Non-Fiction Chronicles of a Fiction-Filled Life

dark morning, bright morning

2012-01-27T06:41:00.000-08:00

Due to the ridiculousness of how early I rise, I get two mornings. I'm smack in the middle of the dark morning, light from my kitchen behind me, blinds closed, black outside the large back door. Bob just left, no PBJ today; he has loads of fruit left at the end of the week, and maybe he's thinking of stepping out for lunch. I rose before him, scanning news sites (Novak Djokovic beat Andy Murray in five sets to meet Rafael Nadal at the men's Australian Open final), checking blogs, weather. We're back to spring here in Silicon Valley; it was 53 F when I sat down at five a.m. Daffodils are poking up in the front and back, new growth on Bob's blueberry, but that's all awash in night. At 6.35 in the morning, it's pitch-black outside.

I've editing a chapter of September Story, will get to the last third of Memories Of Home when this entry is finished. Not until seven or seven thirty will light begin to peek over the hills; a small time as morning begins to dawn. It's been morning for me since, well, a while. Quiet, still, dark. Except for the kitchen light, it's dark.

I went for a walk yesterday in this darkness; I haven't been on a walk in ages. I realized why I like walking (when I do walk) in the pre-dawn hours; at that moment Silicon Valley is muted. It's not the South Bay; it's anywhere in the world. Houses are closed, streets deserted, people vanished. It could be anywhere on the planet at four in the morning, four thirty, five. At five o'clock our little neighborhood is an anonymous place that has nothing to do with computers or technology. Bob's usually out the door before six; he woke when I did, fortunately went back to sleep. I can't. Once I'm up, that's it and so begins the first part of the morning, the silent, dark, solitary bit of the day that shelters me from the crowded, clamorous Bay Area. I need these peaceful minutes, I don't know what I'd do without them.

As a writer, I use these dark mornings to wake up, drink tea, eat Grape Nuts and bran flakes, stirring the muse to life. No hummingbirds, no children, not even Bob; just me and various plots, and when I blog, music. Neil Young at the moment, softly, gently. "Hangin' On A Limb" from 1989's Freedom wafts from small speakers flanking my monitor and I peer to the back door; through the large window that encompasses that door, I see a bit of sky through one of the hanging plants. Night is fading. Day emerges every single morning. But this precious, precarious spot that isn't day or night eases, reminds me all that whirling activity is for only set hours. A decent chunk of our lives sits invisible, hushed, asking for just a minute's attention. I give more than maybe most, but that's fine. I'll be hitting my bed earlier than most, making all things equal. I've never been a night owl; give me an early morning, dark then bright, any day.

a nomination and an end of season

2012-01-25T07:41:00.000-08:00

Recently I was informed this blog was a nominee for eCollegefinder's Top Writing Blogs. As of yesterday, the full list was announced, and if you look to the sidebar, there's a place for you to vote. I was quite thrilled, and if you feel so inclined, just click on the widget, scroll down to about the middle of the list, and there's Non-Fiction Chronicles... As my sister Lynn says, vote early, vote often!

Now, there was a football game over the weekend, two of them. Mine lost, let's just get that said front and center. The 49ers gave it a good go, lost in overtime, on a muffed punt return. Just as I repeated my oft-chanted mantra NO DUMB PLAYS, they made one, and a few downs later, the New York Giants hit a short field goal (lengthened by five yards as they had a delay of game penalty, not so smart) and advanced to the Super Bowl. I was... bummed, but not overly surprised. NO DUMB PLAYS I choked all during the LONG game. No dumb plays, please. Please? Not like that REALLY DUMB PLAY the Baltimore Ravens had at the end of their game with the New England Patriots, going for it on fourth and six, when they could have easily tied the game with a field goal. Tight, well-fought games, but two dumb plays, the Ravens' the more idiotic because no one plans to fumble the ball, two dumb plays have put New York and New England in the big game once again. Four years ago the Patriots were undefeated, the Giants sneaking in as a wild card, just like this year (Giants won and it was SWEET!). This year the Pats had some losses, but are still the big machine, and New York?

Well, they beat us by three points, but when San Francisco can't even convert on third down... What can I say?

You might think I've said enough, footie, footie, footie! Why not plug that nomination some more? Well, okay. Vote early, vote often. As for my team, I love them. I watched the whole game, all four quarters and more than half of overtime, and they still lost. They need... wide receivers. And, dare I say, they need Alex Smith to GET WITH IT! He ran for yardage, shades of Steve Young galloping across the screen. But he's erratic, inconsistent, makes me want to throttle him. Yes he organized a mini-camp before the lock-out ended, but sheesh! He's not Tim Tebow (thanks goodness) but he sure isn't Eli Manning. Eli Manning is going to the Super Bowl. Alex Smith and the rest of my team aren't.

So technically the 2011 seasons that almost wasn't is over. And I'm... glad, also dejected. I hope New York KILLS the Patriots, I loathe the New England Patriots. Will I watch the big game? Oh probably, unless New England is running rings around them. I can't stomach the thought of watching Tom Brady once again heralded as the Second Coming. Not that I think Tim Tebow is, or Eli Manning, certainly not Alex Smith. They're just men, just guys playing a game. One that I LOVE, adore as much as writing, as you can see by this post; footie blah blah blah.

When I learned of my blog's nomination, I had to submit a short blurb of what it covers, then two to four sentences of advice for students hoping to become writers. I did NOT include my passion for football in the former (or in the latter, for that matter). I said...

This blog traces one writer's journey from an initial small press release to independent publication. Entries focus on meshing writing with everyday life, indie publishing news and guidance, reviews, NaNoWriMo, and the author's personal reflections.

I think that's a fair assessment. My American football obsessions falls under personal reflections, like hummingbirds, family hoo haa, Capitola excursions. My life revolves around writing M-F as Bob leaves with his PBJ's until he comes strolling through the door, tales of Silicon Valley traffic spinning. But it's not just about the butt in chair; now that my Niners are done for another year, well, baseball's coming. Thea's wedding is five months away (good grief!), I need to fill the hummingbird feeder (meant to do it yesterday). My 49ers went 14-4, including playoff games, when last year they were 6-10; dude! If they can get a wide receiver or two, and if Alex Smith can take advantage of proper off-season work-outs, maybe. Maybe this time next year I'll be signing a different tune, called "We're Going To The Super Bowl!"

In the meantime, as Lynn says, vote early, vote often!! Results right around the time New York and New England suit up for this year's big game...

Oleanna

2012-01-23T06:14:00.000-08:00

One of my joys is noting authors who thrill; Julie K. Rose is such a writer. Her second novel Oleanna was released today, a tale of love, loss and rediscovery set in 1905 Norway. Picturesque and haunting don't begin to describe this tale as Oleanna and her sister Elisabeth tend the family's farm in the western fjordland. Sweeping mountain vistas and a shimmering, secretive lake draw readers into past days awash in emotions vital and feverish. Rose was inspired by the lives of her great-great aunts, transporting us to Norway on the cusp of freedom from Sweden, as two women ponder their own paths. The prose is lush and hypnotic; you stand on the fjordland, run along the hills or wander deep in the woods, trapped within Oleanna's heart. A heart that beats with wild hopes and lost dreams; Oleanna pines for freedom as ghosts lurk in the shadows.

I asked Julie how long this novel was in her head:

I started writing Oleanna in November 2006. I had started a different novel for National Novel Writing Month, and it went nowhere and I gave it up. Toward the end of that month, my brain presented me with an image: Oleanna on the top of a hill above Lake Jølster and from there, Oleanna was born. I worked on it on and off for five years, with other novels drafted, other novels published (The Pilgrim Glass) in the meantime. It feels like I’ve been working on this novel forever, but I guess that’s just my way; I started The Pilgrim Glass in 2003, and it was published in 2010.

Was it more difficult to write than your first novel, The Pilgrim Glass, which is set in contemporary France:

Yes and no. I’d grown and changed as a writer in the years between writing The Pilgrim Glass and Oleanna, so in some ways it was easier. But the subject matter was so close to my heart, it was difficult to write some passages and I literally had to put the manuscript away for months at a time because it was hard on my heart.

What advice would you offer novelists considering indie publication:

Find writers and readers that you trust to read your work, and insist that they provide you honest feedback, and then listen to it. Don’t think that one or two drafts is enough; The Pilgrim Glass went to twelve drafts, I think, and Oleanna to seven or eight. When you think your book is ready to be published, put it away for a couple of months and come back to it to be sure.

What's next for Julie K. Rose:

I’m working on a novel set in Tunisia, which has been fantastic fun. I’m also revising another novel, and working on a screenplay. And of course working to promote The Pilgrim Glass and Oleanna!

Oleanna is available as an ebook through several online distributors, or in paperback via Lulu. It's coming soon to iBooks, in wide paperback release within the next two weeks. I have my copy on order; Rose doesn't disappoint her print readers, but if you can't wait, which I completely understand, get the ebook on Kindle or Nook today!

butt in chair, long-winded weekend style

2012-01-21T08:59:00.000-08:00

While I do love driving... I also like being in my house, parked in front of my PC. Uncle Mike's funeral was touching, full of family, while outside the rain pounded. Two months of dry weather ended as my family said a fond farewell in a soggy service bringing nearly all of us together. The reception afterwards at my aunt's was warm, chatty, C.J. and Bea chasing after each other while T1 & T2 toddled and wrestled with each other, and with C.J. Then the talk was of Thea's wedding; life rolls right along. When Bob and I left, our hearts aglow, we stepped into wet and wind, so glad to have braved the weather.

(Another long-ish post, but it is the weekend; noveling chatter included.)

This morning it's calm; he's thinking of taking a walk. I'm gonna sit right here and blog, then edit. I drove home last night while he napped. By the time he woke we were more than halfway to Silicon Valley, and while he asked if I wanted to change drivers, stepping into that storm seemed unfriendly. Seemed downright miserable, and I kept my eyes on the road, spray everywhere, but few cars at that time of night, even here in the Bay Area. We arrived safe and sound and I hit the hay, not waking all night.

Not sure how I'll be feeling later; I am not as young as I used to be. But I have no big plans other than some moments here at my computer, maybe a run to the store. Pondering tomorrow's big football game, oh I so hope my Niners can win! Considerations to all my family, some of whom I hadn't seen in ages; my mom's sisters don't get together often, so that was a treat. Then back to the work; I have novels to revise!

Novels to edit, now that's an endless task. I'll work on that while Bob's off to the mountain. Authorhood is never far away, not when I'm back in my domain. On Thursday Apple announced their new iBooks Author program, aimed first at textbooks, but also to indies, but beware; if you create a book with the new Apple software to sell on iBooks, you can only SELL it via iBooks. You can give it away for free on other sites, but only Apple gets the distributor's slice of the cut, 30%. I'd not take that deal; being indie is about being independent. And if Apple decides to exclude Smashwords from iBooks, well, I won't be too sad; trying to find free ebooks on iBooks is like trying to pay attention to the road in dark, spray-covered conditions, dismal and confusing. Apple might publish books from Smashwords more quickly than any other online retailer, but trying to locate those books is worse than a needle in a haystack! (But here's a link to my Apple offerings, huge thanks to Smashwords author Russell Phillips for creating the tool for that very link!)

Lately my life has been full of road trips, medical tidbits, wedding hoo haa. I'm looking forward to a quieter, at-home sort of week, maybe a few in a row. The Thorn And The Rose is doing well, need to get cracking on the final revisions for the next in that series, Memories Of Home. The Alvin's Farm saga is six novels in total; really it's two trilogies, but you'll be hard pressed to read the last three without having digested the first three. I've been inundated in 1970s Alvin, Jenny and Sam and am itching to get to 2004, where the last three books begins. I've been inundated in life as well, from last fall when Bob's surgery moved into high gear, now with Uncle Mike's passing. And really, it's not going to stop, Thea and Brian's wedding revving its engine. Unlike other occupations, a writer lurches from novel to novel amid the laundry, footie, hummingbirds and road trips. Tied so closely; I told Bob that standing under the tent while Uncle Mike was being set into the earth was certainly going in a book someday. Mike loved country music, and as his casket was set onto the rollers, we sang "Home On The Range". I sat with my sister Lynn, her husband James, along with C.J. and one of the twins (I couldn't tell which as they had coats on, their bright bows hidden; T1 had pink, T2 was in yellow.) as the rest of our clan stood in a whipping, dripping wind, saying goodbye to a man who loved to dance, had his opinions, adored hats. One of my cousins made a photo slide show; Mike favored sailor caps if a cowboy hat wasn't handy. His smile was infections, and oh how he loved music, a man after my own heart! He kicked up his heels at Patrick's wedding, the last time I saw him. That was 2005, and I know in a few months, at Thea's party (I am referring to the reception as a party, easier to wrap my head around, thank you!) I'll look around, recalling Uncle Mike on the floor. He preferred country tunes, but would dance to anything.

And every time I hear "Home On The Range", I'll think to yesterday's sloshy, blowy precipitation. C.J., Bea and the twins won't know Mike, but in our tales of his exuberant love, he will live forever. Sounds like a good reason to write a book, no?

on the road again

2012-01-18T07:56:00.000-08:00

I love driving, I really do, but I'm glad to have my butt back in the chair this morning. I had a road trip yesterday, up to see my folks; Dad went to his oncologist, and while he's still symptom-free and in no pain, he has incurable cancer. (This is a long-ish post, just so you know.)

A bright pink-orange morning dawns from my window; yesterday I saw this on an abandoned freeway in the middle of Northern California. I got an early start; I love speeding over tarmac, tunes blasting until suddenly they didn't! My stereo blanked out about halfway up, and I felt stuck in the middle of darkness, the large display still, black, and the day was barely beginning. Sometimes I feel I get two mornings, the dark and the light. The sky glows a stunning peach, transitioning to no longer dark, but not blue and bright. It's cold out this morning, was cold out yesterday too. I needed to stop for the loo, but kept driving, not wishing to freeze, even if it meant stopping the car, maybe getting my music back. Finally my travel mug of tea got the better of me; I pulled over at a rest stop, shivering in the brisk January air, chipper birds tweeting as I strode past. Then hopped back in my car, called Bob, noting that the hushed stereo was now functional again. But the sun was nearly up, the horizon altering just as it is now, moving from night to day. Right now my view is limited to a strip of sky between the bottom of the back awning and our neighbor's house, but yesterday it was enormous, expansive, unlimited. How life is when we start out, but days chip away at what time we have, our allotment. My dad's remaining days are qualified, but then really, so are mine, what his doc noted. Dad might have a couple of years, or he might get hit by a bus tomorrow. Dad, Mom and I chuckled, all of us with a pretty clear view of a stark diagnosis. No one lives forever.

As I continued my drive north, tunes blasting away again, I noted a faint orange line at the edge of the eastern landscape. To my left, the west was still dark, but not black. As miles and minutes ticked past, daylight emerged, bringing me closer to my hometown, to a place I'm drawn for my parents, my sister Lynn. Not my kids, they don't live there anymore, and one day... Well, it's always changing. My Uncle Mike passed away over the weekend, Mom's older brother. Mike was my dad's age, a truly amazing man, nearly sixty-eight years old, which might seem young-ish, but Uncle Mike had Downs syndrome, and his advanced age was rare. Mom called over the weekend with the news; Mike had been ill for a while, cancer recently discovered. Mom and her sisters wanted to let him go peacefully, and he did, but I recall him at my brother Patrick's wedding back in 2005; Mike loved to dance, and did so, all evening long, with all whom he asked. He loved dancing, cowboy hats too. Bob and I will be making another trek north in a few days for his service, more driving for me in this past week than in ages!

As I look up, the orange glow is gone. White-blue sky slips behind the hummingbird feeder, one small bird perched; it's nearly empty, I need to fill it today. Before Mom called with the news about Uncle Mike, I was telling Bob how much Thea's wedding meant to me, not only for the actual ceremony, but the party afterwards. Now that she has the dress, that reception is in my thoughts, but I prefer to think of it as a party (not quite so overwhelming). The last time all my family got together for such a bash was Patrick and Marie's wedding, in 2005, goodness that's a few years! Uncle Mike was in a jovial mood, my dad looked like Marlon Brando on his child's wedding day, and my kids were his only grandchildren. Now there's Bea and C.J. and T1 and T2, all of whom will be in Thea's wedding! I was telling Bob how cool it will be to have my family and his family all together, celebrating. I'll see Patrick and Lynn, maybe not Sis and her girls, at Uncle Mike's service. Much nicer to gather for a wedding.

The days slip past, one after another, and we don't necessarily get to choose the timing of such gatherings. Dad will be fine for Thea's summer nuptials, but none of the other grandkids will be getting hitched soon, no immediate graduations on the calendar. Just Easter, Thanksgiving, Christmas, holidays that come and go without regard for who is present. Why making the most of each day is vital; you never know what's waiting ahead.

I think back to dancing with Uncle Mike, his wide, excited smile pleased to speak all he had trouble saying. Mike couldn't enunciate all his thoughts, but they traveled in other ways, for many years. My dad is gabby, one of my joys from yesterday. After the doc has his words, Mom was off to sort Mike's service, but Dad and I chatted, well Dad chatted. My dad can talk your ear off, and I sat and listened. No more dancing with Uncle Mike, but my dad's still a chatter-bug, looking forward to Thea's wedding, speaking of pictures for me to go through; he's starting to think ahead, getting things sorted. Not in a maudlin way, more in just being aware. Time is fleeting, we just don't know.

Approaching the Benecia Bridge last night, I watched another day end. To the west, a streaked peach sky beckoned, fiery blood-orange pink all I could see. Traffic was heavy, it was after five p.m., but I sneaked glances as I drove, reaching the bridge. The sunset lingered over my right shoulder, out of my view, but I kept peeking, grateful for the beauty, thankful to be less than an hour from home, Bob waiting for me. I left Silicon Valley under darkness yesterday, returned in that same cover, but so much occurred between those hours. This morning more tunes waft, memories too, some from 2005, others with the blush of sleep hovering. A bittersweet symphony is life, but so beautiful, at times achingly short, stretching over motorways and dance floors as bright and magical as the sunrise, as the sunset. But for now, words are waiting, revisions lurking, tea calling my name. The days are whispery like a hummingbirds' wings, also just as enduring.

The Thorn And The Rose

2012-01-15T13:55:00.000-08:00

Well, this book is live, but the file is troublesome. Instead of spending this afternoon watching Bob's Packers battle for the last conference slot against the New York Giants, I'm revamping the Word Document for inclusion to Smashwords's Premium Catalogue. But as soon as that's done, I'll be back, with lots of info about The Thorn And The Rose...

In the meantime, if you've not yet read Alvin's Farm, I say download a copy; much easier to know what's going on with Alvin, Jenny and the rest if you have that book in your possession! Then get a copy of the new book; great reading for a cool January day!

Okay, two hours later... What I need to do next time is not automatically assume my Word document is going to behave properly. But now the novel is safely in the review queue, has been okayed by the Validate Epub site. Now I wait...

While I'm waiting, I'll tell you a little about this novel. But I can only tell you a little, in case you haven't yet read Alvin's Farm. Spoilers, as River Song teases. The Thorn And The Rose picks up right where Alvin's Farm left off, the residents of Arkendale, Oregon in tumult. Alvin and Jenny, Tommie and Rae, Sam, Jacob, Debbie and all the kids are worried sick. The only one unbothered is a very small girl with deep blue eyes, beloved by all. That little girl has no idea of the emotional minefield so many adults and teeangers are trying to navigate, attempting to get through unscathed. All I can say is initially it looks promising, but as that little girl finds her footing and speech, everything alters.

It's quite hard offering a synopsis for the second of a series; what to say, what to conceal. Spoilers, River croons, unable to tell The Doctor who she is, how they entwine in each other's lives, not even bringing up her parents, Amy and Rory! Equally, I won't say much here, in case you've not yet read Alvin's Farm. But if you have, well, hold onto your hats. The Thorn And The Rose carries another wallop, and as I said, no one in Arkendale will ever be the same.

possible signs of the apocalypse...

2012-01-14T17:43:00.000-08:00

First, my team is going to the NFC Championship game, beating the New Orleans Saints 36-32!

Second, Thea, my wonderful but vehicularly challenged eldest, earned her driver's license!

Now, I am not a superstitious person, not at all. But I have to wonder; amazing events, truly outstanding, fantastic, nearly unbelievable occurrences, dude!

And to top all this, Thea has a wedding dress; we went shopping yesterday and found THE GOWN. It's gorgeous, stunning, perfect. I'll post some pics after the big day, but she looked so beautiful, I shed a few tears as she rang the bell, and made her wish. I doubt it was that my football team would win today, but if she did, oh that girl!

(And to top that, if it's possible, I think I'll be publishing The Thorn And The Rose tomorrow; I did a lot of formatting while trying to get through my football game, my stomach in knots. Bob's Packers are up tomorrow; will the 49ers meet Green Bay or New York next week? I'll find out tomorrow!)

write right Wright

2012-01-12T20:00:00.000-08:00

Did you know that Orville Wright, the younger of the two Wright Brothers, lived quite a number of years longer than Wilbur? I did not know this. I know very little about those brothers, other than they were the first to fly, and now that Orville lived far longer than Wilbur. Perhaps if they were novelists as well as inventors and pilots, well, anyways. But I bring up Wilbur and Orville because of their tenacity, their doggedness, their self-belief. They knew they could fly and darn-it, they figured out a way to do it!

Writing a novel is similar, perhaps just as difficult. I have no idea if the Wright brothers would agree, maybe they would. Neither graduated high school; Wilbur got his front teeth knocked out by a hockey stick, his recovery preventing him from attending Yale. Instead he cared for his ailing mother, read a lot, then opened a bike repair and sales shop with Orville, who had dropped out in his junior year of high school. Many writers go to college, get degrees, many don't. If I was that age again, I have no idea if I would focus on literature; I wasn't an ideal college student, but I always wanted to be a writer. I didn't want to work that hard on it when I was in my late teens and early twenties, but I did always want to write a book.

It took a long time for me to gain the discipline, a LONG time. Being a mother does that, well, it did it to me. But it wasn't just being a mum, or the homeschooling my family was involved in (although that certainly whetted my appetite, plus all the Shakespeare plays the kids and I read out loud); I can't say what really forced my hand, except for NaNoWriMo and Thea. Thea told me about NaNo, and I started writing, and well, here I am. But over time I found that writing, lots and lots of writing, is what works for me. The Wright brothers spent ages sorting out plans for flying, they never gave up. Writers are like Wilbur and Orville; no matter how much it hurts (maybe not as much as getting a hockey stick in the face), no matter how much it pains, we don't give up. We keep writing.

That's the key; to keep writing. I'm blessed by more ideas than I have sense, but it's not just fiction; blog posts, a few scattered record reviews, letters (I love to write letters!), emails, a smattering of book reviews; when we lived in Britain, I wrote loads of journal entries, still pop an occasional one in the indie publishing journal I keep. The Wright brothers continued their attempts, and over a hundred years later, here they are, in this entry! It's the nose to the grindstone sort of mentality, that never give up, never give in, never say never attitude, never say die. Never say I can't write this novel, I can't finish this manuscript, because YOU CAN! It just takes tenacity, guts, desire. Lots of folks at the turn of the century wanted to be the first in the air, but Wilbur and Orville did it. Why? Because they never gave up.

And because Wilbur got socked in the teeth by a hockey stick.

Fate plays a role; I'm an indie writer because of a goiter, for goodness sake! But not just due to Bob's former thyroid; because I wrote my socks off, then wrote some more. No matter your goals, no matter how you choose to publish (or if), no matter what you write, it's that you do write, are writing, or are ready to go to sleep soon, then will write tomorrow. That's probably what Wilbur and Orville told each other, that one of these days we are gonna get off the ground. We're gonna get in that contraption, move this lever, fiddle with that one, and then lift off! Sort of like adding another paragraph, or chapter, or the next novel in a series; but we all have to start somewhere. One word after another, until suddenly you find yourself flying.

Believe me, it will happen. I'm down to the last revision for the next novel in the publication queue, like those brothers, walking to the Flyer on an icy and breezy December day in 1903, the seventeenth. On 17 December, Orville flew first, then Wilbur, another for each. I'm not the first to publish a novel by any stretch of the imagination, but I am a novelist, they way they were pilots, many many to follow them, as many writers will follow me. It just takes chutzpah, cajones, guts. It takes words, one after another. It takes desire, the will and need to tell a story. Keep writing, don't stop writing. And editing and plotting and revising and polishing and flying. Writing is like flying, opening new worlds, landscapes, frontiers. Just watch out for those hockey sticks.

wedding bells and revisions

2012-01-11T07:04:00.000-08:00

So over Christmas break, Thea, Jay and I went wedding dress shopping. The store was deserted, we had a rollicking good time, and I can't say which of my girls had more fun. Jay loves dress-up; she found an adorable spaghetti strap three-quarter length maid of honor frock. As for the bride-to-be, well, Thea enjoyed herself, but she's not the fashionista her sister is. We left with a few gowns as strong contenders, but nothing that made her jump for joy.

She's so much like me in that respect, not overly worked up about clothes and such. Our hearts lay in other fields; she's gaga over Brian, but the dress she wears on that day of betrothal isn't the be-all end-all. Yet she wants to look pretty, one of her goals for that day. She wants to look pretty, be married at the end of it, and doesn't want to trip. She'll have some stairs to navigate, but on Bob's arm, then her new husband's, I'm sure she'll be just fine.

Yesterday Jay and I met with Thea and her other attendants and Brian's mum at another dress store, far more crowded than our Christmas sojourn. (A heads-up; if you're looking for wedding dresses, go right before Christmas. Not too many folks shopping for gowns in mid-December.) Again Jay had a ball; I think she tried on a dozen outfits, settling again on the one she found a month ago. Thea wore a few, one that could be a contender, but another lingers, which I'll investigate today. I've been drowning in The Thorn And The Rose, nearly ready for the last edits on that novel, so yesterday's road trip and trek into an Oz of sorts was quite a thrill. I get so involved with writing and the like that occasionally I need to be firmly yanked from my chair, placed in a world I never otherwise visit.

Novels are worlds of an author's making. Whether set in contemporary times or futuristic landscapes, in the midst of writing, I find myself floating where those characters dwell. Lately it's been the Willamette Valley in Oregon, circa 1978, plenty of rain falling. No rain here, not for weeks, but I'm covered in it when reading of Alvin, Jenny and Sam. Driving over freeways yesterday, the hills were brown, dry, looking like some aberration; it's January, even here in California the land should be green. It's not. It's a dull grayish reminder of last autumn, as we eagerly awaited rain. Months later, it hasn't changed. So I read about Jenny and Alvin, their encounters with rain and snow, thinking about wedding plans. Thea's wedding is five months away, dude! No fiction there, and now that I say it's this year, it feels very real. Seeing her twirling in gowns yesterday, it must be true.

It's like revising a novel, knowing there are nips and tucks ahead, but soon, oh so soon, publication nears. The Thorn And The Rose will be out before the end of the month, good grief! Best I get to those last alterations, what I'll be pondering in the coming months as my eldest edges closer to her big day. Weddings and novel publications; yes, it's going to be a busy winter and spring! (And if we manage any rain, I'll even admit winter happened to pop in for a cuppa...)

thinking about my life

2012-01-08T14:03:00.000-08:00

Not sure which bird this is, but he was aggravated when I stood near, cutting Bob's hair earlier, as if we were invading their space! All pics from today, 8 January 2012.

Sort of an ominous title; I bring it up because I gave Bob a haircut today and the drape around his neck wasn't tight-tight. Before his surgery the Velcro barely attached; now there is nearly a two-inch gap!! I gave him a trim right before the operation, thinking, 'What will this be like next time?' Today I was reminded of what happened last month, what happened a year ago; a year ago Bob's goiter was diagnosed, and I decided to go indie.

Blood orange tree and dead basil plant; so nice out this afternoon. I can't wait for that blood orange to grow, and we'll replace the basil in spring.

Nearly a year ago; a year ago I was still querying, but the idea was present. Indie publishing was all around me, just everywhere I went. That goiter threw a wrench into our lives, and suddenly my life changed. I remember the afternoon when I told my husband I was thinking about self-publishing, standing in our kitchen with winter sun pouring through the window. I love that man; he didn't laugh, roll his eyes, shake his head. He listened, nodded, hugged me. That was all the response I needed.

All my spiders are still terrorizing the back patio, door open, laundry basket waiting its turn.

It was an enormous decision, made at a time when life seemed precarious, precious, uncertain. Should big alterations be made under duress? Well, I made it, have never looked back. It took months to get that first novel released, but in mid-July The War On Emily Dickinson opened the door. Six months or so later, I'm preparing another book, watching Pittsburgh and Denver in playoff football, the back door open letting in the gorgeous California January afternoon. 63 degrees F outside, absolutely stunning. And dry, brown hills looming large; we've not had any significant rain since Thanksgiving. Why I cut Bob's hair today, then swept leaves from the patio, even hanging towels on the line. I can hear hummingbirds buzzing, neighborhood hounds yapping and other birds chirping. But mostly I note the beating of my heart, well, also the tapping of my fingers. Fingers on keys relay the fantastic sense of what happened a year ago, when Bob's neck got in the way.

I dry the towels partly in the dryer, then hang them on the line; it looks sort of tacky, but helps the electric bill!

A goiter shoved query letters to the side, pushing forward hopes, dreams, desires; my deepest desire was publishing my manuscripts. It's happening, bizarrely enough. It is bizarre; how quickly time passes, what can occur within twelve months. Or one month; Bob's neck has shrunk two inches in circumference in one month! My 49ers bit the dust this time last year; next week they'll host a playoff game as the NFC's number 2 seed. And novels, oh my goodness! One begat another. And another. And... like that book in the Bible, all those names leading to more; titles and titles waiting for their moment in the sun.

The small satsuma is nearly ready, but we're really waiting for the oranges that overhang the fence; our neighbor's tree is generous and produces better fruit than our trees!

Which shines abundantly here in Silicon Valley. Sun, footie, novels, my husband. As my brother loves to say, I'm livin' the dream...

The lemon tree is like my spider plants, doesn't know when to quit.

Now, where is that chocolate chip banana muffin?

the significance of courtesy

2012-01-06T07:38:00.000-08:00

One thing I appreciate in this world of indie publishing is the camaraderie. Regardless of genre or goals, the indie authors I have been graced to know are supportive, excited, and pleased to reciprocate lessons learned, as well as the joys independent publishing has offered. One of my to do's this year is to read more, always something I need to incorporate. This year I want to split the reading between traditional and indie authors, in part to seek out new books and writers, also to expand my library. I have a few ebooks on the iTouch, some I've started and have found aren't my cup of tea, the same with print novels; I have an Iris Murdoch paperback that I tried to read while Bob was lying low. I doubt I'll get back to it, sort of plodding and there are too many books waiting. While I love going to Recycle Bookstore and fondling novels, I enjoy scrolling the web, reading blogs, giving new writers a go. Right now I'm reading several indie authors, as well as cracking a Patsy Cline bio Bob got me for Christmas. So many books, so little time!

In a second, I'll get to those indie authors, but before I forget, I wanted to add that I went to the write-in yesterday, always a pleasure to see those folks! Driving home, I thought about the changes in publishing, so many authors exploding onto the literary stage. So how to choose? Well, pretty much like ambling through a shop, poking one's nose into a novel, waiting for the spark to ignite. Sometimes it does, sometimes not. But now the choices are so varied, it's like a candy store for readers, albeit with some peril; you can't try everything without either growing ill or larger. After a few paragraphs, I know if a novel is for me. It's the same no matter who writes it or in what format I read. I look forward to the day when indie authors perhaps lose that identifier; authors are authors are authors. Other barriers have fallen, and one day, this one will too.

So, here are some indie writers I have been entranced with as of late, and let's start at the top; Julie K. Rose is releasing her second novel Oleanna this month, a haunting, poetic tale set in 1905 Norway. Oleanna and her sister Elizabeth have just said goodbye to their brother John, who is chasing his future in America. The farm keeps the women busy, as does Anders Samuelsson, with whom Oleanna shares more than a passing fancy. Rose's descriptions of the rugged but calming locale is part of the novel's beauty; equally ghosts swarming Oleanna fill the narrative with an ancient stillness, so far removed from today's chaotic, noisy world. Rose's first novel, The Pilgrim Glass, is another outstanding story, and Julie releases her books in print and ebook. Oleanna will be available later this month, The Pilgrim Glass out now.

If historical fiction appeals, Suzy Stewart Dubot is another author to explore. Never Love Another is set in England, which appeals greatly to me, as you might imagine. Louise and Felix have been in love for ages, but their lives are set in different classes, destined not to mix. I felt whisked back to Britain with Dubot's lyrical descriptions, also on display in The Viscount's Midsummer's Mistress (which I'm still reading). In Bed Times! Dubot weaves back and forth through the centuries, capturing the reader's attention with a special bed and the enigmatic question of what if... I like to experiment with time travel in a few of my tales, so I enjoy Suzy's playful nature, all these stories available as ebooks.

Marlene Dotterer likes time travel too; Shipbuilder concerns a duo from 2006 inadvertently sent back to Ireland in the early 1900s, right before Titanic is constructed. Sam and Casey can't return, must make the best of their situation, which isn't easy, even if Casey has some wild ideas how to breach long-held codes. But her heart breaks when she learns her boss, Thomas Andrews, is destined to go down with his ship on Titanic's ill-fated maiden voyage. Dotterer blends modern ideas with turn of the century rules in a tale brimming with history, sci-fi and love, available in print or ebook.

Heather Domin has recently released Allegiance, and she gets the suspense started immediately, William Young a Scot heading for Ireland (Do you sense a theme here with me? I do miss that part of the planet!) to infiltrate a possible IRA cell in 1922. I'm through five chapters, and the detail is outstanding; I can't wait to see what happens now that William has met Adam, exactly the man he's been sent to uncover. Domin has another novel, The Soldier of Raetia, out in paperback as well as ebook.

Getting away from the UK and Ireland for just a minute, I want to include Shawn Michel de Montaigne; I found this author quite by accident, and while Melody And The Pier To Forever, an young adult/fantasy tale not my usual speed, I was drawn in by the beautiful descriptions and attention to detail. Melody is destined for some epic events in her life, and I'm looking forward to losing myself in her escapades. It's a long novel, over 300K, but early indications are promising.

And one more; Jeffra Hays, who has several short stories and a novella available as ebooks; Nut Weevil Screw is on my iTouch, waiting in the queue. Why I wanted to write this post, pointing out a tiny fraction of great fiction just waiting to be enjoyed. As I drove along Silicon Valley roadways yesterday, the warm sun not feeling at all like January, I thought of how technology has enabled writers to pursue their dreams. Here we are, writing and editing, formatting and designing covers, then uploading all that hard work, years of sweat and toil set into motion with the few clicks of a mouse. Well, I use a mouse, am rubbish without one. I'm also pretty desolate without something to read, and what remains to be discovered makes my head spin! So many authors I won't get to in my lifetime, no way to read all that so deserves a look. But publishing is changing, thousands of little niches waiting to be explored. As Julie Rose and I note often, if our works touch one person, reach one heart, what more needs to be said?

Well, a little more, otherwise we'd not write another word! But for myself, it's the small gains, the subtle responses. The thrill of reading a great book, passing it along, then feeling inspired to write something new. Expressive in nature, cyclical in nurture; they really do go hand in hand.

courtesy and professionalism

2012-01-04T13:10:00.000-08:00

Coming soon, the courtesy. Today is about professionalism.

So, I'm an indie author, which I take quite seriously. I work diligently on my manuscripts, wanting to offer well-written prose and easy to navigate ebooks that a reader would enjoy for the story as well as simplicity of reading. Ebooks are a different animal than print novels, and I appreciate other indie writers who put as much into the presentation of their books as well as the narrative.

As I peruse Smashwords and various other venues, a wide gamut exists between the casually uploaded story, short, novella or behemoth, and the author seeking to carve their piece of the professional writing pie. There's room for everyone, one of the benefits of Smashwords. Anyone can publish anything, a free press. And while I applaud that open, liberating stance, for me, time is squeezed. Between my work, taking care of Bob and the house, reading for pleasure, football, crocheting, feeding those hummingbirds, I am choosy. Picky, discerning; I scroll through newly published ebooks every few days on the Smashwords homepage, but if the author doesn't capitalize their name or their synopsis, immediately I move on. Sometimes I'll find a blurb that teases, but if I find that author has no photo or information, again I forge ahead. The little details speak volumes.

I have downloaded a few tales, short and long, and am looking forward to delving into them. Many authors use Smashwords as I do; to publish novels for the purpose of establishing a career, be it with financial goals or subtler dreams. Either way, as independent writers, our shingles wave in the burgeoning indie breeze, and as in any profession, the better those signs appear, the more notice we receive. That includes book covers, but other aspects factor into a professional look.

I don't download much right now, so many things on my plate. But as more and more authors go indie, I see slap-dash entries on Smashwords, and I have to wonder why. Why work so hard on a novel or short story, then apply so little effort to present it well? As indies, everything is on US; editing, formatting, covers, marketing. No one is going to tell us what we can or can't publish; equally, no one is going to clean up our mess. We face deeper scrutiny; at this stage, indies are still not wholly accepted, but we're gaining ground every day, and the better quality of our work enhances our product (it is a product, free or not), also ourselves. As indie authors, we need to put the best face on our novels just as we strive to offer fantastic stories, amazing tales. What I have committed myself to, in publishing my first indie novel last July; I put that book out there, and kept right on going. Writing, editing, formatting, all the necessary ingredients but not in a haphazard, slipshod manner, yet to the best of my ability.

Why it pains me to see poorly written synopses, incomplete author pages. Simple covers aren't a huge drawback; you can't judge a book by its cover, but I can judge a writer by bad grammar and weak descriptions. And I do judge because I know I'm being scrutinized as well, and in a wider sense; every time an indie author presents their work in a careless manner, it reflects farther than that one writer. Indies are in this together; we need to support each other's creative endeavors, which I try to do whenever possible. But there is a demarcation between writers honesty attempting to make their stand, and a barrage which doesn't just include all the porn Smashwords publishes. My one peeve with Smashwords is how flagrantly the no nudity on covers rule is broken. Otherwise I have few complaints with what emerges on the home page (and no grumbles at all if the adult filter is on). It's a free service, which suits me fine, so I overlook that which isn't my cup of tea, focusing on what might be intriguing reading. And there is a lot available. Plenty to wake through as well, adult filter or no. I can spot a serious writer just from one glance; name is properly capitalized, synopsis is clear, doesn't end in the middle of a sentence. The author's page sports a photograph, a bio, sites where the author can be followed; blog, website, Facebook, Twitter, etc. That's not much, but you would be surprised at how many authors leave those blank or very thinly noted.

Now, this might come off sounding somewhat self-righteous, especially considering the issues of which I blog, from sport and TV rants to family and hummingbirds to writing guidance. A blog is one's personal habitat, like various social networking sites. As such, everyone has their own reasons for self-publishing, and I am all for freedom of the press. But... if a writer wants the respect of other authors, and far more importantly, of READERS, we must show some reverence to our audience! It behooves no one if all that waits for readers is a load of hoo-haa. No matter how pretty it is, a lemon is still tart. Add some sugar, and there you go. Time spent polishing prose is necessary, and a few minutes allocated to spiffing up other elements is just as important. At least if it matters to the writer. It matters to me about my writing. And in reading; I just don't have time for a novel or short story if the author can't bother to present it properly.

My not so small advice for today. The next post; kudos to indie writers who take their craft (and my time as a reader) seriously!

a football new year

2012-01-02T16:43:00.000-08:00

Heads-up; loads of football (and beach photos) throughout the post, as well as a rant against ESPN and TV in general.

The first Capitola pictures of the year; Bob looking over the edge of forever. He's had a great month at home, well, save those first few days after surgery. He's back to work tomorrow; all good things must come to an end.

My new year's routine is to put away Christmas decorations while watching The Rose Bowl. Because January first fell on a Sunday, the pro game took precedence, and for us here, it was a pretty terrific day. Bob's Packers beat division foe Detroit while sitting many Green Bay starters. My 49ers were mauling the hapless Rams, then narrowly escaped with a win after St. Louis scored seventeen points in the fourth quarter. Our teams will sit out next week's playoffs, then hosting their respective second round games. It did seem strange however, as The Rose Bowl, the granddaddy of college bowl games, was missing. Most of the current bowl games are rubbish, ESPN plumping for the advertiser's dollar (and the fans' too). To my dismay, this year's Rose Bowl isn't on ABC, but ESPN, both owned by the same company. Right now the Wisconsin Badgers are driving, tied with the Oregon Ducks (and their abysmally obnoxious mirror-like helmets) 21 all. Oregon races down the field for their touchdowns, Wisconsin more methodical, and I keep thinking instead of Badgers, warhorse announcer Brent Musburger is saying Packers. Or maybe that's just my Green Bay lovin' husband infiltrating my brain.

We arrived at the beach around 7.30 this morning; early light on the water made me run to capture it. It's been too long since my last visit, more planned for 2012 (and an upcoming post detailing all of 2012's hopes and dreams).

So the decorations have been boxed away, waiting for Bob to deposit them in the garage. He's out there watching aged VHS tapes; over the last week it was the 1997 Super Bowl, the Packers beating the New England Patriots. Today he's enmeshed in the Clinton-Lewinsky saga on CNN; why in the world did we bother taping that sort of hoo-haa? Because we could, I guess. He's a real sucker for TV; I'm all about sport, Doctor Who, the occasional old movie he finds, or the superb episode of The Twilight Zone. "Number 12 Looks Just Like You" is probably the most prophetic single slice of television I have ever seen; if you get a chance, don't miss it! But that's all I watch, which at this time of year, New Year's Day specifically, is enough. After The Rose Bowl (which just took a turn Wisconsin's way as they picked up a fumble, running it in for a touchdown) is the Fiesta Bowl (on ESPN, bah!) featuring Andrew Luck, oh and the rest of Stanford University's football team. If you follow American football, you probably know the Indianapolis Colts won the Suck For Luck sweepstakes yesterday. I've not followed Luck's college career other than awareness he was cruising to the NFL after this school year, and most likely, he'll play for the Colts, one of these days. In This Blog Has No Name, Griffin Miller contends the only use for the college game is to feed the National Football League. I tend to feel the same. Except for The Rose Bowl on New Year's Day.

Looking sort of north; this part of the coastline faces south, so maybe west? I'm terrible with that sort of stuff, left and right too...

Not sure if I'll watch the BCS Championship game (which is NOT a bowl game, but is also shown on ESPN, and don't even get me started on MNF's Jon Gruden); LSU and Alabama repeat their Southeastern Conference game from earlier in the year (LSU won 9-6 in overtime, big whoop). By then, 9 January, all the new year's bowl game aura is gone. When I was a kid (crabby small old-lady rant coming) all the bowl games (I think there were about six, maybe seven instead of the nearly forty) took place January first or right afterwards. The Orange Bowl, Sugar Bowl, Cotton Bowl, Fiesta Bowl, and The Rose Bowl. Now it's a farce, just like Oregon's absurd metallic helmets.

The opposite side; I'm not even going to get into north, south, east or west!

So what does that have to do with writing? Well, I didn't do any today! Or editing or any of that (Although another idea popped into my head after Bob and I had breakfast in Los Gatos...). Tomorrow Bob returns to work, so today was one last moment to unwind, frolic, and we did, going to Capitola, then Gayle's. He's not a Gayle's fan, but did enjoy his hot chocolate and the bear claw. I liked the bear claw too.

My latte, his bear claw and hot cocoa, with some water for good measure; I just love Gayle's!

We stopped at Michael's craft store on the way home; I needed another skein of burgundy yarn, bought two more blue and a stunning medium purple just for kicks. Once home he pruned the grapevine while I crocheted, waiting for The Rose Bowl to take down decorations. Now it's halftime, this blog is nearly done, he's still puttering in the garage, but Bill and Monica are over (in so many ways). Bob's faffing with an old turntable; yes, my husband has a turntable and the rest of a working stereo in the garage. He's hoping to have fixed a record player that went too fast. I'm going to watch the rest of The Rose Bowl (tied 28 all), then some of the next game, see if Andrew Luck is all he's cracked up to be. The sun is peeking out from heavy cloud cover, but no rain, none for weeks. The reservoir along Highway 17 to Capitola is as low as I have ever seen, looks like the end of the world as dry ground rises where water should be. I'd love to say rain is in the forecast, but it's not. Just a few more bowl games, the all-star games they call them now. The ones aired through the second half of December were just fodder for ESPN, pure pap. But when I look at what my husband watches either on our inside TV or on old VHS tapes in the garage, well, not much has changed. The 1997 Super Bowl and "Number 12 Looks Just Like You" are the exceptions; as a writer and a reader, TV is the bane of my existence.

How I looked early this morning before we left, also how I feel about my Niners and Bob's Packers receiving the top two NFC seeds for the playoffs!!! Niners went 13-3, the Pack 15-1; dude, can you say unbelievable??? (And a friendly rivalry if by some miracle they face each other in the NFC Championship!)

Well, except for Sundays during football season, Wimbledon, and when Doctor Who is on...

happy new year

2011-12-31T08:48:00.000-08:00

Yes, that time of year again. Twelve months have passed, incredible in their speed! To consider all that has occurred in this past year, dude! Dude pretty much covers it, from going indie to battling goiters. Let's not forget Thea's engagement and graduation, Bud also finishing college. Jay and Bud moved home, then Jay moved out, and as this year ends Bob's feeling pretty good. Well, right now he's in bed, so I imagine he's feeling drowsy, if not outright asleep.

Goiters and writing went hand in hand this year, but at the end, writing trumps! (Take that you over-enlarged thyroid!) But it wasn't just about writing. 2011 will linger for what occurred after the novel had been written and revised within an inch of its life; publication. This year I published four novels.

I wrote nine drafts while formatting and editing those four indie manuscripts. It's been a year of work and goiters, hummingbirds and kids, so many beautiful moments outweighing the slightly dodgy ones; I won't easily set aside fleeing the doctor's office when Bob's neck was prodded (expect something similar in a book one day). Equally I can't forget the night I published A Right Turn At Jesus, all my kids save Thea in this not so large house as that novel went live. Thea and I instant messaged, so even she was present. It takes a village, or my similarly far-flung and wide family, to get this action off the ground. My family figured heavily this year, partly due to my dad's ill health, but just the notion of how short life really is. It's not long at all, so why not just do it?

Why not publish some books, write some more? Why not write a few blogs (oh goodness!), why not take some trips (and come up with more book ideas), why not visit The National Mall or Alabama or SoCal, enjoying parts of American never before encountered. Why not just let it all hang out and put novels online, why not just watch my beloved San Francisco 49ers go 12-3 for the first time in over a decade, like since 1997? Why not I say, why not?

Why not look past what's expected, go above and beyond the call of duty? 2011 was a year of why not? Why not just feed some hummingbirds and see what happens? (They come back and want more!) Why not release a novel, then another, then another (They seem to accumulate like the blasted h'birds!). Why not write some music reviews, considering all the tunes I listen to? (Much different writing non-fiction, let me tell you!) Why not get that goiter out of Bob? (So Anna doesn't have to listen to the snorkling and snuffling anymore...)

Ahem, well, yes. But as that goiter was kicked to the curb, so were expectations, usual assumptions. Indie publishing is still odd to most, as in why not just do what's expected of you, unpublished and amateur author? Well, why NOT publish independently? Why should novels sit silently in hard drives or tucked in dark spaces? Let the river run, I say, or rather Carly Simon sings. Blast that song and see where you sit afterwards. Whether it's how to publish or grappling with an uncooperative manuscript (not to mention a bothersome thyroid); what's holding you back, keeping you down? What's tying hands behind your back or limiting your creativity? We all have stumbling blocks, goodness knows nobody's immune from writer's slumps, dark spaces where nothing seems right or focused. This year was a parallel of wondrous achievement slapped right alongside incredible fear; was Bob going to make it out of surgery all right? Is my dad's health going to spiral south? So far Dad is feeling no cancerous symptoms, and Bob? Bob is planning on his trek when he rolls out of bed. Now his legs hinder him, all that oxygen propelling him faster than his lower half can manage! It's been one hell of a year, if I might say so. But ultimately, good overcame the darker days, and on the last day of the year, I'm feeling fine, wonderful, wanting to shout from the rooftops; why not?

Maybe it's age, hitting my middle forties. Maybe it's with kids really on their own, my life is again about me, Bob, hummingbirds, words. The last two are new-ish in the big scheme, and while Bob's at work (or trekking the mountain) what about me? Time is fleeting, also abundant. The words are too. More words than sense I often say, but here it is, sitting in my lap. Type type typing more days than not, for some reason that has been building as every year passes. Five years ago I spent this day in Yorkshire, England, aware it was my last in the UK. Last New Year's Eve, last year there in all probability. But it was my first as a writer, 100K of Drop The Gauntlet safe in a laptop. In 2007 I was here in California, three more novels added to that initial foray. 2008 piled a few more, 2009 plopped a heft onto the pile. In 2010 I had over thirty manuscripts, wondering what came next. In 2011, I found that answer. It had a little to do with goiters, but mostly about liberation. As of today, four novels are available, in addition to Drop The Gauntlet; dude!

Dude indeed! Whatever 2012 brings, may it be all you could desire. And for the bumpy bits, well, at the end of the day even a coup-plotting thyroid was a part of the mystery. Let the new year guide you to pleasures and thrills, peace and joy. Now I'm off for a cuppa, and to feed those buzzing hummingbirds. Bob's neck is clear, but those birds, oi! I'm coming, I'm coming...

the first forty

2011-12-29T11:09:00.000-08:00

Not to be presumptuous, but today I completed my fortieth novel. And while I could get hit by a bus tomorrow (or later today, one never knows), I'm thinking there might be another forty or so stories waiting for their moment. I have the ideas, that's not an issue. Time is fleeting, speeding at a rate that makes me dizzy. 2012 is right around the corner, but For God And Country is done. My ninth manuscript this year, forty overall. So maybe another thirty or forty are out there, waiting to slip through my fingers. After the last five years I've had, anything can happen!

It's been five years since I started writing fiction, really getting my feet wet. But since the summer of 2009, well, let's say a downpour has fallen; more than half were written starting with The War On Emily Dickinson to the most recent addition. What does this mean? Well, on the outset, it stems from receiving supportive feedback from my stint in the 2009 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award competition. Nothing like hearing good things to spur the muse. Yet, something else, a deeper purpose; suddenly ideas were flying left and right, and the time, oh my, how the time was utilized! Twenty-seven first drafts have been crafted from August 2009 to today, the twenty-ninth of December 2011. Three of those have been indie published, several won't see the light of day. The bulk, well, many will be released in the coming years, as will some previous to that wordy explosion. From where it comes, I don't question. Like the old saying goes, when God says jump, don't ask how high.

Don't ask, for two reasons; one is that you wouldn't believe it if he told you. The other is if you knew and accepted it, a barrier would be set, a ceiling placed over your head. But if it's all unknown, well, anything can happen, the possibilities are endless! If after that contest in 2009, if you had told me I'd set on this course, from all those drafts to going indie, hah! I'd would have laughed myself silly. Who could write that many tales, who wants to stray from the comfortable, if not dodgy, path of traditional publishing? Without any idea of how far and to where, I just took each step, holding to the knowledge anything was possible. And I mean anything.

What else does this mean? It means don't stop writing. Don't let anyone or anything deter you, even if the edges are fuzzy, the center at times unstable. If you have faith, some or any, hold to that. Let the dream lead you on an unbelievable, beautiful road. With forty novels written in five years and five manuscripts published, I can rightly say the only thing to prevent your dream is fear. Whatever writing means to you, in any form, don't be afraid. Let those fingers, stories and dreams fly!

sounds of silence

2011-12-27T14:22:00.000-08:00

Right now it's me and Simon & Garfunkel. Bob's on his walk, Bud's running errands, Thea and Brian are with his folks and Jay and her posse have gone to retrieve a vacuum. She borrowed ours and returned it a bit dodgy. My sister Lynn took the kids' hoover in summer, as there just wasn't room for it in my car or the moving truck when we moved Jay and Bud back to the Bay Area. Lynn and her husband fell in love with the Dyson, a marvel of British engineering. Aware that Jay would trek north for said hoover, Lynn got a new one, and now mine won't be subjected to what a houseful of girls and guys traipse across the cream carpet.

That has little to do with writing, only an anecdote. Also indicative of the coming year; people making their own lives, vacuuming their own houses. Thea and Brian will be sorting their own domain soon enough, Jay pleased as punch at her place. Bud's happy to hang out with us folks, and his presence is a pleasure. The goiter is gone (good riddance!) and life goes on. Christmas with all my kids was fabulous, watching Doctor Who, then Bob's Packers grabbed another victory! New books await my attention, a lovely teapot from Bud gracing my morning brew, no drips from the spout! Then Christmas ends, Boxing Day to follow; Bob and I took a drive after breakfast with Thea and Brian, a little shopping for reduced festive gift wrap, bows and tags. Then more footie last night, but by then it was quiet. Just myself and the husband, snuggled close. Not as in years past when small children clamored and whooped; time moves along, providing new joys, different thrills. I'm looking at 2012 with similar eyes; I'll always be a writer, but now I'm a publisher too and I can't wait to note that avenue.

I had coffee this morning with my delightful buddy Julie Rose. She's looking at the new year with excitement, her second novel Oleanna to be released at the end of January. We chatted about Christmas, Doctor Who, indie publishing, and I left with such a warm spirit. Also questions, some of which I'll soon expound, as well as more about Julie's new novel. As this year was spent jumping into the independent publishing pond, 2012 will explore that pool's dimensions, tiptoeing along the edges, feeling how deep it goes. Pretty far down, I would imagine, as far as I want to take it.

Indie publishing is here to stay, for which I am so grateful! Technology offers wide possibilities for writers, but it's about the writing, it has to be. Which I have done in copious doses for the last couple of years; time for me to reap the benefits of all that typing. As this year comes to a close, I have a novel to finish, editing that never ends. But these last quiet days have been necessary, sounds not familiar to life as a writer. Then Bob returns from his walk; his newly freed air passages spur his legs, causing slight knee issues. Rockabilly and doo-wop spill from his PC; those are some of the usual tones. I'm hoping to tackle some editing this afternoon, the soothing tap tap tap of my fingers on keys, leading 2011 to a satisfying conclusion. A proper end-of-year post is in the works, but for now I'm slowly returning to the land of writing. And publishing. And whatever else comes along...

chestnuts roasting...

2011-12-24T20:57:00.000-08:00

Hummingbirds fed. Kitchen mopped. Laundry done. Petrol acquired. Pressies wrapped. Goodies made (thanks mostly to Thea and Brian). I still need to fix Grandma's fruit salad; canned pineapple, mandarins, fruit cocktail, marshmallows, coconut and a bit of sour cream. Otherwise, it's looking a lot like Christmas...

When we lived in Britain, I got into the habit of cleaning house on Christmas Eve; I think it went along with how in the UK shops closed for Christmas and Boxing Day. The whole country shut down, it was so wonderful! Now on Christmas Eve I have this unshakable need to tidy, from laundry to vacuuming, all in between. I sorted those chores, then sat down for an afternoon of football, as Thea and Brian arrived, as Bud ran some last minute errands, as Jay popped in to wrap presents. We'll see her again tomorrow; she's with her boyfriend's family tonight. Tonight we're watching TV; Jaws at the moment, interspersed with Die Hard, Deep Space 9 on the way. If we last, church is at 11; I had some late afternoon tea, along with Hello Dolly and crumb bars that Thea made, while sweating out my 49ers against the Seattle Seahawks. The Niners won 19-17, whew!

Christmas Eve with older kids isn't much different than when they were little; Thea is exuberant, Jay was giddy. Bud's hanging back and Brian is adjusting to our traditions; Thai food, some TV and goodies. Tomorrow morning we'll eat some cinnamon and orange rolls, open presents, faff about. Ham and garlic potatoes are the dinner fare, then Bob's Green Bay Packers along with Doctor Who. The Christmas TV shows were a big deal in England, another tradition following us across the pond. That footie is on tomorrow night, Bob's favorite team, is a bonus! Christmas is about surprising joys, imminent thrills, deeper meanings. I love deeper meanings.

One of the deepest is my children. All my brood is home this year; as small kids, they were always close. Now their presence is a gift, perhaps one of the biggest. What sits under the tree is a blessing, but it's those I love who bring my largest smiles.

HI EVERYONE THIS IS THEA MERRY CHRISTMAS NOW BACK TO OUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED BLOGGING KTHNXBAI

See what I mean? Thea is the big helper, even though she's the shortest in the family. This time next year she and Brian will be... who knows where! Married, maybe making their own Christmas traditions. But this year they're here, under our roof, and I couldn't be happier. Like a book that flows without any set outline, but writes itself, is how this holiday season has unfolded, goiters and all. I don't know when we will all share these days again, but this year we're together, and I'm thankful for family, health, for many wonders. The ultimate gift is something indescribable, but it runs through my hands, the words, through all I am. Christmas is one day but the peace and humility reverberates. Whatever you're doing, may it be full of joy and hope.

write left write

2011-12-22T07:49:00.000-08:00

So now that Bob's feeling so well, I don't need to remember how to leave the UCSF car park. Right left right isn't necessary information, but for how long it stays in my brain, who knows! Occasionally I still think of Species 8472; maybe watching Deep Space 9 on DVD for the last few nights keeps the Star Trek inferences afloat. No better writing on American TV than DS9; tight, meaningful, nothing superfluous. If sci-fi isn't your bag, ignore the alien prosthetics and let the drama sweep you away. Masterful how Marc Alaimo as Gul Dukat oozes sincerity toward his daughter Ziyal while plotting to betray their Federation allies. Melanie Smith's poignancy haunts, torn between her manipulative father and his enemy, Garak, who is one of my favorite DS9 recurring characters. Andrew Robinson layers a bone-chilling spy with sarcasm and humanity; he doens't understand why Ziyal cares for him, but enjoys any way to dig at Gul Dukat.

Okay, loads of Trek fodder this morning, blame my head cold. Blame the early hour or Tylenol and antihistamine. Blame the writer in me; I haven't done anything author-like in two days and I'm getting twitchy. Watching great drama makes me long to return to a project, either in the writing (For God And Country) or editing (September Story, The Thorn And The Rose). I have been plotting, oh good grief! Yes, I have another novel spinning, but I've also dealt with real yarns; I made a scarf yesterday, not much else for me to do. Jay might bring a few friends over for Christmas, and I wanted to have something under the tree for them. All I did yesterday was crochet, blow my nose, wash my hands, drink tea, repeat. And watch DS9, savoring crisp dialogue, entwined storylines, great sacrifice, horrendous betrayal. Under the headpieces and makeup, Deep Space 9 is Shakespeare, set on a space station.

Where are your writing worlds centered? Most of mine are right here in California, a few in Britain, in modern times. I've dabbled in sci-fi, For God And Country and In The Blue, but both bubble with ordinary angst, my stock in trade. DS9 is the same, feuds and camaraderie, love and treachery. The triumph of good over evil; few characters are as twisted but fascinating as Gul Dukat. Deep Space 9 mined their secondary cast for all their worth; Alaimo and Robinson, the superb Jeffrey Combs as a smarmy Vorta or a ruthless Ferngi, once playing both roles in the same episode! J.G. Hertzler stuns as the one-eyed Klingon General Martok; how often do you keep reading due to the recurring personas? Main characters need a great supporting cast, which DS9 has in abundance. One of the joys in writing a series was introducing those who fleshed out the story. Alvin's Farm is about Alvin and Jenny, Sam and Tommie, but without Tommie's wife Rae, Sam's brother Jacob and all the rest, pages would lie empty, the tale falling flat. I needed more than Alvin, Jenny, Sam and Tommie to fill six books, and yes, juggling a large ensemble wasn't easy, but the reward is great, layers and lives adding to the soup.

I was never a Star Trek TOS fan. Call it a Shatner-aversion, but Bob brought Star Trek TNG into our lives when the kids were little. Star Trek and Star Wars cross lines often in our household; I can't stand the last three Star Wars flicks (or are they really the first three?) about as much as I detest the ancient Star Trek episodes. But give me Deep Space 9 any day of the week, head cold or no. So much goes into good television (on the other side of the shore, check out Doctor Who, which deserves its own separate post, maybe the next time I get a head cold); tightly woven plots, surprises and honest characterizations. In sci-fi, faces can distract but nothing disguises bad writing. When I take in great drama, it ups my game, makes me antsy to feel better, to return to work, yet work is a misnomer. Anyone who writes knows the truth; passion, desire, need. I need to get back into the groove, not just wax about it here. But for now, that's about all I can give, illness and upcoming holidays standing between me and my adored occupation.

Christmas is one of my favorite seasons, this year especially, all my kids (and maybe some extras) home. Equally I've been blessed with the burning call to create, a bit muted at the moment, but a few episodes have reignited that fire, stoking that flame. The last couple of nights Bob has dangled decade-old science fiction so close; no telling what tickles the muse, but I'm hoping we'll get a few more episodes tonight. Thea and Brian will be over for dinner, Bob and Bud commandeering the barbecue, Jay assisting if she doesn't have work. It's been a strange December, no rain, sunny days the rule. My evening plan is to sit with family, a burger in hand, more great DS9 on tap. Not exactly A Miracle On 34th Street, but certainly some of the best TV made in America. Which will hold us all until Christmas Day, when the other side of the pond's fabulous science fiction hero graces the screen. But I'll blog about Doctor Who another day...

attack of the pre-Christmas head cold

2011-12-20T16:03:00.000-08:00

I woke with a sore throat. Usually I don't. Usually I wake feeling pretty good. This morning was different.

Football wasn't to blame; my beloved 49ers actually beat the Pittsburg Steelers, blackouts be darned! Twice the lights went out at Candlestick Park, but the Niners' defense wouldn't be dimmed. Bob and I watched football last night, then crashed late, after I noted all the post-game wrap-ups.

My throat didn't hurt when I went to bed.

Now it's my runny nose, tired eyes, halted demeanor. Thank goodness the Christmas shopping is nearly done. Bob has a few bits left, good thing he's fully mended. Not sure when the plethora of goodies will be made; this is a strange holiday, what with a recovering spouse, trying to complete a novel and now a humdinger of a cold. And my 49ers are 11-3. In December, and it's 2011. Not the 1980s or even the early 1990s. Those were the last glory days for the San Francisco 49ers. An odd time has fallen, lights going out at the stadium, our defense picking off three passes, also collecting a fumble. A bad night for Pittsburg's quarterback, suffering a bum ankle, but that has nothing to due with my illness. I'm fuzzy, hazy, on drugs and tea and half a chocolate banana muffin.

Not sure what this means for the rest of the week. All I know is Bob's getting us dinner tonight, Lillie Mae's Soul Food. That's not entirely Christmasy, but then here in California it's sunny, dry (So very day with no rain in weeks!), not cold. 60 F right now, at 3.54 p.m and I need a Kleenex. Stay warm and healthy wherever you are. Or if its hot, keep cool and in tip-top shape!

in the dark

2011-12-18T06:53:00.000-08:00

If you suddenly found yourself twenty years in the past, thirty even, how would your writing change?

My house is fairly quiet, Bob and Bud sleeping, only some computer music for company, 50 Words For Snow, Kate Bush's new album, which I also own on vinyl. But where the stereo sits is along Bud's bedroom wall, and while it's not a noisy record, it is just 6.21 in the morning. Yes, on Sunday, I'm awake at 6.21, why it's dark, quiet, making me ponder such questions. If I was transported to 1991 or 1981, would I still be able to write?

Darkness winds odd questions into my head, novels too. I came up with The War On Emily Dickinson in the middle of the night, a few others too. When Bob wakes, we'll go to breakfast. I'll write this morning, as my 49ers don't play until tomorrow. I'll wrap some Christmas presents, as they are accumulating. I have a load of wash that didn't get done yesterday, things I did twenty and thirty years ago. But I wasn't writing then, I was in high school in 1981, caring for small toddlers and thinking about having baby number 3 in 1991. Jay came over yesterday to do laundry; she's nineteen and living out of the house, but still our youngest; she napped on the sofa as I got her towels from the dryer, putting in her other load. She and her housemates are getting a washer and dryer this week, but a few bits needed a wash. Plus she cleaned my bathroom for me, sweet girl!

But in the dark, all those normal moments slip away. With just one light in the kitchen and the glow of a monitor, it's a different world, it's nearly the end of 2011 but easily 1991 or 1981, a few decades in the past. And if I found myself there, at this age and novels accumulated, would I still be able to write as prolifically as I do now? How much of my creative outburst relies on a desktop, seventeen thousands songs right at a click, an iTouch to read over those novels, and read other novels. How much of my writerly life is tied into the present day and all these accouterments? A few passings makes me wonder; Christopher Hitchens and Vaclav Havel, and Russell Hoban in the last few days, Christopher Logue at the beginning of the month. Those men used typewriters, had no Wikipedia, did it the hard way. I have it easy, in many respects, Smashwords to distribute my ebooks, Lulu for print novels, the web for research and outreach. Strip all those elements, plop me in front of an electric or even manual typewriter, and just what would I do?

I try to keep things simple, but I am bound to this time, these advances, this life. I highly doubt I'll find myself set twenty or thirty years in the past, for which I am grateful. I won't ask how writers did it in the old days, because the rules are changed due to computers and the web, but a writer still needs to write. How dependent am I on modern conveniences; pretty dependent. Blogging and Smashwords are just one segment. All editing is done on my PC, not to mention formatting novels. At times I feel tied to my computer, work-times. Did writers in the past feel that way toward their typewriters? Or perhaps glued to their mailboxes or wherever the post arrived; how would I cope in that sort of environment?

In the dark questions swirl; I am so thankful to be where I am time-wise when it comes to writing, but sometimes it feels too invasive, too much information. All I have to do then is get up from my chair, find another tasking. But if I did find myself back in time, all the tales within my brain would probably still churn. I'd need to locate some White-Out and paper, find a typewriter, then see what happened next.

bits and bobs

2011-12-15T19:10:00.000-08:00

So today my indie novels began appearing on Kobo. That site had been in limbo since summer, probably due to Borders going under. About two weeks ago ebooks were shipped, and I patiently waited, checking often, to no avail. I really didn't want to write to Smashwords, partly because a heap of novels were sent to Kobo, also I didn't want to complain. Well, maybe those are the same reason. Anyways, I received a wonderful surprise this afternoon; A Right Turn At Jesus showed up first, then The War On Emily Dickinson. Hopefully over the next day or two A Slider, Tumbling and Alvin's Farm will appear; the latter has been shipped to all the usual distributors, so I wait to see it on Barnes & Noble, iBooks, Diesel and Sony. Sony takes an extra week; they require the ISBN numbers first, then the books appear.

Details that an indie author needs to consider; it's not just about writing. But, and I firmly believe this, it needs to be about writing first. Recently I've found that maybe that isn't what drives all indie authors. But it should; indie authors need to write great books. Or at least really good books, if they want to be successful. Now success, success... Success is different for each person, but by hanging out a shingle that says WRITER, the product needs to substantiate the title. In my very humble opinion, an indie author has to put the writing first.

Okay, so onwards... Frances the badger was one of my childhood heroes. Writer Russell Hoban died recently, but he wasn't just a children's book author. Still, I will never forget Frances' spunk or slight suspicions. All the tributes I read noted that Hoban was addicted to writing. I understand that notion well. There is a thrill, a high, some nirvana-like state when in the middle of fashioning a novel. I have so many ideas, probably more than sense, one of my driving forces. Publishing independently doesn't necessarily factor into it; I have plenty of manuscripts. But indie writers do themselves a favor by having an array of novels for readers to peruse. It behooves an indie author to practice their craft, if nothing else. I have no idea what Russell Hoban would have thought of going indie, but I bet Frances the badger would have considered it an option, if she wrote books.

But Frances was a badger, although that's not to say a badger couldn't write a novel. Publishing is changing, so maybe a badger could tell their tale. The guard isn't what I knew when I first read Bedtime For Frances, but nothing lasts forever. Not traditional publishing, not even Kodak. I read this article a while ago, mostly because I've known Kodak all my life. Now Kodak is nearly kaput, but not due to no one taking pictures. The manner of photography has changed, a process technology as LA Times writer Michael Hiltzik notes. He compares Kodak to other shaky businesses; newspapers, book publishers, movie studios and record labels. Yet these businesses are faltering not due to outdated products, but lagging distribution models. Which brings me back to my initial topic for today; indie novels and the way to reach readers. Online retailing is a fact of life for writers, especially for indie writers. Ebooks won't disappear, neither will digital music or streamed TV shows or news on the web. These are technologies just like microwave ovens and dishwashers, items our grandparents and great-grandparents never dreamed of, but make our lives that much easier. I don't predict the future, but I'm pretty pleased to be publishing my own books just how I want to do it.

But I won't forget my first camera, a Kodak Instamatic with the ice-cube flash. If Frances the badger took pictures, I bet she used an Instamatic too.

Christmas prep and writing

2011-12-13T15:47:00.000-08:00

On Sunday all the kids were around, and they put up our tree. Jay had to work, so decorations were left to Thea and Brian, and while it's a small tree this year, it looks very lovely. This will be the first year with all the kids home, the fiance included. I am looking forward to the holiday with great anticipation!

Got back to work today, starting a round of revisions on September Story, for publication late next spring. But more pressing was pulling out the WIP; six chapters of For God And Country remain, and I hadn't touched that poor manuscript in over a week. Usually I'm pretty focused, daily writing of a novel until it's done. Other things have been higher on the list, but with an open morning, I sat down, read over the last few pages, then listened to a song from Death Cab For Cutie; "Unobstructed Views". I took a sip of tea, gazed out the window, then set fingers to the keyboard. A few hours later I had a chapter completed, which felt so GOOD! I'm hoping to finish the novel before the end of the year, but if it lingers into January, well, so be it. Thea has finals this week, her whirlwind visit north over the weekend a taste of what it will be like soon; she flies back to our neck of the woods this Friday for a nice long break. Bob has some doctor visits, Christmas shopping to accomplish, but I did get my cards sent out. The tree is up, decorations scattered. I need to get the holiday dishes in the cupboards, need to have a look at the next book in the Alvin's Farm series. I'm enjoying having my husband around, especially since he's feeling pretty well. It was a treat with all the kids close on Sunday; Thea and Brian even sat through the evening footie, bless their hearts! I love this season, the closing of another year, reflecting on what the last eleven months have wrought. Plenty of good things for my family, a few dicey moments too. Overall, it's been a fine collections of days, but I'll tackle a wrap-up in a future post.

For now, I'm just relieved to get another chapter under my belt. Also pondering indie publishing; if you're interested in Amazon's latest move with independent authors, have a look here. I wrote some musings on my publishing blog; lots to consider if going indie tickles your fancy.

NaNo and the (hopefully) last word on goiters

2011-12-11T10:29:00.000-08:00

Let me first state this; I am a writer, not a medical technician or associate or anything medically enhanced at all. Cut me and I bleed words. This whole hospital/thyroid drama has been more than I ever wanted to experience, but sometimes we get more than we bargained for. Bob is recovering well, his neck sort of puffy, his voice returning. It's odd to think he has to take meds for the rest of his life, but lots of people do. Nonetheless, I will be so relieved when this is but a faint memory, something we ponder with awe, as in how glad it has passed, and how so many things went right.

I look back on November the same way; I hit my NaNoWriMo 2011 goals, but also found a surprise; I couldn't write For God And Country and Penny Angel concurrently; heck, at the rate I'm going, FGAC will be completed in 2013. That's a small joke, because as soon as it's feasibly possible, I will get that book sorted, maybe back to it tomorrow, depending on the husband. NaNo 2011 will be recalled for how I relearned to write in a not-very-NaNo way, and a pesky goiter that didn't take over Cleveland. It wanted to, but Bob had the last laugh.

So NaNo, NaNoWriMo, National Novel Writing Month... Well, I have Penny Angel to show for it, half of FGAC. NaNo was full of a new website, beta testing in September and October that led to November, so I was pretty revved up for writing. Things went well for about four days, then I had my TMI meltdown at the doctor's office. After that, November meant something else.

But that's part of the challenge, what I found during Camp NaNoWriMo over summer, which inadvertently prepped me for last month. And probably for 2012; I want to focus on publishing, hopefully finding some peaceful coexistence between that and writing. I love writing, don't get me wrong, but for the last two years I have done A LOT of it. So much that a small sabbatical looks great, refreshing, necessary. Not that I'm kicking NaNo to the curb, only that during the last few years manuscripts have multiplied like rabbits. Time to sit back and take stock; what Bob's goiter did for me at the beginning of this year, and now at the end, it's gone, the landscape altered.

Now, I want to slip this in without sounding like a curmudgeon; the same thing is looming for NaNoWriMo. Even with this being Chris Baty's last year on board as executive director of OLL, funding has been low. It's always low, the eternal fate of most non-profits. But in nearly mid-December, The Office of Letters and Light is looking at a real shortfall, over $200K behind where they need to be. Not sure where that will leave Script Frenzy, Camp NaNoWriMo, NaNo and the Young Writer's Program in 2012. I'd hate any of these cut or curtailed, but the bottom line is bleak; if money runs low, something's going to get the axe. Time was squeezed for me last month, For God And Country suffered. Priories get juggled. A long-time NaNo supporter, I'm curious how this will fall out, how I felt earlier this year when Bob was told his poor breathing wouldn't kill him, a quality of life issue. By October, the rules had changed; that goiter had to go.

He breathes so quietly now. His blood pressure has lowered, no nosebleeds, and even with the risks of surgery, it is a tremendous blessing now that it's over. Mostly over; follow-up appointments await, plus the pill he takes every day, for the rest of his life. But overall, it was a good thing. He wasn't looking forward to it AT ALL, a most unkind cut, but really, the best way to go.

Similarly, I wonder if OLL makes some unpleasant decisions, perhaps that too will be for the best, long-term. Hard to think long-term, because it's the here and now we experience. I have to think long-term for publishing; currently it's a small, quiet animal, but I am SO GLAD I did it, and look forward to whatever 2012 holds. Less writing, more formatting, a shift in direction. Bob's long-term prognosis is easier breathing interspersed with doctor's visits to check hormone levels. And NaNoWriMo? That's a big question mark. Chris Baty's departure is like that goiter's removal, like taking a vital organ from OLL, yet, it will survive. Not without some pains and readjustments, but OLL as a whole isn't going to fall apart. As Chris wrote, the next chapter of NaNoWriMo is for us Wrimos to write. For thirteen years he did his part with immense cheer and aplomb. I thank Chris Baty and all those at OLL from the bottom of my writerly soul; without them my authorial dreams wouldn't have flowered. This blog wouldn't exist, all my stories locked in the deepest recesses of my brain.

Bob has quietly mentioned he hopes his thyroid doesn't grow back. I roll my eyes when he says this; no, that goiter is gone, GONE! As for NaNo... It will return, perhaps limited, maybe no Camp next summer, maybe no Young Writer's Program. I HOPE nothing will be tweaked for the worse, but time will tell the outcome. Maybe, if some part is lost, it will only be temporary. Or maybe not. If the doctor hadn't removed all of Bob's thyroid, it could have grown back. That would be the ONLY way (rolling my eyes again), but the whole kit'n'kaboodle was taken, so no more goiter. The Office of Letters and Light will continue, perhaps in a new direction. Definitely with a new executive director. Whoever that is, I wish them the very best, and pledge my continued support for programs that excite the imagination, spark the creative juices, making dreams come true. And then, well, then I'll do what comes naturally, pulling out yet another manuscript for inspection, add another song to a novel playlist. Then sit my butt in the chair, crack my knuckles, get back to spinning yarns. Now with this goiter outta the way, that's what it's all about.

And Bob, kids, tea, the hummingbirds, football, etc....

cheezbugga, cheezbugga

2011-12-07T08:52:00.000-08:00

Lounging vertically on the sofa, Bob had his first post-goiter dream this morning. I was doing some Rigorous Morning Overhauls on the last book of the Alvin's Farm series as he silently napped, he is so quiet now! When he woke, his soft voice raspy not just from neck surgery but a recovering right vocal chord (pinched by that awful goiter), he noted he had dreamed about a cheeseburger, his first dream since Monday.

I asked if the cheeseburger was fresh. He said no, that it had been microwaved. That was all he remembered.

He's doing so well considering he lost a good amount of blood. No transfusion was needed, but the lead-up to surgery wasn't easy; his trachea had been reduced to half a centimeter in diameter and a camera would be eased down his throat before the tube to put him under. And this would all be done while he was still awake! Right before they wheeled him away, he was sucking down lidocaine to numb his throat, very unpleasant, but he recalls nothing of the ten minutes it took them to position the fiber-optic camera, then the anesthetic tube. They said he was patient, and all he recalls is one asking the other if he'd been given the purple yet. No, came the answer, then Bob was out.

No idea what the purple was, and now he's dreaming of cheeseburgers. I am so relieved and pleased for how everything went, the wonderful surgical team and fabulous nurses afterwards. It's going to be a while before Bob is truly back on his feet, so in the meantime, if you're looking for writing-type posts, I started a new Year Of blog on the first of December, which might run for thirteen months, we'll see how I'm feeling late next November. A Year Of Publishing, Independently is the exact title, full of all things indie publishing. I've not yet had time to properly announce it, but I suppose a dreamy cheeseburger is the perfect herald. A Year Of Writing, With Hummingbirds will wind down in a few weeks, but I will finish For God And Country this month or eat a cheeseburger trying!

Or Bob will enjoy one for me, either in sleep or held in his recovering hands...

post-goiter update

2011-12-05T22:02:00.000-08:00

Well it's gone, I'm home, and Bob's sleeping, I hope. He was nearly there when I left, had been on his feet, his neck quite petite, a little wrinkly, a half-pound goiter outta there! All went well, he was breathing on his own even before he reached recovery. So it's time for some shut-eye, then back to San Francisco tomorrow. And maybe I'll bring him back with me, if the doc give the go-ahead.

Again, thank you SO MUCH for thoughts and prayers. Everything went so well, I am in awe.

Now, where's my bed???

As of noon on Tuesday, Bob was home! As of half an hour later, he was sleeping so very quietly. Again, thanks for all the comments and support; we both really appreciate it!

big day coming

2011-12-04T16:12:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow Bob has surgery, so it will be a quiet week. No work, just driving from the valley to the tip of the peninsula, keeping an eye on the clock. A long day, one of those sorts of days that you can't prepare for other than pack a bagel, laptop, iTouch, contact info, a book. Yes, even with all that technology, I'll take a book. I won't be leaving until the car park closes, 9 p.m., and I didn't see any outlets in the waiting area when we went up earlier in the week, sitting in the same operating waiting area. If I run low on power, I can always pull out a novel.

So, barring any unforeseen complications, I'll be back to the saddle sometime later in the week; I'll pop an update as soon as time allows. Thanks for listening to all my goiter caterwauling, and keep Bob in your thoughts and prayers. Hopefully soon that obnoxious goiter will be a footnote, only caring for my man, Christmas, finishing For God And Country and a wee bit of editing on my mind...

Well, and a smidgen of footie; my 49ers just clinched their division (NFC West), beating the St. Louis Rams 26-0, hoot hoot! And Bob's Packers took it to the wire, winning by a last-second field goal over the NY Giants 38-35. Green Bay is still undefeated, just by the skin of their teeth in this game, whew!

Alvin's Farm

2011-12-01T18:15:00.000-08:00

As of 5.09 p.m. Pacific Standard Time, this book is live (and free)! Amid NaNoWriMo, Bob's goiter woes, and American football, one of my all-time favourite novels was published today, the first in a series of six, a story originally planned to be a little 60K tale. Sometimes the muse goes off on a tangent. Alvin's Farm is one of those times.

What can I say about this book that would fully explain all it took out of me to write it, what I learned, felt, discovered, at times endured; if you're into family sagas, most certainly give it a go. If you like love stories, definitely get your copy. If the 1970s holds a spot in your heart, this novel is set smack-dab in that decade, February of 1975 finding Jenny Cope stepping from a Greyhound Bus into a cool, green world. She's led there by a wily OAP (senior citizen), who teaches her to crochet, also opening Jenny's heart. Small stitches start the process, then a challenged man takes over. When Jenny Cope meets Alvin Harris, her life will never be the same.

If tangled webs are your preference, hold onto your hat; Jenny has been on the run since she was seventeen, living all over America's southeast, sleeping with any man who will have her. Jenny's past rests in the shadows, of which rainy Oregon has plenty, rooting her feet to Alvin's farm. She wants to run, all she's done for ages, but Alvin's compassionate, sunny nature lifts the clouds, his ocean blue eyes easing Jenny's paralyzing fears. And if that wasn't enough, Alvin's not the only man falling in love with her. Sam Cassel finds Jenny an intriguing mystery, reminding him of his late wife, brutally murdered when Sam was twenty-one years old.

What if farming or ranching is your speed? Alvin tends Granny Smith apples, while his best friend down the road raises beef cattle. Tommie Smith wanted to play baseball, but a car accident wrecked his dreams. Now he's a philosopher, taking Jenny under his wing, what he's done with Sam after his wife was killed. Sam's older brother Jacob knows the truth of that turmoil, why he drinks so much. Tommie downs a few cold ones too, but as he balances visible and silent hurts, it takes a few beers to maintain his sanity.

I never planned this tale to unwind as it did, I really only wanted to write a little yarn. Yarn figures prominently, Jenny's pastime when she's not cooking for Alvin. She was only looking for a job, a new start, but in Oregon, has she finally found stability? Or will Jenny's heart once again go through the wringer. With two men in love with her, Jenny aches to forget her wretched past. But even a decade after running from her family, memories linger under her skin, thunderstorms stirring pain not even Alvin can relieve.

Alvin's Farm is available on Smashwords for free, like all my ebooks. The second in this series, The Thorn And The Rose, will be released in January 2012. There's nothing so thrilling as publishing a novel, and Alvin's Farm warms me all through, perfect reading as days grow short, evenings turn chilly. All I can say is enjoy!

right left right

2011-11-29T18:54:00.000-08:00

Just in case I forget between now and next week, that's how I exit the car parking structure by the hospital where Bob's getting his goiter out next week. I go right, then left, then right again onto Geary. Then I take it down to the first block past Park Presidio, where I can make a left turn. I flip a U-turn, then turn right onto Park Presidio, going through Golden Gate Park, heading to 19th. Then I follow the alphabet backwards out of the city, onto I-280, down to my neck of the Bay Area woods. I'm not worried about Bob's surgery, not after meeting his surgeon ten days ago, then more of the staff at UCSF today. He's feeling good about things too. Now let's get that goiter out, and start the healing.

I've learned a lot since this has fallen our way; I've relearned how to write. I cut my teeth on NaNo (and I'll recap that in a day or two), writing like my life depending on it. I hated losing any writing time, maybe a day here, maybe two there. Once I didn't write for three days and nearly lost my bearings. Three years ago when we moved into this house I took a week off NaNo, and it was okay. But until this year, that's the longest I've gone without writing while writing. Was it a crutch, was it legitimate? Was it a great way to get out of cooking and housework; sorry family, I'm writing... Whatever it was, in August everything went sort of haywire. Bob and I went to the East Coast and I got sick in the early days of Camp NaNoWriMo, didn't write for days. Later that month we helped moved Thea to SoCal, another long weekend of no words. But guess what? The novel, Beautiful Animals, was completed, and I didn't fall into a heap of goo.

As for this month... The recap will note that I managed two novels, not concurrently, both hitting 50K. But the second won't be done before Bob's surgery, not with the imminent publication of Alvin's Farm, and that boisterous, obnoxious goiter. I won't be writing in the city while Bob's under the knife, or I won't be noveling. I'm hoping to sort a review of Kate Bush's new album, maybe farewell essays for R.E.M. and The White Stripes for Vivid Scribe. Those articles haven't been written, not with novels to finish and revise. I'm listening to Bush's 50 Words For Snow as I type, and it's GREAT! (Mini review; if you like Kate Bush, definitely check out her new release.) Plenty to keep me busy while Bob sleeps, not to mention the hospital has wi-fi, hoot hoot! Today as Bob had blood drawn, an EKG, chest X-ray and a nice chat with an anesthesiologist, I surfed, then read. Then he was done, we paid for parking, and I went right left right out of the car park. Now I'm home, eating a chocolate chocolate chip banana muffin, letting gorgeous piano tones wash over me. Again, I really recommend that new Kate Bush; jazzy and ethereal, perfect for the early dark skies in the northern hemisphere. If you NaNoing this month, may tomorrow wrap up all your NaNo dreams. And if you can spare a few bucks, Chris Baty would really appreciate it. I know I would too.

my career as an indie novelist

2011-11-27T19:25:00.000-08:00

Isn't that title a mouthful? My career as an indie novelist, my career as an indie novelist, humph! Just who do I think I am?

Oh yeah, I'm an indie novelist. Ahem, well, yes indeed. So, as an indie novelist for the last few months, what have I learned (and why am I writing this post)? Well, it's a lot of work, which is fine. I have a lot of time. It's balancing work and life, which isn't always easy, especially in November. When my husband is looking at surgery. When there are hummingbirds to feed and football to watch and Christmas right around the corner. But nobody's twisting my arm, I'm doing this of my own free will. Lately I've been BUSY. Really busy. I took this afternoon off, after a long morning of writing, because I wanted to watch football. And do some laundry. And write a blog. or two; I was noting the day's accomplishments and it evolved into my career as an indie novelist. I smile writing that, because my career is very small. Subdued. Tiny really, but just because it's not loud and boisterous doesn't mean it's nonexistent. It's bubbly, effusive within my mind, if nothing else. Who knows were it will go down the road? I'm hoping not to write so much in 2012; I want to focus on publishing. Not necessarily on marketing; that's not my emphasis at the moment. But maybe one day it will be. And if that occurs, the books I release now, in these early days, will be my back catalog. The books I'm publishing now and in the coming year are very important; the Alvin's Farm series contains some of my favorite manuscripts. I'll publish September Story, a 2009 ABNA semi-finalist, plus This Blog Has No Title, the novel written after Thea's migraine debacle. I'm going to attempt to release several novels, because one of the things I've learned is for indie/ebook publishing, more is better. More but not rubbish. That means eons of editing, reams of revisions. So much self-motivation because this is all on me.

Independent noveling isn't just writing, it's formatting, covers, timing; having something new for people to read, which isn't a problem for me, one of the reasons I went indie. Plenty of manuscripts in the vault means I have years ahead of me. I'm quiet now, but who knows what could/might/will happen. So I'm thinking about what comes next, I have a plan. Not fiendish or extravagant, but I know the next batch of books I want to publish. Using Smashwords has been wonderful; I have few complaints. A couple of issues with ebooks reaching various online distributors, but that's on Smashwords to manage, once I drop them a note. One goal for 2012 is releasing one or two print novels; I would LOVE to publish the entire Alvin's Farm saga in paperback. I won't lie; print novels are so authentic, meaningful, old school. Flipping through The War On Emily Dickinson makes me giddy. If you're thinking of going indie, do consider formatting a print version of your first novel, a total thrill...

If I had to summarize my brief career, as it were, I would note that no longer do I feel anxious about the state of my writing, my novels. All the agent angst is gone. Loads of work in its place, but the work is mine, the novels are mine. The pace, scheduling, and crowing about it mine as well, and some of that I'm better at than others. But it's all evolving, all the changes I've incorporated just since releasing Emily Dickinson in July. Goodness only knows what I might be doing in another four months, or a year from now. But I will say this; in a year I'll be waxing about some aspect of writing. No matter what it is, under the indie novelist career umbrella all will dangle. Just how wide that brolly will be is part of the adventure...

onions and parfaits

2011-11-25T19:19:00.000-08:00

So as I prepare to publish the next novel, I am struck by how I edit. My revising is what I've termed the onion and parfait method. And yes, I did steal that term from Shrek.

So Donkey and Shrek are walking along, talking about layers. Some are nice, like parfaits. Everybody likes parfaits you know. Others are like onions, I think Shrek brings that up. It's been a long times since I've seen that movie, but Bob and I were watching a bio on Eddie Murphy about two weeks ago, and it's been wafting in my head since then. Today, reading over another chapter of Alvin's Farm, I realized that's how I revise, in layers, one at a time.

Multiple layers, many many layers. Which translates into several read-throughs, time and again. But it's how I work, tedious and time-consuming. We had a terrific Thanksgiving with my family yesterday, but even before we left I tackled three and a half chapters, trying to reach that final layer, some tangible center of whatever Alvin's Farm is supposed to be. But for all my reading and revising, I have firmly come to the conclusion there is no perfect novel. At least that's my claim, and I'm sticking to it. So even though I want to attain that immaculate, nirvana-like state for my books, it's all in my head.

Like Donkey and Shrek; parfaits and onions. I prefer a parfait, but onions are good in savories. I can't make a soup or stew without an onion. Garlic too, but the only layer with garlic is the peel, pretty easily sorted. Onions however keeping going, like a parfait. Parfaits smell nicer too, besides that delectable sweetness. We didn't have any parfaits yesterday, but plenty of good food, including my mom's sweet potato pie, of which one slice sits in my fridge. No layers there either, I just like thinking about sweet potato pie.

Sweet things are so much better to consider, but they probably have as many layers as an onion. My novels all own layers that need removal, and just when I think I've plumbed the depth, I look again, hacking off another level, another layer. But I'm getting closer with Alvin, Jenny and Sam. How do I know this?

Because next week I'm publishing this novel, the first of the Alvin's Farm series. The first of six, and if you want to laugh at me (and I richly deserve it), check this, some slight insanity that nearly two years later turned into the last of six books. A perfect example of how I never know what is going to happen with writing, other than it's going to land somewhere between a parfait and an onion. And really, I couldn't choose which is the better of the two...

celebratory days

2011-11-22T07:18:00.000-08:00

So recently we noted Thea's twenty-third birthday, my goodness, is that possible? Dude! She and Brian visited, then will hit his folks for Thanksgiving, while the rest of us travel to see family at my sister Lynn's abode. I don't mind not cooking on Thursday; I'd much rather make the road trip.

Finishing one novel on Saturday didn't quite lead to starting on the other Sunday. But I picked up the ball yesterday, after some great football, my Niners going to 9-1, Bob's Packers still undefeated. Both our teams play on Thursday, who knows what will happen! Well, I'll be getting my fill of side dishes (I'm not overly fond of turkey) and conversation. And footie; we're all BIG FANS in my family, for a plethora of different teams. Lynn likes Dallas, Patrick and Sis love Oakland. Sis's husband Trey is another 49ers fan, alongside me and my dad. Bob of course lives for Green Bay, and nearly all those teams play on Thanksgiving, so the house will be full of noise as well as food. So much to be thankful for, so much that it spills here on the blog.

Family, love, health, winning football teams. Writing and publishing, hummingbirds and music. From the sublime to the ridiculous, of course; I couldn't list all my blessings. So many and not even this writer has the words to adequately describe the worth of each. How to note one's eldest child besotted not only with simple birthday gifts, but the chap with whom she sat, opening her pressies. Thea will always be my little girl, but she's Brian's... Not quite wife, although she's been tidying his apartment since her return from SoCal. She looked different this visit, not just from turning another year older, but her status; she's engaged, making her life with the man she loves. I was fascinated by that alteration, also in Brian; he was thrilled for her presence, and not just because she'd cleaned and done laundry. They've been together nearly two years, and it's not just a simple college romance. It's that which sticks for life. Funny to see that on one of my own kids.

Writing it is one thing, I do it all the time. They stayed for dinner, presents, cake and ice cream. We chatted, laughed, stuffing ourselves in practice for Thursday. Then she gathered her treasures, including the Dalek Test. A Doctor Who reference; during one of her classes, she faffed about drawing Daleks on the back of a study guide. She gave it to me on one of her first visits home, but needed it to study for the final. It was the last thing as they were out the door, and I told her all I wanted back was the last page with those Daleks. She's twenty-three, but still my little girl. Blessings abound when you least expect them.

Happy Thanksgiving or have a really lovely rest of the week!

completing a novel

2011-11-19T12:35:00.000-08:00

Today I finished Penny Angel, a far more subtle book than I first imagined. Pantsing a novel does that sometimes, but not in a bad way.

Of my novels written on the fly, a few have altered drastically from what I initially envisioned. The first couple of times it happened I was really thrown for a loop, like what the hey novel, whatcha think you're doing? Then as those books found endings I hadn't planned, I swallowed my fears (and some pride) and fully embraced writing on the fly. Not all my books are so, well, ethereal. Most, okay, more than half are pretty much under my control from the beginning. But a few slip away, and before I know it, have minds of their own. Children do the same, and between motherhood and writing I've learned to just let headstrong ones have their way.

Either they'll sink or swim. So far, I've not lost a kid or a manuscript.

Not to be so nonchalant, but that's really all one can do when the novel starts veering down its own path. If I tried to impose my will, it wouldn't be pretty. As it is, Penny Angel fared better for following its heart, subtle and a little lyrical, much easier on the brain than the pounding I had planned. It's a love story, also a morality tale, spanning over thirty years in sixteen chapters and 76,153 words. It's a story I concocted earlier this year, then shelved, then hastily dusted off in late October. Today it's history.

Now my focus is on For God And Country, the second half of NaNo 2011. I'll get back into that book tomorrow, hoping to wrap it up before Bob goes under the knife. If all goes well, I should just squeak it in, hopefully hitting 50K before the end of this month. This has been a weird NaNo, interruptions and such. Also my first as an indie author; I've been editing the next novel for release, looking forward to that! So many projects, how I've always been, fingers in assorted pies, some tasty, some needing another ingredient. I can't keep still, my nature to always have something simmering. I don't like wasting time, don't like letting moments slip away. Maybe it's just my age, perspective. Knowledge that life doesn't last forever; it's precarious and even if I live to be 115, like Chiyono Hasegawa, what has to happen today needs to happen TODAY. Like finishing Penny Angel, maybe wrapping up the Alvin's Farm iBook edits, we'll see. A celebratory ice cream will be had as soon as Bob finishes his task, the weekly budget. I'll do my work, he can do that job. And tomorrow...

Tomorrow's football. That's all I need to know for now.

free ebooks...

2011-11-16T19:32:00.000-08:00

This has been one of those busy weeks when I note just how quickly time passes. Here it is Wednesday already, and while I'd love to be watching football, that's tomorrow night. Right now, I just want to get to grips with it already being the middle of the week!

I last blogged on Sunday; since then Bob's Green Bay Packers walloped the Minnesota Vikings, Bob and I traveled to San Francisco to meet with the new surgeon; the big day is in early December, and we can't wait! Three massive loads of wash have been attended, also grocery shopping. Now there's clean clothes and food to eat. Oh and writing. I hit 50K on Penny Angel, which felt so good after all that's been swirling. I'll finish that novel on Saturday, then dive right back into For God And Country, languishing on the back burner. Never again will I attempt writing concurrently. I just don't have the brain cells for it anymore.

It's been a strange November, not as NaNo-focused as usual. It's been about my husband, goiters (man am I tired of typing that word), publishing. This is my first NaNo as an indie author, and I've been editing in addition to writing, Alvin's Farm hacked due to reading it on my iTouch. If you have any way to revise using an e-reader, I highly recommend it. Nothing like seeing a 'finished' version of one's novel to point out glaring unnecessary prose I'll say!

So yeah, publishing. I'm publishing, and have decided to give away my ebooks. It came about as things usually do around here, Bob and I chatting about something else completely, then WHAM! Like a brick up my head; he was mentioning a singer from an indie band of our youth, an interview she gave to one of his UK music magazines. She was asked about the perils of illegal downloading and answered: Music should always have been free. Making money out of it is what has created these quasi-televangelist rock stars.

Throwing Muses' Kristin Hersh goes on to say... What has been killing music, what has devalued it, is style over substance. The industry might not have collapsed had they not decided that only lowest common denominator bull$*#& would make money and was worth investing in.

Change music to books and the same can be said, although traditional publishing isn't dead yet. But it's not getting better either.

This was a week ago, after the whole goiter-made-me-sick afternoon. This goiter has changed my writing life, my publishing ideas. I went indie due to its invasive presence, now I've gone off the deep end, so to speak. Between Bob's enlarged thyroid and a vocalist, I've decided not to charge for ebooks, for a few reasons.

One, I am not a capitalist. The older I get, those eleven years in Britain mean more to me than I thought possible. I miss the NHS, the BBC, tea. Tea doesn't have much to do with capitalism, but it sure is English, and my economic heart lies across the Atlantic in a country not quite as obsessed as mine for making money.

Two, an ebook is a file. Yes, it's a novel that I spent many hours on, but it just doesn't carry the same weight in my heart as a book does. A wholly personal feeling, but one I can't ignore.

Three, and this isn't in the manifesto; I don't want to be a hypocrite. I have only bought one ebook, Tales For Canterbury. All the rest of my ebooks are novels and memoirs in the public domain. To put it another way, I won't spend money on a book unless it is a book, an actual hard or paperback BOOK. Ultimately, I can't ask readers to spend their hard-earned money on my digital files if I won't do so myself.

Whew! I hope you weren't expecting this to be brief. If you were, I apologize. It wasn't to do with how the books were selling; it was this smack up the head of what am I trying to do with this very small, very subtle manner of publishing my novels. Money was never a factor, it was time. Time is precarious, it slips like a breath. It's already Wednesday, heck, it's nearly Thursday for me. I'll go to bed once I clean this up; by then it will be after eight p.m. I'm forty-five, have nearly written that many books. I have loads of novels, an incredible blessing. This whole writing gig is one of the biggest joys of my life. More than I can express, and how to put a price on bliss?

I can't. If I do, I'm a hypocrite. If I do, it's like assigning a cost to each of my kids; what is Thea worth, Bud, Jay? If I do, it's like belittling a gift, it's like...

It's like doing something so against my nature. I don't write to sell books. I write because I have more plot than good sense. I have plenty of ideas, plenty of time to write them, and as long as Bob has plenty of paychecks, I'll sit quietly and write, edit, publish. I'm living the dream, as my brother loves to tell me. It doesn't carry a price tag, and now neither do my ebooks.

the parable of the talents

2011-11-13T15:52:00.000-08:00

So Bob came home from church with a story, one that I know but haven't thought about in a while. The parable of the talents is not exactly your typical the meek shall inherit the earth sort of tale. Jesus is sitting on the Mount of Olives and the disciples ask him a question. Give that man an inch, and he takes a mile; Jesus spends all of Matthew 24 and 25 discussing various issues, including a master, three servants, and a surprise.

One servant receives five talents, one gets two and one has one. Now this wasn't pocket change; according to the New International Version (my favorite), a talent was a cool grand, pretty nice money. The first guy gained five more, was happily thanked by his master. The second chap earned another two, pleasing his master as well. The third guy...

In the sermon, the pastor compared these servants to churches; Mr. Five Talent was a mega-church, Mr. Two-Talent was in the suburbs. The guy with one talent was a small inner-city church, like the one Bob attends, and that guy hid his talent in a field. The master wasn't thrilled, berating that servant for wasting his talent, even going so far as noting that talent would have been better off in a banker's hands!

Now on first glance, shouldn't Christ have offered some wicked are the rich, blessed are the poor homily? Instead, Bob's pastor reminded his flock that all churches are meant to grow. A small parish with a shrinking population shouldn't bury its talent. Even that one lowly talent has purpose.

Like writers, Bob then grinned, a talent that shouldn't be hidden under the bed, tucked in a hard drive, or locked within my heart. I smiled at him. He's absolutely right. One of the reasons I went indie was realizing my time matters, my novels matter; I wouldn't be writing them if I didn't believe there was a reason. I might not be a five-talent writer, but two, at least two, maybe three, three and a half. Wherever I land, I'm publishing these manuscripts because I have a point.

Lately life has felt heavy, NaNo has been cumbersome. Revising has been more of Rigorous Morning Overhauls than Gentle Morning Edits. But I have a task, and will be given the necessary energy and talent (heh heh) to get that job accomplished. If nothing else, I know that, sometimes all that keeps me typing. Authors need that reminder, that for all our sometimes insular ways, we have a purpose. Various genres, styles, and idioms, but we matter. We really do. Whether you're writing, editing, querying, self-pubbing, or just pondering that novel inside, don't let niggling doubts erase that dream. Maybe it seems daunting, impossible; the words won't move. The prose reads as if a goiter wrote it. Agents seem on permanent vacation or are stuck on NO. Going indie feels like living alone on a deserted island. NaNo is nearly half-over and the word count is sitting at less than five talents; no matter the issue, you have a purpose, you have a point. You wouldn't be writing if you didn't.

Oh, a few days ago I made an alteration, adding a new tab along the top of the blog: Why My Ebooks Are Free. More about this later in the week...

fool for the city

2011-11-11T10:52:00.000-08:00

I want to thank all who left comments and emails; both Bob and I were really touched. This has been one of the weirdest weeks, not in the immediate sense of a hospital right in our faces, but those days are coming. For now, I'm just trying to get back into the swing, keeping distracted by the work. The work... What a weird November! I haven't felt this out of whack for NaNo since we moved house in 2008. I'm writing, but it's disjointed and sporadic. Tempered with football games and a few teary moments, but for today, we have a plan and here's the gist: Bob's having surgery sometime after Thanksgiving, either the following week or the next, up in San Francisco. At the University of California San Francisco Medical Center, Bob's goiter will become history! Why so far away? Well, that goiter, while not invading his chest, has a lengthy grasp on his windpipe. Our Silicon Valley doc recommended an equally able chap forty-five minutes north, and we'll meet him next Tuesday afternoon. While Bob's condition isn't life-threatening, it's not feasible for this to continue. This goiter has run its course, its reign nearly over!

I'm pleased that things are moving along, but I won't lie; that we're heading to the city is daunting. But only in the travel, winding up freeways, hopefully not getting lost. Silicon Valley is pretty extensive, incorporating several cities, San Jose the biggest. Over 1.5 million call the South Bay their home, around 800,000 in San Francisco. But driving around those two areas is like night and day, and I'm not even bringing San Francisco's hills into it. Silicon Valley is vast but easy to navigate, or maybe it's that I know it. It's my backyard and San Francisco is some gaudy playground we visit a few times a year. But within weeks we'll know one area intimately. And then, hopefully, we'll never visit UCSF again.

That's up in the air not to do with Bob's goiter, but my dad. He might be a candidate for bone cancer treatment at that facility, which we'll learn in the new year.

This year, oi! Is it over yet? By the end of the year, Bob's goiter will be dust and I'll be done with NaNo; I hope I'll be done with NaNo. Penny Angel has been coming along; I've lost myself in all of Penny and Mike's troubles, easier than considering reality. For God And Country has languished, due to time and brain constraints. I can't focus, can't breath deeply enough to haul two stories outta my head at once. There was a reason why in 2007 I said I'd never again write concurrently. Four years later, it's slapping my face.

Because it's hard enough pulling one novel out at a time. Trying a second simultaneously is like yanking my guts out through my nose. Or Bob's goiter, take your pick. The Silicon Valley doctor took a look at the cat scan and said, 'Well Bob, that's quite a goiter you have there.' Yup, that's right. It's pressing on his trachea and screwing with my gray matter. And my heart; at times this week I have felt wrung out. We all have a threshold and when it's crossed, at least for me, I turn to goo. Squishy and running off the edges of the table, hoping someone will sop me up before I get too fragmented. Too oozy to write, think, feed the hummingbirds. I need to fill the feeder today, wash some towels, have to run to the Silicon Valley doc and pick up a CD with the cat scan results on it to take with us on Tuesday. Need to collect Bob's car that's been in the garage for two days. Need to vacuum, but Jay can do that. She and Bud have been terrific through this, cooking and cleaning and letting their parents spill all over the place. Then they scoop us up, placing onto the sofa, finding a live football game or even a repeat from last weekend. Raiders and Chargers last night live in San Diego, the Packers and San Diego on Wednesday night from Sunday. Chargers lost both games, and I totally sympathize. They're probably feeling a lot like me, scratching their heads and going, 'What the hey?'

That's how I'm feeling. But at least we have a plan, another competent doctor in the mix, and the knowledge this will pass. Like a bad football season or a rough month of NaNo, this too will all pass...

two posts in two days

2011-11-08T15:44:00.000-08:00

Here's why; I am a very squeamish person.

If you are too, best stop here. Bob and I just returned from seeing the surgeon who will remove that pesky goiter. I know; goiter, goiter, goiter. Either I'm blogging about that darn goiter or NaNo. But they are tied together, in a novelistic or hummingbird type of manner. Because I wasn't quite done writing today, but was going to return to it after we came home from making the surgery date. I was just hoping it would be after Thanksgiving, wanting to spend that holiday with all my family. Well, surgery probably will commence after Thanksgiving, but the personable, knowledgeable chap we met today might not do it. Not if that goiter is compressing Bob's chest, which would send him to Stanford Hospital.

That's not the squeamish part. If you are squeamish, please stop here.

If you're not and aren't bored to tears about this whole goiter issue, keep reading. The doc we saw today will do the surgery if Bob doesn't need to have his chest cracked open. If he does, it will be done by someone else up the peninsula at Stanford. As in Stanford University, blah blah blah. This doc stopped working up there four years ago, too tired of the hassle, he smiled. But I was already feeling sick before he said that. I was feeling faint, my ears buzzing and my face flush when he mentioned calling in a cardiac surgeon to deal with Bob's sternum.

Dude... I think that's what he said, because really he lost me when he examined my husband, noting on Bob's left side he couldn't get his thumb between the clavicle and the bottom of this enormous goiter. That's when I first started getting fuzzy.

I am squeamish, I freely admit that. I've put on a stoic face during all these procedures and chats. I didn't sit in on Bob's two biopsies, but haven't felt this unhinged since... I can't recall. Not when Thea was being prodded two years ago, not during any other time, except maybe when I was pregnant. I can do external bodily fluids, no problem. Poo or vomit don't phase me; I'm a mother, been there done that. Just don't bleed. Don't bleed, don't talk about bleeding, don't talk about thumbs inserted (or unable to be inserted) between goiters and clavicle bones and REALLY don't talk about cutting apart my husband's chest then intubating him overnight because his trachea is too weakened to do its job properly. That's when I lost it.

The IRONIC part is that I can write about this stuff till the cows come home! I'm sitting here now, aren't I? Sitting in my safe little workspace, tea in a mug, Blossom Dearie crooning, Bob lamenting his bad turn at Blast-Through. I can note how his goiter is basically strangling his windpipe, and on the left side could be pressing on his lungs, was that was the affable doctor said? My ears were buzzing so loudly that I finally stood from the low stool, grasping a notebook and pen (A writer always has a notebook handy, even in the doctor's office!). Then I grabbed my purse, making my excuses. If I stayed in there any longer, I might have passed out.

Reaching the waiting room a few short steps away, I sat, closed my eyes, wondering if I was going to puke. Or faint or maybe, just maybe, return to the land of the living. Just don't talk about cracking any one's chest open, thank you very much, much less that of my beloved!

We can talk about biopsies and CT scans, what will happen next so this really lovely and wonderful doc will know if he'll be in charge, or someone else. We can consider these issues, I can write about them, but actually hearing them? Or witnessing the illustration marking the important so-and-so nerves just under that mass of thyroid while sitting on a low seat in an office charmingly circa 1975, good grief no! No, and why that is, I have no idea. Bob met me in the lobby, ushered me outside where I leaned against a post, taking in the fresh air. Then to the car, which I drove there. He said he was fine to drive home, a small joke. Small because he had been worried the doc would want an MRI, but no, just a CT scan. Bob was fine, I was a mess. We sat, windows down, while I apologized for being such a wreck when this is happening to him, but when the body rebels, whatcha gonna do?

I threw my hands up in full surrender. So many plans for this afternoon, finishing a chapter of For God And Country, then reading over the morning's task, a chapter of Penny Angel. All that will occur is this post, then some quiet time. Bud made pizza for lunch and when I feel like eating again, I'll have a slice, comfort food. Solace and calm and breathing in and out, what's so hard for Bob because there's an anvil squeezing his trachea. Easy for me now that I'm home, in my little cocoon. I can look out at the spider plants, a hummingbird feeder, blue autumnal sky and green leaves on trees. It's November, it's NaNo, but that means different things right now.

It means being glad for a competent doctor, a steady husband, a cup of tea. Writing will commence again tomorrow....

it's Monday...

2011-11-07T10:54:00.000-08:00

Monday. That means yesterday was football. My team won. So did Bob's. That made us very happy. Teams we wanted to lose did so, and the Miami Dolphins, who were winless, beat the Kansas City Chiefs 31-3. This has been a very strange gridiron year, the lock-out to blame. I can't believe my team is 7-1, Bob's is undefeated. Last night the Baltimore Ravens squeaked past the Pittsburg Steelers, in Pittsburg! Yes, it's an odd pigskin season...

So it's Monday, sunny, cool. Autumn has hit, makes it feel more NaNo-y. November is a busy month, with writing, birthdays, turkeys. I don't cook a turkey anymore because I'm writing. Not actually on Thanksgiving, but I employ NaNo as a reason to let someone else roast the bird. I made lots of Thanksgiving dinners in Britain, occasionally for many people. Now others can cook a turkey. I have words to consider.

Words to scribble, football to watch, hummingbirds too. It's not overly rainy and cold as Novembers were in Yorkshire, it's a different life here in California. My kids, well most of them aren't teenagers anymore, and if I said to Jay's face that nineteen was still a teen she would scowl. My team plays better, which is a new occurrence since our return, Bob's too. And then there is just this thing about Mondays.

Mondays used to be just another day. When we lived in Britain, Monday Night Football was really Early Tuesday Morning Football and I never watched it. I never wrote fiction in Britain, not until the end of our sojourn. Mondays weren't even school days! We homeschooled Tuesdays-Saturdays, so Bob could participate more readily. Usually on Mondays I corrected last week's work, then planned that week's assignments. Not quite like writing angsty fiction, but maybe an early prep.

Mondays were these days that often saw rain, but then in the UK, many days carried precipitation. This time of year they were dark, getting darker, rare to see the sun. But in California...

California changed so many aspects of our lives. Kids went to school, like stepped OUTSIDE the house and everything. It was sunny, warm, rain never fell (still hardly does). I finished a novel, starting thinking about others for NaNo 2007. Then suddenly, I didn't stop.

Didn't stop writing, didn't stop plotting. Editing was a new feature, but my team still lost, woefully dropping to the bottom of the rankings. Yet novels emerged; NaNo became a great reason not to cook a turkey in November. That and spending it at my parents' or my siblings' homes. If I never cook another turkey, I really won't care.

And I probably won't; NaNo will suffice. I have to work around NaNoWriMo you see, I can tell my eye-rolling family, all of them. My kids, my folks, my siblings, their kids too. My kids are nearly all twenty-somethings, but as my youngest nieces and nephew grow older, they'll know their auntie as that funny writer. Lynn has her Lego obsession, I have words. And both of those taskings have kept our heads above water for years now.

That's what Monday is now, at least in autumn; a day for considering the pigskin from yesterday, a day to get to work! Or faff around with a blog entry, one of the two. Mondays have a meaning like never before. As the late Oakland Raiders owner Al Davis would say: Just Write Baby!!

Write, win; it's all the same thing...

bitten by a radioactive author...

2011-11-03T16:43:00.000-07:00

Isn't that a great line? It's not mine. A NaNo buddy from 2007, Mike noted it in the comments over at the Hummingbirds blog a few days ago. Mike blogs too, not often, but when he does, my goodness, I just revel over his fantastic English wit. I miss English wit. Hard to find in California, let me tell you.

When I read his comment, I nearly died. Yeah, seems I was bitten by a radioactive author when I was a kid. Took AGES for the radioactive bit to hit me, but from that initial nibble I wanted to write, ached to expel my thoughts and dream in prose. Then in 2006, Thea told me about NaNoWriMo, and well, the rest I have nearly blogged to death during the last four years. Over four years ago I started this blog and one of my NaNo friends from 2007 pointed out what I've been missing since that initial NaNo experience. I was bitten by a radioactive author when young.

It's the only explanation I can come up with. Maybe it was one of those delayed bites, a slow, protracted effect that went full throttle when I turned forty. I turned forty, Thea pointed to the NaNo webpage, the rest is history. Almost all of it's here on the blog, the important bits. I didn't write anything from May 2007 until that November, when I sort of lost my NaNo mind; a hat trick completed that year, all concurrently, what I said I'd never do again. Never say never; concurrent is how I'm writing this year.

Writing and writing; yes, I have some healthy word counts, but tomorrow I'm going on a bear hunt. I mean a road trip; have to retrieve Jay's car from where it broke down not anywhere close. So there will be no writing tomorrow. But after the last three days, I think I'll live. I mean, I survived a radiological novelist injury when I was young, so going one day without NaNoing won't kill me.

I hope it won't kill me. Bob's birthday is approaching and I'm taking that day off too. If I can survive a radioactive author bite I can definitely live through a few missed days of NaNo. My noveling senses will be tingling when I return!

short and sweet

2011-11-01T15:58:00.000-07:00

Woke to no internet. Sorted that, in getting the technician lined up. With nothing to poke at, I went to work. As the technician installed a new modem, I had most of Penny Angel's first chapter done, and about an hour ago I finished the first chapter of For God And Country.

And now I feel like goo.

If you want more info, check here. Otherwise, I'll be in and out on this blog for the month as NaNoWriMo develops. Word counts and more info will be available at my other blog.

Now I need some... apple butter. I really love apple butter!

habitual reasoning

2011-10-31T07:45:00.000-07:00

It's Monday. Mondays for me are good days, a day to reflect upon yesterday's gridiron feats, on the new week, on NaNo. It just happens that November begins on a Tuesday this year, and while a good number of youngsters are thinking sweet thoughts for this evening, for others it's words, plenty of words.

My team won yesterday, a lackluster second half against Cleveland, but the Niners pulled out the victory. Bob's team was off, so was my brother's Raiders. We watched different teams in the morning, Baltimore nearly losing their shirts to Arizona, the New York Giants brushing off the pesky and still winless Miami Dolphins. After a long drive Saturday seeing family, which was absolutely wonderful, all Bob and I wanted to do on Sunday was take it easy. A little editing for me, then footie, followed by Bob at the barbecue, temps in the upper 70s F. Going to cool off later this week, finally, as it will be November. November and NaNo, both start with N. NaNo starts tomorrow, and I'm moderately prepared, or as ready as I'm going to get. Today's full of errands, also the usual tea, a bagel at lunch; I'm a complete creature of habit, can't break out of certain comfort zones. NaNo is like that, but November isn't just about words. Bob and Thea celebrate birthdays, there's Thanksgiving, there's football. A goiter is trying to intrude, hah! Small potatoes dude, you're just small spuds.

I realize lately the blog has been hijacked by goiters and other angsty information, always something nipping at my heels. Tonight it's more football, passing out candy, probably last minute plotting, watching San Diego hopefully beat the living snot out of Kansas City. The Chiefs' coach isn't my cup of tea, and I really like Philip Rivers, the Chargers' quarterback. I like getting so into a game, then the slight interruption of the doorbell, trick or treat ringing like a song. The song of childhood, and with two of mine home, they can get the door while I pay attention to wide receivers and running backs. And maybe some of my own machinations getting their acts sorted. One NaNovel has plenty of backstory, but the chapters are loosey-goosey, while the other has a strong sense of order, but names elude. Maybe it's due to still being on daylight savings time. I think now the powers-that-be don't move the clocks back until after Halloween, giving kids one more hour of daylight to roam the streets. We never get any kids until well after 6 PM, by which time it is rather dusky. My two novels are battling for which can be less organized, or maybe it's just me not feeling as, well, anal as usual. With some novels I'm pretty OCD, but this autumn everything has felt out of sync, maybe it's my 49ers and their 6-1 record. They haven't been this good since, well, since I used to live in America. Back in the early and mid-1990s they RAWKED. Then for ages they just sucked. Now they are appearing as a ghost, some semblance to the glorious past. But in the past my children were tiny, and I only dreamed of writing. Now, well, now I am an author and my kids, while still living at home, won't be out gathering goodies, instead passing treats to those truly young. (Okay, Jay might be trekking about, but Bud's days in costume are long gone.)

Every NaNo is different; this year I'm writing two concurrently. Kids are close, it's been a few years since that was the case. Thea will be bringing her betrothed home when she arrives for her birthday later in November. That's certainly new, and actually it's Brian bringing Thea home to us. Life's always changing, even if I still eat a bagel every lunchtime, those cups of tea endless and enduring. NaNo, oh yes, NaNoWriMo! Six years running for me, six years of digging deep, diving into my own little ocean of dreams. Yes, I always wanted to be a writer, and here I am again, ready to skim my toes along that shimmering pool. By this time tomorrow, those calm waters will be rippled, perhaps breaking into waves. Tomorrow, all hey breaks loose!

and speaking of my husband...

2011-10-28T08:24:00.000-07:00

So let's talk goiters. Bob's goiter has captured our attention since the beginning of the year, some yapping mutt that's been holding him by the throat. We went through the whole she-bang in January and February, then took a collective breath learning it was only an irritating overgrown thyroid. He decided then to live with it, aware in late summer, another round of checks were waiting.

(Long post; I think I'm practicing for NaNo next week!)

All protocol; thyroid care is by the book, if it grows a certain amount, .5 mm or maybe 5mm, ultrasounds noting those changes. I'm well versed (well, pretty well versed) in thyroid hoopla; after the ultrasound is blood work, checking thyroid levels. Then all that info goes to the endocrinologist, who looked at Bob's increased neck size and said, 'Yup, biopsy time.'. Which occurred earlier this month. Yesterday we received the results; benign. Which we sort of anticipated, as the doc hadn't called us earlier to note something unpleasant. He's a fantastic guy not afraid to speak his mind using blue words then apologetic for that language. An old-school physician who can't tame his salty tongue, and I really like him. So does Bob, which is great, because Bob's going to be seeing that doc at least once a year until we no longer live here. That pesky goiter's outta here!

I watched some of the World Series last night, finally going to bed as St. Louis tied it in the bottom of the ninth. I couldn't watch the rest, and for good reason; Texas scored two runs in the top of the tenth. By then I was in bed, but could hear Bob's footsteps travel the short hallway, telling me the news. Then again in the bottom of the inning, when unbelievably St. Louis tied it! Then I got sleepy, it was after nine p.m., well past my bedtime, especially after the day we'd had. Bob will get that goiter out sometime in the next six weeks, then go on thyroid meds for the rest of his life. Why we'll see more of that fab doc, a man who will be keeping an eye on my beloved. I was probably thinking of that as I fell asleep, forgetting about the Texas Rangers and St. Louis Cardinals, until I faintly recalled that Bob hadn't tramped down the hall. As I went to sleep, I assumed Texas must have won, taking the series, but that was okay. Bob didn't have cancer.

Two and a half years ago, in the space of about three weeks, I lived the good, the bad, and the ugly. My train-loving nephew C.J. was born, wonderful! My then twenty-year-old Thea suffered a migraine with aura initially disguised as a stroke, terrifying. In between those someone I adore learned they had cancer. At the time I kept that person's identity shrouded, because cancer, albeit it a miserable, nasty affliction, is tricky. It can be slow, chronic, debilitating. It can also kill in weeks, I've seen it both ways. And for the last two and half years, that lovely soul has been on their feet, getting about with the tasks of life. Well, just as Bob was getting his biopsy, so was that beloved of mine. And when Thea and Brian spent a day and evening with us two weeks ago, those other results came in. And they weren't good.

It's my dad. Prostate cancer has moved to his hip. Bone cancer is incurable, and now I know some about that too.

In the endocrinologist's office yesterday morning, I considered my husband's results, a bit smeary from the fax machine, our copy with several illegible lines. But overall it was good. It was benign. All Bob has to endure is surgery, then a pill every day for the rest of his life. He can't take the pill with calcium or soy, I remember that. I was sort of fading, listening to my husband and his doctor rant about insurance, about the surgeon who our doc endorsed with a firm nod. Finally the doc looked at me, asked if I was all right. Usually I'm more animated, because it's hard not to smile at his blue words followed by contrite missives. But my dad kept running through my head, which I noted. That the last ten days have been sort of... difficult, and that doesn't even begin to note NaNo and new noveling ideas and the usual I blather about on the blog. That doc has no idea I'm an angsty novelist, that in some way or another, one day down the road when I'm far enough away from all this, well, it'll end up in a novel. I can tell you right now, you bet your sweet bippy it will.

Thea's two days in hospital with the migraine was morphed into a real stroke in This Blog Has No Title. I sat in her cubicle, making notes of the ER cupboards as she received the MRI that confirmed she'd NOT had a stroke. Keeping myself sane as my baby girl, even at twenty, was being run through a machine checking her brain. A CAT scan can tell only so much, but the MRI techs weren't available in the middle of the night, and we had to wait until morning to know for sure. That was bad, pretty damn bad. I don't swear often, not like Bob's doc, but let me tell you, that was pretty damn ugly.

But it wasn't completely screwed, because she only had a migraine. Just a migraine, with a little aura to really scare the pants off us. And by then I knew my dad had prostate cancer, and C.J was a newborn in my brother and sister-in-law's arms and well, shit happens. Sometimes it just does.

Now go forward two and half years; Thea's engaged to Brian, living fairly happily in SoCal. C.J. is a hoot and a half what with his not so small train obsession. Bob's goiter is finally going to be history, just a tiny thing two years ago. And my dad. My dad has inoperable bone cancer.

In 2005 at Patrick and Marie's wedding; we joked Dad was The Godfather and on the day of his son's wedding, anything was possible...

I take a breath, you can too. If you've made it this far, well, we probably all feel like Texas Ranger fans, who must have been as gobsmacked watching their team build two two-run leads and St. Louis STILL WON! How did that happen? Only in baseball, some cosmic sport legend was being built as I fell asleep last night. Bob stayed up, watched the whole thing, and my dad probably was too. He's a sports nut, where I get it from. We're heading up to see my folks tomorrow, a trip planned well before the crap hit the fan; Bud needs his cold weather clothes, in storage where my parents live. Now it won't just be us; my sister Lynn, brother Patrick and his family will be there too, and at Thanksgiving we'll all be at Lynn's house. We would have been up there anyway, unless Bob's goiter was being removed. I let my family cook the turkeys after all the ones I roasted in the UK. But now I'm hoping the surgeon won't mind working around this holiday, if he wanted to get my husband on the table before thousands of birds are sacrificed. Life is short, why I started publishing in the first place. Bob's goiter started that months ago, but maybe I was on that path when my dad's cancer was first found, when Thea started shaking on the bathroom floor, seeing stars, unable to speak. The early stages of a migraine with aura are just like a stroke, and I learned that night that even when one's babies are in their second decade, illness makes me just as helpless as when she was ten months old.

And then there's my dad... My dad, dude. My dad isn't in pain, has no symptoms. Just dark marks along his left hip that can't be removed. Maybe this will be one of those slow, chronic cancers, what I'm hoping. I'm hoping he's at Thea's wedding next summer, hoping he's around for ages. But that's not in my hands, or his. And he's good with this. He's in a great frame of mind, and tomorrow when I see him, I'll hug him, smile, then we'll start talking baseball. No matter who wins tonight, that will be the topic of conversation. If it's Texas, Lynn will be over the moon. No matter who it is, my brother Patrick will be groaning, he hates baseball. He's already told me C.J.'s allergic to it, but I know that's hooey. C.J. thinks all sports are soccer, has no idea what's going on other than trains. I hope that my dad hangs in there so C.J. will recall his grandpa talking about baseball, bugging my brother to no end. But if something else happens, well, you can be sure Bob and I will spread those tales, Lynn too. Life comes and goes, and what matters most are the memories we leave for others. One of the thrills of writing is that snippets of who I am weaves through all I write. My next indie novel is dedicated to my folks, for they assisted with my research, noting life in the 1970s. Tommie Smith is a composite of my dad and his buddies from those days. And now, well, it's more precious. More timely, for time is short. I don't want to waste a single minute.

novel fodder on Highway 9

2011-10-26T08:11:00.000-07:00

All pics from Highway 9 on Saturday, 23 October 2011.

A Saturday drive with Bob turned into more than just admiring Silicon Valley's attempts at autumn. All I wanted to do was view the scenery, hold my husband's hand as he drove a winding two-lane highway leading us to Santa Cruz. Not my usual Highway 17 curvy but comparably zippy jaunt through the Santa Cruz Mountains; on Saturday we took a leisurely weekend spin along a road neither of us had traveled. But as these things go, Bob mentioned an article he'd just read and over an hour later, reaching the Santa Cruz Costco, I had another plot spinning in my head.

I love that man, my wonderful, chatty, Packer-football adoring spouse. He helps with various writing tidbits, nothing too involved with the prose, but he's great for hyperlink prodding, formatting issues, that sort of thing. What I write is so NOT HIM. Not only doesn't he eschew fiction, preferring rock bios and quark-physics type tales, but he would run screaming into those Santa Cruz Mountains to escape angst. And you know how I am with angst...

From the other direction...

I'm drawn to angsty fiction like a steaming cup of tea! Ooohh, there is it, waiting for me in the kitchen, or by my left hand, slurp slurp, chug chug. But my implacably anti-angst husband recently read an article by a widower who was having trouble finding dates. Now, I have to note that two weeks ago Bob also read an actual magazine article (the widower's piece was on the web); a very LONG article from The Atlantic, a magazine we're now receiving, along with Wired, due to frequent-flyer miles cashed in for, well, magazines. Not that Bob had miles to fly us to Aruba, but he had accumulated enough for some free periodicals. So he slogged through this multiple page tome written by a woman in her 40s who was giving up on dating, happy in her single lifestyle. Now, if this isn't a perfect example of why men and women are so different; her article went on and on (and he did finish it, even with my frequent interruptions), and just when he thought she was going to end it wishing she hadn't split from her long-time boyfriend, she turned the tables and said that she was in a good place living alone, albeit protesting a bit too loudly for Bob's taste.

I love looking into the branches, wondering if the leaves could be persuaded to actually fall...

Meanwhile the widower started his article of maybe 1,000 words with an anecdote that now in his early 50s he can no longer undo a bra strap one-handed. Thus leading into how he's tried dating since his wife died five years ago, but there just aren't any suitable women in his sphere. That he had a second date approaching, and that while their political and religious views weren't compatible, he was going to give it a go anyways.

Women, myself included, go on and on, while men succinctly say their piece. And add a bra strap just for good measure.

Anyways... As autumnal foliage passed, Bob and I discussed these articles, chatting about widowers (but not bra straps), which spun my fiction-wheels. By the time we stopped to take these pictures, I was bouncing ideas off my husband. It was his fault, after all, like I need another novel idea! But he listened, adding a few points, and as I said, when we reached Costco in Santa Cruz, I had the entire story mapped in my head.

From a few spots I could see the actual valley, but this was stunning too.

All I had wanted from Costco were some gargantuan bags of chocolate chips (for Christmas baking you see). Instead I had a plot the size of Godzilla battling for space with about seventeen others, including a loose notion for a story placed in a fictional setting akin to some of the tiny towns along Highway 9; Boulder Creek, Ben Lomond, and Felton. We left Costco, had some dinner in Scotts Valley, then I drove home, employing my beloved Highway 17, and while that road is winding, it's nothing like Highway 9. And fortunately for me, Bob was in a food coma, induced by too much barbecue at Bruno's on Mount Herman Road (I recommend the Philly cheesesteak!). No more plots emerged, he could barely stay awake.

Some bicyclists, but not too many other vehicles. Bob pulled over when I wanted a photo, also if cars were behind him. A really lovely drive especially if you looking for a new novel idea!

But I've been thinking about that tale, a tale of two widowers, also about autumn in a place where weather almost seems illegal. Autumn in California is this hazy, slippy season, as if summer can't let go until it's practically Christmas. But I will say this; when the holidays do arrive, I have chocolate chips a'plenty, and come 2012, more novel ideas than I need! At this point, I'd just like get to the the two for NaNo fully sorted...

football and outlining

2011-10-24T09:47:00.000-07:00

As NaNo careens ever closer, I've been attempting some plotting; last night I sat on the sofa, watching sport, but not the Saints and Colts. At the end of the first quarter, New Orleans was ahead 28-0, so it was easier and safer to check the World Series. Observing a blow-out in the making wasn't essential for me, more important was getting some sense of For God And Country down on Post-it notes. Eliminating two songs from the playlist, I tightened up the story while the Texas Rangers maintained a one-run lead over the St. Louis Cardinals. Then during a commercial I checked the football; New Orleans was about to go ahead 35-0. Quickly I returned to baseball, not wishing to note any more gridiron destruction.

(Heads-up; major sport-themed post, with sprinklings of NaNo 2011's For God And Country included.)

I'm a pansy, unless it's a team I abhor. Otherwise, what's the point of pounding the wreckage into dust? The Colts have proved, with their winless season, that without quarterback Peyton Manning they are fairly hapless. These teams met in a Super Bowl recently, the Saints winning 31-17, a huge victory for what that city lost in Hurricane Katrina. Last night's game was scheduled well before Peyton Manning was lost to his team for the year, but that happens. Big games melt away under the specter of a squashed season. But when I went to bed, after giving my novel a new sequence of plot, not wanting to see the Rangers score any more runs (they took a 4-0 lead in bottom the sixth with a three-run homer by Mike Napoli), I had NO IDEA of the carnage I would wake to this morning.

New Orleans obliterated Indianapolis 62-7.

62-7.

Oh my goodness... That's eight touchdowns to one. That's like a score of 45-2 in baseball, or maybe 1,400-9 in cricket. Or anything more than lopsided. More like fantasy, some odd placement of numbers that while correct just looks so erroneous. Really? REALLY? 62-7?

This happens in college, between some sport-crazy university mismatched against a tiny, hole-in-the-wall college that focuses on molecular biology. But in the pros, even if you've lost your quarterback, 62-7?

DUDE!

Okay, yes, I'm gobsmacked by this. Flabbergasted, taken aback, blown away. How many ways to note what wasn't just a runaway but a complete shellacking; not to diminish the Colts, but good grief guys, what's happened?

My 49ers have, ahem, sucked for a long time. Really bitten the big one, embarrassed themselves, and made us fans wish to bury our heads in the sand. But not like this, and NOT on national television. That's the kicker. On one of the major American networks this train wreck played out, and all I could do was hunker with a playlist and outline, one ear bud piping the tunes while the other ear noted the baseball, until that three-run homer. Then the TV went blank, I finished my work. Then I faffed around on the computer, and went to bed. At that point I knew it was 35-0 Saints, which was enough wreckage for one night. I'd caused characters plenty of angst, didn't need to see it up close on a big screen TV.

Bob's Packer went to 7-0 yesterday beating the Minnesota Vikings while the Oakland Raiders got their butts kicked in a 28-0 manner by the Kansas City Chiefs. Which is fine, if you're meant to be shut-out and taught a lesson. My Niners had a bye-week, whew! But still, 62-7?

Really?

I'm not a go for the jugular kind of gal. A little blood-letting, okay. I write about it all the time, well, fairly bloodless pain. But this will sit with me for a while, and I'm not even a Colts fan. They're AFC, they're far from the West Coast. Yet this resonates and I'm not sure why. Like Paula Radcliffe stumbling in Athens, like England losing to Germany in the Euro 1996 semifinals during a penalty shoot-out (Oh that was awful!). Like, like, like... Wow, I'm flummoxed. Like what's going to happen to Cade Walton in the novel I was outlining last night, miserable, horrible events that nearly crush the very breath from a body.

But, well, next Sunday they Colts will be in Tennessee taking on the Titans, who got their clocks cleaned by the Texas Texans 41-7. And Cade Walton has a whole novel to get back on his feet. Still, 62-7. Man, now that's a clock and a half cleaned!

More like two, the memory lasting ages. Like Cade's, like Drew's, another tortured character in For God And Country. Sometimes the memories linger, causing deeper damage than imagined. I hope the Colts pick themselves up, manage a win. Manage to set this aside and move along the pigskin road...

done (and dusted)

2011-10-21T07:54:00.000-07:00

No, I am not procrastinating. I updated my iTouch last night, and this morning it decided to continue the process, going through picture files that weren't quite copied over correctly last night. About a quarter into it, and I just don't feel like opening a Word file until this is completed. So instead of starting the day with Gentle Mornings Edits, I'll blog. And no, I am NOT procrastinating.

Cobh Harbor, April 2005. I can just see RMS Titanic sailing away...

If I was procrastinating, I'd be filling the hummingbird feeder. That takes a good ten minutes. Or I would make my bed. That's procrastination fodder if I ever heard! Or I could wash the dishes in the sink, make another cuppa, loads of things I could be doing. But writing a blog post is somewhat... non-procrastinatish in nature. Non-procrastinating, non-something (non-getting any real work accomplished honey!); I can't clear off my desk, because I did that a few days ago, after our internet server was altered. Also after Bob cleaned all the dust out of my tower, which led to the massive dusting of my entire work area. That's what's been dusted, ready for NaNo. It's done, also I finished Marlene Dotterer's Shipbuilder last night. If you're into time travel, love stories, Titanic lore and Irish history, here's a novel for you! It took me a bit of time to get into the thick of the story, but once Casey and Sam are looking at a familiar landscape through new eyes, well, just hold on! I have an affection for Titanic, a visit Bob and I took to Cobh in 2005 stoking my interest. In the early 1900s Cobh was Queenstown, Titanic's last port of call; during our visit the Titanic museum was closed (off season for tourists), but I couldn't help soak up the history. Shipbuilder begins in 1906 Belfast, where the Harland and Wolff shipyards were churning out liners, and I was fascinated by Dotterer's take not just on that mammoth tasking but the explosive religious issues of that day.

I'm looking over the Visitor's Center in Cobh, April 2005.

I read last night as a new operating system was being hammered into my iPod, paying slight attention to the Cardinals and Rangers, a pitchers' duel that ended up as a 2-1 win for Texas. Not that exciting of a game until the last innings, but by then I'd finished the book, captivated by Shipbuilder's twist on a well-known tale. And as the Texas Rangers took the Fall Classic's second game, my iPod was sorted (mostly). I always fear just what I'll end up with after a massive update, and if my pictures are currently being routed to their proper places, I'll be ever so pleased. In the meantime, I'm blasting Cheap Trick, staring at the empty feeder (I really need to fill it this morning), thinking about alternate time lines, unintended entries into the past. What would I do if thrust a hundred years in the past? Casey's sorrow is palpable; how an independent and capable young woman had to adapt to constricting moral codes was well-handled, as well as the haunting grief of family forever lost. But when love is found... I'll leave the rest of Shipbuilder to you.

Gorgeous views were easily recorded; the corner of Ireland we encountered was a jewel! April 2005...

On that note, I'll faff about as the photo processing continues. Our internet speed is now something which makes me feel as if only days ago I was languishing in the dark ages. Suddenly pages upload before I can blink; what would someone from 1906 make of our world? I can't imagine that scenario...

Well, I could, but I have enough novel fodder on tap. Because, as you know, I'm not procrastinating. No, not me... (And yes, all photos are in the rightful folders! Ahhh, I love it when things work as they should.)

finding my way...

2011-10-19T14:43:00.000-07:00

I've been procrastinating like nobody's business lately, all to do with NaNo. Yes, I've been a naughty novelist. Partly I've been distracted; sport, new internet connection, NaNo forums, editing, this laissez-faire notion that does surround all I do. Which sounds perfectly LAZY. But it's not sloth, only waiting until I know exactly what's next. All October I've been hedging with Heaven Assumes, not digging into its prequel, Captured Words And Deeds. That novel needed a once-over, then I was going to plot the sequel within an inch of its life.

(Long post, as I'm trying to fritter away the better part of the afternoon. Bear with me...)

But I didn't do it. I watched baseball playoffs, Sunday footie, watered plants, did laundry, enjoyed the Indian summer that substitutes for autumn here in California. It's cool today, dipping into the... mid-sixties. Well, it's early, not quite the warmest part of the day. Supposed to be seventy. Fahrenheit. In the middle of October. And tonight in St. Louis for the opening game of The 107th World Series, it might plunge to the upper thirties. (A whopping forty-nine there right now, which is nine Celsius, which sounds truly frigid.) But here in Silicon Valley it's a pleasant sixty-seven F, twenty-one C. One thing I recall about Celsius when living in the UK was anything over twenty was heaven, didn't matter the time of year. Here in mid-October, a cool day for us is that lovely round number (in Celsius).

I'm still dithering. So I didn't read Captured Words and Deeds. I didn't sit and pour through the playlist for Heaven Assumes, assuming I'd just slap it all together when the mood struck, the mood, the muse, whatever you call it. I've written enough books on the fly to know it's possible, but Heaven Assumes needs more than just two seconds. It needs some OUTLINING. Which I do enjoy, pen and paper, sitting at the kitchen table, tea close, iTouch even closer. But it didn't happen as I read Shipbuilder, watched more sport, spent time with Thea and Brian over the weekend, chatted with Bud about his jury duty call-up, where he is today. I took care of Jay who was sick as a dog last week, waiting to hear Bob's goiter biopsy results which come in next week. That pain in his neck of a thyroid will be removed soon, perhaps by the end of the year. As the doc hasn't called us, we're assuming it's just an angry, coup-plotting thyroid but benign at heart. If the news was of a malignancy, by now the doc would have called.

Yes, of course he would...

But you know, assuming can sometimes come back to bite one in the... neck. No, I'm not knocking wood, only thinking good thoughts about that goiter, that as each day passes it's not big and cancerous. Just big. Big and massive, like a basset's ears. When we lived in the UK, we owned a basset for a short time. Tonto was like Bob's goiter, sort of aggressive but not overly malicious. A little girl told us he had massive ears, her gorgeous accent making us smile, as well as her enthusiasm. Yes, we grinned and sighed, Tonto had massive ears, was also a huge pain in our backsides. We even had him neutered, made no difference. We gave him to a family from Leeds, and I've always assumed he's still alive, bugging the hey out of someone else.

Summer 1999... Tonto; I hope he's currently stretched over the sofa in someone's lounge, soaking up the remnants of a coal fire.

Assuming... Sometimes it's all one can do. But I can't give away a cantankerous plot like rehousing a misbehaving, child-humping basset hound. Tonto chased the kids to the trampoline, then set his paws on the top, stretching the length of his young body. Fortunately, that was all he could do. When the kids wanted off the tramp, I had to corral that hound, bless his heart. Personally, I think he was a bit inbred. I've met subsequent bassets who are perfectly wonderful. I'll write about some next year, probably after I get Heaven Assumes written. Because that novel isn't happening in 2011, not in November, not in December. Heaven Assumes is heading for next year.

I know I'm wordy. Maybe I'm still procrastinating. I am listening to the new novel's playlist; the new novel, sheesh! I blame it on this NaNo thread. I told the gal I was going to lay the responsibly squarely on this thread. So here it is. This is why I'm changing my mind, writing something from the vault instead of what I was going to write. I spent much of yesterday afternoon going through the playlist for Penny Angel, removing the Peter Frampton songs (yes, that Peter Frampton) and slotting in new tunes. Different tunes, tunes that make me want to listen to them over and over (not Peter Frampton I'm afraid) and get the plot into my head. And my heart; my heart has to be in every novel or else the idea gathers dust and the playlist earns few plays. I could also note some fall-out at Peter Frampton's feet, in that when I made the Penny Angel list, I later avoided it, because really, did I need to hear "Show Me The Way" or "Do You Feel Like We Do" again? Uh, no. Instead I'm plying my ears with Camera Obscura, R.E.M., Elvis Costello and a smattering of 60s standards, "Stand" by Sly and the Family Stone, "Blackbird" by The Beatles, "Can't Find My Way Home" by Blind Faith. And of course Al Bowlly's "The Very Thought Of You" (from 1934); I've included a more recent cover by Elvis Costello of that tune, and it's nearly THERE. The playlist that is. The tunes come first, then the story, a weird method, but hey, if I write this novel and the other one I'm hoping to complete, that will be forty manuscripts. Forty books written from 2006-2011, five years of NaNo fueled-joy.

So, with thirty-eight under my belt, I think I know how this goes for me. Maybe that too is an assumption, maybe all of this is. Maybe Bob's goiter is not as innocent as we think, maybe Tonto isn't digging up gardens and chasing small children. Maybe I should have just buckled down and written Heaven Assumes. Sometimes assuming makes an... Well, you can insert that slightly off-colour anecdote. Maybe maybe maybe... Maybe I should just wrap up this post and get to plotting. Al Bowlly has sung his tune, the last song on the playlist. Now it's time to GET BUSY!

(Especially since The World Series starts in less than three hours!! All right, all right, off I go...)

fictional news

2011-10-17T08:14:00.000-07:00

Not that this is fiction; an interesting article today in the NY Times notes how Amazon is usurping the roles of publishers. I have mixed feelings; as an indie author, well, I can't help but smile that Amazon wants to take on publishing houses. I have a hard time wiping away my grin until I swallow that this is Amazon I'm giving props to; yeah, I like free shipping on orders over $25, but I do feel slightly shaky in adding to their behemothness. I don't mind ordering from their marketplace, where I found several of my Vietnam books, four bucks here and four bucks there to pay for shipping on books that cost about a penny. That's like supporting a used bookstore, right?

I try to support brick and mortar USED bookstores. Few independent new bookstores around here, and this isn't a small area. So while I secretly giggle that Amazon is taking yet another bull by the horns, twisting it to their advantage, overall, I feel a creeping sense of Big Brother. Hard to smile while robbing Peter to pay Paul.

Yet, ultimately... Here I suck in a deep breath and say yes. Yes it is good for Amazon to skirt publishers, remove that middleman. I'm not keen on their privacy requirements, not allowing their authors to discuss monetary details. That smacks of duplicity. But for HOW LONG have we authors been on the shortest tethers? Hoping and praying that one agent will give us a break; too many years writers have been on the short end of the stick. I LOVE being an indie author; not sure what part of it thrills me more. Is it simply having my novels available, is it owning the rights, or is it some not-so-small stick-it-to-the-man notion. I smile, it's a Monday, but a good day. My football team won yesterday, and I don't just mean the 49ers squeaked out a victory. Which they did, but more, beating an undefeated team, then, well, an incident at the end of the game nearly overshadowed said victory. Bob's Packers won too, the Raiders took down Cleveland, but lost their quarterback Jason Campbell to a broken collarbone, and are considering David Garrard, who was let go by the Jacksonville Jaguars. The Jags are 1-5 without Garrard; maybe Oakland will pick up what magic he took from them (and keep Terrelle Pryor on the sideline).

But back to writing; overall I'm cautiously optimistic to see how this amazonian attempt unfolds. Maybe once Smashwords and Amazon coalesce I'll be even more pleased. At this point, most dominoes are standing, traditional publishing still the vanguard. But for how much longer is in question, as bricks are toppling. Brick and mortar stores have been falling for ages. Just how much muscle does Amazon own and how far (and wide) are they willing to flex it?

R.I.P. Dan Wheldon 1978-2011... Two-time Indy 500 Champ, including this year's race, Wheldon died of injuries sustained in a race in Las Vegas. I am not a racing fan, but he was British, leaving a wife and two young sons.

why NaNo means as much as it does

2011-10-14T10:07:00.000-07:00

I've written about this before, probably in October, when the thrill of NaNoWriMo looms. As football has been playing a few weeks, baseball playoffs starting to twist, up comes the middle of October, the days counting down to November. In November, everything focuses, for those participating, upon words counts, getting that 1,667 words per day. Or more, more is always good. I never had trouble with the word count, not even in my first year, in Yorkshire, England, sharing one laptop with three teenagers, the PC in what we called the coldest spot house. My feet would freeze in that area along the back hallway, and besides, it was nicer to write in the cozy lounge, a coal fire always burning.

20 November 2006... Here I am, writing Drop The Gauntlet in our lounge in Yorkshire, headphones in, lost to the world and the words...

My first NaNo was written during a chilly autumn in 2006, just as we realized the ten and a half years we'd lived in Britain were probably coming to an end.

Nothing like facing the unknown; I had turned forty that year, was called out by Thea to give this NaNo thing a try. Then, as I plotted my first novel, news came from Bob's work; things were getting dodgy. We'd lived there for a decade, loved nearly every minute of it, all but the really frigid, raining ones (which weren't just confined to winter). Suddenly we began to note that life was going to change. Thea was a senior in our homeschooling high school, and it had been the plan to send her back to America for university. Then it wasn't just our eldest heading westward. We all were going home.

Late September 2006; near Bolton Abbey, Yorkshire. This for me, cloudy skies, rocks walls, copious sheep, endless rolling green, was home.

Home is a funny term; for a decade home was England. Home was constant green buffered by occasionally constant rain. Home was tea and Sky One, BBC Radio 4 in my kitchen, Eddie Mayer and the 5 p.m. news. Home was watching American TV shows on Sky with the oddest placements for commercials, or the occasional US show on BBC 1 or 2 with no ads at all! It was the Olympics without the drippy human interest stories, my beloved football that wasn't soccer played late on Sunday nights. It was the NHS which always served us well, it was Morrisons and ASDA and Tesco and Betty's Cafe. Then, it became a dream.

We left Britain in the spring of 2007, and I took 100K with me. Not a completed novel, but most of one, my first NaNo waiting on two laptops, also in the stored hard drive sailing across the sea. After all that November noveling, I got my own laptop for Christmas of 2006, an Acer that immediately bombed, and once we arrived in California, really took a dive. Word collapsed, and I traded machines with the kids. They got my lame-o laptop, I had again the behemoth Dell that my initial foray into fiction had landed on, and in temporary digs I slapped another 40,000 words on that manuscript. I finished Drop The Gauntlet in a Santa Clara Residence Inn, all thanks to my eldest daughter telling me about this writing competition called NaNoWriMo.

Mid April, 2007; no, not the green of England but at the Stanford Mall, trying to note our new for the kids, returned for Bob and me standing. This wasn't a visit to America, but the real thing...

You can skim the blog to note the rest; I started this site a few months later, what my profile states on the side bar. This whole gig began because of NaNoWriMo. I had no idea I could pound out a novel-length string of words until I gave it a shot. Then with Thea off to uni, Bud and Jay ensconced in a California public school, I went to town. Bud graduated, headed north to live with his sister and I kept writing. And writing and writing and writing. Not just in November, but when NaNo came around, this overwhelming giddiness hit, some anniversary of when my inner dream was realized. I had always wanted to write, but was raising kids with Bob, homeschooling and all that. Then we left that life in so many ways, I was in my forties, and time was plentiful. Time and the words.

Now I'm publishing some of those stories. Five years later, well, five years later Thea's in grad school and engaged, Bud has his AA degree in TV/film/radio and is looking for a job. Jay, just fourteen when we landed back in California, Jay is in her second year of college, getting ready to move out again. She and Bud have been living with Bob and me, but she's got a place lined up with a gaggle of girlfriends. Not far away, and I expect to see her often, if not just for laundry. She'll clean my house as her clothes slosh, which affords me more time to write. Bud's in charge of pizza, as usual, and Bob will give me the time and space to do this thing, this NaNoWriMo thing I do.

October 2008; I'd just gotten a haircut, also that year's NaNo shirt, celebrating a decade of noveling. It was my third year; we were moving house at the time, and I managed a novel as well as resettling into our current place.

NaNo changed my life, at a time when maybe I didn't need any more alterations. Moving back to America was enough, what we all assumed. But this former SAHMum isn't a SAHMum any more. I'm a working from home author. And who gets the thanks for that?

Christmas Eve 2010 in my usual seat, but not at work, only smiling for Thea, taking a few snaps.

NaNoWriMo. Chris Baty, Lindsay Grant and all their former and current cohorts at The Office of Letters and Light. There would be no Non-Fiction Chronicles of a Fiction-Filled Life if not for NaNo. Granted, I've moved down the road since completing that first novel in May of 2007 in Santa Clara. Well, I've not traveled far, still in Silicon Valley, but the writing, well, it's grown, expanded, matured. I know my themes, know myself as a writer. I'm out there for any and all to investigate, which is a LONG way from cool, dark, Yorkshire. As if the polar opposite, today in California it's supposed to be 87 degrees Fahrenheit, 31 Celsius. It's the fourteenth of October, but like summer. But no matter the season or temperature, the weather or continent, I'm a writer.

And it's all because of NaNo. Thanks NaNo, from the very depths of my tea-crazy, footie-adoring, Bob and kids-loving heart.

a beta beta good time

2011-10-12T07:34:00.000-07:00

NaNoWriMo is less than three weeks away! Let's just start things off with that lovely nugget. A new site awaits, a move from Drupal to Ruby On Rails, one that was achieved due to fundraising over summer, then put into the system by the OLL tech dudes, Dan and Jezra. Then, it needed to be tested. Beta tested. Bugs stomped, as many kinks worked out as possible. And I know this up close and personal because I was one of the beta testers...

Yup, non-techie me! When the call came for anyone willing to test the new site, I gave it some thought, a few minutes, because let's be honest; I am NOT the techie sort. Not really, not past the few things that are wedged in my brain like Species 8472, destined to be with me till I die. I'm good with rote, set patterns, like saving after every chapter, formatting ebooks, especially if there's a guide handy. If it takes only a few steps, there's some gray matter left to capture those tenets, and I'm good. Our beta bug wrangler buzzed around, keeping us all on our toes with her exuberant enthusiasm and terrific poetry, offering detailed posts of how to take screenshots, upload them, report bugs. We began in September, but had a lull when OLL tech man Jezra suffered a back injury, putting him in traction! Nothing worse than back pain, and the launch of the new site was set for 10 October. A few extra days, but on this past Monday, the new Rails version of NaNoWriMo went live!

It's a gorgeous website, if I say so myself, profile pages shiny, and those forums! Avatars are bright and heady, just a tremendous design. And hopefully, when November hits, the site won't crash! (A heads-up to fellow Wrimos; profile pages have new URL's. No longer are we known by a number, but our usernames.) Some niggly bugs still exist, but I have to say, it was a pleasure to take part in such a cool endeavor, fellow bug stompers wonderful folks, as Wrimos are. The hardest part was not saying anything about it all, not here, not to my family, friends, anyone! Bob knew I was a beta tester, but that was all he knew, and how many nights did I look at a wonky screen, then glance to him, sitting on the sofa, watching even more dodgy television. He's far superior with this stuff, but I just gazed back to the monitor, maybe taking a screenshot, or just again retrying an issue. He was patient while I did my work, as all who were waiting for the new site's launch. Believe me, it was just as tough on the beta side, so wanting to share all the great new features, but sitting on hands so ready to just click for the sheer joy of it!

And now I can... I can play on the forums, tweak my profile page, also noting a bug here and there. I can also say that all the hard work and small frustration of if I was doing it right have borne beautiful fruit! NaNoWriMo has a fab new site, and November is less than three weeks away...

Did I mention that already? Less than three weeks until NaNo!

It's a gorgeous book, and I can't wait to take in the story, as I'm a bit of a Titanic fan myself...

And as a teaser, if all this NaNoing wasn't enough; yesterday I received my copy of Marlene Dotterer's Shipbuilder. Marlene is a fellow ABNAer and indie author and I can't wait to get into this book!

photo shopping

2011-10-10T07:50:00.000-07:00

The little girl will be Rebecca Scotland, and to the right is her older brother Howie, holding one of their youngest siblings. I really wanted a shot of Howie, as his presence isn't for long, but overshadows all during the book. On the back of the smaller photo Ella is written in pencil, and it's a tiny picture, about 1X1. Nothing is written on the back of the other photograph.

A very successful football weekend ended last night as Bob's Packers scored twenty-five unanswered points to beat the Atlanta Falcons in Georgia in a replay of one of last season's playoff games. A bit dicey in the beginning as the Pack went down 14-0, but they rallied, and as I went to bed last night, Bob's happy sounds filling the house, I couldn't believe both our teams had both won! The 49ers nailed the Tampa Bay Buccaneers to the wall, 48-3, the most points they have scored since 2003! And the Raid-uhs won baby, a last minute interception by the Texans allowing Al Davis' boys a way to offer a proper goodbye. Yes, Sunday was a very good football day!

Niles but not of downtown. I found the hills more beautiful, or maybe it was the entire landscape, fresh from days of rain. In a few months those hills will be as green as the grass, believe it or not! Saturday, 8 October, 2011...

But on Saturday... On Saturday, Bob and I went to Fremont, more rightly to what had been Niles, California back before 1956. Niles and four other small areas were incorporated to form Fremont, just north of San Jose in the East Bay. The downtown looks like something out of The Andy Griffin Show, as if Andy and Opie will come strolling along the street, wondering which shop Aunt Bee wandered into. We only hit one antique shop, but there I found pay dirt, a small box of photos, then an album. I bought five shots, three of which bolster The Hounds Of War and Love. The other two... Well, they sit with some others, not sure where I'll place them.

Bob and I parked to the right, in the shade, but what I wanted to capture was Niles set into the hill.

Saturday was gorgeous, warm sun not at all like the rain we received last week. After we bought my snapshots, we mosied to the record store (of course) where Bob culled seven $1 records, mostly jazz. I galnced through the 80s records, plenty of new wave; lots of Depeche Mode, The Cure, even a few Bananarama albums, but those records were more like $4-10 depending on the artist. This place was a hole in the wall and it seemed all but us knew the owner personally. As if this was his second home, theirs too. Maybe the old ladies at the antique shop were the same with their patrons that stopped at the till, having a chat. Just different generations and their meeting places.

This photo is on thick paper, and was amidst four others of this young man with various family members. This will be Howie aged a few years from the picture at the top. This shot is about 4X6, as were the rest, and cost $2. But the ones I really wanted were this young man holding a cherubic baby; those were $4, too rich for my blood I'm going to consider the woman his mother, Ruth, although she looks a bit young. Let's just say Ruth Scotland was looking particularly photogenic that day, standing with her eldest child who is destined for Vietnam about 4 years after this picture was taken. The only info on the back is that it was an enlargement from October of what I think reads 1948. I have no idea who these people are, as if frozen in time, sitting in an antique store, their identities lost until they land in my realm. Now they are Howard William Scotland and his mother Ruth Rebecca Pinter Scotland.

I however was over the moon with my pictures; now I have all I need, not like I had a list, more just a gut feeling. There were at least four other shops for the next time I need an old photo hit. And goodness knows what Bob will find at the record store the next time we return! If you're in this vicinity and are looking for a taste of California's past, just take Mission off of I-680, all the way to Niles road. Turn left, and behold, 1948 is waiting for you...

Enlarged, this was the marker of an old town swallowed into what is now Fremont, California...

weekend tales

2011-10-08T10:58:00.000-07:00

Baseball. Football. Old photo shopping. Which is not like old photoshopping; Bob and I are going to hit some antique shops today, looking for old pictures. He went to a record store in Fremont last weekend, said it was antique store row. I can't wait!

Can't wait for that, novel fodder in old snapshots. Can't wait for the sport extravaganza that will start tonight, Detroit Tigers at the Texas Rangers. Tomorrow my 49ers play the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, tomorrow night Bob's Packers are in Atlanta. Sundays are solely devoted to American footie, after a Los Gatos Cafe breakfast. I did a scant bit of editing this morning, but that's about it for the rest of the weekend, not counting the photo shopping. Picture perusing, snapshot hopping. Or hoping; I am really hoping to get some new old pictures.

R.I.P. Al Davis 1929-2011... The owner of the Oakland Raiders, Al Davis was a rebellious, cantankerous champion of the AFL, which in 1969 merged with the NFL, creating the league I watch today...

moonlighting

2011-10-06T08:08:00.000-07:00

First I need to note that the UK has been experiencing a heat wave of sorts, just an example of how grand a month October can be. Now, onto the title at hand. No, I haven't been stepping out of the house for any small employment, just taking the writing to a non-fiction level, all about music. If you know anything about me from reading this blog, you'll know that right after writing comes the tunes. Or rather, truth be told, the music comes first.

I don't write a novel without having a tonal framework in place. From the very first manuscript to the two I'm swirling in my noggin for next month, it's about melodies, notes, lyrics, how they mesh, entwine, capture and lead. Without music in my writing, well, there wouldn't be any writing. So, when my friend Kate at Vivid Scribe asked if I'd like to contribute, I said I'd love to write up some record reviews. Not book reviews, which might seem odd, but if I'm going to tackle some extra typing, I want it to be all about my first love.

Which isn't Bob or writing. I've been listening to music since I can remember, my dad's 8-Tracks and singles filling my head. At nine years old I bought my first albums, Paul Simon and Elton John's Greatest Hits, along with John's Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy on cassette. Those were purchased at a small town drugstore with an actual soda fountain where my family went for summer vacations. The last stop in civilization was a hamlet where cold groceries were purchased, the Rexall Drugstore right next door. My siblings and I trooped over there, but instead of ice cream, I was fascinated with the record albums, but not the Black Sabbath my dad listened to. More 1970s middle of the road fare and I still have the vinyl. The cassettes are long gone, but that was my initial foray into pop culture. All I had at home was AM radio balancing my dad's eclectic sounds; he loved The Beatles and country, not just headbangers, Charlie Rich, Kenny Rogers, and Bobby Gentry too. My tastes grew to be just as wide-ranging, pop and rock, new wave, a smattering of punk, anything that piqued my ears. I've been writing since I was in junior high, but the tunes have been with me probably as soon as I learned to discern a chorus and bridge from regular speech.

You can find my ramblings at Vivid Scribe, under Music. Right now a review of The Cars' first album in twenty-four years waits, and I'm preparing a piece on Kate Bush's surprise release from May. Director's Cut is an analog reworking of eleven songs from The Sensual World and The Red Shoes, and with a new batch of tunes coming out next month, might Kate Bush be stepping back into the world of not so sporadic recording? I'll be discussing that in my next article, then of course reviewing 50 Words For Snow when it appears in November, along with various pieces that hit my ears. Moby, Ladytron, My Morning Jacket, and David Lowery (of Camper Van Beethoven and Cracker fame) all released new records this year, and I'm dying to dissect the goodbyes of two of my fave bands, R.E.M. and The White Stripes, probably in an end of year wrap-up.

One of the best parts of this so-to-speak second job is that when I listen to music these days, it's nearly all plot-centered, what tune works best for this chapter, what songs frame this story. I've missed listening to music just for the soul-tripping pleasure of the song. I do that with jazz or reggae, what Bob and I listen to during dinner. But rock, pop, something with a heart-stopping beat, a ragged and hypnotic thump of drums coupled with guitar licks that wrap up the side of my brain, bass and piano or synthesizes that force my feet into movement; suddenly I'm lost to the melody, to the chords, to the underlying message that for whatever reason has been my lifeblood since I can recall. I'm the type to tap (or sometimes slam) my fingers and hands along the steering wheel, or keep time with my foot even when sitting here at the PC. Something about music was set into my DNA, and while I can't read a note or play an instrument, I've got some pretty good pipes, and a mind for snippets of verse, semblances of tune. If I couldn't be a writer, I'd be a singer or a lyricist. But for now I'm scratching that itch as a record reviewer. And let me tell you, it feels so GOOD!!!

R.I.P. Steve Jobs 1955-2011. If not for my iTouch, where would I be? The following quote is from 2005 at the commencement address Jobs gave at Stanford University. If that doesn't inspire, I'll eat my iPod!

“Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life,” Jobs said. “Don’t be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.”

I love October

2011-10-04T08:16:00.000-07:00

29 October 2004 on the road to Leeds; some cloud, but in Yorkshire, this is considered a sunny day!

There are many reasons to back this title, but right off the top of my head three different notions swirl; NaNoWriMo, sport, weather. I'm sure there are others; my brother's birthday is this month, I'm half way through being forty-five (So far, so good!). October carries this sweet, excitable joy, and really, it's only been for the last few years. The NaNo years, the baseball and football years, the years we've lived back in California. For the last four years, October has been one of my favorite months of the year.

My 2010 NaNo purchase; a fantastic bag, if you're considering a special NaNo treat!

NaNoWriMo; let's hit this one first. NaNo takes place in November, but the planning, the thrill, the build-up is all in October. Sorting plots, songs, and chapters, pouring through the forums, considering what is coming; I'm thinking of writing two novels, as I have for the last couple of years. Looking back on it, out of the last five NaNo's, only two have seen me write one book. 2007 was a crazy, insane sort of year, completing a hat trick of three books that won't see the light of day. In 2008, we moved house, but I wrote The Road Home, which will be published sometime in 2013. 2009 was a double year, Memories Of Home and A Right Turn At Jesus. The latter was released in August, the former coming out early in 2012. In 2010, I completed the Alvin's Farm series with The Timeless Nature Of Patience, then penned A Slider, Tumbling, something about NaNo good for wrapping up sequels or series. Timeless Nature will be out at the end of 2012, and of course, A Slider was just published. Even though I write year-round, NaNo is so special, so magical, so perfect. As October slips along, I can't help but be overwhelmed by the mystery and wonder that is NaNoWriMo!

This really doesn't have much to do with baseball or footie, except it's sort of baseball shaped and football colored This is a scrumptious pumpkin cranberry muffin from The Los Gatos Cafe! 2 October 2011...

Or maybe it's that there's both football and baseball in October! Loads of baseball, the playoffs in full swing; last night Bob and I watched as the Detroit Tigers battled the New York Yankees, Detroit emerging with the 5-4 victory. When a commercial interrupted, we just hit the last button on the remote, Tampa Bay and Indianapolis on the gridiron. Football is back in full force by October, coupled with the most wonderful sport of which to write. I adore footie, but baseball is more cerebral, far more easily to set into prose, which I do often. Right now baseball is on every night, culminating in at least four games at the end of the month, The World Series. The drama, the agony, the ecstasy! A slow game is baseball, so easy to encapsulate in a narrative, so many nuances and inflections. And to watch it on a big screen in hi-def? Oh man, like heaven, night after night after night (With a few days games interspersed as if it was thirty or forty years ago.)!

Pumpkin chiffon crepes with cranberries and some really lovely syrup, apricot maybe? I did eschew the whipped cream... 2 October 2011, Los Gatos Cafe.

Now, because it's October, sometimes rain falls, even here in California! Which is great for my mood, not so terrific for the boys of summer. Now it's autumn, firmly and true; at The Los Gatos Cafe I've given up the ubiquitous strawberry waffle for more fall-themed dishes, like the pumpkin chiffon crepes and the fantastic pumpkin cranberry muffin. But that's due to weather, weather that is finally changing here in Silicon Valley, cooler nights, shorter days, occasionally cloudy skies, like what I see right outside my window. But what was amazing in England was how October afforded an Indian summer, sparkling blue skies, a break from the rain. Bright, crisp, true autumnal days which are far and few in between here in California, but at least by October, it's not really summer here anymore. Rain sprinkles from the sky, I wear jeans again, long sleeved shirts, and add the extra blanket on my side of the bed. Tea tastes better in October, more apropos, and using the oven to bake banana chocolate chip muffins doesn't seem as wrong. By October, there's a cooling in the air, a change of seasons wrapping around trees, winding into the house. Spinning into my brain, three corners eager to be engaged, writing and sport and weather combining to convince me it's really not summer anymore.

4 October 2005 along the back path just outside our village in Yorkshire. Jay was just thirteen and we were on a conker hunt. I walked that path often, rain or shine, but that day sticks in my memory, one of the last time my youngest was a little girl...

Come on November, bring on NaNo! Baseball will be over and cool days will be the rule, but NaNoWriMo, oh NaNoWriMo! How my heart beats for you...

A Slider, Tumbling

2011-10-01T18:46:00.000-07:00

The cover is courtesy of Thea's betrothed, Brian with another fantastic design!

There is something magical about publishing a novel, uploading the file, cover, filling in all the boxes. Long synopsis, short synopsis, tags... Details that don't seem to lose their mystery, their joy. Even if writing a synopsis is a pain in the backside, once it's done, all's over but the shoutin'!

Here I am, shouting! A Slider, Tumbling is available on Smashwords!!

I wrote this novel last November, the second novel for 2010's NaNoWriMo, my first conscious foray into literary fiction. All I knew going into it was a lot of baseball information, that year's glorious World Series, but more about 2009's Fall Classic. The New York Yankees and the Philadelphia Phillies battled for baseball's biggest crown. They call it a World Series, but other than Canada's Toronto Blue Jays, it's really an American contest, and in 2009, all East Coast. But this novel, like so many of my manuscripts, takes place in California, Northern California, all the way across the country from where Yankees and Phils are ready to, as Summer Caravella's youngest sister Spring says, swing and spit. The boys of summer are gonna swing and spit, but all Summer Caravella wants is answers. One answer in particular; why did Jody kill himself?

Skye, Summer and Jody's three-year-old daughter, wants to know about rutabagas. Eight-year-old Erika quietly fancies the Yankees, her late father's favorite team. Ten, and a half, year-old Nat can't stand the sound of baseball, even if it's his very favorite sport. Three children don't know any more than their bedraggled mother why Jody took such drastic actions, but as the World Series begins, family descends on Summer's house, along with hummingbirds and a root vegetable with healing properties. A magical rutabaga, the Queen of the rutabagas; Summer's brother Forest spins a tale for Skye all about a rutabaga, vegans, and the sugar invaders from the land of Corn Syrup, all the while cheering on the Phillies. Only Jody loved the Yankees, well, he loved their manager, their skipper Joe Girardi. A man that as the series plays out in Summer's living room over six evenings in autumn of 2009 becomes a beacon for Jody Sims' older children. All Skye Sims can see is her mother's old flame, Dan Bailey.

Dan Bailey is an old friend of Summer's, a former lover. Dan Bailey was also the bane of Jody's existence, but his children don't know that. All they know is the deep ache of a father's absence, the dreadful mystery of why their dad is gone. No one knows, only theories abound. Theories, hummingbirds, rutabagas, Dan Bailey. Dan Bailey has been around before, sometimes when Jody was on tour, and drunk. And when Jody left Summer. When Jody left Summer, Dan Bailey stepped in. Now Jody's never coming back. But is Dan's presence assured?

Just for the next three weeks, this novel is free with this code: VM85X As you might guess, baseball playoffs are underway, the Yankees and the Phillies both in the mix. My beloved San Francisco Giants aren't involved this year, but Bob has a soft spot for the Milwaukee Brewers, and I'd love to see the Detroit Tigers get another shot. They were in the World Series when I wrote my first novel, Drop The Gauntlet in 2006, five years since that fateful NaNoWriMo. Five years later, well, almost five years, I'm publishing my third indie novel, I'm living in California, watching "The Wedding Of River Song". I'm watching Dr Who, writing about A Slider, Tumbling, eating popcorn and getting it stuck in my teeth.

The life of an independent novelist is always intense. Don't forget that code, VM85X. Give it to anyone, use it yourself. In three weeks, on game four of the World Series, that code expires!

live on Vivid Scribe

2011-09-30T08:13:00.000-07:00

Well, this was a pleasant surprise to wake to this morning; an article about me on pop culture site Vivid Scribe! My friend Kate Krake had asked a while back about writing up something on me and indie publishing, and lo and behold, here it is!

Thanks Kate, goodness, this makes for an excellent start to the weekend. Tomorrow I'm having lunch with writing buddy Julie Rose, and perhaps by tomorrow night, A Slider, Tumbling will be up on Smashwords. Now, if my 49ers can manage a win (or avoid a humiliating loss) in Philadelphia against the Eagles on Sunday, it will be a weekend for the ages!

injury for art's sake (and a smidgen of Dr Who)

2011-09-29T07:10:00.000-07:00

Dude, like I totally biffed my elbow at the beach yesterday!

No, I'm not kidding. You can read all about it (and see the joint, bandaged) here.

In other news, I've been listening to Dr Who Series 5 tunes lately, the finale on Saturday starting to poke at my head. What will happen to The Doctor? What will happen to River Song, to Amy, to Rory? I've had mixed feelings on this season, the writing good, but not like last year. Too many back and forth time shifts, and while I adore Alex Kingston as River, I'm getting slightly bored with the whole Silence issue. Not to mention various plot threads that have been abandoned, or at least not mentioned in several episodes. As a writer, I notice this more than I used to. I can't imagine what will happen in two days to neatly (or just adequately) tie up a plethora of loose ends, but I am ready for this whole The Silence Will Fall business to be wrapped up. Last year's series was fantastic, introducing a new doctor, Amy Pond, Rory Williams. River Song was fleshed out, and I loved it. This year, meh.

Yeah, I said it. Dude, this year's Dr Who is just sorta meh. Now, where's my Neosporin and really big Band-Aids? I have a photography wound to address!

Not where I was thrown against the cliff, but a good example of the power of the 5.9 foot high tide... 28 September 2011 At my beloved Capitola, on a gorgeous sunny afternoon (more pics at the link at top).

awards, break-ups, winning Sundays

2011-09-27T08:39:00.000-07:00

First, thanks to Marlene Dotterer for the Liebster Award. Marlene is another ABNA semi-final alum, who just published her novel Shipbuilder. As a fellow Titanic aficionado, I am looking forward to getting to this tale, but in the meantime this blog award recognizes those of us in the smaller blogging sphere. An important notion Smashwords founder Mark Coker repeats, besides writing a great book and following the style guide for trouble-free novel uploads, is fostering relationships between authors. Regardless of the genres or audiences, writers, be they indie or traditional, need each other. I learned that during the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Awards in 2009, incredible support in the threads, which has lasted beyond one contest two years ago. So thanks Marlene, and good luck with Shipbuilder!

Now, my turn to highlight five blogs that may or may not be in this smaller blogging pond...

Debs Carr in Jersey, just off the mainland of France, tells of her exploits, also offering reviews and great pics; right now the most adorable puppies adorn her blog. You will fall in love with those sleek, cherubic babes, just a warning! Debs writes in her shed with her own hound keeping a watchful eye; Grumpy is as much a part of her blog as the hummingbirds are on mine!

Cassie Hart is a writing mum living in New Zealand, speculative fiction her forte. This year Cassie and her friend Anna Caro edited a short story anthology to raise money for those affected by the Christchurch earthquake. Tales For Canterbury is a wonderful collection, and I don't know how Cassie does it, balancing writing and motherhood while lending her time for a great cause. Well, right now a dishwasher has altered life in Cassie's house; check out how one appliance made a difference.

Julie K. Rose offers an incredible word every few days, and when I say incredible, I am talking words outta this world! (Or at least modern day.) Julie also has plenty to say on historical fiction, publishing her novel The Pilgrim Glass last year, a fantastic mystery of medieval glass intervening in the lives of three people in France. Another ABNA buddy from 2009, Julie shares my love for Dr Who, barbecue, and the need for spilling our writer's guts. This month she'll be featured on Back of the Book Reviews; keep your eyes open for that!

Lisa Eckstein is a NaNo buddy, write-in cohort, and wonderful listening ear. If you're looking for writing tips, strategies, reviews, and info, check our her blog! Currently Lisa is working on a revision of her NaNovel The Extent of the Damage, plenty of twists and turns, not to mention ups and downs, with that manuscript, and I can't wait to read it when she's through this round of edits.

Melissa Marsh is a another historical writer, World War II her specialty. When I read Melissa's blog I am often in stitches, as she finds tremendous humor in this craft that more often than not can drive a writer to tears. Her current post explains that succinctly, how difficult penning a synopsis can be. Check it out; I couldn't agree with her more!

Kate Krake writes in Australia, also heads up those over at Vivid Scribe, a site dedicated to pop culture. Kate and I connected last year during NaNo, both of us eager for that event in just over a month! Her blog speaks to the issues writers face, books she loves, reviews too. Have a glance, and if you haven't checked out "Historical Present Tense", oh man, give that a look too!

Now back to the title; break-ups occur all the time, but one recently made me consider my youth. One of my fave bands split after thirty-one years together, R.E.M. calling it quits. I'm of a mixed heart; their drummer left in 1997 and since then, I've only invested in the two albums that immediately followed. But still, I've used songs from those subsequent releases within my writing, and I saw them in Manchester, England in 1999. So while I feel like their run ended in 1997, here it is 2011 and they are finally over. Going to have to listen to some of my fave R.E.M. tunes, first getting into them during my stint as a college radio jock, where I met Bob in 1987... Oh now, those were the days!

And winning Sundays? Well, those frustrating 49ers managed a victory in Cincinnati, Bob's Packers over the Bears in Chicago. I watched footie all day on Sunday, amid wheat bread baked, oatmeal chocolate chip cookies too. Warm again this week, but autumn has made inroads. Now if it could just plant both feet, adding some rain, made those shoes stick!

And with that thought, time for me to get to work. Brew some more tea, pull up A Slider, Tumbling, which I'm hoping to release as an ebook next week. And just as a heads-ups for blog readers, I'll be giving it away for free for a limited time. Keep an eye here for more details; if you like baseball, lit fic, or a good tug on the heartstrings, A Slider, Tumbling will satisfy all three!

about.me

2011-09-25T09:16:00.000-07:00

My site, at about.me/annascottgraham

One of the aspects of Smashwords I really appreciate is founder Mark Coker's pro-activeness. Okay, it's early. I know there has to be a better word, but it's also Sunday. My mind is geared toward sport, but that's still over an hour away.

So Mark Coker is pretty darn forward-thinking. Along my Smashwords tabs is Site Updates, where Coker notes changes to the site (It's early and I did not get my latte at breakfast, their machine down for repairs...), also indie author tidbits, and just a few days ago a new site called about.me. A cool marketing tool he said, so I checked it out, and in about ten minutes I had myself another small but present web service. It is free, run by AOL (who bought out the company in the last year or two, according to Wikipedia), and is basically a website-lite, another link in the publicity-marketing chain. You can set hyperlinks into the bio text, add social network of choice buttons, and more links underneath. Currently they're a small fish, but I imagine AOL is hoping for a big return; you can also claim an AOL email address while you're at it. If you're looking for something in lieu of a website for the time being, or just another way to promote yourself, give it a go!

Anyhow, that's my news for the day. NaNo is five weeks away, my 49ers play in an hour, against the Cincinnati Bengals. Bob's Packers are on this afternoon, against 'Da Bears. I'm going to bake some bread this afternoon, then spend my day veggin' on the sofa, pigskin in my ears. Go Niners, and those Packers too...

keeping cool

2011-09-23T08:18:00.000-07:00

It's approaching the end of September, which means a few things in my brain. One, that football season is now fully engaged. Two, NaNoWriMo is just around the corner. Three, it should be starting to look like autumn...

Back up, rewind, hold that thought! I am not living in the UK anymore!

In England, it would be autumn by now. It would be cool, rainy, well, it's cool and rainy most of the year. But it would be, unlike California where it's been in the NINETIES all week! Yes, over 90 degrees F, 30 degrees C, too darn hot anyway you wanna state it. It's the twenty-third of September for goodness sakes! Why am I wearing a tank top?

Yes, it's seven thirty-nine a.m. and I'm wearing a tank top. Windows are open, doors too, getting the house down to a pleasant temperature so that maybe we won't run the air conditioning. Sounds daft, I know. California is a wonderful place, don't get me wrong, but when God was handing out seasons, the Golden State was lying on the beach, soaking up one more hour of sun. Britain was probably first in line, ending up with a deluge of rain. By the time my native birthplace sauntered up to the queue, little was left but sun and earthquakes (not a season, but maybe God was sorting natural disasters at the same time). Rain, clouds, most manners of precipitation were already exhausted. California smiled, nodded her sun-dazed head, and left with armfuls of endless clear blue skies. Then she plopped herself back on the beach towel, and went right to sleep.

(Britain meanwhile was busy establishing themselves in Europe, fending off various invaders, plotting to invent the Industrial Revolution. And probably wishing they'd let Spain and France go ahead when it came to weather distribution.)

I'm trying to get into an autumnal frame of mind. There's American footie after all, and NaNo! NaNo starts in less than forty days! I went to lunch with a friend a few days back, and while her life revolves around small kids at home, when she asked how I was, the first thing that followed was, 'Are you doing NaNo again this year?'

Sandy has more on her plate than rain in Yorkshire! But not only did she remember what time of year it was, she knew NaNo by NAME!! I love her to bits, will be getting together with her at our beloved Gayle's (It was Sandy to first take me and the rest of my crew to Gayle's in the first place!), probably on a weekly basis, at least until November. Because of course, November means...

NaNoWriMo! And maybe, just maybe, autumn. By November, California is definitely in the grips of some short-lived moment that could be deemed fall. I'll not be wearing tank tops (Or I better not BE!); hopefully I'll be sporting a hoodie, at times with a Green Bay Packers logo (they won the Super Bowl last year, if American football means anything to you) or just noting Thea's alma mater. I've told Bob I want the gray NaNo zip-up hoodie for Christmas, and by then it will be cool. Cool for California, which it should be. By Christmas, it's wintertime!

Winter in California lasts about... four days. I wrote about this in a novel, This Blog Has No Title; here's what Coral Timmons has to say about seasons in California:

I’m looking forward to spring, which comes here in California oh, in about two minutes. Early, so early, even if it’s still raining. It’s not cold, hardly chilly. There is no frozen notion in the South Bay, just these small lingering seasons between one summer and the next. Autumn lasts about three days, then there’s a week and a half of winter. Then spring, about two weeks. Then summer, forever and ever.

It's pretty much true. I grew up here, had forgotten all about it after living in Britain for eleven years. Now that it's late September, I feel autumn in my blood, in my bones, in whatever permeated me all those days in Yorkshire. Autumn should be cool, cooler than it is right now. Yes the days are growing shorter, but while the sun shines, it's HOT outside! I want to bake break, I want to wear a hoodie! Socks and jeans and scarves; I want a season of sharp breezes, nippy evenings, maybe even the occasional near-frosty morning! Instead I get sun. Sun and few clouds (although this morning was spectacular, maybe why I'm pining and moaning) and day after day of no rain. No rain, none whatsoever. I miss rain. I have football and NaNo and hummingbirds, but there's no rain. Not even a few tiny drops.

So today, I'll leave the windows wide until the sun really starts to beat down. Then the house will be closed up, the chirps of h'birds and other assorted fowl resigned to my imagination. Hopefully the forecasted cooler weather for the weekend will come true. I'll bake some bread, maybe slip on a long-sleeved shirt under my Aaron Rodgers football jersey (No, he's not a San Francisco 49er, but he is a native NorCal boy who guided Bob's beloved Packers to the Super Bowl this year. If my Niners ever pull their heads out, I'll get a jersey celebrating whoever made the biggest impact!). I'll think about putting on a hoodie over the jersey, just think about it. Hoodies, and NaNoWriMo, are still weeks away...

From my birthday in April; hopefully I'll be looking like this sooner than later!

crit partners appreciation day

2011-09-21T07:00:00.000-07:00

Beta readers, writing buds... A few different ways to describe those who willingly take on our novels, sometimes in desperate straights, sometimes nearly there. There encompasses several levels, but it's pretty darn close to nirvana, or at least wherever nirvana is for a manuscript. I have a few lovely folks who tackle my books, and having just received a critique, incorporating those notations into the novel, I'm ready to sit and read it through. But before I do, I wanted to give props to those without whom writers would be flailing. Without fresh eyes, all we pound would never reach its full potential.

Sometimes it's daunting, putting a manuscript into others' hands; what will happen to my precious baby? But really, it's so necessary, not just for typos and missing words. It's finding what slows the narrative, what has been repeated ad nauseum, whether it's a plot point or just a word (I'm slightly addicted to only, as in she only nodded, he only sighed). What doesn't make sense except within our own heads, oh goodness but that trips me up! Words that aren't right, the usual grammar and spelling (For some reason I used too instead of to more than twice in this manuscript, dude!); just new irises having a peek at words we've seen over and over and over.

But it's also reinforcing great lines, incredible passages. It's not just knocking down, but building up, or at least it should be. That's the experience I've had, and it means the world; after several comments of what's not quite kosher, it's so uplifting to read a hurrah! A good crit partner will point out what has touched them, what they find exceptional, which might not be what the writer felt at the time, just another reason why we write; you never know what will hit someone, what will capture the reader's attention. So lovely to hear what brings a tear, rouses a laugh, touches a heart. That's really what it's all about

So today I'm giving a virtual hug to all those who've slogged through my books, especially Julie Rose, who has become a sister of sorts on this writing road. Sometimes you find special folks who seem to comprehend more than maybe is right, yet they do and for that gift I'm speechless. Yes me! Nothing better than being understood, at least when it comes to proofing a manuscript. I doubt this idea is marked on any calendar, but if you have a few good souls who need a shout-out, well, the twenty-first of September seems a fine day to do so!

Thanks to Julie, Jenn, Cindy, Lisa, and Kate... I couldn't do this without you!

road trips and noveling

2011-09-19T09:34:00.000-07:00

I love to drive. Fast, I'll admit, but it's hard to go slowly here in California. The speed of traffic is where I sat on motorways, four to five lanes across, heading north to watch my nephew C.J. on Saturday while his mum and dad were working. Part of the thrill of the trip (small but noteworthy) was the drive, two hours all on freeways. Fast, without pockets of snarls, the difference between the Bay Area and Southern California. Just not as many people up here to tie the roadways.

I listened to playlists with certain purposes, trying to make sense of ideas; some for NaNoWriMo in November, some for further afield. On the way home I splurged, in that I listened to songs solely for the love of the drive. Nothing like blasting "Danger Zone" by Kenny Loggins while flying down the Benecia Bridge, hurled over the beginning of the Bay Area Proper, the Eastern side of the bay. Interstate 680 truly begins as one curves around the bridge, slipping back into NorCal's mass of people. My brother and his family live north of this swell of humanity, in a place large but not like the Bay Area. The look of their city is closer to where I grew up, makes me feel like stepping back in time, heat and certain trees, agriculture and nostalgia. I really noted it driving home, as if leaving my youth, heading to the fascinating and alluring south. From where I lived as a kid, everything intriguing lay to the south.

San Francisco, Los Angeles, all the places in between. North meant in the middle of nowhere, cattle ranches, farms, orchards, heat. When I was little I assumed LA was hot; it's not. It's about the same as Silicon Valley, on average. If you average all the micro climates and all the days, LA is about the same as the Bay Area, much cooler than the Sacramento Valley. I felt that all over me, driving away from Patrick and Marie's house, thinking about C.J. and his affection for trains, for calling any sport soccer; we watched college football and some baseball but it was all soccer to him.

I've been thinking about the work, as all weekend I didn't do any. I spent Saturday morning with my nephew and his mum, then Marie was off for her job. After C.J. woke from his nap, we raked the back yard, found a small rock that he put in his shirt pocket. Then we played trains, read about trains, puppies and hippos too. We watched soccer, which surprisingly looked like UCLA and Texas in American football pads. We ate dinner, played more trains, read books, then slowly he grew sleepy. He's an amazing kid, twenty-seven months and chatty, and I even understood about half of what he said. When it was bedtime, I put him down, closed the door, then heard not a peep! He went right to sleep and I pulled out NaNo 2011's folder, listening to the tunes with one ear bud, making sure I could hear if he woke. He never did, so I plotted, considering just what Heaven Assumes was going to entail. I had a pretty good brief outline already, so I added to it, changing a few dates, but that story's pretty set. It's a sequel to a novel I wrote earlier this year, which I'm in the process of reading, making sure I'm familial with it all. So many aspects to writing, making sure all the necessary parts are in place. Which does include the drive home the following day, after having breakfast with Marie and C.J., who was dying to play with his mum's iPad. He's so smart, moving the letters that spell bus or bee to where they go, making words that to him is just a recognition game. He also likes making virtual trains, dragging an engine, cars, a caboose, then choosing the setting. I really liked the train that went by the seaside, pointing out the whale in the background. I saw no whales on my drive home, only fields, trees curled around small streams, strips of green in the landscape, memories of my own childhood wrapped in those vistas, as if no time at all has passed.

How to explain that to even my own kids! How our memories stay close, triggered by slightly familiar vistas, panoramas that just hint to what lays deep in the gray matter. Music does the same, songs attached to plots, which I played while driving home, not seeing a single cop! Plenty of them on Saturday morning, but Sunday was quieter, at least to the presence of California Highway Patrol. Plenty of cars getting away, going somewhere, but I was only going home. Going home with new memories of a little boy so taken with trains and raking dirt and soccer on TV. Personal memories nudged by the sights of simple landscapes, not the hustle and bustle attached to the Bay Area. For, as I approached the Benecia Bridge, Silicon Valley beckoned, even before I reached the bay! It was there in the rolling brown hills speckled by scrub and trees. My home was flat, the center of a long, hot valley, but the Bay Area is hilly, reminding me of John Steinbeck. I always think of that writer when I come back here, my home now. It's silly, because Steinbeck lived south of what's now the techie capital of the world. He lived a good forty minutes south, but even north of Benecia, I feel it.

I swooped like a hungry hummingbird over that bridge, water far underneath, industry to the right, looking nothing like where I had just been. No agriculture here, just people and buildings, freeways and traffic, ideas and sprawl. Not Southern California traffic and sprawl mind you, but not like where I grew up. My writing is a blend of all those places, so many notions and songs and memories. From here to Britain and back again, stored like files in my head. A song or image pulls up that information, prodding or gently reminding. I considered a few ideas as I drove (fast), watching for cops that didn't appear, going the speed of traffic, following the flow of how many others on their way to various locations. I had one in mind; my house, my home. Like Thea, I didn't grow up here, but now the Bay Area is my home. Or at least it's my base until we pick up and go somewhere else. And no matter where that is, the novels and the tunes will follow...

when I go to the beach...

2011-09-16T08:53:00.000-07:00

14 September 2011... Big splash at my beloved Capitola...

I haven't been to Capitola for what feels like ages. Thea reminded me I took her and Jay in July, which I'd forgotten, things around here so busy. And while I love going with my girls, my solo expeditions have been far and few between this summer, which is just about autumn now. I went two days ago, again to clouds that didn't break; maybe next week will be different. While I'm not writing, I'm going to attempt to cram as much beach time in as possible.

When I capture these splashes, I often wonder what am I missing right before my eyes while the shutter goes click...

(And speaking of cramming, long long post, just a heads-up!)

Beach time; it's not about catching rays. It's about my camera, me, music and the waves. Watching those curling and retreating rolls of water, reminding me nothing is static, everything's moving. Me, books, words, kids, water, landscape, my finger as it clicks and clicks, capturing endless shots of the horizon, or of the endless construction there in Capitola; again someone is messing around with the street, the lovely wooden fence sorted over a year ago ripped away, along with most of the concrete. What they're doing now, who knows!

February 2010; they were shoring up the cliff, but if they needed to do more, why not then?

I had no idea that was approaching as I stated my trek, thinking about Thea; was she going to make it up here this weekend? She had a ride arranged, then on Wednesday she rang, the gal had cancelled! All of us up here were anticipating her arrival, maybe more her fiance than Bob and myself, but not by much. As I walked along the road, looking to the water, the gray clouds, the end of summer, I wondered if I'd see my eldest over the weekend, or would I have to wait until mid-October when she flies for a visit. Then as I reached the spot that feels like the end of the earth, I noted an earth-mover, large piles of bull-dozed dirt. I turned away from that, staring to the ocean. My daughter lives in Southern California, so many hours away, and while she's nearly 23 and not a little girl anymore, the rest of us, Brian included, live here in the Bay Area. Odd to have her so far away, like when she lived with Bob's sister in the Midwest for her sophomore year of high school. Only nine months, but we were in Yorkshire, as if all the time zones separated a family. This time next year Thea will be married, Brian at her side in SoCal. But right now she's alone down there, well, there's Kat the cat and two nice roomies and plenty of others, but none of us. When I uploaded the latest novel, I had all my kids, even a few not actually mine but still belonging to me in one way or another. All but Thea, and it was odd, not quite right. It was also the way of things; kids don't live with you forever (What I have to keep remembering when I find my kitchen a mess from the two at home, Bud and his fried fish or Jay with soup cans left all over...). They move out (eventually), but Bob and I are on this cusp, kids nearly gone, on their way out (and back in, but out one day), yet they were just here, they were just little or maybe not so tiny but still part of the household. Then, guess what?

July 2011; Thea on the left, Jay on the right.

They're not.

Now what the above sunny shot looks like; maybe three feet of roadway in front of houses. How do those people reach their homes with a car?

I walked along what suddenly went from road to dirt, huge swathes of street just gone; where did it go? The girls and I were just here, what happened? Again someone had to adjust something, and instead of concrete and a lovely wooden fence, there's dirt mixed with sand, temporary wire strung, signs pointing out the sheer cliff. As I trod along, snapping water hitting that rather steep drop, I watched a few machines in progress, trenches dug, men studying plans. I looked to the homes which face the ocean; how do they reach their houses? How long will this be a huge mess? Is my daughter coming home this weekend? Her voice when I was learning all this, at Gayle's over a latte and raisin nut rye roll, was trying to be steady, but an underlying tremulous quality hovered. She really wanted to come home, come north, see family, her beloved, and we all wanted to see her. But it's many hours between us now, not the few that I could pull in one day, a long road trip up and back. Now it's longer just one way, it really feels like stepping into another world traveling to Southern California, as if more than one time zone has been covered, maybe two, maybe three. Would she find a ride, or would she spend that weekend far away, not even Kat to offer consolation.

Sheer drop ain't whistling Dixie!

We're a close bunch in some ways, all those years of homeschooling, living as ex-pats, binding this family closer than maybe we like at times, but here we are, the result of that decision, a nutty, tight group that needs connections more than cell phones and instant messaging can provide. Weekly I write Thea a letter, postcards too. We pop texts, messaging over keyboards, but when the heart is ready for face to face time, it's hard to set aside the disappointment if that falls into the sea.

A huge chuck of the road has been swept away, as if all last year's work was for not. I don't even have a long shot of the beautiful wooden fence; I assumed it would be there for ages...

I stayed clear of the wire keeping that cliff off limits, making my way through the construction zone. They just did all this stuff, I wanted to say, you just built up the cliff, planting poppies and flowers and building a beautiful wooden fence! I have pictures, sunny shots showing all that hard work. Instead I walked along, shooting the cloudy day, feeling curious, but not willing to speak. What was there to say? Sometimes there's just no explanation, sometimes bulldozers rip up the street, tearing into the earth, digging out the ground. Sometimes kids get to come home and sometimes they're stuck in SoCal. I walked to the end of the road, snapped the signs that told this will be for the rest of the year, into 2012. Then I turned back, snapping more, digital photography allowing such gluttony. Snap snap snap... Pictures of workers and their trails, pictures of the cliff and coast and water and sky. But not blue and deep, instead flat and gray. I wondered if the photos would be too dark, wondered if I was destined to drive to Capitola and shoot dismal beach shots for the rest of the year. Feeling a bit pouty, a bit out of myself. I really wanted Thea to come home this weekend!

January 2011; this is the only fence shot I have, and now that's gone too!

When I got back to the car, I set a playlist for the drive, started the car, heading back to Highway 1. As I reached the freeway, the clouds were just starting to break, and I smiled, isn't that the way? Reaching Santa Cruz, getting onto Highway 17, it was sunny, bright, pleasant. And warm! The weather here is a cornucopia of micro climates; how many times has it been nicer in Capitola than in Silicon Valley, and vice versa, no rhyme or reason, just the way it is. I drove home enjoying the tunes, songs for the next novel, in November, NaNoWriMo right around the proverbial corner. Yeah, another 6 weeks, but the year's flying past, didn't Thea just graduate? Weren't she and Brian just here, staying with us, Jay on the sofa, Bud in the back room? For two weeks over summer I had all four kids here, not like any other time, because Bob and I haven't had a son-in-law-to-be before, but certainly plenty of our collective kids have graced this house, all the other places we've lived. People come and go, and when I reached home, I called Bob, telling him Thea might not make it home. I told Jay and Bud, all of us with a resigned sigh. I sat at my desk, thought about my day, about the beach again in the midst of alterations, then pulled up a manuscript, always a novel under constructions. What I call the folder on my computer where all the current novels rest, the under construction folder. East Cliff Drive in Capitola seems just as fluctuating, constantly being overhauled. The ocean is forever, even with the changing waves, but that roadway is always being poked at.

Big equipment tears apart whatever is deemed necessary.

Much like a manuscript, tweaking here, revising there. I got through two chapters of Memories Of Home, the third novel in the Alvin's Farm series, then Thea called; she had a ride! She was still leaving on Thursday, would be in our neck of California around dinnertime, dropped off at a Starbucks in Santa Clara along with the rest of the group, which included two others who had been slated for the original carload. She sounded relieved thrilled, tired. I was overjoyed, and called Bob, telling Jay and Bud, assuming Brian already knew. I don't kid myself; if Thea wasn't engaged, this trip probably wouldn't have occurred. But I won't complain, not one bit! All day yesterday we texted; no traffic for them in LA proper, but along the Grapevine they hit some snarls. Once they were through that, it was a straight and very long shot up I-5, then cutting across to reach US 101, the heartland of Silicon Valley the last destination, probably fitting it was a Starbucks where we collected her. She was tired, in need of a shower, having risen late, but she made her ride, and that ride made it to NorCal. Brian met us at our house, where Thai food was consumed amidst much conversation. Jay had to leave for work, but wolfed her portion, giving her sister hugs. Bud told of his attempts to add four gig of ram to his laptop while Thea sat next to Brian, enjoying the food, her fiance, being home. She wasn't born here, didn't grow up in the South Bay, but after only a month in the southland considers this grouping of towns and cities her home. Funny how that occurs. She grew up in Britain, but home is where loved ones congregate. And right now, we're all here in techie Silicon Valley.

The end of the world isn't quite as stirring with that machinery. Not sure what will happen here, I'll have to wait and see...

Thea and Brian finished off the last chunk of Jay's ice cream birthday cake, were shown around the latest garden additions; Bob planted geraniums along the side fence that Thea weeded when she was home over summer. We noted the climbing vine in the front, joked it would meet up with those geraniums over the garage roof, taking over the house! Then she and Brian gathered her backpack, their leftover pad gra prow, and as Bob pulled his car into the garage, they took off. We'll see them again on Sunday, before she heads south with several others spending this weekend with loved ones. A contingent making that long trek, but they're young, hours crowded in a car not so troubling. Much better to be huddled for a time, having shared a few days with family.

At least this remains, all the construction cropped, out of sight, out of mind...

After Thea and Brian departed, Bob turned on the TV while I cropped beach shots, the Giants beating the Colorado Rockies 8-5. After a dismal second half of the season, out of playoff contention, the Giants have won their last five games, but there will be no repeat of their amazing October run to the World Series. Still, at least they're taking some games, what I thought cropping photos, thinking how good it was to see my girl. How happy she was sitting next to the one who completed her as the pad gra prow was consumed; I heard her giddy tales of her travel companions, then noted the rest and satisfaction of not having any more to do than go home with Brian, take a shower, fall into sleep. Then two days with her best guy, Sunday here until she heads south.

Rolling and crashing, never-ending waves.

Whether it's a trip to the beach, a sojourn north, or even an lengthy blog post, all good things must come to some end. (At least until the next time, heh heh heh...)

two incredible tales

2011-09-14T07:52:00.000-07:00

Part of the joy of writing is the beauty of reading. I was a reader first, slowly morphing into an author. The thrill of losing myself in a story wound a thread within me, somehow touching a nerve; I want to do this! Recently I've read some short stories that made me shiver. Not that they're chilling, but thrilling. One stands alone, the others strung together into a novel that has become my second favorite all time book. But first, let's talk about Historical Present Tense.

Kate Krake is the author, a NaNo buddy who writes speculative fiction. Kate's blog offered a short story a few days back and I sat with wonder, then amazement, then awe, for many reasons. One as the tale is, well, perfect. In my opinion, when reading it, I was swept away into a moment of what if? And beyond that, then I felt taken aback by why not? And then... Well, then it was the forget-me-nots, the winding trail up the mountain, the back and forth whirl of life played out, but how? Please give this short a look; it's really spot-on, reminding me of my all time fave novel In Watermelon Sugar for the sheer beauty of the prose, the method of reality blending with some other place. Yet so real; I can feel Mark's uncertainties and still feel the damp of that reserve.

Now, if that wasn't enough, yesterday I finished The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien. I have to thank Lisa Eckstein for this novel, which is nudging Richard Brautigan's In Watermelon Sugar for that all time most adored manuscript position. Lisa and I were chatting about my latest idea, the basset hound/Vietnam War story, and she sent me a link with three novels about the war. I found two of the three novels at my preferred used bookstore, Recycle Books in San Jose. O'Brien's book was one, Matterhorn by Karl Marlantes the other, and I chose to read The Things They Carried first solely due to its size. Far less to read, but I didn't know it was a collection of short stories when I opened it. Maybe the link noted that, maybe I just missed it. Maybe, but as I began reading, I was suddenly transported right to Southeast Asia, in the middle of a messy, disturbing but glorious place. Glorious as in a new land, forests and jungles, mountains and plains, a shit field and what could pass as a Boy Scout campsite, albeit with razor wire and foxholes. I wanted to read about Vietnam, about the war, to prepare myself for writing, research I allowed. More books are coming, from the perspective of nurses who served, volunteers most of them, but first I wanted to feel what I could about the war from a soldier's perspective. And in The Things They Carried, not only did I receive that wish, but a sort of transference, as if there, as if watching, absorbing all the horrors, cruelties, and deep, lasting affection. So many images sit in my head, as clearly as Mark, Em and the sixteen-year-old in Kate Krake's Historical Present Tense; senses hit, smells and notations, emotions pricked, plumbed far beyond what I imagined.

This is what good writing accomplishes, the lifting of our souls, our very beings, taking us somewhere beyond our usual confines. I read The Things They Carried each weekday during lunch, and I'm a squeamish sort; O'Brien's novel isn't overly bloody, although it spills. What is revealed isn't just the look of war but the feel of it, the taste and oppression, the tight binding and camaraderie even in misery. Also the utter joy of life, still dancing within. O'Brien's tales wind together like a novel, or they could be taken just as a collection of shorts, but then I shake my head, because they need each other, several long and short tales that could stand alone, but are better served within the parameters of an entire manuscript. I'm not a short story author, I can't even write a brief, concise blog post! That endears me even more to Krake and O'Brien, a tremendous appreciation for making the most of a few words. When I wrote The War On Emily Dickinson, I tried to approach each chapter as a complete tale, but needing the rest of the chapters to round out the story. O'Brien's novel tells me that manner is all right, for his novel is non-linear, going from his war experiences to as late as 1990, other moments in between. It's not an overly long novel; like I said, I chose it for that reason. Matterhorn waits on my shelf, and I'll admit I'm daunted. But I'll give it a go, as soon as I recover from The Things They Carried. I'm also a bit leery; two tales have hit me hard. What might a third do?

In the meantime, I'll note that A Right Turn At Jesus has landed on iBooks and looks great! I am very pleased with how Smashwords manages to transform my word document into various formats. On my iTouch I have Kindle, Stanza, iBooks, and out of the three, I think I prefer Kindle or iBooks; I like seeing a novel with indented paragraphs. Stanza sets a space between each paragraph, which is all right, but the purist in me calls out for indentation. Yet, however that novel and The War On Emily Dickinson are read is fine with me. The methods to digest a tale are varied; please take a moment to read Kate's story and pick a version of O'Brien's book. Great reading awaits, at least in my humble opinion...

new work week

2011-09-12T07:15:00.000-07:00

It's early, and while I've done the GME's, am on the second cup of tea, it's not quite time to dig up a manuscript and start editing. It's one thing with Gentle Morning Edits; one chapter, contained and limited. But when the day begins, the real work, whether it's writing or revising, it's open-ended, at least through the morning. The US Open men's tennis final starts at 1 PM, and I'll be stuck to the sofa, taking in a repeat of last year's final between Rafael Nadal and Novak Djokovic. I wouldn't miss that for, well, not very much. I peeked at yesterday's women's final, Samantha Stosur beating Serena Williams in straight sets. In between snatches of my beloved (And victorious, believe it or not!) San Francisco 49ers I admired and cheered Stosur; Williams is a poor loser who only acerbated her reputation with mean-spirited remarks to the chair umpire. I can't abide that sort of childishness; Serena Williams is a long-time champion, and after what she did two years ago, this was another example of a woman who cannot control herself. She's twenty-nine years old, on the world stage. This isn't reality television fodder, this is professional sports. Small rant, I'm getting off my high horse now...

So that leads me, somehow, to this week, a new week, Monday that's not a holiday. We're securely in the middle of September now, a month that means my daughter has a birthday, but even now Jay's big day is past. She'll be cleaning her bathroom today and I think I'll even get her attached to the hoover, summer days and birthday celebrations moving aside. The days continue, events moving along. Football is back, which makes my heart sing, perhaps that's why I don't feel ready to work yet. Or is it wanting to listen to some tunes, Death Cab For Cutie courtesy of Jay. Not a new band, but I've not listened to them before, and their new record, Codes And Keys, is piquing my interest. Several tunes are already on the songs for a future idea playlist; one way the novels emerge, tunes that hit me are slipped onto that playlist, then right into my ears, bouncing around my gray matter, mixing with sport and tea, children and household tasks. With drama and curiosity, wonder and thankfulness, swirled with faint sorrows of the past. They are faint because they are over, like the women's tennis final, like summer, like yesterday. I know Serena Williams has always carried fire in her game, one of the troubles the tennis honchos have in disciplining her. The women's game has been quiet for years and if they bounce her out for a while, where's the flash, where's the audience? Her older sister Venus pulled out of the US Open with an auto-immune syndrome, who are the stars of the women's game? Yet, Serena needs some sort of censure. And I need to get to work, stop blathering about tennis stars and pop bands. But there lies something under all this, what we bring to our work, our lives. We can't shut it out, we erupt with all in our pasts. Sometimes those noises are sharp, ill-timed, emerging just when we'd rather be hunkered on the sofa, watching the pigskin. Other times... Well, we're only human, and as a writer, I KNOW I write what still dwells inside, what I think sits dormant. And perhaps it does, because I can spew it all in fiction. But Serena Williams lives her passion in front of an audience, sometimes just those on the court, at other times with some semblance of a world-wide TV gaze. The Arthur Ashe court wasn't full yesterday, not sure it will be today in New York for the men's final. It was supposed to be yesterday, the women to have played on Saturday, but rain threw a wrench into the schedule.

I don't know if it made any difference to the players, part of the tournament, the possibility of alterations. Issues they have to work with, just like the hoo-haa we all face every day, bumps in the road. For a writer, those bumps can be formed into fodder, and if we're lucky, blessed, or just willing to work through it, even the most crystal-edged, unpleasant memory can lose those dangerous points, eased into fiction, healing our hearts, maybe touching others. Watching Stosur and Williams play was a treat, but Serena's outburst reminds of a very thin line between the work and our souls. Or maybe at times no line exists. We are bound to this calling, caught up in a tide that rolls who we are with what we do, no way to separate those parts of us. I write about issues that mean something to me, Serena and Samantha and Rafael and Novak play with the intensity of their very beings. Their cores, my core, our collective inner mettles brought to millimeters of the test. We win, we lose, we crow, we crab. We sit at times in silence as the crowd around us continues with all their joys and sorrows. And then, at least for me, I finish a blog post, let Death Cab For Cutie play out the last songs. Then I pull up a document, sip the tea, get to work. That's how a new work week begins, the twelfth of September, fourteen years after my heart broke. Life and living it is a process, day after day after day...

12 September 1997, Yorkshire sunrise; my brother Joe is up there somewhere...

hey nineteen

2011-09-10T12:40:00.000-07:00

My youngest daughter recently turned that age; in a year's time, I'll have three twenty-somethings. And one of them will be married.

Taking big deep breaths...

Okay. So, there's been a festive, celebratory mood around the house, Jay's birthday in the midst. The one day, she smiled, that legitimately it's all about her. We all need that, one day to bask in the glow of plentiful love and messages, mail and pressies. She seems to have enjoyed her big day, and of course Bob and I pondered that day nineteen years ago; she was a timely newborn, suffering a bit of jaundice, otherwise sporting a furry brown head, brown eyes, our only non-blue-eyed baby. She's had those brown irises and her loud voice all her life. She takes after me physically, long nose and big feet. Thea has the paternal genes, but Jay is so much me, even down to the moisturizer she bought on her Target birthday shopping spree. We use the same lotion, and she sighed, but not in weariness. More of a loving resignation; 'Mom, I'm getting to be like you more every day.'

Not that she'll end up penning fiction. She dreams of writing for the National Geographic, which is lovely to hear. She's a social butterfly, always on the go. She loves country music (I roll my eyes at what she considers country), going to the mall, dollar bowling, spending time with her boyfriend and all her posse. She loves giving me the latest slang; a cool minute, as in I've haven't see them in a cool minute. Or she's down for that, ready and raring to go. Future novels will give her a 'ta thanks cheers love' for those sayings, and so many more. My recently completed novel needed her touch, fifteen-year-old Karina and seventeen-year-old Doug sounding more authentic all due to Jay. She's good with Pine-Sol or Scrubbing Bubbles, loves to wash my car (and now that her birthday is past, I'll mention that tasking), and with wheels of her own stops at the store for me. She's a hoot and a half, not the neatest soul, but since coming back home has managed to corral her possessions within her room. I just don't go in there very often.

My children are SO DIFFERENT from each other. It makes their personalities shine even more, and with Jay, there's this spark, lively and bright. I love her to bits, so this post is dedicated to her, for her lovely, bubbly self, all her help in the writing, all the love she shares. To my baby girl, I hope nineteen is a tight year! (Tight to teenagers is really really good. Although I don't think she considers herself a teenager anymore, ha ha ha...)

R.I.P. Michael S. Hart

2011-09-08T06:45:00.000-07:00

The founder of Project Gutenberg died on Tuesday; I just learned of it today. In 1971 he typed The Declaration of Independence into a teletype machine, but without email at the time, realized this document would need to be downloaded individually. Thus began his journey into what became Project Gutenberg.

Michael S. Hart; 1947-2011.

in a little creative mood

2011-09-07T08:59:00.000-07:00

I'm not writing at the moment, just editing, faffing. I'm faffing this morning, having penned (using my Camp NaNoWriMo carved within a stick pen) a letter to Thea, far away in the California South-land. When Bob and I went down there, just a weekend after our Washington DC sojourn, we felt to be in another time zone, traveling hours and hours, more than needed in the planes that took us east! But we were still in Pacific Daylight Time, as crazy as that seemed. A big state is California, more like two or three, what many northern residents think. But that's another post, because how large this section of land is has very little to do with creativity unless you're Christo and Jeanne-Claude.

I'm just a writer, which isn't a small thing, but it's not a drape the state with pink tulle tasking either. It is about draping a page with words, ideas, maybe even a plot! I have many plots, probably enough to douse this land, but we need rain more than angst. Still, the angst lingers, angst in notions, in my head, in what I'm reading at the moment; The Things They Carried, by Tim O'Brien. Right now I have The Vietnam War and Vietnam nurses on my mind, along with various other bits and pieces of story lines. I ordered four books about nurses' experiences in Vietnam yesterday; while I try to get my books at actual shops, there is something so easy (too easy and slightly guilt-tinged) about going to an unnamed enor-mo website, punching in a few snippets of information, then receiving answers spat with impersonal efficiency. These books would have been difficult to find in a bookstore, even my beloved Recycle, and I did just get two novels there, O'Brien's more a mix between fact and fiction and probably one of the best books I have read in a long time. The sort that makes you forget what's real and what he fictionalized because the writing is spot on, and now I'm so far into it, it's about the story. The tale, the pathos. The angst; yes, enough angst in that war to drench California and Vietnam both in whatever color chiffon Christo and Jeanne-Claude ever dreamed.

Reading that sort of book, be it fiction or non, makes my brain prickle. Which is not pickled, just the opposite. Makes me itch to plot this novel, but I have to research first. But the ideas are teeming, stirred with the morning tea, some lively tunes, and the immense appreciation for what I'm doing. Noveling, to borrow a NaNoWriMo term; noveling is more than a gift, some blessing from heaven. Even if the subjects are reeking of sorrow and turmoil.

Nearly a month since I took this shot, stared at this statue, and I'm still haunted by it. The Vietnam Women's Memorial, The National Mall, Washington DC.

I stopped writing poetry years ago because for me, it was borne of deep grief. I never could write poems after I met Bob, after we had our kids, not for any real length of time. I was too bowled over by the incredible joy of a husband, our family, all I had wanted. I did stretch those non-prosy muscles after my brother died, working out a good lot of mourning then. I just finished reading Elaine Feinstein's bio of Ted Hughes, former English poet laureate and so much more. He was mainly all poetry, and goodness knows his life was steeped in some pretty deep horrors. But I am a novelist, I truly am and why I can write about misery and drama in prose and not in verse, I cannot say. Just how it turned out. Maybe people asked Christo and Jeanne-Claude the same; why? Why decorate huge structures and landscapes with colored material? I don't know their answers, and Jeanne-Claude passed away in 2009, but maybe Christo might say the same as me; I can't do anything but this. I'd love to sit, recline, maybe not do more than breathe. But while I'm inhaling, the brain isn't still. The heart continues to flutter, and within that organ is the lifeblood. For that couple it was a desire to create works of aesthetic beauty, bringing a new view to established monuments and vistas. There are only so many stories to be told, but somewhere inside I have an ache to tell them from my perspective, drenched in the colours of my childhood, adolescence, adulthood. I started with poetry, worked my way to prose. Am still working, definitely works-in-progress, even when I'm blogging. Listening to a playlist, of course, letting the nuances spin. I might pull a Christo later today, laundry to do, a hot, dry day here in Silicon Valley. I'll decorate my laundry line with various t-shirts and shorts, then find my chair, revise a little. Drink some tea, consider this gift; books and words and novels and non-fiction, poetry and dangling pieces of apparel. Music wafting through, the hummingbirds offering their three cents (still a trio fluttering around, driving each other crazy). When the heart and brain find a cohesive moment, there's no limit to the possibilities.