a woman's write

North and South, I Love You!

2012-02-07T08:43:00.000-08:00

I decided to divert myself from the usual monotony of cleaning my office by watching a movie on my computer. Yay, Netflix! Since I love England and the whole Victorian era, I chose the BBC miniseries of North and South by Elizabeth Gaskell. It was excellent. I was transported to another time and place. Unfortunately, I was also distracted from working and my office is still messy.

The thing I really liked about this movie? The palpable, sometimes-uncomfortable tension between the two main characters, Margaret Hale and John Thornton. Margaret is a genteel, principled Southerner, while John is a plain-spoken, pragmatic man of the North. These two don't just clash. They are polar opposites who are drawn to each other in spite of themselves. And their courtship is tempestuous because neither backs down from a fight. Each time they begin to make headway in their relationship—bamm!—another impediment to their happiness. All of the conflict feels very real, not author-manipulated, because the characters are passionate about their ideals. Having such different views of life, Margaret and John would naturally offend each other.

I love that the first time we see John Thornton he's beating the tar out of a careless cotton mill worker. Margaret is appalled, her sympathies in line with those of the human punching bag. Yet, we find out later that John was justifiably making an example of the errant employee.

If you've watched this movie, you know the final scenes make up for any of the nerve-wracking tumult. Seeing John's face soften with affection as he kisses Margaret for the first time . . . Well, it's something to behold.

Let's put it this way, a happy Richard Armitage makes a happy viewer.

Tribute To You

2012-01-26T06:43:00.000-08:00

I wanted to express my thanks to all those writers out there who inspire me. That would be you, by the way. Each one of you. I learn something new from your posts each day, see something wonderful in your photographs, and gain some very encouraging advice, just as I need it.

Thank you, Blogging Buddies. For the restored faith, the good humor, the window you provide into a wider, more beautiful world.

If you need a lift, check out Carolina Valdez Miller. She's amazing.

Like you guys.

Writing The Synopsis . . . Or Banging Your Head On The Keyboard. They're Both The Same To Me.

2012-01-25T13:00:00.000-08:00

A synopsis. Is it a physical lament? A mythological creature? A type of architecture? No, you say, patiently. It's a one-page story outline. Right . . .

I have encountered many examples of how to write a synopsis—some good, some bad, and some downright ugly. Apparently, brief is good. Yet, we must also show depth. And conflict, arc, good character development, and a satisfying resolution. Still, let us not forget, it must be brief. As in, Cliff's-Notes-Hemingway-style brief. A summary haiku, as it were.

Is this part of the querying process difficult for you, too? When is it too much detail? When is it not enough?

How do you create a good synopsis?

I'm off to hug my dog and have a stiff shot of Diet Coke with lime.

Typing Skillz

2012-01-19T07:44:00.000-08:00

Usually, I don't use typing and skill in the same sentence. In my case, they're mutually exclusive. Here is one of my favorite writing quotes as it should read.

"To me, the greatest pleasure of writing is not what it's about, but the inner music the words make." --Truman Capote

Here is the quote as I type it . . .

(I'll apologize now, Mr. Capote. I really do love your work.)

"tO me. tjhen greatest pleasfire of wroiting is not wjat it's about, bnit the inner miusc the words make.{

Yes, that was an actual sample of my so-called skillz. It looks like a Finnish/Elfin mutation. (Right now, I'm watching my fingers. That's why you can read this.)

How are your skillz, or should I say skills?

Like A Puzzle

2012-01-13T07:45:00.000-08:00

I am nearly at the end of a rewrite that has taken over six months. I stopped blogging about it altogether because I knew everyone had to be sick of hearing about my editorial woes. Believe it or not, I have mixed emotions now that the end is in sight. On one hand, I am thrilled to begin the querying. Rejection or manuscript request, it's a fun process, and I haven't been involved in it for a long time. The other side of the coin is missing my characters, losing the feeling of a story I love so well. There's always a grieving process at the end of a book. At least there is for me.

Last night, it occurred to me that writing a story is kind of like making a puzzle. Euphemistically-speaking, you are the puzzle-maker, you have the picture in your head. You lay it out for others to discover, only to realize that there are too many pieces, that your vision is too convoluted. So you reposition things, you remove the unnecessary sections. You polish the colors and throw in a trick or two, just to make things interesting. It's a wonderful job, isn't it?

How is your puzzle coming together?

The Valentine File

2012-01-11T09:46:00.000-08:00

I have a file of music with the title Valentine. Originally, it was a collection of upbeat tunes that I played loudly throughout my house on cupid-day. I have added many songs since then, an eclectic group to be sure. My kids laugh because my Valentine file now has angry, breakup tunes, plus music about death, disease, and addiction. I wasn't really trying to be ironic—it was a convenience thing. What do all these songs have in common? They're very well-written and they make me feel some strong emotion.

When I'm writing, I need inspiration to get into the flow. Music does this for me. It's like a hit of chocolate or caffeine. Lately, I've been listening to vintage--Billy Joel, The Eagles, Ray Charles, and Sam Cooke. And modern—Bruno Mars, Coldplay, and Melody Gardot. I wouldn't turn away a dash of Whitesnake, Journey, and AC/DC, either, and Johnny Cash and Keith Urban are also pretty awesome.

So there you have it. My Valentine list, my sound-muse. They're not Daniel Craig, Diet Coke with lime, New York pizza, or my dog Matilda, but they're always there, at the touch of a button.

Do you listen to music when you write? Who are your favorite musicians?

Midnight In Paris

2012-01-06T11:08:00.000-08:00

I enjoy any movie about writers. I also like actor Owen Wilson's self-effacing charm. So Midnight In Paris was a great combination for me. This Woody Allen vehicle features Mr. Wilson as frustrated author Gil Pender vacationing in the magical City of Light. He favors literature by The Lost Generation and idealizes 1920's Paris. Gil dreams of moving to The Left Bank where he can finally write the novel of his life, but his bratty, American fiance refuses to support him in this ambition.

While wandering the streets at night, Gil hears an ancient clock chime twelve and then an antique cars pulls up. F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald beckon him to join them and later Gil meets his idol Ernest Hemingway. (Sorry, but I don't think anyone can write Hemingway without sounding cliche. Even Woody Allen.) Cole Porter, Picasso, Man Ray, and Salvador Dali also make an appearance. Gil Pender reacts with such child-like joy during each encounter with these varying artists. I loved it when the time-travelling car pulled up and Gil opened the door to see one of his favorite poets. His reaction, "T.S. Elliot. The T.S. Elliott? Are you kidding me?" Like Gil, I couldn't wait to see which literary figure would show up next.

This movie is for writers. Maybe it's a tribute to all of us, those who hope to create something true and wonderful, those who long to express their stories of the heart, and those who have already passed a timeless treasure to the world before their spark of life was extinguished. I wish that Allen's old car were real . . .

What author, past or present, would you like to meet?

Gratitude

2012-01-04T05:43:00.000-08:00

I am grateful for a new year. Think of all the possibilities, all the goals we can achieve. Looking over your recent posts, I am amazed by what you have already accomplished.

I have been caught up in mothering-and-wifery, carpooling, cleaning of all kinds, and trying to get healthy. I need to increase my muscle tone and lung strength in order to have a reconstructive surgery in autumn of 2012. I have also been cutting and rewriting my women's fiction novel. I am going to a conference in May where I am scheduled to meet agent Weronika Janczuk. Yay!! I'm also doing a publication primer workshop-- which is me, other aspiring writers, and a published author critiquing our manuscripts without mercy. (okay, there's probably going to be a lot of mercy, but still it will be an intense six-hour experience.) I'm filled with gratitude for this opportunity.

Lately, my youngest child has been making great strides with reading. He struggles with this skill daily and is about a year behind his peers. When he finally grasped the concepts of silent-e and blended letters, I felt tears gathering in my eyes because I can't imagine life without reading, without an understanding of words and stories. I credit Brian Selznick with my son's breakthrough. Owen loved The Invention of Hugo Cabret. We bought it at a small bookstore when we were on vacation this summer at the beach. We would curl up and I would read it aloud, and soon, other children would join us. This book became a family event. Santa brought my little, grey-eyed child the newest Selznick creation, Wonderstruck. We began reading it last night after a laborious hour of homework. Already, I know it is going to be wonderful. Owen hung on my every word.

I am so grateful for writers. Mr. Selznick, in particular.

Happy New Year!

When Good Writing Isn't Enough

2011-10-27T05:27:00.000-07:00

Wow. It's almost the end of October. I can't believe how time speeds by and suddenly another month is gone. Are you all well? How are your writing projects progressing?

I recently learned a valuable lesson from my editor friend Angela. Maybe it's more accurate to say that I relearned it or finally internalized this principle. You're probably way ahead of me, but here it is, my big revelation . . .

Sometimes good writing needs to be cut. Even if you love it and it hurts to see the scene go, cut away.

I know, I've heard this at every writer's conference I've ever attended, but it hit home during my current rewrite. I guess I've always thought in the back of my mind that if I wrote a passage better I could keep it in. Unfortunately, that's not the case. We need to eliminate what doesn't move the story forward, painful as it may be.

I don't really mind the cutting. I've taken my women's fiction novel down 20,000 words, and I'm not even close to finished. But it's so exciting to see the story improve, see new things emerge. I edited until 3:3o am the other day, and I was startled to see the time, caught up as I was in the thrill of newly falling in love with an old piece of work.

A few more weeks, and I can begin querying again. I can hardly wait.

Are you editing now? Don't you just love writing when it makes everyday life an adventure? Have a great time in the process, blogging buddies!

Worst Cold Ever

2011-07-08T08:01:00.000-07:00

I've been laid low for what seems like forever with the worst cold. I can't even read. Or think. Or focus on anything interesting. That's the real bummer. I just lay around with my eyes closed--breathing like a surfacing dolphin--while listening to the drone of the television. Where is my immune system when I need it?

Luckily, a local editor is working on my story even if I am not. Thank you, Angela!

Hope you're well and happy, blogging friends. Are you busy being industrious or enjoying a little R&R?

Whatever you do, stay clear of the dreaded summer cold.

You Can't Go Home Again . . .

2011-06-22T04:26:00.000-07:00

Remember that age-old axiom, "you can't go home again"? Silly. Ridiculous. Absurd. Of course you can. I did. And it taught me something, too.

I was born in Portland, Oregon, during the halcyon days of spring in 196... Well, let's just say I'm an Oregonian and leave it at that. For me, growing up in the Pacific Northwest was a dream. Rain was my favorite season. (Let's face it, when the sun did make an appearance our joints creaked more than the Tin Man in The Wizard Of Oz.)

A few summers ago, our family took a road trip back to my hometown, and I was the human equivalent of that dog we've all seen. You know, the one with the canine grin who blissfully sticks its head out of the car window as the wind whips its face. So great was my joy at seeing the Columbia River Gorge, I felt tears gathering at the corners of my eyes—from unrestrained emotion, not the wind. We stopped at Multnomah Falls, took the kids on a short hike, and then drove into the city.

We had no more crossed the Willamette than an angry motorist flipped us the bird. That put a momentary damper on my nostalgia. The weather was also chillier than I remembered. I'm not kidding, the Portlanders at the zoo wore woolly Peruvian sweaters and thick socks under their Birkenstock sandals.

In August.

Yes, that's the month we, in Utah, call The Hot Time or The Big Heat. (Okay. Maybe I'm the only one in Utah who calls it that. But we all think it, right?)

The Oregon beach was absolutely gorgeous. However, I am not the daredevil I used to be. After trying to body surf with my older children, I realized I couldn't tolerate the water temperature as I did before. Honestly, this water was freezing. My children ran in and then away from it.

How cold was it, you ask? Cold enough that you'd prefer to go skinny dipping in the North Sea in January than test it with your toe, cold enough that you wouldn't be surprised to see a polar bear doing the back stroke in the nearest tidal pool, cold enough that even the migrating whales wear wet suits when they pass through those waters. Alright. Maybe I'm exaggerating. Slightly.

Obviously, everything changes. Portland and I both look different after all these years. Truth be told, I've discovered that I prefer warm weather since living in the desert. I will always be a Portland girl. But maybe, I'm also a Wasatch Front, Utah county girl as well.

Revisiting the past is worthwhile. It illuminates the present. It helps us realize how good things were and often, how much better they are now. Home is a relative term, after all. When we're with the people we love, our roots settle, and we're there. I'm home each time my husband and kids walk through the door.

And yet, a bit of my heart will always belong to that beautiful City Of Roses.

Can't go home again? Hah. The next thing you know, they'll be saying you can't change a leopard's spots. Silly. Ridiculous. Absurd.

Do you have any vacation plans for this summer?

Possession

2011-06-18T06:44:00.000-07:00

The first time I met Elana Johnson was in a ladies bathroom.

No, really, it's true. We were both in Provo attending the 2010 Life, the Universe, and Everything writing conference. Seeing Elana there, I knew it was destiny. A few days earlier, my chapter of The League of Utah Writers had just been discussing her over lunch at Paradise Bakery. We wanted Elana to speak at the LUW Spring Workshop in the worst way, and there she was, just a few feet away from me!

Yes, I know it's tacky to talk business while in the loo, but I overlooked this common protocol and seized the moment. As Elana dried her hands on a brown paper towel at the sink, I asked her if she would speak to our group. Hmm. Maybe she felt cornered or stalked by a crazed fan--I know I would have in her position. Still, she was a good sport, and agreed to join us at the workshop. Her presentation on query letters was excellent, one of the very best I've seen. Elana's awesome talent is no surprise to those of us who follow her blog. (That's over 2,000 people, by the way)

Which brings me to my review of Possession.

I finished this book in an afternoon and then gave it to my teenage daughter to read. I was drawn in from page one, and let me just say, I'm pretty picky where openings are concerned. I really enjoyed the humor, and the wry, likable heroine, Violet. She lives in a world where Goodies and Baddies are mutually exclusive and free choice isn't free at all. Or even allowed. But Vi's certainly up to the challenge of bucking the system.

The plot is solid and interesting, moving along quickly, and the dialogue is great. But let's talk about this guy Jag. Whoa. Love at first read. He has it all. Good hair, bad boy attitude, heart, a sexy voice . . . We LIKES him, preciousss.

I have to admit, I was a little bummed when I finished Possession. You know you've read something worthwhile when it makes you laugh and breaks your heart a little as well. Last night, I went to Goodreads and learned this book wasn't a stand alone novel. It's Possession (Possession #1)! As in, there will be a #2 and hopefully, a #3.

Thank you, Elana.

Be Like That

2011-06-14T05:59:00.001-07:00

All I ever wanted was to be an opera singer. Between the ages of 10 thru 25, I was consumed with this desire. I took bel canto lessons and practiced for hours each day. During high school, I earned honor credits with the musical training I received off campus and I went to college, on scholarship, in hopes of earning a vocal performance degree.

As an adolescent, I would shut myself in our family room, crank up the stereo, turn off the lights, sit on the naugahyde sofa, close my eyes, and listen. Just imagine the allegro con brio from Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. Or Chopin's Heroic Polonaise in A flat major. I heard passion, hope, sorrow, and triumph. I wanted to sing like that.

Dreams don't always mesh with reality, however. I wasn't Beethoven or Chopin. In short, the future I had hoped for during the first half of my life changed. In my junior year of college, I switched my major to English Literature. Why? Because I loved books! The Romantics, Victorians and Transcendentalists especially. Here began my second life.

Today, I still sing. For my mother, husband, and children. Sometimes in church. Writing now fulfills the need for self-expression that I thrived on as a vocalist. Even better, I can write and no one has to look at me out on a stage. At last I've found my niche! But old habits die hard. After finishing a writing exercise this morning, I clicked on my iTunes music library, turned up the volume on my computer, laid my head down on the smooth surface of my desk, closed my eyes, and listened. Jessye Norman's Amazing Grace. Pavarotti's Nessun Dorma. Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. Masterpieces all. In them, there is longing, joy, genius. I thought to myself. How do I write that? Be like that?

Have you ever heard a piece of music or seen a painting or photograph and then wanted to capture it in a story? What were your dreams growing up? Besides writing, what are your other talents?

Allyson Condie Appreciation Day

2011-06-02T15:47:00.000-07:00

It would be creepy if someone as old as me liked YA literature, right? Of course right. That's common knowledge. (wink, wink, nod, nod)

Matched by Ally Condie is YA, and I loved it. This book is well-written, fast-paced and lyrical. It had me at Do Not Go Gentle Into That Goodnight. The Dylan Thomas favorite figures prominently in the plot of Condie's dystopian story. I crave dark, passionate poems. They call to me as sirens would a sailor. I wasn't disappointed with the Thomas tie-in. His masterpiece fit into the plot, calling the characters to rebellion. I admire any writer who can do that.

Another plus! The next installment comes out in the fall. I have all summer to anticipate Crossed (Matched #2.)

My philosophical post script . . .

To quote Dylan Thomas:

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

This poem challenges us to resist death. In all its forms. The death of body, soul, dreams, love. It urges us to fight the good fight, and never surrender. What a beautiful sentiment. So perfect for struggling writers.

Do not go gentle into that good night, my friends. Be bold. Think up something new, and write it down. Fall back into love with a troubled manuscript . . . even if you and your muse aren't speaking and rejections are camping out on your front step.

Keep reading, creating, and revising. You'll make your own light as you do.

Look Away, Anna. Look Away.

2011-05-31T15:21:00.000-07:00

After sifting through the contents of my closet the other day, a thought struck me like a pointy-toed stiletto. I hoard useless fashion. I am an ugly-clothing sentimentalist. It's a sickness, I know, but in my fashion time capsule, I have dresses sewn before the invention of microwave ovens, personal computers, and VHS video players.

Obviously, if you’ve chosen to store away your wedding gown or your child's heirloom blessing ensemble, it’s understandable. I have those, of course, and that sort of memento is normal. Saving the peach suit I wore before my wedding is okay, too. Keeping the formal gowns from my vocal recitals in college pushes the boundaries a bit. But why, oh why, have I retained the Victorian drop-waist pinstripe number with matching bowler hat from my high school days? Steampunk may be in style again, but my daughters wouldn’t even consider wearing it.

Remember Ralph Lauren stirrup pants? Circa 1991? Check! Got 'em.

The shameful list goes on and on. Sweatshirts with the neck cut out, shoulder-padded—and I mean padded—power suits, acid-wash peg-leg jeans, lace Madonna gloves. Beaded and bedazzled sweaters, broom handle skirts, business ties for women, and gypsy patchwork sundresses. Opaque leggings, Donna Karan onesie blouses, Barbara Bush pearls. And I’m skipping over the whole Durran Durran, Miami Vice, and paisley-everything era.

This post is just one embarrassing confession after another. I'm sure I'll erase it tomorrow. But the question begs to be asked. Why do I waste valuable shelf-space on these terrible things?

I think I’ve figured that out. I was happy when I wore those clothes. I liked who I was back then, and I take out my textile scrapbook, and say to myself, “See? This is who you used to be.” Before adulthood, before mortgage payments, children, and wrinkles, when the future was scary and uncertain and full of possibilities and promise.

I love my life now. I’m living what that girl from long ago dreamed of doing. Even so, I don’t want to forget her entirely. I may release my hold on the past and donate my relics to charity one day. But not yet.

Anna Wintour, the editor of Vogue magazine, would have an aneurism, a cardiac infarction, a grand mal seizure, hives, and a nervous tic simultaneously if she laid eyes on this collection.

Look away, Anna. Look away.

Why I Write . . .

2011-05-11T07:10:00.000-07:00

Today is my birthday, and I'm pretty stoked about it. I plan on making the most of the next 24 hours. Partay, people! Three years ago, it looked doubtful that I would have another birthday, but I'm still here. Definite cause for celebration, if you ask me.

Backstory on my near-miss with the grim reaper:

After being sick for several months, I went to the emergency room at a local hospital, and a skilled, Harvard-educated surgeon admitted me. He arranged for a few tests and then, with the help of two other doctors, performed an eight hour surgery which saved my life. At one point, these gifted men held some of my organs in their hands, cleaning them of infection. (Ewww, I know.) My doctor said that he had never performed a more difficult procedure and had no idea why I was still alive.

Thankfully, I woke up from the anesthesia and Nurse Hatchett-- or rather, her meaner, more cantankerous older sister-- made me get out of my bed and walk. And so I did, with great effort. But I wasn't alone, I had my trusty, stylish IV pole with me and at least five or six bags of mysterious fluids. I walked all around the hospital floor like this every few hours, day and night. When it was light outside, I'd watch people through the large windows as they went about their lives and wish I was them. Fervently. I wanted to be anyone else right then.

There was a water-stain on the ceiling tile above me (yes, just like Madeline), and one night, I thought of how nice it would be if I could just climb up into that black space and disappear. The pity party eventually grew old. I grabbed my unwieldy IV-pole dance partner and began my journey around the dimly lit halls. It was here that I learned something. Other patients had it far worse than I did. As I walked by those rooms, I had a brief glimpse into another's suffering, and for a moment, I put myself into their situation.

Of course I wrote before I got sick, but I believe I'm a better writer now. I'd like to think I have more resources to offer the fictitious characters I create. Writing makes use of my experiences-- the good, the bad, and the medical. It helps life make sense somehow.

I write because I have to, because my brain is so filled with ideas and feelings, it won't let me not write. I love the freedom to be and create anything I like. I love to tell a good story, and let's face it, few things compare with sudden inspiration flowing from you to the page. These are some of the reasons I keep trying to learn the craft.

Now, more importantly, what makes you write?

Enjoy this beautiful Spring day, blogging buddies. It's good to be alive.

Ray Bradbury Appreciation Day

2011-05-06T05:26:00.000-07:00

Like a benevolent mentor, Ray Bradbury instills confidence into our often-shaky, artistic souls by telling us we are not crazy for assuming we can tell a good story, that we are right, and the rest of the world is wrong.

You gotta love this man. He loves you. Without ever meeting you. All because you're a writer. If you haven't read Zen In The Art Of Writing, put it on your to-read list. It is short and effusive and unabashedly sentimental.

This is one of my favorite sections. To set the scene, in 1925 Illinois, a young Ray Bradbury is on the cusp of adolescence. It's the 4th of July, and he is setting off fire balloons.These sparkly, floating incendiaries sound beautiful but dangerous, and Ray is entranced by their glowing light. Surrounded by aunts, uncles, cousins and parents, he releases them reluctantly into the air. He looks at the dear faces around him as the balloons lift toward the sky and the moment is poignantly imprinted on his memory.

Mr. Bradbury shares this story to illustrate how writers are like time machines. We can preserve life by recording it. Though age alters us, and the people we love, we are captured forever through the written word. To quote from Zen:

"I see my grandfather there looking up at that strange shifting light, thinking his own thoughts. I see me, my eyes filled with tears, because it was all over, the night was done, I knew there would never be another night like this. No one said anything. We all just looked up at the sky. . .

"My beloved family still sits on the porch in the dark. The fire balloon still drifts and burns in the night sky of an as yet unburied summer."

See? Our experiences remain unburied if we write them down. And I feel like one of Ray's family when I read that account. As though I, too, am sitting on that porch, gazing at a fiery light rising into the inky darkness. Tomorrow is my 18th wedding anniversary. Can you believe it? I can't. That early spring morning is etched so clearly in my mind, and when I dip into my cistern of memories, time reverses upon itself and I'm there once more. Like one of Mr. Bradbury's heaven-bound fire balloons, I'm still a new bride, taking a leap of faith.

Life is often good, friends. Amid challenges and disappointments, there are still lights in the sky.

Have a wonderful weekend.

About the Hats . . .

2011-05-03T07:59:00.000-07:00

I love a good hat. In my 20's, I was known to wear a white wool beret in winter, a navy fedora with my pinstripe suit on Sundays and a tweed newsboy cap for outings in the city. I worked in a clothing store, or as I like to call it, the fashion exchange system. I spent my days selling things for Nordstrom, they paid me, and I gave my paycheck back at the end of the month to cover my in-store credit card bill. I didn't make a lot of money, but I do have a fabulous former wardrobe tucked away in my closet.

These days, I've scaled down a bit. In fact, I rarely wear hats now at all. Sasquatch sightings are probably more common than seeing me with my head covered. There might be a simple baseball cap brought out on summer days when the weather is especially hot, but even that is rare. Not exactly fashionable or edgy. That's a shame, in my opinion. I love stylish clothing, and wearing something beautiful just for the heck of it.

A woman who can pull off a lovely chapeau has my admiration. She must have confidence, grace, and flare. These are some of my favorite hats from the royal wedding.

This is Charlene Wittstock, Prince Albert of Monaco's fiancee, looking elegant.

I love Lady Helen Taylor's hat. It is classic 1940's and so understated. I would wear this myself, should a glamorous, formal occasion arise. (Who am I kidding? I'd never get an invitation to something glamorous or formal.)
A trio of youthful beauties . . . They can pull off the avant-garde.
Both the father and mother of the bride wore hats. How distinguished!
Prime Minister Nick Clegg's wife, Miriam Durantez shines in this exotic creation. It's perfect with her striking looks and dark hair.
My favorite, Princess Letizia of Spain. What a gorgeous lady! The delicate feathers and netting are just right. A five-star hat!

Friends, I promise to move on from the royal wedding love fest, but first, I must ask. Do you like hats?

The Sceptred Isle

2011-04-29T06:55:00.000-07:00

This post is a tribute to everything British. The royal wedding was lovely, and I have to admit to tearing up a little when Will and Kate kissed on the balcony. Why? Because I was happy for the glowing bride and groom, for the people of England. Their joy was so evident.

This isn't a fairytale, it's better.

I feel a strong tie to this wonderful country. For me, it is a place of memories and dreams. Years ago, I lived in England and met my husband there. Discovered myself.

Have you seen The King's Speech? Loved it. Loved Colin Firth and Geoffrey Rush. Excellent writing and acting. I thought about this movie for a long time afterward. I could watch it again.

Shakespeare said it well, dear readers.

"This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,

This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,

This other Eden, demi-paradise,

This fortress built by Nature for herself

Against infection, and the hand of war,

This happy breed of men, this little world,

This precious stone set in the silver sea,

Which serves it in the office of a wall

Or as a moat defensive to a house,

Against the envy of less happier lands,—

This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England." King Richard II

God bless the sceptred isle.

The Matter of Words

2011-04-26T08:13:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I finished revising a manuscript of 427 pages, 96,207 words. I accomplished this over the course of a week, with a birthday and a wedding thrown in there to keep my on my toes. One night I stayed up until four in the morning, rising at six to get my family ready for school and then returning to the revision project two hours later. When I reached The End, I was elated. I've always identified strongly with the characters in Charm Bracelet, and I felt the corrections did them credit. I love this story. The literary references, the dialogue, the message of redemption and happiness where none were expected.

A couple of hours after finishing, I became very sad. Let's face it, when you create a world you enjoy, it's hard to let it go. To say goodbye to people who seem so real but aren't. How I wish they were. Maybe I'll revise this story again next year . . .

Have you ever felt this way? Longing for the editing work to be done and yet, mourning a bit when it is.

My husband and I took his parents to see the Carl Bloch exhibit. It was even better for me on this third visit. While at the museum, I found another interesting display. A Matter of Words by Adam Bateman, Harrell Fletcher, and John Fraser. It is minimalist, modernist, and conceptual art. Very clever, entertaining, and definitely worth seeing. The above work especially caught my eye. It was a large tower of carefully stacked books. After the exhibit has finished touring, these books will be donated to the Wordwide Book Drive.

It was interesting to watch people react to the book tower. Everyone wanted to touch it. They ignored the boundary marks, walking past the lines without a thought on their way to feel the sometimes beautiful, other times common, volumes. We're all drawn to words, stories, ideas, aren't we?

A plaque at the exhibit read, "In an age of electronic media, where the printed word is rapidly being dematerialized as a result of digital forms, "the matter of words" may soon become an outmoded concept."

A few minutes ago, I picked up a hardbound book, dazzled by the burgundy cover. It's the kind of soft glowing leather that needs to be held and used to grow in beauty. I treasure heirloom quality editions like this, and the classic brilliance inside.

While I enjoy the new digital reading systems of today, knowing they are convenient and accessible, I hope the printed word never becomes an "outmoded concept."

Read on, talented writers, and if you want to check out a great blog about art, drop in and visit Crystal Cook. She's absolutely amazing, and a wonderful writer to boot.

La commedia e finita . . .

2011-04-21T03:44:00.000-07:00

I was cooking Italian with my twelve-year-old son the other day. Leoncavallo's Vesti la Giubba from Pagliacchi was playing in the background. (Pavarotti does an awesome version, but my favorite is the old, grainy recording of Enrico Caruso. Talk about pain and angst.)

As we cooked the pasta, my assistant/son was entertaining me. He does a spot-on impression of Jamie Oliver. He picked up a tennis ball.

"Look at this lemon," he said, sounding a lot like Jamie. "Fresh, lovely taste. It's literally beautiful."

"Um, Jamie?" I replied. "That's not a lemon. It's a tennis ball."

"What are you going on about, woman? Are you mad? Of course it's lemon. Look at it's beautiful yellow color!"

We went on like this for a while, and it was fun. This child always surprises me. He has a great sense of humor, and he's a bit of a rebel when it comes to following the rules. Kind of like the character of Pagliacchi. He's a rebel, too. He actually speaks at the end of the opera. (You just don't do that, people. Speaking is strictly forbidden in this musical genre. That's why they sing every bit of dialogue between arias.)

Anyway, after killing his wife and her lover in a play within a play setting, the tragic clown looks out at the audience in anguish and says, "La commedia e finita!" The comedy is over. Oh, speak to me some more, Pagliacci. Don't you just love that? Awesome, awesome. Or as Mr. Oliver would say, "Literally beautiful!"

Sometimes breaking the rules makes things better. I wish I could do the stream of consciousness thing like Faulkner. I absolutely love The Sound and the Fury. It's one of my favorite books. Wish I had the guts to throw the rules out the window and create something revolutionary. I also wish that I could use description as a literary tool like Dickens, even though it's frowned upon today. Prologues, epilogues, adverbs. I'd do them all.

As Pagliacchi would say, "La norme e finita!" The rules are over.

Which ones would you break?

SPrinG BreAk

2011-04-19T18:39:00.000-07:00

If a picture is worth a thousand words then this is the sum of my Spring Break in a photograph. Chaos. Painting and home improvement stuff. More chaos. Writing like crazy to meet my Saturday deadline. Lots of laundry and dishes. And children like the ones above. (The guy that's hanging upside down is my son.)
You guys are awesome. I've scanned through your blogs during this hiatus, and they are often the highlight of my day. Thanks for posting and being you!

How are you doing out there? Hope you're enjoying the beginning of Spring! (my favorite season!!)

In Which an Old Muse Returns . . . Briefly.

2011-04-04T10:58:00.000-07:00

We writers are dreamers.

Funny enough, as I was sleeping last night, I found myself sitting in my living room, wondering why I write in the genre I do. My teenage daughter walked in, looking excited, and said, "Mom, so-and-so from such-and-such agency wants to represent you. They have a publisher all lined up!" I remember feeling elated for a few seconds before saying, "This is a dream, right?" I woke up immediately after making that remark and laughed at myself.

I thought it was funny. Obviously, I worry too much about publishing success. I take that aspect of writing as a sign of vindication, as a means of showing those who have overlooked and underestimated me that I have merit in spite of what they think. (Weaving psychological need into your writing definitely tangles with your enjoyment of the craft. We shouldn't do it. It's self-defeating.)

What about just finding happiness in doing something you love? Can't that be reward enough? (Okay, maybe not. But it's still pretty great!)

This is my old muse Daniel Craig comforting me and saying, "Your story doesn't suck, love. Stop saying it does." He makes a good Bond, don't you think? (My current muse, Matilda the adorable dog, will never know about this because she is sleeping. She does this for hours and hours and hours! EVERYDAY.)
This is the angry Daniel muse. He doesn't like being ignored. When he tells you to write down that new idea, do it. Quickly.
In this picture, I've just told Dan about a plot twist I came up with. His expression really says it all, doesn't it? Usually when he looks this way, he crosses his ankles, sighs, and squints up at the heavens. Oh, I know what's going on behind those cool, blue eyes. He's thinking, "Why? Out of all the writers in all the world, why do I have this one?"

(Sorry, Matilda, but sometimes I miss Dan when you're snoring away in that chair.)

Of Painting, Rabbit Holes, and Phantoms . . .

2011-04-01T07:12:00.000-07:00

I am not dead, rest assured, but I am tired enough to be in a coma.

The result of my being a painting fool for the last two weeks? My older sons now sleep in a cranberry-red room with brilliant white crown molding and bead board. My daughter's bedroom resembles a gift box from Tiffany's, all sophisticated blue and white.

I've learned a few things from these projects. Firstly, I'm getting too old for this DIY stuff. It's hard. And always takes longer than you think it will. I also love edging the walls free hand. No taping things off to avoid seepage for me. I use a small, slanted paint brush, and focus on that straight line as though all the world has disappeared except for the two of us. Very therapeutic and calming actually.

I do well at painting for the first two-thirds of the room. After that, my energy level takes a hit, and I need a diet Coke break with lots of ice cubes and a twisty straw. I then drink my beverage and study the remaining, unpainted third. It seems so long to finish, and a niggling voice in the back of mind gives me permission to put it off. 'I can do it tomorrow, can't I?' Things don't go well if I listen to that voice. But if I push on for a bit longer and continue painting, my motivation returns and I reach my goal. You could switch this whole bartering process with manuscript revision and it would be the same!

I listened to Pavarotti while working. Love him and Italian opera! Nessun Dorma from Turandot boomed through the stereo speakers on repeat mode for at least an hour. It's my favorite Pavarotti, followed by Pieta Signore. I also listened to movies as I painted, and it was interesting to concentrate on the dialogue without seeing the characters on screen. Rabbit Hole with Nicole Kidman and Aaron Eckhart was awesome. I wouldn't recommend it for painters though. It's hard to wipe tears from your eyes when your hands are speckled with red and blue. The teenager in Rabbit Hole reminded me of my son, and he killed me in every scene. Personally, I think Kidman should have won the Oscar for her work here.

Lastly, while doing trim, I watched/heard the Phantom of the Opera film with Gerard Butler. His singing was okay, not great, and still I found myself haunted by this movie. The songs went over and over in my head for days. I felt so bad for the Phantom. In spite of the fact he was scary, crazy, and did all sorts of unforgivable things. I guess that's the mark of a great villain.

Who are your favorite villains? Are you tired from working too much? Do you enjoy painting?

Have the best of all possible weekends, friends.

Irish Prayer For Writers

2011-03-17T05:21:00.000-07:00

May your keyboard rise to meet your fingers without a need to delete,

May computer viruses, and rejections, never knock you on your seat,

May your muse be good and sober when you're making plot decisions,

And may sunshine flood through your window, illuminating those revisions!

(I will avoid poetry composition from now on, I swear.)

Happy St. Paddys!!!!

Netflix. The Sick Persons Friend.

2011-03-14T13:16:00.000-07:00

Over the last week, my family has battled valiantly against the common cold. My days have been filled with hot cups of herbal tea, sick children, throat lozenges, and fluffy duvets. I've also been watching films sent to me courtesy of Netflix. As you can see, Matilda loves a good movie.

This has been a sweet situation, actually. Aside from the coughing and general queasiness. And the lack of writing progress. Very bad on that score.

What did I watch, you ask? Lots of British productions.

For example:

Doctor Who

Top Gear

Little Dorrit

Under the Greenwood Tree

North and South

Wives and Daughters

Cranford

Lark Rise to Candleford

The Remains of the Day

My children love the gear heads and The Doctor, but they slept through most of the others. It's the price they pay for hiding out in my room.

Hope you're all feeling healthy. If not, I suggest you join Netflix.

Feeling Cool

2011-03-03T07:24:00.000-08:00

Here I sit on my fold out chair, listening to Ray Charles sing, A Fool For You, while drinking a green smoothie full of spinach, cucumbers, broccoli, and carrots made in my new Montel Williams fruit and vegetable emulsifier. Now, I ask you, who wouldn't feel cool with all that going on?

No need to answer. Consider it a rhetorical question.

Actually, the reason I'm so happy is that I've rewritten over half of The Second Life. Maybe you all are fast writers, but I am not. This is a huge project anyway. I'm changing tense, tone, adding more characters, taking the plot new places, etc. I like this process because it's hard. I'm developing new strength as a writer by doing something uncomfortable. Pain proceeds growth. Right? Sometimes?

What strengths do you wish to cultivate in your writing?

I want to be a better typist, for one thing. Geez, if I could just tear my eyes away from the keys! I'd also like to plot like a maniac. Oh, well. Remember what Browning said about exceeding your grasp?

Keep on reaching for the heavens, friends.

Should I switch to Matilda for my muse? Daniel Craig and The Mentalist aren't working out. Apparently, they have other things to do. Matthew Macfadyen is also busy.

Yes? No? What's your opinion? Remember: the dog is reliable and never asks for a raise in pay.

Hmmm. If I Could Pick A Publisher . . .

2011-02-28T10:30:00.000-08:00

I did some interesting reading over at Publisher's Weekly, and it got me to thinking. If I could choose a publisher, who would it be? This is akin to selecting the names for your future book's dedication or acknowledgment page. Not entirely germane to the situation at hand.

Just a bit of fun before I slip back into ninja mode and return to the Revision Zone. (Twilight Zone theme fades into background.)

Please keep in mind that these are the top 10 American publishers, and there are many more successful publishing houses in the world beyond these. Share some of your favorites if you don't see them listed here.

So, friends, who would you choose?

Top 10 Trade Publishers 2010

1. Random House

2. HarperCollins

3. Simon and Schuster

4. Penguin

5. Hachette

6. Thomas Nelson

7. St. Martin's

8. Tyndale

9. John Wiley and Sons

10. Scholastic

I love those top four. It makes me happy just to say their names! But where are Bloomsbury? And Little, Brown, & Company?

And Then The Glass Shattered . . .

2011-02-25T07:34:00.000-08:00

My day began innocently enough. In fact, I thought things were going well. My new ballet flats had finally stopped pinching at the heel, there was one last spray of my favorite perfume left in an otherwise empty bottle, and all the children were healthy and at school.

I didn't suspect anything ominous when the Milgard techs knocked on my door. We had waited 3 weeks for two new windows, and I was happily surprised to see the men in red. They were young, clean-cut and friendly. I talked with them for a few moments, put our dog Matilda in a bedroom, and went back to my office. I was Googling Amazon, seeking out books so obscure they can be purchased for mere cents. All was good, and then the glass shattered.

Amazed, I covered my mouth with my hand as nervous laughter bubbled in my throat. I remember thinking, "You have got to be kidding me. My window just broke."

I stepped into the living room, and the techs were frozen in place with a cockeyed vinyl window frame still in their hands. "Are you alright?" I asked. They nodded in the affirmative. One of them was doing some deep breathing exercises and the other was murmuring "Let it go. Just let it go." I'm guessing the first guy was trying really hard to be calm. I have to give credit to these men. Very professional behavior. No cursing at all. Had I been in their place, the air would still be a soft shade of blue.

I felt really bad for the techs. One of their enormous glass suction cups lost its grip, causing the 8 foot by 5 foot picture window to fall and once the corner of the glass hit the tile, the whole thing exploded. Exploding glass can't be a good way to start your work day. The three of us vacuumed and swept for an hour at least to pick up the worst of the mess. We were comrades in an epic battle against hidden sharpness.

Being part raccoon, I enjoy sparkly things, and there was sparkle in the extreme that day. I had cleaning ADHD! The glass fragments reflected the sunlight coming through the open window, showering my ceiling with fiery brilliance. I kept looking up and trying to sweep at the same time. My floor was one big prism! I felt like I was in the movie Pollyanna when she brings crystals to cheer up the mean old lady. It was awesome! Awesome! A mid-winter Fourth of July!

I would have sat there all day entranced by my ceiling only there was no place to sit. Glass fragments covered my entire main floor: from the mudroom to the front door and everywhere in between. Eventually, the techs left for another job, and there began a five hour cleaning spree, with me, my bucket of water and a cloth in the thick of the action. Word to the wise . . . do not brush glass dust with your finger. Ouchie!!!

Never fear, all is well at our home now, but for one afternoon, I had the shiniest floor in town.

Isn't this just like life? You think you know what to expect and then--wham!-- something happens to mess up your plans. Oh, well, planning is sometimes overrated, and the unexpected often leaves you with a good tale to tell.

Everyone out there okay? Is your stress level low, medium, or high?

Happy, catastrophe-free, weekend!!

An Email From Mr. Hemingway

2011-02-24T07:38:00.000-08:00

To R-- Face it, your first book isn't good, and no one wants it. Yet.

Sit down and work and then who knows? Look at words with innocence. See them as new things. Write what you feel, and use simple language, but most of all, make it true. There is no master of this craft, and if you're looking for easy, go someplace else. Critics can tear your writing apart or worse, politely ignore it. They can break you, nearly destroy your hope if you let them. Never mind. It doesn't matter a damn. You can't be defeated, not completely. Remember Santiago? 84 days is nothing to the whole of life. Today is the 85th, and there are many big fish in the sea. Fight the good fight. Let your blood sing, listen, and then write it's song . . .

Well, friends. Mr. Hemingway is an intimidating muse, isn't he? As a teenager, I read The Old Man and the Sea, Hemingway's last story, and loved it. My grandfather gave a copy to my mother and years later, she passed it on to me. I don't remember anything about my grandpa since he died when I was a baby, but I do know he had excellent taste in books.

Ernest Hemingway had a big, often cantankerous, heart and an even greater talent. I've wanted to write an email from him for a long time, but I knew I would never get his voice exactly right. Perhaps, it's a credit to him that I even tried.

Mr. Hemingway once said he loved the world and that he would be sorry to leave it. Surely the world was sorry to see him leave so abruptly. If you haven't read Hemingway's work, you need to soon. You're doing yourself an injustice by putting it off. Look for his short stories as well, they show a different side of this remarkable writer.

Do you have any goals you're working on? I'd love to hear what they are. You have my complete support and encouragement. My ambition is to finish the rewrite of my novel The Second Life in the next month, send it off to my favorite editing company, fix my mistakes, and begin querying agents in time for my birthday in May. This accomplished, I'd like to think I had done something worthwhile in my 44th year. Of course, there are always the revisions to be done on my first novel Charm Bracelet. Rejected a whopping 79 times, there is still a lot to revise.

But that can keep until I'm 45.

Cheers to all writers and readers of words! May we stand on the shoulders of giants and be worthy of the view.

84 Charing Cross Road, London, WC2

2011-02-23T09:54:00.000-08:00

84 Charing Cross Road, London, WC2

This was the address of the famous, antiquarian booksellers Marks and Co. It isn't in business anymore. It is now an All Bar One. The plaque below commemorates this book shops former location.

There is a place where Marks and Co. still exists however. In the autobiographical tale by Helene Hanff, 84 Charing Cross Road. This story was made into a play, and later, a movie.

I watched the film yesterday. It had haunted me since my teens when I swooned over Sir Anthony Hopkins, all soulful eyes and poignant delivery, as he quoted Yeats' He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven.

"Had I the heaven's embroidered cloths,

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Of night and light and the half-light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

tread softly because you tread on my dreams."

Friends, you know I am a fool for words like these. People don't write this way anymore, however much I wish they did. Helene Hanff felt the same. In 1949, she sent an inquiry to Marks and Co. and it caught the eye of Frank Doel. Ms. Hanff wanted books she couldn't find in America. She wanted old books that were out of fashion even then, and Mr. Doyle searched these treasures out for her. Platonic soul-mates, Hanff and Doyle corresponded for nearly 20 years until Frank's death in 1968 from peritonitis. Their letters are the heart of 84 Charing Cross Road. This story is for the romantic who has a passion for literature, history, England, star-crossed friendship, and old book shops.

It's also about putting ink to fine, stiff paper and mailing your words across the world to a person you care about. Helene and Frank shared one another's lives without ever having met. Their relationship was a true meeting of the minds. As a poor New York writer, Helene could not afford to travel to London, though it was her fondest dream. A bookman of the highest order, Frank Doel brought England to Helene by sending her some of its best literature.

Emails would not suffice in this story. They are too immediate and sterile. They cannot be long-anticipated, received and pored over, wrapped in a silk ribbon, and put away in a special box. They cannot be cherished and touched while being re-read.

What do you think, friends? Do you still enjoy receiving letters or writing them? Are you sad that hundred-year-old book shops are being crowded out these days? Have you ever been to Charing Cross Road?

Choose any question you like or invent another, I'd just love to hear from you.

Happy writing!

Loving Dead Poets

2011-02-10T15:44:00.000-08:00

With two English-Lit Major brothers and an aunt who taught English at a local high school, is it any wonder I grew up loving dead poets?

No. No wonder at all.

When I was ten, my oldest brother recited a few lines by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. I felt sympathetic toward the main character in this poem, and I loved the way he expressed himself. The words sunk deep into my girlish heart and I worked for days to memorize them.

"Break, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!

And I would that my tongue could utter

The thoughts that arise in me.

O, well for the fisherman's boy,

That he shouts with his sister at play!

O, well for the sailor lad

That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on

To their haven under the hill;

But O for the touch of a vanished hand,

And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea.

But the tender grace of a day that is dead

Will never come back to me."

These words sounded so compellingly romantic! Break, Break, Break led me on to further discovery. The Lady of Shalott. Morte D' Arthur. Ulysses.

On my desk, sitting close like a dear friend, there is a copy of The Poetical and Dramatic Works of Tennyson. It is old, though not as old as Lord Alfred himself, though close. The cover is a rich cobalt blue inscribed with gold, leafy filigree. The paper and vellum inside are no longer white but instead a yellowish-orange.

I open this book carefully, as I have done many times, as I will yet do. Like always, it creaks me a welcome, and I suddenly feel at home.

What books impressed you as a child? Do you love words, and if so, what are some of your favorites?

If you haven't visited Akseli Koskela at An English Teacher's Travelblog, you should. An excellent writer himself, he has a great post today about language.

Play It Again . . . Casablanca

2011-02-09T10:32:00.001-08:00

Play It Again . . . Casablanca by Roxy Haynie featuring cropped jackets

I made this little homage to Casablanca over at the absolute best time-waster ever--Polyvore! I chose clothes that reminded me of Ingrid Bergman's wardrobe in the film. All gorgeous, just like her.

Casablanca was released in 1942, but it's characters still remain undated. The dialogue is smart, sad, and wry. Who could forget Rick Blaine? He said that he came to Casablanca for the waters, but I watch the movie for him. And Ingrid Bergman. She played her part to luminous perfection. Only Ilsa could knock Rick Blaine to his knees.

The one thing I'd change about Casablanca is the ending . . . I wish Rick and Ilsa didn't have to sacrifice so much for the greater good. Yet, maybe the reason this movie stays with us is because they did.

And so, I play it again. And again. And again.

Tell me, friends. Do you have a favorite classic movie?

In your opinion, does wardrobe contribute to character development in books and films?

Ahh, Love . . .

2011-02-07T19:39:00.001-08:00

Ahh, Love . . . by Roxy Haynie featuring boat neck sweaters

Look above. Can you see the fun to be had at Polyvore's fashion department? My daughter introduced me to this awesome website a few days ago, and it's a virtual shopping spree. Without the buyers remorse. Or poor credit score!

At last, I can almost, sort-of, maybe--at least in my computer file-- own Pucci, Valentino, and Chanel. Think endless shoes. Handbags galore! Excuse me a moment, I'm wiping a tear from my eye.

Instant gratification, here I come. Ahem. When I have time to spare, of course. Of course.

I loved paper dolls when I was young. Did you? I loved coloring them, cutting them out, and using the tabs to fasten the delicate "clothes" to the cardboard figures. Then the story telling began. I imagined I was that winsome girl in the cocktail dress who was swept off her feet by a dashing, handsome stranger.

We ruled a kingdom, joined a circus, became pirates, traveled back in time . . .

Imagination is a wonderful gift when you're a shy, bookish child.

What did you want to be as a kid? Did you have any adventures? Did you like to create even then?

My pal Karyn at Confessions of An Aspiring Novelist is new to Blogger. You should drop by and introduce yourselves. I know you'll be glad you did.

Happy Monday, Friends!

A River Runs Through It

2011-02-01T09:58:00.000-08:00

I should have entitled this post Norman Maclean Appreciation Day because I recently re-read his novella A River Runs Through It, and I'm basking in the afterglow.

Maclean's tale of "an American family" resonated with me, bringing memories of my own fisherman father to the surface. I identify with so many of the elements within this story, such as: not understanding the people in your own family, being baffled by the choices they make and yet, trying to love them anyway, and strangely, often the simplest activities, like fly-fishing, develop our strongest bonds.

My dad was an excellent outdoorsmen. Think of James Fenimore Cooper's character Natty Bumppo, and you wouldn't be far off the mark. Anticipation crackling in the air, he and my two brothers would hastily pack their gear in the truck with artistic efficiency and set off for their adventures in the Oregon wilderness. Dad was a busy executive as well as a military man and his work called him to faraway countries for many months of the year. But when he was home, he made time to fish.

I was allowed to go on a few occasions, and it was magic. Wild horses, rattlesnakes, purplish-blue ravines, and fast-flowing water. Remembering those days, I see my father in his prime casting a line across the river to the sun-dappled depths of a rocky pool. Although he's been gone for some 30 years, I have only to think back, and I still see him there.

That shared, perhaps you can appreciate why I love this section of Maclean's writing . . .

"Now nearly all those I loved and did not understand when I was young are dead, but I still reach out to them.

Of course, now I am too old to be much of a fisherman, and now of course I usually fish the big waters alone, although some friends think I shouldn't. Like many fly fishermen in western Montana where the summer days are almost Arctic in length, I often do not start fishing until the cool of the evening. Then in the Arctic half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my soul and memories and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise.

Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. That river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.

I am haunted by waters."

Live On the Edge, Write With Exuberance

2011-01-27T10:30:00.000-08:00

Who is this kid, anyway, and what is his mother thinking, letting him run around without pants? Hmmm. Actually, that kid would be mine and keeping his pants on is a full time job. (Lol.)

This little man loves life. And he lives it on the edge--as much as a seven-year-old can--hugging random strangers at the grocery store and using his school's elevator during recess. (His principal does not approve.)

I wish I had some of my sons unfettered joy of life and make-believe. I'd definitely be a better writer if I did.

I raise my cup of herbal tea in a toast. Let's make today a day of exuberance and optimism. (But please, keep your pants on.)

Cheers!

New View

2011-01-25T09:12:00.000-08:00

My husband and I were strolling along through Central Park when he stopped and snapped this lovely scene. It's one of my favorite souvenirs of our trip. What a great guy! Handsome face, pretty eyes, and a clever photographer as well. I am a lucky girl.

Every time I look at this pic I notice the unusual perspective with the pine trees in the foreground. It offers me a new way of remembering that sunny pond. As though my husband and I were emerging from the shadows into a bright, enchanting world of our own.

It's nice to see things with fresh eyes.

Hmm, I feel an analogy coming on. Here it is, blogger friends. Sometimes, diverging from the beaten path of writing makes all the difference in a story.

How do you change your perspective when you need a new idea for an old manuscript? Do you take a walk, read a dictionary, talk to friends, research? Actually, I do enjoy a good dictionary read once in a while . . . What do you do?

Well, I'm off to paint my mudroom and guest bath in beach-y tones. Already half-done and looking good. Think teal and grey respectively, both with crisp white trim. Next step, making a shell wreath and doing faux plaster in the French Country kitchen/great room. As you can tell, I'm a do-it-yourself type. But only once a year to distract me from the winter doldrums. These projects give me a renewed appreciation for some undervalued spaces.

If only fixing my plot lines were so easy!

Happy Monday!

Carl Bloch

2011-01-21T07:04:00.001-08:00

As a child, I grew up admiring the work of Danish painter Carl Bloch. The other night I had the opportunity of taking my children to see a Bloch exhibit. What a wonderful, pinch-yourself moment!
This is a portrait of the artist himself. He was born in 1800's Copenhagen. His parents wanted him to become a naval officer, but he had other ambitions. Rembrandt was Bloch's inspiration and hero. A handsome, talented man, wasn't he?
Much of Bloch's greatest success as an artist came from his altarpieces. I sat on a small chair in a dim room and gazed at his glorious Gethsemane. The angel's hair glows from the canvas.
This work is entitled, Let's Go For A Swim! I think it is both clever and whimsical. Bloch had a sense of humor mixed in with all his other gifts. Although I did not show any examples here, his beach scenes are so ahead of their time.
A landscape entitled Rising Moon. I look at this and imagine the damp evening air and the lapping water.
King Christian II Jailed. Notice the depth, color, and light within this painting. The shadows create a disturbing atmosphere. Remarkable.
Getting Ready For the Carnival. I love the reflection in the mirror, the blue wall, and her radiant hair and skin.
These are a series of Bloch's engravings. Amazing that he could create something so intricate by cutting grooves into a hard, blank surface. I really enjoyed Old Woman Feeding Sparrows. It reminded me of the char woman feeding the birds in Mary Poppins.
Sweet. First Love.
At the Pub.

It's interesting to learn that Carl Bloch did not do any etchings for 12 years. Returning to the craft with renewed perspective and passion, he is now known as a true master of this art form. That's a good lesson for us all. It's never too late to begin again. (Even for writers experiencing a creative block ;)

When Bloch's wife died unexpectedly, leaving him with a broken heart and eight children to raise, he faced depression and loss of motivation. His friend, Hans Christian Andersen, wrote, "Write on the canvas; write your seal on immortality. Then you will become noble here on earth."

Carl Heinrich Bloch took his friend's advice and became noble in deed and art. After his death from cancer in 1890, an insightful eulogy was read at his funeral, "Bloch stays and lives."

It's true. He does.

So Sad But So Good

2011-01-20T10:02:00.000-08:00

Do you have a song that you play when you need cheering up? Every writer should have one. Or ten.

I do.

And please keep in mind that I come from a karaoke-singing, Rock Band-playing family. We sing these songs loud with the music blaring, and they always chase disappointment away.

Here are my top ten pick-me-up favorites:

1. Cry To Me by Solomon Burke

"Well, here I am, honey. Oh, come on, you cry to me." I smile as I sing along with this one. Who wouldn't? Solomon Burke could sing me the telephone directory, and I'd be happy.

2. Try A Little Tenderness by Otis Redding.

3. Bring It On Home by Sam Cooke

4. Get Over It by The Eagles.

5. Gimme Shelter by The Rolling Stones

6. It's A Long Way To The Top by AC/DC

7. Here We Go Again by Whitesnake

8. My Life Would Suck Without You by Kelley Clarkson

9. The Diary of Jane by Breaking Benjamin

10. I'm Not Crying, Business Time, Think About It or anything by Flight Of The Conchords. Hilarious. Love you Jemaine and Brett!

What songs make you happy?

But on those days when I want catharsis and to wallow in sorrow and open a metaphorical vein-

Whiskey Lullaby by Brad Paisley

"She put him out like the burning end of a midnight cigarette.

She broke his heart. He spent his whole life trying to forget.

We watched him drink his pain away a little at a time

But he never could get drunk enough to get her off his mind, until the night

He put the bottle to his head and pulled the trigger."

Hurt by Johnny Cash

"I hurt myself today,

to see if I still feel.

I focus on the pain,

the only thing that's real."

Oh, ouch. Ouch! Maybe my problems aren't so bad . . .

What are your so-sad-they're-good songs?

The Bait

2011-01-12T07:17:00.000-08:00

John Donne, I like you. A lot.

A scholar, a ladies man, a poet, and something of a rebel, you satirized the society of your time, married your bosses niece, and had twelve children with her. And if that weren't enough, you later became a priest and movingly delivered your own funeral sermon three weeks prior to your death.

Remarkable by any standards, good sir. You wrote, and lived, with style. You also enjoyed a good metaphor and used symbolism skillfully, making topics like unity and death and life more understandable. Take these two excerpts from Meditations XVII.

1. "No man is an island entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main."

2. "And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee."

You are a writer's writer, Mr. Donne. We love to borrow from your work and finding inspiration there, we create upon your greatness. (Hemingway certainly did, not to mention Simon and Garfunkel.)

And sometimes you took a cue from others. Christopher Marlowe's The Passionate Shepherd To His Love was posthumously published in 1599 and began with, "Come live with me, and be my love." Never a fool, you recognized a good line, and using Marlowe's first words, you made them even better in The Bait.

"Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will some new pleasures prove
Of golden sands, and crystal brooks,
With silken lines and silver hooks.

There will the river whisp'ring run
Warm'd by thy eyes, more than the sun ;
And there th' enamour'd fish will stay,
Begging themselves they may betray . . ."

This love song sounds a lot like The Bait. Come Live With Me written by Bryant and Felice Boudleaux and performed by Ray Charles. (Click on the song title and listen to this youtube rendering, bloggers. Let me know what you think.)

Thank you for sharing your cleverness, Mr. Donne. Centuries later, you still have people talking.

Life Vs. Fiction

2011-01-06T09:10:00.000-08:00

Sometimes life gives fiction a run for its money.

For example, a friend of my family once told me the true story of his "wicked" granny. The aforementioned lady lived in the late 1800's, and she was the lovely daughter of a good, upstanding family. Here is where the wicked part comes in. This prim, recently-engaged woman entered the local post office to mail some letters and saw a handsome stranger across the lobby. They were instantly drawn to one another, as if they had no other choice, as if the universe or fate had stepped in and arranged their meeting. Dazzled and giddy, these two didn't question their good fortune. They ran away together and got married that day, leaving the girl's family, and her former sweetheart, agog. What makes this tale even more amazing? They loved each other for more than six decades. Until death parted them.

I first heard this story as a teenager, and I thought it was Romeo and Juliet come to life. Wonderful, romantic, unconventional, and innocently daring.

Those unexpected, little ironies that life tosses our way often make the best stories of all. Indeed, miracles can happen, even in this cynical old world. Ever have an experience that's truly stranger than fiction?

Reflections

2011-01-03T17:29:00.000-08:00

I love Guy Lombardo's rendition of Auld Lang Syne. I tear up every time I hear it because I think of the people who made me. Or helped me make myself. I look back at my childhood, that box of cherished memories and hard knocks, and I think of the metaphorical road I've traveled.

On New Year’s Eve, I withhold a few, quiet moments from my busy household and reflect on my blessings.

Such as . . .

1. Soft sweaters. It doesn't matter if they are old, new or in-between. When you put on a soft sweater, it feels like you're getting a hug. And I can never be hugged enough in my opinion.

2. Second chances. Third chances. To infinity and beyond chances . . . After enduring the monumental parental responsibility that is Christmas and knowing I have failed to provide the enchanting yuletides of my youth for my children, I am all for the underdog in need of exoneration. My heart aches for the person who doesn't have faith in change. Seriously, life would be intolerable if we didn't have the hope of forgiveness, if we couldn't believe that someday we could finally rid ourselves of the demons that have shackled and barred us from complete happiness.

3. Board Games. Few things compare with seeing your child's face light up while playing a game. In that relatively small amount of time, you can forget your troubles and remember why you love the people you love. And laughter? There is laughter all around, sometimes until your eyes water. Just ask my sons about the SLAM scrabble episode involving the word Larry...

4. My husband. I'm a big fan of marriage. If Louis were to repeat his proposal, "Could you possibly, maybe, consider becoming my wife?" I’d say yes again in a flash. Especially when he takes my hand and turns those beautiful grey-green eyes my way.

5. Our dog Matilda. I think this puggle is adorable, but she’s still undecided about me. I kind of like her playing hard to get, and I also like that she snores louder than any person I’ve ever known.

New Year's Eve reminds me of the treasures I possess. It tells me who I am, and like the glittery ball dropping through the darkness on the last night of the year, leads me towards more in the days ahead.

How was your New Year’s Eve? What are your treasures?

Nutcracker Reverie

2010-12-24T07:21:00.000-08:00

I took my two girls to the ballet. Just as my mother took me most years of my adolescence. It was entrancing. No words, but storytelling in abundance. Not much plot, but who cares? It's The Nutcracker! I was seven-years-old and lived with my family in Portland, Oregon the first time I saw this production. My mother said that I turned to her at intermission with huge, star-struck eyes, whispering, "This is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my whole life!"

Every time I watch Nutcracker, I'm seven again and still filled with wonder at the kind of beauty that life doesn't usually provide. I am drawn in from the first musical note to the last curtain call.

As you can tell, I'm a sentimental creature of tradition. For as long as I can remember, we've had a dinner of waffles with sliced strawberries and fresh whipped cream on Christmas Eve. This year will be the same. After a family program, we'll give the children one gift. A new pair of pajamas. Come rain, sleet, shine or tornados, we always have new pajamas on Christmas Eve.

After presents tomorrow morning, we'll eat banana and pineapple soup, breakfast casserole, and croissants filled with chocolate. For dinner? Fresh-from-the-Oregon-coast crab salad, yorkshire pudding, and prime rib. I know, it sounds like a lot, and it is. But this celebration is only once a year, right? (Plus, I now have a gym membership!)

Traditions. They really aren't about repeating the same activities over and over. They're about creating happy ties with the people you love. And memories that last longer than time and change.

Happy twenty-forth! What are your favorite holiday traditions?

Gift Recommendation

2010-12-23T06:17:00.000-08:00

Snuggling up with your child and reading them a lovely picture book is one of the sweet payoffs of being a parent. I'm always on the lookout for new material to share with my little guy. I found this wonderful book at Target. It's so good that it made me cry as I read it there in the book section. Public tears are always embarrassing, people. I don't cry pretty. The book that brought out my inner child and outer emotions?

Wherever You Are My Love Will Find You by Nancy Tillman.

Excerpt . . .

"And if someday you’re lonely,
or someday you’re sad,
or you strike out at baseball,
or think you’ve been bad...

just lift up your face, feel the wind in your hair.
That’s me, my sweet baby, my love is right there.

In the green of the grass... in the smell of
the sea... in the clouds floating by...
at the top of a tree... in the sound
crickets make at the end of the day...

“You are loved. You are loved. You are
loved,” they all say.

Everyone should buy this book. All children, young or old, should have these words spoken to them.

Merry 23rd, dear readers. Have you made any great gift discoveries?

Be Jolly By Golly Blogfest

2010-12-20T06:33:00.000-08:00

December 20th is finally here.

Huzzah! Let the holiday celebration begin! Even better, let it be hosted by those two, cool-yule girls . . . Jen at Unedited and Melissa from Through the Looking Glass. These ladies know how to throw a party. So drop by, take a look at your fellow bloggers finery, get a new recipe or two, and have a visit.

Be Jolly By Golly!

Welcome to my home, friends. It looks like a Christmas card outside with fat, lacy snowflakes swirling in the air. Let me take your coat. And may I offer you a macaron and a cup of cocoa? Eggnog anyone? Let's check out the nativity scene on our way to my office.

Rest your feet after braving the elements, the traffic, and the shoppers. Have a seat in this comfy reading chair. Just scoot the new year's bear out of the way. He doesn't mind a bit. So, what do you want for Christmas?
What's that noise? It's the children, of course! Come downstairs and meet a couple of them. They love new people. See their tree? This is where the kids put their gifts to each other.
Now, the family tree. The kids decorate it, too. I hold the extension ladder, listen to Christmas music, and watch them go crazy. Want to guess what's in the presents? Go ahead, pick them up and shake them. Anticipation is the best part of getting gifts!
Ahh, the stockings. I love Christmas morning surprises, don't you?
We trim everything from chandeliers to bathroom towel racks. Are we going too far? Maybe, just a little.
This is the white tree. Or as I call it, the obsessive compulsive disorder enhancer. I fiddle with the crystals on this thing about twenty times a day. Every time I walk by it, I have to adjust something . . . Hmmm. Excuse me for a moment. I need to move that silver ball a quarter of an inch to the right.

Well, that's it. Thanks for dropping by. Can I top off your cocoa? Would you like to play a board game? Monopoly, Life, or Catan? What's your favorite thing to play?

Have a wonderful, happy day, readers. Come back, anytime.

Translating Word Verification

2010-12-08T07:29:00.001-08:00

I'm seeing a definite trend with Word Verification these days. In the past, we had a good relationship, but now WV is sounding snippy and superior. As though it has tested my blogging skills and found me lacking. I'll let you be the judge. These are actual Word Verification offerings.

(Let me translate what we read, and what WV really means.)

1. aZZiff: code for "You think that's a good comment? As if!"

2. clonkR: similar to definition #1. "Don't write this. It's a clonker."

3. VIrtus: Word Verification is now testing our Latin. And sometimes our Cantonese, German, and Lithuaninan. All at the same time.

4. cYss: this is WV's acronym for "check your spelling silly!" (I like to think it means silly instead of something more harsh like stupid.)

5. kisSle: I'm not exactly sure what kissle means. (I don't think I want to know.)

Is Word Verification treating you well, bloggers? Maybe I'm being fanciful and endowing this "spam reduction mechanism" with traits it doesn't have.

(Either way, I need to lay off the Diet Coke with lime. A little too much caffeine this morning, I think)

Chevalier Appreciation Day

2010-12-03T07:41:00.000-08:00

Finally! A modern person has been chosen for Author Appreciation Day. If I could be any writer today, it would be Tracy Chevalier. With very few words, Ms. Chevalier seamlessly weaves fact and historical fiction together. Here is a glimpse at just three of her works.

Girl With a Pearl Earring

Setting: Delft, South Holland, in the 1600's

This scene shows the first meeting between 16-year-old maid Griet and the Dutch painter Vermeer.

"The man was watching me, his eyes grey like the sea. He had a long, angular face, and his expression was steady, in contrast to his wife's, which flickered like a candle. He had no beard or moustache, and I was glad, for it gave him a clean appearance. He wore a black cloak over his shoulders, a white shirt, and a fine lace collar. His hat pressed into hair the color of brick washed by rain.  
"What have you been doing here, Griet?" he asked.  
I was surprised by the question but knew enough to hide it. "Chopping vegetables, sir. For the soup."  
"And why have you laid them out thus?" He tapped his finger on the table.  
I always laid vegetables out in a circle, each with its own section like a slice of pie. There were five slices: red cabbage, onions, leeks, carrots and turnips. I had used a knife edge to shape each slice, and placed a carrot disk in the center.

The man tapped his finger on the table. "Are they laid out in the order in which they will go into the soup?" he suggested, studying the circle.  
"No, sir." I hesitated. I could not say why I had laid out the vegetables as I did. I simply set them as I felt they should be, but I was too frightened to say so to a gentleman. 
 "I see you have separated the whites," he said, indicating the turnips and onions. "And then the orange and the purple, they do not sit together. Why is that?" He picked up a shred of cabbage and a piece of carrot and shook them like dice in his hand.  
I looked at my mother, who nodded slightly.  "The colors fight when they are side by side, sir."
This story depicts the intense relationship between Vermeer and Griet and how the painting Girl With a Pearl Earring might have come about. Chevalier is brilliant. I identified with the heroine immediately and was fascinated by her harsh yet beautiful world.

The Virgin Blue setting: Present day and 16th-century France

After moving to Lisle-Sur-Tarn, American Ella Turner has strange dreams with flashes of deep indigo and fragments of ancient-dialect French.
She is soon driven to uncover the history of her ancestress Isabelle du Moulin.

I am still haunted by the fate of secretly Catholic Isabelle at the hands of her intolerant Huguenot family. A tragic and unforgettable story.

Burning Bright setting: London in the 18oo's

The Tiger by William Blake

"Tiger, tiger burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?"

The title of this book comes from the above poem. Chevalier always chooses compelling subject matter. I've been interested in William Blake since my youth. My English-major brother would tell me tales of Blake's life and quote from his writing, and it never failed to give me a thrill.

In Burning Bright, we see life through the eyes of London waif Maggie Butterfield and former country boy, now City dweller, Jem Kellaway. Their coming-of-age story is realistic and not entirely happy, and they are never the same after befriending each other. And their neighbor William Blake.

Thank you all for stopping by today. I hope you have a wonderful weekend, and if you're searching for an interesting read, give Tracy Chevalier a try.

Cheers!

Brilliant Talli

2010-12-01T07:56:00.000-08:00

Just a small moment of tribute for Talli. She's a lovely, cheerful person, and a wonderful writer. Her blog is one of my favorites, and now her debut novel The Hating Game is out. Brilliant, Talli. Just brilliant!

Help Talli Roland's debut novel THE HATING GAME hit the Kindle bestseller list at Amazon.com and Amazon.co.uk by spreading the word today. Even a few sales in a short period of time on Amazon helps push the book up the rankings, making it more visible to other readers.

Amazon.co.uk: http://amzn.to/hNBkJk

Amazon.com: http://amzn.to/hX2ieD

No Kindle? Download a free app at Amazon for Mac, iPhone, PC, Android and more.

Coming soon in paperback. Keep up with the latest atwww.talliroland.com.

About THE HATING GAME:

When man-eater Mattie Johns agrees to star on a dating game show to save her ailing recruitment business, she's confident she'll sail through to the end without letting down the perma-guard she's perfected from years of her love 'em and leave 'em dating strategy. After all, what can go wrong with dating a few losers and hanging out long enough to pick up a juicy £2000,000 prize? Plenty, Mattie discovers, when it's revealed that the contestants are four of her very unhappy exes. Can Mattie confront her past to get the prize money she so desperately needs, or will her exes finally wreak their long-awaited revenge? And what about the ambitious TV producer whose career depends on stopping her from making it to the end?

Help debut author Talli Roland Take On Amazon today!

Reviews & Tags

If you do buy The Hating Game and you like it, a review on Amazon would be greatly appreciated! If you don't have an Amazon account, you can also post reviews on Goodreads. Thank you!

If you are on Amazon and in a clicking sort of mood, it would be fantastic if you could click on a few tags ('Tags Customers Associate with this Product' - located underneath the Product Description). Cheers!

Bleeding Feet

2010-11-29T12:10:00.001-08:00

I hope you all had a wonderful weekend! What with the cleaning, baking, cooking, and dining, I'm off to hit the treadmill with a vengeance.

Before I go, however, let me explain these pointe shoes and the title of this post. The Chacotts above were the first pointe shoes my daughter ever wore. (She's had many pairs since.) We took this picture before she had the chance to work in them, before the ribbons were even sewn on. Before the blisters and the lost toe nails. Before the inside of the shoes became stained with her blood. Ever heard the saying, "Beautiful dancers have ugly feet"? It's so true. My little firebrand is my hero. I'm buying her red silk pointe shoes for Christmas because they represent how she dances. Blazing and vibrant.

Amazing what a person is willing to endure for what they love.

Last night, we watched Youtube clips of dancer Natalia Osipova. Her feet moved almost faster than my eye could follow. Like hummingbird wings. Obviously, Ms. Osipova worked many years to achieve her level of skill.

Humbled and inspired by this experience, I've decided that I won't complain about writing anymore. It's a challenge I can deal with. The writing journey has pitfalls and disappointments, and while my feet are not bloodied, sometimes it does feel as though my heart is battered. But, this passion is mine. This journey is mine. I do it because I love it.

The joys outweigh the cost, wouldn't you agree?

Longfellow Appreciation Day

2010-11-19T04:59:00.000-08:00

To me, Longfellow is the literary equivalent of comfort food. As a teenager, I would turn to his poetry again and again. I never grew bored because I chose Longfellow for the way his words made me feel. When I was lost or heartbroken and needed a friend, he was always there, waiting on my bookshelf.

I would stretch out on my bed, turning the pages of my book to The Day Is Done or The Bridge, and speak the words aloud, as though I were reading them to a beloved child. Peace always followed because Longfellow understood me--he had experienced in his day what I was going through in mine. Crossing time, he reached out and threw me a lifeline.

Back then, I didn’t see how human bonds could surpass the kinship of author and reader. Because at that moment I loved Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, and like a wise, kindly grandfather, he belonged only to me. There wasn’t another person, living or dead, who understood me as he did, and with sweet reunion, his healing words met my mind. I turned them to suit my mood and put them away in my heart. He had saved me yet again, my gentle poet.

Thank you, Henry. All these years later, you're still my hero.

Do you have any comfort books?

Loglines, Where Have You Been All My Life?!

2010-11-17T04:57:00.000-08:00

No, really, where have they been? I've known about synopsis and outlines for decades, but when did writers begin loglining? Err, probably from the beginning, right?

I guess I've just been oblivious to them until recently, when I entered myself in Authoress' Baker's Dozen Agent Contest at Miss Snark's First Victim. This contest was so competitive and the number of entrants so vast, I doubt that I made it into one of the forty available spots. Good experience though since I learned about loglines.

Authoress is so gracious and lovely, and she provides so many wonderful opportunities for writers to receive feedback and information. If you aren't acquainted with Authoress, you really should introduce yourself.

Back to loglines-- those pithy, one or two sentence, show-the-heart-of-your-story wonders! Below is my first attempt at loglining for The Second Life.

Logline: The lone survivor of a horrifying accident, Maggie Hathaway lives a half-life riddled with scars, chronic pain, and obsessive-compulsive disorder. With the help of her childhood friend, Ben O’Connor, Maggie must risk facing her fears in the hope of future happiness and redemption or remain crippled by her memories forever.

Well, there it is. How are your loglines going? Heard of any great contests or blogfests lately?

Dickens, Capote, and Thomas

2010-11-16T04:30:00.000-08:00

No, the title of this post isn't a bureaucratic law firm. It's my traditional Holiday Reading List! Every year, the day after Thanksgiving, I gather my favorite Christmas stories together, station them on my night stand, and let the reading celebration begin.

Here they are in all their yuletide splendor . . .

#1. Truman Capote's short but sweetly sentimental A Christmas Memory:

"A woman with shorn white hair is standing at the kitchen window. She is wearing tennis shoes and a shapeless gray sweater over a summery calico dress. She is small and sprightly, like a bantam hen; but, due to a long youthful illness, her shoulders are pitifully hunched. Her face is remarkable - not unlike Lincoln's, craggy like that, and tinted by sun and wind; but it is delicate too, finely boned, and her eyes are sherry-colored and timid. "Oh my," she exclaims, her breath smoking the windowpane, "it's fruitcake weather!"

#2. A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens:

"I have always thought of Christmas time, when it has come around apart from the veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that -- as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the only time I know of the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely . . ."

#3. A Child's Christmas In Wales by Dylan Thomas

"One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six."

The holidays wouldn't be the same without these treasures. Do you have reading traditions for this time of year?

Hmmm . . .

2010-11-15T07:19:00.000-08:00

Have you ever repeated a hackneyed aphorism only to wonder what you've just said? I do this once in a blue moon, don't you? I guess the proof is in the pudding . . . Sorry. I'm wincing, too.

But why do we keep the phrase "happy as a clam" alive? Are clams especially happy creatures? I can't imagine they would be. I wouldn't enjoy living in the cold, gritty sand until some person dug me up and put me in a chowder. Who started this saying in the first place? Do you know, readers? I'm pretty sure it wasn't the clams.

And what about the he "doesn't hold a candle to you" axiom? Is it a good thing to be that close to fire? Funny, but I don't want a guy holding a candle anywhere near me. Ouch! Those things burn. Then there's the whole "falling off the wagon" thing. What wagon are we on, where are we going, and is it driving at high speed? "You scratch my back, and I'll scratch yours." Again this sounds painful. And if you don't "know on which side your bread is buttered" should you really be allowed to eat at the grown-up table?

Don't forget these favorites . . . like two peas in a pod (only two?), a nod is as good as a wink (Is there a nod/wink standard and how do we judge their equality?), and a picture's worth a thousand words (Only if you're Vermeer).

Actually, there is one adage that I like. "No man is a hero to his valet." Can't we all relate to this? A discreet servant is so difficult to find . . .

Right. I know, I'll stop now, but first, I must ask this question.

Are there any adages that cause you to say, "#*%#, why?!"

Bronte Appreciation Day

2010-11-12T07:43:00.000-08:00

As a teenager, my mother took me to Victoria, British Columbia to stay at a lovely English-style inn. There were beveled windows and antiques everywhere, and I remember how thrilled I was to see a darkly-stained dining table that had once belonged to the Bronte family. This period piece was cordoned off to protect it from further ruin, but I stood at the table for a long while imagining Charlotte, Emily, Anne, and their brother Branwell. I saw them with their glasses, cutlery, and plates, perhaps commenting on the food or the brisk Yorkshire weather, completely unaware of their greatness, of the spell they would later cast upon future generations.

Here is the church in the historic, West Yorkshire village of Thornton where the Bronte children were born. Their family then moved to Haworth. This is Bronte Country. No, seriously, that's what it's called today.
Branwell Bronte painted this portrait of his sisters, Anne, Charlotte and Emily. Originally, he was in the painting as well, but later removed himself so as not to crowd the scene. I like the warm, smooth tone of the colors he used. Branwell was also a poet and created fantasy worlds with his sisters which they wrote about for many years. Troubled with alcohol and opium addictions, he died of tuberculosis at 31.

Lesser known than her sisters, Anne wrote the novels Agnes Grey and The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. She died at 29, also of tuberculosis. This disease tragically plagued the Bronte family. Most of the six siblings died of it.
I love this portrait of Charlotte. She's lovely, isn't she? And doesn't she look kind and intelligent? One of my favorite writers ever, I like to think of this remarkable lady as a friend from another era. Jane Eyre brought Charlotte great literary success, yet she remained quiet and shy with strangers. Fair, delicate and small, Charlotte died at 38 while expecting her first child. Her cause of death was recorded as tuberculosis, though further research suggests that it might have been typhus.
This is the title page of the original Jane Eyre. Notice that Charlotte wrote under the pen name of Currer Bell. The subtitle An Autobiography is interesting, isn't it? Charlotte Bronte lived through much of what Jane did. She attended a harsh boarding school similar to Lowood and also served as a governess. While teaching, Charlotte developed deep feelings for a married man, but later, separated herself from him and married another. That scenario reminds me a bit of the whole Rochester-Jane-Mr. Rivers triangle.

I do not have a picture of Emily Bronte, but from recorded descriptions, she was attractive and very much a homebody. This Yorkshire rose ventured out from her family many times, but always returned, struck with loneliness and a longing for the familiar. Wuthering Heights was not the swift success that Jane Eyre was, but today, it is considered a literary masterpiece. (Saying the name Wuthering Heights aloud takes me vicariously to Catherine and Heathcliff's solitary manor on the moor. Emily's title isn't just the name of a book, it's a frame of mind.) Ms. Bronte's influence was felt strongly among those who knew her, but her life was cut short. What started as a bad cold evolved into a wasting disease. Thin and weak, Emily never recovered and died at 30.

Thank you for joining me in this brief tribute to a brilliant family. I'll conclude with some of my favorite Bronte quotes . . .

~Charlotte~

"Who has words at the right moment?"

..........................................................

"Am I hideous, Jane?

Very, sir. You always were, you know." Jane Eyre

...........................................................

"There is only one difference between a madman and me. I am not mad."

...........................................................

"I'm just going to write because I cannot help it."

..........................................................

"Reader, I married him." Jane Eyre

..........................................................

~Emily~

"I've dreamt in my life dreams that have stayed with me ever after."

............................................................

"Terror made me cruel."

............................................................ Wuthering Heights

". . . he's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same."

.............................................................

"Be with me always--take any form--drive me mad! Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you."

.............................................................

" . . . lying from morning 'til evening on a bank of heath in the middle of the moors, with the bees humming dreamily about among the bloom and the larks singing high up overhead, and the blue sky and bright sun shining steadily and cloudlessly."

Beautiful words that sink into your mind and make you happy you can read and think and learn. Next week's Author Appreciation Day? Maybe the mad, bad, and dangerous Lord Byron. Tennyson or Hemingway anyone?

So many choices . . .

On Bieber, Gaga, and Genre Selection

2010-11-09T05:02:00.000-08:00

We have any number of clocks in our house. There's a Napoleon Dynamite chiming clock that rings at odd, random moments and a faux-antique kitchen clock with huge Roman numerals on its face. And then, there are the radio alarm clocks. These digital gadgets are plain evil.

At 5:30 this morning, I was awakened by two of my kid's clocks blasting Justin Bieber and Lady Gaga simultaneously. Picture it happening to you . . . "Baaaaby, baaaaaby, baaaaaby. Ohhh!" plus "Rah, rah, ah, ah, ah. Roma, roma, ma Gaga." In Dolby sound. Of all the stereos in all the world, why did this have to happen to mine?

I can handle these songs individually. Together? Not so much. Had Dante been with me, he might have created another level in hades. (Yesterday, my wakeup song came from Whitesnake, but I kind of like the hair bands.)

Without any logical segue, I'll move on to my real topic. Genre. In On Writing, Stephen King said he was drawn to horror films because the only other option were stridently happy musicals and beach-blanket movies. The teenage King couldn't relate to the latter so he chose the former.

Here's the question: Is the genre we choose a result of what we're lacking in life? Or do we just write what we enjoy reading? Do we gravitate toward a certain audience and write specifically for them?

How did you decide upon your genre?

Ordinary Magic

2010-11-08T07:00:00.000-08:00

Sometimes life is magical. I'm not referring to Frodo-and-the-ring or unicorn blood magic, I'm talking about the amazing little miracles that take place each day. The ones we take for granted because they are so commonplace.

For example, the bumblebee. The yellow-banded snappy dresser of the insect world, the Volkswagen bus with tiny gossamer wings. I love everything about this creature. Perhaps it's because of the noise it makes as it floats from blossom to blossom, sounding a bit like good-natured complaining. Think about their distinct reverberation . . .

"Bzzz, bzzz. I should have stopped three flowers ago. Bzzz, bzzz, bzzz. That last bit of nectar went straight to my hips. Bzzz."

Captivated by this humble bee, I grew up believing the legend that said they were a scientific anomaly, that they shouldn't technically be able to fly as they lacked aerodynamic properties. During the 1990s, however, a group of scientists got together to debunk this myth. They proved that bumblebees could indeed achieve lift due to their wing function, similar to the way a helicopter flies. Their work was then challenged by other researchers who contended that the previous findings still didn't adequately explain the bumble's abilities.

Oblivious to the controversy, the hairy pollen bandit continues to do the job it was made to do, and I continue being charmed by it.

And don't forget the bulb's perennial magic. We plant them in the cold autumn earth, throw a little freezing water their way, and then forget all about them until spring. They don't look like magic at all. They look like dried-up shrunken heads with stringy topknots. Judging on appearance alone, the bulb is always underestimated, but once the snows melt, these papery stems emerge in all their radiant elegance and color.

And my favorite magic of all is the one I sometimes overlook because I live with it each day. There are times when I feel like the Les Stroud of parenting, as though my only goal is to survive for the next few days. That's when I forget the magic because I'm tired and rundown and overworked. But magic has a way of reminding you it's there.

A good example of this is when I take my youngest child down the street to catch the school bus. I watch him run ahead, leaving me behind as he races toward his friends and independence. I wave as the bus pulls away and at the last moment, my small kindergarten man turns and waves back. Unfailingly, my heart gives a painful, sentimental tug, and I am so grateful to be a part of this remarkable young person's life.

It's been the same with each of my children as they grow up and move on. When they return home, I am always amazed that they are happy to see me, a plain middle-aged woman with wild hair and a dubious sense of fashion. And yet, they are. And I hope they always will be, these glorious children of mine. I am thankful beyond measure for a heart that sometimes hurts a little because it loves so big.

Magic, magic, magic . . . It's all around us.

During this month of Thanksgiving, what are you thankful for?

An Email From The Bard

2010-11-02T05:51:00.000-07:00

Dear Lady,

Why art thou not content to write? Hath thy supply of quills and ink run low? Nay. Me thinketh not. Is it the plague or a cruel debtor's prison? Doth the Queen withhold her favor? Once more, I say nay. Yet, I perceive thou hath hit a wall of impediment. Aye, there's the rub. All the enticements of thine imagination cannot make thy hand write this day. Inconstancy thy name is Roxy Haynie. Get thee to a keyboard. Out, out damn-ed dilly-dallying! Reason not the need for revision, and mend thy ways lest these charges be upon thee proved.

Hold fast to thine resolve, Madam, and thou shalt win the prize. O, for the muse of Daniel Craig that doth ascend to lofty heights! If these words be false then I am but a novice and in my salad days. Boot up thy Mac, sit upon thy crappy, fold-out chair, and put thy story to the test.

We few, we happy few, we band of writers. Let our hearts, and talent, be true, for then no man who readeth our work will call it false.

I await to see thine improvement anon.

Fondly,

Will

It's always nice to receive encouragement from a friend. If you could choose a writer from the past to give you advice, who would it be? How is NaNoWriMo going for you? Have you hit any snags in your WIP?

Have a brilliant Tuesday!

Summer's Show Your Space Blogfest

2010-11-01T07:10:00.000-07:00

Hi, All. Did you have a crazy weekend, too? I know, Monday should be suspended on account of Halloween. Let's take a moment to recover from miniature candy overdose and visit Summer at And This Time, Concentrate! She's having a fun blogfest where we can take a tour of writing spaces. I do enjoy vacations! Even the vicarious variety . . .

These are the cute people who keep entering my office and asking for food, money, help with their homework, etc . . . They have a gift for interrupting that is uncanny. Every time inspiration hits they are magnetically drawn to me. I love this picture. My husband said something funny and we all laughed.This is my messy desk. I write here each day. Sometimes I accomplish a lot and other times I get distracted.

This bookcase hinders my concentration since I love to read, and it's just sitting there looking interesting. My muse, Daniel Craig, reminds me each day that work comes before the reward. Darn you, Daniel. I'd take a good book over almost anything.
These are bleeding hearts. They bloom outside my office window in the Spring.
This is the Japanese Maple that softens the light through my plantation shutters. I feel protected with this leafy beauty guarding me.
Have an awesome afternoon, bloggers!

Halloween Candy

2010-10-29T05:18:00.000-07:00

The awesome Theresa Milstein is having an amazing event over at her blog. She's giving away enviable prizes and introducing some very cool bloggers to each other. Definitely Hauntworthy! Go and meet her today at Substitute Teacher's Saga.

In a few hours, I'm making the annual Halloween candy run to the store. This is my question. What should I buy? Which is your favorite treat? What kind of candy would your MC like and why?

Are you dressing up this year, bloggers? Who are you going to be? I may take my Fairy Godmother costume out of storage. I do like that silver cape and big, white wig! My husband refuses to get into the Halloween spirit, but my children are especially inspired. I have a ninja, a Midsummer Night's Dream fairy with attitude, two soldiers, a huge walking shrub, and Scarlet O'Hara. Love these guys!

Have the best holiday ever. Take pictures, have fun, and be safe!

The First Library

2010-10-26T12:05:00.000-07:00

This was my first library, and surely that alone makes it special. Though I am but one in thousands who have crossed the threshold, I have a sense of ownership here. (I always want to spell libraries with a capitol L, don't you?) I learned about books, music and writing in this place. About life, travel and adventure! Do you remember your first library?

Let me introduce you to my fine old building, dating back to 1864. Though her bones are elderly, the Multnomah County Library in Portland, Oregon is still a beauty. As a girl, I was in awe of the sweeping marble staircases, tall windows and echoing ceilings. Young as I was, I sensed the magic of creativity and great thoughts at work. My mother would drop me off in the children's section, and I would be content for hours. The smell of dust and old paper always takes me back to those treasured days. (Don't all libraries have that smell?)

The library taught me to spread my wings, to see the rest of the world around me. I grew to love my hometown as well.
Portland is divided by the Willamette River, but there are many bridges. They carried me safely across the water in my teenage years. And back home again.

The City of Roses is encircled by ancient trees that have seen it grow and expand. They were there when my library was built!

Set like a jewel in the hills, the Rose Gardens offer peace and solitude. I visited this beautiful place with my children after being away for 17 years, and my eyes filled with tears. Sometimes, you can go home again.

I once wrote a poem for this Raymond Kaskey statue. (See? Libraries make you think you can do anything!) Her name is Portlandia, and she is the second-largest copper figure in the United States.
Cannon Beach is about an hour west of Portland, and my family owned a small cabin there. In moments of loneliness and longing, I would sit in the sand, look out over the crashing Pacific Ocean, and dream of the future. (Of course, libraries place great stock in hopes and dreams.) Who knew that after years of searching for the love of my life, he'd ask me to marry him in that exact spot on the sand?

Mt. Hood sits on the other side of Portland. I picked huckleberries with my mother there in the summer, and my father showed me how to ski on those slopes in the winter time. (Libraries instill a lifelong desire to improve!)

Thanks for taking this sentimental journey with me. I remember who I am by occasionally looking back and that sparks my motivation to move forward.

Where was your first library? Is there a city that makes you sentimental? Do you have fond memories of your hometown?

How Will I Know? (No, Really, How Will I?)

2010-10-22T07:01:00.000-07:00

Okay. I know I'm dating myself here, but do you remember this album? Back in the day of 80's big hair and stirrup pants, I'd listen to it daily, singing into my hair brush-slash-microphone. Remember the How Will I Know song? Whitney was so cool in the video with her gray mini dress and florescent extensions. She bounced around, looking gorgeous, asking how she'd know if a guy liked her. (Seriously, wasn't this a moot point? Didn't every guy in the 80's love her already?)

Lately, I've been wondering about my story. I've worked on it for years. Revising, rewriting, taking breaks, and coming back again. Now the big question is . . . . Should I change the beginning? Should I take out the first chapter and replace it with the third instead? Like Whitney said, how do I know? What's the right choice? I've read this manuscript over so many times, I've compromised my judgement on the matter.

I have a great critique group, but life is interfering with our getting together. Recently, I've given thought to joining an online critique group. Have any of you done that?

What do you think, bloggers? How do you solve issues like this?

Spare Time

2010-10-21T10:19:00.000-07:00

Here is an example of what I've been doing with my spare time. Watching a television series and a movie and reading a book. Actually, I'm sure the time it took to do these things wasn't 'spare'. I should have been cleaning, cooking, or folding laundry, but I figure, once in a while, it's okay to shirk those duties and take a break. (Curse you, Netflix! You make it too easy.)
This is Patrick Jane from The Mentalist as played by Simon Baker. (Maybe he could be my substitute muse when Daniel Craig is unavailable?) I like this character a lot. He is complicated and not entirely likable. Intelligent, occasionally sympathetic, and often darkly funny. Each time I watch this show, I'm inspired to write deeper layers for the characters in my stories.
I read Mr. Monster, the sequel to I Am Not A Serial Killer, in one day. Dan Wells deftly writes a gripping page-turner. The way he weaves humor and irony throughout a dark, disturbing plot line is nothing short of brilliant. 'Tis the season to be scared, and I certainly was. (P.S. Don't read this if you don't like horror.)

And for a completely different change of pace, I watched The Young Victoria. (Sorry the picture is so small.) I loved this movie! I cried at the end and wanted to rewrite history for Victoria and Albert so they could grow old together. Excellent film making, beautiful costumes and scenery. Five stars out of five stars.

Now, after this mental vacation, I'm relaxed and set to tackle my current project. I'm finishing an adaptation of Dr. Suess' How The Grinch Stole Christmas. I am writing it for a performing arts center in my community, and they want it in rhyme. (They're paying for it, so who am I to question?) Let me tell you, I'm not a poet, but it seems to be coming along anyway. I am revising the last paragraphs today. Challenges, challenges . . .

Have you watched or read anything good lately? Are you facing a difficult writing project? I'd love to hear, blogging friends.

Writer Vs. The Wild . . . (The Wild Wins)

2010-10-14T06:27:00.000-07:00

Two things have distracted me over the last week. A wicked cold--yuck, enough said-- and a more wicked, four-foot-long gopher snake--ah, this might require some explaining. Remember my spiders-in-the-shirt gardening experience? So, so much scarier.

Last Sunday, I took a walk with my family through the foothills of my tiny town. You ever have an outdoor experience that leaves you feeling like you're Les Stroud from Survivorman? Or Bear Grylls from Man Vs. Wild? This walk turned into just that type of thing. And, quite frankly, the Wild kicked my butt. As Jeffrey Archer would say, hereby hangs the tale . . .

It was a beautiful, autumn day. Nothing ominous, no premonition about the ordeal ahead. We piled everyone, and the dog, in the back of our truck, found an isolated spot, parked, and began walking. We had a great time until my 12-year-old son complained about the heat. My husband cheered this kid up by chasing him around a field of sagebrush. Although we were all laughing and oblivious, this is where the downward spiral began. We continued our journey on the dusty trail until we realized that we had taken a wrong turn. Tired and hot, we had two choices: retrace the route we had just traveled or take an off-road shortcut. You know what we did, don't you? We took option B--the shortcut.

After crossing a vast expanse of open, desert plain, we finally arrived back at the truck. Our keys, however, did not. Somehow, they fell out of my husband's pocket. Of course, the spare set of keys were in my handbag. The one that was in the truck. So there we were, four miles from the outskirts of our subdivision with no keys and no cell phone.

The kids climbed into the truck bed and drank some water, and leaving our oldest teenager in charge, hubby, dog, and I headed out on a key-retrieval mission. It's hard, though, to search miles of desert at twilight. So we went to the place where my husband and son chased each other. Stooped, eyes scanning in all directions, we searched for about twenty minutes. I then heard a noise that I really didn't want to hear. Hissing. Really, really loud, close, hissing. I looked to my right, and it was as if the brush had come alive. Camouflaged in shades of black, grey, and brown, this coiled-up creature was amazing. Huge and terrifying, but beautiful at the same time. It was also seriously ticked off. Although the hissing continued in fortissimo, and the snake was vibrating with wrath, it made no move toward me. I backed away slowly, and then, I ran.

My husband said that I left a trail of dust hanging in the air behind me. I might have set a new speed walking record. (At the time, I thought it was a rattler. Only after researching and Googling did I learn it was a gopher snake.)

Looking a bit like the Joads from Steinbeck's Grapes of Wrath, we eventually made it home. We now have three, count them three, new copies of our car keys, and we'll definitely take a cell with us next time. Live and learn, right?

Here is my question to all you writers out there. Think of the surprise encounter with the snake. How do you make your plot twists jump out and surprise your readers? I hope there's no hissing involved . . .

To Kill Or Not To Kill

2010-10-05T05:05:00.000-07:00

We have liquid sunshine at last! That's rain, if you didn't know, and it's a big deal for the sage brush and rattle snakes around here. Not to mention the desert dwelling people. Having grown up in Oregon, I am drawn to falling water and love hearing it hit the pavement, bouncing like hot oil in a skillet.

I often file sounds and sensations away in my brain to use in future writing. In my trusty spiral notebook, I record experiences, impressions, interesting words, and human characteristics. Do you do this?

Of course, the big challenge is transferring these word-pictures from thought to paper. Sometimes, I try to communicate too much. That's when I have to ask myself, "Does the reader really need to know this?" Curse you, TMI writing.

In my salad days, I imagined that all good stuff must survive revision. Forget plot and story tension, if it sounded pretty, I'd leave it in! Sadly, this practice interfered with pacing and bogged down my readers. Those needless details didn't mean to them what they did to me.

I've since learned to kill my darlings, as Mr. King said in On Writing. Painful? (Acutely, since these are my darlings we're talking about.) Yet so necessary.

Now, if I love something, I'll copy it off before I cut it out. I store the snippets in a notebook where I can always read them~ even if no one else does. So many questions in this post, so little time. Here's one final inquiry: How do you decide what to keep and what to delete?

To kill or not to kill, that is the question . . .

Word Love

2010-09-20T09:31:00.001-07:00

So, how was your weekend? On Saturday, I attended a writing conference in Salt Lake City. It had a great question and answer panel and author John Gilstrap delivered a wonderful keynote address. My interview with Blair Hewes was another rewarding experience. She was very gracious and helpful. (I ended up giving her a package of plain M&M's!)

If you could schedule anyone to speak at your writing conference, who would you choose?

Okay, on to word love. Two experiences have contributed to my recent appreciation of words.

My seven-year-old has a difficult time reading. When I tell him he has to read for a happy, successful life, he says "I don't want to graduate, Mom. I want to live at home forever!" (I'm sure he doesn't mean it.) Thankfully, we're now reading Robin Hood, and he's beginning to catch on. How awful it would be to live in a world where no one read. What are your favorite books?

Language is beautiful. I listened to German hip-hop the other day. Sounded so cool. I liked it even before my daughter translated the words into English. I also enjoy Italian and

French. I think I am a frustrated linguist.

What languages do you speak? Which do you want to learn?

Buona Sera. Au Revoir . . .

Oh, the Irony of Karma.

2010-09-16T05:03:00.001-07:00

Breathing, breathing, breathing. Breathing is good, right? I tend to hyperventilate when I'm nervous. Can you tell I'm nervous? Am I babbling on-line? I think I am. Do you think I am? Anyway, I woke up this morning and went to my computer~just minding my own business and checking the email~when a message came out of the blue.

Back story time. I'm attending a writer's conference this weekend, you see, and there was a reminder for me from the master scheduler of the event. It was all very standard . . . Except for the bit about me having a pitch session with an agent! And Blair Hewes, no less. 1:30 p.m. Saturday. Whoa, whoa, whoa. Huh? Can you run that by me again?! I didn't sign up for a pitch session! (Look at me, going all italics on you. A clear indicator of stress.) Where did this appointment come from? I don't know.

Soooo~ what to do? However it happened, I am signed up to speak with a great agent. Do I have a book to pitch? Yes, I have two actually. And who am I to refuse a serendipitous gift?

Tell me what you would do.

Breathing, breathing, breathing.

Revision-Ninja

2010-09-14T06:53:00.000-07:00

Daniel Craig keeps giving me pep talks. Being my muse, he's very conscientious that way. His hair is spiky and he's barely half-awake. But that doesn't stop Dan! Get your mug of Red Zinger, he says. Forget the left-over lasagna in the fridge. Take out your red Sharpie and repeat to yourself--the difference between good writing and bad? Revision, revision, revision.

Thank you, Mr. Muse, for that timely reminder. Today, I will wield my pen like a wordsmithing warrior. I'll cut and add until this damn thing shines.

I am the Revision-Ninja! (If I say this enough, will it be true?)

Good luck on those revisions, bloggers. How are they going?

Pitch Imperfect

2010-09-13T10:55:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I was thinking of my first, in-person manuscript pitch. Sad, sad, sad, people.

It took place at a writing conference last year, and I paid $25.00 for a ten minute slot. I worried and worried about selling my story. I practiced in the mirror, meditated, and did good deeds for my neighbors hoping good karma would kick in. I visualized the pitch as a rare, perfect rose in a garden of daisies. (For the record, I like both roses and daisies equally. My preference was merely for effect.)

And? The big moment never happened.

I left my afternoon class at the conference and made a quick trip to the bathroom, mumbling a synopsis of my novel the entire time. Then, I arrived at the appointed pitch-spot. I quietly waited for the editor/industry insider and her current appointment to finish up. Hold on, I said to myself as I recognized the girl ahead of me. She had sat at my table at lunch a few hours earlier and pitched me her book the entire time. Didn't take a bite of the mediocre chicken salad, didn't ask anyone else about themselves. In fact, I'm not even sure I saw this woman breathe during the whole hour. Her detailed description led me through every nuance of her story, and although I found our conversation a little overwhelming, I had to give her some credit. She showed genuine enthusiasm for her work.

The scheduled time for my pitch came and went. It was uncomfortable waiting for the girl in the pitching chair to finish. One minute went by, and then two. Five minutes passed. I tried to make eye contact with the editor, but she kept looking at her watch and the floor. With 2 minutes to spare, my predecessor finally left, and I took the seat. The next writer was already waiting behind me for her turn. Nervous and slightly sick, I made eye contact with my literary lifeline and smiled. Then, I fit my entire story into 60 seconds. Obviously, since I'm still unpublished, it wasn't effective. Like I said, sad, sad, sad.

This debacle did teach me something. I learned that I need to grow a spine, and stand up for myself and my story. Nobody loves it like I do, and it's my job to pitch it well. Self-confidence. Awareness of my tale's unique qualities. Concise communication from my head to another's ear.

It'll come with time and practice. Just like every other good thing in life. To borrow and alter a phrase from AC/DC . . .

To those who are about to pitch, I salute you.

How have your pitches gone? Tell me about the agony and the ecstasy.

Dream State

2010-09-08T10:20:00.000-07:00

Had I the heaven' embroidered cloths,

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Of night and light and the half-light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams."

Aedh Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven by William Butler Yeats

I quoted this months ago, but here I am doing it again. I love, love, love it. Yeats gave his dreams and his heart to Maud Gonne, the woman for whom he wrote this poem. It was the best he had to offer.

Writers are certainly dreamers, and I'd like to think we put our hearts into our stories. Just like Yeats.

What are your dreams for your writing? I'd love to hear, blogging buddies.

If you haven't dropped by lovely Lola's blog, Sharp Pen/Dull Sword, please do so. It's definitely dreamy and one of the best blogs around.

I found this handsome man online in the Neiman Marcus suit shop. (I like to shop vicariously;) He reminds me of the bad-boy-lawyer-later-redeemed-by-love-protagonist in my women's fiction novel, Charm Bracelet. He's pretty dreamy, too, eh?

Eureka

2010-09-07T11:12:00.000-07:00

The past, present, and future all combine when you teach your child to drive. Time winds down for a moment and your perspective becomes clear. This young person that you've loved so well and so long is crossing the threshold toward adulthood and independence, just as you did. It isn't difficult to remember being his age and taking that first step.

Of course, every education costs something, and this one is no exception. With speed and traffic and teenage enthusiasm involved, driving instruction is not for the faint of heart. In a sense, it's ironic. You've held this child's future safely in your hands for years, and now, as he takes to the road, he holds yours. (Although I am not Catholic, each time I get in the car with my kid, I want to cross myself.) Not only do I see my life flash before my eyes, but his as well. I see the little person who watched me wide-eyed in the hospital the first night we met, I see the fine, responsible boy he is now, and the man he will become.

On Sunday, my sixteen-year-old son and I drove an hour through the desert back roads to the town of Eureka. It isn't easy getting there. The drive can be down right scary with its winding curves through steep sage covered mountains. Yet, we survived with little more than a nervous twitch by my right eye. Eureka is an old place that time has left alone. There are abandoned, pioneer-era store fronts which have charming historic details despite the broken windows. A post office, several churches, two schools, and little else complete this tiny mining town. My son and I loved visiting.

I could make many comparisons between the trip to Eureka and writing. The journey to the end of a good story often has many unexpected twists and turns. We sometimes wonder as writers if it's even worth the effort. Long or short, that period of futility or doubt is forgotten when we crest the hill and arrive at our destination. Once the process of writing a book is over and we've done it well, the reward is always worth the price.

The dictionary defines the word Eureka as "a cry of joy or satisfaction when one finds or discovers something valuable."

It's a good name, isn't it?

Procrastination

2010-09-04T20:02:00.000-07:00

Ah, quiet! The kids are at school, and for the first time in 16 years, I have six hours in a row all to myself. I will definitely revise that novel. Definitely.

But first, I think I'll mow the lawn. Our grass is too long, and it will only take a few minutes. I open the front door and walk around the house to the garage, only to see a newspaper on my driveway. I keep meaning to read that newspaper. I really enjoy feeling informed.

I'll just nip back inside and glance through it at the kitchen table. Pushing a place mat out of my way, I notice a cereal bowl near my elbow. My mother-senses are tingling! Rice Crispies and milk are drying in that bowl. Once that happens, the rice glues itself with near cement hardness to my ceramic ware, and it takes repeated soaking and scrubbing to remove it. No way can I read a paper with that happening. Not on my watch!

I get up and begin sluicing down the bowls and dishes like a maniac. After loading the dish washer, I return to the paper. My brain instantly reminds me of the pile of laundry in the basement. I'll just throw a load of towels in so they can be washing while I'm reading that darn paper.

On my way to the laundry room, I make a few beds and mentally note that it's bathroom clean-up day for the boys. I put the dirty stuff in the washer, dump the soap in and slam the machine door shut. Back on the main floor, the air feels stuffy and warm. It's going to be another hot one in an hour or two. I should go mow the lawn while it's relatively cool outside. I glance at the newspaper, at the computer just visible through the door of our home office.

I'll definitely revise my novel today . . . Or tomorrow.

Definitely.

Okay. Now you know I have the attention span of a border collie. But do you ever find yourself doing this sort of thing? Do you procrastinate, writing buddies?

New Eyes

2010-08-07T10:30:00.000-07:00

Happy summer, everybody!

So, I was weeding for hours in the hot sun the other day. My children and I call weeds "Wilburs." Let me tell you, these Wilburs were hiding among my dianthus and zinnias with James Bond-like stealth. Sneaky Wilburs are the worst! By the time I went inside to get a cold drink, I had spiders in my shirt. I don't know how they get there, but the daddy long legs always go for the shirt. (This is a joke in my family because it happens every time I go outside.) I also had a praying mantis on my shoulder. I turned and looked around and there the mantis was, staring me in the eye. I imagine we were both thinking the same thing, "Holy crap, what is that?!" I shimmied the insect off and it fell into the ceramic flower pot on my porch . . . (My kids tell me they haven't seen me move that fast since 1997.) *prolonged shudder* Obviously, I need to talk to my charming bug guy about spraying more around the planters.

Anyway, after the daddy long legs/praying mantis excitement, I went back out to weed. I proudly surveyed the area I had been working on. Not pretty, people. It had looked perfect to me before I took my break, and still, a few morning glory and milk weed stalks remained. They were so conspicuous. How did I miss them? Does this happen to you, readers? You think you've weeded out the bad things in your project only to find problems where you least expected them.

This applies to writing as well as gardens. Occasionally, you need to allow your work in progress to rest. Time away can definitely help you see your manuscript with new eyes.

Relax, blogging buddies. Enjoy doing something different for a while if you're weary. Your story will thank you for it.

Rejections Are Not Always Equal . . . . and Counting My Blessings

2010-07-27T16:06:00.000-07:00

Hey, blogging buddies. It's been too long. How are you all? Wearing your sunblock? I hope summer is treating you well. It's flying by for me. All is well in my life except for on the writing front. I can't say that I love it right now. Presently, it makes me kind of sad.

A few months ago, I sent a publisher my first three chapters. This company then asked for a full manuscript with very specific, glowing comments about how the acquisitions editor loved my story Charm Bracelet. Last week, I received a form letter rejection from them.

Don't think I'm new at receiving rejections.

No, I'm a well-seasoned rejection recipient. I received one just today, in fact. Yet that one didn't bother me. It came in response to

a query I sent to an agent over a year ago. They were just getting back to me. No biggie. I can handle that type of no.

The painful dismissal comes after unprecedented praise from someone who appears to love what you write and then, after consideration, decides it's not publishable. Ouch. I repeat, ouch. If you are in a discouraged place at this moment, blogger-friends, I'm with you in the trenches.

No, I'm not giving in. Or up. I'm just counting my blessings. I have other things in my life to cherish besides writing. Here is a short list of what brings me joy . . .

#1. My beautiful children. They are an endless source of happiness. Who could feel bad with them around?

#2 The early morning view from my deck. Whenever I see the sun come up, it makes me glad to be alive. I'm thankful for a new day, each day.

#3 I like that I can wear a faded baseball cap and an old pair of tennis shoes, and my husband still calls me gorgeous.

#4 I love flowers! I can spend hours in my yard and never grow bored. Gardening can be great therapy.

Of course, my list could go on indefinitely. I'm sure you have a long list of your own, dear readers. Let's continue to remind ourselves of the blessings we have while we reach for those dreams that are just beyond us.

What are you thankful for?

Sunshine and Faulkner

2010-07-08T08:59:00.000-07:00

There are no clouds above me, just an endless wash of blue. I close my eyelids and the steady July sunlight turns them yellow and then orange inside. There is the smell of coconuts and warm skin on the wind. I can hear my children doing their best to outwit our Slip 'N Slide. Old and patched, this strip of plastic seems to have a will of its own.

I feel a book resting against my chest, the dark leather warm beneath my hand. I smile because I have made a new friend. This book is special to me. I've gladly taken what it's offered.

I've heard mixed opinions on Faulkner. Some people loathe reading his work, claiming it's confusing and too much effort. I had read random snippets here and there, but I had never attempted a whole book. Until two days ago, and now I willingly have Faulkner addiction. Unlike chocolate, this won't add to my hips. Though it might to my brain.

Reading The Sound And The Fury was like a walk by faith. My perspective became clear after I'd proved myself, and eventually, the intricate puzzle fit together. My mind sparked and flared and came to life. I love Faulkner. I love his specific style of tagless, punctuation-free stream of consciousness mixed in with present moment action. He gave me a gift with his artistry and brilliance.

Don't you love that kind of discovery? What new literary friends have you made this summer?

Any new beach books as well? Writing instruction books? Do tell, blogging buddies.

I've just finished A Portrait Of The Artist As A Young Man by James Joyce. Interesting, surprisingly theological. But that's another post for another day.

Now back to sunbathing and sipping my diet Coke with lime . . .

Summer Havoc

2010-07-01T19:56:00.000-07:00

Yes, I am not dead. I am merely overwhelmed. And sleep deprived. Damn, but I miss the sweet assistance of the public school system in my life. Where is the drama-free order I once cherished? And what of the steely-eyed high school Assistant Principal? September through May, I didn't properly value his contribution to our overall family peace. Now that it's the first of July, he's looking kinda good to me. I miss that man.

Why, you ask? Is it the mustache? The strapping male physique? No, sorry, it's neither of those. His attraction lies in the fact that he can intimidate my teenagers into behaving themselves. And, quite frankly, I suck at that. I'm a marshmallow. I give out work assignments and my children look bemused, as though I'm speaking gibberish.

Is this sunny season unleashing chaos in your life, too, or is it just me? I'm the first to admit that I lose all sense of direction and purpose once the kids are free of school, outnumbered as I am six to one. I don't even pretend to set goals anymore because they'll never be realized.

Part of my problem is that I am caught between the exacting, grownup world my husband exists in and the shiny, devil-may-care, it's-summertime-and-I-can-stay-up-'til-the-cows-come-home realm my children inhabit.

The Dilemma: hubby wakes up at 5:00a.m./ kids stay up late.

The Result: I'm tired all the time. My brain hurts more than usual. I don't write as much as I should. And, really, who has the energy anyway?

I'm not seriously complaining. It's nice that my husband likes to talk to me and kiss me goodbye in the morning. It's also good to have my children at home. I just wish that sleep wasn't so necessary.

How is your summer going? Have you done anything fun or wonderful? Have you experienced some havoc yourself? Are you happy with your writing?

Cheers, blogging buddies! I've missed you guys.

Play It Again

2010-06-16T09:12:00.000-07:00

Hey, buddies. Today, I've put together a brief homage to some of my favorite movies. I know, I know, I'm supposed to be rewriting my second novel, The Second Life, but really, aren't movies more fun? I happen to think so. Especially, when my brain is tired, and I'd like to escape reality by taking a vicarious journey. To a world I'm not responsible for and didn't create, where I can bask in the glorious imagery and dialogue without worrying about punctuation and grammar.Ahh, Pride and Prejudice. Jane Austen was brilliant, and I enjoy any interpretation of this wonderful story. I swooned over the version with Colin Firth. I ask you, who doesn't swoon over Colin Firth in that movie? Especially when he emerges from the lake in his transparent poet's shirt. Great moment! However, my preference leans toward the 2005 rendering with Keira Knightley and Matthew Macfadyen. Love it, love it!
I like this photograph with Ms. Knightley as Elizabeth Bennet looking so wistful and pensive. Haven't you felt that way? As though your life was at a stand still and you were merely waiting for your future to unfold?
One of the highlights for me--Darcy walking toward Elizabeth in the pre-dawn light. He is rumpled and mussed with his unbuttoned shirt and hastily thrown on overcoat. No cravat, no tailored jacket, or societal propriety. This is so out of character for the very genteel Darcy, and it adds a sweet vulnerability and fervor to his part in this scene. Magic. Romance. You gotta love it.

Another fun escape. Casablanca. This movie is a classic for many reasons. It was filmed in 1942, and yet, over time, it translates so well for the modern viewer. The dialogue is always smart, sometimes funny, and often heartbreaking. And then there is Humphrey Bogart. I love his face and voice, and even when he's being bad, he's so good. The reluctant hero with a deep, conflicted soul. Every time I watch this movie, I wish I could make the ending happy for Rick Blaine.

My father said that he saw Ingrid Bergman when she performed a reading from Joan of Arc for the US troups during WWII. Dad wasn't exactly the gushing type, but he described Ms. Bergman with reverence, saying she was a "natural beauty" and "luminous." She certainly is gorgeous in Casablanca, and a remarkable actress as well, I might add.

Well, there you have it, bloggers-extraordinaire. I hope you enjoyed this little tribute. Now, what are some of your favorites? Why do you like the movies you like?

Awesome Is As Awesome Does

2010-06-09T09:47:00.000-07:00

Happy Wednesday!

How is everyone? I am working in my garden today and folding the Mt. Everest of laundry teetering in my basement. Too bad Rex-the-fish is no longer around to keep me company. :( What are you up to?

Besides blogging.

Speaking of which, have you seen Carol Valdez Miller's *long, drawn out drum roll with pencils on desk* First Vlog? I intentionally put that in capitals and italics. It's hilarious! Loved it. I need a mask like hers to go with my cloak of doom. Check this vlog out, people. Carol's Prints you rock. I could never do something that cool.

I always enjoy reading your posts, blogging buddies. You make me laugh, teach me things, allow me to be a part of your friendly circle. A blog is awesome because of what the blogger does with it, right? Hence the title of this post--Awesome Is As Awesome Does. Now, for scientific research, and just because I'm curious, I'd like you to tell me what draws you to a certain blog--why do you love it, how does the blogger capture your attention, what special tricks do they use?

Share, brilliant buddies, I'm all ears.

I Have A Modest Muse

2010-06-08T10:45:00.001-07:00

My muse Daniel Craig is sitting in his chair by the window again. It's nice to hear him grumble about my poor work ethic once more. Last night, Dan and I were glancing through my Facebook page when we saw the Daily Dose of Daniel segment. (The shirtless photo makes him uncomfortable!) Anyway, we watched a short film he did a while back called The Cello. Very interesting movie. Well done, Dan! Oh, now he's blushing. He's actually quite modest, believe it or not.

Here's my question, blogger buddies. How do you handle praise? Do you become uncomfortable as Dan did? Or do you bask in it, hoping for more? I'm not so much a basker actually. I like hit-and-run encouragement.

I think it's funny that we, as writers, want so much to share our dreams and stories. Compulsively, we hold out our hearts and say, "Here, have a little piece of me." Yet, we are often shy when people read our work and like it.

Perhaps, you think differently. What are your thoughts, friends?

And may I say, I'm so happy to be reading blogs again. I've really missed you all.

Dan wanted me to share these writing quotes--he also wants me to fetch his cup of tea, so off I go.

"It is by sitting down to write every morning that one becomes a writer."-Gerald Brenan

"The best cure for writer's block is . . . to write." -Henriette Anne Klauser

Oh, Dan. It's a good thing you're humble and beautiful because you can be such a slave driver.

Don't Light Yourself On Fire

2010-05-22T19:43:00.000-07:00

I have just sewn a really elaborate night gown. Actually, it's supposed to be my costume for the Cinderella and I production I'm in next week, but it still looks like a fancy full-length slip you'd sleep in. The dress is made of a shimmery Wedgwood-blue satin and white lace, and I have bedazzled it with sequins, rhinestones, and pearls. I can hardly wait to take off the embellishments and put it in my lingerie drawer. Really. I'm doing that after it's served it's purpose.

The main thing I need to remember during this foray in the theatre is not to turn my wand the wrong way. This prop really sparks. As in incendiary, hot sparks. I shoot it twice. Once at the beginning of the performance and once at the end. I know I will be muttering the entire time, "Don't light yourself on fire! Don't light yourself on fire!" Good advice, no?

Oh, and the silver cloak! I should instead call it Satan's cloak of doom. This thing was impossible to make. It's pattern could confuse Einstein. It was like rocket science but for costumes. My mom and I worked on it for two days straight, and I just noticed that the gathers on the hood are ungathering again. The cloak hates me. After the performance, I am wearing this thing everywhere. It will be like Halloween at my house. I will make breakfast in the cloak. I will make excuses to go to Renaissance fairs. I will send the kids off to school in it, and I will pretend that I am Galadriel. "Don't lose the ring, Frodo!" I'll call. "Watch your hair, Legolas."

*Deep yoga breathing* Okay, I'm alright now. I just get a little crazy about the cloak of doom. Anyway, after next week, I will lovingly embrace my normal chores. All this stretching out of my comfort zone leaves me frazzled.

I am pretty excited-- no, more cautiously optimistic--about a full manuscript request, I just received. It came from a local publisher, nothing national, but I will be polishing my manuscript and sending it in.

I hope you are all having an awesome weekend. Don't sew--unless you enjoy it-- and get some fresh air, if you can. Eat chocolate. Laugh. Take a long walk. Listen to music. Play a board game. Read and write. In short, make yourselves happy, blogging buddies.

Time Management

2010-05-19T05:46:00.000-07:00

Hi, Everybody. How are you all? I survived the LUW Spring Workshop without having a nervous breakdown. Barely. It did go well enough, I suppose, but I think I'll let some other lucky person do the honors next year. The highlights of the event had to be Dan Wells, Elana Johnson, and Clint Johnson. They each gave awesomesauce a whole new meaning.

Now, if I can just survive playing the role of the Fairy Godmother in a local production of Cinderella and I. Odds on my survival are only fair, however. (So, if you never hear from me again after next Tuesday, let me tell you how incredible I think you are!) While trying to find a white wig, a blue dress and a silver cape, I'm seriously getting a nervous tic. (We've already established the fact I'm not a performer.) Anyway, I'll let you know wether my reviews are merely mediocre or completely disastrous.

How do you find the time to do all you do, blogger buddies? I know you are each terribly busy balancing your daily responsibilities with your desire to create and write. Here is a brief overview of my last six weeks: Easter, three of my kids birthdays, my birthday, my 17th wedding anniversary, Mother's Day, two week stomach flu, and doing tons of stuff for the writer's workshop. This is not a normal schedule for me. April and May are always overwhelming months. And maybe December. But the rest of my year is completely boring. I spend most of my days doing housework with a couple hours of driving carpool thrown in to spice things up.

Ah, here's the rub, blogger buddies. When do I write? My kids hate it when I'm in my office during the day. They go to great lengths to disturb me. My husband hates my writing at night. In those odd moments when nobody's around, I am often too tired to focus on the computer, and I almost get a phobia about sitting at my desk. Don't make me go into the dark room, I say to myself. I don't want to use my brain again. It hurts!

I'm sure you are far more organized than I am. Please, tell me your secrets for daily writing success. How do you do it? Do you have a laptop? Should I get one? Do you set writing goals? Is the key to making progress on your WIP tenacity or discipline? (Wow. That's a whole lotta big questions.)

Have a great Wednesday, writer friends.

Be Like That

2010-05-12T07:18:00.000-07:00

All I ever wanted was to be an opera singer. Between the ages of 10 thru 25, I was consumed with this desire. I took bel canto lessons and practiced hours and hours each day. During high school, I earned honor credits with the musical training I received off campus and I went to college, on scholarship, in hopes of earning a vocal performance degree.

As an adolescent, I would shut myself in our family room, crank up the stereo, turn off the lights, sit on the naugahyde sofa, close my eyes, and listen. Just imagine the allegro con brio from Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. Or Chopin's Heroic Polonaise in A flat major. Tears on my cheeks, I wanted to absorb the music into my soul. I heard passion, hope, sorrow, and triumph. I wanted to sing like that.

Dreams don't always mesh with reality, however. I wasn't Beethoven or Chopin. I loved to sing, but I absolutely loathed performing. I enjoyed learning arias in French, Italian, and German, but I hated doing recitals. I had natural talent and a good ear, but my musicianship wasn't great. In short, the future I had hoped for during the first half of my life changed. In my junior year of college, I switched my major to English Literature. Why? Because I loved books as much as I did music. The Romantics, Victorians and Transcendentalists especially.

Now Robert Browning's ghost almost whispers, "Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp. Or what's a heaven for?"

Have you ever heard a piece of music or seen a painting or photograph and then wanted to capture it in writing?

P.S. Is it just me or does Beethoven look a little like Simon Cowell?

A Toast On My Birthday

2010-05-11T07:43:00.000-07:00

I can't believe I'm this old. Really, it's true. My laugh lines have laugh lines. Yesterday, a door-to-door pest control salesman dropped by my house and told me I didn't look old enough to have teenagers. You can bet your sweet checkbook I signed up! Obviously, the man was a blatant flatterer, but I didn't care. He made me happy. My husband laughed aloud and then covered his mouth with his hand as I related this experience to him. I mean, was that necessary? And on my birthday, no less? Maybe Hubby should take some lessons from the bug guy.

In all honesty, I look back over all these years I've been given with gratitude. I'm so happy I'm not the timid girl I once was. I'm thankful for the personal growth which I've garnered over time. Big life lessons are universal in nature, I believe. Falling in love, becoming a parent, learning a skill, making a friend, rendering service, finding beauty in simple things, living one day at a time. These are ordinary, yet remarkable, experiences. They make life full and rewarding.

I still feel green and unschooled inside. I have not yet hit my prime. What would I wish for if I were blowing out my candles right now? I'd wish for another year and another after that and another still. I lift my water-beaded glass of Diet Coke with Lime and make a toast, on this, my day.

May our lives, and ourselves, become what we want them to be, and may we all have joy in the journey.

Cheers!

Supposing today was your birthday. What would you wish for?

Rainstorms

2010-05-10T16:03:00.000-07:00

So, I was doing the dishes this afternoon. I do not like doing dishes. Especially cookie sheets. Don't ask me why, but they are beyond obnoxious to me. Maybe it stems from my childhood. Perhaps, in some far corner of my sub-conscious, I have a repressed memory of touching a hot cookie sheet at the age of three. Or it could be that a neighbor threatened to whack me with a cookie sheet for cutting across his lawn. I really have no idea. All I know is that I abhor washing them. I do it though because, as we all know, sheets happen.And then it began to rain. It was a deluge. I expected to see Gene Kelly and his umbrella at any moment. (Born and raised in Oregon, I love the rain.) I opened the window above my kitchen sink and reveled in the sounds of liquid sunshine. I automatically felt better, all safe and cozy, as I finished my work. I completely forgot about hating the cookie sheets.
I watched the storm move across the valley, thunder and lightning playing tag in the hills. It was an awesome display and like the grand finale of a fourth of July spectacular, the storm was over too soon.
The horizon was scrubbed clean, and the air smelled of sage and pine. Life seemed better, more beautiful, than before.

During the rainstorm, I was distracted from my dislike of doing dishes by something lovely. Lately, I have dreaded writing almost as much as the cookie sheets. What do you do to distract yourself from tasks you don't like? How do you stay motivated?

Poetry Nerd Alert! Part II

2010-05-08T07:08:00.000-07:00

My muse Daniel Craig and I have selected two of our favorite poems. Well, of course Dan loves poetry! Poetry cuts to the core, evoking images and filling the reader with emotion while using very few words. I hope you enjoy this sample of brilliance.

Disclaimer: please forgive any inconsistencies with the font and spacing. My blog is doing all sorts of weird things today. It is possessed, I swear.

Now, I present to you The Match by Swinburne

If love were what the rose is,
And I were like the leaf,

Our lives would grow together

In sad or singing weather,

Blown fields or flowerful closes,

Green pleasure or gray grief;

If love were what the rose is,

And I were like the leaf.

If I were what the words are,

And love were like the tune,

With double sound and single

Delight our lips would mingle,

With kisses glad as birds are

That get sweet rain at noon;

If I were what the words are,

And love were like the tune.

If you were life, my darling,

And I your love were death,

We’d shine and snow together

Ere March made sweet the weather

With daffodil and starling

And hours of fruitful breath;

If you were life, my darling,

And I your love were death.

If you were thrall to sorrow,

And I were page to joy,

We’d play for lives and seasons

With loving looks and treasons

And tears of night and morrow

And laughs of maid and boy;

If you were thrall to sorrow,

And I were page to joy.

If you were queen of pleasure,

And I were king of pain,

We’d hunt down love together,

Pluck out his flying-feather,

And teach his feet a measure,

And find his mouth a rein;

If you were queen of pleasure,

And I were king of pain.

Okay, Mr. Swinburne. You are totally awesome, and I have a big literary crush on you.

Dan just reminded me that I can't forget Walt Whitman. I chose to share a small portion of O Captain! My Captain!

O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;

The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:

But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead. . .

Whitman, American poet laureate of his day, wrote that poem for Abraham Lincoln, and it is perfection.

Thank you, blogging buddies, for reading through this post. Great poems like these taught me to love words as a child. Today, they inspire me to write fiction, and with my limited skill, to take common language and refashion it into something new and bright. As Frost would say, we writers take "the road less travelled" and indeed, that makes "all the difference."
Do you like poetry? Who are your favorite poets?

Teachers

2010-05-04T08:43:00.000-07:00

In the 5th grade, I wrote a play about Queen Elizabeth and Mary, Queen of Scots. My elementary school teacher believed in my writing ability enough to have my class act out this amateur attempt at historical drama. Inspired by Mrs. Boughton's faith in me, I continued writing.

At Lincoln High School, I was a shy, anxiety-ridden adolescent. Miss Moyes was my English teacher. She often called on me to read aloud in class -- a special hell for a wall flower who wanted only to go unnoticed. Miss Moyes gently bullied me into joining the school speech team. This organization promoted competitive speaking, or forensics, with meets throughout the Oregon region. The teenagers who participated in this mental blood sport generally wanted to be attorneys or CEOs, and the first time I spoke, I threw up in the bathroom afterward. But like a bolt from the blue, I found I had a talent for writing speeches, and this helped me come out of my shell and express myself. Frankly, I learned to kick some ass on the speech team.

Mrs. White was just as influential in her quiet, supportive way. I always felt safe in her class room. We were a tight little bunch of creative writers, and Mrs. W. was our protective mother hen.

A few years ago, I took a continuing education class from Sharon Jarvis. I had just finished my first women's fiction novel, and I had no idea what I was doing. Book writing was completely new to me. Under Sharon's tutelage, I learned that my story was completely wrong. I'm not kidding. If there was a mistake you could make, it was in there. I needed this instruction. Badly. It made me look at writing with new eyes and gain a fresh passion for the craft. Sharon Jarvis, you saved my bacon.

I owe each of these teachers a great debt. They helped me at the precise moment I needed help. I doubt these women will ever know the full ramifications of their kindness. God bless the dedicated teacher.

Too Scary For Me

2010-05-03T07:42:00.000-07:00

I had a bad dream last night. This is a rare occurrence for me. Almost akin to a Sasquatch sighting. I don't usually remember dreams the next morning, but this one I did. It was in the steampunk style actually, and I was held captive in an old Victorian house with a crazed killer. Let me add that I am not a person who enjoys scary books or movies. I relive the frightening moments when I am alone and vulnerable, and though I don't like doing this, I can't seem to help myself.

In my dream, I was trying to protect a group of children. We ran for our lives down a long hallway, and when we finally reached the room ahead, I locked the door behind us. I helped the children out a ground floor window just as the killer began breaking through the wood paneling of the door.

I didn't care for the way the dream was heading so my conscious mind stepped in. I said to myself, "To hell with this," and a shotgun appeared in my hands. This special steampunk weapon had an endless supply of bullets, and the evil villain was vanquished. Needless to say, the children and I survived the terrible ordeal!

This ridiculous experience made me think of writing. Do you ever find your WIP taking weird twists and turns you don't like? Do you read over your previous days work only to realize that you screwed up the plot, dialogue, or character development somewhere?

My question to you. Do you step in, like I did in my dream, and go back and change things then and there? Or do you continue writing, knowing you can fix things at the revision stage?

First draft editing is taboo, I know, but again, I just can't seem to help myself. What about you?

The Easter Orchid

2010-05-01T06:40:00.001-07:00

He collapsed outside the Tokyo embassy on a business trip and died a short time later. We learn this from a phone call during dinner. I shut myself in the bathroom and look at my face in the mirror. There are no tears, but my hands feel like ice, as though death has brushed up against me with the passing of my father.

His casket sits in our living room the night before his burial. He doesn't look like the man I knew, the man who gave me a penny to sing him a song while he shaved in the morning. But his hair is the same, it still has the salt and pepper curls I remember.

He would have enjoyed his funeral. We Irish-Germans know how to throw a party, and we send him out in style. It's the least we can do for a man who had such a big existence.

The weeks crawl by, and soon it will be Easter.

Our family believes in tradition. To us, every holiday is special. Easter time means a corsage for my mother, and since my father isn't here to buy it, the job falls to me. No one tells me I have to do this, but I feel the responsibility just the same. My father didn't have life insurance, and it took all my mother's savings just to fly his body home from Japan. Now we can't afford to heat our house. Instead, we turn on the oven in the kitchen to keep one small room warm. I know our situation is desperate, but I take the money I saved from picking strawberries and mowing lawns last summer. I go to the nicest florist in our town to find an orchid. It is large, the size of a salad plate, and flawless white. As I look at it, I know I've picked the right one. Just the kind my father would select.

I take it home and hide it in the back of the refrigerator behind the milk. I do my chores for a few hours, but I worry. What if my mother discovers her Easter gift before I give it to her? I go back to the kitchen and move the corsage around, trying to conceal it with ketchup and pickles, but the clear plastic florist box is too big. I think of a better hiding spot, a place my mother would never look.

I go to the basement and put the corsage in the old freezer. I run back upstairs and begin cleaning the bathrooms. Hours later, after all my work is done, I feel happy. I'm excited about the next morning, and while my mother is cooking dinner, I slip downstairs. I take the orchid out of the freezer. It's covered with delicate ice crystals and as I look at it, the flower turns from white to black. I panic. I know nothing at all about corsages, but it's obvious that I've ruined this one. I have a few dollars in my wallet, but it's too late to go to the store. I've let my mother down. She won't have anything this Easter.

I sit on the steps and weep as though my heart is broken, as though my father is lost again. It's here that she finds me. She takes the box from my hands and looks inside.

"Thank you, " she says, pinning the corsage to her t-shirt. "I love it."

I lift my head, face wet. Her eyes are glittering and there's a slight twitch at the corner of her mouth. She doesn't say I'm stupid for putting a hothouse flower in the icebox. She doesn't lecture me for wasting the precious money.

"It was beautiful, I can tell," my mother whispers, touching the orchid. "No one could ask for a better gift on Easter."

In that moment, on the dusty basement stairs, I learn my first lesson about love. I learn that it doesn't come with conditions or restrictions. Love looks deep into the heart and lodges there instead of bouncing off the surface. It is overwhelming and generous and forgiving.

My mother smiles at me and I smile back at her, and I know that together we'll be all right.

Critique Group? Check!

2010-04-30T07:04:00.000-07:00

I have been busy over the last few days feverishly working for the League of Utah Writers. (Doesn't the organization sound like a group of super heros who happen to write? Unfortunately, this cool image is ruined when I envision myself in spandex and tights. So not a flattering wardrobe choice!) Sorry. Back to the topic. I am the chairperson responsible for the LUW annual Spring Workshop. This is going to be an awesome event, and I have no idea how I was able to land so many incredible authors to present at this function. If you know any of these people, please don't tell them how nerdy I am!

Here is our lineup:

Clint Johnson (Green Dragon Codex) - Clint is teaching an intense two hour block. It's called The Triple Threat and involves extensive writing exercises within small, separate groups.

Dan Wells (I Am Not A Serial Killer) - Oh, Dan's book is brilliantly creepy! It is in its 5th printing in Germany and has just been released in the states. We are lucky to have Dan join us. His Seven Points writing presentation is amazing, smart, and so darn funny.

Elana Johnson of Author Elana Johnson blogdom and Querytracker fame is coming to instruct us on the art of the query letter. Undeniably, Elana is the queen of the queries. I've heard great things about her class, and I can't wait to attend this one!

Ben Behunin (Discovering Isaac: The Beloved Potter of Niederbipp) is sharing his successful journey to publication. Ben's books have the most amazing, intricate graphics, and he is bringing Bert Compton, graphic artist extraordinaire, to tell us the story behind his work on those books.

Angela Eschler and Melissa Dalton of Eschler Editing are also taking Q&A on the publishing industry and marketing strategy.

What a day! And since I'm in charge and I like bakeries, the patisserie box lunches look delectable. If you live in Utah and are interested in attending, let me know. We still have twelve seats available.

Okay. Enough shameless advertising and self-promotion!

I want to know about your critique groups. How many are in your group and how often do you meet? Where do you gather? How do you conduct your meetings? Do you do writing exercises? Do you take turns leading a discussion? Do you read excerpts from your WIP? Are you productive?

Man, that's a whole lotta questions. But this inquiring mind wants to know! My critique group is awesome. There are five of us who live within a thirty mile radius of each other, and we meet at the Barnes and Noble in a nearby town. We love our B&N. We love the books and magazines, of course. Then there's also the Starbuck's aroma and the chocolate chip scones and the vanilla bean/caramel ice cream drinks. Mmmm, being in our critique group is wicked good. We go over our WIPs, discuss the problems in our stories and find their solutions together, and then we talk. We excel at this last part. It is always a fun time on critique group night.

Perhaps a little too much fun. At one point, a critique group member made a slightly racy comment about steamy phone conversations with her husband, and the man at the next cafe table, who had been leaning our way and listening, dropped his book on the floor. He had given up reading long before to eavesdrop.

Actually, the cafe is often distracting so we usually sit on fold out chairs in the corner by the foreign language section. How do you stay on task, buddies? Do you set goals together? Do you read from writing books? How do you critique group?

Hmmm. Maybe we could form a League of Blogging Critique Groups . . . As long as I can wear a mask and a cape, I'm in! What do you think?

Call Me, Errr, Bubba?

2010-04-27T14:49:00.000-07:00

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet."

So Shakespeare's Juliet says, but I can't say that I agree with her. Take the first immortal line of Melville's Moby Dick, "Call me Ishmael." We're involved with this character right away. Why? Ishmael is in dire straights, it's true, but it doesn't hurt that he has an interesting name.

And what of The Three Musketeers? If Alexandre Dumas had used the names Art, Phil, Bert, and Abner instead of D'Artagnan, Porthos, Aramis, and Athos, would we be as intrigued with his story? I don't think so. Dumas chose wisely. His musketeers sound strong, mysterious and noble. They enhance the musketeer legend without doing a thing. Art, Phil, Bert, and Abner do not. They'd fit in nicely on an episode of The Office, however.

It's a lot of responsibility choosing a name. Yet, the success of your work may depend on it. Have you ever found yourself irritated by a main character's name when you're reading a book? When the monikers are too trendy, it drives me crazy and distracts me from the dialogue, plot, etc. I find myself changing their names in my head as I go. No writer should put their reading audience through that. Here's what I mean by trendy. What if we used the currently popular Addison and Burke for two legendary lovers? They sound like a law firm or a handbag, for heaven's sake! I can't get past their labels to see the story. Oh, and I don't want to imagine I'm someone named after a food or a town or tree either. And please, don't do the funny spellings. It messes with my concentration.

Think of the stories that stay with us over time. Wuthering Heights . . . We are haunted by this dark tale of obsession and romance. Thank you Emily Bronte for giving us Heathcliff and Catherine instead of Lulu and Mortimer. Jane Eyre . . . Jane and Rochester are perfection. Hortense and Reginald wouldn't be.

'What's in a name?' Much.

I know whereof I speak on this. I have been saddled with my own name for over four decades. (Let me tell you, the elementary and teenage years were not easy.) It doesn't matter that I was called after two remarkable women among my progenitors of over a hundred and sixty years ago. That fact bears little weight now. Today, I know more pets named Roxy than I do people.

Tell me, gentle readers, now that I've finished my rant. How do you decide what to call your characters?

Revising Tips And Miscellaneous

2010-04-26T06:59:00.000-07:00

Good Monday! Wow, it's nice to be back among the living. I have written a brief poem to the stomach flu. It goes like this, "To the Flu, sent from those without luck. We hate you. You suck." Okay that was bad. True maybe, but bad.

As you can tell, my entire weekend revolved around taking care of sick people and being sick myself. I have gained a whole new appreciation for cleaning products. Lysol, Windex, Comet with bleach, Scrubbing Bubbles, Tide and laundry softener sheets. Ahhh, I love them with a passion. Since scrubbing my house from top to bottom, I think we're now relatively safe from any flu relapses. Thank you, Johnson Company!

While engaged in my feverish battle against germs, I thought about writing. Revision helps us clean house, so to speak. De-clutter. It gives us the opportunity to throw out the bad and improve the good in our writing. This can be an unpleasant experience, if we allow it, and yet, it can be invigorating, too. If we learn to appreciate this stage of storytelling and find the right tools to assist us along the way. I'm slow at revising, but I am discovering new things about my characters and plot along the way. This process has opened my eyes and given me a fresh perspective. Thank you, delete and save buttons!

What is your favorite method of revising? Do you have any tips for the rest of us?

P.S. This is the miscellaneous section of the post. Have you heard of Webook? If you want to test the metal of your first page, you should give it a try or at least check it out. Use your Google powers on this, blogging buddies.

I want to have a blogfest sometime soon. (After my blogger tutorials, of course. I need to learn how to apply Mr. Linky . . .) I was thinking of highlighting dialogue. Maybe a "Damn. That Was Good Dialogue!" Blogfest. What do you think? Would you prefer something else? Voice your opinion, people!