While You Were Reading (Behind the Curtain AKA an Author's Life) By Connie Vines #insider Author Blog,

 

Those Who Watched Murder She Wrote (television),  As Good As It Gets (1997 movie), or Misery (1990)

Discovered how exciting, unpredictable, and dangerous an author's life can be.

Snort. 

Chuckle. 

Eye-Roll.

I must confess that after an all-night writing binge, I do resemble Jack Nickleson's portrayal of an obsessive-compulsive author: wild-eyed, questionable hairstyle, and talking semi-coherently to myself. 

I have also inadvertently sat on one of my pups, who claimed my seat when I refilled my mug with coffee. Thus, a snarling match was triggered to save me, which resulted in my baptism with semi-hot coffee. 

I encountered a "fan" during a meet-the-author event. She was upset when I asked her name and touched her book. I then proceeded to explain how a book signing event worked. It was touch-and-go for a few seconds but ended well for me. I learned later she'd purchased a second book. (I was autographing paperback copies. And yes, I'd have given her the second book if I'd known she'd desired a pristine copy.)

How does the author's life relate to the story?

When authors write, they are influenced by their past. Gender, race, and socioeconomic status also significantly impact their writing. Therefore, the more you know about the author, the better you can understand the messages central to their work.

We write what we know. 

We write about personal issues that happen in our lives. Everything an author has encountered, from personal relationships to world events, can influence how they present a story.

Questions for the reader:

📌Are your favorite authors like you? Or, are their stories completely opposite to what is familiar?

📌Do you prefer a particular genre? Or will you cross into different genres with your favorite author?

📌Have you ever attended an in-person/ online author event?

📌And lastly, when and where is your favorite time and place to read?

I read in the late afternoon, before dinner time.  I'm seated on the living room sofa, snuggled under an afghan in winter, with a snoring pup beneath each elbow.

Happy Reading,

Connie

My links:

https://connievines-author.com/

https://www.facebook.com/AuthorConnieVines/

https://bookswelove.net/vines-connie/

About Another Hamilton

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 Hamilton came to me via the free local advertiser. Scanning it idly one day I saw an ad which said, “Please Help! I have 31 cats, and need to find good homes.” I called the number, got directions and drove south through various moribund towns and up a dirt road to a run-down farmhouse. As soon as I stopped, I saw them: cats everywhere, cohabiting with a flock of bedraggled chickens in a grassy yard.

 The Cat Lady—I’ll call her “Nancy”--came out and we talked. She’d been working at the Humane Society, but she'd quit because she couldn’t bear the euthanasia of hundreds of animals that was, in those days, part of the weekly routine. She was as thin and tired-looking as her animals. I could see runny noses indicative of the highly contagious Calci virus in almost every cat. My heart sank.

 Even more sadly, most of the cats were wild. They depended upon her for food and sheltered in the tumbledown barn, but they were untouchable.  As she could afford it on a waitressing job, she'd neuter them and get them shots. She’d found a charitable vet who cut prices for her, but her burden appeared insurmountable.

 She and I sat down on the ground and waited. Eventually three scrawny half-grown orange boys drew close. You could actually count their ribs.

 “I call them the Orange Brothers,” Nancy said. “They were almost starved to death when I rescued them.” A veritable herd came in their wake as she opened the 10 lb. bag of kitty food I’d brought as an offering and dumped some on the ground.

 The cats backed off as soon as I tried to touch, so I sat and waited.  One of the Orange Brothers took a few bites of kibble, then came to me. As soon as I began to pet him, gently and carefully, he gave a roaring purr and threw himself into my lap. All was well for about two minutes, and then he bit my arm hard, twisting the skin almost to the breaking point. I didn’t resist. He let go and jumped away, clearly expecting a slap or a shout of protest.

 “He didn’t mean it,” Nancy said. “He wants to be loved, but he gets too excited.”

 I nodded and continued watching.

 A moment later, the bony little tom climbed into my lap again, purring his roaring purr. His fur was dry as straw as a result of malnutrition; his eyes were golden. Long story short, I brought him home, to a house that already had several cats. It took time to get him over the habit of reacting to petting with a bite, but with a lot of affection and enough food, he toned these love bites down to a recognizable level.

 As he was lean and bright orange and I was working on a Revolutionary War novel, I named him Hamilton. That heroic founding father had red hair and a poverty-stricken childhood.

 

Rivington’s (Tory) Gazette printed this snide comment in 1775, when Hamilton was a favorite aide de camp to General Washington:

“Mrs. Washington has a mottled orange tomcat of whom she is so particularly fond, she has named him ‘Hamilton.’ By the flaunting of his tail with the 13 rings around it the Rebels have taken the idea for their flag.”

 The name proved to fit this cat to a "T". Kitty Hamilton was a sensitive soul, and did that tomcat peeing thing whenever he felt anxious or threatened. He was also allergic to that kitty drug of choice, catnip. Until he fattened up, a process which took more than a year, he could not hold his 'nip. If he managed to find some, I soon knew, because he lost control of his limbs, fell down and peed all over himself like an old drunk. I’d have to cradle him and soothe him until he came down, because he cried in fear the whole time. 

 I never did manage to get him to stop marking. Any cat or person passing the house--even an argument with my husband--was liable to set him off. I hadn’t wanted to let him outside, but he made that motherly attempt to protect him impossible. He’d been a free kitty boy for far too long. Like his glorious namesake, he came with a severe case of PTSD which never went away—as well as a determination to be seen as a tomcat’s tomcat, even after neutering.

 

My Hamilton did not die in a duel, like our First Secretary of the Treasury, but he did fight with all challengers at every opportunity, even if he was completely out-matched. He was sometimes beaten up, but he usually attacked outsiders with such berserker rage that they avoided our house like the plague.

 He wanted to seem fearless, but his anxieties continually undermined him. He expressed this by peeing on the refrigerator door, in out-of-the-way corners, and on the backs of upholstered furniture, which I swiftly learned to keep covered with washable throws. Climactically, he slew my original CPU by peeing into the A Drive. A friend of mine said, “If that wasn’t such a nice orange cat--and if his name wasn’t Hamilton--he’d be dead.” My husband heartily agreed, but Hamilton's lover-boy self and willingness to lap sit, his smiling affability and charm aided his survival.

Hamilton always came when his name was called. He greeted my husband when he returned from work, with a raised head for a kiss, a motoring purr, waving that proud, banner-like tail. He slept in our bed, curled around my head in winter, a living, purring hat. He helped me write any number of books, lying beside--and, when he was fed up with "that damned typing" by standing in front of--my monitor.  He lived to be fourteen, and is buried with other cats of blessed memory in the feline necropolis beneath our Chinkopin tree.   

                           

                         

~~Juliet Waldron

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The River, Waterfalls, and the Writing Life by S. L. Carlson

The River, Waterfalls, and the Writing Life by S. L. Carlson

I am S. L. Carlson, a proud and grateful BWL Publishing Inc. author. My books can be viewed and purchased by visiting https://www.bookswelove.net/carlson-s-l

 

 Part I:

Waterfalls in northern Wisconsin flow best in May, when most of the snow has melted and the rains have begun filling the rivers. May is also a time before mosquitoes, thick enough to carry off a human, start to immerge, and before tourists start crowding in. It was an adventure.

Locating waterfalls was mostly tentative. I had two paper maps open on my lap, as well as a sightseeing book of Wisconsin, as well as a brochure on waterfalls in two counties. Even so, directions were not always clear, and our time limited. Finding a waterfall was all a matter of trust: my husband trusting me to get us into the approximate area; me trusting maps and books which sometimes contradicted; trusting signs with no further directions of where to go, but having to take our best guesses. Sometimes, physical signs to reach it were antiquated and/or vague.

 

To reach two of them, it took driving various dirt backroads reach the trailheads, followed with gorgeous woodland hikes of an hour one way to the tumbling falls. One hike was under rumbling-thundering skies. But adventure and determination ruled. And the end result was well worth it.

 

Sometimes, physical signs to reach it were antiquated and/or vague.

 

After finding a place to park, we wandered near hydroelectric plants, through forested areas beside fenced-off cliffs, then followed our ears to the sound of rushing water.

 

The river above the more major falls often runs deep, swift, and silent. Then comes the continuous tumble of water. (Earplugs were recommended for one.) After the churning and bubbling ceases below the falls, the river once again runs quietly.

 

Part II:

My writing life, writing a novel, is like a river. It can start with an idea, like a spring bubbling up in a high meadow. As the idea develops, the story-stream widens into a river with more characters, action and plot, running deeper and faster. I start writing faster as I feel the story coming to life. I must admit that there are times when I write blind, not sure where the river is going. Sometimes a tributary leads me to backwater or a still pond. Do I block it off or ignore it, or is it interesting enough to keep in? Always, though, I must backtrack to return to the writing river, to the essence of the story.

My river tumbles as whitewater over rocks with various conflicts in the story.

There are twists and turns in the river I can’t always see around. I mean…which the reader can’t see around. There are areas with towering cliffs on each side, evidence of erosion from the many authors before me, carving the way for me to follow. Then comes the climax, the rushing, tumbling, crashing to below. But follow the river downstream, and it continues on, silent and calm.

 

From the bubbling beginnings of a story idea, my novels develop into the deep and silent river flow, gathering more and more speed, to the sound and expectation and excitement of the dramatic climax, the waterfall, finally concluding with the quiet, satisfactory story ending.

 

May each book you read follow to the thrill of the river and waterfall adventure.

 

S. L. Carlson Blog & Website: https://authorslcarlson.wordpress.com

BWL Inc. Publisher Author Page: https://www.bookswelove.net/carlson-s-l 

For Kathy

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This weekend is the Memorial Service for fellow author, Kathy Fischer-Brown. Every evening, as twilight falls and the July fireflies rise from the grass, I realize that her phone number will never again appear on the caller I.D. 

It's important for some writers, many of whom are, by nature, rather solitary creatures, to have another confidant in the same odd line of work to talk to. I'd never had a friend like this before Kathy, so had not realized that I'd like one until I met her. In fact, Jude Pittman, our publisher, got us together, as she'd noted our similar late 18th Century interests. 

It turned out we shared a great deal more than just research and a common interest in the American Revolutionary & Colonial Period, something we only gradually realized.  She was younger than me, and had more of academia than I did, therefore our childhoods and twenties did not occur at exactly the same time or contain the same experiences. It turned out not to matter much, in the end.

I was not able to attend the Memorial Service, so I wrote this for her, kind of drawing a line under the loss, I guess. It's the kind of thing that you experience more and more of as you get "to a certain age," and it seems to me that poetry is as good as any other way to cope.   

 For Kathy

Fireflies rise, cool sparks 

Glow against the black tree silhouettes.

With a glass of Malbec at hand and a phone,

We're off again, sharing visions of the Revolutionary War,

Whether those characters should wear coats of red or blue or green,

Criminals, heroes & villains alike 

Standing on the backs of strong women 

And slaves—

Wild, Wild East of history, both genuine and fake,

Where, beneath trees older than Genesis, 

The First People still told of Thunderbird and the Three Sisters, legends of

Earth Turtle and Beaver, of Brave Muskrat and Trickster Crow.

After a summer supper, calling from the porch,

“How ya Doin’?” she jokes and I laugh at her puns,

Baseball mutters in the background, and

She shares today's vision of a fox, how it paused and

Stared from the green slope of the lawn, down toward the on-again-off again creek.

We discuss fireflies and how,

When we were children,

So much was different; 

We mourn a natural world lost, a place with Monarchs and tadpoles. 

Sometimes she shares memories: 

Our 60's: hers of Baez, Civil Rights, of plays and performances,

Of academia, of camping at Woodstock--her friends had never expected THAT--

And her Mom and baby days, birth stories and death stories, so poignant.

I learned about her research and dreams,

Her quest for recognition a.k.a., The Same Old Writer’s Blues, 

Of Revelations at reenactment nighttime campfires, under a country night sky,

Full of stars dancing,

About working for her father, of jumping into the 'Net in the 90's, and of 

Friends and treasure troves of history found in virtual space-- 

As well as how to cook a duck and create a holy Passover supper. 

Together we nodded, two gray women, agreeing about

The complex knots that tie families everywhere.

Tonight I watch fireflies rise in hazy twilight,

And once more I’ll miss your rambles through Past and Present,

My Dear Friend, 

Your husky voice in my ear, your laughter and sophistication, your wit, 

A delight for all too brief a time.

~~Juliet Waldron 

7/21/21

Senses & Setting, a writers' brief how-to

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There are probably as many approaches to novel writing as there are writers. Some have a tendency to see things as a screenplay—action and dialogue. Others see characters and relationships first, and find that dialogue and action grow from that. Some plot carefully and make a comprehensive outline. Others just begin when a voice begins to speak irresistibly in their mind and their novel grows organically.

Others begin with the world in which the characters will move. Science Fiction and fantasy writers often begin this way. Historical novelists may become intrigued by a particular era, and this fascination leads to the creation of characters who will exist in a “period” world.

Such writers probably have the easiest time with “world building,” because setting/or period, or that “Other Land” they are creating has already played a large part in their inner life. , supplying the kick that took them from simply imagining to actually writing.

In most writing courses you’ll find discussion of using the five senses of sight, hearing, touch, taste and smell, and all of them need to be engaged—not all the time, of course, or nothing else would ever happen—but if your couple are seated side by side at a Regency dining table—even if they are thinking only of each other—either loving each other or hating, as the case may be—they will be surrounded by other people talking, servants coming and going, and a great deal of food. There will be ambiance a-plenty and the sensations will be coming from all combined senses.

In the last 30 years, people have become more than a little distracted from reality—not only by television, but by hand held games, cell phones, not to mention the artificial A/C world we inhabit during hot summers. As a result, we don’t really spend a lot of time paying much attention to where we actually are—and what signals are coming from our environment.

If you are walking down a street in a Third World Country—or on some far off planet, or London in Shakespeare’s day--there will be unfamiliar smells as well as unfamiliar sights. For instance, I went to school in the West Indies back in the 60’s, and rode the bus to the central market daily, and then walked up to the school through the narrow city streets. There was gray wash water running in slimy green gutters, the occasional furtive rat; there were fruit rinds and big greasy mango seeds scattered around as well as bottles.

 As well as sight, I experienced unfamiliar smells too. In the long ago West Indies, there was the smell of people who didn’t have facilities for washing other than the a central pump in whatever village they’d come from, of starch filled school uniforms and office clothes and the beginning of the day’s sweat. There was market refuse, discarded fruit and animal manure ripening in the sun, the smell of a hard-worked donkey as he clopped by, the heavy odor of the goats that rode the bus with you. Have you ever imagined what a werewolf or a vampire would actually smell like?  I’m not a fan of these fantasy creatures, so in my imagination—they’d smell pretty bad!

Is your character a temp, facing a vacated desk in a modern office? What’s the desk and keyboard like—are they sticky with coke, covered with ashes? Are they dusty, or spotlessly clean? How does your character deal with this temporary work-space? Does she first head for the washroom and paper towels to clean desk, keyboard and phone? Does she bring a can of Lysol with her to work on the first day at someone else's desk?

As you can see, this is not only “setting,” it also tells the reader about the characters. How do these particular people react to the environment in which you’ve placed them? Details like this breathe life into what might otherwise be wooden.

As for sound/hearing, we moderns are drowning in it. The environment has never been so distracting or noisy—thanks especially to the internal combustion engine—which roars away on every street and in every yard. Leaf blowers, lawn mowers, trucks, cars and a parade of loud pipe HD’s coming through our town are sonic assaults we endure daily. (My husband calls it “turning gasoline into noise”.) We live in a theme park town, and know what it’s like to put up with amplified concerts all summer, and an enormous volume of traffic. On top of all that, there are televisions blaring in every place we go, from restaurants to doctor’s waiting rooms. 

Conversely, if you are writing about the past, none of that existed. Cities used to be noisy with people and animals, and later, with trains and trolleys, but the countryside remained relatively quiet until fifty years ago. When night came down on the farm, people went to sleep. Two hundred years ago, a candle was an expensive item, and only the rich could afford to illuminate their world after dark. Likewise, music—an orchestra was for the rich, music provided by gifted individuals who were barely an inch more important than the rest of the servants. That used to be the draw of a parade—the fact that there was music. Even when I was a kid, people still made music at home. At our house we had a piano and a song book, and for fun our family sometimes sang and played together in the evenings instead of turning on the t.v.

 In the countryside, you’d hear wind in the trees, or blowing across wheat fields or rustling through a cornfield. You’d hear songbirds—and there were more of them 100 years — crickets. cicadas and wild geese. The first Europeans to arrive here remarked upon all our wildlife—and especially upon hearing it at night. In their world, they’d eaten just about everything that moved and cut down most of the trees and put the land under cultivation, and so their original home was already picked clean of wildlife. Here, before Europeans got a foothold, nature was thriving. If your characters are in undeveloped setting, for instance a 1600’s American forest, you might hear a panther scream or wolves howl.

Another sense to consider is taste. Taste and smell are strongly related, as we all have experienced losing some of both when we have a bad head cold.  This sense, which we take for granted, is key to our well-being. One of my aunts, now deceased, lost her sense of taste during her eighties. I remember when she was younger, she’d had to be careful about what she ate, for like so many of us, her thirties and forties were spent fighting the battle of the bulge. Now, with this vital sense gone, she was less and less interested in eating, and ended her life weighing a mere 75 pounds.

So, if we return to that Regency banquet, what do we taste—or are we so excited and overwhelmed by the presence of handsome young and very eligible Lord Brimstone-Fire seated to our right that we can barely swallow? If we’re on Planet X, how would you describe the taste of Silonian Sea Slug in Gaxican sauce? Was the dish carefully prepared, succulent and fragrant, or is it tough and indigestible, reheated too many times in the kitchen of some grungy space port diner?

Romance writers imagine the sense of touch frequently; it’s their stock in trade. If you are shopping for clothes, you will certainly run your fingers over the fabric, see if you like the feel of what you are about to put next to your skin. If you are handling a gun, besides the weight, you will be in contact with the material of handle or stock, the cool touch of metal, the slight oily feeling of bullets as you drop them into the chamber of a .38, or push small metal cylinders into a recalcitrant .22 clip. If you are kissing His Lordship, well, are his lips smooth or rough? What's his shirt (or his bare, muscular chest) feel like?

See all my historical novels @

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Fantasy or s/f writers— you know you’ve got setting work to do which is far beyond the average. If you are on a distant planet, your special world will need an almost total re-imagining, because nothing would be familiar. This leaves a lot of scope for exercising your imagination, but you’ve got to be careful to construct an environment that’s inwardly consistent.  If there are many distinct and unusual plants and animals, and/or geological anomalies, magical spells, etc. you might want to write a crib sheet for yourself, so that you don’t become lost in the richness of your own creation.

Another way of attacking the business of creating a setting is what I call the “day in a life” exercise. That is, from the moment you get up in the morning until your head hits the pillow at night, spend one day really examining all the little routines you and/or others have, no matter how mundane — from brushing teeth to shining shoes, ironing, running errands, shopping, cooking, taking care of pets or organizing children, commuting to work etc. At work, we all develop routines which fill out the day in every office, hospital, factory or wherever. It’s easy to see that these slices of daily life are fodder for a writer of contemporary stories, but they can also provide a taking-off place for any novelist.

 What does your character do? Do they work for a living?  Or are they lords or ladies? If they are 16th century people, do they brush their teeth—and if so, with what? If a character is a servant in a great house, or an American Indian, or if they are the very eligible Lord Brimstone-Fire—how exactly do these folk spend their days?

It should be obvious that the aspiring historical novelist be well-grounded in manners of the period chosen. If you aren’t—pause and start researching. Afterward, you will instantly appreciate how much easier your story-telling flows. All kinds of questions will be answered. Is a maid permitted to look up from scrubbing the floor when her mistress passes by? Where do meals come from?  Who serves/prepares it? What food is available in that particular time period? If your character goes to the kitchen, what’s the room look like? What utensils and equipment are present? Where does the water come from? How often do your characters bathe and what is required in order to obtain hot water?

You really should do that research—or you won’t have a leg to stand on. Nowadays even casual readers are also watching the History Channel. For an example of how this has changed, I read a romance back in the early 80’s in which a hero and heroine make love on top of an upright at Stonehenge. This took more suspension of belief than I could muster—although it was okay with some long ago editor. If there had been magic involved and they'd levitated up there, it might have worked despite the acrobatic comedy factor of the narrow space, still, I don’t think this would pass with today's more sophisticated readers.



~~Juliet Waldron

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Writing Life Self Care

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"...watching the wheels go round and round..."

 The quote is from a post-Beatles John Lennon song, because I'm in a similar dropped out, meditative State. The New Englander inside my head keeps yelling that I "ought" and "should" do lots of things, like mow and mop and scoop cat poop and write and call my repugnant congressman, so maybe what I've got currently is simply Sloth.  Who knows? I'm not a Spring time Optimist--especially this spring, where Ragnarok--at least--apparently just around the corner for our poor old 21st Century world.

Lying fallow is part of the writing life, it seems, every bit as much as the obsessed hustle of those "creative" moments, when The Spirit of Tell Me a Story takes possession. I'm still a writer, though, even if nothing is coming out, information is always coming in, whether it's just this year's peonies, lanky from over-dosing on fertilizer (I think) and the record 12 months of rain-rain-rain we've just logged here in PA, or the burst of color around the base of the Witch Hazel. Here are little moments of lovely that I'm collecting a memory of for later.

.

May into June  I always seem to be waiting for something. I'm wondering if it's because 50+ years ago, my new husband and I were living in a basement apartment in Boston. I was awaiting the birth of a first child. We were taking time off from college, having our baby and getting our feet under us a married couple. It was hot as the hinges of hell before a/c there in the city, and I, sweaty and fat, ironed my husbands shirts in a hallway which connected the three rooms in which we lived.

It was also the summer of the Boston Strangler, so being alone in a basement apartment for hours every day was--let us say--unnerving. We didn't have a television, only a radio, but enough scary news came, on the hour, via that. I'll never forget the moments of stepping out into the hall, listening for the sound of human activity in the laundry-cum-trash bin-area, and, finally, after deciding the coast was clear, turning and swiftly locking the door behind me before running as fast as a heavily pregnant 19 year old can go upstairs to the lobby. It was not a transition I looked forward to. I walked along the burning sidewalks to the Shop Rite many blocks away with my little, happily anticipating the shade of each and every ragged city tree.

I spent a lot of head time in either past or future back then--the mysterious trial of labor lay ahead of me as well as the gender surprise which, in those days, only came upon the birth of the baby. An only child and a bookworm, my education came not from female relatives or neighbors, but from Alan Guttmacher's Pregnancy & Childbirth, as well as a then revolutionary English book called Natural Childbirth, by Dick Grantly.

At the clinic, when I asked about this method, I was cautioned rather sharply that "American Women are too weak for that."  An epidural, I was informed, was the closest I could get to "natural."  I also had a well-worn copy of The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding, loaned to me by a mother of eight who my husband used to baby sit for. In the end, the anticipated drama of "going into labor," --such a standard of books and movies--never happened. One day, I rode the bus to the hospital and then was required to stay. By the time they'd given me the epidural, my son had practically arrived, so, in the end, I was glad I'd geekily studied the Grantly book with care and had learned some strategies to deal with what I was supposed to be "too weak" to endure.

Time has passed, lots of it! Those childbirth stories I can tell are part of history, fifty years past, tales that are triggered by birthdays and Call The Midwife. That hapless younger self is gone, replaced by one that is older, wiser, but doubtless just as hapless as ever. This body hurts for no discernible reason at times, but that's apparently the new normal, as entropy takes hold. We all know the jokes: "Past your sell-by date" etc. I've got several stories begun--two series books I want to complete--but it's all on hold.

Zauberkraft: Black

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(And Where oh Where is Zauberkraft: Green?)

The characters have walked away; they aren't speaking to me, not telling me their "thrilling tales of yesteryear." I used to fret when this happened, to do writing exercises and tricks to jump-start the flow. One thing I've learned over the years, though is that worrying doesn't solve a single thing. I've also learned that sometimes, sitting on the patio, watching the clouds flowing this way, and then that, while the  jet stream tries to figure out what it's trying to accomplish in this part of Pennsylvania feels sufficient. 

Here I sit, enough to eat, roof over my head, surrounded by green--the weary old trees with holes full of starlings and woodpeckers, and the spry young trees, ones "I've known from nut and acorn" like the Ent, Treebeard, in LOTR.  It's sufficient, the light and the green.

           "To see a world in a grain of sand and heaven in a wild flower
             Hold infinity in the palm of your hand and eternity in an hour."
                ~~William Blake
                https://www.brainyquote.com/authors/william_blake

  
I've realized The Muse will come back when (and if) She/He/It feels like it. In the meantime, try on a dragon tail; lighten up, reminisce with small pieces concerning pains and pleasures past, enjoy your bright little spark of human consciousness--and scribble on!   

~~Juliet Waldron
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Writers need exercise - by Vijaya Schartz

Sitting at a keyboard all day, every day, is not conducive to inspiration or good health. Unfortunately, writers tend to just sit and type, so engrossed in their stories that they forget there is a world around them. Unaware of time constraints (except for deadlines) they remain sedentary. Even when they do not write, they are still sitting, promoting on social media, writing blogs.

Sometimes it's difficult to find the time or even the energy to move or go outside. We all know we should exercise, but we find excuses, mostly valid and logical ones, for postponing and procrastinating. One day, I will exercise. When this book is finished... when I'm done with this series...

There was a time in my life when I traveled a lot, exercised a lot, climbed mountains, jumped out of planes, surfed, practiced Martial Arts. Of course, I was not published at the time and had no deadlines, or obligations. I enjoyed accumulating the experiences that now enrich my writing.

For me, it has been over a decade since I practiced any physical activity on a regular basis. So, this fall, I decided to break out of my funk and take care of my body. Nothing drastic, nothing extreme. I was looking for regularity, something I could stick to. Something with buddy support. Two writer friends recently started Tai-Chi classes near my residence, and I joined their class. One of them goes hiking on Sundays, and I decided to join her as well. Yes, it's the right season for hiking, since I live near Phoenix, in Arizona.

I also had to establish a writing schedule around these activities, to make sure my writing would not suffer. I quickly discovered that having a regular schedule encouraged me to write faster. I write mornings, while my mind is fresh and agile, and it's my first priority of the day. Then I exercise, promote, and fulfill my other obligations as a writer.

Since I started exercising again, I discovered that I am more prolific, and inspiration comes easier. I'm glad I established this routine. I already feel better, stronger, younger, more energetic, and I love my life. So, this January, stop making excuses, and start taking care of yourself. You will like living healthy.

And as a reward for reading this, PRINCESS OF BRETAGNE, Book 1 in the Curse of the Lost Isle medieval fantasy romance series, is free in kindle through today. If you like immortal strong women, the Viking invasions, or Celtic legends, don't miss it.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B007K1EGAM

And this series will be complete with the release of Book 8, Angel of Lusignan, in January. That book is already in pre-order at Amazon HERE

Check out the entire series on its new page on Amazon HERE

Vijaya Schartz
 Blasters, Swords, Romance with a Kick
 http://www.vijayaschartz.com
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Pantser Confessions

I never thought I could get myself into such a tangle in the course of writing a plain, old-fashioned traditional romance. This book has taken a lot longer than I'd projected, but I think I've finally reached “The End.” After the editor gets it, there may yet prove to be a few slips between the cup and the lip, but that's the way it's been ever since I started this story, a sequel to Hand-Me-Down Bride, which is a story about a German mail order bride, brought to Pennsylvania to marry a wealthy older man. 

Another book, set in Pennsylvania farm country, in the home of the now happily married older sister, in the time just after the Civil War, looked, at first glance, to be a snap. A nice title, Butterfly Bride,  jumped into my head, instead of waiting until the last second to put in an appearance, like so many titles do. 

As you may know, in the writing world, I’m (more or less) a "pantser".  This used to feel easy-peasey, but in this case, it turned out to be a case of "not so much".  There was a sketchy  outline at first but the characters spent a lot of time avoiding me, going into hiding after I wrote the first four chapters.

It’s taken a long time to get to know anything about them.  And I know I’ve blamed the heroine, Miss Elfrieda Neiman, casually called “Elfie.” She’s very pretty and rather immature, this Butterfly Bride. She's not the only one who has fluttered around, though, refusing to follow my nice neat outline, not by a long chalk.

To be fair to my girl, Elfie has three suitors, all quite different, and each one offering things/experiences which are attractive. Of course, all of them are decidedly good looking. 

Bachelor #1 is filthy rich--or at least, lives as if he is. He's the heir-apparent sort of prospect a pretty lady from a down-on-their luck family is supposed to jump at. Bachelor #2 is a muscular smith/farrier, a veteran and proud owner of a winning trotting horse, whose large family works the timber on the nearby ridge. Bachelor #3 is a thoughtful, musical, educated man of the cloth, who lost a leg and nearly died fighting at the Battle of Spotsylvania.

All three of these characters, as soon as I began to imagine them beyond their cardboard cutouts, revealed unexplored depths as well as some serious demons. I was forced to confront the fact that it takes more exposition to establish characters who were so determined to pop into three dimensions.

As a result, what should have been a nice little bare-bones sequel got complicated. I’ve been enduring months of those writer’s nights where you go to bed and lie half-awake, running scenes in your head—some of which, by the light of day, turn out not to be so great. And that’s a pain in the you-know-what, because, despite remaining sleepless until 3 a.m., the nagging problem/plot point remains without a solution.

What are they saying? Where are they now? If it’s a party—and with pretty gad-about Elfie and her social young friends, it often seemed to be. Who else is there in the crowd scene that these willful characters have dragged me into? Are they dancing, eating, or just hanging out?  And, more to the point, what are they thinking? 

Finally, however, after a final week long marathon of 10 hour days and "No More waffling, Mrs. Waldron--FINISH THE STORY", my young heroine started to grow up a tad and at last settled upon Mr. Right. She just needed a few more jolts, some of those "learning experiences" which we all dread so much, to discover the truth of what had always been right there, inside her heart.

 

Juliet Waldron

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