A Year of Writing, Dangerously

the last day/July review

2010-07-31T19:12:00.000-07:00

So today's work has been completed. Today I edited three projects, bits of them. Two chapters of The Road Home in the early morning, then reading through The Farm At Sam and Jenny's for the bulk of the day. Then three chapters of The War On Emily Dickinson late this afternoon. Then I stopped, and started dinner.

Which was sausages with grilled onions, corn on the cob and veg with dip. Jay was home, so K1 came over with her boyfriend M. Now it's nearly half seven, and they are making their nighttime plans. I think they're going to a party, the girls to spend the night at K1's grandmother's abode.

But those are just details of life, the ending of this year that this time last summer held that girl in our house full time. Now she's just visiting for a few more days, before she heads back to her dwelling, getting ready for college.

And me? I'm getting ready to query The War On Emily Dickinson, the first novel written in this past year of writing dangerously. I think it's a good manuscript, more than good. Pretty darn good, but I'm not objective. Pretty darn biased, but then, really, what do I know?

I know how to write, a task this past year pummeled into my head, month after month, novel after novel. I wrote and wrote, what this year was all about. A fiscal year, August 2009-July 2010, twelve months of buckling down, butt in chair, let's be serious (and have fun too) about this whole writing gig.

A year later, I'd like to say I know what I'm doing, at least for me. I know my voice. I know what POV I prefer (Third, but I've written in first as well.). I know how to write shorter books, longer books. I know that I can write quickly, that I shouldn't take more than two days off when writing.

I know that writing isn't just some hobby, but a way to enjoy my freedom, a manner in which to communicate with my God.

It's far more than I had dreamed three hundred sixty five days ago...

It was dangerous at times, taking three days off consecutively for instance. A big no-no for me. Two is the max I can give, three leaving me sluggish, not right.

It's dangerous at times, wringing from myself what I think is possible, then stretching a little bit more. Three times last year I wrote two novels in a month; August, September, November. It's possible, but man, a lot of butt in chair!

It's dangerous at times, when finding something so close to home in the words, the stories. A few last year were based on very personal situations, tweaked enough to NOT be my life, but in small, or large ways, it was my life. Moments I hope never to relive, except maybe in fiction.

It's dangerous at times, wondering why? Why am I doing this, why so many words? Why can't I do something else, why why why?

Why might have been the most dangerous query all year. Doubting this calling, questioning a power so much greater than me. Curious, so dang curious when all I should have been doing was not giving a hang, only writing.

And on most of the days, that's what I did. I didn't ask why very often, but imagine I'll do it still, on occasion, not as rare as I'd like. So hard to avoid that word, but really, since I know this isn't about me, to ask why is like trying to explain things to a three-year-old. They love to ask why.

(why why why...)

Tomorrow is the first of August of a new fiscal year. Also the first day of a month dedicated to querying, to asking not why but why not? Why not take this manuscript under your wing, into your hand, through the internet lines that easily accept and filter. But that's tomorrow. Today, the last day of this fiscal year, I'm wrapping up days and days of sitting in a chair, using this very keyboard, although I do have a new chair. I have a new chair, but the same computer, the same view out of my window, new plants, but it's the same house, same husband, even our youngest is still around, albeit for a limited time. So much else has changed, too many to list. The novels keep coming, however, that remains. What happens to them is unknown, but something. Something will come of all this, a year of writing to sharpen and polish, a year to learn and grow. A year that taught me to trust, that what is meant to be will certainly arrive. A year to grab hold of this occupation, this craft, this way to express more than I could plot, letting the words fall from my hands, my head, my heart. If nothing else, this is from my heart, one beating with the strength not of my own making.

All of this, every single bit comes from one stronger, more knowledgeable, more than I could ever be. All I'm doing is translating the essence as best as I can.

Translating the essence; what it's really all about. That is what I've learned, sometimes dangerously. But never deadly, always beautiful.

Always the most beautiful thing in the world, once everything else has been left behind. Now I'm ready for the next step. And here I go!

Oh, btw... This month I wrote The Colours of Planes, 101,876 words total. And the complete word count for the year?

1,177,190 words between thirteen novels. Never let anyone tell you something is impossible. If it's meant to be, no one and nothing will prove an obstacle!

funny how these things work

2010-07-28T11:30:00.000-07:00

So I spent the last week in Oregon, supporting my sister who has preemie twins. It was a momentary, gifted look at the world of neonatal medicine, and yes, I have a story idea brewing. But that wasn't the main point of this entry.

Nor is it about those gorgeous, striking twins, who set themselves into my heart forever, alongside their mother with whom I reconnected. But that trio floats in my head, so beautiful, wonderful, lively and lovely.

Really, this post is about the other love of my life, not my hubby to whom I am bound even more than I thought before I left. Laying beside him last night in bed that wasn't an air mattress on the floor was more perfect than I dreamed.

No, this post isn't about any of those blessed folk. It's about the one who turns my wheels, who gives me breath. It's about the one for whom I write, do most of the rest of the things I meander about, the one who matters most.

A Savior, a Holy Spirit, a God in three parts. The reason for my being, why I write. How I write is more to the point, and that I write at all is His gift, his purpose. I've known that, accepting and affording this gift to Him. But what I didn't know, didn't learn until driving home, nearly to the place where I'm most familiar, what I only learned yesterday afternoon along a freeway was that in writing, I'm praying, I'm connecting, I'm communing. That part I never really knew.

I knew that being away from my husband was difficult, but not deathly. Being out of my element was invigorating in many ways, immersed into another world with different people I love, learning how little lives are just as meaningful as big existences. I felt somewhat apart from my routine, of course that was unavoidable, but I was so busy, so taken over by all I saw, felt, smelled, sensed, that it was okay. Running on fumes of a different sort that weren't debilitating, but distracting. But only long enough to teach me what really needed to be learned.

What I needed to know was that all this writing, for all its creative musing, messages and deeper meaning underscored, all this writing is really a way for me to hear a quiet, small voice. And to give back what garbled response I can manage.

But I had to get away, unplug. Not from the web, oh no, I was plenty involved. I had to wrench myself from the writing to see just what it means, more than all the story lines I could ever come up with on my own.

And you know, it's not really about me at all. I've known that for a long time, but what I didn't know was how it's reciprocal, give and take. I thought it was all being handed a gift, and it is, but it's also about offering what I can, what I translate.

Translating the essence, oh goodness!! In translating the essence, what I receive, then immediately return, is better than spun gold, better than great sex, better than adorable twin baby girls breathing on their own. It's me breathing through words that arrive without fancy heralds, but arrive on time, time after time, and the words I let slip through tangled fingers are my way of saying thank you. Thank you and I love you too.

time away

2010-07-18T17:55:00.001-07:00

Well, I'm leaving tomorrow. Not on a jet plane, only in my car. Heading north, a long road trip, to help my sis with her new babies!

The last novel for this fiscal year of writing is done, today, The Colours Of Planes. It's my first attempt at first person all through, and I'll be popping it on my iPod, maybe reading it up there. I'll need something to do, as mostly I'm going as chauffeur and support. Those babies won't be leaving hospital anytime soon.

But they are doing well, that's the main thing! And I'm looking forward to a change of pace, if not saddened by time away from the husband. But time away from the routine will be interesting. Then when I return, this year will be nearly over, moments over which to ruminate.

In the meantime, I gotta pack!

so much writing

2010-07-16T20:48:00.001-07:00

So today... I wrote four chapters on the WIP, The Colours Of Planes. I've been getting two chapters done, two days with three. Today was a big haul. Tomorrow maybe the same.

I'm heading to assist my youngest sibling with her newfound life, that of a mum of twins three months early, not to mention her two and a half year old!

I'll be heading out Monday, not sure at this point for how long, at least a week I bet, maybe more. If nothing else, I didn't want this book hanging over my head, and if I can get some solid work done Saturday and Sunday, all should be well.

I haven't written that much in a white and by the end, I felt it. Like not much left to wring out!

But it was good, part of the danger. What's so funny is that up there, I'll have two books over which to do an initial read-through, making notes. Plenty to plot for August's novel, and plenty over which to ponder with the upcoming querying I want to do. So while there won't be any writing, there will be lots of the rest of it.

A strange way to end this year, but life is always full of unknowns!! Keeps me on my toes, if nothing else. And new babies to admire are always a gift!

June review

2010-07-05T10:57:00.000-07:00

June was...

A busy, busy month! Full of changes, parties, ceremonies, a really miserable cold, and very little tennis. No Wimbledon for me until July; instead it was all about the words.

I wrote a novel, Where Is Fielder Walsh?, edited Detours, worked on editing The War On Emily Dickinson. I read through Hand in Hand, plotted The Colours Of Planes and Almost Flying Blind. I saw my youngest child graduate high school, threw an after grad bash (which was also a housewarming party). Spent time with family, but not enough, contemplated that youngest child's upcoming move, and wrote. And edited. And read. And felt like burnt toast by the end.

One more month of this year, of which has started off very quietly, thank goodness! I'll review that on the last day of July, but for now...

June, oh June! What didn't I do in June! I feel like it did it all, except for anything much to do with querying, except for reading a great article from Lisa, who offered me a tidbit of how to approach a synopsis for The War On Emily Dickinson.

Otherwise, it was just work, work, work. Maybe blotting out what was coming, what has already came. My youngest child has moved out, and that seems huge. As large as all that happened last month.

Dangerous is writing, sometimes living too. You just never know....

June total words written- 84,607

one more done

2010-07-01T14:54:00.000-07:00

I finished Where Is Fielder Walsh? today, just in time as tomorrow my youngest daughter's last day at home. We're rented a truck, will pick it up in the morning, then pack it full of all her possessions. Plus a few extras. Then on Saturday, we drive her away.

A bittersweet moment, for this happens, it just does. I'm glad to be done with work for a few days, having completed a HUGE edit of Detours this morning too, then writing the last chapter for this latest novel, the twelfth in this year of writing dangerously. Now I can breathe out work, breathe in something else.

Something new, an empty nest! Such a bizarre concept, but it happens, it really does. Once that girl is gone, I don't know what life will be like. Other than the writing, of course...

I have querying to do, but that falls outside this year, but I need to do some research this month, maybe a little query writing and synopsis authoring and such so I'll be all READY to query in August. But by then, this blog will be done.

This blog is about writing, about getting that down pat. I think maybe I'm close. We will see...

small meltdown

2010-06-22T19:17:00.000-07:00

Another reason this is somewhat dangerous; the end is near, and I'm burning the candle at both ends.

A great little saying, but I'm starting to feel it, with four projects on the stove, all burners tapped. I'm doing a major edit on Detours, writing Where Is Fielder Walsh?, reading through The War On Emily Dickinson, and plotting The Colours of Planes.

Today I did two of the four, yesterday a bit on each. Yesterday when I went to bed I felt out of sorts, tired and emotionally drained. Tonight I'm just tired, which is better than also being emotionally drained.

It's a funny situation, because I know I'm doing just what I'm supposed to be doing, only a case of asking how high when being told to jump. Really, it's about trust. What can be accomplished, how far I will allow myself to go; pretty far, but at times I also feel wrung out, like why? Why do I do this, for what, for whom? Not for self, which sucks at times, because everyone would like a little pat on the back, but really, this is not about me.

Which qualifies everything. If this isn't about me, and I'm willing to give it my all, trust until the cows come home then I have to accept being wrung, like a rag, aware it might hurt, it might not feel so great, but neither will it kill me.

It really won't.

It might make me a wee bit crusty, but really it shouldn't. I need to remember this, that no matter how tired or useless I feel, what needs to happen will, what needs to be written or edited or plotted or looked over WILL be all those things.

And I don't need to ask why or what for. All I need to do is JUMP!

plenty of work to do

2010-06-19T21:04:00.000-07:00

Just started a new novel, and in between I'm editing Detours once again, also having a peek at The War On Emily Dickinson. Plus all the usual life stuff, laundry and the like. I love feeling so creative, but there is also this calm beckoning, asking me to come sit a spell.

I've been crocheting baby blankets, so that keeps my bum from moving, but writing does that too. At least with yarn, there's little thinking involved.

I tend to let things happen as they will, not worrying too much, for getting spun up about stuff does me no good. I know this active burst won't last forever, just a time to get things done. So that's what I do.

As these days of writing (and editing and planning and plotting) wind down, I do wonder what comes next. I don't think about that too much either, but still, I have to wonder. What is the next chapter (ha ha!) after this blog closes in about six weeks time...

new template, new entry

2010-06-10T19:39:00.001-07:00

I have a cold. That's neither here nor there, only the facts. Yes, I have a cold.

This blog also has a new look, as I found tonight that Blogger has added a plethora of new templates! I think this one fits perfectly.

Lately I've been in an editing mode, also a daughter graduating from high school mode. Also a clean the house for the graduation party mode. Not much writing's been happening, but that's fine, as it will commence next week. I need to sort that story only a bit more, an easy one, mostly stuck in my head. But I've been heavily into plotting the one after that, a novel that is taking a lot of brain power, paper too. Which is GREAT! I haven't plotted a novel like this since The War On Emily Dickinson, every once in a while necessary is that level of detail, of story. Not every manuscript should be that way, but some. Some is good.

What amazes me is not that my youngest is graduating high school or that I'm a little bit sick or that our back yard is looking really spiffy. What amazes me is that this year of writing dangerously is nearly over! Only another seven, maybe eight weeks, and to put it all in place would take longer than my addled mind could manage. But the writing, oh my! The writing's been a treasure, precious, special, amazing! Truly and totally, not just the quantity, which has been tremendous, but the quality, even if I do say so myself. The writing over the past year has been the kind to turn a corner. Not sure what's lurking around that edge, but something.

There is something here.

That's a joke, from an earlier novel, September Story, written a year before this perilous year began, but it was the door opener, of sorts, in that I wrote that novel, put it into a contest, did pretty well. Which lead to the summer of 2009, when all on my mind wasn't querying that story, only writing. All I was going to do was write.

Then, on the first of August, I started another novel, just another in the works, The War On Emily Dickinson. Within that manuscript being completed, the idea of a year devoted to writing was knocked about, my youngest's last year at home, one final year with kids under the same roof as me. I started this blog on... I had to look it up, 14 August 2009. That's here, you can have a look, but I've done what I stated, opened my brain and dumped it all over the place.

Since there's still those few weeks, I'll not recap yet, but let's just say I turned that corner and haven't looked back. Well, not until tonight. And yup, I'm doing just what I said on the 14th of August. Just writing.

And yes, it has felt so good! Well, until tonight, but I don't think my cold has anything to do with writing or graduating children. Only a bug, but not the writing bug.

I was bitten by that ages ago, and so far, haven't found a cure...

May review

2010-06-02T13:28:00.000-07:00

First, it's mind-blowing that it's time to write this post. The second day of June, and where has all of 2010 gone? Too odd, and I don't think I'll ever adjust to time going so fast.

But that has to be set aside, for this is all about the month that was, May a busy time. I wrote a book, editing all sorts of things, took time off then felt weird, in that three days away from the novel in progress was one too many. But it fell into place, as things do.

If nothing else, I do know things will fall into place. Maybe not where I thought they would fall, but who am I to say?

I edited the first three books in the Alvin's Farm series, to start, after really starting by editing A Cornflower Snow. Which wasn't as bad as I thought! While I'll be adding a chapter to Another Life Of Matthew Sagan and Hand In Hand, A Cornflower Snow was actually okay, better than I thought when writing it. Rose coloured glasses perhaps?

Maybe. I do know that it might be top heavy with information, in that much of the story is revealed in the first part, but for now, it's been initially sorted, and will sit for a bit.

Plenty of other things to come next, like the editing of Alvin's Farm, The Thorn and the Rose, followed by Memories of Home. Those three comprise the first half of the that series, and Memories of Home wasn't as bad as I feared. Maybe I just think it's all rubbish, or maybe it is and I'm just deluded.

As I edited those three, I wrote Hand In Hand, which was fun to create, two different bands and their stories, pretty interesting. I also ran through my head the plot for Where Is Fielder Walsh? as well as coming up with the very beginnings of The Colours Of Planes.

Yes, a very busy month, not including all the agents I accumulated for later this summer. Summer only arrived here in California at the end of the month, so many cool days, but this year it won't seem so endless.

The search for an agent might feel that way, but at least the warmest season will feel more to average!

May total word count- 80,500

an end in hand

2010-05-26T13:28:00.001-07:00

Right now I'm writing a novel, reading one too. Not even one of my own, John Irving's The Hotel New Hampshire. I read it a long time ago, at least twenty years, maybe more. I know the outline of the story, but in reading it, it's like I've never read it before.

And certainly not since I've been a writer.

One of the things I love about writing, as well as reading, even if it's a book you've read previously, is the sense of surprise. Of course in a novel you've never opened, there's great intrigue lurking, waiting to be discovered. In writing it's the same, even if you know what's going to happen.

For me, that's part of the beauty of being an author, in that I can have a story so tightly plotted, but still intangible things happen, characters popping up, nuances and twists, all sorts of stuff I'd not considered. This huge open space of the unknown, and while sometimes it's daunting, one of the dangerous parts of this job, it's also exhilarating, liberating, allowing the mind to roam within certain confines, or being naughty and chucking the parameters altogether.

I love John Irving's style of writing, the way he crafts sentences, chapters, but this is tempered, maybe qualified is better, in that I also know he starts with some final sentence, then goes backwards, if you will, aware of everything that happens, or so I've read in some of the interviews he's given.

I could never write that way.

Maybe I'm shallow, maybe I'm, well, not a hack, but there just has to be some bit of wonder, maybe even a little worry, will this turn out, will it be any good? Will it make ANY sense? If I plotted out a novel with too much strength, then I don't know if it could breathe. Not sure I could.

But it works for Irving. Two of my favorite books are by that man, The World According To Garp and A Widow For One Year. I'd forgotten how much I like The Hotel New Hampshire, also a very good book. I can't complain, only to say every writer comes to this craft differently, with methods and purposes only they can own. I appreciate what he does, don't feel obliged to copy it. Having written all I have this past year, I'm feeling comfortable, or at least competent. Maybe I shouldn't want to be too set in my ways, leaving space for what comes next.

But in the meantime, I can read his books, feeling the craft employed, such care. No matter how words are written, if they're from an honest heart, that's all that matters.

something so delicious

2010-05-21T06:59:00.001-07:00

Been writing again. Taking each day as it comes, following a loose outline, describing places and people and it feel so good!

So does taking a day off, which I'm doing today. Going on a road trip, and will listen to tunes from Pirates of the Caribbean soundtracks, putting me in a swashbuckling mood.

Also one to inspire, letting the mind roam while the miles tick by, traffic to contend with yes, but also this lovely sense of freedom. I love driving.

I love writing too, gifts, it's all about seeing the gifts and translating the essence. That's all it is...

feeling like this is more than a hobby

2010-05-17T15:14:00.000-07:00

I started a novel today, not much pre-planning in this one, although what happens in every chapter is plotted, characters loosely formed in my mind. It's a funny way to start a book, in that I feel so untied to this story, but I've felt that way in the past, and they've come out okay.

But while those sensations are niggly, I do feel overall like writing is really my gig, for now. Unless something else really intriguing comes along, this is my calling. I'm not sure why that popped out today, maybe the way I began this latest book, just sort of sat down and started writing it.

No big fanfare, nothing overly announcement-like. Just getting the butt in the chair and pounding the keys.

Which is maybe how it should be, not like a coronation or huge adventure. Writing in November is special, NANO such a treat! But as I've come to this blog over the last nine and a half months, it's crystallized more and more, or maybe I'm just accepting it more, that in writing we become writers.

I guess what I'd like is to look back on these posts and say, "Here's where it all changed. here's where I began to feel like a writer, think like one, think of myself AS one."

Maybe at the end of the day, that's all it is...

one of the results of writing

2010-05-11T05:42:00.000-07:00

Editing in whatever form it manifests itself is the end product of writing. For as much as I'd love to write the perfect novel, it's not a quest for which I pine, or even consider. When I write, I know invariably there will be the round of edits whether the words come in a flood or are plunked a few at a time.

While different projects require this or that sort of assistance, all need an initial read-through, my way of mulling over what I've just set to a word document. I take notes, sometimes on each chapter, sometimes just on what I see is incorrect or in need of immediate help. I don't consider a read-through an actual edit, in that I'm not changing anything to the novel itself. Only making notes, which does make me flinch a bit, as I see things I want to change, small things and I wonder if when I return to this story, if I'll recall those minute bits.

I try not to think about that when I'm actually poking at it later on.

Now that I have an e-reader (an iTouch which covers so many bases, and I just love it!) that's usually how I sit with that first look. Easy to take anywhere, and a small legal pad or notebook accompanies, simple to tote and take those notes. When it's time to get into the nitty gritty, it's at my desktop, so being able to go some other place to just READ is a real treat. Later on, when the necessary edits are few and far between, I'll read a manuscript on Stanza, then return to the waiting document, fix what needs it. Very portable, and viewing one's work in what looks like a professional font is priceless!

This is more to the nuts and bolts of editing, but every craft or job carries with it rules, basic parameters that all must follow. Athletes train, and we do to, training to becoming better authors, but also the details of what follows the writing; editing can seem daunting, but I like to think of it as raising a child. If the actual writing is pregnancy, then everything else is like teaching a baby to walk, a toddler to use the loo, a preschooler to share and a teenager to, well, I'm not really sure how to master that, and my youngest is seventeen years old.

But you get the gist.

Every novel needs to be tweaked, in one manner or another. Even with all our modern conveniences, there will always be a need for revisions. Sometimes I'll be in the middle of an edit, a manuscript I've looked over extensively, and still find something in need of change, a paragraph to be reworked, or even a small misspelling. I think it's as a writer improves, our older novels show that level of our ability, and as if eyes take in anew what has come previously, we can't help but notice. Which is good, means improvement has been made!

Also humbling, because of course when I wrote this or that, while I knew it needed work, I thought it was pretty good.

Well, okay. It was okay.

Some people put a limit on a project; it's this good, and now I'm done. Knowing myself, I tend to allow most pieces to sit in limbo, only a few that I KNOW aren't going to move past my hard drive. Everything else is open for further interpretation, all depends on my time. Because something else is usually brewing in my head, and that means one thing.

There will ALWAYS be something to edit!

teeming with ideas

2010-05-07T06:47:00.000-07:00

This happens on occasion, but I'm learning better how to deal with it.

In that, some ideas are just snippets of my brain, storylines that maybe even more than slightly developed, but nothing I'm really going to have time to develop. Even if I've taken notes and really given more time to it than necessary. Within a few days, a week, months, I know this isn't something I'm going to write.

Sometimes the ideas fly in, and I grab one, scribble it immediately. At the end of December, I had three stories hit me, a month later I was writing one, and the other two...

Only snippets. They come and go, and few stick hard enough within me to get a solid foothold. And I don't even know why one words, two don't.

Right now I've two new ideas banging around, alongside one more, then there's what I'm going to write in July, Not any of those three. of those three, one is going to start in about 8-9 days, on Monday the 17th. I think it's going to be Hand In Hand, at least I'm pretty sure. Where Is Fielder Walsh? is pretty steady, and then one more, tentatively titled Sentimental Favourite is percolating too.

Last summer I had a plethora of notions, made blogs for them, then watched nearly all of the fade away. They have folders with titles made, paper withing those colourful folders, but they sit in a box in the guest room closet. I learned my lesson from that debacle, and now I stick loose papers with notations in one red folder entitled Boll Weevils Looking For A Home. It's a White Stripes homage, but true. So many flickering flames that may or may not turn into a manuscript.

Hand In Hand has a folder, but no blog, yet I'm pretty sure about that one. Where Is Fielder Walsh? has a folder and a blog both. Sentimental Favourite just got a title two days ago, but is still on the fence. Not sure which side it will land.

Then there is In the Blue, which has been around since last summer's bumper crop, and I keep putting it off, but can't quite abandon it to the guest room vault. There is only so much time available between living and the work, and in the work slots there's editing in addition to writing, plus plotting and research, blogging about it to some small degree included. I have no time for querying right now, which is a handy excuse, too busy on the creative end of everything.

I'm not a writer without ideas. A blessing, maybe a small curse. Either way, it's how it goes, and when it's a shower like now, I just sit back, let each day take its course. To fight it going any other way would be like ramming my head into a wall. I do enough of that with my teenage daughter, thanks...

April review

2010-05-04T17:42:00.001-07:00

I think back to last month and it reminds me of the end of last summer and autumn, a whole lot of scribbling going on...

Having sent off the manuscript for the Faulkner-Wisdom competition, I turned back to the act of creating, penning two stories. It felt good, strange too, one the beginning of a series, the other hastily brought together. The last was written as quickly as it hit me, and while I have no complaints, there is something about writing on the fly, letting ideas loop to the next, and while that manuscript contains several inconsistencies, minor to fix, I like the overall feel of it.

Such a joy is this work!

I did some editing as well, was sick as a dog for a few days, celebrated my forty-fourth birthday and quarreled with my youngest daughter. All in all, a month where the positives outweighed the sorrows, even with a major stomach bug to start the month.

Even with that, April ended well, and I say bring on May! Oh, it's already the 4th...

April total word count- 183,881

nothing but a heartache

2010-05-01T08:50:00.000-07:00

Is a song by a group from the late 1960's, The Flirtations. Always something coming up on my husband's iTunes, and with the sharing feature it's a simple act of taking whatever I like, plopping it on my computer.

Of course that's all due to a wireless router. But one day, might sharing information be that effortless? It's so hard to pinpoint what we'll use in even five years time, much less ten or twenty, and there was a great link to one person's opinion, but now today it won't come up. Oh wait, here it is.

I've heard about the cloud, something Apple uses now. Maybe it's the dinosaur in me, but I will be happy to use a desktop for a good long time, keeping my own hard drive with my own work. I love those little notebooks, but right now they're not that compatible with storing plenty of words. Maybe that's just me, as a writer. Thinking of what Mike Shatzkin talks of in his article gives me the shivers, only in that here I am just trying to get the words and nuances correct. What do I care right now, today, about clouds?

Bad attitude, I know. But there is this delineation of working on the craft, then getting so sucked into the what if's. What if there aren't traditional publishers twenty years from now? What if it's as easy to take content from someone's tablet or phone or whatever techie device is popular as it is right now for me to slip one little song off the shared network here in my own house? What does all that mean when I'm trying to plot out a novel?

Writers of past eras never had these issues with which to contend. Yes they had to write query letters, find agents, but all this internet hoo haa was only in the dreams of those unafraid to think ahead. Does that mean I'm a timid thing? I'd like to think no. I'd like to think it means that I'm concentrating on making my voice more clear, honing skills and perfecting the craft.

That's what I'd like to think. And maybe that's enough. That I'm aware of clouds and suppositions could be enough. Keeping toes dipped in the pond that is modern publishing is part of it, but the rest of the body needs to be firmly entrenched in what we're really doing.

Which is telling stories. That's why we're in this gig, because there are tales in our brains needing to be released. Clouds and devices are great, probably will be in my future. Unless I keel over tomorrow, those are what I'll be using, more likely than not, one day not as far as I might think or like. But before that comes the notion of some necessary thought to relay. Some idea, story, and that comes first. It has to. Technology will transform the finished product however it will be fated to occur, but if there's no content, the form will perish.

And that would be the biggest heartache of all.

what I learned while watching the ocean

2010-04-24T17:13:00.000-07:00

Part of it was speaking aloud to my husband, one of the few who has to listen to my ramblings. We were at Ocean Beach in San Francisco only yesterday but it feels like longer. We walked along the beach, then stood for a while along the wall, steps up from the sand. We'd been talking about my work, the writing, and what it meant to me, what it means now as compared to last year or when I started.

What I found was how secure I've become in what I do, and that's all from how much writing I've done. And if someone was going to ask me if they wanted to write what they should do, I would tell them to write.

Then write, and write some more.

I read somewhere that someone said Stephen King said if you want to write, you should write a million words to get started. Or something like that; I did just Google it, but came up empty-handed. But no matter, for I'll chalk it up to Mr. King, and completley agree. If you want to be a writer, then start writing.

There are a few reasons, but the biggest two are this; first, you get a feel for writing, get out a lot of the bad writing. Experience, plain and simple. The more you do of something, the better you get at it.

The second is developing one's voice. I really believe the only way to do that is to write. Developing a voice is different than becoming a better writer, because one is about craft and competency, the other is HOW that craft is employed.

What genre(s) one will explore and how to do it is voice, the method and verbiage. But only by writing can that be explored, realized. The more writing, the better.

Whether it's novels or short stories, but it's the writing, the quantity, because it takes a certain amount of work under the belt to get a feeling for this application.

Now, there are ALWAYS exceptions, always. However I know the more writing I do, the more able I feel, and looking back at what I've done, there's the proof. That's easy to check.

And it's nice, in a way, very pleasant to see growth, advancement. Means something is getting better, makes me feel like what I'm doing means something. I've learned all this over the last eight and a half months of just getting that butt in the chair and writing. That's what this year has been about and watching the beach I put it into words, noting the ocean going back and forth. That never ends.

Back and forth go the words, like the water. They never end. Right now they're going through me, through all the living writers on this planet in so many languages. Published or no, the stories live in the words we write. We translate the essence, and of course, we'd like to do it the best we can.

Get our ideas expunged and the more succinct we are, the more people want to read it. Because getting stories out is easier than ever. Publishing via the big boys will always be a needle in a haystack, but with self-publishing, e-books, we can offer our stories in so many formats, so easily slipped onto any iTouch or e-reader with a few clicks of a mouse.

That's all new, but is here to stay.

So write. Write a lot. Write about what you like, what you feel compelled to say. Write then write some more, saving often. Please save for you'd hate to lose what took so much time, energy and sweat to create. Then write it again, revisions and editing a part of the game. Then write some more. Something new, something revised, whatever keeps the juices flowing. New is good, but don't let something old languish if it needs a lift.

The oceans won't end in my lifetime, neither will the words.

ready for a break

2010-04-21T19:03:00.000-07:00

Just finished the second novel for the month, and no, I'm not writing a third. In fact, I don't want to write for a bit. Not sure how long a bit is, I suppose it's all relative.

I'm going for a little break soon, to celebrate my birthday and see a concert. The timing couldn't be better!

Otherwise things are good. My back was really acting up this past week, too much time of butt in chair. But I have only good feelings about this story, even though the end is sad. Sometimes that's what happens.

And yeah, I also feel like writing is a bit invasive. Not sure if there is anything to be done about that. I suppose it is what it is, and I'm glad for that too.

busy month

2010-04-14T16:07:00.000-07:00

I've finished one manuscript, and am now staring another.

A bit daunting, but easier than cleaning my bathroom.

Which I know because I did that today too and enjoyed it far less.

Just letting the words flow, and their outcome will be known in later days...

March review

2010-04-08T19:13:00.000-07:00

Looking back on last month, I wrote a book and did a lot of editing.

Much of that occurred within a week-long stretch, where I just blew through half the novel, the last half, editing a manuscript for a competition twice.

One of those bunch of days where when you are told to jump, if you just ask how high, the scale reached is incredible.

It's been a few days since March, but there was rain that fell, some sun, plenty of editing. Plotting too, preparing for this month, but each month builds on the other, and March will be considered as one setting pieces into place, resting that it will all fit together in one way or another, but not that I need to be aware of every single result today.

Or tomorrow. Not even next week. Just that what happened in March was meant for something. And even if I don't know what, that's okay.

Why this year is dangerous, because if I don't just let it happen, what's meant next won't come either. So much of this is based on faith, I can't stress that enough.

Writing is a gift, nothing planned other than what's coming this day.

March total words written- 82,172

quiet

2010-04-06T15:55:00.001-07:00

Especially over the last few days. We came home from Easter, then proceeded to spend all that night and the next day sick.

All three of us, very very sick.

Before that I'd started a new book, and it was going great guns. 27K in three days, then two off. Today I wrote 3,847 words and maybe a few more tomorrow. But it feels really good, and all I wanted to do yesterday, besides not vomit, was to write.

That's a blessed gift, to be sure.

March went sort of slowly, or so it felt. So far April's a rush, even with a day spent flat out. I'll get to the March review in a bit, but did want to post that I'd not fallen off the face of the earth.

Only life, and words, getting the better of me, and a rather nasty bug too.

what kind of writer I want to be

2010-03-24T18:04:00.000-07:00

I think maybe I've written a post about this, probably not here, but nothing similar came up when I was typing in the title, so maybe I've not discussed this at all previous on any blog.

Every once in a while I think about this, just what sort of writer I want to be, taking into account I am a writer already. I've accepted that, for it's not dependent upon how many novels one has written or published, but in what lies within the heart.

In my heart, I am a writer.

I'm also a Christian, wife, mother, lover of rock and roll (the more headbanging the better) and a singer. I love to sing, and can hold a pretty solid tune.

None of those are done on any level professional. Only in how much I love being those titles, those callings. I've been under Christ since I was five, vocalizing to music from around nine or ten, a poet on and off since I was in high school, a wife at the age of twenty-one, a mum from twenty-two, then a writer of fiction from the age of forty. Various ages for occupations, and to this day I still imbibe in them all.

But lately, in the hours where children and spouse no long rule, the words have exploded, and now, a few years and manuscripts under my belt, I'm starting to think just what sort of writer I want to be.

One published, yes, but no fanfare, which is fine. My first book is a first novel, and I had no idea of what in the world was waiting. All I did was what it seems every writer wants, to be a published author.

If I die tomorrow, I have one novel on Amazon.

But, what does that MEAN? Especially now, with the skills sharper, more refined, maybe a genre sorted, maybe more than one. And what does that mean?

What does being a writer say?

Sort of a pun, for we're saying stuff, all the time. With every novel, every short story, we're spilling parts of ourselves, and I'd be a liar to declare I wanted to die with the rest of my retinue lying solely within my PC or on a flash drive. No, I'd love to publish another novel. And one of these days I imagine I will. The crazy bit is that for over a year, I've just been quiet, writing, not in the full, active swing of querying. Been in a few contests, have another MS sitting for the next five months in a competition. But why, other than to keep my hand in the act of attempting to seek an agent, a home for my books.

Part of it's personal pride, the deep-rooted desire to yes, get another novel published. Part of it's the book itself, and part of it's what I feel led to do.

But not so strongly that I scour agent blogs daily, go to conferences, query en masse. I sort of poke about, reading blogs I enjoy, write when the Spirit leads, edit the same. Nearly drive my family to distraction trying to do those latter two simultaneously. But when it hits, I only ask how high to jump.

Today I read over a manuscript I wrote last summer, which could be young adult, but maybe has too much sex in it. Not a YA reader, I have no idea, I just wrote it. Maybe that's indicative of my goals; I'm a storyteller, not a business person, what I realize the longer I'm in this field.

But the things I do are without that marketable edge, for you can't sell parenthood, faith, singing for one's own pleasure or being a spouse, not unless you want to be on a reality TV show.

And that I certainly do not.

Yet, the words keep coming, novels stacked like cord wood, which is a huge blessing. But then the question begs, what to do with them? I've been at this dangerous sort of writing for nearly eight months, aware that at the end of July I'll be finished with this blog. Probably another book then too, and my youngest daughter will be out of the house, moved in with older siblings, starting her life adventures. Leaving Mum and Dad, and while Dad goes off for gainful employment M-F, Mum stays at home, at times with butt glued to chair where I am right now, slogging away. I've been saying to family no querying of note will take place until Jay's safely settled in her new digs, yet to be determined. Much like my career, of sorts. It's yet to be determined.

I mean, I'd love to be a full-time, paid writer. Notice I didn't specify how high of pay. It wouldn't have to be much, or maybe it could be. I won't argue if it is.

But then, if I wanted that, why am I waiting? I mean, that's three kids in college, shouldn't I be actively pursuing some gainful employment of my own?

Beating a somewhat dead horse, or maybe I just have a need for long posts, but I don't do this for money. I don't think most writers do. We all dream of it, or most of us do. I do, I won't lie. I'd love to offer to my husband a substantial portion of the mortgage, tuition, or maybe just replace the aging roof of his convertible. Oh, and his seat belt needs some work, and he'd love a new car stereo too.

But that sits outside of my writing at the moment. The desire for money and fame isn't what drives me, more to the opposite. A quiet, languid course I'm on, which sees words set onto documents, bits of myself that I do feel compelled to set down, then sort of forgotten.

For some kind of posterity, I suppose.

This is rambling, and I wish I had some neat, tidy end for this entry. I'm not even sure anymore what prompted me to write this, as it's gone on and on. Only in that there are so many writers for books actually published, and while I don't know the ratio, I imagine it's like a needle in a haystack, getting that agent, a book contract with a publisher, making some sort of a living off writing. More I think it's the personal satisfaction of writing, acknowledging what joy and success comes from the finished work, from sorting an idea in one's head to a completely novel.

Then it's a matter of how much blood, sweat and tears goes into moving that baby of a novel into the big wide scary world of publishing. And ourselves with it. It's not just the book that makes the leap.

We go too.

I've been loitering back, aware of the cost. Aware of what's asked for that sacrifice. For that's what it is. Not exactly selling out, but selling, definitely. Marketing and all that goes with it, but it's a trade-off, getting out of one's comfortable sphere to let the book flourish, the novel breathe.

I guess what it comes down to is how much of self is one willing to surrender to this job, for it is work. Real hard work to get a book published, to get it out there, get noise going, get an agent. Work and dedication and tenacity and patience and frustration and confusion and self-doubt and more work. It's not easy, not in the least.

I believe it's akin to having a baby. Writing is the gestation, for you know eventually it will end. Then comes the birth, reaching transition, and knowing it's all gonna end, one way or another.

Then you're on the other side, with a child in your arms, wondering just what in the heck comes next!

I've done that three times, and so far, so good. But if you'd told me upon holding each of those newborns what was coming, I'd have been stunned.

As it is with the books, for they've been birthed, and I still don't know what's going to happen with any of them.

On that note, I'm going to pop in on my youngest, tell her I love her, and let this go. What will be, will be, que sera sera...

happy Friday

2010-03-19T08:31:00.000-07:00

This morning I didn't have to make Bob's PBJ's. I did have to take Jay to school, go to the office to report she needed to leave early for a dentist appointment. Fought with more than the usual traffic having to go to the other side of the school and of course by the time I got out the full force of the school run was all around.

But as it's a Friday off for my hubby, I wasn't up well before the crack of dawn, and then when I returned...

NO WRITING!

Yes, A Cornflower Snow is done, a most difficult manuscript. But not only is it done, the last for a good long time edits of The War On Emily Dickinson are finished too. In fact, that MS will be sent off to the Faulkner-Wisdom writing competition today, and I feel like my fingers (and brain) have nothing important to do...

It's been a long month, scuttling between those two projects, also plotting out the next installment of the Alvin's Farm series, for which I almost had a title for the next novel, then lost it. Which means it wasn't THE TITLE, but for a few minutes I felt like yeah, that might work.

Yet, what I'm most pleased with is that today Bob's off, Thea's home, and I have no pressing work to complete. I've been getting up at my usual uncharitable hour (between four and five in the morning) for the last two weeks, well, several months to be honest. But this week it was waking up, getting out for a walk before five AM, then coming right home and either making those PBJ's or getting a shower or taking Jay to school or a combination of those things alongside reading chapters of Emily Dickinson, then reading over A Cornflake Snow before I started that day's writing.

From last Friday through yesterday I read through an 87,500 manuscript twice, then wrote over 45,000 words.

46,113 to be exact. Which constitutes more than half the 82,127 word novel.

Been burning the candle, oh yes, but now it's done and all I have to do today is print out the entry form, write a check ($40 to enter with a novel under 125K), slap those and a SASpostcard so I know they got all that into an envelope. Then email the MS with a separately attached contact sheet to the correct address. Then Emily Dickinson will be out of my hands until around August-September.

As for the recently completed manuscript, that will sit for a few days at least until I'm ready for the initial read through. The weird thing with this book was that the beginning was all in first person, Jill talking about her life, which I then fleshed out in Josh's letters and finally a third person narrative. So by the end there were things revealed that Jill sort of glosses over in the beginning. When I read through it on my iTouch, I'll be taking copious notes, not real editing at that point. Only to note to myself what needs to changed.

But not today. Today I'm taking it easy, then taking Thea to the eye doctor. Bob's taking himself and Jay to the dentist, and I need to make myself an eye appointment.

Not a dentist appointment. Did you notice I left that out? But what I won't discount is that all that has happened over the last, well, not eighteen days of this month but all my life is not of me being exceptionally handy or talented.

Only willing to set aside what I think is possible and accepting, sometimes with aching, tired hands and a stubborn, whiny mind, great gifts. The last week getting all that sorted, having my eldest home from university and the usual treasures that are my husband and still at home daughter, all are precious blessings. The work comes and goes. My family is forever.

Off to have breakfast with Bob and Thea, and enjoy many cups of tea! Happy Friday to you too...

open door

2010-03-14T16:06:00.000-07:00

It's the middle of March and we've had so much rain, which has been a tremendous blessing. Today it's sunny, in the low 60's, and the back door is open, letting in the air.

The start of spring, and while the work's been kicking my butt, the day feels different, that and daylight savings time having begun. Tonight the sun will feel late, good for a barbecue.

My spider plant is hanging, I see it from where I sit. I love this time of year, after feeling cooped up with the precipitation.

But summer will be long, they always are in California. Good thing winter felt like an age this year...

quiet, sort of

2010-03-10T19:53:00.000-08:00

Been writing as of the first of the month, and it's been a slower than usual pace, which has been relaxing, also sort of weird.

Then over the last few days the words have quickened, but what I'm writing isn't easy. A whole section, about eight chapters, all in the form of letters, but only from one person to another. Just one POV, and while it's coming along, it's some of the most languid writing I've done in ages.

After last autumn, and even the end of January manuscript, this feels so slow, like honey coming out of a container, the last bits and you can't hurry it, only wait for it to emerge.

Yet ideas have been flourishing, and I've been busy with other things, editing in the afternoon after the morning writing has been completed, then at night plotting out another story, which may lead to more than one novel. So there's lots on my plate, just in varying degrees.

This work comes in ways unexpected. All I can do is keeping moving along, and not get distracted or feel as if it's not happening fast enough.

Certainly some things are being accomplished, and every day is just different than the last, about all I can say...

February review

2010-03-03T10:55:00.000-08:00

What a weird month! I wrote, faffed about, heard about the contest, went to San Francisco, and there was a ton (for California) of rain!

All that shoved into twenty-eight days, including several ideas of which most will fade into the background, but a few are percolating, one of which is another book (or maybe three) following the Alvin's Farm cast. No idea from where that came, other than the usual font of information and joy.

The writing was finishing Two Dans, which I've read over, it's okay. So much writing as of late, which means lots of editing in future days, but in February I did go through The Captain and the Kid again, also completed a look at Detours. I have no idea what will come of all these manuscripts, but when compelled to pull one out and have a poke, that's what I do.

There was a lot of down-time last month, which I think was necessary, as I feel like the next two months are going to writing-heavy. I spent a good portion of my time listening to tunes, plotting out ideas, stitching at the same time so I didn't feel like my hands were idle. Then there was the weekend Bob and I spent in the city, which was utterly divine and so necessary! Getting away from it all was good for me, especially since I returned and found out I'd not advanced in the ABNA contest.

Jerusalem at Sunset, more than a third done... February 2010

Sigh. Always hard getting bad news, but I move forward, am considering other options, in addition to writing. But at the moment the rain's still falling, our hills are gorgeous and green, and knowing in six weeks or so it will be nothing but sun for months, I'll take these darker days for what they are.

A way to appreciate what's coming, that of which I'm fairly certain and that which sits unknown, but oh so good! Romans 8:28...

February total word count- 49,470

a short ride

2010-02-27T18:52:00.001-08:00

So the ABNA second rounders have been listed and...

I wasn't among them. Sigh.

But that's the breaks. Some go through, most don't. Out of 5,000 general literature entries, only 1K were going to advance. No one knows how many young adult entries there were, but one thousand of them went through as well.

I was disappointed, certainly, but there it is. What happens next is up in the air with that manuscript, as I'm not doing ANY querying until my youngest daughter is out of the house. That's a few months away still. First we have to get through March, then spring break, then junior prom, then senior prom, then graduation.

Then a move north, which isn't just Jay. It's Thea and Bud too, as their two-bedroom place will not suffice for three kids, plus a roomie or two. New housing will be acquired, and THEN Jay will go forth.

And then... Well, then we'll have what some call an empty nest. And then I will start thinking about querying.

Until that time, another novel commences on Monday and I've been furiously plotting for the last few days (having been furiously stitching the days prior to that!). Nothing like the present to kick one's rear into gear. We've had rain, sun too, and in addition to laundry, I cleaned my bathroom today, a task I truly abhor.

Not sure why. I love sorting clothes, getting them into the washer, then into the dryer. Then folding, putting away, the whole kit 'n kaboodle. (Well, no ironing!) I don't even mind cleaning the stove when it needs it. But bathrooms...

Another sigh. Not one of my faves. And I don't even have a hard bathroom to clean! I just put it off, until like now, it's really in need, and with a book starting on Monday, I'll have less time. So it's been sorted, Scrubbing Bubbles employed. Scrubbing Bubbles and bleach spray and now it's sparkling.

Tomorrow I'll finish the plotting, eat some baklava we picked up tonight, and rest in the knowledge that while I don't know what's coming in the way of writing, at least in some things, I have a small clue.

And a clean loo to boot!

back from my hols

2010-02-22T08:49:00.000-08:00

Windsurfers were all over Ocean Beach. All photos from my camera phone, 20 February 2010.

A short weekend break was had in San Francisco, one that Bob and I took together, an anniversary getaway of sorts. Last year we stayed near Pier 39, but this time we took a different edge of the city, finding treasures and beauty in the Richmond District. I came away with a hoard of pictures and a new novel idea, but Bob wasn't suprised with the latter.

The Cliff House in the background, San Francisco, California...

A windmill at the western end of Golden Gate Pack, SF, CA.

From the Marin Headlands, a view of the Golden Gate Bridge and the city, with the Bay Bridge in the background. More photos can be found here.

So now there's four stories circling in my head, not including one from last year that I THOUGHT was going to be for spring. Now I have no idea when that manuscript will be written, just trying to set down the songs and a few concrete ideas, plus blogging and drinking tea. When it rains it really does pour!!

drawn back in time

2010-02-16T13:48:00.000-08:00

The new book I'm plotting takes place in South Dakota, California and Hawaii. I remembered that Laura Ingalls Wilder spent some time in SD, and today went looking for a book I have about her, written by Donald Zochert. I write that name from memory, as it's an old paperback book that I've had for ages, probably since I was twelve or thirteen years old.

I also have my set of the Little House books, plus an other nearly complete set that are Jay's. But try as I might, I couldn't find Zochert's biography anywhere. In our last move, not everything was unpacked, so I'm hoping it's out in a box in the garage.

Instead of thumbing through that book, I spent the afternoon reading These Happy Golden Years, by Laura Ingalls Wilder. I haven't read those books in at least a decade, not since reading them to my kids. Yes, Laura, Pa, Ma, Carrie and Grace were living in De Smet, South Dakota, Mary off to college in Iowa. But what surprised me was how well written it was, although Wilder did like an adverb or two.

Well written, and of course telling of such simpler times. I hadn't planned to be drawn into the book, but from the beginning, where Laura battles to keep her wits while living far from home while teaching, to the relationship with Almanzo Wilder that develops over the months, I couldn't put it down.

I grew up reading those stories (and yes, watching the TV show), enraptured in one young woman's tales of life on the frontier with her family. I don't think can adequately (yes, I like an adverb or two) describe how one story can transport a person from this modern age back over one hundred years ago, Laura and Almanzo marrying in August of 1885. Yet, the feelings of people don't alter, only in how they are expressed. Then it was slow, with caution, taking weeks and months to establish fondness. Now we live so spur of the moment, but set in those words are times past, people falling in love, coming to terms with leaving home, starting their own lives.

I have no idea how this new novel will progress, but I won't forget this day, reading a book from my childhood, feeling that golden glow of being lost back in time...

another dead soldier

2010-02-10T12:41:00.000-08:00

I hope that title doesn't offend anyone. It's a saying, like something knocked back, thrown on the pile. I don't drink, so I never use it to describe beer cans or wine bottles, but with novels, it's sort of appropriate.

I finished my twentieth manuscript yesterday. Since November of 2006 I've been writing fiction, and Two Dans was wrapped up after lunchtime on Tuesday, 9 February 2010. I wrote the last chapter, then one more, sticking it in at #4. Then I ate a bagel, then went back and read what I'd written that morning, adding a few more words to the end, then was done.

It came in just over 80K, almost 82,000 words. Twenty-five chapters, including the new #4, and I'm pleased with how it turned out. It has my parents' cat in it, along with a phrase my still-at-home daughter used one morning when I was driving her and our neighbor to school.

"You can't fix someone's feelings."

Apropos due to the ages of the MCs', as well as the tone. Miles is twenty-two, Holly twenty-seven, not the youngest MCs' I've had, but certainly younger than most. My daughter doesn't know she contributed to this story. If it's ever published, I will thank her for her assistance.

Completing that book wasn't necessarily difficult. I wrote about a chapter a day until I was halfway through, then it came more readily. Writing isn't something I feel is pained or drawn from me in a miserable manner, but there is apprehension every morning, wondering if it will come, the ideas, dialogue, plot. It always does, but today I woke feeling no tension, no small anxiety. Only thankfulness that it was finished and that I could do something different today.

I read, finishing a round of edits that had been waiting while Two Dans was being sorted. I completed those edits, then sat and read a book on my iTouch. One of my own, I must admit, but I was nearly done, another bit that had been forgotten. Now I've had my bagel for the day, and need to pick up above mentioned daughter from school when she rings. It's cloudy here, a cool feel to the weather. My feet are a bit chilly, and I'll blast the heater on them when I get in the car.

Sometimes the writing it dangerous, at other times it's a flood of words that spill out, the only peril being in catching them in the correct buckets. One more novel is toast, and while there is plenty of editing ahead, I think for Two Dans, I got most of them down for now.

loopiness

2010-02-08T16:24:00.000-08:00

Sometimes writing is perilous, but even worse is not much sleep.

Makes for a loopy afternoon. Which is how I'm feeling about now, having waked at 3.15 AM and still going.

Not strong, I'll admit! Time for some tea, I'm thinking, then an early bedtime, but not too early. Tomorrow I finish the WIP, from which the excerpt below was taken.

Okay. Time to click on the kettle! I've posted some old family pics at the Mothership, if you're interested...

excerpt

2010-02-04T07:48:00.000-08:00

A chapter from the WIP, Two Dans...

In bed that night, and for the next several evenings, Miles only held Holly, still struck by the events of Thanksgiving. He’d never have given it that much thought if not for Danny Snyder and that pained Miles as much as Holly’s tears. For as much as Miles loved Holly, knew Holly, her father seemed to love and know her more.

Danny didn’t love Holly as Miles did, but as her father he would go to any lengths to protect her, shield her, assuage her heart in some manner that Miles just wasn’t able. He allowed it was time, time and yeah, his age. His fucking younger age, but there wasn’t anything Miles could do for that. He could only love her this way, in bed, naked, bare. They were bared to the other in ways Danny Snyder never could breach.

And again Miles sighed, for he liked Holly’s dad. Really liked him, thought the world of Danny Snyder. But that night Daddy had known best, knew more than Miles, and maybe that was just going to be how it was for a good number of years to come. Instead of accepting it was part fatherly knowledge and a whole lot more due to life’s lessons learned over time, Miles allowed it was because that man and Holly shared a bond Miles would never breach; that of loving Lane Hillerman.

Danny and Holly loved that woman, Holly by proxy, Danny like this, in bed with nothing between them. They’d shared a child, even more to bond them, and suddenly Miles wanted Holly pregnant. Only to cement them, leave no stone unturned. The love he felt for her was so strong, drowning, and if they had a baby, Miles was sure his age wouldn’t matter.

Then he smiled, old enough or just aware that it wasn’t only a child that Danny and Lane had shared, there had been more. They were in their thirties when Holly was born, had known each other for a long time when compared to how long Miles had known Holly. Yet it felt like more, felt like forever. Sometimes Miles thought he’d loved Holly before he was born.

She was nearly asleep, snug against his body. He’d told her they’d have lots of kids, making up for families that, as Danny had said, were somewhat splintered. Graham’s had been swirling in that mix, not only Miles and Holly’s, and Siggy being an only child had reared its head. Miles had learned that her mother, Bitsy, hadn’t wanted any more than Sigourney, but that Harmon had hoped for a large brood. It became a moot point after Siggy’s birth, difficult and ultimately life-threatening. Bitsy Hart had nearly bled to death, enduring a hysterectomy right after her daughter emerged. There were no more children for the Harts, only one perfect, blonde California girl.

Until Thanksgiving Miles only wanted two, maybe three. Maybe three kids, like what his dad had. Miles was one of three, although sometimes he felt like an only child. He’d wanted kids for a long time, but only Holly knew it. Miles had wanted to be a father since he was eleven years old.

A strange age with a story of equal weight. When Miles was eleven, Mary Beth was pregnant again, another daughter to be delivered to her and Dan. Miles only knew his father as Dan, what MB called him, all their friends. Only a select few of his father’s most long-gathered associates called him Daniel. Guys from The Gray Resistors, The Band Days. MB would refer to those years before her as The Band Days, those men now like Dan Schneider, in their early sixties, looking at the end of their lives no longer far away. At one point they’d been young, like Miles, who loved hearing the old stories, his father a different man then, one called Daniel, with NO CHILDREN, and pre-Diane. There was a time in Dan’s life before Miles’s mother, but no woman was associated with those recollections, as if Dan had no need for a lover. Only his guitar, a companion and children appearing much later.

Later for Dan, who was fifty-two when MB was ready to have their second baby, Dan’s third. Another girl, the family aware of the gender and the name. Miles and Wendy would be joined by a Rebecca, and on the day Rebecca arrived, Miles was home, a Saturday. Arrangements had been made for Wendy’s care, some friends of MB’s to look after that toddler. Wendy Schneider was only two, not much time between Dan’s last offspring. More to MB’s mind than her lover’s, for she wanted to get the birthing aspect of parenthood out of the way, return her body to as close to previous as a gym and regimented diet would allow. It was good for Dan too; he was now fifty-three years old, that red hair mostly gray, those green eyes not as sharp with the little sleep babies allowed. With Wendy Schneider’s care sorted, there was only eleven-year-old Miles left that morning MB was in labor, and of course she’d not considered that boy’s situation.

Miles remembered it was his father to ask if he wanted to accompany them to the hospital, and Miles was eager to accept, not wanting to be left out, shut away. Miles knew how his father bent over to include him, not adding to a young boy’s worries that again he was superfluous, unnecessary. Miles never felt that with this father, but did sense it with MB.

The family arrived at the Beth Israel Medical Center and Miles was set outside in the maternity ward lobby, surrounded by other families awaiting the same news as he, new lives being brought forth in a place used to the routine. For Miles it was all new, amazing, stunning in what was happening. Also that he was included, along with MB’s mother, sisters, and some close friends. They treated him as Mary Beth’s child, which also shocked; what was it about Miles that MB found so intrusive? That day opened Miles’s eyes to two distinct revelations. That to all of Mary Beth Cunningham’s clan, he was as meaningful and important as the baby she’d birthed and the one forthcoming. The second was all about Dan.

Miles read The Phantom Tollbooth while waiting, or else was peppered with questions about where he went to school, what he liked to do. People were interested in him, a family that was his, but not within his house. Here, in a hospital, Miles was part of MB’s sphere, and why she treated him as only some leftover of his father’s past, Miles couldn’t figure. He became aware later, but by then a sociable frost clung to the relationship that was Miles and MB. Nothing to do to change it, but Miles realized just what was happening once his little sister, Rebecca Camilla Schneider, had arrived.

A nurse announced the baby’s details, her gender known but not that she was eight pounds, two ounces, twenty inches long with her father’s red hair a fluff over her head. Mary Beth’s mother was in tears, her sisters and MB’s one cousin all hugging and laughing. Miles was grabbed and he felt large bosoms pressed against his cheek, warm, motherly, accommodating. Miles felt wrapped into something so precious but fleeting as the women let him go.

“Miles, come on.”

It was his dad, dressed in scrubs, with small flecks of blood on his trousers. But there was no look of anxiety or distress, only pleasure, joy, a mood Miles rarely saw in such abundance on his father’s face.

“What?” Miles asked.

Dan’s grin widened, then his hand extended. “Son, you want to meet your sister?”

Miles only nodded, no idea this was possible. What about MB’s mother, her family?

That day Miles realized who he was within his family, but more was waiting.

***

Miles had to don a similar outfit to his dad, only in that MB would prefer it. What Dan said, leading his son through double doors, past rooms where women made sounds that didn’t bother Miles nearly as much as his father seemed to worry. Miles at eleven held great heartache within him, far more than a few shouting pregnant women could ruffle. They reached where MB had given birth and a too-large shirt and pants were held for Miles to slip into. The pants were far past his feet and he rolled them up as his father chatted. The baby was fine, only a few minutes old. Mary Beth had a much easier time with Rebecca, but it was her second baby. “Do you want to hold her?” Dan asked his son.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Miles had said.

Dan Schneider only smiled. “We’ll see what you think in a minute.”

They entered the room and Miles swallowed, seeing his father’s normally flawless girlfriend with her hair askew, looking exhausted and sweaty. She wore a hospital gown, an ID bracelet on her wrist. She had an IV taped to her hand and then Miles saw the baby at her side, a small, compact bundle that was quiet, still. Miles thought babies were supposed to be loud and crying, but this little girl wasn’t anything like Wendy, who’d suffered from colic and still pitched a fit when she didn’t get her way. Whatever it was with this new sister, at least she was starting off more subdued.

Miles didn’t know she’d been nursed and was now in that restful state newborns coveted, when the process of birth was past, eyes doctored, noses sucked. Swaddled in a warm blanket and held against the body of a familiar voice, little Rebecca Schneider was as calm and placid as she’d be for the next several days. Like her older sister, Rebecca would suffer from colic, but it wouldn’t come into force for a week.

At that moment she was only sleeping, with no idea of her fate, only that things were quiet, not longer traumatic or difficult. MB’s labor hadn’t been bad for her, but who knew the extent of all that pushing and shoving on a baby!

Miles looked at that infant, what of her he could see. Mary Beth offered him a smile, the most generous she had been with him, or would be for a long time. Then Miles noticed his father, the beatific grin and great bliss exuding from every pore. Tremendous happiness, more than Miles had ever known from his dad, had ever witnessed. It was in that moment that Miles knew he wanted to be a parent. He wasn’t sure how it would happen, as he’d been told HOW babies were made, and he had no desire to ever get that close to any girl! But somehow it would occur, because in Dan Schneider’s immense ecstasy, Miles realized his worth as a son, Rebecca’s worth, Wendy’s too. For Miles was certain, assured beyond doubt that as his father appeared in that room, he’d felt the same when Miles was born.

“Miles you want to hold her?” Mary Beth’s voice was croaky but tender.

“Oh, uh, I…”

“Son, come here.”

Miles did as he was told, an obedient child. That stemmed from long hoping if he was good enough Diane would return. She never did, but Miles remained compliant, just in case.

Dan took the baby from the bed, his hands not shaky or unfamiliar as he’d been with Wendy. It had been nine years between Dan’s two eldest children and he’d forgotten a few things between them. It had only been two years with the girls and Dan was an expert, but then Rebecca was so well-bundled, it was like holding a solid object. What he told Miles, that all he had to do was sit in the rocker, put out his hands and Dan would do the rest.

Miles only nodded and his father bent over, placing into Miles’s small arms a baby. A sister, one whom would be Miles’s favorite. She outgrew colic much quicker than Wendy and Miles had given her bottles, fed her cereal, played with her often. He’d not had to change a diaper, but was adept with smaller siblings. He was pliable, his heart opening to all sorts of new ideas that day. That being a dad was something for which he’d wait, but enjoy. That MB could be nice to him, but maybe it was from the drugs she’d had during Rebecca’s birth. That MB’s family liked him, which would be reinforced over the years, making Mary Beth’s own attitude even more difficult to swallow.

And then there was Dan, or Dad, as Miles thought of him. Not Daddy, for that had been discarded when Miles learned the truth behind Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and Tooth Fairy. Daddy had fallen away then too, but it was okay. Now there were little girls to whom Dan would be Daddy, probably for all their lives. Danny was Daddy to Holly, Miles mused, feeling all those memories settling into the back of his brain, where they were usually kept. Then he remembered he’d not gotten the two Dans to talking on the phone a week ago, a week ago Thursday when Holly had wept so hard in his arms, also in the arms of her daddy. Both men loved her beyond words, only in different ways.

Miles thought of that as he went to sleep, of wanting not only two or three but several of Holly Snyder’s children, to repeatedly experience that complete contentment and fullness. Then of his own father’s bliss, seeing within Miles’s arms a daughter, but not the one Dan had held, then lost, so many years before.

January review

2010-02-03T14:59:00.000-08:00

It's already the third of February, and just where in the hey did January go?

Tied up in editing and pitch writing, post-holiday festing and one road trip. But mostly, in editing.

Now my contest entry is safe and out of my hands, but last month, oh my goodness!! So much to prepare, whittle, write, whittle again, then load that baby into the site, and brush myself off, then walk away. Which proved to be as time consuming as getting everything sorted!

It took days to debrief myself from that manuscript, but now, a good ten days out, I'm not thinking about it. Instead I'm writing, but that's this month.

Back to last month... I also poked about with some other manuscripts, a little dipping of toes into perusing waters that kept me from drowning in the contest hullabaloo. It was a strange few weeks, kids home, back to school, rain, a nice bit of rain, actually making the month feel wintry.

There was plenty of footie, and the novel I began at the end of the month, once the contest was out of my hands was coming along (still is) and it was great to write again, as I hadn't written any fiction since the beginning of December. Six weeks, maybe seven, and I was reminded of why I do this.

Because I love it, and I need it, both.

I was also prompted to note that in doing this, I'm only looking to please myself, in that contests aside, why I write is for pleasure, to keep me occupied, but it's not housework or something that I don't find all that appealing. I mean, I LIKE to do laundry, but I LOVE to write.

So, there were words edited, words written. The January word count for Two Dans ended up being 32,693. I was getting a chapter a day in, a little more now, but it felt really satisfying to pound that out, opening my brain and letting the words fall onto the keyboard.

An end of the month treat with Bob, at our favorite ice cream spot! (And no, we didn't eat it all. Most of it, but not all of it!)

A good start to 2010, and a pretty nice mid-way mark in this year of writing, dangerously...

January total word count- 32,693

copacetic

2010-01-31T15:08:00.001-08:00

It's copacetic, how I'm feeling right now about things. About wrting, my life, doing laundry, vacuuming, all of it. Copacetic.

Today was one of those days when I woke and felt like all my ducks were in a row. I woke, chatted and laughed with my husband, got out of bed and made us breakfast. Oatmeal for him, Grape Nuts and bran flakes for me. Tea for two, very good tea.

Then he went to church and I wrote. I knew what I was going to write from when I woke, adding some back story, then some current story. I did some laundry, then when Bob got home I fixed us bagels. Then ate some apricot cake, checked the laundry, also getting some hand wash sorted as it's a sunny day. Perfect for putting a few things on the drying rack.

Just one of those sorts of days where everything falls into place. I love those kinds of days, aware they could all be like this if I just let go of things more than I do. But sometimes I hold onto things with both fists when I really shouldn't.

Anyways, today was just the sort of day that makes me so relaxed, pleased, not with anything I've done except for letting go. There were words written, clothes washed, carpet hoovered, food prepared, affection shared, but not of my making. Only in the simple acceptance of a day's gift with waiting, open hands.

Monday Monday

2010-01-25T13:15:00.000-08:00

A new day, new week, new novel. After rounds and rounds of edits and pitch writing, it's time to play!

A novel is like that, words put into use, paragraphs and sentences, chapters and scenes, all piled together, stringing along ideas and nuances, thoughts and dreams. My dreams, the dreams of my characters, stories that on occasion begin as dreams. Not this one in particular, a story within a story, one that emerged first, then turned into another. But it all starts from somewhere, and today another manuscript was born.

Judy Harper recently asked if I find life getting in the way of the writing. Laundry, which I actually do enjoy (only because I don't iron), organizing, that sort of thing. Usually no, as I'm fairly obsessed (or compulsive, either one) when the writing starts. I have a routine, one that begins after I've dropped my daughter at school, which is preceded by waking, making my husband's ubiquitous PBJ's, getting my breakfast and a shower. Then I take her down the road, come home, make tea, finish looking at all my sites, and around 8 AM, up comes that day's work. Whether it be writing, editing or something in between, that's what I do. While I LOVE this activity, I do treat it as a job of sorts, in that it's an 8-4 sort of endeavor. Maybe that sounds contained, but really it's for my own sanity. Because I LOVE it so much, if left to my own devices, the laundry, organizing, shopping, cooking, etc would simply be forgotten.

I can't explain it other than to say for the last three years, how long I've been at this gig, that's how it's been. Especially the last two. Since the beginning of 2008, I've not been able to set aside ideas, and because I'm so blessed to have TIME, I pursue them. Maybe it's to make up for years of kids at home, living a life devoted to family. Now I have one daughter around, when she is here, and come summer, she'll flee this nest, and my days will truly be only for myself, a small bit of housework, and caring for my spouse. The writing has come at a time when my hands were suddenly empty, having moved back to the States and no longer homeschooling. What this particular blog addresses is one year of solid writing with no real querying or looking to advance this work in a professional, business type manner. I don't consider the contest as trying to obtain an agent, only an outlet that adds to my skills, puts me into as much contact as I wish with other writers, at least at this point. If I'm lucky enough to make it into further rounds, an excerpt will be available online for people to critique, which is a gift as well. All the writing in the world won't do anything unless there are eyes willing to scrutinize and comment.

But back to distractions with writing. We joke our eldest daughter is a distraction monster of sorts, for she loves to call and chat. But she's tied up back at university again today, and other than having to call an exterminator this morning to deal with our small ant problem, as soon as I was home from getting youngest daughter to school and the tea was brewed, I sat my butt in the chair, pulled up a new word document, and off I went. One paragraph in I sorted times for the pest control people to stop by, then it was nothing but writing, tea refills, a stop in the loo, then back to the chair until a chapter was done. That's how I do it, one chapter at a time, then a break for lunch and blogging. Jay will be home from school in another hour, and while she's seventeen and doesn't need copious amounts of attention, she'll want to tell me of her day, and I'll listen to her stories, then my husband will arrive home. He has turned into a morning person since we moved back, why I knock off around four in the afternoon. Time for the family, unless I'm scrambling to complete edits.

I don't expect this to be the way it goes forever. I have a feeling this sort of routine is not for a lifetime, only a season, more likely a reason. There's a reason for everything, and I've had to watch myself for burnout. But the stories are there, words right withing my reach. A grasp that is sometimes difficult, but what I've leaned so far this fiscal writing year, nearly six months' in, is not to question it too much. I feel guided to this, to writing and all it entails. And if I've learned anything in my life, I hope I know that when told to Use the Force Luke, the helmet comes off and I let go. If NOTHING else, this is not about me and what I think I can do.

a minute to chill

2010-01-20T20:03:00.000-08:00

We've had some incredible rain come down in our area over the last few days, wind too, so much wind my husband had to go out in the driving precipitation to prop up the lemon tree that seemed ready to topple right over!

He went four times, although he was staying home sick today, poor chap! But better that he was here, for if it had only been me, that tree would be laying across the grass tonight.

Instead, as he braved the elements, I sucked up a synopsis, tinkered with a biography, battled that pitch, then attacked the first chapter of the manuscript that will be the excerpt. I must have gone over it about four times, whittling and primping, making sure it was just so.

Then I double spaced the whole thing, and started from that already worked over first 4,500 words. As it sits tonight, I'm a quarter through, having to stop to clean the kitchen.

And now it's after eight, Comet having been rinsed from the sink, stove wiped down, teapot washed and ready for tomorrow. Tomorrow the editing will continue, so that at nine PM on Sunday night I can pull up the website, and begin the entry process.

How many more times I'll tinker with the pitch between now and then, oh, maybe...

Ten, fifteen times. Not sure the AMOUNT that will be altered, but I know I'll be giving it an eagle eye. As for the MS, I'll finish this double space edit (as I write and edit with the text single spaced), then we'll see. All depends on how sick of it I am by then.

Plus there is football this weekend, the NFC and AFC championships. Sunday will be a plethora of games, well, two, then that night, once all the gridiron action is over, the contest hoo haa will heat up. One of the cool bits about being on the West Coast.

When a contest is open at midnight Eastern Time, it's only nine PM here in California!

a month of editing, busily

2010-01-16T20:26:00.000-08:00

That's what's been happening. Edit edit edit. And then edit some more.

And write a pitch (a query for all intents and purposes). And rewrite it, then some more. Then get some comments and write it again. Then show it to my husband who takes a long time to look at it (But bless him for taking the time to look at it in the first place!), then write it again and send it out some more.

Then watch some blow-out football games, then pick up eldest daughter from the BART station after she spent the day in San Francisco with a friend. Then come home and write this blog entry.

Whew! Good thing it's nearly bedtime. (So tomorrow I can do it all again...)

That's what happens when a contest is being prepared for, all this prep work. I need to read through the manuscript another 2-3 times, then format it, but that won't happen until the twenty-fifth, when I can enter. In between now and then, I need to get the pitch solid, from where the entry is initially judged. Once the pitch is where I want it to be, then it's only a matter of waiting to enter, then wait again. Three weeks after the entries are closed, they'll announce those who pitches are selected for the next stage, which is one's excerpt under the hammer.

But the pitch comes first. The next nine days will be a pitch frenzy, except for Monday, when I drive eldest daughter back to school. Thea's time at home is nearly over, and it's been a lovely five weeks with her around. The last few days have been full of her math conference business, easing me into her coming absence.

And giving me time to edit both the MS and that pitch.

On Monday I'll drive her north, spend the day getting her settled, seeing my folks, enjoying a day off. Once that comes to pass, it will be a frenzy of contest hoo haa, including some writing happening once that entry has been sent off, as if I needed more to do...

But this last month, it's been nice. Mellow, a break after last year's writing extravaganza. I needed this down time to think about things, about the work, about my life, inside writing and out.

I discovered that I need it, this writing gig. I need it, and it also offers great bits of trepidation. That comes from how it's landed on me, with all barrels, but then, there is it. Like a flood, how the next few days will be. Full of scrambling to get the right words in the perfect places. Get that pitch so smooth, slick, which makes me feel a little strange, because I accept life as full of idiosyncratic pieces that don't always appear to fit perfectly.

But there are times when the pieces do fall as they are slotted. And I hope the pitch for the contest will be one of my less haphazard moments. If I needed a situation for all to be just so, this is one of them!

so tired

2010-01-12T19:26:00.000-08:00

This title filled in as I typed it, but I'm not sure where and from when. But tonight, the twelfth of January, I'm so tired.

Getting up with Bob at 4 AM a couple of days in a row will do it, hormones too. These things known I only want to go to bed, let this day end. At least I know the culprits.

Been editing all day, until dinnertime which was beef and dumplings cooked by Thea. Her last night of cooking as she's heading up to San Francisco the next few days for a math conference. Next week she returns to her own abode, to prepare for the next term. My how times flies!

It's nearly the middle of January, these days, weeks and months not nearly as lengthy as previous. Things change, and I'm in flux, feeling so many pricks and notions, working on projects and wondering why.

Chalk it up to exhaustion, but also some realizations seeping in; while this gift sits in my hand, what I thought I was going to do with it might be very different from where it actually lands...

things are kind of quiet...

2010-01-09T20:07:00.000-08:00

The tunnel-end of the flea market, with a lovely sky too boot! All pics by ASG except where noted, from 9 January 2010.

We have friends here, visiting from the UK, and their California stop is a high point of our January. Today we took Hector and Sabine to the Berryessa Flea Market, one of Sabine's favourite places to go!

Hector and Bob, taking a break from seeing the wares.

(She's not English actually, a Belgian, but it's a long story and I'm going to bed soon...)

Because friends are here I'm not really getting much accomplished, although I woke this AM with the pitch for the contest in my head. I'm really thinking of entering it, but the three hundred word pitch/query is really the bitca, as meaningful as a querying an agent, because to continue you have to clear the pitch hurdle.

The end of the day, commerce wrapping up.

So writing the sharpest pitch is what I need to do, and after a while of minor fretting (or just laziness) it hit me at six, and I stumbled out, finding Sabine on the couch, Mac on her lap, going through pictures. She's a photographer, and had to sort yesterday's snaps before she took more today.

Myself and Bob, taken by Thea.

It was flea market day, and you BET she was going to take pictures!

A few of mine are here, just some bits from the day. I worked on the pitch on and off all morning as we ate breakfast, did some grocery shopping, ate lunch, then headed for the flea market. Then this afternoon we watched football, the Jets and Cowboys moving on in the playoffs, giving the pitch one last look for the night.

Hector and Sabine, and by the look of her camera, you know she means snap-happy business!

Next week, after our guests have departed, I'll be up to my neck in editing and polishing, not only the pitch but the manuscript too. Tentatively, The War On Emily Dickinson is going to be my entry, as long as I can whip it into appropriate shape.

And for now, that remains to be seen...

December Review

2010-01-05T07:50:00.000-08:00

Drinking tea this morning, a small chill still with me from my early morning walk. It was dark at ten after five, dark and cold, my eldest daughter's first sentence when she was two. She strung those words together when we stepped out of my dad's house, and since then she's never stopped talking.

A small bit of trivia, in that some things are small, quiet, like a two-year-old. Some months are stilled, hushed, like December, but after the last few, that's okay. I needed a low on the radar thirty-one days to have time to think.

31 December 2009's sunset at the Santa Cruz Boardwalk... All pics except where noted by ASG.

I wrote 15,869 words in December, finishing The Burial Watch, and that was it. It for writing, but some editing took place, and I've gleaned about 3K from Through the Glass. I was thinking at first that I'd like to get it from the 109K where it sits now to around 100, but now if I crack under 106, I'll be pleased. Pleased and able to set it aside, not think about where it will go afterwards. It's okay, but as I've come to discover, not something over which I'm going to break my neck.

A few hardy folks out, saying adios to the year.

December was weird, in that I purposefully took a break, a sabbatical most necessary, a stop on the concert tour that is my youngest child's last year at home. Her last Christmas, last winter formal, last this and that, and now with her back to school, it's really cemented into my head. There are big changes coming our way.

I am slightly obsessed with taking pictures of clouds, and so thankful for digital photography!

Last month was one for wrapping my head around it, feeling those slaps administered. We had rain, no snow, but that was fine. We had kids in and out, her friends, Thea's friends, and while Bob is so ready for no more teens, it's more than that. It's about embracing change, that which is filling my head today.

Wet sand of low tide and the carnival...

But back to December; I read over the Alvin's Farm series during the last days of the month, gearing myself for a return to work. I wrote those three manuscripts last year, and hadn't read them one after another, what an eye-opening experience! A great way to catch small errors, like one character changing last names between books one and two, and making sure another character's bad arm and eye were the same from one installment to the next.

The sun having set over the pier.

And I don't think I ever said which of Rae's legs had been affected by polio!

No matter, but it was good to read it, good to get my feet wet slowly, and then the last day of the year rolled around, and I went to the beach and watched waves do the same. I like ending the year seeing the ocean, so large, always moving, reminding me of my place, here in California as well as in a more personal sense.

Here I am, captured by Bob.

I have no idea of what's coming this month, this year. All I know is December, and 2009, both ending with the peace of water back and forth, the tide moving away, the work doing some of the same. moving away from what I thought, to a more enjoyable space.

For all I've written, it's like watching from far away, feeling removed, missing the immediate joy. Missing something, but this month, this year, I don't want to close my eyes to a single bit!

new year and it's sunny

2010-01-03T16:35:00.000-08:00

Well, Happy New Year! A few days inside of 2010, and it's been a sunny California start, crazy weather that astounds and confounds. Sort of like my attitude about the work.

A new-ish attitude that's been brewing since last summer, but having spoken my mind with my husband this morning, I was able to put into wrods that which has been swirling around in my head since Christmas Day.

You know the feeling of something coming, CHANGE coming, and while the early signs are sometimes fleeting and ethereal, as the days, weeks, months go by you KNOW what's upon you, how the road is altering, and with every step, you see the past edging back, familiar ways becoming faint, hard to recall.

That's happened to me with writing.

Not that I'm about to quit! Not at all, and actually I've about five ideas battling in my head, the only way to keep them straight is to pull out the ipod, scroll through play lists, and pick one, any of the new ones that keep plots mostly apart. I've only put down a few notes, names of characters mostly, but scenes are forming, and I'm really excited to get to work once the end of the month rolls around.

That's one change, that no longer do I have to start a novel on the first of a month. That went out the window back in August, at the fiscal beginning of this blogged writing year. From there I felt able to just start writing, no NANO sort of start hovering over my head.

That's altered, and so have my goals, my wishes, why I'm doing this. I began writing in a flurry of manuscripts over the last three years have come to my knowledge that some are early and won't do much other than take up virtual pages. Some are middling and may or may not turn into a finished project. Some are pretty shiny, and make me smile.

One was published. And now I'm happy to sit and only write, and set the publishing dreams on the back burner for a time.

I thought getting an agent, making this my immediate career was what I needed to do. I have only one child at home, and she'll be gone this coming summer. I have plenty of time, certainly enough ideas. But on Christmas Day, once the pressies were opened and kids were settling, it hit me; my family comes first.

Well, of course they do! But when kids are in and out and really now on their way out, it seems family is thin on the ground. Far and few between, but that day, and I can't say exactly WHY other than when things hit, I know to pay attention.

And at least until Jay is gone, my focus is on this family, even for as small as it is. Not that querying and editing, keeping up with what's happening in the publishing world takes an inordinate amount of time. But there is a tussle of sorts, of that and something more personal...

What does writing mean to me? Why do I do it? What do I want from it? Does focusing solely on getting an agent, being published take from the art of writing?

This article opened my eyes to writing for the sake of writing, coming on the heels of a writing contest that had spurred within me the desire for such accolades. I had NEVER considered this view, in that it seems everywhere I go with writing in the title, the eventual end is agent/editor/publication.

Maybe I read too many blogs, maybe it all fell on me in such a swoop, but even as the stories were pouring, I felt standing in a shelter, out of a loop. And here I am, getting ready to start another book in a few weeks with little regard to all the bits only a year ago I was obsessed with.

Being published meant so much, and now as if I've been set in the middle of an island, only the means with which to get the story OUT, the rest of it sits far away from my hands, out of my view, out of my realm.

This may be spotty in making a whole lot of sense, but for now it's family. It's my husband, my daughter who still lives at home. It's about writing the best words I can, and letting their eventual destination not bother me. I'm still going to work, still going to read blogs, but the fire that burned so hot and steady a year ago feels doused, feels not unimportant but altered, as if a time away is necessary to see more clearly.

This writing gig came so quickly, in hands so generous and before I could really see what it was, I jumped on the bandwagon, heading for what most people who write dream of, desire. It was a confusing time, having just returned from almost eleven years in the UK, seeing my eldest leave home, getting the younger two into high school after nine years of homeschooling. The writing was a time-filler, but then became consuming, and was it being here in the US where being the best you can be, successful and heading for the top is intrinsic to the American character? I really can't say, but now that we've been home nearly three years, I feel like my feet are getting set in this landscape, and in the gift that are the words.

A precious, tremendous gift, one that for a while needs to be pulled back and appreciated. For how long, I'm not sure, at least until Jay has graduated in June. After that, reassessment will commence, but for now I'm happy to be in possession of this amazing treasure. To set stories down has been a dream of mine for years and year. Right now all I want to do is enjoy the process, leaving the outcome where it belongs, out of my hands.

December review will be written soon, but this had to be sorted first.

last day of 2009

2009-12-31T13:25:00.000-08:00

I've made a cheesecake, which I suppose is a pretty nice way to end a year.

However, for this year of writing, dangerously, it's really only the end of month five. This fiscal writing year began in August, but I can do a five-month wrap up, as it's my blog, my year, in a manner of speaking.

Since August I've done more writing than any time in the last three years that I've been actively writing fiction, and it was a strange, lovely sort of time, where words came at a clip that when I think back on it feels a bit wiggly, in that it was a whole lot of writing, barely time to catch a breath.

I know that now, because I've taken most of the last two weeks off, only dipping my toes into some innocent reading of a series that began in March of this year, continued in July, then wrapped up in November. I could say the last twelve months have been a wordy time, but I'll just concentrate on the last five.

Taking ten days off was nice, and necessary. I didn't realize how necessary until I was about half way through it, finding so many other tasks, like making cheesecake, were filling my time. Family, Christmas, football, and for those ten days I set writing aside, editing too, but still plot ideas came and I'm looking at three new stories all fighting for a place, a moment, some time.

Some time that is coming in January. Right now it's a simple minute, only blogging, having started some peas for my better half, then thankful my eldest is home, to check on them, as I'd forgotten.

This is so typical; getting my fingers into one project, then setting aside others. Good thing Thea's here, or Bob's peas would have been burned by now. Maybe I should wrap this up, not that it's making a whole lot of sense. Basically, the last five months have been ones were the words poured, and I set them down as best as I could. Not sure what the next seven months are bringing, but ideas are there, maybe a contest entered, probably some queries sent out, but...

I feel like I've been to the other side. A side where it's not all about what I thought it was. I used to think a career as a writer was the be-all end-all, in that if I spend all this time writing, well OF COURSE I'd want to get an agent, publisher, editor, etc, etc.

Now, having written what I have, taken a break, and let my head and heart listen to a better guide, I'm feeling like what will come will be fine. Maybe it will be what I wanted before, or maybe it's completely unknown, but whatever it is is far more than I could ever imagine.

And I have a pretty active imagination. But no matter, because it's about the process, about every day, even ones without cheesecake, about getting to where I need to be, and for whatever purpose, writing is a path I'm on, a way to that place.

What comes in the meantime is more beauty than I could dream, cheesecake included.

right before Christmas

2009-12-24T12:44:00.000-08:00

I haven't done a lick of work in the last week, only getting bits sorted for Christmas, the last with a child actually living under our roof. We have both girls home, Thea from uni and Jay off for two weeks. Bud isn't home this year, and while I could wax an entire post on that subject, I'll leave it that it's better for everyone else, but not easy.

Sometimes life isn't easy, but there are choices made for the greater good. Like Christ; that which is being celebrated tomorrow is the life of a small, outwardly simple baby, and yet, from the moment Jesus was presented at the temple, his mother's heart was pierced by Simeon's words, and this baby was only forty days old.

Yet, there is much else to be seen, a great gift even two thousand years later. So many parts of our lives have immediate or short term reasons; no work has been accomplished because there have been other demands, requirements, time with family and friends, cooking and shopping, reading and taking stock. All those trump writing and editing (But my brain hasn't been completely idle, two ideas battling within my head for the next project for which my fingers are already getting itchy to set to virtual paper!) because my life is the sum, not the parts, and while a HUGE part is writing, it's not everything.

My God, husband, kids, and friends are my life. Even my son who is away, and someday it will be all three kids. Someday they'll be at their own places, within their own lives. Did Mary think of that while hearing a sword would cut into her own heart, did she consider her tiny baby to be a man one day, a man of peace, but even Jesus said he brought not peace but a sword. So many contradictions in one truth, but then isn't that life?

The writing sometimes feels like a contradiction, in that I LOVE doing it, but right now I'm not driven to seek more than what sits in my hands, which is quite a few manuscripts, a couple of which are actually in pretty good shape. The contest from earlier this year is looming again, and while I'm considering it, I just feel so drawn to only write (except for right now) and let what comes next to languish outside my reach.

There are some parts of life that are concrete, like death and taxes. Even Jesus paid them, having Peter catch a fish for the temple tax coinage. But other bits are far more malleable, or even less, ethereal. Things for which we have to trust, wait, watch and in the meantime I've made a cheesecake (My first of a baked variety!) and a peppermint ice cream cake, have wrapped gifts, collected stocking stuffers, written blogs. Those bits, like death and taxes, are immutable, solid. So much else swirls around, and while I know tomorrow morning my kids will wake, thrilled with what sits under the tree, I know not of much more.

And having said that, maybe that's even looking too far into the future. I mean, really, no one knows what could really happen from one moment to the next.

Maybe that's how Mary dealt with hearing her baby was destined for great things, things that were going to pierce her own soul. That the small, cuddly bundle within arms of an old man was on a path precarious, unsure. Unsure for her, Mary having to take upon faith all that lie ahead.

All any of us can do, really. Only the gift remains whole, true, waiting. As we wait for tomorrow, God waits for us, every day leading to what comes next.

some mid-week wonderings

2009-12-16T12:50:00.000-08:00

I'm doing some cross-posting, as things are full of holiday happenings. Today I'm baking up a storm, all bread, but in the meantime as two loaves rise, waiting to be popped into the oven, I wrote the following on the Mothership, sufficing for today's post. Enjoy, as I'm off to start two more loaves of white-wheat bread...

I love the writings of Martin Luther, I really do.

I love the writings of Martin Luther King Jr. too, but right now I'm reading Martin Luther's Christmas Book, a collection of his sermons and writings to do with the upcoming holiday. It's tucked away with our Christmas decorations, but in December I keep it out, a short book with chapters titled Visitation, Nativity, Shepherds, Herod, Wise Men, Presentation, and From Heaven High. Yesterday I read of the shepherds, today was a short chapter about Herod, but also about those Wise Men, of whom the practical German reformer allows could have been two men, three men, many men. It's unknown and not stated directly in the Gospels, and one of the things I love about Luther is his no-nonsense approach.

Also his slight humor. Today's chapter ended with a reminder that God did as he did, leading those Wise Men to not straight to Bethlehem but to Herod in Jerusalem, because He wanted us to follow His word and not leave us to our own 'murky ideas'.

Now of course this is translated from the German, but I had to smile, for whatever Luther actually wrote must have been as earthly as 'murky ideas'. Yesterday's chapter was also a treat, not so much for the verbiage used, but the meaning, one of which I took as directly to the state of my writing as well as my spirituality. Luther extolled the virtues of those shepherds, to whom angels sang of the glory that had been born that night, noting that they accepted their lot, not of that of nobles or lords, but as taking a 'mean job', then reminding that the best job is the one we have. Says Luther: Next to faith this is the highest art- to be content with the calling in which God has placed you. I have not learned it yet.

Another reason I love Luther, his honesty! Here's the man who will bring about the Reformation admitting he has not yet learned to be happy with his lot. Perhaps he wrote this before nailing those ninety-five theses or afterward, but either way, he too suffered from wanting more, wanting that beyond what God had placed into his hands.

I know I sure feel this way with my writing.

But as I continued reading, it hit me, these lowly, maybe despised shepherds were given a tremendous gift, the heavenly host announcing in full glory and splendor to those unassuming men the birth of Christ. Then they left their fields to find that baby in a manger, only to return to their flocks, no more supposing of their stature than previously.

Luther writes: Let us look for a moment at the spiritual significance. Mary is the figure of Christianity, that is, all Christians who wrap the newborn child in the word of the Gospel. The swaddling clothes signify the preaching of the Gospel; the manger signifies the place where Christians come together to hear the word of God. The ox and ass stand for us.

Then he quotes the Scriptures: "And the shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things they they had heard and seen, as it was told unto them."

This is lovely work, enough to make me give thanks for this gift that is Christmas. But Luther's not done, the chapter ending with this paragraph: This is wrong. We should correct this passage to read, "They went and shaved their heads, fasted, told their rosaries, and put on cowls." Instead we read, "The shepherds returned." Where to? To their sheep. Oh, that can't be right! Must not one forsake father and mother, wife and child to be saved? But the Scripture says plainly that they returned and did exactly the same work as before. They did not despise their service, but took it up again where they left off with all fidelity and I tell you that no bishop on earth ever had so fine a crook as those shepherds.

I take a deep breath after typing that out, this book edited by Roland H. Bainton. Luther's honest, plain words are just as meaningful and necessary today as they were five hundred years before. Today I'm baking bread, two loaves done, two rising and two more to make. Editing some in between, blogging as well, eating my cream cheese bagel, and accepting this gift of faith, of a baby destined for more than a lowly manger. And then to myself, in whatever this path I'm on leads to. Perhaps no more than a lowly shepherd, tending words instead of flocks. But no matter, for it's not about the size or scope of one's reach, but the honesty and diligence to which each task is afforded, whether it be bread baking, writing, motherhood or the father of the Reformation, my sometimes impatient heart soothed by the awareness that even Martin Luther wished to be happy with what he held within his own hands.

back to another bit of my life

2009-12-14T07:48:00.000-08:00

Right now I'm listening to the Charlie Brown Christmas soundtrack by the Vince Guaraldi Trio. I love this album, digital or otherwise. Jazz for me is synonymous with Christmas, due to this record and listening to Derry at Betty's, his piano playing on cold December and January nights, the dark Stray outside the windows only lit by the trees colored in bright, vibrant primary hues.

That to me is Christmas, Advent, December, the end of the year. Dark but shining, foretelling new times waiting ahead.

Here in California that feeling is hard to conjure, no Betty's, no Stray. No enormous trees laced with lights that glow red, blue, green, yellow, orange, big bulbs you'd use in a lamp in your house. It was the cold, the dark too, Yorkshire so dark, all of England from November through February this strange place where night ruled, cold wet damp in full control.

Here in California it's the sun, the sun and freeways, but there in England, it was this intoxicating, jazzy night that went on for weeks, MONTHS! Like some never ending evening out, where a cloud of mystery reigned, a cup of tea held in hands to keep one warm and fueled.

When I listen to Vince Guaraldi and think about Christmas, that is what I remember.

falling from the sky

2009-12-07T09:36:00.001-08:00

I sat this morning, unsure of where things were going.

I knew had to write about football, another Monday morning and games to be digested.

But, what then?

I'm not writing anything, no ongoing projects to sort. It's raining out, cool, feeling like winter. Feeling like a time to just hunker down, wait for the end of the year, then watch 2010 open like a flower, cautiously due to cool temperatures, but waiting to bloom as the year expands.

I was listening to music, as I often do. Where so many ideas spring, from where my heart beats to a different drummer. I went from one playlist to another, then came across one from a novel I wrote in April of 2008, one that led me to know I could write, as the previous manuscript had been started, then abandoned.

I was really worried after that one, Aset The Shining Sun. An old idea that I sort of knew well, but not enough. At 70K in, I'd killed off about half the cast, and just had no idea if or how it would end. I knew the END, but the road getting there was unclear.

That was in January of 2008, and until April, I only faffed about, editing here and there, getting my feet under me both as a part-time writer, full-time Californian, and a mother of kids getting ready to flee the nest. My middle child was looking at leaving for college that summer, and I was in flux. What was I doing in my life, in this writing that seemed to be falling around my feet, uncompleted.

Then came Through the Glass.

It's a tale of love, loss and betrayal. Of infidelity, the death of a child and people so far apart there seems to be no way back together. Set in Capitola, near the ocean, with strong ties over to Britain, I wrote it in a burst that was Script Frenzy, but not as a screenplay. It was somewhat lengthy, over 130K, angsty to the gills, but also some great work, if I say so myself, in relaying how intrinsic one's children are, how love takes over, and when it's ripped away, how do you continue?

I've been whittling on it on and off, and now it sits at a slimmer 109K. But today, listening to tunes from that playlist, I felt some creeping tendrils latching into me. Perhaps it was due to not having anything concrete on my plate (although another idea has hit, and I think it will be for January, once Thea's back in college and friends planning a visit have come and gone). Maybe it's was that in reading over a bit of it, I saw the good, the unnecessary, as if a veil had been lifted from my eyes.

And really, all the free time on my hands. I still need to write Christmas cards and shop, and vacuum, oh MY how I need to run the hoover over the carpets!

But I only have one child at home now, and now she's at school. Jay will be with Thea and their brother Bud this time next year, waiting to return home for the Christmas break. I think back to the spring of 2008, so unsure of writing; could I actually finish the next book I attempted, what would it be like with my son gone? He is mildly autistic, has Asperger's. Isn't dying, but I know what it's like to have a tenuous relationship with one's child. That young man is a treasure, but somewhat emotionally detached, semi detached, yet, as children leave, that is what they become. No longer under one's roof but apart, separate. Not totally out of my reach, but away.

Soon Jay will be too, yet now I know I can write, I can finish a manuscript, and have done so. But with Through the Glass, a bigger question sits; can I not only edit this novel down to 100K, but rework it into something that I'd be happy to query?

Aha! The perilous part; an older manuscript, full of great bits but also a lot of hoo-haa. Can it be stripped down and rebuilt, like a football team that goes from blah one season to playoff bound the next?

Well, I think I'm about to open this Pandora's Box and have a look. I'll probably be keeping more details notes on this blog associated with said novel, but will also be posting updates here.

A challenge, certainly. All I can say is this came to me as usual, from hands above, from the music offered to my aching for sound ears. The hum of warm, forced air and some Kate Bush are all I hear, besides the typing of my own fingers.

not the Twilight books (and November update)

2009-12-03T07:52:00.000-08:00

So this morning my youngest daughter all of seventeen years old woke with a story of her new love. No, not the on-off boyfriend that's been around for over two years, but The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky.

That girl, my fashionista superior, always surprising me! She just LOVES it, and took it to school. It's her latest must-read.

What would Dostoyevsky think? I mean, really. If he knew of what was coming, literature-wise, and Jay, my youngest is NOT the reader her sister is, but she's singing that Russian's praises.

And I've never even read it!

I've not been reading much lately, naughty, I know. Instead I spent most of last month writing or spending time with family. Or cooking. But still, I did a bit of reading (a lot on line, news and articles, short stories too), recipes, some of The Cider House Rules by John Irving, but really I was at the keyboard, making a mess.

A mess on word documents because my typing is so bad. A mess in the first book for November, well, not a mess. Memories of Home is going to need a lot of work, or maybe it's just me. Writing a series when you did not PLAN to write a series is sort of like writing in the dark. Especially for me, because I can't see all those red, squiggly lines indicating typing errors. Then you flip on the light, and DUDE! What in the world happened!?

Writing a series, planned or not, is far more stressful in my opinion. Yeah, you know the characters and setting really well, but there is all you have to remember, all that has to be tied in, and I wrote that first November book with a sharp stabbing pain, and not just that my back was bad. But that it was just pouring out, and I have no idea if it's just rubbish.

Not until I read it, but I know it's angsty to the gills, which wasn't my intention, at least not consciously. Some of my stuff is REALLY sturm und drang, I fully admit it. But this? Hmmm...

I need to read it, and go from there. But, if NOTHING else, that story, the whole lot kit and caboodle is DONE!

Then there was project #2, The Burial Watch, which came out not as I expected (Lately when do they, why the writing is so darn dangerous!) but good. Better than I thought, and not at all what I had planned, not in the essence.

I finished that yesterday, why I'm here rambling this morning. Not writing, except some blogging, and messaging with eldest daughter about Christmas shopping. No more writing this year, because I've done enough, and need to get this month sorted. Lists to make, goodies to bake, pressies to buy, cards to write, all that.

I'll do some editing, the work doesn't really take a holiday, but the writing needs a break. November is such a special month, such a magical time, in its NANO way, as is December. I love Christmas, but struggle with the immense commercialization of this holiday (Which is not a new phenomenon; if you've seen A Charlie Brown Christmas Lucy was complaining about this over forty years ago! It's run by a big Eastern Syndicate, you know...)

In fact today I'll be hitting the mall (OH GOOD GRIEF!), getting some things sorted, things that aren't about writing. I'll be going to the write-in sans laptop and paper, just have a coffee, chat with the folks about NANO. I'm trying to remember this is Jay's last Christmas living at home, and I'm going to pick up some candles she wants (I can say this because of course she never reads this and is at school right now anyways). I'm going to give her the candles early, not because she's reading such great literature, but because she can have them before the holiday, enjoy them all this month.

I'm a writer, but I'm a mom too and now it's December, such a special month. My musical choices usually run to that fantastic Charlie Brown Christmas soundtrack by the Vince Guaraldi Trio, but I also heartily recommend Sounds of Blackness's Night Before Christmas-A Musical Fantasy, Relient K's Deck the Halls, Bruise Your Hand and Have Yourself a Jazzy Little Christmas on the Verve label.

Okay, there you have it. Need to check the towels in the washer and drink some tea. Have a really brilliant day!

November total word count- 188,355

last day of NANO

2009-11-30T20:26:00.000-08:00

So, it's the 30th of November. The end of NANO 2009, and it was a lovely, wordy couple of fortnights.

A more complete update will commence when I write up the November roundup. But suffice to say it was wordy, food-oriented too. And of course, football. Of which I'm watching right now.

Too hard to blog and watch footie all at once. So come back in a day or two, and we'll have a nice long, probably football-free chat about the words...

in the meantime...

2009-11-25T16:08:00.000-08:00

What this writer looks like away from the PC... All pics taken on 24 November, 2009, most snapped by my eldest daughter Thea (ta love!).

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. This will be the third year we've been back for this holiday, and since then, this will be the first year we've spent it at home. In '07 it was at my sister's house, then last year at my brother's. This year, it's in our own domain.

I love to cook. Besides writing, I adore cooking. All but pie crusts, but there's always something. Yesterday I took advantage of having my eldest at home, and between us, well, I did some cooking and she snapped some pictures.

This is what happens when I'm not sitting at the PC hurling words!

We started off the day with Belgian beef stew, which called for a twelve ounce car of beer. All I could buy solo was a twenty-four ounce can, so that led me to think making chocolate stout cake was in the cards, as well as stew and raisin bread.

I wish we'd gotten some snaps of this. but the finished product is pictured below! (And it was SO GOOD!!)

We started with stew. I love my AGA pot, from my days in Britain when we had an AGA. AGA's are perfect cooking devices, although living where I do NOW would see it shut down for nine of the twelve months in a year. In the UK, it was fantastic!

So into the AGA pot went onions, stew meat and in a separate skillet was bacon frying. Then the bacon went into the AGA pot, while I made a roux, then added the beer and half a cup of beef bullion.

No pics were taken of all this, Thea busy cutting onions for me!

Once the beer mixture was bubbly and thick, I added thyme, salt and pepper. Then pouring that over the browned meat, it was stirred, brought to a simmer, then stuck in the oven for a couple of hours.

The bread recipe I used is in the upper left corner. A book from the 1970's, courtesy of Farm Wife Magazine.

While that was stewing (ha ha!) I started the raisin bread. It would need time to rise and in an oven-warmed kitchen would do just that. I love making bread, really do enjoy it. Haven't done it for ages, and on Monday I freshened my my skills with some wheat bread. One loaf was nearly devoured that afternoon, fresh out of the oven!

Ready to knead, and boy was it sticky! I substituted golden raisins instead, called sultanas in the UK.

This batter was much softer, calling for milk and three eggs! I missed my own notes, that one large and one medium egg sufficed, hopefully something I'll remember next time. I added extra flour to compensate, and began kneading, as Thea documented my handiwork.

Trying to get as much dough from the bowl onto the counter.

It's mindless but gratifying, or at least one hopes. All depends on how well it rises.

Small now. It did increase throughout the afternoon!

Once that was completed, it went into a greased bowl. Only time would tell how it would do.

Chocolate buttery beer... Uh, well, yeah.

Next came the cake. Now this is a recipe that calls for stout, but Tecate beer worked just fine. Bringing the beer to heat, I melted butter into it, then added cocoa powder. That was poured into two eggs and some sour cream, then flour, sugar and salt and some baking soda went into that. Two pans were prepared, and this was HALF the recipe! I've made it before, and the entire batter produced FIVE layers and eleven cupcakes. This time I knew better.

Pans awaiting batter!

By the time those pans were full of batter, the stew was done. I traded cake for stew, and still the bread was rising.

Thea was getting potatoes into water for mash, and I had punched down the risen dough, setting it into two pans. The kitchen was plenty warm, and as the cakes were removed, I turned off the oven, not wanting to overheat the room.

Dough having risen, then shaped into loaves. The silicon pan stretches as it rises!

And the bread continued to rise. We ate dinner, and I popped those loaves into the oven (having preheated it again). We watched some television, and old DVD of a British news quiz show that's really more comedy than anything. That night's host was the current mayor of London, Boris Johnson.

Belgian Beef stew! So yummy, and it stayed perfectly HOT in the cast iron AGA pot just sitting on a flame less back burner...

A funnier man has never been mayor of a major city, like imagining Bill Murry as mayor of Chicago. But the thing with Boris Johnson is he doesn't mean to be funny.

Front pan is corn (overexposed), then mash with garlic (one clove to every 1-2 potatoes with plenty of butter and whole milk) and stew awaiting to be devoured!

He just is.

Chocolate stout cake, cooling.

The bread was baking, and once it finished, I noted it had fallen. Well, some small loss but the gain was quite tremendous, as we feasted on chocolate stout cake and raisin bread for dessert. Back to Have I Got News For You, and we laughed, wiping tears from our eyes.

Bread having risen (a little too much) and waiting to be baked.

Now tomorrow is the BIG day, but a few bits were sorted this afternoon, Jay making cornbread (for stuffing) and cranberry, apple and walnut conserve. I try different recipes every year, harking back to our English Thanksgivings, which were more like pot lucks. The only staple recipes I use are ones for double layer pumpkin pie and my grandmother's marshmallow fruit salad. The rest is what I feel like cooking.

And the remnants. Because the cake has sour cream (and Thea let it slip that it had sour cream) Bob instead went for the raisin bread. The rest of us, including Jay's sometimes boyfriend, had cake, and I also pinched the heel of the bread. It was so good!!

Yesterday wasn't Thanksgiving proper, but it felt awfully close. If you're celebrating T-day tomorrow, blessings and happy tidings to you! And if not, blessings and happy tidings anyways!

NANO Donation Day!!

2009-11-24T05:33:00.000-08:00

Please let's watch Chris and Lindsey sing and dance for us! Drop a few pennies into the NANO well and let that halo get slapped on your profile!!

More soon, I promise...

halo, halo, anyone need a halo?

2009-11-19T20:25:00.000-08:00

If you're NANOing, and you have a halo, excellent!!

If you don't, then wait until Tuesday.

Because on Tuesday, Chris Baty has a challenge that just needs to be met!

Have a read here, and then get those halo-twitching fingers ready!!

end of the week

2009-11-15T18:30:00.000-08:00

And half way through NANOWRIMO. I'm glad it's already the fifteenth, in that my eldest daughter will be home a week from today. As for NANO, it's going well, no complaints there.

I'm thinking the next book I write is going to be in long hand. I've written things in script before, ages ago, and yeah, it's a pain typing it all out again.

But I'm needing something different, and have plenty of paper with which to use.

No idea when that will be. Right now I'm working on a story that came to me last month at a funeral. Yesterday's work was okay, today felt better.

Words that have to come out; I really don't know any other way to describe it. Maybe it's the month, November with a special feel, knowing so many others are giving it their all.

The only thing I've considered about writing in longhand is this: if I happen to find it's the way to go, what will I do this time next year? Typing in November might be a habit I'll find difficult to break...

novel wrap-up

2009-11-12T18:25:00.000-08:00

So today I finished Memories of Home. One of my more lame titles, but the story is...

Pretty nice. And even better, it's done!

(And EVEN better is the football I'm watching, my beloved SF 49er's ahead 7-0 over the Chicago Bears!)

There is something so wonderful about completing a manuscript, just makes my heart sing.

I love writing, I do. I love being done too. Getting all the bits tied up at the end, and it wasn't until tonight that I realized the difficulty (and stress) of writing a series, something I didn't do on purpose.

It's getting all the pieces in place, from two books previous and the one at hand. So much to keep track of, and while I'm happy to have written this series, it wasn't planned as such. Basically I've been winging it for three manuscripts.

Which is OKAY, in that I know from where all this springs. But it's still a bit... Daunting. A lot to hold in my poor sieve of a brain.

I think I need a chocolate cookie!

And just because I'm not completely brain dead, I'm starting NANO part two on Saturday, or maybe Sunday. Going to write another story, see how it goes. You can find that here...

nougat in my teeth

2009-11-09T19:53:00.000-08:00

I love Mars Bars. Here in America, they don't make Mars Bars anymore. They do outside the US, but they're not the same thing.

I'm talking Mars Bars with almonds in them. Having returned to this country in 2007, I looked high and low for Mars Bars. Couldn't find them to save my LIFE! Instead I found Snickers with Almonds, and they are about the same. I just ate one, while watching football and doing a smidgen of editing.

Now I'm attempting to remove the bits from my teeth, while drinking echinacea tea and paying some attention to the game. I am not editing at this very moment.

When I watch sport, I feel this need to do something else at the same time. Like blogging or minor editing or stitching or crocheting. Or eating a Mars Bars, except they stopped making them in 2002, if I remember the Wikipedia article correctly.

When I write, I only WRITE! when I'm REALLY editing, not just poking around, I only edit. But when I watch sports, I feel guilty if I there isn't something else going on.

It's the commercials, the banter between plays, the guys getting off the field and back into the huddle, precious minutes that I could be typing or putting in stitches or reading a short paragraphs. So many things, because time is fleeing, life is short. I'm forty-three, and I think I have a cold.

I'm on cup #2 tonight of echinacea tea, as a bit ago my legs ached and yeah, I went for my walk this morning, my lovely end of night/beginning of day forty-five minutes of me, music and ideas. Where plot twists come together out in the darkness, stars twinkling, silence all around me except in my ears. I do this walk three times a day, M, W, and F, and never at night do I ache from it.

Instead, I may be getting a cold. Hopefully not anything more than a simple bug.

Not that I want to count that as something to do while watching sports. No thanks.

Instead, I'll get a good night's sleep tonight, once the game is done. But while the game plays out, I'll sit here, clean up this blog, occasionally looking to the left, seeing if my team made a first down.

And not forget to brush the nougat out of my teeth before I hit the hay!

depending on your point of view

2009-11-05T19:43:00.000-08:00

It's all subjective, life, writing, a winning season...

The Yankees won the World Series last night. I didn't even watch the game.

I'm tired tonight, not having slept well last night. I think I'll make up for it tonight.

Sometimes this is the perilous side of writing, wondering what comes tomorrow. Or I could say it's the perilous side of living.

It's there, just beyond the dawn. So unknown, even in all the routine that sits waiting...

October review

2009-11-02T20:12:00.000-08:00

Well, it was a writing-free month, save a few bits during rewrites and editing. No ORIGINAL work was attempted, and it felt...

GREAT!! For a time...

Then, as November approached, my fingers got itchy. Knowing NANO was right around the corner, all I could do was read. And read. And read some more. My stuff, other stuff, I think it was all fiction.

Anyways, it was a good month, a different month. The best of times, the worst, uh yeah. A month FULL of footie, pro and college, with a smidgen of baseball. And while this is supposed to be about October, tonight, as I type, the Phillies are still alive in the World Series!

No, I don't really like the Yankees.

But I did like what I worked on, sorting a few different MS's, varying levels of editing required. Over the month of October, I edited...

The War On Emily Dickinson
Oklahoma
The Captain and the Kid
Detours

I also read over Alvin's Farm and The Thorn and the Rose for NANO 2009.

I took a road trip, went to a funeral, prayed a rosary, ate a LOT of frozen yogurt, enjoyed a new favorite by John Irving, and did I mention I watched football?

I watched football.

I also walked around my neighborhood, endured a head cold, and took stock of what's been happening over the last few months.

A whole lotta writin's been going on...

Which is now continuing, of which I'll expound in another day or two. For now, October was a great change of pace, quiet but busy.

Balance, what it's all about! (And speaking of balance, the Phillies have won, bringing the Series to 3-2 Yankees.)

nearly there

2009-10-30T07:47:00.000-07:00

Yes, almost time for NANO. I've just written a little ode to the last three years, which you can find here. Otherwise, it's one of my favourite times of year, has been since 2006, all thanks to my eldest daughter.

Then only seventeen, Thea came to me one day in autumn, mentioning there was this writing competition that I REALLY should try. Did she know me so well from all those years of homeschooling, was it only her intuitive nature? Or all the scribbling I did...

Whatever it was, I took her advice, never looked back. The funny bit is she doesn't remember this at all, doesn't recall ever telling me to sign up for NANO, nearly twisting my arm! Yet, she did, and I owe it all her to her, and her friend Rebecca, who told Thea about NANO in the first place!

That's my NANO story in a nutshell. If you want a longer scoop, check out the link. Needless to say, but I'll say it anyways, if it wasn't for NANO (Thea and Rebecca too) I'd not be writing this blog entry. No idea of what I would be doing, and that's an unknown better left unexplored.

Happy NANOing to all participating! Good luck and remember, relax. It's only fiction...

not a good combination

2009-10-28T15:53:00.000-07:00

Today I found a post-it note attached to the side of my PC's tower. Four names, the date of which I scribbled it, and that it needed a title.

A story idea, with no story attached. It was from mid-September, and I have NO CLUE what the idea was supposed to be.

I was chatting on the phone with my eldest daughter, while youngest daughter sat in a chair a foot away, playing on the computer, as this was discovered.

Youngest daughter then tells me it's not good for a writer to have dementia.

I have to completely agree...

sport heaven

2009-10-25T18:35:00.000-07:00

Where I am right now, with the Arizona Cardinals and New York Giants on one channel, the California Angels and New York Yankees on the other. Or is it the California Angels? Maybe the Anaheim Angels...

I can't even tell you except it's the Angels and Yanks, Cards and Giants. I'm going back and forth as the commercials dictate.

I had a revelation only a few minutes ago, I think it was while baseball was on. Not that I only WATCH it; I was crocheting, listening, and I think it was baseball. What I realized is that since things are out of my hands, on a most basic sense, then thinking and wondering (and worrying) about various manuscripts and query letters and NANO plots is pretty much...

Ridiculous. As were some of the football games that played today.

I mean, 38-0 Jets over Raiders?

45-10 Bengals over Bears?

46-34 Saints over Dolphins?

I was pleased greatly with the first two, surprised by the third. My team lost, San Francisco making a valiant comeback in the second half (I credit the quarterback switch!). My husband's team won, and won big, Packers over Browns 31-3.

I love sport. Most sports. I don't watch golf or bowling or darts.

Or cricket, rugby, lacrosse or NASCAR.

Or Formula One, for that matter.

Otherwise, I'm pretty open when it comes to athletics. Especially American football, baseball, tennis.

After getting that knock up the head, that if I accept my life is out of my hands, then like a sacked quarterback, I was knocked flat, and as if my wide receiver caught that ball and danced into the end zone untouched, I had to smile.

I've given a lot of things up in my life, in that there are few things I worry over.

My football team isn't one. They learned a BIG lesson today in their loss. If you go with a journeyman quarterback, you'll get average results.

If you go with someone who has some TALENT, things change.

Not that we're all going to be winners, all the time. Having lived out of the country for over a decade, I really got a handle on how DRIVEN Americans are to succeed.

In Britain, we used to joke the English were always striving to be fourth. Or at least ahead of France.

It's back and forth right now in the Meadowlands. Giants are up 14-7, after Arizona just scored. Not sure of the baseball, cause I'm blogging. It was 1-0 Angels a bit ago.

Either the California Angels or the Anaheim Angels.

And as for me, well, whatever is coming in this year of writing (occasionally dangerously, but not as frightening as a mass tackle by a defensive line) it's out of my hands. Not about me. Not about being first (or fourth) or getting to the Super Bowl or World Series.

Whatever this writing is to be is for another reason, another purpose. And while I'd LOVE for it to result in subsequent publication, it's really not for me to say.

Only to DO. To write, plot, query when the time is right. And you just never know when that is, as Arizona just made a great pass play, moments after NY scored. (As the baseball score sits, Yankees are up 2-1 in the fourth.)

dusty

2009-10-23T08:48:00.000-07:00

In my house right now, having just run the vacuum over the carpet. Bob will be home tonight, and he's feeling better. I got his cold, but not as badly as what he suffered. Not feeling well enough to go for my walk this week, but there is Monday in only a few more days.

Right now I'm sniffly from dust, from stirring up then sucking away particles and the like. Tidying, a bit, before the husband returns. Washing towels, that sort of thing. I have about 6-7 chapters of Detours to poke at, then a run to the store; Jay wants Hamburger Helper tonight for dinner.

She'll cook, maybe I'll throw some spuds in the oven. The last night of only us girls, and while I love her to pieces, I am ready to also have my man back home.

We're rarely separated, he doesn't travel often. This time next year, only the two of us, and I'll be with him. The dust can settle here on its own.

Falling away have been bits of our little family; since our return from Britain, Thea has moved out, then Bud, and now Jay is next. I married my man, was pregnant like THAT, and within four years we had three kids. At the time, you NEVER think they're actually going to be gone.

Then, they are. Like looking for an old book you know is around SOMEWHERE; but no, two of my three are off, and the other, the last one, she's nearly with one foot out the door. A boyfriend, many buds of her own; that girl is my social butterfly. I used to be, but the older I get, the more I've closed the circle. Is it the writing, having returned to a place that while I gave birth to a child here in this sprawling valley, holds no solid chunks except one up in the mountains?

I'm not sure. Writing is a lonely profession, in that here I am, sitting at the desktop, only sun pouring through windows, music through speakers. I'll get up soon, check on the laundry, but without kids to chase and coddle, I'm becoming a stay at home mum with no kids for which to attend.

Perhaps like a book on a shelf, gathering particles in need of either a Swiffer cloth or even a fairly used Bounce sheet?

I find the latter are great for dusting, when I do it. I love getting laundry going, but am NOT one of a dusting persuasion.

Right now my persuasion lies here at the PC, but that's really only been for the last two years. Since our return, since kids started flying the coop. Not that I'm crying in my teacup. If not for the writing, I have NO IDEA what I'd be doing.

But it does make me think; when I had Jay seventeen years ago, again I had no clue as to what was coming. I was a mom, then after moving to the UK, a MUM, but it's all the same.

Until, that is, they move out, start their own lives. Then, what does a mom or mum do, besides laundry, vacuuming, writing?

What I'm discovering, with every new day...

here to fall

2009-10-20T13:38:00.000-07:00

That's a title of a song by Yo La Tengo. We saw them, my hubby and I, on Saturday night in Santa Cruz. It was a great show, only marred by the pot smokers in the audience. That was surprising, or maybe I'm just naive, but here in California, you're NOT supposed to smoke ANYTHING in public buildings.

Otherwise the band RAWKED, and seeing I put that very show into a recently finished story, it was also a bit of research. (Bet if I was paying an taxes on this writing career I'd be hard-pressed to write off the price of the tickets...) The place was a theater, so there were seats, but as soon as Yo La Tengo took the stage, most in the front stood. We did eventually, only to get away from the foursome puffing on a rather huge joint. They offered us a toke, but we only said no thanks, then moved towards the front.

What does that have to do with writing? Well, I'd been gone the previous days, and this was a date for the husband and myself, one on which he was in the early throes of a very nasty head cold. It was also some small piece of research. And a night away out, away from writing and editing.

The year can't ALL be about only words.

Having said that, I'm really eager to start writing again, come 1 November. NANO of course, and that in itself is a magical experience. Then to just once again putting words on a document, on paper, as you will. I took my better half to the airport this afternoon, as he has a short trip, and I hope his cold won't prove to be so awful, but I do fear for his ears on the flight.

While he's gone, I plan on getting a lot accomplished, some more editing, some plotting. I returned from the trip with a few ideas brewing, should sit and ponder those for a time.

Once November rolls around, there will be words to conjure, maybe a query letter. Maybe two. Only a few, as this year is primarily about the writing. I may even not enter the ABNA contest in 2010, to solely concentrate on writing. Still mulling that notion.

Kind of a scattered post, but maybe it's the day for it. Bob has departed, and I think he might have left his cold behind. Time will tell, as it always does. Something will happen.

Of that, I'm sure...

home is a good place to be

2009-10-17T09:52:00.000-07:00

When we lived in Britain, we managed to come home often. Every other year Bob's company sent us back, and we'd spend a month in various places, Florida, the Midwest, then home to California. This state, it is my home. I may not LIVE in my place of birth, but after dwelling overseas, upon my return the whole ENTIRE state felt like my back yard.

Spending a few days at HOME, with my kids, Dearheart and her family, it was relaxing, in that I wasn't in my own digs. I read a lot, bought another book, ate a LOT of frozen yogurt, let my friend tell me all she wanted to. It wasn't a lot, but it wasn't necessarily about the words.

Only the presence. Just being together.

On Thursday night I went to Dearheart's mum's rosary, and while I'm not Catholic, there is such peace in those cadences. Afterwards my kids and I went for a frozen treat, and they ruminated on their school lives, what they liked, what they found tedious. They are happy in their college climate, Thea in her junior year, Bud a sophomore. She's nearly twenty-one, he's nineteen, and with Jay in her last year of high school, all three will be together again next summer.

I've known Dearheart since we were fifteen, now most of our kids are older than that! My parents are around, both of hers are dead. Our lives are short, whether we live to 84 or 24, but I know being 43 makes that far more resounding than the ages my kids are at. Perspective, years lived, all that sort of blah blah blah but it's true...

I came away with two story ideas, one strictly from the funeral. My own sister Lynn came along, and afterwards we had a visit with our grandparents' markers. A revolving door is time, and ours, while at times feeling way too long, is only a blip.

Why I'm glad to be home, glad to have been there. Glad for this moment, to blog about the various bits that run through my head. Glad for the weekend, to absorb it all.

Then glad for Monday, when I return to the work. Time is running, don't want to waste this gift!

three days

2009-10-12T08:28:00.000-07:00

Last week I read A Widow For One Year in three days, one part each day.

Over those same three days my best friend lost her mother.

On Wednesday, Deartheart called, asking if I was in town. She lives where all my family does, she is my family. The sister I found in high school, and all these years later we're still joined to the hip.

Next week, I told her. I'll be seeing the kids, spending the night. We'd meet for frozen yogurt, we always do. I'd see her new house, they just moved in August. We'd have chats, but her voice interrupted my thoughts.

Sue, as she calls me, has called me since the early 1980's (and now I can't ever remember why she calls me Sue, but she always does). Sue, my mom's at the hospital. I just wanted to tell you, in case you were here; I didn't want to miss you.

Seems Dearheart's mum was admitted due to an infection, but her blood pressure was low, her kidneys troubled. Her mum wasn't a young woman, in her eighties, but on Wednesday it didn't seem serious, and we agreed that she'd be in touch, and I would see her in the coming week.

On Thursday she texted me while I was at the write-in. I'd read most of part two that morning, then taken some folders. No writing, only plotting. But the plot was thickening; her mom had been intubated and there wasn't much to do but wait. I had no details, only prayer. If Dearheart needed me sooner than the following week, all she would have to do was call.

I heard nothing Thursday night, but completed part two, was eager to read part three the next day, curious as how to Dearheart's mum was doing...

A relationship Dearheart and I share that doesn't need constant communication, just the knowledge of the other's love and prayers.

On Friday I read in the morning, the third part not as long as the previous two. I was finished, stunned by John Irving's prose, when Dearheart called.

She thought it would be sometimes that day, probably in the evening. Her mother's heart was still beating, but otherwise she was gone.

They had talked on Thursday morning, before her mum became unconscious. It happened so fast, that the most startling. Her health wasn't great, but she'd been fine, and the family had assumed she'd be in hospital for a bit. Then come home.

She has gone home, to the best home there is.

At six in the evening on Friday I heard from Dearheart's eldest daughter, that her grandmother had passed away around five-thirty. We only chatted for a few minutes, then I relayed the news to the rest of my family. Over the weekend I was in touch by email with Dearheart, and knowing she was in good hands, we agreed I'd see her on Wednesday of this week. Which is in two days.

In two days I'll take a road trip, see my friend, my kids, my folks. Then on Friday, I'll go to a funeral.

Death comes to all, sometimes it's known, sometimes so out of the blue. Even if one is old, on that downhill slide, even then death can be a surprise, sneaking up and snatching away one so loved.

In three days, lives were altered. Dearheart and her family with the loss of a mother and grandmother.

Mine in a book that has become one of my all times favourites, and in the peripheral loss of a woman who I last saw a few years back when Dearheart and I took frozen yogurt to her.

Blogs will come to a hush this week, as I get ready to head north.

tick tick tick

2009-10-08T17:23:00.000-07:00

Right now I'm doing things to a stringent code. As if on a list, ticking bits off, one at a time.

All to a code my heart tells my head. One thing, one at a time.

Part of it revolves around a novel, not mine. John Irving's A Widow For One Year is in three parts. Yesterday I started it, completing part one. Today I finished part two. Tomorrow I will read part three.

At least that's what I know now.

The rest of life has been falling into place in that manner. This, that, the other. At this time and that. Done with a guidance that dwells deeply inside.

John Irving, bless his heart, doesn't mind ending a sentence with a preposition. Or starting one with a conjunction. Or using an adverb every once in a while. (And he sure likes semi-colons too.)

And my goodness but that man can WRITE!

That said, there are times when I do things in this way, when I just put one foot in front of the other, not thinking why this now or why not that, that I know I'm letting myself go.

Figuratively and literally; in both manners I am living outside who I am, or think I am.

And sometimes when one doesn't think too hard, or only slightly hard, the most amazing things occur.

Sometimes the most dangerous part is the simplest; all in the letting go...

a different bit of work

2009-10-06T10:57:00.000-07:00

Editing is so dissimilar to writing, easier in some ways, in the doing and the setting aside.

When I write, that is ALL I DO. Two, three hours of solid (messy) typing. With editing, I can move away at the end of a chapter, or even at the completion of a scene. I usually don't break in the middle of a scene, unless necessary. That ease is so appreciated right now, having spent a good chunk of time in recent weeks tethered to a WIP.

Which means there is plenty to edit. And there are stages of editing, a simple read-through, or down and dirty let's get serious.

Lately it's been a mix; for me, I need to familiarize myself with a manuscript, need to give it a look before the knives are out. What I've found is a mix of reading and editing. Taking a chapter at a time, going through it, correcting obvious punctuation and grammar. Maybe changing a sentence that needs help, if better words spring to mind. Sometimes I read something, know it's not quite THERE, but leave it, aware the mood will strike again. I'm sure it will still sound incorrect later. Editing fairies don't seem to have found a way into my PC, for better or worse.

Having done that, then I give it a few days. No need to dive right back in, instead better to let the dust settle. Let those words, plot, characters stew a bit. Maybe a little, maybe a while. All relative, then a document is reopened, noted on the small slips of paper in which all editing is recorded.

A sample of what I mean; if I DID ever lose one of these, oh what a sad gal I would be! Like losing a piece of my mind, and I need all those pieces I can find...

Yes, I'm that, well, anal. I note every round of editing, on every project. Was scared SILLY for ten minutes last week when I couldn't find one manuscript's paper, and I KNEW I'd given it a quick look, I KNEW IT!

I shuffled through my desk, poking around rubbish that accumulates. Removing paper clips, but it was nowhere. I may have had a cup of tea, probably did. Then went through those slips again, and it was tucked at the back of another novel's stack, hiding.

Naughty little thing!

So there is a method to my madness that is editing. I look at writing as pregnancy. It's a finite time, no matter the length. Editing however...

Well, to be crass, which usually I am not, but editing it like crack. Well, sometimes. On some projects it's like a drug, for I KNOW I can fix this, change that, tweak something. Being tweaked, that for me is editing.

Not EXACTLY the best way to put it, but honest. And if nothing else, in my writing and here on this blog, I try to be honest.

And honestly, I think it's time for a bagel.

September review

2009-10-02T09:08:00.000-07:00

So it's now October, and last month...

I got a lot accomplished.

This month there is really no NEW writing, save a chapter I will add to Music For Airports (which is going to be known with a new title, as soon as I get around to it). I'll be editing that story, rewriting some of The War On Emily Dickinson, plotting out NANO 2009's project as well.

But let's think about September...

The second month into this dangerous year was one to inform me that yeah, a lot of writing isn't always easy. Some peril involved. (I love the word peril!) In that, depending on what you pen, it can be liberating, but also in small moments excruciating.

Not in getting the words OUT, but what those words ARE.

In the meantime our trench was filled, my car's battery had to be replaced. My football team found its feet, and I FINALLY got to use my crock pot. It was a warm September, not that autumnal at all.

And seeing it's supposed to reach 79 F here today, October's starting warm as well.

But it won't last, that I know. The weekend is forecast in the upper 60's, more as one would expect. And having read through two manuscripts leading up to what I am going to write in November, I'm ready to start trawling through The War On Emily Dickinson.

Yes, today that battle will begin! And with September at a close, all I can say is...

I'm really glad not to be writing anything NEW this month!

September total word count- 208,287

no writing morning

2009-09-26T07:08:00.000-07:00

And afternoon and evening, except for a blog. I've completed three novels and one novella in two months, and all I want to do today is watch college football.

Pro football tomorrow. Football, football, football!!

This has been a telling eight weeks, being shown just what CAN happen. When God says JUMP and I say how high?, well, it's pretty amazing just how HIGH high can be.

October is going to be rewrite/edit city. And actually, on Monday I'll be sorting Music For Airports, adding one additional chapter, at the beginning. I need to incorporate an idea that is more fully explored later in the story, but has no mention in the first part (because it came to me during the writing, and while it's GREAT, it needs to be foreshadowed).

But that's for Monday! Today is clean out a closet and watch football day. No writing, none, none whatsoever.

busy

2009-09-24T20:00:00.000-07:00

What happens when I reach the end of a novel. All I do is write.

Thank goodness Bob was happy to go to the local taqueria, pick up burritos for dinner.

Fuel with which to read the work I did today.

Not much left of the manuscripts to write.

I think my husband will appreciate home cooked food.

I will, but man, carne asada burritos are the BOMB!

what this day is all about

2009-09-19T16:07:00.001-07:00

This day, the nineteenth of September is about...

Writing a lot of words.

Warm temperatures in autumn.

Echinacea tea to fight what might be a cold.

College football.

Husband at work (sigh...).

Possibly going for ice cream later.

Reconsidering the title for a manuscript.

Giving thanks for all I have, errant titles notwithstanding.

when I set aside myself

2009-09-16T20:09:00.000-07:00

All sorts of good things occur.

Yesterday was day #2 of The Captain and the Kid, and I was so tired, all day. At ten AM I was tired, and I'd had plenty of cups of tea. But the writing felt blah, I felt blah too. Last night before bed I read something that reminded me of the basic tenet of my writing, my life:

This is NOT about me.

That said, I slept well, had a good walk this morning, noting how the moon had moved 180 degrees in the sky. Two weeks ago the full moon was over the western mountains. This morning the smallest sliver rested over the eastern hills. That floored me, as I know so little about the phases of the moon.

I took an abbreviated walk, to get back in time for a shower and breakfast before dropping teens to school. Only one this morning, my own not well. Coming home, I remembered all I do is out of my conscious hands, and once the typing began, I felt a rhythm commence. By 11 AM I was done with one chapter, breaking for lunch. By mid-afternoon a second had been penned, in a manner of words, and now having read it over, I felt this novel was finally coming into focus.

Not because I'm rather witty or intelligent. But because I know when to just let it go.

That's all this year is about, really it is. Letting go and seeing what comes when hands are freed from preconceived ideas. This afternoon I got in another walk, this time with my husband, nearly an hour along HIS path, which is different than mine. I walk around the neighborhood, along a busy road, usually early in the morning while it's still dark. Where the moon shines in different places in the sky, stars twinkle. He walks towards a park, during the day, and taking in his road was lovely. Life is never what we think.

I love accepting that, wish I did it more often and freely. For when I do, there comes a lovely peace, and words. Words flow too.

Isaiah 32:17

a day off

2009-09-12T15:11:00.001-07:00

We all need it. If not one, maybe two. Maybe three.

I'm enjoying some college footie, UCLA and Tennessee, the Bruins up 16-10. Been stitching, doing some laundry. I really love doing laundry. Maybe that sounds insane, but it's soothing, relaxing, mindless. Put stuff in the washer, then put it in the dyer, then fold it. What more is there?

Yesterday I shopped then readied things for my youngest's b-day party. A ton of teens came over after school, Bob BBQ'ed, and by 6.30 PM they were gone, off to the football game. She had a ball, is going to the first dance of the school year tonight. The life of a teen...

My girl on the right, her boyfriend on her left, and me, lighting candles...

And me? The life of a wife, mom, writer, laundress, football lover; getting away from the writing feels good, what I have needed. I'm reading a fantastic book right now, Stepping Heavenward by Elizabeth Prentiss. If the title calls to you, get a copy. I can't employ words to fully impress its value, entertainment and calling. Just a wonderful book, terrific.

Reading it while embarked on this endeavor, so much food for thought. Called to whatever one finds their heart is pulled, and nothing is easy, nothing without some cost; even writing. For as wonderful as it is, it is a gift full of pitfalls; the desire to effectively convey one's thoughts, improve the cadence and flow. Then, the great dilemma...

To attempt publication or not; oh what a beast of a query. :)))

Maybe the query itself is the beast. Either way, some are happy to only write, some are determined to proceed with that next step. I am feeling pulled to publish, but not as strongly as before. Perhaps it's only that now I need to concentrate on the work, writing the goal.

Either way, a few days' break is a good thing. Recharge and fold some clothes, it's a good life.

yesterday

2009-09-10T13:16:00.000-07:00

Is a Beatles song, and sometimes it's great that yesterday's in the past. Yesterday was a day like that.

The trench. Oh yes, our trench; it was supposed to be sorted yesterday, but the inspector went to the wrong house and wouldn't make his way back to ours.

Sometimes it's infuriating; people who can't admit mistakes, seem to be above the rest of us. sometimes I have compassion, acceptance. Sometimes not so much. We're at the mercy of the county, have to get this work signed off before it can be completed. And if they decide to step up another rung on the ladder, leaving others in their wake...

Nothing you can do.

Today it was sorted. By a different inspector. Who showed up bright and early and I was without a sewer line for not much more than an hour.

Novel fodder? We will see...

In the midst of all that, the writing was nearly done. Not easy, tough; subject matter and in how it ended up. This is the second straight novel that hasn't finished as I thought it would.

And I'm not talking minor changes. As with Oklahoma, BIG CHANGES. Nothing I saw coming and by mid-afternoon I felt gutted. Like my front yard, all my insides spilled out to the side, piled in a disheveled mess.

Not a pleasant feeling. Really pretty... Cruddy. But after I read over what I'd written, aware there would be one more chapter today, I felt a little better.

Part of my turmoil was running on not much sleep. Part was the trench. The trench that won't die.

Part is the work, and where it falls in the calendar. Near a date that twelve years ago held a slap up my head.

Invisible now, nothing shows except for a trench and words on a page. But I feel it, within me, and when I go back and look at this story, I'll remember a few things.

The trench, days of words excavated like the dirt in my yard, some place in my heart guarded beyond what I knew.

Again, the left not knowing the right's business. And that's good, just fine.

Except when, during the hand off, all comes to light.

when the going gets tough

2009-09-08T20:02:00.001-07:00

I eat pie.

Cherry pie with strawberries and cream ice cream. Yeah, let's serious about that sugar!

Things here are sort of getting straightened, in that the clearout for the sewer line was fixed, and will be inspected tomorrow afternoon. And if it passes, the trench will be filled tomorrow night!

By then, the WIP should be nearly done.

Not QIP, as I originally typed. I wonder what that could stand for...

Questions in progress

Quips in progress

Quills in progress...

The list is endless!

Sometimes the writing feels endless too. As if it will never end. Well, uh, yeah.

Yeah.

Not to be full of myself, but today I hoped to get a good chunk done, and I did, plus a little more. That was VERY rewarding. Not why I'm having pie, but it could be construed that way.

Lots of words=pie.

Not 3.14. Cherry pie.

My favourite part of pie is the crust. I LOVE PIE CRUST.

'Nuff said.

I also love writing, but sometimes too much of a good thing can be, well...

Dangerous.

That goes for words as well as pie crust. Yes, it's true.

Well, I could go on and on, but I'll end this here.

August review

2009-09-03T19:29:00.000-07:00

It was a good month, the first of this fiscal year of writing. I'm going to add the pictures of the calendars along side the blog, stack them up as they fall, like dead soldiers.

Ones that rest in the trench in my front yard. A trench that is STILL THERE.

'Nuff said. Back to regularly scheduled programming. I wrote one novel (The War On Emily Dickinson) and one that could be considered a novella (Oklahoma). Started one more (Music For Airports) on the last day of the month, but really it's going to be considered a September project. Just happened to begin it on the thirty-first.

I also edited The Road Home, starting on the finishing that on the twenty-sixth. Plus I read over The War On Emily Dickinson, but made no changes to the manuscript, only taking notes for the initial edit, probably to come in October.

So far, I'm feeling okay. A bit weary, only in that the last three days it's been a busy time. But August went all right, giving me a push in this direction.

One of words, lots of them. No more new ideas, thankfully! I need very few of those at this point.

Only a smooth front garden. But that's out of my hands.

What I hold within is precious, so precious. A great gift. One for which I do not want to spill.

August total word count- 147,751

the process

2009-09-01T10:01:00.000-07:00

My front yard, August 2009

There is this peace I feel when I'm doing things when they're supposed to happen. Like in a few minutes, I'm going to the store, as I'm going to make beef stew for dinner. I so rarely cook like I used to, what happens when it's just a few people living in the house.

But I've written for the morning, not sure if another chapter will come about today. Yet, right now I need to go to the store. Then, I'll finish this.

How I published my first novel, the only novel so far. I think there will be more, goodness knows I'm a MUCH better writer than before. When my first novel was written, published.

But more about that in a bit. Right now, peace calls me to the grocery store...

Okay, nearly an hour, three bags, $46 and one chuck roast later... Peace. Let's talk about peace and the process of getting a book published.

Not that it has much to do with this year, nothing happening on the business front, but peace, oh ho... Peace. Yeah, peace.

Well, (big deep sigh). Well is a deep subject. So is publishing a book. Especially when pride is involved. And when is it not? Pride; twisted around my thinking which led to many unpeaceful moments from June 2007-January 2009, how long it took my first novel to come from an acceptance to my hands.

If I could do it all again... Oh, that is also a place rather not visited. Because we can't. I can't go back, change things. This is what is. And for as foreboding as this is coming off, it's really not that bad. I mean, I have a novel published, right?

But at what cost? Only to my pride, I've found...

Because it's a middling novel. A mediocre manuscript. One that now I read, cringe, in that I was so eager to get out it, have it read and now...

Now, now I know better.

A small company, better with medical texts, but they had published a novel, and they wanted to publish more. They just didn't want anything overly erotic.

No, my novel's pretty tame. A few changes were requested, which were easy enough, and by August I had sent them the revisions. Then I waited. And waited. And waited...

I participated in NANO 2007, wrote three books. In one month, my second, third and fourth novels. Yes, the one published was my very first! And OH WHAT A FIRST NOVEL IT IS.

I wish I could fully convey what I was thinking at the time to what I know now. I knew nothing them. NOTHING. Only that I had someone wanting to publish my book, so it must be okay, right?

This wasn't one of those publishers wanting any money up front. Completely legit, except that fiction isn't really their forte. And all it's cost me is some pride. But oh what I've learned.

Mostly in the editing process, which at the time was something to which I was so naive. Just unlearned, untutored. By Christmas, nothing was happening and I called the publisher, and he offered me my manuscript back. It was going to be a while, various projects ahead of mine.

Pride, what comes before it! Having already told family, friends I was getting a book published, I said no. Keep it. I'll wait....

And I did. Through the rest of winter, until March of 2008, when I received from the editor her revisions. Which I devoured in no time. Then I waited again.

Until May, when the publisher wanted my photo, blurb, that sort of thing. Woo hoo! Moving forward. Forward progress that limped through summer, reaching autumn. By which time I'd been writing more, getting a better feel for my voice, and every time I went through the manuscript, I saw words that didn't belong, POV's not applicable. The editor was only for copy, the rest up to me. And really, I didn't know much. Not much at all.

Except that all I wanted was it published. And I shake my head, smile, and tell you that I was still so unaware. Clueless, not at all at peace. I wanted to THINK I was, but...

Well, by late autumn I had final galleys to proof, a cover and ISBN number. This was going to happen! I was over the moon, but still no idea of what it meant. I was writing NANO 2008, only one book, thinking this was it. Here I go! On my way. No agent, but that was okay. I had a book coming out.

It was supposed to be ready in December, but that slipped. 2009 dawned, and I found out about the ABNA competition, spending my time honing a manuscript for that. Then, at the Thursday write-in in early January, one of my compatriots found that my book was offered on Amazon.

That's how I found out my book was done.

If one has little that is kind to say, it's better to be quiet. Why I don't speak much of my novel, or the means by which it came to be. Not that I'm not proud of it (again, pride!) or think it's rubbish. Only so raw, green, indicative of all I was as a writer at that time. Only returning to my native country, having lived in the UK for eleven years, seeing kids going to school instead of our long-held notion of homeschooling. Everything was changing, everyone. Me too.

Big deep breath. So, Drop The Gauntlet was published. I read it, and knew. Like a premature child, one that you love deeply but know is flawed. Not ready, can't quite live outside. You love it, wish it was better, but there is nothing to do but wait. Wait and see.

Yet, I can't help but give thanks, for if it hadn't been accepted well before its time, I might not have continued to pursue the writing. Might have felt inadequate, might have just let this all fold. I know I can write, because as my book was published I entered the contest, and weeks later remained it in. Weeks later got into the semifinals. Didn't win, but had enough under my belt to know I have some talent, can do this. I can write.

But, as others in the top 100 spoke of querying, looking for representation, that's when I knew. Time for brakes to be pulled. Even before this year of writing dangerously began, God said slow down. And this time, I listened.

It hurts, in that when I do what I'm told, peace comes. When I don't... Well, the sky doesn't fall but I feel it, sense that notion of looking before I leap. Taking bigger steps than what are necessary. Now I'm staying quiet on the business end. Just writing. Is it easier because I have a novel, albeit not all that terrific, published? Maybe. Or maybe it's age, getting a little bit wiser every day. Every day and each word that comes gets me closer to dropping pride like a bitter pill. Because, oh my goodness, this is NOT about me.

I do all this not in anything that resembles my strength. Not at all. In accepting that, even when it hurts, I feel peace. Peace while shopping for chuck roasts or typing stories that crowd along with senior pictures and trenches in my front yard. The septic line is in, but it's a mess, hedges attacked and piles of dirt enormous. But it is what it is, like that first novel, and it's there for some reason.

A ripped-up mess, that one day will look much nicer, I'm sure...

Not sure why, and believe me, if, IF I could change it, I, I, I...

I'd leave it right there. Yeah. Because that's how life is. Things happen for reasons. Even the ones that makes us look back and cringe. My book ALMOST does that, not for its poor wording and somewhat clumsy phrasing.

But for me, for pushing it, for thinking I NEEDED to get it published RIGHT NOW. TODAY, IMMEDIATELY. Good grief!

That's what makes me hang my head a bit. Makes me simply sit back and let the words come as they are. Not out for all to read, but tucked away in my hard drive, slapped onto a flash drive. And when the time comes, when the peace settles, then.

Then I'll take a deep breath and say here I am. Do with me what you will. (As I try to do most days, and do a little better with every one that comes.)

processing, then process

2009-08-30T15:33:00.000-07:00

This is the dangerous bit, or maybe I've already mentioned one. But another one happened today, a PERFECT example of why the left hand shouldn't be aware of what the right is up to...

So Oklahoma's done. Not how I thought it was going to end, but that's how it goes. I knew it wasn't going to be long, word-count wise. It's not quite 56K. Far more chapters than I imagined, twenty-two instead of thirteen.

Then, there is how it ended. I promised T. Anne a post about the process of getting a book published, and that will be either tomorrow or Tuesday. But I didn't expect Oklahoma to end as it did, and for a few minutes I need to just get this out.

It ends with Ben saying it's the end. I wrote those words, Bob next to me. I said, "Well, I think I just finished it."

He looked over, saw what I'd written. "Yeah, I think you did."

Mine is the wooden chair, and yeah, it's actually comfortable. It usually looks like this (a mess) except for my butt not being in my chair. 30 August 2009

His PC is withing five feet of mine. It's cozy. Yeah, that's what I'll call it, cozy. Sometimes a little TOO cozy, but since most times my work is when he's gone, it's no big deal. He had just come back from church, and was eating some grapes. Jay was leaving for the mall with a girlfriend, and after she headed out it was only the two of us.

And I was really glad. Reading it over, I came to those last words, Ben's last words.

I started crying. Not only had Kaeton buried Ben's last cigarette, but I had buried my mother.

This is the perilous part of writing, if you write what you know. Which is what I do. All the &*%$#@ time.

Can't help it, but I knew the job was dangerous when I took it.

But did I? Yeah, yeah I did. I knew two weeks ago when I started this little project, this year of writing dangerously, something was afoot. More than I knew at the time. More than I knew when I started Oklahoma, originally plotted out to be thirteen chapters in thirteen days (Hah!), ending up as twenty-two chapters in eleven days.

Walls Came Down by The Call is on right now, the story of my life. Which are ALL these stories, in one manner or another. Ben gives Kaeton his last smoke, nothing but the filter, and Kaeton retrieves the shovel from the trunk of the Impala. He digs a small hole, not deep, then drops the butt into it, smoothing it over with the base of his sandal.

"There. All done."

"Yeah," Ben said, staring at the sky. "It's done."

I read that to myself, felt the tears fall. Bob was sitting at his PC, the grapes nearly gone. He turned to me, saw my face. Held me, because he knows me. Knows all that has been. Knows that sometimes writing is a lark, spilling words like so many marbles falling out of a bag.

Sometimes it's like pulling out guts through my nostrils, one entrail at a time.

Why its dangerous, why it's good to have one ending in your head while another is waiting to be reached.

Why it's good for the left not to know the right's business.

Why I'm glad this isn't about me, for while it's sometimes scary as hell...

I KNOW I'm not going there alone.

wondering if the ending will be overshadowed

2009-08-28T19:40:00.000-07:00

Working on Oklahoma right now, well, not at this very minute, but I did get a good number of words written today, and reconsidered what that pink paint is really all about. Kaeton has chipped off four sections in his room, has found that mysterious pink hue under each section.

I was going to have the answer be something easily detectable, but have changed my mind. But now, does that bombshell weaken the end...

I'm not sure. Maybe the end will be not as drawn-out, but again, these are only musings; not until I write it will I know.

Nearly the end of this month and so far, pretty good. Things are coming along well. I'm not feeling overwhelmed, been walking this week, maybe that helps. Mostly it's letting it come as it does, not getting my knickers in a twist. Plots, twists, characters, even the tunes come when due.

I wish I knew this twenty years ago; oh what might be different! But then, I'd not be here, at this moment as I am. No regrets, just keep going. Keep walking, writing, listening, praying, watching those 49er's maybe have a winning season...

Ahh... What a dream!

plot plot

2009-08-26T19:31:00.000-07:00

Listening to Suzanne Vega right now, a play list in my head for Music For Airports. I dropped the American from the title, and found the plot. Or it found me, after reading about Dominick Dunne's death, his sister-in-law Joan Didion and her book The Year of Magical Thinking.

From where these things come is one of the strangest parts of writing.

But it thrills me, to know how this story will progress, and again, all I can do is make notes, here within this blog and on various scraps of paper. Trying to keep it all together, hoping my sieve of a brain holds the main bits in.

so many things

2009-08-24T14:00:00.000-07:00

So I slept very little last night, after blogging. Wasn't sleepy till after midnight, then woke at four thirty and didn't go back to sleep. Probably why I have a headache now.

But there is so much to do, and I'm starting walking again. I use to power walk years before, haven't done it much in the last four years. Today I started, thirty minutes, and will go M, W, F, working up to an hour. It will just have to fit, as I know it all will.

As well as editing The Road Home, reading over (in preparation for editing) The War On Emily Dickinson, then writing Oklahoma, plotting out The Captain and the Kid. Then, while walking this AM, listening to a play list for another idea, Music For Airports.

Why it's dangerous. So much, but piece by piece it will come together. And this doesn't include reading; The Time Traveler's Wife is what I'm working on now, in addition to Forgotten Voices (which I need to start) and my lovely collection of sayings by Mother Teresa. Plus Stepping Heavenward by Elizabeth Prentiss.

Muy peligroso... Si si!!

I meant to do this earlier, but the day was full of things, and now that it's 9.51 PM, my bedtime, I can't sleep. Bob is snoring again, which isn't helpful, but does offer time to share this award from T. Anne.

So seven things about me...

When I was five, I took on Christ, or maybe He took on me.

When I was sixteen, my dad's girlfriend took her life with a gun.

When I was twenty-one, Bob took me on.

When I was twenty-two I took on motherhood. Did so again at twenty-four and twenty-six.

When I turned thirty, we arrived in North Yorkshire, England. Stayed there for nearly eleven years.

When I was thirty-one my younger brother took himself out with a gun.

When I was forty, my then seventeen-year-old eldest child twisted my arm to write in my first NANO.

When I was forty-two said NANovel, Drop the Gauntlet, was published. While it will always be precious, to be honest, it's a very ordinary first book, but if nothing else, I am an author.

That's eight, but there you go. Soon (SOON) it will be bedtime, and all this can become another day...

when inspiration hits...

2009-08-23T22:54:00.000-07:00

You KNOW you have to just lie there and take it. Even if it comes in the guise of your beloved's snoring.

Why I'm up now, after a long but good day, because Bob is snoring, which led me to consider how The Captain and the Kid is going to start. Which is REALLY beneficial, as that story commences in nine days and I really wasn't sure at all how it was going to begin.

Maybe now I can fall asleep, with that nugget sorted.

Maybe Bob will stop snoring soon.

Maybe if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. One of those sayings my dad repeated when I was a kid that took me AGES to figure out.

I'm calm

2009-08-21T13:40:00.000-07:00

But it's only by God's grace. Which is sufficient, that I know. Even when septic systems back up and the plumber says the fifty-year-old clay pipes need to be replaced all the way to the street.

Root system invading our pipes... All pics from today, 21 August 2009

At a cost of $8-10,000...

Yeah. I'm calm. Breathing. Already written a chapter. An extra chapter, one unplanned, one that will stretch Oklahoma from the planned thirteen chapters to fourteen, still hoping to do it by the end of the month.

A road trip is happening Sunday, as my eldest daughter's bike was pinched. Going up there with replacement wheels, will visit with the kids, eat frozen yogurt.

Maybe we'll have a loo by then, a shower too. Maybe. I hope so.

Against the house the hole is dug, from where that piece of pipe originated.

Either way, it'll be okay. That I know. Work will commence, toilets will flush, sleep will be had and blog entries will be written.

Bob (from the shoulders down) and Javier examine the hole, that pile of dirt hopefully back in the ground by the end of today. One lovely shrub bought the dust to create that pit, sigh...

Why this blog is titled as such; sometimes life, like the writing, is dangerous.

Props to T. Anne for a fab award, more of which I will expound once life eases to the usual, unexciting turmoil.

dirgy and smoky

2009-08-19T10:58:00.000-07:00

Is how the sky looks here today. Fires in the Santa Cruz Mountains have dimmed the skies, and the music I'm listening to doesn't help.

But Oklahoma is away, like a ship christened, off in coastal waters. Not deep, not far out, and this story, only thirteen chapters, isn't really one destined for the middle of the Atlantic. Just out for a stroll, maybe a yacht, with only a few passengers. Kaeton (pronounced Kate-on), Jill, Ben, Mary Ann and Janet. And Bruce, but only at the end.

Yet, it's off, and today's the nineteenth. I don't know if I can stress enough the importance of this date, one that is NOT the first. Not only that, but as I wrote scenes, I corrected my mistypings! I didn't wait until the end, the writing coming not at the usual frenetic pace. Slower, more thought given, or was it only that it's the nineteenth and that's freaking me out more than I'm aware.

Well, I did garner over 3k, so it wasn't such a terror-stricken heart writing. Only me, aware this is far more than me. This is what happens when someone asks you to lay down everything (or all you have).

Then you pick up what's there, take it with grateful hands, aware tomorrow what you need will present itself. Words and clear skies and tunes and a cuppa; all there when you need it.

letting go

2009-08-17T10:57:00.001-07:00

Something about this year is calling me to set aside all I think about what the last nearly three years have been like. In my life, in the writing, in everything.

The biggest issue staring at me in immediate terms is that I'll begin Oklahoma NOT on the first of the month, but in two days. The next is Oklahoma is only going to be the first of such things.

The trailblazer, as In the Blue is probably going to commence not on the first of any month. It may, but maybe not.

Either way, I felt it last night, and all day yesterday, how this year is about closing one's eyes, setting out hands, taking whatever comes, and not being apprehensive. Or speculative, either one.

So as I talked out most of the plot of In the Blue all yesterday and this morning, I have two books to read for research, and the bigger task of letting this year happen as it should. What comes is already out there, in some other hands, and if I just keep my cool, taking each day and step as it comes, so will whatever is meant to be find me. That's really all it is.

What is meant to be will be, que sera sera...

why this blog (and year) exists

2009-08-16T08:04:00.001-07:00

Because this morning (EARLY this morning) I came up with yet another idea.

In the Blue, for which I will make a blog as soon as this one is done.

It's more than I can sort at times, for with each new idea that I really do want to write (and there are more that come for which I leave untended) there is a blog, a folder, paper in the folder, then words on the paper shoved back into the folder.

And I need to put it on my time line on the mothership too.

But right now the teacup is empty... Not good!

Always tea first. Always.

belated beginning

2009-08-14T13:58:00.000-07:00

This year began two weeks ago, but I'm just now getting into this.

So, while the writing will be over 52 weeks, blogging about it will be fifty weeks.

Not that it really matters, in the long run...

Okay, so a year of writing, dangerously. So far it's contained The War on Emily Dickinson, written from 1-12 August, totaling 88,608 words. As it stands, it may be the ABNA 2010 entry, if others think it makes sense.

Now, for the dangerous bit...

I'm going to start another book next week. The FIRST book not begun on the first of a month, but the day after I completed Emily Dickinson, I came up with more ideas! Not fair... But I have this sense of adventure (Or insanity, whichever you like) and with my youngest girl one last year at home, then all bets are off.

I thought the year of writing was this year, and maybe it will be an eighteen month year, but if nothing else, from now until the end of July next year, the words are gonna come fast and furious. Not sure why, but as I've said somewhere on one of these blogs, when God says jump, all I say is how high.

Or how many words. I have the ideas, it'll be how well my shoulders hold out, and the tea supply hanging tough.

So, that's the plan. Gonna just open up my brain and dump it.

Dump dump dump...