What Did You Say?!?

This is post 99. I still need five more followers to hit the magic number of 200. When I get them, I'll post the Celebration Blogfest with four prizes to be shared among three winners. ; )

~~OUCH! OH! S*!# D#*%
What do you say when you hit your finger with a hammer? Does it matter? New research says that cursing actually helps reduce the pain. Don't believe me? Try this ARTICLE for the latest news on pain and cursing. Will that give you permission to say a few four-letter words the next time you hurt yourself? What about your characters?

~~I've been thinking about this as I write lately. The main character in FRIENDLY FIRE is a church-going, widowed, retired teacher. In rough draft scenes Laura Grace  has said shit and damn, but I find that in editing, she finds some other way to express her pain. On the other hand, my murdering sex abuser, Craig Ellis, is more likely to find more cuss words to say in the rewrites. It's all about the character's voice and how they relate to the world.

~~For what it's worth, I've never had a character to say the F-word. Especially not Laura Grace. I think Cherry Hill would explode if she did. ; )

Keep watching the Shade for the upcoming Celebration Blogfest.

Random Hits

This is post 98! Only two to go till the magic number of 100.

~~I'm working on the Celebration Blogfest coming soon to the Shade of the Cherry Tree. There will be four prizes up for grabs for the three winners. I only had three planned, but my sweet hubby insisted that Number Three needed a choice also. I'll keep what the prizes are under wraps until the big day. ; )

~~Now the question is--how do I go about choosing the winners? It will be a random draw and my dear Momma and Hubby will be glad to pick random numbers from among the comments or I could draw the comments out of a hat, but...I know there is a better way somewhere out there. If you know about programs to select random winner, let me know.

~~And while I have total control over the number of posts, I can't control when I reach 200 followers. If you haven't followed me yet and want to, please click away. If you feel like posting a link to me, I'd be thrilled. Especially on the big day. I'm crossing my fingers for Friday. That gives me three other days to post Number 99. ; ) Like I said, I have control over that one.

Show Don't Tell--Crusader Challenge

~~Rachael Harrie has guided us through a great Crusade and her last challenge is a fun ride. Here are the directions:
My Show Not Tell Challenge: In 300 words or less, write a passage (it can be an excerpt from your WIP, flash fiction, a poem, or any other writing) that shows (rather than tells) the following:

*you're scared and hungry
*it's dusk
*you think someone is following you
*and just for fun, see if you can involve all five senses AND include these random words: shimmer, saccadic, substance, and salt.

~~My snip if from my SF wip THE DAWN AND THE LION. This wip is set on Patria, one of three planets initially founded from Earth. The POV is Princess Canda Aurora of Shardonia, wife of King August Leo, Imperial Heir of Patria. Times are tough as you will see. Let me know if I showed you what's going on instead of telling. If you notice some of those little sneaky telling bits, do let me know. ; )

###

Since the shuttle crash, the nausea that had stalked me for two weeks achieved new levels of torment. Crisp, cool water poured from the liana leaves overhead. At least I’d have something to drink when my stomach settled. Of course, the pounding rain would have to slack off before I could attempt getting any water. The puddles at my feet shimmered with each lightning bolt. They stabbed my eyes like the rockets that had burst from the forest floor.

I could still see the sun’s last rays lighting the rising clouds racing down the ridge as the first rocket tore through the shuttle’s wing and Tomas’ hands fought the saccadic tumble. But the second rocket…no pilot could compensate for that. The scraping branches and vines couldn’t cushion the bone-jarring jolt of our landing. Our attackers were near. Their victory shouts made crawling from the wreckage and running my only chance. Tomas stayed behind; his brains scattered over the instrument panel.

For now, I’d evaded capture, but there wouldn’t be any edible fruit among the wet, rotten vegetation on the forest floor. The oozing gash in my thigh from knee to hip made climbing impossible. At least the throbbing gash screamed louder than my rebellious stomach.

Sudden insight seared my mind like lightning. The rebels didn’t want me dead. I was their best hope, their champion, the only royal who heard their pleas. The honor of shooting me down belonged to the court’s Pure Patria adherents. They wanted me—the below-the-salt, upstart Shardon princess—dead before I could sully the royal bloodline. My stomach turned itself out and I wiped my sour mouth. They were too late. I had to survive for the new life I carried. The only question was how.

Special announcement!
I'm only 12 followers from 200 and three posts from 100 posts. When those milestones are achieved, I'll be announcing a blogfest with three prizes. Hope it's soon. ; )

Inkheart--The Storyteller's Art

~~In honor of all the A to Z bloggers, today's letter is I. Even if I don't have the stamina to post for every letter of the alphabet, I can make sure my posts are the correct letter of the day. ; )

~~Have you ever read a story that came alive as you read it. The characters are real. They live and breathe. They speak directly to you. It's magic. It's the storyteller's art. I've read many great books and seen many great stories made into movies over the years, but last week I saw a movie that hinged on this very idea. The movie was Inkheart based on a book by Cornelia Funke. The movie came out in 2008, but neither of us had heard of it until we found it in our Netflix suggested movie list. And we're glad we tried it. Of course, John had to endure my endless comments of the magic of writing stories as we watched.

~~Mo "Silvertongue" Folchart is a bookbinder with a secret talent. When he reads a story out loud, the characters become alive and some cross over into his world. Unfortunately, his wife crosses into the world of the book he is reading, Inkheart. His art as a storyteller creates a problem he has to fix, but he can't find a copy of the book. His quest leads to the action. I won't give you the entire synopsis. For more check HERE.

~~What I want to discuss is the art that storytellers use when the story steps off the page. The reader becomes lost in a new world. They can't stop reading. They have to know what happens next. The creation of such a story is beyond amazing. It's magic. And don't we all want to be able to do exactly that when we write? ; )

Fabulous, Fantastic...Fearmonger?

~~Well, if toy poodles can be fearmongers, Max qualifies. Twice yesterday, he created situations that could have ended his very short life. Add that he frightened Momma and Daddy to death and you've got fear in a tiny package.
~~First Death-Defying Act--John was working on papers for his GED class to do. There was a small paper clip on the rug beside the piles he was sorting and guess who stole it? Max. John tried to remove it from the little bit's mouth and--presto--it was gone. We feared the worst. He is known to chew the little wire bits into jagged-ended mangles. If he had to pass that, he would tear the plumbing up. We settle in for a wait for the puppy to whine session. Until, I found the paper clip in the corner of the hall where he had dropped it when confronted. One fearful event down.
~~Second Death-Defying Act--John has always wanted the boys to walk off-leash around the yard with him. Treats and "Come" commands have been dominating our walks. Until yesterday. Max shot off through the neighbor's yard and John found him frozen in the middle of the street with cars stopped on either side. Needless to say, there will be no further off-lease walks for the Max Man.
~~We were worried that the little boy would not make his second brithday tomorrow, but so far it looks like we're on the way to another day. Here's the latest pictures of my boys, just back from the groomers with jaunty bandanas around their necks.

Casey

Max

 ~~I'll be computerless until some time Friday. The hard drive is going in for a tune up. I'll catch up this weekend. ; )

A to Z Envy

~~Did you realize that there are 1077 bloggers who have taken the challenge to blog everyday in April except for Sunday? Really! I'm just going to admit here and now, I'm not that ambitious. I'm not even going to try.
~~Good luck, guys. May the words flow and the comments follow. ; )

Where DID That Muse Go?

~~The short answer it nowhere. ; )

~~The long answer is a bit more complicated and challenging. When I sit down to write and string a few words together then get up in disgust, I've stopped myself. My muse, that spark of creativity, hasn't gone anywhere. I've just ceased listening to her nagging, whining, annoying self. I'll confess to a very low productivity in February and March. I've got a thousand excuses for it, too. But the muse hasn't left me. When I least expect it, I hear this question from deep inside--What are you doing? The point of creativity is simply to do it. Tell the story. Sing the song. Start something. We have to stop denying what we are supposed to be doing. It may sound totally simplistic, but for me it's profound.

~~The idea of a muse for creativity is a long standing one. Artists and writers have characterized the force behind their creativity as their Muse referring to the nine daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne (Memory) from mythology. Each of the sisters guided a separate facet of art, music, writing, dance. According to Steven Pressfield's book, The War of Art, that drive or muse is built into everyone. Whether or not we open ourselves to expressing it is our choice. To deny it is Resistance to use Pressfield's term. Resistance can take many forms--denial that we can create anything, excuses for why we can't do it today or next year, or being more concerned about what others think than expressing what is inside. Whatever makes us afraid to go on is a block or Resistance. My biggest fear is that I'm not able to do it right, so why try? We need to just do it. Maybe Nike ads have a bigger point than just getting us to buy shoes.

~~So what's stopping you from putting pen to paper or fingers to keyboard? What's you favorite excuse?

Backing out the Stitches--Rewrites and a Catch Me Entry Redo

~~If you've ever sewn, you know what I mean by backing out stitches. It's a rare garment that doesn't need a seam straightened of some other minor boo-boo corrected. I don't really remember not being able to sew. When my granddaddy died at 80, he still had a handkerchief I'd hemmed when I was three. For years I made nearly all my clothes even jeans when I was in high school and the only garment I remember that didn't need stitches backed out was my wedding dress. Though tendinitis and arthritis have stopped my sewing, the lessons I learned with needles and thread are still with me. The only mistake is one you don't correct.

~~Writing is much the same. When we start this wonderful endeavor of creating our own worlds, we have the tendency to cling to our first efforts as if we've mined pure gold instead of ore that needs refining. I'm just now seeing my willingness to rewrite and refine extending to everything I write like my opening scene of FRIENDLY FIRE. I've clung to the first line of "Laura Grace, smile!" for three years, but it's gone now. Thanks to input from the wonderful critique I get from N. R. Williams, my buddies at the Forum, my local crit group, and all of you who participated in the Catch Me If You Can blogfest, scene one is new and improved. At least, for now. ; )

~~So here's the 263rd version. ; )

Another cloud of soiled diaper stench drifted over us, but happiness still crinkled my friend Jen’s eyes as she looked around the large fellowship hall and turned to me. “Isn’t it great, Laura Grace? I didn’t expect so many foster kids, but we have enough goodies for an army.”

She was right. The foster care respite party was a big success so far. Who knew so many would come on Mother’s Day weekend? I shoved what was left of my teacakes to the front of the tray so the kids could reach them easily.

Mother’s Day was my personalized brand of torment, but I had I set myself up for it by volunteering to help with the party to give foster parents a bit of a breather. The memory of Tom’s face hovered just out of reach amid the noise and chaos of so many little children. He would have given me permission to miss this job. I shook the sorrow back in its compartment. Time enough next week to mark the first anniversary of his death.

Rosemary joined us at the serving tables. Her voice rose just loud enough to be heard over the racket of nearly fifty kids as they ran and shrieked around us. “Laura Grace, are you going to be okay?” My backup had arrived.

I winced as two kids shoved each other into me. “I taught high school for a reason, Jen. I haven’t a clue how to entertain a herd of toddlers and elementary kids.”

“I know you think that, but you love kids or you wouldn’t have taught for so long,” Jen said. “I’m certain you have ideas about how we can help their foster parents. Giving them a two hour break once a month is a start.”

Noise ricocheted off the block walls. “Yes, they need help, but the rest of you have much more experience with this age group.” My shoulders hunched with the onslaught.

From the stage at the end of the room, a girl stared stoically at the mayhem. Her face was closed, contained. “Who’s the older kid?”

Jen swiveled to look. “Samantha Smith. She’s a challenge. I hoped she would find someone to talk to.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Soft curls framed the big blue eyes. Her fragile beauty reminded me of a former student who had endured years of abuse.

“That’s the challenge. Her foster mom has six kids. Samantha isn’t difficult if she’s allowed to withdraw. Though…” Jen’s lips tightened. “She’s twelve. Acts older.”

“Most of them do at that age. Why is she special?”

Her eyes scanned the room, not looking at the girl or us.

Rosemary said, “Spit it out, Jen.”

She leaned close and lowered her voice. “Her mother was beaten to death by a live-in boyfriend. Samantha saw it all.”

“That’s horrible and not information you should share!” I looked at the girl again.

“I know.” Jen’s voice trembled. “I just worry about her.”

Creases appeared between Rosemary’s brows. “I hope she’s in therapy.”

“Medicaid provides a little, but Samantha needs more. You know the system, Laura Grace.” Jen’s eyes sought mine.

“Yes. After thirty years, the kids’ problems were killing me. Abuse is all too common.” Blinking back tears, I looked at the girl. “Tom and I tried so long and now he’s dead and I don’t even have him anymore.” The old familiar ache seized my heart. “I can’t stand this. I’ve got to go.”

As I reached the door, I heard Rosemary’s voice. “Jen, you knew being here would upset Laura Grace. Why did you badger her into coming?”