Another Two-Fer

A few weeks ago with The Fourth Deadly Sin I found a two-fer; two quotes about the morning in one or two paragraphs (see here). I ran into the same idiosyncrasy by twos again today with The Troop.

THE BOYS rose with the drowsy half-light of dawn. The moon hung in its western altar like the last melancholy guest at a dinner party, who was too lonely to leave.

Then a page later:

HOURS LATER, sunlight filtered through the sap-yellowed window, sparkling the dust motes that hung in the stagnant air.

Cutter, Nick - The Troop 

I still say that it's a phenomenon in literature that you can't find a novel where within there is not a description of the morning. So far I've cataloged quite a few without even really trying (see here). The Troop by Nick Cutter makes me think my theory is valid. There are so many descriptors on so many things (see tomorrow's post for more) that finding one on the morning was actually quite hard. It's there. It's always there. 

Guest Post: Turbo-Boost Your Writing! by Cronin Detzz

Today’s guest blogger is poet and book reviewer, Cronin Detzz.  We've had such a great response from readers of this space to Guest Posts (a phenomenon I'm not too sure how to feel about) that we're jumping ahead of our regular Thursday Guest Post schedule to host Cronin's thoughts today. Now that she is crafting her first novel, she’s been invited to share tips on weaving poetry into non-fiction.

TURBO-BOOST YOUR WRITING!

How does a writer accomplish adding that special flair without falling into too much purple prose or too much detail?  It’s a tricky, subjective area, but if a writer adds a few flourishes, he take his writing to new heights.

Really get your character into his surroundings.  Immerse yourself in the scene – what do you see?  Smell?  Hear?  Remember?

SOUND

Notice the opening lines of “Wool,” a fantastic series by Hugh Howey.  The only action that the main character accomplishes is climbing a set of stairs:

“The children were playing while Holston climbed to his death; he could hear them squealing as only happy children do. While they thundered about frantically above, Holston took his time, each step methodical and ponderous, as he wound his way around and around the spiral staircase, old boots ringing out on metal treads.”

“Old boots ringing out on metal treads” is Howey’s way of informing the reader that the main character, Holston, is walking up a staircase.  It’s an odd situation:  children are laughing while Holston walks to his death.  This opening paragraph is far superior to saying something like, “Holston climbed the stairs to his death.”  This is, indeed, what Howey is telling us – but he is telling us so much more, too.   Notice how sound is being used. The children weren’t just playing, they were squealing.  Holston’s boots were ringing out on metal treads.

Those stairs are integral to the Wool series, and they appear in all eleven books.  Read them, you’ll love it.

MEMORIES TRIGGERED BY ITEMS IN SCENE

Katniss only does one thing in the opening paragraph of “Mockingjay” by Suzanne Collins – she looks down at her shoes:

“I stare down at my shoes, watching as a fine layer of ash settles on the worn leather. This is where the bed I shared with my sister, Prim, stood. Over there was the kitchen table. The bricks of the chimney, which collapsed in a charred heap, provide a point of reference for the rest of the house. How else could I orient myself in this sea of gray?”

In the simple action of looking at her shoes, Katniss tells us about the gray ash; you know something terrible has happened.  She remembers her bed, the kitchen table, the chimney.  Her home has been destroyed.  We don’t yet feel Katniss’s feelings, but we are set up for something dismal in the “sea of gray.”  Suzanne Collins is painting a picture for us.

TURBO-BOOSTED WORDS

Which words stand out to you from the first page of Carlos Ruiz Zafon’s “The Angel’s Game?”  Look for phrases that heighten your appreciation of this modern gothic novel:

“A writer never forgets the first time he accepted a few coins or a word of praise in exchange for a story. He will never forget the sweet poison of vanity in his blood …what he covets the most: his name printed on a miserable piece of paper that surely will outlive him. A writer is condemned to remember that moment, because from then on he is doomed and his soul has a price… I was seventeen and worked at The Voice of Industry, a newspaper that had seen better days and now languished in a barn of a building that had once housed a sulfuric acid factory. The walls still oozed the corrosive vapor that ate away at furniture and clothes, sapping the spirits, consuming even the soles of shoes. The newspaper's headquarters rose behind the forest of angels and crosses of the Pueblo Nuevo cemetery; from afar, its outline merged with the mausoleums silhouetted against the horizon — a skyline stabbed by hundreds of chimneys and factories that wove a perpetual twilight of scarlet and black above Barcelona.”

Turbo-boosted words and phrases:

Instead of pointing out a writer’s goal of being published, Zafon writes “sweet poison of vanity.”
The main character wants to be published. He calls it a “miserable piece of paper.”
An aging magazine business is said to be “languishing in a barn of a building.”
Barcelona is wonderfully described in Zafon’s novels.  In this example, he writes the skyline is “stabbed by hundreds of chimneys.”  By using a verb, “stabbed,” we subconsciously feel the violence and darkness of his “scarlet and black” city.

I look forward to reading excerpts of your own turbo-boosted manuscripts.  Study the masters and highlight phrases that you enjoy.  You can do this! – Keep writing and keep sharing, Cronin Detzz

Cronin Detzz has been writing poetry, lyrics, and short stories for over 30 years. Her works have been published in numerous online journals and anthologies.  Her latest books, “Supernatural Poetry” and “Poetry for Our Time,” are available at Amazon.com.

Is It Wrong to Say I "Flirt with my Writing?"

I’ve been thinking a lot about reading vs. writing. And not so much “writing” writing, as habits with writing.

When my wife reads she reads in great big chunks of time. She’ll buy a book and start reading and in less than 48 hours she’s done. If it’s the weekend the time to finish is closer to twenty four hours. Years ago she started The Davinci Code on Friday night and was done by Saturday at noon. The only book that was able to break this pattern was Les Miserables, which was her “commitment book” (see here) in that it took her several months to complete.

I’m a bit of speedy reader too . . . well, if not speedy than greedy. I turn off most everything else that is going on and any spare time I find goes to reading. I’m not as fast as my wife, but I’m fairly dedicated.

When I was a part of a local writing club and worked with a local editor, they all proposed that I print out each chapter of my book and read it aloud to hear what it sounded like. This didn’t last long. Firstly, I don’t like reading out loud unless it is too my little sons. Secondly, I don’t read books aloud. Why should I read my own work aloud to see how it sounds when in every case (I feel quite certain) no one who buys my books (insert plug for my books here and here) will read it aloud.

What’s funny is that I read in great big chunks, so I naturally believe that I should write in great big chunks. I don’t. I don’t at all. Except for NaNo (see here), where I write fifty thousand words in a month (all of which seem to get rewritten in the following months and years) I usually barely write a chapter at a time. So my writing style and habit is the exact opposite of my reading styles and habits. I wonder how many other writers find this same disparity exists between their reading and their writing.

Just as I said in previous posts that writing a novel is a lot like road marching (see here), it’s also a lot like eating an elephant . . . the best way to do it is lots of little bites. I’m sure that there are many writers out there who can just churn out chapter after chapter after chapter in one big go, much like my wife reads. I find that I am a tinkerer, a bit of a flirty writer. I start here and work a bit, then I remember that I wanted to add something in that previous chapter so I dash over there for a bit, then I realize that I need to add a clue in chapter thirty-three, so I’m off to do that.

This latest novel that I’m writing, Vapor Trail, is the most flirty yet. I churned it out in NaNo, but since then I’ve thrown out the entire NaNo effort and have completely rewritten the entire novel. There are new characters, new settings, new plot lines. There isn’t a thing about that first draft that could be found in this final draft.

I used to read one book on the craft of writing for every four novels I read (see here). I may need to re-institute that rule. I’m curious if everyone writes in this or a similar manner, and whether this is the way it is if you’re a part time writer as I am or a full time writer. I imagine that those lucky few who are full timers are sitting at their desks just banging away all day. I don’t know if I could do that so for now I stick with flirty.

Advice and Procrastination

Today's Guest Post Kay Kauffman, author of Tuesday Daydreams: A Journal in Verse and A Song for All Seasons: A Journal in Verse.

 

I love my bedroom.  The door has a rather impressive deadbolt on it, which allows me the necessary peace and quiet to get some writing done every once in a while.  And I’ve decided to make use of it.

See, I’m in the middle of rewriting a novel, and lately I find myself completely unable to block out the background noise of my life.  But I have writing that needs doing, so up to my room I go, rather like I used to do as a teenager.  In my room, I can lock out the world and tackle the task at hand.

But first I’d better change clothes.  It’s been a long day and I need to relax.  Like, for real – my calves and my shoulders are killing me.  I ought to rub them, but rubbing one’s own achy muscles just isn’t as satisfying as having someone else do it.

Of course, now that I’m halfway relaxed, my two toddlers’ voices have picked up a little bit in the volume department.  They’re supposed to be sleeping.  Oh, well – at least no one’s crying.  Yet.  Time to go bust ‘em.

And now, to get rid of the flashing blue notification light on my phone.  Guess I’ll be checking my email tonight after all.  Maybe there won’t be too many…If I can stay off Facebook, I’ll be fine.  My productivity can still be salvaged.

The wind’s picking up.  In my mind’s eye, I see a heavy curtain of silver mist descend over the countryside, flapping away in the crisp April breeze.  I could totally write a poem about that…

Hey!  That clock can’t possibly be right!  I just sat down *yawn* a few minutes ago – how can it be nearly midnight already?  And how many words did I get down?

Five?  Are you joking?  You can’t be serious.

Well, so much for writing, I guess.  At least there’s still tomorrow…

*studies page*

*binks*

Well, what do you know?  Looks like I got this post written!  Yay productivity!  I might not have written what I set out to write, but sometimes when the words won’t flow, it helps to work on something else for a little while.  Sometimes it doesn’t, but you never know till you try.

Either way, you need to protect your writing time.  If you really want to write, you’ll make the time for it, so put it to good use when you’ve got it.  Whether that use is actually writing or just letting your ideas percolate, it doesn’t matter – both are important parts of the writing process.  At some point, you have to actually write, and maybe you won’t keep all of what you’ve written in your final draft, but that’s okay.  That’s what revision is for.

Finally, don’t be afraid to write tired.  Some of my best ideas have come when I’m tired.  The world looks a little different, and altogether more interesting, when your sight is dulled by exhaustion.

As a girl, Kay dreamed of being swept off her feet by her one true love. At the age of 24, it finally happened…and he’s never let her forget it. A mild-mannered secretary by day and a determined word-wrangler by night, she battles the twin evils of distraction and procrastination in order to write fantastical tales of wuv…twue wuv…with a few haiku thrown in for good measure.

The author of Tuesday Daydreams: A Journal in Verse and A Song for All Seasons: A Journal in Verse, Kay is currently hard at work on the first book in a fantasy trilogy. She resides in the midst of an Iowa corn field with her devoted husband and his mighty red pen; four crazy, cute kids; and an assortment of adorably small, furry animals.

Tuesday Daydreams captures the life and imagination of the author in vivid detail, touching on joy and loss, life’s everyday hassles, and the many faces of Mother Nature.  A Song for All Seasons paints vivid pictures of the Iowa landscape in all its glory, in addition to intimate portraits of family life.  From frost-covered windowpanes and snowy vistas to rolling green fields and bright blue skies, each poem is a peek into a fading world of untamed beauty.  If you’d like to pick up your own copy of Tuesday Daydreams or A Song for All Seasons, you can find them at Amazon, Amazon UK, Createspace, Smashwords, iBooks, Kobo, and Barnes & Noble.

Care to save her from the chaos? You can find Kay in the all the usual places:

At her blog, where she shares random pictures and silly poems; on Facebook, where she shares things about cats and books; on Twitter, where she shares whatever pops into her head; on Pinterest, where she shares delicious recipes and images from her fantasy world; on Instagram, where she shares pictures of pretty sunsets; and on Tumblr, where she shares all of the above.

First Line Today

You will know from yesterday's post that I had a hard decision to make. I put my reading life in the hands of Kristi and started reading The Troop by Nick Cutter. So far I'm glad I did.

EAT EAT EAT EAT The boat skipped over the waves, the drone of its motor trailing across the Gulf of Saint Lawrence. The moon was a bone fishhook in the clear October sky. 

The man was wet from the spray that kicked over the gunwale. The outline of his body was visible under his drenched clothes. He easily could have been mistaken for a scarecrow left carelessly unattended in a farmer’s field, stuffing torn out by scavenging animals. 

He’d stolen the boat from a dock at North Point, at the farthest tip of Prince Edward Island, reaching the dock in a truck he’d hotwired in a diner parking lot. 

Christ, he was hungry.

Cutter, Nick - The Troop

It's not a bad way to start. Who couldn't like a "The moon was a bone fishhook in the clear October sky." One thing to note however is that he actually starts with a news clipping that describes this fellow eating at a diner, but I see that as a prologue rather than the first line. 

Another thing I find neat. When I read my Kindle the page advances by wiping the screen then bringing up a new screen. It's an old school Kindle (see here) with the E-ink display that kinda flashes as it wipes and re-displays. Every chapter of this book has an image of a lightning bolt strike so when the page flashes it looks like a lightning bolt afterimage on the page. It's a nice touch for a Kindle reader who is reading a horror story. I wonder if they meant to do that or if it was just serendipity. 

Gonna Be a Hard Choice

I have a slate of books to be read now that I've finished Flashman and the Mountain of Light (see here).

First there is a book recommended by Kristi Jones (see here). A horror to be sure, so outside my norm, but I'm a horror fan historically, and I know Kristi has an excellent sense of taste and writing talent (see thinks I'm a good writer, need I say more), so there's a lot going for The Troop.

Some thrillers produce shivers, others trigger goose bumps; Cutter's graphic offering will have readers jumping out of their skins. Scoutmaster Dr. Tim Riggs takes his troop for their annual camping trip to Falstaff Island, an uninhabited area not far from their home on Prince Edward Island.

Then there is Mila 18, a "deep dish" or "commitment" novel from Leon Uris. I loved Armageddon (see here) and based on what Amazon says about Mila 18, I'm betting I'll love this one just as much. The question is am I ready for a commitment book.

Italian-American journalist Christopher de Monti finds himself in Nazi-controlled Warsaw before the outbreak of World War II. Though wined and dined by German officers eager for sympathetic coverage, de Monti’s nose for the real story soon leads him to discover the terrifying conditions of the Warsaw ghettos and the Nazis’ chilling plans for the ghettos’ inhabitants. He soon comes to know the Jewish resistance movement and joins their courageous—if doomed—last stand.

Next is a horror that I read about last week on a blog. Never heard of this, but the writer stated it was among his top ten more horrifyingly creepy, psyco-murder novels. How can you say no to that?

Lou Ford is the deputy sheriff of a small town in Texas.  The worst thing most people can say against him is that he's a little slow and a little boring.  But, then, most people don't know about the sickness--the sickness that almost got Lou put away when he was younger.  The sickness that is about to surface again.

Then there is the old standby, Frederick Forsyth. I've loved all of the Forsyth books I've read (see here), and I can't imagine The Veteran would be a disappointment.

On a grimy sidewalk in a defeated neighborhood, an old man is beaten to death. When a cop investigates, he finds two killers and a startling legacy of honor ... In a prestigious London art gallery an impoverished actor is swindled out of a fortune-until an eccentric appraiser hatches a delicious scheme for revenge... On an airplane high over war-torn Afghanistan, a passenger sends a note to the plane's captain, warning of suspicious behavior. But no one can guess who is really conspiring aboard the 747, or why... From the war-torn Italy to the Little Big Horn, from soldiers of fortune to victims of fate,The Veteran is a riveting experience in crime, heroism, and the kind of mano-a-mano duels-and surprising twists of fate-that are the hallmark of Frederick Forsyth at his very best.

Finally there is The Forever War. This was one I picked after following my way through this flowchart I found online through NPR (see here). Granted, the last Sci-Fi, by my favorite author no less, was a miserable failure since I gave up on Vernor Vinge's newest novel, but I'd be willing to try again.

The Earth's leaders have drawn a line in the interstellar sand--despite the fact that the fierce alien enemy they would oppose is inscrutable, unconquerable, and very far away. A reluctant conscript drafted into an elite Military unit, Private William Mandella has been propelled through space and time to fight in the distant thousand-year conflict; to perform his duties and do whatever it takes to survive the ordeal and return home. But "home" may be even more terrifying than battle, because, thanks to the time dilation caused by space travel, Mandella is aging months while the Earth he left behind is aging centuries...

Latest Last Line

Despite the fact that as I wrote earlier (here) that the first line was no great shakes, and despite these last lines that didn't leave me feeling too fulfilled, and despite the fact that I couldn't find a decent "morning quote" in the whole book (and believe me I looked), this might be my favorite Flashman adventure yet.

Don't go out looking to buy it just yet, however. I feel that I say that about every Flashman book. Even Flashman and the Great Game which I don't remember liking, was probably my favorite at the time. 

He shot me a look, his brow darkening, suspecting insolence but not sure. “Thank you,” snaps he, and showed me his shoulder. 

“Treaty all settled, too, I believe,” says I genially, but loud enough to cause heads to turn. Paddy had stopped talking to Gilbert and Mackeson, Havelock was frowning under his beetle-brows, and Nicholson and Hope Grant and a dozen others were watching me curiously. Hardinge himself came round impatiently, affronted at my familiarity, and Lawrence was at my elbow, twitching my sleeve to come away. 

“Good bandobast all round,” says I, “but one of the clauses will need a little arrangement, I fancy. Well, ’tain’t a clause, exactly… more of an understanding, don’t you know –” 

“Are you intoxicated, sir? I advise you to go to your quarters directly!”

“Stone cold sober, excellency, I assure you. The Leith police dismisseth us. British constitution. No, you see, one of the treaty clauses – or rather the understanding I mentioned – can’t take effect without my assistance. So before I take my leave –” 

“Major Lawrence, be good enough to conduct this officer –” 

“No, sir, hear me out, do! It’s the great diamond, you see – the Koh-i-Noor, which the Sikhs are to hand over. Well, they can’t do that if they haven’t got it, can they? So perhaps you’d best give it ’em back first – then they can present it to you all official-like, with proper ceremony… Here, catch!”

Fraser, George MacDonald - Flashman and the Mountain of Light (p. 337)

Again, not the best last lines. One must kind of have read the entirity to understand it all. I did catch this and think it was worthwhile to say the least.

Time for a brisk stroll in the cold night air, I decided. We were stopping in Gough’s camp by Sobraon, so that he and Hardinge could bicker over the next move, and I sauntered along the lines in the frosty dark, listening to our artillery firing a royal salute in celebration of Smith’s victory at Aliwal; barely a mile away I could see the watch-fires of the Khalsa entrenchments in the Sutlej bend, and as the crash of our guns died away, hanged if the enemy didn’t reply with a royal salute of their own, and their bands playing… you’ll never guess what. In some ways it was the eeriest thing in that queer campaign – the silence in our own lines as the gunsmoke drifted overhead, the golden moon low in the purple sky, shining on the rows of tents and the distant twinkling fires, and over the dark ground between, the solemn strains of “God Save the Queen"! I never heard it played so well as by the Khalsa, and for the life of me I don’t know to this day whether it was in derision or salute; with Sikhs, you can never tell.

If you don't like "the golden moon in the purple sky, shining on the rows of tents and the distant twinkling fires" then I just don't know if I can help you much.

Still and all this book did make me want to go back and read the original Flashman and relive his experiences in Afghanistan.

Adding Intrigue in Card Hands

As a part of my "Meat on the Bone" series that is supposed to provide a bit more information, thoughts, inspiration than the normal blog post you might find round here, I'm going to discuss my Friday night. I had the opportunity to play poker with about twelve other guys. These guys are very good. They go to tournaments in Vegas or Louisiana casinos at least once a month. They know the percentages, count chips with a daunting speed and usually know the strength of my hand before I do.

Whenever I play I find that without even trying I am the most remarkably predictable player in the hand. My rule of thumb . . . don't laugh . . .  is I only play if I would be comfortable going "all in" with the hand. "Oh look! I have a King and a four. Uh oh, they aren't suited so the chance of a flush is out. No chance to make a straight. Full house, sure, but with a four? Someone else may have a low card better than a four then were will I be? Nope, wouldn't go all in with a King, four, so I best fold."

That's the way most my hands go. Betcha you already realize I never ever win. I console myself with the thought that I only really go to see my friends and hang out away from the fam.

Still, there was one night when on the first hand I got bullets,  . . . two aces. So I calmed my palpitating heart and threw on a mein that said, "Huh, this isn't a great hand, but I'll play it" as I threw in the minimum bet to stay in. Apparently I should have tried to scare away the rest of the table from the get go cause the guy with the two's . . . he stayed in for the flop, got a third two on the river and beat my Aces that go no help from the table. It was the first hand and I was out on hundred bucks having gone all in. I was gun shy the rest of the night throwing away hands that even a three year old could have one. I remember I folded three hands that turned out to be full house hands had I played them right.

So, . . . what's the point of this post? It's that I love the underlying, understated conflict that comes from descriptions of card games and hands. That little snippet above about my two aces, I love the patois and the lingo that comes with card games. Bullets, big stack, broadway, limp in, fourth street, . . . even if the reader doesn't know the game the terms used are intriguing and fun.

In Casino Royale, Fleming writes about baccarat. I've never played baccarat. I've never even seen it played. The game has nothing to do with the plot and provides very little to the characterization. But when I read about the hands being played I was rapt. In Moonraker there is one of the most amazing card game descriptions I've ever read. In this case bridge. Ever played bridge? I have. It's not THAT exciting. Go read the chapter in Moonraker where Bond traps Drax. It's amazing. I particularly love when Basildon calls the hand "sheer murder" (see here or below).

And suddenly Basildon understood. It was a laydown Grand Slam for Bond against any defense. Whatever Meyer led, Bond must get in with a trump in his own hand or on the table. Then, in between clearing trumps, finessing of course against Drax, he would play two rounds of diamonds, trumping them in dummy and catching Drax's ace and king in the process. After five plays he would be left with the remaining trumps and six winning diamonds. Drax's aces and kings would be totally valueless. It was sheer murder.

Last night I came in fourth. I was short stack at a table of four having whittled down the two tables of ten. I had enough chips for maybe three more hands. We were playing for a couple hundred dollars. In fourth place I made two fifty. If I had won and hung onto third I would have made five hundred. I didn't think I would get a better hand in the next three than a King ten off-suit. So I went all in before the flop. Not a great hand but before seeing the flop, it was probably better than anyone else. The guy next to me followed me all in and when we both showed our hands, he had a nine and a four, off suit. Mine was a clearly superior hand. He beat me with a two, three, five, Ace, Jack on the table. Heart breaker. He followed me in with a horrible hand and got lucky. I was out.

It's these little subplot and side stories in Moonraker and Casino Royale that make the book more exciting. It's hard to believe that a description of a card game can be exciting, but it is. I doubt I'm good enough to do it, but it certainly increases the stakes in the story to throw in something similar in the story. Sure throw challenges at the main character, put in a ticking time bomb or dead line for them to solve the mystery, but throwing in some high stakes element, maybe with some jargon that brings the reader in, and writers can add a new dimension to their writing and suck the reader in even more.

A Desk, A Cigarette, and Big Bay Window? The Myth of the Writer

Today's Guest Post is by my oldest writing friend (and one of my newest best friends) Kristi Macho Jones. She is the author of two published novels, both of which I have read and reviewed in this space, The Corpse Goddess (see here) and Valkyries Kiss (see here). This is (I hope) the first of many guest posts by Kristi in the coming weeks, months and years.

A Desk, A Cigarette, and Big Bay Window? The Myth of the Writer

Dick’s written some great posts this past week about what it’s really like to be a novelist. (I love his post about the guy who completely missed the point)

He’s got me thinking about the myth of the perfect writer and what we, as writers, can do to resist falling into the trap of the myth.

I myself have fallen into the trap several times and in several embarrassing ways!

Years and years ago I read Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own. Woolf was talking to a different generation of women, but her insistence that a wannabe writer needed a room with a door and a hefty lock mesmerized me. I pined for that room. I tried to turn a closet into that room. I firmly believed that if only I had a room of my own, I would spend hours and hours weaving storylines and publishing one novel after another.

Looking at iconic pictures of writers, from Hemingway to Stephen King, they all sit in front of a tank of a typewriter, cigarettes dangling out of their mouths. I fell for this myth so hard, that I actually bought a pack of Marlboro Lights and sat in front of my computer, the unlit cigarette dangling from my mouth. Did it help? Hell no.

Nora Roberts smokes and drinks gallons of diet Pepsi. I can’t stand smoking and I don’t like diet anything, so I’m pretty much screwed on that front.

When my kids were little, I just knew that the day they were in school, my writing career would take off. Then it was middle school. Surely when they were in middle school, I’d be released from school plays and parties, and my writing would take center stage. I now have two high schoolers – I still struggle to find the time to write.

A writer friend of mine lives in France and she recently posted pictures of her new country house on Facebook. She outlined what I used to think was the perfect writing scenario. Her kids were going to stay with their Dad during the week, in their apartment in Lyon, (I know, who wouldn’t kill for this kind of life?) while she stayed at the country house to write. This French country house is idyllic, of course, with wide windows to stare out of and a large mezzanine to plant a giant mahogany desk. I clicked through the pictures, green with envy – for about ten seconds anyway. Then reality reared its ugly and ever practical head.

It wouldn’t matter if I had that house in the French countryside. It wouldn’t matter if I had my own room, my own office, my own planet. As I sit here in Starbucks, writing this blog post, I realize how much time I’ve wasted pining for the perfect set of conditions to make writing easier. The fact is, it’s damn hard. There is no magic desk, magic room, magic French country house. There is only your story.

 I’ve gone through it all. The perfect pen, the perfect laptop, the perfect writing program (Scrivener, hands down), the perfect weekend away from it all.

The truth?

There is always resistance. There is always something a lot more fun to do. Going to the movies, going out to dinner, surfing the Net. Don’t get me wrong. There is nothing more rewarding to me than writing. But fun? Sometimes. Most days it’s just damn hard.

What’s wrong with believing and trying to emulate the myth?

The myth can stop you from writing. If you don’t have a room of your own, if you don’t have limitless time to yourself, if you don’t have a penchant for cigarette smoke and a super cool typewriter/pen/computer, etc, you can convince yourself that you just can’t write today. And that is the kiss of death.

All you really need is the story and somewhere to put it.

So go to Starbucks, lock yourself in a closet, go for a long walk with a voice recorder, or work in the wee hours when all other responsibilities are put away – but write.  Just write. That’s all you really need to be the perfect, iconic writer.

Kristi Jones was born in Texas. She spent her childhood years travelling the world, living in England, Germany, and Turkey. She is married to an architect, has two wonderful children and a long-haired dachshund named Twinkie. Books have always been her constant friends. She also has a passion for history and loves to travel.

You can find Kristi at kristimjones.com
@authorkristi on Twitter
and
on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/authorkristijones

Consider Me Intrigued . . . On Two Counts

I ran into this (see here) promotion for a class for book marketing by Karen Tyrrell and am intrigued . . . actually doubly intrigued.

First, I want to know more about marketing my novels. I have two novels out there (see here and here) and I've just updated their covers (see here) and I have some actually not bad reviews for them. In fact the artist who designed my new covers even said I should consider a "re-launch" as my reviews seemed so good. So, I'm always for learning more about marketing my novels.

I haven't done much marketing. Count me in the crowd that believes that the writing has to be good for people to buy it. I love what Hugh Howey did with Wool (see here). He produced a good work and let the writing speak for itself. People came, people recommended it, people discussed and reviewed it cause the writing and the idea was so good. That's the dream.

But I get it that's not the normal way of the world. Also, I'm guessing that that was how it was done. How do I know that Hugh Howey wasn't out there peddling his work to every Tom, Dick and Harry he walked by.

Secondly, I'm the Director of Training here for my company. We have over 50 offices across the United States. I've had a project in the past few months to outfit all of those locations with large format 52" video displays, PC's and speakers with microphones and other equipment to support online interactive streaming. My trainers can now train anyone in any of our U.S. locations from any of our other U.S. locations. The trainers can see and interact with the students and vice versa, real time.

Miss Tyrrell is considering providing her workshop via webinar (which is the only way I would be able to take part actually) and I'm incredibly curious about how she will do it. I know how I've done it when training people to work in refineries, but how will Miss Tyrrell pull it off.

We made the calculation to have two streams at once. One that shows the trainer in front of the class. The other that shows the power point. Audio and video stability is paramount which is tough to ensure in every case. And with all that bandwidth being chewed up it can get spotty at times, but we wanted both the power point and the trainer in front of the class to make it worthwhile.

Sarah Hill (see here), who is a part of my circles on Google Plus and describes herself with: "12 time Emmy award winning storyteller for the broadcast channel for Veterans United Foundation" and "the first journalist to use a Google+ Hangout on TV" also chews on these technological nuts. She has started to integrate Google Glass into her work which is something I'm thinking about trying as well.

Regardless, I hope Miss Tyrrell is able to get something together. I need the help in one arena and need to compare webinars for my job.