I like the initial meeting of male & female leads in my stories. Sometimes the meetings are happy, funny, embarrassing or downright awful. The following is from "Bad Day", a work in progress. Reva Kelly is a wedding planner. One day, nothing is going right at all. Coming back from lunch, her shoe breaks, hurling her to the ground, breaking her leg. While at the hospital, her assistant & friend, Jane, waits with her in the ER cubicle. Her boss, Mr. Perrine, sends his "personal physician" (his nephew) to check on her.
There was some fumbling with the curtain and a young doctor poked his head in with a grin. "Am I in the right place? I'm looking for Reva Kelly?"
I waved, smirking sardonically. "You've found what's left of me," I grinned shyly.
He eyed me in a more than professional fashion, lingering on my broken ankle. Then his gaze drifted back up to my eyes, focusing there. "Red hair," he murmured.
"And green eyes," I countered. "And you are?"
A brown haired, sun bronzed love god, by the look of him. His eyes were a amber brown with little flecks of gold.
"Sorry, I'm Mr. Perrine's personal physician," he smirked and winked.
"You are really a doctor, aren't you?" This was from Jane. I guess she felt like I did that he looked really young.
"Of course. Doctor Hal Perrine at your service."
"You're related to Mr. Perrine?" Jane was jumping in with all the right questions before I could even formulate them.
"Yes, that's right. His great nephew. My grandfather is his older brother."
"But you are a real doctor?" Jane couldn't let that drop.
"I'm sorry, I didn't get your name?" He held out his hand to her, artificial smile on his face.
"Jane Mercer, her assistant."
"Ms. Mercer, I promise, I'm a bonafide doctor. See? It even says so on my coat." He pointed to his name tag.
"How much experience do you have?"
"Is this a job interview? I came by to be polite and see if Miss Kelly needed anything."
"And I'm very grateful," I interjected.
I don't blame him for being annoyed. I have people think I'm too young for my job too.
"Jane's concerned for my welfare, Dr. Perrine. She takes a sisterly interest in me. We've worked together nearly five years and we're very close."
I smiled sweetly at the doctor and flashed Jane a warning look. Her lips clamped shut on whatever comments she had, but her eyes spoke volumes.
Hal picked up my chart and read through it quickly, nodding and making non-committal noises as he did so. His smile was distracted as he put the file back down.
"Miss Kelly, Uncle Jake is really concerned about you. I've never seen him take such interest in one of his people before. You must be very special."
I shrugged. "No more so than anyone else, I'm sure. Though what use I'll be in a cast, I can't imagine."
"It won't slow you down that much. A little at first until you get used to it. The pain meds will make you groggy though."
"Have you had a broken leg, Doctor?" This from Jane.
"Yes. As a matter of fact, I've broken both legs at different times. Both arms within six months of each other, three ribs, my nose, one wrist and an odd assortment of toes. It's why I became an orthopedic man. After all my fractures, I had a pretty good working knowledge and thought I'd put it to use."
"Were you in car accidents or something?" Jane was amazed at the doctor's list of breaks.
"Mostly clumsy, but also I like extreme sports. I've been sky diving, wind surfing, bungee jumping, snow boarding from helicopters and I like to race dirt bikes."
"Is that how you broke your leg?" I asked, figuring dirt bikes were pretty dangerous.
He glanced away, rubbing his nose distractedly before answering. "Actually, I broke my leg once playing golf and the other time falling out of bed." He blushed, looking more than a little embarrassed. "What? It was a high bed!"
He looked so innocent, I had to laugh. Hal laughed heartily at himself as well. I liked Dr. Hal Perrine. He was handsome, funny and intelligent. Everything I look for in a man. Could I be so brazen as to ask him out? He wasn't wearing a wedding ring. What the hell, I had enough drugs in me to stop a truck.
"Hal," before I lost my nerve. "Maybe some day after I get used to the cast, we could go for a cup of coffee or bungee jumping?"
"No bungee for awhile," he tried to frown and couldn't. "But coffee sounds pretty safe. I haven't broken anything drinking coffee - yet."
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Saturday, August 01, 2009
Quote of the Week from Indian Summer
I've started posting a quote of the week on my Facebook page. However, since not everyone is on Facebook, I decided to start posting on my blogs as well. The following is from my historical novel, "Indian Summer" available from the publisher
http://www.secondwindpublishing.com/ or from Amazon.com
Gabriella Deza is the daughter of the Spanish Territorial Governor. She is young, innocent and naive of the ways between men and women. Manuel, her fiance, is several years older and much more knowledgeable of the baser things in life. This conversation takes place one day when they are driving around town in Manuel's buggy.
"You've a question in your eyes, my love."
I reddened, dropping my gaze. "Am I that obvious?"
"Only to me. Now what is it? There should be no secrets between us."
I pursed my lips and thought of the best way to phrase it. "Well, you know much about me having known my father for so long, but I know so very little about you. Much of what you told me just now, it was about your aunt. Tell me of you."
He smiled pensively. "Very well, and where shall I start?" It was more a rhetorical question, but
I decided to answer him in any case.
"You could begin, with telling me your age." I said, suddenly becoming interested in my shoes. I tossed my head back, looking him squarely in the eye.
His contagious laughter filled the town, echoing off the buildings. "Ah, Bella, I thought you wanted the confessions of all my sins or something the way you're acting. My age? Well I'm older than you but not old enough to be your father."
I stamped my foot, startling the horses. "I'm being serious! You know much about me, nearly my life's story. I know you're an orphan and that you love me and - that you're well appointed."
He laughed even louder. "What a minx you are to say a thing like that! All right, you win. First, you make a guess. How old do you think I am?"
I looked at him appraisingly, considering. "Well, when I first met you, I considered you an old man. I would have said a few months ago that you were in your thirties."
His laughter subsided, a twinkle in his eye."And now?"
I thought again. "Well when you laugh it takes many years off you. But when you're serious, it adds a few years. So I shall go with an average, somewhere in the middle and say three and twenty?"
"Well, I could be, but then again, perhaps not. You've not considered everything, my sweet." He ticked the points off on his fingers, dropping the reins. The mares stopped moving as soon has he set them down. "First, I'm a trusted aide to your father. Second, I'm extremely well educated and I speak several languages fluently."
He winked at me and I tapped him with my parasol lightly on the knee.
"And third?"
He considered a moment. "There is no third. No, I think we have covered the salient points. So, do you still think me three and twenty?"
"Well, given the evidence as listed, I would have to say more like three and thirty." I nodded to emphasize as if I meant it.
His reaction was animated and hilarious. "Three and thirty? Th -" He was incapable of speech for a long time, then very red in the face, he sputtered. "Is that what you really think? What kind of old lecher do you think I am?"
I suppressed a giggle with great difficulty. "I don't think you an old lecher in the least! But if a man of three and thirty were interested in a young lady of fifteen, he would certainly be one. I was teasing, my love. I don't think you're above three and twenty as I originally said." So saying, I sat quietly, waiting for him to speak.
"Well, as I tire of this game, I will tell you."
"You only tire of it because you're coming out poorly." I smiled sweetly.
He waved it off as unimportant. "Be that as it may, and I don't deny that's my motivation in part. I also must get you home soon. Very well, I'm not three and thirty, nor am I three and twenty. Given the ability to speak several languages fluently, as well as some Indian dialects of this area, I worked first as an interpreter. Then I became a liaison. Having other necessary talents, I obtained my position with your father at the ripe old age of seventeen. So therefore, my sweet, I'm a mere child myself."
I counted up the years he had worked for my father. "You're one and twenty!?" I hugged him, regardless of the looks we drew.
His smile widened as he held me closely. "Why is that so wonderful?"
"Well it's silly, really," I giggled, blushing deep red to the roots of my hair. "But I didn't want you to be too old, for fear you would tire of me since I'm still so young."
He took my hands in his. "I assure you, Gabriella, I'd never tire of you were I three and forty."
For other quotes from my other stories, check my Facebook page:
http://www.facebook.com/home.php and
my other blog: http://dellanioakes.wordpress.com/
http://www.secondwindpublishing.com/ or from Amazon.com
Gabriella Deza is the daughter of the Spanish Territorial Governor. She is young, innocent and naive of the ways between men and women. Manuel, her fiance, is several years older and much more knowledgeable of the baser things in life. This conversation takes place one day when they are driving around town in Manuel's buggy.
"You've a question in your eyes, my love."
I reddened, dropping my gaze. "Am I that obvious?"
"Only to me. Now what is it? There should be no secrets between us."
I pursed my lips and thought of the best way to phrase it. "Well, you know much about me having known my father for so long, but I know so very little about you. Much of what you told me just now, it was about your aunt. Tell me of you."
He smiled pensively. "Very well, and where shall I start?" It was more a rhetorical question, but
I decided to answer him in any case.
"You could begin, with telling me your age." I said, suddenly becoming interested in my shoes. I tossed my head back, looking him squarely in the eye.
His contagious laughter filled the town, echoing off the buildings. "Ah, Bella, I thought you wanted the confessions of all my sins or something the way you're acting. My age? Well I'm older than you but not old enough to be your father."
I stamped my foot, startling the horses. "I'm being serious! You know much about me, nearly my life's story. I know you're an orphan and that you love me and - that you're well appointed."
He laughed even louder. "What a minx you are to say a thing like that! All right, you win. First, you make a guess. How old do you think I am?"
I looked at him appraisingly, considering. "Well, when I first met you, I considered you an old man. I would have said a few months ago that you were in your thirties."
His laughter subsided, a twinkle in his eye."And now?"
I thought again. "Well when you laugh it takes many years off you. But when you're serious, it adds a few years. So I shall go with an average, somewhere in the middle and say three and twenty?"
"Well, I could be, but then again, perhaps not. You've not considered everything, my sweet." He ticked the points off on his fingers, dropping the reins. The mares stopped moving as soon has he set them down. "First, I'm a trusted aide to your father. Second, I'm extremely well educated and I speak several languages fluently."
He winked at me and I tapped him with my parasol lightly on the knee.
"And third?"
He considered a moment. "There is no third. No, I think we have covered the salient points. So, do you still think me three and twenty?"
"Well, given the evidence as listed, I would have to say more like three and thirty." I nodded to emphasize as if I meant it.
His reaction was animated and hilarious. "Three and thirty? Th -" He was incapable of speech for a long time, then very red in the face, he sputtered. "Is that what you really think? What kind of old lecher do you think I am?"
I suppressed a giggle with great difficulty. "I don't think you an old lecher in the least! But if a man of three and thirty were interested in a young lady of fifteen, he would certainly be one. I was teasing, my love. I don't think you're above three and twenty as I originally said." So saying, I sat quietly, waiting for him to speak.
"Well, as I tire of this game, I will tell you."
"You only tire of it because you're coming out poorly." I smiled sweetly.
He waved it off as unimportant. "Be that as it may, and I don't deny that's my motivation in part. I also must get you home soon. Very well, I'm not three and thirty, nor am I three and twenty. Given the ability to speak several languages fluently, as well as some Indian dialects of this area, I worked first as an interpreter. Then I became a liaison. Having other necessary talents, I obtained my position with your father at the ripe old age of seventeen. So therefore, my sweet, I'm a mere child myself."
I counted up the years he had worked for my father. "You're one and twenty!?" I hugged him, regardless of the looks we drew.
His smile widened as he held me closely. "Why is that so wonderful?"
"Well it's silly, really," I giggled, blushing deep red to the roots of my hair. "But I didn't want you to be too old, for fear you would tire of me since I'm still so young."
He took my hands in his. "I assure you, Gabriella, I'd never tire of you were I three and forty."
For other quotes from my other stories, check my Facebook page:
http://www.facebook.com/home.php and
my other blog: http://dellanioakes.wordpress.com/
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Oscar Friedman's Freakish Occurence - Part 6
In the words of Lewis Carrol, “Curiouser and curiouser”. Just when Oscar thinks things can’t really get much worse, they do. The GPS goes crazy, carrying him far from his destination, finally bringing him where he needs go. Hoping to find someone he can really talk to about it, he invites Jasmine to go to dinner with him.
Jasmine Bond met Oscar in the hotel lobby at six twenty-five and they went to dinner together. They shared a bottle of wine as they waited for their meal to arrive. Oscar was finally able to relax and unwind after his trying day. He had nearly made up his mind to tell Jasmine how the car had been behaving when their appetizers arrived. Instead, he ate his soup, chatting with Jasmine about her day at work and his book signing. The subject of the car’s behavior didn’t come up.
By dessert, Oscar felt as if he’d known Jasmine his entire life. Slightly buzzed, he gazed into her fabulous blue eyes, smiling rather foolishly. Jasmine, equally as inebriated, smiled back at him.
“You know, I think I’ll have to call a cab to go home. I don’t think I can drive in this condition.”
“Me either,” he chuckled. “You know what I want to do?” He raised his eyebrows like Grouch Marx.
Jasmine laughed, shaking her blonde curls.
“I wanna go dancing. You like to dance?”
“I love to dance! Where can we go?”
“The hotel has a lounge with dancing, sir,” the waitress told them in a quiet voice. “They are open until three.”
“Shank of the evening!” Oscar said more loudly than he meant to.
Handing the waitress a generous tip, he walked unsteadily to the lounge with Jasmine. They danced and drank until the lounge closed. Uncertain that she could get home, Jasmine hesitated at the doorway.
“Come upstairs. I’ll make coffee. Then you can call a cab.”
“Okay,” she agreed. “I like coffee.”
Between the two of them, they got his door open. It took nearly five minutes of laughing and shushing to get the card to work. They collapsed together on the king sized bed, laughing giddily.
“You know what, Bond. Jasmine Bond?”
“Nope. What?”
“I’d really like to kiss you,” Oscar said, suddenly feeling less giddy.
“I’d really like that,” she replied, grabbing his coat collar.
Totally out of character, Oscar found himself not only kissing Jasmine Bond, but doing things on a first date he’d never done before. In a turn of events that caught them both by surprise, they were naked and kissing. Somehow, making love seemed like the right thing to do, so they did. Following an even more logical sequence of events, they tried it again just to make sure they had done it right the first time, only to find that they had.
Jasmine Bond met Oscar in the hotel lobby at six twenty-five and they went to dinner together. They shared a bottle of wine as they waited for their meal to arrive. Oscar was finally able to relax and unwind after his trying day. He had nearly made up his mind to tell Jasmine how the car had been behaving when their appetizers arrived. Instead, he ate his soup, chatting with Jasmine about her day at work and his book signing. The subject of the car’s behavior didn’t come up.
By dessert, Oscar felt as if he’d known Jasmine his entire life. Slightly buzzed, he gazed into her fabulous blue eyes, smiling rather foolishly. Jasmine, equally as inebriated, smiled back at him.
“You know, I think I’ll have to call a cab to go home. I don’t think I can drive in this condition.”
“Me either,” he chuckled. “You know what I want to do?” He raised his eyebrows like Grouch Marx.
Jasmine laughed, shaking her blonde curls.
“I wanna go dancing. You like to dance?”
“I love to dance! Where can we go?”
“The hotel has a lounge with dancing, sir,” the waitress told them in a quiet voice. “They are open until three.”
“Shank of the evening!” Oscar said more loudly than he meant to.
Handing the waitress a generous tip, he walked unsteadily to the lounge with Jasmine. They danced and drank until the lounge closed. Uncertain that she could get home, Jasmine hesitated at the doorway.
“Come upstairs. I’ll make coffee. Then you can call a cab.”
“Okay,” she agreed. “I like coffee.”
Between the two of them, they got his door open. It took nearly five minutes of laughing and shushing to get the card to work. They collapsed together on the king sized bed, laughing giddily.
“You know what, Bond. Jasmine Bond?”
“Nope. What?”
“I’d really like to kiss you,” Oscar said, suddenly feeling less giddy.
“I’d really like that,” she replied, grabbing his coat collar.
Totally out of character, Oscar found himself not only kissing Jasmine Bond, but doing things on a first date he’d never done before. In a turn of events that caught them both by surprise, they were naked and kissing. Somehow, making love seemed like the right thing to do, so they did. Following an even more logical sequence of events, they tried it again just to make sure they had done it right the first time, only to find that they had.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Next Installment of "Oscar Friedman"
The next installment of “Oscar Friedman” is now up at http://secondwindpub.wordpress.com/
Sunday, July 19, 2009
When Something You Write Makes You Cry
I just got done writing one of the saddest books I've ever written. Unusual for me, because most of my work is pretty upbeat. It might be intense or action packed, even hot and steamy, but not sad. I don't mean depressing, because the story is one of hope and it has a happy ending. However, I had a lot of moments when I found myself in tears.
Crazy. I'm the one writing it, and it's making me cry. Does that make sense? When we write something that moves us to tears, is that a fair judge of how our readers will be affected? Does it make us even crazier than we thought we were? Or is it something else?
I like to hope that what I'm writing creates an emotional response in my readers. I want my words to excite them, get their imaginations moving and energize their senses. A story is more than just words on a page. They become meaningless and dull if they don't go somewhere. What if that somewhere is dark, murky, frightening? Or conversely, light, humorous, whimsical? Sometimes that place is sadness, remorse, resignation.
The story I wrote hasn't really got a title yet, so let me give a brief synopsis. Kyle, a 34 year old single father, is still grieving after the death of his wife, Margo. She died from cancer five months prior to the beginning of the book. Haunted by his inability to 'fix' the situation and make her well, he buries himself in work and the responsibilities of raising three children alone. Seeing him heading toward an early grave himself, his boss (who is also a good friend) forces him to take a month off to get himself together.
At his boss' insistence, Kyle books a cruise and takes his children and housekeeper/ friend, Carmelita, with him. The first night at dinner, he meets Emily. Beautiful and vivacious despite the fact that she's recently finished chemo therapy, Emily captures his heart. His children love her, Carmelita likes her, everything is perfect - until he discovers that Emily, too, is dying. By the time he finds out, he's already falling in love.
Kyle's past comes back to haunt him and he makes a disastrous mistake, thus jeopardizing his relationship with Emily. Tortured by guilt and self-doubt, he falls into a very dark, emotional place. It is a story of regret, rebirth, renewed faith, resignation and remembrance. It also made me cry like crazy.
Have you ever written something that worked your emotions like the characters? Maybe you needed a huge box of tissues. Perhaps it made you laugh out loud? Did you feel the thrill of that first meeting or the joy of true love's first kiss? Do you think this makes a fair assessment of reader reaction? Is our emotional involvement simply because we are so in tune with our characters?
Feel free to share your thoughts and opinions!
Dellani Oakes is the author of "Indian Summer" published by Second Wind Publishing.
Crazy. I'm the one writing it, and it's making me cry. Does that make sense? When we write something that moves us to tears, is that a fair judge of how our readers will be affected? Does it make us even crazier than we thought we were? Or is it something else?
I like to hope that what I'm writing creates an emotional response in my readers. I want my words to excite them, get their imaginations moving and energize their senses. A story is more than just words on a page. They become meaningless and dull if they don't go somewhere. What if that somewhere is dark, murky, frightening? Or conversely, light, humorous, whimsical? Sometimes that place is sadness, remorse, resignation.
The story I wrote hasn't really got a title yet, so let me give a brief synopsis. Kyle, a 34 year old single father, is still grieving after the death of his wife, Margo. She died from cancer five months prior to the beginning of the book. Haunted by his inability to 'fix' the situation and make her well, he buries himself in work and the responsibilities of raising three children alone. Seeing him heading toward an early grave himself, his boss (who is also a good friend) forces him to take a month off to get himself together.
At his boss' insistence, Kyle books a cruise and takes his children and housekeeper/ friend, Carmelita, with him. The first night at dinner, he meets Emily. Beautiful and vivacious despite the fact that she's recently finished chemo therapy, Emily captures his heart. His children love her, Carmelita likes her, everything is perfect - until he discovers that Emily, too, is dying. By the time he finds out, he's already falling in love.
Kyle's past comes back to haunt him and he makes a disastrous mistake, thus jeopardizing his relationship with Emily. Tortured by guilt and self-doubt, he falls into a very dark, emotional place. It is a story of regret, rebirth, renewed faith, resignation and remembrance. It also made me cry like crazy.
Have you ever written something that worked your emotions like the characters? Maybe you needed a huge box of tissues. Perhaps it made you laugh out loud? Did you feel the thrill of that first meeting or the joy of true love's first kiss? Do you think this makes a fair assessment of reader reaction? Is our emotional involvement simply because we are so in tune with our characters?
Feel free to share your thoughts and opinions!
Dellani Oakes is the author of "Indian Summer" published by Second Wind Publishing.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Dellani's Quote for the Week
This is something I started on Facebook a couple of months ago. I was doing them daily, but that gets to be outrageously difficult. This is from a work in progress that hasn't got a title yet. It's currently named "Chase" after the main character.
Tracey was very subdued the rest of the drive. Standing in front of my house, she collapsed in my arms.
"Why does Ted keep doing things to me? Why can't he leave me alone?" She wailed.
"Because assholes like Ted want to win at any cost. The more vulnerable their target, the better they like it. Comes from having low self-esteem and a tiny winky," I said that with the straightest face I could.
Tracey stopped crying, staring at me incredulously. "You're not serious?"
"Compensating." I held my fingers about three inches apart.
She giggled, tossing her long, red hair over her shoulder. "And you wouldn't know anything about compensating?" She patted my car's sleek fender.
"Me? Nope. That's advertising."
I leaned back, stretching so she got a good, long look at my pants. I ran my hand up under my shirt so the washboard abs showed. Tracey laughed, kissing my cheek.
"How can you do that?"
"Do what?" I opened the door to the house.
"Make me quit focusing on how miserable I am."
"Completely selfish, I assure you." I pulled her to me as if we were dancing. "When you're focused on your problems, you can't focus on me."
Tracey was very subdued the rest of the drive. Standing in front of my house, she collapsed in my arms.
"Why does Ted keep doing things to me? Why can't he leave me alone?" She wailed.
"Because assholes like Ted want to win at any cost. The more vulnerable their target, the better they like it. Comes from having low self-esteem and a tiny winky," I said that with the straightest face I could.
Tracey stopped crying, staring at me incredulously. "You're not serious?"
"Compensating." I held my fingers about three inches apart.
She giggled, tossing her long, red hair over her shoulder. "And you wouldn't know anything about compensating?" She patted my car's sleek fender.
"Me? Nope. That's advertising."
I leaned back, stretching so she got a good, long look at my pants. I ran my hand up under my shirt so the washboard abs showed. Tracey laughed, kissing my cheek.
"How can you do that?"
"Do what?" I opened the door to the house.
"Make me quit focusing on how miserable I am."
"Completely selfish, I assure you." I pulled her to me as if we were dancing. "When you're focused on your problems, you can't focus on me."
Monday, June 15, 2009
The Lone Wolf Gives Exclusive Interview!
Wil VanLipsig, also known as the Lone Wolf, gives an exclusive interview at Second Wind's blog.
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
Pierre Roustan Is My Guest Blogger
Today, I am delighted to have Pierre Roustan, author of "The Cain Letters", as my guest blogger. Recently, he was fortunate enough to cross paths with Alexandra Glade. Below an exclusive interview.
Only in the author’s private world can an audience really see the fantasy become a reality. Here, you have that opportunity to see my fantasy become your reality—
I took a step into her world, my heroine’s world. I sat down at the table and across from me was her, my main character. A woman named Alexandra Glade. Here, you will read her story. A story she has told me many times. But let me tell you—it was worth it to hear her story that many times or else I wouldn’t have been able to pay homage to her with my first novel THE CAIN LETTERS. Enjoy.
Pierre: So…Miss…Glade?
Alexandra: Alexandra Glade. Yes.
Alexandra: Alexandra Glade. Yes.
Pierre: It’s a pleasure having you here on such short notice and in such a, uhh…dark part of town here.
Alexandra: The location is necessary. Trust me. At least for the likes of me. I prefer darkness.
Alexandra: The location is necessary. Trust me. At least for the likes of me. I prefer darkness.
Pierre: Fair enough. Okay. Well. Let’s start then. I feel like I have a slammin’ story coming my way.
Alexandra: I should hope so, friend.
Alexandra: I should hope so, friend.
Pierre: All right, first question—if you can please our readers with this answer, where are you from?
Alexandra: London, England.
Alexandra: London, England.
Pierre: Where do you live currently?
Alexandra: Everywhere.
Alexandra: Everywhere.
Pierre: ..... Everywhere? Ooooor nowhere? Maybe?
Alexandra: I mean what I said—everywhere. I’ve lived in London, Paris, Mexico, Australia, Africa, all over your United States. Russia. Poland.
Alexandra: I mean what I said—everywhere. I’ve lived in London, Paris, Mexico, Australia, Africa, all over your United States. Russia. Poland.
Pierre: W…wow. How the hell do you get mail?
Alexandra: I don’t. Usually. I do have an apartment, but I’m rarely there. Typically maybe one week a year I reside there.
Alexandra: I don’t. Usually. I do have an apartment, but I’m rarely there. Typically maybe one week a year I reside there.
Pierre: And what do you do for a living then that allows you to live in so many places around the world?
Alexandra: I am a hunter.
Alexandra: I am a hunter.
Pierre: A hunter? Just a hunter? What do you hunt?
Alexandra: Vampires mostly.
Alexandra: Vampires mostly.
Pierre: What?? Come again??
Alexandra: Mostly. Evil creatures that mean us harm, that defy and stand against God.
Alexandra: Mostly. Evil creatures that mean us harm, that defy and stand against God.
Pierre: So a vampire hunter. For God?
Alexandra: In a manner of speaking, yes. I work for the Vatican, specifically. Although many other churches, sects and organizations have hired me to handle issues of a somewhat demonic nature.
Alexandra: In a manner of speaking, yes. I work for the Vatican, specifically. Although many other churches, sects and organizations have hired me to handle issues of a somewhat demonic nature.
Pierre: Oh, so, like, exorcisms or ‘ghostbusting’ and stuff like that?
Alexandra: Never had to do any ‘ghostbusting’ or even exorcisms. But I have had a conversation with the possessed before. One I care not to remember.
Alexandra: Never had to do any ‘ghostbusting’ or even exorcisms. But I have had a conversation with the possessed before. One I care not to remember.
Pierre: Forgive me. All right. Next question: what are your qualifications as a hunter? Sounds like a pretty high-profile position. Not something you’d find in the Grand Rapids Press, you know what I mean?
Alexandra: I was trained by an ancient organization of warriors known as the Berith Lochem. We are Warriors of the Three Trinity Lines. Our founder was Nimrod himself. From the Book of Genesis?
Alexandra: I was trained by an ancient organization of warriors known as the Berith Lochem. We are Warriors of the Three Trinity Lines. Our founder was Nimrod himself. From the Book of Genesis?
Pierre: Wow! Book of Genesis.... Wow. My Scripture knowledge is a little shaky—
Alexandra: He was a great hunter for the Lord. He began the Berith Lochem to fight evil.
Alexandra: He was a great hunter for the Lord. He began the Berith Lochem to fight evil.
Pierre: And what does ‘Berith Lochem’ mean? Sounds like a language I’ve never heard.
Alexandra: It means ‘Divine Covenant’. Hebrew.
Alexandra: It means ‘Divine Covenant’. Hebrew.
Pierre: Interesting. Okay. And what kind of training are we talking about?
Alexandra: These days really do call for a more extensive regimen: weapons and tactics, martial arts, vampiric theory and culture as well. Our training is the equivalent of a United States Navy S.E.A.L. or Marine or K.G.B. operative. We are trained to kill.
Alexandra: These days really do call for a more extensive regimen: weapons and tactics, martial arts, vampiric theory and culture as well. Our training is the equivalent of a United States Navy S.E.A.L. or Marine or K.G.B. operative. We are trained to kill.
Pierre: …. Okay. All righty.
Alexandra: Do you have any more questions for me?
Alexandra: Do you have any more questions for me?
Pierre: Umm.... Sure. I suppose.
Alexandra: Then fire away.
Alexandra: Then fire away.
Pierre: ( laughs nervously) I’ll do my best there, Miss Glade—although you probably have more experience than I do at ‘firing away’.
Alexandra: (she smiles) Well, I do love a firearm. But my weapon of choice does tend to be a blade.
Alexandra: (she smiles) Well, I do love a firearm. But my weapon of choice does tend to be a blade.
Pierre: (laughs nervously again) So…Miss Glade.... Do you have many friends?
Alexandra: Some. My friends, though, tend to also be comrades, other hunters that stand by me.
Alexandra: Some. My friends, though, tend to also be comrades, other hunters that stand by me.
Pierre: And how do they see you?
Alexandra: I would hope a woman they can trust.
Alexandra: I would hope a woman they can trust.
Pierre: And your enemies? How do they see you?
Alexandra: Someone they cannot trust. At all.
Alexandra: Someone they cannot trust. At all.
Pierre: Because you hunt them down and kill ‘em, right?
Alexandra: If they break the Code, yes.
Alexandra: If they break the Code, yes.
Pierre: The Code. What is…the ‘Code’?
Alexandra: Dear Mr. Roustan. Dear Mr. Roustan…so sheltered from the truth. You must know…vampires exist. And they are a community. A nation. And they have their laws. Regardless of what Hollywood has to say about vampires, it is true that even the darkest of shadows have their morality. Even demons have decrees they must follow. It just so happens that vampires, these days, have a Code that respects humankind. And hunters, we must respect it, too.
Alexandra: Dear Mr. Roustan. Dear Mr. Roustan…so sheltered from the truth. You must know…vampires exist. And they are a community. A nation. And they have their laws. Regardless of what Hollywood has to say about vampires, it is true that even the darkest of shadows have their morality. Even demons have decrees they must follow. It just so happens that vampires, these days, have a Code that respects humankind. And hunters, we must respect it, too.
Pierre: You’re saying vampires are not allowed to kill? Right? I thought they had to in order to drink blood.
Alexandra: Some vampires, ‘rogues’ we call them, feel they need to. But the truth is…they don’t. To feed is not to kill. In fact, in this day and age, moral vampires feed on ‘consenting adults’. They do not break any laws. Therefore, we must refrain from killing them. The ‘rogues’, or even lesser breeds without self-control, we hunt down and kill because they violate their own Code and take away human life.
Alexandra: Some vampires, ‘rogues’ we call them, feel they need to. But the truth is…they don’t. To feed is not to kill. In fact, in this day and age, moral vampires feed on ‘consenting adults’. They do not break any laws. Therefore, we must refrain from killing them. The ‘rogues’, or even lesser breeds without self-control, we hunt down and kill because they violate their own Code and take away human life.
Pierre: Wow…and how can you tell you’re facing a ‘rogue’?
Alexandra: Usually…they try to kill me. Before it would come to that, though, I receive intel from ‘reliable’ sources about my targets. Usually, I never initiate a hunt on a noble vampire. Usually.
Alexandra: Usually…they try to kill me. Before it would come to that, though, I receive intel from ‘reliable’ sources about my targets. Usually, I never initiate a hunt on a noble vampire. Usually.
Pierre: So I take it hunting vampires is what makes you happy?
Alexandra: In the name of God…most definitely, yes.
Alexandra: In the name of God…most definitely, yes.
Pierre: (clears throat) And…what makes you sad?
Alexandra: (pauses) …. Many things. Friends I’ve lost....
Alexandra: (pauses) …. Many things. Friends I’ve lost....
Pierre: Any regrets?
Alexandra: More than I can count with my fingers.
Alexandra: More than I can count with my fingers.
Pierre: Sorry to touch on a fragile subject there.... Don’t mean to—
Alexandra: Nothing to be ashamed of. This is an interview after all.
Alexandra: Nothing to be ashamed of. This is an interview after all.
Pierre: It most certainly is, Miss Glade. It most certainly is…. One more question then….
Alexandra: Fire away.
Alexandra: Fire away.
Pierre: …. How do you see your future?
Alexandra: Look around you. I picked this location for a reason….
Alexandra: Look around you. I picked this location for a reason….
A Little Bit About "The Cain Letters"
All legends have beginnings— some are worth remembering -- others are better left to darkness.
When college student, Marcus Brennan, discovers an ancient book revealing the origin of vampirism, all hell breaks loose not just in his life but for the world around him. He is holding the ultimate weapon two master vampires desire more than blood. The weapon that will give them the power to rule the Vampire Nation and all mankind alike.
It is up to Alexandra Glade, fierce and radiant vampire hunter, and her team, the Berith Lochem, to find and protect Marcus in order to prevent the unthinkable…
It is up to Alexandra Glade, fierce and radiant vampire hunter, and her team, the Berith Lochem, to find and protect Marcus in order to prevent the unthinkable…
… The awakening of Cain.
Sunday, June 07, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Check it out!
Please have a look at my story, "Oscar Friedman's Freakish Occurence" featured now at Secondwind Publishing. Dellani
Monday, May 18, 2009
Guest Blogger - Ann Stanmore
Iam pleased to host Ann Stanmore, one of the delightful writers from Red River Writers Blog Tour. I’ll let Ann tell you a little bit about herself, because she can tell it so much better than I.
I retired from my job as a buyer for smart cards two years ago after staying an extra two years. I am now 69. I am a fun loving person and my book reflects that. It was written with the hope of brightening someone’s day. I have thoroughly enjoyed writing my first book and have in fact started on a second.
I am a firm believer that every cloud may not have a silver lining but certainly has a funny side.
I have always loved books and stories and used to make up my own stories to tell my children at bedtime, something my parents did for me and that inspired my love of reading and now writing.
I lead a busy life as apart from my writing, I am a Tree Warden for the Royal Borough of Windsor & Maidenhead, I am also secretary of the Social Club where I live, and also help at a teenage group for youngsters who would otherwise be roaming the streets.
Ann's book is "Well It Was Fun" available at: http://www.booksbyann.co.uk/
I retired from my job as a buyer for smart cards two years ago after staying an extra two years. I am now 69. I am a fun loving person and my book reflects that. It was written with the hope of brightening someone’s day. I have thoroughly enjoyed writing my first book and have in fact started on a second.
I am a firm believer that every cloud may not have a silver lining but certainly has a funny side.
I have always loved books and stories and used to make up my own stories to tell my children at bedtime, something my parents did for me and that inspired my love of reading and now writing.
I lead a busy life as apart from my writing, I am a Tree Warden for the Royal Borough of Windsor & Maidenhead, I am also secretary of the Social Club where I live, and also help at a teenage group for youngsters who would otherwise be roaming the streets.
Ann's book is "Well It Was Fun" available at: http://www.booksbyann.co.uk/
Ann Stanmore
My Dad he was a lovely man, he always made me smile
He would take me on his bike, and for a little while
I’d sit upon his crossbar and keep my legs out wide
We’d look out for the policeman, is he coming up the side
The policeman played a great big drum in the village band
He’d bang it really hard, the drumstick in his hand
If you went out Sunday morn, he always could be seen
Banging on his big old drum on the village green
Read on and you will not fail
To hear about this little tale…………….
If the weather was fine, Dad would take me out on his pushbike. This was a real delight for me, and I would be so excited when I knew we were going out. At first we didn’t have a seat for me, so I sat on the crossbar with instructions from Dad to stick my legs out so they were away from the spokes. I understood that we were being naughty because we really should have had a seat for me, but Dad explained that there were varying degrees of naughtiness and this wasn’t one of the bad ones. However, he did tell me he would get a seat for me as soon as they had enough money for one.
It wasn’t until I was grown up that I realised the importance of these bike rides. Mum and Dad tried to take me out as much as possible because the living conditions where we were at that time were pretty appalling. We had a back yard area that was used by all the houses in the terrace and had toilets (or privvies as we called them) in a row at the end of the yard. Each house had their own but they were horrible places and had to be emptied because there was no flush toilets there then. Some people had flush toilets. My Grandma Bramley did, and it was lovely when we went to her house to go to a nice, light and clean place where you pulled a chain and it all went away! My Grandma Ratcliffe didn’t have this luxury unfortunately, we had to go down the garden there but it was nicer than the one we had in that yard, where although each family had their own, some people would use any one.
Dad also used to take me when I was a little older, to watch Loughborough playing football on a Saturday afternoon. I loved this and sometimes, if it was crowded and I couldn’t see, Dad would lift me up on his shoulders. I didn’t really understand the rules of the game then, just knew our side had to score goals, but it was being out with my Dad that was great. The fact that we were watching Loughborough Brush was secondary!
Anyway, back to this tale. We would go out into the countryside and find a nice green area and play ball. I loved sitting there as we whizzed along the road. Dad would show me the little wild flowers and we would listen to the birds singing. It was a magical time for me and I loved every minute. Being out with my Dad was really the best thing ever. Dad always made things funny and we used to laugh a lot. He was still doing this when he was an old man in a nursing home. All the nurses used to be in stitches.
However, back to the story……Well, in the meantime, I had instructions to keep my eyes open for the village bobby. As mentioned earlier, this gentleman played in the village band in his spare time and could be seen on Sundays in the bandstand on the park playing his drum. Once he was playing in the band with his big drum out in the street. I think it was a march for something and the band was going down the high street. Anyway, he spotted Dad with me on his bike and put down his drum and chased us down the road waving his drumstick at us!! Dad would be laughing and I started to giggle. Oh my naughty Dad, how I loved you.
Actually, I found out later that Dad and the policeman were friends, but he couldn’t let Dad off without making it known he disapproved of his actions. Thankfully, it wasn’t long before I was sitting on a proper bike seat but secretly, I was a bit disappointed! Nothing like being naughty with your Dad’s approval.
It really isn’t surprising that one of my favourite things even when I was fully grown up, married and had children of my own, was riding my bike. In fact, it was only arthritis that made me stop when I was in my forties. Something I miss. I would bike for miles and miles. There is a special kind of freedom cycling along the country roads, I never tired of it. Sometimes when I see a dad with a son or daughter cycling down the road, I remember those magical times.
See what you started Dad!!
Lots of fun was had when I learnt to ride my first bike but that’s another story in another part of this book…..
He would take me on his bike, and for a little while
I’d sit upon his crossbar and keep my legs out wide
We’d look out for the policeman, is he coming up the side
The policeman played a great big drum in the village band
He’d bang it really hard, the drumstick in his hand
If you went out Sunday morn, he always could be seen
Banging on his big old drum on the village green
Read on and you will not fail
To hear about this little tale…………….
If the weather was fine, Dad would take me out on his pushbike. This was a real delight for me, and I would be so excited when I knew we were going out. At first we didn’t have a seat for me, so I sat on the crossbar with instructions from Dad to stick my legs out so they were away from the spokes. I understood that we were being naughty because we really should have had a seat for me, but Dad explained that there were varying degrees of naughtiness and this wasn’t one of the bad ones. However, he did tell me he would get a seat for me as soon as they had enough money for one.
It wasn’t until I was grown up that I realised the importance of these bike rides. Mum and Dad tried to take me out as much as possible because the living conditions where we were at that time were pretty appalling. We had a back yard area that was used by all the houses in the terrace and had toilets (or privvies as we called them) in a row at the end of the yard. Each house had their own but they were horrible places and had to be emptied because there was no flush toilets there then. Some people had flush toilets. My Grandma Bramley did, and it was lovely when we went to her house to go to a nice, light and clean place where you pulled a chain and it all went away! My Grandma Ratcliffe didn’t have this luxury unfortunately, we had to go down the garden there but it was nicer than the one we had in that yard, where although each family had their own, some people would use any one.
Dad also used to take me when I was a little older, to watch Loughborough playing football on a Saturday afternoon. I loved this and sometimes, if it was crowded and I couldn’t see, Dad would lift me up on his shoulders. I didn’t really understand the rules of the game then, just knew our side had to score goals, but it was being out with my Dad that was great. The fact that we were watching Loughborough Brush was secondary!
Anyway, back to this tale. We would go out into the countryside and find a nice green area and play ball. I loved sitting there as we whizzed along the road. Dad would show me the little wild flowers and we would listen to the birds singing. It was a magical time for me and I loved every minute. Being out with my Dad was really the best thing ever. Dad always made things funny and we used to laugh a lot. He was still doing this when he was an old man in a nursing home. All the nurses used to be in stitches.
However, back to the story……Well, in the meantime, I had instructions to keep my eyes open for the village bobby. As mentioned earlier, this gentleman played in the village band in his spare time and could be seen on Sundays in the bandstand on the park playing his drum. Once he was playing in the band with his big drum out in the street. I think it was a march for something and the band was going down the high street. Anyway, he spotted Dad with me on his bike and put down his drum and chased us down the road waving his drumstick at us!! Dad would be laughing and I started to giggle. Oh my naughty Dad, how I loved you.
Actually, I found out later that Dad and the policeman were friends, but he couldn’t let Dad off without making it known he disapproved of his actions. Thankfully, it wasn’t long before I was sitting on a proper bike seat but secretly, I was a bit disappointed! Nothing like being naughty with your Dad’s approval.
It really isn’t surprising that one of my favourite things even when I was fully grown up, married and had children of my own, was riding my bike. In fact, it was only arthritis that made me stop when I was in my forties. Something I miss. I would bike for miles and miles. There is a special kind of freedom cycling along the country roads, I never tired of it. Sometimes when I see a dad with a son or daughter cycling down the road, I remember those magical times.
See what you started Dad!!
Lots of fun was had when I learnt to ride my first bike but that’s another story in another part of this book…..
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Dellani's Quote for the Week
The following is a scene from one of my crime/ romance novels. It hasn't got a proper name yet, I just called it "Chase" after the main character. I liked this exchange and wanted to share it as a sample of dialog pacing.
Tracey was very subdued the rest of the drive. Standing in front of my house, she collapsed in my arms.
"Chase, why does Ted keep doing things to me? Why can't he leave me alone?" She wailed.
"Because assholes like Ted want to win at any cost. The more vulnerable their target, the better they like it. Comes from having low self-esteem and a tiny winky." I said that with the straightest face I could.
Tracey stopped crying, staring at me incredulously. "You're not serious?"
"Compensating." I held my fingers about three inches apart.
She giggled, tossing her long, red hair over her shoulder. "And you wouldn't know anything about compensating?" She patted the Jag's sleek fender.
"Me? Nope. That's advertising."
Tracey was very subdued the rest of the drive. Standing in front of my house, she collapsed in my arms.
"Chase, why does Ted keep doing things to me? Why can't he leave me alone?" She wailed.
"Because assholes like Ted want to win at any cost. The more vulnerable their target, the better they like it. Comes from having low self-esteem and a tiny winky." I said that with the straightest face I could.
Tracey stopped crying, staring at me incredulously. "You're not serious?"
"Compensating." I held my fingers about three inches apart.
She giggled, tossing her long, red hair over her shoulder. "And you wouldn't know anything about compensating?" She patted the Jag's sleek fender.
"Me? Nope. That's advertising."
Saturday, May 02, 2009
Keys
There is a pesky vortex in my house that takes keys. It must have a really sick sense of humor, because they are always missing. It seems most fond of mens' keys because my husband and 2 older sons can never find theirs.
Generally, the key vortex leaves mine alone. Either it can't locate them in my purse, or it's afraid of me. On the rare occasion that it does take my keys, it's because one of the males has handled them. Since it has a healthy respect for my abilities, it usually gives them back without a fight.
The same cannot be said for the keys of my husband and sons. It always takes forever for them to locate their lost keys. Until I join the hunt, the keys stay missing.
Sometimes all it takes is for me to say, "Have you looked in the pocket of your dirty jeans? Did you check your uniform? Could you have left them in the bathroom?" Other times, I must also join the hunt. The vortex always gives them back right away when I start looking. That's why I suspect it's afraid of me.
Once in awhile, my pesky vortex gets tired of hiding keys and takes my husband's glasses instead. It's much more clever where those are concerned. Even with me in the hunt, they aren't always located right away. The vortex has left them in some pretty odd places. On top of the microwave, out in the garage and once in the refrigerator. One night when he was getting ready for work, his glasses were missing. Even with me in the hunt, the vortex didn't give them back. He had to go to work without them. We didn't find them for several days, so my husband went and got new ones.
Of course, as soon as the new glasses were in the house, the old ones showed up in a place we had already looked several times; on top of a bronze colored box on the dresser, much the same color as the glasses. Clever vortex employed camouflage that time. Now, however, the new ones have disappeared and even my excellent powers of persuasion and perception can't locate them.
I really wish the vortex would go haunt a different household. Every time he strikes, I get blamed. I can't imagine why when I'm the one who finds the missing objects. Does my family think I hide things for fun? I have more important things to do than hide and locate their keys. Until such time as the vortex gets tired of tormenting me, I'm stuck with him. I hope maybe when my kids move out, he'll follow them instead of staying with me. Then again, I'll still have my husband, so I guess I'm stuck with the vortex for life.
Generally, the key vortex leaves mine alone. Either it can't locate them in my purse, or it's afraid of me. On the rare occasion that it does take my keys, it's because one of the males has handled them. Since it has a healthy respect for my abilities, it usually gives them back without a fight.
The same cannot be said for the keys of my husband and sons. It always takes forever for them to locate their lost keys. Until I join the hunt, the keys stay missing.
Sometimes all it takes is for me to say, "Have you looked in the pocket of your dirty jeans? Did you check your uniform? Could you have left them in the bathroom?" Other times, I must also join the hunt. The vortex always gives them back right away when I start looking. That's why I suspect it's afraid of me.
Once in awhile, my pesky vortex gets tired of hiding keys and takes my husband's glasses instead. It's much more clever where those are concerned. Even with me in the hunt, they aren't always located right away. The vortex has left them in some pretty odd places. On top of the microwave, out in the garage and once in the refrigerator. One night when he was getting ready for work, his glasses were missing. Even with me in the hunt, the vortex didn't give them back. He had to go to work without them. We didn't find them for several days, so my husband went and got new ones.
Of course, as soon as the new glasses were in the house, the old ones showed up in a place we had already looked several times; on top of a bronze colored box on the dresser, much the same color as the glasses. Clever vortex employed camouflage that time. Now, however, the new ones have disappeared and even my excellent powers of persuasion and perception can't locate them.
I really wish the vortex would go haunt a different household. Every time he strikes, I get blamed. I can't imagine why when I'm the one who finds the missing objects. Does my family think I hide things for fun? I have more important things to do than hide and locate their keys. Until such time as the vortex gets tired of tormenting me, I'm stuck with him. I hope maybe when my kids move out, he'll follow them instead of staying with me. Then again, I'll still have my husband, so I guess I'm stuck with the vortex for life.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Check it out!
Hi folks! I'm guest blogging on Velda Brotherton's blogs today. Drop by and check it out! http://vbrotherton.blogspot.com/ and http://www.veldabrotherton.com/
Saturday, April 18, 2009
The Politics of Marriage
For my writing group last week, our topic was politics. Now, I don't know diddly about politics because hypocrasy and double speak make my head spin. So this is how I chose to handle the subject instead.
"Honey! Where are my cuff links?" Brodie called to his wife from the huge walk-in closet.
"Wherever you left them, honey!" She answered from the dressing room.
"I left them right here on top of the dresser."
"Then they're still there."
"They aren't! Where did you put them?"
Cassandra walked out of the dressing room in her underwear and stockings. "I haven't touched them. What do I need with a pair of cuff links?"
"I don't know! But they aren't where...." He found them, swallowing his angry comment.
Smirking, his petite, redheaded wife walked back in the dressing room. She came out a moment later in a sleek, tight fitting black sheath dress with black, strapless pumps on her feet.
"How do I look?"
He glanced at her, admiring the view, until she turned around. The dress didn't fit well across her rear end.
"Well, it's a little too formal, don't you think?"
"Sweetheart, nothing is too formal for one of your mother's big bashes."
"Maybe you'd look better in the sapphire blue dress you wore at our wedding reception?"
"Brodie, what's wrong with you? You're flushed. Are you ill?"
"No, fine." He dug at his shirt collar, trying to loosen his tie.
"Is there something wrong with my dress?"
"Well...." He held out his hands helplessly. "It doesn't fit like it did a couple months ago."
She put her hands on her hips, glaring at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means... well, sweetheart, in all honesty, it's a little snug."
"Snug? You mean it makes me look fat?" She turned her rear end to the mirror, staring over her shoulder. "Oh, my God! I look like a Hummer! My butt looks like the front end of a truck! And you were going to let me go to Lena's house in this? Malcolm Wallace Brodie!" She took off her shoes, throwing them at him.
"I suggested the blue dress for a reason," he said, ducking. "I didn't want to hurt your feelings. Cassandra!"
She slammed the closet door in his face. "Don't talk to me!"
"Honey, you're three months pregnant. Of course things aren't going to fit exactly like they did a couple months ago."
"I get it. I'm fat. Fat, fat, fat! Well it's your fault!" She bellowed from the closet.
"I wasn't the only one there," he mumbled, taking a step or two away from the closet door.
"I heard that!" She came out of the closet dressed in her bathrobe and slippers. "I'm staying home."
"Sweetie. Cassandra, you can't. Mom's expecting you. Us...."
"I can do anything I want. I don't have to go just because Lena expects it."
"Wear that pretty red dress you wore to Reva's wedding.... Or the one you wore to the opening last month. That was really cute."
"I don't want to go now. You said I looked fat."
"No, honey, I said .... you look beautiful, Cassandra. Please, come with me. You'll look gorgeous no matter what you wear. In fact, you could go in your robe and slippers and look better than any other woman there - even Lena."
"Your mother is a super model, Brodie."
He could tell she was softening. Pushing his advantage, he took her in his arms, holding her close. "I've seen pictures of Mom when she was pregnant with me. You totally blow her away. Do you know she gained nearly 75 pounds with me?"
"No! Lena? You're kidding!"
"Porked out. She was huge. Of course, I've never pointed that out."
"That wouldn't have been nice."
"You know what dress I'd like you to wear?"
"Which one?" She snuggled next to him, playing with his tie.
"That pink one you wore the day we met."
"That was a business suit. I can't wear that to a party."
"Well, maybe you'd like to wear this instead?" He reached into the top of the closet producing a dress box.
Cassandra's eyes glowed as she fumbled with the lid. "Oh, Brodie! It's beautiful! When did you buy this?"
"I got it the day after you told me you were expecting. I wanted it to be a surprise."
She held up the bright blue dress. The lines were free flowing, the material light and airy. It brought out the color of her eyes, setting off her red hair.
"You know what makes me the happiest?" He said as he helped her dress.
"No, what?"
"It's now a perfect fit." Kissing her, he thanked God he was well versed in the art of diplomacy.
"Honey! Where are my cuff links?" Brodie called to his wife from the huge walk-in closet.
"Wherever you left them, honey!" She answered from the dressing room.
"I left them right here on top of the dresser."
"Then they're still there."
"They aren't! Where did you put them?"
Cassandra walked out of the dressing room in her underwear and stockings. "I haven't touched them. What do I need with a pair of cuff links?"
"I don't know! But they aren't where...." He found them, swallowing his angry comment.
Smirking, his petite, redheaded wife walked back in the dressing room. She came out a moment later in a sleek, tight fitting black sheath dress with black, strapless pumps on her feet.
"How do I look?"
He glanced at her, admiring the view, until she turned around. The dress didn't fit well across her rear end.
"Well, it's a little too formal, don't you think?"
"Sweetheart, nothing is too formal for one of your mother's big bashes."
"Maybe you'd look better in the sapphire blue dress you wore at our wedding reception?"
"Brodie, what's wrong with you? You're flushed. Are you ill?"
"No, fine." He dug at his shirt collar, trying to loosen his tie.
"Is there something wrong with my dress?"
"Well...." He held out his hands helplessly. "It doesn't fit like it did a couple months ago."
She put her hands on her hips, glaring at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means... well, sweetheart, in all honesty, it's a little snug."
"Snug? You mean it makes me look fat?" She turned her rear end to the mirror, staring over her shoulder. "Oh, my God! I look like a Hummer! My butt looks like the front end of a truck! And you were going to let me go to Lena's house in this? Malcolm Wallace Brodie!" She took off her shoes, throwing them at him.
"I suggested the blue dress for a reason," he said, ducking. "I didn't want to hurt your feelings. Cassandra!"
She slammed the closet door in his face. "Don't talk to me!"
"Honey, you're three months pregnant. Of course things aren't going to fit exactly like they did a couple months ago."
"I get it. I'm fat. Fat, fat, fat! Well it's your fault!" She bellowed from the closet.
"I wasn't the only one there," he mumbled, taking a step or two away from the closet door.
"I heard that!" She came out of the closet dressed in her bathrobe and slippers. "I'm staying home."
"Sweetie. Cassandra, you can't. Mom's expecting you. Us...."
"I can do anything I want. I don't have to go just because Lena expects it."
"Wear that pretty red dress you wore to Reva's wedding.... Or the one you wore to the opening last month. That was really cute."
"I don't want to go now. You said I looked fat."
"No, honey, I said .... you look beautiful, Cassandra. Please, come with me. You'll look gorgeous no matter what you wear. In fact, you could go in your robe and slippers and look better than any other woman there - even Lena."
"Your mother is a super model, Brodie."
He could tell she was softening. Pushing his advantage, he took her in his arms, holding her close. "I've seen pictures of Mom when she was pregnant with me. You totally blow her away. Do you know she gained nearly 75 pounds with me?"
"No! Lena? You're kidding!"
"Porked out. She was huge. Of course, I've never pointed that out."
"That wouldn't have been nice."
"You know what dress I'd like you to wear?"
"Which one?" She snuggled next to him, playing with his tie.
"That pink one you wore the day we met."
"That was a business suit. I can't wear that to a party."
"Well, maybe you'd like to wear this instead?" He reached into the top of the closet producing a dress box.
Cassandra's eyes glowed as she fumbled with the lid. "Oh, Brodie! It's beautiful! When did you buy this?"
"I got it the day after you told me you were expecting. I wanted it to be a surprise."
She held up the bright blue dress. The lines were free flowing, the material light and airy. It brought out the color of her eyes, setting off her red hair.
"You know what makes me the happiest?" He said as he helped her dress.
"No, what?"
"It's now a perfect fit." Kissing her, he thanked God he was well versed in the art of diplomacy.
Friday, April 03, 2009
Excerpt from "Savage Heart"
Although this is from later in the book, I liked the interplay between the two characters so much, I decided to post it. This is from the sequel to "Indian Summer" called "Savage Heart" Manuel is the hero of "Indian Summer". Sailfish is his Indian blood brother. They are on a mission to spy on and infiltrate General Oglethorpe's troops. ~ Dellani
CHAPTER TEN
Eighth May, 1740
CHAPTER TEN
Eighth May, 1740
The sun was high in the sky as Sailfish and Manuel trudged through the tall river grass along the shore. This part of the country was much less traveled than some others. Mosquitoes rose
from the brush and rushes, feasting on their unprotected skin. Stinging flies swarmed around them, landing on the exposed pieces of skin that weren't covered by mosquitoes.
Swatting uselessly, Manuel led the way. "I'll be covered in welts and drained of blood before we arrive!"
"I did say not to come this way."
"I had hoped to cut a little time off our walk."
"I recall that argument being put forth at the time of our discussion. And what did I say in response?"
"The other way was better. You failed to elucidate how."
"I thought my assessment was enough for you, Brother."
"Yes, yes...."
"You usually take my advice without second guessing me."
"You're certainly a nag today. Perhaps it's lack of sleep?"
"Perhaps it's blood loss! Bear more to the right."
"I thought you weren't familiar with this path."
"I didn't say that. I said the other way is better. How would I know unless I'd also come this way? Take to the water. If we swim part of the way, the insects will be less troublesome."
"Are we going to argue all the way to Georgia?"
"It's a distinct possibility unless you let me lead."
"Fine! If that will make you happy and less of an old woman, by all means!"
"Shh!" Sailfish held up his hand.
Although Manuel was mid-cry, he halted, words bitten back. Listening carefully, he heard sounds that could only be made by man. The creak of leather, clank of metal and gruff commentary filled the air.
"At least we've found them," Manuel whispered.
They eased to crouch. Not even swatting the insects now, they listened. Perhaps they could gather the information they needed without infiltrating the camp after all? A flash of red no more than a score of yards ahead reminded them that the British too knew how to secure an area. Backing slowly, they made their way toward the river. Slipping silently into the water, they swam a half mile or so away before hauling themselves onto the bank.
"Now what?" Manuel asked as he squeezed the water out of his hair.
"This was your brilliant plan, brother."
"I hate when you're smug."
"And I hate when you're arrogant, so we're even."
Sailfish dug around in his waterproof pack for something to eat. He pulled out a packet of dried meat, sharing some with his brother. Manuel took the food automatically, with a nod of thanks.
"We can still approach them."
"Oh, aye. We'll not draw any attention marching toward a landing force. We'll be shot before we go a bow's length."
"How's your Creek?"
"Terrible. You knew that already."
Manuel nodded, gazing over the water. Chewing and swallowing, he continued to think. "If we had a good story, a strong opening...."
"We would still get shot before...."
"Pessimist!"
"Pest!"
"Shh!"
The men dropped low to the ground, listening. They heard movement, talking, the clatter of gear. Swearing quietly, they slid into the water once more. Fortunately, the sounds grew more distant as the scouting party passed. Instead of coming out of the water, they came up for air, kneeling on the sandy bottom of the shallows. The men looked at one another with consternation.
"If they catch us lurking in the water, we will not have a good excuse," Manuel muttered. "We either need to retreat or make up our minds how the hell to present ourselves."
"I had a thought." Sailfish said nothing more.
Manuel, never a patient man, bit back on his impatient outburst. Feeling his anger build, he reminded himself that his Indian brother was less inflammatory and much more even tempered than he. Where Manuel was a man of immediate action, his brother deliberated a long time. Also a man of action, Sailfish only acted when he was sure. On the rare occasion where he did something suddenly, it was because he'd been thinking of it ahead of time. Biting his tongue, Manuel said nothing.
from the brush and rushes, feasting on their unprotected skin. Stinging flies swarmed around them, landing on the exposed pieces of skin that weren't covered by mosquitoes.
Swatting uselessly, Manuel led the way. "I'll be covered in welts and drained of blood before we arrive!"
"I did say not to come this way."
"I had hoped to cut a little time off our walk."
"I recall that argument being put forth at the time of our discussion. And what did I say in response?"
"The other way was better. You failed to elucidate how."
"I thought my assessment was enough for you, Brother."
"Yes, yes...."
"You usually take my advice without second guessing me."
"You're certainly a nag today. Perhaps it's lack of sleep?"
"Perhaps it's blood loss! Bear more to the right."
"I thought you weren't familiar with this path."
"I didn't say that. I said the other way is better. How would I know unless I'd also come this way? Take to the water. If we swim part of the way, the insects will be less troublesome."
"Are we going to argue all the way to Georgia?"
"It's a distinct possibility unless you let me lead."
"Fine! If that will make you happy and less of an old woman, by all means!"
"Shh!" Sailfish held up his hand.
Although Manuel was mid-cry, he halted, words bitten back. Listening carefully, he heard sounds that could only be made by man. The creak of leather, clank of metal and gruff commentary filled the air.
"At least we've found them," Manuel whispered.
They eased to crouch. Not even swatting the insects now, they listened. Perhaps they could gather the information they needed without infiltrating the camp after all? A flash of red no more than a score of yards ahead reminded them that the British too knew how to secure an area. Backing slowly, they made their way toward the river. Slipping silently into the water, they swam a half mile or so away before hauling themselves onto the bank.
"Now what?" Manuel asked as he squeezed the water out of his hair.
"This was your brilliant plan, brother."
"I hate when you're smug."
"And I hate when you're arrogant, so we're even."
Sailfish dug around in his waterproof pack for something to eat. He pulled out a packet of dried meat, sharing some with his brother. Manuel took the food automatically, with a nod of thanks.
"We can still approach them."
"Oh, aye. We'll not draw any attention marching toward a landing force. We'll be shot before we go a bow's length."
"How's your Creek?"
"Terrible. You knew that already."
Manuel nodded, gazing over the water. Chewing and swallowing, he continued to think. "If we had a good story, a strong opening...."
"We would still get shot before...."
"Pessimist!"
"Pest!"
"Shh!"
The men dropped low to the ground, listening. They heard movement, talking, the clatter of gear. Swearing quietly, they slid into the water once more. Fortunately, the sounds grew more distant as the scouting party passed. Instead of coming out of the water, they came up for air, kneeling on the sandy bottom of the shallows. The men looked at one another with consternation.
"If they catch us lurking in the water, we will not have a good excuse," Manuel muttered. "We either need to retreat or make up our minds how the hell to present ourselves."
"I had a thought." Sailfish said nothing more.
Manuel, never a patient man, bit back on his impatient outburst. Feeling his anger build, he reminded himself that his Indian brother was less inflammatory and much more even tempered than he. Where Manuel was a man of immediate action, his brother deliberated a long time. Also a man of action, Sailfish only acted when he was sure. On the rare occasion where he did something suddenly, it was because he'd been thinking of it ahead of time. Biting his tongue, Manuel said nothing.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Good News!
Fantastic news! Second Wind Publishing has now got Ebooks available! Pop over and check it out! http://www.secondwindpublishing.com/ebooks.html
See a Reader's Perspective
My friend Cherry De wrote an insightful post on my Word Press blog. Pop over and have a look!
http://dellanioakes.wordpress.com/
http://dellanioakes.wordpress.com/
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Why Do I Write?
People love to talk to writers. I don't know why that is, but they do. Many are, I'm sure, trying to get published themselves and want advice. Others like the aura and mystique of a writer. They stand around in awe. While this is flattering, it's somewhat uncomfortable. Most of the writers I've met are somewhat shy and reserved. We may not come across that way when among others of our breed, but there is the tendency to want to shrink away from public acclaim.
Inevitably, when people find out you're a writer, they ask several uncomfortable questions. At least they are uncomfortable for me, because I don't have good answers for them yet. The first question I usually am asked is, "How do you think of the stories?"
After a brief 'duh' moment, I try to stammer something out, but it's vastly inaccurate and not very satisfying for them or me. Being a strong believer in the Greek concept of the Muse, I can't explain that the ideas and words possess me briefly, flow from my fingers to the keyboard and park themselves on the page without my conscious effort. How do you explain that concept to someone who has never experienced it? Not only that, if you say the word "possessed" you're either going to have an exorcist or the men in little white coats descend on you in the wee, small hours of the night.
I generally say something stupid like, "Oh, I don't know. They just come to me." How blah is that? There is a facial change in those around me when I say that. They were waiting for pearls of wisdom and I just handed them cold oatmeal. YUCK!
Another uncomfortable question and, if possible, more difficult to answer is "Why did you become a writer?" The 'duh' moment is longer on this one because I really have to think about it. Why did I become a writer?
Because from the moment I could talk, stories came to my mind? Because I feel this driving compulsion to put word to paper? Or is it because there are stories there that must be told? Characters create themselves demanding to speak! I, as the instrument, must tell as many of their stories as I can in one lifetime or they can never live, love, resolve their inner conflicts. They need me as much as I need them.
I look back on my life and realize I was always creating stories. When I was three, my older sister started kindergarten. Never having been on my own, I created an imaginary friend, Snowy Green. He and I went to Rainbow School and played games, sang songs and painted pictures with finger paint. I told ripping yarns to my mother about all the amazing things we did at Rainbow School and how we spent our day. I can't remember any of them now, but I know that was my first foray into the world of storytelling.
Once I got into high school, under the strict tutelage of a wonderfully patient teacher, Mr. Ray Frakes, I learned the importance of expressing myself well. He took my lack of style and rudimentary mechanics well in hand, honing my skill. Later, in college, I used to write plays and short stories. This further fed my love and desire to write.
I set aside the writing when I was a young mother. I didn't have the time, but the urge to be creative was still there. It wasn't until my youngest son started kindergarten that I was able to devote more time to writing. From then on, it became a full time passion. I write every free moment. The number of novels, essays and short stories I've got on file boggles my mind. The millions of words I've combined into a coherent whole amazes me. There are still tales to be told, characters to meet, conflicts to resolve. I could spend the rest of my life writing and never tell them all.
Where do the ideas come from? I don't know. They're out there. Some are meant for me to chronicle, others are not. I read the books my friends have written and think, "That's so good! I could never have written that!" It wasn't my story to tell, it belonged to them. However, once the story is published, it belongs to us all.
How selfish would the Brontë sisters have been if they hadn't shared "Wuthering Heights" and "Jane Eyre"? What would we do without Daphne du Mauier's "Rebecca"? And where would the world be without A.A. Milne's "House at Pooh Corner" or J.R.R. Tolkein's "The Hobbit?" The stories these authors told have enriched our lives, opening new worlds for readers to explore.
My questions for you are some you may encounter when amongst the "Madding Crowd". Why do you write? How do you think of your stories? Where do your ideas come from? What compels or inspires you to write? What author most inspired your imagination? If you can answer these for yourself, then answering them for others will be easy and you can avoid that uncomfortable 'duh' moment.
Inevitably, when people find out you're a writer, they ask several uncomfortable questions. At least they are uncomfortable for me, because I don't have good answers for them yet. The first question I usually am asked is, "How do you think of the stories?"
After a brief 'duh' moment, I try to stammer something out, but it's vastly inaccurate and not very satisfying for them or me. Being a strong believer in the Greek concept of the Muse, I can't explain that the ideas and words possess me briefly, flow from my fingers to the keyboard and park themselves on the page without my conscious effort. How do you explain that concept to someone who has never experienced it? Not only that, if you say the word "possessed" you're either going to have an exorcist or the men in little white coats descend on you in the wee, small hours of the night.
I generally say something stupid like, "Oh, I don't know. They just come to me." How blah is that? There is a facial change in those around me when I say that. They were waiting for pearls of wisdom and I just handed them cold oatmeal. YUCK!
Another uncomfortable question and, if possible, more difficult to answer is "Why did you become a writer?" The 'duh' moment is longer on this one because I really have to think about it. Why did I become a writer?
Because from the moment I could talk, stories came to my mind? Because I feel this driving compulsion to put word to paper? Or is it because there are stories there that must be told? Characters create themselves demanding to speak! I, as the instrument, must tell as many of their stories as I can in one lifetime or they can never live, love, resolve their inner conflicts. They need me as much as I need them.
I look back on my life and realize I was always creating stories. When I was three, my older sister started kindergarten. Never having been on my own, I created an imaginary friend, Snowy Green. He and I went to Rainbow School and played games, sang songs and painted pictures with finger paint. I told ripping yarns to my mother about all the amazing things we did at Rainbow School and how we spent our day. I can't remember any of them now, but I know that was my first foray into the world of storytelling.
Once I got into high school, under the strict tutelage of a wonderfully patient teacher, Mr. Ray Frakes, I learned the importance of expressing myself well. He took my lack of style and rudimentary mechanics well in hand, honing my skill. Later, in college, I used to write plays and short stories. This further fed my love and desire to write.
I set aside the writing when I was a young mother. I didn't have the time, but the urge to be creative was still there. It wasn't until my youngest son started kindergarten that I was able to devote more time to writing. From then on, it became a full time passion. I write every free moment. The number of novels, essays and short stories I've got on file boggles my mind. The millions of words I've combined into a coherent whole amazes me. There are still tales to be told, characters to meet, conflicts to resolve. I could spend the rest of my life writing and never tell them all.
Where do the ideas come from? I don't know. They're out there. Some are meant for me to chronicle, others are not. I read the books my friends have written and think, "That's so good! I could never have written that!" It wasn't my story to tell, it belonged to them. However, once the story is published, it belongs to us all.
How selfish would the Brontë sisters have been if they hadn't shared "Wuthering Heights" and "Jane Eyre"? What would we do without Daphne du Mauier's "Rebecca"? And where would the world be without A.A. Milne's "House at Pooh Corner" or J.R.R. Tolkein's "The Hobbit?" The stories these authors told have enriched our lives, opening new worlds for readers to explore.
My questions for you are some you may encounter when amongst the "Madding Crowd". Why do you write? How do you think of your stories? Where do your ideas come from? What compels or inspires you to write? What author most inspired your imagination? If you can answer these for yourself, then answering them for others will be easy and you can avoid that uncomfortable 'duh' moment.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Research - A Writer's Lifeline
I've got research on my mind because I'm writing a sequel to my historical romance, "Indian Summer". Although fairly conversant with the time period, new things pop up. I needed a timeline for the battle I'm going to include in my story. I could find a few basic facts, but it wasn't until I came across a website that was of important dates in Georgia history, that I got what I needed. Strange, since I'm writing something set in Florida. However, since the attack was led by General Oglethorpe and his troops were stationed in Georgia at the time, I suppose it makes sense.
Another fact that presented itself (from the Georgia timeline) was the name of an obscure fort that was attacked prior to the siege of St. Augustine. Fort Diego? Where's that? Obviously, this led to more questions than I had answers for. Initial web searches gave me a lot of information on Fort Diego in California (now San Diego), but didn't help the Florida research at all. I did a serach for 'forts in Florida' and got a list. Eventually, with a bit of digging, I found it's location - well, sort of. It's now a golf course, but at least I found it!
Each little tidbit made me so proud, I had to read it all to my husband and eldest son this morning. They were both interested, which was nice. There's nothing like sharing these little gems with someone who couldn't care less.
The main problem I have with research is that I have a tendency to get off subject really easily. I have to force myself to focus and it's not always easy. I find some juicy tidbits which are fascinating, though unrelated to my subject. I often am tempted to follow these leads.
However odious you might find research, being accurate is so very necessary. Even something not fully related with the story, like the Fort Diego problem, can be necessary background material that I, as the writer, need.
Another fact that presented itself (from the Georgia timeline) was the name of an obscure fort that was attacked prior to the siege of St. Augustine. Fort Diego? Where's that? Obviously, this led to more questions than I had answers for. Initial web searches gave me a lot of information on Fort Diego in California (now San Diego), but didn't help the Florida research at all. I did a serach for 'forts in Florida' and got a list. Eventually, with a bit of digging, I found it's location - well, sort of. It's now a golf course, but at least I found it!
Each little tidbit made me so proud, I had to read it all to my husband and eldest son this morning. They were both interested, which was nice. There's nothing like sharing these little gems with someone who couldn't care less.
The main problem I have with research is that I have a tendency to get off subject really easily. I have to force myself to focus and it's not always easy. I find some juicy tidbits which are fascinating, though unrelated to my subject. I often am tempted to follow these leads.
However odious you might find research, being accurate is so very necessary. Even something not fully related with the story, like the Fort Diego problem, can be necessary background material that I, as the writer, need.
Friday, February 06, 2009
Love is Coming to Town and It's Going to be Murder
First National Book Signing of the romance and mystery authors from Second Wind PublishingTime and Place Start Time: Friday, February 13, 2009 at 9:00am End Time: Sunday, February 15, 2009 at 4:00pm
Location: Forsyth County, North Carolina
Description: Nine authors from across the United States will be reading, answering questions, and signing their books in three locations across Forsyth County, February 13-15.Meet these outstanding, award-winning authors at the following times and locations and purchase autographed first editions of their books.
Casanova’s Coffee & Fudge, 6275 Shallowford Rd, Lewisville, 946-2407
Friday 9-11, 2-5
JJ Dare
Mairead Walpole
Christine Husom
Suzette Vaughn
Saturday, 9-11
Claire Collins
Lazarus Barnhill
Saturday, 2-5
Norm Brown
Dellani Oakes
Angelina’s Tea’s, 125 S. Stratford Rd, Winston-Salem, 722-9532
Saturday 10-2
Norm Brown
Dellani Oakes
Christine Husom
Mairead Walpole
Sunday 1-4
Lazarus Barnhill
JJ Dare
Suzette Vaughn
Claire Collins
EM Gallery @ Krankies Coffee, 211 E 3rd Street, Winston-Salem, 722-3016
Saturday 1-4
Suzette Vaughn
JJ Dare
Lazarus Barnhill
Claire CollinsSunday
1-4
Dellani Oakes
Norm Brown
Christine Husom
Mairead Walpole
Location: Forsyth County, North Carolina
Description: Nine authors from across the United States will be reading, answering questions, and signing their books in three locations across Forsyth County, February 13-15.Meet these outstanding, award-winning authors at the following times and locations and purchase autographed first editions of their books.
Casanova’s Coffee & Fudge, 6275 Shallowford Rd, Lewisville, 946-2407
Friday 9-11, 2-5
JJ Dare
Mairead Walpole
Christine Husom
Suzette Vaughn
Saturday, 9-11
Claire Collins
Lazarus Barnhill
Saturday, 2-5
Norm Brown
Dellani Oakes
Angelina’s Tea’s, 125 S. Stratford Rd, Winston-Salem, 722-9532
Saturday 10-2
Norm Brown
Dellani Oakes
Christine Husom
Mairead Walpole
Sunday 1-4
Lazarus Barnhill
JJ Dare
Suzette Vaughn
Claire Collins
EM Gallery @ Krankies Coffee, 211 E 3rd Street, Winston-Salem, 722-3016
Saturday 1-4
Suzette Vaughn
JJ Dare
Lazarus Barnhill
Claire CollinsSunday
1-4
Dellani Oakes
Norm Brown
Christine Husom
Mairead Walpole
Monday, February 02, 2009
Bridging a Gap
I subbed today for a music teacher. It was a unique experience - Oh My! She didn't leave me plans for the pre-k, counting on the fact the teacher's assistant would be there. Well... she was out too. I read them "Green Eggs and Ham" followed by "Mr. Brown Can Moo, Can You?" There were only two little girls, but both autistic. I didn't think I'd get any response at all, but both seemed to enjoy the stories and one of them even tried to make the sounds in "Mr. Brown Can Moo, Can You?" It was precious! It just goes to show that Dr. Seuss can bridge any gap, no matter how large.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Richard Brautigan
Richard Brautigan wrote several short novels, among them "Trout Fishing in America" which wasn't about trout or fishing. I always got a laugh when I saw it mis-shelved in book stores under the game and wildlife section.
Brautigan didn't actually mention fishing at all in that book, as I recall. He used the words "Trout Fishing in America" as a slogan that the 6th graders wrote on the backs of unsuspecting 1st graders as a playground prank. No one, including the "Trout Fishing in America Terrorists" knew why they chose that slogan. One kid had a piece of chalk, grabbed a 1st grader and wrote it on his back. Soon all of the 1st graders had it on their backs and the principal dragged in all the usual suspects. (ie. The kids who actually did it).
The book wasn't about terrorism or about fishing, it was just a really odd, very good book. His books were very episodic, though loosely strung together with a main storyline or theme.
I was fortunate enough to see him speak at the University of Southern Mississippi and got him to sign my books. He committed suicide shortly after that.
It interests me that Garrison Keeler mentioned him today in his daily broadcast. Way to go, Garrison!
Brautigan didn't actually mention fishing at all in that book, as I recall. He used the words "Trout Fishing in America" as a slogan that the 6th graders wrote on the backs of unsuspecting 1st graders as a playground prank. No one, including the "Trout Fishing in America Terrorists" knew why they chose that slogan. One kid had a piece of chalk, grabbed a 1st grader and wrote it on his back. Soon all of the 1st graders had it on their backs and the principal dragged in all the usual suspects. (ie. The kids who actually did it).
The book wasn't about terrorism or about fishing, it was just a really odd, very good book. His books were very episodic, though loosely strung together with a main storyline or theme.
I was fortunate enough to see him speak at the University of Southern Mississippi and got him to sign my books. He committed suicide shortly after that.
It interests me that Garrison Keeler mentioned him today in his daily broadcast. Way to go, Garrison!
Monday, January 19, 2009
To Outline or Not to Outline
I continue to be amazed by people who make outlines of their stories, know where the story line is going and most of all know the ending before even writing the book. Who are these godlike folk and why am I not like them? I am a very off the cuff writer, I don’t know where the story is going to go, although I like to have a general idea before I begin. I usually start with an idea or, more often than not, a sentence that seems to resonate in my mind until I get it down on paper. Novels and short stories start the same way, a compelling first sentence.
I read an interview with Tim Powers with fascination. He talked about outlining everything in careful detail, knowing exactly where the story is going before he even begins writing. He stressed how important, vital, necessary this was. I read snippets to my husband asking him (like he knows), “How can he do that? How can anyone do that?” Outlines? Those are things you write after the term paper is written and only because the teacher requires it. If they had a crown for that, I’d be Queen.
I rarely know where my stories are going. I don’t always know what I’m going to do with a character after I’ve introduced him, but I know he’d not be there if he weren’t important in some way. For me, writing is an exploratory process. I can’t sit down knowing what will be, I have to let it unfold. I think the idea of outlines is very intimidating for some writers, especially new ones. To know everything in advance takes some of the fun out of my process. Don’t misunderstand, I think it’s marvelous that some people can do that. I find it incredible that they are organized enough to work their way through the entire book before actually writing it. It is a matter of preference and personality.
Having tried the outline, I can honestly say it doesn’t work for me. I can’t even write a short synopsis of a book because I put in too much detail. I got half way through my first outline and thought, “If I am going to spend this much time on it, I might as well just write the book.” The outline hit the trash and I put all that creative energy into the novel instead.
What I think I was trying to say when I started is this: Don't be intimidated by the idea that you must outline. Don't think you can't start the novel you've been dreaming about because you have no clue how it's going to end. Go with what is comfortable for you and find your way. By all means, try outlining because it is a wonderful tool, but don't lock yourself into the thinking that you have to follow it once it's there. Nothing is cast in stone, everything is malleable. Then when the creative juices flow and the words pound at the inside of your skull demanding to be set free, you can give them the outlet they need, hammering away at your keyboard or pouring from your pen. Whatever you do, just keep writing and let the outlines take care of themselves.
I read an interview with Tim Powers with fascination. He talked about outlining everything in careful detail, knowing exactly where the story is going before he even begins writing. He stressed how important, vital, necessary this was. I read snippets to my husband asking him (like he knows), “How can he do that? How can anyone do that?” Outlines? Those are things you write after the term paper is written and only because the teacher requires it. If they had a crown for that, I’d be Queen.
I rarely know where my stories are going. I don’t always know what I’m going to do with a character after I’ve introduced him, but I know he’d not be there if he weren’t important in some way. For me, writing is an exploratory process. I can’t sit down knowing what will be, I have to let it unfold. I think the idea of outlines is very intimidating for some writers, especially new ones. To know everything in advance takes some of the fun out of my process. Don’t misunderstand, I think it’s marvelous that some people can do that. I find it incredible that they are organized enough to work their way through the entire book before actually writing it. It is a matter of preference and personality.
Having tried the outline, I can honestly say it doesn’t work for me. I can’t even write a short synopsis of a book because I put in too much detail. I got half way through my first outline and thought, “If I am going to spend this much time on it, I might as well just write the book.” The outline hit the trash and I put all that creative energy into the novel instead.
What I think I was trying to say when I started is this: Don't be intimidated by the idea that you must outline. Don't think you can't start the novel you've been dreaming about because you have no clue how it's going to end. Go with what is comfortable for you and find your way. By all means, try outlining because it is a wonderful tool, but don't lock yourself into the thinking that you have to follow it once it's there. Nothing is cast in stone, everything is malleable. Then when the creative juices flow and the words pound at the inside of your skull demanding to be set free, you can give them the outlet they need, hammering away at your keyboard or pouring from your pen. Whatever you do, just keep writing and let the outlines take care of themselves.
Monday, December 22, 2008
FCAT - The New 'F' Word
I recently had a conference at my son's high school to go over his IEP and find out why he's failing. I asked why only one of his teachers had called me - the week before grades went in - to tell me he was going to fail if he didn't pass the exam. Out of seven teachers, four of whom knew he had a 'D' or 'F', I got only one call and that one was too late in coming.
After expressing my displeasure, you know what I was told? "In all fairness to them, they have a lot on them this year because of the FCAT."
WHAT?
For those of you unfamiliar with the FCAT, allow me to explain. The FCAT is the year end student assessment test. It is supposed to measure student success in meeting educational goals throughout the year. Under the Jeb Bush administration, it was implemented to replace the California Achievement Test and has been used ever since.
Theoretically a more thorough assessment instrument, implementation of the FCAT has done more to ruin the education system in Florida than any other single event. Teachers no longer have the flexibility to lead their students through the lessons at a comfortable pace. They can't work at the speed of the students. Instead, they have to push to cover 'X' amount of information prior to FCAT. They are now, in effect, teaching the test.
What happens to students like my son who are struggling to keep up? They get further behind and fall through the cracks because the teachers are too busy to help them.
As a parent, this angers and saddens me. It angers me because no test should put so much pressure on every student, teacher and school in the state. The kids are terrified of it. The teachers talk about it in whispers like it's a dirty word. Administrators wield it like a sword above the heads of their staff because funding depends on scores.
I used to teach high school. I know the pressure teachers are under for their students to succeed. Even with upwards of 30 students (36 in one class when they all bothered to show up), I was expected to track individual progress. I was required, by mid-quarter, to notify parents of their child's impending failure. Not a week before grades went in.
I didn't have e-mail, it didn't exist. I didn't have a computer program to help me with my grades, planning or paperwork. Yet I had the same expectations for student success as teachers do now. So, when I get the explanation, "...because of the FCAT", do I have any sympathy at all? No!
The sympathy just about died after my son nearly failed the 9th grade. It suffered further when he nearly failed 10th. It's totally dead now and that one sentence killed it. There is no hope for resurrection or resuscitation. It is completely, totally and irrevocably gone.
Because of the FCAT, my child cannot be successful. Because of the FCAT, I am in the untenable position between a rock and a hard place, trying to decide what's best for him and how to get him through the next year and a half of school. Because of the FCAT, teachers struggle to keep afloat, juggle their paperwork and teach their students. However, I will not accept that because of the FCAT, the teacher has no time to call me. Try to feed that line to someone else, because I'm not buying it.
I invite comments both pro and con, but no profanity please. I reserve the right to edit or delete inappropriate posts.
After expressing my displeasure, you know what I was told? "In all fairness to them, they have a lot on them this year because of the FCAT."
WHAT?
For those of you unfamiliar with the FCAT, allow me to explain. The FCAT is the year end student assessment test. It is supposed to measure student success in meeting educational goals throughout the year. Under the Jeb Bush administration, it was implemented to replace the California Achievement Test and has been used ever since.
Theoretically a more thorough assessment instrument, implementation of the FCAT has done more to ruin the education system in Florida than any other single event. Teachers no longer have the flexibility to lead their students through the lessons at a comfortable pace. They can't work at the speed of the students. Instead, they have to push to cover 'X' amount of information prior to FCAT. They are now, in effect, teaching the test.
What happens to students like my son who are struggling to keep up? They get further behind and fall through the cracks because the teachers are too busy to help them.
As a parent, this angers and saddens me. It angers me because no test should put so much pressure on every student, teacher and school in the state. The kids are terrified of it. The teachers talk about it in whispers like it's a dirty word. Administrators wield it like a sword above the heads of their staff because funding depends on scores.
I used to teach high school. I know the pressure teachers are under for their students to succeed. Even with upwards of 30 students (36 in one class when they all bothered to show up), I was expected to track individual progress. I was required, by mid-quarter, to notify parents of their child's impending failure. Not a week before grades went in.
I didn't have e-mail, it didn't exist. I didn't have a computer program to help me with my grades, planning or paperwork. Yet I had the same expectations for student success as teachers do now. So, when I get the explanation, "...because of the FCAT", do I have any sympathy at all? No!
The sympathy just about died after my son nearly failed the 9th grade. It suffered further when he nearly failed 10th. It's totally dead now and that one sentence killed it. There is no hope for resurrection or resuscitation. It is completely, totally and irrevocably gone.
Because of the FCAT, my child cannot be successful. Because of the FCAT, I am in the untenable position between a rock and a hard place, trying to decide what's best for him and how to get him through the next year and a half of school. Because of the FCAT, teachers struggle to keep afloat, juggle their paperwork and teach their students. However, I will not accept that because of the FCAT, the teacher has no time to call me. Try to feed that line to someone else, because I'm not buying it.
I invite comments both pro and con, but no profanity please. I reserve the right to edit or delete inappropriate posts.
Monday, December 01, 2008
In the Midst of Madness
Finding time to write is something every author deals with. Some of us have more time to devote to it than others, but still find that life intrudes. I just spent the month of November taking the National November Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) challenge. While it's invigorating to test my writing abilities, it also tests my patience.
For those of you who have never heard of NaNoWriMo, I'll explain. The participants make the personal commitment to write a 50,000 word novel beginning November 1st and ending November 30th at midnight. There are no money prizes, no one reads the novel but you, it doesn't even have to be perfect, it just has to be done. For this, you get a caffeine addiction, sleep deprivation, frazzled nerves, numb fingers, a nifty little logo to put on your web site, a printable certificate and the satisfaction of knowing that despite everything, you persevered!
It's amazing how quickly life intrudes when I set a goal like this for myself. Everyone in the household becomes "needy", particularly my twelve year old son. Things he could do for himself suddenly take on far more importance, meaning that Mom has to get up and take care of it. The phone becomes my enemy. I can go for weeks at a time when the phone won't ring, but once the November challenge begins, it rings all the time. I'm not being paranoid, I kept track! The week before NaNo began, I had a total of five phone calls in a week - one of which was for me. As of November 1st, I had at least that many a day - and most of them for me.
Meals are another thing that interfere. Deciding what to fix becomes a major decision that I usually leave to the last minute. Grocery shopping becomes a task that eats into my writing time, irritating me further. When I get home, the actual preparation is the most annoying because it's accompanied by complaints about the meal.
NaNoWriMo is not the only time that these things are problematic, I simply use that as an example. During any given day, the precious moments I have to get the ideas out of my head and into written form, are limited. I don't know about other authors, but my family fails to recognize that what I am doing is actually "work". To them, it's Mom sitting at the computer - again. Old hat, since ninety percent of my free time is at the computer. If I'm not writing, I'm reading what I wrote and editing it with a mixture of brutality and care. The words, "I'm working", don't make much of an impression on three hungry boys.
Somehow, in the midst of all this madness, I find enough time to get things done. The precious words get faithfully added to the text even as my eyes cross and my head hits the keyboard. Life, though it interferes, is what I draw from to fill my books with lively conversation, anecdotes and action. So, though I may resent the interruptions, I welcome them, because it shows me that I am a part of life, not set apart - and that is truly a writer's richest resource.
For those of you who have never heard of NaNoWriMo, I'll explain. The participants make the personal commitment to write a 50,000 word novel beginning November 1st and ending November 30th at midnight. There are no money prizes, no one reads the novel but you, it doesn't even have to be perfect, it just has to be done. For this, you get a caffeine addiction, sleep deprivation, frazzled nerves, numb fingers, a nifty little logo to put on your web site, a printable certificate and the satisfaction of knowing that despite everything, you persevered!
It's amazing how quickly life intrudes when I set a goal like this for myself. Everyone in the household becomes "needy", particularly my twelve year old son. Things he could do for himself suddenly take on far more importance, meaning that Mom has to get up and take care of it. The phone becomes my enemy. I can go for weeks at a time when the phone won't ring, but once the November challenge begins, it rings all the time. I'm not being paranoid, I kept track! The week before NaNo began, I had a total of five phone calls in a week - one of which was for me. As of November 1st, I had at least that many a day - and most of them for me.
Meals are another thing that interfere. Deciding what to fix becomes a major decision that I usually leave to the last minute. Grocery shopping becomes a task that eats into my writing time, irritating me further. When I get home, the actual preparation is the most annoying because it's accompanied by complaints about the meal.
NaNoWriMo is not the only time that these things are problematic, I simply use that as an example. During any given day, the precious moments I have to get the ideas out of my head and into written form, are limited. I don't know about other authors, but my family fails to recognize that what I am doing is actually "work". To them, it's Mom sitting at the computer - again. Old hat, since ninety percent of my free time is at the computer. If I'm not writing, I'm reading what I wrote and editing it with a mixture of brutality and care. The words, "I'm working", don't make much of an impression on three hungry boys.
Somehow, in the midst of all this madness, I find enough time to get things done. The precious words get faithfully added to the text even as my eyes cross and my head hits the keyboard. Life, though it interferes, is what I draw from to fill my books with lively conversation, anecdotes and action. So, though I may resent the interruptions, I welcome them, because it shows me that I am a part of life, not set apart - and that is truly a writer's richest resource.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Name that Character!
This post was inspired by a post on the Second Wind Word Press page, by Pat Bertram. In it, she talks about how a character name shows a lot about the character. I started this as a comment to her, but it got too long, so I moved it here. Dellani
I believe a name tells a lot about a character. One can be as obvious as “Young Goodman Brown” or as subtle as Duncan Chandler. The reason I cite the latter as an example is because he is one of my characters whose name represents two distinct facets of his personality. Duncan means “Dark Warrior”. He is the son of the protagonist, himself a dark warrior (both in aspect and action). Duncan is looked upon as a warrior, the next generation. Chandler means “Light Bringer”. The reason I chose this name is because he is also looked upon as the new hope, the one to fight the darkness and evil that threaten.
That got me interested in a few other names that I’ve used in the same series:
Matilda (Duncan’s mother) “Fierce in Battle”
Wilhelm (his father) “Determined Protector”
Marcus (his paternal uncle) “Of Mars - Warlike”
Rebbecca (Marc’s wife) “Enchantingly Beautiful”
Benjamin (his older brother) “Of the Right Hand”
Emmelia (Ben’s wife and Chairman of the Board of the Mining Guild) “Work”
Except for Duncan’s name, which I looked up and chose carefully, all these names were given by chance. But looking at their personalities, the names fit them incredibly well. Matilda, his mother, is a warrior and as fierce as her husband in a battle. Wil protects his family, friends, and those who fight with him. Marc is also a true warrior and his wife, Rebbecca, is beautiful. Ben is his father’s right hand, his wife Emmelia is one of the hardest working women in the galaxy.
My readers will probably never know the meanings behind the names, nor why I find them significant, but I found it an interesting way of fleshing them out.
I believe a name tells a lot about a character. One can be as obvious as “Young Goodman Brown” or as subtle as Duncan Chandler. The reason I cite the latter as an example is because he is one of my characters whose name represents two distinct facets of his personality. Duncan means “Dark Warrior”. He is the son of the protagonist, himself a dark warrior (both in aspect and action). Duncan is looked upon as a warrior, the next generation. Chandler means “Light Bringer”. The reason I chose this name is because he is also looked upon as the new hope, the one to fight the darkness and evil that threaten.
That got me interested in a few other names that I’ve used in the same series:
Matilda (Duncan’s mother) “Fierce in Battle”
Wilhelm (his father) “Determined Protector”
Marcus (his paternal uncle) “Of Mars - Warlike”
Rebbecca (Marc’s wife) “Enchantingly Beautiful”
Benjamin (his older brother) “Of the Right Hand”
Emmelia (Ben’s wife and Chairman of the Board of the Mining Guild) “Work”
Except for Duncan’s name, which I looked up and chose carefully, all these names were given by chance. But looking at their personalities, the names fit them incredibly well. Matilda, his mother, is a warrior and as fierce as her husband in a battle. Wil protects his family, friends, and those who fight with him. Marc is also a true warrior and his wife, Rebbecca, is beautiful. Ben is his father’s right hand, his wife Emmelia is one of the hardest working women in the galaxy.
My readers will probably never know the meanings behind the names, nor why I find them significant, but I found it an interesting way of fleshing them out.
I Did It Again!
I finished my second NaNoWriMo novel! I had the word count fairly early on, but I wasn't sure I'd finish. With being sick last week as well as having a two week deadline on novel revisions, I didn't know if I would get it done, but I did! YEAH! As my daughter says, "The deserves a woo." WOO!
If you aren't familiar with NaNoWriMo, check this site: www.nanowrimo.org and discover the fun of writing a complete novel in the month of November!
If you aren't familiar with NaNoWriMo, check this site: www.nanowrimo.org and discover the fun of writing a complete novel in the month of November!
Monday, November 17, 2008
Write it Right or Yes, Virginia, Mechanics Count
When I was a child, I couldn't spell. I'm still spelling impaired and love spell check above any of the other features of my word processing program. I am, however, glad I have a good background in punctuation, because word processors are woefully inadequate there. Rule of thumb, if Word corrects your punctuation, it is probably wrong. Second rule of thumb: If you rely on Word to correct your punctuation, you need a lot of help.
I can remember saying to my mother, "But they know what I mean! Why is it wrong?" Because it is, genius. It simply is. There are rules and conventions in spelling and punctuation that we have come to expect. When they aren't there, they interfere with the message we are trying to convey. I don't remember my mother's exact words, but that is the essence of what she told me.
As a high school A.P. English teacher, I got a lot of that same attitude. My students could not see the importance of spelling, neatness and punctuation until their essays came back covered in so much red ink they looked like they'd been slaughtered by Attila the Hun. I couldn't seem to stress enough, mechanics matter!
Spelling is one of the most ignored conventions in writing. Of course, with the onset of massive text messaging, we ignore spelling completely and go to how it sounds. Abbreviations, typing it in quickly, getting the message to the other party fast - all this becomes more important than saying it right. If you send me a text message, I'm likely to send back the reply "???" Sorry, I don't speak gibberish. Look it up. Dictionary.com is free.
The second most ignored convention is comma placement. Commas crop up in all the wrong places, but get left out of all the spots they belong in. Certain commas are expected. When using direct address, use a comma. "Brad, look at that!" Or "Look at that, Brad!" The comma is there to let the reader know that the comment is addressed to Brad. The speaker is not saying "Look at that brad." He or she wants Brad to look at something.
Another anticipated and neglected comma is the one used to separate items in a list. "The big, black, ugly, smelly, dirty, nasty dog ran over and jumped on me." While on occasion, one may dispense with commas to separate, it's not considered a good idea. If the list is very long, as in the sample sentence, the commas have to be there. They just have to, that's why!
Commas before the word 'and', can be debated until the cows come home. Many will tell you that comma is a must. Others will tell you that it's completely unnecessary and redundant. Choose a method, side with one team or the other and be consistent.
I realize that sometimes the creative juices flow and the urge to get something down now is very compelling. We all go through manic writing phases . We hammer away at the keys and stay up half the night to get the story down. I understand this well. However, putting aside mechanics for speed is not a good idea. Figuring that you can go back later and neaten it up is fine in theory, but not in practice. It is impossible to read through and get all the errors on your own. Sometimes you can bribe a friend or two to look over something you've written. I guarantee if it's too terrible, they will get tired of it and quit. So, pay attention to the mechanics as you go. It makes less of a mess later and won't take so long to neaten up. Finishing isn't as important as getting it right as you go.
What's the point of this article? Am I trying to make people feel bad or insult their intelligence?
No. I am pointing out that each error we make as writers damages our credibility. Make your work as easy to comprehend as possible. Don't interfere with your message by carelessness.
I can remember saying to my mother, "But they know what I mean! Why is it wrong?" Because it is, genius. It simply is. There are rules and conventions in spelling and punctuation that we have come to expect. When they aren't there, they interfere with the message we are trying to convey. I don't remember my mother's exact words, but that is the essence of what she told me.
As a high school A.P. English teacher, I got a lot of that same attitude. My students could not see the importance of spelling, neatness and punctuation until their essays came back covered in so much red ink they looked like they'd been slaughtered by Attila the Hun. I couldn't seem to stress enough, mechanics matter!
Spelling is one of the most ignored conventions in writing. Of course, with the onset of massive text messaging, we ignore spelling completely and go to how it sounds. Abbreviations, typing it in quickly, getting the message to the other party fast - all this becomes more important than saying it right. If you send me a text message, I'm likely to send back the reply "???" Sorry, I don't speak gibberish. Look it up. Dictionary.com is free.
The second most ignored convention is comma placement. Commas crop up in all the wrong places, but get left out of all the spots they belong in. Certain commas are expected. When using direct address, use a comma. "Brad, look at that!" Or "Look at that, Brad!" The comma is there to let the reader know that the comment is addressed to Brad. The speaker is not saying "Look at that brad." He or she wants Brad to look at something.
Another anticipated and neglected comma is the one used to separate items in a list. "The big, black, ugly, smelly, dirty, nasty dog ran over and jumped on me." While on occasion, one may dispense with commas to separate, it's not considered a good idea. If the list is very long, as in the sample sentence, the commas have to be there. They just have to, that's why!
Commas before the word 'and', can be debated until the cows come home. Many will tell you that comma is a must. Others will tell you that it's completely unnecessary and redundant. Choose a method, side with one team or the other and be consistent.
I realize that sometimes the creative juices flow and the urge to get something down now is very compelling. We all go through manic writing phases . We hammer away at the keys and stay up half the night to get the story down. I understand this well. However, putting aside mechanics for speed is not a good idea. Figuring that you can go back later and neaten it up is fine in theory, but not in practice. It is impossible to read through and get all the errors on your own. Sometimes you can bribe a friend or two to look over something you've written. I guarantee if it's too terrible, they will get tired of it and quit. So, pay attention to the mechanics as you go. It makes less of a mess later and won't take so long to neaten up. Finishing isn't as important as getting it right as you go.
What's the point of this article? Am I trying to make people feel bad or insult their intelligence?
No. I am pointing out that each error we make as writers damages our credibility. Make your work as easy to comprehend as possible. Don't interfere with your message by carelessness.
Monday, October 13, 2008
A New Experience
I am having a new experience. Thus far, fairly positive, but we'll see how it progresses. Inspired by some of my Second Wind friends, I decided to put together a book promotional video. It's not come very far, a handful of pictures only - though I have figured out how to make them fade in and out, etc. I also found music!
I went to one site that my friend Suzette used, but didn't find what I needed there, so I followed a link to Jimmy G's page and found exactly what I wanted! My book, "Indian Summer", is set in 1730 in Spanish occupied Florida and I needed something with real Spanish flair. Jimmy had just the thing. It's a song called "Confrontacion Espanola". There was a lot of beautiful music there. I linger quite awhile enjoying the moods he created.
Now my only difficulty is making a video worthy of the music. It's going to take me awhile to finish, but at least I've got the music covered with Jimmy's site. When I put together other trailers, I'll go back and visit him again. In fact, I'll probably just go back just to listen.
To check out Jimmy G's great music, go to: http://jimmyg.us/Home/tabid/54/Default.aspx
I went to one site that my friend Suzette used, but didn't find what I needed there, so I followed a link to Jimmy G's page and found exactly what I wanted! My book, "Indian Summer", is set in 1730 in Spanish occupied Florida and I needed something with real Spanish flair. Jimmy had just the thing. It's a song called "Confrontacion Espanola". There was a lot of beautiful music there. I linger quite awhile enjoying the moods he created.
Now my only difficulty is making a video worthy of the music. It's going to take me awhile to finish, but at least I've got the music covered with Jimmy's site. When I put together other trailers, I'll go back and visit him again. In fact, I'll probably just go back just to listen.
To check out Jimmy G's great music, go to: http://jimmyg.us/Home/tabid/54/Default.aspx
Friday, September 12, 2008
What is Writing Like For You?
Pat Bertram, my guest blogger, blogs about writing at Bertram's Blog.
For me, writing is like the world's longest crossword puzzle, one that takes a year to complete. I like playing with words, finding their rhythm, and getting them to behave the way I want. I like being able to take those words and create ideas, characters, and emotions. Amazing when you think about it, how we can juggle twenty-six symbols in different ways to create words, sentences, paragraphs, worlds. And what one person writes, another can read.
For others, writing is like a mythic journey into self, other lands, other minds. It is like archeology, like exorcising demons, like channeling, like performance, like a faucet. It is like having an adventure. It is uniquely human, and it brings out the divine in us. It is breathing, a compulsion, a necessity, a reason for living, an obsession, a fun pastime. It is exhilarating and frustrating. It is liberating. And it is like comfort food, chocolate, and cherries. It is like magic.
For you, writing is like . . .
For me, writing is like the world's longest crossword puzzle, one that takes a year to complete. I like playing with words, finding their rhythm, and getting them to behave the way I want. I like being able to take those words and create ideas, characters, and emotions. Amazing when you think about it, how we can juggle twenty-six symbols in different ways to create words, sentences, paragraphs, worlds. And what one person writes, another can read.
For others, writing is like a mythic journey into self, other lands, other minds. It is like archeology, like exorcising demons, like channeling, like performance, like a faucet. It is like having an adventure. It is uniquely human, and it brings out the divine in us. It is breathing, a compulsion, a necessity, a reason for living, an obsession, a fun pastime. It is exhilarating and frustrating. It is liberating. And it is like comfort food, chocolate, and cherries. It is like magic.
For you, writing is like . . .
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
"Indian Summer" Excerpt
The following is an excerpt from "Indian Summer", an historical romance - for sale now at Second Wind Publishing.
The first rays of sun rose above the ocean, setting the waves afire. I gazed out my window, watching the town of St. Augustine awake. Sounds from the kitchen below blended with the calling of the men on the docks and the soldiers at the fort.
Tradesmen opened shops as women called to one another from their houses. Carpenters and stonecutters continued repairing the walls and buildings after the latest British attack. Seagulls called raucously along the shore waiting for whatever scraps got thrown to them, fighting over the merest, insignificant crumb. All these were comfortable sounds, mingling together into a familiar morning melody.
As my bedroom faces the ocean and hence the rising sun, I wake early, before any of my family, enjoying these last quiet moments. Yawning and stretching deliciously, I dressed and sat at my desk to compose a letter to my grandmother in England. I had not written anything but the date, 15 February, 1739, when the door to my room flew back connecting sharply with the wall, thus announcing the arrival of my little brother, the pest.
The first rays of sun rose above the ocean, setting the waves afire. I gazed out my window, watching the town of St. Augustine awake. Sounds from the kitchen below blended with the calling of the men on the docks and the soldiers at the fort.
Tradesmen opened shops as women called to one another from their houses. Carpenters and stonecutters continued repairing the walls and buildings after the latest British attack. Seagulls called raucously along the shore waiting for whatever scraps got thrown to them, fighting over the merest, insignificant crumb. All these were comfortable sounds, mingling together into a familiar morning melody.
As my bedroom faces the ocean and hence the rising sun, I wake early, before any of my family, enjoying these last quiet moments. Yawning and stretching deliciously, I dressed and sat at my desk to compose a letter to my grandmother in England. I had not written anything but the date, 15 February, 1739, when the door to my room flew back connecting sharply with the wall, thus announcing the arrival of my little brother, the pest.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
The Day Has Arrived!
The long awaited day has finally arrived!
My book, Indian Summer, is up for purchase at the following address. It is listed under the pseudonym Dellani Oakes. http://www.secondwindpublishing.com/oakes.html The page is fairly newly up, so there may be glitches or typos, etc. Please bear with us. Right now there are issues with Pay Pal and Yahoo, so it will only allow the purchase of one book at a time, however, that will be resolved soon.
Besides my own, there are some incredible books represented. Please share the website with your friends and family and support the poor, starving authors (like me). Look for more books to be added in the following weeks. My next contribution will be my sci-fi/ romance The Lone Wolf due to be out this fall.
They are running a special right now, so you'll want to check it out soon! I can't wait to order a few myself! Thanks for sharing the site and thank you for your support!
Dellani
My book, Indian Summer, is up for purchase at the following address. It is listed under the pseudonym Dellani Oakes. http://www.secondwindpublishing.com/oakes.html The page is fairly newly up, so there may be glitches or typos, etc. Please bear with us. Right now there are issues with Pay Pal and Yahoo, so it will only allow the purchase of one book at a time, however, that will be resolved soon.
Besides my own, there are some incredible books represented. Please share the website with your friends and family and support the poor, starving authors (like me). Look for more books to be added in the following weeks. My next contribution will be my sci-fi/ romance The Lone Wolf due to be out this fall.
They are running a special right now, so you'll want to check it out soon! I can't wait to order a few myself! Thanks for sharing the site and thank you for your support!
Dellani
Saturday, May 03, 2008
"Indian Summer" - An Historical Romance
In the spring of 1739, Gabriella Deza stands poised on the verge of womanhood. A product of her guarded upbringing, she is naive in the ways of love until dashing Manuel Enriques declares his love for her.
Quite by accident, Gabriella uncovers a plot hatched by a British spy. Armed with her information, Manuel embarks on a dangerous mission to entrap the spy and save the fort from capture by the British. Unfortunately, Gabriella herself is caught in the trap and kidnapped. Join Gabriella and Manuel as they embark on a voyage of intrigue and espionage. Will it tear them apart? Or will their blossoming love bind them together?
Visit Second Wind Publishing to find out more about "Indian Summer". http://www.secondwindpublishing.com
Quite by accident, Gabriella uncovers a plot hatched by a British spy. Armed with her information, Manuel embarks on a dangerous mission to entrap the spy and save the fort from capture by the British. Unfortunately, Gabriella herself is caught in the trap and kidnapped. Join Gabriella and Manuel as they embark on a voyage of intrigue and espionage. Will it tear them apart? Or will their blossoming love bind them together?
Visit Second Wind Publishing to find out more about "Indian Summer". http://www.secondwindpublishing.com
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
My husband and I have played an online role playing game called "Horizons" for several years. For fun I entered a scary story contest for the Fall Festival a few years ago. My story won an award and is used every year now as part of the festival.
Reebdoog's Tale
"I’ve a tale to tell will set your blood cold just to hear it!" The inebriated dwarf tipped back in his chair, puffing a foul smelling cigar. "Tain’t your run o’ the mill tale neither, but one as will chill ye to the bone!" He leaned in blowing acrid smoke in my direction. "It’s true! I seen it with me own two eyes, I have!
"Just a mite of a lad I were then, an’ no taller than yer knee. Da had been teaching me the finer points of brewing." He nodded solemnly. "Ma, she’d been after me to learn me letters, but I’d a far better head for brewing than I had for reading. How some ever... Da sent me to Dalimond to chat up the folk there, for twas rumored as there were a secret recipe for brewing rye to make a fine, smooth whiskey.
"Well! I got there and spoke first to that Pedro feller who buys and sells. He told me many things, but bid me caution. ‘Mind now,’ says he, ‘ you don’t go poking into the basement under the house with the runes. There be a secret door there under the stairs. Takes ye places as ye don’t want to be going.’
"Well, I laughed my bony arse off at the man, scoffing and making rude noises as I went. I wandered the town a wee bit, stopping to have a sip or two of Da’s best brew, and fell in with bad companions. They told me as they knew where the secret brew were kept. As they’d took a liking to me, they’d show it."
He gestured to the barmaid to refill his mug. Satisfied, he tipped back again, taking a long pull on his pint. He wiped the foam from his bristling, red mustache and continued.
"Well, I were in sad and sorry shape by then. Pedro done told me not to go to the house with the runes, but where do you suppose we ended up? They dragged me inside, past the kitchen, to the stairs. There in the corner, they opened a secret door.
"Slowly, slowly I walked in and the door swung shut behind me with a thump. Took a moment for my eyes to fix on what I were seeing. Twas at that moment I saw the worst sight of my life! I shudder now remembering! It were lined floor to rafters with kegs. They was stark empty and scrubbed clean! Why must have been dozens of them! And there in the midst of it all, a crew of humans whistling, singing and hosing them out! They took soap to 'em! Perfectly innocent kegs, they were, and these folk scraping around in them like they was mucking out stables!
"I ran hell bent to the nearest tavern, flung myself on a stool and ordered a pint. You know what they give me? A clean mug and watered down ale! Just goes to show, you can’t trust humans!"
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Wow! I did it again!!
I just got my story back from the L. Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future contest. Another Honorable Mention for my story, "Fiddlestix"!!! That's my second one. The first was for my story "Fractured". I'm very excited to get a second award. My goal is to keep trying until I get first place!
For more about this contest, visit: http://www.writersofthefuture.com/
Saturday, February 23, 2008
I am very proud to announce that I was awarded an Honorable Mention for my story "Fractured", in L. Ron Hubbard's Writers of the Future contest!
For more information about this contest, use this link! http://www.writersofthefuture.com/
For more information about this contest, use this link! http://www.writersofthefuture.com/
Handy Sites for Writers
Here are the sites I listed in my article for the WBWWS newsletter.
These are just a few of the websites I regularly use. Many of my research sites are geared toward specific stories, so I haven't included them.
Knowing the right way to search is as important as using a good search engine. I mostly succeed through trial and error, though I notice I'm better at research than my husband or any of my children. Perhaps it's that edge of tenacity (stubbornness) that is pervasive in my personality. Maybe after all the research I've done, I am better by habit. I haven't figured it out, nor have I any useful tips for folks who are bad at it. But I'll think about it.
Friday, January 11, 2008
So You Want to Name a Character
Finally sitting down to write that novel? Let’s assume you’ve chosen your genre, point of view, narrative style and all those other things that you have to decide before setting pen to paper. (Or fingers to keys). Now comes the fun part – maybe. Naming the characters. There are different methods of approach here, and excuse me if I leave some of them out. I use a variety of methods, but I know I haven’t discovered them all.
First, you can make the name tell something about the character. For example "Young Goodman Brown," by Nathaniel Hawthorne gives us a fair description of the main character before we turn the first page. However, you might not want to get that concrete in your description.
Another way to name is to pick names of people you know who sort of seem to fit. The only problem with this is, they may read the book and not like the character. You’ve just lost a fan. Probably not the best method. I’ve known people who randomly chose names from the phone book and used them. Also, not the best method.
I’ve used a lot of baby name books or web sites. These are incredibly useful. You can search for meanings of names, names from certain nationalities, starting with a particular letter, number of letters, the list of search filters is practically endless. Do a random web search for baby names and you will come up with a wide variety of sites.
When writing sci-fi, quite often I find myself needing an alien sounding name. Nothing "Earthly" works, so I’m stuck with making something up. While this might sound easy, it really isn’t. I like names that sound vaguely alien in nature, but aren’t so incredibly complicated to pronounce that my readers eyes will boil. It drives me crazy reading a book with complicated names. The worst faults are those who add a lot of unnecessary punctuation. Do you think we need "Ban’Kay-at-ah’wan"? What am I supposed to do on those dashes and apostrophes, swallow my tongue? Think too, when you are typing that all important name, how many times you will have to type it before the novel ends. I don’t think I could face it. It’s easy to fall into this pattern, but it is far better to make easily pronounceable names.
How to find the ideal alien name, preferably one that isn’t unpronounceable and jaw breaking? Fantasy name generators are great for this. Again, a random web search can be invaluable. I have also used mundane things, rearranged the letters a tad and come up with some amazingly interesting names. After wracking my brain for an important alien, a glance at a shop window solved the problem. I used part of the business name in reverse, and came up with an amazing moniker! Another name was provided by rearranging the letters in the maker of my van, "Telorvech".
I got the name of a planet from a telemarketer. English was not her primary language, and it took several minutes to determine that she wasn’t calling from some obscure third world country. She was, in fact, calling from Bank One. However, it sounded like "Ban-qwan", which later became "Bankaywan".
Once names have been decided upon, write them down and arrange them alphabetically
with a brief description of each character. This is quite helpful keeping track, especially of minor characters. How often have I gone back to a minor flunky only to say to myself, "Was his name Fred, Fritz or Frank?" And how frustrating to realize that I’ve named not one but two minor flunkies with the same name. Of course it’s entirely possible to have two men in opposite ends of the galaxy both named Frank, but why do it to yourself or your readers?
I try to keep names short, or give nicknames to character names I will be typing a lot. I just named a character Adrianna. I really wish I’d chosen something a tad shorter, but somehow the name Adrianna Hasselhoff seemed to fit. It’s her name now, and she won’t give it up, so I’m stuck with it. My main character in my sci-fi series is named Wilhelm Van Lipsig. His name immediately got shortened to Wil and there it’s stayed. I’ve noticed a trend as I write this article. Reviewing my character names, I find that the men often have shorter names than the women.
For the men: Wil, Ben, Marc, Frank, Kael, Stan, Brock, Brodie.
For the women: Matilda, Adrianna, Escascia, Ariella, Tselanna, Ysilvalov, Ssylvenia, Savannah.
I wonder why I do that. It certainly makes more work for me than if I named them things like Meg, Tina or Penny.
Avoid naming your main characters with similar sounding names. It is terribly confusing
for readers. I have a series of fantasy books I enjoy reading, but at least three main characters have names beginning with "K", three have names beginning with "S" and the hero’s wife, a queen, has a name so similar to that of her country, it gets mind boggling quickly. I know how difficult it can be to keep everyone straight, particularly when a novel begins to develop sub-plots.
for readers. I have a series of fantasy books I enjoy reading, but at least three main characters have names beginning with "K", three have names beginning with "S" and the hero’s wife, a queen, has a name so similar to that of her country, it gets mind boggling quickly. I know how difficult it can be to keep everyone straight, particularly when a novel begins to develop sub-plots.
The more I write, the more I find myself adhering to the "KISS" rule. (Keep It Simple, Sweetie). The more complicated I make it for myself now, the more exhausted I will be when I finish the book.
Friday, December 07, 2007
This is the Shobro. Beautiful, isn't it? They weren't well received by their target group, the bluegrass crowd. They are too mellow in tone. It can be played as a Dobro, on the lap with a slide, etc. It came with a converstion kit. Originally created by "Shot" Jackson, the pattern was eventually sold to Gretsch, who stopped making them in 1973. This is the only Shobro I've seen with the "horn" design. Which makes it even more unique.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
So You Killed a Character. Now What?
There come times when we have to kill off a character. I know it's hard, but swords slash, guns go off, bombs blow and a life ends.
First ,you cry. At least I do. I can't speak for those people who are callous and uncaring, but I cry like crazy. It's like losing a friend, especially when it's someone you like.
Second, you torture yourself with it for awhile to see how it feels. It feels awful. You're a horrible person! How could you do such an awful thing?
Third, you remember that movie "Stranger Than Fiction" and worry if you really killed off a real person! (Come on, it's a MOVIE of course you didn't. You don't have any special voodoo powers.
Fourth, you move on. You have to resolve the conflict and finish the book. The death moved the story forward. You had to do it. Someone had to die besides the bad guy. So he was a wonderful, sweet, good looking, loving character! Someone had to do the job, and he did it.
Well, the fourth one doesn't always happen, but you try. I bring all this up, because I just killed off not one, but two very likeable characters so that the plot could advance. One of them was old, he'd lived an exemplary life, he was going to die soon anyway. The other was young, full of life, in prime physical condition, had just fallen in love and found out his fiancee was going to have a baby. He was looking forward to marriage, fatherhood, building a long and happy life together.
Then I killed him. I feel like an assassin. I feel mean and callous and uncaring. Because of me, that woman is suffering. That baby will grow up without a father and his best friend is miserable. But I know that somehow they will soldier on without him and go on with their lives.
Maybe it will make me feel better to imagine his fiancee marrying someone else and finding a happy life with him. Perhaps I'll comfort myself knowing that, although the daughter didn't know her father, the man who raises her loves her as if she were his own child. And possibly, I can delight in the fact that his best friend will find out who is responsible for his death, and make him pay!
Yes, there are many things I can do to mollify myself. But I hope I don't have to kill off any more characters in this book, because I just used my last tissue.
Friday, November 09, 2007
I am interested in finding out what music people listen to when they write. For that matter, do you listen to music when you write? For me it's a given. I must have music playing whether anyone else in the house likes it or not. Cause I'm the MOM, that's why! I have a very loud fan in my computer, actually it's several fans and sounds rather like a jet taking off when I boot the sucker up. However, mood is created by music.
Certain types of scenes require specific music. For a battle scene, it has to be something heavy and driving: Metallica, Pantera, Rammstein, to name only a few. Love scenes need something mellow: Dido, Jeff Beck, Santana - also only a few of the things I have on my Rhapsody lists. Many of my stories have a particular song as a focal point. Sometimes the pacing and mood set depends on what I've been listening to. I have one fight scene that was written while listening to "Crazy Benny" by the Safri Duo. As I read, I can hear the piece of music in my head because the leaps, strikes and pauses reflect the cadence of the music.
So what I'd like to know is what kind of music do you listen to when you write? Please feel free to post replies. I am always open to trying new groups, so I look forward to finding out what you have to say. To get us started, I've included a short list of bands below.
Aside from those listed above:
A Perfect Circle
Aerosmith
Alan Parsons Project
Alice in Chains
Beck
Black Sabbath
Blue Man Group
Buckethead
Chumbwamba
Coldplay
Cranberries
Crystal Method
And that's just part of my A-C list!
Certain types of scenes require specific music. For a battle scene, it has to be something heavy and driving: Metallica, Pantera, Rammstein, to name only a few. Love scenes need something mellow: Dido, Jeff Beck, Santana - also only a few of the things I have on my Rhapsody lists. Many of my stories have a particular song as a focal point. Sometimes the pacing and mood set depends on what I've been listening to. I have one fight scene that was written while listening to "Crazy Benny" by the Safri Duo. As I read, I can hear the piece of music in my head because the leaps, strikes and pauses reflect the cadence of the music.
So what I'd like to know is what kind of music do you listen to when you write? Please feel free to post replies. I am always open to trying new groups, so I look forward to finding out what you have to say. To get us started, I've included a short list of bands below.
Aside from those listed above:
A Perfect Circle
Aerosmith
Alan Parsons Project
Alice in Chains
Beck
Black Sabbath
Blue Man Group
Buckethead
Chumbwamba
Coldplay
Cranberries
Crystal Method
And that's just part of my A-C list!
Sometimes I feel as if I'm living and talking in a completely different universe from everyone else. Do you ever feel that way? I think and say things that make no sense to non-writers. In fact, those who don't write novels wouldn't understand this either, so I don't count journalists, magazine editors, or folks who write non-fiction. So I'll restate that more explicitly: Only writers of novels would understand.
My husband, bless his heart, laughs at me when I tell him the characters changed their minds and didn't like the direction a scene was going. "I've had to rewrite the entire chapter because theydidn't like it!" or something I've said frequently about the hero in my historical romance, "I couldn't make Manuel do it. He simply refused to be bad!"
Writers of novels would (I hope) understand.
I've noticed when I get hung up in a chapter, more often than not it's because I tried to take the story in a direction the characters didn't want to go. In fact, I've got a story that's stopped cold because I tried to force the two main characters into a compromising position and they don't want to be there. It's going to entail massive edits. I have to go back into the chapter and figure out where it went wrong. Actually, I think it took a turn two chapters back... oh, goodness! I'm dreading it, so it's going to wait until this one is done.
Here's another problem - I've written 44,689 words, 200 pages, and I'm not even quite halfway through the story. What will I edit? Do I need to? The characters are compelling. They have a story to share and I don't want to ignore them. Though the story is centered around a little girl named Lena, who will grow to be a powerful prophetess, it also involves the entwined lives of seven other people. Their stories have to be told, or hers makes no sense. But so much has to happen to her that won't involve them. And some thing catastrophic must happen to make them lose track of one another. The problems grow and continue. That's what I get for writing a prequel to a six book series.
My husband, bless his heart, laughs at me when I tell him the characters changed their minds and didn't like the direction a scene was going. "I've had to rewrite the entire chapter because they
Writers of novels would (I hope) understand.
I've noticed when I get hung up in a chapter, more often than not it's because I tried to take the story in a direction the characters didn't want to go. In fact, I've got a story that's stopped cold because I tried to force the two main characters into a compromising position and they don't want to be there. It's going to entail massive edits. I have to go back into the chapter and figure out where it went wrong. Actually, I think it took a turn two chapters back... oh, goodness! I'm dreading it, so it's going to wait until this one is done.
Here's another problem - I've written 44,689 words, 200 pages, and I'm not even quite halfway through the story. What will I edit? Do I need to? The characters are compelling. They have a story to share and I don't want to ignore them. Though the story is centered around a little girl named Lena, who will grow to be a powerful prophetess, it also involves the entwined lives of seven other people. Their stories have to be told, or hers makes no sense. But so much has to happen to her that won't involve them. And some thing catastrophic must happen to make them lose track of one another. The problems grow and continue. That's what I get for writing a prequel to a six book series.
Friday, September 07, 2007
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Is it Therapy or Avoidance?
It’s early evening, I’m bored, I have nothing else to do – except clean house, start the dishwasher, or do laundry. Do I do any of those things? No. I sit down and start to write. Why? Is it because writing is therapeutic? Partially. But I had an epiphany a few days ago, and came to the realization that I use writing as a way of avoiding doing something else. Though writing can be very beneficial to me, does it pay the bills yet? No, nor does it clean the house, mop the floor or any of the other endless tasks that need doing on a daily basis. I find myself looking at the dust on my antique reed organ and think, “Why bother? It will still be there tomorrow.” And it will, though a tad deeper than it is right now.
Writing is also an excellent way to ignore my children when they are fighting. It fills the gaps between meals rather nicely, and keeps me from snacking (though the coffee consumption tends to go up in direct proportion to my hours at the computer.) Typing a science fiction novel, or perhaps a “fluffy” romance is escapism. I can throw myself into the story, bringing the villain to justice, or two young people together in love.
There are times when the story must be told. It doesn’t have to be a good story, it doesn’t even have to get finished, what is important is getting the main characters to a certain point where they can dangle for infinity (and often do). I can’t count the number of stories I have pending at the moment, waiting for completion. I have many finished, all needing editing. Am I doing the editing? No. I’m writing. Do I want to do the editing? Not when there are so many delightful, useless stories waiting to be written! Far be it for me to tell myself that several of them have incredibly similar plot lines. I also needn’t mention that most of them are drivel, and I could be devoting that time and enthusiasm to something more worthwhile, like finishing the last book in my sci-fi series.
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