Let's Hear It For The Roses!

My roses are in bloom. Amazing.

I'd always thought roses were little sissies that had to be coddled and coaxed into growing. Not these guys. They hang tough in my survival-of-the-fittest garden.

They're planted in soil made up of clay and rocks. The rain here comes four inches at a time, if it comes at all, and the clumpy dirt retains no moisture. It's not a problem.

Every May these roses strut their stuff like a troupe of Las Vegas showgirls. Sadly, by July they are nothing but bare stalks.

I think I shall go outside and enjoy my roses before the deer do.

A Few Short Words on Verbosity

Verbosity is my middle name, so I'll make this long. Just kidding.

For years I have blithely claimed to be verbose. Today I decided to look up some synonyms for that wonderful trait.

Windiness, long-winded, redundancy. Yikes!

That's what I've been telling everyone? What're the antonyms?

Conciseness, laconic.

I like those better. From now on I'll be laconic, short-winded, admired by one and all for my succinct, pithy...damn! I'm doing it again.

Communicating Clearly

Okay, I know I tend to go on about this, but I saw a hand-lettered sign posted in the window of a storefront church. It said: What if it true?

What if what true?

The Martians have landed? The fork ran away with the spoon?

Next time I'm near that church I'm going to knock on the door and demand an explanation.

Bad, Badder, Baddest

My writing group of two, Loree Burns and Eric Luper, have finished critiquing my novel. They have offered their usual wonderful insights and suggestions which I intend to incorporate into the next draft.

I had hoped the novel would fall into the young adult category. It does not. It's kind of liberating. I can now fully unharness my dark side, dust off some choice swear words (joke - they don't need dusting) and get some of my characters off their passive butts and into really hot water.

I simply must spice things up. No, it won't be heaving bosoms or throbbing manhood. It'll be something much better than that - violence. Just a tad.

I also need to add a new element of surprise. Dr. Luper was not impressed with my who-dunnit angle, so I'm going to twist it around so that even he, great sleuth and guesser-of-endings will be caught off guard.

Now, how to make a surly, snarky individual into someone Dr. Burns will like from the get-go. Groan. Sigh. That is my biggest challenge.

Writing bad guys is so much easier than writing good guys.

And the Answer Is...

When I get to heaven I have three questions I'm going to ask:

1. What happened to Amelia Earhart?

2. Who was behind the grassy knoll when President Kennedy got shot?

3. What does this slogan, posted in the window of a beauty salon, mean?

"Yesterdays hair is tomorrows trend"

A Little Whine, Please

I have an idea for a new novel. I have a good premise and some interesting characters but I'm not sure which one is the protagonist. I know I'll find out when I start writing the book, only I don't start. I feel overwhelmed by the immensity of the project, like I'm an ancient Egyptian laborer who just received orders to build a new pyramid.

I'm Puzzled

The other day I saw a group of men on motorcycles. They and their passengers wore black leather vests with the following inscription, "Undisputed Ryders." I assume it's the name of their club. And I'm sure they spent a great deal of time deciding on it. But I can't figure out what it means and it's been bugging me.

It's That Time Again

I am about to start a new novel. This will be my fourth if we count my very first attempt which was written in ten days using the stream-of-consciousness technique. Whooo-eee, that was a beaut!

I have written two novels since then. The first first draft of the second one, a middle grade light fantasy, was another one of my ten-day wonders. It amazed me how fast the words sprang from my fingers. And, looking back, how random and unfocused they were. Three cheers for my writing group, Loree Burns nd Eric Luper who read both of these pitiful manuscripts and critiqued them. They even managed to encourage me, and this stuff was B-A-D!

Two pretty darn good novels later (she said modestly), I've realized my problem in revising first drafts is I've tried to keep them as is. Not a good idea for a free-range writer. If I consider the first draft to be a 300 page outline, maybe the first first draft of this next book will shine. Maybe.

Four Firsts and an Answer

I just got back from the Rising River retreat in New Hampshire. Hooray for me! I went to my first ever writer's retreat, and I met Eric Luper and Loree Burns(my online critique group). Two firsts with one stone.

I was a bundle of nerves about going. When the Big Day arrived I dragged myself out of my hermit cave, shoved my feet into my big-girl shoes, and booted my butt onto the plane.

The weirdest thing about meeting Eric and Loree was, it didn't feel weird at all. It felt like we already knew each other. I guess we did. Isn't that funny how you can make friends just by typing on the Internet?

The place we stayed was really neat. It's called the Gibson House, here's the URL - www.gibsonhousebb.com

Check out the rooms. I was in Le Petite Chateau, Loree was in the Rialto, and Eric was in the Taj North, which was only fitting for the only male amongst nine women.

The writing part of the retreat was the hardest for me. That's because I didn't have anything to write. I'd just finished my novel and wanted to put it away for awhile but that left me with nothing to do. So, I hauled it out and read it through. Yikes! My protagonist starts out as one of those people you couldn't warm up to if you were cremated together. She gets more likeable as the book goes on but I'm afraid she'd scare the readers off long before they got to that point.

I spoke about it with Jackie Davies who hosted the retreat; she made some excellent suggestions. Then I had a group critique with some of the other writers. (The one-on-one, and group critiques were both maiden voyages for me - pat on the back for bravery!) I got a lot of helpful feedback but I still couldn't figure out what to do with my nasty little main character. Until...

We were at dinner on Saturday night (marinated flank steak, roasted potatoes, and Swiss chard...YUM!) Eric was talking about a woman who had trouble writing a synopsis. I was giving him my full attention when, for no apparent reason I exclaimed, "I started my book in the wrong place."

The people at the table looked puzzled.

"The story really begins in chapter six," I said, "and that's when my protagonist lightens up. Ha!" I realized how rude I'd been and added sheepishly, "Sorry, Eric."

Here's the URL for Rising River retreat - www.risingriverretreat.com

If you click on the images of Winter 2007 session, you'll see your's truly along with the other attendees. I'm the one with the light bulb glowing over her head. It was a very cool experience.

Say What?

As a writer I may not always mean what I say, but I'd darned well better say what I what I mean! In order to do so, I rely on words to say what they mean.

When they don't, I get in a snit, which is what I'm in right now. The word that put me here has no synonym, is impossible to spell, ridiculous to pronounce, and means - words that sound like what they describe.

Yes,friends, I'm talking about onomatopoeia.

I suppose if I were an ancient Greek I'd say, "So what's yer problem? Da woid couldn't be more clear."

To an ancient Greek, I'm sure that's true. But what about the rest of us?

We can snicker at the irony of using onomatopoeia to mean, "...the use of words whose sounds suggest the sense...," but when we're done laughing we need to get serious. Words like buzz, whisper, babble, smooth, are an important part of creative writing; it's essential to have a word that defines them. Surely we can do better than onomatopoeia.

I'm not suggesting we lose the word, let's just change the spelling to something more contemporary like, wordsthatsoundlikewhattheymean. It would still look imposing and be difficult to spell but, when spoken aloud, its meaning would be instantly understood.

You think I'm going on about nothing? Next time you're at a dinner party with your learned friends, casually drop onomatopoeia into the conversation and see what happens.

I'm sure there will be some smarty pants who knows what it means. Ask that person to spell it. If they can, then they are probably an ancient Greek. Because I'm here to tell you, ain't nobody else gonna know what that word's tryin' to say!

The Q-Word

Do you ever experience word rage? You know, a word that gets up your nose, or bugs you so much, you want it to be outlawed? One such word for me is, quintessential. In one week I came across it four times in a single book, in a Real Estate ad, and in a description of a house plan.

It stops me in my tracks every time. I think it's clumsy, full-of-itself, and vague. It's an uncomfortable word to say aloud, similar to, "wasps nests." When it's used as the sole depiction of a setting or an object, I'm flummoxed. What is the writer trying to tell me? That it's the ultimate? Typical? Dull?

An adjective is fine if it gets the job done but one man's quintessential Tourist Mecca, might be another man's quintessential Bizarro Land. How can the reader decide which it is for him or her without a more detailed description?

After giving it a great deal of thought, I have decided that using "quintessential" as the modifier of a noun and not offering further explanation, is a covert attempt by the writer to control the readers' thoughts. The writer expects, no, demands that the reader visualize the object being described exactly the way the writer intends it to be seen. If the reader is unable to do so, then so be it. The writer knows what he or she meant, if the reader doesn't get it, that's their problem.

When You Hit a Wall, Embrace It!

I recently completed a middle grade (MG) light fantasy novel. It took about two years for me to get it right, and one and a half of those were a real struggle. So I thought I'd be glad to write "The End" and send the book out to dazzle the literary world.

Instead, I felt sad when I finished it. I was going to miss my protagonist. She and I had spent a long time together, and she'd become a real person to me. I also realized that while that particular part of her story had concluded, she wasn't done yet. Not a problem, I'd write a sequel.

"You're going to what?!?" asked my inner critic, in a tone that implied I was contemplating a faux pas of the worst kind. "I'm sorry, but a sequel is not a done thing."
"What about Harry Potter?" I asked.
"A mere quirk."
"How about Junie B. Jones?"
"The answer is, 'No!'"

Okay, so I'd write something else. Only I couldn't. The story that began with my first novel was incomplete, it needed to be followed through to the end. After much wringing of hands and gnashing of teeth, I decided to write the sequel. I wasn't going to let the "shoulds" interfere with what I wanted to do.

So, I started to write. It was a blast. I already knew the character. I totally knew what she was going to face, and some unexpected, interesting people showed up in her life. I was on a roll. Until...

My personal life intervened. I was dealing with a sticky emotional situation that threw me off track. Even if I had been able to write, which I couldn't, I didn't want to taint my book with the negative energy that was engulfing me at the moment. I came to a screeching halt. Then Eric Luper, one of my trusty and trusted writing group friends, challenged me to write something from the perspective of the person who was causing the problems for me.

IM-possible. That woman was down and dirty. Mean and evil. She didn't have a redeeming quality in her body. How could I, fine speciman of humanity that I am, ever get inside her head?

"Try," said Eric.

So I did. The character practically grabbed my computer off my desk, and started typing the story herself. She's not even close to the person who inspired the writing exercise, but she is still a real piece of work. She is definitely not MG material. In fact, I don't believe I can even pass the book off as edgy young adult (YA). She is a young adult, mind you, but the subject matter is pretty mature for those tender YA minds (Ha!).

So, now I'm also writing an adult novel with a protagonist who's negative, conniving, and has a vocabulary that would make the sailors blush! The fun part is keeping her true to who she is, while making her sympathetic enough for the reader to root for her.

It started as a wonderful outlet for my negative energy, and it's a good thing I grabbed the opportunity when I did. My life is back on an even keel, but my character is solid enough to keep moving on her own. Since things have settled down, I've been able to resume writing the sequel to my MG novel.

And the weird thing is, I don't have any problem shifting between the two books. I am amazed at how easy it is.

In a deeply philsophical moment, I likened a writer to a Shaman. Sometimes we need to be able to shapeshift to get the job done.

The Book Every Insomniac Should Have Read

“The Dullest Tale Ever Told” could have been the title of my first attempt at a middle grade novel. The point of view (POV) was limited third person, meaning the characters were referred to as him/her, he/she, and the reader only knew what went on inside the protagonist's head. Or so I thought until my writing group critiqued it.
"How does she feel?" "What's she thinking?" "Pick up the pace or lose the reader."
What didn't they get? I said the protagonist, "Felt bored." That was a feeling. She thought a house looked spooky. Wouldn’t the reader want to know why? So what was missing? A spark of life. The story had no soul. I knew the problem was fixable, only I didn’t know how to do it. I was stuck. Discouraged. Ready to throw in my pen.
Then fate led me into a tiny bookstore, its entire inventory barely filled two bookcases. In one of them I found, CONFLICT ACTION & SUSPENSE (ELEMENTS OF FICTION) by William Noble. After I read the book, I understood how to ignite the missing spark; anything at all that happened in the story must move the plot forward or be banished. I was ready to revise.
I reread my manuscript for the first time in months. It was terrible! It preached. It rambled. My protagonist was a drip. The voice was as exciting as a news anchor reading a list of school closings. I still thought the book had potential, but it was in need of an extreme makeover. I had no clue where to begin.
And then I had, The Dream:
I was in a classroom.
"What's your book about?" asked the teacher.
"A girl," I replied, "she goes here, and she does this, and...."
The teacher interrupted, "What's it about?"
"Well, uh..." I didn't know.
Fast forward to the next class.
"What’s the book about?" the teacher asked.
"It's about this girl. She’s a good speller and proud of it. When she looks
up to talk to her uncle, she can see the hair inside his nose."

The next day, as I pondered the dream, I realized the soul of a novel came from seeing the world through the eyes of the protagonist, then telling the story from her perspective, not mine. And just like that, my protagonist started talking to me. She was almost thirteen, friendless, judgmental, loved learning new words, had a quirky phobia, and, best of all, she had a tale to tell. I raced to my computer and let her loose. The POV changed from third to first person. She did the talking, I did the typing. I was ruthless with details, anything that didn’t propel the plot forward got the axe. When I’d finished the revision, an entirely new story had emerged. The characters were real, the story was fun, it moved, and it had spark and soul!
I recently completed the final revision, and the book is out looking for a home. Meanwhile I have two new novels in progress, well, the characters and I do. I now let the characters tell the tale, and I write it down for them. After all, it is their story, is it not?

Deep Thought for the Day

This morning, while making my bed, a random thought popped into my head. It has to do with the directions, North, South, East, and West.

Here's the thought: Wherever I go, I am the point at which all four directions meet.

Wow! That's deep.

But wait, if it's true for me, isn't it also true for everyone else? Deeper still.

Is it even important? Hmmm. Maybe not so deep.

Is it, perhaps, codswallop? Whatever.

Searching for a Match

Today I settled in for a day of Getting Down to Business. I have some information I need to document and I have been putting it off. I got a big glass of water, rolled up my shirt sleeves, and settled in to get the job done. Just as I got started I decided a scented candle would add to the ambiance of my home office and make the experience more tolerable.

I got the candle, set it up, and rummaged through a dresser drawer for some matches. It is one of those drawers that is rarely opened except to shove something inside, and slam it shut. This is the first time I've actually looked through it in years. Who would have thought that much stuff could fit into such a drawer that was probably designed to hold handkerchiefs?

I found yellow plastic "road sign" coasters from Australia advising travelers there might be Kangaroos, Koalas, or Emus crossing the road in the next few kilometers. One of the signs warns about shark infested waters. Better not swim there. There is a single kelly green sock, which I know is not mine. I wonder if the owner is still looking for it or has given up and thrown the mate away? There's a plastic belt clip in case I want to hook a phone to my jeans while I walk around my house. I never knew I had so many small change purses. I found phone jacks, electrical outlet jacks, a grip extender for my Glock pistol, a cigar with a pink band announcing, "It's a girl!" I could go on for days about this drawer but, lucky for all of us, I won't, because I found the matches. I lit the candle, and when I threw the match-box back in the drawer, I noticed a stack of photographs.

Ha! There I was with my family when I was three. My sister Kathy and I are wearing matching plaid dresses with starched, "Little Dutch Girl" pinafores, and white babushkas on our heads. My brother, Christopher, is clad only in diapers, and my parents look like they are eighteen years old. Another picture shows my sister-in-law, Jan, standing back with her arms raised in victory after she has successfully balanced a dyed Easter egg on top of an overturned funnel that's sitting atop the head of her friend, George.

There were many more such pictures, all classics. I needed to scan them immediately and email them to my family. After doing that, I decided I should send them an update on what's going on in my life (they are scattered all over the place, including Australia). I had so much fun talking about myself, I realized the time had come to start a blog. So, here it is, my very own blog.

And now, look at the time! I haven't even begun my project, and I need to get dinner going. I think I'll get up early and start that project first thing tomorrow. Right now I have to extinguish that candle, it's giving me a headache and making my eyes water. I wish I knew the proper spelling of P-U!

Well, here I am. Safely hidden behind a hat, some shades and a can of pop (soda to you folks outside the Midwest USA). I am a writer of books. I write for actual children, aging children (like moi), and for adults.

I do not watch television or go to movies. Many people consider this odd. I do not.

I read, read, read. And when I'm not doing that, I write. But I also do other things. I love to hike, preferably on moderately difficult mountain trails that lead to waterfalls. I garden in the spring but lose interest by mid-June and leave my plants to fend for themselves. I occasionally carve things out of tree branches and roots. I am a lousy guitar/mandolin/banjo player who loves to play the guitar/mandolin/banjo and sing along. Luckily, I live alone, well, except for my dog, Frannie .(Lest you think I'm a doggist, she tells other dogs she lives alone, well, except for her person, Liza). Thanks for visiting my site and welcome to my world.