Literary changes

Well, after waiting nearly a whole year to get the pictures for my dragon fantasy book, I have decided not to use them, with the probable exception of the dragon character. I really wanted to like these pictures, I really did. I tried to tell myself that they were adequate if not entirely what I had envisioned to depict my characters as I wrote them. But a little voice inside my head (was it my muse's cousin?) kept whispering that while they might be okay in a young children's version of Tim's story or in a cartoon setting they were not at all right for the YA novel that evolved. SO, here I go pulling the virtual plug. I think this was the right decision for now. When I showed the pictures to the first preview sampling, lets say the reaction was politely lukewarm. Thus, Tim's book will arrive in print with a color cover sans interior illustrations. I wonder how many other authors have been through this scenerio?

At least I do have creative control. Many authors don't and have to endure a cover they hate with characters that don't even vaguely resemble their words. How many times have you picked up a book and read it wondering how the cover artist could depict the hero as a blonde muscle man when the writer clearly says he is of medium build with chocolate hair? Or the dog in the story is a German Shepherd inside and a Labrador on the cover? The lead character is forty but looks twenty on the cover? ARTISTS don't read copy. Mine obviously didn't. I suspect that for her it is all about the money. And lets just say I and my preview audience agree that she has a somewhat inflated idea of what her skill is worth. There's a learning experience here, too. Sometimes, boys and girls, credibility in critical thinking stretches so thin that you can look through it like a window. 'Nuff said.

For now the illustrations you might have seen here on the blog rest on a top shelf of my closet in a box. If they ever do see the light of day from the pages of a book it will be a children's picture book. But don't count on that. They'll have to take a number. I and the muse have a lot of projects lined up already.

I have been working on the YA novel, Charlie's Dog again. Tim's book is in production in the print version. I am as pleased with my words there as ever and prepared to forget the mistake I almost made with the visual images. I am glad to return to the last century, New Bethel WV, a coal camp girl and her cur dog.

Live long and prosper.

Live and learn. No more artist collaboration on my books.

wayworm's photostream

wayworm's photostream on Flickr.

Update

Hello bloggers,

As you can see from the photos, my Tim book illustrations have been coming in since I last posted four months ago. I apologize to any of you who might have actually missed my voice in 'blog world'. I can only say that I have been busy with real life as well as writing 156 pages of one novel (Charlie's Dog) as well as finishing up my part of the work on Tim's book (The Adventures Of Mungo Tim). Tim is now in the beginning stages of publication, hopefully being in print and in my hands and ready to fly into yours sometime in the fall. I will also have a Kindle version for those of you who, like me, do most of your pleasure reading on mobile devices. There will be an aiudio version as well.

I have been practicing reading the book from a teleprompter (which is both fun and challenging) while Danny records it outside of the closet that we are turning into a sound booth.

While I have a theatre background in my increasingly distant past, reading and recording an audio (or podio) book by myself is very different from anything I have done before. An actor in a scene on stage or in a radio play takes on the persona or role of one character and responds to the dialogue of the other actors. Reading the dialogue of several characters in one scene who have different accents and vocal inflections is really a challenge. I slip from one character to another almost before I realize it and unfortunately I have a tendency to, uh, employ a few four letter words when it occurs. Cut! Take fourteen. My bloopers are many and I can see that it is going to take a whole lot of practice. But, gosh, it is FUN! There will be a podio/audio version one day, really. I am determined to learn this new skill.

I have been able to do a little traveling during my down time and will post on Nannan and Dandan soon. We have also started a podcast about overnight RV parking. Whew. Not so interesting perhaps is the hours and hours I put into a garage sale. And decluttering my house. I am also on a recessionary 'cut your expenses' track. I now clean my own house. And walk three dogs three tines a day. All fodder for posts in future.

Today, my eyes must recover from the dilation at the eye doc's office. So, I'll sign off. I really do hope you've missed me. Like Arnold, I will be back.

Happy Belated Groundhog Day

GROUNDHOG

By Nancy Wayman Deutsch

Consider groundhog, woodchuck, marmot

Not most people's favorite varmit

Yet famed throughout the Keystone State

For weather change prognosticate

The groundhog's dressed in frosted fur

It's hard to tell if he's a her

Like rodents, please do not forget

With aggressive manner not a pet

Some call the critter whistle pig

As ground squirrels go he's sort of big

An herbivore, he dines on grubs

Grasses, snails, and sometimes bugs

The groundhog smiles a toothy grin

As he digs a den and burrows in

Like bears, this marmot hibernates

When shadow's seen and Spring comes late.

TTFN my little Bloggers!

The Old Grey Mare She Ain't What She Used To Be, But So What?

A few minutes ago I had one of those epiphany moments. I stopped in the parking lot of my local Publix market and marvelled that something so simple had never occurred to me before. Here's my tale of the day, boys and girls:

Lately, well for several years now actually, I've been feeling intermittently sort of sorry for myself for my ever increasing age and outward sags and wrinkles. Realizing that my future decades are numbered now in a probable finite several is admittedly sobering. I've been seeing the sand in the proverbial hour glass emptying out way too fast. That's the back story and maybe the subject of another blog.

Today, being (finally) mostly recovered from an unexpected and nasty twelve day cold, I ventured out in my little red Volvo to rejoin the rest of humanity. While the weather in the rest of the country seems to be viciously cold and icy and snowy, here in Florida it is in the mid seventies and cloudy with a chance of meatballs. I offer no complaints when I don't have to wear a jacket in February. Who would! So, needing some food, off I went to the grocery.

I loaded up my cart till it was overflowing with stuff and sedately moseyed over to the nearest check out line, after spending an inordinate time selecting just the right ice cream and breakfast foods. As the cashier was ringing up my purchases a frowning woman maybe two or even three decades my junior zoomed up behind me with three pieces of fruit. She moved her now empty cart at me like a bulldozer aiming at a sand hill. I had nowhere to move to so I stood fast. The cart stopped. Now, this big imposing sort of woman I will call Pauline, stepped in front of her cart and pushed her body as far over as she could towards the card scanner without actually physically shoving me out of her way as the bag lady loaded up my six cloth bags with various goodies. As I waited for the bagger to fill the last two bags, I moved as far into the aisle as I could get without actually abandoning my things. Still frowning, Pauline leaned closer to me me and twisted her big body into pretzel shape to scan her debit card. This broad was determined to get the hell out of the store asap!

Alas, for the impatient panting woman: It was crowded in the store and poor Pushy Pauline ended up trapped behind me rolling her cart (for three pieces of fruit?) out of the door. I could feel waves of hostility behind my back boiling from her. I could feel the heat of her glare. She was in a hurry, no time to loiter, no time to stroll, no time to smile. She was late, late for a very important...something. Since she was so aggressive, I mulishly refused to move faster or jump out of her way while pretending not to notice her. (I admit to feeling just a moment of irritation at her rudeness.) The microsecond she could get around me she raced to her car, jumped in, left the cart in the lot, and roared away, still frowning.

I shrugged. It was too nice a day to dwell on rudeness.Then, while loading my things in the back of my car, something else struck me. I was in a good mood again because I had no reason to hurry. Pauline did, or at any rate she thought so. Frowning the whole time she was in the store and while driving to her next task, no doubt buzzing like a hornet about to sting something unwary, she was blitzing through life without noticing much outside herself. and her own anxieties.

What was so important to this harried woman I wondered? A job? Two jobs? Cranky kids to pick up at daycare before racing home to mountains of dirty laundry and to make...fruit...for dinner? Maybe she was in grad school with an impossible assignment to complete. Maybe a mean boss or harried spouse just yelled at her. Maybe she was out of work? In any case, this woman in a tearing hurry was obviously not happy. Not speaking to the clerk or the bagger or me or anyone else, she was in a FRENZY. Yes, whatever the cause, this much younger woman was definitely not happy.

And I suddenly realized how lucky I was not to be in a hurry anymore. Not to have to rush anywhere...ever again. Not to have to be accountable to anyone else but me unless I chose to be. I looked around the lot as I took my cart to the cart corral at several older people loading groceries into their cars. They weren't in a hurry either. They looked over and smiled. I remembered what it was to be young and how I was almost always too busy and concerned about responsibility to remember to have much fun. Always looking ahead to the next task or the next problem and the next 'have to'. I probably didn't smile much, either. I don't remember.

"Well," I said aloud as soon as I was in my car and backing out, "I'd like to have my young face back and be able to jump up from a kneeling position as fast as I could at twenty, but there are compensations to age after all." I smiled at my wrinkles in the car's mirror. I winked and if the crows feet stayed in place. I thought, " So what."

Then, I went home and did whatever the hell I pleased, which happened to be having a mid afternoon snack of an English muffin with high sugar English marmalade and blogging. Next I am going to read a little more of the novel I am reading on Kindle and then maybe work a little bit on a new poem before thinking about supper. Or maybe not. There's no deadline after all remember? (Danny doesn't care what I make for supper as long as there is supper and if it should be late it wouldn't bother him much. He'd just take a nap.) This not being young thing is getting better and better.

Yes, I am one lucky person, wrinkles and all.

Here's the rest of my message. Stop, relax those facial muscles, all you 'Paulines' out there. Practice saying, "I am not in your hurry." Laundry can wait. Most other things can, too, for a few minutes, an hour, or a day. A crowded schedule can be simplified. So be good to yourself. Remake that appointment that's stressing you. Tell your boss you'll get it done and do it, but take a break and listen to your favorite music or do some yoga. Hug your cat, your dog, your spouse, your kid. Take a twenty minute walk, listen to the birdsong, feel the sun or the sea breeze on your face. Slow the speed on the treadmill of your life enough to look around. Have some fun along with the work and the 'have to' realities. And buy something more interesting than fruit for Chrissakes. Life is shorter than you think.

Oh, and growing older isn't so bad after all. Trust me, I know.

Happy Groundhog Day.

A Brief Excerpt from The Adventures of Mungo Tim...

"It's a dragon! A real dragon. There are dragons left in the world!" the rider exclaimed.

A gust of wind knocked the hood of the dark wool cloak back from the rider's head and coppery hair cascaded to slender shoulders. Emerald green eyes met cinnabar red ones above.

"Why, its just a human girl," boomed Tim in a kettle drum voice. "On a horse too scrawny to eat."

"How amazing," said Miranda. "It talks."

"Of course it talks," agreed Tim, coasting to a graceful landing on the road. "It flies and breathes fire and does many more amazing things than just talk."

"It certainly boasts," Miranda declared, steadying her mount as it tried to dance backwards.

"With reason," countered Tim.

The girl laughed. "It is beautiful."

"As is the girl," Tim replied. "With hair like firelight and eyes like spring."

"It is perhaps not a dragon at all but a silver-tongued prince under an enchantment?" asked Miranda, hopefully.

The ground rumbled as the dragon laughed. "No, just a dragon. Aren't you afraid of me, little human girl?"

Miranda shook her head. "No. I admit I was at first but I'm not afraid anymore. Although I probably should be. But you see, encountering a talking beast is...well, the wonder of it seems to have drained the fear out of me. And, in any case, if you are going to kill me there is nothing much I can do about it now. So, I might as well have an interesting conversation first."

Tim nodded. "Indeed. I like your reasoning. And, just between you and me, I have never killed a girl who reasons."

"Have you killed any that don't?"

"I have not. In fact, although I am loath to admit it since it doesn't seem very dragony, I haven't as yet killed any humans. Not on purpose anyway. Furthermore, you are the first human girl I've had a conversation with at all. The others just screamed and ran away."

Miranda giggled. "Well, I can understand that. You are a dragon, after all....."

Musing on memoirs

I had an interesting discussion with some other writers on, believe it or not, Facebook today. I started a tempest in commenting on aspiring writers who write only in the memoir genre and who join writing workshops, groups, and classes not to learn the craft of writing but to "express their feelings" (generally painful ones involving the negative) . It has been my observation in numerous workshops that these folks seem to be under several illusions: 1. That their individual misery is extremely interesting to other people 2. That their words are pure perfection requiring no editing or learning of story crafting whatsoever.

They have never heard the maxim "show, don't tell". They can't write dialogue and generally say they hate to read dialogue. Their character (s) are usually extremely one dimensional and rarely does anything actually happen in their memoirs before several hundred pages of narrative pass SLOWLY by. In real life, people don't take five pages to walk across the room to answer the phone, folks. Hear me snore, here.

I made the comment that these folks don't seem to want to develop a writer's toolbox and might better be served by getting some counseling than wasting other peoples time in a writing workshop. Yeah, strong stuff. I admit that. I insulted, without intending to, a nationally successful writer who has written and taught memoir writing. Now of course, this writer can write very well and her books don't resemble anything listed above. But, even if she chose not to say so, I'll bet she has had plenty of those not really serious about writing 'memorists' in her classes over the years.

I personally don't care to read memoirs. I don't read non fiction much either, for the most part. I like fantasy, science fiction, mysteries, etc and for me, the story is the thing. Good story can trump bad writing. Words without something happening cause me to close the book. I don't like whiny characters either. I like to read about protagonists with gumption. Since that's what I like to read, that's also what I like to write. So, I am admittedly biased.

I probably couldn't write a memoir myself. Not if I had to stick strictly to the facts. Maybe I could write creative nonfiction like Midnight In The Garden of Good And Evil. Many times I have written fictional stories based on fact with imagined dialogue and additional plot twists. I think all writers of fiction do this. I can't speak for memoir writers, but since the mind has a way of playing with time I suspect there is some fact stretching even in memoirs now and again.

In any genre, the write what you know maxim does hold true. If you write about universal human emotions and experiences it will work whether Luke Skywalker is a farm boy on Tatooine wanting to join the Rebel alliance or a Kentucky farm boy during the Civil War or a twenty first century Iowa kid on his way to Iraq. But, remember something has to happen to Luke for the reader to care. And, Luke has to do something about it.

A good writer is a good writer, whatever genre he or she chooses to work in. Writing is a craft, though, as well as a passion. As well as an art. Like any craft, it has to be learned. And must be practiced. That means doing something over and over until you get it write. To paraphrase Mark Twain, the difference between the right word and the wrong word is the difference between lightning and the lightning bug. Good writers must read a lot, too. Talent counts sure, but hard work is essential. That goes for memoir writers as much as anyone else.

I know a man who works only in the memoir genre whose writing is enthralling even if he is just describing his character walking through a bazaar. His well crafted words make you imagine yourself in his shoes and evoke all the senses. His story reeks of the truth of the human experience in a good way. He is a born storyteller who happens to want to tell his own story. And his story is one that I do want to hear since he's an interesting person. So, really, I don't hate memoirs or hold those who write them in contempt. Even though the writer whose post I commented on probably won't believe it.

At the risk of sounding mean again, I think some aspiring writers just get stuck somewhere between a negative emotion and a bad experience and they just can't stop milking it to boredom. They don't have anything to really show us because they haven't made sense of their experience and taken a longer view. They haven't learned and grown and they just want our sympathy for the therapy they think they will get from writing a memoir. Everybody probably does have a story maybe, but maybe not everybody can (or should) tell it. Memoirs are stories after all (or should be) even if of a different sort. Remember the story arc? Beginning, middle, end? How about who wants what? How are they going to get it? Who wants to stop them?

If your true life experience isn't very interesting to anybody but you maybe you should just journal instead. I am ducking and covering here. But, please, aspiring writer, don't take ten pages to describe yourself as "Sally" taking five minutes to look through her pantry and sip tepid tea and look out the window at the snowdrifts in the yard and ignore the ringing phone in her inertia. I don't care how pretty your words are. That scenerio is boring. I don't care if it really happened that way and you/Sally were sad because your boyfriend or husband beat you every winter a decade ago and forbade you to drink tea and you get mopey every time it snows. Give me instead a neighbor desperately trying to warn Sally that a psychotic serial killer has broken out of prison and disappeared into the blizzard the night before, headed right for Sally's farm. Let me know he's just broken into the cellar. Give me a reason to read on. Make one up if nothing more exciting really happened than electricity going off for two hours from ice snapping the power lines. Most people's daily life just isn't interesting enough to record it. Not for a couple hundred years after they've died, maybe. Then after everything has changed mundane life in the past is interesting. Ouch, maybe, but there you have it. My thoughts, take them or leave them.

I'm off now to take the dog for a massage. There's actually a story there, but I am not going to tell it. So you can breath easy. Live long and prosper.