When Your Brain Turns to Mush

from the archives...12 March, 2010

Writer's Block. I hate it. Typically, when nothing seems to come to my imagination in the way of a story, there is always something hovering in the recesses, and it usually comes out in the forms of my soapbox, here on my blog. Well, lately, even that has gone to mush. At least, I have no other explanation except that my brain is fried, pureed and otherwise cooked.

Where oh where has that creative surge disappeared? I will take you on my typical search in hopes of finding it:

1--Peruse the old manuscripts. You know, the files in the database that sit unread until such times that the writer in me screams, If you can't create, you can always edit! Must be productive! Well it isn't. Not productive at all. Continue on...

2--Find the manuscript that a) I haven't looked at in a while, b) contains my favorite brooding hero--sorry Ryan Harris, you are picked on often, or c) Eenie-Meenie-Miney-Mo it until one comes up at random.

3--Begin reading with the purpose of editing. Too soon, I find myself so caught up in the story (yes, even when it's one I know so well, because, you know, I wrote it) that I can no longer focus on the mispelled words and grammatical faux-pa's that linger.

4--Start over

5--One paragraph in...I check my emails. There are four of them--addresses not messages--and all of them are always full. No, not because I have that many friends, but because I have that much *spam*. [For the record, I do not surf porn.] But they tell me I am in dire need of a penis enhancement, boob job, real estate is SanDiego and Mail Order Brides. After weeding through those, I find myself where else, but on to step 6...

6--Facebook. Yes, I told myself I would get off this thing fast, but what better place to procrastinate than the fun world of games, apps and the need to comment on everyone elses comments because you of all people, have something to say? And don't say MySpace is the alternative answer. I tried that. I signed up for one day--one--with the purpose of plugging my newly-published-and-awesome-book-everyone-should-read*buy here* and my first mesage was from Pedro looking for "a good time because, hey, you look cute and I like romance, too." Really? No, I believe I said I WRITE romance dipshit. Aaaaaand DELETE ACCOUNT.

Right, so back on track. Editing. Oooo...havn't checked my website in a while...

7--Check for guestbook signatures on my Website. And....oh, five new ones! Yay! It's always exciting to get that much cherished feedback from someone interested in my writing, someone who took the time to--Wait a sec...Mail Order Brides!! Since this website is for my writing, and I am married. With children. And not a Lesbian...I delete those, too, and send a complaint to the website creators.

Inevitably, I end up here, blogging about not being able to write. Until now, I didn't even get so far as to spill out the words. My only other choice (aside from looking for new pics of my favorite Rock Star Guitarist to post on my desktop--oh, what a dreamboat) in adding to my heaps of procrastination is reading other people's blogs. So begins the last of all steps....

8. Blogsites. Well, I have found a new one.

Thank you, "Bat Shit Crazy Cute" for your multitudes of humor, whimsey and laugh-out-loud notes. It is thanks to people like you that I have much else to procrastinate about. I will never write another book, I think, because I have found myself stuck perusing and laughing and having an absolute blast. I have become enthralled over the past 2 days, not writing, editing or researching, but reading a soapbox of which is not mine. This one truly should be published into a book of it's own.

Not all is lost. I have been inspired. I am, after all, back to writing at this moment, even if only on my dear Blogsite I have long since ignored.

Freeze Frame

from the archives...23 September, 2009

Zoom in or out...color or black and white...head shot or artsy...smile or look of "mystery''? So many options when choosing that perfect photo that is you, awesome writer. Yes, the very same photo to grace the back cover of every copy of your best-selling novel.

Okay, so yet another exaggeration but what I still call "positive thinking".

Truthfully, I hate taking pictures. Of other people, yes, they're fun. Of myself, well, like every woman, I can find something wrong with them all. And no, I did not actually go for a 'look of mystery', did not tip a fedora over my brow or pout Marilyn Monroe like at the camera. But I have pondered these pictures for two weeks, and can delay no longer. Now I'm at the point where I crop mere slivers from an edge and tint the color ever so slightly, and am inundated with copy upon copy of each of three simple shots, me the only one able to tell the differences. So I chose. Not by that childhood eenie meenie process of elimination, but close. More like, alright already, this'll do. First one to flash on screen.

And hopefully it passes. After all of the opinions from friends and family, which was helpful but I think the vote is still out--everyone is split between all of the same ones I am. So much for diplomatic methods. Being that I always overthink things--everything--I need to remind myself that I am self publishing. Who has the final say but 'me'? So the results are out, file sent to the publisher.

I compromised with artsy and didn't look at the camera...went somewhere between black and white and color... and zoom in? Well, sort of. Really, I could fret another two weeks and come out looking like Greta Garbo meets Minnie Mouse.

Shoulda just sent one of Indiana Jones. He wears a mean fedora.

The Long Road to Publishing

from the archives...12 February 2009

I have set my writing aside long enough. It's been back burner to everything else and while most of the 'everything else' hasn't changed or simply disappeared as one could hope, I just can't keep away long before I am itching for the computer, envisioning my books in print, and hording every brief moment to write another one; yet another set of characters who will sit along with many others in the vast files of computer memory until they're allowed out, edited a thousand times over and considered by me for sending out to agencies, publishers, my own little group of editing gurus.

All time crunches of life aside, things are beginning to move forward. I don't know that I've found any extra time to dedicate to my passions of writing, but I've found I am lost without doing something of the sort. So on to self publishing. And this time, no procrastinating.

The process has indeed begun.

My nerves are raw. My fingers restless to type. I have promised myself I won't go back to the manuscript in question until I see the first round of editing, returned for my perusal. That in itself has been difficult. I itch to read it again, make those small corrections, polish it until it shines though I've lost count of how many times I've done so already. But since it's been sent through to round one, leafing through pages at this point would be fruitless, so I force myself keep it on the back burner. I know the stressful days will come in a few weeks when I do have to sit down and weed through corrections and 'nice thoughts' from the editors with their suggestions.

I suppose the 'self' portion of the self publishing process takes a bit of pressure off. Essentially, I can choose to change only what I want to change, advice from editors or not. I am in control of the final product. But there is an enormous pressure in that alone. It's all up to me. And I know this is nothing compared to what could be and will be as I continue this journey.

I anticipate the process, have been looking ahead with excitement and even look forward to the advice and 'red penning' of the editing team. I have it all mapped out; from the day I receive the book in print to the sales beginning. But I fear it just won't happen the way I have it figured. In fact, I know it won't. You just can't plan those things. But however it happens, my positive side is sticking with optimism; my writer's side is feeling the burst of an ego coming because I know it is 'just that good'. The rest of me...well, I'm on edge, hoping it's good enough, hoping it makes the cut in the real world when my book finally leaves the security of my own imagination and moves into the wide world of editors, buyers and readers...

Meantime, I'll just have to write more...

Why Romance You Ask?

from the archives...9 February, 2008

I have ventured beyond my own expectations, begun many journeys I never thought I could through my writing. It began when I plunked myself down in front of an old hand me down computer and started to write a few notes for a short story idea I had. I didn’t know where it would go, how many pages, who the characters really were beyond demographics and one single scene that had been running through my mind. It turned into a novel sized book. The romance writing began somewhere else, somewhere a couple of years later.

My cousin read my second completed mystery novel; my second novel period-—very raw and with an inexperinced voice-—and wondered why I didn’t try writing more romance. The mystery was good, she’d said, but the very small romance line in the story came much stronger, much more easily. I think I had found my niche without even knowing it, and wouldn’t realize this until over a year later when I actually tried to do it.

I thought she was insane. I laughed at the comment. Romance? Me? Really? I’d not written, much less read, many romances in the last ten years at that point. Who does, really?...Old women, lonely single mothers, our mothers and grandmothers...come on, we’ve all scene the old Harlequin’s sitting on the bookshelf and dared to open them up, laugh, turn red and wonder to ourselves, ‘why would someone read that crap?’

There is a world out there I never knew existed, I’ll tell you that. And my mind is forever changed.

So I picked a few up. Some were smut, some written purely to see a sex scene in print, I’m sure--porno for women, my hubby calls it--and I could barely get through them. I have to say I was embarrassed for women everywhere.

Other writers, other stories, have come miles beyond the days of near-rape style sex scenes so elicit they overpowered the guts of the story. Some of them-—I can’t honestly say all because there is a load of crap in every genre of writing whether fiction or non, romance or not-—are good. Great even.

The writing has much improved, the storylines set in greater depth, sex on levels from barely mentionable to erotica. Take your pick. Fortunately for me, or so I think, I’ve always been a romantic at heart so I fit into the genre pretty well. (Just count me out of the erotica, or the religious for that matter, thank you very much).

But I didn’t stop there. I wrote two novels (‘throbbing manhoods’ and ‘heaving breasts’ gladly witheld) that were, for lack of a better expression, "romancy" and may dare to fit into the Harlequin section of the bookstore, though those have vastly expanded, too. I have written Chic-lit from a first person and witty perspective, and lingered a while on a darker side as influenced by my love for the Bronte's and classic gothic romance. I even set my head in the early 19th century for another.

When I look back to my first few books, I laugh. I laugh at the writing. But I love them. Ten novels and many short stories later, they still hold some of my favorite moments and characters. If nothing else, the feeling of finally getting down on paper some of my first thoughts and ideas, watching them develop, taking count of my growth as a writer in the meantime, drives me. I haven’t been at it long enough to call myself a "Jane Austen" or "Emily Bronte", perhaps never will, but I know I can make my way to a higher place eventually. And we get nowhere without dreaming.

All of my books say something about who I am as a person, a mother, a wife. A nurse, a writer, a woman. That’s where it counts. I love romance, am no longer afraid of it or the cliché’s and negative thoughts it brings in the eyes of many.

As Jane Austen once said, "Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery." Mine is dwelling with Jane’s.

"Far away in the sunshine are my highest inspirations. I may not reach them, but I can look up and see the beauty, believe in them and try to follow where they may lead."

Lousia May Alcott

A Place of Magic

from the archives...8 February, 2008

This is the opening chapter to one of my books in progress. It is a stray from the romance, drama and humour I typically write, but something I thought I would share; a little escape from our realm to one best understood in the minds of children. Enjoy!

Tom and Lily: A Tale From the Fairy Wood

Do you not feel around your brows a softer and sweeter air than you ever breathed before? Do you not perceive, in spite of the obscurity that veils your sight, a light more brilliant, and penetrating, and delightful …you seem to be enveloped by the universal harmony, as in one of the concerts which we hear in our dreams-and this is the breeze which sighs, murmurs, plays, and sings some melody to every flower… We are now in the domains of the Flower Fairy.’

from ‘the Flower Fairy,-The Flowers Personified’ or ‘Les Fleurs Animee’--JJ Grandville, 1847.

*translated by N. Clevand, Esq. as an ebook.

Chapter One: "Someone New in the Forest"

Far, far away, past the cities and tall buildings, away from the pastures and fields, beyond the lakes and rivers, lies a dense forest of tall trees, green leaves and bright bushes.

This is a place of wonder and imagination. A place that lives forever as long as you believe. Open your ears to the sounds, and your hearts to the whimsy and wonder, and you, too, shall see it. Now look down to the wet grass below, still covered by the early morning dew.

If you look deep beneath the green moss and quietly listen; peek between the tall blades of green grass and concentrate with all your heart, you might just see a whimsical fairy poke her head around a toadstool with wings aflutter. She floats in the air above you for a moment then in a wisp… she is gone!

Follow her now, quickly, as she flies through the air just above the tall grass. She moves above a winding pathway made of tiny pebbles and cobblestones, lined with toadstools of brown and red. She twitters among the dragonflies and laughs softly with the fireflies that light up the darkness below. Sparkling dust of silver and gold drops silently from her wings, brightening the grass and leaves beneath her. But wait…what is that along the side of the path? A small shrub, no taller than the tops of your shoes.

It moved, I am as sure as you are. It almost seemed to be reaching to catch the sprinkling of fairy dust. She is winking at you, and waving now with her tiny hands and you hear her whisper, ‘hurry up’. Follow her. She is calling you into her enchanted world.

This is the Fairy Wood. A place full of magic and wonder where fairies frolic and play; a place where the laughter of fairy younglings fills the air. Deep within the Wood is a tiny land where some fairies make their home. This land is the Hidden Forest. There are many stories to tell, and we will learn of the Forest soon.

But first we must understand how the Fairy Wood lives and breathes, how it functions without sunlight from above. It is dark here, lit only by the light of the fireflies. The dense leaves high up in the trees cover the Wood with a thick layer like a heavy warm blanket, blocking out the rays of the sun and the human world as we know it to be. Magically, beneath the covering of leaves of the tallest trees, the flowers and plants thrive, the trees stay lush and beautiful, and the forest remains a happy place where animals, bugs and creatures of all sizes have made their home. Life continues on with all of the substance of warmth, love and hope.

How does the land survive without sunlight? Without human touch? Ah, there are many mysteries here, but this one is simple. Magic. The fairies tend to the gardens of the wood, caring for every leaf of every branch, and every petal of every flower, magically with their fairy dust, they give the forest a voice. The forest becomes alive. As the fairies work, their twinkling dust falls silently from their wings, enchanting everything it touches in the Fairy Wood. The wood awakens; living, breathing and talking just like you and I. Just like the fairies.

In return for their kindness, the forest bestows upon the fairies a safe shelter and warmth that forever protects them from danger lying beyond the highest of high trees. The fairies call these ‘enchanted beings’ of trees and plants, and flowers and leaves, the Green.

The fairies that live here are many; their families have lived here since the beginning of time, which, as you know, is about as long as forever. They are very small. The smallest younglings only just a little bigger than a butterfly, and the eldest just a little smaller than a blue bird. They have double wings like a dragon fly to help them fly far and graceful, to hover in the air, carrying them wherever they wish to go. They radiate childish qualities of beauty and innocence with a devoted heart and true soul. Each fairy has a song, and if you listen carefully, you may hear them while you are in the Fairy Wood!

The ground here is covered by spongy moss, trailing through the pathways, winding between rocks and tree thick trunks. If you look closely at the ground, under the trees, between the flowers and vines, you may see patches of moss raised from the ground, bare of plants or flowers. Now look even closer where the moss falls over the knolls. Do you see the twinkling dust lingering in the valleys? There is an entrance through a doorway to each little hill, opening to a fairy home.

Take a peek inside. Don’t be afraid. This is where the fairies of the Hidden Forest dwell. Tiny chairs and beds, a small bedside table and a wash basin, all made from the fallen branches, old sticks. Dried leaves, moss, and flower petals adorn chairs and beds for softness and comfort. The ceiling is decorated by bunches of hanging flowers, and dried fruit, and vines wrap intricately through out the walls and floor, giving life to even these little knolls of homes. A tiny tree stump sits in the middle of the room, a table set a top it with napkins, rustic dishes and a pitcher of sorts full of nectar. It seems to be waiting for a family to rise and take of it a feast. But who?

A cozy bed in the corner looks welcoming and warm, covered with a quilt; a potpourri of dried lavender and apple blossoms, bound by soft fabrics all hand woven and colorful. If you look closely, the bundle of blankets rises and falls with an even rhythm. Someone sleeps here, waiting for the morning to call. Quiet now, don’t wake the sleeping treasure as we leave.

But look closely. There is another bed beneath. But it lies empty and quiet. Someone is already out exploring.

Listen...a rustle in the trees now. There she is again! Follow her trail of fairy dust to the tree stump, and around the corner where the pathway bends. Peek with her around the willow tree. Fly with her through the patch of green and purple clover and listen to the rustle. Husshh. She stops. Quietly now.

Crack! Crraack! She hears a rustling in the tree tops from up above and tilts her head in wonder at the sound. It is a dull and heavy rumble, like thunder droning from afar. The ground shakes slightly, and the flowers and shrubs brace themselves below. The sound echoes through the air with more cracking and breaking, booming and rumbling, but the small fairy smiles and her eyes sparkle. It is a familiar sound, and kind.

Follow her up along side an old knotty tree trunk, and now you see.

The leaves shake, and the branches far above bend down toward her, drawing slowly closer. The Old Oak Tree stretches from his sleep and watches down below with his tired, withered eyes. It is morning in the Fairy Wood. And the Hidden Forest is waking up…

A Beginning

from the archives...February 8, 2008

Everyone's career in writing begins somewhere. I have vague memories of a love for poetry, collecting favorites through books and notes I jotted down, even attempting my own verse, most of which became melodramatic whimpers of youth that I now, with great humility, shake my head at. I remember listening to stories told by my mentors, family members and teachers; reading books from the time I was small of great adventures, classic novelists, many of which influenced me then and still do. I even remember with fondness grade nine English grammar lessons, memorizing the Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner by Coleridge. I know, it sounds crazy: English and grammar described in the same sentence as fondness. It happened again in University when I developed a love for writing papers. Alas, I was doomed.

These, though, are only mere snippets of a beginning. It really began, I suppose, with a snapshot thought, a story without a structure that only became more once I dared plunk myself in front of a computer and let my thoughts flow. That image, that thought, that beginning was the start of my first novel eight years ago. From there I exploded. The stories in my head became consuming, at times unable to keep up, and I've come a long way since.

Now, I seem to have some control over keeping up with my thoughts. I can type faster, for one. And I have learned to let some thoughts go, or to set them aside for later use. And I write everything; stories, letters, essays, thoughts, books, notes (yes, my husband will attest to the post its and little ditties that run on and on, yammering about a grocery list, kids homework and to-do lists.)

I love writing. It engulfs me daily, sometimes even wakes me at night. So I continue on, pushing forth in the literary world with high aspirations to have a book set upon a shelf in the near future. In the future at any point, really.

So this will be the beginning of yet another stone on my path. I hope from here I may spark a thought for discussion, enable a connection to the literary world or inspire anther to pick up that proverbial pen. If nothing more, I have found a place to vent thoughts to all of you, dear readers, so I may clear my mind to make room for more. Maybe a few of my prose will intertwine themselves here amongst my thoughts and my ever opinionated views on the world. Because those will likely surface, too.

I leave you with an 'adieu' and a quote from a great literary inspiration; one who will be joining me frequently in this diary I am sure. And for now, it is her picture that will appear instead of mine. Hmmm. I'll need to find one of those...

"I have dreamed in my life, dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas; they have gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the color of my mind."

Emily Bronte 'Wuthering Heights'