“That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” I teach Romeo and Juliet to rather reluctant 8^th graders every year. I’ve collected enough materials to probably teach a college course on the play, but no matter what every year we pause at Juliet’s words here and talk about the power of names. I ask them to think about it. How much of their personality is connected to their names? Is Juliet right? Can we simply change someone’s name without it changing the person? My students and I don’t think so.

            Look deeply into any mythology, particularly the mythology involving the Norse and Celts and we see the power of names so clearly. The Fae of the Celtic mythos kept their true names secret for if anyone knew their names they could be commanded. In Ursula K. LeGuin’s EarthSea series we see power tied to true names. Native Americans changed their names as they grew, preferring to refer to them as “use names” in some tribes. We too, in modern Western culture, change our names. How many of us cringe when we hear grandma call us by that nickname she gave us when we were little bits? I have a cousin who’s over 30 who many in the family still call “Juice.” Long story.

            As authors, we know that the name of a character can be a very powerful characterization vehicle. Certain names have certain connotations. If we name a character Damien, there are certain images that go right along. Now, sometimes we like to throw those preconceptions for a loop, but we go into naming that character knowing he’s going to be up against some interesting preconceived notions. Character names also have to be true to the genre and time period. There’s nothing that throws me out of a book than a trendy modern name in a period piece. Above all, we need to like the name. If we don’t like the name or we don’t really see how the name fits the character, well then we can’t make our readers see it either.

            Naming books too is an interesting and frustrating process. Just as a character’s moniker is the reader’s first impression of him or her, the title can very often make or break a sale. There are a lot of “rules” about titles. Many of them contradictory. Titles should only have six or fewer syllables—the shorter the title the more intriguing. Now, I admit you don’t want a title that scrolls across the entire book cover, but I don’t personally see anything wrong with longer titles. That being said, could “The Fellowship of the Ring” gotten a pass in today’s marketing world? Or would Tolkien have been told to shorten it up or at least “punch it up?” I’ve heard that a lot lately too. “Punch up that title!” What in heaven’s name does that actually mean? Make it shorter, catchier, or easier to remember?

            I struggle with titles. My first novel “Ribbons of Moonlight,” a time travel romance was easy to name. It was inspired by a poem and the title was merely a rearranging of one of the common poetic images. That was a rare exception. When I’m writing a book, the file usually has some sort of single word working title. My next book, a fantasy, “The Shattered Prism” due out on June 17th from Solstice Publishing, was much more difficult to title. It had originally been called “Dark Rainbow’s End,” but I’d expanded the idea and it transformed from one novel into a trilogy. So, now, not only did I need three titles, I needed three titles that worked together and I already had one. I scribbled and scratched out about a dozen title ideas with rainbow or circle or star imagery in them. The book was finished, ready to be sent out, but I couldn’t because I wasn’t certain of the title! That’s one of the most frustrating feelings for a writer.

            Unlike Juliet’s assertion that “Romeo would, were he not Romeo called, retain that dear perfection that he owes”, naming characters and books can be tricky. Coming up with the idea of the story, the problems the characters need to face and the end of it all can sometimes be child’s play compared to figuring out what to call the thing! Names and titles are a reader’s first impression and we all know that you never get a second chance to make a good first impression.

Guest Blogger Bio 

 

When I was a kid growing up in the near Chicago suburbs, I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to teach and I wanted to write. I’d spend hours over the little typewriter Mom and Dad bought for me when I was little, clattering away at stories and plays I’d wheedle my cousins and brother into performing. I think I wrote my first “book” in 6^th grade and had a friend illustrate it for me. I never really looked back from there. 

Now, I can say that I’ve achieved both of my goals. I’ve been teaching 8^th graders for more than 15 years, sharing my love of words with hundreds. I always tell my kids that it’s not that they don’t like to read; they just haven’t met the right book yet. I make it one of my missions in life to put those books into their hands.  
My love of literature led to my debut Solstice novel. I’ve always loved poetry and “The Highwayman” has always been a personal favorite. I always thought there was more to that story and now there is. 

So, here am I living—still living in the Chicago suburbs, a little further out than where I first started, but I can still see the skyline on my drive in to work. I married my high school prom date and we share a beautiful little girl, two spoiled hound dogs, a love of reading and all things Disney. Overall, I’m happy where I am, but I’m also looking forward to seeing what the next several years bring. Hopefully, it will bring me several more books on this author page!

Links:

http://rebeccalfrencl.blogspot.com/
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Rebecca-L-Frencl/115163871892050?ref=hl

Universal Reader link:  https://books2read.com/u/mZrrWR

Check out our latest Writing in the Modern Age blog article here.

My guest today is Sarah Baethge.  Hello, Sarah!  Welcome to Writing in the Modern Age!  It’s such a pleasure to have you.

Can you tell us a little bit about your latest book? When did it come out? Where can we get it?


My latest book is a space fantasy called Panoptemitry that I began writing when the online store http://www.iwritereadrate.com asked that I write a book for them to sell. It came out last December, and you can get it at Iwritereadrate, Amazon, Barnes&Noble and Smashwords.

Is there anything that prompted your latest book? Something that inspired you? 

I wrote down a couple of strange ideas that came to me from watching TV Sci-fi and not long after I was asked for a book so I tried to use my half-baked non-sense. Molding what I had come up with into a story was really kind of fun.

Great! So, when did you know you wanted to write? Or has it always been a pastime of yours?

I really do like to write, but this is one of the few stories I've had the guts to publish.

Do you have any favorite authors?

I love Stephen King and Michael Crichton.

Do you write in a specific place? Time of day?

I have a desk in the corner of my bedroom, and all times of day or night- just whenever the ideas come to me.

Are there any words you'd like to impart to fellow writers. Any advice?

Write what you like to read; that way even if your book's a flop, it wasn't quite a waste to write!

Here is the blurb for Panoptemitry.

With a goal as high and lofty as the unspecified pursuit of knowledge, there may not be a clear point at which to stop. Acting as one has been taught to can seem to hold just as much purpose as the actual reason for taking those actions. When the growth of technology begins to hold the same powers as religious doctrine has declared divine, does the simple recording of events become blasphemous? Who's to say we even understand that 'so-called' divinity?

On a research mission to provide information for a great galactic computer network (called S.Y.M.A.C.), Emilija Lithuan and her assistants run up against the higher ranks of the Caytalan Church. The punishment that these religious leaders try to stick them with, could possibly have a greater effect than was ever intended.

When their escape saddles them with a famous outlaw, a careful reassessment of what is right and wrong can't be avoided. How much of what is 'common knowledge' is even actually true?

And if it's not, just how much perceived reality is built upon a lie? 

Here's an excerpt from Panoptemitry.

Chapter 1

 

Am I dead? 

The thought in itself echoed as proof of the obvious fact that she couldn’t be. Surely death would leave less of a sensation in her body.

The painful fog that swam untouchably before her face made the researcher pull her hands back over her eyes to try and shield them, yet that action only caused a senseless retreat back into the pounding darkness that refused to give way to sleep inside her head.

Emilija realized that she wasn’t actually tired anyway. The grass on which she found herself was too crisp and damp to have made a comfortable bed in the first place, why was I sleeping there? Pulling herself to hands and knees brought the pain back to her mind.

Both pains... 

The hammering in her head and the ringing in her ears was causing a horribly sickening dizziness, a spinning that had formed itself into a nearly tangible smog in her vision, the pounding of her pulse seemed to quite loudly taunt the misconception that she could possibly have just awoken from some pleasant nap.

Her memories of that one prisoner creep’s left hand clamping upon her right shoulder, while the other inmate viciously tore at her pants as she was feebly unable to fight the two of them off slammed back into her mind. 

The disgust that came as she realized she could still easily feel that they had won the prize the two of them sought hit almost as hard as the rock that the man who had first grabbed her held in his right fist when he had deftly used it to stop her struggles.

As these men now fought each other on the edge of her vision, Emilija knew she couldn’t waste the chance to get away. It wasn’t clear why they now attacked one another, but that such disgusting human beings wouldn’t even trust or get along with so called ‘friends’ didn’t really surprise her.

Unconsciously pulling her torn clothes back together, Emilija wasn’t really sure if she was thankful that her first thoughts of being dead were wrong as she considered the how unlikely it was that she’d ever leave this stupid assignment alive.

From all she had ever read of this world, the prison planet Gilnar, no one could doubt it to be a terrible place. A supposed destination of no return for prisoners judged to deserve death.

Knowing she was probably the only female human among the countless male prisoners abandoned here over the last couple 100 standard years, didn’t exactly fit in with her hopes of not getting raped, again.

Unable to stand up and walk more than a few steps before she stumbled back to the ground, her head pulsing painfully as she tried to hold it still between her hands; she was left trying to neither pass out or throw up.

The only thing that let her keep those hopes of getting away from her attackers alive before they noticed that she was almost up and moving was the sight of another man who was projecting pure outrage towards those two she remembered from earlier. Emilija felt no guilt at the thankfulness that flooded her system as this new third probable inmate time and again picked up the other two forms so he could beat them down.

Although, the ‘good guy’ seemed unwilling to quit despite the fact that his two victims had given up trying to even get away.

Not knowing if this remorseless rescuer would improve or only worsen her present situation, Emilija tried to remain quiet, but couldn’t help herself, and started laughing with the thought that the first two had at least gotten what she was sure they deserved.

Later she decided that the laughter was probably just a form of hysteria as her mind tried to reject the situation, but it did have one effect on her audience- this new prisoner whoseemed to be highly upset with the other two looked over at her with slight confusion for a little bit as he lowered his newest victim’s head to the ground.

A chill of unease quickly silenced her as an eerie grin that didn’t actually touch his eyes, lit up his face.

The primal fear that was radiating from Emilija’s body with the new need to escape was suddenly picked up on by the man across the field. As she tried to stand up again, he started concernedly shaking his head.

Holding his hands up in front of his chest with a motion that clearly meant ‘stop;’ she heard for the first time the garbled nonsense that would spew from his mouth if he tried to speak.

Now the sound wasn’t just some sort of random grunts or a groans; quite clearly it was comprised of words. It’s just that his utterance was something like a high speed chipmunk tape or an audio file listened to at far too high of a rate.

The prisoner’s sentences were so fast, that they nearly overlapped, until it took a moment of thought after his speaking before the shy greeting he had called out to her became clear. And like a recording played at far too fast of a speed, the pitch became unnaturally high until the sound, itself, irritated the ears of the listener.

It was this unusual ugly sour tone of his own speech that seemed to rapidly pull the prisoner’s attention away from Emilija. If even as far away as she was the voice hit her ears like a scratching on glass, the poor man’s ears that were connected to the very throat that had emitted the unnaturally high words couldn’t be able to find them any more pleasant.

Her savior’s eyes squinted with pain; his left hand quickly came up to cover the culprit mouth, as a wince pulled those squinted eyes to the right.

Emilija was certain that she was foolish to suddenly feel concerned for his health, but the man’s actions were clearly not those of a person who found himself to be in perfect condition.

For instance, after the absurdly short amount of time he had distractedly looked away, this prisoner seemed to have forgotten about the simple fact that anyone else was even nearby; and so, he began carefully to walk away, looking irritated and lost.

Not wanting to be left alone and vulnerable for a repeat of what had already happened when she had met the other two, and so caused his attack that she now felt may have saved her life, she decided she should stick with him and at least trust him enough to thank him, because it didn’t seem a risk regaining his attention.

“Hey, wait!” Emilija called to his back as the man appeared to seriously consider simply moving along. “Who are you? I need to thank you, somehow. Why did you save me from them?”

The man she was talking to, turned around with a strange mixture of recognition and surprise on his countenance; “NRITE,” he finally declared, although he looked startled at his own volume as his voice cracked.

Seeming to realize that the expression on her face indicated a general lack of understanding, he tried to elaborate, yet seemed unable to keep from either talking with such speed he would just about end up choking himself or losing his entire train of thought.

After maybe half an hour Emilija was pretty sure the man was trying to explain how he was stuck here on Gilnar too- just like her, and didn’t want to have to live with and accept the actions of those jerks that were so not right; not if he was able to do anything about it.

During that time, Emilija began trying to figure out how she had gotten where she was, and how she could change that fact. For one thing, she assumed the planet must contain some type of guard station. Her protector (not to mention those other two who had come after her) wore strange almost- jewelry consisting of skin-tight bands around the neck, something like dog collars. The purpose of such unstylish, unglamorous equipment, that was made of a very strong synthetic leather band fitted every inch or so with microchip-looking components, must be for keeping tabs on the prisoner whereabouts.

All three wore greenish-yellow camouflage wind-suits, meaning they couldn’t easily be kept under visual watch by the guards at their home station so whatever friendlies she could find, probably didn’t even have any idea of what had happened to her!

Although, the idea of getting to such habitation for help started to unravel almost more quickly than she could think about it. The reason for ‘building’ a prison here was just that; the moist haze that engulfed Gilnar, although may not be very toxic, was highly acidic.

Metallic pieces of any structure would be quickly worn away. Non-metal building materials, although they may withstand the mists a little longer, couldn’t withstand the fierce winds that plagued the endless plains of bitter grass. Taller, almost tree-like yellow bushes swaying in the wind like reeds with no wood to support them were the only breaks on the horizon.

And wildlife? She had heard tales of the endless swarms of biting, buzzing insect-like creatures that would swarm over unbelievably huge areas; some claimed miles in diameter! The creatures were boneless with exoskeleton/shell-skin and wings, like wasps the size of lobsters. 

If the acidic mist or howling wind didn’t conquer any structure quickly enough, these animals (called ‘skrifters’) would easily tear it down.

That difficulty in producing any permanent structure here was arguably why the planet was used as a prison. Those brought here had been sentenced to death, more or less. The only people who would call it a ‘life’ sentence were the council of politicians who ran that bizarre religion when they sometimes needed a way to be done with violent criminals without being forced to dirty their ‘holy’ hands with the stink of death.

The men (it was only men here) who were sentenced to come here (some claimed that the lack of female companionship was simply part of the sentence) were locked within pods that would only open after touchdown. (Emilija wondered if what had happened to her may not be the true reason women weren’t imprisoned here.)

Upon arrival these convicts could join into the tribes of other prisoners who hunted skrifters for food (they were apparently more tasty than the vegetation) or sit back and watch as the small craft they had been dropped in melted with the mist.

Although the man who had thankfully saved her seemed to have difficulty speaking normally; this prisoner reacted as if he understood all that she tried to tell him (as she slowly decoded what he was trying to say she found that this practice seemed to improve his speech). 

Confident that he had consciously tried to save her, Emilija decided that if she was getting out of this hell-hole, there was no way she could leave her new hero behind.

“Look, when my friends get here; you need to come along with us. If you can stay with me and keep me safe, I would be happy to try staging the first successful jailbreak from planet Gilnar.” She held out her hand, “Seriously, even that won’t be thanks enough. I am Emilija Lithuan; now, always, and forever in your debt.”

Looking a little embarrassed; the prisoner blushed, rubbing the left of his face as his right shot out to meet hers with an audible clap. “IMTHDRDWR TSNTHG!” came out of his mouth so fast with his new joy and excitement that she was unsure how he kept from biting his own tongue off.

Her new friend looked alarmed by the quick lack of his own clarity and the revved up pitch of his voice; he pulled back, shame filling his face.

Unsure what he had meant by this outburst, Emilija decided to ignore it rather that possibly offend the man she was truly grateful to.

She figured that it might be easiest just to continue and pretend she hadn’t noticed.

“Ryan Mead and that Max thing will probably have found a diplomatic way out by now and The Church of Caytal will trip over itself as their priests try to avoid the shame surely will be pasted on them for sending one of what they deem ‘the weaker sex’ to an unmerited sentence in this primitive prison.”

Her rescuer, who looked timidly for a moment, took a deep breath and almost questioningly slowed himself down enough to ask, “Caytal?”

Emilija figured things would probably go better if she could just start telling this story from back where it all began; anyway, if this man who might be calling himself ‘THDRDWR’ was a prisoner here, he had had his own unlucky dealings with the Caytalan Church. His statement had probably been more of a friendly lamentation than a question of what Caytal was.

It didn’t really matter. Ryan Mead had been hired to provide her with some safety and transport for this mission; her own actions may have led to their imprisonment, but that robotman, android or whatever, ∞ was, would probably be close enough to get Mead loose to come rescue her.

Emilija could see the doubt in her new companion’s eyes when she spoke of escape. She wasn’t quite sure of how she could ask if he had the brainpower to help her in the escape or if his trouble talking was a sign of serious mental incapacity; if he was simply repeating words she said without understanding, and only reacting through base instinctual impulses. Although his face showed clear irritation as he seemed to recognize her attitude towards him; he reached out with his left hand and pointed at her chest.

“Yoo Emlja,” pulling the hand back to lie flat on his chest, he attempted his introduction once again; “Mh.. Thdr.” Eyes brightening warily with hope, he resisted looking away in shame. 

He almost gave up as she initially pulled back in fear, yet was relieved to watch the slight confusion on her face as she considered his words. The desperate hope that Emilija felt radiate from his eyes, made her wonder how long it had been since he had an encounter with another person that didn’t end in a fight.

“Are you saying your name is Thdr... Theodore..?” Her cautiously understanding expression was mixed with a pity and confusion that he tried to ignore as he nodded.

Looking away, he ran his right hand back across the top of his head. Countless hours had been spent considering himself and his situation, anyway. Emilija was still relatively new to him; not to mention that she had said that she was planning to get him out of here.

In Theodore’s former life, before getting dumped upon this planet (not to mention the whole S.Y.M.A.C.* business), information could be a near-form of currency. Before she got into asking too much of him he might as well get at least the same in return.

And hey, why not use what had happened to his advantage? If he could find out all she knew while she saw him as a fool that could hardly speak, it may come in handy at some time if she was really trusting enough to rescue him. With any luck he could be back at his pad in Vern within a couple weeks.

“S’wy Yoohr?” Theodore tried asking split-seconds after Emilija’s translation of his name. Getting somewhat used to the high-speed talk she really didn’t have to think about what he meant- ‘So,why you here?’  She clearly wanted to ask what was wrong with him, yet if Theodore conveniently didn’t pick up on her unspoken question, he considered it more likely that she’d answer what he had asked. It’s so easy to manipulate those who worry about being seen as rude! Theo nearly chuckled to himself.

Theodore, who wasn’t worried about looking rude, decided he should probably listen enough to whatever she was saying to respond intelligently, so he picked up what she was saying in the middle; “Yes, I realize those annoying Caytalan priests usually don’t consider any action from a woman to be the fault of anything more than bad teaching; normally I would have just been whipped, with the imprisonment/exile reserved for the male who had misled me.

“I was ‘lucky’ enough to avoid that now because they are preparing for some ‘sacred’ ritual. Apparently some prisoner here is to be sacrificed towards the grand prosperity of the universe. Whatever that means, they won’t suffer a woman’s presence during the preparations.

“I don’t get exactly what they are trying to do here- the details are in one of their high-level books that they refused to let us read. Refused, and sent me here for trying!

“They said they’d take me back after the ritual; but truthfully, after what happened to me here today, I’m not sure I want to find out what else they’re willing to let happen to me just to make sure I don’t get in the way.

“Although, I suppose I should be thankful that they wanted to give me the chance to live. I heard them planning to use Ryan as sprite-fodder.

“I’m not sure where Max slipped off to, but I guess it’s no fool. I’d never call it a person (Max is some sort of robot-android-thing) but it has the intelligence to realize that if they feel like they can get away with using Ryan’s body to breed those microscopic insects within, their plans for a non-human couldn’t be expected to be all that considerate.”

Theodore fully understood what she was saying. In fact, the ritual she spoke of was exactly the type of action Mardot was sure they be able to eliminate the need of with the new information, back before Theo was imprisoned here.

That they would still bother with such a ritual made it likely that the attack he had been punished for hadn’t even been completely successful! If that was the case: talk about adding insult to injury. No one had even thought him worth taunting about the failure.

“... because I’m an expert on old books.” Theodore suddenly realized that Emilija had continued speaking while he was thinking. “Because S.Y.M.A.C. command likes my combination of youth and experience I was commissioned to fly around the Galaxy with, Ryan Mead as my pilot, collecting texts for inclusion in the S.Y.M.A.C. system.

“Max (our pet name for our android ∞ or ‘Nitty’) is along for translation of the books we find and the actual job of uploading the data. We are being punished for trying to gain access to some sort of secret, sacred texts.”

Emilija made it clear to Theodore that she was part of some galactic data collating expedition for S.Y.M.A.C. People who were ready to go through the wilds to get hold of unusual artifacts should be able to help the two of them escape this the prison-planet place, especially if at least one of her two supposed co-workers had remained free.

That thought is why when Emilija’s tale ended Theodore simply nodded happily. He had no questions for her. By keeping silent he wouldn’t risk offending her and possibly changing her mind to take him along when she got off the planet.

Purchase Link:  https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/267204

 

Author Bio
 

Sarah Baethge was born in Texas, was going to UT at Dallas on a full Scholarship for computer science (with the summer job as a high school student as an intern for Lockheed Martin maintaining computers at NASA Houston.) She got in a car wreck driving from Houston to Dallas after Thanksgiving in 2000 and was in a coma for 6 months.

After waking up, she decided there was no point at anything that wasn’t likeable most of the time. Now she writes science fiction and fantasy because it entertains her, and tries to read for and write book reviews when she isn’t too busy storytelling.

The story Panoptemitry was a fun effort at trying to make imaginary nonsense into something almost scientifically sound.

LinkedIn:   http://www.linkedin.com/profile/view?id=137322285&locale=en_US&trk=tyah

Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/SarahBaethge?fref=ts

http://www.facebook.com/Panoptemitry

Twitter:  https://twitter.com/22niel

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/17160042-panoptemitry

Universal Reader link:  https://books2read.com/u/4NxxRx

Check out our latest Writing in the Modern Age blog article here.

Some of us who have chosen to write fiction come from a variety of places. And by 'a variety of places', I’m not referring to a physical location; I’m referring to our writing experiences.

There are some of us who have enjoyed writing since we were children, and each year, by writing something in school, it improved. For some of us, it continued until we graduated college and began working. Some of us entered the work force taking jobs, which required us to write, whether it was procedures, handbooks/manuals, or news stories. But all of these are non-fiction, and each one has a set of “rules” that need to be followed to write something well enough to be acceptable.

As for myself, while my regular job did not require me to write, for eleven years I wrote articles (commentaries/viewpoints) of what was happening in my community and my feelings about it. When I started to write these items, my writing skills were not honed. I didn’t have my ideas organized in a tight manner, although my writing had been informative. By the time I’d written my last item, I’d become quite adept at it.

When I started to write fiction, I somehow drifted to writing a contemporary romance story with a paranormal element running through the storyline, but after almost nine years I still hadn’t completed it. That is, until someone suggested I should write for a much younger audience, which is what I did, culminating in my first YA Paranormal/Time Travel/First Kiss romance novel entitled I Kissed a Ghost.

Anyway, making the transition from non-fiction to fiction, I’ve had to learn a new set of rules on how to write. Most of these involved dialogue, showing not telling, where before I just told. I now had to learn about the use of tags. I had to learn not to be overly descriptive of something, but allow my reader to create the image for themselves in their minds. In the beginning I found it hard to break my old writing habits. Now I’m finding myself with these habits essentially gone. The biggest issue I still have, and am trying to get a good handle on, is POV (Point of View). Regardless of what’s happening or being said it has to be in one character’s perspective, and you can’t flip-flop between two characters within a scene. There needs to be a transition from one character to another. 

All these things have helped me mold myself into the author I am today. I’ve also learned there are additional rules within a genre, depending on the sub-genre you’ve decided to write in. These rules apply to the dialogue spoken, which needs to be true to the time period you’re writing in, as well as how your characters are dressed, and their titles, if any, as is the case with the Regency sub-genre of romance novels. 

So as you can see, writing is not merely a string of words you put together. There are rules that need to be followed if you’re to be well received by your readers.   

If you have any questions, I’d love to hear from you.

Guest Blogger Bio

 

I’m a retired NYC civil servant who has been married for 19 years with no children. We have two senior cats, a Maine Coon with diabetes, and a calico. My first YA Paranormal/Time Travel/First Kiss romance novel is entitled I Kissed a Ghost. For my second romance novel I’ve returned to writing the untitled contemporary romance I wrote about in my post.

I Kissed a Ghost is available on Amazon at: 

http://www.amazon.com/Kissed-Ghost-Robin-Leigh-Morgan/dp/1480030031  

Due to an unexpected delay the Kindle version should become available around May 13th.

If anyone would like to read several UNEDITED SNIPPETS from the book, you can find them under the category of “GHOSTLY WHISPERS” on any my blog sites:   

http://www.mypennameonly.blogspot.com or http://www.mypennameonly.webs.com

You can also find me on:

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/mypennameonly              

Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/mypennameonly                  

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/RobinLeighMorgan

Universal Reader Link: 

Check out our latest Writing in the Modern Age blog article here.

My guest today is T.J. Banks.  Hello, T.J.!  Welcome to Writing in the Modern Age!  It’s such a pleasure to have you.

Can you tell us a little bit about your latest book? When did it come out? Where can we get it?

Do you write in a specific place?  Time of day?

Are there any words you'd like to impart to fellow writers. Any advice?

“T. J. Banks offers interesting ‘sketches’ of writers, artists, photographers and others in Sketch People, highlighting passions, ideologies and historical accounts of each person’s true story in her impacting and emotionally driven style.” —Patricia Spork, Sporkette Gazette  

 

 

T. J. Banks is the author of Sketch People:  Stories Along the Way, A Time for Shadows, Catsong, Derv & Co.:  A Life Among Felines, Souleiado, and Houdini, a cat novel which the late writer and activist Cleveland Amory enthusiastically branded “a winner.”  Catsong, a collection of her best cat stories, was the winner of the 2007 Merial Human-Animal Bond Award. A Contributing Editor to laJoie, she has received writing awards from the Cat Writers’ Association (CWA, ByLine, and The Writing Self. Her work has appeared in numerous anthologies, including Guideposts’ Soul Menders, Their Mysterious Ways, Miracles of Healing, and Comfort From Beyond. She has also worked as a stringer for the Associated Press and as an instructor for the  Writer’s Digest School.

LinkedIn:  http://www.linkedin.com/profile/view?id=44972436

Check out our latest Writing in the Modern Age blog article here.

I don’t know if anyone is actually reading this, but I really hope they are. I feel I have some great stuff to share and I hope I’m not being read as too arrogant. But let’s move on.

Why do we write fiction? I think there are many reasons, but one pertains to the fact that when we write fiction we get to create the world of our choice. This is one reason. As a writer, I always throw in a part of me in everything I write and I will do the same here. Though, I may be more throwing myself out into the slaughterhouse. But hey, writers are weird; we express our emotions. Enough jabber, here I go:

In Creative Writing right now, the class has been assigned to read short stories of our peers in our group. So far, I haven’t found anything that I consider to be “bad writing,” though, I do believe that all writing is good anyway. The point is, I’ve read a few where people throw love into the story. Love is a prominent issue and is probably addressed in every story. Though, I could be wrong. Remember the Einstein quote:

“No amount of experimentation can ever prove me right; a single experiment can prove me wrong.”

Anyway, what’s my point here? My point is, we all think of love whether we have it or not. In this sense, I’m talking about passionate relationships between a boy and a girl, or a boy and a boy, or a girl and a girl. I’m not going to get into transgenders. I’m not talking about love for your parents or friends. Though, love is important in all aspects. I’m not focusing on what you may call 'family love' or 'friend love'. I guess you could call this love 'sexual attraction' - attraction to the opposite or same sex. If we have this love, well, as a writer, we may write about our loved ones. If not, we may write about our wish to be with 'the one'. Petrarchan poems are all about the longing for the one you can’t have, but I’m not really addressing that. I’m more thinking about “dreaming” about that one who you haven’t met yet. Think of the Michael Bublé song, Haven’t Met You Yet. Is that Petrarchan? I don’t believe so.

In creating these stories, you get to decide what occurs. If you feel very negative, you may write a very negative end. If the story’s hopeful, well, it would be filled with hope. The feelings you express can affect the writing or the exact opposite. I find that when I read these love stories, so far the ones I’ve read, they end happy. But, sometimes it seems so easy. Within a story, it is. But it’s harder in real life. I think time and time again about 'the one', and I always wonder if I’ll ever find them. I don’t think about physical characteristics. I think more of just having fun and enjoying their company. All right, you want me to really throw myself out there? I envision a slim body, but not unhealthy. Nothing cruel, I assure you. Ask me more questions and you’ll be dead. Well, not really. 

I guess the real title for this article/curious essay is 'Why Do We Write Love Stories?'.

I believe it has to do with your feelings. I think, in order to write a great love story, we must be playing the feelings we actually have; if we want to bring in that affection from the reader, that is. I relate to more teenage novels/young adult fiction because the characters are closer to my age. Not that those younger or older characters don’t seem real, they do, but I can’t relate to them as well. It’s what makes a good book: reaching your audience. Everyone can read it, but if you really want to capture the reader you’ve got to find a connection within the writing. With love, it could be heart-wrenching or very sweet. But if it’s bland, no one will feel connected. And I think readers can usually tell if the emotions in the story are fake, unless you’re very good at conveying the opposite. For that, I congratulate you. You can join T.S. Eliot. He believed that poetry should be written through characters not feelings. He creates characters and they have no relation to him whatsoever. Maybe not directly, but maybe there’s more meaning. I don’ t know and can’t exactly ask him.

What am I getting at here? With fiction, you are constructing a fake reality, but in order to get readers involved, it has to contain realism. I’m not writing that fantasy should be scrapped, I’m saying that the characters need to be three dimensional.

But, what’s the main reason we write fiction?

To tell a story and share our ideas. And above all, to be creative.

So true. Many thanks for visiting us today, Andy!

Guest Blogger Bio

  

Andy Ruffett is a writer who lives in Toronto (Ontario, Canada). He is getting a Bachelor of Arts degree at the University of British Columbia. His focus is Creative Writing. In high school, he was lead editor at the school newspaper. He is a proficient editor and writer, and you can connect with   him on LinkedIn, Facebook, Twitter or his blog.

LinkedIn:  http://www.linkedin.com/profile/view?id=192002172

Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/pages/Andy-Ruffett/159163347452440                     
Twitter:  https://twitter.com/AndRuff8

Blog:  http://ruffpost.tumblr.com/

Check out our latest Writing in the Modern Age blog article here.

My guest today is Nancy Wood. Hello, Nancy! Welcome to Writing in the Modern Age! It’s such a pleasure to have you here.

Can you tell us a little bit about your latest book? When did it come out? Where can we get it?


My latest book is my first book. It’s called Due Date and it was published by Solstice Publishing in May, 2012. It’s a thriller: there are no dead bodies, but it will keep you on the edge of your seat! You can find it on Amazon, Barnes &Noble, Smashwords, and in the Solstice store. 

Is there anything that prompted your latest book? Something that inspired you? 

Due Date originally started out as a story of an open adoption and the somewhat difficult relationship between the intended mother and the birth mother. I took this book to a publishing workshop, where I was encouraged to change it into a mystery. At first I was skeptical. I had no idea how to write a mystery. Where to start it? How do you plant clues? How do you keep tension? But I started reading exclusively in the genre and began to study how mysteries and thrillers are put together. Now I’m hooked: I seem to gravitate toward this genre and rarely read or write anything else! 

Great! So, when did you know you wanted to write? Or has it always been a pastime of yours?
 
I’ve been writing for a long, long time. In fourth or fifth grade, I started writing a mystery with a friend of mine. I’d love to find that manuscript now! I’ve been writing in earnest for about twenty-five years and have a few unpublished books under my belt: a memoir and two novels. I have published a few short stories over the years. Due Date took about five years from start to finish, so I’m pretty slow!

Do you have any favorite authors? 
 
I’d have to say that mystery/thriller authors are now my favorite authors. As I mentioned above, when I decided to write a mystery, I dove into the genre, and started out by reading the First Novel Edgar nominees for the past several years. I was floored by all or it: the characters, the settings, the plots. An Edgar nominee that I read and re-read is called A Field of Darkness.  The author is Cornelia Read. The protagonist, Madeline Dare, is funny, brave, heroic, and complex. The novel has nuanced characters and a strong sense of place. But the writing was the best: Ms. Read’s writing just sparkles. A Field of Darkness made me understand the genre could hold anything a writer wanted to make of it.

Do you write in a specific place? Time of day?

Every morning, before breakfast, and before other family members get up, I’m at the keyboard. I try to write for an hour first thing, every day. I sometimes sit on the sofa with my laptop, but lately I’ve taken to writing in my office. The window looks out on the huge palm tree in our front yard (yes, here in Santa Cruz in Central California, there are palms), and I can watch the day begin. On good writing days, I’m reluctant to switch computers (I have two – one for writing, one for work) and start on whatever technical documentation is at hand. On bad writing days, I’m so thankful I can get to something that’s structured and known and knowable!
 
Are there any words you'd like to impart to fellow writers. Any advice?

Read everything you can in your genre. And keep writing. That’s key. Just like everything, your writing will get stronger with practice.

Here is the blurb for Due Date.

Surrogate mother Shelby McDougall just fell for the biggest con of all—a scam that risks her life and the lives of her unborn twins.

Twenty-three year-old Shelby McDougall is facing a mountain of student debt and a memory she’d just as soon forget. A Rolling Stone ad for a surrogate mother offers her a way to erase the loans and right her karmic place in the cosmos. Within a month, she's signed a contract, relocated to Santa Cruz, California, and started fertility treatments.

But intended parents Jackson and Diane Entwistle have their own agenda--one that has nothing to do with diapers and lullabies. With her due date looming, and the clues piling up, Shelby must save herself and her twins. As she uses her wits to survive, Shelby learns the real meaning of the word “family.” 

Here is an excerpt from Due Date. 

Chapter One

 

The Beemer driver, right on our tail, tapped his horn a few times, and sat on it. My brother Dexter swerved the SUV toward the dented guard rail separating the gravel shoulder from a steep drop into the Santa Cruz mountain valley below. But the BMW driver didn’t take the hint. He just edged closer, veering in and out of the lane, still trying to pass. 

“What the...?” shouted Dexter as the Beemer’s right front fender hooked our left rear with an explosive crunch.

Suddenly we were sliding out of control, skidding across the narrow road as if it were black ice. Dexter fought the wheel and pumped the brakes, but the pedal plunged to the floor. Yelling “Hold on,” he yanked the parking brake. 

Metal screeched and our CRV fishtailed to the right, jerking to a halt inches from the cliff. Dexter turned the ignition off and there was welcome silence.  

He whacked the steering wheel with the palm of his hand.

“I am so dead,” he groaned. “Jessica is going to kill me.”

He reached over to unclip my seat belt then looked at me, horrified. “Jesus, Shelby, we need to get you to a doctor.”

“I’m fine,” I said, cradling my substantial belly with both hands. “Thank God the airbag didn’t go off.”  

“If I ever catch that asshole...” Dexter tried to start the car but the engine just whirred, clicked, and died. He swore, wiggled his phone out of his pocket, pressed the on button, and swore again. He shook it, as if that would help. “Can I try yours?”

“If you can find it,” I said.

I gestured behind me, where my entire life was crammed into boxes, suitcases, and duffel bags. 

“Don’t have that much time. Gotta get you and those babies to a doctor.”

He opened the car door. “I’ll be back in a half-hour, tops,” he said. “Don’t go anywhere.” 

He grinned at me. We both knew I wouldn’t.  

I watched his bright red t-shirt disappear through the redwood grove up the twisting road, under the blue California sky. He’d be at least an hour. Dexter never could tell time. 

I angled the seat back and was rewarded with the familiar poke of a baby foot between my lower ribs, then another on my left side. See? I wanted to tell Dexter, we’re all fine. All three of us. And just because you’re my big brother, you can’t always tell me what to do. 

I reserved that privilege for Jackson and Diane Entwistle, the intended parents of my unborn twins. Although we didn’t know each other that well yet, Diane insisted on taking me in now that Jessica, Dexter’s pushy wife, had kicked me out. So instead of being shoe-horned into an all-purpose office-guest-craft room, I’d have my own cottage. Six hundred square feet all to myself on their expansive Santa Cruz mountain ridge-top estate. Even though the arrangement would only last a few months, until the babies were born, I was looking forward to quiet country living.

I locked the doors, twisted around in the seat for my purse, and busied myself in a fit of organization. I excavated gum wrappers, used movie tickets, wadded up tissues, balls of hair from my brush, bits of broken shells I’d collected on my morning beach walks, keys to Dexter’s house that I wouldn’t be needing anymore, and a dangly red and white African beaded earring I’d assumed was long lost. The trash went in one pile, the earring in my coin purse, and I stashed the keys to my former life in the glove box. 

I’d just have to remember to tell Dexter they were there.

 

* * * *

Forty-five minutes later, I was flipping through the Sunset magazine I’d found under the passenger seat when I smelled smoke. 

Campfires weren’t unusual up here in the hills, where there were at least three state parks, and at first the tendril of what looked like mist winding through the upper redwood canopy didn’t worry me. I was reading about kitchen makeovers, something I couldn’t yet imagine at twenty-three, but maybe someday, after the babies were born, after I finished graduate school, after I found that perfect guy. 

Then I started coughing. And I looked up again. The smoke was as dense as beach fog on a summer morning. This was no campfire. 

I felt a sudden surge in my throat: on the side of the road, near the hairpin curve where Dexter had disappeared, licks of red and orange flame were traveling lazily up the trunk of a spindly shrub. I jumped as it ignited with a crack, sparking in fiery traces like a welding torch. 

As quickly as I could, I unlocked the door and eased out, trying not to look down. A slope as steep as a ski jump yawed beneath my feet. Only an inch of slippery gravel lay between the toes of my flip-flops and the lip. I baby-stepped around the car, taking peeks up the hill, hoping I’d see Dexter running toward me, arms outspread in a victory lap. 

If you wanted something enough, the universe would provide, right? But only a backdrop of flames glowed through the swirling smoke. 

Now whole trees were hissing in the distance as they burned. A power line sparked in a deafening pop. I looked around for my best escape route. I couldn’t follow Dexter. No one could navigate that path, not even a fully-suited firefighter with an oxygen tank. I knew Dexter was somewhere safe by now. Probably as worried about me as I was.

I waddled fast downhill, and ten minutes later, I was in almost-clear air again, the blaze just a memory clinging in sooty, sweaty rivulets to my hair and clothes. My eyes still burned and my tongue felt singed, but a familiar blue sky arched above and the feathery ash only floated down occasionally, gentle as mist. 

I knew it would be just a matter of time before the fire caught up to me, though, and I couldn’t walk forever. 

As if my prayer had been answered, the faint whine of an engine percolated the still afternoon. Gears ground as the vehicle labored up the grade. I dodged off the road and crouched behind a tree. Maybe it was the hormones, but paranoia had been a constant companion since I signed my surrogacy papers. Nobody liked surrogates, I’d learned, especially once they realized the amounts of money involved. 

But I needed a lift. Shaking off my worries, I straightened up, ready to flag down the vehicle. “Shelby Emma Stearns McDougall,” I said. “Get a grip.” 

Above me, a pair of crows squawked, raspy and piercing. I adjusted my huge belly, leaned back against the tree trunk, and waited.

 

Author Bio

Nancy lives in Santa Cruz, California, with her family, where she’s been lucky enough to make writing her career. For many years she made her living as a technical writer, working in software documentation. About six years ago, she set up her own shop and is now a writing consultant and contractor, happy to spend every day grappling with words and sentences. 

Due Date is Nancy’s first published book and she’s now hard at work on the second book in the Shelby McDougall series.

Connect with Nancy here:

Website: www.nancywood-books.com

Facebook Fan page: http://www.facebook.com/NancyWoodAuthor

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6452303.Nancy_W_Wood

Twitter: https://twitter.com/NancyWoodAuthor

Awesome!  Thanks, Nancy, for visiting Writing in the Modern Age today!  Your book sounds interesting!

Check out our latest Writing in the Modern Age blog article here.

"No one is asking, let alone demanding, that you write. The world is not waiting with bated breath for your article. Whether or not you get a single word on paper, the sun will rise, the earth will spin, the universe will expand. Writing is forever and always a choice - your choice."

~Beth Mende Conny

That's an interesting quote by Ms. Conny, and it's true. Nothing in the world will change if I write or don't write. Writing really is a choice, but it's a most interesting choice ...

I've talked to a lot of writers about why they write and those reasons are as varied as the number of writers I asked. Some write because it's their job and it's what they're paid to do.  Some write because it's a hobby and something they enjoy doing.  Some write because it's a challenge, maybe by a writing community, or a teacher in school.  Some write because they're in love and want to express their innermost feelings. Some 

write because it's a driving compulsion, a mental lava flow, if you will.   [I'm assuming this is the category the prolific Steven King falls into].  And still others write because they're uncomfortable with the words banging-clanging around aimlessly down inside of them. They just have to write and let the words come out.

The one response that was almost universal among them was that the ones who are serious writers write for the sheer love of writing.  All writers want to be good, and so unique, as to be able to write one thought, one idea, one poem, one story -- just one thing -- in such a new and wondrous way that they'll be remembered for it forever. I'm reminded of something Anais Nin once said:  "The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say."

As for me, I write for the sheer love of writing -- it doesn't really matter what I write. I do it because it's an addiction and I have to get the banging-clanging words and ideas out and into the daylight. I write to leave something of me behind, something that I hope is good, something so new and unique and different that my children's children's children will read it some day, smile, and say, "That was my great-grandmother.  She wrote that.  What a character she was. How I wish I had known her ..."

So true.  I think we all want to be remembered for our work.  Thanks so much for visiting us today, CJ!

 

Guest Blogger Bio

CJ Heck is a published poet, writer, blogger, and the author of three children's books, a collection of short stories, and her newest, a poetry book for adults. She is also a Vietnam War widow.

CJ has three daughters and eleven grandchildren. She lives and writes in Florida with her partner, Robert Cosmar, who is also an author.

For book excerpts, more information, interviews, or to invite CJ to your school, or organization, please call 352-299-5634 or visit her website, Barking Spiders Poetry.

Website: http://www.barkingspiderspoetry.com

LinkedIn: http://www.linkedin.com/pub/cj-heck/17/312/b76

Twitter: https://twitter.com/CJHeck60

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/cj.heck1

https://www.facebook.com/CJHeckAuthor

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/C.J.-Heck/e/B000APRMC4

Blogs: http://memoirsfromnam.blogspot.com/

http://cjswriterthoughts.blogspot.com/

http://knowingwhispers.blogspot.com/

Youtube: http://www.youtube.com/user/cjheck1949/videos

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5308345.C_J_Heck

Shelfari: http://www.shelfari.com/cj_heck

Books:

Barking Spiders (and Other Such Stuff)
Barking Spiders 2 (sequel)
Me Too!  Preschool Poetry 
Bits and Pieces (Short Story Collection)Anatomy of a Poet

Read Excerpts at Barking Spiders Poetry!

 

 

 

Check out our latest Writing in the Modern Age blog article here.

My guest today is KateMarie Collins. Hello, KateMarie! Welcome to Writing in the Modern Age! It’s such a pleasure to have you here today.

Can you tell us a little bit about your latest book? When did it come out? Where can we get it? 

My new book is titled Mark of the Successor. It's about a young woman, Lily, who finds out her entire life was a lie. She has to find her inner strength to break free of how she was raised and be who she wants to be, over what others demand of her. It hasn't released yet, but we're hoping for sometime in May or June of 2013. Once it's out, you can get it via Solstice Publishing's website (www.solsticepublishing.com), and it should also be available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble's websites.

Is there anything that prompted your latest book? Something that inspired you? 

I belonged to an online writing group where we did challenges every week. Someone would put a topic out, and we'd write whatever our take on it was. This particular week, the challenge was a known unknown. I wrote a small story about a small child seeing a school bus for the first time. But then Lily would not shut up! I had to keep writing about her until the story was complete. The challenge part is actually the prologue in the book.

Great! So, when did you know you wanted to write? Or has it always been a pastime of yours?

I've always been creative, even though I can't draw a straight stick figure without a ruler. Where I grew up, though, things like being published were reserved for 'other people', not me. By the time I finished high school, I saw my talent as little more than being able to bs my way through the essay portion of a test. Five years ago, something inside me unlocked the muse I'd kept caged for all those years. I started to write, and it scared me. For the first time I could recall, I liked what I wrote. Once the muse was out, though, she refused to go back inside. 

Do you have any favorite authors? 

Nick Pollotta, Stephen Boyett, David Eddings, and Patricia Kennelly-Morrison are people I will always read. Mr. Pollotta is the only author that'll make me laugh aloud while I'm reading. The others have this sense of realness to their writing. 

Do you write in a specific place? Time of day?

I've got an office space in our house. I've got to get the right music in the stereo first. Normally, I do a lot of my writing when my kids are at school and the hubby's at work. I can crank the stereo, ignore the telemarketers (yeah for caller i.d.!), and let things flow. 

Are there any words you'd like to impart to fellow writers. Any advice?

Don't give up. Yes, you're going to get rejections. We all do. It's part of the business. If you get any feedback from a publisher or agent, take it to heart. It's not a good feeling to be told no, but be open to analyzing the story if something's brought to your attention. None of us ever start with the perfect manuscript after one draft.  

Here is the blurb for Mark of the Successor.

Dominated and controlled by an abusive mother, Lily does what she can to enjoy fleeting moments of normality. When a break from school only provides the opportunity for more abuse at home, the sudden appearance of a stranger turns her world even bleaker. Disappearing without a trace, he has left a lingering fear in Lily. His parting words to her mother, “Have her ready to travel tomorrow,” is something her mind refuses to accept.

Running away is the only answer. But before Lily can execute her plan, a shimmering portal appears in her room. Along with two strangers who promise to help keep her safe. With time running out, she accepts their offer for escape and accompanies them into a brand new world. A world in which she is the kidnapped daughter of a Queen, and the heir to the throne of Tanisal.

Can she find her own strength to overcome both an abusive past and avoid those who would use her as a means to power?

Here's an excerpt from Mark of the Succesor. 

PROLOGUE

 

"But why do I have ta go, Mama?" Tears streamed down Lily's cheeks.

Mama bent down, enfolding her in a tight embrace. "It not my choice, Lily. Them folk down the road, the ones that keep tryin’ to talk us into going to church with them, they did call important folk. Them think they knows more than I do."

"No one knows more than you do, Mama!" Lily pulled back a little, wiping at the tears.

"You just remember that, Lily, when them teachers tell you something different!" Mama straightened up. "Now, you go down to the end of the driveway. There goin’ to be someone come pick you up. You be brave, now. I be here when you come back."

Lily knew better than to try and kick up rocks or dirt on the walk to the main road. Mama didn’t like that. She got mad at the delivery man one day, even got the shotgun down when he drove too fast. Told him to go slow and stop making the dust kick up or she'd shoot him.

The end of the drive loomed ahead. A small wooden shed with a bench, open on one side, shone bright in the morning sun. It was newly built, the yellow pine still had the fresh cut look to it.

Lily waited next to it, not knowing what it was for.

A low rumble reached her ears, slowly growing in volume. Lily quickly checked her

raven black hair, making sure it was arranged in the way Mama liked. Mama didn't like the back of her neck showing for some reason. If anyone else saw it, Lily would go to hell, Mama told her.

A strange thing came rolling down the road. It was huge! Lily's green eyes bulged in

terror as it lumbered toward her. It was yellow, with bright glowing eyes below a dark forehead. Or was that a mouth? Black smoke bellowed from behind, reeking like sulfur and coal. She swallowed hard as the great beast pulled up, screeching to a halt in front of her.

A door opened at the side. Lily glanced up, and saw a long row of windows revealing other young folk trapped inside. A set of black stairs led up. A man sat at the top of them. He was looking at her, expectantly. One huge hand rested on a large black wheel. The other held the handle of some shiny device. Mama said the reason men had such big hands was so they could hit girls harder when they didn't obey their Mamas.

"C'mon, sweetheart. I haven't got all morning. Got more kids to pick up." 

Lily took a deep breath and slowly mounted the steps. The creature was full of seats. Lots of other kids stared at her like she was a freak. She stopped, panic rising in her.

"Find a seat, sweetheart. I can't move until you do." The voice made her jump.

Remembering what Mama had said about making men happy or they beat you, she slid into the closest empty seat. The black material felt hot.

The creature lurched as it moved forward, making her slam into the back of the seat.

Author Bio

Born in the late 60's, KateMarie has lived most of her life in the Pacific NW. While she's always been creative, she didn't turn towards writing until 2008. She found a love for the craft. With the encouragement of her husband and two daughters, she started submitting her work to publishers. When she's not taking care of her family, KateMarie enjoys attending events for the Society for Creative Anachronism. The SCA has allowed her to combine both a creative nature and love of history. She currently resides with her family and three cats in what she likes to refer to as "Seattle Suburbia".

Website: http://katemariecollins.wordpress.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/KateMarie-Collins/217255151699492?ref=ts&fref=ts
Twitter: https://twitter.com/DaughterHauk
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/KateMarie-Collins/e/B008I67BBE/

Check out our latest Writing in the Modern Age blog article here.

Our lives take a toll on us.  We amble through each day, dealing with each stressor the best way we can.  But, we are not infallible.  Nor are we indestructible.  
 

Some of us have to pay the bills somehow while we wait for our ship to come in.  So your job can put more stress on you.  There are a million distractions, and not always the good kind.  Yeah, it’s nice when the day looks pretty and you feel encouraged to go explore.  That’s a pleasant distraction.  The not so pleasant kind can deter from your writing.  We all know what that can entail.  Pressure in all directions.

  

I saw a quote recently that I think is very apropos.  Ray Bradbury said, “You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.”  So, what kind of reality does he mean?  Well, I think all of us can imagine.  What in your reality keeps you from working on your novel, poem or play?  I have a tendency to be too realistic, a flaw my fiancé reminds me of often.  But, I’m a creative soul too.  And my tendency to be so realistic does distract me from writing.  Because I tend to focus too much, to worry too much about the future.  What if?  What will happen…blah, blah, blah.  I’m sure some of you are familiar with that train of thought.

 

I have a manuscript, a sequel to my newly released book, that is just waiting to be finished.  My first historical romance took me years to write.  Years!  Why?  Because life got in the way.  Because I had this or that to do.  I’m realistic enough to know that I can’t just sit and write 24/7, whether I want to or not.  I have to sleep.  I have to eat.  I have to, well…live, for lack of a better word.  And those experiences do shape us as writers.  They add to our core.  They help us write.  But, they can kill the creative fire too.  

  
You know the fire.  The burn.  The urge to make your hands pick up a pen or fly across a keyboard.  You feel it every day, even underneath all those distractions.  You feel it when, finally, at some point, a scene comes into your mind.  The muse has blessed you again.  And yet, as writers, we can be hurt too.  Yes, we’re all human.  But, I don’t imagine many people know how hard it is not to write, not to feel that utter freedom of creativity.  How exhilarated you can be when something just clicks inside of you, some part of the plot, some facet of the character.  You start writing and don’t stop for twenty minutes or even longer.  Ah, the ecstasy of it.  No one knows better than a writer how that can feel.


So, let’s examine Mr. Bradbury’s words a little.  Stay drunk on writing?  As if it’s a drug or alcohol?  Do we actually want to be intoxicated?  Well, maybe not in reality.  But, on writing?  Yes!  Oh, if only we could endlessly feel that freedom.  Every one of us wants to.  Don’t deny it.  And it is like a drug, addictive in its own way.  

And what else did Ray say?  Reality will destroy you.  Okay, being realistic isn’t so bad, right?  It helps us accomplish our tasks for the day.  Hell, it even takes a little realism to outline your story because you’re looking at it from a different perspective.  So, maybe what we can surmise from it is this:  too much reality destroys our joy of writing.  Sure, I can see that.  With all the deadlines and the phone calls and the bills (of course), and any other distraction in our lives, how can we truly enjoy writing?  I guess finding a good balance is a good way to live. 

Find your joy.  I urge you to write.  We know we can’t immerse ourselves too much in that world or things won’t get done, right?  How many times have you written or focused on a project for hours only to come up for air when someone in your family says, “Are you still working?”  I have to laugh at that.  Because you just did it.  You were able to close out the distractions of the world around you long enough to experience how wonderful writing is.  And you didn’t even realize it.  Isn’t that the best part?  How does the saying go?  How time flies when you’re having fun.  And despite all those deadlines and edits or rewrites, despite the way you have to promote yourself to sell a book, you were able to feel the joy of writing.  Because writing can be fun.  It can be fulfilling. 

So, my one piece of advice I can leave you with, friends, besides finding a happy medium, of course, is to be joyful.  Find the inner child in yourself.  The writer knows what I’m talking about.  Even those who aren't writers know what I'm talking about.  Maybe your passion is scrapbooking or pottery.  There is that part of yourself that cannot help but feel happy when you’re in the moment.  Nourish that part of yourself.  Sure, there will be things that drag your attention away from it, but as long as you can return to that joy time and time again, you’ll never stray too far.  And we can thank Ray Bradbury for his wise words.  “Stay drunk on writing” and never let reality destroy your joy.       


Author Bio
 
Marie Lavender has been writing for over twenty years. She has more works in progress than she can count on two hands. She has published sixteen books. Marie’s real love is writing romances, but she has also written mysteries, literary fiction and dabbled a little in paranormal stories. Her most recent release, Upon Your Return, a historical romance, was published with Foundations Books.   
 
Website:  http://www.marielavender.com/ 
Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/AuthorMarieLavender
Twitter:  https://twitter.com/marielavender1

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