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Archive for the ‘Fiction’ Category

An Eternal Flame

Posted in Blogging, Fiction, Heroes, Inspiration, Music, Non-Fiction, Relationships, Uncategorized, Writer's Block, Writing, tagged , , , , , , , , , , on September 11, 2012| 15 Comments »

I’m afraid I’ve become a sayer rather than a doer. This wasn’t my intent. In fact, it was just the opposite. This blog was, in my eyes, a way for me to write on a regular basis; a stovetop on which to whip up tidy, complete meals and instant satisfaction. But in my forage for nourishment, it may have instead become a fridge full of leftovers; empty calories and unfulfilled dreams. Ironically, a little like my own cooking.

Speaking of mad kitchen skills, my husband and I had a lovely meal the other night, me nowhere near the oven. We cozied up in a wonderful, local restaurant. I sat taking in a view of the glistening ocean, a few glasses of robust vino and, a little later, an off the cuff comment; “You write too much about writing. You should, you know, write a novel (again) or something,” he said.

I won’t lie; it didn’t come as a shock. I have, in the very back crevices of my noggin’, felt a pang of recognition regarding this every time I start a new post.

He’s right, I do write about writing…a lot, but I feel I’m moving forward, albeit in baby steps. Perhaps this is how I’m finding my way, a cookbook of sorts.

I enjoy writing these posts immensely. I take great pleasure in imagining that I’m honing my skill and revving my engine. I cherish the fact that I may be of some slight inspiration to others who are attempting to follow their hearts and fulfill their dreams. I feel like I’m doing something about the direction in which I want my life to head. All good things, yes? Yes.

He’d second-guessed himself the moment it was out; worried he’d smothered the struggling fire of hope only just beginning to catch in my heart.

But I can only see the positive in my husband’s observation. A touch of lighter fluid always fuels a flame.

It means my subject matter has been clear, my blog has a theme (who knew),  and (this is the best part) he’s actually been reading my posts. Hope burns eternal.

Fiery Vintage Stove

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Did You Know That You’re Toxic?

Posted in Blogging, Fiction, Inspiration, Music, Non-Fiction, Relationships, Uncategorized, Writer's Block, Writing, Young Adult Literature, tagged , , , , , , , , , on August 28, 2012| 5 Comments »

For the second, maybe third time today, I have started out to do one thing and ended up with something else entirely, so this post comes from a divine intervention of sorts.

Spontaneity hasn’t always been in my deck, but I’m learning to let the cards bend as they may, finding tranquility in the unwritten parts of life.

When I was, oh I don’t know, let’s say around seven years old, I was in the garden with a friend.

“Eat it,” she said.  “You’ll see.  It tastes just like honey!”

Being the people pleaser I still am was, I obliged.  I took the soft, pale pink bloom, held it up to the sun and watched as the petals became transparent; their delicate veins lying vivid against the anemic backdrop.

With only a hint of hesitation, I pushed the flower into my mouth and pressed my lips down, crushing it.

“It’s called Honeysuckle,” she jeered. “You’re supposed to suck on it!”

I stood there letting the bud seep a surprisingly sour juice over my tingling tongue.  A feeling set in; one I wasn’t familiar with at the time, but over the years I’ve come to know it as ‘the bad feeling.’  You know the one…the one where your kerosene-soaked heart plunges deep into the pit of your stomach and taunts it with brewing sparks.

“Why aren’t you eating one?” I asked her, hoping I didn’t already know the answer.

“Oh, I had one earlier,” she lied. “You just didn’t see me.”

My heart sunk lower, teasing the pit with its looming flick switch…

I turned and ran through the ivy-covered archway, back to where the adults were lounging on their lawn chairs, enjoying the cloudless afternoon.

Curling up on my *Aunt’s lap, I tucked my head into her shoulder.

“I ate a Honeysuckle,” I barely whispered into her neck.

“Oh dear,” she breathed, her frost-laden lips oddly emitting the scent of the Vaseline-like perfume she rubbed on her wrists every morning.  “Honeysuckle is poisonous!” – the p in poisonous came off sounding like a dry smoke ring being puffed into the air.

Poisonous.  My heart burst, then plummeted down to my toes, incinerating that nasty, old pit, lighting it in a hot, blue blaze.

“Yeah, I know,” I sighed…and lied, unable to say more.

Every night after that, for what seemed like months on end, I sobbed myself to sleep, waiting for the toxic nectar to still my clamoring pulse, praying I’d wake up in the morning, begging that the Honeysuckle wouldn’t be the end of me.

It never occurred to me that my Aunt didn’t seem all that concerned or that she hadn’t told my mother.  Had I been older and wiser, I would’ve realized these were signs that I probably wasn’t in grave danger.

I don’t know why I kept it inside…why I didn’t want to burden anyone…why I felt it was such a deep, dark secret.  I don’t know why my Aunt thought it was okay to tell a seven year old that something she ate was poisonous and leave it at that, but in the end, I drew the conclusion that *there weren’t a lot of steadfast truths in life, merely perceptions and perceptions can be our adversaries, atrophies and afflictions or we can add water, turn them into pulp and use them to write about on.

Thanks for the title, Britney

disclaimers:

*this is an adaptation of a quote by Gustave Flaubert

*in the world of fiction i have many ‘aunts’ – don’t worry; you’re not this one  (see post thirty-five, #3)

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Five Things About Hazy

Posted in Blogging, Facebook, Fiction, Getting Famous, Hardship, Inspiration, Non-Fiction, Relationships, Top Five, Uncategorized, Writing, tagged , , , , , , on August 22, 2012| 6 Comments »

It’s my birthday!  I don’t often use exclamation marks, but in this case I’m attempting to make myself feel better about being another year older.  It’s already lost its audacity though, as my birthday was yesterday.  It turns out yesterday was an optimum day for birthdays, not new posts.

I’m from the North of Ireland, Belfast born.  I’m proud of my heritage and cherish my visits back to the abundance of family and friends I am lucky enough to have left over there.

Searching for a little inspiration to adorn my facebook page on the morn’ of my birth day, I came across a quote by a fellow Irishman, Brendan Behan.  It goes like this:

I’m a drinker with a writing problem.” ~ Brendan Behan

Now, I have no way of really knowing why, but I promptly lost two followers; almost as fast I uploaded, they checked out.

Brendan and I are trying not to take it personally, but we have to be honest, it stung just a little, especially for me, it being my special day n’ all.

I could jump to many conclusions about why they deserted me, but we all know what assuming does.  It’s not flattering.  I’m just going to accept their departure gracefully and adopt the attitude that perhaps I have done you all a disservice in not making clear (which, by the way, is the opposite of hazy) what you can expect from me.  I accept responsibility.  I am eager to rectify:

1. I do not praise alcoholism, but I will promote someone who was able to achieve substantial success and become “one of the most important Irish literary figures of the 20th century” in his forty-one short years here on earth.

2. I don’t pick and choose.  Holding back is not my forte.

3. I fib.  I pick, I choose, I do hold back.  I don’t depict autobiographical events without blending them into almost unrecognizable abstract.

4. I’m British, I write and I drink.  Unlike Mr. Behan, I don’t see any of these as a problem, but for your reading pleasure, I try not to mix the three.

5. I secretly like being another year older.  I just needed an excuse to use an exclamation mark.

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Keep Your Eye on the Prize

Posted in Blogging, Fiction, Getting Famous, Inspiration, Non-Fiction, Uncategorized, Writer's Block, Writing, tagged , , , on August 16, 2012| 6 Comments »

I’m not a rah, rah, rah girl.  I believe I’ve mentioned before, I was never a cheerleader. Don’t get me wrong; I’m all for a little support, but it can only go so far. Eventually, the game ends, everyone goes home, the pom poms are tossed and we’re alone. What then?

I haven’t written for a while. I’ve been traveling, dirty and distracted, busy, not connected to the World Wide Web; all valid reasons for my somewhat short hiatus.

We all know I could’ve made time. I had my laptop. Writing and saving to post at a later date was always an option.

But I discovered something interesting about myself – the greater the gap, the heavier the fog, the fainter my fortitude.

A few cheers along the way did light a search for what inspired the rally. I reread several of my past posts and found myself thinking; “How did I do that? How did I sound so convincing?” Convincing that is, that I believed in myself, what I was writing and my ability to write it.

It proved to me something that I didn’t know I didn’t know; belief  in one’s self is everything.

Hopefully the cheers don’t stop. They are much needed and are appreciated more than possibly known, but the belief those cheers cause us to chase is imperative to persuasive writing. Hell, belief is imperative to doing anything convincingly.

We need to enjoy the rally and not engage the boos, we’ve gotta hear the accolades and not cry over the crud, we must pledge to prepare, perform and produce, not fall prey to position.

Success is the prize; trainers, cheerleaders and coaches can help push us there, but it’s our own two feet that will find the line and finish the race.

Don’t give up your place for anyone.

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Sticks and Stones

Posted in Blogging, Fiction, Inspiration, Non-Fiction, Songs, Uncategorized, Writer's Block, Writing, tagged , , , , on August 1, 2012| 1 Comment »

“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.”

Man, nursery rhymes are messed up.

Words can hurt, but they can also make us incredibly happy…euphoric in fact, when chosen wisely, used correctly and placed strategically.

But what if we only had a thousand? A thousand words to get to our point, a thousand words to evoke and enthrall, a thousand words to sell our very being, or a thousand words to make them believe?

We’d choose wisely, that’s what.

Write, write, write. The more letters littering the page the better is what a lot of us start out thinking and sometimes, it feels good to watch that word count rising. We feel like we’re getting somewhere, hitting a target…reaching a goal. But sometimes, we lose sight of what our goal was in the first place, or rather what it should have been. Was it to hit two hundred thousand words or to write with a flow and fervor of unquestionable quality?

One is not the same as the other.

I watched “A Thousand Words” a couple of weeks ago. My kids chose it and convinced me to sit and watch with them. I was cleaning up from one trip and packing for another, so I was reluctant and realizing it wasn’t the drama I wanted it to be after seeing Eddie Murphy’s face, I complained even further. (It seems I’m not a huge fan of silly when I have serious business to take care of)

But I soon quieted. It appeared Mr. Murphy was to play a literary agent and that’s all it took to draw me in. For me, the movie could’ve been about nothing else and I may have even secretly wished it were. As it turned out, there was a moral to the story.

He portrayed a fast and fancy agent that didn’t read. He was able of course, but simply chose not to. He went after big clients with the “it” factor; clients that would bring in mega money using a whole bunch of words saying a whole bunch of nothing. You know…the Hiltons and Kardashians of the world. (You can throw stones now)

Eddie’s career is put on hold when he is given a symbolic hourglass of time left on earth. How fast the sand falls is up to him; each word a grain and there are only, you guessed it, a thousand of them.

It takes him a while, but in the end, he learns to think before speaking, pick wisely…choose meaning.

It made me think of times when all I wanted to do was fill an entire notebook with scrawl; the more the merrier. Heck, I probably even dreamed of filling two notebooks. That was my goal – quality far from the forefront of my thoughts.

So, whether it takes a fast-draining hourglass, a leaf-losing tree or a badly reviewed movie starring Eddie Murphy, I’m grateful I have persuasive kids to make me to sit down and learn that sometimes silly can be real serious.

Word.

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The Five Mistakes Killing Self-Published Authors (by Kristen Lamb)

Posted in Blogging, Fiction, Inspiration, Non-Fiction, Uncategorized, Writing, tagged , , , , on July 24, 2012| Leave a Comment »

An informative and entertaining post by Kristen Lamb. Be sure to watch the vlog piece and check out her hot and helpful book “We Are Not Alone; The Writer’s Guide to Social Media!

Author Kristen Lamb's avatarKristen Lamb's Blog

Happy Monday! Okay, last week, upon my return from Thrillerfest, we explored what I felt were the 5 top mistakes that are killing traditional publishing. Then, on Friday, we talked about how self-publishing can help writers as a whole, even traditional writers. It is a wonderful time to be a writer, but I want to make myself crystal clear.

This business is hard work. There are no shortcuts.

I Don’t Take Sides

I feel that traditional publishing has a lot to offer the industry. If I didn’t believe that, I wouldn’t spend so much time and effort challenging them to innovate to remain competitive. Self-publishing is not a panacea, and, since I spent last week focusing on the traditional end of the industry, today we are going to talk about the top five mistakes I feel are killing self-publishing authors.

Mistake #1 Publishing Before We Are Ready

The problem…

View original post 1,787 more words

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Inspiration Is Not at the Next Exit

Posted in Blogging, Fiction, Inspiration, Non-Fiction, Uncategorized, Writer's Block, Writing, tagged , , , , , on July 23, 2012| 8 Comments »

Don’t be so gullible. There is no ‘perfect moment’ lurking around the corner, another hour will not make a difference, it matters not whether we’re sitting in a cluttered house breathing in dust or staring out a mountain loft window, absorbing a breathtaking view.

If we’re going to write something believable, marketable and applausable, we’re going to do it poolside, seaside or on the back of an envelope, billside.

Convincing ourselves; if things were different, we’d sit down and write, is wrong. The fact is, if it’s in our blood and we’re born to do it, nothing will get in our way.

Dissuasion is simple. It’s a sedentary activity. It could be seen as lackadaisical, slothful even. Being encouraged to head out for a walk is reasonable, but cheering someone to sit down at a computer is, at best, questionable.

None the less, it needs to be done. Someone should stand up. Someone should shout out. Someone should put his foot down. Someone should don a lick of devotion.

But we’re the someones. There’s nobody here but us chickens.

We’re standing alright, but in the way. We don’t believe. We lack confidence. We’re afraid. We’re our own worst enemy.

So step aside and sit down. Magically, invisible time will be found, surroundings, no matter their attributes, will melt into our story and those all-consuming tasks will be put on hold.

They say you should keep your friends close and your enemies closer, so tie yourself to a chair and start cheering.

A ruse…

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Lost in Translation

Posted in Blogging, Fiction, Inspiration, Uncategorized, Writer's Block, Writing, tagged , , , on June 24, 2012| 6 Comments »

Lose me and I’m yours. Powerful words welded into sentences, zigging here and zagging there, spinning me in circles and propelling me through mazes hoping to never find a way out are on my Goodreads list.

Compositions making me forget that our (stupefying) Visa bill is on its way or that I’m waiting for the dryer to finish its cycle will forever hold a special place in my heart.

Passage into an imaginary world is largely due to description. In my (humble) opinion, it’s almost all we writers have when trying to entice readers into our wildly whimsical minds.

Description is kinda my thing. I can get very caught up in explaining how “the freshly painted wooden stool glistened in the sun like a shiny, red-skinned apple against a soft carpet of moss-green grass.” Some could say it’s overkill, but poof…there it is. You see the stool, don’t you?

I could have said; “The stool had just been painted red and someone had set it on the grass.” You may still be able to see the stool, but not quite in the same way and your mind would have to do most of the work.

Not that working your mind is a bad thing, but reading (for pleasure) is supposed to be effortless and having to do too much of the imagining is sort of redundant. You may as well write the book yourself.

I’ve heard people say; “Ugh, the description went on and on. In the end, I just skipped through it.”

What a shame. The author has taken what should have been an all-consuming, riveting experience and turned it into an arduous, irksome chore. It hurts my heart.

Descriptives should have us eating words slowly, savoring the different tastes each one leaves behind. We should feel like we just watched a really great movie and didn’t realize there were subtitles. Good descriptives should leave us praying there’s always one more page.

I write to find myself, but I read hoping to get lost. I leave the (mind-numbing, oppressed) map in the glove compartment.

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A Life She Didn’t Mind

Posted in Blogging, Fiction, Inspiration, Relationships, Uncategorized, Writing, tagged , , , on June 19, 2012| 6 Comments »

One by one, overhead fluorescents were snuffed; computer screens extinguished, corner office doors shut tight for the night. She sat on, her screen now the only light in the room, its bluish blaze illuminating her paper-white skin and inflaming her tiny cubicle.

She sipped at her green tea, now cold, while going through case upon case, hi-lighting important points and snippets of court transcripts that may have otherwise been overlooked by the distracted lawyers she worked under.

She massaged her sleepy feet one toe at time, while scrolling through site after site, researching proof for each red inked comment she’d written in the sidebars of every document.

When the last smooth, manila folder thwacked the pile that had mounted on the grey-carpeted floor, she stretched her arms up as high as she could, the skin on her hands protesting as the cracks widened with the pull. Handling paper in a dry office all day long took its toll; the raw, tiny slice on her right pointer finger squealing just enough to make her wince.

She got up and wandered slowly; a laze in her stocking’d step, through the grid of carpeted, shiftable dividers across the office to the glamorous window engulfing the entire West-side wall of the firm. It framed the charcoal city skyline etched against the cobalt sky.

Entering the office at nineteen, it had been the first thing to catch her eye. A window to a world she hadn’t really explored, and even now, at twenty-nine, she still came up short.

But, over the years she’d spent in that office she’d acquired her tiny, but decorated just the way she wanted, apartment in Yaletown and a wardrobe that boasted not one, but two little black dresses. Although they’d only been worn, covered with a blazer, to the office so far. A freezer full of Lean Cuisine, a little grey cat that she loved to bits and out one of her windows she could see a corner of the Keg rooftop patio which provided her with hours of entertainment on a Saturday night.

Exhaling, she turned away from the view, knowing it was time.

The sleety kitchen tiles filtered their cool through her nylons, her feet gliding over each one frictionlessly. She took a shiny, white mug from the cupboard and garnished it with a silver stirring spoon and the content of two brown sugar filled envelopes. She plucked a mandarin from the fridge and a packet of shortbread cookies from the drawer beside it. Snatching spray and paper towel from under the sink, she headed back out to the cubicles.

Coming to his, she stopped, heart thudding, imagination conjuring up his kind, green eyes and bobbing Adam’s apple.

Carefully, she set her supplies on his chair and went about wiping his desktop and dusting his screen; the floral smell of potpourri scented cleaner filling the space as she sprayed.

Taking the mug, she set it to the right of the monitor, its spoon clanging as she put it down, plastic crackling as she laid the cookies and mandarin beside it. She scrawled a happy face on a post it with a Sharpie and stuck it to his mug.

Finished for yet another night, she was, as usual in a hurry to leave. The laze gone, she now scrambled to put away the cleaning supplies, sort the manila folders into organized piles on her desk, grab her coat and whip on her flats.

Out in the fresh air, inhaling deeply, she smiled knowing there’d be a few people adorning the Keg deck on this beautiful night, her kitty would be waiting at the door and tomorrow, he’d be wondering, like he had every morning for the last three years since starting at the firm of one hundred and twenty employees, who the crazy nut in the office was.

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Spinning

Posted in Blogging, Fiction, Inspiration, Music, Relationships, Songs, Uncategorized, Writing, Young Adult Literature, tagged , , , on May 22, 2012| 9 Comments »

Dewy flush adorned our cheeks as we shuffled and bumped in the tiny powder room, vying for equal mirror time. I didn’t stand a chance of course, being at least a foot shorter than her, but that didn’t stop me from trying.

Dead or Alive shrieked from the boom box sitting on the rug just outside the open door while combs, sprays, powders, shadows and glosses riddled the small bathroom countertop, trembling to the beat.

Frankly, I didn’t need the mirror. I’d long since learned to mirrorlessly cake color and coif hair on buses, in backseats and down early morning deserted school hallways. Although it stemmed from faithlessness in my natural façade, it was a skill I was quite proud of and one that had come in handy many a time.

Eventually relenting, I sat on the toilet lid, hot vapors from the curling iron tickling my ear. I paused, cementing the curl with a spritz of Final Net as the spool of chocolate strands melted with heat. Shaking the iron gently, I loosened it from the hair, leaving behind a perfect sausage roll. Prepping the next coil, I tilted my chin to watch Jess, a master at her own ritual.

She used a fascinating, self-taught technique to apply liner, slicking it on as thick as she could get it, creating inch wide circles around her top and bottom lids. Taking a damp Q-tip, she’d swipe away the excess, leaving perfectly precise strokes behind to cocoon her diminutive eyes.

“You spin me right round, baby, right round…” Jess’ tall, thin frame bobbed to the music; her off-key crooning making me laugh.

“All I know is that to me, you look like you’re lots of fun. Open up your lovin’ arms. Watch out, here I come!” Although I couldn’t resist joining in, I barely finished the last line, giggles overtaking me.

“Quit showing off!” She complained, half serious. “You’re always stealing my songs.”

They’re hardly your songs”, I chided. “Unless you’re holding out on me and jammin’ with Pete Burns behind my back.”

“Do you think he’ll be there?” She asked, squinting at the mirror., fluffing her naturally curly, blonde hair.

“Pete Burns? I highly doubt it.” I teased. “Slightly rich taste for a good old North Side dance.”

“You know who I mean!” Her eyes widened, peeps of white speckling the muddy liner.  Do you think he’ll show?”

“Dunno…don’t care.” I sighed, hoping I sounded undoubtable.

The gymnasium was magically murky apart from the twinkle lights. They nodded and dipped as we walked under the archway and into the dance. The ceiling was flocked with pearly white balloons, their inflated heads and dangling strings reminding me of spermatozoa, compliments of elementary Sex-Ed.

“Jess!” I turned to smirk about the balloons, but she was gone, running after Sharon who looked ready to burst with the latest breaking news on the dance shenanigans.

I started to follow her, but froze. I could see him, his head swinging back and forth in front of the stage. That was it…I was stuck, breathless.

I watched him through the packs of gyrating teens, spinning girl after girl.

Jess kept coming back, begging me to dance to all our favorites. My legs twitched, knowing I should be out there having fun, but my eyes were cemented, unable to break away from his chestnut hair and tanned skin.

“Come on,” Jess whined. “The next song is the last and it’ll be a slow one. At least dance this one with me!”

I looked at her sparkly, ever-happy face and felt terrible. I’d been a total let down; the opposite of a best friend.

“Okay, I’m sorry,” I surrendered. “I don’t know why I’m wasting our night anyway.” Irritated with myself, I chiseled my stare, breaking it free.

Managing to conceal my dismay, I smiled and laughed as we bounced to Quiet Riot, my mind fleeting to the sperm-like balloons once again, as Jess hollered out; “Cum on feel the noise…”

As the song ended, Bradley Buchner hurried over to scoop her for the last number of the night.

“I’ll wait for you outside, Jess. It’s too hot in here,” I turned, but her nose was nuzzled in the crook of Bradley’s neck and Mrs. H was already hurrying over to separate them as I slunk away.

I punched the metal bar on the orange wooden door and my heart plunged into the pit of my stomach when I saw him sitting there on the steps. I wanted to slither back into the school, but he’d already heard me coming.

“Hey,” he said. “Where did you come from?”

“The gym. It was, uh, too hot in there. I needed some air.”

“You were in the gym?” he looked surprised.

“Um, yeah.” I said, looking down at my satin dress and patent pumps. Where did he think I’d been?

“Oh, yeah, I guess,” he looked away quickly. “It’s just that I was kind of keeping an eye out for you. I didn’t see you once.”

I had been hiding in the shadows, watching him all night, sabotaging my own chances of dancing with the boy I’d had a crush on for two years.

We sat silent on the cool concrete steps. Bonnie Tyler‘s echoey billows escaping the gym, drifting through the empty halls and out the door I’d left unguarded. Stars faintly twinkling behind the drooping, greyish white haze in the sky; the scene a ghost of the party inside.

I’d hidden; afraid he’d hurt me, but in the end, I’d taken care of that myself.

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