I have a dream…

Well, I had a dream, last night, or this morning to be more exact. Brace yourselves. I was white water rafting (never gonna happen) in some sort of elaborate indoor waterslide-esque setup (umm…) that was large enough to encompass forests, rapids, falls, wildlife, etc. Still with me? Here’s the kicker, I’m in the back of a raft, my entire family (including the “only on holidays” relatives, and “here’s a fluffy puff paint sweatshirt for your 21st birthday” folks) fills the rest of our barely floating boat. But there I am, clinging NOT to the raft itself but to my cat, Alfie, who is fully equipped with a miniature helmet and life vest.

As should have been expected, at the first sign of turbulence Alfie gets flipped out and into the frigid water (you’d think in an indoor arena they’d pay to heat it) and I, like any reasonable person, jump in after him?!?!  Just as I got hold of him, about the same time I lost feeling in my limbs and started debating on if I really loved said cat enough to die in a manmade rapids scenario – we were both zapped (yes, zapped… it’s a super technical term used quite often these days) into a sterile room with attendants, prepared to coddle, shampoo, fluff, and dry little Alfie, while I, was tossed a hand towel to see to my own impending case of hypothermia.

Once Alfie was back to good, we were zapped back into the raft, where our raft was suddenly surrounded with a flock of rabid ducks. Luckily I woke up before they launched an attack, relieved to find that there were no ducks in bed with me, only my iphone alarmclock. While I haven’t the slightest idea what any of this crazed symbolism means, I have learned my lesson as far as reading NonFiction Disaster books with wine in bed.

*tap tap* Is this thing on?…

Last night I attended and read at what’s officially my first ever public open mic night reading. I’ve read a handful of pieces before in smaller, intimate groups at different writing conferences I’ve attended. Always surrounded by people that I know in some facet, even if only for a few moments, but always enough so that I know they’re going to be… nice? Last night though, was different… I arrived early in hopes of finding like-minded strangers interested in conversation… instead I sat alone, gripping my few printed pages and watching the podium and microphone in front of me as it grew a tail, fangs, horns, and leering yellow eyes… A group of strangers began arriving, gathering in the lower level of a local bookstore, all of them chattering eagerly with each other, making the monster before me grow even larger, and the knots in my stomach tighter, as I realized these people all knew one another. They knew each others style, voice, thoughts, opinions, and humor – whereas I, a tattooed trollope, had wandered aimlessly, naively into their lair, stupidly thinking that I might fit in.

Just as I was reacquainting myself with the nearest exit route I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to find a familiar face. The face of a friend from high school, 12 years ago, recently reacquainted, there to show her support for me. *sigh* You know who you are, and you both rescued me from a night of awkwardness suffered alone, and at the same time cemented the fact that I could not escape. I now had no choice but to follow through on my commitment to bare my still naked and quivering soul to these judgemental strangers.

I was further down the list, allowing me the opportunity to fully commit to my nervousness, and to lose myself in utter confusion at what appeared to be a night devoted fully to poetry written quite eloquently in Klingon, while I waited for my name to be called. Eventually it was, and as is my habit I made excuses for the piece of writing I was going to share before even daring to make eye contact with any of the rabid beasts in the crowd. No doubt at the point, already having noticed that I am a stranger, and not one of them. I read my piece, a short story, my first ever attempt at fiction; a piece that I recently shared at a small writers conference I attended to good response on the validity and thoroughness of my “voice.” Last night however, the room was silent, and I lost my place on a few occasions simply because I wasn’t sure that I was actually reading aloud to the room, or if I might be awkwardly standing there, in front of the crowd, making no sound at all – simply rereading the words to myself in my own inner monologue. When I finished there was a quiet whisper of golf clapping as I zeroed in on my destination, my empty chair 3 rows from the back of the room.

Luckily, these strangers must be used to having a newbie such as myself mistakenly wander in off the street on occasion, because they were careful to refrain from eye contact, or any other form of communication that would require us to speak. And before I knew it, another poet had taken the stage, sharing a rhyme about topics I still have yet to realize. And then another, this one speaking of anger, loss, rage, and abandonment. A mere moment passed, and just like that my voice had been forgotten. With that, the evening was over, and with my single friendly companion in tow, we hastily made our way to the exit. Bursting into nearly maniacal laughter the moment we made it back out, safely, into  the world we knew.

It’s my turn…

As those of you close to me may know, my recent ghostwriting opportunity wasn’t meant to be. Which is a nice way of saying that we went back and forth a few times negotiating numbers and whether I would be able to use the finished product on my resume at all – and in the end, we were unable to come to a mutual decision. I was definitely disappointed that things didn’t work out, but proud of myself for sticking to my guns on the few small things I felt I needed in order to make the project really worth my while.

Within a few days of realizing the ghost writing project wouldn’t be happening, I found myself slightly stumped for a writing project to drown myself in, especially since I’d just spent the last 3 weeks reading up on everything I could as far as fiction writing for dummies, character development, and setting a scene that already exists perfectly inside my head. As fate may have it, I stumbled onto a topic that’s held some intrigue for me since I was much younger, and almost instantly, in my mind, I could see the character that belonged there, her life, her traits, her flaws, her desires, and what would eventually be her demise!

At this point I’m 100’s of pages of notes & research in, and about 500 words deep into chapter 1 of what I feel could be the next big historical fiction novel to hit the shelves! Hopefully sometime soon – say 2013ish, assuming of course that the rest of the book/story tells itself as quickly and painlessly as things have fallen into place thus far. But whatever happens, however far I get, this is MY story – wholly and completely – and it feels EFFING AMAZING!!! 🙂

So, friends, family, and faithful blog stalkers – please accept my apologies in advance if I seem to be distant from the blog – and I do promise I’ll try to keep at least a few posts a month gracing these pages… Wish me luck!

~ m 🙂

To ghost or not to ghost…

It isn’t often that I find myself struggling with a decision. I tend to know what I want, and to pursue the option best fitting with my goals, whether they be short term or long, planned or spontaneous, wise or questionable *according to others* – but, for the past few days I’ve found myself at a dead stop, pondering the diverged paths ahead of me, and at a complete loss of which direction to pursue.

As a writer, being approached with a paying project is the constant waking dream, one that I was blessed to receive this past week. Discussions were had, coffee was drank, notes were taken, and an introduction was written. The end product would be the first book in a series of 3 or 4, written for the tween crowd, ideally approx. 200/250 pages in length, and centered around characters locked safely inside the minds of my cohorts. After much talk, prayer, pro/con’ing, and contemplation; an agreement was reached, a price named, and the contracts were all but drawn up. Then, the decision was made, by said cohorts, that they desire for this project to be completed with myself as a ghostwriter.

Now I realize that ghostwriting is a career that many authors choose to take, and that it can be a fulfilling position, paying fairly substantially. But, I struggle with the idea of pouring my own storytelling skills, passion, and creativity into conceiving & birthing a being that I’ll then be handing over to someone else to be responsible for, as well as my not being able to celebrate that beings successes, my own pride at it’s creation, and of course, no reaping of rewards or publicity if things were to hit it big. *sigh* On the other hand, I do realize that as a writer who is essentially just starting out, I need to be grateful for the opportunities I’m presented, and see them as wonderful learning experiences, and situations that can only assist me in growing as an author!

Ugh! Any advice?…

~ m 🙂

…and nothing…

Well, this is my last full day relaxing here in sunny southern cali and as if doing it’s part to help me prepare for the transition back home, to rainy western Washington, the clouds have made an appearance here in the valley. It’s still a gorgeous morning, and one that I’m hoping to use as a productive one, seeing as how I’ve done so little writing while I’ve been here. I embarked on this trip with lofty plans of an utterly carefree relaxing week, spending time accomplishing nothing of consequence with my best friend, catching up on some sleep, reading, and brainless television, od’ing on vitamin d, and of course going home with a full manuscript written, edited, and ready for publication – the words magically flying from my fingertips due to my amazing new surroundings.

I’ve accomplished everything, save the last. I’ve been sure to dedicate time each morning and evening to sit with my laptop, open a blank document, and wait… After too much impatient waiting, I’ve found myself opening the files of pieces that I’ve been working on for the past year and for whatever reason feel like there is just one or two small things missing before they’ll be complete. Sadly, I’ve yet to stumble over any of those missing pieces either, but I have reread them, a few times, and while disgusted with them at times, I’ve found that for the most part I have a great sense of pride over the pieces that I’ve created in the past year. It was after all just about a year ago now that I attended my first writers conference, in beautiful Coupeville, Washington – and whether it was the location, the like minded company, the intuitive leadership, or perhaps it was just the right time for my stories to be told – but I returned home with what would be a prize winning short essay for the Reader’s Digest Magazine, as well as solid starts for 4 other essays, and best of all, a newfound confidence in the power and validity of my own “voice.”

I suppose I was hoping for the same kind of magic on this trip. Believing that perhaps removing myself from the hum drum of my daily routine, the chores that are constantly beckoning, and the phone that seems to be always buzzing; that I might allow myself a moment to breath, and to purge another piece or two of those thoughts, memories, dreams, and fears that I’ve been carrying.  While I haven’t been writing, I have been reading and just finished re-reading Bag of Bones by the infallible Stephen King – a story that I suggest for anyone and everyone, whether you’re looking for an escape from reality, a good fright, or in my case, inspiration and reassurance that even an award winning novelist created by the master, experiences (and overcomes) writers block every now and again.

Alas, the day isn’t over yet, and either way, this has been an amazing vacation spent with a kindred spirit and I’ll be flying home tomorrow refreshed, and as ready as one can be to reenter the 9-5 life of a working stiff.

~ m

Once Upon A Time…

This past week Northwestern Washington received a rather large dumping of white stuff. And, which pleasing to school aged kids, seeing as how they’ve gotten the entire week off school, and still somehow find it enjoyable to be cold, wet, and lack sensation in their appendages. But, for us adults, a snow storm means shoveling, extra laundry, higher heating bills, and more groceries being utilized. For myself, the storm has been nasty enough that I was actually “snowed in” for a few days, leaving me with little to do aside from clean the house, bake, watch movies, read, and grow more and more depressed as the snow continued to fall. It took me two days, but I finally realized that this is the writing time I’ve been looking for, waiting for, hoping for… I’ve been so busy with small assignments from the local newspaper lately that I haven’t had time to even look at my own pieces, stuck in limbo for whatever reason.

So, yesterday afternoon, I curled up on the couch with the laptop and a mug of adult hot cocoa. I started with perusing the Poets & Writers site as they have a great list of Literary Magazines that are currently seeking submissions in all different genres of writing. I quickly started noticing though that the need for creative non-fiction/memoir/personal essays is lacking, while the desire for fiction, short and long, is overwhelming! I commiserated about this to a friend of mine, read: whined, and he promptly informed me that as a woman, I’m genetically equipped to be a better liar and more deceitful than most, so the ability to write fiction should really be like second nature to me! While I appreciate his honesty, and will spare you the sad story that is his dating history, I’ll summarize by saying he has horrific taste and I’m quite surprised he’s not jumped onto my plan of a one way ticket to a convent, well, monastery for him. Anyways, I explained to him that I can lie off the cuff like none other, pulling god know what out of god knows where at a moments notice when needed. After all I’ve worked (and excelled) in customer service, sales, and insurance for the past 12 years! But, that talent leaves me completely when I sit down and attempt to write something that isn’t true, something that I don’t know, something that I have to create.

Why is it that there’s such a huge difference for me do you think? I know that my inner editor, Agnes, is partially to blame. Her incessant mutterings and suggestions are bad enough when I’m writing about something that I have first hand knowledge of, but when I start creating something, from the ground up, piecing together a skeleton for a creature that only I know exists, *whew* her rants gets damn near unbearable!

So please, help me out here, if anyone’s actually reading this, and if any of you are fiction writers, or if you might just have a suggestion or two to toss my way – just about anything is appreciated! I’m setting a goal for myself to have a solid fiction piece, no word count restrictions, no topic as of yet, just that it has to be solid enough that I feel proud and hopeful in submitting it somewhere, prior to June… So let me have it, what’s the secret to bullshitting on paper?!?!?

* Sidenote: While googling for some sort of an image to include with this post I stumbled onto this site – Books of Adam – seriously?!!?!? If that guy can have THAT much creative energy, and pull some of that stuff out of his ass – I’ve got to be able to pull just a little tiny piece from my own – right?!?! And, I’ve now been reading through his site for 30 minutes, and will most likely be stalking him for possible inspiration – absolute hilarity!