Organic, But Not Green

One of the advantages of being a writer is shaping worlds to your own particular viewpoint, and having the characters play out scenarios in the manner in which you envision them. One of the disadvantages to being a writer is the simple, unavoidable fact that sometimes your imaginary friends have a mind of their own, if life is breathed into them with enough passion. They hijack plot lines, blurt out things that complicate relationships, and pull things out of their pockets that I didn’t know they had stuffed in there. Keeping up with them has been hard work, but worth it.  It has made the journey of my writing a surprisingly spontaneous, organic experience-- organic not in the FDA certified way, but organic as in a growing, living thing that pulses with its own life and dreams.  What a long, strange trip it’s been, as the hippies would say.  

Using that particular quirk of my writing, I can tell if a character is doing what is right for them, or if I’m trying to force a point. If I’m writing them into behaviors that aren’t their particular cup of tea, they balk hard, and I struggle to write a single page of dialogue. Days go by, and I’ve done nothing but type, backspace, type, backspace. They’re not happy with me, and sometimes it takes me days to realize where I’ve wandered away from my friends. For instance: I have a new character I’m trying to introduce into the second book, and all my main girl can do is swoon over him.  Trust me; she’s not the swooning type. I have worked this guy over for hotness factor, rugged dude look, manly mannerisms, and intriguing background. I thought I had him DOWN. What I forgot to pay attention to was his situation. He’s an office guy. Pencil pusher. Heroine worshiper. He kisses the ground she walks on. Has the whole Bounty paper towel dude look going on, but gets manicures. He’s perfect, but too much so. He’s not rough enough around the edges, and not mysterious enough, doesn’t have the connection with the outdoors like he should. So my main girl decided to show me (I think by being a complete smartass) that he’s wrong for her, and the plot, by fawning all over him, blushing (!!) and agreeing to a ‘weekend away’ after just one date.

Uh, what?

This from the girl that would rather flatten another guy for breathing even the suggestion that she’s easy, rather than give into obvious mutual attraction. Even if he was half out of his mind with crazy, and didn’t have any control over himself? Didn’t matter. Decked him. And now she’s staring into the middle distance, sighing and having fuzzy-edged thoughts about this new guy?

Pshaw.

I went off the rails somewhere. I think, no, I KNOW it’s the new guy’s fault. I’m going to pluck him out of his comfort zone and toss him to the tigers, see what comes up red. Take him down a notch, rough him up a little. Then maybe my main girl will quit with the heaving bodice act. Wish me luck-I hope none of the tigers escape and maul anyone important.

Tweeky Geeky

So I'm sitting here, tweeking my manuscript for the I-don't-knowth time, watching the Science Channel. I love me some satellite TV--so many truth-based guessing shows to choose from! Science is my weakness, my anti-kryptonite. If knowledge really was power, I would be a hell of a superhero--

LECTURE GIRL!!!!

Oh, I would give the BEST informative speeches. 

"Formation of the Moon--Facts, Fictions, and Shit You Just Would Not Believe." 8pm, Holiday Inn Express conference room.

"Lava Flow and the Formation of Super Awesome Crystals" Call for tour info.

"Obey Gravity--It's the LAW" Book signing at local used book nook.

Since the superhero thing isn't manifesting yet, I'll have to settle on making super friends and super enemies when my book blows up like *gaacckk* Twilight  *gaaaaggggguuuhh*

Sorry, threw up in my mouth a little bit.

I think I've found an agent for my book, if the extremely helpful advice she's giving me is any indication. The manuscript is a thousand times better than when I started, thanks to her helpful insight. And I figure I'm a winner either way--she either accepts me formally, or I just got a bunch of email help from a pro. Help is hard to come by in this industry, the helpful kind, that is. There is an entire industry built around "helping" new authors with everything but sitting their butt down and typing something. Most of it "helps" the hopeful writer out of their money.

 I want to lighten reader's wallets a bit in exchange for giving them something to do on the train. Those people who sell a writer their dreams back to them packaged as a quick and easy surefire novel are scum. SCUM! Just because some one is gullible, doesn't make it OK to take advantage of them. I don't pluck that wallet hanging out of that lady's purse, and I would stop you if I saw you try.

UGH--Injustice, don't get me started. 

Then I might not finish tweeking my book, and then what would you do on the train?

Crazy is as Crazy Does

The insanity online has swelled to a fever pitch--not about one particular thing, mind you, it just is swelling. Like a head wound that needs looked at. I keep trying to foray out into cyber-space, thinking that I can make my voice heard, and that people would be interested in something I might have to say. Unfortunately, there is no way ANYONE can hear me over the white, screaming noise the internet has become. And I'm just not willing to yell louder just to make myself hoarse. There are so many platforms, and groups to join, accounts to manage, that I feel lost sometimes.

Success is just around the corner if you can have enough exposure!
Build your online empire, tie your accounts together, and enough people will notice you and then buy your stuff!!
Millions of readers are waiting just to be directed to your SPLASH!! , FLASH!!, and mostly unreadable crazy-backgrounded website and blog!!!

It's driving me out of my ever lovin' MIND!!!!

I don't like the idea of throwing myself out there, splattered across the internet like some kind of cyber roadkill.

It's

Just

Plain

Tacky.

I don't want a reality show.

I don't want a million followers on Twitter hanging on my every move.

I don't want a web cam watching me cook on a homegrown YouTube reality show.

I don't want to be on TV.

All I want to do is to write well-written books that are well received and mostly well reviewed.

And there are too few hours in the day for me to do that, have a large family, a husband, and a house, and on top of that be a splattering idiot on the internet. Nope. Sorry. Not going to do it.

Oh, and I really do not want to post my weight, workout accomplishments, or what store I'm shopping at.

There is such a thing as TOO MUCH INFORMATION. And to keep my sanity, I'm going to keep most of my information to myself. Just call me an old-fashioned reclusive author. It's what I'm built for.
So I'll just keep this little sane corner to myself, and hope that some nice people wander in every once in a while to say "Hey".

The Sound of Silence, or How Loud The Screaming In My Head Really Is

School's back in session, which means my three sweet, adorable, chaos making, snack devouring, how can you use THAT much toilet paper, darlings are doing drudgery five times a week at the public schools.
Heh.
Just because I'm not prancing around singing "it's the most wonderful time of the year" doesn't mean I don't have the urge, I'm just toooooo busy now.
The summer didn't go quite as I had expected, as you know. So there is a bit of a backlog of projects that need getting at now. Inside, not so much, just the usual cleaning and such, but outside, thanks to the surgery and the triple digit heat I got less than nothing done, all I really managed to do was come up with MORE damn projects as I was sitting in the AC with the son on the couch. But they sounded so small, so easily done in a single afternoon! And now that I thought of them, I can't un-think them. So they'll get done, by goddess! I just hope this autumn is as awesomely autumn-y, like the summer was so very summer-y. Crisp air, falling leaves, that hint of campfire in the air......now THAT'S the most wonderful time of the year!
The outside aside, I have a great big honking son-of-a-you-know-what looming over my head that awaits every time it gets quiet around here. The next book has started to be a bit more impatient now that the crisis is over, and has progressed from light throat clearing to all out screeching at the top of it's metaphorical lungs. The problem with this one, is that it has required way more research, and involves way more emotional whiplash for my main character. Oh, she's going to kick my ass for this one, all the way to the end of the book. I hope it stays within the parameters I have planned for, but knowing her, she's going to send this one off the rails, and hard. I just hope she waits until the end, because if I had to do all this research into ancient Persian monotheism for nothing, someone's going to be screaming, and it's not going to be the voices in my head this time!
Oh, and I fixed the setting that has blocked comments on the blog--so fire away!

Cautiously Optimistic, without a side of broccoli

Oh my. Oh me oh my. I got my very first request for a full manuscript from an agent. The universe, being the coincidental and complicated place that it is, saw fit to have said request land in my inbox the day my son was transferred from the ICU to a regular hospital bed after his open heart surgery. I didn't see it for three days (living at the hospital does have its drawbacks) and I was a bit distracted to check my email anyway. However, I did appreciate the cosmic "party" thrown in my honor, and have thanked the appropriate deity in charge of timing. More nods to the cosmic pun factory were in store, after finding out that since my son will have to be on blood thinners for the rest of his life, there are certain foods that are prohibited from this point on, mainly spinach, broccoli, and all greens. I think he's been practicing for this moment for his whole life-the mere smell of cooking broccoli makes him run for the hills!
I am cautiously optimistic about this request for my entire book, and highly anticipating any input a professional in the industry would have about my story. There is a fine line in my head between optimism and wild speculation, and I'm trying so very hard not to cross into the sharp-edged world of high expectations. The publishing industry is fraught with shark filled pits of self-destruction, where criticism can gnaw you down to nothing but bones. There is too much pain in the world for me to set myself up right on the edge of that pit, toes hanging over the edge. So I remain cautiously optimistic, with fingers and toes crossed.

Justified

Today, cruising through ye olde towne, I got stuck behind a mail truck. Seeing as how I was in no big hurry, I puttered on behind her, backing up traffic, and generally being a great big pain in the ass. No crossing a double yellow line for me, no sirree! The guy five cars behind me took umbrage at my outlandish courtesy and passed us all, horn a-blowing and naughty finger a-waving. Weelll.....the state trooper in the quite clearly marked SUV (you know-light bar, big blue VIRGINIA STATE TROOPER emblazoned across every flat surface) that was right behind me wasted no time in making pretty sparkly blue lights at him and giving him a ten minute lecture plus ticket. (Yes, I stopped to watch, but I was going to the Walgreens, I swear!) If anyone had been able to see inside my vehicle as he got chased down, they probably would have called an ambulance, convinced I was having a seizure. There was fist pumping, high fiving, and general displays of not so ladylike behavior going on in there.
Hah! Justification. Smells like victory.
It doesn't always happen like that, as you all are well aware of. Which makes it so much sweeter when it does.
I experienced something this weekend that I know will never see it's moment of sweet sweet revenge, and it makes me both sad and outrageously angry. Disney has taken upon itself to corrupt yet another of the great stories. Alice in Wonderland is a travesty. A blatant and sickening reminder of the power of corporate thinking. They have taken a story with the staying power of over a hundred years and moulded it into something they can make money off of, riding the coattails of Lewis Carol's enduring appeal to a sequence of generations and making it a shadow of it's former self. From my generation onward, people will be thinking that this abomination is the real story, for how many people nowadays take the time to actually read the classics? Just as video killed the radio star, movies (made by large corporations--indie films are much better about this) have fundamentally distorted the legacy of human literature. Why read the book? Watch the movie! In 3D! High Def! 1080p!
So for any of you out there that have not read the weird, confusing, poetry-riddled wonderland that Carol penned well before our time, do me a favor. Read the book, then watch the movie. You'll understand, I hope, and then maybe, just maybe, I can sleep better knowing there is a spark out there that can be fanned into a wildfire of respect for our literary heritage.

Broken Hearted

Central air-conditioning was a non-negotiable point when shopping for our house a few years ago, what with having enough of the sweaty and miserable nights and days of my youth. But it wasn't the cool, dry air wafting ever so softly out of the vents that gave me a brief case of the chills yesterday. It was in actuality the sobering news that my son's surgery of four years ago had been outgrown, and more was looming soon on the horizon.
Good news? The fact that he had grown. He's approaching six feet.
Bad news? Another open heart surgery.
Good news/Bad news all around, in so many aspects. We have a choice this time, not only of fixes, but of world class surgeons.
I may rail against NorVa, but there are some perks. Proximity to so much experience, so many facilities is priceless when it comes down to the wire. The idea of having to cross the country to get him great medical service is appalling. And scary. I admit it, I'm a homebody. Now that I have a home of my own, I'm pretty vested in my policy of non-wandering, for now. I still get itchy when I think that I've been in the area for a whole ten years, but the soothing balm of a well-healed child works it's magic every time.
So, now begins the research, the phone calls, and the interviews to find the best of the best of the best surgeon and fix for my manchild. I thank the ethereal powers that be that it is now, and not a generation ago. Medical science has come leaps and bounds since then. Whew.

Second Love, First Time

Spring has sprung, launching itself onto my aching back and digging its claws deep. The garden looks wonderful, so I at least have something nice to stare blearily at while I power-chug black coffee and run down the list in my head of all that remains to be done. I wouldn't have it any other way, though. Even if I had the disposable income to hire some nubile satyr to yank weeds for me, there is no way I would give up the therapy of grubbing in the dirt and then sitting back and admiring my very own handy work. I did that a bit after my first book was done-sit back and stare dumbly while I tried to come to grips with the scope of what I had accomplished. The true meaning of "a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step" had finally become realized for me, in a very intimate way. In the past, impatience and myself had been bosom buddies, BFFs, my constant companion. I've learned the hard way how to slow down and follow through in the last few years, and I saw it pay off in spades in my manuscript. One word at a time, I hammered down 77,000 of them, all coherent (ok, NOW they're all coherent-thank you proof readers!) and telling a nicely original story. But like a good parent, I have to let it go to the wide world, and focus on the one left at home. Book number two is working its magic on me, catching me by surprise in the oddest moments of inspiration (writing plot points in gardening gloves is fun as hell), creeping into my thoughts the second I'm actively trying not to fall off ladders, or having me asking questions of my family such as "do you think leather gloves would singe or melt if set on fire?". The romance between the plot and I is still new and fresh, and we're both still dancing around that first kiss, but the thrill is back from the first time. Unlike a real relationship, I can see some of what is going to happen, and I know I get to steer. Ok, I'm delusional. My heroine will take the reins firmly in hand and drag my ass over the rocks. She's just that kind of girl. I love her to bits.

Crimson and Clover

I woke up this morning to the song spooling through my head, so disregard the previous non-clover statements. I couldn't resist the pull of the Shondells. Who can? Not I, said the ginger.
The wicked winter here on the East coast we tender Virginians have suffered through seems to have slunk off to plot next years assault. Spring is raising a sleepy head and taking a quick look around to see if the coast is clear, pushing up crocus flowers and daffodil shoots as she rises. It's a hopeful time of year, the new green renewing our hope for revived life, giving us a promise of wonderful and lush things to come. The weeds have yet to rear their unwelcome heads, and I'm thankful for the short time I have to admire the flowerbeds in the yard without the nagging urge to tidy them up. Don't get me wrong-there are many plants that grow wild here that some consider pests, unwelcome stragglers that wander into well tended beds that I welcome with open arms. Weeds are subjective, like most anything might well be. Some have a beauty that rivals the most carefully cultivated botany, and are hearty enough to survive even my tender ministrations. There are some, however, that if I don't nip in the bud would gladly run amok and strangle out the deliberate plantings. Clover, no matter how delicately beautiful their pinkish balls of cottony flowers, are one weed that I gladly yank out with vigor. I can safely say that no one would ever accuse me of being overly zealous with my gardening, but I try to keep it all within a certain balance.
I had to stop and put away my manuscript for the same reason. I have weeded out the glaring mistakes in the plot line, corrected my many attempts to write sentences without all the required words, and filled in holes that needed filled. It was almost a complete rewrite, and according to my proof readers the book has become stronger, more intricate, and a better read all around. Caught up in weeding out mistakes, I began to do more than that, and began falling down the rabbit hole of perfection. Not that it is perfect, mind you. It's a mindset. At some point I realized that all I was doing was delaying the inevitable. Submission. I had already submitted the unchanged manuscript twice, with predictable results. Rejection is par for the course in this business, but it still stings. Trying to achieve the impossible perfect book was a way for me to avoid those slings and arrows, and once I realized it, I took off the gardening gloves, put the hoe away, and started showing my garden to other people. I'm still collecting rejections, yes, but having come to terms with the fickle nature of the publishing industry, I will let the book stand on it's own merits and continue to parade it before agents until I am accepted by one. Meanwhile, work on the second book is underway,along with two short stories I picked up inspiration for last week that I'm making notes on. A passionate reader is what I used to be, a writer is what I want to be, and by god a writer is what I shall be. Time will tell if I am a successful one or not, if success is measured in publication. I have already achieved a major goal in my life already-to write a good book-and in my mind that makes me a success already. All else is frosting.
Mmmmm. Cake.

Done

I am done. Done with snow, done with winter, and more importantly, done with the first Berserker novel. The revisions have been dragging on for a while, I fell down the rabbit hole of nit-picking pretty hard even with my vow to leave it as it stood that I made to myself oh so many months ago.Granted, I am now comfortable and proud of my story, and will submit it to the wolves of the publishing industry with my head held high and a battle cry of "Oh yes, one of you will love this!" resonating in my heart.

With the help of a thick white cover of the cold stuff, I pushed through to the end, rewrote the prologue, and hit save for the last time it will be touched without professional prompting. The fact that most of the story takes place in the depths of winter helped hasten the last few days of editing--I was getting so cold while sitting at my desk in the basement my hands were getting clumsy as I was typing. The frosty weather inside my head and outside my window were the perfect storm to have me well in the mood to write as if I really was in northern Maine in the middle of yet another winter storm, but left me decidedly frigid. I'm looking forward to the next book, for this one takes place not only much farther south, but at the beginnings of an interesting and nicely warmer summer.
Now, if only it were that easy to switch seasons here in northern VA.

Sick of Being Sick

When I was a kid, I had a book titled "The Sick of Being Sick Book" that had a bunch of things you could do to entertain yourself when you were home from school sick. Wastebasket tissue basketball, snot identification charts, how to fake a fever to get an extra day, great things that unfortunately were moot if you were really sick enough to be kept home from school in the first place. To be kept home, you had to be toeing the edge of your hand-dug grave, and the last thing you had the energy to do was make a snowman army from used tissues. It was great reading for the healthy times though, and I think I still have that book around here somewhere, buried among the remains of my childhood memory boxes. What that book couldn't do, and what countless other books I've read in the intervening years couldn't do was tell me how to keep from becoming convinced that you really were on your deathbed while indisposed with your sickness. I do this every time I come down with something nastier than the sniffles. This is the big one, I think to myself, time to put my affairs in order, kiss the dog goodbye one last time, and make sure enough laundry is done so that my family will have clean towels to swaddle my hollow shell in when I shuffle off this mortal coil. And every time, I end up getting better, albeit with a head start on the laundry.
Head space is what you make of it, come to find out. The topography of your soul is somewhat determined by the experiences endured in life, good and painful, but ultimately, you are your own landscape artist. The mountains and molehills of your mind are set, but the gardens and paths you stroll down are entirely of your own design. Your hand sets the seedlings, carefully or carelessly prunes the topiary, and either rakes the gravel paths or lets them be devoured by choking weeds.
I realized during my last bout of illness (more than a cold, but I'm not willing to discuss the hospital implications here) that I had been haphazardly planting my internal gardens and using a heavy and uncaring hand in their upkeep. I'm not out of the metaphorical woods yet, and I'm looking at a possible long stay in my own topography soon. Although it's far from spring in the external world, it's now planting time in my soul. Beauty is supposed to start from within. It's high time I had more than poisonous herbs and thorn bushes lining my barely discernible pathways.