Oft' I Wonder

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?

Parallel Universe

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.

Calliope's Comeback: The Importance of Quitting

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.

Wonders of Time Slippage

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!

Puzzle Me This

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.

Reinvention: The Other Side of Me

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!

With a Little Help From My...

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

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?

Clarification

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.

Twinkle, twinkle, little star...

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....

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?