Finding Time For What You Love: Guest Post by Author Renee des Lauriers

Check out her book on Amazon!

A good writing buddy is precious. It's the rare combination of a sympathetic ear, a cheerleader, and a friendly but firm kick in the pants. Renee has been that for me and more. The other day I called her up and we chatted about our lives and writing and how we both wish we lived closer together. She was about to get on an airplane when I asked if she would like to do a guest post for my blog. Like a boss, she wrote this on the plane and sent it to me a few hours later. Behold, the life of a published author:

It started on a purple couch with a dream, caffeine and a blank computer screen. It continued with fierce word wars, the pattering taps on keyboard keys with loud coffee slurps and furrowed eyebrows. It was the birth of my first novel. A novel that was more than just a novel. It was the dream that survived from childhood-the dream of a dyslexic girl struggling to prove that she was as smart as everyone else. A girl who had entire landscapes and characters and worlds to share if only she could get them out of her mind and on to the blank page.

How do writers write? How do they do it? I know that I can't speak for everybody but I can certainly say that I wouldn't be able to do it without my writing buddies, Naomi des Lauriers and Laurel Nakai. There is something about hearing their fingers moving across keyboards, a sound as many and plentiful as rain that really lets me know that I need to get moving already.

Now that I am on the other side of America, figuring out what I want from life on the desert sands of Las Vegas, I find myself stuck. So begins my writers block and a settling in to non-writing.

"it's so easy to forget what we are made of and what we can do when we are drowning in life's minutiae."

It's not that dreams die. They just get buried in responsibilities- those everyday things like shopping for food and paying the electric bill so that the power won't get shut off and keeping lint off the carpet. It isn't that those things are more important than passion, it's just that it's so easy to forget what we are made of and what we can do when we are drowning in life's minutiae.


There's something so necessary about having supportive people in your life. I was blessed to have the best sort of friends-the sort who believed in my dreams and supported me in the day to day fight not to give in to trivialities and time wasters, but to instead give to those things that I believe in and want most.

Stuck in the day to day grind, it's easy to forget what writing has added to my life. I shot my first gun so that I could know what it felt like and capture the experience accurately in ink. I walked across the Brooklyn Bridge and made Dunkin Donuts employees vaguely uncomfortable all in the name of art. It was all in order to accurately capture the spirit of the zombie apocalypse.

I remember when Hurricane Sandy hit in fall and the power went out, Naomi and I lit up hundreds of candles and started writing through it. I remember writing on line at the bank, on buses, in hot tubs, in food courts at casinos. I wrote on Laurel's couch so often that I sincerely hope that she never sells it as so much of my sweat and passion and coffee spills have seeped into the fabric.I am writing these very words above the clouds on a Spirit airplane.

"whatever it is that you love to do, do it."

Writing is an act of creation. It is taking something intangible from the hidden recesses of the mind then ripping it forth into the real world and down upon paper. I know that writing is not for everybody. For others it could be cooking, jogging, photography or gardening. I just hope that for every person out there, whatever it is that you love to do, do it. Do it every day, even if it's just for five minutes. Even if it's just for one. Because having that something adds a spice and a wonder to life that wouldn't be there without that individual take on the world. It makes me not merely exist, but live. So, from far away I'm holding on to my writing buddies and holding on to my dreams one word at a time.

Renee des Lauriers is the author of The Oxygen Factory (Sunbury Press, Inc.) She resides in Las Vegas, where she teaches high school English and raises chinchillas. 

Lessons Rereading Books from my Childhood

On a whim, I started re-reading some of the books I remembered from my childhood. I just finished Maniac Magee by Jerry Spinelli.

I honestly didn't remember much about the book. I remembered that Maniac was an orphan and homeless, and that he ran...a lot, and I remember the character Mars Bar, but only for his name. That's about it. I remembered almost nothing about the plot. After all these years, what I remember most, is not what happened in the book, but how the book made me feel. I remember sadness and triumph, and that feeling of magic and fulfillment at the last page, when you think, "Yes, this is how the story ends," and yet it doesn't really end, because those feelings stay with you.

It was a joy rereading it as an adult. I could see what fascinated me as a child and also better appreciate and grasp its many redeeming qualities, like the magical realism, the themes of separation and belonging, of race and family, and the subtle but perfect narration.

I was a slow reader as a kid. It wasn't till second grade that my parents and teachers realized I needed glasses because in elementary school they only tested for near-sightedness, and I'm far-sighted. I had trouble looking at a page right in front of me. I would have to close one eye, and use my finger to read the words, because I also had tracking problems (my eyes would skip to the next line before I was finished reading the first.) I remember being frustrated in school, and anxious whenever we had to read something to ourselves in class. I almost never could finish the paragraph or passage within the time the teacher gave us to read it. The pressure of having to read something within a time constraint made me anxious and also embarrassed. I learned how to fake it. I would read the comprehension questions first and then go back and skim through the paragraph just to find the answer. I had to do this, otherwise there was no way I would finish. When we had to read a paragraph in class and then answer questions out loud, I just prayed the teacher wouldn't call on me, as I continued to try and read without her noticing.

But I liked reading for myself. I liked curling up in my room and delving into a story at my own pace. Eventually, armed with my new glasses, I was able to like reading in school too, or at least be able to do it without the anxiety, because the more I read, the faster I got.

All of this is to say, that at seven years old as I squinted to see the chalkboard, I would have never imagined that I would get a degree in English and be working on writing my own books. It's good to look back and see how far we've come. We can't change the past, but we can appreciate it in a new way, just like rereading a childhood book as an adult. It gives me inspiration too,  knowing that even now when I feel stuck or frustrated, I just might not be able to see where I will be ten or twenty years down the road. One day at a time.

Winter's Wrath, a poem inspired by my SAD

Winter’s Wrath

by Laurel Nakai

The darkness came first.

Descended like a curtain, slowly, day by day,

until suddenly

we had to turn our lights on to eat dinner.

We went to bed with slippers,

thinking we could trap the warmth,

ration it for the days ahead.

The winds snapped frigid branches and thoughts

bitter and broken

on the shivering earth.

The winter’s wrath is the impenetrable depression,

and soon we were buried.

A layer of ice lies between

the ground and fresh powder.

There was life here once...

Water soaking into soil

sprouting stems and grass

leaves and petals

hope and apathy.

The ice covers all our happy memories.

Desperate longing for something just out of reach.

I can see them if I brush away the snow--fingers

stinging with cold and spite

I can see them, through

distorted glass

the same place where Spring began

All my shovels are broken

the salt pail empty.

There is no chipping away.

only melting

only waiting

only believing, in the languid thaw.

Little Reminders

There is something immediately inspiring and terrifying about getting good advice.

I recently participated in a webinar hosted by the fabulous Book Doctors, a course offered to NaNoWriMo participants. So much of what they said made me want to stop everything and pound the keys--get back to work on editing my novel. I felt inspired.

Alas, when I actually did sit down with it, the imperfections were now magnified into elephants and the enormity of the task in front of me unfurled in a moment of terror and disillusionment.

We are strange creatures, artists. There is always this battle of striving for perfection against the feelings of self-doubt.

At one point during the webinar, David Henry Sterry said, he sometimes does something like 70 edits for a book. What?! On the one hand, it's easy to feel dwarfed by that number...here I am on my first...

On the other, it reminds me that no matter how much of a professional, no matter how many books you've written, we all start with the same rough, gnarly, barely readable draft, that must be polished into something beautiful. It may not be easy, or fast, but there is a clear process, there are footpaths to follow through the darkness.

At a recent trip to Barnes and Noble, I browsed the journal section for a new companion:

Oh Hello, Universe, thanks for the reminder...

After I got home and opened it up, I found an extra little surprise on the inside cover.

"You are the Sunshine_____ Be Proud! You have helped us donate 240,000 workbooks and 44,000 pens to children around the world. Ecojot is paper with a cause, sustainable, B-certified and made in Canada. B the change."

Lovely! A Ralph Waldo Emerson quote has never steered me wrong.

Did a third edit of my entire first chapter this morning, and my new journal will accompany me to my SCBWI writer's conference this weekend!

Working from Home

I started picking up some freelance work recently and I thought this was an appropriate visual of the experience so far:

This is what happens to my copy and research after I'm done with it...

Of course, this is the ideal--a harmonious union of intellectually satisfying work, with all the benefits of being able to take a break and play with the kids.

What this picture doesn't show, is the piles of laundry, or dishes, or the ring around my bath tub...something has to give. But let's be honest, those things were never my strong suite anyway.

My dream has always been to be able to stay at home with the kids, and write--from my desk near a window that overlooks the ocean in Mexico--obviously...but hey, it's a start.

Left-Brain Push-ups

It's that time again!

November is right around the corner, and part of my lack of blog updates lately has been because I've thrown myself full force into the outlining process as prep for NanoWriMo. It's been an interesting learning experience. I've never done an outline before. I mean, I remember doing them in middle and high school English class, but that's about it. Once I wasn't required to do them, I never did. I never had any problems with this before. I always much preferred to jump in and write, get messy, and then clean it up later. For a ten page paper, a short story, or poem, this method works great and served me well through four years of college. It took me four years of NanoWriMo, however, to realize that this same strategy wouldn't work for writing a novel. Don't get me wrong, a first-draft, fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants method is lots of fun (at least for me) and there is a place for it. It helps me work though problems, figure out important plot points, and get to know my characters in a way that is liberating, without my inner editor or critic running the shots. At the end of the month though, I would look back at my 50,000 + words with a deep despair, as the thought of trying to edit was overwhelming. It felt like trying to turn a finger painting into a Michelangelo. I finally realized that if I wanted to actually COMPLETE a novel, and not just a first draft, I would need to put a more serious plan in place. With the help of some good books that helped to dispel some misconceptions and also give me a guide to work from, I decided that this year, I would finally do an outline.

There's a reason that outlining doesn't come naturally to me, I am primarily a right brain thinker. The right side is usually associated with creativity, abstraction, and emotion, while the left brain deals in more logical, sequential, and linear thought. Though I've always known that I favored my right side, I recently took a test that confirmed it down to the percentage. Not only that, it broke down all of the specific functions and highlighted my strengths and weaknesses.

The more I get to know myself, the more I am able to figure out the things that are blocking me, which gives me a road map to the solution. Though some people tend to favor a certain side of their brain, there are actually things you can do to strengthen your less functioning parts. The brain is like a muscle, and the more you exercise, the more those synapses fall into place.

So I've been doing left brain push-ups. Making and checking off lists, organizing notes (color-coding helps for right brained people since color is processed in the right hemisphere), and turning off my automatic spell-check--I actually have to manually go back to a misspelled word and write it out again, try and figure out the real spelling without getting a list of options or an automatic change...try it, it's tougher than it sounds! (unless of course you are a spelling champ...you lucky left brainers!)

My husband started running last week. He was never a runner, but in just a little over a week he's running at least 2 miles every night! I don't know if my progress has been that extraordinary, but it sure seemed like running a mile at first. The more I do it though, the easier it gets, the more miles I can go.  Now, with less than two weeks to go before the official start of Nanowrimo, I am actually..dare I say it...enjoying the outlining process and am looking forward to reaping the rewards of my hard work in November.

Ode to Being Lame

As I sang along to, "I can't make you love me" on the radio in my car, I thought about how this was the new "oldies" music, and how when my kids are grown they will think everything I like is totally lame (including the phrase, "totally lame"). I'm turning 30 in less than two months, and it actually feels really good. I feel like I'm just starting to get to know the real me, and the more I age, the less I tend to worry about what other people think. The less I tolerate toxic people or situations in my life. The less I get dragged down by drama. Perhaps it's the fate of all parents to be lame, but not because they've given up or let themselves go. Maybe they just know about the things that really matter and they are paving the way for their children, setting the example. It's okay to be lame, it's good, it's wonderful, come join me! I love you no matter what.

Ode to Being Lame

Here's to mom jeans and sappy love songs,
To staying in on a Friday night
To watching flowers bloom in my garden
To saving $1 on milk
To library books
To walks with the dog
To finally cleaning out the garage

To a beat up pair of sneakers that never give me blisters
To a new recipe for dinner, made with whatever is left in the fridge

Oh, to escape the shackles of trendy!
To kick off high-heeled shoes!
To happy, with what I have!
To comfortable, in my skin!

Oh, to lose the race!

To lie down!

To make mistakes and be forgiven!
To sing and dance and not care who is watching!

To wrinkles from smiling
To sun on my face
To speak, what I feel
To hear, my own voice

To say, "I love you" without fear,
"Goodbye" without guilt

Down with IN

and should

and better 

and can't

and no

and someday

Here’s to being on the outs,

to Love

to Give
to Choose

to Yes

to Now

and 

Why not?

Fiction Friday: Chapter One, Part 3

Prologue

Chapter One, Part One

Chapter One, Part Two

Chapter One, Part Three

Skander managed to avoid Imogene the rest of the day, but it wasn’t easy. Everywhere he looked she seemed to hover. He would hear her voice in the hall and quickly duck around the corner. Somehow she managed to be in every one of his classes, and even when she was looking away, it was as if he could feel her eyes, searing, knowing, watching. He thought his display during first period would have done the trick, but she was persistent...or stupid.

At lunch, he settled into his favorite spot. A picnic table under a tall spruce tree. It dropped little seedling pods that exploded on the ground and the table. One fell on his shoulder as he rummaged through his bag to find the apple he had stashed that morning. He could easily take something from the cafeteria, but he didn't want to risk that Imogene might see him. He couldn't explain why she made him nervous, after all, she should be the one afraid of him, everyone else was.

A blue bird flew down from a branch and landed in front of him on the table. He watched it jerk its head from side to side and bounce up and down on nimble claws. He thought of his wooden bird and tried to record the blue bird’s movements in his mind so that he could recall it later. The bird flew off again, and as he watched it go, he saw Imogene making a beeline to the table, her keychains bouncing with each sure-footed stride.Time to go. He grabbed his backpack and swung himself over the fence. No more shadow games today, he thought. It was only about an hour before he usually gave up and went home early anyway.

Back on main street, the morning fog had rolled down from the mountains as if the clouds had just given up and decided to take a nap right there in town. He breathed in humid air and started his ascent. Back at the spruce tree, perched precariously on a high limb, Imogene watched. Her eyes, sharp and focused, as Skander made his way through the faux cobblestone streets to where the pavement became gravel, then, gravel became dirt. A cloud of dust and fog trailed behind as he climbed. Higher, up the road that only lead to one place. The yellow Victorian at the top of the hill seemed to tremble as he opened the door and stepped inside.

Author's notes: This is the last official Friday of Camp NaNoWriMo, but I will try to keep the Fiction Friday thing going as much as I can. It's been good for me to have this weekly deadline, and even though I didn't get as far as I wanted to, it's still more than I had before I started! Thanks to anyone who has been reading, thanks for hanging in there with me through this little experiment. I'll get back to doing more regular (non-fiction!) posts next week. Have a great weekend. 

Fiction Friday: Chapter One Continued

Prologue

Chapter One: Part One

Chapter One Continued

A girl with dirty blond hair woven in tight ringlets, and clear blue eyes, stood in the doorway. She wore baggy jeans with holes in them, and a ”Blink 182” t-shirt. Her eyes darted around the room as if looking for something. Plastic key chains hanging from the zippers on her back pack clanked together as she turned to face Miss Farrow.


“Hi” she said in a sweet, high pitched voice, “I’m Imogene, I just moved here...well, really I’ve been here for awhile, but this is my first day of school.” She giggled. Miss Farrow nodded, but before she could speak Imogene continued, “Thanks so much for having me, I’ll just find my own seat...sorry to disturb you...”

She stared straight at Skander and flashed her white teeth. He scowled as she made her way down the aisle. Twenty students arched their necks to watch as she took one of the three empty seats next to him. Imogene ignored her wide-eyed, open-mouthed classmates, as she lifted her backpack up onto the desk. The keychains banged against the metal, she hummed as she sorted through her books and papers.

Skander noticed patches of fabric shrewdly sewn onto the bag displaying words like, “cool”, and “girl power”, and other words that looked like bands he had never heard of.

“I hope you don’t mind” she said, “this spot seemed cozy.” she giggled again, which made Skander cringe. This would not do. The rest of the class was still staring at them, even Miss Farrow seemed transfixed. As much as he hated the idea of sharing his personal space, being the center of attention was worse. He grunted in reply and turned his attention back to the carving.

There was a unified sigh of relief as everyone turned back towards the front of the room. Miss Farrow snapped out of her comma, “welcome Imogene, glad to have you”. Imogene nodded, still smiling.

Skander bent low over the desk, portioning off his space and shielding the view of the intruder to his left. He looked down at his work with a frown. The new girl’s entrance had caused his hand to slip and now there was a line straight across where the bird’s eye should be. Maybe if he made a few adjustments he could make it look like a feather...

“That’s beautiful!” Imogene had leaned over to whisper. Skander was jerked out of his thoughts again, and grasped his knife with white knuckles. He tried his best “shut-up-and-leave-me-alone” glare, but she just beamed back at him as if there was a force field blocking all obvious social cues. The girl was seriously dense.

With one efficient swipe, Skander slashed his knife across the top of his forehead, severing about three inches of black tresses. He let the hair fall to the ground as he watched her blink, the corners of her mouth slowly dropped. Satisfied, he turned back towards his desk and breathed in the dry, earthy, musk of oak.

Author's Note: I don't know if anyone is actually reading this, if so, Thank you, and... I'm sorry! I really wanted to have more up today...I have a great ending to this chapter...at least in my head...but it's not up to the level that I feel comfortable posting yet. This is a work in progress for me. The fact that I'm posting things at all is a huge step. I used to never let anyone read anything I wrote until it was finished. Until it was PERFECT. but you know what? That's how you end up being an author of a book that no one ever reads. One thing I love about NanoWriMo is that it lets you turn off the "editing" brain and just write. That has been totally freeing for me. But now, inviting the editor back in is a tricky process. I love shaping and molding the rough edges into something beautiful, I even like searching for the perfect word and going "ah ha!" after taking out a comma. But my editor brain is like a mouse...if you give him a cookie...well, you know the story. All of a sudden he starts second guessing everything, and the thoughts creep in, "this isn't good enough", "What was I thinking?", "everyone is going to hate it!" (He's a bit melodramatic). The "Pantser" in me (that's "fly by the seat of your pants" as we call it), that I learned to trust in NanoWriMo, is learning to give over control to the editor...but I keep her around for when mr. editor starts to get too carried away. She reminds me of what it's all about, the sheer joy of telling a story. 

p.s. I know this makes me sound like I have multiple personality disorder, but if you know many writers or are one yourself...it probably doesn't seem all that strange.

Fiction Friday: Chapter One (part one)

Prologue

Chapter One

15 years later...


Skander Malvado sat at the wobbly cafe table outside of “Aunt Edda’s Bakery”, stacking creamer cups into a tower and jabbing toothpicks on the top and sides. A white stream trickled onto the table from the crude miniature fountain. The girl at the next table, a blond that he recognized from school, glanced at the river of cream on the ground and followed it to the tip of Skandar’s black combat boots before quickly averting her gaze. Skander rolled his eyes and let the tiniest of smiles flash across his face. She looked at her watch and gathered her things together. He heard the bells from a block away, signaling the start of school. She could make it if she ran.

Skander watched for a few minutes, then knocked over the tower of creamer and got up without paying, leaving a half eaten sandwich and ten empty creamers in a puddle of white. The waitress scrambled to her feet, but didn't object to him skipping out on the check. She mopped up the mess and hurried to get out of his way, almost tripping over the chair as he stalked past.

He strode down the cobblestone on main street at a casual pace. They were the kind of stone that were made to look old, but were clearly very new with their perfectly rounded edges and shining finish. that’s the way most of the town was. He walked past mailboxes, houses, lawns, all glinting in the sun, showing off their brand new price tags. He often thought how strange it was for a street. a house, a town, to be the same age or younger than he was. When the town rebuilt after the storm, they had tried to replicate the old styles, but with all new materials and modern finishes, it looked more like a disneyland version rather than a restoration.

Fifteen years. It was as if every inch he grew, another brick was added. They had grown up together, he and Shadow Lakes. He could almost match his breath to the swaying of the freshly planted trees. The tops of which were barely taller than he was. That, and the fact that his mother was probably the most powerful person in town, it wasn’t surprising he felt above it all.

By the time he reached the school, the courtyard was empty and all of the hallways quiet. The principal was talking to a janitor as he rounded the corner to his first period class. Mr. Hardy was poised at the sound of footsteps, and got halfway through the word “hallpass” before seeing who it was. He quickly turned back toward the janitor and away from any possible eye contact. Skander never even slowed his step.

There was a brief moment of recognition when he opened the door to Miss farrow’s class, but not more than a second or two before she resumed her speech and the rest of the class turned its gaze back to the front of the room.

At his desk in the back right corner, he pulled out a pocket knife, and continued with the work of carving away an intricate pattern into the wood. All the other desks were those new metal ones, he wasn't even sure where they had found a wooden desk or why it was here, it was probably the only thing in the school, besides the teachers, that was older than he was. He welcomed the distraction though, it had been the only thing keeping him sane for the past few months. In fact, he wasn't sure what he would do once there was no room left for carving. He tried not to think about it.

Most students would be thrilled to not have to worry about tests or grades, but they didn't realize how incredibly boring it was.

Skander looked up from his work for a moment, brushing the saw dust and flecks away. Miss Farrow was giving a lesson about some war, or president, or country. Once he had perfected the art of “tuning out”, it was hard to tune back in again even if he wanted to. anyway, there was a map on the wall that she was gesturing to. No one payed any attention to him as he whittled away at his masterpiece, not even when the entire class got up to do a demonstration. Everyone knew he was just there for show. He had participated some when he was younger, but it didn't take long to learn that it didn't make a difference. For a while he read books while everyone else engaged in the lesson, but now even that didn't interest him.

He focused in on the design. Long, slender vines twisted around the desk, forming a frame at the edge, and circling in towards the center. The design showed off different shades of brown, as the lighter layers of wood were uncovered.

He pressed the tip of the knife into the center and maneuvered it around on the outline he had made. The first cuts were always the hardest. You couldn't just jab it in, you had to use small, quick movements. It had to be little by little, and precise, in order to get the smooth curves and edges. It took a long time to get to that final image from the first slice. It could be a tedious process. Luckily though, time was something he had to spare, and he enjoyed watching the pictures unfold slowly. Some of the designs were planned, others he just made up as he went along. He could remember the days he was feeling anxious or moody, and those that seemed to flow by with a more tolerable air. He recognized his own moods in the lines of his work, jagged and forced, or smooth and effortless. The middle of the desk showed an outline of a bird with long splayed feathers. This was one of the designs he had planned, labored over even. He had mixed emotions about starting it. There was a sense of satisfaction and anticipation, but also disappointment, as he knew it signaled the beginning of the end.

A few strands of black hair fell over his eyes as he bent over the carving. He wondered if he should cut it. It was annoying to keep pushing it out of his face. He hated when things got in his way. He was just starting on the bird when he felt someone approaching.

Miss Farrow slid a paper onto the corner of his desk, careful not to disturb his work. He glanced at it for a moment. A completely blank test paper except for his name and a large red letter A. He blew another strand of hair out of his face and watched as the paper picked up the draft and fell to the floor.

Back to work. He had almost finished the beak when the door swung open and made him look up again inspite of himself.

Author's log: This is less than half of what I wanted to have posted today! I had this grand plan of writing all day yesterday, but then Miles cut his hand on a piece of glass and I had to keep him home from school while I took him to the doctor (he's fine by the way). I got some good writing in this morning, but man was it a scramble! It serves me right for procrastinating. I'm glad I was at least able to have something though. Here's hoping I can learn from my mistakes and be a little more conscientious of my deadline for next week! Chapter one continued next time where you will find out who comes through the door...dun dun DUN! If I get ambitious I may do a mid-week post to get myself back on track, but Friday is the hard deadline. Have a great weekend everyone. What do you think of Skander? 

Fiction Friday!: Prologue

Prologue

The storm was one of the biggest the town had ever seen. Rain came down in sheets for days, so that even a week after the initial winds had torn the town apart, it was still impossible to come back because of the flooding. The hurricane swept through like a leaf blower on a house of cards. Thunder could be heard from towns far away. Some said they could see the lightning as far as Sunshine County.

The day the rain finally stopped, the people of the town cautiously made their way back to see what was left of their homes. It was like pulling back the curtain of time, the first settlers discovering a new land not yet inhabited, a town that did not yet exist. Except instead of possibility, these pilgrims saw only loss. As they stumbled through the rubble, entire houses were lifted off their foundations. Pipes stuck up from the ground like some strange stem without a blossom. Not one memento, not even a broken chair or a shattered picture frame could be salvaged. It was as if the houses had been swept up into the sky, still intact, and plopped down somewhere else.

The only thing left standing, was the house at the top of the hill. As onlookers grieved and cried in the places that their own houses once stood, slowly they shifted their gaze upward, in amazement and dread, to the otherwise ordinary looking two story Victorian. Not only was it standing, it looked as if the hurricane had deliberately tip-toed around it. Every shutter, every windowpane, was precisely the way it had been, polished and perfect. Even the flowers in the window boxes remained vibrant and rigid against the storm. The house seemed to gleam, as if having just cooled off in a summer shower instead of the worst storm in the history of Shadow Lakes. The people shuddered at the pristine gables.

The rebuild was slow. Some people started over from scratch. Others cut their losses and headed off to a new town, one that wasn't haunted by the ghosts of loss. Meanwhile, the house at the top of the hill cast a looming shadow on the devastated town. It sneered at their efforts and malevolently mocked them with it’s perfectly sculpted bushes. It is not hard to see how all of the rumors began-- cursed, haunted, terrible secrets cloaked behind it’s mysterious walls.

Despite this, the people were resilient, and the town returned to a semblance of it’s former glory. After a while, things settled into normalcy. Lives went on, and over the years they began to forget the destruction of that day, or at least keep it as a memory in the distant past. For after things go well for so long, you start to believe that they will stay that way.



Author Notes: NaNoWriMo-ing in April is hard! I don't know if it's because I'm used to gloomy November, the rain and cold making it perfectly suited to being hold up inside with my computer/pen and paper, or if it's because I'm trying to edit a previous work instead of write a new one. Perhaps it's a little of both. Already, I am nowhere near on track for my word goal...I have barely even been counting. My new goal is to at least keep my promise to post a section here every Friday, I'm shooting for one chapter a week. 

Happy April everyone, it's going to be busy!!

Positive Procrastination- How I Write a Book

I have a notebook separated by nine different tabs. Each one is a different writing project...and I'm working on them all at once! Some are long (a young adult novel...okay, a few), some are short (poems), and some are in-between (picture books or magazine articles).

I know, I'm crazy, you don't have to tell me.

When I was an avid journal writer in middle and high school, I at one point had up to five journals at a time. (Let's see if I can remember them: Poetry, Fiction, Songs, Dreams, Everyday/journal!) For some reason it comforts me to sort things out that way. My brain likes the physical compartments.

I had been struggling with my writing process. I am a self-proclaimed procrastinator, and no matter how inspired I feel in the beginning, it's always been difficult for me to consistently sit down and write on a regular basis, especially on those days when you just aren't "feeling it". Consequently, I have left many projects unfinished. This used to be a huge stumbling block for me, it still is to a certain degree...those voices don't completely disappear  you just learn to ignore them better! I have always felt guilty about leaving something half finished and then berate myself for not having any follow-through. I have tried to remind myself that this is not productive, and not all things are meant to be finished anyway. Sometimes they are just for learning, a stepping stone to the next thing. Regardless, I've tried will-power and motivation, and charts, and all kinds of things, in order to turn those sketches and outlines into a finished product. Recently, I came across an article that helped things fall into place:


Positive Procrastination Not An Oxymoron

The basic gist is that you can use your procrastination tendencies to actually be productive. Here's a quote by Dr. Piers Steel from the article, “My best trick is to play my projects off against each other, procrastinating on one by working on another.”

You know those times when you feel completely inspired and the ideas just flow, then, all of a sudden you have five pages? We all love that feeling, we live for that feeling! But it's usually fleeting. Finally, I've found a way to leverage my inspiration!

If I am not excited at the moment about one project, I have a whole notebook full of others that I can choose from. Chances are I can find at least one to be excited about, and even if I only make a few notes or do a bit of research, it's still better than nothing.

It's not perfect, and it's certainly not for everyone, but that's where I'm at right now. It has it's draw backs, one being that it takes a lot longer to get to the finish line than if I were working on just one thing from start to finish. It may sound chaotic and crazy, for me though, it actually feels freeing. I still get those thoughts in the back of my head though, that fear that NONE of them will ever be finished! That I'm not working hard enough; that I should just push myself (even though i know that doesn't work for me). I try to think of myself as the tortoise, but my ego gets impatient. Sometimes the sheer size of the notebook is daunting.

It's wider than the apple!

But mostly, I feel comfy and safe with all of my ideas in a big, organized (color-coded) notebook. Just think, when I'm finished, I'll have a dozen things ready for print all at once! Then, I can sit back and take it easy for awhile...or not...chances are there will always be at least one project left unfinished, otherwise what do I procrastinate with?

What are your tricks, methods, and tips for getting inspired and getting things done?

Grandma Jane

Sometimes when I'm writing, I bounce ideas off my four year old.

He's actually quite helpful, especially since right now I'm working on writing some children's books. He's the perfect guinea pig.

My Grandmother was a teacher and also a writer. I remember receiving long, typed letters from her. She often encouraged me in the pursuit of education and especially writing, since I shared with her that it was something I wanted to do. I remember her giving me very specific advice. I wish I still had them, perhaps they are laying around somewhere in a box at my parents' house. Before she passed she even managed to write a book herself. A family history and genealogy that she dedicated and gifted to all of her grand kids.

I'm not a super spiritual person...that is, I don't have prophetic dreams, or have some sort of magnified other-worldly connection. But I feel like my grandmother is pushing me and guiding me in this endeavor, especially in this one particular story. I think about her all the time lately when I'm writing. I wonder how she might like this story idea, I even have a sort of conversation with her in my head, ask for advice on a word or phrase.

I'm still fairly young as a writer, but I know enough to realize that anything I do creatively is not just me and my own talent, that there is a spiritual component to creativity, whether it's God, or my ancestors, that offer insight, encouragement, or completely work through me. I've felt it before in music, when the song comes so easily and then you step back and say, "wow, did I just write that?" It's when I completely open myself up to let God work through me, instead of just relying on myself, that I am able to do my best work. It's comforting too, to know that I don't have to do it alone.

It may sound weird, but I think any creative person has this experience to some extent whether they realize it or not. Creativity is about tapping into something intangible-- an idea in your head, a vision, an inspiration--and making it substantial. A person's own skill and passion definitely makes a difference, but there is a communing with something outside of yourself...or perhaps inward, yet still invisible, whenever we sit down at the keyboard, or pick up an instrument, or a paint brush. Some people will call it God, or the Universe, or a Muse (any ancient Greeks out there?)

Right now I call it Grandma Jane.

The Other Side of November

First, I want to apologize for not posting as regularly during this past month. I have a good excuse!

November is notoriously the most busy, gloriously crazy month of the year for me. Not because of the holidays, but because for the last four years I've participated in NanoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). It's run by a non-profit organization called the Office of Letters and Light, and it's a challenge to write a Novel (50,000 words) in 30 days.

I've always wanted to be a writer, and the great thing about NanoWriMo, is that it pushes you to just write, write consistantly, and to let go of your inner editor (you know, that voice that says, "you're not a writer! what do you think you're doing! this is stupid, no one's going to want to read this!" He can be quite unpleasant.)

The joy I've found in letting the words flow, in creating worlds and letting my characters take me to new and unexpected places has brought me back year after year, and for the second time in four years I'm proud to say that I made my goal and can officially call myself a winner!

Phew!

It's been a wild ride. For those of you who cheered me on, Thank You! I wouldn't have made it without my writing buddies. One of the great things about this year was that I was able to do it along side so many people.

If you are interested in checking out NanoWriMo and all the great programs they do throughout the year, check out their website: http://nanowrimo.org/en/dashboard

As for me, a short breather and then it's on to the next frontier: Editing!

stay tuned for hair-pulling updates :)

Happy December!

Sticks and Stones

That rhyme may comfort a five year old, but I think a truer adage is:

"the pen is mightier than the sword"

Words are important. Emotional wounds cut so much deeper and last long after the physical pain is gone. Sometimes we put it away, thinking it is gone for good, only to find that there is still a splinter left there, and the farther we dig, the deeper down it goes, an endless cavity of hurt and betrayal.

What we say to each other, and how we say it, especially in the age of the internet where everything is recorded, matters.

a friend of mine posted some advice to writers awhile back that went something like this:

before you publish anything:
1. pray
2. read what you have written more than once and ask if what you have said can be interpreted or misunderstood in any way
3. edit
4. ask a trusted person to read it and ask for honest feedback
5. edit
6. pray some more
7. edit, edit, edit!
8. publish at your own risk

(these were not the exact words, I sort of made up my own version of how I remember it, but it's the basic gist.)

Once we put something out there it is no longer just yours. Our words are at the mercy of how others hear them, through the filter of their own experiences, judgments, and uniqueness. Still, we are responsible for whatever we are putting out into the universe. Our words have the power to give great healing and comfort, but also to cause pain and destruction.

You can't please everyone all of the time, and you'd be doomed to make your writing depend on what others thought. But by checking our own motivations we can stand by our words knowing that we have acted with a heart of love and integrity. Then, when criticism comes, we are like a tree that does not break, but sways in the storm.

write and write truly

There is a famous letter from Ernest Hemingway to F. Scott Fitzgerald in which Hemingway gives his opinion of Fitzgerald's latest book. You may get a kick out of reading it in its entirety even if you are not an American Literature buff: Letters of Note: Forget your personal tragedy

It's a marvelous example of the character we've all come to love (or hate), and some good advice to writers. He half praises, half chastises Fitzgerald. I was never a huge Hemingway fan, and it's funny because now that I'm older I feel like it's when you don't get along with someone because you are too much alike. He's like the Id that I try to control or push down into my subconscious. Hemingway was known for his brutal honesty, in life and in his writing. In the letter he tells Fitzgerald, "Scott for gods sake write and write truly no matter who or what it hurts but do not make these silly compromises."

Yesterday I wrote a little bit about my faith. I've actually had it written for months and was waiting for the right time to post it. My faith is something that I have not always been forthcoming about. Growing up I sometimes took great pains to hide it. The history of the Unification Church is riddled with very real stories of persecution. The first generation (my parents' generation), had to endure being ostracized from their families, maligned by society, and many experienced dangerous violations of civil rights at the hands of so-called de-programmers. While some of these things still exist to an extent (deprogramming is currently a serious problem in Japan), in the USA today, they are largely gone. Still, growing up, the fear of what might happen if I shared my faith kept me from ever opening up completely.

Children who were born into this movement are in a strange middle ground. You feel a connection to religious people because of your own faith and love for God, yet, you are not accepted, and have been most heavily persecuted by these same people, mostly main stream Christianity. Equally, there is a pull towards the secular, "spiritual but not religious", faction because they are less likely to judge. The motto is, "hey, whatever works for you". But at the same time, you feel out of place simply because you ARE religious, and would align yourself with Christians or other people of faith on certain issues.

I could easily make this blog appeal to just unificationists by using exclusive terminology, or conversely, be "ambiguously spiritual" so as not to offend anyone. But that's not how the world works. No one lives in a bubble, people of different faiths, or people with no faith (whether they like it or not), have to interact with each other. Unless you live in a commune, shut off from the outside world, we are all in this together. I believe if we started expressing our beliefs freely instead of refusing to talk about them for fear of causing persecution or offense, we may foster not just mere tolerance, but compassion, respect, maybe even love.

My purpose is not to proselytize, and I certainly don't represent the Unification church or speak for all Unificationists. I am merely sharing a part of who I am. It's strange, and different, but it's where I found God. It's in a very literal sense, the reason I am alive, and the reason that I now have my own beautiful family.

In my life, and in my writing, I find that the most fulfilling and honorable path is to follow the advice of Hemingway, truth and honesty. Not in a self-righteous sense, true honesty in my opinion actually takes a tremendous amount of humility and courage. That little nagging feeling, that little touch of fear about sharing something that is so dear to me. When I get that, I know I'm on the right track. Whenever I've followed that instinct, as hard as it is, I've gotten the best result. And anyway, it's not just about what other people think, it's about my own growth too, as a writer and as a human being. It's a small step in the direction of presenting myself to the world in a way that I can be proud of. Like it or hate it, but at least you can judge based on the truth and not merely a perceived idea or two dimensional picture. That's living with integrity and freedom, because even if people don't like it, you know that you are being true to yourself. The people that "get it" will encourage you, and the others won't matter so much.

There is another more famous quote by Hemingway that says,

“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”

There is no typewriter involved, but this is me bleeding.

Can I get a sick day?

Yesterday started out with all the makings of a great day. Miles woke up and climbed into our bed more gingerly than usual. He smiled and excitedly told us that he had had a good dream about playing "bad guys" with his best friend, and then proceeded to act it out. Miles had a field trip with his daycare, on a day that he is usually home so it was like a bonus day for me.

Ready to write, rest, and get a little work done around the house.

But then I started feeling the effects of the ever lingering cold I've been fighting. I decided I should take a nap before starting to write. So of course, Skylar decided he would only take 20 minutes for a morning nap. Up again, no writing, no nap. After picking up Miles from the field trip the day only got more exhausting. By bedtime I was ready to snap. I left the place a mess and just went to bed with the boys.

It's actually too perfect. Before all of the circumstances of the day, I had planned to write about a PBS documentary I watched the night before called, "Civilization". It chronicled the history of the great powers of the world and how they shifted over time. It started with 12th century China and went up to 20th century America and modern day. I was struck by how certain empires came to power and then just when they got comfortable and established, the tides started to shift and some other nation would rise up, often from out of the bleakest and most unlikely circumstances. It made me think about how it's easy to look at things in retrospect and see the clear path that leads to either greatness or defeat, but all we can do day by day, is try and learn from whatever past we already have, trust our gut and make an educated guess.

In many ways our lives are like the rise and fall of empires. None of them stays on top forever, everyone gets their turn, but it's not like those that fall are wiped off the map. The people of Imperial China remained and soldiered on, and now things are turning back around again with China emerging as one of the great super-powers of the world. Maybe these are just the natural tides of history, and of life. Sometimes we are on top, and sometimes we are down in the undertow, while we watch our neighbors ride the wave. We spend a lot of time grappling, furiously trying to hold onto that peak, but maybe that's not even possible. Eventually the wave will come down, no matter how hard we fight, bargain, or pray. Perhaps our time would be better spent learning how to land gracefully and prepare ourselves so that we're ready when the next wave comes our way.

So yesterday it felt like I had washed up on shore. Today I'm paddling my way back against the current. We may not be able to control the wave, but we have the choice to get back in the water.

*Note: I don't actually surf except in metaphors

All you need

"All children are artists. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up."- Pablo Picasso


One of the worst fears for a writer, for any creative person I think, is the fear that you will run out of things to say. Especially after accomplishing something big, like you write that first book. You are barely done celebrating your acheivement before there is the daunting task of a sequel. I used to feel this when I would write music, after finishing a song that I felt proud of. What if this is my best one? What if after this I won't have any more good ideas. As if creativity was a well that could somehow dry up.

Living with this scarcity mindset is not only anxiety producing, but completley self sabotoging.

Creativity is not a limited resource. In fact, if you foster it, it will multiply ten times over. You are not the same person from year to year, day to day, or moment to moment. Everything changes, and that's a good thing, because that's where the spark of inspiration lies. There will always be something new to say, because you will be a new person saying it.

A good artist is an observer. She is someone who sees a metaphor for life when she comes across a bird building a nest. He watches people and wonders what they are thinking, puts himself in their shoes, and in doing so recognizes their common humanity.

You may not be an artist by trade, but everyone has an inner artist. It's the child who sees beauty and magic in everything. Creativity, inspiration, beauty, is always there all around you. All you have to do is learn how to tap into it. Like Luke Skywalker channeling "The Force."

A writer friend once told me while discussing a difficult experience, "well, at least I can use this for my writing!"

Be grateful for what life brings. Pay attention. Find the small pleasures. Release your inner artist.

As I write this, this song keeps going through my head:

"There's nothing you can know that isn't known.
Nothing you can see that isn't shown.
Nowhere you can be that isn't where you're meant to be.
It's easy..."

you fill in the blank :)

Secret Heart

"The most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them--words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they're brought out. But it's more that that, isn't it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you've said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That's the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear." - Stephen King

I discovered this quote back in high school (don't ask me how many years ago!) and proceeded to tuck it away inside notebooks and journals. For a long time this summed up exactly how I related to my own hopes and dreams. I used to be afraid to talk about my passions, as if it would jinx it somehow. I treated them like precious pieces of glass that had to be protected from scrutinizing ears. I remember a time when I actually did tear up while talking to someone about my desire to be a writer. I felt completely naked and exposed, and I couldn't wait to run away and hide; to tuck my secret away again where it would be safe. The problem though is to keep your dreams locked away is to surely see them perish. Like Lenny, in "of Mice and Men", if you hold on too tightly it will die (Shout out to my eleventh grade English teacher).

Safety is a comfy place to be, but it's an illusion. It's something we create. There is never a guarantee that things will work out how you've planned, regardless of all of the precautions you have taken. I say this not to be paranoid, but to encourage you to free yourself from the cage that the illusion of safety creates. When you dare to take a risk, when you expose your dreams to the light of day, you create endless possibility.

but how do you take that first step when every fiber in your being is shouting "danger! danger!" at the thought of opening yourself up to those dreams?

These are some things I've learned in the course of my journey. I am by no means an expert, I'm still figuring it out, and everything I say to you I am also saying to myself, over and over again.

Have faith that your dreams are strong enough to withstand whatever hurdles might be thrown in your path. Your dreams are not made of glass. They will not crack and break at the first sign of trouble. Think of them as getting calloused with each blow, only becoming stronger and harder to penetrate.

Focus on the dream, but don't be attached to the outcome. You may want to be a musician, so be the best musician you can be, but don't worry about whether or not you become famous or your album receives accolades. To do this is to have your success and happiness be dependent on others instead of from within.

Let go of any preconceived notions of what it should "look like". Don't try to restrain your dreams, let them run free. Let them lead you. You may find yourself doing things you never would have imagined. Let your dreams lead you to places that your safety-obsessed mind would never let you go.

The most dangerous, and loudest critic is yourself. The voice that tells you it will be too hard, that it's not worth it, that you have a one-in-a-million chance so why bother? That people will "look at you in a funny way". This is the voice that will break your dreams. And it lives right there next to where you are trying to hide them away and keep them safe. The only way to save them is to let them go.

One of my new favorite quotes is by Van Gogh: "If you hear a voice within you say 'you cannot paint,' then by all means paint, and that voice will be silenced."


So here goes: I want to write a book. I want to write many books. The ideal picture I have in my head is of me sitting next to an open window, sea breeze blowing the curtains next to my desk. A cup of coffee, a computer, or maybe a notebook and paper. Silence, thoughts, and getting lost in my own story.

So now you know where my secret heart is buried. I hope by sharing it, it will help you release your own.

Thanks for being an understanding ear.

to starting again

It's been three years since my last post. Three years! My first son was just a baby. Since then we've moved and had another baby boy, (Skylar Owen, 10 months). I've quit my singing gig, bought a mini van, and become entrenched in the full-time, stay-at-home-mom lifestyle.

It's easy to get discouraged after such a long absence. When you start, you're all inspired, consistency is easy. But just once you say, I'll get to it tomorrow. And then tomorrow turns into next week, next month, next year...and then after that long, what's the point? That's the thought that has kept me away for three years. Why is it so hard to start over?

I think I feel like I failed. I had an idea of what I wanted my writing and my blog to look like, and I am disappointed in myself that I couldn't keep up with it. It's easier to ignore it than to acknowledge my shortcomings, because that's what it takes to start over. You have to look back at what you did wrong, how you failed, swallow your pride, and move forward. You can't learn from your mistakes if you try to hide them away. No one is perfect, and it's never too late.

I remember a conversation with my mom awhile back where she was talking about someone who was thinking about going back to college. It went something like this:

-"but I'll be 30 and JUST finishing my bachelors degree"

mom: "and how old will you be if you don't go?"

-"30"

mom: "and you won't have a degree"

It's never too late. All it takes is the courage to start again. Hopefully when you take the first step, it's with more knowledge, humility, and determination.

Part of me wanted to create a completely different site and erase all of my previous posts from three years ago. But I think that's just my fear creeping in again. I know that I need to keep them there, if only to show how far I've come and to remind myself of what happens when I let the fear of failure run the agenda. I hope I can learn from the past and use it as fuel to move forward.