BOOK LOVER

IWSG: Re-reading early works

2026-02-04T01:00:00.000-08:00

Its the first Wednesday in February already. That means, time for the Insecure Writers Support Group post. Click here for the IWSG participant linky and posting details.

This month's co-hosts are: J Lenni Dorner, Victoria Marie Lees, and Sandra Cox. Be sure to visit their blogs and show your IWSG support.

February 4 question - Many writers have written about the experience of rereading their work years later. Have you reread any of your early works? What was that experience like for you?

Yes, I have re-read many of my earlier works. Some of my early work re-reads have sparked new ideas that allowed me to send for publishing. These are usually short stories. Sometimes I read something I put aside, and get ideas to create longer stories. Sometimes I re-read that stuff and get the best laugh I've had in months/years. Like - wow, what sparked that nonsense! And sometimes I re-read and tell myself I can't wait to get back to writing on the project - and it never happens.

Even over the last few years of "not writing" I've revisited several projects, made some editing notes, or actual re-writes. Or just enjoyed reading something I created, even if I did not make any changes (except in my minds eye). I think its a good thing to re-read old projects - I find it helpful to remind myself of how far I've come in my writing journey, but to also remember that I enjoyed the act of creating a story, even if just for myself.

I wrote my first full novella (at the time I thought it was a novel) during high school. It took me about two years to complete. My English teacher read it, and said it was pretty good. He talked to my parents and wanted to enter it into a Children's writing contest of some sort. My parents said no, of course, there would be fees and things they had to agree to. And the book went into a pile of memorabilia. That ended my aspirations at becoming the next Louisa May Alcott.

I don't know why, but I've carried that hand written folder with me all these years (about 50), sometimes forgetting I have it, then finding it again when I'm clearing out old stuff I never look at. Oddly, its never hit the trash bin, though that's always my first instinct. Well, yes it has hit the trash, then I pull it out. When I first started writing again - as an adult with lots of life experience behind me - I re-read it, and thought maybe I should re-write it. But I never have, not even to type it into a computer document.

Its kind of my own secret. Nobody has read it in my family - I don't think so anyways. Everyone knows I have it, but its just my high school thing. And maybe that's why I don't do anything with it. The story defined a period in my childhood, and maybe working on it now, with my adult mind, will take away the innocence of youth, and the dream of a fabulous life after foster care.

The project I'm working on now is sort of a re-read/re-write. I lost it on the computer, but found it in print form. I'm attempting not to make any changes until I get it all in a word document. Data entry first, right?!?

So my own question to you is: do you have anything you kept from your early writing days and re-read just to remind yourself of who you were then, and how far you have come now?

IWSG: 2026 WRITING PLANS

2026-01-07T00:44:00.000-08:00

This post is for the first Insecure Writers Support Group of the year 2026.

Honestly, I don't remember how to make a post after the years I've been absent from blogging. So, cut me a break if the writing is not up to your standards. I actually had to experiment and re-learn how to post on blogger.

The IWSG hosts for this installment are: Shannon Lawrence, Olga Goddim, Jean Davis, Jacqui Murray.

Please be sure to visit their posts and thank them for their support.

I'm going to keep this simple and just answer the January 7 question: Is there anything in your writing plans for 2026 that you are going to do that you couldn't get done in 2025?

Well, write, lol. Or, copy/type into a word document. I'm doing the usual end-of-year cleaning out of cupboards and forgotten stash holes, and found a box that has printed copies of some books I lost in a computer return long years ago. I'm a busy busy person in my working life, so I thought about paying someone - maybe a grandchild that needs money - to just type in from the printed book. But once I started doing this re-typing myself, I found it a difficult job just to write it as-is. That editing demon wants to change every word, or sentence.

So I decided this is a great exercise in writing - or reading - for me. I've always been a harsh critic when reading other writers drafts, and maybe this is my opportunity to learn something about my own writing. From the first sentence I typed I realized I haven't created a word document in so long I don't remember how to set up the header, page numbers, paragraph indentations. As silly as it sounds, word processing has changed so much in the 4-5 years since I consistently used Microsoft Works that I have to relearn almost everything.

Now, you young people probably don't get this, but the world of document writing has drastically changed since I started my secretarial/data entry career. I started with WordStar on an Apple II-e. No, I started in middle school on an Olympia typewriter. Maybe not Olympia, but its the brand I can remember now. But typewriter, and if you've never used one, or never watched a retro show that has one, then don't strain your brain to figure it out. The point I'm making is, I have to learn all over again how to create a document.

I think its a good thing for me to re-start my writing by copying a book I've already written. While initially writing this series I was able to conceive, write and publish several unrelated short stories. I'm hoping that by re-creating this lost novel, I'll get my writing muse interested enough to spark other writings. I doubt the women's fiction trilogy that has been my obsession for the last 12 years will ever see publication, but it has helped me to create other writings that have been published.

And I'd love to be published again in 2026. What about you? Any writing goals that have not been fulfilled in 2025?

FIRST POST, NEW YEAR 2026

2026-01-01T00:00:00.000-08:00

Hello

I'm feeling weird about posting again. Like, restarting an abandoned hobby.

When I started this blog in 2009 by suggestion from an irl writers group friend, I never expected it to go anywhere. I'm not a real life social person, joining the writers group took a lot of courage. The in-person writers group immensely helped my writing career. The group leader was one of the most awesome people I've ever met.

I immersed a lot of my writing personality into the blog life. First, I found people that supported writing activities that encouraged new authors to stretch themselves. To invent, to challenge, to work together. I grew as a writer. I miss those early days of blogging, when the writing journey was everything.

Now, those same blogs are about the sales: how many stories have been written, how many submitted, how many sold, how much money was made, how many good reviews were written. To me, the blogs became a QVC sales event. I couldn't/can't compete; I'll never make it past amateur author. I still like a lot of those people/bloggers though. A "I knew you when" type thing. When the posts were about writing journeys. The writing world has moved on . . .

I admit, I became disgruntled when all the blogs I followed did not publish my writings. But really, I miss those days of writing for the joy of putting words on (computer) paper and enjoying the creation of a story. So, back to the proverbial drawing board for me. I have written. I continue to write for my own pleasure. I have published my short stories in off-beat venues. I may indi-publish my novels, or a collection of my short stories. Someday.

My new year's pledge to myself is to write several times a week. Something new, something I lost, something that may not go anywhere except as a diary entry. Sort of. But all just cuz I enjoy writing, even if no one but me ever reads it. Cuz, ya know; I like writing stories. Even if those stories never go beyond my computer.

New Year's resolution: post twice a month, write three days a week. That qualifies as several times a week to write; yes?

Happy New Year every one. I hope all your writing/publishing/sales dreams come true.

WEP Halloween Horrorfest

2024-10-06T23:36:00.000-07:00

Write Edit Publish has been on sorta sabatical the last few months, but the site has decided to do a special flash post for Halloween.

I'm down; got my story concept. I love Halloween for stories anyways. I love ghastly, bloody horror and thats what I'm gonna write. What would you write/publish for Halloween? Ya know, just for fun.

My entry is shorter than the allowed 1000 words because I'm just out of time to post. I hope its acceptable though.

Title: Dreamer
Genre: horror
word count: 495
All critique acceptable

Tag line: a warriors dream leaves no haven for friends

In the distance bombs burst and flashed, a lightning strobe of orange flames. We ignored the cacophony, the war was no longer our concern. Only the narrow cave mouth drew our attention. Rogers and Shane dropped their automatic weapons and began passing out wooden masks from their packs. Flanning and Peters accepted theirs with dubious looks.

“Put them on” I insisted, securing mine to my head. “We all agreed – too late to back out. By now everyone knows we are deserters and they could have already tracked us here.”

Both men nodded and followed my lead. None of them were certain this was a half buried aqueduct leading to the depths of a temple altar, but they were used to following my lead. I have a sixth sense about dangers, and never get lost in a forest or city.

Rogers handed each of us a torch that stank of fuel oil. We’d light them once inside. The purpose of the masks was to let the Aztec God Huitzilopochtli know we were true worshipers, not Spanish looters. I wasn’t sure how well the masks would protect doubters Flanning and Peters, but I believed.

The dreams were so vivid, so convincing.

I checked the machete looped around my right shoulder, sliding it out slightly and reveling in the smooth pull. The others also checked their weapons – knives, daggers, Peters with a hatchet. I nodded readiness and pushed the others ahead. The feeling of the dreams was stronger now, anxiously pulling at my consciousness.

This was my destiny. My birthright as one of Montezuma’s descendants. I plunged into the thick darkness, screaming laughter.

It wasn’t dark inside. Or quiet. Glittering gold light and echoes bounced off the rock walls. Screams and chanting assaulted me. I called the names of my men, but couldn’t discern an answer. I fumbled in my shirt pocket for my Zippo and lit the torch. The whomp of the ignited fuel seem to silence the echoes and dissolve the light. I called for the men again.

Wooden faces lept at me from the walls. In a panic I dropped the torch and slashed this way and that with the machete. Once I felt a soft impact of something being impaled on the blade, and a voice whispered “NO!” Was that Shane?

Orange light flickered in the distance and I dashed after it. Another voice crooned to me. “This way; hurry,” it urged. The voice from my dreams.

Wet things slithered from the walls and under my feet. Wooden faces and ghostly touches pushed me onward when I fell. Finally I descended into a lower chamber. An altar stood before me, a ring of torch light above. A man lay on across the altar, thrashing and screaming in terror. Flanning.

“The sacrifice,” the Dreamer’s voice suggested.

I tasted the words as they came from my lips. “Yes,” I agreed making my own blood sacrifice with a cut across my forearm. “All of them.”

BotB: Thousand Years

2024-08-16T00:04:00.000-07:00

In support of my dear friend Saint Mac (aka Stephen T McCarthy) I decided to post to this Battle of the Bands session with my version of a tribute to our lost blogger friend Far Away Eyes of the blog Far Away Series. I've know FAE for several years, but I can't entirely remember where I met her in the Blogs. Romantic Friday Writers? Maybe even before that?

A long long time ago I was a part of several prompt writing blogs that no longer exist. They were more like open Writers Group. We'd post to prompts where everyone added a line or paragraph to the shared story, or invent concepts where everyone did some research to justify. And we'd share our own writing progress. Long time ago, things that just died out over time. Somewhere in those first few blogs I participated in (2007 or so) is where I think I first met/friended FAE.

Anyway, I friended FAE long before BotB, before IWSG, or Write Edit Publish or . . lol, long long ago. FAE is one of the first online/blogger friends I met IRL. I visited her during my travels at a few of her homes - she moved a lot. She was such a character. Had a vivid outlandish life. I really enjoyed her company, both online and in person. We had great talks about family, life, writing, and the crazy shit we did in our younger days. I loved listening to all her stories, real and created, and sometimes I could not tell the difference.

Maybe I should have made this post a year ago, but FAE had become reclusive and family oriented during the last year of her life and I respected her wishes. I was happy to see some of her family's Face Book posts about her last days with them; the love that was rekindled, the relationships that were mended, the joy FAE gave and received. We should all be grateful to be that loved and cherished at the end of our days.

I'm hoping FAE would approve of my choice of a battle on this day. A message I'm sure she would send to all her family, friends, and online community. And, I send this to FAE, my friend. I miss you.

First up is the original artist Christina Perri singing A THOUSAND YEARS. Christina Perri's song "A Thousand Years" is about the romance between Bella and Edward in The Twilight Saga. Perri wrote the song with her best friend David Hodges after seeing the movie. The song plays during the credits of The Twilight Saga: Breaking Dawn—Part 1, and fans adopted it as their anthem for the couple's love story. wiki source

If you really know FAE, you know she was sooo into The Twilight Saga. She loved all things YA romance, but this vampire romance in particular. We had some interesting conversations about this Saga over wine and pizza. Yes I've seen the movies (I have grandchildren of the female persuasion, but I have not read the books.) So, it seems fitting to post the Twilight Saga video. Forwarned, here's a virtual tissue. Yep, I cry when I listen to this sappy song.

A THOUSAND YEARS by Christina Perri

Its probably unfair to give a popular, well known artist cover a place in the battle, but FAE loved the controversy and had a stubborn streak when it came to matters of opinion. One of the traits I adored most about our conversations. So here I am, a die hard Metal music fan - but when it comes to evocative Romancey type music, well I'm all about the Pop stars. And James Arthur can sing anything to me, and my saggy boobs and butt will melt to his crooning. No alcohol needed to make me sing along. One of those "guilty pleasures" things.

A THOUSAND YEARS by James Arthur

So there's my battle of the bands submission. Click the linky here to find other BotB participants. And please, don't forget to leave a comment and vote for your favorite version of A THOUSAND YEARS.

COLLECTED STORIES OF AMERICAN INDEPENDENCE

2024-07-04T17:45:00.000-07:00

Happy Fourth of July to all my citizen friends.

WEP August Challenge: Choclat

2023-08-17T02:40:00.000-07:00

Hello All.

When I decided to write a post for Write Edit Publish August flash fiction challenge titled Chocolat, I didn't realize what a real challenge this was going to be for me. I forgot to write it over the weekend, so I've been at this for the last three days on the road. With my Samsung Galaxy tablet. No mouse, no keyboard, no works program. I wrote it on my work computer, glanced at the word count, somehow copied and emailed it to myself, and figured out how to copy it here. No small feat for someone still attached to a mouse. Not sure I can post the required links to the host blog here, so refer to my sidebar links to WEP Challenges.

When I started writing this I had a different direction for the story of prejudice to take. Prejudice is my interpretation of the movie prompt. Then I fell down a rabbit hole of research that led me to Romania (I was looking for gypsies) and discovered the Iron Guard instead. As I read this for a final proofing before I hit publish, I'm nearly shocked at the potentially offensive content. It's the first time I've read the story in its entirety. Well, too late to back out now.

I hope you're not too offended, and I really hope it meets the basic concept of the prompt.

Title: Guarding The Chocolate

Word count: less than 1000

Full critique acceptable

In 1952, Anita Fontain was 22. Her journey to the US, to Iowa in particular, began at her father's knee as she grew into adolescence in Fascist controlled Romania.

As he relayed to his daughter throughout her childhood, Anri Fontain had migrated to France to become a member of the French Foreign Legionnaires. As an orphaned 15 year old with little education and less ambition for the labor intensive Railroad or River boat industries of Davenport, Iowa he’d become infatuated with newspaper tales of adventure, romance and of course, riches to be had fighting for the French interests in the Sahara Desert. His parents, and grandparents, were proud of their French military lineage dating back to the French occupation of Saint – Domingue, and Anri had visions of military glory.

Adventure and romance he’d had, but the riches from war campaigns in Africa and Madagascar never fell into his lap. He’d learned French from his father while growing up, and had become fluent in several languages, including Algerian and German, and was happy enough to be transferred to Romania in 1926 to infiltrate a group of disgruntled Legionaires calling themselves the Leigon of the Archangel Michael. Over the next couple years, Anri immersed himself in the paramilitaryy group’s Orthoodox Christian mysticism, unpopular anti-semetiic, anti-communist views, and abandoned the modern thinking Legionnaires. By 1930 when the Legion had changed its name to the Iron Guard, Anri had become a prominent member of the organization, had married well, and fathered his requisite two children – a boy named Cordrea, named after Anri’s mentor, and Anita, a family name in her mother’s heritage.

Of less importance to the Iron Guard’s cause than her older brother, Anita was allowed the indulgence of education, though her father often remonstrated on the folly of the Intellegencia. Anita learned the art of chocolate making from her mother during the family’s exile in Germany, and later earned a culinary degree in the fine art of pastry making. Although Fascism had fallen out of favor with the end of the second world war, Anita’s father and brother maintained military and political ties to the Party. Their Nazi benefactors kept them informed, armed, and financially sufficient. When the Party secretly issued the recall of the displaced Iron Guard to return to Romania in 1947, Anri and Cordrea were well equipped to return to their prior life.

Anita and her mother had remained in Germany until her college graduation. Without the constant barrage of propaganda and limited social connections allowed by her father during the Iron Guards ascendency to power in Romania, Anita found herself increasingly open to the rising tide of remorse within the German population. The more she learned about the “atrocities” committed by her family’s political associations, the less sure of herself, and her place in the larger world, she became.

In Romania, even as young as 13, she was a gregarious creature, always the center of attention. Parents thrust their children into her life for companions, and many a time she overheard conversations involving marriage between either mother and her society ladies, or her father’s smoking gentlemen. At the time it had pleased her to be so well liked and desired. Her mother had instilled in Anita a sense of pride for their family position, and the obligations that carried, even to the appropriate marriage for both Anita and Cordrea. Cordrea only had aspirations for war and violence; but Anita had her favorites among her potential suiters. She practiced writing her name and title, dreaming of her future children and hosting her own society ladies parties.

She was destined to be a socialite, and until her time in Germany, she was blissfully unaware of the darkness surrounding her sheltered life. And she wondered: did her mother know of the nefarious activities of her husband? Did she approve?

So Anita immersed herself in the world of chocolate, avoiding the growing tensions in her family, in world politics, and the increasing amount of bullying she’d started receiving since her father’s return to Romania. Even her mother had become more secluded, eschewing the company of her new German acquaintances in favor of the familiar refugee wives who had journeyed with them to this divided country. Gone were the animated conversations of marriage alliances, of gay spring parties and summer vacations to Switzerland. They spoke in whispers now especially in public, often reverting to French or English to avoid the scrutiny of authorities that their native Romanian language attracted.

The news of her father’s murder and brother’s disappearance during a political coupe just weeks prior to her graduation was devastating, but not surprising. And came as almost a relief to Anita. She couldn’t imagine returning to Romania now, but also didn’t fancy remaining in Germany. Her father’s friends had discouraged them from returning for the clandestine funeral, and now her mother had begun wearing a green shirt in her mourning. The apparel was drawing too much attention from their German benefactors, whose continued financial support had begun to wan in the last couple years.

Grasping the reins of an uncertain future, Anita decided to take her culinary talents to America. It took a year to secure immigration to Iowa, the birthplace of her father. Davenport reminded her Bucharest with its heavy French heritage and Catholic Orthodoxy. She was comfortable in their anonymity almost from their first day. Her mother’s strange habit of wearing bags of earth around her neck and the green shirts did not cause the stir it had in Germany. She felt no hatred here, only curiosity.

“Chocolate,” she asked brightly to a group of young passerby’s at her booth.

She was determined to make her fortune in this new world, one bite at a time, as she perfected her own divine recipe that would dislodge the dominant Fudge fanatasicm in this city once and for all. Her father would disapprove of her capitalist dreams; but, hadn’t the life he’d made for his family been rich with oppressive hipocracy?

WEP - Gone With The Wind

2023-02-15T03:10:00.000-08:00

Hello;

Yeah, its been about 2 years. Had a lot going on in my personal life. And, I'm using a Samsung Galaxy 10 tablet to pack with me on my trips, and I've discovered it doesn't like to do anything but play games. And pay bills. And I'm posting this - late of course -from a motel room that doesn't like to have plug outlets next to the desk. So I hope I can get this post going.

Yeah, yeah. Excuses . . .

I've decided to post a segment for WEP (Write, Edit, Publish) bi-monthly blogfest. This first post of 2023 is titled GONE WITH THE WIND. Since its February, Valentines, I'm assuming it should be a romance. But, I'm just not there in my mind. So I've taken a different interpretation, and focused on the "Gone" concept. After all, the overall theme of the book/movie is about Loss. Loss of culture, loss of life, loss of dreams. Loss of family.

Anyway, here goes. Full critique acceptable. This is a one-and-done, not part of a larger work.

GONE

“What?”

“I want to talk to Dad.”

“Why, you got something broken at the house?” My daughter never talks to her step dad without something broken at the house and needing fixed. And, Dad. Real trouble.

“Something like that.” And her voice sounded quaverly, hurt.

“What’s up Lori? What’s wrong, really.”

Desperation. “Just let me talk to Don.”

Usually he’d already be out on the tractor or sanding that dead jeep in the garage. But he was moving slow this morning so he was still in the house. He looked frustrated when I tried to hand him my phone.

“Why didn’t she call my phone?”

“You never carry it on you. She sounds stressed, just talk to her an tell me whats up.”

“Yeah.” Then silence. “Uhm, yeah.” More silence, with sidelong glances at me. Then he turned his back on me. “Ok.” Then he hung up and handed me back the phone.

“Ok. So what’s up.”

“Not sure yet. She’ll call again later.” Then he sat next to me on the couch, reached across and tenderly held my hand.

He’s a loving man, but not in an affectionate way. He won’t look at me. I squeeze his hand and stare at him until he looks at me. I’m not affectionate either. I can tell its bad. Really bad was nine months earlier when my middle son shot himself. Nothing else can be that bad. Can it?

“What?”

“Not sure yet.”

The phone rings and I let his hand go. Its Robert’s best friend. I didn’t even know he had my phone number, but I’m not really surprised. That psychic mommy-vibe has been pinging all morning. Kinda woke me up early for a Sunday.

“Whats wrong Zack?”

“Hey Mom.” All my kids’ friends call me Mom. At least the ones that have been hanging out since grade school. Zack is new to the group, only been around five or six years, but he hangs with Roberts long term friends so just fell into the habit with the rest of them.

“Fu—ing whats up Zack.”

“Ha, probably nothing. Hey, I can’t find Robert. He’s not answering his phone. Jenna is freaking out because she lost contact during a phone chat this morning.”

Of course he was texting and driving. Its barely after 9a. “So, how early were they talking.”

“Well, not talking exactly. She was sleeping, but he sent her a bunch of songs. Love songs, haha. She didn’t get the messenger pings until about an hour ago and the last message cut off mid sentence. He’s not answering, so she called me.”

I don’t hear well on the phone, so I have it on speaker. Oddly, my husband isn’t staring at me with a look that says “get a hearing aid so I don’t have to listen.”

“Do you know where he is.” Stupid question, I know, but I’ve already hit the home button and clicked on Life 360 to see where my son is.

“Well, that’s why I called you. Lori doesn’t know either – sorry I woke her up. And the baby.”

“He’s somewhere in Yuba City. Weird. Not really sure where he is. Been there since about 5:32 am. Who lives in Yuba City?”

Silence. My hubby is looking at me now. Hope in his expression.

“Uhm. Nobody. I don’t think.”

Zack would know everyone Robert knows. But, since his brother’s suicide, Robert has been drinking himself into a grave, and not all his friends have been willing to follow him down that self destructive hole. Zack is a recovering addict and won’t go everywhere with his best friend in an effort to keep visitation with his seven year old daughter. Zack hasn’t abandoned Robert, but some of his choices have left Zack behind.

“When was the last time you saw Robert?” I asked, trying to be delicate.

“Yesterday. Well, I talked to him on the phone after he left for Sac. He was going to a Rave with some buddies of ours. I couldn’t go, had plans with my daughter.”

“Sure,” I say, proud of Zack despite my growing concern for my son.

“Anyway, people are looking for him on Facebook, and I’m getting worried.”

“I haven’t heard anything,” I said, catching my husbands eyes. He didn’t look away. “I’ll call Lori and see if she knows anything.”

“I called her before I called you. Said her phone was blowing up.”

“Yes, I know.” I’m trying not to sound angry. Anger is better than fear. Isn’t it?

“Look, Mom –“

“I’ll call you when I find him Zack. You do the same, Ok?”

I hung up and pulled up my Facebook account. I’m not friends with many of Roberts clan, but I might see something. “What did Lori want to talk to you about?”

“Well,” My hubby said. Thinking a minute. “She thinks Robert may have been in an accident. His phone hasn’t moved since about 5:32 this morning, and people are calling her because they are worried.”

Just then I clicked on a Newsbreak link Jenna posted with question marks after Robert’s name and asking for info. There was lots of comments telling how he left the Rave. I couldn’t read all the comments because I’m not friends with all his friends. But everything I saw had links to the Newsbreak with updates on the vehicle accident that took a 32 year old Oroville man’s life at 5:32am in Yuba City.

A car pulled up to the gate just as my youngest son crashed through the front door. He lives in a travel trailer on the property. He didn’t even have his shoes on. “Lori called?”

“Yes, and Zack,” my hubby said.

“Zack’s here. We’re going to Robert’s last Life 360 GPS.” He ran out the door, kicking the dog and his ball out of his way.

Four hours later a Sheriffs patrol car pulled through the open gate. It was open because I already knew. Face book told me my son was gone.

word count: 1000

IWSG: Reasons to Quit

2021-07-07T03:00:00.001-07:00

Hello.

Hello Bloggers!

Nice to see you again. I've been absent from the blogging world for several months and have dropped off EVERYONE's lists. I think I should be more devastated by this than I am. Afterall, I've been blogging since 2009. Like, a lifetime almost, lol.

This month's Insecure Writers Support Group question - What would make you quit writing? - is apropos to my current hiatus.

I've been working. Day job stuff. And playing online games. Merge Dragons is my online gaming addiction. I get to a motel between 8-9pm and don't feel like doing anything except veging out. I just want to chill and not think. Not very writerly of me. Writing is not easy when you have day stuff on your mind.

I'm good at beginnings though. I have a ton of story starts. I get like 500 or 2000 words in, and . . life.

But, I guess the real beginning of the end for me was losing those three women's fiction novels that I spent about 7 years working on. I don't have the time and dedication to recreate them like I did when I started writing. Starting over is just way too daunting. Especially in today's volatile political and cultural environment.

I don't know how to be a writer anymore. I 'm worried that I won't be politically correct. I'm worried that I will offend someone and get sued because I just write people in my head as they appear, and the characters don't always follow "diversity" rules. How do I WRITE 100% politically correct as an American Caucasian hetero woman?

Well, I know I will be back at it again someday. Soon, hopefully, as we begin recovery from Covid 19 restrictions and people return to work. Fantasy is my first love, and perhaps I'll figure out how to write a fantasy novel. At least I can write it well enough for my own enjoyment.

Thanks for stopping by. Please be sure to visit the IWSG host Alex J Cavanaugh, and July's helpers: Pat Garcia, Victoria Marie Lees and Louise - Fundy Blue.

IWSG: Why do you write?

2020-11-03T06:45:00.000-08:00

Happy NaNoWriMo to all those participating. And good luck to you in your creative endeavors.

I'm not a disciplined or dedicated enough author to participate in this 50K word in one month event, but maybe someday. Not while I'm still working a 40 hour a week job for income though.

I am attempting to find more writing time, and this IWSG post is being written a week before the publishing deadline. Progress!!

Since I'm not writing on any of my projects, I have no insecurities or accomplishments to report. I'm just going to post the question, succinctly answer it, and hop around reading everyone else's contributions this month. No, I don't have writers block: I have lots of viable ideas, and sometimes I write those down and save to a word document. Who knows, someday I may have time to expand those story ideas.

November 4 question - Albert Camus once said, “The purpose of a writer is to keep civilization from destroying itself.” Flannery O’Conner said, “I write to discover what I know.” Authors across time and distance have had many reasons to write. Why do you write what you write?

Well, I write mostly because I want to explore What If questions. I write to entertain, or to question, or to inform. I write the stories I write because I enjoy the process, and I hope others enjoy reading my thoughts.

I read for all the same reasons: to be entertained, to explore alternative realities, to expand my world view, to connect with like minded people who are also asking What If questions.

Thanks for taking the time to read my post. Hope y'all are having a productive End Of Year wrap up.

Today's post was brought to you by Ninja Captain Alex J Cavanaugh, and his brave co-hosts Jemi Frasier, Kim Lajevardi, LG Keltner, Tyrean Martinson, and Rachna Chhabria.

WEP: Grave Mistake

2020-10-24T02:15:00.000-07:00

As usual, I'm a day late for this posting. I missed the deadline to add my entry to the WEP/IWSG flash fiction linky. Oh well; at least I finally finished a story. Wasn't sure I had it in me any more. The last Windows 10 update practically wiped my computer, and I've had a rough time getting my Word program re-installed. I almost had to purchase it again. Long story I don't have time to relate just now.

Lets get to the fun stuff.

I wrote a flash fiction! Yay! I started this a week ago, but had computer problems, and work, and family issues. Wow, who knew writing 1,000 words could take so long? But here it is. I don't have a creative title so you're stuck with the blogfest title. And I'm too tired to give proper introduction to this month's WEP Flash Fiction event: Grave Mistake.

Feel free to browse the WEP website for full posting criteria, as well as visit other participants.

GRAVE MISTAKE

943 words

Full critique acceptable

Hump’s feet ran faster than his thoughts. Not unusual; at 28 he still retained his long, gangly limbs and the slim runners body that made him Coach’s pride all the way through high school. Too bad his brain was a bit slower than his distance runners feet or he may have attained a scholarship.

A cacophony of sirens and shouts followed behind him. Ahead, the general populace hadn’t yet caught on that the clammer of the next block was approaching. Quickly, relentlessly, noisily.

God! Why can’t they just give up? Its been 10 blocks already.

The satchel of money cleared the confused market crowd before him. His eyes darted everywhere, not registering anything he saw until –

A darkly clad shape bending into the rear seat of a car. A kid screaming a protest from within.

Escape! Finally. If he could just get in before the cops caught up.

He pounded to the parked car, shoved the being aside, slid into the back seat, and placed the .45 against the screaming kid’s chest. The grounded figure screeched curses and seemed to levitate to its feet. Her feet, he realized, as long nailed fingers clawed at his shoulder in an attempt to pull him out.

Hump ignored her ranting and yelled, “get in the car and drive. I swear, I’ll shoot you both and boost the car if you don’t hurry.”

“Mommy?” the said in a quiet rasp

Mom stared at him for a half a second, and he felt his head filling with a rush of blood and dizziness. Suddenly he felt caught, exposed. Like a deer waiting for the car to swerve into him. Then she slammed the car door on his foot. He groaned, blinked in pain and surprise, pulled his foot all the way into the car, and forcefully latched the door. They were moving almost before he’d realized Mom was in the drivers seat.

Traffic was starting to back up the intersection as the sirens grew more intense. Still, they were three blocks away from the hijacking point before he thought to ask where she was taking him.

“Where do you want to go?”

“Uhm,” he said, trying to think past the sudden headache. Adrenaline, he thought. The crash after the runners high. It happened frequently after after a long, grueling competition. The race is over, he thought. Just need to eat and get settled somewhere.

“Home,” he said, the wondered why he would want to go there. “Your home. Where do you live?”

“OK,” Mom said, not taking her eyes off the traffic.

The kid seemed to nod agreement. Hump looked at the child closely, a girl. Like the mom, she wore a dark hoodie pulled over her head, patched jeans shorts, and nothing but dirt on her tiny feet. Dark eyes drooped in a pale, nearly luminescent face.

He looked up to see that same creepy looking face gazing at him in the rear-view mirror.

“Hey, eyes on the road,” he yelled, and lifted his hands to massage his temples.

Headaches after competition had kept him out of classes too often, but he had never experienced one this intense, or this sudden. Migraines his doctor had called them. He sat back in the seat to rest his throbbing eyes.

The gun! Was his first thought when the sound of the car door woke him. And then “Where are we?

“Home,” Mom said. She turned her back on him and followed the kid to the front door of a run=down mobile home.

Hump blinked to clear his eyes and head. He was dreaming about his family, his home. The memories were so vivid he was disoriented for a moment. Then he remembered. He looked frantically for the gun, found it on the floor, then scrambled out of the car to catch up with his hostages as they entered the dark home.

He wondered how it got so late; it was late morning when he’d robbed the Loomis van, surely they could not have driven through the afternoon, into evening. He checked his cell phone for the time but it was dead.

Loomis van! He turned suddenly to the car, a wave of dizziness nearly knocking him off his feet. But there it was, the money satchel, in the front seat. He grabbed it, held the gun out in front of himself and raced for the house.

Glowing orbs of movement made his eyes and head throb. “Got any food? Juice?”

“We were out food shopping when you interrupted us,” one of the glows said. It sounded like Mom.

Hump shielded his eyes with his gun hand. “Turn on the lights.”

“No power,” Mom replied.

The smaller glow glided to a back door and opened it. There was still enough daylight to dampen her glow, and Hump realized one of his hostages was making a break for it.

“Hey, get back here,” he called, pointing the gun at her back.

“Grandpa needs fed too,” the girl replied.

She kept moving, so Hump followed. IF there was another person on the property he needed to know.

“Yes,” Mom said, gesturing for Hump to follow them out the door.

They hadn’t gone far into the woods, Hump struggling to keep up, before they entered a mausoleum like cave. The two glows nearly merged, blinding him with their brilliance.

An explosive pain knocked him to his knees. Hump felt himself passing out. Another light appeared behind him as he was passing out.

“Thanks,” nearly echoed through his skull.

“Can we go home now Grandpa?”

“Not for a while Little One. We need more power.”

“He has people, family, nearby,” Mom said.

IWSG: Working Writer

2020-10-07T03:00:00.001-07:00

Hello.

Yay for October - Fall is my favorite season. Love the cooling days and warm soil. I just wish I had grass (meaning a lawn) in the back yard. One day . . .

So many things going on in the world its hard to know what one day to the next will bring. Being the ultimate pessimist, I'm not seeing an end to this pandemic. I don't know exactly where the large numbers are coming from, at least not in my area, but it sure is fueling controversy and fear. Should make it easier to write a horror store this month at W E P.

Is anyone out there forced to work from home? I'd like to work from home. Would certainly help me do some actual writing - I think. Which brings us to this month's Insecure Writer's Support Group optional question:

October 7 question - When you think of the term working writer, what does that look like to you? What do you think it is supposed to look like? Do you see yourself as a working writer or aspiring or hobbyist, and if latter two, what does that look like?

I'm sorry I missed last's months IWSG post, I really wanted to answer that question, something about the author to meet or emulate. But that also ties into the concept of "what a working writer looks like." Stephen King is the author I choose to be like. I know he put in his time as an aspiring author, and worked a day job while waiting to be discovered. He wrote short stories, published in all kinds of magazines and contests, and eventually was able to quit everything except writing. Awesome.

I consider him brilliantly talented, even though he has written what I consider some epic fail stories and novels. But I like how he just shrugs it off and keeps going. Proving that just because you make it to "working writer" doesn't mean you'll never see a rejection, or bad review. I'm also a character driven writer, and I think I learned that love of ordinary characters in extra-ordinary situations from reading Stephen King novels. There are plenty of other authors who are my idols, but King is the ultimate fan crush.

Personally, I'm a hobby writer. I don't have the s kill or dedication to put in the time and effort of "working writer." But I enjoy writing stories, and its been gratifying to see some of my stories published. Its a hobby though, much like people who joint pool teams, bowling, display quilts at fair's, You don't have to earn a living at something to enjoy doing it.

Although I'm not blogging much, or writing for publication at this time, I still sit once in a while and work on some of the ideas in my head. I've even finished a few short items, but no editing. Just having fun. One day maybe people will not be allowed outside their homes for travel or shopping. Then my employment will end, and I might take a stab at "aspiring" to be a "working writer" again.

I hope everyone is staying safe and taking care of themselves and their families.

Be sure to thank (by visiting) our IWSG host Alex J Cavanaugh, and his co-hosts Jemima Pett, Beth Camp, Beverly Stowe-McClure, and Gwen Gardner. Check out the IWSG linky for posts, and to sign up if you haven't already.

Oh, P.S: I didn't have any trouble creating a blog post since the Google changes, but I do have issues posting on Word Press blogs. Sorry, still trying to get my Disquis and Word Press ID's to work.

IWSG: Unplanned Writing Genre

2020-08-05T03:00:00.001-07:00

Hello all;

August is here - oh my oh my! And boy, its hot in my area. Made even hotter and more uncomfortable while working with the face covering requirements. Uck. But, we are all suffering - unless you are working from your home, in which case I have no sympathy for you. Envy abounds though.

This post might be a bit of a mess cuz I'm writing from my Samsung tablet and not used to the small screen and one finger tapping. How do people live without full screen, a mouse and external keyboard.

Since I'm not working from home, I'm picking up slack from all the in-store workers who are at home due to Corona-virus lay-offs, and not getting any writing time. So, I have no writing insecurities - except perhaps that I'm still struggling with considering myself a "writer" since I haven't written much even before the pandemic. I'll try to answer this months question. Its quite unusual, that's for sure.
August 5 question - Quote: "Although I have written a short story collection, the form found me and not the other way around. Don't write short stories, novels or poems. Just write your truth and your stories will mold into the shapes they need to be."
Have you ever written a piece that became a form, or even a genre, you hadn't planned on writing in? Or do you choose a form/genre in advance?

I think most of my writing sort of "found me." I don't think I knew much about genres and story classification before writing my first real novel. A short story that begged to be longer and became a book. I thought I was writing something in fiction that Nobody ever wrote outside of nonfiction/biography.

It wasn't poetry, mystery, romance, horror, historical, sci-fi, or fantasy. Definitely not porn, children's or Christian. So it had to be new, never seen before. I was a creative genius! The next Great American Novelist. After submitting to several publishers and getting my first vanity agent, I figured out my genre was Women's Fiction, still haven't entirely settled into a subgenre, and the field is overflowing with aspiring authors just like me.

On the plus side I discovered a new realm of books to read and authors to envy, emulate, and treasure.

With the discovery of blogging (recommended through an offline writing group) I was introduced to even more writing forms and genres. I credit blogging, and several writers groups both on and offline, with the majority of my knowledge and experience.

"Just write your truth and your stories will mold into the shapes they need to be." This quote truly summarizes my writing experiences since I started blogging (2007?2009?). I get story ideas, usually a specific character thumps on my forehead with a specific scene, setting, or issue, and I just write it. The characters choose which form or genre the storyline follows, and I don't worry about pigeonholing such minor details until the second rewrite/editing pass.

Gotta know what genre to adher to for submission, even if you are self publishing.

And for a blog post on the busiest Wednesday of the month this is getting rather long. Time to thank our host Alex J Cavanaugh, the IWSG team, and this month's co-hosts: Susan Baury Rouchard, Nancy Gideon, Jennifer Lane, Jennifer Hawes, Chemist Ken, Chrys Fey.

Have a good one y'all; see ya 'round the blogverse.

IWSG - Industry Changes

2020-07-01T20:12:00.000-07:00

Hey Everyone!

Well, its Wednesday July 1, 2020. Time for the monthly first Wednesday of the month IWSG post. I missed last month's post. And I'm late this month. Not doing well at keeping a schedule, lol. This month's co-hosts: Jenni Enzor, Beth Camp, Liesbet, Tyrean Martinson, Sandra Cox.

The July 1 question is very interesting, but I could not really answer it. There have been many industry changes in the last decade, so what are some changes you would like to see happen in the next decade?

I guess I'm too stressed over the state of the world right now to hope for much good change. And I'm thinking my of MY WORLD - meaning in America, California, my employment and family. I have been working through all the "shelter at home" orders, traveling state to state, always in the public. Now everyone is allowed out, but has to wear a face covering (unless you fall into a ton of exceptions). And yes, I'm protesting because breathing my own toxic respiration is NOT keeping me healthy.

Then there is all the rioting, protests against police and demands to de-fund and discontinue police departments, the destruction of monuments and statutes, and people taking over public facilities so they live off handouts from the system they vilifying.

Yep, lots to write about. But that "industry changes" question still haunts me. What types of story will be acceptable in the near future? Historical and Classic books are already being destroyed or rewritten to reflect today's politically correct society, not the era they were written in. Soon, I can see the criteria for publication being a bean count of diversity, not the description of the story.

Every time I read this post, I'm sure its offensive to someone, or everyone. That is certainly not my intention. I delete and rewrite and rethink what I want to say. Nothing is making any sense. So I'll stop here before I work myself into an unintended, politically incorrect rant.

Be safe out there everyone. The world has gone insane.

IWSG: Getting into the Z O N E

2020-05-06T00:13:00.000-07:00

Hi Everyone,

The first Wednesday of the month has snuck up on me - so much going on in my world. Sadly, its not writing. And being on-line is just about the last thing on my mind - well except to check my bank account and see how close to the red zone I am.

I'm going to jump right into the IWSG question of the month because its very late, I'm tired, and my brain is fuzzier than the Outer Limits beginning credits.

This month's fabulous co-hosts: Feather Stone, Beverly Stowe McClure, Mary Aalgaard, Kim Lajevardi, and Chemist Ken.

May 6 question - Do you have any rituals that you use when you need help getting into the ZONE? Care to share?

Like, oh boy do I!!! Not all are productive - I've been known to let the "getting into the zone" become procrastination and distraction.

If I'm creating a new project, I usually do a bit of research on names (name meanings can be a source of personality traits for characters) and location/setting. Sometimes I have to look up a monster, hero, legend, ethnic group and the like to make the story authentic. I have problems with "voice" and tone, so frequently I have to just free-write a while to settle into the world and character. If that fails, I occasionally need to watch movie/TV snippets to get a certain voice in my head, or read some passages from my favorite books.

Its harder to get into the "zone" with a continuing project. At the start of a session I read several pages of previous writing to remind myself where I am, but also to get into the mood of the story. Sometimes I put on music to fit the over all mood or world setting. If I get REALLY stumped on wording, or the next scene, or how to type the video playing in my head into into a word document I will free write a bunch of nonsense, read a thesaurus, talk to myself, or clean house.

Yep, you read that right: clean house, or other mundane, mindless chores that take my mind off the immediate frustration. The tactic actually does help, unless I get too involved with the cleaning project and forget all the insights I gathered before I get the computer turned on and the story so far loaded with blinking curser announcing its all ready get back into the Zone.

Happy Wednesday Y'all. I'll be around to visit your blogs over the weekend mostly; this is my busy week of long driving and almost no time for sleep or anything else. Stay safe out there, and remember to remain six blogs away from where you really want to be to practice social media distancing.

IWSG: How are things in your world?

2020-04-01T00:16:00.000-07:00

This month's Insecure Writers Support Group meeting is on April 1 - April Fools Day. I don't know about you, but I'm feeling like I'm not getting the joke. Sad, sad times all over the world. And I appreciate the IWSG crew for acknowledging that sentiment in this months optional question.

April 1 question - The IWSG’s focus is on our writers. Each month, from all over the globe, we are a united group sharing our insecurities, our troubles, and our pain. So, in this time when our world is in crisis with the COVID-19 pandemic, our optional question this month is: how are things in your world?

Well, as much as I hate to admit it to those out there suffering, I'm doing pretty much the same as before. I still have my job, my home, my paycheck, and me and all my family are fine. Wish I could work from home!

Anybody out there working from home on decent COVID-19 apocalypse stories?

Happy April Fools Day - just kidding :)

Warrior Muse Blog Hop for BRUISED SOULS release

2020-03-13T02:30:00.000-07:00

Friday the 13th! Pretty cool, yeah? A great day for a horror writer to have a blog tour for her Indi published Short Story collection. Shannon Lawrence at Warrior Muse is celebrating the release of her second Short Story compiliation BRUISED SOULS with a blog hop.

For this Blog Hop, Shannon requests we post one of the following, followed by her book info:
1. Your favorite urban legend
2. Your favorite old wives' tale
3. Something scary that occurred in real life and taught you an important lesson

I don't know much about old wives tales - they usually have some moral lesson involved (boring); and I've had lots of scary situations that did not result in a learned life lesson. Unless that life lesson is "I'm lucky, I survived!) But I do have a favorite urban legend.

Since childhood, anything about Sasquatch interests me - but not in a scary way. I live in Northern California, in the mountains and forests. Recently I moved to the actual foothills, outside the populated urban areas, and so my chances of seeing a Big Foot should have increased from less-than-nil to a-definite-possibility.

According to this historical article, The California version of the Bigfoot Legend has its origins in 1958, with a letter sent to Andrew Genzoli of the Humboldt Times, from several Redding CA loggers who discovered " mysteriously large footprints." The article states "Genzoli said that he’d simply thought the mysterious footprints “made a good Sunday morning story.” But it caught the interest of locals, then the National Media, and finally Hollywood. Ever seen the 1987 movie HARRY AND THE HENDERSONS?

Well, my quasi-belief in the huge, shaggy, Wild Man is not so environmentally friendly - I do like horror stories after all. I see him (them) as tricksters, vandals, and predators; but not sexual predators. Unless they have a taste for beer or whiskey, I don't see the Sasquatch race being attracted to us puny, hairless humans. Except as food. Even a bear will chase, catch, play with, and eat a human if they are hungry or angry enough. I've scientific articles that state humans are not tasty to eat. I wouldn't know as I've never been hungry enough to eat human flesh. With the Corona Virus, and the potential for pandemic death, and the end of civilization as we know it, the Zombie Apocalypse could change my menu preferences. Ya just never know, ya know?

As recently as July 2014, Zoologist Dan Brown was guest speaker at the Lake Oroville, CA, Visitor's Center, drawing a crowd of 160 locals (source), and claims to have personally witnessed, and collected evidence of a Big Foot sighting in the area. In his speech he says "I have actually spotted the animal outside of Oroville with my own eyes." In his speech he goes on to say; "You know, in 1969 on Table Mountain, 11 people saw Bigfoot," he said. "And off of Black Bart Road also. Some people on the lake had sighting, while they're on the lake, seeing it on the shore." Brown also brought with him alleged castings of the elusive animal's feet.

Well, I'm convinced. My husband is an avid watcher of the program on Discovery or AMC or some such, that deals with Mountain Monsters. The Dudes spent some time in NorCal, Redding and Siskiyou County, and it was fun to watch these guys chasing a Thing they called a Big Foot. They had infrared blips, obscure tree knocking sounds, and blury distance views of a being they considered Sasquatch. They even had an episode (though not in NorCal) of some rednecks that claim they shot, killed, and buried a Big Foot. Sadly, none of them remembered exactly where they buried the evidence of their kill; they were drunk and high on the hunt, and scared shitless they'd be arrested for murder, so nobody can pinpoint exactly where the Boys hid the body.

Big Foot, aka Sasquatch, is not to be confused by the other, older legend of The Dark Watchers known to haunt the Central/Coastal Valley along the Santa Lucia Mountain Range. Sightings of The Dark Watchers date back to "Spanish explorers making their way to the California Coast." (source) The Dark Watchers are described as:

very tall humanoid entities ranging in height from 7 feet tall all the way up to around 15 feet tall, dressed all in black and wearing flowing cloaks and wide brimmed hats, with many sightings also mentioning some sort of staves or sticks in the beings’ hands. Facial features are not typically seen, and they are almost always silent, enigmatic figures usually seen at a distance up on ridges silhouetted against the darkening twilight sky, always at around dusk or dawn, quietly looking over and surveying their domain with unknowable purpose and often vanishing in the blink of an eye, especially if one is to try and draw closer.

I live in Oroville, under part of the Sierra Nevada Mountain Range - a few miles south of South Table Mountain. (Table Mountain, and the cascading Buttes to the south east coast line, were formed by the giant Paul Bunyan sitting down to lunch. He chopped off the top of a mountain to form his table, and his blue ox Babe formed the Sacramento Valley while snuggling out a nitch for a nap.) any local legends and tragedies abound in the local bookstores. I think if I were to write them in an anthology it could look a lot like Stephen King's fictional town of Castle Rock, Main. Someday, maybe . . when I'm not working 60 hours a week. But Big Foot is my favorite; and our plan is to set up a digital camera pointing at the downhill creek area of our property in hopes of catching our own distant, blury, mobile figure of Sasquatch to sell to the tabloids for our 15 seconds of fame.

Don't laugh; it could happen!

Thanks Shannon for giving me this opportunity to expose my favorite Urban Legend in my home town. I wish you luck in your book launch.

Title: Bruised Souls & Other Torments: Short Stories
Author: Shannon Lawrence

Amazon pre-order link: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B085N7YCZ3

The Kindle e-book will be live Friday. The paperback *should* be. It will hit Smashwords and everywhere they distribute within the next week.

Blurb:

Fear resides in the soul.

A welcoming widow with a twisted appetite; a war-time evil lurking behind the face of a child; a father’s love gone horribly wrong; a deadly government solution; a new job with a demonic pay scale; a woman trapped in a mysterious house with no memory of who she is or how she got there. These are a mere glimpse of the terrors that lie in wait in this collection of horror short stories, sure to grip the psyche and torment the soul.

My website and social media links:
website: www.thewarriormuse.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/thewarriormuse/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/thewarriormuse
Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/thewarriormuse/
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/thewarriormuse/
Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/profile/shannon-lawrence
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/13836289.Shannon_Lawrence
Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/Shannon-Lawrence/e/B00TDKPOAO/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_5

IWSG: Customs in stories

2020-03-04T03:00:00.000-08:00

Hey Ya'll; I'm back!!

Yep, I signed up again for the monthly Insecure Writers Support Group; hopefully this commitment is my first step in getting back into blogging and writing. Go to IWSG sign-up linky, look at the last number on the list (176) and there I am, lol. If you are not already on the linky, do a girl a favor and sign up so I'm not last in line! Thank ya kindly.

Lets get this first Wednesday of the Month started with the optional March 4 question - Other than the obvious holiday traditions, have you ever included any personal or family traditions/customs in your stories?

My answer: Hmm, I'm really not sure. My home as a child was so strictly regular - or regulated - that I could not breathe. As I grew up, moved out, and had my own children, I slowly tossed away all those harsh family traditions. Until one day, I realized I did nothing like how I was raised.

In fact, I don't believe I did anything much the same from year to year, season to season. Maybe Christmas and Thanksgiving, and summer clothing buying. I always had an unwrapped Santa gift for each kid that only arrived on Christmas Eve (after all kids went to bed), and stockings had the most prized gifts. And unlike my childhood home at Thanksgiving, when we starved all day, cooked, and had dinner eaten and cleaned up by 3pm, I had all day snacks and treats and dinner around 5p. And every summer, there was a shopping spree for new "play clothes". I never had a separation for "play" clothes and "school" clothes - except clothes too stained or ripped to wear to school.

Because there has always been such a lack of tradition in my home, I have a tendency to not have set traditions in my stories. This has not been a purposeful oversight; I just forget to write anything typical like: going to church, having a pet (although we've always had a cat at my house), family reunions, and worst of all, not writing friends and social life.

Perhaps this is why my best stories are short stories and flash fiction. And why it is taking me 10 years or so to edit my women's fiction trilogy: I keep adding some true family life into my characters. Practice practice practice.

This was an interesting question to explore - not sure my answer was as interesting. But there it is. I'm pretty busy this week, not gonna have my computer much, so I will do most of my blog hopping this weekend. Don't forget to visit the IWSG founder Alex J Cavanaugh, and the March 4 co-hosts: Jacqui Murray, Lisa Buie-Collard, Sarah Foster, Natalie Aguirre, Shannon Lawrence.

WEP: CAFE TERRACE

2020-02-20T07:58:00.000-08:00

Happy Birthday WEP!!

This is the first post of the year for the WEP - aka Write..Edit..Publish. And look, I managed to make this my first real post of the year 2020. Writing progress, lol.

I don't have a lot of time for intro - gotta get to work and make that money. So here's the copy/paste details from the WEP linkz post. Hurry hurry to create your own submission.

1. SUBMIT your name to the list below on publication of your entry. Add DL after your name. (DirectLink) We will no longer add your Direct Link.
2. POST your edited entry, making sure 'WEP' is in the TITLE along with the CAFE TERRACE badge within your entry.
3. STATE feedback preferences and word count at the end of your entry.
4. READ other entries, giving feedback if requested.
5. SHARE THE CHALLENGE on social media. Tweets are ready on the WEP blog.
PLEASE NOTE: ENTRIES CLOSE FEBRUARY 21 (NY Time - check WEP blog clock)
ALL GENRES WELCOME except erotica - 1,000 words maximum

LUCID PAST

Sonia coughed and spit a wad of bloody mucus into a sodden rag. The rag had once been her favorite kerchief, the one Carlos had liked so well. Now it was thread bare, colorless, nothing left to hold onto except the memories of love and life and laughter. Sonia missed his laughter more than anything.

She was a large dirty bundle tucked into a deep doorway, though she was thin, scraggly woman of 70 years. Everything she owned was piled under and around her; keeping her warm and well hidden. More than the foggy night creeped in the dark alleys of the abandoned old city center. Her tattered scarf itched and moved, and she dusted a fevered and mittened hand against the knitting, hoping it was wind and not bugs burrowing into her thin hair.

This doorway had been her permanent night home for more years than she could remember. Across the street was a long wooden porch that had seen better years, but somehow had not fallen completely apart. She thought it once must have been home to an outdoor market, and reminded her of the Café she and Carlos met at. Before the war, and death, and so many failures left her just as abandoned and bereft as the city she streets she haunted. Not the same city, not even the same country.

Between the remnants of the farmers market, and the old school like building down the street that resembled the orphanage where she initially made her simple vows. Sonia’s hand fell limply to her side, her breathing slowed, and her mind slipped into a memory of the day she met Carlos. The clatter of broken glass shifting in the wind became the sighing tink of a tambourine.

Carlos was known as The Gypsy Boy, even though everyone knew he was no Gypsy. Tall and lean, in too small, patched breeches and a woolen shirt several sizes to large, Carlos frequently entertained the lost ones and Nuns who ran the orphanage. Sonia’s family just sent her Convent Dowery, assuring another year’s comfortable existence as an initiate, but already the Reverend Mother was expressing doubts about Sonia’s suitability to the religious community. She loved people too much to be effectively cloistered, but the church needed the income, and Sonia had a gift with the children’s education.

“Dance with me pretty Sonia,” Carlos begged, waving his tambourine in front of himself.

The tinkling symbols made her giggle. The warmth of his hand made her heart skip a beat. He took her bread basket and set it on the grass, then bowed.

But no, that wasn’t quite right. Not on that day. That day the Café was just opening, the owner was washing tables and setting out flower vases. Now it was busy with smiling patrons, women and children were dashing across the street to laugh and talk with each other, and Carlos was dressed in the Khaki’s she’d last seen him in. She grinned at him as she had that day, only now trying not to remember he’d been shot as a deserter.

“I don’t think I shall,” she said, now as she had then. “The Reverend Mother is watching.”

He looked around, as he had on that day, and smugly replied, “But we are alone. And the day is fine, and you have inspired a song in my heart.” He danced around her, singing something non-sensical about love and undying devotion.

Her heart leaped with him, and she felt the years of toil and despair fall away. But that was wrong too; she was young, only 17, lush and fully developed beneath her habit. Her tunic was new, her grey veil had been freshly cleaned. She spun around as she watched him circling her, her bare feet relishing the feel warm grass.

“I should be wearing shoes,” she thought. Before her first initiation rites she was the family disappointment, always shucking her expensive shoes and tramping barefoot through the freshly cut grass with the servant’s children. It was hoped life as a Religious Sister would calm her wildness, give her life purpose since she had shunned all the arranged marriage proposals. Unexpectedly, Sonia had agreed to the terms of service with enthusiasm.

Until Carlos. It had taken months of mischievous meetings for her to succumb to his charms. A bouquet of wild flowers appeared in his hand. She took them, inhaled deeply, absorbing the colors and fragrance. He frequently offered her gifts of flowers, bites of pilfered chocolate, pebbles that shinned like crystals, if only in his eyes. Once he wove a ring out of fine twigs and asked her to marry him.

She looked at her left finger, and there was the woven ring. “Not on our first meeting,” she reminded herself, but still smiled at the inaccuracy of her memory.

Except, it didn’t feel like a memory anymore. It felt like a new meeting, in a familiar setting. Everything about their affair was mixed up, but fresh and new. He laughed again, a sound that she loved and craved. More years fell away.

Sonia let them go easily.

“This day will never end,” Carlos promised, pulling the veil from her hair. He’d said that often, and meant it every time.

Stars burst overhead in brilliant rainbow streams, the cloudless day not dampening their brightness. Sonia remembered the New Years celebration before he left to fight a war he didn’t believe in. The promises, the night of romance. She didn’t believe any of it then.

Sonia believed now. She stepped into his arms, swayed with the shimmering tambourine and the sweetness of his voice.

“Yes,” she agreed. Willing it to be THAT day, everyday.

word count: 949

full critique acceptable

NOTE TO SELF

2020-02-05T03:00:00.000-08:00

Note to self: Make a blog post to get back into blogging and writing after a super long hiatus.

Ok, I've created a new post. Mission accomplished, lol.

Now I can go hop around the IWSG linky and read what's up with everyone else. I'll post something more interesting soon.

Thanks for visiting.

TROLL INFESTATION

2019-10-28T19:18:00.000-07:00

Hey Y'all

Sorry I've been absent. Missed a few postings I wanted to participate in. My focus has not been on writing lately. Sold my home - got a great profit! But been in escrow for three houses and still living with family - yuck!!!! Work sucks - doesn't it always?!? Family drama. Did I mention living with family? Not cuz I'm destitute - far from it - but just haven't found a new home to close escrow on. So frustrating . . .

Just too much going on at home to write on anything, or even to blog hop around.

I miss it all though.

And . . since I followed some really good advice and secured my blog so all my friends and in-linkz postings can be seen on my blog - not to mention letting the blog go stagnant for a couple months - it seems I'm having more TROLL COMMENTS than friendly visitors. I deleted at least 12 spam comments from the last IWSG post. Seems the more secure you make a site, the harder it is for the regulars to visit.

Don't we love our electronics.

Anyway - the TROLLS have discovered my blog again, but that's not the reason I've all but abandoned the Community. I have just been otherwise occupied, and expect to be lax here for the rest of the year. Seems a good time to fix my life.

And perhaps I will come up with some good Troll stories while I'm not minding my blog for a couple months.

Good luck to all of you . . .

IWSG: Writing Space

2019-09-04T03:00:00.000-07:00

Hello!!

I am, again, almost late for a post day. Time just got away from me, so I'll make this short and simple. I hope.

Today's IWSG is brought to you courtesy of founder Ninja Captain Alex J Cavanaugh, and his co-hosts: Gwen Gardner, Doreen McGettigan, Tyrean Martinson, Chemist Ken, and Cathrina Constantine.

September optional question is: If you could pick one place in the world to sit and write your next story, where would it be and why?

This is a more difficult answer than it should be. I always thought my favorite place to write is home; then it was a beautiful setting like the beach or some other resort. Somewhere alone, no distractions like work or kids or husband, or cats, or cleaning.
The truth is though, it really doesn't matter how alone I am, or where. I can get distracted by simply turning on my computer - with or without internet. There are games in there, and photos, and old unfinished stories to review that might relate to my current writing
I suppose my favorite writing place should be alone, in a room with nothing to eat or drink, no cell phone, a computer with nothing on it but a word program - - oh look, I wonder what that button/feature does! OR - I could open another document and also write on that new character that just entered my head and doesn't belong in this story.
OR - -

I love writing stories. I really do! I love being in a character's head, creating their world, making up all the rules, making stuff happen, or not. The more twisted the concept, the more I enjoy it. Writing is my favorite way to spend time, or waste it. All I need, is to stop letting myself get distracted. And a beautiful setting to write in, would just make me want to explore my surroundings.

So where is your favorite place to write? Are you easily distracted? Or do you immerse yourself and have to be dragged out of your writing time kicking and screaming, lol. Did you get a submission in for the IWSG Anthology contest?

WEP/IWSG flash challenge: Red Wheelbarrow

2019-08-22T23:15:00.004-07:00

Hey y'all

I've nearly run out of time to post my submission for the Write Edit Publish/IWSG August challenge; Red Wheelbarrow. I had a story started for this prompt, a nicely bloody tale that needed some editing and - slashing to fit the 1000 word count. The MC just would not cooperate however, and finally I had to give up on the flash and go with a short story. Ten year old developing serial killers can be so needy and attention seeking!

So here I am, posting at the last minute with a hurriedly thrown together flash. I don't know where this story came from - I was watching Disney's Epic as I wrote it. I know, the TV should have been off, but I can't stand silence when I'm writing and music would have been a bigger distraction.

Hope you enjoy twisted fairy tales. No Denise, no blood in this, hence the lack of reader warning, lol.

word count: 868
full critique acceptable

FAIRY JAM

“What happened next Granny?”

“Well, that part is unclear. The little Fairy hid a long time under the red wheel barrow. So long in fact, that the sun was nearly set before she dared peek out. But then,” Granny’s voice lowered and she leaned closer to the troll girl’s bed of rocks.

Gwenda leaned forward, her eyes almost humanly round and wide.

“Then,” Granny drawled, pinching the blanket of moss for dramatic effect. “A firefly buzzed around the wheel barrow, and then another, and another. And then the voices.”

Gwenda shrank back with a horrified gasp. “Was it . . Children?”

“Yeesss! Two boys and three girls. They carried nets, and glass jars with screw top lids. They laughed and squealed at the sight of the fireflies, jumping all around and over the wheel barrow. They stomped, and leaped, kicking the sides and handles of the barrow. It got darker and darker, and only the tails of the fireflies lit the garden area where the Fairy cowered in fear.”

Granny scooted back into her rocker, picked up a fried human ear, dipped it in sludge and chewed noisily. Mimicking the scared Fairy, Gwenda clutched her favorite petrified rat and tried to sink deeper into the rock pillow.

“Scared?” Granny asked brushing crumbs from her lips.

Gwenda shook her head, dislodging an earwig that had gotten stuck in the crevice of her neck. Granny’s scary stories were the best park of spending the day.

“Good girl. Now where was I? Oh yes. The little Fairy was trapped under the red wheel barrow, the Children racing all around, chasing the fireflies.”

“Did they catch them? The fireflies? Why can’t they just turn off their tails and disappear into the dark.”

“Oh yes, they caught them. The fireflies can turn off their lights, but they are too stupid to do so for long. They think the flashes ward off predators. Even us Rock Trolls dare not eat a firefly, they are poisonous even to us.”

“But aren’t the Children predators?” Gwenda sat boulder straight, pulling her knobby knees into her chest.

“Not like us. They just don’t know any better. Children think its just fun.” Granny dipped another ear and offered it to Gwenda.

Gwenda nibbled on a lobe, then asked; “Did the Children run away after they caught the fireflies?” She would be very disappointed if they did.

“No, no. Once they had the fireflies in a jar they wanted to watch the bugs flash about. So the boys reached down, gripped the edge of the wheel barrow, and flipped it on its wheel.”

“They let the Fairy escape?”

Granny laughed, a soothing sound like boulders rolling down a cliff. “They did not know she was there, now did they?”

Gwenda thumped the side of her head to dislodge the rocks weighing down her thinking. Of course the Children did not know the Fairy was there. They were preoccupied with the fireflies.

“Luckily, the Fairy was too shocked at her sudden release to immediately take flight. She was still clinging to a paint chip when one of the girls hopped inside, she nearly squished the Fairy with fingers.”

Gwenda licked her lips at the thought of Fairy jam. Blue Fairies were tastiest, but red ones were rare so worth the faint sweetness. “What color was she Granny?”

“Huh? Oh, green, I think. Green apple.” Suddenly Granny dropped her half eaten ear back into the gourd and shoved it away. She must have been thinking about Fairy jam too.

“But she didn’t get squished.”

“Nope. The Girl Child screamed and pulled her hand away. The Fairy jumped high, flapped her wings twice, and dashed straight into a jar one of the boys had quickly grabbed. Then he closed the lid tight and held it up for all the Children to see.”

“I wish I could see her in that jar,” Gwenda said angrily, rubbing her fingers together in a squishing motion. “Maybe it was the Fairy that released my butterflies.”

“Hehehe. Maybe.” Granny peered at the dimming stalagmites above Gwenda’s bed. “Grampy’s closing the cave, dawn is coming. Its time for all good Trolls to get some sleep.” She leaned over the bed to kiss Gwenda’s nose.

“But the story Granny! I have to know what happened.”

“I’ll finish tomorrow. I promise.”

“I get to stay another night? Yipee!!” Gwenda rolled around her rock bed, grinding small stones with her knees and elbows.

Granny gave a grin the size of a cave mouth and turned to leave.

Gwenda was pulling the moss snugly around her when the rocks in her head shifted again and she had a sudden thought. “Granny, is this a true story? How do you know about the little Fairy and the Children?”

Granny winked. “Perhaps, perhaps not. You know how unreliable bats can be. Good morning little one.”

Gwenda yawned, her thoughts drifting to a red wheel barrow she had seen near a human farm the night before. If it was still there, the little Fairy might still be trapped in the jar.

She fell asleep dreaming of green apple Fairy Jam, and the gossip the Bats would spread about Gwenda’s great battle with the monstrous Children.

****
This writing is part of the WEP/IWSG bi-monthly flash challenge. Click on this link for a list of other participants and challenge rules.

IWSG: Writing Surprises

2019-08-07T03:00:00.000-07:00

Hey y'all - How's your summer going? I'm in sales and merchandising, so my summer is pretty much ended, and I'm already planning winter gear and Christmas. Ugh, I've always hated thinking about Christmas before the Thanksgiving Turkey is even baked.

Just goes to show how things don't always turn out as you planned, right?

Welcome to the August 2019 edition of the Insecure Writers Support Group, hosted by Alex J Cavanaugh and his minions Renee Scattergood, Sadira Stone, Jaqui Murray, Tamara Narayan and LG Keltner. This month's optional question is:

Has your writing ever taken you by surprise? For example, a positive and belated response to a submission you'd forgotten about or an ending you never saw coming?

Well, my first short story submission received its acceptance eight months after submission, and was published nearly a year after acceptance. I had given up on the submission after three months, and forgotten the story - and pretty much lost heart in short story writing - within six months. I went back to writing on my novel, which had lots of good feedback for revision, but seemed just as hopeless for publication.

When I got a call from the publisher at Bewildering Stories I was stunned into nearly speechlessness. My response was, of course "Is this a joke?" The ezine held onto the story longer than most, had many many staff discussions regarding the content (8 year old boy takes gun to school) and finally the staff decided that if it was that controversial among the staff, it needed to be published.

And that started me on the path to writing and submitting controversial content. Its still scary, but I believe sometimes you gotta stretch yourself if you want to take steps to achieve your goals.

Not that I always persevere, or succeed, but I am less fearful of putting my writing out there, and more accepting of disappointments. What can I say - if it can happen once, it can happen twice! And some day, that novel trilogy I'm re-working on might get traditionally published.

There is hope is accepting the unexpected.

IWSG: Characterizing Me

2019-07-03T03:00:00.000-07:00

Hello Everyone

I am happy to be back posting again with Insecure Writers Support Group. I haven't been writing over the last couple months, so no awesome or worrisome news to report. Busy busy with the day job. But I'm taking some time off for 4th of July, and that is perfect timing to hop around the blogs. On Friday though, as I'll be working out of town today, and cooking and spending time with family on Thursday. Hope you all have wonderful Holiday plans.

July's optional question is: What personal traits have you written into your character(s)?

I think every author writes a bit of themselves into their favorite characters - be they protagonists, antagonists, or secondary/supporting characters. My hero's have traits of myself that I like (mostly) and at the least have the heroic qualities I wish I have. I have them reading my favorite books, listening to my music, consuming foods and drinks I like (or wish I could imbibe). They will have some of my quirks, expound some of my political and social views, and even occasionally raise their children as I did.

The villains, of course, harbor some of my less than acceptable habits, and act on my anti-social desires. They are the ones that benefit most from my social worker studies into psychology and addictive behaviors.

My secondary characters, and I think these are more often my favorites than the protagonists, have a whole list of my quirks and off center sense of humor. Their special talent is to be the voice of reason, or conscious, of the protag or antag. They keep the story theme in the reader memory, add light humor, distract from intense situations, or do the dirty work. Dirty work can be immensely fun and satisfying, lol.

I think writing a touch of myself into my characters is like Alfred Hitchcock, Stephen King, and Stan Lee making minor appearances in their movies. I need to see a bit of myself in the work, as a type of reward for all the hard work of creating the worlds and characters/creatures that make it onto the page and imprint into the viewer minds.

Thanks for stopping by today; I can't wait to read everyone's take on this question, and catch up on the latest blogger news.

The co-hosts joining our industrious leader Alex J Cavenaugh this month are: Erika Beebe, Natalie Aguirre, Jennifer Lane, MJ Fifield, Lisa Buie-Collard, and Ellen @ Cynical Sailor. Please give them a heartfelt thanks by visiting their blogs and leaving awesome comments.