Category Archives: Writing

The “process” behind my process.

Beginning of the year…

09 Sunday Sep 2018

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Or so it seems to me. Having spent so many years in school, September is my January and I feel a surge of possibility when it rolls around. The temperatures may still be in the eighties, but I envision digging out sweaters and jeans. I can almost smell chalk in the air and hear bells ringing to signal class changes. (Or my ears are finally going the way of all flesh.)img_2345.jpg

A few ideas are rumbling through the empty halls of my brain and I’m looking forward to exploring them. All I have to do first is pull weeds and clear out our old back porch so it can be torn down. A new porch will be built after that. Strictly speaking, that means September will be filled with all sorts of tasks that will stand in the way of writing much. But, that means the beginning of this creative year will actually be in October, a month I dearly love. So, still things to look forward to.

Watch this space.halloween-pumpkins-pd

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Looking for the spark…

06 Tuesday Feb 2018

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It’s February and the ground is brown. Leaves left in piles for critters seeking refuge are dry (isn’t the whole state dry?) and they whisper as roaming breezes search for somewhere to hide. It’s February and the air is hard and cold. A few creeping myrtle leaves in a rock garden, liverish green and curled into commas, hint at new life. Nobody’s buying it.

My imagination, some call her Fancy, is perched on a headstone just inside the cemetery, throwing pebbles at a crooked row of  markers. She hasn’t hit any yet. Her knees poke through her jeans, and her mud-brown jacket is threadbare. “I wish you’d come up with a decent idea,” she mutters when she runs out of ammo. Her chin jerks toward the pathetic line of crosses. “One you can’t bury in ten minutes.”

She throws rocks at everything I come up with. “The sun’s going down,” I announce. “We ought to go.”

She shoots me such a look. “It’s one-thirty-two, you dork.” Her arm lifts to point above us at the shrouded sun. “We’ve been out here for less than an hour. You can’t hole up all day and let Nostalgia get in your head. She’s deadly!”

I hunch my shoulders and turn away. “I need to get the tax prep done.”

“There’s a creative idea.”

Fancy brushes past me and I smell cloves, her signature scent. Maybe I should dab clove oil behind my ears. It might jump-start some brain cells.

“Come on, then,” she calls back to me from the gate. “While you work on taxes, I’ll watch old movies. It’ll give me something–anything–to think about.” Her tone is grim.

“Bitch,” I whisper as I follow her. She always grabs at fun while I get stuck with the humdrum. And image floats into my mind. A man humming as he cleans a gun. He has blood on his hands.

“Hmmm.”

 

 

 

Has it been so long?

26 Friday Jan 2018

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Yeah, I guess so. Thanks to the world’s longest-running respiratory crap, the death of our beloved dachshund, Riley, and a generally bad attitude, I’ve left you all unburdened by my jaundiced point of view for far too many months.

DCIM100SPORT Riley the WonderDog

“Self,” I said to the blurry shape in the mirror this morning, “it’s time to climb back onto the horse.”

“Trite,” whispered Self.

“Self-righteous, critical bitch,” I muttered.

“I’m more of a pedant.” Self wrinkled her nose at me as I switched off the bathroom light.

Here’s the problem: My imagination has been lying in a bone-dry arroyo at the edge of a desert for a while now. Not even vultures fly over the spot anymore. But, I keep having these bizarre dreams and my long-suffering husband has described some of the things I’ve been saying while I sleep. The least embarrassing was my rendition of “My Country ‘Tis of Thee” at about three in the morning. (I got all the words right.) You can take the creativity out of the writer but you can’t take the patriotism–oh, never mind.

The upshot of this situation is, I have to write whatever comes to mind, as sparse as that might be, until I stop these serenades. It’s too unsettling to think of some of the things I might say while under the influence of sleep. Hmmm, there’s the germ of a plot idea in that. Okay, I might give that some thought.

I hope all of you–the eight regulars who breathlessly await my ponderous insights–have launched upon a shiny new year. Really, I do. I’ve been in a funk long enough not to expect that for myself, but I genuinely hope you are finding life fruitful and absorbing. I hope the writers among you are producing vast quantities of clever words and compelling ideas. I hope kindness and reason fill the spaces among our thoughts so we might foster creative ideas.

My sentiments may be overdue, but they are, nonetheless, heartfelt: Happy New Year.

 

 

 

 

Walking into another story…

12 Wednesday Apr 2017

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I’m back at my computer, mind reasonably clear, determined to walk through a door of my imagination into another story. Sometimes it’s the hardest thing in the world to let the dust settle from a completed project.

All in Bad Time, Book Three of the Wisdom Court series, came out mid-December. The customary post-partum respiratory bug took hold, and it’s taken a while to run its course.

I had a plan (see previous blog post, Happy New Year, Readers). I’ve begun three different short pieces about further events at Wisdom Court, but haven’t finished any. Yet.

Today is the day I find the words and shape the scenes. Today my characters will take life again and find the next pieces of the story.

Today.

Stories within the swamp…

28 Wednesday Sep 2016

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Where do you get your ideas?

A writer relives moments, paring, shifting elements from here to there, shaping a narrative where parts appear in succession–understandable, available, gliding into the story. A writer chooses gems of emotion and picks the settings  to display those jewels to advantage. Polishing the facets can take the sting away, rubbing, rubbing at the rough edges, at the bits and pieces of untidy feelings threatening to catch the fine weave of passing time. The contrast between the writing of  words and their reading later on is the difference between the green of spring and the sere brown of autumn. That leaching of emotion limits the fallout, makes it possible to move the pieces around until the arrangement is manageable.

None of that gets to the driving force behind writing, especially if it is fiction. Escape is the thing…escape from what was and a doorway into what could have been. What should have been. The product of a fervent if only is the first level of foundation in a structure of lies. And yet the goal is to to find the truth. The purpose is to explain, if only to oneself, why something happened just that way, through deliberate actions following accidents of fate. The need to handle the pieces produces plot and action. The desire for reaction creates characters and their attributes. When all the elements have mixed together, the race is toward the aha! moment. Everything that’s gone before comes together, is tied with a bow.

But the bow becomes untied. The balloons lose their helium, the confetti is vacuumed into oblivion. The writer finds another story, another moment to be relived, to be dissected, to be rearranged. There’s another truth to be discovered and marveled over until all the pieces come together in pursuit of the aha!  And the exploration of the swamp continues.

 

 

Heading for the Gold…

08 Thursday Sep 2016

Posted by in Colorado Gold Writing Conference, Uncategorized, Writing

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E-book reader with stack of printed books

Colorado Gold, that is. It’s time for the annual gathering of writers at the Denver Stapleton Renaissance Hotel, 3801 Quebec Street, Denver. Tomorrow night, 9/9/16, many authors, including moi, will sign their books from 8 pm to 10 pm. The public is welcome to come see us, ask questions, buy books. Hope to see you there.

Near the end-end

14 Thursday Jul 2016

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Portrait of crazy stressed young business woman screaming and pulling her hair over white background

No lick and a promise this time. I’ve sent All In Bad Time (Wisdom Court Book III) to beta readers for reactions and commentaries. Until I get feedback, I’m trying to clean up my work area and find and file all the scraps of paper decorating my study.
And how’s your summer going?

The problem with being sort of done with a book is the limbo left behind. I’m still thinking about plot points, still dreaming about scenes, and definitely still waiting to see what kind of comments I get. That’s the scariest part. During all the times I feel I was delusional to become a writer, I’m most convinced when I first show the tender shoots of my prose to someone else. (Can you tell I don’t work with a critique group?) Then I start dreaming about specific words to replace others, curse the plot points I didn’t stress in the “final” draft, and up the amount of antacid to deal with the ball of lead in my gut. Good times.

So, why do I continue to write? I have reasons, most psychiatric, but secretly I yearn for the moments when the world of my book gets several pieces from the universe, all at once. I love the joy of figuring out plot snarls, even as I peer over the edge of the abyss called Stuck In Space. I’m a total sucker for the rare and beautiful moments when characters talk and I just record what they say. I’ve never found any other way but writing to stumble into those highs.

Now, as I have to pretend I live in the real world, my hopes for you writers out there are these: may your words flow smoothly; may you enjoy your work in progress; may you finish with real satisfaction; and, of course, may your work hit the bestseller lists.

Cheers!

 

Another Lick and a Promise…

11 Wednesday May 2016

Posted by in Hope, Random Thoughts, Wisdom Court, Writing

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Seedling of narcissus spring flowers growing from ground

Seedling of narcissus spring flowers growing from ground

I’ve been revising like a fool, hoping the revisions aren’t foolish. Thus have Twitter & Facebook lacked for much attention, and I haven’t blogged in a good, long while. So, here’s to spring, my dears, with all the tumult and drama our Colorado springs usually have. Here’s to venturing out to plant seeds and seedlings, even though we know the likelihood of hail and destruction for a few more weeks. Here’s to doing good work and getting enough sleep and finishing the tale.
I’ll be back soon with more reflections about life, liberty, and putting words on the page. Send me good vibes, please, so I’ll see my way clear to the end of the story.

A moment of geese

04 Monday Apr 2016

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This morning I returned from the drive to school and got out of the car. A choir of sparrows and chickadees was rehearsing in a nearby tree, nearly drowning out the city-sounds filling my corner of Capitol Hill. Cars grumbled and a truck roared; a motorcycle spewed a raspberry at the skateboarders dodging potholes. A saw whined from a construction site down the street.

A flick of motion overhead caught my eye. Three gray geese skimmed the roofs across the alley as they headed south. Silent, swift, gone before I could do more than let out a breath of appreciation. Their wings sliced through cacophony with synchronized grace, leaving behind the discord.

Three Greylag Geese coming in for landing over a field in formation

I wanted to be like those geese: fast, focused, fully engaged in flight. Following where ideas led, turning aside for no interruption, stopping for nothing. For a moment that yearning cut as sharply through me as their wings had cut through the noise.

And then the day went on.

 

Spring is coming…

28 Sunday Feb 2016

Posted by in Metaphors, Writing

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I saw some crocuses the other day. Since I’m an old hand at using the signs of nature to interpret my life, I immediately associated those gorgeous little flowers with purple messengers of hope, new beginnings appearing where before there was only dirt. And as a writer, the symbolism goes deeper. Words spring from the brain like blooms pushing through soil. Ideas, paragraphs, stories are seeds waiting for encouragement, nourishment, panic.

I haven’t found a flower to represent that most efficient motivator of all. Panic gets the heart thumping and the fingers tapping, and words turn up on the page. No matter they’ve been pried out of their dank hidey holes under rotten logs at the edge of a swamp. Maybe a bare, twisted branch would serve as an image for that icon, a stark instrument of torture to prod those creative ideas out into a light offering the editor on the shoulder a grandstand view of their shortcomings.

Can you tell I’ve been writing under the gun? All In Bad Time, Book 3 of the Wisdom Court Series, is long overdue. I’m crawling toward the end over shards of broken metaphors and fractured grammar, but I’ll clean it up before I’m through. The signs of spring broke through the haze of plot points only for a moment. I’m back at work again. I swear.

First spring flowers: violet crocuses growing after melting the snow

First spring flowers: violet crocuses growing after melting the snow