Lyle Nicholson's Blog, page 3

Writing my 30 day novel. How I cheated and let the characters do it for me.

If any of you saw my post back in October, I said I was going to enter the 30 day challenge, which is called NaNoWroMo, which means write a novel in the month of November.

It does seem daunting. I mean, 50,000.00 words? That works out to 1,666 words per day, and I mean every day. There can be no days off unless you drink major quantities of caffeine and fire off 5,000 words one day so you can coast the next day.

So how did I do it? Well I had help, yes and I hope the folks at NaNoWriMo don’t find out that I cheated, because you’re supposed to do it alone. What I did was put together an outline first – no that’s okay – that’s not cheating. And then I put together a list of the characters, and all the things that they do, and what they look like – again many authors do that and it’s okay.

But when I got three chapters into the book, which is called CIRCLING THE DRAIN, I found this amazing thing. The characters started to interact. They were talking to one another and all I could see were scenes that they were in. I couldn’t see words I needed to write, I could only see scenes that needed words added to them.

Everyday I woke up at 6am, and I was in my chair by the window, overlooking this lovely golf course pond in Palm Desert in my rental unit, and from 6am until around 10am I would pound out my scenes.

Sometimes I woke up earlier. I told my wife that my characters were bugging me – wanted to get to the next scene to get some things resolved. Some of them had issues with one another. They just needed me in the writers chair to give them life – to put them on the page.

Sound a bit crazy? Well it does, but if you ask many writers who write on a regular basis they will tell you the very same thing. Sometimes we have to take control, because we see a character wanting to go off in a direction that we don’t think suits the outline we gave them.

Sometimes we just let the character go off and explore, and we see if we like where they’re going. Kind of like what you’d do with your child, only hope they weren’t making a bee line for the road or the water. Yes, it is kind of like that.

So, there you have my confession of how I wrote my book in 30 days. I wish I had learned this several years ago, as all my previous books, such as Dolphin Dreams, Polar Bear Dawn, and Pipeline Killers were words that became scenes. Each of them took so much longer to write.

I will now go into the wonderful world of edits, where every author must dwell in the grueling task of ensuring each sentence means something, and everything is spelled correctly, and more importantly if the facts are straight.

This is also a great time for me, as I get to see all my characters again. I will be hanging out with this entire crew until you get to see this new book in print in about 3 months from now. But please don’t tell anyone I cheated in the competition…let’s keep it between you and me.

 

 

 

 

 

What the publishers told the 75 year old writer!

I  recently played a round of golf with some friends of ours in our neighborhood, and afterwards we stopped by their place for some wine.

In our conversation it turned out our friend is a writer. He’s written medical books, that were published years ago, and written in medical journals over the years. He is a semi retired doctor, and professor of medicine who taught for many years at a Canadian University.

Then he told me story of how he wanted to write Science Fiction. He’d even completed a 350 page novel.

“That’s a great accomplishment,” I told him.

“The publishers thought so, but didn’t quite like me.” He said. He went on to explain how he’d attended a writers conference in the past six months and shopped the novel to several publishers. They liked the novel, they thought it had promise, but him…not so much.

You see, all the publishers’ didn’t like the fact that my friend is in his mid 70’s. They wanted to have a least 5 books or more out of an author…and well…my friend looked like he might not have the years left in him to produce.

I thought about this latter, and realized that some publishers may think authors all have an expiry date – or a best before date. You know how you shop for milk at the supermarket?  You want to make sure you check the expiry date. You put cartons back that  expire in the next few days.

Well, that’s what these publishers did with my friend. The liked the package, but obviously they thought there was a best before date that didn’t meet their requirements.

Perhaps we can’t blame the publishers, it is after all a tough business, made tougher by the independent authors who are jumping ship, and going it on their own to publish their own novels.

I’m one of those independent authors. I’ve approached publishers, and quite frankly didn’t like the conversation we had. I realized I’d still be doing all the promoting, they’d be getting most of the money. It just didn’t seem fair to me.

My friend and I have a meeting planned the moment he gets back from his travels. We are going to meet in my office, and I’m going to show him the entire world of Indie publishing, and how to get his work edited, formatted, and a cover designed. I’ve written and published two books so far, and a third coming out next month.

And yes, at 61 years old, I probably have an expiry date or a best before date – but haven’t found it yet. I may have to look harder when I come out of the shower. There must be label stuck there somewhere.

Now, as for my friend, what the publishers don’t know about him, is how fit he is. He’s going to Europe to drink wine and bike ride. Three weeks ago, He did a 100 Kilometer (60 mile) ride in a day. I challenge some thirty year olds to do that!

So, here’s is my advice to my friend. Go independent, get published, and write your heart out…and live to a hundred, just to annoy the publishers.

For any of you in the same position, I want to share with you some great books out there. One is Write Publish Repeat. This book is the essential guide for all independent publishers. And of course the recent Business for Authors by Joanna Penn. 

You see, Publishers may find you as an author unproven, yes, like an Mango that is not ripe, or in the case of my friend like a overripe Mango. They seem to somehow be able to give us some kind of judgmental squeeze and know the difference.

Well, here’s the thing, you as an Indie author have the option of having the reader do the squeezing. Okay, getting bit to much on the similes, but I think you get my meaning.

So, whether you are 75 like my friend, or 25, if you’ve got a passion to write, there is whole world of readers out there waiting for you. And only you know your best before date.Enjoy!

 

My new goal. Working at getting paid to play with my imaginary friends. The joys of writing.

I want to tell you right now that I stole this wording from Kristen Lamb, and you can read more of her at www.warriorwriters.wordpress.com Her words were  inspirational, and I think she nails what most fiction writers are thinking and trying to achieve, that I had to voice it on my own blog.

Part of the idea of this blog, came from a recent visit to my friends who have small children.   From the very moment they got up in the morning to when they went to sleep they wanted to play – to invent games. They had numerous imaginary friends.

Don’t you remember them? I’m sure you remember that as a child you got to play, to use your imagination. And then sometime, in some timeline you were told you had to grow up.

You couldn’t play anymore. Your imaginary friends were sent away, and there you were – you were an adult.

Well, here’s the beauty of being a writer, you get to play with your imaginary friends all day. I don’t care if your Grisham, Wolfe or King, all of it comes into your head and onto the paper. The wonder of the imagination. And they get paid for it.

That’s my goal. To spend hours each day with my imaginary characters. Some are quite good, some are real nasty. I get to decide (to a point) how the story will come out, and how the characters will interact.

I say to a point, because all writers will tell you, that there is a point where a character will start to take on a new life. You watch, you write, and you only direct to a point where you know you cannot let the character have the complete lead. But you watch with fascination as the character and the plot develops.

This is the beauty of writing, of having these imaginary friends. Do we all get paid well for it? In a word no. I’m still at it, publishing my third book next month, and having meager checks appear in my bank account from Amazon. But is it worth it? Absolutely!

There are a few things I’ve learned from the almost four years I’ve spent writing, one is that one book does not an author make (you need a bunch), and in the process of writing book after book you grow as a writer.

Here is something else that’s fun. Your group of imaginary  friends  begins to grow as well. You actually will end up with almost a neighborhood full of them. They’re yours because you invented them, and they won’t leave until you give them a proper exit of some kind.

Therefore, I wish all of you writers great success with your imaginary friends, and to the readers, you get to sit back with your cup of tea, or glass of wine and wonder how we came up with all these great characters.

It’s because we found that great thing called the imagination, and allowed the freedom to create. And that does make all the difference. I wish everyone great writing and great reading.

My Arctic trips, dark nights, chickened fried steak, and learning to love fiction

I started travelling to the high Arctic in 1995, and by high Arctic, I mean this place called Prudhoe Bay in Alaska. I got there by flying directly south of my home in Calgary Canada, to Seattle, and then a four hour trip to Anchorage.

There was then a direct flight to a place called Dead Horse Airport, and yes that’s what they called it. I still have no idea to this day why they called it Dead Horse, but that is the name.

The airport isn’t much at all, a Quonset hut with buildings attached, with a steady stream of smoke curling out of it. On my first visit there, it was minus 40 below.

I went there to do business, back then I sold specialized work wear, stuff that would keep you warm in minus 70 Below. Yes that’s a minus, and it gets down to minus 100 hundred up there. Hard to believe.

What’s the point of my story? I learned to love fiction again. I admit I lost it sometime after 1988 when I started my business. I think I read ever book on selling, and business organizational behavior, and investing until at one point…I think my brain might have been drying out.

But there in the high Arctic, in work camps that were our only sleeping quarters, as there were no hotels close, I found fiction books, and piles of them. They were everywhere. Back in 1995 before Kindle, or stuff streaming on your laptop, there was the printed page.

To pass the time, which seemed endless up there, I’d pick up a book, and read it in the lounge (that’s dry lounge – no liquor in the camps.) Or I read in my small bunk quarters. They consisted of a single bunk bed with drawers, and a desk, and you shared the shower with your neighbor. Remembering to unlock their side of the door when done – otherwise a large oil worker appears in your room at around midnight to remind you.

In between the reading, there were one or two sales calls, as we’d have to wait until the person we were there to meet came back from some oilfield, then we’d make our presentation, and then, yes then back to reading.

There was of course food up there, tons of it, more food than you’ve seen on a dozen cruise ships, and it was nonstop. At midnight you could make yourself a Ice Cream Sundae if you wished, or heat up some Lasagna, or make yourself an espresso or Latte.

I still remember being introduced to Chicken Fried steak, and wondering why bother to make this? I tried some, and I think my stomach has still not forgiven me for it.

But back to the fiction, there alone in the long Arctic nights with Tom Wolfe, Kurt Vonnegut Jr., Michael Ondaatje, Douglas Adams even some Isaac Asimov thrown in, I was never alone, never bored, and always entertained.

From the dark and cold nights of Alaska, I’d venture back home, and pick up paperbacks on my way home, the flights were over three hours, and there was always a long layover in Seattle. I consumed Detective novels, and Grisham Novels, and just about everything I could find.

The beauty of it was, when I retired, I could think of nothing more I wanted to do than write Fiction. My wife was amazed, she thought I might write books about sales, or business.

I told her no, I would write fiction in my retirement, I wanted to add to all those amazing books I read in my travels, and maybe one of my books will end up in a library in one of the oil camps in the high Arctic. Now wouldn’t that be a treat!

My book Polar Bear Dawn, is set in the High Arctic, and can be found on Amazon. Perhaps you’ll read it, and get a sense of what I saw up there.

Strange tales of Alaskan Justice…no it’s not on the National Geographic Channel

My stories of Alaskan style Justice come from my travels to Alaska, and the first story came from the back of a taxi cab from the Anchorage airport to my hotel in downtown Anchorage.

It was somewhere in 1995, and probably in winter, because I did most of my business in cold weather apparel, and of course, that’s when it was coldest, and when clients wanted to see me.

My cab driver was a native lady, somewhere in her mid forties, long black hair, dark skinned, and wearing the usual fleece jacket and jeans that was the uniform of most cabbies in Anchorage.

I have no idea how the conversation started, but it was about justice, and the lady said, “Hell, there’s no justice in this world – let me tell you about real justice,” She had a wide smiling face, and she told the story to me while looking into the rearview mirror.

“So we had this kid in our village who was stealing all the time, and no matter how many times we called the cops, he just kept at it, robbing all the houses,” she said.

I realized by “village,” she meant reservation, but I didn’t want to stop the flow of the story, so I just asked, “So what did you do?”

She laughed, it was a lovely laugh that spoke of long Alaskan winter nights and longer summer evenings, “Well, you know a bunch of us grabbed that kid and took him out to the woods. It was the middle of summer, and we tied him to a tree, buck naked, yep we stripped his clothes off and left him there.”

“All night naked?” I asked in disbelieve.

“Oh yeah,” She replied, the chuckle now making her slightly large body shake in the drivers seat of the cab. “Yeah the mosquitos, black flies, and who knows what kind of animals bite on him, did a little taste – no what I mean?” Her eyes flashed knowingly in the rearview mirror.

I sat in the back of the cab thinking of this poor teenage kid alone in the Alaskan summer night, which would not be night, but mostly daylight, with bugs feasting on his flesh and curious animals dropping by to check the strange scent of this human flesh “lollipop,” attached to a tree.

“What happened after that?” I asked.

“Ha, that kid never stole again, hell no, and that’s Justice Alaskan style!” she said with a broad grin.

I’ve thought of that story for years, and before I wrote this I called up a person I’d become friends with in Alaska. I asked him about this thing called Alaskan style justice.

He said, “Hell yeah, we practiced that in my village too.” My friend is native American, and he meant the reservation he lived on.

“What was your experience,” I asked.

“My old man would tell me that the man next door had beat his wife, and he’d tell me to go next door a lay a beating on the guy.”

“Why didn’t your Dad go?”

“I was seventeen, the Alaskan State Troopers couldn’t touch me.”

“But at seventeen…you were that tough?” I knew my friend was tough, but I was amazed at this.

“Hell yeah, remember my dad was part white and part Indian, so I was different, and my cousins used to beat the crap out of me all the time. Called me baked potato, which meant white on the inside and brown on the outside.”

“No one stopped your beatings?”

“Nah,” my friend said, there was only the slightest hesitation on the phone, “My dad told me I had to toughen up, and learn how to fight – to strike first.” He laughed, “Yeah, I guess I learned how to give out my own measure of Alaskan Justice! I knocked on that guys door, and BAM, he went down like a sack of meat when he came to the door – and he’d never beat his wife again.”

And those are my stories of Alaskan style justice. You won’t find these on National Geographic, where the Alaskan State Troopers chase down a host of Alaskan’s behaving badly, no these are behind the scenes – let’s say off camera. I cannot say I agree with this style of justice, but the story just had to written.

I’ve written a book of fiction called Polar Bear Dawn, where I’ve incorporated a scene of Justice Alaskan style. You will find it on Amazon, Kindle and Kobo.

Perhaps you’ll read it, and if not, I hope you’ve enjoyed this Blog about the strange tales of Justice Alaskan style, because these…well they are real…although they seem so strange…you wonder why someone hasn’t put them into a book. Perhaps I will.

Some strange Alaskan Love stories

When I sent my book Polar Bear Dawn to an editor for a manuscript evaluation, I was told the book was too long and too many characters. I cut out 20,000 words, and in some of those words were the strange love stories from Alaska. Well, some of them were too good to pass up, so here they are.

The first story I heard was from an Anchorage cab driver. I was heading from my hotel in Anchorage to the airport.

“Where are you headed?” The cab driver asked. He was native Alaskan, small in stature, high cheek bones and wispy beard – I thought he might be a Inupiaq from the Alaskan Arctic.

“Prudhoe Bay,” I answered.

“I used to work there,” the cabbie said with a smile – he glanced back at me in his rearview mirror.

“So, why did you come back to Anchorage?” I was curios. Prudhoe bay is the home of Alaskan oil. A person cleaning rooms made 60K a year, an oil worker made 90K and above. But they worked two weeks in and one out.

The cabbie laughed, “I called back home, and my cousin answered the phone. I asked my wife – hey why’s my cousin there – and sitting on my couch? And my wife said…well…your not here!”

“In Alaska – easy to find a job – hard to find a wife!” The cabbie said laughing hysterically at his own punch line.

That was my initiation into the strange stories of love life in Alaska. That trip to Prudhoe Bay gave me another story. I was there to do a trade show in safety work wear, and I was told of man who’d been mauled by a Bear that summer.

The man dropped by my trade show booth, and I had to ask him about his experience. He said he’d been out with this wife hunting Deer. They’d shot one and were cutting it up when Bear attacked him from out of the woods.

“How’d you get away from the bear?” I asked.

“My wife shot it,” He answered calmly. “But she didn’t get him right away…so the Bear bit on me a little bit.” He showed me an arm with healed indents of Bear teeth.

“Your a lucky man,” I said.

The big man in a set of big blue overalls grinned, “Hell, yeah, a man needs a wife who’s a good shot – she’s a real keeper.”

The following summer, I was in Anchorage on business, and one of my customers, an Alaskan resident, told me how he’d fallen in love with his second wife.

“We went out to my camp at the lake,” he said, “And that was the day I knew I was in love with her.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“Well,” my customer said, taking another pull of his beer and chewing on some Halibut cheeks,” She cut half a cord of firewood while I went fishing…my god a real Alaskan woman!”

I remember just shaking my head and smiling. I knew I’d never understand Alaskan’s.

My last strange Alaskan love story was in March in Anchorage. We’d finished a trade show, and we ended up at Chilkoot Charlies.

This is probably the strangest bar in Anchorage. Or the ten strangest bars as they’re linked together by some sort of weird system of hallways and stairs. Rock and roll, blues, and Karoke all flow somehow from room to room. The motto of the establishment is “We Cheat the other guy, and pass the savings onto you!

And that night, as we drank Alaskan Amber Ale and listened to really bad karaoke being belted out by alcohol induced singers – we witnessed a couples wedding bliss.

A young couple, he dressed in top hat and tails over a tee shirt, cargo shorts and hiking boots, and her in a tight fitting red velour evening dress that showed her ample curves with matching hiking boots, were dinning on chicken wings and beer at a table in the corner.

“They actually booked that table a week ago,” the bartender said. They came out of the bush yesterday…their wedding night,” He added with a shrug.

The bar full of Alaskan’s and visitors serenaded them with karaoke songs, and sent beer to their table. They were in wedding bliss.

My customer turned to me, “Yeah, it’s Alaska and it’s love.”

And those are some of my stories that I wanted to put into Polar Bear Dawn. It was fun to share them with you.

You’ll find more of my stories, the fiction kind, in my books Dolphin Dreams and Polar Bear Dawn on Amazon, Kindle and Kobo.

My fear of Polar Bears inspired my first book. The strange workings of a writers mind

Someone asked me how I came up with the idea for my first full length Novel, Polar Bear Dawn. It was easy I said. I had a fear of being eaten by Polar Bears.

I visited Alaska’s Arctic from 1995 until 2009, and in that time I flew to the far north of the Arctic Ocean some 15 times. My trips were always in the dead of winter. And I mean a winter that looked like death could creep up on you.

I’d get off the plane and it would be minus 45F with a 20 mile an hour wind chill. They talk about frost bite up there – well this stuff felt like teeth marks on your skin.

The Arctic is flat. No trees. The sky is a leaden grey in the winter for the few hours the sun almost comes up, and for a few months, the sun doesn’t show at all. Total darkness.

In all of this, the Polar Bear roams. This magnificent animal has adapted to the presence of man. He’s figured out that he can hide out under stairs – because all the buildings are raised off the ground – he has a natural hiding place. A natural hunting place. His prey is humans.

The oil camps I visited on my sales calls had Polar Bear alerts on their TV Screens. Just like you’d see a warning of a shark off a beach, you’d get the warning of the Polar Bear lurking around the camp. He could be anywhere in the dark Arctic night. This was his domain, not ours.

There were signs posted at doors to the outside LOOK UNDER THS STEPS BEFORE GOING DOWN THE STARIS!!! Sometimes a person would draw big teeth to get the message across.

You see, a Polar Bear was accustomed to waiting by a seal hole for hours or days for seal to surface. Waiting under stairs for a human wasn’t much trouble for them at all. If the reward was warm meat. Sorry if that sounds crass – but the conditions are harsh, and we are in their territory. To a Polar Bear, it’s not personal, it’s just survival.

So, after all these trips up to the Arctic, I had this vision one cold Arctic night. A body lying at the base of the stairs, with a Polar Bear feasting on it.

A scene that looks like an accident. An accident of a human having an unfortunate meeting with a Polar Bear. But then I thought – what if the Polar bear didn’t do it. What if this was a murder?

And that was how I came upon the start of my first Novel. If you get a chance to read it, I would love to hear you comments. You’ll find the book POLAR BEAR DAWN on Amazon, Kindle and KOBO.

My experience at the LAX airport shooting. A strange day for a fiction writer

My wife and I arrived on a United Airlines flight from Canada at 10:45 AM into Los Angeles Airport on Nov. 1st. Our flight to Palm Springs wasn’t until 3:05, and we had to clear customs, and go back through security.

We were looking forward to lunch somewhere, and I planned to find a corner, and hunker down with my computer, and do some editing on my next Novel, a thriller with numerous victims.

The first time we noticed something was wrong, was when the captain came on the intercom to tell us, “There would be a slight delay in getting us off the plane.” We were to be bussed to the airport, and not use the jetway.

The slight delay turned into two hours. The airport was strangely quiet. Few planes were landing. Police helicopters hovered overhead.

A cabin full of I Phones turned to MSN, CNN and Twitter. In minutes a hushed conversation had broken out amongst the passengers, “A shooting at the airport. Someone shot a TSA Agent.”

Someone asked, “Is it a terrorist attack?”

That was a good question I thought. Since the attacks of September 11th, one attack can lead to another. The attack on the TSA Agent, could have been a decoy, for a major strike somewhere else.

Buses arrived and we were taken to the Customs hall. The Customs Agents looked calm. They processed our small flight, and sent us into the airport.

I’ve been to Los Angeles Airport many times, and the quiet calm in the airport was unusual. I’m used to seeing harried travelers in long lines at Security. There was none of that. People sat quietly on the floor in front of security. Security wasn’t open. Nothing was open, and nothing was moving. This was called Lock Down.

My wife looked at me as we stood in line waiting for a flight that may or may not take off, “This lock down is like the one in your book.”

I’d used the term for a lock down after a murder in the high Arctic, in my new book Polar Bear Dawn. Did I ever expect to experience one…no, not really.

Outside the usually busy road not a car moved. Police cars raced by, their sirens blaring. Then an emergency medical van, then a fire truck. And then…the eerie silence.

Passengers talked quietly about where they were headed and what flight they were about to miss, or if they might make their connection. I thought it strange to be caught up in your destination, when something so tragic as a man has been shot. Someone’s life has ended by violence, and you wonder if it’s going to affect your vacation.

Our journey was altered that day, by the mental imbalance of one man. One man with a gun, and with rage against his government. I learned latter he’d called himself a “pissed off patriot.”

He, Paul Ciancia, a 23 year old with an automatic weapon, calmly shot Gerardo Hernandez, a 39 year old TSA employee, who was just doing his job, protecting passengers from violence in the air. Who knew the violence would begin in the airport?

We ended up picking up our bags and with thousands of other passengers, we walked away from the airport. The Hertz Rental was 2 and 1/2 miles away, and numerous passengers helped us put the bags back on the carts after they fell off when going over curbs and uneven pavement.

I heard one lady on her phone as she walked beside me, “Yeah, I walked out of New York during 9/11, and I’m now walking out of LAX airport.”

The police waved us passed, weary and shocked passengers, looking for hotels, taxis and car rental agencies. News cameras filmed us we walked. I commented to my wife how strange it was to part of the news rather than watching it on T.V.

We listened to the news on the radio as we drove in our car to Palm Spring. A sea of red lights in slow moving bumper to bumper traffic that made a mockery of the term “rush hour.” The radio commented on how the airport was still in lock down. Someone got a hold of a relative of Hernandez, the victim, he was about to turn 40. No one knew the state of the other victims.

We met our friends for dinner on Saturday night. We told them of our experience, and one of them commented how this experience would do well in my next book.

I said nothing, but I realized now that this shooting would never do well in a book. Why? Because this was a random act of violence. As a mystery writer, I know my readers need to see things connected. They want to see that things make sense.

The one thing that does make a connection is the amount of random acts of violence committed in the United States. According to a CBS News report on Wednesday, there were 85 victims of mass shootings in just over 1 year.

The Attorney General of America commented on Oct. 21st of this year, that mass shootings in America had tripled. Maybe that’s the story, the story of the Brain Behind the Gun. What has happened that people want to kill and be killed by violence.

Stephen King commented on this very subject in his book GUNS, a short story on Kindle.

I didn’t read his entire book, but checked out some quotes. He stated that most of the shooters were young, many just boys, and that after the initial coverage, the world went back to watching other things.

I doubt my experience of this shooting will go into any of my books, as I want my readers to see order, even if it’s order in killing. Here there was none.

My heart goes out goes out to Mr. Hernandez and his family, and to those injured and traumatized by the deranged Mr. Ciancia.

As I started writing this Blog, the news came on, another shooting took place in a Mall in New Jersey. A man shot at people, then killed himself. And so it goes, the random acts of crazy violence.

I wish you all safe travels, and to keep your loved ones close.

A great story of Faith and Determination

I heard this story several weeks ago at a wine tasting event here, where I live in the Okanagan Valley in Western Canada. A young lady from Spierling Wineries in the valley was leading us through her wines, and then she told us a story about her great, great Grandmother.

Her great,great Grandfather arrived in this valley from Italy in the 1890′s and was convinced by the missionaries that he should start a farm in this valley. He agreed, and sent for his wife.

His wife who lived in Italy, had no idea where this place was in Canada, but she boarded a steam ship that was going to San Francisco, with hopes of finding her husband in this place called Okanagan. She paid her passage by cooking for a group of Italian Missionaries on board.

In 1890, there was no Panama Canal, the steam ship went around Cape Horn of South America and up to San Francisco. A long and arduous journey.

They arrived in San Francisco, and all this woman knew was to ask for a place called the Okanagan. She spoke little English. One of the Italian missionaries turned to her, and told her, “You see that Mission Bell that is just being loaded onto the dock. That bell is going to place you are going, and so are these missionaries.”

So this little Italian woman, made another journey, from San Francisco, following that bell, to the port of Vancouver Canada. That was over 900 miles overland, and then on horse back from Vancouver some 300 miles inland to meet her husband.

She raised eight children in this valley, and her sons and daughters became farmers and business people here in this valley. And her Great Great Granddaughter was there that night to showcase their award-winning wines.

What did I see from this story? I saw that we can have all kinds of faith in ourselves, our god, or our goals, but it is the determination that will see it through.

That little lady showed that she had the faith to get on the boat, but also the determination to see her journey through to the end. Now, about the bell being on the same boat she was on? Well, I’ll let you draw your own conclusions.

As a writer, I love stories like this. I hear so many people talk about faith, whether it be in religion or in themselves, but when you hear stories about someone who persevered, that’s when the story really matters to me.

That lady followed a bell, that led her to her husband. We each follow something in our lives that leads us to our destiny, fulfillment or just to the end of the day.

I don’t care if you don’t believe me, but really, some people follow reality TV shows, some sports, but they do follow something. It is wonderful, when I hear a story of someone who followed their heart.

If you have any stories like this one, like this little lady who followed the bell, I would love to read them, you could post them here. Meanwhile, I’ll look for other stories of determination, and when I find them, then you’ll find them right here.

Some thoughts on writing and riding.

I’m a writer who lives in Kelowna, Canada. I have another strange addiction besides writing, and it’s riding my road bike. Riding clears my head. It lets me sort out stories, or see things that have been hiding in my own confusion.

The other day I put on my bike gear, yes I wear the Spandex, with what I call the padding or “Depends,” in the seat and headed down the hill. To start my ride I descend 500 feet towards the valley floor.

The start of the ride is a rush. Wind blows, trees rush by, and I’m doing 40KM (25MPH) down the hill. The beauty of speed on a bike, is you have to control it. If you don’t, you can lose control and crash.

That sounds like my writing to me. I sometimes write so fast, with the words hitting the page, and my ideas bouncing around that what comes out isn’t recognizable. I need to slow down, and find a speed that lets me enjoy what I’m doing, yet gets me to my goal.

My ride takes me through these fantastic orchards and vineyards. The peaches are ripe. They’re falling off the trees now their so heavy. The apples are starting to hit perfection. They are shades of green, yellow and red as they get ready. The wine grapes are getting heavy, and purple, and full. Every day the farmers are amongst the vines testing them, to see when they’ll hit perfection.

But the thing about the wine growers is they’ve been in those vineyards since February. They were pruning, they were making sure their vines would be ready. So much work they’ve put in, just to get these grapes off in September, and ready for the crush in October.

To me, this is so much like writing. The final book or manuscript you see has taken a writer months if not years to prepare. You see the final product. You haven’t seen what never made it to print. Some writing and books never make it at all. Kind of what falls to the ground in the orchards as I ride by.

I’m working on too many things these days. A new thriller book finished, and sitting in the hard drive needing a final review. A memoir is almost finished and needs two final chapters to then sit before final polish, and my second Novel is with a formatting company getting all shined up and ready to be uploaded to Amazon.

I find like most people, to do one thing at a time, and just do it well it best, but then I get bored with doing just that one thing. The ADD in me? Perhaps it is, but sometimes multiple projects works well. Getting fresh insights as you move from one thing to another can be good as well.

My bike rides always end with me climbing back up the hill I came down. The road winds up, and seems unrelenting. I have to gear down on my bike, take it slow, and just find a speed that works and go with it. Not to fast that it will tire me out, and not too slow that I lose balance.

Now that is truly like writing. Have you every found yourself in between a rock and hard place in your writing? You have no idea how you wrote yourself into that space, and not sure how to get yourself out. Here is my advice for what it’s worth. Just take it slow, but move forward. Just one word at a time.

Your muse, your creativity will find your way forward. You just need to let it find it’s way for you. You have to let it help you. I guess like the old cliché “it’s just like riding bike!” You know it as soon as you get on.

I wish everyone a wonderful day, great writing, and a great life.