Thoughts and Musings

Opus 100

This will be my 100th blog entry.

Not that anyone but me is counting. ha!

Ever since I clutched on to Isaac Asimov's book of the same title as this entry, I've aspired to the same goal....having 100 [somethings] in print. Didn't expect it to be a blog, but, then again, blogs didn't exist when I first curved fingers around Dr. A's pages, back in 197....um...whenever. My goal was to have written 100 books, just as he did.

Of course, I was a kid, and I had a list of other goals equally challenging that I wanted to achieve before I was 40 or dead, whichever came first. While I'm grateful that 40 came first, I was almost to that milestone before I fully accepted that there were a few items on that list that I would never achieve.

I'm okay with that.

Doesn't mean I've taken them off the list, however.

Over the past few weeks, I've become fixated (again, still, however you want to view it) on Hunter S. Thompson, another author I've been reading and admiring "forever." Just as with Dr. Asimov, I first read some of Dr. Thompson's work when I was a teen, and, along with Harlan Ellison, I can honestly say they've been three of the authors I've been most influenced by, although the full list would take up a complete blog entry.

Not that I write like them. Couldn't if I tried. And I did, at one time. I have to write like me, a fact that (late bloomer that I am) took me almost as long to accept as it did that I'd never climb K-2. But they remain, for me, like most of the items on that list - out "there" - representing things I want to achieve.

I wanted to climb K-2; I learned to backpack and have spent many amazing hours exploring.
I wanted to dive the Great Barrier Reef; I'm a certified rescue diver. May never hit Australia, but I discovered that I do indeed love being underwater.
I wanted to learn to fly; Haven't (yet), but my desire for being in the air has meant dozens of eagerly embraced trips to some fabulous cities.
I may never publish 100 books; but my 4th comes out in February, and my ideas never cease -- and my writing continues to improve.

Orson Scott Card (another 'hero') once said something to the effect that a successful writer must walk a very fine line between thinking the most recently finished work is the best thing you've ever written -- and the worst. If you don't think it's the best, you'll never send it out. If you don't think it's the worst, you'll never improve.

I want to sell. And improve.

And, someday, fly.

Free Your Shoulders

Heroes will continue - I like talking about men too much. :) But for now, just a comment. The migraine was mostly gone yesterday, but not entirely, and it tried to return today. Combined with a return of a threat of darkness -- in that I couldn't seem to control my determination to stay focused and non-teary-eyed -- I had a hard time just getting through Monday.

Today was a forced focus. Wheelchair appointment at the Assistive Technology Clinic, which remains one of the most fascinating hubs of creativity I've ever known. Their staff of therapists and technicians spend hours pouring over the twisted vagaries of bodies riddled with disabilities, never once losing site of the person inside, yet filled with ideas and "what-ifs" about making lives better by the equipment they provide.

Molded wheelchairs, carved from board and an astonishing variety of foams. Sidelying contraptions with individually modified attachments. A-frames for positioning. It's a Geppetto's workshop of therapeutic devices.

Rachel, for instance, has a one-of-a-kind headpiece on her chair, molded for her specific needs. Today, they were fine-tuning the sides of her chair (also molded just for her particular shape) because her scoliosis has progressed in the last four years, pushing her into more of a "windswept" shape and allowing for different movement in her shoulders.

And through their own research and investigations, the folks at the AT clinic have found that at a certain point, a child such as Rachel needs MORE freedom in her chair, not less, because confining her shoulders in an attempt to lock her into place only gives her more leverage to move OUT of place. Squirmy Houdini that she is. By removing the pressure under her shoulder blades, she struggles less to get out of her confinement and relaxes more during the ride.

So it is that Rachel's body curve has been helped tremendously by their learning curve.

A life lesson in microcosm. As so many things are.

Sticking to the way you've always done something isn't necessarily the way to go.

And this isn't about "thinking outside the box," a phrase I've grown to detest. It's about turning the box into a Rubik's cube and clicking out a new, beautiful color combination that works just for you.

Either that...or just give your shoulders more freedom to move. :)

A Short Pause in the Journey

More heroes stuff to come. I'm on a roll.

Which, unfortunately, is what my head and tummy are doing today. Migraine. This one so bad it hurts to touch my hair. I'm good for about 15 minutes in the middle of my painkiller's half-life, which is when I'm taking care of Rach.

Good news is . . . yesterday I got the promo cover sheets for A MURDER AMONG FRIENDS. Did the little Snoopy dance of glee and wrote lots of praises to my editor. It looks great, very autumny (it's set in the fall) and creepy, with a great rendition of the Retreat's lodge house. I'll get a copy posted as soon as I can.

Suppertime for Rachel; naptime for Mom. Back tomorrow. I hope.

The Nature of (Created) Heroes (Part 2)

I tweaked the title a bit, since I’m not talking about real men--just the representation of the real. Simulacra.

This probably comes out of the question that I’ve been asked twice in the last week: “How can you fall in love with someone who’s not real?” Well, if you have to ask...

Real is, after all, often in the mind of the beholder.

A few years ago, I wrote a little piece called Venganza. Sold it to an independent press called Echelon Press, and it’s still available there for download. I used a pseudonym because of the more sensual passages in it, and I still wasn’t sure what my main focus was going to be for my fiction.

Venganza was an experiment because it started with two odd questions: What kind of woman would be attracted to--and would attract--a particular kind of villain? Could I turn a villain into a believable hero without taking him through a character shift?

So when the story starts, my hero (Jago) and heroine (Mara) aren’t very likable. He’s been accused of a horrific crime, and she’s so driven and bent on revenge that she has a determined bit of tunnel vision. Not only that, but they are both tall, physical, angry people, and before the end of the first “act” (they aren’t really chapters), both have drawn blood on the other. Over the course of the story, he hits her more than once, throws a goblet at her, pins her to a wall, the ground, and a floor. He unapologetically shatters a mirror that cuts her arm. In turn, she gets him accused of rape and theft, sets him up to get whacked on the back of the head, then engineers a plot to destroy his mind as well as his honor and his future. Getting them in bed together wasn’t the easiest thing I’ve ever done. But it was one of the most fun.

This has also gotten the best reviews I’ve received so far, including one from a reviewer who admits she didn’t like either of them until about half way through the story. She ended up adoring both of them.

I love it when I can do that.

I also was more than a little in love with Jago before the end. I do not, however, wish to spend a great deal of time in his presence--or any “real” man who looks and acts like him. For one thing, I don’t think he’d like me very much. I'm too wimpy. After all, I’m not Mara. Not even close. Even if I had to “put her on,” while writing the story. Writing fiction, in a lot of ways, resembles the acting process. We just have a lot more control over what words come out.

Jago still lives in my head, and I occasionally fantasize about him (and the man who inspired him), just as I do Fletcher and Mason, or any of the others that I’m building--or have built. Sometimes, I take on the role of the heroine, sometimes not--depends on what plot problem I’m working on. I've certainly had evenings when I'll be halfway through a scenario when I'll stop and say, occasionally outloud, "Wait, that's not working. Back up to when you were about to tell her about the letter..."

And if I’m not working, sometimes other characters wander through, depending on my mood and which direction my mental playing has drifted. Lately Lymond has starting putting in return appearances, along with Niccolo, Athos, and the more mature D’Artagnan. Cap’n Jack shows up occasionally, as does Mike Logan, Travis McGee, and a couple of others I’d blush to name.

Doesn’t mean I expect any of them to walk abruptly through my door. Last I checked, simulacra don’t really move about on their own power. (And, no, The Matrix doesn’t count.)

For real.

The Nature of Heroes (Part 1)

I spooked my editor yesterday. We'd been batting emails back and forth about the book-in-production (A MURDER AMONG FRIENDS) as well as the book-in-process (CLUES IN THE CLAY). I told her CLUES had stalled a bit because I hadn't totally fallen in love with my hero yet.

That, for me, is a necessity to finish a book and keep it flowing. I have to LIKE my heroine, enjoy her company, want her as a friend. But I must have a deeper connection with my hero; I have to be a little bit in love with him. Or a lot (depending on the man in question). Otherwise, I can't really make it believable that SHE is falling in love with him.

Because he's mostly my creation (if you want to know more about that "mostly" part, read the extended entry), I already know everything about him--his flaws and joys, his heartaches and triumphs. But the chemistry has to be there. Otherwise, I'll be spending all that intimate head time on someone I don't really care about.

I even care about my villains, but that's another post for another day.

So I told her I'd finally FOUND HIM! My perfect hero for CLUES! And I sent her this:

She was not thrilled.

I did tell her (quickly, I might add) that I was joking. And I sent her the real picture, along with a description (also in the extended entry).

There's a backstory here as to why I did that....

...she recently made me significantly tone down the final confrontation between my hero (Fletcher) and the villain of MURDER. The comment had come back from her copyeditor that Fletcher's actions "weren't really heroic." This was not a happy moment for me. I'd ALREADY toned him down from what I wanted, and to pull back further made me respond rather unkindly about wimpy heroes and people who'd obviously been married far too long.

Yes, I was catty. Hissingly, spittingly catty. I didn't truly mean it; I just get annoyed when my heroes are messed with. Edit my plot, my grammar, my structure. Tread carefully with my characters, however. I'm as protective of them as I am my best friends.

But it did get me thinking about the nature of heroes . . . which is actually something I've been doing a lot....

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My hero is from the deep South, with a redneck background and a doctorate in art history--which isn't really as weird as you might think. I know more than a couple of these guys. To be honest, one of my favorite hero types is the "educated redneck." This passage is from within my heroine's head, as she's musing about her new friend...

"The accent certainly caught her off guard. It was not the nasal hillbilly twang that a lot of folks around here thought of as a Southern accent, but the slow, easy-spoken combination of Alabama flatwoods and Louisiana bayou still occasionally left folks thinking that Mason wasn’t very bright, despite the doctorate attached to his name. She knew better. His questions had cut to the heart of her craft, its history and its techniques.

"His looks had also gotten her attention, almost as much as the accent. His lean frame was wiry, and his dark hair hung mostly straight, with a tendency to curl just on the ends. His eyes and skin were darker than most of the men she knew, and he had high cheekbones so sharp they could have sliced bread. He called himself 'a mutt, a result of a lot of familiarity between the Native Americans, Cajuns, and a conglomerate of English and Scottish folks hanging out in the Delta,' a description which made her own, mostly Dutch and German heritage sound downright plain."

Yes, same actor, different roles. This is where the "mostly" comes in. Characters are usually a conglomeration of a dozen or more people. A quirk from one, a twist from someone else. Hair from here, lips from there. A picture like this (of an actor, a friend, or someone I clipped out of a newspaper) just helps me stay on course. Believe me, Dr. Mason DuBroc is his own person, even given the fact that I stole his last name from a terrific young man with whom I acted in a community theater production more than 10 years ago....such is the nature of one type of created hero.

Climbing the Higher Hill

As I mentioned earlier, I went hiking this past weekend, in an attempt to clear my head and reconnect with a few trees and rocks. Since I was a kid, I've had a short quotation from Mr. Shakespeare hanging somewhere around my home: "A touch of nature makes the whole world kin." I love being surrounded by it, whether it's the cool embrace of the ocean or the steam heat of a Southern forest.

I went to Radnor Lake, which has the fun distinction of being one of the few national "natural areas" completely within a major city limits. The history is intriguing (the lake used to be the water source for the Radnor rail yards a few miles away), but I'll just note the site if you're interested.

I was there later than I'd planned to be, having discovered that getting up at 5:30 on a Saturday morning was simply more difficult than I'd expected. I arrived at the park at 7:15, frozen water bottles and backpack in hand. I choose one of the more strenous trails, and by 8:00, I was standing at the top of an amazing hill, breathing hard, clothes soaked. Steam heat, indeed. Already closing in on 90 degrees, the humidity was hovering between 80 and 90 percent, and the abundant and gorgeous leaves and ground cover held temperature and moisture close to the ground, nourishing the flora and wringing everything out of me.

I felt glorious.

I stopped often; this was renewal, not punishment. I prayed. I listened. I meditated on opening my heart and mind to others, to God. It was calming to both body and spirit, despite the physical demands of the hike. Sometimes the trail was so rocky, steep, and narrow that I couldn't look up; had to keep watching where I put those toes. Other times it was broader, allowing time and space to let my eyes roam to the wild flowers, scampering squirrels, and patterns of dark and light on the ground.

As I pushed up the steeper hills (I did take pictures, which I'll post here some time soon), I remembered what one of my backpacking instructors had told me more than 20 years ago. "Keep your eyes on the top of the hill. Don't look at where you are; look where you want to be." He was talking about hiking; my mind landed on it as good advice for my current difficulties.

Everything changes, and sometimes you have to concentrate less on today's problems than tomorrow's goals. In part, because "tomorrow" will have its own set of trippers. :)

The hike exhilarated me so that I wanted to go the next day. But I didn't set the clock, and by the time I'd recovered from Saturday night (the hike didn't exactly take all day...), noon had come and gone, and rain drenched everything in sight. A good day to do all that introspection flat on my back. That helped, too.

Sometimes, when the world crowds in, you need time to do nothing but stare at the leaves and clouds . . . or the ceiling.

Music and Meditations

I have a soundtrack going in my headphones right now, which is helping me calm down, re-focus. A gentle reminder of the necessity of music in my life.

Since I was a kid, I've worked better with music on. When I'm required to work without it, the job just doesn't go as well. I'm easily distracted and I lose my train of thought, or the flow of the work. When I'm tired, it's especially bad. Sometimes, late at night, when I'm afraid music would disturb Rachel, I'm almost unable to work at all.

I once made a comment to this nature on a email loop, and a psychologist contacted me off list, telling me of an old diagnosis, no longer accepted, that was based on some people's NEED for outside stimuli for focus. Without it, they become almost ADD-like in behavior. She said the key statements in my email were that I did better with music or the tv going.

An intriguing idea, to say the least. And true for me. Certain kinds of music (soundtracks, classical, opera) absolutely make it possible for me to stay on task for longer periods of time. Otherwise, I'm hopping up to check on something, or I find myself with an almost uncontrollable urge to "do something else" - surf, play solitaire, file something - often right in the middle of an important paragraph.

I hunger for other types of music for different reasons - energy, for instance. Seriously rocking it out in the morning starts my day with a bang. Dance music at night (I've recently been stuck on trance music); vocalese during the day. I LOVE singing at the top of my lungs.

Right now I need the focus. For work, for some personal issues. I keep four stones on my desk, to help me with the acid reflux my work is causing...just fingering them helps me meditate and calm down. I think of them as part of God's earth, a symbol of His ultimate creation, and reminder to stay grounded. There are certainly bigger issues in this world than my current troubles.

Focus. On the end of the job, the next step, the final goal. More on that in the next entry. :)

In the Cave with the God Questions

Haven't been around because I'm caving. Not sure why. Although maybe I do, a little.

For those who haven't heard it described with that term, "caving" means withdrawing into your mental/emotional "cave," a time of hibernating from what's going on around you. It can be a physical action, like staying home and not going out, or emotional, as when you simply make it through the day without being mentally involved. That latter is pretty much where I am right now. Dissociated.

Part of my withdrawal is because I'm spiritually exhausted, and I think my psyche has shifted into self-protection mode. I've screwed up a couple of jobs, which has cost me time, money, and energy. I've beat myself up, repeatedly, over these issues, and I'm trying to deconstruct what went wrong. I'm distracted, lack focus, and I don't see simple mistakes I make until later. And people keep hitting me with "God questions" like, "why do I suffer so much?" and "why isn't He answering my prayers?" in a way that I find frustrating. My lack of patience is my issue, not theirs, but I knew I'd lost it when I told one woman that if her faith depended on God doing what she wanted Him to, then maybe she should be an atheist.

Yow.

One of my daily devotionals advised me to "take to the sun and seek replenishment in nature." This isn't a bad idea. I've been indoors too much lately, and maybe that's taking a toll as well. I don't know. I do know that being in the woods for prayer has always been a mini-refresher course for me, so maybe I should. The weekend is coming, and I'm kidless. Perhaps a long walk in the woods and sun would be a good thing.

Apologies...and a question

Over the past three days, I've had 227 spam comments left on the blog. This takes a bit to clear out, and my apologies to anyone who read an entry and had to see an unfortunately unsavory comment as a result.

Most of these, however, appear on entries that are anywhere from a few weeks to a few months old. One way to prevent this is to close comments on old entries, which is what I'll be doing from now on. I'll leave them open for a week or two, then shut them off. If you would like to comment on an older entry, please feel free to email me.

On a different note, I'll be updating my website over the next few weeks, to make it more of a writer's site and less of an editor's site. This is in preperation for the next book's release in February. If anyone has suggestions for improvment, email me as well...I'd love to hear any ideas.

More later...

Little Joys, Big Distractions, Major Inspirations

"Don't go there. Just don't. I know how you are."

These were the parting words that my daughter's nurse left me with a couple of nights ago. Only she wasn't using them in the current connation of not discussing a topic. She literally meant, "Don't visit."

In this case, a website.

"I'm trying not to," I said, watching her gather cigarettes, a purse, wandering keys. She'd been with Rach all day and was heading out. We always have a great debriefing before she goes - all about our days, Rachel, plans, whatever fun stuff is happening...or un-fun stuff. Girl talk, good and bad.

Phyllis is also a great supporter of my work, my writing. She loves my books and wants me to write more. She also knows that some of them take a lot of research, as evidenced by the massive stacks of books on my desk right now. My editor now wants TWO manuscripts from me. I have a lot to do. And in the middle of it...

..."You get on these tangents and you're like a snapping turtle. You won't let go till it thunders. And they keep you from doing stuff you need to do."

She's right, of course, but my current tangent makes me grin a lot. It's a guilty pleasure...and the website in question is a simple one...biography, basic facts, pictures, filmography, gossip....

Okay, so I've stayed away. But the problem isn't really the current "fascination." It's that this new fascination slid into the holes left by my current lack of focus. The fact that I sit down to write, stare at the screen, but instead of diving into the book, my mind goes in 18 million different directions. Call it what you will, pulling back from it, regaining my direction, has been a pain in the ass. Instead of discipline, I drift.....

But, y'know, sometimes it's during the drifting, the dead calm, that the treasure islands pop up.

Filmographies lead me, inevitably, to Netflix, to which I'm becoming rapidly addicted. I love offbeat films; once upon a time, I was a film festival junkie. Can't get those at Blockbuster, so I've been prowling NF, with one filmography leading to another, then another...and today, a tiny film I'd never heard of popped up.

Songcatcher. At first, I thought it might be an adaptation of Sharyn McCrumb's book of the same name, and I had a small moment of celebration. I adore Sharyn McCrumb; she's one of the few writers I never get tired of. (And if you haven't checked out St. Dale, do so. It's a hoot.)

It wasn't. It's an original film by Maggie Greenwald, and after reading the description and watching the trailer, I immediately added it to my queue. This is right up my alley. Maybe even to buy, if it lives up to its promise. But with Sharyn still in mind, I wanted to know what inspired Ms. Greenwald to write it, so I looked up her biography and a couple of articles about the movie (This is what Phyllis meant about, "I know how you get...")

There in the middle of one article was a quotation that grabbed me.

"Every script I've written is built around a single character I'm fascinated with. I've searched the landscape of whatever the environment of the story is and try to create honest relationships."
--Maggie Greenwald

It was a wet cloth slapped upside my face. It's why I'm stuck. I've been so focused on "what happens next" in my book that I've lost "who it happens to." I'm no longer in love with my heroine. My hero. In working out the plot details, I'd let them slip away from me. And my current "fascination" slipped right into their place.

Because I am a writer who loves people. Who loves characters. Who wants to grab to those I love and sink them into my heart with an intimacy of knowledge and emotion. A book or movie could have a plothole the size of my garage, and I'll forgive, as long as I'm completely and totally in love with the main characters. No wonder Miss Karen (my heroine) has been over there tapping her foot at me. I've neglected HER.

So the next thing on the agenda is a long chat with Karen, to renew my love.

So I guess that website will have to wait. At least for a few more days.... :)

When Heroes Fall

Oh, I'm sure you can guess who this is going to be about....

....but you'd be wrong.

Well...almost wrong.

Today was sales conference for Thomas Nelson. Two of the books being launched next year are Sheila Walsh's God Has a Dream for Your Life (March '07) and Michael English's The Prodigal Comes Home (February '07). They were the keynote speakers for today's luncheon.

Ms. Walsh, who in 1992 went--in the course of ONE DAY--from being a best-selling author, recording artist, and national television host to being a patient locked in a psychiatric ward. She lost a career and a lot of support. I remember the time all too well due to an argument I had with an editor at the time (more on that later).

Mr. English, who in 1994 went--in the course of ONE WEEK--from being a top concert artist and winner of six Dove awards--to being disgraced by an extra-marital affair. He gave back his Dove awards and lost everything as a result...his marriage, his family, his career, and quite nearly his life. I remember all too well because I was--and am--a fan, and I went to more than one of his concerts that year.

Both of them faced a decade-long struggle out of a darkness of their own making. Mr. English even tried to shift a lot of the blame for what happened onto other people. Apparently, in the first few years following his "fall," he wasn't a very nice man. He continued to descend, becoming addicted to prescription drugs, losing everything but his car, which he had to hide to keep it from being reposessed.

Needless to say, today's topic was centered around the nature of our God to be a God of second chances, of the call on His people to be followers in kind, living in the extension of His grace and, in turn, extending that love and grace toward His children (don't get ahead of me here...).

In their darkness, God reached out to them. Literally, and through the efforts of the people around them. Soft voices. Gentle nudgings. And unwavering prayer and support. People who simply kept saying, "You've fallen; you've been wrong; but we're here. We love you. God loves you. Don't give up. Turn around. Hope."

In the middle of Ms. Walsh's speech, between bolts of laughter and moments of sentiment, she made a comment about the humanity, flawed humanity, of us all. She stopped, then said, "Just ask Mel Gibson today about being human. You've seen the papers. Even USA Today carries the headline. But I want to ask you, how many of you, in this shame, have turned your back? How many of you are instead down on your knees, weeping for him and uplifting him in prayer and love?"

How many, indeed.

It's easy to point fingers, to say, "See how the mighty have fallen." And fall he did. The things he said and did were dispicable.

But not unforgiveable.

The argument I had in 1992 had to do with the inclusion of articles by Ms. Walsh in a project I was overseeing. HUGE project. Lots of contributors. The general editor pulled her work. I was beyond annoyed. I argued that we should stand behind her, help her. The editor's response was that we can love and pray for her, but because so many potential consumers of the product would be overwhelmingly disturbed by what had happened, including her work would be a detriment.

I was a recovering pagan at the time, newly back in the fold. This tripped me up in ways I have never forgotten. It was a decision to "turn our backs," I have always been sorry to have been a part of.

We all fall. Some descents are just more spectacular than others.

What happens next is mostly up to Mr. Gibson and God. But in many ways, it's also up to the body of believers and how they react to his actions in the coming weeks. He's already made statements of great repentance, and he did so quicker than I expected.

Where there is repentance, there is also forgiveness. And not just from God.