A Writer's Journey

E-Book Now On Sale

2009-05-25T13:20:00.000-07:00

In the mood to try a new writer?

Good news! Now for the price of an overpriced cup of coffee at Starbucks, you can get my calorie-free science thriller, SAHARA'S SONG! Just 2.99 while supplies last. (okay, just kidding it's an e-book--unlimited supplies and no trees killed. Awesome, right?!)

And for those shnazzy people with Kindles, you can get it on Amazon for the price of a discounted overpriced cup of coffee! Just 2.39! Go Here:
SAHARA'S SONG on Amazon

Go, go, go.......

(and be sure to drop me a line and let me know if you liked it!)

Full Circle

2008-11-13T07:04:00.000-08:00

It was three years ago this month that I began this blog. November for me seems to be both a time for endings and a time for new beginnings. It has been an amazing learning experience, this little experiment of sending my words out into the world. Something quite unexpected came out of it for me...the impact of the words you all gave back. So, before I forget I want to say thank you for taking the time to share your opinions and hearts with me. I couldn't have come to this point in my writing without your wings.

If I had to pick the most important thing I've learned here, it's that writing is not a solitary adventure. Words and stories are what bind people together, they are how we connect. Stories are the threads between civilizations and generations. They are how we understand...our own souls, our monsters, our gods and most importantly--each other. I have learned the importance of a village, of having roots and belonging, of giving and receiving. This ending isn't about leaving because I will always return--to your writing space or a new one of my own.

But, since my decision to leave myself open to writing about something other than science, I have had nothing to say. Words have left me. The more I tried to write anything else--short stories, poetry or even this blog--the more pervasive and daunting the silence grew.

But in the absence of my own words and my own ideas, in that deafening silence, someone else's story has emerged. Her story is full of myths and legends, murder and magic. I have been listening obsessively to this story lately, trying to put together the mystery of it all and get to know the woman who is telling it. Her words are the only ones that I can hear now.

And so I begin...

and end.

But I won't forget to write.

xoxoxox

Time For...

2008-10-22T08:08:00.000-07:00

Change.

That's the catch phrase lately and it's very catchy.

I've always been a big fan of change, especially when things aren't working. You'd think that would be a no-brainer, but unfortunately...it's not.

So, this blog and my writing are going to be changing focus. I've been struggling for a while with my writing because of the incompatibility of my style (literary) and my themes (science). I've read a few things lately that have cleared up my misconception that literary science fiction would appeal to anyone but me.

First, I've been reading a bunch of the older science fiction short stories from the masters. I love the way they turn your view of reality and the world upside-down, the way they expand your mind and the possibilities of your life. It's what always draws me to science fiction. But, they are definitely all about the story, not about the writing. Don't get me wrong, I love this, I enjoy reading it--I just can't write it.

Then I read: The Career Novelist: A Literary Agent Offers Strategies for Success. (click on the link and you can download it for free...it's seriously a must-read) and I finally got it. Donald Maas says when you try to cross genres, one plus one does not equal two. In my case, I would not gain the audience of those that love literary and those who love science fiction--instead I would have a novel that doesn't entirely satisfy either audience. The most I could hope to gain is the small overlap of people who go to the bookstore and spend time in both the science fiction and literary sections.

When I asked myself how many other people I really think do that, I felt very alone...and heard the proverbial crickets.

People are mostly category loyal. There are exceptions, I know, but if I'm going to be serious about writing as a career, I can't bank on appealing to the exceptions. No agent or publisher is going to take on a writer who appeals to such a small group, especially not in today's market.

My plan right now is to stretch my literary wings. I've been working on some non-science literary short stories and flash fiction and am going to work my tail off trying to build up some publishing credits. I'd like to be able to add science back into the equation at some point in my writing, but until I figure out how it is the literary road I will be walking, stumbling, and running down.

So, that's me. I hope you all are writing and hanging in there!

A Time to Read

2008-09-21T12:42:00.000-07:00

I love Craigslist. This is the bottom corner of my bookshelf, the new home of over forty new (to me) science fiction books from the 70's & 80's. Ray Bradbury, Ursula Le Guin, Authur C. Clarke, Harlan Ellison, Theodore Sturgeon. All for ten bucks. Can life get any better? I think not, baby puppy.

Oh, speaking of books, for those of you that are Orson Scott Card fans, fyi: Ender in Exile will be released November 11th! Can you say pre-order?!

So, this is what's up on my current leg of a writer's journey. Whilst waiting for my chapters to boomerang back from the black hole of queryland, I am beginning to get the itch to start a new novel. Just an irritating little tickle that causes my mind to wonder at traffic lights and grocery store lines. I have no subject yet, though. This is the hard part for me. So, I wait...and read. Lots. Read other writers, articles, posters, cereal labels, stranger's minds. (okay, not really) My appetite for reading is bordering on obsessive.

This is where all my lovely new, dusty books come in.

I will be submersing myself in books and science news until I emerge with a new topic worth blowing up into a novel. This is my plan. Hope it works.

See you all on the other side.

For the Birds

2008-08-27T17:38:00.001-07:00

What do you do when you're on the query-go-round and in between novels?

Usually I read. Research. Recharge. Get inspired by the brilliance of others.

This time, I am being inspired by the world around me. I am dazzled by the brilliance of the creatures moving through and around my new life. Thought I'd share some of my favorite shots with you.

(Because procrastination is also part of a writer's life, right?)

Here's the lovely, graceful sand hill cranes that meander around our back yard lake:

Luckily for you, these aren't videos. Their calls sound like velociraptors.

Seriously.

The Daring Group Writing Challenge

2008-08-14T18:28:00.000-07:00

Having a third eye would be pretty handy, wouldn't it? A little peek behind the curtain. A way to maybe a understand the people or world around you a little bit better, if only for a moment.

This is exactly what Shawn over at Between the Lines has asked us to imagine for this new Group Writing Challenge.

Instead of imagining what my third eye would see, I thought this would be a good exercise for one of the main characters in my novel. She's a fourteen year old human-chimp chimera, who has been ostrasized, quarantined, treated like a lab rat and sterilized. Her third eye has shown her, and me, something important about what it means to be human.

Her name is Olivia:

They have done something to me. Something to keep me from having babies ever. The nurses think I’m asleep because I’m squeezing my eyes closed. I can hear their whispers because they have turned to me, turned their words on me. They have to whisper louder because of the masks. My head hurts. Their words are bright and hot on my skin. Is this the same lady who smiles at me when my eyes are open and watching her?

“An abomination. How did we get stuck in here with her?”

I can see the nurse scrubbing her hands roughly. I know what she’s doing. She is being mean. She is mad at me, trying to rub off the places her gloves touched me. No, I can see the colors of her soul. Reds and blacks. She is simply afraid. This makes my heart feel heavy.

“She did not ask to be born,” the other one sighs.

“Pah! She wasn’t born, some freak of a scientist thought he was God. I’d love to be there when he meets the real God.”

I wasn’t born? But I was. I saw pictures. I was born of my mother just like you. I want to tell her this, but I see her hatred of me carries her like a whirl of black smoke into the future. She will not listen.

“She’s still a child.”

The second nurse’s words define her and I see her shape clearly; she is not wearing her mask. She stands fearless beside me and yet my eyes are still closed. Am I dreaming?

“I’m sorry, little one. We aren’t the kindest of species are we?”

I hear her words but I know she has not spoken them out loud. “Maybe you shouldn’t want so bad to join our club, now that you know what we really are. Cruel to those who don’t fit our particular ideas of normal; we fear what we don’t understand, we create boundaries of acceptance based on whatever we are. Anything outside what we are can’t be meant to live, right? Doesn’t deserve to live. Anything different than us must be shunned, controlled, exterminated.”

“A child?” I see her as a shadow in the room now, the mean nurse. I'm scared. I know I will not be able to look at her ever again, not while my eyes are open.“A beast’s child, maybe.”

“Look at her, how frail she is, the needle marks, the patches of skin missing, the stitches in her torn abdomen. We are the beasts. We are the animals.” I see the pictures forming in the kind nurse’s head. Pictures of me healthy, sitting in school, then at a desk with glasses and a coffee cup. She is picturing me normal. Like her. Then my arms morph as I pick up the cup, they are covered in dark hair and as I bring the cup to my lips, I hoot and pull my lips back to reveal large canine teeth. The image disappears as she sighs again.

“Different does not mean a threat.”

These words march around inside her now; she repeats them to herself to keep the images away. I can see her concentration. I can feel something important has happened, something I would feel better if I could understand. Something that would bring me hope. Something that would make me want to live as a human.

The word “choice” circles my head with wings of silver. The wings burst into flame and as the ashes fall, the room grows dark. I can’t see them anymore.

Balance

2008-08-05T17:59:00.000-07:00

Have you ever noticed how being in a new situation, a new environment, makes you sit up and pay attention? Makes you so much more aware of the daily magic? I've been so enamored by my surroundings that I spend my free time taking pictures again. I found this little lady in our backyard lake, flitting about with her purple, white and yellow cousins. Her posture made me think of you all.

So, I give her to you.

You, who spend your time giving time. Spend your energy feeding those who count on you for survival. Fill your days with nurturing the little ones, feeding the mouths, wiping the tears, polishing the souls you've been given ward of.

And still...

And still making time for your own dreams. Making time to move down your own path, one step at a time.

But, it's not about time, is it?

It's about balance.

This little red dragon salutes you.

The World Inside

2008-07-29T11:41:00.000-07:00

There is an outside world and an inside world in everyone. My outside world here is filled to the brim with new adventures with the kids, evenings of watching the sunset on the beach with friends, arranging our new house into a space that feels like home. It is in one word...heaven.

My inside world has been full of motion. Not the happy, swirly motion that comes with life changes; but the shifting, sliding motion that comes with doubts and the necessary redefining and reshaping of life goals.

Maybe it's the light I've been basking in lately that made me soft, or maybe it's the number forty creeping up on me, or maybe it was the one rejection that really bumped me off my horse for the first time...the rejection from the agent I met in person. No big deal, I know. It happens more often than not. I think it's all of these things combined that created this internal shift, this internal doubt that I can be a writer. A writer good enough that other people want to read, to pay for, that is.

So, I finally asked myself this: At the end of your life, if you have not achieved the goal of being good enough to get published, will you be okay with that? Will you be okay with just knowing you tried your best?

At seriously considering this question, something rose up violently within me, something with teeth and claws that was ready for war, and screamed, HELL NO! And then just for good measure, ARE YOU CRAZY?

Not a nice person, this ambitious me. But, I did learn something from my own reaction that I wanted to share and that is, I don't believe people when they say they've tried their best and failed. I don't believe if I really try my best, I will fail. It's not possible. There is too much potential in all of us to fail at something we really, truly throw our hearts and souls into. Or to say it a less negative way:

I believe in me. I believe in YOU.

I used to believe that you didn't fail until you stopped trying. I no longer believe that's good enough. You fail when you don't try hard enough. It's like exercising-- you can plop your butt down on a bike and peddle for a few minutes, just long enough to fool yourself into believing you're trying, and then wonder why you're not seeing results. Or you can step up your effort...do whatever it takes to see results, to see change. Then failure is not an option. You will succeed.

I cannot imagine looking back on my life and not reaching this goal. It is engrained in my vision of my life; it is not possible to remove it and it still be my life. But, I also know that it is all up to me. It is all up to how much I'm willing to do, how much effort I'm willing to put into learning and growing until the shape and size of my life matches the shape and size of my vision.

I will not be giving that up today. Today I will write.

How about you?

Strange New World

2008-07-20T20:07:00.000-07:00

Because I am still in awe that this is now my life, all I can do is share. And because words escape me, all I can do is take photos:

The neighbors.

The backyard at sunset.

The entertainment.

The future.

Okay, here's something I wasn't too thrilled about. (I guess the universe has to even itself out somehow)

Our Mountain Has a New Address

2008-07-09T17:30:00.000-07:00

I have no picture to post. My camera is still tucked away in bubble wrap and lost in the mounds of boxes still awaiting their turn to be emptied. I'm not even sure what to say, really, because everything has been so surreal, so exhausting--and anything I think to write about sounds so self-indulgent I'm afraid you all would sprain your eyeballs rolling them at me.

All I can say is...I'm here and no, I haven't been eaten by an alligator or mauled by a shark. I'm alive and...well--come to think of it--that's exactly what I would say:

I'm alive.

The first morning I walked outside and squinted at how bright my world had become, I felt like I had just stepped out of hibernation. I have had no desire to record this past week with either photos or words, even though my view of the world right now is breathtaking, I just want to soak in the moments. I want to live them.

I'm sure I will settle back into writing soon, I always do. But for now, I will be out exploring my new community, enjoying the thing I can only describe as...

an awakening.

(Hope you all are well...and writing!)

New Directions

2008-06-09T18:00:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time there was a girl who dreamed of plopping herself down in the sand to gaze out at the ocean for hours as she wrote the great American novel. That girl has grown up, but her dream is materializing out of warm, tropical air.

(Well, it may not be the "great American novel" but it will be a new novel that hopefully a few people will get to read.)

Times have changed since my first vision of how I'd like my life to play out. I'll probably be using my laptop instead of the more romantic pen and notepad. "Hours" may be pushing it, and--being more aware of sun damage now that I'm wiser (older)--I will probably be sitting under an umbrella instead of basking in the sun. But, I will still be reminding myself to be grateful every day that I get to experience this particular version of my personal nirvana.

So, since making this decision to move camp, lots of things have happened and must happen still. We have sold a house, bought a house, watched my daughter graduate and prepared (as prepared as one can be) to send her off to college, and tried to keep life as normal as possible for the twins in between.

It feels a lot like moving a mountain...only there is some help from inertia. We loosened the first few stones and as they came tumbling down, they loosened rocks, which loosened boulders and now we have to unbury ourselves, pack up the whole lot of rocks and rebuild the mountain eleven hours away.

Needless to say, I will be absent from blogging until I get resettled. Unless I have some really good news from the agent front to share, then I will do so briefly between stuffing/unstuffing boxes. We all need hope, right?

This blog may look different when I return. I would like to gear it more toward the things I write about in my novels. Maybe something like science updates that affect our daily lives, or specifically mother's lives. I'm not quite sure yet. I'll be mulling that over.

Any suggestions are welcomed!

(I will try to keep from feeling so disconnected and visit your blogs as I can. Thanks for reading!)

Treasure Hunting

2008-06-01T12:40:00.000-07:00

Last week, life took me treasure hunting. Here's what I found:

--My friend serendipity in the form of a buyer for our house, the day before we left to look for a house in Florida.

--The true definition of courage--being terrified beyond reason and doing it anyway. I've written before about my fear of flying. I've contemplated classes and drugs. I used neither. I was still terrified and said each time we landed at layovers I won't get back on another plane. It took a lot of gathering myself up, holding myself together and letting myself go..alot of not thinking, thinking about something else and breathing through the thoughts that slipped through. I'm not convinced I'll ever get back on another plane...but then again, I know I will.

--Soul gold in the form of an eighty-something year old man named Noel, a retired NY photographer who lives his passion by strolling along the beach every evening photographing families together with their own camera...I think this is the first picture on the beach we've all been in together. I watched this man leave us and move on to the next family and my heart truly had wings.

--Time with a family that has held a special place in my life for the past twenty years. And as timing would have it, I got to be there to celebrate my crazy, sweet, gorgeous friend Lisa's birthday with her. I am truly being reminded lately of the importance of friends, both new and old.

This was a trip about finding not just a house, but a home. And as we sat outside at a little restaurant along the sliver of beach town ten minutes from (knock on wood) our new house, I couldn't help but feel overwhelmed by the treasure that I had found. A place that turned to liquid gold at night, a place whos breeze played with my hair and heart, a place that made me sigh with pleasure...a place that whispered with salty breath in my ear...

welcome home.

Going Home

2008-05-20T14:41:00.000-07:00

It's amazing how far you have to travel sometimes to find yourself back home.

This particular journey began a bit bumpy as we moved through the dark, rainy roads winding their way toward our destination. The clouds were low and packed the night sky, threatening to swallow the distant mountains like a giant anaconda. (Okay, this could have been my overactive imagination, since I really get anxious driving through anywhere that blocks my view of an open sky.) I'll just say here that we didn't drive back home this way.

When we arrived in Pennsylvania, ahem...the next day (don't ask), and drove through the quaint industrial town looking for our hotel, I felt my world expand like a balloon and move full circle back into the cozy warm arms of my childhood. The layout of the streets, the bread shops, the barber shops, the eclectic blend of people and places both shiny and old--I fell back into that place in spirit that can only be described as home.

I experienced this again, when we were welcomed with warmth and smiles at Shawn's house. As you all know, Shawn has become one of my dearest friends, and she is the reason I said yes to this conference. Immediately (while our four 2-year olds got to know each other with the screaming-and-running-through-the-house ceremony) I felt like we'd known Shawn and her hubby for years and fell into that sacred space of sharing stories, laughing and chatting with a fervor only two gals who've been locked up with twin toddlers for two years can do. Just kidding. (sort of) It really did feel like we were visiting old friends. This was the second time the word "home" surfaced in my mind. Home. Familiar. Loving. Safe. These are the things at the heart of Shawn's family and it was an honor to be welcomed into their space.

On Saturday, Shawn and I walked into the Pennwriters Conference with both nerves and excitement. We had no idea what to expect. As serendipity would have it, we had our agent pitch appointments at exactly the same time in exactly the same room. That really made entering that room a whole lot less intimidating for me, although I still had to mostly read my pitch as my nerves got the best of me. (At least I didn't throw up on her shoes). The good news is we both walked out of there with requests from the agents to send them sample chapters. So, it was well worth dealing with a few (million) butterflies.

Also, well worth the trip was the experience of the conference itself. It truly was like stepping into a three dimensional, technicolor version of a writer's life. You know how we are forced to be solitary creatures by the nature of our craft? (I know, we like it, but that's beside the point) The thing is--going to a conference is like all those things--those things that you read about, research, and try to figure out about being a writer--suddenly coming to life around you. All the terms you've had burned into your brain while trying to figure out this business are actually used by real life people making their living in the writing world. It's real. I think that's the biggest thing I got out of the conference. A solid picture of where I'm trying to go. I highly recommend attending one, although I'm not sure I would recommend a one on one pitch session. It's awkward, nerve-racking and I don't think it shows you at your best--unless you are a robot. It may be better to try and talk to an agent in a more relaxed setting. Like at the bar...when you (or they or both) have had a few cocktails. Just kidding. (Not really)

Anyway, this feeling of being immersed in a world that I have only experienced through a computer screen, the feeling of camaraderie with hundreds of other writers trying to be who they are and what they love--this was the same feeling that threaded its way through the whole weekend.

The feeling of being home.

Of course, we had to have some unabashed fun our last day. Which everyone knows has to include sharks and large quantities of cheesecake. I'll leave you with some images and hopefully some smiles!

My Wrinkle in Time

2008-05-13T19:41:00.000-07:00

You know the lyrics:

"Somewhere over the rainbow
Skies are blue
And the dreams that you dare to dream
Really do come true"

My dream of becoming a writer was born in the sticky, evening hours of a Pennsylvania summer. Well, okay I can't remember the exact season, or day or hour, but I have a vivid picture of lying in my bed as a child one summer night, the crickets serenading me through an open window, reading Madeleine L'Engle's A WRINKLE IN TIME and swooning with that high that only comes from discovering the love of your life.

Words. Stories. Make-believe.

Immediately, she inspired me to create my own world, my own story involving some war between black and white winged and horned creatures that I truly can't remember now, I can only remember the complete sense of euphoria at creating their world, their conflicts and their victories. The kind of joy that tastes like lemon and sugar, the kind of joy that blows everything away like a category five hurricane and leaves only your soul standing there pulsating in exact resonance with the universe.

No, I'm not exaggerating.

Tomorrow, I will be making the long trek back to Pennsylvania to take a more serious step toward fulfilling the dream I dare to dream.

My life somehow is tied to this small strip of land on the planet. My birth, my first kiss, my first best friend, my first speeding ticket twenty-some years after moving away (while just driving through)...and now my first writer's conference and face to face meeting with a dream agent.

I think this state is stalking me.

This also marks the first time I said yes to a friend, an invitation and a chance to take my dream seriously all in one shot. I'll be back next week with juicy details. Unless, of course, I do something completely damaging like throw up on the agent's shoes, which would not be completely unlike me. Then, I will just quietly slither back into blogland and you all will have to pretend like I never posted this.

Let the rainbow lead the way.

Sharing the Love

2008-05-12T12:11:00.000-07:00

Sometimes words are enough.

*This message brought to you by two toddlers, some paint and sticky fingers...and of course, the guiding hand of a patient dad.

Waiting

2008-05-06T07:48:00.000-07:00

The places and spaces in between...are imaginary.

I'm not going to do a play by play of the query process. I think most of you who read this blog have been there. You know the part that gets hard--the part where nothing happens, the silence, the waiting. Creativity is suffocated, snuffed out in this small space in between. You can't concentrate, you're anxious, you want to start something new, but can't get started because...you're waiting.

This past week I have struggled with the concept of waiting. I have been pre-occupied with this notion--this limbo of life. Because I am in this place--not only waiting for responses on the queries, but waiting on someone to fall in love with our house so we can move...waiting to move, waiting for the weather to warm up, waiting to get over yet another illness from the toxic toddler factory. I am huddling in some illusion of stillness, waiting for the future to arrive.

Today I am finally at that place again where I can remind myself that waiting is just that--a concept, an illusion. Something my mind has made up to separate the place I'm in from the place I want to be in. This space of waiting is a prison, but it is also a lie that I am using to imprison myself. Life flows in one continuous stream, there are no spaces in between. Streams do not start and then stop and then wait to start again.

Why does it take so long to remember this?

Waiting is just another word for opting out, for not participating in life. Waiting is an excuse, a space created to let ourselves off the hook. Waiting for someone else to make the next move in our own life. We think, "I just can't go on, I can't do anything but sit here and wait, I'm so anxious." But, life is going on. Life is moving in its faithful direction...forward. Seconds, hours, weeks, years tick by whether we use them or not.

In reality, waiting is not even an option.

I've been trying to figure out what the opposite of waiting is because it's not necessary movement. Sometimes stillness has a purpose: observing, meditating, resting...but these things have nothing to do with waiting. Waiting is not stillness, it is creativity in motion, only it is creating whirlpools of fear, anxiety and doubt that--if you wait too long--you will drown in.

The opposite of waiting then I believe is trust. Trust that things happen, that there is an eventually and no amount of waiting or worrying or wishing on your part is going to make those things happen. Trust that a response will come or it won't; trust that an illness will pass and that another one will come; that warmth will come and go. Moving forward with life, participating in it, appreciating it, creating when we can, resting when we cannot. This is all we have to do.

What does this mean for me personally? Today it means letting go. Letting go of trying to control the query process by over-thinking it, letting go of the outcome. Knowing that if this novel doesn't make it through the process, I can write another one. Knowing that creativity only stops when we stop...to wait.

What are you waiting for?

Soul Gold

2008-04-22T19:36:00.000-07:00

In between moments of "Do you know where crazy is, cause you're driving your mother there" and "No, no more goldfish" and "Do you want a timeout?" (Which just proves that I'm already at "crazy" because no two year old is going to take his fingers out of his brother's nose willingly and say, "Why, yes, mother...I think I do want a timeout, thank you) Anyway, the sane moments I have this week are moments I am immersed in THE ALCHEMIST by Paulo Coelho.

If you haven't read it yet...run, don't walk to the nearest bookstore and read it NOW. Especially if you're a writer. It's seriously a spiritual experience. Okay, maybe that's just me, but WOW. I can count on one hand the number of books that have touched something deeper than my intellect. This is a book that is more like an experience. An experience of seeing the invisible thread that connects us all--to each other, to nature, to the stars, the wind, the past, present and future.

It also is a confirmation for me in some ways. I've talked before about how much I believe in serendipity and how I feel that when you're on the right path (your personal right path) you will know by the way things open up unexpectedly. Like floating down a river, instead of trying to swim up it. Not that there won't be obstacles--mountain-sized boulders and man-eating fish--but that those obstacles won't matter because what's a few bumps, bruises and delays when you are following your dreams?

"When you want something (something referring to your one great desire, not the '69 Camaro you've been dreaming about...or is that just me again?) all the universe conspires to help you achieve it."

Anyway, the book is basically a fable about finding your Personal Legend. Everyone has one.

One of the parts that I liked the most was when the main character realized at one point when he's about to give up, that it didn't matter how long it took him to reach his goal, every step was a step closer.

Isn't that a great thought to ease some of the pressure we put on ourselves? It doesn't matter if two years have gone by between step one and step two. As long as you take that step, you will never fail.

This is such an important point, especially as writers. We are trying to find personal fulfillment in a business that moves at the speed of molasses. A novel can take years to write, years to get published (with odds on forever). But the only way you don't succeed is if you give up, if you stop moving toward your purpose in life.

So, take that step! Step away from the self-doubt and dare to dream. Even if it's been a year...or ten since you took the time out to write, paint, dance, make someone laugh...whatever it is that opens your heart and pours in warm unending streams of sunshine...move toward it. It's a good day to realize you are still on the road to fulfilling your purpose in life.

How do I know?

You're breathing, aren't you?

A Bead in the Hand

2008-04-17T12:25:00.000-07:00

I hear people say all the time that they wish they could be a carefree kid again. I always nod like I know what they're talking about, but truly I don't. Carefree is not how I would describe my childhood personality. I often wonder how far back I would have to go to find carefree. Five? Three? Two? Do you remember what it was like to be carefree? Before things like responsibility, worry, guilt and fear nudged their way into that space?

This week, I found it. Not by reliving my childhood--as that's not even possible, much less desirable--but by being present for someone else's:

As I studied this little face, so bent on concentration, I saw something so much bigger than the task of putting a plastic bead on a string. I saw that the bead was my child's only care in the world.

Can you imagine? One tiny bead, his only worry. The one slid on the string beforehand was already forgotten; the one he will put on next--not even a thought yet.

Translated into adult language: I can guarantee you he wasn't sitting there letting his mind wander to the playground this morning, torturing himself with thoughts of "If I would have only got to the swing first, I could have rode it longer." Or "If I would have just not thrown sand in my brother's hair, mom would have given me that cookie. I'm such a baby." Or "Maybe I can put these beads on faster and then maybe the next thing we do won't be so tedious. OOO, I wonder what the next thing is?"

That would suck the fun right out of stringing this bead, wouldn't it?

So, go ahead--plan for the future, learn from the past...but give the bead between your fingers some attention, too.

(Thanks for the reminder, boys)

Just Write Tuesday

2008-04-14T12:09:00.001-07:00

I wonder sometimes--during warm cloudless days when I'm dreaming of the ocean--if there isn't some underlying intelligence to the color scheme of our world. Blue skies above us, if we're lucky. Over seventy percent of uncharted oceans surround us, cradle us and reflect blue back to us.

Blue is supposed to be a calming color. Peace. Salve. Tranquility. Our world is painted these things. Maybe the designer (in this scenario, there is one) knew we would all feel edgy, knew all the craziness we would conjure up and knew we would need to live in a blue world. Maybe blue is nature's prozac.

This used to be my favorite color, but now it’s red.

Red like rubies and blood. Deep red. Red like velvet roses and ugly velvet curtains. Red like lava and Rudolph’s nose. Red with tiny silver beads. Red with texture. Red lipstick that tastes like cherries and red high heels that transport you to magical places of daring and dancing. Daring to dance.

Click Click.

Take me any place but home.

Maybe I am just craving the feeling of being alive, being bold.

Sometimes when you are tired of blue, red is just the thing to sink your teeth into.

A Dog's Life

2008-04-09T11:05:00.000-07:00

I've mentioned before how I always knew I wanted to be a writer, but--thanks to worshipping James Harriot growing up--I also thought I could be a vet. Animals have always been an important part of my life. In fact, there has never been a period of time in my life that I haven't had a dog. My parents had dogs, and when I moved out of their house and on my own at eighteen, the first thing I went out and got was...no, not furniture...but a dog. He was a wild mop of a dog who liked to sleep on my pillow and pee on the pizza man, and--looking back--I can't imagine making it through those hellish, hyper-turmoil years without his cuddling and silent love.

This week, something special began emerging regularly between the boys and our dog. Maybe it's because she's allowed around them more (as they are tall enough now she doesn't run them over) and they are old enough to understand why they can't poke her in the eyes.

They are all beginning to bond. It's an amazing thing to watch now that I'm watching.

I got hooked on this prison show a while back where inmates were given a rescued dog from the pound to turn into a service dog. I fell hard for this show as I watched man and beast melt under the power of unconditional love. It was amazing, not only watching how the attention turned the dog around, but how it opened up the possibilities for hope in the men that grew to care about them.

I'm hoping that's the lesson being given and taken as my boys discover man's best friend.

Here's a great example:

A moment of time-out transformed into heaven for both parties.

Oh, and this may be cheating, but since this peace and bonding at our house this week was the highlight of my week, I'm using it as my weekly F-U-N posting!

Carnival of F-U-N Friday

2008-04-02T10:48:00.001-07:00

Two things fueled my daily grind with the twins this week. One is, I've been reading this book THE GOOD SON by Michael Gurian to try and figure out how their little minds work, because really--I don't have a clue. I know they came from me...I was there. But, I don't understand them at all. Why do they have to bite and hit and stare at me daringly while they do it? Why, when I give them a new book, do they find some way to use it as a weapon? Why is stuffing cheerios up their nose an acceptable form of competition? Maybe if I can understand them, we can all survive toddler hood.

I won't go into all the nitty gritty details of the book, but I will highly recommend it if you're raising your own tiny Rambos. Basically boys need space to run, they need healthy competition, they need to be taught empathy (this is apparently not pre-loaded software), and they are more physically aggressive than girls by wiring default. Channeling that aggression is mom's job (cuz the ex-marine dad in our house just encourages it).

The second thing was mindful F-U-N. A challenge thrown down by Between the Lines Twim Mama to make mothering a different kind of f-word.

For our first activity, I thought, what a better way to kick off the carnival of fun than with balloons! Who made up the rule that balloons were just for special occasions? We began our party and here's what I learned:

It takes exactly eight times for a twenty six pound toddler to kamikaze you will an orange balloon for it to pop and illicit a severe giggling fit from said toddler.

It takes exactly four point two seconds for second toddler to realize he can create his own challenging game of mad frustration by throwing balloon over a gate where he can't reach it. Why is this game worth playing twelve-gazillion times? Again, the male brain at work. (Actually, I sort of recognize this in my own life. Maybe I can chalk this one up to DNA)

Ah! Now this unabashed swatting was fun! (Channeling the aggression was a bonus!)

Then it was time to calm down and break out some sit-down fun, which in our house means strapped-in.

They were supposed to be painting paper plates with primary colors, artsy fun with real learning value. Ha. So here's what I learned:

When you mix these colors together, you get...mud...that you can then paint on your body in some primal need to blend in with the environment so the prey doesn't see you coming. The dog didn't, anyway.

Now that was fun!

Update Tidbits

2008-03-24T19:19:00.000-07:00

1) I have found so many amazing, inspiring people through this wonderful, wacky medium of blogging. One of those woman is Bella, who has introduced us to her friend Jenni Ballantyne, a woman who is living with terminal cancer. She is a single mom with a six year old son, Jack. She is bravely sharing her journey with those who are brave enough to step through the looking glass and be with her. If you'd like to help her and her son out, a group of friends are organizing a fund-raiser, click HERE for information about the ebay auction or other ways to show some love.

2) On a lighter and so much less important note: I have rewritten the parts of my novel that needed to be rewritten, added scenes, fixed grammer, dots, lines, stupidity...I'm sufficiently satisfied with the results and sufficiently tired of looking at it, so I've jumped on the query-mobile. As always, out of ignorance or the over-achiever gene, I've aimed high and sent out the first five to my dream agents. Sooooo...cross your fingers, light a candle or kiss a fairy for me. I'll just be here clicking my heels together and obsessively checking my email.

3) And last but not least, is my rekindling interest in photography. Maybe it's because finishing such a large project is giving me a bit of creative breathing room, or maybe I'm just catching the enthusiasm bug from some of the photography blogs I've been discovering lately, but I've decided it's time to stop thinking of photo shop as the digital equivalent of cheating. I've been wrestling with learning layers these past few days...and by wrestling I mean being pinned to the mat by these mind-bending suckers. But, I'm not down for the count yet.

So, donate, pray, stop by Jenni's blog and leave some light and kind words of support...time is love.

Bug Soup

2008-03-17T07:49:00.000-07:00

For the next thirty seconds you will be reading a cop-out. Because I am living in a flu-fog this week and can't even read an email and get it to make sense, I'm going to just share a really, really cool fact I ran across last week about one of my favorite subjects--butterflies.

It is simply this: memory survives metamorphosis.

Apparently when the caterpillar turns into bug soup within the chrysalis--with the help of eroding digestive juices (yummy)--the components of the brain that retain memory remain intact.

They apparently learned this by exposing caterpillars to the smell of nail polish remover and at the same time giving them a mild electric shock. The older the caterpillar was when exposed to this combination, the greater his chance of remembering to avoid the smell of nail polish after the metamorphosis.

Nature rocks.

7-Up

2008-03-08T11:46:00.001-08:00

The one thing that is fascinating about raising twins is you can see, by comparison and because they are being raised in exactly (almost) the same environment at the same time, what is truly passed down to them through genes. Jayden is so much like his father, with his fearless love of life and jumping into any situation without looking. Tye is the reserved one, sticking a toe in a situation by watching it first and for a long time before he's comfortable enough to stick a real toe in. That's me.

Seeing this in him both fills me with wonder and with dread. I don't want this insecurity and fear about the world that I've passed down to him genetically to be fed by his environment like mine was, making it an out of control force to be reckoned with all his life. So, I started thinking back into my childhood, something I rarely do anymore, trying to find the events that enforced my insecurities about myself and the world, moments that maybe could have given me confidence instead of more fear. One in particular stood out, even though it was a small event. I can't even remember how old I was...probably six, maybe seven.

The day I went to school with my cousin instead of to my own safe, familiar school. To a school on a giant hill with classrooms with real wooden floors and long sticks of soft chalk and a teacher that seemed both mysterious and sweet. A teacher I was instantly enamored with.

I remember pressing my wet palms against the unfamiliar desk, trying not to look at the other kids, who were staring at me with that rude curiosity we learn to tame as we get older, when the teacher announced we were going to play 7- Up. The kids seemed excited. I was horrified. I didn't like games. Games were for outgoing people, competitive people, people who enjoyed winning things and the attention that came with winning things. Worse was...I didn't know how to play this game and no one bothered to explain it to me.

So, we began.

Put your head down on the desk and close your eyes. I could do this. Darkness, anonymity, closed eyes. This game was fun so far. I don't remember the point of the game, I only remember the point of the game that made me want to bolt through the door and back down that big hill.

I lifted my head. Slightly, to see what the other kids were doing, to see what I was supposed to be doing.

"Hey!" I heard a boy cry to my left. "She peeked! She cheated!"

I felt the soft presence of the teacher to my right and turned my head to her, still trying to keep it on the desk.

"Did you cheat?" she asked quietly.

"No," I stammered.

"Did you peek?"

I wanted to explain that I wasn't actually peeking. I was trying to figure out what I was supposed to be doing. But, in her eyes I saw that all knowing disappointment as if she were peering into the mystery that was me and had already found her answer. Disappointment. She didn't know me, didn't know I wasn't the kind of child that would cheat. Or maybe I was? She seemed to be entertaining the idea and she was an adult who understood things, who knew about things. Maybe she knew something about me I didn't. I could feel my face burning. I couldn't speak because I was too busy trying to swallow tears. So, I just shook my head yes.

"Well, you can keep your head up then. You can't play this round."

I had to pick my head up. That was hard. I stared at the desk, feeling disappointed in myself, feeling that I would never understand the world and how it was supposed to work.

This is a feeling that hasn't quite gone away, maybe that's why this memory is so clear. My first taste of it. The feeling that you are always in over your head, in a game where you don't know the rules.

Can I save my shy, sensitive son from knowing this feeling?

Gra-feet-tee!

2008-03-04T09:09:00.000-08:00

I need some of this.

I've written here once in awhile about how well...we'll just call her offspring A...is going to be heading off to college in a few months and how I've had a few pointed moments of realizing just how much of "her own person" she really is. Most of these moments were touching, bitter-sweet and ones I want to remember.

This weekend, despite protests, bribes, lectures and tears...she did something to "express herself" that made me feel like I have failed her as a parent.

And then I blamed her father.

She got a tattoo.

Now, I'm not against tattoos totally. I've seen small ones that I admired, ones that people thought long and hard about, that expressed a philosophy or engrained a permanent (permanent being the key word here) memory of something important to them. But, what my dearest, only female offspring has chosen to do to celebrate being eighteen is get giant mutant flowers covering BOTH of her feet. BOTH. It seriously looks like vandals attacked her and dipped her feet-first into a bucket of graffiti.

It took me a few days to stop being physically ill over this and luckily it took her a few days to return from Georgia with her father where this crime took place. So, I had a lot of time to consider my reaction after the initial text picture she sent me, because my initial reaction was to forbid her from ever leaving the house or making another decision on her own.

By now, you must be wondering, considering my violent over-reaction, what exactly it was I said to her when she walked in the door and said "don't you want to see them?"

Well, I looked into her beautiful blue eyes first and found my little girl, then I looked my little girl's feet and tried to just picture the soft pink baby toes I had kissed and watched grow into my own shoes and I simply ask if they hurt.

Eventhough she knows I don't approve, I haven't expressed the extent of my horror and disappointment to her. I just don't see the point. It's done, it's something she's going to have to live with...apart from me. Something she's going to have to learn that she will be judged by.

Hell, I love her more than any other person on this earth ever will, but even I can't help but feel my confidence shaken a bit in her ability to make good choices about her future.

Then again, if this is the worst mistake she makes, I will consider myself lucky.

Until then...

I will buy her shoes.

Girl Talk

2008-02-28T10:40:00.001-08:00

This is called sharing just because I feel like writing.

At the gym this morning I was dropping off the monsters in the monster room when I overheard a pregnant woman behind me laughing and saying something to the effect of "yeah, I'm so glad to be off of bed rest now, I hit thirty eight weeks so they let me come back to the gym." They let her come back to the gym????! And she did???!!

Seriously, when I was on bed rest, I would have been happy if they would have let me walk to the kitchen for my own ice-cream, but if they said "hey, you're about ready to drop that baby anyway, so go ahead and go back to the gym," I would have had a monumental laughing fit and...probably the babies.

Now, for those of you who have never been on bed rest, it is not something you jump up from, get in your car and run back to the gym with a big smile and even bigger belly. Your muscles atrophy, your joints ache, your spirit is basically broken. My bedrest lasted four months and it has taken me exactly two years to jump (struggle) into the car and run (struggle) back to the gym with a small smile and a small-ish belly. But here this woman was--glowing, beautiful and standing without passing out after getting off bed rest!

I have to say, the accomplishment I had felt at even leaving the house this morning in twenty degree weather turned into something small and slimy that I wanted to shake off of my finger.

The moral here I guess is not to compare yourself or what you can handle in life to others but sheesh...

It's hard not being hard on yourself.

Today's Short Story

2008-02-27T12:48:00.000-08:00

In honor of a story's beginning, today I try to begin again.

recollection of meditation

the house creaks beneath the power of winter winds
follow your breath

in
out
slower

what is breath?
it is nothing and everything until I inhale
and then exhale
then it is breath
and still
nothing and everything
stop thinking and be like the exhale
disappear

how long have I been staring at the brown weeds beyond the fence?

Where did the purple spot of light go?
That was cool
It sounds like ghosts are walking around upstairs

stop thinking

stop

damn, forgot to turn the phone off.

I'll begin again tomorrow.

Of Memes and Butterflies

2008-02-25T12:08:00.001-08:00

There is lots of great writing advice floating around out there, but since I've been tagged with two Memes by my twin-toting, writing gal pal Shawn, who I can't deny anything, I'll add mine to the mix. Here are a few things I've learned this past year about writing:

Join the Club: Writers tend to be introverts. Let's face it, you have to enjoy spending a good amount of time locked up with yourself to be a writer. We sit around chewing our pens, our fingers hovering over the keyboard in moments of anxiety feeling like we're alone on our make believe planet. The thing I've learned is, it's healthy for us to realize we're not alone. So, join other writers. Join online communities, join local clubs--form connections, friendships, fall in love with other writers, laugh with them, complain to them, rejoice with them. They are your kindred. You are not alone in your nightwalking, your insecurities, your love of words. These are the people that understand you and your goals, your successes and your fears. How great is that???

Be Fearless: I'm still working on this one, but when I say fearless, I mean in life too, not just on the page. One of the things I regret, because it does affect my writing is not having enough life experience. Not getting on that plane or talking to the stranger crying on the sidewalk, not taking the scuba diving class or the chance to learn a new language. You can be the most talented wordsmith in the world, but if you have nothing to write about, no interesting experiences, no first-hand details to weave into your stories they will lack not only substance but authenticity. So live. Be a writer, but don't be just a writer.

Embrace the Struggle: It's not going to come easy, success in this business. I've stopped wanting it to. Did you know--

It’s the struggle against the crysalis that sends blood into the butterfly's wings so they will be strong enough to navigate the wind. Without that struggle, the wings would come out, but they would be deformed and of no use. There is beauty and strength within the struggle--as long as you don't give up.

As for the second Meme...here's the rules:

1. Pick up the nearest book (of at least 123 pages)
2. Open the book to page 123
3. Find the 5th sentence
4. Post the next three sentences
5. Tag 5 people

The only book I have on my desk at the moment is Natalie Goldberg's Writing Down the Bones. So, even though these aren't very exciting lines, here they are (cuz I play by the rules, I can't help myself)

In writing class, painful things come up--the death of a husband, throwing the ashes of a dead baby into the river, a woman going blind. The students read the pieces they just wrote and I tell them they can cry if they need to but to remember to continue to read.

Her point here is-writing is the goal. She goes on to say that writing gives us a chance to take these emotions, even the hard ones, and give them light, color and a story.

Light, color and a story. We have all the fun, don't we?

If you want to have some fun, and haven't done these yet, try it!

Valentine Surprise

2008-02-14T10:53:00.000-08:00

Last night I went to let the dog out and was shocked to see big, juicey wet flakes tumbling through the moonlight. In this city, we see snow very rarely. In fact, the news called it “snow shock” because no one knew it was coming. Within minutes the ground was covered and we spent the next few hours watching the magic show as buckets of glitter fell from the sky; swirling in gusts of wind and piling up on cars, bushes and lawns in a thick, fluffy shimmering blanket. We were inside our very own snow globe.

Besides covering our little corner of the world in white, I was most enchanted with the idea that it was unexpected. When did I stop expecting the unexpected?

Well, in a sense, I haven’t, it’s just that when I think of the unexpected, I think of sudden disasters…car accidents, freak lighting strikes, bombings, a bridge collapsing. You get my point, basically, all the things brought into our livingrooms and minds by the daily news.

The thing I realized is we try to make our world so predictable--so padded, strapped in, secured--that we think we have a handle on what happens within the span of our day. But, then something falls from the sky and we realize we don't have control. We have illusion.

So, the real question is…when did I stop expecting the unexpected to be soft and beautiful and kind?

Expect the unexpected. Sometimes it is truly a gift.

Happy Valentines Day. Love, the Universe.

Update

2008-02-07T11:16:00.000-08:00

Thought I'd post a few bits of good news here. First, I have officially typed the last sentence of my novel! I would like to say I've finished it, but with all the editing and filling in of details ahead of me, that would be a big fat lie.

It does feel incredibly good to have it all down though, the whole plot--beginning, middle and end--unfolded and complete. I can now look back at the seeds of its beginnings over three years ago without anxiety over whether I will ever find the time to finish it, find the perfect ending, find myself staring at the words: THE END.

Because I have found all of that and more.

The writing life is good!

On a second happy note--we have made the official decision to move back to Florida this summer. Our house will go on the market in March. Soon sand will replace the hard red clay beneath my feet; a wide open sky will replace monster scrubby trees on rolling hills; balmy breezes will replace frozen toes and saltwater will be my new therapy. I'm going home.

Of course, now we have three weeks to complete a three thousand item list the realtor has provided to get the house ready for sale. I'm sure my euphoria will wax and wane during some of the scrubbing, painting, packing...(what, we have to install a garage door opener?) part. But, right now I am enjoying the joy. Looking forward to the change. Trying not to hug and kiss strangers--that kind of joy.

Okay, just wanted to share. Back to editing I go!

New Year, New Approach

2007-12-29T10:52:00.000-08:00

Once again, a new year waits patiently for us to arrive. Or, at least that's how I've felt lately. I keep watching it out of the corner of my eye, ever aware of its presence. It's like the wise father with a knowing smile holding the door open, waiting for the child to come in from playing.

I didn't feel this last year, this pulling, this anxiousness to step over that thick black line we've slashed in time, allowing for fresh perspectives, new resolutions...fresh starts. I also feel a pull toward not just writing, but finishing what I've started. It's time to focus.

I've decided to give myself a deadline, which has always been a four letter word for me, but I'm feeling ready for a new approach. I'm giving myself three months to finish my novel. I will have to write about two pages a day to meet this goal and being a slow writer, this is definitely a challenge.

Unfortunately, this need to focus all my time and energy in one place means that I will be taking a hiatus from writing here. I'll still visit those of you that have become my connection, my life lines in the solitude, my friends and co-conspirators in this crazy writing business.

New beginnings, new loves, new experiences and successes to you all!

Happy New Year & I'll see you soon!

Personal Meaning & Sincere Wishes for You

2007-12-10T10:02:00.000-08:00

I know I've been quiet here lately. Quiet and getting quieter. Unfortunately, I think it's my response to outside activity increasing. The holidays. The family. The upcoming travel plans. It's all overwhelming. The noise levels are too high, the lights are too bright, the expectations of fun and happiness are too much. I feel like a startled rabbit ready to bolt to a dark corner at any moment. Can you say introvert, anyone?

So, going inward because outward is feeling very toxic, I started wondering what exactly do the holidays mean to me?

I know some of my friends use this time to celebrate the birth of Christ, some use it to celebrate Hanukkah, some just to be with family or try to find some meaning within their family's traditions. I get it, I feel the excitement for them, but I also feel a bit like I'm watching all this from a window and it isn't touching me.

Growing up, my family had traditions--yes, but my family is now defunct; each in their own space rebuilding their lives with different people. So, it is up to me to salvage what traditions I deem important and meaningful and integrate them into the family I have made.

What do I deem important? I don't know. What the freak does this holiday season even mean to me? I don't know anymore. I mean, let's break down Christmas: The date of December 25th stems from the feast of the Son of Isis, St. Nicholas is a borrowed idea from the patron saint of Russia and the Christmas tree was considered a pagan symbol until the 16th century Catholic church was kind enough to wave in it. It's a smorgasbord of cultural customs and beliefs that have nothing to do with mine.

In order to not feel like a fraud for covering our entire house, fence, shed and dog in blinking colored lights, I had to find meaning. Meaning on a deadline. Not too difficult, right?

Luckily, today the temperatures climbed to the mid-70's here and I found a starting point in my quest. Today was a reprieve, a much needed unthawing from the shocking thirty degree weather last week. Being able to sit outside and feel the sun warming my skin was truly a gift, a break, a holiday from the emotional struggle cold weather brings for me.

This word kept sticking in my mind.

Holiday.

It's a vacation, a break from work, from the struggle of day to day things. It's a sanctioned rest. This is something I can relate to, something I can get excited about. A holiday.

So, this is what I'm building on. This notion of a holiday.

It is beginning to feel a lot like peace.

So, that is what I wish for you all, no matter what you are celebrating this month...that you find rest, stillness and peace.

Happy Holidays!

Colors of my Life

2007-12-05T10:38:00.000-08:00

I kissed you today and smelled strawberries in your hair. I watched you pause to point at the sliver of cotton in the sky and declare it a ‘moom’. I heard your babbles and private language mingle with whatever birds warble as the sun sets.

And as the sun sank, I saw the blue deepen into the same hue as your eyes. The sky was your precious face fading from this familiar blue into the pale peach light glowing from your cheeks. These colors, these sounds that make you inseparable from nature are no coincidence. They are promises, gifts, and little whispers from mother earth that you are also her child and she will cradle you and comfort you when I cannot.

Excavating Some Rules

2007-11-29T18:00:00.000-08:00

This post is in response to Shawn's list of "rules you live by" writing project. I had a few of them sorted out (see previous post), but the rest didn't come easy. Mostly because I don’t feel like I’ve learned enough about life yet to have established any hard and fast rules that I’m living by. I'm always still looking to others, still searching--other people, other belief systems--trying to figure out what’s working for who without really trusting anyone. But, as I thought about what core rules I live by right now I was surprised by the things propping up my life. Here they are in no particular order:

1) Pay attention to the reoccurring themes in your life. These are quiet lessons being whispered to us every day in the form of an overheard conversation, a book flipped open to the right page, a photo on a passing bus. Tiny messages that accumulate like snow flakes until they are big enough to get our attention.

2) Accept change. It is part of the natural cycle, the ebb and flow of life. Sorrow will follow joy, but joy will also follow sorrow. The only thing we can control is our reaction to change.

3) Don’t lose your inner child. Allow yourself to be silly, ride roller coasters, make snow angels, chase fireflies and invisible dragons, build sandcastles, play dress-up, spin until you fall to the ground and watch the clouds whirl above you. Of course, it helps if you have an actual child doing these things with you. Do everything you can to not take life or yourself quite so seriously.

4)Widen your view of the world. It is much more expansive, far- reaching and deeper than the space we occupy. There are so many cultures, philosophies and places to explore, experience and love and--so little time.

5)Remember how to breathe. As children we breathe deeply into our bellies. As adults we breath shallow into our chest. Be conscious of your breath, use it to fill your belly, calm your emotions, quiet your mind.

6) Live well. This is not as easy as it sounds. Letting yourself rest when needed, saying no when you are overwhelmed, exercising, fueling your body's furnace with healthy foods, creating, meditating, worshiping, laughing, learning, connecting. There is so much to taking care of your mind, body and spirit but it's worth the investment. Give yourself a chance to reach your full potential in life.

7) If you’re going to bother doing something don’t do it half way. Delve into it, immerse yourself in the whole experience. Don't just taste the wine-- learn how to swirl, close your eyes and separate the fruit from the oak from the earth. Life will be richer and full of color.

8) Friendships are vital. It's the space in between people where things happen. Pay attention to this space, this is love.

9) Hold on to hope. Hope is our greatest weapon against cause and effect, against knowing what the future can and will bring, and against ourselves when we feel like giving up and giving in.

10) Live free. Not free of responsibility or relationships, but free of fear, guilt, judgment and boundaries. Let yourself off the hook and off the leash.

Words of Love

2007-11-26T08:34:00.000-08:00

Words.

Words fail us when we need them the most, but they are also our salvation. We pass ideas, stories, and memories from one soul to another. We connect. We communicate. We fight. We solve. All is possible with words. We say I love you and even though we don't really understand the concept of love ourselves, we use the word "love" and it is understood.

We love our children most fiercely. Those innocent, new beings we guard and protect. Those that we cherish, feeling their pain as our own. We love them with an infinite, uncondional fire.

I bought a journal to fill with words for my daughter. I wanted to give her something special for her eighteenth birthday/graduation/moving on to live separate from me in college gift. It is the highest gift I could think of--words.

I have always wanted to fill a journal for her with bits of advice, poems, glimpses of what she means to me, but I have never been able to do it, until now--eight weeks before I will place it in her hands. I sat down this weekend and filled twenty pages of things I want her to remember, to read, to take--or not take--but at least...to have.

In my twenties and thirties, life was spent mostly trying to hold my head above water, above the chaos that I can look back on now and see what could have been avoided, where I could have swam to shore. I don't often look back, only when I wonder things like "why haven't I started this journal sooner?" I now finally find myself shrugging off the struggle, catching glimpses of peace and truths that have calmed the ocean around me and within me.

I finally found the words.

To my dearest daughter:

This journal is my gift to you in hopes that it will be there when I cannot, in hopes it will bring you greater understanding of what it means to be a mother, to be your mother, to be a woman, to discover yourself and to discover most of all that you are never lost. You are right where you are supposed to be. I'm not sure what this will become. Advice when you are ready to hear it, inspiration when you find your wings, laughter and tears, unconditional love when you wonder if you are worthy of it. It will not be so you avoid mistakes, but so you know that nothing is a mistake. Everything is just a teacher and love is the greatest teacher of all.

This is what I'll be working on for a little while. There are plenty of pages to fill, so any words you are moved to share are welcomed!

Tis the Season to be Non-Productive

2007-11-16T10:05:00.000-08:00

So, the frost has come, the holidays are bearing down on those who choose to be beared down upon. Last year, I barely looked up from my duty as twin toddler mom to recognize the holidays. This year, I'm in the mood to celebrate my family and friends by paying them some attention. Most of them live out of state so, I thought I'd send each one something special, something thoughtfully created instead of store-bought.

On the first leg of my quest I found this incredibly talented photographer who makes jewelry from her photos. She puts little supportive poetry or messages in each box, too. Very special work. Perfect for my girlie friends.

I've also gone a bit crazy with making personalized photo albums over at Snapfish for family members. I am trying to refrain from forcing pictures of my children upon friends.

So, if my posting seems a bit scarce during these next few weeks, you'll know what I'm busy doing.

Feel free to share any creative gift ideas or links here!

A Perfect Writer's Day

2007-11-07T20:22:00.000-08:00

Wednesday evening. My day began with an autumn bouquet delivered to my door and it is ending with me wrapped in my favorite blanket sipping a Starbucks chai tea latte. In between, I met two wonderful writers and heard the voice of Ray Bradbury himself. You could say this was a good day.

I had recently rediscovered Ray's magic and so was very excited to be invited by John McNally (a fantastic, humorous storyteller in his own right) to come to Wake Forest to hear Sam Weller talk about his book THE BRADBURY CHRONICLES: the Life of Ray Bradbury. It is an authorized biography which I highly recommend if you want to know the real man behind the tales. As a bonus, they had arranged a live teleconference with Mr. Bradbury himself. As these technology things sometimes go, the teleconferencing equipment wasn't working, so we only got to hear something to the effect of "I can't hear you, call back on another phone."

I wish I could remember Ray Bradbury's exact words. I wish I could remember the particular tone of his voice, but I can't. I can only remember the feeling of having this surreal moment--a moment of reality animating a man that I have never thought of as a regular man...a man who puts on shoes, sleeps or eats breakfast just like the rest of us. Any image of him I have ever had involved typewriters and furrowed brows and mad pounding of keys. But, now I have heard his voice, he is human. Which makes his stories all the more extraordinary.

Sam told stories and answered questions. I am too much of an introvert to ask questions, but I had a good time listening to his experiences and his answers to other's questions about his book and his time with Ray.

One thing that I loved about this book was Sam said he wanted to not just recount details of Ray Bradbury's life, but to give some insight into where such a larger-than-life imagination comes from. Is it nature or nurture? After reading his story, I'd have to stick with nature nurtured by certain environmental influences. Like his wonderfully creative aunt or the magician who touched him with his wand and the words "live forever."

I have no doubt that he will.

Sylvia Plath

2007-11-05T19:31:00.000-08:00

I rented the movie Sylvia last week. The movie rental place called and wants it back. I was waiting to be in a stronger state of mind, but tonight had to do. Gwyneth Paltrow did an amazing job. I wish Sylvia had created a different world for herself. I'm sure there was much left to be written. It was a heartbreaking movie. A heartbreaking life.

Dear Sylvia,

When do you write?

The need that you can’t answer
weighs on your shoulders, your mind-
Suffocating each thought
under the only
thought that you can muster-
The thought of darkness,
Of silence.
The utter gray of your days
Is this not dark enough?
Or do you write between the rage
the betrayals
the pushing and the pulling that
you do not intend to win?
Do you write while death
whispers in your ear?
Do you write
while the worst you can create-
Instead of bleeding ink on dry paper-
Crackles to life
Surrounds you in a fog
Consumes you from the inside out?
In the hours when you decide to
Put on lipstick?
In the hours when all you can do is sit
And rock
And rock
Alone on the edge
Of your bed?
Unmoored now…

Do you write?

Time to Pay Attention

2007-11-02T09:53:00.000-07:00

The middle mouse here is a chimera. It represents the first time a normal, healthy animal has been created from two distantly related species. Two two species being a regular old house mouse and a wood mouse.

No big deal, right? Who really cares what craziness scientists come up with in the lab?

What if this little bit of information is added:

"Their genes (speaking of the two mice) differ by as much as 18 percent, about 12 times the difference between human and chimpanzee."

Say the human is the "house mouse" and the chimpanzee is the "wood mouse"...only closer genetically.

Now do you care what craziness scientists are doing in the lab?

Halloween Silliness

2007-10-30T14:39:00.000-07:00

Here's something frivolous and fun in honor of Halloween:

Try your past life analysis here.

Here's mine:

Your past life diagnosis:

I don't know how you feel about it, but you were male in your last earthly incarnation.You were born somewhere in the territory of modern France around the year 1800. Your profession was that of a seaman, dealer, businessman or broker.

Your brief psychological profile in your past life:
Bohemian personality, mysterious, highly gifted, capable to understand ancient books. With a magician's abilities, you could have been a servant of dark forces.

The lesson that your last past life brought to your present incarnation:
Your task is to learn, to love and to trust the universe. You are bound to think, study, reflect, and to develop inner wisdom.

Do you remember now?

To learn?
To love?
To learn to trust the universe?

Nope, doesn't ring a bell.

Happy Halloween!

On the Bookshelf Where?

2007-10-26T13:54:00.000-07:00

When I sent my first book out on the query-mobile, one of the common reasons for rejection was they wouldn't know how to present it to editors. The genre wasn't cut and dry enough. Not quite science fiction, not quite literary fiction, not quite suspense or spiritual or speculative. It is not quite any of these and mostly all of them.

The problem is, I write about what interests me and I can't separate life into such neat categories.

I love exploring both science and spirituality...

they are inseperable to me.

My books will always have an element of both because I love that they are two different languages speaking the same truths:

"Things derive their being and nature by mutual dependence and are nothing in themselves." -Nagarjuna, second-century Buddhist philosopher

"An elementary particle is not an independently existing, unanalyzable entity. It is, in essence, a set of relationships that reach outward to other things."
-H.P. Stapp, twentieth-century physicist

Imagine Nation

2007-10-22T09:08:00.000-07:00

This is a garden path in the middle of a non-distinct, medium sized town. Once you step under the archway, you'll notice a subtle light shift from silver to gold. You'll hear rustling in the leaves that couldn't be heard from the gravel path just steps before. You'll feel giddy, like a child again and skip--not walk--further into the woods via the almost-hidden stone stairs to your right. There will be laughter in the wind, and you will stop and strain to find the direction. Fairy dust will begin to fall like stage glitter from the trees and your heart will swell with a sudden love for the life pulsing and swooning around you.

It was just a thought. No longer than the deep breath of fresh morning air I inhaled before I took this picture this weekend.

Imagination, something necessary in the creative world-- is it a blessing or a curse? Or both?

I'm trying this "fear of flying" course online and one of the things they say is "keep your imagination in check." This is a big problem for me (and I'm assuming a lot of others) because once the plane hits turbulence, I can't stop myself from finishing the flight off in my mind with a nose dive and a ball of flames.

I say "can't" but I know I can. I just haven't learned how to yet.

So--any suggestions, all you creative types, on putting the reigns on your imagination?

Remind me Again

2007-10-17T09:24:00.000-07:00

In honor of one of the most...ahem...challenging weeks of my life, I feel like sharing some words from Kahlil Gibran:

Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.
Some of you say, "Joy is greater than sorrow," and others say, "Nay, sorrow is the greater."
But I say unto you, they are inseparable.

Wise man.

It's funny that sorrow comes from so many different avenues--anxiety, grief, depression, guilt, fear, loss, loneliness, anger.

But, joy seems to be complete in itself.

Reasons for its being are unnecessary.

It needs no excuse to wiggle and shimmer,

dance and jiggle,

laugh silently while

beaming at you from the center of the room,

sometimes in the form of

a toddler...

or two.

A Toltec Wisdom Book

2007-10-10T20:46:00.000-07:00

It's been a long time since I've fallen in love with a book. Well, okay, not THAT long. I finally bought the Four Agreements last night (thanks, Christian for putting it on my must-read list a year ago. Do I know how to procrastinate or what?) And the first twenty pages were so jarring for me that I had to put it down and sit in stunned silence-- in amazement, really. It was that simple kind of amazement like experiencing deja vu, or meeting a stranger that feels like your best friend.

Even before getting into the agreements, Don Miguel Ruiz tells a story--a fable, a truth...whatever you want to call it. Within this story were nestled tiny gems, hidden treasures of raw truths. Actually, for me they were nods to things that I have come to believe through different paths, that's the only reason I use the word "truth." It is such an objective word, changing like the seasons, different for every one and every situation. These things that I have accepted as truths, I also accept they may not be truths to others and in a few years they may not even be truths to me. For now, though...they are:

From science I came to believe that everything is light. That light and love and god are all labels for the same thing. I couldn't tell you how I came to believe this. I've tried to backtrack, jump back across the synaptic bridges, dig through dusty neurons, but I only get more lost. Memory is funny this way. The years of details don't stick in my mind, only the conclusions. From Ruiz's introduction:

"And he came to the conclusion that human perception is merely light perceiving light."

From studying photography I have come to believe that our reality is only a reflection of the true nature of things. There was a point in my life when I became obsessed with this idea of reflections and I would watch the world all day in mirrors or surfaces of water or car windows, photographing life only in these reflections because I felt like it was a glimpse into some cosmic joke. How would we know if what we considered to be "reality" only existed as a reflection on the universe's windshield? We wouldn't. His statement on this:

"He also saw that matter is a mirror--everything is a mirror that reflects light and creates images of that light."

Also, I've tried on different belief systems because I do think its important to believe in something. Something bigger and greater and more infinite than this flash of existence on a cold blue rock. The one thing that I could never shake was the feeling that we don't have a choice, that we are limited in our understanding and beliefs by the structure of our physical mind, by the symbols it needs to communicate. Simply, we believe what we are told is the truth, and the more that "truth" is repeated, the stronger our faith in it as "truth." His statement on this:

"Language is the code for understanding and communication between humans. Every letter, every word in each language is an agreement." AND
"The only way to store information is by agreement."

I haven't even got into the four agreements yet and already I have to agree...this is one amazing little book.

Flash Fright

2007-10-05T08:56:00.000-07:00

Some day I will find a way to prove I’m not crazy. It’s here again. The anniversary of…that night. I don’t want to think about it, dream about it or relive it but IT lives through me and so I cannot stop it.

It was All Hollow’s Eve six years ago. When I shut my eyes I can still smell the salty air, see the creamy moon—beautiful, swollen and glowing like a pregnant woman—and feel the fluttering in my chest as I take the dare and climb the lighthouse stairs alone.

The first thing I noticed that night as I stepped through the doorway was the chill--a dry-ice kind of cold that made me shiver so hard, I swear I could hear my bones clinking. Despite this, I moved slowly to the foot of the stairs, looked up into their spiraling underbelly, and swept my flash light over the few steps I could see. I was shocked to see my own breath on such a balmy night. I moved forward anyway. My first mistake.

Climbing higher and higher, one step at a time, up the spine of this man made creature, I steadied myself with one hand on the rough brick wall. The flash light shook in my other hand. My heart was beating so fiercely, I could hear it in my ears, even above the crashing waves outside. I began to question why I had been so sure there was nothing to fear. Why I had been so eager to prove I was the brave one. My legs began to ache with fatigue and stress. As I took the next curve, light fell on my shoulders. I collapsed against the wall with a start. When I could breathe again, I let myself lean forward and look up. Of course, I had just gotten high enough to see the moonlight coming in the top window, right? Of course. I shook my head and continued.

Finally reaching the top, I froze.

Amidst the decaying floorboards sat a lone carved pumpkin. Its grin flickered eerily, as someone had placed a candle in its gutted belly. It was a feeble glow in the moonlight. That is…at first.

I began to relax as I realized that only my friends could have done this. They had set me up for some Halloween practical joke.

I planned on waving to them from the window but as I approached the pumpkin, the fire within jumped. Crackled. Whooooshed. The slanted eyes and toothy grin were set ablaze.

The hairs on my arms stood up. I began backing up slowly toward the stairs, keeping my eye on the burning jack o lantern. That was my second mistake.

As I stared into its eyes, pictures poured into my head, images of death—burned, twisted metal hugging a tree; a woman with a blue, bloated face; open wounds still smoking from gunshots; thousands of them flooded in until--in some distant place--I heard my own screams matching those of the people dying in my head.

They say they found me like this. Sitting on the floor, screaming. They say there was no jack o lantern and no fire. Only the people who have looked into my eyes since then on All Hallow’s Eve know the truth. Most of them were nurses on the psych ward. I say were, because no one will tell me what happened to them. I feel the fire rising in me again. The restraints are tight this year. I’ve ask them to bring me water.

She enters my room with a clear, plastic pitcher and a distracted smile. I return the smile, only it’s not me. I am being silenced within.

Some people never learn.

Imposter Muse

2007-10-02T08:27:00.000-07:00

I recently found my writing muse laying on the side of Creative Road, apparently suffering from exhaustion and (possibly a bit of dementia), her delicate wings soaked in baby drool; glassy eyed and trying to curl into a tight little ball. So, I've sent her packing to one of those trendy muse rehab numbers and am working on the acrylic painting I mentioned.

Here's a piece of it. It's not finished, and I'm not going to share the whole thing because I'm just not that cruel. I realize retinas are important to most people. But, I am enjoying this new release, and besides being relaxing, it has an added bonus of satisfying this wierd craving I've had for color in my life lately.

My mother is a painter. My brother is a graphic artist. My daughter is an exceptionally talented artist without even really having an interest in it. In fact, her painting just won 2nd place at the state fair.

Me--I'm definitely a writer.

But having fun at the moment pretending to be an artist.

Half-full Meme

2007-10-01T04:34:00.000-07:00

I've decided to take part in Christian's Meme about being a glass half-full or half-empty type. Mainly because he brings up a good point about how quickly our thoughts and opinions change. Especially about ourselves.

Think about it--what opinion do you have of yourself right now? At this moment? Do you feel like an optimist? A failure? A bad parent? A bad writer? Out of shape? Depressed? My point is, we all label ourselves. We have a running commentary in our head of who were are at the moment. The problem is--if it's negative, that also reflects who you are to the world. It shapes other's opinions about you. After all, who knows you better than you, right? If you don't like yourself, than what's a stranger to think? And once others believe it, that will solidify the belief for you. Vicious cycle. Anyway...
I like these questions because they make me think about the positive:

1. What was your biggest challenge this past week? Resisting the urge to make chocolate chip pumpkin cookies, because I know I would eat the whole batch and null and void the hard work I've been doing at the gym.

2. What was your biggest accomplishment this past week? I decided to try painting with acrylics and even though my first attempt looks like someone threw up the primary colors on my canvas, it was a much needed new adventure in creativity.

3. What was the most exciting thing that happened in your life this past week? Can't think of one giant thing, so here's a few small but happy things: talked to my best friend from high school, took some gorgeous shots of the boys in the evening light, got to eat at my favorite downtown restaurant without children in tow, found my Kahlil Gibran books, which I haven't seen since we moved three years ago. It was a good week.

4. What one thing made you the happiest this past week? On Sunday, we took the boys to a place called Reynolda Gardens. It is just that--a garden, and I have been there many times before to shoot bridal portraits. But, for the first time in a long time, with a slight chill in the air, beauty took my breath away. The gardens are full of rows and rows of rose bushes, fountains, winding paths, archways, grape covered vines, and more types and colors of flowers than I would even care to guess at. But, the best part was a heavy dew covered it all, so the early morning sunlight set the whole scene ablaze. Truly brilliant.

Anyone else up for sharing?

Sacrifice

2007-09-26T18:11:00.000-07:00

Fear and self sacrifice.

The battlefield is full of sandals, saffron robes, hope, rage and riot shields. Burma is teetering on the edge of change. Hopefully. The largest anti-junta movement since 3,000 protesters were gunned down in 1988. I can't stop thinking about this situation. I'm obsessing, so I suppose I might as well write about it.

The thing I can't stop thinking about--since I know little to nothing about Burma (the U.S. refuses to acknowledge the present terrorist government's name change so I'll follow suit) is--what are these people thinking? All of them...the monks, the controlling government, the men standing there ready to kill peaceful protesters? I mean, these are human beings and they could be any one of us, any one of our neighbors, or our children. So, what's the controlling thought process here? The only motivation I can come up with on the side of the SHADOW is: FEAR. And the only motivation I can come up with on the side of LIGHT is: SELF-SACRIFICE.

Now, we all know how easily fear controls people. It not only controls the masses, but it controls the people who are controlling the masses. It is the puppet-master. The guy standing there with a gun pointed at a chanting monk does not want to pull the trigger, but he will. Not out of loyalty, but out of fear for his own safety or maybe even that of his family's. No big mystery there.

But, self sacrifice. This has always been something confusing to me. So, this is the thing I'm trying to untangle in my head.

(If you haven't had your coffee yet, this would be a good time to pause and read later or grab a cup.)

As I hold the belief that we are all equal, it is hard for me to consider an act of self-sacrifice as noble or just. I believe you should not consider yourself greater than another person, but you should also not consider yourself less. Love is acceptance, not sacrifice; sharing, not giving away; helping to fulfill another’s needs as your own, not instead of your own.

That said, yes--I would jump in front of a moving truck if it meant saving my child. But, only because I know my emotional limits, and I would rather die than live without my child. So, this is actually self-serving.

I suppose there is a bigger issue here, a larger purpose. It is not one life sacrificed for another. It is a life sacrificed for a greater purpose. For all life in that region to have freedom.

Freedom to choose how they spend their time and energy in this lifetime.

I am coming to wrap my mind around the courage it takes for a woman like Aung San Suu Kyi to sacrifice everything--her personal freedom, ever seeing her children again, or getting to see her husband before he dies--for a cause larger than herself.

Of course, we can always hold out hope that no more lives are lost, no more sacrifices are needed.

And then there is reality.

True Peace

2007-09-20T13:18:00.000-07:00

Of all the images in my National Geographic this month, all the beauty and magic showcased from Southeast Asia, Belize, Egypt and Alaska--this is the image that moved me.

It is a monk in Thailand walking with a rescued tiger.

To have loved, nurtured and cherished life so completely that you can walk side by side in peace with even the danger--even the teeth and claws--
and still be unafraid of things others would fear--would run screaming from--but you are not afraid
because you have faith...

in the love you've given.

This is paradise on earth.

Blooming Question

2007-09-19T08:31:00.000-07:00

This is the last bloom of my back porch plant enjoying its time in the spotlight. I was staring at it early this morning in the sunlight, its scarlet petals juxtaposed against the withered brown of its predecessors, and--as staring at something too long always does--it led to questions I have no answers for.

I decided that these little red blooms are not the plant but the product. I would even go as far as calling them its poetry or sculpture or a burst of glittering fireworks to celebrate some private event. They are art.

They are also fleeting.

If one bloom falls off, the plant is still the same plant. When all the blooms are done for the season, the plant is still itself. So--here comes the question--what exactly needs to be left to still be the same plant? What is the essence of the plant? The visible parts? The leaves and stems? The moist fingers that stretch themselves through the soil looking for nourishment? Or is the soul of the plant the seed? Is that the only part that cannot change, wither or die and still be the same plant?

Are seeds the only bit of physical reality and the rest of our world is simply art?

Changing Seasons

2007-09-17T08:29:00.000-07:00

Since I began this blog, I have been focused mostly on the craft and business of writing. The rules, the players, the do and don'ts. In honor of all the changes occuring in my life and Fall creeping in, I'm going to shift my focus to writing for the sake of writing.

Writing for the sake of beauty. Writing for the sake of profound joy. Writing for the sake of being in love with the written word. Writing for the sake of practice and toning.

A few things have been brought to my attention lately by subtle tap tap tappings on my subconscious. Under close scrutiny, they all boil down to the fact that I have stopped looking, stopped being aware of my surroundings, and stopped trying to find and create beauty. The obvious thing is I've stopped taking pictures. But, there is even a root to that issue that runs deeper.

I could blame these self-imposed blinders on the fact that I am so focused on other things that I don't have time to take time out. Or, I could blame it on the fact that shooting weddings completely burned me out on photography.

The truth is, I don't like my surroundings and so I've walled myself off and rarely pay attention to anything outside my own mind chatter. The truth is, I can find beauty in the glittering man-made skyline of a city and I can find inspiration in the flat, wide open, cobalt skies above ocean and sand, but I feel completely trapped and claustrophobic surrounded by a country landscape. Not that a country landscape isn't beautiful in itself, it's just that we all have parts of physical existence that we resonate with and this isn't mine.

Maybe it is the unexpected chilled air this morning that woke up my mind, maybe it is the live-in-the-moment mentality I've been trying to operate my life by. Whatever it is, it comes baring a message I can't ignore any longer: find beauty anyway. It's there. Even in things we hate, there is something to love. So, this is my new quest. Be mindful. Find something beautiful in my surroundings every day.

I may write about it, I may photograph it...some days it may be all I can do to just notice it. Eventually, I'm hoping that this will become second nature again, this paying attention...

...being the observer of sapphires and rubies in raindrops, being a grateful witness to the sacred dance of the long grasses and discovering new angles on the old gravel roads.

This feels like a new fork in one of those old roads on my writing journey.

Ashes and Snow

2007-09-16T20:44:00.000-07:00

I tried to embed the video but it didn't work, so...

Watch Ashes and Snow video here. This is probably the most spiritual and haunting expression of artistic vision I have ever had the privilege of stumbling across. Truly.

I promise you, it will take your breath away.

Tumble, tumble...

2007-09-12T07:40:00.000-07:00

The thing about being a writer is we are all other things as well. We have other jobs, other responsibilities, many different directions our energies are needed. At this moment, this is my biggest challenge.

Life has changed. I am drained but I am tumbling back down the mountain to rejoin the living. I am feeling the ebb more than the flow and empty of creation, but I am still a writer and the universe will not let me forget it.

On a flight this week, my husband sat next to a lady from Canada.

"You'll never believe what she does for a living!" he says to me. "She's a molecular biologist! She has created chimeras!"

For those of you who know what I write about, you can imagine what a thrill this was for me. I have been trying to get a molecular biologist to consult on the part I'm currently working on and haven't been able to get a response. And when he told her about my current book, she replied,

"Now that's serendipity."

Yes, it is.

Time to dig back into the novel.

Mountains

2007-08-26T09:25:00.000-07:00

It is time for a sabbatical. I have chosen the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro, since it has been so inspiring to other writers. I will set up camp in the thin, icy air surrounded by open blue skies. I will be alone. I will wait to be inspired. I will work on finishing my novel, and so I will bring a sacrificial alter to kill my darlings.

Speaking of darlings..ahem...

I, of course, cannot afford to take this trip anywhere but in my mind. I will be away for awhile, though. Mostly because my "free time" has suddenly been cut in half with the dissolution of nap #2. That's right, the day has come...the boys have decided and it is so. I have under two hours a day to get in all the
"can only do when children are sleeping" things like showering and writing.

Also, there are major life changes on the horizon. The opportunity to move back to Florida has come up and it is both a dream and a nightmare, as life changes often are...that yin/yang ebb and flow ever present, inescapable.

So, please bear with me as I wiggle and squirm in my new boundaries, and try to find space for writing within ever-closing walls. Focus is what I am hoping to find.

Unless we take the challenge of packing up and relocating camp.

Then, I will find myself happily and frantically moving mountains.

Serendipity

2007-08-20T09:23:00.000-07:00

I'm hovering. In my novel progress, not in the room. It's not because of writer's block or anything that romantic. It's because I have an emotional scene to write next, and I couldn't get the right emotion to well up for inspiration. Until today.

I believe in serendipity. I believe in doors opening at the right time, people coming into your life when there is something to be gained or lost, lessons given freely if we would only sit still and open our eyes and our minds. This is the faith by which I write.

If I am stuck, If I am drowning, if I am in need of a direction, I sit still, I wait, I watch...I hover. Always, without fail, I am eventually shown something, taught something, given something that is exactly what I need. Maybe this is true in every aspect of life. I have experienced this only with my writing, but who knows...

Anyway, the scene I was stalled at was one where my main character has to let go of a girl that has become like a daughter to her. My problem here was goodbye has never been hard for me. I don't look back, I don't mourn the past...in fact I thrive on change. Or so, I thought. One thing about children is they will show you exactly how wrong you are about yourself.

This is the lesson I learned today, this is the lesson that has given me the exact emotional response I need to go forward with my next scene. Today I went with my daughter to our first college tour. Not exactly a lesson in letting go, right? That's what I thought.

Wrong.

The tour was great--beautiful campus, exciting prospect. The future was wide open, bright and smiling on us. When the tour was over, she went to eat lunch with a friend instead of riding home with me. Here's the serendipity part.

I'm sitting at the traffic light to go straight and her and her friend pass me and make a left at the light. Before they make the turn, her arm emerges from the passenger window and she waves. A small gesture. A familiar arm, a hand I have bathed, and held and watched grow into a younger version of my own. But it wasn't just a "see you later" wave. It was a moment in slow motion, a glimpse at the reality of letting go. It was a message as clear as if she had whispered it in my ear.

"Yes, Mom, I am a separate person. I am my own being, with my own destiny which will be different from yours, but in my grace I am acknowledging you and the fact that I am leaving you behind."

So, in that one surreal, stripped down moment, I have been given my emotional response. I have experienced the pain and beauty which exists in the moment of a child's goodbye.

I have found the broken heart and hope from which my main character will now experience the next part of her journey.

What Book Are You?

2007-08-16T12:47:00.000-07:00

I've seen this fun little test on a few other writers' blogs and it usually gives a mixture of compliment and humorous insult. My results were so eerily accurate I just had to share.

You're The Giver!

by Lois Lowry

While you grew up with a sheltered childhood, you're pretty sure
everyone around you is even more sheltered. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, you were
tapped on the shoulder and transported to the real world. This made you horrified by
your prior upbringing and now you're tormented by how to reconcile these two lives.
Ultimately, the struggle comes down to that old free will issue. Choose
wisely.

Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

What book are you?

Californication

2007-08-15T18:01:00.000-07:00

I do believe the evil showtime gods are conspiring to seduce me back into the mind numbing cult known as cable TV. Here's how I know:

Latest temptation

David Duchovny! A story about a writer! In California???? It's being touted as a male "Sex in the City". Just plain mean and unfair. MEAN, Showtime. I have just barely gotten over my X-Files addiction and I mean, Dexter is bad enough. A serial killer working in forensics...brilliant. The books are great, full of humor and death. I resisted your 89 godzillion dollar a month plan, though. BUT now...David a writer! You've gone too far and...

I think I'll be knocking on my neigbors door on Monday night...say around 10:30???

Just Do It

2007-08-09T08:59:00.001-07:00

This post is in response to two events. One: another aspiring mom writer asking "How do you find time to write with twins?" And two: My recent excursion back into the land of pain, sweat and abandonment issues (aka- I joined the gym) And the abandonment issues are mine, not the boys.

Let me just say that when you bring children into this world, something has to give. You have to give up part of yourself or something in your life. I know we would all like to think we can have it all and do it all but--if we're honest with ourselves--there is just not enough time. Unless, of course, you can afford a nanny, and you don't care if your kids call her mommy.

Giving up writing, for me was completely off the table, non-negotiable and necessary for my mental health. That's how I find the time. I just do it. It's a priority. Actually it's a sickness. Trying to find time to balance the rest of my life between these two priorities--kids and writing--is the real problem, but life is all about balance. About not getting out of balance. There are other important things: friends, other family members, your physical health, food, down time...sleep. All of these things must be squeezed into a measly 24 hours, only to begin again the next day. This repetition of needs is both necessary and corroding. My coping mechanism: a schedule. If I have to squeeze something else in and things get jostled around a bit, that's fine. I do this so I don't have to think, because I have a tendency to think too much. If I start thinking about how I'm going to get two toddlers to the gym with all their labeled sippy cups, snacks, diapers, extra clothes, etc or if I start thinking about how I'm going to finish this monster of a novel I have bitten off...I start to panic. I freeze.

I was thinking (see what I mean?) about this while dying on the back half of my first real workout this morning. Why do I do this to myself? Is it worth it? I don't know, really but I know it's necessary. It's for balance. It's for the completed circle: Mental, Emotional and Physical health.

So, what did I give up?

Sleep.

Moving On

2007-08-07T04:00:00.000-07:00

What I'm working on: a speculative fiction story for the Futuristic Motherhood Book. Thanks to Shawn for bringing this contest to my attention. It is actually right up my alley, except for the whole "pressure of a deadline" thing. Which I don't do well. Which is why I don't freelance. Anyway, I think it's coming together, but time is not my friend on this one. If you write speculative fiction at all, you should check it out.

What my subconscious is apparently working on behind my back: poetry

Last night I got up in the middle of the night and wrote this one down:

Sex and Evolution

Dawn flicked out his tongue
And licked night away.
Stars crackled and died--
Once again in his glory--
Leaving nothing alive but today.
His light melted galaxies
And rose to be our god,
Nothing exists beyond light or love
Except perhaps another day.

I really have no idea what I was thinking...or my mind was thinking without me. Ahhh, the mystery of where words come from...and why they wake us up like a freakin' four alarm fire drill at three in the morning.

Rejection

2007-08-02T18:27:00.000-07:00

As you all know, I've been working on writing and submitting some short stories. So, in keeping with the spirit of sharing my writing journey, I'll share this rejection from an editor at Boston Literary Magazine:

"Hi Shannon, thanks for the story. I have to be honest, nothing about it felt real to me... that a professional psychiatrist would be unnerved by a patient asking if they ever think about dying didnt sound authentic to me. And why would the psychiatrist have a gun in her desk? Are they in prison? Does this patient have a violent history? How did this patient have access to the desk to find the gun? Also I wasn't clear on the ending.. you say the psychiatrist unlocks the drawer to get the gun... and you say the "I" character lets her "feel the metal" and then leaps up. I wasn't sure if you meant the psychiatrist reached in and felt the metal of her gun... or if you meant the "I" character grabbed the gun and held it to the psychiatrist's head... if I were you I would go over this story again and resolve some of these issues... pondering what is human is a very interesting concept, but I don't think this story did it justice."

Again, I'm very very grateful that he even took the time to send a personal note. This does make me feel like I'm at least in the game.

Okay, now I'll share the quick fiction story since I'll have to rework it to the point of being a different story anyway:

Only Human

The psychiatrist’s office is chilly today. I caress the cool skin of my cheek, this mask that shields what is underneath. Pressing harder, I feel the bone, the skull, the eye sockets, the teeth. I think this is all that will be left of me one day. A skull like those in the science books and museums which have been excavated and displayed for the purpose of teaching, of learning. Of learning that time marches on. That we exist in a blink of an eye. That one day, we will be stripped of our masks and bleached white by the sun. I imagine when this happens, my soul will be freed and wonder where it will float off to. I know there is such a thing as a soul. I know because I can feel mine trying to scratch and claw its way free from the confines of my body, its prison. I know it is a thing separate from my mind, because my mind is its tormenter. I wonder if this is what it is to be crazy? I know this is what it is to be human.

A harsh noise pulls me from my thoughts. She has cleared her throat loudly. This is her signal that I should open up to her, that I should tell her what I’m thinking. I make eye contact. This is what I’m supposed to do and she rewards me with her most encouraging smile.

“Do you ever think about dying?” I say.

I see her trying to hold her encouraging smile, but I’ve said something wrong. I feel myself shrinking, sucked inward by the vortex of disappointment.

“Do you think you could hurt yourself?” she asks, her voice even and professional; her eyes a separate betrayal. “Or someone else?” Too casual. She is afraid of me.

I want to tell her I’m sorry. I’m sorry that my curiosity and my tiny silver lock pick have already discovered her revolver in the third desk drawer on her right. The one she is now casually unlocking. I look away and pretend not to notice the shadow of her foot begin to wiggle nervously beneath the desk.

Intuition. That’s what humans have.

“Yes,” I sigh.

I give her time to feel the cold metal but not enough time to think it through. I have had too much time to think it through myself. I jump up. I see the flash of light but I feel nothing. Maybe I am not human after all.

I lunge into the unknown.

So that's it. The funny thing is I was picturing the patient in a prison setting with a dangerous background. So, the editor got it--even if he didn't know he got it.

I'm beginning to wonder if I just don't spell things out enough? I want to give the reader credit, give them pieces and feel confident that they can put together the puzzle. I want to give them a bit of mystery, of challenge. I guess this isn't the best way to go about a short story.

Learning as I go.

Paradise Lost

2007-07-31T07:38:00.000-07:00

I'm back.

Things I learned from this trip:

1) I have been away from the beach way too long. I have lost the connection. It was like looking into the face of a long ago friend and seeing a stranger. The grace of a pelican in flight was shocking. When did I forget this?

2) I have forgotten how to do nothing. When the boys went down for a nap and we had two hours to kill, I didn't know what to do with myself. I watched the ocean, trying to feel the familiar pull, trying to sink into the calmness, the tranquility I used to feel. After five minutes of this I left the balcony and rummaged around the condo. Surely there was something that needed cleaned, folded, tucked or scrubbed? I found a stash of books by the TV. Something to read! Perfect. I took a few outside and flipped through them. Shallow beach reads. None of them held my interest. I was beginning to panic. Instead of relaxed, I was anxious...even bored.

3) As busy as nature looks, there is a rhythm, a pattern of work and rest, of energy exerted and then released. The pelicans: flap flap flap...glide. flap flap flap...glide. The ocean: waves of energy created and dispersed. I have lost my rhythm. I am all flap flap flap...create create create.

Eventually, in the last few hours, I began to experience moments of familiarity, of lightness. Moments of recognition, of remembering. Moments I was connecting with myself and in turn, connecting with the world around me. I was encouraged that more time could have healed the distance.

Maybe next time.

Now, I will be working on trying to find my own natural rhythm.

I will try to remember how to glide.

Off to the Beach

2007-07-26T07:09:00.000-07:00

I refuse to call this a vacation. Mainly because we have packed enough to call it a move and we are about to try our first four hour car ride with two eighteen month olds to a new place that has no gates, no drawer locks, no baby-proofed potties, plants or people and water without boundaries, bottoms or fences.

But, I'm okay. This will be my view for the next four days.

It will be...an adventure.

So, you all have a great weekend and no, this doesn't let you off the hook for participating in the top ten list! I expect to see some exposure...ahem, some...dis-closure when I get back!

Tagged, My Top Ten

2007-07-25T07:50:00.000-07:00

Okay, only for you, Joyce.

My lovely friend, Joyce, has tagged me with this meme. You describe 10 "weird or different experiences in your blog," and then must tag 10 of your friends to do the same. Here are mine:

1) I have a serious dump truck fetish. I blame my grandfather for buying me a shiny metal one when I was two. My dad recently built me a wooden one by hand (see picture). I also paid a lot of money for a B&W photo of a dump truck by a NY photographer. Strangely enough, there is also one that's been parked on a hill behind my house for a few months now which the sun rises behind every morning, and I take as a small gift from the universe.

2) I have experienced that invisible web that connects us all. When I was seventeen I had a terrible dream that my mother's cousin, who lived in a different state (we'll call him John) had kidnapped me and assaulted me in an abandoned coal mine. It was so vivid that I wouldn't even go back to my room. The funny part about this was, I had never even met "John." I just knew instinctively it was him. A few weeks later, my grandmother sent us news that John had been arrested for this crime. It even took place in an abandoned coal mine.

3) I have experienced the full fury of nature. Its name was Hurricane Andrew. I was living in Ft. Lauderdale, and when the winds were gusting at 175 miles per hour, I thought I would also die there. Some beauty did come out if it as the aviary at the Miami Zoo was destroyed and we had gorgeous tropical birds landing in our yard for weeks afterward.

4) Growing up in Florida, I have stepped on both a pygmy rattlesnake and a sand shark.

5) Three years ago, I took a belly dancing class and was hooked. It is now my favorite form of exercise.

6) Six years ago I became a vegetarian because of a disturbing dream I had in which I bit a lamb. Yes, bit. Hard. Drew blood. I know, it's a weird thing to change your lifestyle because of a dream but it was irrevocably etched into my psyche. I can still hear the poor thing scream.

7) A bit of irony. I have lived and driven in four different states but have received my only speeding ticket in the state that I was born in (Pa.) while driving through cross country.

8) From my senior year Algebra class window, I watched the space shuttle Challenger launch and then explode. It was a shocking event. Not only for the live's lost but for the loss of innocence and the lesson in life's unfairness and mortality, even when things are planned so carefully. You are never in control, never safe.

9) When I was twenty five I got to visit Denmark. It was seriously one of the highlights of my life. The people were incredibly warm, real and fascinating. I loved it so much I wanted a reminder of my trip that was more than a souvenir I would plop on a shelf. So, before getting on the plane to come back home I found a small tattoo parlor in Copenhagen and had my belly button pierced, (the commitment of a tattoo is too much for me) not thinking about the many hours sitting upright on a plane I would have to endure with a throbbing belly. My souvenir is now a tiny scar.

10) In an eleventh grade creative writing class, we had to write a true story about something that affected our lives greatly and the teacher sent them in to a contest for a magazine that would be distributed to all the Florida high schools. I wrote a story about one of my parent's friends, an older gentleman that used to bring me butterscotch candy, and how his passing affected me. Although it was supposed to be a true story, I made this one up and so was shocked when my story was picked. Even more so when an office worker brought me a box a few weeks later filled with letters from high school students saying how touched they were by my story and how it helped them understand a loss of their own. That's when I experienced the power of fiction writing and fell in love.

On that note, I swear I didn't make any of these up. :-)

I know it's summer and you all are busy, so I'm not going to force you to participate. BUT, it's fun...so if you read this just DO IT. GET NAKED.

Of Mice and Men

2007-07-22T19:05:00.000-07:00

So, say it's the future and you're adopted. You go in search of your genetic parents, only to find out that they are...mice! Yes, I'm talking about the squeaky, furry little lab tenants. What would be your reaction? Horror? Disbelief? Would you start looking for the hidden camera?

Is it far fetched? Perhaps. Is it possible? Entirely.

It's possible because of a little thing scientists like to call a chimera. A chimera is created by mixing cells from two different species. In a simplified version of the scenario above, you could inject human stem cells into some mice embryos and let the resulting mice be born. You are bound to get some mice born eventually that have human reproductive cells. Just mate a mouse with human sperm and a mouse with human eggs and you have a 100% human baby. Of course, the embryo would have to be implanted in a human womb, but that is a routine procedure now. Which brings me to a fascinating debate going on in England.

The British Parliament is considering allowing scientists to create chimeric embryos as long as they are destroyed after two weeks. They say it will be against the law to implant these embryos. The problem is The Catholic bishops have come out and said if these chimeric embryos are created, they have a right to life. They don't think they should be made at all, but if scientists do go ahead with it, then they should be allowed to live. Specifically, this is what the Bishop's say:

"It should not be a crime to transfer them, or other human embryos, to the body of the woman providing the ovum, in cases where a human ovum has been used to create them. ... Such a woman is the genetic mother, or partial mother, of the embryo; should she have a change of heart and wish to carry her child to term, she should not be prevented from doing so.”

Can you imagine?!!

Because this is the topic of my current book, I have asked a lot of people their thoughts on a non-human animal/human hybrid creation. I can tell you that the reaction is almost always something akin to "ick" or "are you crazy?" or "god help us if that ever happens" or "step away from the tequila." Actually, by the reactions I can honestly say I think these creatures are better off not ever being born. They would be outcasts, slaves, burned on stakes in horrible rituals, tortured, ridiculed and at the very least have no rights.

Here in the U.S. we tried to pass the Human Chimera Prohibition Act back in 2005. It never became a law. What we have instead is a National Academy of Science ethics board that scientists are urged to run experiments by before they attempt anything like this. There is also only regulations put on government funded labs. Private labs can do whatever they want.

So, now I'm asking you. If scientists are allowed to create human-non-human embryos...do you think they have a right to be born? What if the creation had more than sixty percent human DNA and only forty percent mouse? Would that make a difference?

Poetry Sharing

2007-07-16T07:55:00.000-07:00

Okay. So, I have company this week (well not just any company) but my mother. Which, on one hand will be great, as she is an awesome grandma who already has the boys in the palm of her hand. But, this means I won't have time to write this week, soooo I figured this would be a good time to share something I've already written.

As I've said before, although I love poetry, it's not my strong point. Maybe it's because I only write poetry when I need to release some sort of emotion--usually pain, frustration, etc. All the dark stuff. It usually does the trick for me, as I feel better after writing it. As far as sharing it, it doesn't usually make sense to anyone else.

I found this one which I think is pretty cut and dry:

A Blink of a Breakdown

I want to tumble, spat from bare air
as fear sulks, left behind by Newton’s law.
I want to ride a dirty train in some foreign country,
drowning in novel accents
where I can stand naked in ignorance,
watching strangers blow out heavy tar-smoke
like burnt souls filling the cab, laughing
at something, as if life were actually amusing.
I want to stare
at a building so breathtaking
that I actually forget
to breath.
I want to fill my lungs with ocean salt.
I want to be reborn so many countries later,
I ring the front desk to ask
what day it is.
I want to taste the speed of light.
I want to stick my tongue
In the lemon meringue sun,
Lick the gathering foam
From death’s noble steed-
Gallop faster, won’t you?
Scream,
I want to scream.
I want to plop on the fire branded sands
And wink back at the seas of possibility.
I want to give someone a thing of
value and turn away before
they smile politely,
having no fucking clue
what lay dead in their hand.
I want to hear glass shatter.
I want to be transported to magical lands
by strange mushroom drinks
concocted by uncivilized hands.
I want to stare, unblinking star by star
And know down time’s line
a spent story of light will exist
In memory of me.
I want to flee down a haunted hall.
I want to not be haunted.
I want to shatter every mountain
and feed their ground bones to the sea.
Heaven is flat, open, infinite.
I want to breath.
I want to live in the darkness
because the light shows the ugliness of humanity.
I want the darkness to not live in me.

So, those of you out there that write poetry, what moves you to start a poem? Is it emotional or more physical, like an event? I would love to read some of yours so feel free to post them!

Have a great week.

Top Ten List

2007-07-09T12:13:00.000-07:00

Top Ten Reasons Why Writing as a Profession Rocks

1) You can be successful without having to deal with the pesky fame part of it. Worried about being too brilliant and getting mobbed at the Jiffy Lube? No worries...unless you are J.K. Rowling, of course.

2) The average professional baseball player's career only lasts 6.5 years. As a writer, you don't have to be concerned about physical injury derailing your career. You can work your knotty little arthritic fingers to the bone well into your nineties. (Bar the deformities such as your ass becoming the size and shape of your computer chair)

3) Afraid that you won't hear enough stories about your nutter friends and relatives? No need to worry. As soon as you tell them you're writing a book, you will have stories coming out of your ears.

4) What other job is there that you can work in your underwear and fuzzy bunny slippers?

5) Hearing voices and arguing amongst yourselves are considered valuable tools of the trade.

6) The fan mail is nice, yes...but more importantly are the helpful souls out there that selflessly scour your books for inaccuracies or other things that may accidentally conjure up the devil, and expend a great deal of effort coming up with career matches that would better suit you such as a vacuum cleaner sales representative...or perhaps, just the vacuum cleaner.

7) Writers don't have to worry about becoming complacent and taking things for granted such as new cars, diamond studded socks or a private island getaway. (Again, unless you're J.K. Rowling)

8) Rejection. It's addicting. Better than crack. Don't believe me...here, try it--

Dear Reader,

Although I appreciate you taking the time to read this blog, I'm afraid your blue moon rising just doesn't coincide with my sparkly fairy tattoo. Good luck placing your foot elsewhere.

Having flash backs yet?

9) You get to make your own schedule, which forces you to be highly organized, disciplined and free from any and all procrastination tendencies. In other words...perfect.

10) After creating a three hundred plus page story-- filled with places and people that don't really exist, powered by events that never really happened--coming up with a story about the gallon of missing mint chocolate chip ice cream that was just bought two days ago is a piece of cake!

Monday Short

2007-07-09T04:20:00.000-07:00

Life Lesson #38

I dip the wand into the thick, soapy liquid. When I pull it out, it runs down my arm. This is meant to simply be entertainment. The first time, I get the wand too close to my mouth as I blow, spitting to the delight of my toddler, who practices this spitting thing after me. Squeals ensue as bubbles explode from the wand, released by the wind instead of me. Some form of disappointment expands within me at this fact. I watch as he toddles after them, arms raised, fingers splayed. He falls, gets back up, toddles more, giggles more. This time, I shield the wind and blow the bubbles myself. When he chases these, it is a sweeter flavor of joy.

Now, he has squatted down. He has spotted a bubble sticking in the grass, quivering in the wind. I watch silently as--with a deliberation that could make the whole world disappear and a smile that is the whole world--he pokes his prize at last, touching it with a tiny pointer finger. Fragile meets fragile. The disappointment is instant, appearing exactly at the same time the bubble pops. With eyes watering from the sun, the wind and the sheer unfairness of a goal reached, he looks up at me with questions I don’t know how to answer, uncertainties I don’t know how to protect him from. So, I simply watch him with my own eyes watering from the wind and the bitter sweetness of life.

I smile and I say, “Precisely, my son.”

Rockin' the Blog

2007-07-05T07:37:00.000-07:00

This is mine, you can look but don't touch!

Actually, I joke but I am honored that my new rockin' twin mommy-slash-writer friend Shawn awarded me the Rockin' Girl Blogger award! Also, it gets passed on to five other rockin' girl bloggers, so technically others can & will touch it. But, for now, it's mine to hug & squeeze & admire. (I bet someone out there will find my blog now by googling "others can & will touch it")

This would be a good time to say--when I started this blog, I did it to get used to other people reading my writing, to sort of come out of my shell. What I didn't expect is the connection I feel with those of you who I've met on this blogging road. I would have never thought it was possible to care about people, and laugh and cringe and feel compassion for people that I have never met in person. But, I have done all of those things. I guess technology's good for something after all.

So, without further babbling, and in no particular order, here's who I'm awarding the Rockin' Girl Blogger award to:

Tertia Albertyn Tertia is a mom and writer living in Africa. I have always been drawn to the exotic, the new, the unknown. Which is why I began to read her blog. I love meeting people from far away places. The reasons I keep reading are (1) her sense of humor and honesty are at a level that I can only gaze up at, never reach. And (2) she blogs about her struggle with infertility which ended finally with the birth of her twins. My path was eerily similar to hers and even when there is a happy ending, there are scars from the journey that need to heal. Laughing and nodding while reading her blog has become my therapy.

B.E. Sanderson Beth is one of the kindred spirits I have met through this blogging journey. She's a fellow speculative fiction writer who I read because she's beside me in the trenches and I don't feel so alone in my journey when I visit her. She definitely rocks!

Bee Lavender Bee's blog is where I go when I want to live vicariously through someone. Besides having a great name, she is an amazingly unique person, who has been through so many illnesses, cancer, surgeries, near death moments in her life but still, instead of being bitter or afraid, she is actually living life to the fullest. She is savoring life in Cambridge, which is fitting for her, she is as charming as I have always imagined England to be.

Rebecca Taylor Rebecca is a lady who works in the molecular biology field and started her blog "Mary Meets Dolly" to try to clear up some of the misconceptions the general public has about issues such as genetic engineering and reproductive technology. Although I don't share the Catholic viewpoint she is writing from, I admire her immensely for the fact that she saw a need for public education about things such as cloning and stem cell research and she is doing something about it. Her posts are always well-researched and I have learned a great deal from her.

Alexandra Sokoloff What can I say about Alex? She's a gorgeous thriller writer with spunk who's posts keep me in the loop of what's going on in the world of writerdom. 'Nough said.

And last, but certainly not least, I would like to nominate someone for the counterpart to this award. THE AWESOME GUY BLOGGER.I cannot leave out Christian, the person who has graciously become the supporting beam to my blogging life. He is also a writer, but his blog is like stepping into wonderland--you never know what is there waiting for you. It could be bits of writing, reviews, rants. Whatever it is, it's always honest and he doesn't hold back. I wish I could be as free!

So, Christian, thanks for both the entertainment and support! You rock. Of course, I can't get your bling to post here so check your email!

Can you feel the love, people???? I know I sure can!

Thanks again, Shawn!

Zen

2007-07-02T08:37:00.001-07:00

I have always subscribed to the belief that we should live in the moment. One of my favorite books is "The Power of Now". The problem is, it's way too easy to let life get in the way of how to best live your life. I manage to live in the moment about thirty seconds a week. Sometimes I catch myself, and I think "okay, I'll do better next week when I'm not so stressed, busy, cranky, overwhelmed, emotionally drained, bla bla bla."

Of course, there has to be some balance here. After all, looking back down the road is good for a few things. It's a useful way to avoid the same mistakes, to appreciate how far you've come and to realize how quickly the present becomes the past. Unfortunately, most of us use it as evidence against ourselves to keep living in a world of self-imposed guilt and penance.

Looking forward also has its usefulness. Humans have evolved to possess an imagination, a tool in our survival belt. The proper way to use this tool is to avoid and prepare for possible disasters in our future. This is how we survive, how our species exists, but unfortunately it is not how we find happiness.

Which brings me to the point of this post. Zen. Zen to me means living in awareness of the moment. Being both the participant and observer in one’s own life. Being both the artist and the one standing in front of the canvas, smiling in appreciation.

Over at Shawn's place, she has an interview up with Karen Maezen Miller, author of "Momma Zen: Walking the Crooked Path of Motherhood". Karen is a Zen Buddhist priest, a wife, mother and writer. She is also giving away five copies of her book! How Zen is that??? So, in order to enter, you have to post at Shawn's place and finish the statement, "For me, Zen is....."

So, here goes:

For me, Zen is…

The moments I can block out fear. Fear of the future, fear of the past, fear of failure. Zen is the moment one of my children meet my eyes and I feel a rush of love. Zen is the moment of a new discovery, a moment I recognize a connection with a new friend, a moment I feel myself breathing and am grateful. Recently, I have consciously logged a few moments while I was experiencing them and so these I would call Zen. A moment standing on the porch while black clouds rolled in and heavy winds made me catch my breath. A moment when my twins were crying after a biting match and I let myself cry with them, completely overwhelmed. For that moment I let go of all fantasies and preconceptions that I could control anything. It was a surprising moment of peace, a seed that had burst forth from the heat. A moment of physical pleasure with the first mouthful of a newly discovered wine, a freshly scrubbed kitchen floor, and a moment of relief when my kids actually ate the new recipe I tried, instead of throwing for distance.

I suppose for me, Zen is just being able to exist in the moment and let it be what it is. A moment without reigns. A moment embraced and then released to make room for the next moment. Whatever it brings, heartache or joy, saturating myself in it because it is life. Life is not one perfect moment after another…or is it?

What is your Zen?

This is My Brain on Summer

2007-06-28T07:40:00.000-07:00

Since it's summer and I'm having a hard time solidifying any one thought...with the exception of "God, I wish I were at the beach right now!" I'm just going to blog about some of the randomized writing stuff I've been up to.

I am not a particularly politically inclined individual. I don't get politics, but I'm trying because things are really starting to frighten me. For instance--what the freak is up with China???? Are they secretly trying to poison all our pets, our kids and all of us who brush our teeth? Or are all these recalls some secret political game our government is playing? Maybe we should start opening our factories back up, making our own products right here where we control the regulations, putting money in our own worker's pockets. Oh...

See what I mean about having a hard time keeping my thoughts from sprouting feet and running off in a different direction. Ahhh, summer. ANYWAY...I'm currently reading John McNally's "America's Report Card." It's basically about how ridiculous standardized government testing is and some about conspiracy theories. A real eye opener. But more than that, it's hilarious! Here's a quote:

"She even sat through interviews conducted by Larry King, a man who reminded her of a corpse that had been exhumed from a long-forgotten cemetery and then brought back to life with a billion watts of electricity."

Besides being funny, that is so true! Or maybe that's why it's funny.

Anyway, great book so far.

I'm also a beta reader for fellow speculative fiction writer & Ayn Rand fan, B.E. I'm enjoying her novel, Blink of an I, very much. But, I can't tell her that yet, because I feel like I should have some critique to go with it. So Beth, if you read this...just ignore that part.

Besides the novel, I'm trying to work on some "100 words or less" short stories to submit to Tuesday Shorts. Do you know how hard it is to whittle a story down to 100 words?! Crazy hard. Well, for me anyway. The closest I've gotten is 259 words. It's fun to try.

Go on, try it!

Real or Imagined?

2007-06-21T12:41:00.000-07:00

What makes a memorable story?

They say our brains can't tell the difference between something that has happened to us and something that we only imagine has happened to us. There have been all kinds of experiments about this. The one that comes to mind right now is the one where they took two groups of kids and allowed the first group to practice basketball for hours & told the second group to spend the same amount of time imagining they were practicing basketball. At the end of the experiment, the two groups had improved equally.

Our bodies apparently react to an imagined stressful event in the same way as an experienced stressful event.

I started noticing recently that when I have my toddler twins out in public and I loose sight of one of them (mind you, I only take them to gated in areas when I 'm alone with them, so it's not like they can run off) I have been reacting a lot stronger than I have in the past. By this I mean, I pretty much am over-reacting. I get the whole heart racing, light headed fight or flight thing. When it happened today, I tried to pinpoint the fear and what I came up with was that I was reliving a memory. A memory of losing my child, of wondering where he was at that moment, knowing he was terrified to be without me. Only, I have never lost my child.

The "memory" stems from the story of the four year old little girl who had been kidnapped from her parent's hotel room while they were vacationing not too long ago. I am so empathetic by nature that every time I read something about this story, I couldn't help but put myself in the parents shoes, imagining each detail in technicolor, feeling the horror...the terror and the heartbreak as if it were my child. Of course, I will never know the fullness of their pain but for me, this story has become my own terrible memory.

So, the question of the day is...can we, as fiction writers, affect people like this with our stories? Or is it only "the truth" that can do this. If our brains can't tell the difference between what we are experiencing through our imagination and what we are experiencing in the real world, then it should be possible.

McCarthy Interview

2007-06-18T11:40:00.000-07:00

For those of you, like me, who find it impossible to watch tv in the middle of the day and equally impossible to bring yourself to purchase TIVO, good news:

Oprah has the Cormac McCarthy interview video on her website. You have to join the bookclub to see it, but that only takes a second and besides, you could be a lot worse things in life than a member of Oprah's bookclub. Watch it. It's a real treat!

Enjoy.

Personal Essay on Shock Absorbers

2007-06-12T17:34:00.000-07:00

Life is simply shocking.

This is my answer to the statement that life is unfair. I didn’t come to this conclusion from experiencing things too harsh to give light to-- divorce, bankruptcy, a two-year war with clinical depression-- all before my thirtieth birthday. Though those things did happen, life is kind enough to numb you during the really big matters. (Have you noticed that when people get their limbs torn off or something equally awful, they always say, ‘I didn’t feel a thing’?) This is the way it is with the big things, you are suddenly suspended, freed from natural laws by some unnatural kind of mercy. Life is what happens in between. A series of brightly lit moments, tiny glimpses of truth strung together like Christmas lights.

My earliest recollection of one of these jolts of truth was before I was eleven. (I only know this because it came before one of the biggest shocks of my life, which left me with a background noise of fear. But I’m getting ahead of myself.)

Living in a small Pennsylvanian town, lightning bug season was our answer to fireworks. Fireflies. Our faces pressed against the window, our eyes straining to see through the dusk and dirty screen for the first blink of green. Their mating call, our signal to begin the hunt. Mason jars gripped tightly in both hands, we would rush out, squealing, laughing, charging the tiny lights and then try to follow them through the growing darkness until their biological processes betrayed them once again. Once we got bored of gathering them into a living lantern, we would start to make glowing jewelry from their gooey, torn off abdomens. The last season, maybe metaphorically the last season of my innocence, came in the moment I realized the other half of the bug was dead, and I had killed it. It felt foreign, this thought, foreign and then hot and startling like a sudden summer storm. Shock. It was to be the end of lighting bug jewelry for anyone near me.

Living in the woods, there were other moments of death-shock. The baby moles I had tried to save from the cat by putting them up out of reach on top of my sliding board- my aluminum sliding board…on a sweltering summer day. Shock. That same cat’s kittens being mauled by a neighbor’s dog. Shock. But nothing could have prepared me for the realization of my own mortality.

I always ask people now if they remember the exact moment they realized one day they would die. They always say no. Is this normal? My exact moment came as an eleven year old, lying in the grass, staring up at the sky. Something uncomfortable began to grow within me as my fingers absentmindedly stroked the grass, thoughts were reflecting the motion of the clouds, drifting unchecked, uninhibited. Discomfort exploded into a moment of blind truth, a searing white moment of conclusion. The sky was ripped open as the veil of childhood fell from my eyes. One day I would no longer feel the softness of grass between my fingers. One day would be my last. One day, I would no longer exist. This one sent shock waves into my future.

There are two choices a person has when faced with such a truth. One- don’t allow yourself to reach that deeply into thought ever again, or two- begin stacking layers of beliefs, superstitions, religions between you and the truth, a mental padding that you can fall back on, a shock absorber.

Alternating these two things seemed to get me from one day to the next, until the subject of death once again touched my life. I lost my best friend of fourteen years. There were a few hot-truth moments strung out through that experience. Beginning with the fact that death steamrolls right over love, care and devotion; then it rips away the padding you so carefully built up over the years so the things you thought you believed in become a rapidly disappearing mist of illusions. You are naked once again. Shocked.

Months later, bursting from the ashes of mauled-over grief came another jolt of truth. Love had survived. (Me-shocked: what?) Yes, after all, it makes sense. Something as powerful, infinite and incomprehensible as love could not have just burst into being 18 billion years ago along side our infant universe. Love is the key to immortality. So, this is the one illuminated moment I keep on top of the rest, as the tiny points of truth wind their way through my life toward the brightest truth of all.

Love cheats death.

Know Thyself

2007-06-08T08:06:00.000-07:00

What kind of writer are you?

A friend sent me this description of an empath, which fits me to a tee. It made me wonder, are all writers/artists like this? Here's the description (see if it fits you):

Empaths are highly sensitive. This is the term commonly used in describing one's abilities (sensitivity) to another's emotions and feelings. Empaths have a deep sense of knowing that accompanies empathy and are often compassionate, considerate, and understanding of others.

Empaths are often poets in motion. They are the born writers, singers, and artists with a high degree of creativity and imagination. They are known for many talents as their interests are varied, broad and continual, loving, loyal and humorous.

Empaths are often very affectionate in personality and expression, great listeners and counselors (and not just in the professional area). They will find themselves helping others and often putting their own needs aside to do so. In the same breath, they can be much the opposite. They may be quiet, withdrawn from the outside world, loners, depressed, neurotic, lifes daydreamers, or even narcissistic.They are most often passionate towards nature and respect its bountiful beauty. One will often find empaths enjoying the outdoors, beaches, walking, etc. Empaths may find themselves continually drawn to nature as a form of release. It is the opportune place to recapture their senses and gain a sense of peace in the hectic lives they may live.

Empaths are sensitive to TV, videos, movies, news and broadcasts. Violence or emotional dramas depicting shocking scenes of physical or emotional pain inflicted on adults, children or animals can bring an empath easily to tears. At times, they may feel physically ill or choke back the tears. Some empaths will struggle to comprehend any such cruelty, and will have grave difficulty in expressing themselves in the face of another's ignorance, closed-mindedness and obvious lack of compassion. They simply cannot justify the suffering they feel and see.

Here are the listeners of life. Empaths are often problem solvers, thinkers, and studiers of many things. As far as empaths are concerned, where a problem is, so too is the answer. They often will search until they find one--if only for peace of mind.

This is probably why I lean towards delving deep into my characters feelings and motivations. Some of the thriller writers that I have come to know, I couldn't really imagine fitting this description. So, I'm thinking to find your own niche as a writer--the one that would be truest to your own nature, make you happiest and have the greatest chance at success--you really need to know yourself!

Miscellaneous Loveliness

2007-06-06T06:56:00.000-07:00

What's playing in my head: Poe's Walk the Walk

Ahhh, it's a gorgeous Wednesday here. The sun is shining...I can hear the soft cry of morning gulls just above the lapping waves. I can taste the salt in the air. No...wait...oops, that's all in my head, too. Where am I? Sigh. Back to reality.

So, I received another lovely rejection (see how easy it is to put a positive spin on rejection. Just add adjective and wala!) for a completely different short story. This one is from the Kenyon Review. Here it is: [Personal note: the execution is elegant & sophisticated, but both the set-up and the resolution seem quite tired to us. Sorry we can't keep this one. Best, KG]

I'm getting really good at learning from these things, I think. From this one I interpret that my strength is the actual prose and my weakness is coming up with an original story. Which, by the way, I already know. I blame the whole coloring in the lines thing as a child. Not sure how to fix this. I really think it's just life experience. I'll have to get some more of that.

Meanwhile, I have my first author interview posted here. Warning, I was feeling silly that day...I'm sensing a trend.

I was invited by the lovely (my word of the day) Heidi Ruby Miller. If you're a writer and would like to participate in her Pick Six, then just contact her. She doesn't bite.

Launched!

2007-05-28T12:35:00.000-07:00

I have a sort of official website up now, so if you want to hop over and take a look, my new cyberhome is: www.shannonesposito.com

It still needs some tweaking (I just noticed a typo on the front page...ug) This really illustrates how important editors are, and a fresh set of eyes...and that third cup of coffee. But anyway, it's there. Feel free to comment, just be gentle...until I make money at this, it's the free website templates for me.

Flawed Idealism

2007-05-24T11:24:00.000-07:00

Last night I finished reading a book that actually was on my must read book list..wahoo. It was Sarah Gruen's WATER FOR ELEPHANTS. I probably wouldn't have picked this book up, just because it was too popular, but Sara is a member of a writing community, Backspace, that I also belong to and it's a very supportive place...everyone tries to read everyone else's books. This book is a serious success and now I know why. Sarah is a genius with flawed characters. Genius. Of course, it's a great story and I have a whole new appreciation for the history of the circus which, in and of itself, is a bonus. Anytime I close a book and have learned something new or can appreciate some aspect of life I normally wouldn't look twice at, I am a happy reader. As a writer, though, I was completely envious of the ease with which she created these messy, heartbreaking, real with a capital R characters. It made me wonder, do I just not pay enough attention to people? Do I just not have enough messy, heartbreaking people in my back history to pull from? HA. No, that's not it. I have plenty of messy, real people in my life to study but when it comes to making up people, I tend to lean toward the idealistic. Why?

I'm also in the middle of M. Atwood's CAT'S EYE and she, too, is brilliant with creating characters with cracks, weaknesses and painful histories. I get it. I just can't seem to translate it to paper.

Then there's the question, when I'm completely honest with myself...do I really want to? When I look back at my main characters, they are people who I would look up to in real life, people who I would want as friends. People with backbones. I think Ayn Rand really influenced me more than I realized in this area of writing. Her characters were the kind of people I would want in my life, though I know people personally that hate her books for this reason--because her characters aren't realistic.

I do feel like I'm creating characters that I want to spend time with; people that I want to stay with for 300 plus pages, BUT I also know the reader has to identify with the characters and that means flaws, that means being human. And, of course, people can have backbones and ideals and still have flaws. I think that's the middle ground I need to find my big feet standing on.

I'll have to work on this.

Anyway, I'm officially at the halfway point with STRANGE NEW FEET. It's all downhill from here. Well, not really...but from here, it will be closer to the end than the beginning.

I'll leave you with a quote from THE FOUNTAINHEAD:

"Show me your achievement, and the knowledge will give me courage for mine."

Mirror Mirror on the Wall

2007-05-21T11:24:00.000-07:00

Okay, let's talk about something not quite so serious as death by whopper.

Namely, ghosts. Do you believe in them?

My mother took a tour of Nemacolin Castle in Pa. this weekend. It was a ghost tour actually. Now before you start moaning and rolling your eyes--stop it, I can see you--there has been lots of documented unexplained activity in this castle, from so called paranormal investigators (which were there this weekend as well) and also regular folks. My mother experienced lots of weird things during the tour, of which I will spare you the details so you don't sprain an eyeball, but the most amazing thing was something she saw when she got home. A picture that she took in the tea room. She was taking a picture of the table with a tea set, but in the left side of the frame is an original gilded mirror. In the reflection of the mirror, you can see the back of my Aunt who was standing across the room and...a ghost. Seriously. You can see a man leaning against the wall right in front of my Aunt, wearing a white silk shirt. You can even make out a large square ring on his middle finger. He appears to be looking right at the camera, and has a mustache. Of course my Aunt was amazed when she saw it. She would have remembered some wierdo in a fancy silk shirt and pimp ring standing in front of her. My mother printed out the picture and took it back to the castle to talk to the investigators. They seemed skeptical! Isn't that funny? The woman explained to her that they had to be skeptical as most things eventually are explainable. There were only 11 people on the tour. None of them were wearing a white silk shirt, none of them remotely resembled the man in the mirror. She tried to take more pictures of the tea room at that exact angle, putting a friend against the same wall for comparison. She said it took forever. Her batteries drained twice. The camera froze up and one of the investigators told her to try leaving the room, where it suddenly came back on. They were all excited by this. They asked her to send them the picture so they can analyze it, sharpen the image or whatever. Can't wait to hear the consensus. Weird pimp guy or spirit?

So, anyway...back to the question. I would like to believe in ghosts. I would like to believe there is something beyond death. I will tell you that a picture of a ghost would be more likely to convince me of the existence of souls and the great beyond than any religion would. But, I just don't have any solid evidence. No one does. It's all about faith...again.

Something that would make sense to me is the theory of energy being engrained in space/time. I guess if a person repeats the same activity all their life, say going up and down the same stairs, than they could be engraining that image for others to view later. Sort of like when you get older and you notice that all the lines you have around your mouth and eyes are the ones created by years of smiling. They are permanent now. Like the engrained images of people's past energy maybe?

If you're interested, here's a link to the top believable ghost pictures of all time:
http://paranormal.about.com/library/weekly/aa101402a.htm

Pirated Twinkies

2007-05-16T12:41:00.000-07:00

Okay, this is sort of writing related but, bonus...I get to rant.

This caught my eye on the front page of Yahoo: Burger King sued over trans fats

Apparently a nutrition advocasy group sued because Burger King hasn't changed their frying oil to one without trans fats, like other fast food chains have. Here's a quote from the article that really makes me wonder if maybe we should really take a look at more than just our waistlines:

"Consumers have no way to guard against the risk of consumer trans fats."

WHAT????!!!!! No way to guard against this? How about STOP STICKING THE STUFF IN OUR MOUTHS????

Are they kidding? When did free will go extinct? When did people stop taking personal responsiblity for themselves??? Wait, don't answer that last one.

Okay, seriously we are heading in very dangerous terrority here. We have got to stop expecting the government and lawmakers and advocacy rights groups, and manufacturers and our mothers, neighbors, mailmen, etc. to protect us. We've got to stop blaming and suing each other. Take personal responsibility. Make educated decisions. Here's a head start...you really don't know Burger King is unhealthy?

Whopper with cheese: 760 calories/47 grams of fat
Large Fry: 600 calories/33 grams of fat
Large Coke: 297 calories

1,657 calories and a whopping (pun intended) 80 grams of fat for one meal.

So, what would happen if we all decided that we wanted to be in charge of taking care of our own health and everyone just stopped eating there? No lawsuits, no advocacy groups, no indignation...just chose to eat healthy? Well, I bet they would figure out a way to serve healthy food or go out of business. We are the ones driving them, not the other way around.

Okay, for the writing related part:

I wrote a short story a few years ago called PIRATED TWINKIES. It was a very tongue in cheek story about a guy named George who lived in a time where sweets, fats, etc. had been banned by the government. Twinkies were the hot item on the black market. After already failing two weigh-ins, he gets busted buying twinkies and gets sent to the 'maintenance facility' (basically prison). After doing his time and being forced back to his required weight, he gets out and decides to kill himself. He gets a hold of some bootlegged whiskey and drinks until he happily passes out on the railroad tracks, thinking it would all finally be over. Unfortunately, he wakes up in a hospital a few days later only to find out the train didn't kill him, but did sever off both his legs. He is horrified until he glances at his chart and sees that his weight is now listed as 180 lbs. He wonders, stunned, how he lost 60 pounds. Then he looks at the empty space in the bed, smiles happily and asks to use the phone. His twinkie dealer was very happy to hear from him.

Sadly, I don't think this is as far down the road as I thought it was when I wrote it.

Mother's Day

2007-05-09T07:55:00.000-07:00

How to juggle being a writer and motherhood:

Throw all the balls up in the air and then duck!

Just kidding, it's not that bad...who needs hair and...hot meals and clothes without baby spit up...and sleep?

Okay, I joke but I wouldn't have it any other way. These three little people are the only things I'm sure I have done right with my life so far. Every day, they show me new ways to look at the world. They give me a reason to be silly, go to carnivals, get out of my own head and live in the moment.

Mother's Day makes me especially aware of how lucky I am to have this job.

The Road

2007-05-07T11:57:00.000-07:00

I've ignored my must read book list again and picked up a novel I didn't have on there. Cormac McCarthy's THE ROAD. Curiosity, I guess. After all it did get the Pulitzer Prize for fiction and more importantly was Oprah's book club selection! So, what's all the fuss?

I'm about 3/4 of the way done, thanks to not being able to put this book down until after one in the morning, and then only because my eyes were burning. The amazing thing is, the whole story consists of a man and his son walking across a post-apocalyptic America. That's the entirety of the plot. Neither the man nor his son are named, nor is the event that has destroyed life on earth. But, in this simplicity lay incredible heartache and gorgeous prose.

I'm not sure why he uses such rhetorical devices such as leaving out the apostrophes in the contractions. Maybe he was trying to give the reader a sense of the rules changing; a sense that the world they live (and speak in) no longer has rules. He also skillfully uses a lot of repeating themes and images: gray, fear, the uncertainty of an "I don't know" response to a lot of questions.

I spend most of the hours with this book alternating between trying to read through tears and trying to unclench my jaw. Even after I put it down, I couldn't release myself from the world he created. Even then, I strained to see through the dark, feeling the falling forest around me and expecting scrawny, soiled men with human flesh in their teeth to sneak into my room. I almost woke up my babies just to hold them. It is that powerful.

As a writer I am both humbled and inspired by this masterpiece.

Near Miss

2007-04-26T04:23:00.000-07:00

I recieved a hopeful rejection last night in my email box. I know, I know...hopeful rejection is an oxymoron, right? It was from Vestal Review and after the normal rejection that always goes something like "although we enjoyed reading your submission, due to the godzillion other fantastic entries we received, we will be passing...la la la da da da." But then, after the signature there was a little note: PS- Your story was a near miss.

Wow. Just wow. A near miss! Do you know what that means? It means these editors aren't actually laughing at me, wondering why I didn't try dentistry or something equally as painful as my writing is. Which is always in the back of your mind during the submission/rejection process. How bad were they laughing, right?

It kind of reminded me of a Loverboy concert I attended as a teen. We were in the third or fourth row, because this was before I was self-aware enough to know I was claustrophobic. We were all screaming as the guitarist prowled the front of the stage when suddenly he actually made eye contact with me! Then he pointed and threw his pick to me. Some guy in front of me wrenched it out of my hand, so I didn't get to keep it-- but, that didn't matter because the point was--he noticed me. I existed to him for a moment.

So, for a moment, I existed to Vestal Review. My story was alive in someone else's mind and they found it compelling enough to consider.

In this very subjective business, almost-good-enough is almost...well, good enough.

Ray's Magic

2007-04-24T08:38:00.000-07:00

I'm rediscovering Ray Bradbury. My daughter is reading Fahrenheit 451 for school. An amazing book, an amazing man. Although I'm glad this book is on their reading list, I wish that they would actually discuss the point of the book itself instead of what they are doing: being tested on things like quotes, what character says what...I think just to make sure they did the reading assignment. There's a strange disconnect in literature that's being taught in schools. The teachers (in my own experience) aren't making the kids think, only memorize. They aren't allowing them to expand on these writers ideas, analyze them, try to figure out what warning they are trying to relay, what message they are trying to give. They aren't teaching them to look ahead and envision the possibilities of their future. It seems the only thing that's important is passing the tests. Scary.

Anyway, I went to Ray's website and started reading about how he became a writer. I came across this little story from his "In His Own Words" section: http://www.raybradbury.com/inhiswords02.html

I wish there were more people in the world like this carnival magician. People taking the time to talk with children, feed them a sense of wonder, hope and magic.

Mr. Electrico did indeed give him the gift of immortality. Through his writing.

Magic, indeed.

Bare-breasted Mama

2007-04-16T18:15:00.001-07:00

No. This is not about naked women, so if you googled 'bare-breasted' or 'naked' then...go away.

This is about my friend, Gail Konop Baker, and her wonderfully poignant, honest and sometimes painful monthly column she writes for Literary Mama. Gail has survived breast cancer with her sense of joy and humor in tact. Here's an excerpt to gnaw on:

"The catch is, once a cell has mutated, the damage has been done long ago, the body's built-in self-protective system has failed. I have failed myself. No textbook, no research, no footnote can alter the fact that my body let cancer sneak its devious cruel-ass self in."

There you have it. The simple, naked truth of feeling betrayed by your own body. Captured in one sentence. Powerful stuff.

If you want to laugh and cry simultaneously, go check her out: http://www.literarymama.com/columns/barebreastedmama/

I promise you will hug your loved ones tighter and look at the world with a bit more appreciation...if only for a moment.

What Evil Movie God Decides These Things?

2007-04-13T11:56:00.000-07:00

I'm doing self-therapy again, bear with me. I'm not quite sure how I feel about this:
http://www.cinemablend.com/new/Angelina-Jolie-Confirmed-For-Atlas-Shrugged-3459.html

It's somewhere between nauseous and confused.

If you don't feel like clicking today, here's the gist of it:

"Angelina is signed to star in the film as the powerful female Railroad Tycoon Dagney Taggert."

Atlas Shrugged happens to be one of my favorite books of all times. I have been waiting...and waiting for the movie to be made, even though I know a movie from a book is always a disappointment. I still want to see those magnificent, idealistic characters played out on the screen.

Angelina Jolie happens to be one of my least favorite people-that-I-don't-know people. I do admire her free-spirited save-the-world one child at a time attitude. Really, I do. I'm not sure what bugs me so much about her, maybe I'm just jealous. But, come on...first Brad Pitt and now John Galt???!!! How many fantansy men does one gal get to have in a lifetime?

Okay, jealousy aside, she is just not Dagney Taggert material. Dagney did not have the world by the balls because of her looks, but because of her mind. I'm sure Ayn Rand is rolling over in her grave about now. I think Jodie Foster would be great in the role. Is there still time to vote? Or boycott? Or have a temper tantrum?

Short Stories

2007-03-30T09:11:00.000-07:00

My short story is up now: http://crimsonhighway.com/

The funny thing about this story is it's really the first official short story I wrote. Ever since I was nine--creating book covers with crayons and discovering the folded, stapled page-- it's always been novels or poetry. I've never been good at the short story, and honestly I don't take Crimson Highway's act of publishing kindness to mean that has changed. It's all subjective. But lately, I've found myself moving more and more into this realm with my writing...between work on the novel, that is.

There are two things I've found necessary to short story writing. Those are patience and attention. Maybe it's the same process for novel writing, but its so much more drawn out that I haven't really noticed. It's a very strange process and I know now why I've heard some writers answer the question "where do you get your ideas?" with "from a mail order catalog." Really, they don't know. Muse, inspiration, or magic. To me, it feels like magic but since I'm always inclined to peek under the curtain...here's what I've figured out.

The process starts with an irritation. A small itch. The pearl made from a grain of sand. For example, the story I'm working on now came from my reaction to what's going on in Africa. I didn't plan on writing a story based on this. And when my main character appeared, I didn't know that her environment, while set in a different time and space, would mirror that of Africa's, but it does. I will chalk this up to my subconscious trying to create a similar situation that I can inject hope into. Self-therapy. Working it out.

Anyway, she came to me complete. Not the story, but the person. I watched her for a few days. This Jadis Honeywine person. I got to know her family's trade, heard the fables passed on to her from her mother about her people. The light skinned people came from Green Ash trees in the spring, when the leaves were green and so they have green eyes. The other tribes came from Maple, Willow, Birch, and Palms and Olive trees. Silly little pieces like this.

This is where the attention comes in. Throughout the day, I have to pay attention because these bits of story drift in and must be captured or lost. I don't know her story but I'm patiently waiting for it to unfold. Sometimes I try to interject my own interpretation, push the story in a certain direction. It falls apart. This is where the patience comes in. So, I wait and watch.

I didn't have the patience for this process when I was younger. I wonder how many stories were whispered to me that I didn't hear.

Even peeking behind the curtain, it feels like magic.

Blood Diamond

2007-03-24T08:41:00.000-07:00

I watched this movie last night. And then proceeded to stay up until two in the morning sick to my stomach trying to figure out a way to save the world. The hallmark of a succesful movie.

I've never been a big Leo fan. I'm probably the only person in the world who didn't like Titantic. I don't like my emotional responses to be so blatantly induced or choreographed. Some movies...and books for that matter are just meant to entertain. Let you escape from reality. Make you laugh, relieve stress. But, some movies (and books) are meant to raise your awareness, and these are my favorite kind.

I don't usually watch the news or peruse CNN on the web. If there's something I absolutely need to know, someone around me will inform me. Some people get desensitized by the bombardment of suffering and injustice in the world. I'm not one of those people. I get devestated.

Refugee camps have always been one of those things for me that seem to exist far from reality. I've seen pictures, I've heard stories. I was touched by the story of Sudan's "lost boys" in my National Geographic, but this movie did a really good job of taking the distance away. The horror of Africa's long history of civil war is somehow put right in your lap. At least it was for me. What human beings are doing to other human beings over there is beyond comprehension. I am trying to understand it, anyway.

So, what can harden a person's heart to the point where they can chop off a child's arm without thinking twice? How about slaughter their brothers and sisters, rip the terrified children from the dead parents bodies, stick a gun in their tiny hands and force them to kill? Drive into refugee camps and gun down thousands of women and children at a time?

My first reaction was-- these people are inhuman and evil. But, I have to say, when I got past the outrage, grief and shock and put my belief that all people are inherently good to the test...my conclusion was that these people are all just victims. Yes, even the rebels chopping off kid's arms. They are victims of an environment that fosters hopelessness and devalues life. How do you give an entire country hope for a future? How do you instill in them the belief that all life is a gift...even their own? I don't have any answers and I know there will be no easy solution. But, surely there is something we can do besides send money, right?

One of the characters said that he wondered if God would ever forgive them for what they are doing to each other. And then he said he realized God had left Africa a long time ago.

This started a debate in my house about whether people need religion to have a moral code. Do they need to believe that there's a God waiting to punish them in order to keep from murdering their neighbor?

My thought is no, they just need to have respect for their own life, feel that they have a right to live out their life in peace and--by extension--feel the same about others.

Would "putting the fear of God" through religion in Africa stop the slaughter?

Probably not. People can justify anything.

Lots to think about anyway.

Very sad.

Writing With Light

2007-03-13T13:49:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking recently about one of my other passions--photography--and how it's actually born out of the same need to express the world around me, only using a different tool to tell the story.

I took this picture this morning. It's the first time in a long time I was moved to shoot something just for the hell of it. After having a photography business, I kindof lost the urge to use it as an art form. But, this morning the sky was this certain shade of chalk-dust pink and everything was so still, peaceful and full of promise. The best part was this dump truck on the hill. One, because I love dump trucks (don't ask) and two because it symbolized for me man's ability to change his environment, to change the landscape of the world...and it sat there on the hill majestically, patiently as the sun rose to start a new day.

Now, someone else might look at this and say, "You know, that would have been a great picture if that stupid truck wasn't in the way."

And so you have it. I took the picture with the truck in it because I like the perspective of this story. As writers we do the same thing. Each scene is a snapshot of the story we want to tell. Just like a photograph, we pick a viewpoint, we frame the shot--deciding what details should be in it and what should be cropped out--we pick a point of focus, depth of field, etc. It's all the same.

In one of my photography classes, the instructor told us to go to the park and take a picture of a bench. "Get the first couple of shots out of the way," he said. Then change your perspective: lay on the ground, climb a tree, change the angle you're shooting from in as many different ways as you can think of. Don't just think of it as a bench, wait for the lighting to change, shoot just one leg with the shadow, use the macro lens to shoot the dirt embedded in the grain of wood. I love the macro lens by the way, which is a very telling thing for my writing...digging out the smallest detail of the story gets me high.

So, I'm going to try to remind myself to do this while writing: get the story out of the way and then look at it from a different angle, change the focus, find the hidden beauty and the darkest secrets. I believe this is where the deeper meaning of the tale lives.

Randomness

2007-03-11T07:43:00.000-07:00

I feel a few sparks from the ol' fried brain this morning, so I guess I'll attempt to write here and see what happens.

Besides crawling slowly through the soul-sucking muck that is the last stretch of winter, I have been busy re-working my first book. It's a scary prospect, reading something you wrote years ago. I'm not the same person I was back then. So, would I still think it worthy of requerying? Would I even still like it? Gratefully, I did. I am a firm believer that we write the books that we want to read. So, visiting the characters again was great fun.

I did change the beginning to add more urgency to something the main character had to do. This was actually suggested to me by an agent a while back but I thought "no, no...the urgency isn't there because the character is depressed and depressed people have no urgency." But, I've learned quite a lot about hooking the reader since then and damn it, she was right. I hate when that happens. I also fixed a horrible punctuation mistake that I made through the entire book. How embarrassing. Then, I packed it up and sent it off to a writer/saint that agreed to read it for a possible blurb! Very excited about that.

I've also been immersed in book two and am almost at 100 pages. That will take up the bulk of my free time now as I'm at the point where I'm thinking about it constantly...which includes waking up in the middle of the night with pieces of dialog or whatever forcing me to find my little broken reading light and write things down. Apparently, my subconscious is a workaholic. Can't say I'm not having fun though.

I leave you with a poem for the mood of a Monday.

"I've given up on my brain.
I've torn the cloth to shreds
and thrown it away.

If you're not completely naked,
wrap your beautiful robe of words
around you

and sleep."

-Rumi

Update

2007-03-01T12:37:00.000-08:00

So, the owner of the agency wrote back and said my agent is no longer with the agency. She said she is trying to get a submission list from her. Apparently they work very independently. The bummer here is I can't look for a new agent with that book without a submission history.

I have a right to be furious, I know. Strangely, I'm not. I almost want to laugh. Not in a belly-chuckle kind of way, but in a 'okay universe, I've got your number' kind of way. I'm beginning to notice a pattern in life, in mine anyway. I go along...la de da da...and bam, something that could be construed as a negative event comes along and derails whatever I was trying to do. I know this happens to everyone. I'm just noticing my pattern as an observer.

The funny thing about this though is if I wait awhile, something useful always comes out on the other side. Something better. So, I guess that's why I was frustrated at first, confused, a bit down but now that I've had a chance to think about it, I'm actually excited. I've gotten a bunch of good advice from writers much wiser in the mysterious ways of the publishing industry than I. After processing it all, I''ve decided on a plan that feels like the right course of action and am looking forward to a new adventure.

Here's the plan: I'll wait two weeks to see if the agency comes up with a submission history. If they don't, I will operate with the assumption it wasn't submitted at all. I'll revise the book, which by the way, I'm changing back to my original title 'Sahara's Song', solicit some blurbs and requery. Meanwhile, I will work on book 2, which I'm about to throw myself into because I'm at that point finally where the story is pouring out. Love this point with a capital L!

Yes, it is a daunting task to revisit book 1 on these terms but I'm up for it...or I'm just stubborn.

Lots of work, long road ahead...still happy.

My First

2007-02-26T18:35:00.000-08:00

So, I'm back and had mixed feelings about my inbox when I returned. First, I was a bit...ahem...irritated that my soon-to-be-ex agent didn't bother to reply. I'm getting the feeling I've been too nice and way too patient. I've written an email to the owner of the agency...yes, I'm procrastinating picking up the phone. Why can't people just do what they say they're going to do?

BUT, on a happier note--I was also very, very excited to find one of my short stories has been accepted by Crimson Highway (http://www.crimsonhighway.com/) and will appear in their April issue. It will be my first short story published. It's a "for the love" deal, but so what? A writing credit is a writing credit!

This makes me happy.

Agent 00Nothing

2007-02-21T12:34:00.000-08:00

So, in talking to a new writer friend who I had the pleasure of being a reader for...and who landed an agent and an offer within a short amount of time, and who I believe deserves both--I came to the conclusion that I needed to shake up my situation a bit. I find myself enjoying change this year, like letting go of things in my life that aren't working (ex: The Mothercode). So, I have also decided to end my relationship with my agent. Scary, yes...to be agentless once again when it took so long to get through the slush and get her to begin with, not to mention the hundreds of query letters, postage costs, the tic from hitting the refresh button on my email over and over...ah, those were the days.

But, as my friend pointed out--you can't get the right one until you toss out the wrong one. I like this. So, I took a leap of faith and ended it, asking only that she send me a list of editors that have passed on the manuscript because this is one of the things that I have been upset with her about. Yes, I do want to hear about the rejections. Yes, I would like a submission history for future reference. So, guess what? That was two days ago and she hasn't responded yet. She usually answers my emails within the hour. I'm beginning to wonder if she has even EVER put it in front of an editor. I mean, I certainly would tell a client about the rejections, if nothing else, to let them know I was at least trying. When I've asked her in the past who is passing, she has said "be patient, these things take awhile." Refer to friend above--obviously not that long.

Have I hurt her feelings? I doubt it, she's been in the business for thirty years. Surely, she's lost other clients.

Did she secretly hate my book and take it on just to keep it off the market? I'm beginning to think so.

I suppose I'll eventually have to call her if she doesn't respond. That will not make me happy.

If I look at the upside, which is what I'm trying to do, I have to say that I think the book I'm working on now will be easier to sell and will appeal to a broader population. I would rather it be my first published. Or, who knows, maybe the one I write after this one will be "the one." Someday I'll get there.

Anyway, I will be leaving for the mountains tomorrow. Fun and tubing with friends for a few days. Hopefully when I get back this situation will have resolved itself.

Missed My Ride Again

2007-02-13T11:09:00.000-08:00

I thought I'd take a break from writing about writing and share one of my smaller obsessions. Unexplained phenomena. This is a picture taken by Charles Miller of a UFO cruising the NC skies. (I realize it's hard to see cuz my background is black, too)Darn, why wasn't I looking up? Gotta get my nose out of books once in awhile.

I'm not sure if this is the same UFO, but a few weeks ago, the news here played some 911 recordings for our amusement where people were calling in from all over NC freaked out by a ball of light arching across the sky. A former military pilot was quoted as saying the colors weren't right and it was moving too slow to be a comet.

Now, no one that was interviewed would actually say they believed it was an actual UFO or aliens or anything of the sort. Wimps. Maybe they've heard too many abduction stories and are afraid of the retaliating probe. Me? When I let my mind venture in the direction of us being the only life to pop up in the whole universe, I feel--not special--but lonely, insignificant and destitute. If we are the only life forms then are we just a random mistake? A virus that got out of control on the surface of one insignificant rock? Then what happens when our sun burns itself out or we blow ourselves up or a comet wipes out all life, etc??? Then life just doesn't exist anywhere? Ever? Nope, I can't buy it.

I've seen a UFO myself. Two, actually. It was about ten years ago when I lived in Ft. Lauderdale on the Fourth of July. Oh, you say...you saw fireworks after one too many margaritas. Well, yes...there were fireworks and margaritas involved BUT I was not hallucinating. It was a clear night, warm, perfect as only a Florida night can be, I was alternating watching the fireworks in the sky and the reflection off the lake when something higher caught my eye. It was one light zig zagging at high speed at first and then another popped up joining it in what looked like a game of chase. I turned to the person beside me and said "do you see that?" "Hah," they said thoughtfully following the lights, "they must of come to see the fireworks." I looked around at the crowd and no one seemed to be bothered by the high speed game going on in the sky...I couldn't even tell if anyone else noticed. I'd say it lasted no more than a minute then they just blinked out.

My parents also had their own close encounter. In high school, they were at a picnic and said a long cigar shaped UFO joined the party. Everyone got scared and took off. My parents, who are very straight laced and not prone to stories or exaggerations, swear the thing followed them home. My mother even said the neighbor got a picture of it but the lady had died and she wasn't sure what ever happened to the picture.

I wish there was some way to know for sure if these things were true. But, I have to wonder, even if one landed in the middle of Times Square and aliens took a leisurely stroll down Broadway...would we even believe then?

I'd put my money on no.

Are You Ready?

2007-02-09T07:00:00.000-08:00

Winter. Not my favorite season. The only way I can escape the cold is to move inward. Here's a question I found lurking there: Are you really ready to a published writer? If your agent called you today and said "so-and-so-big-shot-publisher loves your novel--would you be ready to say "my dream has finally come true, I'm so happy!" (And really mean that?) I didn't like the answer I found.

No. I'm not ready.

Sure, I feel like I've struggled with my writing for a long time, I've put in the work, the effort...I have the drive, the passion...I could definitely appreciate being paid for my writing, or at least have my vision validated by being accepted by others. So, why am I not ready?

Here's an exercise for you. Think back five years ago. Where were you? What were your dreams or goals? What "if only" were you banking your happiness on? "I would be happy "if only" I were out of debt? "If only" I had a good relationship..."if only" I could loose ten pounds?

My "if only" from five years ago has happened. So, am I happy? Well, no, not really. I have a real problem with moving on to the next goal without being grateful for reaching the first one. Yes, I do think this is part of human nature. We are not satisfied with where we are in life because we have the ability to visualize our future. We need to strive, to improve ourselves and our situations. The problem with this is when we live for the next goal, the "down the road", we are not living in the now. We are not appreciating the now. The now is our future five years ago.

This is why I don't feel I'm ready. This goal is so important to me, I don't want it fulfilled until I can truly appreciate it. I want to be able to embrace it, experience it and be grateful in that moment without immediately replacing it with "now I have to worry about writing another one". The only way I can think of to do this is to start appreciating where I am immediately. What is there to appreciate as an unpublished writer?

Lots, really. Just being able to write, to do what I love to do. No pressure. Just write. It's a beautiful feeling. True happiness. Appreciating the now.

Tagged

2007-02-01T16:55:00.000-08:00

I have been tagged with a book meme by blogger extraordinaire Christian and yes, I had to look up the word meme cuz I'm that much of a geek. I was pleasantly surprised at its meaning, too. It's apparently a word made up by none other than Richard Dawkins which refers to a "unit of cultural information transferable from one mind to another". How cool is that??? So, here goes my transference (you may want to have a cigarette handy :-)

Hardback, trade paperback, or mass-market paperback? I like hardbacks...durable, weighty, substantial. But paperbacks are easier to carry and some of them can be quite luscious. Oryx and Crake, for example is high quality in every aspect. I actually make people feel the soft pages, they're almost like cloth. (To this my hubby replied, "Have you always been this odd?" Geez, you think he'd know the answer to that question by now.)

Amazon or brick-and-mortar? Going into a bookstore is all part of the happy experience. One of three pleasures I will never give up for the sake of saving time.

Barnes & Noble or Borders? Barnes & Noble is only five minutes away, Borders is twenty. Before we had our twins, Borders was a great Friday night of browsing and sitting in the cafe getting caffeinated while watching whatever local band or poet was there. Now we go to B&N cuz of the closeness and the fact we can fit a twin stroller through their aisles.

Bookmark or dogear? Dogear=sacrilege. I seriously cannot bring myself to do this. I have this really pretty beaded bookmark but I've usually got about five books going at a time so anything goes--receipts, envelopes, pictures, etc. You think I'd just get some more bookmarks, right?

Alphabetize by author, by title, or random? When I was a kid I arranged my books on the shelf by size, quite to my parent's amusement which they still make fun of me for. Now I like the eclectic, messy looking bookshelf, and I realize size is not the best way to categorize important things in one's life.

Keep, throw away or sell? Throw away? Never. The only books that leave my possession are the ones I am moved to give to people who I think would be inspired by them.

Keep dust jacket or toss it? Keep it, put it back on when the book goes back on the shelf.

Read with the dust jacket or remove it? Dust jackets are annoyingly formal. Plus, have you ever worn a shirt that is constantly slipping off your shoulder and you have to keep adjusting it all the time? uggg. This is the book jacket to me.

Collection (short stories by same author) or anthology (short stories by different authors)? Silly question. It's like asking an alcoholic how much they drink. "All of it." Like I said, I'll read anything.

Harry Potter or Lemony Snicket? I like the name "Lemony Snicket". It's great fun to say. I've read a few of my daughter's Potter books and I don't get all the controversy? Is it just because there is magic involved? Or is just because I'm in the south?

Stop reading when tired or at chapter breaks? Because of my limited time, I read when I can and stop when I have to.

"It was a dark and stormy night" or "Once upon a time"? OOO..dark and stormy night...YES.

Buy or borrow? Own...possess...treasure...

New or used? Love them all. Do try to buy new whenever possible to support writers.

Buying choice: book reviews, recommendations or browse? Browse for pure pleasure, but I usually have a "must read" list with me when I go.

Tidy ending or cliffhanger? Oh, pleeeeeeze don't leave me hanging. This is why I never got the appeal of Soap Opera's.

When do you read: morning, afternoon or night? yes. yes. yes.

Standalone or series? I do like it when a character is continued through different books, like Preston & Childs' Agent Pendergast character. But, all of my favorite books have been stand alone.

Favorite book of which nobody else has heard? I'm going to say Backbeat: A novel of Physics just because I don't think the author, J. Frederick Arment, has written anything else yet. It was a great story. Or how about, Dogs Who Know When Their Owners Are Coming Home? Heard of that one? It was enlightening.

Favorite books read last year? I can almost always find something to love about a book, but I guess if I have to narrow it down: Oryx and Crake, Ghost Dancer, Second Genesis, and Calculating God.

Favorite books of all time? Oryx and Crake, Atlas Shrugged, Les Miserables, Count of Monte Cristo, The Dancing Wu Li Masters

Short story or novel? Novel. I like to live with the characters for awhile, get to know them. And I'm a big fan of description...give me pages and pages of it...which is hard to do in a short story.

So, that's it. And considering I have no idea if anyone else reads this blog, I guess I'll just say, "If you read this, consider yourself tagged." (Besides Christian, of course.) Thanks Christian, it was fun!

Pearl of Wisdom

2007-02-01T10:51:00.000-08:00

Once in a while I come across another writer's thoughts that just make me feel so connected to that individual even though they may be no longer with us. Sharing what we sort out about the human condition is one of our greatest gifts to each other...so, I'm passing it on.

The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this: A human creature born abnormally, inhumanely sensitive. To him...

a touch is a blow,
a sound is a noise,
a misfortune is a tragedy,
a joy is an ecstasy,
a friend is a lover,
a lover is a god,
and failure is death.

Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create--so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, his very breath is cut off from him. He must create, must pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency he is not really alive unless he is creating.
-Pearl S. Buck

Can You Hear Color?

2007-01-29T06:29:00.000-08:00

Daniel Tammett is the autistic savant who recited 22,514 numbers of Pi from memory. Impressive yes, but more impressive is the fact that his genius comes with little price to the rest of his abilities and so he can actually explain to scientists (and the rest of us) how his brain works. Most savants can't introspect, so you can imagine how exciting this is. Since he also has a condition called synesthesia, he explains that how he remembers numbers is--he sees them as colorful landscapes. Numbers come in colors, texture and movement to him! Aren't our brains amazing?

I had actually used this "neurological condition" for one of my main characters in The Neural Net (he could see color when he played music) because I found this so fascinating. It's really just their brains interpreting the signals coming in in different ways than our normal perception is programmed to do. They think we are all born synaesthetes due to the unspecialized mess of neurons not being pruned and packages in their respective places yet. But, then when we're all tidied up, we are just plain ol' see-color-hear-music people. Sigh.

With all of his giftedness, the one thing I truly admire about Daniel is that he really just wants to touch the world, give some part of himself to it and make other's lives better. I think this is what makes him a truly special person.

Present Tense

2007-01-26T11:58:00.000-08:00

I've just finished going back through what I have done so far and changing the tense from past to present. I realize this isn't the traditional tense for a work of fiction and I swear I'm not trying to follow some trend or be overtly literary. I did it because I want the reader to experience the impact of the events as they happen. It's a near future story, so it just didn't seem to be working as a story that's already over. Here's the difference:

Already happened:

Points of light giggled furiously, winking in and out of existence, twinkling like some mad, colorful acid trip. Safia pulled back a little, using her consciousness like a fine, focusing knob. Patterns emerged, knots of 3-D hexagons and pentagons reflecting electric blues, crystalline yellows. She pulled back more, opening up to a wider, softer landscape of strange fuzzy shapes swimming in random jerking motions amid liquid currents. One more adjustment. Ah, there it was. She moved around it, examining its borders, folding it into her mind to process the new data.

vs.

Happening:

Points of light giggle furiously, winking in and out of existence, twinkling like some mad, colorful acid trip. Safia pulls back a little, using her consciousness like a fine, focusing knob. Patterns emerge, knots of 3-D hexagons and pentagons reflecting electric blues, crystalline yellows. She pulls back more, opening up to a wider, softer landscape of strange fuzzy shapes swimming in random jerking motions amid liquid currents. One more adjustment. Ah, there it is. She moves around it, examining its borders, folding it into her mind to process the new data.

Subtle, I know...but, it feels right.

Somebody Stop Me

2007-01-23T11:41:00.000-08:00

Okay, I had to come here and make a confession. I am an addict. I will never get my own writing done because I can't freakin' stop reading everyone else's writing...uggg. Someone stop me, please.

I've got three books I'm chomping at the bit to read and I've managed to hold off, telling myself I can indulge when I get to page 100 of my own current novel. (kindof sounds like a diet doesn't it? I can have that yummy chocolate cake when I've lost ten pounds.) So, I've been allowing myself brief peeks at blogs. Short reading, enough to get my fix...no harm done, right? Wrong with a capital R.

J.A. Konrath is a thriller writer who I am just getting familiar with and I haven't purchased any of his books yet, but he's got an incredibly helpful blog going http://jakonrath.blogspot.com/ so I will eventually pick up his Jack Daniels books. However, I accidentally read one of his books yesterday.

How do you accidentally read someone's book you ask? Well, you innocently click on the "free ebooks" link on the far right of his page and get sucked into a really good story. ORIGINS is about someone digging up the devil while building the Panama Canal. Is it really the devil? Well, you can go here: http://www.jakonrath.com/ebooks.html and read for yourself. It was a good story, one that he couldn't get published so he decided to let people read it for free. It had humor, which I like, and got my heart pumping more than once, which I really like. The only compliant I had was that there was so much potential in the subject matter, so many questions to delve into that it could have been a lot deeper. Instead, he opted for the blood and guts thriller route. Which was entertaining, even if I was looking for more.

This happened when I read SECOND GENESIS by Jeffrey Anderson, also. The subject matter--genetically altered chimps--excited me beyond belief. I loved the opening chapters which took place in a secret lab in the Amazon. Then, as all thrillers must, I suppose...the story took a turn into the jungles where a long chase scene ensued. Disappointment over the issues I wanted to see brought to light not being touched made me write to him. I told him how I was both moved by the first part of the book and disappointed in the second part (longer explanation that I'll spare you.) Being the really nice guy that he is, he wrote back and we had a great exchange of emails discussing how it's hard to please all the readers. (Some wrote to him saying they hated the opening chapters and loved the jungle chase.) He actually introduced me to the wonderful writing community of Backspace which I will always be indebted to him for.

What'cha gonna do? Can't please all the readers all the time. I'll have to remember that. But, since you can't have readers until you're done writing...off I go.

Nothing But the Truth

2007-01-17T09:25:00.000-08:00

In order to reach my goal of five pages a day on my new WIP, I'll apologize in advance for any neglect this little experiment will suffer in the following months. The good news is I'm up to 36 pages already, which would have taken me (in my normal perfectionist writing time) about a month to write. I'm liking this "just get the story out" advice. But, a theme has come to my attention recently, so I'd like to talk about it. That is: Honesty in fiction writing.

For the characters in fiction I have come to the conclusion that honesty means flaws. For example, my main character is a pretty stand up, morally adept gal who tries to do the right thing. Now, if she were to do the right thing all the time, this would make her a cardboard cutout character. That's not real life. She needs mistakes, flaws. In this new novel, she will have to deal with larger issues like what it really means to be human, or to be human but to be different. There will be underlying racial issues of a sort, and she will believe she is free from prejudice but to really let her be honest with herself, she will have to have some conflict between her actions (the person she wants to be) and her feelings (the person she currently is). She will have to acknowledge this conflict (be honest with herself) and try to resolve it. The funny thing about us humans is we are capable of not recognizing that conflict, of deluding ourselves about our true nature, of walking around believing we are our ideal self. Letting the characters be honest about their flaws gives the writer all kinds of new dilemmas to work with. Bonus.

Honesty in science fiction. Robert J. Sawyer wrote an interesting article about Michael Crichton's liberty with truth in his novels. You can read it here: http://www.canada.com/ottawacitizen/news/opinion/story.html?id=db55b963-3074-4b70-a587-0a6292216b7b

But isn't that what fiction is, making stuff up? Yes, but I still feel that people reading science fiction are looking to the writer to show them what they should be concerned about or looking forward to in the future. Sort of a "weed out all the crap and give me a rundown on what could really happen" scenario.

As far as the writer being honest with themselves, third issue. Zadie Smith has a really thought-provoking article here: http://books.guardian.co.uk/review/story/0,,1988887,00.html
that addresses this. A quote:

"A writer's personality is his manner of being in the world: his writing style is the unavoidable trace of that manner...style is a writer's way of telling the truth."

Being honest about themselves in their writing, being brave enough to hang their "manner of being in the world" out there for readers to discover may be a writer's biggest challenge.