A*Musings

Cleave Trailer (The Swan)

2011-09-30T19:45:00.000-07:00

Angela Felsted entrances me with her incredible poetry on her blog, My Poetry and Prose Place. Now, she is getting ready to launch her poetry chapter book called "Cleave." Here is the trailer for her book.

A link to pre-order "Cleave" is on her blog.

Winning!

2011-09-30T13:27:00.000-07:00

Woot, woot! Well, I can never say I never win anything anymore. Remember that blog contest on Wednesday? Yep, I won a Kindle Touch from the fabulous K.M. Weiland! I'm so excited!

And I've been reading her book, Outlining Your Novel, and it is fantastic. Exactly what I needed to get me past the hump I hit while working on my WIP. That's easily worth as much as the prize!

Blog Contest!!!

2011-09-28T10:33:00.000-07:00

The fabulous K.M. Weiland has just released her latest book, Outlining Your Novel. As an avid fan of Ms. Weiland, I'm excited that she's willing to share the secrets of her success with us. I can't wait to jump in and read this book. To celebrate, she is holding an amazing contest with fabulous prizes. Visit her blog, Wordplay, here to find out more.

June Gloom

2011-09-23T08:59:00.000-07:00

Another gray day. The sky darkened with low-hanging clouds, but no rain, no lightning to break the monotony of the gray. There was a heaviness in the air that settled into Tammy's bones. She sat in the big armchair, Springer squawking from the T.V., a wine glass in one hand and a near-empty bottle in the other.

She'd lost count of how many days she'd sat like this. Her cat, Mixen, jumped up into her lap and rubbed his head against Tammy's arm. She must've remembered to feed the cat; otherwise he'd be whining and spitting at her. Well, at least that was one thing she could do right. Tammy pushed the mewling ball of fur onto the floor.

I should do something, she thought. Something. Grab a bite to eat. Take a shower. Maybe a little yoga. She could use a few endorphins. She peered into the smoky bottle, watched the red liquid swirl around and up the sides. Maybe there were a few more endorphins in there. She replenished her glass. At least she was using a glass. That was the difference between being drunk and being a drunk.

She threw her head back and chugged the remaining wine. Then she put down the glass and the bottle and stood up. She stepped over the piles of dirty dishes and clothes that littered the floor. She grabbed her purse and set of keys and went outside, not bothering to lock the door behind her.

She knew she shouldn't be driving, so she took the side streets and drove at a crawl. Kids would be at school. Safe. Safe from her. The rest? Well, more people died from car accidents than anything else. They knew they were taking their chances when they ventured out that day.

She arrived at her destination without incident and parked a little too far away from the curb. She slipped off her sandals, leaving them on the floor of the car. She popped the trunk. She dropped her keys in her purse, then threw it into the trunk before bringing the lid down with a snap.

The wind whipped at her hair, raising goosebumps on her arms, and she tasted salt when she licked her suddenly dry lips. The sand felt soft and tickled her bare feet. She walked toward the angry, pounding waves, the roar in her ears growing.

She walked into the water and felt the icy waves lap around her ankles, splashing up against her calves, making her jeans cling heavily to her legs. She braced herself and pushed out further, turned her back against the breakers so they sprayed her back and drenched her hair.

When she was waist deep, she dove under a huge, threatening wave, and felt the undulations as the water frothed above her. It was a soft, rocking motion, and maybe it was just then, at that very moment, that she truly decided to go through with it. She wanted to be rocked in the ocean.

She began swimming away from the shore with strong strokes. She was a good swimmer. She'd be able to get pretty far. But she wasn't a great swimmer. She counted on that.

*****

Today's prompt: Weave a story which uses this cliche – “Drown your sorrows."
To play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday.

The Perfect World

2011-09-02T13:04:00.000-07:00

“Once upon a time, there was a perfect world. In this world, every baby born was wanted, celebrated as a blessing not a burden. Mothers held their newborns in their arms, close to their heart, while fathers stood nearby looking so, so proud. They dreamed great things for their children and promised everything to make their dreams come true.

“The perfect world was beautiful, but not because it was perfect. Muddy brown birds with speckles, bright colored birds, singers and squawkers, all of them were beautiful. And every flower was welcome in the garden. Can you believe people used to call some flowers weeds?

“And people were beautiful, too, not because they were all the same, but because other people looked for and knew how to find what made them so.

“Everyone in the perfect world had a soul mate. Sometimes it was a brother, or a best friend. And sometimes, people fell in love with their soul mate, and they lived together for the rest of their lives.

“And that's what made the perfect world beautiful.”

*****

Today's prompt:
Write a scene using purely dialogue. Nothing else is allowed ( no attributions, narration, description, scene setting etc).

This is from a previously written scene. I just cut out everything in between the dialogue. It's a rough draft and unedited, so it still follows the rules. :) To play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday.

No Good Deed...

2011-08-26T09:51:00.000-07:00

The gray, stooped man stood at the corner of the intersection. His mahogany cane with the ivory handle trembled in his hands as he reached out as if to enter the crosswalk. He pulled back as a car whizzed by uncomfortably close. He peered back and forth, trying to catch the eye of one of the drivers to see if they'd let him cross. Heads turned away from him and seemed not to notice he was there.

A cluster of teen boys approached, laughing and talking a little too loudly. A boy in a red t-shirt and backwards baseball cap pushed the shortest of his friends who yelled as he reeled close to the passing traffic. The short boy retaliated with a punch to the shoulder.

The old man looked desperately for a path across the street before the boys could arrive. Finding none, he shrunk back, away from the road and into the corner under the shade of a tree.

The boys seemed too occupied to notice him, and the old man breathed a sigh of relief. The small sound caught the attention of one of the boys. Taller than the rest, he had the awkwardness of his age. He was quieter than the others, too. The old man sucked in his breath and waited.

The kid smiled and shuffled over to him.

"Do you need to cross?"

The old man nodded his head. The boy stepped into the cross walk and beckoned to the gentleman when the traffic paused for him. The boy's friends bounded across the street quickly and walked on, not noticing that he lingered behind them. The old man shuffled as quickly as he could, the teen walking in a slow saunter next to him until they reached the other side.

"See ya, dude." The kid started to jog to catch up with his friends.

"Wait." The young man stopped, then looked around with knitted brows. In place of the old man stood a tall, dark-haired man in jeans. The cane in his hand had been replaced with a gnarly, twisted wand. The man approached the boy.

"Don't look so surprised. You know that there are magical creatures that walk amongst us."

The boy's eyes widened, and the man chuckled.

"Look, I appreciate that you helped me out. I'd like to give you a wish."

"A wish?"

"Sure, anything you want." The man waited, wondering, trying to guess the wish based on the little bit he knew about this boy. Would he ask for world peace? Or a million dollars? Maybe just a new game system, he thought with a wry smile.

The boy shrugged.

"OK. I want a fish."

"Excuse me?" The man didn't think he'd heard him properly. The boy flashed him a sheepish grin.

"Yeah, well, I've always wanted a pet, but our landlord wouldn't allow it. We live in a small apartment. I don't think he'd mind if I had a fish."

The man shook his head incredulously. He nodded, then turned on his heel and walked wordlessly away. When the boy arrived home, he'd find a new aquarium on his desk with coral, wavy green plants, and a few exotic fish swimming around. The man decided he'd throw in a year's supply of fish food, although that was technically against the rules, since the boy didn't officially wish for it.

But hey, he liked the kid.

*****

Wow. I am really rusty! The inner editor was going crazy as I wrote this one. Still, it feels good to get back into Fiction Friday again.

Today's prompt: Use the images on the dice for inspiration. The images were a cane, a magic wand, and a fish.

To play along, visit Write Anything's Fiction Friday at their new website here.

Lazy Days of Summer

2011-06-27T09:14:00.000-07:00

All right, I'll just make it official and say I'm taking a sabbatical for the summer. That's better than neglecting my blog and having that nagging feeling of guilt, right? Instead, I'm giving in to the siren call of a crisp, cool pool on a steamy hot day, the 500-piece puzzle strewn on my coffee table, and of course, the story that is itching to find its way onto paper.

It Is What It Chooses to Be

2011-06-08T10:41:00.000-07:00

Funny how I like to think I'm in control of things. Take this novel I'm working on, for example. I did a little plotting for a change. I won't say I went as far as putting together an outline, but I knew where I wanted to go. My main story happens on a small island off the coast of Africa. A romance, a washed-up castaway that throws a wrench in the story, and an attempted assassination that sends my MC back home.

But then I started writing the beginning of my story. You know, the first 25%, the set-up. And I found myself adding certain details I hadn't intended. And I thought, shoot, that's pretty good, but if it's in the first couple of chapters in a novel, it's a promise to the reader. You just told them that these things are important. That you'll explore them further, that your audience will get to learn more. How in the world am I going to do that? Sure, I saw possibilities, but it veered so very far away from my little island off the coast of Africa.

It hit me last night. My novel has decided to become a series. I never would have expected myself capable of writing a series. I have an idea, and I follow it through to the end. But here I have four individual stories waiting to be told, all tied together with an overarching main concept. WTF (let's choose "fudge" this time; I'd never say that other word)? How did that happen?

So, here are my four stories: a young boy with unusual powers who becomes a test subject at a laboratory built in a renovated slave plantation; that same boy who grows up to become an assassin; and then goes to work for Doctors Without Borders on a remote island; and finally comes home and initiates the end of the world.

Tada!

Lullaby

2011-06-03T09:43:00.000-07:00

Esther felt a wave of exhaustion settle into her bones as she shuffled her way through hugs and good-byes to the door. Her son, Edward, ushered her outside and helped her into the car. Another Christmas dinner come and gone, another year of loneliness spanned ahead of her.

He kissed her forehead at the door.

"Sure you'll be all right, Ma?" he asked.

She was in remarkably good shape for her age. Spry, she would say, of both mind and body in spite of her 93 years on this planet. It was the reason they let her stay in her home -- in their home -- by herself.

"Shush, son, I'm just fine. Ready for a little sleep, though." She smiled up at him and patted his cheek before going inside.

She went through the motions of getting ready for bed: changed into her flannel nightgown, brushed her teeth, took her meds. She turned out the light, too tired for reading tonight, and climbed into bed.

Sobs overtook her, racked her body. She missed him so much. He was her best friend. Twenty years gone, and still she missed him, still reached for him across the bed, still expected to see him sitting on Janey's couch, bouncing a grandbaby on his lap.

She wore herself out, quieted, and a strange peace settled over her. She couldn't sleep now, but that was all right. She had plenty of time to sleep. She wouldn't be getting up again.

It wasn't really suicide, right? After all, they stopped feeding that Terry Schiavo lady so she could pass on, and no one thought that was murder. She wondered if it had really been painless for that woman, like the doctors said. Terry couldn't rightly tell them otherwise, now could she? Esther hoped that when the time came, if it did hurt, and she faltered, that she'd be too weak by then to do anything about it.

God would forgive her. He'd have to. He'd have to let her in, have to let her through those pearly gates. He had to let her find him.

*****

Today's prompt:

Use this sentiment or theme for your story “I miss my best friend”.

To play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday, here.

Ironic note -- as I post this, Brahm's "Lullaby" is playing on my stereo. Cosmically fitting, I think!

Questions, Questions, Questions

2011-06-01T10:00:00.000-07:00

A woman from my writing group shared that she was advised at a writing workshop to never have a character ask questions in her thoughts. She couldn't remember why; she just remembered that rule. That's silly, I thought. People naturally ask themselves questions. I chalked it up to a rule I was determined to break.

But occasionally, I'll be reading a book, sometimes a very good book, and I'll notice that the character is asking a lot of questions through inner dialogue. And it begins to irritate me. The character starts to seem whiny and weak. Is that really what the author intended? I'm especially annoyed if all the characters keep asking questions, and it doesn't seem authentic to me.

Here's an example:

"Good grief, I think. Do people really do that? Do they ask themselves questions over and over? Why can't they just form an opinion and stick to it?"

vs.

"Good grief, I think. People don't really do that. They don't sit there and ask themselves questions over and over. They form an opinion and stick to it."

Guess which example reflects my actual thought? The latter.

Maybe I was being unfair. I decided to investigate. Since reading The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron, I have been writing stream-of-consciousness morning pages for several months. I have three or four notebooks filled with my uncensored thoughts. I picked up one of my old notebooks and thumbed through it, looking for question marks.

What did I find? Long expanses where I did not use a single question mark. I discovered I'm very opinionated when it comes to my husband, my children, the birds outside, and the weather. I noticed I occasionally threw in a rhetorical question, especially if I was trying to be clever or funny.

But then I'd hit a passage that blew my theory out of the water. Tons and tons of question marks. I read closer to find out what was going on. I discovered that when I was truly soul-searching, I used a lot of questions. If something was bothering me and I needed to dig it up, I asked questions. But here's the kicker. They were not rhetorical questions, and I always answered myself.

My conclusion, then, is that questions can be useful in inner dialogue if used purposefully. If you have a weak character, questions are a subtle way to emphasize that weakness. It's also a subtle way to show character arc when you have a weak character gaining personal strength -- change the inner dialogue from questions to statements of opinion. And it's very powerful to show your character wrestling with inner demons -- if you remember to answer the questions you raise.

What do you think? Do your characters ask too many questions?

Pay The Writer

2011-05-26T10:46:00.000-07:00

My apologies for the language in this video, but I applaud the man's message and his passion. Never, never, never undervalue the work that you do.

Contemplating (Blog) Suicide

2011-05-24T17:56:00.000-07:00

Interesting phenomenon. I participated in the A-Z Blog Challenge with the intention of meeting new friends and establishing a habit of regular blogging. While I achieved my first goal, I was unprepared for the existentialist crisis that completing the challenge triggered.

I realized that blogging about writing had taken precedence over actual writing. I was using my blog to avoid my novel. Why? Fear, a lack of confidence, perfectionism -- my personal bullies, I recognized them all.

But my novel was NOT happy being left on the sidelines. My main character has a story to tell, he wants to tell it to me, he wants me to write it down. And so I considered taking drastic action to cull all the unwanted obstacles that prevent me from focusing on my writing.

I could just delete the blog, I thought. No one would really miss it all that much. Would they even notice? Maybe.

I believe that social media is essential for marketing, but I'm so far away from publishing right now. I could always start a new blog later, once the story is finished and polished and a third novel under way. That would make more sense, right?

Yet I can't quite pull the trigger and give up my playground. I like my flash fiction. I like the support of friends. I like learning new things. And yes, sometimes, I like being able to take a break.

I don't think my blog will be the go-to place for consistent, brilliant writing advice. I don't promise to write on a schedule. I'll consider it more like a nearby vacation home, a place to kick up my feet and have fun when I need to get away for awhile.

Smart Branding

2011-05-04T20:42:00.000-07:00

I came across a site by Neil Paricha, author of The Book of Awesome and The Book of Even More Awesome. I love how he is promoting his books -- by extending the idea behind the books to his blog. Each day he blogs about something awesome -- the small and simple joys in life that are all around you, no matter how bad a day you're having. I loved it, so I thought I'd share it with you.

1000 Awesome Things

Enjoy!

How does your blog or website represent who you are as an author? What brings you joy?

Awards, Awards, Awards!

2011-05-02T14:16:00.000-07:00

One of the great things about participating in the A-Z challenge was that it allowed me to meet so many wonderful fellow bloggers. Today I am basking in the glow of being the recipient of their kindness, as I've been awarded the following awards:

From Jingle, I received the Talented Blogger Award and the Magical Butterfly Award. Thank you, so much, Jingle!

From Catherine Ensley at Words, World and Wings, I received the Versatile Blogger Award and the Stylish Blogger Award. Thank you, Catherine!

Author Elizabeth Mueller has offered the aptly named "I Survived the 2011 A-Z Blogging Challenge Award" to all A-Z Blog Challenge participants.

And finally, for everyone who finished the challenge, an award's being given by its fantastic hosts: Arlee Bird, Jeffrey Beesler, Alex J. Cavanaugh, Jen Daiker, Candace Ganger, Karen J Gowen, Talli Roland, and Stephen Tremp. Thank you to the hosts!

Zoloft

2011-04-30T09:00:00.000-07:00

I did it! I completed the A-Z blog challenge. It felt like a marathon, but I'm proud of myself for doing it. I'll be blogging M-W-F from now on. Let me know if you miss me during T-Th-Sa. :)

Now, it's off to pop a Zoloft and curl up with a good book and pounds of chocolate.

How are you celebrating your accomplishments?

Yearning

2011-04-29T13:24:00.000-07:00

The night was beautiful, the stars sparkling with an intensity you never see in town. As I leaned back in my camping chair, I saw a shooting star flash across the sky. I automatically made a wish, then chuckled at myself. Years of wishes on stars that never came true, and I was still as superstitious as ever.

I leaned in closer to the campfire, rubbing my hands to warm them. I picked up the bag of marshmallows and fitted two of them on the hanger at my side. I supposed a couple more wouldn't hurt. I'd certainly burn off the extra calories on my hike back down the mountain in the morning.

A rustle in the woods behind my camp caught my attention. I loved the little creatures that visited at night, racoons and opossum and once a small fox. I picked up my flashlight and shined it in the direction of the sound, hoping to catch sight of my visitor. The beam illuminated two bright green eyes staring intently at me.

I froze, mesmerized. I held still, afraid to frighten it off, and my heart accelerated a little with excitement. Whatever this animal was, I'd never encountered it before. I couldn't wait to tell my students about it on Monday.

The animal moved towards me. As it approached, I realized it was much bigger than the visitors I had been used to, and the first primal hint of concern throbbed in the back of my head. It moved lithely, slowly, with grace and purpose. Its furry head and strong shoulders came into view, and it stopped for a moment, considering me. I wanted to move closer, to see if I could get close enough to touch, to wrap my arms around its neck, place my cheek against its chest and feel the beating of its heart.

A deep growl from its throat broke the spell, and I became aware of how precarious a situation I was in. I stood up quickly, brandishing the now flaming marshmallows, and yelled like a maniac. The big cat bounded off into the woods, disappearing from my view. My heart sank, and I wished I could bound away with him.

*****

Today's prompt: For some extra fun each month, we are utilizing ”Story Starter” die. Look at each face of the dice, ponder on its significance to a character, setting or plot you may have bubbling away.. now write – using these as your inspiration.

To play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday here.

Xenophobe vs. Xenophile

2011-04-28T07:58:00.000-07:00

a.k.a. Battle of the Verts.

In one corner, we have the Extroverts. Extraversion is "the act, state, or habit of being predominantly concerned with and obtaining gratification from what is outside the self". Extroverts enjoy human interaction; they are gregarious, aggressive, enthusiastic, and talkative. They are energized when spending time with other people and tend towards boredom when left to their own devices.

In the opposite corner, we have the Introverts. Introversion is "the state of or tendency toward being wholly or predominantly concerned with and interested in one's own mental life". Introverts are energized through reflection and sapped by interaction. They tend to be more reserved and less outspoken than their counterparts.

So, which are you? Chances are that you are an introvert, as the archetypical artist – and we writers are, indeed, artists – is highly introverted. The bigger question is, can you write extroverted characters? Or do you let your own biases sneak in where they don't belong?

Let's say you have a character who is a teacher. Does she come home exhausted every day, eager to lose herself in a little Jane Austen and a glass of wine? Then you'd better not make her the life of the party at her sister's wedding. But that scene is critical to your story, you say. Easy fix – she becomes more dynamic in the classroom, maybe offering after-school tutoring or mentoring a club.

How do you create characters that are alien to you? What are your strategies?

WTF

2011-04-27T09:33:00.000-07:00

Sheesh, get your mind out of the gutter. Of course I would never say that. WTF stands for Write the Funny.

I think I'm a funny person. I come up with a zinger or two from time to time. I'd love to be able to add some humor to my novels, but I find I just can't do it on purpose. So, I did a little research to find some tips on how to write humor.

The Set-Up. The set-up can be as important as the punchline. Sometimes it isn't directly stated. It's better if it's implied, but sometimes an explicit set-up is essential for clarity.

Surprise. The punchline should be the very last word of the joke. You want to hide the surprise until the very end. The more surprising and unexpected, the funnier the joke.

The Twist. Good humor often has a twist at the end.

Relationships. Relationships and connections are key to every joke. Pay attention to how things are the same and different. Look for positive and negative connections.

Life Experiences. Some of the funniest moments can come from real life. For example: My son did an experiment to see if the Tooth Fairy is real. He had his tooth under his pillow for four days without telling anyone.

Go Beyond Ordinary. Exaggeration and extrapolation can take you to a funny place.

Word Play. Also known as the double entendre. Play with different meanings of words.

Spelling. Similarly, you can swap homonyms to create a new, humorous meaning.

You tell me. What cracks you up?

Verification

2011-04-26T10:59:00.000-07:00

As in Word Verification. Three words: Just say no.

As you've hopped from blog to blog, you must have noticed the occasional Word Verification pop up. That's the annoying little box asking you to prove that you're a real person and not a spammer. It's also a roadblock for you readers who are trying to leave a comment and connect with you.

It puts emotional distance between you and your audience when you are trying to create a connection.

It announces to the world that you are an amateur.

It annoys people.

It discourages people from leaving comments.

Even worse? Comment moderation. That's telling your audience that you must consider the value of their comment before you deem it worthy for publication. It's like call-waiting to me, where you're put on hold so the person you're calling can talk with someone else. It's rude.

But what if you're really worried about spammers? The best thing to do is to moderate comments only after a certain number of days (I set mine to five days). Most spammers hit blog older blog posts because you're less likely to notice them and therefore delete them. Which you can do, under the setting to manage your comments.

You can modify your comment moderation settings under... Settings.

So glad I got that off my chest! Now, do you have any pet peeves you'd like to share?

Unbroken by Laura Hillenbrand

2011-04-25T10:30:00.000-07:00

Unbroken: A World War II Story of Survival, Resilience, and Redemption by Laura Hillenbrand is the book chosen for our book club next month. I was excited to read it because Laura Hillenbrand and I share a couple of things in common. We're both writers, and we both have a chronic illness, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (CFS). I wanted to see what she was able to accomplish in spite of her illness. I found the author and her subject both to be very inspiring to me personally.

Unbroken is the biography of a remarkable man, Louie Zamperini, an Olympic runner and World War II veteran and former prisoner of war. From the opening preface to the final pages, Ms. Hillenbrand writes with a style befitting any thriller.

Tales of Louie Zamperini's childhood made me realize that my own “difficult” children are really not so bad. Their teenage antics pale in comparison to Zamperini's indomitable spirit. Like a wild horse that defies the best efforts of its masters to tame it, he remained unbroken and impossible to rein in.

Vanity and a desire to impress the ladies led Louie to train and discover his talent for running. He broke high school and college records and went on to compete in the Olympics. One of the youngest participants in a sport that favors age and experience, he did well but did not medal. His Olympic future looked promising, and it was believed that he would be the first man to break the four minute mile. But before he could prove himself in the following Olympics, World War II broke out, ending his career forever.

Ms. Hillebrand's description of the years Louie spent as a prisoner of war in Japanese camps is harrowing but never crosses the line into gory. As Louie survives over and over against all odds, you wonder how he could have done it. Laura digs deep into the character of the man and shows us how he was able to remain unbroken.

Louie's return home is heart-breaking, as you see the effects of his experience continue to haunt him. I admire the woman who married him; although she was human dealing with Louie, she always loved him and ultimately stood by his side.

Unbroken is a book about faith without becoming preachy. Louie's faith helped him survive months at sea, and it was a return to faith that allowed him to ultimately defeat his demons.

I loved this book and highly recommend it. I would give it five stars. It is a keeper, and I will be adding it to my Bookshelf.

For more of my five-star recommends, take a peek at my Bookshelf right under the title of my blog.

Tips for Writers

2011-04-23T15:52:00.000-07:00

Random tips, in no particular order:

1. Create a writing ritual. Mothers know how important it is to create a bedtime routine to help their children calm down and prepare to sleep. Likewise, a writing ritual can tell your muse it is time to write. A writing ritual could include lighting a candle, putting on some music, taking a few deep breaths, and repeating some affirmations.

2. Write a brief synopsis of your story from each character's point of view. Write as if your minor character is the main character of the story. This gives you a better idea of who all your characters are and what they want.

3. If you're struggling to deepen POV, write the scene in first-person first. Then change it to third-person, keeping much of the inner dialogue.

4. Delete every adjective and adverb in your novel. But make sure you save a copy first. This will force you to show instead of tell, and you will find out if your adjective is really necessary.

5. Pay attention to the lyrics of your favorite music. Lyrics are half-way between poetry and prose. Many songwriters find unique and descriptive ways to convey their meaning. It's a great way to understand metaphors.

6. Learn to write with distractions. Don't wait for the perfect circumstances to write. Smart parents know their new babies will learn to sleep even while the rest of the family goes about their business. Writers can train their muses to get to work in the same way.

7. But set boundaries. Don't answer the phone or check your e-mail. Have a code so your family knows not to interrupt if you're in the middle of an important scene, like raise your hand and have them sit and wait until you give them the go-ahead.

8. Write crap. Seriously, not every word has to be a masterpiece. Sometimes you just have to get a scene down on paper. Use place setters to keep it moving, like “neighbor girl, or “car” or “guard 1.” You can, should, and will go back and fix it later.

9. Experiment with your approach to writing. Like to write by the seat of your pants (aka “pantser”)? Try outlining your story. Love, love, love to outline? Run with it for a change and let your imagination go wherever it wants. You may discover that a combination of the two is right for you.

10. Do creative things that have nothing to do with writing. Cook, paint, sing, create something crafty. Knit, crochet, or sew something pretty. Press flowers, garden, create a collage.

What about you? What writing tips have been the most helpful to you?

The Spat

2011-04-22T10:13:00.000-07:00

I paced the living room floor, periodically peering out the window, watching the black turn to a lightening gray. Still, the Easter Bunny hadn't arrived. The kids would be up soon, spilling in with sleepy excitement, looking for their baskets. Dang, even if he got there soon, I wouldn't have enough time to hide the baskets.

I knew the Easter Bunny didn't have a magic sleigh like Santa to carry him from house to house in the blink of an eye. Instead, he relied on the sheer volume of his family to get the job done. Maybe our house had been delegated to one of the young uns. They were cute and shy, but sometimes they got lost. But I'd never had to wait this long before.

I heard a sound and whirled around. The Easter Bunny himself stood before me, looking haggard and apologetic.

"Dude, what happened?" I asked. "The sun is almost up."

"I know, I'm sorry.” He handed me the baskets in his hand. “It's just that last fall, I forgot my wife's birthday..."

I shrugged and looked at him quizzically. "That happens..."

"and went to a bar with the guys instead..." he continued. I winced.

"I guess I kissed a waitress and got lipstick in my fur..."

By this time I was shaking my head, knowing the story couldn't end well.

"and didn't get home until after three."

I cupped my balls protectively.

"Ouch." I patted him on the shoulder sympathetically. "So she..."

"Cut me off. No sex for a month."

I shook my head in pity, then furrowed my brow.

"But that was last fall." I did the math in my head, understanding finally dawning on me.

"Yep. That's why we're short-handed this year."

*****

Today's prompt: Why was Easter Bunny held up with deliveries this year?

To play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday here.

Recommendations

2011-04-21T09:31:00.000-07:00

I fell in love with reading before I fell in love with writing. By about two years, I think. I have read and continue to read some excellent literature. Here are some of my all-time favorites.

The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. I recommended this book to my husband, and it took him over a year before he finally gave in. When he began reading it, he came in to me and said, "Listen to this." He reread the opening scene to me with awe. He continued to share morsels throughout the book, he loved it so much. I said, "I told you so." Now, go and do likewise. Don't take a year. You won't regret it.

The Winter of Our Discontent by John Steinbeck. Sure, Of Mice and Men, The Red Pony, and The Grapes of Wrath get all the attention and accolades. But this book is my favorite by Steinbeck. The machinations of a good man using questionable means to rise to the expectations of others are brilliantly conceived and executed. And I love a good redemption story.

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mann Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows. Great characters, wonderful humor, and a sweet romance. Written as a series of letters, it can be challenging to get into at first (or so I'm told), but well worth sticking it out.

Innocent Traitor: A Novel of Lady Jane Grey by Alison Weir. I'm not big into historicals, but this novel was gripping and engaging.

The Hunger Games trilogy by Suzanne Collins. Ms. Collins is a master of pacing and characterization. She combines compelling story-telling with good writing. If you haven't read these books, do it now before the movie comes out!

Harry Potter series by J.K. Rowling. I've heard J.K. Rowling disparaged before because she hasn't written anything since, but I would say she's not just a one-trick pony. Her world-building is spectacular. You can see her growth from book to book as she becomes more experienced and takes creative license as she gains her audience's trust.

I'm going to stop there, but if you want to see more of my recommendations, please visit my Bookshelf at the top of the page under the title of my blog. Or simply click this handy link here. I update it regularly, so feel free to check back often.

What about you? What is your favorite book of all time?

Questions

2011-04-20T10:10:00.001-07:00

Aight, peeps (cuz it's Easter and I feel like y'all got my back, word) – I'm gonna put it all out there and let myself be vulnerable. Today is...

Ask me anything.

Yes, anything you want. Leave a question for me in the comments, and then I'll update this post to answer it here. This could either be a very short post (in which case “Q” also stands for “Quiet”), or this could be a lot of fun.

Ready? Go!!!

Thank you, K.C Woolf, for starting us off!

K.C. asks: If you had to eliminate one emotion from your life, which one would you choose?

Interesting question, K.C. As I have grown older and experienced both the ups and downs of life, I have grown to cherish and recognize the value in all of our emotions. However, if I had to eliminate one emotion, I would choose fear. Without fear, I would speak my mind, dance on the page, and do something daring every day.

Carrie asks: What book do you take on the deserted island with you?

Easy question. OK, I would want my Kindle with me so I could devour as much as I could until the battery ran out. :( After that, I would want to have The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. That is my favorite book. The imagery is so rich, the characters heart-wrenchingly compelling, the story gripping. I could read it over and over again and discover hidden layers each time.

Laura asks two questions: My questions is how long have you been writing?

I've loved creative writing since 3rd grade, but I began pursuing writing as a career in December 2008.

And what was one story you loved that you've written that you wished could be published?

That's a hard question. I have several flash fiction stories that I love. I've only completed the first draft of one novel, and I fell in love with it and my main character by the end. It's the story of a wife and mother who finds that she has kind of lost herself somewhere along the way. She receives an anonymous note from a mysterious stranger, sending her on a journey back to herself. That's the one I would choose. And boy, do I need to work on my elevator pitch!

Nutschell asks:

What are some of your writing quirks/habits?

Ah, I wish I had writing habits. ;) My biggest writing quirk, I would say, is that every time I sit down to write, I have a serious writing block. My inner editor rages worst even before I put pen to paper. I have to go through a writing exercise from The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron where I ask and answer two questions: What are you mad about? and What are you afraid of? Once I give myself permission to write crap, I'm good to go.

Damyanti asks: How do you handle rejection of submissions?

The first (non-fiction) article I sent in for submission to a magazine was accepted (but not yet scheduled) for publication. :) That softened the blow, I would say. I submitted a flash fiction piece to Writer's Digest's competition. I didn't get rejected, per se, they just never contacted me back. Read between the lines. The worst rejection I've had was when I participated in a blog contest of only 17 contestants, and I didn't even make the top five. I pouted, berated my self for lack of talent, and ate a lot of chocolate. Then I went back to work.

Donna asks: What's the film you like best adapted from a book you love?

I'd say it has to be the Harry Potter series, especially The Prisoner of Azaban. But I am DYING for the Hunger Games to come out! The story just begs for the big screen.

River asks: How many hours a day do you sit and write? Is there a certain time of the day? :)

River, I have some health issues that keep me from writing as much as I'd like, but I can usually get in about an hour a day. During that time, I can easily finish 500-1,000 words. That's the size of a typical flash fiction story or a complete scene. When I'm writing regularly, an hour a day makes good progress on my novel. And my sweet spot time of day for writing is about 1 pm. It's after I've gotten my morning routines and responsibilities out of the way and before the kids get home from school.

Thank you so much, everyone, for participating! I had a fun time. You've taught me not to fear the silence, and so I think I'll start asking questions at the end of some of my posts.

Opportunitites in Publishing: Traditional or Indie?

2011-04-19T11:24:00.000-07:00

(see how clever I am, combining "O" and "P" in one post, thereby catching up on the A-Z challenge? *pats self on back*)

Traditional publishing or indie publishing, that is the question. You may have inferred from a previous post that I prefer traditional over indie (or self-publishing). Then my answer may surprise you: I say both! I want to have my cake and eat it, too.

The e-book revolution has shaken up the publishing industry, and the big winners are and will be authors. Never have we had more options and more opportunities to carve our own individual path to success.

Random thoughts:

I think the stigma of self-publishing is quickly fading, thanks in large part to the wonderful talent of such pioneering authors as Cathryn Grant, Amanda Hocking, and LindaCassidy Lewis.

All these great authors that are publishing independently are creating a need for the same services traditionally published authors are getting – editing, cover design, marketing. When a niche is created, entrepreneurial souls step in to fill it. Whether it is buffet style services or one-stop shopping, I believe demand will make them available and competition will insist on quality.

In the future, I see e-book sales as the new slush pile. The cream always rises to the top. Smart literary agents looking for fresh voices will carefully watch Amazon to see what is resonating with audiences. Is it possible that the dreaded query letter will become a thing of the past, and that literary agents will come looking for us?

Smart literary agents will also have to shift the services they offer authors. Not all authors are going to want to be shopped to traditional publishers. A literary agent can make himself relevant to those authors by facilitating access to the services they need to make their books the best and most competitive as possible.

Amanda Hocking is the model to follow, I believe. She is a prolific writer, and each book sells the next. Her pricing is brilliant – the first book in a series is priced at 99 cents, the perfect price for a curious reader. Then, the reader is hooked and willing to pay $2.99 to $4.99 for the next books in the series. In addition, she has used her self-publishing success to land a reported $2 million traditional publishing deal.

Established authors aren't going to have to bargain price their e-books. Stephen King will never have to price a book at 99 cents. Let's be real. He knows his fans will pay a heck of a lot more than that for his new book. Nathan Bransford says he'd pay $100 for a new book by J.K. Rowling, but let's be real. Most of us wouldn't. I would, however, pay about $14.99. If Amanda Hocking could make a million dollars on 99 cent e-books, imagine how much money an author could make at the $14.99 price point. (Nathan Bransford would do the math. I, however, am no Nathan Bransford.)

The take-away message from all this? Get cracking! Write that book, and then the next and the next. Your dreams have never been more attainable.

Hey! I just noticed I passed 100 followers today! Thank you so much, I'm immeasurably flattered!

Needed A Break

2011-04-18T12:44:00.001-07:00

So I took one.

Mixed Signals

2011-04-15T14:09:00.000-07:00

"That's why I hate blind dates," Sheila said.
"Oh, come on, it couldn't have been that bad," Debbie said.
Sheila cocked an eyebrow.

"Dude, you rock," Rob said.
"Didn't I tell you?" James said. "And to think you said you hated blind dates. Good thing I didn't listen to you."
"All right, you were right. Don't get used to it.

"I thought you said he was good-looking," Sheila said.
"He is. At least, I think so."
"Don't you think you could have mentioned that he was so short? I wore heels -- my spiked heels. I towered over him. It was like dating a Munchkin."

"Dude, she was so hot," Rob said.
"Yeah, I told you, didn't I?"
"I love blondes. And those long legs that never stop? It was like going out with a model."

"You must have had something in common," said Debbie. "I mean, he's an architect, you're an artist."
"You would think. When I asked him about his work, he talked for an hour about the city planner fighting with him, something about the size of his acroterion...?"
"What the hell is an acroterion?" Debbie asked, starting to giggle.
Sheila snorted and had to set her water glass down.
"I still have no idea."

"She was smart, too," Rob said. "She asked me about my work, and she totally got it."

"He didn't just talk about work all night, did he?" Debbie asked.
"No. Oh, no. That would have made the night merely boring. There was the city planner story, something about football, a conversation with his accountant, recounted word for word. The guy jumped from topic to topic like a crazed Yorkshire terrier."

"She was a good listener, too," Rob said. "I could tell she was really into me."
"You sure she isn't just after your money?" James elbowed him in the ribs.
"I'm sure it doesn't hurt," Rob said with a wink.

"The worst part," said Sheila, "was that he didn't even leave a tip for the waiter."
"You're kidding."
"Serious. The cheap bastard. After we said good-night, I had to sneak back in and leave a twenty."

"I wish we hadn't driven separate cars. I'd have loved to take her home," said Rob.
"Think you could've gotten some?" James asked.
Rob gave a half shrug with a smug grin that belied his uncertain gesture. James shoved him.
"Dude." Rob burst out laughing.

"I'm so glad we drove separate cars," said Sheila. "Can you imagine if he knew where I lived?"
She shuddered.

"When are you going to ask her out again?" James asked.
"I thought I'd wait a couple a days, play it cool. Probably call on Thursday."

"What are you going to do if he calls?" asked Debbie.
"Ugh. I don't know. Maybe I'll just change my phone number."

*****

I combined two different prompts today: "Leggo your ego" and "He jumped from topic to topic like a crazed Yorkshire terrier."

Links, Links, Links!

2011-04-14T10:08:00.000-07:00

I'm a giver. I like to share. So, here are some fantastic little helpers I have found over time.

Dr. Wicked's Write or Die. Dr. Wicked is great for those first drafts where you just need to spit it out on the page. He forces me to turn off the inner editor and just keep the words flowing. I like to choose the Gentle and Forgiving setting, because it reminds me to be gentle and forgiving of my writing.

750 Words. 750 words sends you an e-mail reminder to do your writing and gives you a place online to write and track your progress. I use it when I want to give my inner editor a little more freedom and I want to take my time crafting my words.

Edit Minion. This is also from Dr. Wicked and is nice for a first pass through a piece. It highlights my lazy writing -- adverbs, dialogue tags. and overused "placesetter" words.

The Bookshelf Muses's Emotion Thesaurus. Show, don't tell. Show, don't tell. How many times have you heard that advice? This emotion thesaurus helps you do that. Is you character angry? Then I imagine his nostrils will flare and he'll clench his fists and a vein will bulge from his neck. Maybe she's frustrated. Then she might grit her teeth or throw her hands up. Lots of emotions, lots of options for each.

Descriptive Faces. Another site to help you show, don't tell. Charity Bradford shares descriptions of eyes, lips, noses, hair, body types, and expressions.

You know I love writing flash fiction, and you're thinking you'd like to give it a try. Write Anything has a weekly flash fiction prompt. If the prompt du jour doesn't thrill you, you can also try WritingFix's prompt generator and keep clicking until something clicks. Adam Maxwell's Writing Lounge also provides a nice prompt generator.

52 Projects. Finally, we all need to find ways to recharge our creative energy. 52 Projects lists ... well, 52 projects that you can do to give yourself a boost. If you're a fan of Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way (and I am! I am!), then these are perfect for a weekly artist date.

For more helpful links, visit my Toolbox right up there just under the title of my blog. Or just click on the handy link I just provided you.

Do you have any wonderful tools that you use? Let me know, I'd love to add them to my Toolbox!

Kris Kindle

2011-04-13T14:08:00.000-07:00

It was December 1989, our first Christmas as a married couple. I woke up Christmas morning to find a big box wrapped for me. Just one. Inside were about fifteen music CDs lovingly picked out by my husband. An avid audiophile, he was so excited, sure he had found the perfect gift.

Well. I come from a family of eight children, and each year, my mother gave each child ten gifts for Christmas. We were poor (although I didn't know it then), so the gifts were never expensive – she'd wrap a box of crayons for one gift, and a coloring book for another. But it was so exciting to go downstairs and see the piles of gifts overflowing from the tree. It was our one day of luxury, and to me it meant love.

I didn't show my disappointment, although we did discuss it later. He learned to wrap my gifts individually. I learned that if there was something I really wanted for Christmas, I should probably tell him. Many times I'll even buy it myself. (Look, honey, here's the camera you bought me. It's perfect! Thanks. Mwah!)

So, this Christmas, I received … a Kindle! (It's perfect, honey, thanks! Mwah!)

It has been a fantastic gift. I love that I can read tons of classics for free. (Hello, complete works of Jane Austen and Shakespeare.) I can buy newly released books for less than the hard back price. And there is a plethora of literature out there for – get this – only 99 cents!

And that's where I'm having the most fun. I've been able to discover so many new authors this way. Cathryn Grant, Tanya Parker Mills, Daron Fraley. Amanda Hocking, Eric Krause, K.M. Weiland, Richard Mabry, and Jennifer Donnelly. I can't wait to go mining to see who else I can discover. It's like Christmas never ends.

What about you? Are you an e-reader convert? Have you joined the e-book revolution?

Jokes

2011-04-12T09:57:00.000-07:00

Great Advice from Kids

HOW DO YOU DECIDE WHOM TO MARRY?
You got to find somebody who likes the same stuff. Like, if you like sports, she should like it that you like sports, and she should keep the chips and dip coming. - Alan, age 10

HOW CAN A STRANGER TELL IF TWO PEOPLE ARE MARRIED?
You might have to guess, based on whether they seem to be yelling at the same kids. - Derrick, age 8

WHAT DO YOU THINK YOUR MOM AND DAD HAVE IN COMMON?
Both don't want any more kids. - Lori, age 8

WHAT DO MOST PEOPLE DO ON A DATE?
Dates are for having fun, and people should use them to get to know each other. Even boys have something to say if you listen long enough.- Lynnette, age 8

WHEN IS IT OKAY TO KISS SOMEONE?
When they're rich. - Pam, age 7

IS IT BETTER TO BE SINGLE OR MARRIED?
It's better for girls to be single but not for boys. Boys need someone to clean up after them. - Anita, age 9

HOW WOULD THE WORLD BE DIFFERENT IF PEOPLE DIDN'T GET MARRIED?
There sure would be a lot of kids to explain, wouldn't there? - Kevin, age 8

HOW WOULD YOU MAKE A MARRIAGE WORK?
Tell your wife that she looks pretty even if she looks like a truck.- Ricky, age 10

From MyHumor.org.

Indie Authors' Fatal Flaw

2011-04-11T11:05:00.000-07:00

I enjoy discovering new authors, and I love to support indie authors in particular. I applaud their entrepreneurial spirit and admire the courage and hard work that it takes to launch their book into the world.

I recognize that there is a great deal of talent out there. But I have to admit, in reading their works, that I have noticed one major flaw. It isn't that indie authors aren't as good as traditionally published authors. It's that they are not pushed to the limits of their talent.

In traditional publishing, you get the dreaded rewrites. Your agent loves your book, but based on his years of experience, he knows what sells and doesn't sell. He zeroes in on a few weak points – raise the stakes here, too repetitive there, strengthen the voice and arc of your character – and sends it back to you. That process, I believe, stretches an author to her fullest potential.

The final product may or may not be that good, but it is the best the author had to give. When I read a novel by an indie author, especially someone I'm familiar with, I can see spots where they just missed the mark. And it makes me sad, because I know that with just a couple of tweaks, that book could have been amazing.

So, is this indeed a fatal flaw for indie authors? No. It's not fatal at all, as Ms. Amanda Hocking can attest. Most readers are there for the story, and if it's a good story, they are willing to forgive an awful lot. They take it at face value and most likely won't even notice that it could have been better here and there.

But as an author, that's not good enough for me. I want to be pushed to the limits of my talent, I want to be forced to eke out just a little bit more, I want to grow. I want my books to be amazing. I don't want to be the next Amanda Hocking, I want to be the next Kathryn Stockett.

Honored

2011-04-09T09:45:00.000-07:00

Today I would like to thank Deirdra at A Storybook World for awarding me the Magical Blog Award.

Deirdra interviews many wonderful authors on her site. Also, if you are looking to connect with other great writing bloggers, her awards page is a great place to build your community.

Thank you, Deirdra!

Great Cats

2011-04-08T09:56:00.000-07:00

Sophie Hedley opened the door to the cage and stepped inside. She was greeted by a half purr, half growl. Samson came forward and stretched at her feet, his giant paws spread, his front legs rigid, his rear in the air. His mouth gaped in a yawn that showed his razor sharp teeth.

"Good morning, baby," she said, reaching out to scratch behind his ears. Samson moved his head against her hand, arching in delight, encouraging more. He rolled to his back, and Sophie laughed.

"All right, all right. So you want a tummy rub, do you?"

She knelt beside the great cat and scratched his tummy, working up to his powerful chest, watching his head loll back and his legs go limp. When she finished, he rolled onto his stomach and sat up on his forearms. She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his orange and black fur. She felt his breath rise and fall, and her own breathing mimicked his rhythm. She slid her hands down his back, past his shoulders, over his haunches, feeling the sinewy muscles. She placed her cheek against his chest and listened to the strong beat of his heart. Her own heart quickened. She felt so alive.

After a few minutes, she reluctantly stood up and backed to the door of the cage. Samson swatted at her lightly, and she lost her balance, almost falling over.

"Hey, I'll be back. You know I will. I always do." She closed the door behind her and clicked the lock.

Every morning, Sophie had to get her Samson fix before heading off to her job at the Department of Motor Vehicles. It was the only way she could stand it. The place was a crypt of dead-end lives, both the people in the cubicles around her and those lined in front of them. The mindless waiting brought out the worst in people; they rarely smiled, and often raged about the smallest mistakes, never taking responsibility for the things they could have prevented themselves. The hours dragged until closing time, and then while her co-workers made their way to bars or warring spouses, she eagerly returned to her Samson.

She'd had him since he was a kitten. Fate had brought them together. One day, she'd seen a classified ad in the newspaper. A tiger from a traveling circus had given birth to two kittens, and the owner was selling them. Sophie's father had left the family to -- seriously -- join a circus when she was eight years old. She often thought of him working with the big cats, and she believed she inherited her love of animals from him. Finding the kitten seemed like a cosmic gift from her dad.

Samson loved her in a way that no one else could. He never disappointed her, never took her for granted, never demanded anything more than her time and tummy rubs. Sophie broke off her relationship with her boyfriend and stopped going out for drinks with her friends. She had few visitors; Samson made people uncomfortable, everyone but Sophie.

Sophie's mother worried about her, warned her that Samson was a wild animal at heart, and that something bad would happen. Sophie soothed her mother's concerns and promised her Samson would never do something like that.

***

David, the supervisor at the DMV, called Mrs. Hedley. Sophie hadn't been in to work for three days. It wasn't like her to not call. He had left several messages for her, but she wasn't returning his calls. He thought she should know. Mrs. Hedley hung up and dialed 911.

The police car pulled into the driveway and two uniformed officers got out. They walked to the front door and knocked, waited for an answer. When none came, they canvassed the perimeter of the home. They spotted the enclosure in the backyard and approached. A magnificent Bengal tiger paced back and forth, spitting and hissing when it saw them. It stopped and bared its teeth with a loud, menacing growl. There, underneath its protective feet, lay a woman's body, her neck twisted at an unnatural angle but otherwise untouched.

*****

Today's prompt: "Looks can be deceiving." My kids love watching the show Fatal Attractions, where crazy people keep dangerous animals and think nothing could possibly go wrong. That was my inspiration for today.

To play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday here.

And welcome, A to Zers!

Fun with Flash Fiction

2011-04-07T10:17:00.000-07:00

If you've thumbed through my blog, you've probably notice that I enjoy writing flash fiction. Here are some of the benefits I've discovered from it.

1. Warm-up. Like a singer who sings scales before a big performance, writing flash fiction is a way to get your creative juices flowing, to prime the pump. There is a great deal of freedom that comes when I turn off my inner editor and follow an idea wherever it leads me just for a little while. I find that creativity spills over into my novel writing.

2. Scene crafting. The length of flash fiction (under 1,000 words) is identical to the length of a typical scene. Like a good story, a good scene should have a beginning, a middle, and an end. Writing flash fiction gives me practice in writing impactful scenes.

3. Story mining. Flash fiction prompts have led me to ideas that I never would have come up with on my own. Sometimes I stumble upon an idea or a character that is just begging to be expanded into a novel. I began writing with one good story idea; I now have six waiting in the wings, and I expect more to come.

4. Marketing. I've noticed many indie authors have compiled their best flash fiction and offered the collection as an inexpensive or free e-book. This is brilliant! What a great way to hook a potential reader who isn't quite ready to pay more for a new author's book.

5. Resume padding. Flash fiction is the perfect size for submitting to contests, magazines, and online publications. Even if it's not accepted right away, the feedback is invaluable.

If you're ready to get your feet wet, you can find a weekly writing prompt at Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday.

Excuses

2011-04-06T10:51:00.000-07:00

My muse is on strike for more chocolate.
I'm letting my ideas simmer.
The dog ate my... um... computer?
It's that time of the month.
My kids have the week off from school. What kind of mom would I be if I ignored them all day?
I'm not goofing around on Facebook and Twitter. I'm marketing.
I'm exercising my right as a temperamental artist to be difficult, petulant, and rebellious.
My characters stopped talking to me.
Um, research – yeah, that's it, I'm doing research.
Ooooh, shiny!

Dream Big

2011-04-05T10:04:00.000-07:00

I want this:

And this:

Here:

"If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them." Henry David Thoreau

Cutesy

2011-04-04T10:38:00.000-07:00

I realize that if I'm going to keep my readers' interest for the entire alphabet, I may have to get creative. I've been pondering this thought, and I've come up with a couple of ideas.

what if i wrote my posts in all lower-case letters? doesn't that just scream twenty-something hipster? it's like i was born with a cell phone in my hands, that i'm a master at speed texting, and that i just don't have time to hit the shift key. squee!

Or perhaps I could switch up my font-size to show emphasis. Like when I get really, really excited I can let you know by enlarging the font. There's no way you could miss the important parts. And if there's something super duper important, I can even make it big and green. Like the Hulk.

Now, here's an idea that I already have a penchant for. I love exclamation points! Because it makes me seem cheerful and optimistic! Like I have this really great, happy life, and I just want it to spill over into yours! I've had to scale it back in my writing, because I once heard that adding an exclamation point to your fiction is like laughing at your own jokes. I thought that was a great analogy! At least when I first heard it. The more I think about it, the less it makes sense.

Here's a little something I'm starting to get the hang of. :) I can sprinkle in those cute little emoticons. When I tell a joke, I can give you a little ;), and make you feel like it's just between the two of us. If I'm frustrated with my muse and how my story is coming along, I'll just :(. Sometimes I make mistakes. :/ I feel a little disconcerted or even embarrassed. :S You'll always have a stick-figure visual of my current facial expressions. Helpful, yes? :D

All right, all right – enough gimmicks. I'll just try to find some interesting topics to write about over the next three weeks. *shrugs* ;)

Beauty

2011-04-02T11:36:00.000-07:00

April Fools

2011-04-01T10:28:00.000-07:00

Dahlia was a wallflower. Not because she was homely; quite the contrary, on the rare occasion that she lifted her eyes to meet your gaze and smiled, she looked surprisingly beautiful. Dahlia simply got lost in the crowd of well-painted, lightly clad attention-seekers vying for boys' attention.

Dahlia sat at her usual location next to the table with the punch bowl. She had a cup of pink sugar water in her hands. She tapped her foot to the beat of the music, and from beneath veiled eyes, she surveyed the lively room around her. Boys with sweat stains under the arms of their t-shirts, girls with wet tendrils on their brow, both with glittering eyes as they gyrated within acceptable limits, yelling to talk above the thumping music, and laughing, lots of smiles and laughing. Watching was next best to being one of the participants.

Along the perimeter huddled groups of pre- and post-dancers, those waiting, working up their courage to approach someone who may or may not welcome their advances. They arranged themselves in order of likelihood; rarely did a guy of questionable popularity approach the group of pretty girls. That would be social suicide.

Dahlia watched as Kevin, the star quarterback and ASB president, broke from the group and made his way towards her. She assumed he was thirsty and waited for him to reach for a cup. He surprised her when he stopped in front of her.

"Would you like to dance?"

She looked around automatically, although she knew there was no one else behind her or by her side. She set her cup beneath her chair with shaking hands.

"Um, sure."

She stood and followed him to the dance floor, where he cleared a path through writhing couples. He stopped and turned to her, leaned in, and she had to strain to hear what he said next.

"Well, I wouldn't."

He turned on his heel and left, walked back to his friends who greeted him with high fives and heads thrown back in laughter. Burning seeped into Dahlia's face and down her neck as she felt eyes turn on her. She ducked her head and pushed her way off the dance floor.

She didn't see Aaron break away from Kevin's group, and she didn't hear his footsteps as he ran towards her. She felt someone grab her hand, and she looked up with desperate, pleading eyes. Please, just let me go.

"Hey," he said. "Dance with me."

He slipped an arm around her waist and kept her hand firmly in his, not letting her pull away. He guided her back to the place of humiliation and began to dance close to her. He talked, keeping up a stream of idle chatter that she couldn't hear, but it didn't matter. When the song ended, he whispered in her ear.

"You look beautiful tonight."

She scanned his face to see if he was lying. He smiled and lifted her hand, still in his, to his lips and kissed it. He walked her back to her place next to the refreshment table.

"Thank you for dancing with me," he said.

Dahlia waited, watched him walk away, and then slipped out the door of the gym, unnoticed.

*****

As always, my flash fiction is unedited. I didn't work off a prompt today but wrote from a true story from my teen years.

Welcome, A to Z-ers! I'll be visiting your blogs soon.

A to Z Blogging Challenge

2011-03-29T09:13:00.000-07:00

I know what you're thinking. "Gee, I just can't get enough of Miss Shelli's blog posts. I wish she would write, like, every day!" (Sorry, I think I gave you a teenage California accent.)

Well, dear readers, I've read your mind and am going to give you exactly what you want! For the month of April, I'll be participating in the A to Z Blogging Challenge:

"The premise of the Blogging From A to Z April Challenge is to post something on your blog every day in April except for Sundays. In doing this you will have 26 blog posts--one for each letter of the alphabet. Each day you will theme your post according to a letter of the alphabet.

"You will only be limited by your own imagination in this challenge. There is an unlimited universe of possibilities. You can post essays, short pieces of fiction, poetry, recipes, travel sketches, or anything else you would like to write about. You don't have to be a writer to do this. You can post photos, including samples of your own art or craftwork. Everyone who blogs can post from A to Z."

So, what do you say? Want to join me? Visit Tossing It Out here, or click on the button on my sidebar.

I'm Just a Baby

2011-03-25T13:59:00.000-07:00

OK, I know what you're thinking. You've seen my picture and you'd like to beg to differ. But that's just in people years, not in writer years.

I remember the day that I decided to become a "real" writer. I've always loved writing, and I thought it would be fun to write a novel some day. However, I was just a mom, just a housewife, and I was so boringly happy! I didn't think I could find a story anyone would want to read.

Then my husband and I went to San Diego for our 20th anniversary, December 2008. We were eating at an outdoor cafe (you can do that in San Diego in December), and I was enjoying watching the variety of people walk by. It got me thinking about them and wondering what it would be like to actually "be" the 20-something girl in hip clothes laughing with her friends or the harried business man pushing through the crowds. I wanted to get inside their heads, feel what it was like to live in their skins for a day.

And that spawned my Big Idea. Finally, I had an idea worthy of a novel! Something that people would be interested in reading. In that moment, I became an author. Eons away from becoming a published author, but in my heart, I was an author.

I quickly learned I had a lot to learn about writing a novel. I decided to write a "practice" novel before tackling my big idea. And I did... kind of. I finished the first draft of "A Novel Idea." It took me a year to do it, and it's only 36,000 words in length. Still, I'm thrilled that I did it, and I learned so much along the way. I fell in love with my practice novel, and I hope to revise it and see it published some day.

I'm still not ready for my Big Idea. I need to work on my prose, learn how to write in first person point of view, do a lot of research, and learn how to edit. I'm just a baby. I've got time to learn and grow up.

Lessons Learned

2011-03-21T17:20:00.000-07:00

Participating in the "Hone Your Skills" blogfest was an interesting and eye-opening experience for me. Most of my work is off-the-cuff, impromptu writing. In fact, the rules for Fiction Friday forbid editing. I love it, because you have to turn your Inner Editor off, and it helps my creativity flow better. I feel like I can go wherever my muse takes me, and if it's not perfect, that's OK, it's not supposed to be.

But "Honing Your Skills" implies revisions. And quite frankly, I don't have a lot of experience with that. Inviting people to critique my work was very helpful but nerve-wracking as well. Here are the things that I learned.

1. I use a lot of "place setters." I know where I want to go with a story, and I'm impatient to get there, so I have a tendency to use a generic word to hold my place while I move on to the good stuff. I figure I can always go back and prettify it later.

2. Related to that, I'm not specific enough with my nouns. A room is really a makeshift laboratory in the basement. A gun is a Glock, Berretta or Ruger. Flowers are sweet-scented roses or little purple pansies. I know that in my mind, but I need to get in the habit of sharing that with my readers.

3. Especially since I write flash fiction, I can cut a lot of unnecessary action. Sometimes less is more. I don't need to detail every turn down a maze of corridors or every step taken to exit a car and enter a building. I need to learn to give less attention to unimportant elements so the important events get center stage.

4. I'm not as tough as I like to think I am. I found myself alternately embarrassed ("I can't believe I missed that") and defensive ("But if I change that, I'll give too much away"). I admit to feeling a little cranky and doubting my writing ability.

In the end, all the critiques I received have helped me tremendously. The final story is much sharper, clearer, and better. It has a much better chance of being accepted for publication by going through the process. So, thank you Charity and Rosie, it was a great experience! If I can grow a thicker hide, I'd love to participate again.

Revision

2011-03-17T19:14:00.000-07:00

My piece today is doing double duty: I've revised my entry from the Hone Your Skills Blogfest using the wonderful suggestions I received, and amazingly, it fits with the prompt for Fiction Friday! Let me know if you think this reads better.

Righting Wrong

I stood on the round metallic teleportation device in the middle of the room. My eyes fixed on the only other person there. The old man busied himself with the console before him. He reached to push a button on the upper level, and the sleeve of his lab coat slid back revealing black ink tattooed digits. Faded, but indelible.

"When you enter, you should arrive in the southwest corner," he said. "The oval table will be to your right. He will be sitting at the head of it, of course."

Nervous perspiration broke out in tiny droplets on my upper lip. I brought my arm up and wiped it away on my sleeve. Fear tightened my throat, and I knew my voice would crack if I tried to speak.

"You will have only a few seconds before their surprise turns to action. You must act quickly."

I steadied my voice.

"Should I have my gun drawn already?"

"No. That would raise alarms immediately. Let them see you and wonder first."

He paused, staring at his hands, unmoving. I knew he had thought this through many times, reliving it throughout the long nights leading up to this moment. Or maybe preliving it is a better word. He returned his attention to the console and made a few final adjustments.

"August 16, 1939. Are you ready?"

I placed my hand on the butt of the gun tucked inside the front of my jeans and closed my eyes.

I nodded.

My stomach lurched. Was I screaming? No, it couldn't be me, because I couldn't breathe. A high-pitched screech filled my ears, and my knees buckled. Tears squeezed from beneath my lids. And then it stopped.

I opened my eyes to see the scene exactly as the old man had described it. I crouched in the southwest corner of the room. The oval table was to my right. He sat at the head of it. His impeccable black hair, parted down the right, gleamed, the broom bristle mustache twitched under his nose. His uniform was crisp, and he held his hat casually in his left hand. The swastika band was blood red around his left bicep. He threw his head back and laughed, disconcerting me. I had never seen more than a frown turning his lips down at the corners.

The men became aware of my presence incrementally, as if in slow motion. Expressions turned from surprise to confusion to concern as I removed the gun from its hiding place and trained the sights on the laughing man. I pulled the trigger and blood erupted from the clean white shirt beneath his jacket. The smile faded from his lips as I pumped three more shots into his chest.

All fell silent for a millisecond, and then a buzzing roar filled my ears. The gun dropped from my fingers, bouncing innocuously at my feet with a clatter against the hard wood floor. The man nearest to my right tackled me, pushing me to the ground next to it.

I waited for the crack that would signal the bullet meant for me. It didn't come. Two burly men rolled me onto my stomach, wrenched my arms behind me, and I felt cold metal handcuffs coil around my wrists. They hauled me to my feet, and I stood to face these men, his cronies and accomplices. They stared back at me in horror, as if I were the butcher of millions instead of the man bleeding lifelessly at their feet.

The two large men flanked me, hurried me out of the building and into a waiting car. We drove for miles, and as I stared at the passing German landscape, I wondered what would happen next. A dark dank cell? Torture? Encampment and a cyanide shower?

We passed through a large wrought-iron gate and came to a stop behind a dirty gray building. I was yanked from the car and propelled forward. Once inside, we walked down a dark corridor, turned left and passed several rooms before coming to a stop. The taller of the two stepped in front of me, and I heard the jingle of keys. He moved aside, and the other shoved me into the middle of a small cell. Turning me around, he removed the cuffs from my wrists. I heard the door shut behind me with a click.

The room was sparse but comfortable, a blanketed twin bed in the corner, a small desk and wooden chair against the wall. A few books, a pad of paper, and a pen were stacked on the desk. Behind a privacy screen were a toilet and a sink protruding from the wall. And in the corner opposite the bed was a TV.

A TV? I blinked back the surprise. My confusion grew when I found a remote control on top. I picked it up, pushed a button, and watched images, color images, spilling from the screen.

Somber announcers with tears in their eyes. Mourners gathering on the stairs of the building I had been taken from, not just blond-haired, blue-eyed mourners, but brown and black mixed in. A sea of flowers growing like a garden at the top, flowing down the steps like a waterfall. Similar displays at German embassies in foreign countries. Interviews with dignitaries from all around the world, in languages I couldn't understand, and then Franklin D. Roosevelt.

"The American people join our hearts to the great people of Germany and share their sorrow during this horrendous moment in history. We honor this man who has done so much to further peace and prosperity in the world. We vow to continue his fight against the very thing that took his life: blind hatred enforced by violence. We will not stop or falter until every weapon has been safely buried in the ground. Even in these darkest moments, his legacy shines before us, a beacon to follow, and he will go down in history as the greatest man ever born."

Dear God, what have I done?

*****

Today's prompt: The one thing your character regrets learning the most is……

To play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday here.

Hone Your Skills Blogfest

2011-03-15T16:28:00.000-07:00

Today, I am participating in the Hone Your Skills Blogfest hosted by Charity Bradford and Rosie @ East for Green Eyes. It officially starts tomorrow, so there's still a little bit of time if you'd like to participate. Find the details here.

I've chosen a previous flash fiction of mine and done some minor editing. Remember, this is open for critique, so you don't have to just say nice things in the comments! All constructive criticism is welcome.

*****

Righting Wrong

I stood on the round metallic teleportation device in the middle of the room. I turned to face the only other man in the room.

"When you enter, you should arrive in the southwest corner," the old man said. "The oval table will be to your right. He will be sitting at the head of it, of course."

I nodded. Nervous perspiration broke out in tiny droplets on my upper lip. I brought my arm up and wiped it away on my sleeve. I didn't speak for fear my voice would crack.

"You will have only a few seconds before their surprise turns to action. You must act quickly."

Again, I nodded. I steadied my voice.

"Should I have my gun drawn already?" I asked.

"No. That would raise alarms immediately. Let them see you and wonder first."

I could see the old man had thought this through, over and over, reliving it again and again throughout the long nights leading up to this moment.

"Are you ready?" he asked. I placed my hand on the butt of the gun tucked inside the front of my jeans. I closed my eyes.

I nodded.

I opened my eyes to see the scene exactly as the old man had described it. I was in the southwest corner of the room. The oval table was to my right. He sat at the head of it. His impeccable black hair, parted down the right, gleamed, the broom bristle mustache twitched under his nose. His uniform was crisp, and he held his hat casually in his left hand. The swastika band was blood red around his left bicep. He threw his head back and laugh, momentarily disconcerting me. I had never seen more than a frown turning his lips down at the corners.

The men in the room became aware of my presence incrementally, as if in slow motion. Expressions turned from surprise to confusion to concern as I pulled the gun from its hiding place and trained the sights on the laughing man. I pulled the trigger and blood erupted from the clean white shirt beneath his jacket. The smile faded from his lips as I pumped three more shots into his chest. The room felt silent for a millisecond, and then a buzzing roar filled my ears. I let the gun drop from my fingers, bouncing innocuously at my feet with a clatter against the hard wood floor. I was tackled and fell to the ground next to it.

I waited for the crack that would signal the bullet meant for me. It didn't come. Two burly men rolled me onto my back, and I felt cold metal handcuffs coil around my wrists. They hauled me to my feet, and I stood to face these men, his cronies and accomplices. They stared back at me in horror, as if I were the butcher of millions instead of the man bleeding lifelessly at their feet.

The two men pushed me through the door, out of the building, into a waiting car. They drove for miles, and I wondered what would happen next. A dark dank cell? Torture? Encampment and a cyanide shower? They pulled up in front of another building, pulled me out, pushed me through the door. They led me down a corridor, turned left, and opened the door to a small room. They shoved me forward, then turned me around and removed the cuffs from my wrists. They left me standing in the middle of the room, alone, and I heard the door shut behind me with a click.

The room was sparse but comfortable, a blanketed twin bed in the corner, a round table and wooden chair in the middle. A few books, a pad of paper, and a pen were stacked on the table. Behind a small privacy screen were a toilet and a sink protruding from the wall. And in the corner opposite the bed was a TV.

A TV? But that hadn't been invented yet. I blinked back the surprise. I found a remote control on top. I picked it up, pushed a button, and watched the images spilling from the screen.

I watched for hours. Somber announcers with tears in their eyes. Mourners spontaneously gathering on the stairs of the building I had been taken from, not just blond-haired, blue-eyed mourners, but brown and black mixed in. A sea of flowers growing like a garden at the top, flowing down the steps like a waterfall. Similar displays at German embassies in foreign countries. Interviews with dignitaries from all around the world, in languages I couldn't understand, and then Franklin D. Roosevelt.

"The American people join our hearts to the great people of Germany and share their sorrow during this horrendous moment in history. We honor this man who has done so much to further peace and prosperity in the world. We vow to continue his fight against the very thing that took his life: blind hatred enforced by violence. We will not stop or falter until every weapon has been safely buried in the ground. Even in these darkest moments, his legacy shines brightly before us, a beacon to follow, and he will go down in history as the greatest man ever born."

Dear God, what have I done?

*****

Painted Ladies

2011-03-10T14:25:00.000-08:00

It was a hot, dusty day, the kind of day that Tumbleweed was named for. Most people stayed home and kept to the shade. Not many visitors were in the First Chance Saloon, just a few of the regulars sipping their beers and playing a game of cards. Old Sam, the colored man, played a melancholy kind of tune, not the usual toe-tapper he was best known for.

The doors opened, and the piano stopped playing. All eyes turned to the figure in the doorway.

He wasn't from these parts, that was for sure. Seemed a little too clean, if you know what I mean; his shirt had nary a wrinkle, and there weren't any patches on his jeans. He glanced around the room, seemed to take us all in while dismissing us at the same time, and then made his way up to the bar.

"Gimme a Tanglefoot," he said. The bartender lifted a brow and gave him a quick once over.

"Ain't got that in these parts, sir. Think a little Red Eye'll do ya fine?"

The man nodded, took the glass of whiskey and threw it back with one gulp. He waved to the bartender for another. The bartender shot a glance at Miss Kitty fanning herself in the back corner of the bar. She rolled her eyes and pushed herself off her stool and sauntered up to the man.

"Howdy, stranger. Ya'll in town for long?"

He didn't look at her when he replied.

"Long enough, I suppose."

"You must be tired after traveling in this heat. What do you say to some real refreshment?"

He threw back his whiskey, his third, set the glass on the counter, and turned to Miss Kitty, tipping his hat.

"I'd be much obliged, ma'am. That sounds very hospitable of you."

Miss Kitty led him to her back corner where the rest of us were waiting.

Funny thing about an ugly whore. They keep you furthest back where the shadows are darkest, because powder and rouge can only do so much. You don't get chosen so often, and you're always worried when you do, because it's usually the mean ones that'll choose ya. Miss Kitty won't let a man hit her pretty girls, but she figures with the ugly ones, a few bruises don't make no difference.

So I was real surprised when the man pointed at me. I don't know, just something about him didn't strike me as mean. If Miss Kitty seemed surprised, too, she didn't show it, although Miss Alice had to stifle a gasp. Miss Kitty beckoned me, and I led the way upstairs, swaying my hips real nice for the fellow, and meaning it this time.

With the door closed behind us, I stripped down to my petticoat and corset, and arranged myself alluringly on the bed. He took off his gun belt and set it on the dressing table, but that was all. He sat on the edge of the bed, hardly looking at me.

"Do you ever get...people... who just want to talk?" he asked.

Well, yeah, that was something that happened to ugly whores, too. I felt a little deflated.

"Sure. Sometimes."

"It's all right, ya think?"

Something in the way he said it made me feel a little sorry for him, like he was carrying a great sadness. I patted his arm.

"Why, sure, it's all right."

He let out a big sigh and slowly, haltingly, began his story.

"My pa was a horrible, mean man. Made his own corn whiskey and finished off a whole jug every day and every night. Had a terrible temper. He only took it out on us boys, though, never raised a hand to my ma or my sister.

"He spent a lotta time in the saloons, loved to play cards but wasn't very good at it. He lost an awful lot of money, and sometimes we went hungry because he'd stopped at the saloon instead of the merchant. Ma never said anything, though. I didn't know why.

"One day he came home and told my sister to pack her bags. He'd gotten himself into a world of trouble at the saloon and owed the owner more money than he could ever hope to earn in a lifetime. 'It's either you or the house,' he told her.

"She cried and cried while she packed up, but Ma kept reassuring her. 'You're a petty girl,' she said, 'you're gonna do just fine. You'll get to wear pretty things, and least it ain't gonna be your pa anymore.'

"I didn't understand," he said with a helpless shrug. "By the time I did, I came to town, looking for her, but she was gone. The bartender at the saloon said she just up and left one day, making everyone real mad, but they didn't come after pa because she'd done a real good job while she was there.

"I'm still looking for her." He stared at his hands for the longest time.

"I chose you because you have pretty eyes," he said, turning to look at me for the first time. "They look real kind, ma'am."

I blushed.

"I just thought, maybe, if you ever see her? If she comes by looking for work, you know? You can tell her that pa's dead now, and her brother is looking for her. Her name is Annabelle."

I nodded my head, knowing I'd never see that girl, and if I did, she wouldn't be Annabelle anymore. No one goes by their real name, their Christian name, their pig tails and freckles and crown of daisies name.

He took my hand and held it for awhile, then he stood up and put his gun belt back on. He left a couple of bills on the dressing table before leaving the room.

*****

Today's prompt: Set your story in the 1880s, in a mid west, tumbleweed town. The doors of the bar open, the piano stops playing and all eyes are drawn to the figure in the doorway…… Now keep going.

My first attempt at a Western! I balked at first, but I'm glad I did it. It's rough draft, unedited, of course.

To play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday here.

Happy Read an E-Book Week!

2011-03-07T15:04:00.000-08:00

In honor of the e-book's 40th birthday, March 6-12 is E-Book Week. To celebrate, everyone is encouraged to read an e-book. Since I received my Kindle for Christmas, I have been reading lots of e-books -- ten at last count, and I've got 15 more in my "To Read" collection.

Not sure what e-book to read? Here are a couple of suggestions.

The Reckoning by Tanya Parker Mills. Her Kindle edition is on sale now for only $.99.

Journalist Theresa Fuller has epilepsy, but this hasn't slowed her search for stories of injustice to broadcast to the world. When she and her cameraman, Peter Cranston, are captured inside Iraq in August 2002, she is cut off from her medication. Seizures resume, and dreams and visions of her American childhood in Baghdad begin to trouble her. Tormented by the relentless Colonel Badr, she is forced to focus on her own father's death years before in a Baghdad prison. The strain of her own captivity is relieved only by her growing attraction to Tariq al-Awali, the Iraqi captain who took charge of her capture. The more she learns of him and his family, the clearer her haunting dreams become, and the more puzzling her past. Before the American bombs begin to fall, and all of Iraq is thrown into even darker chaos, Theresa must find a way to escape the cruelty of Colonel Badr, and save those she cares for most.

Tanya spent years in the middle east herself, and her knowledge of the region shines through. Great pace, believable writing, characters you care about. The mystery unfolds in a very satisfying manner. The scenes of torture never cross over the line to being excessive, but it is relentless and unsettling.

The Demise of the Soccer Moms by Cathryn Grant. Kindle version also on sale for $.99.

A seemingly quiet suburban neighborhood is upended when a provocative single mother saunters onto the school playground for the first time. Her Doc Marten boots, tight T-shirts, and in-your-face attitude stir up buried fears and sexual anxiety.

In the dark corners of her home, a woman battles crippling memories that threaten to destroy the family she wants so desperately to protect. A suspicious death forces her best friend to make a hard choice between marriage and friendship.

Paranoia, jealousy, and maternal instinct collide, leading to the demise of the soccer moms.

Suburban Noir - where the mundane is menacing.

Cathryn Grant gets under the skin of her characters like picking at a scab over the old wounds of high school. Her characters have depth and believability, and they sometimes uncomfortably mirror your own insecurities. Her imagery is haunting, and she foreshadows bluntly -- watching the climax unfold is like watching an impending car accident. You see it coming, but are completely helpless to do anything to stop it.

Also check out Cathryn's collection of short stories, Flash Fiction for the Cocktail Hour.

More bargains: K M Weiland of Wordplay fame is offering both of her books at 75% off here. I've loved her writerly wisdom and advice for awhile, and although historical fiction is not my favorite genre, the deal was too good to pass up. And Amanda Hocking is making waves with her Indie novel Switched, Kindle version only $.99.

Above My Pay Grade

2011-03-04T14:28:00.000-08:00

I'd taken her under my wing. But that all changed when I found out she made more money than me.

She. Lydia Moulter, the new girl Mr. Robeson hired right out of high school with no college degree or work experience. I tried to show her the ropes, help her get her feet wet. But she's not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed, you know what I mean? She still files Cathy Friendly before Martin Freeman, for goodness sakes. And her margins? She leaves them at 3/4" when clearly a proper business letter needs to be formatted to 1".

I cut her some slack. I didn't complain that I was working twice as hard as she, making sure we got to the bottom of the in box by the end of the day. I figured she'd catch on, eventually.

Friday was her first pay day. I guess they didn't teach Office Decorum 101 in high school, because she squealed when she saw the amount. She waved the pay stub in front of my face.

"This is so cool! Now I can get those boots out of lay away."

She shoved the paper into her purse and clapped her hands, then went back to her game of Minesweeper on the computer.

I narrowed my eyes and seethed. Really? I had to know. What was it about this girl that made her worth that much more than me?

I watched her like a hawk. And by the end of the week, I noticed a pattern. Every day at 11 am sharp, she walked into Mr. Robeson's office. The door shut behind her, and then Mr. Robeson closed the blinds. She stayed in there for twenty minutes. And then she came out with the strangest expression on her face. Not exactly happy; more like a hint of disgust.

I was outraged. In this day and age? I was not going to stand for it -- I could not allow that poor thing to be taken advantage of a moment longer.

I stormed into Mr. Robeson's office, not bothering to close the door behind me.

"How dare you?"

He looked up from the monthly report he was perusing and met my eye. He frowned, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"I beg your pardon?"

I lowered my voice to a hiss.

"That girl. I know why you hired her, and I know why you pay her more money than me."

"Oh, do you, now?"

A twinkle appeared in his eyes, and I wanted to slap his arrogant face.

"Did you know that Miss Moulter is my niece?"

It was my turn to look bewildered.

"Um, no, I didn't... but why does she come in here every day..."

I stared at him in horror. He quickly waved my unspoken theory away.

"No, no, it's not what you think. Did you know that the company provides each of its division heads with a personal assistant? Someone to run errands for them, like picking up dry cleaning or bringing coffee. In addition to her regular duties, Lydia is my personal assistant."

"But I've never seen her bring you coffee, or lunch, or anything else for that matter."

"Right. Perhaps I can show you what I require of my personal assistant. And then, if you're still unsatisfied with the pay discrepancy, maybe you'll consider sharing the post with her."

He stood and closed the door behind me, leaving us alone together. He walked to the office window and with a twist of his wrist closed the blinds. I held my breath. He returned to his desk, sat down, and took off his shoes.

"I've had podiatric problems for years. My doctor has given me a prescription for the latest bout of issues, but it needs to be rubbed in to be effective. As you can see," he indicated his rotund and protruding belly, "I have a difficult time following those instructions myself."

He reached with effort to pull off his socks. He stretched his feet in my direction.

"Would you care to..."

He had bunions on both feet, and the skin was red and splotchy, occasionally dotted with warts. His toenails were yellowed and cracking from some kind of fungus. I tasted bitter bile at the back of my throat and swallowed hard to curb my gag reflex.

"Your niece is doing a fine job, sir."

I turned and left his office. I could hear a soft chuckle behind me.

*****

I wasn't getting into the prompt for Fiction Friday today (sorry Dr. Seuss!), so I went rogue and found a random story prompt generator online. This week's prompt: That all changed when I found out she made more money than me.

High Expectations

2011-03-02T10:39:00.000-08:00

I am a demanding reader.

Reading has been my great love since I first discovered it 40 years ago. (Yeah, I'll admit that.) I've always been drawn to good literature, even as a child -- Pippi Longstocking, James and the Giant Peach, Island of the Blue Dolphins, and Where the Red Fern Grows were just a few of the books that delighted and entranced me. OK, I'll admit, I went through a Harlequin phase in high school, but I still enjoyed the likes of Steinbeck and Dickens and even a hint of Shakespeare. Add to that a course in French lit in college, and I fell in love with Les Mis, L'Etranger, and Le Petit Prince. Am I a literary snob? Perhaps.

One thing I do know is that when I buy a book to read, especially one that has been given good reviews, I have pretty high expectations. I want clarity, I want great prose, I want subtle themes, I want emotional resonance, I want a good story. Is that too much to ask?

Apparently, sometimes it is.

Here are some of my recent reads, and what I thought.

The Island of Dr. Moreau. I enjoyed this book very much. As a scientist myself (did you know I have a B.S. in zoology?), I was very interested to see how the author would try to scientifically explain the creation of these humanized animals. It was believable, based on the knowledge of the day. I'd probably give this book four stars.

The Phantom of the Opera. I'm sure I would enjoy the play more than I enjoyed the book. I did enjoy the tongue-in-cheek sense of humor, but it was a little melodramatic for my tastes. I'm sure the writing reflects the era, but I didn't love it. Three stars..

The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. I know I enjoyed Agatha Christie novels in high school, but I discovered that I'm not a big mystery fan anymore. It was kind of fun trying to outguess Holmes, but I didn't love it. Three stars.

Understood Betsy. I'm not a big Little House on the Prairie fan, nor did I ever get into Anne of Green Gables, but I found this book to be simply delightful. Maybe it's because I'm a mom, or maybe because I really like kids in general, I don't know. But I loved the humor in this book and the transformation of Elizabeth Ann into Betsy. Five stars.

Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet. This book was very critically acclaimed, got excellent reviews, and people LOVED it. Me, not so much. Maybe I was terminally turned off by the opening chapter, which I thought was a bit muddy and bogged down with back story. Or maybe I was prejudiced by Amy Tan's excellent portrayal of Chinese American children's relationships with their parents. Or maybe it was just too much to ask me to believe that a crush between 12-year olds could haunt them for a lifetime. I don't know, but I was disappointed. Three stars.

Fess Up Friday

2011-02-25T19:50:00.000-08:00

I finished all my Valentine's chocolates.

I haven't done yoga since Monday.

I skipped my afternoon rest so I could finish a game of Civilization IV.

My kids had to eat boxed macaroni and cheese for dinner.

And they had to make it themselves.

I have three loads of clean laundry sitting in laundry baskets.

I didn't do any writing for half the week.

I missed Fiction Friday.

TOC 2011: Margaret Atwood, "The Publishing Pie: An Author's View"

2011-02-19T17:27:00.000-08:00

This is such a good, fun presentation by the lovely Margaret Atwood. I recommend it to all of you who are carefully watching the state of the Publishing Pie, as she calls it. Don't let the length of it deter you; it is really worthwhile, and she's very entertaining.

Thank you to Rachelle Gardner for calling it to my attention.

My Funny Valentine

2011-02-18T17:48:00.000-08:00

David turned his key in the front door, opened it, and quietly made his way into the dark hallway. A solitary light came from deep inside the house. He dropped his briefcase and overcoat in the hall closet, loosened his tie, and started toward the gleam. As he was passing through the living room, the table in the shadows of the dining room caught his eye.

Piss.

Two places had been set with their good china, cloth napkins, and sparkling crystal goblets. Jenny had never done more than get him a card before, and after three months of her withholding sex, he really hadn't expected this.

He heard a shuffle and turned. Jenny stood in the doorway of the room, wearing her terry cloth robe and fuzzy pink slippers. Even with the light behind her, he could see that her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen. He shrugged helplessly.

"I'm so sorry. I had no idea. Work has been so busy, and I stayed late to try to get caught up. I completely forgot it was Valentine's Day."

That was a lie. He hadn't forgotten at all. He'd simply chosen to spend the evening banging Phoebe, his secretary, on the suede couch in his office than enduring the cold silence of the woman he'd married.

"I know how busy you've been. It's OK," Jenny said without looking at him.

That, too, was a lie. It was not OK. He could almost see her mentally taking out a three by five card and writing "2-14-2011: Missed Valentine's Day dinner" in bright red ink. It would be filed away in that endless card catalog of hurts and mistakes that she had kept over the last 12 years.

She moved toward the table and picked up a covered platter.

"I could heat it up for you," she said as she walked into the adjoining kitchen.

"No, no, that's OK. I had take-out at the office."

Now that was true. He had ordered a three-course meal from Avanti Ristorante delivered to his office, complete with antipasto, crab-stuffed chicken over angel hair pasta, crusty bread and olive oil, and tiramisu for dessert, all served with the house champagne. Phoebe had gotten tipsy, and then a little bit whiny.

"When are you going to leave your wife?" she'd asked him as he walked her to her car.

"Soon," he'd promised, then kissed her good-bye and watched her drive away.

Jenny came back into the dining room and began clearing the table.

"I can help with dishes," he offered.

She waved him away with a tired smile. She was in full-martyr mode now.

"I'll just set them in the sink and do them tomorrow. They didn't really get dirty."

He picked up the goblets and followed her, added them to the rest of the untouched dishes, and turned to leave.

She reached out and caught his arm. It was the first time they had touched, that they had been close enough to touch, in months. Her hand trembled with uncertainty.

"Happy Valentine's Day," she said and finally looked up at him.

He held her eye, fell into those bottomless ebony pools and saw the jagged cuts and tears that he had caused. Another lie. He'd never leave her. He'd always stay. It was his penance.

"Happy Valentine's Day."

*****

K, this wasn't my favorite. I guess I'm not a comfortable cynic!

Today's prompt:

Its late on Feb 14th. Your character has just realised that they have forgotten Valentines Day and the affiliated expectations surrounding it. What excuse or reason are they going to give to their partner?

To play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday here.

The Liar Society Contest

2011-02-15T17:40:00.000-08:00

Another contest! All right, maybe I haven't fully recovered from the move, and maybe I still don't feel well, and maybe I'm looking for an easy way to keep my blog active... but, really, I'd love to win this contest!

To win an ARC (advance reading copy) of Lisa and Laura Roecker's upcoming YA novel The Liar Society Contest, visit Jill Scribbles here.

Contest Winners

2011-02-14T13:19:00.000-08:00

Cathryn Grant announced the winners of her "I Love to Read" contest today on her blog, Suburban Noir. I was happy to see so many of my commenters on the list! Be sure to find out if you've won -- and let me know what you think of her book, when you've finished reading!

Congratulations, winners!

The Cure

2011-02-11T10:15:00.000-08:00

Dr. Jonathon Randall was merely twenty-nine years old when he watched his wife pass through agonizing torment and from his life forever. She left him with a chubby two-year old daughter who had her mother's eyes and her mother's smile. Seeing the child sent waves of pain shooting through him, and so he hired a nanny and threw himself into his work.

He initially determined that he would find a cure for cancer, but he soon found that that was not sufficient. He had to find a way to eradicate all disease, anything that could threaten to take his daughter, his second great love, away from him.

Dr. Randall was a brilliant geneticist, and his work progressed quickly. First he learned how to catalog individual genes in the human genome. Then he focused on perfecting splicing techniques. His breakthrough led to a patent on designer genes, and he marketed the technology to a chain of fertility clinics. He made a fortune off of parents who carried home from the hospital babies with beautiful blond hair and blue eyes, who were more likely to win spelling bees and make captain of the football team.

He used the money to further finance his research. He expanded his laboratory and hired an army of the most brilliant young minds to assist him. He learned how to identify defective genes, and he developed the technique for replacing them. He focused his attention on the code for immunity, and through many experiments learned how to create a super-immune individual.

But that would only help the rising generation, the new babies of parents who could afford the enormous expense of genetic manipulation. His own beloved daughter still caught colds and flus and once, walking pneumonia.

He stumbled upon the answer while he was recruiting at the International Conference for Young Scientists in Alexandria, Egypt. One impressive young man, fresh out of grad school and still working on his doctorate, had given a fascinating presentation on the potential of retroviruses. With their ability to invade and insert their own DNA into host cells, they were the perfect vehicle for transferring engineered genetic material into anyone, anyone at all. Dr. Randall offered the lad a six-figure salary on the spot, and arranged to have him begin working at the lab the following Monday.

It worked. After several more years, Dr. Randall had created a super-bug, a retrovirus that contained the ability to alter a person's DNA so that they would be resistant disease. He had done it. But as Dr. Randall held the triumph in his shaking his hands, he finally looked up from his work and discovered that his daughter was now a stranger to him, and humanity was no longer worth saving.

*****

Today's prompt:

“My Million Dollar Idea”
Identify a problem or issue – either in your everyday life or community. What product or service could ease this?
Let your imagination go crazy. If you had access to all the resources you needed, what would your million dollar idea be? Just remember, alot of the advances in science came about from writers ‘crazy’ ideas and asking “what if?”

This was very fun for me, getting back in the swing of things after our horrific move! And, just as a teaser, this is part of my story that started with "Iced." You can read my previous excerpts here, and here, and here.

And don't forget, this is the last day to enter Cathryn's giveaway for a free copy of her debut novel, The Demise of the Soccer Moms, and a free Kindle! Visit her blog for details at Suburban Noir.

11 Reasons

2011-02-07T09:49:00.000-08:00

Welcome Guest Blogger, Cathryn Grant! Cathryn is an indie author who has just released her debut novel, The Demise of the Soccer Moms. She's here to share with us her journey in deciding to become an indie author. She is also hosting a fabulous contest on her blog, Suburban Noir where you can enter to win a brand new Kindle, or even more exciting, a Free Copy of her book.

11 Reasons Why I Became an Indie Author

I’ve wanted to be a fiction writer since I was ten years old and wrote, The Mystery Of The Missing Mansion. Yeah, it took me a long time to get here. I started writing seriously about twelve years ago. By “seriously” I mean I got up before work every day and wrote for an hour. I dedicated a few hours every Saturday and Sunday – as much as was humanly possible.

When I thought I had a novel ready for prime time, I started researching agents and working on a query letter. In the winter of 2010 as I read more and more about the industry, I realized everything had changed.

Here are the touch points in my life that led to the decision.

1. 2008: It was generally understood that a debut author would have little to no say in the title or cover of her novel. I accepted this fact, but I loved my long title and every time I had a positive reaction to it, I felt annoyed at the influence of the publishing sales department.

2. 2009: I began to realize, through reading agent blogs, that a writer was responsible for nearly all the marketing of her novel – I started blogging.

3. 2009: I learned that most books are only in bookstores for 2-3 months, that some books don’t make it to all bookstores – it depends on the sales rep and the store buyer.

4. 2009: I learned that most novels don’t earn out their advance.

5. Feb 2010: A guy in Australia read one of my short stories on my website and contacted me about possibly using it to make an Indie film. Nothing has come of it yet, but I realized the global reach of the web in a very personal way.

6. Jan/Feb 2010: Amazon announced 70% royalty for Indie Authors. I knew that with the traditional route, authors could expect to earn 8-10% off the list price on a trade paperback, out of which she’d pay 15% to her agent.

7. Jan-March 2010: I’d spent six or seven years working to get short stories published because I’d heard this would help get agents’ attention. It did. As I queried agents in early 2010, I received feedback that my credentials and writing were good, but a “pass” on representation.

8. May 2010: I took a class in using Web 2.0 tools for fiction. The class focused on podcasting, but the instructors emphasized that the web allows writers to connect directly with their audience. This was a major “aha” moment for me and the tipping point. My goal had been to find an agent, to get a publishing contract. What about focusing on finding an audience of readers who liked my voice? I started thinking about self-publishing.

9. May/June 2010: A form rejection from an agent arrived in my mailbox on a little slip of green paper – “Due to the state of the publishing industry, we have to be very selective in what we represent.” Really? I said. The state of the industry?

I read everything I could find on publishing, advances, royalties, the marketing effort required of a writer (now I had to tweet too!) and saw that the publishing industry was going through a major shake-up. I realized that everything I thought I’d known as I worked on my writing with the goal of being a published author was no longer (maybe never had been) true. All bets were off. I re-discovered Joe Konrath’s bog, A Newbie’s Guide to Publishing. He’d done a complete about-face from his previous suggestions and was urging writers to self-publish.

10. June 2010: Zoe Winters, Karen McQuestion and others crossed my radar and I realized self-publishing was no longer a last resort, no longer about vanity presses, and was fast losing it’s “stigma”.

11. July 2010: As I told family, friends, and co-workers about my decision, I learned that the “stigma” seemed to exist primarily in the minds of writers and the publishing industry, not the readers I know.

In July I made my decision to self-publish “The Demise of the Soccer Moms” and started getting my novel ready for the marketplace. I experimented a bit with a collection of my Flash Fiction, just to see how Smashwords worked. It’s been a lot of work, learning to format (I’ve since learned I made this more complicated than necessary), figuring out how to get my work in front of readers, and adding all the logistical stuff to my writing schedule. My husband has done a ton of work – he did all the formatting and interior design for the print version that will be available in April. He’s also put in a lot of time talking me down off the roof!

It’s been exhausting, but the fun kind. I feel constant energy and the love knowing I’m in control of where my writing goes rather than sitting waiting for agents or publishers to show interest.

This is an exciting time to be a writer. Just a few years ago, directly reaching readers worldwide wasn’t possible. Everything has changed, but one thing remains the same – people are thirsty for stories.

Thanks for inviting me here, and thanks for asking me to blog about a topic I could talk about for hours.

Thank you, Cathryn, and best of luck with your fantastic new book!

Sneaky

2011-01-26T08:55:00.000-08:00

We're reaching the home stretch with our move, and I'm panicking and freaking out (anyone who has moved knows this feeling!), so I thought I would sneak away from it all for a moment and blog just a tiny bit.

I miss my writing. I miss escaping into a world with exciting people. Don't get me wrong -- I love my friends and family tremendously! But they aren't quite as wild and daring as the people I get to work with when my imagination gets going. I miss plunging into a scene, having merely a vague idea of what is going to happen, and watching it develop under my fingertips. I miss that feeling of sitting back and rereading what I've written and discovering with a bit of surprise that it's actually pretty good.

On a side note, I found that Evan Marshall, author of The Marshall Plan for Novel Writing, now has software available that guides you through the outlining process. Has anyone tried it? It's a bit expensive, but I'm seriously considering it. Outlining is not my forte.

All right, that's probably all the time away from packing I can justify. I do have an exciting contest I'm going to blog about next week. But I'll keep you in suspense until then!

Enough Is Enough Already

2011-01-19T12:55:00.000-08:00

I've discovered that not writing is much harder than writing. I'm focusing my energy on my move, but my stories, all of them, keep dancing in my head, vying for attention. My fingers itch. And so, to calm the writer me, I have been reading books on the craft at night before bed.

Just last night, I was reading Orson Scott Card's Characters & Viewpoint. In his chapter How to Raise Emotional Stakes, he talks about how slasher movies have raised the stakes so far that they've become laughable. Today, I saw another example of going too far.

I caught the end of an episode of CSI. I recognized that the writers were trying to raise the stakes -- one up themselves from previous episodes. I realized how draining that must be with such a long-running series. The outcome was truly laughable. The forensics have now advanced to where they could get a voice recording from a clay vase, like a gramophone (really?). Even the highly technical explanation couldn't shake the "no way" factor for me. Also, the killer was a mother in an incestuous relationship with her mentally ill son who was having a homosexual relationship with another mental patient. Again, really?

Sensationalism is no excuse for emotional resonance, the holy grail of good writing. But, thanks, CSI for giving me a great illustration of Card's point. It's not something I'm likely to forget.

On Hold

2011-01-13T13:55:00.000-08:00

We are moving at the end of the month, which means that my energies need to be hyper-focused on getting packed and ready to go.

I'm looking forward to the feeling of change that always accompanies a new start. I plan on throwing out a lot of the old to make room for lots of creative energy in our new home.

I am reluctantly putting my writing and blog off to the sidelines for the time being. I wonder if it will drive me nuts. Probably.

Wish me luck, and I'll be back in about a month!

The Magic Feather

2011-01-07T13:25:00.000-08:00

Jackson woke to a hard shove against his shoulder. Harris towered over him -- well, maybe not towered, but from Jackson's angle lying on the floor, the midget looked a lot taller than his 3 foot 6 height. Harris grabbed his shoulder and shook him again, though Jackson noted it wasn't with as much strength as you would expect from someone wearing a strong man costume. The thought made him chuckle, which he immediately regretted as pain shot through his temple with the movement.

"Man, are you OK?" Harris asked.

"Huh?" Jackson asked. He looked down at himself, saw that his baggy pink pants were smudged with dust and his polka dot frilled shirt had a tear along the elbow. He tried to sit up, and his muscles screamed at the effort. It took a moment for him to get his bearings, then his eyes lit up and he grabbed Harris by the strap of his tank.

"I was flying, wasn't I? I did it!"

Harris frowned and tried to pull back, but Jackson clung to him tighter.

"You must have hit your head pretty hard."

Jackson shook his head vehemently.

"No, no, I remember, I did it. I flew. Just like in the story."

He looked around and saw the fake burning building, the clowns dressed as firemen crowded behind Harris. He pulled his hand up to his face, but it was empty. He pushed Harris aside and began searching on the ground.

"I dropped it. That must be why I fell. I was doing just fine until I dropped it. It's got to be around here somewhere."

Harris scratched his head. He turned to the crowd of people behind him and shrugged. He turned back to Jackson and tried to get him to sit back down.

"Now, now, why don't you just stay put until the ambulance gets here, all right? The doctors are going to want to take a look at you."

Jackson waved him off and continued searching. Something caught his eye, a hint of black on the dirt surface. He reached for it and waved it triumphantly at Harris as a siren filled the air, growing louder with proximity.

"See? Proof." He held a black crow's feather in his hand. The medical technicians came running towards him, and he showed his prize to them. They eased him back to a sitting position and began examining him. Jackson smiled at them and tucked his treasure into his pocket.

"I'll need this for next time," he said as they led him to the ambulance. "I just got to remember to not let go."

*****

This week's prompt: Your character wakes in a circus tent. They are wearing baggy pink pants and a polka dot frilled shirt. A midget in a strong man outfit is shaking them awake asking if they are alright.

To play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday.

Resolve

2011-01-01T12:17:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year, everyone! Congratulations on surviving 2010, and may 2011 be filled with joy and the accomplishment of your hearts desires.

With that end in mind, I offer you my anti-resolutions:

1. I RESOLVE to NOT follow the latest fad diet in hopes of shaving a few pounds or twenty from my voluptuous thighs. Eating nothing but raw foods for a month is a detox for my health, not a fad diet, and if I just happen to lose a few pounds while doing it...

2. I RESOLVE to NOT run a marathon. Or a 5K. Or jog around the block. Face it. I probably won't even walk to the mailbox.

3. I RESOLVE to NOT give up chocolate. Duh.

4. I RESOLVE to NOT assign arbitrarily selected word count and deadline goals to my writing. Excluding the month of November. Bah! Go, go, NaNo!!!!!!

5. I RESOLVE to NOT have an obsessively clean house. A clean house is a sign of a disturbed mind... Nature abhors a vacuum -- and so do I... Our house is clean enough to be healthy and dirty enough to be happy... You know you've heard them all.

6. I RESOLVE to NOT give up any bad habits. Because I don't have any, do I, honey. Um, honey? HONEY?

I think that about covers it. I am embracing the New Year with the expectation that good intentions coupled with passion will lead me to plenty of worthwhile accomplishments throughout the year.

What are your resolutions for the new year?

*****

Today's prompt from Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday:

What are your top 5 Anti-Resolutions for the coming year?

(Looks like I cheated again. Six instead of five. Tsk, tsk.)

It's A Wonderful Year

2010-12-27T13:52:00.000-08:00

Let's end the year with a look back at some of the best moments of 2010:

Best book I read: Hands down, The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. The characters, the imagery, Death as narrator -- everything about this book delighted me and inspired me as a writer. It haunted me for days after I read it. I hold it up as the holy grail of writing, a greatness that I can only hope to achieve someday.

Best writer's retreat: OK, I only went on one, but it was wonderful. I think I'm going to have to make it a yearly tradition.

Best new writing friends: I've had a great time getting to know Cathryn Grant at Suburban Noir and Carrie Dair at Come On...I Dair You. Wonderful, encouraging, fun people to get to know. I can't wait to get my hands on Cathryn's soon-to-be-released book, The Demise of the Soccer Moms.

Best online writing tool: Write or Die by Dr. Wicked. Perfect for writing rough drafts, it is just what I need to break through the panic of perfectionism and just write.

Best book on writing: The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron. Although not intended just for writers, it introduced me to my muse and helped me see the joy in creativity.

Best gift for a writer: My new Kindle! Bah! I love it, and I love having access to all those classics FOR FREE! I'm currently reading The Phantom of the Opera, and I'll be reading The Island of Dr. Moreau next, and after that, I've got The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, and then... well, you get the picture.

Best scientific breakthrough: The Whittemore Peterson Institute found a link between a new retrovirus, XMRV, and Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. Say what? It's not all in my head?

Best health breakthrough: Finding out that I am, indeed, XMRV positive, and that new treatment options are now available to me. The New Year is suddenly looking a lot brighter!

I hope your 2010 was a wonderful year, and that 2011 promises to be even better!

A Woman's Job Is Never Done

2010-12-17T12:33:00.000-08:00

The members of the Justice League gathered around the commissioner's old walnut desk. They looked at each other, curious to know why they had been called in for duty the night before Christmas.

"Thank you all for coming," the commissioner said. "I know you'd all rather be spending time with your families right now. But this is an emergency."

He paused to give weight to his announcement.

"Santa Claus has been kidnapped."

Several groans rifled through the crowd of super heroes. Wonder Woman rolled her eyes. Of course. Some nut job always targeted Santa this time of year. She remembered slapping the cuffs on a middle-aged man who was apprehended before he could do any damage last year.

"Legos," he had spat at a flustered Santa. "I asked you for Legos."

The red splotches on the jolly old elf's cheeks were not exactly rosy.

"Look, it was a typo. And you can still build with Lincoln Logs."

She had led the man away, still muttering. Sheesh.

Batman took her arm, startling her out of her memory. He led her out of ear shot of the rest.

"You know we're going to need someone to cover Christmas, don't you?"

"No way, not me." She shook her head. "Why do I always get stuck with this kind of crap?"

"You're the only one here with any real super powers, besides Superman. And you know his ego isn't going to let him skip out on all the good fighting stuff."

She glanced over at Superman where he stood with his arms folded, his hands underneath his biceps pushing against them to make them look bigger. Why did he do that? Everyone already knew he was the strongest man in the world.

"Besides, you've already got transportation. Nice and roomy. You won't even need to figure out how to drive the sleigh."

"And what about sliding down the chimney? You don't think that being an Amazon might make that difficult?" She squinted and a sly smile lifted her lips. "Don't you think Robin would be a better choice?"

"Nice try. You forgot about the elves. We'll throw in a couple to help you out. Whatta ya say? Will you do it?" He smiled at her with all his Bruce Wayne charm. She sighed and dropped her head.

"All right, all right. But you owe me one."

"I know." He winked at her, then walked over to the commissioner to whisper the good news.

*****

This week's prompt:

Santa Claus has been kidnapped only hours before he is set to start his Christmas deliveries. Whilst the other superheros rescue and punish the offenders, it is up to one Superhero to undertake Santa's role this Christmas. Who will it be? How will they go?

Want to play along? Visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday here.

The Waterfall Concept: A blueprint for addiction recovery

2010-12-15T13:10:00.000-08:00

I was given the opportunity to read and review this book, and I am so glad I accepted it. This is an excellent book, filled with information and suggestions to help someone as they struggle with addiction recovery.

Roger Stark is not only an addiction counselor, but a recovering addict himself. He approaches this book with the same attitude required of anyone attempting recovery -- humility. He offers so many tools in this book and covers all the bases: spiritual, emotional, physical. His suggestions progress from the easiest to follow early recovery techniques to more challenging techniques in later stages and the maintenance phase.

Stark clearly defines what an addict is and describes how they got to their place of addiction. I found it to be a good book for any parent who may have a child that is beginning to use drugs or alcohol as a coping technique for their feelings. I think many of the suggestions could be used as preventative tools, not only as recovery tools.

Stark is positive and encouraging throughout the book. He helps put relapses into perspective so they can become learning experiences rather than stumbling blocks.

What I loved most about his book is that many of his techniques are helpful overall life skills. Anyone can benefit from learning and incorporating the suggestions for coping, self-care, and expressing feelings.

The book had a lot of grammar and punctuation mistakes that made the reader have to work a little too hard. But it was well worth the effort. I strongly recommend this book to anyone, those who are currently in addiction recovery, parents, or anyone looking to become healthier emotionally.

Creating the NYT Bestseller List

2010-12-11T10:12:00.000-08:00

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Ever wanted to know how the New York Times comes up with its Best Sellers list? It's not what you think.

Love Interest

2010-12-09T13:03:00.000-08:00

I've just introduced a new love interest for my MC, Ice. She's an operative that has just arrived on the island. Think she can thaw him before the big extinction event?

Stand for the Family

2010-12-04T12:57:00.000-08:00

I was given a copy of Stand for the Family to review. Thank you, Cecily, for giving me the opportunity to discover this fascinating and eye-opening book.

Sharon Slater makes the case that the traditional family is under attack. She unveils the attackers and shows us the methods that they use to undermine the family. She then gives us suggestions on what we can do to fight against the onslaught. The book is very well-researched, and she cites study after study backing up the information she includes.

The two groups she identifies as being the biggest threats to the family are radical feminists and homosexual activists. Slater does a good job differentiating between individuals and lobbying groups; she's not saying that every homosexual and every feminist are against the family, but she exposes those groups who have declared that their intent is to dismantle the institution of the family.

Some of these groups' methods are obvious, such as bypassing public opinion and legislatures to take their issues to the courts. Others are more surprising, like lobbying the United Nations to include anti-family language in the resolutions that are passed. Slater shows how although you wouldn't think that such resolutions carry much weight, governments and courts around the world use them in their decision making.

Slater's book is a call to vigilance, a call to civic action. Our greatest weapons against these attacks are speaking out and using our vote to elect individuals who are willing to fight against these groups.

I would have liked to see a chapter devoted to the topic of divorce, which is as big a threat to the family as the other groups she mentions. It is something that most people have more control over than what is happening in governments or the UN. I also think she should have cited some of the evidence that is out there showing how important fathers are to the development of their children. It would have strengthened an already strong case for the traditional family structure.

I thought that the organization of the book was sloppy. Slater begins the book by discussing battles at the UN over a cause she has yet to convince us to believe in. It isn't until the third chapter that she talks about the importance and benefits of the traditional family. Also, the suggestions at the end of each chapter tend to ramble and overlap. I would have preferred to see just one final chapter with suggestions of how to fight back.

I would highly recommend this book. It is a wake-up call to what is going on around us. Buy it and then pass it along to your friends and family. We need more people to stand for the family or suffer the consequences when these groups succeed.

Sick :(

2010-11-29T16:00:00.000-08:00

Well, I just found out that the blood work I had done TWO MONTHS ago came back positive for mono. Um, thank you doctor's office for your timely response. I guess that explains why my normal symptoms have been exacerbated and why I haven't felt much like writing lately. And why I've neglected my blog! Tsk tsk.

I'm hoping to get back on track this week. After my root canal. Hey, when it rains, it pours, right?

The Perfect Story

2010-11-22T13:14:00.000-08:00

It's sooooo good! My main character is interesting and strong, with deep convictions that help move the story along. I have a wonderful love interest for him. She's gentle and caring as well as beautiful, although not in a traditional way, of course. They are thrown together by their work, which they are both deeply committed to, although they see it differently. I have great action, an incredible build to a heart-wrenching climax and a denouement sure to leave my readers in tears. I have a theme that runs through the whole story that will keep my readers pondering for days after they've finished the story. It's perfect!

And it's all in my head. I haven't had the chance to write any flaws into the story yet. I haven't stumbled over an important scene, a critical introduction, or a subtly placed symbol. I have my three building blocks -- my three flash fiction pieces -- but everything else is beautifully, perfectly dancing in my head.

This is where writer's block comes in for me. This is the moment when I am paralyzed by fear, because once I start writing, my perfect story won't be perfect anymore. It will be flawed.

I need to remind myself that that is a good thing. There is so much beauty in imperfection. The imperfect is much more interesting than the perfect. And if I were able to create a perfect story, where would I be found in such a thing?

No, I'm certain that I prefer a story with my own imperfect, flawed voice ringing through it.

The Ol' Switcheroo

2010-11-16T14:03:00.000-08:00

I am abandoning my novel. FOR NOW. Not forever.

I have an opportunity to submit a short story for publication at the end of the year (tiny advance, tiny royalties). I've decided I'd like to take my Ice stories, pull them together, and make them into one big short story (hm, oxymoron, yes?). So, to do that, I'm abandoning my goals for my novel this month.

It's not failure, it's flexibility.

When I come back to my novel, I've had some super great ideas that I need to weave into it before I continue. The changes will make it a gazillion times better. And yes, it does have a lot to do with knowing my main character better and making her a more likable, compelling person.

I've also been asked to write an article for Life Skills e-zine this month. And I found out that another article of mine has been accepted for a religious publication, The Ensign. I'll link to the articles when they become available.

See, all the good news is making it easier for me to squelch the old me ("must finish goals at all cost..."). And maybe next year, I'll be in a position to participate in NaNoWriMo for real.

Fess Up Friday

2010-11-12T16:56:00.000-08:00

Time to see how I did for the week:

I added 5,752 words this week, just 248 shy of my goal. Woohoo!
I have a total of 25,254 words written in my work in progress.

More importantly, I slogged through my major slump and learned something important about my novel. Of course. I always seem to struggle most right before I discover something significant. I have a few ideas that I can work into my novel that will help me around some of the issues I've been having. I'm a little closer to figuring out who my main character. I'm not going to panic if I don't really know her yet; Leo Tolstoy took several revisions to come up with his Anna Karenina.

Um, did I just compare myself to Tolstoy? Sorry about that. *blush*

Overall, I'm pleased at the progress I've been able to make this week, especially in spite of dealing with the unexpected and unpleasant (a root canal).

Here's hoping I get into a nice rhythm this upcoming week! It would be nice to surpass my goal for once.

Reasons Why You Should NaNo

2010-11-11T16:01:00.000-08:00

Here are the reasons why you should participate in National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo):

1. Because you want to.

Now, you may be a student who hates writing, and NaNo is the only thing that makes it fun. Or perhaps you're a bored housewife who wants to try something new. Maybe you'd like to experience a month-long experiment in creativity. Perhaps you've always wanted to write a book but have been to afraid to try. Or maybe you're already a writer and you'd like to train yourself to be more disciplines. Maybe you'd like to raise your writing goals to a higher level, just to see if you can do it. You may be a seasoned, published author, who would like to share your encouragement and enthusiasm with younger writers. Who knows? It doesn't matter.

Ignore the literati elitists who look down their noses at you because you're not a "real" writer. Don't listen when they say you shouldn't be doing this, that writing is reserved for the serious author who does not dabble in such silly shenanigans. Go ahead and NaNo.

But only if you want to.

When The Going Gets Rough, I Rant

2010-11-08T11:55:00.000-08:00

I hate my novel.

There. That's right. I said it. Out loud, even as I typed.

It's boring, flimsy, plodding. My characters are cardboard. I have no "voice." My 15-year old main character sounds like a 45-year old housewife. The setting is fuzzy and nondescript, the scenes are weak and predictable. I hate my novel.

Now, don't panic. I had the same problem with my first novel four months before I finished the first draft. I was madly in love with it by the time I had finished. I still am in love with it; when I'm feeling rebellious, I plan my rewrites on it when I'm supposed to be focusing on my current work in progress.

So, I'm not going to do anything rash like abandon this story. But I do find it interesting that I hit a huge wall of resistance at this stage of the writing process.

I think it has something to do with fear. I am just getting used to hearing my voice speak out through my work. It can be quite powerful, and it surprises me. It scares me. I'm supposed to be the good girl, sit down, shut up, don't make waves. With each new scene I write, I am making waves -- sometimes ripples, sometimes a tsunami.

I'll keep writing. There is something there, under the surface, that is screaming to get out. I'm going to let it. One ugly scene at a time.

The Art of the First Draft

2010-11-05T16:58:00.000-07:00

Sorry, folks, no Fiction Friday for me this month. I'm dedicating the time to my novel, via NaNoWriSlow (thanks to Literary Mouse for coining the phrase!). I'm making wonderful progress, by the way. I'm at 19,502 words, and it's only day 5. I think I'm on track to finish my first draft by the end of the month. A very skinny first draft, that is.

But that's OK. The purpose of a first draft is to just get the story down. A first draft, to me, is like a pencil sketch. It's bare bones information, kind of dull and boring, I admit. Reading through it is almost like listening to a kindergartner tell a story.

"And then, the princess, she's banished to another world, a world where they are mean to her because she's different from them. But her sister is really nice. And her mom isn't mean, even though she's not really her mom. And then she meets a nice boy who pretends to be her friend, but then he's really a wolf in disguise..."

You get the gist. It's crap, I know, I know it's crap. But that's OK. Because once I have the story in place, I can go back and erase the rough spots, add a lot of color, depth, light, and nuance. I can weave in my theme, heighten the emotional impact of my key scenes. I can build something great, but I have to have the foundation in place.

The foundation is the story. And NaNo helps me focus so I can spit the story out onto the page.

AndThey're Off!

2010-11-01T13:20:00.000-07:00

Let's go, NaNo! Good luck to everyone participating in National Novel Writing Month.

Quote for the week: You must do the thing which you think you cannot do. -Eleanor Roosevelt

Wild Things

2010-10-28T17:15:00.000-07:00

It was my favorite time of year to be hiking in Yellowstone -- fall, when the leaves turned brilliant colors, the days were cooler but the nights not yet freezing, and the tourists packed their broods into station wagons and left the surroundings littered but quiet. The stillness in the air enticed the wild things to come back out of hiding and return to their normal habits. Sometimes I'd pass another seasoned naturalist on the trail, and we'd nod, but mostly it was just me and blue skies and birds, squirrels, elk, deer, and a few big horn sheep.

I made good time, five to six miles before stopping for lunch, and then another leisurely four this afternoon. When the temperatures started cooling and the sun darted in and out of trees closer to the horizon, I knew I needed to look for a place to camp for the night. I liked to settle in and then listen to the awakening of the nocturnals. I wandered off the main trail and found a nice clearing under a few trees, the ground fairly even and free of rocks and shrubs. I shrugged off my backpack and popped up my one man tent, then scouted around for wood to use for a fire.

By the time night fell, I had a warm, blazing fire. I heated some of the water from my canteen and poured it into my styrofoam cup of soup. I settled myself against the trunk of the nearest tree. I stirred my soup, took a spoonful, blew on it, and slurped a long, salty wet noodle into my mouth. Not exactly gourmet, but it reminded me of my college years, and it suited the mood of the evening -- young, free, and just a little out of touch with reality.

I finished the noodles and threw my head back to drain the last of the liquid from the cup when I noticed a large black feather falling from the tree. It landed beside me. I picked it up. It was sticky. I brought it near the fire so I could see better. Deep maroon, still almost black unless the light from the flames glinted just right. Blood?

The feather looked too big to be from a duck or woodpecker. I worried it might be from a falcon, or worse, a bald eagle. Curious, I fished my flashlight from my backpack and shined it up into the tree I had been leaning against. The faint beam landed on a dark, feathered body, wings splayed and head tilted askew. It was a big bird, but probably not an eagle; more likely, just a hawk. Looked like the predator had become prey.

The light illuminated something else on a branch a little further up the tree. A deer, or at least what was left of a deer. Its legs dangled lifelessly, its head flung backwards, exposing the ripped, hollowed underbelly and a few pieces of flesh still clinging to the fur.

A deer? In a tree? I'd heard of leopards doing that with their prey, but this was Wyoming, not the Serengeti. I shined my light back and forth, along the branches, and then dropped it with a clatter at my feet. I fell to my knees, groping around in the dark, desperate to find it again, while reason fought against what I thought I had just seen. A human hand, glistening white, dangling from a branch.

I heard a deep-throated growl and froze. I shifted my head to see two yellow eyes towering above me. So this is what it was like for Steve Irwin and that guy who lived with the grizzlies. The last thought flashing through my mind: what was that guy's name?

*****

Today's prompt:

In most parts of the world, Halloween is celebrated – in some form or another – this weekend. Your challenge this week is to write a horror scene (or something horrific) using a wet noodle, a styrofoam cup and a feather.

Predator and Prey

2010-10-22T10:50:00.000-07:00

Ash took the bulging manila folder from his briefcase and set it in front of him on the table in the cruiser's only cabin. A thin fluorescent light swung from the ceiling, casting shadows around the tiny room. He pulled out the dog-eared pages of the analyst's report. He glanced over the words, although he had them almost memorized. Sixteen biological terrorism attacks, innocent civilians, no known motive, no political group claiming responsibility. Just one man. He turned to the worn photos. The aftermath, piles of bloodied bodies, some that looked like they had been blown up from the inside, others that looked like they had imploded. A photo of stillness, as if the multitude of people were just sleeping, a mid-afternoon siesta. And a single photo of his target, blurred but enhanced enough to see the man's likeness. Tall, unusually pale, ice blue eyes. The eyes marked him. He would know the man in any crowd by his eyes.

His instructions were simple. Neutralize him. But be careful. Ash must not, by any means, be seen.

That would not be a problem, under normal circumstances, because Ash preferred to hunt by night. He knew how to slip through the shadows like a lynx, undetected by his prey even at the moment of striking. But this was different. His guide had taken him to the wrong island, and he had wasted precious black hours searching for a man who was not there. As they approached this island -- the right island, he had been assured, and it better be the right island, because he would not be so forgiving a second time -- dawn had already crept in, and slashes of pink rested on the horizon surrounding the lip of the rising sun. Ash desperately wanted to wait until darkness descended again, but he knew it would be impossible. His instructions emphasized it must be done now, and he was already hours behind schedule. He would have to improvise.

Ash brusquely swept the pages and photos back into the folder, returned it to the briefcase, and pushed the bag under the bed. He hadn't really needed to look over the information again, anyway. But anger and disgust helped him be more efficient. He felt the fury pulse in his veins. He was ready.

He climbed to the deck of the cruiser and watched as the island came into focus. Black sand beaches leading into a thick jungle overgrowth. Very good. The hunter would feel right at home. He relaxed a little, feeling that his job may not be too difficult after all.

The captain cut the cruiser's power, and they drifted the boat to shore. The crew busied themselves with boxes of medical supplies to be delivered to the doctor, their cover should the natives become curious about the strange men landing on their island. Ash slipped away silently, disappearing into the dense canopy.

The island was small, merely a few miles radius. Ash moved lithely, traveling in a circle, alert to the sounds of the waking jungle, closing in tighter and tighter around the village. Soon, distant voices drifted to his ears. He moved in their direction. He found a clearing, saw several grass huts. He readied his weapon, then crept closer, confident in the camouflage of the trees and vines. There. To his left. His target.

Ash hesitated. Something wasn't right. The man in front of him was stripped down to his ragged jeans, his tan chest bare, as were his dust-covered feet. A dozen small, dark, laughing children surrounded him, and they kicked a hollowed out coconut shell back and forth between them. The coconut rolled in front of the man, and just as he was about to kick it, a tiny boy snaked in front of him for a steal. The man threw back his head, his laughter loud and raucous, and Ash saw the sun glint off his perfect white teeth.

Ash sucked in his breath. The man snapped his head in his direction, their eyes met. Ash felt the blood in his veins turn to ice, fingers skittering through his body before closing around his heart. In the milliseconds before his heart exploded, he did not see his life flash before his eyes. Instead, he saw the bloodied bodies, the hollow eyes, the piles of victims he failed.

*****

Today's prompt:
Include this theme in your story… After a long night, a hunter sees something he/she cannot believe.

NaNoWriMo Or No

2010-10-20T20:52:00.000-07:00

There's something in the air this time of year. It's not the sudden chill of autumn, nor the excitement of the approaching holidays, or even the frisson of annoyance at Christmas displays popping up in stores before Halloween. No, it's the buzz and electricity as authors all around the U.S. contemplate the great National Novel Writing Month.

To NaNo or not to NaNo, that is the question. Or is it? Does it have to be so black and white?

As much as I'd like to jump in wholeheartedly, I recognize my limitations. I physically cannot sustain writing 2,000 words a day. Not even 1,667 words a day, if I don't take any days off, including Thanksgiving. Yet, I don't want to sit on the sidelines, watching and hearing about authors taking on the herculean task of completing a novel in a month. I want to play, too!

So, here's my compromise. I may not sign up on the official website. I may not bust out a full 50,000 words in one month. But I will participate in spirit. I'm setting my goal at 1,000 words a day, broken into two writing sessions. That's doable! I've already written over 13,000 words on my current work in progress. I can use the rest of October to "warm-up," as it were, bust out a lot of writing, and maybe I'll get up to 20,000 words before NaNo starts. Then maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to finish my novel about the same time as everyone else. At least a nice, sketchy, skinny first draft.

There. I've made a public commitment. Count me in, fellow crazies!

Kneading

2010-10-14T18:00:00.000-07:00

Vivian lit the trio of lavender tea candles, put a CD of nature sounds in the player, and adjusted the volume to a gentle trickle filling the room. She turned to her client, naked under a slightly warmed flannel sheet in the middle of the room. It had been cold last night; she didn't want her catching a chill.

She moved to the top of the table and folded the sheet down to expose Monica's bare back. She reached for the bottle of ylang ylang massage lotion and squeezed a liberal amount into her palm. She brusquely rubbed her hands together and smoothed them around Monica's shoulders.

Vivian closed her eyes and sighed, letting her hands move instinctively, searching out the tight knots embedded along the neck. Monica had such a lovely energy about her. It was because she was a mother. There was something about mothers -- they were always so giving, sending so much positive energy out into the world. Not every mother, she knew, but Monica was one of the good ones.

Vivian found a particularly stubborn knot and paused to give it a little extra attention. She pressed her thumb into the heart of it, rotated, wiggled it just a little. She felt it release. Monica sighed, and Vivian felt her body release a little, too. Ah, this was going to be a good session, she could tell.

Vivian worked her fingers up through the base of the neck, up to the cranium. She felt a tightening under her fingers right behind the jawline. Monica must have been fighting with her husband recently. Vivian massaged the area with her index finger, felt it leading down the side of her neck, so she followed. She followed the tightness across her shoulder, around the curve of the shoulder blade, pausing to jiggle it a little, feeling the release. It ended just under her arm. Smooth, the whole path was smooth now. Monica wouldn't be having any more of those tension headaches for awhile.

Vivian added a little more pressure as she moved down her back, pushing then pulling the muscles into submission. She moved to the side and worked along the spine. She heard a little pop, and then another, as the vertebrae slid back into place. Vivian took pride in knowing most of her clients didn't need a chiropractor. During a session with her, everything just kind of melted into balance.

She lightened her touch as she reached the spot in the middle of Monica's back. This was a touchy area, she knew. She'd once asked if Monica had ever had a traumatic injury, ever been in a car accident or injured herself playing sports. No, Monica didn't remember any such thing. Vivian knew then; it was something deeper, more traumatic, not talked about. Something when she was very young. Vivian always approached it with great care, and she noticed it was healing a little bit more each time she worked on her. If Monica did choose to ever bring the trauma to the surface again, she'd be surprised at how much better it is now. It was one of the gifts Vivian gave her clients without them knowing.

Vivian paused and squeezed more lotion into her hand. She took Monica's arm in her hands, smoothed over the large muscles, worked her way to wrists and pressed into the fleshy palm of Monica's hand. She noticed the callous marks from finger nails of clenched fists. Tension here, too. She stretched each finger, rotated the hand until it eased softly back onto the sheet.

Vivian pulled the sheet up over Monica's back, moved to the bottom of the table and folded the sheet away from Monica's legs. She repeated the motions along the large muscles, and then pulled up her stool to sit while she worked on Monica's feet. The feet told everything. Monica needed a gentle touch today, and Vivian gently prodded the heel, rolled her knuckles into the arch, walked her thumbs across the toes.

She replaced the sheet, moved to the top of the table, and gently brushed her hands down Monica's covered body, corralling the negative energy and moving it down the planes and banishing out of her body. She looked at the clock. The hour was up. She spoke softly, telling Monica to take her time getting up. She walked to a back bathroom and waited until she heard Monica stirring, waited longer until it was quiet again.

Monica's face shone when Vivian came back into the room.

"You are amazing," Monica said. She rolled her neck back and forth. "I feel so good. And it's never the same massage twice. You're very intuitive."

Vivian smiled, hoping Monica didn't notice the hint of sadness behind it.

"Thank you. Yes, you're right, I am. But it's a blessing and a curse. See, people can't lie to me."

Monica looked puzzled.

"That's why I don't date much," Vivian said lightly, and Monica laughed as if it were a joke.

"So, I'll see you next week?" Vivian asked.

"No, sorry, I can only come every other week right now. Make it the following."

"All right, I'll pencil you in."

Vivian led Monica to the door, watched her get into her car, and waved as she pulled out of the carport. She walked back inside and found the calendar on her desk. She looked at all the blank white squares and wrote down "Monica, 10 am" under the 24th.

*****

This week's prompt: What is your Character's Very Mild SuperPowers?

Righting Wrong

2010-10-09T11:51:00.000-07:00

I stood on the round metallic teleportation device in the middle of the room. I turned to face the only other man in the room.

"When you enter, you should arrive in the southwest corner," the old man said. "The oval table will be to your right. He will be sitting at the head of it, of course."

I nodded. Nervous perspiration broke out in tiny droplets on my upper lip. I brought my arm up and wiped it away on my sleeve. I didn't speak for fear my voice would crack.

"You will have only a few seconds before their surprise turns to action. You must act quickly."

Again, I nodded. I steadied my voice.

"Should I have my gun drawn already?" I asked.

"No. That would raise alarms immediately. Let them see you and wonder first."

I could see the old man had thought this through, over and over, reliving it again and again throughout the long nights leading up to this moment.

"Are you ready?" he asked quietly. I placed my hand on the butt of the gun tucked inside the front of my jeans. I closed my eyes.

I nodded.

I opened my eyes to see the scene exactly as the old man had described it. I was in the southwest corner of the room. The oval table was to my right. He was sitting at the head of it. His impeccable black hair, parted down the right, gleamed, the broom bristle mustache twitched under his nose. His uniform was crisp, and he held his hat casually in his left hand. The swastika band was blood red around his left bicep. He threw his head back and laugh, momentarily disconcerting me. I had never seen more than a frown turning his lips down at the corners.

The men in the room became aware of my presence incrementally, as if in slow motion. Expressions turned from surprise to confusion to concern as I pulled the gun from its hiding place and trained the sights on the laughing man. I pulled the trigger and blood erupted from the clean white shirt beneath his jacket. The smile faded from his lips as I pumped three more shots into his chest. The room felt silent for a millisecond, and then a buzzing roar filled my ears. I let the gun drop from my fingers, bouncing innocuously at my feet with a clatter against the hard wood floor. I was tackled and fell to the ground next to it.

I waited for the crack that would signal the bullet meant for me. It didn't come. Two burly men rolled me onto my back, and I felt cold metal handcuffs coil around my wrists. They hauled me to my feet, and I stood to face these men, his cronies and accomplices. They stared back at me in horror, as if I were the butcher of millions instead of the man bleeding lifelessly at their feet.

The two men pushed me through the door, out of the building, into a waiting car. They drove for miles, and I wondered what would happen next. A dark dank cell? Torture? Encampment and a cyanide shower? They pulled up in front of another building, pulled me out, pushed me through the door. They led me down a corridor, turned left, and opened the door to a small room. They shoved me forward, then turned me around and removed the cuffs from my wrists. They left me standing in the middle of the room, alone, and I heard the door shut behind me with a click.

The room was sparse but comfortable, a blanketed twin bed in the corner, a round table and wooden chair in the middle. A few books, a pad of paper, and a pen were stacked on the table. Behind a small privacy screen were a toilet and a sink protruding from the wall. And in the corner opposite the bed was a TV.

A TV? But that hadn't been invented yet. I blinked back the surprise. I found a remote control on top. I picked it up, pushed a button, and watched the images spilling from the screen.

I watched for hours. Somber announcers with tears in their eyes. Mourners spontaneously gathering on the stairs of the building I had been taken from, not just blond-haired, blue-eyed mourners, but brown and black mixed in. A sea of flowers growing like a garden at the top, flowing down the steps like a waterfall. Similar displays at German embassies in foreign countries. Interviews with dignitaries from all around the world, in languages I couldn't understand, and then Franklin D. Roosevelt.

"The American people join our hearts to the great people of Germany and share their sorrow during this horrendous moment in history. We honor this man who has done so much to further peace and prosperity in the world. We vow to continue his fight against the very thing that took his life: blind hatred enforced by violence. We will not stop or falter until every weapon has been safely buried in the ground. Even in these darkest moments, his legacy shines brightly before us, a beacon to follow, and he will go down in history as the greatest man ever born."

Dear God, what have I done?

*****

Today's prompt:

Your Main Character is a time traveler. He/She arrives at a destination but not all is as expected….

Gourds

2010-10-04T13:29:00.000-07:00

Why Do I Write?

2010-10-04T13:26:00.000-07:00

Because someone told me I was a good writer when I was a child.
Because I love the taste of words.
Because I think I'm very clever.
Because I believe 45 is old enough to pry the hands away from my mouth.
Because I love it.
Because I become intoxicated by it.
Because I love to read.
Because I'm looking for meaning in my life.
Because I'm looking for meaning in my tragedies.
Because sometimes I want to scream.
Because I can.

Paradise Lost

2010-09-30T18:04:00.000-07:00

Ice expected the agency to punish him, but he thought they might have gone too far. He knew he had to be reassigned, but here? This is where they sent the rookies, the unstable recruits, the burnouts, and the offenders. Apparently, he fell into the latter category.

He stepped out of his grass hut into the sunshine and took off his sunglasses. He turned his face to the sun and closed his eyes. It was undeniably beautiful here. The weather held steady at 80 degrees, the foliage was lush and green, the beaches were pure white and glistening along the shores of crystal blue seas. But those same seas, calm and inviting, tasted like acid on his skin. He knew this from the boat ride over from the mainland; the ocean spray had burned his skin like tiny flaming needles. His clothes clung to his skin damply and no amount of toweling after his shower ever got him quite dry. The siren song of a refreshing dip held the promise of agony, agony if he answered, agony if he did not.

He made his way into the village, and the local children gathered around him. It had taken them awhile to accept him here. He was tall, his hair bright silver although his face was young and fresh. His pale skin practically glowed like an angel. The villagers were small, calloused, and very dark, their hands and faces worn from hard labor. At first they thought him a demon, but after the miracles began, they believed he was a god. And there was very little he could do to change their minds.

His new cover was as a volunteer with Doctors Without Borders. He joined a small crew of three for this particular island; two would have sufficed. Every morning, he and Drs. Brant and Daley arrived at their medical facility -- a shanty made off wood, thrown together by their own unskilled hands. Yet it was the most luxurious building on the island. The villagers came to them out of curiosity, and the doctors inspected them in turn. Dr. Brant, the pediatrician, treated the children for parasites and chicken pox and gave their parents advice on nutrition. Dr. Daley treated the adults for cholera and scabies and work-related accidents.

Ice was responsible for the vaccination program, but often he provided much more. The children came, sat patiently on the hard metal stool, and submitted to the inoculations. While he talked to them, soothed their nerves, he allowed his feelers to move freely through their bodies, searching hidden viruses and removing them. They left him protected from polio and no longer complaining of stomach aches, raw throats, open sores, or burning eyes.

And in return, he collected samples, hundreds of samples that would be very helpful to the agency.

*****

This week's prompt: Lonely in paradise.

To play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday here.

Distant Stars

2010-09-24T18:34:00.000-07:00

You'd think I'd be used to it by now, like a farmer gets used to the scent of manure. But I wasn't. The smell of tonight's dinner decomposing and being digested, oozing from human pores, mixed with the leftover stench of rancid grease and burned oil. Pork chops. My mom made pork chops. For some reason, pork smells so much nastier than chicken or beef or even fish, really. At least fish is digested quicker, and the stink doesn't linger so long.

To make things worse, it was a hot and muggy night, and I could smell them sweating in their sleep, the bacteria spreading and dancing in the moistness. The odors mixed together so unpleasantly I started to gag.

I threw off the covers, deciding sleep was useless like this. I peeked over at Lily to make sure she didn't stir. Of course she didn't. She slept like a forbidden temple every night. Nothing disturbed her. I didn't bother changing my clothes or putting on shoes; my pajama pants fit me loosely, letting air circulate, and my tank top invited cooling, too. I tiptoed to the window and opened it slowly, quietly. I stepped out onto the roof as lithe as a lynx, walked down the slanted tiles, and agilely leaped to the sturdy oak tree like I had so many nights already this summer. I shimmied down and felt my feet touch wet dewy grass.

I walked, much further than my parents would have been comfortable with, but I knew where I wanted to go. Where I needed to be right then. Nobody passed me as I traveled, and it dawned on me that I hadn't bothered to check the time. No matter. I'd head home when the sky turned from charcoal black to dusty gray. They'd never miss me.

I could smell fresh grass now, and I knew I was getting closer. My feet picked up the pace intuitively, until I rounded the corner and stepped into the vacant filled. Blades of wild grass reached up to my thighs. People were far from here, and animals didn't come by frequently. I breathed in deeply, feeling the dread seep from my body, feeling my muscles relax and my shoulders slump.

I moved towards the middle of the field and chose a spot that felt like even ground beneath my feet. My hands worked instinctively, weaving the grass back and forth until I'd made a soft, comfortable bed. I laid down and gazed up at the sky.

It looked beautiful tonight. So far from town, the city lights were unable to dim the stars brilliance. And yet, I couldn't help but feel that I was looking at the mixed up pieces of a jig-saw puzzle, that the patterns were off somehow. And in spite of my logical brain, as I stared at the moon, I couldn't help but search the skies for the other two that I knew were missing.

I heard the haunting song of a barn owl, and it nearly made me cry. Not because of the loneliness it carried, no, I was OK with being alone. It was because it was such a foreign sound, something I knew I would never hear back where I came from. Or rather, where I was supposed to have gone.

Fifteen years. Fifteen years I'd been building a wall around my heart, keeping the homesickness at bay. It wasn't like I'd be going anywhere soon. I allowed on -- just one -- small tear to glide down my face. Then, with a deep breath, I closed my eyes to the foreign sky and rested.

*****

This week's prompt:
Use this lyric from Shore Leave to flavor your story: “Hong Kong drizzle on Cuban heels.”

This week's prompt was about being so far away from home, and it fit very well with my current work in progress. So, I developed a story using my main character. I hope you enjoyed it.

As always, to play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday here.

Rules for a Great Rough Draft

2010-09-22T09:49:00.000-07:00

1. Keep your hand moving. If you stop your hand, you stop the creator's flow and give the editor in you an opportunity to interrupt.
2. Lose control. Just say what you want no matter how inappropriate. Just go for it.
3. Be specific. Don't write flower, write narcissus.
4. Don't think. Stay with the first thing that flashes into your mind.
5. Don't worry about punctuation, spelling, and grammar.
6. You are free to write the worst junk in America. (Or, in your case, it could be anywhere in the world!)
7. Go for the jugular. Whatever comes up, no matter how frightening or disturbing, write it down.

Sadly, I don't remember the source for this list. I was blog hopping one day, found it, and printed it out. I love it though, and I wanted to share it with other writers. If you are the author, please let me know so I can give you credit!

A Business Proposition

2010-09-17T16:32:00.000-07:00

The Tooth Fairy sat at the table sorting through the last night's haul. She picked through the tiny little teeth, the molars and bicuspids, setting those with cavities in one pile, those with fillings in another, and those rare gems, the shiny white ones, in another. Several were broken in half and useless, thrown into the trash. Hundreds of teeth later, she looked at the piles in front of her in disgust. The Grade C pile was huge, the Grade B pile slightly smaller, and Grade A? Seventeen teeth. Seven freaking teen. She pushed her chair away from the table with a screech.

She walked over to her crystal mirror and pushed a button. Dozens of tiny faces filled the screen, children being tucked into bed, peeking underneath pillows to make sure the teeth were still there, simultaneous kisses on foreheads, and a chorus of, "Get right to sleep so the Tooth Fairy will come."

"Screw 'em, the little peckers." The Tooth Fairy pushed the button again, and the screen went blank. She grasped the cigarette hanging from her lips and flicked the hanging ash away, singeing another hole in the carpet.

She thought about when her mother had been the Tooth Fairy. What a racket that had been. Kids knew how to brush their teeth back then, or their parents would teach them a thing or two, by gol. And she only had to pay twenty-five cents a tooth. The Fairy government had been isolationist in those days; no foreign currency vying for their commodities.

Everything changed with free trade and a globalization of the economy. The trolls were harvesting piranha teeth -- piranhas, for Gad's sakes! and the human teeth had become seriously devalued against the leprechauns' gold. Add to that the collective bargaining power of parents, and she now had to pay as much as five bucks per tooth. If it weren't for a few conscionable parents who were still trying to teach their children temperance and moderation, she'd never make even a measly profit.

She walked back to the table and scooped each pile into an envelope, deposited each into her file cabinet. The plan that had been niggling at the back of her mind pushed its way forward, demanded her attention.

What if she didn't show up tonight? The goblins had been looking for a little more muscle to help out with their collections department. She could moonlight for them for awhile. They paid well enough; better than this, anyway. She'd put all these teeth into savings and wait until supply had dwindled and demand shot through the roof. If she timed it right, she'd have enough for that vacation home in the Bahamas she'd always wanted, and some to spare.

She turned back to her crystal mirror, clicked it on one more time. A sea of peaceful, sleeping faces blanketed the screen. She stared for a minute, then clicked it off, chuckling as she made her way into her bedroom to get ready for bed.

*****

Today's prompt: Why did the Tooth Fairy fail to deliver coins one evening?
To play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday here.

For the record, this is NOT the story I told my children when the Tooth Fairy failed to show up at our house.

Eight Questions

2010-09-13T17:09:00.000-07:00

I’ve been tagged in a game that goes like this, I answer a series of questions with entertaining comments (although not sure how entertaining it will be). Then I tag others who do the same on their blogs. The only reason I agree to play along is because it's only eight questions. How hard can that be, right?

1. If you could have any superpower, what would you have? Why?

My boys believe that earth bending is the very best superpower to have, but that's because they have visions of destroying things. I think I'd like Jasper Cullen's ability to manipulate emotions and make everyone around me happy.

2. Who is your style icon?

I love Stacey on TLC's What Not To Wear. She has convinced me that a v-neck and empire waistline are my friends. She is the reason that I only have one pair of mom jeans (and only because I haven't had time to shop to replace them yet).

3. What is your favorite quote?

"If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them." -- Henry David Thoreau

4. What is the best compliment you’ve ever received?

My mother-in-law once took my kids, all six of them, to McDonald's play place when they were little. A woman stopped to compliment her on how well behaved they all were. My mother-in-law still talks about that time.

5. What playlist/cd is in your CD player/iPod right now?

Joseph Arthur/America on Pandora. It's really a fun, eclectic mix of my favorite kind of music.

6. Are you a night owl or a morning person?

I am a barely get through the day kind of person. More of a night owl than a morning person. I'm death incarnate when I first wake up.

7. Do you prefer dogs or cats?

Dogs. Except the ones that bark all night every night in my neighborhood. I could do without them.

8. What is the meaning behind your blog name

I started with "Naissance," which means "birth" in French. But then I felt like my writing had graduated from the newborn stage into the playfulness of childhood. A*Musings means I'm amusing myself with my musings. Hm, I wonder if I'll go all dark and brooding when my writing reaches that awkward teenage stage.

I tag Carrie Dair, Cathryn Louis, and Monique.

Carrie -- you can either view this as more homework, or an easy blog post idea. ;)

Dancing Queen

2010-09-10T16:41:00.000-07:00

I don't go to clubs to meet men. I go because the music calls me, because it sings to my soul.

I know I've always been periapt at dancing. I just have to move when I hear that beat, beat, beat. I start with my booty, 'cause I got plenty of junk in the trunk, and I know where to put the focus. I ain't never been no big boob kinda girl. I start out rocking my hips a little bit. My hips are full, woman hips, lay down your worries here and rest, child-bearing hips. They're mesmerizing, like a hypnotist's watch. Then, if the music picks up, I put a little more kick into it, a little snap. And when I hear a song with a little Latin flavor, I let go and really shake it, til it's a shimmering blur of motion.

I really start to feel good once I've had a couple of drinks. Not a couple of beers, because that's low class, but maybe a couple of those pretty little daiquiris. Then, I'll put my hands on my knees and swing my head around, back and forth, get my hair whipping around my face. And if I get going fast enough, it feels like I'm a little girl on the swings again, you know, when you lean your head back as far as you can go, then pull it up again to feel the blood rush to your face, and you feel all dizzy.

I put my hands in the air, wave them back and forth. Add a little bit of shoulders, but not too much, like I said, I ain't no big boob girl. Sometimes I'll close my eyes and just feel the rhythm move through me. Then, I'll look up and see the ball spinning above me, shooting stars all around the room, and I'll think I'm on another planet, in another universe, flying somewhere through space where I don't have to worry about rent being late or the lights being turned off or somebody's tiny little mouth waiting to be fed.

I stay there all night long, embrangled with all those other hot, sweaty, writhing bodies who are just like me, who feel the music just like me. I stay there until the DJ stops, and the lights go up, and I put on my coat and go home.

*****
This week's prompt:

Use one or more of these words in your story (but resist the temptation to look them up first!)
Periapt
Vilipend
Embrangle

To play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday here.

A New Writing Group

2010-09-06T16:45:00.000-07:00

Well, I've taken a leap of faith and joined a new writing group. I'm currently in David Farland's (Of Daily Kick in the Pants fame) Women's Fiction writing group. All the groups are new, and ours hasn't quite taken off yet. By sheer force of attrition, I am the group leader. Interpretation: Literally EVERYONE refused to be group leader. Haha! No problem, I've got some pretty good organizational skills, so it should be fine.

I'm looking forward to another forum for sharing and learning. I'm excited to be exposed to a greater variety of work and experience. I like the idea of setting goals and having other people hold my feet to the fire. You'll have to tell me if you think my stories get better because of it. ;)

Watching Albert

2010-09-03T17:42:00.000-07:00

Linda stepped out of the shower with determination. This was the day. She would do it. She would tell Albert that she was leaving him.

She dried off brusquely, getting the blood pumping, garnering her strength and courage. She slipped into a pair of jeans and her yellow tie-dyed T-shirt. Albert hated that shirt. Albert hated everything.

She blew her hair dried, then pulled it up in a high pony tail. She looked at herself in the mirror. She looked like a teenager. Did she really want to look like a child when she confronted him? Ha. Yes. Yes, she did. It would seem a special kind of affront for him, daring to defy him like a rebellious daughter, and not his loving, obedient wife.

Last night with Marco at the Wild Notes Karaoke Bar had helped her finally make up her mind. The beers, the singing, the dancing on the dance floor. And later, a trip to the women's room private stall... It wasn't only the notes that were wild at that place.

It's not like she was in love with Marco. She realized that. But singing XXX with all her drunken heart, she realized she still had a good voice, and she was still young enough to do something with it.

She squared her shoulders and walked upstairs to his room, opening the door and entering his inner sanctum unbidden. She braced for the backlash, but none was forthcoming. He wasn't there. Odd. He never left his room.

She looked at the blinking screens of his surveillance system. Oh, that explained it. He stood at the foot of the neighbor's new driveway with the owner. Linda recognized that stance, the waving arms, the flush that could be seen on the hi-def screens. She could only imagine the minor infraction that had elicited such rage. She thought the man had remarkable self-control. He didn't seem to be rising to the bait; he simply spoke a few words, turned on his heel, and went inside the house.

Linda watched as Albert made his way back to the house, then she turned her gaze to a second screen that showed him walking into the kitchen. Apparently, he had worked up an appetite. He opened the pantry, removed a loaf of bread, then moved to the fridge and took out the leftover meatloaf from last night. He made himself a sandwich and took a bite as he headed toward the door.

He stopped, grabbed at his throat, pounded his chest. He retched as if to cough, but there didn't seem to be any force behind it. His eyes grew wide. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead as his face, already red from the altercation, turned crimson.

Linda watched as he grabbed frantically for a chair, pulled it toward him, positioned himself above it, and slammed forward onto the hard back. His face took on a purplish tinge. He slammed forward again. Again. Again, but with much less force this time. His skin had turned a pallid blue as he sank to the floor.

Linda watched. He was unconscious now. Perfectly still. She waited. When thirty minutes had passed, she turned off the computer screens. She shuffled through his desk drawers, gathering all his files, all his DVDs, and threw them in the garbage. She took the bag, tied it off, and walked downstairs. Walking outside, she put the garbage into the bin, just as the trash collector arrived.

*****

Today's prompt: "Albert is dead."

To play along, and to read about Albert in his original story, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday here.

Missed Opportunities

2010-09-01T16:46:00.000-07:00

Ah, Mockingjay, wonderful, anticipated Mockingjay. Our dear Ms. Suzanne Collins had set our expectations SO HIGH with her previous works, The Hunger Games and Catching Fire. Would it even be possible to meet such expectations?

No, of course not. What I noticed -- and loved -- about Ms. Collins in the previous two books is that she is an excellent, but flawed, writer. I found Mockingjay to be just as marvelous as the first two books, but I feel in some parts she missed the boat.

Ms. Collins recognized that the greatest appeal from the first book was all the action inside the arena. She deftly brought Kat back into the arena in her second book, through the introduction of the Quarterly Quell. Definitely on the right track, she brought Kat back to the "arena" again during the attack on the capitol.

And yet, I can't help but feel that Ms. Collins failed to understand just what readers found so engrossing in the arena. It wasn't the traps, the creations that intrigued us so much. Sure, they were imaginative and interesting, and we tolerated them as such. But the real magic happened between people, allies and enemies alike. We loved to see our self-proclaimed heartless heroine bond with Rue, fall in love with Peeta, and match wits against Cato. In the third book, we see many more traps, but far less teamwork and bonding between Kat and her comrades. And the enemy they are fighting is completely faceless. Kat's survival in this book seems based much more on luck than on skill, ingenuity, or instinct.

Still, I think that Kat resonated as the Mockingjay, and I think her last act of assassination showed her to be a true champion of the people, and President Snow's death was a fitting demise for him.

I personally found the ending (the very end, not The Big Twist) to be very satisfying. It wrapped things up and gave me a sense of closure, if you will. I think Ms. Collins does an excellent job of foreshadowing who Kat chooses in the end. For those who feel like Kat was "just settling," I think you may have missed the hints.

I think Mockingjay is the weakest in the series, but I still recommend it as a must if you have read and loved the other two books in the trilogy.

Iced

2010-08-27T13:02:00.000-07:00

Ice stepped out of the greystone office and into the bright sunlight. He pulled off his sunglasses and tucked them into the left breast pocket of his navy Armani suit. He turned his face to the sun, and closed his eyes.

"You!"

His head snapped toward the sound. An elderly man, about 70ish, with white hair and wide, frightened eyes, stood pointing a shaky bony finger at him.

"It's you. I know it's you."

Ice locked his gaze onto the old man's eyes and let his mouth go slack. His feelers moved through the skin, past the cranium, and searched through the gray matter to find a weakness. There. Right there. He focused intensely for a second or two. That's all it took. The man crumpled to the floor, his fall finally breaking eye contact.

Ice rushed to the man's side, pushing through the surprised bystanders that moved in to help. He pulled off his jacket, dropping it to the ground as he knelt down. He turned to a young woman with a cell phone.

"Call 911," he said.

He placed two fingers on the side of the man's neck. A faint pulse still fluttered beneath his fingertips. He tilted the man's head back and checked for breathing. Barely a wisp. He clasped his hands together, positioned them under the man's breast bone where the ribs of each side came together. He began CPR, pushing against the man's chest, knowing he was sending more blood to the damaged brain, building more pressure. He paused to give mouth to mouth resuscitation, listened again to the slowing breath, returned to massaging the man's chest. He continued as a crowd grew around them, until he was certain the blood vessels in the old man's brains were exploding under the onslaught, until no breath and no heart beat could be detected.

He heard the sirens. An ambulance pulled up next to them. The paramedics pulled him back, took over the CPR where he had left off. The senior paramedic pronounced the old man dead at the scene. He patted Ice on the shoulder.

"You did all that you could."

Later that afternoon, back in the dark of the greystone office, the captain paced angrily.

"What the hell did you do that for?" he said through clenched teeth.

"I had to," Ice said. "He almost blew my cover."

*****

Today's prompt included one of my favorite writing exercises, eavesdropping. I'm afraid I didn't follow directions very well; I only used one line of dialogue. It's just that it was such a good line of dialogue, I couldn't pass it up.

Step 1. Go to a busy locale—a cafe or coffee shop would be easiest. Sit down with a notebook, and make sure you look busy, so people don’t know you’re listening. Now write down random sound bites of conversations.Try to get at least 10 lines or snippets.
Step 2. Now use all ten in a cohesive scene of dialogue or as dialogue in a story
Step 3. Leave a list of the lines plucked from real life at the end of the story for people to see.

The line I took was "He almost blew my cover."

The rest of the conversation revolved around new NFL rules, how bad the Rams are this year, and golf.

Anyway, to play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday here.

Wild Notes Karaoke Bar

2010-08-20T16:56:00.000-07:00

Sheila noticed a small white piece of paper taped to her front door as she got home from work. The note taped to the door said: See you at Wild Notes Karaoke Bar. She grinned. It seemed the girls wanted to start early with their wild weekend.

She went inside and slipped out of her business suit, letting her clothes fall into a mass on the floor of her room. She took a quick shower and changed into a pair of jeans and her favorite teal top, the one that brought out the blue in her eyes. She brushed her teeth, freshened her makeup, and gave herself a spritz of perfume. Then she breezed out the front door.

A good crowd had already formed by the time she got to Wild Notes. She took a peek inside to see if her friends were already there. From a booth in the corner, she saw Jen wave to her. She pushed through the waiting customers and slid in next to Pattie, who was already flagging down the waiter.

"Happy hour, one dollar margaritas," Jen said. The waiter, a good-looking guy about their age wearing a Hawaiian print shirt and a name tag that said "Mitch" made his way to their table.

"Another round, please," Pattie said. "She'll have what we're having." He nodded and disappeared through the crowd of bodies.

"Anyone interesting yet?" Sheila asked.

"Not really," Jen answered. "We've had one girl who is obviously practicing for American Idol, and an old guy singing country who looks like he missed the boat. The rest of them have been the regular drunks making fools of themselves."

Sheila laughed. "Those are my favorites."

"I know, right?" said Pattie as she took another swig from her glass.

The waiter arrived and passed the glasses around the table. Sheila leaned back in the booth, swirled the liquid in her glass with her swizzle stick, and took a sip. She looked at the stage area to see who would be next.

The next guy up looked intriguing. Not one of the usual suspects; he didn't trip over the cord of his mike, and when he looked out at the crowd, his eyes were clear. Dark green, clear eyes. He wore jeans and a button down shirt over a t-shirt, and it didn't look like he had spilled anything on himself yet. He wore flip flops, and when his brown hair fell in his eyes, he whipped it away with a sharp flip. He turned on the microphone, tapped it a few times.

"Ahem. I feel like I should warn you guys," he said into the mike. "I subscribe to the Japanese philosophy of karaoke. They believe it's not about talent, it's about the emotion you put into the song. So, this is just for fun, OK?"

A Bon Jovi tune started playing through the speakers. He began to sing.

You say you're cried a thousand rivers
And now you're swimming for the shore
You left me drowning in my tears
And you won't save me anymore

Now I'm praying to God you'll give me one more chance, girl

I'll be there for you

Sheila's felt the blood rush to her face. He stared right at her while he sang. It was at her, right? She turned to see if her girlfriends had noticed, but they weren't even watching him. The only other customers in his line of vision were a couple of elderly women at the table in front of her.

I know you know we've had some good times
Now they have their own hiding place
I can promise you tomorrow
But I can't buy back yesterday

His eyes never left her face. Memories of old boyfriends swam to the surface, the fun she'd had, the heartbreak she'd suffered. It felt like he sang for every one of them.

I'll be there for you
These five words I swear to you
When you breathe I want to be the air for you
I'll be there for you
I'd live and I'd die for you
Steal the sun from the sky for you
Words can't say what a love can do
I'll be there for you

She didn't break away from his gaze. She let him sing to her. She felt, for the moment, that he meant what he said, that he was the one to erase all her pain, that he was her promise. He finished, and he smiled at her. He ducked his head, set the mike down, and jumped off the stage. He was lost in the crowd.

She exhaled. She hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath. There was a lull on the stage; no one else was waiting to sing. She stood up.

"Um, Sheila?" Jen asked. Sheila didn't answer. She walked to the karaoke machine and flipped through the titles. She found one that she liked and selected it. She held the microphone to her lips as the music started. Her voice was shaky as she sang the first lines.

I heard he sang a good song
I heard he had a style
And so I came to see
And listen for a while
And there he was this young boy
A stranger to my eyes

Sheila scanned the crowd, but she didn't see him. At their booth, Jen and Pattie stared at her, their mouths open.

I felt all flushed with fever
Embarrassed by the crowd
I felt he found my letters
And read each one out loud
I prayed that he would finish
But he just kept right on

Strumming my pain with his fingers
Singing my life with his words
Killing me softy with his song
Killing me softly with his song
Telling my whole life
With his words
Killing me softly with his song

She finished and set down the mike to a scattering of applause. She made her way back to the booth, where Jen and Pattie still looked confused.

"What the heck? When did you start singing?"
"Really, are you crazy?"

Sheila reached into her purse and took out a silver business card case. She snapped it open and took out one of her cards. On the back, she wrote her home phone number.

The waiter walked up to their table and set a drink in front of Sheila.

"The gentleman over there asked me to bring this to you." He gestured behind him. Sheila smiled and handed the waiter the card in her hand.

"Thank you very much. Can you please see that he gets this?" she said. The waiter smiled, took the card, and gave her a small bow. Sheila turned her attention back to her friends.

*****

Today's prompt: The note taped to the door said: See you at Wild Notes Karaoke Bar.

To play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday here.

My New WIP

2010-08-16T17:24:00.000-07:00

I guess I could have saved this for WIP Wednesday, but I'm too excited, and I wanted to share. Here's the unedited, first draft opening of my new work in progress, working title "Not Like Me." I'm not looking for critiques at this point. Just one question. Hooked?
*****

Have you ever notice how families just kind of go together? I mean, some of them are weird, but they are weird together. You've got your scouter families, where the wife refuses to marry anything but an Eagle Scout, and then the dad ends up being Scout master for forty years. You've got your super high achieving family, where the dad is a doctor and the mother is a lawyer and all the kids are on student councils and end up at Harvard. Then there's the screw up family, the one where the kid is sent to the principal's office in first grade for bringing a knife to school, and when the mom comes to get him, the principal just nods his head, "Aha." Sure, some kids rebel, that's always going to happen, and you may have a black sheep once in awhile. But they still have a place, they still fit in somehow with their family.

I've wondered about God before. I've listened to discussions between the devout and the devoid. I think the arguments against him are pretty solid. But I think the atheists are wrong. In fact, I know they are. There is a God, but he's not all-powerful and perfect, like everyone thinks. Nope, he makes mistakes. And I'm one of them.

I don't belong in my family. I'm not like my mom, my dad, my brother, or even my twin sister. In fact, I'm not like anyone. God, whoever he or she is, screwed up big time. He not only sent me to the wrong family, he sent me to the wrong world.

Query, Query, Quite Contrary

2010-08-16T14:26:00.000-07:00

No, I'm not thinking of querying my 36,000 skeletal rough draft of my first novel just yet. I'm not quite there. However, I do have friends that are in the thick of things, and The Query Letter looms greater than Godzilla for them. Here's a great site I found for learning what to do and what not to do with a query letter.

Janet Reid's Query Shark

I will be eating up this information, hopefully preparing myself for the Big Day when I, too, will have a query letter ready to send.

Best of Bruce

2010-08-12T17:54:00.000-07:00

"All right, all right," Louise said, fanning her face with her hands. "I've got one. Best movies by Bruce Willis."
"That's easy," said Samantha, bringing her glass of wine to her lips. "Die Hard, his first break out role."
"Please, I hate those shows," Anneli said. "Blow it up or shoot it up, no acting required. How can that be the best?"
"It's just that he looked so good in those," Sam said with a pout. "You know, before he went bald."
The women squealed.
"OK, I'll give you that," Louise said, "but he's still sexy, even without hair."
"I think his best role was Pulp Fiction," Anneli said. "The boxer. Still manly, still sexy, but finally showing some acting chops."
"Yeah, he was good, but you have to admit he was upstaged by John Travolta," said Sam.
"Finally, we had our Vinnie Barbarino back. And he grew up so well, too," said Louise, smacking her lips.
"You still haven't told us your favorite, Louise," said Sam. She took another drink and looked at her friend.
"Easy. The 6th Sense. It was so good, and so creepy. The best kind of ghost story."
"Aw, he was such a good husband in that one, too. So sad for the wife," said Anneli. "All right, you're tempting me to change my mind."
"Wait. I've got it. We're wrong, we're all wrong." Louise and Anneli looked at Sam. Sam held a bread stick up for emphasis.
"Look Who's Talking. Bam, hands down winner."
Everyone burst into laughter.
"Oh my gosh, that thing was so lame. I could barely stand sitting through it," said Anneli. "Please, tell me you didn't see Look Who's Talking, Too."
Sam raised her hand, shaking her head in confession. "Yup. I did. Bruce Willis may have done all the talking, but John Travolta was the one looking good on the screen."
Louise sighed. "I wouldn't mind having his baby."
"Whose? Bruce's or John's?"
"Both," Louise said with a laugh.
"Well, I wouldn't," said Anneli. Sam and Louise looked at her skeptically.
"No, seriously, can you imagine what kind of kid he would look like? Why would I do that to my child?" She smiled slyly. "No, I think I'd rather my child look like Ashton Kutcher."

*****

This week's prompt: The conversation took off when Louise mentioned Bruce Willis.

To play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday here.

Running Away From Home

2010-08-09T17:05:00.000-07:00

I highly recommend it. I think this will be my new annual tradition.

My husband drove me up to Idyllwild, CA on Friday afternoon. We stopped at the delightful Aroma Cafe for lunch alfresco. The food was delightful -- he had a veggie sandwich with delicious artisan bread and fresh sauteed vegetables, and I had a yellow squash gratin. Plenty of leftovers to take home with me. He then stopped at a boutique and picked me up a dozen hand made truffles. Worth every calorie, the owner promised. She did not, however, promise they were worth every penny -- at $2.50 a truffle, they were a trifle pricey. But on a week-end like this, the splurge was worth it.

We then made our way to the cabin. It was every bit as charming as the photos suggested. My husband brought in my luggage, helped me mess up the covers on the bed, kissed me goodbye, and left me in bed for my afternoon rest. With no fear of traumatizing the children, I walked around naked until dinner -- body image issues be damned. (I don't believe anyone reading this will find that information titillating. I am, after all, a 45 year mother of six children.) When it cooled down enough for clothes, I put on my fuzzy jammies, ate quiche for dinner, and crocheted while watching an episode of Top Chef.

Ah, but you are wondering... Did I ever get any writing done? Yes, yes, yes! I wrote in the evening of my first day, the morning, afternoon, and evening of the second day, and the morning and afternoon of my final day. My muse was on high alert, and I finished one flash fiction story and my short story rewrite. The rewrite of my short story, "Wishes," was the most satisfying. I knew I had some heavy lifting to do, writing in scenes that didn't yet exist. I knew what I wanted to achieve, and by the end of the weekend, felt I had achieved it. The second to last scene made me outright cry. I can't say everyone will react the same way to my story, but at that moment, I knew that I had pulled everything I had in me out onto the page, and I felt so satisfied, like I had really done it justice. I couldn't stop grinning once it was finished.

I drank my Celestial Seasonings under the pines each morning, listening to the lyrical sounds of the birds and the creek running through the property. I saw hummingbirds, butterflies, dragonflies, squirrels, trout, daisies, Indian paintbrush, and a couple of birds I couldn't identify. The air was crisp, and it was so beautiful and peaceful.

My husband brought all the kids with him to pick me up Sunday afternoon. I enjoyed showing them around the place and seeing how many people we could fit in the hammock. It felt good to see them again, and I was happy to be home... but I can't wait to do this again next year!

Don't Worry

2010-08-05T18:29:00.000-07:00

My vision came slowly into focus, the blurry edges pushing outward, fading, until I could see around me clearly. I looked through a maze of wires and tubes. Machines encircled the head of my bed. A monitor showed lines dancing across its screen, smooth and then jump! a happy little leap. An accordion-shaped cylinder trapped in a glass tube inflated and collapsed in rhythm, I realized, to my breathing. I tried to move, but found I could not, and suspected clamps and restraints held my body in place. My mouth felt dry, and I looked around for someone I could ask for a drink of water.

My husband sat in the visitor's chair at the foot of the bed, his head in his hands. I tried to speak, but my lips wouldn't move, not even a rumble or squeak came from my vocal chords. The doctor walked in, wearing a crisp white coat and a stethoscope around his neck, carrying what must be my chart in hand. My husband looked up when he entered, and I noticed how haggard he looked, his eyes red-rimmed and darkly circled. How long had he been sitting there, watching me? How long have I been here?

The doctor's voice was kind, but distanced, a professionalism that comes with practice.

"Mr. Collier?"

Eric stood, shoved his hands in his pockets, and waited.

"Mr. Collier, you know your wife has suffered substantial brain damage. We've waited four months to see if she would come out of her coma. We have no reason to suspect that her condition will change, and even if she did miraculously come out of her coma, we would expect her to remain in a non-communicative vegetative state."

What? No, I'm here, I have come out of my coma. I'm not vegetative, you idiot, I can understand every bit of your medical mumbo jumbo.

Eric simply nodded. The doctor put his hand on Eric's shoulder.

"You knew this day would come, but I know this isn't an easy decision for you. Have you talked it over with your family?"

Eric nodded again. "Yes. They all agree it's the best thing to do."

The doctor patted Eric reassuringly.

"Yes, it is for the best," he said. "I'll give you a moment alone with your wife."

He left the room, and Eric shuffled to the side of my bed. Carefully pushing aside the wires and tubes connected to my body, he joined me. He slid his arm underneath my neck -- no restraints, after all -- and pulled me into his chest. He stroked my hair, caressed my face. His voice broke when he spoke.

"Jenny, I love you. You have no idea how much I love you. I don't know how I can do this without you."

Eric, I'm here! Don't give up on me, please don't give up on me. I want to come home with you. I want to see my girls again. Please, Eric, our girls need their mom.

"I won't let Maia and Kirsti forget you," he said. "I'll show them pictures, I'll tell them stories, I'll tell them you were the best mother in the world, and you loved them. I'll do everything I can to make sure they grow up to be just like you."

This isn't real. This can't be happening. Eric, please stop, please make this stop.

He kissed the top of my head, my forehead, my cheeks, and finally he kissed my still, unresponsive mouth. Then, he pushed himself out of bed, leaned out the door, and nodded to the nurse waiting outside. He sat back down in the chair, his head in his hands, no longer looking at me.

I heard a strain of music above my protests, faint at first, but louder when I quieted and listened for it. The nurse began turning nobs and flipping switches. Eric didn't move. I turned my head -- it turned, this time, I could move -- and looked for the source.

The tune was familiar, jaunty with a Jamaican beat. I slipped from my bed and moved towards the sound. I walked out of my room and into a soft, golden meadow. I was barefoot, and the grasses tickled my feet. Glancing around, I noticed all the colors, wildflowers of fuschia, yellow, violet, and orange. A small, black dog with white patches around his eyes came bounding up to me, nipping at my feet and wagging his tail.

Don't worry. Be happy.

I smiled. I reached down to pick him up, and he wiggled in my arms, squirming as he licked my face.

"Scamper? You silly dog, is this really you?" I looked around, wanting to see where he had come from. I saw my grandma walking toward me from the distance. She had her arms outstretched, and I ran to meet her, throwing myself into her familiar hug. She smelled of lilacs, but her face looked younger and happier than I remembered.

Don't worry. Be happy.

A crowd gathered behind her, and I knew them all, even though many I had never met or even seen a picture. My grandmother took my hand.

A heartbreaking wail pierced the serenity around me, and I looked back. Eric sat in my bed, my body limp in his arms. His shoulders shook as the sobs broke through his stoicism in ugly heavy groans. I started to walk back to him, but my grandmother pulled me back.

"Don't worry. He'll be all right. They all will be. And you'll be here for him, waiting." I hesitantly turned back to her, trusting her. She led me to the waiting host of welcomers.

*****

Today's prompt:

Strains of Bobby McFerrin’s “Don’t Worry Be Happy” floated into the room.

To play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday.

Goodies To Share

2010-08-04T16:22:00.000-07:00

Have you discovered Blogger's Pages yet? Blogger now allows you to create stand-alone pages that make your blog look more like a "real" website. It's fun -- if you look at the top of my blog, just beneath the header, you can find out all About Me, discover which books find a permanent home on my Bookshelf, and learn how you can Tweet Me.

But the very best Page that I have up there is my Toolbox. Maybe I should have called it my Goodie Bag. Whenever I find a website that is helpful, and sometimes downright essential, to my writing, I go to my Toolbox and add the link. I invite you to dig through it. Some of my personal favorites?

The Bookshelf Muse's Emotional Thesaurus
Dr. Wicked's Write or Die
Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday
52 Projects
Writing the Natural Way

Are there any websites that you find have been so helpful to you as a writer? Tell me about them, and they may find a home in my Toolbox.

Catalog Worthy

2010-08-02T13:17:00.001-07:00

Who knew that my fetish for stacks of books would make me catalog worthy? My house looks just like this.

The Good House

2010-07-30T15:06:00.000-07:00

I giggled as I put the key in the lock, turned it, and opened to the door to our very first house. Jason pulled me inside and closed the door behind me. He kissed me on the mouth and we made love on those exquisite hardwood floors before we had even started bringing in boxes.

His job transfer to Boston couldn't have come at a better time. I was restless, anxious for a new adventure, and sick of the heat. I was expecting our first child, and I dreaded facing an Arizona summer nine months pregnant. Then, the call came, and he whisked me off on a plane across the continent, and there we were in a home of our own.

I couldn't believe our luck. It was my dream home, a beautifully restored colonial right near the coast. I didn't think we'd be able to afford it, but our real estate agent assured us the seller was "very motivated." Sure, Salem was a good 30 minutes from Boston, and Jason would've liked a shorter commute, but he couldn't say no to me after our first walk-through.

Jason left me to explore our new home while he went to the moving van to begin unloading our belongings. No heavy lifting for me, he insisted. I visited the kitchen first, drawn to the heart of the home. Or at least, it would be; I hoped having a kitchen to myself would motivate me to learn how to cook. I walked into our bedroom, mentally placing our furniture so the sunshine would come through the window and wake us in the morning. Except on weekends, when I planned to keep the curtains drawn so we could sleep in. I went to the baby's room next door and pictured a nursery decorated with my old time pal, Winnie the Pooh.

I came out into the hallway, and for some reason looked up and noticed a trap door on the ceiling. I knew there had to be access to the attic, but I hadn't really looked for it before. Too high for me to reach, I called Jason over to open it for me. He pulled it down, and unfolded the attached ladder.

"You be careful up there, OK, hon?" he said.

"I know, I will, worrywart," I said. "I'm not that pregnant, yet. I think I can handle it just fine."

I scaled the ladder and peeked my head inside. I could barely see around me. It was dusty, no footprints; I guessed no one had been up here in awhile. A thrill from childhood ghost stories ran through me, and I came all the way inside to explore.

I could stand, but just barely. I thought it was a pretty good size. Enough room to keep our Halloween and Christmas decorations. And I could stash a few of Jason's boxes up here, too. He was such a pack rat. I could probably make a box or two disappear and he'd never notice it. Although, of course, that would be the one time that he needed that one thing in that one box... At least up here, they'd be out of the way.

My eyesight adjusting to the darkness, I noticed a chest in the far corner of the room. Had the previous owners forgotten it? It didn't look like anyone had been up here in a long time. Maybe they had forgotten it was up here to begin with. I took a closer look.

It was exquisitely made, a simple cedar chest with hinged lid. The finish on top was worn, as if it had been used as a seat. It looked old and authentic. I pictured myself with it on "Antiques Roadshow," my eyes wide and my hand covering my mouth as they revealed what it was worth. My conscience pricked me. Well, if it was left with the house it was ours, wasn't it? I should at least check to see if it contained any family keepsakes that I should try to return.

I lifted the lid. Inside were some papers and another, smaller box. I picked it up. It looked like a shoebox made out of pine. I lifted the lid.

I should have screamed, hurled the thing away from me in horror, but there was something so sweet about the tiny mummified figure laid on a faded silk pillow, curled up as if she had simply gone to sleep and not been disturbed for centuries. I felt like I was trespassing on sacred ground, like I had stumbled onto an ancient Indian burial ground. I carefully replaced the lid and set the little box aside.

The papers inside the chest were old and yellowed but astonishingly well-preserved. I picked one up gingerly, careful to not crumble the edges. I read:

THE EXAMINATION OF SARAH GOOD, MARCH 1, 1692
(Examination of Sarah Good)
The examination of Sarah Good before the worshipfull Assts John Harthorn Jonathan Curren

(H.) Sarah Good what evil spirit have you familiarity with
(S G) none
(H) have you made no contract with the devil,
(g) good answered no
(H) why doe you hurt these children
(g) I doe not hurt them. I scorn it.
(H) who doe you imploy then to doe it
(g) no creature but I am falsely accused

Other pages, similar, witnesses testifying against Sara Good. Then I found a water color picture of a woman being hanged, her hands tied behind her back, officers holding the crowd that watched at bay. The picture was extraordinarily vivid and realistic. I saw her auburn hair, her heart shaped face, even the small black mole below her right temple.

It was as if I were looking at a portrait of myself. The woman with the noose around her neck looked exactly like me.

*****

Today's Prompt:
A covert trip into an attic reveals something unexpected.

If you'd like to play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday.