Coins In The Machine
I made my feeble attempt of a stirring post over at my other blog. Stop on over and see.
Telling Stories
From my last post, over 29 writers, including myself, got together and crafted an assortment of stories for an anthology called, Facing the Sun. This anthology was to help fellow author Richard Levangie as he underwent neurosurgery. He is home now, recovering.
You can still give a donation by visiting his website. With a donation, in any amount you like, you will receive the anthology Facing the Sun. All donations go to Richard to help with medical bills and other expenses as he continues to recover.
You can visit Richard at his site, Telling Stories. And thank you again for your donation.
You can still give a donation by visiting his website. With a donation, in any amount you like, you will receive the anthology Facing the Sun. All donations go to Richard to help with medical bills and other expenses as he continues to recover.
You can visit Richard at his site, Telling Stories. And thank you again for your donation.
Friends Of Richard
Hello everyone. I would like to ask for your help.
Consider making a donation to help out fellow author Richard Levangie, who is undergoing neurosurgery (today) to remove a pituitary tumor. Any size donation is accepted. As a thank you, you'll receive this anthology "Facing The Sun" with stories contributed from 29 writers. The anthology is in .pdf format to download or print out. You'll find a memoir piece of mine in this anthology.
Please visit Facing The Sun website for more information and to give a donation. For those friends who have already donated, I thank you.
Consider making a donation to help out fellow author Richard Levangie, who is undergoing neurosurgery (today) to remove a pituitary tumor. Any size donation is accepted. As a thank you, you'll receive this anthology "Facing The Sun" with stories contributed from 29 writers. The anthology is in .pdf format to download or print out. You'll find a memoir piece of mine in this anthology.
Please visit Facing The Sun website for more information and to give a donation. For those friends who have already donated, I thank you.
The Lascaux Review
Do you have a story that needs to be told, but is not receiving the reader attention you would like? Author friend Stephen Parrish is collaborating with author Wendy Russ to start an online literary journal titled, The Lascaux Review.
They are currently accepting submissions from both writers and artists. Unlike other literary journals that publish issues, they will take a more blog-like approach and post works as soon as they are accepted and ready to publish. You can subscribe to the site to receive announcements. They will also hold flash fiction contests and award annual prizes for best fiction pieces and poems.
Please visit their sites for more information on how to submit your story or artwork.
They are currently accepting submissions from both writers and artists. Unlike other literary journals that publish issues, they will take a more blog-like approach and post works as soon as they are accepted and ready to publish. You can subscribe to the site to receive announcements. They will also hold flash fiction contests and award annual prizes for best fiction pieces and poems.
Please visit their sites for more information on how to submit your story or artwork.
Blog Chain: Loving Our Villians
This week's Blog Chain is brought to us by Amparo, who asks:
I had to take a moment to decide who I wanted to write a love letter to, but then the answer became obvious. Who better than an author's ultimate fan? Anne Wilkes From Stephen King's Misery.
Stephen King's Misery is the ultimate fan worship movie. The love/hate relationship is legendary. We love having fans for our writing. But when the fan's adoration turns a bit... um... psycho fanatic, then we can't stand to have that person around.
So here is a letter to you, Anne Wilkes...
Dear Anne:
You are the author's best friend. You become a part of the writing that an author puts out, sinking into the characters in the book until you actually believe they are REAL. You feel the character's pain, love, anger, laughter. You experience every scene with the character. Who better than to have as an ultimate fan? You even name your pig after the main character.
But you are even more than this. You are a great critique partner. When Paul Sheldon lets you read his latest manuscript, you give him the helpful feedback that he needed. You told him you didn't like the manuscript. Then you made him set it on fire and continue writing his other series. You are the best critique partner a writer could have.
You are also inspirational. You encourage Paul to keep writing no matter what. And when procrastination sets in (as in Paul wanting to escape) you make sure Paul sits his butt back in that chair and keep at it. You even go and break his ankles to let him know that writing is the most important thing he should be doing.
So this letter is to you, Anne Wilkes, the author's ultimate fan.
Read Katrina's post from yesterday and Eric's post tomorrow.
Since
Valentine's Day is around the corner, I think it's only appropriate to
pay homage to those we love. But instead of our better halves, family
members, and friends, this blog chain will be all about loving the
haters: write a love letter to your favorite literary villain/villain-ish character. It can be short, long, serious, funny. You can use song lyrics or poems instead. Choice is totally yours :)
I had to take a moment to decide who I wanted to write a love letter to, but then the answer became obvious. Who better than an author's ultimate fan? Anne Wilkes From Stephen King's Misery.
Stephen King's Misery is the ultimate fan worship movie. The love/hate relationship is legendary. We love having fans for our writing. But when the fan's adoration turns a bit... um... psycho fanatic, then we can't stand to have that person around.
So here is a letter to you, Anne Wilkes...
Dear Anne:
You are the author's best friend. You become a part of the writing that an author puts out, sinking into the characters in the book until you actually believe they are REAL. You feel the character's pain, love, anger, laughter. You experience every scene with the character. Who better than to have as an ultimate fan? You even name your pig after the main character.
But you are even more than this. You are a great critique partner. When Paul Sheldon lets you read his latest manuscript, you give him the helpful feedback that he needed. You told him you didn't like the manuscript. Then you made him set it on fire and continue writing his other series. You are the best critique partner a writer could have.
You are also inspirational. You encourage Paul to keep writing no matter what. And when procrastination sets in (as in Paul wanting to escape) you make sure Paul sits his butt back in that chair and keep at it. You even go and break his ankles to let him know that writing is the most important thing he should be doing.
So this letter is to you, Anne Wilkes, the author's ultimate fan.
Read Katrina's post from yesterday and Eric's post tomorrow.
Blog Chain: Feel What You Feel
Blog Chain day! Kate has this round.
Post pictures, songs, movie clips, poems, or novel excerpts that make you feel. Feel what, you ask? Feel anything. Happy. Sad. Angry. Nostalgic. Hopeful. Hopeless. Jealous. Joyful.
I have read in several different places that YA novelist John
Green said of his latest novel, The Fault In Our Stars that he wants to
make his readers "Feel All The Things." I would love that someone could
go through this blog chain and through what we all choose to post have
that same Feel All The Things feeling.
Here's my collage of feelings:
***********
*******************
Feathered Concerto
by Michelle Hickman
“Silence, oh you mocking birds!”
I hear them flying overhead, your calls painful in my heart. Wings beat upon my head, causing my feet to stumble. Let not your dirge strike fear into my soul. I cast you out! I cast you out!
The stones cut into my bare soles, telling me I’m alive. But who cares? I may be, but she is not. Gone. Her life more fleeting than the downdraft keeping the feathered one aloft. Oh, how I wish I could seek such eternal sleep. Yet the violin case bangs into my thigh, urging onward. Keep going. Almost there.
A short distance as straight as the crow flies.
Autumn leaves flash a bit of white nearby. My knees buckle. There she is. My sweet one. Stark. Cold. Flesh picked clean by the scavengers perched among tree limbs. Feathers drift downward to become her funeral shroud covering her bones, shielding her nakedness.
Let me play a bit of something for you.
The violin rests on my shoulder. The bow slides across the strings. Our song drifts throughout this desolate place. The notes echo against the cliffs. Was it only last month when we walked along here? Yes, it was last month, during our argument, when the heat of our anger caused my arms to thrust out. You fell. You screamed your last aria.
I play our song. Cry out, you mocking birds! Join in with my requiem. Let your voices reach the heavens where my sweet now resides.
*************************
*****************
******************
******************
Novel Excerpt
Scary Darling
The Puchanist Opera House presents the musical smash hit, TEARS OF LIGHT, starring Ruth Henroy as the homely housewife Simple Susan, Peter Weriner as the real-estate mogul Lex of Fortuna, and Mabel Durhan as the scintillating temptress Veronica Volta. Along with an all-star cast --
Mabel . . . Mabel . . . Mabel . . . it was such a pretty name, not too long and not too short. It stuck in my mind with the flow of two separate words all to themselves. May bells. They would ring at the wedding ceremony as cherry blossoms showered their petals on the happy couple.
I wonder if she would like a May wedding? We could release doves after the ceremony. We could have the initials of our names, M for Mabel and G for George, stenciled in light on the dance floor. In thoughts, I could see us twirl and dip to the beats of our favorite song: Let love be true. Mabel sang it beautifully on stage. She could give an impromptu show for our special guests before we left for our honeymoon.
I heard her siren voice right now. The song belted from the speakers and the CD I had taken from the music store. I stared at the theater poster hanging on the refrigerator door, imagining her image putting on a special performance just for me. Wonderful. Yet I would share the real Mabel tonight. The theater ticket curled in my palm while I glanced at the time on the microwave. 5:00. The show would start at 7:15. The train would arrive in twenty minutes as it would take me to the East Side. I have already showered. I have already shaved. Beneath my feet as I sat on the bed, the floorboards shook. Rattles came from the jars on my shelves where captured paintbrushes showed colorful highlights along their bristle heads. Mabel’s voice stuttered from the bouncing radio at the vibration of metal wheels. The connected freight cars passed by the apartment building as my painted canvases drummed against all the walls. Bottom frames tapped in their jittery speech of stilted Morse code.
Wrong train, George. Count the rumbles four more times. Then this would be your cue to leave for the nearby depot.
My fingers pulled out yesterday’s playbill from under my pillow. The scissors had cut around the picture of sweet Mabel on the cover, snipping away the other actors. USELESS. Their performances paled to the stage theatrics done by my temptress. In my opinion, she carried the whole show by herself on those beautiful and burdened shoulders. Her name should have the place of honor at the top of the theater marquee.
From off the pillow, the roll of tape lifted into my grasp while I stood on the bed. The ceiling had a textured surface as the pieces of tape bulged with the tiny hills. The playbill found a shaky place near the ten other ones from the ten other shows I have attended these past two weeks. They might not stay. They might fall. Yet I had fun sticking them up there. I would lay under the covers at night and watch the moonlight reflecting on Mabel’s features. I would hear the tape pull away from the ceiling with a snick-snick. Loosened edges with not enough stickiness would give way from the glossy papers’ weight. Finally, one of them would fall on me and bring excited dreams. One day, the real Mabel would fall onto this bed from on high. She would drop onto the bedcovers wanting me as much as I wanted her.
I needed her to believe this.
I jumped off the bed and walked toward the kitchen table. The flowers, golden calla lilies, drank in the water from the vase. I readied the pale yellow tissue paper; Mabel’s favorite color was yellow as I pushed the previous blue paper farther down into the garbage can. I should have rolled up my sleeve first. Blood spotted the fabric when I lifted my arm out.
Stubborn man. He should have given me the flowers after he left the florist shop. It was not my fault that I punched him in the face. I had told him Mabel loved yellow flowers. He should have picked a different color if he wanted them so badly. Or he should have picked a flower Mabel hated. Or he should have parked his car out in the street instead of in the alley.
Two paper towels encircled the stems, holding in the moisture and keeping the flowers fresh. I placed the bundle on the tissue paper and curled the folds as I made the gift appear special. Then I slipped in the card and my neatly penned message.
I hope you have a spectacular stage performance. Break a leg. Your adoring admirer, George Bastion
Your adoring admirer; I liked the phrase. It was better than saying fan. I hated that word. It reminded me of fake attitudes showed by two types of people standing near the velvet rope: those celebrities who are desperate to stay famous and those fanatics who are desperate to be known by a famous person who is desperate. I wanted something more fulfilling than this. I wanted a happy life with a happy wife who adored me just as much as I did her.
The apartment shook. The hanging light above the table swung in a pendulum over my head. Several playbills fell. I rushed over and giggled while trying to catch the printed leaves before they struck the bed. Catch the leaves and make a wish, my mama always told me when autumn settled over the neighborhood and the trees lost their browned tops. If you catch one before it struck the ground, George, your heart’s fondest dreams would come true.
Two glossy booklets bounced on outstretched fingers and slid behind the headboard. One dropped faster than my swinging hands as I caught air. The third train bolted along the paths, causing another playbill downward. I caught it in both palms. My lips kissed her photo and hugged the papers tight.
“Let Mabel talk to me today.”
*********
"Not by the color of their skin but by the content of their character."
**********************
*********************
****************
That's about all I got. Go see Katrina for her posting. And don't forget to stop by Eric's place tomorrow.
Post pictures, songs, movie clips, poems, or novel excerpts that make you feel. Feel what, you ask? Feel anything. Happy. Sad. Angry. Nostalgic. Hopeful. Hopeless. Jealous. Joyful.
Here's my collage of feelings:
***********
*******************
Feathered Concerto
by Michelle Hickman
“Silence, oh you mocking birds!”
I hear them flying overhead, your calls painful in my heart. Wings beat upon my head, causing my feet to stumble. Let not your dirge strike fear into my soul. I cast you out! I cast you out!
The stones cut into my bare soles, telling me I’m alive. But who cares? I may be, but she is not. Gone. Her life more fleeting than the downdraft keeping the feathered one aloft. Oh, how I wish I could seek such eternal sleep. Yet the violin case bangs into my thigh, urging onward. Keep going. Almost there.
A short distance as straight as the crow flies.
Autumn leaves flash a bit of white nearby. My knees buckle. There she is. My sweet one. Stark. Cold. Flesh picked clean by the scavengers perched among tree limbs. Feathers drift downward to become her funeral shroud covering her bones, shielding her nakedness.
Let me play a bit of something for you.
The violin rests on my shoulder. The bow slides across the strings. Our song drifts throughout this desolate place. The notes echo against the cliffs. Was it only last month when we walked along here? Yes, it was last month, during our argument, when the heat of our anger caused my arms to thrust out. You fell. You screamed your last aria.
I play our song. Cry out, you mocking birds! Join in with my requiem. Let your voices reach the heavens where my sweet now resides.
*************************
*****************
******************
******************
Novel Excerpt
Scary Darling
The Puchanist Opera House presents the musical smash hit, TEARS OF LIGHT, starring Ruth Henroy as the homely housewife Simple Susan, Peter Weriner as the real-estate mogul Lex of Fortuna, and Mabel Durhan as the scintillating temptress Veronica Volta. Along with an all-star cast --
Mabel . . . Mabel . . . Mabel . . . it was such a pretty name, not too long and not too short. It stuck in my mind with the flow of two separate words all to themselves. May bells. They would ring at the wedding ceremony as cherry blossoms showered their petals on the happy couple.
I wonder if she would like a May wedding? We could release doves after the ceremony. We could have the initials of our names, M for Mabel and G for George, stenciled in light on the dance floor. In thoughts, I could see us twirl and dip to the beats of our favorite song: Let love be true. Mabel sang it beautifully on stage. She could give an impromptu show for our special guests before we left for our honeymoon.
I heard her siren voice right now. The song belted from the speakers and the CD I had taken from the music store. I stared at the theater poster hanging on the refrigerator door, imagining her image putting on a special performance just for me. Wonderful. Yet I would share the real Mabel tonight. The theater ticket curled in my palm while I glanced at the time on the microwave. 5:00. The show would start at 7:15. The train would arrive in twenty minutes as it would take me to the East Side. I have already showered. I have already shaved. Beneath my feet as I sat on the bed, the floorboards shook. Rattles came from the jars on my shelves where captured paintbrushes showed colorful highlights along their bristle heads. Mabel’s voice stuttered from the bouncing radio at the vibration of metal wheels. The connected freight cars passed by the apartment building as my painted canvases drummed against all the walls. Bottom frames tapped in their jittery speech of stilted Morse code.
Wrong train, George. Count the rumbles four more times. Then this would be your cue to leave for the nearby depot.
My fingers pulled out yesterday’s playbill from under my pillow. The scissors had cut around the picture of sweet Mabel on the cover, snipping away the other actors. USELESS. Their performances paled to the stage theatrics done by my temptress. In my opinion, she carried the whole show by herself on those beautiful and burdened shoulders. Her name should have the place of honor at the top of the theater marquee.
From off the pillow, the roll of tape lifted into my grasp while I stood on the bed. The ceiling had a textured surface as the pieces of tape bulged with the tiny hills. The playbill found a shaky place near the ten other ones from the ten other shows I have attended these past two weeks. They might not stay. They might fall. Yet I had fun sticking them up there. I would lay under the covers at night and watch the moonlight reflecting on Mabel’s features. I would hear the tape pull away from the ceiling with a snick-snick. Loosened edges with not enough stickiness would give way from the glossy papers’ weight. Finally, one of them would fall on me and bring excited dreams. One day, the real Mabel would fall onto this bed from on high. She would drop onto the bedcovers wanting me as much as I wanted her.
I needed her to believe this.
I jumped off the bed and walked toward the kitchen table. The flowers, golden calla lilies, drank in the water from the vase. I readied the pale yellow tissue paper; Mabel’s favorite color was yellow as I pushed the previous blue paper farther down into the garbage can. I should have rolled up my sleeve first. Blood spotted the fabric when I lifted my arm out.
Stubborn man. He should have given me the flowers after he left the florist shop. It was not my fault that I punched him in the face. I had told him Mabel loved yellow flowers. He should have picked a different color if he wanted them so badly. Or he should have picked a flower Mabel hated. Or he should have parked his car out in the street instead of in the alley.
Two paper towels encircled the stems, holding in the moisture and keeping the flowers fresh. I placed the bundle on the tissue paper and curled the folds as I made the gift appear special. Then I slipped in the card and my neatly penned message.
I hope you have a spectacular stage performance. Break a leg. Your adoring admirer, George Bastion
Your adoring admirer; I liked the phrase. It was better than saying fan. I hated that word. It reminded me of fake attitudes showed by two types of people standing near the velvet rope: those celebrities who are desperate to stay famous and those fanatics who are desperate to be known by a famous person who is desperate. I wanted something more fulfilling than this. I wanted a happy life with a happy wife who adored me just as much as I did her.
The apartment shook. The hanging light above the table swung in a pendulum over my head. Several playbills fell. I rushed over and giggled while trying to catch the printed leaves before they struck the bed. Catch the leaves and make a wish, my mama always told me when autumn settled over the neighborhood and the trees lost their browned tops. If you catch one before it struck the ground, George, your heart’s fondest dreams would come true.
Two glossy booklets bounced on outstretched fingers and slid behind the headboard. One dropped faster than my swinging hands as I caught air. The third train bolted along the paths, causing another playbill downward. I caught it in both palms. My lips kissed her photo and hugged the papers tight.
“Let Mabel talk to me today.”
*********
"Not by the color of their skin but by the content of their character."
**********************
*********************
****************
That's about all I got. Go see Katrina for her posting. And don't forget to stop by Eric's place tomorrow.
Blog Chain: This Old House
Jon has a turn at the blog chain this round. He asks:
Imagine the home(s) where you grew up, and start drawing a floor plan. As you draw, memories will surface. Grab onto one of those memories and tell us a story.
I lived in a three-bedroom ranch house for a family of five. So this meant a lot of construction and rearranging of rooms. I shared a room with my older sister, with the bathroom beside our room and the hallway twisting around to my brothers room (whose door faced ours -- if you can imagine it) and the hallway continuing into the backroom.
Since this was a ranch house, we had no basement. This meant the washer and dryer were located in the kitchen beside the stove and chest freezer. So the sounds of of the washer would fill the whole house. A mist of steam coated all the windows, as we would draw funny faces on the surface, watching the drips slide down the pane.
One of the stories of this house I will take from a post I made long ago on my other blog.
******************
Buzzzzz!
The button popped out as the whirling sound faded along with the clanks and rattles of tossed zippers and clasps. A blast of heat escaped from the open door. Hot clothes tumbled into the waiting basket.
Laundry Day.
It was the one task in the house that we (my sister, brother, and me) helped on whenever we heard the familiar buzzing sound of the dryer. We became good laundry folders as we shook out the loose lint, tucked in the sleeves, rolled - not folded - the towels, and balled up the socks. Then we dutifully carried the full baskets to our respective bedrooms and dumped everything into an untidy mess on the floors. The basket flipped onto its side as we cowered behind our makeshift forts and lobbed soft mayhem at each other.
SOCK WAR!
Heck! Who needed snowballs? It did not even have to be winter to have such fun. Argyle missiles sailed from one bedroom into another, the checkered style causing cross-eyed, hypnotic stares as it took confused enemies (a.k.a. my brother and sister) by complete surprise. Knee highs were small fast balls able to curve around corners. Holey socks were the best fun, as we stuck fingers into the toe holes and chucked them with great strength like a javelin hurler. The sock would swoop through the air, smack the window or closet behind the enemy, and ricochet back as a sneak attack from the blind side. Whenever we ran out of socks, we had to run out into the hallway and gather up the misfired ones. Then we tried to scramble back to safety, ducking and diving with the balls aimed at our cheeks.
No, I am not talking about the cheeks on our faces. The other ones.
Even better, no body part was off-limits - not even our heads. When the battle ended, we never had to worry about black eyes or missing teeth or broken limbs. Maybe we might have a little injured pride. Yet revenge could wait until the next laundry day.
Can you imagine if we fought real wars with socks? We could subdue the foe with cottony softness.
Sock war. Fun for the young and old alike. Children. Spouses. Take a little time out of your day to toss a sock at someone. Laughter will ensue.
*Disclaimer: I really shouldn’t have to say this but...the blog owner will not be held responsible by any misuse of your socks that leads to injury (splashing your sock into a pot of boiling water), arrest (holding up a bank using a sock as a weapon), or stupidity (ramming your you-know-what up your mean boss’s you-know-where). Use some commonsense, folks*
Read Katrina's story from yesterday and check out Eric's home story tomorrow.
Imagine the home(s) where you grew up, and start drawing a floor plan. As you draw, memories will surface. Grab onto one of those memories and tell us a story.
I lived in a three-bedroom ranch house for a family of five. So this meant a lot of construction and rearranging of rooms. I shared a room with my older sister, with the bathroom beside our room and the hallway twisting around to my brothers room (whose door faced ours -- if you can imagine it) and the hallway continuing into the backroom.
Since this was a ranch house, we had no basement. This meant the washer and dryer were located in the kitchen beside the stove and chest freezer. So the sounds of of the washer would fill the whole house. A mist of steam coated all the windows, as we would draw funny faces on the surface, watching the drips slide down the pane.
One of the stories of this house I will take from a post I made long ago on my other blog.
******************
Buzzzzz!
The button popped out as the whirling sound faded along with the clanks and rattles of tossed zippers and clasps. A blast of heat escaped from the open door. Hot clothes tumbled into the waiting basket.
Laundry Day.
It was the one task in the house that we (my sister, brother, and me) helped on whenever we heard the familiar buzzing sound of the dryer. We became good laundry folders as we shook out the loose lint, tucked in the sleeves, rolled - not folded - the towels, and balled up the socks. Then we dutifully carried the full baskets to our respective bedrooms and dumped everything into an untidy mess on the floors. The basket flipped onto its side as we cowered behind our makeshift forts and lobbed soft mayhem at each other.
SOCK WAR!
Heck! Who needed snowballs? It did not even have to be winter to have such fun. Argyle missiles sailed from one bedroom into another, the checkered style causing cross-eyed, hypnotic stares as it took confused enemies (a.k.a. my brother and sister) by complete surprise. Knee highs were small fast balls able to curve around corners. Holey socks were the best fun, as we stuck fingers into the toe holes and chucked them with great strength like a javelin hurler. The sock would swoop through the air, smack the window or closet behind the enemy, and ricochet back as a sneak attack from the blind side. Whenever we ran out of socks, we had to run out into the hallway and gather up the misfired ones. Then we tried to scramble back to safety, ducking and diving with the balls aimed at our cheeks.
No, I am not talking about the cheeks on our faces. The other ones.
Even better, no body part was off-limits - not even our heads. When the battle ended, we never had to worry about black eyes or missing teeth or broken limbs. Maybe we might have a little injured pride. Yet revenge could wait until the next laundry day.
Can you imagine if we fought real wars with socks? We could subdue the foe with cottony softness.
Sock war. Fun for the young and old alike. Children. Spouses. Take a little time out of your day to toss a sock at someone. Laughter will ensue.
*Disclaimer: I really shouldn’t have to say this but...the blog owner will not be held responsible by any misuse of your socks that leads to injury (splashing your sock into a pot of boiling water), arrest (holding up a bank using a sock as a weapon), or stupidity (ramming your you-know-what up your mean boss’s you-know-where). Use some commonsense, folks*
Read Katrina's story from yesterday and check out Eric's home story tomorrow.
Blog Chain: Finding the Write Time
Tere is starting the chain this time. Her question is:
What conditions do you need to get your best writing done? Closed door, crowded coffee house? Computer or notebook? Can you just sit down to write, or do you need to wait for the time to be right?
I think the one person who can answer this question best is my boss. Well, Boss. When DO I get writing time in? Can I just sit down and write, or do I wait for the right time?
Translation: because mommy's job involves writing stuff for people, like articles and product descriptions and web page content, mommy is ALWAYS writing. She's typing away on her laptop all day, although she does take time to play with me and feed me and be silly with me. Mommy hasn't gotten much creative time in lately, because of her other writing work. But when I get older, since I'm only 10-months-old right now, and can do more things on my own, mommy will get more time to be creative. She's real patient.
Visit Katrina for her answer. And stop by Eric's place for his.
What conditions do you need to get your best writing done? Closed door, crowded coffee house? Computer or notebook? Can you just sit down to write, or do you need to wait for the time to be right?
Translation: because mommy's job involves writing stuff for people, like articles and product descriptions and web page content, mommy is ALWAYS writing. She's typing away on her laptop all day, although she does take time to play with me and feed me and be silly with me. Mommy hasn't gotten much creative time in lately, because of her other writing work. But when I get older, since I'm only 10-months-old right now, and can do more things on my own, mommy will get more time to be creative. She's real patient.
Visit Katrina for her answer. And stop by Eric's place for his.
Blog Chain: Big Accomplishments
This is the month in creating writing goals and making big accomplishments. What is your greatest accomplishment -- in writing, your life or perhaps something incidental that had a big effect on you?
At the moment, I want to say my biggest accomplishment has been to not pull my hair out with how hectic life has been. Raising a nine-month-old on my own and making ends meet has been my main focus. But the fact that I have a job related to writing that keeps my creative juices flowing has to be another great accomplishment.
Yesterday, I visited a client's site. They are hosting a contest to raise money for cancer research. There, I saw my press release I created for them, talking about cancer and how it can effect so many people.
The sense of pride I felt to see my writing work online feels like a major accomplishment to me, especially since most of my own fiction writing has been put on hold. I plan on getting back to it soon, when my daughter is a little bit older and I have a bit more free time (I hope!)
So, what are you big accomplishments? What makes you straighten up with pride in who you are and what you are doing in your life?
Visit Eric for his post.
Blog Chain: The Things That Go BUMP in the Night!
It's Blog Chain time again. New member Matt has come up with a fun question for us.
What is your all-time favorite monster? You can take this in any direction you'd like. For example: my most bad-ass monster would easily be a dragon, and it is my favorite in some ways, but you don't have to go with that kind of measurement. Like me, you could go with the most ridiculously hilarious monster you ever heard of, or, like Stephanie Meyer, you could go with the most romantic creature to ever grace the pages of mythology. Or like Carrie Ryan, you could choose the old standby: Zombies. One alone might not be much to handle, but the horde is probably the single most powerful monster force ever invented in gaming, film, literature, or legend. It's up to you: what's your favorite monster?
I've been debating about this for quite some time. It's not that I don't have a favorite monster. It was whether I wanted to go literal and choose a monster that was *sort of* flesh and bone. Or whether I wanted to be more metaphorical and choose a creature that existed only in the dark deep pits of the human soul and mind where we fear to tread.
Decisions... decisions....
There have been monsters that scared me as a kid. And there have been monsters that I truly loved due to their lovable nature. And there have been ones that I absolutely loathed. Like the one below. Truly, I loath him. If I ever see one dancing on the store shelf, I might just go Jason with the hockey mask and machete on his little red a**!
It is interesting how many people on the blog chain haven't chosen monsters from literature. There are some dozzies out there -- the original monsters. I don't mean so much of the vampires or witches. But the other creatures that get downplayed, like the giants, ogres or goblins that can rank pretty high on the monster list.
Oh well. If I must choose a monster, I will choose one due to his spunk. This guy is one mean dude. He could beat out against any dragon, muppet or Twilight character in a caged death match. Seriously, he is the monster of all monsters. Although he can speak English, he sticks with his main language of "rathsmagrably-spithzz." You could hear him coming miles away as he approached as a whirlwind of ferocious claws and teeth. He is a spitting, eating machine.
Katrina posted her favorite monster here. Eric will posts his tomorrow.
Blog Chain: Let's Hear It For The Crits!
Do you work with critique partners? How did you find your crit pals, and what influence have they had on your work?
I do work with crit partners, although I would like to work with more people. I do believe the more eyes on your work, the better novel you can create. Each individual person will have their own unique take on a story. And this is the greatest advantage of being a writer. Writing a story to touch people in different ways, bringing out individual (and hopefully positive) emotions concerning your story.
Having different people give their own opinions, and taking those opinions to craft a tight story, guarantees success in getting published. I believe this, even if it might take a bit of time to find that "dream" agent and that excited publisher.
I had written a total of three books, received numerous rejections for one, before I started to learn more about the publishing industry and the need to have a crit partner. I found a crit partner for my first novel, Stephen Parrish. He gave me awesome advice for my mystery novel. He is a tough crit partner, but when he finds something that he likes about the novel, he won't hesitate to tell you. I received great advice for the novel. I found him when he sent me an email, saying how he enjoyed reading my comments over at Nathan Bransford site. I asked if he could read my story, and he gave me great comments.
Another crit partner is our blog chain buddy Eric Stahlsworth. I met Eric on my blog, through a comment he left. I'm not positive how he found me but I'm thankful he did. Eric was the person to invite me into the blog chain. And he loves Poe and Stephen King. What better person to have crit my works?
Eric gave me a wonderful response, balancing what he liked about the story with what needed improvement. I was so grateful he pointed out my weaknesses (I'm shaky at writing those stellar beginnings that are suppose to draw a reader into the story).
Surprisingly, I have yet to reciprocate. And I believe that is the most important part about being a crit partner. To offer honest and constructive criticism to another person's novel. I'm willing and able. I'm just waiting for that novel to drop into my lap.
So GET WITH IT, ERIC! Finish that first book.
no pressure
Visit Katrina's post before mine and Eric's posts tomorrow.
Blog Post: Dragging Novels
What are three books you would tell people that they need to keep reading even if they aren't immediately sucked in by the first page?
It depends. As the saying goes, what is one person's cup of tea is another person's cup of poison. We all have reasons why we don't get through a story, and it might not have to do with the story itself. Life and time constraints can put a damper on a person's reading schedule.
Yet, in that same breath, there are stories that might throw off a person because of the lack of action. Or even worse, too much action. Ever read a story that has so much plot going on in the beginning that it leaves you totally confused on what's going on by the next pages? And trying to decipher all the action just seems like too much work for you to do?
There's also some stories that throw off readers due to a weak main character. No personality whatsoever during that first paragraph. Time to give up. Or should we?
I can think of stories with too much fluffy writing in the beginning, which I will mention in my book list. Another story I will mention might have people dragging their feet due to the character's dialect. Some people enjoying reading these stories. Other people have a hard time connecting with the character because they are speaking totally different than what the reader's comfort zone allows.
The way I see it; a person should never give up on that story at the beginning. It might taste like it's poison, but that plot could be the sweetest tasting tea you've ever tried. Or wine. Or beer. Or cup of cocoa if tea is not your thing.
Here is my list:
J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Ring Series: The world-building can get a bit too involved. Some people have claimed it "fluffy." The Silmarillion and Unfinished Tales are two more works by Tolkien that you have to really set your teeth at and gnaw on for a bit to get to the juicy tidbits. What I believe makes it slow is there is so much DESCRIPTIVE paragraphs. A scene that might take you a few words to describe can go on for paragraphs. There are times when the plot just stops. But this shouldn't make you stop reading.
Kathryn Magendie, Tender Graces: I loved the book, but I'm sure the first paragraph may throw people off because of the character's southern dialect. I find the main character's flow of words spunky and unique. It's about a woman who must face her demons of the past after her mother passes away.
Stephen King, Eye of The Dragon: My Gawd! That first paragraph is a whopper. In fact, the first paragraph takes up most of the first page to tell you the King was a good king who tried very hard to be a good king but didn't always succeed at being a good king. No, I'm not kingging.... er, I mean kidding.
This is my list. Sorry I didn't give you more background information regarding what the novels are about. But I don't want to raise your hopes up with the parts that I LIKED about the story that kept me reading. Much better for you to find those inkling little bits that spurs you to finish reading the story. Everyone's motivation is different.
Katrina's book list post before mine.
Eric's book list post tomorrow
Blog Chain: Writing Prompt
The blog chain has swung around again. Christine is this round's question master, and she posted a fun writing prompt for us.
Since we are all writer's, I thought it was about time for us to stretch our creative muscles and do a little writing. So, take the following topic and go crazy! Show us what you've got. Your story can be as long or as short as you choice.
The topic: A dark and stormy night.
Here's my story. It came right off the top of my head yesterday and this morning as I was in the shower. I hope you enjoy it.
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The dandelion sat alone in the grass, spotlighted in the silvery pool of light from the shining street lamp hovering above. I watched as a drop of water slid along one petal, a single tear cried from the passing storm clouds above. Grass was moist under my one cheek. At least, I suspected it was.
The numbness invaded every inch of my body. This happened. More than once. I had a medical condition. I forgot what it was called, some long medical word formed from a dead language that's supposed to be indecipherable to all patients so they feel inferior to the doctors who treated them. Nobody likes to have competition to their profession. Nobody likes to have the patient know more than the doctor.
I felt it happening on my way from Rachel's house. We had a few drinks. We had a few laughs. I tried to sneak a kiss in and she pushed me away. "Time to leave, Mike. My boyfriend will be back by midnight."
I wish I could roll onto my back. It's not to stare around the place. I knew where I laid. It was a shortcut in a patch of field behind the apartment building. I always came this way, hurrying toward my car parked in the alley a street away. No way I wanted Rachel's newest boy-toy to catch me with her. He was a bouncer at the local club. I didn't want his fists bouncing off the side of my head. As I had reached the field, the numbness happened all at once. It started from my toes and ran all the way up to my hair. I flopped to the ground like someone had shot me in the back.
I would have been happy to lay there, musing on my own thoughts until the numbness went away. It usually took several hours. Laying there on my own, on the grass, watching the rain cry itself out on me and my dandelion. But...
Oh god...
I never told Rachel about my condition. I could hear her nearby. Sobbing as the wail of sirens sounded again a few feet away. Several black shoes walked by again, small moons showing on the leather as they reflected the street lights. If I had to make a guess, those shoes belonged to the detectives examining me. They talked with a professional manner. A bit hurried for my liking. They clamied this was the second dead body they had to deal with tonight.
But. I. Am. Not. DEAD.
I screamed and thrashed on the grass. At least this image ran into my mind repeatedly as a white pant leg bent near my head. The paramedic took an official reading. All his medical doodads telling him something not true.
Please. Oh god. Please don't put the sheet over me again.
My world turned silvery white as the paramedic covered up my body from head to foot. My only company was the dandelion, sharing this white-shrouded tomb illuminated by the street lamp. Another drop of water ran along the dandelion petal.
Cry for me, little dandelion. They will be taking me to the morgue. And this time, I don't think the numbness will fade before the coroner cuts me open to find out what had supposedly killed me.
Well, that's my story. Read what Katrina posted yesterday and make sure to stop by Eric's place tomorrow for his story.
Blog Chain: Changes in Publishing
Sandra has this round's question. Visit new blog chain member Katrina who made a post before me. And the ever lovable Eric posted after.
Have the recent changes in the publishing industry affected your writing plans/career? If so, how?
Recent changes? Hmm... do you mean the sudden push toward self-publishing? That the author themselves are taking more responsibilities with their books, such as coming up with the book/page format, cover art and all those other things on the road to a self-published book ready to market?
Or do you mean the changing of the industry itself. The news that some agents aren't sticking with the traditional route and have considered digital formatting as the new wave of publishing?
Are we talking about the close of brick-and-mortar stores? Borders caused a serious ripple in the industry. More than most of us realize.
I can honestly say the current news for the first two topics hasn't had a major impact on me. I've been so caught up with work and raising my daughter that the publishing world skims over my consciousness while my mind stores the interesting tidbits to digest later... much later. After a chat with Facebook friend, Tracy Hickman (no relation) who is a best-selling fantasy/SF author (Dragonlance), he said something that will stick with me concerning all and any changes that may happen.
"Don't seek to be published. Seek to be read."
So that is my general feeling concerning the changes. I'll still write. I'll still seek to be published. I'll still seek to learn and improve and do well in my endeavors so long as I never give up on my writing dream. I'll learn to adapt to whatever happens in the industry.
Yet...
I can tell you that the closing of Borders has had a big impact in my area. I know of ONE bookstore in the immediate vicinity -- a little independent place across from my bank. Not having brick-and-mortar stores can impact the writer in ways we fear to imagine. It means less readers who may glance over and spot the interesting cover on the shelf. A cover that may have a positive effect for them to walk over, pick up that book, and read it. Purchase it. We need brick-and-mortar stores. We need them if, for nothing else, to get our fat lazy butts outside to get some exercise walking along the aisles!!!
Sorry this post is so scattered. Lots of article writing on my mind, Jaq is ready for my nap, just got a new tv and ordered cable, and a million other things going on that would make a even more horrendous run-on sentence than the one you just read.
Anyway, those are my thoughts about the state of affairs with the publishing industry. Check out the other posts from my fellow blog chain gang.
Recently, I entered a flash fiction contest. Although I didn't win, I did make the top 40 league, which means I scored at least 40 points out of 45. I decided to share the story here for everyone to read. Enjoy!
The gist of the contest was to look at the picture and write the story based on it.
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Parting Ways
by Michelle Hickman
Swirly red. Around me. Tasted so sweet. I drank it in. It left a burning heat in my belly and a grogginess to thoughts. I wanted to stay forever.
“Why do you want to stay, Patrick?” There’s so much more for you. Look.” A hand pointed at the yellow opening. “Why don’t you come in?”
“NO,” I snarled. I wrapped the mist tight about like a security blanket. I knew what was beyond that yellow opening. I heard the screams, the shattering of glass, and the ambulance sirens.
“You’re dying here, Patrick. Look at yourself.” The disembodied voice insisted. I glanced down. I was wasp-thin. My body shook in uncontrollable fits.
The voice was right. I was dying, drinking away my sorrows with my life left empty after the car accident.
I had eight shots of rum. Anna said I shouldn’t drive, but I snapped at her to get inside the car with the kids. I drove us right into a tree. I was the only one who had left that car without being wrapped in a black bag.
I sobbed. My tears parted the red mist. Intangible. Unfeeling.
“It’s all right,” the disembodied voice soothed. The hand reappeared. It led me to the opening, but I must take the last step. I hesitated before grabbing the yellow light.
Hands clapped as I opened my eyes. Twenty people sat in a circle with faces bright in the sunlight. The AA counselor’s hand gripped mine. He said, “You’re free now.”
The gist of the contest was to look at the picture and write the story based on it.
**************************************
Parting Ways
by Michelle Hickman
Swirly red. Around me. Tasted so sweet. I drank it in. It left a burning heat in my belly and a grogginess to thoughts. I wanted to stay forever.
“Why do you want to stay, Patrick?” There’s so much more for you. Look.” A hand pointed at the yellow opening. “Why don’t you come in?”
“NO,” I snarled. I wrapped the mist tight about like a security blanket. I knew what was beyond that yellow opening. I heard the screams, the shattering of glass, and the ambulance sirens.
“You’re dying here, Patrick. Look at yourself.” The disembodied voice insisted. I glanced down. I was wasp-thin. My body shook in uncontrollable fits.
The voice was right. I was dying, drinking away my sorrows with my life left empty after the car accident.
I had eight shots of rum. Anna said I shouldn’t drive, but I snapped at her to get inside the car with the kids. I drove us right into a tree. I was the only one who had left that car without being wrapped in a black bag.
I sobbed. My tears parted the red mist. Intangible. Unfeeling.
“It’s all right,” the disembodied voice soothed. The hand reappeared. It led me to the opening, but I must take the last step. I hesitated before grabbing the yellow light.
Hands clapped as I opened my eyes. Twenty people sat in a circle with faces bright in the sunlight. The AA counselor’s hand gripped mine. He said, “You’re free now.”
So... Who likes to read baseball books?
And what if those baseball books had a bit of mystery in them that involved the World Series? Well, author Allen Schatz has written just that kind of fiction novel. Game 7: Dead Ball will be out in print on July 1st. If you love baseball and thrillers, you'll be interested in this novel.
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COMING JULY 1, 2011…
Indie Writer Allen Schatz is pleased to announce the launch of the print version of his debut novel!
The eBook version has been rated 4 & 5-stars at Amazon, B&N, Smashwords, and more…
“Allen Schatz, in his first novel, has proven a welcome newcomer to an overcrowded thriller market sadly diluted with average ho-hum fare… I would highly recommend this book to any thriller fan who is tired of the same old mediocre drivel that is plaguing our bookshelves… Schatz has proven he belongs in the writing game…”
“You might expect a mystery involving a baseball umpire in the World Series to center on fixing games. Schatz happily has chosen to go in a less obvious direction… Game 7 has a huge cast of characters - it is to Schatz's credit as a writer that they're reasonably easy to keep straight… If you like baseball and thrillers, Game 7: Dead Ball is a must read…”
“Simply put, it's a fun, entertaining book that I would recommend for anyone's summer reading list.”
Order your copy of the book beginning July 1 at: https://www.createspace.com/3619727
Additional sales outlets, including Amazon.com, will follow in the coming weeks.
For all the latest news visit www.allenschatz.com – you can also follow Allen on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/AllenSchatzWriting or on Twitter (@raschatz).
UPDATE: Allen Schatz just let me know that the novel came out a week early and he is offering a special discount to everyone. Go to the CreateSpace link and type in the following coupon code: SG4Z85JL - for 10% off the price!
********************************
COMING JULY 1, 2011…
Game 7: Dead Ball – in PRINT!
Indie Writer Allen Schatz is pleased to announce the launch of the print version of his debut novel!
The eBook version has been rated 4 & 5-stars at Amazon, B&N, Smashwords, and more…
“Allen Schatz, in his first novel, has proven a welcome newcomer to an overcrowded thriller market sadly diluted with average ho-hum fare… I would highly recommend this book to any thriller fan who is tired of the same old mediocre drivel that is plaguing our bookshelves… Schatz has proven he belongs in the writing game…”
“You might expect a mystery involving a baseball umpire in the World Series to center on fixing games. Schatz happily has chosen to go in a less obvious direction… Game 7 has a huge cast of characters - it is to Schatz's credit as a writer that they're reasonably easy to keep straight… If you like baseball and thrillers, Game 7: Dead Ball is a must read…”
“Simply put, it's a fun, entertaining book that I would recommend for anyone's summer reading list.”
Order your copy of the book beginning July 1 at: https://www.createspace.com/3619727
Additional sales outlets, including Amazon.com, will follow in the coming weeks.
For all the latest news visit www.allenschatz.com – you can also follow Allen on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/AllenSchatzWriting or on Twitter (@raschatz).
UPDATE: Allen Schatz just let me know that the novel came out a week early and he is offering a special discount to everyone. Go to the CreateSpace link and type in the following coupon code: SG4Z85JL - for 10% off the price!
Blog Chain: Go on... break a rule like you would a mirror.
There are SO many writing rules, but sometimes we have to break one or two, just to keep things interesting. Is there a writing rule you've broken on purpose? Why did you choose to break it? And if you want to post a snippet of your writing as an example, even better!
Sandra posted before me, and because I'm late with this post Michelle M. has her post up already. Read both for there wonderful answers.
As for my answer, it took awhile to consider which writing rule I've broken. Sentence fragments is a big thing. I've also done dream sequences at the beginning of chapters. But I can think of one rule that is universal to all literary agents, editors, and publishers which is the biggest no-no for a writer to break.
Mirrors.
Yes, I've placed the dreaded "character looking at herself in a mirror and describing her appearance" anti-rule into one of my novels. Why did I break the rule? No reason except that I could. This scene will play an intricate role in the plot later on. It was just a device I used to introduce the piece early on. Here is the excerpt in all it's horrified glory.
*****************
“Aroooooooooo.”
Jena’s tired eyes blinked open. The howl sounded through the wall on the other side of her as the image of the jail cell faded. The dark shape against the wall took on a more familiar one. Her long bedroom dresser. Upside down. She wondered about this as her back slid another inch across the covers, her hair now touching the carpeted floor. She grabbed the metal frame and pushed upward in a scrambling heave as Jena rolled up on the covers and glanced at the window. The sun had already faded. Yet the night still held back its full darkness while allowing those people to see their way home on this early Friday evening. A large mosquito danced across the mesh screen as the bug searched for escape from the world outside.
“It should stay out there and hide in the darkness rather than come inside. It should enjoy the freedom.” Jena sighed with envy. Below, her empty stomach whined for dinner. She shifted from the bed and walked toward the window, tapping against the screen to scare the mosquito away. She stared at her beat-up red Nova parked in the driveway before following the dark asphalt stretching from the cul-de-sac. The road did look so inviting, as it begged her to explore its far reaches. Yet she knew the sight was fake. She had no freedom, not anymore. She had squandered it away years ago.
She closed the window and then squatted near the heat vent on the floor. Soft sounds vibrated up through the ducts. Yet the phone was not in use. Not like when she had arrived here this afternoon, late, as Clare had scowled and Jena had made light of the situation by saying her transfer papers had gotten lost in the mail and vacationed in Aruba where the vice squad had to pick her up. When Jena had entered her old bedroom to unpack, the telephone’s red flashing button had told her that Clare had called someone. Jena had known after two echoed sentences that her brother Ted talked on the other end of the line. He was their grandmother’s golden child.
“Yes, Jena got here with her poor attitude. Finally! I swear, Teddy, why did she even bother? Everybody knows she won’t make anything worthwhile out of her life. I just don’t see the point of trying with her. It would be such a waste.”
Jena straightened and unlocked the bedroom door. Her first stop was at the bathroom while she smacked lips at the funky aftertaste from the diet Pepsi she had drank during her drive there. From her hygiene bag she pulled out her toothbrush and scrubbed her pearly whites clean. Then she reached toward the medicine cabinet.
Rattle.
The mirror door stayed in place no matter how hard she pulled. She glanced around the shallow cabinet and noticed a bit of silver over the connecting metal clasps. A lock. Jena spied the dark orange bottles through the crack along the edge. It appeared every medication in the house lurked inside.
Oh, Grandmother Clare, why can’t you trust me?
Jena placed the toothbrush in her bag while her appearance stared back in the mirror: brown hair slicked on one side and sticking out, twitching cheek muscles, and dark circles under both red eyes. She looked better now. If it were two years ago, she would not have recognized herself. A stranger would have stared back.
The mirror image opened lips. “Clare should know better than to store those bottles in here. Doctors warn about the humidity ruining the pills’ effectiveness. Make sure to remind her about that.” Jena’s mirror image smiled and she felt herself smiling back. By the time she entered the hallway, her smile had faded as a frown took its place.
“Go. Must protect family. Not bad. Never bad.”
Blog Tour featuring Author Mark Terry
I've been hosting quite a few book tours lately, and it's been fun and an extreme pleasure to do so. This time, I have the honor of hosting Mark Terry, author of; THE VALLEY OF SHADOWS.
My blog is all yours. Take it away, Mark.
When not writing – he makes his living as a freelance writer, editor, author and ghostwriter – Mark lifts weights, bikes, runs, and teaches Sanchin-Ryu karate, in which he holds a black belt. He also plays guitar from time to time. Visit his website at www.markterrybooks.com. Mark’s guest blog today is a little silly, a little insightful, and maybe a little fun.
A Dirty Dozen Questions
By Mark Terry
You ever see the show Inside The Actor’s Studio hosted by James Lipton? He always ends his interviews with the same questions, things like: “What turns you on?” and “What sound do you like?” and “When you die and St. Peter meets you at the Pearly Gates, what do you think he’ll say?”
I’m game. I’m going to make up my own questions and answer them here.
What puts a smile on your face?
A good joke, a smartass comment from a friend or family member, a long bike ride on a sunny day, a frozen strawberry Margarita, chips and salsa, a well-executed karate kata, and a check with more than three figures to the left of the decimal point.
What’s your favorite musical instrument to play?
When I was younger it was saxophone, a little older it was piano, these days it’s guitar.
What sparks your creativity?
The crass answer is: bills to pay. The rational answer is: everything on earth. I’m rational and logical – it’s my science background – but if I don’t do something creative on a regular basis, write fiction, play guitar, etc., I start getting wacky and drive the people around me nuts.
Is there something you’ve always wanted to do that you haven’t done yet?
Yes, tons, most involving travel. I’ve never been to Europe. I’ve never been to Hawaii. I’ve never been to Alaska, Africa, Asia, tropical islands, or a lot of places.
What do you fear the most?
Alzheimer’s.
Are you afraid of failure?
No. I’m not. We all fail. All the time. The most successful people in the world fail over and over again. But they learn from their failures and move on. You only really fail if you let it paralyze you. Fail your way to success is practically my mantra.
What’s your favorite food?
Pizza.
So you want your last meal to be pizza?
Wouldn’t hurt, but who I eat it with would be more important. Should be my wife Leanne and my kids, Ian and Sean, probably some of my friends. Our friends and my wife and I usually go out for Mexican. And strawberry Margaritas put a smile on my face.
What’s the most frustrating thing in your life?
The traditional publishing industry. Not writing, not nonfiction publishing, which I’m quite successful at, but the traditional publishing market for fiction. Crazy, crazy, unpredictable, illogical, irrational, annoying, impractical business.
Have you considered “indie publishing?”
Yes. I’ve done it. I did it before I was traditionally published, and now I’m doing both. I’m flexible and adaptable. The publishing industry is changing. I’m changing with it.
Why are manhole covers round?
Because manholes are round.
Okay, so, if you die and are met at the Pearly Gates by St. Peter, what do you think he’ll say?
“C’mon in. There’s a really great Mexican place down the street with the best strawberry Margaritas in the universe.”
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Thanks, Mark, for your guest post. Make sure to visit Author Mark Terry's site, www.markterrybooks.com, for the latest news about his novels, and purchase, "The Valley of Shadows," when it hits stores on June 7.
Blog Chain: Be Positive
Hello, hello! Today is blog chain time and it seems I'm to start this round with the question. I also received the "Versatile blog" award yesterday from Michelle Barrow-Belisle. Receiving the award gave me the idea for this blog question, so I'm combining the award rules into this post today.
The question: Be positive! Name some of the positive aspects of your writing --- be it a compliment from a mentor, friend or crit partner to anything special you learned concerning your writing skills.
Since I'm suppose to follow the blog award rules and name seven things about myself, I'll name seven positive aspects concerning my writing. The other blog chainers don't have to do this if they wish.
Positive aspects list:
1: I've always had a natural talent for anything writing-related. Yep, I'm one of those people where, while young, my parents would ask me how to spell certain words instead of looking them up in the dictionary. I also was suppose to write a play for my fellow classmates in fourth grade. I was grateful to be asked to do the task although it never panned out.
2: I was ahead in reading skills in the third grade. The teacher sat me in the hallway to read over advanced English workbooks, because I was so far ahead that the rest of the class had to catch up. For some strange reason, I had mixed feelings about this. When young, you are usually separated from the group by the teacher because you did something BAD. Not something good.
3: At a time where I received little recognition for my writing skills from home, I got plenty of it from my teachers in school. Three different English teachers in high school encouraged my writing skills, asking if I wrote poetry, suggesting that I should enroll in creative writing classes.
4: As with some people in life, they may have parents who don't believe writing can be considered a career (hello? Stephen King? Every journalist on this world?). Instead, I was encouraged to seek a computer programming career. For several years the word "writing" never entered my mind. The writing bug struck when I was 25 and a dream stick with me that just wouldn't leave. To get it out of my head, I began writing it down. I haven't stopped since.
5: I wrote my story, destined to be a series, and had an agent. The less said about him, the better. We parted ways and I began my research (which I should have down beforehand) about how the publishing agency really works. I now know more than I did before, although there's still so much more information out there.
6: I have a talent at dialect. Don't know why, but I can write with a country feel in stories. Couldn't possible be because I grew up hick ;)
7: I received such awesome compliments from crit partner Eric concerning my book, "The Stone Man." And not just from him, by so many people who have had the opportunity to read some of my stories. Such words of encouragement can only increase my motivation to never stop tapping on the keyboard.
Okay, I fulfilled the award contest rules. If any of my fellow blog chainers wants to follow the award rules and name seven positive things about their writing, then consider yourself picked for the "Versatile Blog" award.
Visit Eric's place tomorrow for his take on the question. I hope everyone has a great week of writing!
Blog Chain: What's the Odds?
What keeps you going (either trying to get an agent or to get published or finish that WIP that's kicking your butt) when you know the odds are stacked way against you?
The odds are stacked against me? Really? You mean that, even if I write a good book, a book that is publishable, a book where everyone (i.e. those friends who wouldn't hurt my feelings and rave about every piece of writing I do) said will propel me into the legendary realms of becoming a big time author like Stephen King and J.K. Rowling, I still might not get published?
The odds are stacked against me? Way against me?
I don't believe you. I don't HAVE to believe this. I believe I wrote a great story. I believe someone would like to read that story. I believe that I will one day become published. Sure, I might not get onto Oprah's book club listing, but I'll see my novel in the stores. I'll download it on an e-reader. I'll even sign books to those fans who may write or email me.
Denial can be a powerful tool. So can hope. Whichever I wish to choose, I'll still tap my fingers against the keyboard and keep cranking out stories.
Kate's post is before mine. Eric's post will appear tomorrow. I'll be back on Wednesday as I start this next coming blog chain round.
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