Holding The Melody

Not every writer will compose their stories to music. We won't all require a background of song to fill the air, or set the stage. But the melodies never leave our side.

Some writers, who I admire for their organizational skills, compile their own set lists. Others stick with classical landscapes, or mystical requims. A few have favorite cds/pandora radio stations that they tune into to turn on the muse. Portals of song and sound to transport them, and their characters, into the next beginning.

And sometimes we let silence sing the song. But we rarely lose the melody.

There's always some tune humming through my head. A comforting note that rings true, building and filling the space of my mind. Like warmth settling into weary bones, it wraps around me and aids a shaking hand or dries an unshed tear. A gathering accompaniment for any occasion.

I move slowly. I'm cautious with my steps, though I often react quickly or speak before formulating where the words may fall. But my movements, while not always full of grace (oh, ok, hardly ever), are made with determined and thought out follow-through.

The melody keeps me on point. It sings to me when I stumble and raises me up from the times I crawl.

Today is full of song. As my oldest puppy heals from the most traumatic event of an age, I find comfort in the sounds that slip behind the veil. In the future, and the songs that I have yet to hear -- the notes that have yet to be sung.

Because music doesn't ever fade. It may evolve and shapeshift its form, but it's always there. Inside of us, simmering, just waiting to sing out.

Today's word is: ennoble

image: Melissa A.Vines Photography

Spider Monkey Madness

I am a giant fucking scaredy cat.

Most of the time, I try to pretend otherwise. I've even perfected a fairly convincing warrior-like exterior (at least in my own mind). Just call me Billy Badass with a multiple personality disorder. Not really. I don't actually have a disorder, well at least not of that variety. More I try to act the way I wish to be, thinking at some point the acting will give way to the real thing.

But last night, I went into full bloom scared-as-a-crackwhore-clutching-her-last-dime-bag horror.

We came home to my eldest furry baby, Sunshine, going into a fit. Like a vomit, faint and lost control of your bowels on top of Mom, and the couch, fit.

I screamed. Jumped up, ripped my pants off, hopped from foot to foot like a drunken elf and then, with tears in my voice, began to tell him it would all be okay.

I was full of shit, you know. I thought he was dying.

I have seen some horrific sights. I spent the first five years of my life in a hospital while my brave, phenomenal brother battled and overcame cancer. Two years ago my Mom was in a coma for a week (while I was the negotiator with doctors, nurses and the fear of my relatives), then in the hospital for three weeks after, and it was par on course for being inside one of Dante's lower rungs of hell.

A slightly agoraphobic gypsy, I wander into moments, stay a while -- collect my fodder -- and bolt fast as my feet can propel me forward. My life has been a bizarre collection of brushes with death, victory and adventure. But I am a grade A, chicken shit-infused, scaredy fucking cat.

Watching my best friend, who I raised along with myself, possibly expiring hurtled me out of this reality. I collected myself, spent ten rational minutes in full professional mode (never mind the panty-pants I was sporting) speaking with Sunnie's doctor (also known as the Vet) and attending to whatever the next moment called for.

I'm good in a crisis. I've been through a small Army of them. I know how to shut it down, get it done and move forward. Until the water calms, until the hellish nightmare resides into a residual mush of daylight wonder.

Then, and only then, do I begin to show the wear and tear of jerking my boot straps up over my head and fastening them under my ears.

It's a mad, mad world, y'all.

Sunnie's better today. He's not back to his usual ornery, demon-like pep, but he's not quivering in a mess on my couch. He follows me like he normally does - room to room, head cocked at my movements, anticipation sparkling in his eyes at the prospect of a treat, of a sliver of the nectar of the gods, that tasty, tasty morsel known as cheese.

Me? I'm sitting here. Crouched, prepared - wearing my aluminum foil tin hat, and awaiting the next moment that requires me to spring into spider monkey madness.

But at least I've got on pants.

Today's word is: abderian

Curriculum Emphasis Week

In Elementary school, there was one week a year that I longed for. It was the week of Curriculum Emphasis, when history came alive. This one glorious week of the year, the teachers turned our gym into an Age of Eras.

At the time, the gym was also the size of eight football fields. Today, it's the size of my office - okay, not really - but you get the shrunken picture.

There were sections, cubicles erected, that housed different figures from the past, complete with their stories and a goody bag to help draw open the imagination. Babe Ruth would provide mini candy bars with his name printed across them, the Vietnam Vets would hand out old fashioned, glass bottle captured, cups of Coke.

The janitor's closet was turned into the moon, where a moonwalk was inflated and the ceiling covered in stars. The stock market crash was represented by a make-shift soup kitchen that had THE best chicken noodle soup. Possibly ever.

Ok, so maybe this was the rose-colored-glasses version of these events. But -- all of these historic events came to life. The past was breathing and I was lost in every waking moment. Fully invested in the way of the world and the people that moved in it.

Last night, as I read River Jordan's PRAYING FOR STRANGERS, I was transported. I try to stay away from talking specific books here, because I do reviews and author interviews in my other life. But I was reminded, as I inhaled her words like a drunk finally taking to the bottle, that life moves all around us.

People are creating history every second of every day. Too often we miss the moment, walking past them in the store, on the street or in our favorite bookshop. We don't connect, don't make eye-contact, don't even acknowledge that we are here, in this, together.

Jordan's resolution was to pray for a stranger every day. Prayer is stigmatic. It's an offer of peace, yes at its core, but in today's society it is also seen as something sarcastic, greedy and often self-serving.

"I'll pray for you," and "bless your heart," are dirty phrases in the South. Too often used in a patronizing manner and without any real emotion behind them. Words are magic. When used wrong, they are black magic misnomers.

But Jordan isn't trying to wave the red flag of religion. She's making a declaration, to put someone else before her, to bless them with any power she has, to ask on their behalf for strength and joy. If only for that day.

In her book, these strangers come to life. The moments they shared with River Jordan flow out onto the pages, pouring humanity, heartache and peace from their lips. Glimpses, snapshots really, into the way of another man, woman or child's world.

History, Jordan's and theirs, is reborn. Lessons are laid down and people are celebrated. Praying for strangers, Jordan is giving freely her hopes and belief in another person. In their dreams. Without talk of the Universe, God or anything more than person-to-person, a fellowship is formed.

Curriculum Emphasis Week.

A week of learning, of discovering the past, the worlds gone by and walking away with a little treat. I've rediscovered one of my most valued childhood memories - one that certainly emboldened me on my path to become a writer - in so many new, unfolded and reborn ways. All between the pages of a book.

I've brought home the most solid truth I know. We're all in this together. The more we recognize it, and allow ourselves to support one another, the brighter the future, the warmer our worlds will be.

Today's word is: equanimity

Thinking On The Sunny Side

The word sunshine is a particular favorite of mine. It represents warmth, light and all the yummy blossoms that awaken under the sun's watchful rays. But it's also the name of my best friend. Sunnie, my wizened Chihuahua, will be fourteen this August. Named for the Grateful Dead song Sugar Magnolia - the chorus is a vibrant burst of Sunshine Daydream - he's been with me for what feels like always.

My dapper little man, who is also the most crotchety thing alive, makes me happy.

Sometimes it's easier to start Monday off by thinking on the dark side. Seeing all the hills the week's climb requires. Starting the day with discouragement and discontent. It sets the tone, doesn't it?

I'm not doing that today. I could. I mean, we all have that viable option. But I want to see Sunshine through the rain, around the clouds and instead of the shade. I choose to think on the Sunny side. To know that here, here comes the sun.

For almost fourteen years, my tiny companion and I have battled many a storm. My parents angry divorce, a few years on our own a little too early, college, bad relationships and a few drops of our basket. But we've always gotten back on the road. Dusted ourselves off, grappled with our rose colored glasses and skipped on down the line.

An attitude of gratitude brings opportunities.

I'm grateful for my life, my friends, family and all the bumps I've navigated. Being pragmatic and realistic, with my heavy dose of optimism, I know the road will always be one of climbs, slides and steamrolls. With the sunshine on my side, I'm not afraid to see where they take me. Because as I've said, sun, sun, sun. Here it comes.

Today's word is: luminary

Friday Shorts: Inside A Chapter

Chapter 7: The Strange Names and Silence Disease

            Orly’s next class was study hall. It was held in a room that should have been broken in half. There was a floor divider, showing where the room would have become two. But there wasn’t a need to conserve space, so nine kids sprawled across the floor, laying on their stomachs and backs. The teacher was busy loading a DVD when we arrived. Most of the students were reading or doodling. It was almost normal, until you looked closer.

            One of the kids was reading a dictionary. Literally. Devouring the pages line by line. Two others were arm wrestling, but they were doing it wrong. They each used their right arm to battle out a twisted form of palm wrestling. Contented, they seemed to think it was something else. A pretty girl with dark eyes played air guitar across her chest, while a phenomenal looking boy gave her a scalp massage. The strangest sight, though, was the kid in the trashcan.

            “What the hell?” I whispered to Orly.

            “Hey Eleanor, I’ve come bearing gifts.”

            “It’s Miss Eleanor,” the teacher corrected from her stooped position. “And you better get your mouthy butt inside and help me load this stupid contraption.”

            Orly laughed and went to help her. I stayed still. The girl and boy studied me while the kid in the trash can sunk lower, until only the top of his head was visible. The rest of the students peaked up at me, before returning to what they had been doing. After a few terse moments, I moved across the room and sat on a tall stool that was by the window. The girl with the intense eyes followed my movements and I became irrationally self-conscious. I mean these kids were freaks, I shouldn’t feel like one.

            Orly came back to me after fixing the DVD player and holding a short, whispered conversation with the teacher.

            “Eleanor’s cool,” he explained. “Fiery as hell, but cool.”

            I’d never heard anyone talk about their teacher like a person. Usually it was so and so’s a douche and I’d totally bang Mrs. X.

            Orly stood by my stool and watched me watch everyone else.

            “Those are the two I was telling you about,” he whispered in my ear.

            “The couple on the floor?”

            “Not a couple,” he whispered back. “Did you listen to nothing in my tutorial on the way over? That’s Devon and Fox.”

            “Which is the boy and which is the girl?” I cut in.

            “Fox is the girl, Devon’s the boy.”

            “Seems a little backwards.”

            “Oh no, not once you get to know them.”

            “So?”

            “So,” he leaned closer, “Devon’s mute. Just like you when you let the fear take over.”

            I had apparently missed one hell of a car ride over.

            “How long has he been not talking?”

            “Since he got here.”

            “Why didn’t Marley bring him up?”

            Orly hesitated.

            “What?”

            “They steer clear of each other.”

            “I thought you said Marley helps everyone.”

            “He can only help those who want it.”

*This is a snapshot of a chapter from my current WIP

Today's word is: accession

Image: Saeed-Almadani 2008

I've Got No Strings To Hold Me Down

This morning the green tea is flowing, the words are mulling and the stories are waiting. There are, as there always are, articles to be written, books to be reviewed and authors to be interviewed. But that my sweet friends, is a very lovely future to glimpse into.

The sleeping beast, I lovingly call Expectation, has been heavily dosed with a cocktail of xanax and Jack Daniels. Whatever he's anticipating riding my nerves on won't work this morning -- I'm listening to the sounds of his heavy slumber.

For now, in this tranquil season of opening, I am only about this moment. This corner of my world, and the enjoyment that I may gain, and give back, to it.

Here is to you and your peace on this Springtime morning. May it follow you all day long.

Today's word is: euphonious

Tiny Dancer In My Hand

"It's all happening."

I love when Penny Lane embraces that line, in the film Almost Famous. It's sentimental, magical and promising. The belief in the adventure being on its way, in the next phase lurking just around the corner -- barely hidden from sight.

When you're on the journey, it can feel like you're bouncing on the balls of your feet, wiggling and fidgeting, waiting for what comes next to just come the F on!

I wonder, though, if there was no rise. No elevation to tempt and lure. If it all just came rolling in, one tidal wave flushing out dreams and replacing them with realization. One after the other, just a crushing flood of arrival. A swamp of here I am.

It doesn't sound very welcoming. Rather, to me, it almost feels like a school of enabling. If you are given everything, might you simply take, take, take. Which makes me wonder: If all you do is take, do you ever glance down to study what is given?

The rise and fall of a promise, of a new, shapelier horizon can seem...unattainable. It can languish, like a broken doll hanging over the rail of a crumbling staircase. From a distance, it might even feel like that doll will never be more than a past moment of something glorious. A former creation of itself.

But with patience, care and vision, things are reborn, in bloom and opulence replaces devastation. It's just a matter of time, faith and a little kick in the ass called perseverance.

If it all just arrived, packaged and bowed, would we even really care? Perhaps, perhaps not. But me, well, I am grateful to be able to recognize the tiny dancer in my hand.

Today's word is: furbelow

The Curse of Writer's Roadblock

Fear is a hussy. She's crafty, verbose and has the patience of a one legged whore with her eye on the prize.

I am not suffering from writer's block -- or roadblock, as I prefer to name it. But I have been thinking about why writers do succumb to the sludge that perpetuates. The only reason I can find is fear.

When you write, you retain a sense of self. At least most of the authors I know, or have interviewed, claim to. It's a delicate juggling act of worlds, and we're ever so careful not to drop ours into the one we're creating.

I wonder, then, if this division is what holds us back? How far is too far, when you're committed to your art?

Actors are known for giving themselves completely to their roles. Emerging, soaking and meshing their consciousness into that of the character - so they may fully embrace the spirit of the new life they're bringing to screen.

I believe that as writers, we shouldn't hold any less expectation of ourselves. But fear, coupled with living inside of our own mind (while sharing tight quarters with complex characters), often prevents us from stepping above the malarkey and elevating our craft.

My WIP is pouring out, but I still believe I could take it to the next level. If I stop being a giant weenie and just do the damn thing. Get in there, roll around in the briar patch and bitch slap the tar baby.

I'm going to go for it. I hope that whatever story/creation you are currently building has your undivided devotion, too. That you are shifting your landscape to allow you to delve deeper into your art, and knock down a few roadblocks along the way.

Today's word is: blowsabella

image: painting by Jennifer Vranes

World Poetry Day - Allowing The Words Out To Play

                                                     

Off The Cuff

The flame flickered on his exhale
and regrew as he moved away.
Breath and form
mistaken for more
cost nearly all the light he'd stolen from the day.

Scattered papers
covered his desk
and grew like green on a vine
traipsing over once barren walls
and lettering out the decay of time.

Madness bloomed
and inside his pockets festered.
Slinking into marrow
and caressing perception.
Forging weight
onto nothing at all.

Ache and reason,
time and season,
gave up on him
as he turned his back
on the last sirens' call.

The flame flickered on his exhale
and regrew as he moved away.
Breath and form
mistaken for more
cost nearly all the light he'd stolen from the day.


Today's word is: pernicious

image: Watery Candelight by Martin Girolam



The Art of a Mistake

Einstein said, "A person who never made a mistake never tried anything new."

That four letter word, fear, often prevents us from making some of our greatest mistakes. I'm not sure why, beyond the simple realm of humanness, we struggle to believe in ourselves. To really go for it -- balls to the wall, without backing down or giving up.

But sometimes, we do. I know too many people who talk about what once was, rather than what will be. At any age, that seems entirely superfluous. But there it is.

Kids don't seem to have this fixation. They fall, they get up. They tumble, they summersault out of it. There is no mountain that they can't look to the top of and see a great climb. No feat too impossible, no dream too enormous to fit in the palm of their hand.

Nothing changes, as you "grow up." I use the term with some disdain, because I don't really understand what "up" is. I grow out, more comfortable and engaged in my world. But never up. I don't want to be higher, I simply want to be more at home in my own skin. In my own two feet and the path they're walking.

But nothing changes. We are still, in many respects, who we were. We can sustain our "ness," that indescribable vivacity that as children we own proudly and which guides us as we march to the thumping beat of our own kick drum.

Because the great thing about Art, is that it is there to make us think. To open our eyes, to broaden our gaze and reinvent the way we see the world. Each mistake is a stepping stone, so long as they aren't vicious enough to cause you to sink to the bottom, and each step we climb brings us closer to where we need to go.

As long as we continue to try, to forge our roadway to the dreams that call our names. If we do not give up, we find the long road of perseverance is well met in the home of reward.

Today's word is: serendipitous

The Words Are On Fire

I'm lost inside a story right now -- so completely under its spell that the words...they are on fire. Like a swiftly lit fuse that sparks and ignites, this story has turned a light on. Complicated, honest and authentically fantastical - it's taken me by surprise. I'm so captivated, I can barely write these words -- because my mind is back there, ready for the next leg of the journey.

When you write, sweet authors, let your words find the fire. Allow them the grace to build the heat, to fan the flame and to burst into the sky.

Because when you do, you rock my foundation. You transform my thinking and allow me the gift of dream. From here, anything is possible.

Today's word is: algedonic

Irish Blessings To You

May love and laughter light your days,
and warm your heart and home.
May good and faithful friends be yours,
wherever you may roam.
May peace and plenty bless your world
with joy that long endures.
May all life's passing seasons
bring the best to you and yours.


Today's word is: aoibhneas

It was the Best of Times, it was the Worst of Times

Inspiration strikes at the strangest of times. Yesterday, as I battled the funk that a blossoming Spring awakens, I found myself struggling, and not simply against a heavy cold. I felt spread thin. Not simply thin (though I was chewing on Tolkien's great reference of butter over bread), but also too stretched. Like taffy that is pulled wide as well as long.

I can't speak for anyone other than me, and being me - I usually discover the most about myself when I give myself an opportunity to do a little digging. Yesterday provided this time to hunt. It also reminded me that when I feel icky, I tend to veer towards my Daria side. A little flat, a little nay-saying with only an edge of hope flaring.

We're comprised of so many parts, being human. It's easy to forget that you can't be everything all the time. Not to yourself, and certainly not to anyone else. When caught up, it can be devastatingly hard to find the enjoyment in what goes on.

We spend most of the time looking back or glaring into the future. Rehashing what was, and hoping to predict what will be. Which isn't the worst way to get through a moment, but it can spread into a virus. If we get too lost in the past, or too caught up in the future, the present suffers.

And the present is really what carries us to what may be.

The present can be hard, man. If you focus, narrow your gaze, on what's going wrong, and forget the things that are surprisingly right. Opportunity can be shoved aside as fear climbs into possibility and beats it into a dream of nothing.

It's important to do the things that make you happy. Yes, we should all work on changing our perspectives, to find a new angle in viewing the tasks we less desire. But we also owe it to ourselves to do what we love.

We can make it the best of times, or the worst of times. Sometimes, it's just that simple. And challenging.

I'm going dark for a while. To heal a little further and recharge a little more fully. I hope that you take the time for yourself, to paint your world all the colors you dream it to be.

Today's word is: divagate

Going The Distance

For lent, I decided to go without fear. Well, I'm trying to -- it's a work in progress. But I took a big step towards giving it up on Saturday, when went hiking at The Stone Door.

The Stone Door looks exactly as it sounds. It is a doorway, a walkway really, down a flight of stone, jagged stairs. The stairwell is between two giant slabs of rock. All naturally created and beautifully set.

The path was also very, very, steeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. (All the extra e's are symbolic of the mental squealing I produced before I took my first step.)

I stood at the edge of the first narrow, tiny rock preparing to step down. Suddenly, I was swarmed with a series of (mostly) nonsensical thoughts.

The first thought was this: "Fuck you, H.P. Lovecraft. I did not agree to enter one of your apocalyptic short stories."

Shortly followed by, "My shoelaces aren't tight enough. Why the hell am I wearing tennis shoes? Shouldn't I have boots like these crazy assholes with the helmets and repelling gear?"

Then, "At least I left my Cons at home." Glances down past shaking knees to shoes. "But I would have felt more like me in the Cons."

Trickled onto, "Why would shoes make me feel more like me?"

Finally, "If I have to, I can always sit down and scoot on my ass one step at a time. Stupid inanimate rocks (mentally stomps them into dust)."


The stairwell was gorgeous. Nature had carved something by accident that man could never replicate. Yes, the steep climb down had me partially frozen, but I still clicked away, taking photos and drafting plot in my head. I shook slightly as I tried to move my foot forward, but I moved it.

Determination had me step inside the story. Step inside my story, of that one moment and become present.

As the dark gift reared its ugly head, I had a thousand and one flashes of how I could fall, nose-dive or plummet down the stairs. How many angles I would contort my body after the final coup de grâce. But I pulled back. I stopped that roll of film, yanked the bastard out of my mental ream and focused.

With my hand on the wet, cool rock wall, I began to walk myself away from my fear. One step after another.

Of course, the fear followed. As the step shortened to three inches, and my toes turned to navigate, I could hear it trying to whisper back inside my head.

But I found beauty in the way the rock glistened with sweat, the flash of sunlight as it hit the water and gleamed. I laughed at the curves of rock folding into itself, and wondered what Lovecraft would write about that.

One foot in front of the other, I slowly made my way down. As I reached solid ground, I was grinning - the smile practically splitting my cheeks apart.

Because I didn't give up.

My fear of height, of the unknown will never ebb entirely. I'm not going to make some great proclamation - set myself up to offer a promise I can't keep.

But I know this: conquering fear isn't dissolving it - it's simply not letting it prevent you from obtaining your goals. I didn't let the fear rule me, didn't allow it become my roadblock.

I'm so grateful I got out of my own way this weekend. The reward, and the view was spectacular.

Today's word is: subjugate

Friday Shorts - A Pocket Of Story

The Sounds of Silence

          As jasmine blooms, summer is born. Shade slinks in, curling its fingers and caressing heat away from humid southern nights. Sweet, decadent sin is awakened from the emergence of aromatic jasmine stalks; you can see it in the tilt of her chin, the wink of her lid and the sway of her walk.

This is word according to Frances, the matron of Moon Hollow, South Carolina. Frances has been the town gem for 80 odd years. A wise woman, she refuses to reveal her age, and no one dares claim it’s a day past fifty. While Frances has long been the historian of Moon Hollow, her peculiarities make her more the calling card, than town foundation.

One of the most uncomfortable eccentricities belonging to this Matriarch is her pet skeleton. The uprooted bag of bones, a perfected specimen of human anatomy, dangles from Frances’s living room ceiling. Its bones - yellowed by marrow and strung together from copper wire - are suspended by an old hoop belt, the buckle end nailed into the low ceiling. Frances's favorite rocker sits beside the hovering remains, where she spends hours conversing with the emaciated corpse.

The topics of conversation are not, perhaps surprisingly, of a lunatic’s nature. Frances doesn’t try to argue, berate or lecture the being that once was. Instead, she asks it endless questions, forever waiting for an answer that will surely never come.

Every day at five o’clock, Frances calls out radical questions to the dead man’s bones. Neighbors crane their necks, shifting on front porches as they strain to listen. For hours, the grande dame softly, almost politely holds her half of a Q&A while she is repeatedly greeted with silence. And every day the town waits, watching and wondering what answer Frances is so reverently searching for.

But Frances knows. That time, while rarely kind to the decay of humans - the noble breed that begins the walk of death the day it's born - time holds the key to any lock. And this is one that she has long been preparing herself to open.

Today's word is: dowager

* This short is part of a quilted WIP

The Inclination Of My Writing Craft

I try to stay off my soap box. If for no other reason than it tends to get slippery, that box of suds and foam. But I wanted to take the time to share about my journey in the craft of writing, and a few thoughts on the road that can feel unending.

Haunted by the ongoing buzzing that has been stalking the internet, in regards to self publishing vs. traditional publishing, I've been reading blogs, turning over my thoughts and wondering if it's okay to open my mouth. As writers, we're all in this together. As a community of writers, we should be lifting each other up, celebrating potential and visualizing success to all. Because it's really about the craft, about the books and the joy that they can bring.

When it comes to getting your book out there, I understand the appeal of self-publishing. 1. It's near instant gratification. If we're honest, like brutal by the skin of our teeth honest, we're in the age of gimme, gimme, I need, I need. If we self pub, we can publish our work on our own time table - set our price and be the bearer of our future. (That last part was said in a near-perfect imitation of Dr. Claw - think arm slamming as Inspector Gadget refuses to self-destruct.)

2. Getting an agent is (typically) excessively hard work. Query, query, query. Rejection, rejection, non-response. Contemplate burning books, wiggling your ass at the writing world and taking over the vacancy that Homey D. Clown left. Cave and query, query, query. Then research valium and prozac before giving up to go buy something shiny - in hopes we can stop thinking about all the queries in query wonderland.

3. Once you secure an agent (and there is no given on how long it takes to aquire one), you edit (or bludgeon, perform life-saving surgery and magically re-infuse with life) your manuscript. After you've turned it into something truly beautiful to behold, your agent will send it out on submission. Now you wait. The waiting, much like the great query scavenger hunt, does not have a set timeline.

The traditional route is heavy, man. But if you go this route, you come out with a team. There are no guarantees here that your book will sell instantly to a publisher, that when it does come out hordes of people will dive into book stores like you're selling the contents of the Spring Prada catalog for $4.99 a pop. But you do have people who believe in you, and perhaps more importantly your work, and they are willing to bust their asses on your behalf, and cross the finish line by your side.

The self publishing route is trickier. I'm not going to break it down, I believe Amanda Hocking (whose Trylle trilogy I've read and really enjoyed) does a better job. What I will say is that neither route guarantees it will bring you the money.

Here is the part that comes from my experience. I am a writer. I have been writing all my life (picture an eight-year-old writing very jaded poetry on her walls with crayons). I majored in English, minored in Writing, and wrote my first novel five years ago. That novel's hiding next to its sister companion in a trunk, far, far away from here.

I switched genre's, secured my agent and now write my ass off. I have not yet sold to a house, and I will not tell you where I am in that process (Irish = superstitious). For the past 2 years I have been interviewing authors (from NYT Bestsellers, to the phenom who inspired me to become an author, to self-pubbed locals), picking their brains, celebrating their amazing works and learning every step of the way.

I write every day. Either on a WIP, article, poem, blog or short story.

I read EVERYTHING. When I can't read, I listen to audio recordings of the classics on LibriVox. Every day, I immerse myself in the craft of writing. I'm rolling in literature, art and the ways of the written world. My intention is to sponge up, to soak up every particle of artistic creating that I can.

As a reviewer, I am open to reviewing self-published works. Like I said before, we are all in this together. But I come across a lot of poorly done self-published novels (not all, mind you, but quite a few). Grammar, sentence structure, voice, dialogue, plots - all of these are fundamental building blocks for the foundation of a great novel. When these elements are not there, the story falls apart.

It breaks my heart when I see this in a work. Because rarely is the kernel for something wonderful not there. But the story was rushed, the desire of publication put first over the dream of a perfected product. If I can't lose myself in a story, I mourn what could have been. Because novels, the undeniable splendor that is a book, can shape new worlds.

They have certainly transformed mine.

What I am saying, after a heinous amount of rambling, is follow your dreams. Believe in yourself, but do the work. You're worth it, your novel and your readers are really worth it. Let go when you can, try not to put the pressure of tomorrow on today. Edit, write and edit again. Submit, query and attend workshops or find a group of writers to critique with. Don't ever, ever give up -- unless it's not really what you want.

But please. Please, please, please, don't undervalue your book. Don't think it doesn't deserve the added days, months or years of being shaped into a work that could change someone's life. No matter the route of publication you send it through, make it about the story. Not you, not the agents or editors or the consumers at large. Make it about the dreams that it may carry to someone else.

Today's word is: vernacular

Here, There And Everywhere

Today is the day of Marcus. It's the birthday of my love, and one of my favorite days of the year. Now don't misunderstand, I adore the day of Paige. So much so that I tell my closest friends about its impending arrival for a good week or two in advance. I may also wear a tiara and prance around in my underwear like Cleopatra on acid, but that's neither here nor there.

Marcus' birthday is better. Because he elevates my life levels above the average playing field. He came into it almost nine years ago. When I was down the rabbit hole, lost and haphazard in the way of my world. I wouldn't say he was a solid, all-the-answers-in-the-palm-of-his-hand kind of guy back then, either. It was college, kids. But he was my kind of magic.

When I met Marcus, everything cleared. I hesitate to say changed, because life isn't a Disney fairytale. He didn't sweep me up into the lush, blossoming land of ever after. Instead Marcus, just being Marcus, inspired me to be the best Paige. To see myself, discover my potential and go for it. To sing out all of those dreams and aspirations that I was too afraid to voice.

Today I remember all of our so-far moments. The sweet, the inspiring, the romantic and even the bizarre. With a soft smile, I look back and snuggle into the present. Grateful and aware. I've never been the type to settle. To back down or pull the wool over my eyes. But Marcus helped me soften my gaze and focus my attention.

Every morning, ever moment, I am blessed. I am loved and in love. No matter what comes next, I have this knowledge that has given me foundation, brought me peace and infused me with joy.

I am the luckiest girl in my world, and that love follows Marcus here, there and everywhere.

Happy Birthday love.

Today's word is: charisma

Forging Forgiveness

Mardi Gras is resting her hands on my shoulders this morning. Celebration feels as though it is hovering at the tips of my fingers. Just wafting, back and forth at the edge of my reach.

While part of my mind is in the city of New Orleans, the rest is center stage. Thinking about the walk of life and the act of forgiveness.

I've always struggled with the definition of forgiveness. Rather, how to forgive. We are preached, here in the South, forgiveness from early on. This is the bible belt, and we like to tighten our straps.

I'm not going to talk religion. I'm comfortable with my place and beliefs, and don't feel the need to overwhelm someone else with them. But what I've always struggled with, is this: 1. how do you forgive someone who doesn't ask for forgiveness and 2. if you forgive them does that make what they've done ok?

If I offer my forgiveness, am I condoning the act of another? Am I giving my consent to their fuckery? Saying that it's erased and now, hey man, let's hold hands and skip off into the sunset. Maybe catch a few rainbows.

Wanting to forgive, needing to, I've been banging my head over the years, trying to knock the connector loose in my brain that would explain how I could arrive at wherever I needed. How I could make sense out of senselessness.

Here is where I am. Forgiveness is the act of letting go. This does not mean that because you forgive, you automatically like the person you are forgiving. It doesn't mean you accept their behavior as acceptable.

It simply means that you remove the power for it to affect you. By letting it go, you release yourself.

There is no magic wand. No spell to cast (that I've discovered) to make a wrong a right, or turn a douche bag into a likable bestie. But it doesn't have to matter.

In efforts to cleanse myself of as much negativity as possible, I'm practicing this idea daily. When I start to grow irritated with someone else's tomfoolery, I try to reverse my spinning wheels. To send out a message of peace for that person and turn my thoughts on to something else.

There's a black kind of magic, when you allow hate to grow. When you water the seeds of unease over equanimity.

It's not easy, peasy, light and breezy. Because I can't change anyone else - I can't make a bad person work on their good, or change the way someone thinks or behaves. But I can work on myself.

I shape myself, and so I'm forging forgiveness. To celebrate this wild walk of life and all the people in it. Because we're all in this together, and there is such beauty in each of us. Even when we can't always see it.

Happy Fat Tuesday, y'all.

Today's word is: vivacity

A Descent Into Peace - Quieting The Characters

This past weekend was another yoga workshop weekend. I put writing and reading on hold to study, practice and journey down my yogic path. I tried to, very gently, explain this to the books, articles-in-waiting and my WIP.

They're not very good listeners.

There is a quote by Kafka that illustrates best what I am about to confide: "Writing is utter solitude, the descent into the cold abyss of oneself. "

Yoga, more specifically meditation, is this very thing. A decent inward. A voyage inside to heal, revive and discover. When I'm on my mat, or in seated meditation, I'm in a state of self-decent.

It's not a cold abyss - more like a warm kaleidoscope of imagery. Imagery, thoughts and answers that I'm trying to "let go" as they arrive. Because while we can never stop thinking, in meditation the aim is to continuously wave goodbye to the thoughts that pop up.

As a writer, I find this borderline hysterical.

Sunday morning I sat in the lotus position, with my eyes closed and my posture aligned (for the most part), trying to let go, let go, let go.

Mind matters most. My teacher says this often, and it's one of the starkest, most naked of truths that exists. My mind, well its matter is delved in story.

As I try to contemplate not contemplating, I drift inside my mental haven -- practicing sign language with my characters, and looking for clues. I travel down into stories I've recently read and peak at passages that most moved me.

I evade the purpose of the meditation. Not deliberately, but because I'm happy inside my head here. I'm in joy with story. This is what I do.

But this is not the purpose of my jounrey with yoga. It is not bringing me the clarity or peace I'm seeking today. So, I start anew. I draw in a deep inhale and push out a strong exhale, and then I practice my mantra.

Om shanti, shanti, shanti.

Om being: the past, the present, the future. Everything is embodied in the word Om.

Shanti (Śānti): being peace.

Oh peace. Oh peace, peace, peace.

The characters and stories hear me. They begin to climb closer into me, trying to look inside this moment, to see what on earth it is that has distracted me from them. They wave their hands in front of me, stamp their feet and try to pull my hair.

I wonder how long I will have to sit here, driven to distraction by these mad inmates in my head. I'm contemplating how easily I can bitch slap one of them when the strangest occurrence transpires, and they, too, find fascination in the mantra. In the words.

Together, we sit and witness the mental sound of peace. The calling to of Om shanti, shanti, shanti. Because the characters, the chaos and the mad attention -- it's all of me. That I'm so incredibly tied into it, hopefully, benefits my craft. But even story, even creativity needs a little silence, a pocket of peace, to find inspiration.

Today's word is: sangfroid

Friday Shorts: Inside A Story

The Picture

There was a time, before this time, when the seasons were welcoming. The pathways and walkways to homes were alluring, ever inviting. Twilight was a time for magic. For watching dancing fireflies, and dreaming of free spirited pixies born from fairy tales. A time when fresh squeezed lemonade and ice chips were a given, when doors were left open and life was welcomed in.

She was of that time.

            Petite, with ebony ringlets that hung down to her collarbone, her face was round with an angled chin that gave her a sleek look. Her wide, almond eyes showed little malice, though they offered a hint of fire. Banking, just under the surface.      

She had been brought up in a time when anything, and everything, bad went on behind closed doors. Therefore it was always a closed case. No discussion or help was ever given; life was forever presented as a pretty picture. A daguerreotype, a captured aged frame of perfect, “I stole the cookie from the cookie jar” smiles. She tried to accept her past and move forward, but sometimes she froze.

She would be at a dinner party, in the grocery store or hunting in her closet for shoes and, for no apparent reason, the room would freeze. Time would stand still, and the only movement in the room would be her breath as it moved her chest up and down, heaving in fear. Then the memories came.

They didn’t slam through her, not in that quick flash of a forgotten time being whipped up to the surface of the subconscious and plowed through the body. No, this was more of a liquid pool, rushing slowly down her face and as it dripped away from her eyes, she began to see more clearly.

The room would inevitably change as time was sucked dramatically backwards. That was how it always happened. That was the companion that never left her side. Then she would snap back into reality and everything would be as it was.

            But lately the nightmare was becoming too real.

It was that house. That horrid tattered and a little too asymmetrical Victorian house. With the paint peeling and foundation sinking, as it leered over the street. The place off Del Corazón, past lover’s creek and over by the commune.

It was the place where he fell.

She had that memory tucked away so deeply, pushed so far back in the recesses of her twisted mind, that she thought it buried. But it never fully slept. When it seemed like life was nearly perfect, like she was almost solidified in that perfect picture frame, it called her back.

And, oh, how it stuck. That sound of that night; crickets rubbing their legs to and fro, the assaulting fragrance of magnolias, that sweet summer smell that arrived every year mid-June.

Then the frogs would sing their soft hymns of lily pad lore, following the unforgettable, always-recognizable, scent of rain.

It was a constant in her life she pretended not to know.

The imagery would engulf her. She would be at the bottom of the path walking on her tiptoes, because she had worn her little ballet slippers again, and her hands would roam in front of her face, as she grasped through the darkness. Suddenly, called, she looked up - as though she had just realized the stars were above her, acting as a thousand tiny flashlights. She watched the maple trees arch their trunks back and bow their limbs forward so that their leaves, as if fingers, intertwined.

The dance of the doomed, that’s what they called the old forest. Always leading travelers to the fall, their fingers entwined as if to catch the danger.

Her eyes fell, traveled down away from these companions of the night, down to her navy leotard. Absently, she picked at the collar, just like she always used to, before she heard it. Before she heard him.

The sound was inhuman. His voice reached octaves higher than any pitch she’d ever heard, followed by a low rumble through the trees. As silence swallowed all sound. She stilled before the laughter came. Riding on soft breath, whooshing in and around her, she heard the whisper offer, “for you.”

Today's word is: umbrage

*This short is from a story I began 5 years ago. It is called The House of Umbrage.

All Shook Up

I had a fascinating doctor's visit this week. This blog is, for me, over-sharing. At least when I think of anyone else reading it. But since I am committed to doing this with the purpose of it being a (sort of) journal, I've decided not to keep this happening a hidden occurrence in my week.

My conversation with my Doctor (who is coincidentally one of the loveliest people) started off addressing one issue, and ended up with a discussion about conception. Since I've had 2 miscarriages in the past 2 years, it comes up.

Doctors, people, friends, family -- they either assume we're trying again or will be shortly. Or that we want to. Often a lot of unspoken reactions are conveyed that as a writer fascinate and as a human baffle me.

But this wonderful woman simply asked a few typical questions, before sharing her own history with miscarriages and those of the people close to her.

It was remarkable in that I was having a conversation with someone who simply got it. The words weren't inflicted with heavy emotions, there was no "poor you," isms or the usual diatribe of probing inquiries. And what she said really rocked my landscape.

She said, "because you've never had a baby - because you've only lost them, you can't imagine having one." True that. The she went on to say, "you will have a baby." Due to what my labs revealed, she doesn't foresee any future troubles.

But here is what that conversation really revealed to me. To me, pregnancy is a stumbling, crawling, clinging shake-down through a haunted anti-fun house. It's death all over.

I know that this isn't a universal truth. Many of my girlfriends have children. Pretty much all of them have had exceptional pregnancies and births.

But I will never view pregnancy in the same manner they do, and they will never know what it's like to be in the fetal position, crying and yet thanking God that it's over. That maybe He has saved you.

Because there it is. I see pregnancies as a fearsome thing. As a gateway into Death's door. And, honey, I'm currently running fast, fast, fast in the opposite direction.

My Doctors have staunch belief that the next time we conceive (aided with the help of folic acid and perhaps baby aspirin) we will carry to full term and deliver a healthy, happy baby.

Goody for them.

The expression "scared to hope" popped out of my mouth when my Doctor reiterated it this week. But it's more than that.

I believe that everything happens for a reason.

Right now, right this minute, I am so in love with my husband, my career and my life. The path I am on, well, it would be very different if I were currently eight months pregnant. So many amazing things would never have transpired (though I am certain other wonders would have stood in their place).

I'm still such a kid. Still so happy to not have anything tying me down. I know that parents have the most wonderful strings, that children are beyond a blessing. But maybe, for me, they're not. At least not yet.

This shakes me up. If I give it power, it has me feeling like my emotions are inappropriate. Because I doubt someone else would feel that way.

But I realized something. That I'm clinging to the idea that I need something other than what I have to fulfill me. Helloooo attachment. Naming it revealed it to be so unnecessary, and against what I'm really after. Which is peace.

One of the thoughts that I had come home is this: I have my family. It's a happy, silly and complete one, and it grows and evolves daily. One day I believe it will grow, and that knowledge is enough.

I embrace my surreal, exceptional journey - because it is mine. Because I live every day with love, and that, well, that shakes me up most of all.

Today's word is: shimmy

From Here To There

Today I marveled at four pretty little butterflies from a distance. The sunrise set the perfect backdrop to their promenade across the skyline. It wasn't until our proximity shrunk that I realized something. They weren't butterflies, but birds.

It reminded me, again, of how we can perceive one thing as such, only to discover it was something different. The birds were just as beautiful. Perhaps more so, given they have the wingspan and ability to cover more ground - to spread their flight further, faster.

But I had quickly mistaken them for something else. Assigned them a whole other species in a glance.

I don't know what this means. I can't break down for you all the different fluttering thoughts my misjudgement sent reeling through my head.

But what I walked, or drove, away with was this: not everything is as it seems.

In life, I tend to assume I have the answers if I look hard enough. I assign situations, moments and the near future whatever I perceive it to be. But even if I'm close, even if I'm on the edge of something -- that doesn't mean I can see what will be. Not even if it's only a few feet away from me.

I don't have all the answers, and I'm so grateful for that. The journey, no matter how clearly we think we're seeing it, is full of surprises. This morning I was delighted by the evolution of that one moment. Of the magic in seeing from here to there. Of knowing that transformation is always on the horizon.

Today's word is: redolent