The Write Window

2011-12-09T14:41:00.009-06:00

Hello, dear readers... the following is an article by Jessica Dotta, Sr. Editor of Inspire a Fire. I highly recommend you check out this blog--an awesome community of writers committed to making a difference for the kingdom....

“We have much to be judged on when he comes, slums and battlefields and insane asylums, but these are the symptoms of our illness and the result of our failures in love.” -- Madeleine L'Engle

When my brother traveled to the Sudan he had an encounter that changed his life—and as it ends up, mine too.

He stood in Darfur at an orphanage filled with children leftover from the genocide. There were over 800 children, and during the night wild dogs were dragging them off and killing them.

My brother already felt shell-shocked from the travesties he'd witnessed in Uganda.

The day was hot. The sun beat down upon him. His camera had nearly been ruined from all the dust. He'd barely slept. His gear was heavy. Yet his conscience was seared by the numbness he felt, so he turned and confessed to a Sudanese pastor.

"We shall pray right now that your heart will be opened," he was told.

Not long after that prayer three young children approached Joshua and started to follow him. After a bit, his father nature kicked in and he stopped and sang Father Abraham. It didn't take long before the four of them were dancing and going through the motions.

When they finished, he asked the children to tell him how they came to be there.

The oldest, a girl, answered. "The soldiers came and shot my mother and father, so I came here."

The two other children nodded in agreement. "Me, too."

He was grief struck, but it was what transpired next that tore my heart. "Do you have a Mommy?" The little girl asked my brother.

"Yes," he answered.

"And a Daddy?"

Again, his answer was yes.

"Oh," she said, her voice hinting at a strange intermingling of numbness and grief.

Her question stirs me still. For I believe it came from her soul and revealed the thoughts of her heart. She didn't want to know what his country was like, what kind of food he ate, or what he did for a living. She had her own bullet holes leftover from the genocide. Her world consisted of this single question: Who still had parents and who didn't?

In her questions I heard her worry and fear. Imagine being trapped in a war-torn country, a land of famine, drought and disease. Imagine trying to survive it as an orphan with death threatening you every hour. No matter how much she's endured, at the end of the day, she's still just a little girl. And all she really wants is her Mom and Dad.

I imagined my daughter living as an orphan in the Sudan. If I were shot and dying, it would be my hope that my brothers and sisters would care for her. But what if her aunts and uncles were killed too? What was it then, that her parents hoped?

As members of the body of Christ these children are not alone. They have aunts and uncles. Multitudes and multitudes and multitudes of them. Talk about staggering! These kids are our nieces and nephews! Mine. Yours.

So who, I wondered, within the church has the responsibility to step in?

I didn't like the answer that came. Earlier that week I was shocked to learn that globally I was one of the richest people in the world—even though as an American, I'm pretty poor.

Like it or not I was the rich aunt. I had knowledge of the situation. That made me accountable.

I wasn't comfortable with the knowledge then, and I'm not comfortable with the knowledge now. But I am determined to do something. Anything.

That day Joshua had in his possession a picture book that someone had asked him to give to someone in the Sudan. It was a children's book with a story about how we have a Heavenly Father who always loves and cares for us. Joshua read the book and gave it to them.

An American woman took it upon herself to raise the money to build shelter. Every person who donated, even a dollar, helped to create a place where the little girl now sleeps safe from wild dogs.

When Joshua told me he's going to start a branch of Watermelon Ministries called Media Change, a non-profit encouraging Americans to give up a portion of the money spent on entertainment to serve those fighting world hunger and thirst, I wanted to support it.

For seven years he's helped non-profits raise money that serves the "least of these." He's seen the impact a small investment can have. This is a brand new initiative. He's not quite ready to launch, but you can sign up and be kept updated at www.mediachange.org. His first goal is garner the support of 10,000 people who are willing to give $10 a month. I'm number #3.

This is only a blog post, but who knows what one blog post can do.

What if the task of helping others isn't as overwhelming as we make it?

The Backdoor...

2011-10-05T16:51:00.010-05:00

Most backdoors are unlocked. Making popular the phrase "They got in through the backdoor," which usually meant it was someone who probably would have been turned away at the front. Still, there are countless success stories about people who were audacious enough to try the backdoor in many different fields of endeavor. I got into journalism that way.

The first was through a backdoor at an automotive trade magazine that -- unknown to me -- a current columnist had just walked out of for a spot on the National Enquirer only days before. Me, I had no idea. I was just doing a calling campaign through a list of local publishers, asking if they needed any writers. Well, it just so happened they did, because there was no one to cover that vacated column at the moment. OK, so I didn't know much about car parts, but I took it as a "divine appointment" and jumped into the journalism profession. I worked there a few years, covering features, interviews, trade-shows, several columns as well as my original, and finally held a position as assistant editor by the time I left.

I had to leave. I was living and breathing the aftermarket car industry when what I really wanted to do was write fiction (or, at least, inspirational non-fiction). Besides that, there wasn't a lot of romance and excitement about doing a feature spread on a company that manufactured lug-nuts. Which is the one that finally put me over the edge.

One late night (everyone worked late in that company, if it wasn't done, you didn't go home) when I couldn't -- for the life of me -- think of one more interesting thing to say about lug-nuts, I noticed the initials of that company were C.I.A.

Something in me snapped.

I suddenly didn't care what anyone thought of me, anymore. This was no place for a woman who wanted to write mysteries and family sagas. I could lose my mind (maybe even my gift!) if I had to come up with one more clever phrase to sell high performance chrome headers, and the like. So, I did a Sam Spade-type noir spoof about that company, and called it "Inside the C.I.A." Something that would probably get me fired, no matter how long I had worked there, but I couldn't help myself. I didn't even have the decency not to use real names (except for my own -- are you kidding? A byline on something like that could swamp my reputation).

Mine was the last lonely car in the dark parking lot that that night when I finally left the office, and it was an hour long ride from the outskirts of LA just to get home. But doing something halfway creative for a change had energized me. I actually felt liberated, and wished I had left a long time, ago. Getting fired never looks good on anyone's resume, though. But I was still done. Finished. Over with all this. If it wasn't so late, I would have crafted a resignation letter and left it on the publisher's desk. He called me the next morning, but -- hey -- I was expecting that.

"C.I.A. loves it, and so do I."

"What?"

"We're going to hire an artist to come up with some kind of spy-type character to put with the piece."

"You're kidding…"

"And I'm giving you a raise. What are you doing home at this hour?"

"Well, I…"

"Nevermind. I know you worked late, so take your time. Not too long, though, we've got that product catalog to start on."

I didn't leave for another six months. And then only because my husband took a job in another state and we had to move. Even so, I still continued writing my original column and that darn product catalog through the mail, for nearly a year after that.

Which taught me something. When you do get in through a backdoor, somewhere, there are almost always strings attached.

Professional journalist tells all…

2011-09-28T15:33:00.007-05:00

I have spent most of my writing career in journalism. Even though I have "written stories ever since I can remember" (as I have often said before on this blog), the greater portion of my published work has been in the newspaper and magazine industries. Both on staff and freelance. Not only has it been my bread and butter now, and again, it has also been an amazing crucible for learning the writing craft. Mostly because, when you work for somebody else, you get assignments. And you tend to have other people telling you how to do them.

I learned some amazing things in my journalism career. They were million dollar experiences. Maybe I better explain that better. Let's just say they were the kind of million dollar experiences you wouldn't trade for that much money, but you wouldn't pay a nickel to go through them all over again. Some of them (the best, really) were obtained under such embarrassing circumstances that it would be something of a career-buster just to reveal them. But I have a feeling everybody has a moment, or two, like that in their past. Whether your dreams revolved around writing or real estate. After all, we're only human.

Which is why I'm going to expose myself and "pay it forward" for anyone who is so determined to make it in this business it has become more important than the Holy Grail for you. It will probably ruin my reputation. But if I could have gotten even a fraction of this kind of information in my early days, it wouldn't have taken me so long

to break into this industry. Don't get me wrong, I'm not promising to reveal any up-until-now-unheard-of-secrets (hey-- if you know any of those, let me in on them). I'm just going to point out some of the swamps I stumbled into, and the "R.O.U.S.'s" I had to personally deal with out there that others might want to avoid. Especially if they want to come out on the other end of this writing forest instead of turning back.

Since it's going to cost me, though, I' don't plan to let go of these gems lightly. Heck, no. I'm going to string them out -- beginning to end -- all over the blogosphere. Each of these things came hard to me, so, I plan on leaving a trail instead of just dropping them on the road. That way, only the truly determined ones will follow. And for anyone that sticks with me through the entire month of October… hey, I've got a gift for you. One of two, actually, you can take your pick. So, without further ado…

The first lesson I learned about being a "real" writer, is over at Rachelle Gardner's blog for today (the one about regrets), buried in the comment section, about thirty down. It's a true story. As all of them will be. But I learned something really important through that particular experience. So… for "anyone who has ears to hear, let them listen…"

Seriously.

Meanwhile, leave a comment back here, and I'll put you on my list of contenders. The person with the most "finds" wins. And -- hey -- no drawings. Everybody that finds all of them wins, even if I have to buy out the store. Ready? Then "the game is afoot…"

PS… Oh, yeah… and I'm giving out bonus points for anyone who knows what "R.O.U.S.'s" are.

What's happening on the farm today... Oh, my gosh, fall is finally here! Time to change the window picture on the website, bring in some firewood, and get out a nice big stack of all those books I've been putting by to read. I actually have fresh bread baking in the over even as I write this. But -- alas -- there are no animals but horses and dogs on the Sweetbriar at the moment. And two-thirds of everyone's gardens around here were burned up in all that intense summer heat. Thank heavens we have a "famine chest"...

Thinking about not writing…

2011-09-08T16:06:00.006-05:00

One of the hardest things for me to settle in the creation of my stories is character motivation. For a long time, I didn't even know this. But the more I worked at the craft, I noticed a pattern began to emerge. It always popped up in the same form, too, something I call a "plot knot."

This thing was like a ball of yarn that got tangled up worse at the end. And over the years, I backed myself up into some terrible corners, having to find my way through one maze after another before coming up with solutions. My muses were not always helpful at this point (sorry, everybody), because they had a way of sending us all off on wild thought tangents that invariably ended up being nothing more than beguiling distractions that detracted from the figuring side of my mind,

"It's called brainstorming, my dear, and people have been doing it since the beginning of time."

Yes, thank you for that, Professor, but I don't have all of eternity to explore every possible scenario. Especially when faced with deadlines. Then one day it occurred to me. I cannot come up with with any decent motivations for anything, unless I know who it is that has to be motivated. Thoroughly. To have a living breathing villain, for instance who was so real a reader could fairly feel that wisp of breath down their own neck… Well, I couldn't just snap vices out of the air and glue them onto stick-figures with the usual details. No. I had to know something about them in a much more gripping way.

It isn't enough that my heroine is being stalked by a deranged person. No, I must know that this deranged person wants something that they cannot have, even if they catch her. Because it was the trust someone else put in her, that they felt should have belonged to them. (and, yes, I know the plural is improper, but I don't want to give away gender). I'm talking about a real plot knot for a real book. I am just thinking things out here, which is what this blog was originally begun for.

So, I not only need to know the why, I must know the exact incident that led up to it. I even need to know the other person involved, just as well, because I have to know why they denied my "now stalker" this trust in the first place. And I probably even need to know a few related incidents that led up to this particular rift between those two. All of which has nothing to do with my heroine, or her current situation. This is her journey, not the other's. What's more, the particular scenes in which she and this stalker interact will not really amount to that much in relation to the whole book. However…

When I am stuck as to the where, how, and why of the physical plot -- at any given point (but especially the end)-- I realize the answer lies in MY interpretation of those characters. How can I "know what they're up to" if I don't watch and calculate what's going on, in the same way I would have my eye on a naughty child? If I know them that well, then I will have an idea what they are up to. I might even catch them in the act of things because I already knew they were headed in that direction just by watching their former behavior. Because I know how they think.

But why is this stuff so important if I'm not going to write any of it down?

Because it now gives me a reservoir of ideas to draw from that are specifically tailored to my story. I'm no longer wandering all over the place, I'm narrowed down to only several different ways this thing could work out. And they are very clear to me. In fact, if I can manage to do a good enough job with the writing end, they should be just as clear to my reader at this point, too. But neither of us will talk about it. And I certainly won't write any of this information down in the actual story. Oh, but it will be there. A little pulse of a current between their brain and mine. And -- if I'm good enough -- we will end up knowing the same things without a single word being traded about the matter. Then should I be so lucky as to achieve a response of, "I knew it! I just didn't see it coming…"

Well, then all this time spent in thinking of what I am not writing… this stuff I never intended to write down in the first place… will all be worth it.

What's happening on the farm today... we are making arrangements to move the goat herd. Permanently. It is a sad situation for "the Sweetbriar" but much better for them, as they will be able to stay together and be in a lovely place with a kind and loving family. All this because we are planning some long trips over the next few months, and caretakers for a herd of goats are hard to come by. So, it couldn't be a better solution. That is, unless you were striving for perfect...

In Shine Out..

2011-09-01T19:09:00.006-05:00

How often, growing up, did Mom remind me "beauty comes from the inside," and I would just roll my eyes because she really didn't understand. Easy for her to say, because she had been born beautiful on the outside, and given (who decides that stuff, anyway?) a fantastic personality that could boost her right up over the top of things. Those advantages stood her good her whole life.

Then, somewhere during that teenage gangly stage, when I was convinced the deepest mysteries of life were beauty secrets, I heard something really crazy about Marilyn Monroe. She said her "magnetism" came from inside her, and she didn't need to wear make-up, or be dressed to kill just to turn it on. She could turn it on and off at will. She was even known to enjoy demonstrating this out in public, occasionally, before she got to the studio where they would fix her up for the set. She could literally stop people in the streets, but it didn't impress me. What -- are you kidding? It wasn't like Marilyn Monroe wasn't born with a few jump-starts, either.

All that was the same sort of stuff rich people tell you when they say, "Money doesn't bring you happiness." But to that I could only quote what James Stewart said in IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE, after he had just tried to kill himself… "Well, it comes in pretty handy down here, bub!" Back then, it seemed to me that people who were -- shall I say -- blessed with certain advantages (we have-nots would have given our souls for, and often did), hardly even valued them. However, I began to notice they could be just as obsessed as we were over other things they didn't have. Hmmm…

Not long after that, I ran into a cosmic life change. An infusion of energy so strong it poured through all by itself, sparking anyone I looked at or touched along the way. What's more, this stuff was like radio-activity, because it has been years and years since that happened, and it has not lost its power to this day. Is it beautiful? Yes. Magnetic? Like you wouldn't believe. Has it changed me? You bet. I am now convinced that my mother and Marilyn were absolutely right.

Whatever you have on the inside, shines out.

What's happening on the farm today… No let-up on the heat (107 in the shade by 10am this morning), and now wildfires. The last one was only 10 miles away, and we could smell the smoke. What would I take if we had to leave in a hurry? What should I take? Last time during a tornado scare, I tried to stash the family heirloom coffee set, that belonged to Ulysses S. Grant, into a suitcase and busted one of the legs off the sugar bowl. Fixed it with super glue (not taking it on ANTIQUES ROADSHOW, anyway) and definitely not telling my mother. So, now I don't do that, anymore. One file of important papers and our passports, and we're out of here. Still, I don't know how many times I woke up last night having to step out onto the porch and try to judge by the smell how much closer it was. But -- hey -- it's out, now, and all's well. Glory!

Catching Starlight…

2011-08-25T23:30:00.006-05:00

One of the most frequent questions asked of writers is where their ideas come from. The usual answer is the newspaper, other things going on around them, or even some scene that seems to pop into their head of its own volition. But the more amazing thing to me is what writers do with their ideas.

A writer takes up an idea in the same way a sculptor picks up a lump of clay. What he or she does with that raw material is where I think the true talent comes in. In the end, after there is a book to show for it, a reader might never even recognize that first original wisp of an idea that started it all. Many times, it has been cut out entirely, and is no longer there anymore.

Still, that original spark was like fuel for the fire, and -- like fuel -- has managed to take the author from point A to point B, with enough impetus and gathering speed to sustain the entire journey. It's an addictive thrill, actually. After a while, an author can become so adept at looking over their little mental collection of ideas, they almost remind me of golfers deciding which iron to use. One can even become quite obsessed with pursuing the perfect hit.

I once had a full-blown scene flash before me while driving somewhere mundane, of a woman digging a hole in the middle of the night all by herself. The ground was like rock and she was breathing hard, making little headway with all her effort. There was a bright moonlight, and the pale gray sweatshirt she was wearing kept riding up to show a line of bare white skin every time she stabbed the shovel into the ground. She was digging a grave out there… I knew it.

I have no idea where that all came from, but it was a very intense moment. For a long time I thought it must be some pivotal incident in a book I was going to write. Except that happened many years, ago, and she never ended up in one. But I imagine she'll fit in somewhere, down the road, because she still pops up, now and again. Maybe she'll look over at me one of those times and say something. And that will be it.

Makes you wonder, though, how much of writing you choose, or how much of it chooses you. Or maybe that's simply the way our brains work if ever we exercise them enough in those creative directions. Writing fiction is the most fascinating activity I have ever been involved in.

But even after having spent so many years at it, I still have no idea where the gift stops and the craft begins. Which is as it should be, I suppose, if you are going to spend so much time spinning things out of stardust.

I love harvesting among the stars.

What's happening on the farm today… I'm glad we have no animals here, right now, other than the dogs who are inside with us. Because today we have broken all records for heat since they have been keeping records in this state. So, another day when we are just waiting… waiting… and waiting… in the cool dark house. Not pitch dark. Just a sort of twilight dark from having draped blankets and sheets over all the doors and windows.

Making Connections…

2011-08-24T16:42:00.005-05:00

Today, I have taken time out of my ordinary schedule to visit with fellow writers in their own little corners of the "blogosphere" (I think that is the new, more modern word for cyberspace). So far, it has been very enlightening. What impresses me most about everyone is their sincerity. Seriously.

No matter where they come from (all over the world, actually -- there are writers from nearly every continent in this little activity). No matter what their particular brand of writing might be (all brands represented here)… they are most sincere in trying to share information on the writing life. And to be entirely open and honest about where their own particular journey through that life has taken them. This is what shines through most, to me, in a kaleidoscope of myriad personalities and color.

However, there is one surprising enigma that struck me more than any other since I embarked on my flurry of visiting. It is too much transparency. Which is usually a good thing (especially if you are talking about relationships or business practices), but that isn't the sort I'm referring to. I'm talking about the more concrete kind. The kind Webster's defines as: clear enough to be seen through, so that what lies beyond is easily detectable. Here's the deal. On a majority of my visits, I had a hard time finding out exactly who's space I was in.

Wonderful information everywhere -- writer interviews and book reviews -- not to mention a literal gold mine of how-to articles on marketing and the world of social media (thank you, everyone!). But I couldn't seem to find enough of what many readers (myself included) go onto author web sites for. A personal glimpse at the author. A lot of the sites I visited took me on a treasure hunt just to find the author's name. And the "about me" pages rarely contained anything different than the same sort of paragraph that might be found at the back of a book. The "Author of…lives in New Jersey with her husband and four cats…" type stuff. I guess I was looking more for, "I write because…" "I am passionate about…" "My greatest concern these days is…"

The thing is, I didn't even know I was looking for those things until I had a hard time finding them. And I am not "beyond the veil" in this particular area, myself, as I realized I don't do such a good job of those things on my own site, either. Which is when it became clear to me exactly what I was looking for. A personal connection with a unique personality. Someone who might actually take a moment to say something to me that I could regard almost as if we were friends. Then I wondered if all readers were looking for that in some way or another.

Which, in turn, led me to wonder just exactly what I wanted my "online corner of the world" to be. A home, or a department store? Neither of which is wrong, because we all spend a lot of time in both kinds of places. Either way, though, I always want to know which kind of establishment I'm going into. If it's the store-type, I want to know -- right up front -- what you are selling, and why I should buy. I guess you could say I want to know what it will do for me. If I'm there, I'm already geared up to browse and maybe buy, so the emphasis would be more on atmosphere and ease of navigation. If it's a home atmosphere, there's only one thing I want to see first…

You. Meet me at the door and ask me to come inside. The place should be a reflection of yourself. Do you travel? I want to see some artifacts. Do you hunt or fish? Give me a rousing good story of the last one that got away. Are you a connoisseur of fine dining? Maybe a recipe I can try tonight in my very own kitchen. Got any remedies of insomnia? What's on your mind today? If we have enough in common, maybe I'll add you to my list of places I like to drop by often because we are friends. And even though most of my "cyber friends" don't even know I exist, it doesn't seem to matter.

For me, or them.

After so much visiting, I have come to the conclusion that creating a "virtual world" is a real art in itself. No matter who you are. Already I have a growing list of things that absolutely have to be changed around here. That's what it looks like, today, anyway. But my visits have only just begun, and I understand the opportunity will continue for some weeks. So, my thanks to all you "campaigners" for offering such enlightening opportunities.

I hope you will find something of value here at my place, as well.

What's happening on the farm today: 110 degrees, we have now broken all records, and things are getting more than tough for all the neighborhood livestock. Especially the new little calf born a couple days, ago. But animals are the best when it comes to hunkering down and waiting things out. Hmmm… might be something to be learned there, too…

Home...

2011-08-22T13:39:00.006-05:00

I agree with Dorothy, there is nothing like it -- no, "There's no place like home." Our arrivals were staggered this time, as we were stranded in various airports for days on end. Still, no matter how exhausted, I find that coming home keys me up and it takes at least a day to settle down. Then a crash. Catching up on rest and then soaking up all the comforts. After which comes a flurry of cooking favorite recipes, and then...

Suddenly there are "stirrings" coming from the study. Better see what the muses are up to in there. Ah, it looks delightfully the same (many thanks to Pops for that new little deck outside my door, all enclosed and private, just waiting for me to bring in pots and plants and tables for tea). But -- oh, dear -- what have the rest of you been doing in here all this time?

"We're planning a launch party," says Ann. "Good of you to show up for it."

A launch party. Hmm. Last year, when I came home, it was merely her very own blog. And I distinctly remember it was supposed to be supervised in case she got into trouble with any of the... umm... technicalities.

"Oh, no need to worry about that." (this from the Professor) "I've dropped by several times, already, and she's got quite the atmosphere going over there. Wouldn't you say so, Ann?"

"It's like a miniature trip to Africa, if you ask me. But then that's all part of the launch. She does make a wonderful blended juice drink for anyone that stops by. Exotic fruits and all that. I should probably mention that she had to borrow a few things from over here, but I didn't think you'd mind."

Well, I suppose it's all in the family.

"She had to spend a bit more money than we expected, too." Ann seems to be looking over the books with some concern, now.

What? A brand new, top of the line computer with all the --

"It is the first book with her name on it. What if they want another? She couldn't go limping along on that used one that was always breaking down."

"I agree," says the Professor. "It will help her to keep better track of things. Speaking of which, I lost track of those blasted kids you sent over, again. Haven't the slightest idea where any of them ran off to."

Ah... there's no place quite like home.

What's happening on the farm today: There is an eerie silence around the place. Tragedy has struck the Peabody family, and only two have survived. They were mercifully rescued by one of the neighbors when they were still chicks. I'm sure they will never even know they were Peabodys. The goats are being cared for on another farm, too. It seems it has been a terribly mean, hot summer. Well... we shall see what we can make of it...

Traveling today…

2011-08-16T17:38:00.002-05:00

Headed home on the fast track, so it will take a bit of time to rest and settle back into a normal routine once we get there. But I have a lot to do, so I am very much ready to be home. However, goodbyes are always hard, and they take some time to settle, as well.

Things that will linger for me this year are: tender moments with family; meeting wonderful new friends and fellow travelers; and having the rare experience of hearing taps played every night at dusk over the Naval base where we stayed for some weeks. My little granddaughter calls it "the good night song."

Good nights are important.

With so many of our military away from their families, these days, I am glad they have something so beautiful to tuck them in every night. And I'm sure it will linger somewhere in their hearts long after they all finally find their way home, again.

Getting outside myself every summer, always makes me feel very grateful to be living in such a wonderful world. It's beautiful out there. But now there is a four hour layover until the next flight, so… I'm off to work a bit.

Something Refreshing…

2011-08-12T15:17:00.006-05:00

Stumbled on a bit of "writer's refreshment" last week, and am having such a good time with it, I thought I'd better share. It's the "Plot Whisperer's" vlog series that you can find here.

That's the first one, but there are nearly thirty installments of between five and ten minutes that are delightfully informative. And if you are wondering how something can be both delightful and informative at the same time, I recommend you avid writers watch a few and see if you don't agree.

Meanwhile, many thanks to Martha Alderson for finding a way to teach such important stuff in such a fun way. And once again, I must say how wonderful it is that this "age of information" we live in allows us late-comers to enjoy events that have passed already to get in on them anyway… at our own leisure.

Which really leaves no excuses for putting out the absolute best work we are capable of. Something I'm going to get back to right now...

The best laid plans…

2011-08-11T13:17:00.005-05:00

So much of what we plan in life turns out different. For some people, this is the ultimate sabotage, and they simply cannot accomplish what they set out to do. But I have found that for others (me included), the possibility exists to discover something above and beyond my own original ideas.

As a Christian, I must -- above all things -- depend on the fact that my steps are "ordered by the Lord." With this belief, all anxiety that I might miss something important, or get into trouble I had no idea was lurking, is covered. The ultimate bodyguard, actually. It doesn't get much better than that. But even so, it is incredible how much one has to struggle to keep that perspective. But it is worth it.

Which all makes perfectly good sense if one were to acknowledge the fact that we are living in a "war zone" that has existed between good and evil since the beginning of time. Think about it. The only thing that makes sense, really. In that light everything else seems to make sense, too. But, oh, the flak you will get if you ever bring that subject up in a conversation!

Even so, here's a little secret. If you -- or anyone -- will truly believe that God has your back -- then absolutely nothing is too big to stop you from what you were ultimately put in this world to do.

Now is that comfort, or what?

If you've got another opinion, let's hear it. Because I can't imagine there is any philosophy (or hard evince!) that will be able to hold up as well. Go ahead -- use any instance in history as an example. I have a feeling this theory is indisputable.

But then, that's me. So, enough with philosophy and off to work for the day.

What I am working on: The "third plotline" of my near thriller suspense. A very tricky bit, actually. One of the few things in a piece of fiction that has to ring true. Like Steinbeck, when he was writing his junk yard scene for GRAPES OF WRATH, and felt so obsessed with having to get the sense of cheating into it. Ah, writing… it is such a mysterious magic!

Setting Pretty...

2011-08-08T22:21:00.006-05:00

The Pacific Northwest is one of my favorite places in all the country. Having explored every nook and cranny (both when we lived here and on subsequent trips), we have many special spots we like to come back to. One of them is Port Townsend, on the Olympic Penninsula. We like it for the boats -- such a wonderful marina there -- the beaches, the bookshops, and the library.

This year, I rediscovered the most wonderful campground I have ever been to in my life that I first visited when I was fifteen. A place in the rainforest, where the canopy of pale green turns pathways and waterfalls almost magical. I could just picture Robin Hood and his merry men living in a forest like this... back in the days when I was still wishing I had been born a boy. They had more freedom to roam and adventure than girls did where I came from. Which is one of the reasons I so appreciate being married to such a wonderful adventurer as my husband.

There are two towns I had to look closer at while I was here, too, because they are lined up to be the settings for a couple of my upcoming novels. By another name, of course. Mostly because I lived too long in them, myself, not to expect one of those colorful residents might think I was writing about them.

Which would only be partly true.

Setting is such an integral part of a novel world. But I have found it to be quite a trick to choose just the right details in order to bring it sufficiently to life. I think the secret is in painting a very small piece, perfectly, rather than an entire landscape. A small quirky piece. Learned that from Isak Dinesen, way back when, who was a master at that sort of thing. Lovely to live in a day and age where it is so easy to study the masters. With so many of their very own words at our fingertips, it's almost as if they never left.

And maybe they haven't.

What I am working on today... a suspense that I am trying not to tip over into a thriller, but it is beginning to swirl in that direction. Yet, it seems the subject matter calls for it in order to ring true. So maybe I better get back to it, now...

STILL NOT FLYING TODAY...

2011-04-14T14:24:00.007-05:00

I have often wondered why I am so much slower than everybody else. Could have been my upbringing (I was sickly), or delayed education (I chose travel over college in my early years), or even my propensity for independence in not wanting to take the long road if another one looked shorter. To tell the truth, some of those short roads were pretty steep.

Now I have come to a place where a lot of people got there before me by taking the easier (more normal) route. Their road might have been longer but it had signposts. Sometimes even a few helpers along the way. They definitely had a lot of company -- and companionship -- while I have been literally lost for months (even years) on end, all by myself. I have even been stalked by things that wouldn’t dare come near a good-sized group. A couple of times I thought I was dead.

Eventually, I arrived (a little battered and worse for wear) even though my colleagues' reaction to me always tends to be more startled rather than amazed. I’m working on that. Trying to mind my “P’s and Q’s.” But it isn’t a easy for someone of my age and experience. Not like it would have been in my youth. And it's been so long since I’ve driven anything, the old models are obsolete. Now, everybody’s driving things you wouldn’t believe. Or flying. Some are even coming amazingly close to time travel. Take my last six computers for instance...

Those marvelous machines could do so many things one practically had to have the brain of a jet pilot to actually take advantage of them all. Just understanding the manuals on them could take years (most people don’t even go there), and then you’d never get anything else done. Which is why I simply mastered the few things I needed for my work, and let the rest go. Who in the world has the time with life being as short as it is? You might say I contented myself with taxiing up and down the runway all those years instead of actually lifting off the ground to at least see what the thing could do. I admit I literally wore out six machines and never tested the boundaries on any of them. But no matter. As they say, a person can only chase one rabbit.

But imagine my surprise when I found out after much ranting and soul-searching (not to mention a heap of money) that my current machine actually has the capacity to diagnose its own problems and fix itself. Almost like humans. I am amazed and grateful. And totally shocked that most other people have known this for quite some years, now. At any rate, I finally have the capacity -- and know-how -- to get myself out of the ditch if I slip off the runway, again. Still not flying, though.

Wonder if I’ll ever.

What's happening on the farm today: Am finally getting into the routine of milking four goats without slaying myself. Maybe I'll actually have enough energy left over to make yogurt next week. Or maybe ice cream. Cheese is a long way off, yet, though. The girls still aren't very happy about having to share...

What Shouldn't I Say?

2010-11-24T10:28:00.006-06:00

A lot has been said about Hemingway’s sparse text, and whether it would -- or wouldn’t -- be as successful in today’s market. In my own experience, I read A FAREWELL TO ARMS in high school, and was struck by the poignant imagery of certain scenes, and how those characters -- so real -- lingered in my memory long after it was finished. They still do. Later on, it was THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA, which I picked up on my own out of a love for old men and the sea.

Once again, characters sprang to life in that same familiar way (what makes something familiar?) and I marveled how he managed to make such a simple man so full of dignity. Years later, I got down to business as a writer and began picking apart even his short stories to search out the how’s and why’s of his craft. I had to. Because he had captivated me. How could he do that?

I don’t love his stories (most of them make me sad). I am even directly opposed to his “Todo de nada” philosophy -- everything is not worthless! -- and have spent most of my life reveling in how wonderful it all is. But he had something. He had something that people all over the world (including people like me who don’t even agree with him) relate to in some way. The basic needs of humanity, maybe, which will always hit the deepest no matter who you are, or what you do with your life. The need to be loved. The need to be respected. The need to be recognized. Deep, deep needs. Everybody has them. They must be met in some way at some point in life, or a person ends up warped in some way. Hmmm... so, he deals with the stuff that we don’t really want to look at.

Yes, but not really. Because he never came right out to say, for instance, “this man was never loved by anyone in his life...” but you knew it by the man’s actions. A constant need to please, maybe, or making himself a pest around people he admired. Something in the deepest part -- of all of us -- recognizes little things like that. It is not pleasant, but we know. Hemingway does not pass judgments on us for knowing, or meddle with our thoughts about it, either. He just gets on with the story. The “here is how it happened,” and “this is the way it was,” part. Which is all that really matters when you are into a story. Because even if you are not that man, you know someone just like him, so the connection is made.

Maybe Hemingway’s success lies in the knowledge that all people are human. So, he doesn’t put any of that into words. He just goes on with the story. Meanwhile, picking and choosing each action of his characters with a meticulousness that often drove others crazy. An obsessiveness that sloshed over into other areas of his life and made him a difficult man to live with. But he had an amazing grasp of something he was was exceptionally good at. The kind that can only be got by obsessive means. Like golfers who hit balls till their hands are bloody, he learned what he had to leave out.

He knew what NOT to say. And that meticulous choosing of exactly what not to say, spoke louder to us than his words. He even went so far as to remove any of his own words that might muddy up the waters of each reflecting pool he created. For his part, he just whispers, “Come here. Bend down. I want to show you something.” Who can resist that? On the other hand, if he would have offered, “Want to see a true-to-life picture of yourself?” The majority of us would have replied, “Thanks, but no. I have to live with myself every day, and I so don’t need to be reminded.”

So, I am thinking about these things, and have been thinking about them for a long time. Until one day -- hard at work on a rewrite -- the thought suddenly occurs to me, “What shouldn’t I say?” To which another voice chimes up from some other part of my psyche and replies, “Who do you think you are? Hemingway? He’s wine and you’re water. Do you want to get this thing done, or not?” But it’s too late, I am hooked by the idea, now, and I am going to think some more about this.

Then it strikes me -- after years of effort at learning how to put words down -- am I going to fly off to this new mountain and waste who knows how much time trying to figure out how NOT to put them there? Just the thought of that makes me ill. And while I am teetering, the advocate voice pipes up, again, to warn, “It’s just a distraction. This is your best work and you know it. It’s hard enough to get things down the way people want these days -- don’t sabotage yourself!”

“I never wanted to read Hemingway.” I may even have said that out loud. “He... captivated me.”

“Horrible man! Look how you came away afterward. Sad, sad, sad!”

But all of a sudden, I have to know. Am I onto a good thing, or a bad thing, here? Well, we shall just see about that! I don’t live in the Information Age for nothing. So, I minimize my work-in-progress (along with my voices) and hop onto the Internet to Google up a definition for the word captivate. Of course, I know what it means (I’ve used it enough times), but I have a hunch it may have one of those hidden poison meanings, too. Like the words assertive, or sophisticated. And if it does, I will toss it out and be done with this utterly disturbing, recurring mind-conversation, once and for all...

“Captivate: to attract and hold by charm, beauty, or excellence..”

Well, for goodness sake, of course I want to do that -- what writer wouldn’t? But the size of that mountain looks almost more daunting than the last one I climbed. Now, I feel like something of a deflated balloon, and I start to wonder if maybe I could be satisfied with just a little bit of charm, beauty, and excellence...

Oh, bosh! Satisfied? I’d be satisfied about as much as I am with a little coffee, or a little help, or even a little warm in my bathtub. I’d rather not have any, if a little was all I could get. And I’m thinking most people might feel the same way.

So, now I have to decide. Cold or hot, once and for all, either decide to do this thing or I never want to think about it, again. Enough! Enough for now, anyway. At which point -- almost out of reflex -- my finger clicks onto a new editing blog I’ve just found. Let’s quit with all this ethereal stuff and return to concrete, shall we? Isn’t that most of what rewriting a manuscript is? Let’s get down to business, here -- I’ve got a big job to do, and a bunch more waiting in line.

But then I read these words:

“Drilling down to the essential ingredients

Choosing what not to say is the art of storytelling. Less is always better, and it’s actually fun to choose among all that’s happened to create a unique and insightful way of seeing things. Leave out everything you possibly can.”

Alan Rinzler

Can you believe that? Thank you, Alan. You have no idea how I needed that just now. Thank you. So, here I am sitting back where I started, this morning, with my nose in my rewrite, wondering, all right. All right! “What shouldn’t I say?”

10 Reasons I Know It’s Time...

2010-11-08T15:02:00.004-06:00

I know it’s time to get back to work, again. I know because:

1. All the comments I have left on other people’s blogs for the last month have been embarrassingly long. Sometimes even off subject.

2. Too much indulgence in my daily routine has given me “I” problems.

3. I have begun to make mountains out of molehills. Who cares how I finally came to memorize that i equals the square root of minus one, when you don’t even need that kind of equation to balance a checkbook these days? Good grief, where have I been? We don’t even need checkbooks anymore.

4. The last three books I read for pleasure didn’t give me any pleasure.

5. I burst into a crying jag in the middle of a crowded theater during a movie that was supposed to be a comedy. It lasted all the way through the mall and back out to the parking lot, until my husband was so concerned he asked me if it would help to go to Paris.

6. I didn’t take him up on it.

7. I began spending hours at a time reading through titles over at the Gutenberg.org site looking for... I don’t know what I was looking for.

8. I used up an entire day reading a nineteenth century beauty manual, complete with recipes for potions that included ingredients which are not only unavailable today, they are illegal.

9. I became overly excited that an accidental war correspondent for the seige of Mafeking was a woman related to Churchill.

10. I’m still excited about that.

A Mile In Their Shoes...

2010-10-26T12:48:00.005-05:00

In my quest to discover what makes bestselling writers consistently bestselling, one of the most universal skills I came across was their ability to grab the ordinary person with an opening scene that included the use of some ordinary impulse that everyone has expierenced. It didn't seem to matter what, as long as it was a common reaction that we all have. This proved true no matter what type of writing it was attached to. Here are a couple that pop immediately to mind:

It is five pm. A woman discovers that the package from the freezer she set out earlier in the day is not the chicken she expected, but the entire month's worth of lunchmeat she bought on sale and divided up only two days before. ("Crap!" response)

At night in an airplane. Three special ops soldiers decide to smoke only minutes before they must jump out of the plane. After lighting his cigarette, the man with the match shares it with one of the others but not with the third. Because three on the same match is unlucky. ("No crap!" response)

It is dusk, at a lonely gas station out in the middle of the desert. While a man is waiting for his gas tank to fill, he notices a lone car headed in his direction, driving erratically. ("Holy crap!" response)

These three incidents really didn't have all that much to do with the rest of the story. However, they were riviting in their few moments. Each caused me to say, "I must read a little more of this," even though -- in all three cases -- that particular catagory of literature was not my preferred reading fare. Somewhere along the line, each of these books either went past my "willing suspension of disbelief" or detoured into places I don't particularly enjoy travel

ing. But I still read the books.

Why? I really don't know. I could only conclude that these authors are masters at choosing the perfect hooks for their intended audiencces. Once hooked, we readers seem to willingly allow them to introduce us to all manner of information that is outside of our expierience, whether strange, wacky, or even bizzarre. Sometimes (at the end) I have asked myself why I wasted so much time reading such things. Then they come out with another book, and I say to myself, "Surely, they couldn't do it, again." And -- believe it, or not -- I actually go through the process all over.

You would think -- as a writer -- I could figure this out if I put my mind to it. But, alas! Even copying their oh-so-obvious-formula doesn't work for me. I can only conclude that to make so much tripe so palatable to so many people only proves one thing... they are professionals extraordinaire, and my hat is off to them. Which leads me to do some moral soul-searching. Would I do the same things if I were in their shoes?

What -- are you kidding? The only thing stopping me is I don't know how to get a pair.

The Reality of Dreams...

2010-05-14T12:45:00.005-05:00

So, back to our "dream studies" as they relate to the fiction craft. The question is, "What makes a dream memorable?" Because I am chasing down a hunch, here, that the words dream and book may be interchangeable. If so, we could be onto something exciting, but it is still too soon to tell. Let's start with a closer look at realities...

The most common phrase when one is relating a memorable dream to someone else is, "It was so real!" By this they usually mean that the physical perceptions were so vivid that they actually physically responded to them. Was it something scary? They may have woke up trembling. Was it something happy? They got up feeling good all over. Or maybe they saw someone or something so clearly that they could only exclaim, "Why, I would recognize them, again, anywhere!" And they could.

What is it about certain dreams that fire up all our senses to such an extent that they cause our brain to register on the same level as an actual experience? Whatever it is, the discovery of such a key might be something of an "Aladin's lamp" to the gateway of great literature. But like that famous mystical lamp, it isn't so easy to get into your possession. A lot has been written about the importance of sensory detail in fiction. But how many of us readers have been so bogged down by boring descriptions that we find ourselves skipping over those parts? It can't just be in the details.

It' must be in the choice of details.

In order to make the right choice, though, there would have to be some sort of criteria to sort through to help us decide. For choices in the fiction profession there are certain skills involved. Same as any other profession. For instance, one would not use a putting iron for a long drive in the game of golf, no matter how comfortable they felt with it. Simply because it would be the wrong tool for the job. The wrong choice under those circumstances. And one cannot choose the most suitable tool for a given situation until they know exactly what they are aiming to do with it. Only then can they figure out what they need to do it successfully.

Oh, but this is a can of worms we've opened up, simply because of all the variables. If our Aladin is approaching the den of thieves, do we describe the little half-moons of sweat beginning to show beneath the sleeves of his shirt after such a long trek over hot desert? Or should we say, instead, how suddenly the hair on the back of his neck prickled up to alert him that someone else was watching? Well, hmmm... is it a comedy or suspense? Who would even notice the half-moons unless he had some princess tagging along? Certainly, none of the thieves.

Even we writers can be tripped up over such details, because a good writer can write it well either way. Take it one step further and you can flit back and forth. But (unless you are a genius) that usually only spells disaster. Not so much to publishers. They will be happy as long as you meet their deadlines and maintain your audience. But to the readers, themselves.

Of course, the loyal ones won't notice it right away. They will simply become more distracted over a period of time, only to end up vulnerable to some other author who has been paying more attention to his skills. One who knows without taking regular surveys whether he is better at comedy, or suspense, and makes his choices accordingly.

A writer cannot pick the best details to connect any given project with the reading world until he knows what his own particular element is. Because that is where his skill levels will be highest. That is where the endurance needed to go the distance will not abandon him halfway through. One must at least know themselves well enough to recognize whether the material has been tampered with by muses or demons overnight. A demanding skill that takes a lot of practice to become adept at.

You have to understand the reality of your dreams.

What's happening on the farm today: Our travels are going to be hard on the Peabody family, as none of the caretakers really like them. It is because of their pea-sized brains. Little brains that are incapable of being able to distinguish a friend from a foe. So, they only run at shadows. The trouble is, everything and everybody has a shadow. Especially caretakers!

Tags: dream studies, fiction craft

Remembering Dreams...

2010-05-11T16:19:00.002-05:00

Most dreams are forgotten so soon upon waking that only a mere few seconds of emotion are left behind. In less than a minute, the routines of real life click in and they are lost entirely. But some aren't.

Some dreams -- whether good ones or bad ones -- refuse to let go of us. When this happens, we feel pressed to find someone to tell it to, as if the telling of it is the only way to be released from its mysterious grip. Normally, that's all it takes for it to be lost forever, and we are glad of that because most often these dreams are interlaced with a patchwork of silliness and illogic made up of our most recent concerns. But some aren't.

There are certain times in our lives -- maybe only a few -- when we dream a dream so vivid that we never forget it. Months or even years later the memory of it pops into our conscious minds, unexpected, and brings with it all the clarity and intense emotion of that first original experience. Some of them are delicious, and we cherish those. But most of them are nightmares. The unpleasantness of this kind cause us to banish them immediately from our minds at the mere flicker of an appearance, until a battle ensues. It is a long battle. If we win it, it is only through a great effort of our own conscious will. If we lose, we are plagued with something called a reoccurring nightmare. Dark repetitive dreams that spring from our deepest fears.

Except for children (who have an amazing capacity to outgrow their fears), we tend to eventually accept this thing as part of our lives and find some way to live with it. Mostly in private. Because somehow our soul now perceives it as some kind of weakness. The kind one only reveals to their closest and most trusted friends.

It occurs to me that books are made this way, too.

Most of them come and go like dreams. A few catch your interest but it is only a fleeting interest, and once out of sight you never think about them, again. But some you do. If this happens, we respond the same way we do with our dreams -- we must tell someone. Whether a person likes or dislikes a book they must tell someone. Because it is the most basic part of human nature to express our emotions. So, it seems that any book which causes readers to feel something (either good or bad) is a successful book. Yet, even most of these do not last.

Of all the books ever written -- too many to count, because even the most famous writer of several thousand years ago (whose books are still selling, by the way), observed that "of the writing of books there is no end" -- only a comparative few are good enough to outlive their creators. And only a subsequent few of these become great.

What, then, are the ingredients of great books?

I have a feeling the answer lies somewhere back at the beginning, where that human connection takes place. The deeper, more universal one that causes people to express (or define) themselves before they can forget it. Almost like a law of physics, it seems to me that if you achieve a connection, you will automatically illicit a response. That might be the starting place.

Because only when there is "current" is there any capacity for power. So it is, that if writers fail to "throw the switch" for this current to flow through, their work is doomed no matter how brilliant or painstaking the design. Without this conduit there is no energy running through the thing. No connection. And therefore, no capacity for power.

Great books have the power to define people. But in order to have power, one must first have a sustainable energy. And if (as true science teaches us) all life is made up of energy, there must be a way to infuse such a substance into books. I know this, because this kind of substance can be found in all great books. This being so, the quest then becomes how a writer goes about capturing this "power of life" for their own creations.

A very exciting subject. And I think maybe the secret might turn out to be a blindingly simple one. Something tells me it might even be something as simple as...

Remembering dreams.

What's happening on the farm today: The dairy is shut down for the next month, and we shall see if it is possible to revive it again in summer, or if we shall have to wait for another spring. Current general opinion tells me this year is lost. But I find little patience in anything current, so, I wonder. Then again, it is in my personality not to give up on anything. A trait that sometimes brings me grief.

Tags: dream studies, fiction craft

Blog Party...

2010-04-26T12:46:00.006-05:00

I have decided to celebrate.

"I suppose we should, considering just having you show up around here has become something of an occasion."

Yes, but I notice none of you have been sitting around twiddling thumbs, which is as it should be. What else are muses for, if not to dream up inspirations for me to contemplate? I never leave you without jobs to do, and I see you've all been more than busy in my absence. Lilly particularly. Bit bold of you launching your own blog, Lilly -- what if someone actually reads it?

"My book is finished and we're launching, even if I have to hire a band of Madagascar Pirates to help me."

I believe it is my book, and a band of pirates wouldn't be any help at all. That's what we have professionals for. I suggest you leave it in the hands of the professionals and get on with your next project. Where did we leave off with that one? Oh, yes... the husband isn't away on business after all, he's really off doing murder...

"A bit too dark for my liking, and I'm not that fond of the hero. He's always showing up with sand on his feet. Or tinkering with something. Nothing but a beach bum most of the time."

Only because his hero-moment hasn't arrived, yet. Those moments can change a person, you know. I'm fascinated by how much we are shaped by our emotional moments. Still, you might have a point about him not being appealing enough. Keep working on it. There has to be something magnetic about him somewhere. He's hero material, I'm sure of it. Farther back in his past, maybe... something he did once that might give us a clue...

And in the meantime, quit enticing the Professor away from his work to help you with yours. I'm about ready for the second installment of the Young Scientifics, and I'll need that invention he's working on.

"It could be coming along much faster, my dear, if you would do something with all these kids. They're making havoc of my laboratory. And what's this blasted pulley system these two new rascals are tinkering with? The other day, they were hauling explosives up and down with it."

Only because I'm coming up to the finish line with them and things are on a roll. But don't worry, Professor, they've turned into young knights, now. You can at least trust them to fix whatever they break. Which is more than a lot of young people can guarantee these days. I'm about ready to send them over to Ann for some necessary clean-up, anyway. Sometime in June.

"You're scheduled to be traveling in June."

Yes, which is why we're celebrating. It's finally time to get ready for Cousin Summers. The rest of our projects are on schedule and you've all done a splendid job of keeping a warm fire burning in the study all this time. And don't think I haven't noticed the web sites, Lilly. They do inspire me. Just remember to let me know if anyone real happens by, or we'll all lose our credibility. What's this, Ann -- treats?

"You said it was a party."

And so it is.

What's happening on the farm today: Working hard at the dairy. We are up to having enough milk for the day, and looking forward to yogurt and cheese. Pops is busy getting everything automated for while we are away, so that caretaker labor can be minimal. Meanwhile, the Peabody family continues to contribute over a dozen eggs a day. Every day! Which now pays the feed bill for our other stock , too. Ah... finally, the dream begins to become reality.

How to write what you know...

2010-03-17T13:56:00.001-05:00

There's a lot to be said about writing what you know. Next to "show don't tell" it is probably one of the most often-quoted lines of advice in publishing. It is also most often assumed to mean sticking to your particular fields of expertise, but that's only the tip of the iceberg. Here's three things I discovered after shipwrecking on what was lying beneath the surface of that definition...

1. Know myself and the way I work as a writer before I start comparing myself with others. Especially when it comes to how I get and assimilate ideas, and how much I can comfortably accomplish in a day.

2. Learn my own language. Can I tell when (and if) an idea is ready to be written down? Do I trust a first draft to reveal things to me because I know I can fix any inconsistencies on the edits? Do I know when I'm not stumped, I'm just tired?

3. Stay true to my characters and their world before I resort to techniques. No matter how current or sure-fire I think they may be. They are only surface cosmetics, anyway, with the same result as taking out one's dentures at night. I must remember that even a glimpse behind the curtain deflates the magic.

No one can know these things but me. If I neglect to discover them for myself, I will have to resort to either constantly sounding the depths of the publishing world (which ultimately distracts me from my own forward progress), or piling up on the rocks, altogether. A writer travels through dangerous waters, over unseen hazards and frequent fogs. Sometimes even through hurricanes. I must not forget that any readers who agree to travel with me are trusting me to get them somewhere. I am responsible for them if I want to keep them.

So, I first have to know where I'm going, if I can actually get them there, and -- most importantly -- if they will have a satisfying enough experience to want to travel with me, again. I have to know myself very well in order to do this. Because if my journey is to be real enough to spring to life in such a way that it can also become someone else's adventure...

Then I can only write what I absolutely know.

What's happening on the farm today: Spring fever and waiting for goat babies. Bella's twins, Bonnie and Brie, have arrived. But we are still looking forward to see who Nan will surprise us with. Happy, happy times!

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An e-book is not a treasure...

2010-02-01T14:32:00.004-06:00

They cannot be copied or bought at a bargain. They cannot be wrapped up beautifully and thoughtfully given away as gifts on special occasions. When you finish reading an e-book, you can not share it like a meaningful photograph that can be framed and set up and looked at in your home. Even if the cover is beautiful and included -- alas -- the machine needed for its viewing must be shut off and recharged. An e-book cannot catch your eye on a shelf years later, so that you pick it up and enjoy it all over, again. Nor can it be left out for someone else to notice and say, "What's this? Was it good?" and then lent. Some e-books even disappear after a certain period of time... I don't know where they go. Thus, an e-book is an isolated experience for one person, alone, and while they may add to your general knowledge, you cannot really "own" one in the traditional sense of the word.

In the beginning, e-books were a boon because they allowed wide and immediate distribution of information and some fine literature for pennies on the dollar, as long as you didn't mind losing some of the versatility and longevity of a traditionally printed book. This form of media even paved the way for a massive database of rare and otherwise lost volumes and manuscripts that -- without the labor of love from a worldwide force of volunteers known as the Gutenberg Organization -- would never have been accessible to the common public. All for free. These last few years are the first in history where any child with a computer can thumb through the original Da Vinci notebooks to get an idea for a school science project. That in itself is priceless. Of course I like e-books. I like them in the same way that I like the future.

But I do not love them.

Not the way I can love a physically bound and traditionally printed book. Accessibility of knowledge aside, I love print books mostly because of the human connection. They are touchstones to other lives. They are vehicles for time-travel to other centuries in places that no longer exist anymore. They are windows into moments of emotion that have come and gone for someone, detailed so poignantly that those same emotions register on your own heart, impossible miles and too many years away to reach all by yourself.

One of my most prized possessions is a half-century old copy of an autobiography of WWII hero, Eddie Rickenbaker. Not so much for what the pages contain (although they moved me deeply), as for the author's signature inside. The thought of that book resting beneath the hands of that man -- one of my own heart's heroes -- surviving and then finding its way to me so many years later, encourages me. It incites my soul to better things. It taps me on the shoulder of my innermost being as I stand in a crowd of hundreds pouring over thousands of ravaged, discarded books, and says, "Look -- it's me -- I'm still here."

Print books have great capacity for human connections beyond their author's original intent. Some of them have attained "baraka," as an ancient culture once described items that had gained a life of their own from having been used by many others. I like that I can pick up a used textbook and find the previous owner has already highlighted all the important parts. I like that the spots and spills on certain pages of my grandmother's cookbook came from real moments in her life because she is no longer here, and I miss her. Once, I even thought I smelled cinnamon. My own father is nearing the century mark and no longer possesses the mental agility and quick wit of his earlier days. But in reading over a volume in his personal collection of Churchill writings he wanted me to have, there were a few scribbled comments from some of his own brilliant moments... and I am reminded.

Some of my print books come from places I will never visit but they miraculously take me to them. Some I love because I so love the people who gave them to me. Some I love so much that I must give them away because there is life and hope in them: the usable kind that someone I care for needs desperately today. Sometimes (and for reasons unknown to me) I am driven to share my most special treasures. I can honestly say these treasures are more valuable than money to me. I like it that they are all mine to collect and save and do with as I please. They allow me to surround myself with the accomplishments of others here in my study as I work away year after year at trying to accomplish something of my own. I take invaluable pleasure from them. They give me strength. They encourage me. They connect me. And sometimes if I listen hard enough...

I can hear heroes.

What's happening on the farm today... snow on the ground, overcast skies, and the goats only venturing so far as to stick their heads out of their cozy barn and say, "Whaaat? It's no time to be having kids no matter how far we are overdue. Bah! Bah! Bah!"

A call to arms...

2009-07-13T09:40:00.005-05:00

An amazing thing is happening in the publishing world. Like many other terrorist regimes (no, I did not use the wrong word here, as you will see if you read on) it has finally begun to implode. Where once bookstore shelves were so crowded that new authors were relegated to the end of long lines and audaciously handed a pile of guidelines that read more like applications to the underworld, we now find...

Row after row of empty shelves.

If you don't believe me, I dare you to visit any bookstore of your choice and see for yourself. And let's look past the economy excuse. Please. It is the consumer that ultimately rules the economy, and they have finally spoken. Their verdict? "Not worth it." "Don't even bother." "And -- for heaven sake -- don't waste any money on it."

All death knells for any form of the arts. Yes, after two generations of eating garbage (both mentally and physically), diners have turned suspicious eyes toward the kitchen and decided to fire the cooks. Not because they are so moralistic or health-minded, either. It's simply because they are tired of feeling like crap. Which is what a steady diet of dead things (both mentally and physically) will do to you.

But don't worry. It is not the end of the world, yet.

Only the regime. All those readers who are sick and tired of being scared to death, worried to death, and shocked to death, have simply got up and left the table. To go where? Hey -- this is not hoodoo voodoo, here -- everyone knows you cannot live without eating and thinking, and no one wants to revert to the Stone Age. No matter how much revived the planet would be if we did so. No, they are just off looking for a bromo. A little relief. Something to counter-act the nausea.

So, all of you good authors out there who have been bemoaning the fact that you cannot write the things you would really like to -- the things that make you feel good, or even just better -- NOW IS THE TIME. The doors are not only open, readers are wandering around outside looking for something like that. Anything. And for once, there are no waiting lines to get shelf space.

This is the ultimate time and hour for you to give us your best shot, without any fear of what the terrorists (those who control through fear, dehumanization, and brutality) might think. Because if it is true that history repeats itself, booksellers might even be willing to go so far as to gamble at taking a chance on another book similar to the one they put a bet on , years ago. It was about some guy who was raised by apes but eventually came to the shocking but wonderful realization that he was not an animal.

None of us are.

Which is why that single character not only worked out for them, but succeeded in pulling the whole industry through the Depression right along with them. Along with a very few others that you can probably count on one hand. Never mind that the author's facts about the particular country this character lived in were not "spot on." The readers voted. They not only reached into their pockets and paid the bills, they breathed the faith into that character that made him immortal. Yes, he's still on the shelves, even though so many others are not. Go ahead, check it out. And why is that? Because -- to this day -- he's still paying his way.

Now, once again, the booksellers are in the same spot. And any moment, some poor, starving, battered reader is going to bravely approach the lord of the table and ask, "Please, sir, could I have some more?"

So... what will you do with your moment?

What's happening on the farm today: Triple digit heat, so, all the animals are waiting it out in patches of shade or under buildings. Even the babies have slowed down because it takes too much effort to play. Oh, yes -- and I have finally solved the snake problem in the goat barn. I simply knock and call out, "Housekeeping!" before I go inside. Haven't come face-to-face with one of them since.

Time out...

2008-11-03T15:31:00.004-06:00

I am relegating myself to the corner today for having – once, again --broken the rule of not writing long comments on other people’s blogs (sorry, Gina). I think my problem lies in not knowing the difference between a comment and a discussion. Hmmm…

At any rate, I have this wonderful discussion going on in my brain (blogs are not discussion boards – I have a feeling the same rules apply to them as dinner parties) so I will have to discuss it with all of you, here, instead, or I won’t get anything else done today.

“You mean you’ve been gone for months and all we’re going to do is discuss blog comments? When are you coming home?”

“Quiet, Lilly, at least she’s here.”

I believe the topic was editing, and the way in which different people go about it. At first, I didn’t think there was any particular way I went about it, but looking a bit closer, I find that there is. So, in a nutshell, here it is…

For me, there are two types of editing that apply to my fiction. The first is mechanical, and I do it like housework: picking things up as they catch my eye, so I don’t trip over them later. The second type is more complicated because it is for content, and done best only after I have collected all those serendipity discoveries along the way that add a more believable light and reason to the story itself. It isn’t until I am in possession of all of these gems that I can go back and place them into the hollow spots in order to clarify the original pattern.

Until then, I treat a hollow spot rather like a zero: its value lies in holding the place for what I will discover later… based on the amount that has happened before. But the time element – that percolating mysterious infusion factor must always be there in between the inspiration (rough draft) and the translation (content editing). Without that, I am still too close and emotionally involved (and hearing too many voices) to trust my own better judgment. Personally, I do not have the capacity to listen and translate at the same time.

But that’s me.

Oh, and I too, have a point at which I am thoroughly convinced that everything I have written is crap (another element brought up in the original blog). It comes somewhere between three-quarters of the way through and the end. Which I can only handle by considering it a form of postnatal depression, where one’s only hope lies in knowing that it will eventually pass. And it always does.

In summing up I must say that – unlike editing the work of others (which becomes more professional with experience) – self-editing can only be perfected by a better understanding of one’s personal experiences along the writer’s road, and a growing faith in what works best for them in striving toward their own particular destiny.

There. That pretty much covers it.

Now, how is everybody?

What’s happening on the farm today: I have not been home for months, but Pops has made a quick trip back to fix fences, get in firewood, and generally get ready for winter. And thanks to our many advances in modern communication, I know that there is a warm fire crackling in the stove right now, and there will be a delicious pot of cabbage and potatoes for dinner tonight. Me? I’m in a rainy, blustery storm moving across San Francisco Bay…

Real voice...

2008-05-09T11:11:00.004-05:00

My days seem to be getting longer and longer, while my weeks and months are passing by like a runaway train. Hmmm… now, let’s see, where were we? Ah, yes, the bones…

I am still marveling over the bones of this new story. In the past, I would have sailed on toward the finish of the rough draft as if some sort of bomb threat were imminent. Driven might be a better word for it. Where does that come from? I am now convinced that it is one of the many intruding voices that authors are deluged with. It is not THE voice. The real voice never drives. It is more quiet, gentle, and easy to get in touch with. And it always invites us to "regard and consider" rather than "do this!" or "do that!" It has more respect for our talents, perspectives, and experiences: those things that make us truly unique individuals. It knows we have the capacity to create a story no one else can write. One that might possibly encompass the world if we are wise enough to "regard and consider" it.

The true voice for a writer is the one that inspires a partnership in great things. The one that says, "Let’s think on this a little longer. Look closer – there’s a treasure hidden for you in there." It is a good voice. To listen to it never makes you tired. It never fills you with regret. Most of all, it doesn’t desert you on some dead-end path to feel your own way out through the darkness, encountering any number of horrors along the way.

So, I am thinking about the bones. Of structure. Yes, and (as I said last time) the individuality of them, and the way all the joints fit together to benefit the whole, and the beautiful harmony of all the parts – the very craftsmanship of a working skeleton is beyond me. My eyes have gone over the whole thing countless times, and surely it must be time to go on.

Yet the voice keeps telling me to "Look closer, there’s a treasure for you there!" So, I agree. And continue to wonder what could be more fascinating about bones other than the way they – if fit together properly – are capable of moving so beautifully. Ah, but wait… perhaps there is some secret hidden in the bones themselves. And it isn’t until I take the time to actually look inside that the "secret" is finally revealed to me.

The secret of the bones… the secret of the bones… good heavens! The secret of the bones is that they are WHERE THE BLOOD IS MADE.

And where there is blood there is life.

What’s happening on the farm today: Beautiful day – a harbinger of summer. The horses have been allowed out onto a small piece of the prairie, where they are gorging themselves on grasses that have grown naturally and without the aid of chemicals or machines. Whenever I go out to check on them they glance up with concern. "You’re not going to make us go back home, yet, are you?" their eyes say. "Because we are not ready!"

Dem Bones...

2008-04-13T14:15:00.003-05:00

"Without bones you'd be just a puddle of skin and guts on the floor."
yucky.discovery.com

If we were to look at an outline as the bones of a story, our own natural logic is more than enough to pick up the lesson. However, it has been tickling my mind lately how I could have multiple tasks for my outline (or in this case, outlines) that would be much more useful to me than just a place to hang up the "skin and guts." Which forced me to do a little research to back up the theory, since the Professor is still locked up in his laboratory and refuses to be bothered with impertinent questions.

"The only reason we even know he’s still alive, is that the food disappears from the trays we leave outside his door."

"And such noises!"

A bit more information than we need in this blog, ladies. I hope we don’t have guests. Now, back to this theory on outlines. On closer investigation it turns out that a skeleton is not just some rack upon which we hang ourselves, it is a veritable community of living parts. So well organized that, at first glance, one only notices that familiar hobgoblin of a person who either makes us laugh or scares the daylights out of us. It isn’t unless one scrutinizes that we find out it is a myriad of little things working together better than a well-oiled machine, yet each is doing their own peculiar job. That being the case, it might behoove me to look at my outline with an eye toward whether or not it has the right components included in it to bring a story to life. Hmmmm…

I can see right now it’s going to take more than a morning to figure out just what those components are. So, I suppose I’ll just think of them tomorrow.

"What -- did she leave again? Now, what are we supposed to do?"

"The only thing we can do, Lilly. We sit in Casablanca and wait. And wait. And wait."

What’s happening on the farm today: Pops is on the roof this morning, hammering and pounding away as he builds a covered porch outside the Livingstone guest room. The curiosity room is quite finished except for hanging up all the curiosities, and the kitchen window-seat (with its country French windows that open IN to let the outdoors inside) turned out absolutely charming. If it gets any better around here, nothing less than a boat could entice me away this summer.

And the answer is...

2008-03-03T16:27:00.006-06:00

There we were. Clipping along at a good pace on the new project when suddenly – BAM! – the answer to a plot-tangle that has been hanging around for so long it’s embarrassing, suddenly revealed itself. Amazing in its simplicity… there must be some hidden flaw in it (I’m almost always the last to know about such things). On closer inspection it not only looks sound, but brilliant.

Where in the world did that come from?

All my usual sources are quiet. I haven’t worked on that particular manuscript for quite some time. Yet, something has been percolating in my brain that is larger than any one manuscript. Something of a revelation, only it wasn’t coming in very clear. Here’s how it started.

I was watching an old movie and keeping tabs on the "one darn thing after another" concept that I felt had contributed the most to its success. Suddenly I realized that it wasn’t just "one darn thing after another." It was ONE PARTICULAR DISTURBING UNIVERSAL HORROR after another that kept audiences glued to their seats. Here’s the difference…

One darn thing:
A stranger is in your house.

ONE PARTICULAR DISTURBING UNIVERSAL HORROR:
The college student you have agreed to rent a room to for the semester turns out to be a psychopath.

But that isn’t the complete concept. There are lots of successful plots that incorporate one particular horror. The difference with this new idea is that there must be several. Such as…

You forget to lock your door and wake up later in the night to the sounds of someone walking down the hallway.

You discover you have left your cell phone in the car.

You panic and climb out the window, only to realize your keys are still in the house.

You dart over to the neighbors as a last resort and no one is home.

You suddenly realize you are running around a public street in your underwear.

A patrol car pulls up to the curb because another neighbor has reported a half-naked predator slinking around people’s houses.

Hmmm. Now, if this were the new requirement for plots, just how might this effect my current WIP…

What’s happening on the farm today: Rain, wind, and a crackling fire to work by. The only interruptions come from "Boo Radley" who has not been in the family long enough to know rainy day schedules relegate all wet dogs to kitchen-only status. He thinks he must have done something really bad, but he just can'’ figure out what.

Game Over...

2008-02-24T13:30:00.005-06:00

I apologize to the group, but we must take time out to play a game last week. You see – once again – I realize I have not gone by the rules.

"Oh, no, this isn’t going to be another self-analysis thing, is it? Production hasn’t even got up-to-speed since that last tangent."

Of course not, Ann. Though I will admit there is more than one lesson to be learned from this experience. At any rate, it occurs to me I wanted to read what others had taken the time to list, without doing the same thing, myself. To be perfectly honest, I didn’t even realize it was necessary. I mean, nobody ever comes here but us, so what would be the point.

"Then what exactly is the point?"

Integrity. If one says they are going to do something, they should do it. Builds integrity. Actually has a bigger benefit for the person who speaks up than the one who simply hears. No one can survive in any circle these days without at least a moderate amount of integrity, so let’s get to it. We are to go to page 123 of the nearest book at hand that we are currently reading, count five sentences down the page, and then copy the next three.

"Whatever for?"

I have no idea. Except that there are a lot of people who refuse to even get involved in this stuff. The majority, in fact. Which is a good reason to re-evaluate. It’s just that the three lines on page 123 of my current reading book moved me to tears, put me in my place, realigned my priorities, and made me want to be a better person. Which tells me I have been entirely too self-absorbed lately if the only vehicle through which I am open to receiving inspiration is a game of tag. Why, Lilly – whatever is the matter? I haven’t seen you cry in years.

"Those three lines on page 123, I’ve just been looking them up."

Let’s get on with it, then…

"So I lagged behind and made a circle over the town, and it was burning, all afire; it looked like Stalingrad had looked. Besides the streamer itself, we penned a letter to the Borisov Party Council. The letter said that we wished the inhabitants to restore the city, to flourish, continue peacetime jobs, and help people survive, while we continued our job at the front."

Taken from A Dance With Death: Soviet Airwomen in World War II by Anne Noggle

Of course, I had to read the entire account (which there isn’t time to go into) and here is the point that struck me like a lightning bolt:

How much impact can a word of encouragement carry? Especially in the face of such heavy losses and utter destruction as this town was experiencing? Even the highest declarations of comfort might be perceived as insult under these circumstances. Who would even dare to speak up at such a serious time?

Her name was Mariya Dolina, and she was a captain in a women’s combat squadron. Her fellow pilots had been so moved by the destruction they had seen that they risked reprimand (for which Mariya was later arrested) to throw a streamer with this message of hope down to the suffering people below. Was it worth it?

If you were to visit the Minsk Museum in Russia, you would still see this streamer with its original message on display today. Signed by Mariya Dolina. Only now she is referred to as, Captain Mariya Dolina, pilot, deputy commander of the squadron, Hero of the Soviet Union. She flew 72 combat missions and survived the war.

So, I make a pact with myself never to pass up any opportunity to encourage others – I must practice! Less I should one day find myself in such a moment…

And not even see the need.

What’s happening on the farm today: Spring fever! The weather is gorgeous, Pops is raking and burning leaves… and giving me five more minutes before I simply MUST get out there and enjoy some of it. Ahhh, Sundays!

Starting Rough...

2008-02-09T12:03:00.000-06:00

"Thank heavens we can skip the rough draft and go straight to the good stuff! It’s such a drudge figuring out all that motivational detail."

Lilly, I have no intentions of skipping the rough draft. You wouldn’t build a house on top of the dirt without first putting down a foundation, would you?

"How big of a house and how long would you want it for?"

We’re not skipping the rough draft. It’s where all the treasures are hid. The most exciting part of the creative process, if you ask me. You look up something to check on accuracy and – boom! -- discover an entirely new possibility that threads in perfectly. Takes me beyond my own ideas. Too flat and confining to have to depend solely on my own scope of imagination. Besides, I’m way too dependent on those intricate details of other people’s lives to breathe life into a character without them. Those little nuances that have actually happened to somebody – no matter how bizarre -- make fiction more real, somehow. I love that.

"But we already have the rough draft for this one."

Well, it’s outdated.

"How could it be outdated if it’s set into a specific time and place? What do you think, Ann? Have you even been listening to a word we’ve said? You can work on that list anytime. Who knows when D. Ann Graham will show up, again?"

"What? Oh. I’m going to have to agree with Lilly. We did a lot of research on this one, and I don’t see how the word ‘outdated’ can even apply to research. Unless you’re talking methods. Which is the Professor’s department."

"Ann, we’re talking about rough drafts, not research. Pay attention, will you? I think D. Ann Graham wants to start the rough draft all over, again."

"Well, then it wouldn’t be a rough draft. It would be a rewrite."

Mere technicality. I’m calling it a rough draft for the simple reason that we seem to have entirely lost the original copy.

"Oh, good lord – not again! I thought Ann was backing everything up."

"Whatever was there, I backed up. It must have been lost before we put in the new system. If that’s what you meant by outdated, I agree. But don’t worry, Lilly, it won’t take long because it isn’t really lost. Just percolating around in her brain somewhere. So, you’d better get to work on your accessories and details, because I have a feeling… you see? She’s gone already."

What's happening on the farm today: Another spring day smack in the middle of winter -- even Nature doesn't seem to know what to make of it. Bugs are hatching, birds are house-hunting, and the leeks are popping up in the garden already. Why, I had a beautiful one to add to the chicken soup, yesterday. Weather predictions are for a freeze tomorrow... but today, I'm going to hoe in the garden!

On Your Mark...

2008-02-03T21:54:00.000-06:00

How’s it going, everybody? Big things happening in here, no doubt, because they’re looking pretty good outside, too. So, where are we at, Ann?

"I rather think you should tell us, since there’s a new project in the number one position and I don’t recall putting it on the list. In fact, I don’t recall anything about this project, period."

"Personally, I think it bears a striking resemblance to that Africa thing she started way back during our island farm days. Ah, those were the days!"

Very perceptive, Lilly, and right you are. It suddenly sprang to life all by itself – with the knots worked out and perspectives on a dead aim – I couldn’t do anything but run with it.

"What about the magazines? Are they relegated to the bottom – at last?"

Hardly not, Ann. They’ve got such momentum of their own at this point, I’d get run over if I turned my back on them, now. But I think I’ve hit on a plan. Worth trying, anyway. I’m going to work on both projects every day.

"Good lord – you’ve never been able to do that before!"

I realize that, Lilly, but I’m more mature these days.

"Who ever heard of age being a guarantee of maturity? It’s not in your psyche, if you ask me. But you’re the boss, so I suppose we’ll have to give it a go. I do wish the Professor was here to give us his input, but he’s sticking to his guns about his alternative fuel thing."

"Not completely sticking to them, Ann. He let the cousins out to visit with that Laurie person, didn’t he? And that little WK is always going back and forth with errands for the PBS contest he’s got everybody talking about. Maybe if we knocked quietly on the laboratory door and said it was an emergency--"

Certainly not. One of the first ways I’m going to be able to work on more things every day is to stop getting involved in shenanigans like these. Entirely without purpose. But I would like help dredging up some of the research on the Africa project. Anybody have any objections to that?

"As long as you don’t mind us keeping a running account of how you handle it all, and a good supply of aspirin. You be in charge of the aspirin, Lilly. And make good and sure it’s just aspirin."

We’ll start tomorrow, then.

"What about our account?"

Go ahead with it, but don’t let out any secrets.

What’s happening on the farm today: A glorious day! Seventy degrees and springtime, when only two days ago there was snow on the ground. I realize it was all probably brought about by global warming, but never-the-less it does wonders for cabin fever. Pops and I tramped though the back pasture and made all kinds of plans…

The Importance of Lists...

2008-01-21T10:46:00.000-06:00

"It’s a good thing we have nothing but time at our disposal because you certainly are wasting enough of it for us."

I realize that, Ann, and I apologize to the group.

"But look at this ‘to do’ list – it’s got seven-hundred-and-fifty things on it."

"Good lord! I hope my ladies-trapped-in-the-basement predicament is at least somewhere up in the top ten!"

"Quiet, Lilly. We don’t even know, yet, if D. Ann Graham is here to actually work or just peek in at us."

Just a peek, I’m sorry to say. I’m barely treading water out there in the real world and about ready to go under. Haven’t any of you got anything encouraging to say? Any brilliant ideas or schemes that might be able to help get me out of the soup? I don’t suppose it would do any good to remind you that if one goes, we all go…

"We’ve got a list, haven’t we? But a lot of good it will do you if you don’t even bother to read it once in a while. It’s amazing how little distraction it takes for you to close off your doors to inspiration entirely. Reminds me of the panic of twenty-nine: everybody so worried about themselves, they didn’t recognize the real catastrophe until it sneaked up and kicked them in the—"

All right, all right, I get the point. Let me see that list. And you might as well call the Professor in here so I don’t have to repeat myself.

"I’m sorry to inform you that the Professor has locked himself into his laboratory and refused to come out until he gets the bugs worked out of his alternative fuel formula. Something about the necessity of making it available before what’s-his-name gets enough nuclear reactors in place to set us all back a thousand years."

Then who’s watching the cousins?

"He’s taken them all with him. Including that new boy you sent over last week."

"You mean, W.K.? From over there at http://www.wildernesskidsclub.com/ – I think he’s the cutest little new blogger that ever ventured out into the—"

"Quiet, Lilly. This is no time to bring up the fact that you’ve been flitting around cyber-space so much, you haven’t contributed anything worthwhile around here, lately, either."

I don’t know how many times I’ve told the Professor that laboratory of his is no place for kids, especially when he’s tinkering with explosives. I guess I’ll have to go over there, myself, and—

"He knew you would. So, he left this note for you. Shall I read it?"

Please.

"My dear… it is at times like these when explosives are the very things children need most."

Why, it’s almost as if he’d been listening in! Don’t you think so, Ann?"

"I'll tell you, Lilly, it wouldn’t surprise me a bit if he had this whole place wired for—"

Nevermind, ladies. However he did it, that’s exactly the sort of inspiration I was looking for. I guess sending W.K. over here wasn’t such a bad idea, after all. Now, I’ve got to get back to work because I’m late, already. Keep those ideas coming.

"Does that mean you’ll be back tomorrow?"

Without doubt.

What’s happening on the farm today: Pops is hard at work out in the shop, building a canoe. I hope it isn't an indication of the mode of travel we will be taking when summer comes around this year! Seems he must have some distraction from all the repairs needed around the place. I suppose we all have our own ways of dealing with things. I write a book and he builds a canoe. In the meantime, there's a storm blowing in and we’re preparing for a freeze. All supplies are running low, but our ship is on the horizon. Now, if we can only hold out until it docks…

Value status: It occurs to me this blog has become more than an experiment.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch…

2007-10-28T14:14:00.000-05:00

Home, at last, after a very long season of travel. I’m looking forward to the working months ahead with the continued sense of urgency I brought back with me, along with a thankfulness that I have such a pleasant study to work in. Ah, Toto – there’s no place like home!

Tomorrow will mark my first day back in my study, but I can’t help peeking in every time I pass during the chore of resettling. Is everybody there? Ann – Lilly – Professor?

"Of course we are."

And the cousins?

"Even the cousins."

Then my world is complete.

What’s happening on the farm today… the prolonged and unusual rains have reeked havoc on our little place. Pops is hard at work patching leaks in the roof, shoring up pieces of shifting foundation, and getting in firewood. Me, I’m trying to make trails through the jungle that was once my garden, and chase all the bugs out of the house. Could it get any more glorious?

Status: My new year begins (I have always been on a different calendar than the rest of the world)

Simmering in Summer...

2007-08-01T13:25:00.000-05:00

Back. But only for a moment. If there’s one thing I like about all of you, it’s that no explanations are ever needed. Suffice it to say I’ve missed you more than you can imagine. No time for sentimentality, however – I have a job to do.

“If you’re worried about the plots that are on the back of the burners, we’ve got you covered.”

“Thank you, Ann, I never worry about that. After all these years, I know the basics are always taken care of quite nicely. Our calendar – or should I say, lack of it – must be put on hold for the first time in our partnership. You see, I’ve been out and about in the world, again, and walking up and down in it. The place is in a terrible state. The thing is, I am convinced that life as we know it is shortly to become a thing of the past.

“The very subject I’ve been trying to get you to look at for months.”

I know that, Professor, and I should probably beg your pardon for not taking those comments more seriously. At any rate, it has suddenly become imperative for me to finish whatever I’m responsible for as soon as possible, as the opportunity may suddenly evaporate.

“Good lord, where does that leave me? My contribution – at the very least – is nothing but shear entertainment. What good is that in a time of crisis?”

A very good thing, Lilly, if you want to know the truth of the matter. People in crisis are always in need of a few moments of escape now and again. And to be perfectly honest, there aren’t half enough of them to be found during hard times. So, I’d say you better go right on with that humorous survival manual of yours. It might come in handy after all. Ooops… I have to run. Don’t know when I’ll make it back, but I can assure you it is my utmost priority. Meanwhile, I appreciate you all holding down the fort. By the way, where are the cousins?

“Off hob-knobing with some agent who’s taken a bit of an interest in them. Been quiet as a tomb around the laboratory without them, I can assure you.”

I’ll leave them to you, then, Professor.

“As always.”

What’s happening on the farm today: Being away for so long, I have no idea but I’ve heard rumors. The weather’s gone completely crazy and it’s been raining cats and dogs all summer. There’s a nest of snakes in the barn and one on the back porch of the house, too. The local coyotes have killed every last one of the Peabodys. Bad omens any way you look at them!

Value status: Recent events have made it necessary to change the judgment criteria. In the future, things might have to be put to a vote for reevaluation.

The End of the World...

2007-03-30T10:55:00.000-05:00

When we finally made our way back to regular society we discovered we had become ghosts. It is a true term in the monetary world. It means someone who has "left no trace." No paper trail. No permanent place of residence. Someone who is impossible to track down. In the eyes of that world it seemed even bad credit was preferable to being a ghost.

That’s not all that had changed. The information age had also exploded onto the scene. Now turning out a technically perfect manuscript could be managed by anyone who had the funds to purchase a computer. Suddenly the publishing industry was swamped with so many submissions that slush piles turned into a veritable sludge. That’s because ninety percent of it sank immediately to the bottom and solidified as such. The trouble was, the sheer manpower needed to wade through the muck in search of the remaining ten percent, was financially unfeasible. Something had to be done in the wake of such a flood… and it was.

In the relatively short time we had been gone, an entire new "middle industry" had sprung up in the literary world. Where once one could number good agents in the business at less than a hundred, there were now thousands… and not all of them good. As yet, there were no standards for the new operations. Anyone and everyone could hang out a shingle and declare themselves an agent. Mostly because publishers were more than happy to relegate their slush piles to companies that would wade through all that dirt on mere speculation, with no money up front to do so. Under the circumstances, it worked out for everybody. But an alarming number of the new guys were sharks, and had no scruples about what to do with the dirt.

They were no better than the carnival types who preyed on certain quirks of human nature (the kind Pinocchio became famous for). It was now possible – and even legal – to make something of a living off suckers. Several new publishing companies even sprang up around the fringes of the legitimate ones who did the same thing, because there was a lot of money to be made that way, too. It was rather like the Golden Era in Hollywood, when anyone who was half-beautiful or thought they could carry a tune was willing to pay to wait in long lines and crowded hallways in the hope of being discovered. Anyway, the results were the same. The only way out of the dilemma was to know somebody who knew somebody.

Which, thankfully, I did.

Only come to find out, she had died while I was gone, and I found myself relegated to standing in the same lines as everyone else. There might have been some benefit in that if the old adage, "if it’s good, you’ll eventually be recognized" was true… only it wasn’t anymore. That’s because something else ungodly had also taken place that changed things. The former literary standards had toppled. Come to find out most of the people who ran those middle industries were as unskilled in literature as their clients. They were getting by mostly on salesmanship, trends, and shock value. By the time we got back into society, it was a completely different world for everybody.

So, here we are.

Not that I feel things are hopeless, because I don’t. Even though the publishing industry is about as slow as the medical one when it comes to making changes, history tells us that the general public (who is generally good) still holds the greatest clout. Because they are the ones who spend the most money. And people in the business world always follow after the money – it is their first priority – taking precedence over even their personal preferences and values. So, I can only believe that things will eventually swing back into some sort of good and reasonable balance, again.

Which leaves us with nothing to do until then but learn new strategies and continue to perfect our craft. There, now, that’s done. Are you all still with me? Or are you contemplating desertion now that I have finally revealed the true coordinates of – not only where we’ve been – but where we’re headed.

"Well, it certainly took long enough."

Thank you, Ann, I can always count on you to be perfectly frank. What about you, Professor?

"It seems to me, you have come full circle, my dear, only to end up setting your final course on the same one you started out with. A shame to have wasted all that time, but – like most necessary experimentation – one needs the lessons learned in failures almost as much as what might be learned from success. Sometimes even more. Often the most powerful substances are found in the minutest of quantities. Look at Madam Curie, for instance, and what her agonizing search for radium ended up doing for the world."

"Madam Curie – really Professor – our D. Ann Graham is more comparable to Pinocchio, if you ask me! But who are we to criticize? There’s certainly no place else for us to go. I vote we pick up where we left off before all this self-analysis started. Don’t you think so, Ann?"

"I do. Because while the three of us have endless time at our disposal, it’s become quite clear after hearing the whole story, that D. Ann Graham has the same limitations as any other mortal. So we’ll have to work especially hard to help her fulfill her destiny before her time runs out. Which we can only do if we agree to stop distracting her so much and start inspiring her, instead. Especially you, Professor."

"I couldn’t agree more. How long have I been telling you we’ve got to get even more serious before someone finally delivers the bomb. Which is a much bigger threat to the existence of the planet than running out of all the basic elements we’ve wasted so much time talking about."

"The bomb – oh, good lord, Professor! Are you trying to scare us with that nuclear threat thing, again? What on earth can we do about that, other than be so scared stiff we won’t be able to accomplish anything of merit at all?"

"Not a threat, Lilly, it’s inevitable. Which renders everything we’ve been groveling with, here, utterly useless in the true perspective of things. I suggest we get our priorities in order. Stop looking at the whys when we should be contemplating the hows."

"But how on earth can you expect us to do anything to save the world when we can barely manage to take care of ourselves?"

"A legitimate question, Ann. The answer to which is that only by taking care of others, can you possibly save yourselves. And that, ladies, is the proper perspective on everything."

What’s happening on the farm today: Rain, floods, and tornadoes. Oklahoma’s violent spring multiplied by the global warming that is still under controversy as to whether or not it actually exists. Which makes about as much difference in what we should do about it, as the natural cycle of things had on the dinosaurs.

Value status: Day 3 (our days, that is), and today everything is debatable.

The Gypsy Years...

2007-02-12T11:37:00.000-06:00

Nothing beats getting rid of a bout of self-pity better than seeking out others who are worse off than yourself. You never have to look long because the world is full of them. And if you want to be so bold as to include the WHOLE world, they are the majority. We started out by hiring on as a cook and chief engineer on a Swedish mercy ship that was being refitted for a special mission. It was to be used to ferry Jewish refugee families from the Russian port of Odessa, to Israel’s Haifa. When we arrived, the old WW II troop transport had just been towed into Seattle from the "Mothball Fleet" and wasn’t anywhere near special, yet. It still even had ghosts.

I could write a book about that experience all by itself, but this is not the place. Suffice it to say it was one of the most pivotal points in my entire life. For it was there – in a microcosm of the perfect world (there is nothing that illustrates this better than shipboard life) – I began to truly learn about people. All kinds. From all walks of life. From many countries. Though my duties got me up before five to have breakfast ready for a crew that fluctuated between thirty and fifty, I had wonderful hours in late afternoons. Before having to get dinner ready, I was always pounding away at an old typewriter I found in one of the supply lockers, with the salt air wafting in through a brass porthole of my stateroom.

After that, we bought a camper for our truck and toured the entire U.S. Since we started from our home in Alaska, that included parts of Canada. Then – lonesome for the sea – we moved aboard another sailboat and explored every nook and cranny of Washington’s Puget Sound. Everywhere we went, we met children who wanted to join us. A few times, we gave into staying someplace long enough to start a school before moving on, again. We took miles of video documenting our teaching methods, as well as hour upon hour of wildlife and the "great outdoors." Pretty soon patterns began to emerge.

I discovered I loved the study of human nature. It had its forces and laws in the same way that the natural world did, and – if one took the time to learn them – was not only identifiable, but predictable. It was also the same in any country in any language. Suddenly, I wanted to illustrate these most universal traits of all mankind. Not so much the big stuff as the little stuff. The stuff that we could see in ourselves no matter who we were. The stuff that could make a person laugh or cry with empathy because I painted it – in the words of Hemingway – "… so true that’s the way it happens."

I also wanted to answer some of Life’s more pressing questions in a more gentle, roundabout way that didn’t blast people in the psyche or make them feel worthless. That’s because in all these travels and experiences, I found that I absolutely, positively, LOVED people. I even found myself wanting to tell them that there was a place for everybody, no matter who you were or where you came from: a truly wonderful place if only they looked long enough to find it. So many seemed to stop – disappointed -- in the middle of life and never go on.

During these adventures I never stopped writing. I couldn’t. In spite of a strict speech to all of my "alter egos" before leaving, they simply picked up their bags and followed me. However, I did discover my own voice in the midst of all these things and stopped writing in flavors. I now knew what I wanted to say and how I wanted to say it. I even felt I had enough energy to get back into the marketplace, again.

But it was like Rip Van Winkle waking up from his nap in the woods only to discover that twenty long years had gone by. What a shock to find out that during the seven years (yes, another seven!) we had been "…wandering to and fro over the earth and walking up and down in it…" that everything had changed. Not just in the publishing world…

But the world, itself.

What’s happening on the farm today: Pops is involved with other things, so I have to handle the farm chores, again. Morning AND evening. I must calculate very carefully, as this coincides with quitting time in my study. Which is not a problem at other times of the year. In the short days of winter, however… the night creatures are already up and on the prowl. And neither opossums, coons, or skunks, are very cute when they are cornered unexpectedly in a barn.

Value status: Day 2 (the days are getting longer again, but only because I’m being chased by the necessities of the real ones. This, too, shall pass…)

Following the Yellow Brick Road...

2007-02-05T13:37:00.000-06:00

The Yellow Brick Road came into sight again when I landed my first agent. She was a good agent, had good contacts in the industry, was well respected, and knew her stuff. She thought my work showed great promise, and that the novel manuscript I sent her had the sweep of GONE WITH THE WIND. But it needed a little more work.

This time I was willing to cooperate at all costs, even if it meant learning the craft all over again, using strictly conventional methods. I was determined to be conventional. I was willing to put a cap on my opinionated brain, listen to my betters, and – above all – no more shortcuts. Really. So, we set to work. I rewrote a couple of times, added a few scenes that she "would have liked to see included," and took out a few others she "didn’t quite care for." At last, it began to make the rounds.

First response: they liked it. But the dialect was a bit too laborious – could I cut back on it? Or – better yet – take it out completely. Which I did. After another rewrite, it went back to them. Sorry, no longer interested. Twenty-seven times it went out, with a total of about eight additional rewrites, many of which included putting things back that others had requested be taken out. Or vice-versa. The eighth time was a real doozie.

As a family, we were not made of money at this point. One does not grow rich in the teaching trade, or even working as a stringer on some local newspaper. Especially when you are turning over fifteen percent of your salary to an agent who might sell the great American novel for you one of these days. Not that she wasn’t worth it. I’m sure she was hard pressed to break even on submission costs without it, and she was banking on the "big break" as much as I was. I had a lot of confidence in her. But there were times when I had to choose between making a back up copy (this was before PC days, when such things take only minutes to transfer files to disk) or a pair of kid’s shoes. Most of the time I was lucky to scrape up more typing paper and postage money. After all, how many times did things get lost in the mail?

Not half as often as they get lost at large publishing houses. The eighth rewrite was done from memory and original research notes because the worst case scenario had happened and the only copy had disappeared into the abyss of one of the larger houses. No, I did not save old manuscript versions, because we lived on a forty-three foot sailboat at the time. Besides being limited for space, you wouldn’t believe what effect water could have on twelve copies of a five hundred page manuscript that would have to be stored in plastic containers down in the bilge. It was hard enough to keep a new ream of typing paper from starting to mold before project’s end, much less not to smell like diesel fuel.

Starting over from scratch practically killed me, but I did it.

It took months. But in the end (as with most rewrites) it was a better book because of it. The first time out after that we hit pay dirt. A direct call from a top-notch editor at a big time house who… wanted another rewrite. Other than that, she loved it. The first thing out of my mouth was, "I’m not doing another rewrite without a commitment!"

I should have remembered the frozen vegetable experience. Because after all these struggling years, I still could not tell the real opportunities from the false ones. What’s more I didn’t even have enough discipline to put a "safety cap" on my inappropriate responses that would have at least kept one in reach long enough for me to recognize it. In all twenty-seven submissions that was the only one that could have amounted to anything if I had seen it at the time. But I didn’t.

In the meanwhile, I was selling freelance articles to national magazines and writing other novels. Trying my hand at any and all genres even if I didn’t like personally reading them, and changing, changing, changing. More graphic. Less graphic. This may have happened in true life, but it’s not politically correct – has to be changed, etc. etc. Rewrite after rewrite. Nothing ever sold.

Seven years went by.

My children grew up and all left "the nest" in the same year, and suddenly my entire life seemed less than worthless. I began to wonder if it was my destiny to be a wilderness dweller all my life, why I kept dreaming of the Emerald City. Now, even the Yellow Brick Road seemed impossible, because every time I came near it, there was always some great crevasse that kept me from crossing over. What if I had already used up my entire allotment of Life’s opportunities? What if there was absolutely nothing left for me in the world? So – in the face of such catastrophe -- my husband did the only thing that could be done with a wife in such a state…

We embarked on a grand adventure.

What’s happening on the farm today: Tilling the garden, adding ashes to the peach tree soil, planting all manner of seeds in pots inside the house, and keeping the fire well stoked because it’s still ABSOLUTELY FREEZING AROUND HERE. I think I have spring fever and it’s such a long way off, yet…

Value status: Day 1 (if nothing else, I’m going to save money on psycho-analysis)

Learning From Editors (part two)...

2007-01-29T15:56:00.000-06:00

We were still adventuring when I hired on at the newspaper. University days were long over, we had found our calling and discovered our gifts, and we were still headed for the mission field. Not just any mission field. We had our hearts set on the Pacific Islands… any of which that could be found along the Pacific Rim. There had to be ocean, there had to be wilderness, and there had to be boats. Especially boats.

We were living aboard a forty-three foot sailboat when we pulled into a remote little town on the Oregon coast and decided to stay for a while. The newspaper business proved much different than magazines. Newspapers are not enterprises they are organisms. They are the pulse and beat of a place, and a good one will not miss any pulses or beats. You especially do not miss deadlines. Even if it means working twenty-four hours straight. If you can’t do it in twenty-four hours, others will step in to help you: but if that happens too much, you’ll get fired. You can get fired for other things, too.

My new editor and I had a tumultuous relationship. Which was mostly my fault. Looking back on it, I must say I am amazed at how much patience he had, considering he was the one that got called on the carpet for any of the mistakes I made. Things like leaving the soda out of the recipe for Irish soda bread in the Coastal Cooking column. Or asking subversive questions in the public opinion polls that generated hostile calls to the publisher from half the town. Or having to buy air time at the radio station because I got the date wrong for when all our senior citizens would be bussed up north two hours for free flu shots... all of these he bailed me out of and forgave me for.

But he never forgave my being biased. Such as when a revolutionary from Nicaragua came through town to raise money and I was sent to cover the speech. I had no right to persuade people in the man’s favor, he said. But if an issue was clearly black and white, I argued, wasn’t it our duty to support the white? Especially if the black side failed to even show up at the event?

No.

Well then, if something pretty darn lousy was going on in town, weren’t we obligated by our integrity to expose it to the citizens – whether it "fit in" with our publishing philosophies or not?

No.

How about if you knew a dangerous crime was eminent because of something you became privy to during an interview? Were you not more than obligated to report it to the police?

No.

I had too many "scruples" to be a good reporter.

After having to kill too many articles that I would not budge on, I got demoted to the entertainment section. After writing a scathing review of James Michener’s latest book (it was anti-American -- for goodness sake – was no one supposed to mention that?), I was hauled by the collar into the publisher’s office to face the music myself this time. After which I was relegated to advertising for the duration. I did have one consolation out of the entire newspaper experience, however.

While I was dutifully sitting in the composing room, making up slogans for this week’s special on vegetables down at the local market, a buzz went around the room that THE EDITOR was making the long walk down from his office just to see me. Uh-oh. I hadn’t written anything subversive in weeks. What could he possibly –

He sat down on my desk that was littered with grocery coupon memos and clipart suggestions for various food items. "That little article you wrote for the Fourth of July special edition -- the one about the rights of every American?"

"Well, if you think I should I have expanded it to include Hispanics, Asians, or even Middle Eastern--"

"I think it was the best thing ever written for this newspaper. I’m going to put it on the front page."

Did that get me out of the advertising department?

No.

But it got me an agent.

What’s happening on the farm today: All that noise yesterday was a new set of double doors leading from the living room into the curiosity room. Finishing touches wrapping things up this afternoon. Such loveliness! The word "art" can encompass so many forms.

Habit status: Day 14. Round 2 is over. It is no longer a question of habit now, but whether or not it has any relative value to our craft. Thus we will devote one round to a value meter, and then… the end.

Learning From Editors...

2007-01-26T11:21:00.000-06:00

All right, so it was an automotive magazine. Even though I never owned one until after I was married (had been driving less than a year up until that time), I did feel some affinity with the inner workings of cars. I had spent many hours in mechanic’s overalls, fiddling with some mundane chore (taking out bolts, putting in bolts, retrieving various tools, etc.) for my father, who spent over ten years restoring a 1934 Ford with a rumble seat. I loved that rumble seat! At any rate, I felt qualified for whatever assignment they might give me… how hard could it be?

Of course, they wanted a sample of what I could do. They gave me a feature article that had been written for one of their clients by the man I was to replace (there were rumors he left to work for the National Inquirer), that had been rejected. If I could fix it up into something the client would approve, I would officially be put on staff. It was like the Fox throwing Brer Rabbit into the brier patch. Give me a set of facts, and I could arrange them into any flavor there was. Had spent years doing that. So, I poured over the last three issues of the magazine, fixed up the broken article to match… and I was in.

Thus began several years of learning the magazine trade from an editor whose teaching sessions were doled out in three to five minute sessions at his desk while he scrutinized my latest article. I stood looking over his shoulder while he read with a pencil.

"This is good…" It passes. "We don’t need this…" He scribbles out the excess words with the pencil. "OK… OK… this is great…" He chuckles. "This is crap…" He vehemently scribbles out the offending words. "OK… OK… good… crap… really crap…" and so on. The single most important thing I learned while working for this enterprise, was how to tell the difference between the good stuff and the crap.

Which is extremely important if your goal is to become a professional writer.

Later, when we moved farther north, the small town we settled in did not have any publishing houses or magazines in their local business repertoire. But they had a newspaper. Feeling fairly professional at this point (I had risen to the position of assistant editor before I left the automotive magazine), I armed myself with numerous clips, and applied for a position as reporter. All I needed to know was what flavor they wanted… exactly how did they want me to report things?

This editor was the full-fledged, journalism degree college type. "Flavor? For God sake – we don’t want any flavor. No slant, no bias, no nothing! Just the facts – the straight facts. We’re not running a factory for yellow journalism here. We’ll start you off with a couple of columns where you can’t get into trouble. Public opinion polls, and Coastal Cooking."

"Coastal Cooking?"

"It features a different person each week along with one of their favorite recipes."

Ah, yes. Interviews. No problem -- I was good at those. How could anyone possibly get in trouble taking snapshots and writing feature profiles of prominent local citizens?

You wouldn’t believe the kind of trouble a person can get into in situations like that.

What’s happening on the farm today: Pops is home and I’m hearing all manner of work going on in various corners of the place. Anything is possible. I might venture out of my study and find a doorway put through somewhere there wasn’t one before. Or some new renovation to the barn. A boat or canoe might even be taking shape out in the shop. The temptation is mounting to find out just what it is and any minute now I will have to go out and see…

Habit status: Day 13 round 2 (and tomorrow’s the big day)

The Yellow Brick Road...

2007-01-24T12:59:00.000-06:00

I did not take the Yellow Brick Road in pursuit of my writing career. It would have been easier if I had. Instead, I looked up from that winding path that lost itself in the first turn that was nearby, set my gaze on the glow from the Emerald City, and took off for it in a straight line through uncharted wilderness. I did not want to waste time on any long and winding roads.

There are dangerous places hidden in wilderness areas, to which the ignorant are not immune. Deep woods, wild seas, trackless deserts, and backwaters that often lead to bogs and swamps are there. Rarely will one come upon fellow travelers in such places. Once lost – and there were many times that I was – the option to go back becomes marred by the fact that you no longer know how to do that.

Not knowing enough was my worst enemy.

It was different back then. There were no droids named "Yahoo" or "Google" that could conjure up answers to questions on any subject within a mere few seconds. If there was an Internet, I didn’t know about it, and if there was such a thing as a "PC"…. I couldn’t have afforded it even if I wanted one. A writer could glean a bit of knowledge from what others had written down, but few did anything beyond telling their own personal stories, and those usually scarce of the nuts and bolts of how they actually did things. Even less of them were accessible to the general public, with hardly any networking (outside of personal friends) going on at all. It was a lonely road.

I made countless mistakes: some that still make me cringe even to this day. Like looking up the telephone numbers of publishing houses, getting them on the line, and boldly proclaiming, "I’m a writer – do you need one?" Usually, no. At long last (probably in another Writers’ Digest article) I came across something called the submission process. Ah-ha. So, that’s how it was done. Immediately, I took one of my best offerings (a children’s chapter book titled The Swan Hero) and sent it off to the first company on an alphabetical list that had been included there. Not long after, I got a reply.

"We would be happy to publish this delightful story. Enclosed, please find a copy of our standard contract… you should see your book available in about eight months…"

Eight months? That seemed an inordinate amount of time. Why should I wait so long when I had been waiting years already? Surely there was someone who could do better than that (nearly a whole year!), and – now that I finally knew the process for getting my material looked at by the right people – I was sure I could find more of them. This was a great story (in my opinion), and children needed to be able to read it right now. So, I typed up a letter that said as much, requested they return my submission, thank you very much, but eight months to publish something was bordering on the ridiculous. Then I went shopping.

Somewhere between the frozen vegetables and the cereal isles, I came to my senses. What had I done? What if EVERYBODY took eight months to publish a book, or maybe even longer? What if this had been my one and only shot out of the wilderness, and I hadn’t taken it? Worse yet, I had shunned it. I had never actually seen the Emerald City, only the glow of it. Perhaps it was not the great castle I had imagined, but only many small houses nestled close to each other. If that was the case, then this little publishing house could very well have been –

I didn’t even finish my shopping. I left my half-full cart in the middle of an isle (my kids thought that was hilarious) and tried to race home before the mailman came so that I could snatch that ungrateful, offending letter out of the box.

Too late!

We had pancakes for supper, my lovely manuscript came back in a few days, and there was not another house on that entire list that was willing to so much as give me a look – much less a contract. Meanwhile, I went back to the yellow pages. I had gone through all the book publishers, and was now down to periodicals.

"Hello, I’m a writer… do you need one?"

Finally… one did.

What’s happening on the farm today: Temperatures dropped overnight and the water in the horse trough had turned to ice, again. Trudge back across the pasture for the ax, duck under the fence and haul it back (it’s a splitting maul, really, so it’s heavy), and then try to break through. I learned something in this exercise. The ice seemed thicker than it was last week. Nothing but little chips flying at each swing – it would take me all morning to do this. Worse yet, I’d run out of energy because I was too out of shape to swing that ax for very long. Then I remembered some ancient karate wisdom and – instead of trying to get through the ice – started trying to get through the underlying water. It worked! Now I am convinced that if you want to break through anything, you must think beyond it, and not simply concentrate on how strong the obstacle is.

Habit status: Day 12 round 2 (the end is in sight)

Mr. Right...

2007-01-23T10:20:00.000-06:00

We met on a street corner, passing out tracts for a youth rally that was to take place later that evening. He was older, having just finished up a six-year stint in the Navy. A few days before that, he had gone to a Billy Graham crusade and had a similar experience to my encounter at the surf club. When he said he would like to see more of me, I told him I would pray about it.

I did not date. Long ago, I had decided I was not interested in trying out partner prospects in the same way one shopped for new shoes or bought a car. Besides that, I was far too sensitive to others, and didn’t know anyone that I didn’t like immensely. How could I ever choose? So, I asked the Lord if He would just let me know whenever the right person came along. That way, there would be no mistakes. When I asked Him about this new acquaintance, the reply was, "I have given you to him as a gift."

Three weeks later, we were married.

My parents might have objected, only I was adamant. I had also turned eighteen two weeks before, so there was little they could do. In their estimation, it was probably better than taking off for any more foreign countries by myself. I had already been to six since my newfound freedom, and they were getting gray hairs. It bothered them that he was twenty-seven, but then again, maybe he would have some sort of a stabilizing effect on me.

Which he certainly did.

The first thing we did – before even renting an apartment – was take off for Europe. We went to Denmark, where we stayed with relatives of his and participated in youth rallies, hosted coffeehouses, and visited various churches. It was winter, the country was beautiful, and we walked between ten and fifteen miles a day to the different activities. The more we got to know each other, the more we realized how similar we were. Even in small things.

We both liked travel, we both liked simple living, we both wanted to do something worthwhile with our lives, and – most importantly – we both loved the Lord more than any of these things. At some point during this trip, we realized we were perfectly cut out to be missionaries. But neither of us had been raised in church. Just how did one go about it? Then we found a small pamphlet on a table at one of the churches called, "Ten Steps to the Mission Field." Number one was go to college.

He asked where I would like to go. I was from the West Coast, which still symbolized everything restrictive to me. So, I said, "As far away as possible." We went to the East Coast, starting out at a little Bible school in Pennsylvania. If I was going to be attending a Bible school to become a missionary, I decided I better start out clean. There was one part of my life I still hadn’t shared with him, yet. It was a bad habit I had. Almost an addiction. Matter of fact, I still did not have complete control over it.

He was so understanding. Whatever it was, we could handle it. We would work it out together. "I write stories," I confessed. "My head is absolutely full of them. Sometimes, they seem more real than life to me. I scribble them down everywhere and then hide them."

He bought me a desk and a typewriter – the first I had ever owned – and said, "Write."

What’s happening on the farm today: Still melting, and warming enough in the afternoon to turn the heat off in the study. Just when I reached the conclusion that all the bugs are either asleep or dead altogether for the season, I swallowed one in my tea this morning. Global warming seems to be effecting more than just the weather.

Habit status: Day 11, round 2 (drawing close to a judgment)

Freedom (part two)...

2007-01-22T10:06:00.000-06:00

We all sat down cross-legged on the floor in front of the bed.

"How would you like it if you had a telephone that was a direct line to God," said Crazy Ed, "and you could talk to Him personally, anytime you wanted to?"

I could use one of those right now. Couldn’t anybody? "I would like that," I admitted.

"Good. I thought so. Now, here’s how it works. Right now, you’re not connected. God wants to talk to you, but it’s expensive to get hooked up because of all the sin in your life… and you don’t have enough to cover it."

What – did I have a sign on my forehead that said "sinner" or something? How should he know? I had a hard time believing all those other people outside the door hadn’t done plenty of sins themselves. What kind of a club was this, anyway?

"Nobody does," he answered the question like he had read my mind.

"So, what’s the point then?" I asked.

"The point is, somebody already paid the bill for you. Jesus did. He took the rap for every bad thing you did, just so you could have one of those connections, free and clear. He did it because He loves you."

"I don’t even know Him."

"He knows you, though."

"I thought He was dead."

"Nope."

"What?" I had never heard of such a thing. I looked over at the teacher.

"He’s alive," she informed me. "He loves you. And He has a wonderful plan for your life. Something you’ve always wanted to do and never thought you could. Better than anything you could imagine."

"That’s a fairy tale." At least in my life it was.

"It’s no fairy tale," said Crazy Ed.

"How do you know?" I asked.

"Because He told me. Pointed you out to me the minute you came in tonight."

"It’s because I didn’t eat the snack. I didn’t want to be guilty of anyone’s body and blood."

"That was communion, and you were right not to take it. That’s only for people who have accepted the sacrifice He made by dying for their sins."

"I thought you said He was alive. That you even talked to Him tonight."

"He’s alive because the power of God shot its way into hell and raised Him from the dead. Because he didn’t deserve to be there. He was just taking the rap for all of us who did. It was such a selfless act it was enough to pay for a free ticket to heaven for anybody who wants to take it. The phone connection comes with the deal. You want one of those tickets?"

"What do I have to do to get it?"

"You can’t do anything to get it. You can’t buy it. There’s no way you can earn it. Nobody can. That’s because it’s a gift straight from Him. Of course, it’s your choice. You don’t have to accept somebody’s gift if you don’t want to. But it would be pretty lame to turn your nose up at something that cost so much… especially when He’s been waiting to meet you for a long time. It would be sort of like making Him suffer all over, again. For nothing."

"I wouldn’t want to do that to Him."

"Tell Him, then."

"Right now? But I don’t have a connection."

"He’s on the line, go ahead."

"What do I say?"

"Just say, Jesus, I’m sorry for what you went through because of me, and I would like to accept your gift of heaven, with a direct line to God – right here in my heart – for anytime I want to talk."

I repeated it. The teacher sniffed and then blew her nose. She was sort of teary-eyed, like she had just been at a wedding, or heard news that a new baby had been born. I didn’t feel any different. No thunder had rumbled, and there had been no earthquakes. I definitely didn’t hear any voice saying, "Hello."

"About that voice…" Crazy Ed explained. Was this guy a mind-reader, or what? "It takes a little practice to get used to hearing it, because it comes from the inside of you, not the outside."

"How do I know it’s even real?"

"Tomorrow -- maybe even the minute you leave this room – there’s going to be a lot of people, and circumstances, and maybe even your own thoughts that will try to convince you that it isn’t real. That’s because there’s still a battle going on for people’s souls and the devil doesn’t want anybody getting a free ticket. They’ll especially try to convince you that nothing supernatural happened in this room, at all. But every time something like that pops up, you just start thanking Jesus for that wonderful gift all over again. And don’t worry, He’ll prove Himself to you. Matter of fact, why don’t you ask Him to prove He’s real to you right now?"

I did. Nothing happened. I looked at Crazy Ed.

"Well, it’s like any other gift," He picked up his big black Bible and held it out to me. "Say, this is it and I’m offering it to you. What would you do?"

"I’d take it."

"So, take it."

I reached out and put my hands on that book… and took the first whole breath I had ever breathed in my life. All of a sudden, I had enough air – I had more than enough – I had so much, I felt lightheaded! It was the last thing in the world I expected. All I was asking for was a connection, and now… "I can breathe – I can --" I felt like I could laugh and cry all at the same time.

"She got it," said Crazy Ed. "Now keep talking to Him every day. And read the Bible. It will help you learn the difference between right and wrong."

I did. And Jesus continued to prove Himself to me over and over, again. I was a junior in high school, and I got to take a P.E. class for the first time in my life. I took archery, and tennis, and swimming… and I could still breathe! If this is what knowing Jesus was, why weren’t people running after Him in droves?

They were. I discovered miracles were happening all over the place. I went from church to church, meeting to meeting, just to watch this miracle-working Jesus prove Himself to people. It was so much more exciting than hanging out at the local hamburger joint with friends, asking each other what we should do that day. If I wanted an adventure, Jesus had one going any day of the week. There was no shortage of them, and they were thrilling. I got better and better at listening to Him, too.

I even stopped lying to my parents and my teachers. After a while, I began to wonder why I ever felt I had to. I felt like I could do anything. I wanted to do everything. What if I wanted to do nothing but travel and have adventures for the rest of my life? Was that possible?

He said anything was possible.

He said yes when everyone else in my world had been telling me, no.

By the time I was seventeen, I had not only brought up my grades, I accelerated my classes and graduated early. I was so starved for a big adventure by then I was ready to head out to Africa by myself if I had to…

And that’s when the most wonderful man in the world stepped into my life.

What’s happening on the farm today: Hay is scarce in these parts. You can’t buy it at any of the feed stores in town anymore, and people are even driving up from Texas to get it from local farmers around here. We were down to our last bale, and the guy we regularly buy from said he was running low himself but might be able to sell us a couple of bales. Definitely not a truck load, though. Then he didn’t call back, and we thought we might have to drive all the way to Kansas to get some. And there was a freezing rain, with the threat of snow in the next couple of hours. Come to find out, he HAD called – our phone just didn’t ring. He let us have a whole truck load. Not only that but he also said he would save some back for us for next time, too. We felt highly favored!

Habit status: Day 10 round 2 (if this isn’t a habit, I don’t know what is)

Freedom...

2007-01-19T14:13:00.000-06:00

As well as being born into a family that treated girls like something out of the Victorian Era, I also happened to have been born with weak lungs. This further restricted my activities, for I was not allowed to exert myself, since it always brought on some sort of breathing distress. Thus, I spent most of my early childhood watching other children play but never participating. Oddly enough, this did not stifle my desire for adventure, but only heightened it.

I found a measure of freedom "visiting at a friend’s house," where there weren’t so many watchful eyes around. If there were, they rarely knew what to watch for. So, in the middle years I managed to taste some of the joys of climbing trees, exploring dry riverbeds, and wandering miles on end through open fields. My favorite place was the beach, where one could wander endlessly, climbing over rocky points, exploring caves, and marveling at all kinds of sea creatures. There was also the added thrill of occasionally getting caught in some distant cove when the tide came in… but one only had to swim out and around to be saved. As wonderful as these times were, they were still stolen moments, and added to my growing burden of guilty pleasures.

Then one day a neighbor invited me to come to a surf club meeting. They met at someone’s house (a schoolteacher, so my parents approved) during the week, where they sat around and talked. Then on weekends they car-pooled to surf at local beaches (which my parents would only approve if I did not participate in the surfing). I could hardly wait.

The house was packed with so many people when I arrived that every inch of living room floor space was taken, and kids were spilling out down hallways and into the dining room. All of these were surf enthusiasts? The furniture was taken by adults. A particular figure seated in the middle of the couch looked like a priest. Not that I had ever seen one outside of movies, but he had on a backwards collar and a black suit. Not long into his speech, I discovered he was a missionary from Africa.

Africa! One of my all-time favorite places, since one of my heroes was Tarzan. He told some interesting stories about his experiences, which I enjoyed very much, even though they had nothing to do with surfing. Then something very strange happened. They passed around grape juice and soda crackers so that we could all "commune" together. Whatever that was. While we were holding our little snacks (they were so little!) the missionary took out the Bible and read two warnings. The gist of it was that anyone who was not worthy to eat and drink these little specialties, would be guilty of the body and blood of Jesus Christ.

Jesus Christ – my father only said that when he was angry or extremely emotional: usually before a complete blow-up was about to occur. My inner warning signals began to go off. Besides that, I was having an increasingly difficult time carrying the burden of my own sins around. Adding murder to them would probably kill me. So, even though I would have enjoyed communing with these nice people, I quietly set my little snack aside.

Which somebody named "Crazy Ed" took notice of.

When everything was over, he cornered me at the front door and asked if I would like to go into one of the back rooms and talk for a while. Not really. I began looking around for that teacher. Our eyes connected above a sea of heads, and in a few moments, she was beside us. Whew! I was about to whisper into her ear that this guy was way past high school age and he had just invited me into –

"I see you’ve met Crazy Ed!" Her eyes sparkled like he was Santa Clause. "We call him crazy because he will do anything to--"

"You got any empty rooms back there, Barb?" He used her first name (how inappropriate was that?). "This girl has never met Jesus."

"Sure. You can use my room."

Oh, God. I started to shake. I was petrified, and my feet felt like they were rooted in cement. But the teacher put an arm around me and propelled me down the hall to the master bedroom. At that point, I wasn’t about to let go of her, because there was no way I was going in there by myself. My parents would hit the roof if they found out, and probably put me on restriction until I was thirty. I was not allowed to date until next year (when I would turn sixteen), or ever be alone with any boy – much less, a MAN with curly blonde hair that was too long… and a tan that looked like he lived at the beach...

******

"Why are you stopping?"

Because, Lilly, this is a blog, not a biography. It’s getting too long.

"What did you even start it for then?"

I don’t know. All this delving into character suddenly made me want to understand my own, I guess. More often than not, who I really am eludes me. Especially with all of you crowding around. Every once in a while I have to remind myself.

"But you can’t stop in the middle. Tell her, Professor."

"If D. Ann Graham stops in the middle of anything, she will inevitably return to finish it later. I suggest we all meet back here on Monday to hear the conclusion."

"Oh, drat – it’s a weekend, already."

What’s happening on the farm today: The arctic freeze has passed, and there is a pleasant dripping off the eves of my study. It shouldn’t be long now before the water pipe at the horse trough unfreezes. Tomorrow will be a wonderful day…

Habit status: Day 9 round 2 (interrupted but still consistent)

The Rebellious Years...

2007-01-18T11:47:00.000-06:00

I did not stop writing simply because I could never attain my goal. I couldn’t. It was a way of life for me, now. More than that, actually: it had a grip on me that I could not break free of. I didn’t try very hard, because the enticements were too strong. I did make half-hearted attempts every once in a while, because my family wanted so much for me to be "normal." In the end, I stopped bothering them with my ambitions and went underground. Which produced a guilt complex that later took years to overcome.

But doors were opening for me. I might not have hundreds of dollars for the Writer’s Digest Correspondence Course, but I had libraries. I took charge of my own education, and I had my own system. I began at the beginning. That is, I started with the first shelf on the first row, and read anything and everything that caught my interest. If something particularly impressed me, I copied it. Not word for word. I made up a new story with new characters, and copied the style, with all its rhythms and patterns. Even plot lines. If there was a conversation at a certain place, I put one there. If a fight or battle scene occurred in a certain chapter, there would be one in mine, as well. Which also added to my guilt complex, since I often spun off book reports for extra credit school assignments from these to keep from failing in my real subjects. Only once did a teacher ever ask me where I got one of those books.

I told her a great uncle in our family had died and left us an antique cherry bookcase with beveled glass doors on the front. A really exquisite piece. But better than that, the thing was full of old books. He had been wealthy and traveled the world for several years before the First World War, so it was anyone’s guess where they all came from. There was even a diary of those travels, but the handwriting difficult to decipher, although it contained a pressed flower that was over fifty years old. Would she like to see it? Indeed she would. My book reports were forgotten in her pleasure of perusing several of the old volumes that I later brought for her to look over.

Everything that I told her was true.

It’s just that – in my long years of deceit at home – I had learned early that a diversion was the best defense for clandestine behavior. Especially a shocking one. I was also becoming a fairly good judge of character by that time, and figured an eleventh grade history teacher would be intrigued with something historical. Which she was. The toll such behavior took on my own character, however, was much harder to come to grips with.

For it was during that year that my entire life took a turn.

What’s happening on the farm today: The errant dog returned after dark, none the worse for wear, but who knows what he was up to? That dog has more lives than a cat. This morning during chores, the hill I usually walk up was so slippery I had to go around. As I was skating down on my boot bottoms, realizing how awful it would be to fall on the ax I was carrying, I noticed half of the gate was busted off and lying on the ground. Getting to work this morning must have been a bit slippery for Pops, as well. Now, I’m wondering what the car looks like…

Habit status: Day 8 round 2 (continuing to digress)

Time Out for Destiny...

2007-01-17T13:33:00.000-06:00

When I was young, I wanted to be the youngest published author. At the time, I was nearing twelve, and my knowledge of the holder of this particular title was the daughter of Mark Twain, who – at the age of thirteen – had penned a biography of her famous father. It began, "My Papa was a very funny man…"

I began with an imitation of Dr. Seuss. Although the particular plot and theme elude me at this late date, I recall believing that my poetry, rhythm, and wit were near perfection. Few would be able to tell the difference between myself, and the famous man. But what to do with it? I certainly couldn’t send it to Dr. Seuss. Besides the fact that I hadn’t the vaguest idea of what his address was…he might be intimidated.

But I had to write. Because in the writing of my Dr. Seuss parody, I had discovered the thrill of living in other worlds. Ones over which I had complete control, and – should there be any mistakes – I could merely relegate those pages to the trash bin as opposed to bearing the consequences in my own personal flesh. Yet, these worlds were as real to me as my own. Not only did I see them played out before my mind’s eye like a mental movie, they were all consuming: possessing the power to elevate my heartbeat, make me rack my brain for solutions, and introduce me to worlds forbidden to girls of my age. I spent many a late night that stretched into the waning hours of the morning, under my bedcovers with a flashlight, penning the latest chapter of a current work in progress…

My parents did not understand me.

They still thought I should be in bed by nine. Should never venture into a public place alone, and – some public places – not ever. Not at all. In comparison, my school activities became dull. During class-work times, or homework sessions, I would more often than not be working away at my latest novel. My grades – which had always been high – suffered. Suddenly, I could care less what teachers thought of me. I could care less what anyone thought of me. I was penning the next great American novel. And it was a masterpiece.

Then one day, while waiting for my mother to conclude her shopping at a local market, I was biding my time at a magazine stand. All at once, my eye fell on a copy of WRITER’S DIGEST, featuring that month an article on the elements of successful mystery fiction. I HAD TO HAVE THAT MAGAZINE. Looking back, I am not ashamed that I resorted to whatever it took to get it. I have a vague recollection that it was throwing a scene in a public place. At any rate, I came home with my mother wondering what in the world had come over me… and my first lessons in acquiring the skills of writing popular fiction. Within those same pages, I found something almost too good to believe. Writers’ Digest offered a fiction writing correspondence school. Anyone who qualified could attend. No age limit. The cost was several hundred dollars, but for the knowledge one could come away with, it was more than worth it. A mere pittance, actually.

Mother thought otherwise.

Is it any wonder the next few years were rebellious ones? No one understood me. Least of all this strange family I had been born into. They were so old-fashioned! My younger brother had more freedoms than me. Several years went by during which I felt all of my problems in life could have been solved if only I had been born a boy. Then I could physically fight my way out of any problems that confronted me. I could run away with half a chance that I could land a good enough job to support myself, no matter how old I was. Before I knew it, I was fourteen…

Devastated that I would never be the youngest published author.

Not ever.

Was there anything left for me in the world?

What’s happening on the farm today: One of the dogs is missing. It is the middle "mut" -- the one with issues – that the neighbor shot two bullets into his head last year for killing one of his wife’s little terriers. Which he deserved every bit of. But because he didn’t die, the neighborhood consensus was to treat it like a hanging gone awry: for some reason the criminal deserved to live. However, he has been progressively weird ever since. Over the last few days, he has taken to running away in terror whenever called. I figure it’s too late for a guilt complex, so someone else in the neighborhood must be after him for other crimes. Now we are on day six of the arctic freeze, and he did not come home with the other two after the usual romp at five in the morning. Probably all for the best considering his propensity for criminal behavior, except that the kids love him and would be crushed if he never came back, again.

Habit status: Day 7 round 2 (and a real digression in subject matter)

Shades of Character...

2007-01-16T14:04:00.000-06:00

Do you realize this is the most consistently we have all shown up – in real time – since the beginning of this blog experiment? Even at the start we drifted back to our own clocks within a mere few days. Now, we are not only here, I see everyone has come prepared. Lovely fire, Professor – thank you for that. And Ann: hot chocolate and cinnamon bread… I see we are back in each other’s graces, again.

"It helps to have a topic we are all not only interested in, but dedicated to."

Yes, well, it’s a large topic. We could spend an entire year on it and still not cover everything. But for this particular little study, let’s start off by defining exactly what it is we are looking for. I believe the original aim of this project was to uncover certain secrets that we could apply in a general way to any piece of writing, and come out better for it. Literally speaking. So… what exactly IS a literary character? What is the basic definition of one?

"I think they’re ghosts."

"You know, Lilly, I had the feeling the minute I got here, you were in one of your moods. Why bother to come at all if you’re going to play the advocate the entire time? Stretched out on the couch that way with an ice-pack on your head and a heat-pad on your feet – don’t think I didn’t notice while I was pouring the chocolate that your cup was already a third full of brandy!"

"I’m sorry, Ann, but I’ve just had a near death experience and I’m not quite over it, yet."

"My dear, you were never once in any real danger of dying."

"I don’t believe you, Professor. A current of so many millions of volts passing through my brain – I feel like I’ve just lived through the mother of all shock treatments!"

"Good lord, Professor – how could you even think of doing such a thing to our Lilly!"

"That was one of Tesla’s most popular experiments. The fact that one could electrocute something with a few volts, but the passage of millions through the body at the right –"

"Tesla was a lunatic! I don’t think I like him at all anymore."

"Lilly, were not your very words that you wanted to feel what it was like to be an inventor?"

"You know perfectly well what I meant! It was the character of an inventor I was interested in. I wanted to see if I could put myself in that place for a bit, so that I could better understand the inner workings of the captain from my manuscript, since he is something of an inventor himself!"

"And so you have."

"I have an infuriating buzz, that’s what I have! From my head to my toes and back up, again, like some pulsating –"

"It’s the brandy, if you ask me."

"I find it amusing that the first to the forefront on our study of character should be the absolute worst aspects of our own. Marvelous cinnamon bread, Ann. I must confess, half the reason I come to these meetings is for the treats."

"Well, not for the company, God knows."

"Lilly, if you could make a little more effort not to be insulting. I’m sure the Professor was--"

"I move there should be rules to this study. And that we forego the demonstrations."

"Any study without experimentation can never go beyond speculation."

"I move we let D. Ann Graham decide. Where did she go?"

"Don’t worry, I’m sure she’s watching."

What’s happening on the farm today: Day five of the freeze and still no power outages for our area. Wonderful. I have discovered that my expensive Sorrel boots I brought from Alaska have been serving as apartment housing for mice. Lying for months in the wooden shoebox on the back porch, the left was designated storage for various nuts and bits of dog food, while the right was the sleeping and entertainment area. What do mice do for entertainment? Let’s just say that besides chewing half the tongue off that expensive leather, they also did extensive damage to the shoestrings and felt liner. But who wants to haggle when one is due out in the barn in morning temperatures that are still in the single digits? I dumped out the stash and wore them anyway.

Habit status: Day 6, second round (and another setback)

Hook, Line, and Sinker...

2007-01-15T12:03:00.000-06:00

Let’s see… where did we leave off?

"I believe Lilly got an idea and we all adjourned. Did anything pan out, Lilly?"

"Of course. Things always pan out when you add more ideas. I decided to make the format, itself, a hook, and I think it’s going to work out beautifully."

"My dear, so far you’ve got a hook in the first line, one at the end of each chapter, your main character is also a hook -- and now – you’re telling us you’ve fashioned the format into a hook? I should think at the moment, it would be too frightening for anyone to pick up."

"People like frightening, these days, Professor."

"Well, then they’re living in the right era. Personally, I prefer the last century. There seems to have been more thinking going on then. Anyway, you can’t just have a mass of hooks, we get that with the evening news. One shock, jab, or prick after another and not a thing you can do about most of it. Too many of those tangle up the lines – which are the truly essential part of any story. Wouldn’t you say so, Ann?"

"I agree everything has to end up going somewhere. But I can also see that if people are doing less thinking, one might have to shock, jab, or prick a little more to get any reactions. Then again, it depends what you’re fishing for."

"Which brings us to the most important facet of hook study. There are different kinds of hooks for different kinds of quarry. One has to know who the audience is before preparing any type of a hook. For the simple reason that what appeals to one might have little or no effect on another. Have you thought about your audience, Lilly? Do you know who they are?"

"They’re ordinary people like us."

"Too vague."

"Who don’t particularly like change. They’d rather ignore most of the irritating stuff one hears on the news, but every once in a while, something comes along to dump them into a catastrophe, and they have to deal with it."

"Better, but keep going. Are they young or old? Male or female? Working or unemployed?"

"All of the above."

"Good grief – what is this thing? Another War and Peace, only this time, with survival tips?"

"Something like that, yes. Look how worried people are over the war these days."

"Well, I’m stunned. I thought we were dealing with one of your light, experimental manuscripts for the purpose of practicing the craft, and now you’ve got us going in so many directions, I hardly see how anything beneficial can come out of it. What kind of a person is this Stella Madison, anyway? And who the blazes is the devil?"

"I beg your pardon, ladies – may I propose that we have sufficiently covered the subject of hooks?"

"What?"

"Well, it seems that if we are now demanding explanations of the who and why of these characters, we might as well get on with the subject of characters."

"Lilly’s a character, if you ask me."

"Thank you, Ann."

"I move that tomorrow we go on to the next subject. Lilly, will you be responsible for the demonstration this time? The thought of what the Professor might concoct in his lab to show character gives me the chills just thinking about it."

"Certainly. But I might at least have to get some advice from him."

"Oh, for heaven sake! I can see where this study is headed, already."

What’s happening on the farm today: Fourth day of arctic weather. Still have electricity, although the woodpile is going down fast and we now have to carry water to the animals. I used the ax to break through the ice in the horse trough this morning, but it is frozen nearly halfway down. Now is when it begins to show how really out of shape I am, and how much of a pansy I am when it comes to being out in the cold.

Habit status: Day 5 second round (beginning to move right along)

Hooked Up...

2007-01-12T13:19:00.000-06:00

Are we all settled, now? It seems we were interrupted yesterday, and we never finished our discussion on hooks. There’s a lot more to them than just snagging attention. Since this little study is going to be a very careful look at the elements, let’s not rush things by speeding on to the next subject when we haven’t thoroughly explored the first one. We haven’t even discovered the secret part, yet. Where did we leave off?

"I left off wondering how the Professor ever came up with the idea that putting a hole in someone’s best pair of slacks was an appropriate example of a hook! The only thing I got out of that was irritated."

"There’s nothing pleasant about a hook, my dear. Their sole purpose is sinister. They are meant to capture and hold, and unless cleverly disguised, even the stupidest of creatures steer clear of them."

"I think the Professor has a valid point, Lilly. A poorly embedded hook – in the literary world -- is more apt to cause resentment than interest. Nobody likes to be taken in. It’s rather like those advertisements for free things that have hidden purchases or fees attached."

"I hate those."

"Most people do."

"If you use a hook to draw someone into a story, it better make sense. It has to be a legitimate part of the whole."

"It has to have a line attached to it, if you ask me. Any hook without a line is worthless."

"I agree. A hook should always lead somewhere. It has to be connected to the next thing, and the next, and so on."

"End of the chapter cliffhangers. Do you think every chapter should end in such a way, Ann? Or is there something to be said for a bit of a change of pace."

"I think the arch enemy of suspense is a change of pace. Readers are always looking for a good place to stop. Well, that’s one thing I don’t think you should ever give them. The only place for one of those is at the end. But once, again, if there are any contrivances showing, you’re done for."

"Fiction is nothing but contrivances. Good fiction just makes you forget it. Willing suspension of disbelief and all that. Did you bring any of those chocolate things, today, Ann?"

"After yesterday? Certainly not. I brought carrots."

"Blast."

"Now let’s scrutinize Lilly’s opening. You have promised us the devil, Lilly – is he going to show up on the scene eventually?"

"I’ll say he is."

"Is this another one of those war between good and evil themes? Thery’re getting tiresome, if you ask me. Every time you turn around another one shows up on the shelves. And these days, it’s the devil that mostly ends up on top."

"All of life is a war between good and evil, Professor. But that falls more under the heading of a theme, I should think. Which is another element that should be undetectable. Heard but not seen, you might say. Actually, this is sort of a how-to manual on survival."

"A how-to manual – your ladies trapped in the wine cellar book?"

"Certainly. It’s something everyone is concerned about lately. Myself included."

"Universal, you mean. Something we can all relate to. Which things also provide the best hooks: a car being erratically driven pulling into a gas station at night, disobedient children, a strange noise…"

"That gives me an idea! I move we postpone the rest of this discussion until tomorrow."

"Fine by me. I left the cousins experimenting with the Bunsen burner back at the lab."

"Oh, good lord, Professor!"

"They could burn the whole place down!"

"Not really, ladies. Just an example of a good universal hook. But I do need to be getting back."

"He’s impossible, lately!"

What’s happening on the farm today: We are having an ice storm that is predicted to last through the weekend. Time to fill every available container with water, bring in extra firewood, and get out the kerosene lamps for when the electricity goes out. As it invariably does during such times. I think there should be rebates from the electric company when that happens but, so far, the CEO hasn’t answered any of my emails about it.

Habit status: Day 4 of round 2 (gaining focus)

Hooked...

2007-01-11T12:33:00.000-06:00

My goodness… you certainly all got back here in a hurry. I think this is one of the shortest days we’ve had since the beginning of the experiment. Maybe it’s because we had something to look forward to. I don’t mind saying I’m rather excited about it, too. Do you realize we have never come away disappointed when we set out to perfect the craft? We always discover some treasure we can put to good use.

"I like the part about the adventure, myself. And the fact the rest of you might finally donate enough time to help me get my ladies out of the wine cellar."

"Is that the manuscript we’ll be practicing on? As I recall, Lilly, that entire project was one big experiment. I was hoping we might actually accomplish some work during these sessions and be able to catch up with the agenda at the same time."

"I beg your pardon, Ann, but what good is moving forward on the agenda if the quality is lacking? I’m all for the treasure hunt. Let’s start with you, Professor. I can’t imagine what sort of demonstration you could come up with out of that laboratory of yours that might illustrate writing rules, but--"

"I’d prefer to save it till the end, if you don’t mind – I’ve just sweetened my tea. Besides that, Ann’s chocolate things look delicious. Let’s just lead off with the importance of hooks in general. Begin at the beginning, you might say."

"Which is exactly where the first hook should go. At the beginning. I don’t know how many times we’ve had to go back and change a beginning because it didn’t have a sufficient enough hook. I realize it’s a rough draft, Lilly, but what have you got so far?"

"When opportunity first knocked on Stella Madison’s door, she thought it was the devil."

"Splendid."

"I agree with the Professor. We might not know who Stella is at this point but we’ve all had at least a passing acquaintance with the devil. Your hook, of course, is that we would now like to know what the opportunity was. For the sake of this discussion, at what point in the manuscript do you actually tell us?"

"I don’t give out that information until page eleven, at which point it becomes one of those cliff-hanger hooks for the end of a chapter. Let me see… I believe the exact wording is: It wasn’t until the following Tuesday that the opportunity revealed itself."

"Page eleven and you haven’t told what it is, yet? What’s to keep us interested? Why should we care?"

"Well, because by that time I’ve presented several possibilities of what it could be. Sort of a who-done-it approach. I’ve always been of the opinion readers like to use their own wits in a book to figure things out, no matter what kind it is."

"That being the case, then, it seems you would have to compensate by some excellent building of Stella’s character in order for us to care enough about her to continue on. Wouldn’t you agree, Professor?"

"Undoubtedly. But it’s a difficult challenge in so short a space. How exactly did you go about it, my dear?"

"I made Stella, herself, a hook. You see, you know right off she is not who she says she is."

"Why, Lilly – what a brilliant idea!"

"Which is about as perfect a definition of a hook that you can get, ladies. Now look here. One doesn’t have to understand hooks in order for them to get your attention. They snag. They irritate. Or they interfere. A really good one will bother you until you are forced to deal with it, no matter what you were doing before it came along. Ann, you don’t by any chance have more of those chocolate things, do you?"

"There’s some more in the kitchen. If you’d like, I’ll just – what? Oh, dear!"

"Wait a minute, Ann – your sweater – it’s snagged on the back of – ooops – oh, good Lord! My best wool slacks stuck through with a fishhook! Is this your idea of a joke, Professor?"

"I believe I was asked to do a demonstration on hooks."

"Well, for heaven sake! Ann can slip out of her sweater easy enough, but this is hardly the place to slip out of my pants!"

"I’ll leave you ladies to work out your hook problems, then, and I’ll head on back to the lab."

"Turn off this blog!"

What’s happening on the farm today: A storm brewing. Wind gusting up to fifty and sixty miles an hour at times, and things flying around all over. The metal roof seems about to lift off but I can’t think what to do about it. At sea, you would put out a sea anchor and shorten sail, but one can hardly batten down the trees…

Habit status: Day 3 of round two (interrupted)

Winter Work...

2007-01-10T12:45:00.000-06:00

There is more time for us in the winter. When the holidays are over and the outdoor activity schedule is still too far away to think about, when the study is at its most inviting with plenty of warm drinks and a wood-burning fire crackling; it seems easier to get down to serious business. It is a great time to take a bit of extra effort to hone the craft. This year, we will be trying out "seven secrets" on one specific manuscript, and see what it does for us.

It will be an adventure.

I believe I will take each secret out of the box, one at a time, look it over carefully, analyze it, and then implement it into the story. Then I will erase lines and fill in others so that the new addition will seem to be undetectable: a seamless part of the whole. Then I will wait – like Dr. Frankenstein – for the moment when I can say of my creation, "It’s alive!"

We’ll start tomorrow with a lively discussion on hooks: the main purpose of which is to snag something. You bring the chocolate, will you, Ann?

"I’d be glad to."

And Professor, do you think you could bring some sort of a demonstration from your laboratory that would help us to better visualize the concept?

"I’ll see what I can do."

Lilly – if you would be so kind as to donate the manuscript.

"I would like to contribute the one about Stella and the Fat Man."

Excellent.

What’s happening on the farm today: Everyone is gone for the next two months and I am left on my own for the morning chores. At the moment, the animals are like naughty children when there is a substitute teacher in class. The horses play musical stalls as if there weren’t enough to go around, and the dogs hide their food bowls in a different place every day. Colonel Peabody has decided I am an invader in his yard and somebody to get in the ring with. After a week, he is no longer interested in food, freedom, or even girls. To open the hen house door now has the same effect as the bell at the beginning of a boxing round. Wings spread, he leaps into the air, talons forward, and attacks. We are at war.

Habit status: Day 2 of the second round (so far, no conflicts)

The Longest Day...

2006-12-28T14:07:00.000-06:00

"Where have you been?" someone famous once asked of a servant gone overly long. The reply was, "Going to and fro in the earth, and walking up and down in it."

So, we come to the fourteenth day – the decisive one – and the longest since the beginning of this experiment. Has it been worthwhile? Can any value be found in it? Or is it merely a wily distraction, meant to occupy the precious little time we have left to accomplish something of value. Let us weigh the odds…

It began first and foremost as a working tool: a literary blog, in which contemplations of plot, structure, research, and character might be mulled over and learned from. As such, it has also been a form of practice: to make a point or express a single thought in the most direct and connecting way. It has – above all else -- been a disciplinary tool: more than the mere physical exercise of showing up on a regular basis – the value here has been in the honing of an ability to organize the myriad of creative thoughts not only into some worthwhile order, but for a specific purpose.

Exactly what purpose?

To create characters well enough for them to become real.
To present thought-provoking scenarios which inspire others.
To establish a thoughtful place that is as real and productive as the physical home.
To become so skilled in the practice of these things that none of them show.

All worthwhile. The question put to the vote, then, is not whether we should or shouldn’t carry on, but rather if the outcome of all this is worth the opposition. Because there is always opposition to anything worthwhile. That said let us look at the dangers…

It has a tendency to use up one’s life forces in such consistent minute quantities, that it is possible to come up short when an all-out effort is needed for the big stuff.
Too much gazing at one’s own reflection tends toward Narcissism.
Enough input from small circles dulls the ability to maintain balanced judgments by impairing our view of the bigger picture: not only of what is going on around us, but what most people think of our work, and not just the selected few.

Yet, the enticements are still there to continue the adventure, if for no other reason than to see how close one can come to achieving the ultimate goals. Based on the foregoing fourteen days, we have not. The ship is on a lee shore, the tacklings are loose, and we have thrown some valuable cargo over the side in moments of haste. Nothing large is lost, but there has been no great gain, either. So – as is said in gambling circles – the winners all grin and the losers say, "Deal the cards, again."

All right. But it must be understood that the pull will be greater simply because we’ve been at it longer. The dangers will be increased, as well. Because should the one who "goes to and fro over the earth, and walks up and down in it" catch us not knowing the true value of things… the battles could get bloody this time. Thus we must also continue to do a bit of going to and fro, ourselves, and walking up and down, too – just to keep a safe enough perspective on things.

One more round, then.

And we’ll see what the new year brings.

What’s happening on the farm today: Warm winds coming up from the south preparing to do battle with the northern cold. So far the sky is only dark and blustery. But the animals are uneasy and the children running wild… the Peabody family seems to have decided conditions are entirely too dangerous to venture more than a few steps outside their door.

Habit status: Hooked. (But it will take one more round to determine whether it is a good thing or a bad one.)

Patriot Coffee…

2006-11-07T15:43:00.000-06:00

"What’s the flag for, ladies?"

"It’s to remind D. Ann Graham to vote today. You know how she forgets everything when she’s working. We’ve even put a red, white, and blue ribbon around her coffee mug – that was Lilly’s idea -- so she can be reminded every time she reaches for it. Patriot Coffee, she calls it."

"Well, we all know the best way to catch D. Ann Graham’s attention is with words, so we had to have a snappy name. The only reason she makes it to presidential elections is because some member of the family remembers to pick her up and drag her there. But in these trying times there are much more than presidents at stake, and every election is important."

"I agree. But I don’t think you’ll have to resort to sign language anymore, in that respect, because she’s recently had an experience that will never let her forget to vote, again."

"What was that?’

"As I recall, the subject came up in a conversation she was having with one of the cousins."

"A young person?"

"My dear Lilly, just because a person is under voting age doesn’t mean they don’t have brains. A lot of them are smarter than most adults."

"Do you know what was said that impressed her?"

"Of course I do. I was impressed myself. He said voting was how we could change the future, and while that might not be important to her from one moment to the next, it was important to him because it was HIS future she was messing with."

"That is insightful, but not something D. Ann Graham hasn’t already heard before. A lot of us have heard that before. Why, all I have to do is flip back through my agenda, here, to where we were discussing that very topic during the presidential –"

"You didn’t let me finish, Ann."

"Sorry."

"The young man went on to say that – while he hated to resort to name calling – anyone who doesn’t take the time to vote when they are of age is nothing but a fat-head lazy poop."

"Good lord!"

"My sentiments exactly. Which is why I propose that we should all go on strike until D. Ann Graham does her duty."

"But whatever does it have to do with any of us? We don’t have the right to cast a ballot any more than the cousins have."

"Just because we don’t operate in the so-called real world, doesn’t mean we can’t have an influence over it."

"Is that what you came over here for, Professor? To join our forces together to influence D. Ann Graham?"

"I’m not worried about D. Ann Graham. She’ll do what she has to, even if it’s five minutes before the polls close."

"Why should we bother to go on strike, then? I hardly see the point when we have all this work to do."

"Because – of all of us here – I am the only one who has to work with these blasted cousins day in and day out."

"Are you saying you’d like more help with them?"

"Certainly not. I simply don’t want to be called a fat-head lazy poop any more than the next person."

"I move for an official strike then. And leave the window open today, Ann – with the flag in it."

"Good idea. It might influence some of the lurkers."

What’s happening on the farm today: It is a sad day for the Peabody family… one of the hens is missing. Isn’t it odd that the size of one’s brain makes so little difference as to how much they can be cared about? I’m really quite distraught over it.

Habit status: Day 13 (unless voting day is like bankers holidays)

The Sum of All Peers…

2006-11-01T16:21:00.000-06:00

Is everybody finally here? This is the longest we’ve been gone, but for good reason. And coming just in time to have maximum impact on our decision. Would anyone like to go first? Lilly, I understand you’ve been somewhat disillusioned with it all.

“I was at first, but now I’ve changed my mind. That’s because I discovered that even though one has to wade through an incredible amount of junk to begin with, you can eventually find someone out there you have something in common with.”

“You mean you finally interacted with someone?”

“Several actually. It seems once a person does find a subject they’re interested in, something like the ripple effect occurs. I practically lost myself in all the fascinating links. It could have gone on indefinitely, as far as I could see. One has to drag themselves away from it by sheer willpower or nothing would ever get done.”

“I’ll make a note of that. Does this mean – up to this point, of course – you’re giving the blog a positive vote?”

“Most definitely.”

“How about you, Professor? I realize you’re not the chatty type, but how did you do in your travels?”

“On the contrary, the places I visited ended up being vital to my future research. Do you know the kind of impact this sort of rapid communication can have on science? The sharing of information, the interaction with superior brains… I even discovered an unlimited supply of volunteers willing to participate in my experiments.”

“Good lord – are you sure that’s prudent?”

“My dears, prudence is not always conducive to pushing the envelope of the universe in order to discover eternal secrets. Look at Tesla, practicing on his own brain with his x-ray machine. Look at Mark Twain’s eagerness to set himself down in the hot-seat and let the scientist take a picture of his.”

“Is that a yes, then?”

“It is.”

“Then that settles it. According to the consensus, we will at least finish out the trial period. Did anyone bring hot chocolate? I’m having a bit of difficulty concentrating at the moment.”

“A pity you can’t send that through cyberspace. Although I did stop in at one pleasant place that was referred to as the kitchen. So, I suppose if everyone brought their own refreshments and the conversation proved stimulating enough, it could almost be the same. Wouldn’t you say so, Ann?”

“The benefits quite outweigh the setbacks, I’d say. Look how much gas money you can save – or airfare, for that matter. Yesterday, I had quite a decent conversation with somebody in Australia, without ever having to leave America. To tell you the truth, I didn’t even get out of my pajamas.”

“Looks like you still haven’t.”

“What? Oh, good grief – somebody close the window.”

What’s happening on the farm today: We are installing another wood stove, getting in the last of our wood, and gearing up for the first cold-snap of winter. And we have decided to give the chickens a last name: they are the Peabodys. That’s because we have never seen such pea-sized brain behavior in all our years of animal observation. Their recall capacity is so short-term that, unless information is dumped immediately into reaction mode, any moment can become a life-or-death situation. For the most part, they have no idea who they are, where they live, or where in the world they were headed when they first started out. Add to this the fact that their only instinct is to squawk and run… and you have one of the most hilarious forms of entertainment on the place.

Habit status: Day 12 (saved by a narrow margin)

No Comment…

2006-10-20T07:22:00.000-05:00

So, where is Lilly?

“Off making house calls, I think. She’s on a binge.”

Oh, no. What kind this time?

“She’s returning visitation cards, or something. Trying to make contact with people who have stopped by. From what she says, most of them were just solicitors – they don’t even have a place to return cards to. The others were amusing, but they simply described a mood or an incident and left absolutely no room for discussion. Still others had interesting information, but then it only served to send her bounding off to some different location altogether, and she forgot where she started from in the first place. I think she’s a bit discouraged.”

“Returning visitation cards went out with the Victorian Era.”

“I understand that, Professor. But we all know how Lilly is: whatever trappings appeal to her from her travels, she drags around with her. Doesn’t think twice about what century she’s in. It’s part of what makes her endearing.”

“Endearing. Of course she’s endearing – that’s not the point. The point is, one simply cannot inflict their own idiosyncratic perspectives on others. Would you do a critique on someone’s diary you peeked into? Certainly not. What Lilly doesn’t realize, is that there is a certain form of etiquette practiced in these circles. One can make comments, but not serious ones. They can be encouraging, supportive, or even mildly argumentative. Anything more substantial is strictly reserved for the inner circles.”

“The inner circles?”

“The mere handful of faithful followers who have established an actual relationship with the author. The clicks, if you will.”

“That sounds awful. I thought this was the new age. Bold public forums and all that.”

“My dear Ann, you know there really are no new ages. Life is just one great circle coming back around onto itself. As for boldness… hmpf… bold is bold no matter what century you find it in.”

“So what are we doing here then? It all seems quite pointless, doesn’t it. The ultimate distraction to keep people from doing any real work. Narcissus looking into the water, if you ask me. I’m afraid at this point, I’m ready to throw in my towel with Lilly, and vote no on the continuation of the thing.”

“And just what is your definition of real work?”

“Don’t get philosophical, Professor, I’m perfectly in earnest.”

“Then follow Lilly’s example and look into it a little further before you make your final judgment. There’s still three days left of the experiment, you know.”

“I can’t see much of anything else to look at. We’d all still meet for agenda meetings – I’m not saying that. The only change would be that it’s private. We wouldn’t have to deal with solicitors. I’d hardly call that a loss.”

“But you’ve left out the lurkers.”

“The lurkers – good grief, they sound worse than solicitors – how could anything good come from them?”

“Not all lurkers are sinister in the blogosphere, Ann. They are the silent ones. The masses, actually. Many of them log on and read faithfully every day. They are inspired, bored, or incensed with what you write. They might even remember it sometime during the day, but they rarely – if ever – make a comment. Then again, there are the time travelers.”

“Really, Professor! I thought we were having a realistic discussion here.”

“I’m being perfectly realistic. The nature of cyberspace is that nothing gets thrown away. Add to that the fact that things are written and displayed with the utmost immediacy, so that the passer by – even if he passes by ten years from now – feels as if it’s happened only moments before. Almost an encapsulazation process of thought. Rather like a photograph.”

“What an extremely fascinating idea.”

“Quite.”

“I should probably do like Lilly, then, and make a foray out into the realms before I cast my ultimate vote.”

“We all should.”

“Suppose I can’t think of anything pertinent to say? They seem to change subjects faster than I can think about things, much less form a decent opinion.”

“Then you do what the majority of readers do. You simply lurk.”

“I don’t think I like that suggestion at all.”

“No comment. And don’t forget to turn off the blog.”

What’s happening on the farm today: Ah, we have had the first fire of the year in our little stove, and it seems an official affirmation of fall. That warm dry heat that chases any damp chill away and makes homemade bread rise to perfection. Outside the leaves are turning lovely colors and there are pumpkins on the porch. I think fall is my favorite season.

Habit status: Day 11 (and slipping)

A Problem of Spiders…

2006-10-16T12:58:00.000-05:00

Close the curtains a bit, Ann, the solicitors have found us.

“Already? But we haven’t even been here two weeks. How on earth could anyone find something this obscure in two weeks?”

“In real time it’s been much longer, ladies. I doubt it was a person, anyway -- it was probably a spider.”

“Good lord! You mean there’s no cleaning service either?”

“Of course not, Lilly. Only the design and forum are guaranteed. We have to take care of everything else ourselves. I’ll make a note here on the bottom of the agenda to put one of those ‘no soliciting’ signs out. That’s not what they call them, though, so it will take a bit of research to figure out just how to do it. Professor, do you think you could find time to help with that?”

“One can always find time, Ann. People like us have an unlimited amount at our disposal. I hardly think it will take much. You see, this kind of spider you’re talking about isn’t a bug it’s a machine. Thousands upon thousands of them, in fact. However, they operate on the same principle. Some little parasite looking for any possible opening into someone else’s living space. I believe all you have to do is turn the button on for an automatic human test, and that should eliminate ninety percent of them. See me after the meeting and I’ll help you with it.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“I don’t know about anyone else, but this will definitely have an effect on my decision when it comes to the vote on the fourteenth day. I don’t like living with spiders. Not even ten percent of them.”

“My dear Lilly, you – more than anyone – should know that no matter what territory one ventures into, there will always be some manner of spiders to contend with. Hardly a reason to stop explorations altogether.”

“Bit of a difference between traveling through public territories, Professor, and having these bug things come plowing through mine.”

“This is hardly your territory, my dear. You can’t pitch your tent smack in the middle of an elephant walk and then complain when it gets bumped by elephants. If you don’t like it, make some adjustments. Either move out of the way, or set up a bigger tent.”

“I suppose you’re right. But I still don’t like spiders.”

“Not many people do.”

“And I especially don’t like not knowing when they’re around. I don’t like this blog very much today, either.”

“Somebody turn it off, then, so we can make some readjustments.”

What’s happening on the farm today: Two days of good steady rain and the dried up red earth is finally starting to come to life, again. Everyone has startled awake from their summer lethargies with the shocking realization that there’s work to do. The squirrels are scampering to pack away their stashes of nuts, rocks, and horse manure in the shop drawers(whatever do they do with the rocks and manure?); the house wrens are lowering their standards in their choice of appropriate wintering nest locations; and Pops and I have decided it’s past time to get in the firewood.

Habit status: Day 10 (and on shaky ground)

Survival Instincts…

2006-10-12T11:21:00.000-05:00

“What’s the good of light fiction when there are so many serious things going on in the world today? It’s too trite. It comes from another era and nobody’s looking back.”

“On the contrary, Lilly. I should think that light fiction would be even more important in times like these. It gives people a break. A smile, or a laugh… don’t you think living in times like these make people appreciate pleasant things all the more?”

“Not unless there’s something worthwhile in it. Why should anyone care about Stella’s misadventures with the Fat Man, without some secret revealed as to how she comes through it all? There’s no take-away value in a smile or a laugh, Ann.”

“Of course there is. Especially for all the Stellas and Fat Men of the world. Wouldn’t you agree, Professor?”

“I try to avoid those types, myself.”

“You see? That’s exactly what I mean! I say if my scribblings don’t start to contain anything useful, I shall have to give up the pen altogether.”

“Why, Lilly – you’d be dead. You know the only reason any of us have any life at all is because of the stories. Without words we wouldn’t exist!”

“What’s the point of being alive if you can’t contribute something?”

“My thoughts exactly. And being a man of science, I can tell you right now, that in order to be a contributor, a person must first have something to contribute. I told you, you should have finished college.”

“Not that, again. How could I possibly have done all my travels if I’d stayed home trying to finish college? But you do have a point, Professor. I must search through my resources for something of value for Stella and the Fat Man to contribute. It’s the only way to continue on.”

“It’s the only way for anyone to continue on, if you’re looking for secrets.”

“Good lord – I just saw somebody at the window! Who turned the blog on?”

“I thought it might help us regain some semblance of order around here. Why, we haven’t come up with any decent creativity since--”

“But Ann, you know we have to all agree. What’s D. Ann Graham going to say?”

“She’s too wrapped up in the magazine right now to even notice. Heavens, she hasn’t listened to us for days, and you know how that has the worst kind of effects on us. In fact, I’d be willing to go so far as--”

“You mean this isn’t an official agenda meeting? Blast it all, ladies – I’ve got things going back at the lab that shouldn’t be left unsupervised! Now, you’ve --”

“Shhh!”

“What was that?”

“Quick, Ann – turn off the blog!”

What’s happening on the farm today: It is the day the calves on the adjoining ranch are taken away from their mothers. Horrible moaning and bellowings of anguish that will go on for hours. For some even days. It seems language is no prerequisite to strong emotion. For me, it’s the longest day of the year.

Habit status: Day 9 (unofficially, that is)

About the Peanut Gallery…

2006-10-05T13:26:00.000-05:00

“Do all these blog things come with peanut galleries?”

“I believe so, Lilly. Is that a problem?”

“It’s just that I am beginning to like the view from this window. I like the study, here, and the way we all sit around so comfortably and discuss things. Like sort of a family den, you might say. The kind where it’s perfectly alright to say anything that’s on your mind because it’s your own family and your own den.”

“Whatever does that have to do with peanut galleries?”

“Well, don’t you find it’s an odd feeling, Ann, to have someone looking back at you through the window… people from the other side?”

“I tend to forget it’s even open. What about you, Professor?”

“Considering the multi-million vastness of the Internet menu, it would be a rare occurrence if anyone ever dropped by, much less piped up with a comment. Personally, I find it much more incriminating to have to be careful not to use any forbidden phrases. There's machine police out looking for them, and they can go through millions in minutes. New regulations and all that. As specific as one has to be in the field of science, it’s practically impossible for me to beat around the bush or exchange one phrase for another when it doesn't have the same emphasis. I’m more comfortable back at the lab.”

“Speaking of the lab, have the cousins come back, yet? They’re up next on the agenda, as soon as we finish the magazine updates.”

“I haven’t seen them around in ages.”

“I certainly hope they haven’t gone and wandered into one of your experiments. That lab is too full of dangerous things to be letting them flit in and out of it as freely as you do.”

“Experience is the best teacher, and children need lots of experiences. What I have in there is a lot better for them than too many mind-numbing video games. Besides, it keeps them occupied so I can at least get some work done once in awhile. Which is what I should be doing right now, instead of enjoying leisurely conversation and refreshments with all of you.”

“We should all get back to work. The truth is, we’ve done entirely too much of this lately. Blame it on the pleasant atmosphere, or whatever. But at this point in the blog experiment, I would have to say that – considering the amount of work we haven’t got done while we were writing it, it doesn’t make a good argument for continuation of the thing.”

“Nonsense, Ann – do you always have to throw cold water on things? We agreed to two weeks. I don’t think we should take any votes on whether it’s good or bad for us until then.”

“Our weeks, or the rest of the world’s?”

“Ours, of course. And you know very well what day we’re on because you keep track of it on that little calculator thing at the end. You’ll keep us in line, the way you always do. Meanwhile, would anyone like to use what time we have left as a bit of a vacation?”

“Certainly not!”

“I move we consult the peanut gallery.”

“It’s time to turn off the blog.”

What’s happening on the farm today: First week back in my winter office and I can see it has been taken over by wild things. Sitting as it does at the very edge of the woods, the regular occupants of the area were quite disturbed at having me invade their space by being visible through the large windows, again. So far this morning, I have been ranted at by the blue jay family, scolded at by squirrels, spied upon by a dark-eyed thing I couldn’t quite identify that kept peeping through the window, and plagued by a myriad of bugs. I guess it wasn’t such a good idea to grow vegetables under the windowsill, after all.

Habit status: Day 8 (with objections)

Distilling...

2006-10-02T13:19:00.001-05:00

First of all, let’s make one thing perfectly clear. We are not here to discuss the process of making liquor, or even getting Lilly’s characters out of the wine cellar. We are talking about a different type of distillation altogether. Although the general meaning is the same because the goal is to distill information down to its purest and most potent form.

“I hardly see what that has to do with my light fiction, may I be excused? The Professor says he’s on the verge of an important discovery, and promises a great deal of excitement if we will all meet him in his laboratory at ten-thirty.”

“I hope it has to do with the project he’s supposed to be working on, and not another one of his tangents. I don’t mind saying that this subject – in my opinion – has to do with all of our work. It’s much more than just finding the right word or turn of phrase to get a point across.”

“How do you mean, Ann?”

“I mean that in order to accomplish what one would like – in any profession, not just writing – one is driven to scale down on outside activities until optimum energies are directed mostly toward the goal. Rather like distillation, wouldn’t you say?”

“To a degree, yes. And I think you could also say that to do so not only allows one to accomplish what they set out to, but it even empowers them to do it. Thus, the potency aspect. In fact, that’s rather what the Professor’s demonstration is going to be about, although I’m sure his perspective will be much more concrete than ours. I think we should adjourn early and continue this discussion after we get over there.”

“Can we do that?”

“Of course we can do that. It’s our blog, isn’t it? Where’s D. Ann Graham?”

“I think she left already.”

“Then what the devil are we still doing here all by ourselves? “Turn off the blog and let’s go.”

What’s happening on the farm today: The hot weather is back – in October no less! Just when we put all the summer things away and started getting ready for winter. I think the animals are disgusted at the prospect, too. The big dog opened the back door all on his own and marched right into the cool air-conditioning without even being invited. I wouldn’t mind so much except that he never closes it again after he gets in.

Habit status: Day 7 (halfway there)

In Search of the Essential …

2006-09-29T15:39:00.000-05:00

It started with Stella. Oddly enough, I had considered her one of our least serious characters, created mostly to give the mid-life crisis people a good look and a laugh at themselves. But I see, now, that she’s gone quite beyond that. Yes, Ann?

“If you don’t mind my saying so, what happened to her is what always happens when you try to keep things purely entertaining: you go off on some serious tangent. Is it a comedy or drama? That’s what sinks the ship before it even leaves the dock. Always the same old problem.”

“I disagree entirely. Is anyone just one thing? How can we keep the characters true to life if we can’t let them be true to life?”

“True to life, Lilly – if you want to be dogmatic about it – would be a hodge-podge of so many things thrown in together that nothing would make sense. At least not in the brief time-span of a novel. The literary world must be a disciplined world. Going off in some direction that takes you away from the ultimate goal only muddies up the waters. No matter how good or entertaining it is. It’s a lack of discipline, if you ask me. One must stick with the essential element.”

“Ah, yes, the essential element.”

“By the way, how are you and the Professor coming with that?”

“It started off well, but then you know how he is. The minute you spark his interest he starts experimenting. Now he’s setting up some contraption for distilling elements, and I’m to make his amends for not showing up this morning.”

“Oh, for heaven sake – I thought he was hard at work on the Tesla notes.”

“He says everything’s relative.”

“That was Einstein, not Tesla. At least you can give us your own conclusions. Especially if you think they might be beneficial to our work today.”

“Me? I didn’t come to any conclusions. You know how that lab of his gets to me. One has to have a steady nerve to stay in there for very long. What with all those strange –“

“But, Lilly – it was you who brought the concept up in the first place.”

“Yes, but I see now that it was premature. So, I propose that we postpone any further discussion on it until I can further collect my thoughts. And I also propose that we adjourn so that I can get to it. Will somebody second the motion?”

“It hardly seems necessary to use Robert’s Rules of Order, when we are the only ones here. Just turn off the blog, please.”

What’s happening on the farm today: A rare sighting! (for me, anyway) A two-foot roadrunner with that distinctive stride, just marched beneath the window and out through the field. I suppose the overgrown dandelions provide a bit more security for venturing onto the property with so many dogs. I am thrilled. Not only do I love those birds, but they also keep the snake population at bay… and we have had way too many copperheads this year.

Habit status: Day 6 (and still here)

Anything’s possible…

2006-09-28T10:19:00.000-05:00

Another morning of which the rest of the world has had several, while all we have had is one. Be that as it may, let’s get on with things and not be bogged down on why such oddities happen to us, because they do. Simple as that. How’s the agenda coming, Ann?

“I believe we are still in the middle of discussing Lilly’s project.”

“Oh, yes. As I recall, I was about to share something wonderful that happened just as I was trying to get these two women out of the wine cellar.”

“So, you’ve managed to get them out, Lilly – that’s wonderful. At least we’re starting to make progress somewhere.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. What I came up with was not how to get them out, but rather an entire philosophy on how they got in there in the first place.”

“I don’t have time for philosophical discussions on why women lock themselves into wine cellars! I am trying to wade through mountains of material, myself, just to figure out whether the FBI did – or didn’t – confiscate Tesla’s material on a nation-wide defense system. I don’t suppose any of you realize that half that man’s ideas were trash and the other half pure genius? Why, it’s almost impossible to –“

“Professor, would you kindly remember that even though we are alone here, it is still a public forum. With the new regulations in place, we simply cannot be throwing around phrases like FBI or defense systems.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon.”

“But – really, Professor -- I think you’d like this. What I was going to share is exactly the sort of thing you’re always explaining to us. It’s the fact that everything -- and I mean everything – can be broken down into one basic element. Not just physical things, but thoughts, feelings, and even our interactions with one another. An essential element, if you will.”

“My dear Lilly… just when I think you haven’t a reasoning fiber in your being, you astound me with something like this. An essential element – my own thoughts exactly! Can you explain how it is that you came to such a conclusion?”

“She certainly can’t explain it here, this is an agenda meeting, not a dissertation committee. Look at all the space we’ve taken up already, and not a thing to show for it, yet.”

“I’m sure I’m very sorry.”

“Well, at least we didn’t have any catastrophes, this time. Could it be we’re actually adjusting to this thing?”

“Still too early to tell, I should think.”

“We can pick it up again, tomorrow, and maybe we’ll find out then. In the meantime, you two see if you can agree on just exactly what that essential element is, and whether or not the rest of the world might give the slightest care about it.”

“Something universal, you mean?”

“It is, after all, what we writers strive for. Turn off the blog, somebody, and let’s get to work.”

What’s happening on the farm today: After raising two pigs this year, there is not a single sprig of anything growing in the garden area even after four months. The red, sandy soil seems to be terribly depleted of any nourishment whatsoever, even in the compost corner. I am now on a major campaign to enrich it. So far, I’ve managed to drag two wheelbarrows of horse manure over from the barn, but seeing as how I’m so terribly out of shape, it was all I could manage the first time out. Imagine my surprise this morning when it was all spread out evenly and beautifully, as if I had hired a team of professional gardeners. What a delight to find out chickens are good for more than just cholesterol-free eggs and keeping the bug population down!

Habit status: Day 5 (our days, that is)

Return of the Natives...

2006-09-22T08:41:00.000-05:00

Well, we're back. Isn't it interesting how when one makes a commitment, all manner of opposition comes onto the scene to wrest it away from you? Even with the smallest things. First the long weekend. Then a family illness that involved an unexpected trip out of state. Then the magazine is uproariously behind schedule. I wouldn't be half surprised if I made a decision to drink two glasses of water every day at lunch; the well would blow up. Just the nature of things, I suppose. At any rate, where were we?

"We were trying to get more work accomplished by striving for a little more balance in our lives."

"Thank you, Ann, I believe you're right. Now that I recall, we were having some problems with the agenda. Deadlines, time of year, and all that."

"We were just about to put a priority on manuscripts before that little mishap occurred. I hope no one forgot the importance of first drafts, and the difficulties that can arise in continuity when you've left two characters locked in a wine cellar for two months, and you can't for the life of you recall why you put them there."

"Why, Lilly -- do you mean to say you haven't the slightest --"

"We can work that out by doing an edit of what we've got so far. That always stimulates the subconscious and gets the creative juices flowing again."

"It's scientifically impossible to stimulate something that isn't there."

"What is that supposed to mean, Professor? Of course there's something there. You know very well I've completed nearly a hundred and fifty pages of that manuscript already, and --"

"My dear, Lilly, must everything center around you? I'm referring to a person of my background and qualifications having to work with all these kids."

"Now, we're not going to start that again, are we. It's already been agreed that the cousins are very special kids. I'm sure they would never --"

"They're especially exasperating, that's what they are. While I was busy doing that bit of research on Tesla, they've gone and managed to misplace everything."

"Your notes on Tesla?"

"No, I'm talking about the blasted manuscript! They've lost it entirely."

"Oh, good lord! Have you --"

"I've looked everywhere."

"This is terrible -- somebody adjourn the meeting. We've got to take care of this."

"Turn off the blog, Ann."

What's happening on the farm today: We've finally fenced the horses out of the backyard. They are incredibly offended, since they can no longer get into things on the porch or stick their heads in through open windows. But it had to be done. With the new addition going up and so many other things for them to get into, it was just good insurance. And I rather like the fact that I can now grow something in a flower pot and it will not be eaten the instant it pops its head above ground.

Habit status: Day 4 (not really, but that's the nice thing about writing: you can turn back the time)

Who's on first...

2006-09-01T10:36:00.000-05:00

So, here we are again. Considering the fact that we already --

"Yes, Ann, was there something you wanted to say?"

"I was just going to point out that adding this blog to our work schedule is creating time conflicts. Lord knows, we already have enough of those."

"Time is relative."

"I understand that, Professor. But the point is, a person would have to be a genius to manage all this. Which I am obviously not."

"Maybe we can come at it from a different angle. Would it help, Ann, if we brought the work schedule into this blog instead of the other way around?"

"Well..."

"Just forget we''re in a blog at the moment, and tell us what's on your mind the way you usually do."

"It's September 1, that's what's on my mind. It's the time of year books come to the forefront -- if you have any intentions of sticking to publishing schedules -- which leaves nobody to continue updating the web pages. Without updates, people lose interest and don't come back."

"True. We can't stop doing the updates. On the other hand, they shouldn't take half so long as they've been taking. Other people don't seem to have that trouble, they can handle their updates and two or three jobs besides. So what's the deal? Can anyone see any obvious places we could cut back?"

"I think the Professor should answer that, since he took up nearly an hour of everyone's time when he wasn't even on the agenda, yesterday. All that nonsense about atomic number 15, forbidden mechanisms and all that."

"Is that true, Professor?"

"I assure you there is no nonsense to the fact that we are going to run out of one of the most basic and essential elements necessary to all life by the year 2035. Maybe someone should put that on their agenda."

"Good God!"

"Now, you've gone and upset Lilly. Next thing you know, the cousins will be --"

"Somebody turn off this blog."

What's happening on the farm today: Pops just stepped on an egg one of the chickens laid in the middle of the driveway. There must be another varmint stalking around the chicken coop, again... which means there will be adventures afoot tonight...

Habit status: Day 3 (still too far off to make a judgment)

W.I.P.

2006-08-31T13:00:00.000-05:00

WORK IN PROGRESS. I have many of them. Which according to my current calculations should take me until the age of one hundred and fifty-three to complete. Considering the fact that I (like most people) will probably have an unavoidable "appointment with Destiny" by then, one can see why my mind split into so many factions. Sort of a defense mechanism. At any rate, I stumbled onto a viable plan, and it seems to be working for me.

It all began back in my early teaching days, when it was necessary to overcome a very small voice and a huge self-consciousness. How could one get an unruly class to listen when it was impossible to shout over their decibel level? And how could one live with the kind of scrutiny that never failed to notice EXACTLY where you gained a few pounds, or tried to cover something up with make-up, or that you really could use a new pair of shoes? Thus, a cadre of eccentric "visiting teachers" were born that might pop in at any time and totally disrupt working schedules with their own crazy curriculum. It worked for me. How was I to know the longer one leaves on a mask, the harder it is to take off?

These characters continued to follow me long after I left the classroom. They followed me right into my newspaper days and along through my magazine career. When I finally took to writing seriously, my study was entirely too crowded with them and things were getting out of hand. Something had to be done. So, I took a long calculating look at each one and... began delegating responsibilities. For the most part it seems to be working. There are occasions when someone doesn't do their job the precise way I delegated it, or even times when one of them fails to show up. But we deal with it.

Here's how it breaks down:

Ann handles the editing, the web pages, and all the "bread and butter" work it takes to keep the business rolling. Lilly handles the light stuff. Escape reads, humorous mysteries... things like that. Cousins Summer covers the children's and young adult crowd, and the Professor does all our research. The big historicals belong to D. Ann Graham, because there's no playing around with them. She has a habit of disappearing for months at a time, but we all cover for her the best we can. To tell you the truth, the success of the system depends entirely on the ability to keep communications open, which is absolutely vital when so many share the same mind. I admit there have been a few embarrassing mix-ups...

Lilly? Professor? Would any of you like to share? Ah, but I see we've run out of time. Maybe we can take up where we leave off tomorrow. After all, we have work to do.

What's happening on the farm today: A storm rolling in and all the animals are excited and skitterish. A flock of scissortails has descended on the pine berry tree and upset the local residents who live there year-round. But the terrible heat is finally gone and I might even venture outside...

Habit status: Day 2 (I hear it takes two weeks to create one)

Toto, I have a feeling we're not in...

2006-08-30T10:13:00.000-05:00

Well, this is the first time I've looked through this window, and there's a lot of stuff out there. Some of it is inspiring. Some is obviously trash. There are also some things that I have absolutely no idea what they are. But I've always been a good observer, so I'll do my best to report exactly what I see.

Today I wanted to answer somebody, and to do so required a user name and password. I thought it was a "not a kook" test. Which I don't mind anymore than I mind being patted down to make sure I'm not carrying any contraband onto airplanes. Surprisingly, all that security doesn't always keep passengers from accidentally getting on the wrong plane. Which is how I ended up here.

Instead of being bounced back to the original blog discussion I wished to participate in, I am suddenly being asked such things as, "What would you like to name your blog?" and "What sort of template do you choose?" Good lord -- I am now a blog owner! And I always said I didn't have time for one of those. I've heard they're like children: you have to feed and care for them daily. You have to be careful what you put into them, too, or they could end up incredibly scrawny and malnutritioned. Which anyone with even half a brain will notice right off because these blog things run absolutely naked through the world. Another responsibility.

Another long item to be added to my writing schedule. I say long because -- from what I can see so far -- it looks like the thing could go on forever. It's not a work in progress, it's a habit. Standing here at this particular moment, it seems it could go in only one of two directions. It could be a good habit, or a bad one.

I think I'll try for good.