New Bloggie

Booger here has been giving me some fits of late, and I've been covetting Pete's lovely looking blog over on Wordpress, so that's where I am now: mymidnightmuse.wordpress.com

I'll be posting new blog posts there from now on, and as soon as I have the time (ie: After The Great Tea Debacle) I'll move all this stuff there, including linkies and the like.

And y'all be in for a writerly treat in December. It's a Secret! Well, not really, but you have to wait anyway.

I'm going shopping!

Tomorrow, my sister is taking me PEN shopping! Yes, I'm excited about it. I haven't written with a pen in so long, and that's something I'm changing, practicing and relearning the proper way to compose with pen and paper.

I'm pathetically happy about that.

I'm also pathetically happy about what The Great Tea Debacle has done for me. I always considered myself a disciplined writer, one who could start, excute and finish full-length novels. I've written 12, after all, and In An Ageless Sky is #13. But the one thing I didn't do before this contest sprang forth (that'll teach me to challenge Pete after hearing how he and Lori challenged each other in the past), was write DAILY without fail.

Most of us have some form of "life" and often that gets in the way of a lot of things. Work, life, hobbies, the need for food and sleeping - these can all take up space that make you go ahead and take a "day off" from writing now and again. And I was one of those writers who could talk herself into not writing "just today" to take a break. Then "today" would turn in to "okay, I'll pick it back up next Monday". One day off writing turns into another, then the next one is even easier. Only that don't get no novel done!

Sure, it does eventually, as my 12 novels will attest. But it's slower, like a novel and a half a year (when you add in edits and polishing) and that's no career in writing!

So when I realized that, during this Tea Debacle, I'd been writing EVERY. DAY. I was made quite happy. I'm even writing during times I'd normally sit on the couch and stare at the TV for no good reason.

Pathetic? Okay, I don't mind that label. I'm a happy pathetic!

And here's something even more pathetic:


Found a new pen, found a new pen,
Found a new pen just now,
Just now I found a new pen,
Found a new pen just now.

Cracked it open, cracked it open,
Cracked it open just now,
Just now I cracked it open,
Cracked it open just now.

It was leaky, it was leaky,
It was leaky just now,
Just now I found it leaky,
It was leaky just now.

Used it anyway, used it anyway,
Used it anyway just now,
Just now I used it anyway,
Used it anyway just now.

Stained my fingers, stained my fingers,
Stained my fingers just now,
Just now I stained my fingers,
Stained my fingers just now.

Tried to blot it, tried to blot it,
Tried to blot it just now,
Just now I tried to blot it,
Tried to blot it just now.

Made it messy, made it messy,
Made it messy just now,
Just now I made it messy,
Made it messy just now.

Tried white-out, tried white-out,
Tried white-out just now,
Just now I tried some white-out,
Tried white-out just now.

I can't read it, I can't read it,
I can't read it just now,
Just now I cannot read it,
I can't read it just now.

Tore the paper, tore the paper,
Tore the paper just now,
Just now I tore the paper,
Tore the paper just now.

Word count suffered, word count suffered,
Word count suffered just now,
Just now my word count suffered,
Word count suffered just now.

Tried a pencil, tried a pencil,
Tried a pencil just now,
Just now I tried a pencil,
Tried a pencil just now.

Lead keeps breaking, lead keeps breaking,
Lead keeps breaking, just now,
Just now my lead keeps breaking,
Lead keeps breaking just now.

Used a curse word, used a curse word,
Used a curse word just now,
Just now it I used a curse word,
Used a curse word just now.

Must keep writing, must keep writing,
Must keep writing just now,
Just now I must keep writing,
Must keep writing just now.

Found a new pen, found a new pen,
Found a new pen just now,
Just now I found a new pen,
Found a new pen just now.

Prudence, my love;

'tis midway through my confinment at Castle Debacle, and already I can smell the tea brewing! Rumors grow of the ship bringing us odd writing instruments and parchment on which to compose, and I can no longer ignore such talk.

Prudence, I know thou shalt think me daft and bereft of my senses, but I assure you 'tis true. As I began to drift into that blissful state of sleep, 'round about the midnight hour, in the distance I could hear the most lyrical singing. The voices of far-distant sailors wafted to me upon the night's clear air, and I can only assume these same voices were onboard that rumored ship, the SS Penman.

But lo, Prudence, the fog has been so thick of late! I fear a shipwreck.

Pray with me, dearest Prudence. Pray for the safety of these sailors, and their most precious of cargo.

And let us sing their shanty, for I have written down the words I heard upon the night, with the hopes that putting them to paper will solidify their reality, and release me from their haunting grasp.

Sing with me, dearest Prudence!

SING!

What do you do with a drunken writer,
What do you do with a drunken writer,
What do you do with a drunken writer,
Earl-y in the morning

Way hay the word count rises
Way hay the word count rises
Way hay the word count rises
Earl-y in the morning

Cut his pages with a rusty razor,
Cut his pages with a rusty razor,
Cut his pages with a rusty razor,
Earl-y in the morning

Way hay the word count rises
Way hay the word count rises
Way hay the word count rises
Earl-y in the morning

Put him in the hold with a Pen and Paper,
Put him in the hold with a Pen and Paper,
Put him in the hold with a Pen and Paper,
Earl-y in the morning

Way hay the word count rises
Way hay the word count rises
Way hay the word count rises
Earl-y in the morning

What do you do with a drunken writer,
What do you do with a drunken writer,
What do you do with a drunken writer,
Earl-y in the morning

Tell him he’s a slush pile in the makin’,
Tell him he’s a slush pile in the makin’,
Tell him he’s a slush pile in the makin’,
Earl-y in the morning

Way hay the word count rises
Way hay the word count rises
Way hay the word count rises
Earl-y in the morning

Make him edit pages ’til he’s sober,
Make him edit pages ’til he’s sober,
Make him edit pages ’til he’s sober,
Earl-y in the morning

Way hay the word count rises
Way hay the word count rises
Way hay the word count rises
Earl-y in the morning

What do you do with a drunken writer,
What do you do with a drunken writer,
What do you do with a drunken writer,
Earl-y in the morning

Way hay the word count rises
Way hay the word count rises
Way hay the word count rises
Earl-y in the morning

Go here

And Listen let the music take over. Let it bring forth the frenzied conductor inside your soul. Put down your pens, pencils and keyboards - shut off your WIPs and stop writing.

BE the music.

FEEL the music.

Fall in LOVE with the music.

Then buy it.

That is all.




(oh, and mail me your tea)

My Dearest Prudence

Day 12 and the work continues here in Castle Debacle. This weekend past brought a change to our routine. Whilst my fellow inmates were slaving away, padding their word counts and performing their daily chores, I was allowed out into the Courtyard.

There was a festival there, but I was put to work rather than feasting, and thusly no further words were attained. But lo, my efforts of the week past were fruitful, and my words they did multiply.

And now I am back inside the Castle walls, once again slave to the writing.

I think of you daily, dearest Prudence, and write with continued fervor so that I may see you again soon. Each evening, I am lulled to sleep by the sounds of the distant foghorn as it warns passing ships away from the dangers of the cliffs. Each morn, I awaken to the thick fog rising up from the ocean below.

There is talk of a ship, a great ship coming to us from the northland bringing us paper and pens with which to write. Many find this a foolish rumor. A trick, to confuse and befuddle us away from our keyboards. But I’ve heard talk, whispers in the night, that the ship is real and should arrive within the month.

‘Tis foolish talk indeed, my dear Prudence, but such that I cannot fully ignore.

Still, even as I sit at the keyboard, striving toward the tea, the words vex me. Oh how they vex me so! I see them in the night, when my eyes have closed for slumber. They taunt me during the waking hours, when meals or daily chores keep me from setting them down.

But take heart, my dear, for the words are serving me. Slowly, with great determination, they are serving me well.

Soon – very soon my Prudence – we shall drink tea together again.

Dear Prudence

Day 9 of my captivitea.

My cell mates continue to taunt me with bizarre word counts and tales of all-night writing sessions. Some of them have been allowed to dine lavishly on massive manuscripts and bloated numbers, while the other inmates and I are fed difficult work schedules and teething babies.

Although I’ve made my own progress in spurts and stammers, I nevertheless must write something daily in order to keep up my strength. The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape.

And Tea.

In an attempt to disgust them, I continually post comments and blog almost daily. The other day, I severed my connection with AW, ruining their plans to distract me. I had hoped this would strike terror in their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates what I am capable of. However, I fear it will have no impact on their word count reports.

Bastards!

Thinking I was gaining ground, I checked my word count. With glee I noticed it swelling, growing in size and complexity. Only then did I realize my opponents were also still writing, still adding words and bloating their manuscripts.

And still I write.

The other inmates and I believe the only way out is to write, to add words to our own manuscripts and form a bridge to the outside world. They say there is no escape. They say there is no Tea. Only time will tell.

I cannot give up hope. I cannot let them win this battle of wits and wills!

Take heart, Prudence, for I shall prevail. The gallows are not yet built (they say it’ll take another 21 days or so, since they’re using elmer’s glue instead of decking screws)

I will continue to write, Prudence. I will continue to fight.

And I’ll Tea them all in Hell !

My Penmanship is a Wreck!

A year and a half ago I had elbow surgery, where they snipped off the tendon at my elbow, then moved it to another spot and reattached it. Before that, my handwriting was really bad. In fact, all my life my penmanship was atrocious, much to the frustration of many a teacher.

My hand would cramp up, it could take me most of the night to crank out a report for school and make sure it was legible. And when I’d write fiction, it was a long, slow process.

Since the surgery, nothing has changed as far as my handwriting goes. I still cramp up, the whole hand and forearm hurt after just a few minutes, and I really can’t use a pen for more than signing my name or filling out a check.

And that’s where I’m lying.

I can. If I practice, relearn how to write and hold a pen, and give myself permission to suck at it for a few months.

My surgeon and my physical therapist said I could use a pen, that the tendon was just fine, and nothing I did could ruin their hard work. What I had to do was change the way I held a pen, and practice.

I’ve come to realize, and admit, that I’ve been using excuses, like “It hurts to hold a pen for more than a few minutes.” And “My handwriting is terrible, I’d never be able to read what I wrote to transcribe it.” Along with “My thoughts come out too fast, my fingers need a keyboard to keep up.”

Bullshit.

Today I found this site, with excellent advice on retraining your handwriting. Interestingly, they mention the wrong way to write is to use just your HAND, while the proper way to write is to use your hand, arm and shoulder. What makes that interesting is that Pete also mentioned when he writes, he seems to use his arm and shoulder when he does. I’d never heard of that before.

There’s also an interesting aspect for the Writer. When you write by hand, as a Writer, you’re forced to use completely different writerly “muscles”. You cannot write as fast as you can think, but that’s the point.

You also cannot hit the backspace button, or use spell check. That is also the point.

I find when I’m writing on the computer, sentences come flowing out of me in stammers. I’ll know what I want to say for about a paragraph, but then I have to pause and consider the wording for the next one. Then another spurt, followed by a pause. Typically after a page or three, I stop and read over what I wrote, contemplate it, then make some changes.

Writing by hand slows you down to the point of really thinking about your words, your pacing, your next move. You’re more apt to try out a sentence in your head three or four ways before putting it down. On the computer, I’m more prone to spewing it out, then hitting the backspace, trying it another way, deleting, trying it again.

I think writing by hand forces the writer to think more. To consider.

I’m not suggesting those of us who type it out aren’t thinking, or considering. And I’m not going to say we’re typing out crap. No, certainly not. I’m typing this, and it isn’t crap (I heard that!)

But I have a dream – and that’s to write by hand again. Not every novel, not every time. I do, however, need to reclaim that ability. I need that option, for those times when I’m without the computer, or my eyes are so sick of seeing a screen, and watching a cursor blink.

This weekend I’ll be away from the computer, so I’m going to bring a notebook with me and try working on the penmanship, adding to my Tea Debacle novel. And I’m going to keep practicing, working on the techniques on that web site. I’m going to find a good pen, and reteach myself how to write.

And I’m going to hand write my next novel.

And I’m going to win, because I am a leaf on the wi – hmm, maybe I need a new quote.

It's a Bird! It's a Plane! It's -

I'm someone who does not believe in Writer's Block. It's a term people use to suggest they're "locked up" and can't continue writing until some magical outside force, or muse, comes along and smacks them upside the head with a silly, sparkling wand.

Usually all that happens if you sit around and wait for that wand is moss grows on your ass and you eventually get something in your eye.

I do, however, believe in:

Writer's Procrastination. A condition wherein the Writer feels fussy and fidgety like a 3-month old with gas, and manages to find a plethora of "more important things" to get done, all while saying "I really have to get some writing done."

Writer's Depression. The feeling that everything one writes is crap, while everyone around them acquires agents and six-figure advances. This is most often brought on by a Form Rejection, opened and read the same day the Writer learns OJ's book Damn Straight, I Did It is sitting on the NY Times Bestsellers list.

Writer's Panic. The sudden realization that one's plot has just taken a left turn when it was designed to angle right and upward. This often leaves the Writer with a sense of confusion, disorientation and a little nausea until the plot once again hits pavement and makes forward motion.

Writer's Wall. Often no more than a simple attack of hormones or brief wave of emotional self-doubt that causes the Writer to question the plot, character development, logic and flow of the story. Typically this causes a solid, well thought out plot to suddenly and inexplicably make little to no sense.

The cure for all of these ailments is basically the same: Write. Keep writing. Don't stop writing. Plough through the bad times, plough through the fears and doubts, plough right on through that depression like a little old lady who has no business driving a car, who's just mistaken the brake for the accelerator and sent her car careening through an open-air market, flinging peaches and squashing watermelon like there was no tomorrow.

Eventually, maybe even that same day, you'll come out the other side with a progressing novel and a little pear pulp on the wipers.

But there is one thing . . . One roadblock that can stop even the strongest Writers in their tracks. It comes out of nowhere, can sneak up and take you completely by surprise, and interferes with your writing with a force of will too stalwart to overcome.

It is - -




Writer's Cat.




If you're ever stricken with Writer's Cat, there's really no hope for you. It's best to remain calm, and take this opportunity to read over the parts of your novel that you've managed to write and do a little internal editing. Take this opportunity to reflect and review. See if that paragraph came out the way you'd planned, make sure you remembered to include those character thoughts you wanted to use.

And wait for the mailman to bring you the Tea.

The Writer's Tea

Sitting in the teahouse, I take a back table to watch the world go by. When I came in, I noticed a guy at the front, sitting with his back against the wall where he can see the world outside as well as the patrons in the teahouse.

I order a pot of Hojicha and take my notebook and pen to the corner table, opposite the fish tank. From here, I can see everyone inside, and hear them at the counter as they place their orders. A lady just stormed out, heading for the Starbucks across the street because you can't get tea to-go here.

Tea isn't a drink, it's an experience, the clerk explained. She wasn't having any of that, with a cell phone permanently attached to her left ear, long fingernails that tapped the counter rudely because Jimmy was plating up some noodles and he works the teahouse alone.

Just as well. That kind of energy is empty, and her cell phone would have drawn angry looks from all of us. Including that guy up front. I've figure him out - he's one of us.

A Writer.

He's got a notebook, and he occasionally taps his lip with his pen, but he hasn't written anything yet. Neither have I, but I just sat down. My tea leaves are still steeping, I just checked the pot and they're still swelling up with the heat of the water, slowly releasing their goodness into the little white porcelain pot.

I've had a bad day, and the page is empty.

The story is there, I can see it. Every time I close my eyes, it's right there, playing out scene by scene. The dialogue is fantastic. I love hearing it, listening to my characters speak it out to each other. But the empty page has me snow-blind. The words are there, dancing around in the forest in the back corner of my brain, like errant fairies, refusing to be photographed.

Little shits.

I check the pot again and the water is finally darkened. With the strainer over the top of my cup, I pour out the tea and the scent of it floods my nose. Hojicha is fairy dust in thick, long strips of green leaves. It's earthy.

Primal.

It's the very thing those little fairies can't resist.

I bring the cup to my mouth and inhale the steam through my nose, eyes closed, willing the fairies to sense it.

I hate them, and they know it. I don’t write fantasy, and that's pissing them off. But they can't resist the tea. I add a touch of sugar, just enough to tease out the flavor. When I take a drink, I can smell it and taste it at the same time.

They've caught wind of the tea now. The little creeps finally recognized what I'm drinking and they want some. They want it bad, those errant little fairies. One of them just popped its head around a tree and I saw it.

Now they have no choice. They're flying out of the forest and running down my pen, heading for the tea. I click the ball point and write: All your Tea shall be mine.

I feel like A Writer today!

That might sound strange, but I know some people will understand what I mean. Right now, I'm penning In An Ageless Sky - my Great Tea Debacle competition novel. In this story I'm touching on the time travel issues I mentioned further down this blog, like, last month or something.

That's not to say this is a time-travel story by any means, but the act of traveling through time and "changing" past events to alter future ones does come into play. I have this amazing clarity of mind about the whole issue, too, for the first time in my life I UNDERSTAND how time travel could (although of course it doesn't) function and exactly how (although it doesn't) change would affect everyone involved.

I'm so friggin' psyched about it all. Like that moment you're reading Einstein's Theory of Relativity and suddenly, brilliantly, it all makes sense.

Based on that revelation, and this theory of mine, I've had yet another - completely independent yet equally thrilling - novel idea come into mind. I'll be writing that one next, after this novel is done.

And I've purchased a notebook. The spiral kind, with 200 pages in it. I'm going to handwrite my next novel, re-teach my right hand how to hold a pen and develop the stamina to do so.

I can't even begin to tell you how happy that thought makes me. It recalls the days of my youth, sitting on the bed late at night, with a notebook and pen, frantically (because the ideas were flowing so freely from my young brain) trying to get each sentence written before the next one could stammer out. Stopping only when I was dozing on the page, or my hand was cramped beyond function.

My face would be so close to the notebook, I could smell the ink and would fall asleep with that scent creeping into my nostrils. I loved the feel of paper, like the old books with the cracked spines - how they smelled !

I feel giddy, like a school girl, with thoughts of this novel and the next - - the pure joy of falling so completely into these worlds that they spring to life around me, as real as the one I'm sitting in right now.

I feel like A Writer.

Oh, um . . .yeah . . . You'll all fail. Give up now, yada yada.

Mail me your tea.

Stop! Hey, What's That Sound?

When's the last time you sat down and listened to music, just for music's sake? I mean, we all listen to music, right? But we have it on while we're doing other things.

I listen to music while driving, or working around the house. I have music on while I write, usually, and I love to plug in the ol' MP3 player headphones when I'm out in the garage drilling rocks or outside mowing the lawn or raking leaves.

And, since I have tympania and silence isn't ever silent for me, I often have a CD of chanting Benedictine monks on while I fall asleep. See, my lovely little white noise generator - the only one I've ever loved - finally died one day and they don't make it anymore. So I found the chanting monks to be the perfect tone and register to 'distract' me from the static, so I can fall asleep.

But I can't really remember the last time I sat down, with the purpose of simply listening to music.

The opera doesn't count, because I was watching actors on the stage. And the ballet doesn't count for the same reasons. I'm talking more like going to the symphony, where all you did was sit and listen to the music, letting it take you away completely.

I even have the radio on right now, behind me, at work, as background noise. But I tune it out more often than not - I just need noise that comes from outside my own ears.

Sometimes I feel like that's such a disservice to the music. That we use it as supplemental noise, or background filler. But perhaps that's what music is for, to fill those little spaces, like jello.

Try this, maybe this weekend or tomorrow. Put on some music - doesn't have to be classical, it can be Rob Zombie for all I care - just put it on, sit down, and do nothing else.

Just. Listen.

Hear every word, feel every beat, follow every change in pace and rhythm.

ENJOY the music for the music's sake. Go ahead, give that a try. Put on, heck, go for 5 CDs. You've got time. Plenty of time. It won't interfere with your writing. It's only Day One.

You. Have. Time.

There's no need to write yourself silly in the first day.

There's always room for jello.