Wednesday, November 30, 2011

I haven't thrown in the towel...

It lies bloody and tattered, yet folded neatly in the corner. 

That towel is gross, but it symbolizes more than just my refusal to give up...

It signifies the blood, sweat, and tears that have gone into me getting even this far in my writing life.

Also, it signifies the mood and tone of my work.

And it's gross. :)

Good talk.

Sunday, November 27, 2011

I'm sorry...

I have been told many, many, MANY times in my life that I apologize too much. 

Recently, my life choices have given me a bit of a struggle.  Career changes, challenges, and the desire to write still looms over every decision I make... it does not influence my decision, but it looms. 

My decisions are based on what is best for my loved ones. period.  The down side to that, (as if there could be one, right?), is that when I feel overwhelmed it makes me moody.  Really, moody. 

I am not used to being able to vent.  Well, not without a nuclear fallout.  But, I have been told that I spend the little free time I do have, (the part I'm not venting), apologizing for venting and expressing my frustrations. Then trying to re-gain a balance that was never really out of whack, (except in my own perspective). 

Today, I was given permission, by my dear loved one, to vent, and then just skip the apology so I can go write.  What a concept!  It nearly knocked me down with its simplistic brilliance! 

As it turns out, we all need to blow off steam every now and then, and I'm told that it doesn't mean that we are failing, or weak, or unpleasant, (I could go on, but I won't :). 

I feel so much better, just knowing that I don't have to apologize for not being, well, perfect.  I'm just sorry I didn't realize it sooner :) *kidding* 

The moral of this?  No matter how much is going on, or how busy we get, we do not have to feel guilty for taking the time to write.  Its just not that big of a deal.  I don't have to feel guilty for not spending every waking second of my life doing my 'duties'.  That concept was completely self-implanted. 

Good talk.

Deep breath... and back to the keyboard.

Saturday, November 26, 2011


I've been thinking a lot about my writing routines in the past few years, and what I could have done better.

I have always assumed most of my struggle with maintaining a good routine was self-discipline.  As I have been painting my writing space this holiday weekend, I have spent quite a few hours thinking about this. 

I have decided that my work schedule, my domestic obligations, and my television addictions are only small factors. 

The real obstacle in my way? 

Finding time to read, and be online. The one or two people reading this probably just rolled your eyes. :) 

How many times have we heard this?

Well, here is my take on it:

 If I am spending copious amounts of time writing about mentally unstable killers and the troubled protagonists they are clashing with, while listening to semi-depressive music to maintain the proper tone and frame of mind, I NEED the reading, and online aspects to keep me grounded. 

I love my characters, but sometimes they are really exhausting and can burn me out.  I can't always see the ending through the obstacles, and I do need to refill the well often during the composition phase. 

I have been reading the blogs of other authors, and reading newer works, rather than re-reading the classics that I used to stick with.  I have enjoyed the silliness of the twitter feeds and the encouragement of people I admire.

All of these things have make a big difference in the enjoyment I get out of writing.  It is a lonely path, writing a novel.  But, I think the Internet has taken a large amount of that off our shoulders. 

Thank you, Internet. :)

Good talk.

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

NaNoWriMo - Day One

It was a shaky start this year, but after two potential concepts were thrown out due to lack of inspiration, I eventually fell back to the old "write what you know" adage.  In truth, it feels kind of good to write about such a familiar world.  Familiar, but strangly new.  I love nanowrimo, and all the excited energy that comes with it.  I love writing all year long, but there is an electric charge to the twitter feeds and blogs this time of year that truly can't be beat.  It's like nothing else. :) I'm happy to be a part of it. Good luck to you all!

Title:  The Paragod

Imagine someone with the skills and ability to save your life. The tools and resources to get to you in the event of a crisis with speed, and prevent the worse day of your life from being the last day of your life. A true hero, respected by the pillars of the small comunity in which you live. The coroner, the police, the fire department all trusted friends. Now, what if that man wanted you dead.

The rain hit the pavement in torrents, mixing with the pooled gasoline that soaked into her clothes as she crawled on her hands and knees through the broken window of the overturned sedan. Oil, anti-freeze and God only knows what else mingled together and ran down the side of the broken vehicle, dripping on Camden Reece as she carefully made her way over the shattered glass and jagged metal framework that was once a five star crash test rated Toyota Camry.
“Cam!” she heard a mans voice yelling from somewhere on the other side of the road.
“I’m okay.” She called over her shoulder. That was more than could be said for the unresponsive teenager before her, suspended upside down by her seatbelt. There was blood everywhere, but Cam thought most of it was from the deer had gone through the windshield.

“Cam” Mark Hart had come around the wreckage, and was now right behind her. From the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of the bright orange backboard he carried. “This scene isn’t stable. I’d really rather you didn’t go crawlin’ around all up in it.” He leaned the backboard carefully up against the car. Sliding the red trauma kit off his shoulder to the soaked ground, he began riffling though its contents, grumbling and swearing as he yanked the plastic wrap from the head bed and set up the backboard with straps and all its various accessories.
“Course it’s rainin’.” Mark ripped a c-collar out of its wrapper and assembled the chin rest. Handing it to Cam. She took it and placed it on the now only semi-unconscious teen.
“We’re gonna need some more hands to do this safely.” Cam said. Her shoulders were starting to burn from holding c-spine on the kid at that angle. Mark nodded, reaching for his Motorola, he turned and headed back toward the squad, disappearing around the back of the wreck in which she now sat, on her knees in gasoline and glass, her arms extended in front of her in a yoga like position. She squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated on her breathing, trying to shut out the burning ach spreading from her shoulders and through that knot that resides in the groove along her scapula. Once the burning hit that old spot, it would spread quickly up her neck and into a full blown headache. As she worked her scapula back and forth, trying to loosen the muscle, the kid began to mumble and stir.
“Try not to move, okay?” Cam said in a reassuring and relaxed tone. “You’ve been in a little accident. You’re fine, but you need to keep you head still for me just to be safe.” The kid nodded that he understood. Cam rolled her eyes and spoke up louder, “Do not nod. I need you to hold your head and neck still, if you understand, you can say so, but don’t nod.” After ten years, the patience with patients was thin as gauze.

Grounding the reader using "The Pyramid of Abstraction"

In my geekery on writing education, I have stumbled upon a concept introduced in both of these sources by Brandon Sanderson (whom I have ...