I’m doing NaNoWriMo again this year, even though I recently completed a self-imposed NaNo. My kids are doing the Young Writer’s NaNo as well.
That’s right; insanity runs in the family.
writing
Okay, this makes it official
I’m doing NaNoWriMo again this year, even though I recently completed a self-imposed NaNo. My kids are doing the Young Writer’s NaNo as well.
That’s right; insanity runs in the family.
Another subversive author
Check out this video about self-publishing from my new hero, Mr. Darryl Sloan.
“The real judge of you as an author is not these editors, it’s your readers.”
“Self publishing is the salvation of the publishing industry.”
–Darryl Sloan
http://darrylsloan.wordpress.com/2008/10/19/a-positive-perspective-on-self-publishing/
Another subversive author
Check out this video about self-publishing from my new hero, Mr. Darryl Sloan.
“The real judge of you as an author is not these editors, it’s your readers.”
“Self publishing is the salvation of the publishing industry.”
–Darryl Sloan
http://darrylsloan.wordpress.com/2008/10/19/a-positive-perspective-on-self-publishing/
Changes and Reflections
You may (or possibly may not) have noticed that my posting has been rather spotty here over the past month or so. One of the reasons for that is a lack of sleep due to my work schedule (I’ve been averaging about 2-3 hours a day on work days), and the resulting Slush Puppy Brain that results. Starting this weekend that will change. I’ll be working 2nd shift on weekends instead of 3rd shift during the week. In addition to the benefits that come with actually sleeping at night, it should mean a drastic increase in posts here (and comments on my buddy’s blogs). And–fear not!–even though customers typically wear their pants on 2nd shift, I should still see enough weirdness to keep this blog interesting.
In other news, I survived another week at Idol For Writers. This is my take on the assigned topic, Reflections:
~~~~~
An eight-year-old boy saunters down the street, smiling proudly, armed with a powerful new weapon, a gift from his father the evening before.
He slips open the schoolyard gate and surveys the crowd with his sharp, green eyes, so like his daddy’s: Girls skipping rope; boys shooting hoops; teachers chatting amongst themselves, tired and bored. And, sitting by himself, leaning against a solitary tree, reading a book, is his target.
He makes his way over, fists stuffed tightly into his pockets, twitching to keep the grin off his face until just the right moment. He comes to a stop directly in front a pair of white, spotless shoes, rolling the weapon around his tongue, savoring the jagged consonants and tangy vowels. His father’s voice echoes in his ears as he lets loose his grin, pulls the trigger, and fires the word directly into his target’s fragile, tender heart:
“Faggot!”
~~~~~
In other writing news, Chapters 40 and 41 of Waiting For Spring were posted at Readers and Writers Blog on Sunday. Tess is starting to heal…finally. Also new at R&W Blog is Chapters 16 and 17 of Ann M. Pino’s Steal Tomorrow. And Mr. Sid Leavitt has posted an excerpt of his very excellent book, Adrift in America. I’ve blogged about how much I enjoyed reading it before, and I’d like to recommend it to y’all again.
Changes and Reflections
You may (or possibly may not) have noticed that my posting has been rather spotty here over the past month or so. One of the reasons for that is a lack of sleep due to my work schedule (I’ve been averaging about 2-3 hours a day on work days), and the resulting Slush Puppy Brain that results. Starting this weekend that will change. I’ll be working 2nd shift on weekends instead of 3rd shift during the week. In addition to the benefits that come with actually sleeping at night, it should mean a drastic increase in posts here (and comments on my buddy’s blogs). And–fear not!–even though customers typically wear their pants on 2nd shift, I should still see enough weirdness to keep this blog interesting.
In other news, I survived another week at Idol For Writers. This is my take on the assigned topic, Reflections:
~~~~~
An eight-year-old boy saunters down the street, smiling proudly, armed with a powerful new weapon, a gift from his father the evening before.
He slips open the schoolyard gate and surveys the crowd with his sharp, green eyes, so like his daddy’s: Girls skipping rope; boys shooting hoops; teachers chatting amongst themselves, tired and bored. And, sitting by himself, leaning against a solitary tree, reading a book, is his target.
He makes his way over, fists stuffed tightly into his pockets, twitching to keep the grin off his face until just the right moment. He comes to a stop directly in front a pair of white, spotless shoes, rolling the weapon around his tongue, savoring the jagged consonants and tangy vowels. His father’s voice echoes in his ears as he lets loose his grin, pulls the trigger, and fires the word directly into his target’s fragile, tender heart:
“Faggot!”
~~~~~
In other writing news, Chapters 40 and 41 of Waiting For Spring were posted at Readers and Writers Blog on Sunday. Tess is starting to heal…finally. Also new at R&W Blog is Chapters 16 and 17 of Ann M. Pino’s Steal Tomorrow. And Mr. Sid Leavitt has posted an excerpt of his very excellent book, Adrift in America. I’ve blogged about how much I enjoyed reading it before, and I’d like to recommend it to y’all again.
Idol for Writers – Week 2 Entry
Voting for week two is now completed. Yours truly survived another week (seventh out of forty-one) with the following entry on the assigned topic, “Broken.”
~~~~~
He wasn’t surprised to hear the knock on his door, even though it was nearly midnight. He’d been expecting it for almost a month, half hoping each night that she’d work up the nerve so they could just get it over with.
She looked almost regal, standing there on his battered porch, dripping with wealth. She’d even had the audacity to wear her gaudy diamond wedding ring. He wasn’t irritated by it, though. It seemed fitting. She’d come here to proposition him, but she still needed to keep him in his place.
Finally she spoke. “I understand you’re finished with remodeling our kitchen.”
He nodded.
“I suppose that means we won’t be seeing you at the house again anytime soon.”
He nodded again, not giving her so much as a smile. If she wanted him, she’d have to come out with it. So she pressed on, annoyed, but too desperate to walk away.
“I…heard your girlfriend left you.”
It was actually the other way around, but he didn’t correct her. It didn’t matter. The result was the same. He was still left with nothing but a bruised ego, an empty heart, and something to prove.
And this rich, beautiful woman had knocked on his door, begging him to prove it.
But he’d been with this kind of woman before. She’d wasted her youth on a man who would toss her aside when Youth was gone. She knew it. And now she was empty, just like him. She practically reeked of it.
I need. I want. Give me.
Because she had nothing left to give.
Neither did he. So he closed the door without a word. Because he wasn’t that broken. Not yet.
Idol for Writers – Week 2 Entry
Voting for week two is now completed. Yours truly survived another week (seventh out of forty-one) with the following entry on the assigned topic, “Broken.”
~~~~~
He wasn’t surprised to hear the knock on his door, even though it was nearly midnight. He’d been expecting it for almost a month, half hoping each night that she’d work up the nerve so they could just get it over with.
She looked almost regal, standing there on his battered porch, dripping with wealth. She’d even had the audacity to wear her gaudy diamond wedding ring. He wasn’t irritated by it, though. It seemed fitting. She’d come here to proposition him, but she still needed to keep him in his place.
Finally she spoke. “I understand you’re finished with remodeling our kitchen.”
He nodded.
“I suppose that means we won’t be seeing you at the house again anytime soon.”
He nodded again, not giving her so much as a smile. If she wanted him, she’d have to come out with it. So she pressed on, annoyed, but too desperate to walk away.
“I…heard your girlfriend left you.”
It was actually the other way around, but he didn’t correct her. It didn’t matter. The result was the same. He was still left with nothing but a bruised ego, an empty heart, and something to prove.
And this rich, beautiful woman had knocked on his door, begging him to prove it.
But he’d been with this kind of woman before. She’d wasted her youth on a man who would toss her aside when Youth was gone. She knew it. And now she was empty, just like him. She practically reeked of it.
I need. I want. Give me.
Because she had nothing left to give.
Neither did he. So he closed the door without a word. Because he wasn’t that broken. Not yet.
I am not Tess Dyer
I know it’s not uncommon for a first novel to be at least semi-autobiographical, and judging by the sympathetic tone of some of the emails I’ve been getting lately, it seems that a lot of you think that’s the case with Waiting For Spring. Thankfully, I can say that it isn’t. Tess and I share some similarities: eye color, short stature, a tendency towards being a smart ass. We’re both avid Red Sox fans and both live in Small Town, Maine. I used my own ‘voice’–so to speak–for the narration. (Tackling the task of writing a first novel was much less daunting that way.) But the actual events of her life were in no way taken from mine. I sat down to write WFS over two-and-a-half-years ago with absolutely no plot in mind. I had no specific axes to grind, no confessions to make, no burdens with anyone’s name stamped in big, block letters to set down. Just thirty-five-and-a-half years of being a human being to sort through and a certainty that I had the talent to make something out of it.
I had been abandoned by someone who should have stayed around, then given the Someone who took his place a ration and a half of shit. Groaned about the minor imperfections of my mother, only to count my blessings when confronted with the gross imperfections of the mothers of some of my friends. I had loved and lost, then loved again. Shed tears with friends as they struggled with the heartbreak that comes when a mate has been unfaithful, and later thanked God out loud that it wasn’t me. Watched other friends who were too young being buried in the cold, hard ground.
I had known what it was like to wonder where my next meal was coming from when my husband lost his job, making due for weeks with mac & cheese and tunafish, grateful that there was such a thing as government aid to help us through the roughest spots; then grumbled as I watched people who’d never worked a day in their lives buying lobster with their food stamps. I had trusted people who didn’t deserve it, and turned my back on people who did. I found out what it’s like to not tell someone “I love you” in time, then vow to never make that mistake again; knowing full well that I probably will. I found out, too, that forgiveness works both ways.
There was a summer when it seemed everyone I knew who wasn’t in rehab should’ve been. An autumn when my brother was so sick that I prayed for God to take him away, to end his suffering; only to thank Him profusely as I watched my brother walk out of the hospital a week later. Moments when I looked at the ungrateful faces of the children I’d fought Nature to conceive and wondered why the hell I’d bothered; only to be followed by moments I couldn’t remember what life had been like before it had been blessed with their laughter. Dark times–even the happiest couples have them–when I had imagined what life would be like if I was on my own, single and carefree again; only to have those empty images blow away like ash when I heard the sound of my name in his voice…
So, although I can say that the novel is not factually autobiographical, I will admit that it is, perhaps, emotionally autobiographical. Still…I am not Tess Dyer.
I am not Tess Dyer
I know it’s not uncommon for a first novel to be at least semi-autobiographical, and judging by the sympathetic tone of some of the emails I’ve been getting lately, it seems that a lot of you think that’s the case with Waiting For Spring. Thankfully, I can say that it isn’t. Tess and I share some similarities: eye color, short stature, a tendency towards being a smart ass. We’re both avid Red Sox fans and both live in Small Town, Maine. I used my own ‘voice’–so to speak–for the narration. (Tackling the task of writing a first novel was much less daunting that way.) But the actual events of her life were in no way taken from mine*.
I sat down to write WFS over two-and-a-half-years ago with absolutely no plot in mind. I had no specific axes to grind, no confessions to make, no burdens with anyone’s name stamped in big, block letters to set down. Just thirty-five-and-a-half years of being a human being to sort through and a certainty that I had the talent to make something out of it.
I had been abandoned by someone who should have stayed around, then given the Someone who took his place a ration and a half of shit. Groaned about the minor imperfections of my mother*, only to count my blessings when confronted with the gross imperfections of the mothers of some of my friends. I had loved and lost, then loved again. Shed tears with friends as they struggled with the heartbreak that comes when a mate has been unfaithful, and later thanked God out loud that it wasn’t me. Watched other friends who were too young being buried in the cold, hard ground.
I had known what it was like to wonder where my next meal was coming from when my husband lost his job, making due for weeks with mac & cheese and tunafish, grateful that there was such a thing as government aid to help us through the roughest spots; then grumbled as I watched people who’d never worked a day in their lives buying lobster with their food stamps. I had trusted people who didn’t deserve it, and turned my back on people who did. I found out what it’s like to not tell someone “I love you” in time, then vow to never make that mistake again; knowing full well that I probably will. I found out, too, that forgiveness works both ways.
There was a summer when it seemed everyone I knew who wasn’t in rehab should’ve been. An autumn when my brother was so sick that I prayed for God to take him away, to end his suffering; only to watch him walk out of the hospital a week later. Moments when I looked at the ungrateful faces of the children I’d fought Nature to conceive and wondered why the hell I’d bothered; only to be followed by moments I couldn’t remember what life had been like before it had been blessed with their laughter. Dark times–even the happiest couples have them–when I had imagined what life would be like if I was on my own, single and carefree again; only to have those empty images blow away like ash when I heard the sound of my name in his voice…
So, no, I am not Tess Dyer. At least, not really. Or, if I am, maybe you are, too.
*I feel especially compelled, now that Chapter 38 of WFS (aka the chapter in which Tess makes her Confession From Hell) has been posted at Readers and Writers Blog, to reiterate that Tess’ mother is in no way based on mine. (Yes, she has recently confided in me her fear that people will think this.) So once again…My mother is not an insane, selfish psycho bitch. She is an amazing, supportive, if slightly off-center, mother who gave up a lot in raising my brothers and me, and set the ultimate example of what it means to be a Mom.
In addition, Chapter 39 of WFS and chapters 14 and 15 of Ann M. Pino’s Steal Tomorrow have been posted in the New Works at R&WBlog. (If you haven’t read any of Steal Tomorrow yet, do yourself a favor and get on it. It’s that good.)
R.J. Keller 