Janine's Blog

The New Day

2012-01-27T13:19:00.000-08:00

Okay,I considered ‘going rogue’. Unfortunately, that phrase has taken on an abysmal political stench even as Urban Dictionary defines it as a sexual act. Then there was the option to ‘shoot the moon’ or ‘go commando’, each featuring unintendedconnotations and neither quite right. You may be glad to know I never contemplated going postal, since we all know how that ends. So now I’ve decided in a purely creative way to run with scissors.

Call me Ella Disenchanted. I’ve tried to play nice. My efforts to forge ties with agents and editors at expensive venues exhaust me. Conferences cost too much as do obligatory lodgings and transport there. Besides, I often feel like an outsider. Then there’s the process of submitting work from afar. Postage for multiple mailings puts serious dents in grocery money.

So here I sit, mass quantities of ‘how to’s’ on every aspect of publishing crammed into my head. I’ve queried my little heart out, then published two novels with a tiny literary publisher. Together we built lovely and substantial books. The unexpected gift of designing my own covers fell to me. Yet the company’s distribution flat-lined at nonexistent. My attempts to expand on that? Well, allow me to express how uncomfortable I felt as primary in all aspects of this endeavor.

Now for some insight into this writer: What I yearn for are readers. They makeup that temporary herd with whom I want to run. However without dispersal, it doesn’t matter how many awards your stories win, you still lack readers. Obstinate pursuit of the wily reader is one thing. Going around gatekeepers to find them? That’s quite another.

Remember the Luddites? They were a group of lacemakers in England who faced new technology. Their answer? They combined forces to tear down the machinery against which they could no longer compete. Guess who won?

Thus I’m embracing the grand e-cloud of tech. Launching two previouslypublished novels, WILDFIRE and CALLING DOWN THE WIND, you’ll now find my work available for download. I’m starting with Amazon’s KINDLE, then possibly SMASHWORD with distribution to iPad, Nook, etc.

Since one of my favorite reading periods occurred when paperback books cost what straight black coffee from Starbucks does now, I’m pricing my downloads that way. After all, expense should not stand between me and my reading herd. Thus flip-flops, certain Apps, and too many non-nutritious fast foods cost the same as a download. I believe my novels offer more value. Yes, your Grande and Venti chai latte or espresso sets you back more. However, you could choose both a great read and a hot cuppa.

My only caveat? If readers want new content, they must show me the love and download. For a limited time, you can do so through the KINDLE Owners Lending Library.

So celebrate my independence with me by visiting my site or Amazon.com to download my stories. If this experiment works, you can look forward to my high fantasy MISTBORN TRILOGYalong with more ELEMENTALs.

Gatekeepers

2012-01-17T11:42:00.000-08:00

Gatekeepers control access. Various mythologies and folktales include sentinels often associated with the underworld: Hades, Anubis, Dormath, and others. In literature, the Wizard of Oz distinguishes himself. On a local level, enforcers include Customs officers, who attempt to regulate flow between Washington State and Canada.

Of course, we can and do serve as our own gatekeepers. As a human who’s led an interesting life, compartmentalizing events provided a survival mechanism. What can happen is that you lose the key to incidents, especially traumatic ones. When recall is triggered, you’re so surprised you wonder, “Who was that person?” These ordeals also offer gratifying insights, for which I’m thankful.

As a writer, illiteracy encompasses the most monstrous of sentries. Those who cannot read are excluded from the richness of life. They must depend upon macro audio or visual cues, missing out on nuances inherent in the written word. Dwelling on a loss of this proportion can literally lead me to tears.

For writers, our greatest nemesis and occasional partner are those editors who guard the entry into brick-and-mortar publishing. They decide whether to accept or reject our work. It all begins with the submission process. A term I personally loathe, submission carries the distaste of obedience and capitulation. In recent times, editors have expanded to editorial groups that include literary agents and even author-paid consultants who filter for them, too. In other words, obstacles to publishing have grown thick to the point of impenetrable.

Which brings me to a thought. Perhaps artists need to find a way to circumvent these blockades. After all, what I really want is to connect with those who appreciate my work. That may mean thwarting those who set themselves up as gatekeepers. With that in mind, please join me here for my next blog, A New Day.

Gates

2012-01-09T11:12:00.000-08:00

Ornate with Chinese influence

Often gates are physical barriers. Gates and attached fences serve as devices to exclude, imprison, warn off, intimidate and stake claims... Well, you get the idea. Sometimes they act as invitations. Either way, gates serve as transitions into other spaces. For me, gates impose the ultimate shift between what we know and the extravagant unknown.

Does 'Keep Out' come to mind?

Opening gates, whether physical or figurative, allows you to move between one side and the other. Nowhere did this become as concrete as in Malaysia. There you’d often find a gate attached to a wall, then be faced with electronic entry. Often a sentry reinforced the barrier. If you happened to be in a condominium, separate gates guarded each personal vestibule and multiple locks protected final doors. Within a single family home, internal rooms might be defended by separate bolted doors in case of a break-in. Really.

Huge estate with serious gate

This proved remarkable to someone living on a mostly natural 20 acres. We’re surrounded by Ponderosa forest and sagebrush steppe. Since this is cattle country interspersed with open range, barbed wire makes a strenuous argument for staying on your side of the fence, too. With fondness I recall wooden ladders over harsh obstacles. Not here, though.

Wooden gate over
barbed wire

The most obvious local gate equates with a cattle guard. Yes, some locals bar their driveways for purely exclusionary reasons. Such practice and attitude gives me misgivings. However, I’m not pure. Main gateways into the ranch can also impede seasonal hunters, allowing us to live lightly on this wildlife refuge.

Metaphorical gateways cluster around events like birth, illness and death. Social ones include graduations, weddings, and religious ceremonies. These events elicit wide ranges of emotional responses.

I find myself at just such a juncture now, poised between do-I-stay or do-I-go. To progress toward that answer with me, I invite you to meet me here again for GATEKEEPERS.

Tripping II

2011-10-11T11:33:00.000-07:00

Rambutan, mangos, papaya...

“One’s destination is never a place, but rather a new way of looking at things.” While Henry Miller’s words can be life-changing, actual journeys take me further. Thus, Malaysia trumps even Miller’s edgy writing.

Now a confession. During the interval between May and now, a case of the doldrums swamped me in a ludicrous attempt to ‘overcome life’. After all, the permanent solution to life is, yes, death. Suffice it to say that a death, a wedding, a breakup, and a retirement scattered among friends and family along with my body’s new and exciting autoimmune responses have rolled me down bumpy slopes and over a few rocky hummocks. Where I am now serves as a dynamic resting point. Cue the music for ‘That’s Life’.

Yum--breakfast dessert

With little interest in rushing toward that absolute end, let this be a resurrection of sorts--an attempt to celebrate this moment or, if nothing else, occupy this moment. Let me start by celebrating the amazing women I met in Malaysia. Of course, this includes my travel companion, the fabulous and often brilliantly contrary Ah-Ying. She drove us along the wrong side of the road, parked in places too small to possibly accommodate our vehicle and took me on food gathering forays that exemplify her intent to ‘eat her way through Malaysia’. Yes, I was her boon companion in this, too. So much tropical fruit, so little time.

A cuppa with Anna

I met Anna at her and her partner’s hawker stall, where they offered a brisk trade in locals’ favorite American breakfast. While I passed on the fare, the Malaysian white coffee turned me from teetotaler to current French Roast aficionado each morning. Later at a private club, Anna’s marvelous vocals coaxed me into dancing barefoot with another woman. Somehow we blended Middle Eastern and Malaysian dance sensibilities into a memorable evening.

Juliet's Fluffy Pups

During a time when we travelers sharply missed our home dog packs, Juliet shared puppy love from her poodle litter. Fluffy little bundles of fur staved off the worst pangs. Then cut to a night of karaoke where I learned that when someone takes the mike and stands up, prepare to be astonished. Juliet and her guy Robert provided brilliant moments of vocal beauty.

Can we talk shopping? Ah-Ying, stepmom Joann and Ang Guat furthered the daunting task of accumulating music and costumes for my dance troupe. They marched me through Little India and the best Malaysian shopping centers, then celebrated our successes with sublime traditional Chinese food.

Dr. Tan's racers

Then there’s Lin, whose memorable ‘Sh-t, sh-t, sh-t’, offered in the way of a kitten sneezing, made me laugh. She engenders the most blissful approach to life and her circuitous tour of the best hawker stalls and restaurants equates with a professional foodies’ tour. Through her husband, Dr. Tan, a veterinarian and thoroughbred horse trainer, I got close enough to touch, smell, and bliss out those stunning four-legged athletes.

Ah-Ying & Yuk Lin in durian heaven

Sakmoi, Sean Hoay, Jackie and other teachers proffered both insights and energizing conversation over scrumptious meals. Evidently, Chinese-Malaysian children do not freeze in the bright light of profound learning. While here in the states, parents express concerns over maintaining ‘authenticity’ in our children versus the necessity of learning well and deeply, Chinese-Malaysian graduates participate successfully in this increasingly competitive world. Galvanized by high parental expectation along with after-hour tutorials in physics, mathematics and other tough subjects, their children thrive before rising to become their best selves. Yuk Lin, an attorney who now lives in Singapore, epitomizes this approach to success. For fun Ah-Ying, Yuk Lin and I hiked Penang Hill before eating well of laksa and durian in Balik Pulau.

Women in Ah-Ying's Family Tree

After an upscale meal in Kuala Lumpur, we shivered deliciously over ghost tales in Adeline’s plush hotel room overlooking the stunning cityscape. In attendance were the extended family of women in Ying’s tree including Annie and Mei Queen.

Auntie Anna's Restaurant

Just before leaving, Ah-Ying and I sat with Auntie Anna, wife to the marvelous Chee, who serves as adviser to the Peat Forest Recovery group. We ate sublimely of beautifully prepared food from Anna’s ‘restaurant’.

At 36 hours away by planes, trains and automobiles, allow me to raise a cup of coffee to these extraordinary women. I wish you well, my distant friends. Thank you, one and all.

For more pix, go to my Facebook page.

The Good Day

2011-05-09T22:10:00.000-07:00

Sharing my month long stay in Malaysia has been my intent for this blog, however... I came home to an oddly incoherent email from my longtime friend and mentor, Darlene. In this short message, sent midway through my trip, she stated that she had finished chemo and radiation for stage 4 cancer. As it turns out, her lung cancer diagnosis began six months earlier with a ‘sore’ arm for which her then doctor offered aspirin and a pat on the head. A month later, Dar finally went to a doctor who listened, who placed a hand on the exact place where her arm hurt and who diagnosed the pain as a spontaneous break - tumor related. Probably cancer. This is how a world collapses.

Dar and I first met when I was in test engineering. She served with the secretarial pool that glued the engineering office together. We clicked. Her dry sense of humor and attention to detail carried us along with another writer into starting the Peninsula Chapter of RWA (Romance Writers of America), a now highly successful group with a growing alumni of published writers. I served with her as conference coordinator for the colossal RWA conference in New Orleans in the early 90s. We played at smaller conferences, meeting between events for the odd breakfast and lunch. She never lost faith in my writing ability, even as she misplaced her belief in herself as a publishable writer. She and Lloyd moved to Union in Mason County after he retired, yet we continued to connect. Once I moved to the Okanogan and published, I dropped her a line to let her know whenever I had an author event in the Kitsap area. She never came out to play, blaming her diminished hearing or dislike of driving for not making the events. I simply chose not to drive another couple of hours to and from Union for a meet up. Still, we have our history.

That’s why despite having just unpacked after an excruciatingly long return trip, I called another friend for a place to stay before throwing necessities into my recently emptied backpack. For this trip, the VW carried me seven hours to my destination in Kitsap County. From there a daily commute of an hour each way took me for a visit with Dar in her rehab and nursing facility in Mason County. One day the sky opened up and sheeted the road with what felt like tears from great gulping sobs.

She felt too weak to talk much, so first I filled the silence with babble. Then I offered laptop photos of the recent trip along with those from our Okanogan home. This proved too much for her concentration. She slept often, waking to watch court television. Whenever she felt like it, I rubbed her legs, arm, neck and shoulders with an aromatic lotion, then massaged her scalp. Her meals consisted of barely touched white and brown foods intended to digest easily and help patients regain strength, if only to galvanize them to hunt-and-gather for more palatable fare. I brought her offerings of Ben & Jerry’s, pomegranate seeds smothered in dark chocolate, thick clam chowders and whatever else struck her fancy. She barely touched those either. In three day, she moved once from her bed to her chair and back again. My last day, she claimed to have been thrown into the shower by the staff, yet seemed perkier for it. To her room’s impersonal trappings, I added a bowl of bath salts interspersed with tiny shells smelling of the sea she loves and a palm-sized balloon dog of substantial Kelly green glass. Then I headed for Wenatchee to make a doctor’s appointment scheduled 6 months earlier.

Her daughter Terrea’s marrying on May 21st, which coincides with our family’s wedding in Spokane. Once home, I rifled through catalogs for possible mother-of-the-bride choices in the softest fabrics with the bohemian designs Darlene favors. You see, Dar has lost weight she will never gain back. At another time in her life she’d be blissful. Not now. Rather she insists on waiting for a better day to do those things that are important to her. She’s waiting for a good day to talk with her husband of 38 years, to communicate with her children. To talk with her friends. She’s waiting for a day that may not come.

So. Do we wait for those ‘good days’? Or do we surrender to this moment and accept each one as the gift it is? I told her I love her and reminded her of all the ways she has enriched my life. And now, for me, today is a good day. This is a great moment.

Tripping I

2011-05-04T17:17:00.000-07:00

‘I’m going away, I cannot stay, I’m leaving my true love today...’ These words came from a singing round that recalls long bus rides and deep friendships. They also carry with them the excitement and joy of seeing new places and experiencing life outside the box. Which is why when my friend YingYing Lim invited me to travel to Malaysia this year, I jumped at the chance. Okay, jumped wouldn’t be entirely correct. In truth, I counted my rupees and knew, knew that no way could I afford this trip. At the same time, I also knew I could not afford emotionally and mentally to miss this chance. Thus, I’m paying the exorbitant fee airlines charge for 38 hours of transit and going.

My last long sojourn occurred five years ago and encompassed Egypt and Morocco with short stays in Paris and London both between and afterward. The actual Egyptian trip proved more difficult than any other treks before. Almost immediately, my travel partner became ill with a parasite. The places we stayed often challenged the body to recuperate from long jags with public transportation. Additionally, this Muslim-male dominated country tested me on personal issues that no other trip had done. For instance, should I have stayed out of the fray when a feral pack of young males beat and tormented a mother dog and her remaining pup? Probably. But I didn’t. My shock and sadness over how depleted Egypt’s historical wonders had become along with the continuing plundering made me realize I wasn’t interested in returning to this country again. I’ve never felt that way before. Plus, I tend toward being a communicator and many Muslim males simply refused to complete that necessary circle, even for simple questions. Over all, street anger was palpable. The day we flew out of Cairo, the first bombing of disembarking tourists occurred. Still, when I see where Egypt’s going now, I feel guardedly hopeful. In my mind, if the Egyptian musicians I love engage in this transition, Egypt could be fabulous.

Morocco, our second leg of the same trip, was a completely different experience; full of joyful surprises and natural beauty. I felt that like Turkey, I could live there for a long while and enjoy exploring both history and country in more detail.

Next up--Malaysia with its predominately Malay population that calls itself 60% Islamic has called--and I’m answering. Of Chinese origin, YingYing’s primary family lives in Penang and Kuala Lumpur, while other family members live in nearby states and territories like Ipoh. Having visited and loved Singapore nearly 15 years ago, I’m looking forward to opening myself to this experience, too. Yes, I’m reading the requisite travel books by Lonely Planet, working on my polite Bahasa Malaysia phrases and tossing too many things into my backpack, soon to be distilled into essentials. The old version of ROUGH GUIDE SINGAPORE sits on my desk as does MOUSE CLUTCHING WINTER MELON (Loh Sin Kip Tong Kua) by Kuan Gnat Choo. It’s signed by the family friend to Mee Lian, YingYing’s stepmother, where we’ll be staying for a time. We’ll be hand-delivering this beloved tome to her.

Magical Thinking (Part II)

2010-12-25T12:52:00.000-08:00

Nina Sophia's 1st Snowfall - A New World

Don't you simply love building your own worlds? Whether visual, oral or written, we yearn to create a place we can return to habitually. During the writing process, we must go into this world each and every day. Thus it must be a reality that causes a relentless itch while also satisfying us. As writers, we hope that readers feel the same. While this process comes across as somewhat magical in itself, my premise is that for our worlds to engage an audience, they need certain features. Foremost, you need to disengage your readers' critics. That means seamlessly arranging an entire world of physical systems, societal taboos and mores, along with rules throughout the entire landscape.

In biology, an ability to see systems comes in handy. Skill in diagnosing a habitat for likely damage, and even failure, can mean the difference between actual life and death. Thus, you need your starting point. Chris Vogler likes to call this the ordinary world. My foundation in MISTBORN TRILOGY begins with a bucolic world without magic. Then, when the curtain between worlds rips open, wild magic invades like a viral attack. Ah, the call to adventure. Rather than revisit what others like Joseph Campbell and Vogler have done so well, let me focus on one aspect, which for me proves the most interesting. That would be the game of 'what if', which depends upon critical thought processes.

What if certain species and individuals are genetically sensitive to transformation with the influx? What if others cannot handle the change successfully, either mentally or biologically, as in a cancerous mutation. What if a person who understands the inherent linkage between science and magic, yet who had lost her capability to network, is trapped in this world. What if her abilities are suspect and worse yet, she cannot diagnose the world's damage without cueing a rapacious predator as to her location. What if a master merchant, who sees himself as quite average and anything but heroic, suddenly finds himself a repository of the extraordinary.

You see how this 'what if' game gets played? For me, the play went on for over 1500 manuscript pages. Yes, a trilogy was born. Of course, this process works at every level of conception, including development of species' physiology, cultures, and even entire universes of worlds juxtapositioned to each other with little to no awareness of the grander scheme. Oh, other than an entire species of beings that travel between, although mostly for scholarly reasons.

The same process goes into the best of other forms of fiction. The parameters for my contemporary fantasy CALLING DOWN THE WIND again started with a societal outsider. Yes, it's a recurring theme. In this case, a young woman reaches puberty just as a genetic toggle switches 'ON'. Rue becomes preternaturally connected to natural cycles and beings. Of course, she believes she's going mental. Her reality issues from a potentially untrustworthy point-of-view. Yes, she's a teen, yet readers believe in Rue and her journey. Why? Because the rules of her world work according to how she sees it. Then, as she gains confidence in her abilities, so do readers.

You see, we writers set the rules, then play within those parameters. Otherwise, our readers, who we adore, stop suspending their disbelief. Quite possibly, this leads to throwing our tomes across the room in fits of exasperation. As an abused reader, I learned this response firsthand. That experience also galvanized me to write, since I figured I could do this writing thing so much better. A-HEM and blush.

Another world around the corner. What if...

There are many books that have taken us into their worlds, shaped us, then kept us as return visitors. For me, Tolkien's LORD OF THE RINGS, Guy Gavriel Kay's FIONAVAR TAPESTRY, Orson Scott Card's ENDER'S GAME, Anne McCaffrey's DRAGONRIDERS OF PERN and Patricia McKillip's RIDDLEMASTER OF HED served this grander purpose. First came fascinated appreciation for these stories along with a willingness to immerse self into them. Later, I returned to read them more critically. Even now, I lose myself in their mastery. Sigh.

Magical Thinking - Part I

2010-10-24T16:29:00.000-07:00

No, this isn't about Joan Didion's touching year of madness after she lost both her life partner and child, although this blog may shine light on lesser misfortunes. Instead, it pertains to a mutant germ of magical thinking that has begun to permeate our culture. At least, that's how I perceive the bizarre and perplexing sort of beliefs that encompass THE SECRET and other marketing devices of its ilk.

To begin, can we agree that magical thinking could equate with misapprehension? This subject's tricky, considering anyone who creates also walks a fine line between imagination and madness. I mean, aren't we somewhat delusional to believe that what we produce might resonate with another person? Perhaps. Maybe there's comfort in the old political saw that if one person feels a certain way about an issue, there are at least 100 others who feel the same. That would be our herd. However, first we need to eliminate the possibility that we are actually lunatics. Not Nietzsche-style insanity, though. He did end his life locked away, after all. So, when we leave a room and close the door, the room's still there and the same color as when we left. Okay?

Yet I know people who walk too fine a line, then cross over to inhabit the never, never land zone. As mentioned, THE SECRET touted such 'magical thinking' with the premise that you could wish what you want into being. When this was first presented on a nationwide broadcast of Oprah, I had this visual of humans everywhere lying in their beds thinking hard about mounds of cash, Lotuses and Lamborghinis in their 12-car garages, and a string of mansions from coast-to-coast. In other words, lots of stuff. Meanwhile, my brain's screaming, "What about preparation? What about mastering your skills to make this happen?" A few months later, the gurus associated with this remarkable social phenomena issued another directive. You must prime yourself to receive this bounty via preparation, mastery of skills, etc. Whew! Bullet dodged.

Or not. Evidently, that message didn't reach all the people who need to hear it. Thus in my neck of the woods, there are people who, due to lack of preparation, send chills down my spine and cause me to wake up panicked at 3 a.m. Yes, these are people I care about who have decided to accept the original premise. They see nothing wrong with lying on their backs staring at their ceilings...

Can I now add a caveat that just because we can't perceive a thing does not mean it isn't there? I mean, it's only in recent years that science could effectively view a virus. And what about that crazy radiation--unseen but heard via telemetry. Okay, and yes, I have a special place in my heart for masses of fairy folk and others that crowd our world. And synchronicity--that I depend upon. After vast amounts of groundwork, that is.

Without mentioning names, there's a woman who was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. Before that, she attended and held meetings of local faith healers, women who believed in variations of healing via prayer, thoughts, touch or almost touch. Again, just because we can't see it doesn't mean it isn't there. However, when this woman, who is also a mother, learned of her diagnosis, the healers scattered to the four winds. She still speaks of this event with greater hurt and sadness than the actual cancer, which she treated and evidently eradicated through Western medicine. Yet she and the others had built this world in which healing occurred by other means. Until it didn't.

Then I'm acquainted with a talented artist, shy as any woodland creature, who lives in a house so tiny that it's beginning to find fame in today's less-is-more culture. She creates visual art, then trucks it to farmers' markets from late spring into mid fall in hopes of generating enough sales to get her through winter. In previous years, before this year-of-the-shoulder, my guy and I delivered loads of firewood to her woodstove-only place along with boxes of human and kitty foods along with other supplies. Her belief has cemented into the view that if she needs something, magically it will appear. In fact, this belief system dominates her life to the point that she refuses to take work-for-pay when it's offered. Yet last time I saw her, her appearance shocked me. She's too thin and has begun to lose teeth. Yet she still subscribes to this magical thinking that to me has become frighteningly delusional. I want her to accept a job, fix her teeth and actually pack her own chute. It worries me that we have enabled her illusion of reality. The thought of her causes me to awake in a panic on winter nights when even our 4-wheel Toyota can no longer reach her. What's the option, though? Finding her frozen and starved body when the spring thaw arrives?

Stories of this kind of delusional thinking continue to grow. Perhaps it's our tough economy that makes it feel so necessary to so many people. Perhaps it's a general state of immaturity and unwillingness to accept reality and work to change our circumstances. Where's critical thinking when you need it? Flabby and unused in the recesses of our brains perhaps? Let me say again that I believe preparation and hard work leads to synchronous occurrences that take me to the next level. I suppose that's a belief system, too. What about you? Do you pack your own chute or wait for it to magically occur?

In part II, we'll explore how to construct the necessary suspension of belief inherent in building magical worlds. Warning, it requires critical thinking.

Atrophy & Recovery (Part II)

2010-09-06T15:07:00.000-07:00

Last night during a nocturnal wander through the house, during wakefulness fueled by housetraining that adorably cute Italian Greyhound viewed in Part I, I noticed starlight bouncing off the black plastic laid for next year's garden area. You see, this is one of the most passive and easy returns on preparing soil for new plantings.

Beneath the opaque cover, which soaks up late summer and autumn rays, then cooks the existing seed banks into submission, the organics formerly-known-as-weeds become fuel for astilbe, peonies, anchusa and other faves. Well, an equivalent to this is what happened during my crossover from tech writer with fictional aspirations into novelist. As promised, I'll share the watershed events that led to this transition.

The equivalent of plastic mulch in my life at that time took me from writing about forced draft blowers, main feed pumps, lithium bromide plants and the ever cool condensers into first women's fiction, then onto my latest rage of contemporary and high fantasy. Okay, admittedly, FDBs and MFPs can be wickedly geekish and even satisfying to write about, but world building's way more fun.

Allow me to tout two books, which at that time helped me both mentally and emotionally into transition. Clarissa Pinkola Estes' WOMEN WHO RUN WITH THE WOLVES and Julia Cameron's ARTIST'S WAY provided both cure and inspiration for what ailed me. Let's face it, Navalese-speak does not make for a bestselling author, although it does help with keeping to just-the-facts Jack.

Estes' tome uncovered personal stories, often painful, that thwarted my instincts to probe into the depths and dark places. Then Cameron gave me permission to use those finds to go where story lives. Yes, I'd dabbled in poetry, fiction and playwriting before then, which had been somewhat successful. Let's face it; a menu that includes twelve weeks of the equivalent of really good dark chocolate for the brain and spirit can take you so much further. Especially when led through the process by Estes and Cameron's empathetic, yet grounded approaches to healing.

Since then, I've turned to other geographically remote mentors such as Stephen King's ON WRITING, Carol Lloyd's CREATING A LIFE WORTH LIVING, Susan Shaughnessy's WALKING ON ALLIGATORS and FRUITFLESH by Gayle Brandeis. I've even returned to Julia Cameron, although her later works failed to spark the same cascade of light as ARTIST'S WAY, through no fault of hers. We artists are receptive at different times to different magnitudes of inspiration, after all.

So if you find that atrophy has set in and hope to recover not only your mojo, but go to a greater level of creativity and productivity, think in terms of mulching your creative beds for your next planting season.

As it happens, I plopped four bags of commercial soil onto my black mulch, cut the tops open, then planted each bag with cold crop vegetables such as arugula, Kweik organic lettuce, endive, pak choy and broccolini. Oh, and I threw a few seeds of Misato Rose radishes and boro beets in for good measure. Next year, that soil will be turned into what lies beneath to further enrich the soil. Yum.

So I encourage you, too, to turn to the sources that feed your soul and makes it fertile. It beats atrophy every time. And if a puppy helps you along your way, why not?

Atrophy & Recovery (Part I)

2010-08-28T15:35:00.000-07:00

As physical therapy continues as a mainstay in my life, on a daily basis I confront the vagaries of atrophy. You might have guessed that this isn't a funhouse by Pink's or anyone else's standards. Awakening withered muscles hurts. Rebuilding muscle hurts. For the first time in my adult life, I cannot distinguish between muscle pain and joint pain, which when you're recovering from multiple screws in the rotator cuff, can really mess with your composure.

Nonetheless, once a week I'm driven like Miss Daisy to a physical therapist who first calms both sane and absurd fears, then manipulates the joint beyond what I'm capable of doing myself. The therapist also assigns new exercises. I tell myself these remedial tricks are more than deceptive smoke-and-mirror pranks. Despite the first six month marathon of supposed 'recovery', this one's imminent, isn't it? I'm simply in the fireweed stage of renewal after a devastating forest fire, right? Yet without drama, I make weekly, even daily, gains. Nonetheless, there's often been half a painkiller at about 3 a.m. along with 1-2 icepacks each night.

So what are the corollaries to this if you've allowed your writing muscle to deteriorate? For I find myself in that odd space, too. As a lifelong writer, this feels unexpectedly distressing. Also, kind of geekishly interesting. The last time I dealt with this loss of gravity came after years as a primarily technical writer in test engineering. At that time, I faced the blank sheet of fiction with trepidation much like the wasted shoulder.

Now for the fascinating part of this process. You see, at that time, mentors and nonfiction helped me through the there-be-dragons phase. Ultimately, this route turned a 'what-to-do-with-a-blank-page' quandary into a vast shift from one career to another. The specifics on how this happened? Well, you'll learn more in part deux. For your edification and mine, enjoy these views of my summer garden and new puppy. I mean, who doesn't love a puppy? Now, it's time for another ice pack.

On Relevance (Part II)

2010-07-21T15:32:00.000-07:00

The view from our balcony in Leavenworth.

I had the opportunity to attend Write on the River in Wenatchee this May. Actually, my friend and critique partner Anjali Banerjee was a speaker, so we made it a girlfriend weekend of three that included best buddy and fellow writer Kate Breslin. Since Kate ended up coming a day late due to her spousal unit's truly wretched bout of gastroenteritis, on Friday before the conference I assisted Anjali as she visited two schools. Incredible writer and presenter both, she gave four different and delightfully relatable programs for various elementary school grades. Introducing her, then juggling props, especially wrapping and unwrapping children in a stunning sari that belonged to her mother, I got a good taste of the peripheral nature of a sidekick. Yes, 'relatable' and 'peripheral nature' both refer to relevance.

Then on Sunday, opportunity again shone when Larry Brooks, who writes critically acclaimed thrillers, spoke passionately about The Six Core Competencies of Successful Storytelling. This offered another view of storytelling as espoused by Christopher Vogler's "The Writer's Journey" and more recently by Donald Maass' "Writing the Breakout Novel". However, Larry's approach, soon to be followed by his book on the subject, clarified the process even further. One of the samples he gave for dissection was the movie Collateral, starring Tom Cruise and Jamie Fox. Dutiful student of the craft that I am, the movie arrived via NetFlix the following week. It delivered on all of Larry's elements.

However, the shocker of the day arrived as an aside. Larry claimed that actual writing, that sublime weaving of words, comes in dead last when weighed against concept, theme, character, structure, scene execution and writing voice. Last.

Leavenworth goat--apropos of this writer's journey.

As a writer enthralled with both the import and nuance of words, this served as a body blow. All the books on my shelves, also known as 'keepers', are well written. However, Larry's notion does explain many of the big brands in publishing, some of whom no longer write their own novels. So to be relevant to publishers, the six core competencies are paramount, while beauty and specificity of your words rank much lower. Ouch.

Which means I need to review my stories for those competencies--again. Maybe you'll want to do the same. Perhaps publishers will overlook that they're also delivered with well-written language. We want to be relevant after all.

On Relevance (Part 1)

2010-07-16T04:17:00.000-07:00

Okay, I'm struggling with relevance, which according to a random web definition relates to:

1. Pertinence to the matter at hand.

2. Applicability to social issues: a governmental policy lacking relevance.

3. The capability of a search engine or function to retrieve data appropriate to a user's needs.

Evidently, humor seems inherent in this journey to find something like relevance. A black humor, in this case.

I'm back in the process of recovery--deja vu all over again. The frozen shoulder, unlike an annual thaw, did not simply wake up one morning revitalized into action. Instead, it required 'medical intervention'. Read into this a nerve block and general anesthesia followed by manipulation that led to new holes in the shoulder and sawing away adhesions along with a repair to a blown bicep. Okay, the nerve block was geeky cool. My arm stayed totally asleep for 28 hours, during which time a tapping against my thigh turned out to be my hand knocking against the leg. Oh, and I finally get the whole phantom limb thing my dad experienced. Still...

Remember the story of the woman who had a mouse infestation, so she got a cat to take care of the problem, which led to a need for dogs to deal with the cat problem...

So now at 3:30 am, after an ice pack and a pain killer, I'm deeply into questioning relevance. It's A BIG ISSUE at this time of night. So let me shrink it to human scale first, then to being a writer in a world that seems to consider those who string words together less relevant than ever.

I've been at this writing thing for a while, my friends. Even as I write that word in plural, is it even germaine? For who reads this silly blog, after all. Yet as a reader first, I know two books that have been significant to me in this last month of deja vu recovery. The first is Kristen Hannah's latest, WINTER GARDEN. The second? Guy Gavriel Kay's UNDER HEAVEN, both of which make me question my ability, my vision, and yes, my relevance. Yes, they're both wonderful. While this would be my usual cue to wax eloquently on the why of this, I just can't right now.

Granted I haven't been writing with any facility since December. Pain, drugs and loss of belief in self can do that to creativity. Frankly, my search engine's gone awry. While I have four novels residing in my brain, why bother to put the time in the chair to bring them to fruition? Does the world need another of my evidently underwhelming works?

Instead, I've taken on a local job with a community school as programs manager. The relevance of that is to bring local creatives who have something to share into an environment where they can do so. Yet even here, this month of drugs and pain has limited my intention. There's a catalog due to go out at the end of this month, yet I'm still in the ferret roundup stage of trying to get the creatives to commit. Ah, irony lives.

So, how to find relevance as a writer in this search engine world? More on this later.

My Bridge of Sighs

2010-04-06T16:09:00.000-07:00

This blog might have dealt with persistence. Sigh. However, after an evening in Tonasket at the annual Community Center's Girl's Night Out, thank you Suzanne, this idea of story awoke me this morning. Maybe it was Lindy, a wonderful poet, who edged me in this direction with her stunningly tactile quilt of a poem. Perhaps it was the exuberant time spent with two student dancers or the carafe of sangria we shared afterward. Or it might have been the experience of dancing for the first time since shoulder surgery. Okay, dancing might not give you the complete picture, for my shoulder limited me somewhat. But this body knows how to isolate muscles and break a move in equal parts to Pussycat Girls' Buttons or Elissa's Tloud Temana.

Which brings me to what, how and why I write. Also the what, how, and why we all may share a passion for what we do. What makes a story, chorography, painting or even a gathering of friends ring true? I believe it's a matter of maintaining linkage to our vital essence.

A recent opportunity to meet-and-greet mustangs serving our local border patrol presented itself. Captured wild and gentled by Colorado Corrections inmates, these bold animals appear to be perfect for their endeavors. Who taught who more--horse or inmate--before being integrated into the fold of this rugged Border Patrol station poses an inspired question. Surefooted, brawny, intelligent, they're still enough mustang to stand against grounded cougar or foul malefactor and even stomp a rattler mid-strike. In other words, they retain their horsey essence--their wild being. For that we can thank the humans who chose to shape rather than break. Both wrangler and riders recognized the importance of maintaining their mustang's nature even as they partnered with them for the rugged terrain in which we live. This is not a trivial matter, since each depends upon the other for life.

As when confronted the extermination of wild mustangs during my child- and young adulthood in Nevada, when reading accounts of stories, both long and short, that have been through a purported gazillion editing cycles, a part of me recoils. Another part longs to read the story, which is often what happens. Here's my take.

Some stories survive the process of editing to become better, while others wither from the writer's imposition of will. The latter lose their spark. Those of you who write with equal parts persistence, joy and heartbreak know what this means. On of my BGFs met the heartbreak of this headlong. She took an award-winning Scottish historical romance, then proceeded to break its spirit in hopes of crafting a bestseller. She was young in the art of the edit then and has since cultivated a more deft hand. Stories from short to novel to series in length have met the same fate. Obviously, these have been published, but they've been edited to the point of schlock. Schlock for me means that after reading the story, often with vast tracts of skimming, it will never ever be a keeper on my limited shelf space. Instead, it will go back to library or be found in a Friends of the Library sale. Often that author will never again grace the endless list of books I want to and do read.

Then there are the keepers. My friend Susan Wiggs wrote one that brought out the clichéd response in me--I laughed, I cried, I rooted for the protagonist and threw virtual rotten tomatoes at the antagonist. This was her novel JUST BREATHE. I felt the same about George R. R. Martin's first few novels of his SONG OF ICE AND FIRE series, which since has shifted from fantasy masterwork to perhaps simply lost and unfinished. Sigh. Another friend and writer Anjali Banerjee writes young adult novels with a beating heart--stories that deal with ISSUES, yet remain true to story. Her first was LOOKING FOR BAPU and her latest SEAGLASS SUMMER. She edits, bends, spindles and mutilates herself over the process, which as her friend I wish she'd simply trust, but ends with these beautiful stories with essence intact.

Which brings me to my stories. Two have been beautifully published on a small scale, found a tiny, but growing readership, and continue to haunt me. For you see, Susan and Anjali have become well-published authors with a vast readership. Sigh--again. Granted, an infinitesimal distribution and zero public relations combined with living in a sparsely populated county with one struggling indie bookstore has been problematic. However, if my stories had sold to a large publishing house, would that have made a difference?

Perhaps. WILDFIRE and CALLING DOWN THE WIND, award-winners that they are, might have reached a wider audience, found more of those who love them, then been touted to their friends. I've done the same for stories I love. Yet here's the problem. Four, possibly five of my novels loosely fit into either what's called contemporary fantasy, magic realism, speculative fiction or urban fantasy, although really four of the five are actually rural or ex-urban fantasy. Large publishers refuse to fully embrace any of these categories. Just look at the well-established Alice Hoffman's lovely novels, that bounce from literary to fantasy dependent on the bookstore or marketer. Of course, there is my homeless high fantasy trilogy that's too big to take on with an 'untried' writer. Why can't too big to fail work in this case? Sigh.

But I stray into rant and really, here's the gist. My editing, like my dance, taps into the feral side. No, I'm not talking lizard brain, but the part of me that disdains being overly civilized. As an editor, I'm ruthless about craft, but mostly true to self when it comes to essence. How else could I have worked in male-dominated fields without losing my edge species element that takes ultimate joy in raqs beladi? This side mourned the loss of dogness in my retired runner greyts, then slowly and surely brought them back into touch with their essential dog nature. This part of me revels in my tuxedo cat's inability to be wholly tamed.

This landscape in which we live embraces the wild as much as my writing. Yes, I grow annual vegetable and fruit by the square foot, but only in response to predatory deer who would leave me nothing. Elsewhere, it's drought- and deer-resistant plantings that follow the curves of the land and find homes where they're most likely to take root and thrive. Drip system all the way...

So why try to form story into cubes that fit the perfect square systems that our current publishing world clasps to their collective chest in a death grip, which indeed may turn out to be the death of them? I can count on one hand the books I've purchased as keepers in the last year. This from a voracious and careless reader.

Thus my conundrum. From the onset of writing a draft to publishing, where do we draw the line at editing for publication? Well, my answer changes dependent upon the compelling inner essence of each story. For now, only the beating heart, the coursing blood, the heightened sense of story lures me to the keyboard. I'll keep you posted on how that goes and hope you'll share your insights with me. SIgh.

My Winter 'Vacation'

2010-02-18T17:22:00.000-08:00

Having been absent from BlogWorld for over two months, it's time to 'fess up. Not hard to do when your arm's still in a sling for part of each day. You see, on December 29th, I went in for shoulder surgery. Of course, before that came the amazing, standing-room-only NIGHT AT THE CASBAH on the 19th. So December was seriously compromised by actually participating in life versus writing while thinking about it. Thank goodness for anti-inflammatories.

About the shoulder... No, the injury didn't occur because of dance or during any of my usual actions, although I suppose gardening was peripherally involved. Last March, yes, March 2009, I was admiring my tiny seedlings beneath our hoop house that adds two months to our growing season. Then what to my wondering eyes should appear... Well, around here winds start as debris. Not like Gobi or Mohave or Sahara sandstorms, but rife with sand and duff from the sagebrush steppe far below us. As often happens, the wind moved up the mountain toward us, all the while picking up speed.

So I turned to my inestimable guy and mentioned that maybe we should move the hoop house, which is covered with heavy mil plastic, before the wind arrived and lofted it like a parachute. He was busy doing other things and would most certainly help me soon--very soon. By then the wind hit our level--about 3000 feet--and by the movement of Ponderosa limbs and needles, it looked to be about 30-40 mph. Again, I asked the guy for some help moving the hoop house off the raised garden. He waved that wave that says, "I'll be there--soon."

By the time he joined me, tree and shrub action proclaimed gusts of 60-70 mph. The hoop house slid across the brick top of the garden. I considered throwing myself on the top in a Kitty Hawk-type flight scenario. Instead, the guy hoisted one end and I the other. Then we began to move toward southerly leeward side of the house. What happened between there and the garden was why I needed shoulder surgery in December.

The wind gusted, caught the hoop house and lofted it much more gracefully than the Wright brothers' contraption. In a fit of ridiculous arrogance, I tried to hold on to the frame. That's when my supraspinatus tore away from my rotator cuff in a wrenching and high torque move. Ouch! From my mouth flew Bad Words, also wrenched away by the wind.

Supraspinatus sounds like a fabulous new salad ingredient, doesn't it? High on antioxidants and other magical properties. It's actually the muscle connecting the scapula to the rotator cuff. Mine refused to reattach on its own. Thus, my

rotator cuff now sports a snazzy piton like screw and mountaineering style stitches to hold it in place. Ouch. The geek in me loves this stuff.

So I'm on the mend with stories bubbling from my subconscious in a lifting magma. As Arnold said, "I'll be back"--most likely in time to begin my new spring garden. Yes, with hoop houses. Ah, hope springs eternal.

Losing It

2009-11-16T07:59:00.000-08:00

Isak Dinesen once said, "I write a little every day, without hope and without despair." Such an approach continues to be a life to strive toward and even a fine way to process this world. Yet on a recent Friday, my motherboard and hard drive died. This after gifting the elderly DELL with new RAM and everything. No reciprocity there. It happened when I strolled from the room to replenish my water, then give and receive puppy love. I returned to nothing but black screen and the slow beat of a DOS prompt that took me nowhere. Ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump. Very Tell-Tale heart. Even my computer geek friend could not revive the zombie. Thus, I went into overdrive editing what had been a completed grant--and trying not to dwell upon what had been lost.

Allow a moment of gratitude for a back-up, even though it was not the most current edit. Now, another moment of thanks for my aging, but functional laptop--fingers crossed. In place of the nearly finished blog about our munificent harvest, along with bounteous pictures, you're getting this one instead. There does seem to be some truth in that old saw of making lemonade from lemons, don't you think? However, recent losses of my sweet Amanda Pandemonium, fire-stressed Ponderosa pines and even my mother came to the fore in this ridiculous crash of an old computer. Who knew?

Oh, and DAW finally got back to me about my MISTBORN TRILOGY. Yes, another 'at any other time we would certainly publish this...' letter. When you can identify a market and satisfy it, that's commerce. Evidently, targeting markets isn't my strong suite. Thus, I believe I'm finished with the whole New York publishing thing, my friends. Even though my reading list remains deep and diverse, the books on my table and bedstead are from the local library. I only purchase keepers and those have become much fewer. New York feels more like light-years in distance. Therefore, finished work will continue to go to smaller literary houses. For me, these publishers have the 'nads and vision to make stories into beautiful books, although they may lack the heft to make distribution either easy or steady.

Now let's talk about stress--and flop sweat. Even though the DELL had made it nearly nine years, I still was unprepared to buy a new computer. In my rosiest dreams, my next workstation was an Apple--a Mac, in fact--with all the cool stuff. Adobe Photoshop, LiveMotion, GoLive... Ah, the vision of dollar signs flashing in my head. Nevertheless, none of my contemporary hats are full of money. Really.

Writer--not so much banquet as scarcity.
Conservation biologist--oh, come on, do employers really hire in this field of expertise? Choreographer and dance instructor--not high on the food chain in Okanogan.

Still, you probably spotted my trend of choosing satisfaction over financial security, although rarely in the vein of Dinesen's splendid lack of hope and despair. However, I still dance and perform, lately returning to teach only advanced choreography. Plus another PC, one with speed, brains and Windows 7 has made its way by slow camel to this latitude and longitude. I've gone rogue with a desktop from Zt, a company with 15 years of history who has pitted itself against the megaliths. Yes, I often pull for the underdog, so long as they have spirit, integrity and heart.

Yet, I've also taken time to read everything and anything that strikes my fancy. In fact, a craving for the written word has engulfed me. So not idle, but not exactly centered either. Between long rambles with the hounds and the usual detritus of everyday life, I took a romp through Dan Brown's latest, The Lost Symbol, before sliding into Frazier's Thirteen Moons, a lyrical journey through the lost Cherokee past of my father’s antecedents. What a wonderful voice his protagonist has. Now Republican Gomorrah's on the table as I try to understand and find compassion for our own homegrown Fundamentalists, who seem every bit as toxic as the nihilistic foreign groups they rant against. I gobbled up Margaret Atwood's The Year of the Flood, finding the return to her world of Oryx and Crake more daunting than satisfying. A few short story collections beckon now: The Better of McSweeney's, Volume 1, and Joyce Carol Oates' selection of Contemporary American Short Fiction. Then Naamah's Kiss by Jacqueline Carey will balance Queen Noor's Leap of Faith while Teri Coyne's The Last Bridge does the same for Half the Sky: Turning Oppression into Opportunity for Women Worldwide by Nicholas D. Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn.

Yes, the impact of losses remains. The dynamics between adversity and abundance will certainly continue. However, the space feels much less empty when filled with actual living. An artful life allows you to reveal your own truths, n'est pas?

A Long and Winding Road

2009-09-07T15:19:00.000-07:00

Between late April and early November, my two young hounds and I take the high roads. Old forestry roads, that is. A short VW ride away we can access one relatively tiny island of the Okanogan National Forest. By 'tiny', that would be from a furry mega fauna's perspective. You see, bear, mountain lions, wolves, elk and moose need sizable territory to meet their range needs throughout the distinct and oft-extreme seasonal changes we experience here in the highlands. However, the hounds and I do just fine.

With the VW parked just off the main dirt road, we have plenty of choices for narrower and less traveled paths. This has become a necessary break from winter's YakTrax and layers of outerwear. Black squirrels, chipmunks and rabbits keep the hounds' interest peaked, while sharpening the wild critters survival instinct. Foraging turkeys roam the forest in polygamous family flocks. The largest flock spotted so far runs at an even dozen with three adults, a gobbler and two hens and 10 lanky poults.The stunning males sported iridescent red, purple, green, copper, bronze and gold feathers. Some mornings, their rich language fills the forest, driving my coursing hounds crazy with longing. Fast as Connor and Kartouche' are on terra firma, they want to fly, too. Luckily, wild turkeys remain shy, cunning and agile flyers--unlike the domesticated variety.

On a good day, the hounds range about me. They break into sprints only for cagey rodents, who then torment them from treetop or burrow. The sun loosens muscles and fresh air stimulates the creative pathways. Entire stories or scenes come to me in this state. Essays are written and short stories composed. Sometimes a knotty plot problem or deeper character issues from the hike.

Yes, obstacles present themselves. Beyond the above-mentioned critters and my attempts to minimize our impact on their daily lives, cows also graze the forest from June to October. As you might already know, domesticated animals lack the wiliness of wild ones. For instance, once my quickly leashed hounds sight a cow/calf pair, the bovines don't leap off the main trail into the forest. No, instead they plod ahead until a turn hides us from view. Then they act flabbergasted as we come around the corner--again and again and...

This becomes my upper body workout as Connor and Kartouche' intermittently try to pull me along at their speed. Did I mention that my whippet and greyhound live to chase anything that runs? Of course, they're also much faster than anything else in the woods. Especially me. So with top speeds of 40-45 mph, they need to be leashed whenever sign of possible chase-worthy prey comes along. Much as my internal editor must be disconnected during initial drafts, accordingly it helps when I can 'see' ahead along the trails we walk.

As with writing, sensory input in the wilds comes in handy. So I listen for the occasional hoof against wood or rock along with unique verbalizations, whether gobble, chuff, bugle or growl. Dare I say that I'm now familiar with the scritch-scritch of bear claws in Ponderosa pine? Trust me, it's an excellent sound to recognize.

The nose comes in handy for the unique musky smell of deer and elk or the surprisingly sweet scent of berry-munching bear, which exude what they eat. When they're on a fish diet, the smell's not quite as luscious. Visually, paw and hoof prints work, too. On moon-dusted or rock-strewn trails, though, it's difficult to find a good paw or hoof pattern. My favorite was the perfectly preserved icy remainder of a lynx or bobcat paw impression discovered during April thaw.

Then there's the scat, which can be wonderfully specific about its maker. In the cows' case, huge mounds of steaming pies present the obvious, which Kartouche' likes to rub along his pulse points like the finest of perfumes. As for taste, which I'm sure could tell me even more about what inhabits the wilds, I leave that to the hounds. Yum. At that point, it's always best to go sniff a Ponderosa along the sunny side, where the bark exudes a delectable vanilla scent.

So yes, I can rhapsodize over the smorgasbord of sensory input found along the trails we walk, but in truth, each experience adds to my private library of delights to be shared with my readers. For what I yearn to do each time I write is to bring each reader into my world along the road less traveled. What better way than to do so than enrich their lives with the sumptuous details they may not enjoy in an inner city or houseboat or condominium. Besides, living life closer to the natural world definitely has its perks.

Amanda Pandemonium

2009-07-16T09:25:00.000-07:00

Generous soul-

translucent skin joining tensile tendons in
breathtaking speed-
Tender beauty and
grand companion.
My sweet girl Mandy has gone.
How can 14 years really be long enough for such a great heart? I'm undone.

Growing a Life of Bliss

2009-05-13T22:38:00.000-07:00

Spring offers a natural time of renewal. Cleaning out the cave involves more than chasing dust bunnies into the great outdoors or dealing with windows smeared with sighthound nose-hits. This time of year has become the nexus for an abundance of creative relationships. Besides another planting cycle, an ELEMENTAL novel presses insistent cotyledons from my subconscious as story reaches for light.

Earthy renewal has become as perennial as the hardy plants in my desert gardens. Digging into soil allows space between intuitive writing and more pragmatic edits. As a meditation, building soil presses me to be fully in the present. Sometimes the outcome is to let old fields lie fallow. Either way, this process opens the way for story.

Like kilims and area rugs from Turkey, Morocco and Egypt, it's good to air winter's buildup and knock free any debris. Just as stress fractures in a relationship heal faster under bright light, rugs and edited stories can take on a fresh luster. Worn areas can be shored up and perhaps new joys added into the mix. Let's face it, disappointment and sorrow can dull even the shiniest, most enduring bonds, whether delivered via rejection letters or life's bumps. But handmade carpets and individual stories hold value because of the hands that craft them. The journey weaves into both weft and tale.

As with this latest ELEMENTAL novel, for years I resisted the call of narcissus and tulips, although crocuses, snowbells and hyacinths received no such impertinence. Yet even as I adore the return of ubiquitous robins, now daffodils, unsown stories and tulips usher in this warming equinox. Thus, both saga and common flower have been invited to grow. Will there be a market for this novel? Who knows. Local whitetails and mule deer treat tulips like candy. The blossoms are more ephemeral than in less wild climes. Still, they're in my garden today. Thus, this year my Earth ELEMENTAL, along with table grapes and kiwis, take precedence in cultivation. From the multitude of choices available, only the hardiest varieties of ideas and plants survive.

Unlike many stories, there's a known endpoint for writing the Earth ELEMENTAL. Submissions for Barbara Kingsolver's BELLWETHER PRIZE FOR FICTION end this September. As for the grapes, Valiant, Edelweiss and Swensen actually have a good chance of enduring arctic continental winds--with some help. The kiwis, whose male plays Pasha to a harem of September Suns, eschew the fuzzy jackets of their commercially known cousins. For each of these endeavors, structure is necessary. Grape arbors, story framework, and kiwi trellises fill my dreams. Oh, and gabion windbreaks constructed from wire and stone...

Yes, the center of my life brims with spring. My beautiful 32-yard turquoise-&-black dancing skirt, which offers no boundaries to untamed Turkish dances, blisses me out. Rich brocades and velvets for vests and hip belts await, too. In a lovely synchronicity during my last signings and library program, a budding friendship with Sou gifted me with Omid's VICTORY CD along with body mist and butter appropriately named BLISS. Even now, French onion soup simmers in the crockpot. With final additions of Gruyere cheese and coarse chunks of thyme-infused bread, a rainy April in Paris will be revisited. Meanwhile, ferocious winds usher in the season even as chaotic thunderstorms bring pelting rains to quench thirsty gardens.

False Thaw

2009-03-01T12:51:00.000-08:00

Icicles, which began feeling like family members, melted away this week. Actually, they first liquefied, then slid from the roof into shattered crystalline heaps. It felt like spring as temperatures reached the low 40's. Heavy coats peeled away, Yak Trax found no traction in slush, and the hounds shifted to light vests during their walks. And yet...

We had another 3" fall of snow. You see, while vernal equinox officially arrives on March 20th, we don't plant bulbs until after Mother's Day in May. I start my seeds in the blue-light-flashing-special greenhouses in the garage this week with heating pads on the lowest shelves. Eggplants, peppers, tomatoes, melons--those vegetables and fruits that take longer than our short growing season to mature--begin each season this way. There will be hardy grapevines and arctic kiwis this year along with more perennials suited to this high desert.

Last week, I also finished another edit of my MISTBORN TRILOGY. Printed out, the entire manuscript was 8" tall, a high fantasy indeed. MISTBORN went to Peter Stampfel at DAW books, home to many of my favorite fantasy authors: Jennifer Roberson, C. J. Cherryh, Mercedes Lackey and Melanie Rawn. Of course, whenever I address a manuscript to New York, an echo of Black Hole ricochets back to me.

But wait! Another edit? Yes. This one surfaced after finishing the 3rd novel, when another revision became necessary to bring elements into alignment. After nearly 1575+ manuscript pages and 375,000+ words, a story still can take a writer in new directions, which is one of the great joys of building worlds, after all. Besides, aren't all artistic endeavors works-in-progress? Each time, we take our piece as far as we know how, then release it into the universe.

Then like a thaw, growth as an artist occurs. Malcolm Gladwell in Outliers believes, then supports his claims, that it takes 10,000 hours to master such a process. He draws from fields of hockey through piano virtuosity to computing excellence. Think Bill Gates. Of course, Malcolm also discusses the uniting legs of commitment and opportunity, which regrettably can hinge on birth month. Ah, synchronicity.

Hence as writers progress, we move through precipitous curves onto plateaus, then continue toward mastery by putting time in the chair. Periodically, a thaw happens. Shoots of megacreativity take root, then reach toward the sun. When we revisit previous endeavors, we find ways to clarify our vision and strengthen the work. So we edit.

With each edit, we realize a composition as whole and light-filled as we can make it...at that time. Like early thaws in the Okanogan Highlands, thaws that come with greater frequency as global climate changes persist, we tell ourselves, "This is the moment. This will be the last time this year that the trucks sink into slushy mud up to their wheel wells. Spring has come." We have taken our work as far as we can.

Every time, that is true for now. Accordingly, MISTBORN TRILOGY goes into the Mecca of publishing that is New York. Will the novels fill my chosen editor's needs? Perhaps. Yet when the manuscript comes back, you can be sure there will be ways to improve the work. On balance, isn't that what this writing profession is about? We seek to bring our unique vision, story, and voice to readers in ways that change their perceptions. Thus do thaws arise.

Into the Cave

2009-01-01T12:57:00.000-08:00

Don't you love caves? Frissons of excitement and danger key us into the secrets those dark places hold. What critters might inhabit the depths? What precious veins or rare nuggets formed by geological shifts? As a youngling, I lived to explore old silver mines and vacant dens. These were my favorite haunts. Caves tickled my curiosity, perhaps in part because such journeys were expressly verboten. However, the urge to explore felt primal, even crucial.

As a creative being, journeys into more existential caves continue to thrill me. Winter in the Okanogan Highlands offers the perfect time to spelunk through inner spaces. During this season of deep powder, arctic continental temperatures and yes, brilliant sunshine, mind caverns open. Despite my varying ability to be a social creature, my luxurious cave is where I want to be.

Not only does winter allow me to stay in my thermal jammies and wool socks most days, but the season encourages me to go deeper within myself to explore story. Somehow, when the spring thaw arrives and snows melts, external pressures from gardens, social life and community make the writing process more time-specific. However, as the highlands go dormant and freeze over, that's when inner realms beckon. Cave time often turns into my most prolific. As an added fillip, unique archetypes come into play.

Think of Orpheus, who went into the darkest cave of all to find his beloved Eurydice, only to lose her when he failed to resist one last look. Or Ursus spelaeus, the original cave bear. One of my favorite books was CLAN OF THE CAVE BEAR by Jean Auel. How cool were those Neanderthals and Cro-Magnons? In an alternate universe, you see, I'm an anthropologist...

So here's the plan. This winter my completed high fantasy trilogy proceeds through another editing cycle. Then off the series goes to my chosen publisher. Writing the rough draft of my Earth Elemental, which has perked for years, comes next. Then if global climate change provides an extended winter, I may dash madly into my Fire Elemental, too.

For now, my friends, enjoy your time in the cave. Come spring, we'll burst into the world with a fresh perspective, joyful energy, and stories we can attribute to our winter sojourn.

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Sunrise--Sunset--Writing Process

2008-11-09T17:47:00.000-08:00

Okay, we skipped the whole writing thing for my first blog. Before we slipped into that relationship, I figured you might want to know me better. Now that you're more relaxed with me, let me address one of the questions newbie writers often ask. They want to know about 'process': that series of actions, changes, or functions that bring about desired results. In my case, this means completed fiction or nonfiction.

This may come as no surprise, but my raison d'etre equates with writing. Yes, admittedly my keenness for the sublime also includes durable family ties, wild bouts of dance, brilliant sight hounds, sun-drenched garden time, and extreme dark chocolate. Oh, and I thrive on the occasional cool mysteries that manifest in northern lights and the like. At the bones, though, the art and act of writing awaken me each morning. What happens after I crawl out of bed becomes my process. Need I tell you of the infinite states of mind this encompasses? However, given the option, I go for maximum joy.

As you know, our first introduction to life's passions arrives in many forms. The intuitive connections of bow-to-strings, butt-to-saddle, or finger-to-trigger elicit entire lifespans of compelling behavioral choices. Thus, pen-to-paper might be the first visceral act that connects each of us to our inner writer. Of course, that may come years after hearing characters' voices in our heads or unreeling scenes during long rambles through woods or streetscapes. Who needs medication when you can write?

Let's begin with a quick survey. How do you put words to paper? Sir Arthur C. Clark swore by his Remington Noiseless Portable, upon which he wrote his first published essay. Joan Didion's Royal KMM gave her early works voice. Former critique partner and all-around luminous woman, Susan Wiggs relies upon first drafts on legal pads with peacock ink, then finishes with Dragon NaturallySpeak. Most of my writer friends lean toward computers sporting well-behaved software.

Despite my own marked preference for journaling on blank sheets with superb pens, it took a personal computer to truly set me free. No more worries about retyping a page or--gasp--correcting multiple carbon copies. Instead, Commodore 64 allowed me to write an entire novel in six weeks, despite working in test engineering full time while practicing the flawed arts of mommy- and wifehood. In spite of fanatical saving, minor program glitches also gobbled whole chapters. While that novel will never see the light of day, it served magnificently as my apprenticeship in the skill of novel writing. What it bestowed upon me was true process. This entails putting my butt in the chair every day, then writing with blazing speed, internal editor disengaged. After all, there's always the edit cycle to fix any problems.

Other than handwritten journals, which I regularly shred, my software preference originally ran toward Corel WordPerfect, then to Microsoft Word as more editors tended toward the latter. However, I admit to an abhorrence of programs that profess to write stories for me--pesky systems that excoriate writers to follow their yellow brick road to fame and fortune. After all, who's the writer here? Even with Word, the nagging editorial functions have been disabled, only reengaged during final draft as a way to find problems I'm too steeped in story to see. Quite simply, I want to give my best voice to those stories ricocheting around my head.

Your physical process may be different. You may need to write your entire story longhand, then speak it into a speech recognition program. Or perhaps you still love your typewriter. Or maybe, like one well-known, deceased author and member of the British Royals, you eat chocolate bonbons with a feather boa wrapped around your neck as your assistant takes dictation. Yum, bonbons...

Other quirky routines work, also. For short stories, a scented candle or incense in keeping with theme can help. When journaling or writing essays, I prefer Yo-Yo Ma's renditions of Bach. Go figure. Then Putumayo introduced me to CELTIC VOICES' Mary McLaughlin, whose Sealwoman/Yundah transported me into the setting of SOUNDINGS. This worked even though my mythic basis proved different than hers.

A pashmina shawl, brought back from Turkey and draped along the back support of my writing chair, serves many purposes: emotional comfort through pleasing texture, color and memory along with physical warmth. The view from my writing room offers a view of the Cascade Mountains across Okanogan Valley. Favorite art by Amy Brown, Rusty Haydon, Jody Bergsma and unknown papyrus artists from Egypt graces my walls. Windstone figurines by M. Pena focus tired eyes on horizontal surfaces unencumbered by office machines. Applied fung shui keeps the energy flowing. Shelves of books line one wall and a closet. Oh, and mornings have proven to be my most productive times; the earlier, the better. It's quiet in the Donoho household then. My hounds curl on their beds to watch me write. Sometimes their breathing matches mine.

A favorite part of my process, walking meditation, shrank from year-round to three months a year when we moved to these highlands. You don't wander the Okanogan wilds without packing heat and remaining vigilant. Cougar and wolf and bear--oh, my! Also, we live in open range. When faced with beef-on-the-hoof, my coursing hounds need firm redirection. Furthermore, the snows come in early November and remain through May along my favored hiking routes. Cross-country skiing tempts me every winter until once again my cantankerous knees refuse to let me turn, slow down or stop. Yes, this proves a bit limiting at 3000 feet where paths lead up--or down. Therefore, I switched to indoor equipment to supplement regular dance sessions. It's harder to get into the meditative zone on an elliptical, recumbent bike or treadmill, but worth sticking with the plan. Mobility definitely beats the alternatives.

What emphatically has not worked for me? Life in a very old fifth-wheel with two hounds, two young cats, and a newly retired husband. This failed miserably. However, you may find such a setting to be ideal. That's what processes are, finally: particular courses of action intended to achieve results. In my case, that means maximum creativity with outcomes of a novel, short stories, essays, choreographies, costumes, enhanced landscapes...you see where I'm going? Now I want you to go there, too.

Your task, should you choose to accept it--cue MISSION IMPOSSIBLE music--is to explore what frees your truest and most creative self. Whatever revs your engines, blows back your hair or gets you out of bed each morning, be true to that. Never spit in the eye of your Muse--and always thank her for the gifts she bears.

Happy writing!

Famous, Infamous, & Notorious Firsts

2008-10-03T13:31:00.000-07:00

Ooh, ah. My first website as an author. I'm actually giddy with it. Since it's a first, my brain immediately switches to firsts that led to this one. Never fear, though. You will not be inundated by my attempts at age 7 to write about planets, of which Pluto no longer qualifies, or my angst-ridden teen poetry or even my first produced play at 16. In fact, this won't be about writing. Instead, let's make this an intro into firsts that shaped me on a seismic level. There will be pictures...including me with my 1^s^t cowgirl hat.

1^st best dogfriend: Springer spaniel Pete, who saved my diaper-clad butt by grabbing onto it as I rolled out the car door on a corner in South San Francisco.

1^st best girlfriend: Teresa Giles, with whom I fished for catfish & carp, rode horseback through the Ponderosa pine forests & sagebrush steppes of our youth, and survived the first 10 years of schooling in Washoe Valley, Nevada.

1^st amazing and glorious son: Chad Elliott, young man extraordinaire, who finds his joy with his equally brilliant & beautiful wife Trina. He spins & mixes incandescent music, then prepares incomparable meals.

1^st best horse buddy: Jumpin' Jack Flash, who I miss daily; great-hearted beauty of thoroughbred & quarter horse ancestry.

1^st whippet: Amanda Pandemonium, a washed-out show dog at birth, who still brightens my day with her liquid gaze & joyous, although deleterious, attention to rodents. We blondes stick together.

1^st rescued greyhound: Patrick, a beautiful companion gone from this world. This greyt continues to romp through my dreams.

1^st girlfriend trip through Europe: Backpacks and public transportation saw us through France, Switzerland, Germany, and Italy. Gnocci, anyone? Here we are at Der Hofbrauhaus in Munich.

1^st trip to Malaysia: I emptied my backpack to bring back gorgeous fabrics & other lush trifles.

1^st trip to Morocco: Yes, I went to Morocco and all the boys at home received were Moroccan soccer jerseys. For me, mint tea began to equate with stunning rugs.

1^st Class 4 whitewater: We went to the end of Tumwater Canyon on the Wenatchee River--and yes, I went for my first swim. Here's a river picture with the Captain of my Heart.

1^st trip to Greece: History, anyone? Also, dogs & cats galore with all their bits attached-so shocking to Americans, who spay & neuter their domestic critters.

1^st trip to Turkey: Cities carved from the earth and amazing textiles became my focus along with thousands of years of sustainable agriculture. Note the picture of Mustafa and me. I could live there...

1^st trip to Spain: Otherwise known as the sangria tour. We wept at the beauty, rhythmic poetry & sadly narrow lives of the Andalusian stallions, who danced just for me.

1^st trip to Portugal: Can tiles be more beautiful? Also, we experienced the best calamari ever eaten.

1^st trip to Egypt: Baksheesh demanded and sheesha experienced; Bedouins on the Red Sea. 'Nough said.

1^st pedicure: Yep, only 2 weeks ago.
Now let us raise a glass to all the 1sts in life--and perhaps to those finales we won't know of until we're done.