Abundance

This week our topic over at The Care and Feeding of the Girls in the Basement is Abundance. For fun, I googled abundance and found several sites at which abundance is equated with the financial prosperity that will most certainly result from multi-level marketing. I also found an online clothing boutique for plus-sized women.

Not exactly what we're talking about.

The basic theory underlying laws of abundance goes something like this: The universe is abundant and free flowing. Abundance is accessible by everyone equally. However, abundance attracts abundance and scarcity attracts scarcity.

This isn't a new concept. I'm sure you've heard some form of it. Success begets success. Gratitude begets gratitude. Grace begets grace. Compassion begets compassion. Love begets love. Misery begets misery. Loneliness begets loneliness. Pain begets pain. Failure begets failure. And so on. We are limited by our beliefs, by how we think, by our self-fulfilling prophecies. We attract those things in our lives (money, love relationships, success, wealth, employment, misery, pain) that we focus on. In other words, we create our own realities.

The best way, according to these laws, to become socio-emotionally, spiritually, financially, physically and intellectually abundant is to be socio-emotionally, spiritually, financially, physically and intellectually abundant. How? Via gratitude, affirmations and positive thinking for starters.

I happen to believe this-- despite commercial exploitations of the theme. "As a man thinketh, so he will become."

Keep in mind, that we CAN change the way we think. Sometimes, that's all we CAN change-- but if we take that first step, blessings come our way. Of course, the first step can be difficult.

Barbara Samuel writes:

Abundance is about having what you need. It means that when you are in harmony with your path, there will be plenty of everything-love and pleasure and joy and all the things you as a human need to feel prosperous. It means you have work that thrills you and food that nourishes and friends to call on the phone or maybe "just" a great dog (ha!). It means there will be help when you need it, though not always what you expect.

Luckily, I feel/think/believe my life is pretty darned abundant. Sure, I'd like a little more adventure sometimes-- and I haven't totally accepted what in the heck gravity is doing to my body--and sometimes I do a whole "woe is me" thing for a couple hours-- but I'm working on it and my life is chock full of love, compassion, forgiveness, friendship, fun, laughter, happiness, growth, healing and all kinds of good stuff. I wanted writing in my life, and cool, intelligent writing friends-- and voila, I'm writing and I have cool, intelligent writing friends.

But time . . . oh dear, time!

One of the women in our class mentioned time as an area where she feels scarcity and that clicked for me immediately. Sure, sure I'm a stay at home mom/babysitter/tutor so I'm not working grueling hours somewhere that I don't want to be BUT have you swam like a Honu for two hours lately with three wild toddlers on your back or walked like a stegasaurus for hours on end when you want to be writing? Does it take you an hour to get everyone loaded into the car with all the appropriate paraphernalia? (Patience is not my middle name-- and if you note a twinge of negative thinking in there, you are soooo right!) I try-- oh, I try-- to remain in the moment and feel the abundance of time. I thank God for all my blessings -- but I always find myself thinking there aren't enough hours in the day.

So last night, I decided to start thinking differently about time. To think like my son, Dante, or my dogs. They don't think about time. As far as they are concerned they have all the time in the universe to do exactly what they are doing in the present moment.

I got up at five this morning, despite the whole night owl thing, despite the fact that I fell asleep late. I figured there was no time like the present to turn things around. And I feel good. I feel abundant-- a little sleepy, but . . . I suppose sleepiness begets sleepiness. He, he.

For the cynics out there, Barbara writes-

So, if the universe is endless, why doesn't everyone have the life they want to have? Lots of reasons, mostly dealing with fear and thinking in terms of lack, but there's an important one I want us to think about and talk about here: suffering as a secret virtue.We all know people who cling to painful things as if there is some holy grail contained in it.

In other words, no affirmation is going to work if your thoughts are negating the positive. When we focus on "having less" in any way, we create that experience for ourselves.

I'm an optimist and I'm not very competitive with anyone but myself-- or at least not that often and not for quite some time-- but I do sometimes fall into all-or-nothing thinking, and catastrophizing, particularly when I get around certain people, fondly known as my "trigger trippers." I also sometimes think "nobody understands me because . . . " ( I have a list of reasons A-Z. My top choices-- nobody understands me because I'm so different, unusual; I go to the beat of my own drummer). I also sometimes worry that my novel will put people off because maybe it's not happy enough, or conflicted enough, or my writing isn't eloquent enough or witty enough. I admit, however, that most of the time I think-- Hey, why not me? Why can't I be a brilliant and prolific, high profile author? If I put in the time, I can do it.

Ah, the time thing again.

I also worry that people will think I'm arrogant ( which I can be) or a big, unrealistic dreamer (which I can be) because I'm pretty darned sure I'm going to make it as a writer/teacher.

Barbara writes--

A writer yearns to find her audience because she is being called to do her right work. . . You yearn for your audience for a reason. Because this is your calling.

Abundance thinking begins by believing you are important and worthwhile and this need you have to put words on the page is an edict:

Get thee to a page and write . . . .

I'll end this post with two quotes that I just love--

If you don’t write your books, they might not ever get written. ~Madeline l’Engle.

If there's a book you really want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it. ~Toni Morrison

Abundant cheers and happy, prolific, brilliant writing, Alyson

p.s. I love the image of your warrior goddess on a mustang, Macy. Go grrrrrl!

Warrior goddess

After this book, I think I need to write stories about warrior women. This idea came to me the other day as I was taking a shovel out of the shed. I picked it up by the handle, the shovel part down and held it up above my head and then launched it into the ground about 5 feet away. It stuck with the vibration of having hit hard. Of course, I wasn’t pretending to be warrior woman or anything. I was just trying to get it out of the shed where I could use it and just happened to choose a unique method of doing so.

Nevertheless, I suddenly had the vision of a warrior woman dressed in something that was both armor and flowing white silk. She was powerful and instead of a sword, she held a spear above her head. When she raised her spear in a chant, the wind blew up around her, swirling leaves at her feet. And I knew she was me, or at least some part of me. She is the woman that sets off to both defend and conquer. She is the brave part of me. (Notice that I didn’t say fearless. Fearlessness and bravery are not the same. You can be brave in the face of fear.)

I used to imagine I was a warrior princess, especially when the shy, awkward me would say or do the wrong thing or when the normal me wasn’t good enough to meet the very high and lofty standards set by my mother. I could imagine my warrior goddess brandishing a sword or spear and vanquishing the feelings of inadequacy that so frequently surrounded me. I wanted to be her so badly. She was all that was adventuresome and she was unafraid of her quests.

I hadn’t really imagined her in a long time. She’s run fleetingly through my mind on many occasions, but I never dwelt on her in my adulthood like I did the other day. I think she was a defender I conjured in my imagination as a child, but I also think she is a real part of me. Perhaps, she is a part I’ve neglected of late. But her image has been more and more pronounced over the past days. Her figure seems real to me. I almost feel like she’s following me – waiting for me to turn around and embrace her. I’m not sure how to do that. I think if I embrace her, we become one in the same.

And in saying that, I realize that she’s following me because she wants me to embrace her. And I also realize that I haven’t because becoming so powerful is scary.

We’ve been talking about fear in the Girls class. I think there is a part of me that is fearful of my potential. I went through life as the “smart one” and while being smart opened a lot of doors for me, it also resulted in pain and ridicule and extra tough challenges making friends. However, I’m still the smart one at work. I’m the one that knows the answers to my questions and knows what I want to do. I do it and don’t worry about who’s onboard because I know, in the end, my idea will work.

I’m a bit afraid to do that with writing (okay – a lot afraid). I know the story I want to tell. I know what I want to say – mostly. But what if it isn’t right? What if I can’t finish it? What if I get to a point – maybe this point – and the story has no meat and I can’t figure out what’s next and I just can’t do it?

I don’t know if it’s fear of failure (but it sure sounds like it) or if its fear of all the what if’s.

Regardless, I have this black mustang with a flowing mane and this warrior goddess with spear and sword just standing ready. Waiting. I found them or they found me or we found each other. Maybe I finally recognized that they’ve been standing there. Now I feel like all I have to do is embrace them. But how do I do that?

Maybe I just write, regarding the advice of others with an open mind, but sticking to the voice and path I’ve chosen. Maybe I don’t worry about the “what ifs”. Isn’t the point of a quest to seek something valuable? And won’t the quest have pitfalls to skirt around or climb from if I fall in? But won’t my warrior and my mustang help me with that? Isn’t that the point?

(Ah, and then there is the quest thing. Barbara Samuels said she thought my voice had to do with quests. I went to a day long workshop with her. Amazing. If quests, and warriors, and wild mustangs are part of my voice, then I’m definitely taking her voice workshop in April. I want to know them intimately.)

So, does all this rambling have a point? Sure. Now you know I’m truly crazy.

No. No. That’s not the point.

I need to embrace my voice, my vision of my writing career, my hopes and dreams – my warrior goddess and the great mustang. I need to acknowledge my fears, but refuse to let them be in control. I do, after all, have that very fast mustang and a great big sword. I need to write this story – a good one I think. Then, I need to move on to the one I really want to tell.

The one with the warrior goddess.

Macy

Heroes

My topic today isn't Tim Kring's epic television drama although I've read that the show chronicles the lives of ordinary people who discover they possess extraordinary abilities, and I think that point may be relevant. My topic is what makes a character a fabulous protagonist.

At her online writing workshop with Bob Mayer, Jennifer Crusie writes

Your protagonist is the character who owns your story, your main character, the character your reader follows through the narrative. He or she is not necessarily “the heroine” or “the good guy,” the protagonist can be Macbeth or Scarlet O’Hara or the Fiend from Hell. What the protagonist must be is fabulous. Somebody the reader cannot stop following around because she’s so smart or so funny or so fascinating or so good at what she does or in so much trouble that the reader can’t stop worrying about her.

But the protagonist isn’t just interesting, the protagonist is also in need of something, she or he has a goal, something that she wants that is so important to her identity, so important to her sense of self worth, that her pursuit of that goal moves the story. Note “pursuit.” As in “action.” As in “not sitting and thinking.”

Both Bob Mayer and Jennifer Crusie state that there should be only one protagonist, although I think that may depend on the type of story that you're writing.

Anyway . . . that got me to thinking about what makes a protagonist fabulous. Is my protagonist fabulous? People typically like my characters. Is that fabulous enough?

Maybe what makes a protagonist fabulous, I thought, is their journey, their road to discovering their extraordinariness.

I read an article by Karen Marie Moning, one of Macy's and Katrina's fave authors, and then immediately went out and picked up a copy of The Writer's Journey: Mythic Structure for Writers by Christopher Vogler. It's filled with archetypes and other cool story teller stuff which makes it right up my alley.

According to Vogler the psychological function of the hero relates to the ego's search for identity and wholeness. He writes

In the quest of becoming complete, integrated human beings , we are all Heroes facing internal guardians, monsters and helpers. In the quest to explore our own minds we find teachers, guides, demons, gods, mates, servants, scapegoats, masters, seducers, betrayers and allies, as aspects of our personalities and characters in our dreams. All the villains , tricksters, lovers, friends and foes of the Hero can be found inside ourselves.

I loved that! It is so intertwined with what Macy and I are exploring in our The Care and Feeding of the Girls in the Basement Class, and it provided validation that we ARE doing something vital, something important, something that will benefit our current WIP's and our writing in general-- in not so subtle ways, I believe. Macy just came up with a truly awe-inspiring new opening scene. I'm having daily epiphanies about my characters, main plot, subplots, conflict, scenes and sequels. It's been so much more valuable than some of my more focused "craft" workshops. Anyway, back to heroes . . .

The dramatic functions of a hero are audience identification, growth, action, sacrifice and dealing with death. Vogler writes

At the heart of every story is a confrontation with death. If the Hero doesn't face actual death, then there is the threat of death or symbolic death in the form of a high-stakes game, love affair or adventure in which the Hero may succeed ( live) or fail (die).

Heroes show us how to deal with death.

I was thrilled when I read that, because I have that one covered from a couple of angles. I also thought that perhaps that's why death has come up a few times now in our writing group chats and here. Because we're storytellers. It's an interesting aside to think about.

Vogler acknowledges in the preface to his book that there are several questions and criticisms regarding various aspects of the hero's journey. For example Germany and Australia are herophobic cultures-- which is tres interesting to me because two of my main characters are Australian. This notion was confirmed in our Girls in the Basement chat today by two Australians, and a woman who lived in Australia for many years. "Tall poppies" are quickly cut down to size.

Another potential problem with the form of the hero's journey is gender related. Men's journeys may be more external and linear, while women's journey's may spiral inward and outward. Vogler actually cites Women Who Run with the Wolves by Clariss Pinkola Estes as well as Jean Shinoda Bolen's Goddesses in Everywoman, a book that was used as the basis of a guided meditation for finding your inner goddess by my yoga/meditation teacher.

Since it's still Saturday (barely) I decided to do a Saturday Sixteen like I did a couple weeks ago at my Alys on Love blog. Here's the sixteen most fabulous female protagonists, in my humble opinion. They are not in any particular order.

1. Anne Shirley of Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maude Montgomery
2. Jo March of Little Women by Louisa May Alcott
3. Elizabeth Bennet of Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen
4. Emma Woodhouse of Emma by Jane Austen (and similarly Cher of Clueless)
5. Hermione Granger of the Harry Potter series by J.K. Rowling
6. Stephanie Plum of the Plum series by Janet Evanovich
7. Anita Blake of the Anita Blake series by Laurell Hamilton
8. Taylor Greer of The Bean Trees & Pigs in Heaven by Barbara Kingsolver
9. Scarlett O'Hara of Gone With the Wind by Margaret Mitchell
10. Morgaine of Mists of Avalon by Marion Zimmer Bradley
11. Daphne Bridgerton in the Duke and I by Julia Quinn ( I like all her heroines!)
12. Sidda Lee & Vivi Walker of Divine Secrets of the Ya Ya Sisterhood by Rebecca Wells
13. Claire Randall of the Outlander series
14. Gemma Dante of Total Rush by Deirdre Martin
15. Elizabeth Swan in the Pirates of the Caribbean movies
16. Rose in Titanic

Okay, I cannot believe how hard that was. As you can see I had to resort to pulling a couple from movies-- and technically, Hermione isn't a protagonist, but I just love her. Why haven't more heroines stayed with me? Hmmm. I'll have to ponder that. Feel free to weigh in with yours, and any other thoughts you may have. What makes a great female protagonist? A few adjectives I'd toss in about those on my list are that they are intelligent, brave, survivors, vivid, lively, endearing in some way, easy to identify with . . . oh, and none of them drown themselves, waste away, drink poison or throw themselves under train tracks.

Cheers and happy writing, Alyson

p.s. I swear it was just before midnight in Chicago when I posted this!

Chemical Reaction

Okay, I’m back from vacation. Well, kind of. My brain is still resisting making re-entry into the everyday world. It is taking a little longer every time I go on vacation.

Between this post-vacation slump … and before that, the vacation itself … and before that, prepping for the trip … and before that, the holidays … and before that, prepping for the holidays … between all that, I haven’t written much of anything in the past six weeks or so.

I’m going to use this blog entry to get myself writing again, so I have spent the last several days casting about for a topic that would get me going (all the while urging my brain to Focus! Focus!!). But it wasn’t until I read Katrina’s very amusing account of her experience with speed dating that a topic occurred to me.

And that topic is: Chemistry.

No, not Perodic-Table-of-the-Elements Chemistry. I mean that spark between two people that attracts them to each other for reasons they probably don’t understand themselves. The spark that triggers the flames of romantic love. Love-at-first-sight chemistry. This is actually something I’ve been fascinated with for a long time. What IS chemistry? What causes it? And what is its impact on a relationship?

Certainly romance novels are very, very big on the idea of chemistry. I don’t think I’ve ever read one where the couple didn’t have it, and have it almost instantly. Romance heros and heroines typically fall for each other with a POW! They may realize they’ve fallen, or admit it to themselves -- it may even manifest itself in conflict initially -- but it’s definitely there. In fact, the timetables for love in most romance novels are so short that they are frankly terrifying. A book I just finished reading, by a popular author, took the couple from “I’ll never get married” to professing undying love and planning their lives together in five short days. And during most of that five days, they are both trying to convince themselves that the other is “not their type” despite the fact that they can’t quit thinking about each other.

The speed dating phenomenon really banks on the fact that people will know whether they “click” on some level in only a few minutes. I actually think that, for the most part, this is correct. The most terrifying part of blind dating, as far as I can see, is knowing in the first two minutes of the date that you aren’t and won’t ever be attracted to this person, but you have to spend the next two hours with them anyway. Speed dating alleviates that agony. You only have to survive for eight minutes. And if that works out, there’s a pretty good chance that if you take a chance on two hours, at least it won’t be torture.

The speed daters apparently know they only have a couple minutes to make a good first impression. They feel compelled to make immediate excuses for what they think will be immediately perceived as unacceptable flaws. Of course, that very act, as Katrina pointed out, gives the worst possible first impression. But I can understand why do it.

(I’m at a loss to explain how any man would think that a limp handshake would make a good first impression on a woman, though!)

What intrigues me most about chemistry is that it’s an unpredictable mystery what creates it between two people. Hundreds of perfectly good looking, quite acceptably nice men can move through a woman’s life. Only a few trigger that sense of connection, that romantic spark. Why is that? What exactly IS it? Pheromones? Personality mesh? Some kind of supernatural meeting of souls? And could any dating service, no matter the sophistication of their screening service, ever successfully predict which two people will feel it with each other?

I do believe that chemistry exists and I do believe it’s important to a successful romantic relationship. It’s the thing that separates a romance from a friendship. I don’t believe that chemistry alone is (romance novels notwithstanding!) a guarantee of a successfully long term relationship. But I wonder how often that compelling gut instinct is correct.

I read a book that took a scientific view of love-at-first-sight. (One of my reading addictions is anything that helps me understand human behavior.) One of the studies they did was to investigate the relative success of marriages where the couple reports falling in love at first sight, vs. where they report “growing” into love. I don’t know how carefully the study was done, and I don’t remember how big a sample it was, but it reported a statistically significant advantage to the love-at-first-sight marriages in terms of both longevity and satisfaction.

Score one for chemistry! Maybe all those romance novels are onto something.

Happy writing,

Samantha

P.S. I’d like to invite the readers of this blog to respond with comments about your own experience with chemistry. Specifically, I’m curious as to whether your current relationship, or any past significant relationship, started with love at first sight, or whether it grew more slowly. If so, how long did the feeling of chemistry last? And what has been the relative success rate of the “fall in love” vs. the “grow into love” relationships?

The Mystery of Attraction

I wonder if I can write off speed dating as a business expense. It’s certainly good research on attraction and what makes an appealing hero (or not) at first meet.

Last night I went on eight 8-minute dates and one date that lasted well beyond its allotted time.

I hate to categorize anyone, but in the interest of this blog, I’m doing it anyway. Betas. I met several. Maybe more than that. I’ve concluded through a completely unscientific study that speed-dating is right up the Beta’s alley. I’m betting the Alpha guys go for the more assertive methods of meeting women. Maybe going in cold at a bar without backup. Or at a monster truck show. Or maybe a rugby match. Whatever the reason, Betas were well represented last night and the Alphas were scarce.

Regardless of which type they were, I made a few observations about what might send the wrong signal to a heroine. Limp handshakes. This heroine didn’t get turned on in any way by the few guys who couldn’t manage to grab on. Seriously, if their hands are limp, well, never mind.

Questions about how the heroine feels about their perceived less-than-desirable attributes don’t go over well either. Like how she feels about guys with thinning hair (his was half gone), or 5’10” on a man, or hazel eyes (who cares?), or what she thought of him the moment she laid eyes on him, or the lack of money in his wallet due to his making-ends-meet day job.

Although he may desperately want reassurance about these things, if our hero asks for affirmation on a first-meet, he may give the impression that he’s not too confident in his skin. And confidence is a big turn on. I’m not talking arrogant over-confidence here, but a healthy sense of self and what he has to offer.

Confidence can make a balding man with a comb-over look sexy. It can also make a 5’4” guy look 5’10”, or at least 5’6”. The attributes don’t matter nearly as much as his attitude toward them.

To demonstrate how confidence can make or break a guy’s approach, I’ll share a little of what I experienced last night.

One of the guys hung on after his eight minutes were up and we talked for quite a while. He was the last one in the circuit, so no one came to bump him onward and, although I wasn’t particularly attracted to him, I enjoyed the conversation and found him interesting. He talked a lot about music, which he loves, and we discussed the film industry, which I used to work in and which he’s somewhat involved in now. He showed great enthusiasm for everything he spoke of and was quite engaging.

At first.

Then he suggested we go get something to eat and I politely declined. Honestly, I was very polite and suggested we go another time. After that, his insecurity surfaced and those questions began. And then he started making a case for why I should date him…he’s taller than me…he can get us into free movies…he knows all kinds of people in the music industry…he loved my silver jewelry…and what I was wearing…and has references…

He took a peek at my scorecard for the night and was clearly alarmed that I had marked down a few guys I’d like to see again. Then he made the big push for a date on Saturday night.

Too big.

I actually told him to ease up.

In hindsight, I think he was trying to book me up before someone else did. All of which should be very flattering, and I guess it is, but in sort of a disappointing back-handed way.

He came across as desperate.

Desperation is not attractive.

At the end of his initial 8 minutes, I thought I’d like to see him again. By the time he finished his extended time nearly an hour later, I wasn’t so interested.

Oh well. I met a few others who did have confidence and a firm handshake. Perhaps one of them will want to continue our conversation past those eight minutes.

However the dating turns out, the experience provided an abundance of material for present and future stories.

I could always give the limp handshake to the guy I don’t want my heroine to end up with. Just to give her and the readers something to think about.

Katrina

Epiphany

Epiphany

“a sudden, intuitive perception of or insight into the reality or essential meaning of something, usually initiated by some simple, homely, or commonplace occurrence or experience.” (www.dictionary.com)

Don’t you just hate those?

If you have one, it usually means some simple truth escaped you, oh, say 500 times.

Yesterday, I had one.

Shit.

I’ve been saying to my writing group for months, “What’s the worst thing that could happen in your story? Figure that out and make it happen to your characters. Put that in your story.”

Wonderful words of wisdom.

How come I could say them just fine, but couldn’t hear them at all?

The epiphany occurred yesterday in the semi-dark of dusk as I listened to the increasing intensity in one of the books of genius Suzanne Brockmann.

What was this insight, you ask.

I need to take my characters and make the very worst things happen to them. Get them in such dire circumstance that I’m not even sure how they’ll get out.

Duh!?!

So, what will I do?

I unwrapped that corkboard that I’d been eagerly waiting to put up in my writing space at renovation hell (aka my beloved home). I printed the chart of plot stuff I had on the computer, and I began to cut it apart and pin it up. Over the next week, I want to add sticky notes everywhere with those “worst case scenario” ideas. Then, I want to figure out where the hell this story is going.

I’m not abandoning those well thought out goals I posted, but if I drive forward blindly, I won’t ever get to the destination. And, it is the destination, the dream, the objectives that are important. It’s finishing a marketable, saleable book (or at least as close to that as I can get) that’s important.

Talented writer and goal guru, Roxanne St. Claire said that, above all, goals have to be flexible and that you won’t reach all of them. She also said you need to have regular meetings with yourself to re-evaluate your goals.

Evaluation: I need story surgery. I need to add urgency in the beginning. I need to throw in dire situations. I need to show (not just tell) how smart, sexy, and fabulous my characters are. I need to put them in messes. BIG, HUGE messes and let them sweat and squirm and figure it out.

I was afraid to make it too intense, too stressful on them. I was afraid that it wouldn’t seem real life. But you know what? It isn’t real life. At least for me or most people I know. This book will hopefully provide an exciting escape with addicting characters that will take my readers (plural, I hope) on an adventure on which they could never otherwise go.

To get there, I need major surgery – tucks here, implants there, maybe move the nose around to the back of the head…..

I think a week off from the new-word count goals will help me to increase story productivity even more. By knowing where I’m going and what the hell this is about, by making the reconstructive edits, I will be able to write more and faster and better. The frustration won’t go away entirely. I will still have to figure out which POV is needed for each scene and how much to show and where the backstory should go, but the road signs will be visible and the headlights will be working.

Onward to the plot board. I can. I will.

Macy

Fear

For some reason, for most of my life, I've been regarded by others as fearless.

I'm not fearless.

Not even close.

As my dear husband can attest, the notion is ridiculous. I know fear very well. Death may follow some, as Jacqueline so aptly described in her blog yesterday, but that's not what follows me. Her blog made me really think about it and what I realized is that the devil and angel sitting on my shoulders are Fear and Love.

Every single day I have to decide to rebefriend fear, give him a hug, console him-- say, Hey it's okay that you're so dreadful and that you want to follow me around. The problem with you, buddy, is that I have a life to lead, and I cannot allow you to stop me. You're the opposite of love, and I believe that love must prevail. It doesn't mean you don't have your place. You can follow me around if you must BUT we're still going to slay this dragon, climb this mountain, jump out of this airplane, speak out against injustice, search for truth, let Dante climb to the top of the monkey bars, share our inner selves, write this book, smile at the scary person, hop on the scale (ha!), be willing to make mistakes, reach out to others, live, love. Life's too short and love's too precious and important to sit in a corner trembling with you.

Most of the time it works. When it doesn't the dear husband provides back-up. Of course, that didn't stop me from staying awake close to three weeks straight when Dante was born. All the stories about SIDS-- but I digress.

My heroes include a wide range of peeps from all walks of life, but one of them is Nelson Mandela. I'm keeping it relatively short and sweet today because I have a lot on my plate (it's about time for the Christmas decorations to go back into storage, no?) and truthfully, Nelson says it and lives it way better than I do. Two of my favorite quotes--

I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness,that frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant,gorgeous, talented and fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn't serve the world. There's nothing enlightening about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We were born to manifest the glory of God within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

With great love, great respect and a little bit of fear that's not stopping me . . . too much,
Alyson

Writing Process & Goals

Let's talk process.

I'm more process-oriented than results-oriented so process looms large for me. But am I a plotter, pantser or hybrid? And, more importantly, does it fricking matter?

A few months back, one of my online writing friends who is published and writes chick lit told me that she writes the first three chapters or so to meet her characters and figure out what is going on, then writes up a detailed outline for the rest of the book-- but yes, she allows herself to veer off the outline, making note of it so she can change the following scenes as needed. I've been trying to follow her lead. Unfortunately, my bulletin board-- my so-called "plot board" -- is a total mess at the moment and it's getting under my skin, annoying the hell out of me.

The back story on the plotting, pantsing thing: I tried to plot upfront, then decided, Screw it, I'm a pantser. Then three chapters in , I felt the need to write a 1000-word synopsis. Well, actually, to be honest, I needed a synopsis for a Writers Digest class. Once it was written, I went back to pantsing it and veered off plan pretty quickly. However, when I hit the middle I suddenly felt the need for some plotting and deepening of the characters. I also started lamenting the whole real, true love thing -- I want my love story to ring true and I want my characters to be deep-- but, at the same time, I didn't want to get too caught up in the plotting and outlining and characterization and place all my energy there, so I went back to pantsing because I never follow my outlines anyway, then . . . well, enough. You get the picture. If you're confused, you're not alone. What the f&%k? Just get on with it, woman! Yes, I talk to myself like this off line, too. And yes, my writing group has heard me go back and forth ad nauseum. Yet, here I am thinking about it again . . .

I've realized that it's partly straight-up crazymaking on my part, partly that I really didn't know how to write a novel when I signed up for my online romance writing class-- didn't even know what I wanted to write or who my characters were going to be, or what type of story I wanted to write, or what kind of writer I was, or that I had a distinct "voice"-- AND it's partly that in my regular, everyday life I tend to be both a hanger onner--Is that a word? Just pretend it is for now-- and day dreamer.

My tendency is to hang onto things and rehash them and daydream about the future. I've tried really hard to break myself of this habit because it's highly related to being a drama junkie. BUT now, I'm doing it with my writing. Not being mindfully in the moment of where I'm actually at in the novel. I either look back or look forward-- in the story-- because that's my tendency in life, too. Yoga helps me control my monkey mind in real life. Meditation helps, too. So-- drum roll here-- I've decided I have to get back to my yoga, which I've been slacking off on, and that I need to meditate right before I write. Yesterday, I lit a candle before I started writing and that helped, too. I've decided to make my writing time more ritualistic so I can be in the moment -- in the moment in terms of getting into the writing/storytelling flow without wriggling around, but also in the moment of the story, not in the past and not in the future.

As an aside, I think a lot of writers use rituals.

For plotting, I finally found a plotting process that "speaks to me" -- the snowflake method-- so I've also decided I'm just going to do it. Stick with it. Commit to it. Be done with over thinking it. It may slow down the actual page cranking for a week or two-- I may have to write a scene to find out what's going to happen next-- but after that I won't have many excuses left in the old "excuse bag."

Now, I just have to figure out when to write and commit to that. Ha! I'll blog about that another day. I'm working on that for the Girls in the Basement class, too. It was comforting to find out this evening that a lot of parents with toddlers, boys in particular, have to do the same thing I do which is "catch the snippets here and there as you can." You really do have to just go with the flow.

Now, let's talk results.

I love Macy's goals. Wish I was goal-oriented, but my goals tend to be more process-oriented than results oriented. I've tried the daily word count thing and it really just isn't happening, but I'm not giving up. I am going to aim for 1,000 words per day once I get the plotting done. I'm giving myself till 1/31 to finish up the plotting. Ultimately, I have one big goal: finish my "final draft" of the novel in time to enter it into a big contest this year-- or, preferably, find an agent and get a contract with a publisher this year. I'd like a second draft to be done by the time I go to the RWA conference in July. However, if I start breaking those big goals down into daily and weekly mini-goals focusing on results, results, results, my inner rebel feels micro-managed and turns into Rambo, my inner artist feels caged in and my inner drama queen screams, "the horror, the horror!" And you know what? That's okay. I can work around them and make progress in a way that pleases us all-- and hopefully an agent and publisher as well.

Thank God I'm an optimist.

Happy writing and cheers! I'm off to meditate and light my candle--

Alyson

P.S. A quick shout out to Katrina , Jacqueline and Roxy-- Thanks Katrina for your awesome guest blog this week. Welcome Jacqueline, I'm looking forward to your blog tomorrow. Happy birthday, Roxy! (No, I didn't mean Samantha-- we actually have two sets of writers in our group with back to back birthdays. Isn't that odd?)

He Wrote She Wrote

Hi everyone. I'm taking Samantha's place today. She's off celebrating her birthday. WooHoo!!!! Happy Birthday, Samantha.

I'm going to keep this one short. (I hope.) I still have a some writing on the WIP to do tonight. If you saw those goals I posted over at Random Ravings, then you know I've got 325 words to do tonight. Yes, it is 11:02, and I haven't written the first one. But... I did run tonight and listen to some B.B. King. My WIP's hero is into the blues. He suggested I revisit the King.

But, I digress....

The title of this blog is He Wrote She Wrote. He Wrote She Wrote is actually the writing workshop blog of Jennifer Crusie and Bob Mayer. She writes romance novels of which Alyson and Katrina are big fans. He writes thrillers. They teamed up and wrote Don't Look Down and are now working on Agnes and the Hitman. While Don't Look Down took me just a bit to get into, I really loved it. I'll definitely read Agnes.

It's designed to be a year-long workshop on fiction writing. One read of the syllabus and I bookmarked the blog. They've broken down what they're covering into several big sections: The Heart of the Story, Point of View, Character, Plot, Business, Unity, & Editing. The blog just started at the first of this year. Feel free to join me in weekly reads. I figure it can't hurt since between them, they have enough books to fill a couple of shelves at the local book store.

Bob opens with the one sentence idea: "Much like the character Tim Robbins plays in Robert Altman’s THE PLAYER, I would tell writers they had to be able to say what their book was about in 25 words or less. Not only that, but it better be a sentence that sends a ‘shiver’ down the spine of the person who hears it."

Jenny in her responding post says, "My process is that the Girls in the Basement send up some good stuff and I write it down, no idea where it’s going. The story builds in my brain as I write, there are some surprises, I trip over things, and then it starts to take shape, but I couldn’t come up with a One Sentence Idea before I begin to write if you put a gun to my dog’s head."

It's kind of like a romance novel already. Lot's of conflict. If for nothing other than that, I'll continue to read.

This is really good stuff. Why?
A man and a woman with very differing genres decide to write novels together. They have completely different ideas about how it should be done, and yet what they write is pretty darn good. Why wouldn't I read that?

I've already drawn some good lessons:
1) No one way is right.
2) Men and women really do see things differently.
3) Eventually, like in all good partnerships (whether lovers or business partners or book collaborators), a few universally agreed upon truths are uncovered: "...but we both agree: at some point you have to sit down and say, “What the hell is this book about?”

Go Jenny. Go Bob. I'm along for the ride.

Love scenes to curl your toes

Aloha! Here are my favorite love scenes in honor of Valentine’s Day, six love scenes to leave you burning with desire and holding your heart.

1. “Past the Point of No Return” from the movie Phantom of the Opera. In this scene Christine and the Phantom sing the duet “Past the Point of No Return”. I am passionately moved by music to begin with and when you add the sultry looks and sexual tension of this scene, I am completely blown away.

Our heroine Christine is intrigued and innocently sexually awakened by the Phantom, her musical mentor, who she once believed to be an Angel sent by her dead father.

“What raging fire shall flood the soul? What rich desire unlocks its door? What sweet seduction lies before us . . .?”

Christine’s heart belongs to her childhood sweetheart the Dashing Viscount, Raoul. She is torn between wanting to escape the Phantom’s obsessive, possessive, jealous hold on her and succumbing to the passion of this musical genius.

“Past all thought of right or wrong - one final question: how long should we two wait, before we're one . . .?”

The Phantom uses both her innocent desire and the mystery of her father’s promise of sending her an “Angel of Music” to manipulate and confuse her.

During this scene the Opera House owners and Christine’s Fiance Raoul have set a trap for the Phantom and are using Christine for bait. She is absolutely terrified, but agrees to free herself from her fear and her betraying desire. Once the disguised Phantom enters stage and starts to sing Christine immediately recognizes his voice. To the complete disgust of Raoul, Phantom’s passionate lyrics consume her and momentarily drive her to the edge of reason. Only when Phantom stops singing the enticing lyrics and proposes marriage, Christine is brought back to her senses.

“Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime . . .Lead me, save me from my solitude .
Say you want me with you, here beside you . . .Anywhere you go let me go too - Christine that's all I ask of . . .”

He never finishes his sentence. Christine rips off his mask and exposes him to the Police and the audience, only to bring upon them the the Phantom and the Opera House’s demise.

Despite all of his evil, during this scene I find myself wanting Christine to forget that the Phantom is an obsessive murderer and give in to his magical voice and magical touch.

Any other love scene I can remember will pale to this scene, if you have not read the book, please watch Joel Schumacher’s 2004 production of this tragic love story. If you have not melted into a puddle by the time they are atop the bridge on stage, I will be shocked.

2. The Pride and Prejudice’s scene where Mr. Darcy gives her a tour of her home and introduces Elizabeth to his younger sister. Darcy begins to open up to Elisabeth and exposes a bit of his venerability. As much as could be exposed for a Georgian Man.

3. The “About Time” Episode of Season four of Northern Exposure. Chris the local DJ and existential preacher accidently kills someone’s dog. When he goes to meet the owner and give her the bad news she explains that she is studying “Pi”. The mathematical number 3.14...... Despite the initial pet mourning, they find themselves attracted to each other and arrange a dinner date at Chris’ trailer. She arrives with two cats in tow, and Chris discovers that he is allergic to cats. Just when you think there is no hope for the Allergy prone Dog killer and the Mathematician, they begin to discuss her dissertation on Pi. The way they describe the numbers and the universal truths and relations of the equations escalates their passion until the mathematics melt into make out. It is a very hot scene, even if you never passed Algebra.

4. Nicolas’ Sparks The Note Book, the kiss in the Rain. The two heartbroken lovers, torn away from each other because of war, parents, and social obligations reunite for a weekend. All their angst and heartbreak fuels them into a fit of rage. She is about to marry another and he is furious that she has abandoned them. As they release all the pent up frustration of the years, they realize how much they still love each other and how much they want each other. They embrace in the rain and kiss as though they will never be able to kiss again, one last desperate kiss before she goes away. I do not want to give the the ending in case you have not read the book, but if there was ever a kiss to mend all wounds and bind two people together this would be the kiss.

5. The last historical romance I read was Heart of Honor by Kat Martin. I picked it up because honestly, I could not figure out how a Viking would end up in the 1840’s, as the culture had died out 400 years earlier. It was a fun read to say the least. The combination of the raw untempered desire of the Viking set in Georgian English society was a great combination. I do not think his love scenes would have been half as sexy set in the Viking Age. But, it is not the hot sex scenes that draws me to this book, but the tender scene at the end of the story where the Viking rescues the Heroine Krista from a loveless marriage. In doing so he gives up his home, his family, and his community standing as the Jarl of his clan. He sacrificed everything. He who has the most, has the most to loose.

6. My first real Kiss. No not a movie, and not a book. My honest to goodness first grown up passionate kiss. OK, don’t get me wrong, I had been kissed before by my high school sweetheart, but those kisses were slobbery, usually tasted like Doritoes (I HATE Doritoes!), and there was very little passion involved. For my REAL kiss, I was eighteen and about to leave for my freshman year in college. A childhood friend and I were sitting on the rocks along the lake of my family’s lake house in New Hampshire. We were discussing all of our hopes and dreams for college and our future. We had agreed to send each other sweatshirts from our schools as soon as we could, and we also promised to write as much as we can. Although we had just been good friends for years, something this night was different. There was almost visible electricity moving back and forth between us. At the close of the evening, when he leaned over and kissed me, I swear I thought my head was going to explode. Everything around me lit up in pure bright white light even though we were sitting in the darkness. There was no slobber, no Doritoes, and this time there was my first taste of passion. Our parents called us in for the night, breaking the magic spell, leaving me with only my memories. It was four years before we saw each other again, each of us dating our future spouses. I have never spoken of it, and this is the first I have written about it. My little secret, that I will share with you. I will never mention it again, but I will never forget it either.

Weird Al Wednesday

From the soulful and sublime to the silly . . .

Last Thursday, over at my Alys on Love blog, I posted some not-very-well-thought-out questions regarding love in romance novels. Today, I was going to pick up those thoughts and rant about “where is the love?” I have since changed my mind about the love thing. However, while climbing/walking/running ever so slowly on my treadmill a couple days ago and listening to my iPod, I came up with alternative lyrics to two songs : Where is the love? by the Black-eyed Peas and Where Has All the Love Gone? by Sheryl Crow.

Weird Al Yankovich has no worries. Believe me.

Here’s a sample of Alyson’s horrid alternative lyrics --- but first, please keep in mind that I change my tune at the end of the post and this isn’t meant to be a true dig. I fully and completely support the romance genre. I'm a romance reader and writer. Mostly, I’m making fun of myself here because what I came up with is so awful and cliché, but in a funny way. I hope.

1. Where is the love?

What's wrong with the romance novel?
Pretty people kiss, fight and grovel
I think the whole worlds addicted to the drama
Only attracted to the things that bring them trauma
In our lives we want true love
But on the page, we want true hunks
to fill our gaze, make us dazed,
drink our blood, be our love slaves
But if you only have love based on lust
Then you only leave space for it to bust
And busted up love only generates hate
And if you hatin you're bound to get irate
So ask yourself is the love story ringing true?
So I can ask myself what I should do
You gotta have love just to set it straight
Take control of your mind and meditate
Let your soul gravitate to the love y'all

Chorus:

People fighting, people screwing
Making up and then redoing
Could you practice what you write
Would your love life turn to shite?
Austen, Bronte, du Maurier help us
Send some guidance from above
Cause my books got me got me questioning
Where is real love?(where is real lovex3)(real love2x)

2. Where Has All The Love Gone

Today I read the strangest book, a steamy romance
with a hot alpha male, who couldn’t keep on his pants
And even though I'm trying to believe
With everything I know, it’s hard to achieve

Chorus:
I've been reading every darned romance
Where has all the love, where has all the love gone?
I've been giving every book a chance
Where has all the love, where has all the love gone?

Yesterday it occurred to me, the readers want passion
Sometime’s real love is hard, bring on the mashin'
To make it fun, they just want heat
And if we write it well , they get their meat (or treat)

Repeat chorus . . .

Uh, let’s just say, I’m not that good at this and leave it at that.

3. My change of tune --

Since posting my original questions, I’ve thought about the fact that romance novels are about falling in love. In real life, some people make it, some don’t, but falling in love is still amazing and people want to relive the falling in love part – possibly with some hot, fantasy sex—over and over and over. While I was lamenting the love I find in some-- but not all-- romance novels I realized a couple things about romance novels that I think are important:

1. They tap into the archetypes of the fairy tale, which are good for the psyche – falling in love is important, finding a mate is important. Women are the keepers of the fire on this particular point.
2. They perpetuate the idea that heroes and heroines are equal and that the female gaze – who she thinks is hot and worthy of mating with—is just as important, or more important, than the male gaze. In most species, the female chooses who she mates with and the males go bananas trying to be chosen. That’s how it should be and often isn’t, but the romance genre usually gets that part right. (Uh, my husband objects).
3. I love romance novels, whether or not I’m blown away by the actual love story every time.

For an interesting blog on romance novels and why the term bodice ripper for romance genre novels is derogatory, read Kristie's Ramblings on Romance, Etc., Etc.

Cheers and happy writing, Alyson

p.s. I did a poll of my writing group, some other writing friends and some nonwriting friends regarding “best love stories in movies and books.” The results are posted at my blog.

Time to Purge

Out with the old, in with the new. I think I’m internalizing that sentiment more this year than ever before. Although I live in Manhattan and had abundant options for an exciting New Year’s Eve, I chose instead to stay home and go through my stuff, intent on tossing a ton of it.

I wanted to start the year off clean, unencumbered by all the crap that I’ve been dragging along through life with me. Of course the crap isn’t really bad stuff, it’s just stuff that I don’t need to haul around anymore. Like magazines I haven’t touched in a year, books I’m not going to read again or ever, the shirt I haven’t worn since college, pens I don’t like to write with, that free coral lipstick I’ll never use, salad dressing I don’t like but kept “just in case,” you get the idea. I can’t believe I’ve been hanging on to so many things (and attitudes) that add little or no value to my life.

A friend told me it sounded like I’m purging. Purging. I like it. Webster’s has several definitions of the term, but the one that fits my present mania reads, “to make free of something unwanted.” It’s exactly what I’m doing, and I haven’t finished. Yesterday I moved on to the kitchen junk drawer and then to my bra and underwear drawers. Out with the old! Nothing is safe or sacred.

Of course, it’s not these things that are really unwanted, but those aspects of my life that are holding me back from living the life I want now. Getting rid of the old is a symbolic way for me to make room for the new. Not new stuff, but new life in my life.

Change is my theme for 2007. I’ve never picked a theme for a year before, just a bunch of goals I never managed to keep past the first week. This year is different in so many ways. This year it’s all about change. And it’s been a long time coming. In fact, the seeds finally hit soil early last year and were nourished in the oddest of places – an online romance writing class. To be more accurate, I guess it didn’t happen in class, but afterward, when a handful of us kept in touch through our Affairs of the Pen group.

The intent of the group was that we’d encourage each other to keep writing, be there to brainstorm ideas, whatever we needed in respect to our writing, but along with that the forum sort of morphed into something much bigger and deeper. The women in the group gave me an opportunity to break out of the mold I’d been stuck in for so long. Out of the roles I’d fallen into with friends and family. With my new writer friends, I could simply be the me I was at the moment. It was so liberating. And it’s had a huge impact on my writing and my life.

They’ve been cheerleaders, critics, muses, friends, and that final affirmation that I can be whatever I chose to be, not what people define me as. Of course, I’m sure I’ll need more reminders of that, but I know they’ll be there to either give me a hug or kick in the butt when needed (albeit online) to get me back on track.

I’m almost done with the purging. I still have to hit the cupboard above the stove and the top drawer of my dresser. After that it’s on to 2007, new opportunities, and mapping out my novel on that huge dry erase board I bought last week. At least I have room for it now.

Happy New Year,
Katrina

Defining Moments

I read Alyson’s blog on Sunday. It touched me. Completely.

I think we all have those defining moments in our lives. Moments. Not one, but many, when we see ourselves, our most true selves without the fog or haze that often obscures the real us.

I’ve had a few of those. Mine, likely, are not as profound as Alyson’s, or maybe I just can’t express them so eloquently. Nevertheless, they exist, and I’ll never forget them.

In eighth grade my mother enrolled me in a summer program for gifted learners. Essentially, it amounted to a few weeks of exploring my interests with a bunch of other gifted kids at a nearby university. I got to pick several activities/classes that appealed to me and then spent a few hours every day of the program doing each of them.

I’m not sure what all I took. Hell, I was fourteen, coming out of the most miserable experience of my life – middle school – and like most fourteen year olds, I was self-conscious and self-absorbed.

However, I do remember one class. Over a score of years later, I remember one class.

Yes. It was a creative writing class. However, I was already so filled with doubt about my real self that it took awhile to tap that creativity.

You see, I went to a small country school. I never went to any other school. I started kindergarten in a class of thirty and graduated thirteen years later just a few blocks away in a class of fewer than one-hundred, with over twenty of those same kindergarteners walking the stage with me.

Some might find that nice or quaint. I found it stifling. In the years since, the past five in particular, my mother has lamented that she didn’t find a way to send me to school fifteen miles away, to a much bigger high school in a bigger city where I could have found others like me.

It still sounds self-absorbed, doesn’t it? Well, if so, let me explain.

My mom had no idea I was really gifted until near the end of my high school career when she volunteered me for an IQ test. Yes, I qualified and was recommended for programs like the one at the university, but she just thought I was a hard worker. Anyway, one of her friends had to give the IQ test to a volunteer and score it order to complete the requirements for a course to get her school guidance counselor certificate.

Being the nice, people-pleasing girl I was, I sat for several hours and answered questions.

No one ever told me my IQ. Frankly, it’s just a number, so no big deal. I think my mother was probably wise not to tell me. You see, by this point, it had become achingly clear that I was different. So I tried very hard to blend. There weren’t any other gifted girls in my class. Years later, after studying giftedness for a completely different reason, I feel confident in that statement. I also felt exactly like the ugly duckling, but had no idea why.

Different is something teenagers are very astute at noticing, and to a teenager different is not necessarily good. Blending in became the challenge of the day, everyday. Trig was easy. Shakespeare was a snap. Yearbook layouts only took minutes. Blending in … total concentration.

I had a few good guy friends in high school, but no girlfriends, just people I sat with in class and chatted with as we passed in the halls. To a casual observer, I might have appeared okay. The lack of friends wasn’t from lack of effort on my part. They just didn’t get me and I didn’t really get them.

I went to college, not afraid that I wouldn’t succeed in the classroom, but afraid I wouldn’t make friends. Lucky for me, my own people skills improved with age, and college is a much bigger fish bowl.

Ah, but back to that gifted camp at the end of eighth grade and my creative writing class…

The teacher for that particular workshop handed me a book and asked me to read it one night to get ideas and then bring it back the next day.

It didn’t give me any story ideas, but it gave me life ideas. I think that teacher was very wise.

She handed me Jonathon Livingston Seagull, by Richard Bach. Do you know the story?

In its simplest form the book is the story of a seagull that is different. He doesn’t fit in. His interests and talents and perspectives are so different from that of the other gulls that he is essentially exiled. However, through the guidance of an intuitive teacher, Jonathan discovers that different is good and that his gifts were amazing and that some gulls are just called to live a different life.

I identified with Jonathon – every page spoke a truth to me that I’d never before heard.

I bought my own copy of the book that summer. That very same copy is part of my sacred space.

Since then I’ve been on a journey unique to me. And while I learned to blend in enough to not get the shit kicked out of me every time I turned around, I never felt the need to compromise my own true being.

Of course I’ve faltered along the way, but never so much that my true self didn’t call me back.

I didn’t write fiction for a long time. The lure of success and overachievement in a world and career where those things came fairly easy didn't allow room for ... uh ... less purposeful pursuits. However, I’ve never known a time when I wasn’t trying to learn something I didn’t know because, like Jonathan, the learning speaks to me.

Now my path has led me back to the one thing that fourteen year old girl wanted to do – write. The Jonathan in me is having a ball. Big learning curves are his thing.

And me….well, that defining moment gave me courage for a lifetime of risk-taking. But this chance, this chance to write, I can't risk NOT taking it.

“…you have the freedom to be yourself, your true self, here and now, and nothing can stand in your way..” Richard Bach, Jonathon Livingston Seagull

Macy

Soothing your Soul

Macy and I are currently taking an online class called The Care and Feeding of the Girls in the Basement with Barbara Samuel. It's a class about nurturing your creative spirit, your inner artist, your writer's soul. So far, we've read about and discussed artist's dates, morning pages, creating a sacred space, creating an altar to honor your creativity, the good girl syndrome, blocks , traps, wolves, Wild Woman, the gilded cage and setting boundaries.

This week, Barbara quoted one of my favorite writers, Elizabeth Gilbert, the author of Eat, Pray, Love, The Last American Man and Pilgrims. (I loved them all, but especially Eat, Pray, Love, her memoir). Barbara happened to mention two of my favorite lines in the book-- the line that sucked me in and the line that was so reminiscent of a line I used at the one of the more defining moments of my life.

First, at the beginning of the book when Elizabeth is lying on her bathroom floor in the middle of the night, in the middle of a major melt down following her divorce, bawling her eyes out, she cries out to God, who she doesn't believe in--"Please tell me what to do."

Her answer: "Go to bed, Liz."

As Barbara put it, thus begins a search for God which takes her to Italy, India and Indonesia, four months each. As an aside, she meets someone named Luca Spaghetti in Italy. For those of you familiar with my WIP, that's where I got the inspiration for the name Antonio Rigatoni.

Later, on p.328, she writes:

"My heart said to my mind in the dark silence of the beach: 'I love you, I will never leave you, I will always take care of you.'"

Barbara said that line slayed her. She asked us to try saying the words to ourselves, and to sit with that thought for ten minutes to see what comes up, writing down the protests, the things that might change as a result, and everything else that springs forth.

Some people found the exercise difficult, or they avoided it because it brought up a lot of emotion. I did it, but the truth is it wasn't the first time.

Back in my late twenties -- I was 27-- someone I loved in a mad, passionate, nutty, crazy way, the most brilliant person I've ever known, died. Just like that. He was 29 and larger than life. It was shocking. Life changing. Mind boggling. Heart shattering. The first year following his death was achingly difficult. For all of us. His parents, his sister, his friends, me. He died in November, right around Thanksgiving and to this day I get a little more wiggy than usual around that date (psychologists say your body, mind and soul all remember stuff like that because of the trauma to your well-being)-- but after the one-year anniversary of his death passed I convinced myself that I was home free. I had made it. Everyone knows the first year is the hardest--

Well, New Year's Eve came and I thought I had it covered, but I didn't. I ended up drinking too much. When I came home my roommate and her boyfriend were there and they weren't supposed to be. I wanted to be alone. They were carrying on, spanking each other with ping pong paddles-- and for some reason, listening to them carry on just hit me wrong.

I had a major meltdown.

I was bawling, shaking, totally falling apart, much like Elizabeth Gilbert in her book. I threw up. I looked like hell. On my fricking knees on the tiled floor in the bathroom, I said, "Dear God, please help me. I don't think I can do this anymore. I can't. I -- can-- not-- do--it. I don't want to live anymore."

My answer: Go to bed. Now. Sleep it off.

See why Elizabeth's book spoke to me?

I staggered over to my room, still bawling and shaking, changed into my pajamas, then saw the picture my mom had given me for Christmas in a beautiful frame. It was the last picture my grandfather took of me before he died. I was almost three. I had a bandanna tied around my head because I was sick. I was holding a wilting bouquet of dandelions out to my grandfather.

I don't why that hit me funny, but I picked it up and threw it-- and then I went into hysterics. But, after another dramatic crying spell, a strong, maternal, life affirming voice deep down inside me told me to take care of that little girl before I went to sleep. I knew that voice-- it had saved me a couple of times before, when I was losing a different war. I cleaned up the broken glass, picked up the picture, hugged it and said, "I'm so sorry. Don't worry. I love you, and I'll take care of you. I'll do a better job of it. I won't leave, too. We'll make it, I promise. I want to live. I'll never leave. It's me and you, kid. I'm going to take care of you. "

I went to bed holding that picture, and the best way I can describe what happened that night is to say peace descended on me. Really, that's how it felt. Peace filled the air, and caressed me until I fell asleep. I knew I was going to be okay. I was going to take care of me and my soul, the soul that was represented by the little girl in the picture. I was strong enough, good enough, worthy enough, resourceful enough.

Since that day, when she needs a reminder that I'm there for her, I play John Hiatt's "Have a little faith in me." It works every time. Incidentally, that song, along with another John Hiatt fave, is on my playlist for my current WIP.

Last week I put that picture next to my new "creativity altar" in my sacred space (formerly known as my office) next to an angel holding a lantern and a river nymph.

I was going to end my post there but then I remembered something else. The day after "peace descended," I wrote up a statement of beliefs which served as an affirmation of sorts.

One of my favorite movies of all time is Bull Durham which opens with Annie Savoy's statement of beliefs, "I believe in the Church of Baseball. I've tried all the major religions, and most of the minor ones. I've worshipped Buddha, Allah, Brahma, Vishnu, Siva, trees, mushrooms, and Isadora Duncan. . . . I've tried 'em all, I really have, and the only church that truly feeds the soul, day in, day out, is the Church of Baseball. "

I skipped a lot of the voice over because it's not really essential here. I'm just setting up the following scene which contains one of my favorite exchanges in any movie ever. After Annie brings Crash Davis, the seasoned catcher, and Ebby Calvin LaLoosh, the up-and-coming pitcher, back to her place she explains her ground rules-- she hooks up with one minor league baseball player per season. So far they are the most promising prospects so she thinks they should all get to know one another. After asking why she gets to choose and getting an answer full of a lot of baloney about quantum physics, Crash gets up to leave.

Annie Savoy: Oh, where are you going?
Crash Davis: After 12 years in the minor leagues, I don't try out. Besides, uh, I don't believe in quantum physics when it comes to matters of the heart.
Annie Savoy: What do you believe in, then?
Crash Davis: Well, I believe in the soul, the cock, the pussy, the small of a woman's back, the hanging curve ball, high fiber, good scotch, that the novels of Susan Sontag are self-indulgent, overrated crap. I believe Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone. I believe there ought to be a constitutional amendment outlawing Astroturf and the designated hitter. I believe in the sweet spot, soft-core pornography, opening your presents Christmas morning rather than Christmas Eve and I believe in long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days. [pause] Goodnight.
Annie Savoy: Oh my. Crash...
Ebby Calvin LaLoosh: Hey, Annie, what's all this molecule stuff?

Ha! My statement of beliefs isn't nearly as witty or hot, but Crash was my inspiration. I wrote it out on a card and it served me well. Three weeks later I met my husband, who really is my best friend and the love of my life. Here's what I wrote. ( I still have the card.)

I believe in the soul and more than one true love, as many true loves as it takes. I believe in seizing the day and living life to the fullest. I believe a wish to die is really a cry for help. I believe that to everything there is a time and a season and that I'm ready to be okay with that. I believe the universe is unfolding as it should and God still remembers and loves me. I believe in the beauty of the mess and the mysterious. I believe in the little girl in the photo and I believe in me. I also believe in long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days but I definitely do NOT believe in ping pong paddles.

Okay, I admit I erased the part about the ping pong paddles way back when -- but I clearly remember still being annoyed the next day, despite the whole descending peace thing. An enlightened yogi I am not. But I try.

SO, what does any of this have to do with writing? Well, I believe that the soul has everything to do with writing. I believe the soul is where our muses reside, where inspiration springs from, where we find our "voice" and the flow.

If you haven't told yourself, your soul, "I love you, I will never leave you, I will always take care of you," then try it and see what happens. And try an affirmation or two. Here's what happened to me--

I met my husband; I traveled; I quit drinking except for the occasional glass of wine; I got over my adolescence . . . eventually; I went skydiving. I gave up the need for approval, praise and acceptance ( I still like it but I don't need it as long God, the Universe, the depths of my soul and me are cool with what I'm doing); I quit my corporate job and became a grad student, amongst other things (law school student, preschool teacher, substitute teacher, book store manager, freelance copywriter, research assistant, wife, mom, tutor, babysitter), for fifteen years. It's been a convoluted path but it brought me back to the notion of writing fiction eventually, which was my childhood dream. Plus, I met a lot of interesting people and refilled my well. I became more authentic. I really am who I am.

Now, if only the words would flow more exquisitely, my authenticity would transfer to the page and ring true and I could find a clear path through the mucky middle of my WIP. Maybe I need a new statement of beliefs. I'll work on that. . .

Happy writing and cheers,
Alyson

p.s. Samantha missed her blog on Friday because she's cruising the Caribbean with her hunk of burning love in celebration of her upcoming birthday. Have a great time, Sam!

The "To Read" Pile

I have more books in my “to read” pile than I ever thought possible. I love to read, but with an increasingly busy schedule, I find I have less and less time to do this thing I’ve always loved.

When I was a child, my mother would take my brother and me to the newly constructed mall in our town and give us a choice: bookstore or toy store. I never picked the toy store. (Right…uh huh… sure, you say.) Really. Never. My brother’s picks were about 50/50. I relished bookstores the way most kids relish the candy isle at Target or, well, the toy store. I still remember that bookstore, and the kids/young reader/young adult section in the back. I remember the joy of picking out a book. I remember graduating to “grown-up” books, too. I loved horror and fantasy. Some of my first adventures into adult books were Stephen King and Tolkien.

I’ve been a collector of books and an avid reader since then. (Well, except for that stretch called college and grad school, where I read a lot of text books, and that short stretch just after grad school, where it took awhile to remember how much I love reading.) Now I read with a different eye. Don’t get me wrong, I read for pleasure, but I also read to learn about my craft and my genre. I read critically many times, and find that a book has to be very, very good for me to really enjoy it. My “to read” pile is too big, partly because I find it hard to go to a bookstore without buying a book, and second because I’ve filled my former reading time with writing and learning my craft.

It’s that learning about my craft aspect that most recently increased my “to read” pile significantly. I made a trip with a gift card to a bookstore that was closing and had 40% off paperbacks. I took the advice of an Affairs of the Pen friend, and purchased books by several of the recommended authors in the SEX BETWEEN THE PAGES: UNDERSTANDING AND WRITING SEXUAL TENSION class I took with Mary Buckham. These authors are supposed to be very good at sexual tension, an area in which I also hope to excel.

Here’s who and what I purchased:
Jenna Mills – Killing Me Softly
Angela Knight – Master of Swords
Lori Foster – Murphy’s Law
Stella Cameron – Body of Evidence
Linda Howard -- Kiss Me While I Sleep

Now if I’m reading these to learn, I need to get started. Which one first?

Macy

Getting to know you

Last week for my first blog I jumped right in to a serious note on death that hounded me during several runs. This week I am walking, nursing two very sore heels, and my thoughts come slower, calmer. I realized in my quest to write about something profound and meaningful I neglected to even say hello and introduce myself. So “Getting to Know You” will be the short topic of this blog this week. Not very exciting, I know, but who is this Jacqueline person anyway?

The first thing you should know about me is that I live in Hawai’i . Yes, the apostrophe is supposed to be there. Before you conjure images of a quiet little hut on the beautiful pacific ocean, let me correct you. I live in Honolulu, in a 1100 square foot pre WWII military house with rats in the attic, flying roaches that the Terminex guys can not drive away, Geckos on the ceiling, and bullets from Japanese fighters lodged into the floor under the cheesy 1980’s linoleum. Ahhh, but I do have the nicest yard in the neighbor hood with the most amazing tree I have ever seen in my life. It’s branches are more than 40 feet across! And I do enjoy having only three pairs of shoes to wear: running shoes. dressy slippahs (flip-flops) and casual slippahs. I digress.......I do live in paradise, but things are not always what they seem.

The second thing I would like you to know about me is that I am the worst time manager in the world. Wednesday is my day to blog. Here it is, 10:44 p.m., and I am just now getting to it! Pretty soon people on the east coast will be rising for work on Thursday! It is not as if I do not want to get things done on time, I just have no sense of how long a project will take and do not plan accordingly. I also have a very dastardly bad habit of committing to to many outside organizations, projects, and other miscellaneous things that take me away from my writing. I am weeks behind all my writing goals, and yet I volunteered to be the testing administer for my darling daughters’ home school group. “Just say No!” That should be my new motto!

The third thing I think you should know about me is that I love to create new places, people and situations in my mind. The only activity I love as much as writing is reading. I am definitely not a great writer, but I have many great ideas. You can always learn to write better, but you can’t always change the way your imagination works. I pray the ideas never cease to flow.
Those are the most important things, at least that apply to writing and my blog. Thank you for joining me at Cinderwriter, I look forward to chatting with you next week.

Who are you people?

I tried to think of a theme for my first post at Affairs of the Pen and my brainstorming went something like this—Weary Wednesday? Wallabee Wednesday? Whirligig Wednesday? Wacky Wednesday? Wet ‘n Wild Wednesday? Weirdo Wednesday? Wee Wednesday? Wowabonza Wednesday. Hmmm. Go back to we. How about We Wednesday? Might work. We really haven’t introduced ourselves. We-- as in who in the heck are "we"? -- Wednesday.

You’ve met Macy "Bring it on" O'Neal and Samantha "cautiously optimistic" England. I’m Alyson Love and here’s my story.

In the beginning, there were the words and the story sparks and Gotham Writers’ Workshops, the most comprehensive creative writing classes online and in New York City. I had taken an online fiction writing at Gotham in 2004. It wasn’t my first stab at writing fiction, but more on that later. Let’s just say, for now, literary short stories weren’t my cup of tea. Lots of imagery getting in the way of the action.

A quick digression: The reason it took me sooooo long to pursue my dream of writing a novel was twofold—first, I had no idea how to actually go about writing a novel, and second, I thought that I had to write something worthy of Fyodor Dostoevsky, William Faulkner, Toni Morrison, Philip Roth, Harper Lee, Emily Bronte, Jane Austen. The class didn’t help me much in either respect.

The truth of the matter is I tend to read women’s fiction and romance novels. For me, not much beats a week at the beach with a stack of romantic comedies and a chick lit novel or two. So, in 2006 as my son turned two and the notion of returning to work full time loomed large, I thought, Good lord. If I’m going to write a novel, I should do it now—get the first one out of the way before I have full time work to add to the mix of outside distractions. I had no idea what I wanted to write, but I had just returned from Florida, a week at the beach with a stack of romantic comedies and a chick lit novel or two. The light bulb went off and I decided to give writing romance a whirl.

I signed up for a ten week romance writing workshop with Leigh Michaels, through Gotham. I had no idea what I was doing—didn’t know my characters, didn’t know how to develop conflict, didn’t know how to plot, didn’t know how to build sexual tension. But over the course of ten weeks, I had a strong story idea and a handful of characters that I loved. In addition, I met Samantha and Macy. I thought they both were amazing writers.

Samantha created a yahoo group, Affairs of the Pen, for anyone in the class who was interested in participating. We all signed up initially. I believe there were ten of us. Seven of us stuck with it—setting goals, submitting work, providing critiques and encouragement. Some of us have taken additional writing workshops and classes together, including the second level romance writing class with Leigh. For me, it’s been a steep learning curve—but an exciting, adrenalin-producing ride. There’s nothing quite like the high of seminal creative moments and finding the flow.

Samantha and I both write contemporary romance bordering on women’s fiction with strong romance elements. Same subgenre, but completely different voices. Samantha has an eloquent, smooth, lucid, flowing voice. Mine is decidedly more “edgy” and “quirky.” In fact, I started out writing chick lit.

Macy writes steamy romantic suspense. She started out writing contemporary romance.

As for the others in our group, they write historical western adventure, hot historical Highlander romance, witty historical fantasy romance (think Princess Bride or Ever After) and paranormal romantic comedy (A-rooooo). All in all, it’s an eclectic mix that keeps us highly entertained.

Another quick digression: Why is it that whenever I write or say “the others” now I think of the others on Lost and wonder what in the heck is going to happen to my beloved Jack? I don’t watch much TV but I do watch Lost pretty faithfully. Don't worry, our "others" are not scary.

I adore my writing group, and I love technology. Without the internet, we wouldn’t have met until we were published. We’re scattered all over the country—Florida, California, Illinois, New York, Washington, Oregon, Hawaii.

No, unfortunately, I’m not the one who lives in Hawaii.

My unsolicited bit of advice for anyone out there wishing to pursue the writing life, besides writing, writing, writing and reading, reading, reading, is to (1) find a writing group--or, at the very least, a writing partner and (2) learn everything you can about the craft. I say the latter with a caveat—learn everything you can about the craft but don’t use that, or research, as a way to avoid the writing, writing, writing. Been there, done that. Learn from my mistakes.

If you are into blogs and you want to know what it’s like to be a published author, I highly suggest you read The Newbie’s Guide to Publishing by JA (Joe) Konrath. Here’s a link to his post about New Year’s Resolutions for writers, newbies and otherwise. I also enjoyed his post on crushing hope—which is not quite as awful as it sounds.

Till next time-- Soulful Sunday. Scintillatingly Sinful Sunday just wouldn’t be appropriate. Or would it? He, he.

Cheers, Alyson