Waking Up #writestuff #caffeinateme

Good morning friends and readers!

*raises coffee in salute* *sips* Ahh. Waking up slowly here and getting the day started. Outside my window, the dew drops sparkle on the grass. Yesterday, it was cool and rainy and I even turned the air conditioning off and opened the windows. Looks like today is bringing bad news for my electric bill! Sunny and bright, temps will probably soar back up into the nineties by noon. *shrugs* Oh well.

I've been struggling to get into a new story for The Story Orgy. We're celebrating fall and Halloween with a thematic approach, a Creature Feature as it were. I say struggling because the first few chapters of a new story are always a bit of a struggle… it's awkward writing about people you don't know. After I get through that hump, get into their heads and find out who they really are, things seem to flow much better.

So I'm battling the writer's block with great seventies rock love songs ( Feel Like Making Love) from some of my favorite bands… and seeking mummy trivia and jokes in the name of research.

Where do mummies go for a swim?

            Answer: The Dead Sea.

And watching The Walking Dead.

That's right. Five years later, I finally get with the program. I'm up to the last four episodes of season two… we've just discovered that everyone is infected and you don't have to be bitten or scratched to turn after death. Rick's killed Shane… who was getting on my nerves anyway, Dale is dead, Andrea is lost, and so am I.

I'm resisting the urge to buy all 23 volumes of the graphic novels to find out what happens because I know I'm going to run out of episodes before long. So… some things that have been bugging me since I started watching:

1.      Why do all the cars that run seem to have been made in the seventies? I mean… there's some sweet rides in that highway of lost souls… if you had your choice, wouldn't one of them be better? And more fuel efficient?

2.      That department store in Atlanta? In the middle of the business district? Surrounded by office buildings and crawling with zombies? Is it really the only one they could think of? Aren't there probably just as many useful things out in the nearest convenience store?

3.      That one bag of guns and ammo sure as hell seems to be a bottomless pit of supplies. They've divided it, passed out weapons and ammunition multiple times and yet still there's plenty to go around?

Yeah… but I can't stop watching. It's an odd kind of addiction, LOL. And it makes me wonder… what would you do? Pretty sure I've thought of more survival plans in the last week than in my entire life.

Oh… and this morning? As if we didn't have enough to worry about? I saw this Huffington Post article. Yes. That's right. We have to think now… before the glorious summer weather has faded and fall set in, about how this coming winter is going to be F*ing cold and snowy. Time to start preparing for winter. Stock up on supplies, drag the sweaters and long johns out of the back of the closet… I wasn't ready. I did not want to think about snow yet. I'll have to start buying bags of birdseed every time I go into town. Winter's always hard on our feathered friends when the ground is covered in snow and ice. 

Global warming? Meet Impending Ice Age. Play nicely together you guys.

*refills coffee mug* Okay- thanks for hanging out with me guys. I'm off to drag Izzy and Owen into danger. If you think of any cool mummy jokes, I'd love to hear them here or on my Facebook page. Have a great day!  

Am I a Writer Yet?

When Can I Call Myself a Writer?

Whilst drinking coffee this morning,  I stumbled over this article: http://thoughtcatalog.com/ryan-holiday/2014/06/can-you-call-yourself-a-writer/

And I began to wonder … (Yes, yes, I realize that I was procrastinating.)

For many years now I've called myself a writer. I have always secretly wanted to be a writer. In seventh grade I wrote a short Halloween story for the school newsletter. I followed that with a Christmas story. Then nothing. I wrote essays and read obsessively. I wrote poetry- most of it pretty bad. When I went to college I studied English and Composition, and the very first elective course I ever signed on for was creative writing, in which I learned that I knew nothing.

Which was fine. College for me consisted a great deal of learning that all the myths I'd convinced myself were true in high school were false. My parents were smarter than I was. They had

it right. Earning money writing – enough to support myself—wasn't going to happen. The world wasn't a black and white place. Shades of grey were real. Republicans had some good ideas, so did Democrats.

I earned a degree in education and put my writing dreams on the back shelf. I forced myself to be content with writing unique essays, and supporting myself.

Bah.

I read great books and I envied the people who could send me soaring to new dimensions and new worlds with their characters and settings. I gorged on mysteries and romances and fantasies, and I went to work and supported myself.

I graded essays and corrected grammar and tried to encourage young minds to think great thoughts in a logical manner.

And I won't say that I withered and shriveled, out of my element. I was a damned good teacher and I still receive emails and calls from former students saying thank you… you taught me to write and I just got into Harvard, or I got my PhD, or I'm getting married on Saturday and I wrote my own vows.

But one day, I stopped supporting myself and moved to the country. I had a whole new life, outside the city, without the pressure of work, and it took me a while to relax and recover. I soaked in the slower pace, the more earthy pursuits, the less stressful environment.

And one day, as I drove across country, a story unfolded in my head. I remembered that

sensation. That wonderful, enthralling, eagerness when you tell yourself a story…when you meet people who live in your head for the very first time and the outside world turns gray and the inner world bursts into vibrant, ultra-rich color.

Mack and Lex told me their story from beginning to end in an eight hour drive from the east coast to middle America, misunderstandings and conflicting plans, what they liked to wear and eat. The things – the insecurities— that stood in their way, that prevented them from being one hundred percent together and invested in each other.

Oh. This wasn't a mystery or the great American novel I'd fantasized about writing in my teen years.

Oh no.

This was…romance. In a form that didn't even exist when I was a kid.

This was a short story- about two men falling in love and figuring out how to be together.

It wasn't literary.

I couldn't do this.

But I couldn't shake it either.

When I got home, I went to bed and I told myself my story again, fine tuning bits of it as I drifted off to sleep. And when I woke… I made the coffee, sent the SO off to work, and I sat down at my computer and I started typing.

That was how I spent August of 2010. Typing my story. Fixing my typos. Proofing and rewording and making it shine. And researching. I knew my story wasn't what traditional big six publishers were looking for. It was too short for one thing. And too Gay for another.

I made a list of eBook publishers – much more gay friendly than the Big 6—and I studied their guidelines on submissions. (*eye roll* Now there's a discussion topic for another day.) I carefully packaged up my baby and sent a query to the first publisher on my list, then I sat back and waited. And while I waited, another story came to life. I started work on that story, getting it on paper, figuring out how to make it work.

I didn’t call myself a writer yet.

Even though I spent a good six hours a day actually typing and a great deal more time networking and building an author presence on line, and learning about the world of writing, I didn't call myself a writer.

Then I got my first rejection on my first story. A milestone. It was kind and helpful and very detailed.

I set aside my current projects and started revising my first story. I made it more active, intensified the conflict, and I finished my second story.

I had two completed novellas, and I'd learned that the 21^st century had something called self-publishing. Alternatives. I had choices. And I had two perfect vehicles for exploring those choices.

I took my second story, and I submitted it to a publishing house that specialized in eBooks and judging from their catalogue of offerings, did quite well with gay romance. The other, I decided to self-publish. I would conduct a grand experiment, I told myself, to see which method of publishing suited me better. I self-published one book and sat back to wait on word from the publisher about the other.

And I started my next book.

And I still didn't call myself a writer.

Self-published books didn't really count, did they? That fact was hammered home to me by a casual Facebook friend who asked in private chat, "Well, what was wrong with your first book that you had to self-publish it?" OUCH! Yeah, not a writer yet.

In November of 2010, I sent book #3 off to a different publisher, because the publisher who had book #2 wasn't very speedy in their decision making process. By December I had a contract for book #3 from the publisher and five finished manuscripts plus one self-published piece.

Could I call myself a writer then?

Fast forward four years. I call myself a writer today. I have written over 50 short novellas and short stories. Roughly half are self-published, and half with publishing houses. When did I make the change from "not-a-writer" to "writer"?

I don't honestly know. I know that writing has changed from fun to work to fun and back again a hundred times in the last four years. I am either swimming in self-doubt and hate every word or patting myself on the back for my sheer genius. Sometimes in rapid succession over the same bloody sentence.

Such is the life of a writer. We soar on wings of inspiration and belly crawl through pits of despair, sometimes before we finish that first pot of coffee.

We don't need someone else telling us when we can have the title. Some of us are born with it, some of us earn it, and some of us wear it awkwardly, questioning its fit for our humble efforts. When you're a writer? You'll know it. Most important of all, just keep writing. Write bad poetry, and insightful essays, write blog posts and 144 character tweets. Write short stories and flash fiction and novellas or whatever floats your boat.

Because that's the one thing you have to do in order to call yourself a writer.

You have to write.

That is all.

Write.

Who cares what you call yourself?

Write.

Who cares what other people call you?

Write.

14 Random Facts_ You Surely Couldn't Care Less

I was tagged by the incredible Hank Edwards to post 14 random facts about myself  on Face Book. Which was challenging as heck since I have trouble thinking of just five…Since I went to all that effort, I decided you guys should benefit from my work as well. 

1.       I'm a Trekkie. Once I flabbergasted- his word, not mine- a college professor by managing to include a Star Trek reference in EVERY single assignment for an entire semester. It was made easier by the fact that it was a class on Multiculturalism and Diversity in the classroom.
2.      I prefer that Louis Kemp fake crab to the real thing. Yeah, I know. Plebian.
3.      I once spent my rent money on tickets to a concert. For what it's worth, it WAS The Eagles Hell Freezes Over tour, and well, I thought they'd NEVER be around again.
4.      I sing Tom Petty songs while I'm driving…
5.      I studied French for four years but have never been called upon to use it for anything. Maybe my guidance counselor was right and I should have taken Spanish?
6.      I do not have the patience to read instruction manuals or watch how to videos. If a project cannot be intuited, then it doesn’t' belong in my home. Seriously. It shouldn’t take a twenty-seven page booklet to tell someone how to assemble a book case.
7.      I like sandwiches. Fun, quirky, odd…and as a result, one of my "bucket list" items is visiting one of Tom Colicchio's 'wichcraft restaurants- which sucks because that means I'd have to travel, as they are located only in SF, NY and LV.
8.      Which brings me to the next item…I hate travel. I did so much moving around as a kid that the idea of packing up and going somewhere is traumatic.
9.      I still have a lot of 80's music on vinyl – Duran Duran, Culture Club, Spandau Ballet, Billy Idol, Rush, David Bowie & Corey Hart to name a few. I do not, however, have a "record player" to play them on.
10.  It cost me more to "move" my library of books than it cost to move my furniture. Yeah, I have THAT many books.
11.  The one and only time I drank gin, I ended up so drunk I proposed to some woman. Her boyfriend was not amused. Neither was mine.
12.  I'd rather cook than eat out…
13.  I slept in the puppet theater of a Renaissance Fair ground once. It's a long story and… well, anyway.
14.  My SO other calls me "the blanket police" because I have to have the bed covers all in a certain order of layers, positioned correctly on the bed. I need the weight of the blankets- whether it's cold out or not. So, I'll put four blankets on the bed and crack the window open to let in a cold breeze, or turn the AC down to 65.
15.  Every morning I wake up twisted like a pretzel because no matter how I bar the door to keep them out, I always end up sharing my bed-and not just with one sexy mathematician, either. No. I usually wake up in a complicated puzzle consisting of a Great Dane, a cat (If the cats cross paths in the night while climbing into bed with us, they hiss and fight and wake us all up, so there's never more than one cat on the bed), and one (sometimes both) puppies.
 

Hank Edwards Challenged Me - Passing It on to You - Are you up for it?

Hank Edwards challenged me to name 10 Movies that have stuck with me over the years. I'm not sure I can do this one- but I'll give it a shot.

1. North and South - okay, so it was actually a miniseries about 24 hours long, but still...
2. Sound of Music - In second grade, my class took a field trip to see this movie- I've been a fan every since.
3. The Wizard of Oz - as a child, I was terrified not only that flying monkeys would swoop down from the trees and attack me, but that a house would fall on me.
4. Planet of the Apes - saw at a drive in theater with my whole family in the back end of a station wagon - it was a double feature with 2001 Space Odyssey, which bored me to sleep. Roddy McDowall as Cornelius, however, is something that I can still grin about today
5. Star Wars - Yes. I am more likely to watch this than any of the new ones. My siblings and I fought light saber battles with tree branches for years after seeing this.

NOW Moving out of the childhood years

6.  Shawshank Redemption - I'm still not sure he was innocent
7. Good Will Hunting - Because. That's why. Just Because.
8. The Dead Poet's Society - I wanted to be that teacher- the one who inspires creative thought and action. I hope I was.
9. Pulp Fiction - What just happened there? I know. It's awful...but in a really good way.
10. The Silence of the Lambs - Shudder.

What about you? Can you name ten movies that have stuck with you over the years?

Looking Back: I've Learned A Lot About Being An Author

Come October, it's been three years since I started doing this writing for a living gig. *bows* Thank you. How's it going? Well, I'm content with where I'm at although I've stumbled along the way.

There are dozens of things I wish I'd known three years ago, things about editing, about cover art, about reviews, and blogs, and promotion and it goes on and on.

When I started, I knew one thing.

The story I wanted to tell.

That's how easy I thought it would be. The story in mind would go onto the page and out into the world. I'd always been told, since elementary school that I had a natural gift for writing. My essays earned high scores and eloquent comments…

My favorite comment came from a college professor in a rhetoric class who wrote in red across the top of my essay, "Have you always written with such grace?"

Grace.

I'm blushing now just thinking about how I felt seeing that and more than twenty years have passed.

I started out that October with all kinds of preconceived notions about how I would behave as an author.

Arrogant, selfish and rude weren't on my list.

But I've been accused of all of them at more than one point over the last three years. (Oddly enough, never to my face.) Many of things I thought I'd do, I've been forced to adapt over the years. Who knew that just thanking a reviewer was frowned upon? Three years ago I thought it was only polite to say thanks on every review I received, as I found them. Turns out that is just one of the things I've been wrong about. I wish someone had told me back then.

And maybe that guy who called me arrogant was right, because I think that there are things I've learned over the years that others might benefit from knowing. So consider this fair warning. I'm going share what I've learned. Bits and pieces of things I wish someone had told me along the way.

I’m not telling you what to do, or how to do it. I'm sharing what worked for me, and how I achieved a level of success that I am comfortable with.

Some of what I have to say may be common sense, some of it may seem controversial. You've no doubt seen some of it before. Some of it is so trivial that you're going to wonder why the hell I've even bothered to mention it.

Take for instance, this bit.

When you put yourself out there as an advocate for equality, you make fair-mindedness a part of your brand.

When you then make sarcastic or jocular remarks that show what a low opinion you actually hold of some groups, whether they are race, orientation, gender, or body-type based, you tarnish your brand.

Think about who you are as a writer and what you stand for.

Let that image be your guide.

I can't really believe in your tolerance and avowed stance that "love is love" when I skim the news feed and see your public statements that show me your prejudices.  

You think it's funny to denigrate someone based on a physical characteristic, to equate intelligence with appearance, or size, or socio-economic background.

It's not. Because the gay community you claim to support isn't just made of "gay".

It's made of rich, poor, middle class working folks. It's made of pretty, beautiful, austere, stark, angular, round folks. It's made of geniuses and artists, savants and average Joe's. It's made of models and writers and gas station attendants and doctors and lawyers and teachers and chefs…

So when you point at the one guy and laugh, and wave the rainbow flag in your other hand…

It doesn't really matter, does it?

If you're an orientation bigot or a size bigot…

It's all the same.

Think before you post.

Because I'm not just an author; I'm a reader, a teacher, a chef, a musician, an OCD bleach freak, a long haired hippie, a procrastinator, a Catholic, a friend, a lover, a spouse, a loner, a sibling… and I care about equality for everyone, and tolerance for everyone.