Writeful Mumblings

Shop 'Till I Scream (Or Pee My Pants)

2011-12-29T17:10:00.000-05:00

In search of a perfect black sweater, I ventured to the mall braving the post-holiday flux of bargain shoppers. A deal is a deal, even if it means death by stampedes of heartless hunters out for "The Deal."

After visiting two stores, I found my perfect black sweater, on sale with an additional thirty percent off. I felt the rush of fine tequila without lemon or shaker of salt. Adding to my euphoria: NO LINE AT CHECKOUT! Had I died and gone to Heaven where I'd most likely wait in line, or sent to a waiting room for sentencing? For me, when I can enter a store, snap up an item without having to try on more than two things all within a matter of twenty minutes, it's a successful trip.

And then the counter clerk asks, "Do you have a Banana Card?"

"I do," I replied as I dug out my not-a-credit-debit-card.

Says lovely counter clerk, "You can save an additional ten percent if you use your Banana Card."

"Uh, no thanks," said I while choking my inner voice that wanted to scream, "Do you know what the interest is on that lousy Banana Card or did it slip your mind?"

Seriously, ten percent so I can swipe my card and later pay an APR of twenty-four percent isn't my idea of "The Deal." Yeah, yeah. I know what some might say: "Well, if you pay the entire balance you aren't charged the interest."

I don't have time to look up the statistics, but having known many people in possession of credit cards, few will honestly say that they pay off the balance each month. The rest are lying because credit card companies are masters of smoke and mirror tactics. They make it appear like "The Deal," and soon credit card use turns into a substitute for crack.

All this went through my mind as I stood at the check out, my lofty nirvana squashed by the check out clerk also known as Torquemada, the Grand Inquisitor. "And you also will get bonus points for every dollar you charge," she chirped, "and receive reward gift cards!"

Oh, spare me, although I'm thankful that she didn't tell me how many dollars I need to charge in order to get a lousy ten dollar gift card that's only good when used with my Banana Card. After all, my mission had been accomplished, black sweater almost in the bag.

"May I see your signature on the card?" she says.

Little did I realize that I resembled an identity thief. I flip my card for her to see. She takes it to study closer. My bladder sends a signal that we need to leave the store soon. And then she says, "Can I have your zip code?"

A test to get the coveted black sweater from dressing room to shopping bag. Really? Should I have studied first? Couldn't they have posted a warning nearby the cash-wrap that there would be a Q&A upon check out?

So much for twenty minute shopping trips. Post Bah-Humbug! No wonder consumers prefer on-line shopping (she says as she finishes blog posts and wanders to the Zappos web cite).

A Word About A Word That Chills Me

2011-12-28T13:18:00.000-05:00

Call me a cave dweller; tell me I'm living in the past and need to "get with it." However,when I get text messages typed in complete abbreviation, I feel the urge to respond, "WTF?"

I completely understand a person's need to abbreviate in order to save on all that typing while driving along the interstate. Makes sense. Better to insult me with sloppy verbiage than doing a face plant into that cement barrier separating lanes. Really, I do try to understand the "R" for "are," the "U" for "you," and the LOL for, well, if you have to have that defined, welcome to my cavedom. But must I also embrace the newest form of mangled language that comes by way of intentional misspelling to make one look cool, or in their word, "K-E-W-L?"

Really? "Cool" uses four letters, and to make it easy on the thumbs, one is used twice. I feel that when a person tries to look "cool" by mispelling it, well, that just makes said person look like a "F-E-W-L." Sadly, I've seen this used by people with dual degrees. Perhaps they managed to glide through Masters programs without the need to correctly spell. Or maybe it's only Bachelors and Masters of Arts that decry "Spelling counts!"

I wonder if these misguided spellers suffer a sort of identity crisis? Or could there possibly be a secret society devoted to developing a secret language, you know, a new form of pig-Latin for those who flunked Latin, but made it through law school anyway, and successfully ran for public office?

Yes, I've been called far worse than a cave-dweller, but I am proud to be a word-snob. I hope to make a living out of the proper use of prose in order to propagate better English to the unenlightened who ignore "spell check." So, hell yeah, I get all kinds of queasy when a person, especially those who attended grad school, can not SPELL "COOL," those "FEWLS!"

I'm C-O-O-L with being called the spelling police. Someone has to stand up for correctness. So here's to abbreviation for the sake of brevity and safety; may those too inept and/or lazy to get the simple words correctly spelled have all their texting privileges revoked.

AMEN!

Pages of Tears

2011-11-04T17:21:00.000-04:00

Rust did not pour from my fingertips, at least not today. After nearly two months away from my work-in-progress I shuddered to return for I realize the difficulty of jumping back in after such a struggling sabbatical.

But today, after three days that came in fits and starts (whatever that means and a free Dove bar to the one providing an answer, no matter how contrived), I conquered the damn beast. At noon-ish I sat at the computer, opened up the document and set sail, first re-reading already finished pages, but that's how I roll. For whatever reason I have to review in order to remind myself where I left off and where to begin. The downside of the habit is that I become a bit bogged down in editing. But still, today even that didn't stop me, nor did the interruption of my sister who arrived for a visit, fat beagle on a leash in tow.

A welcomed break. This time of year our sunny days are a premium. Today it blazed overhead defying the chilled air, begging for those enclosed within walls to get out and walk. So I did. Myself, sister and two dogs in tow, we did the serpentine-style walk up my street. There's something about beagles and walking. They do so with nose plowing along pavement in search of pee-mails left by other canines. A slow, not so brisk pace.

And beyond the small break that lasted longer than my usual sprint, I still returned to the pages with a goal in mind: Stopping at 4:30 p.m. EST. At 4:45-ish I realized I came to a stopping point; that I had already reached a part of the story that I had struggled to unfold, and did so beautifully.

The feeling I experienced thereafter, and it still clings, was one that tops the best euphoria I ever had. Better than chocolate, a glass of red wine while watching cherry logs burning in the fireplace. And yes, dare I say it? Sex.

Returning to the pages of this particular story is very similar to returning to the place where I grew up. I look at the place where my home once stood, gaze at the treeline and creek that still flows nearby, take in the panorama of the deepest of Finger Lakes and feel the past wrap me in a protective, soothing, welcome home hug.

That's the feeling I have. Irreplaceable. All of it validating my true path, one that continues to keep me centered.

All of it whispers in my ear, "Welcome home, Kath."

Diving Into the Bottomless Pool

2011-11-01T14:43:00.002-04:00

Today I committed to writing every day for the month. I've joined NaNoWriMo. My fingers are rusty; I'm sure the muse spits corroded iron. If only it'll forgive me for my absence; it couldn't be helped.

Still, over two months and my poor WIP sits idle waiting my return. I hope my muse has been patient, although I have kept her exercised with mu emotional poetry, thanks to my emotional situation of late that hit me like a ton of bricks. Oh, forgive the awful cliche. Remember my rusty fingers.

I am on a mission to follow in the footsteps of my friend who recently got a book deal. I want to be her, or at least feel the beauty of success, accomplishment and freedom to breathe on my terms and only my terms. No more editors looking over my shoulder, their shadow breathing their presence into my subconscious. No more worry of criticism from unknown places. That'll come soon enough.

Today I shall write as if my life depends on it (oh, another cliche), for perhaps my life will at some extent given my recent upset that procured so much poetry, both bad and awesome.

If only my muse will respect my absence as a necessary sabbatical, random as it is. I make today the beginning of my new life; a brand new day in my total control. No more posturing or excuses. It's time to move forward. Time to take control of me.

Oft' I Wonder

2011-07-10T16:01:00.005-04:00

College degrees. Are they worth the hype? In 2007 I enrolled in college with a focus on obtaining a degree. My major remained unclaimed simply because college was new territory for me. Really, who begins college at age fifty-three? Me, that's who. Without a plan in place I attended "Registration Day" at the main campus with the objective of enrolling in classes based on whatever my adviser printed out based on a Liberal Arts degree (because that's where one begins when running screaming from math and science).

Registration experts sat at tables in a huge hall. One by one they helped students fill out a schedule. As one table cleared, a registrar would crook hers or his finger and wave in another student, similar to standing in line at TJMaxx minus the talking checkouts. My turn arrived and I was waved in by an older woman. She was pleasant and to my advantage, a former head of the English Department. She said to me, "What have you done lately?" I answered, "Before my eye-explosion I wrote three novels." In front of her was my pseudo-schedule, a list of recommended subjects based on my high school transcript. She gazed down at it and quickly scribbled a line through whatever English course listed on the printout. As she scribbled she said, "Oh, no, no. This isn't the subject for you. I'm putting you in the Honors English program."

Like I knew the difference. I shrugged and said, "Okay." She then asked how much of a course load I thought I could handle (keep in mind, I was fifty-three and over thirty years out of high school). I replied, "Maybe two or three a week?" And she added Art History to my schedule. "Let's start you off slow," she said. "Super!" said I.

Five years later and still without a degree, I have successfully completed nineteen credits, twelve of those in Honors English. I write, therefore I crammed as many writing courses as I could handle into my schedule, and have never seen my writing skills improve as greatly except for when I experienced a professional edit from this very awesome editor extraordinaire, Erica Orloff (a/k/a Author Extraordinaire).

While taking college credit courses, I also maintained writing in my work-in-progress, a project that's taking nearly five years to finish (note "eye explosion" and "enrolling in college" - those things were time sucks). All in all, I kept at the craft, one for college credits and the other for improving my skills on my own time (as difficult as it was during "eye explosion").

Another Fall semester is approaching and I enrolled in one final Honors English course, only to drop the course before starting. Thoughts of "And I need this why?" kept rolling around in my sub-conscious, sending subliminal messages for me to take one more look at "WHY?" again. Thus I set out on a path to wonder and ponder as to the necessity of a degree in Liberal Arts/English Literature. I have the utmost respect for degrees, especially in the Arts. And I strongly feel this about degrees: Once obtained no one can take them away. Plus, for the many it looks good on a resume. "They" say that these days one can't get a decent paying job without some form of degree.

I'm beyond hanging out with the workforce. I have no plans on seeking employment in the "real world." My career focus is finishing my work-in-progress with a later focus on seeing it to fruition, a/k/a publication. The question that begs asking and taps at my skull often is do I really need a degree in order to accomplish my writing goals?

Perhaps what I need to consider is the audience for whom I write. Am I trying to appeal to the Literary Fiction crowd? No, and if so I'd need the Bachelors and also the Masters in Fine Arts (most likely). And lately I've considered the "genre" in which I write. Still haven't determined precisely what it is, but I have narrowed it down, feeling my work can be considered "dramedy," a cross between a funny and serious storyline.

Do I need a degree to be funny and serious? Will said degree make an editor/agent view me in a more serious light? Do I care? Frankly, I've read many books by those with degrees in English, and many by authors with MFA's. Some were fabulous; some were "meh." Yet, my most favorite of books was written by an author with a degree in Comparative Religion. Go figure.

Earlier I mentioned the improvement in my writing skills resultant of taking Honors English and receiving an edit from Editor/Author Extraordinaire. The latter has been a mentor; with her I feel as if I was completing an internship in writing just by visiting her blog. My relationship with her has blossomed beyond the mentoring stage. (Knowing her is like having a personal guardian angel/philosopher/genius.) Through her I feel as if I'm obtaining CWE (Continuing Writing Education) credits necessary to maintain my writing edge, which works better than college for me. And she possesses a degree in English, is a literary editor and at one time in her life, a literary agent. So it goes, she backs up her profession with the necessary and appropriate credentials. (Plus, her books kick some major butt.)

All said, at this juncture in my life, I have already honed my "natural" talent (as some have called it) by completing the aforementioned Honors English and mentoring/interning via Editor/Author extraordinaire. I continued improving my skills, writing daily even if it isn't in my work-in-progress. I practice the craft regularly. I have no desire to be a critic, editor, agent or English teacher. I just want to write it, finish it, publish it. The THREE ITS. I feel it's unnecessary to return for a "degree" if my goal-focus is on seeing my work-in-progress or one of my other manuscripts to fruition. I'm FIFTY-FRIGGIN'-SEVEN! Seriously, time to carpe diem it up, right?

I honor and respect those who've pounded their way to a Bachelors and MFA. But personally I feel that a degree in the Arts isn't always a necessity for everyone. This writer-extraordinaire will succeed without the sheepskin, pretty as one might look on my wall. With the notion that writing is something I cannot quit, it proves to me that I'm on the correct and very focused path.

Degree or not to degree? What dost thou think?

No Paine, No Gain: A July Fourth Tribute to Thomas Paine, America's First Gifted Writer

2011-07-04T10:42:00.005-04:00

The following is an abridged version of an essay I wrote for college credits. Any and all cites have been removed. Do your own damn research, suckers.

And without further adieu, I give you...

No Paine, No Gain

Thomas Paine’s reputation preceded him. His father was a corseter in Thetford, England, Paine’s birthplace. After flunking out of school at age twelve, young Thomas apprenticed with his father, but failed at that, too. If a twentieth century man, Thomas Paine might be known as a “loser.” Thus, Paine was a corset maker’s disappointment. While still residing in England and making his way as an excise tax officer, young Thomas, at the tender age of nineteen, crossed paths with Benjamin Franklin, who brought him to Philadelphia, where he set out on the journalistic path. The rest, as they say, is history. Paine became a prolific essayist, and author of The Crisis and Common Sense.

The relevance of The Crisis is rooted in Paine’s Common Sense. The essay was the equivalent of modern day “grass roots” movement in that its circulation reached many, and the body of it penetrated the fence-sitters who waffled between loyalty to, or independence from, England. It helped them embrace the reality of the situation. Perhaps its language seemed powerful, but the power belongs to the writer. Paine worded the essay simplistically; it “spoke to the common people.”

In Common Sense, Paine reminded the colonists that monarchy equals tyranny; that although England’s form of government appeared to include checks and balances, it didn’t include input by the people. So to comment on Paine’s The Crisis, it’s prudent to consider Paine’s meaning as conveyed to the colonists in Common Sense. The pamphlet “nudged” the people into considering what they had to gain through independence from England.

“These are the times that try men’s souls,” accurately depicts the inner struggle of the colonists in that they had much to consider. During the salutary neglect, colonies formed their own government and enjoyed the autonomy, yet when England reminded itself of their moneymaker across the pond, they reasserted their authority in the form of taxation. England unilaterally levied taxes on the colonists without warning. This left a bad taste in the colonists’ mouths. When the idea of separation from England spread, it created more inner turmoil. How could young America expect to defeat a country with the most powerful military in the world? What if they broke away from England only to be swallowed up by Spain or France? Some still had familial ties back in England; others felt an economic strain, particularly in the southern colonies where people actually stuck to England’s mercantilism.

There was much to consider. Would it be worth it? Paine said, “Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered, yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph.” This served a reminder that they’ve slay the dragon previously, and survived to fight another. “What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly,” meaning that accepting defeat without a struggle is a worthless endeavor. The colonists had already spread their independent wings and managed to endure to fight another. They already had proven their mettle in previous battles, having fought and captured British forts in New York, Virginia and Canada, as well as at Concord when they forced the British to retreat, and Bunker Hill, which encouraged more colonists to join the fight. Colonial women took a stand, boycotting tea drinking and the wearing of British goods, utilizing homespun cloth. Those boycotts instilled self-sufficiency; they proved that the colonists could, and would, stand on their own.

The colonists knew that what they accomplished was worth fighting to maintain. Although initially, the Continental Congress sought “a peaceful resolution” by exhibiting to George III, via the “Olive Branch Petition,” that they meant to remain loyal to the crown. However, the King’s opinion remained steadfast, that the colonists were subordinates. Parliament acted, formally declaring the colonies “in open rebellion.” England blockaded American ports, seized American ships and cargo, inadvertently leaving the colonists with little choice but to revolt.

Gen. George Washington ordered his officers to read The Crisis to their troops on the night of December 25, 1776. Under fierce weather conditions, troops stood armed and ill clothed while listening to Paine’s essay. I imagine sounds of coughing and feet stomping while clouds of frigid breaths filled the air. The essay, read in its entirety, was meant to inspire troop morale, perhaps in the sense of Bob Hope Christmas Shows of modern times. On December 26, 1776 the Continental Army went on to defeat both the British and Hessian troops, Paine’s essay purportedly written on the back of a drumhead.

At the time Washington’s job security was in question. Troop morale dwindled. The defeat at Trenton wasn’t considered a significant win, but in the end Washington continued in charge of the troops, and the Continental Army morale reinvigorated.

The power of Paine’s pen proved strong and vibrant.

Paine is my Revolutionary War hero, a man who never saw battle but proved beyond words the power of the pen.

Traditional or Self Publish: Game Changer

2011-06-29T12:29:00.009-04:00

Inertia: A tendency to remain in a fixed condition without change; disinclination to move or act.

I've always valued open-mindedness. Critical thinking and viewing all sides before coming to a conclusion is the more logical path for me. Yet the subject of self-publishing took on a vivid black and white philosophy that didn't include fence sitting. True confession: I believed self-publication was an act of desperation.

Way back in the days before electronic publishing, self-publishing existed in print format. For a tidy sum one could pay to publish their book. Prices varied depending on the package, some upwards of a few thousand dollars. I checked it out once and when I saw it cost money that I didn't have, I took a pass. Preferring to take the traditional path didn't cost me a single penny - just tons of angst (and I'm not including fees for contests and writing workshops, etc. Those were necessary learning tools). Plus, for me selling to a traditional publisher would give me a huge sense of accomplishment.

I still feel that way, but lately I've considered changing my views of those who choose the self-publishing road. Many of my writer friends, who got closer to a traditional publisher's door than I ever did, have gone the self route. Many of these writers are excellent and extremely passionate about the craft, especially this one. It's just that the luck pendulum never swung in their direction. You know - right time; right place, etc. Thus, rather than leave their babies tucked away on the hard drive, they've unleashed them to the highway of electronic readers, circumventing the traditional route. Plus, they're making money and hopefully enough to justify their choice. (Side note: Those who print self-published of yesteryear most likely didn't recoup their investment.)

And who am I to denounce them for their choice? (A smug snob, that's who.)

Perhaps sometimes it isn't about how to publish but choosing to. Not all who choose the self-published route do so because they're sick of rejection. Not all do so out of desperation.

Maybe they just want to be read. And this notion struck me with brute force recently like a divine intervention. It makes me want to purchase a Kindle (again) so I might read the works by very talented writers. And maybe one day some of them will want to read my works...

That is if I have the nerve to put myself out there. And there's the rub. The self-published author possesses insurmountable courage. They have unleashed their babies for all to praise or call "meh." The latter scares me. Still, the self-published authors of the world , at least some, haven't let the "meh" reviews discourage them.

I wonder if self-publishing fulfills a desire for writers to see their hard work to fruition, which makes me question my former feelings about self-publishing. That's a good thing because to stop self-questioning is a dreadful form of inertia.

All said, I must step up and honor my fellow writers who choose self-publication. It's not about the bling, but always about honoring the art and thyself.

Here's to change and growth! May I remain true to myself while embracing the choices of others.

One Life To Lose

2011-06-19T12:42:00.005-04:00

Of all the despicable acts of betrayal, ABC network has cancelled my favorite soap, One Life To Live. The only soap I've watched for the last two years, it offered everything to keep me entertained. It had great acting, dialog and story-lines. Just one episode sucked me in making it the epitome of every writer's goal: Keep the audience in your clutches.

Alas, daytime television isn't like the good old days when the majority of moms were housewives and soap operas had a captive audience. With the changing times and culture, fewer viewers plummeted ratings, and if a show can't sell the soap, well then honey, you're out.

Sadly the show's writing staff winds down, and with that it appears they have thrown up their hands and said, "Let's just get it over with." The writing has diminished, story-lines rushed like a meal made in a microwave. In a sense they've lost an integral part of an artist's soul - they've become lackadaisical, they've lost all...

Integrity. It's as if the writers no longer feel commitment to the art; they're phoning in the pages in order to get the job done. Doesn't matter if it's well done just so long as it's over with.

And it made me think about how I've proceeded with writing. My current work-in-progress is something I've had an on-again off-again relationship with for the past six years. After several starts and stalls I finally said to myself, "Just finish the damn thing. It's not going to get published anyway."

Is it any wonder that I stray from my work? Why show up at all when I've already proclaimed its end result? And when I do show up to the pages I write stream-of-consciousness; whatever pops into my head I barf to the pages, not because the words come from the heart but because I'm just getting it done. I've set up a self fulfilled prophecy and lost the main part of the writer's equation: Integrity.

To show up at the page with complete disregard for the craft is like learning you've got six months to live. Choices develop. Choose to live; choose to die. Make every day count; make every day the countdown. I pity the writing staff of One Life To Live. Surely it sucks to receive a pink-slip, but it sucks more to finish out their stay like they're choosing to die without honor. Yes, the writing world can be cruel. The real world can be, too. But life is what we make of it. To choose an ending inappropriate to the life lived diminishes an already withered soul. It stamps out integrity, the blood coursing through every GREAT writer's veins.

I like to think I have developed standards (when it comes to writing). I like to believe that the pages I write are works of art even if not everyone else will view them that way. My standard is to do the best job I can - to maintain my integrity and not let myself down. As I reflected on the shoddy end-of-days writing of One Life to Live I realized that I stopped living up to my standards and in doing so, stopped living up to my fullest potential.

Through the cancellation of a soap I've learned a valuable lesson and for that I'm grateful, no matter the bittersweet feeling I have over the end. So whether I've chosen to write with or without the goal of publication, I'll remain true in honoring the craft and produce with excellence.

Integrity: Is it an important cog in your writing wheel or not?

Don't Let Your Rain Come Down On Me, Debbie.

2011-06-13T13:32:00.002-04:00

Lately I've noticed a failing in myself. Throughout my life I've allowed the naysayers to control my destiny. This isn't a new revelation, just something I'm more aware of with age.

Examples:

1. Last year I had what I felt was an awesome story idea. It was one of those ideas that kept me awake at night. I gathered research; a librarian friend helped - she was as excited as I was. And then I shared my idea with a former colleague who responded, "Good luck with that. I had the same idea and just couldn't get it to go anywhere."

2. I once received an A in a college course. This was so shocking that I shared the news with another student. Her response: "I heard that everyone got an A in that course."

These negative reactions sent my confidence and sense of accomplishment to the ninth ring of hell. I don't share information about my life in order to receive praise. It's just something shared in the course of conversation.

In physics we learn that positive (+) and negative (-) charges attract each other. In human nature positive tidings can at times attract negative comments. Unlike physics, in human nature negative comments repel the positive experience. Negative comments discredit goals and dreams; they stop motivation.

They are my personal acid rain.

I have a history of allowing the negativity of others to control my destiny. For instance, I dumped my super-duper story idea within a week after former colleague's response not only proving that negative swamps positive, but that it also stymies progress. Do I place blame on her for abandoning my idea? Of course not. I have since come to realize that I can't control what spews from people's mouths but I can control how I let it affect me.

How do I control its effect? I'm viewing the sources in a different light. Rather than allow negative comments/people to stop my momentum, I point out to the naysayer that they are the "muwah-muwah" of life. Later I rationalize where their negativity is coming from and then let it go without over-analyzing the situation. I'm not Dr. Phil. The id of others is for the experts to figure out.

My attempt to control negative effects is a difficult task. There exists no patch for my ancient habit of allowing negative energy to dim my light. It'll take practice, but I'm a firm believer in old dogs learning new tricks.

As artists we come under a barrage of negative comments from those who feel entitled to dish them out. But as artists we possess the talent to overcome obstacles. It's the nature of our beast. The power is endless and something we tap into daily. Although I have in the past allowed the negatives to get the better of me, I'm living proof that they haven't killed me.

Debbie Downer: The acid rain queen of life. Have you developed your repellent for her next monsoon?

Parallel Universe

2011-04-14T12:55:00.009-04:00

American Idol's newest season is the best group of talent yet with new judges and new mentors. Every time I watch I can't stop comparing this season to my writing world.

Case in point: The new panel of judges. Out with the old with the exception of Randy Jackson, this season's addition of Jennifer Lopez and Stephen (pant) Tyler is nothing short of a brilliant move on the producers' part. These judges offer criticism in a non-degrading way proving the true meaning of constructive. They speak with fortification, their words improving the talent and making the contestants feel worthy of the prize.

Although I truly enjoyed Simon Cowell, his harsh criticisms were unnecessary and non-productive. Telling a contestant that they're next gig is on a cruise ship removed the contestant's drive to thrive. And although Paula and DioGuardi Who kept poisonous remarks to themselves, they didn't say the things that would make the contestants feel like they were winners. "Oh, that was really nice," isn't the same as saying, "I'd buy a front row ticket to your concert," because, really, who cares if Paula or DioGuardi Who sit front row center, but hearing Jennifer Lopez say it is like Mark Ruffalo asking me to spend the weekend at his estate in the Catskills (if he has one, if I were single and twenty years...make that ten years younger).

This year Idol added Jimmy Iovine and Will. I. Am. as mentors. Love these guys because they keep it real while showing the contestants ways to improve. Like the judges, they empower the talent with spot-on advice. They are mentors with hefty credentials backing up their claims. If the talent disagrees with advice, the mentors respect it without discrediting it.

Yes, this season of Idol reminds me of both the great and horrible critiques I've received on my writing path. There was a spell when I'd submit my work to various Romance Writers of America contests. Not a romance writer, I felt the format allowed me a view of how my work was received. This is where I learned to develop a thick skin, even though some contest judges utilized the Simon Cowell version of criticism, using demeaning words that stalled my muse. A veil of defeat floated over my pen, at times making it a struggle to drag it across the paper. So similar to how Simon Cowell's caustic criticism doused the talent of American Idol.

Luckily for me, the day came when I realized that my work had no place in Romance Writers of America. I needed room to flex my writing muscle, which entailed figuring out who I was as a writer, similar to Idol's judges querying contestants on if they know who they want to be as singers. The problem was that I had no idea where to wander. And because the Universe works in subtle ways, after several unsuccessful attempts by doctors to reattach a chronically detaching retina, I decided to enroll in college.

A strange path to take, fellow students young enough to be my children, it's where my muse got her opportunity to shake out the feathers and stretch. Thank heaven for the registrar who put me in the school's Honors English course, a place that helped me realize my true writing potential. My English Literature professor became my mentor. His manner of teaching illuminated; never did he force his opinion, rather he suggested better ways of enhancing my voice. He was the Jimmy Iovine of my college life.

Over the course of the last three years my path crossed with a very talented editor/author, Erica Orloff, the most influential mentor to date. She graciously offered to read a piece I had struggled with. As she called it, she gave it an "unvarnished edit." I called it the "yin-yang" edit. A careful eye for talent, she also has a careful eye for the unnecessary. She'd point out the brilliant and then comment on the "mehs" of my manuscript, but in such a way that opened my eyes and made me want to do better.

Certainly we can disagree with criticism, but if offered from the heart and soul of true craftsmen such as Jimmy Iovine, Will. I. Am and Erica Orloff, it's all about growing the talent and never about subduing the creative muse. And every time I watch American Idol, it reminds me of my writing experience; I find myself comparing Idol's judges and mentors with my English Lit. professor and the incomparable Erica O.

Talent grows so long as one keeps an open mind to suggestions and constructive criticism; to ignore a great mentor is to reject the wild blue yonder. Aim high or you'll never know where your talent will take you. I'm glad I kept my eye wide-open, as well as my ears.

Arrivederci Pia

2011-04-08T13:27:00.003-04:00

American Idol fans saw a favorite bite the dust this week, losing Pia Toscano whose talent might be more suited for voice-overs and soundtracks, places that need a strong sound only. Harsh criticism, I know, but out of the nine remaining finalists, Miss Toscano's incredible voice wasn't enough to rise her above the others. She lacked the ability to entertain entirely, unable to draw in voters as well as compete with the more unique talents of Casey, Paul and Scotty (my personal favorites). She lacked "different."

In a word, her talent was generic. Not downplaying her voice, but more was needed and she didn't deliver, the difference between just okay and totally awesome. Just like writing...

Segue Alert: I see vast comparisons between the singers of American Idol whose talent captures votes as well as the eye of music promoters, record labels and buyers, and writers whose work catches the eye of literary agents, editors and readers. Contestants of Idol need to stand out. Writers of fiction need to do the same. Talent is the common denominator, but I feel it's also necessary to bring something different to the equation. In the case of Idol, singers with a distinct voice coupled with the ability to touch listeners deeply while taking a risk seems to garner the most votes, and the same goes for writers.

Like the surviving Idol contestants, I find that I'm taking chances and writing not to appeal to the norm, but to excite those looking for different. The same-old same-old has a following, but are those generic works memorable? Are their characters warped, disheveled, have a broken nose but still get the girl? Does the plot make the reader say, "Damn, that's the coolest idea ever?"

Sometimes a person needs to strap on a set in order to move ahead of the pack. This is how I view Casey, Paul and Scotty of Idol. When I close my eyes and listen I know who they are, and when I watch and see Casey with his stand-up bass, Paul with his wonky way of dancing and Scotty who is doing a stellar job bringing back smooth cross-over country, well, I just see a three-way coming in the end (win, that is).

And as a writer I tend to do the same thing, strapping on the set God forgot to give me and letting 'er rip, diving into the parts of my gray matter where all the different twists and angles live. Playing it safe in writing is like a paranoia, checking to make sure all rules followed at all times rather than shaking it up and letting it roll, an unexpected outcome worth the scary risk of doing something extraordinarily out of the ordinary.

Why settle for keeping in step when breaking into a fast sprint puts the parade miles behind you? Risks are for winners. Long live the risk-takers! Be the bright brushstroke on the beige canvas - kick it up or remain, for lack of a better word, just "meh."

Calliope's Comeback: The Importance of Quitting

2011-03-10T12:25:00.006-05:00

Many view walking away from something as a form of throwing in the towel. "She's a quitter!" some might say behind her back. In fact, I might be one to hurl the first stone in that regard. And over a month ago I did just that. I QUIT WRITING. And then stoned myself metaphorically, wiling away the hours with Spider Solitaire, cyber-shopping and random movies.

There's something to be said for self-flagellation. In my case it brought renewal, minus the ugly scars. More to the point,the scars became marks of beauty and reminders that it's better to realize what is necessary to the cause, rather than push through and hate every minute of it. It brought an awakening, new perspective and adjustment. And it silenced...

Ugly Inner Critic. Don't get me wrong, voices in my head have multiple purposes, but Ugly Inner Critic belittled my work. I found that very defeating. It flat-lined the creative process, made writing more about how much I could scribble, quality taking a back seat to quantity.

Where is the good in just "showing up to the page" if not bringing your A-game? In retrospect, that's what I did, even though not "feeling it," I figured it was better to act the part, non-productive as it was. Worst part about going through the motions was that it robbed my spirit and love for the art. Hate filled my pages, and perhaps that was a good thing. It stopped my writing - the necessary brick wall.

The good news is that the time away from writing acted as a cleansing ritual. Putting distance between the Ugly Inner Critic's hubris and my precious Calliope brought inner peace.

Now as I write (did I mention I returned to the pages?), I feel the meditative sweetness enveloping my muse. Words flow collectively, no longer weighted down with over-thinking. Now when I write I don't feel Ugly Inner Critic hovering. Rather I feel the spirit of her, the one saving grace that gave me the courage not only to quit, but to return full throttle. After all, everyone needs a mentor. She is mine, strong and able to help me survive my recent self-imposed exile.

So when life gives you lemons, when writing becomes an uphill battle and your muse has been steamrolled by your personal kill-joy, walking away isn't as awful as it might appear. In my case it taught me that the heart of a true writer doesn't wither but grows stronger. May the pen forever be mightier than the sword, and the muse be forever stronger than The Ugly Inner Critic.

Phoenix Rises In New York

2011-02-28T07:45:00.002-05:00

It's been nearly a month since my last post, one filled with crazy anxiety, depression and sick relatives (in every way possible). Through it all I stepped away from the usual blog haunts and social network addictions.

And then I returned to the pages. Call it "Calliope's Revival," which sounds all bible-belt-ish, but my writing curse has faded and the muse returned from her self-imposed exile/hibernation. Sometimes breaks are crucial in the quest for brilliance.

Here's hoping my muse has renewed strength and outlook in the pages ahead.

Cheers!

Calliope's Collapse

2011-02-02T11:16:00.005-05:00

"It is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all," a diluted quote made in an attempt to justify loneliness, perhaps. I hear it in my head in an analogous form justifying my dropping from the writing thing. Completely.

Honestly I can say I never loved writing, nor did I not. It was something that filled the empty hours, a form of personal entertainment similar to playing The Sims, for instance. Yet, The Sims never led anywhere, sort of a fantastical dead-end. While playing the simplistic game an invisible voice didn't sit close to my ear saying such things as, "Not buying it; this story's going nowhere; you are a passive writer."

Comments perhaps have killed my muse, and it has been a struggle to silence their subtle "help." I find myself holding a pseudo grudge and contempt, words that haunt while I pour my heart's muse to the pages.

She has since gone into hibernation or some form of rehab. I can't say that I miss writing per se, but I do miss the joy my characters brought on a daily basis, the wonder of what they'd do and say next, random and haphazard as they filled endless pages and hours of my time. Yet it came with an end-game: Where to go next? What outcome, goal, plan for my time and energy? I sought answers, received rejection, felt the frustration and ache of wanting achievement.

Quitting doesn't come easily, but there comes a time when reality says it's time to move on, let go of the angst, find beauty elsewhere. The good that comes to me personally is what I hold close with the hope that one day I can return without the haunting voices whispering their subtle "help."

May Calliope find her way back, well rested and eager for reinvention.

***
The End

Metaphysically Waxing

2011-01-09T20:31:00.004-05:00

There's a stretch of road off the beaten path that I drive, and on it I've unfolded and written on my mental sheaves entire scenes. Yet once back within the confines of mortar and brick the words vaporize leaving behind a few shreds to pick at. If I don't attack quickly, the crumbs turn to dust and I'm lost again.

This strange occurrence happened yesterday. The sun blazed its light and I couldn't escape, my car having windows to draw in the specter. My Ipod as company, a certain song played helping to evolve this scene that I'm sure sat between the gray folds of my brain for quite some time. It was then that I realized the connection - that there is a distinct possibility that creative being follows the sunlight. Brightness. Could it affect my personal creative space?

In my former residence I wrote in four different rooms. Each had many windows and I could comfortably sit with laptop, desktop or paper and pen and let it flow. It was there that every single new story began, many to fruition. Since moving to a new location the muse has gone into hibernation. I haven't spilled new words, have only reworked those I created at the former residence, the place with all the light and windows.

At my new residence I have an office. It has one window facing west. The walls are green, formerly pink. The furniture has been rearranged so many times that I dare not move my desk again for fear it will collapse. Out of certain desperation I've taken my work to another room and tried creating something new.

I once boasted that I could write anywhere - I didn't need no stinkin' babblin' brook and green, lush meadows to steer my muse. Her grace could work anywhere. And now I find that perhaps I was full of shit. Now I find that after living at the new residence for sixteen months I haven't felt the rush of words. It's as if I'm in permanent eclipse.

This week I'll put my theory to the test, albeit unintentionally. I've reached the place of an unfinished manuscript that is an open road ahead, just waiting for the rest of the story that has simmered between my brain's gray folds.

Here's to a new week of uncertainty. May the gods be kind and open the channels for creative light to blaze in. After all, I cannot drive and write (without getting a ticket).

Cheers!

Family Honor, Cannibalism and Other Heartwarming Delights: A Review of Jeff Lindsay's Dexter Is Delicious

2011-01-04T11:31:00.006-05:00

Taboos and other social mores receive such a bad rap in today's culture. Thanks to Jeff Lindsay, author of the Dexter series, the distasteful and twisted becomes palatable and entertaining. Word of warning: The Dexter series isn't recommended for the faint of stomach or readers possessing high morals. If serial killers with a heart seem offensive, better to take a pass on these books. Additional word of warning: If your liver is a lily then you're missing a truly stupendous opportunity to broaden the mind as well as enjoy very well written works. Intelligent writing is hard to find in today's shaky publishing environment. That said, if there exists literary I.Q., Lindsay's hovers in the high triple digits.

If unfamiliar with the Dexter literary series and the popular Showtime one, by day Dexter Morgan, the story's title character, is a blood-spatter analyst for the Miami Dade Police Department. By night "he kills only people who deserve it." Dexter can't help that he's a serial killer. "Born in blood" is the catch-phrase describing Dexter, for when a youngster (age three I believe) he witnessed the brutal murder of his mother. The event clicked a switch in the boy's inner psyche turning him into a not-so-average serial killer. Dexter was fortunate in that Harry Morgan, a cop at his mother's crime scene, took him in and raised him as a foster child and later adopting him. Harry recognized the evil in Dexter and through his guidance, taught Dexter to rein in his darkness by turning him into a dark super hero. Harry instilled "The Harry Code," translated as only killing heinous criminals who fall through the judicial cracks. People who "deserve it."

It's fair to say that in order to truly enjoy Dexter is Delicious is to read the previous four books in the series. However, each can be enjoyed individually, but in skipping the first four the reader loses the chain of events that turned deeply dark Dexter into somewhat human Dexter. And in Delicious, Dexter's heart begins beating with the birth of his child, Lily. Dexter's dark passenger slips into hiatus, until two evil events unfold making Dexter rethink his urges. First, a never before seen crime hits the South Miami scene. A missing teenager leads police to a brutal murder scene wherein the victim's body has not only been dismembered, but bones picked clean as if part of a Thanksgiving feast. Stranger than that, Dexter's long lost brother, Brian, also born in blood, shows up unexpectedly, ready to hamper Dexter's happy married life in the role of Uncle Brian. Brian's darkness was never reined in, so it's safe to assume that he treats his dark passenger as any average psycho serial killer would - killing for fun.

Lindsay does a superb job in making the heinous palatable. Humor abounds in his writing, as well as beautiful prose. I appreciate that he doesn't dumb-down his work by trying to make it all horror and disgusting situations of blood and gore. His writing is a work of art, as all great writing should be, in my humble opinion. If I could produce with half his wit I'd be sitting pretty with several publishing contracts and not sitting here writefully mumbling. Still, I cling to great writing and Jeff Lindsay is one of my several mentors. Passages such as, "Can this really be the Miami I have always lived in? Or has some strange physics experiment in an underground supercollider sent us all to live in Bizarro World, where everyone is kind and tolerant and happy all the time?" keep me returning for more Lindsay. The passage is in the book's first chapter expressing Dexter's awe over the gathering of new fathers at the maternity ward's viewing area of newborns. And if not such an unusual and unexpected opening I might have passed on this book. But it is outstanding in comparison to the other books in the series, completely blindsiding this ardent fan of Lindsay's twisted storylines. Can't help but love this man!

Surprises abound in Delicious; Lindsay has a knack for creating entertainment out of the macabre, time spent with his page turners a chronic pleasure. An additional unexpected element was his subtle nod to the Big East Conference by creating a Syracuse University graduate as a police detective. It felt a bit out of place and I wondered if Lindsay has ties to the Orange. Syracuse isn't notorious for their political science program. The character, Deke, comes across as an inept neophyte suited more for modeling than investigating. I'm still not certain it added to the story, as well as a scene where a victim's family offers a bribe to several police detectives. Both seemed a bit useless, the proverbial "sore-thumb," yet didn't detract from the story. Sort of a coffee-break in the midst of chaos.

If I were writing this review as an English Lit assignment (been there, done that, got the A to prove it), I'd comment on theme and motif. Suffice it to say, Lindsay mastered both very well. My professor would be gushing. Lindsay interweaves every other literary vehicle at his disposal and streamlines the story to its heartwarming conclusion. Yes, heartwarming, reminding the reader that blood is thicker than water, especially between born-in-blood siblings.

Unlike the Showtime series, Lindsay kept Delicious undiluted and fresh, as is all his Dexter books. There's something to be said for the creative writing beast and how it's interpreted from book to film. The Dexter Showtime series has a large writing staff; it's apples and oranges, but over the seasons it has lost its resilience. Jeff Lindsay continues to give us a strong Dexter storyline book after book. He hasn't lost a bit of steam or tired in the least.

Here's hoping he'll continue to grace us with his beautiful, albeit wrapped, sense of humor and prose.

Out of five stars, Dexter is Delicious earns a shiny four and three-quarters. Bravo!

Resolve; Absolve. Regrets; New Beginnings.

2010-12-29T11:58:00.004-05:00

Getting ready to kick another year to the curb makes me self-reflect. Retrospection can be enlightening as long as it's viewed without regret. But, at times it's difficult to not regret just a teeny-tiny bit. Alas, do-overs in life never happen, but if I fail to see the lessons left behind then I'm bound to repeat the same mistakes that lead down regret-road.

All said, in 2010 more bad happened than good. I can change none of it, but I can resolve to create a plan based on mistakes of last year. If I could manage to develop a shield to protect me from the out of control happenings, I would. Instead I pray that the Fates go easy on me this year.

And now for my resolutions, also known as The Plan:

I resolve to be less grouchy. Yes, it's true. Sometimes I allow myself to fall into the pit of self-pity because I feel that everyday should be rainbow filled skies. Better to recognize the mood and work to wipe it out before it chews up my entire day.

I resolve to not spend ANY MONEY on writing unless it comes with a college credit. In recent years I've paid membership fees to writing groups that I never became involved with thinking that maybe it would help my writing. Disclaimer: I've spent money on certain courses designed to improve skills, such as grammar, synopsis and query letter writing and they were worth every single penny. But, to spend money thinking it would actually improve my writing was somewhat of an empty wager with the exception of college courses, which improved my writing, and in light of this aforementioned resolution -

I resolve to write without setting any goals. Yes, no writing goals. No word counts measured daily, no promises to write each day. I'll write as the spirit moves me. After all when I'm not writing I'm thinking about it. Truly, I do. That counts. For me it's not the quantity but the quality. Besides, when I miss goals I get all...well, see first resolution.

I resolve to read more and only read well written works. It's my belief that if I surround myself with greatness it truly rubs off. Thus, the better written books I read, the better my writing will become. (Listed to the right are books I consider really well written works.) That said, last but not least,

I resolve to post reviews of each book I read this year for I really enjoy writing reviews. Stay tuned for the first review of the year coming up this week.

Here's to a stellar Two Thousand Eleven. Eleven years later and the millennium still feels shiny and new. Cheers!

I'll Take Your Sour Grapes With A Grain of Salt

2010-12-14T12:17:00.003-05:00

Truth: I don't read as many books as I used to, and one might think that as a stay-at-home human I'd have scads of time to devote to my once favored entertainment. However, a month has passed since I last read a book.

Lately, most of my reading is accomplished in waiting rooms. Yesterday, for instance, I took my daughter to the endodontist for a root canal. Upon leaving the house I quickly grabbed a book for company as well as a distraction. That's when I realized how pitiful my plight. And then I began wondering when and why I strayed from my favorite pastime. As a writer I feel that reading is a part of the beast. It helps keep skills sharp, all those words coming at me, the story unfolding without distraction...

As I hunkered down in the waiting room and began reading I began noticing the author's writing style. "How did he get away with that?" I asked myself. Run-on sentences an entire paragraph long. What was he thinking? How did that get by his editor? Several one-sentence paragraphs. Long run-on sentences.

That's when I realized that I was reading as a writer and not a reader. In the last eight years of writing I think that I've slowly developed that writer-self-editor eye as I read published works. This can be a terrible detriment. Reading with a judgmental eye is distracting.

And then it occurred to me that I know of several writers and authors who read this way too. For instance, I once attended a local RWA chapter meeting during the reign of Dan Brown's Da Vinci Code. Member said, "Oh dear, that was the worst book I ever read. Seriously, the writing was TERRIBLE." Years later I read an interview of a renowned author who said of another renowned author that she wasn't a very good writer. Both authors appeared in this years Forbes 400 as two out of three richest authors.

I have a code: Never diss fellow writers, EVER. It's bad form. Yet, an increasing number of published authors and neophytes feel it is their right to criticize in a public forum an opinion of other writers' skills. Could it be that these writers feel it's safe to assume the role of world-wide editor? And I've seen this in myself as happened yesterday while reading this book, which spent a week or so on some best sellers' list, but also received a few scathing reviews. However, as a writer I don't feel it's my god-given right to disparage another writer's work, especially when one, I'm not a reviewer by trade, and two, it's unbecoming.

Perhaps some authors are jealous of another author's fame. And for the neophytes, well, I guess they're jealous, too. I tend not to criticize success. I mean, seriously, Stephanie Myer IS one out of three authors previously mentioned who made the Forbes 400 for 2010. That's inspiration, if you ask me or even if you don't.

All said, there are two things that I'm always going to maintain from this day forward: Remove my self-editing-critique-hat when reading for entertainment and NEVER diss fellow writers, EVER, even if I make a gazillion dollars as a result (and even if they choose to diss me - cest la vie).

It's nice to be important, but really sucks to be self-righteous too. Self-editing while reading is hazardous to entertainment values, so adjust thyself accordingly, folks, and keep your unsolicited opinions silent, please.

Fear: My Old/New Motivation

2010-12-03T14:39:00.007-05:00

Inspiration comes in many forms. I'll see a banal television commercial depicting a middle-aged man carrying a surfboard and I immediately wonder, "What's his story?" That question grew into my current work in progress.

I see stories everywhere because I question everything I see. The difficult part for me is believing enough in my creation to see it to fruition. Is my story strong enough? Will it draw in the reader at line one and then keep them interested for the next four hundred pages? Fear spreads breeding chronic self-doubt, my self-inflicted Debbie Downer.

It scares me to the point of paralysis, keeps me from acting on impulse and trusting my ideas.

Lately it's been killing me and has let Ugly Inner Critic win...

And then something fabulous happened this past Wednesday, right on the brink of my angst. I received an email from a friend who had recently seen an interview of Broadway director Julie Taymor. Friend said it caused him to think of me. Intrigued, I tracked down the interview based on his comments.

In her interview she stated, "I love it when people say what a horrible, lousy idea. I think that’s great. I hate the comfort zone…I don’t think that anything that’s really creative can be done without danger and risk." When asked how scared she is, Taymor replied, "Oh, yeah, I'm scared. If you don't have fear then you are not taking a chance."

Julie Taymor is my new hero. She lets fear drive her. Her words shook me by the shoulders. I recalled the fear I felt when I wrote sentence one in my first manuscript eight years ago. Uncomfortable sitting at the blank page; my stomach squeezed like when you see the dentist's needle coming at you. Scared, uncertain, I wanted to puke. Yet, it didn't stop me, and thanks to Friend's thoughtful email, my drive has returned.

It takes a lot of nerve to believe in yourself I have found. It's important to listen to opinions and ideas as well as criticisms, but it's more important to clearly see your path and then stay on it. Keep on keepin' on for yourself, because if you don't believe in you, no one else can or will.

Special thanks to Friend for reminded me of who I really am. I owe ya one, pal.

Sudden Impact

2010-11-17T13:42:00.006-05:00

Although I initially sat down at the computer today in order to wrestle with my current work in progress, I first lolly-gagged (or is it "lally-gagged?). First I checked my emails, responded where appropriate, and then looked in my spam mail box. Usually I don't bother looking, just push the cursor over "empty" and flush away all messages without a glance.

But today I opened the spam, saw the usual ads for codeine and male enhancements, claims that I'm an heir to a vast estate, and other bull-shit enticements. However, a regular email somehow made it into the spam pile, and if I had followed my usual path, I wouldn't have gained verification that my life, my words, had a positive effect on someone else.

Snuck into the spam was a response to my previous blog post. It was from someone I've never met, either in person on via cyber-land. Her message read, "For what it's worth: this blog was inspirational to me. Your writing made a difference in at least one life today!" Two sentences that struck me as softly as a well intended embrace. Never in the seven years since I pursued the writing beast have I felt so...important. Worthy. Like I've left my mark, affected someone who perhaps was feeling as bluesy as I have lately.

For weeks I've felt less than into writing. I've questioned myself, looked for motivation, ate a ton of M&M's, and still no answer to my current conundrum came. The M&M's didn't offer their usual "feel good" high. Yet, a few kind words from a stranger have made all the difference. Call it the "Helper's High," something I learned in Sociology 101. Doing good deeds for others, in this case completely unintentional yet covert, fixes what ails, removes stress.

Sets ya right.

I thank you, Rebbie. I needed your words. Your crossing my path will never be forgotten.

Has anyone felt the "Helper's High" buzz lately? (It's better than M&M's...seriously.)

(Over) Analyze This

2010-10-26T11:22:00.004-04:00

How it is: Writing ain't what it used to be. Not these days, at least. Some days I drag myself kicking and screaming to the page, using any excuse to skip looking at my latest work all together.

Some offer guidance or answers to my recent lack of enthusiasm. They say things like, "Everyone has a slump," or "Take time away." My favorite advice, which I lay on myself all the time, is "Maybe your story sucks." That said, I'll spend hours thinking about it, poring over the pages with a damn microscope looking for a fix to jazz up the pages.

Lately I've been recalling the days when I started my first novel. Seven years ago this month I completed my first manuscript, over 225k words spilled out in eight months (strange, yes. Back then, not so much). Nothing could keep me away. I literally wrote morning, noon and night, every day including weekends. I LOVED that story. The fact that I had no idea how to craft a novel never occurred to me. Not once did I stop to think about plot. I just knew the story in my heart - it was organic. Once I finished my first novel, I put it to bed and began another following the same process.

After the completion of manuscript three things slowed down. Blame the eye explosion - enduring four surgeries to repair a detached retina slows one down a bit. But it never stopped me. The day my goddess eye doctor recommended staying away from the computer, I picked up pen and pad and continued the writing process.

Today I have no physical excuses for not writing, it's all mental. The creative part of my brain feels like it has been scrubbed with a wire brush. Nothing comes. No love, no enthusiasm or ideas. I'm left to wonder. Where did the good times go?

With answers not forthcoming, or obvious, I've reviewed my personal writing journey looking for answers, anything to make sense of it all. Here are a few thoughts and/or reasons on why my muse has gone stealth:

1.) In the beginning I wrote with great abandoned, clueless to the craft. Publishing wasn't in my thoughts. My work went unseen, the first two months no one in my household knew why I spent so many hours on the computer. I loved the characters I created and to me, the story was a masterpiece. Due to a freak ice-storm that knocked out the power for days, I told my husband how I spent my hours, revealing the story to him. He was my first supporter and fan, saying that many people dream of writing a novel, but few actually do it.

2.) Fast forward to mid-manuscript number two. Husband asked if I considered publishing. That thought put into motion my quest, including research and finding out where to begin on such a path. This involved opening the doors to reveal what once was my private venture. One person's thoughts evoked a wide spectrum of roads, adding more eyes to the mix. I joined Romance Writers of America, not realizing at the time that romance not my genre. But hey, those chicas knew the publishing ropes - I credit my choice for advancing my muse as well as knowledge base.

3.) The RWA. If not for them I never would have shared my work, making it subject to strangers' eyes. Contests a-plenty, I entered. One thing I found helpful by entering RWA sponsored writing contests was that the contestant remained anonymous. No names, I became a number. That being the case, judges' comments were based solely on the writing. I had several great scores, and a few not so great. The process thickened my skin as well as improved my talent (I believe).

It helped that contestants remained anonymous. Praise for my work came honestly.

4.) Honest opinions. I forged relationships with fellow writers. One in particular I call the "perfect balance" - she always told it like she saw it - she didn't praise if not warranted, yet let me know when something rocked.

5.) Editors. I have found there are many forms of editors. Those who actually know the craft and can back up their expertise with strong credentials; ones who know the craft, etc., yet tend to over-criticize, using such buzz words as "not buying it" (God, how I hate that phrase); and finally there are those who say they can edit, period. I've had three experiences with editors. Two credentialed; two who used the term I despise; one who had nothing to back up the title. I'm a firm believer that every manuscript needs an editor's eye, but also believe editors need "perfect balance" and not become the Simon Cowell of editing.

Ultimately in these past weeks I've felt abandoned and have begun to analyze my situation. I've recently become reclusive, have strayed away from blogs, distanced myself from other writers and worst of all, stepped away from my manuscript. Although the above five topics depict my writing road, it reveals a common denominator: Other writers. The good of it was great, the bad of it horrible.

Without mingling with other writers my writing world shrank. Without other writers I no longer hear words of praise (and I heard a few along the way). Funny how one kind word strengthened my work ethic, erasing all the bad comments or contest scores completely.

Perhaps that's what I'm missing. Kind people possessing genuine praise (not my sister or husband). Is it time to rejoin the creative human race again? So many questions, so much angst, what is a girl to do?

Memento Mori

2010-10-18T12:17:00.005-04:00

I avoid looking at my reflection in the morning. It tells the obvious, that I'm no longer in my prime. A horrible way to begin the day, negative thoughts the same as getting up on the wrong side of the bed. Yet, there it is. I'm fifty-six and with the number I view my life's accomplishments and goals.

To date I've completed three novels, which sounds monumental but really it's like a tree falling in the forest. Unpublished, all three, unpublished. The silently falling tree. I'd be lying if I said I didn't care, but I do care. Deep down I feel they're worthy reads, but as you have read, I'm now fifty-six. Publishing is for the younger writer, ones who have years left to produce...

Or so I've been told. In fact I once read an article written by two prominent New York literary agents who agreed that publishers look for youth and not writers moving to a retirement community in Florida.

So today, after avoiding the mirror, I made coffee, wrote in my journal and then opened the daily newspaper. Second page news, but worthy of this blog, I read that author Belva Plain passed away over the weekend. She was 95.

More newsworthy than her death is her life. Belva Plain published her first novel when she was 63. SIXTY-THREE! And as startling as that number, not only was her first novel made into a mini-series, buy thereafter she continued on the bestseller trail, her last book published in 2008 when she was 93.

Dare I thumb my nose at the naysayers, or those who feel youth has an edge in today's society? What's with those younger agents I mentioned above? I recall my feelings after reading their article (published in Writers' Digest, just can't recall the year), ones I shared with other writers, some younger than I. The young-bloods somewhat agreed with the agents. Apparently older writers aren't as marketable as the younger writers, or so their argument indicated.

Had these people ever heard of Belva Plain? Quite honestly, I had but never knew her back story, one that has since recharged my attitude on the aging process. Her life bolstered my opinion about youth, that it's wasted on the young.

Talent knows no age and if a person relies on the chronology of their birth then shame on them for giving up. Shame on me for buying into the opinion of others.

Today I thank the Universe for people such as Belva Plain. I cling to her example, her persona the life-line I needed reminding me that age is merely a number, not a credential.

Long live Belva Plain.

First and Last

2010-10-09T15:53:00.003-04:00

James R. Stoops
10/13/1945 - 10/09/2010

When I come to the end of the road

And the sun has set for me

I want no tears in a gloom-filled room

Why cry for a soul set free?

He was nine when I came into the world, me the little sister-new kid on the block, he the big brother master of ropes. His job title notwithstanding, lessons from him came subtly without conditions or disclaimers.

Nearly a decade separating us, he was always one heartbeat away. And in that quiet rhythm he flowed beneath my skin, sharing the same DNA - first in every way.

On the ninth day of the tenth month somewhere near the eighth hour of morning, he left me. But as I slept within my last dream of the night, I felt him sweep over me, pulling my eyes wide open, his final whisper flowing down my cheeks.

I will miss you older brother of mine - you were the other part of our secret bookends, holding it together for those in between. On the other side you now walk free, your great wings outstretched keeping yet another eye over me.

Peacefully Reflective

2010-09-05T11:56:00.002-04:00

A wind travels from the northwest, pushing the chimes to play a subtle tune, leafs turning in the breeze their chorus, rustling between notes. This is the poetry of silence, the kind you fold into fours and place into your breast pocket.

It's a necessary background that unearths memories from my distant past. Ones that make me turn around and look, to smile and to grieve. It makes my age visible to those who've never met me, no need for a photograph. My dreams never fully realized, and with that I must make peace.

Current technology makes life easier, less cluttered. But where is the beauty in easy? I ask myself this, and more so today as I felt inner conflict rear its adorable head. Where do I fit in? How can I? My truth based on experience misunderstood by the young bloods - innocence lost.

Their way is so much better, they say, hardly requiring any skill at all. Why keep music CD's holed up in your closet when an IPod handles infinite music? And before CD's people would say, "Why are you hanging on to vinyl when you can play music in your car on a cassette?" And so on and so forth.

But there was something to be said for listening to "Stairway to Heaven" on a turntable, a tiny needle hissing, revealing that even a spec of dust has a voice.

Paper books? Growing up, that's all there was. Walks to the public library because Mom said it's better to read than watch television. Television. Three channels to choose from, all in black and white. Off I'd go to the library, my dog following at my heels. Inside I'd scan the spines, head titled, always in the new release section, sometimes not. Thirty minutes later I'd check out, walk down the steps to find my dog waiting right where I left her.

Curl up in a chair with book in lap, or stretch out beneath a shade tree, book balanced on bent knees, that was part of the experience. Flip the page, look at the date stamps, wonder about who wrote in those margins. Wonder about the author's path. Sitting beneath a lamp, roll a fresh piece of paper into the typewriter. Or write it longhand first, like Dickens or Alcott. Mistake free or several start overs. Tears spilled on ink.

Technology. Computer age. Spell check. Digital press.

My first job I worked in the local J.C. Penney. Manual cash registers. I learned to make change. Count back the bills and coin. Simple task that utilized gray matter. Mistake free. Onward to adulthood I went, jobs in law firms. Typing briefs, summons and complaints. Fifty-five words or more per minute, mistake free. No computer, but an IBM Selectric typewriter, which at the time was the new wave of technology. Still, no mistakes. Spell check - a dictionary a standard book on every secretary's desk.

Gray matter exercise.

So today I reflected on all of that and wondered about my three completed manuscripts. How I could cut, copy and past passages, or delete them entirely. Imagine Steinbeck looking down at all of that? Still, my heart-dream was to see my work in print. I hoped that it would sit on a library shelf and be plucked out, taken home and spent with a human curled up in a chair, the television gathering dust in the corner.

Memories serve a necessary peace.

I was fortunate to have lived in simpler times, every minute a poetic passage. My dream of seeing my work in print lost in the new technological wave, I have found solace in the fact that I lived my personal truth.

Blogphobia

2010-09-01T09:57:00.003-04:00

My stomach shouldn't have to swallow my heart so early in the day. But after reading the newspaper and then sitting down to devour my favorite blogs, I'm left with that queasy feeling one gets right after hearing that they need a root canal.

Except root canals are necessary. They are something out of control and one has to suck it up and take it. Reading the news and blogs are a different beast. I am in control of how they make me feel.

But some days their content is just so unbelievable that my moral compass spins. Ignorance and corruption. Ridicule and deceit. Ignorance under the guise of liberal. Indeed.

Change is good, I keep telling myself. That without it there is no growth. But when the changes involve shifting truths near and dear to my heart, it's time to step back and, well, cry. It's not the growth I'm looking for. In fact, it's the type of growth that starts with just one microscopic bacteria, innocuous at first until left to its own device. And then it grows beyond a cure. It has found a way to defeat any and all antibiotics.

It's an evil too big for the good to fight. It kills the spirit before it has a chance to fly. The end of hope, the robber of innocence.

Not how I want to begin the day, and perhaps by its end I'll have seen a tiny ray of light that beckons me from the darkness. But for now it has a leg up and I feel beyond its control.

Invisible Embrace

2010-08-29T18:24:00.006-04:00

Of late I've read the news, afterward feeling anguish rip its talons into my hide. People against anything Muslim near Ground Zero; hateful words against Obama; crazy people misinterpreting the First Amendment.

Of late I've read blogs on religion, politics and the crazy people "restoring honor" via gathering in D.C. on the hallowed date of Martin Luther King's infamous speech. Read the ensuing anguish filled comments.

I had to get away from it all. Get out of the house. Go for a ride before my head exploded.

To the mall I went, pair of jeans in a Gap bag for return; the need for new foundation; some wall frames for the cool art deco prints recently purchased. Shopping chores complete, I felt compelled to honor the sign - Borders Books. After passing through the front tables of memoirs and racing through the paperback aisles, I found myself in the heart of its Literary Fiction section.

And I had the book in mind, the one I so badly wanted, and stood before the "M's" searching, searching, suddenly realizing that many authors' last name begin with that letter. Book spines at eye level, I began pulling a few. Good, okay, oh, excellent! I heard myself say as I thumbed through the pages, yet, the one I looked for not present. I slowly turned to walk away when a faced-out book grabbed my attention. Bright yellow cover, a red and white sticker shouting $4.99, and then in navy blue, the title and author. I sighed.

Good Poems for Hard Times, Selected and Introduced by Garrison Keillor. As if the angel of stacks tapped me on the shoulder, or maybe she whispered in my ear, not really sure, there was the unplanned anecdote.

The inside cover says this, "Poetry is the last preserve of honest speech and the outspoken heart. It holds the cadence of common life. It has a passion for truth and justice and liberty - the spirit that has kept the American porch light lit through dark ages of history. And the meaning of poetry is to give courage."

Necessary words for my dire straits. Pages filled with 185 poems. Carver, Kenyon, Cummings, Keats, and my favorite, Billy Collins, to name a few. Poems for the ages. Meant to uplift the spirit when dwindling in the shadows, well received by this soul who unconsciously grasped for an invisible rope.

Live, laugh, love, my friends. Never underestimate the power of the pen, especially one that produces great poetry...

Never ignore the silent voices whispering in your head.

Wonders of Time Slippage

2010-08-22T12:47:00.005-04:00

Last week while at my bi-weekly nail appointment, the conversation at hand involved the passing of time. She remarked that she found her calendar from 1999 and was shocked to see that some days she booked appointments from 8:00 a.m to 8:00 p.m. "Can't believe I worked that many hours," she said. I reminded her that at the time she had only two kids.

She now has six, and not only works at her business four days a week, but home schools her children, takes care of a house, and, AND her children range in ages from one to thirteen, so there in itself a Herculean undertaking. Not to mention, she's begun this business, too. OY! She is fabulous! (She is So going to do my next profile picture.)

And I bemoaned, "Shoot, now that I'm not working you'd think I'd have scads of time to write."

She said, "Last year I thought to try something...I made a schedule. Stuck with it for a few months, and then slowly it shifted." But, she mentioned that it developed a habit that she maintains to this day.

Funny, when I worked full time I managed to keep the house clean, including laundry and raising a child. As the writing beast sang its teeth into my muse, I still managed to keep a clean house, raise a child and write each and every day for hours. HOURS. Like clock-work. Like I had a...

Schedule! Even back in my single-girl days my roommate and I had a set schedule. Monday nights, laundry; Tuesdays, vege-out; Wednesday, party night; Thursday, clean house; Friday through Sunday, party time.

Why can't I see the damn answer to my problem? Okay, I can, but it's going to take some major habit changes. Fall semester begins on August 30th; I'll be in classes Mondays and Wednesdays. This should be easy, right?

Not so easy. Discipline is a practice, one that eludes me but is an important cog in the scheduling wheel. I've had a reactive summer, putting out fires, starting house projects, the written word minimally squeezed in. Good intentions fallen as life controlled me.

It's time to take back control, but first it's necessary to picture the possible as well as entertain changes. And then there's the guilt to factor in. Many times before I've set out on a scheduled path, and when sidelined I'd waste time ruminating over it. This time I need to accept that life will intervene...

As well as the Evil Inner Critic, the EIC. EIC visits from time to time, either as a result of TMI, or my sudden lack of self confidence. I must accept that which I cannot change. (Apologies to the twelve step program for stealing their line. All things considered, I am trying to get rid of a habit.)

I follow others examples, writers I've met along this path who perpetually awe me, two in particular. This one has five children. FIVE! And still manages to meet writing deadlines, as well as help others along the way. Me for example. Five or six years ago as I struggled with a query letter, she offered a helping hand. Her words resonante still. "You can do it, Kath! You can!"

Kindness comes from those who brilliantly multi-task and pay it forward, I have found...

Especially with this author. I mention her often because she has offered insurmountable assistance as I march (sometimes sloth) down the writing path. Children, she has four, the youngest a wild child from another universe, I swear. Those who know her well also recognize her selfless determination to help people with non-writing problems. And through all her wild-child taming and the helping of others, she continues to meet her editor's deadlines.

There are so many other writers I know who juggle the seconds, minutes and hours, pledging time to write, such as this one, this one and this one (new mommy with a new book deal - yay!). I feel fortunate to personally know such talented and selfless writers who chronically inspire. Whenever I sit and wonder how I'm going to intermingle writing with school and household maintenance, the lifestyles of these writers first come to mind. They have mastered multitasking. Inspiring, indeed.

For me the major component in finishing a project is sculpting out the time to accomplish it. Habits form, good and bad, although the bad so much fun and evilly distracting. This upcoming week I shall make a concerted effort to create a schedule that will meet my needs. I can do it! But would love any and all advice offered in my quest.

Bring on the advice. Cheers!

The Blessed Bovines of Blogging

2010-08-12T14:09:00.002-04:00

"We all know things are bad -- worse than bad -- they're crazy." Howard Beale's "Mad as Hell" speech from the movie, Network.

This is how I feel about the chronic rhetoric attacking the blog waves regarding the face of today's publishing world. So many opinions, blame-pointing fingers, and the how's and why's publishing isn't like it used to be.

Enough already! Or in the words of Howard Beale, I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore. Might I suggest the real reason publishing has gone the way of Kodak film? It's not because digital self-publishing is going to be the new trend and that soon all books will be self-published...

It's because more and more people are NOT READING books. There. I said it. Excuses as to why publishers are closing are like those that have affected any other business. If no one is buying your product, then changes have to be made. In America reading has taken a back seat to video games, texting and the watching of television.

Simple.

Yet the part that angers me the most are those going "indie" (better known as self-publishing) bashing and putting down the publishing world as if it killed itself. More and more blogs are featuring the reasons why self-pubbing is so much better than traditional publishing. They'll say that writers can skip the heartache of rejection if they self-publish. True. It's a direct route to seeing your name in lights. It's also a slippery slope to the devaluation of good writing.

Point to consider: Through traditional publishing, a writer's work is given an unvarnished edit by an editor. Yet, I have recently learned that even some larger NYC publishers have had lousy editors. But I'm willing to wager that those editors aren't maintained on the payroll for very long. And I know there are writers who think they know more than editors do and therefore find them needless.

Another point to consider: Read this article. Just the first few paragraphs, it's about Harper Lee. After reading it you'll then perhaps see the importance of not only good editing, but having a good agent as well.

Something else to think about: The Godfather. If you've seen the unedited version you'll recognize the importance of an editor. They are the people behind the scenes that help take the film to Oscar winning levels. Same goes for music recordings. After the artist spends his/her time in the studio, a sound engineer goes to work, and long before the artist enters that recording studio, a music arranger has played a hand in making the product better. And sure, critics will have at it once the movie or CD is out, but that's their job, not the editors, sound engineers or music arrangers. Some of the biggest grossing movies have had the worst reviews, and vice versa.

And another thing. Editors aren't there to hold your hand and tell you that you are a genius after they read your manuscript. Their function is to make the manuscript a better read, one that readers will want to buy again and again. A really great editor has studied writing and possess writerly credentials. They don't have a day job at the local hospital, legal clinic or the elementary school down the street. Writing IS their living. They are the guardian angels that take the soul of your work and escalate it.

Recently I received my first experience with this editor. Long story short, she mentioned wanting to show an example of what an editor does for her blog. I said to myself, "Self, volunteer your pages," thinking what the hell, free editing, I'm in. Thus, off went two pages of my WIP. Many know this editor better as an author, but there are some who don't realize that she edits as well as ghost writes. She is an all-around writer. And let me just say that I was a bit taken back when I received her remarks on my two pages. She took me to school! Hit nearly every single line indicating ways they could improve. She offered no words of encouragement and none of discouragement. It was a "Just the facts,ma'am," experience. After reading her remarks, I'll be honest, I wanted to barf. And then I told myself to GROW UP, sat down and followed her lead. I returned the pages to her. That's when she wrote back and said, "You nailed it!" I viewed that as a compliment.

She not only lifted my writing skills to a new level, but broadened my understanding of the importance of an editor.

Yes, the many going the indie route will say that they don't need an editor because they have a crit-group.But for those who don't have a crit-partner, or perhaps realize that sometimes crit-partners don't always have the skills of an editor, the self-pubbing route might deplete the self-esteem worse than the standard rejection letter, just saying...

One final point and then I'm done: I'm good with digital publishing. It saves trees. But I'm not good with the bashing of the traditional publishing model (digital or press), by those who believe that in the future all books will be self-published.

Nothing personal. Nothing against self-publishing. I'm merely offering something to think about without degrading anyone or the genre of their choice. For me it's about understanding all sides and using sound critical thinking before drawing any conclusions.

Lastly, this is my last blog...Not! School begins in two weeks - things will slow down in my blogoshpere.

Fifteen

2010-08-12T09:14:00.001-04:00

Chronic Happiness

What can one say about spending fifteen years with the same person,

day in and day out?

Never have I done anything for that amount of time continuously.

Nothing.

I'm a person who lives for change - hair, clothes, wall paint –

it never stays the same.

So how did this one person enter my life and stay in it for so many years?

Matter of trust.

My life in his hands, at the end of the day he's the solid one ready with open arms and kind words.

Voice explosions? Occasionally. Rarely.

He bites his tongue, perhaps.

But in this life it's rare to find anyone who will be there throughout my serial mood changes.

Honesty.

Integrity.

Days filled with laughter.

He's there to wipe away tears, hold my hand, offer the best advice.

Level headed.

The calm to my wild surf.

How often does anyone see that in one lifetime? In the disposable tendency of the current generation, he is an oddity.

The perfect fit for me.

How many can boast that about anything in their lives?

Yet, if I only have one life,

when I leave it I'm assured

that regrets don't exist.

Kath Calarco

August 12, 2010

Puzzle Me This

2010-08-01T09:33:00.004-04:00

Sudoku. Either you love it or can't wrap your brain around it.

I'm a former "Can't wrap your brain around it" person. I'd look at its grid each day a new puzzle appeared in the local morning rag. A box with nine boxes with nine boxes in each. Objective: "Complete the grid so that every row, column and 3x3 box contains the numbers 1 though nine (no repeats)." Did I mention that some of the boxes already have numbers? They do. It's the job of the masochist puzzle-doer to fill in the empties. Daunting task? It was for me, but one that kept my curiosity piqued at an all time high. I had to master this damn thing, or die trying. Thus, I started out slowly - luckily the puzzles came in varying degrees of difficulty. I began with the lowest level. Once I mastered those, I moved on up. Once I achieved the highest level I skipped the easier ones.

But I never gave up. Never let the easy ones, which at the time were akin to deciphering the Rosetta Stone, stop my perseverance. "Never say can't - tossing in the towel not an option," my motto, I kept up the struggle.

For the past six years I've actively sought publication, in fits and starts. Beginning with writing contests, I put my work into the hands of strangers. Was it difficult? Hell yeah. Did the "constructive criticisms" hurt? Of course, once I learned how to view them. Did they stop me? No.

Only I can stop me. And like mastering Sudoku, I've kept at it, learning the process along the way, seeing my failings as learning tools, and seeking out answers from qualified sources, such as this person and this person. I connect with example setters, such as this person, this person and this person, people who have forged their own path. Most of all, I continued to write even when a part of me said, "You will never see the publishing light of day."

And I can control whether I see that "light of day," by either choosing to listen to good advice, or choosing the path of least resistance - quitting. Is it a difficult path, this publishing road? For me, it hasn't been easy. I don't do easy simply because for me, cutting corners robs me of valuable lessons. Education. Learning the craft and continually polishing the product.

Perhaps my analogy to Sudoku appears to some a bit like comparing apples to oranges. Yet, it speaks of who I am. The thrill I felt in mastering a not-so-simple puzzle exemplified my character. I am not a "can't do it" person.

Success comes to those who try, the ones who never give up.

Who Am I?

2010-07-19T13:31:00.003-04:00

"I've often though that our main reason for being is to rediscover who we really are." LaDonna Paulette

Writing novels was never my dream. However, within the past seven years I've completed three. But in my entire life leading up to the first word of my first manuscript, I'd have to say that writing novels wasn't on my list of things to do before I die.

I often think about what pushed me toward the moment I decided to write a novel. Admittedly, I had never written anything other than quick little poems here and there my entire life. So what possessed me to write a novel? Why is it that one day I sat before the computer with no experience and pounded out the first line?

I've always been a dreamer, a chronic addiction, one that kept me sane. I'd conjure up stories and play them out in my head as sort of an escape hatch from reality. Make-believe was my favorite game as a child. "Let's pretend we're living in a big city and have lots of money," or "Let's pretend we live on a big horse farm and can ride every day." Those are how most of my conversations began with childhood friends, and they'd go along with the idea. Naturally, with aging I stopped beginning conversations with "Let's pretend," but I never stopped doing so in my mind. Soon they evolved into the aforementioned escape hatch. When I wanted to close myself from the day or shield myself from the ugly truths I faced, I'd slip into the subconscious "Let's pretend."

Years later an idea stuck. It played in my head on an endless loop. Something about it said to put it in a more permanent format. "Why not type it?" I asked myself. And as easily as opening up MSWord, the blank page arrived and I began to type. Non-stop.

It was my biggest secret. No one knew what I was doing holed up in the "computer room" from early morning until late at night. Housework begged for my attention. Meals were hastily made. Daughter wondered when it'd be her turn to use the computer. And then the ice-storm hit. No power. I lost some of my work. The report was that it would be days before power restored.

So as I sat huddled in front of the fireplace I finally revealed my secret to my husband. Not only was he amazed, but incredibly supportive. I remember him saying that many say they want to write a novel, but few have the guts to partake. Encouraging words that made me feel accomplished. He's an amazing guy. I'm so lucky.

Thus, I became eager to tell others, and when I did, more encouragement came. Many of my close friends planned an Oprah appearance. One picked out a red dress to wear, certain she'd have a front row seat. They are dreamers, too.

In retrospect I feel as if my life had been in some weird chrysalis, shelled in a cocoon until the real me was ready to spread beautiful wings. I now can't imagine life without writing...

Without giving into self-curiosity and overcoming fears, the joy of accomplishment, the relationships that came thereafter.

If not for embracing the nagging urge to do something more with my life, I don't think I'd enjoy the complete comfort of who I am today. Happy. Content. Ready to learn more. LaDonna Paulette's words have profound resonance. Its insight not lost on this eager life traveler.

Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap

2010-07-14T15:32:00.006-04:00

I've been silent long enough. If not for the fact that I'm in a "reward-thyself" mood, I'd still be working on my manuscript. But, an extremely eclipsical organic event took place in my writing that forced me to fire up the Internet.

And there it was, in big Internet headlines: "Mel Gibson demands sex. Threatens to burn house down in fourth released tape."

Now I ask, who cares? Perhaps the reality show types might. They're into the dirty dregs of the famous, as if learning that celebrities are human gets them through the night. However, it does give pause in the aspect of perception. Mel Gibson, heart-throb in his youth turned well acclaimed movie producer-director, is making me feel as if I need a shower whenever I hear another despicable story about him.

And truthfully, I wouldn't watch another of his movies, nor would I star along side him in one if I were the only actress on earth, if I were one. At the rate he's going we'll see him on the next VH1 Rock of Love.

I wouldn't watch him there, either. There's only one Brett Michaels - beyond all his tattoos and wild-child ways, he has an honorable heart, one I can dig.

I'm just saying that it's very sad to learn the dark underside of the once stellar stars, our perceived heroes. Think about Tiger Woods, for instance. I admired his golfing prowess, but his one with the ladies, not so much. Perhaps if he had handled his disgrace with a little more dignity, hadn't made a fool of his wife in the process, I might forgive and move on. But seeing his return to the limelight is for me another one of those "I need a shower!" moments. Thumbs down, dude - way down.

This is why I've always admired my crushes from afar. In fact, my husband has given me a free pass out of our marital vows if, by some strange freak of Universe, my crush crooks his finger and says, "Come on, Kath, let's have a go (hello Sting, are you listening?)." Fortunately my choice crush is a do-gooder in real life, someone I can admire up close, too, if only.

Same goes for authors, writers and the like. On my bookshelf sits several books by authors whom I adore, some of which I haven't read having bought them out of admiration for the writer, people whom I've met along the cyber-highway. And then I own every single book Christopher Moore wrote. Please God, don't make me find out he's an asshole - I am so in love with his work.

And then there are books weighting the shelves written by a very popular horror writer, one book in particular will make a great door stop because after purchasing it I read an interview of him. In it he dissed a new popular author, saying she wasn't a very good writer. Not cool, Stevie. But thanks for saving my future book dollars. They'll help pay for my new Kindle and all that comes with.

So it goes...

It's nice to be important, but it's more important to be nice. This writer will not waste time and money on arrogant assholes. After all, I've dated many in the past - paid my dues big time. No matter how brilliant the writer, whether a debut novelist, or multi-published. Reveal the asshole card and you've saved me time and money. You are dead dirt to me.

All said, it's not only important to be nice, it behooves one to always keep their best foot forward because Karma can be a bitch of a mistress at times.

Bass-ackward-itis

2010-06-08T16:50:00.003-04:00

Oops, I did it again...

And again...

And again...me, returning to write new pages but revising instead. Over and over again. Even when writing every single day, I look back a few paragraphs...okay, pages, to review the story. Anti-productive, right?

Sigh. And then I was away for a few days. That said, today when I finally sat butt in chair and got back into it, I sort of forgot where I left off, and therefore where I wanted to go, so thinking that reviewing was a good map and starting point, I did. To top it off, over the weekend I had a brilliant notion for the story (okay, so maybe that counts as writing) and I knew where to put it. So today I just had to find where that was. However, while returning to the insertion point I took time to re-read and revise along the way, again.

Stupid, stupid, stupid thing to do. And I can't use being away as my excuse. I always tweak the past, removing a chance of moving the story along (even though today's fixes were brilliant!). I've always returned to re-read, revise, etc. No matter what tricks I come up with to stymie this very bad habit, I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm A CHEATER and do it anyway.

There must be a way of breaking bad habits. Look at those who cold-turkey smoking. True, it's also the healthy thing to do, so maybe that makes it easier to kick the habit. Perhaps what I lack is will power such as the one needed when attempting to diet. You know, that bowl of M&M's looks very tempting out there in the open like that. Easy solution: put it where I can't see them. This technique has worked. Truth: I have not had one piece of chocolate in two weeks. I am not lying. I put the candy bags where I can't see them. After five days I noticed the difference in my waistline.

If only there was a way of not seeing the words. Funny statement coming from a half-blind person, right? But there they are. All those words. How do I NOT look at them? Does anyone have a special device that covers previously typed brilliance? This inquiring mind NEEDS to know.

Am I the only one who can ignore chocolate when it stares her in the face, but can't stop reading her words? I want to move it along. I need a plan. I need HELP! (Is there an eight-hundred number for this?)

'Tis What It Is.

2010-06-07T16:06:00.002-04:00

Today I said, "I don't care!" And I don't. My new attitude for writing is that if I feel the spirit then I will seek publication, but in the meantime I'll write because I just like doing it.

You know, too many authors/writers sit down and gnaw their fingernails with the hope that they'll cough up a brilliant best seller. I used to think that way, too. And then it began. Insults from other writers (not meant to be, but to me they were). "Not buying that," one person said regarding my particular story line. Another said, "You're writing is very passive." Not sure if she meant passive in a grammatical sort of way, or passive as in not much happening here.

But still, the point is it all affected my personal style. Soon I grasped for ideas that were new and different, ones that might sell, be numero uno on the best seller's list. No more of that complete crappy way of thinking. Counter productive. Nothing against those who write for their career, for me though it's about the art and not so much about the publishing end game. Better to write for me and remain happy than write for the masses and let suicide creep into my next piece.

Killer piece of works not for me. Not so much. Beauty for me.

I think I'm a great writer - maybe the greatest to ever push a pen. That's all that matters, really. The rest is just gravy, or fodder, depending on your point of view. Point of view - so subjective; so misunderstood.

I Dare You!

2010-05-12T12:47:00.003-04:00

A really, really good cyber-friend gave me this link. I've made it my home page. The object is to curb my appetite for cyber-surfing while steering my focus immediately to writing. (If you don't feel like looking at the link, it's a page with a blank timed "tablet." As soon as the page opens the timer immediately begins with five minutes. You free-write in the blank tablet. No pondering allowed!)

It's a great way to warm up the exercise muscle, and an extraordinary device that challenges the inner critic. In an attempt to amaze myself, I've created a new blog for their safe keeping, a sort of cyber-journal.

Care to take on the challenge? Then check out the link in the first paragraph of this post. Remember, it's not about thinking. It's about free-writing.

Gold Finger(s)

2010-05-08T12:28:00.005-04:00

"Think of it as the James Bond principle of writing assignments. The closer you get to zero hour, the more surefire and exhilarating your writing--like Bond's day-saving solution--should be." Kyle Morrison

I grabbed this quote directly from my Facebook pages, made by my good friend and awesome furniture mover, Kyle Morrison. It was his response to another one of my whiny comments regarding writing, and why I was procrastinating via Facebook when I should have been pushing the pen.

After I glared at the comment for all of ten seconds, the solution to my angst materialized. Whenever faced with an actual deadline, in my case, writing assignments for college credits, I always waited until a week to a few days before its due date. Rarely did I begin thinking about it when the professor dictated the assignment. Sure, I'd mull it over for a bit, and maybe commence cursory research, but never sank my teeth in until the calendar closed in on the date. I'd then hunker down behind closed doors for an entire weekend, gathering research and pounding out a draft. Usually by Sunday night the final paper was ready for turning in on its due date, which was usually that week, or on some occasions, the next day.

Did I mention that I've never gotten less than an A on any paper I wrote for college? My U.S. History professor remarked on a piece I wrote about Thomas Paine that it was above college level writing. It took about eight hours the previous weekend to complete. (Seriously. I'm not making this up. If I knew how to use my new scanner, I'd provide a copy showing his comments. But alas, I don't, so you all will just have to take my word for it.)

In my English Lit. classes the professor always had us free-write for about five minutes at the beginning of every class. Sometimes he used prompts, others he'd just let us wing it. The idea, he would say, was to release your conscious and feel the words from your gut. It was an amazing exercise for me. My pen moved like it was filled with grease for ink.

Buzzer shot writing, that's what I called it. And now that I've been in this slump, and thanks to Kyle's brilliant analogy, I can see the problem I faced. NO GOAL. NO DUE DATE. ZERO-ZIP-NADA-DEADLINE. Believing that the magic would reappear, well, magically, was merely an excuse for not writing.

The magic never died. My motivation did. I've whined about this on and off at this blog, in particular, this one. This person, who, because that's just her wonderful way, ran to my rescue. She hooked me up with a writing group that focuses on writing one hundred words per day for one hundred days.

One of my biggest excuses for not writing was that I needed a huge block of time in order to write. The theory behind writing one hundred words a day for one hundred days is that it takes minimal time each day, therefore it's easy to carve out a small bit of time in order to accomplish this goal.

GOAL: The magic word missing in my writing repertoire. Even the smallest of writing goals, in this case, one hundred words a days, not only keeps me connected to my writing, but magically multiplies into more. One hundred words isn't a big challenge. Since beginning this regime on May 4, I've written 1,881 new words, which translates to seven and a half new pages. Like eating M&M's, I couldn't stop after the first hundred. Gold! I struck gold! (And thank heavens I can stop eating M&M's after the first hundred.)

Another day. Another one hundred words and more.

What motivation is lacking in your writing life? What gets you back on track?

Muse Interuptus

2010-04-26T13:22:00.005-04:00

Today's Horoscope for Taurus (moi)

By Rick Levine

You might feel as if you have hit a creative block and you may be tempted to shake up your life to see if that helps. But you won't likely be happy if things become less stable than they already are now. Instead of seeking answers on the outside, consider what you can do to alter your perspective. Clearing out the cobwebs from the attics of your mind may be just the catalyst you need.

Here it is, another Monday. Another new starting point. That's how I view Monday. It's my excuse for not doing anything creative over the weekend. "I'll start Monday. I'm fresh on Monday."

Oh please! Who am I kidding? I'm as stale as Friday, when my excuse for non-creativity came in the form of a mop and vacuum cleaner.

I'm mad! I can't take it anymore! Last Monday I actually wrote three new pages. And I remember saying to myself, "Self, three pages today; three more tomorrow. Piece of cake."

And one week later I have three pages. No more. No less. Outside my window I hear my mood, dark, drippy and dreary. It's otherwise a perfect day for curling up with a book, which I won't do because it's a cruel reminder of what I'm not doing.

I believe what's worse than not writing is the guilty association. What sort of loser am I? I call myself a writer? Seriously? Why have I lost the mood? Why isn't there a little blue pill for what ails me? The magic came. The magic went. The next time it comes, I'm cutting its wings (my muse is immortal, although a bit dead lately).

Alas. I'll rely on the horoscope de jour's suggestions. Relax. Focus. Meditate. Say a little prayer for me. Tomorrow is another day.

Does your muse have wings?

My horn blows!

2010-04-18T14:58:00.006-04:00

They say that if you swing the bat enough times you'll get a hit. In my case, if I endlessly submit, something will stick. Yesterday notice came that one of my poetry submissions was accepted for publication.

WAHFUCKINHOO! (And if that offends, perhaps you've come to the wrong blog.)

What makes this better than a contract from a publisher? Answer: Having it recognized and deemed suitable for print by a group of peers. The peers in question are students who've participated in the Honors level English Lit. classes at Finger Lakes Community College. It's an honor to be honored by the Honors House student body. (And baby do I ever LOVE alliteration!)

Without further adieu, here is my first publishing creditial (unfortunately the cool formatting utilized in MSW doesn't transfer to this blog).

Because you can’t

by K. Calarco

Why can’t I go back

to the place

where the song comes from?

a safe place.

frosted leaves;

innocent skies;

unbroken hearts.

hope.

You.

Why must I stay here

where nothing happens

at all?

Unlived and splintered

in the half dark.

So there you have it. Although I'm blocked and tormented by my Evil Inner Critic while trying to spin a novel, poetry is the essence of my creative beast.

What's in a sig?

2010-04-09T20:08:00.004-04:00

Yesterday I realized this about myself: I'm a whore for autographs. This revelation came after I purchased the book pictured to the left. As I plunked down cold, hard credit card, I said to myself, "Damn! Wish I could get it signed."

Later that day is when my wondering took a plunge into deep and random serious consideration. Why am I such a whore for signed copies of books? Will a signature make the story better? Would the scrawl verify that for two lousy seconds, I breathed within the same four feet as the author?

Recently Sara Palin came to town pimping her book, and admirers camped overnight at the book store just to get her damn signature. Why? Is she a rock star?
Is Mark Terry? (Compared to Sara Palin, I think the answer is obvious.)

My reason for wanting Mark's scrawl is that I sort of "know" as well as admire him via the blessed blog-o-sphere. It's why I bought his book, not to mention, I'm in love with the cover. I might not read it for months and months, but it'll be on my shelf with the others of those I've bought written by people I "know" and admire via the blessed blog-o-sphere. None have a signature. Not a single one. Does it matter?

Well, I don't know. And now that I've been giving it deep thought I can't let go of wondering why people stand in line for hours, hurdle rope barriers and start stampedes just to get a signature. I'm sure those sport's memorabilia shops at the malls would wither and die if not for the displays of balls, bats, cards and other signed what-nots. I hear that some people spend thousands of dollars for one lousy signed what-not.

I'm one of them, although I didn't spend thousands, just a few hundred for a baseball signed by Mickey Mantel. It was a gift for the man who has everything except a ball signed by The Mick. We keep it in a special shiny container that sits on a shelf where no one notices. Sort of an invisible shrine.

What makes having a signed what-not special? I have a cowboy hat signed by this dude and this dude. I have no idea where that hat is, but whenever I stumble across it I touch the faded ink. It's not like taking a dip into the waters at Lourdes. That ink isn't going to cure my eye if I hold it close enough to my face. They are just two faded autographs.

But they remind me of the time and place when I stampeded...uh, politely asked for them. It's nice to have memories, sort of an immersion into that past as if time stands still.

Speaking of stampedes, a few years ago a popular morning television show did a piece on the Romance Writers of America convention. I saw it on YouTube. The double doors to a large convention room burst open and a hungry mob of women, some screaming, others crying, filled the room. It resembled the first time the Beatles were on Ed Sullivan. Scads of romance authors sat at tables with stacks of their books, pens ready for the signing. I have never seen anything quite like it. I mean, seriously, some of these women needed smelling salts after meeting their favorite romance author in person.

All for a signed paperback novel.

Authors are rock stars to readers. And to some writers. That's my theory and I'm sticking to it considering I stood in a line, my heart pounding as I waited my turn for this poet to sign one of his poetry books that I just bought. Had I known he would have signed whatever what-not I produced, I might have skipped the purchase. My friend, who was too broke at the time to buy his book, stood in line, too. She handed him a pack of Marlboros. He signed it. Did I mention that she's young and gorgeous?

Pity the fool standing in line with nary a what-not.

Movie stars, rock stars, athletes and reality t.v. celebs. They are the gods, we are the Titans. When did they stop being Titans, too?

So what theories do you have on the obsession for signatures? Any ideas as to when, where and why the phenomena ever started?

P.S. Buy Mark's book! Even unsigned, it's a keeper.

Ramblin' Rodeo (or how I completely muck up the writing waters).

2010-03-30T11:36:00.004-04:00

I am a promise breaker. I announced that I'd write three pages of gibberish each day for the past week. News flash: Didn't happen. Various (some contrived) reasons kept me from fulfilling my goal.

It's the "writing thang." Better put, it's me having great intentions, and then letting everything within mental peripheral range wipe out said "great intentions." Sometimes I think my writing muse has ADHD. When the writing urge strikes, there's always internal and external happenings grabbing my weak attention, or trumping any writing resolve I possessed.

For instance, late last week I had a phone conversation with a multi-epublished writer (soon to be in print, or maybe is already...). We spoke of the trials and tribulations involved in publishing, the importance of gaining a fan base, agents vs. editors, etc. After I got off the phone with her I sat back and felt the "publishing thang" slowly taking over my muse's drive. (I often wonder if possessing publishing knowledge is the poison or the cure - it's hard for me to assimilate.)

And then yesterday I received this literary agency's newsletter. Part of it answered a worn out dilemma I've had for years by describing how to figure out what genre to market my work (although to this day I still feel the publisher does whatever they damn well want). It said, "Get your genre right. Imagine walking in to a bookstore. Where would one find your book? In the romance section? Then, label it 'romance.' In the literature section? Label it 'commercial fiction.' " For two seconds I felt giddy, as if I just stumbled over the Rosetta Stone.

Reality then reared its ugly head as I further read on. The newsletter asked, "What is the defining event that occurs in the first 30 pages of your story which propels the novel forward?" further stating, "Make sure you include your book's defining moment as part of your pitch in the query letter."

Damn, I'm lucky if I can figure out whether I'm a plotter, a panster, or a crazed maniac who should never hold a pen. My muse withered with wonder, its ADHD enhanced.

I haven't lost hope for my muse. Soon it'll be strong enough to ignore all outside stimuli. Soon. Really. Maybe not today, but whenever the time is right...it merely packed up and took hiatus without leaving a clue as to its return.

Thoughts? Does publication and all the do's and don'ts of it seem daunting? Does your muse have ADHD too?

Bite me deeply.

2010-03-22T16:38:00.002-04:00

In the paraphrased words of Edie Ramer, if I write three pages a day, that's over a thousand pages a year.

I haven't written a single page of anything since the ball dropped on 2010. But today, approximately fifteen minutes ago, I hand wrote three pages of gibberish. The instep of my thumb ached afterward. I thought of Edie's words when I finished, smiled and fired up the blog. She's today's inspiration, a person who keeps on giving while never giving up.

Why three pages? A few years ago I discovered The Artists Way by Julia Cameron. The text taught methods to overcome obstacles, which included writing "morning pages," three pages of random gibberish first thing in the morning. Religiously I wrote three pages each morning while the coffee brewed and the eye goop still festered. I had once mentioned this to Edie, and thus her paraphrased comment above.

After two or three years of morning page regimen, I slowly discontinued them. It was hard writing the very first thing in the morning, especially after Monster Chihuahua took up residence.

But then the habit of writing was lost, too.

Writing. The one thing that sustained my life took a back seat to my life. Until this afternoon when I forced myself to just do it. A blank tablet of paper sat beside me, so I picked it and a pen up and started the ride. I felt released from captivity. Fresh air rushed into my gray matter.

I felt all writerly. Ready to begin something new. But, but, but...

I know I need to ease my way back in just like an athlete in rehab (for a physical injury and not the Tiger kind). My gut tells me to take it slowly, three pages per day until of week of gibberish has gone by. That's my plan...

Like a recovering addict, I need a program. I need to make a plan that feels right, one that acts like a crutch to my dwindling confidence. And similar to the twelve step program, I'm relying on faith, my Monster Chihuahua constant proof of its power.

Any words of wisdom are greatly appreciated, and feel free to share the longest word drought, if any, you've had. How did you get it back into gear?

This is me just r(w)anting (again)...

2010-03-05T14:27:00.005-05:00

Doesn't all the spam and email junk make you crazy? Fortunately there are various email accounts that help eliminate the spam-junk-shazit. I use Gmail and Yahoo.

Gmail delivers the spam-junk-shazit directly to a special spam folder. After a few days it looks like an "Erections-R-Us" catalog. I have no idea why Gmail has targeted me for daddy's little helpers. (Just send me the guy with the four hour erection.)

Yahoo doesn't do a great job of spam-sweeping. They leave it up to the addressee to address the problem via creating spam filters, etc. Kind of a drag, but I do it. I hate unsolicited mail. I doubt that I have a million dollars sitting in an unknown bank account somewhere in Nigeria, or an ancestor from the deep root system of my family tree that has left me some serious cash.

Or that I need male enhancement.

But what really, really, REALLY gives me a minor rash is receiving newsletters in my email from writing organizations of which I've never belonged. And I know the culprit, well, sort of.

Romance Writers of America. Nothing against them. They've never been a good fit for me, but a new RWA "special interest" chapter came into my radar that looked like a match, and I wanted to join. And of course, I had to lay out RWA's mega-fee in order to join. Can't belong to one without lining the mother ship's coffers now can we?

And so it goes that last week I received a newsletter from an RWA chapter of which I have no affiliation, never took a class through, or entered any contest with. From out of nowhere there it was in my email. Possibly my email address was gotten from Facebook. Who knows? I took care of the matter by unsubscribing to the newsletter that I never subscribed to in the first place.

And then this week I receive a flier from said RWA chapter in my mailbox, which is screwed into the door of my new house. At my six-month old address that very few personal friends have.

Why does this irritate me? Simply put, it sucks. It's one thing to have my email address bombarded with unwanted junk, but my home address? There's only one way an RWA chapter could get a hold of my home address. Okay, maybe a few ways. First, maybe RWA hands them out wily-nily. Second, maybe someone in said chapter has a connection with RWA (the board perhaps?) and scooped up a few. Or, maybe there is a member in the "special interest" chapter who has an affiliation with said RWA chapter, and created a mailing list.

Whothefuck knows? The point reiterated, it sucks.

I paid RWA's exorbitant membership fee just so I could belong to the new "special interest" chapter. Shouldn't that come with a little security? What does RWA do with all those fees, anyway, other than print out their monthly mag, of which goes from mailbox to recycle bin in one fell swoop?

Shame on me for joining an "organization" that doesn't fit. But shame on them for allowing personal home mailing addresses to fall into unauthorized hands.

Excuse my rant, but something is a little off here. And if anyone can come up with an explanation for how said RWA chapter got my personal mailing address, I'd entertain it.

Hesitation, Sputters and Enlightenment

2010-02-13T09:29:00.005-05:00

After due deliberation, this morning I clicked onto my blog with a clear intention of deleting it. Not the first time I've been down the quitter path. My reasons for waffling regarding this blog are several: Lack of comments; nothing to write about; just plain boring. All taken into consideration, I made the clear-cut decision to wipe it from the face of cyber-land. Delete it. Let other blogs clog the continuum. I'm certain the world will survive without my rants.

Yet...just before the deleting process, I re-read my most recent blog posted on January 27 of 2010. Another rant about the Universe's choosing me as its latest whipping boy, the post subtly forced me to reflect. Its closing line says, "Everything does happen to me, and that's a good thing because hope is eternally on my side."

These past months of the New Year have been a wilder ride than anything Disney can offer. But after reading the post I was reminded that all isn't lost, that life unfolds uncontrollably and it's up to us to make the proverbial "lemonade" out of it.

If for no other reason, my blogs are self-serving in a good way. They don't preach to the masses, but act as an outlet for my angst and joy (and whenever the latter decides to make an appearance, I'll be very appreciative).

Thus, the blog stays. I'm keeping it for me. It's not about promotion or hoping for comments. It's about self-revelation.

It brings me peace. Who can say they can't live without a small slice of that in their lives?

The Big Picture in High Definition

2010-01-27T15:05:00.004-05:00

I've always waxed un-philosophically about my life, but can create a shiny finish regarding the situation of others. I'll analyze the possibilities of what makes certain people tick because it helps me understand their psyche.

But when it comes to the inner workings of my life, I spend time seeking opinions from friends or family. It's as if I can't think for myself when it applies to, well, myself. Everything from my appearance (Does this make me look fat? Is that outfit too young for me?) to writing decisions (Is it too late in life to enter a writing career?What genre am I?).

Where does my inability to trust my judgment leave me? Disabled, dysfunctional, and left with a waning sense of self confidence. Weakened by my inability to trust my gut fully has bled into my lack of personal understanding of my inner psyche. Better put, I haven't taken a moment to wax philosophically about the one Universal question that has followed me since birth: Why does all the bad stuff happen to me?

Definition of bad stuff (and it's a big list, but here's a sampling): Not getting asked to the prom; getting passed over for a promotion; manuscripts and poetry submissions lost in cyber-space; unexplained retinal detachment.

New to the list: Six months after losing my best friend, Daisy, to degenerative disc disease, my other best friend, Lola, has an unexplained onset of spinal meningitis. Just three weeks ago she was performing like the expected monster chihuahua only to have sudden paralysis in her hind legs. Her prognosis is guarded simply because tests haven't revealed the etiology of her condition, so more tests are under way.

I still haven't fully accepted the loss of my friend, Daisy, but was getting close to some semblance of it when Lola's strange illness occurred. Of course I have to ask myself, "Why me, God? Why are you laying this on me and picking on my poor dog again?"

You know "they" say that when you put something out to the Universe an answer is received. And wouldn't you know it, I spoke my angst out loud, not expecting any response...

But one came. The philosophical waxing process began and I self-analyzed the situation, which produced an answer. Conclusion: Bad things come to those who can handle them. A review of life-long defeats, rejections and losses brought me to this conclusion. I handled them, a practice that explains the old cliche, "God doesn't give us more than we can handle."

My belief is that there are those who can gracefully rise to the occasion and just DEAL. These people don't crumble under pressure, step up when the news isn't good and take the "bull my its horns" even though said "bull" might gore us in the process.

I propose that The Universe knows our strengths as well as weaknesses. It also knows which crap to deal to the appropriate people. For instance, what if someone who didn't have the ability to handle my animals' special needs owned them? Where would my dogs have ended up? Here's a couple of guesses: a.) Animal shelter, or b.) dropped by the roadside in the middle of nowhere.

After analyzing and reviewing the entirety of my life, I'm brought to the conclusion that the Universe/God precisely doles out the enormity of problems to the appropriate souls who can handle it. Think about people who blindly receive A's without lifting the cover of a text, or those who happened to be in the right place at the right time when Lady Luck graced their pathway. Perhaps those smooth sailors fall apart the moment life pitches a curve ball. Let's face it, life isn't always clear skies and calm waters for everyone, but I venture to guess that there are those whose paths are less bumpy, and that a subtle wave sends their stress into overdrive.

I'm not suggesting that all the bad stuff happens to me. This is my hypothesis based on personal self-reflecting and philosophic waxing. And like with all of my hypothetical theories, I've gained a valuable lesson. I now believe that in all its mysterious ways, the Universe/God has a master plan in place, which in my case involves the bumpy path. Could that explain why I tend to take the road less traveled, which generally is filled with curves, dips and beautiful views?

In all its glory I'm finding my necessary peace that more clearly guides my future. Everything does happens to me, and that's a good thing because hope is eternally on my side.

Happyfuckinnewyear! (Yeah, whatever...). A Mini-rant.

2010-01-10T18:16:00.005-05:00

One week into a spankin' new year and decade, and already the gods are plotting to thwart my grandiose plans. I've pleaded with the Universe to please cut me a break. Last year was bad enough; wouldn't you think I could get at least one week's worth of something good, or even static, rather than more doom and gloom?

Let's begin with my eye, shall we? It has been over a year since I had any major surgery. Knock on wood, the detached retina remains a-attached (medical lingo for "it still sticks.") Yet, a few days before Christmas (when miracles should happen, but apprently that only happens in soap operas and romance novels), something small and peculiar appears. An object floats inside my sightless orb. At first I thought that maybe it was a sign, the Christmas miracle. "Oh, ignore it," I said to myself because who wants to go to the doctor during the holidays? Not me. Surely this strange visual UFO will disappear. Today the sun appeared (a post-Christmas miracle), and I decided to take a drive. Dark sunglasses could not mask the new floater in the eye, which is annoying since I have several floaters in my good eye. I know I'll have to make an appointment to see the retina doctor, which is fine because he's easy on the eye both figuratively and literally, but still...

And then my monster chihuahua, Lola, began walking like a drunk. She lists from side to side and drags her back feet. Monday we took her to the vet for x-rays, which revealed no injury. Possibly she has a pinched nerve, somewhat of a doggie sciatica. The vet sent her home with doggie anti-inflammatories. Five days later, no change, which means she most likely has something neurological going on, and that will entail (pardon the pun) a trip to Cornell Veterinary Hospital for an MRI. Yet, last February my other dog, Daisy, went to Cornell Vet Hospital for an MRI. Her outcome wasn't so good and we lost her last July due to several ruptured discs. Daisy, my dearly departed best friend, was almost fourteen. Lola, my dearly living best friend, is only three. Yes, youth is on her side, but still...

Lastly, some good news. The honors class that I was unable to enroll in because it filled up quickly, opened up an additional section. I was sort of on the fence about the Spring semester thinking that maybe I should skip it, but this class (on memoirs) sang to me ever since hearing about it last Spring. See where I'm going with this? The road ahead as of January 1, 2010 looked clear for take-off. One week later and there's a potential for aborted plans.

Eye doctor equals possible eye surgery. Dog doctor equals possible doggie surgery, enormous vet bill and possible doggie re-hab.

Adios to my grandiose plans. I even planned on squeezing in the beginning of my shiny new idea. Don't know about the rest of the world, but when there's anxiety in my realm I cannot, just CAN NOT concentrate on writing.

Oh woe is me. The lofty feeling of euphoria was fun while it lasted. Hello, Universe, if you're listening, enough already. There must be a terrorist somewhere in the world hiding explosives in his underwear that you can pick on instead of me.

But, I have friends with exciting things happening. One has a new baby girl; another received a request from an agent (or editor) for a full manuscript; this friend progressed to the finals of a writing contest, its possible outcome a shot at publication.

I live vicariously through my friends' good fortunes. It keeps my heart light and hopeful. Isn't that partly the reason for friends? Makes a good argument at least.

How's your New Year shaping up? Hopefully, better than mine.

Rezzies, I've got a few...

2010-01-01T17:32:00.004-05:00

Nothing keeps a person more honest than making resolutions. Let me rephrase that: Nothing keeps a person more honest than making resolutions, if made with a bent toward realism. Example: This year I resolve to write 5,000 words per week and query over a hundred literary agents...NOT!

Granted, at times I'm crazier than a shit-house rat, but I'm not stupid. Do not expect to see any writing goals on my resolution list because I know myself well enough to realize that I write when the spirit moves me. If spirit feels up to the challenge, then maybe I'll follow its lead.

And that's how, in my opinion, resolutions should be made, geared toward the doable and not the impossible. That said, without further adieu, here are my resolutions for 2010 (in no particular order):

1. Avoid naysayers at all costs. Last year I allowed the negativity of others to affect me. Not they did so intentionally. Some people just can't help but to whine about everything. EVERYTHING! They start off with just a few gripes, and I always lend a sympathetic ear, and that's when the wheels fall off my "compassion" wagon. It's as if these people only need the slightest bit of "Oh, I know what you mean" before they soon unload the rest of their negative vibes all over. It's happened at school; it's happened at blogs, which brings me to resolution number

2. No visiting blogs that either speak of the cold-heartedness of the publishing industry, or ones whose followers relate their experiences with the cold-hearted publishing industry. I get it. People get burned. We all do at times, but does it help to rain all over my optimistic parade? I blame myself for allowing the naysayers to get under my skin. Forgive them; they are clueless. Moving on to number

3. Stop taking people at face value. I charge myself with this offense and plead guilty as charged. At times I wear blinders, which work in two directions: Either I see nothing but good, or nothing but bad. I have jumped to conclusions about a person's character without allowing it to unfold further. Shame on me. Sometimes it's too late to warm up to a person whose first impression was prickly, and sometimes it's too late to back away when a person's true colors make me want to run screaming. I need to listen to my guardian angel more, which brings me to number

4. Pay closer attention to my gut feelings. Why, oh why, do I always ignore that little voice in my head? Sure, maybe it's hard to hear over all the other ones, but I've felt that twinge in my gut that tells me something is bad or good and have ignored it completely. Plus, I have a tendency to think that everyone else knows more than me. That said, I ignore my own process, which ultimately turns into a real buzz kill, which leads me back to number 1, called number

5. Stay away from buzz kills. When I have a shiny new idea, or just something that makes me feel all tingly inside, I need to share it with no one except, perhaps, my guardian angel.

6. (The autonomous one.) Only visit uplifting blogs, and stop wasting time visiting and commenting at one where there is no reciprocation. Sounds childish? Maybe, but I give my comments in-depth thought. The least I can get is the same in return. Is that asking too much?

So, there it is, etched in figurative granite for all to see and hold me accountable.

Happy 2010!

The Fenceposts of My Life

2009-12-21T12:40:00.005-05:00

I might suffer from PTSD (post-traumatic school disorder), defined (by me) as how a student feels after entering writing intensive courses blindly, and surviving to tell about it. This past semester goes down as one of the most brutal. Many times I wanted to walk away from it all and take an "incomplete." But I hung in there, counting the days until the end while telling myself that I'd skip next semester.

Today I met with my U.S. History professor in order to learn my grade. Earlier this morning, I opened up my documents file and read part of a stagnant WIP, which was a regular "What the f**k was I thinking?" moment.

A few moments ago I registered for next semester.

Did I mention what my professor said? He said, "Your work was exemplary. A+, but really just an A because the college doesn't allow A+'s."

Hello, PTSD! (P.S. YAY ME!)

Many of you saw me fall off my writing edge only a few weeks ago. In my last blog post, Natasha Foundren commented that my "quitting moments" come near semester's end. I weighed her comment with other possible reasons for my "quitting moments" in order to gain some perspective. Admittedly, the year alone sucked for me. Bought a new house, didn't sell the old one, and losing my best friend, Daisy, all took a toll. We moved into our new house, and that same week I began the Fall semester.

But it wasn't until a few weeks ago that it all came to a head. My psyche took a nose dive, and well, you all know the rest. The thing is, you who "all know the rest" are the ones who have remained steadfast throughout my tumultuous times. And it recently dawned on me that those who understand me most are writers. Whenever I sit on the wire wondering, my writing friends always run to the rescue.

Through writing I've learned about me, and maybe that's because I see so much of myself in others. And that epiphany is rooted in one common denominator: Writers. It amazes me how much we all "get" each other. The people who understand the creative beast and have survived to talk about it have the uncanny and unconscious ability to accept what the rest of the world can't.

I'll admit, looking at one of my WIP's paralyzed my writing muscle a bit (or maybe it was the inner critic's guffaw). But, I'm not saying that I'm walking away from writing. It's hard to pull the creative beast's jaws from my hide. What I am saying is that perhaps I'll never cough up something that will catch an agent or editor's eye, but now I realize that writing isn't about the end, it's about the means. It's reality lined with fantasy - something mere mortals will never understand. And now that I "get it," have seen myself through others, I have the renewed strength to move forward.

And now I'm enrolled for another rousing semester. What's four more anxiety ridden months? The better part of valor is in the learning of ones self.

How/what have you seen in yourself through the eyes of others lately?

Half-Back...again.

2009-12-17T09:14:00.002-05:00

I know, I know. Am I gone or just plain crazy? I like to think of myself as anything but "plain," so suffice it to say I'm this:

You know, I have my moments, but basically it's the reason I write, which keeps me from falling over the edge.

Here's to my return. By fingernails I cling to reality, for if I grasp it life just gets too messy.

Consider me gone

2009-12-04T11:06:00.002-05:00

Wit's end has approached. Call it a mark in the "win" column for inner critic, or me realizing that just thinking about writing nauseates me. Today I've reached my breaking point and it tells me to call it quits.

My ability to cope: gone. This writing life is a struggle, but when it gets to the point where ideas stop coming, perhaps it's the Universe saying "not the life for you." I'm good with that.

I suppose I could say that certain people have pushed me over the edge, but they don't know what their actions have caused, so it's sort of a moot point.

Instead I'll sit on the sidelines and cheer for my lovely friends; feel sorrow for the brilliant ones who can't make it in the bigs because their reality is misunderstood.

My Personal Apocalypse

2009-11-24T09:44:00.004-05:00

Four weeks left in the semester, and you'd think I'd be eager for the time off before the next one rolls around. I've griped about research papers, reading chapters and simply attending classes. All said, I should run screaming from the campus come December 22.

But, I'm not feeling the excitement, at least not as I had been. I had grandiose plans on how to spend the six weeks of free time, which included organizing my office (it presently looks like the bookshelves and file draws barfed), read some books that have sat collecting dust, and last but not least, begin writing in either a new work, or in one already started.

Simply put, I'll most likely organize my office and read one book, for the inner critic has already began chewing on the latter of the three. For weeks I've looked forward to writing again. I even found a kick-ass writing group to join, which involved rejoining RWA, but this new group felt right, so I jumped on board. No regrets there.

Regret comes with my shiny new idea, which had evolved over the past few weeks, and then yesterday kicked up a notch with, what I thought, a stellar revelation. It took on that "love at first sight" feeling. I felt all warm and fuzzy and actually felt its promise and strength.

And then I shared the idea with another. That's where self-doubt reared its ugly-assed head. Other person brought up some thoughts on my idea, such as, where's the conflict, what about this character, what if this one did this, that, etc., etc.,?

My answer: I don't know. Not one answer sprang to mind and suddenly I felt my lofty feeling nose dive into the jaws of ugly inner critic. All my wonderful ideas lost momentum. Worse yet, I was reminded of the fact that eventually I'd have to share my story with others. Do I want to go through all that again? All those "constructive" criticisms were all but forgotten. My thick skin somehow shed a few layers while working on my degree. Am I ready to hear things such as, "What's your character's GMC?" I'm still having trouble figuring an answer to that question for the last six manuscripts I've written, of which only three completed. Perhaps the last three are left unfinished because I don't have answers to questions such as "What's your character's GMC?"

Humbling experience, this writing path. It takes you from the stratosphere to ground zero in one fell swoop. Do I need the aggravation? Is there enough Xanax in the world to assist in my endeavor to cough up yet another unfinished manuscript? My ducks in a row have fallen to the sniper's buck-shot. Woe is me...

Sometimes I think being away from writing is a lot like quitting an exercise routine (which I have since school began). Gravity has defeated muscle. In order to get back in the groove, I'll have to start off slowly; small jogs and thirty ab-crunches in order to wake up the body. But what will it take to wake up my muse, or at least to get her out of the cave she skittered off to when my shiny new story idea first went into question.

Putting the writing wheels back in motion is more daunting, I believe, than keeping up my GPA. How to recapture my euphoria, that's the question of the day.

Thoughts?

Reality Bites

2009-10-07T19:40:00.009-04:00

"Is it real, or did you just make that up?" This phrase marches through my head when I write a scene. My deeper subconscious houses the ever present Ugly Inner Critic. At times he's silent, but his snickers aren't lost on me whenever I wonder if the scene I've just written will end up at the end of someones finger point.

The finger point, just my metaphor for whenever someone else reads my work and says things such as, "A guy wouldn't say something that," or, "Not a very sexy name for a hero," and my personal favorite, "A horse would never act like that." Hasn't anyone seen Mr. Ed? Just kidding, but still...

Let's get something straight, shall we? I write fiction, my loose interpretation of make-believe. In the worlds I create, yeah, a guy would "say something like that," heroes won't have "sexy" names, and horses get to act any way that I want them to. I'm writing to entertain, as well as provide an escape from reality.

Last week author Erica Hayes made a guest appearance at Magical Musings. Here's something she said that resonated with me, "The more like real life, the more boring the book." I screamed at the monitor, "Amen, sister!" because she validated what I always felt, but through the opinions of others, I began to suppress.

And here's something else. The things perceived as un-real by the "finger-pointers" I've experienced in real life. What can I say? My past is filled with weirdness. And I take license to embellish on reality as a fiction writer, because I CAN.

As writers, shouldn't we pay attention to the unreal things that happen in real time? I do. The unexpected things people have said or done stay with me, almost like they're tattooed to my brain. Yet, comments from the "finger-pointers" stay with me while I write, as if they know my characters better than me.

And that's the point. No one knows my characters or my story better. The situations I come up with, crazy as they are, come from weird experiences in my life. My past is sprinkled with exceptions to the rules, which have fed my imagination. I refuse to "get real."

So the next time I sit down with the Epic (my metaphor/pet name for WIP, not to be confused with War and Peace), I'm going to picture Erica Hayes pointing her finger at me and saying, "The more like real life, the more boring the book." And at least, for me, the writing experience will be absent Ugly Inner Critic.

Anyone else utilize weird and unexpected experiences from their past in their present writings?

Disclaimer: This blog piece isn't a disclaimer on my writing, or an attempt at self-righteousness. ;)

Celebrate the First Amendment!

2009-09-25T19:15:00.004-04:00

How many know their First Amendment rights? As a reader and writer, I was served a reminder of its importance by following this link: Banned Books Week September 26 - October 3, 2009.

Just a Phase?

2009-09-23T10:25:00.006-04:00

Note: I posted this piece yesterday, and today I woke up with an entirely new perspective on the beast, which proves that publicly sharing angst divides problems to the point where they're no problem at all. Thanks, Universe, for so many wonderful, helpful and compassionate friends. (You all know who you are...)

When to decide it's really over? Lately, through the musings of other authors, different components revealed the dark under-belly of writing: Publishing. Some publishers dropped print lines without informing its authors; agents not performing to full capacity; the chronic debate of what publishers want/expect. It's as if the publishing industry is a ruthless lot of cutthroats - the Debbie Downers of entertainment. And then there's validity. Some published writers objecting to the non-published writers' thoughts and opinions. "Hah!" some will say. "I'm published, you're not. Take your opinion and shove it!"

Well, okay then. Maybe I will.

I long for those naive days when I penned the first Epic. Day and night I wrote, so in love with my story. It was like a ridiculous crush on the cute boy who finally realizes you exist. I could not get enough of it or the two following Epics. For sure, I felt, I'd see publication. My Epics were masterpieces (in my mind).

Now I'm not feeling that love - not for the writing and clearly not for the publication road. For me it's a case of "too much knowledge is a bad thing" scenario. How happier I was in not knowing the forensics of writing and publication. My personal La-La Land. Just me and my pen.

Did I mention that the joy of reading has dissipated, too? Used to be I could swallow a book in its entirety within a day or two. Now I find myself in the thralls of guilt if I do that, thinking that I should be writing, not reading. Not to mention, reading is now an unconscious editing session...as if I know that much about writing. Hah!

Where does it all lead? Is it a matter of joy vs. getting-the-job-done? My present feeling for writing and the lack thereof reminds me of my reasons for self-retirement. I left the job market because getting up in the morning was more painful than a slow bikini wax. Necessary, yet excruciating. My profession lacked self-fulfillment. I did not quit the normal work force in order to be a full-time writer, however. Writing did not come into play until almost a year later. Just something I decided to undertake, the voices in my head wanting a more tangible venue, thus, the Epics to follow.

That's not fun anymore. Learned too much. When thinking of writing for publication my thoughts waver to a more hermit way of life. The "Big Dance" is far out of reach, its preparation daunting. My heart aches for the times of blissful writing that entertains me.

Lately, the other writers don't seem as if they're having fun either. Was it always like that, back before I focused on publication road?

Perhaps it's my age getting in the way. I feel life shortening. That said, I want to enjoy more, angst less. Writing for publication just ain't doing it for me in that regard.

Is this blog my swan song? I'm not sure. Certainty comes in small bites these days. I drown in waves of doubt while longing for simple joy. "Take time off," some will say, but when I return the same dark underbelly awaits. "She's a quitter!" others might think. "Not a real writer in the first place." And there's the rub. Define what a real writer is, and maybe I can see things differently.

For now I sit on this fence, pondering which side appears greener.

Confessions of a Slacker

2009-09-02T13:36:00.004-04:00

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been over eight (count 'em - EIGHT) weeks since I've last written...

But I'm not going down on my knees for forgiveness. I've got my reasons for being absent from the scriptorium, and even if that's a loser's excuse, so be it. I'm only human. Life happens. Guilt is for the insanely uptight perfectionists of the world. Let them take up room in that small, dimly lit confessional. I'm standing right out in broad daylight to say that I haven't written one stinking word in my Epic In Progress and I'm feelin' alright.

Life happens. We can't always carve out space for commitment to the pen and paper. Except for authors whose daily bread depends on their craft, the rest of us need to view it as a lesson in priorities. Or, maybe it's just the Universe telling us, "Hey, take a break and suck up some life, will ya?" because for this writer, life is story fodder. Where else to get cool ideas if not out there where life happens? It's sort of like dating; you're not going to meet Mr./Ms. Right by staring at the four walls of your house. You have to go where the action is. Interact with life's breath.

Yet, I'm a bit bothered, personally, that when this slacker cycle of mine ceases, I'll stare at my Epic and say, "Who in the hell are you?" Better yet, I'll probably say, "Who wrote this shit?" And there rests the slacker-dom rub. While life pulled me away from the pages in five thousand other directions, ugly-assed inner critic (U-AIC) did not take a break. This is where fear rears its ugly head as I pick up where last keystroke landed, the breaking moment that could push me back into slacker-dom.

Will it be like riding a bike after falling off, a wheel or two missing? That could make getting back on track extremely difficult. How do I kill ugly-assed critic before taking up pen again? That is my question. I'm giving this serious consideration because next week I plan to embark on a writing blitz (between unpacking boxes and returning to school). What sort of discipline will stop U-AIC from whispering those famous words, "Hey, you suck?"

Answer: The way I'll view my Epic. Not with eyes meant to discredit every word written, but with the eyes of an encouraging editor, one who would say, "It's a little wonky here, but damn, this part here is brilliant!" I feel I have a choice on procedure. Either I embrace the beauty with unconditional love, or I set out on the path of self defeat. It's all about knowing who I really am and not give in to U-AIC's belittling needles of contempt. It's a matter of realizing that the Epic is only going to get better because I'm ready to hit the pavement running. That's my choice.

Am I alone in my chosen slacker-dom? Those willing to admit the same, please share your experience in returning to the pages and how you dealt with the evil U-AIC.

Playing Along

2009-08-19T09:34:00.005-04:00

Michelle at Magical Musings is doing this today, and since I'm a sucker for blog links, I'm going to play, too. (In case you aren't a "sucker for blog links," become one by clicking on the "this" link, as well as "Michelle at Magical Musings.")

Here are my answers to the request at "this" link:

What book(s) made you a better writer? Writing True, The Art and Craft of Creative Nonfiction, by Sondra Perl and Mimi Schwartz.
What book(s) made you cry? Wow, that's a tough one. Gotta go with Jodi Picoult's My Sister's Keeper and of course, Little Women (need I mention the author?).
What book(s) made you laugh until you were in tears? All of Christopher Moore's books. Every stinkin' one of them.
What book(s) made you feel like you could conquer the world? The Artists' Way by Julia Cameron.
What book(s) have you read three times or more? None. Twice, yes, but three times, never.
What book(s) kept you up all night reading? Back when I could read at night, it was Rosemary's Baby by Ira Levin and (blush) Jacqueline Susann's Valley of the Dolls.
What book(s) do you want to read again? Nicole Galland's Fool's Tale.
Any other recommendations? Women of the Silk by Gail Tsukiyama.

The Hat Trick, a/k/a, The Threesome

2009-08-13T08:47:00.004-04:00

My life has turned into the Rule of Three, having just realized that I have begun to read three books and have three Epics In Progress. All begun, none ended. I'm left with three choices each, but I already know which Epic In Progress I intend to finish. I'll rephrase that. I know which one I'll finish first.

Still, out of the three books I've tried reading, I need to pick which one to sit down and finish. It's just that I'm not that into them.

I'm not divulging titles or authors. Suffice it to say, they're all well published authors, one a prolific writer for decades. They just haven't kept me rapt, and I have to wonder what these authors would think if they knew their books didn't pull me into finishing them. Isn't an important element of novel writing to create a story that rivets me to their pages?

So often we hear the phrase, "Must have a great opening hook." Well, that's all well and good. I don't disagree, but, there better be something after the hook to keep me on the line, and I think that's the problem with all three books. Brilliant openings, but not enough to keep me attached, or anxious to get back to the book. And then I wonder, is it me or is it the dress? Maybe I'm just too preoccupied with other things and just haven't taken the time to assert myself into their pages.

But still...isn't it every writers' goal to create a world that pulls in the reader to the point they never want to leave it? Or maybe it's that after several published books these particular authors just didn't care. Is it possible I'm reading their "dog" editions? I've heard that many authors put out a "dog" every so often. Could it be I wandered into the dog pound without realizing it?

I digress...

Here I sit with three unfinished books, a parallel to my three unfinished Epics. The difference: My Epics will keep the reader right where I want them (she says with an evil cackle). And my Epics are unfinished because, well, just because, that's all. No disclaimers. They just aren't finished yet, and I'm not dead yet, so, they'll get done before then. I do plan on being a published author before I meet my friend, Reaper. And when I'm on that publishing roll I intend on keeping away from the dog pound. You know what they say, when you lay down with dogs, you wake up with a bitch.

But it is a bit odd that I have this threesome going...

Anyone else out there feeling the eerie parallels lately?

Reinvention: The Other Side of Me

2009-08-07T11:33:00.006-04:00

Tennessee Williams' name was formerly Thomas Lanier Williams; he dropped the first and middle names, adopting the name of a state where he didn't live (he originated in Mississippi, which would have sounded weird). Thereafter his art soared to a new level, or as Gore Vidal stated in a new introduction of The Judgment of Paris, "An entirely new and splendid writer had spun his way out of what had originally been a moth's chrysalis."

Vidal himself did the coccoon mambo, further stating in the introduction, "My first novels were written in what I called 'the national manner'; as flat literal naturalistic style. Then I came to write this book (The Judgement of Paris)."

In shedding his old style, his career spanned decades, still writing to this day.

As I read the intro to Judgment I saw myself there, my style a blend of what I thought worked and what I'd learned from others. My days of direction and focus slowly diluted to ones of aimless meanderings.

Recently by choice I quit writing, knowing that I was going around in circles, which always leads to the same conclusion. My gut said it was time to quit; my heart said, "But you'll be back." After letting life have its way with me the past month and a half, which included suffering the loss of my dog, dealing with a new home and the stress of selling the old one, I felt the cocoon fold around me.

While in chrysalis I found a new direction - grew new wings. But rather than leap into the air blindly, I'll slowly unfold and let the breeze take me through what's to be. And although I'm a few weeks out from sitting down and actually diving back into my Epic In Progress, I'll do so with a clean slate and strong wings - no crumbs for the hungry inner critic to savor.

I have my support systems in place; they know who they are and never left my side throughout (special thanks to Edie, Erica O, LaDonna, Marcia & Nancy) - wonderful writers who've supported me through my journey to limbo and back. I'm fortunate to know this special group of talent.

No regrets - that's my life and there's nothing I'd change.

P.S. I'M BACK!

Adios

2009-07-18T18:58:00.001-04:00

Could be forever, but I'm taking some necessary time-out from cyberspace. No more blogs or Facebook. For those who have it, contact me via email if you care to say hello.

With a Little Help From My...

2009-02-08T17:36:00.010-05:00

I've been in a writing jam lately. The Epic In Progress (The E.I.P, not to be confused with E.I.N), has nagged me, even though I intentionally put the entire mess on the closet shelf. That's right. All notes, printed pages and other roughness is right there in a big red accordion file. Now that the Spring semester is in full swing, I knew I wouldn't look at the E.I.P for a bit. But, still, there it is, nag, nag, nag.

The problem started with my decision to re-write the prologue in another p.o.v. I mentioned my block in the previous blog. Two of my friends, Stevie P. and Erica O. (that sounds so diva-ish), suggested it's not me, it's the E.I.P. Erica suggested brainstorming with a friend.

Saturday, while searching for her phone number, my girlfriend Marcia Colette called me. Yes, it was a Twilight Zone moment. Oh what a relief! After we bantered about this and that, I changed conversation-gears, and said, "I know why I can't move forward with my Epic," and I proceeded to unload the reasons. Never missing a beat (she rarely misses anything) Marcia said, "You have got to put that all behind you and get on with it."

If that conversation took place face to face, her face would have been in mine. Finger jabbing my chest - I felt it over the microwave. Damn, she's one powerful babe! And as if we were face to face, we brainstormed; I laid out my thoughts for the new prologue to her; she said something like, "Yes! That'll work!" and that afternoon, I sat down and wrote it. Just like that. But...

there was a prelude to Saturday. Is it possible the Universe can read emails? I know if I speak out loud, I get results, but an email request? This past Friday I said in an email to Erica O., "Now if only I could wrap my brain around the actual writing of it... It'll come. I have faith. It'll come."

The next day, Bam! Phone call with Marcia; me sitting down and writing.

I'm a huge believer that when there's something you need, say it out loud. And now I'm thinking that writing the wish had the same impact. I told Erica, albeit in an e-mail, that I had faith. I believed it would come. It did, with a little help from Marcia.

See how the Universe is? Always there, whether you believe in it or not.

It continued to amaze me. Last night I watched an interview on 60 Minutes of Chris Martin, lead singer of Coldplay. He said about his group, "We rely more on enthusiasm than actual skill. Whatever you do, do it enthusiastically and people will like it more." Steve Kroft, CBS correspondent conducting the interview, said that the group is "confident that they are not yet as good as they are going to be."

I can't stop thinking about Chris Martin's statement. It's had an overwhelming impact on my psyche ever since, provoking thought. Enthusiasm the higher power over skill. And I'm confident that after digging into the Epic just one more time, that I'm "...not yet as good as" I'm going be.

Always strive for greatness; do so with complete enthusiasm. "People will like it more." Could that be because true writing comes with gut gusto? I think so, and feel that the root of my recent block was forgetting to just let go. Forget about the skill, whether you're sentences are the correct structure, or if the world's going to like your work. Keep focus on what matters - the passion in you. It'll breed greatness, I believe.

And when the going gets bogged down, it's always best to reach out for a lifeline. In my case, they found me - Stevie P., Erica O. and the lovely ass-kicker, Marcia.

Do you find you're sometimes forgoing enthusiasm/passion for skill? Have you had any "Cue the Twilight Zone Music" moments you'd care to share?

The Ephiphany: Not A Christmas Story

2009-02-05T17:25:00.007-05:00

Erica Orloff is the catalyst for this blog edition. Through various emails back and forth with her recently, as well as her blog this week, I've seen my path more clearly.

I'm talking about education, enlightenment, and the fact that open minds come to those humble enough to realize that it's the only way to true self. Stagnation will set in otherwise, as it does in an old house of which its window never opened to let in light and fresh air.

Here's an admission for you. For quite a while I thought there was no reason for me to go to college, thinking that at my age what's the sense. (Backstory: I didn't attend college after high school.) In fact, I came very close to bagging this semester - I was having a "so what" moment. Other things drew my attention, such as working on my current Epic In Progress (EIP).

But the EIP is going nowhere. It still simmers in my mind, but two days ago I sat down to figure out where it was going, and I came up with nothing. Days before that it nagged the back of my mind. Not the story itself, but the fact that I just couldn't budge on it. Immediately I felt like a loser/slacker. And then, of course, ugly Inner Critic rustled his wings as he jabbed a thorny nail into my gut. Snicker, snicker. That's what I heard him say. Or maybe it was more of a snort, snort.

And then yesterday in Fiction to Film class I learned something new about adaptations. We saw a short film based on a short story by Nanci Kincaid. The discussion that followed was filled with a plethora of interpretation. Beauty filled the room, except for one opinion that was so narrow-minded I wanted to...well, let's just say it was too stupid for words, yet, it didn't ruin the experience for me.

This empowerment, did it sit me down to write brilliance in my EIP? No. But my mind widened that much more, and when that happens, thoughts abound, even if not directed to the EIP.

Those thoughts bred more. I felt so strong today. I let my mind have fun. And as it skipped barefooted through puddles of new knowledge, a couple of thoughts came forth that I'm sharing here.

Thought Numero Uno: My static EIP. Either the Universe feels now's not the time to mess with it, or I'm in need of a writer's Boot Camp. Or maybe a shock camp. Something might be necessary to kick-start the thing, but for now I'm just going to remain a faithful college student, keeping my focus on learning.

Thought Numero Duo: Critiques. Let's face it. No one loves hearing what's wrong with their story. I think where some writers feel the pinchy-ness of truth, though, might be in its delivery. Praise is a wonderful thing, but it also eclipses the "other stuff." I've been guilty of this. If I didn't like "other stuff," the non-praising words, I'd shove them aside and well, that got me nowhere. And I knew the "other stuff" was probably right, but the delivery was off. But in last years Eng. Lit. class, the professor work-shopped an essay with me. His suggestions went something like this: "This is good, but I think it would improve if you tried yada yada yada..." His delivery made all the difference. It stopped the eclipse. I wanted to improve from "good" to "better," and maybe on to "GREAT!"

Those are the thoughts I wanted to share. My mini-revelations that came bathed in bright light. The Dr. Phil "Ah-ha" moment compliments of open-mindedness.

I believe that good writing begins when the writer realizes there's always room for improvement. Whether multi-published or struggling to get a foot in an agent's door, remaining open-minded is the key to accomplishment.

I know I'm reiterating some of today's Erica Orloff blog, but in doing so I'm admitting that there was a time when I thought I knew everything I needed to know about writing, as well as other things. Maybe everything. Yet within the last year and a half I've seen personal growth, and it comes from surrounding myself with people who share knowledge kindly, like Erica Orloff for instance.

Have you had bouts of know-it-all-ness? In other words, have you ever felt you've reached the highest knowledge peak, in any aspect of your life? Any revelations you want to share?

Beat It, Just Beat It.

2009-01-29T15:01:00.007-05:00

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.

From Introduction To Poetry by Billy Collins.

I love that particular slice from Billy Collins. The first day of Eng. Lit. Spring Semester 2008, the professor passed out the above poem, in its entirety. What surfaced as a result was Billy Collins' replacing my love affair with Sting, as well as learning there's more to stories than just entertainment.

You discuss, analyze and interpret. And above all else, I learned the true meaning of subjectivity; that what's one persons love is anothers poison. Not everyone likes the same thing, and if they do, it's not always for the same reason.

Yesterday wasn't any different. Spring Semester 2009. The class: Fiction to Film. Its outline: adaptation theory, literary terms, film terms, adaptation analysis, script writing. Same professor as last Spring Semester; different hair and beard style. I thought that maybe during Winter break he participated in Civil War re-enactments, I'm just not sure for which side.

But differing from last year, Professor Curt first issued a writing prompt. He asked each student to imagine their lives as a bio-pic, and list ten instances that would be included in said bio-pic.

After I had three listed, he told us to stop where we were, pick one and write it. And as always, stories to be shared with the masses.

It'd been a while since I wrote from prompt, and even longer since I read my writings to the masses. I'd be lying if I told you it was a "no sweat" moment. My pits went into overdrive; my knuckles turned white, and I think I experienced a slight stroke. Yet, I pushed along. This was a "Defy the inner critic" moment. Gut writing. Good old "stream of consciousness" while remembering what my hand writing looked like.

But I coughed up a page and a half in eight minutes. He timed it, task master that he is. And so began the oral portion of the show. One by one, students read, going around the room of conference tables set up like the Apaches were coming any minute.

Luckily, I staged myself at a corner end, near the door. Not that I was planning a fast escape. I just like sitting by the door, at the end. And nine times out of ten, I'm out of professorial peripheral vision.

He didn't ask anyone to go first. He's much more diplomatic. He waits for someone to volunteer. My arm never goes up first, thank God for that. Don't you hate having everyone see that dark circle under your pit?

The stories commenced. Some wrote from their gut and it was great. Some wrote proving purple prose is an art lost on the non-creative over-achiever. Some wrote with the point of proving how clever they mastered the thesaurus.

And then there were the gifted ones whose blood flowed dark ink, snapping my ears to their direction, misting my eyes. It renewed my love for pure, natural talent. The future of literature did not die with Updike. It transcends, and did so right there in the class room.

And then there was my story. I don't know where it fit in with the genius around me, but I gave myself credit for recalling that snippet from my past. It was real. I didn't fabricate. It wasn't sad or dark. I share it here as transcribed from my scrawl - semi-edited:

Fifth grade. The tender years today known as the tweens. Not yet a teen, yet still playing with Barbies when no one is looking.

I was enrolled in Catholic school from K to present - fifth grade. The previous grade JFK was assassinated; my teacher was an oddity - she wasn't a nun, and I loved her.

Each year it was the luck of the draw. You didn't know who you'd get stuck with for a teacher. All fifth grades prayed they'd get the cute little Sally Field nun - and not...

Sister Stephen King. The woman stood five feet tall - she'd call roll the first day and tell each kid that she'd taught your older brother and your mother.

And when the first snowfall came, she'd remind everyone not to throw snowballs, and then told of the time one of her students got into a snowball fight - took one in the eye, and came to class with it dangling down his cheek. "It dripped with blood," she said while running a finger down her own face.

Duly noted; thanks for the mental picture, sis.

I think I dodged snowflakes after hearing that one and slept with a light on for weeks - the nightmares - students stuffed in snowsuits - eyeballs dangling down their cheeks.

I often wondered why nuns weren't brought up on charges. Was it fair to exclude them just because they weren't priests?

The last line got a laugh. One student asked if I made the story up. "Hell no," I said. "Those nuns were Torquemada reincarnate." That didn't get a laugh. "Torque who?" I'm sure seared those post pubescent brain cells. "Torque who?"

So, yeah. I'm the oldest in the class, but no one can call me James Frey, simply because I don't write fictional memoirs, and another student already has that distinction, at least, in my secret joke box, he does. The kid read his story and I knew it was total bullshit only because of an impossible "fact" he wrote. Does the kid not know who I am? I'm savilicious! Yeah, that's right. Savvy by default. I could be most of the students' grandmother, and if any of them dares call me that, well, let's just hope they don't, that's all.

After all was said and done, what I took away from the first class was this: That youth is wasted on the young; that many have experienced too much darkness for such tender ages; and that through it all, I still see a hopeful future for all.

And I'm that much closer to my degree.

Stay tuned. Next up: My first day in "Stress Relief Through Exercise."

My Pet's Name is Peeve

2009-01-26T12:22:00.005-05:00

I have a name and it's not "Honey." But there's a waitress in a local restaurant I went to this past weekend who thought so. In fact, everyone at the table had the same name. This wasn't a dive diner. The place was semi-tastefully decorated. Upon entering, a bar stretched along one side, its surface polished, candles placed at intervals reflecting the shine. The dining room was dimly lit; linen table clothes with starched napkins sitting in the center of plates like mini-pyramids.

The waitress handed out menus while rattling off specials, and then took our drink orders. "Honey, what do you want?" she said to my brother-in-law. I felt my gut twist and waited for him to make a remark once she split, but he didn't.

As the evening wore on, so did the waitress on my nerves. "What do you want on your salad, honey? Can I get you anything else, honey?"

"Yes, you can," I wanted to say. "Get me a sharp knife. I feel a homicide coming on." But still, I bit my tongue, so much that by the end of dinner my speech sounded like I'd had one too many wines, honey.

Don't call me "honey." I hate it even when my husband calls me that. I just do. He knows my name, but still, he'll call me "honey" and I've given up telling him that I hate it.

That aside, finally when the check came, my sister said, "If she called me 'honey' one more time, I was going to smack her one."

Thank you, sis! I thought it was just me. I no longer felt my usual anal self. And then my husband chimed in, agreeing that it was enough, already. (At that point my tongue bled.)

As with most things in life, less is more. In the case of the waitress, once was enough. I'm willing to give a pass if it's just a minor slip, but the entire night? The only things missing were a southern drawl, pink uniforms and a bald man doing the cooking.

Same goes for words overused in writing.

For instance, I just finished reading the third in the Jeff Lindsay's "Dexter" series. Brief review: not bad, but not great compared to his first two. On to my peeve. The author over-used certain phrases/words, ones that would have stood out if used once or twice. They were creative, yes, which made them stand out and all the more annoying through repetition. "He goggled me," he wrote, the verb "goggled" defined as "to stare with wide and bulging eyes."

So maybe the character doing the "goggling" had big, bulging eyes. I get that. But, seeing it over and over just made my eyes bulge. I don't want to pick on the author. After all, he's published and I'm not. But even multi-pubbed authors have habits they need to monitor, in my opinion.

Did "goggling" jerk me out of the story? Nope. It just annoyed me while I read the story. Sort of like shoppers who I think are talking to me, only to realize they have a hands-free cell phone piece stuck in their ear. Annoying? Yes. Does it keep me from shopping? Hell no. Only an earthquake does that.

Another on my pet peeve list when it comes to writing is dialog tags. Not the usual "he said, she said." I'm talking about writers who find fifty different ways of saying "said," and then using them over and over.

And then there are all those discussions over dialog tag use. Who hasn't read about, taken a class in, or gotten confused by, them? There's always conflicting opinions, too. Example: "Go to your room!" she spat. Nope, can't use spat according to some. Apparently, you can't "spit" words.

Who cares? I don't, but many do, so I say, why not just keep it simple? Use "said." And if you're using it too much, or feel the need to dig up newer and fancy "saids" then maybe you've got too much dialog. Just my opinion. Dialog falls into my "Less is more" category, too.

But again, I'm not published, so maybe I need to shut up already. I just know what I like, and I don't like an entire scene that's nothing but dialog. If I want dialog, I'll read a Shakespeare play. It takes a special person, I believe, to read a play of any kind. All those soliloquies make my eyes glaze over. As if Shakespeare's use of them isn't torture enough, how about having to memorize them? I had to memorize "The Quality of Mercy" speech from "Merchant of Venice", my English teacher Torquemada reincarnated.

Perhaps that's why long paragraphs of dialog make me push the book aside. I'm blaming my Freshman English teacher for my present day pet peeve. I despise long dialog. And I'm not referring to those broken up with some action. I'm talking about the ones that stretch for close to ten sentences. It creates the mental picture of the character turning blue while speaking. If that's the writer's intention, well, fine. It makes me stop reading, so there. It's my pet peeve.

I think it's lazy writing.

But then again, I'm not a published writer. Yet. And don't call me "honey" in your comments, or I'll come to your blog and tag you. Oh yes. You will feel my wrath as I bestow upon you another one of my pet peeves.

On a different note, Spring semester begins this week. Every Wednesday and Friday for the next four months I'll be getting closer to my degree. That said, and just because some want to re-live college, I'm going to devote this blog to my life as a 54 year old college student.

Stay tuned. Maybe we'll all learn something new.

It Takes a Village to Write a Book

2009-01-21T13:42:00.014-05:00

I'll admit it. I never understood the reason to have a crit-partner, thinking that a story only needs one author. Right? Wrong. Call me St. Paul, but I have seen the light. I've felt the conversion from "know-it-all" to "don't-know-all-but-learning."

In theory, I'm a great writer, theory meaning it's what I tell myself in order to keep the inner critic's mouth shut. Besides, if I don't believe in myself, who will? But, the fact remains that without the helpful eyes of others, my work goes untested. It's just so-so, and other than friends and relatives telling me they "love" my writing, they're friends and relatives. Either they haven't written anything, or they want to say what they think I want to hear.

I don't want to hear accolades. I want the truth. And the only way I'll get the truth is from someone who knows what it takes to make my work better. Thus, an extra set of eyes necessary, keen ones that tell it like it is, even if it makes me cry.

I didn't cry. In fact, I wanted to book a flight to Raleigh just so I could hug and hug her. After sending her a chapter from my Epic In Progress, Marcia Colette said, "Oh honey, there's nothing happening in this chapter," or something like that.

Exactly what I needed to hear. Not only did she slap me up the side of my head, but she then beat me down to a pulp pointing out other errors of my ways.

That's what friends do. They care enough to let you have it, fearless of the outcome. And I'm finding that it takes more than moi to write a great book. Mind you, others have read my work. There was all those contest entries where I received good/bad/use-what-you-can-can-what-you-can't feedback. And let's not forget the agent rejection via a phone call, praising my voice, hating the main character. Those all helped me develop a thick-skin, however, Marcia backed up her claims with specific advice, ideas and details.

She pointed out why the main character wasn't cutting it and advice on how to improve him, that the back-story dumping should be removed but saved somewhere in order to use bits of it later, and finally, to make the prologue the first chapter (I wanted to dump it - but she convinced me otherwise).

Epiphany is a great thing. I still believe in myself, but I now realize that it takes more than that to arrive at greatness. I find that it's essential to put aside all the stubbornness, ego, and other rot that doesn't get the story into the hands of a savvy agent. It's time to wake up and accept the fact that in order to survive in this business, you gotta have friends who aren't afraid to be honest - friends caring enough to set you on the right path to success.

Maybe in my pre-epiphany phase I feared hearing the truth. Perhaps somewhere deep down I believed I could do this all by myself. Wrong again, and I've never been happier to admit that. Marcia knows me well and maybe that's key. And it's not that we're "crit-partners," it's that we've developed a bond over the years that breathes instinctual, no-holds-barred trust.

I believe all writers like to see others succeed. Maybe that's naive on my part, but in the circle of friends I've made since embarking on the road to publication, we all have each others backs. For instance, take my friend Edie Ramer, who once again has made it through to another round of The Romantic Times' American Title V contest. A few years back I needed help with a great agent hook. No one hooks like Edie. I sent her what I had; she sent back her suggestions, and I'll be damned, it was so brilliant that those I tested it on said, "Now that's a story I want to hear more about," or something like that. Suffice it to say, it kicked some serious buttocks, and that hook's going into my query, once I get that particular manuscript ready for the ride.

See? Writers want other writers to succeed. I want Edie to succeed like I'm the one in the American Title V contest. Since I'm not, myself and all my alter-egos have voted for Edie at votes@romantictimes.com. You can read her entry here, and then cast your vote, putting "DEAD PEOPLE" in the subject line of your email.

Returning from that segue, I'll conclude with this thought: That the greatest writers didn't get to where they are today on ego. I believe it was with a little help from their friends that got them there. It has to be the case, otherwise there wouldn't be all those lengthy acknowledgments at the end of most books, right? Perhaps the day will come that I won't need the extra help, but I can't imagine not wanting it.

So what say you, my fellow writing aficionados? Crit-groups, crit-partners, beta-readers, or go it all by your lonesome?

Don't forget to vote for my friend Edie.

Real Time With Kath a/k/a The Babblings of an Inaugural Play by Play Wannabe

2009-01-20T15:05:00.002-05:00

I was replying to emails while watching the inauguration today, from 10:00 a.m. and still going strong (watching, that is). Not realizing it, one of my emails became a "real-time" transcription of the events leading up to, and including, the inauguration. This happened while replying to an email from Marcia Colette. It's upon her suggestion that I post it here.

I call it "Kath's Unconscious Inaugural Play-By-Play"

Maybe I should trade my kid for your rabbit. Great idea, right?

So here I am glued to the tv since after my workout. I've turned my cell phone on silent in order to limit risks of craziness. I hope you have a way of watching the inauguration ceremonies. It's very moving, as if I need another day of tears. At least these are of pride and not stress.

Wow, they've just said that Jill Biden wants to teach at a local community college in the DC area. I didn't realize she had a PhD. How cool is that?

I don't beleive I've ever watched the inauguration before. Maybe I did when JFK was sworn in. WHOA, there I go showing my age. I was in second grade and tv's were in black and white. That certainly would have been a loss for today's festivities. Michelle O is wearing a lucious gold coat suit. Stunning!

And here comes GW. Cheney is in a wheelchair. Is it any surprise that the guy who shoots people in the face puts his back out the day before the inauguration? Moron.

And heeeere's Big Joe B! Good lookin' dude, but then I have a thing for older guys with brains. The crowd explodes! I suppose you heard about the Oprah show debacle. Jill dropped the news that Joe had a choice between VP and Secretary of State. Hilarious!

Last but never least, the man of the hour approaches the doors to his future. I don't know about you, but I'll bet he'll be happy to drop the "President Elect" moniker. That's a mouthful. The suspense is killing the crowd. It's like waiting for the first pitch of the world series. Will he make it to the plate? Although, Barack is more a basketball dude than baseball. FINALLY! There he is! The crowd goes wild and looks alot like the first Woodstock, minus the LSD. The dude is a rock star in his own right. People are chanting his name! (I don't see Oprah. What's up with that?)

Now I realize that the last inauguration I watched WAS JFK's. I recall the top hats. He wore none. Did I mention I was in diapers at the time? lol

I have never seen so many people gathered in one place (other than Woodstock). No one can dispute that this is THE PARTY of the ages.

So now the woman in charge of inauguration is talking. She says, "Blah, blah, blah..." Good speech, lousy hairstyle, she has one of those flippy side-bangs going on. And now the controvercial Rick Warren, Pastor of the saddleback church (huh). They should have gotten the pope, or Jessie Jackson. lol. This Warren guy just doesn't cut it.

Hey, at least they got some great musical acts. And who can dispute Aretha on the BIG PARTY stage? Not me. No matter how old, she still has the pipes. I think I saw her in the crowd earlier - she wore a crazy hat with a whirly looking thing on the front. Maybe that wasn't her - I got imagine the Queen of Soul wearing a hat from hell.

Other than the cold day, the sun shines in DC. How appropo. All flights in the area must have been put on hold. There's not one single jet engine, which is a good thing because you know some flock of wild geese would choose then to fly into the engie of a 747. Imagine a crash landing on the Potomoc during the high moments.

WHOA Here's Aretha. Let's see if she was....YES! She's wearing the hat from hell! This is a WTF moment. Aretha, who dressed you today? The whirly thing is actually a giant diamond studded bow. Hell, it's, it's, it's just too weird for words. But, at least she wore a hat. It's 28 there. Unfortunately, the music is piped. So much for the Woodstock feeling. Where's Jimmi H when ya need him, huh? Some National Anthem on his stratocaster would be nice right now. But still, a huge honor. No one asked you or I do sing.

Oh, here comes the Oath of Office... (gotmy Kleenex ready - maybe I'm pregnant?)

Big Joe is up first... Nice looking tan, Joe. His wife is hot.

It's official. He's now VP Big Joe.

I wonder when Yo Yo Ma will play?

Whoa, here they are. Yo Yo, Izhtak and company. I love Yo Yo. This is spectacular. I hope I can download this on ITunes. Chris Botti would have been a nice addition. I still have to send you that CD.

Geeze, my dog wants to go out! Not now LOLA! Hold it if you can. (I see a clean up in Aisle One coming...)

And now, without out further adieu, Chief Justice what's his name, give the oath of office.

Oh gosh, he's stuttering (Barack). I think he's nervous, lol. How human is that?

And the crowd goes WILD! Somewhere there's cannons firing. Could be a flock of wild geese flying over. And now the crowd acts like it's Woodstock INCLUDING the LSD. Seriously, this is HUGE and I hope you are watching it, too.

Nice speech so far. He gives a nod to GW for his work, and his words flow beautifully. Damn, he's got great orator skills.

Eighteen minutes and twenty seconds later, I feel hopeful for everything. And Lola waited to bug me for release to poopy-world. I should sit to hear the poet, but Lola seems insistent. Can I hold her off for just a small bit?

The poem's theme: Hope. Of course. And promise for better. I need to download this one.

So here you have it, the inauguration in real time from my point of view. I sit awestruck over the unity that's stayed behind barriers for too long.

Love ya until I'm invited by Obama to write his next inaugural play-by-play,
Kath

So there you have it. I never read it before hitting "send", nor have I during the "copy/paste" session. I hope no one falls asleep while reading, but if so, hope the nap was enjoyable.

Clarification

2009-01-19T12:30:00.004-05:00

Expounding on my last post about quitting, Spy Scribbler pointed out the root of my motivation. Thanks to wonderful her - I'm so happy to have her in my realm.

True, many writers begin a project only to set it aside when it stops talking to them, never to return. And then there are those writers like Liz Kreger and myself. May I call us anal? Speaking for myself, unfinished things make me nuts. Like the scarf I've been crocheting for the past two weeks. It should be done by now, but I keep unraveling it due to errors. Actually, I'm not a crochet-maven. (I'll leave that moniker to Erica Orloff.) But still, I'm going to make sure to finish it just because I'll otherwise feel defeated if I don't. And there's no ball of yarn on the planet that's going to get the best of me. No sireee-Bob!

But that's just me, and maybe Liz Kreger.

The point is, it's not about quitting the story, it's about quitting writing entirely. That's my point, and I truly believe that non-quitters are extremely hopeful, and that hope, in part, is a by-product of survival.

There. Case closed unless more comments come through.

Hopefully Unstoppable

2009-01-17T13:10:00.005-05:00

Other than the threat of jail, what stops you from reaching your goals? There could be a plethora of things you’re trying to obtain, whether it’s reaching your daily writing goal, to decisions that could have a major effect on your life.

Liz Kreger had a wonderful blog last Monday. She talks about when writers get into the meat of a story, but suddenly the story stops working for them. She poses the question of moving forward with the hope it comes together, or just chucking it in the trash.

That got me to thinking about my three EIP’s (Epics In Progress) sitting on the hard drive. From the beginning of each, they moved along with ease. Everything meshed, yet now they sit unfinished.

I have varying reasons for letting each slide. One of the stories just stopped talking to me, and then the eye interruptions kept me off the computer for a few weeks, which I did under doctor’s orders. With my current EIP mum at the time, I picked up pen and paper and started a new EIP. Worked just as well. Nothing was going to steal my writing edge. Reaching the one hundred page mark, another story grabbed my muse, and well, you know how it is. Some things you just can’t ignore – EIP number three.

And then a finished EIP came back to haunt me. Literally, one day I was doing some banal task when I swear I heard one of its character say, “You know, Calarco, you really screwed me over in that story. I deserved a better ending. You had it all wrong.” I might be paraphrasing – this happened last summer, but still, I listened, letting those three EIP’s slide some more.

Am I crazy? Those who know me can answer that one without blinking. But the question remains: Will I pick up the others where I left off?

Answer: Absolutely. Like Liz, I finish what I start, albeit I don’t right away.

But what if after finishing the one I’m on, which I promised myself that I would, the others remain silent? Do I make a decision to trash them as “bad ideas” or call them hopeless from the beginning?

Hopeless is a sad word, one that leads to the inevitable end of the road known as quitting all together. Yet, as Liz mentioned in her blog, she believes that “no book is hopeless.” I want to take her statement one step further. I think that it’s not so much that the “book is hopeless” as it’s just that Liz is an extremely hopeful person.

As writers, I think we’ve all had minor lapses where we wanted to quit. Some actually did. But what separates the ones who never pick up pen again, from those who, even if you cut off all their fingers, do?

Where there’s a will there’s a way, right? Or maybe not. Maybe it’s the fact that survival courses through their veins. Maybe those hopeful souls have survived life’s difficulties and naturally can’t quit.

A week or so before my mother died, I stood by her bedside. Holding my hand, she asked, “Am I going to die?” I nodded, lips tight and whispered, “Yes.” She replied, “Well, there’s always hope.” Shortly thereafter, ovarian cancer won, but her words never left me. “There’s always hope.”

In my life I have found that hope doesn’t fit cliché. It’s not that it “springs eternal” or “floats,” but it’s what keeps us moving forward. Hope, to me, is a by-product of survival – the positive edge that enables us to leap hurdles we’d never consider doing if previously asked.

I believe there comes a time in everyone’s life when the stopping point comes. But, it’s not quitting, it’s letting go after the good fight, when hope is our strength to letting go.

Survivors are wired with hope, I believe. Impossible, as well as quitting, never occurs to those who’ve already survived what others think is hopeless. Liz Kreger knows this, and I believe that’s why she feels that no book is hopeless.

Thoughts?

Work It! Work It! Pimp Until it Hurts!

2009-01-13T12:50:00.003-05:00

My writer friend to the North, Lainey Bancroft, has a new release! "Action for Satisfaction"from Siren-Bookstrand, Inc. Here's the blurb (and it's sort of naughty):

When the name of the game is hot action for pure satisfaction, what happens when one of the players changes how they define satisfaction?

As a much in demand architect, Seth Edwards has been blessed with the funds and freedom to do what he wants, and what he wants to do is indulge in as many sexy interludes as possible with Eva Delucca.

A lifetime of watching her mother cycle through men like underwear convinced Eva being spoiled with frequent glamorous trysts by Eveready Edwards is the ultimate in satisfaction, until a bet forces her to re-evaluate her future. Except beyond his future projects—which frequently take him all over the country—the word future has never been part of Seth's vocabulary.

Can more action than he can handle convince her ramblin' man they might achieve a deeper satisfaction if they look beyond the action?

Who can resist a man nick-named Eveready? Best wishes to Lainey for a successful release.

Karma Chance! Make It Happen for the Kids...

2009-01-07T18:58:00.003-05:00

Tragedy happens around the world on a daily basis. Israel and Palestine; Darfur; D.C. the last eight years...

The Texas Panhandle.

As many of my followers know, fellow writer, Travis Erwin, suffered a loss this past Monday - a fire that destroyed his home and all its contents. Fortunately, lives were spared.
A fund has been set up by two other authors: Erica Orloff and Stephen Parrish (bless their hearts). Here's the link where you can offer some financial support: http://www.habitatfortravis.blogspot.com/

And if you're feeling the crunch, as we all are, there's other ways to help. You can visit Travis's blog where he has posted an update and play by play of the fire. There he lists some of the things lost. Here's the link: http://traviserwin.blogspot.com/

As mentioned, thankfully, lives were spared, yet two small boys are without some favorite things - not a Wii, Playstation or fancy Blackberry, but BOOKS. I love these kids without ever meeting them. What I wouldn't give if every kid in the country were saddened over losing some books.

And wouldn't you know, I received a couple of Borders gift cards for Christmas. Not that I couldn't use a few more books to add to the towering Pisa known as my to-be-read pile. We're writers! Every writer receives Borders or B&N gift cards for Christmas - they're our crack! (Speaking for myself, I also enjoy a new pair of shoes - my real crack.)

Anyway, seems to me it'd be a great way to share your gifts. Now does anyone know what books boys like?

Give Bambi Some Shades!

2009-01-04T16:49:00.006-05:00

"This conversation is over!" Actually, it never got started, but I felt the words boiling inside as I recently stood at a cocktail party filled with dead air. You know how it is. A party invitation comes actually intended for your significant other, but it's a given that you're invited, too. And there you are in a room full of people you have little to nothing in common. Conversations buzz; people chat about events that never involved you, and the only time you can add anything to the discussion is if someone mentions how great the food is. "Oh, yes, I love those fudge brownies, too. Does anyone else think there's hash in them?"

Could it have been obvious that I was the shrinking violet in the room? I felt like time shifted back forty years to my first school dance. New to the town, I sat on the sidelines while all the popular kids made fun of the usual suspects, or nibbled nails to the quick waiting for that slow song. I did neither. It was torture in any event, me being the new kid in town. Nothing says "geek" louder.

Years have passed, as well as at least 5,428 cocktail parties, and at seventy-two percent of those I was a player. I got out more, was in the work-force and possibly slightly inebriated at most cocktail parties and other various soirees. Conversation flowed like the Hoover Dam exploded; there was always something to talk about. "Hey, did you hear that Edith in shipping was spotted with Kenneth in marketing? And let me tell you, the giving and receiving had nothing to do with getting it there over-night."

As a writer I value the importance of getting myself out there in order to suck up some material, but when the conversation flowing is a vast wasteland, my mind wanders to a different zone. And then someone always notices that my eyes are glazed over, and they try dragging me back into the conversation. "Did you guys know that Kathy wrote a book?" was announced at said recent party, to which I held up three fingers, and for those who couldn't count, I said, "Three books."

Now that's an accomplishment, right? Apparently it was a tough room, because every pair of eyes in the room glazed over while an occasional "Oh, uh-huh" floated half way around the room and then fizzled. Tough room. Could it be that no one in the room thought it was possible? I really didn't want to expound on my feat, but damn, not one "Oh, you've got to be shittin' me?" was uttered, just "Uh-huh."

Well, I wasn't crushed, but I did wonder when I lost the knack for controlling a conversation. At home I can talk about anything and not care if it's ridiculous or not. My husband still listens (or acts like it). But I have to admit, I don't get out much, and really don't like getting out. Shopping, going out to dinner, or attending a party - if I could do it all on-line I'd be thrilled beyond thrilled.

But it does worry me that I'm turning into a hermit because when in a swarm of people I feel the old armpits getting damp. When someone tries pulling me into a conversation my tongue swells and my eyes bulge. Cocktail party anxiety, that's what I suffer from, and there's an easy cure being that cocktails are right there. The only problem is, I don't drink as well as I used to.

As a writer it is essential to get out with the masses, but the fact remains that I do my writing inside, on a computer or in a notepad, a place where no other humans exist except for those I create. My social circle consists of friends I've made electronically, through on-line writing groups, etc. and that's where the problem rests. I'd rather co-exist with like souls, albeit electronic, than have face-to-face with humans right here in suburbia.

My writing friends get me, and right back at them. When I suffer a set-back, they're right there talking me through it, and when I've conquered anything that gives me great joy, they celebrate with me. Yet, I'm not exactly filling the creative pond by not riding the eavesdropping highway known as information gathering.

I imagine I can still eavesdrop, but that would entail leaving the house. Can I be the only writer turning into Howard Hughes, minus the bizillions? Could this be why some of our greatest literati were alcoholics or junkies? Is that where their brilliance was really rooted? Somewhere on a coke spoon or at the bottom of a Jim Beam bottle? I often wondered about Lewis Carroll and his giant caterpillar sitting on a mushroom while smoking a water-pipe. It had to take a little acid dropping to come up with that and all those pills that made Alice shrink and grow, right? (No disrespect to Mr. Carroll intended, but I really do wonder about that guy.)

I'm too old to develop another habit just so I can remain creative in my hermit-hovel. But I do feel the pressure both while trying to write and when in the midst of a social situation. Perhaps the key is in trying to get those situations to co-exist. One can't live without the other it seems to me. Maybe returning to college at the end of January will rejuvenate my creativity, but will it cure my social ineptness?

Am I forever doomed to be Bambi in the headlights? Am I alone or have other writers felt the same angst? This hermit's mind wants to know...

The End

2008-12-31T13:10:00.003-05:00

I came up with five thousand things to write about in this, the last day of 2008, but am keeping the status-quo of what everyone does New Year's Eve: Make resolutions for the upcoming year, all to be broken by January 31, 2009. This year, however, I'm keeping it simple as well as realistic, and not going the "resolution" route. Rules rule, therefore, I give you

"Kath's Simple, Realistic Rules For A Happier Next Year"

If it's easy then it's not worth my time. I've been down the beaten path enough to know that not only is it not fun, but breeds frustration.
Take the path less traveled. See number 1 for explanation.
Promote my writing friends' successes because frankly, nothing makes me happier than seeing their hard work pay off.
Not let any more health issues stop me, unless, off course, they kill me first.
Face each day with complete abandon.
Take nothing for granted.
Believe that I'm always doing the best I can.
Rely on the universe for guidance 24/7.
Remember that life really is too short.
Take more naps.

There you have it. Simple and fail-safe. May you all have a happy, ambiguous, New Year.

The Write Gift

2008-12-24T15:16:00.004-05:00

Another Poem

by Grayson Czarnecki

lost for a few
frantic fleeting seconds

suspended in stasis
withholding the flow
ideas that dangle above cohesion

sudden comprehension
my pen, found anew

How many times, as writers, do we sit before the blank screen, or let our pens hover over lined paper, and as we do so we dig deep into the brain looking for that first word? And that small, invisible voice screeches, "You're no good! Don't quit your day job.”

Maybe I'm just speaking for myself, but somehow, I don't believe I'm alone.

In late summer of 2007 I decided it was time to enroll in college. Fifty-three years old, it seemed like it was time, and I was feeling a "what the hell" moment. Several hours after that major revelation, I was a fully enrolled part-time student.

Long story short, I was placed in Honors English. I had no idea what that meant, except that after the registrant asked me what I'd been doing lately, I told her I had written three novels, and she crossed something off my schedule and said while she wrote, "You belong in Honors English." I said, "Well, okay."

The one and only place where I never felt at a loss to write. The crazy, taunting inner critic went mum every time Professor Curt said, "Okay, let's start the day with a free write...write anything that comes to mind...no one's gonna read it. This is just moving your pen and getting the flow going." And then one day he decided that, yeah, let's all read what we wrote... out loud. This he mentioned after we finished writing. Curt's nothing if not a seat-of-your-pants kind of professor. He says, "Who wants to go first?"

A couple of hands went up, or maybe someone just said, "Uh, I'll go?" Anyway, that's when I knew I was at the right place in my life. Mind you, I was THE oldest student, as in, all the others were fresh out of high school. Fresh. Their words as they merged into sentences and onward to paragraphs, were fresh. Like that first footstep on the moon, fresh.

The effect was virulent. No room for envy - each writer unique yet equal in talent. Yet there was one who stood out. I think what grabbed me was one of his free writes about a fly sipping from a can of Red Bull that he had seen earlier in the student lounge. A simple, empty can left by some slob who thought that maybe his mother would be by later to clean up after him.

The story was off-the-cuff brilliant. Just a few sentences that had the effect of an atomic bomb, without the nasty fall-out. Recently this student friended me on Facebook, which is where I snared the above poem (with permission, of course).

It affected me on impact. At Facebook I commented, "Subtle description of writing angst and how it's never-ending, but never forever." And he replied, "It started out as a poem about actually losing my pen for a couple minutes. When I found it, I wrote this poem. Afterwords (sic) I read it, and realized what it was actually about."

Completely off. The. Cuff.

Brilliance deserves its place in the Universe, or at least a featured spot at my blog. There are no further words I can say to describe Grayson’s talent, except that I hope to live long enough to see its fruition, maybe in the form of U.S. Poet Laureate.

Just a hunch.

Enjoy the holiday! Merry Christmas to all and to all, well, you know...

Dead People On the Move!

2008-12-15T13:11:00.003-05:00

Well, she went and did it again. The talented Ms. Edie Ramer, through her brilliant writing, made it to the next round of Romantic Times' American Title Five contest.

From today, December 15, to December 29, the voting will be open. And it's so simple that you and all your alter-egos can handle it. Merely send an email to votes@romantictimes.com, with the title, "Dead People" in the subject line. Oh, and you can read hers and all the other entries at the Romantic Times web site, but I'm telling you, Edie's is the best one. All my alter-egos think so. Soon we'll be referring to her as La Edie. That's my prediction. This contest will launch her career and next thing she'll know, she'll be sitting on a best sellers' list, and remember:

A vote for Dead People is a vote to keep Edie's dream alive.

Just DO IT!

Can't Take The Heat?

2008-12-11T15:24:00.004-05:00

How do you take your truth? Sugar-coated, sweet through and through, or like a shot of freezing water, not what you want, but getting your attention?

My beautiful daughter came home one day, her once striking blonde hair dyed black. Before I could open my mouth, she asks, "How do you like my hair? Isn't it cool?" Her smile beamed as she flipped her hair over one shoulder. Well, what could I say? Obviously, she loved it. I knew I had only a few seconds to answer, and in that time I debated between honesty or telling her what she wanted to hear.

I went with diplomacy. I said something like, "Looks good," and she said, "You don't like it, do you?" She pushed for more, right? I said, "It's not that I don't like it, it's just that I'm used to seeing you with blonde hair, yada-yada..."

She expected raves. "Everyone at work LOVED it!" she said. So I guess that meant that I didn't know what the hell I was talking about, or, maybe the people at work realized that hey, they had to work with her everyday, so they just kept it unreal. Better to hide true thoughts than upset the work place.

I suppose it's always easier to tell a person what you think they want to hear. But, on the other hand, when asked "What do you think?" I take it as a person looking for an honest opinion.

Or are they just fishing for compliments?

As a writer who thinks her work is Nobel worthy, I, too, like to hear accolades. However, over the years I've developed a thick skin. I had to because not everyone thought I deserved a Nobel. What I've learned over the years is that whenever you seek out opinions, be prepared to accept them all. ALL OF THEM.

The first time I entered a writing contest I received some "in my face" comments. At the time I was flabbergasted. Crushed. How dare that person say such a thing?

Did I want to smack that person up the side of her head? Yep. Did her comments stall my writing? Only for a day, and then I got back on my bike and decided to view it as a challenge. I worked harder. I had something to prove, not to the contest judge, but to myself.

As time went on and after several contest entries, I learned that if you want to play in the big leagues, you have no choice but to take the harsh with the good. Contests were a great lesson in developing a thick skin. They prepared me for the next step: being viewed by agents and/or editors.

I believe that to achieve greatness you have to take the bumpy path. The pain of it all. Small steps first; one toe in testing the waters. Little by little the writing improves until you hear more nice things than bad. And with every step the skin gets thicker in preparation for the day your book ends up in the hands of a reviewer.

Thick skin is a by product of honesty. Criticism can be a harsh mistress, but it's the nasty tasting medicine that makes you better. It's all part of the process. As writers, we know this.

Then why is it when asked for our opinion, we take a step back and worry about hurting feelings? Shouldn't the writer asking for the opinion expect honesty? Maybe not. Perhaps the writer just needs their ego stroked. But does that do him/her any favors? It's only human to want to be great and to think your work is the next Nobel winner. But if the story you've been requested to read barks, what favor are we doing the writer by saying, "Oh this story is fabulous! Pick out a new dress, honey, because I hear Oprah's people calling your name."

No favor at all in my opinion. Just speaking for myself, but if the story I want to submit to agents or editors has some in-your-face issues, I want to know about it. I'm not turning my work over for opinion just so my ego gets a stroke. Hell no. I can handle it.

In fact, I recently was subject to scrutiny in the form of a writing contest. One of the judges first pointed out what she loved, and then she got down to the nitty-gritty, pointing out the flaws. And she was spot-on with her observation. Valuable advice that I'll always adhere to.

That particular judge was akin to Randy Jackson of the American Idol judging panel. You know the types. They'll give you props for the good, but not hold back on telling you what needs work.

Yet, in my experience over the years, I've found many writers can't handle the truth. One writer once told me that she quit writing for ten years as a result of bad comments from a contest judge. Said judge indicated that in her opinion, the story wasn't any good. Maybe that writer would rather have a Paula Abdul on her side. You know Paula. She always slurs some sweetness, never saying anything critical because she's afraid of destroying "The Dream."

Ten years of no writing only tells me that the person wasn't serious about it in the first place. Tell me my story is bad, and I'll first ask for another opinion, and then rip it apart to make it better, not toss my entire dream out the window. Only the weak do that.

And in the writing business, weakness has no business.

Sure, criticism's effect has a lot to do with its delivery. But I'll say this, and I've given it plenty-o-thought, if someone credentialed in the business tells me my story sucks ass, I'll take it.

But I'd be kidding myself if I said harsh words don't bother me. They do, but if coming from a reliable source, I can take it. And like I said, harsh hurts and it used to really hurt, but I started getting over it when I began studying Simon Cowell closely on American Idol. His words, that is. Okay, I sort of like looking at him, and I hear his girlfriend dumped him. Hello, Simon...if you're free I got a manuscript needing some ripping apart, maybe over cocktails...?

Back to my point. American Idol's three judges' opinions differ in every degree. Each has a different way of pointing out flaws, and no one does is with as much zeal as Simon Cowell.

Simon Cowell. The man is a mega-mogul in the music industry. The credits to his resume could fill a ream of paper, maybe two. His comments are, at times, caustic. He makes artists cry. But the ones who never shed a tear, took his comments, sour as they were, and learned from them. Maybe at times he forced some to want to quit all together, and if his words had that sort of power, then maybe the artist was in the wrong business all together.

Because if you can't take the heat from someone who knows what they're talking about, it's time to re-think your profession. That's the nature of the beast - taking the bad with the good and knowing the difference. Cowell is harsh, but he also gives props where due. His sincerity is as strong as his digs.

I like that in a person. But then again, I'm a person who prefer honesty over omitting the truth. If I know my potential, I'll most likely agree. But I'll only take harsh truth from a person who has been in the business, has more knowledge and credits to back up their claims, than I do.

And I'll take any other opinion, thoughts, criticisms, etc., that are given by people whose opinions I value. I want to succeed. And I want do it with eyes wide open, taking the harsh with the good. It's a valuable part of reaching my dream, and I want to get there based on hearing the utter truth from whomever happens to view my work.

It's essential.

Thoughts? How do you take your truth?

Back At Ya!

2008-12-08T11:38:00.003-05:00

My blogging friend, Robin Bielman, has come up with a provocative and heartwarming idea in order to bolster the so called "floundering" publishing industry. That Robin is full of it - ideas that is. ;)

So, with the best interests of our industry at heart, visit Robin's blog today!

Got Lemons?

2008-12-04T11:37:00.004-05:00

Is happiness really a choice, or is it just all relative?

Today I read Mark Terry's blog wherein he cut to the chase on publishing cuts, slicing every writers' creative aorta with the bleak news of today's publishing picture. It was an icy blast fit to peel the skin right off your face, painful but necessary.

Earlier I read a piece in my local news rag that ABC Daytime is cutting actors' salaries. They (ABC) could have just axed the characters, because you know in soaps, that happens every so often. An actor gets the itch to rush out to Cali during pilot season and try his/her luck, and next thing you know, they're Lazurus back from the dead. But is ABC killing off Erica Kane, or maybe sending her off to an exotic spa for a face lift? Hell no. They know what their viewers want, and that's to see sixty-one-year-old Erica Kane try to look thirty.

And the actress accepted a cut in pay as opposed to standing in a casting call line.

Still earlier as I brewed my coffee, I listened to my morning radio talk show where in the news portion it was announced that a sportswriter for the local rag just got the ax. The guy had been with the paper maybe twenty or more years (I'm guessing). Offered a pay cut? I don't know. I sort of doubt it. I'd have to say that given the local market, which is small, the reporter might have jumped at the chance to keep a job since it'd be hard to find work locally as a sportswriter.

We hear it everywhere. Job loss is nothing new, but recently virulent. But still, job cuts, cutbacks, etc., aren't new. It's just harder to find a new job because, well, there aren't many out there to be had.

Unless, of course, you're willing to do what it takes to stay solvent as opposed to doing what you love, or what you thought was best suited for your talents. McDonald's perhaps? A greeter at Wal-Mart? Here's the rub: Jobs don't define who you are. That's something people seem to lose sight of. Basically we work to put food on the table and keep a roof over our head. Maybe it's just me who thinks this way because I never got paid to do what I love. I worked to live, taking jobs that picked me, as in, I could type therefore I got to be a secretary. That led to more specific secretarial jobs such as a slave to lawyers. Next thing I knew I worked in a mediation program via Family Court.

You do what you gotta do.

It sucked. I burned out. People sucked. It was them or me. I picked me. I'm lucky enough to have survived the thirty plus years doing what I didn't like, but it kept me out of hock and fed my kid. Luckier still, I was able to self-retire.

And now I try to write, which I love, but the publishing world is a nasty mother-hucker even when things are good. Not so much now. Am I thinking of jumping out my raised ranch second story window because my chances of getting published have gone from slim to none to fat chance in hell? Hell no.

I still have a roof over my head, food on the table and a solid marriage. We can survive on one income. That's lucky in more ways than one because if I need to re-enter the work force, I'll need to find a job that accepts partial eyesighted secretaries. Oh, and let's not forget my age. I have that against me no matter what I try and do - even getting published for the first time, or so I've been told.

So, hell yeah, life can suck. I could make mine even suckier by fretting over the economy and how it's ruining Christmas, yada yada, but let's not forget the Wal-Mart employee killed in the line of duty because shoppers didn't want their Christmas ruined by not getting a deal on that 42" flat-screen for their teenage meth-head kid.

I'm just saying that we need to embrace the beauty where we feel it. Things could be worse - we could have Grandpa Munster as our president-elect, right? What could be worse than that? If president-elect Grandpa Munster croaked, that's what. Think about that scenario, and then get back to me about how horrible life is.

Meanwhile, remember to stoop over and sniff a rose, or indulge in whatever simple pleasure strikes your fancy. Life is good when we view it from the simplest vantage point.

I'm Not In the Mood!

2008-12-01T15:10:00.004-05:00

So what it's the first of the month, the beginning of a week and I have time on my hands to get back into my wonderful next best-selling novel. I blew the doors off my writing barn last week (just before turkey day), and said to myself yesterday, "Self, tomorrow you got to get back in that groove because, you know, if you don't, they'll be no first contract, let alone the next best-selling novel."

Did I listen to myself? Hell to the no I did not. Instead I slept in (8:05 a.m.), made coffee, read the paper, thought about exercising, and then remembered that the Maytag repair guy was coming. I have a dryer on the fritz and ten loads of wash to do, so at 9:30 a.m. Maytag guy shows up. He says after examining the dryer, "Yep, it's broken. Gonna cost you an arm and leg to fix..." OK! He didn't say that, but did say it was broken and would cost close to $300.00 to fix it, so next thing I know, I'm on my way to buy a new dryer. (And by the way, does anyone know the origin of "on the fritz." Did some guy named Fritz break a lot of stuff?)

Six hundred dollars and change later, I get back home. Dryer gets delivered tomorrow afternoon, so now that I don't have to do wash until then, I have the afternoon to write. No problem. I can get right back into it. Wrong! I turn on the laptop and see I have emails. After deleting the ads, I answer a few and decide, since I'm on the Internet, to look at blogs. Wouldn't you know it, today all my blog haunts interested me, thus, writing comments was next on my agenda.

Yada yada. Phone rings, daughter calling. More yada yada. I look at email again, receive one from Piperlime.com announcing 20% off on all shoes. SHOES! Other than dark chocolate, shoes are my crack. Of course, I have to check out each and every pair on their goddamn website.

Give me a heavy sigh, because now it's closing on 4:00 p.m. and I am no longer IN THE MOOD. Don't bother lighting the candles, chilling champagne, or massaging my feet. I'm done for the day.

But, I did get me a really cool pair of shoes. What do you think? And while you're marveling over my hot find, care to share how you force yourself back into writing when not in the mood?

Joyful Gratefulness

2008-11-26T18:31:00.003-05:00

What goes through a turkey's head that split second after it leaves its body and is falling from the stump? "Did I turn off the stove before I left the pen?" or how about "Why did God give me wings, yet I can't fly?"

But turkeys don't possess skills, although the one pictured to the left seems to be in take-off position. Sort of a clunky poultry version of a 747. And aren't turkeys hard on the eyes? So is it any wonder that their only function is to take up room in the freezer?

What an obtuse life. Glad I'm not a turkey...I am so grateful not to be a turkey.

And since I've segued right into the grateful mode-roll, I can't stop.

Thus....

Kath's Thanksgiving Gratefulnesses for 2008 (in no particular order)

My bones ache, I use eye drops that feel like acid and at times I look like that Tales From the Crypt guy, but at least I can walk around the block, still have a spare eye that works, and a hairdresser who works miracles.
January of this year I had a publishing contract; June of this year, the publisher disappeared like Elliot Spitzer after a panty raid, but, I gained stronger self-confidence in my writing and in my heart know that my work belongs with a major NYC pub.
I may have nightmares, but my dreams outweigh the fright.
I live like a recluse, my car stays in the garage all week, but that's one less carbon foot-print on the world.
I live like a recluse, but thanks to modern technology, I have a wealth of cyber friends.
I don't go out on the town anymore; no longer can I look for Mr. Goodbar, but for the last thirteen years I've lived with the same knight in shining armor.
My dogs make me go out in sub-zero weather, but at least I'm not walking on wet spots or cleaning up poop.
I'm thankful to have my health, even though lately I've been visually challenged, my fingers still find the keys, my imagination still runs with hysterical abandon. I still plan on seeing publication, no matter how hard it is to see at times.
Lastly, I'm grateful to have survived my past with as much grace as I could muster, without one ounce of regret.

There's more, but I'd rather see what my followers are grateful for - whom I am so very grateful for as well as fortunate to have.

Happy T-Day!

Twinkle, twinkle, little star...

2008-11-22T09:54:00.011-05:00

In today's mailbag, a/k/a, my Yahoo email, was one from my pal, writer extraordinaire, Edie Ramer (whom you better vote for - time's awaisting). The subject: I Love Your Blog! She was awarded it, and then passed it along to me, and six others. As recipient of the award, I need to pass it along to seven other blogs that I love.

But before doing that, I have to say how truly honored I am because I know Edie visits plenty-o-blogs. She knows good when she sees it. :) Her reason for choosing my blog assured me that I'm on the right path to my goal.

I believe that in order to achieve success one has to surround themselves with like-minded people, thus visiting writers' blogs that bestow great wisdom and insight into the writing beast's mouth. It's what keeps us afloat as we swim against the tide, which at times feels like a tsunami. And through the blog-hopping mambo, I have found that writers are stars in their own right - a galaxy imploding with a constant glimmering pulse.

Sure, maybe I'm making writers sound like a bunch of self-righteous ego maniacs. I'm just saying that it's necessary for writers to view themselves as the next best selling novelist. That each time they look at their work in progress, they should hum the tune depicted above. (And if you haven't played it yet, do it so this makes sense to you.) I used to hum it all the time, then got out of the habit, or the tune slipped away in the black hole known as my brain, but thanks to Edie, it's back now, baby!

And without further adieu, here are seven blogs that I love:

1. Magical Musings, a group of four talented women's fiction authors. It's a one-stop blog hop extravaganza filled with not only mind boggling ideas, but really cool author interviews and book reviews, too.

2. Erica Orloff, whose blog intrigues me with its constant diversity. I admire Erica's ability to produce a new blog every day while juggling her writing career while chasing a three (?) year old. She's the Wonder Woman of the writing world.

3. Spy Scribbler. She hooked me during the Presidential Elections with her constant YouTubes and insightful viewpoints. Now that the confetti is all but colorful garbage in some landfill, Spy still continues to inspire my thoughts, as well as prop me up when I'm feeling weary.

4. Robin Bielman. What can I say except her blog makes me laugh and laugh and laugh. Not to mention, she's about the only other person I know who loves "Dexter".

5. Mark Terry. I ran across Mark via Erica Orloff's blog. His comments had me rolling on the floor, and also hinted that we share the same tortured souls and sick humor. I'm now his blog stalker.

6. Jude Hardin. Another guy I admired from afar at Erica's blog. One day he posted a comment at her blog suggesting to visit his blog, so what the hell, I did. He hooked me with granting permission to cuss in my posts. Gotta love a guy who lets me do that.

7. Last but never least, Marcia Colette, my twin sister. No one on this writing planet has done for me what she has, such as garnering me a scholarship to attend an RWA Conference by writing a heart wrenching letter to whomever gives out the scholarships. Why did she do it? Felt sorry for my half-blindness, perhaps, but I later found out it was because she wanted to meet me in person, and figured that was the only way to make it happen. Suffice it to say, she gives great letter, so it's no wonder why she's also a fabulous writer.

So there you have it, folks. My Magnificent Seven, making up the brightest constellation any galaxy has ever seen.

Art says he don't get art....

2008-11-20T18:11:00.009-05:00

Several blogs I've visited this week have had an artsy theme to them. Erica Orloff compared herself to a Jackson Pollock painting, while Jude Hardin posed a question regarding books as works of art.

And since I can't resist any conga line that weaves by, I'm hopping on, today's blog inspired by my desk calendar, a pseudo art book featuring daily quotes, some by artists. November 20th's featured art was "David Plays Before Saul" by Rembrandt. The accompanying quote, well suited to the week's blog-o-sphere theme, is as follows: "Whenever I see a Frans Hals I feel like painting, but when I see a Rembrandt I feel like giving up!" Max Liebermann said it, a reputable artist in the German Impressionist circles. To the left is his piece called, appropriately, "The parrot-man".

Don't you just love a man who can handle his bird?

Liebermann's quote jumped up and smacked me hard, similar to the way Edie Ramer does whenever I whine (whom you should have voted for by now). I think Max expresses what some writers might feel at one time or another. Certain authors have a style that humbles us into submission, while others kick our muse into overdrive.

I know after I read a Christopher Moore novel, I can't wait to jump into my work, his irreverent style similar to mine. Lolly Winston, author of "Good Grief" and "Happiness Sold Separately" is another. Her subject matter deals with broken relationships and emotionally bankrupt characters similar to mine. I just love them!

But I've never read a book that made me want to give up writing entirely. Sure, I have my days where I whine incessantly about the business and want to slit my throat, but I've yet to just up and quit. You'd have to poke out both my eyes to stop the constant feed of inspiration. It's next to impossible to entirely kill the spirit that drives us. Will I ever get a Pulitzer or Nobel? That's a when-hell-freezes-over rhetorical question, but my writing world doesn't collapse after I've read books by those who have won either or both.

I like to think of writers as snowflakes - looking alike in a group, but up close, entirely individual. No matter what the book or whom the author, each has followed the same haphazard writing process as the next - an invisible club where self-angst threads us all together in a beautiful tapestry of words, worlds and characters.

Writers are self-motivated machines, always able to pick up where they left off no matter how large the block that plagues us all at certain times. Yesterday I read part of my manuscript to my monster chihuahua, Lola, as she napped in my lap. I didn't take it personally that it put her to sleep, but reading it out loud juiced me up and got the motivation flowing again. That's what writers do. Subconsciously we're always able to unplug whatever has clogged the flow. Reading to Lola did that for me.

So if reading my own, unpublished, work motivates me, it stands to reason that reading someone else's published book will kick my muse into overdrive, and not be so humbled by it that I can't write another word. Hell to the no it won't!

How about you? Ever get tangled up by someone else's prose, or does it juice you up?

Warning: Don't read if you're feeling lofty. Why do I...

2008-11-17T16:04:00.004-05:00

...write? I used to tell myself it was because I'm a tortured soul and that's what all tortured souls do - (other than abuse alcohol/drugs - a writer's right). It's our excuse for cutting open a vein and bleeding all over the pages, right?

Maybe not. I'm just guessing, but I feel that anyone who set into motion the first paragraph of whatever story, did so with dreams of creating the next great American novel. And you can't have a "Great American Novel" without it seeing light of publication. Otherwise, it'll sit cold and lonely on the hard drive. So, naturally, every writer has dreams of, and actually seeks, publication at some point.

And then at some point, the road gets a little weary, at least it has for me. Hearing about changes in the publishing industry, the fact that many talented authors' contracts are getting eighty-sixed because their work isn't "this, that, or the other thing," sort of makes me go, "HUH?"

And so I have to ask myself: "Self, why are you bothering?" After all, if publishers are dumping their talent, why would they look at someone new to the market? Those unfortunate ones who lost contracts were fabulous writers. How can I top their brilliance?

It gets worse, all those things that got me to thinking about this entire writing gig. I hear tales, via industry blogs, of writers constant query letters receiving rejections without comments, or never hearing back one way or the other, that some agents are just "too busy" negotiating deals for the authors they represent to even bother sending a rejection letter. Maybe I shouldn't pay attention to all that shazit, but still...

It goddamn sucks! I'm not implying that I have the next great American novel on my hard-drive, I'm just saying that with all the dark information looming about the publishing world, what's the point in my bleeding all over the pages, other than for the therapeutic aspect of it all?

Is it crazy to hold onto hope that maybe things will change? One day will all the madness die - the pendulum swing back in my direction (if I had one)? If I had a dime for every time I thought to give up on the writing I'd be Bill Gates. But each time I consider tossing in the towel, another story idea slams a fly into the ointment.

When does one determine it's time to throw in the towel for good? How does one keep hanging on to hope after seeing so many really good writers dumped? I think about those authors who got axed and wonder why their editors/agents, whomever, didn't give them some direction, such as giving a clue as to what they're looking for. After all, these are seasoned writers with several thousands of words and pages published - surely they can create something that will sell, right? They're writers! It's what they do for a living (at least most of them).

It's like working for a company that's cutting jobs due to financial straits. Management says you can keep your job, but only if you move to India, or take a cut in pay, etc. Options are offered. Why do editors/agents dump a client without giving them a shot at something else that'll keep them afloat? It just seems like the right thing to do, offering a choice, an option.

Maybe there was choice offered. This I don't know for sure. The one author whom I know well and was recently dropped had thought her next release was a go. I said to her, "You got that next book ready to go?" and she replied, "Been ready, but my publisher dropped me..." I'm paraphrasing. It was one of those moments that I found so incredible that my memory banks misfired.

My point? Basically, why bother writing toward the publishing goal if many of the really awesome writers have been kicked to the curb? I'd like some answers. I already know that the publishing business can be brutal, and that said, why jump in without that life-line called hope? Is hope lost on the publishing dream?

Stranger Than Fiction

2008-11-14T13:06:00.016-05:00

I have a friend, Edie Ramer, (pictured here) who is a finalist in the American Title V contest, which is similar to American Idol, except it doesn't have any weepy, semi-sober judges. And now that I've mentioned it, you, too, can vote for my friend. Just send an email to votes@romantictimes.com and put in the subject line "Dead People" (that's the name of her book - Dead People - an instant winner). She'll win a contract with Dorchester Publishing after all the votes are in.

But I'm not bringing the American Title V contest up so you will vote for my friend, Edie Ramer, writer extraordinaire, or so that you will check out the American Title V contest, which has launched the careers of many fabulous authors, such as my friend, Edie Ramer, whom you should vote for.

No, no. Today's blog is about me, yet inspired by Edie (whom you should have voted for by now). At a blog I frequent, Spy Scribbler, Edie pimped herself on Thursday, November 13. At the end of her guest spot, she requested of posters to list their favorite "first line" of any of their works. Right away, I went to each of my manuscripts, eager to post one of my favorite first lines. I love it when asked to pimp myself. The only problem was, my first lines sort of made me want to barf, but that's okay, they're drafts. I'll fix them... some day.

Where to find a great first line that won't make anyone else barf? I wondered. Far be it from me to create a cyber-vomitorium. So I continued sweeping my works, finally clicking onto a folder marked "Honors English." Still no great first lines, but I went with a great second line that could have passed for a first. It came from a creative non-fiction essay, and was my first college level A.

Edie loved it. Edie knows good when she sees it. For me, it slapped me up the side of my head and said, "Hello? Shouldn't you be registering for next semester?"

(Rewind: I started my college career last year - the world's oldest Freshman.)

I was supposed to return to school this year, but had to withdraw due to the damned eye malfunction. At this rate it'll take me five years to complete a two year program, but I'll do it even if it takes six. Today I took the first step - I picked out three courses for the Spring semester which I'll register for on Monday (because that's when registration starts). They are as follows: Stress Reduction Through Exercise - 2 PE credits (God knows, I really need that one); Creative Writing II- 3 English credits (I really need the help); Women in Contemporary Society - 3 Honors credits (fits me to a tee).

Credits already under my belt: 12
Credits assumed to get next semester: 8
Credits remaining for my Associates in Liberal Arts: 44

Hmm, 44 doesn't look like a lot to conquer. I could cram a few more course in during the summer. Wow! I might actually obtain my degree in three years! I just have to buckle down somewhere along the way and take some science and math, which of the latter I deplore. But I can do it, because...

I'm perpetually inspired my successful friends, such as Edie Ramer, whom by now you REALLY REALLY should have voted for via an email to votes@romatictimes.com, in the subject line, DEAD PEOPLE.

So my stage is set, subliminally put into motion by my little friend, Edie. Thanks, Edie. May your expected success rub off on many, but especially me.

Now go vote for my friend!

Proud Happiness

2008-11-06T13:16:00.003-05:00

The smoke has cleared, tears have dried, but the utter joy I feel with President Elect Obama still endures. Why? Because finally we have a true leader heading to the White House. And for the first time in my life, I'm proud to live in America.

May the Universe stay on this roll - keeping the Pres-Elect safe, and listening to my wishes when whispered to the sky, granting each one.

(I'd blog further, but am back to limited computer use. *sigh*)

Blog-abstentia

2008-11-03T18:43:00.004-05:00

WOW! I just realized that I haven't written a writerly blog in a very long time, and I'm gonna stay on that roll...

I blame it on ELECTION 2008.

I've been unable to function properly ever since a certain bespeckled brunette took the stage for a possible No. 2 spot in the White House. And all those debates had me enthralled. So much better than the usual prime-time shows. I mean, only on Dexter will you see the horror such as the likes of waiting for John McCain's carotid artery to explode. I mean, really - his face looked like he just had a chemical peel; his eye twitched like someone hid his Prozac; and did Joe the Plumber ever show up at whatever berg McCain put the shout-out to him? I think he wanted to buy old Joe a beer, or maybe offer him a high level cabinet position if he happens to win.

Oh God, please don't let it happen! I know I said Niagara Falls, Ontario, Canada is only a two hour move from here, but I can't be held accountable in a city with that many casinos. I was just kidding. Really, I was. (But I do love Labatts Blue and hockey...)

I want to stay in the shiny new United States with Barack Obama at its helm and not a wrinkly has-been former POW who only has that going for him.

So please, all my blog readers who are at the same end of the spectrum (the left end), say it out loud so the Universe will hear you: Give the job to Barack Obama! And make sure everyone gets out and votes!!!

(Stay tuned for writerly blog after the election...)

This Makes Me Sick Beyond Words...

2008-10-27T17:21:00.000-04:00

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20081027/ap_on_el_pr/skinhead_plot

Don't Be (A) Fool(ed)

2008-10-27T12:52:00.005-04:00

If you follow the polls, you've already noticed that Barack Obama has a hefty lead. But since when are polls the crystal ball? Already some are saying it's a slam dunk - that no way will John McCain win. But have you ever come home after a hard day, loosened the neck-tie, unleashed the bra, changed into your comfy clothes and settled in to watch some tube, when something crazy occurs ruining your relaxed state?

Remember Watergate? Ever hear of election rigging? It can happen, but worse than that are the folks believing in the polls. You know the ones. They shrug and say, "Hey, my one measly vote doesn't mean diddly-squat," and they take the day to go shopping, hunting, or just being a lazy ass because it's easier to sit home than go stand for two seconds inside a voting booth.

Don't be a lemming. The polls are a good indication of what might happen, but YOU HAVE TO GET OFF YOUR FAT ASS AND VOTE! If you don't then don't come complaining when certain rights you've enjoyed are suddenly history. Don't go talking trash about the President, no matter who gets to clean up the spill in aisle Bush. If you don't VOTE than you can just shut the hell up and suck it up...

Because it's never, ever over until the Fat Lady sings it like her last Whopper depends on it. SO GET OUT AND VOTE! NOVEMBER 4! If you can do it sooner, then JUST DO IT! And don't be fooled into thinking that you can vote beyond NOVEMBER 4. It's either VOTE before November 4 or on November 4. After NOVEMBER 4 it's all over. Just don't make it all over by not VOTING.

If you do nothing else in your life, be the one to make a difference because you exercised your right to VOTE.

VOTE! VOTE! VOTE! On or before November 4!

P.S. My eye is still in the healing process, according to Dr. Goddess. The good news: I read beyond the big E! The bad news: there is none. I return for another look on, would you believe, November 4. ELECTION DAY! Voting and eyeballing all in one glorious day. How much better could it get?

VOTE! VOTE! VOTE!

Changes and Adaptation

2008-10-12T16:52:00.005-04:00

There are some things in life we can't control - curve balls that mess up plans, bringing regrets or new found endurance. The more it happens, the better we cope. But always we look back and realize that even though we survived, if we had previous knowledge of the curve balls, we'd have balked, because who chooses the tougher road? As it stands, hard times find us.

My resolve will be put to the test again this week. Yet another eye surgery that'll sideline me for two weeks. I'll have to take it easy - skip working out (and I was on a roll, too, drat it!), let someone else carry the laundry basket to the basement, and last but not least, no computer time. Zero. Zip. Stay away or risk major setback in healing.

I'm good with all of that. No big deal. Yet today I thought about curve balls, and how we never see them coming, and if we did, what would we do? Duck? Say for instance we could have looked into our future before the curve balls were pitched. Would any of us have chosen the bad times? Speaking for myself, if told I'd suffer a torn retina, I'd first have said, "A torn what?" and then when told the procedure for repair, I'd have said, "Are ya fuckin' kiddin' me?" If I knew that I'd be facing a six inch needle close-up I'd have barfed profusely and asked how I'd get out of that one. (Let's just say, if I had considered the literal meaning to the phrase "stick a needle in my eye," I'd never had made any promises ever.) And if I knew I'd lose sight in my left eye I might have downed a bottle of Valium with a Stoly chaser.

You get my drift. Shit happens that we can't run from. Time and again it does, reshaping our coping mechanism. Mine is now a finely tuned instrument that would put the Ferrari engine to shame. And I'm not the only one on the planet whose faced sudden life changers. I know more people who have than have not. Many I've met through writing. They know who they are.

Isn't it funny how birds of a feather not only flock together, but do it so brilliantly?

My eye explosion was one of my worst life changers to date, but if not for it I might never have returned to college. I'd never have expanded my horizons. I'd never have met my newest Rock Star, former US Poet Laureate Billy Collins. I heart the man.

And without further adieu and in forced segue, I'm sharing the YouTube to the right. It resonates with what me on levels too numerous to list. Listen to his words, and those of you with good eyes, read along as he recites "The Last Cigarette".

The Last Cigarette by Billy Collins

There are many that I miss
having sent my last one out a car window
sparking along the road one night, years ago.

The heralded one, of course:
after sex, the two glowing tips
now the lights of a single ship;
at the end of a long dinner
with more wine to come
and a smoke ring coasting into the chandelier;
or on a white beach,
holding one with fingers still wet from a swim.

How bittersweet these punctuations
of flame and gesture;
but the best were on those mornings
when I would have a little something going
in the typewriter,
the sun bright in the windows,
maybe some Berlioz on in the background.
I would go into the kitchen for coffee
and on the way back to the page,
curled in its roller,
I would light one up and feel
its dry rush mix with the dark taste of coffee.

Then I would be my own locomotive,
trailing behind me as I returned to work
little puffs of smoke,
indicators of progress,
signs of industry and thought,
the signal that told the nineteenth century
it was moving forward.
That was the best cigarette,
when I would steam into the study
full of vaporous hope
and stand there,
the big headlamp of my face
pointed down at all the words in parallel lines.

Enjoy and reflect! For two weeks I'll be reading things from my "To Be Reads", one of them Billy Collins' newest book of poetry titled, "Ballistics". And upon my return to cyber-land, I'll want to read all the comments in response to this weeks question: How have you grown from those curve balls in life?

Talkin' To Myself: What's Your POV?

2008-10-07T19:24:00.006-04:00

Something strange occurred to me today, or maybe it isn't. After tearing apart a manuscript and re-writing it from the ground up, I've noticed something: It's all in one point of view.

Good thing or bad, that's the question. On one hand keeping the story strictly with one POV limits length. After all, with only one person's view, it cuts down on what everyone else is thinking, right? But then on the other hand, the reader might want to know what the other characters think.

Yet another dilemma writers face, at least, this writer. As if we don't have enough to think about already. Oh well. Such is the nature of the beast.

I never thought much about how many POV's to add to a story before, mainly because I used everyone. No wonder my manuscripts hovered around 150,000 words. And now that I think about it, if I revise any of them it might not be a bad idea to shave off a few POV's. But, I find that writing with only one POV is a lot like talking to yourself, which feels a little lonely in a weird sort of way for the character as if he's invisible to all the characters surrounding him.

This POV dilemma surfaced recently while reading Jeff Lindsey's "Dexter" series. Each one is in Dexter's POV only. I never got a strong grip of anyone else in the story. Showtime developed a series based on "Dexter" but the story was expanded to include the lives of other characters we met in the books. Of course, if they hadn't it might not be as wildly successful. It might not fill an hour every Sunday night.

But as far as writing the story, when does one know how many POV's to include? Now that I'm considering the question, other novels I've read recently come to mind that had only one POV. And now I wonder if editors might suggest eliminating certain character's POV as a way of making the story pace breeze along. I have to admit, the one I'm writing now does move along, but the question remains. How to decide what to do?In a way using one POV doesn't make the reader feel involved. And what if the reader doesn't care for the main character? They have no one to fall back on or otherwise endear them to the story.

I'm sure if I looked in one of my handy "How To Write a Novel" guides, I'd find the answer. But, this is more fun. I want others to consider the POV situation. Anyone write all their stories with just one POV, or do you alternate? One thing for sure, when writing in one POV there is no danger of head-hopping.

Thoughts?