old t-shirt

The other day I tossed one of my favorite t-shirts towards my husband declaring it could now take up residence in the rag bin.

"Who gave it to you?" he asked.

"Bob's (an ex boyfriend) mother."

"Oh wow, how old were you then?"

"About fifteen or sixteen."



Mind you I'm fifty-five now.

I didn't share this with you just to show what a hoarder I am. (Ok I am a hoarder but you can walk through my house and not just in man-made paths.) If I like something I keep it. I don't follow a trend unless it appeals to me. I'm not what you'd call a fashionista.



I thought about "trends" in the writing business. I've heard write what you like but I've also heard certain genres are dead or there's no audience for that subject matter. Editors/agents won't even look at them so why bother. Hmm, why bother. Maybe you do because that's what's in your head and it's pounding to get out. It could be because trends are fickled, what's here today may well be gone within the next year or two or possibly a little more. Trying to keep up with trends is like trying to catch a train with your shoelaces tied together; the possiblity of making it before it leaves is slim.



So put on that old comfortable t-shirt, plop your butt down and write what is inside you.

? ? ?

I was sitting here trying to think of what to write when the following popped into my mind, so I figured I'd throw it out there. If no one responds, oh well, nothing ventured nothing gained, right?

Here’s the scenario: You’re dying. But you don’t want to go yet. How would you persuade God or your concept of supreme being to change his/her/it's mind? Or would you not even try?

I’ll give you some time to think about it. Get back to me when you have an idea. Meanwhile this is conjuring some images for a story, which I think I’ll explore. Maybe I can get those synapses to stop partying for awhile to help me out here. (You'd understand this last sentence if you read my previous post. : ) )

That Damn Little Voice

Here it is another Sunday to post and nothing is coming through, just like last week. That’s why that week is empty. The same thing is happening with my writing. I try playing “what if” and it falls on its face.

Did you really try?

Well I. . . .

Tsk tsk Be honest.

Hey my cat is sick. I’m worried.

You already took the cat to the vet and you’re bringing him back tomorrow. Besides this lapse has been going on long before Chester got sick.

I’m really busy being president of a writing group.

Excuse. Other presidents are able to write.

Yeah well, if the other presidents jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge does that mean I should too?

That doesn’t even make sense.

Sorry. It was the first thing that came to mind. See what I mean! My mind’s not clicking cohesively.

And whose fault is that?

My synapses! They’re having a block party somewhere and they didn’t invite me.

Have you invited them to your creative parties lately?

Yes but attendance is usually low.

Because. . .?

Well I . . .

Yes?

Because I tell them at the last minute and then we play computer games most of the times. OK, are you happy?

There’s no reason to get huffy is there? As long as you understand what’s going on, that’s what matters. I knew the real reason all along. I just wanted to hear you to say it.

You’re a smug little bastard, aren’t you?

Call it what you want. Now let’s talk about those excuses for not quitting smoking.

Oh, get the hell out of here.

Get Ye to a Nunnery!

Last Saturday the Long Island Romance Writers had their first annual writing retreat, of which I participated. Sixteen of us embarked on a day of uninterrupted writing pleasure held at a House of Prayer in Riverhead, N.Y..



At the begining, Sister Barbara told us the history of the house and how the Archdiocese had come to own it. Yolanda, one of our members who had been there before, asked about the walkway to the beach. The Sister said it was not the sturdiest and that's why it was roped off. This of course peaked my curiousity. So while everyone else went to claim a little patch of solitude, I went off to find this path.



Now you have to picture this. I look like a pack mule. I have a beach chair, that I borrowed from one of the ladies, laying across my back like a backpack. I also have my pocketbook and a tote bag slung on my shoulder and I'm trying to crawl under the railing onto the walkway. Graceful is not a word I'd use. I finally got up there and started my trek. The path had some rotten boards while others were completely missing, but I trudged on. Then came the steps. Two hundred and fifty steep steps. They looked daunting but hey after that there's the beach, right? Ah, no. Then came another fifteen feet or so of walkway that ended on a twenty-five degree tilt to the right. Now the beach? Guess again. The rest of the path had fallen away. That section rested in the sand listing at an even sharper angle to the left.



The part I was standing on swayed gently every time I moved and I realized, after looking, that the supports didn't reach the ground. Oh fun. I took off my baggage and slid off the edge to the unconnected section three feet below then grabbed my stuff and causiously made my way across the next test of dexterity. Made it. Beach? Not quite. The last part of my journey was comprised of ten steps of sand covered wood that had been laid at intervals.



Ta-da! There was the beach before me in all it's glory. It was perfect. It was deserted. I loved it. I put my belongings down on a large flat rock and stretched out besides them, using my jacket as a pillow. I turned to my right and noticed I shared rock with a dead spider crab. I decided to name him Floyd. He had barnacles on his carapice and his front legs were curved in a defensive stance. Call me strange but there was something about him I liked.



I was there to brainstorm ideas for a story so I didn't get much real writing done. Hey maybe I could write a story about killer crabs. No that was done in a movie in the 50's. Well anyway, the day wasn't a total wash. I did come up with an idea, wrote a couple of descriptions and got to lay in the warm sun while listening to the waves as they rolled onto the shore. To me that's a good day.

Authors and Vampires and NYC, oh my

Hi everyone.

Wednesday night I ran away from home and met up with a couple of vampires, authors and other eccentric beings. And where might this have taken place? At Michele Lang and Lucienne Diver’s book launching party held at the SoHo Gallery for Digital Art in N.Y.C., of course.

Lady Lazarus is Michele’s second book and the first in a series. Jim Butcher, who if I haven’t told you already is one of my favorite authors, gave her a stellar blurb. I can hardly wait to read it but first I have to finish The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. Lucienne was also promoting the second in her YA vampire series book Revamped.

But I’ve gotten ahead of myself. It all started with a ride on the Hampton Jitney (a bus service) for I live pretty far out on the “Island”, Long Island for those who don’t know. I had to meet my friend Dawn on 39th St. because unfortunately when she made the reservations we couldn’t get the same bus. We took a taxi down to Sullivan St. but were an hour and a half early, so we went to Washington Square Park and hung out.

While sitting there talking, I hear “Psst, angel. Psst, angel.” I turned to see one of the two guys who had occupied a bench behind us standing about three feet from me. He said something else but I didn’t understand him. Since it seemed he was feeling no pain, I was hesitant to ask him to repeat it, so I just smiled. After he left I remembered that on the back of my shirt there were two large wings made up of tiny blue rhinestones. Aha, so that’s why he called me angel. Who says I’m slow?

We finally made our way back to the gallery to join the revelers. There was a guy there playing softly on an electric piano, a couple of vamps from a hosting company who interacted with the guests and other friends of the authors. They were fun. Throughout the night Michele and Lucienne posed for snapshots, signed books and mingled among the guests. (If you want to see more pictures, they will be posted on the LIRW blog on Sept 13). Michele and Lucienne looked like they were really enjoying their event.

While that was happening, Myra Platt, the treasurer for LIRW, her daughter and her friend connected up with us. We all moseyed around, Dawn drinking wine and me stuffing my face with veggies and dip as we partook in conversations. We met Keith R.A. DeCandido, a writer, editor and musician, who probably thinks I have some mental problem because I was pretty blanked faced silent (not the impression I was going for at the party) because I couldn't hear most of what he was saying for it was noisy. Diana Fox, who is an agent, was there as were many other interesting people. Then the clock turned to 9:20 and we had to go catch the Jitney back home.

I’m glad I went. I had a great time and it was a new experience for me. Thanks Michele (if you’re reading this) for inviting me!

Such is life

This past week I received another rejection letter. They stated that they were intrigued by the succubus heroine and mystery plot but felt the characters were flat and the writing style didn't engage them. Though this isn't the worst letter (for sure) and I'm know there are writers out there who would like to get one like this instead of some of the horrors they've been sent; I wish editor could have told me why they felt that way.

See I'm a little confused. I've had several compliments on my style. I guess it's like my fellow writers tell me, this business is very subjective. Don't get discouraged. As one editor I read said he would have passed on The Da Vinci Code. And we know where that book went. It all depends on the editor or agent who is reading your work. True, but after awhile you feel like the princess who kissed a thousand frogs and the only thing you ended up with is a pair of warty lips.

But life goes on. I have to change the master cylinder and do a tune-up on my car. I also have to get it inspected (it will be passed due on the 1st). Plus I go back to work on the 2nd - I work at a local college. But it's not bad, at least I have a job and a car, right?

Prather

It is 9:58 and it is now. Tomorrow at 3:00 it will be now.
On my deathbed it will still be now.
Since it will always be now, learning to respond now is the only thing there is to learn.
~ Hugh Prather, Notes to Myself, My struggle to become a person



Hugh Prather, after several attempts to get published, decided to write a book composed of a number of entries from his “diary”. A newly established husband and wife run company, who had no sales reps or ads, published it. It took three years for Notes to become known across the country and now has more than two million copies in print worldwide. He and his wife, Gayle, have published several other books while increasingly getting involved with counseling alcoholics, battered women, and parents who have lost a child. To help even further they founded The Dispensable Church. (From my understanding that church is now defunct.)

I had bought and read this book about thirty years ago. I was going to use part of the above info, which was vague in my memory, to write a blog about how the whole writing/publishing experience (and life) is fickled. Of course when I went to find said book, it was nowhere to be found. Thank goodness for libraries.

So I started to page through and read excerpts. I decided not to do my original idea but to let one segment stand alone. Many of the writings, in this book, clicked in my brain while others were stopped with a - huh? It’s a New Age type of insightful thinking. I guess I’m not as enlightened as I think I am or maybe just parts of me aren’t. But don’t go by me – check it out yourself.