Welcome to my blog Upstate Girl, (a.k.a Follow Your Bliss Part II), I am an independently published author. This blog is all about writing and the stuff that inspires me to write, the joys and obstacles that come along with the writer's life, and my fascination with the psychology of people and what makes them tick...the human condition, as is...and my love for words, playing with them and making sense of them...and I throw in a few photos from my acre of the world just to make things pretty...sometimes there are things I have no words for, only pictures will do.

*Copyright notice* All photos, writing, and artwork are mine (
© Laura J. Wellner), unless otherwise noted, please be a peach, if you'd like to use my work for a project or you just love it and must have it, message me and we'll work out the details...it's simple...JUST ASK, please.
Showing posts with label The Fractured Hues of White Light. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Fractured Hues of White Light. Show all posts

Saturday, May 3, 2014

Thoughts on writing...some advice

Me with Dusty Waters at my first book signing, May, 2009
I’ve always wanted to be a writer, since I could scribble, I wanted to write something that mattered—it took a long time to get there, I had a good deal of false starts. It’s been 15 years since I wrote the manuscript Washed Glass and saw it through to the finish. (Oh, I thought I knew what I was doing, but I totally had no idea.) This effort is still unpublished and certainly nowhere near ready to have a cover designed for it. It’s a densely written monster that has everything and the kitchen sink in it, and it’s rife with first-novel-itis, but I know the story is good enough to take the time to make it right—not every first manuscript is good enough. Even tho’ I do cringe a little when I think about going back to it, but now that I know more about what I’m doing, I know what I must do, so I will revisit where I started all those years ago—someday. I will always have a soft spot for it—it was my first, from there, the rest of my work with words followed, and they nod with reverence to what happened before them because without Washed Glass, Dusty Waters and The Fractured Hues of White Light wouldn't have happened. 

My "Girls"

For what it’s worth, here’s my advice for aspiring writers (young and old):

It’s never too late to start. Just do it.

Write. Even if it’s pure nonsense, if it’s there in your head, write it. Unfortunately, we learn from our mistakes, and you’re not going to learn by being afraid of fucking up.

Read—read a lot—especially read outside your comfort zone, if you have resisted reading the classics, read them—experience them and learn from them. Keep your mind wide open to receive knowledge, grow your mind, grow your vocabulary—read the dictionary (you know, one of those old-fashioned cloth bound books illustrated with line art, get one.) Familiarize yourself with the basic rules of grammar and punctuation too. Keep a Thesaurus handy.  Honestly, you’ll need something to do during those dead zones when you’re not staring out the window thinking.

Be humble.
Write and write some more.
No, you’re not crazy, you’re writing a book. Keep writingjust let it flow.
Be brave.
Write.

Here are the Don’ts:

Don’t listen to those dissenting voices within you or from the others who are on the outside looking in—for goodness sakes, don’t let anyone tell you “you can’t do that” because it’s hard. Damn right it’s hard and don’t you forget it.

Don’t rely on spell check and grammar check on your computer to catch your errors because words like dairies and diaries are both spelled correctly and if you’re a little bit dyslexic at all it’s easy enough to screw them up. The brain has this amazing self-correction thing it does when you’re too close to your writing and you know what you want to say, so beware when dealing with words, especially when writing tens of thousands of them.

Don’t be a hermit.
Don’t forget to live.
Don’t forget to breathe.
Write.

So you finished writing your manuscript—your first book. Do a happy dance, scream, laugh, and cry. Tell all your friends and family—celebrate. It’s a wonderful thing, it’s an accomplishment, and an achievement worthy of a pat on the back.

Don’t be surprised if you feel sad—because you will. You will “miss” being there, being in your head with your characters—it can be a little scary to feel depressed like that, but don’t worry, you’re all right.

Do you think you’re done with it?

"Done" means it has a beginning and an end with a bunch of shit happening in the middle. I know it will be hard to do it, but walk away from it—leave it for months—start something new or just write nonsense. Keep reading more books to pass the time. No matter how tempting it is to fool around with it, leave it alone. Forget it long enough to “forget it” in a sense that will allow you to be objective when you read it again.

It’s nice if you can find a first reader who can honestly tell you what they think of it—it’s nice if the first reader doesn’t sit on it for months and not read it. A book, especially a raw first draft isn’t easy to hand off to someone and expect them to read it—it’s not like showing someone a drawing you made—reading is an investment of time—and first drafts can be SO ROUGH it’s not fun to read them.  When you do go back to it, be honest with yourself—is it how you envisioned it? Aim high, raise the bar for yourself, take pride in your work, OWN IT. Edit the darn thing—make it bleed red ink—be prepared, this process can go on for several drafts. If you can find an editor that you can afford—one you can trust to work within your vision, go for it. But not everyone can afford one, not everyone has access to such creatures, so it’s good for a writer to learn how to self-edit.

I do my own editing partly because I’m a control freak, and partly because I love doing it—I love the whole process of revising and editing. I will read a chapter backwards, sentence by sentence just to take it out of the flow to make sure it’s what I want it to say. Then I will read the chapter forwards again to see if I catch anything wonky. I go through it until I make no more changes. Then I leave it alone to forget it, then read it again. If I make no changes, that’s a good thing. I’ve been known to take the scissors to a chapter that I had thought was perfect two weeks ago and reorganize the paragraphs, tape it back together, make the revision, and then start over reading it in the new configuration. I read it and revise it until I make it right.

Reading hard copy is always a good idea.

It does get better—trust me on this.

Final thoughts:
Keep writing. 
Don’t settle.
Make it right. Make it perfect.
Practice, Patience, Persistence.


(For the record, I won't edit anyone's work, so don't ask...you can't pay me enough to do it.)

Friday, May 20, 2011

One year later...

Now a NOOK Book!


One year ago on May 21st, I released my second novel The Fractured Hues of White Light as a paperback original, and now, to celebrate this first year, my little-big novel is now available at Barnes & Noble as an ebook.

I gotta tell ya, it's a lot of work putting together the ebook is a process that I don't want to do again right away, but yet, I'm OCD enough to get a sense of pleasure picking around at the tiniest bits of code to make the reading experience on the Nook to be enjoyable. I spent most of the morning and dipped into the afternoon doing the finishing touches on the files and inputting data and clicking the right buttons to make the "magic" happen - my eyes are blurry and burning and my head is dizzy from looking at a computer screen so closely. As of an hour or so, it went live - so now more readers can love or hate it - it is such a see-saw existence being an author, and I will always welcome the good and bad criticism with grace. It's been a rewarding experience publishing my books, and although the second one hasn't been as well received as the first book (Dusty Waters) I understand as the author and publisher, that books are a subjective business, and not everyone is going to like what I do. John Steinbeck said it best of all:

 "You know just as well as I do that this book is going to catch the same kind of hell that all the others did and for the same reasons. It will not be what anyone expects and so the expecters will not like it. And until it gets to people who don't expect anything and are just willing to go along with the story, no one is likely to like this book." (from Journal of a Novel: the East of Eden Letters, quoted from page 26, March 8, Thursday.)

Good and bad reviews go with the territory. I like to think that readers come to my writing because they are looking for something different, something unexpected, and to make this novel available for the Nook will make it accessible to new readers looking for something new and different - this is a happy day...


Synopsis:

The Fractured Hues of White Light is an emotional journey that explores who we love and why we love them. Mother, father, daughter, siblings, lovers, spouses, and friends; it’s all love in some form. It is a story about Samantha Ryder, a young autistic woman who is an artist; it is because of her handicap that she often fails to articulate her emotions with an appropriate demonstration. Ironically, the ‘normal people’ who surround her are just as incapable of communicating their feelings, creating a sense of isolation full of things left unsaid. Samantha’s uncanny artistic ability is limited to being a novelty after her father encouraged her to create miniatures of the greatest hits of art history for a wealthy clientele. For years, she has filled sketchbooks with drawings that she feels mean nothing, yet they mean everything. Within the abstract scribbles are the portraits of the people who she loves; the quirk of her disability is how she is very aware of the emotions of her loved ones. They love her with unconditional bonds that vary in degrees; her mother Lenore’s maternal nurturing is sorely missed after her death when Sammy was six. Her father, Whitley, is a possessive narcissist, but his heart is always in the right place. Memories of the protective love of her father’s stepson, Guthrie, filtered into her adolescent fantasies. Her half-sister, Helena, exhibits a lackadaisical tolerance and irritable impatience, yet offers a clinging-vine possessiveness in spite of herself. The lingering romantic feelings of her friend and former lover, Sylvester, manifest in his boundless patience; their continued friendship stands firm on a foundation of trust. When Samantha agreed to marry Preston Ackerman, she initially believed that she could learn to love him, but the empty bond between them causes her to emotionally lose ground. As their marriage falls apart, Preston becomes dangerous, forcing her to go on a journey of self-preservation away from the familiar security of home. Her escape threatens to be her undoing.

Friday, December 31, 2010

New Year's Eve

Winter, through the window, 2010


I thought I'd post some of my most favorite photographs from this year today.
A Memento, 2010
Horses once lived here, 2010

Hope, 2010

Another year has gone by, and a new one is on deck. I treat every year as an "open-ended hope". I do the best I can to accomplish my goals, I work at my own pace with patient persistence, and do what I do in spite of everything that could cause me to give up.
Independently published 2010 by Field Stone Press


Looking back, I see my happiest achievement, I independently published my second novel, The Fractured Hues of White Light, although it doesn't seem to be as well received as Dusty Waters was in 2009, I still feel it is one of my best efforts. It was a difficult book to write, I don't know if I have words to explain what I went through since the book first took form to the day the first paperback copy came into my hands, but it was much like a birth, a very difficult birth...the self-doubts are the worst. And I put together an e-book file for Dusty Waters to become available for the B&N NOOK. There's one in the works for The Fractured Hues of White Light, but I'm not ready to release it yet. In time I will. And I'm busy with the third novel, Drinking from the Fishbowl, which I hope to have ready by mid to late fall 2011, if I get it ready sooner, that's cool, but I'm going to take my time...no rush. I am pleased that the books are selling, one at a time, I'm not making much money with it, but I'm patient, this has been an experiment to see how I do out there, and I can't be happier about it...my books are being read! That's important.

Me n' my Fred at the Gallery making art together on a Thursday night

My second happiest achievement this year has to be our little co-op art gallery, Moonlighting. I am always a firm believer that from little things, big things grow, this is only the beginning, we're doing a good thing.The resulting artwork has been encouraging, and although I haven't sold much this year, just having a place to gather with other artists, create art, display our work on a consistent basis, hold openings, and treat the community to a nice space filled with beautiful artwork is special. It's another experiment in DIY!

Suddenly, Last Summer, 2010

A lot has happened, and there's no way I can recap everything said and done, between my blogs and my journal there are plenty of entries of everyday things. I have been hanging in there in spite of the fiendish symptoms of FMS, and continue to adjust to the phases that I go through and alter the "me management" to get through the day. My mantra is "I'm upright and going forward." I'm grateful that I have stayed away from the pharmaceutical band-aids and that I can still keep going to my day job, as I know so many with this illness lose so much because of it. I'm thankful that I have many who support me in my day to day life, tho' because I'm stubborn, I tend to do for myself, but I do have the sense to ask for help when I need it. I'm hanging in there, staying positive, and remembering to breathe deeply when the pain gets to be too much.


Full Moon, June 5, 2010
I'm trying to pick a favorite painting that I made this year, I'm happy with so many of them, I had to scale back to picking one that I'm glad did not sell...it's hanging on my studio wall where I can see it every day. I remember how I went at this painting with a 'fuck it' attitude, it had such a bad start and I was getting frustrated with it, so I just started to make marks in random places...I was in my "zone", and was very happy while I worked...I truly painted this one for myself. (I posted the favorites at my other blog Follow Your Bliss http://ohdrat.blogspot.com/)

Hands down, my favorite book this year has to be A Writer's Diary



I read a whole bunch of cool books this year...thought I'd share a few here:


The Journal of Joyce Carol Oates 1973-1982
Isak Dinesen, Out of Africa
Joyce Carol Oates, Little Bird of Heaven (a signed copy!)
Ondaatje, Divisadero
Poppy Adams, The Sister
Virginia Woolf, A Writer’s Diary
Audrey Niffenegger, Her Fearful Symmetry
Sherwood Anderson, Winesburg, Ohio
E. M. Forster, The Celestial Omnibus
Nichole Krauss, The History of Love
Janet Frame, Towards Another Summer
Rikki Ducornet, The Stain
Angela Carter, Magic Toy Shop
Joyce Carol Oates, A Bloodsmoor Romance
Iris Murdock, The Sea, the Sea


Books of Poetry that I’ve carried around in my purse this year:

If Not, Winter, poems of Sappho (ed. Anne Carson)
Kay Ryan, Flamingo Watching
Catherine Daly, Da Da Da (I’m still carrying this one around)

Favorite books that I opened to read random passages from:

Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

Virginia Woolf, The Waves
John Cowper Powys, Porius
Virginia Woolf, Night and Day
Joyce Carol Oates, Bellefleur
Joyce Carol Oates, Wonderland
E.M. Forster, Howards End
Ray Bradbury, Dandelion Wine

Books started in 2010 to finish in 2011:
Virginia Woolf, The Years

Charles Dickens, Tale of Two Cities
Isak Dinesen, The Gothic Tales
David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest (e-book, reading on my laptop using the NOOK app)

Sunburst, 2010
A full year and a full life. I am content.
Sunflower, August 14, 2010

Friday, November 26, 2010

The day after Thanksgiving...

Blue on Rust, Leaves (Sumac on Maple)

Briar and Weeds

Fossils and Weeds

A Solitary Leaf

Shell and Leaf

Pale Green Viola Leaf

Viola Leaf on a Rock

Leaves

 Thankfulness...

I got up at 6AM yesterday morning, and had the nigh 20lb bird stuffed and in the oven by 7AM, the routine is a familiar path, I plodded along all through the morning making preparations, then got halfway upstairs to change, and ran back to the living room to turn on the Macy's Parade just in time to see Santa Claus...(it wouldn't be right to miss Santa!) Although we had a fraction of the family around the table than in past years, yet still keeping to the tradition as we've known it...my Fred's mother passed away almost two weeks ago, and so it's been a time...as our niece insisted, "Grandma would have wanted us to be together today." And so we did gather around as a family to begin the process of moving on, and we enjoyed our company and talked. It was lovely in spite of moments of missing her...and missing Grandpa (our second Thanksgiving without him.) We're still in that emotional period of loss, slightly numb, yet sharp in feeling...we're seeking a foothold on the latest version of "normal". Time will tell. Today I'm in that fatigue zone...painfully tired, which is typical FMS, I'm used to it, and push through it (how easy it would have been to go back to bed and sleep the day away!), but in spite of it, I worked on my paintings today, for some reason, on days when I'm this tired writing is impossible, but the act of painting flourishes in that intuitive flow that is beautiful, and it felt right. If anything, I am thankful for my determination.

Leftovers for dinner tonight...mmmmm...and tomorrow TURKEY SOUP! (I love that more than the dinner.)


I haven't been able to keep up with the last three Literary Blog Hop activities through the Blue Bookcase, but have enjoyed the conversations that have emerged since the first one I hooked up with earlier this month. As I noted in the side bar of my blog, Dusty Waters is now available as an e-book on the B&N Nook (as part of the B&N PubIt! program, released on 11/19.) It took well over a month to accomplish it, I had slowly worked my way through both books to get them properly formatted, but only put up the one. The Fractured Hues of White Light will be saved aside for release at another time since I'm still in the early giveaway mode of the paperback at Goodreads. I downloaded the Nook app for my laptop so I could sample the technology, and purchased Virginia Woolf's early novel Night and Day just for fun (since my most favorite paper back is falling apart) ...it is a temptation to buy more books, but I will restrain myself for now, and make selections of old favorites in due time. No matter the convenience of the e-book and all the other arguments that make them the bees knees I still love the intimacy of a solitary book made of paper, and will gladly make room for more of them on my to-read pile. Will I purchase an actual Nook? Probably...I've become slightly smitten with the gadget during my careful investigation of gadgets. Will I convert one (or both) of the books for Kindle? Eventually, it is quite possible with all the available conversion tools out there to 'make it so'...I'm in no rush (if there's anyone who wants it bad enough for their Kindle they can send me an email and say "pretty please" and I'll see what I can do about it sooner than later.) For now, the Nook is the test...it is one more test in my indie publishing experiment, I'm going to see how it goes as I continue to muddle along at my own pace. It is just how I am...it is how I do what I do.

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

What is Literary Fiction? And a reading from my book, The Fractured Hues of White Light...

This is how I see it from my size 6 1/2's...(yes, I know, they're untied...)
What is literary fiction...what is "literary" about literary fiction? (This Literary Blog Hop has gotten under my skin.)  My tongue in cheek response is "Well, it's got everything and the kitchen sink in it fiction..." Indeed. Pull on the waders, honey, we're going in...it gets mighty deep in the pond of 'literary' fiction, so we are going to go fishing.

Listen, I know this literary stuff isn't for everybody, which is unfortunate, I feel they're missing something beautiful. Not everybody has the attention span nor the patience to read classics like (a few from my bookshelf) Moby Dick, War and Peace, Bleak House, To Kill a Mockingbird, East of Eden, Ulysses, The Idiot, To the Lighthouse, The Waves, The Corrections, Water for Elephants, Small Island, The English Patient, I Know This Much Is True, Dandelion Wine, Watership Down, Winesburg Ohio, Wonderland, Pride and Prejudice, Out of Africa, Enchanted Night, The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter, Wuthering Heights, The Hours, As I Lay Dying, Bellefleur, The Master and Margarita, Howards End, Ursula Under, ...and what about Porius?(I only know of four people who have read that tome (I'm one of them, my Fred, my sister, and some dude on Library Thing). I could keep fishing, but I'll stop...

Goodness knows I wouldn't want to force anyone to read a book they won't enjoy...and I'm not going to judge anyone for not liking the kind of books I love to read...or the books I love to write. Why do I cringe when I hear someone being hyper-critical about the books I love? Why do I cringe when everyone raves about Twilight? (I read my share of Anne Rice and loved "Interview", I have nothing against vampires. I cut my teeth on Dracula...but the Twilight saga? I can't do it...sorry. Why am I apologizing? Hell if I know.) To each their own, if people like it, fine, who am I to tell them what to read? Books, art, and music are all subjective, and I've found over the years that they are just as polarizing as politics and religion...people will love what they love and hate what they hate. They'll especially hate it if they don't get it...and for some reason, if it's especially "clever"...OMG, your name is mud! Yes, I've experienced this...I feel bad about my neck, I dared to stick it out there and oy vey...

Hi, I'm Laura, and I'm a writer of literary fiction.



From the time I wanted to be a writer, I wanted to write books that matter...books with a deeper meaning... (Still got your waders on? Good.) I wanted to write what I call "human documents". The complex relationships in my novel The Fractured Hues of White Light evolved through time, the ties that bind through an overlapping history. The book took a long time to write (about eleven years, on and off, I juggle manuscripts for fun), much of it came into being during the rough draft that formed during the "sweet spot" in 2000-2001 when I fixated on writing it all down, but time and experience offered up insights that I would have missed if I didn't take the time to go deeper, or ignored them. The first line in the excerpt that I'm going to give you here was produced only last year in November...probably on a dark and stormy night with the wind howling, making our old farmhouse creak...or a bleak gray day that had the smell of snow on the wind...when I wrote it, I knew I was getting closer to finishing, and I cannot express the joy I felt knowing this...and the sorrow when I realized what being "done" with it meant. It is a fine line writers walk.

``````

From Chapter 7, pages 162-164

“I will die in November — it’s as good a time to do it as any, I guess — why not, eh? Everything else is dying — I’ll just be one more thing.” Whitley blurted out while we watched the golden October sunset over the salt marshes — Sylvester was driving my father’s Caddy; Whitley and I sat in the backseat, enjoying the view. The conversations with my father during the weeks before his death always had grim tidbits like this, punctuated with a wink to take the edge off. Often our talks were threaded with memories of Lenore and Guthrie; these reminisces grew like seeds sown in a freshly turned garden of composted grief. “I loved them both, you know — I knew what was goin’ on and it devastated me inside when I first figured it out. If Lenore wanted to leave me for Guthrie, I would have let her go — it would have been right. But they would have wanted you — I would have never let them take you away from me — you were mine — my daughter — I love you with all my heart and soul.” After his tender words, he then shook his head. “What kind of father am I? I have never forgiven myself for how I treated Guthrie — I kicked him out during a time when we needed to heal as a family — but I was too proud — too angry — too hurt. I loved that boy and I turned my back on him.” He then leaned on me and cried; it felt so odd that I could ever be a source of comfort to him — for the first time in my life, I felt stronger than my father.

On the day before he died, Whitley charged me with the task to find Guthrie. “I could never face him — I’m a coward — that’s hard for me to admit, you know,” he said with a gleam in his fading eyes. “Once I’m gone — you’re going to need him. He’s still living at Margie’s house in Cleveland — Pinkerton knows where to find him.” I didn’t know for sure if he’d come.

On that day after the funeral, Guthrie and I took the long chilly walk during low tide from the beach to Salt Island; we were silent most of the time, but it was our sunset return along the narrow sand bar that he reiterated his disappointment that he wasn’t my father. “When you were born, I wanted to believe that I was your father because it was the only way — in my mind — the only way that I could conceivably express my love for you.” I listened to him reason this out, and I felt sorry for him — the enormity of the letdown seemed to crush him. Then he went on to explain that my resemblance to Lenore is complicating his former paternal feelings; the weighty tokens of my being there, every gesture I made reminded him of her too much, and he said that he feels revolted by his thoughts. I persisted with a steady stream of how come questions, which he evaded by making dumb jokes or lighting a smoke. I poked at him until he finally growled his answer. “Jeezus K. Ryst, girl, you don’t give up do you? You’re a pain-in-the-ass just like your mother — okay, I’ll tell you how come — it’s just wrong, that’s how come!”

His mustache failed to hide his angry mouth; I remained silent, waiting — what next?

“I’m sorry for barking at you, Buttons,” he muttered after awhile. “I should have come home a long time ago.” His entire face squinted against his emotions as he sent the words adrift into the November wind filled with ocean spray as the tide began to make its return to the beach. We laughed when our feet received a soaking during the last twenty feet of our trek on the sand bar. We’ve always cut it close — pushing our luck — Lenore always warned us “One of these days, you’ll be stranded out there until the tide goes out again — I’ll kill you if she gets poison ivy because you sent her to pee in the weeds!” It never happened, but once he had me climb up onto his shoulders as he waded back, falling down twice because the undertow tried to suck him out to sea. I never doubted for a second that he wouldn’t get me home safe that day — I held on tight just like he told me to — we only lost one of my flip-flops, no big deal.

Once we reached higher ground, Guthrie turned back to look at where we had been, the waves now nearly covering what remained of our path to the island. “But I suppose it was just as well that I stayed away,” he said to finish his thought.

Although he said nothing more, I could tell by the cast of his brow that he thought a lot. To comfort him, I hugged him as hard as I could — he sagged as he clutched me to his chest, and it seemed as if he, like Whitley, had also lost his strength. My image of him as Atlas withered in the pale twilight beach — he is just a man, not a myth. He appeared far from perfect on that sullen afternoon with a gray sky, gray ocean, and his gray hair — but he was my Guthrie; he has come home to me at last and I will not part with him ever again.

````

It's always a mystery to me how my characters develop and then have the audacity to do the things they do or say the things they say... and it's so strange how the things I write about conflict with who I am...goodness knows I feared that I bit off more than I could chew with this one. The ghosts of the past haunt these people, they are conjoined through layers of relationships: Guthrie's relationship with his stepfather, Whitley; Guthrie's affair with Whitley's young wife, Lenore; Whitley's paternal feelings for his children (Guthrie, Helena and Samantha). Guthrie's feelings for Samantha, as a child, and then how they changed when he returns to her life, no longer a child, but as a grown woman. Samantha's feelings for Whitley, her mother, Lenore; and Guthrie, who she didn't see as a brother or a father, but as a friend who came home to stay now and then. And then there is Sylvester and Helena in the mix...there is so much...is it too much? But just when I begin to doubt myself, I read it again and know I've done a good thing telling this story as written.

Writing this book was difficult...but it was probably one of my happiest times.

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

Editing...

The Children's Moon


I took this photo on Saturday morning/early afternoon while lounging in the sunshine on one of the Adirondack chairs, I saw the little sliver of pale moon in the blue...I've always liked seeing it there during the day so I zoomed in with my little point n' shoot and caught it...


I finished reading through my latest manuscript Drinking from the Fishbowl on Saturday afternoon (the last time I worked on it was in 2008, so I had to get to know it again)...so now I have started over from the beginning, and will go deeper this time, it should move along as I have a firm grasp on the book as a whole and I pretty much know what needs to be done with it. It's a big book...after awhile I stopped keeping track of the page count, tho' the last I knew it was 530 or something...(The Fractured Hues of White Light in the double-spaced Word file was 516, and printed as a 437 page paperback so...I'm figuring Fishbowl will still weigh in under 500 pages by the time it goes to print). I'm not going to make a fuss about the size, there's not much I can do about it, the story will be told in it's own way, if what's there is good and it's got purpose, it's staying, I'm not going to strip the spirit out of it...I'll trust that if a reader likes what I do, and wants to read it, the size won't scare them off. I'll be brutal with it while going through the editing process (last time I edited this one, I whittled it down from 575 pages or something crazy like that. One earlier draft had ballooned to 703 pages, so I'm quite adept at being a brutal editor with my own work. Yes, I've kept track of the progress of my multiple drafts.) Page count/word count is a bugaboo when it comes to agents and publishers, they don't like anything too much over 100,000 words, yet, big books still get published (Jonathan Strange and Dr. Norrell, The Historian, The Time Traveler's Wife are beefy popular tomes), people still buy them...one of these days I'll come up with a less complicated slim story... someday, but in the meantime, this is what I have, and I'm not waiting around for 'my ship to come in'...

This book is the second one I wrote in this group of books that I have spent the last eleven years writing...it's centered on the relationship of three friends, Georgia Sullivan, Eugene Riley, and Bailey Muldoon... yes, it is a tangled triangle, and it is written with the intention of a "soap opera" feel to it, but it is more serious, more psychological, prickly and squirmy, tho' it has it's own sense of humor, and perhaps a bit too honest...I love how at times it's just so absurd...but you know, people with their tangled web of emotions are very often ridiculous when they're young and foolish and full of drama, especially when it comes to love and the fulfillment of our dreams...how we plan out our lives only to have obstacles pop up and send us on a different path...of course, some readers will hate it, some will love it...it depends on how they approach it, if they take it too seriously they'll miss the point...if they think it's too absurd, well...it is what it is, everyone comes to a book with their own tools, I have my way of seeing things...in the end, I have to trust the reader to judge for themselves...

Fishbowl is connected to Dusty Waters and The Fractured Hues of White Light as well, the character, Katharine, emerges again as an influence, and Guthrie Ryder has a small role...Aloysius Farnesworth is there in spirit too...so, the community of characters grows and overlaps much in the way life does...I'm enjoying myself immensely...

I've begun to explore E-books again, tho' I still haven't purchased one of the gadgets as I prefer a solid book made of paper over a gadget that requires batteries (I love reading by candlelight when the power goes out!) Well, I've decided that it wouldn't hurt to make one of the books available...Smashwords seems to be the go to place to get 'em done, but first, I have to strip the PDF down to a basic, format-less Word document... this will take some time...but I'm OCD enough to actually enjoy doing it! I've started with The Fractured Hues of White Light (I'm up to chapter 5) only because it's easier, Dusty Waters has way too many interesting visual bits that required special formatting in it's current form, so I don't know if it's going to be possible to do it and have it look like anything on an e-book device. (I wonder how a book like The House of Leaves looks as an E-book? That one has all kinds of cool bits making it a visual experience.)

(Note: most of this post was written on Sunday morning, intended to post on Sunday afternoon, but I had trouble uploading photos, so I saved the draft, and gave up! So here I am this morning, giving it another try...)

Anyway...the gray skies of the last couple of days have given way to blue again...I don't think the little pale moon will be out there, but the gold finches are busy in the coneflowers...I've finally shook off the cold that I've been battling with for a week, and so it's just allergies again...

Saturday, September 4, 2010

Morning glory days...

You know it's the end of summer when these sky colored flowers bloom! Morning Glories have fascinated me since I was very young... I haven't had much luck growing them for a few years because of certain little bunnies seem to love eating the seedlings (but not the purple ones of which I have plenty!) or the seeds themselves have been duds (and some times they bloom the smaller purple.) These I rescued from the wee hungry bunny and kept them out of reach on the porch table until they became a less tempting size, now they're growing in an enamel bowl, climbing on a trellis made from old lath from one of our deconstruction projects in the house... I've been going through the photos that I've taken over the last two three weeks, and these were the prettiest, and seem to speak of a time of year that is winding down... lilacs are spring, morning glories are fall...


My garden is a wreck ever since that big blow we had when the last tropical storm ripped through here, today we have residual wind and clouds from Earl, it feels fall-like, in the 60's... yesterday was 90.


These two cluttered together during the early morning bloom...


This photo was taken just yesterday morning... I was shuffling around like an old woman and had a tough time keeping the camera steady... I've been having a great deal of trouble with my FMS lately, been over-doing things again, but that's my own fault, I just can't sit and let others do the work, and since I do my best to maintain my flexibility I have a false sense of "I can do it" and bang, my body is on fire by 3PM and my head is spinning, ears ringing, my stomach queasy, and all I want to do is immerse myself in a hot bath and go to bed... so I'm hoping to get lots of rest this long weekend to combat the aches and fatigue...

My new novel, The Fractured Hues of White Light, received its first bad review, a two star at Goodreads.com from one of the winners of the giveaway that I did there... it's unfortunate that giveaways tend to be random selection, so there's no telling who will be reviewing the book, and they don't necessarily attempt to match the book with an appropriate reader who would like it (or the people who sign up for the giveaway don't make the effort to research the book first before committing to the giveaway... I don't know, I'm a fussy enough reader that I would do my homework by checking the 'Look Inside' feature at Amazon to read a sample of the book to see if the writing interests me.) ...Anyway... the book wasn't the reader's cup o' tea and she said so in so many words...that's okay, it's part of the business, I can deal with that...you can't please everybody. This sort of review can either be good because it will warn off readers who share her book biases... or it will be bad because it will warn off readers who might be pleasantly surprised to read a book outside their comfort zone. Who knows. I'm running a second giveaway at Goodreads that ends on September 30th, and again, I'll hope for the best that I will get readers who will enjoy the book for what it is...

Even tho' this one is just a tad blurry, I still love the shapes in it, the movement...makes me think of a Georgia O'Keeffe painting...

Sunday, July 25, 2010

It's been a 'real' week...

Admiral with wings closed...his bright pretty stuff is on the inside, but I think love the subtle patterns on the outside of the wings more...

Two Tiger Swallowtails...

It's so hard to "catch" one flutterbye holding still, but two within inches of each other, tougher, man, I'm tellin' you, I was clicking the button faster than the little Fuji could keep up, I knew I'd get at least one photo of the moment worth saving...

So here is my cluttered old drafting table where I work...yup, that is paint stains on the table top from paintings made long ago...


I had the dreaded Blue Screen of Death visit my laptop last week Wednesday, and now it's back, fixed and has gained two little brothers, a Dell Mini (that I bought immediately with the little bit of money I've saved for a new computer) and a 500GB portable hard drive (thank goodness I had just gotten paid)...it could've been a virus or an error in the mechanism that tripped up the gadget...whatever, the good news is none of my writing or photos were lost (most everything was backed up), tho' my email and address book is gone, bookmarks missing, which is very annoying, all necessary software is reloaded...I'm heading back toward normal operations. Tho' I'm still cringing every time I turn it on now...if I happen to be not listening for it and miss the Windows start-up chime, I become concerned...that will wear off eventually...

Live and learn...always...

Writing a book and putting it out for people to read is one of those major 'live and learn' lessons...I updated my Q&A at Goodreads this morning, and added another excerpt from The Fractured Hues of White Light for readers to browse...after I pasted the piece into place, I noticed the word 'mediations' on page 66 ...dang, darn, drat and damn! Did I use the wrong word? I think I meant to say "meditations", but suddenly I'm not sure. I'll tell you now, it's been that way for years, as soon as I found it, I dug into the archives and found it consistently written as 'mediations' all along! ARRRGH! But in my mind, today, I read it as 'meditations' and now I'm second guessing myself. How does one miss that? Easy, the mind fills in what isn't there while you're reading along, no matter how careful. I'm not going to make myself nuts about it (tho' I know I will because that's how I am, I am totally obsessing about it that's why I'm writing about it.) Just in case I'm wrong about what I meant to say, I've marked it for changes later with a post-it note tucked in my proof copy, I'm sure I'll find more changes to make and it will be better to do it all at once rather than piece meal changes that wind up costing money and time. No matter how careful I am, I still miss stuff...and this was proofread by another pair of eyes too, so she could've caught it way back during that early draft. Good grief. I suppose in some in context, it works, Sylvester could be 'mediating' within himself (relaxing mediations) while he was fly-fishing in the stream and thinking about the stuff bugging him, but no, I think I meant 'relaxing meditations' because he was trying to find a zone of comfort within himself. Ah, well, nobody's perfect. Well, I'm in good company, there are books published by the best and biggest publishing houses with grammatical slip-ups and wrong words and they have paid editors working on it (usually very overworked and also very human), so I shouldn't be kicking myself for being sloppy... but I tend to hold the bar for myself higher than most...it's just the way I am (If my name's on it, I want it to be right!) I know toward the end of the process I was becoming a bit cross-eyed from looking at it for so long. I'm not overly anxious to proofread it again right away...but I know I will be picking it up sooner rather than later...

I heard about this website called I Write Like (http://iwl.me/) in which you paste a sample of your writing and it compares your writing to samples of the famous in their database (tho' I'm sure it's limited)...so for the heck of it, I tucked in a small sample from chapter 1 of Dusty Waters (it was a dark and stormy night last night, so it was a fun thing to do) and it came up that I write like Nabokov... I'm not sure what to think of that...it's good, but a little intimidating...I can see this being a time wasting sort of thing...probably addicting...so I stopped at that and probably won't go back...it might say I write like Stephen King next...not that there's anything wrong with that...

I'm glad to have my laptop back, and I'm glad to be working on my blogs again...last weekend I was so out of sorts...

Sunday, July 11, 2010

Sunday afternoon...




The bee balm explosion in my garden...there's so much of it this year the hummingbirds have no reason to squabble over it, but they still do anyway... at any given time I could have at least four or five buzzing throughout this area, all is well until one bumps into another or a sixth bird shows up...then all hell breaks loose and the chipping and shit spraying begins...(yes, they spray poo!)

There is a wee bunny living in that tangle too...but I guess I haven't downloaded that batch of photos...when I do, I'll add it in...(promise!) Although I know it's the little shit who ate my morning glories, I rescued a few of the seedlings and have them growing in a pot on the porch out of wee bunny's reach...(edit later: here's the bunny!)



I just added my new widget at the top for The Fractured Hues of White Light, a free read of chapter 1 for anyone interested...I've been slowly adding "readings" and discussions to my Q&A at Goodreads, it's a little slow, but it should pick up once readers finish reading it and have things to talk about...and of course, I'll do another giveaway as soon as the current one is over...

I had fun on Thursday night at The Gallery, Suzanne put henna tattoos on my feet...I'm enjoying them...but once in a while I forget and catch a glimpse of this "stuff" on my toes and say...What the hell is on my foot? (That's a hell of a rash.) Oh, good, it's just henna...

I've been relaxing a lot this weekend, between the unbearably hot weather and just being on the go all last week, I'm beat. I'm still feeling a bit rough around the edges...Monday is coming too soon...

I've been working on chapter 2 of my next novel in line for publication Drinking from the Fishbowl, proofreading is a slow process, I read the chapter forwards last weekend, and now I'm reading it backwards, I just go paragraph by paragraph, page by page, scene by scene, once I'm satisfied that these bite-size bits are "settled" I move on to the next...I'm always suspicious when I glide through without a hitch...did I read it, or did I just scan it? I'm shooting for next June to publish (seems like the pattern.) It is a fairly clean manuscript, but I want to take my time to fine tune and catch anything dumb that I might've done...I maintain that if my name is on it, it's got to be at its best...

I keep poking around looking for more photos...the ones I haven't downloaded yet...guess, that means, I'll be back later! (Here's more pics, bumble bees!)

This little guy on the catnip has an orange stripe...

This little fellow seemed to be taking a nap on this flower...

Sunday, July 4, 2010

Summertime...

Fatty Woo Hobbes has taken to staring at himself in the mirror...and purring very loudly while doing so...and at times, has laid down in a plump little crouch and dozed off... he's 13 years old, I'm wondering if the little old dude is getting a bit funny in the head... no matter, he's adorable, and I love the squishy little fatty fur ball!

You know its summertime when the roses bloom in the garden...

I'm always on the look out for interesting things to photograph around the acre, but today I'm posting a couple from the city of Syracuse, well... it's just the small area outside the door on my way out from work where I wait for my Fred...

Some spray paint on asphalt caught my eye...I suspect this is the remains of an art students project...

I stepped out the door one afternoon and caught this photo...it reminds me of a Georgia O'Keeffe drawing from her time spent in NYC...

I've been coming down from the high at the gallery last week (was it really just last week?), it was a magical time...but back to doing things again...making new art and writing and proofreading...promotion of books is ongoing...

On my Goodreads Q&A for The Fractured Hues of White Light, I've written a bit about where my characters come from...well, I grow 'em in that special part in my brain that churns out characters and stories, of course! But it's not that simple. It's always a fine line that authors walk on their words when making up people and situations. Readers always wonder who these people are "supposed to be"...I really don't write them to be anybody but who they are in the book, they have their fictional life...granted, I've cherry picked from the buffet of things that I've learned about human nature from my experiences, but I never set out to write a character who is a specific person with the name changed to protect the innocent... it gets a little hinky whenever a writer does that sort of thing... I guess it's the difference between a novice and an experienced writer.

Once a friend said to me, "You're Katharine, right?" I laughed. "No, I'm Jonathan." Yes, she did a double take...and I poked her that no one has to be me in this... yes, they do come from me, I'm telling the story, there's a difference between the author's voice that is doing the telling and the author as a person separate from the story. I think readers often forget to keep the two separate... books tend to take on a special life of their own because they get under your skin and inside your head, capture the imagination. Sometimes during the writing of them, the mental immersion involved is quite intense, dreamlike, and can be disorienting because I've been crawling around inside my head trying to figure out the workings of someone else who I've made up out of bits and pieces (operating instructions not included.) Oy vey, you have no idea.

Writing about Samantha Ryder was difficult, trying to stay within the parameters of Autism and keeping her believable, and then working out the perceptions of the other three characters who also weigh in on her with their ideas and ideals about her... Sammy is like the elephant being examined by the blind men, each one has their own perception of what they've touched. Samantha has her own ideas...and they don't often jive with what others think...it was tough writing her...but I love her, she's very special to me.

Any time I'm working with facts from experience, I cinch up the literary waders and go in deep, make up as many lies as I can to get away from the truth, and then tweak it to sound believable. Everything I write in my books are lies...cross my heart, it's fiction!

Saturday, June 26, 2010

Opening night at The Gallery...

June 25th 2010 6-9PM

Me waving 'hi' to the camera...welcome to our big night at The Gallery...

The little corner desk (Painted by Suzanne) with my little books on it...

Another of the many crowd shots...

Will you just look at that awesome art?


This is the four of us, Ken Nichols, my Fred, me, and Suzanne Masters!


Me n' my Fred...my paintings and his stone sculptures...

How about that awesome moonrise?

Hanging out outside near the end...before the mosquitoes chased us inside...

And I wore my 'birthday shoes' and showed them off to anyone who I thought would find them cool...most women did...what woman wouldn't want a pair of 'fancy shoes'?

The end of the night... we were tired, buzzing with the last bits of energy, and all of us very pleased with our opening...

I did get to wear my author hat a few times during the night, there was a good deal of interest in that little stack of books on the desk...one fella was pondering the books, and said to me he always wanted to write...I told him, "Just do it." Well, you know, it ain't going to happen if you don't...don't let you stop you from following your dreams, your bliss... Last night was all about that...this little shop turned into a gallery and what was once a flight of fancy became a reality, the crowd proved that it can be done... but there's lots of hard work ahead to keep it going, we can't just let it go... a book signing event is going to happen...a possible reading... and other activities...fun stuff...