It's Good to Dream

　

I was making progress on my WIP last night, but 25 more pages into it I had to stop. My head was killing me, and the ideas were not flowing. The blinds were banging. Kids were screaming outside. The TV was going. The dogs were barking just because they've mastered the art. I need it quiet when I write. I finally stopped what I was doing, stuck in a pair of earplugs, and went to bed.

Here's where it got good.

I had a dream. It was an awesome dream in which I was writing. Normally if I were to dream about work, I'd demand that someone pay me overtime, except that I don't consider writing work. If anything it's my way of unwinding after I get home from a long day of sifting through paperwork, solving problems and occasionaly thinking in a different language.

In my dream I wasn't only writing my current WIP, I was in it.

Surely, every writer out there has wanted to play a key role in their own novel, be the protagonist, the lover, the villain, etc.

Haven't you?

We all love to pretend.

"If they ever make a movie, that'll be me," I joke to myself. Dreams are what keep the ideas soaring.

I've fallen asleep at night and prayed, "let me be in my book tonight, oh pretty please. It would be so much fun."

Last night it happened.

I was on Pantheas. That's where Craven lives. He wasn't always called Craven. I've known him since I was 10. Our relationship has evolved drastically during the years. Characters tend to change as we grow older. Anyway, he was showing me around his home, making me privy to all of their projects, pointing me out to his people. I sat on the council with all the world leaders, stared into their eyes. There was a sense of belonging. My characters were so vivid, so real, as only a dream can make them.

When I'm in the process of writing, I imagine these people, the way they look and act, how they reason. I know everything about them, what moves them, how to make them forgive or kill, laugh or love. (Wouldn't it be wonderful to know so much about our fellow human beings?) Craven looks fabulous wearing nothing but a string of emeralds...just a warm up game we play. His best friend Damon is the most flirtatious and crass character I've ever created, yet somehow they function perfectly together.

I've asked my co-workers countless times what their version of heaven is, specially when the whole rapture thing came around. Some say it's fishing or golfing. Others speak of eating and drinking. More still bring up men, women, sex.

My heaven is on Pantheas. It always has been. It's the one place in the entire universe where I will never be judged.

Maybe that's why I write the most, to share my heaven with others.

What's your version of heaven?

My Point of View

　

I've been discovered.

I was riding in the car with my husband when he made a curious observation.

"Are you happy?" he asked.

"Sure. I'm ok," I said.

"No, not okay. You don't have a middle ground."

I was tickled to my toes that he'd noticed.

It's true, I have no middle ground. When I'm happy, I'm deliriously thrilled. On those rare occasions when I'm angry, I'm pissed to all hell. Why? I adore the extremes. It's those unusual moments that spur the creativity of a writer. A drama should make me weep. A romance should make me want to fall in love all over again. A comedy should be so funny it makes me run to the bathroom. Here are a few noteworthy funny stories I have enjoyed the honor of experiencing.

Funny Story 1: Last year, for my birthday, my hubby took me horseback riding because I've been bugging him about it for years. I hadn't ridden a horse since I was three, at which time I peed on the unsuspecting animal. So he took me. I rode on a black horse named Storm. He, being such a tall man, was matched up to a caramel-colored horse named Snickers. Snickers was a feisty animal. If anything spooked him, the horse would flip himself around 90 degrees, but surely a man could keep him in line, or so they thought. The ride was going good. We're having fun. Something scared Snickers, so he flips himself around, assumes a hunched up position, and decides to defecate. The last thing I remember seeing through my hysterical laughter was the large form of my hubby sitting on a pooping horse.

Funny Story 2: I had a friend once. She was a New Yorker. I don't know if that had anything to do with it, but she had a mouth on her that could make a sailor blush and a biker gape (I know, I'm stereotyping). She had also recovered from a brain tumor that had damaged the left side of her body. She would fall all the time. It was normal, even expected. We'd be walking and plop, there she went. Well, we were at McDonald's one day. She ordered a double cheeseburger, fries and a drink, and insisted on carrying her own tray. Any offer to help was seen as an acknowledgement of her malfunction. So I let her carry her stuff. Well, next thing you know, she falls, and it was quite dramatic. She spun a full circle. The tray went flying, fries smacked someone in the head, pop spilled on the ground. She slipped on it, one leg went forward, the other backwards, and she wound up on a floor. It was a pirouette. And so I laughed.

After searing me with a glance, she says, "You mother*bleep*asshole, quit laughing at me."

We were friends for years, so at this point I was accustomed to her colorful retorts. "I'm not laughing at you," I said. "I enjoyed the sight of your fall. You don't understand. It was grandiose." She was able to appreciate my point of view after that.

Funny Story 3: Never take me ice skating. I was one of those deprived kids who never learned physical activity of any type, so when I turned 18, a friend of mine suggested we go ice skating. Half hour into it she was sitting on a bench engaging in a frenzied cackling. I had succeeded in falling for the umpteenth time, taking six other people down with me, and was being reprimanded by the portly woman I had landed on while kids skated around me pointing. I didn't blame my friend for laughing. To onlookers I must have been hilarious. I would have done the same in her place. Needless to say, I never went ice skating again.

Why am I posting these comical ventures? I have a mantra, one of many. "If you're going to do something, do it all the way, go for the gusto. Half-ass doesn't cut it. That goes for writing too."

Have a great day, and I hope I made you laugh at least once.

Rambling on the Paranormal.

I climbed up 30 flights of stairs today. I do that sometimes when I need to shake things up and add a little cardio to my workouts. I've been doing it for a while. People say exercise gets easier. And I laugh whenever I hear that phrase. Each time I do the stairs it still feels like hell. As a matter of fact, it makes me think of death.

I am a fantasy writer. As far as genres go, that's my first love. The words flow easily. However, I started out writing paranormal romance, and still do. Although it takes me a bit longer to complete a story in this genre, I'm ever fascinated by it. It's no secret that I derive from a long line of people who wholly accept the existence of the supernatural. It's in my upbringing.

I like to play and be goofy, but there is also a more serious side to my personality. Heck, I wouldn't be at my current job otherwise. This blog is meant to be basically about those things that move me. Plenty of that is the art of writing because it's in that form that my soul speaks the loudest. And it's about this multidimensional entity that I intend to focus on today.

Near Death Experiences:

There's been a lot of talk about near death experiences since the book Heaven is for Real came out, but I've been reading books on the subject for years. Embraced by the Light, Life After Life, and Dying with God, to name a few.

Why the fascination?

Aside from my clairvoyance as a child and my recent ghost video, my father suffered a heart attack a few years back. He died, came back, and told me everything.

Now, I don't toot a horn for any religion. They all have their pros and cons. To me religion serves a purpose: a tool by which to experience God. I won't deny his existence. His presence for me is too raw, and I boast about our great relationship. Still, the things my father told me left me with a tinge of envy.

First he left his body through his head and climbed up to the ceiling. From there he was able to see his doctors. He traveled to other rooms in the hospital by just thinking about the people he wanted to be with. He saw my brothers arguing. This was verified. Then he walked through a tunnel and watched his life be replayed before his eyes on a movie screen. He saw animals, tons of them, and small children. There was a kaleidoscope of rich colors.

An angel-like creature held his hand while he walked to the end of his journey.

(Now, isn't all that great? Animals go to heaven and angels are real.)

I'm not ready to go yet. In truth, I love being physically present. Still, wouldn't it be wonderful just to experience it without any permanent consequences? Just one more peculiarity to add to my list.

Have a great Tuesday!

　

An unusual experience taking place on the brink of death and recounted by a person after recovery, typically an out-of-body experience or a vision of a tunnel of light.  (I always wanted to have one. The thing is that you have to die.)

　

Fantasy Stuff

When I was around seven I developed an interest for nature. Instead of playing with the other kids during after school care I’d spend the time walking in the yard. I’d talk to the trees, kicked up leaves, rejoiced when butterflies and dragonflies landed on me, and acknowledge the presence of fairies. It was my understanding that all of God’s creatures had angels watching over them. For the elements, those angels were the fae. Now, I didn’t go out of my way to share this information with the other kids, but my obsession with all things green earned me the title “Nature Girl.”

Till this day I still try to consider all of nature through the eyes of a child. Let’s face it, as a fantasy writer it’s my right, even my duty, to entertain anything outside of the norm. I should wish upon a star. I own a telescope for this purpose in particular. If I happen to trip, what can I do but place blame where it belongs, the six inch trolls of course. My socks are slowly depleting thanks to the sock gnomes that live in my dryer. Unicorns fly at dusk right after they‘ve submerged themselves in water for their daily baths. That‘s where dew comes from. Dragons clear their throats at dawn. That’s why the sky glows red. Mermaids are real. They send dolphins up to the surface to see if the coast is clear, only then do they show themselves. If an ashtray become full, a phoenix will rise out of the ashes. When I cry, an angel holds my hand. This is true. These are all stories I told myself as a child, a few of the memories I still cherish. It’s no wonder I became a writer.

As I sit on the brick patio writing this to post on Monday, I’m holding perfectly still. There’s a hummingbird perched on my hummingbird feeder. They perch for about two seconds then move on. It’s such creatures more than anything that make me think of fairies. Nothing brings me closer to the fantasy genre than to lose myself in nature. So if you‘ve stopped by to pay a visit today, I invite you to take a close look at the beautiful fairy in this picture and dare to lose yourselves in nature.

Have a great Monday.

Byron's Blog: MY DAY AS A MAN.

Thursday I spent the day pretending to be a man.  My name was Byron in honor of Lord Byron because I love his writing and back in the day, he was a hottie.  This is for the sake of character building and is based on every behavior I've observed from the males of the species.

　

Morning Routine:

The alarm clock went off at 5:50. I needed the early start so I could shave. I sat up in bed, stared at my toes in the hopes that they would say something. When they didn’t utter a sound I hopped out of bed and hurried to let the dogs out. Next, I shot into the bathroom, locked the door, stood in front of the toilet and rubbed the back of my head while resisting the urge to examine my imaginary penis. More than five seconds is too long. (Yes, men do this.) I laughed, couldn't help it.  My brain went into overtime. Pause, rewind. Now, now, I am a heterosexual male. Craven (that's my all-too-hot protagonist) would definitely make a teasing remark right about now. I feel him with me suggesting pages of dialogue.

I moved to the front of the sink, spent three whole minutes hacking a pretend hair ball, scrutinized fantasy nose hair. (Men do this.)  Hubby knocked on door, asked what I was doing. I ignored him. He asked if I was blogging. (He now associates extensive time in the bathroom with me blogging.  It's the only place he can't try to read over my shoulder.) I remained silent and reached for the shaving cream, slathered it on. The dogs started to bark. Damn, the neighbors were going to be pissed.  I washed my face. It's just as well. Craven would be scruffy. (Hmm, shaving cream has a drying quality, but it's rather minty. Note to self to use on legs later.)  I grabbed the toothbrush, strangled tube, piled on an enormous amount of toothpaste. Dogs barked again. I hurried to let them in, mouth foaming like I was contaminated with rabies.

I hurried back into the bathroom, grabbed hubby‘s deodorant and smoothed it on, aced the makeup, tied my hair back, tiptoed to his side of the bed and borrowed a dab of cologne. (Craven would tell me that natural skin scent is better than anything.) I beg to differ. I like cologne. I dug into hubby's drawers and pulled out a pair of boxers, shook my head. Forget it. I have to draw the line somewhere. No matter. I already know that Craven wears silk boxers. Nice. Slap own head.

"I’m a man," I repeated to myself the now familiar mantra. "I’m a man."

"God, I sure hope not," muffled words came from the bed.

I ignored hubby's comment, Craven would have insisted on proving his point. I grabbed my stuff and headed out the door.

Afternoon Routine:

I spent the day at work attempting to speak with deeper voice than normal, and loud. Men talk loud. (Difficult for me. I'm soft spoken, product of my excellent hearing and years of meditation.) Someone asked me if I had allergies or a sore throat. (I'm pretty sure the majority of the world is hard of hearing) I squared my shoulders and kept my hips from swaying. Do the manly walk. For Craven that walk is regal. Someone asked if I had a sore back or hurt myself.  I had to laugh. I suck at this.  My request to enter the men’s room was vetoed by my fellow men co-workers. Fine, I’d peek in later. (Hmm, urinals...icky.)

I drank black coffee. It‘s the manly thing. (Tastes like crap) After an extensive workout at the gym I discovered that Hubby’s deodorant sucks. There’s a reason Secret is strong enough for a man but made for a woman. While hitting the showers, I shot a longing glance at men’s locker room envisioning brawn encased in towels. Not happening. They’d boot me out of the gym. (Still, Craven looks hot doing bench presses.) I hurried to elevator, established conversation with fellow elevator stalkers. The guys were all in suits. (Hmm, Craven likes leather.) I spoke about the weather and mentioned baseball.  Big mistake.  Sports talk is like a magic key that winds up men like toys.  They began to spew forth insane sports trivia.  (All I heard was Charlie Brown's teacher mumbling.)  I tried my best to disappear into the crack in the corner. I reached my floor. The door opened, saving me from embarrassing myself. I ran, in a manly fashion of course.

Back at my desk, I grabbed peeping tom co-worker's binoculars and used them to peek outside building window.  I stood with legs apart.  A woman was sunbathing on the roof of the adjacent building. Who the heck does that? She has to know people are checking her out. Her bikini was hot pink, my favorite color. Oops, thinking like a woman again. Craven would describe her as athletic. He‘d say she has long legs. Then he would move on to illustrate exactly what she could do with those legs. That’s when he’s at his best.

I dropped the binoculars and went back to my desk. I sat like a man, resisted urge to nudge imaginary balls into place. A co-worker commented on my unusual behavior. I told her I was researching, getting in the zone. Her eyes became glassy. I told her I was a writer.  That explained all.

Evening Routine:

I hopped in my car, inserted Twisted Sister CD. It was the closest I could come to manly music while actually liking it. While stopped at light, I nodded my head wildly and made eye contact with other drivers. A couple of teenagers started banging their heads too while signaling thumbs up. Another guy laughed. A lady looked at me like if I’d sprouted a second head. The light changed. I hopped on the interstate and sped home.

Having reached my destination safely, I rushed inside and after tending to the dogs I sat at the dining room table and drank half a beer. (I hate beer.) I opened up a can of no bean chilli. (I hardly ever eat red meat.) Having inhaled the concoction, I produced a manly belch. (Hmm, so this is why men get gas.) Craven would never do this. It wouldn't impress me. I was ready.

I sat at my dog room/office and edited a chapter that succeeded in making me weep. I felt the connection. My villain hurt him to the depth of his core. He cried out for relief. My heroine was there. The story is underway.

I like to play around a lot. I won't deny it. Like my profile says, "life is too short to let it be ordinary."

Do what you have to to make a story work, even if that story is the story of your life.

Hope everyone enjoyed my day as a man. I had a blast.  Ladies, don't try this at home, unless you want to. Gentlemen, feel free to get even and spend a day as a woman. Might I suggest you try a pregnancy test?

Have a great weekend!

Don't Snuff the Creativity

Where does our creativity come from?

People tell me all the time that they could never be this creative. Not true. It starts when you're a kid.

Yesterday we were discussing superheroes at work. My co-workers tend to miss my chatter when I'm on vacation. I think it all started with someones eye twitching. It took me back to my childhood. A twitching eye would usually mean that I was receiving telepathic messages from either aliens or my superfriends. If I concentrated I could very well respond to their hails, prevent some unforeseeable disaster, and calm my twitching eye.

This week I've been focusing on my male protagonist and have found it necessary to mimic some of his behavior. (I'll post about this tomorrow.) It makes me pause and consider what stands out in a person so much that it makes us pursue them, cling to their every word, try to imitate them. I reverted back to childhood memories and my favorite superhero: Superman.

I was in love with Superman from the moment I saw him in cartoon form until he took on the brawny shape of Christopher Reeve. Around the age of six, I pulled out an old blue outfit, took some scissors to it and made myself a costume. I was Superwoman. I had powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal men, or women. The funny thing is that instead of wanting to fight alongside Superman, I just wanted to play house. As I grew older I found myself fawning over Christopher Reeve, replaying his movies, freeze-framing the VCR so I could hurry to the screen and smooch him, praying to God that nobody saw me.

Around the same age, a friend of mine decided she was Wonder Woman. That was cool. I liked her costume, but secretly I was ecstatic that my character was stronger than hers. After spending an entire year of pretending, she told the entire class what we were doing, embarrassing me to death. Till this day I've denied it. How dare she reveal my secret identity. Needless to say, we're no longer friends.

Why are children drawn to these heroes? What is it about them that holds such attraction?

Heroes are inherently good. They can falter, yes, but mostly they'll do what's right simply because they're the good guys. They make me want to be better people, give everyone the benefit of the doubt, recycle, donate something to someone just because in doing so we can save the world with a single act of kindness.

Here's wishing everyone a heavy dose of creativity and smooth writing.

Playing With Setting

I visited a furniture store last weekend.  Why?  This particular store is one of my hubby's favorites.  What he doesn't realize is that it's one of the best places not only to inspire setting but also to jump into characters.  I shall endeavor to explain.

There is a particular table I spotted for my sun room.  My hubby was quick to point out that we don't have a sun room.  "Not yet," I replied. 

He didn't understand that the fact that I saw the table installed a sun room in the world in my head. 

I pictured a kaleidoscope of colors being cast through to the ground.  I was seated on a comfortable chair at the lovely table, sipping pink lemonade, or wait, it was peach iced tea.  I propped my feet up on an adjacent chair, flirted with a perfect stranger, and spared a glance at my swimming pool. (No pool.  We're in Nebraska.) 

There was a draft, but wait, that means the sun room just became an enclosed porch with screens.  The winds picked up.  The trees were suddenly swaying.  A crash of thunder indicated that a storm was coming.  My heart was beating faster.  Huge clouds floated overhead, dark, threatening.  The skies were overcast, snuffing my mood, stealing the sun.

All this from looking at a table.  I no longer wanted it.  My perception as a human was altered.  So I played a game.  What if I were an animal?  What would a dog do?

Why a dog?  I've always been an animal lover, and I like including them in my writing.  It's important to make them real, to feel what they feel.

In the animal kingdom female dogs are dominant.  Surely such a sophisticated creature would not play an adequate role here.  No, so I became a male dog, slightly pudgy, hairy, and filthy from playing outside.  I proceeded to run around the table caking the legs with mud.  The thunder scared me.  I whined, humped my human's leg to get attention, hid under the table, made a puddle.  The humans hurried to clean it up.  They petted my head for being vulnerable and adorable.  They took me inside, fed me a treat, and rubbed my belly until the storm was gone.

I like the table.  From a dog's perspective, it brought my sun back. 

Setting is a powerful thing.  It can affect our moods or illustrated them.  The clouds can emphasize the fact that we're angry or sad.  The sunshine can show the world that we're overjoyed or successful.  The elements as well as our surroundings can help create the mood.  Just my thoughts for the day.

I'm up to a point in my WIP where I strongly focus on my hero.  I want the world to know his soul the way I do.  In order to achieve this, tomorrow I'm going to spend the day pretending I'm a man.  Eccentric?  You betcha, but oh so fun.

Have a great day...^-^....