M.B. Weston's Blog, page 3

Writing: Catching What the Muse Flings at You

I’m not sure about the rest of you, but ideas rarely come to me when I’m sitting peacefully at my desk and can write them down in organized fashion. No, no, nooooo… My muse prefers to toss ideas my way when I’m in the middle of something else, usually without access to pen and paper. (Yes, I prefer this old-fashioned method for taking notes. I still remeber the day (pre-smartphone) when I went running around Walt Disney’s Polynesian Hotel looking for something to write with as a scene unfolded in my head. Ended up buying a Minnie Mouse notepad, but I was able to write it down. If you’re a writer, you know that when your characters start taking, you’ve got precious little time to record what they are doing.) 

This month, I’m blogging on writing tools, and I’ve decided to share a few “writer’s life hacks” that helped me record and organize my ideas even if I’m nowhere near a pen and paper. As long as you already own a smartphone or tablet, all of these (except one) are free.

Writer’s hack 1: Put MS Word on your smartphone. I’m not sure about androids, but MS Word is free if you have an iPhone or iPad with at least iOS 7. I use Dropbox (more on that next) to store my writing manuscripts and notes. I can pull up any Word document on my my phone and work on it. I can also start a new manuscript on my iPhone when the ideas strike. Working on huge novels I nearly impossible, but short stories or just taking notes from brainstorming work well.

Writer’s Hack 2: Use DropBox (or any other form of google docs/cloud storage). As mentioned earlier, I keep my writing files in Dropbox. I can access them on my smartphone, tablet, and any computer with internet access. Better yet, the original documents are stored in my hard drive. DropBox acts as a backup that I can access anywhere.

Writer’s Hack 3: Your smartphone’s Notes app. I’m not as familiar with Androids, but iPhones come equipt with the Notes app. It’s really simple. Open app. Click the Add Note symbol. Write note. Close app. I use Notes dying those times when I don’t have internet access,  but I need to get that scene in my head written down somewhere. (A little celeb tip: you can also type out a paragraph, take a screen shot, and use that as an Instagram post…)

Writer’s Hack 4: Evernote. Evernote is marketed more towards businesses, but it has great applications for writers. Evernote lets you organize your notes and ideas into notebooks. When you get an idea for a novel that is three books in the cue (my cue is huge!), you can add a note into that future novel’s notebook. You can access your Evernote account through a computer or your smartphone/tablet. My favorite part about Evernote: if I’m doing research on my computer, I can clip an entire webpage into a notebook. I keep all my web research for novels on Evernote. I also save random articles that might come in handy for hard to research topics, such as steampunk technology into Evernote. Evernote has a few downsides, however. The free version only allows you to upload a certain amount of data per month. Also, unlike Dropbox, all your notes are saved in Evernote’s system instead of your computer, meaning they can do what they please with it. When they bought Pentultimate, they literally deleted most of my notes, and I lost half of my ideas for The Elysian Chronicles Book 3. (You’ll notice I don’t have Pentultimate listed here. I’m still furious.) 

Note: I started using Evernote before I could put Word on my phone and access everything with Dropbox. Now, I mainly use Evernote to capture web data, and I’m using Word the rest of the time.

Writer’s Hack 5: Aqua Notes. For some reason, most of my ideas occur in the shower, probably because it’s the only time I actually relax enough to pay attention to the muse. Before I discovered Aqua Notes, I would think up wonderful patches of dialogue and scenes, but I’d lose them by the time I could write them down. Then I discovered Aqua Notes: a notepad with waterproof paper–I kid you not! It has suction cups, so it sticks to the shower wall (as does the included pencil), and the individual papers stick to the tile as well, meaning I can use both sides. Aqua Notes have saved my writing life quite a few times. Note: these actually cost money, but if you are a shower thinker, they are worth it. 

Obviously, when all else fails, pull out that pen and paper you keep with you for emergencies…

What about you? How do you capture the ideas your muse flings at you?

Kill Your Productivity With These Simple Steps

Read on to discover the secrets of a master time-waster…

I would love to give advice about being productive and reaching your maximum potential, but I also want to continue looking in the mirror without thinking hypocrite. I’m a full time mother, part-time accountant, and on top of that I’m trying to compose two separate fantasy novel series and a YouTube series. I’m always looking for ways to put what little time I have to best use. I’ve tried several productivity methods and apps (can anyone here say pomodoro?), and none have helped. I have, however, discovered a plethora of ways to totally eliminate any chance of making my time count. 

If you, like me, are trying to juggle your lofty creative dreams with your job and family, and you’re looking for ways to seriously hinder your chances of success, check out these top time sucks and productivity killers that I’ve not only discovered but also fallen victim to:

Spend too much time on social media. There’s nothing quite like that numb feeling you get while mindlessly scrolling down posts looking for a funny superhero meme or taking that 243rd online Hogwarts sorting test to really keep yourself from finishing that novel… (I’m Gryfindor, btw…)

Master Angry Birds, Candy Crush, or (pick your smartphone game). Oh the thrill of knocking aside those pigs or bursting that piece of chocolate! Or the tension of repeating a level over and over (and over) because you are soooooo close to winning it. (I’ve since deleted all games except for Sudoku off my phone, btw. Of course, now I’m paying more attention to Apple News and Facebook…)

Religiously follow or binge watch a television show/s. Netflix murders future projects. Nuff said.

Become an ardent sports fan. The more times a week your team plays, the better for your productivity woahs. (Here’s looking at you Major League Baseball.) While you’re cheering for your Yankees or your Cowboys, be sure to join at least one fantasy league and spend half of your free time researching stats.

Set impossible goals. Go big or go home. If you can’t meet your goals, let the fear of failure paralyze you instead of readjusting your goals to work with your schedule. 

Don’t work your plan. If you have set reasonable goals, be sure to spend hours planning out each minute detail. Then, drop the whole thing in a week because… (See any of the above.)

Overschedule yourself. Say yes to everything. Let those things interfere with your set aside work (writing, art, etc.) time. It all sounds so fun, and you will broaden and stretch yourself. Like butter. Over too much bread. (Geek points to those of you who caught that reference.)

Have a baby… Nuff said.

How about you? What totally interferes with your productivity?

Free Eclipse Short Story: “Spliced”

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Never look directly at an eclipse. It might damage more than just your eyes…

Since we’re celebrating an eclipse today, I decided to post a short story that has been floating around in my head for a few years. I think I channeled M. Night Shymalan on this one. Feel free to read, enjoy, and share!

Spliced

M. B. Weston

Never look directly at an eclipse. It might damage more than just your eyes. This thought and sickening regret that accompanied it always swirled around my head each time I entered the Mabry Psychiatric Hospital to visit my younger sister. Selena looked directly into a total eclipse eight years ago. It destroyed her and nearly broke me.

The sharp tapping of my heels against the dated terrazzo floors echoed down the sterile white asylum hall in steady rhythm. The muscles in my right hip started to ache, and jabbing pain gnawed at my right temple. The accident that caused them occurred five years ago today. My body remembered it more than I wanted to. The day after the accident, they locked Selena away in this awful place. I never argued with their decision. Something, either Selena’s mind or her body, already imprisoned her. Moving her here simply changed her living quarters.

My husband, Mark, noticed me favoring my right side and stepped closer to me. He and I both suspected something psychosomatic caused at least part of my pain. Too often, it occurred when something triggered thoughts about her. I grasped his hand, letting him bear some of my weight, as we approached the door to her room. I forced my emotions into an imaginary box in a hidden part of my mind. Without that silly box, I would have cracked long ago the same way my mom did. Unfortunately, since the eclipse I had forced my feelings into that box so often that they sometimes stayed there.

We reached her door. I took a deep breath, gathering my strength, as Mark opened it. The door’s creak rippled from my heart to my stomach. Just once, I wanted to have a normal conversation with my only living blood relative.

Mark’s protective hand led me inside. Selena sat in a reclining chair next to the window, involved in an intense conversation. The little girl who used to insist on keeping her appearance immaculate now sat disheveled with her messy, raven-colored hair and misaligned bathrobe. Lack of sun turned her face ashen, almost translucent, making her childhood freckles disappear.

Selena continued her conversation, immune to our presence. “Thank you, Nurse Snyder,” she said. She flashed a lopsided smile—the one I often remembered her giving me when she wanted to get out of doing something.

If Nurse Snyder was actually in the room, I would have giggled at Selena’s cute manipulative tactic. The room was empty, however, except for me and Mark—and Selena, of course, but I suspected she wasn’t actually here today.

After the eclipse, Selena consistently held conversations with unseen people. She even insisted that a little boy had moved into the house with us. “He likes the swing out back,” she often said. Her visions stretched beyond just people. Three months before we put her at Mabry’s, she claimed “the ground swallowed up” a house a few blocks away from us. The convincing detail and intensity Selena poured into her one-sided conversations and stories would frighten most people. Mark grew used to it. I usually kept myself in android-mode: calm, unaffected, emotionless.

Selena’s grey-blue eyes, once bright like cobalt, gazed at the wall next to her bed. I hated the wall. She had drawn a few pictures on it, usually of our old house with tree and the swing. She also written the word eclips, without the e, across it. The little girl who once placed first in the statewide spelling bee couldn’t even spell eclipse, even though I had corrected her several times.

Eclipse. I hate the word. My hometown of Seffner, FL fell directly in the United States’ last total eclipse’s path of totality. I was seventeen at the time. Selena was eight. We huddled next to Mom in the county park along with the hundreds of others waiting to experience the rare phenomena. We somehow kept little Selena corralled for two hours as we watched the moon pass in front of the sun.

“Honey, don’t look directly at it,” my mom kept saying. “You’ll burn your eyes. Use your glasses.”

“I can’t use them, Mommy,” she said. “They aggravate the cut on my nose.”

Selena used to be so bright. What eight-year-old used the term aggravate? She was also stubborn and refused to heed Mom’s pleas.

The noisy crowd around us quieted as the moon closed in on the sun. The sky darkened, much as it does at twilight. Selena ignored it and instead ran around the two of us, chasing a bee.

“Selena, stop!” I snapped. “I don’t want to use my pen.” I was, and still am, deathly allergic to bee stings, and I carried my EpiPen everywhere. I had no desire to miss the eclipse because my sister angered one of the little buzzers.

My mom nudged my arm. “Jan, it’s happening.” The sky continued to darken into night. The confused crickets even began their evening chirps. The vibrant reds and purples of sunset that usually stick to the west surrounded the horizon.

We took off our eclipse glasses just as the black moon cloaked the sun. The sun’s pulsing orange glow surrounded it. Darkness enveloped us, and I saw actual stars in the night-like sky.

A nearby buzz like a jolt of electricity took me by surprise. I looked down and saw my normally wiggly sister standing motionless, her arms straight, stuck to her sides. “Selena,” I said.

She remained rigid. Her usually vivacious, expressive blue eyes stayed locked on the moon and sun in a dead gaze. I nudged her shoulder. It felt like I was trying to push a statue. No one else noticed. Even after the moon started to pass away from the sun, my sister’s body remained stiff.

Night disappeared. Light returned. The awed crowd turned rambunctious once again. I looked down. Selena blinked a few times, as though she had come out of a trance. She looked around the park.

“Where did they go?” she whispered.

At the time, I thought the question odd. No one had left the park.

Panic transformed her little voice. “Mommy!” she screamed. “Jan!”

“We’re here,” we both said.

I took her hand in mine. She wriggled out of my grip and raced down the sidewalk crying out for both of us.

We chased her down, and it took us ten minutes to convince her we were standing right next to her.

For the next three years, she drifted in and out of reality. Sometimes the episodes lasted only minutes. Other times, we waited days. The helplessness of hearing my baby sister screaming my name in panic, refusing to believe I stood next to her wrenched out a part of me with each instance. I chose to turn it off. I stopped crying a year after she entered Mabry’s.

Selena, now sixteen, should have been in high school. Instead she remained locked inside an institution staring at her wall art. She touched an undecorated part of the wall. She seemed to trace unseen letters with her finger. I already knew what they would spell. E-C-L-I-P-S. No E. “Splice,” she said. I never knew why, but every so often, she would point to one of the misspelled eclips’s on her wall and say that word instead.

She continued to stare at the wall with no knowledge of our presence.

I sat next to her and touched her arm. I spoke with a soft, smooth voice. “Selena?” Frightening her out of a trance created horrible consequences.

Selena blinked a few times and turned to me. Her eyes focused on mine. “You keep changing your hair.”

“What do you mean I changed my hair?” I asked, glad she finally noticed us. For years, I kept my chestnut-colored hair long and usually wore it in a ponytail.

“It was short when you visited yesterday.” She moved her hands across her lower neckline to illustrate my hair length.

I spent all of yesterday at work but kept that to myself. When I contradicted her, she would launch into such horrendous detail about my clothing and what I said when I supposedly visited that I often doubted my own memories. Even Mark didn’t know that I more than once wondered if I was actually the crazy one.

“Keep it long,” Selena said. “Doesn’t look good short.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said. “How’s it going?”

Selena grabbed my hand and told me a story about a beautiful hawk that landed on a tree outside her window earlier in the morning. This was the little girl I remembered. This was my sister. The engaging, outgoing child who loved every part of life and lived to share it. Moments like these eclipsed the darker times, I told myself. They were rare—like an eclipse—but they helped block out my sister’s glaring illness.

Selena finished her story and squeezed my hand. Her grin faded. “Jan, why can’t you see me?”

The words stabbed me and threatened to break through my protective walls. They were the last words she screamed before the accident. I took her face in my hands. “I do see you, honey. I see you as often as I can.”

She shook her head. “Not yet.” She turned away from me and stared at the wall with catatonic eyes. “Not yet. Please see me, Jan.”

My hand pressed into my hip out of instinct. Her sweet, eleven-year-old voice yelling those words five years ago to the day still echoed in my mind. Memories of the accident took hold.

Back then, I studied nursing at USF. Mom and I took turns watching Selena between her work and my classes. I played caregiver that day, washing dishes in the house when I heard Selena shriek outside with the same, panicked yell she made when she couldn’t find us after the eclipse. “Jan! Jan!”

I raced outside, half-hoping to find her truly hurt instead of having an episode. “What is it?” I snapped.

She bolted past me toward the mailbox, waving her arms. “Jan!” She pointed to the swings. “The boy! The boy on the swings! He needs your pen!”

I remember huffing and rolling my eyes, tired of her episodes. I desperately wanted to let her deal with it on her own, except she headed toward the street. We lived at the bottom of one of the few hills in Seffner. Anyone driving over the hill wouldn’t see her until it was too late to stop.

I took off after her. “Selena get out of the road!”

Selena stood in the middle of the street waving her arms. “Jan! Please see me, please!”

I picked her up and tried to drag her out of harm’s way.

“Jan!”

“I’m right… here!” I gasped between her struggles free herself. When she was eight, I could control her. At eleven, she overpowered me and wrenched out of my grip.

A car horn blared. I pushed Selena out of the road and tried to escape the oncoming Toyota and the deafening screech of tires. It clipped my right side.

My right hip exploded. My head slammed against the car’s hood. I rolled on the ground. Each heartbeat sent shards of agony through my skull.

In my final consciousness moments, I watched Selena scramble off the ground.

“Jan!” She looked above me. Not at me. “The boy needs your pen! He’s by the swing!”

My vision blurred as Selena reached the swing. She stood in front of the tree, crying. She reached her hand out, touching an invisible person. “You can see me,” she whispered.

Selena faded from view as I blacked out.

A week later, I woke up in a hospital from a medically-induced coma. My mom informed me that she placed Selena at Mabry’s. I remember feeling relieved. The accident left me with a shattered hip and head trauma. I spent a year in rehab learning to walk again. We sold the house in Seffner and moved into a condo in Tampa to be closer to my sister. I tried to rid myself of all emotions after the accident. I might have completely turned robotic in attempt to shut out the pain, if I hadn’t met Mark my last year in college. He brought balance into my life and gave me a stable, neutral pillar to lean on. Mom never found solace. Two years after the accident, the strain broke her, and she died of a heart attack.

“Please see me, Jan.” Selena’s voice brought me back to the present.

I touched her shoulder. “I see you, honey.”

Selena never noticed my touch. She kept staring at the wall. “When will Jan see me?”

Mark touched my arm and nodded at the door. “Let’s go.” He seemed to know when to leave Selena to her episodes. Maybe never knowing her as a normal child helped him stay objective.

I nodded and stood up. One eclipse. She looked at one eclipse. And it destroyed our lives.

Mark placed a tender hand on my shoulder as we walked to the car. He gave me a hug. I savored the warm safety of his embrace. For a few moments, life felt normal. “You okay?” he asked.

I opened the passenger door, trying to keep up my thin façade of composure. “I don’t think I’ll ever be okay.”

He patted my head as I sat in the car. He walked over to the driver’s side and got in. “I need to drop off some papers at the Brandon office,” he said as he bucked his seatbelt. Mark worked in homeowners’ insurance, and his Tampa office had satellites throughout the area.

“Okay,” I mumbled. Brandon, another town in the Tampa area, lay a few miles away from Seffner. I dreaded returning anywhere near my old home, but I figured Brandon was far enough away to avoid any memories.

I stayed quiet during the drive, trying to forget about my sister for the moment.

“Things have been really crazy for insurance out here since that sinkhole three months ago,” Mark said.

“Sinkhole?” I usually ignored the news, and I must have missed anything about a sinkhole.

“Yeah. It swallowed up that one house near where you lived.”

The “swallowed up,” caught my attention. My sister began swearing something swallowed up the house down the street about three months before… I felt my heart pound in my chest. Selena insisted the house had disappeared three months before my accident.

“I need to see the house.”

“The sinkhole house?” asked Mark.

“No, not there.” I already knew which house the sinkhole took. “My house.” If the sinkhole occurred three months ago, then maybe today… My hands trembled.

Without a word, Mark flipped on the blinker and turned toward my old haunting grounds.

My fingers tingled and sweat escaped down my arms with each passing moment. Mark finally pulled onto my street. My hands continued to shake.

We took a turn and I finally saw it a few blocks away: my house. I noticed the backyard swing, and someone—a boy—swung on it.

My sister’s voice rang out in my memories. “The boy likes the swings.”

I unzipped my purse. Would I need what I still kept inside?

“Slow down.” I tried to keep my eyes on the child, but a truck passed between us and the house, impeding my view. After the truck left, I looked back at the swings. The child disappeared.

My heart slowed to a normal rate. My hands stilled. I felt silly for believing I might find something here that would unlock the reason for my sister’s illness.

Mark slowed down just as we reached the house. I took another glance at the swing. It swayed back and forth. I must not have imagined the boy. “Hold on,” I said. I stepped out of the car and watched for a few minutes. No boy. He must have run inside when the truck passed.

I zipped up my purse and let out a long sigh. I returned to the car. “I’ve seen enough. Let’s go.”

Mark nodded and stepped on the accelerator. Before we headed over the hill, I turned around and gave the house one last look.

That’s when I saw it: a blinding glint in the middle of the street. It reminded me of sunlight reflecting off a mirror. I took another glance at the road, and saw… something. The air above the road, directly where I saw the sun’s reflection, moved in a different pattern, kind of like the air rising off a hot roof—except it formed a shape. The shape of a little girl.

“Stop the car!” I unzipped my purse and grabbed my EpiPen as Mark slammed on the brakes. “Do you see it?”

“See what?” said Mark.

I had no time to explain the invisible girl in the middle of the road, seeable only when the sun reflected off her outline. I jumped out even as the car still moved. Another glimmer of light flashed, this time on the grass near the gate. A voice—low, yet audible—whispered in the wind. “Jan! The boy needs your pen!”

“Where is he?” I yelled as I ran to my old home.

“By the swing! He got stung!” I remembered her screaming that five years ago. Now I heard it again.

I raced to the swing. My hip screamed at me as my heels sank into the ground. I saw the child lying on the ground, a hedge hiding his body from the street. He wheezed, trying to breath. I noticed a bee’s fresh stinger imbedded in the center of a pink welt on his neck.

I jabbed my EpiPen into his thigh and screamed “Mark! Call 911!”

Mark hadn’t needed my instruction. He was already on the phone with dispatch.

I looked to my right. Something like bits of reflective dust broke up the sunlight hovered in the exact spot my sister stood five years ago today.

I finally understood Selena’s consistent misspelling of the word eclipse on her wall, and why she constantly read it as splice.

E-C-L-I-P-S

S-P-L-I-C-E

The eclipse spliced her soul. Part of her lived five years in the future, while the rest of her lived in the present.

The protective walls I had constructed for years cracked. My emotions broke their way out of their prison. A quiver started in my fingers and worked its way up to my arms and throat. I hid the crunched up face my mouth made when I cried with my hand. Warm, fresh tears escaped down my cheeks for the first time in years. I reached my hand out toward the glistening light, letting Selena in the past take my hand.

“I see you, honey.”

*****

If you enjoyed this, feel free to check out my two novels, A Prophecy Forgotten and Out of the Shadows.

 

The Debt Women Owe Carrie Fisher

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Today Carrie Fisher passed away, and I lost my childhood hero. I rarely blog twice in one day, and I never blog about celebrity deaths, but Carrie’s effect on my life and the lives of countless women needs to be honored and discussed.

My parents took me to the theater to see Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back when it first opened. I was four. All I remember was watching Darth Vader Force-choking Captain Needa to death and the other characters dragging his body offstage. By the time I was six, however, I was begging my babysitter to let me watch Star Wars (my generation’s official name for “A New Hope”) on our new, high-tech VCR. I grew up watching and rewatching Han, Luke, and Leia save the galaxy, and Star Wars became my favorite movie series.

I never truly realized how Carrie Fisher’s portrayal of Princess Leia shaped my generation’s view of women. I grew up thinking it was normal to watch a woman not only fighting in a rebellion, but actually leading it. I watched Princess Leia wield both a blaster and authority. For me, this was how the world worked. I never thought twice about how my gender might affect my carreer. I was going to go to college and become a lawyer and then maybe even the Attorney General. It never occurred to me that my gender would get in my way, and Princess Leia’s character developed part of that belief. (I ended up choosing writing as a career instead of law and politics. I got to keep my soul, and that worked out well.) The Force was strong in Luke and strong in Leia, and I never thought that odd. I wonder how many young girls of my generation grew up, as I did, believing in themselves without worrying about their gender because of the way Carrie Fisher played her role. I’m sure many boys my age grew up watching Star Wars and figured a woman in leadership was normal as well.

While I give most of the credit to George Lucas for creating the character and the storyline, I must also give Carrie Fisher credit for her portrayal of Leia. She made Leia feel real. She made Leia’s accomplishments seem normal. She yelled things like “Into the garbage chute, flyboy!” and “Will someone get this big, walking carpet out of my way?” and made us all think she was awesome. Very few actresses could have pulled that off, yet she did it with grace, dignity, and a blaster that fired red killer lasers.

I honestly believe none of my writing, especially my character Gabriella, would anything like it is now without Star Wars or Carrie Fisher’s Princess Leia. I also believe that the way she gave Leia’s character legitimacy helped pave the way for my generation of women. 

We are indebted to Carrie. The best way to repay that debt is for each of us to finish Leia’s work and become whatever we want to be without a thought of our gender. I for one, and going to wipe away my tears and finish Book 3. What about you?

May the Force be with you, your highness.

Writing When You Feel Overwhelmed: Hope for the Struggling Writer

How many of you have felt totally overwhelmed when you realized the amount of work it would actually take to complete your story?

I’m sitting here at Starbucks. I’m supposed to be writing the rough draft to Book 3 of The Elysian Chronicles, but I have to admit that I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed. I’m trying to get my arms around the scope of this story, and I’ve discovered it’s much more complex than I originally planned. (Aren’t all novels, though?)

Here are a few things I’m struggling with:

I’m actually working with two plots that have to flow simultaneously. Two plots. One story. This means two story arcs. Each arc has to hit the plot points at the same time. Sounds easy to do, but I have to admit that working out the plots of Out of the Shadows (book 2) almost killed me. And then these two plots have to intertwine. Some things that happen on Earth are part of Elysia’s plot and vice versa. It’s like surgically putting Siamese twins. together instead of separating them.
Tommy’s character is chasing down clues to how he is supposed to save the world across Europe, while he’s being chased. I know the clues, but I’m not sure what the evil dudes on Earth are up to, nor do I know what anyone on the Elysian side of things is up to. I feel like I’m exploring the woods at night with only a small flashlight. I know I’m surrounded by so many amazing things, but I can only see what’s directly in front of me and a few silhouettes.
Davian is now king of Elysia, but I have to develop five years of backstory on how he takes back Elysia, which it turns out, is much more complex than a simple coronation. He’s got an entire bureaucratic infrastructure in place, but he doesn’t know who is good and who still follows Picante. I’m assuming several businesses would have been in Picante’s pocket as well, and I don’t know who they are yet.
I have to create 5 years of Earth’s backstory as well. Which is odd, because I’ve been writing the Earth sections and I haven’t felt the need for any backstory yet.
I made a stupid decision to bring a bunch of Norwegian trolls back to life. Now I have to corral the things and figure out what havoc they are going to wreak on Earth and how that havoc is going to affect Tommy (and Elysia). (A lesson to all writers: don’t bring trolls back to life.)
To be honest, I can’t “see” Elysia’s plot yet. I’ve been focusing on Earth, and Elysia’s stories are hiding from me. This is creating a bit of an issue with the whole intertwining thing.

I feel like I’m rushing through a draft and leaving out important stuff. I’m terrified I’m going to forget some of it. (This is why we all say copious notes. Because regular notes aren’t good enough in this situation.) I’m looking at the work cut out for me, and I keep thinking, “It’s too big. I’ll never get it done.”

How many of you have ever thought this?

Here’s the one thing I’ve discovered that helps me through these situations:

Keep writing.

I kid you not. I remember feeling this way when I first wrote A Prophecy Forgotten. I felt this way again with Out of the Shadows. I know this feeling intimately. I’ve experienced it before, and I know that I will overcome it just as I overcame it in the past. Each time I encounter these feelings, ignoring them becomes easier because I’ve succeeded before.

The first time I felt this, however, I had no idea if I could actually finish the novel. Many of you might be there, working on your first novel, and feeling this right now. I will be honest. The inadequate feelings nearly crippled me. It took writing despite those feelings and finishing the book for me to realize that I could overcome them. The only answer to dealing with self-doubt is proving yourself wrong.

If you are currently in the middle of writing a story and you’re struggling with its vast scope, please be encouraged. You can do this. Wading through your plot and characters and binding them together will be hard. I’m not going to sugarcoat that part. But you can do it. And doing it will give you the strength to do it again on your next project. Because you have more than one story inside you and those stories need to come out.

Just keep writing my friends!

Brainstorming: Staying Open to Fresh Ideas That Conflict With Your Plan

I’m sitting in Starbucks, taking my few hours a week away from all my distractions, brainstorming my outline/pre-draft for the third book in the Elysian Chronicles Series: The Sword of the Vanir. Today, I’m trying to organize all the notes that I’ve compiled across the years (has it been that long?). I’ve been looking at the plans I had for Gabriella’s character, and… Have you ever just had that slightly sickening feeling inside that you aren’t heading in the right direction? I know many writers, artists, movie makers, actors, and other creatives have experienced this while working on a project, and I’m sure others have experienced it in other areas of their lives.

I’ve learned (the hard way) that when I start feeling like a plot or a character is heading in the wrong direction, I need to take a good, hard look at what I’m doing and why it makes me uncomfortable. Usually, I end up throwing a figurative grenade at the whole plot point or story line and starting fresh. Sometimes, this has involved dozens of pages being deleted, but each time it has been worth it. I’ve also found that if I continue to ignore my instincts and push forward, I end up scrapping the idea anyway, only I’ve wasted more time and had to delete more words.

This afternoon, I threw a pretty big grenade into the Elysian side of The Sword of the Vanir. As in, I scrapped the whole plan for the first quarter of the book and about 20,000 words.

Totally. Worth. It.

My original Gabriella storyline turned her into a whiny, annoying character that I really didn’t want to spend much time with. I had even prepped the readers for this change at the end of Out of the Shadows. However, if I had continued down that path, it would have negatively impacted the story:

Making Gabriella more whiny would turn the reader against her. I need readers rooting for my main characters. It’s a delicate balance of giving the character real weaknesses but  in such a way that the reader still likes her. Think of Harry Potter. Sometimes, he could get a bit annoying, especially when he and Ron got in their girl fight during the Goblet of Fire, but Harry never became so annoying that the reader stopped rooting for him. Gabriella was starting to annoy me, and I had barely started writing her…
Gabriella is not the character I was writing. This is the chick who dove into freezing cold water to rescue Tommy in a blizzard. This is the woman who looked Salla in the eye and refused to betray her country, bracing herself for whatever might happen and knowing full well the potential consequences. This is not a woman who would stoop to whiny, lovesick, and bitter for very long. Forcing characters to become something they really aren’t will always feel wrong and the reader will pick up on it.
Gabs is a hero. Honey, she’s a decorated soldier and for good reason. This personality trate would come out. I can’t force it away as the author just because it doesn’t fit into my original plans.
Davian wants to win. At the end of the day, Davian love Gabriella and wants her safe, but he also has to keep Elysia safe. He always achieves his objectives. Gabriella is far too valuable as a soldier to be used as arm candy or even to be stuck in Hawk Tower. We all know she would be annoying him about getting a good position within the military, and he would probably relent. I have to take into account other characters and how they would react. Davian is still Davian. Mr. Achieve the Objective is not going to shed those spots anytime soon.

Each of us uses different methods to brainstorm our way through a novel to get ourselves back in track. I am visual. I read through my notes, knowing my original ideas were off track.

Suddenly a mental picture flashed into my head. Gabriella, black hair flowing, wearing the white cloak Cassadern gave her, sitting on top of a unicorn in the snow in front d the scribes library. I can’t tell you why this is important without giving away a few things, but I realized then…

She’s a spy for Elysia. She’s an “ambassador” who is in fact a spy. 

You know you’re on the right track when your pulse quickens and an entire plot unfolds before your eyes in a matter of seconds.

So I am back at my desk, basically redoing all of the Elysian sections of this novel. It feels refreshing, and I’m finally excited to face this section of the story.

How about you? Have you ever found yourself off track? How did you fix it?

Facing Your Deepest Fears – M. B. Weston’s Writing Diary 08/29/16

I’m sitting in front of my computer with shivers literally traveling down my arms. I can’t imagine how my poor character is feeling… Except my character is a Navy Seal. Named Tom… [Cue the excitement from the Elysian Chronicles fans…] He might not get as scared as me, but I guarantee you he’s not happy I’ve written him into this situation…

Writers know that creating tension in a story is vital. It means putting your characters in tough situations that you might not necessarily want to write about. It means manipulating the emotions of your reader. Your characters might need to experience sadness or terror in order to make the story better, even if you as the author don’t want to go there.

Unfortunately, we authors often have to experience the same emotions our characters experience. This especially includes me. I’m a “method writer.” Like a method actor, I have to put myself into the character’s head. I have to “be there.” That’s why I can’t just write an outline and have it work. I have to create more of a pre-draft because I literally have to go into the story and hear, see, and feel what my character feels.

So when Tom is scuba diving off the coast of Norway and has to go into an uncharted cave, I’m there with him. When he has to make a decision when the cave forks, knowing that his air is dwindling, I’m living it. And when a sea monster comes at him…

Yeah. I’m the one who has to endure the surprising sight of teeth and scales while squirming backward in a tiny sea cave trying to remember which way to go to escape and hoping the cave doesn’t become my tomb… 

All from the safety of my writing desk. But I’m still feeling the shivers…

Here’s the funny thing about creating stories: the sea monster wasn’t planned. Neither was the cave. Tom was just supposed to go down into the ocean and get some samples. However, letting my imagination take control sometimes allows it to access my inner fears. I’m a certified scuba diver, and I have a fear of going into underwater caves because I’ve heard to many horror stories about cave diving without training. And I live in Florida where sharks and alligators are real threats. But getting into the story and letting my imagination take over is when the magic of creation happens. 

It’s also when you might see an author jump out of her skin in a coffee shop.

For the writers: make sure you spend time in your hero’s head to get the most out of your story.

For the readers: remember to thank your favorite authors for enduring all of that emotional turmoil so you can enjoy a good story.

Facing Your Deepest Fears – M. B. Weston’s Writing Diary 08/29/16

I’m sitting in front of my computer with shivers literally traveling down my arms. I can’t imagine how my poor character is feeling… Except my character is a Navy Seal. Named Tom… [Cue the excitement from the Elysian Chronicles fans…] He might not get as scare as me, but I guarantee you he’s not happy I’ve written him into this situation…

Writers know that creating tension in a story is vital. It means putting your characters in tough situations that you might not necessarily want to write about. It means manipulating the emotions of your reader. Your characters might need to experience sadness or terror in order to make the story better, even if you as the author don’t want to go there.

Unfortunately, we authors often have to experience the same emotions our characters experience. This especially includes me. I’m a “method writer.” Like a method actor, I have to put myself into the character’s head. I have to “be there.” That’s why I can’t just write an outline and have it work. I have to create more of a pre-draft because I literally have to go into the story and hear, see, and feel what my character feels.

So when Tom is scuba diving off the coast of Norway and has to go into an uncharted cave, I’m there with him. When he has to make a decision when the cave forks, knowing that his air is dwindling, I’m living it. And when a sea monster comes at him…

Yeah. I’m the one who has to endure the surprising sight of teeth and scales while squirming backward in a tiny sea cave trying to remember which way to go to escape and hoping the cave doesn’t become my tomb… 

All from the safety of my writing desk. But I’m still feeling the shivers…

Here’s the funny thing about creating stories: the sea monster wasn’t planned. Neither was the cave. Tom was just supposed to go down into the ocean and get some samples. However, letting my imagination take control sometimes allows it to access my inner fears. I’m a certified scuba diver, and I have a fear of going into underwater caves because I’ve heard to many horror stories about cave diving without training. And I live in Florida where sharks and alligators are real threats. But getting into the story and letting my imagination take over is when the magic of creation happens. 

It’s also when you might see an author jump out of her skin in a coffee shop.

For the writers: make sure you spend time in your hero’s head to get the most out of your story.

For the readers: remember to thank your favorite authors for enduring all of that emotional turmoil so you can enjoy a good story.

How Not to Sabotage Yourself – M. B. Weston’s Writing Diary 08/03/16

Any work-from-home profession leaves the door wide open for self-sabotage. I’ve been plodding along, editing my Michael Lodestone urban-fantasy novella for the past week, and I’m pretty sure I’ve walked through that door a few times.

I’m sure I can list a few “do’s” when it comes to keeping a writing routine going, but this post I’m going to mention some “don’ts.” Unfortunately, I’m on an intimate basis with those…

Don’t assume you’ll rise to the occasion if the past begs to differ. This sounds horrible, but let me give you an example. Me: Of course I can wake up at 5:00am and jog, leaving me time at night to write. Reality: If my alarm clock is next to my bed where I can turn it off without standing up, 5:00am ain’t happening, leaving me to jog three miles at night around 9:00pm after our daily thunderstorms have passed through–meaning no writing. I know I can only get up at 5:00am if I put my alarm clock on my dresser, forcing me to stand up to turn it off. I have four decades of data to show it. Instead of assuming I’m going to be different and excercise self-control this time, I need to just go with how I work and move the alarm clock.

Don’t try to alter a routine that already works. I write at night. That’s when my brain turns on. This works for me. Trying to write in the morning doesn’t. (Jogging in the morning does, however, hence the alarm clock.) It really works better if I just go with what works instead of trying to do something different because some other author does something different.

Don’t mess with your body’s and mind’s pre-programming. I also take my showers at night. (When you live in south Florida, you shower at night. The humidity is so horrible here that you have no choice if you want to go to bed feeling clean.) For four long decades, my evening shower has been the very last thing I do before I go to bed. When I step into that shower, it sends a signal to my body and mind that it is time to sleep. This past week, I’ve tried to mess with the programming by showering before I started writing. Really. Bad. Choice. I seriously couldn’t get through a page without nodding off. Sometimes I didn’t even make it to the computer.

Writing is hard. It’s hard enough without me sabotaging myself with changes that are supposed to make me better but somehow make it worse. I’m a writer, Jim, not a superhero. This week’s lesson: work my routine around who I am instead of who I think I’m supposed to be.

How about you? Have any of you ever done something similar?

Making Writing Work in Less-Than-Ideal Digs – M. B. Weston’s Writing Diary 7/27/16

My writing desk sits in the middle of the only living area in my small, two-bedroom condo. (When I say small, understand that my kitchen has less counter space than some office desks.) The living area is home to the dinner table, my daughter’s toys, the television set, and two bookshelves.

Oh yeah, and my desk, which has no cupboards in which to hide printers and such, so I have to go out to the porch where my printer is hidden in my storage wardrobe.

These past two nights, I’ve discovered two great ways to make writing happen, instead of just thinking and talking about writing but not actually doing it.

1) Earplugs – I discovered these last night. You can buy these little life changers at any drug store, and they are amazing. Before earplugs, I would have been too distracted to write when my husband watched his Seinfeld reruns. With the earplugs, I don’t hear anything going on, and writing happens.

2) Preparing for writing ahead of time – Because my desk is in the middle of the room, I have to make sure everything is boxed up and put away after I’m done. I pull out the computer plug and place it in a box. I push my computer under another, more decorated box. I then put all my writing notes in…you guessed it: a clear box, which I hide under the desk in a white basket. I replace the gargoyle in the middle of the hutch, put the child-proof outlet cover back on the outlet, and move my kitchen chair back to the kitchen table. 

As you can imagine, I have to do the same amount of work to get ready to write. Tonight, I discovered that preparing my workspace earlier in the evening 1) gives me more time to write and 2) eliminates excuses. I almost decided I was too tired to write tonight, but because I had already prepared my work space, I went ahead and spent about an hour on my latest project. Who would have thought that taking time to prepare my space earlier in the evening would help me that much?

What about you? What have you found helps you make the best of your writing environment–even when it’s not ideal?