Writing Wench

I Know What I Did Last Summer Rather Than Finish My Novel

2011-10-18T00:51:00.001-04:00

Since I last posted, I completed the house projects, (including tearing out a useless doorway), started revising my novel after receiving feedback, became a member of MWA, transported a few basset hounds, did several job interviews, and started a used bookstore. Well, in process, anyway.

It happens that my niece Kristin is a teacher, and as with so many, she wasn't rehired after our state apparently decided to return our children to the dark ages... then there was this bookstore I loved when I was a kid... so we'll be opening a bookstore in Palm Coast by Christmas. The name and logo are pictured.

Read (Think) Books Logo

What do you guys think? Has a lack of oxygen gotten to me, or is this just a very elaborate form of procrastination?

Nanowrimo starts November 1, but instead of participating, I'm thinking about challenging myself to a month-long rewrite of NiP -- while I start Read (Think) Books.

So, what did you do last summer?

απέχθεια ολοκλήρωσης

2011-06-09T12:54:00.000-04:00

Empty shelves are sad but enticing.

I dislike the sensation of having completed a novel. Sure, I like it for the first day or two, but shortly I begin to obsess about my characters. I wonder if I have done all I can to make them happy. The feeling is worse this time because I have done everything but the final edits and proofread, leaving nothing for a tasty midnight snack.

To distract myself so that I wouldn't finish, I deconstructed my non-functional fireplace to install a row of four bookshelves I bought when the local Borders closed. Even with that, the end couldn't be strung out forever.

For the last week, deprived of my old novel, I have tried to make headway on a comic book I started last year. That's bearing fruit, I think: my illustrator says he will have time for it over the summer. I also started on MwaK, a second novel in the NiP series, the one I was planning to write when NiP took over.

I am also beginning to notice that I need money, so I have tried to do something about that, as well.

The bookshelves are symbolic. I got rid of a fireplace that used to offer heat and light (my old work) to add room for what I truly love (writing). The question is, will the shelves be filled with successful projects, or will I have to burn books to stay warm?

We shall see.

Prompt: Overcoming Fear

2011-04-25T20:34:00.000-04:00

My house is clean, screens and a new screen door have been installed, my junk is reorganized, the house trim is repainted, email correspondence is up-to-date, and magazines are read. All in an apparent effort to avoid editing my novel.

I read recently that fear of artistic failure can present as anxiety and the inability to finish the work. And I keep hearing (thank you, Jamie) that my friends don't know what's stopping me, and I don't really know, either. Is it fear?

I'm not alone in having a novel close to finished (you know who you are!), so I am offering a prompt to help us take the next step, whatever that is.

⣥ Get comfortable for thirty minutes. Take a bath, lie down on a swing, go for a slow walk, or take yourself out for sushi.

⣧ Think about where your project is. Do you need to put it in order? Write the denouement? Send it to your favorite reader?

⣟ Hold the next step in your mind and imagine what would make it more fun. Having a cut and paste party? Taking a trip to the Keys for some Hemingway inspiration? Printing it like a real book, with a pretty cover and acknowledgments page?

⣿ Plan the party, trip or vanity printing for your work in progress. Then give yourself a treat, because you've already taken the next step!


Roseate Spoonbills and Friend at Canaveral National Seashore

This post was boring, so I added the photo because pink birds make everything more fun.

Trouble

2011-03-20T00:15:00.001-04:00

When I said last night that Zini was about to get into a whole lot of trouble, David responded with, "She's got to get into trouble sometimes, how else could she keep her storybook figure?" (said while tracing the shape of a book in the air)

Har, har, network engineer. You are indeed a master of wit!

Happier than a white cat in dirt!

But I, on the other hand, am a person with over 50,000 words of a novel written!

As to the trouble.

Let's just say, Zini will no doubt need a new car, might need a new cop friend and a new client, but most of all, may need a reincarnation if things don't start turning around, sometime within the (think, think, think) next five to seven thousand words.

Ball of Fun

2011-03-10T16:21:00.000-05:00

I found this posted on the blog of a non-native English speaker, so I am not making fun of him/her. I am rolling because h/she is getting many offers to become a tech writer!

Here's a sample:

I started getting lots of job offer from big companies for Technical Writer position. Even for senior position, I am getting job offer. I do not know why it all started. Anyway, I wish to listen from you - Who is suitable for this job? Is it better than programming!

One of the offers posted read this way:

We are having urgent opening for Technical writers in our Office. If you are interested in grabbing this opportunity, revert back with your updated CV.

A commenter said:

Tech writer job is not fun after initial money & excitement.

Reminds me of when I used to joke that I got my master's degree in journalism after a bachelor's in English because I was looking for fortune and fame.

2001, A Noveling Oddity

2011-03-05T01:50:00.001-05:00

Mysterious Symbol, (c) me

My novel has been taking two steps forward and two steps back all week, but in the past four hours, I wrote 2,000+ words! New words! Fresh, unedited, un-dithered with words!

I've decided I like writing new stuff way better than editing. Why am I surprised? However, it occurs to me that I like editing when the writing isn't my own. Wouldn't it be great to have a twin writer to trade books with so that you never have to edit your own work?

When is that cloning project going to start working on writers?

Story Circle Posts

2011-02-28T19:22:00.000-05:00

I am guest-blogging for Story Circle. Each blog is posted as one of a pair, and my posts are Prompts for Winter and Discipline for Spring.

My over-squeezed metaphorical mulberries

Jamie, you get a mention in "teachers and writers who have influenced me," which is at the bottom of Prompts for Winter.

Initially, the "Winter" post contained a little TOO much of an homage to Jamie and Joyce's wonderful Scene and Structure writing intensive. The plot section would have been better with their fabulous nine-point plot outline, but as I couldn't give them a proper attribution as a guest-blogger, I took it out.

My current novel (which I have somewhat wildly said I would finish by the end of March) is, however, greatly benefiting from the plot outlining.

Shoe Fetish-ish

2011-02-15T18:41:00.001-05:00

I was getting ready to work (really), when I was sidetracked by an email ad from The Village Hat Shop. There, I saw a cute men's fedora that made me think of White Collar, a show that has the most wonderful clothes--real clothes, like real people wear if they've got good taste and lots of money. (OK, maybe not that real, but ya know what I mean.) So I went to their style photo gallery. There, I noticed a pair of shoes, which made me think of the lack of good shoes at my local Ross, where I used to find expensive shoes cheap. That's where I bought my first pair of Børn shoes. I love those shoes, so I looked them up. Now I've got a problem. Look at these:

Børn to Love Shoes

$95. I may need a pair.

Getting My Writing in Focus

2011-02-12T19:54:00.001-05:00

Focus is Crucial

I have been a writer of poetry, stories, and novels for more than 35 years. I have read, at best estimate, 7500 books, and so I know about the turning point, the climax, the denouement, and the plot arc. But I couldn't connect them with my own novels.

Until last weekend.

At Joyce Sweeney and Jamie Morris' Next Level Craft Intensive, Scene and Structure, I spent three days discussing plot, structure, and scene with a small group of writers. What came to me by the end of the weekend made me feel like I did when I got my first pair of glasses:

"So that's why I couldn't catch a ball. I was BLIND!"

It's taking me a while to apply this new found clarity. All I've done so far is pull some extraneous material out of one novel, and reread the high points of another.

I see now that I need to begin my current novel with an inciting incident that is just visible to the reader, but not to my protagonist. I can also see that I need to take out the middle section of the other, which interrupts the plot at an important point.

There's a lot to do. Thank Jamie and Joyce, I can see the way, now.

Bee Comedy/Tragedy

2011-01-20T14:43:00.000-05:00

Mary K Swanson

When I was driving on 46 yesterday, something landed in my bra, between my breasts. Eeek! When I was able to take a peek, I found a bee.

As I gingerly turned into a side road (regretting the weight I had gained that made squashing the bee a possibility), I begged the bee not to sting me. I wasn't too afraid, because I love bees, and I know they aren't aggressive. Besides, my mother is a bee charmer. I felt protected.

I scooped the bee out carefully with a tissue and realized that the poor guy was dying. He could barely crawl onto the grass when I placed him there--I hated to leave him, but I don't think I have the skill to rehabilitate a bee.

I began to think: why was I visited by a dying bee?

A bee symbolizes the Mother Goddess, the willing sacrifice, immortality, and cooperation. In the physical world, the bee is in terrible danger from hive collapse and pesticides.

That made me think of the Hindu goddess Kali, the mother goddess of creation and destruction. Maybe my dying bee was a message from her, telling me not to be afraid, that death (my death, the death of ecosystems, the death of family and friends) is voluntary. We die to live again, but most importantly, we die to complete this part of our dream, and to leave room for others (as well as ourselves) to grow.

Bad Dreams

2011-01-13T22:10:00.002-05:00

I was just reading a forum over at Spirituality & Health called Dreamwork Interactive, in which you get weekly emails from Robert Moss, a dream worker and shaman whose books I have read and enjoyed.

At the top of the forums was a new topic, What Not to Share. I assumed there would be notes about not telling the world your personally identifiable information, about not getting X-rated, about being succinct. Well, something else was there, too. He doesn't want us to share "crappy dreams that bring people down."

I do think that some dreams may not be for public consumption, but I'm a little appalled that a shaman and dream worker would feel, as he indicates in his post: Bad dreams: when you just want to spit them out, that some dreams come from an evil place.

With Jeremy Taylor, and many other dreamers, I think that all dreams come in the service of health and wholeness, even the crappy ones. Even the ones that bring people down. While I don't know that I want everyone to go around sharing all of these dreams with me, I would never tell them that anything that came out of them was evil. Shadow material? Sure. Evil? I don't know.

I am not ruling out Moss' "evil" dreams completely. However, even if native peoples believed that evil spirits could invade the dream the same way that germs invade the body, I think that 99.9% of dreams are messages from our own mind trying to help us decipher the world around us, and help us be better and maybe even happier, in it. (I do think our minds are a lot bigger, smarter, and more well-connected to the collective unconscious and maybe even the whole universe, without reference to time, than we can see from our limited perspective.)

I'm thinking about what I do when I have a really bad dream, about war, rape, terror, misery, sadness... Well, I probably don't share it, but sometimes I do. It helps, and sometimes my loved ones don't mind helping me bear the horror. I don't always write them down, especially if they feel like mundane dreams. But I do try to take a clear look, see if I can find any meaning that would help me improve myself or the world. I believe that I have to look into my own heart, even when it's at its ugliest, to be a better person.

What do you think? Can dreams be evil? Should we spit out our "crappy" dreams, or do something else with them? What do you do?

Pretty Good Story in Three Acts

2010-12-15T21:17:00.001-05:00

Act One: Writer Hits Bottom

NaNo passed this year without me winning by writing 50,000 words in 30 days. I had (enough) time, I had a fun novel to write, but I didn't have the wherewithal to fill out the outlines of my plot.
I've never been an all or nothing girl. 12030 words in 30 days is respectable output for a person otherwise employed, and I feel good to have written them. But still, I am disappointed, and I find myself doubting my motivation, ability, and even my right to write novels. Maybe I'm just not good enough, maybe I just don't have what it takes, maybe I should just be happy with my life as it is, and not try to be something more than just a hack.
Since the end of November, I haven't even wanted to write. I feel rudderless, even downright boatless, and I don't know what I'm good for.

Act Two: Writer Explores the Bottom

I read an article today on Salon (the website where NaNo was slammed in an elitist rant) about the difference between genre fiction and literary fiction, and while I thought that much of what it said was true, I decided that what the fellow was really talking about was the difference between "good enough" and "good."
He referred to books by a dead Scandinavian writer who details the pointless activities of his characters with diarrheal obsessiveness. Reading a few excerpts from the writer's work, I thought, "Action ain't plot, fella. Description isn't story."
Later, I heard someone on NPR talking about a movie that apparently entailed watching the protagonists fall out of love over small things without seeing underneath to understand WHY they no longer loved one another. It made me think, "Event doesn't make a scene. Image doesn't make art."

Act Three: Writer Finds Fertile Ground

Now this is what I think:
A good enough story is one that pulls a reader all the way through and entertains her, makes her laugh or cry or scream in pleasure or fear, even makes her think about something she's never thought of before. A good enough story uses the language with competency if not with grace, and breaks the rules in relatively small quantities. Lots of good journalism falls into this category, which is fine--it's not trying to be art.

A good story, on the other hand, does everything a good enough story does, and more. But you notice, I say it does everything the good enough story does. It needs a plot, it needs to move the reader, it needs to be a story (art) and not just a slice of life (image). It should use language gracefully, interestingly, but not self-consciously. The characters should be three-dimensional, the plot should be fresh or a least freshly woven, and the description should be both evocative and relevant.

Finally, I thought about where my writing falls: good, or just good enough? I say, somewhere in the middle. Which is good enough for me, and better than most of the fiction I see published, literary or otherwise.

Maybe I need to get back to writing.

We are writing to know if it's true that you are dead

2010-12-15T20:01:00.002-05:00

We are writing to know if it's true that you are dead. Because we received a notification from one mr. __ of usa stating that you are dead and that you have giving him the right to claim your funds. All we need to confirm now is your been dead or still alive. Because this man's message brought shock to our minds. If it happened we did not hear from you after 7 working days, then we say: may your soul rest in perfect peace.

Bad spam English--great spam comedy!

Quantum Job Hunting

2010-11-28T16:32:00.000-05:00

Craigslist posting included these words: "Get pay to write in your space time from home."

I'm glad, because the physical manifestation of my body always gets jet lag when I work in somebody else's space-time.

Wax On, Wax Off

2010-11-21T00:14:00.003-05:00

Practice.

My friends on ProzactoPrana and Slippers have been talking about it, and I promised to do it this month. 50,000 words in 30 days during NaNoWriMo may not produce a finished novel, but it is certainly good practice. Where am I? Embarrassingly far behind.

To save face, I'll say that I haven't been trying. Losing my best feline friend on the first day of the month beat the stuffing out of me. But the whole truth is less sympathetic: I am finding every single word of this novel to be bloody, boring, painful, unrewarding work. And I'm not the best when it comes to that. (Honestly.)

Mary K Swanson

Today, I worked on my bottle tree. I cut and twisted heavy wire and embedded hooks to set up the old fence on which I'll hang the bottles. Then, I tried to drill a bottle. I drilled too fast and it shattered. I asked for instruction, and David showed me that it takes ten minutes to drill one small hole into one bottle. "Steady pressure. You have to feel for it. It's more of a meditative practice."

I swear. That's what he said.

Wax on.

Portia

2010-11-12T18:02:00.002-05:00

Mary K Swanson

Today, I am a year older. At least, today is when I admit that I am. November 1, I lost my alter ego, the cat I have been carrying with me for almost 20 years. I didn't realize until I started to write this that when she died, I lost a little bit of what defined me.

She and her feline sisters have stood in for my feelings in my dreams. When I saw her in a dream, I knew I needed to look for the pure underlying emotion that was driving my actions, but that I had not yet accepted as part of myself.

But it's important to remember that she was herself, first. She had a voice that could peel paint, loved Italian food, hated kisses, enjoyed playing in the sheets while the bed got made, had two color eyes, was white all over, loved to be chased, and to roll in the dirt.

She was a cat.

Learning to Pitch

2010-10-31T00:01:00.002-04:00

I am at my Mom and Dad's house for Halloween this weekend. I brought the page of summaries I wrote for FWA just in case I found the occasion to show it to my family. Late in the evening, sitting with my sister Sarah and my niece Kristin, both big readers, I got the chance to Vanna it around. I found myself telling them about all the stories, discussing genres, but most of all telling them about the main plot points and what made each story special.

In other words, I pitched them. Wow! This is a miracle. I never talk about my stories. I would say it was the summaries that gave me the basis for my pitch, but I also told them about Clockminders, a story I didn't (and haven't) written a summary for.

They sounded pretty good.

What I may have learned is that I need to tell more people about my stories, or at least tell my favorite people more about my stories. It works. It felt really good.

Networking for Introverts

2010-10-28T15:15:00.001-04:00

Last Saturday, October 23, I attended the Florida Writers Association (FWA) yearly conference. I was nervous, because meeting one new person a week is my preferred networking speed.

Nothing was a bad as I imagined, barring the workshops delivered via powerpoint presentation and the hours-long awards ceremony (which was probably dull only because I didn't submit!).

Here are my observations:

First workshop at 7 o'dark: Jamie from Woodstream Writers gave a writing prompt and read around. I knew the prompt would be great as always, but I doubted my ability to write before ten o'clock in the morning. The result? Actual words. I wrote 'em. I don't remember them, but I think I saved the file. The bonus? Jamie stalked every single one of the 50+ participants to give them notes on their piece. Her notes on mine made me glad I wrote it. Thanks, Jamie!
Speaking to fellow writers: OK, I expected most writers to be unpleasant and self-engrossed, like me. Not so, not so at all. Some prime examples of their generosity are: Peggy Miller, editor, teacher and poet and Dana Summers, cartoonist.
Meeting authors of published books without slobbering or trying to jab them with my pen: These authors were lovely to me, and I would recommend them based on friendliness alone--Laura Parker Castoro and Mark H. Newhouse.
The PITCH. Oh, yeah, I did--courtesy of Jamie at Woodsteam, who steered me to the sign up table. During the day, I heard horror stories about agents waving writers away before they even sat down, but I got lucky, lucky, lucky. Veronica Hart signed me up with Roger Williams of the Publish or Perish Agency, and he treated me with such kindness that I was smiling for an hour. He doesn't often represent science fiction (no one at the conference did, as far as I know), but he gave me tips and ideas, and offered to take a look at my mystery novel in progress. Wow.

My take?
Being with a large group in a confined space for 12+ hours almost guarantees that even a social inept like me will eventually speak to writers, authors and agents. Some of whom will talk back.

Prepping for NaNoWriMo

2010-10-11T18:50:00.001-04:00

Today I took the day off, planning to spend it setting up character sheets and an outline for my NaNoWriMo novel. Instead, I spent the day getting age spots lasered off (and thereafter contemplating my bad decision-making), watching a movie, reading a book on biocentricism, and, of course, napping.
Finally finding my way to the novel, I realize that the way I spent the day was healthy, even though it didn't produce any pages. My life is so over-stuffed these days that I view my drive to work as my most contemplative time. (Sorry, fellow drivers.) Downtime, time in which I allow the flow of thought to reverse direction, even stop, is essential to my creativity. All I have done lately is work, worry and watch TV.
I have, secretly, been afraid that I have wrung out the dregs of my creative juice, and that there is nothing left in me but words. My pride in what I have so far been able to write was completely obscured by my fear that it was all I would ever do.
There is no magic today. I don't feel a surge of excitement, I don't have a novel beating its way out of my head. But I have allowed my thoughts to rest, and maybe that's all they need.
For those who are noticing, Maniac with a Knife has won. The thousand worlds of Habitas were just too dim for me to see them, right now, so I will be writing the second novel in a series at the same time--and finishing the first draft before--I even get the first one well started.

The Prompt:
Take a day off from your life. Don't do anything important. Rest.

NaNoWriMo is Nigh

2010-10-01T15:55:00.000-04:00

A Clip of NaNoWriMo's Banner

Last year, I participated in my first NaNoWriMo, which stands for National Novel Writing Month. The goal is to write 50,000 words of a new novel in the 30 days of November.

I loved it. I wrote "Ephemeral," a novel I consider to be my most grown-up, I'm-actually-a-novelist novel yet. Plus, it made me realize that even while working a full-time job (and even in the midst of changing jobs), I can average 1,666.66667 words a day, without even losing sleep. It was amazing.

The best thing about NaNoWriMo? -- Chris Baty, the director, who sends funny emails to encourage you.

The best thing I got from NaNoWriMo? -- My third complete 1st draft of a novel.

This year, I didn't have a novel in mind, but now I'm considering one that I found in my ideas pile, tentatively titled "Habitas." Also in the running is the 2nd installment of my Zini series, which keeps intruding when I try to write the first one.

So, a challenge: Write a novel in a month!

http://www.nanowrimo.org/

Fallow Through

2010-09-02T23:25:00.001-04:00

I heard a story on TED today about how if you want to achieve a goal, you shouldn't tell people. This runs counter to everything I've ever heard, but apparently the science is in on this one. What happens is, your brain is satisfied with the warm fuzzies you get from thinking about getting what you want.

As a secretive and superstitious person, this makes an awful kind of sense to me.

What I need to know, now, is how to get my mojo back. Scratch that, I'll be sitting here with no goals of any kind. Hear that, universe?

The Cat-Car Blues

2010-08-14T12:46:00.001-04:00

I wrote a little blues song for Lady Momo. She sang it, and I recorded it. If you want to hear, you can download the .m4a file here: The Cat-Car Blues

The Cat-Car Blues

Mama, she threw me in an old box

Tossed it in back and cranked up the car,

Took me wailin' and whinin'

All the way to Wiseman,

Singin' the Cat-Car Blues.

The vet-man, he poked and he prod,

and if I'd been loaded, he would have got shot.

But instead it was me,

and instead o' goin' free,

I'm singin' the Cat-Car Blues.

Well, we've already come and went,

Mama's money's all been spent.

So I'm not alone, she's got the moan,

And we're singin' the Cat-Car Blues.

Lady MoMo in her boudoir

Hot Houndette Gets an Illustrator

2010-07-30T21:58:00.001-04:00

Duke Barkin: Art by Joseph Rawlins

I am now working with an amazing illustrator named Joseph Rawlins. He has been drawing the first pages of Hot Houndette, and I think the interpretation is outstanding. Now I just need to figure out how to get it printed, digitally published and posted.

It's remarkable how things sometimes just come together.

Hot Houndette: More Pages

2010-07-02T22:49:00.004-04:00

Hot Houndette is four times longer! OK, that means I have most of four pages, about 25 panels of Basset Hounds. Right now, we've got washed up TV stars and a little bathroom humor.

This is so much fun! I have the whole thing in my head, and it keeps coming into focus more sharply whenever I give it a chance.

***

I just heard sad news. Duke, the 100 pound Basset on whom this story is based and to whose story it is dedicated, has gone to the bridge. His friend Tucker, though, is on his way home to Florida with some incredible volunteers. Suncoast's Facebook page.

RIP, Duke.

Creating Memory

2010-07-01T17:53:00.003-04:00

At Wekiva Springs, I took a loungey swim around the pool, listening to the sounds of a few dozen late afternoon families laughing and teasing and diving the cold water. Most of the talk was in Spanish, so I could block out its meaning and hear it like music, just tone and pitch. Part of the time, I let my head sink far enough under the water that the only sound was from the spring, as loud near the bridge as it was over the boil. Planes were flying overhead, strangely inaudible. Two boys and a girl were taking and posing for photographs. The girl was brassy blond and pretty, and the boys directed her, again and again, to drape her body over objects.

I drew myself, dripping and slow, out of the water and onto the stone-edged bank, mirroring the anhinga. Voices playing behind me, I wrapped my towel around to cover the less attractive bits, and stepped onto the boardwalk.

"Notice how the path leads from the lower, wetter hammock of the spring to the dryer uplands, and how the vegetation changes," said the sign. Behind it on the ground was a piece of trash, which I picked up.

I walked quietly, to satisfy myself, and maybe to catch some animal crossing the path. The light is slightly fading and the mosquitos are buzzing, so I walk a little faster.

I see a bug the size and shape of a dragonfly. I keep thinking, "ladyfly, lady slipper," because I know what it is, but I can't think what it's called. I stop and watch, and then realize that I can't see the details. I sit down on the boardwalk and lean over: the bug sits on a leaf and seems to be posing for me, or watching me, or perhaps just waiting for me to leave.

His wings are like slices of night. I can't see detail in them, they do not reflect light. They are rich and plush, without having any apparent thickness. He lowers them gently, like bowing to the queen, but then raises them -- snap! -- like a battlefield salute. Up, they sweep back, in a prayer position. Down, they lay flat, functional.

His body is an irridescent green I associate with unnatural DayGlo colors. Every color of green around him is forest green, grass green, emerald green, ochre, moss, and mist, but the bug is neon all up and down, except his eyes. As I lean closer, I see that the color is painted on the leading edge of his wings, too.

I wanted a video of him, his beauty, his unearthliness, his attentive flight pattern in a circle just within my view. I wanted to keep him forever, to convey his message of form and efficiency to everyone, but all I had with me was my mind and all I took away was memory.

Damselfly.

Hot Houndette

2010-06-12T14:53:00.004-04:00

I am working on a new comic book series called Duke Barkin, Suncoast Transporter, about a mostly basset hound hero (in his own mind) who drives for The Man. The first episode is called Hot Houndette, and I am celebrating the drafting of one whole page, 7 panels!

If you want to check it out, I have posted a PDF.

This comic book is being written for charity, to benefit Suncoast Basset Rescue.

Hmm. I think I might create a website for this project, where I can post progress and perhaps try to find a comic artist.

Freshening up the Blog

2010-06-12T00:06:00.001-04:00

When I can't work, I often find myself reorganizing. Apparently, when I can't think of a blog topic, I change my blog template. Some nice ones showed up on blogger, so I had to try them out. Went for simple, again, on this blog--got a little wilder on the ones I use just for me!

101 Pages of Pure ...

2010-04-30T23:35:00.000-04:00

ScriptFrenzy ends in a half hour. I have 101 pages of a graphic novel entitled: Blue Loco: Goodbye to the Spy, which is about one half of the plot points contained in my novel, Blue Loco.

This "treatment" of my novel has shorter, simpler dialog, fewer characters, more blatant sexual references, very little narration and not a single scrap of literary merit.

In other words, I had a ball! I did not think that the ScriptFrenzy experience was as good as the NaNoWriMo month, but it was good. And I may have the nuts to go back and revise the real novel.

Half-Made is All Monster

2010-04-19T22:24:00.000-04:00

In my dream the other night, I half-turned into a monster made of metal. I can remember a bright silvery mask on one side of my face, and other parts of my body being replaced with machinery. It was terrifying. Two of my friends had undergone the same transformation. We finally realized that we needed to push through it, force it to go all the way. The process was painful and difficult, but when the transformation was complete, we became superheros.

I have been thinking about what I am leaving half-done, and how that incompleteness could be dangerous/frightening/unpleasant. My list includes:

my search for a new challenge: I become repetitive and depressed
becoming a writer: Procrastination begins to feel like destiny
renovating my house: My unloved house seems to reflect my life

Prompt: What are you leaving dangerously unfinished?

Reasons for Things

2010-04-08T17:10:00.000-04:00

This morning, I was driving up the new bridge on 46 when I saw a black and white duck that had been hit by a car. I realized it was still alive, and I could vaguely sense that its friends were flying around it, just overhead. I passed it, stabbed on the flashers and backed up, hoping that the other drivers would see me in time to prevent total chaos. I just couldn't leave a fellow traveller to die the death of a hundred cars.

I jumped out of the Mini and threw up the hatch. As I ran back, the other birds circled me. When I got to him, he looked up at me. I saw intense yellow eyes and a black and white stripped head that ended in a hooked beak. No duck: this was a full-grown osprey. I reached down, gloveless, without hesitation, which I think shows that I was suffering from adrenaline poisoning.

He didn't look frightened or angry; he looked affronted. Such an indignity to be gathered up, legs dangling, and tossed into the back of a tiny car.

I drove on, simultaneously dialing the Birds of Prey Center. He flapped his mighty five foot wingspan and was practically driving the car. I pushed his wing gently out of the way, cajoling him, "Back seat. Back seat!" The leading edge of his wing was soft, feathered in short downlike fronds. After a minute, he settled behind the passenger seat and spent the rest of the 45 minute drive staring at me. He never made a sound, except the soft flap of a wing.

At the center, I opened the passenger door: he was on his back, legs useless, but wings spread threateningly. I folded one wing, then the other, and lifted. He was heavy and warm. Thin blood dripped from his right wing. He bit down on my leather glove. I slipped my hand out so he could hold on to it.

The ladies at the center told me he will not live. Two badly broken legs and internal injuries will take him permanently from the sky and from me.

The reasons for things escape me.

From the Sublime...

2010-04-08T16:19:00.000-04:00

... to the ridiculous.

An article on data warehousing I was reading today said this: "just when you think you have it made and start to put your feet back and enjoy the good life"

Must be a yoga student!

Celestial Anna

2010-04-07T00:56:00.000-04:00

As you tell a story of second blooming
a spark of gold flickers and hovers
over your hip

Soon, in the path of your laughter
swirls a convention of fireflies

Then, as you gather your scarf
a blaze of tiny stars stream out
and in your wake
sweeps a comet's tail.

---

I saw your aura tonight, Anna, and couldn't resist a poem! Hope you don't mind.

Entrails, Vampires and Vixens: Make My Novel Graphic, Please!

2010-04-01T16:57:00.002-04:00

PAGE ONE

PANEL 1. TRANSITION... overwritten tome sliced ruthlessly down to sleekly plotted 100-page graphic novel. (SFX: Sssssnik!)

I may regret this, but I have committed to writing a comic book/graphic novel script in 30 days. In the past 48 hours, I have read up on formatting, time shifts, thought bubbles, captions and sound effects. I also bought a couple of graphic novels to support me in this endeavor.

Oof! I didn't remember that the word 'graphic' meant like as in 'graphic content'!

This whirlwind education is the tiniest portion of what I need to know. I will probably NOT be the genre's next Phil Hester. But I am diving in, anyway. Why?

Because in one day, I have condensed 2500 words down to 1000 and figured out that I need to cut out the first scene, put in a new exciting scene in the first chapter, and dispense with explaining everything. I've revved up my dialog, promoted one plot point and demoted another. Woo-hoo!

I am enthralled. My guts are wrung with joy. This is the best rewriting device EVER.

Prompt: Dust off that novel, and make it a comic book!

Script Frenzy. From the NaNoWriMo Folks

2010-03-23T14:15:00.003-04:00

In April, I will write my very first graphic novel (or screenplay; I haven't decided). Or more precisely, I will take my second completed novel, Blue Loco, and turn it into a comic or a movie script. The challenge is to write 100 script pages, using a standard format, in the 30 days that April hath.
Prompt: Care to join me? scriptfrenzy.org

Better Living Through Alchemy

2010-03-11T10:05:00.001-05:00

I had a dream in which, instead of renting a house or staying in a hotel, I was painting a house all white on the inside. The house is mine in the dream, and even though it's small and the yard is tiny, I feel happy. When I woke up, I wondered why I was painting it white--that seemed boring.

Before going to bed, I was reading Robert Bosnak's A LIttle Course in Dreams, just enjoying a book I've read several times before. In it, he talks about the stages of alchemy: the nigredo, or blackening, associated with darkness, chaos and rot; the albedo, or whitening, associated with silver, purification and the moon; and the rubedo, or reddening, associated with the sun and flowering.

It occurred to me that maybe the dream is telling me that my nigredo is over. Perhaps I'm purifying my house, like I did with my real life house to get rid of the smoke-yellowed paint. Perhaps I'm gessoing my new creative house, making the canvas ready for the next phase of work.

My Internal Priscilla

2010-03-03T23:51:00.002-05:00

I had been rolling in the meadows of lush me-ness that my last bout of shadow-eating brought me. Then, for two weeks, my dreams were filled with toilets, bathrooms, dirt, and chicken shit. I knew I needed to ask for some shadow... but I couldn't name it.

In my daylight hours, I struggled with the twin evils of envy and criticism. I was harsh about my own work, but also that of others. Rereading Pride and Prejudice gave me my strongest clue; I thought, "This isn't as good as I remembered."

Last night, I dreamed about the handsome neighbor I had as a child, Chuck, who is the only person who has ever sicced his dog on me. On waking, I realized that I've also been dredging up other ghosts these last two weeks:

Teachers who called me juvenile delinquent (first use of dictionary in 7th grade), whitehonkybaptistnigger (that just baffled me), and bitch, or said that the reason no one liked me was because of my laugh.
Getting beaten up by the other girls on the playground, right in front of the coach, more than once.
Being teased about my hair, weight, glasses, braces, grades, language, clothes.

But about Priscilla.
She was the childhood friend who began calling me "Mary Soup" in a sweet voice that sounded like acid-laced honey. The one who asked me over to play, then told me she didn't really want me to come and teased me for crying. She did this kind of thing right into junior college, where peer pressure finally backdrafted.

I don't like to be criticized, and yet I am a brutal critic. I fear embarrassment the way other people fear violence. I can't watch I Love Lucy. I hate people who make fun of others.

I haven't forgiven those who did it to me.

Priscilla, Chuck, tormentors, all, please give me back my shadows of criticism and envy. I have missed them, and you must have felt them as a weight on your shoulders all these years. I'm sorry I cast them on you, and I call them back.

Bad Girl Needs an Audience

2010-02-01T20:35:00.001-05:00

Simmering on Slippers post (actually, Slippers and Anna's comments at Migrant Art Worker) and whether art is blunted by the application of chemical happiness, the Wench began listening obsessively to music. Two kinds: blues by women and extremely loud and explicit rock. Hmm. What do these have in common? What does Money Honey or Honey Hush have in common with Bad Girlfriend? The answer is, dirty girls--bad girls who want sexy boys, easy money, and freedom.

How, the reader who is not on musical acid asks, does this relate to chemical happiness? Bear with me... it will get there, eventually, because my subconscious says so.

I have been calling back my shadow, and it has been making me physically sick, giving me night fevers and tearing apart my ability to write lucid prose. And now, the shadow of my unlived life is reminding me that one of my favorite things used to be writing poetry and lyrics. Dark, angry poetry. Lyrics that make me cry. Suddenly, I want to write songs that tell everything I know about love and sex and getting what I want out of life.

I read Lynn's fabulous Facebook post about karaoke last week with horror. None of that for me! I said. Except that I actually want to shake my lovemaker in front of an audience. Maybe for real (I love to dance, at least, the old me did), but maybe in print.

When I was very, very depressed (1978 through 1998, give or take a few good months) I wrote a horde of poetry. Hard for me to tell, but I think it was pretty good. In my good times, I even wrote essays, stories, and a novel that were not embarrassing. Then came Effexor, Wellbutrin, St Johns Wort, and four different mental health professionals. In time, I stopped thinking regularly about how I could commit suicide without anyone knowing. (Would they believe it if I "accidentally" drove off a bridge? Was the bridge high enough to kill me for real, not just in a brain dead kind of way?)

Over the 12 years since I started getting help for my whiteout (I always associated depression with white instead of black) I thought I had lost my desire, my edge. I became a cog in the machine, working so hard for just money and not living for myself. I would have put it down to chemical assistance tamping down my fire, but I have been off that for years, now. I could have said that depression squeezed the beauty out of me better than happiness, but how did that account for the four novels I have written since, the gorgeous man I share my life with (a creative endeavor every day) and the literal garden I move around every spring, trying to find the perfect configuration?

My answer to whether chemical assistance deadens art is NO NO NO NO. At the worst, it calms the pain to let the art happen more slowly, because the urgency to create-or-suicide is gone. At the best, (and I think, usually) it keeps the artist ALIVE to create more art, different art; to get older and consume the shadow; to finally be wise enough to be happy and be creative at the same time.

I am going to take my evolving self and write some filthy songs about women with brains and ass.

Now, if I could sing like Katie, bang drums like in a Rob Zombie song, and dance like... a 20-year-old me.

Shadow Boxing Gives Way to an Appetite for Life

2010-01-21T15:43:00.002-05:00

I am reading Robert Bly's A Little Book on the Human Shadow because I have always felt a resonance with his description of shadow as "the long bag we drag behind us." I think it is working, both in my writing and my living.
Shadow, as described by Bly and others, is anything inherent in a person (or village, country or culture) that is not acknowledged by its owner. Shadow is often thought of as darkness or evil, or at least baseness, but is none of this. It is us, and it is not bad until we disown it.
When we reject a part of ourselves, we cast it on others--sometimes our mother or father, sometimes another culture or group. If you want to see your shadow, look for it on those you admire or deride.
So, what happens then? What can a little shadow hurt?
Two things happen, and they hurt a lot: you lose the energy that went with the part of yourself you reject, and the other finds himself more and more burdened with your expectations. If you cast your "achieving" self on your sister, for instance, she may feel your need to achieve as a nagging, debilitating sense that she has not done enough. If you give the power of your anger to your husband, he may feel an overwhelming rage that seems to pass through him rather than bursting from him. You see your sister as a Type A or a failure, and your husband as a fearsome maniac or a pitiful weakling.
But this isn't your sister or your husband--they are colored by your overbearing, unaccepted self.
Bly illustrates shadow by quoting his own poetry and by referring to the biographies of great artists, mostly writers. He says that an artist will not be great unless he is able to see his own shadow, and that as he ages, he must learn to "eat" his shadow in order to mature--and to continue to make great art.
He says that everyone needs to consume the shadow. If we don't, we will slowly feel a creeping weakness and shallowness, reflecting the slight portion of our real selves we still have control of, and how that tiny self is not enough to power the explosion of creativity, goodness, and excitement we secretly know ourselves to be.
I have begun using his formula to reclaim the energy of my rejected selves. (I paraphrase), "Hey you (person I admire or despise), I know you have my (fear of failure, greed, desire for recognition, hatred of traditional religion). Please give it back to me, so I can regain my energy and quit damaging you."
Last night, I saw my "others" in my dreams as their younger, happier, more alive (sometimes literally) selves. They looked brighter, lighter.
Today, I feel like I am recovering from a long fever. I am weak, but smiling. I am thirsty for something.
Maybe soon, I'll get the courage to eat more of my shadow.

Short Story as Psychotherapy

2010-01-15T23:30:00.004-05:00

"She sometimes imagined that she could hear the corpuscles knock on the valves, polite as old nuns, before sweeping in with their sacred bath of life."

This is a line I wrote for my short story, called Breathless. It is the post-apocalyptic tale of a woman, a mechanical egg, and how the fear of losing hope can prevent a person taking necessary risks. At least, that's what my story is about.

Prompt: What about yours?

Prompt: Curses

2010-01-14T15:18:00.007-05:00

A big mouth with a pulpit says that Haiti was cursed because they made a pact with the devil. In fact, they prayed to their deity, who was most certainly not the devil, and they did achieve liberation with blood and courage.

A curse is a wish that harm or hurt will be inflicted by a supernatural power. A curse needs a human agent. Who was it, then: The French? The Americans? The big mouth's predecessors?

Who Cursed Haiti?

And now, the prompt:

In your story, which of your characters may have been cursed by the forces of oppression or by a malevalent individual? Why does the person curse your character? What are the results of the curse? How can your character lift the curse?

Give Local

2009-12-29T16:27:00.005-05:00

I don't know about you, but I always end up doing the bulk of my charitable giving at the very last minute. The word "bulk" is a bit misleading: this year we'll give more than last, but we're still not up to where I want to be, due to job outages, a new roof and an impending new well.

I listened to advice on NPR on WMFE (radio 90.7) about how to choose a charity. They say to make sure the organization is highly rated and uses your money wisely. It was fine as far as it went, but I think they missed a vital tip--give your money to groups you know.

Local charities need your help. You think the big guys lost donors? Hah!

Here are a few locals I will give to, if I can:
Suncoast Basset Rescue (Foster Homes and Placement)
SpayNSave Seminole County FL (Low Cost Spay and Neuter)
Friends of the Wekiva River (Saving the Wekiva River Basin)
Ashton Biodiversity (Studying and Saving Gopher Tortoises and their Habitat)
WMFE (Public Radio and NPR)

I also like this online place for giving, even though they do cost a little. They rate everyone, and I can remember my choices easily from one year to the next:
Network for Good

Big Guys I Like with Good Ratings:
American Civil Liberties Union
EarthJustice (Because the Earth Needs a Good Lawyer)
World Wildlife Fund
Carter Center (Human Rights)

Happy Giving!

Review, Rework, Revise, Rewrite

2009-12-29T13:48:00.002-05:00

I have spent a total of an hour and half on my big plan to revise Blue Loco. Woo-woo. The colored pencils suck for a person with bad handwriting; the chapter tabs are great; and the novel is both better and worse than I remembered.

So far, this process has not been very good for me. What happened to my enthusiasm?

Well, I'll say one thing about that: I think it would be better for me to write and revise all in one connected period, then edit after the material has cooled for a while. No more writing and then waiting two years to revise. It's hard to work on the novel when I feel I'm above it, on a higher plane.

I do think that writing is the only way to get better at writing. We'll see what revising has to offer.

Civil or Savage?

2009-12-28T17:15:00.010-05:00

In listening to broadcasts on world affairs today, it occurred to me that there is a basic philosophical question at issue: are the people of certain countries, ethnicities, colors, or creeds inherently or hopelessly mired in savagery, or are all people essentially and on average equally capable of rational thought, kindness, and civil behavior?

I think we often hear arguments based on the former. I hear that Afghanistan is a medieval tribal region that has been fighting continuously for 400 years, and so is incapable of enlightened self-governance. The concept is that some countries or peoples are caught in an earlier time in their march toward civilization, and so can't help that they are violent. The voices recommend that we stop trying to "help" these countries/ethnic groups because they are... primitive.

Is it just me, or is anyone else hearing an alarm bell?

I believe that any group of people, given access to human rights like food, shelter, education, and freedom from oppression, will choose to promote those basic rights for others in the same numbers as any other, regardless of the number of years they have been "civilized."

The people of Afghanistan are not--no people are--innately savage. I think that with access to basic human rights that we in the More Fortunate World take for granted, they will look astoundingly similar to us.

With this disposed of, perhaps we can begin to address why those in the supposedly civilized world commit acts of violence.

Re Vision

2009-12-19T23:59:00.003-05:00

Two weeks ago I completed the first draft of a novel that I wrote in just over a month. Two years ago I completed the first draft of a novel I wrote in two years.
I am now starting the revision of the two year novel, deciding that I should finish it first, like doing my homework before I watch TV--if I don't do it now, I'm never going to do it.

The second half of the word revision is the problem: vision. It's like I was blind while I was writing the novel, and now I can see. The plot is holier than a man-target at the sheriff's gun range. I can read road signs through the holes in this plot. And the characters: far from the interesting, sexy people I thought I knew, these guys make me feel like I need special glasses to see them in three dimensions.

I have been reading and talking to people about the revision process. There isn't too much about it in the literature. I think it's like the bathroom; everybody knows you gotta, but nobody really wants to tell you about it. And you don't want to hear, either.

So far, the best advice I've gotten was to read The Unstrung Harp by Edward Gorey. Mr. Earbrass actually shares a few scraps of the experience of revision, and he comforts me.

Other advice, listed here in no order:

Use crayon
Write on post-its
Revise on paper
Don't edit while revising
Be prepared to do it 20 times

What I'm trying:

Colored pencils (I hate them)
Post-its (OK, so far)
Post-it tagging the chapters
Put the novel in its own plastic box
A pretty bag to carry the novel in

I need to throw out half of the plot points. I need to add some suspense. I need to jettison 1/3 of the characters. I need to go back to what I thought I was going to write.

How does anyone get through this? Does it get any better, ever? Most importantly, is there anything about this novel that's worth all this agony?

Barely Counts

2009-11-30T22:59:00.004-05:00

Barely counts. I am now an official winner of NaNoWriMo 2009, with 50,200 words and one hour to go.

It feels pretty good, even though I have to admit, I've got a climax and denouement still to write.

Yay for me!

Other Writers, Damn Them

2009-11-21T12:53:00.005-05:00

A writing fellow I know, Tom Wallace, has started a blog. It's already more on point, more amusing, and much more erudite than mine, and the problem here is, I have no idea how to indicate that I am sticking my tongue out at him in print. (Blegh? Ffftt? Thwipppity?)
Of course, I have some room for pride: I am still nano'ing, and I'm keeping my word count up despite illness, locusts and driving hail. OK, just one of those. But still, I am definitely up against it.
So I read the week three pep talk from nanowrimo, and apparently, I am supposed to be hating my characters, despairing of my plot, and generally finding myself less than pleased with my novel. In fact, I am very happy with my novel, barring a few issues.
1. Chapter 5 is now three times as long as all the rest of the chapters. What's with that?
2. I think I'm going to have to take the whole thing apart and put it together again in a different order to make cause A happen in front of effect B.
3. I still haven't found a way to get rid of the zombies that showed up during plotting. Damn zombies.
Where comes all this fear that if I am not like other writers, that I am not a good writer? I never really wanted to belong to any fraternity, I suppose, and now I find myself staring in, hoping I am one of those people I always admired.
Jamie at Woodstream told me the other day that what I needed was to send one of my babies out to an agent--ready or not. She's right, and I'm going to do it.
Just as soon as I get rid of those zombies.

24835

2009-11-14T17:37:00.004-05:00

Yes, there is only one channel here at the Middle, and it's called nanowrimo. I have come to feel that this is both one of the silliest and the most educational things I have ever done as a writer.
I have learned that I can write 3 to 4 thousand words a day, easy, when motivated. I have learned that the middle of the book is about 10 thousand pages long, and is awful, and I can only write about a 500 or a thousand words a day there. I know that the next 25,000 words will bring more lessons, and I'm really wondering how much of a pain in the ass they will be.
Silly business? My neck hurts from cramping over a keyboard. I'm starting a new contract job in the middle of this project, and that seems the extreme edge of silly. Also, other wrimos seem to be another country from me. They are weirdly social, and they self-publish a lot. Maybe I will look like a hack by doing this? Oh, well. So be it. The lessons showing me that I could very well be a full-time novelist are worth it. Another silly thing? I am dreaming in cheesy novel plots. Even cheesier than the ones I'm actually writing!

11892

2009-11-08T12:45:00.006-05:00

This is the view from my current favorite writing spot in the yard. My mother-in-law's art pieces, "Windows on the Wetlands" are in view, as are a new hibiscus, an old cedar stump my dad gave me, and an eight year old staghorn fern.

3411

2009-11-01T23:58:00.002-05:00

And we're off to the races!

Or, as my nephew John said this morning, "literary trainwreck has begun--choochoo"

NaNoWri-What?

2009-10-31T22:23:00.003-04:00

I am planning to participate in NaNoWriMo this month. That's National Novel Writing Month, for those pitiful creatures like myself who had no effing idea what it was until I saw it advertised in an email from somebody... maybe STC?
50,000 words in 30 days. One novel, never previously written. Mine will be called "Ephemeral," and I've been thinking about the concept since January of this year. I am really excited about it, and I've told everyone I know (ok, everyone I know on Facebook and my Woodstream family) that I am doing it.
That said, I wouldn't be me if I didn't have something to complain about/fear. I'll just list them:

Other writers have been doing nanowrimo successfully for years. I am not a real writer because I didn't know about it, and I haven't done it. I suck.
The whole concept of Mary Sue seems flawed to me. I can't write a story in which I like my character, my character is special in some way, and my character has a tragic past? Good grief, I think that cuts out 95% of all fiction. 100% of fiction I like. Does suspecting I might have a couple of Mary Sues mean that I suck? Especially if I think they should be able to live on, despite their extraordinary-ness?
These people seem to have a lot of time to write--and to blather on on forums. Are they all unemployed? Or do I just suck because I can't write 50,000 words, work a full time job, do a couple of side jobs, AND blog about it continuously?
I have a deep suspicion that most of my co-writers are under the age of 20.
I have a correspondingly deep suspicion that I suck AND I'm old.

I'll be back to report my success or failure at the end of November. Possibly January.

Odd Jobs

2009-10-15T21:45:00.004-04:00

"The odds are good, but the goods are odd."

This is a comment you hear about finding a man in Alaska, and I've decided that a similar corollary applies to job-hunting in a recession for a smart, experienced, talented person.

Either the network engineer or I have been job-hunting now, off and on, for a year. I have had maybe a dozen interviews--over the phone and in person--and the network engineer has had perhaps twice that. This isn't very different from the number of interviews we would have had during the boom years; what is different is the character of the jobs.

Speaking of my own experience, I have been offered decent jobs for indecent wages; horrifying jobs for laughable wages; weird jobs for questionable pay; and bad jobs for practically no pay. There have been a few notable exceptions, and I'm happy to have the work from these fabulous people, but what is it about this economy that makes businesses think they can lie to, abuse, bait and switch, indenture, and bore their employees?

Here's what I think it is: Businesses with few positive qualities (other than being still in business--and I'm not denying the allure of that) have usually been scraping the bottom of the barrel for talent. Or getting talent while it's young and naive. Or taking advantage of talent too heads down to realize it's being taken advantage of.

In this market, talented, savvy, usually fully-employed people are out of jobs. Bad businesses have never been able to get their mitts on these people before, but now they can. Are the businesses lying? Yes. Are they abusive? Yes. Do they offer one job, but actually employ their victims for another, much less desirable job? Absolutely.

But is this different than before? Not for the bad businesses. They were always like this--it's just that the good employees had somewhere else to be.

Long Time No Blog

2009-07-26T22:11:00.003-04:00

I have been working. That's my reason, and I'm sticking to it.

I am going to try out the freelance service called Elance. My co-writer, Gerry W-G, recommended it. I became all depressed when she told me how well she was doing on the freelance/ghostwriting circuit, so I decided to join her instead of crying about it. I signed up as a tech writer/proofreader/copywriter to start.

In other networking news, I gave up my Virtual Vocations subscription. It's been an interesting service, and I got a bit of work out of it, but I can only do on so much at once. I'll concentrate on Craigslist and Elance for a while.

I also joined Facebook. I can't even figure out why--I think I have enough to do, and if I had any time left over from a full time job, some side jobs, and just keeping up with my friends and family, I think I should be using it to write. Oh, how I dislike being a work captive!

Prompt: The Art of the Duel

2009-05-13T22:59:00.003-04:00

Select two characters from your story, or create two characters.
Describe each character in terms of what they want, their worst flaw, and their best feature.
Write a scene in which these two characters duel each other--physically, verbally or otherwise.

Feel Like I a Spy

2009-04-11T17:01:00.001-04:00

...please e-mail your resume and a short description of your former activities only to my corporative email address...

Dream Job?

2009-03-27T23:56:00.001-04:00

Are you interested for play a role of actor in bollywood movies.
Regards
Tony

Defined by our character, not our breading.*

2009-03-23T19:03:00.007-04:00

*The subhead of a blog devoted to guns and called "Mutts."
Underneath that extra-crispy exterior beats the heart of a REAL man!

Story Circle

2009-03-22T00:29:00.005-04:00

I have signed on as an editor with Story Circle Networ k, a group "dedicated to helping women share the stories of their lives and to raising public awareness of the importance of women's personal histories." I'm excited about the idea of working with other writers on projects of personal significance. The service will, as I understand it, offer editing to women with all sorts of stories to tell--in fiction and poetry, as well as memoir. I'll blog more about it as the service comes online.

They requested a marketing piece:
Mary K is the kind of editor you wish you had in school, when you put your heart into your words, and every red pen seemed determined to destroy you. In her 20 years as an editor and writer, she has developed a style that tempers sensitivity to the music of words with a passion for brevity. Being trained both as a creative writer and a journalist, she loves best when she can help an author discover the truth in stories. In her own writing life, Mary K has written novels, essays, stories and innumerable poems.
Mary K has taught English at the college level, edited fiction, worked in marketing and technical communications, and judged in the annual Florida Technical Communication Competition. She has a master’s in journalism/mass communications from the University of Florida and a bachelor’s in English/creative writing from Old Dominion University. Teachers and writers who have influenced her include Bruce Weigl, Bernard J. Paris, Lawrence Hetrick, Allen Caillouet and Jamie Morris.

Sadly, I had to give them a photo as well. Don't laugh! (Loudly.)

Dreams of the Economy

2009-03-12T00:44:00.006-04:00

I had a series of dreams a few nights ago in which my subconscious apparently decided to address the economic situation. In one, I had a new career in which I was teaching people to practice yoga in bed--sort of a cross between yoga instructor and massage therapist. In the other, I walked into a store in my old home town that was closing and selling the furnishings.
When I asked my friend, NM, about economy dreams, she told me that she had a dream in which she saw a series of ghost towns, empty of inhabitants.
The network engineer says that he had a dream in which he parked his truck with trailer attached at work, which in the dream was a "secure" place, and when he returned, all the sheet metal had been removed from the truck, leaving the intact trailer attached to a bare pickup cab.

How about you? Are you dreaming about the economy?

Volunteering

2009-03-08T23:35:00.008-04:00

Saturday I volunteered for the Friends of the Wekiva River event called Riverfest. I helped Deedee hand out programs and later stood around the art display in a semi-official capacity. This was a happy accident, as it gave me time to watch the Birds of Prey show, given by the Eagle Lady.
Volunteering gives me something to do while I wait for my ship to come in, and I highly recommend it to anyone facing the current occupation shortfall. I need more of it.

In the photo (badly taken with my iPhone), Doris' Caracara goes for a walk. Here he (or his body double) is on YouTube.

In Praise of Family

2009-03-05T23:56:00.005-05:00

These people are some of the reasons that I don't despair even when money's tight, all the news is bad, and it doesn't seem as if it can get any worse, and it does.

Reservoir or Wellspring?

2009-03-05T23:21:00.004-05:00

I realize that lately I have been treating my creativity as if it is a reservoir from which I can only draw so much before it is used up. Maybe even that isn't right--maybe I'm acting as if it is more like a canteen in the desert: when I've drunk all of my ideas, I will die of thirst, so I'd better drink sparingly.
So what is the truth of it? Will my ideas run out if I try to drink too often? Or will they only flow freely when I keep the well primed?

Prompt: Body Art

2009-02-20T16:05:00.007-05:00

I dreamed last night that I saw someone being decorated with delicate, henna-like lines, from head to toe. The process itself seemed warm and caring, and the art was beautiful.
For me, lines are related to the process of writing, and henna is linked to the support of women for one another.
Try this: Write a scene in which your protagonist becomes a canvas. How does it happen? Who does it? How does it feel? Is the art temporary or permanent?

Time but no Motivation

2009-02-20T15:31:00.006-05:00

When I had a full-time telecommute gig, I was able to write a 400 page novel in two years, plus the beginnings of several others. I wrote almost every night.
When I was laid off, I thought I would spend a couple hours each day looking for new projects, an hour exercising, and use the rest of this unexpected bonus time putting the finishing touches on my novel. Then, when the projects started rolling in, I would ready to submit it to an agent.
Yeah, right: I spent five or six hours a day looking for work, redesigning my portfolio, and brushing up on my skills. The other three or four hours of my usual work day, I read, made phone calls, even did laundry. The time at night that I used to use to write, I began using to fidget, be bored, fiddle. No novel, no exercise...
So, as the projects have started to hobble in in this recessionary job market, I wonder how I can restart my writing habit.
Any ideas?

Artificially Arid

2009-02-14T14:23:00.003-05:00

The engineer spent all day yesterday working on the broken water system. Something called an air bladder expired Thursday night, requiring the replacement of the whole tank, because we couldn't find just the part, and all of the plumbing pipes and fittings. As long as he was there, the engineer decided to out in a new filtration system, consisting of a sediment filter and a more elaborate filter, as well as take away all the extraneous bits we haven't been using these last few years (after they broke down, one at a time). Why is plumbing so darned complicated? Fluid dynamics, gravity, chemical cohesion (or lack thereof); it's a mess.
We got up this morning to test the system, and while it is functional for a while, the plumber says it all has to be done over again because some of the parts are faulty. Argh!!!
Thank goodness for the pond (from whence we carted our flush water) and previously mentioned engineer-cum-plumber. How do those without these benefits cope?

Nuff Said?

2009-02-01T01:07:00.002-05:00

Self-reflection is one thing, but examining my navel lint in front of a (so far, imaginary) crowd is another, less high-minded thing all together. Should I continue the blog?
Pros:

Place for employers to gauge my writing style.
Soapbox for my favorite rants.
Little Zen garden for my thoughts.

Cons:

Silly waste of time.

Hunt and Gather

2009-02-01T00:49:00.002-05:00

Two new projects! Two editing jobs to keep the home fires alight. I have had nibbles galore (say, that sounds like the name of a sexy Bond girl), and I've done a lot of volunteer work, but solid paying jobs... in this economy, I feel rich.
However, the engineer and I have been discussing ways to reduce out-go. I have made the point here that I'm trying to continue to support small businesses, but a few big businesses may get less of our money. Our cable provider, whom I like, may nevertheless be partially replaced by something like Boxee and Netflix. Cell phone extras and one of the cars are also possible targets.

Cultivating the Gardener

2009-01-26T23:35:00.004-05:00

Bok Tower Gardens, even after a bitter freeze, is a place that inspires me to wonder if a garden is actually the place to find God. The only place that a god seems at home, these days--it's hard to feel spiritual in the grocery store, or while watching the economy implode from my vantage point at the leading edge of the layoffs.

Bridge to Bassetville

2009-01-14T23:49:00.014-05:00

So I've been offline for 12 days. In my defense, I have taken in a third temporary foster basset and I still have the first; and I have been going to two, count 'em, two, writing workshops.

In the pix, Sherman is on the left and Sammie is on the right. To find out about adopting a basset, go to the Suncoast Basset Rescue website.

I love dogs, but I think I'm a cat person at heart. I pay attention to Sherman and Sammie at breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and when I notice them around the house, and also when they disappear into the night when left outside for five minutes (Sammie!)

In other words, I treat them like cats.

State of the Wench

2009-01-02T23:00:00.002-05:00

It's 2009, even if it took a second longer to get here.

I am still looking for Mr. Right-Job, or Mr. Right-Now-Project. I have discovered a raft of job sites, but they all seem to lead to the same five jobs. In fact, jobs I've applied for, and even interviewed for, have not yet been filled. I have attended a seminar on rain-making--by STC member John Hedtke--and participated as a judge in the FTCC competition for 2008. I've started this blog. I've created a new portfolio site.
I've planted some kiwis, which may already be dead. Spring will tell. I've painted my kitchen and refurbished a decrepit hoosier with a white enamel top to go in it.
I have hosted a sweet foster basset for the last two weeks. I took in another sick basset who died about 16 hours after I picked him up.
The novel is tangly and not getting more organized. I have six pages of a new novel idea to keep me warm.

So, that's the state of the wench. How about you?

Prompt: Felt Sense

2009-01-01T22:36:00.002-05:00

In Plato's theory of forms, what we see is not the thing itself, it is simply a shadow. Perhaps emotions I can name are simply shadows of the real felt sense.

Try this exercise:
Get comfortable. Close your eyes and count backwards from 100, slowly. When you get to zero, try to remember your first kiss. Spend a few minutes with how you felt, but don't try to define it.

When you're ready to open your eyes, describe in words that felt sense. Don't be afraid to use simile and metaphor, even make up words.

Gruesome but Good

2008-12-28T23:12:00.013-05:00

What if the overworked agents of the FDA and the animal welfare organizations could watch meat processing plants over a webcam? Bear with me--I know it's horrifying to think about where your food comes from, or what it goes through to get to be a hamburger or a tasty chicken wing, but if you love animals (or even have concern for the karmic implications), this is something you should want to happen. Even a moral vegetarian might get next to this idea as better than nothing.

Set up webcams in meat processing facilities.
Make them federal property so that destroying or deflecting them is a crime.
Stream the footage for FDA agents and registered animal rights groups.
Record randomly (continuously for suspected abuse).
Secure access to the content so that it can't be hijacked.

For an extraordinary person's real change to the way animals are treated, see the website of Dr. Temple Grandin.

For those out there like me, who love animals but still eat meat, I'll tell you what my practice is:
I eat less meat. When I do eat meat, I eat seafood more often. I no longer shy away from the fact that meat is the body of an animal who shares my DNA, that I probably would have thought was cute, and that I would have risked my neck to protect from cruelty. I briefly acknowledge the life that has been given for me, and I promise that I will try to protect the right of each animal to have a good life for as long as it lasts.
I am grateful. I say thank you.

Ass to Chair

2008-12-25T22:26:00.008-05:00

My niece, a budding artist and musician, said today that it has been months since she has picked up her guitar, or drawn more than a few drawings. She had some suppositions about why she wasn't accomplishing more: she only liked to learn the guitar directly from a teacher; she felt that she should be able to learn music strictly by ear; she had learned what she wanted to know about drawing the human figure, so she didn't feel challenged.
She mourned her lost interest; she wondered how to find inspiration again.
You've got to apply ass to chair.
Art, music, writing--it doesn't happen without sweeping back the mundane world, clearing off the clutter, and offering your creative side a little room.

Prompt: Christmas Eve

2008-12-24T23:36:00.003-05:00

Imagine you are a seven year old on the eve of your culture's holiest day. However, this holy day is the 2,000th anniversary of the Apocalypse, the day your people's religion was born.

Life as Usual

2008-12-21T00:04:00.011-05:00

While I look for work, I continue to eat, drive, watch TV and read. Money is becoming tighter; I started to look for ways to save, ways to cut back.
This is what I was doing: not buying extras, like dinners out, books or a stereo for my iPhone; buying cheaper brands that may not be organic or free range; buying fewer Christmas presents; and considering putting off my charitable giving, usually done at the end of the year, until I am safely rolling in dough again.
But then I started listening to others say what they are doing in anticipation of the possibility of not having enough money, and I read about a study that indicated that when people are prompted to think about money, they reduce their generosity.*
It occurred to me that we tend not to think about the guy we didn't buy our pizza from, or the bookseller who didn't get our business. What's going to happen to them when I don't buy?

I can't spend the same way I did when my family had two incomes, but I will consider the other guy when deciding when--and where--to spend what I do have. I'll try to keep the world going 'round. Call it work karma.

* "How Money Hardens the Heart," Nov/Dec issue, Spirituality and Health Magazine, www.spirituality-health.com

Prompt: Ugly Reality

2008-12-13T22:48:00.007-05:00

My family does not talk about the ugly things. A list of subjects I have rarely heard mentioned: throwing up, popping pimples, farting, cleaning up after a sick loved one, going to the bathroom, having a pelvic exam, descriptions of cruelty. In the same way, we don't discuss the darkest of our emotions or experience. All of us have experienced pain, but when we talk about it, it is "emotion recollected in tranquility." This editing of experience informs my writing, in that I don't usually want to write about the ugly realities.

The prompt:

Choose one of your own main characters or a character you identify with, like James Bond, Spock, Katherine from The Taming of the Shrew, Ula in the Producers, or Agent 99.
Think of a subject that you would not discuss readily--your own taboo.
Write a scene in which the wonderful character has to deal with the undesirable subject.
Here's the kicker: write against type. If the taboo is a bodily function, go for drama. If the taboo is violence or death, try for comedy or romance.

Yes, I know that you wouldn't show this piece to anyone, but it's an exercise. Stretch.

A Wolf I Met in Tallahassee

2008-12-02T00:26:00.003-05:00

I was in Tallahassee a dozen years ago, and there I met a woman who was a writer like me, but also a mother. She told me two unrelated stories: one was about the man she had been living with who turned out to be violent to her and to her children. The man was still a danger to them. Another was a dream she had that was haunting her. In it, a great gray wolf came into the room where her children were sleeping. She always woke up before the nightmare could come to what she saw as its inevitable conclusion.
I told her that if it had been my dream, I would see the wolf as my totem animal, and understand that I would be able to turn into a she-wolf in order to protect my children. I said that I thought the dream showed that she had everything she needed to protect her children, that she was powerful.
She thought I was nuts. She was sure the wolf was her nemesis and not her inner power.
I wonder sometimes how the wolf is doing.

Prompt: What's My Motivation?

2008-11-28T23:34:00.004-05:00

Think about your character's driving characteristic.
What animal might represent that characteristic?
Write a scene from a dream your character might have featuring that animal.

Not Playing at the Playtime Drive-in, Sixty-three Hundred, Blanding Boulevard

2008-11-23T22:34:00.007-05:00

I listened to a story on NPR about the new owners of the Playtime Drive-in. The property had been sold to a church, and the story made a big deal about the theater's "bad old days" as a XXX movie theater. The church was having a grand film-burning of all the movies left in the theater, treating it like a festival, with children playing and throwing movies on the fire.
The story made me uncomfortable, but I wasn't sure why.
Today, I looked up a story about the theater's closing. In the story, theater-goers and projectionists talked about the 60 years the theater was open, both as X-rated and family-oriented. They talked about how kids ran around the parking lot, met their friends, fell asleep in their parents' cars, and were conceived in the backseat. I compare that to the image of children frolicking around a celluloid bonfire.
I know which image makes me want to celebrate.
Closing of the Playtime Drive-in

Fun with Careerbuilder

2008-11-20T13:03:00.005-05:00

I am reliably informed by an email I received via Careerbuilder that I am "perfectly fit" for a position as a warehouse associate. As I have always aspired to be a warehouse associate, I read on. I was really excited because there didn't seem to be any impediment: I'm a US citizen, I am WAY over 21, and I know how to use email. Very exciting!

But then I saw it, and I can't think that I really have this ability:
Can you deposit more than 2 cubic metres indoor?

Oh, the tragedy. I don't think I am able to deposit more than 2 cubic meters. Maybe outdoor, but not indoor.

Your Mother!

2008-11-19T23:50:00.007-05:00

I feel a bit like Rodney Dangerfield today. After writing a 500 word press release about a 5,000 word article on nematodes and toads, I got this nasty-gram from the journal: "Thank you very much for providing a sample release for our journal. Our choice ultimately came down to finding a candidate that could grapple with the complex scientific content in our journal. We appreciate the time you took to apply..."

Never mind that I explained the subject in language that would be likely to catch an editor's interest -- what if I didn't? Did I deserve to be told that my intellect was lacking? Whatever happened to "Thank you, but we selected another candidate"?

Good grief. Or, as Rodney might say, "I get no respect!"

To Score, to Cut, to Tear, to Write

2008-11-16T22:33:00.006-05:00

I was considering today what makes a writer. The dictionary definitions are broad: "A person engaged in writing books, articles, stories, etc., esp. as an occupation or profession," or "a writer is a person who is able to write and has actually written something." (!)

The ancient roots of the word "writer" come with a much better range of meanings: to score, to cut, to tear. Now that sounds like the experience I know and love--and hate.

I am a scorer, a cutter, a tearer of words; I am a writer.

Prompt: Relate Your Character's Age to Something That Isn't Age

2008-11-14T00:02:00.004-05:00

As I get older, I can choose to think of the years in terms of wrinkles, bigger clothes, number of pills, and my shrinking future, or I can compare myself to all the things for which bigger is better. Last year I was a .44 caliber. 23 years ago, I was merely a .22.
This year, I'm a .45. Don't f--- with me!

So, do this:
How old is your character, or in what year was he or she born? Write a description of your character as it relates to that number.

Dirty Money

2008-11-13T00:42:00.002-05:00

What am I worth? --scratch that-- What is the work I do worth?
Since I became a feral writer, (an independent contractor, as some like to say), this has become more than a philosophical question.
To get paid, I need to know.

To find out, I look at this data:

What do people with my level of writing and design experience, in my field, get paid? http://www.salary.com, http://www.stc.org (members only)

What do people get paid around the country for doing this specific kind of project? http://www.nwu.org

How much do I need to maintain my desired standard of living? #cats x $catfood + #books x $/book + bare survival + (fun/recession)

I then give weight to several factors:

If I'm perfect for the job, and not TOO good for it, bid high.
If the work is interesting to me, bid in the middle and/or offer to negotiate.
If I really need the work, bid on the low end of my range.

Bid what the job's worth, bid what's fair, and bid what I can afford. In the end, I'm selling a product, NOT my sweet self.

P.S. A nice site on what to charge: http://www.njcreatives.org/members_only/reference/how-much.htm

For Sale: 1989 Plymouth Sundance

2008-11-10T16:45:00.003-05:00

Selling my 1989 Plymouth Sundance. Blue with gray interior, 151,000 miles. Just professionally detailed, which totally got rid of a weird smell in the trunk after my boyfriend used it for a job.
Cheap! Make offer!

Prompt: Dream Character Personals Ad

2008-11-09T23:55:00.000-05:00

When you first wake up, try to capture one character from your dreams whom you do not know in waking life. Note what was frightening or irritating about the character.

Pretending to be the character, write a personals ad that reveals that trait without the character knowing it.

Blogging Despite My Better Judgement

2008-11-09T23:30:00.000-05:00

I read and enjoy a few blogs (Redneck Mother comes immediately to mind), but I have resisted starting my own because I don't think I have anything to say. Three reasons I'm here anyway:

I keep getting asked if I have a blog.
My friend Stephanie (who IS funny and ought to have a blog) told me I can be funny, which made me briefly big-headed.
Forcing myself to write like this might be good for my stories.

I'll sometimes post writing prompts to make this less excruciating for both of us (trying not to nick from Jamie at Woodstream Writers).

Cure is the Condition

2008-11-09T00:42:00.001-05:00

I loved stories from the moment I could decipher language, but perhaps I wanted to write my own because I was afraid.

When I was little, I could never sleep. I feared cockroaches, monsters, death, fire, ridicule, parasitic infection, and hell. Even as a teenager, I could see a "wolfman" on a paperback in the afternoon and need my father to talk me down by 3 am. In the overheated Florida night, I couldn't sleep without covers for fear illicit insects would walk over me. In the winter, with no heat, the fan still oscillated so that I couldn't hear the footsteps in my pillow.

I began to tell myself stories to drown out the internal noise that I couldn't block. Shaping my imagination kept it from becoming my nightmare.

Revising in Hell

2008-11-08T23:57:00.001-05:00

I revise my novel using a pickax, then realize that what I really needed was a shovel.
So this is hell.