Imagine with me, if you will, this one day that I dream of...
Waking up to a sun flecked morning, the air once again filled with the heady spice of stranded kelpy and balsam fir pitch. The sun beckons me out of my old bed early through the dormer windows, the kitties meowing about my feet as I stumble about to make coffee. I drink my coffee on the tiny front porch, the wind swishing about the trees by our little cabin nestled in the Sussex hillside. Our only neighbour the forest, stretching on and on with whispered invitations to explore, to know, to love, each and every tree.
Winnie, my gypsy cob, knickers at me from her corral, for she is eager for her breakfast too. As I bring her a pail of grain and some hay, her beauty catches my breath. Her long, white mane flowing gustily in the breeze, the long hair about her feet dancing about as she steps around to greet me with a gentle nuzzle into my neck. I reach up to scratch her neck and she eyes me with that look. That look that says, "this is a morning for riding."
I glance up to our bedroom window; Mike would be sleeping for a few hours yet. When Winnie had had her fill, I carry out the tack and saddle her. Her excitement builds as I mount her and we wind our way down quiet dirt lane that leads both away and home again with unerring faithfulness.
The morning is fresh, promising a hot day, but for now the dew is not yet dry and shivers hide in the shadows. The chickadees frolic in the trees above us and they, like me, must wonder what faerie tale they've wandered into.
We arrive at our destination, the natural amphitheatre, in good time, the happy friendly birds still with us and their joyous song echoing off the green vestured walls and mingling with the music of the trickling water. Lush ferns and grasses live and flourish upon the steep slopes rising up from our tiny trail and the brook beneath us. I let Winnie graze there as I sit upon a large stone and attempt once more to write out the beauty that surrounds me. She teasingly nuzzles my notebook but sees that I am deep into my thoughts and moves off.
I watch her leave, this gypsy cob that surely must have descended from the unicorns, home at last in this natural faerie realm and watched over by the faerie folk that inhabit this valley. The water sprites whisper in the music of the brook, and tiny elves peek out from behind the rocks and ferns. A wood nymph eyes Winnie closely as she gently nibbles at some clover beneath his tree, but with deep reverence, she is careful not to harm the old aspen, and the wood nymph sighs with relief.
All too soon the sun gets higher and hotter, and I've no mind for Winnie to have a rider in the heat of the day. As we ride back home again I tell her stories of the trees I've known, and the stories they have told me as she listens intently, plodding along at her own pace. When we reach our hill, I dismount and walked alongside her, still telling her the stories she seems to love to hear.
Gillie joyfully runs down the lane to meet us, meowing his welcomes, and both he and Winnie pause to sniff each other and receive the olfactory gossip we humans are not privy to. As we round the bend, our little log cabin comes into view and I see that Mike is awake and having his coffee now. He smiles at our oddball trio, his eyes full of love for us and happiness for his life.
That would be a great day.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
queries, rants, and snowshoes
What of this thing called a query? A thing quite essential to getting someone to read your book, that's what. If you google 'query' you're going to get approximately 50 million hits on what not to do. I question how helpful that is. In the end, it all comes down to this wee little paragraph which is apparently the most difficult task to writing a book. It's intimidating, that's what it is. So many rules, so few words. What's a writer to do? In the end, I suppose if you have your eyes open, and you've written you're words as clearly as possible without sounding wooden, you've got to try. Those 50 million hits are going to keep your manuscripts in a drawer forever. Take a chance, send it out. If nothing happens, do it again...and again...and again forever perhaps. Having faith in one's work is the only thing that really gets the job done.
I've noticed lately that I've matured when it comes to criticism. I don't take offense or go off broken hearted like I used to, and if it's someone I trust, I actually go back and re-read the section they thought needed help, and generally I do see that they are right, and fix it up. Perspective is everything. I'd apply the same need for criticism to the query letter. The real issue is finding someone you trust to read things. It isn't all that easy - how's the new baby, want to read a manuscript for me? Getting a literary agent or publisher to read your book is hard, but so is getting a trusted person to read it. If you're lucky enough to belong to a writer's group, well you've got it made. If you are a lone writer in a very small town, things get iffy. So here's a question for you - does anyone know of a literary group that work online from far away? I'd be ecstatic to find that. Or create that, if you're interested.
Alright, enough with the writing and ranting. We had a wee snowfall last week, that didn't last of course but still had me all excited for snow. Yesterday I picked up a new pair of snowshoes. They are taunting me from the corner as we speak, promising all sorts of grand snowy adventures wandering through the woods. Couldn't I at least put them on and wander about the house for a little while, ripping up my wooden floors with the crampons and generally terrifying the cats? Silly snowshoes, behave thyself. They have also suggested that we get in the truck and drive to Alaska for a few days of tramping about, just to make sure we like each other. I don't want to point any fingers, but the truck was warmed up and the snowshoes sat innocently in the passenger seat with a toque and mitts sitting beside them when I awoke this morning. I shook my head, no, it's Hallowe'en tonight and there will be little monsters about that I don't want to miss.
Hmmm...wouldn't snowhoes make a great costume?
I've noticed lately that I've matured when it comes to criticism. I don't take offense or go off broken hearted like I used to, and if it's someone I trust, I actually go back and re-read the section they thought needed help, and generally I do see that they are right, and fix it up. Perspective is everything. I'd apply the same need for criticism to the query letter. The real issue is finding someone you trust to read things. It isn't all that easy - how's the new baby, want to read a manuscript for me? Getting a literary agent or publisher to read your book is hard, but so is getting a trusted person to read it. If you're lucky enough to belong to a writer's group, well you've got it made. If you are a lone writer in a very small town, things get iffy. So here's a question for you - does anyone know of a literary group that work online from far away? I'd be ecstatic to find that. Or create that, if you're interested.
Alright, enough with the writing and ranting. We had a wee snowfall last week, that didn't last of course but still had me all excited for snow. Yesterday I picked up a new pair of snowshoes. They are taunting me from the corner as we speak, promising all sorts of grand snowy adventures wandering through the woods. Couldn't I at least put them on and wander about the house for a little while, ripping up my wooden floors with the crampons and generally terrifying the cats? Silly snowshoes, behave thyself. They have also suggested that we get in the truck and drive to Alaska for a few days of tramping about, just to make sure we like each other. I don't want to point any fingers, but the truck was warmed up and the snowshoes sat innocently in the passenger seat with a toque and mitts sitting beside them when I awoke this morning. I shook my head, no, it's Hallowe'en tonight and there will be little monsters about that I don't want to miss.
Hmmm...wouldn't snowhoes make a great costume?
Saturday, October 16, 2010
the Art of Secret Noveling
It was grade six when I perfected my art. The awkward, funny grade six where boobs begin and one has to become accustomed to wearing things like bras. Very strange indeed. Stranger still for boys who had to get used to noticing that girls wore bras, and that those bras could be snapped.
I wasn't what you'd call popular, or even cool, but I had my niche. I was the nerdy kid who loved English class and didn't seem to have the proper hatred of spelling every proper grade sixer had. I didn't even struggle too much despite the fact that I rarely paid attention in class. I was an avid note-taker, or so my teachers thought as I wrote furiously in my notebooks. The perfect student really, unlike any grade sixer they'd ever seen. At least, I assume so based upon my report card comments and lack of any reprimand.
I wasn't taking notes at all, I merely wrote down the most meagre of necessities to get me through my unchallenging classes. I was writing, though, oh yes I was writing furiously; secretly writing story upon story and even the occasional poem.
At recess my friends would gather round to read them, giving much praise and no real criticism at all. That was my niche, to provide stories for the others to read and come up with the imaginary details necessary to survive middle school. Then, I was fascinating. Without those words, I was merely a nerdy usurper into their ranks.
Stories back then were always ten handwritten pages long, never once edited, never judged harshly, and never read beyond the class. "The writer" was my identity, my niche.
There was a joy to that secret writing I haven't grown out of. A naughty adventure in my otherwise very well-behaved day that I relished. It still amazes me how good I was at getting away with it back then, simply by leaning my binder between my belly and my desk so the teacher couldn't see what I was writing all along. Unless, of course, they were behind me. With one eye in the present I could see that coming and simply cover up my looseleaf stories with my class notes. When I was stuck on a word or unsure of how my protagonist should proceed, I would simply stare at the teacher intently and get lost in my musings while they believed I was hanging on their every word. No harm done, really, and great deal of pre-adolescent literature was thus produced.
A recent NaNoWriMo post was dealing with the adventures of secret noveling at work. Delicious. BUT...I do have a good job I'd hate to lose, so those adventures will have to wait for another day.
I wasn't what you'd call popular, or even cool, but I had my niche. I was the nerdy kid who loved English class and didn't seem to have the proper hatred of spelling every proper grade sixer had. I didn't even struggle too much despite the fact that I rarely paid attention in class. I was an avid note-taker, or so my teachers thought as I wrote furiously in my notebooks. The perfect student really, unlike any grade sixer they'd ever seen. At least, I assume so based upon my report card comments and lack of any reprimand.
I wasn't taking notes at all, I merely wrote down the most meagre of necessities to get me through my unchallenging classes. I was writing, though, oh yes I was writing furiously; secretly writing story upon story and even the occasional poem.
At recess my friends would gather round to read them, giving much praise and no real criticism at all. That was my niche, to provide stories for the others to read and come up with the imaginary details necessary to survive middle school. Then, I was fascinating. Without those words, I was merely a nerdy usurper into their ranks.
Stories back then were always ten handwritten pages long, never once edited, never judged harshly, and never read beyond the class. "The writer" was my identity, my niche.
There was a joy to that secret writing I haven't grown out of. A naughty adventure in my otherwise very well-behaved day that I relished. It still amazes me how good I was at getting away with it back then, simply by leaning my binder between my belly and my desk so the teacher couldn't see what I was writing all along. Unless, of course, they were behind me. With one eye in the present I could see that coming and simply cover up my looseleaf stories with my class notes. When I was stuck on a word or unsure of how my protagonist should proceed, I would simply stare at the teacher intently and get lost in my musings while they believed I was hanging on their every word. No harm done, really, and great deal of pre-adolescent literature was thus produced.
A recent NaNoWriMo post was dealing with the adventures of secret noveling at work. Delicious. BUT...I do have a good job I'd hate to lose, so those adventures will have to wait for another day.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Blog of doom?
I'm not a particularly computer-oriented person, so the whole blog idea is an alien being invading my fingertips and forcing me to enter the 20th century. And by that I mean the 21st century. I still write my fiction longhand with a dipping pen so how am I going to pull this off?
Why am I doing this? I'm still reeling from last week's bitter rejection of my very first novel. It's not even the rejection that really hurts, I know these things take time. Its the fact that they shredded her. They shredded my own book-child, with all of my honest and vulnerable words, aborted and chopped up by some evil dictator who didn't like her sense of the world. Writing right now is the hardest thing to face, I'd rather numb myself with bad TV. I don't even enjoy TV, it just means that I don't have to feel for a little while.
Really, it's only been a few days but it's time to feel something even if it turns me into a weepy mess of a woman for a while. No one needs to know, right? So I've created this blog and signed up for Nanowrimo in a crazy attempt to walk right past all those demons of discouragement, re-read my novel child, and send her off to someone else in the great, scary publishing world.
Nanowrimo, or National Novel Writing Month (November), is an idea I can only presume was hatched by a group of escaped mental patients wishing to drive a greater chunk of the population over the edge to join their ranks. Or, possibly, an inspiring group of creatively driven souls who are willing and able to push that same chunk of the population off the couch and into their imaginations. They accomplish both of these tasks by goading, encouraging, and inspiring their members to write a 50 000-word novel in 30 days. My mom hooked me up with them. Imagine that. Crazy? Yes. Inspiring? Absolutely. Just the thing to get me out of my creative stupor.
Now my only problem is - what do I write about? There are two novels in my head right now, bouncing around and noisily piecing their plots together. One is the sequel to my chopped up novel child, the other a rather epic fantasy based on a recurring dream I had during my teenage years. Maybe I should just write them both. In one month (she laughs, but there is fear in her laughter).
The point is writing again. Working out my fears, my sense of loss over that shredded hard copy (as if I don't have a copy on the computer, in my desk, and safely on my mother's nightstand) of my poor book. That's right, putting pen to paper again and laughing at paper shredders everywhere. Apparently, I seem to be doing that already. Phew.
Why am I doing this? I'm still reeling from last week's bitter rejection of my very first novel. It's not even the rejection that really hurts, I know these things take time. Its the fact that they shredded her. They shredded my own book-child, with all of my honest and vulnerable words, aborted and chopped up by some evil dictator who didn't like her sense of the world. Writing right now is the hardest thing to face, I'd rather numb myself with bad TV. I don't even enjoy TV, it just means that I don't have to feel for a little while.
Really, it's only been a few days but it's time to feel something even if it turns me into a weepy mess of a woman for a while. No one needs to know, right? So I've created this blog and signed up for Nanowrimo in a crazy attempt to walk right past all those demons of discouragement, re-read my novel child, and send her off to someone else in the great, scary publishing world.
Nanowrimo, or National Novel Writing Month (November), is an idea I can only presume was hatched by a group of escaped mental patients wishing to drive a greater chunk of the population over the edge to join their ranks. Or, possibly, an inspiring group of creatively driven souls who are willing and able to push that same chunk of the population off the couch and into their imaginations. They accomplish both of these tasks by goading, encouraging, and inspiring their members to write a 50 000-word novel in 30 days. My mom hooked me up with them. Imagine that. Crazy? Yes. Inspiring? Absolutely. Just the thing to get me out of my creative stupor.
Now my only problem is - what do I write about? There are two novels in my head right now, bouncing around and noisily piecing their plots together. One is the sequel to my chopped up novel child, the other a rather epic fantasy based on a recurring dream I had during my teenage years. Maybe I should just write them both. In one month (she laughs, but there is fear in her laughter).
The point is writing again. Working out my fears, my sense of loss over that shredded hard copy (as if I don't have a copy on the computer, in my desk, and safely on my mother's nightstand) of my poor book. That's right, putting pen to paper again and laughing at paper shredders everywhere. Apparently, I seem to be doing that already. Phew.
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