Tag Archives: writing

Thinking outside the box

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This is an odd title for this post, considering the content of this post is about some items I put inside a box earlier today.

My writing journey, thus far, has consisted of a great deal of luck and timing. Five years ago, when I had finished writing my first novel and had the grand notion of querying to find an agent who would help me traditionally publish, I eventually realized the traditional journey was not in the cards for me. I had been dealt an extremely rare hand, and I have been playing those unique cards to the best of my ability.

Having that new perspective has allowed me to develop a great friendship with my mentor, Neil, self-publish five novels, and think of creative ways to put my name out into the world. After a fortuitous double-booking in a volunteer spot, I was given the opportunity to reconnect with a friend I had not seen in a while. She is a fellow author, and a cottager in the area. During our chat, she told me a Canadian director has a cottage nearby, and she had seen him in the area on several occasions. She suggested I find a way to get my books into his hands, and that is what I have attempted to do.

While thinking outside the box today, I carefully packed a copy of each of my five books, a magazine article about my writing, and a carefully constructed letter into an actual box and mailed them to a local address with the hope this particular box will find this Canadian director. This act of fortitude may result in radio silence from the other side, but at the end of the day, I am happy knowing I tried something that was far out of my comfort zone with the hope of making a new connection.

The Waking Hours

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The title of my first novel came to me long before the story wrote itself in my head and it eventually pushed the words through my fingers and onto the keyboard of my laptop. I spent many hours listening to the voices of my characters telling me how they wanted to have their stories unfold, and I did my best to tell their tales as they wanted them to be explained in my books.

Fourteen months after self-publishing my first novel, and the three other novels that soon followed, my waking hours now consist of coming into full consciousness while plucking words from the cartoon balloons that linger above my head until they eventually fade into the new day. Many of my mornings, I scramble to madly dictate ideas that I received in my dreams into the Notes app on my phone before they vanish into thin air.

Yesterday morning, I woke up earlier than usual and lay in bed, enjoying the fact that I did not feel the need to release myself from the cocoon of my blankets and rush into the day. The words that followed me from my dreams were profound and gave me an idea for a great plot twist in the book I am currently writing. I could not document the words quickly enough before they faded back into the landscapes of my dreams.

I raced to the living room to animate my computer and do some research to find out if this new idea was remotely possible. My Google search gave me the thumbs up, and I spent the rest of the day going through the 65,000 words in my book to see how many changes I would have to make. Thankfully, this plot twist will not require too many adjustments to make the story flow properly and will allow me to insinuate this new ending without having to fully rewrite the book.

After getting the green light from my mentor, with only a few caveats to make sure I would be able to return to the initial outline if the new idea fell flat, I spent the remainder of last night reworking the story in my head and adding the words that were begging to be freed from the confines of my cranium to follow the path that had presented itself in my waking hours. I am excited to follow this journey and find out which ending wins.

On the days that I write

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Over the past fourteen months, I have worked extremely hard to achieve the rite of passage from wearing the badge of a ‘would-be novelist’ to being able to proudly give myself the moniker of a self-published author of four novels. The road I followed on this journey was certainly not the one I sought, and it was undoubtedly fraught with peril, but it is a road I would travel one hundred times over to regain the confidence in myself I never had, but I now exude.

On the days that I write, I go to a different place. I am not me sitting in my tiny living room, enjoying the sparkling white lights that should have been put away after Christmas. I am a conduit for ideas that come from places I have never seen, and voices I have never heard. I knew writing a book would be an interesting journey, but I never knew how many hours could pass while I was basically in a fugue state, writing words that came from the far reaches of my mind, and from people I have never met, but merely created in the depths of my imagination.

On the days that I write, these characters slowly become a part of my family. Their back stories may not be fully written into my books, but I know these people. I know what makes them tick, and I listen the words they want to say as I let their stories flow from my brain, through my keyboard, and onto the page. When people read my books, they get to experience the same introduction to these characters I had as I wrote about them. They were not outlines on a page before I began the story. They introduced themselves to me the same way they introduce themselves to anyone who takes the time to read my work.

On most of the days that I write, I am blessed to continually hear those voices. I have had days when the voices are silent, and I try to fill the words on the page anticipating where they would want to go, but inevitably, I end up deleting many paragraphs when the characters finally voice their opinion and tell me what I had written was wrong. We come to an agreement, I delete the words I had written in their absence, and the story continues according to their vision.

My stories are their stories. I have learned to listen and not plan. I have heeded their wisdom, and I am bound to tell the tales they want to tell. I am restrained by an unwritten agreement to not put words in their mouths or share stories that are not true to their characters. On the days that I write, I am happy those characters keep coming back so we can continue our journey together.

562 days

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In July of 2020, my life changed drastically. In a chance encounter, I was having a discussion with a guest at the lodge about the novel I had written. She knew I had been pounding the online pavement seeking an agent without success, and she was keen to find out if I had made any progress. Had it been anyone else sitting at the table behind me, this blog post would end here. But as luck would have it, Neil and his family had overheard our conversation and they were eager to hear about my book. After a brief exchange, he asked to read it and I emailed him the manuscript. His response to the story changed the trajectory of my life.

He loved the premise of the story, he could see it being a series on Netflix, and he even went so far as to email the names of actors he could see playing the parts. Cloud nine was miles below me. Neil and his family were back at the lodge in August, and the two of us sat down every day and figured out how to incorporate my other ideas for stories to create The Relative Series.

In September of 2020, I had a Zoom meeting with Neil’s friend who has connections in the industry. He liked the idea and encouraged me to self-publish and start getting feedback. On January 11th, 2021, I published the first in the series, The Waking Hours. A book I began writing in 2001 was out in the world and was getting great reviews. My writing became fast and energetic, and I self-published One Eleven on April 30th, followed by Darkroom on August 26th.

562 days later, Root Cellar is in the hands of Beta readers, and should be published in mid-February, and I am three chapters into writing book five in the series, called Gemini. Fellow writers, I have said this before – talk about your writing, talk to anyone, and talk to everyone. The Neil in your life could be sitting at the next table, eager to inspire to you keep writing and believe in your stories.

The actual sounds of silence

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I made a bold decision a couple of months ago. I contacted my satellite provider, cancelled my subscription and sealed the deal by sending back my receiver. I had only suspended my service in the past, which resulted in my first finished novel, but I have never gone that extra step to fully end my relationship with my television. If I could catalogue the number of hours I spent mindlessly watching shows that held no interest for me, I would be mortified.

I am a true product of my father. My habitual pattern was to come home from work and immediately turn on the television, as he would do. Perhaps the background noise soothed him from his busy day, but eventually those mindless distractions would lure him from whatever room he was in and he would settle into his chair, randomly flipping through the available channels but never settling on one particular program. I didn’t want to follow in those distinct footsteps.

I am not saying that I do not get lost in the vortex of Netflix or online sporting events from time to time on my computer, but lately my life has revolved much more around the sounds of silence than the overwhelming din of gratuitous television. My post-work hours are spent more on reading and writing than channel surfing through the overwhelming number of anesthetizing broadcasts.

(image credit)

My Kindle is loaded with new novels. My second book is in the works, my third is more than a promise and my brain is firing on all cylinders. And the moments between reading and writing are destined for the continued quest to become a published author. Those sounds of silence have been loud and clear and have been leading me in a direction I should have been following for a while. And the more I listen, the louder those sounds of silence become.

Milestones are always a welcome surprise

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I was busy at work today and couldn’t take the time to write anything earlier.  Sad, but true.  My usual routine allows me time in the wee hours of the morning to be creative but this morning my brain put forth zero effort and the page remained blank.  When that situation arises my neurons are ready to fire at lunch and I am able to quickly formulate thoughts and post later in the day.  That was not the case either.

I came home after a tremendously frustrating day of work, poured a glass of wine and opened my laptop to discover two things – this will be my 300th post and, in a few short views, I will have reached 20,000 views on my blog.  Those two things made the horror of my day wash away with the stream of leftover rain cascading across my lawn and made the throbbing in my head ebb ever so slightly.

fireworks

(image credit: en.wikipedia.org)

I am still amazed how words can travel through cyber space and reach people in countries that I have never heard of or knew existed.  The small window of my world opens wider each time a reader chooses to spend the time ingesting the words I long to share.  My words make my existence make sense.  They satisfy me in a way no other passion could and they allow me the freedom to speak from a place of honesty and acceptance.

Thank you all for joining me on this journey through language and life.  I appreciate each and every view, like and comment and look forward to continuing this pilgrimage for a very long time.

Setting aside the time

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Finding time to set aside precious hours, or even minutes, for those things we truly love to do seems to be more difficult as we get older.  Responsibilities pressure us into doing the right thing and prioritizing family, work and chores leaving little time to do the things we yearn to do.  Hobby items collect dust and ideas for great stories become trapped in the vault of our mind waiting for that large iron door to swing open and let the ideas tumble into the forefront of our thoughts.

vault

(image courtesy of Google)

I am learning to make more time for myself.  In the winter months it is much easier to make that time since I work the normal Monday to Friday hours that an office job dictates.  However, when the resort opens for the season, I am back to six days a week and generally my work days start at 7:00 am and ends at 6:00 pm, if I’m lucky.  The summer affords me one day off a week which is spent catching up on the aforementioned priorities, leaving little time for recreation or writing.  I am an avid golfer and at the end of last summer had not even played one full round of golf.  My gazebo waved at me from my front lawn as I passed it on my way to work and simply sighed as I dragged my weary body into the house on my way back from work.

This summer will be different.  Life is far to short to spend all of my time making someone else happy and forgetting about my own happiness.  Changing patterns and routines is difficult, but I have already begun the process to alter my patterns.  With the help and advice of friends I am slowly learning to make myself my first priority.  My alarm encourages me to rise an hour earlier than normal and my laptop is eagerly awaiting the gentle touch of my fingers on its keyboard.  My golf bag smiles knowingly at me every time I pass it on my way to work, somehow sensing that this golf season will be the pendulum swing our relationship needs to get back on track.  And my gazebo seems more inviting than ever.

I have finally come to realize that the change can only begin with me.  If I don’t make time to do the things I love to do, nobody else is going to make that time for me.  I am going to print this post and put it on the wall in my office to remind me that life is not all about work.  Although I enjoy my job, work is a means to an income.  Nothing will ever be as satisfying as writing a paragraph rich in imagery or hitting that perfect drive down the middle of the fairway.

Do you make a point to set aside time for the things you love?

Held Captive – Trifecta challenge

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This is my entry for the Trifecta Challenge, which is this:  For the weekend challenge we’re asking for exactly thirty-three words written in first person narrative. Have fun with it and we’ll meet you back here on 3/3! 

(image courtesy of Google)

brain

I am afraid.  Not of being alone, or of being sick, but afraid my words will not adequately express my thoughts.  I am afraid my brain will betray me.  I am its captive.

Losing sight of what is important

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For all intents and purposes, I am a still somewhat of a virgin in the blogging world.  I started this journey in August and have been doing my best to stay true to what really means something to me.  But as it is in many cases, I felt somewhat lost along the way.  I spent a great portion of my time watching the stats on my blog instead of focusing on what was truly important – the honesty and sense of self in the words that I write.

I began this journey because of a deep yearning to free the ideas in my mind, to let loose the writing demon that was trapped in the confines of my cranial matter.  I spent my days off this past weekend utterly disconnected from the outside world.  I turned off my phone, ignored my television, refrained from playing any music and just lived in the silence.  And within that silence, I found my inner voice.  I connected with what it was that brought me to the blog world in the first place – the love of writing.  I finally allowed myself the chance to be what I desperately yearned to be – a writer.  Although there was no looming deadline and no urgency to put ideas on a page, I fervently followed a passion that has recently been rekindled.  I conceded to the power of the words so desperately trying to form themselves into ideas and let them paint the landscapes of my prose.

For me, watching the stats on my blog almost made me forget why I began this journey in the first place.  I don’t write for anybody other than myself.  That may sound like an extremely selfish statement, but it is based in pure truth.  I write because I want to, not because I feel pressured to write.  The fact that other people enjoy what I write makes me utterly ecstatic and urges me to continue along that path of creativity.  Throughout this journey I have met a great many people who not only share the same passion, but who are becoming friends in the process.  They are people who have found a forum to let their inner voices escape and meet in a place where they are not only accepted, but adored and applauded.

Losing sight of what is important to me may have momentarily altered my bigger picture, but spending a day listening to the writer in me brought me back to reality.  It refocused my yearning to write, if for nothing else, than to put words to a page and to connect with others who can translate my voice into their own words.

I had the rare opportunity to regain my vision and recapture what holds a true place in my heart.  My writing is my passion and I will never lose sight of that again.  The otters in the video below remind me that it is not about the people who are watching, it really is about getting back to the things that are truly important to us and forgetting what is happening in the world around us.  It is holding true to the things we value the most.

All is “write” with the world again

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When I was eleven years old the writing Gods opened the heavens, the sky rained idioms and I was saturated with words.  I stood in the downpour with my arms in the air, letting myself become soaked in their beauty and I was drenched in a freshly watered passion. The seeds of creativity took root and steadily began to grow.  The garden of ideas was a portrait of spectral beauty and has continued to blossom in my imagination.

Perhaps I didn’t realize the depth of that passion until I was old enough to understand the true gift of being able to express myself from somewhere deep within my mind.  At that tender age of eleven I began writing silly poems, at least I thought they were silly, but the words just wouldn’t stop.  I began carrying a notebook everywhere and would jot down each idea as it came to me.  During slumber parties with the girls, they would all sit in a circle on the floor giggling about the boys, and I would be in a comfy chair writing poems about them.  Eventually I just stopped going to the parties because their incessant giggling was too distracting.  We were twelve, I don’t think I missed much.

Teenage angst and unrequited love only fueled the creative fires when I reached high school.  What teenage girl doesn’t write reams of hopeless thoughts about boys, loves lost to the mean girls and the ones that got away?  My pubescent phase was a match made in heaven for the endless stream of sorrow filled words that tripped over themselves to be freed.  I still read some of those old scribblings and am transported back to those ugly braces and bad 80’s haircuts, but I still can remember exactly how I felt when I wrote those words.

quill and inkwell

I lost that passion for a while.  Perhaps it was losing myself in a bad relationship, or perhaps it was just life in general that drained my will to create, but during that period I felt empty.  The voices that used to tell me their stories had fallen silent and I was alone with nothing more than my reality.  When the fog eventually lifted, I began writing my novel a few years ago, but it didn’t access all of voices that had been quelled.  It felt constrictive in a way because it followed one idea, and so it sat and the characters became idle once again.

This blog has helped to lift those voices into song and I am able to hear those choirs and the beautiful harmony they have been waiting to share.  I even feel compelled to write poetry again which I have not done in a long time.  The book now has new life being breathed into it and characters that were once cryogenically frozen in the tundra of my muted brain are now becoming reanimated.  Perhaps they too feel the freedom to speak their mind because they are no longer in the spotlight.  They have the will to move in and out of my consciousness and speak when they feel compelled to say something.  We are dating again, getting to know each other which is sometimes awkward because there are currently three of them and one of me, but the conversation is never boring.  We will continue our ritual dance of the double entendres and I will wait for the day that they are able to pick up the tab.