Friday, October 30, 2015
Then a sudden epiphany; the title came to me: Waifs of the Darkness. That might not stay the title, but it's more than I had when I got out of bed this morning. Also, a character came to me: Marrara.
I've started the other two books, Daughter of the Stone and Child of the Mist, with prologues (I know, lots of negatives with having prologues), and information in those weave through the rest of the novels. Marrara's scene will be critical to the story development.
Still a lot to develope, but this gives me a place to start, which is so critical in NaNoWriMo.
Thursday, October 29, 2015
Finding your tribe can go beyond identifying with a contemporary community.A few years ago, when visiting Theresa Williams' blog, I read her post, "Finding Your Tribe." At one point she wrote, "Through our writing, we have a chance to connect with people who are like us, who have the same thoughts, the same longings." Although I know she is speaking of the writing community at large, I was reminded of a personal moment of clarity that altered the way I approached my writing.
Several decades ago I was on staff with a writers' conference and sat in on a workshop given by poet Robert Pinsky. I'd been struggling with my poetry--the only freelance writing I did at that time. When I'd write, it was like running underwater. I got nowhere and frustration predominated. I don't recall the exercises Pinski gave us, but I remember his continual insistence" Look to the Masters...Learn from the Masters." He didn't expect us to imitate them, but to understand how they expressed themselves and illuminated the human experience.
I struggled with this. For the most part, I found the works and poets he mentioned to be boring and dense. I wasn't at all moved by them. Yet these were the models he insisted who so well represented our culture. After the second class, it struck me: those aren't my Masters. I mentioned to a friend that all the Masters Pinsky talked about were men. She agreed. "We need to find women Masters." For me, I knew it had to be more than that.
I began following Pinsky's directive, but reading and learning from my Masters: women, non-white, people not related to the European Judeo-Christian background--those poets who wrote from philosophies I understood and believed. Once I did that, my poetry became stronger; I began getting published. More importantly, I enjoyed writing.
Sunday, October 25, 2015
There's no way I could give up my communication luxuries. Miss the futbol games from England, Italy and the U.S.? Huh uh. Not watch the PBS "Nature" series, or stimulating programs on Science or Ovation TV? Nope.
But I do have a positive type of isolation. My telephone rarely rings and my neighbors are not within hailing distance since we all have at least 20 acres. It's a wonderful writer's environment that seems so necessary for developing ideas. Yet it can also be a bane if lack of contact becomes too long--too intense.
Happily, I am not out of touch. E-mail allows me easy contact with my children, both if whom are more than 1200 miles away, and with friends, new and old, many of whom I've known for thirty years or more. I also belong to several online forums, that continue to stimulate as I read discussions about character development or what makes the prefect press kit. Congratulations go out to those who have recently published, and suggestions are given to those who are getting started. The forums also provides international connections, and I've exchanged writing and editing ideas with people from India, Germany, England, Canada as well as all over the U.S.
I used to think of myself as a recluse--maybe even gloated a bit that I could be content outside the parameters of daily social contact. And I did so--back before the Internet. But today I have the best of both worlds: my privacy and solitude, and selective contact with specialized interest groups. The best thing? It's all on my terms. I don't have to click on the Fine Art America discussions, I don't have to tweet or post a message at facebook, Google+, Goodreads, or here, I don't have to read an e-mail--until that's what I feel like doing.
This luxury of both environments has truly added to my productivity. And when I do go "out into the world" to give a presentation or sell at an art show, the circumstance feels fresh and stimulating, and it's not a shock to my private self.
Saturday, October 24, 2015
I started off writing because I had to. In school, from fifth grade on, a creative writing project was due every week or two, and each term, a non fiction paper had to be researched and written. But I quickly realized I enjoyed word work; the fiction stories I wrote were popular—my classmates always asked the teacher to read the next episode in the doofus series with cliff hangers I had dreamed up. I also found writing poetry was a way to vent emotions and make statements about things around me. In high school and college, with so much required writing, an occasional poem was all I could squeak out.
Once married and with kids, you'd think my writing urge would truly dwindle. But it burgeoned. During those years I wrote for "escapism," just as many people often pore over adventure/romance/fantasy books, watch soaps, or become cinema buffs. Most of what I wrote was poetry until, living 2,000 miles away from where I wanted to be, I began penning stories for my kids about the history and a part of the country they didn't know. At this time, I was also working for a community program for at-risk kids, and I realized how my renditions of history made them sit up and take interest. Why I Wrote changed. I felt I had something important to impart to readers—about adoption problems of Indian kids in Michigan (Life on a Cool Plastic Ice Floe), bussing worries of inner-city kids (The Best Way Out), pre-Civil War involvement of blacks in the West (On Promised Land and Hammer Come Down).
Now I feel like I'm back to the early days, where I'm writing for my own gratification and for the fun of working with words. I ponder my manuscripts and search out the way to make phrases, paragraphs, chapters work to the best benefit of the overall piece. Some of the fiction novels I have put up as eBook editions, had been previously published traditionally; I have also made them available in print. But I have new material, too: The three speculative fiction books I really had fun with, and I'm currently reworking a historical fiction piece. Historical fiction! Ha ha. Well, that shows I'm doing this for joy and fun, without concern for gargantuan sales.
I'm certain I'll never stop writing, and I imagine my reasons for being a writer will often be swayed by different motives. First and foremost, I like words, and I like using them and blending them to create a aural/visual tapestry that others can enjoy. Improving my ability to do this is an on-going goal, and makes it imperative that I keep writing!
Friday, October 23, 2015
Here's what I put up from The Adventures of Elizabeth Fortune.
Elizabeth rolled across the warped floorboards, scooted behind the bar and grabbed up the double-barreled shotgun the bartender had dropped when he was shot. A bullet careened off a nickel-plated beer spigot, sending six bystanders closer to the walls.
"She’s been playin' you for a fool all evening!" came a rough voice from ten feet away. "You can’t let her kind better you, Johnny."
Elizabeth gritted her teeth and checked the load on the gun. Both breeches were ready. She had learned firearms eleven years ago, at age eight. Her father taught her, and always insisted that guns were tools to provide food and to protect against varmints. Right then, the long-haired blond in striped denim pants, leather chaps and gray calico shirt was a varmint. She could taste blood on her lower lip, feel the warmth of it along her chin, and was again astounded that this drunk—that anyone!—had hit her. Even Grandfather Clark, with all his bitterness, had never struck her.
Two more shots whizzed from the single-action Colt. One smashed into the floor, the other cracked the four-foot mirror above Elizabeth’s head. Glass tinkled and fell, and a sliver spiked the back of her hand. As her blood welled, Elizabeth’s anger erupted to action. She came up with the shotgun leveled at the drunk and his mean-eyed friend. Five men bolted away from the nearby poker table.
"Get her, Johnny!" "Don’t. Please don’t!"
Elizabeth’s heart pounded. She had never ever aimed a firearm at a person. She eased the barrels to the right. The blond grinned and pointed his pistol at Elizabeth, arms outstretched, legs wide. He cocked the hammer. Elizabeth clenched her teeth and fired the shotgun. Boom!
The roar filled the big room and the man lurched and spun back as if jerked by a rope. His pistol thunked on the shot-pocked wall after skidding out of his hand. That hand swung crazily, too, two fingers shattered, white bone protruding; then blood soaked the arm of his shirt and flowed off the thumb like water from a red icicle. Elizabeth felt queasy as the assailant’s head lolled back. His stocky companion caught him as he fell.
The sound of the big gun echoed and blue smoke meandered out of the barrels. To Elizabeth, it suddenly weighed a ton. Four bystanders scrambled for the door while a bird-like woman in a beige linen-and-lace gown screamed at Elizabeth: "My God! What have you done!" She was Faye Wentworth, Elizabeth’s boss.
"She killed him!" the dark-haired thug declared.
Elizabeth shook her head, certain she hadn't. The blond moaned and leaned against the other man as he tried to sit up. The loud mouth bent to give comfort, and Elizabeth, her nerves tingling like drawn piano wire, hurried to the bartender who still lay motionless near the faro table. Blood trickled from his thinning black hair. She put her hand on his chest, grateful to feel the steady rise and fall of breathing through his leather vest and striped cotton shirt.
"Get away!” Lady Faye’s hazel eyes snapped with anger as she yelled at Elizabeth. Light brown curls flopped around her thin face when she stooped to the man....
...Three men crashed in from the street through the green-painted bat wings, delaying the tough’s revenge. “Hold it!” the tallest of the newcomers ordered. He held a sawed-off shotgun, butt to his shoulder, and wore a six-pointed star on the pocket of his dark shirt. "You’d think at seven p.m. a man could stop and get a meal, even if he is the county sheriff,” he said. “What the hell is going on?"Genie said: male author.
From Blood and Bond.
Jess Stanton watched the blue van move slowly from the parking lot toward the black-topped access road. Concern had stopped him near the rodeo ticket booth after he left the van, but now the frown on his tanned face lessened. He adjusted the collar of his jacket and turned back toward the rodeo, hoping the woman would be all right. Ralph Fairchild had been talking to Jess at the concession stand. Now the man walked toward Jess in that side-to-side ingratiating way of his. What a sham, Jess thought, a placid put-on so he can butt into other people’s business.
“So! Did you get the little lady settled?” Ralph asked, a quick smile on this thin face.
"Pretty girl, wasn’t she? What was her problem, I wonder?” He pushed up his glasses.
“A migraine.” Jess started toward the grandstand. Ralph fell in step beside him.
“Decided to go into the rodeo, huh?”
Jess stopped at the arena fence and let his dark eyes scan the area, looking for familiar faces. “Lots of changes around,” Ralph was saying. “Mostly the land. The flood plain’s been altered something terrible. When the creek used to come up all over the lower valley, it left some good bottom land to be tilled. Yes sir. Now, with talk of a dam going--”
“There won’t be a dam,” Jess said. He disliked gossip, especially when it wasn’t based on fact. “It was turned down three weeks ago, Mr. Fairchild.”
“Oh! Oh, yes.” Ralph squinted at him. “You’re with the USDA…Or did you quit them? That why you’re home?”
Jess noted that Roy Clinderbass had a new dog in his act.
“Of course, we need a good government man, now. Check out what’s happening in West Valley. Some sort of blight, I figure.” Ralph laughed. “Old man Jerrens says it's a plague. He’s always predicting doom. It’s maybe bad grain is all. Brundy over at USDA hasn’t checked that, but if I was a USDA man I’d check out all the grain, and I’ll tell you they didn’t buy nothing bad from me! Yep. If I was with USDA…"
Jess ignored Ralph and chuckled at the six-foot spread of foam cowboy hat Big Ruthey Reed wore.
"Lookin’ for your mom?” Ralph asked.
Jess squared his strong shoulders and glanced at Ralph, perturbed. “No.” His way of answering questions made him appear aloof. “It’s his going off to all those schools,” some long-time valley residents had murmured, shaking their heads; or, “It’s the way his family cut him out of things after prison.” Jess knew this last was the reasoning of most people. Eleven months in the state pen had created an emotional abyss out of which he had been slow to climb. He had been weak and inexperienced, easy prey to inmates who, under the guise of friendship, sought to use his naiveté to their advantage. His main visitors, except for his mother and sister, were from the CloudRunner family, so he was confronted with a sudden awareness of bigotry that led to violence and threats of rape. But he refused to be intimidated, and had scars to prove it. He got tough, both mentally and physically, in order to survive the three years to his parole. Don’t get used, he had thought. Luckily he had been exonerated of all charges before one year had passed.Genie said: female author
Hmm. Now I know my writing styles are different for different stories. I think that's good.
But what about this gender stuff?
2 comments in 2010:
Thursday, October 22, 2015
Another was billed as a mystery, and there were a couple of mysteries plotted in, but the major focus seemed to be the strong political overtones, with characters spouting their opinions and predictions. Often these were whimsically written and always gave insight into the governmental actions and reactions...BUT...all this politicking took place in a country I've never been to and was set 30 years in the past...AND...I wanted to read a mystery; this one didn't work.
The third book had multiple points of view and almost no dialogue. It was like a treatise of events, and I just couldn't get into it.
My evenings are spent reading for two to four hours before I go to bed. The past two nights I was struggling...trying to slog through these books..switching from one to another, hoping to be drawn in. (So glad these were from the library and I hadn't paid $ for them.) These are speed bumps to my reading, but to have three of them at the same time...well I was really bummed. I wondered if I was just distracted, tired, bored...something...that made these titles unappealing to me.
I returned those to the library and borrowed more titles. Already I'm engrossed in the first one I opened. No speed bumps so far.
Sunday, October 18, 2015
|In Print and eBook formats|
I first became interested in the history of Black Seminoles many years ago. I was traveling with my children to a Western Writers of America (WWA) convention. We were tent camping, and after a rainy, muddy night, we needed to do some laundry. I found a nice coin laundry in Wewoka, Oklahoma, the capitol for Western Seminoles. Near to the laundry was a museum, and of course, I had to go in.
It was orderly and informative, and I realized that the Blacks, free and slaved, who lived with the Seminoles had a fascinating history in Indian Territory. My interest was noted by the museum's curator. When I mentioned WWA and that I was a writer (I think one of my children sprung this tidbit of information), he became enthused, and encouraged me to create a story about the Black Seminoles. When we left to get our laundry, my tote bag contained several pamphlets and references.
But how to fashion this story? Up to that time, most of my published works were for YA readers; I attempted a story from that angle, but the more I read and studied, the more I wanted to write an adult novel for this subject. I collected books and information, and made several attempts at a manuscript.
A year or so later, I received a telephone call from a New York publishing house. (Now wasn't I wide-eyed and giddy!) The editor said she had gotten my name from a mutual WWA colleague ; he had recommended me for a project the house had in mind. They wanted a novel about Blacks in the West, to show the struggles, the fortitude, et cetera, and present information that, to a great degree, hadn't been given at that time. We talked at length, and I committed to sending a proposal, synopsis and fifty or so pages. I went immediately to information on Black Seminoles. It seemed the perfect subject for what this New York house had in mind.
Alas—I was so mistaken. I sent a professional proposal, synopsis, and the opening chapters, only to be told that my subject was too obscure. "No one's ever heard of this," the editor told me. I wanted to quip, "Isn't that the point?", but kept my professional demeanor and tried to fathom what she really wanted. I presented another idea about the free blacks who traveled the Oregon Trail in the 1840s. That didn't fly, either. The editor finally became more specific: "1870s. Ex-slaves settling on Western plains with their new freedom..." (Thinks me: Little House on the Prairie in black face).
I was done. My interests in western history pretty much end at 1870. I thanked her for considering my work. My writing was commended and my resume "would be kept on file." I never heard from them again.
But there I was with an outline, the research nearly complete, several chapters written about Blacks in Indian Territory during 1840-1865. I shopped my proposal to several other publishers, even had agent representation, but the story didn't fit into any publishing needs.
And here I am, still with a partial...a novella of the early years...On Promised Land. Will I finish this saga? The story of Tru and Tall Deer doesn't reach a moderate conclusion until 1865. I've written into the 1850s. Occasionally I look at the historical data and I'm overwhelmed. I like to write about people first, and set them into an historical landscape. The events of those years, particularly 1850 – 1862 are so volatile and convoluted, I cannot yet make it become background and not overshadow my characters.
At the end of On Promised Land, I have listed the history that follows where my novella ends. I have also added a selected bibliography.
Saturday, October 17, 2015
It was told in first person, and first person stories have to be really special to hold my interest. This one started off as a cracker. The technique for utilizing one POV was unique. That drew me in. Then the mystery didn't seem straightforward. That was a plus. Characters were really well drawn; language was very good.
Then, about 2/3rds through I started feeling glitches in the story line, and many segments seemed too long. Oh well, thought I, it's still reading pretty well...
Until just pages from the end, when the first person protagonist reveals that much of the story has been made up. I was getting fiction in fiction. Characters who had been portrayed so well weren't really part of the second story--they were the protagonist's imagination. I had been duped, and I could almost hear the author, "Ha,ha. The joke's on you." I'm still wondering what was there in this story I could believe? It's one of those things with first person...by just getting one viewpoint...you aren't seeing the whole picture. I thought this author had done so well giving the all-around.
So how do I rate this book? Very-well written, great language, interesting mystery (if I can believe the details of it, told only through this suddenly-unreliable first person). In Goodreads or at Amazon I click which star?
I already know I won't write a formal review; I would be very critical. I keep wondering what I missed, but I'm not about to revisit this book to look for something extra. If it hadn't been on my eReader, I would have flung it into a wall, I felt so cheated.
Friday, October 16, 2015
Two things really struck me:
1) the traces of perfume wafting from the pages;
2) the print is very, very small.
I know at the library they wipe down the books when they're returned, but that doesn't reduce the smells from someone else's house, and it's especially bad if the previous reader were a smoker. Once, I actually sprayed a book with a fabric freshener in order to get rid of the awful smell. In this book I started reading today, the font was nice, but it was small. Similar to this little print. The book is 303 pages long, and if a more usual font for print books had been used, the book would probably be closer to 400 pages. So if I had this book on an eReader, there would have been no residual smells, and I could have enlarged the font to be more comfortable to read. As it is, I'm using a ruler to scroll down so I don't lose my place with this tiny print.
Recent studies have been done about people's preferences of old-style books to electronic books. Most often, I just want to read, and I don't take the format into consideration. But this is one time I would've preferred an electronic version.
As I leaf through the pages, the perfume smell is dissipating. I will squint at the small type and slide my ruler down the text, because in the first 10 pages I found this very interesting. I'm pretty sure I will finish this book, and if I don't it won't be because of the limitations of the physical book.
I really enjoy being surprised by language. When I'm reading along and take in a unique word that really fits, it makes me smile even as I continue with the story. After reading the unimaginative language in newspapers, magazines and most web sites, it's refreshing to find authors who haven't become lazy with their vocabulary. To assure that don't I succumb to the plethora of mundane word usage I read everyday, I often jot down words I like; in most cases they are words about which I had forgotten. Here's a list of recent finds:
lissome, weal, sintered, bucolic (it doesn't sound at all like its meaning), lachrymal, obfuscate, fugacious, hircine, glabrous
Many of these are best used in narration. Normal conversation doesn't often bring forth these words. In fact, a recent read of a library book had good friends in a casual setting and one character said, "It seems things have become profligate recently." My attention shifted from the story line to looking for a reason he would use this word--some reference to his stuffy language or a habit of showing off his erudition. Nothing. So why not use extravagant or lavish? Those words would have been better suited to casual Sunday morning dialogue.
Nonetheless, profligate made my list of interesting words, no matter that it wasn't presented in the best of manners. I doubt I'll use it in dialogue, unless I have some bombastic character I want to spotlight. But it's a good word. I've already scribed a few sentences with words from the list--giving them a stronger place in my word bank. I have to remember to use the words wisely and in the right way. I'm sure some readers don't like linguistic surprises, so I know I have to temper my vocabulary for the readership and not just use it to satisfy my own philological amusement.
Wednesday, October 14, 2015
I participated in this exercise several years ago--and completed my 50,000 words. Unfortunately, what I wrote wasn't a complete manuscript, and I have yet to finished it.
I signed up for NaNoWriMo three years ago and didn't even get to 27K words. :-(
So this year, with three manuscripts unfinished, and two others in outline/brain-storming stage, what do I write? The very-generous rules don't prohibit my using a work-in-progress, but I think I will start with brand new thoughts. That's what I did in the one year I completed the project. I am aiming to do it again!
Monday, October 12, 2015
Taking pictures in the wind doesn't usually show the real force of nature that is going on. I tried a short video to capture the day. The wind was so loud, my voice-over was drowned even with my mouth near the little camera mike. If I intend to do more serious movie-making, I'll have to get a proper mike attachment.
Online weather sites had forecast high winds, with gusts up to 50mph. It calmed down as evening approached, and is now fairly calm.
But high winds are regular events where I am. Even when the valley and city are calm, I can experience steady winds of 20mph. The temp is 5 to10 degrees lower than the valley, too. When I go to town, I have to be careful not to overdress. Layers. That's the key.
With the calmer weather, I must get out to fix the snow fencing and fasten down the hay tarps. I'll put the heater in the stock tank, too, just in case we get a cold snap.
Sunday, October 11, 2015
at Facebook for my photo talk;
my photo gallery;
on Twitter for a bit of everything;
and on Google+
Hope to hear from you!