Fisherman's Blog

I spent the entire weekend camping, often pausing to consider what the main characters in my fantasy novel would think about such a passtime.  How would my hero tackle fishing, watching a sunset, going for walks?  How would my heroine juggle cooking breakfast, grilling, socializing with the local campers?  Would they double up on an ATV?  That would be cute, romantic even.  Here are a few pics of my fun weekend.

                                         This has plenty to do with writing.  Conflict: Man against nature.

                                          See.  I battled.  I won.  No lake fish puts up a better
                                          fight than a bass.  I tossed him back.  Conflict.

                                          This one just made me smile.

                                          Nature -vs- Nature.  Or the turtle was just cute.

                                         I just couldn't resist a great pic. 


                    
                                         Stay tuned tomorrow for update on my current WIP.
                                          
                                         

Happy Friday

　

Borders emailed me a 50% off coupon, so I broke down and bought my first copy of Writer's Market today. It helps that whenever anyone buys me a gift it's usually Borders giftcards. It's the new and improved copy that offers everything from interviews to social media. It should be arriving in a few days. Then I'll see what all the rave is about and be ready to query when the time comes.

Lisa suggested the other day that I purchase a copy of Heather Sellers's book, Chapter After Chapter. After reviewing it, I was intrigued by the mention of the the Sexy Next Book. It all relates to being targeted by writing ideas and not knowing what story to pursue. I'm glad I'm not the only writer struggling with this. I'll be sure to pick up a copy soon.

Did you ever feel like you're doing something you'd really prefer not to be doing? Well, today I took the day off from the day job. I respect it. It pays the bills. It's a respectable position. Still, I'd rather be writing. So, here I am, in front of my computer, doing what I love to do. No one's here except me and the dogs.

I'll be reading 100 pages of my fantasy manuscript out loud today to make sure that it reads well and that the dialogue doesn't sound stupid. Then I'll just have 400 hundred pages of editing left before I can query on this baby. It should be fun.

Below I'm posting the poem I submitted to Rachelle Gardner's Blog, just because I thought it was funny and a good way to end the week.

Everyone have a nice weekend!

　

Letter to Agent

Dear friendly agent, I've found you at last.

It took only two years of busting my ass.

My query was nonsense, choppy at best,

something that "Query Shark" could clearly attest.

Please don't be offended that I speak from the heart.

Now that I have you, this is only the start.

I promise to follow your expert advice,

and care for my hair so I'm not struck with lice.

I'll pinch my cheeks red and keep bleaching my smile.

I'll wear lipstick to bed and fluff my do for a while.

I'll work on revisions from dusk until dawn

and discard silly pages that cause you to yawn.

Only you can decipher the words in my head.

It's no big secret; I just want to be read.

As I strive for perfection with a quill in my hand,

with you at my side I will travel the land.

If everything fails and you give me the shaft,

We can remain friends. I'll still make you laugh.

Celebrate Being You

Are you different, weird, out there? Join the club of the pleasantly eccentric. I'm the chairman, or chairwoman.

All you have to do to belong is do something unusual, something that defines you as a person.

Eat ice cream with your hands because finger-food tastes better.

Wear sunglasses at your desk because it improves the crappy lighting. I'm guilty of that one. It also helps you

pretend you're on vacation.

If the dog is running the fence line and you can't stop him, go on the other side and see which

one of you can get to the end first. Yup, me, guilty as charged. It doesn't matter what the neighbors think.

It's funny as hell.

Feel free to tell me about it because I do love peculiarities, or just keep it to yourself and celebrate being you.

Below I've attached two short videos of the latest Fun Committee event, just for kicks, just for laughs. We decided to do something different for "Cinco de Mayo," so we brought in Mexican food and made everyone play "A Minute to Win It."

This particular game is called "Junk in the Trunk." I took the liberty of recording these two gentlemen with my phone, with their consent of course. I chose them because of race and sexual orientation. These are just qualities that make them stand out in society.

I'm not biased or judgmental. There are various ways to express love, and everyone has a right and a duty to do so.

These are beautiful people who have found a place in my books. To each his own.

Eat red meat, smoke, drink...or do the exact opposite.

I was a vegetarian for two years, but had to quit when I started feeling sick. I drink red wine about

four times a year, usually to celebrate something. I abhor cigarette smoke, might have something to do with my asthma.

We are all different. What works for one might not work for another. Don't let society dictate who you are. Shout it for all the world to hear.

Okay, done rambling now. Please enjoy the videos.  Hopefully they uploaded okay.  I'll have to check them later.  They only last for a few seconds.  Have a great day! And above all, have fun.

Multi-Dimensional Characters

　

Multi-dimensional characters.

As an avid elevator stalker, I meet a lot of people. Most of them know me by name, which can prove embarrassing because I have a difficult time matching a face to a name. In order to remember these individuals if I pass them along the way, I've developed a few nicknames. Here are a few.

1) Unusual Face Guy.

He looks like Jean Claude Van Damme, banged his forehead against the garage door, wore a band aid for a week. He's stocky and gets all blushy when I say hi.

2) Elliptical Farter.

He doesn't acknowledge me in elevators, or anywhere else. One fine day, I was at the gym doing butterflies. He was on the elliptical. Believing he was safe and not counting on my excellent hearing, he let one rip. The man had obviously scarfed a large amount of burritos. Needless to say, my reps were cut short and he's bore the name ever since.

3) Old Delivery Guy.

I think his name is Seb. Nicest man in the world, has to be 90. He's chipper than I am, and that's saying much. I've found myself wondering what it would be like to meet him in heaven. Don't ask me why.

4) Aunt B.

I ran into her on Halloween. I'm not much for extremes when it comes to dressing in costumes at work, so I dressed normally, except for well-placed little horns on my head. She asked me if I was a demon. I said, "No, I'm just horny." If looks could kill. She acts as if I don't exist. The woman must have sex through a whole in the blanket. Okay, I'm being mean.

In the bright side, I would never hurt any one's feelings, so I say these things in private. If they ever read this blog, they will have no clue that I'm referring to them.

I'm posting this to illustrate the depth of individuals. We are all more than skin deep.

Maybe Unusual Face Guy coaches a softball team because, with his busy schedule, it's the only time he can spend with his daughter. He could be a stripper on the side to earn some extra cash to pay his alimony and get his daughter through college. Or perhaps he has a boyfriend, the result of his breakup with his wife.

Elliptical Farter probably has an excellent sense of humor. He just doesn't use it with me. Maybe he adores his grandchildren and is recovering from a deadly disease. The possibility of not seeing his grandkids again depresses him. Right now he hates the world, but the doctor told him the elliptical and other exercise regiments would help with his recovery.

Old Delivery Guy sits in the backyard drinking beer with his dog and texting an elderly lady he met in Phoenix at a writer's conference. She's planning on moving in with him soon. They'll be married in the fall. She reminds him of his high school sweetheart; I'm just guessing. On weekends, he visits retirement homes utilizing his dog for therapy.

Aunt B has a part time job as a prison guard. She has to be tough as nails. Any attempt at sexual innuendos has to be stopped short. She knits, makes quilts, and has an obsession for beaded bracelets. At night, she soaks in a tub and pretends to be a mermaid while burning a scented candle reeking of manly musk.

Okay, I'm playing, but I will never forget these people. I've traveled into their minds, their hearts and discovered things that excite them, move them, make them angry. That's how you form a multi-dimensional character.

The bottom line: It's not about how Johnny stepped on a rock. It's about why he did it, what he felt when he was doing it, did he have an alternate motive. Was the rock too small for him to use it to crack someone's head open. I can go on and on, but rocks are boring.

See ya tomorrow.

Venturing Outside My Norm

I'm facing a dilemma.

Last week Bryce mentioned that he'd like to possess the mindset to write YA fiction. I always believed that was out of my loop. Then Roland chimes in and suggests that I give it a try. I might surprise myself. Thank you for your words of encouragement.

Well, okay. I'm strangely attracted to experimenting. It's the way I learn, so I considered it, just for a few minutes, never anticipating the outcome.

Enter Muse...

My mind became inundated with ideas. I couldn't hold back the flow. Then came Emily (Protagonist 1). She insisted on being a part of it, gave me her first and last name, screamed it into my head. With her, she brought a twin brother (Edward). They hinted that there were spare pages taking up room in my computer. They're filled with dialogue and plot just begging to be used, and they would be perfect for this, simple to convert them to YA fantasy.

"You're kidding," I said. "I don't have time for this."

Then she threw in the conflict, a proverbial apple. I gave in. I hopped out of the shower. (It's a great place to encourage the flow of ideas.) Next thing I knew I was sitting at my PC paging through the suggested draft. I'll be darned if she wasn't right.

I had two chapters sitting there of a discarded manuscript I was saving for later use. The way I outlined it saves room for about four books if I should choose to pursue YA. I played with it. When I was done, there it was, two polished chapters of YA fantasy.

Now, there's an even bigger problem.

I'm presently editing adult fantasy to get it ready for querying. I'm also working on plot for paranormal romance. I have a day job, family, other responsibilities. My day is vivisected to fit everyone into the equation. How in the world am I going to write this other book?

I could give up sleep, but that would just botch my creativity. I could give up working out and keel over from a heart attack. I could give up sex...not an option. I could give up showering...yuk. I could write it during breaks and lunch. Nope, that would interfere with my blogging time. Someone posted that they write in ten minute increments...not sufficient for me.

I couldn't possibly let the story go, not when it's so clear in my head. I've been tinkering with the idea of designating a couple of days a week just to focus on this story. Ugh, I hate multitasking. There never seems to be enough time for anything. I can sit in front of my PC, dive into a story and suddenly it's time for bed. That only goes to show that time is another big illusion.

Until tomorrow.

Another Day for Poetry

Saturday I started the day  at 6 AM with the usual two hours of writing.  I went garage-saling to find the perfect pots for my new plants.  The day grew hotter, but still I planted.  Then I greeted the Rapture with a pint of chocolate java mash icecream in hand and visions of what tomorrow would look like dancing around in my head.  I can't help that part.  I'm a writer.  Secretly I hoped my joke proved to be true and that a huge spaceship would soar overhead.  I sat outside surrounded by plants, dogs, and hubby.  The sky clouded over, then the clouds passed up by.  A little part of me was disappointed that I didn't get to chat with aliens, but I kept that to myself and finised up the coffee icecream. 

I thought that in celebration of the new day I should post a poem from my past.  I didn't last week because I was too busy writing one up for Rachelle Gardner's blog.  So here goes.

People have always discounted and condemned what they can’t understand. My family never grasped the fact that I didn’t fit in with the rest of society when I was growing up. They often criticized everything I did and said, and most of all my devotion to all things supernatural. It was one thing to believe, but to make it a part of your life, to see God in everything so that you’re unbiased and willing to find perfection in something considered silly by others, well that was useless, insane. Nah, it’s just the mind of a writer, this writer. I do believe I wrote this one for my guardian angel.
　
　
　
I KNOW BETTER
　
A glimpse of the heavens is but a desire for man, so they tell me,
But when you angel light dances in my eyes I know better.

They say you’re not real. You’re only in my mind.
I’d be a fool to dwell on you too much,
But when you take my hand, I know better.

I’m told you are abstract. I should hold on to more tangible things.
I must be going crazy, but when you put your arms around me, I know better.

They say I’ll have a life filled with loneliness. I have so many years ahead of me,
Why waste them on you.

They scream They shout. They cry. They try to control me,
But when you spread your wings and we fly, I know better.

Live Like There's No Tomorrow

　

There's been a lot of talk lately about the end of world. Now it's supposed to start on Saturday at 12:01. The good will be sucked up into the Heavens, which means I'll be pounding my fists onto my desk. "Hell no, we won't go!"

My writing career has only just begun.

I have lived trough several of these so-called man-made phenomenons...all of them prophesizing the end. People looking for a quick fix to all of their problems will believe anything. For everyone who tells me the end is coming tomorrow, I scoff.

"Don't be silly," I say. "Tomorrow will be the first day of our alien invasion. Please do come to my party. I'll be the one on the roof holding up the sign for the aliens that reads (FREE BEER HERE)."

And the sale of science fiction novels will sky-rocket. Better get busy writing.

I try not to take things too seriously, unless they're important. I find that everything can be resolved with uninhibited laughter and do sport some lovely laugh lines to prove it. Drop all the fake stuff, just get along. Let's sit and discuss matters over a cup of coffee.

When our building was being remodelled, we were asked to name the conference rooms. I'm not one to pass up an opportunity to flex creative wings, so I submitted several ideas. One of them was seven artists, which was chosen for one of the floors. The others weren't quite so popular but served to tickle me anyway.

Seven types of laughter, such as the laugh, chuckle or chortle, guffaw or snicker, the snort and the giggle. It would have been wonderful if they had chosen this one.

I can picture the suits walking into the giggle room. The very sound of the word makes my lips twitch. Life should be simple. We over-complicate it with ridiculous extremes.

Maybe today should be about what makes us happy. For me those things are simple.

(A quiet evening spent with the hubby, 15 minutes of romping with dogs, an hour of uninterrupted writing, laughing so hard I wet my pants, dipping into a favorite brand of ice-cream, sticking my head through the sunroof so the wind can mess up my hair and hit me in the face, riding a roller coaster while someone snaps a picture of my tonsils, telling someone I love them.)

Yes, these are simple things. Some are even things a child would do. We forget how to have fun after we grow up. Maybe it would be in the worlds best interest to take a step back, forget about the nonsense, make a mudpie just because you can.  Go out and do something you haven't done in ages.

And most of all, and I can't stress this enough, just enjoy being alive.

All that will be in fine print at the bottom of the sign I'm holding up for the aliens.

Have a great weekend everyone!

The Purpose of Sex

Hmm, there’s a pattern here. I’m writing about sex again. Why?  It’s a wonderful tool to show the development of a character. However, there is something called overdoing it.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for detail, but when it comes to my discarded fantasy manuscript, I was doing it all wrong. Yikes, talk about bad erotica.  Live and learn.

I decided to play with it. How would the story flow if I tweaked certain sex scenes?

Sex works with my characters because of the type of society they’ve been placed in, one lacking in certain taboos.

My hero suffers from tasteful cravings. My heroine is naughty beyond words. They both lead separate lives. Obstacles keep them apart.

Regardless of how many characters I introduce, the major sex should center around my protagonists, to show their reaction, their development, and gear all eyes toward them. I didn't want them to meet right away. This first book is meant to tease them, to show them that they need each other but can't have what they want, yet.

Editing sex can be fun, rewarding. (Presently giggling like a school girl.)

I refuse to let these two people get it on until at least the third book, at which time I will allow it to get hot and heavy. Practice makes perfect, and I’ve found that I can write a mean sex scene, regardless of gender.

I’ve also decided to enhance the fantasy for the minor characters to give us a glimpse into their heart and an idea of what their world looks like.

Looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me. Will post more about my progress next week.

Meanwhile, plots are jumbled in my head, twirling around, battling each other. When they fall into place, I should be able to advance with my paranormal romance. Oh, and here's an update on that, by the way.

Last night I sat at my PC and dumped a whole bunch of plot information. I'm not a plotter persay, but one single sentence helps to put my thoughts in perspective. Once I start moving forward with it again, the information should fill the next hundred pages nicely.

I'm also intrigued by the villain. Seldom do I like a villain, but he serves a key role. I'm not killing this one off. The muses are whispering that he's going to be something special. I'll be sticking him in the consecutive books. And in the fourth, he will be the hero.  On with the fun.

More Edits on WIP

I took a closer look at the conflict in that old discarded fantasy novel.

There are two villains, but both arrive at a different time in the story. I decided this deserves editing.

If I allude to the second conflict earlier in the story, it won’t seem like I’m tossing something in just to add bulk. In reality, the death of the first villain allows an entry to the second, but it also serves to divide the story, and that’s not what I want.

One of my favorite characters, who in fact plays a key factor in this tale, is a scientist/doctor. He will become privy to the second threat earlier in the novel and keep it under observation. It creates a flow.

Also, the first villain needs a little more depth added to her. She's manipulative, obssessive, cruel, and an absolute whore. Those are good things. It's what I envisioned for her, but none of that make me hate her. That can mean only one thing. I need to make her worse. It's imperative that she commits attrocities, something so aweful that it will make me resist killing her before her time. What to do? What to do? This is going to be fun.

I’ve discovered something wonderful in fixing this discarded novel. If we want a perfect book, it’s important not to marry it. That means be willing to change it. Toss things out, rewrite, add delete. It’s like cleaning a closet. Do what works, and have a good time doing it.

Critique yourself until you’re ready to slap yourself silly. Ten to one, when it falls into the hands of an editor, they’re going to want you to change some things anyway. Why not start now? Care enough to give the very best. Huh, isn't that Hallmark?

Tomorrow, I tackle sex.

More About Writing

I reached a stopping point in the my current WIP. I could feel the muses luring me away. I wrote 100 pages, and the thoughts that had been navigating so well suddenly came to a halt. I don’t force the writing. At least for me, that takes all the fun out of it. When that happens it’s necessary to shift focus.

I am primarily a fantasy writer, and I’ve been missing it. Although the paranormal romance has been going so well, I’m eager to submerge myself into the uncommon. I need to step outside the box, take a wacky pill, dive into the bizarre.

I pulled out an old manuscript, one I had let sit and considered shelved because of it’s lack of clarity. It was a story I had used to learn the writing craft before I knew even how to set margins.

I flipped through it, talked to it, asked it what it needed. What could I do to make every page sing to me? Artists are allowed their dose of eccentricity. Besides, there was no one else around.

I discovered several flaws, and the fact that I can see those now means that my skill has improved considerably since I started writing.

The story itself was good. It just needed a few adjustments.

I originally wrote it in first person, and the flow wasn’t there, so I experimented. It’s the best way to learn. I took the first 30 pages and switched them to third person. The difference was notable, incredible. That familiar tingle started, erupted like a volcano and tickled me to my toes.

Writing fantasy does that to me. I discovered a sense of direction, a refocus. I decided to see how far I could get with these 30 pages. It would mean a rewrite of the story, but the skeleton was there for me to play with.
I rewrote the prologue, then decided the story worked fine without it. If anything I can offer it as optional. I allowed the tale to be told by the hero, shifting focus away from the heroine at first. I would need to enhance his struggles. Conflict is what renders a book exciting.

It was my wish to show the story instead of telling about it, which meant I added more dialogue, physical
reactions, and deep thought. Soul-searching can be a wonderful tool.

I wanted the language to be enticing. Being a poet at heart, I like writing pretty prose, but it has to make
sense and draw the reader in.

Sunday morning I finished my edit on all 30 pages and brought an entire world to life.

I’m happy to say that this is a keeper, I can’t wait to see how the rest of it looks when I’m done, or when the muses suggest I return to the paranormal romance.
　

The Whisper

Someone hears a whisper. They don’t know what it is. They make assumptions, blaming it on everything, disregarding it, not understanding the meaning behind their supposition. It is everything because God’s whisper makes the planet itself sing. I wrote this one for him, or her. I’m not biased.
　
　
　
WHISPER

I move. I twitch. I turn my head.
There goes the whisper again.

Where does it come from?Where has it been?
Is it the water caressing the lofty bark?

Is it the willow being blown gently by the wind?
Is it the pounding of a little girl’s heart?

Is it the trail of a last devoured sin?
Is it the rising of the morning sun?

Is it a shadow cast by a star?
Is it a fool’s well-savored pun?

Or a look of two eyes from afar?
It is imagery in the making.

The beginning and the end.
Just a whisper of love we are taking
From the creases in God’s blessed hand.

Horror Story:Final

I left off where a stranger whose name I did not mention was driving me a short distance to off a few mindless zombies with a couple of coins and a paper clip.

                                                                         *

Curiosity was driving me more than anything. “So stranger, what’s your name?”

“I go by Mickey.”

“Why are you trying to kill them off, Mickey. I won’t be long before we’re like them.”

He turned his head my way. If looks could kill… “No, we won’t. The new sun was meant to cleanse our species. They will be dead. We will remain.”

“If you say so. Are we almost there? I really have to get back on the road to Florida.”

He didn’t answer. We reached a dead end. The car came to a halt. We jumped out. He had a bat in hand. I was armed with my trusty coins and paper clip. What a joke.

“Here they come!” he yelled. Then he yelled some more.

He swung his bat around like a madman, hollered at the zombies. They worshipped him with glacial eyes. The hunger shone behind them. I felt the kinship. They were a part of the change, a part of me.
I placed the coins and paper clip in my pocket, reached out to one of the zombies. The rotting creature took my hand. I yanked his arm off. Mickey egged me on. He swung the bat again, stepped forward to attack the zombies. I used the severed arm and clunked him on the back of the head. He fell to the ground.

“Chow down, now,” I cooed. “Good little zombies.”

They pounced on the fallen Mickey and peeled off his flesh. The delectable stench of his blood filled the air. I felt urge to pet them, but thought better of it. While they enjoyed their deserved meal, I hopped in Mickey’s car and drove away.

David was waiting for me in the SUV outside the diner. “Took you long enough,” he said.

I smiled. “I know. I almost felt sorry for him. Just like every other fool, he thought he could trust me.”

“Men can‘t resist such a pretty face.”

“Come on. Help me pilfer the gas. We don’t have all day.”

Hours later, as planned, we were in Florida. As I entered my parent’s household I was greeted by warm hugs and moist kisses. It didn’t matter if it smelled like someone had died and rotted away, or that cousin Benny had lost an ear and an eyeball.

Mom offered me a bowl of soup. She was always so hospitable.

“I hope you’re hungry,” she said.

I took the bowl, raised it to my face, and took a whiff. “Smell yummy, mom. What is it?”

“Kitten soup.”

I stirred the tiny carcass with my spoon. The fumes tickled my nose. I slurped some of the broth. I couldn’t eat the kitten, but I wouldn’t tell her that. Instead, I made my way to the guestroom where David was waiting with the dogs. I took the carcass out and fed it to them. With my husband I shared the broth. Later we would dig for bugs. Maybe dad would let us use his toes to create maggots.

We were zombies. We were family. The most important thing is that we stayed together.

THE END

Horror 2: Part 2

The horror story left off where we had just arrived at the café and parked the car.

                                                                                *

I pushed the door open. “I refuse to be massacred on an empty stomach. Babies wanna go peepee?”


Fuzzy ears popped up on unison. Tails wagged a happy rhythm. My canine buddies scampered out of the SUV.

David studied the dogs as they exited the vehicle. He rolled his eyes as they hurried to do what they were told, scoffed even more as I held them to my chest before leading them to the door of the café. Then he walked past me, patted them on the head in turn and opened the door.

“Hey, hey, Missy, you can’t bring those animals in here.” The man behind the register said.

“I won’t leave them outside,” I stated. “They’ll get eaten by something.”

“Ah, let them be, Marvin,” the lady at the register said. “They look like good folks. What can I get for you sweetie?”

She limped forward. One leg seemed shorter than the other. I thought it might be birth defect, but her foot was wrapped in gauze.

“What’s wrong with your foot?” I couldn’t help but ask.

Her face brightened with a toothless grin. “We were running low on condiments. Marvin severed a few toes. When left to rot a few night, they produce yummy maggots.”

I arched both brows. It was an acceptable explanation. Maggots added a nice zing to burgers for those of us who preferred to not feed on human flesh. “We’ll take two burgers and a little something for the dogs.”

The woman’s grin managed to grow wider. “Then have a seat, deary.” She hobbled toward us with napkins and silverware.

A man’s voice boomed over the adjacent booth. “You two look like you might possess the hunger.”

I considered him out of the corner of my eye. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“Most are mindless,” he said.

I shrugged. “We survive and stay together. Family. That’s what’s most important.”

The man in question stood from his booth and hurried over. He removed his hat to reveal a face as dark as a demon spawn, an Adonis in a world of zombies. He wanted something, and I was in no mood to lend a hand to any strangers.

“There’s a group of the mindless ones several miles down the road,” he began. “How about you help me kill them?”

“With what, a killer glance?” I asked.

He snorted once, reached into his pocket and pulled out two coins and a paper clip. “It’s a voodoo ritual.
What you do is knock them down, place the coins on their eyes, and connect them with the paper clip.”

“So you want me to play connect the dots with zombies?”

“Don’t be funny, little girl.” He pounded his fist on the table. “The ritual turns them into statues.”

I stood. “This I have to see.”

“Laila, where are you going?”

I glanced at my husband. “Stay with the dogs, honey. Enjoy your maggot burger. I won’t be long.”

Seconds later we were on the road.

TO BE CONTINUED

Horror Story 2: Something About the Flesh

It’s time to have a little fun with horror in the first person, and since it is in the first person, I'm going to write myself into the story.   I do enjoy playing with this genre, and after thinking about Mother’s Day, this story popped into my head. Panster that I am, I’m going to take it for a ride.

                                                                          *

The world was different since the arrival of the new sun. Half the planet
was crying out apocalypse. The other half had metamorphosed into mindless
zombies. They blamed it on the demons. The light was too much for them to
handle. The only solution was to hide inside mortal bodies, but an
otherworldly being was not meant to have a body. The result was an
uncontrollable hunger for flesh. The planet was depleted of animal life
forms. In the presence of such impending doom there was only one thing to
do: visit the folks.

“Grab the dogs, honey. It’s going to be a long ride,” I said.

“We should be flying,” he muttered.

I shot him a speaking glance. “With the price of gas? I don’t think so.”

I tossed the dogs in the backseat of the Explorer, took a seat on the passenger and handed my hubby the keys.

He stared at the metal object as if it could burn a hole in his hand. “How did I get stuck driving?”

I refrained from snorting. “Someone has to keep the poochies from trying to bite your head.”

He clamped down on his teeth. “We should just drop them off at the kennel.”

He paused, waited for me to visually spear his right shoulder. The corners of his lips tilted slightly. He shifted gear, and we set off on the long trip to Florida.

The first two hours went fine. Then the panting started, followed by the steaming up of the windows, and the occasional drooling. And that was just from me. I shuddered to think what the dogs were doing. A quick peek over my shoulder revealed that they were parched and bored.

“I think it’s time for a pit stop,” I said.

“We’ll be in Georgia soon,” David informed.

“Okay,” I said, "but someone needs to tinkle.”

Manly nostrils flared. “Again? You peed in Kentucky.”

This time I did laugh. “No, I made us stop for chicken. I’d never forgive myself otherwise. The bathroom usage simply followed.”

“Laila, we’re entering zombie territory. We can’t keep stopping.”

I leaned back in my seat to teak a few doggie ears. “Look, we need food. Don’t we? And it’s only a few hour till Florida. Look.” I pointed to a building popping over the hill. “It’s a café.”

He tapped on the breaks. “Shit.”

“What?”

He inched forward. “This is just like in the movies. A couple walks into an old café and gets butchered.”

He parked the car.

TO BE CONTINUED TOMORROW.

Memories That Make Me Sigh

The news has been going on and on about the royal wedding forever now. She wore the perfect gown and looked lovely,and he was....well....charming. Seeing them brought back a few tender memories.

When I was a little girl I wanted to be a princess. I had a fake crown, a secret costume, and glitter in my makeup. It was the result of years of reading fairy tales. My ideal life consisted of finding Prince Charming. He would toss me on his sparkling white horse and ride away with me because he discovered I completed his life. Secretly, I'm a romantic. Okay, maybe it's not such a secret.

As I grew up I dreamt of wearing a regal gown, leaning over a balcony, tossing a huge bouquet of roses, and blowing kisses at my subjects. I was a child of make-believe. All I wanted was for a man to love me and take care of me. I know, women should be self-sufficient. Well I am. My hubby can attest. Why can't we be both.

I hear women complain constantly about their husbands and how given a chance they would never ever get married again. It's a collective consciousness of female man bashers. I have to disagree. I love men. Oh, they're not always easy to get along with, but they'd say the same thing about us. I also love everything there is about being a woman.

Years later, when it was time to tie the knot, I still wanted to be a princess. I didn't hook a royal hottie, but I did get married in Victoria BC. It's a place rich in history and straight out of a fairy tale. I had a bouquet of roses half my size, shoes that made me at least four inches taller, and the perfect dress. I leaned over a balcony of a real castle and waved at the gathered few. In the background was playing the theme from Aladin. It was one fo the happiest days of my life.

Five years later, I would love to do it all over again. My advice to everyone is to make your own happily ever after. It's out there, if you dare to search.

                                                                         I was a little tipsy after drinking the champagne
                                                                        and ignoring the cheese and crackers, but it made
                                                                        for awesome pictures.

Poem Day: THE BEST.

This poem can mean so many things, depending on the reader. When I first wrote it as a teenager very much in the grasp of puberty and as someone so devoted to God, it was meant to depict the act of making love as seen through the eyes of the soul. That moment in which we forget that we are flesh and seek the union of souls, the glorious explosion that fractures us, makes us divine. 　
　                                  

                                                                  THE BEST　                                                     
                                                      

                                                       In and out I take my breath.
                                                       My time is everlasting.
                                                  
                                                       Don’t jump or cry or feel a threat.
                                                       There’s pleasure in the making.

                                                       Life up my veil of human flesh.
                                                       Behold my anxious specter.

                                                       Omnipotent kiss of lips afresh.
                                                       Place your hand on beating breast.

                                                       Delight my speech with endless woos.
                                                       Arouse my tears with sacred skin.

                                                       Tantalize by being true.
                                                       Become my careful kin.

                                                       Create a quake to make me tremble.
                                                       To man, my heart I shall not test.

                                                       Alas, my God, he is so gentle.
                                                       My heart, my love, to him the best.

Horror Story 1, day 4

I felt today would be a good day to toss in a little horror since I left the moles hanging.

Sylvana sat on her dusty throne beneath the earth. She was the last of her kind, the sole survivor of a race of mole people. The others had perished. They'd been hunted like deer and burned in rituals. It was the way of the sages, a group of humans who held them in the same regards as an abomination. She had been left without a mate. It had been revenge that had propeled her at first, but then it transformed into a basic emotion, that of loneliness.

For ages she had been hiding, biding her time, searching for the perfect consort in the form of a human man. Few had come her way. An array of men lay at her feet, some in the form of dried out cadavers. It didn't matter to her as long as there was flesh.

Thirty years ago she had the good fortune of encountering her recent lover. The world upstairs called it a stealing, a murder. They assumed that he was dead, but he had called to her. He had met her halfway. It was his hands that had dug firts. Once she had a hold of his arms, there had been instant magic. She took him.

"Sam," she called to her lover.

The man walked over to her ignoring the shackle fastened to his right ankle. "My queen, I'm here."

She reached out her hand. He took it, brought it to his lips. He had served Sylvana for thirty years. At first he had thought her repugnant. Her lack of eyes alone was enought to churn his stomach, but the years had revealed an unexpected kindness. He held steady while she touched him. The queen relied on him for pleasure, for love. She trusted him. He glanced down at his ankle. Yet she still kept him in chains.

"When will you release me, my queen?" he asked.

"You will leave me if I remove your chains and return to your maiden."

"That maiden as you call her is an old woman now. She's long gone. I have been faithful in my love for you."

She brushed clawed fingers through his hair. Should she tell him that the woman had remained, that she still loved him beyond reason? No. He would leave then. She would be alone again. Regardless of his pretty words, he would leave her. She knew much about love and about need. She wasn't so very different from his human bride.

TO BE CONTINUED....

Paranormal Romance

The one paranormal story that I'm focusing on is called "Bless Me Twice". Titles might not mean much, but to me it gives the story life, a sense of ownership and a life of it's own.

I started it about two weeks ago and have poured my first 50 pages into it. By the time I'm done editing them, they'll be 100.

The hero was easy. I knew his voice. Everything about Marcus shimmered and called out to me. I didn't need to date him. He was the one and definitely a diving force in this novel.

The heroine was a different issue altogether. At first it was difficult to connect with her, prefering instead one of the lesser characters who will also have her own story told soon. Lucy was sounding like a dimwit. Clearly, that was not the role I wanted her to play. What to do, oh what to do? The answer was simple. Keep on writing. She would eventually fall into place.

Keeping that in mind, I came up with a few villains. It's funny but I never have trouble finding villains, and they're all remarkably attractive.

Last night I sat at the computer around 9:00 and plucked away. Well, it was late. I was tired, yet the most amazing thing happened. I connected with Lucy...finally. The connection is important for the story to flow. Now I've filled her with my voice and brought her to life. I feel like a puppet master tugging on her strings, and it's a wonderful feeling.

The muses are whispering that this may very well be a quartet. I'm just going along for the ride and having an awesome time writing.

Paranormal Romance

I know I said I'd write more horror today, but I'm feeling fickle and felt like blogging about writing.

A while back I mentioned that I can't write a good paranormal romace without having it shift into fantasy. I'm happy to say that is no longer the case. I'm presently working on three paranormals, no, not really simultaneously. See, it starts out something like this.

I conjure a character, usually the heroine. I decide what she'll look like, how she'll act, and if she will possess some unusual ability. Then I choose the hero. Naturaly, he will be someone I would most certainly go gaga for. Next, I contruct their meeting. Then I pour everything in my head into the pages until I'm exhausted.

That done and over with, I set the project aside and go do something else, but wait, I get another idea.

"My God," I say to myself, " that would make a great book." So I go back into the office/dogroom and start a new story. I've grown quite fond of beginnings.

The third attempt is usually the instant that I organize and come up with some type of order for the possible giberish I've set down on paper. That's when I insert a plot and introduce the villain and the conflict. I'll edit, remove a few sections, add a couple more. Chances are that if they don't work for one book, they might do perfectly well for another.

I place the unused paragraphs in a separate draft for later use.

Finally, I wait to hear the inspiration of the muse, that feeling that draws me to one of the stories I'm writing and pushes me to dive into it and proceed to the end.