Creative Arts Anonymous

Finding One's Muse

2012-01-26T04:22:00.000-08:00

While living in Kansas, I participated several times in a 24-Hour Play Festival, the equivalent of a short-term writing sprint. People signed up for various activities--tech, acting, directing (6), and writing (6). I did tech once, but the other times I wrote one of the plays.

The premise is simple: At 8 p.m., all of the participants come to the theatre with one costume and one prop. The participants get up one by one and present their items, and the actors also tell anything they can do--accents, sword fighting, double-jointedness, etc.

Once that is done, the actors, techies, and directors go home to bed, while the playwrights "draft" their actors for their play (usually they end up with 4-5 actors). Using their group of actors, along with the costumes and props brought in that night, the playwrights have from about midnight to 6 a.m. to write a ten-minute play. They have a few readers who stay up with them to read and offer feedback (so that the plays are at least a bit revised and polished before 6 a.m.), and then they head home to sleep all day.

Copies of the plays are made, and by 7 a.m. the directors come, read all the plays, and then fight over who gets to direct each one. At 8 the actors and techies show up, and from that point until an 8 p.m. performance, they rehearse the play, find costumes, learn lines, and prepare for a full production of each play.

Pretty fun stuff!! Exhausting, but fun. It's also a learning experience, and it helped me realize how much I depend on PEOPLE for my inspiration. I never had a clue what my play would be until after my actors were cast. Sometimes a prop gave me a little something, but it was usually the actors themselves. No, it was ALWAYS the actors.

And I have muses in real life, too. One woman in particular in Kansas ended up in several of my plays--she was the perfect protagonist--vulnerable, kind, intelligent, sensitive. She was also an actor, and a good one, so she often ended up in the very role designed for her. She was Othello's wife in my play Desdemona, and was absolutely perfect for it.

Now I have another muse here in Georgia, a 72-year-old teenager who has more energy in a single strand of hair than most people accumulate in a year. I've already written a play with her in mind, and I will likely write more. Then again, most characters in my plays and novels are melded images of a dozen different people, some from decades ago. And they all have just a touch of me, as well (even the villains).

So, who is your muse? What or who inspires you to do the work you do? Who shapes your world?

The Goddess Insomnia

2012-01-24T23:31:00.000-08:00

Hypnos (the god of sleep) has denied me some of my needed sleep for months, so much so that when he does send his brother Morpheus to me, Morpheus knows he only has so much time to give me dreams, so he rushes through them, turning them all to panic.

I rarely cannot get to sleep. I do too much Zumba for that to happen. This used to be my main source of insomnia, for I would fret and fret about all the stuff I still had not done, and I would lie awake for hours. I've solved that problem with my little book of lists, which I create before I go to bed, jotting down any task remaining (sweep floors, call school, doctor's appointment at 10, etc.).

Not to be outmaneuvered, my body has discovered it can still avoid sleep if it wakes me up fretting at 2 a.m. Darn it!

I can read for an hour or two and probably go back to sleep eventually, but it won't be the same. I still need to get up early with the kiddos to get them to school. Often I can sleep until 4 or 5, and then I can survive the day with little diminishment of my energy level. It's just kind of irritating.

In the meantime, before my body figures out the sun ain't coming up anytime soon, I'm working on my novel. It's nice and quiet right now. Good time to write.

What do you do when you can't sleep? How does the goddess Insomnia visit you?

(Actually, this can't be her name, not unless she's a Roman god. The Roman version of Hypnos is Somnia, god of sleep. Still, I like the title, and I think that will turn into at least a line of my novel--if not the title of something besides a blog entry some day).

Verse Thursday--"The Eve of St. Agnes"

2012-01-19T18:45:00.000-08:00

St. Agnes' Eve - Ah, bitter chill it was!

Tomorrow is the fateful day--St. Agnes' Eve--the day when young women, observing certain rights, can gain a glimpse of their future husband. John Keats, one of my favorite poets EVER, immortalized this day for me by writing one of the most beautiful poems in the English language using this tradition. His tale of star-crossed lovers still gets to me twenty-five years after I first read it.

These let us wish away,
And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there,
Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day,
On love, and wing'd St. Agnes' saintly care,
As she had heard old dames full many times declare.

They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve,
Young virgins might have visions of delight,
And soft adorings from their loves receive
Upon the honey'd middle of the night,
If ceremonies due they did aright;
As, supperless to bed they must retire,
And couch supine their beauties, lily white;
Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require
Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire.

Is it myth? I can't say for certain, but I do know that my first date with the hubby was on January 19, many, many years ago.

It was not a good date. He almost didn't ask me out again, actually, and I thought he was pretty quiet. But the next evening, with thoughts of Keats' poem in my head, I opened my blinds so that the full moon could pour its light into my room, I ate without speaking to anyone (not hard in a family of seven kids), went to bed early, and dreamed of my future husband. Yup, I was working at a store counter in my dream, and there he was, tall dark and handsome (as he still is after 22 years), with the golden sunlight casting him in shadow there in front of me.

A simple dream--just us talking softly over the counter--but it was definitely him. The next morning, on January 21, St. Agnes' Day, I remember pondering over the little dream, wondering why I dreamed of him, since the date had not been all that spectacular. Madeline, the girl in the poem, is shocked for a different reason when she awakes, for she was dreaming of her love Porphyro, but when she sees him at her bedside, he looks so different:

"Ah, Porphyro!" said she, "but even now
Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear,
Made tuneable with every sweetest vow;
And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear:
How chang'd thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear!
Give me that voice again, my Porphyro,
Those looks immortal, those complainings dear!
Oh leave me not in this eternal woe,
For if thy diest, my Love, I know not where to go."

And Porphyro goes to her, "like a throbbing star." No, really. And I wish I knew how Keats had written the poem originally, since editors made him clean it up a bit for readers. Even in its current form it's pretty, um, appealing.

Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far
At these voluptuous accents, he arose
Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing star
Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose;
Into her dream he melted, as the rose
Blendeth its odour with the violet,--

The hubby and I found more poetry, too. We had another date a week later--January 26. This time, wrapped in a blanket outside to watch clouds drift over the waning moon, we both found our world tilted in beautiful new ways. As I reread Keats' poem, I cannot help but see the young versions of us here. My parents didn't approve of us, but we've still made it through all these years, and my feelings are even deeper than they used to be. We were the Romeo and Juliet who made it, who found courage and devotion could make more drastic measures unnecessary.

Like Porphyro and Madeline, we just moved on together, making a life for each other:

And they are gone: aye, ages long ago
These lovers fled away into the storm.

Keats wrote no poem about the world they created together somewhere else. I don't need it, though. The hubby and I have made that world all on our own.

(Excerpts courtesy of Poetry Online)

Seeking Sunday

2012-01-15T05:45:00.000-08:00

Many of you, my dear readers, do not find Sunday to be a day that far out of the ordinary. I know this. I can't say I really do, either, except that on this day I nearly always spend the morning at church. I've had a long struggle with the world on this, not because I would love to "Tebow" on the sidelines and don't get the chance, but because I am uncomfortable with this level of show. My personal journey with the spirit is unlike everyone else's, and it is not furthered when I posture for cameras. I am not a leader of faith, and I do not believe anyone's life would truly benefit if I orated about God from a pulpit, including me.

This is why I have truly enjoyed reading a book recently:

I requested the book from Thomas Nelson directly, and I received it free, but this book is one reason why I continue to seek, to pray, and to see my spiritual development in this world as necessary to my overall personal development. So many texts dealing with Christianity emphasize appalling things: standing up to sinners so they know they are sinners, condemning groups that don't fit the Christian "ideal," attacking other religions (including other Christian sects/denominations), amassing wealth, or otherwise suggesting activities and thought processes that I find decidedly unspiritual.

This book is so different from that standard. Leonard Sweet, through gentle metaphor and perceptive use of the bible, is urging us to stop all that nonsense. Rather than attacking the world with religion, filled with our own superiority or purity, Sweet does all he can to pull us back to the spirit. We are no better than others. If we feel the need to "lead others to redemption," it is because we seek our own satisfaction, not God's. Instead of leading, instead of feeling as if we know all the answers and are obligated to show these answers to everyone, we need to set ourselves among the world, not as leaders, but as members of a whole wonderful group of followers, all trying to live life as beautifully as we can.

I would love to criticize the book for not giving us specific things we could do to ensure we are following as we should, for the book's metaphors get the ideas across in a more theoretical way, and might not really reach the general public without more kinesthetic examples. Then again, I'm not sure this book is for just anyone. In a way, it seems to be intended for the very "leaders" who are not doing what it suggests. However, I think followers of all ages could learn from this. I know I have. Besides, as Sweet says, following a specific set of precepts he proscribes would be no different than going through the motions at church, as we do now. What he urges instead is that we back off, listen, and act as the spirit moves us, always seeking reconciliation, showing love and mercy, not judging or excluding (just as the bible says Jesus did in his own life).

This book has reminded me that I am a seeker--that I will always be a seeker--for my entire journey through life is a process of becoming more understanding of others, more thoughtful, more receptive to the movements of the Way in my life. I just finished the book, but I will likely return to it again, often, as my journey continues.

All this rethinking reminds me of recent events, with the news frenzy surrounding Tim Tebow. I cast no doubt about his character or his devotion to his faith. I commend him for that. But I don't think bending down and praying to God after a football victory is "following." His visits to hospitals, yes. His humanitarian activities, yes. Sweet put it this way (though he was not speaking of Tebow in particular, I am sure):

Followers of Jesus are not [sic] supposed to be identified by ritual practice even while we continue Jesus' mission of caressing the world. We are not to showboat our religious identity or grandstand the gospel or parade our praying. In fact, Jesus exposed puffballs of piety and punctured the vanities of the upright and the uptight. "When you fast," he cautioned, "wash your face, so that it will not be obvious to others that you are fasting." And "when you pray, do not ... pray standing in the synagogues and on the street corners to be seen by others."

Can I blame Tebow? Nope. How do I know that this blog entry isn't my own form of posturing for the masses? Tebow is on his journey, and I am on mine. All I know for certain is that his methods are not mine, and they cannot be if I am to follow my own path truly.

The Importance of Praise

2012-01-14T04:09:00.000-08:00

"Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me."

Sure. Right. I can delude myself into thinking what people say doesn't matter, but it does. Thankfully, it doesn't matter much to me. I'm the Queen of Rejection, the Master of Being Passed Over. I even like the sound of that, so I think I'll keep that title.

I do like praise, though. I can push through insults, grit my teeth against a storm of criticism and just keep on going. I'm tough and thick-skinned. But when somebody says something nice, I get all mushy inside.

Consider this comment, from one of my fellow contributors to the up-coming Death by Chocolate anthology, who edited my story:

I’m not going to be much help to you, Cheryl –I adore the story as it is. I think your writing is gorgeous! I’m crazy about the character names and the village setting. (I have a thing for historical fiction.) It was actually difficult to critique because I got sucked into the story. I’m getting so excited about our anthology! Have you published any novels or plan to self-pub? I’d love to read your books and I’m not just saying that to be a nice author friend. I love your writing style!

Even better, this author's work was AWESOME--a great story!--so her praise means more to me. And asking about other stuff I've written was icing on the cake. Unfortunately, I haven't published any e-books. (Darn!)

Another writer, who has read my first novel (which I'm currently querying out to agents), has been e-mailing me about my fourth novel, set in the Caribbean, literally, since it's about a siren. Yesterday, she told me:

I am desperate to read your mermaid story. Can I beta read or have you got that all done?

*sigh* She actually used the word "desperate"! Can you think of anything more invigorating? Of course, I haven't even revised the rough draft for this novel, and it's really terrible at this point, so she'll have to wait to read it... but isn't that an awesome comment?!? Even now I'm grinning.

More important, I'm writing. I'm taking the whole day to work on my Thomas novel (Novel #1), to get it ready for the ABNA contest (which I'll blog on soon). And now I have one more reason to get to work on my mermaid novel--and that means revising #3 first. Will I actually get three novels totally revised this year? Who knows? These little bits of praise, scattered here and there and reaching me at the best times, keep me hopeful. And they keep me writing (which is even more important).

Is there someone you can praise? Someone who needs a boost? You never know what magic your comments might work in the lives of someone else.

Fun Friday

2012-01-06T06:11:00.000-08:00

My list of things to do is staggering today. Almost as staggering as it was yesterday.

But it's Friday, so once I've done the absolute have-tos, I'm going to have some fun. Every single Friday will be this way: Get the crap checked off the list--the laundry started, the dishes washed, the errands run--and spend the afternoon at the piano, watch a movie, snuggle up to a good book, or paint on my most recent fairy. I'll post pics of her by Tuesday. I'm taking a pic of her this morning, then another when she's finished, so that you can see the difference.

I've noticed over the past year that my blog tends to be either poetry or blogging about writing, and I've been neglecting the other arts in my world as much as I've been neglecting them in my real life. But not any more. Time is passing, and I'm missing out on the play in my life, the fun stuff, the activities that feed my passion to create beautiful things.

But no more. I make no resolution to blog every day. I don't have the time, and I'm far more interested in substance than quantity. However, I plan to blog on lots of different stuff now, including my art, music, sewing, etc. I have a tentative weekly schedule for this, but I'll let you guess what it is (today's should be obvious from the title above). Just know that on any given day you might find something new, and if you don't like it, just check back later.

So, since it's Fun Friday, what fun plans do you have? If you don't have any fun plans, shouldn't you?

Which Way the Wind Blows

2012-01-01T06:28:00.000-08:00

The world says now's the time
To plan
But plans
Are limiting
Or far too broad

Write a list of
Resolutions
And you might find
Your resolve falters with the
Coming days and
Months

Instead
Resolve only to listen to the
Way the wind blows
The direction
It takes

And follow

Assessment

2011-12-19T03:38:00.000-08:00

I used to hate this word. In the academic world, at least to college teachers, it means an examination of what we do to see how effectively (or ineffectively) it furthers a student's learning and development. And it's hard to gauge, complicated, and sometimes makes us a bit defensive. (What do you mean my students knew less at the end of the semester than at the beginning?)

With a short article from Writer's Digest, however, I have realized that it's way past time for a self-assessment of my writing habits. WAY past time. I've known so many writers who have very particular habits--a certain place to write, certain snacks, the best time of the day to write, etc.

My habits have always been pretty specific, too:

1. I write reclined in my wingback chair, laptop on my, well, lap.

2. I tackle a short online game before I start writing, to clear my head.

3. I write only during the day, not in the evening (unless I'm up at 2 a.m.).

4. I sit on my books for months, working on other projects until I finally get back to them.

5. I work on only one project at a time.

6. I put my writing last, after dishes, laundry, cleaning out the cat box, decorating for Christmas, cooking dinner--okay, pretty much everything. (I'm a bit like Cinderella, telling myself I can write IF I get all my work done, and IF I find a suitable dress to wear...)

So, what's wrong with all this, besides the obvious travesty in #6?

It isn't that anything is wrong. But the WD article suggested looking at my habits carefully to see how well they work, honing those I want to keep, and tossing or changing the ones that inhibit my productivity. And since I'm planning on signing up to be a school substitute in January, I have some definite reassessing to do.

Here are the questions I need to ask myself before then:

1. Is reclining the best way to tackle this? What about sitting at my writing desk, or even standing (it's better for circulation, and I've done it a little recently, with good results). Don't my legs start cramping if I write more than an hour at a time? Might another position help me be more productive AND healthier?

2. How much does online gaming get in the way of writing? Should I restrict my games to the fast ones? Doesn't Dragon Mahjong, for instance, sometimes delay me for half an hour, since I want to play until I actually win a game? How much time every day do I waste on this crap?

3. WHY do I only write during the day? So that I can stare at the football my husband is watching? Is television ever worth it, besides Grimm and Once Upon a Time? I already know the answer to this. I find most television mind-numbing or outright irritating... so why not write while the hubby is getting his TV fix? What is it I'm sacrificing my time for?

4. How effective is it to sit on my books for so long? What's the ideal time for stepping back to gain perspective? This one might be the most effective habit for me as it stands, actually. I reread my Death By Chocolate story, attempting to revise it, but it seems as if 1 1/2 months is not enough time for me to gain perspective. I added some detail, yes, but I didn't make the substantial changes to it that are probably needed. Lucy (hopefully) will see the holes and be honest enough to slash through them without mercy. I find that time is absolutely necessary for me, or I end up with three revisions of a work that don't even add up to a good edit. I know most writers are different from me in this, but it doesn't matter. I have to make sure that what I do works best for me.

5. I am too scatter-brained to work on two novels simultaneously, but my gut feeling with this work-on-only-one-project-at-a-time mentality isn't helping me be productive. I so want to finish a project that I slog through it even when it's utter crap, when it might serve me better to switch to something that could work better. Then again, I know two many friends who have five unfinished novels. This one might just have to stay as is. I have to think it through--perhaps try out a new habit or two--and experiment to see what works best.

6. Putting my writing at the bottom of my TO-DO list absolutely must change. Self-sacrifice cuts into my creativity more than everything else, and I need to at least fit in writing a little bit every single day. I've had "rewrite query" on my TO-DO list for two weeks now, and I know that today it won't happen. Will it happen tomorrow? I need to figure out why I believe my writing activity is not worth my time, and I need to find a way to show myself that it isn't a waste, that it deserves my devotion (and I deserve the time to write).

Wow, this entry turned out really long, and it probably bored the snot out of you, but if I can put these questions to myself, I might end up with a more productive 2012 than I would have otherwise... and maybe I'll be on a truer path to establishing my career as a writer.

So, what about all of you? Any habits you have that need a bit of assessment?

Sitting on the Back Burner

2011-12-17T04:23:00.000-08:00

Image: Michelle Meiklejohn / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

How many burners does your stovetop have? Four? Five? Ten? Does it have one of those warming ones, a place where you can't boil water, but you can keep something edible for a while?

My physical stovetop only has four (though I used to have five), but I feel as if my own personal stovetop has about fifty of them--or perhaps I have some casseroles in the oven, as well, all baking at different levels of completion.

Ever burn anything on that stovetop? It's a bit easier to do if you have all your burners going full blast, but a bit of maintenance can let you know something's about to boil over, and you can turn down the heat or turn it off completely. I do find, though, that it's hard to make everything cook at the same time without turning something to charcoal or forgetting to turn on a burner at all.

This is where I stand right now. After the rush of NaNoWriMo, I've been shuffling around different projects, including actually finishing the novel I set out to write in November. That rough draft is now done, but I have several shorter things screaming at me, and I find this blog and my other have been neglected because of my time on writing and art projects and on holiday obligations apart from my writing (including a birthday party for my daughter, about ten holiday parties, a children's musical I just finished directing, Zumba classes, end of school activities for my kids, presents, stockings, baking, cleaning, do I actually need to go on with all the other items, or do you see what I mean already?).

In fact, these poor blogs haven't been on the back burner. They've been set on the countertop for days, and now they're growing that creepy white mold in fuzzy spots. Inedible. I need to toss out the crap inside and start over.

That is precisely what I intend to do. I'll be posting soon to let all of you know my plans. My Not Writing blog will be dealing with writing, marketing, evil voices, etc., but I will be working on a more consistent post schedule for it (to go with a more consistent marketing and writing schedule) and my Creative Arts Anonymous blog will be revamped to include far more of the creative arts, from painting to music to theatre. I might even throw in a bit of cooking and other artistic pursuits.

I hope you stay tuned. I'll be back here before you know it, once I've dumped out that moldy mess, washed and sanitized the pans, polished them until they are shiny, and placed them on the burners again. Hopefully I'll remember to stir them enough so that nothing burns on the bottom!

In the meantime, how are your recipes going? Any dish get finished? Did it taste good? Burn anything? Got some mold growing in your pans? I'd love to feel I'm not alone in this... but I think this feeling's pretty common for this time of year. While I'm planning, if you have any suggestions, feel free to post them.

More soon, I promise!

Other People's Opinions

2011-12-04T04:36:00.001-08:00

Imagine this: You go to your closet, and instead of your regular clothing, the most fantastic clothing ever awaits you. For me, it would be some authentic period costume--probably post-Restoration England--the male or female dress--both are beautiful to me... something sumptuous, something you've always thought of wearing. Please don't imagine my costume, since most of you won't find it particularly appealing. Besides, it's my costume, not yours!

You put it on. You feel fantastic, newly made, as if suddenly the real you is pulled out into the open, shimmering in a way you normally don't.

Image: photostock / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Now imagine you are at a huge party, surrounded by people you know--ordinary people you know, wearing ordinary clothing, not the kind of stuff on your own body. You stand out immediately. They stare. Their eyebrows wrinkle up a bit. They lean in towards each other, mumbling words of suspicion, questions, comments like, "Why is he/she wearing that?"

It's similar to the dreams most of us have had of being in public either in pajamas or in the buff. And most of us find it disconcerting at least--or downright mortifying. But is it? What is it that makes us respond so negatively to this situation?

It's the physical representation of what most of us fear every single day: that people will see the truth of who we are and will judge us for it. We each remember moments in our lives when people have judged us. I've been called all sorts of things, and even though many of the names given to me over the years revealed far more about the people who judged me, I still find I hold onto these judgments as if they are valid. But why?

Because I fear something else: that my own view of myself is so skewed that these people are more right than I am. How have I prevented testing this theory? How have I managed to hold onto my own opinion? By hiding. If I don't show my true self--if I don't put on the costume that really suits me and sport it in front of everyone--no one will be able to know the real me, or judge me for it.

But I have come to realize that when I hide, I tell myself to be ashamed of who I am. I devalue myself, not because other people devalue me, but because I assume they will. I don't even try to show who I am, so certain (or fearful) am I that who I really am isn't worth anything but a good scoffing.

Imagine this scenario instead. You are dressed as who you truly are, with your own personal shimmer now physically undeniable, and as people surround you, they do talk, they do lean in towards each other to ask questions, but then they move toward you, eyes teary, their lips soft and smiling. "Where did you find that fantastic outfit?" one finally asks.

"I made it myself," you answer.

And it's true. All these years, you have been working on this costume of yours--it fits you like a glove, shows off your best features, and emphasizes the who you are in beautiful asymmetry. Okay, so a few of the seams aren't perfect, and the trim is a little goofy on one sleeve. So what? It's still cool, and it's still you.

So, why not wear it? Why hide the garment in your closet? What good will it do hidden? Sure, you can open the door and stare at it happily once in a while, but that's it.

Go on, then. You know what to do. Stop hiding. Put it on. No more fear.

I won! I won! I WON!!!

2011-11-30T20:28:00.001-08:00

It went down to the wire... as suspenseful as my novel (at least I hope my novel is this suspenseful)... but I did it! I won! I reached 50,000 words in a month!

Woo hoo! Yippee! Hurray! OMG, I am so happy!

Hope your November was as (ultimately) productive! And here's looking forward to December!

Now to finish the novel...

The Best Laid Plans... or... I HATE WAITING

2011-11-22T17:20:00.001-08:00

I tend to be VERY easy going. It's the Piscean in me, willing to flow along with what everyone is doing, as long as it's not attending a live football game with a bunch of rabid football fans. Okay, so I've been to my share of live football games with rabid fans, too.

I do, however, make plans, and even with my easygoing nature, a falter in plans often makes me irritated. I had planned a trip to a museum in Tallahassee for weeks--and it was to happen today. My kids were out of school, I wasn't teaching a zumba class anywhere, and the Titanic exhibit was still there. We'd have breakfast, take off for the museum district, and have a grand time.

Only it didn't work out. First, my poor kitty has a swelled lip--I'm not sure the cause, nor is the vet, but he's given us antibiotics to treat it, and now kitty should be fine. But it also means I spent the morning at the vet. I also had to call animal control, for when I looked up in the attic for the cat carrier, I instead found a glowing pair of eyes waiting for me. That took up the rest of the morning... and we still haven't found what was up there.

My poor kitty has been battling fleas, too--so I called my bug service. The only time they can come in and do a flea treatment? Today, in the early afternoon. I still held out hope, though. If they came right at one, we could leave shortly afterwards... and we'd still have a good 2 1/2 hours to explore the museum before it closed.

Only the pest control still hasn't come.

So now I wait, NOT going to this museum, NOT getting anything done that I actually WISH to do. (Okay, so I do like blogging... but it's not the same thing, not today). My kids are trying to make the best of it, but they are also disappointed. And not I'm in the last minute of the hour range the pest control person is supposed to arrive... but no one has come. I'll have to call again and see why they aren't here. And if they can't come, the hubby will have to spend another night picking the cat's fleas off his own ankles.

The next time I can go will be winter break--but Titanic will be long gone. I am utterly devastated thinking about it.

What should I do now? What do you do when your plans are thwarted?

NaNoWriMo Lesson #1: Stats Induce Panic

2011-11-14T01:52:00.001-08:00

Free Digital Photos.net

So far, the writing for NaNoWriMo is going very well. I've managed at least 2,000 words per day (beginning on the 6th, when I was finally able to begin work), and I'm meeting my personal goals for this.

Even better, I really like my story. The main character is fervent, passionate, and rebellious--all things I am on the inside, even if they exhibit themselves very little on the outside. And her love interest, well, he's blisteringly handsome and as passionate about his purpose in life as she is. Did I tell you she was a mermaid? And he was a British ship's captain? And that all of this was occurring in the Caribbean during the mid-1830's? Yup, costumes, fighting, underwater stuff--it's all there.

Each day, as I finish the necessary 2,000+ words, I enter my new number diligently in the NaNoWriMo website. And there is my problem. I click on my Novel Stats, and there I get a glimpse of my progress through their meters. Sure, I'm doing fine, but the meters don't take into account my late start. After the first day or so, I was projected to finish the novel on February 14th. February 14th!! Aack!

Of course, the day after that took it to January something... and now I'm supposed to finish on December 6. And my little chart shows my word count slowly moving up to meet the line of expectation. I know, logically, why I haven't met it yet. I do. I swear I do.

I just can't quell the gut check I feel every time I see I'm not there yet, that panicky lurch in my stomach when I realize it's HALFWAY THROUGH NOVEMBER and I'M NOT HALFWAY THROUGH MY BOOK! EEK!

Why are my expectations so unreasonable?

Then again, I noticed my Municipal Liaison (the person who helps coordinate all us Georgia people who don't fit into any metropolitan area) has already written OVER 50,000 words. I congratulated him, and he replied, "I just need to finish the darn story now! That's my trouble every year."Even the successful ones--who have reached 50,000 words before the midpoint of the month, mind you--seem to expect more out of themselves.

Perhaps that's not so bad. I still ADORE writing the book. Sometimes it's been tricky fitting it into my day of chores (Damn you, laundry! Dishes again?), but I'd rather write on my novel than do pretty much anything else (Zumba excepted). And lofty goals help--without them, I wouldn't have a single novel written.

What about you? Goals? Expectations? Or do you just fly by the seat of your pants, living in the moment?

Even Numbers

2011-11-05T17:52:00.001-07:00

I must just hate the traditional 1,667 words per day that come up for NaNoWriMo, for I've put off writing the novel for five days just so that I can finish this other short story.

But it's done, just in time for my daily word count (to be a winner) to add up to an even 2,000 words per day.

Thank God. If there's a number I hate, it's 1,667.

Now I'm off to outline, without having an unfinished short story hanging over my head.

Three Cups... A Review

2011-11-04T06:51:00.000-07:00

My kids started earning an allowance a few years ago, and at the time I tried to have them set some money aside for savings. I didn't know what I was doing, and I've made some modifications since then, but I'm likely to modify further now that I've read Tony Townsley's Three Cups, a book I received for free from the publisher.

It's a children's book, meant to be read to children (or for children to read on their own, I suppose), but what the book does is begin the conversation about what we should do with our money. Kids with new sources of "income" will be eager to spend every last penny of what they get, and if that's what they do, they will continue that pattern for the rest of their lives. This book sets up the groundwork for doing more with what one has, in a simple, tangible way, by putting the money into three cups, and not just one.

The cover's simplicity gives away the system (this was from the Amazon webpage):

When children get their allowance, they divide their earnings into three cups. They give some money away (charity, church, good causes), save some, and then spend the rest (or collect more in their spend cups so that they can save up for something bigger and more expensive). It's simple, yes, but the strength of the book is that it isn't bossy at all. It doesn't dictate a particular percentage go in any given cup (that's presumably for parents to decide), but what it does do is show the positive effects brought about by each cup. Saving means that the children have some security in the future (adults could learn from this), giving money to causes makes other less fortunate people happy (and makes us feel warm inside), and earning money to spend also brings joy.

It's almost too bad we don't have an equivalent book for adults... but if we read it to our kids, perhaps we can learn from it, as well. In any case, it's time for me to dig through my cups and find the six I will use on my two children... to encourage good habits at an early age.

What are your spending habits, readers? Do you do all three? I don't do enough of the giving and saving... but that can change.

Warning: I'm About to be Very Lame

2011-10-30T06:12:00.000-07:00

NaNoWriMo is imminent. Yup, in just a day and a half I'm disappearing off the blogosphere.

You might wonder, in a few weeks, if I've disappeared off the face of the planet. Or died.

I haven't. Do not worry. I'm going to have to ignore most of you, though, for I know if I have an hour to check blogs and make comments, I need to use that precious hour to make my word count for the day. I only managed half my goal last year, so I really want to make it this time.

So, adieu for now. Love you all, really, but I'll probably be MIA until I put my tree up for Christmas. If I post, it will likely be a NaNo poem, rapidly written and brief. I've even written a poetic lament for it on my Not Writing blog

If YOU are participating this year, though, please let me know in the comments. Tell me your name through the NaNoWriMo website, and I'll buddy you! I'm Shakespeare824, and right now I only have two buddies, so I could use a few more.

Go Big

2011-10-29T05:46:00.000-07:00

No need to fear
What others think
Others do not matter

When goosebumps cover
The skin on your arms
And a shiver runs down your back
And the hair on your neck
Stands
Up
You know you are alive

Be alive
Not afraid
And you will pave the way for others.

New Blog--Death By Chocolate

2011-10-25T04:07:00.000-07:00

I can't believe I've posted on yet another blog. If I keep doing this I'll end up with seventy-five by Christmas. A bunch of fellow writers and I are creating an anthology entitled Death by Chocolate, so we've started a blog for it. Feel free to check it out!

Today I posted all about titles... especially about how horrifying my own titles are (and I don't mean horrifying in the sense that they fit the slasher film genre I write in... more like they are so AWFUL I wonder whether I'm a writer at all).

Feel free to visit and let me know what you think.

Weeeee!

2011-10-24T02:08:00.000-07:00

Courtesy of Free Extras

The little pig had it right.

I dare you to try it. While you're stuck in traffic, or doing laundry, or washing toilets, or sitting in front of a towering IN-box at work, just do it. Say, "Weeeeee!" Say it again. If your kids are still sleeping (as mine are), you might not want to say it just yet. If you're in a staff meeting, you might also consider waiting until you get out. Someone might think you've lost your senses.

But try it. Go ahead. I swear, it works. I do it running errands, on the way to take my kids to school, during the most mundane of tasks (anyone for cleaning out the litter box?). The transformation is immediate and undeniable. My whole attitude shifts, and what was just a crappy chore becomes something far more tolerable (even fun). Suddenly the drive to school becomes a roller coaster ride. Cleaning out the fridge becomes an epic adventure (the exclamation sounds weird refracting off fridge walls). Reading a boring book becomes more interesting.

Don't believe me? Try it. I dare you. I double dare you. I double dog dare you with sugar and a cherry on top! (Is that how you say it? I've never double dog dared anybody before.)

Anyway, TRY it. Think of it as my counterpart to Whitman's "barbaric yawp." And once you've actually tried it (don't just be critical without giving it a shot), let me know what it did.

The Capacity for Stupid

2011-10-23T05:50:00.000-07:00

The idealist in me would love to believe humans are high up in the intelligence chain. I'd love to see the world as enlightened, see our journey through life as one where we start out perceptive as children and learn so much as adults that we see the world truly by the time we meet our end.

My fiction--both the stuff I write and the stuff I love to read--is infused with this hope, that people can learn from mistakes, rise above their limitations, discover the world is more complex than they once believed, grow, and even teach each other so that the world as a whole is a better, more intelligent place.

But then, with a shock, I come back to reality. Honestly, all I need is a few sound bites from political candidates or potential voters, religious zealots or raving lunatics, who all seem to love news cameras, to realize that all people are not on the journey towards enlightenment.

Unfortunately, it gets worse and hits me closer to home. I woke this morning to find my children watching Fred 2: Night of the Living Fred and I cannot help but wonder who my children will be as adults. Right now, it seems their capacity for stupid things is unquenchable. They adored the first Fred movie. ADORED it. I found it so stupid it was unwatchable. And they loved it.

Will their capacity for stupid increase? Will they become one of the willfully ignorant, spewing utter nonsense because they have lost the ability to reason? Or will they grow out of their delight in the ridiculous and find logic a better companion? Will they ever be able to evaluate the world properly, or will they wallow in the inane? Certainly, most adult programming on television serves the tastes for stupid. Watch most reality TV and you'll see stupidity at work in nearly all of it. It's almost enough to lose hope.

All I can do is look back to my own childhood. With humility, I remind myself how addicted my siblings and I were to "Popeye" cartoons, and "Scooby-Doo," and "Smurfs." Somehow I turned out fine. I'm not sure how it happened, but it did, and I can only hope and pray that my children make the same leap, fulfilling my hopes for a world where at least some people can move beyond the stupid and embrace the intelligent.

What did you love as kids? Am I panicking over nothing? Are my children doomed? (Okay, don't answer that last question... since it's none of your business.) Really, what do you think?

Poem for Autumn

2011-10-21T02:50:00.000-07:00

The sun too dim
Rising too late in the morning
To warm our skin anymore

Wind
Picks up our hair
Whipping it against our cheeks
Freezing into our ears
Tossing leaves
Into a hiss

Is it all over?
Will we ever feel the heat of the world again?

Yes

But now is the time
To glow
To burn with our own fire
No longer depend on the earth to warm us
But to warm the earth

To let the heat within
Rise
Shine
To warm the world for others
Who too much feel the cold.

Queries have been SENT!!!

2011-10-18T06:28:00.000-07:00

Hurray! After much nail biting, query (and novel) revising, and sleepless nights, I have finally sent off my first sent of queries to agents.

Why is taking that step so difficult?

Any insight, readers?

Breaking Out the Old To-Do List

2011-10-14T18:36:00.000-07:00

It's time.

Time to stop procrastinating over editing this stupid query letter and get to it.

Time to finish all the prep for Halloween, so that all is ready.

Time to make a list for the weekend, one that I'll stick to:

~~1. Revise Query Letter~~
2. ~~Cut out~~ and make my daughter's costume for Halloween (Almost done)
~~3. Find gift for a 1-year-old, and attend her party~~
~~4. Practice new Zumba routines~~
~~5. Attend church~~
~~6. Finish cleaning house and sweep and vacuum~~
~~7. Draft children's story about crayon.~~
8. Draft death by chocolate story.
~~9. Sketch scene for cover art (to be painted next week).~~
10. ~~Write and revise one-page synopsis for agent queries.~~

That's it. I think it's the shortest list I've ever had for a weekend. Not daunting at all. Highly manageable. I've made the list, and now I have to hold myself to it.

Now to get to it. First thing tomorrow. I don't do evenings.

Put it off
Until your head has rested
Only after dreams
Have sifted through your
Sleeping mind

Only then will
All the world
Bend
To meet your
Fondest
Desires

Anna Dressed in Blood--The BEST Titles

2011-10-13T04:01:00.000-07:00

A good title can make or break a good book. Hell, I bet a good title can get even an awful book sold. Gone are the days when it's customary to use just a person's name as a title--like David Copperfield, Silas Marner, or Tom Jones (all great books, by the way). Then again, a well-known name can make a difference, such as with Davinci Code, and many books sell just because of the author's name.

But when a great title is joined to a great book cover (something that wasn't possible until the 20th century), then magic happens. Even better when that great book cover--title and all--goes with a really, really good book. Check this cover and title out:

This is not required review, either. I won this book on a blogsite, and the author sent it to me herself with no strings attached, but I wish I'd paid for it. In fact, I might just be buying some more copies of it to give people for Christmas. The title is both poetic and creepy, and the cover! Wow, if I could only have a cover that good for my novel when it's published. It's embossed, too, so I spent the first hour just rubbing all over it gleefully (something one cannot do with an e-book, I'm afraid), goosebumps rising on my arms in anticipation. I kept thinking, if the book inside is even half as good as the cover, I'm going to enjoy this!

I shouldn't have set myself up for disappointment, I know. But I couldn't help it, with such a cover. I opened the book with fear, ready to be devastated by a poor plot, bad writing, or lame characters.

What did I find? An ORIGINAL premise (and when does that ever happen?), fascinating characters, and a great plot. I read like a teenager obsessed, staying up late as if I had the fifth book of the Harry Potter series in my sweaty hands, and thoroughly enjoyed it. In fact, as soon as I'm finished reading my current book, I'm reading it again. Can't tell you the last time that has happened.

Great book. Great title. Great cover. If you like upper YA literature and paranormal events, this book's for you. There's a bit of language and a bit more violence, but I'd probably still let my daughter read it when she's fifteen. In fact, I might just get her a copy now in hardback, so that in a few years she can rub all over the embossed cover and thoroughly enjoy the experience of reading a good book.

Now to work on my own titles... and start planning a cover! Ah, the goosebumps!

I'm a Writer

2011-10-09T11:33:00.000-07:00

My daughter was drawing--as she ALWAYS is, whenever I'm not on her case to do her homework, clean her room, or practice her flute--and my son wandered over to share her art supplies and do a bit of his own.

"I love to draw," she said. Then, eager to one-up my son, she said, "You don't love to draw, though. You're not an artist like me."

My son didn't correct her. He said, casually, "No, that's because I'm a writer."

I was stunned. Here he was, seven year of age, and he already felt he could call himself a writer.

I'm 41, yet even though I've published a doctorate and a book of ghost stories, have had a handful of my own plays performed, and have worked on writing nearly my entire life, I still have great difficulty calling myself a writer.

But this is the end of it. No more. My mantra is final: I am a writer.

I'm a writer. I write. I go a bit nutty when I don't write. I LOVE writing.

I've been working hard on writing lately, too. I completed my list of agents for The Ghost Portal, and I'm days away from beginning my revision of my third novel. I've read through two fellow writers' novels over that last week, I've planned out a children's book, and I'm waffling between participating in NaNoWriMo or PiBoIdMo--though I'm leaning towards doing BOTH.

Why? Because I'm a writer. I'm a writer, I'm a writer, I'm a writer.

I'm a writer. A real, bona fide writer. How about you?

Apocalypse

2011-10-03T10:10:00.000-07:00

Ever notice how nothing pretty ever happens in the future? Robots take over the world. Some disease wipes out everybody--or maybe World War III does it, or an asteroid, or a bunch of trash, or too much shopping--as if all the ills of the world as we know it now are multiplied in their use and extremity until we're either mostly destroyed or living lives of desperation.

Yet so many novels seem to look forward to this time, too. Armageddon. The surreal point in time when all the stuff from Revelations--stuff that can be only cryptically analyzed, at best--starts falling into place, showing us that THE END IS NEAR.

We've got another one of those dates coming up. But a whole league of novels have sought to depict the end of days, some with more clarity and success than others.

I can't say I'm a fan of this kind of books, in general. I love books with a spiritual or religious element--I was a big fan of Ben-Hur and The Ten Commandments as a child, and I still gravitate to mythic literature--but I've found it difficult to accept the plausibility of most fictional works depicting the apocalypse. Am I a skeptic? Probably.

When I received my copy of Lis Wiehl's Waking Hours in the mail--for free, from Thomas Nelson publishers--I actually didn't know what to expect. I am not a typical thriller reader, but I love the paranormal, and mysteries often captivate me. The book was certainly exciting to read. Good characters--especially Dani and Tommy, who were both complex and sympathetic--interesting events, a chilling murder and a bunch of suspects, and I finished it at record speed. I literally kept talking myself into reading the next chapter, for the chapter breaks usually held enough suspense that I didn't want to stop.

Some of the paranormal elements were truly creepy, too. And I've researched creepy stuff before, but a few events really chilled me. Medieval literature has several of the elements Wiehl uses, adding to the authenticity, and the way some of the plot elements were discovered made them even creepier. It was a good read, a really good read.

Only the apocryphal bent to it--one that will be fleshed out further in the two future books of the East Salem Trilogy--didn't quite work for me. Perhaps it's my own skepticism, but so many things can be used at any point in history to point to Armageddon that I had a hard time seeing some of these events as unique. The Christian emphasis worked better, and yet even for readers who aren't particularly religious, these elements are not too obtrusive to be distracting. Overall, a very good book. I would definitely read the next book in the series.

What apocalypse have you seen depicted best? What's the worst version you've read or seen? (I'd have to say the film Armageddon is my least favorite. Awful, awful movie.)

Talent Schmalent

2011-10-02T03:05:00.000-07:00

Talent is overrated. And offensive. Nothing is more irritating than someone who has talent and believes, because of that innate ability, that he or she has nothing left to learn. (Often, too, people who are devoid of talent do not know it, and yet still refuse to learn. Blech.)

Okay, perhaps one thing is more irritating than a lazy talented person: it's a person who believes they don't have talent, and uses that as an excuse to do nothing.

Think you don't have talent? Do you read books and say, "Oh, man, I don't write nearly this well!" I say screw talent. Yup. Forget about it. Just keep working. Keep writing. Have other people give you feedback and learn from it. Practice, practice, practice, and then practice some more. As long as you feel you have something still to learn, you haven't stopped growing.

Find what you are good at and hone it. You may not have the same level of innate ability as somebody else. So what? Work harder, try harder, revise, learn, grow. Whatever your talent, you will improve. Your writing (or painting, or singing, or other activity) will get better. Might not happen quickly, but it will happen.

Don't give up.

And if you think you're bursting with talent, don't think for a second that doesn't mean you don't need to work. Stop wallowing in your own hubris and get to work. Use your talents, or what are they good for?

Now get to work, all of you.

[Steps off soapbox.] (I stole this method from Rocket Scientist. She does this a lot, and I like it.)

A Children's Book Opportunity

2011-09-30T03:04:00.000-07:00

I found this tip yesterday on a great blog called Confessions, and since I'm about to write a picture book this weekend (AND attend a writing conference, no less), I am so excited!

I can only liken it to the Amazon.com Breakthrough Novel contest, which will occur in the spring, only this time it's specifically for picture books. The contest is sponsored by MeeGenius, and it looks like a good chance to get some feedback on a picture book, and (for a few of the luckiest or most skilled) a chance to get the book published. No need for illustrations, though if you intend to illustrate the book yourself, they will give you that option when you make it to a later round.

Got a picture book itching at you? You have until November 1 to turn it in! (That means you can polish it all up, submit it, and STILL be ready for NaNoWriMo! Yippee!)

So excited! Must go write now!

A Purple Crayon in My Ear

2011-09-28T03:40:00.000-07:00

The title got you hear, didn't it? Titles tend to do that. My favorite titleist is Tawna Fenske, who blogs with titles such as "My cat is a filthy pervert," "I don't know my brother's name," and most recently "The boys who live with me and pull my hair."

And this one is the title of my new book, a children's book. The inspiration for it, as you probably guess if you know me at all, is my 7-year-old son.

Oh, you won't believe the plans I had yesterday--the "I'm-going-to-get-everything-on-my-list-done" plans. I was already doing pretty well, too. I dropped off the kids at their schools, and had managed to buy ALL my groceries for the week in less than an hour, when my husband called my cell.

First clue something was up. Nobody calls my cell. But he did. His opening? "I'd tell you 'You're not going to believe this,' but we both know our son."

Crap. "What happened?" Seems my son is in the nurse's office, with a blue crayon in his ear. The pointy end of a blue crayon. Without even stopping to drop off the frozen foods, I head to his school.

Nurse #1 (yes, there will be more than one): "I took tweezers and tried to get at it, but it's too far in there."

Me: "Great." Then I turn to my son. "How did it get in there?"

Son: "How should I know?"

Excuse me?

Anyway, I call the doctor's office, then call my Zumba place and cancel the morning session. We get to the doctor's office.

Nurse #2: "A crayon, huh? How did it get in there?" My son does not detect her smile, but I do.

Son: "Some kids must have been playing with crayons, and one must have just flown into my ear." He acts amazed. Future actor, my son.

Nurse #2: "Oh, other kids, huh?" Wink. "You just stick to that story, okay?"

My son nods, and soon we are meeting with the doctor. A new doctor. First time he's ever seen my son, and my son has a crayon embedded in his ear.

Doctor #1 (Yes, there will be two of those, too.): "How long has the crayon been in his ear?"

Me: (After a glance at my son, who shrugs.) "I have no idea." Days? Weeks? Since birth?

Doctor #1: "How did it get in there?"

Son: "Some kids were sword fighting with crayons, and the tip of one broke off and flew right in my ear."

Doctor #1: "Huh."

Me: "You know, you're not in trouble. You don't have to lie."

Son: "I'm not lying!"

The doctor tries a fancy kind of ear tweezers, but can't get the crayon out. So, it's off to the ear, nose, and throat specialist, my son still maintaining his innocence throughout the hour-long drive in the car.

Nurse #3: "How'd the crayon get in your ear?"

Son: "I have NO idea! It's a mystery!"

I roll my eyes. I've been dealing with this for the last seven hours, and I've about had it. But we're taken into an office to wait, AGAIN. The ENT comes in, already grinning. He's seen this a million times before. Kids are in and out of his office all day, with popcorn kernels, beads, even sprouting bean seeds in their ears and nostrils.

Doctor #2: "How'd the crayon get in there?"

Son: "I put it there. I stuck the crayon in my ear, and it broke."

I have no idea what magic the doctor has pulled to make the truth happen. Maybe my son recognizes his BS won't fly here. But there it is, the truth. Then it's the doctor's turn to lie.

Doctor #2: "Lay your head that way. Let me just look here for a minute, so I can figure out how to get the thing out." Son lies quiet, while the doctor slips a metal loopy thing into his ear.

Son: "OW!" Starts crying. But blue crayon pops out. "You said you were just looking!"

Doctor #2: "Yup."

Turns out there are good reasons to lie. A bit of vacuuming (yes, vacuuming) of my son's ear, and all the little blue crayon pieces are out. And my son will NEVER put a crayon in his ear again. In fact, he will likely warn his whole class not to, every year until he graduates from high school. And I have a great idea for a children's book.

All in a day's work.

Stop Writing

2011-09-27T03:25:00.000-07:00

Are the words weighing you down?
Hemming you in?
Sucking the life out of
Every yellow toenail?
Keeping you from breakfast?

Forget the obligations
Dismiss the blogging schedule
Stop forcing out the stress
When it threatens
To choke the life out of you

Don't worry.

We're still listening.
We'll be here when you come back
Holding out our arms
Happy you write
Out of love
Not duty.

Go out
Like a young adult on
Your first adventure
To find yourself
To see the world with tearful eyes
Explore the caverns
Climb trees
Wade into the ocean

And return
Arms laden with treasure
To share
Forget about us for a while
We will wait
Patiently
Knowing
We will see you
Again.

Falling Into Fiction

2011-09-25T18:05:00.000-07:00

I just finished a book I'd heard about for years--Up the Down Staircase--and it was pretty good. All of the quotes on the front of the old paperback book, though, made it sound like the funniest comedy ever. The premise? A newbie teacher who takes on inner city high school English courses. Perhaps it was a bit too close to home, but I found myself squirming through the first 2/3 of it instead of laughing. I'm not sure I laughed a single time, actually.

Funny how a single book can make me wonder whether I'm a very good reader...

But then I picked up Jenny B. Jones' There You'll Find Me, and all that self-doubt lifted away. Easy to read and far deeper than the traditional YA romance novel, this book began with a premise that seemed a bit too romantic (i.e. unrealistic): A rich young woman flying to Ireland meets a world famous heartthrob actor flying incognito. They both instantly dislike each other--and that's where I rolled my eyes--but it took no time at all for the romantic comedy movie premise to turn into a lovely, smoothly written fall-into-the-book page-turner that took over my weekend. I cared about so many of the characters by the end, and the location felt real to me, vivid, meaningful, and holy. It's been a very long time since I felt that way about a book.

Granted, the book was free. Thomas Nelson sent it to me, but I'm not required to gush about it, or even like it. That didn't matter. Finley's spiritual journey to recover from the loss of her beloved brother was beautiful, and the other souls helping her along the journey provided her with help, but often had pains of their own. Only a fraction of the characters were flat--and they were mainly the two-dimensional "villains" of the novel. The pattern was typically romantic, and that alone would not have pulled me in at all, but the book was about far more than just young love. It was about going on after loss, about figuring ourselves out, seeing ourselves in truth instead of only through other people's eyes. It's funny, too, that Finley Sinclair has to find her own way through life, but coming into contact with other searching souls is what helps her along, suggesting our path is both individual and communal. It's a lovely novel, hopeful and gently spiritual, and it's one I will keep and read again very soon.

I must have a fragile ego, if I can doubt myself so much after one book, and then be inspired so fully by another. Either that, or I have just experienced first-hand the power of books.

What books have you read lately? How have they affected you?

Opportunities Knock All the Time

2011-09-24T06:28:00.000-07:00

Whoever said "Opportunity knocks but once" was a fatalist. Since I am definitely not a fatalist, but one of the most determined optimists on the face of the planet, I beg to differ. No, that's wrong. I insist on differing, for everything I've experienced tells me plainly that missed opportunities are often not so desirable.

One of my friends described why it was so easy for her to call people for things and take "No" over and over. She said, "Don't let the no's bother you. They just mean you haven't found the right person yet."

My experience tells me the opportunities abound everywhere, if only I open my eyes. So I can't teach at the college where my husband works... the only college within an hour from here. What about online teaching? What about substituting at the local high school (I've done it before, and I actually LOVED it)? What about teaching Zumba? Editing manuscripts? Freelance writing? Working hard on my novels so that I can get one/many of them published over the next few years?

So some of my friends disappear from my life. The best ones stick, still e-mailing, sending cards, and calling me from Washington, Kansas, Oklahoma, and South Carolina. And other fantastic people are always showing up to keep me company, to become real friends of the real me in the real world. And even if I someday move (though at this point it's the last thing I want), I'm taking a bunch of these friendships with me forever.

My advice: If you feel trapped, and if the door opens up to nothing, walk out of that doorway and go find your opportunities. You never know where you might find them.

Okay, enough bossing (I do it to my kids, too). Instead, I'm off to explore the opportunities out there! Hope you find some too!

It Gets Easier: Writing = Game Playing

2011-09-17T03:22:00.000-07:00

In case you've been wondering how I waste my time (instead of writing), one thing I do every morning is play the Daily Crossword and Daily Sudoku on Yahoo Games. No, this is not an advertisement for them (though I have been playing them almost as long as they've been there).

When I first started out with them, the likelihood that I would finish the Sudoku on Saturdays was slim to none. The games are super easy Monday and Tuesday, and gradually add stars of difficulty throughout the week, ending with a five-star puzzle on Saturday. A five-star puzzle that I might spend as much as half an hour on before giving up. The Crossword stuff was usually doable, but it would take me 12 to 15 minutes to complete. If you love crosswords, this is on the easy end of crossword puzzles, believe me, and I'm not good at them.

Despite my own limitations with regard to intelligence, I've continued to work on these little games every single day for years. And I realized something this morning: They have grown a LOT easier.

This is not to brag. I am no smarter now than I was ten years ago. I've had two kids since then, so it is very likely that many thousands of my brain cells have been irrevocably lost. And the games haven't changed format in all that time, either. They are just easier. And here's why:

1. I have previous knowledge from playing the game that helps me find answers and or make deductions more quickly. The same authors create the crossword puzzles, so I know to look for answers with vowels. For instance, I know "oboe" is the likeliest musical instrument. I know that words beginning with vowels are also necessary to make the puzzles work, and previous experience on the puzzles helps me think of these words.

2. I've grown used to the time markers. I used to try to finish the crossword under ten minutes. But that clock ticking messed with me. Instead of becoming a relaxing game just to get my mind revved up in the morning, it became some sort of track race, and I was always losing. Now that I'm not panicking, or even looking at the time signature, I finish in around 7 minutes. No panic. Just concentration.

3. Strategy becomes the name of the game, instead of the games feeding some sort of self-worth. I'm not afraid of not completing the puzzle ("You're so dumb, Shakespeare! You can't even solve this 3-star Sudoku!"). Instead, I know the puzzle can be solved, and I simply look for the best paths to do so. And those paths have become clearer to me as I've played, so that even this morning my Sudoku puzzle (a 5-star) took me about five minutes to finish, without my ever finding a place where I couldn't figure out what to do next. (I used to sometimes stare at the screen for that amount of time, completely at a loss, before giving up for the day.)

So, what does this rather silly ramble about silly games prove? Well, since I just FINISHED my umpteenth draft of novel numero uno, I know my task: To write a query letter and synopsis, research the field, and go out there and get an agent. I admit, as much as the rewrite was fantastically enervating, the idea of putting my work out there for everyone and his dog to reject is twisting my innards.

That is the purpose of this metaphor. I've sent things out before (though it's been years), and I know it will be difficult at first. I may want to give up. The query letter might go through ten different versions before I put together one that doesn't suck. My work will be rejected innumerable times.

But it will get easier. With practice will come experience, and I will use the feedback and the practice to hone my strategy. Each letter will be less stomach-wrenching. Each rejection less of a big deal, and each day that I work on this I will stress about it less and see it through more fully, learning my way through the process so that when it comes I'll be more ready than when I started this journey.

I still intend to print out each rejection and post it up in my office. I'm just about to tear all the shelves out of the place so that I have four full walls to fill with rejection letters. I'm considering printing them on nice stationary, since most will be e-rejections. My goal? In a couple of years, I want enough rejections to cover all the walls.

To do that, though, I'll need to get writing. Query letter first, synopsis second, list of prospective agents third. Just writing about this makes it feel easier. Time is no issue. It will likely take years, and I'm prepared for that. Strategy is what counts. Strategy and a positive attitude.

Okay, so the novel itself does count. But I think it's AWESOME. And you will too, when you read it.

Delirium

2011-09-14T04:02:00.000-07:00

Wow, but my weeks are busy right now!

I promise, I'm trying to get to blogging, but my novel rewrite is going so well. I'm almost to the climax, and I find myself yet again, after something like 28 revisions, still captivated by my plot and character interactions. Who knew the book I'd most want to reread again and again would be my own book?

Does that make me narcissistic?

I take it as a good sign that I still find my novel thrilling to work on. If it were boring me, that would be a sure sign of trouble. Then again, I might be going insane. If I am, it's the happiest insanity I've ever found.

This novel--along with a hefty schedule of Zumba classes I'm teaching now--is feeding both mind and body, jumping me out of bed in the morning, putting me to bed with a happy smile each night, and spinning me through my world delightfully, with bold colors, smiles, and even a few giggles.

I'm wishing all of you the same, whether you are an poet, artist, playwright, musician, thespian, dancer, novelist, teacher, parent, whatever. May you live in the delirium of love for what you do.

Sunshine

2011-09-10T04:59:00.000-07:00

Smile today
Know the world is falling apart
In the way it always has
And always will
But today
You don't have to fall apart
Too

Be the sunshine
The soft voice
The hope
Reach out
And help the world
Breathe with ease
And see the rays of light
Remaining
Once all the dust has settled
Around us.

Feeling Groovy

2011-09-04T13:49:00.000-07:00

I've just packed the fully repaired library books in the trunk of my car.

My beloved author should have her beloved novel waiting in her inbox, completely edited.

And my son is sitting in the middle of the living room, wrapped up in his new comforter.

I love it when a plan comes together.

Far ahead of schedule, I have completed my major tasks. My kids and I are chilling, watching a silly movie while I post this. After a very simple dinner and an even simpler bedtime routine for the kids, I shall finally return to my first novel.

I can't wait. I'm already smiling ear to ear.

Smile a little tonight with me, imagining me snuggling back into the comfort of my own fiction.

The Light at the End of Many Tunnels

2011-09-03T03:03:00.000-07:00

I've been far too busy to write much lately. Even here in my blog, where writing is never a chore.

But now, at 6:o5 a.m., two hours after I woke for the day, I am grinning. And that is because, on this Labor Day weekend, I am close to getting three HUGE projects finished.

Finally.

The first is a project I took out of love. You see, I adore books, and I love libraries, and I especially love my child's school library (and its librarians). I volunteered there last year, and at the end of the school year I took home three boxes of damaged books to repair for the next school year. Needless to say, I didn't finish rebinding, pasting, taping, and other repairs, but now I am 1/2 a box away from finishing the whole lot of them. I've turned in two boxes of repaired books, and I hope to take the third box in Tuesday. Hurray!

I'm also only three chapters away from finishing an edit for a lovely writer from Scotland, whose book about mermaids and fairies and Loch Ness will likely charm many readers to come once it is published. It's been fascinating to read and a joy to edit, but I grin still with the knowledge that the task will be complete very soon, and she will have her beloved manuscript back. I feel almost like a midwife, helping an author deliver her baby into the world. I'm sure she will be as glad to have the manuscript back as I will be to know I've finished it.

My last task to complete is the one that has waited the longest. I purchased fabrics (of my son's choosing) last FEBRUARY, but only now am I working on the final quilt stitches of his second comforter. I completed his twin comforter about a month ago, and since then I have been working on the full one. I'll post pictures of it on my I'm Not Writing Anything Anymore blog once it is finished. I'm nearly halfway through the stitching, too, so I know it's a matter of hours.

There we are, then, three huge projects, three more days, and then all three will be off my task list. Then what will I do? My other blog would suggest I still won't be writing, but hopefully y'all know me better than that.

My next big project? Finally finishing my Thomas novel--FOR GOOD--and sending it off to agents. And I can't wait.

Any tunnels you see the light at the end of? Or are you still trudging through the darkness, hoping to see that light soon? I'd love to know.

Notice

2011-08-30T03:32:00.001-07:00

Rub sleep from your eyes

And you may see the sparkle

In the shadow corners

Of your messy bedroom

Trudge to the cupboard for a bowl

But notice, out of the corner of your eye,

The immaculate slate

Awaiting your chalk strokes

Wake up, and grumble

--If you like--

But don't grumble too loud

Or you'll chase away the spirits

They are there

All around you

Waiting

Hoping today

For once

You will notice.

Anew

2011-08-29T04:03:00.000-07:00

Past is past

Minutes ticking away

Released into the emptiness

Of nowhere

Future is all dreams

Wants, desires

Most without substance

Or hope

Never to be realized

Use the now

Begin anew

This moment

Live in the present

Make something of it.

The Way

2011-08-27T03:10:00.000-07:00

Stop

Rest your angry mind

A moment

Hushing thoughts that swirl within

And burst through every facet of your life

The tension will kill you

Breathe the air

It might not be as fresh as it once was

But it still feeds you

After all these years

Change has not destroyed all

There is still time

And you need to breathe, after all

No more talking

Ranting

Whining

Cursing

Invectives churn inside your mind,

So just release them

Set them free

For saying them only gives them power

Over you

Hush

Listen

Feel the inner workings of the earth

Beneath your feet

And know that even the worms

Have a purpose

And so do you

Do you know what your purpose is?

No? Not yet?

Then keep silent so that you can hear

If you listen long enough

You will feel the pull

Your own unique link to the universe

And then you will know

What you must do.

Hunching

2011-08-22T03:23:00.000-07:00

The dowager's hump

Comes naturally

To most of womankind.

Ashamed

Are we

Afraid we might stick out

Or show off

Or think more of ourselves

Than we should.

Embarrassed

Of our breasts

Shoulders

Lanky hair

Height

Pale skin

Brown skin

Moles

Or acne

No matter what we have

We teach ourselves to hate it

To hunch over

To hide.

Oh, what would we be

What could we do

If we would only stop hunching?

The Choice

2011-08-19T03:26:00.000-07:00

The night

Is softly falling

Behind trees

And under rocks.

Silence retreats

Disappointed

That her older, louder sister

Murmurs upstairs

Getting ready for morning.

Muscles ready

Not for a day of lethargy

But for the whirlwind of activity

Work and play

That hold the hands of sunshine

Green grass

And sound.

You have a choice:

Slink into the shadows

Crawl back into bed

And waste the day

Or tag along with the sun

Skipping through the world

A light

Signaling others

To act.

Anonymous

2011-08-14T03:25:00.000-07:00

In case you also check out my Not Writing blog, this post is in both places. I thought I'd just write it in one, but my thoughts shoved the poem I had in my head out, so this is all I can think about:

I was slapped in the face this morning. Not literally, but I'm stinging from it just the same.

And it's all my fault. And it's all because I haven't been writing.

For YEARS, ever since I took freshman composition, I've been in love with the idea of writing a play about Edward de Vere, seventeenth Earl of Oxford, whom I suspect wrote Shakespeare's plays. But over the past many years (too many to mention, believe me), I didn't write. I have tons of research for it, a huge collection of books on it, and I'd even made an outline of the major events so that I could someday write it.

Only now I don't have to. The movie is coming out in October, and it's calledAnonymous. I've missed my opportunity.

Fiction writing is one thing--sure, J.K. Rowling has made the one and only Harry Potter, and Tolkien's Lord of the Rings only happens once, but other fantastic characters can still lead beautiful lives on paper. I noticed, too, that yet ANOTHER production of The Three Musketeers is coming out. (How many versions are we going to get? The book is better than any of them.)

But Oxford's story should only happen once. I just hope it's done beautifully, that it is better than I can wish for, that people can see the irony, the tragedy, the poetry of the whole situation. Either way, whether it sucks or holds audiences spellbound, it's too late for me to write it. I've missed that chance because I haven't written it. Hell, I am probably still a decade away from having the skill to write it.

I love the story, though, so I will go to see it in October, hoping it's brilliant, but still feeling a bit compressed because I will never write it.

Writing=Tiling

2011-08-07T04:44:00.000-07:00

At long last, more than a month after I finished the &*%$(@ project, my tortured fingers have recovered from grouting long enough to write about my summer tiling experience. As with my gardening entries, I managed to find quite a few similarities between tiling and writing, and the time it took gave me a chance to mull over these nuances and, perhaps, improve my writing in the process. At least these offer me a way of perceiving the process of writing differently.

So that you can see I know what I'm doing, here's a picture of my finished tiling project:

Looks pretty fantastic, doesn't it? And I'm an amateur, too. First time tiling ever. I'd make a long, arduous blog about this (and brag a whole lot more), but that would be too much to remember (and endure), so I'll start with the first part of the tiling process, preparation:

1. Prep the space for tiling. That means tearing down the previous tile, which in this case was a glossy white bathroom tile intermixed with bright, ugly wildflowers. The eighties-inspired bathroom look was pretty awful, but I have to admit that the bare wall devoid of eighties tile looked worse. Once it was chucked off, though, I knew there was no going back.

In the same way, revising my novels (i.e., "ripping them to shreds") often takes a similar path. I create a new document, name it novel revision #2 (or #7, or #25, depending on the novel), and then paste chapters of the old document in one at a time, revising them fully before pasting in a new chapter. At some point, I realize the rest of the novel is complete crap, and I stop pasting. It is then that the old draft disappears back into my novel folder and I begin composing for real. Tearing down is really hard, and turning my back on entire chapters (or the whole second half of a book) is even harder, but sometimes it's necessary.

2. Plan out where you are putting tile. I made a template of my backsplash, especially the part above my stove (shown in the picture above), in paper so that I could fit the tile into it on the floor of my dining room before I set the stuff in thinset mortar on the real wall. I even used the little spacers to set them apart from each other properly, so that my measurements would be exact. Why? Well, it gave me a chance to see the finished product. In fact, my plan changed, for I realized the accent tiles would be set too high on my template, making them almost invisible, and I arranged them differently. I even changed the angle during the planning stage, opting for a far more graceful diamond pattern instead of block squares. Had I waited to plan until I started mortaring all the tiles, I would have two choices: Live with the inferior setting, or tear the whole thing down and start over. Neither one would have been any fun.

Sure, when one is in the throes of NaNoWriMo, one can just applaud oneself for getting the requisite 1,667 words written each day--or even throw a party when one writes twice that many. But writing off the cuff, at least for me, means shredding most of it somewhere down the line, and I will have far less work to do in revisions if I write a plot outline and plan out the characters before I really get the novel going.

3. Tiling happens in a particular order, which cannot be changed. I had to prep the space, plan out where the tile was going, cut the tile, mortar the tiles up, let them dry completely, then grout. Had I tried doing any of these things in a different order, I would have messed the whole thing up. Had I mortared the tile over the existing tile, it wouldn't have stuck. Uncut tiles would never fit together. Had I grouted before mortaring, the grout itself would have no hope of keeping those tiles up. They needed to be glued first. The order of the process matters.

That seems self-explanatory, but writing's steps also follow the same logic. If one hasn't written anything--or if the writing has fundamental problems with character or plot or content that have yet to be addressed--editing for grammar is silly. I need to prepare for the writing, write it out, revise for content, then revise for grammar, then send it out to beta readers, then revise again, and only then (at the earliest) can I call the novel finished. The steps aren't arbitrary rules created by your much-hated English teacher. They are necessary to help you create the best quality work you can. Only a supreme writing genius can avoid some of these, and I don't know one of those.

Now that the preparation is done, other elements happen. I'll cover them in another blog as soon as I can.

Countdown to NaNoWriMo

2011-08-01T04:01:00.000-07:00

It's coming. Every year it's coming. I tried it once and failed miserably, mainly because I spent the second half of the month house hunting. But I've moved now. Nothing should be standing in my way, especially a house hunt.

And the house we bought is almost fully refinished/painted/cleaned/reorganized. Even those pesky backsplashes are completely tiled and grouted (though I still haven't posted pictures). My son's quilts are days away from completion. I do have a ton of Christmas houses to paint this year, but if I don't get them all done, who will know but I? Christmas comes EVERY year (just like NaNoWriMo).

I'm revving up my revisions on several novels, after hardly writing in July. I'm excited, I'm motivated, and I'm fully aware that my kids start school in four days. So, the countdown might just be meaningful for me this year. I'm posting it here, just in case.

Do I really want to do it? Not sure. Last year I realized at the halfway point that I was way off base with the novel, and I haven't done anything but research it since. Will the novel eventually turn into something? Probably, knowing how willing I am to revise (i.e., shred). But you can bet I won't be sending any piece-of-crap novel out December 1.

What about you? Will you write for NaNoWriMo? Are you already churning out a book? Do you act like it's NaNoWriMo every single month? Does NaNoWriMo make you yawn?

Coming Home

2011-07-31T08:06:00.000-07:00

The shutters are all closed

Floors dusty

No, dirty

Only the cat has tended to home

All this time

(And he doesn't sweep)

But the smell

Fills me

With memory

The trip was long

And I am sore

Yet my feet

Find a spot on the rug

To stand

Where I always have

In my mind

The windows greet me

Smiling with sunlight

The walls

I painted by hand

Are smooth under my fingertips

Vacations are bliss

And I know of those I have left

That I already miss

Terribly

But nothing compares

To the serenity

Of sitting in

Wallowing in

My own space

My own walls

My own work

At long last

I am home.

Writing Soul

2011-07-28T21:21:00.000-07:00

Tell me it's all in the rules

That my characters lack

Fine detail

Bodies to drool over

Gripping dialogue

Humor

Class

Style

That the climax

Doesn't have the violence needed

To reach

A modern world

To resonate with

The avid reader

Devourer of books

Ask me why

When all the world's genres lay before me

I choose one that holds

So little promise

With hard walls around it

Hard rules

Or why I break the rules

Or turn them on their heads

Tell me the rule breaking

Pisses you off

Tell me I bore you

Tell me nothing works

I'll agree

But I didn't write it for you

I wrote it for the single set of eyes

Who needs the book

Who'll see my soul inside it

And know me better

And know themselves better

The way that I know my own soul

Within it

Better

Because I have it written.

Flowing

2011-07-17T09:45:00.000-07:00

The wind is pulling at me

When I listen

When I stop to feel

But I spend most moments

Striving against it

Leaning in to it

Stubborn to push my will

Against its

Implacable

Force

The headaches come

A mace to my brain

But I ignore them and

Push on

The tension

Hardens my shoulders

And pinches at my back

But I set my chin

And push until I cannot push more

Only then

When I am out of my own steam

When I have been overcome

And think it is all over

Do I lie in the sand

Defeated

Quiet enough to listen

To the tiniest of voices

Still enough to feel

The softest of breezes

Only then do I realize

I was resisting the flow

Of the world

Of my life

Of the divine

And missing the path

Of my own destiny.

Pulling at the Mattress

2011-07-11T05:04:00.000-07:00

As I sleep

Unaware

The dreams turn

To worries

Frets

Stresses

Close to home

And far away

They slip into my brain

Pulling sleep away

As if tugging my mattress out on the front lawn

To await the trash man

No use going after it

I won't get back to sleep.

The Trials of Waiting

2011-07-10T20:34:00.000-07:00

The pictures of the backsplash have been taken, but I am now across the country, with two kids in tow, and without the USB attachment I need to download the pics onto my laptop.

So you'll have to wait. Get used to it. Some things take time.

My novels have taken time, and they are still not finished. Not one of them. I have my Ark novel up on my desktop, and my fingers are itching to get at it, especially after reading a book on making my novel work better. But they'll just have to itch a little longer. I have some characters to develop a whole lot more first, and I'm doing so methodically, by writing all sorts of details about each one--choices, ethics, changes--in a notebook.

I'm not allowing myself to write yet, not until the characters are all fleshed out and I've added extensively to the second half of my novel's outline. You see, the first draft of this book was written without a plan, and now that I'm pretty much abandoning the latter 2/3 of the novel, I want a better idea of where I'm going before I get there. So I'm shaping, and characterizing, and plotting the boat's journey on a map. I'm prepping.

By the time I'm finished prepping, my little child of a writer's psyche is going to be throwing a tantrum to be allowed to write. It's already starting to snivel a bit, whine, and pull at my pajama pants.

But it doesn't get what it wants. Not right now. It'll have to be patient, even if waiting is a trial. Since I'm on vacation, finding the time to work on all of this is harder, but I'm making slow progress. And before long, my happy little writer's psyche will be allowed out of its cage.

I'm looking forward to that.

I'm Not Writing Anything Anymore, Dammit!

2011-07-03T02:45:00.000-07:00

I had intended to post photos of my backsplash work last Sunday, and if you scroll down through this message, you'll see that I am still not posting them today. I haven't even taken pictures of the stupid things yet (stupid, yet beautiful), mainly because I keep forgetting until it's too dark outside, but I have to get my pics in this morning, before I hop on a plane bound for Seattle with my two kids.

I could have posted about something else, but the nasty voices in my head--you know, the ones that tell me to stop writing, tell me all my stuff sucks, remind me how much time I've already wasted on all these novels and poems and blog postings and plays--have been shoving their fists into my brain this week, punching the tissues pretty hard.

Thursday, though, I had an epiphany. Writing is therapy, right? (It is for me. If it isn't for you, I'm sorry, since it's SOOOO much cheaper than a therapist.) Thus, if I write to get through issues, to analyze past situations that still bug me, to figure meaningless things out in some meaningful way, why not do it with these stupid voices?

As a result, I have created the I'm Not Writing Anything Anymore, Dammit! blog. It's the antithesis of the encouragement blog for the would-be writer. Call it the discouragement blog, if you will, but my intent is to get all the self-doubt (which I know at least a few of you have, given some recent e-mail exchanges with several of you) out in the open, then shred it, show it for what it is, and laugh at it (whenever possible).

I'm still working out my weekly schedule for the new blog, and I'm probably going to work hard on creating more structure for this blog while formatting that one. If you like the feel good gentleness characteristic on Creative Arts, you won't like this new one. If you've wondered all these years why I've been so nice and found my sweetness sickening, the other blog just might be for you. I'll be placing a lot of your blogs on my blogroll there, once I get the site going. Today, though, I have to finish packing, take some long-awaited pictures, and fly a very long way with two kids. We will all be exhausted when we get there, but there will be time to relax--and to work hard on my writing (I hope).

I will post again as soon as I can. Promise. Until then, don't let those nasty voices take advantage of you. And if they slap you across the face, slap them back. I'll do the same.

The Peace of Morning

2011-06-25T04:30:00.000-07:00

Only quiet sounds

The brush of sheets

The softest tap of

Bare toes

A sniff

A sigh

Invade the silence of

Morning

The stillness

Rests heavily

Over all

Too heavy

For anger

Argument

Fights and hate

Hearts beat

Steady and strong

Without the stress and pain

Of conflict

Oh, if we could hold onto

This

Peace

And see the world with such

Clarity

And recognize

And halt

Our own words

When they shatter it into shards of sharp glass

And spread the blood of

Fear

Anger

War

Treachery

Hate

I cannot stop others

But I can vow

To keep this silence

Intact

Not just for this morning hour

But all my life.

Almost Finished

2011-06-24T04:22:00.001-07:00

I am minutes away from beginning to grout all of the backsplash tile... and once I'm done, and it's all wiped clean, and the dishes from the spur-of-the-moment party last night are all done, I'll post pics of the finished project.

Nothing is as rewarding to me as having something finished. And nothing more irritating than not finishing something, especially when I can't finish it. The "can't" is always one of two things:

1. I do not have the time in my schedule to work on it, or

2. I don't have a clue how to go about finishing it.

The latter reason is impeding my novel progress at the moment. I'd tell you that from now on I'll devote myself to this novel, but my son could still use two quilts on his bed to complete his room. And my TV trays could use some sanding, painting, and lacquering. And I have about 100 books still to rebind for the library. And that back hallway still to paint, when I paint the walls near the backsplashes, once the grouting is finished. And some books to peruse and take notes from before I take them back to the library in a week.

As usual, though, I'll fit that pesky novel in. I'll be taking off for Seattle soon, and I'll have a month without house projects to devote just to writing and reading. Though I'm sure I'll find plenty of other projects to tackle while I'm there, too.

Wish me luck on the grouting! I'll post again as soon as I take pictures. Who knows, I might just fill this week with pictures of my house, now that it's worth looking at.

Making Things Work

2011-06-21T04:14:00.000-07:00

I'm fighting with my novel right now, and the fight is getting nasty. I know what I want to happen, what should happen, what needs to happen for all of it to come together:

1. Forgiveness, or at least grudging resentment instead of outright hatred. My main character, her father--no, her entire family--have to put behind the past and help those who condemned them.

2. People need to be physically saved from a rooftop, before the church they are sitting atop breaks from its foundations and floats away in moving flood waters.

3. The people on the roof have to accept the help of those trying to save them--one person almost refuses, one person almost drowns, but all end up in the boat, whether they want to or not.

4. All of this happens in five minutes tops. (Yes, I can slow time down, but one chapter max. is all I have.)

5. The rain is coming down in sheets, and everybody has to somehow communicate over the sound and see each other through the driving rain.

The rain and flood are the hard parts. I joked with the hubby I should just take those out, and it would be easier. Except that they are the whole point of the book. Without them, there is no book.

Darn. I guess I'll just keep fighting, until my right brain figures out how to get all of this to happen without the whole thing turning as implausible as Armageddon. I couldn't bear ending up with a book I was embarrassed to have written.

Passion

2011-06-20T03:26:00.001-07:00

Too much time is lost

To boredom

The dull of vapid conversation

Well-meaning blather

Or silence

Stifling any emotional outburst

As too much

Too ugly

Too close to feeling

Drop the boring act now

Stop stuffing emotion down

Behind the rib cage

That's not where it belongs

Pull it out and wear it on your arm

Flaunting it to every friend

And stranger

Wallow in it until it sets your hair on fire

Press it to your dear one's face

Until they know how much it means

Until they know the real you

Until they, too, can pull out

The pain

The love

The giddiness of expectation

The hope

That hides within

Just feel

And you will see the world bloom

Into a passion

Never seen before.

Work Guilt

2011-06-18T02:26:00.000-07:00

"Work," according to Dictionary.com:

–noun

exertion or effort directed to produce or accomplishsomething; labor; toil.

something on which exertion or labor is expended; a task or undertaking: The students finished their work in class.

productive or operative activity.

"Work," according to the hubby:

1. doing something when you'd rather be doing something else.

Just yesterday I realized that these definitions--the hubby's, in particular--were wrapping me up in "work guilt." You see, since I no longer teach part-time (or full-time, with part-time pay, which is what I'd been doing for the past 8 years), I have only four major "jobs," one of which I just acquired. I'm a mom, a writer, a Zumba instructor, and an interior craftsman.

The problem with that is I ADORE three out of four of those jobs... and I really like the last one, except for cutting tile (I hate that). Why does that lead to work guilt, you ask? Because "work" is supposed to mean "toil" or something one would rather not do. And I'd rather do all four of these things than do some of the fun stuff people yearn for. For instance, yesterday I spent about 10 hours "working." I wrote for 6 hours, mothered for... um... the whole day, practiced Zumba dances for 2 1/2 hours, and even worked on the house for a good 2. Wait, how many hours did I say I worked? I'm not a math major, so I won't guess. I also fit in a 1/2 hour of piano, something that is not work. But I feel like I played all day.

Am I doing something wrong? I got up at four this morning, and as soon as this blog post is done I'm back to working on my novel... and then more Zumba... and more mothering. And I'll love every minute of it.

The guilt will come. I know it will. It always does. I hope I ignore it and continue to do the "work" I love most.

Waking

2011-06-16T02:11:00.000-07:00

My sun rises

Before the sun itself

I shimmer

Through the house

Sparkling

Filled with hope

And dreams

And laughter

Itching

To work wonders

On the new world

Of today

Self-Pep-Talk

2011-06-15T04:09:00.000-07:00

Don't like the way you look? Think your stomach is flabby? Don't like pinching yourself into your jeans every morning? Well, DO something about it. Eat right, exercise, and get yourself in shape. Or buy bigger jeans. Problem solved.

Don't like that your novel isn't finished? You know the answer to this one: WORK on it. It won't get done if you spend the day watching infomercials, sweeping, playing games, or whining to nine friends on Facebook that it isn't done yet. For God's sake, write!

When you don't like the way you smell, you take a shower. When you're hungry, you get something to eat. You pay bills on time, you wash the dishes when they fill the sink. You get the kids to bed when it's time. You do daily stuff like clockwork. You handle all sorts of crappy little chores beautifully, checking them off your list one by one almost as fast as you can write them. Sure, some of your problems may take a bit more work, but that's just it--they take WORK.

So quit your whining, self, and get out there and do the work. You have time. You got the whole day. And tomorrow--don't forget you have tomorrow, too. Get it done.

Summer Goals

2011-06-14T04:52:00.000-07:00

Okay, so it's taken me a MONTH to post on what I want to get done this summer, and the kids go back to school early in August. So I'm behind... so what? I've already crossed off one of them--revising novel #1 so that it's ready for publication. I've sent it off to a few readers now, and hopefully I'll have it fully revised by August. But there is more to do.

Here's my list, ambitious as usual. Remember, too, that "revise" always stands for "shred," and "rewrite" means "start from scratch and retain very little from the first version":

1. Revise Mariah's Ark fully, so that it's ready to send off to agents.

2. Revise Ghostly Charley fully, so that it's ready to send off.

3. Repair all of the books from my kids' school's library (glue spines, fix pages, etc.).

4. Read the whole How to Train Your Dragon series and other books.

5. Research Caribbean sea life in prep for Mermaid book re-write.

6. Finish backsplash.

7. Finish painting house.

8. Make both comforters for my son's twin bed.

9. Make some cute tops for my daughter for when school starts.

So, there it is. It's a bit less overwhelmingly ambitious than the usual summer list. Still, it means I need to get to work.

Bore Me

2011-06-13T18:35:00.000-07:00

Go ahead

Bore me

Tell me for the eighteenth time

How you and the wife first met

Or what your third grade teacher once called you

When calling you that was okay

Before parents sued

Before teachers were fired for stuff like that

Tell me again where you got your watch

God knows I've needed one to add to my

Already extensive collection

And please tell me how kids should be raised

How tuna is best made into a salad

Why tomatoes aren't as tasty

As they used to be

Go over the chemical composition of

Latex paint

Or the effect of tornadoes

On Wal-Mart's consumers

Or how hair follicles go gray

And when

And why

And the day you first got

Your first gray hair

And what you did with it

Once you'd pulled it out

Go ahead

Blather about it all

With little fear

That I will copy all your wisdom

Down

After all

I wouldn't want my novels

To become famous

For boring people

To death.

Nocturnal Not-Sleepings

2011-06-12T03:38:00.000-07:00

Before I was awake

Aware

I killed a bug that wasn't there

And brushed my leg

Along the sand

Rubbing dirt with outstretched hand

I heard the mower

Someone snoring--

No, more like a pig exploring--

Felt the poke

Of knees, cold toes

And coughing, snorting from a nose

I rubbed my eyes with gritty fists

Rubbed out the dreams

Unfogged the mists

And rose from bed a little sad

No dreams, no rest

The night I had

Was no more restful

Than a Zumba class

But my fatigues, like hours, shall pass.

Kudos to Darrell B. Nelson at Project Savior for unintentionally giving me the third line of the poem. I hope all of you slept better than I have lately. This waking up between 3 and 5 every morning is starting to wear on me. If only I can figure out why... or at least make myself get to bed by 9. I did finish my Zumba instruction training, though, and that means I am now a certified instructor... now to get my whole class routines together, and start teaching!

Not Getting Anywhere

2011-06-09T05:04:00.000-07:00

My kids and I tell stories most nights before we get to bed. It's an exercise in off-the-cuff storytelling. The listeners are allowed to pick one item each (an animal, a straw, a pillow, a bar of soap, etc.), and then the storyteller creates a story with the items.

My kids do pretty well at using the items, yes, and we have a great time giggling. But as listeners, we often urge the storyteller to "get on with it." That's because the storyteller sometimes spends so much time on the mundane that the meaning of the story never happens.

I could claim my kids are just not cut out to be writers. But there's no way I'd say something so inane. This is not a fault of the young. We ALL do this. We tell a joke, but take so long with the detail that the punchline falls flat. We talk about our day, whining about all the little things people said or did, or the flat tire, so that by the time we're done our significant other is either asleep from boredom or his/her eyes are bleeding (sleep is preferable).

We don't want the story to lag, so just as we fill our speech with "uhs" and "ums" to fill in the pauses, we fill our writing with details that mean nothing, that add nothing, and that do nothing but distract us (as writers) from what is important.

I'm revising a novel now, and my number one job right now is to pare. If it doesn't add something to the characters, the drama, the point, the situation, it's going to get cut. I don't want the reader wondering when I'm really going to get to my point. I want it infiltrating the very first sentence of the novel, permeating every scene, every shred of dialogue, everything.

Be mean to your words. If they don't fit, they're out.

Tiling Sort of Equals Writing

2011-06-08T04:31:00.000-07:00

The tiles are up (though not grouted), and I am likely going to have to pick up the project in a few weeks, after my father-in-law flies back out of the state, but despite its woes, tiling has offered me some insight into my writing. (If you've never seen me metaphorize before, see previous blog entries on gardening.)

So here is a partial list, since my tiling work is partial:

1. Talking about tiling is far less work than doing the tiling, but talking about it accomplishes nothing. I've been telling friends and family my plans to tile for over a month, but actually doing the task involves cutting hundreds of tiles, measuring, splatting mortar on every tile, pressing hard, putting in spacers, etc. It takes hours. No, DAYS. And it hurts one's back and fills one's fingernails with mortar and often makes every inch of one ACHE. And one doesn't feel like talking about it anymore. One is too tired to talk, too tired from actually doing it. Same thing with writing. I can talk about it easily, but I need to do more than talk about it. I need to write. And write. And that is called work. It's not easy. It takes a lot of thought and daily dedication. I have to actually do the writing, not just talk about it.

2. Though more fun, talking accomplishes nothing. I spent a month talking, and not a tile was laid. I spend a week working hard on it, every day, and I have a backsplash up in the kitchen. Can I tell you how rewarding it feels to see the whole thing up? Same thing with writing. Talking about writing isn't nearly so wonderful as holding a completed manuscript in my hands, or watching a play (that I wrote) performed, or getting feedback from a reader about how "hilarious" something I finished is. Having a finished product beats out talking any day for me.

3. The more complex the design, the harder it's going to be to finish. Sure, I could have just selected the little bitty tile, cut absolutely nothing, and finished in 1/10th the time. But I didn't make that choice. Instead, I created a design that required I cut EVERY SINGLE TILE EXCEPT FOR 4 TILES!!!! ACK!!! Do I regret my decision? Nope. It's what I wanted, and now that it's up, it looks great. But it was a TON of work. Same thing with writing. Some projects are just harder than others, and the more complex your character and plot systems are, the harder you'll have to work on them to get them all right. The more complex the machinery, the more likely glitches will show up. But that doesn't mean you should stick to the simple ones, just because they are simple. Write what you want--but be prepared to put the work into it.

4. Tiling takes LOTS of prep. I had to measure everything, figure out how much I'd need of each kind of tile (overestimating, of course), teach myself how to use a wet saw (messy, messy, messy), make a template of my over-the-stove backsplash, where I would center the design, and plan everything out, before I ever cut a tile. And then I had to cut and cut and cut tiles. I had to lay things out dry before I started mortaring them in place. I had to buy the right supplies, and run back to get more when I ran out. None of these elements got the tiles up, but they were imperative if I was going to get the job done. Same with writing. NaNoWriMo is a fun exercise, but without planning, revision, and a ton more work, the novel that comes out of a writing frenzy like that one won't be worth publishing. Plan out the novel. Work out who the characters are. Build the world they live in. Write a plot outline--with an ending. Sure, none of this prep is actually writing on the novel, but it's necessary. It will make the novel writing easier. Even more importantly, it will make the novel itself better.

So there it is. I'm sure I'll come up with more kernels of tiling/writing wisdom when I grout everything, but I am grateful that I don't have to return to the project for a few weeks. Now I can get back to my writing! (This is why I'm a writer, and not a tiler.)

Early Morning Rant

2011-06-07T03:05:00.000-07:00

I'm still working on the backsplash. I designed it perfectly, so that I pretty much have to cut every single tile at least once. Brilliant. Several days' more work to go before I'm done, I fear.

Even worse, I woke at 3:30 a.m. with a horrid Christmas song running through my head, along with the steps from Zumba running through my legs. And calluses everywhere. Some from yard work, most from doing the %&#$! backsplash. I tried to go back to sleep. But no, it wasn't going to happen. So I got up, wrote a little, read a little, and tinkered.

I'm just starting to get tired again, as I hear little kids stirring in the bedrooms above me. This is going to be a very long day.

At least, at the end of it, the hubby will be home. For that, I am truly grateful.

Mother Nature

2011-06-04T04:06:00.001-07:00

Just when I think

I have it under control

My tasks

Manageable

Predictable

80 mile-per-hour winds

Blow through the world

And fill my yard

My pool

My life

With leaves

I sigh

Wait for the rain

To stop

Pick up my broom

And rake

And net

With heavy heart

And wonder what I did

To tick off

Mother Nature.

Other Work

2011-06-03T03:32:00.000-07:00

I've been a pretty productive writer over the last few days, finishing one revision and then even tweaking a short play.

But now I have to get to work. And it's not writing. I have a father-in-law coming in a week, and the kitchen backsplash needs doing. Now. Right now. No more delaying.

I'll be back in a few days, I hope, once the tiling is done.

Dealing with Death

2011-06-02T03:24:00.000-07:00

I've heard it said that writers write to practice "the good ending," to go over what would make a satisfying conclusion to their own lives. And readers read the books/plays/poems/essays to practice their own endings, to define more clearly what they want their lives to be and how they wish them to finally turn out.

I'm not sure I'm convinced, but I do tend to rework elements in my life into novels and plays, trying to make sense of them or end them differently (resolving open issues or redoing mistakes or missed opportunities). Perhaps, though, I'm also practicing for my own death, not just my own life.

Death has been cropping up in my writing a lot lately. I'm revising (a.k.a. "rewriting," since that's what it always seems to end up being with me) a play about death. It's actually the second play about death I've written (or is it the fifth, now that I mentally go through my various plays?), but it differs from the previous one because no one in it is actually dead.

The death theme of this play, though, has turned ironic, and not in a good way. The premise is farcical, where a woman has to face an entire family that has decided she's close to death and might as well kick the bucket sometime soon. And until then, she needs to act like she's dying.

Morose, yes. Did I tell you it was a farce?

Strange, though, that my husband's grandmother died last weekend. And she was about the same age as my character. It was sudden, though not entirely unexpected, but we're all pretty devastated by it. Both of my children have been teary-eyed for the past few days, and my husband and I have kind of wandered around the house, uncertain what to do without her. She was a sweet lady, smart and funny and genuine. She gave love unconditionally. We'll all miss her.

But the guilt is awful. I feel as though I've been practicing her death.

Even worse, this same sweet grandmother is in one of my novels--the one I am slated to revise (a.k.a. "tear to shreds and nearly start over") once the play is revised. I had actually read a little of it before I found out about grandmother's death, and I realized that I'd changed her name from my previous 5-6 drafts of the novel. Right then I thought, no, I need her actual name in there, and changed it back. And then I found out she'd died.

Now I'm set even more on keeping her character in it. My husband thinks she'd like being in my novel. But her real death casts deeper shadows within the novel itself, and it will make revising more painful. It might help me work through my own regret and sadness, and help others work through the losses in their own lives, too.

I just hope Grandma Mae likes it once it's finished. She lived a good life, filled with love and family. And this novel might be the best way I can remember her, giving others a chance to know her when they read the book, even though they never met her.

Be

2011-05-31T07:21:00.001-07:00

Don't apologize

Because you didn't get to church

Or can't make decent soup

Or walk too slow

Or sometimes feel down

So down you don't feel like feeling at all

Just go

Without the sorries thrown in

Just cook

Without knowing what you're doing

Without enough salt

Without a cookbook to help you

Just walk

In the direction you find most meaningful

At the speed that suits you

In the way that makes your hips feel okay

And doesn't hurt your feet

Just feel

What's really thrumming there inside you

Not what you ought to feel

Not what others say is real

Not the person others claim is you

But you

Only you

Be you

Just be you

Just be

Move Me

2011-05-27T04:38:00.000-07:00

Patience is a virtue

I don't have

Give me a plot that moves

A conversation that brings up something new

Or lose me

Make characters change

The world

Themselves

The inner workings of my brain

Or I'll move on

Grow

Or help me grow

Beyond the confines I am used to

Or I will finish up your book

(If I finish it at all)

And sigh

Well

That was

Okay

But

Nothing

Really

Happened.

Being Unfaithful

2011-05-26T05:56:00.000-07:00

One of my friend writers online, who has been struggling with his novel for quite some time, tried something a little dangerous.

He tried working on something new. Several other writers had encouraged him to. "If your novel isn't cooperating, just move on," we told him. "Find another project that makes you want to write every day. Obviously this one isn't working for you right now, but you can always come back to it."

He tried to be tempted. He tried digging into another project, something with less baggage, less stress attached to it. It was then that the sweating started. His eyes shifted around the room to see if anyone noticed his infidelity. The words of his first novel came to him, whispering guilt, pain, and shame. How could he do this? How could he dump the novel he'd devoted his life to and start something else?

I admit that I still have similar misgivings. Instead of a lover (or spouse), though, the novel feels like a child. The first child is always the hardest, too. I don't want it to cry, or fall and hurt its knees, or feel lonely for even a second. I've revised my first novel about 25 times now, and it's still not quite ready (though it's getting awfully close!). But the first time I started working on something else--when I'd only revised the novel about 15 times--it felt like I was turning my back on my only child. Would she forgive me? Would she ever speak to me again?

What if she didn't? What if she was my only chance to express myself fully, and my creativity dried up completely? Karma. Wouldn't I deserve it, for being such a bad parent?

But part of my problem was that I had other children waiting on me. They were pulling on my apron before they were ever born, and I have still more gnawing at me now, wondering why I haven't started on them.

The truth is, my second child, though still only in revision #5 or so, helped me make my first child better. And my third helped me figure out POV in a way the other two hadn't. Each little child I created helped me return to the other ones with more patience, more depth, more perspective. They are better, more capable, more meaningful, and more interesting children because of their brothers and sisters.

I still feel wracked with guilt. Each hour I spend on one child is an hour away from the others (including the two children I bodily gave birth to). I have to drown out the voices, the little hands pulling at my skirt while I work, whining at me because I am not devoting that hour to them. And so I switch. I work on one until I am stuck, until I don't know what to do. Then I set it aside, putting it in front of cartoons while I spend some one-on-one time with another child.

I hope, when they are all grown and gone, they will not still resent the time I left them in a room alone and played with a sibling. I hope they all grow to be capable, meaningful well-adjusted novels (and plays).

Not Ready

2011-05-21T18:24:00.000-07:00

The pseudo-Rapture

Has come and gone

And I am here

Will the morning bring news

Of empty clothing

Strewn around the world

Of people taken in their prime

To live here no more?

I cannot know

Until my Sunday comes

Yet come it will

And I feel blessed

To have another day

To live

My novels whine for me

Tugging at my shorts

As I cook dinner this evening

My son still needs

A patchwork comforter

My daughter needs a hug

My work is yet unfinished

So I smile with relief

To see my ordinary self

Still sitting here

Well beyond the deadline set

For launching from this earth.

Summer Goals

2011-05-19T02:26:00.001-07:00

Over the last few summers I've posted a huge list of goals. Most of you know I'm the queen of lists. Even now I'm sitting at my laptop, glancing over at my list book as I write, considering the list for today.

But I just can't make a list for this summer. I know, generally, what I want to accomplish. I want to get my fourth novel finished, revise my first, second, and third novels and get them ready for sending out to agents, and revise my most recent play (which I just finished last week).

Really, though, I just have one big goal: WRITE.

I hope to write every single day. One blog entry and one hour of writing each day minimum. Bigger goals won't be accomplished without the smaller, daily task of writing. The big goals, at this point, look too big. It's rather like weight loss. If I only set my sights on the final goal weight, then that means every single day I remind myself how far I am from that goal. But if I just concentrate on exercising and eating right today, I have a chance to eventually make it to that goal, mainly by my daily action.

So I'm off. My lofty goals drift around, yes, but they are not the plan. The plan is just for today, the last day my kids are in school. I hope to spend the afternoon writing. How about you?

Hacked

2011-05-18T13:49:00.000-07:00

In case any of you got some energetic message from me by e-mail telling you how I just love this particular website, and you have to check it out...

It wasn't me. I was hacked. No idea how it happened, but I've changed my password now, and hopefully it won't happen again.

I have nothing else to post right now. Too busy feeling violated. The rest of the day went well, but I'm still on edge.

I'm off to the piano now for some music therapy. Hopefully I'll be able to get to sleep tonight.

Step Back

2011-05-17T03:39:00.000-07:00

Put down the list of things to do

Save it

For a moment when your jaw

Isn't clenched

When the words

Don't blear together

From the throbbing behind your eyes

The floor needs sweeping

So put on some soft socks

To mask the feeling

Tuck the dishes into the sink

And cover them with a towel

The laundry can wait until tomorrow

Now is not the time for stress

Your brain can't handle much more

Without committing suicide

So let go...

Open the shutters wide

And soften your eyes with the green of trees

Drift along with the music

Of the turning of the earth

Feel it rumble under your toes

And echo with your own heart beat

God didn't create while panicked

He made it all slowly

Step by step

Looking over each little plant

To say,

Yes, that is good.

What Do You See?

2011-05-14T04:59:00.000-07:00

A squirrel taps its way

Across the road

And up into a tree

A strange cross between

A persian cat

Its tale a fluff of gray

A softness I envy

Grace I'll never hope to learn

And a rat

A pint-sized rodent scavenger

A wild thing

With rat-like claws

A lurker in the shadows.

I know it is more rat

Than feline

And yet as I brake the car

With haste

And watch its tail flip angrily at me

Its dark eyes peek

Suspicious at me

I see a friend

And not an enemy

And so I cannot help

But see humanity

A few true rats, yes,

But most of us

More fluff than claws.

Morning

2011-05-11T03:58:00.000-07:00

After a hard night's (lack of) rest

The kindest greeting

Full of hope and joy and expectation

Is sunrise.

Mothering

2011-05-08T07:11:00.000-07:00

"The Bath" by Mary Cassatt

Decades ago

One mother

Left me

Choosing some form of righteous path

Abandoning the straining fibers linking

Her to me

Snipping every tendon separate.

I could feel lost

But other mothers

Found me

Fed me with caring

Showed me what love is

Sewed together the ties that had been torn

To themselves

And made me whole again

Mothers of their own choosing

They picked me

And so many others in need

To encourage and help

With smiles and pats and advice

And now

To follow their example

I mother

Not just the children

Tied to me through biology

But all the others

Abandoned and snipped apart

Seeking solace and love

In the embrace of another mother.

Will You Stop Patronizing Me?

2011-05-07T04:56:00.001-07:00

I'm an easy going kind of girl. Really, I am. I can pretty much get along with anybody. You can be stupid, and I'll help you get a clue. You're going to be imperfect (everybody is, you know, even you), yet I'll look over the imperfections easily. I have many of them myself.

But just patronize me, and you make an enemy for life.

So many have tried it. One guy in graduate school--a creative writing major--made it clear what he thought of literature majors. We had to work in a group together, three creative writing majors and me (a lit. major), and when the other three were going off on a tangent with planning, I said, "I don't quite understand."

Without blinking, this person leaned over, patted my arm, motioned to himself and the others, and said, "Don't worry. We're very creative people. We'll make sure you're okay."

I wanted to slug him. But since I am a pacifist, I didn't.

There was no shortage of such people in graduate school and academia. Usually it was a teacher of questionable worth who made it a point to patronize and insult the worth of the other teachers or graduate students around him/her in order to feel superior. But I always hated it.

Theatre has traditionally been a place for this as well, but until this last week, I hadn't really encountered it here in the community production of The Sound of Music. Sure, we have a couple divas, and they share their own little dressing room, keeping themselves aloof from the rest of us... but they haven't been too annoying.

Until yesterday.

We were just about to begin our second week of shows last night, and the girl who plays Maria came up to me with a few "suggestions." First, she wanted a bit more stage business for something, since she didn't feel like she could move the way she wanted to without it.

Okay. No big deal. I'd made adjustments for her before. Easy stuff.

But then she pulled out the patronizing card. She put her hand on my arm (always a bad sign), and said, "And be loud. When we sing together, especially. First the audience hears me sing," she says, "and then when you get up there, well, you know." And she makes a face.

Really? Did we have to go there? Three more productions, and we might never have to work together again. But she can't wait. She has to pull out the patronizing card and slap me across the face with it. I could spend the rest of the blog ranting about her acting skills, but I won't. She's not bad. And she can sing. And how well she does it is none of my damn business, since I'm not the director.

But neither is she.

I am grateful to be in the ordinary dressing room, and I'll take this as another reminder of how not to behave towards other people. We all have different talents, different strengths, and different weaknesses, and it's not my job to step on others while on my own personal journey.

It's also my job to do my best, despite the comments, and to do so with a positive attitude. Perhaps what upsets me most is that, even after all of these years, comments like this still bother me.

In the Wings

2011-04-30T06:42:00.000-07:00

Waiting for the cue

For the first step in the light

Brighter than day

Breathing deep

Mind at rest

And buzzing

All at once

The crowd is there

But it's the story that moves me

(Not the applause)

The lines

The songs

The beatific face

I show them

Time to play pretend

To step out of my life

For a short while

To forget everything

To forget myself

To be another life

To live another dream

To see the world another way

If only for a moment

Time Off

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

I'll miss all of you over the next few weeks, but I'm off tomorrow on a cruise with the hubby, and we will likely be out of touch with everything while we're gone. I'll check in when I get back, just in time for final run-throughs of the musical to go on, and then performance. (Whew, I am busy!)

I'm still taking my laptop with me, though. Got to keep writing! I'm in the midst of a play, and I hope to finish the rough while I'm gone, since a few other ideas are niggling at me, as well.

Hope the next two weeks are productive for you all (or restful!), and I'll see you when I get back.

You Never Know

2011-04-10T17:39:00.000-07:00

Funny, but I've gone weeks without writing (except in the blog).

At one point, I swore I wouldn't write in the blog until I wrote on my novel.

Didn't work.

Then I rushed to get all the house stuff done so that I'd have no more excuses. But houses, well, they tend to keep coming up with maintenance issues, and this house is no exception. I still don't have new countertops, and the dining room, writing room, and breakfast nook lights still need replacing...

Didn't work.

And then, like a miracle, I woke this morning at 4:45 a.m. I could feel sleep had left me, but an idea had not. I came down the stairs to my computer, opened it, started writing...

A few hours and 19 pages later, I had half a play. Script Frenzy is this month, with the goal, I think, being to write a play of 90-100 pages. At this pace I'll be done in five days.

Something must have worked. I only wonder what it was.

Makes me also wonder what tomorrow morning will bring. I just hope I'm ready for it.

Truths

2011-04-09T15:55:00.000-07:00

Nothing is more perfect

Than a child's laugh

Blankets are made for snuggling

And should thus be at least big enough

For two

Healthy or not,

Food should taste delicious

Or it's a waste of time

A child's mind should

Always be engaged in something wonderful

And usually is

(If you just bother to ask)

And "Popeye" cartoons are really fun

When one is drinking...

Calling

2011-04-07T06:01:00.000-07:00

I sit down to type

But the voices are calling

Not in my head,

Not to push me to write

But to pull me away

I take out my sewing

But squealing and laughter

Are calling me

Not to mend seams

But to swim in the dappled sun

I try hard to work

But the little ones, calling

For help with a craft

Or to snuggle or hug

Or share in a laugh,

Make it hard to sit still

And attend

So I put down the chore

And answer the calling.

Developing Writers

2011-04-01T05:29:00.000-07:00

I'm busy writing (hurray!), but I found this intriguing article today on Slate, which you can read here.

It compares Renaissance London to today's Topeka, Kansas, and thus shows us through the comparison how little we as a society tend to value writers. The article, written by Bill James, outlines four things we do for athletes that we do not do for writers:

First, we give them the opportunity to compete at a young age.

Second, we recognize and identify ability at a young age.

Third, we celebrate athletes' success constantly. We show up at their games and cheer. We give them trophies. When they get to be teenagers, if they're still good, we put their names in the newspaper once in a while.

Fourth, we pay them for potential, rather than simply paying them once they get to be among the best in the world.

While I can't agree with everything in the article, I do agree with his main point: instead of criticizing what we do to push athletics, let's just do the same thing for the artists and writers of our society, so that their skills are honed and encouraged as well.

I've been toying with getting my daughter art classes for a while now. I'm not toying with it any more. I think there's an art camp--and a theatre camp--she can join this summer, too. She's an artist with more talent at ten than I have at 41, and she can go a long way with the right encouragement and training.

And it's time to start a writer's group. Here. Now.

Wish me luck!

Turning It Over in My Mind

2011-03-30T06:39:00.000-07:00

For the first time in my life, since the first church message board started putting up adages to edify us all (or get us to go to church), I found one to be profound and thought-provoking.

It read:

The soil does not get plowed

By turning it over in one's mind.

Well, hallelujah! Finally somebody--or some church pastor--is getting me off my duff and working. In the three days since I have seen that sign, I have finished the last of the painting, unpacked the last box, and cleaned up my whole house.

Now I can write. And that means you will see me a whole lot more often. Once I've completed some writing for the day, I'll be checking in here.

Hope you come back and visit as I rev it all up again! I have two play ideas, four novels to revise, and another five to write (so far). Lots of work, but finally I can do it!

Time

2011-03-20T05:37:00.000-07:00

Anger wanes

With time

Unless we grasp onto it

With hate in our fingers

Bitterness pounding in our forehead

Resentment oozing from our skin

Like sweat

Selfish to prove others wrong

To be right instead of at peace.

Sorrow leaves us

As years pass

Unless we decide

We need to understand

The reason for it

Unless we need to find

That we have caused it in some way

That we can blame someone

For the tears

Let go of time

Release your pain and hate

Forgive

For while you seek the

Answers

That do not exist

You lose

The time you have

For nothing

Sifting into Place

2011-03-19T06:04:00.001-07:00

The walls

Shine

With dry paint

And the books

Slowly

Sift themselves

Into cozy shelves

Ready for reading

Boxes emptier

Paintings almost up

Photos framed

Rugs rolled out

A few more days

And all is finished

(Then back to writing!)

(Hurray!)

I'll post pics soon. Until then, still some work to do.

Practicing

2011-03-13T05:01:00.000-07:00

Sorry it's been so long, but I've been a bit busy. My house is two rooms away from being fully painted, and I also re-started a long-time interest. Last week I auditioned for The Sound of Music.

It's a musical I've been practicing for these, oh, past many decades, ever since I was old enough to sing songs on my own. I still remember watching it on laserdisc (yes, my family owned a player, and they amassed hundreds of them by the time I moved out on my own). One of my fondest memories of my father comes from watching this movie, for he let me scan back and sing "Climb Every Mountain" over and over, turning up the volume so that I could belt out the song at the top of my lungs.

Yes, others in the family complained. Thinking about it now, I'm not surprised. It was loud. I was only learning to sing. But when anyone did complain, my father would tell them, "She's practicing."

Last Sunday, that memory burst into me at a key point, when the director asked five of us to sing "Climb Every Mountain" solo to audition. One by one we stepped up and sang, and when it was my turn, the memory of my "practicing," with my father sitting there, without complaining, came to me. What a moment. I knew then what I'd been practicing for--for that one moment, that ending verse, the emotion, the message, everything.

When it was over, I felt so grateful to have that memory, and to have the chance to sing for my father, who passed away four years ago on March 9. (I tried blogging about this Friday, but I lost the whole thing just as I was about to post it.) I knew the casting didn't matter, for I'd sung to my father.

The moment isn't over, though. Maybe it was the memory, maybe it was all that practicing, but I earned the part of Mother Abbess, and when performances begin in May, I'll be belting that song out for the whole audience.

And maybe my father will be there, too, listening. For all I know, he was listening last Sunday, when all that practicing came to fruition.

Have anything you've been practicing for? Has it happened? No? Just wait. You never know when all that practicing is going to pay off, in more ways than one. Don't give up. Keep on practicing.

Show Me

2011-03-01T03:42:00.000-08:00

Show me

The couple

With no kids

Who need a four-thousand-square-foot

Vacation home

With two pools

And beach access

Then I can look at my own home and feel bad

Show me

The yachts

The parties

Of the rich and snooty

Dining on specific kinds of cheese

I couldn't find

Unless I went to France

Then I can chew, tearful, on my vegan hot dog in a wheat bun

Show me

The drive of the spendthrifts

Who fork over thousands for trips

And wedding dresses

And man caves

And luxury seats

To watch a game, a play, a show

That I see for pennies on my television

Then I can wish I had the money to burn, to waste

No, wait!

Better yet,

Show me

People who care about something

Enough to work hard

To fix it

To feed those in need

To sacrifice their time

Their hard-earned money

And their whole lives

To help the world

Just a minute

I forgot

People like that don't make it on TV, do they?

Early Morning

2011-02-28T03:59:00.000-08:00

The sun

Still sleeping

But I am awake

Not tense

My mind dreading

The tasks

Which wait for me

Today is an adventure

In organization

To turn boxes of old

Bags of donations

Loads of trash

Into gleaming rooms

To make a house a home

Not Dead

2011-02-23T15:52:00.000-08:00

It's only been 20 days, but it feels like forever since I've had Internet access!

In case you'd assumed my death, you were wrong. I am alive and painting pretty much every room in my new house, now that we've moved in. I'll share more once I clean the paint out of my hair a bit. I might even give you a few pictures!

Hope all of you are doing well. I'll be checking all of your blogs a.s.a.p., I promise!

Madness

2011-02-02T04:31:00.000-08:00

I'd say something profound

(Or at least attempt it)

But the searing itch of

Eleven mosquito bites

On two ankles

Is too distracting

Today

Not About You

2011-02-01T11:21:00.000-08:00

Believe it or not

It might seem like the sun rose

Just so you could wake up

This morning

And get married

Or go on vacation

Or complain about the heat

But it rose to feed the trees

To feed the algae

To feed the countless lives

Stage by stage on the chain of life

And your waking was only one

Microscopic speck

Of the overall plan.

You might think traffic moves

Just so you can get to work

Or that old woman with coupons

Is in line just to irritate you

Or nothing's on TV

So that you can get the laundry done

Or cookies call to you

Or people wait to serve you.

Get over it

Get over yourself

You want it to be about you?

Do something with your life

To feed the world

To help people find work

Pay for groceries

Have clothing of their own

Eat.

Forget about being served.

Serve.

Not So Fast

2011-01-24T07:46:00.000-08:00

Not a quick step

Confident

Resounding on the hardwood floor

To let them

To let myself

Hear the movement forward

Not a rocket

Shooting off

Inspired

On fire

Turning out the pages

Faster than I can count

Not the NASCAR racer

Tearing up the track

Passing all

As if they were

Standing still

Watching in awe

As I pass

Much as I would like it

My toes are only inching forward

Wheels turning slowly

A snail

Leaving a perfect trail

Of neatly ordered

Slowly formed

Through intense pressure

Stones

Perhaps someday

It'll be a diamond

The Drawing Board

2011-01-21T08:16:00.000-08:00

This photo, taken by Alec Hendrix in 2007, shows Coffeyville, KS after a terrifying flood. Some died, and many lost their homes to the flooding.

It is also the inspiration for my second novel, which I am now, after a year of working on other projects, revising. Writing the novel accomplished a few things. It started me thinking about a lot of religious and spiritual elements in my life. It got me to the top 100 entries in the Amazon.com Breakthrough Novel Contest. It even helped me work on some family issues.

Looking back over it, I'm grateful that it got me this far, but I also see that it isn't going to get me any farther. In fact, it's pretty much crap.

And I don't mean that in a nice, pseudo-humble sort of way. It sucks. It's overall plot is more than far-fetched, its detail and characters lacking, its ending far from meaningful. Besides a few kernels of brightness shining, like sunlight on water at sunset, it's pretty much muddy ooze.

Fortunately, I had one reader who told me so. And I also had the wisdom to let the thing sit longer than overnight--I waited a YEAR to come back to it--so that I could come back with renewed perspective and shred and reshape the novel into what it is supposed to be.

I'm off to work on my piece of crap. Perhaps, if I can replace the rotting wood and moldy drywall, I can get the structure of it back into shape. I pretty much have a blank slate, so I'll move walls, tear down a few useless rooms, add a bathroom, finish the attic properly, and put a playset in the backyard. I'll wait on the painting, shutters, and landscaping until the last, when the plan is exactly what it needs to be.

Here's hoping you have the guts to shred your own masterpieces... to carve them into their true form...

Cheers! (Now get to work!)

The Art of the Narrative

2011-01-18T06:33:00.001-08:00

I've finished up the ending of my Thomas novel (finally), and while it isn't very good yet, I know it will get there.

Nothing is as awful as a bad ending. The ending is one of those elements crucial to a good book, for if it tells too much or wraps up too little, doesn't make sense, or takes everything off on some weird tangent, readers will be disappointed. Jung claimed that we read so that we can "practice" our own endings, so endings are especially meaningful to us as readers.

I was reminded of this as I put my kids to bed last night. Since our books are still packed, and will likely be packed for a few more weeks (ugh!), we told stories to each other. I started things out, putting together a goofy story about a purple, hair giraffe who ended up living in northern Canada. Then my son told a story in three sentences. His typical method of creating plot is establishing that something is stupid:

Once upon a time there was a red crab.

He was very stupid.

The end.

Dreadful. Naturally, I didn't tell him it was dreadful, but I my mind, buzzing about my own ending (to be written once the kids went to bed), took note of the fact that an ending which comes too quickly (and says too little) won't be satisfactory.

My daughter, not to be outdone, told a story which started out very well... a leopard who ate all his friends and had to learn non-violence if he was to not be alone in the world... but she continued the story long after the climax had occurred, carrying through for nearly ten minutes to express how he met a girl leopard, they had eight cubs, and the reformed leopard taught them how to hunt and kill (no joke). By the end even my eyes were rolling.

Again, my writing brain jotted down the reality that an ending, if too drawn out and too filled with nonessentials, could really bore the snot out of readers.

Perhaps a balance should be struck. What do you think should be in an ending? What endings do you tend to love or hate? Why?

Itchy

2011-01-14T07:10:00.000-08:00

I'd stop by for a while

Leave each blog with a smile

But I can't

I got ten itchy fingers

And while the feeling lingers

I must write

Progress

2011-01-12T08:23:00.000-08:00

I am still sitting in my hotel room as I write this, so some things in my life are not progressing.

However, for the things within my control, I'm doing pretty well. And I am not alone.

My daughter, famed socialite that she is, already has about a dozen friends at her new school. She climbs in the car at the end of the day with a new Georgia accent, too, slipping out of it only after several hours with us (and it is SOOO cute!).

My son has progressed from "needs work"--a kind way to say he's acting like a complete brat at school--to "Good"--a kind way of saying he is working harder and isn't quite so annoying. Even better, he's waking up with a smile and looking forward to school. They both checked out their first library books at school yesterday, and I had to pry these books out of their hands to get them to do anything this morning. Definite progress.

My husband has progressed a great deal over the last month, too, from not enjoying his job a whole lot to LOVING his (new) job. He comes home with a smile on his face every day, and our interactions with the community so far have made him pretty much decide he's the luckiest person on the face of the planet.

And even though I am not out of the hotel room yet, and we overheated the microwave cooking dinner a few nights ago (manicotti tastes almost as good when it isn't quite warm), I am still writing. No, that's not right. I'm finally writing again. Over the last three days I have edited through 180 pages of my novel, and now I'm perhaps 6 chapters from finishing the new version entirely. After not writing on any novel since before Thanksgiving, I am quivering with happiness to be doing what I love most.

Can you feel it? Can you feel the quivering? It's called progress.

Made by Hand

2011-01-10T05:35:00.000-08:00

Ever notice how a gift made with love and one's own hands means more than one purchased in a store? (Don't even get me started on gift cards.)

For instance, my children's great grandmother sent a bunch of knitted baby afghans for them when they were little, and while pretty much all of the other baby stuff has now been donated, I still have these blankets, and I will likely give them to my kids when they have children of their own. I save cards with handwritten notes in them, even if the notes aren't that brilliant, because the writing is in my friend's or sister's or hubby's hand.

Elementary school teachers understand this, too, and the hand-crafted macaroni gifts my kids bring home are treasured even after they start to lose their macaroni. I know the brushstrokes on that painting are my kids' brushstrokes, and that alone makes the gift worth keeping.

With that in mind, and inspired by my fellow blogger Crafty Green Poet, I'm offering the first five commenters on this blog something handmade by me. Yes, I am currently stuck in a hotel, but once I am safely tucked away in my own home, I'll get to crafting for you, my select five readers/commenters. All I ask is that you offer the same on your own blog--or at least make something of your own for five people, even if you don't have a blog--and that you give the handmade gifts out before the end of the year.

You can't be sure what you will get. Will it be a bright, framed watercolor of a fairy? A dried flower painting? A recording of me on the piano? A pastel drawing of orbs in space? A poem written just for you in calligraphy? Fresh-baked banana bread or chocolate chip cookies? Feel free to name some preferences, and, even better, tell me what you plan to make by hand.

And if you turn out to be a late commenter, just make your post count, and I might still send you something!

The Dead

2011-01-09T05:47:00.000-08:00

To serve an inane

Inarticulate idea

He pulls a gun

And kills

His soul

The dead are lucky

For we are left with him

The expression

Of our daily yen

For hatred

He won't learn

Will we?