Diane Nelson's Blog, page 5

Why God Created Cleavage

I keep hoping one of my FB friend's visiting mother-in-law will wander over here with an abiding distaste for clutter and general dishevelment. I would greet them with arms loaded with dust pans, brooms and a variety of powerful cleaning products.

Well, that hasn't happened yet so after another non-productive bout with the laptop, I decided to find something to eat.

What? This surprises you?.

Unfortunately the overhead fixture, replete with three, count'em, three 60 watt bulbs, sat there dark and deader 'n door nails. Three bulbs - all burned out - what'er the odds?

Okay, it is daylight but … and this is a secret, just 'tween you 'n me … I keep the secret stash of multi-flavored licorice sticks hidden in a dark corner of a lower cabinet, sufficiently buried so as not to be tempted. Sometimes I forget they are there, sometimes. Not today. When I most need a senior moment, lucidity strikes with a resounding reverb.

So, bottom line. I can't see for shit. And when stymied, by anything, I tend to laser focus on *my* needs and I *needed* that licorice. Of course, the obvious solution was – change the light bulbs, all three of them.

Imagine my joy when, after heaving every towel, spare boxes of Kleenex and personal feminine products out the door into the hall, I scrounged a fresh set of 4-60 watters.

I looked around for Rowan but he was off on another tryst with Raoul so I hauled the folding step stool out of the closet and set it under the fixture. With two fake knees, I'm no longer as steady as I'd like to be so I hauled a ladder-backed kitchen chair (well-named, yes?) to balance against.

So when is she getting to the boobs? Patience …

I shakily hauled myself up the two low steps, reached tentatively upwards and unscrewed the little widget holding a rather large glass 'bowl' containing a disgusting assortment of insect carcasses. A bottle of Windex later and I'm ready for removal. Three bulbs out, three to replace.

I am filled with joy but realize that I have a problem. To get 'up there' I need to use both hands to grip the back of the ladder-back chair, leaving me with few options for getting said bulb into position, let alone into its little socket home. I could stick the twirly end in my mouth, which as you might guess is drooling with the thought of all that licorice goodness nearly in my grasp.

I'm a scientist – or was – and I knew at some intuitive level that screwing in a saliva-sticky-rich light bulb might result in an endless screw-and-repeat scenario that will yield plenty of frustration, a generous contribution to the American economy, and no licorice.

Getting there…

A light bulb went off – pun intended – so I waddled off to add a foundation garment to my admittedly slovenly attire. Now I'm set. I nestle the first of three snugly in my cleavage, making sure the little devil is secure but not impossible to extract. As I positioned my hands on the chair I glanced over at the microwave and became enamored of my reflection.

There it sat, a cute little bulge, giving me this three-breasted alien being vibe. Wonder what two would look like? This required a bit of unsnapping and re-snapping to make room for the addition. Hmm. Not bad. Perky even. I haven't been 'perky' for a while and the supporting real estate assures that those puppies are staying put for the journey. I slid number three into position, examined my profile and went for the gold.

The visitor to my cleavage was easy to extract as I clutched the chair back with my left hand, wavering ever so slightly with the effort. I screwed it in and reached for boob, uh, bulb #2. Uh-oh.

I forgot to mention I'm squirrely on ladders, even low step-stools, so while I was playing Victoria's Got a Secret, I'd also broken out in a sweat. So that supporting real estate has established a respectable glue-like hold on the bulbs' curves. Shit. I could climb down and re-position but noooo. So I dig, wriggle and begin to wonder what a bra full of broken glass bits might feel like.

By now I have an audience – no, not the neighbors – JJ the Demon Cat has decided to watch me rather than the birds.

With great difficulty I extract the other bulbs, screw them in, and as the final coup-de-idiocy I get the glass positioned and secure.

Voila! Let there be light and licorice.

And no, I didn't bring enough to share …

Spirits, Magic, the Color of Sad, the Power of Words

I woke to frigid.The pellet stove had given up the ghost, spewing throat-gagging, nostril-wrinkling fumes throughout the house. Struggling through a thick haze to find the thermostat, intent on upping my carbon footprint in the interest of thawing my fingers and toes, I hastened into my morning routine … inviolate and comforting.

Coffee. Stat. 

Little Shit, the parakeet, starts the twitter [no, he is not tweeting on Twitter, though I must say he is far more interesting than most of the inanity out there], the gentle reminder that a cover needs removing and seed needs dispensing. The canary sits by her water dish awaiting fresh warmth for her morning ablutions. She's a Gloster – brown with yellow streaks, smooth-headed, though many have what I call 'Beatle haircuts', a ruff of feathers hiding eyes with comical effect.

Fire up the laptop.  

The firstborn, and his noble steed, are in Florida preparing for a 75 mile endurance race, leaving Mom to handle the morning stables. I tuck my iPhone in my quilted jacket, suit up with a full-face knitted cap, thick fleece-lined leather gloves, lined boots … and waddle out to the barn. I strip said gloves, hat and quilted jacket because I can't move. It's refreshing and suitable motivation to get my butt in gear and feed, water, spread hay, clean stalls, dump the wheelbarrow, tidy the feed room and suit up again.

Miss Winnie stands at the all-you-can-eat-buffet, so I capture the moment as she gleefully steals hay off the mow in clear violation of the rules. She gives me her usual 'tude but ambles off willingly enough. 

Off to the southeast, cresting the hill and the ragged tree line, bleak and weary a moment before but now illuminated from behind, an orange-gold scarf wraps the chocolate haze with teasing promise. Shadows take form, colorless, a transparency of bleakness, but for one. Skidding down the slope, I duck under the electric tape and plunge further until an old grapevine snags my cumbersome boot and brings me up short.

The tangle of stalks face me down with Tim Burton fervor, yet one beckons, bold in its cock-sure display. Sumac. Barren burnished gold, prideful against its near neighbors of grey and weary taupe. The sky's mask mutes the chariot charge, settling instead to a gentle stealing across the zodiac, rolling back the blanket with unsteady hands.

At peace, content, more so than I, the sentinels bid me wake from the color of sad. But I wear the 'blues' in shades of brown and trudge to the house, feeling lonely and out of sorts. 'Tis the season, say some - false, inauthentic, unrealistic. Not even the hazy orb peeking from the corner of the neighbor's indoor arena can rock the ennui, its heat sparring weakly with a living chill, the promise unfulfilled.

There's a stampede of furred feet as three felines race into the house and assume positions in the kitchen. Without opposable thumbs they accede to my one superiority and acknowledge due service with polite purrs. I pour the long-awaited mug of coffee, no longer fresh, rather more on the 'bracing' side, but welcome as the first sip slides down and warms my innards.

I settle at the laptop, pinging irritably at the little box and Norton's insistence that now is the perfect time to call life to a halt while it plays with itself doing who knows what manner of unspeakable things to my registry.

I open Outlook … and my world changes.

I have a friend, one I've never met, but one with whom I've shared deep-seated misgivings and railed against injustice and argued and debated on the big issues … whose words and mine somehow resonate and harmonize despite our disparities in beliefs. He sent me a manuscript. Would I look at it? Silly. Of course I will. I've read all his books. I've been smitten with one of his minor characters for a very long time. I've campaigned and begged and pleaded for him to give the character 'more'. This book … this very one … gives Etienne center stage.  Somehow the spirits align and the color changes.

Magic.

The words have power and I muse that I am fortunate beyond measure for I hold that magic in my virtual hands. For, these days, I've become a gatekeeper, a midwife, a gardener, a coach. 

Would you like to read my story? Will you love or hate the figments of my imagination.  Are they real or not real enough? Does it flow, will you laugh, will you cry, does it touch your heart? 

Will I be the mother proudly pinning the page to the refrigerator door or will I be the evil witch who scorns and belittles and guts with surgical precision?

Each day I receive a offering of words - a story, an allegory, a smattering of wisdom or a clever turn of phrase, a knowing wink or a stab at my heartstrings, a belly laugh, a sigh.  And it is not so much the tale, or how the words follow each other, or the tone … for these are the colors of craft, the metric by which I will measure and evaluate and decide.

The true gift is the subtext. It is where the magic resides.

It is the color of hope.

Readings and PODcast Ole!

Richard Wood has assembled another exciting PODcast featuring three writers who gamely met the NaNoWriMo writing challenge.  Listen to excerpts from these authors:

Suzanna Burke , Monica Marier and Diane Nelson

THE WORD COUNT


***********


Speaking of 'reading', the Greater Lehigh Valley Writers Group [ GLVWG ] sponsers a program called "Dark and Stormy Nights" which brings entertaining readings to varied audiences in eastern Pennsylvania.  We had our inaugural program on Dec. 11 at the Emmaus Public Library , held in conjunction with the Shops of Emmaus Holiday Event.  Eight authors read poetry, memoirs, non-fiction and fiction to an appreciative audience. John Evans did an amazing job putting the program together, and an even more amazing job as our 'MC' for the afternoon.

The participating authors included:

1. Jeffrey Allen                                             
2. Elizabeth Bodien
3. Tammy Burke                                          
4. Kathryn Craft
5. Sally Lukenbach                                      
6. Roman Mac          
7. Diane Nelson                                             
8. Dianna Sinovic

Kevin Pfoertsch provided videographer services for the event.

Earlier that afternoon, I did a book signing at The Basket Gypsy .  Two groups of youngsters - a Brownie Troop and a Middle School Chorale - sang Xmas carols in the store, much to our delight. 

One young girl asked me, "How do you get ideas for your books?"

I leaned in, sharing a secret, and allowed as to how I rent these apartments in my head, and occasionally I like to visit with my tenants so I knock on the door and ... surprise!  A stranger answers the door!  My tenants sublet to these odd, interesting people who invite me in for coffee and can't wait to tell me wonderful stories.  All I have to do is write them down."

Eye rolls and snickers, followed by "You'd get along with our English teacher" who is giggling off to my right.  We do a mutual wink, knowing 'tis true, all of it.

A lovely day with lovely people.  It really doesn't get any better than that.

Life Still on Hold: Launching Pfoxmoor Publishing

Day 30 plus 4:  I am stalled, badly, on finishing Portals: The Devil and the Falcon.  Not because I've run out of steam, or plot, or anything like that.  No -  business interfered.  In a very good way.

I started a boutique publishing venture, specializing in young adult, romance, SF, paranormal, fantasy and whatever strikes my fancy.  I want to cater to emerging talent by giving new, strong voices a chance to be heard.  I believe in the digital revolution so each title shall begin its life as an eBook, then graduate to print.

I'm feeling like that proverbial 'Army of One'.  Not only do I read-to-choose my projects, but I also edit, format, work with my graphic designers and book trailer production team to develop breakout book covers, and unique and entertaining book trailers. Without Sessha Batto and Maria K I simply would be lost.  They are creative forces to be reckoned with.

I also see to distribution, press releases, getting the books in front of the 'right reviewers', arrange for book signings and placement in non-traditional venues – and on and on.

If that sounds like a lot of work, well … yeah, it is.  So far I have a plan.  That plan involves hiring professionals to give my company a leg up and get the books I believe in, and care about deeply, the best chance to be seen by the reading public.

I've placed Wizards by John Booth at the Frankfurt and London Book Fairs.  Dragon Academy will go to the US Book Fair in NYC.

I am reissuing Dancing in the Dark: An Anthology of Erotica and Mounted Exercises – these 'adult' reads will get special attention to place them in the appropriate markets.  I also plan to print Flashes Through Time as a limited run – this is a marvelous collection of flash fiction, short stories, poetry, essays and memoirs.

I've got a real slush pile – more wonderful YA, a SF/romance and an action-adventure-paranormal novel.

But, but, but … my 20-hour days are not leaving me time or energy to write.  And that simply will not do.  The firstborn and many of my dearest friends and supporters are sitting on me hard to slow down, prioritize, and leave a window each day to WRITE.

Good advice.

Very.  Good.  Advice.

Dragon Academy and Wizards Book Covers by Sessha Batto

Dragon Acadmey book trailer produced by Sessha Batto

Life on Hold: The Confessions of a Writing Addict

 
Poised on the cusp of a month long commitment to writing 50,000 words in thirty days, I look askance at the calendar and tally up all the things I should do - my chores, my business: books to review, books to edit, books to publish, submissions to solicit, rejections to mail.  There is simply not enough time.  Is this a mistake?  What have I gotten myself into?

Thousands of writers have signed up in a 12-step fervor for a stream-of-consciousness brain dump with a set number of words in a specified period of time, keeping score in a daily flagellation of remorse or joy.  It is the ultimate joy ride for an author, an adventure, replete with planning and outlines and provisioning, and a challenge.  The rules are simple with a Nike-like admonition: Just Do It.  No one expects 'good', no one expects a fully developed plot, just words-on-a-page and the satisfaction of having joined with a community of like-minded individuals in the quest for expression.

Multitudes wax poetic on the whys and hows in a flurry of cost-benefit analyses designed to stimulate and focus attention on the craft of writing a story.  There is an element of hand-holding here.  Writing is such a solitary endeavor.  Authors live inside their heads for days, weeks, months, years - coming up for air only when necessary, when 'life interferes'.  And most don't notice, nor do they especially care.  NaNoWritMo provides structure, goals, and a fellowship with people who 'get it'.  It fosters networking and bonding.  Here in the Lehigh Valley (PA) there's a surprisingly large contingent of authors, many of whom will band together for the month of November.  There will be a local chapter kick-off party where we can meet face-to-face, perhaps find new friends, but mostly know we aren't quite as alone as we thought.

I've avoided the 'why are you doing it' quite handily.  I don't need the structure or deadline.  I have no issues with motivation and I sit on the prolific side of the equation in terms of output.  And I do like a challenge.  But mostly I'm doing it 'just because'.  What's vexing me is what to do.  I have three 'book two's' awaiting my undivided - a sequel to The Shadow of This World, a historical romance; a sequel to Dragon Academy, a YA fantasy/adventure; and the sequel to Portals: Spar with the Devil, a paranormal thriller with a little romance thrown in.  I am on the last chapter of Spar, my characters will have huge challenges and 'chaos ensues' issues to overcome and it has an immediacy to it that ,I think, will compel me to continue the story.

I really don't know.  I will awaken at some ungodly hour Monday morning, fire up the laptop, click on Word, and see who's made me coffee and wants to chat.  The odds are fairly good it will be a tenant subletting an apartment in my brain, probably someone I've never met who simply wants to have a word.  I really don't mind and I can't wait to see what happens.

Comments Name * First Last Email * Comment *