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We wish you well in your journey.
Members of our PREMIUM-MEMBERSHIP group would eventually receive all of these services and more. Sign up for the membership at, indiewritersupport.com/premium-membership.
Writers are terribly self-centered.
Now, don’t get offended. I’m not really talking about all of you. I’m pretty much talking about me.
Strangely enough, I don’t think anyone in my non-writer life would label me an egoist. Or an egotist, for that matter. I had to look up the difference, but there isn’t much of a distinction, as far as I could tell.* Anyway, I can’t picture someone calling me either one of those. At least not to my face.
With my family, colleagues at my day job, and with neighbors and friends, I try to be a good listener. I try to be generous. I take time to be there for them, to encourage them when they’re down, to support them when they’re mourning. I care about family and friends and frequently make sacrifices for them.
I sound pretty great, don’t I?
Ahem. Read on.
In my writerly world, I am horrified to admit that I have recently come to learn I’m a HUGE egoist.
Look at the first few paragraphs in this piece. How many times did I use the word “I?” TWELVE! It’s always all about what I think, or what I noticed, or what I wrote. Isn’t it? (Of course, I guess it might be hard to write about what you think or notice. LOL.)
I started to ponder this recently when I had a confrontation with a friend, and she pointed out to me how much I write about **me**. After a bit of soul searching, I realized she was right.
But it got me to thinking.
I try to be a good guy. I really do. This is in spite of all the stupid things I do, like dribbling my red herbal tea on the new carpet at work yesterday (I spent an hour cleaning it) and consistently forgetting to attach files to emails. If it can be screwed up, I’ll do it.
So, I’m an egoist and a klutz.
That’s not all. No. Not only am I all of the above, I’m mean.
REALLY mean.
I am merciless to my characters. I put them through the wringer time and time again, without care for their suffering. I torment them. I make them endure horrible losses. I hurt ANIMALS, for God’s sake. Okay, so I rescue them in the end, but what kind of a jerk does that to poor, defenseless animals?
Sigh.
I suppose we writers can always pretend to sit back and be the philosophical documenter, the great observer, the quintessential Hemmingway-esque witness of life. But however life presents itself - brutal or tender, seedy or majestic - all fiction comes from our inside our own minds. It’s all about how we see it. How we imagine. How we think our characters would feel.
Isn’t it?
So, how do we compensate for being such egoists?
It’s not as bad as it sounds. It certainly isn’t hopeless, and I’m pretty sure we can redeem ourselves.
Maybe we can find redemption by setting good examples through our characters' actions while they're in the midst of dashing here or there during the page turning suspense. One thing I never intended to do with my three mystery series was to teach lessons about nurturing a family, tending to a disabled wife, dealing with trauma or loss, or being a good father or grandfather. Those things just found their way into my books, because my characters do that stuff in their everyday lives. To my surprise, my readers have come back and thanked me for doing just that. It humbles me to think that by including some amusing family scenes in the middle of the mayhem, I might have actually done some good. One fellow actually told me I made him a better dad. And another wrote to say I got him through his chemo. Like I said, it’s all pretty darned humbling.
Can examples like these make up for my weaknesses and faults? For that great big ego? For my incessant ranting about me???
Man. I sure hope so.
Aaron Paul Lazar
Egoist, noun
1. self-centered or selfish person (opposed to altruist).
2. an arrogantly conceited person; egotist.
Egotist, noun
1. a conceited, boastful person.
2. a selfish person; egoist.
copyright 2015, Aaron Paul Lazar
Books by multi-award winning author, Aaron Lazar:
DOUBLE FORTÉ (print, eBook, audio book)
UPSTAGED (print, eBook, audio book)
TREMOLO: CRY OF THE LOON (print, eBook, audio book)
MAZURKA (print, eBook, audio book)
FIRESONG (print, eBook, audio book)
DON’T LET THE WIND CATCH YOU (print, eBook, audio book)
THE LIARS’ GALLERY (print, eBook, audio book)
SPIRIT ME AWAY (print, eBook, audio book)
UNDER THE ICE (print, eBook)
LADY BLUES (print, eBook, and audio book)
HEALEY'S CAVE (print, eBook, audio book)
TERROR COMES KNOCKING (print, eBook, audio book)
FOR KEEPS (print, eBook, audio book)
FOR THE BIRDS (print, eBook, audio book)
ESSENTIALLY YOURS (print, eBook, audio book)
SANCTUARY (print, eBook, audio book)
BETRAYAL (print, eBook, audio book)
LOVE STORIES
THE SEACREST (print, eBook, and audio book)
THE SEACROFT (coming soon)
ROMANTIC THRILLERS
DEVIL’S LAKE (print, eBook, and audio book)
DEVIL’S CREEK (coming soon)
WRITING ADVICE:
WRITE LIKE THE WIND, volumes 1, 2, 3 (audio books)
Aaron Paul Lazar writes to soothe his soul. An award-winning, bestselling Kindle author of three addictive mystery series, thrillers, love stories, and writing guides, Aaron enjoys the Genesee Valley countryside in upstate New York, where his characters embrace life, play with their dogs and grandkids, grow sumptuous gardens, and chase bad guys. Visit his website at http://www.lazarbooks.com and watch for his upcoming releases, THE SEACROFT: a love story and DEVIL’S CREEK.
AWARDS:
The Seacrest
2014 Best Beach Book Festival WINNER, Romance category
2013 ForeWord Book Awards, Romance, FINALIST
Double Forté
Tremolo: cry of the loon –
For the Birds
Essentially Yours
Terror Comes Knocking
For Keeps
Spirit Me Away
When I first started writing over a decade ago, I exulted in every new dialog tag I could think up. I preened over “he croaked” and purred over “she grumbled.” Finding new and inventive ways to say “he said” became my quest.
My early works were peppered with gloats, murmurs, and barks. I even started a most coveted (only by me) list.
How many words can you think of to say “he said” or “she said?” Here are some, in no particular order:
Mumbled
Murmured
Expostulated
Grunted
Groaned
Whispered
Purred
Spat
Huffed
Croaked
Barked
Choked
Queried
Cackled
Harrumphed
Stuttered
Muttered
Moaned
Hissed
Grumbled
Whined
Sang
Twittered
Tittered
Griped
Yelped
Cried
Stammered
Shrieked
Crooned
Wheedled
Retorted
Pressured
Cajoled
How many more can you think of? There are probably hundreds.
Okay, now that you’ve wracked your brain for tantalizing tags, let me tell you one very important lesson.
DON’T * EVER * USE * THEM.
What? Such brilliance? Such innovative thought?
Yeah. Sorry. Forget it. Never use anything but “said,” “asked,” or an occasional “whisper” or “mumble.”
Once in a great while, if you feel you really need it, slip in a “spat” or “croaked.” But I’m here to tell you that dialog tags, for the most part, should be invisible. “Said,” is invisible. “Asked,” is invisible. “Barked” stops the flow of the dialog. Anything that makes your story stutter needs to be eliminated, including these juicy but totally distracting tags.
Got that part?
Now that I’ve encouraged you to use “said,” I’m going to retract it.
Forgive me, but that’s just the way it is. If you can avoid a tag altogether–through the clever use of action “beats”– then more power to you.
Here’s an example of changing a passage from lush useless tags, to he said/she said tags, to using beats instead of tags:
Case A:
I maneuvered the van around the next pothole, and was about to congratulate myself for my superior driving skills when a series of washboard ruts nearly popped the fillings out of my teeth.
“Want me to take over?” Tony wheedled.
“Why? Am I making you nervous?” I retorted, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white.
“Of course not, sweetums. You’re a great driver. Just thought you might want a break,” he crooned.
We rounded the bend and the road disappeared. The crater before us could hold three elephants. Big elephants.
“Whoa! Watch it, honey. Don’t wanna blow a tire,” Tony groaned.
Case B
I maneuvered the van around the next pothole, and was about to congratulate myself for my superior driving skills when a series of washboard ruts nearly popped the fillings out of my teeth.
“Want me to take over?” Tony said, leaning on the dashboard.
“Why? Am I making you nervous?” I said with a frown.
All smiles, he said, “Of course not, sweetums. You’re a great driver. Just thought you might want a break.”
We rounded the bend and the road disappeared. The crater before us could hold three elephants. Big elephants.
“Whoa! Watch it, honey. Don’t wanna blow a tire,” Tony said in a panic.
Case C
I maneuvered the van around the next pothole, and was about to congratulate myself for my superior driving skills when a series of washboard ruts nearly popped the fillings out of my teeth.
Tony braced himself on the dash. “Want me to take over?”
My knuckles turned white. “Why? Am I making you nervous?”
“Of course not, sweetums.” He forced an innocent smile. “You’re a great driver. Just thought you might want a break.”
We rounded the bend and the road disappeared. The crater before us could hold three elephants. Big elephants.
Tony’s frozen smile barely hid his panic. “Whoa! Watch it, honey. Don’t wanna blow a tire.”
***
These examples aren’t beautifully written or perfectly rendered. But they should give you the gist of what I’m trying to illustrate today.
Add your own examples below, if you’d like. Let’s see some Case A, B, and C’s in the comments section!
copyright Aaron Lazar 2015
Aaron Paul Lazar writes to soothe his soul. An award-winning, bestselling Kindle author of three addictive mystery series, thrillers, love stories, and writing guides, Aaron enjoys the Genesee Valley countryside in upstate New York, where his characters embrace life, play with their dogs and grandkids, grow sumptuous gardens, and chase bad guys. Visit his website at http://www.lazarbooks.com and watch for his upcoming releases, THE SEACROFT: a love story and DEVIL’S CREEK.
How long will it take before we can burn images stored in our brain onto a computer? Do you think it will ever come to pass? I hope so, because even though I used to dabble in art in college, I never inherited the landscape gene. I could do portraits, from live models or pictures, but I didn’t have the knack to capture a glowing sunset or wavy grasses, or a frothy seascape. Perhaps, with the proper training, I could make a decent stab at it, but for now the only way I can immortalize scenes of nature is through the lens or with my pen. Figuratively speaking, that is, since I haven’t written books with a pen and paper in many years.
Lately, I’ve been lamenting potentially award-winning photos that I’ve missed. Lost shots. Those showstoppers, the gorgeous scenes I couldn’t acquire because of unsafe driving conditions or a timetable that didn’t allow lollygagging. I still see them, clear as cold lake water, simmering and shimmering in my mind’s eye.
The first lost shot occurred one fall, many years ago. We’d been scurrying around all morning, getting ready to deliver chairs to our customers. One of my side jobs, besides engineering, writing, and photography, is chair caning. My wife does the hand caning, and I do the rush, splint, flat reed, and pressed cane. Every Saturday morning, we load up the van with chairs and head for Honeoye Falls and East Bloomfield, where we deliver them to the shops that hire us. My wife and daughter were with me that morning, since we were going to squeeze in a little breakfast at George’s, our favorite small town. We were hungry. We were late. And I forgot my camera. Of course, this was before iPhones with their handy dandy cameras.
It happened only five minutes from the house, and I’ll never stop kicking myself for not turning around to go back. The night had been cold, and the morning dawned sunny. Frost crackled under our shoes as we tromped across the lawn, and there was a freshness to the air, heightened by the icy morning. We traveled north on Lakeville-Groveland Road, and when we passed Booher Hill, I glanced eastward. This is one of my favorite stretches of land, where multiple layers of trees, fields, and hills delineate the ridges that cradle Conesus Lake. When the sun rises over the eastern shore, it kisses the lake valley with rose, orange, lavender, and hot yellow.
This morning, however, the sun had risen hours earlier. But what greeted my eager eyes was not the sun, but a cloud.
I’m talking about a fully-fleshed, cotton ball cloud. It sat directly on top of the lake, lying like a thick eiderdown on the water. This cloud was not filmy, like mist or fog. It wasn’t transparent. It was rock solid puffy white, and it rose at least 1000 feet over the lake, stretching north-south along fourteen miles of the narrow trench carved many years ago by a glaciers. I’ve never seen anything like it before, and fear I’ll never see it again.
The memory is sharp, but I really wish I could show it to you.
The next two scenes that haunt me happened in winter. The frustrating part was that I had the camera with me both times, but just couldn’t stop because it wasn’t safe to pull over on the snowy roads.
The first was a scene I pass every day on the way to work. Normally, I admire the textures and contrasts of this spot with an almost casual, see-it-every-day insouciance. I do take pleasure in the old barns, dilapidated farmhouse, antique cars in the open sided shelter, and the young Thoroughbred who paces in a small paddock. And each time I pass the old milk shed, I admire the faded white paint and the attractive timeworn look it has from years of exposure to sun and wind. My fingers itch for the camera here most mornings, but it’s private property, 6:30 in the morning, and its positioned near a country intersection, which makes it a bit awkward to stop and snap pictures of this venerable old building.
This particular morning, however, snow blasted sideways across the road in such ferocity and beauty, it quickened my heartbeat. It was a fierce burst of white, constant and rippling, blinding whoever crossed its path. The contrast electrified me. Deep turquoise metal-sided barn, cement block barn nearby, white post and board fence swaying in the storm…they were simultaneously shadowed and revealed by the spraying snow.
But I didn’t stop. I worried about arriving late to work, and the sides of the road looked very slippery. So… another lost shot.
Later that week, they closed the whole county for whiteouts. I had to get home, I was determined to get home, and I sure as heck didn’t want to spend the night in my office. So, I spent an hour and a half dodging blinding whiteouts, and finally made my perilous way down Groveland Road, almost home. Another half mile, and I’d be safe in the driveway.
And then I saw them.
Snow devils. Cyclones of white. Billowing and flowing over the hills to the west, up the sides of the valley, rolling across the fields like massive sheet-white tornados.
My jaw dropped. My insides thrilled. And I gripped the steering wheel tighter to stay in the snowy lane. I didn’t get the shot. Once again.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not really complaining. I’ve captured dozens of deeply satisfying photos and have been blessed with pastoral scenes of breath-taking beauty year-round. I’ve snapped hundreds and hundreds of photos. But those lost shots… they keep haunting me. Which, I guess, is why I’ve written about them today. When visions haunt me, they spill out of my fingertips.
There is one consolation. The images still reside in my brain. And someday, maybe soon, I’ll download them and be able to show you. ;o)
P.S. The photos above were shots I actually captured, thank goodness!
***
Books by multi-award winning author, Aaron Lazar:
DOUBLE FORTÉ (print, eBook, audio book)
UPSTAGED (print, eBook, audio book)
TREMOLO: CRY OF THE LOON (print, eBook, audio book)
MAZURKA (print, eBook, audio book)
FIRESONG (print, eBook, audio book)
DON’T LET THE WIND CATCH YOU (print, eBook, audio book)
UNDER THE ICE (print, eBook)
HEALEY'S CAVE (print, eBook, audio book)
TERROR COMES KNOCKING (print, eBook, audio book)
FOR KEEPS (print, eBook, audio book)
FOR THE BIRDS (print, eBook, audio book)
ESSENTIALLY YOURS (print, eBook, audio book)
SANCTUARY (print, eBook, audio book)
LOVE STORIES
THE SEACREST (print, eBook, and audio book)
THE SEACROFT (coming soon)
ROMANTIC THRILLERS
DEVIL’S LAKE (print, eBook, and audio book)
DEVIL’S CREEK (coming soon)
WRITING ADVICE:
WRITE LIKE THE WIND, volumes 1, 2, 3 (audio books)
Aaron Paul Lazar writes to soothe his soul. An award-winning, bestselling Kindle author of three addictive mystery series, thrillers, love stories, and writing guides, Aaron enjoys the Genesee Valley countryside in upstate New York, where his characters embrace life, play with their dogs and grandkids, grow sumptuous gardens, and chase bad guys. Visit his website at http://www.lazarbooks.com and watch for his upcoming releases, THE SEACROFT: a love story and DEVIL’S CREEK.
I recorded The Grammy's because I wanted to watch The Hunger Games for the first time. The Hunger Games represented one faction of society having control over another, to me. That movie had a huge impact on me as I fear it is a sign of the times. My son was walking to the convenience store, at my request, yesterday and a white man drove up, blocking his way, and accosted him. He screamed all kinds of ignorant statements because he was tired of “Drug Dealing Niggers,” walking down his street. We called the police and they went out to the man's house.
This ignorant man proceeded to attack the police because he feels the Police in our community are doing an awful job of keeping “Niggers” out of Lake Helen, Fl. where I live. He said the Police need to stop “Niggers” from moving here and especially stop “Niggers” from walking down his street! He also stated he did not like the way my son dresses, particularly the black “Doo Rag.” my son wears on his head. My son, at the young age of 31, has a badly receding hair line that makes him self conscience and he wears that garment to hide it. This man was arrested but of course out in 24 hours. The convenience store my son walks to is the only nearby convenience store in our area and the route my son takes is the only only route to reach that store. We do not own or can afford a car and my son enjoys walking. Are we to give up our right to go to the store because he has to pass by that man's house? Does this man have the right to reach into our lives and control us? Do you think I should ask my son to go to the store again and sit home in fear of him becoming the next Trayvon Martin? This man stopped his car in front of our house tonight and waited. My eight year old Grandson ran to me frightened and screaming. As I ran to the living room and parted the curtain's he drove off. I am angry!
Trayvon Benjamin Martin (February 5, 1995 – February 26, 2012) was a 17-year-old African American from Miami Gardens, Florida who was fatally shot by George Zimmerman, a neighborhood watch volunteer, in Sanford, Florida. On the evening of February 26, Martin went to a convenience store and purchased candy and juice. As Martin returned from the store, he walked through a neighborhood and Zimmerman, a member of the community watch, spotted him and then followed Martin (despite being told not to do so by the police) on foot to ensure that Martin would not try to steal anything from the neighborhood. Moments later, there was an altercation between the two individuals in which Martin was shot in the chest. Zimmerman also blamed Martin's death on the fact that he was wearing a black hoodie.
This is going on all over the country!
Back to The Grammy's, Beyonce's stage setup for her rendition of the gospel standard "Precious Lord, Take My Hand" featured a wall of African-American men while they held their hands up, which is a nod to the "Hands up, don't shoot" campaign that came out of Ferguson. And Pharrell's "Happy" used his performance to shed light on not only Ferguson, but also on Trayvon Martin as well. Backup dancers donned black hoodies like the one that Martin wore when he was shot and killed in 2012, and broke out the "Hands up, don't shoot" gesture amidst the middle of their performance.
Precious Lord, take my hand,
Lead me on, let me stand,
I am tired, I am weak, I am worn;
Through the storm, through the night,
Lead me on to the light: Amen!
I am glad movies like, “Selma,” are still being made, people need reminding! But there were also Common and John Legend, weighed in when they performed "Glory," their contribution to the "Selma soundtrack. "That's why Rosa sat on the bus; that's why we walked through Ferguson with our hands up," Common said. The most explicit of the comments coming from The Grammy's came from Prince, who said, “BLACK LIVES MATTER.”
Several things happened this past week that astounded the literary world. Harper Lee is finally to publish her first novel. Yes, her first. To Kill a Mockingbird was actually her second novel. Her publisher encouraged her to write an earlier story from the protagonist’s view, that of a young Scout who observed her father, Atticus Finch, at work on a rape case. Thus was born the seminal work, To Kill a Mockingbird. Evidently, the book was discovered among Lee’s publisher’s papers and they decided to move forward and publish.
The next thing I witnessed is the only interview ever filmed of Flann O’Brien, or more popularly known by his pseudonym, Brian O’Nolan. We see an extremely soused author, slurring his words, and an empty bottle of whiskey nearby. He was so introverted that he had to get stinking to be able to withstand the pain of an interview. It was only a snippet and some are still out there desperately searching for the entire interview.
As I watched the news from my computer screen, seated alone in my office at home, I understood these two private people more than all the extroverted newscasters and literary reviewers and academics combined. I’m an introvert. I test toward the extreme side, but I have learned to withstand the exposure to the marketplace, however painful it may be. It isn’t that I don’t like people that I too shun public places as much as I possibly can. In fact, I do. Undoubtedly, more than most. There are many people I care so deeply about I hurt. I find myself moved to tears when I think of them or their problems they must endure.
I didn’t mean to get so heavy on a Monday, but these two remarkable introverts, Harper Lee and Flann O’Brien, have surfaced this past week to remind me of who I am, of all those like us, the introverted authors. I like the idea that today we have author communities, that we have a Sisters In Crime and Mystery Writers of America, and the many other author communities that have sprung up over the past few years. We support each other. Encourage each other. And it shouldn’t just be with a communal organization that we pay to belong to where one author supports another. It should be every author supports the other. We may not all be introverts like I am or Flann O’Brien, but we can listen and find a way to be there for the other. Perhaps Mr. O’Brien would not have had to drink himself into oblivion just to give an interview, or Ernest Hemingway find release in suicide if we had paid more attention.
I realize I rag on the worst of us, the vanity press author wannabes, but I do care about those who are the diamonds in the rough, the voices lost in the sea of egomanical and yet terrible writers. They should be heard and need encouragement. Go out and buy a book today. Buy that story told by someone who truly has talent. Write a review that comes from your heart. And, if you can, connect with them, encourage them so they don’t lose heart like the Ernest Hemingways or Flann O’Briens.
My readers often ask, “Are you Gus LeGarde?”
I laugh and tell them, “Hardly. Gus is a much better man than me.”
I genuinely mean it when I say it. But is it really true?
When I started writing the LeGarde Mystery series, I wanted to base Gus on my father – a wonderful Renaissance man and a talented pianist/music professor. At the time, he’d just passed away from cancer, and I was overwhelmed with grief. The idea of starting the series as a testimony to him was appealing, and it provided some great therapy.
Dad and I were a great deal alike. We both nurtured huge gardens, cooked, and loved kids and dogs. So, as I began to write, particularly in the first person POV, Gus ended up being a lot like me.
So, am I Gus LeGarde? And is he a better man that me?
Gus and I are very much alike. So much so that my friends always think it’s me in the stories, and I often get asked questions like, “What was the name of the book where you and Camille went to Europe with Siegfried?”
We do look alike. We have the same wavy dark hair with silver sprinkled at the temples. The same hazel eyes. The same shoe size. But he’s twenty pounds thinner and more fit than I am. Hey, I’m allowed to dream, right?
Gus and I grow expansive gardens, cook lush feasts for our families, adore our grandchildren, and dote on our dogs. We’re good husbands, and responsible citizens. We live in big old houses in the country, and are crazy about nature, particularly the Genesee Valley and Finger Lakes regions of upstate NY. We love to ride horses and love to swim. We devour mysteries and read in bed before going to sleep.
However, Gus can run for miles without getting out of breath. He can hold his own in a fistfight, lucky devil. I get winded if I jog for more than a half mile, and I’ve never been in a fistfight in my life. Call me a pacifist. I’ve always used words better than fists, I guess.
Gus can play a flawless Chopin etude without even looking at the music. His artistry is perfect, his skills precise. I struggle through the simplest Chopin waltz.
Gus is drawn to trouble, ferrets out the villains, and fights to uphold honor for the common good. I struggle to get through my day to day existence and only write about courage and upholding justice. I sure believe in it, but I don’t really participate, do I?
Let’s talk about church. Gus is a better parishioner than I ever was, even when I regularly attended our local Methodist church. He’s on all the committees; plays organ for church services when needed at local nursing homes and prisons, and is an outstanding parish leader. I used to do some of that, until the committees took up far too much of my writing time and we lost the best pastor we’d ever had. I became discouraged and let the organized religious part of my life go – especially when my grandchildren moved in and going to church meant losing precious hours with them. Right now, they’re foremost in my life. I know God understands. ;o) And I will go back to church when they’re older and life settles down a little. I miss it.
Wait just a minute, now. Gus has a lot more time than me, doesn’t he? Hmmm. There may be something to this line of reasoning. He lives five minutes away from his job where he teaches music at the local university. I drive 35 minutes each way to work, twice a day. That’s a lot of driving. After he teaches a few classes a day, he is free to hunt scoundrels and investigate evildoers to his heart’s content. I’m stuck at work at least eight hours a day.
Now I’m starting to get jealous. Which is really sick, since he’s my own invention.
Gus also has Siegfried, his gentle giant brother-in-law who chops his wood, mows the lawn, feeds the livestock, and cleans out the horse stalls. Wow. Gus really has it easy. No wonder he has time to chase down the villains!
I’m warming to this angle. Let’s see…
Gus has another advantage – Mrs. Adelaide Pierce! I’ll admit, I always wanted the “real” Mrs. Doubtfire, and I invented Adelaide because I longed for her in my own life. During the weekdays she shops, helps with the grandkids, does mountains of laundry, cooks meals, and cleans the house. Sigh. Those jobs fall to me most of the time, since my wife is disabled. And I do lovingly care for my sweetie pie, bringing her meals, monitoring her meds, and generally loving her a whole lot. We both weave chair seats on the side, to make extra money. Hey! There’s something Gus can’t do!
And I just thought of one more thing. I take photos. Some of them are nice. And Gus doesn’t have a clue about photography. He’s got a good eye for art, but he leaves the photography to his adopted father figure, Oscar Stone. But Oscar’s a better photographer than me. He’s published coffee table books galore. Wait a minute, let’s not get off on that tangent.
The next time a reader asks me if I’m Gus LeGarde, I might hesitate before spouting my usual answer.
We really are one and the same soul – with a few minor perturbations. His thoughts are my thoughts. When he mourns his first wife, I tap into the feelings of fear and grief I experienced when my wife almost died, when the threat of her demise hung over our family. When Gus mourns his father’s passing, it’s my grief he’s feeling. He cherishes his grandkids like I do mine, with the same fierce sense of adoration and protection I feel toward my little pals, Julian, Gordie, Isabella, and Christopher. And when he picks his sun-ripened tomatoes, or his juicy plums, or his aromatic basil, he’s raiding my garden. Each meal he cooks has been my real-life creation, and every book he reads I’ve read.
And there’s one important fact here we must address…I created Gus. He wouldn’t have “life” it it weren’t for me. Ha. So there!
It’s an interesting relationship, this author/character thing. Kind of crazy. And impossible to ignore. Now that I’ve analyzed it to death, though, I think I’ll get cracking and let Gus take me on another mission. ;o)
copyright 2015, Aaron Paul Lazar
***
To read more about Gus LeGarde, please visit http://www.lazarbooks.com.
Aaron Paul Lazar writes to soothe his soul. An award-winning, bestselling Kindle author of three addictive mystery series, thrillers, love stories, and writing guides, Aaron enjoys the Genesee Valley countryside in upstate New York, where his characters embrace life, play with their dogs and grandkids, grow sumptuous gardens, and chase bad guys. Visit his website at http://www.lazarbooks.com and watch for his upcoming releases, THE SEACROFT: a love story and DEVIL’S CREEK.
Writing in English is difficult, because it's an ever-disintegrating language.
Jonathan Swift, writer and dean of St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Dublin, complained to the Earl of Oxford in 1712: “Our Language is extremely imperfect. Its daily Improvements are by no means in proportion to its daily Corruptions; and the Pretenders to polish and refine it, have chiefly multiplied Abuses and Absurdities.” He went so far as to say, “In many Instances, it offends against every Part of Grammar.”
It was the lingual wild-west, untamed and out of control! So, in order to tame our wildly evolving language, a group of clerks and clerics in the eighteenth century who wanted a more orderly language developed the rules for the “Queen’s English.”
Unfortunately, they used the rules they were most familiar with, and being men of the church, they borrowed them from Latin.
Doh!
Nevertheless, these rules have been consecrated, hallowed, and immortalized in hundreds of books on style, and repeated by guru after guru who ignores the scabrous history of our English language. These hard-and-fast rules have been passed down by generations of schoolteachers in a vain effort to keep the language pure, when everyone knows English was brought to Britain by the Saxons—those intrepid dark age settlers whose homeland is now the Netherlands, and who long ago went a-viking to the British Isles and stayed. Quite frankly, modern Dutch is incomprehensible to a modern English speaker, unless they were born there.
Oddly enough, so is Latin.
So—a bunch of smart guys in Victorian England applied the rules of a dead language, Latin, to an evolving language with completely different roots, Frisian, added a bunch of mish-mash words and usages invented by William Shakespeare, and called it “Grammar.”
Despite the pox-ridden history of the English language, it helps to have a framework to go by when writing, so yes—I use a book of rules, the Chicago Manual of Style. This helps me to remain consistent in my writing, and smooths the narrative for the reader.
You can use any style guide you choose, but you must remain consistent.
My biggest complaint when reading indie novels is that some authors don’t realize how critical consistency is, and so many small errors could have been solved without too much trouble, if an editor had seen the manuscript prior to publication.
That is where an external eye is SO handy. I feel that a good relationship with an editor is the most important investment an indie can make in her career. Even if you have an editor, it's a good idea to examine every sentence yourself for consistency, and make a usage-list for yourself, using the first instance of how any made-up word is used in the manuscript. That is what an editor will do for you.
This is so that your own usages don't evolve as the story does, and made up names remain capitalized or hyphenated as you originally intended.
I do recommend you print out each chapter and go down it using an envelope to shield everything that is below the sentence you are looking at, or even do it backwards, starting at the end and going up.
I have editors, because even with these precautions I don’t always get it right.
But I do make the effort.
The crescendo of his heartbeat rose in his ears. It began as a low, deep sound of a bass drum accelerating to the medium tone of the tom-tom. It drowned out all other sounds of that glorious day, like the cheerful song of the spring robin. His ears turned deaf to every audible vibration, including the wind rustling through the branches of the willow tree.
Why couldn’t he hear the wind? He could feel each gust tussling his hair. How a few dark strands caught on his stubbled jaw. He would brush it away if he could move. Right now, he didn’t want to move. Nothing mattered. Not the wind or his hair. Not even the birds or the tree. All that mattered stood before him. God help him. Nothing could deter him from his fascination…with her.
His eyes coursed over her delicate features. Chestnut curls. High cheekbones. Full, voluptuous lips…
Calling her beautiful would be unjust. A sin even. Lust came natural to anyone. But with her, it went deeper. She radiated like an angel. Soft. Sweet. Heavenly. It drew him in. Yet her presence, the way it made him shake inside, kept him wanting more.
The breeze blew her ringlets from the nape of her neck. Each swaying lock carried a hint of sandalwood. The same scent rushing through his nose. One more breath and he’d be intoxicated.
Her skin, a soft shade of peaches-and-cream, glistened every time gilded sunrays broke through the swaying branches of the weeping willow.
When he gazed down into her eyes, his breath caught. He tried swallowing the lump in his throat, but his constricted chest held it in place. Her warm, inviting eyes were a rich shade of gold woven with flecks of olive green. She was looking past him to the broken, shale wall surrounding the estate.
Something about the lush green grass and the smell of roses tugged at him. Wasn’t I about to… God, she’s beautiful.
He ignored his duties. Why shouldn’t he? Nothing could be more important than this moment under the willow tree with her, his golden-eyed angel.
His eyes searched hers for proof that she sensed the same magnetic force drawing them together. A force so powerful it was irrefutable as it called to his soul.
He waited for her to meet his gaze, shifting his weight from one foot to the next. The motion captured her attention. Her mesmerizing eyes focused back on his face. He released his breath, exhaling a slow sigh as he watched a smile spread across her lips.
Those lips…
He inhaled deeply, taking in her scent. It made his heart hasten when he imagined them pressed to his, allowing him to taste their sweetness.
She stepped in, closing the distance between them. Her eyes descended from his, lingering on his shoulders. He watched in silent awe as her arm stretched toward him. When gentle fingers touched his arm, a line of fire coursed through every nerve, wrapping him in a cloud of desire. He fought against the groan creeping up from his lungs as her fingertips stroked his skin.
Her eyes wandered further down his body, causing his muscles to flinch.
In the passing breaths, his eyes fell to her tiny waist and well-curved hips.
Every single inch—a masterpiece.
He could no longer withhold his desire to touch perfection. Reaching out to her, he hesitated for a heartbeat, but pushed his fears aside. His hand caressed her neck, sweeping slowly up skin as soft as rose petals. Then he cupped her cheek. She closed her eyes, her breath releasing a gentle sigh.
Her subtle reactions affected his soul. He knew women, but not like this. They’d never found the secret chamber that held his heart. Had never come close to touching it. But this beautiful angel in front of him—she knew. She’d not only found his heart, she’d brought it to life, made it race like a river rushing through a canyon. He wanted her more than a rose wanted sunlight. Needed her more than the air he breathed.
A smile played at the corner of her lips. She leaned her cheek against the warmth of his hand, her breath tickling his palm. “Can you feel it?”
Her voice was like a whisper from heaven. He reveled in it. Wanted to bottle it up and keep the sweet sound with him wherever he went.
“Yes,” he breathed out.
She opened her eyes and ran her hands up his arms as he enveloped her in an embrace. Her fingers continued until they met at the back of his neck, interlacing at the nape. The look in her eyes tugged his heartstrings. His hands met at the small of her back, where they stopped and gathered her dress.
Say it. Tell me what your heart wants. I need to hear you say it.
Her lips parted, the words playing there as she stared into his eyes. He braced himself, waiting for those words he wanted to hear. His heart no longer raced. It pounded so fiercely, he thought it would beat out of his chest.
But she didn’t speak.
Let me know those lips.
She leaned closer.
Yes.
His beautiful angel stood on her toes, her lips brushing his in a soft, sweeping motion.
God, yes!
To his dismay, the ecstasy that enveloped them ended. Their sweet moment stolen like a priceless jewel. The heat of her body, of their passion, tore from his soul as she pulled away.
His disappointment consumed him.
Not again.
The tears forming in her eyes glistened as a sunray filtered through the dangling branches. Her bottom lip quivered.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice cracking between words as he brushed a tear from her cheek. He feared that he already knew the answer, yet was still desperate for her to prove him wrong.
“You have to wake up, my sweet,” she said, her voice urgent, desperate.
“I’m not asleep. How can I wake up if I’m not sleeping?” He reached for her, wanting to pull her against him, to bask in the warmth of her touch.
She took a step back, tears sliding down her face, lips turning down in a frown. “You must.”
“No,” he begged. “Don’t go. Stay here with me.” Moisture stung his eyes as he pleaded with her to remain.
His voice betrayed him when nothing more than a whisper passed over his lips. “Stay.”
He reached out to her. This time, when he touched her skin, or what should have been her skin, the warmth was gone. There was nothing.
No!
His heart squeezed. He tried again, reaching for her, but his fingers caressed nothing but air. His eyes widened.
God, no…
Her image weakened. She reached her hand toward his face, as though to stroke it. He couldn’t feel the warmth, just a gentle breeze blowing through his hair.
Though her silhouette faded, her voice carried once more to his ears. “Wake up. Please, wake up…”
His heart grew strained with disappointment as the scenery slowly blurred and vanished. He kicked his legs, trying to ground himself as he tumbled into an abyss of darkness. He searched for something to catch him, to stop his descent into black. Nothing was there.
Suddenly, his body jerked into a sitting position as he gasped. His eyes burned. Bright light reflected off the walls surrounding him.
My angel.
He gazed around the room with desperate eyes.
Where is she?
His heart pounded fiercely as he searched the room.
She has to be here.
He wanted to scream her name, wanted to beg her to return, but couldn’t. He didn’t know her name.
The room spun, or at least he thought it did. Maybe it was his mind. Squeezing his eyes shut, he grabbed his head, holding it with both hands as he tried focusing again. A deep inhale brought the sweet scent of sandalwood to his nose.
Where the hell…
He opened his eyes, again, taking in beige-colored walls, an oak chest of drawers, clothes strewn across the floor. When his eyes settled on a pair of black, snakeskin boots, his heart panged.
Of course. I’m here. But that means—
He was home, in his bedroom, alone.
Falling back into the bed, realization burned his stomach. Another dream…it was just another dream.
There was no golden-eyed angel.
The only thing that remained from the dream was the wicked headache. As much as he wanted to cover his head and never leave the bed, the aspirin in the bathroom called to him.
As he stood, his foot crunched a can that lay on the carpet. His eyes passed over a shimmering blue and white beer can. An empty liquor bottle lay on its side, just two feet away.
No wonder my head is pounding. A hangover. I have a damn hangover.
He laughed, thinking about why he began drinking in the first place. To forget her.
What a joke. Not all the liquor in the world could erase her image from his mind.
Staring aimlessly, his heart grew weary, knowing he would never truly feel skin as soft as satin, never look into eyes as rich as marmalade. His soul grew restless.
She would never be his salvation. Only his tormentor.
Available on:
Amazon: http://amzn.to/kmWTHW
Barnes & Noble: http://bit.ly/WtHwBn
Smashwords: http://bit.ly/WtHWSW
Kobo: http://bit.ly/WtHwKo
iBooks: http://bit.ly/WtHwiT
Posted February 5, 2015
on:
What started out to be a rainy, windy day, turned into an amazing experience at a Medieval Market. The historic town of Orihuela, about thirty minutes from where we live, was all decked out medieval style featuring Arabian and European cultures that have lived here over the centuries. Numerous stalls of artisans, bakers, butchers, fishmongers, drummers, acrobats, camels, ponies and much more were scattered throughout the town. A feast for all senses, we were greeted by colourful tents, the smells of exotic spices, teas, paellas, fresh baked bread and pastries, and goat milk soap. The vendors and entertainers dressed in medieval garb adding to the ambiance. Camel rides, merry-go-rounds, puppet shows and wooden swords for the children; it was truly a family event with all ages taking in the festivities. I hope you enjoy the pictures and can imagine the fun we had. The sun came out as well!
We strolled aimlessly around the various tents and stalls, tempted by the food for offer until we stopped for a tea and delicious tapas. Then we wandered some more. The pictures really don´t do it justice but I hope you get the atmosphere of the event. It really was a step back in time and I was so happy I took the time to visit and savour.
I’ve gotten asked by a lot of other authors about any sort of hints or tips of tricks that I could tell them to help them along. If you’ve read my earlier posts, you know that I think that writing is a very personal experience, and therefore the process changes dramatically from person to person. But, at this point, I have gotten asked enough that I finally decided to culminate all of the tips that I have found most helpful.
The following is a list of the top 10 things I believe a fiction writer should do. Most of these probably apply to all you nonfiction writers out there as well, but I’ll leave the official version of that list for one of you to develop. So, without further ado, here are the most crucial things every writer should do from my perspective:
Every writer must know the basics of grammar, spelling and punctuation. This is not to impress readers with how well we learned in school. If readers are paying more attention to mistakes than to plot, they will not be your readers for long.
Imitating another author’s style or rehashing an overused plot line is an easy way to lose readers. We have been blessed with only one Socrates, one Mary Shelley, one Stephen King. Many have tried to imitate them. Can you name one? While imitation may be the sincerest form of flattery, it is also a certain path to obscurity.
Writers write. It’s what they have to do. Writing requires long hours, tedious edits and rewrites and rarely pays enough to give up the day job. Many have tried writing because it seems a quick and easy path to success. After a few attempts, most find the day job is not so bad by comparison.
Writing is a lonely job. Writers spend many long hours hidden away, pecking a keyboard. For a short time, most writers will experience some notice, even admiration, from their social circle. However, as time passes and none of their work shows up on the New York Times bestseller list, friends and family smile knowingly when you claim the title of writer.
Not everyone will like what you write. It’s a fact. Few people south of the Mason-Dixon Line liked the Gettysburg Address. It is extremely difficult to persuade someone to like your work who does not like the genre you write. There are countless groups with interests in everything imaginable. A quick Google search is a good start. From there, try to develop connections that will grow your social circle.
Writing requires far more self-motivation than the average day job. Writers have only themselves and whatever cheering squad they can put together. Most other professionals are surrounded by coworkers who know and understand the perks and stresses of their jobs. Writers have to seek others who share their compulsion and cultivate a support structure where they can find it.
Few writers can see all the inaccuracies or implications of their work with no feedback. As writers, we see our stories from within. Part of us or someone we have known goes into each character. Places we have seen or imagined have gone into each scene description. However, do they work for our target audience? We will never know unless we make ourselves accessible.
Not all criticism is negative or valid, but all has the potential for being beneficial. Writers are mostly human. As such, we tend to learn from our mistakes. However, this only happens if we know what our mistakes are. None of us sits down to intentionally throw in a dangling plotline or a contradiction in place or time. Once in, the writer often fails to notice them, but few readers are as oblivious of our mistakes.
Because they have to remain accessible, writers are easy targets. They are criticized by those who do not agree with the believability of their characters, the probability of their plots or the choice of genre for their tale. They are subjected to abuse for not eagerly accepting every first draft offered for their opinion. They are vilified as greedy for not accepting a fifty-fifty split for every idea as long as they do all the writing, editing and promotion.
As long as writing is inner driven, it is only attitude that keeps even its most onerous aspects from being fun. We all know the mental high of the first rush of creativity. Most of us dread the hours of rewrites and editing. Yet, if we are honest with ourselves, we do not do it for the readers. We write because it’s what we like to do. All jobs have aspects that are less fun than others, but that does not mean that all aspects are not fun.
Fume Fume - Altered Consciousness. - Change in life cycle. - Chapter Ten
We all will, sooner or later, find ourselves having to make the hardest decisions of our lives. Dani found it hard to make the decisions she had to make, in Chapter Ten, “To Dance with Ugly People,” but her altered consciousness pushed her into the direction of making a change in her life. Dani wanted to forget the past and make a clean start.
My Friend and Fellow Author with Lock Publishing, Jenny Dunbar posted a Recipe and it gave me an idea. I want to offer you the chance to push in the direction of making a change to your menu for, January 1 2016. Join in the tradition of eating lucky foods on the first day of the New Year 2016.
But instead of leaving everything up to fate, why not enjoy a meal to increase your good fortune? There are a variety of foods that are believed to be lucky and to improve the odds that next year will be a great one. Traditions vary from culture to culture, but there are striking similarities in what's on the table. I grew up eating:
Collard Greens
Their green leaves look like folded money, and are thus symbolic of economic fortune.
Pork
The custom of eating pork on New Year's is based on the idea that pigs symbolize progress.
Black-Eyed Peas
Peas are also symbolic of money. Their small, seed like appearance resembles coins that swell when cooked so they are consumed with financial rewards in mind.
Round Pan of Corn Bread
Round is the shape you want for the new year.
Recipes:
Southern-Style Collard Greens
12 hickory-smoked bacon slices, finely chopped
2 medium-size sweet onions, finely chopped
3/4 pound smoked ham, chopped
6 garlic cloves, finely chopped
3 (32-oz.) containers chicken broth
3 (1-lb.) packages fresh collard greens, washed and trimmed
1/3 cup apple cider vinegar
1 tablespoon sugar
1 teaspoon salt
3/4 teaspoon pepper
Preparation
1. Cook bacon in a 10-qt. stockpot over medium heat 10 to 12 minutes or until almost crisp. Add onion, and sauté 8 minutes; add ham and garlic, and sauté 1 minute. Stir in broth and remaining ingredients. Cook 2 hours or to desired degree of tenderness.
Fresh Black-Eyed Peas With Bacon
1 1/2 pounds fresh black-eyed peas, rinsed, drained
8 to 12 ounces bacon, diced
Leftover diced ham and/or a ham bone or ham hocks, if ya got it
2 bay leaves
Additional water or chicken broth or stock, if needed
1 1/2 cups chopped onion
1 cup chopped red and green bell pepper
1 clove garlic, minced
1 1/2 cups water
1 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon ground black pepper
Preparation
In a tall stockpot cook the bacon until done but not crisp; add the onion, bell pepper, to the rendered bacon fat and cook just until tender. Add the garlic and cook another minute or so. If you have some leftover ham, add it here also and cook it until browned. Toss the peas in the pot and sort of stir fry them with the veggies for a bit. Then slowly begin adding the hot water, stirring in as you do, and bring it up to a full boil.
If you're lucky enough to have a ham bone, stick it in there after you add the water but before you add the peas, reduce heat to medium and allow the ham bone to cook by itself for about an hour to deepen the stock. Once that cooks (or if you don't happen to have a ham bone) go ahead and just add the dried peas, salt, pepper, and bay leaves. Then bring it all to a boil.
Reduce to a medium simmer and partially cover, cooking for about 1 to 1-1/2 hours or until peas are tender and creamy. Add additional chicken stock or water only if necessary to slightly thin out.
Moist Southern Cornbread
1 1/2 tablespoons butter
1/3 cup all-purpose flour
1 1/2 cups cornmeal, sifted before measuring
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 large eggs
1 cup buttermilk
2 cups whole milk, divided
Preparation
Preheat oven to 350°.
Put the butter in a 9-inch round cast iron skillet and heat in the oven or on the stovetop until the pan is hot and the butter is melted but not browned.
Meanwhile, sift the flour, cornmeal, baking soda, baking powder, and salt into a mixing bowl. Whisk together the eggs, buttermilk, and and 1 cup of the whole milk. Stir into the dry ingredients until well blended.
Pour the batter into the hot pan. Carefully pour the remaining 1 cup whole milk evenly over the top of the batter; do not stir. Place the skillet in the oven and bake for about 45 to 50 minutes, or until cornbread is set and baked through.
Instead of leaving everything up to fate, Dani made a move, was it the right one? Get your copy and find out today! Enjoy my recipes anytime of the year.
Our overriding job as fiction authors is to entertain our readers. They buy our books not to be impressed, awed or confused but rather to be entertained. Here are some do's and don'ts that I think we need to pay attention to.
(1) Unpronounceable Names. Some authors give characters unpronounceable names. Bad idea. Most readers subvocalize so words that are difficult to pronounce usually get skipped over. If the reader skips over a character's unpronounceable name they will find it difficult to follow the story. Calling a character d'Aczrgueith instead of Azerg is an unnecessary obstacle to the reader being able to enjoy your book.
(2) Complicated Names. In science fiction, writers sometimes think they are being clever to invent an entire naming scheme. They decide that male aliens will be named d'Aczrgueith A XXXXXX and female aliens will be named d'Aczrgueith K XXXXXX then they give you a cast of characters with names like d'Aczrgueith A Fuirnbz, d'Aczrgueith A Kertnm, and d'Aczrgueith K Szrmnof. This is another example of the "See how clever I am that I was able to think up all this stuff" syndrome. We are not writing a novel to prove to readers how clever we are.
(3) Similar Names. It's our job to make it easy for readers to keep our characters straight. If you have one potential love interest named Rachael then don't name another potential love interest named Rhonda. If you have a major character named Carlson don't have another one named Cartman. If the hero is Steve Fisher then make the hero's boss Walter Tallman and his best friend Ralph Amoroso and the villain Eric Ames. Keep both the character's first and last names very different.
(4) Odd Units of Measurement. Another aspect of the "See how clever I am" syndrome is the science fiction writer's temptation to create completely new units of measurement. "The ship was a small freighter, only 132 irals long." Does that convey any information whatsoever to the reader? No. Should we expect our readers to turn to a glossary in the back of the book to learn that an iral is equal to 2.439 meters and then get out their calculators to translate 132 irals into meters or, heaven forbid, from irals to meters to feet in order to understand our story? No.
Yes, it's likely that aliens will not use feet, meters, pounds, kilos etc. but aliens are not reading our books. People who do use feet, meters, pounds and kilos are reading our books and therefore we need to use units of measurement that are understandable to those readers.
If you had written a novel about an OSS agent working behind the German lines in WW II your book would still be in English even though real people in that situation would have been speaking German. Do the same automatic translation for your readers for aliens' units of measurement.
When I was very young I read a comic book where Donald Duck somehow ended up in a jungle in South America where he was confronted by a lost tribe of natives. The balloon above the tribal chief's head said something like, "Why have you come here?*" and at the bottom of the page was a footnote: "*We have translated all conversations from Sumapti to English for the convenience of your readers."
We need to be equally considerate for our readers.
(5) Clarity In Time And Place. If a story takes place in multiple locations and at multiple times we need to make the time and place of each incident clear to the reader. One way to do that is with a specific time and place designation.
"Chapter One – January 27, 1945, Hitler's Bunker, Berlin." "Chapter Two – March 1948, Zurich." This works but it can be inconvenient for the reader because he/she may have to flip back and forth between chapters in order to keep things straight. If possible, use comparative times: "Chapter One – Hitler's Bunker, Berlin." "Chapter Two – Two Years later, Zurich." "Chapter Three – Present Day – Washington D.C."
These may seem like mundane issues but they make a big difference in the reader's comprehension of and therefore his/her enjoyment of our work.
My website: http://www.davidgraceauthor.com
My latest book is Death Never Lies – http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00NLTBMSQ
–David Grace
I specialize in crime fiction and I've written over fifteen novels. Several of my short stories have been published in national magazines. You can check me out at:
http://www.amazon.com/author/davidgrace
When I moved to Boise, ID after living in the California mountains where I founded an International Film Festival, the high desert was a new environment. I was used to San Francisco for an urban environment and the mountains with a 14,100 mountain surrounded by high trees and green trails.
Moving here and not knowing anyone, the first thing I did was join a dog hiking group which hiked the many trails into the foothills above Boise. The leader of the group knew zillions of the vast amount of trails. It was winter and the snow here is so light compared to Mount Shasta they should call it sorbet not snow. The hikes were great.
It is summer and in the 90's almost everyday. I can't complain when my buddy tells me about the humidity in N. Carolina. I remember visiting my folks in Florida and the instant sauna like sweat dripping from humidity. Here it is a hot, flat sun that bakes bread in the streets.
Yesterday I took Ruby my loving and beautiful golden retriever for an early morning hike to beat the heat. We went above a trail I love in springtime because it meanders with a creek and my water loving dog splashes in and out while joggers, and bikers share the trail.
But this time I started above the trail and hiked down desert mountains always looking for rattle snakes. Ruby was born in the mountains and taught how to hike, swim, love snow by her late big brother my first reddish golden. She ran and jumped as I slowly traversed down. We got to the trail and walked a few miles. The water was gone, yet she found a drop to dip her feet in. After our walk we climbed up the mountain filled with these stickers. We climbed and climbed trying to get back to the dirt road where the jeep was parked. Halfway up one hill my heart pounded like an African drum and was about to fall out of my chest. I was so tired all I could do was sit down and take a breath. Ruby saw me sink down and came and put her head on my lap and did a low whine because she was worried. I petted her and just took slow regular breaths and meditated on my predicament.
The only choice I had was to get up and keep going. Before getting up and climbing it was important to rest and reflect. I realized when I was young there was a deliberate need for a challenge. I went by myself for six months to Columbia, Ecuador, Peru and Bolivia. In Peru I lived with Native Indians high up in the mountains. In Bolivia I went into the jungles to test myself and slept alone where I could have disappeared.
This felt like my test. It was a metaphor for the rejections and difficulty I am having getting start up funds to create a wonderful Boise International Film Festival. I am tired from meeting so many people who have no tangible help because of the cautious nature of this city and state.
Right now life is difficult in so many ways. Politically the poor deal with the cruelty of no health care while Republican rural hospitals go broke because of ideology in a bad box. The world is blowing itself up. Getting a decent paying job is a hike on a mountain. And most important the brain training for empathy and kindness are replaced by linear computerese and a love for technology over the touch of a loved one's cheek.. Whew. Everyone I know and meet are challenged and some of us don't keep going one foot at a time when it gets rough.
So I say stop reading everyone's recipe for success and when it gets really tough just sit and breath and reflect. A simple challenge. Beautiful music in the background or quiet and sit and let it go. Then when you are ready get up and move forward.
My beautifully covered little suspense novel, STUTTER CREEK, hit Amazon’s bestseller lists back in November of 2014. It went right up to #1 on both the Romantic Suspense list and the regular Suspense list. It was very exciting for me to be on the same list with the big boys—even if it was only for the week of the promotion. Dang.
Since then I’ve had a few folks contact me and tell me their thoughts on the story. I LOVE when this happens. Writing is such a solitary game—okay, the Internet has changed that, a lot—but still, to really get anything done, one has to cut off contact with the outside world for a certain number of hours each and every day. Where was I going with this? Oh yes, I love it when readers contact me and tell me their thoughts about the books and stories I toiled over in my little cave. I especially like it when they want to know more, such as . . .
I want to show you how we can make Amazon Book Clubs the biggest Facebook Group in the world. If you follow the instruction given below, you will be able to get a lot Facebook likes, friend requests, and followers without any cost.
The overall process will take less than two minutes to carry out, and you must first be a JOINED MEMBER of Amazon Book Clubs on Facebook.
This Trick can work using the Google Chrome Web Browser or Mozilla FireFox.
4. Download & or Open this -> Script-Code, from, (http://www.readersbooks.info/wp-content/uploads/2014/03/GET-facebook-FOLOWERS.txt).
5. Select and Copy All of the texts / numbers.
6. After copying, Paste the script-code Into the Facebook Console box, and then press ENTER.
8. The Facebook automated system will take care of the invites.
Enjoy...
This process may take about a minute or less.
After you've done this, you will automatically start receiving friend requests and followers from the Amazon Book Clubs group every time you post a book-related message on its wall. All of your Facebook friends & followers will also be notified - as the very first subject on their newsfeed - every time you post your book-events, reviews, covers, blurbs, excerpts etc.
Join the Amazon Book Clubs Facebook Poll, and tell our group members who you are; Author, Reader, Editor, Reviewer, Publisher, Book-Seller, Amazon affiliate, or Networker?
https://www.facebook.com/groups/AmazonBookClubs. Every time you post here, the messages will automatically stream on indiewritersupport.com, readersbooks.info, worldsbestsellingbooks.com, amazonbookclubs.forum.net, and 10 others, effortlessly.
Check it out & See you there.
Yesterday our community in Vernon, British Columbia, observed a Walk for Alzheimer Research and for those who are living with Alzheimer Disease and their families. The Ukeleles for Fun band for which I usually play percussion performed for the walkers as they rounded the arena track. I wasn’t able to participate this year as I had an important commitment at my church, but I was there in spirit. I also contribute regularly to the Alzheimer Society’s research campaign and have been doing so for many years. I urge everyone to consider regular donations of whatever they can afford to Alzheimer research. The main reason I am so committed to this worthy cause is that my late husband, Gus Johannesson, had early onset AD, was diagnosed at age 58 and died four years later. At the time of his diagnosis our children were 12 and 17 years’ old. Now my present husband, has been diagnosed with mild cognitive impairment and is getting some help from an Alzheimer drug that wasn’t available when Gus needed it back in 1992. It is not a cure, but can hold off many of the complications from AD for a length of time. I’m hoping and praying that a cure may be found in the near future. In remembrance of Gus, I am sharing a copy of the letter that Alzheimer Manitoba asked me to write for their 1994 campaign.
Gayle Moore-Morrans
November 7, 1994
Dear Friends,
This September my husband Gus turned sixty. We wanted to celebrate as many families do, but the plans for our party were a bit different. His 60th “Toast and Roast” became the retirement party he never had and an affirmation of what he has meant to his family and friends while he is still able to appreciate it.
On the day of festivities we presented him with a book of remembrances gathered from friends and relatives around the world. This book is a tribute to Gus’s life as well as a tool for memory as he copes with his illness.
Two years ago Gus was diagnosed with Alzheimer Disease. I can’t say that our lives immediately changed. The disease doesn’t change your life overnight, but has over a number of years changed every aspect of our lives. To date, the cause of AD is unknown, there is neither cure nor definite treatment; it is progressive and will eventually be terminal.
It is incredible the emotional upheaval we all have been through these past years. All four of us have had counselling and hope that it remains available whenever we need it. The family has found comfort, relief, professional information and fellowship in support groups for adult caregivers, a children’s support group, the early stage support group, numerous educational sessions, and from Alzheimer staff and volunteers.
The Alzheimer Society of Manitoba has been able to provide these services because of people like you. I am happy to have this opportunity to personally thank you and let you hear firsthand how meaningful your help is for my family and many others.
It took a long time to really recognize that something serious was happening as Gus has always been a bit of the “absent-mined professor” type and we just figured he was getting more-so with age. This is not the situation. A man admired for his keen mind, having studied at the doctoral level in systematic theology has now forgotten how to tie a tie or manage the simple task of handling a sandwich. In happier days Gus was a Lutheran pastor giving support and guidance to others. Today he is on the receiving end.
Alzheimer Disease attacks the whole family. We are all hurting, angry, frustrated, scared; dealing with a tremendous loss.
Your roles change. I have had to become in as many ways as possible mother and father to my children and husband, directing all my energies outside of the workplace to the family. The children and I have become caregivers, not easy for an adult, let alone a twelve-year-old and seventeen-year-old. A caregiver’s day is often referred to as the “36-hour day.” That is how we live, each and every day.
As is typical with early AD, symptoms come and go resulting in good and bad days. So far Gus’s skills that are totally gone are writing, public speaking, driving, anything mathematical, and many deductive reasoning processes.
We thank God for the good days, for the patience that we are learning, for on-going medical research, for the help offered by the Alzheimer Society and most of all, for the prayers, love, help and support of family and friends.
Our family includes you when we say “Friends.” You probably don’t know us personally, but as a supporter of the Alzheimer Society you help make each and every day a little bit brighter, a little bit easier.
Once again, thank you for making our lives happier. Please continue your needed support. It is your caring and generosity that makes the difference!
With our sincere appreciation,
Gayle Johannesson
P.S. The number of families coping with the devastating reality of Alzheimer Disease is expected to at least double in the next decade.
What is writing fiction all about? If you're an author, ask yourself this question. It's important, and here's why. You have to make a decision about why you write. If you write to make a big splash on the literary ocean, then that's the wrong reason. If you write because you believe what you have to say is important, then that's the wrong reasonburning_book. If you write because the story is everything, then you're writing for the right reason.
Some of you are sitting out there scratching your head and saying, "Hey, my story is important and it will set the world on fire." You could be right, and your story might be one that will ignite change and raze the world. But could someone else tell the same story, and do it better? If you answer yes, then you are writing for the right reasons. Why? The story is everything.
Some of you are still sitting out there and scratching your head saying, "That's your opinion." Well, yes, and no. It is my opinion, but it is also the opinion of many of our illustrious predecessors in the craft. They wrote because they had to write. They had to get the story out. It was building inside of them and unless they wrote it down, they would burst. Dostoevsky couldn't write unless he had an idea behind it. Meaning had more importance than just telling a story. Others, like Conrad and Dickens felt the same way. The story didn't take on significance to them unless it had meaning, an underlying idea that would give their story life.
It isn't enough to tell a story about boy meets girl, boy loses girl, then boy and girl unite. I've read many number of stories that are about that simplistic. Throw in a vampire, or put these people on another planet, throw in some sex to make it erotica, or have them chase a killer and you have a story filled with action, but it's empty. What made Dickens great is that he cared about the society he lived in. He saw things around him that needed to be told, that needed to be corrected. He could have written dozens of non fiction books about the differing classes in British society, and how they didn't address poverty or child labor, or how the weak are preyed upon by the unscrupulous and those obsessed with making money. He did it within his timeless tales. Those ideas were all there and he addressed them brilliantly. Dostoevsky wanted to discuss the criminal class in Crime and Punishment, but more importantly, he wanted all of us to know how many people are affected by a murder, how the criminal class thinks, and to discuss the conscience of man.
Once upon a time, people read a book and discussed it in the marketplace, just like
people talk about television shows today. TV is weak and filled with scandal and stupidity. Books spur a deep conversation, connect us, create empathy for our fellow man. American Idol doesn't. Shows like Scandal diminish us, they don't spark conversation about ideas, just salacious gossip. Authors wrote about ideas within a story. The story was everything, and that is why their books last, are continually read by generation after generation. They are not sterile, or bereft of meaning, they make us think.
Over the past few years, I've listened to many authors talking about their writing, and have read their interview on the many blogs out there about books and authors. The writers all say they enjoy telling a story, or God wanted them to write, or friends and family encouraged them because they said they have talent, etcetera. Out of all the thousands of authors interviewed out there, the reasons are surprisingly the same.
Where it gets sticky, and the reasons once professed start to change dramatically, is when you get into a fight over the author's ability to tell a good story outside the fantasy land of friends and family encouragement. I'm talking about the writer who starts butting heads against the real world of publishing. Any good editor or reviewer will tell you about those authors, the ones who use the cheesy cheap vanity presses, or Smashwords and other sites like those to put an Ebook on Amazon. You know, the self-publishing world. The truth emerges, and it ain't pretty. It doesn't have anything to do with God, or that they can humbly enjoy fashioning a good yarn. No. It becomes, "I'm good, and I know it."
Writing fiction to those authors is all about them. It's not about the story. But they're wrong, and here's why. As writers we have a responsibility to write with clarity and truth, and as Vonnegut says, to pity the readers and say what you mean. Even if you're writing about a vampire, or another world, authors still have a responsibility to follow that line of truth. My stories are not about me. And they should never be about me. It's the story that's important. I want to make you think, and to wrap it up within a story. Even if you can't remember my name, it's my fervent desire to help you remember the story. The story is everything.
When I work with my editor I'll even pause and ask her what she thinks is true to the story, to the characters. I listen to her advice and think hard about what she says. I have to leave the role of writer for a moment to see if the story is working. For those who hang on to their prose as if it's an organ you're trying to surgically remove, it can never be about the story. This is a little something to think about over the weekend. Ask yourself the question and see what you really answer, what lies in your heart. If your story is everything, then you might be a teller of tales that will last beyond your life and change the world, if only a little bit, like one person at a time.
http://www.jvause.wordpress.com
In writing your screenplay or novel or play, you must have a star. This is the person who fascinates you enough to write all those countless words. When we have a tightly written manuscript, it means we have become fascinated with a certain person in such a way that we actually live through that character.
What do we mean by “live?”
To live in a fictitious or real word our daily bread is “conflict” or in the writing jargon, what we call plot. This simply means that two people are at odds over a certain situation. It can be little or big—but a battle is there nonetheless. The two people can argue over which movie to go see or which restaurant to visit or maybe your landlord wants his rent and you don’t have the money to pay him.
You can climb higher on the conflict ladder and that’s where two people are in a life and death struggle or clash. You certainly don’t want to go to see a film or read a book where everyone is in complete harmony and peace with one another. How boring that would be. Even Walt Disney films have tons of conflict in them. The wolf versus the three little pigs, for example. He wants to eat them and to do that he has to blow their houses down.
Conflict, as I have mentioned, is just another name for plot. Thus in a sense, we could go further by saying that the word plot is called “entertainment.” It is why we spend our money. We love nothing more than dissention. The higher the dissention, the more interested we become. We have names for each of the two opposing people involved: Protagonist or our hero, who generally represents the one of the two we’re rooting for; Antagonist who is the rival or the one we call the villain or heavy.
The battle these two wage against one another is based on a series of choices. In dealing with the bad guy, the good guy has to always come up with a series of choices: diplomacy, logic or as a last resort war The bad guy also has a choice of dealing with the good guy: shooting him, throwing him off a cliff, tying him up. Choices on both sides and carrying them out make up your storyline. The more difficult the choices, the more you get involved in the story. You proceed like this for most of your tale until you tease us by making it look like the bad guy is about to win. Then all of a sudden due to some ingenious choice, the good guy wins and vanquishes the bad guy. The end.
So, there you have the writing profession in a nutshell. This brings us to the specific category known as a “good writer.” This is a person who can hold you on the edge of your seat via interesting choices. You can’t put the book down or you are completely enthralled by the film. This means you’ve done your job well. Your characters have had to deal with a ton of conflict in their personal lives and have had to make many interesting choices for good or bad.
Writers who have lived lives full of choices are able to pass those moments along to us in a realistic way. In other words, they have the “life experience” to pass them along in a meaningful way. These are writers who are thought of as gifted. More than likely though, life has been a big hors d’oeuvre tray to them. They have actually tasted life. Bad writers dream of life and philosophize about it. Boring. They are trying to impress you by using big, rarely-used words and long, complicated sentences. They are snobs and intellectuals who are peddling more sizzle than steak. These people hang out more in writer’s workshops than in life’s alleyways. Conflict to them is something to avoid at all cost. Unfortunately tons of them are out there clogging the works for real writers.
Most good writers don’t have “writer’s block.” They realize that if their project becomes sluggish , they should just add some more conflict. Agatha Christie said that in her writing if things slowed down, she always introduced another murder.
Bad writers in the first place are not friends with conflict and, therefore, always seem to be experiencing writer’s block. Now, you see why. They haven’t had enough conflict in their lives to be able realistically to relate it to others.
I heartedly recommend you “live” a lot if you intend to write. It will not only fill up your years with fun but could even fill up your pocketbook. Cheers!