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Life, Love and Lit

I am such a slacker! Jeez Louise! What is wrong with me? Actually, nothing is really wrong with me, I just get busy with ... life. As a full time professional at the day job, and a full time mommy of a two and a half year old, there is little time for much else.

So how does one create balance in Life in order to fit Reading and Writing into it?

Ah yes, the question I would love to be able to answer. But, alas, I have no words of wisdom. I'm still trying to figure it out myself. The day job is important to me because, well, it pays my bills and feeds my family. Kind of important stuff, right? The love of my family is also important to me because my son is at an age where he needs interaction constantly. His little brain is going ludicrous speed and I am doing my best to keep up. (Yes, I totally threw in a Spaceballs reference) Boog's imagination is so full of awesomeness right now, I hate to lock myself away in a book or writing for fear I might miss something. Never mind the super cute, but sort of pathetically humbling, moments where he sticks his face between mine and the laptop screen and says, "look at ME, mom!"

But I need the moments to myself to do what I love in order to remain sane, or at the very least, likable. Trust me, you don't wanna be in the same zip code when this chickie here has the cranky pants on. Not pretty. Linda Blair ain't got nuthin on me. So what do I do? At the moment it's all about multi-tasking. It is not unusual to find me standing in the kitchen stirring pasta with one hand and have the other hand holding an open book away from the steam. The only problem with this is chicken tends to get a little too done at times. [Insert sheepish shrug]

The same comes with my writing. I am a horrible blogger, this I know. I see other 'professional' bloggers who post nonstop and I bow to their mastery. I just can't do it. If I manage to read, and finish, a book, I will write up my review and post my thoughts. If something comes to mind that I feel needs to be shared with the masses, I will post. Doing it every day, or multiple times a day, just doesn't happen.

Working on the WIPs falls into this as well. I do my best to find time on the weekends to dedicate even just an hour to writing a new chapter, or editing a chapter, with the WIPs. This usually happens while I have an ear on the washing machine as well. Write a paragraph, pull clothes out of dryer, clothes in washer go to dryer, fill washer, write a paragraph, rinse, repeat.

I have also been known to abuse down time at the day job. Shhhhh... Don't tell anyone, K? *grin* I keep my updated goodies on a memory stick that travels everywhere with me. OCD? Over protective? Slight problem with control? Um...yeeeaaahhhh. Wee bit. So when there is down time in my day, I will plug the memory stick in, crank up the iPod, and discretely disappear into my imaginary world for a paragraph, or page, or even a full chapter depending on how dull the day is.

So now I ask, is this normal? Do any of you out there suffer from the same time management issues? How do you fit in writing into a busy world of full time demands? Is it possible to be a full time professional, full time mom, AND a full time writer? Or even a part time writer? But then can you still fit in the ever important READING? What tricks have you learned? What is the weirdest place or time you have managed to fit in your passions?

Back to the [proverbial?] drawing board...

Oh, the joyous world of literary rejection... I suppose I can mark 'never been rejected by an agent' off my list. That's right folks, I have received my first official, yet unofficial, agent rejection. It actually didn't sting as much as I thought it might. Perhaps because I'd prepared for it. Not in the negative thinking sort of way, but in the 'in the real world' thinking sort of way.

How many of you lovelies are familiar with Miss Snark's First Victim blog run by the Authoress? Hmmm. Not many. Well, allow me to introduce you! The Authoress has a fantastic blog and every month she holds a Secret Agent contest (among other fantabulous postings). Peeps are able to submit their first 250 words of a COMPLETE manuscript and the Authoress' Auto Bot (not a Transformers reference, seriously) dooflotchy selects 50 random lucky writers. Once posted on the blog (all anonymous for the author *grin*) followers are encouraged to crit the blurb. During this time a 'Secret Agent' will also give their two cents. If the mysterious agent likes what they see, they may request partials of any of the blurbs posted. It truly is some exciting stuff!

Yours truly was selected for March and I about peed myself when I got the email. I was excited, but terrified. My complete MS has been going under the knife for quite some time, but I was still not sure if the beginning 'worked.' After receiving crits on different platforms, it was clear that no body could tell me how to start it where it would grab. What was the problem, you ask? Well, see, it's because it involves a dream. [Insert cliche groan and eye-roll here] I know... I have heard it a thousand times over and then some. "Never start a book with a dream."

Without getting into too much detail about the whole story, let's just say 'the dream' is pretty much a central conflict to the story line. That's how it originally came to me and I know I can make it work. I just need to find the right angle. That is why I entered the Secret Agent. I had received feedback on both sides of the coin and I was no closer to finding the right answer. I needed to hear from the pros, aka Secret Agent. And I did. "Form rejection." What I have isn't working.

Now I have my answer. Am I giving up on the dream idea? Nope. It is cliched, yes. It has been overdone, yes. BUT!!! It still shows up in books so it still, at least when done right, works for agents and publishers. I just need to find the right way to present it. There is something there in my story, or I would not have so many people tell me they like it and want more, but I am still learning this writing thing. I just need to find the right way to present the dream aspect so that it's new and exciting. A tough feat? Yes. Am I willing to keep trying until I get it right? Abso-freakin-lutely! I love this story and I love the characters. And I am pretty darned sure all of you would like it too! That is when I finally get it...right.

So I am off to the good ole drawing board to once again rewrite the all important Chapter 1. I'm not sure how many times I have redone the first few pages, but that is all part of this wonderful writing game. Sure, it's a pain in the ass, but with every rewrite, rehash, delete, cut, paste, head-bang, hair-pull, and explosive expletive I learn and improve. And THAT my friends is the best part about writing. The journey is ever changing, ever improving, and ever inspiring. Game on!

In a sharing kind of mood today...

Anyone who actually follows the ramblings I post here probably knows I have been dabbling with some writing. I have a full WIP that has been ‘under the knife’ for several months now. Just your typical editing for a first time writer: hack, slash, and rewrite. *grin*

Well, the last several weeks to months I have had a new story occupying my brain when I try to distance myself from WIP #1. It’s another YA type dealy-o, only more sci-fi-ish with fantasy elements.

I am probably certifiably crazy for doing this, but I would like to share a little ditty that spewed out the other day when working on character development for my main gal. This is background info that sort of morphed into a semi-short story. I like it, it makes me smile, and I thought y’all might too. Feel free to let me know your thoughts if you wish. Enjoy!

“Loser! Loser! Orphan of a Boozer!” sang the kids around me. I tried to ignore them. This wasn’t the first time they’d teased me. I wasn’t an orphan, I had my Pop, but my dark glasses hiding my ‘blind’ eyes marked me as a Boozer kid.

Pop had said a ‘boozer’ once meant a person who drank tons of alcohol. That was before the Collapse and everything changed. Now it just meant someone who was really sick from the ash and rotten food. Lots of times kids with Boozer folks had problems, like being blind.

The difference was I wasn’t really blind. I faked it to stay safe. Have my whole life. All eleven years of it.

I hated the glasses. The lenses were so dark you couldn’t see my eyes behind them, but that was kind of the point. They were like goggles and made me look like a bug. That was why the other kids teased me. I was different. The other blind kids in my class couldn’t afford glasses so their crazy looking blank stares were open to everyone. Nobody had much money around here, but Pop was good at improvising. My glasses were proof of that.

“What’s wrong, Moira? Have you gone deaf too, you Boozer freak?” sneered the white-blond boy in front of me. Paul, Peter, or Pecker somebody, I forgot his name. I didn’t care to remember it. “Maybe you can get a fancy headset for your ears to match your glasses.”

Did I mention I hated the glasses? I ground my teeth. Where’s Fin?

What’s-his-face wouldn’t leave me alone. I tried my best to keep the anger deep inside like Pop taught me, but it still boiled in my gut like last night’s potatoes. Lately it had gotten harder to bottle things up. Pop said it was puberty. Ugh. If I could just hold on until Fin showed up, everything would be okay. He would get the creeps to leave me alone. He always did.

Without moving my head, I glanced around the school’s front quad. Where is he? He’s never late.

What’s-his-face pushed me and I almost fell back off the bench I sat on. I grabbed the edge with one hand before I could topple over. My knuckles tuned white on the cane in my other hand. That does it!

I stood and began walking toward the school, guiding my steps with the cane. What I really wanted was to beat the crap out of Jerk-O with it, I knew how, Pop and Fin made sure of that, but it was ‘strictly forbidden.’ Nobody could know what I could do.

Jerk-O and his friends followed me. He stalked right behind me and continued poking me in the spine with a sharp finger. They kept singing their stupid song, fueling the fire in my blood. I fought to keep cool. I was losing.

Glancing up to the sky, my stomach sank. Dark clouds rolled in, shielding the once blue March sky. Crap. Calm down, Mo. I needed Fin. The familiar churn of energy was building in my gut, just below my ribcage. It pulsed with my racing heart.

I angled my walk toward the parking area. There were people over there so maybe Dipwad and his Goons would leave me alone with witnesses. Then I could calm down and wait for Fin.

Fat raindrops fell from the sky like someone had overturned a giant bucket. People in the parking area ran for cover. The creeps didn’t seem to notice the change in weather and never let up on their teasing. The wind whipped my black hair around my face with a sting. Thunder clapped overhead and the sky darkened. No. No. No. This can’t happen.

Assface and Company were laughing at my direction, making jokes about a blind girl driving a transport. A pair of palms jammed into my shoulder blades and I pitched forward into the mud. My cane clattered to the ground and my glasses bounced off my face and out of reach. I scrambled in the mud trying to reach them as the wind howled past my ears, dragging my long hair over my head, blinding me. The words Jerkoff yelled at me were lost in the wind, but I caught ‘freak’ and ‘witch’ and something about ‘toxic waste.’

The boot to my stomach was not lost, however. I gasped for air and curled to my knees as Assface pulled back to kick me again. The wind got stronger, the rain was a full on tsunami, and I fought to keep the power from escaping. It was no good. I couldn’t hold it. It was too strong. It had never been this strong before. I squeezed my eyes shut. The raging elements intensified with my fear. My body started shaking from trying to fight the pulsing energy.

A crunch of plastic snapped my eyes open. A booted foot lifted from in front of my face to reveal my broken glasses. No! A deafening boom turned heads to the east where a black tornado began devouring the field behind the school. People screamed and the ground rumbled underneath me. It cracked and zigzagged across the lot before opening wide in the parking area. Several cars were sucked into the gaping earth.

Balled up in the mud, I stared in horror as people ran around trying to keep away from the widening gap. Their screams filled my ears.

Another boot to my side flipped me to my back with a loud grunting growl. I wrapped arms around my middle and glared at Assface. His suddenly wide eyes and open mouth almost made me laugh, if I were not so beyond angry and scared. I knew what he saw. The reason I was to wear the glasses at all times. My bronze colored eyes, that had an odd metallic sort of sheen, were glowing gold.

Assface found his voice. “You are nothing but a crazy, mutant FREAK!”

The fury and hatred filled me. I could not hold it any more. It wanted out, and now. My whole body shook and, even though the wild wind and tornado threw freezing rain in every direction, my skin was hot. A car in the parking area exploded and fingers of flame shot up to the sky, angry swirls in the wind. Then another. And another.

Something was wrong. The energy from my core pulsed out along my body, guided by something other than me. This was not good. I had never felt like this before, so helpless.

I sat up and looked at my hands with a start. All along my arms and hands danced an odd golden flame, but it did not burn me. It moved like liquid and was not affected by wind or rain.

The Jerkoff grabbed my shirt and pulled me toward him, his disgusted scowl in my face. I stared at the refection in his brown eyes; my reflection. My long hair swirled weightlessly around my head like I was under water. The golden flames danced in and out of the wavy tangles.

“You are a witch!” he snarled. “You…you…you’re EVIL!” He spat on me and scrubbed an arm across his face.

I snapped.

My head was thrown back as a surge of energy built up under my ribcage. My eyes stared up into the blackened sky. Jerkoff didn’t have his hand on me anymore and I couldn’t feel the ground under me. Am I floating? I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move.

Fin’s voice broke through the torrent of screaming, rumbling, and crashing around me. He was screaming my name. Fin, help me! I can’t stop it!

The power that filled me, swirling like a whirlpool gone mad, brought tears to my eyes. It hurt so bad, but felt good at the same time. I surrendered to it.

I looked out at the school grounds and the chaos I created. As if in slow motion, I saw people pulling others out of deep crevices in the earth, exploding cars, flames reaching for the sky and freedom. Debris flew through the air as the tornado closed in, rivers of water surging through the parking area and spilling into the open earth.

And there was Fin. He ran flat out toward me, his face a mask of fear and worry. I could no longer hear his words, but his mouth moved with the letters of my name. A pulse rocked my body and I dropped to the ground.

The energy rippled around me like a pebble in a pond. When the rings of energy spread, anyone in its path was thrown back like an explosion, flat on their back. The ripple faded into the earth several feet away in all directions.

I jumped to my feet, searching the fallen for Fin. No one moved.

“FIN!”

My cousin’s familiar shape rolled to his feet, swaying slightly. He turned and ran to me.

“Mo! Are you okay?” He grabbed my thin shoulders and gave me a good once over. His hazel eyes were full of worry and his auburn hair full of mud.

“I – I don’t know.” I looked down at Assface at my feet. “Oh God, Fin! Look!”

Assface, the boy whose name I didn’t know, didn’t care to remember, stared into the sky with sightless eyes. Blood traced lines from both eyes, his ears, his nose and mouth. His skin was pale and sickly as the rain beat down on him. The others around me all looked the same as the boy.

Fin reached down to the boy’s neck then laid his head on his chest, ear to the boy’s heart. A moment later Fin sat back on his heels and looked at the others on the ground. I didn’t understand the dark expression on his face.

“Fin?”

He stood and wrapped an arm around my shoulder. Fin was only a year older, but always seemed more than that.

“Finlay?”

“He’s dead, Mo.” He looked out at the other bodies circling me. “They’re all dead.”

My brain stopped working. What had I done? My hands covered my mouth, but no scream came. I was numb. I was a murderer. I was – evil. My heart beat crazy in my chest and I couldn’t breathe.

“Mo?” Fin tightened his grip on my shoulder. “Moira!”

Everything stopped. The wind disappeared, the tornado vanished, the fires swallowed themselves whole, and the rain cut off like a faucet. Spots danced in front of me and I swayed.

“Moira!” Fin grabbed me as I fell limp in his arms and the world faded away. 

 

© DB Graves 2012

 

Embracing the writer in...you

Several months ago I decided it was high time to make a proactive step into solidifying myself as a writer. Sure, I slaved over my laptop at both home and the day job. I punched out nearly 160k words in six months without batting an eyelash. I alienated my family and friends because "I have to finish it." But did that mean I was a writer? Maybe, maybe not. I still felt sort of – transient – I guess is the best word. I didn’t really feel like I was part of that world. The fantastic writer world where imaginations fly free, and we are surrounded by creative minds. Where words are plucked from the air like a ripe grape. Nope. I was still sidelining.

After doing some checking around I found several writers’ groups. You know, the big dogs. The one’s you have to fork over some dough to be a part of. The serious kind, for serious writers. One that looked promising was the Romance Writers of America (RWA). This sounded good. But I was not a fully fledged ‘romance’ writer, was I? My forte was more YA fantasy with, of course, kissing. When I picture “Romance Novel” I see a corseted red-head gasping in the arms of some super steroid, long haired (don’t forget the leather cord holding the hair back), half naked Adonis. That is SOOOOO not me. The thought actually makes me giggle uncomfortably.

Next up, the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI). Now here we go!!!! This is more like it. All things KidLit. From tots to teens and everything in between! Heh, I’m a poet and didn’t know it… Sorry, shiny ball happened. Anyway, I looked into it and felt it a good fit so, wa-bam, I signed up. This was my claim to writer-dom. I was now a member of something! Big girl writer panties are ON yo!

When I received the email about the Winter Conference in January I knew I HAD to go. There were no if’s, and’s, or but’s about it. I was going! By late December, I had everything booked. Now terror set in. Non-refundable flight to a HUGE city I had never been to, a nice chunk of change forked over to a hotel that I had never seen, and a registration fee paid to an event where I would only know me, myself and I. Holy CRAP what am I doing?!

As I got on the plane last week, I mentally went over the multiple places I had stashed an ID, credit card, and cash in case I got mugged somewhere. But that was so negative, and I didn't want to begin this journey on a negative foot. I sat in the seat and focused on having the most amazing time. I would not allow the big-bad-city to scare me. Sure, I’m from Tennessee, but I grew up in Sacramento and visited San Francisco often enough to befriend a bartender (whole ‘nother post on that, lol). I was not a stranger to big cities, but NYC was just – different.

All my positive thinking mojo did the trick! It was a FANTASTIC weekend! NYC was awesome and the SCBWI folk were beyond amazing. I met a fellow writer, and Twitter friend, and we hit it off. Happy to call her an actual friend now. :) And met dozens of other writers and illustrators.

Up until this point, whenever I talked about what I write, it was sort of awkward. When I mentioned I write YA Fiction I generally get hit with the pregnant pause and “Ooohhhh… That’s cool” with an exaggerated nod. Not so much with the SCBWI crew. They wanted to know what I write, how long I have been writing, what was my story about, am I pitching yet, have I written anything else, am I published, etc etc… Whew! So many wonderful questions from people who were just like me! It was AWSOME! I did not feel awkward discussing my writing at all. The only times I felt ill at ease were when I ran into someone who had been writing since the womb, but then the next person I talked to was an elderly lady writing her first novel. How much more awesome can you get?

The speeches were better than I could have ever dreamed. Damn you Chris Crutcher! You cannot share stories like that and NOT have a mom cry uncontrollably!!! Cassandra Clare gave us the inside tip on love triangles and I totally fan-girled her. She signed my name badge!! Jane Yolen was phenomenal! And a surprise visit from the one and only Henry Winkler was inspirational.

Over the course of two days, all-around awesomesauce surrounded me, and I could not have been happier. By the time I boarded my plane in LaGuardia Sunday evening exhaustion took on a whole new meaning. Not only did every limb ache from standing and walking, but my brain was surely reduced to ooze. But the good kind of ooze.

I learned so much in that time that I will never forget. The nitty gritty of what makes a good novel; voice, hook, plot, action, emotion, show – don’t – tell, and a story that is not like any other! But it was more than that. The things that really stuck with me did not have to do with the nuts and bolts of writing a novel or picture book. It was the other stuff, the beating heart of writing; the writer.

I learned that no matter what, if you believe you are a writer, then you are. If you have a story to tell, then tell it! It does not matter if you are published or “pre-published.” It does not matter if you’ve had ink stained fingertips since birth or if you picked up your first writer’s notepad yesterday. It does not matter if you cannot outline to save your life or if you have a whole database dedicated to every micro detail of your books. It does not matter if you are grammatically incorrect or if the folks at Webster’s or Idiot’s Guide to Writing consult you before publication. It does not even matter if you are 40+ and writing books for teenage girls and boys! You know why? Because you are a writer. We come in all shapes, sizes, backgrounds, education, experience, ages and outside professions.

That is what's so fabulous about being a writer. It does not matter when the bug bites you, as long as it bites, and bites hard. I will never forget the inspirational words for a newbie writer like myself. Never give up, never back down, never lose your voice, never stop challenging yourself, never let go of an idea because it’s ‘too risky,’ and by GAWD do not EVER stop writing! These are my new 'words to live by.' My new mantra. Why? Because I am a writer...

It's my party and I'll WRITE if I want to!

Here we are...another year down for yours truly. Do I feel a year older? No, not really. Well wait...my neck has a kink, a found another gray hair, and I have the beginnings of carpal tunnel. Crap! I am a year older! Dagnabbit. Oh well.

Yeah, this is how I totally feel right now...Egads.

So what do I plan to do for my birthday? Yous looking at it kid! HA!

Every year the day job gives us employees a 'floater' to take in their birthday month. Since I'm a November baby I usually use the said floater for Thanksgiving as we visit the in-laws in Indiana. This year we will be home since DH has to work. That leaves me to use my floater for my actual birthday. WOOT  for THREE DAY WEEKEND!

When asked what I planned to do for this glorious day in celebration of my birth I decided to channel my inner author. That's right peeps, I'm writing for my birthday. Bit on the dorkish side, but that is me...Queen Dork. Just ask DH.

I have a hot date today with my laptop and WIP, Fiáin . So very excited about this. It is not everyday I can focus on what I love doing ALLLLL day. Generally there is some mom responsibility, day job responsibility, or wife responsibility. Today is a full fledged ME DAY!

My goal on Nov 1 for my own whacked out version of NaNoWriMo was to cut 50,000 words out of WIP (as requested by editor) and so far I have cut nearly 30,000. Feeling sort of superstarish right now. I know, dorkish relapse. As a green writer I am very proud of this accomplishment and know I can meet my goal. Or I will die trying BY GAWD!!! A little dramatic, yes, but that's what you get with theater background. Tee Hee.

So I will be rocking out to some iHeartRadio for inspiration and plugging away at WIP. Sounds like a fine way to celebrate the day I was born to me!

Happy Writing to you all! Cheers!

A work in progress: Fiáin

So I am breaking the rules for NaNoWriMo. I know! Egads woman! Well, too bad. Sometimes you just have to do it. Instead of writing 50,000 words I have opted to edit 50,000 words. This is a HUGE task for me so is certainly a good challenge for the month. Basically I am focusing on trimming my manuscript that I have been working on.

When I originally finished it I submitted it to a group for some developmental evaluation. Being that I do not have a crit group, this was my only other option...paying someone. Now I may not have had to do this, but really, yes I did. See I am not an experienced writer like many folks out there. I have found this side of myself late in life and am just starting out. Many writers I have come in contact with have been writing since they could hold a crayon. Me? Not so much. I started out with the same crayon, but I was known to draw what was in my head, not write it.

When I was small my mother once asked me how I drew what I did. In my best 5 year old wisdom I told her, "You just put a picture in your head and then you put it on paper." My mother, who was not born with any artistic ability thought this fairly profound for a wee child. =^) But that was me. I sketched all the time. When most kids played outside or were part of a cheer squad or something else altogether, I was often lost in my head with my sketch pad. I guess in my own way I told stories with my drawings. Once while talking to a friend on the phone I sketched a girls face with an absolutely bored expression. The "friend" was one of those that only required a well placed 'hmm' or 'uh-huh' to keep talking so the drawing was a rather accurate portrayal of how I felt at the moment. Just don't ever tell my friend that. *giggle*

My family, or rather my father's side of the family, is riddled with artists going back several generations. My grandmother was a phenomenal scenic artist that once had the opportunity to paint for Disney, but eventually turned it down. It was probably her biggest regret. So it is no real surprise that I have the artist bug too. Only my drawing had an abrupt end in high school. Without going into the whole story I will just say if I knew then what I know now I would have told a certain high school art 'teacher' to shove it where the sun don't shine.

But since then I have found pen and paper, or more accurately, laptop and MS Word. *grin* My manuscript, currently titled Fiáin, is word heavy. Like, really word heavy. I need to basically cut the puppy in half to get to a publishable size. Poor DH says, "Why don't you just make it two books?" Well, because not all my words are good ones, dear. I have been cutting scenes that do not need to be there and other bits that really don't go anywhere. My new mantra is 'condense and refine.'

Anyone who is familiar with Inkpop knows they have oodles of writers posting their work for critique and such. I have joined the masses. If interested you can find the first few chapters of Fiáin here. Feel free to take a look and I would love to hear what you think. Keep in mind this is a HUGE work in progress and part of my NaNoWriMo self challenge. If you like it please tell me what you liked (so far). If you didn't like it please tell me what didn't work for you. The mechanics are still shaky for me and I am aware I will need some line editing eventually. =^)