Inspiration? Anyone?

In line with my 'I will do this' post, here I am, showing up. (Cue crickets.)

I've written and deleted several awkward jokes. Even I didn't think they were funny. I know it's bad when I don't laugh. I'm used to my kids rolling their eyes and saying 'oh mom!' but I know I'm in trouble when I'm the one rolling my eyes. That's the problem with writing everyday for me. There are moments like this one. Moments when I'm forcing those words, making bad jokes, describing the color of a character's eyes for the third time... moments when I want to give up. 

I've used 'Write or Die' and the gentler, 'Written? Kitten' to force word count-- all of which end up useless because I fill it full to the brim with things like "I don't know what to write so I'm going to randomly type words. Cat. Sleep. Cute." And on it goes.  I've used 'Seventh Sanctum'  to generate fun plots or alien names or characters. I end up wasting time reading the funny comments. 

What's a woman to do? 

In terms of a novel, I've got that answer covered. An outline can lessen the awkward moments of not knowing what to do. An outline doesn't analiate lack of inspiration, but having an idea of where to go next helps. They aren't the answer to everything. I've still made my share of mistakes despite having a pretty detailed outline, but I can't imagine writing Asthore without one. 

Short stories are a whole different problem. With a novel, you take the idea and you explore and stretch and expand. A short story is all about getting in and back out with a clever twist. Each offer their own sets of challenges, but for me, the inspiration-lacking-little-time-to-write-between-loads-of-laundry- mom being a short story writer is particularly difficult. 

So, you writer buddies of mine out there, where do you find your inspiration? How do you push on and keep going? Or do you take a step back and try again later? 

Silly Writing Rules

I'm a bit of a fangirl for Supernatural and Doctor Who. I dreamed up some silly 'rules' for keeping me writing a while back and I thought I'd share since tomorrow is the premier of the new season of Doctor Who. 

Rule 1:Find a coffee shop and drink it.

Rule 2: Do not salt and burn the bones of the story. It may haunt you, but resist the urge.

Rule 3: Absolutely no deleting. You are not a cyberman!

Rule 4: Embrace the mess and stop worrying about strict progression from cause to effect. It’s okay if from a non-linear, non-subjective viewpoint that it’s more like a big ball of wibbely-wobbely… timey-whimey…stuff.

Rule 5: Basically…. Write! Don’t stop moving and don’t blink.

If you understand these references, then congrats! You may be part of the Supernatural and Doctor Who fandoms. 

That Extra Mile

I've done a bit of growing up over this past month. Not that I wasn't grown up. Kids will do that to a person. But I've learned a few things about being a writer.  

1. Can't hide forever. 
I'm passionate about my novel. I love the characters and I think other people will love them too. While I've talked my Mom and best friend's ears off about Asthore, I'm fairly quiet about my novel in general. About my writing in general. How will anyone else besides my closest friends and family ever read anything if I'm a clam about it? So I'm taking baby steps. I set up a Author page on Facebook. I'm going to put myself out there in a more meaningful way and stop fearing the negative things people may say and get excited about the positives to come. 

2. Mistakes make me human.
I sat in a Barnes and Noble and I looked at all the books surrounding me. I wondered how the heck I could compete with all of that. How will my baby steps ever amount to anything more than me torturing my little introvert self? The good side about being a nobody is that my mistakes won't matter in the grand scheme of things. They will be buried under tons of other books. So why not try? Why not have fun along the way? 

3. Just do it.
To borrow from Nike and Shia LeBeouf, I just got to do it. I have to sit down and write.. Everyday. I have to write my pages on Asthore. Everyday. I'm not one to tell anyone else how to live their writing life and don't buy that everyone has to sit down everyday to write to be considered a writer. I heard a lady on a podcast say she wrote a novel in 72 hours. Sat down with some coke and goldfish and cranked it out. I'm sure she's not sitting down everyday, instead doing her writing in extremely productive stags. And it works for her, so I'm not going to tell her she's not a writer because she isn't doing it everyday. For me, I know I need to make my writing a priority. I was the type who waited for inspiration, and as such, Asthore has taken much, much, longer than it should. 

4. That Extra Mile
I run using a tracking app on my phone. I made a mistake and paused the app after the first ten minutes. I ran a mile after that without tracking it. When I saw what had happened, I had three options. Ignore the program and know that I reached my goal, or stand there and shake my phone until I got the virtual trophy, or suck it up and run some more. I ran that extra mile and I was tired and sore, but also very pleased with myself. I have to apply that same determination to my writing. I can write my story and then hide it in my desk and be happy with my virtual trophy. I could say I finished but I'd be the only one who knows. Or I can suck it up, deal with the everyday problems and do whatever I need to do to reach my goal. 

These are not huge revelations that people haven't said before and more eloquently. But most times, I can't understand something until I feel it for myself, so here I am staking my small claim.

No more hiding, I'm going that extra mile, mistakes and all. 

Welcome

I've gone back and forth today about whether I should share my first draft of my novel on here or not. Post as I go. Hot off the press. Gung-ho and cation be damned.  But after thinking and gathering some good advice, I've decided not. It's tempting because I would have content to add that would beef up my blog and it would also give me deadlines and help me reach my writing goals. But, first drafts are crap. They are supposed to be crap. I would rather not subject anyone to the crap and waste their time.

However, one thing I have no doubt about is sharing the journey to a complete draft with my friends as well as passing on what I learn along the way. In that spirit, I've invited a few of my writing friends to guest post.  

Alexandre Micati has encouraged me and kept me writing through tough times. He is a stand up guy/college student/writer/translator and I'm lucky to know him! 

Char Tolliver is my writing buddy extraordinaire. I will forever be grateful for the times she has listened to me vent.

Stephen Menzies is another writing friend who I've known for over a year. We met on Fanstory, and continue reviewing for each other. He keeps me writing. 

I look forward to hearing from them at some point this month.

Blind Date

     Anne wobbled down the sidewalk on tall spiky black heels. Her feet turned inward, reminding her that of all the women who ever wore heels, she was the most awkward. Every step she took made the balls of her feet hurt. She stopped and leaned against a wall near the door to a small restaurant.“Why did I let Lynn talk me into a blind date?”  

     A passing middle-aged man overheard and raised an eyebrow at her. She shrugged and threw him a lopsided smile. She pulled on her right stiletto to relieve the pinch on her toes. No luck.

      She tugged on the low cut red dress with a grimace. She felt like a clown with the thick gray eye shadow and bright red lipstick. She pushed her long hair over her shoulder. Lynn spent the better part of an hour curling every last tendril of her hair and another hour caking on the makeup. With a loud sigh, Anne pushed off the wall and opened the door. Warm, yeasty air made her mouth water for freshly baked rolls.

      “How many?” The hostess blew a strand of hair out of her face as she poured over the table chart.

      “Just me for now; I’m meeting someone.”

      The blonde hostess smirked. “This way please.”

      Anne wove her way through the tables, hoping John wouldn't see her awkward walk. Thankfully, she didn't see anyone matching his description. The hostess gestured toward a chair across the aisle from a large group of women whose laughter filled the space. Anne smiled her thanks as the hostess handed her a menu. 

     A moment later, a tall muscular man walked up the aisle toward her table, making her stomach flutter. John had finally arrived. She was about to rise up out of her chair to say hi, when a girl from the party squealed. “Isaac! You made it!”

      “Of course I did. You didn't think I'd miss your party, did you?” Isaac's deep male voice contrasted sharply with the women's shrill laughter. He smiled and held out his arms. Anne was not usually a fan of dimples,  but Isaac's smile persuaded her otherwise.  He bent down and kissed a lovely blonde's cheek and drew her into a hug. 

     Anne looked down, suddenly very interested in the menu. She dragged her fingertip down the edge of the menu and then looked up again, drawn back to Isaac-- the calm in the middle of the chaotic party. He ran his hand through his dark brown hair and she imagined her fingers doing the same.  His hazel eyes met hers, making her cheeks flame. She lowered her eyes, but not before she saw his lips curve up into a smile. She intently checked the time on her phone. Where in the world was John?

      "Hi there. How are you doing tonight? My name is Mandy, and I'll be taking care of you. Are you waiting for anyone else?" Mandy pulled a pencil out of her hair, cocking her head to the side.

      "Yes, he should be here any minute."

      "Wonderful. Can I go ahead and get you something? Sweet tea? Or maybe a fountain drink?"

      "Just water for me for now, thanks," Anne said.

      A loud burst of laughter made Mandy wince. "Sorry about the noise, I can try to find you another table if you would like."

      "No, no, that's okay," Anne said in a rush with a glance at Isaac. "I'm just fine here, thanks."

      Mandy shrugged. "I'll go bring out your drink."

      "Thanks, Mandy." Anne flashed a wide smile, pleased with herself for remembering the waitress's name.

      Time dragged by with no sign of John. Mandy had come and gone twice. Time to face facts. She sent a quick text to Lynn. Looks like your boy chickened out. On my way back.

***

     Isaac kept an eye on the woman across the aisle. She had slipped her shoes off and sat in a provocative pose with one long leg extended in front of her while she relaxed back into her chair. She had the type of body many women paid good money to get.

      She gathered up her things to leave before she had any food. Some idiot must have stood her up. Her hips swayed as she made her way through the crowded room, and because he was focused on her, he didn't the dark haired man follow her out. A gun on his belt flashed into view when he adjusted his jacket collar.

      Isaac leaned over and whispered in Tonya’s ear.  "I’m going to go make sure that girl is okay.”

      Tonya rolled her eyes. “Yeah, uh-huh. I saw you undressing her with your eyes. It’s fine. You don’t have to lie, just go get her number already.”

      He laughed. "Was I that obvious?"

      "Only to me, and maybe Shelly... and to Beth."

      "Okay, okay. I get it. Seriously though, I think there may be some trouble, so if I don't send an all clear in ten minutes call in backup."

      Tonya's eyes narrowed. "Please be careful. Don't be a hero."

      He rose with an apologetic smile to Tonya's friends. “I’ll be back, ladies.” Overly exaggerated moans and sighs of disappointment followed Isaac out the door. His only acknowledgement was a quick exhale and a shake of his head.

      He scanned the sidewalk in front of the restaurant and, for a moment, thought he had over-reacted. Then he saw the scruffy looking man stalking the woman in the red dress a short block ahead. She ducked down an alley.

      “Great. Just great, woman. Make yourself an even easier target."

      He sprinted to catch up, and shoved the man from behind. “Hey man! What do you think you're doing?”

      The man turned and glared at Isaac. His cold blue eyes shifted to a group of noisy people coming out of the restaurant. He turned and hurried up the street.

      Isaac looked around for the hot little red dress. Suddenly, someone grabbed him and pushed his back up against a wall. The cold blade of a knife pressed against his throat.

      “Why are you following me?” a distinctly female voice demanded.

      The woman in the red dress. “I thought I was watching out for you but now I see that I’ve fallen for your trick, like an idiot.”

      Confusion crossed her face.  She leaned more of her weight against him as she tried to keep the upper hand.

      “So where is your partner with the gun? If you want to take my wallet, you’ll need him because,” he drew the word out. “Well, you don’t honestly think you can take me with a pocket knife, do you?”       Isaac’s powerful muscles flexed as he pushed off the wall, ignoring the small blade that pressed against him. Her dark brown eyes widened when his six foot four frame loomed over her. But she stood her ground.

      “Don't underestimate the power of my pocket knife,” she drew the sharp point along his tender skin. A small trickle of red blood welled up. His eyes flickered but he did not back down. “Nor should you underestimate me,” she continued.  “I know all about boys and how to handle them.”

      He smirked. “You may know how to handle boys, but I am a man.” He reached up and batted her hand away. “You're lucky that I'm in a generous mood today.” He stalked forward. “I'm celebrating my sister’s graduation and I wouldn't want something as trivial as an attempted mugging to ruin her evening.”

      Her arms fall limply to her side and she took a step back. “I wasn’t trying to mug you. I thought you were the one following me." She studied him, her dark eyes watching warily through silky dark-brown hair. “I was in defense mode and I was scared. I knew, like you said, that I wouldn’t be able to defend myself very well with a pocket knife.” She shrugged.

      Isaac reached up and wiped the blood from his neck before it had a chance to run down and stain his shirt collar.

      She grimaced. “You’re the one that pushed up against the blade and gave it a taste of your blood.”

      “What an odd way to apologize. You at least owe me your name.”

       An impish grin appeared on her face, a glimpse of the true woman under all the makeup. “Hi. I’m Anne. So very nice to meet you, Isaac.” She stuck out her hand.

      “Isaac? How did you know my name? Were you eavesdropping in the restaurant?” He allowed a self satisfied smile at the blush on her face.

      "I, I really must be going," she stammered. "Uh, thanks?" She turned abruptly and stumbled to the street.

      His sister was two seconds from calling 911. Instead of following Anne, he sent the all clear message. By the time he emerged from the alley, she had already managed to hail a taxi. So much for getting her number, or rescuing a damsel in distress. He watched the cab pull away and snorted. He had trouble picturing Anne as a damsel.

Note: This is an excerpt from my novel, Asthore. However, I've edited this chapter to within an inch of its life, so it is pretty much its own story now. The only parts that remain are the names, the line about a damsel, and Anne holding a knife to Isaac's throat. 

Picture from: brinvy.biz

Gone

Am I a psychopath? 

I didn't cry at our wedding. Maybe that's why he left me. I stare at myself in the mirror. Even now, the tears wouldn't fall. I push my hair back. He loved my hair. Insisted I keep it waist-length. I stand at my sink, the usual clutter of lotion and perfume and makeup overwhelming. His sink, always neat, always perfect, was still perfectly neat. Nothing had changed. Everything had changed.

I throw open a drawer. He's gone. The scissors glint dully. He's gone. I knew what I had to do. Yes. My hair would be the first to go. 

Am I psycho? 

Soft, beautifully shiny locks of hair fall to the floor around me. My toes itch as the hair blankets them. So much time and effort had gone into the maintenance of this mane of hair. And all of it had been for him. Only him. 

"Mommy? What are you doing?"

I turn cold psycho eyes onto my five year old girl. "Nothing. Go back to bed."

"But--"

"Go back to bed! NOW!"

The tears came. Oh, they came in loud screaming bursts. But they weren't my own. No. Not mine. Gwen stomped up the stairs. "Where's daddy? I want daddy! You're so mean! I hate you!"

I squeeze my hands closed, nails biting into my palms. I want so badly to go upstairs and show Gwen the definition of mean. That settles it. Anger issues. Inability to empathize. I'm a psychopath. 

I look into the mirror. Hollow and empty. Just... nothing. I never thought of myself as one of those wives who lived only for their husbands, but it turns out he was the dam holding what was me in place. The dam broke and I drained away.

I study my new look. And I thought I looked ragged before. I throw the scissors down."Dumbass, what were you thinking? You don't have time to go to get that fixed tomorrow before his funeral."

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Photo from: http://www.wikihow.com/Avoid-Being-Laughed-After-a-Bad-Haircut 

  

Fateful Tea

This is an older work of mine from fanstory.com. 



Strength does not lie in what you have. It lies in what you can give.

"It's way too early in the morning for my tea to be lecturing me."

Christen dumped precisely three spoonfuls of sugar into the tea while she waited for her toast to brown. She ripped the offensive tag off her tea bag. Kelly had given her the 'Yogi' brand tea along with other natural health foods. What a tree hugger.

Ever the creature of habit, she made her way back to her bed with wheat toast slathered in butter and honey. Just like she did every morning. She adjusted her pillows and got ready to flip on the TV. Just like all the other mornings. They all blurred away into nothingness. She absently reached for the tea and sloshed some onto her nightstand.

"Damn it."

The sleeve of her robe would do for clean up. Now that her seventy-nine-year-old bones were settled down in bed, she wouldn't rouse them again for a towel. No real reason to move anymore anyway.

Henry had left last year, only to die in a younger woman's arms. Serves him right, the old bastard. She had given her best years to him, given up her figure to give him children, and what did he give her? Shit. That's what. Pure shit.

Christen sipped the hot tea. At least it tasted good, even if it was preachy. What did the fruitcakes at the tea factory know anyway? She had given everything to Henry. She snorted. The act of giving hadn't made her strong. It left her weak. And old. And alone.

She had nothing--nothing but a couple spoiled brats. The only one that stayed close was a Mother-Earth- worshiping hippie that wanted to sponge off her social security checks. Wasn't Kelly supposed to be the one taking care of her now?

"The moment I become a burden, it's off to the nursing home with me."

She lost her appetite. Stupid tea. Stupid, fateful tea. That's how it always starts.

At least that is how her relationship with Henry started. He had been nice, but nothing more. She shook her head. No, he had been more-- annoying. And those stupid jokes. She rolled her eyes. Always with the goofy jokes. She could've done better. He wasn't that attractive. But she made the mistake of ordering that damn tea.

The waiter placed a hard sweet tea in front of her and with a flourish. He winked and then thunked Henry's beer down in front of him. The waiter stood close, brushing against her. "Is there anything else I can get you while you wait?"

Henry answered for her. "No. Now get the hell away from my date." He glared at the waiter until he retreated.

The awful, fateful tea worked its magic. The alcohol had her laughing at his jokes and the caffeine made her antsy enough to suggest a walk along the river.

Henry wasn't so bad after all. He had a nice jawline. And that mouth, why hadn't she noticed how sexy his mouth was earlier? She watched his lips form words. He was talking about his job as an Aircraft surfaces assembler. Whatever that was.

He was tall--looked to be six-two. She wasn't short at five-seven and required anyone she dated to be at least one or two inches taller. He was beginning to pass her tests.

The effects of the tea wore off. "I'm ready to go home now." She turned, walking in the other direction.

Henry grabbed her wrist and pulled. "I've been watching you at church."

"That's not creepy."

"I've known since the moment I saw you that I wanted to... get to know you better."

Christen looked up into his eyes for the first time and saw flecks of green floating on a sea of dark blue. More than that, she saw sincerity.

He put his hands on her hips and gently pulled her closer, moving slowly to read her reaction. "You're so beautiful. And not just on the outside. You are kind and gentle." His hands skimmed up her sides. "You're the woman I want to marry." His eyes searched her face. One deep, slow breath and he lowered his head.

The world had contracted around them. Just like in the movies. The camera spins around, light shines down from above, and noise fades to the background. Christen's fate was sealed.

She raised a trembling hand to her lips, tingling with phantom sensations. She wiped away a tear. The old, dead bastard. May he forever rotate in his grave. Her tea sat on her nightstand, quietly challenging her. What did she have left to give?

She threw off the blankets and stood. "Let's see where this hippie tea takes me."