Life; A Cumbersome Cloud at Times...

from the archives...28 October, 2008

I've been "getting my manuscript ready" for what feels like eons without moving ahead, but it just seems one excuse after another holds me back. Essentially, they are only excuses, but I really do need to prioritize my life right now. And my writing, much to my distaste, has taken a back burner. My family, my health and my kids have to come first, and for that I have no hard feelings.


So what does one do when your writing is put on hold?

As a writer, you want your literary works to be your entire life. It is how you title yourself when anyone asks, 'what do you do?' or 'tell me about yourself'. At least, in the back of your mind it is: "I am Tara...Awesome Writer PhD!" even though your actual job is what comes out, followed by anything else you feel obligated to list. But we all know, it is the writer pushing to stand forward, so bold and arrogant. It is, after all, the only chance for true arrogance when the rest of you, the actual you, isn't so in-your-face at all.


A writer wants to be submerged in their thoughts, facing a monitor or the pages of a notepad at all times; you want to suck in the essence of your character's thoughts and ideas, manipulate their lives into a story--a bit like a puppeteer, I suppose. Perhaps the control-freak side of me? (I'll ponder that another time, perhaps from a couch in a fancy office.) But so many times, it is all fiction, as much as the books you write are.


If only we were all Stephen King's and Nora Roberts's. But alas, so few writers--even good and published one's--do not make a living off their creative soul. So it is onto other things and life must continue around us.


In my case, some things do not. My house suffers the worst. The dishes practically cry from the sink, 'wash me!' and the laundry, well, let's just say I don't care how high the mountain gets or if we more than occasionally live out of the dryer; at least the priorities are there for everyone else. And, sorry, last night's lasagna pan (let's be realistic; more likely three night's ago...), but you'll just have to wait for Guide camp to finish, cookie sales to settle, school trips and homework and volunteering to end, and of course, my health to resolve when it rears it's head. Not to mention my job. Remember? The one that actually pays. Even then, the writing comes next in the line of priorities, after all of that and before the housework. It's the writing I have a hard time saying "no" to.


These are just my thoughts, my rant on waiting for life to catch up with my own set schedule, which is just never going to be wide enough to engulf all I want it to. With a sigh, I set the words of creativity aside with a promise that I will return. And to my loyal fans (oh, they are 'endless') the book will get published in time.


So, in lieux of preparing my manuscript in these few spare moments, here I sit, typing frantically at a blog...(about my writing)...and not working on the writing itself. Just doesn't make sense, does it?

But the dishes are now screeching.

And I ignore them still.

A Quick Note and an Invitation to My Website

from the archives...18 September, 2008

I have deleted some of the blog pages here that included excerpts of short story entries. But they have only moved homes. I am, in my attempt to stride forward in my publishing ventures, started up a website dedicated to my writing excerpts and allowing this blog-space to remain my fuel for a soap box, where I so often find myself standing.


So here is your official invitation to the world inside my head...come and explore, Lost in the Pages!

http://www.tarafuselli.com/

Happy reading!

As I step Into the World of Publishing...

from the archives...27 May, 2008

It’s been a while since I’ve posted anything, mainly a result of avoiding the internet with the year of Girl Guide emails finally over, my first chance since September of not seeing 10-18 messages in the inbox, none of those related to writing.

 

Also, the time has come to self-publish so I have been a busy bee editing and polishing and perfecting a manuscript to ready for self-publishing. I have had mixed reviews on the subject. Some say it’s a waste of time and money; that I shouldn’t have to pay for my own book to get there. Others, excited to finally see one of my book’s in print.

I tend to side with the latter.

Call me crazy, maybe impatient, but I am having a hard time waiting for an agent to pick one of them up, though the submissions do continue from my end. I did come close, hearing back some positive feedback from one, hopes elevated then dashed when I received the dreaded, ‘it isn’t right for our agency’ letter.

No worse for wear, I plug away and move on to the next. In the meantime, until I can dedicate enough time to these submissions (more often than every few months) I will self-publish.

 

Just to see my name in print? Maybe. But more in hopes that it will be a stepping-stone to something bigger. My lack of writing credentials to fill up an author’s bio is evident with the one-liner of ‘mother, nurse, years of self taught writing experience’. It isn’t that bland, fired up much more, because that’s what we writer’s do, but it is bare bones under the blaze. So self-publishing may be part of my progressive work in that direction.

 

Of course, this all comes with the attached job of promoting one’s book. Ugh, the torturous thoughts. Wouldn’t it be easier if everyone just picked it up and said, ‘Wow, an instant Jane Austen’? Yes, but completely illogical. Another of my fantasy worlds. Oh, they are vast.

 

So off I go, to throw my characters lives into the hands of the public. Let’s see what they do with them, shall we?

An Appendage to the Question of Character Perspective

from the archives...18 February, 2008

The omniscient third person. I won’t say that all has been cleared up in my mind; that a resolution is that much closer, but it is the means to an end. It is with the third person point of view divided into two and sometimes three perspectives that I find the answers to all of my bewilderment over the issue of ‘tense’. And in a second letter to a friend that I share with you now...

In the omniscient third person, the writer acts as narrator but with the ability (unlike in ‘limited third person’) to get inside those characters heads, traveling between the deeper view of not only one chosen character but a second or more.

While it is not an unheard of technique, it is an old one, used by writers ‘past tense’ so to speak, examples found in Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, Mitchell’s Gone with the Wind and McCullough’s The Thornbirds. (Not so shabby.) So it seems it is an old technique, something many readers and writers of today either abhor or avoid, feeling more of a connection with the storyline of a book when it follows just one character the whole way through, or none at all when it comes to those inner thoughts.

Two things ring out at me that I cannot leave without commenting on at this point in my ramblings.

First, omniscent perspective has been noted as an ‘unheard of’ and ‘lost’ tradition in a negative sense, one in which writers like myself should shy from, feel injured to think one might be grouped with these writers of another time and should in the least attempt to bring one's writing into this century in answer to the readers of today. Rather, I find myself filled with childish glee, laughing within at the thought of bringing it back, tasting those waters of times past. I am glad, honored, excited at the thoughts of having perhaps an ‘old heart’ in my modern day writing, even giddy simply because it isn’t typical anymore. My back is up, reader, intrigued not only to continue on my merry ‘omniscient’ way through writing, but to say, ‘fie you readers of this century! I will bring the story out and most certainly bring you in!’

That being said—and granted, it was said with far too much enthusiasm, but I got on a roll and there is no one but myself to stop it—I come to my second point.

I look back, now that I have defined the difference in writing, and it pops out with a sudden burst in my mind that I have in fact seen this before. I have noticed a change, a difference, and many times over, it has gurgled up into annoyance when reading. I have read many novels, particularly those of historic romance but traditional ones as well, where we follow the narrator through the eyes of a single perspective, written in limited third person.

It picks away at me as I read. I am flustered, intrigued to know more of the other characters. It is as if I, the reader, am but a finger’s reach away and cannot get inside the thoughts of the others. And I need to. I crave it almost, want to yell out when those characters walk away and I am to be left with the thoughts of one character alone. While it’s nice to relate to the female heroine, as often is the perspective focus in romantic fiction, I am frustrated that I can’t know more, that I am ‘stuck’ with her alone as I travel through a story, sometimes bored that this perspective is not extending outward and beyond.

Now I understand. I know where I am most comfortable, why my characters seem to cry out, ‘open me up, tell my story as well as hers!’ I cannot and will not leave them in the dust. I will give them their time, though only in the right place, to do so.

I have, however, while holding firm and stubborn, been enlightened. I am eager to peruse my past books, explore my writing in future, now constantly aware of being careful with omniscience. I am to look ahead with a watchful eye that I don’t lead the reader down a path of confusion by keeping my character’s thoughts in their right place.

I remember a time I picked up a novel written not only in first person point of view but in present tense (she says rather than she said) as opposed to past which most stories, regardless of POV are written. It was odd, and as my eyes found the words, I lost their meaning. It took time. I admit, being that it was something new, I struggled at first, determined not to like this new form and not to read another. But in the end, aside from the flow becoming natural, easier once I understood and accepted the method, it was refreshing. And refreshing felt far better than the frustration of sticking with the norm, the same old, same old, gliding along with typical enjoyment, nothing more, nothing less.

As was noted to me by a kind reader lending his advice through another, the omniscient method can work, opening up another relatable character, so to speak, in that of the narrator. But only when done right.

So let’s move forward, bold reader, and venture in new directions. Many speak or write against it, this omniscient perspective. But why? Because it’s old, traditional, never done anymore? Well then, doesn’t that make it fresh? I refuse to ‘not write’ something because someone says, ‘but no one does that.’ I think it not impossible, but instead an intriguing challenge. And I always look at challenge with a glint in my eye and fire flowing from my fingertips as the words hit the paper.

In the end, there are many acceptable ways to write. For me, I want my characters forefront. I want them heard, not stamped out. I want their voices strong, their hearts speaking with a song. So they will. For that, I cannot see Omniscient Third Person as drawing the reader out but rather in, looking on with a new light through an old one.

A Question of Character Perspective

from the archives...15 February, 2008

I thought I might make note of something once drawn to my attention that in the end I found useful to my writing; in the beginning it was cause for frustration...It all began when my thoughts formed into this letter to a friend and fellow writer...

A fellow reader in an online editing group gave me some feedback, and while very thoughtful and much appreciated, I find myself more unsure about one particular issue in my writing than ever. I don’t know if I just never noticed, or if perhaps it is simply a difference in style of writing, one I am accustomed to while she is accustomed to another quite the opposite. Or, alas, I am completely missing something.

The question regards ‘character perspectives’ and that I change between them frequently, leading to confusion when reading. I tend to describe the sometimes-detailed thoughts of my characters during their dialogue.

Her idea is that when reading, you need to stick to one-sided thoughts and perspectives—any others being only what that same character perceives or sees outwardly.

What I understand is that when you are in the middle of a line of dialogue, and as long as the reader clearly understands who is speaking it, the thoughts are more a continuation of what that character is saying. Therefore, just as the dialogue switches from one to the next in a volley of words, so does the inner dialogue of the characters. For example, if Jane and Emily are having a conversation, it follows:

"Wow," said Jane. She was smiling, astounded by the blue sky.

"I agree," said Emily, thinking to herself that the sky was nice but preferred it more so at sunset.

"Except that the colors of a sunset is nicer." Both women smiled, sharing a moment of inner laughter.

"I’ll see you tomorrow," Emily yawned, already longing for her bed. It was getting late and her head was starting to feel heavy even though the sunset was an hour away.

"Goodnight." Jane waved goodbye and began to walk with a sigh at the thought of the following day and the busy events it held.

Alright, then, reader. As far as I can see, this makes sense. If the reader understands who is speaking a line of dialogue, it would follow, then, that the character is able to think something in the same sentence without confusion; dialogue moving to thought in the same flow. Obviously, it would be mesmerizing in the least if these thoughts came attached to every single line of dialogue as in the example, but you get the picture.

I once read that if you are switching perspectives, be generous to your reader and help them out by dedicating each character, in the least, their own paragraph. I am consistently conscious of this when I write. But when applying this rule to dialogue, I become muddled. I can only explain my own perception like this:

Assuming of course that the book is written in third person, there is a narrator, so to speak. The narrator watches from above, telling the reader a story of everything she sees and hears, the ability to see the thoughts of the characters included. I usually imagine the narrator as myself letting you, the reader, in to explore a deeper level with my characters, into their thoughts. I think this is where it differs between this particular reader and I. She wishes to hear the story from the characters narrative alone, not as an outsider overseeing things, assuming, then, that one character cannot, in fact, read the thoughts of the other.

As I continued to think about this contradiction, attempting to process my complete confusion, I hadn’t really noticed this before in anything I read (or wrote, if I am going to go deep on this one.) I don’t pick apart the novels I’m reading in this respect to know if most are written with "head jumping" perspectives or not or where these jumps fall in dialogue if they do. (Of course, I do pick them apart for other things!)

Perhaps I don't notice it because no one else does it. Therefore, the novels have not, as yet, confused me. ; ) Tell me then, wise reader, have I been completely missing something while lost in my own little writing world; oblivious to this major rule of writing I have been so consistently and irrationally breaking?

This may very likely be one of those "writing in my own head" things where since I obviously understand what’s going on by reading between my own lines, it makes complete and utter sense. Not, sadly to say, as easily said for my poor reader, merely attempting to follow along for pleasure’s sake.

In the end, I still have not found my answer. If I never do, and perhaps there is not one, but rather a matter of opinion and choice, I will, in the least, attend more notice on my characters and their inner thoughts, more specifically where they are placed.

I am not one bit annoyed with the reader who has brought this issue to light. I respect every opinion because it is just that. An opinion. And I asked. But even more so when that opinion is ‘critique’ and not simply a personal message of ‘oh, it was very nice.’ She has made a good point, brought an important issue in my writing, writing in general, to light. If nothing else, it has encouraged a new flow of words across my page, though I am still baffled in my attempts to fix it.....

(And, in case you had noticed and indeed were concerned with my ramblings, my head is, at present, stuck in the pages of Wuthering Heights with Heathcliff and Catherine, and also with Miss Fanny Price, as she wanders through her life completely unnoticed in the halls and pathways of Mansfield Park. So the form my own thoughts have been taking is one as influenced by the wise words of Emily Bronte and Miss Austen, herself.)

Tara

So there it was, and I did find some answers...up and coming...

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…