Novel Idea #1

It's been too long, but rather than apologize, for the next 30 days--the ENTIRE MONTH of April--I'm offering a gift: 

Each day I will post ONE idea for a story, novel, children's book, screenplay, or whatever. And the idea is for ANYBODY to use. Feel free to write a story of your own from the idea, or use it as inspiration for whatever you would like to work on... or just use it to help you kickstart your own writing. 

Novel Idea #1:

Multigenerational family has a genetic mutation--they are born capable of transforming into merpeople when young. If they do so before they hit puberty they develop the ability to change any time they get into water, but if they wait until adulthood, the transformation becomes blocked. 

After centuries of being snared as selkies or burned as witches, they decide normal is better, so for more than a century they have forbidden any swimming or water exposure for all of the children until they turn 15. Everyone has been normal for several generations now, but parents are taught of the curse so that they can keep the normal cycles going. 

Until one member, secretly angry with the world, invites all the cousins to his lake house for a week. And takes them out on a boat and tosses them into the water. 

There you go... if you aren't into mermaids or fantasy, that's cool. Just check back here tomorrow for more. And let me know if you come up with a writing from this. I'd love to read it!

Something is Just Not Right

You've heard the metaphors before… about the "shoe" fitting and such.

Imagine, if you will, poor Prince Charming. Start the action before the ball: He's feeling pressure to get married. Dad's overweight and old, the old man has gout and diabetes, and time is wasting. Charming needs to get married soon, and have kids soon, so that the line of rulers can continue without wrangling over succession once he gets too old to rule.

He has a vision of the right girl--not a purely physical image, for he needs more than looks if he can make it through years of marriage and still be able to stand her. He also has a fear: what if she doesn't like him back?

So he goes to the ball, his hands sweating from nerves. Most of the women just feel wrong. Some fawn over him, and he knows a month of marriage to any number of these would either give him a big fat head or make him gag. But then the image he hopes for steps into the ballroom. She's maybe a little shorter than he'd imagined, but still pretty. Her hands are graceful, and she looks so out of place and timid. She's perfect.

Two hours of absolute bliss follow. She seems to like him, they dance together, they talk together like old friends, and he somehow finds himself sharing his innermost thoughts with her. But then his world is shattered--at the first stroke of midnight, she starts hyperventilating, grabs her purse off the table next to them, and runs off.

He chases after her, but she's in far better shape, and suddenly she's gone, leaving behind a mere slipper.

And now he's stuck. He knows what his ideal is, but she's gone, and he doesn't have a clue how to find her. So he takes the slipper around, spending weeks searching the whole kingdom to find that perfect person for him. Sure, he meets all sorts of other ladies, some of them quite pretty, some of them who even sort of or almost fit the shoe. But he keeps searching, willing to keep looking because he wants the right person, the perfect fit.

So goes the search for a writer's group. There may be any number of groups in your neighborhood. You might have a next door neighbor who belongs to one. But ANY writers group won't work. They are all different, and a writers group that isn't the right fit won't do you any good.

(BTW, this discussion could represent ANY creative group, whether painting, sewing, drawing, manga lovers, etc. I once joined a sewing group, but I was the only one who was sewing clothing--everyone else was quilting. It was not a fit.)

I realized last night, as I visited a local writers group for the fourth or fifth time, that though it was a great group of people, it wasn't the right fit for me. I could attend every single meeting from here to eternity, but it would be like dating the same person week after week, knowing our relationship would not work in the long run.

What do I want in a writer's group? I'm pretty picky, so here's my list:

1. I need other serious writers to attend. By serious, I mean that they write all the time, revise what they write, develop their writing beyond short vignettes. I am perfectly happy if they are better writers than I, so long as they are writing. It's kind of like tennis. It's far more fun to play with others who are at or near your skill and commitment level than play with people who are far more or far less skilled. Mismatches are no fun for anybody (except for writers in number 2, below).

2. The writers need to be there for both themselves AND others. Some of the more serious writers are only there as a ego boost, to flaunt their writing in front of other people. These writers take criticism and questions very poorly, and are nearly always silent about other writers' works (unless they open their mouth to say something outright mean). The other writers should be there for feedback, but also be there to help other writers grow. I find that feeling my way through the writings of others makes me better, and I want other members to be just as committed.

3. The group needs to do more than clap. I've been in groups that are only encouraging. And I certainly know that many writers, especially those on the beginning of their writing journey, need encouragement most of all. I don't. I need criticism. I need honesty. I need tough love. If a piece is not good, I need the writer of it to have some clue, and to ask for help. And the others in the group should be honest, without hurting feelings.

4. The group needs to actively encourage further writing. Perhaps it's an assignment for next time. Even better, it's an individual thing--"Now that we've read scenes 1 & 2 of this play, can you bring in scene 3 next time?"--the writers need a reason to come back, some level of continuity. The activity is what matters. I don't need a social group, I need one that inspires me to write more.

5. Writers need to attend consistently. Attendance shows commitment, and it allows writers to bring in novel excerpts, submit plays in chunks, and get feedback on a whole larger work.

Remember, though, these are my stipulations. You may need something completely different. Your slipper might not resemble mine at all. And that is fine. I have only found my perfect kind of group twice, and I would still be attending if these two groups if they weren't thousands of miles away. I have hope, though, that I will find such a group closer to home. I am willing to drive if it means I can find the perfect fit for my slipper.

So I will keep looking, shoe in hand.

Itchy

I woke with an edge inside me this morning, a call to do something more today. It's a lovely call, really, a voice in my brain bent on creating.

Will I listen? I haven't listened to the call much of late. I've filled my world with dishes, trips to the store, paper sorting, and other inane activities. It's as if I wish the voice to just go away, to leave me alone in mundane world and go off to call to somebody else. 

That is what separates an artist from one who is not. I write this, not to chastise you, but to goad myself into action. I'm not a writer if I don't write. I'm not a painter if I don't paint. I'm not a pianist if I don't play. Artists create. If they don't, they aren't artists.

I recently met an painter who, even at a young age, was compelled to paint. Any chance he got, with any medium at hand, on any surface, if given any free time. He listened to that urgent voice early on. And he painted, and painted, and painted. And he's still listening, still heeding, still painting. 

I've been going at this all wrong all my life. I've been locking this voice in a closet, letting it out only when I have a bunch of free time, when all my chores are done (which is not often). I've said I will write/paint/dance/sing/go to the ball only if I get all my work done. I've been my own evil stepmother.

That ends today. Permanently. I'm kicking my evil stepmother to the curb. I'm getting what I have to do done, but the rest of the time is mine. To paint. To create. To play. To turn my ideas into tangible, beautiful reality. I will not die regretting all things I never got around to creating. I am a Maker (as Orson Scott Card would term it), and it's about damned time I made something.

I have 14 hours until bedtime. Plenty of time to make something. 

Year, Day, Moment

No resolutions
This year

This year
Is too long to face
Today

Today is all I know
I can count on
This very hour

This hour
I'll do all I can to be
This minute

This swiftly moving minute
Is all I hold, just a point in time
The briefest moment
In my trembling hands.

24 Days of Christmas

I'm trying something new this year.

Yes, I'm adding yet another thing to my list of to-do's... because I obviously don't have enough to keep me busy, after all.

Here is the cabinet when closed.

A few years ago, I bought a little wooden chest of drawers as a holiday decoration. On the outside are some friendly looking snowmen, and when one opens the doors of the little cabinet, one finds 24 numbered drawers inside. Each is small--probably big enough to hold a couple of rolls of Smarties or something similar.

Here are the individual drawers...

That's what I've placed in the drawers over the last few years. Candies, tiny toys, or tiny toys with candy in them. But that's never really worked for me. And since my son doesn't really like candy, that hasn't really worked for him, either. And my daughter even got bored with that last year.

But I have a new plan. While candy is a bit iffy, both of my kids LOVE poetry. My third grader brought home an excerpt from Whittier's Snowbound last week, and I pulled out the bigger poem and read some of it to them. I think I was a little bored--man, but that poem is LONG--but they didn't want me to stop reading.

This year, instead of the stupid candies, I'm going to place a poem or little story into each drawer. Nothing epic, just something about the season. Each drawer has a different painted figure on it, so I've been planning out the ideas I'll deal with in each vignette. I'll post the first few here on the days they happen, but since I'll be out of town this weekend (O you magnificent friend who invited me to spend a few days in Florida! Bless you!) I won't be able to tell you about my kids' reaction to each one. Once I get back in town I'll include how my kids responded, even if they wrinkled their noses and said, "That's it?"

Check back all month for your online Advent Calendar. I hope it helps you count your way down to Christmas, making you a little cheerier (or at least more thoughtful) along the way.

Brush Strokes

Just one stroke
Of cherry red on white
Then another

Not much, I know,
But the strokes add up
Faster than I could imagine

Filling in the space
With color, with crimson sharp
Against green leaf

A flick of brush
Isn't much at all
On its own

But when are brush strokes
Singled out one by one
Set apart

No

Though the brush strokes
Each are little enough
They become the whole

Be patient
Keep painting little strokes
And see the world form
Swirling into beautiful existence
Under your fingertips.

Not Dead

I'm sure you thought I was. Or you forgot I had ever been alive.

But any dark thoughts you had mulling over my demise are mere fantasy. I'm alive, I had a great summer off, and I have plans for this year.

One plan, of course, is to keep blogging next summer, and not drop off the face of the earth again. But next summer is a long way off, and my focus is on the now.

So stay tuned. Much news will be coming your way, and the revamping I've done of my blog so far is only the beginning. I hope to catch up with all of you on your own blogs, so if you've missed me and want me to visit super soon, just leave me a nagging message below.

Finishing

I can't believe I haven't posted in a week, but at least I know I have been working. My current novel revision is one fleshed out scene away from being complete. And it's fun, and exciting, and I'm relishing the thought of sending it off to beta readers for a good swift bashing.

I'm also grinning at the thought of working on my mermaid novel again, now that this task is almost complete. And I have a play I am desperate to turn into a full-length. And my veggie books are calling me longingly, like sirens.

The piano, too, feels neglected, as do my watercolors. Can I tend to it all? Probably not, but it's nice to be called to, nice to know I have a TON of things to do once this project is finished. So, as with last week, along with three hours of scheduled Zumba fitness today, I have a bunch of other possibilities. The chance to finish a revision is at the top of the list, too.

What feelings does finishing conjure up for you? For me, it's a deep sigh--and perhaps a drink--before beginning on another exciting project. It's a sense of a job well done, a task no longer on my list of things to do. A closure, rather like the last performance of a play's run, the final meeting of class before we all go home, the final entry of grades for the semester.

It's one of my favorite feelings in the world, though it comes with a sense of loss.

What about you? What have you finished lately? How did it make you feel? I'll read through your entries once my scene is complete. In the meantime, happy writing/painting/coloring/singing/playing/doing/FINISHING!!!

I NEED a Ghostly Title!!!

If you haven't spoken up lately, I really need your help today.

With my first novel already entered in the ABNA contest, I'm working on revisions of Novel #3. My biggest problem, though, is my title is absolutely terrible. Title suckage is a consistent problem for me, for my titles are either far too long and convoluted (I must have learned this from my research paper writing days) or are simplistic and completely unimaginative.

Here's the story's premise: A sixteen-year-old girl, who has been in and out of foster homes most of her life (mom lost military husband and turned to drugs for solace), moves into a house on Puget Sound with her mom and new stepfather. The house is a bargain, but it's also haunted, and mom and stepdad have issues from the very beginning. Finally, stepdad leaves for good--only mom does, too, since she disappears like she has so many times before. The daughter Emme doesn't want to go back into foster care, so she tries to make it on her own in the little house, keeping her mom's absence from her stepdad and social workers. But the house she's living in is haunted, as she's reminded of almost daily.

This is an actual picture of a ghost among some tall grasses. Source: Ghoststudy.com. If you like ghosts, you should really check out this site. LOADS of great pictures! 

The ghost at first terrifies her, but soon she gets used to him, even learning his name ("Charley"). He finds ways of communicating with her, and even helps her get a job and keep the house, etc. Beneficial ghost. I don't want to go into all the other details (don't want to spoil it for anybody), but I have the most horrifically craptacular title on the face of the planet right now, and I need a better one. Come to think of it, any title would be a better one! Let me illustrate:

Just Me and Charley

Yup, that's the title. Pathetic, yes, but at least I already know this! I really want something to reflect the ghostliness, Puget Sound, the foster kid trying to make it on her own, etc. Have pity on me and help me out, all you creative people!

Oooh, how about Ghost on the Water? It's better, but, like I said, any title would be better. Can you help me? Please?

While you're at it, got any creepy-ish music to suggest I listen to while I revise? I love to revise accompanied by appropriate music.

Made by Hand

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!

Creative Groups

How many of you belong to a writers' group? A painting group? A music group? How many of you attend a weekly/biweekly/monthly poetry slam or open mic?

Most artists recognize the need to get with other artists, share their work, and get feedback (especially the writers among us). I've started three different writers groups (only one still running), and I've been part of all sorts of other groups for creative types. I currently have a spectacular group of playwrights I meet with a few times a month, and our interaction has certainly helped my playwriting develop more effectively than if I had gone it alone. I've moaned a few times about not having a similar group for my other genres of writing, and I'd LOVE a group where I could go and paint while other artists are also creating art.

This past weekend's writers conference introduced another idea to me, however. Instead of forming a group for critiquing work--so that we can bring in poetry or short stories, read them aloud, and figure out ways to improve them--several presenters were part of what they called a "creative group." Rather than bringing and sharing material, these people meet several times a month so that they can talk about the writing/painting/drawing/singing/music/etc. creative process. They share their fears about their own work, their goals, the struggles holding them back, stress, rejection, successes, etc.

They do not share and critique their work. In fact, the people in these groups come from every creative pursuit. Some are band members, some painters, some photographers, along with several kinds of writers. The creative genre isn't important. The pursuit of some sort of creative venue is all that is required. One of these groups has lasted more than 20 years!

So, what is the benefit of such a group? Consider what we do online right now, only in person. Support. Understanding. Reaching out and communicating with other people who are trying their hands and creative things. My husband loves me, but he doesn't understand my goals. He actually compares my writing pursuits and goals to his playing fantasy football (yes, that's as close as he can get, poor guy).

Oh, but to have people who may not go about their creative adventure in the same way, but who are on similar roads... that would be wonderful. When I felt like I should just give up writing, I'd have people who understood my misgivings. When I was elated, I could share that joy, too.

Hey, wait a minute! Am I a moron or what? I already have that! It's right here, right now, with all of you...

Bonus! (Now if you just lived around the block, life would be perfect!)

Hidden

HIDDEN

More than a domestic goddess

Able to refinish furniture

Bake anything

Tile bathroom floors

No

She, the stylish

Flirtatious dancing goddess

Graceful, loving,

Full of passion

Yet to most, her truest essence

Hidden.

 

Not nearly

Boring

Even if his shy eyes

Suggest he has nothing to say

Inside his brain’s a

Deep cavern of experience

Of wisdom

Seeing the world as only a few

Old souls perceive it

Rich, intelligent,

But to all his friends

Hidden.

 

While others click their tongues

And say, “Poor thing,”

She seethes inside with life

And art and music

Dismissed by all

She paints in private,

Writes and dances

Late into the night

Driven to create

But certain to keep each effort

Hidden.

 

And so we go

Misunderstood and overlooked

Each one

Capable

Creative

In tune with the magic of the earth

Yet silent in a crowd

Keeping all beneath our surface

Playing safe

Afraid of what will happen

If even once we do not keep

Who we are

Hidden.