For those of you who haven’t seen it yet, here’s a little video I did about Gray Zone.
The novel is scheduled to be released in January, 2014.
Let me know if you have any questions about the book. I’d love to chat with you.
When it comes to results, writer’s block is to a professional writer what a broken arm is to a professional baseball player. It’s painful, causes loss of work, and brings with it the thought that it might mean the end of a career.
But what is it? What is this thing we call ‘writer’s block’?
For every writer I’m sure it’s different, but for me:
Writer’s block is a black hole in my brain that snags each brightly lit idea and sucks it away just as my hands hit the keyboard.
Writer’s block is over thinking plot lines and character traits. It’s spending so much time in the planning stage that the writing stage never happens.
Writer’s block is being caught up the day-to-day chaos that is my everyday life.
Writer’s block is receiving rejection after rejection, until the belief takes hold that rejections are all that will ever come.
Writer’s block is letting one snarky review overshadow all the good reviews.
Writer’s block is the fear that my belief in myself is unfounded. That I’m a bad writer and will always be a bad writer.
Writer’s block is the belief that even if I craft every thought as perfectly as I’m able, even if I share my very soul, I’ll never be thought of as anything but an amateur.
Writer’s block is each truly horrific moment when the switch in my brain is stuck in the “off” position. When the ability to write is not so much blocked as it is broken.
Writer’s block steals hope and replaces it with doubt.
Writer’s block is sometimes a hurdle to be jumped over, and sometimes a mountain to be climbed.
Writer’s block is insidious and powerful.
But luckily, writer’s block is all in my head.
Dreams are funny things. Some of them are strange concoctions created by sleepy brains, blended images which rapidly switch directions and send the dreamer on a roller-coaster ride through the imagination.
Other dreams act more as guides. They solve mysteries, figure out problems, and uncover hidden jealousies. Wake up in the morning after one of this sort and you miraculously remember exactly where you left those keys you couldn’t find yesterday. That twisted math problem that had been unsolvable suddenly becomes clear. And most importantly, you finally understand why your best friend said that malicious remark that devastated you at lunch.
But only a very few fortunate (or maybe unfortunate) souls get to experience the rarest dream of all. For this brand of dream has no connection to the imagination and does not occur in the human head. Instead, it happens in a realm of its own…in the baffling, mysterious, and dangerous land of dreams.
Thousands of years ago, a culture thrived in the Pacific Northwest. Today, there is no sign of this flourishing culture. The entire city, with the exception of a few stray survivors, suffered a cataclysmic event that ripped apart the fabric of the universe and pushed them, buildings and all, into another dimension.
Thousands of years ago, a culture thrived in the Pacific Northwest. Today, there is no sign of this flourishing culture. The entire city, with the exception of a few stray survivors, suffered a cataclysmic event that ripped apart the fabric of the universe and pushed them, buildings and all, into another dimension.
So what happens when someone discovers how to travel through the land of dreams, and the lives of our world become entwined with those of the other dimension?
My last post was about why I stick to fiction. My intent was to explain why I don’t write about my own family.
Which, of course, required me to write about my own family. I guess I could have just as easily written about a friend’s family, or neighbor’s family, but that didn’t seem fair.
Evidently I opened up a can of worms with that one, since I was told (via comment, no less, since phones don’t exist) that I came off as “judgmental, arrogant, pompous and like you feel you are better than your family.”
Everyone is entitled to their opinion. No matter how wrong it is.
I guess I could take my previous post down but then I would feel I’d been censored. Can’t have that! Especially when no one’s reputation was damaged by what I wrote. No one was bullied or maligned.
Except for me, in the comment.
So, to set the record straight:
– I love the South. Being a Southerner is part of my identity, it’s ingrained in my soul, and I’m proud of it. There are a lot of misconceptions about the South, so as a Southerner living in the Pacific Northwest I spend a lot of energy informing people about the good aspects of the South.
– I love my family, all of them. I am proud of a good chunk of them, but there are a few of them that live by a different set of rules than I do. I guess you could say they tend toward the dramatic rather than the ethical.
– Life-is-a-soap-opera is a world-wide problem, not one restricted to any region or country. As I stated before, every family has at least one.
– Saying “my family is littered with them” could be taken to mean that everyone in my family is a soap-opera-wannabe. Which is not what I intended, since that would include me. But since the definition of ‘littered’ is ‘scattered about’, the real implication is that there are a few mixed in with the many.
– Just because I didn’t mention the normal people doesn’t mean I don’t know they exist. I’m normal, and I know I exist.
– When it comes to family, no matter what is said, someone will be offended. Something will always be taken the wrong way. Which is why I rarely write about family.
– My family history belongs to me just as much as it does to any other family member. It is part of what makes me, me. Think about it.
Until next week, on As the Family Churns.
Every family has at least one. Maybe it’s an aunt that lives far away and never attends family get-togethers, or an uncle that no one ever mentions. Or maybe it’s a cousin who causes everyone in the room to shake their head sadly whenever his or her name comes up in conversation.
Every family has at least one, but my family is littered with them. Perhaps it’s because my mother and her family were sharecroppers in the Deep South. There were nine children, five girls and four boys, all living with their parents in what most would call a hovel. Poor does not come close to describing their economic status.
Life was difficult, and it isn’t surprising that few of them graduated from high school. So who can really blame the ones who conducted their lives more like a soap opera than a stable family life?
Take one of my relatives as an example. She’s nearing seventy and has never held a job in her life. Instead of a traditional job she’s made it her life’s work to marry the perfect man. To date she has been married six times, and not once has one of her marriages ended in divorce. All her husbands have died, but not of natural causes.
Her story would make a good drama, but I wouldn’t touch it with the proverbial ten-foot pole. She’s probably the least ethical and most money hungry person I’ve ever met. To make a deal with her for her life story rights would be identical to making a deal with the devil. No matter how much she was given she would never be satisfied. I shiver to think of the mess it would create.
They are my family. We share genes. But that certainly does not mean that I have to write about them, no matter how much fodder they provide.
I write fiction. Like most writers, I often draw from my own experiences to form the basis for the stories. It helps to me to create more depth in the stories, make them more believable and real.
But although I do sometimes use family members, friends, and even strangers I meet on the street to inspire my characters and stories, my final product is always an invention of my imagination. That little glimmer of reality, that part that inspires the story, lives a short yet fruitful life. It provides a beacon that burns only until the bright light of imagination takes over.
So no matter where I begin, no matter who or what served as my inspiration, by the time I’ve finished the story there is very little similarity between the original and my creation.
It is safer that way, and more fun. I prefer to write fiction. I enjoy creating new worlds and situations, being in full control of the beginning, the middle, and the end.
I just found out that the first copies of Gray Zone are being printed.
I’m so excited! I can’t wait to have a copy of the book in my hands.
Here’s what the front will look like.
In case you forgot what it’s about:
Forced to transfer schools after a cyber-prank goes viral and threatens her safety, Autumn tries to make it an opportunity to reinvent herself—but when tragedy strikes, she decides enough is enough.
Last night at 3 a.m. I awoke from a sound sleep to find myself sitting up, disoriented, scared, and holding my breath.
As my sleeping brain retreated and my waking brain asserted control I realized that I was staring at a spot a few feet from my bed, and that I fully expected to see something there.
Unable to move I sat, frozen, piercing the moonlit darkness with a laser beam stare.
But there was nothing to see beside my bed, absolutely nothing.
I knew what I was looking for. The memory of a child and three baseball sized lights, two white and one red, was clear in my mind. They had been beside my bed, just moments before, as I slept.
I had awakened just in time to see them shoot out my window and disappear into the night sky.
Or, at least, that’s how it seemed to me in my half-awake state.
The lack of oxygen to my lungs finally forced me to take a breath, and somehow that one action snapped me out of my daze.
I climbed out of bed, and looked out at the night sky. Everything was as it should be, amid the tree tops was a mishmash of clouds, stars, and moonlight.
No baseball sized lights zipping around among to trees. No child mysteriously floating by.
It had all been a dream. A surprisingly disturbing dream, but a dream nonetheless.
Whatever does my brain think it’s doing, waking me at 3 a.m.?
Doesn’t it know I need my sleep?
From the first day I stepped foot into a classroom I liked school. I liked the work the teachers gave me, I liked the cozy safeness of my seat, and I even liked the lunches that were served in the cafeteria (lunches always came with a dessert, something I rarely got at home).
I was never bored. If I had to write each spelling word 20 times, I would use the words to create a pattern, maybe a picture of a tree, then race to fill in the picture before anyone caught on that I was really playing and not working.
Every assignment was fun, because for me, every assignment was my own personal game. The rules changed often, but two of the rules always stayed the same. I had to finish before everyone else in the classroom, and I could make no mistakes. A mistake meant automatic disqualification. Game lost!
So my school life progressed happily.
Until sixth grade, when I was a tween, and the school in all their wisdom decided to give IQ tests.
I remember the day my life changed very well. We had had the test several weeks before. My teacher was giving a math lesson, and for some reason one of the students asked about the results of the IQ test.
The teacher said everyone had done just fine on the test, and that the results were to be kept confidential.
Then she said (to my entire class, mind you), “Just between us, her results are off the chart.” She walked over to me and placed a hand gently on my shoulder as she smiled down at me, “I wish I could make scores like that, especially in math.”
With that gentle touch my life was ruined. I immediately acquired a new nickname, Computer Brain, and was the brunt of more teasing than I want to remember. Any pleasure I had previously experienced by doing well in school evaporated faster that water droplets on a sizzling skillet.
Probably most devastating was that I had just begun to notice the existence of boys. Those cootie laden creatures of years past suddenly looked attractive to me.
But for the next few years, all during middle school, not a single boy would look my way. Until I entered high school and was able to lose myself in a new group of students I could not be considered cute because I had been labeled smart. The two things just didn’t mix.
So you can be sure that in high school I stayed well under the radar. I still did well in school, but very, very quietly.
Here’s my seventh grade school picture. I’ve studied it, searching for the tubes, buttons, and antennas that I assume must have protruded from my head.
I see nothing. Except a huge tangle, but I doubt that was enough to make me a pariah among my classmates.
I was just a normal girl wanting normal things.
Look for yourself. Do you see those signs of monstrosity that my peers saw so easily?
Sigh. The trauma of middle school. I knew it well.
For the past four years or so I’ve lived under a curse.
I don’t know who placed the curse.
I don’t know why I was the unlucky recipient of the curse.
I just know the curse is there. I can feel it’s smothering presence weighing me down with every step I take.
Lucky for me the curse is on only one aspect of my life–money. The other parts of my life–my family, friends, health, and writing–are perfectly fine. As a matter of fact, they’re great!
But I do have a problem with money, or I should say, the lack of it.
Not being able to find a real job for the past four years has really put a huge strain on our budget. I feel guilty. I’m the one who doesn’t have steady work. My family shouldn’t be deprived because of me.
The Disney trip was necessary for two different reasons.
One, my family needed to relax and have fun. They needed to recharge their batteries.
But I also needed to do research for a book I’m planning. I had, just had, to see how certain of the rides were handled. Was there a place during the ride where…
Uh oh! I’ve almost said too much. I mustn’t give away the plot before the story is written!
Hmm. Maybe I haven’t given up so much after all. Even if I did have to give up haircuts, vitamins, new clothes, and even a certain amount of car maintenance to make the trip possible.
But that’s neither here nor there. We managed the trip. The memories are ours to keep forever. I have what I need concerning theme park rides, and we had a great time! So take that, oh-maker-of-the-curse.
So, oh-maker-of-the-curse, what d’ya say? Don’t you think it’s time to lift the curse? I’ll just find ways around it anyway.
Come on. Fess up. It’s time to come clean and tell me who you are and why you put a curse on my purse.
Oh, and remove that silly little curse, of course.
After all, it has been a good joke.
Ha, ha.
You got me.
Very funny.
So let’s break that old curse, shall we. Before I end up in rags and my family and I have to move out into the desert and live in a tent.
We just got back from Disneyland where we ended our first day with the Teacup ride.
It seems harmless enough but it can do a real number on your equilibrium.
Go ahead, make it full screen. Enjoy the ride, just like you were there.
But fair warning. You’d better hang on to your cookies!