It doesn't seem like we've been online a whole year, but what a year its been. We lost two of our original bloggers (We still miss you Barb and J.K.) and gained three new friends to share our blog with. We started out as unpublished writers (mostly) and now I've got two books contracted, one out and one due in December. Nichole sold Ghost Mountain. Heather is expecting a baby and writing up a storm. Sandra is multipublished and working on more. Melissa and Nerine are hard at work on their own projects and keep popping up all over the net.
Personally, its been a growing year for me. I've learned to do things I never thought I could or would want too. I've practically rebuilt a house by myself, sold two books and laid out the foundations for the Elemental Magic Series and a new vampire one. I've met tons of new authors and readers through reviewing, judging, and blogging. It makes me wonder where the new year will take us, as a group and individually. Wherever it does, I'm sure there will be great books, rejection letters, new projects and contracts, and celebrations of new releases. That's the writer's life.
Have a Happy Halloween everyone and watch out for those little spooks running around your neighborhood. Keep safe!
Be blessed,
Beth
Monday, November 2, 2009
Who has time?
I don't write time travelers. Well, I don't think I do, but I could be wrong.
Allow me to explain myself.
I've never considered myself a big sci-fi fan, although I've probably seen every Star Trek show ever made (the original, thank you very much) and the 1978 Battlestar Galactica series. Oh, and Star Wars in the theaters. And, I owned a light saber.
But, really, I'm not a sci-fi fan and could do without time travel. Mostly.
Then I started doing the edits for Ghost Mountain. There is a Lakota Shaman and a Celtic Goddess. Both are Divine entities, each timeless in their existence. My novel, however, takes place in the now.
As I struggled with the question of WHY I chose the present day, it occurred to me that my love of history wouldn't allow me to play with the facts. I can't read a book that plays too loosely with actual events. If women were considered chattel at the time, I can't get into a book where a woman owns a company. Yes, I understand there are exceptions to every rule, but I like my history to be believable. I just can't imagine a queen or princess solving murders in a time where a woman of "reputation" would have to be escorted everywhere!
So, I write in the now in order not to mess with history.
Geography, however, is another story!
Blessings!Nichole
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Topic of the Week
Time traveling characters... Avoiding conflicting facts, when is it okay to blur the lines?
Friday, October 30, 2009
A year in a daze
With the notable exception of Pink Floyd and Jerry Garcia devotees, I think you would be hard pressed to find very few people who could honestly say, 'Hey, I've lost an entire year in a daze.' However, I find myself in that unenviable position. Unlike the Grateful Dead-heads, I can't stare at pink puffy clouds with near mystic myopic Zen-like grace and chant, "'shrooms, Dude, it was the 'shrooms."
This time last year I was lost in my head, just a little. We were busy welcoming our first brand new filly, Defiant, and saying goodbye to my tiny hairless Chinese Crested named Fidget. It was a terribly bittersweet moment - I'd come home, full of joy over something silly the new foal had done, only to find my two year-old toy dog couldn't keep his body temperature regulated. Fully dressed I staggered into the shower, holding my little dog while my husband called the vet-tech we used for the horses. She didn't live far away, but it didn't matter. He started seizures and died before we could do anything. A new life comes and one is taken away. Call it childish, but that moment ruined my desire to spend time with the new foal. See, Fidget was my writing buddy. He was young and intelligent, listened far better than my aging, grumpy Chihuahua, Maximus did. He sat on my lap as I typed, watching the screen, huffing almost instinctively when I had a misspelling or grammar error. Even better, when the story or plot sucked, he would yawn and nose the keyboard in a bid to take over. Max, well, that grumpy old dog just wanted to bite me and pee on the computer. He wasn't a writer's helper, more my muse.
In the middle of the stress of pet misfortune there were other, far more serious things going on; anything and everything but writing. Looking back, I felt like the character from Edvard Munch's "The Scream."
In a page in his diary headed Nice 22.01.1892, Munch described his inspiration for the image thus:
For an entire year, I felt like that. It made perfect sense to me, watching scenes from Jurassic Park where scientists drilled into amber to retrieve DNA from a preserved insect - I was that captured creature. And for one whole year, it never occurred to me to tell anyone about feeling trapped inside my own mind, my own body a prison.
By why would it? When a person with an unseen disability withdraws from society, they do their best to put on a good facade for those who do come into contact with them. After a while it becomes second nature, like donning clothes. But, if you look at a person with depression, the clothing shows inattention. My withdrawal was complete - even online I had faded to nothingness, as my writing proved - no books from 12/08 until 10/09 when I finally managed to wrangle free of the morass.
It wasn't until I began writing this post, looking back on history, lest it repeat itself unnecessarily, that I made a sort of discovery. For far too long I've been locked in my own small world, the one between my ears. A world created of my own imagining, populated by people who have no expectations, exact no judgements and make no demands. In short, it's time to get out and start living for real. Off of the page, out of the cage, and 'once more into the breach dear friends!'
Hopefully, this time I'll get it write.
This time last year I was lost in my head, just a little. We were busy welcoming our first brand new filly, Defiant, and saying goodbye to my tiny hairless Chinese Crested named Fidget. It was a terribly bittersweet moment - I'd come home, full of joy over something silly the new foal had done, only to find my two year-old toy dog couldn't keep his body temperature regulated. Fully dressed I staggered into the shower, holding my little dog while my husband called the vet-tech we used for the horses. She didn't live far away, but it didn't matter. He started seizures and died before we could do anything. A new life comes and one is taken away. Call it childish, but that moment ruined my desire to spend time with the new foal. See, Fidget was my writing buddy. He was young and intelligent, listened far better than my aging, grumpy Chihuahua, Maximus did. He sat on my lap as I typed, watching the screen, huffing almost instinctively when I had a misspelling or grammar error. Even better, when the story or plot sucked, he would yawn and nose the keyboard in a bid to take over. Max, well, that grumpy old dog just wanted to bite me and pee on the computer. He wasn't a writer's helper, more my muse.
In the middle of the stress of pet misfortune there were other, far more serious things going on; anything and everything but writing. Looking back, I felt like the character from Edvard Munch's "The Scream."
In a page in his diary headed Nice 22.01.1892, Munch described his inspiration for the image thus:
"I was walking along a path with two friends —the sun was setting— suddenly the sky turned blood red —I paused, feeling exhausted, and leaned on the fence — there was blood and tongues of fire above the blue-black fjord and the city — my friends walked on, and I stood there trembling with anxiety — and I sensed an infinite scream passing through nature."
For an entire year, I felt like that. It made perfect sense to me, watching scenes from Jurassic Park where scientists drilled into amber to retrieve DNA from a preserved insect - I was that captured creature. And for one whole year, it never occurred to me to tell anyone about feeling trapped inside my own mind, my own body a prison.
By why would it? When a person with an unseen disability withdraws from society, they do their best to put on a good facade for those who do come into contact with them. After a while it becomes second nature, like donning clothes. But, if you look at a person with depression, the clothing shows inattention. My withdrawal was complete - even online I had faded to nothingness, as my writing proved - no books from 12/08 until 10/09 when I finally managed to wrangle free of the morass.
It wasn't until I began writing this post, looking back on history, lest it repeat itself unnecessarily, that I made a sort of discovery. For far too long I've been locked in my own small world, the one between my ears. A world created of my own imagining, populated by people who have no expectations, exact no judgements and make no demands. In short, it's time to get out and start living for real. Off of the page, out of the cage, and 'once more into the breach dear friends!'
Hopefully, this time I'll get it write.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Wow, what a year!
In a few weeks, just before Thanksgiving actually, I'll be celebrating the one year anniversary of accepting my first book contract.
I can hardly believe how awesome this last year has been since that momentous event. It was a contract for a short with Lyrical Press, FOODIE'S GUIDE TO KITCHEN MAGIC. Since then, my writing has kinda taken off and it's been a crazy, happy, frenetic, insane ride.
I went into 2009 with a one goal: get a full length novel published by an e-publisher. In my mind, I determined that that was the direction I needed to take to start a successful writing career. That goal was met when my first novel WINNER TAKE ALL was accepted by Desert Breeze Publishing in April.
At that moment, I had a huge number of rejection letters and a handful of contracts for shorts.
Nothing to do but power on and learn the craft of writing. There's so much to learn. So much to absorb. So much I didn't know I didn't know.
And I'm still learning. Still getting better.
That's exciting to me.
I can't wait to see what happens in 2010, but I do know this. My first full length paranormal novel releases in January THE ART OF FANG SHUI and I'm beyond excited about it.
Where will I be this time next year? The sky's the limit.
Happy writing.
I can hardly believe how awesome this last year has been since that momentous event. It was a contract for a short with Lyrical Press, FOODIE'S GUIDE TO KITCHEN MAGIC. Since then, my writing has kinda taken off and it's been a crazy, happy, frenetic, insane ride.
I went into 2009 with a one goal: get a full length novel published by an e-publisher. In my mind, I determined that that was the direction I needed to take to start a successful writing career. That goal was met when my first novel WINNER TAKE ALL was accepted by Desert Breeze Publishing in April.
At that moment, I had a huge number of rejection letters and a handful of contracts for shorts.
Nothing to do but power on and learn the craft of writing. There's so much to learn. So much to absorb. So much I didn't know I didn't know.
And I'm still learning. Still getting better.
That's exciting to me.
I can't wait to see what happens in 2010, but I do know this. My first full length paranormal novel releases in January THE ART OF FANG SHUI and I'm beyond excited about it.
Where will I be this time next year? The sky's the limit.
Happy writing.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
My name is... and I'm a writer
Today I realised something truly horrible. I'm addicted to writing. Not a spare moment goes by without me looking for pen and paper. Even if I'm jotting down a point-form synopsis between laying out pages at work I start feeling twitchy if something isn't on the go.
Thing is, this started when I was still at primary school. Whenever the teachers confiscated the books I'd sneakily read during class (and back then I used to be a straight-A student, which annoyed the living hell out of them when I never paid attention to their lessons), I'd settle for second best by creating my own "magazines" or writing letters to my friends.
Geez, and this got worse during high school. Granted, I'd stopped being so annoyingly studious, (decidedly B-average by then all the way to matric, luv) but the reading and writing problem got worse and worse. By age thirteen I tried writing my first novel, some oddball little SF concoction that never saw the light of day past the first two chapters.
But that's when it hit me. I knew I simply had to write. A brief flirtation with being a Goth-rocker a la Marilyn Manson and a foray into photography afterward, the writing bug bit back hard despite the best efforts of a snarky now-ex who told me "Your writing is too romantic".
So, you may ask why I didn't pursue a literary career earlier on. Simply put, everyone, including my teachers, parents and friends told me, "You can never make a career out of writing."
This went as far as me being accepted for electrical engineering at a university of technology where my father worked. "Be sensible," everyone said. "Get a proper career off the ground, then later when you've got money, pursue your passions."
But all the while this desire to put words down remained itching beneath my skin. Studying a BA in English or literature was out of the question, due to financial reasons and, besides, a degree in "bugger all" won't put a roof over your head.
Thanks be to all the mercies I saw sense six months before I was to start my tertiary education. A hankering need to somehow be involved in the media industry saw me change my study path to graphic design. I figured I'd eventually sit in the editor's chair if I started as a graphic designer, even if I couldn't go get a larny degree in journalism.
Bah. It's been a circuitous route. Doing extremely well when it came to writing about advertising, graphic design and art history should already have been a hint. I should have badgered the folks to let me study that BA after all. Nevertheless, I don't regret my stints in magazine publishing and below the line marketing communications, and now newspaper publishing. I've learnt a lot about how to communicate and how the printing industry works.
But I can't help but wondering how things would have turned out if I'd listened to my heart from the word "go". So, I guess what I'm saying is it's never too late for you to sit back and figure out what your passion is then make a go at it. If you are, however, on the cusp of young adulthood, don't waste your opportunity to make a go at your passion a lot sooner. Life has a rather nasty of getting in the way of your passions when you're trying to make ends meet.
Perhaps a decade of living and working has given me life experience I'd been lacking at age eighteen but I sometimes wonder how things would have turned out otherwise. Would I have written that bestseller by now? This deep-rooted urge to create, to put words down, was shoved aside for so long that it's almost a sin. Thank goodness I've managed to fight my way into a situation where my talents can shine, but how many people out there have been denying this impulse to write, paint, make music, sing, dance...?
Thing is, this started when I was still at primary school. Whenever the teachers confiscated the books I'd sneakily read during class (and back then I used to be a straight-A student, which annoyed the living hell out of them when I never paid attention to their lessons), I'd settle for second best by creating my own "magazines" or writing letters to my friends.
Geez, and this got worse during high school. Granted, I'd stopped being so annoyingly studious, (decidedly B-average by then all the way to matric, luv) but the reading and writing problem got worse and worse. By age thirteen I tried writing my first novel, some oddball little SF concoction that never saw the light of day past the first two chapters.
But that's when it hit me. I knew I simply had to write. A brief flirtation with being a Goth-rocker a la Marilyn Manson and a foray into photography afterward, the writing bug bit back hard despite the best efforts of a snarky now-ex who told me "Your writing is too romantic".
So, you may ask why I didn't pursue a literary career earlier on. Simply put, everyone, including my teachers, parents and friends told me, "You can never make a career out of writing."
This went as far as me being accepted for electrical engineering at a university of technology where my father worked. "Be sensible," everyone said. "Get a proper career off the ground, then later when you've got money, pursue your passions."
But all the while this desire to put words down remained itching beneath my skin. Studying a BA in English or literature was out of the question, due to financial reasons and, besides, a degree in "bugger all" won't put a roof over your head.
Thanks be to all the mercies I saw sense six months before I was to start my tertiary education. A hankering need to somehow be involved in the media industry saw me change my study path to graphic design. I figured I'd eventually sit in the editor's chair if I started as a graphic designer, even if I couldn't go get a larny degree in journalism.
Bah. It's been a circuitous route. Doing extremely well when it came to writing about advertising, graphic design and art history should already have been a hint. I should have badgered the folks to let me study that BA after all. Nevertheless, I don't regret my stints in magazine publishing and below the line marketing communications, and now newspaper publishing. I've learnt a lot about how to communicate and how the printing industry works.
But I can't help but wondering how things would have turned out if I'd listened to my heart from the word "go". So, I guess what I'm saying is it's never too late for you to sit back and figure out what your passion is then make a go at it. If you are, however, on the cusp of young adulthood, don't waste your opportunity to make a go at your passion a lot sooner. Life has a rather nasty of getting in the way of your passions when you're trying to make ends meet.
Perhaps a decade of living and working has given me life experience I'd been lacking at age eighteen but I sometimes wonder how things would have turned out otherwise. Would I have written that bestseller by now? This deep-rooted urge to create, to put words down, was shoved aside for so long that it's almost a sin. Thank goodness I've managed to fight my way into a situation where my talents can shine, but how many people out there have been denying this impulse to write, paint, make music, sing, dance...?
Monday, October 26, 2009
Looking back, looking ahead
This blog is a year old this week and what a year it's been!
Personally, this blog has taught me a lot. It's kept me writing, for one.
I've gotten to know my fellow bloggers and that's been wonderful.
I finished the first draft of my novel, Ghost Mountain, and started the sequel.
I was able to submit Ghost Mountain to a publisher.
And they accepted it! (In fact, I got the edits yesterday.)
That's a lot of good for a year. And I expect the upcoming year to be just as full. I've been told that Ghost Mountain will be available in early 2010, so there's a start. I have no doubt that the sequel will be finished in the next year. Book three will probably be started -- or at least plotted on the whiteboard next to my computer.
Do I have other goals? Of course. There are things I want to accomplish in my personal life, crafts and hobbies I want to learn and complete and master.
But for right now, my writing goals and accomplishments are taking center stage.
Blessings!Nichole
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