tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36211271605366577782024-03-05T03:06:05.619-08:00Just My TypeA journal of my progress in reading, in writing, in lifeL.A. Whartonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01003746356056180556noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3621127160536657778.post-87543952904758689292012-05-14T00:30:00.000-07:002012-05-14T17:09:59.702-07:00MY FIRST LOVE<br />
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<img border="0" dba="true" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrRo1Po6jxksOmMiScc79bfMVXEp5HEYi45f1NaMVqWrTX_IGdNTHuqit6RdbvDJ3BxHlUxPyvn-PUjmjNApefdw0YIy-6kWt9bjvsiYtx75k4JraTSAtHaNeregcgbWPMNbE1EUZIUbs/s200/firstloveblogfest.jpg" width="200" /></div>
<br />
This is my first blogfest. I'd like to thank <a href="http://alexjcavanaugh.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Alex J. Cavanaugh</a> for the opportunity. <br />
<br />
There are four areas specified by this blogfest: books, movies, music, and people. Since I'm new at this, I'm only going to choose one.<br />
<br />
I intended to choose a lover/boyfriend/unrequited love but, in thinking back, I remembered my very first love of all. Memories popped out at me with images so clear and striking and heart stopping, I felt as if I were there. <br />
<br />
The years melted away in a heartbeat and I was five years old again waiting for the front door to open. Like a wriggly puppy unable to physically contain my joy, I would run to him the moment he stepped inside the house and be swept up in his big, powerful hands, tossed into the air to my exhilarated squeals, heart pounding wildly. He'd catch me like a football, hands around my belly, then fly me through the front room, Peter Pan style. <br />
<br />
"There's my girl," he'd say as he carried me into the kitchen where mom burned dinner in her 1950s apron and gingham house dress. They would hug and kiss with me squeezed between them floating in the cocoon of love they wove around me. Safe in my cozy little world.<br />
<br />
Yeah, it may be cliche, but my first love was my daddy.<br />
<br />
That safe little world is gone now. I'm sixty, just got laid off and feeling deeply alone and vulnerable in the harsh reality of a hostile world. My father is almost ninety now, stooped and frail with cloudy eyes, a failing heart and a mind that struggles to be some small part of what it once was, but sometimes I still see him through the eyes of that little girl--tall and handsome and strong and with love shining bright in his blue, blue eyes.<br />
<br />
He was my first hero. He flew me to bed so I could feel like TinkerBell. He read me stories of wonder as I fell asleep. When I wanted to touch the stars, he stood me on his steady shoulders to help me get closer and told me to reach. And when I asked questions he not only answered them but set up demonstrations and drew diagrams. He was never too tired or impatient to listen. He's the man I've compared all others to in my life.<br />
<br />
He's my dad and he was my first true love. I am and will forever be his little girl.<br />
<br />
Love ya, dad.L.A. Whartonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01003746356056180556noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3621127160536657778.post-38820768856687858782012-04-11T11:53:00.003-07:002012-04-11T11:53:41.743-07:00MY HEROHeroes in romance novels vary widely but they mostly seem to be handsome, physically powerful, intelligent and wealthy.<br />
<br />
This must be what most women are attracted to, but I'd be more likely to fall in love with the everyday hero. The kind of guy who stands up to life's challenges without complaint, who has plenty of support to give no matter what he's going through, and isn't afraid to be vulnerable.<br />
<br />
My hero doesn't have to be drop-dead gorgeous or have six-pack abs or bulging biceps. He doesn't have to be rich or witty or really even all that smart. My hero is a little off-beat, makes me laugh and is there for me, always. <br />
<br />
Okay, maybe I wouldn't turn down a spin with a great-looking guy with six-pack abs and loads of money. Throw in a little angst, smoldering eyes and unruly dark hair and I'm all in, at least for awhile.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />L.A. Whartonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01003746356056180556noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3621127160536657778.post-1464974236723087752011-03-23T00:11:00.000-07:002011-04-10T16:32:16.236-07:00A Layered WriterTrying to meet a deadline for the Nocturne Cravings pitch at <a href="http://community.eharlequin.com/forums/write-stuff/editor-pitch-challenge-nocturne-cravings">eHarlequin.com</a> has taught me a few valuable lessons about writing.<br />
<br />
First, I'm a very slow writer, even when I'm trying to free write. When I was younger, words flowed out of me like a river over a waterfall; those days are apparently over. The river has dried to a trickle. I can accept that as long as the water is still there.<br />
<br />
Second, writing can be fun, but it can also be work. Before this, I had never had a real writing deadline. I wrote when I felt like it. If it wasn’t fun, I didn’t do it. To make this deadline, I must write for several hours every day on one project. It’s like having a second job. Don’t misunderstand; it’s hard but it feels good, like I’m seriously accomplishing something worthwhile.<br />
<br />
Third, where once I was a one draft wonder, I am now a layered writer. I’ve discovered my mind can no longer see/write everything at once. I now need to layer my stories in multiple drafts. My first draft consists of description and action. This is how the characters look and this is what they do and say. In my second draft, I work in thoughts and emotions. These are the reasons the characters do what they do and say what they say. My third draft is for mechanics: grammar, spelling, style. And, so on.<br />
<br />
So, even if I don't get my novella done in time for the pitch, I have discovered a renewed enthusiasm for writing. After the writing hole I've been in for so long, it feels amazing to actually enjoy writing and to look forward to it instead of avoiding it.L.A. Whartonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01003746356056180556noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3621127160536657778.post-50495336139737926632011-03-21T14:55:00.000-07:002011-03-21T14:55:46.760-07:00My Next Writing Tool<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Write-Brothers-1OL0023-Outline-4D/dp/B00316OYGQ?ie=UTF8&tag=dragonpool-20&link_code=bil&camp=213689&creative=392969" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;" target="_blank"><img alt="Outline 4D" src="http://ws.amazon.com/widgets/q?MarketPlace=US&ServiceVersion=20070822&ID=AsinImage&WS=1&Format=_SL160_&ASIN=B00316OYGQ&tag=dragonpool-20" /></a><span><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=dragonpool-20&l=bil&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=B00316OYGQ" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;" width="1" /></span>Since I've decided I'm going to outline before I write, I've found my next writing tool: <span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Write-Brothers-1OL0023-Outline-4D/dp/B00316OYGQ?ie=UTF8&tag=dragonpool-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">Outline 4D</a></span>.<span><span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Write-Brothers-1OL0023-Outline-4D/dp/B00316OYGQ?ie=UTF8&tag=dragonpool-20&link_code=bil&camp=213689&creative=392969" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;" target="_blank"><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=dragonpool-20&l=bil&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=B00316OYGQ" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;" width="1" /></a> It sounds like a great program for outlining just about any writing project, including screenplays and novels. It integrates with popular programs like Word. I'm not sure if it works with Final Draft though, but I can get around that. They even have a website tutorial for it: (<a href="http://www.learnoutline4d.com/index.html">http://www.learnoutline4d.com/index.html</a>). </span></span></div><br />
Is anyone out there familiar with <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Write-Brothers-1OL0023-Outline-4D/dp/B00316OYGQ?ie=UTF8&tag=dragonpool-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">Outline 4D</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=dragonpool-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=B00316OYGQ" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;" width="1" /> for the PC?L.A. Whartonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01003746356056180556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3621127160536657778.post-49542302115199348522011-03-08T10:40:00.000-08:002011-04-10T16:23:42.510-07:00First Gentle Sex SceneI'm writing my first gentle sex scene. I've put it off because I thought it would be a no-brainer. I've written hardcore sex before, this should be easy. Man, was I wrong! I'm not a prude. I like sex. I've had sex. I read sex. I even like talking about sex. It doesn't embarrass me.<br />
<br />
So why can't I write about normal sex?<br />
<br />
This concerns me because my chosen genre is erotic romance. Sex scenes are mandatory. My first attempt at heterosexual, loving sex read like an instruction manual--no passion, no inner dialog, no feeling. My second try was too much inner dialog and no action. I tried putting the two together but I can't make them flow. It's like switching between the Science and Soap channels. <br />
<br />
I tried getting some refresher experience with my significant other last night. Unfortunately, we both have colds and had dosed ourselves with NyQuil. We ended up falling asleep on each other.<br />
<br />
I now have a higher regard for writers who write successful sex scenes.L.A. Whartonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01003746356056180556noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3621127160536657778.post-16907451268554878442011-02-27T14:33:00.000-08:002011-02-27T14:33:21.183-08:00A-Z Blogging ChallengeI've joined a blogging challenge for the first time. It begins in April. Bloggers have to blog every day, except weekends, and each day has to be on a subject starting with a letter of the alphabet, A to Z.<br />
<br />
I know what you're thinking: Just what Lisa needs, another way to spend time not writing her novel.<br />
<br />
Well, you might be right. On the other hand, writng is writing. <br />
<br />
I'm planning on being through the first draft of my novel by then. And if I'm not, I look on this as a writing exercise. Twenty-six subjects in twenty-six days. In alphabetical order. That should get my creativity flowing. And if I keep the posts short and on a subject I'm familiar with, it shouldn't be too time consuming. I'm hoping to use it as a warm-up to working on a WIP.<br />
<br />
We'll see!L.A. Whartonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01003746356056180556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3621127160536657778.post-55800574422340894432011-02-20T19:42:00.000-08:002011-02-20T19:42:10.647-08:00Goodbye, MoeA good friend died last week. He was the father of my first boyfriend. Even though Tony and I broke up in junior high, Moe remained a friend to my parents. I didn't really get to know him until after I graduated high school. He was at my parents' house almost every evening for dinner so he became like a second father to me. He helped me when my parents couldn't. I have him to thank for some of the best memories of my life. My parents used to call him the Vampire of the Dawn because on weekends he would sometimes show up for breakfast after having been out all night partying. As he grew older, he left the wild life behind and became a student of religion. He was on his way, in his 80s, to getting a bachelor's degree in religious studies.<br />
<br />
He didn't want a funeral so there won't be a gathering of friends and family. No way to say goodbye. It's not important, really, but I still feel the need to say it. There will be a get-together but not until August because his death was so sudden and his son lives in Alaska.<br />
<br />
August is too far away. So, I'm saying goodbye to him here.<br />
<br />
Goodbye, Moe. I loved you, though I don't think I ever said it. I regret that but I hope you knew.L.A. Whartonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01003746356056180556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3621127160536657778.post-1079685823807484202011-02-08T15:36:00.000-08:002011-02-08T15:36:41.563-08:00At Last...HQN is having an online pitchfest for Nocturne Bites. Great opportunity. The deadine is too soon for me to finish 16,000-20,000 words ready for submission, but it's made me want to write again. I've written 500-1,600 words a day for the last several days. No use beating myself up, but if I had continued to write during November's NoWriMo I'd have a finished Bites ready to submit.<br />
<br />
Ah, well. The good news is: I'm writing!L.A. Whartonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01003746356056180556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3621127160536657778.post-77766856137350789622011-01-20T18:23:00.000-08:002011-01-20T18:23:47.522-08:00Not-So-Happy New YearI thought the end of last year was bad and eagerly looked forward to 2011. I just knew that life would settle down and I'd be able to get back to normal. Now the new year is here and things have gone from bad to worse.<br />
<br />
So far, since January first:<br />
<ol><li>A close family friend is hospitalized and not expected to live out the week.</li>
<li>I'm really sick with a fever/flu/cold and can't visit him in the intensive care unit to say goodbye.</li>
<li>The love of my life just found a lump on one of his testicles.</li>
<li>My elderly father's dementia has suddenly worsened. He got lost driving to a friend's house and can't remember the combination to his postal box. Last weekend he left the hose on and drained the water tank--twice.</li>
<li>My elderly mother, who is in so much chronic pain they want to give her a morphine drip, may now be losing her eyesight.</li>
<li>My cat, who has been beside me through thick and thin for twenty years, is fading away.</li>
<li>With all the stress I've been under the last six months, I've succumbed to eating whatever I can get my hands on and my blood sugar is spiraling out of control.</li>
<li>The brakes on the truck are squealing.</li>
<li>My supervisor told me he plans to quit next month when he gets his degree. He's the only buffer between me and the Big Bad who took over our department.</li>
<li>I haven't been able to write one word of fiction.</li>
</ol>I've lived long enough to know that all this will pass and I'll survive the outcome (or not). Either way, Life is change. Sometimes the change is good, sometimes it sucks.<br />
<br />
I'm so ready for a good change. When is that going to happen?L.A. Whartonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01003746356056180556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3621127160536657778.post-61948155322956331562010-11-02T19:19:00.000-07:002010-11-02T19:19:32.348-07:00My First NaNoWriMo<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><shapetype coordsize="21600,21600" filled="f" id="_x0000_t75" o:preferrelative="t" o:spt="75" path="m@4@5l@4@11@9@11@9@5xe" stroked="f">I'm participating in NaNoWriMo for the first time at the NaNoWriMo.org site and through eHarlequin.</span><br />
<br />
My project is the 15,000-word novella I've been not working on for the past few months. I scratched pretty much everything I'd written and am starting over. So far, 2,246 words in two days. That's good for me, especially now. It's difficult to find the time to write. I used to write at work. I work nights and the last hour or so was quiet, but now they've cut back on personnel so much there's more work than I can do. So no more writing breaks at work. I'll have to type into the wee hours of the morning after I get home.<br />
<br />
If I write 500 words a day, I'll make the deadline. Easy, right?<br />
<br />
I'll let you know.<br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>L.A. Whartonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01003746356056180556noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3621127160536657778.post-7554727718147146632010-10-17T14:14:00.000-07:002010-10-17T14:14:50.531-07:00Deadlines NeededI didn't win the writer's challenge but something really good came from it. I realized I need a forced deadline to write effectively. Without a deadline, I never seem to finish anything. <br />
<br />
So, with that in mind, I've joined the NaNoWriMo starting on November 1st. Thirty days to finish my novella. I'm starting from scratch anyway so it's like a new work.<br />
<br />
Keep ya posted!L.A. Whartonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01003746356056180556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3621127160536657778.post-387696194844699382010-10-16T22:03:00.000-07:002010-10-16T22:03:32.862-07:001,000 Word Writer's ChallengeI entered a writing challenge on one of the Harlequin Write Stuff forums. The challenge was to write a story in 1,000 words or less that contains the following: <br />
<ul><li>apple cider</li>
<li>scarecrow</li>
<li>mum</li>
<li>sunrise</li>
<li>"Not on your life"</li>
</ul>It's my first entry on the forum and my second ever short story. I had trouble fitting it into a thousand words. I've posted the unedited, 1,460-word version here.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><strong>SAFE</strong></div><br />
<br />
Molly tucked the <strong>mum</strong> into the top buttonhole of her dad’s plaid work shirt and secured it with a safety pin. Stepping back, she surveyed her work. The old shirt fit the <strong>scarecrow</strong> perfectly. That was the same shirt dad had worn when they had made the scarecrow. He had done most of the work, but at five years old she had “helped.”<br />
<br />
“What’s his name?” he’d asked her.<br />
<br />
“Scary Man!”<br />
<br />
“Scary Man it is. Couldn’t have done it without you, kid.” He lifted her to his shoulders. “And remember, if you take care of him, Scary Man will always watch over and protect you.” <br />
<br />
And she’d done just that. Three years later her father had died, burned to death in a car accident. For the last fifteen years she’d taken care of their scarecrow, keeping him well stuffed and replacing his clothes when they became tattered. Only her father’s work boots and gloves had endured. <br />
<br />
A strong gust of wind whirled her hair around her face. Dried field corn rustled around her but the scarecrow remained steady. Dad had made it to last forever with a frame of baling wire and pipe.<br />
<br />
One glance at the sky told her she had to get back to the safety of the farmhouse. Dark clouds turned the early evening sky black and lightning flashed in the distance. Thunder rumbled and boomed making her turn and run for the house in a panic.<br />
<br />
It was dark by the time she finished her chores and got inside. Still rattled by the weather, she tried to settle her nerves with a cup of hot <strong>apple cider</strong>. It didn’t help. Locking the doors and shuttering the windows didn’t help either. It was the storm. Storms like this reminded her of the night she let her father die.<br />
<br />
The electricity often went out during strong storms. Even though she kept a flashlight by her bed, she set out candles in every room and headed to her bedroom on the ground floor at the back of the house. She had moved into this room after her father’s death because she could see the corn field. It was a self-imposed punishment, but it also made her feel safer knowing she was closer to Scary Man.<br />
<br />
Molly pulled the curtains back and looked for him. She could barely make out his floppy hat above the corn, but he was there, like always. Keeping her safe.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">* * *</div><br />
Flames licked the night sky fueled by the dry storm winds. Screams. Hers. Daddy’s. Punctuated by lightning. He stumbled from the burning truck engulfed in flames and dropped to the ground while she watched. Helpless. Useless. Crying for her daddy like the eight-year-old baby she was.<br />
<br />
Molly came awake gasping for breath, heart pounding. Pounding. More than her heartbeat. The sound came from the window. The nightstand was dark; no LED numbers glowing the time. Electricity was out. Shaking off the nightmare, she grabbed her thick terry robe from the bedpost and the flashlight. Padding to the window she berated herself for not trimming the big mulberry tree. Hopefully, she could break the branch off from inside.<br />
<br />
She pulled back the curtain. <br />
<br />
A grotesque face with glowing eyes pressed against the window. A gloved hand pounded the pane beside it. Molly screamed and stumbled back. Thoughts both logical and fantastic rioted through her. Logic won. Too late, though, to stop adrenalin from pumping up her heartbeat and turning her body into a quivering mass. Monsters weren’t real. She knew that. What she’d seen looked like Scary Man’s burlap face with glowing blue eyes. But that was not possible. More likely, this close to Halloween, she was being pranked by the local farm boys using Scary Man’s body.<br />
<br />
If they hurt Scary Man…<br />
<br />
Fear turned to anger. Molly yanked back the curtain, but the face was gone. She opened the window. Wind buffeted her as she leaned out with the flashlight. Nothing around the huge propane tank except the broken remains of its shed and the ancient eucalyptus tree behind it. The flashlight beam caught movement of someone rounding the corner to the front of the house.<br />
<br />
Heart hammering, Molly ran through the dark house. From over the front door she pulled down the 410 shotgun. It was an old Sears Roebuck single shot her dad had kept for killing rattlers. It wouldn’t do much harm to a human but it still looked threatening. It was loaded, ready to go. Cocking back the hammer with her thumb, she yanked open the front door and stepped onto the porch.<br />
<br />
Someone was in the yard moving toward her in a slow Frankenstein stagger. <br />
<br />
“Stop right there,” she shouted over the howling wind.<br />
<br />
She recognized his silhouette. She knew before she turned the flashlight beam on him that it was Scary Man. He stood alone in the yard not 20 feet from her, his blue eyes glowing. The wind tugged at his hat and clothes, but he stood steady.<br />
<br />
Was it really him? Or someone in his clothes? Her father’s clothes. He lifted an arm and motioned for her to come to him. For a moment, he looked so much like her father she almost gave in. But it wasn’t her dad. She had watched him burn to death. And it wasn’t Scary Man. Scarecrows didn’t come to life and invite you for a walk.<br />
<br />
“<strong>Not on your life</strong>!” She raised the shotgun. “Whoever you are, I’m warning you. If you don’t walk away, I will shoot you.”<br />
<br />
He moved. One jerky step toward her, hand reaching out. Molly’s finger tightened on the trigger. <br />
<br />
“Go away!”<br />
<br />
Lightning flashed close by blinding her. Her finger convulsed on the trigger, the boom of the shotgun merged with a deafening crack of thunder. When she could see again, the scarecrow lay on the ground, pieces of straw swirling in the wind.<br />
<br />
Scary Man.<br />
<br />
Molly dropped the gun and ran to him. She expected to see blood spilling out of someone dressed in her dad’s clothes, but it was only a straw and cloth figure with a gaping hole in its side, the light gone from its eyes. <br />
<br />
How could this happen? Was she dreaming? This could not be real. She knelt beside him and rested a hand over his heart.<br />
<br />
The scarecrow jerked, grabbing her wrist in a steel grip. His eyes began to glow again as he stood. He turned away from the house and walked toward the corn field dragging her behind him. Molly fought to escape his grip but it was too strong. She screamed but even if there were someone to hear, the storm covered the cry with its own howl.<br />
<br />
How could Scary Man do this to her? She had loved him all her life, had taken care of him after her father died. Dad had said he would watch over and protect her. He had never lied to her before.<br />
<br />
The scarecrow stopped and looked to the sky. Molly stilled. Her skin crawled and the hair lifted on the back of her neck just before lightning struck the eucalyptus tree. The dry branches burst into flames like a giant torch. The trunk splintered and collapsed, bringing the full weight down on the propane tank by her bedroom. The tank exploded and the whole west side of the old wooden farmhouse caught fire.<br />
<br />
Flaming branches, caught on the wind, hurtled toward them. Scary Man pulled her into his chest and turned his back to the flaming missiles. With her face buried in the scarecrow’s shirt she didn’t know what was happening. For a moment, lost in the smell of pipe smoke still lingering there, she felt like a little girl again safe in her father’s arms. And then he flung her away.<br />
<br />
She landed hard nearly ten feet away. When she sat up, she swore she was a little girl again reliving the worst night of her life. Her father stood, his back engulfed in flames while lighting struck the ground behind him. But it wasn’t her father. It was Scary Man and he had saved her life, twice tonight: once by getting her out of her bedroom and once by throwing her away from his burning body.<br />
<br />
Without a second thought, Molly shot to her feet and ran to him. She pulled off her thick robe and flung it over him, tackling him to the ground, rolling and patting him until the flames were out. Somehow, she managed to pull him into the bed of mums at the edge of the yard and collapsed beside him.<br />
<br />
The firemen found her hours later, just after <strong>sunrise</strong>, curled into the side of the half-burnt scarecrow, tucked under his arm, sound asleep.L.A. Whartonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01003746356056180556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3621127160536657778.post-5621101729210026532010-10-05T19:31:00.000-07:002010-10-05T19:33:02.929-07:00World Building and D&D<img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=dragonpool-20&l=bil&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=0786904348" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px! important; padding-left: 0px! important; padding-right: 0px! important; padding-top: 0px! important;" width="1" /><br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYXJVxICqTkIgcy4-Vdbsn6gKfY9YSz7vqjNKaPEKdhGVwVy1T_kgrZGSom_wZrYRVho4knSESKsBkQNcfDSRbAvEkRQttxs7zAjPIJ7Eip6xtfFxYNBOmeOT-AAgN3rOa6zzqDk2a2no/s1600/blog_worldbuilders.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYXJVxICqTkIgcy4-Vdbsn6gKfY9YSz7vqjNKaPEKdhGVwVy1T_kgrZGSom_wZrYRVho4knSESKsBkQNcfDSRbAvEkRQttxs7zAjPIJ7Eip6xtfFxYNBOmeOT-AAgN3rOa6zzqDk2a2no/s1600/blog_worldbuilders.jpg" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Somone asked about world-building resources on a forum and it brought back some pleasant memories. I started building worlds as a dungeon master in the Advanced Dungeons & Dragons role-playing game system many years ago. Their book, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Builders-Guidebook-Advanced-Dungeons-Dragons/dp/0786904348?ie=UTF8&tag=dragonpool-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">World Builder's Guidebook</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=dragonpool-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=0786904348" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px! important; padding-left: 0px! important; padding-right: 0px! important; padding-top: 0px! important;" width="1" />, is still one of my favorite resources for creating worlds, especially in a medieval fantasy setting.<br />
<br />
I ran a game for almost ten years with the same players. Their characters and mine lived out fantasy lives in a world full of magic and adventure. Many people have a poor opinion of Dungeons & Dragons, but what they never seemed to understand is that the dungeon master is in control of how the game plays out because he/she creates the world. You can have a game filled with evil, death and greed, or you can have one based on honor, love and personal growth. It's all in the mind of the DM and players.<br />
<br />
It was a lot like writing with several collaborators. I'd create the setting and overall plot and the players would interact and change the direction of the action based on their actions in the game. <br />
<br />
I think that's why I'm writing now. I missed the thrill of creation.</div>L.A. Whartonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01003746356056180556noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3621127160536657778.post-17093056535934092232010-09-30T19:11:00.000-07:002010-09-30T19:11:25.968-07:00It's the Little Things<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3a9-tB4PKVze8r5UfOA25TurNmb9Hk23ujJ3XDsn9Y5hEnEGMn45q6v8GMki7xRc9IBd5EUHS3TOZ7wAMQQ2Vrj6QNw5NVbG1S00PZe8BGpiNWfA5BR53Ot8u-dLjhJePvvIxOkyXK7U/s1600/blog_rain.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3a9-tB4PKVze8r5UfOA25TurNmb9Hk23ujJ3XDsn9Y5hEnEGMn45q6v8GMki7xRc9IBd5EUHS3TOZ7wAMQQ2Vrj6QNw5NVbG1S00PZe8BGpiNWfA5BR53Ot8u-dLjhJePvvIxOkyXK7U/s1600/blog_rain.gif" /></a></div>Three days ago it was 120 degrees. Today it's overcast, cool and sprinkling! Just when I think I can't stand southern California any more, we get a break.<br />
<br />
This weekend, I'm back to writing. The cooler weather has revived me and I think I just might live.<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Of course, we have to go shopping first. It's payday weekend and the first Friday of the month is our "splurge" day. My man and I eat out and spend the day window shopping. I hate shopping, but he loves it. He turns into a little boy excited at the newest Star Trek phaser or the latest Firefly replica, and that makes it fun for me. There's a Star Trek exhibit in Riverside. I'm going to take him there as a surprise. He'll be in heaven. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiovzMcezEpOLSL9dEz8j46dTbP8_DT7A-eDiHQHkOwqVr7oFxnADTaQennaq3U74u00Ods1hIJr8tP7jIEj2VYF4NMMKE1A7MPRW56RjzKjuR59xuzhBf9QziRF-LxH-XZvyzM2JVr7Ic/s1600/blog_phaser.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiovzMcezEpOLSL9dEz8j46dTbP8_DT7A-eDiHQHkOwqVr7oFxnADTaQennaq3U74u00Ods1hIJr8tP7jIEj2VYF4NMMKE1A7MPRW56RjzKjuR59xuzhBf9QziRF-LxH-XZvyzM2JVr7Ic/s1600/blog_phaser.jpg" /></a></div><br />
And at the end of the day, I get to go to the bookstore! And buy books!<br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">WOO-HOO!</span></strong><br />
<br />
It's the little things in life that sometimes bring the most joy.L.A. Whartonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01003746356056180556noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3621127160536657778.post-41167640129094363032010-09-27T19:18:00.000-07:002010-09-27T19:18:07.121-07:00Too Hot to Live!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHjJCuBFNOb1DEdvJTmdwfNmnpvfkRHNpUVyMZOmHNFMP_qgtxpGoNID0hKGtyAwDArUEV7aIvqoFR3rlg6ooviFXDXkcpMMydwSyOF6OHCTS1ILVZCpc3z3Q5h3wJ5D_UUOrBfd2IDQU/s1600/blog_sun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHjJCuBFNOb1DEdvJTmdwfNmnpvfkRHNpUVyMZOmHNFMP_qgtxpGoNID0hKGtyAwDArUEV7aIvqoFR3rlg6ooviFXDXkcpMMydwSyOF6OHCTS1ILVZCpc3z3Q5h3wJ5D_UUOrBfd2IDQU/s1600/blog_sun.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>It was 120 degrees at my home today. Southern California is a freakin' desert! When did that happen? We had a mild summer topping out at around 100 degrees in August and then this.<br />
<br />
What can you do in this kind of heat? Can't use the computer because it heats up. The air conditioning doesn't get all the way into the computer room. The TV is in the bedroom, where the AC doesn't reach at all. We usually put a hose in a tree and sit under it, but it was too hot for that, too. This weekend we ended up laying naked on the bed with wet towels draped over us and a fan turned on us.<br />
<br />
It's 7 pm and 95 degrees outside. <br />
<br />
I want to live somewhere green and wet where the temperature doesn't go over 90 degrees. Ever.<br />
<br />
Is there such a place?L.A. Whartonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01003746356056180556noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3621127160536657778.post-43873424735284356862010-09-22T19:36:00.000-07:002010-09-22T19:36:45.693-07:00Not My Hand<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggxhUAgFo6d8WucxUnD3Kj2ZNLc-v4aA0F2l2G7cPjRboxnzT1REhZtJmqTl7I_9RJSPxcnWlp1orkNrZOlX54izdoRNnXfnGxom3LV_e_ZUykngoqbrlt23Mc50rL-P6fC72ZAsBEZqs/s1600/blog_hands.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggxhUAgFo6d8WucxUnD3Kj2ZNLc-v4aA0F2l2G7cPjRboxnzT1REhZtJmqTl7I_9RJSPxcnWlp1orkNrZOlX54izdoRNnXfnGxom3LV_e_ZUykngoqbrlt23Mc50rL-P6fC72ZAsBEZqs/s320/blog_hands.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>I looked down at my hand today and I <em>saw</em> it. Really saw it. It's not the hand I remember having. Suddenly there are lines and wrinkles and freckles. They can't be age spots; they have to be freckles. It isn't my hand but I did recognize it; it is my mother's hand.<br />
<br />
The shock spiraled me into a memory from my twenties. In a creative writing class I took in college, the instructor was encouraging us to write and never stop. He told a story about an elderly women who took his night class and how frustrated he was with her because she had waited too late to start writing. He encouraged her to quit because developing talent as a writer takes time she didn't have and memory skills she had already lost.<br />
<br />
I remember thinking that would never be me.<br />
<br />
And now here I am getting old and feeling it's too late to be a writer.<br />
<br />
When I took that class, I thought the instructor was an idiot. Words and ideas gushed from me at that age and I couldn't imagine ever losing that. Now, I think he might have been right. Writing is hard work now. Words and ideas merely trickle.<br />
<br />
Is there a point in life when you are just too old to write? Or, like everything else with age, it just gets harder to do, but not impossible?L.A. Whartonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01003746356056180556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3621127160536657778.post-90611866692938062622010-09-06T14:50:00.000-07:002010-09-06T14:50:24.723-07:00Critique Group Survival Guide<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Writing-Critique-Group-Survival-Guide/dp/1582976066?ie=UTF8&tag=dragonpool-20&link_code=bil&camp=213689&creative=392969" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;" target="_blank"><img alt="The Writing & Critique Group Survival Guide: How to Make Revisions, Self-Edit, and Give and Receive Feedback" height="200" src="http://ws.amazon.com/widgets/q?MarketPlace=US&ServiceVersion=20070822&ID=AsinImage&WS=1&Format=_SL160_&ASIN=1582976066&tag=dragonpool-20" width="130" /></a><span>I found a great book this weekend: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Writing-Critique-Group-Survival-Guide/dp/1582976066?ie=UTF8&tag=dragonpool-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">The Writing & Critique Group Survival Guide: How to Make Revisions, Self-Edit, and Give and Receive Feedback </a></span><span></span> </div><br />
<br />
<span>I've been thinking about finding a critique partner or critique group to join. I'm so glad I bought this book first. I really didn't know the first thing about critiquing. I thought it was pretty much the same as copy editing. Big mistake. After reading it, I realize I'm not quite ready to join a group but I have picked up some valuable techniques to edit my own writing and when I do join a group or find a CP, I'll be able to participate usefully.</span><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span>If you're interested, I wrote a review of this book at <a href="http://www.booksforwriters.net/">http://www.booksforwriters.net/</a>.</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>L.A. Whartonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01003746356056180556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3621127160536657778.post-86122871147263762022010-09-01T19:01:00.000-07:002010-09-01T19:03:24.193-07:00Bits and Pieces<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivsINSB-w5XaJYi26R94B8tcqID8WkdjJ7mIlw2Jctz-K194fmxloxz3lIIwYMbSwOA23QK2ejukT_Cbub_9BM622jtyvwtb_HxWJI0WP55U8w-N_j49cBJnGqONti7mkyL8CmxfhGEec/s1600/blogbrain2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivsINSB-w5XaJYi26R94B8tcqID8WkdjJ7mIlw2Jctz-K194fmxloxz3lIIwYMbSwOA23QK2ejukT_Cbub_9BM622jtyvwtb_HxWJI0WP55U8w-N_j49cBJnGqONti7mkyL8CmxfhGEec/s320/blogbrain2.JPG" /></a>The month of August went by and I didn't write any fiction. No excuses, but I've spent most of my time trying to find the bits and pieces of my mind and put them back together. Between work stress, health stress and home stress, my little brain exploded.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>I work for a school in California, so I'm just lucky to still have a job. I'm very grateful; I am. But if there was any way I could find another job, I would. My name's on this blog, so I won't go into details. Suffice it to say it's hard to get to sleep at night because when it's quiet I start worrying about my job and around 3:30 in the morning I realize I'm still awake thinking about the job. <br />
<br />
I've tried writing in the wee hours of the morning, but I end up just sitting at the computer, the pieces of my brain jangling around in my head. By 5 a.m. I'm tired enough to sleep. <br />
<br />
The alarm goes off at 6:30 a.m.<br />
<br />
I'm severely sleep deprived which makes my job even harder. I fell asleep driving home one night. I woke up thinking I was home, but I had gotten off the freeway on the wrong offramp and was seriously lost. Now I worry about driving home at night.<br />
<br />
<br />
My dog died after major surgery to remove tumors and her spleen. She was the last dog I will ever have. I miss her.<br />
<br />
My health? My feet are swelling, my blood sugar is high and the biopsy the dermatologist did on a bump on my leg has turned into a sinkhole that won't heal.<br />
<br />
Is it just me, or do other writers have a hard time writing under stress?<br />
<br />
I hate to whine, but, you know, I think I feel a little better.L.A. Whartonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01003746356056180556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3621127160536657778.post-64049301361523686022010-08-09T08:55:00.000-07:002010-08-09T08:55:31.415-07:00Where's the White Space?<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyOQYVyQzUb-DRC-wjL9Zu8ELC96DJsn6N3l7mT1u-h39fOwyTd6f3etTeknxryDIZTFBvlO8SIhdeq32Iwt5JdLL-G4i9_wkx54KKq5sD021GFdCWKBFHQ8gPnr-1Og3gkWkHtQp6Mr4/s1600/summer_10_newsletter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyOQYVyQzUb-DRC-wjL9Zu8ELC96DJsn6N3l7mT1u-h39fOwyTd6f3etTeknxryDIZTFBvlO8SIhdeq32Iwt5JdLL-G4i9_wkx54KKq5sD021GFdCWKBFHQ8gPnr-1Og3gkWkHtQp6Mr4/s320/summer_10_newsletter.jpg" /></a>I got a check this weekend for a newsletter I do the layout, design and composition on (<a href="http://www.friendsofcpl.org/img/summer_10_newsletter.pdf">Friends of Corona Public Library Quarterly Reader</a>). They put out a web and print version. Getting the check made me think about my old career as a typesetter and (untrained) graphic artist. Looking at my blog, I realize I violate a very important rule: always provide plenty of white space.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">First, I apologize. Apparently, I've gone widget crazy. Every available space is jammed with some kind of blogger widget.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Second, I have an excuse. I'm fairly new to blogging and I had no idea there were so many gadgets available. Every time I see one I have to add it to my blog because it seems so perfect to share. I'm outta control. I haven't had this much fun since show and tell in grade school.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Don't worry. I'll settle down and start deleting things, eventually.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Until then please hang in there. Like everything, it's a work in progress.</div>L.A. Whartonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01003746356056180556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3621127160536657778.post-46887274436266167692010-08-07T00:27:00.000-07:002010-08-07T00:27:42.126-07:00Write On!Writing was definitely easier today.<br />
<br />
I wrote before going to work this morning and was almost late. Had to tear myself away. Wrote in my head on the way to work but most of it is gone now. <br />
<br />
I need a voice recorder to use in the car. A lot of my best "writing" is done during my commute to and from work. Takes my mind off the parking lot they call the 91 Freeway.<br />
<br />
<strong>Favorite Lines:</strong> <br />
When the motorcycle crested the hill he was silhouetted for a moment against the late afternoon sun. Though nearly sunset, heat still radiated off the asphalt creating shimmering waves of energy that made him look like a mirage—a black shadow hurtling out of another dimension, another world.L.A. Whartonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01003746356056180556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3621127160536657778.post-89952160140381839192010-08-03T15:42:00.000-07:002010-08-03T15:42:53.081-07:00Writing vs Publishing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDvO_Xv2fqqSTEtiErgOXjhJW5EzdN225PfzHY-8R_MSeYhO8JMhJDA52c9xgl0xCqsPuiDXE5wIhyphenhyphenkNLHjT7rUyJl_XGGBAhC_Nrt_wN7FlHft5k7bEJl7SezUzVaDtIS91hGK8ji2ww/s1600/lightbulb2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDvO_Xv2fqqSTEtiErgOXjhJW5EzdN225PfzHY-8R_MSeYhO8JMhJDA52c9xgl0xCqsPuiDXE5wIhyphenhyphenkNLHjT7rUyJl_XGGBAhC_Nrt_wN7FlHft5k7bEJl7SezUzVaDtIS91hGK8ji2ww/s320/lightbulb2.jpg" /></a></div>This essay changed my life. Too many inspiring passages to quote. If you want to be a writer and think getting published is the ultimate goal, read this:<br />
<br />
<br />
Jenny Crusie's essay: <a href="http://www.jennycrusie.com/for-writers/essays/a-writer-without-a-publisher-is-like-a-fish-without-a-bicycle-writers-liberation-and-you/">A Writer Without A Publisher Is Like A Fish Without a Bicycle: Writer’s Liberation and You</a><br />
<br />
Basically, she made me realize that my goal isn't to be a published author; it's to be a writer. And I already am. Because I write. I've been told that before, but until I read this essay, it didn't really click. All the struggling I've been through trying to write well enough to be published has gone. I feel free now just to write to please myself. <br />
<br />
What does that mean? Yes, I still <em>want </em>to be published. Yes, I'm still going to try to get published.<br />
<br />
The difference is in how I approach writing. Instead of worrying while I write if it's good enough to be published, I'm only concerned about how it pleases me. I know, it's a subtle difference but it made a meaningful shift in me. <br />
<br />
Don't know if the end result will be better or worse. I'll let you know.L.A. Whartonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01003746356056180556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3621127160536657778.post-43844958622969629702010-07-28T17:06:00.000-07:002010-07-28T18:32:22.019-07:00Reading vs Writing<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">When should a wannabe writer, like myself, stop reading books on writing and start writing? </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Schaums-Quick-Guide-Writing-Stories/dp/0070390770?ie=UTF8&tag=dragonpool-20&link_code=bil&camp=213689&creative=392969" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;" target="_blank"><img alt="Schaum's Quick Guide to Writing Great Short Stories" src="http://ws.amazon.com/widgets/q?MarketPlace=US&ServiceVersion=20070822&ID=AsinImage&WS=1&Format=_SL160_&ASIN=0070390770&tag=dragonpool-20" /></a>I thought I could do both but the more I read, the more I realize I might be wasting my time writing. There is so much I don't know, so much I need to learn. Every time I learn something important, I want to go back and start my story over.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">For instance, while procrastinating writing, I went through some old writing books and found a real gem: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Schaums-Quick-Guide-Writing-Stories/dp/0070390770?ie=UTF8&tag=dragonpool-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">Schaum's Quick Guide to Writing Great Short Stories</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=dragonpool-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=0070390770" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px! important; padding-left: 0px! important; padding-right: 0px! important; padding-top: 0px! important;" width="1" /> by Margaret Lucke (1998). After reading a few chapters, I was inundated with ideas to make my story better. Unfortunately, they all require major reconstruction of my characters and plot. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I'm unsure now. Should I finish the first draft and make the changes later? Or should I restructure it and then write the first draft?</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Writing has become such a doubt-filled experience these last few weeks that the only time my brain will relax and create is late at night while I'm trying to fall asleep. Probably because my subconcious knows there's no chance I'll actually get up and write anything down. And by morning, it's gone.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I'm done thinking about writing. If I stop reading about writing, I'll stop learning. So, I'm back in the chair tonight and ready to write. And I'm still reading that <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Schaums-Quick-Guide-Writing-Stories/dp/0070390770?ie=UTF8&tag=dragonpool-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">great book</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=dragonpool-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=0070390770" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px! important; padding-left: 0px! important; padding-right: 0px! important; padding-top: 0px! important;" width="1" /> on short story writing. It may take me a lot longer to finish my work-in-progress (WIP) since I'll have to do a lot of rewriting, but it's not a waste of time.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><strong>Writing is never a waste of time.</strong></span> </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">What I write now may not be usable, but it's practice. And almost every book I read or writer I talk to says the best way to become a writer is to follow these steps:</div><ol><li><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Write.</div></li>
<li><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Write some more.</div></li>
<li><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Keep on writing.</div></li>
</ol><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=dragonpool-20&l=bil&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=0070390770" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px! important; padding-left: 0px! important; padding-right: 0px! important; padding-top: 0px! important;" width="1" /><br />
So, tonight I begin again. <br />
<br />
<span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><strong>BICHOK</strong></span> <br />
<em>(butt in chair, hands on keyboard).</em>L.A. Whartonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01003746356056180556noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3621127160536657778.post-87397458489438072632010-07-13T21:47:00.000-07:002010-07-19T13:04:01.779-07:00A Pile of Words<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmIFDlJkZjYHPuZ3-xijzLdGyhwrUuDKTdMI-eFrP9r4HCv0bwcbz3ApNKBp7LBby0kagedaYSh7H9KazymvU7xy5Yst8BGwZMTR2ZdomrIF_bF0GsU7Ne8O7BJFZWDqLKy3FnG1zF7lI/s1600/pile-of-words.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmIFDlJkZjYHPuZ3-xijzLdGyhwrUuDKTdMI-eFrP9r4HCv0bwcbz3ApNKBp7LBby0kagedaYSh7H9KazymvU7xy5Yst8BGwZMTR2ZdomrIF_bF0GsU7Ne8O7BJFZWDqLKy3FnG1zF7lI/s320/pile-of-words.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I wrote over 1300 words last night. Seems like that's all they are: a pile of words. No style or flow but it felt good. I even resisted editing as I wrote. That urge to go back and edit is my biggest roadblock to finishing anything I write. It's a constant battle.<br />
<br />
Does it get any easier?<br />
<br />
Favorite lines: <br />
<blockquote>Jade eyes sparkled defiantly as he closed in on her. Full lips ripe with natural color made him want to lick them to see if they tasted as sweet as they looked.</blockquote>L.A. Whartonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01003746356056180556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3621127160536657778.post-6471417673254310242010-07-12T22:31:00.000-07:002010-07-19T13:03:19.138-07:00Ready, Set, WRITE!I'm ready to write the first draft of my short story/novella.<br />
<br />
Why am I so nervous?<br />
<br />
I've created two characters I like. I've found a premise and several themes. I've plotted out eight chapters, I know all the actions that have to take place in each. I'm a little vague on the romance parts, the actual falling in love details, but I'm hoping those will come to me as I write or can be edited in in a later draft.<br />
<br />
Doesn't sound right does it? Especially since I'm writing a romance novella. Romance should be the main plot and everything else background. <br />
<br />
I can't decide if this is a legitimate reason to go back and redo my outline or if it's just my Procrastinator Demon trying to convince me to put off writing again.<br />
<br />
No, I'm officially entering the writing stage. I can't believe how scared and excited I feel.<br />
<br />
Here I go!L.A. Whartonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01003746356056180556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3621127160536657778.post-43879370007125824342010-07-10T00:34:00.000-07:002010-07-27T13:47:30.065-07:00Life PremiseCreating a premise for my story made me think about what the premise for my life would be.<br />
<br />
A few possibilities:<br />
<ul><li>I write therefore I am.</li>
<li>A life lived in fear is a life not lived.</li>
<li>Believe you are and you will be.</li>
<li>If you never try, you'll never succeed.</li>
<li>Procrastination leads to stagnation.</li>
</ul><br />
Okay, now I'm depressed. This is making me think of all the things I wanted to do in my life and never got around to. <br />
<br />
Like write. <br />
<br />
The best thing to do would be gather what's left of my self-worth and go do at least one of those things.<br />
<br />
Like write.<br />
<br />
So, I think I'll make some cinnamon toast and hot chocolate and curl up with a good book! That will comfort me and make everything all better. <br />
<br />
<em>(And that's exactly how I got to where I am today: chubby and unpublished.)</em>L.A. Whartonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01003746356056180556noreply@blogger.com0