Permission To Get Lost

I love Fall. To be fair, I love the start of every season, because I have wonderful childhood memories that tie me to each one. But Fall reminds me of new beginnings. A new school year, a new jacket or hoodie to envelope me, and new friends to discover.

As the leaves amber and crimson, the ground firms. The songs of the birds alter, as some stay and some go. There's a crunch beneath my feet as the weeks urge the leaves down, and the air is grows tinted by the embers of burning fires.

Smores, visible breath, laughter, pumpkins, spiced cinnamon tea, and the act of dressing up as someone else on All Hallow's Eve. These are the symptoms of an Autumn's embrace. And boy, are my arms wide open.

I hope you give yourself permission for a new beginning this year, the opportunity to enjoy the moments that you treasure, and create new memories to warm the hearth. And if you get a fire going, be sure to cozy up with a good book, a wonderfully shared story, or a sweet song.

I do so hope you will allow yourself the privilege of getting lost in this season of change.


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The Hummingbird Way

Doing what you love is easy. Justifying it isn't always. I think, perhaps, that we have societal limitations. That we're taught, or we teach ourselves, to only do what we're meant. To fit nicely into a box with a shiny bow, and well wrapped ribbon.

I've always known what I wanted to do with my life. But it wasn't always something other people accepted. Because it didn't make sense to them, because it wasn't their passion, because, because, because, because of the wonderful things it didn't do for their imaginations. 

But it wasn't about them. It was never about anyone other than me. Not that the people who didn't get it were wrong, because for them, they were right. This life wouldn't have suited them any better than I would wear theirs.  

I am writer. I love the words, the challenge, and the glory they create. But it's a journey of choice and chance - down a road of constant change. One I'm very aware, as I type these letters into sentence, that I am grateful to have. However long the need, I will flutter on. Like the hummingbird, I may have more ground to cover, but I am stronger and faster than even I know.

So are you. If you're after what you most desire, if you push yourself to the edge, then jump off with a leap of faith, you're on the hummingbird way. And isn't it such a fantastic journey to travel? 

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Story Inspiration: Can You Hear The Story?

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A Few Words Of Encouragement

Courtesty of Shel Silverstein:

“Listen to the mustn'ts, child. Listen to the don'ts. Listen to the shouldn'ts, the impossibles, the won'ts. Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me... Anything can happen, child. Anything can be.”

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Resurrecting The Freak Flag

This weekend I test drove two cars. If you've hung with me here often, you know about my non-driving. So this was an interesting experience for me. This first drive was a gorgeous little Beetle convertible - a darling vehicle. Until it began jerking.

It wasn't a stick shift, but I don't think anyone had ever told it that. And to add a pile of insanity to my panic, the salesman in the backseat (doing his best impression, couped in the car, of a fat man in a little coat) kept rebounding with reasons (mostly nonsensical) why this was normal.

"It's downshifting. My friend's car does this. It's cloudy outside. The air in the tires is off. I think it's how a car says hello. Fred Flintstone must not be peddling fast enough."

Not only was he throwing me a price that was on crack, he'd been feeding meth to the vehicle. This was not the car for me.

After this experience, I was a little shaky. I don't drive often, and it tends to lead to anxiety. But I'm working on that. Or I was. I spent the rest of the day wondering if I should be in a bubble. If this was some sort of sign.

But the afternoon led to the book launch for my mentor's latest novel. Pride replaced panic, and I was able to relax into the setting of a store full of friends. A home of books, people I love, and others who celebrate story.

Fall nudged me back to a car dealer, as twilight spread through our town, and we drove home. Here I saw another Beetle. A hard top, well loved, and cared for Bug. I pulled up my bootstraps and tied them under my chin. I got in the car, and drove.

It wasn't like riding a bike. There was a bit of doubt. But I changed the direction. Instead of turning thoughts over and giving into fear, I laughed. Loudly.

Every time I began to grow timid, I reached out the window and shook hands with the wind. I let go of caution, and embraced the feel of being behind the wheel. Of being the one in control. I raised my freak flag high, and waved.

Hello, hello. It's nice to see you again. Here I am.



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Foundation Formation

We can't outline our lives. Try as we might, we can't fully dictate our own happenings. It's a frustrating thought, when we're driven by ambition, want, and desire. But I had a realization this week -- it's more fun not to. I've spent quite a lot of time trying to force things. It's more of a reflex than a drive, really, because I do without pause.

I have decided to stop. To really ask myself the hard questions, and gently listen to what's inside. I think we mostly know that all the answers we seek come from inside of us. That we have that second brain, our gut, offering the sixth sense of insight.

It's not always comfortable to listen to it. Because it doesn't come with a magic wand or faerie dust. While we may think the idea of something sounds nice, that may not be the reality.

I think the idea of a hundred chocolate mousse cakes sounds rather lovely, but my body knows that it wouldn't really be as dreamy as I think. It'd be more of a pain than a pleasure, trying to find places to stuff so much chocolate. Not that I wouldn't enjoy the trying, but you know what I mean.

Things, dreams, goals, images, these are the words that shouldn't define us. I think laughter, kindness, and joy are better synonyms to attach to self. While there may be truth to the adage, "you are what you eat," I think it's more apt to surmise that "you are what you believe."

The best way to cultivate your belief is to listen to yourself. To provide the peace, the calm, and the quiet to be honest. There is nothing more rewarding than treating yourself with kindness and being true to you. With this foundation laid, there is no limit to your sky, or your future.


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Authors In Oz

Being an Indie Author means being a human author. Not that other authors are robots or reptilians. But they're a bit like Dorothy going through the gussying up in Oz before they meet the Wizard. They have a host of line, copy, and story edits, before they have an art department and marketing team slap, spit, and polish the work so it can shimmy into a pair of red slippers.

Indie authors are wearing a more fallible frock. I'm not saying they're less talented or capable. I've read a number of Indie books, and there are many as well done as traditionally published works. But these noble authors must rely on themselves to sort out the edits, covers, formatting, and marketing. They are the end all be all to their own universe.

It's part of why I admire Indie authors. It's a passion that propels them to work to such a degree. A mad and uncomplicated love of story. Why else would they put the weight of their world smack down on the crown of their head?

My hope, with the ever-shifting landscape of publishing, is that Indie Authors will continue to seek the wizard. They will work harder yet, spending more time and money on editors and honing their craft. That the books that come out electronically will continue marching towards the grammatical and shaped quality as the traditional books.

And that hope crosses over to traditional authors. That they will continue their tireless efforts in creating the best story they can. Each and every time, so they wow us levels above what we know now.

It's a wonderfully exciting time, and I admire all of the gutsy, talented authors. But at the end of the day, when I turn to a book, I don't think about where it came from. I'm simply after the story. For the escape, the entrance into that rare new world, and that connection to a higher sense of self and possibility.

Because what matters most is that inside a story, there's no place like this new home.


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Story Inspiration

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Shake A Stick At It

There are certain expressions in the South I dearly love. Phrases strung together on whim, without sensibility or direction. There are also directives and ideas in short spurts that make me laugh out loud and proclaim them over and over for weeks at a time.

Here are a few that make me smile:


They're off like a herd of turtles.


Well don't you look prettier than _____ (fill in the blank)


It's the berries! 


It's hotter than a goat's butt in a pepper patch.


Bless my stars.


She's madder than a wet hen.


Don't go barking up the wrong tree.


Even a blind squirrel finds an acorn now and then. 


He went off half-cocked.


She went whole hog.


In high cotton.


Well spank my ass and call me Charlie. 


Thank my lucky stars.

And if you want to know what I think is the berries:

"Read, read, read. Read everything. See how they do it,

just like a carpenter who works as an apprentice

and studies the master. Read. You'll absorb it. Then write.

If it's good, you'll find out. If it's not, throw it out the window."

-- William Faulkner

                                           

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Discovery In The Form Of The Familiar

I've mentioned the novel I'm writing is the most intensive undertaking I've ever tackled, hog-tied, and imagined. I have revised it 20 times and I'm only 30k in. The outline is ever changing, and I'm constantly screaming while rejoicing. I am passionate about this little story, this opened world, and the odd and familiar characters in it.

I grow doubtful when I'm that into something. Insecurity is a learned behavior, handheld by that scummy whore, Fear. I'm working on breaking those two up, and bitch slapping them into last Tuesday, away from my life.

To get back to me, to where I lose the tangles that keep me from going wholly into the realms of thought I need to carry, I've returned home. To the things that I can (if not physically) mentally hold and transport with me into the looking glass.

Falling in love is more than a drug. It's a heartbeat, a breath into crisp air for the first time, the sound of laughter through the wail of tears. I'm hunting that emotion, or rather the birth of it. The first time you fall for something so immensely it changes your world - it provides the tools to create a new you.

So today I've gone home to The Beatles. To the songs that woke me up, had me fixated, in a trance, and dreaming wide - finding myself lost in spaces and places I had never dreamed real.

I was eleven years old when St. Pepper took me away. It's nineteen years later, and I'm transported back to a time when possibility was more than a word, it was the future. Because that's what I'm after, what I believe all writers search for -- to be the creator of something that will prove the original tardis - this time-machine, this tap into the vein of all transportive magic.



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Across Your Universe

Fall has been whispering at my back. I smell the shift in the air, as trees grow heavy and change stalks in. It is the perfect time for writing a story. For sitting outside, watching the world raise its arms and stretch - as a new day tiptoes in.

Way leads to way. It's inevitable. If you choose to follow your passion, you will constantly be surprised at where the road bends. Where you feel like giving up will somehow open into a moment so amazing, so catapulting, that you'll be baffled at how one minute's dread leads to another second's joy.

It's easy to listen to someone else tell you their dreams. To look at the possibility that waits for them, and recognize that it's theirs for the taking. But it can be challenging, looking in the mirror and pulling the same capsules of faith from inside our own pockets.

It's your bubble - the path you walk along. You can fill it with surprise as you grow aware with the knowledge that you're where you're meant to be. That you have the power to grow, to become whatever you wish.

The only thing, the only one who can change your world is you. And each day, each moment, the ability to do so is waiting. Hovering inside of you, prepared to bubble up to the surface when you're ready.

Fall is coming. Bringing the winds of change and time. It's up to you to decide if you open the door, or shut the window.

Reading Is For Everyone

Don't believe me? I'll prove it:

Moonshadow isn't even one yet, and she knows a good book when she sees it.

Take a look, it's in a book. Now hop to it, y'all.

Grammar Got Your Tongue?

Screw the cat. Grammar is the hitch in my verbal giddy-up. I'm not going to touch on why it unnerves me so greatly to imagine a cat getting a hold of my tongue, I'm just going to punt to the heart of my matter - grammar, particularly comma's, is what halts great reading.

I'm an English major who minored in Writing, but that doesn't stop me from butchering a sentence every now and then. It only leads to intense cringing when I let a mistake slide and later catch it. I mean I'm human, but I tend to forget it and pretend I'm She-Ra.

She-Ra looked much better in a crown and leotard. And I don't think anyone cared if she knew how to properly punctuate. But me, well, my powers are not from Greyskull. They are from a love of language and repeated studying and salivating over it.

Here is what helps:

1) Reading

I read. A lot. I read what the characters in the books I'm reading are reading. Then I read the books the authors who wrote the books read while writing. Then I read some more. By reading across the board, then honing in on the niche I love, I see where the sentence is formatted properly, and try to sear the image inside my brain.

2) Studying

I inhale and savor books on the craft of writing. I just finished THE FOREST FOR THE TREES by Betsy Lerner, and am halfway through EATS, SHOOTS & LEAVES by Lynne Truss. Last week I finished Elizabeth's George's WRITE AWAY, and soon I will be onto THE WRITER'S JOURNEY.

I always return to ON WRITING by Steven King. It is magicsauce on woowoo-holy-shenanigans-creative-crack.

There are levels to getting better, and climbing to my best. I'm on my hands and knees crawling hand over foot all the way, every day.

3) I ask questions.

I interview authors, have a critique group, and put myself out there. The knowledge is waiting. It's only a question away, and I've learned how to ask. Which isn't always easy - I'm often afraid I look like a ninny, but I ask because if I don't I'm an even bigger goob. And I'm rarely disappointed. The writing community is a beautiful thing, full of like-minded creatives, doing good work and being kind to one another.

So grammar can be my folly. Imagination is my best friend, and I've dug in my heels - my stubborn Taurus streak refusing to let me give up.

But the cat, well, it never has my tongue.


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Coming Out Of The Shadows

Last night, after a day that threw me curve ball after cheap shot after underhand, I offered a bizarre explanation of how I saw myself to Mr. C.

"I'm like a three legged horse that stays far enough in the shadows that everyone thinks I have that fourth leg. But when I step out, the wobble and hop-a-long show me for what I really am. I may look like one thing, but what I know is what I'm really not."

He found it amusing, but didn't see where I was coming from. Fortunately, this isn't the first rambling I've offered to him in the past ten years. And it's certainly not the only one involving my comparison being based off a farm animal.

Moo. Baaa. Nay. I blame Old MacDonald and his damn farm.

It's easy to get twisted up in what you think someone else sees when they look at you, or how you think someone else should see you. But if that's all that you're letting whittle inside your brain, you're missing living for yourself.

I don't know if it's a southernism. If being spoon-fed, then funnel-forced, the how's, why's and what's of a Southern Lady are what restrict me. If these notions are my constrictors or benefits. But I'm tired of feeling like that gimpy mare.

I stumble, quite frequently. I'm lost, even when I think I'm found, and I rarely know my left over right. But I'm working hard at getting there.

Doing my best, working towards my manna from heaven, and believing in myself (even when I have that derelict sitting on my shoulder whispering never-haves and never-wills in my ear).

It's just a matter of stepping out. Of looking for the right place to set my toe and cross the line. I'm inching toward something spectacular, you know. And so are you.


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Hitting The Wall

What is it about a long weekend that siphons out my go-go-go? I have a long list, one that I am fond of, that calls to me. Articles to write, writing to edit, books to read. But here I am, staring at the screen, trying to summon my oomph.

I could blame a number of things. But I won't. The truth is that I'm motivated, but sluggish. My bookworm has cocooned and is hoping to sleep a bit and awaken as a butterfly in the sky.

But I know better. The only way out is through. So I'm writing to tell you, sweet blog, that while I am against my wall, napping standing, I know that in a few moments my feet will slide and I will begin my racing glide toward the next jump in my journey.

It's nice though, isn't it? To rest a moment, stretch my legs, and savor a bit of the anticipation.


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Venus Dancing

Your curves caress the carousel ride
as you dance with whirlwind arms
weaving the picture of your slender hips' song--
urging my statued smile to break
my face open in love-longing-looks,
lusting to be in the picture you have drawn.

Reel me in by the tip of my tongue
as you shake in celestial communion
under a canopy of jealous eyes,
blinking and winking at your every move,
your hypnotic lures, you brilliant temptation:
a Venus dancing through the eve of my mind.

Your eyes enchant with an ascending descant
floating high above my dissonant urge.
My eyes retreat from an alluring beat,
which resonates the pounding of my heart.
From my broken image, a sound begins to surge--
the echoes of your swan song from a world apart.

This river, my dream, only lasts so long.
I wake to hear only echoes from your song.

*A Marcus Crutcher poem



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