Laurie Boris's Blog, page 26

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON’T IDENTIFY AS ‘WRITERS’ – all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom! And yes, I’m not the venerable JD Mader, but he has been airlifted to an undisclosed location, and until he can get out of his duct tape and shackles (or until we collect enough to post bail), he has graciously allowed me to play host. Just kidding. I blackmailed him into allowing me to do this.

Write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds … no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is.  So, tell a friend. Then send ‘em here to read your ‘two’ and encourage them to play. 

So, as is tradition – or at least in Mader-land, here’s my first:

You wonder what his country is like, now that the king has died. If you had gone to live with him and be his love, as he asked in a fevered, Aramis-flavored clench on the floor of a disco a thousand years ago, you wonder if you would now be paying homage by his side, clustered with the other shrouded women while the men decided the fate of the land. Or if long ago you would have been arrested for doing the things that came naturally to you: driving a car, baring your arms, stepping outside in your favorite tiny nylon running shorts for a five-mile jog. “No, no, you can’t do that at my father’s house,” he said one day, as the question hanging between us squeezed a little tighter. In the end it was not the potential limitations of your freedoms that made you turn him down; you were just too young and American to believe he was actually serious.

Thanks for stopping by! Let the writing commence!



#2minutesgo

 

Once a Pantser…

Ever since it dawned on me some thirty years ago that the short story I was writing had the potential to be a novel, I’ve been an enthusiastic and dedicated pantser. I’d follow some interesting characters around, taking notes, until something resembling a narrative arc bubbled up. I’d follow that thread until the story was told and then on subsequent drafts, shape it together into a plot, like a lump of clay on a potter’s wheel. (And no, I did not just think about Patrick Swayze in Ghost. Okay, I did.)

Then, a year ago, I tried an experiment in plotting. I thought if I planned events out before writing, it might help me get to that lump of clay a little faster. I didn’t use a tight, scene-by-scene structure. The idea of that killed a piece of my soul. (Your actual mileage may vary and I know that for some of you, plotting is your perfect partner.) I used a loose armature called story beats, which I learned from fellow Indies Unlimited author Lynne Cantwell. I thought it would be the perfect compromise.

I used it quite happily with my last two books. It appealed to my love of puzzles and my desire to publish more than one title a year. I even used it to help plan out some stultifying complexities in my current novel-in-progress. In fact, I scribbled that entire plot, in three different colors, on the whiteboard the spouse-man gave me for my birthday.

But as much as seeing my entire project every day was motivational, it was also like a giant weight around my neck. An entire novel. Not written. And I had to see its guts. Its raw, glistening bones. Every. Single. Day.

So, dang it, persistence is my middle name. (Actually, it’s Ellen.) And I dutifully began cobbling my scenes together into the order I had devised. Then I hit the slide. Ever hit the slide? The point where you’re writing and it’s all going sideways and you’re raving to your spouse who was apparently not smart enough to leave the room before you started going off on your characters for not doing what they’re “supposed” to be doing, and there you have it.

The slide.

It felt like that point in the movie when the soundtrack makes that needle-scratching sound that nearly everyone under thirty does not understand. And then everything went silent.

WHAT WAS I THINKING? Telling a character what to do? Telling the story what it was supposed to be about? No. No, no, no, no, no. I was so far out of my wheelhouse I was calling for a quarterback sneak when the catcher signaled for a fastball.

So I chucked my pretty, tri-colored plot out the window. I’m not done with this thing yet; there are still a few more scenes before I can call it a first draft, but I’m a lot happier with my writing than I’ve been in a while.

So for now, I’m putting my pants back on. You’re welcome.

Thump

I am a dreamer at heart. There. I’ve admitted it. I’ve tried to deny this for years, doing the practical things humans do, fretting about getting good grades and finding the right mate and how to keep a roof over my head and food on my table, marching in painfully uncomfortable lockstep with the other grownups. I put that uniform on when I need to—food and shelter are not to be sneezed at—but the wool itches and the vest constricts my breathing and let’s not talk about how the crotch rides up on those ridiculous trousers.

Right about the time I began to worry whether I’d let the uniform become a permanent part of my epithelial cells, sort of like a Simpsons character, this weird little cardinal started attacking my back deck.

Male Northern cardinals do this sort of thing, I’ve heard. They are territorial, especially during brooding season, and when they see their own reflections in shiny things like windows and car mirrors, they think it’s a rival bird and attack. Over and over and over again.

We named him Napoleon.

I did the things people suggested to make him not see his reflection. Decals on the windows, dangling distracting strips of things from the glass…everything short of covering the sliders with white sheets, which the spouse nixed. I’d rather have a thumping cardinal than a husband grumbly that the lack of natural light coming into the house might kill his cacti. And his mood.

Eight months later, well past normal brooding season, he’s still flinging his winter-fluffed body into my windows. But in the beginning, my little dreaming heart wanted to tell stories and make meaning out of it.

My first flight into the nature of his arrival was that he had come to teach me something. About perseverance, perhaps. Or how to survive getting hit on the head over and over and over again, a common way of life for freelancers and indie authors.

Thump.

Next I entertained the possibility that the meaning was a little more subtle and archetypical. He represented something. A message from a friend, sent on a wing and a prayer, perhaps. (I apologize for that. No, I don’t.)

Thump. Thump.

Then I attempted communing with him. While waiting for my coffee to brew in the mornings, I’d inch up to the window, watching the proud set of his banged-up beak, the determination in his shining black eyes. He liked the sound of my voice, or at least did not fly away from it. At this point, Husband considered that I might need professional help, or a hobby, but I ignored him. Instead, I went deeper and imagined his story. I let him tell it from his point of view. In the first, he had come to save me from my itchy, semi-permanent uniform, a sort of cage I’d locked myself into and did not realize I could leave. Next, and I admit I might have been a little loopy that day, maybe from the repeated percussion of a determined cardinal banging up my house, he’d been sent by a Disney princess to be one of those magical cleaning birds but was continually frustrated that he couldn’t get inside the window.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

I latched wholeheartedly onto the next theory, relayed to me by several Facebook friends. Some say that an appearance of a cardinal means that you are getting a message from a loved one who has died.

Then I was all about what the message might be. From my mother-in-law, watching over us? Telling me to clean the house and fretting that my husband is too thin? A friend who likes that we’ve hung one of his paintings in the hall and hopes we’re happy? Someone else? Don’t get me wrong; I appreciate the love from beyond, but those windows are going to need some serious power washing come spring.

I know that my time with Napoleon on this plane is limited; I know that some think I’m making too big a deal of what might be a simple avian instinct gone awry. But his presence gives my little dreaming heart something to thump about. And now, instead of rattling my imagination for meaning, I spend a little time with him, send out a thought-beam of kindness and compassion, and say, “thank you.”

Hot Off The Press

laurieboris:

Hot off the Press from Carol Wyer’s blog… more raves for DV Berkom’s latest Leine Basso thriller, The Body Market.

Originally posted on Facing 50 with humour.:

When you find a good author whose books you thoroughly enjoy, you can’t wait for their latest release.  I have a passion for thrillers but too often I read what I expect to be a top thriller only to be disappointed by characters, or the ending. Thrillers can disappoint big time.

Some time ago came across D.V. Berkom. In fact, I have mentioned her before on this blog. Now this is an author who knows how to write!

Her latest book, The Body Market was released on the 8th January 2015 and my goodness what an exceptionally good book it is too.

It is another in the Leine Basso series. Leine is a heck of a heroine—no-nonsense, gutsy, savvy and intelligent. Unlike some female lead characters, this one is credible and is one that you, as a reader like—hugely.

I will not reveal the plot because that is what…

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Flashy New Year

The intrepid souls gather from across the globe to write for a couple minutes and toss their innards on the virtual walls…or just play around for a while. Because it’s fun, right? And fun is good. Until someone loses an eye. If you’d like to read some great spontaneous flash, check out JD Mader’s website and maybe next Friday you’ll come by and help us break the blog. Here are a few of my pieces from this week. As always, lightly edited for your protection.

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So what now, you ask the doctor? He smirks and says he can’t help you. Because he can’t write a prescription for what you have, can’t send you to an expensive clinic or find a specialist to excise the memories. Can’t separate the axon from the dendrite, can’t sterilize the synovial fluid to only produce happy thoughts when the cellular wingtips touch. Try yoga, he says, because it helped him. Or eat more roughage. He read that in a medical journal. There’s an herb the indigenous people of New Guinea take to emulate happy memories of childhood; he saw that on the Internet, and will tell you seventeen different websites to track your own vitals. Just stick this patch on the inside of your wrist and go to town. It’s all in your head, he says, without saying the words. You just have to use the words to dig the insides out, like soft muck you no longer need, to make room for the new ones, to purify the balky connections from nerve to nerve, and although they’re working on an experimental drug for that somewhere in Patagonia, using the mold that grows underneath the mossy rocks where penguins nest, it has not yet been approved by the FDA for what you have, and preliminary animal experimentation has only shown limited results. It does render them docile, especially when listening to certain talk show hosts, and we can’t have that. No, we cannot. So until the proper authorities have the proper double-blind studies to prove that ten percent of the population may be helped two percent of the time by this pill that costs three thousand dollars a month, we will not offer it to you. So try yoga. Or deep breathing. You might even try going outside. He heard that cures a lot of things.

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After the phone call, the boy bolted out the back door and the frame slapped shut behind him, the breeze sailing his unfinished homework to the floor. She called his name but realized the futility of it. She could only stand on the deck and watch his tall, slender form, huddled and shaking, atop the pile of boulders in the back yard, the sunset bathing him in dull orange light. An ache shivered through her that he had to carry so much pain, that this was only the start of a lifetime of agony and unfairness and unanswered questions, and she wrapped her thin arms around her waist and ducked back inside. Knowing that when he was ready, when he was cold and hungry and in need of comfort, she’d be waiting.

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It is the last time you five will get together for this task; the portent of it has flavored the room for the last four days as surely as the smell of old coffee and stale donuts drifting up from the bakery on the first floor. Each event is pressed harder into your memory: the Xacto knife accidents, running out of toner, computer crashes, typos that send your fatigued minds into peals of giggles. Already you are doing the remember-whens. You’ve talked about everything and nothing, four long days out of each month for the last two years, strangers who’ve become friends of convenience. But now all is silent except for the whir of the tiny Mac’s hard drive. You all stare at the screen as the file uploads to the big printer that will put the magazine on its giant presses for the last time. You crowd around as the percentage climbs, the thermometer fills, the last of your work together disappears into an ether you don’t quite trust. Ten percent. Eighteen percent. Twenty-eight. Forty-five. Your pulse pounds in your ears. You don’t dare breathe until it not only climbs to a hundred but the third-shift foreman calls in to confirm that he has everything he needs. The call comes. The publisher smiles and pushes her fist into the air like she does every month at this time. But then just as quickly she pulls it back, realizing, like you all do, that it’s over, that after cleaning up your work stations and throwing out the empty coffee cups and hoisting one last deadline beer, once again you will become five strangers.

Here’s to Breaking Writing Rules—Rebels With a Cause or Rebels Without a Clue?

laurieboris:

Kristen Lamb shares a bit of brilliance about the history of literary rule-breaking.

Originally posted on Kristen Lamb's Blog:

Orignal image via Wikimedia Commons

For the past several years, I’ve always begun the New Year with predictions of what the publishing industry would or wouldn’t do in the year to come. But this year? I’m being a rule-breaker and taking a different perspective—one I believe has greater impact and longevity. Algorithms rise and fizzle, publishers go out of business, change paths, or change rules. Heck, Amazon changes its mind more than my mother trying to pick a restaurant. So…eh. Not going there this year.

Unlike the days of early artists, we live in a light-speed society where something can fall flat or catch fire in an instant. This is an exciting time to be a writer.

We are in a New Age of the Artisan. When I give advice to young people about a future career, I simply want them to ask these simple questions. Can what I do be…

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AWRW Interview of Multiple Award Winning Indie Author: Julie Frayn

laurieboris:

Excellent interview with the inspiring Julie Frayn, author of Mazie Baby, about her writing and what’s next.

Originally posted on A Well Read Woman:

Hi Julie, thank you so much for agreeing to be interviewed. Please tell me a bit about yourself and your background.

“Thanks to you, April, for the amazing review, and for inviting me to your blog.

Suicide City, a Love Story is my first novel, about a teenage girl who runs away from the farm and falls in love with a heroin-addicted street kid. My second, It Isn’t Cheating if He’s Dead , is about a woman whose schizophrenic fiancé, after being missing for four years, is found dead. The story follows her grief and healing, and watches her fall in love again, all while helping a homeless man get back home. Mazie is my third baby – but not my last! I’m working on two other novels, with a plan to publish both in 2015.

Writing isn’t my day job (it’s my 5 a.m. job, my lunch time, weekend…

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12 Blogs of Christmas – Martin Crosbie

Our 12th Blog of Christmas is written by bestselling author, Martin Crosbie.

Martin lives on the west coast of Canada and has written five books including Amazon bestseller My Temporary Life. His popular Christmas novel Believing Again: A Tale Of Two Christmases is available in e-book format in the US and UK as a Kindle Countdown Deal from Dec. 24-27 for only 99 cents.

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Marley was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it. And Scrooge’s name was good upon ‘Change for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a doornail.

A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens

Those delicious words open the Dickens classic. Previous to the publication of A Christmas Carol, Christmas was barely recognized. Although it was a holiday it didn’t have the romantic vibe that it has today. Mr. Dickens and his novel changed all that. And, if he’d waited for his publisher to release the book it may never have happened.

Charles Dickens wrote his masterpiece in six weeks. Somehow he was able to channel the story and get the words on paper (or parchment probably) in less than two months. At that time he was suffering financially. His wife was pregnant with their fifth child and the wolves were closing in on their door. His previous novel had not sold well and when he submitted his new manuscript (after having it beta-read surely), to his publishers they were slow to warm to it. I’m not sure how rejection letters were sent out in 1853 but his publishers indicated that they were not interested in publishing the story of Ebenezer Scrooge’s epiphany. Anxious to have the book released by Christmas Dickens went the print-on-demand route and self-published. He hired his own illustrator and contracted his publisher to print the books. And, he did the legwork himself. Then, in those very, pre-Konrath days he decided to lower the price to five shillings – a price that most folks would be able to afford. He wanted his book to be read and perhaps he even thought that readers might enjoy his other works if they liked his Christmas tale.

Read More…

Thank you for reading our 12 Blogs of Christmas. A joyous and peaceful season to you!

12 Blogs of Christmas: Wendy McClelland

Welcome back! Our next contributing writer to the 12 Blogs of Christmas is Wendy McClelland.

Wendy McClelland is a business pioneer; as one of the first small businesses to get online in the mid 1990s, her first website was chosen by the NY Times as “one of the best biz sites on the ‘net”. She is an award-winning entrepreneur as well as a past nominee for “Canadian Entrepreneur of the Year”. She has spoken to over 10,000 people in live audiences throughout western Canada and the U.S. Wendy’s newest project is her book “27 Steps to Freedom – What Learning to Walk Again Taught me About Success in Business & Life” is a story of rebuilding her life after a near fatal illness. You can buy Wendy’s book and get 17 BONUSES with purchase – http://27stepstofreedom.com/book-launch-bonuses/

I’m really thrilled Martin Crosbie asked me to participate with him and eleven great authors to share Christmas stories.

I’m honored to be working with ML Gardner ,  Dianne Greenlay ,  RJ Crayton , Jennifer Ellis ,  Helga Zeiner ,  Roberta Kagan Author , Heather Haley ,  Jamie Lee Scott ,  Sarah Lane  and  Laurie E. Boris .

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A Christmas Love Story (12 Days of Christmas Blog Hop) by Wendy McClelland

I remember 1967 really well. It was Canada’s centennial – our country was 100! My parents had a fun backyard BBQ party and the whole neighbourhood came. The party went on well into the early hours of the morning. I’ll never forget seeing my parents dance together. We never know when we are experiencing something for the last time – especially as a child. That would be the last summer my mother would be alive.

As the fall approached, I started back to school and was a carefree eight year old, with three younger siblings. My parents Brian and Eileen adored each other and loved us. They were both originally from the UK, but had met in Toronto at a house party. When my dad first saw her he turned to his friend and said, “I’m going to marry that girl.” Sure enough, less than a year later they were married.

Ten years and four children later they were building a life together. Then in early winter, my mom began to feel ill, by late November she was gone. She had been feeling tired and went to the doctor. He asked her to wait in his office, called my dad at his office and had him come in. He told my mom she had leukemia and had less than two weeks to live! Can you imagine? You are only thirty years old, and have four children under eight years old. I remember feeling like the bottom had fallen out of my child’s world, I cannot imagine what she felt.

Read more…

Links:

Amazon Author Page (all books):  http://www.amazon.com/author/wendymcclelland

Facebook Fan Page (daily inspiration and motivation) http://www.Facebook.com/WendyJMcClelland

Websites: http://www.WendyMcClelland.com               http://www.27StepstoFreedom.com

 

 

 

12 Blogs of Christmas – Dianne Greenlay

Today’s 12 Blogs of Christmas contribution is from Dianne Greenlay. Take it away, Dianne.

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Hello everyone! I’m delighted (and more than just a little bit in awe) to be part of this group of talented and very entertaining authors in our “12 Blogs of Christmas”, conceived and assembled by my friend and bestselling author Martin Crosbie. By now, you have met several of these brilliant authors, and today it’s my turn to entertain.

I’m the author of the award winning action/adventure QUINTSPINNER SERIES , and also of THE CAMPING GUY , a humorous short story, which is an award winner in its theatre script version. I live and write on the Canadian prairies, home (most years) to 6 or 7 months of winter. Yeah, we never put our parkas away, just in case. (Is it any wonder that I fantasize and write about pirates and adventure in the sun splashed tropics?)

I chose to write my first novel over learning to play the bagpipes, and my husband is grateful. I love to hear from my readers and you can find me at www.diannegreenlay.com, or on twitter at https://twitter.com/DianneGreenlay or even at my Author page .

And now onto my Christmas blog. Wishing you all a wonderful holiday filled with good friends, good luck, and good books!

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Getting Into The Christmas Spirit …

Bah, Humbug!

To steal that popular line, it is Hot Stuff Hubby’s summation of what he also refers to as “a Hallmark Holiday”. The rest of us call it Christmas.

For anyone who has anything for sale, the Christmas retail season is like bottled oxygen to an astronaut in a Space Station – absolutely necessary in order to survive the rest of the year.

Not a particularly religious man, Hot Stuff nevertheless laments the overshadowing of the original intent of fellowship and gratitude of the season, with that of a glut of retail activity.

Personally, I love the hustle and bustle of the Christmas season. I think I must have been a magpie in a former life because I love all things sparkly – twinkling lights, reflective ornaments, the ropes of flashy tinsel, diamonds (ahem, are you reading this, Hot Stuff?), and such.

I love Christmas music, especially the more traditional carols and hymns perfectly harmonized and performed by choirs – I feel no shame in humming along out loud as they are pumped out of the speakers in the mall stores; I thrive on the smells of Christmas baking – sugar and cinnamon, butter and raisins, warm gingerbread – and can often be seen hanging out around the local bakery counter until the clerks get a little nervous at my continuous presence; and I take personal pride in decorating my home and yard as though it were a marker for NASA to be easily seen from outer space.

But this year is a little different. You can read more and find out why here.