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