Tag Archives: Writing

Hello, New Year

Posted on by

I’ve been AWOL from the blog for a few weeks, and for that I apologize. Most of it has been spent being ill. I’m still not totally well; a respiratory infection hit December 19 and hasn’t left my system completely yet.hourglasses

I am on the mend though, and will be starting a new job tomorrow. Said job is in an industry where I’ve never worked before – insurance – so I’ll be busy learning the ropes for a while.

At the same time, I’m working on the third Atherton book and a few other writing projects. I’m hoping to make the blog one of those projects, but I’m not going to tell you I’ll be posting on any sort of schedule. I don’t want to lie to you or disappoint you by committing to something and then forgetting to do it.

I will, however, share a short list of things I hope to accomplish this year.  My writing goals for 2013:

  1. Finish Helene’s Hope and get it to market.
  2. Finish the ghostwriting project I’m on now and submit it for payment.
  3. Draft Sue’s Salvation and try to get it edited and to market by the end of the year.
  4. Start editing the fantasy trilogy I have drafted, and perhaps publish the first installment by the end of the year.
  5. Write a new novel during NaNoWriMo in November. Title and plot still to be determined.

I intend to work on these goals while learning what I need to get my insurance license. I’ll also be making jewelry, haunting yard sales, crocheting and (hopefully) getting back into my hoops (which will depend on how long it takes my left foot to heal).

Gonna be a busy 2013. Happy New Year! I hope yours is blessed, safe and productive.

NaNo 2012

Posted on by

My Halloween TOT makeup

It’s that time of year again – the annual adventure in noveling known as NaNoWriMo. That’s short for National Novel Writing Month, by the way. It’s a 30-day exercise in finger cramps and overcaffeination, created to help novelists of all ages and experiences get a book drafted.

50,000 words in 30 days.

Crazy? Of course.

Impossible? Of course not. I’ve done it for the past two years.

Naturally, the output of those two months of fictional insanity are not yet fit for publication. There are typos to correct, scenes to flesh out, all that editorial stuff to be done. Not to mention figuring out how to put a hoop dancer on the book covers.

Still, I have two fantasy novels waiting for their baby sister to arrive so they can be loosed upon the world. Two novels I wouldn’t have if not for NaNoWriMo. Soon to be three novels.

This means I’ll be concentrating on the work in progress for the next few weeks. No book reviews, no blog chain post. Just the random musings of a frazzled Wrimo needing to vent. You’ve been forewarned.

See you November 30…

P.S. – The photo is a webcam shot of me after a TOT session last night with the nieces and nephew. Of course, by the time November’s over, I may want to go Goth full time…

Brigitte's Battle, Book 2 of the Atherton series

LRW note and Atherton news

Posted on by

There won’t be a review for Let’s Review Wednesday this week. I needed a break from the weekly read-and-review routine (and I didn’t finish the book I was reading on time), so I’m giving myself permission to slack off this time.

Also, an announcement: Brigitte’s Battle, Book 2 in my Women of Atherton series, is in beta reading. Instead of releasing next March, as I’d originally anticipated, I’m now planning for an October launch. As soon as I get the post-beta edits done and the front and back matter finished (copyright page, acknowledgments, etc.), I’ll send Chantal‘s little sister out into the world.

And just so I don’t leave you totally empty today, here’s a sneak peek at the cover and story:

As Brigitte left her bedroom, the doorbell rang and Chantal yelled, “I’ll get it!” Pausing on the stairs, Brigitte laughed as her 30-year-old sister ran through the parlor, skidded to a halt in front of the foyer mirror to check her dress and makeup, then sedately opened the front door.

“Merry Christmas, Marc!” Chantal wrapped her arms around him and planted a long kiss on his lips.

“Joyeux Noel, boo!” he replied with a laugh when he caught his breath. “Can I come in now?”

“Had to break in the mistletoe,” she said, pointing at the top of the doorframe. “Want some eggnog?”

As the couple moved into the dining room where the eggnog sat in a crystal punchbowl on the sideboard, Brigitte descended the staircase unnoticed. She watched them stroll away, joined at the hip, and sighed. If only I hadn’t…

Shaking her head to dismiss the ever-present regrets, she headed for the kitchen to see if anyone needed help with Christmas dinner preparations. She’d only gone five paces when the doorbell rang again. “I got it this time,” she called out and turned around.

She hesitated before grabbing the door handle, but relaxed when she saw Sue and John through the peephole. “Merry Christmas, y’all! Come in – presents can go under the tree in the parlor; we’ll be opening them after Aunt Attie arrives.”

The trio exchanged pleasantries as they deposited gifts under the ten-foot spruce and stepped back to admire the tableau. For years, a professional designer had decorated the tree. This time, though, the Athertons had a tree-trimming party the weekend after Thanksgiving, inviting Marc, John and other family friends. The spruce was loaded with items from the family attic and new ornaments contributed by party-goers.

Brigitte smiled as she saw her childhood hanging from the branches. Sue put an arm around her shoulders. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it, cous? All those good memories, the fun we had, right there on display. Remember the day we made those?” She pointed to a set of three macaroni-and-glitter masterpieces, each featuring a photo of an Atherton girl in her Girl Scout uniform. “It was one of those rare occasions when the Brownies and Cadets got to mingle…”

“I remember the macaroni fight that erupted, and how much Rosie fussed when we came home with noodles and glue stuck in our hair.” Brigitte chuckled.

Laughter broke out behind them, and they turned to see Marc and Chantal entering the room. “Noodles, huh, cher?” Marc teased Chantal. “Pity no one got that on film…”

“Oh, hush.” She gave him a playful slap on the shoulder. “It’s funny now, but boy, did Rosie give us what-for. It took about a week for all the glitter to go away…”

“What about your parents? Didn’t they have something to say about it?” John asked. The entire group turned and looked at him in disbelief. He smacked his forehead. “Oh yeah – forgot who I was talking about for a moment there…”

Brigitte patted him on the arm. “It’s okay, John. They’ve changed so much in the last month or so I sometimes forget what they used to be like, too.”

“Is someone casting aspersions on my character in here, and on Christmas Day at that?” a pleasant rumble came from the dining room. Brigitte and Chantal’s father Martin entered with a cup of warm spiced tea in one hand and a celery stick in the other. “Your mother, bless her, won’t let me anywhere near the sausage balls. Celery sticks – it’s Christmas, for pity’s sake!”

“Now, Dad, we all know you’ve managed to sneak at least one sausage ball already. Mom’s trying to look out for your health; she wants you around for a long time – although I’m not entirely sure why…” Chantal grinned, squeezed his shoulders and kissed him on the cheek.

Brigitte moved in for a hug from her dad, lingering a bit longer than her sister had. Martin set his snack on a side table and held his youngest daughter. “Merry Christmas, sweetie.”

Sue and John wandered into the dining room for eggnog, and Chantal gave Marc a tour of the downstairs rooms, showing off the decorating the Atherton women had done together for the first time in over a decade. They ended in her father’s study, where a handmade quilt from Chantal’s aunt, Attie Mae Smith, was the focal item.

“Looks good in here, boo.” Marc drew Chantal down onto the antique loveseat.

“Can’t take credit for it.” She curled up next to him. “Mom and Dad did this room by themselves. Dad said if it had to be decorated, he didn’t want it all girly. They spent a lot more time in here than the decorating warranted, too…”

“Ah, so the spark is rekindling?”

“Yes indeed. I caught them necking like teenagers this morning, right out on the front porch in full view of the entire town.”

“So we didn’t truly break in the mistletoe…”

“Not really… I don’t think you mind much, though, do you?”

He pulled her into his lap and kissed her soundly. “Not one bit…”

“Oops, sorry, didn’t mean to disturb y’all.” Brigitte stepped over to a shelf and pulled down a thin book. “When you’re ready to rejoin the family, Dad’s waiting to start.”

“I didn’t hear Attie arrive,” Chantal said.

“She came through the kitchen entrance with a double armload of food. She’s in the parlor now. Everyone is in the parlor now…”

“Okay, sis, I get it; we’ll be right there.” She chuckled and shook her head as Brigitte closed the study door. Chantal started to stand, but Marc kept his arms wrapped around her.

“Honey, you heard her; they’re waiting on us.”

“I need to ask you something…”

She sighed. “I thought you agreed not to bring that up for a while.”

A pained look came into his eyes. “I know I did, and I’m trying to be patient, but it’s been a month. I don’t understand – why won’t you give me an answer?”

She stood and drew him to his feet. “Marc, you know I care for you a great deal. But your proposal came so soon after we met and everything else that happened. I want us to take a little time, get to know each other better – that’s all. I want to make sure what we’re feeling is real and not just a response to the drama we went through earlier this year.”

“Is that really all it is?” He pulled her close and searched her eyes. “It’s not because of anything – or anyone – else, is it?”

She stroked his cheek. “It’s not because of anyone else, certainly not Ryan, if that’s what you’re thinking. We dated briefly in high school, but that was over years ago…”

“The way I’ve seen him looking at you, I don’ t know…”

“Trust me, there’s nothing but friendship between Ryan and me. I do need to deal with something, though, and until I can find peace about it, I can’t give you the answer you want.”

Marc moved to a bookshelf and ran a finger over the spine of a leather-bound volume. Chantal noted with amusement that it was Jane Austen’s Persuasion. “I wish you’d share whatever it is with me,” he finally said. “That’s the kind of thing couples are supposed to handle together, isn’t it?”

She put her hands on his shoulders. “I can barely think about it. I’m not ready to talk about it yet. Can you please give me a little more time?”

“How much?”

She blew out a breath and backed away as a tear escaped. “I don’t know! Trust me, I’d love for this to be settled in my heart, but I can’t snap my fingers and make it be. I know this isn’t fair to you, but I can’t – not yet.” She opened the door as Brigitte was about to knock again.

“Everything okay, sis?”

She nodded and wiped her cheek. “Yeah, Brigitte. We’ll be there in a minute.” She turned to Marc. “Please be patient with me. I promise it’ll be worth the wait.”

Marc tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He joined her at the door and gave her a brief kiss. “I’m tryin’, cher – believe it or not, I am trying.”

kiss_lips.jpg by dave on morguefile.com

KISS it to make it better

Posted on by

I receive a couple of e-newsletters from Funds for Writers. The latest Small Markets edition has an article about the readability of your writing, with a link to an online measuring tool.

To test it, I plugged in part of my new work in progress (WIP), Brigitte’s Battle. The score: Grade level 7, readability score 65. So it’s a fairly easy read.

When I plugged in the blog post before this one, its scores were very different. Grade level 10, readability score 45. Still readable, but not quite as easy.

kiss_lips.jpg by dave on morguefile.comSo, today’s tip for writing (and life in general): KISS – Keep It Simple, Sweetie. My college journalism professor always told us to use short paragraphs, short sentences, short words, and the language your readers speak instead of foreign words.

That was for newspaper writing. In this day of blogging and e-books, it’s still good advice. Long paragraphs take up most of an e-reader’s screen. Short ones are better both for the eyes and the brain. Long sentences lose a reader (think Jane Austen). Long words will frustrate or pull the reader out of the story to look up the definition.

Do I always follow the “no foreign words” advice? Nope. In Chantal’s Call (shameless plug alert: click photo on sidebar to purchase), there’s some Spanish and a little Cajun French in the dialog. I did it to add flavor and depth to my characters.

So, to sum up: if we want our work to be readable, we need to keep it simple. Not dumb it down, but write to our readers instead of at them.

By the way, this post’s scores (not including this sentence and the stats below):

Before editing:
With HTML code left in it: Grade level 10, readability 46.
With code deleted: Grade level 10, readability 53.

After editing:
Code in: Grade level 8, readability 52.
Code out: Grade level 8, readability 63.

The difference: I took out about 100 words and shortened several sentences.

Lesson for the day: KISS your writing and make it all better.

Photo by Anita Patterson; found on morguefile.com

Getting personal

Posted on by

Here’s a question for my writer friends:

What challenges do you find in writing about sensitive subjects? Is it easy to insert bits of your life into your stories, or does it feel like a tooth extraction without anesthesia? (By the way, if you’ve never had a permanent tooth pulled without a numbing agent of some sort, don’t. It’s the second most painful thing I’ve ever experienced.)

I’m not talking about little things here, like what color kite you flew or what model bike you had when you were a kid. I mean big things, worthy of being thematic elements. That secret you’ve carried for years, that pain that burdened you for the longest time (and maybe still does). How do you put those into the story? Or do you?

Something writers know – whether they be authors of novels and short stories, poets, journalers, journalists, bloggers, whatever – is that our life can’t help but leak onto the keyboard and into the notebook. It can be traumatic, or it can be healing. Sometimes both.

So, to reiterate, what challenges and/or obstacles do you encounter when you try to “write what you know” from your own life? How do you deal with them?

First post revisited

Posted on by

Carol’s post for the CW blog chain piqued my curiosity about my own blog stats, and while I won’t compare them with hers, I will say this: February marked the two-year anniversary for Tracings.

In looking back, I realized my first post (written while the URL still included blogspot) is very relevant to where I am now, with a novel newly launched and a substantially larger following than in the early days. So, I thought I’d repost an edited version of that first offering:

Writing as ministry

Do we minister when we write?

A member of Christian Writers posed the question that prompted this post. She asked if any of us had a ministry that was connected in any way to our writing. The replies were varied in content but agreed in the general sentiment that as believers who write, we all minister with the written word to one degree or another.

At present, most of my output (other than blog posts and my novels) takes the form of poems and comments on social networking sites and other writers’ blogs. Since I write with an overtly Christian worldview, I’d have to say that whenever someone reads something I’ve produced, they’re receiving ministry (at least, I hope so; that’s one of my main reasons for writing).

In the past, I walked a fine line in that regard. As a newspaper reporter, I had to be careful to remain objective in my articles, but I also wrote a personal column much like (and somewhat influenced by) Dave Barry’s syndicated humor column. In it, I was able to be more overt concerning my beliefs and how they affected my view of life.

That was often the most rewarding work I produced, especially when someone stopped me in the grocery store or at the local Mart and said how much they’d enjoyed or been helped by something I’d written. Those comments and the occasional letters and phone calls were both humbling and encouraging; they reminded me to be careful of what I wrote because of the impact it could have on my readers, and they also often kept me going when lack of peer recognition for my work threatened to sink me into depression.

Let’s face it – few writers write for themselves alone. We want to communicate our worldview, our observations of life, something; otherwise, we wouldn’t be writers. When our peers don’t recognize our ability and efforts, it can be a strain on the ego.

Ah, the ego – that double-edged sword of the soul. At least in part, it drives our ambitions and fuels the fires of our creativity. However, it can also hinder and even destroy us as writers. For the writer who wants to glorify God with her work, the ego can be a distraction and even an enemy. It can cause us to focus on communicating cleverness rather than truth.

Truth – that’s what we want to communicate, even if we’re using fiction to do it.

So do we minister when we write? I pray so.

Job update and a few thoughts

Posted on by

I have a new job starting Monday. It’s full time, in an office, with set hours. That means I might actually have an opportunity to blog more consistently in the evenings and on Friday afternoon. I’m looking forward to re-establishing a regular schedule.

Lessons learned from this season of unemployment/underemployment:

1. I don’t want a retail career, at least not with a large chain store. The hours are too unpredictable, and there are simply too many variables with which to contend, especially if you’re at the cash register. When any one of 50,000+ products can come across your counter on a given day and the store in question doesn’t have bar code scanners, you have to know which of the four or five possible departments the item came from and whether or not it’s on sale that week, all while politely interacting with the customer and keying in the price, department and discount. I lived in constant concern that I was going to make a mistake and either over- or undercharge someone, attribute the item to the wrong department, or give someone back the wrong change. In the week and a half I worked registers, I made all of those mistakes. Fortunately, my register seemed to balance out at the end of each day, but still, I didn’t enjoy that pressure one bit.

2. Being unemployed does not enhance productivity. I thought with all the extra time on my hands, I would get more done – finish craft projects, edit stories that need attention, launch the freelance career, hoop more, work on the Etsy shop, etc. All while hunting for that next day job, of course. Don’t get me wrong; I did do some of that. Just not as much as I thought I would. It seems the more time you have, the more time you waste.

3. I make a lousy boss. See #2 for why.

That’s not to say I could never be self-employed. I suppose I could, but it would require funds to live off while I got established, as well as better time management and discipline. And drive – more drive than I apparently have at present. It’s something I’m working on, but God made me a 5-foot tall walking paradox – shy yet outgoing, assertive yet passive, Type A yet laid back, etc. – so it takes time to negotiate the psychological and emotional maze that is me and develop the passion and drive to keep going in the face of obstacles.

Being unemployed for three months revealed much to me about myself, and if it hadn’t been for the need to pay bills, I might have actually enjoyed it and been able to focus on all the things I wanted to do. Still, I can say that the time away from a steady job was a gift from God, and this new season of having a steady job is also a gift from Him. I’m grateful for both.

“Freelancer” excerpt

Posted on by

Yesterday I talked about a short story idea inspired by a real-life event. Here’s part of the story I’ve titled “Freelancer”:

I started the day as a writer for hire and ended as a freelancer of a different kind.

After an unproductive morning of staring at my laptop screen at home, I opted for a change of scenery and packed up my gear. Fifteen minutes down the road lay chocolate-flavored caffeine and creative stimulation. At least, that’s what I hoped for as I pointed my faded blue six-year-old compact car toward the interstate.

 

The last of my Christmas money given to the barista in exchange for a medium iced peppermint mocha latte, I claimed one of two chairs at my favorite table next to the comfy armchairs. Something about sitting in a wooden chair with comfort in sight but not underneath me usually kick-started my muse.

Not today, though. The story I was working on was set in another state, in a city I hadn’t visited for more than a decade, and the research was consuming me. I had four days to complete the project, and the looming deadline was beginning to elevate my blood pressure. Or maybe it was the latte.

Either way, I was bouncing around cyberspace, looking for the little details that would give my short story the required authenticity, when the chair opposite me attracted the attention of a newcomer. The guy was six-foot-five at least, a solid mass of muscle toting a laptop case bigger than the flat screen TV I’d been planning to buy before I was downsized out of a steady paycheck.

My standard sized computer looked like a LEGO against his cinder block of a beast, but I pulled it toward me as he eyed the available real estate at my table. “I think there’s enough space for us both,” I said while tidying a small stack of research notes.

He cast a glance backward at one of the comfy chairs. “I sat there yesterday, and it was okay, but…” He pulled the laptop out and sat across from me, fishing a power cord from the depths of his heavy duty canvas bag. He was without a beverage, but a muffin had made it over from the order counter, and he deposited it on the window sill while he got situated.

Not one to compute and ignore, I asked how his day was going. He grimaced. “I’m a bit furious at the moment.” His demeanor didn’t convey anger, but I took the bait.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I’m waiting on an email from a guy about a car I want to buy, and he’s dragging his heels about replying. The car is a one-of and it’s being used in a movie.”

“Really? What movie?”

It was something I hadn’t heard of, a modern-day fantasy story that was in post production. His computer was still connecting to the coffee shop’s wifi, so he handed me his smart phone after pulling up pictures of the car. It was black and low-slung and customized with the kind of detail work that would have any auto lover drooling. I could see why he wanted it.

Turned out the guy collected cars and personalized them with graphic paint jobs and custom features like retractable spoilers. A retired engineer with a military pension and a part-time job, he had the know-how to design just about anything that moved and the money to have it built.

All possibility of getting work done on my short story was history, but I was enjoying our conversation so much I didn’t mind. I knew character fodder when I saw it, so I pushed the laptop out of the way and went into interview mode, calling on skills that had been dormant since my newspaper days.

He told me about his military career, what he thought of the inflated salaries of most members of Congress, why he was glad to be retired from the armed forces, and how he loved pouring millions of dollars into the cars he collected. He pulled up his Facebook page and showed me a better photo of the movie car he was after, then a series of pictures of the cars he had amassed, several with him kissing the hoods. Seems he had a thing for tasting the paint jobs.

 

That’s just over half the story.  What do you think?  Should I publish it in e-reader format for, say, a dollar?  Would you pay a dollar to read the rest of it?

Reality bytes

Posted on by

While making a mess in the kitchen around lunch time (check out my post on Circular Praise for more about that), I started thinking about my checklist – in particular, my commitment to write a short story today.

The question was, about what? I considered running a search for story prompts, but that would mean wading through too many websites to count. I run into that problem when looking for poetry ideas, so I know what to expect when I Google “writing prompts.”

Then I recalled an encounter I had at the local Starbucks a week or so ago. It was one of those random conversations with another laptop-toting java junkie, and it was just odd enough to be story fodder. With a few modifications, I’ll have something I could possibly sell or publish online.

Have you ever lifted something straight from your life for a story? What challenges has it presented you, beyond the obvious need to change names?

I have another matter to attend to this afternoon (read that as “I need to go hoop”), but I definitely intend to draft a short story about the consequences of talking to strangers this evening. Stay tuned for an excerpt…

New practices for a new year

Posted on by

Over at poemflow, I made a semi-joking reference to certain activities I tend to do around the start of each year. I make resolutions, set goals, call it what you will – I write long lists of things I want to change about myself and the way I live.

Like most of us, though, I don’t stick with these lofty goals very long. For years, I didn’t even make resolutions because I knew I wouldn’t see them through; one time, I resolved not to make any more resolutions. I kept that one for years.

However, as my life is getting more filled with activities, both writing and non-, I’m increasingly sensing the need to stay organized so I accomplish things instead of just drowning in things I want to accomplish.

So, I spent a good bit of yesterday writing down things I want to commit to for 2012 and designing a daily checklist to make sure I follow those commitments.

I know – how are commitments and a checklist different from resolutions and a to-do list?

To me, resolutions are more about dreams you want to see come to pass – “publish a novel” has been on my annual to-do list for a while now, and it has yet to happen. So this year, it’s not on the written checklist, but it is on my mental projects list. It’s something I intend to make happen if possible, but for now I need to research how to go about it.

So in the meantime, I have a daily checklist. Why a checklist instead of a to-do list? Isn’t that just semantics?

Not really. In my mind, a to-do list becomes a burden all too often. A checklist, on the other hand, is a tool to keep me on track. It moves me through my day. I know it sounds like nitpicking, but the fact is, the way we frame something affects the way we view it. As writers, we’re always looking for the perfect turn of phrase, the best adjective. From that perspective, “checklist” sounds more productive to me than “to-do list.”

To read about the setup of my new checklist, go over to Circular Praise, my “life in general” blog, and check out my latest post. Perhaps you’ll see something there you want to adapt to your own checklist for 2012.