Aw, screw it. Who am I kidding here? I guess I can't maintain two blogs right now. I would like to, because it would allow me to separate things. It would allow me to pretend that certain inconvenient truths are just not part of my life, but I'm begining to think that my periodic need to do that is a big part of my problem. I need to have all my 'stuff', all my zoo animals, in one place and they need to learn to live together in some sort of peace. Maybe this is the place I will return to one day when I am 'at one' enough with my internal messes to focus on the things that I really want to do. Like writing fiction. I still may begin to do that again this summer, I don't know, but I'm not sure how that will effect my blogging in either case.
So there it is, for the few visitors who still trickle in from time to time. I started this blog so I could make contact with other writers. I felt I needed to present a very restricted image of myself in order to do that. I wanted everything sorted into neat little compartments. If you have read much of this blog, you can see that my containers are leaky. Sometimes I think that's good. Sometimes I think that's bad. Truth is - I don't know. Maybe sometimes it's good and sometimes it's bad. It probably depends on the situation. Which is it in this situation? I don't have a clue.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Back Soon
For some reason, there is often something interesting going on in the sky over this particular house. I would like to think that this photo represents the heavens lavishing light and love on the little dwelling.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Deck Dwellers
Two excerpts from my 2006 Nano attempt. Though each comes from a different scene, to me they are quite related. A particularly upsetting nightmare made me drop this thing like a hot potato. I pasted the nightmare in at the bottom of this entry. I don't want to pick up this story, but I might be keeping some aspects of the character for the new work. I'm not sure yet. I'm still kind of mulling things over and keeping my eye on the wounded dragon that still writhes on my deck. You see, the dragon came out of my 'writing office', the inner space I wrote of in the last post. That's how it came to be on my deck. That's what I risk when I go in there. I might bring something out with me when I leave. Then I can't get back in until I go all Rambo on the thing. It can happen with any creative endeavor. At least for me. Sucks, that. At least with this piece, I became aware that something was trying to come out of there with me (that's why I dumped it). With previous works, I was not aware until the dragon was out and stalking me, and that was... really, really not good. Not good at all. Ah, well...
Here are the excerpts:
The natural, minimally enhanced lighting was what drew her. The diffusing white sheers in the generous, south-facing window, the barely-there shade of icy blue matte on the walls, and the neutral foundation of the sisal rug made for the perfect lighting conditions by which to paint.
She stood in front of the window for a moment and looked out over the street. This window was especially important to her work. As her subject matter was often dark, she appreciated being able to occasionally look outside. She also liked to open the window just a crack, even in the sweltering heat. It never seemed to have a noticeable impact on the temperature in the room. Just a tiny crack was all that was needed for her keen ears to pick up the sounds of the neighborhood. She needed those sounds. They kept her grounded. They were the rope that pulled her back into the world.
##
Lamar snored softly, Jenny slept the sleep of the innocent, Abigail prayed to her god, and Reggie got back out of bed and took a sleeping pill. She shuffled back out into the living room. She pulled the rocker over to the picture window and sat watching the street while she waited to grow sleepy.
She thought about her unfinished work, 'The Dawning'. Much like the majority of her work, it was a surreal piece of canvas, to be sure. At first she had been puzzled by the predominance of the greens and blues, and how very dark they became as she worked. This was before she realized that 'The Dawning' in no way depicted the sunrise she so desperately sought when she had returned to her craft. No, this piece captured the sick and horrifying dawning of secret knowledge. The knowledge that had been dragged out into the light of day and paraded before her in all of its ugliness. There had been terrible days, weeks and months to follow. She had lived through those times and now she found herself back at yet another dawning that splayed hues of puke-green light across the canvas of her life. She startled when a low sob escaped her and caught her unaware, and that only made her cry harder.
(The second to last sentence has been consciously edited to reflect my present reality with a bit more clarity. The rest of the writing in these excerpts appear as they were orignally written.)
##
This is the nightmare that killed my story (before I had an arsenal in my head).
November 2, 2006
My father was still alive and I was living with him. I found a strange looking sponge in the kitchen. It was shaped and colored just like a cat. It was large to be a sponge, and it really did look a lot like a cat, but I thought it was just a sponge. I was using it to wipe down the counter tops. It wasn't getting things very clean and I realized that part of the problem was that the 'sponge' didn't have enough water on it. I filled one side of the kitchen sink with water and when I submerged the cat-shaped sponge, well... it leaped to life! It was not a sponge, but a (formerly dead or dehydrated?) real cat. I felt a little bad about trying to use a cat as a sponge. I checked the cat over to see that it was okay and it jumped down off the counter top. I felt glad for the poor little thing that it was alive. When my father saw this, he became very angry. He spoke to me very harshly, not quite yelling, but he was seriously pissed off and maybe a little worried and/or afraid. He told me that I should not have done that, that it was dangerous to bring things back from the dead. He said that it could bite or scratch me and that it might be carrying disease. Well, that made me watch the cat more closely. I did notice that it had sharp teeth and I noticed it was acting a little funny, as if unsteady on its feet or disoriented. I figured it was like that because of the ordeal it had just been through and not because anything was wrong with it, but still, a doubtful fear had taken root in me about my safety around that cat.
Cat = stories
Cat = unconscious
Cat = the past
Cat = inner space
Cat = ME
##
Sometimes 'writer's block' is a little bit complicated.
Here are the excerpts:
The natural, minimally enhanced lighting was what drew her. The diffusing white sheers in the generous, south-facing window, the barely-there shade of icy blue matte on the walls, and the neutral foundation of the sisal rug made for the perfect lighting conditions by which to paint.
She stood in front of the window for a moment and looked out over the street. This window was especially important to her work. As her subject matter was often dark, she appreciated being able to occasionally look outside. She also liked to open the window just a crack, even in the sweltering heat. It never seemed to have a noticeable impact on the temperature in the room. Just a tiny crack was all that was needed for her keen ears to pick up the sounds of the neighborhood. She needed those sounds. They kept her grounded. They were the rope that pulled her back into the world.
##
Lamar snored softly, Jenny slept the sleep of the innocent, Abigail prayed to her god, and Reggie got back out of bed and took a sleeping pill. She shuffled back out into the living room. She pulled the rocker over to the picture window and sat watching the street while she waited to grow sleepy.
She thought about her unfinished work, 'The Dawning'. Much like the majority of her work, it was a surreal piece of canvas, to be sure. At first she had been puzzled by the predominance of the greens and blues, and how very dark they became as she worked. This was before she realized that 'The Dawning' in no way depicted the sunrise she so desperately sought when she had returned to her craft. No, this piece captured the sick and horrifying dawning of secret knowledge. The knowledge that had been dragged out into the light of day and paraded before her in all of its ugliness. There had been terrible days, weeks and months to follow. She had lived through those times and now she found herself back at yet another dawning that splayed hues of puke-green light across the canvas of her life. She startled when a low sob escaped her and caught her unaware, and that only made her cry harder.
(The second to last sentence has been consciously edited to reflect my present reality with a bit more clarity. The rest of the writing in these excerpts appear as they were orignally written.)
##
This is the nightmare that killed my story (before I had an arsenal in my head).
November 2, 2006
My father was still alive and I was living with him. I found a strange looking sponge in the kitchen. It was shaped and colored just like a cat. It was large to be a sponge, and it really did look a lot like a cat, but I thought it was just a sponge. I was using it to wipe down the counter tops. It wasn't getting things very clean and I realized that part of the problem was that the 'sponge' didn't have enough water on it. I filled one side of the kitchen sink with water and when I submerged the cat-shaped sponge, well... it leaped to life! It was not a sponge, but a (formerly dead or dehydrated?) real cat. I felt a little bad about trying to use a cat as a sponge. I checked the cat over to see that it was okay and it jumped down off the counter top. I felt glad for the poor little thing that it was alive. When my father saw this, he became very angry. He spoke to me very harshly, not quite yelling, but he was seriously pissed off and maybe a little worried and/or afraid. He told me that I should not have done that, that it was dangerous to bring things back from the dead. He said that it could bite or scratch me and that it might be carrying disease. Well, that made me watch the cat more closely. I did notice that it had sharp teeth and I noticed it was acting a little funny, as if unsteady on its feet or disoriented. I figured it was like that because of the ordeal it had just been through and not because anything was wrong with it, but still, a doubtful fear had taken root in me about my safety around that cat.
Cat = stories
Cat = unconscious
Cat = the past
Cat = inner space
Cat = ME
##
Sometimes 'writer's block' is a little bit complicated.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Inner Space
I have been silently hopping around to various writer's blogs recently. I noticed that many writers write about the physical environment in which they create. Most environments seem important to the writer, and most are favorite offices, nooks, desks, chairs, etc. This makes perfect sense to me. I like an environment that feels comfortable, and my physical surroundings are generally very important to me. So, with this realization, I have attempted at various times, to create a writing space for myself. Though I am quite skilled at creating pleasing and nourishing indoor environments, I have not been successful in creating a writing space.
My first official attempt was taking up a spot at the kitchen table. I have also tried my desk, a private corner of my bedroom, an assigned place in the back of the living room, and various other places I carved out of my home from time to time. None of these spaces stuck with me. The majority of my fiction has been written on a laptop while flopped on the couch in an environment which was usually a bit noisy. I realize now, that I already have a special writing environment, it's just not physical. It is an inner space where outside factors cannot intrude.
This realization is very important to me. I often use the metaphor of 'clearing the deck' to describe the breaks I used to take from writing when I had to get caught up on any chores. I see now, that my 'deck' is also, for the most part, an inner space. At least my current deck is. For months now, I have had the goal of clearing the deck by clearing my to-do list, but today's revelation has made me see that my deck, like my writing space, is located in here. It's on the inside. The deck is the hallway that leads to my inner writing space. I wish the obstacles on my deck were as simple as laundry, cluttered closets and procrastinated errands. They're not.
My writing comes mostly from my unconscious mind. I am not big on plotting. Of course, just about everyone plots to some extent, but I do not work from an outline. Usually, something just drops into my head and I start writing. Before long, I at least have a vague ending that becomes mostly conscious, and I might have some half-formed idea for a point or two along the way to guide me there, but that's it. That's all. Everything else writes itself. It still confounds me that I end up with a coherent and interesting story at the end. The human mind is amazing. The stories are already there, waiting for me in my inner space. I just have to make my way down the deck and walk through that door. That has been a problem. My deck cannot be cleared with mops. Nope. Here there be monsters. I have to clear my deck the hard way. With hand-to-hand combat and some help from various (mental) firearms.
My back is still slightly out of whack (literally), but I killed a dragon today. At least I think it's dead. During the next couple of weeks, I will have plenty of occasion to run over there and kick it, just to be sure. If nothing else, I KNOW it's not just sleeping; if it's not dead, it is very seriously wounded and it knows beyond a doubt who's in charge around here.
My first official attempt was taking up a spot at the kitchen table. I have also tried my desk, a private corner of my bedroom, an assigned place in the back of the living room, and various other places I carved out of my home from time to time. None of these spaces stuck with me. The majority of my fiction has been written on a laptop while flopped on the couch in an environment which was usually a bit noisy. I realize now, that I already have a special writing environment, it's just not physical. It is an inner space where outside factors cannot intrude.
This realization is very important to me. I often use the metaphor of 'clearing the deck' to describe the breaks I used to take from writing when I had to get caught up on any chores. I see now, that my 'deck' is also, for the most part, an inner space. At least my current deck is. For months now, I have had the goal of clearing the deck by clearing my to-do list, but today's revelation has made me see that my deck, like my writing space, is located in here. It's on the inside. The deck is the hallway that leads to my inner writing space. I wish the obstacles on my deck were as simple as laundry, cluttered closets and procrastinated errands. They're not.
My writing comes mostly from my unconscious mind. I am not big on plotting. Of course, just about everyone plots to some extent, but I do not work from an outline. Usually, something just drops into my head and I start writing. Before long, I at least have a vague ending that becomes mostly conscious, and I might have some half-formed idea for a point or two along the way to guide me there, but that's it. That's all. Everything else writes itself. It still confounds me that I end up with a coherent and interesting story at the end. The human mind is amazing. The stories are already there, waiting for me in my inner space. I just have to make my way down the deck and walk through that door. That has been a problem. My deck cannot be cleared with mops. Nope. Here there be monsters. I have to clear my deck the hard way. With hand-to-hand combat and some help from various (mental) firearms.
My back is still slightly out of whack (literally), but I killed a dragon today. At least I think it's dead. During the next couple of weeks, I will have plenty of occasion to run over there and kick it, just to be sure. If nothing else, I KNOW it's not just sleeping; if it's not dead, it is very seriously wounded and it knows beyond a doubt who's in charge around here.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Eureka!
Day: Cruisin'. Nirvana cranked up loud.
Sunset.
rest well, dear...
Evening: An inspiring, one-sided encounter in a public parking lot.
Night: Another note to self --
"All crew members report for duty. The Captain has had an epiphany and she will be retiring to the holodeck shortly. The First Officer will be assuming command of the ship. All crew members will now report for duty."
It happened! It finally happened and it's the real deal. I was in a parking lot today. I was waiting in the car while the husband and the kids made a 'quick' trip into the local HellMart (I don't like it in there). A woman approached with her shopping cart. She looked confused for a moment, like she thought my car was her own. Then she kept going to a nearly identical car parked a little farther down.
:-)
In that split second, when she looked like she thought she had the right car, but before the realization that she didn't, the curtain rose on the stage that lives in my mind. The lights came on. I saw it. I saw the opening scene of my new story! Yes, it opens in a parking lot. What if the wrong car turned out to be the right one? I feel something. I feel an incredibly supportive strength in one of the characters in this opening scene. I'm going for a ride now. This is it.
I will fly...
Sunset.
rest well, dear...
Evening: An inspiring, one-sided encounter in a public parking lot.
Night: Another note to self --
"All crew members report for duty. The Captain has had an epiphany and she will be retiring to the holodeck shortly. The First Officer will be assuming command of the ship. All crew members will now report for duty."
It happened! It finally happened and it's the real deal. I was in a parking lot today. I was waiting in the car while the husband and the kids made a 'quick' trip into the local HellMart (I don't like it in there). A woman approached with her shopping cart. She looked confused for a moment, like she thought my car was her own. Then she kept going to a nearly identical car parked a little farther down.
:-)
In that split second, when she looked like she thought she had the right car, but before the realization that she didn't, the curtain rose on the stage that lives in my mind. The lights came on. I saw it. I saw the opening scene of my new story! Yes, it opens in a parking lot. What if the wrong car turned out to be the right one? I feel something. I feel an incredibly supportive strength in one of the characters in this opening scene. I'm going for a ride now. This is it.
I will fly...
Saturday, February 23, 2008
They're not dead, they're simply at rest.
A song on the radio made me think of some of my favorite fictional characters recently. I love these characters, I really do, but after I lost the stomach for that particular story, I realized more about what the problem was. There was intense conflict, but I lost faith in a palatable resolution. This story and its characters were left lacking. Yes, they were really backed into a corner and I didn't trust that I had what I needed to get them out in a way that would have sat well in my mind. Truth? I got scared. Maybe it's really that simple. I might finish the story one day, but I think I can write something else now. Maybe this is my official 'farewell for now' to this one.
The expected hero of that piece was a man named Paul, with the other main character, Violet, seeming the more challenged of the two. The problem? Paul could barely save himself. Violet seemed to put forth an effort that at least had a chance of facilitating an eventual escape from danger, however precarious, but her situation was just too wrenching. I began to feel the terror and the despair of this situation in myself while writing the story. I couldn't get these two out of their respective, but intertwined messes. That's because Violet's mess was just a little bit too much like one of my own. I hadn't been able get myself out of it, so... how could I get a character out of it? I would be less likely to encounter this same mess today, but if I did, it might go down just the way that it did. Maybe that is what drove me away from the story. The awful realization of the seeming inevitability... Some things can't be changed and it somehow seemed wrong to try to wave my magic pen and make it all go away. I don't know how to do that. I have something inside me that keeps a certain level of integrity in my fiction. I would override that at my own peril. The only choice left was... one I wasn't ready to write.
Note to self: I'm sorry I couldn't save you. I can't change the past. You saw me try, right? My hand went through you like you were smoke. That sort of thing happens in time travel stories that tinker with the laws of physics. There was nothing more I could do for you that you didn't eventually end up doing for yourself. I'm sorry I couldn't write the rest. That doesn't mean I don't care about what happened to you, it means I understand how terrible it really was.
L
Perhaps one day I will acquire the inner tools to sit through the completion of this story. Until then, Paul and Violet, may you rest in peace. Especially you, Violet.
I think I'm ready for a new story.
The expected hero of that piece was a man named Paul, with the other main character, Violet, seeming the more challenged of the two. The problem? Paul could barely save himself. Violet seemed to put forth an effort that at least had a chance of facilitating an eventual escape from danger, however precarious, but her situation was just too wrenching. I began to feel the terror and the despair of this situation in myself while writing the story. I couldn't get these two out of their respective, but intertwined messes. That's because Violet's mess was just a little bit too much like one of my own. I hadn't been able get myself out of it, so... how could I get a character out of it? I would be less likely to encounter this same mess today, but if I did, it might go down just the way that it did. Maybe that is what drove me away from the story. The awful realization of the seeming inevitability... Some things can't be changed and it somehow seemed wrong to try to wave my magic pen and make it all go away. I don't know how to do that. I have something inside me that keeps a certain level of integrity in my fiction. I would override that at my own peril. The only choice left was... one I wasn't ready to write.
Note to self: I'm sorry I couldn't save you. I can't change the past. You saw me try, right? My hand went through you like you were smoke. That sort of thing happens in time travel stories that tinker with the laws of physics. There was nothing more I could do for you that you didn't eventually end up doing for yourself. I'm sorry I couldn't write the rest. That doesn't mean I don't care about what happened to you, it means I understand how terrible it really was.
L
Perhaps one day I will acquire the inner tools to sit through the completion of this story. Until then, Paul and Violet, may you rest in peace. Especially you, Violet.
I think I'm ready for a new story.
Monday, February 18, 2008
A Little Bit Closer
Today has been a day of nervous anxiety. I channeled it into cleaning up some things that I have been procrastinating. Last week was a productive one. I am beginning to see a little bit of light at the end of the tunnel of overwhelm. That's a good thing because I still have a story banging around in my head. I have even discussed it with my husband (a very honest critic!) and he likes it. I even jotted down a few notes! Perhaps anxiety can soon transform into excitement. (And maybe it already is.)
A few more things to take care of and then
...I can write
...I can breathe a little deeper
...and one day very soon
...I will fly again.
A few more things to take care of and then
...I can write
...I can breathe a little deeper
...and one day very soon
...I will fly again.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Child Time
The two photos below are inseparable to me. They belong together. I took them last spring, but they will never be old. Not really. I was inspired to post them here today by this post here.
Time is a favorite topic of mine in a love/ hate kind of way. Sometimes it bothers me that I end up, usually inadvertently, writing so much about it. Especially since it is such an abstract concept.
Time is a favorite topic of mine in a love/ hate kind of way. Sometimes it bothers me that I end up, usually inadvertently, writing so much about it. Especially since it is such an abstract concept.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
The Perfect Introductory Meme
I got this Meme, 'The Writer', from Marie at Deep Thinker. Thanks, Marie.
What’s the last thing you wrote?
A short story about two lovers and a decision they make on the possible eve of apocalypse.
Was it any good?
I think so.
What’s the first thing you wrote that you still have?
A poem that wouldn't let me sleep until I got up and wrote it down. I had no idea what it meant until fifteen years later.
Write poetry?
Yes.
Angsty poetry?
Yes.
Favourite genre of writing?
Thriller.
Most fun character you ever created?
A likeable, but somewhat clueless airhead who aspires to great things only to realize they are already front and center.
Most annoying character you ever created?
The real question here would be, "Annoying to whom?" I'm not particularly annoyed by any of them. However, there have been a couple of characters who were annoying to their fellow characters. One of note would be a very meddlesome time traveler.
Best plot you ever created?
A time travel story.
How often do you get writer’s block?
Ha! I have it right now.
Write fan fiction?
No.
Do you type or write by hand?
I used to write by hand. Now I type. I only write by hand if I have an idea and I'm away from my computer.
Do you save everything you write?
Yes.
Do you ever go back to an old idea long after you abandoned it?
Yes. I keep the beginning pages of possible novels as story ideas.
What’s your favourite thing that you’ve written?
A four page beginning to a novel. It reads like a middle. I like it.
Do you ever show people your work?
Mostly just my husband.
Did you ever write a novel?
Yes. I have one completed and one near completion, among other things.
Ever written romance or teen angst drama?
No.
What’s your favourite setting for your characters?
Mysterious and foreboding locations.
How many writing projects are you working on right now?
I'm not yet actively back to work.
Do you want to write for a living?
Ask me again when my mid-life crisis is over!
Have you ever won an award for your writing?
No. I did enter a competition once, though. It was exciting and quite motivating. I've also begun Nano twice. That was also motivating, even though I did not finish.
Ever written something in script or play format?
No, but I do have a very bizarre screenplay bouncing around in here. I think Rob Zombie would seriously dig it. :-)
What are your 5 favourite words?
Favorite? This seems open to interpretation to me, so I will list these things for their own reasons:
1) THAT - It is not a favorite word because I like it. I suppose it could be called a 'favorite' because I can't seem to stop myself from scattering superfluous 'thats' throughout my sentences. I'm getting better about it, though.
2) This is a very difficult question, and I can only think of two more points on the subject from my perspective.
3) I am fascinated by the F word. I don't use it much in my work (almost never), but if you think about it, it is a very versatile word. It can be a noun, a verb, an adjective; it can be just about anything, yet one always knows exactly what is meant by its context. It both makes and breaks the rules of grammer. Fascinating.
4) I like to make up my own word on a rare occasion. Example: Yardly. As in those things which pertain to the maintenance of one's lawn and garden.
Do you ever write based on yourself?
I think nearly all writers do that to some extent, even if they are not consciously aware of it.
What character have you created that most resembles yourself?
Almost all of them represent me in some capacity. It would be too difficult to single out one.
Do you favour happy endings, sad endings, or cliff-hangers?
I like endings that feel just or true in some way. Though I don't mind a certain amount of cliff-hanging. Especially if it is not intended to be followed by a sequel.
Have you written based on an artwork you have seen?
I wouldn't say I have written 'based on' artwork, but I have written inspired by artwork.
Are you concerned with spelling and grammar as you write?
Yes. I can't help it.
Does music help you write?
It can help to inspire or soothe, before or after the fact, but it can be a bit of an annoyance to me while I am at the keyboard.
Quote something you’ve written.
Mara stood in front of her empty store and watched the foot traffic in the mall, trying to gauge the difference of the day. But for an occasional outburst from a distressed individual, people seemed more subdued than usual. The throng of shoppers that would normally crowd the building had thinned to fewer than the average number, that much was apparent. There was something else, too, but it was not a tangible thing. Sometimes, Mara felt it as people rushed by. The feeling had been intensifying as the day wore on. It was the beginning of a mostly quiet urgency that emanated from people in waves. Even with this palpable difference, things appeared normal in the mall. Perhaps some distant onlooker, with no information about the current situation, might not understand that anything was amiss. She wondered where Sherry was now, what she was doing. Did she feel it, too?
What’s the last thing you wrote?
A short story about two lovers and a decision they make on the possible eve of apocalypse.
Was it any good?
I think so.
What’s the first thing you wrote that you still have?
A poem that wouldn't let me sleep until I got up and wrote it down. I had no idea what it meant until fifteen years later.
Write poetry?
Yes.
Angsty poetry?
Yes.
Favourite genre of writing?
Thriller.
Most fun character you ever created?
A likeable, but somewhat clueless airhead who aspires to great things only to realize they are already front and center.
Most annoying character you ever created?
The real question here would be, "Annoying to whom?" I'm not particularly annoyed by any of them. However, there have been a couple of characters who were annoying to their fellow characters. One of note would be a very meddlesome time traveler.
Best plot you ever created?
A time travel story.
How often do you get writer’s block?
Ha! I have it right now.
Write fan fiction?
No.
Do you type or write by hand?
I used to write by hand. Now I type. I only write by hand if I have an idea and I'm away from my computer.
Do you save everything you write?
Yes.
Do you ever go back to an old idea long after you abandoned it?
Yes. I keep the beginning pages of possible novels as story ideas.
What’s your favourite thing that you’ve written?
A four page beginning to a novel. It reads like a middle. I like it.
Do you ever show people your work?
Mostly just my husband.
Did you ever write a novel?
Yes. I have one completed and one near completion, among other things.
Ever written romance or teen angst drama?
No.
What’s your favourite setting for your characters?
Mysterious and foreboding locations.
How many writing projects are you working on right now?
I'm not yet actively back to work.
Do you want to write for a living?
Ask me again when my mid-life crisis is over!
Have you ever won an award for your writing?
No. I did enter a competition once, though. It was exciting and quite motivating. I've also begun Nano twice. That was also motivating, even though I did not finish.
Ever written something in script or play format?
No, but I do have a very bizarre screenplay bouncing around in here. I think Rob Zombie would seriously dig it. :-)
What are your 5 favourite words?
Favorite? This seems open to interpretation to me, so I will list these things for their own reasons:
1) THAT - It is not a favorite word because I like it. I suppose it could be called a 'favorite' because I can't seem to stop myself from scattering superfluous 'thats' throughout my sentences. I'm getting better about it, though.
2) This is a very difficult question, and I can only think of two more points on the subject from my perspective.
3) I am fascinated by the F word. I don't use it much in my work (almost never), but if you think about it, it is a very versatile word. It can be a noun, a verb, an adjective; it can be just about anything, yet one always knows exactly what is meant by its context. It both makes and breaks the rules of grammer. Fascinating.
4) I like to make up my own word on a rare occasion. Example: Yardly. As in those things which pertain to the maintenance of one's lawn and garden.
Do you ever write based on yourself?
I think nearly all writers do that to some extent, even if they are not consciously aware of it.
What character have you created that most resembles yourself?
Almost all of them represent me in some capacity. It would be too difficult to single out one.
Do you favour happy endings, sad endings, or cliff-hangers?
I like endings that feel just or true in some way. Though I don't mind a certain amount of cliff-hanging. Especially if it is not intended to be followed by a sequel.
Have you written based on an artwork you have seen?
I wouldn't say I have written 'based on' artwork, but I have written inspired by artwork.
Are you concerned with spelling and grammar as you write?
Yes. I can't help it.
Does music help you write?
It can help to inspire or soothe, before or after the fact, but it can be a bit of an annoyance to me while I am at the keyboard.
Quote something you’ve written.
Mara stood in front of her empty store and watched the foot traffic in the mall, trying to gauge the difference of the day. But for an occasional outburst from a distressed individual, people seemed more subdued than usual. The throng of shoppers that would normally crowd the building had thinned to fewer than the average number, that much was apparent. There was something else, too, but it was not a tangible thing. Sometimes, Mara felt it as people rushed by. The feeling had been intensifying as the day wore on. It was the beginning of a mostly quiet urgency that emanated from people in waves. Even with this palpable difference, things appeared normal in the mall. Perhaps some distant onlooker, with no information about the current situation, might not understand that anything was amiss. She wondered where Sherry was now, what she was doing. Did she feel it, too?
Saturday, February 2, 2008
The End of a Long Interruption?
I've been on an extended hiatus from fiction writing. The stirrings have come and gone, but they are quite pronounced now. There is a feeling that comes to roost before the writing must begin. Any naturally inclined fiction writer who has taken any kind of leave probably knows what I'm talking about. The inner nagging started a few weeks before NaNoWriMo back in November, but I wasn't really ready then. Am I ready now? I'm not sure, but there is the feeling...
So now, I am looking around, trying to decide what things I can do to feel ready. There is a bit of personal stress that I can't get rid of, but what about the things that I can fix up a bit? I went through a readying process in November before my aborted attempt at NaNo. I went through a continuing version of it while writing previous novels as well. The now-predictable pattern went something like this: Spend most of my available time writing for a few weeks. Gradually get a little behind on a few things. Take a break for a few days or a week or so to restore my life, home, desk, etcetera to normal operational levels before resuming. This is where I laugh a bit. I won't exactly be starting at what I would call a normal operational level. Life during the writing hiatus was too chaotic for anything like that! Since my failed 'comeback' in November, I have realized that if I wait until I have normal operational levels to start this time, I might be waiting until I'm an old lady!
I'm not sure what I will be posting here in the next few weeks or months, but I have a feeling that what I post will help me to find my way back to my stories.
So now, I am looking around, trying to decide what things I can do to feel ready. There is a bit of personal stress that I can't get rid of, but what about the things that I can fix up a bit? I went through a readying process in November before my aborted attempt at NaNo. I went through a continuing version of it while writing previous novels as well. The now-predictable pattern went something like this: Spend most of my available time writing for a few weeks. Gradually get a little behind on a few things. Take a break for a few days or a week or so to restore my life, home, desk, etcetera to normal operational levels before resuming. This is where I laugh a bit. I won't exactly be starting at what I would call a normal operational level. Life during the writing hiatus was too chaotic for anything like that! Since my failed 'comeback' in November, I have realized that if I wait until I have normal operational levels to start this time, I might be waiting until I'm an old lady!
I'm not sure what I will be posting here in the next few weeks or months, but I have a feeling that what I post will help me to find my way back to my stories.
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