Over the river and through the woods

I just finished reading Bill Bryson's excellent account of walking the Appalachian Trail: "A Walk in the Woods." I'd heard about this book and always wanted to read it, especially given that I live very close to the AT, and have visited the Great Smoky Mountains many time. So when I saw this book on the shelf of my local thrift shop, I snatched it up and clutched it to my chest like a child clutches a bag of Halloween candy. "It's mine!" I wanted to say, although I would've just received some weird glances.

Anyway, funny story about reading this book: I started reading it at the beginning of June and just finished it last week. That means it took me approximately 14 weeks to read one book! Normally, I can finish a book in a week or two. Now, don't get me wrong - this isn't a difficult book to read by any means, it's just that my personal life was in upheaval and I didn't have much extra time for luxuries like reading for pleasure.

That said, I actually really like the fact that it took me so long to read it. Bryson has a lot to say, not just about the adventure of walking the AT itself, but about the history of our national parks and an earnest plea for conservation of those parks, and really, for nature in general. I am a Tree Hugger, and very proud of it. "A Walk in the Woods" told me things I didn't know and was thoroughly fascinating. I often found myself commenting on passages that I just couldn't keep to myself.

Reading it in small pieces over several weeks allowed me to really digest the book and think about it. The book is interesting, thoughtful, and often, laugh-out-loud funny. I highly recommend it. Indeed, this book has given me the itch to read some of Bryson's other books, namely, "The Mother Tongue: English and How it Got That Way," "Made in America: An Informal History of the English Language in the United States," and "Neither Here Nor There," about travels in Europe.

It's hard to be really funny and poignant and interesting and relevant, but "A Walk in the Woods" is all of those things.

Everything happens for a reason

This was supposed to be my first semester of graduate school. I'm getting my Master's in English, so that I can pursue teaching at the college level full-time (currently, I'm adjunct; I'm teaching three courses this semester).

Then, life breezed in and scattered everything to the wind. Financial aid issues, residency issues, course availability issues, time restraints. You name it and I think it was something that I had to deal with. There were tears. There were curse words screamed.

And then I decided that sometimes you just have to let things go, like the Serenity Prayer:


God, grant me the serenity
To accept the things I cannot change;
Courage to change the things I can;
And wisdom to know the difference.

OR

Let go and let God.


So, I accepted that it would be best to just wait until the spring to start my courses. Now, I feel better.

I can finish editing my book now! It was supposed to be edited this past summer, but I went through some rough things (see post "I'm still alive!") and there was no time for manuscript work. I think this is God's way of saying, "Brianna, I'm giving you back the time you lost to finish your manuscript and get closer to being published."

Thanks, God. You're so much smarter than me and my little pea brain.

I'm still alive!

My poor blog has been sorely neglected these past few months. Not by choice, really. I had been working hard to make this blog something special, if not for anyone else, then at least for myself.

Then, well....life happened. In a big fucking way.

Want the long story or the short story? I promise you don't want the long story...or maybe you do since you're reading a blog about writing/reading, but I don't have the emotional energy to write it or the physical energy for that matter. I went through the worst period of my life from May 2010 until July 2010. I separated from my husband and moved myself and our two year-old daughter out of the house. We are now in the process of a divorce. My daughter and I lived with my mother for a week; it ended badly. Very, very badly. Then we lived with my sister for two weeks. It ended badly. Very, very, very badly. Then we got our own place, and now things are settled.

I wouldn't wish what I've been through on anyone in this world. I know where the adage, "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger" comes from now. I've never had to be stronger than I have had to be this summer. But I'm still alive - it didn't kill me. There were times that I honestly wondered if I would have a complete mental and emotional breakdown, but somehow I made it through.

The most bizarre and unlikely thing about the whole ordeal is this. Well, you might not believe me, and that's ok. It's like a movie. What happened to me is incredibly, eeriely close to the plotline of my manuscript I'm editing and hope to publish. Like, incredibly close. Freakishly close. I have to wonder if it's serendipity, or just fate. Or God telling me that everything happens for a reason. I should write a non-fiction companion to my manuscript. It might sell better than the actual novel.

So the central plot of my book happened to me in real life. Crazy, I know. I conceived the plotline and finished the first draft of the book before it started to happen in my real life. Wowzers, huh?

Anyway, it gives me a lot of emotional experience to go on during the editing process. After all, having experienced it first hand, I can identify with my main character even more now.

So, anyway, that's all for now. I cross my heart this blog is not dead. I'm still here and have many more things to talk and write about. Stay tuned.

The little princess who made me a mommy

In honor of Mother’s Day, a very short pictorial of my daughter’s first two years.  I am amazed daily by how she has grown and continues to accomplish new achievements.  She drives me batty and makes my heart melt, and often in the same instant. 

 

    She has touched my life in so many ways, and although motherhood is the biggest endeavor I have ever undertaken, it is the most worthwhile and fulfilling.

The ABC’s of Writing – I is for Imagery

I love a book with a good plot, but there is something profound about good imagery.  Something that makes the writing beautiful, and sometimes, even Godlike.  I recently read Zora Neale Hurston’s classic novel, “Their Eyes Were Watching God,” and though the plot was somewhat slow, her use of imagery in the book was one of the best I can remember reading in a long, long time.  I guess that’s a huge reason the novel holds such a special place in people’s hearts.  For example:

Daisy…is black and she knows that white clothes look good on her, so she wears them for dress up.  She’s got those big black eyes with plenty shiny white in them that makes them shine like brand new money and she knows what God gave women eyelashes for, too.  Her hair is not what you might call straight.  It’s negro hair, but it’s got a kind of white flavor.  Like a piece of string out of a ham.  It’s not ham at all, but it’s been around ham and got the flavor.  It was spread down thick and heavy over her shoulders and looked just right under a big white hat.  -Chapter 6

[Janie] was a rut in the road.  Plenty of life beneath the surface but it was kept beaten down by the wheels. –Chapter 7

[Tea Cake] could be a bee to a blossom  - a pear tree blossom in the spring.  He seemed to be crushing scent out of the world with his footsteps.  Crushing aromatic herbs with every step he took.  Spices hung about him.  He was a glance from God. –Chapter 11

Mrs. Tyler with her dyed hair, newly straightened and her uncomfortable new false teeth, her leathery skin, blotchy with powder and her giggle. –Chapter 13

Morning came without motion.  The winds, to the tiniest, lisping baby breath had left the earth.  Even before the sun gave light, dead day was creeping from bush to bush watching man. –Chapter 18

 

Maybe I’m in love with this book, too.  After all, who could blame me?  This is just a  sampling of her writing.  The imagery that Hurston evokes is absolutely mesmerizing.  Don’t you agree that her words strike a cord?  They force you to draw an image in your mind?  I have massive respect for Hurston’s writing abilities.  I can only hope to evoke such breathtaking imagery in my own writing.  She certainly gives one something to aspire to!

Baking Blogfest

I’m late, but I finally am posting my Baking Blogfest entry!  This was started by Charity Bradford on her blog My Writing Journey.  This Blogfest is perfect for my manuscript, because a huge part of it involves baking!  Such a fun idea.

So here is my entry, enjoy and bon appétit!  (note: this is unedited, so there may be a few little issues).

*****

Marshmallows are not my favorite sweet to make. The mixture is thick, sticky and as difficult to manage as a horny Doberman on a two inch leash. But the end justifies the means. With some difficulty I pulled the glossy white mound from the mixer bowl and pushed it into a parchment paper lined dish sprinkled with freshly toasted coconut. More than once I had stolen a bite of the coconut, letting the sweet aroma fill my mouth and nose. I wet my hands and molded the mixture into a perfectly even glossy brick, then topped it with more coconut. Marshmallows are not an instant-gratification sweet. These would need to air dry overnight, and in the morning would be the yummiest confection imaginable. Jade had a particular weakness for these marshmallows, which meant a lot considering she had grown up with access to practically any sweet treat she could ever want.

The dark chocolate cupcakes I had baked were cooled and ready to be filled with the cream I’d made. I took my filled pastry bag in one hand and gently inserted the metal tip into the tops of each cupcake, filling each with a pocket of the cream. Another pastry bag was also waiting for me, this one with buttercream icing tinted bright yellow. I deftly maneuvered the star tip over the tops of the cakes, leaving behind a thick layer of beautiful icing. Aunt Rosie, humming along to a Neil Diamond song on the radio, looked over and smiled approvingly. She had taught me well.

Last Lines Blogfest

Another blogfest – yippee!  I really enjoy these, even though this is only my second.  Started by Lilah Pierce on her blog, this is a Last Lines Blogfest, featuring the last lines of a chapter, scene, or a manuscript.  What a fun idea!  I had a hard time deciding what to use – I didn’t want to use anything that was spoilerish (I know, who cares, right? ) or too confusing.  I narrowed it down to two different scenes.  Oh, well, sue me.  They’re both rather fun, I think.  I hope you enjoy!

P.S. These are unedited.

*****************

After lunch Natalie walked past my desk and stopped abruptly. “You know something?” she asked in a snobbish tone. “Your desk is awfully clean.”

“Just trying to keep everything organized,” I offered, wondering at the oddity of such a comment. I smiled my most honest smile and folded my hands in my lap.

Natalie scoffed. “You want to hear my theory on clean desks?” She partially sat down on the corner of my desk, crinkling some papers underneath her. Her knee length gray pinstripe skirt pulled against her thigh tightly. “I think clean desks mean no work. My desk is never organized because I am always busy. When you’re getting things done you don’t have time to straighten. You learn to become organized in here,” she said, tapping her temple, “and you know where everything is.” She paused.

“Yes,” I nodded.

“If your desk is always clean and tidy it tells me you aren’t doing much.” I was speechless. What could my response possibly be? Either I contradicted her or I called myself lazy. Either way, I was going to look bad. She took a deep, contemplative breath and exhaled heavily. “You know, Sabine,” she began, almost confidentially, “I often feel more like a babysitter to my subordinates than a boss.” With that she stood and walked off, pulling papers off my desk and to the floor in the action. I grunted as I bent over to pick up my wrinkled papers. A co-worker named Gavin was beside me suddenly.

“Here, let me help,” he offered. “Sorry about that.”

“Sorry about what?” I wondered, lifting my head slightly to look at him. “You didn’t do anything.”

“No, I mean I’m sorry that you had to deal with that,” he lowered her voice and said. I didn’t know Gavin well at all, only by name mostly, but he had always been polite. “Natalie is probably just under a lot of stress.”

We stood and I placed my papers back on my desk. “Thanks.”

Gavin smiled and his eyes crinkled in reaction. His slightly long sandy blonde hair was hanging in his eyes from bending over and he pushed it aside. “No problem.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his black dress pants. “I don’t work for Natalie, so I don’t really know her that well.” I kept quiet, not daring to utter an unkind word about Natalie. He looked around our immediate surroundings to make sure no one was listening and leaned in. “But apparently she wears skirts to soften her image.” He grinned and a little laugh escaped my lips.

“Thanks,” I said so low that Gavin probably had to read my lips. He smiled again and waved shortly before turning away. I watched him walk off and was hopeful that someway Gavin and I could cross paths again. Having a friend at work would be huge distraction. I settled into my work, ducking my head down and being extra messy despite myself.

***********

There was a painting she’d bought at a flea market that she adored. It was one of those scenic paintings with trees and a quaint little village that makes you long to step into that world. “It calms me when I’m stressed,” she’d told me. “I know it’s not high art, but I like it.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” I said. “You don’t have to impress me with the art that you like. I think it’s nice.”

Jade smiled at it again, almost lost in the imaginary scene. “Do you ever wish you could live inside the art, Sabine? Thinking that wherever that is, it’s better than where you’re at?”

“Yes,” I said, my voice faint. “All too often, probably.”

“You always were a daydreamer,” she recalled as if it were a good thing. I wasn’t so sure my rampant daydreams were so wonderful. It only made me sad when I had to acknowledge that they were not real.

 

***Thanks for reading!  :)

The Well is Dry and It Needs to Rain

Seriously.

I got nothin’.

::Yells into the well:: “Helloooooooo!”  ::hears echoes::

Damn.

Ok…I have a few ideas (ok, maybe two) for a new manuscript, but they’re spotty and I don’t love them.  I’ve been mildly freaking out for the past couple of weeks.

Why is it that I always seemed to have too many ideas, and now I don’t seem to have any??? (Yes, I needed three question marks.)

I need to sit down and start freewriting any and all ideas that come into my head. An exercise.

I will:

1.  Write down all ideas. Cliché ideas, cheesy ideas, boring ideas. 

2. Read some famous quotes and see if I get inspired by any of them.

3. Browse internet gossip sites and magazines for juicy plotlines.

4. Answer some “What if…” questions to see if any story ideas emerge.

5. Look at some traditional plot lines from fairytales, etc. and see if I could rework or borrow ideas from any of them.  (After all, one of my favorite college classes was literary Folklore…)

6. Expand on the best ideas.  Elaborate.  Add detail, personality, my own take, etc.

7. Determine what themes the different ideas entail.  Do I like these themes?

8. Decide what the main conflicts could be with each idea.

9. Let the ideas marinate.

10. Come back to the ideas.  Which one(s) do I focus on and still love?  Repeat process if necessary.

Crossing my fingers that this works.

To be continued…

The ABC’s of Writing – H is for Hook

I learned this in college – you have to hook the reader as soon as possible.  Preferably in the first sentence.  That’s a lot of pressure!  I mean, in one sentence, in one measly sentence, I have to write something so interesting, so catchy, that someone would decide to spend his or her time reading on.  And it also has to say something about my character(s) or plot.

The first sentence sets the tone and, hopefully, makes the reader want to keep reading.  That’s the point, right?  I’m sure we’ve all picked up a book before, turned to the first page, started reading, and our eyes glazed over because it just didn’t hook us.

I went to my bookshelves and grabbed some books to see what the first lines were.  Some were boring, some were ok, some were great hooks.  Here are a few that I like:

“We slept in what had once been the gymnasium.”
- The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood

“Only three people were left under the red and white awning of the grease joint: Grady, me, and the fry cook.”
- Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen

“I have been afraid of putting air in a tire ever since I saw a tractor tire blow up and throw Newt Hardbine’s father over the top of the Standard Oil sign.”
- The Bean Trees by Barbara Kingsolver

“I first heard of Antonia on what seemed to me an interminable journey across the great midland plain of North America.”
- My Antonia by Willa Cather

“We came on the wind of the carnival.”
- Chocolat by Joanne Harris

“In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.”
- The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald

“The boy walked on the right side of the road the first mile or two, trying to hitch a ride home after seeing the show in town.”
- Kinfolks by Gurney Norman

“My mother did not tell me they were coming.”
- Girl with a Pearl Earring by Tracy Chevalier

 

All these lines make me want to keep reading.  Some of them are so catchy, I just HAVE to know what is going on (like the first line of The Handmaid’s Tale).  Just like writing in general, hooking a reader with the first sentence is an art, and there are many ways to do it well.

What are some of your favorite first lines?  Do you think you have a great first line in your manuscript?

How do you know it’s the one?

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both…

 

How do you know if a manuscript idea is “the one”?  Since I finished my manuscript, I’ve been thinking about what story I’d like to start next.  I have had one idea in my head for a couple of months, but it is flat and I can’t seem to flesh it out.  Blah.

So tonight I was in the bathroom of all places, and a new idea struck me.  I think I really like it, but maybe I’m just infatuated and I think it’s a better idea than it really is. 

Maybe I should wait and see if the powers that be strike me with any more fascinating manuscript ideas.  Or maybe I should just take my new idea and run with it. 

Usually, I have more ideas than I could ever write, but lately, I’ve been in a dry spell, where I’m kinda panicking that I haven’t had more ideas. 

I admit, I’m sweating about it.  Where is my muse?  ::cries in the corner::

It doesn’t matter how many ideas I have, I guess.  In the end, I can only write one story at a time anyway.

How do I know if the new idea is the one? 

Maybe I’ll sleep with it, and if I wake up in the morning still batting my eyelashes at it, I’ll know.  Eh? 

Hmm…

Finally, the first draft is done!

80,124 words, to be exact.

::dances with abandon in my mind::

There is nothing like the feeling you get when you write the last word in the first draft of your manuscript.  Hey, I just wrote a book!  It’s something I said I wanted to do, and I did it.

This is the fourth novel I’ve finished, but it is the first I’ve written since I’ve become a stronger writer, and ::knock on wood:: I truly believe that this book will be published.

It took much longer than normal to finish this manuscript.  I started in late November, put it on hiatus in December, and picked back up in late January.

I cannot wait to dig into revisions and editing!  Does that make me a nerd?  Perhaps it’s the English teacher in me.  It will be much easier to edit my own writing than my student’s.

And then after editing comes feedback.  I’m really looking forward to this stage, too.  It’s so exciting to put your words out there for someone to read, and hear their comments.

It’s going to be an exciting year!

I <3 Libraries

I love libraries because when I was a child, it was the best place in the world.  A place where my mother, who had little money, could take my sister and I. A place that said I could read books and watch movies even if I didn’t have money.

I love libraries because as a teenager in high school, the school library was my sanctuary in every sense of the word.  I wrote a good deal of one of my manuscripts in my high school library while other teens were hanging out with friends.

I love libraries because I can always find something interesting.

I love libraries because it’s a good way to see where my tax dollars are going.

I love libraries because the rows of book spines are beautiful.

I love libraries because they are calm, peaceful, and welcoming.

I love libraries.

Happy National Library Week!  Support your library!

The ABC’s of Writing – G is for Goals

Goals are what separate the casual writer from the serious writer.  A goal wants an end result.  It’s surprising that, though I like to set goals, I never had goals when I was writing my first three manuscripts.  I might have aimed to write x number of pages, but that was for fun. 

With this manuscript, I have never had specific goals.  My only true goal through this process has been to just finish.  Sometimes I have sat down to write and have only finished a page, other times, I’ve written twenty.  It was always progress.  Additionally, I’ve kept track of my word count to monitor how much I was accomplishing at a time.  Anything over 1,000 words is decent, anything over 2,000 is good.

In my humble opinion, specific goals work for some and not for others.  I’m a perfect example.  I also humbly submit that if one truly wants to finish their manuscript, they will, regardless of goals they have set.  Goals just help us along and keep us on track.

Do you set specific goals, or general goals?

Murder Scene Blogfest

Started by Anne Riley on her blog, this Murder Scene Blogfest is the first of its kind I’ve participated in!  I decided to go for it, despite that I’ve never written a murder scene in any of my four manuscripts.  I’m a lover, not a fighter.  But still, challenges are fun.  Hope you enjoy!  Thanks, Anne, for starting the blogfest!

__________________________________________________

No Trespassing

Something seemed different about that day.  Perhaps it was that the air smelled different.  Whenever the air smells different, he knows they are around.  He watches them when they encroach on his territory, but they almost always keep their distance.  Wisely so.

He has always lived here, since he was born.  The valley and paths are his home, and he knows them well.  He also knows the best places to hunt and fish, which he thoroughly enjoys.  As he sits and eats outdoors, he listens to the stream rushing through the trees, or perhaps sits in a light rain.  During thunderstorms, he is forced inside where it’s dry, but he prefers to sit in the sun and nap.

After waking from a late afternoon nap one day, he heard them.  Their footsteps, though light, were no match for his hearing, nor for his sense of smell.  At first he was cautious, attentive.  Perhaps they were a good distance away and would keep away from him, he thought.  Then he heard laughter, and the smell grew stronger.  They were lucky that he was still lazy from his nap and wasn’t interested in their unwelcome arrival.  He would leave them alone all right, unless they got too close.  Still, their presence annoyed him.  If he wanted anything to eat, they’d be sure to scare away game. 

Then he saw them, coming through the trees.  There were two men, not the typical sort that normally stray that far into the woods.  Perhaps they were lost, and if they were, they would not be able to count on him to help.  He kept low, watching their movements, keeping himself hidden just in case.  To get a better look, he crept from his resting spot and moved a few feet in their direction, careful not to step on any twigs or leaves.  He waited for a moment for them to turn in the other direction, but they were steadily coming closer to the spot where he was hiding.  At first, he had been irritated, but now his temper was flaring.

The men were laughing; it wasn’t obvious about what.  Suddenly, one of the men, thin and fair-skinned, noticed him.  The man’s body was rigid and still, his eyes not moving.  The man was watching him, waiting for him to move, but he didn’t, and neither did the man. 

“Dude, listen, leave him alone” said the fair-skinned man.

The other man, wearing a ball cap, walked forward.  “He’s harmless.  Look at him.  He’s just napping.”  The man in the cap knelt to pick up a stick, and inched closer to him, the stick extended, his body crouched low to the ground.  “Dude, he’s huge,” he told the first man.

“Seriously,” the fair-skinned man said, still watching him.  “Keep back.”

“Hey, buddy,” the man in the cap said to him.  “Hey, wow, you’re big.”

He watched the man in the ball cap, his eyes narrowed, irate at his brazen behavior.  Didn’t the man in the cap know that this was his home?  Didn’t the man in the cap know that he hated intruders?  Didn’t the man in the cap know that trespassing was not tolerated?

“He’s moving,” the fair-skinned man said, his voice quivering.

“Hey, get out your camera,” the man in the ball cap said.  “Take a picture of me.”

“Hell, no,” the other man replied.  “Are you fucking crazy?  Let’s get out of here.”

“Come on, asshole.  Take the picture.”

He was angry now.  He was calculating.

The fair-skinned man was inching backward, away from him.  The man was terrified.  The man in the ball cap was laughing as he called his friend a name and flipped him off.  Once his friend was a good twenty yards in the distance, the man in the ball cap looked as if he would go away, but it was too late now.  He was a hunter first and foremost.  The man in the cap would be too easy to overpower.

In an instant, he leapt from his spot and tackled the man in the cap so hard that he knocked the saliva from his mouth.  The man let out terrified shrieks, calling the name of his friend, who screamed as he watched from his relatively safe distance.  The man in the cap grabbed at the earth in vain, chunks of dirt imbedding into his fingernails.  First, he slashed the man’s back, causing a warm flow of blood to gush, soaking his t-shirt in mere seconds.  The man moaned in pain, crying out for his friend. 

The man pulled himself along the ground with such friction that his jeans came off and laid in a heap, soaked in blood.  The man’s screams grew worse with each moment.  It was time to finish him off, no more playing.  His jaw opened and he ripped into the man’s throat; the man was instantly silent, his body limp.  His friend, however, screamed and cursed up ahead.  The fair-skinned man threw up, and limped backward, trying to get away from the scene of his friend’s death. 

He stood over his kill, a pool of still-warm crimson blood at his feet.  He licked his mouth, the heat from the sun already beginning to dry the man’s blood in his fur.

The ABC’s of Writing – F is for Feedback

Constructive criticism is to writing what pressure is to coal – it takes something rough and makes it sparkle.

 

I preach it to my students, and I take my own advice – in writing, 99% of the time you are writing for someone else, so it makes sense to have a few eyes read it before the masses do.  Why?  A fresh set of eyes – that aren’t attached to the writing like a moth to a streetlight – will be discriminating, critical, and see the kinks in the writing.

I’m all for getting feedback about my writing, and yet I HATE – ok, hate is a strong word…but…I detest criticism.  Ok, I don’t detest it, it just makes me terribly self-conscious.  But it’s necessary if I want to make progress.  It’s never comfortable to have someone tell you they don’t like the way you worded something or that your characterization is lacking, etcetera, etcetera.  But pressure turns coal into diamonds, right?  We need to pressure ourselves as writer’s – challenge are own vain ideas about how well written our manuscript is – and force ourselves to see its flaws.

I’m a middle of the road self-assessor.  I don’t think my writing is terrible and I don’t think I’m the Second Coming, either.  I think I’m a solid “good” and beyond that I leave it up to others to decide for themselves.

In college, I took a Fiction Writing class and participated in round table critiques.  There was always a flurry of butterflies before it was my turn - anxiety that they would all hate it, but also anticipation that they would like my writing.  It was uncomfortable, but many times, the comments were right on.  It forced me to see that I had made mistakes, that there was room for improvement.

What I tell my students is that there is always room for improvement.  I tell them that even my writing can be improved, and I go as far as to edit my emails, as I invariably misspell words or have an awkward phrase or grammatical issue. 

When feedback in the form of constructive criticism is given by someone who cares about the writer and is trying to help the writer improve, it is a wonderful tool.  And I would venture to say not just a wonderful tool, but a necessary one.