One of the fun parts about getting to the end of the year is calendar shopping.  It is important to have a calendar around, especially on the ship where we need to keep track of things like guest pirates, Talk Like a Pirate Day, and our annual bath days.  I did a little search and found some top deck choices for this year.  Here are just a few for your viewing pleasure.

There’s the cowboys in the Studs ‘N Spurs calendar.

There’s the boys of the Basic Training Workout calendar.

Here’s the one I had up in me cabin during 2007.  It was such a tough year on me.

And how could anyone possibly resist this one?!  Hmmm…Men in Uniform calendar.

What is your favorite?  Or do you have something even better hanging on your wall?  Come now, don’t keep it to yourself.  Tell us about it.

Every once in a while (sometimes twice a day), I like to take what I call “Poetic License” (where I take veritable truths, mix them with my veritable lies to achieve the Theory I want to present) and then I share it with you all. Occasionally it even comes out good.

This is especially dangerous when the veritable truth I pull from is scientific in nature. Namely, in this instance: Newton’s first law. You know, that one about something in motion stays in motion, and something not in motion remains not in motion—unless some outside force changes it up a bit.

I know this law must be an Absolute. You’d know it was true too if you’d ever seen me laying around on my couch on the weekends, eating cookies and reading books. Jack shit gets done all weekend under the Law of Inertia. Newton could use me as a proof.

I find the other place this Absolute really shines is at the gym. Believe you-me, after spending 9 hours at work and 1 ½ hours commuting, the prospect of spending more time exercising does not appeal. The thought of it makes me tired. However giving into that lazy feeling perpetuates the exhaustion because once I stop going to the gym, I’m only more tired, more cranky, more exhausted. Whereas if I go to the gym, I have more energy. Therefore: energy begets more energy.

Which to me sounds a lot like the Newton thing.

Now I find if I just go to the gym enough, I can keep up the energy thing to keep me from being a total vegetable—and a total cranky one at that—so that’s where the Law of Inertia comes in. It’s only when an outside force (i.e. laziness, sickness, family matters) interrupts that I stop going to the gym—and then all the fall out happens. I lose all the benefits I was getting from going to the gym. I gain weight; I lose muscle; I’m winded going up stairs. (Okay, I’m still winded going up stairs, but it’s worse, believe me.) I also find that the longer I allow outside forces to interrupt, the longer I’ll let them interrupt. And the cycle only gets worse. Essentially: laziness begets laziness.

So if laziness begets more laziness, and energy begets more energy, then it only stands to reason that writing begets more writing. Again, a theory in which I could be pointed at as the proof. When I’m writing, I write every day, or at least during the scheduled times of the week I’ve carved out for myself and don’t interrupt on pain of death. And when I commit to writing, I write more. And more. But if I am out of practice, if all the outside forces have been allowed to supersede the benefits of writing, then my writing is painful. I don’t want to write because I’m not any good at it, I have no stamina, and I don’t see any results. But why would I have any of those things if I haven’t been committing to the routine and keeping myself in shape?

So if you care enough about your health to carve out some time to exercise a few times a week (and if you don’t, then you should), then the principle is the same for your writing. If you care about writing, you should carve out time for it and make yourself go. Only by writing will you write more. And better. And longer. Don’t let the outside forces keep you out of the motion.

This blog was brought to you by my yoga instructor and my friend Pam who said: “God, I didn’t go to the gym at all last week and I felt like a slug even though I got more sleep. I’m not missing anymore gym time.” So what is your favorite exercise to do? And do you have a favorite yoga position? Our yoga instructor was showing us how to do inverted lotus—and it looked cool! What cool ways have you gotten back into writing (if you’ve been out of the habit)? What principles have you learned that makes you a more consistent writer?

I finished writing my story in ten minute intervals.  With the kidlet nearby, that’s about all I get.   I would just read the last line I wrote and full speed ahead until I ran out of time.

Revisions are taking longer.  I have to sit, get my bearings, think about the direction I was going, and then the direction I want to go.  Only then am I able to put words to paper.

But, it sometimes takes me longer than ten minutes to get my bearings.  If I only have ten minutes and it takes me that long to get my bearings, well, as you can imagine, words have been slow going on paper these days.

This just means I spend a lot of my precious time in front of the computer just staring at my document, thinking. 

And the thinking isn’t just “thinking.”  It’s full of anticipation, of hope, and of nervousness for the words to come.  It’s pregnant thinking.

All that anxiety in my thinking, with very little activity, leaves me feeling antsy, fidgety.  And I’m a pretty antsy, fidgety person by nature, so all this additional antsiness and fidgetiness isn’t helping matters.

So what do I do to help alleviate antsiness and fidgetiness?

Well, usually I do the dishes.

Inspired, huh? 

Sorry if I let you down there.   No spa treatments or manicures.  In fact, all this dishwashing would make a manicurist gasp in distress, I’m sure.

This month alone I’ve scoured the bottom of my pots and pulled out the china from my wedding.  I have the family here for Thanksgiving; it needed to be done anyway.

Why dishwashing you ask?  Well, it seems to me that every time my mind is filled to the brim, I need to do something with my hands to expel all that energy.  I used to crochet, but my kidlet can hardly spare me for 10 minutes at a time.  I somehow doubt he’d be patient while I stitched my way through my thoughts.  (“Of course, mother, I’ll play here quietly while you compose your ideas.  You know I aim to be agreeable.”)

And well, there is no shortage of dishwashing to be done at my house.

Sometimes if I want a change of pace, I clean.  Scrubbing floors, the bathtub, the toilet.  Not so much vacuuming, just doesn’t feel as immediate.  When I scrub things with my hands, I see the dirt being removed and that action is cathartic for me.  When I vacuum, the vacuum gets the therapeutic experience and that hardly feels the same.

Earlier this week I wished that I exercised when I needed to get out the energy.  Instead I become Molly Maid.  My house should be spotless, but alas, no go.  Just short fits of manic cleaning and back to whatever else is pressing on my time.

But boy, those moments of clarity, with my hands moving, they are priceless. 

Now if I can just get some more facetime with the computer….  Or I just might take to scrubbing down the windows.

Do you do anything special to clear your mind?  Anyone else have to do something with their hands when their brain feels full?  Any great yoga mantras or relaxation techniques you can suggest?  Have the number of great masseuse?   Any ideas on how to deal with a small person jabbering nearby?

Warm light splashed across my face as I rolled to the middle of the bed and I groaned as I threw an arm over my eyes. The heat was unbearable even for the split second sunlight touched me, beads of sweat bubbled at my hairline as I pushed the blankets off my legs. Three days turned into eternity. Sleep eluded me. Sanity was a thing of the past. I was consumed with need. A need for the one thing I couldn’t have.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and covered my eyes with my hands.

A fix.

I just needed something. Anything. Anything to get me past this… void. I felt empty inside. A leech bled me dry of any emotion and I just wanted to feel something. It wasn’t too much to ask, I told myself. I wouldn’t do it again. A little slip up was just to get me by and then I would handle it.

I looked in the mirror. Blank eyes stared back at me. No empathy. She wasn’t lying to me. I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t handle it. I couldn’t handle it now. Always there ruling my life. I didn’t function without thinking of it. It consumed me. This turned me into someone I didn’t recognize looking back at me. Wild eyes, filled with panic and circled in black. Lips pressed together painfully, dull of color and cracked and bleeding. The loud ringing in my ears. It wasn’t me staring back. It was her. The girl who used to be me and she didn’t care if I breathed another day. I didn’t either.

I stumbled into the bathroom and turned the shower on cold. The water stung like a thousand needles pressing into my skin. I rested my head on the tile and wished the water could beat the sickness out from the inside. There were no tears to cry. I had no feeling left inside of myself. Numb. All there was in life was numb.

I pulled on my robe and avoided the mirror. A blanket thrown over the window took care of the sunlight. I didn’t want to feel it. The warmth reminded me of what I was missing and what never could be mine.

Hidden inside this room was my life. In neat little compartments, plastered in pictures glued to the wall. Happiness wrapped lies. Lips pressed upward in smiles, eyes terrified. It painted a pretty picture. It painted the sort of picture I wanted to see but the inside was black. Ink on ice and rolling carelessly outside the carefully constructed lines, I could see the deception running towards the edge.

The bed welcomed me back, enveloping me, surrounding me, holding me. I pulled a pillow into my arms and snuggled it. I felt pathetic. Lower than dirt. A parasite in the world. I closed my eyes and wished I could disappear. I would lay here until I turned to dust and fade away.

“Don’t do this.”

He slipped into my room, the door shut quietly behind him. I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to hear his voice. I hated him. I hated how compassionate he was. I hated how he looked at me. I hated how he spoke to me as though with one touch he would break me like fragile glass. And I hated how he made me feel.

My back was to him. I knew he leaned against the door, worried and afraid all at the same time. I had known him a lot longer than I’d known myself. I knew enough to stay away from him. I knew to keep my heart locked up and to keep my feelings in check. He intimidated everything I held dear in my little perfect constructed world. He pushed my buttons. He pushed my limits. And he pushed my ability to stay indifferent.

I was never indifferent when it came to him. It was a game of cat and mouse with him and I was good at games; but it was all a show and something I didn’t want him to ever know.

“I’m not leaving until you at least look at me.”

I thought I would feel something to hear his voice. The way his soft baritone wrapped around a room like warm velvet on a cold day but his voice didn’t reach me. I felt oddly displaced. I was laying in the middle of the bed, huddled in the darkness but I floated outside my body, watching him watch me. The look in his eyes made my heart beat a little harder, my blood flow a little faster. When I looked at him I remembered the pain I caused him. The stinging edge of pain came back in full force and I bit my cracked lower lip to keep from making a pathetic sound. 

He scared me.

“I know you hear me.” His shoes made little noise on the carpet as he moved closer to the bed and the bed dipped with his weight as he sat on the edge. “Please talk to me. Please…” I felt his hand hover over my head, felt the heat that seeped from him fingertips. He wanted to touch me and I longed to press my head into his hand and take what he offered but I couldn’t. Never. Not even at the end of time.

I pressed harder into the soft mattress to delay the feeling of his touch, but his fingertips brushed through my hair lazily, brushing the matted strands away from my face. I was grateful for the darkness. It kept him from seeing my reaction. He had to go away. I couldn’t afford to feel right now. Not like this.

“Go,” I whispered. “Just go away.”

His thumb grazed over my cheekbone and his hand settled on my shoulder turned me towards him. He left one hand on my shoulder to pin me down. Every fiber in my body screamed to push him away. To make his touch go away. To retreat into the corner and stare at him wide eyed until he went away. But I didn’t. I felt his thumb touch my tender cheekbone, brushing over the faded bruise lightly and over my eyelids, fanning my eyelashes tenderly.

“I want you to make me understand.” The pause was torture for both me and him. I was numb. Numb after years and years mentally going into a different place. He wasn’t. He couldn’t make sense or understand, even if I told him. There was no lying. There was no pleading. I wanted to be alone.

“There’s nothing to say.” I avoided looking in his eyes. I knew even in the darkness they would be blue fire pleading with me to talk to him as we used to before I was broken and shelved. I pushed him, crazier in my panic than I’d ever been before. My fingers wrapped around his wrists and pushed out. “You have to go.”

“No.” He tried to restrain me and as soon as his fingers clamped around my wrist he flicked a switch in my brain. I fought blindly, striking out and flailing around. I kicked and I punched and the words that spewed from my mouth weren’t my own and still he handled me gently. 

“Don’t. No. I’m not going to hurt you. You have to stop! Stop! Stop! Kid, listen to me! You have to stop!” He let go of my wrist and pulled me into his arms, pinning me against his chest. He was warm and solid and I just wanted something tangible to hold onto.

“I don’t want you here!” I lashed out at him, the pain licking at me like blue flames in a fire. I could feel and it hurt. It hurt so bad. There was a chisel inside of my heart and pounding away in huge chunks. “Go. Leave. Please.” I licked my lips and my lungs hurt with the effort to breathe. “Please… just please.”

He clutched me closer to him and whispered in my ear, “I’ll never leave you.”

My fingers started to tremble first and I fisted my hands in his t-shirt to keep from showing weakness. Then my body shook with emotion I’d held back and I couldn’t hold on anymore. He broke something inside of me and my carefully constructed wall crumbled. He held me as I cried, whispering things I should never say aloud. He murmured reassuringly in my ear and smoothed my hair back away from my face as though this were any other day of the week. He held me as though his life depended on it. He held me like I was reassuring him I was still breathing.

When I quieted, he laid me back down in the center of the bed; his thumb brushing over my lips softly as he pressed a kiss to my forehead and pulled the blankets over me. He closed the door behind me as he left. The memory of the door shutting will forever be imprinted on my memory as one of the most significant moments in my life. It was the end of one chapter of my life and the auspicious beginning of anew.

Love comes in several different packages. Love starts as an obsession and then quickly turns into an addiction. If taken away suddenly, your body goes into withdrawal. Life turns colorless and without meaning. You can trick your mind into thinking anything is love if you believe it enough. Substitutes for love aren’t hard to find if you’re desperate enough. That is were the addiction comes in. You can’t live without a fix, then you can’t live looking for that next high. You have to learn to live life without it and love yourself. Love is about sacrifice until you can find the balance.

Life is filled with many different relationships, of love and being in love and love ever after. Writing is a love for many writers as we begin our relationships with our characters and conveying life through their actions. I love the ability to put emotion into life. I love the feeling inside when I touch upon something that I think readers can identify with. Scenes of real emotion are very draining and very satisfying. But love… love in all different shapes and sizes are what we all dream of achieving.

What sort of love do you like you characters to achieve in the story? I know we all dream of the HEA, but are you satisfied when the character achieves their version of the HEA? And what sort of HEA do you dream about?

This weeks song choice was:   “Walter” by (intheclear)   and    “Sally’s Song” by Amy Lee.

My CD on repeat is:  Coalescence by Desperate for Compromise

Why I love it:   I love metal and I love lyrical prose that’s beautifully haunting and painfully all at the same time and speaks to me on another level. I think Desperate for Compromise blends everything I like about music into one album.

Songs on repeat:  For You, 1000 Pieces, Boy Toy.

I went to see The Duchess, the new period piece costume drama with Keira Knightly. I’ve been itching to see it for a year. I’ve talked about it incessantly to even people who hate period dramas, so much so that when I bring it up, they say, “Oh, that one about the duchess?” Finally, finally it came to my town. I paid full price, opening night…and I bought popcorn. My friend and I repeatedly made reverent cooing about how much we were going to love this movie. We sat, the movie came up…and it was okay.

Oh-kay? I bought popcorn, people! It should have been brilliant! It should have been the best movie I saw all year! But on the contrary, we were decidedly underwhelmed by it.

The costumes were gorgeous; and I’d say everyone acted their parts believably, but there was no emotion. I never felt a part of the movie. And that’s the best part of movies, you know: being a part of them. It’s the best part of any story; it’s what makes stories real.

It’s the Rooting for the Home Team vibe.

At no point was I rooting for this woman.

What’s funny is that the story is based on real people. I imagine the sex between the husband and wife was very real. *laughs* I’d say you’d have to see it, but I don’t want you paying to see this movie. Let’s just say this guy’s idea of foreplay was: “Go lie on the bed.” Literally. You’d think I’d feel a bit more for the girl because I’ve had that kind of sex. You don’t want it documented. It’s best to forget it as soon as possible.

And I’d say the unhappiness all throughout the movie was real. It had very real elements, but I felt as engaged as if I were watching a football game. Actually I probably would have felt more emotion watching a football game. Loathing, at the very least. But watching this, I felt indifference. I didn’t care about these characters. I wanted to check the time to see how much longer the movie would be. We’ve all been to a movie we’ve been excited about…and then been decidedly disappointed when we saw it, right? So what was wrong with the movie? It lacked believability. It lacked realness. It lacked a reason to be told. I didn’t care if anyone won; and in the end, nobody did.

With this movie being about real people, you may point out, maybe that was the problem. Believe me, they had plenty of errors. There always is when you’re making History by Hollywood. Let me list the movies I’ve bought into that’s littered (littered) with historical errors: Braveheart; Dangerous Beauty; King Arthur; Kingdom of Heaven; Casanova; Immortal Beloved; Elizabeth; Shakespeare in Love (it could’ve happened!); Stage Beauty; The Libertine (Johnny’s right; I don’t like him); Amazing Grace; Rob Roy; The Scarlet Letter; Last of the Mohicans; The Patriot; Quills; Becoming Jane. Most of these based on real people with unhappy endings. So why didn’t The Duchess work for me? Was it because Mel Gibson didn’t fly out of one of the bedrooms, arranging his kilt, waving his sword, and screaming “Freedom!”?  

I’m thinking, unlikely.

Was it the historical stuff? No, I don’t think The Duchess was any more historically accurate than Braveheart was; and I could spend five or six blogs outlining the historical inaccuracies in that beloved movie. I love Mel in a kilt, but I hope nobody is getting his 13^th century history knowledge from that film.

Was it the director? The screenwriter? I didn’t think it was the actors themselves; I liked them.

No. There was just no reason to care. It didn’t seem to start with a point; it didn’t seem to end with a point. What was the theme? What was the reason for this movie? I remembered all the references in the movie reviews that this woman was the great-something-or-other of Princess Diana, who also married a higher up who didn’t love her, a guy who treated pets better and also slept with everyone else, even though she was the prettiest girl in the world. The Duke of Devonshire is the only man in London not in love with his wife. But who cares if this woman is like Princess Diana? Why should we care about her? It’s like assembling your home team and saying, “Root for them because they’re a lot like the Bengals.” What? No. You should be liked for yourself; not for any other reason.

I don’t know. I don’t know how to tell you to make your character likable. I just know you better be careful about assembling a cast of characters who aren’t really likable, who really don’t have a point, who are easily forgettable if it weren’t for the fact you paid full price for your ticket and for popcorn too. So I turn this to you guys: What makes a character likable or unlikable? Name a movie or book you were excited about, but disappointed you? Why did it disappoint you? Was it the characters or the style itself? Oh, and what is the most glaring historical inaccuracy you’ve ever seen in a costume drama?

I came across this article last week that caught my eye.  The article, titled Book Offers Novel Approach to Weight Loss, talks about a study conducted at Duke University in which obese teen girls reading a book with a weight-management storyline resulted in those same girls losing weight.  This is the first study “to show a relationship between reading and making positive, healthy lifestyle changes,” according to study author Alexandra C. Russell.

This got me to thinking.  I’ve been reading Romance novels for almost twenty-five years.  Could my choice of reading material have an affect on my lifestyle choices?  This begged further attention, so the analysis began. 

I started reading mainstream Romance as a teen.  These books had a great deal of sex as this was still the age of the “bodice ripper”.  I hate that term with a passion, by the way, but it fits in this instance.  In my teenage years (prepare to learn more about me than you likely wanted to know) I did not make the lifestyle choice of becoming sexually active.  In fact, I think the books probably ingrained in me the idea that sex with the right person was the better way to go. And sure, the Catholic education may have contributed as well. So I waited. 

I don’t remember having a specific and detailed “man of my dreams” in mind as a teen.  Unless you count Joe Elliott, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t see him as husband material, even in my delusional teenage mind.  For those wondering, Joe Elliott is the lead singer of Def Leppard.  I was a head banger, what can I say?  But I did have a long list of traits my eventual husband would have to possess in order to win me. 

So we can say, so far, my choices were opposite the realities of the stories, but reflected the lessons involved.  Interesting.

Moving on to my 20s.  I believe it was around this time that Romance had much more variety to them than they do now.  Which is ironic as I’m guessing there are more Romances on the shelves today than there was back then.  I remember reading about drugs in Historicals and about infidelity and experimentation in Contemporaries.  This must have been my own little experimental phase.

However, I did not carry those experiments into my lifestyle.  In fact, my 20s could best be described as boring.  Other than a couple years of partying, my 20s consisted of marrying, settling down, and starting a family.  The true irony here is that you’d think after reading about the ideal man for so long, I would have chosen better.  But I didn’t.  I settled and it didn’t work out.  Whose idea was this analysis anyway?  Oh yeah, mine.  *sigh*

So instead of making choices that brought me my HEA, I went in the other direction.  Again, my choices were opposite of the stories I was reading.

Onto my 30s.  The message is getting through.  By the time I turned 30, I’d lost myself somewhere.  I’d like to think reading about heroines who were becoming increasingly more spunky and independent had something to do with me getting back on my feet and getting a back bone again.  It was by far not the only contributor, but I’m guessing it played a small part.  A good sign my choices had begun to come in line with the literature.  There is hope for this endeavor yet.

To the present.  I now have a quarter of a century of reading Romance under my belt.  Give or take a few months.  I have not found my personal HEA, but I do have a pretty good life.  I like myself most of the time, I’ve worked hard to make a stable and somewhat comfortable home for myself and my daughter.  And though my list of required traits in my hero is considerably shorter, I still have standards and I’m determined to stick to them.

Overall, I believe my reading history has shaped my life history.  Though as we can see, that does not mean one must reflect the other. So, when the detractors say Romance novels give women unrealistic expectations for life and love, I say, bull shit.  Romance novels have given me knowledge, adventure, laughter, tears, and hours (if not years) of entertainment.  They’ve shown me what women can do, what we are capable of, and that redemption is always possible.  They may not have handed me my perfect, real life HEA, but they have kept my hope alive.

What have Romance novels done for you?  Do you believe they have had any affect on your choices over the years?  If you’ve found your HEA, is he (or she) what you had in mind when you were making all those teenage diary entries?  Or do you think this is all bunk and worthless rambling to fill a blog?

Seeing as how we pirates are always hopping from one island to another, usually totally lost, we spend a lot of time entertaining ourselves.  And with islands comes sand.  What do you do with sand to entertain yourself?  You do this.

Anybody got a shovel?

You’ve been there. You had a Dream, a bright shiny dream of change (sorry, can’t resist the Obama poke), and now after all this time of struggle, it’s a little less…desirable. You almost start not wanting it as badly because the emotional effort you’re putting into it is not paying off. You’re being rejected at every turn.

You have to ask yourself: Just how bad do you want it?

Sometimes dreams are best shelved, goals change…whatever…but before you shelve it entirely, you need to ask the question. Just how bad do you want it?

Some Saturdays I’m reading my book, laying on the couch in a near-vegetative state, and suddenly, I have a dream of Twinkies. But they are in another room, far, far away, and I have to ask myself, Just how bad do I want them? Usually not enough to disrupt my cocoon, not unless I also need to use the bathroom too. (I’m a multi-tasking vegetable, never doubt it.)

And then some Mondays, I’m doing my presses in my BodyPump class, kicking my feet to distract myself from the burn, listening to the instructor as she assures me I’m going to have a chest to weep over if I just hold out and keep doing reps. So I kick my feet and do my reps. (I really want that perky chest.)

I have wanted sex badly enough to do in it broad daylight and not realize windows were open; I have wanted to see movies badly enough that I have dressed in costume, taken time off from work, and gone to midnight showings; I have wanted specific dishes enough that I have cooked them from scratch even though I wouldn’t get to eat them until three hours later—and had to stand over the stove and babysit it. In all these cases, I wanted it bad enough to do just about anything to have it.

So what’s the difference now?

I mean, I can’t be any more naked than in broad daylight and in front of windows; I can’t be devoting more time or detail than making my own costume and showing up at odd hours; I can’t be putting any more work into it than I do when making my Chicken-Sausage Gumbo. There is no difference.

I just have to remind myself I want it. You know that hokey little saying that a friend is a person who knows the song of your life and plays it back to you when you forget? That’s what you have to do as a writer. You have to sing that dorky, hokey little song of the New York Times Bestseller’s dream to yourself until you remember it.

And if you can make a Harry Potter costume—and be a dead ringer for old Harry himself; if you can make a gumbo that even Cajun Joe would be proud of; if you can show up naked in the middle of the day and not even flinch—well, then, clearly, you need to be institutionalized…or well, you have exactly what it takes to get published.

You just have to want it bad enough.

Today’s inspirational message was brought to you by Secretaries Gone Wild! and Hellion in the Kitchen. What have you wanted badly enough that you went to extraordinary lengths to get it? (And was a man involved because those stories are always so much more funny….)

Ok, I’m not a huge Rob Thomas fan, but DS was watching “Meet the Robinsons” this week (Ok, I was watching it and he was disregarding it pretty thoroughly, whatever, if I can’t use my one and a half year old for an excuse to watch Disney movies…) and this song is on the soundtrack.

It made me question the way I have been viewing the process of writing.

This time, while I float in unpublished obscurity, is a gift.   These “small hours” while I ply away at my craft, while I stretch my creative wings, will shape the artist I hope to be one day.  And while I crave publication and the opportunity for others to read the characters I’ve come to love so desperately, this time is mine.

I write now for myself.  Each twist of phrase that feels “just right” is mine.  Each chuckle or tear I shed is mine.  Selfish but there is something heady about writing for oneself.

There’s only one time to finish that first book, there’s only this time of being unfettered by expectations.  I’m not saying I won’t or we shouldn’t keep moving forward, I only mean that we should find joy in the entire process, that each step is its own reward.

All the pressure, all the anxiety, all those self-doubts.   We need to just “let it roll right off our shoulder” because when we publish “we’ll only just remember how it feels.”  These small hours when we weren’t published are an experience we’ll never forget.

So tell me, have you had any inspirational epiphanies recently?  Let’s shore up the old confidence today.  What’s the best bit of encouragement you can offer us or the best bit of advice you’ve been given?

So I’m going to cheat this week.

Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. *covering ears and mumbling*  Pirate.

In the world of fiction writing the only feedback we get are through our readers. May it be critique partners, writing groups, reading groups, girlfriend sleepovers, trusted family members, a random person sitting beside you at the library- whatever, it doesn’t matter- forget the details. What matters here is that these people you let into your world they are all readers, voyeurs into the world you’ve created for your characters and they are who helps you decide if what you’re doing is actually working or not. Feedback invaluable to a writing career. It helps grow character. Or atleast that’s what I like to tell myself while I’m huddled up in the dark thinking of new ways to torture someone.

Since, I think one of the most important aspects of a writer’s perspectives is what they gain from reader feedback that’s why I’m coming to you today. I may not be published. Hell, I may not have even finished a manuscript yet, but I write these blogs every week and I want to hear from you. You’ve faithfully stepped on board the ship every weekday for almost a year and you’ve heard us talk about a variety of things. What do you want to read about? What makes you want to respond to our outlandish antics? Is it a particular subject or topic, or is it how you relate to someone else?

So let me have it. What topic in regards to reading, writing and the such do you want me to blog about? What would you like to see me discuss in my own pathetically weird way on Wednesdays?

This is your time to use your voice. Though, you might need to yell over the commotion. I have a feeling the capt’n is going to have a conniption. 

Anything you throw out there, as long as it’s deemed readable materal for a open form blog, I will write about and discuss on my blog days. So it’s all up to you today. Good luck.