Voices by Ginger Simpson

I heard this older song today by Chris Young and some of it really relates to how I feel when I'm writing.  I recently promised Jude, our publisher, a book by December 31st.  I have it started, but now I have to tune out the voices of Cassie and Will from Deceived in order to get Sarah's Soul finished in time for the fall deadline.

I'm sure I explained in a previous post the difference between Pantsers and Plotters.  I, unfortunately, rely on voices in my head to help me write.  Without all that chatter, I'm at a loss.  I've tried plotting and it just doesn't work for me, so all the people talking in my head are really a blessing...at times.

For me being a "pantser" is akin to having someone tell me a story.  I listen and jot down the words, but I never know where I'm headed until I get there.  It's a lot more exciting, in my opinion, to having a chart of some type that outlines your entire novel for you.  I prefer to be surprised.  The only problem is when the characters are done, so is the book.  I've written some short, some long, and some in between.  You never know how long creating a novel is going to take when you're a pantser.

 I have to admit I do take notes now because my memory has faded with age.  There is nothing worse than forgetting the heroes name and putting in one from another book or having your heroine suddenly gaze through blue eyes instead of green with gold flecks.

If you're a pantser too, you'll be able to relate to this video.  If you aren't, you probably will anyhow, since all those words of wisdom your parents and grandparents shared with you still run through your mind.  I can hear my granny to this day telling me all little boys wanted to do was get in my panties.  I could never figure out what they'd do once they got them on.  How embarassing.  I never wanted to wear Jockey shorts.  Now that I'm older, I realize she was warning me to be a lady.  *lol*

So...I may be camping for the next few months, but I'll be working on Sarah's Hope.  This will be sort of continuation of Sarah's Heart and Passion.  Here's an except closer to the end of that book so you'll better relate to what Sarah is sharing with me now.  She's a chatty one, for sure.

“Really.” He (Wolf) caressed her cheek. “I love you Sarah Collins, and I’d be honored if you would consider spending this life with me. I might have been unselfish enough to have given you up once, but not twice.”

Glee squeezed Sarah’s heart. She’d lived through pure hell in a dream, found the love of her life only to lose him, and now she had a second chance. No way was she missing out on the passion she felt for this man. Locking her arms around his neck, she rested her cheek against his chest, drinking in his warmth, his smell, his feel. “I love you, too, Nathaniel Grey Wolf Elder, and I can’t think of anyone I’d rather spend eternity with…even if it’s on a cattle ranch in Missouri.”

Please check my website for places where you can find this book, and most likely my upcoming one.

                            

http://www.bookswelove.net

Mothers and Mortality by Stuart R. West

A year ago, my mother had open-heart surgery. I was just as terrified as her. Nothing makes you confront your own mortality more than having a parent--someone you've taken for granted all your life, always expecting to be there--go under the knife. I felt like I'd be on the operating table alongside her.

Months before, my mom waffled about having the procedure.  Her aorta was closing fast, surgery the only option. But my mother elevates stubbornness to an art-form. She'd said, "Maybe it's best to leave it in God's hands and let me live the rest of my life as is." 

"Your grandchildren are counting on you," I'd told her. Absolutely shameless, sure, but I played the "grandkid card" nonetheless.

It worked. Mom decided to have the procedure. I told my winter-bound Florida "snow-bird" mother to get her dancing heels ready 'cause the procedure would go great.

The family gathered on the day of the operation, three sons and their families. We sat in the cold, sterile waiting room, chugging bad coffee, killing time by reminiscing. Every embarrassing tale from my childhood was dragged out and beaten like a rug. Then we had even more bad coffee.

The operation went well. So well the surgeon pronounced the procedure as "boring."  "Boring's" good in this case.

Hours after the operation, my wife and I visited Mom in Intensive Care.

And I totally lost it.

I wasn't prepared.

My mother, dear God, I didn't recognize her.

She uttered disembodied, agonized "oh's" every few seconds, her eyes wandering, milky and lost. She looked like she'd lost twenty pounds in ten hours. I wanted to hold her, kiss her cheek, afraid I'd break her.

There was no way of letting her know how much I loved her.

Later that same day, I visited again, dreading what I'd find.

I couldn't believe the difference. Sitting up in a chair, she welcomed me. I helped feed her breakfast, administer her medicine, scratch her neck. When she started griping about things, I thought, "Yes! My warrior mother's back!"

All past grievances, annoyances, racial and political differences I'd had with her jettisoned out of the room.

My Mom. The angel who raised me, formed me, talked me through things. Protected me from monsters under the bed and monsters in the school yard.

I cradled her head as gently as I could, said, "Mom, I love you. I'll do anything I can for you."

*** 

My new Books We Love novel can be found here: Ghosts of Gannaway

Book trailer for Ghosts of Gannaway:

Do We Ever Really Grow Up" by Nancy M Bell

 

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 Lately I've been thinking about old times when I was a kid. Not sure what's brought this tide of nostalgia sweeping over me. It got me to thinking about how no matter how old I get chronologically I can still revert back to the child I was in an instant. Sometimes it's the smell of moth balls that takes me back to opening up the cottage at the lake in the spring time. The memories are so vivid it seems like I should just be able to step through the veils and become part of the scene again. There's people living in my memory that I'd love to talk to again and walk down the old roads again.

Just this week I somehow came across a posting on Facebook and learned that a person I knew many years ago had passed away. I never knew him well because he was a bit older than me. But his cottage was on the same lake as ours and I kind of grew up with him in the peripheral circles of my friends. I knew who he was, he knew who I was, and we always smiled and waved at each other. I had the hugest crush on him for years. Even though I haven't been to the lake since the early 1980's and frankly haven't thought about this guy for literally years, the news of his death saddened me very much. I think somehow in a corner of my mind I believe that all those years of memories are still living and breathing somewhere out there in the ether. In my heart we will all be forever young and vibrant.

Silly, I know. Sometimes the urge to return to those places is so strong. Almost as if I believe if I go to the places that held us then, that somehow some vestige of beings will still exist there. All those summer nights we built a bonfire on the beach and sat on the big granite rock and sang songs. All people I still love and miss even though I haven't seen them in years. I still remember the white violets growing in the ditch by the gravel road where I used to walk with Gramma Breckon and her little dog Mitzi. She wasn't really my gramma, but she was part of my extended family.

It's not just people, either. All the horses I have ever known still live in my memories. Realistically, I know they are mostly dead and gone now, but if I close my eyes I can still see their dear faces and feel them under me as we ride down old trails with old friends who are no longer with us. Each horse is subtly different in their movement and the connection to me through the reins. In my heart I am eternally sixteen. Now if only I could be sixteen with the knowledge of the world I have now, what a difference that would make.

I'm not sure I really want to grow up and leave all that behind me. The magic I felt the first time I rode down the ravine in Scarborough under a canopy of newly minted spring leaves, the air around me all green and gold and speckled with sunlight. The ravine is still there but there's a parking lot for the subway where the barn used to stand. The river is all concreted and civilized, but the wildness still exists.

In those days I wrote poetry and scribbled stories in duo tang folders on binder paper. I still have them, though I cringe to read some of it now. White Lightning- about a horse of course. Trails of Life which wound the lives of an old cowboy, a wild stallion and an twisted pine tree together. Wrote that in Grade 7 I think. It might actually be worth dusting off and doing a major overhaul on. Or not... It would have helped my self esteem at the time to know I'd actually be a real live published author. Late last night I finished the first book in a new series. It will be my eighth published novel. I still remember the thrill when I got my first contract. Something I thought would never happen.

The new novel is called The Selkie's Song and is the first book in the Arabella's Secret series. It tells the story of the heroine in my The Cornwall Adventures series grandmother. Unlike the Laurel storied, this series in not YA Fantasy, but Paranormal Romance. I may at some time do a G rated version of the story for those younger readers. Watch for The Selkie's Song in September from Books We Love.

Until next month...Oh wait, I forgot to tell you. Next month at this time I will be (should be LOL) all packed and ready to go on a Hawaiian cruise! Fifteen days of pampering and sitting on the balcony and watching the waves go by. Time to get in some reading and relaxing. I'll tell you all about it in October. Come November it will be time to update you on the Surrey International Writers Conference and shenanigans I get up to there very year. Until then Salient Be well and may you be in Heaven an hour before the devil knows you're dead.