who loved me. Who betrayed me before I returned the favour.
There is a frozen landscape of rage between us. My hands and feet grow cold. A mist covers my vision. My ears filled with the thunderous sound of an avalanche headed my way.
You shove me to the ground. My body is a shell of its former strength, inert and motionless on the ground where it fell. Jagged shards of oxygen stab their way to my lungs.
"Death is too good for you." I hear your footsteps leave the room then stop. The sound of a body dropping to the floor is followed by a wail of grief so primal it makes my body shake in fear fills the house.
You have found her.
I look at the spray of blood across my legs and skirt. I smile.
My belly quivers as your hand slides up and over the taut peak of my breast. Just a quick skim that catches my breath then your fingers trail up my throat. You tip my chin back and I open my eyes.
The shadowed blue of your gaze is filled with hate.
You know. Everything.
I open my lips to beg forgiveness. Your hand covers my mouth.
Pinches my nose.
I struggle for breath. My limbs flail. My gaze seeks yours, locks on while I search for any spark of the man who loved me. Who betrayed me before I returned the favour.
There is a frozen landscape of rage between us. My hands and feet grow cold. A mist covers my vision. My ears filled with the thunderous sound of an avalanche headed my way.
You shove me to the ground. My body is a shell of its former strength, inert and motionless on the ground where it fell. Jagged shards of oxygen stab their way to my lungs.
"Death is too good for you." I hear your footsteps leave the room then stop. The sound of a body dropping to the floor is followed by a wail of grief so primal it makes my body shake in fear fills the house.
You have found her.
I look at the spray of blood across my legs and skirt. I smile.
Monday, December 07, 2015
An abundance of cushions
A fork, a radio, full moon and a dump truck all flashed through my mind the other night. I'm not getting a lot of sleep but lying in bed, words flow like bioluminescence. I don't have the energy to write them all down but they soothe me to sleep. Eventually.
Sometimes they prompt scenes. This one started out as radio silence spoke volumes but morphed into something a bit more adventurous.
The brilliance of the full moon in August shone a spotlight on the dump truck parked beneath the bedroom window. Filled to the brim with an old battered couch and an abundance of cushions buried beneath tattered clothes, a broken radio and a drawer of cutlery missing all the forks, the truck looked as out-of-place as a rocketship in a lion's pen. The window on the far left of the second storey opened with a screech and muttered curse. One bare leg thrust through the opening to be quickly followed by a second leg then the rest of the body. With a rolling dive that would make Greg Louganis proud, the gangly teenager landed in the back of the dump trunk. After a brief fist pump, he folded his skinny arms and legs around his body and sank beneath the cushions.
With a soft crunch over branches on the back lawn the dump truck made its way to its next destination. To pick up the next runaway. It pulled onto the county road, just another working vehicle transporting its cargo to the space station down the road. There the contents would be sorted into trash to be burned and organic materials for biodiesel. The teenager's dream of space travel would be realized.
Sometimes they prompt scenes. This one started out as radio silence spoke volumes but morphed into something a bit more adventurous.
The brilliance of the full moon in August shone a spotlight on the dump truck parked beneath the bedroom window. Filled to the brim with an old battered couch and an abundance of cushions buried beneath tattered clothes, a broken radio and a drawer of cutlery missing all the forks, the truck looked as out-of-place as a rocketship in a lion's pen. The window on the far left of the second storey opened with a screech and muttered curse. One bare leg thrust through the opening to be quickly followed by a second leg then the rest of the body. With a rolling dive that would make Greg Louganis proud, the gangly teenager landed in the back of the dump trunk. After a brief fist pump, he folded his skinny arms and legs around his body and sank beneath the cushions.
With a soft crunch over branches on the back lawn the dump truck made its way to its next destination. To pick up the next runaway. It pulled onto the county road, just another working vehicle transporting its cargo to the space station down the road. There the contents would be sorted into trash to be burned and organic materials for biodiesel. The teenager's dream of space travel would be realized.
Monday, November 30, 2015
Silver linings
Last Wednesday was hands down one of the worst days of my life. Every phone call, text and email was bad news. The worst was the one informing me that my dad had to have a triple bypass and aortic valve replacement. The rest of it was noise thwarting my plans to enjoy life. I'm not proud of my scorched earth reaction to the other things. It was mostly a case of needing to remove any and all negativity from my mindset. I accidentally deleted three people from my contacts. My phone has rebelled every day, randomly calling some people and hanging up on others. It's all a bit juvenile and ridiculous.
I haven't had much time for writing. My brain processes via nigmares and odd dreams while I nap. Sleep has been impossible. I write regardless of mood, emotion or opportunity. I write as a way to process. I write to entertain, to teach and to learn. Its what I do, I write.
At the moment, I'm buried beneath words of all flavours, texture and colour. The image that returns time and again is that of a dark stormycloud hurling lightning, hail and booming sound waves of doom at my house. Through the flashes of light, I see streaks of silver. Dad is in the best hospital for this kind of surgery, I have friends who support me with midnight hospital runs, nutritious soup, yummy ginger snaps, the ability to tear down my garage. It will be sad to lose the garage but we did our best to save it. The city won't allow us to replace and no engineer will sign off on repair. The insurance cheque will give us a much needed cushion.
While the sleep is elusive, the nightmares I experienced before my dad's heart attack are gone. I've pulled a muscle lifting my mom as well as all the cleaning and organizing I've done. Odd thing, I heard and felt something crack in my hand when I was replacing the kitchen taps. My exercises are less painful now. Typing can't be far off.
Otis (70 year old black man in 25 year old white boy's body) took me out for hot chocolate the other day and reminded me that a strong connection does not always equate into romance, nor should it. He also reminded me the power of magic and love. Several of my friends are finding people who bring out the best in them. I don't begrudge a single one of them happiness. Realizing that has been a boon.
That one day of horrible news hasn't destroyed my core belief that if you look you will always find a silver lining. It's a bit Pollyanna of me but I'm more than fine with that.
I haven't had much time for writing. My brain processes via nigmares and odd dreams while I nap. Sleep has been impossible. I write regardless of mood, emotion or opportunity. I write as a way to process. I write to entertain, to teach and to learn. Its what I do, I write.
At the moment, I'm buried beneath words of all flavours, texture and colour. The image that returns time and again is that of a dark stormycloud hurling lightning, hail and booming sound waves of doom at my house. Through the flashes of light, I see streaks of silver. Dad is in the best hospital for this kind of surgery, I have friends who support me with midnight hospital runs, nutritious soup, yummy ginger snaps, the ability to tear down my garage. It will be sad to lose the garage but we did our best to save it. The city won't allow us to replace and no engineer will sign off on repair. The insurance cheque will give us a much needed cushion.
While the sleep is elusive, the nightmares I experienced before my dad's heart attack are gone. I've pulled a muscle lifting my mom as well as all the cleaning and organizing I've done. Odd thing, I heard and felt something crack in my hand when I was replacing the kitchen taps. My exercises are less painful now. Typing can't be far off.
Otis (70 year old black man in 25 year old white boy's body) took me out for hot chocolate the other day and reminded me that a strong connection does not always equate into romance, nor should it. He also reminded me the power of magic and love. Several of my friends are finding people who bring out the best in them. I don't begrudge a single one of them happiness. Realizing that has been a boon.
That one day of horrible news hasn't destroyed my core belief that if you look you will always find a silver lining. It's a bit Pollyanna of me but I'm more than fine with that.
Monday, November 23, 2015
Importance of stories
Since the beginning of humankind, we have gathered to share stories. It was a way to pass time by the fire, a way to teach each other the lessons of life, that fire burns, woolly mammoths are dangerous but provide food, shelter and clothing. Stories connect us, unite us with shared memories, in laughter, love and acceptance.
Sometimes stories scare us. They allow us to react in a controlled environment when the real monsters are too horrible to comprehend. We bleed off the fear and feel triumphant when we can defeat the monsters beneath the bed.
Stories inspire us with tales of love and devotion. They remind us there are good moments in the midst of bad. That love often shines a light in the darkness.
There are big stories that touch millions like the Parisian man reassuring his son that love and kindness are more important, even stronger, than the bad men. Tigers pouncing on pumpkins make us laugh and elephants painting landscapes with their trunks inspire us to fill the world with colour.
There are the smaller stories, the ones your don't share with anyone else. A gentle touch on the back of the hand, a first kiss perfect beyond expectation or description, a smile that fills your heart because you alone could tease it free. The quiet of the night broken by the sound of soft breathing. The sweet scent of a child's hair as they slumber in your arms. Those are stories of love, of trust, of possibility and all the more precious for being held close to our chests, shielded from the rest of the world.
We need those stories. In times of stress, whether global or personal, they distract us, comfort us, inspire us. Stories add colour, texture and depth to our lives in every way imaginable. We are richer both in the telling and the hearing.
Thank you for your stories.
Sometimes stories scare us. They allow us to react in a controlled environment when the real monsters are too horrible to comprehend. We bleed off the fear and feel triumphant when we can defeat the monsters beneath the bed.
Stories inspire us with tales of love and devotion. They remind us there are good moments in the midst of bad. That love often shines a light in the darkness.
There are big stories that touch millions like the Parisian man reassuring his son that love and kindness are more important, even stronger, than the bad men. Tigers pouncing on pumpkins make us laugh and elephants painting landscapes with their trunks inspire us to fill the world with colour.
There are the smaller stories, the ones your don't share with anyone else. A gentle touch on the back of the hand, a first kiss perfect beyond expectation or description, a smile that fills your heart because you alone could tease it free. The quiet of the night broken by the sound of soft breathing. The sweet scent of a child's hair as they slumber in your arms. Those are stories of love, of trust, of possibility and all the more precious for being held close to our chests, shielded from the rest of the world.
We need those stories. In times of stress, whether global or personal, they distract us, comfort us, inspire us. Stories add colour, texture and depth to our lives in every way imaginable. We are richer both in the telling and the hearing.
Thank you for your stories.
Friday, November 20, 2015
Writing is an exploration
It's been a roller coaster of a week. I'm house-sitting at one of my go-to writer retreats. This is the place I come to knock out five to seven thousand words over a couple of days. I'm starting a new story. I'm here for a week.
Writing is painful. Literally causes a great deal of pain in my hand. Physio this week was not only frustrating but discouraging. Restricted use of my right hand continues. I've tried wearing bracelets and rings to remind myself to type one-handed. Yes, the pain should be an obvious deterrent. When creativity flows, I ignore everything but getting the thoughts out. I pay for it later.
My editor came back with some BIG changes for the first book in the four-part trilogy. Science has minimized or even solved some of the global crises I used as the basis for the hero's Quest. Several emails were followed by an hour long discussion on how to attack the rewrite. I've had a few days to consider all the options and have found one that works for both of us. I'm anxious to fix it before I start the new book.
It is better to fix the mistakes of the past so that you can go forward with confidence.
Two books have helped me this week. A quick skim-through of An astronaut's guide to life to refresh my memory led to the new catchphrase, "What would Chris Hadfield do?" Dealing with life and death issues in space means he can't freak out and decide things are too hard. Sometimes things break. "Work the problem" is how NASA handles the unexpected. Considering how much they train for every conceivable thing that could go wrong, that there is an unexpected is amazing. But inconceivable happens.
The other book I'm reading is a YA about the need we have to label everyone. Openly Straight is fiction. A young gay man chooses to move across the country and not tell anyone he is gay because that was the only way anyone saw him back home. His English teacher assigns semester long personal essays that follow E.L. Doctorow's edict that "Writing is an exploration. You start from nothing and learn as you go."
Reading, thinking and the occasional jotting of notes will get me through this phase. Therapy will eventually strengthen my hand enough to get back to typing. In the meantime, I really need to mentally go through the manuscript and work out the best way to move forward with the original story and characters in a way that is less dated.
Sounds like a great way to work the problem.
Writing is painful. Literally causes a great deal of pain in my hand. Physio this week was not only frustrating but discouraging. Restricted use of my right hand continues. I've tried wearing bracelets and rings to remind myself to type one-handed. Yes, the pain should be an obvious deterrent. When creativity flows, I ignore everything but getting the thoughts out. I pay for it later.
My editor came back with some BIG changes for the first book in the four-part trilogy. Science has minimized or even solved some of the global crises I used as the basis for the hero's Quest. Several emails were followed by an hour long discussion on how to attack the rewrite. I've had a few days to consider all the options and have found one that works for both of us. I'm anxious to fix it before I start the new book.
It is better to fix the mistakes of the past so that you can go forward with confidence.
Two books have helped me this week. A quick skim-through of An astronaut's guide to life to refresh my memory led to the new catchphrase, "What would Chris Hadfield do?" Dealing with life and death issues in space means he can't freak out and decide things are too hard. Sometimes things break. "Work the problem" is how NASA handles the unexpected. Considering how much they train for every conceivable thing that could go wrong, that there is an unexpected is amazing. But inconceivable happens.
The other book I'm reading is a YA about the need we have to label everyone. Openly Straight is fiction. A young gay man chooses to move across the country and not tell anyone he is gay because that was the only way anyone saw him back home. His English teacher assigns semester long personal essays that follow E.L. Doctorow's edict that "Writing is an exploration. You start from nothing and learn as you go."
Reading, thinking and the occasional jotting of notes will get me through this phase. Therapy will eventually strengthen my hand enough to get back to typing. In the meantime, I really need to mentally go through the manuscript and work out the best way to move forward with the original story and characters in a way that is less dated.
Sounds like a great way to work the problem.
Tuesday, November 17, 2015
Quiet
Music notes lifted from the keys to swirl around the yard like dying leaves on the Autumn breeze.
Colours collided in vibrant hues of orange, purple and gold.
Splashes of rain bounced off the dead soil.
Her eyelids flickered as his distinct scent tickled her into awareness, teased her up out of the dream about him.
The crash of the kitchen door. A scream cut off abruptly. Coppery scent of fresh blood. Senses chasing her through her dreams turned nightmares. Demons and ghosts with talons made of bone and the cold stare of Death.
Images piling on top of her, suffocating her, drowning her. Pain, the scalding hot pain of realization, speared her chest, robbed her breath. Her body shuddered as her eyes opened wide. Terror shoved adrenaline through her veins while gaze sought out answers. A silent room. An empty room
She willed her limbs into quiet. Took a deep breath to restore vital oxygen to her panicked brain. Nightmares. Only nightmares. She turned her head towards his pillow, to the comfort of his scent, the reassurance that only he could provide.
Moonlight through the window exposed the sharp steel of the blade that lay upon the red stained pillow. The scream lodged in her throat as the gloved hand reached down to silence her forever.
Colours collided in vibrant hues of orange, purple and gold.
Splashes of rain bounced off the dead soil.
Her eyelids flickered as his distinct scent tickled her into awareness, teased her up out of the dream about him.
The crash of the kitchen door. A scream cut off abruptly. Coppery scent of fresh blood. Senses chasing her through her dreams turned nightmares. Demons and ghosts with talons made of bone and the cold stare of Death.
Images piling on top of her, suffocating her, drowning her. Pain, the scalding hot pain of realization, speared her chest, robbed her breath. Her body shuddered as her eyes opened wide. Terror shoved adrenaline through her veins while gaze sought out answers. A silent room. An empty room
She willed her limbs into quiet. Took a deep breath to restore vital oxygen to her panicked brain. Nightmares. Only nightmares. She turned her head towards his pillow, to the comfort of his scent, the reassurance that only he could provide.
Moonlight through the window exposed the sharp steel of the blade that lay upon the red stained pillow. The scream lodged in her throat as the gloved hand reached down to silence her forever.
Wednesday, November 11, 2015
Music
Did you ever hear a piece of music so perfect you wanted to climb inside the notes and be surrounded by the exquisite beauty? And no matter where you go in life or what happens after you carry that feeling inside you, being part of the music and it being part of you. You and the music make the world so much more through that exchange. Kisses are music.
Sing to me.
Thursday, November 05, 2015
Strange fascinations
I feel for my physiotherapist. I am incapable of silence when in the company of others. This is a bit of a surprise to me. Regardless, I ask him tons of questions about physiotherapy, ultrasound, treatments, changes in medicine over the last twenty years and how they affect his practice. I ask about patient patterns, industry growth and improved understanding of the human body when it comes to physiology, kinesiology and psychiatry.
I have always been curious about science and medicine. Both of my grandmothers were nurses, my brother and nephew were both born with a malabsorption issue and my family has had all sorts of life-altering diseases. The more I've understood the better equipped I've been to helping them out whenever possible.
Books have been the gateway to knowledge for as long as I can remember. Fairy tales and nursery rhymes hid life lessons from an earlier times. My dad encouraged me to understand the symbolism and parable in each.
The thing is that no matter how much I learn, it's the tip of the iceberg to what I can still learn. Books tell me so much but trained professionals and experts can teach me so much more. I ask a few questions then listen to the answers.
It's not just my physiotherapist I subject to my interrogations. Friends, family, strangers on the Internet are all fascinating subjects for me to interview. I explore the vastness of space and the microcosm of biology, the complexities of human behaviour and the simplicity of faith, the cruelty of fate and the kindness of whimsy.
I don't think fascination with life and all it holds is limited to me. I think it's a very strong foundation of most writer personalities. It gives depth and interest to our characters, our worlds and our stories.
What's your strange fascination?
I have always been curious about science and medicine. Both of my grandmothers were nurses, my brother and nephew were both born with a malabsorption issue and my family has had all sorts of life-altering diseases. The more I've understood the better equipped I've been to helping them out whenever possible.
Books have been the gateway to knowledge for as long as I can remember. Fairy tales and nursery rhymes hid life lessons from an earlier times. My dad encouraged me to understand the symbolism and parable in each.
The thing is that no matter how much I learn, it's the tip of the iceberg to what I can still learn. Books tell me so much but trained professionals and experts can teach me so much more. I ask a few questions then listen to the answers.
It's not just my physiotherapist I subject to my interrogations. Friends, family, strangers on the Internet are all fascinating subjects for me to interview. I explore the vastness of space and the microcosm of biology, the complexities of human behaviour and the simplicity of faith, the cruelty of fate and the kindness of whimsy.
I don't think fascination with life and all it holds is limited to me. I think it's a very strong foundation of most writer personalities. It gives depth and interest to our characters, our worlds and our stories.
What's your strange fascination?
Thursday, October 29, 2015
Ch-changes
I've been busy working on the business side of writing. That's not my skill set. I write. However, I've consulted with several people who are in total control of their writing careers, as well as people who excel in the various departments.
There are some changes coming to the blog. Some changes coming to my writing routine. Most importantly, there are some changes coming to the story-in-hand process. I am torn between terror and excitement. Fitting as I write both romance and horror.
As soon as the new stuff is up, I'll let you all know. Excuse me while I go freak out. Change is scary. But vital.
There are some changes coming to the blog. Some changes coming to my writing routine. Most importantly, there are some changes coming to the story-in-hand process. I am torn between terror and excitement. Fitting as I write both romance and horror.
As soon as the new stuff is up, I'll let you all know. Excuse me while I go freak out. Change is scary. But vital.
Tuesday, October 20, 2015
#WhyIWrite
A friend recently asked why I write fiction - like it's a choice. There are stories in my head at all times. Like two people getting seats at a hockey game, each wearing jerseys from the opposing team. If they are teams that have been rivals since the beginning of the league even better. My brain automatically writes the rest of the story. Maybe there's a mutual attraction. Maybe they agree to let the children choose a team for themselves.
Or a wedding photographer meets a bridesmaid at several different weddings. To him it's just a lucrative job. He's divorced and determined to never risk his heart again. She's a hopeless romantic.
The stockboy has been stalking the cheerleader for weeks. One night he approaches her behind the store where they both work. She stabs him in the eye with her car key.
I could probably think of twenty more scenarios without even trying. Better on the page than rolling around inside my head.
Why do you read fiction?
Or a wedding photographer meets a bridesmaid at several different weddings. To him it's just a lucrative job. He's divorced and determined to never risk his heart again. She's a hopeless romantic.
The stockboy has been stalking the cheerleader for weeks. One night he approaches her behind the store where they both work. She stabs him in the eye with her car key.
I could probably think of twenty more scenarios without even trying. Better on the page than rolling around inside my head.
Why do you read fiction?
Sunday, October 04, 2015
Community
The good news is we're reasonably sure we know why I was dizzy all summer - migraine. Apparently there's a migraine who's only symptom is dizziness. Figures. I now have four types of migraine on any given day.
This is interfering with my writing - and may account for my fascination with horror.
I've been reading a lot of non-fiction as well as fiction these days. Losing myself in the worlds of others is a good way to actually find what's important to me, or answers to my own world. Dolphin research, missing indigenous women, depression lies and wonderful romances where the heroes rescue animals and the heroines catch the bad guys reaffirm how fortunate I am in the life I chose. When having a bad day, like putting the car in the wrong gear and moving the garage back two feet as a result, perspective is much appreciated. Things can always be worse. Sometimes, they can be a bit better but honestly, it's a good life.
That's been the primary takeaway from all that reading. No matter how horrible the tragedies most of those people have faced, they have this amazing spirit, a determination to make their lives better as well as the lives of those around them. Even the dolphins who seem to have wonderful lives swimming in the seven seas can teach us about community and supporting one another. They assist each other in times of crisis and of joy.
I have a strong community of friends both online and in my daily existence. Several suffer with migraines and have been helpful with tips for preventing them. Others live with depression and have given me a great deal of insight into what they experience so that I can support rather than judge their choices. My insurance adjuster is funny as hell so that's helped, as have all the people I've dealt with throughout the process.
My writing buddy insists all of the above is fodder for the mill and she's right. You just know I'm going to use some of it in a story somewhere.
This is interfering with my writing - and may account for my fascination with horror.
I've been reading a lot of non-fiction as well as fiction these days. Losing myself in the worlds of others is a good way to actually find what's important to me, or answers to my own world. Dolphin research, missing indigenous women, depression lies and wonderful romances where the heroes rescue animals and the heroines catch the bad guys reaffirm how fortunate I am in the life I chose. When having a bad day, like putting the car in the wrong gear and moving the garage back two feet as a result, perspective is much appreciated. Things can always be worse. Sometimes, they can be a bit better but honestly, it's a good life.
That's been the primary takeaway from all that reading. No matter how horrible the tragedies most of those people have faced, they have this amazing spirit, a determination to make their lives better as well as the lives of those around them. Even the dolphins who seem to have wonderful lives swimming in the seven seas can teach us about community and supporting one another. They assist each other in times of crisis and of joy.
I have a strong community of friends both online and in my daily existence. Several suffer with migraines and have been helpful with tips for preventing them. Others live with depression and have given me a great deal of insight into what they experience so that I can support rather than judge their choices. My insurance adjuster is funny as hell so that's helped, as have all the people I've dealt with throughout the process.
My writing buddy insists all of the above is fodder for the mill and she's right. You just know I'm going to use some of it in a story somewhere.
Thursday, September 24, 2015
Light and shadow
My friend and I abandoned an awesome art show for a few hours on Sunday to go play at Edwards Gardens. It's not exactly Central Park but it is an oasis in the city. We were a tad disappointed that so many other people felt the same way. We had a creepy photo shoot in mind. Not exactly something you can do without an explanation - or a plethora of horrified looks.
Exhibit A
There's a nice little gazebo. Dark and spider filled, it suited our needs nicely. We took a couple shots but the headless one is my favourite. I think it was helped by the bulky white sweater I was wearing. It tricked the camera's aperature. Yay!
Exhibit B
I love shadows and all the wonderful things you can do with them. I particularly enjoyed the irony of using lush green grass as our back drop. I call it Norman Bates meets Whistler's Mother. The purse over my shoulder changed my shape so that I looked considerably older and wider than normal. Still, I like it.
Exhibit C
Hmmm, I don't seem to have any photos of the tree that fascinated me with the way the leaves and light played together. I do have one dark photo of me watching it all.I'm in shadow and holding my hair out of my eyes so I can see better. Check out the creepy shadow on my arm. The tree is eating me!
In the end I decided against the committment it would require to lie at the bottom of the broken stairs beneath the police tape. Besides, I prefer to throw the bodies down there, not be one myself.
Wednesday, September 16, 2015
Autumn
I had a good conversation on Twitter about writer's inspiration. I realized that I'm drawn towards horror stories in the Autumn. The obvious correlation to Halloween isn't the only reason. Most of it comes from the scent of decay in the air. Leaves turn to mould, apples rot on the ground, the by-product of wine grapes presses down on the air with its sour notes. Mildew permeates everything.
It's also the time of Fall fairs with their carnivals and clowns. "By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes." I always associated that quote with Road Dahl and Ray Bradbury because they had such wicked observations of the nature of man. I missed out on MacBeth by moving to another province midway through high school.
Yet, Autumn is my favourite season. The smell of wood smoke riding the cool breeze reminds me of Hansel and Gretel. Cotton candy and taffy apples or even apple cider to fill the blood with the sugar rush that makes me feel invincible, daring, confident I'll return unscathed from the dark basement.
It's the time of year when rats scurry from lodging to lodging for the perfect damp place to hide out the winter months. Squirrels throw the empty walnut shells from the tree. My yard is littered with the remnants of their gorging feasts. Claw marks decorate the outer blocks of our foundation.
Yet, I love it all. I love the smells, the colours of leaves as they age then float to the ground. I love the myriad textures of the ground as it cools and retains moisture. Holes appear where before there was solid ground. The rat-a-tat pop of shells hitting the deck and the angry chatter of squirrels squabbling over the late harvest. So many flavours dance upon my tongue; pumpkin, peach, wine, fresh corn, squash, rich dark concord grapes. Autumn is a feast for the senses.
Fear underscores it all. Fear that there won't be enough food. That we're aging faster than we like. That the ground will flood. That the crops won't return next spring. That there are things waiting in the dark more terrifying than we can imagine.
We like the fear because it shows we care. We are attached to the return of all we need. And we believe it all will. It always has.
There's no reason to think it won't again.
But we enjoy the thrill of fear, regardless.
It's also the time of Fall fairs with their carnivals and clowns. "By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes." I always associated that quote with Road Dahl and Ray Bradbury because they had such wicked observations of the nature of man. I missed out on MacBeth by moving to another province midway through high school.
Yet, Autumn is my favourite season. The smell of wood smoke riding the cool breeze reminds me of Hansel and Gretel. Cotton candy and taffy apples or even apple cider to fill the blood with the sugar rush that makes me feel invincible, daring, confident I'll return unscathed from the dark basement.
It's the time of year when rats scurry from lodging to lodging for the perfect damp place to hide out the winter months. Squirrels throw the empty walnut shells from the tree. My yard is littered with the remnants of their gorging feasts. Claw marks decorate the outer blocks of our foundation.
Yet, I love it all. I love the smells, the colours of leaves as they age then float to the ground. I love the myriad textures of the ground as it cools and retains moisture. Holes appear where before there was solid ground. The rat-a-tat pop of shells hitting the deck and the angry chatter of squirrels squabbling over the late harvest. So many flavours dance upon my tongue; pumpkin, peach, wine, fresh corn, squash, rich dark concord grapes. Autumn is a feast for the senses.
Fear underscores it all. Fear that there won't be enough food. That we're aging faster than we like. That the ground will flood. That the crops won't return next spring. That there are things waiting in the dark more terrifying than we can imagine.
We like the fear because it shows we care. We are attached to the return of all we need. And we believe it all will. It always has.
There's no reason to think it won't again.
But we enjoy the thrill of fear, regardless.
Tuesday, September 08, 2015
Safety platform
Last week, I went back to the literal train bridge. I took a break from writing, work, and other commitments. It was hard not to think of my last post. I educated my friend about those safety platforms and we decided they would be very useful to have in all aspects of our life.
I don't like to quit. Diets are the only thing I truly abandon and even those get revisited on occasion. I do often switch up one activity for another when I'm frustrated over the lack of progress. More often than not the progress is held up by my preconceived notions.
I'm about to start a fourth book in the previously mis-named trilogy. My heroine has amazing conflict and arc. The hero is pretty cool but his conflict and arc are so minor in comparison. I'm trying to decide if that can be twisted to maximum advantage (how can he possibly understand her if he can't relate?) or if I should gut him somehow.
I have retreated to the safety platform, in this case creating a wedding gift, while I ponder which train to follow. Outrunning them seems unnecessary when I can take my time and see where they're headed instead.
Which train would you follow?
PS - I feel a bit like Sheldon Cooper and his obsession with trains
I don't like to quit. Diets are the only thing I truly abandon and even those get revisited on occasion. I do often switch up one activity for another when I'm frustrated over the lack of progress. More often than not the progress is held up by my preconceived notions.
I'm about to start a fourth book in the previously mis-named trilogy. My heroine has amazing conflict and arc. The hero is pretty cool but his conflict and arc are so minor in comparison. I'm trying to decide if that can be twisted to maximum advantage (how can he possibly understand her if he can't relate?) or if I should gut him somehow.
I have retreated to the safety platform, in this case creating a wedding gift, while I ponder which train to follow. Outrunning them seems unnecessary when I can take my time and see where they're headed instead.
Which train would you follow?
PS - I feel a bit like Sheldon Cooper and his obsession with trains
Wednesday, August 26, 2015
Train bridge aka Not my best title
Some friends were just talking about household repairs and the lengths some vendors will go to in order to move equipment. It made me think about all the times that we're so focused on one route that we cannot see the others. So I wrote "Sometimes it's better to get off the tracks rather than try to out-run the train".
That made me think about my writing. Over the years I've become more flexible about changing genders or characters to better suit the story. I've re-written plots because characters solved the entire issue on page three (sometimes they are much smarter than I am). I've changed titles repeatedly to get the exact sense in three words or less. As a writer I am considerably more flexible than I am as a person. Mind you, that took a lot of time. My critique partners will tell you I clung to my ideas even when the entire group thought I'd gone off in the wrong direction. My paths are rarely direct. In writing or life.
As a business person, I know nothing. My instinct tells me one thing but my experience is the opposite. I have enlisted the advice and guidance of business people from other fields. My former accountant thought writing was an absolute waste of my time from a financial point of view. That opinion has been repeated by everyone I've consulted. None of their opinion has anything to do with my writing quality but everything to do with the competition and business model for publishing. Indie or self-publishing has made the above both better and worse. There are a lot more options for the writer to take control of their career. No one I've talked to who is doing it is able to support themselves financially from writing alone.
I have a good job doing something I love. I also love writing. I jumped off the tracks for two years and didn't write much. I definitely didn't pursue it as a career. But the manuscripts have stacked up. Their stories want to be heard. So I'm running down the track again. The train behind me is gaining speed. Fortunately, there is a bump out alongside the track, a safe place to stand when the train barrels past.
I'm going to stand there and read up on more options. I'm sure another train will be along any minute if I want to run in front of it. Or I could wait until the track is quiet and sprint down the bridge then.
If you're not sure where I mean, look straight above the left swan's head and you'll see the little cut-out on the top of the train bridge.
That made me think about my writing. Over the years I've become more flexible about changing genders or characters to better suit the story. I've re-written plots because characters solved the entire issue on page three (sometimes they are much smarter than I am). I've changed titles repeatedly to get the exact sense in three words or less. As a writer I am considerably more flexible than I am as a person. Mind you, that took a lot of time. My critique partners will tell you I clung to my ideas even when the entire group thought I'd gone off in the wrong direction. My paths are rarely direct. In writing or life.
As a business person, I know nothing. My instinct tells me one thing but my experience is the opposite. I have enlisted the advice and guidance of business people from other fields. My former accountant thought writing was an absolute waste of my time from a financial point of view. That opinion has been repeated by everyone I've consulted. None of their opinion has anything to do with my writing quality but everything to do with the competition and business model for publishing. Indie or self-publishing has made the above both better and worse. There are a lot more options for the writer to take control of their career. No one I've talked to who is doing it is able to support themselves financially from writing alone.
I have a good job doing something I love. I also love writing. I jumped off the tracks for two years and didn't write much. I definitely didn't pursue it as a career. But the manuscripts have stacked up. Their stories want to be heard. So I'm running down the track again. The train behind me is gaining speed. Fortunately, there is a bump out alongside the track, a safe place to stand when the train barrels past.
I'm going to stand there and read up on more options. I'm sure another train will be along any minute if I want to run in front of it. Or I could wait until the track is quiet and sprint down the bridge then.
If you're not sure where I mean, look straight above the left swan's head and you'll see the little cut-out on the top of the train bridge.
Saturday, August 22, 2015
When is a kiss sexual assault?
I primarily write romance. It may have some paranormal elements to it but at the end of the day it is a romance that ends on a happy note.
When my characters meet they are invariably strangers. Their first kiss is monumental. It is part of both character and plot. It rarely follows the "Can I kiss you?" scenario. They read each other's signals.
Then I read this article about a reporter who was kissed on-air by a strange man. Full disclosure, the author of the article, Michael Hollett, is my cousin, not that our relationship has any bearing on the discussion. I am aware of the backlash he encountered because he posted about it on Facebook. Michael has always stood behind his beliefs, solidly and without wavering. I know that because we're family and it's been a part of his personality from before I was born.
All the family stuff aside, the article, and Michael's stance, made me think about how easy it is to justify assault through non-verbal cues. I read far more romance than I write. I interact with human beings every day at work and at home. I've been witness to, and experienced, sexual assault. In most of the cases I can personally attest to, both literary and actual, the aggressor "mis-read" the victim's body language. In a lot of cases, they didn't care.
Is the skin flushed from fear or arousal? Are the eyes dilated from apprehension or pleasure? Is the breathing ragged from panic or anticipation? Those are the cues we use to determine whether our physical attention is wanted. It is so easy to read those signals based on our own desires and expectations.
Honestly, I've never considered the first kiss scene where the hero, or heroine, suddenly presses their lips against the heroine's, or hero's, lips to be sexual assault. You know going into the story that these people are going to meet, fall in love, triumph over conflict and live happily ever after. In real life, that is most definitely not the case.
Are romance novels at fault for that mis-communication? Not any more than video games are responsible for the increase in gun crimes at movie theatres. There are correlations but most of us know the difference between reality and fiction.
Still, I've given the kiss as sexual assault a lot of thought. A lot of thought. Just because we never viewed something a specific way before doesn't mean we shouldn't start.
When my characters meet they are invariably strangers. Their first kiss is monumental. It is part of both character and plot. It rarely follows the "Can I kiss you?" scenario. They read each other's signals.
Then I read this article about a reporter who was kissed on-air by a strange man. Full disclosure, the author of the article, Michael Hollett, is my cousin, not that our relationship has any bearing on the discussion. I am aware of the backlash he encountered because he posted about it on Facebook. Michael has always stood behind his beliefs, solidly and without wavering. I know that because we're family and it's been a part of his personality from before I was born.
All the family stuff aside, the article, and Michael's stance, made me think about how easy it is to justify assault through non-verbal cues. I read far more romance than I write. I interact with human beings every day at work and at home. I've been witness to, and experienced, sexual assault. In most of the cases I can personally attest to, both literary and actual, the aggressor "mis-read" the victim's body language. In a lot of cases, they didn't care.
Is the skin flushed from fear or arousal? Are the eyes dilated from apprehension or pleasure? Is the breathing ragged from panic or anticipation? Those are the cues we use to determine whether our physical attention is wanted. It is so easy to read those signals based on our own desires and expectations.
Honestly, I've never considered the first kiss scene where the hero, or heroine, suddenly presses their lips against the heroine's, or hero's, lips to be sexual assault. You know going into the story that these people are going to meet, fall in love, triumph over conflict and live happily ever after. In real life, that is most definitely not the case.
Are romance novels at fault for that mis-communication? Not any more than video games are responsible for the increase in gun crimes at movie theatres. There are correlations but most of us know the difference between reality and fiction.
Still, I've given the kiss as sexual assault a lot of thought. A lot of thought. Just because we never viewed something a specific way before doesn't mean we shouldn't start.
Wednesday, August 12, 2015
Random thoughts because it's a Wednesday
I have a notebook full of story ideas and half scenes. Anything on television from news to game shows is fodder for story. I had a brilliant idea the other day based on a science show my nephew and I were watching. We discussed it briefly but I failed to write it down. I asked him about it yesterday. His response, "You said what if something like that was really true and the thing did another thing and that happened." Really? "Yes. It was a good idea." Except neither one of us remembers anything specific.
Notebooks. They can save you from hours of speculation that never leads anywhere.
Or maybe it was just the idea that people thought their house was haunted because things went missing or reappeared in the wrong places. Turns out it's just a cat. No real twist to anyone who has ever shared space with a cat. They're brutal for stealing items and hiding them. I lived with a crow who was tidier than a cat. Crows store all their treasure in their nest, not beneath the fridge or inside your shoe. And why on earth do they think a shoe is excellent cache for a mouse. We use those shoes every day.
My mind makes weird connections. I might just write a story that puts several of them together. But first the pseudonym. And remembering the idea where the news was true and the thing did another thing and that happened. Then the parrot laughed. Because he knows how foolish human brains can be.
Notebooks. They can save you from hours of speculation that never leads anywhere.
Or maybe it was just the idea that people thought their house was haunted because things went missing or reappeared in the wrong places. Turns out it's just a cat. No real twist to anyone who has ever shared space with a cat. They're brutal for stealing items and hiding them. I lived with a crow who was tidier than a cat. Crows store all their treasure in their nest, not beneath the fridge or inside your shoe. And why on earth do they think a shoe is excellent cache for a mouse. We use those shoes every day.
My mind makes weird connections. I might just write a story that puts several of them together. But first the pseudonym. And remembering the idea where the news was true and the thing did another thing and that happened. Then the parrot laughed. Because he knows how foolish human brains can be.
Friday, August 07, 2015
Names
Greetings, my friends. The trilogy has a name - The Tiger's Eye series. Yes, series. Because while brainstorming the three books I kept coming back to one character from the third in the trilogy that was never planned. The first was a standalone. Then a character caught my attention. Then another one. And now a fourth. She got short-thrift in the third book and the goddess noticed. So she issued a challenge that the shy character is going to have to steel her spine in order to meet.
I have to finish two origin stories first. One for a secret project (who knew I could keep a secret?) and one for the horror story. It's the epilogue that shows how the painting became so disturbing. Because the final scene was so horrific, I have to make the creation scene compelling but also equally intense. The research has been too much for me to stomach so my nephew approached a neighbour who is also a hunter. It's always good to have help.
I need a pseudonym for the horror story. It's not like anything else I write. I don't want to confuse readers who are used to the voice you read over here. DNe suggested I look at contemporaries of Edgar Allen Poe and see what tweaks my creative radar. Of course, I immediately thought of Raven. It's a good name. It's not creepy though the poem is suspenseful.
What really holds me back though is an excellent short story writer I follow on Twitter - Jesse Raven His writing style is so tight and suspenseful. I look forward to his upcoming compilation. Go check out his website. You'll see why I need a different name. Ravens may flock together but one usually stands out and Jesse is it.
So the search for pseudonym continues. I could possibly keep one half of Keziah Fenton. I'm not sure which half. It's a quest. I love those.
What says horror name to you? Remember, Stephen King is already taken.
I have to finish two origin stories first. One for a secret project (who knew I could keep a secret?) and one for the horror story. It's the epilogue that shows how the painting became so disturbing. Because the final scene was so horrific, I have to make the creation scene compelling but also equally intense. The research has been too much for me to stomach so my nephew approached a neighbour who is also a hunter. It's always good to have help.
I need a pseudonym for the horror story. It's not like anything else I write. I don't want to confuse readers who are used to the voice you read over here. DNe suggested I look at contemporaries of Edgar Allen Poe and see what tweaks my creative radar. Of course, I immediately thought of Raven. It's a good name. It's not creepy though the poem is suspenseful.
What really holds me back though is an excellent short story writer I follow on Twitter - Jesse Raven His writing style is so tight and suspenseful. I look forward to his upcoming compilation. Go check out his website. You'll see why I need a different name. Ravens may flock together but one usually stands out and Jesse is it.
So the search for pseudonym continues. I could possibly keep one half of Keziah Fenton. I'm not sure which half. It's a quest. I love those.
What says horror name to you? Remember, Stephen King is already taken.
Tuesday, July 21, 2015
Trilogy title
Woohoo! I just finished the revisions on the NC paranormal romance, Putting Down Roots. It now joins Heaven Coming Down and Hell to Pay in the complete trilogy.
It's exciting to finally be down a project that's taken ten years from the original sentence in the first book to the final sentence in the third. I had no idea I was starting a trilogy when the idea came to me. And all because a cocky man I knew at the time said that he could solve all of the world's problems if he had the same time and resources as God.
I need a name for the trilogy. The first is a quest to save the world, features gods and demons. The second is a challenge to save one man’s soul from the demon’s daughter and the third is about nymphs and humans curing cancer while falling in love. The central theme in all three books is man's interference with nature. All the characters from the first two appear in the final showdown with the evil nymph at the end of the third book.
Do you have any ideas on what I can call the trilogy?
PS - I am doubly proud of myself for finishing it while still suffering from vertigo. If something means enough to you, you will find a way
It's exciting to finally be down a project that's taken ten years from the original sentence in the first book to the final sentence in the third. I had no idea I was starting a trilogy when the idea came to me. And all because a cocky man I knew at the time said that he could solve all of the world's problems if he had the same time and resources as God.
I need a name for the trilogy. The first is a quest to save the world, features gods and demons. The second is a challenge to save one man’s soul from the demon’s daughter and the third is about nymphs and humans curing cancer while falling in love. The central theme in all three books is man's interference with nature. All the characters from the first two appear in the final showdown with the evil nymph at the end of the third book.
Do you have any ideas on what I can call the trilogy?
PS - I am doubly proud of myself for finishing it while still suffering from vertigo. If something means enough to you, you will find a way
Tuesday, July 07, 2015
Still spinning
Being dizzy 75% of the day makes one cranky. That's my experience, at least. I miss reading and writing. I've jotted things in my notebook when the world isn't going by quite so quickly but the days of spending hours at my desk seem but a distant memory. Steps are being taken to resolve this.
In the meantime, I've learned the following:
Sitting on the ground is a good position for not only weeding but throwing a ball. Be sure to sit on the grass so that when you fall over, it's a cushy landing.
The reason the wild petunia isn't doing so well is the neighbour's volunteer black walnut. If you lie on your back and stare up between the leaves, the sky looks like it's been serrated. Also, that tree grew very tall very fast.
Mulberries hold fast to the tree branches during a wind storm but leap from their stems if you're trying to pick them. Also, a robin can ride out the wind if the berries are plentiful.
Cats like to sleep in the window. They also like to chirp at the foraging squirrel. A closed window is best at these times.
Every manner of vegetation will grow in the cracks of the sidewalk.
If you lie on the floor, the birds will fly from their cage to walk all over you. The cat stands back as beaks are sharp. Also, freckles look a lot like seeds. Beaks are very sharp when the freckle holds fast to the skin. Beak wounds heal quickly with the aid of coconut oil.
Closing your eyes to slow the spinning of the earth occasionally results in naps.
Reading a printed page is much easier on the senses than a screen. No new book scent on the screen.
All of the above can be used as research in one capacity or another. It's all fodder. Fodder!
Stay balanced, my friends
In the meantime, I've learned the following:
Sitting on the ground is a good position for not only weeding but throwing a ball. Be sure to sit on the grass so that when you fall over, it's a cushy landing.
The reason the wild petunia isn't doing so well is the neighbour's volunteer black walnut. If you lie on your back and stare up between the leaves, the sky looks like it's been serrated. Also, that tree grew very tall very fast.
Mulberries hold fast to the tree branches during a wind storm but leap from their stems if you're trying to pick them. Also, a robin can ride out the wind if the berries are plentiful.
Cats like to sleep in the window. They also like to chirp at the foraging squirrel. A closed window is best at these times.
Every manner of vegetation will grow in the cracks of the sidewalk.
If you lie on the floor, the birds will fly from their cage to walk all over you. The cat stands back as beaks are sharp. Also, freckles look a lot like seeds. Beaks are very sharp when the freckle holds fast to the skin. Beak wounds heal quickly with the aid of coconut oil.
Closing your eyes to slow the spinning of the earth occasionally results in naps.
Reading a printed page is much easier on the senses than a screen. No new book scent on the screen.
All of the above can be used as research in one capacity or another. It's all fodder. Fodder!
Stay balanced, my friends
Friday, June 19, 2015
It's always something
Vertigo, my friends. It's my second go-around in as many months. I'm am tired of the world spinning past me. I've been moving my body to minimize the speed at which things fly past my fast when I am no longer in motion.
That is not conducive to writing. Or reading, for that matter. Hence, the complete and total lack of creativity. That made the writing retreat an odd experience. Fortunately, I am blessed and was able to have many conversations and brainstorming sessions. I have notes made in the moments when the spinning was less severe.
Do you suppose the fact that the new project is about spinning wool had any bearing on my inability to stand still? Spinning, spun, fell. At least, I have some great ideas. And sheep photos. We were staying in a town whose university mascot is a ram. Lots and lots of ram paraphanalia. So my mind was definitely on the new project.
What do you do when you are unable to work on a project?
That is not conducive to writing. Or reading, for that matter. Hence, the complete and total lack of creativity. That made the writing retreat an odd experience. Fortunately, I am blessed and was able to have many conversations and brainstorming sessions. I have notes made in the moments when the spinning was less severe.
Do you suppose the fact that the new project is about spinning wool had any bearing on my inability to stand still? Spinning, spun, fell. At least, I have some great ideas. And sheep photos. We were staying in a town whose university mascot is a ram. Lots and lots of ram paraphanalia. So my mind was definitely on the new project.
What do you do when you are unable to work on a project?
Thursday, May 28, 2015
May updates
Rootless Trees is done its first draft!! I've been sitting on it waiting for feedback from my critique partner. I really struggled with the last two scenes. There were a lot of loose ends to tidy. Even in sewing or knitting, I hate doing the loose ends. You have to take time to ensure they are woven in well enough that they don't unravel, nor are seen by the eye (untrained or expert).
I'm very pleased with the horror story. It needed about five sentences for revisions. Unfortunately, that leaves it at novella length. My plan for that manuscript needed another 20,000 words. That would destroy the rhythm of the story. More pondering.
So on to the Icelandic sweater story. I need a reason the two friends will fall out. It needs to be big enough and real enough to cause a rift that can only be mended by some serious growth on the part of the two heroines. No one dies. No one gets divorced. Those are my two rules. These women have been friends for over twenty years. They can say anything to each other. But one of them has to cross a line, no matter how unreasonable it is, for the other to fall out with her. I'm just not sure which line or which one crosses it. Other than that, I have an outline and am pleased.
At this point, I can write the opening as well as get to know the characters. I'm sure the break will reveal itself. In the meantime, the feedback for Rootless Trees was good so I can take it from there.
In other news, my beautiful mulberry tree has been cut back drastically. Two gutters and a house corner were pummeled by the two main branches that curved over the porch. I don't have pictures of the handsome man on my roof taking care to damage the tree as little as possible. He managed to save three main branches, enough for a couple of jars of mulberry jam. I'll spare you the photos. It hurts my heart to stand at my desk and look out the window. One thin branch continues to reach up towards my office and occasionally wave.
I'm very pleased with the horror story. It needed about five sentences for revisions. Unfortunately, that leaves it at novella length. My plan for that manuscript needed another 20,000 words. That would destroy the rhythm of the story. More pondering.
So on to the Icelandic sweater story. I need a reason the two friends will fall out. It needs to be big enough and real enough to cause a rift that can only be mended by some serious growth on the part of the two heroines. No one dies. No one gets divorced. Those are my two rules. These women have been friends for over twenty years. They can say anything to each other. But one of them has to cross a line, no matter how unreasonable it is, for the other to fall out with her. I'm just not sure which line or which one crosses it. Other than that, I have an outline and am pleased.
At this point, I can write the opening as well as get to know the characters. I'm sure the break will reveal itself. In the meantime, the feedback for Rootless Trees was good so I can take it from there.
In other news, my beautiful mulberry tree has been cut back drastically. Two gutters and a house corner were pummeled by the two main branches that curved over the porch. I don't have pictures of the handsome man on my roof taking care to damage the tree as little as possible. He managed to save three main branches, enough for a couple of jars of mulberry jam. I'll spare you the photos. It hurts my heart to stand at my desk and look out the window. One thin branch continues to reach up towards my office and occasionally wave.
Tuesday, May 05, 2015
Letting go
Just two scenes left to write. Two scenes. I know exactly what's going to happen. So why is it taking so long to actually write all the words that are needed?
One theory is that I don't want the book to end. It's the third in a trilogy and I really like these characters. They've all been with me in one form or another for seventeen years. The original idea came out of a conversation with a male friend who thought he knew everything. Once the characters showed themselves they became as real to me as any imaginary friends. They're independent of my will. I know that sounds a little bit nuts but other writers feel the same way about their characters.
Another theory as to my delay in finishing these two scenes is the need to send them off in a really big way. I keep trying to improve on the grandiosity of the final scene. That's in conflict with the tone of the story. Yes, there's magic. Yes, they're changing the world and curing cancer. But their personalities would dwell on the moment rather than the larger picture. They are intimate scenes about two characters and how their interaction affects each other. Saving the world is the by-product.
Do you ever hold off finishing a story (reading or writing) because you're not quite ready to let the characters go off into the world without you?
One theory is that I don't want the book to end. It's the third in a trilogy and I really like these characters. They've all been with me in one form or another for seventeen years. The original idea came out of a conversation with a male friend who thought he knew everything. Once the characters showed themselves they became as real to me as any imaginary friends. They're independent of my will. I know that sounds a little bit nuts but other writers feel the same way about their characters.
Another theory as to my delay in finishing these two scenes is the need to send them off in a really big way. I keep trying to improve on the grandiosity of the final scene. That's in conflict with the tone of the story. Yes, there's magic. Yes, they're changing the world and curing cancer. But their personalities would dwell on the moment rather than the larger picture. They are intimate scenes about two characters and how their interaction affects each other. Saving the world is the by-product.
Do you ever hold off finishing a story (reading or writing) because you're not quite ready to let the characters go off into the world without you?
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
Musical inspiration
The current manuscript is tentatively Season of Renewal which doesn't have earth in it either. I originally called it Rootless Trees. I like that title as they both are floundering without connections other than the ones they make together in this new land. That is a very angry song by Damien Rice. It's come in handy a few times as I worked on various scenes.
There are multiple versions of this song. The most haunting is the one with Damien Rice and Lisa Hannigan. I won't post a link as I cannot find the official version that used to be on Damien's website. The angry version is much faster and full of power. Google them on youtube.
What I like most about this song is the varied nuances in each and every rendition. And I use them all in the story. Because sometimes being a rootless tree can free you up to find your heart's true home.
Titles - not as easy as one would suppose.
There are multiple versions of this song. The most haunting is the one with Damien Rice and Lisa Hannigan. I won't post a link as I cannot find the official version that used to be on Damien's website. The angry version is much faster and full of power. Google them on youtube.
What I like most about this song is the varied nuances in each and every rendition. And I use them all in the story. Because sometimes being a rootless tree can free you up to find your heart's true home.
Titles - not as easy as one would suppose.
Monday, March 30, 2015
Titles
I'm wrapping up the third book in a trilogy. The first was titled Heaven Coming Down, followed by Hell to Pay. The last one should have Earth in the title. It was called Rootless Trees because both hero and heroine are transplanted but the truth is the book is about regrowth after the forest fire sweeps through and razes everything to the ground. I like Earth's Renewal but it doesn't have the same rhythm of the other two titles.
I've spent a ridiculous amount of time looking at quotes and sayings about trees. This is one of my favourites -
What did the tree learn from the earth
to be able to talk with the sky?
- Pablo Neruda
It won't work for my title so I need your help. Do you have any suggestions?
I've spent a ridiculous amount of time looking at quotes and sayings about trees. This is one of my favourites -
What did the tree learn from the earth
to be able to talk with the sky?
- Pablo Neruda
It won't work for my title so I need your help. Do you have any suggestions?
Sunday, March 22, 2015
Welcome, Spring
Yikes, over a month since my last post. Things have been busy.
My nieces took part in a Bear Bear photo shoot. We had so much fun it was ridiculous. Then it was decided that Bear Bear had to be returned to the Lost and Found and could not be played with by us. His brief taste of fame was over. I am still compiling the stories. I'm looking into a way to illustrate them.
After five months of living beside each other, Amadala moved into Yoda's cage yesterday. I had nothing to do with it. They decided on their own that they were ready for cohabitation. It is a nice big dwelling and the cage door is open most of the time. Neither bird is afraid to peck the cat. He has the wounds to prove it. Regardless, they are not left unsupervised.
My plan to finish Bracken's story by the end of March was knocked off course by external forces. Now that I have a handle on those, back to writing. I'm pleased with how it's coming along.
One last thing - the end of winter does not mean it's short weather. Not yet. Soon.
My nieces took part in a Bear Bear photo shoot. We had so much fun it was ridiculous. Then it was decided that Bear Bear had to be returned to the Lost and Found and could not be played with by us. His brief taste of fame was over. I am still compiling the stories. I'm looking into a way to illustrate them.
After five months of living beside each other, Amadala moved into Yoda's cage yesterday. I had nothing to do with it. They decided on their own that they were ready for cohabitation. It is a nice big dwelling and the cage door is open most of the time. Neither bird is afraid to peck the cat. He has the wounds to prove it. Regardless, they are not left unsupervised.
My plan to finish Bracken's story by the end of March was knocked off course by external forces. Now that I have a handle on those, back to writing. I'm pleased with how it's coming along.
One last thing - the end of winter does not mean it's short weather. Not yet. Soon.
Tuesday, February 17, 2015
Writing and knitting and bears, oh my
I've been busy with Bear Bear and nieces and editing and finishing projects. I should have photos and stories to share shortly. The only thing I've actually completed is the sweater I started knitting during the Winter Olympics a year ago. I had to stop because of the elbow injury. Now that's as good as it's going to get(considerably better than it was) I'm incorporating more of my activities back into my life.
I've also done a fair amount of shoveling. Not Boston marathons of shoveling but enough every day that my upper body is starting to look good. Mother Nature is a very effective trainer, and less expensive than a gym membership. I am one of the happy minority enjoying this winter.
What's new in your neck of the woods? (and why do we call it that?)
I've also done a fair amount of shoveling. Not Boston marathons of shoveling but enough every day that my upper body is starting to look good. Mother Nature is a very effective trainer, and less expensive than a gym membership. I am one of the happy minority enjoying this winter.
What's new in your neck of the woods? (and why do we call it that?)
Thursday, February 05, 2015
#How librarians spend their breaks
This is the short story I wrote when we found a little bear in the lost and found at work. It is the first in a series of adventure for the lost bear my coworker named.
We're promoting it every where in the hope that his family sees his photo and claims him.
Bear Bear was scared. His family was lost. This place was nice. Bright. Smelled like books.
He liked books. But his family wasn't here. The lady behind the counter picked him up from the couch and put him on the cabinet. He could see everyone who came into this sunny place. The lady talked to him. She was nice. She petted him and told him she would help him find his family.
But first he needed a bath.
Not a bath! A bath would ruin his stuffing. He didn't have much stuffing left. His family had loved it right out of him.
The nice lady said bears had to be clean to stay at the library.
He was at the library! His family loved the library. There were stories and games and movies and lots of fun things to do while he waited for them to come back.
Bear Bear decided a bath would be okay. He would have a bath and sit on the cabinet and wait. His family would come back and see him up there.
The library was a safe place to wait. Maybe he could read a good book while he waited.
Wednesday, February 04, 2015
Switching things up
They say if you're stuck writing one thing you should dive into something completely out of your comfort zone. I didn't write for almost two years. I futzed at stuff but nothing that moved stories forward. It was a bleak time.
Then I wrote a horror story and words flowed. The images that flickered behind my eyes were so powerful I had to record them. It was cathartic in a lot of ways. I'd been processing so much grief and rage that it was easy to understand not only the motivation but emotions of those characters.
When I was done that story I felt better about myself as both a writer and a human being. It's a good piece. It needs some tweaking and I'll get to that sooner rather than later.
The horror story made it possible for me to go back to writing romance. I not only believed in the power of love again,but that I had something interesting to say about it. The demons that had held me back from writing had been exorcised as part of writing the horror story.
Last week, someone left their little stuffed bear at work. So far I've written three stories about that little bear. More importantly, I've finished the rough draft of the novel-in-progress and am on track to finish the Hit by a Truck edits by the end of the month. I've been writing so much I've neglected the blog. Most of what I'm doing is the old pen and paper edits. I even took them to the doctor's office yesterday and worked away on the exam table. Why do they make you change into a thin cotton gown then wait 20 minutes for the doctor to appear? No problem, that was 20 minutes I put to good use.
What's the most interesting way you've heard of people switching gears for a project?
Then I wrote a horror story and words flowed. The images that flickered behind my eyes were so powerful I had to record them. It was cathartic in a lot of ways. I'd been processing so much grief and rage that it was easy to understand not only the motivation but emotions of those characters.
When I was done that story I felt better about myself as both a writer and a human being. It's a good piece. It needs some tweaking and I'll get to that sooner rather than later.
The horror story made it possible for me to go back to writing romance. I not only believed in the power of love again,but that I had something interesting to say about it. The demons that had held me back from writing had been exorcised as part of writing the horror story.
Last week, someone left their little stuffed bear at work. So far I've written three stories about that little bear. More importantly, I've finished the rough draft of the novel-in-progress and am on track to finish the Hit by a Truck edits by the end of the month. I've been writing so much I've neglected the blog. Most of what I'm doing is the old pen and paper edits. I even took them to the doctor's office yesterday and worked away on the exam table. Why do they make you change into a thin cotton gown then wait 20 minutes for the doctor to appear? No problem, that was 20 minutes I put to good use.
What's the most interesting way you've heard of people switching gears for a project?
Monday, January 12, 2015
Synchronicity
Hozier. Great music and wonderfully inspirational. I am on the penultimate scene of the first draft. I warm up with a bit of singing along, then dance around till the ideas starting flowing and away I go.
I've been reading a lot the last couple of weeks. We always gift each other with books for the holidays. For some reason this year mine were science based. Then yesterday we went to see Imitation Game about Alan Turing. It was heart-breaking, brilliant and incredible to realize how much the world has changed, how much it has not and how fortunate we are to recognize both facts.
My friends and I went out afterwards to discuss the movie and life. Again, a bit of science discussion that helped me realize that despite it being a subject in which I did not do well at school, my brain absorbs so much more than for which it's given credit. While describing something completely unrelated to the movie or my story, it hit me. The end of my book was right there in front of my face all this time.
I went to sleep with the ending in mind. I work up with it still there. When I came home from work today, Hozier and I made beautiful music together and I wrote.
Sometimes you need something unrelated to show you what you already know.
I hope this year is full of wonderful surprises, scientific or otherwise, for all of us.
I've been reading a lot the last couple of weeks. We always gift each other with books for the holidays. For some reason this year mine were science based. Then yesterday we went to see Imitation Game about Alan Turing. It was heart-breaking, brilliant and incredible to realize how much the world has changed, how much it has not and how fortunate we are to recognize both facts.
My friends and I went out afterwards to discuss the movie and life. Again, a bit of science discussion that helped me realize that despite it being a subject in which I did not do well at school, my brain absorbs so much more than for which it's given credit. While describing something completely unrelated to the movie or my story, it hit me. The end of my book was right there in front of my face all this time.
I went to sleep with the ending in mind. I work up with it still there. When I came home from work today, Hozier and I made beautiful music together and I wrote.
Sometimes you need something unrelated to show you what you already know.
I hope this year is full of wonderful surprises, scientific or otherwise, for all of us.
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
Music!
This past year I discovered several new-to-me artists. I also used my standing desk more often than not.You put the two elements together and voila - happy writer. Or productive writer.But if one of those elements is missing, I struggle to put words on the page.
I let a lot of stuff get in my own way. My responsibilities and obligations are more than some people's and less than others. It was more a matter of putting it all first. Now my stuff is a priority as well. (You'll get the hang of it, Susan, I slowly am)
Music is a distraction for some but it motivates me. Right now, I'm listening to Hozier while typing at my standing desk. I'm further into the current scene than I have been in weeks. Partly because I remembered to just let the story out instead of worrying about how it all fits together. But also because I can lose myself in the music. It keeps one part of my brain busy while another part creates.
May you find the things in life that bring you pleasure. There's always something that will block that if you allow it but it's okay to put yourself and your needs first once in a while. Crank up the music and dance or turn it on low and let it mellow you out. Whatever suits your current mood and need.
Happy New Year, Friends!
I let a lot of stuff get in my own way. My responsibilities and obligations are more than some people's and less than others. It was more a matter of putting it all first. Now my stuff is a priority as well. (You'll get the hang of it, Susan, I slowly am)
Music is a distraction for some but it motivates me. Right now, I'm listening to Hozier while typing at my standing desk. I'm further into the current scene than I have been in weeks. Partly because I remembered to just let the story out instead of worrying about how it all fits together. But also because I can lose myself in the music. It keeps one part of my brain busy while another part creates.
May you find the things in life that bring you pleasure. There's always something that will block that if you allow it but it's okay to put yourself and your needs first once in a while. Crank up the music and dance or turn it on low and let it mellow you out. Whatever suits your current mood and need.
Happy New Year, Friends!
Tuesday, December 23, 2014
Merry Christmas
I don't send cards, I wrap with gift bags and I find that I buy less and less stuff every year. I bake. A lot. And I share enough of it to feel like I'm not overindulging. It's good to have illusions this time of year.
My favourite gift - to give as well as receive - is the gift of presence. The nieces and nephew get to pick one day out of the year that is devoted to them and them alone. We eat what they want to eat, spend the time however they most wish to spend it. They don't have to share with their siblings or parents. The day is theirs and we build memories. It's difficult to wrap so I occasionally hand out gift certificates or make a little toy or item of clothing.
I had tea with a dear friend yesterday and neither one of us could remember the presents from our childhood, apart some big earth-shattering gifts, but we remember family, goofy moments and food.
Boy, do we ever remember food. Oranges, apples, Toblerone and those sticky ribbon candies. Shortbread, Hello Dollys, and fudge. Tortieres, stuffing, and turkey basted with scotch. Cooking disasters like gravy made with baking soda instead of corn starch, scorched potatoes, raw turkey because the oven died on Christmas Day (the only time we grilled a turkey on the BBQ) .
What's your favourite Christmas memory?
My favourite gift - to give as well as receive - is the gift of presence. The nieces and nephew get to pick one day out of the year that is devoted to them and them alone. We eat what they want to eat, spend the time however they most wish to spend it. They don't have to share with their siblings or parents. The day is theirs and we build memories. It's difficult to wrap so I occasionally hand out gift certificates or make a little toy or item of clothing.
I had tea with a dear friend yesterday and neither one of us could remember the presents from our childhood, apart some big earth-shattering gifts, but we remember family, goofy moments and food.
Boy, do we ever remember food. Oranges, apples, Toblerone and those sticky ribbon candies. Shortbread, Hello Dollys, and fudge. Tortieres, stuffing, and turkey basted with scotch. Cooking disasters like gravy made with baking soda instead of corn starch, scorched potatoes, raw turkey because the oven died on Christmas Day (the only time we grilled a turkey on the BBQ) .
What's your favourite Christmas memory?
Saturday, December 13, 2014
Surprise!
I'd love to say that I finished the rough draft of the wip but that would be a lie. It's close though.
I've just been overwhelmed with a restless feeling for the last five or six weeks. I've scrubbed my house, finished up lots of little projects, started some others and focused on purging stuff.
A lot of it was mental. Somewhere over the last few years my self-image had eroded. Chipped at by other people's needs, it lost all semblance of familiarity. My identity had been reduced to that of other people's context. I let go of the things important to me in order to do what desperately needed to be done for those I love. My time was spent on their stuff instead of my own. I saw myself in terms of other people instead of myself (except for when I was feeling sorry for myself)
About two weeks ago, I ran face first into my past and the life I thought I always wanted. It hurt. Holy smokes, the pain reverberated throughout my body. A giant Toblerone and smaller chocolate cake later, I took a good hard look at what I'd done to myself. I was fixated on what I didn't achieve instead of all that I have accomplished.
I like who I am now, at the life I've built for myself over the years. Yeah, there are some things that need tweaking and my self-image was terribly skewed.
As I've rebuilt it, I've been reminded how much I like my own company. Odd, that. I won't list all the things that are admirable or amazing about me. Some of you have been telling me those things for years and I've ignored you. Suffice it to say that I do like who I am and the choices I've made. Some of them were shaky but made for the right reasons and that's important.
Intent counts.
All the reflection and re-evaluating has made me a better writer. I looked at my characters, at my scenes and realized that they were all moving towards a goal they didn't really want but thought they should. That breakthrough is a game changer for this story and the reason I can say I'm close to the end of the rough draft.
Art and life are interconnected. You can have one without the other but it is so much better when you have both.
I've just been overwhelmed with a restless feeling for the last five or six weeks. I've scrubbed my house, finished up lots of little projects, started some others and focused on purging stuff.
A lot of it was mental. Somewhere over the last few years my self-image had eroded. Chipped at by other people's needs, it lost all semblance of familiarity. My identity had been reduced to that of other people's context. I let go of the things important to me in order to do what desperately needed to be done for those I love. My time was spent on their stuff instead of my own. I saw myself in terms of other people instead of myself (except for when I was feeling sorry for myself)
About two weeks ago, I ran face first into my past and the life I thought I always wanted. It hurt. Holy smokes, the pain reverberated throughout my body. A giant Toblerone and smaller chocolate cake later, I took a good hard look at what I'd done to myself. I was fixated on what I didn't achieve instead of all that I have accomplished.
I like who I am now, at the life I've built for myself over the years. Yeah, there are some things that need tweaking and my self-image was terribly skewed.
As I've rebuilt it, I've been reminded how much I like my own company. Odd, that. I won't list all the things that are admirable or amazing about me. Some of you have been telling me those things for years and I've ignored you. Suffice it to say that I do like who I am and the choices I've made. Some of them were shaky but made for the right reasons and that's important.
Intent counts.
All the reflection and re-evaluating has made me a better writer. I looked at my characters, at my scenes and realized that they were all moving towards a goal they didn't really want but thought they should. That breakthrough is a game changer for this story and the reason I can say I'm close to the end of the rough draft.
Art and life are interconnected. You can have one without the other but it is so much better when you have both.
Tuesday, November 04, 2014
Little things
Because there have been so many overwhelming things demanding my attention, I've focused on little things.
Emptying the sewing basket of items in need of mending
Reclaiming a cast iron pan
Replacing the clasp on my bracelet
And adding sentences one or three at a time to the wip.
How do you cope with large demands?
Emptying the sewing basket of items in need of mending
Reclaiming a cast iron pan
Replacing the clasp on my bracelet
And adding sentences one or three at a time to the wip.
How do you cope with large demands?
Thursday, October 23, 2014
come hither
I've been problem solving some serious RL issues. There wasn't anything left in my brain between that and work. Yesterday, I got some excellent solutions in place. And last night, my brain played with the penultimate scene in my story. I have some heavy commitments over the next two days but my notebook will be with me. The imagination beckons. What a relief!
Thursday, October 16, 2014
Dufferin Islands
I was sitting in the sun, waiting for a good friend and her wonderful husband to stroll through the Autumn leaves. This tiny flower was beneath my hand.
This was my view.
Breathe deep, my friends, the air is restorative.
This was my view.
Breathe deep, my friends, the air is restorative.
Tuesday, October 14, 2014
George
This is a piece of fleece I brought home from Rotmell Farm where Granny was born almost 150 years ago.
He got a bit felted in my luggage so I put him on top of Granny's cabinet filled with yarn. The pictures over him are from the Visitor Center in Dunkeld, just down the road from the farm.
He got a bit felted in my luggage so I put him on top of Granny's cabinet filled with yarn. The pictures over him are from the Visitor Center in Dunkeld, just down the road from the farm.
Monday, October 13, 2014
cutwork
I've enjoyed seeing things anew in my home. They're all there because I like them but I don't always see them.
This is one of the end tables. The photo is one of Jon Gustafsson's, the rock is from Iceland and the cloth reminds me of Grandma Fenton's lace work. It isn't hers but I do like it.
I'm a big fan of cutwork.
This is one of the end tables. The photo is one of Jon Gustafsson's, the rock is from Iceland and the cloth reminds me of Grandma Fenton's lace work. It isn't hers but I do like it.
I'm a big fan of cutwork.
Sunday, October 12, 2014
Whats the story?
My great-uncle (he really was great) made these two boxes. He used them in his workshop. The top one has hinges to hold pages down so they don't get caught when you close the drawers.
Yet, with all the care and precision that went into the chests, the handles are slapdash. That's not like him at all and I really want to hear that story.
Yet, with all the care and precision that went into the chests, the handles are slapdash. That's not like him at all and I really want to hear that story.
Saturday, October 11, 2014
sheep
This arrangement sits on my vanity. The rocks and thistle are from Dunfermline, the sheep is from Edinburgh. He was supposed to be a souvenir toy for Ky but I like him.
Look at that face
Look at that face
Friday, October 10, 2014
Horseman
I've had this guy sitting on my dresser for years. Sadly, his head won't stay on not matter what kind of glue I use. He really is the headless horseman. Ba dum bum.
Imagine my surprise when I went to Scotland, to the home where my great-grandmother was born, and saw a headed copy of my horseman. Freaked me out, but tickled me too.
More often than not he has one of my bracelets draped around his neck.
Imagine my surprise when I went to Scotland, to the home where my great-grandmother was born, and saw a headed copy of my horseman. Freaked me out, but tickled me too.
More often than not he has one of my bracelets draped around his neck.
Thursday, October 09, 2014
Houses
I've kept this picture in my kitchen for years. I used to want to live here.
Now I want to live here
Wednesday, October 08, 2014
Kyanite
I walk by these three specimens repeatedly throughout the day. This stone is how my dog got his name. His legs reminded me of the black kyanite in the front. The blue is easier to find. The big piece was from a good friend. A Welcome Puppy gift. His grey had a hint of blue when he was young so it was appropriate.
Tuesday, October 07, 2014
Pretty blue
I walk past this weed every day. It lurks at the edge of the garden and brushes everyone on the sidewalk. I think it actually helped the tomatoes grow so I don't pull it. It's very pretty. Chickory?
Monday, October 06, 2014
Right in front of our eyes
The biggest note I have on the wip is DETAILS. All those little things involving the senses that flesh out a story and give insight to a character's emotional, physical, mental state are vital.
It occurred to me this morning that there are hundreds of details right at hand, part of my everyday life, that I ignore or take little notice of. Every day this week, I'm going to post a picture of something that I either walk by, sit beside, use every day that gets next to no thought from me. It's my way of remembering to include the details and small touches in the story.
This is the sleeve I put on my cup of tea every morning at work. I bought it in Whistler in 2010 a few weeks after the Winter Olympics left town. I likely paid a third of the peak season asking price. It's pretty and I love the swirls of ice from one activity to another.
It occurred to me this morning that there are hundreds of details right at hand, part of my everyday life, that I ignore or take little notice of. Every day this week, I'm going to post a picture of something that I either walk by, sit beside, use every day that gets next to no thought from me. It's my way of remembering to include the details and small touches in the story.
This is the sleeve I put on my cup of tea every morning at work. I bought it in Whistler in 2010 a few weeks after the Winter Olympics left town. I likely paid a third of the peak season asking price. It's pretty and I love the swirls of ice from one activity to another.
Wednesday, October 01, 2014
Change of pace
Two and a half weeks since I lasted posted. Hard to believe that much time has gone by. Nothing weird or exciting happened but nothing bad either so that's good.
I spent one long afternoon walking along the Niagara Parkway from Dufferin Islands to the Tesla statue by the Victoria restaurant (or whatever it is called these days). It was a week day so the tourists were minimal. The air was crisp and clear, little wind to blow the mist around and the bright sun to dry out the clothes. There were a few spots I stood where the rush of the river was so loud it drowned out all thoughts. That alone made the day perfect.
I sat under the tree right here, my favourite tree, and actually wrote for a while. There were lots of problems with the story but that day I remembered some key elements about my characters. I let the fresh air and scent of the water fill my soul while my brain absorbed everything around me. I made two pages of notes on the setting. Silly, really, because this story never goes near the falls but the connection to nature is very strong, elemental.
It is good to take yourself out of the routine, hie off to a change of scenery. While it might be familiar, you never know what you might find. I found peace, the germ of an idea, and wild yarrow growing at the edge of the falls.
I spent one long afternoon walking along the Niagara Parkway from Dufferin Islands to the Tesla statue by the Victoria restaurant (or whatever it is called these days). It was a week day so the tourists were minimal. The air was crisp and clear, little wind to blow the mist around and the bright sun to dry out the clothes. There were a few spots I stood where the rush of the river was so loud it drowned out all thoughts. That alone made the day perfect.
I sat under the tree right here, my favourite tree, and actually wrote for a while. There were lots of problems with the story but that day I remembered some key elements about my characters. I let the fresh air and scent of the water fill my soul while my brain absorbed everything around me. I made two pages of notes on the setting. Silly, really, because this story never goes near the falls but the connection to nature is very strong, elemental.
It is good to take yourself out of the routine, hie off to a change of scenery. While it might be familiar, you never know what you might find. I found peace, the germ of an idea, and wild yarrow growing at the edge of the falls.
Sunday, September 14, 2014
One GREAT thing
Another rough week. Ky ate grapes which are incredibly toxic to dogs. 48 ours on IV to flush his kidneys, lots of drugs and time spent running between the emergency vet clinic and his regular vet. Honestly, it's been a rough four weeks for pets around here. The great news is that he not only survived but seems fully recovered. He also got over his aversion to being crated. As he typically destroys every crate/cage he's entered, this is a very good thing. All of the human food has now been hung from the ceiling or cupboards like we're cacheing for bears.Whatever works.
I have a great reason for low word count this week. There wasn't a lot of sleep happening here until Friday.
Today, I printed off the document, settled on the couch with Ky under one hand and Eliot on the other. With the race on in the background I fleshed out two scenes, about eight pages. More importantly, I was able to see, and fix, the problem that's been staring me in the face for the last couple of weeks. Let's hope the solution lasts. As the distraction is gone, I imagine productivity will return.
I've had to cancel my vacation and next week's kayaking tour of the harbor but listening to Ky breathe, feeling his soft fur beneath my fingers, even smelling the clinic smell on him makes it all worth it. One look at the shaved forearms and I know how blessed I am to still have him in my life.
Grapes bad.
Emergency vet clinics very good.
End of story.
I have a great reason for low word count this week. There wasn't a lot of sleep happening here until Friday.
Today, I printed off the document, settled on the couch with Ky under one hand and Eliot on the other. With the race on in the background I fleshed out two scenes, about eight pages. More importantly, I was able to see, and fix, the problem that's been staring me in the face for the last couple of weeks. Let's hope the solution lasts. As the distraction is gone, I imagine productivity will return.
I've had to cancel my vacation and next week's kayaking tour of the harbor but listening to Ky breathe, feeling his soft fur beneath my fingers, even smelling the clinic smell on him makes it all worth it. One look at the shaved forearms and I know how blessed I am to still have him in my life.
Grapes bad.
Emergency vet clinics very good.
End of story.
Sunday, September 07, 2014
Sports writing
I'm not sure why I'm surprised to see my Twitter full of authors watching sports. My first year of college, we were required to cover the local hockey team for the cable station. First year students were cable runners. I argued that I knew more about the sport than the guy on camera two. He didn't know where the blue line was or why it was important. Aside from the fact that it's a giant line of blue painted right onto the ice, I was offended. It took months for me to convince anyone that my point was valid. I showed up, pulled cables and discussed team strategy in the pre-game meeting. Because I had paid that much attention to the game, I was pretty good at anticipating what certain players would do with the puck once they got it.
Eventually, I challenged the guy on camera two (who went on to be a brilliant cameraman in LA so it was only hockey that failed him) to a quiz about the game. I managed to convince the teacher that IF I was the winner, I could take over camera two. I won. Hands down. Then I set my sights on colour commentary. Part of it was the challenge, part of it was true interest. Of course, I ended up in the booth. Feedback to the station was remarkably positive. I say remarkable because my voice is not suited to on-air. There was no disputing my knowledge.
None of that would be necessary today. Women have come a long way when it comes to sports broadcasts. It was always ridiculous to assume gender had anything to do with knowledge in any field.
So why does it surprise me that so many romance authors love sports? Few of them write them. The bias still exists in publishing. But I've been tweeting back and forth with a NASCAR team during the races lately and my head is spinning with a story idea as a result.That tends to happen no matter what subject I'm interested in - stories are everywhere. It doesn't mean that I'll do anything with that idea. Although...I do have NASCAR story started in the older files on my computer.
How do you feel about sports in romance novels?
Eventually, I challenged the guy on camera two (who went on to be a brilliant cameraman in LA so it was only hockey that failed him) to a quiz about the game. I managed to convince the teacher that IF I was the winner, I could take over camera two. I won. Hands down. Then I set my sights on colour commentary. Part of it was the challenge, part of it was true interest. Of course, I ended up in the booth. Feedback to the station was remarkably positive. I say remarkable because my voice is not suited to on-air. There was no disputing my knowledge.
None of that would be necessary today. Women have come a long way when it comes to sports broadcasts. It was always ridiculous to assume gender had anything to do with knowledge in any field.
So why does it surprise me that so many romance authors love sports? Few of them write them. The bias still exists in publishing. But I've been tweeting back and forth with a NASCAR team during the races lately and my head is spinning with a story idea as a result.That tends to happen no matter what subject I'm interested in - stories are everywhere. It doesn't mean that I'll do anything with that idea. Although...I do have NASCAR story started in the older files on my computer.
How do you feel about sports in romance novels?
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