My First NaNoWriMo; or (How I Lost Control of My Fictional Characters in Only 11 Days)

This is the first year I have participated in the annual novel writing event, the NaNoWriMo as it is commonly called. The goal of this endeavor is to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. Hundreds of thousands take part in this lofty assignment, and though I have known about this for several years I have declined to challenge myself. I write slowly, methodically, and the idea of pumping out that large of a story in only 30 days, frankly scared me crap less.

But this year I decided, what the heck, take the plunge, you can do this! First I took the characters from a book I just sold and sketched out where I wanted this book to take place, who the villains were going to be, and roughed out the first three chapters. By Halloween night I was ready.

Sunday morning, November 1st, dawned sad and gloomy just as the weather had been for days. I sat down in my favorite writing space, turned the television to mindless drivel and began clubbing my outline into real words. The first three days were amazing. The words flowed, the outline fleshed out into a story and for those three days I thought, "What was I so afraid of? This is no problem."

Then came day 4, where my progress slowed as I worked to grow the outline into a full length novel. Suddenly I was beset with insecurities. Did I like what I was writing? I wasn't sure. The action began to diverge from the direction I intended when I started this endeavor. Should I continue this vein or wrestle everyone into the niches I wanted them? The feel of my writing became soggy, as if I were forcing myself to run through red Georgia mud on a cold day in winter.

At last I found myself at over 15,000 words. I earned a badge. I was as proud of that day as any time I earned a merit badge as a Girl Scout. That one little circle on my NaNo dashboard re-inspired me. I took to the keyboard with a madness borne of word count. By the end of the first week I was flirting with 20,000 words and I had the beginnings of a real story. Success would be mine.

Entering this second week, I planned out my goals. I was shooting for 25,000, the next goal badge on the NaNo dashboard. I felt like Pavlov's dog motivated by the rise of the line on a graph. Unfortunately, my characters noticed the change in my work ethic and began to make decisions by themselves. Without my permission, the story began to veer from its pre-almost-determined plot line, into a quagmire of new decisions, strange action, and the completed abandonment of the project for an island in the South Pacific. Preferably one with all the amenities of home.

So here I am, at 31,000 words, with a villain who has decided to abscond with the money, two heroes who've decided to hide out until the whole thing blows over, and a hot mess to work them out of, in 20,000 words or less. Maybe I'll let the bad guys leave, maybe I'll make them stuck in Atlanta airport for flight delays (happens all the time in real life). That'll teach them to jump ship in the middle of a story.

My heroes however, are quite adamant about hiding out and drinking beer until the whole thing is over. I've yelled, I've pleaded, I've threatened to give them all impotency, but nothing. Damn Irish, always doing whatever takes them to the nearest pub.

As an exercise, I can see the appeal of an event like NaNoWriMo. It builds a community of writers who support each other as we struggle through our daily word counts, and moan through the endless hours where the page is blank and the clock is ticking. That alone is a mighty gift. Writers are by their very natures, introverted. We don't want to talk about what we're working on, as if by the very mention of it will bring on a jinx such as writer's block.

And I will soldier on, obediently updating my word count, chatting with others in my area as they type on with feverish abandon, content in the knowledge that, I have no idea where this novel will end up. But that's okay, because in the end it may build me into a better writer, who plans more before I sit down and let the lunatics out to roam. However, in the meanwhile, if you have any ideas on how to rope in drunk Irishmen, I would be most appreciative.

Autumn Reminiscences

Let's talk about Autumn shall we?

While driving down the expressway leaving for the weekend, my mind wanders as through the window each passing tree reminds me of the season. Leaves, swirling down to gravity's command, wearing the fading glory of their vibrant show. It is that time again. Fall, the season when all things beautiful come to an end in preparation for the depth of winter. My favorite season.

Some people love Spring, the time of awaken and new life; others prefer the hot, sticky steam of a Deep South Summer. Others thrill for the freeze and promise of overlying pure blankets of perfect white brilliance, and the smell of the hearth fire flavoring the painful breath of Winter. While each of the other seasons have their charms and I do enjoy them each in its turn, my heart ever longs for Autumn.

As a child I enjoyed the swish of the fallen leaves as we ran through the neatly raked piles, laughter bubbling up from a wellspring deep inside. The special perfume of Saturday afternoons, a concoction of camp fires, s'mores, popcorn, and crisp cool air sliding across the countryside always brings me back to simpler days: Friday night football games and Saturday night bonfires followed by Sunday afternoon rides leaf peeping from the back of my favorite horse.

I love mornings, when the fog hangs low over the creeks and valleys of the mountains which surround us. The sting of early chill in the air brings a tear to my eyes when walking the horses out for the day. Mid morning the first of the long sleeves are coming off, and by after lunch you can wander in the sunshine in short sleeves; laughing to yourself over the capricious nature of Fall weather.

Autumn also brings the memories of first love. The rush of attraction soon followed by the thrill of those early dates. My first love left in the fall, more than once actually. He was in the Air Force. It seemed we were always saying goodbye. Then came college and the rush of fraternity boys. Homecoming and formals, dances where the music always seemed to fit the mood and alcohol flowed. 

Change happens constantly, but in Fall the changes are spread across the spectrum of God's creatures. Not only are the trees wearing and shedding their brilliance, but the animals are in their element, preparing for the depths of hibernation. Squirrels scurry hither and yon, memory failing them in the endless search for their summer hiding places. The skies are filled with vast formations of birds, seeking the earth's compass to guide them to the safety and warmth of winter homes. By Autumn's end, the forests will be poised with an air of patience; waiting for the earth to tilt again and the lengthening of days.

So as the calendar winds down toward harvest's end and before we bar the doors and windows against the long night of winter, enjoy the fleeing beauty of Fall's glorious daylight. Partake of the fruits of the vines and the bounty of the fields. Autumn's Harvest is here. Enjoy the repast!

It's a beautiful fall day here in Georgia. The sky has that amazing blue that almost hurts your eyes to stare at, and the brisk chill in the air reminds us that fall is winding up in all its amazing colors and smells. 

I have two pieces of news to share: First, Book Two of 'The Guardian Stories' will be released soon on Amazon.com, so be sure to check this space for an exact release date. The Title is "The Price for Redemption" and continues Vivienne's race to defeat her dark enemies.

Second, and I cannot express how excited I am about this, I have signed a contract with The Wild Rose Press, to publish the first of a series set in and around Atlanta, 'The Family Devlyn'. Book One is 'Welcome to the Family'.

Here is a little blurb/teaser for this contemporary tale of family and greed:

Everyone has something about their family that drives them crazy. Some families are neurotic, others are chaotic. Some are so in your business it feels like you still live at home. And others feel like the death of you. In Cassandra Devlyn Ferguson’s case, that death might literally be her own. The Devlyns aren’t your normal all American family. Their company ships freight world-wide. Most of the freight is legitimate but somewhere along the way, as the money spoke louder, the lines between good and bad became blurred, until soon a monster was born, and now the dirty deals are coming back to haunt them. Just one problem – they’re after the one Devlyn who has no idea what people are upset about.

Cassie Ferguson’s been kidnapped, and her husband and brother intend to move heaven and earth to get her back, preferably before she discovers what her father’s job really is. When working with the FBI and the Atlanta Police don’t bring satisfaction, Kevin Devlyn calls in his long-time friend, and Cassie’s husband, Irishman and former Black Ops specialist Sean Ferguson and asks him to return to Atlanta, conduct his own investigation and find Cassie before any harm befalls her. It sounds great in theory; too bad all the men involved, other than Sean and Kevin, loathe the very mention of each other.

I'm so excited to be working with The Wild Rose Press! I will have more updates soon!

The New South

I was born in Pennsylvania in the early 60s. My siblings were all born in West Virginia and my father from New Jersey.

My Mamma was born in Alabama.

I state this to say, I've spent more than two-third's of my life in the South. First Florida and then Georgia; two states with very different atmospheres. Most of my family at that time lived in the South. We ate what my very Southern mother cooked, which was an interesting combination of both regions. I was never forced to eat turnip greens, or any other green, or even grits. I like oatmeal.

In school, and from grandparents, we learned about 'the war of Northern Aggression' or, if you will, 'the war of Southern Defiance'. I soon learned the point of view was important. Either you where with the South, or against them. There was no neutral ground; a point which I never understood. In a war where affiliation split and lost an entire generation, it truly was 'Us against Them',

I heard stories from my material grandmother about her grandmother, a small girl who took the livestock into the woods by the river in Alabama where they are from; their home place. Home Place is important in the South. It describes not only where but how they were raised. Down to the street it made a distinction.

That brought me to mind of the neighborhood in Pennsylvania where we lived when I was born. A Polish neighborhood. And when we lived in Florida, in a Jewish neighborhood. Or the Italian section of New York. The Irish when they moved into the tenements of New York and the fighting which occurred in those events.

Yes, there are Black neighborhoods and White neighborhoods in Atlanta, where I have lived long enough to remember the 'Blacks Only' signs in the department stores, and the separation that we are always accused of by those who lived anywhere but here. I was in elementary school when the government built a housing project down the street from our school and the dynamics of the county began to change.

But I also know the tremendous strides that have been made here and in other places around the South. Place like Charleston, which handled their tragedy with grace and decorum. Please let their example be held up as a picture of what can happen when everyone works together. And let the media find some new target for their 15 minutes of fame.

There will always be Korean neighborhoods and Mexican neighborhoods, just as there has been since the Hebrews settled in Egypt (in their own neighborhood). When we move, especially from one land to another, the comfort of hearing one's own language and customs helps ease the pain of leaving an entire life behind to start a new one. Neighborhood merge closest to cities where people mesh through work and common life experience. True diversity is achieved only through a lot of work by all peoples, regardless of skin tone.

So as you settle down in your Indian neighborhood or Cambodian neighborhood, remember when we point a finger at someone else, there are three which point backwards toward ourselves. Instead of pointing fingers, why don't you take a look around and see what needs to fixed in your own sphere of influence? True charity and mission work begins in our backyard.

The Independence Day holiday is closing in fast, and I should have some news on Book Two of the Guardian Saga. The title is "The Price for Redemption." That's all today, from my middle class, mixed ethnicity neighborhood where no one flies the Rebel Battle Flag, or any other offensive flag regardless of the season. (Although some of the Halloween decorations make me question their sanity!)

When to Cut and When to Recast

I have a bit of a conundrum and so I am writing about it, which is what I do when my thoughts begin circling the same drain for too long.

When I submitted my latest book, it was with the full knowledge I had written a scene and side story that impacted the main character in quite negative ways. It was a gamble and unfortunately it didn't pay off. Now I must rework the story to change a major arc and no matter what I do, nothing is as powerful as that original line.

But in watching the major meltdown Game of Thrones readers and watchers are going through right now with the Sansa Stark story changes, I see the side of the reader for the first time.

We set expectations with our characters, and people begin to identify with them, so they acquire a life of their own, outside of our pages. But what about stories where none of the characters are relatable? Can we write our own characters into corners that are too extreme to be endearing?

Of course we can, and that was the problem with this story. So now I am grasping (and gasping) to recast the main character's reason for existing and falling far short of where I want to be. I've finally decided to meet the challenge and that instead of one major point causing her identity crisis, there will be several, each building upon the other until finally she reaches the person she needs to be.

As you might surmise, this is still an idea in progress. While I see the end point, the journey is still muddy. But that's what writing is about, at least to me. Chipping away at the marble until I find the beauty inside; a story lives and breathes depending upon which pieces you take away. Take the wrong path and everything is tainted.

This is the sixth story I've written and the first where I've been told, I love it but... . To say it took me for a loop would be an understatement. But now I feel ready to accept the challenge. I know where I want to be, now I have to find the path.

And the road goes on.

The Aftermath

We had my mother's funeral last weekend. There was a beautiful private service for just family at the cemetery, and a public memorial at the church.

The church no longer occupies the large imposing building on Main Street where I grew up from earliest memory, attending Sunday school every week, singing in the children's choir and watching the wheel of community turn until one day it found itself dying. The dynamics of the community changed during the late 80's and early 90's, and the costs in keeping the big church running were no longer met by weekly tithes.

My mother was an elder during the change over, on her way out of service and grieving for the loss of the building that had seen births and weddings, and my father's funeral. It is never easy to move a house of worship. I know ghosts walk the halls of the old church; I've heard them before. I wonder do they bother the new congregation walking those corridors; do they understand why things have changed?

Upon arriving at the new location, I was immediately struck with the similarity in building layout to the old church. Once inside I was surrounded by familiar faces and comforting reminders of the years and history of the congregation itself. Included was the wall of pictures showing the different faces of building they had occupied in their 126+ year existence.

The minister had us, the family, crowd together around the large session table to tell stories of my mother. As I looked around, the positive and healing energy of family wrapped itself around me and I felt, for the first time since Mother's death, at peace. I know my mother is at peace in heaven and totally happy to be reunited with my dad and her other relatives. There is no reason to weep, for at last she is free.

Watching the faces of those around me, family, friends, relatives, casual acquaintances, I saw a microcosm of the people whose lives my mother touched as a librarian. People seemed shorted, wider, older than I remembered, another slap of the wheel of time across my face. But the love and warmth they radiated took me in their arms and assured me I am not alone in this time of grief.

A building is not a church. A church is a collection of like minded people sharing and growing in God's love and word. No where was that more exquisitely made clear than at my home church this past weekend.

Some where up in heaven, Mother is smiling.

Where Have I Been and When Can I Go Back?

It's been a while since I wrote on this blog. I always meant to but somehow never seemed to find the time. I've had a busy couple of years between work and home, along with trying to get my writing career up  and going. It gets very disheartening when some people publish three or four books a year and my minimum from idea to submission for one book runs about two years.

Part of my dark thoughts have been due to turning 50 a few years ago, but also the diminishing mental capacities of my mother. It was hard to call and wish her happy birthday back in October (she was 94) when she no longer remembered who I was. She has had a full life and as her end was growing near I have found myself reflective.

My mother was a unique woman. She worked at a time when most women were expected to be housewives; hell, she had a Masters degree when women rarely went to college much less graduate school. Her position as high school librarian fueled my love of books and stories from an early age. Some of my favorite memories are filled with the smell of books and the quiet of reading.

She met my father during the war, World War II that is. Three months is all it took, if I remember the story correctly, before my mother walked in the July heat from the front gate of the army base in Lubbock Texas to the chapel to be Mrs. Walter V. They had a lot in common, my parents. Both were eldest children, both had strained relationships with their mothers, and they understood the meaning of a wounded soul.

My father and I worked the same shift while I was in high school, both returning home in the wee hours of the morning. We talked of many things, including my parents and their stories. I treasure that time with him. But my mother and I had that day to day ignoring each other teenager/parent relationship and many years I spent curled against the car window silently counting the moments we were trapped in the vehicle together.

Daddy died in the early 90's. It was too soon. But out of that sadness and grief came a renewed relationship with my mother. When my daughter was born, she drove up every week from below the Atlanta airport to our house northwest of the city to take care of her so I could work. My children spent days at her house, filling up on Mr. P's pizzas and watching television. I rediscovered my mother, and we spoke often, sometimes about nothing at all.

When she turned 90, it was obvious things were beginning to age. We all dread her driving anywhere that involved the highways around Atlanta. If you've ever driven here, you can probably attest to the insanity which afflicts us whenever we put our vehicles in drive and head out. In response to a falling incident which resulted in her being out of communication for several hours at a time when she should have been home, Momma moved into my brother's home about 4 years ago.

None of us remember exactly when her mind began to stumble, it started with repeated stories and forgotten names. Then came the hours where she would stare at my father's pictures, not speaking a word not moving from her room for hours on end. Her legs began to give out on her and falling became a grave concern, especially after she gave herself a black eye.

She missed my father, she missed her friends and her community. Most of all, she missed being useful. That was the part she found hardest to bear. Her big heart never stopped wanting to help wherever she could. A bright mind with a failing body is frustration as both my parents discovered. All Mother wanted was to be useful and independent again. Now she is.

My mother had a serious stroke the middle of February, with a significant brain bleed in the right parietal lobe. After my father's lengthy illness, my mother had a strict Living Will -- no resuscitation, no feeding tubes, nothing to extend life. She lingered about five days before gently passing from this life to another.

Even though I had mentally been preparing myself for mother's death, it has still hit me hard. A large hole has opened in my chest and nothing feels real. Rationally I know she is in a much better place and that one day we will be together again. But the little girl deep inside me still wants her Momma and I don't know that will ever change.

Love your parents, especially if you have been estranged from them for reasons so silly as to not make a difference. One day, perhaps far in the distant future if you are as lucky as we were, they won't be here, and you will never be able to count the times you pick up the phone to tell them something and remember no one will answer. The words you never say will back up and hang in your throat until you think you will suffocate.

My goal for this year is to recommit myself to my everyday job, my writing, and myself. I will attempt to post something every other week this year. Momma would have wanted me to.