The countdown has begun.  This is my last blog before I leave for the RWA National Conference in San Francisco later this week.  *pauses as crew applauds*  Very funny.  Wenches.

This is my first national conference and my first time traveling cross-country.  I’m actually more excited than I am nervous, but I’m sure I’ll start shaking like a leaf once I walk into that hotel and see all the other attendees milling around.  It’s almost as if it doesn’t feel real yet.  As if I’m going to wake up Wednesday morning and realize I’m not actually going anywhere.  Which would really suck since I have this suitcase packed to the brim sitting in my living room.

You would think, being the procrastinator that I am, packing is the last thing I’d do.  But no, packing is all done.  I even have a fancy new binder (for the handouts I have to print myself…gah!) and a sassy little schedule spreadsheet I color coded.  I know, this may be the most anal thing I’ve ever done.  But never fear, there are several things I’ve put off so I haven’t lost my charming “I can do that tomorrow” ways.

I have three goals for this trip.  Have fun, have fun, and have fun.  Seriously, that’s it.  I mean, I intend to learn lots of craft stuff that will inspire me to come back and finish my WIP by the end of September (stop laughing!) and meet as many people as I can.  It’s all about the networking, baby.  But the bottom line is, have a good time!

Now, here’s the cool part.  Anyone who isn’t going to San Francisco can still do the same things I’ll be doing.  Turns out, there are online conferences going on for those not able to make the trip this year.  First up is the Not Going to Conference Conference.  Isn’t that a great name?  This one is courtesy of the Romance Diva’s.  The virtual conference runs from July 30 to August 2 with lots of workshops and prizes.  Registration is free and you never know what contacts you’ll make by taking part.

The other option is the Left Behind and Loving It Conference which actually starts today.  Multi-published author, Lynn Viehl, is offering workshops and prizes all week long on her Paperback Writer blog.  Everything from plotting and editing to branding and a Q&A session, this is a great opportunity to have the conference experience all from the comfort of your own home.

Then there are various other blogs that will keep you in the action.  The RWA National website will have frequent updates throughout the event and pretty much any other blog you visit on a regular basis will be talking conference.  I know you’ll want to be here Friday because Santa O’Byrne (who will be here tomorrow as well with her own pre-conference blog) and I plus any of our friends we can recruit will post a “conference so far – who we’ve squealed at and who is taking out a restraining order against us” blog. 

EDITING!!!  Can’t believe I forgot to mention where you can get your blog hook-up all in one place.  This fantastic woman named Judi put together all the blogs regarding the conference in one place.  Go HERE for everything conference at your fingertips.  (And we’re there too!)

Now it’s time for the questions.  If you’re going to San Fran, are you packed?  Are you calm?  Or are you freaking out on the inside?  If you’re not going, will you check out one of these online conferences?  Will you surf the net to every site you can find to follow the action?  Or would you rather do what we should probably all be doing and spend the time writing?

In case you haven’t heard, and that is highly unlikely if you spend any time at all on this ship, I’m heading off to San Francisco next week for the annual RWA National Conference.  I’ve attended a smaller conference in New Jersey, but never the Nationals.  I’ve also never been anywhere near the west coast.  To say I’m excited is like saying Nora is kind of successful.

Though I’m a plotser (or plantser or whatever we’re calling the plotter/pantser combo this week) in my writing life, in real life I pants it all the way.  I rarely plan ahead, take everything as it comes, and never, absolutely NEVER, make lists.  Until now.

Last week on the Romance Bandits blog, Blaze author Tawny Weber covered the topic of getting organized and prepared for the conference.  She ever suggested making a schedule spreadsheet complete with color coding. Her timing was perfect as I’d just had a dream – make that a nightmare – the weekend before that I had arrived in San Fran without any of the things I needed.  Say what you will, but the Universe was telling me to get my arse in gear and get prepared.

First thing I did – make a list.  This is SOOOOO unlike me it’s scary.  I hate lists.  I have a friend who makes lists about making lists.  It’s a constant battle not to choke her when she tries to push these lists on me.  So the fact I succumbed to this task says a great deal about my anxiety.

I learned several things from the list.  One, for the amount of bathroom items required by me daily, I should be much better looking.  Seriously, the bathroom stuff took one side of the page.  And I kept adding to it.  But almost all of these items are packed (travel size items are my friend!) and marked off the list.

Another thing I learned is that shoes are not a big deal to me.  I’m taking my tennis shoes (wearing them on the plane actually) and the heels I’ll wear to get all prettied up for the awards ceremony.  Not another pair made it on the list.  With my bad knees, everyone will just have to deal with me in tennis shoes.  Otherwise, the pain will drive me to tears.  And for the record, I’m not pitching so no worries on me going in to impress an editor or agent in tennis shoes.

The final lesson was that one list leads to more lists.  I now have the list of things I still need to buy, the list of items I will wear that day, and the list of items I need to do prior to leaving.  It’s like a disease that keeps spreading.  Though I admit, for a person with my memory issues, I should probably embrace list making more often.

What about you?  Do you make lists before a big trip?  Do you make lists for everyday things?  Or does making a list send you over the edge?  Could you make it through a four day conference with only two pairs of shoes, or would you need a separate suitcase for foot gear alone?  If you’re going to Nationals, what’s on your list that I might have forgotten to add to mine?

PS: Tune in next week when I talk about creating spreadsheet schedules and picking the right workshops.

I often find myself in a fight with my muse for creative power over my brain. So today, I’m cheating. I keep a writing diary. I have for almost three years now. When we have it out, I write letters to myself. It’s mostly in character. So today, I bring you the inner workings of my mind.

Date: October 04, 2006

Mood: Well, I’ve gotta tell you, muse, I’m just peachy because of you…  You feel me?

Inspiration: My level of confidence is in the dirt. But I’m hanging on by a thread.

Music: Brackish- Kittie  (Explains a lot, doesn’t it.)

Introduction- How we met–

When I met her, it was like any other day for me. The drive into work was the same. The phone calls were the same. The music on the radio was the same. Nothing was different. Except for her voice. It was eerily haunting in it’s sweetness. A hint of sarcasm. Scratch that. Full of sarcasm. She threw a shoe across the room and said very quietly, “Get out.”

She had my full attention. To throw a shoe (which is like an offense in my book. Throw a knife. A whip. A clock. Anything but the five inch heel in patent leather. That’s a sin.) But her voice. Haunting. Like she’d done this before. Knew what to expect. That it was coming. I didn’t know what “it” was at this point, but I was engrossed. I had to know. So I listened all day. Tuned in quietly to my thoughts as she continued to talk to me. More like musings to herself, spoken to a silent confident.

Then I heard his voice. Cool. Calm. Collected. The type of voice that all women turn their heads toward on the street. The type of voice that gives you goosebumps when confronted in the dark corner of a club. His voice was enough to send shivers down my spine. But I could feel her tense up. I could feel her movements as sure as they were my own. She crossed her arms. Her breathing became more controlled, and even. And her mind shut down. This was “it”. This is who deserved the “get out”.

He walked into the room as if he owned it. I wasn’t sure. He might have. The look in his eyes was a dark gleam He knew what he wanted. He expected to get it. No wasn’t an option at this point between them. She closed herself off even more and I had to wonder if this was about to get really ugly. It wouldn’t be the first time. My mind played host to some twisted scenes in the past. I just hoped that this wasn’t going to be one of them. I liked her. I wasn’t sure who she was. But I was willing to find out. That had to be something. Right?

“I asked you to leave.” Her voice was soft in a room full of tension and the hair rose on my forearms. There was a warning in her voice.

He laughed. A baritone rich in velvet. It was almost cruel how much I wanted to love him. “You told me to get out.”

I could feel her shrug. “We must interpret “get out” differently then, because you’re still here.” Her voice gave away no emotion. Flat. Distant. Meant to annoy him.

But it didn’t. He came to a stop at an arm’s length distance away from her. Close enough to touch, but he held back. His stare was hot on her skin. And it was obvious she was uncomfortable with him. I wasn’t sure why. They had some sort of a relationship. I could tell that much. But the depth of that relationship was stunted by their inability to communicate with one another. Unwilling to share information.

And then it clicked all of a sudden. They worked together. The look in their eyes, they couldn’t react. No matter how much he wanted to and how much she pulled away emotionally from him, it was always going to be there, between them. The fire. The ice. It was love at it’s greatest point.

Sadie, I thought to myself. I knew her just as I knew myself. Her name was Sadie. Her father was dead. Her sister was murdered. Her mother hates her and Sadie’s lived with guilt that’s rotted her heart. She doesn’t want anything to do with a partner. Especially one who’s using her to get what he wants.

And the devil. Well he was easy. With the silver tongue and confidence of a sultan, he was Ash. And he wanted her. Not only for information, but in every way possible. And to Ash, a challenge was just the excuse he needed to get closer to her.

And there it was, at midnight, on October 4, 2006, my grandfather’s birthday, I knew I had my first original plot beginnings. Sadie Madalyn Michaels was born like a wildfire blowing in a strong breeze. And we haven’t looked back since.

So how was it for you? Do you remember anything remarkable about your first encounter with your hero/heroine? Remember where you were? Readers, are there any hero/heroines that have stuck with you and made you think that you could write or identify with that particular character? And does anyone else keep a writing journal to refer back to? Or even just a book of thoughts?

I’m standing behind a podium at the front of a room with my heart beating double time.  Tables arranged in a U-shaped pattern fill the small room.  Sitting at those tables are writers.  Writers staring at me expectantly waiting for me to tell them something they don’t already know.  The three page handout in front of me starts to blur and a sheen of sweat breaks out across my forehead.

You’re probably thinking I’m describing one of my worst nightmares.  But no.  I’m describing my Saturday afternoon. 

This is what happens when you attend a writing conference, take a bunch of kick-ass workshops, then float into your next chapter meeting on that conference high.  I still have no idea what possessed me to volunteer back in the fall, but this weekend I gave my first workshop ever.

I wouldn’t say I got off to a flying start.  And as my chapter is filled with talented writers who have many titles under their belts, it’s no surprise they looked at this still-aspiring-as-yet-unpublished author with a bit of skepticism. 

But then I decided to get them involved.  My workshop was called “Digging Deep With Your Characters” and my goal was to get them to look deeper into their characters my asking questions you might not usually think about.  I asked an off the wall, detailed question regarding characters and gave them a minute or two to write an answer.  Then I made them share those answers. 

That’s when one established author said this little exercise gave her an idea for her current WIP.  And again later in the workshop she got another idea.  By some miracle, I had helped someone.  Believe me, I’m as amazed as you are.

Now it’s time to get you involved.  One of your characters, hero or heroine, has an old shoebox under their bed.  What’s in that shoebox and why is it under the bed?  What would be the consequences to your character if that box is discovered.  Why?

PS:  Nine years ago today I was in the hospital giving birth to a beautiful baby girl.  Happy Birthday to Isabelle.  She is my life and my light. 

I stood at the edge. My hair floated behind me like a black cloak protecting me from evil. Today the wind blew fierce, chilling me to the bone. Yet, I didn’t shiver in fear. I didn’t shrink back from the edge. I embraced it. The waves crashed into the rocks below. The jagged rocks of despair. I could not feel lonely here. Here was my destiny. I belonged here among the broken edges.

I rocked forward. The wind carried me to my tip toes. I could feel the freedom within my grasp. I was a heartbeat away. All I had to do was let go. Let go and embrace the chance. The risk. To take it in. For the moment and just be myself. I wanted this more than anything. I just wanted to be with him one last time before he was no more than a whisper. I wanted it to be real.

This was the only way.

I took a deep breath. The salt water spray burned my nose, stung my eyes, but I didn’t look away from the horizon. The edge of eternity hovered within my reach. Reminded me of why I came here. The darkness rolling in would be my salvation. It would carry me away when I didn’t think it was possible. At my back, the sun burned bright. The struggle between good and evil. And I was in the middle. I would always been stuck. I had to take charge of my future.

I stood at the edge. Looking out.

My heart was timed to the crashing of waves. With each moment, my heart grew heavier. A gust of wind blew over the cliff and carried me closer. Closer to flying. I wanted wings. I wanted to fly. I wanted that freedom. For just once in my life.

I didn’t think.

I didn’t look.

I was airborne.

The way the wind fluttered through the long layers of my dress made me feel like I was floating. The breath in my lungs was nonexistent. The black oblivion swallowed me whole and pushed me further down.

And I embraced the darkness. It was my soul. It was my guiding light.

It was my eternity. With him.

When writing a great love story, there is always tragedy before eternal bliss. What’s the biggest obstacle your hero/heroine face and how do they connect? For our readers, what’s the best black moment you’ve ever read?

And I mean that literally.  Sort of.

This weekend my local RWA chapter held our yearly writer’s retreat.  About twenty of us spend the weekend at a secluded resort type place where we hold workshops and bond in our writing insanity.  When we’re not talking craft or bonding, we’re writing. 

On the first day we all set writing goals for the weekend.  It can be anything from writing one sentence to writing one hundred pages.  Because I was psyched and ready to go, I set the goal of twenty-five pages.  *waits for everyone to stop laughing then continues*

I’ve been stuck on the same scene for a couple of weeks now.  It’s actually a pivotal part of my story where my hero and heroine, who have each vowed to avoid the other, realize they must work together.  If I blow this scene, I could lose my readers completely and my story is dead in the water.  No pressure, right?

My first attempt came from the heroine’s POV.  Four pages in I realized it wasn’t working.  *delete delete delete*  My second attempt came from the hero’s POV, but three pages in it wasn’t working either.  *delete delete delete*  At this point I was sitting at negative two pages for the weekend.  Now you get where the retreat part comes in.  I took it a little too literally.

The common denominator in both of these attempts was the fact it started with the heroine being late for work.  So when I started my third attempt, I took this aspect out and the scene practically wrote itself.  Turns out, my heroine flat out refused to be late for work.  If she had just told me this weeks ago, it could have saved both of us a lot of stress.

All in all, I had a great weekend.  We laughed our butts off (sadly mine grew back), we cried out our frustrations, and we challenged ourselves to keep going.  Writing is a solitary pursuit.  But thanks to the internet and writing organizations like the Romance Writers of America, we can be solitary together. 

If you’re a writer, do you belong to your local chapter or an online chapter?  If you’re a reader, have you found a book club in your area where you can share your love for a good story?  Maybe it’s quilting or scrapbooking. Tell us about your group and if you don’t have one, what kind of group would you like to find?

This weekend I’m attending a writer’s retreat with my local RWA chapter.  For fun, it was suggested that we try to write an 850 word piece in a genre in which we would never write.  That meant I could write Inspirational or Paranormal.  I chose Paranormal.

First I have to say I have nothing against Paranormal.  It’s a huge seller right now and offers lots of great stuff for readers.  But my practical streak together with my lack of ability to suspend disbelief has always made it difficult for me to enjoy it.  Which is why I was so surprised to find myself enjoying the writing.

It turns out, when you create your own world and you put it in the Paranormal realm, you can do anything you want.  Who knew?!  It’s like when you become a parent and finally get to use the answer, “Because I said so.”  It’s so cool.  I created demons that can blend in with humans, but unlike humans don’t need food, water or sleep.  And if someone asks why, I can say, “Because I said so.”  I am LOVING this. 

So, bad guys are done.  Now I needed an Alpha hero (something I’ve never done), a kick ass heroine (something I’ve never done), and darkness (something I’ve never done).  No problem.  My hero was inspired by a Breaking Benjamin song called Evil Angel.  Here’s his description.

Eyes the deep blue of lapis lazuli stared into my soul.  Hair the color of blackest night fell in waves around his shoulders and made the fairness of his skin and the luster of his eyes all the more pronounced for it’s darkness.  He wasn’t the largest man I’d ever seen, but he had to be close.  Power poured off him like radiation, and a voice in the back of my mind warned he was likely twice as deadly.

The story is written in first person from the heroine’s POV which limited much description of her, but we do learn she works on the Termination Team, a group that battles the demons, and she does get to kick one of the bad guys in the nuts.  Other than putting her in leather, that’s as kick ass as I managed to make her.  But if there were more words, she’d kick lots more ass.

Now I needed darkness.  That was going to be the tough part.  You see, my voice calls for sarcasm and humor.  Unless I make a concerted effort, sarcastic lines show up in my stuff with little or no effort on my part.  After much struggle and at least one rewrite, here’s the opening that sets the scene.

Evil permeated the air.  It lingered around the dumpsters, lurked in the shadows, and oozed in the scattered pools of water like an oil slick.  A bulb at the end of the alley flickered dimly every few seconds, providing little light to battle back the dark.  The sliver of moon over head provided no light at all.

This may never grow into any more than 850 words, but doing this exercise has taught me several things.  The most important being that I can write in a genre that I never believed I could.  And enjoy doing it.  Again, who knew?

If you’re a writer, is there a genre in which you truly don’t believe you could write?  If so, what genre would that be and why?  If you’re a reader, is there a genre you’ve never tried because you don’t think it’s your thing?  If so, what is that genre and what would make you change your mind and give it a try?

Or what I like to call pantsing it when you have no idea what’s going on.

Inspired by a Sunday morning impromptu dance off, I come to you live from my living room where Mattycakes is busting a move. I’m filling in for the Bo’sun today and you will have to bear with my crazy weekend antics. This is why they don’t let me blog Mondays.

We like to dance. Every Sunday morning, Mattycakes and I schedule a little dancing time. It’s our way of spending time with one another since we don’t see much of each other on the weekdays. I stay up extremely late on Saturday nights to write and then get up all goofified from lack of sleep. This is when the dancing gets wild.

We’ve spent a lot of time thinking up specialty moves that are unique to us. We turn on the radio in the kitchen and bust a move. We have something we call the lawn mower and the row boat with a little of the offset arm action to compliment each other. Then we go our own ways. Usually this is the moonwalk from me and the booty shake from Mattycakes before we move back to do a little of the freak boy made popular mostly by Too Short in the ‘90’s. You know, where the girl does the freak against the boy and the boy’s got his hand in the air like he’s a pimp or maybe that’s more popular now since the Lil Jon era. Anyways, then we go straight into interpretive dance. I call this my pantsing. This gets my brain warmed up. I love to dance. I’m not exactly the most graceful person in the room.

Mattycakes is good at the pansting. He’s actually quite creative. Today’s dance off was inspired by “So You Think You Can Dance”. I make Mattycakes suffer through this two hour affair every Wednesday night. What he calls his interpretive dance number is mostly moves he’s seen in movies. Which to watch a man who’s every bit of 6’4” and looks like a tank, try to move like a dancer is hilarious. But we have a different kind of humor here. Mostly us just jumping around like ballerinas and twiggy cheerleaders. Not a pretty sight.

I bet you’re wondering what this has to do with writing. I know Hellion is sitting on her treasure chest, chewing on the end of her dagger and trying to rationalize throwing it at me.

Just so you know, daggers hurt, babe. That’s why we’ve got a life size poster of Capt’n Jack. That’s supposed to be for target practice not me.

I went to the school of pantsing. Well, I did until I got tired of going and made up excuses not to go. For me, knowing the story before it unfolds on the page is boring. I like to go in several different directions when I write and if I’m set to one thing, it’s certain I’ll go another. The road less traveled is the one I enjoy the most.

Mattycakes and the dancing have really taught me a lot about writing. And no that’s not the lack of sleep talking.

I get an idea in my mind and I go somewhere with it. Just when I think I know what’s going to happen next, I throw a screwball in there and change it up. Dancing is just like that. You have to anticipate your partner’s moves and think up your next one.  It flows together even when you had no idea what was coming next. And if it doesn’t you move forward and interpret what to do next.

Just like dancing with a partner, you have to know your characters in order to pants. I’ve always thought pantsing is more of a character driven way of writing. You let the characters tell you what direction to head in next. Let them tell the story the way it was meant to be told. Sometimes, they aren’t sure either but that’s when you throw the screwball in, the kidnapping attempt. The phone threat. The stalker. The ex-girlfriend. The baby. Whatever.

Do what’s best for your story and you’re the only one who knows that. Learn to rely on instinct. It’s like an adrenaline rush each time you open a new page.

So today let’s discuss methods of writing. What crazy thing do you do to get into the mood to write? And if you’re a reader, do you have a method to your wicked reading ways?

“I’ve gotta go home and dig through my box.”

I hear quiet. Then a laugh. “I’d like to hear more about this box.”

There was lots of laughter as I walked down the stairs.

“You! You should write about me and a box.”

I flopped down in my old, wore-out blue tweed chair and flipped an annoyed look his way.

“A box?”

“You know. A box. How I like to dig around in the box. Me and a box and adventures about me playing with the box. You know-”  He made the motions with his hands like he was digging around in the sandbox looking for buried cat treasure. “You never know what you can find inside of the box.”

I had to have a mental moment with myself. Was I actually awake? Or was I dreaming this insanity. I look back over at him and he’s grinning. I think I might have rubbed off on him accidently. Can you get insanity by osmosis?

I can’t go any further with that conversation without taking it straight down the gutter into perv land. But you get the point. I bet you can guess who had this conversation and what day it was on too. Hellion had a similar conversation. Almost a mirror of a conversation Matt and I had months earlier about the ability to swallowing large things.

Yeah. Scratch that. We can’t go there today. I’m talking about writing.

I’m pretty sure I used this title, probably early on in my blogging career with the pirates. But I couldn’t resist to use it again after a suggestion from Hellion on Saturday. Once a month Hellion and I get together to discuss *okay, we pretend to discuss* writing goals, critiquing, brainstorming, books, anything that has to do with writing. This gives us an idea what we need to work on for the next month. Gives us an opportunity to have a face to face brainstorm session or bitch session about scenes that aren’t being wrote the way you want to write them. *raising hand sheepishly*

Like every monthly Saturday, Hellion and I found ourselves gossiping like two old bitties out front at the local hot spot- C&S (formally known as Price’s. I still call it that.) Of course, we mostly gossip about books and were sitting at the B&N while I drank some coffee, but those are just minor details. So see, I can stay on task… sometimes. We actually did more than we think we did. I mean, I did share notes about something I’m planning on working on. I’m making progress on DV (not as good of progress as I wanted to make by now but still, I’ve got until Labor Day to finish). Hellion is making headway with her WIP’s. Especially Lucy and Elizabeth. Love them. We talked out some ideas and had more than a few laughs.

I stiff armed the idea of going into a critique group. I just didn’t feel like it was the path for me. I’m a soltary creature by nature. I do well on my own and don’t normally play well with others (I guess that truly makes me a pirate, huhzah!) but there are times that I’m really grateful for the critique groups and critique partners I have. It’s important to have that backing when things are going wrong and the end of the road is nowhere in sight.

So, for me to write with a partner, it pushes me outside of my box. Since we’re talking about boxes. Out of my confort zone. But it’s a good thing.

So today, let’s talk critique groups/writing partners/sounding boards. How do you like to go about writing? Do you like being outside of the box?

 I squinted my eyes in the dim light. My fingers were tired, bruised, darkened by pen marks.

“No. No. No.” I thought, scribbling out the last sentence. This assignment was going to kill me. I hated English class. I absolutely couldn’t stand it. Anyone who thought they could make me write, was sorely wrong. I pushed it off. A week to come up with a story about high school life as a final. It had to be 8-10 pages, front to back on college rule. I mean, who really writes 8-10 pages for an English assignment? Kiss asses, that’s who. Screw it. It wasn’t going to be me. I didn’t need it. I didn’t want it. I just wanted this year to be over with and it was only May.

That was… until I woke up.

The rain beat against the patio glass. The wind beat against the old metal siding of the trailer. My ass was asleep, tingling shooting down my legs and into my feet- that could tell you how long I’d been sitting there. My right arm ached. I tried to rub the feeling back into my fingers and hand. I could hear this girl crying. It wasn’t the soft, pretty crying you watch in movies where the heroine’s eyes get misty and her face turns a blushing pink; but that sad, painful cry that hurt your chest and makes you sob like a grieving widow. It made you want to hide away until it was over. In some ways I knew that that felt like. I had an inkling of how it felt. I rolled over and beat my pillow. It was only a dream, I told myself. Go to sleep. You have a Spanish final in the morning and you suck. Get a grip.

But her cries grew more gut-wrenching. I could hear her in my mind saying how she couldn’t go on. How it was her fault. Then I could feel something wet and sticky on her hands. They became my hands. I was sitting in the middle of the road. The truck was a mangled mess of metal in the ditch. I told him not to drive home. I told him not to get behind that wheel. His head was cradled in my lap, his lips turned into towards my inner thigh. His blood was on my hands, soaked through my shirt and jeans. It coated my arms. It coated my hair. It coated my very heart. His eyes stared up at me, a black soulless void that left me pleading.  I trembled as I heard the sirens racing up the road. The breeze fluttered through my hair. Through his hair. And I touched his face so very softly. His cheek was cold underneath my fingertips. “Please,” I said brokenly. “Please don’t leave me here.” And in the distance, over the hill, I could see sirens. The colors blurred together. The blues. The yellows. The reds. Tears clung to my lower lashes even as I wiped them away. My heart hurt so bad. My chest was crushing it. I couldn’t breathe.

I lowered my hand back down to the notebook page and dropped the pen. I sat my elbows on the table and rubbed my hands over my face. It was the middle of the night. I’d been at this for a little over an hour and I still couldn’t get her echoing cries out of my head. Not to mention the tears that smeared my pen marks on the page. I tried to blot them out. Make them go away. But I couldn’t. It was shameful to be so out of control. It was only a story.

I picked my pen up and moved on. The girl’s cries only got louder as I moved through my story. As she struggled to move on after his death. After she went back to school and everyone looked at her differently. She moved through the motions. She didn’t speak. She didn’t trust. She didn’t love. She started to wither away, withdraw. The only saving grace was her best friend, the only person who knew her for her. He tried being nice. He tried giving her space. And then finally he lost his cool and gave her a dose of reality. And then he kissed her. Made her realize that she wasn’t living and from that moment on, she didn’t take anything for granted.

That was how I ended it. I closed my notebook, laid my head down on the table and cried my eyes out.

I turned the paper in the next day and didn’t think about it. It was over the required page limit. It ended up being 20 pages. The longest story I’d ever taken the time to write for class. When I handed it in, the teacher looked surprised and I was quick to duck out. My best friend came up behind me and leaned against the locker beside mine. He asked me what was up with the paper. I shrugged. “Nothing.” I told him.

I didn’t think about it anymore. It was done. It was over with.

The weekend was a blur. Every night was the same for me. A repeat of a broken record playing the same damn tune, with the same words. I hated this life. It was empty. Hollow. Joyless. I went through the motions just wanting to get through it.

Monday in class, the English teacher droned on about some of the papers. She never named names. She didn’t have to. There was a quartet of nerds that always did well. They sat in the front left side. I sat in the back right corner where I could read my novels without interruption. One paper was beyond her expectations. I snorted softly to myself and thought, “And I bet I know who that is.”

When we received grade notes on our papers at the top of mine was “See me after class.” Not the first time I’d gotten one of those. I was an easy target. It was well known I couldn’t stand to write. Anything that had to do with it pissed me off. I remained in my seat after the bell rang; my best friend put his hand on my shoulder before walking down the aisle and out the door. I chewed the inside of my lip and got up. I leaned against her desk and tossed down the note. “You wanna see me?” I asked.

She glanced up at me. My paper was in her hand, red marks scattered all over it like pixy dust. “Did you write this?”

I huffed and leaned away from the desk. Great. “It’s got my name at the top, doesn’t it?”

She gave me the “your dumber than a rock” look and I shrugged my shoulder. I started to feel really uncomfortable. My stomach was flip-flopping like a stormy sea and the inside of my lower lip was becoming bloody.

“Look. I know I shouldn’t have turned this in. I’ll take an F. I don’t care.”

“No,” she pushed the paper in front of me and tapped her finger on the top of it. “This was the best paper in the class. In both classes. A little inappropriate, but… Where did this come from?”

I shrugged my shoulder and scuffed my foot on the floor. I dropped my eyes to the desk top.

“Well when you’re ready to talk-“

I turned and walked out of the class as fast as I could. I didn’t speak for the rest of the week. Not even when she handed back my paper with the A at the top. I swallowed hard when I got into my vehicle and drove home. I hated writing. I hated what had compelled me to write that. And I hated the way it made me feel.

Years ago, I struggled to put words on the page. The demands of high school English to write a light and fluffy paper would stress me out. My voice, I didn’t know then that’s what it was called, wasn’t light and fluffy about puppies and happy endings. It was dark. I had dark undertones and dark imagery. There was always an undertone of sadness, death, destruction, loneliness. I struggled to take it out, but when I thought about it, the undertone became more pronounced. It’s noted several times in red. Trust me. Along with notes on, I couldn’t master the third person. I struggled to stay in one POV. My sentence structuring was horrific. Imagery was surprising. I loved imagery. I once waxed poetic about a bench in the park for two written pages (which back in the day was a lot of words for someone who hated writing). But I gave up on writing because I couldn’t write what I wanted.

So for years and years, I didn’t write. Things change. Sometimes things just sit in the back of your mind and stew about. It’s not always about the voices you hear. Or the POV you’re striving to get across. The characters you build. Or that plot never seen. It’s about the writer’s voice you put into the story. The person behind the story. And it took me years to see that.

How did you learn what kind of voice you had? Can you hear different writer’s voices as your reading?