Super Bowl Sunday, you say? P-shaw, I say. I’m not a football fan. Hell, I’m barely a sports fan. I can tolerate hockey. Where else are you guaranteed a fight to break out and the crowd stomps together to Queen? But alas, Houston lost its hockey team a few years ago and there’s no other town within decent driving distance in the south to watch a hockey match, thus getting the only tolerable sports fix I’ve managed to accomplish.
But I’m not here to talk about sports. While everyone else is going crazy for the Super Bowl, I decided long ago that this sacred Sundays of Sundays would be dedicated to my favorite Jane Austen adaptation. That’s right, the no less than 5 hours long BBC 1995 adaptation of Pride and Prejudice.
Ah, it’s Darcy at his best. And the ONLY Darcy I recognize.
So I’ll leave this here.
P.s., enjoy the pond scene as well 🙂
P.p.s., is this movie really already 21 years old?
After my blog yesterday, I really thought 2016 and I had an understanding. Then I wake up this morning and read the news of Alan Rickman’s passing. Again, fucking cancer. Doctors are successfully transplanting penises, but still no cure for cancer. I am just floored right now.
So, I’m just going to share two of my favorite roles that Mr. Rickman graced us with during his prosperous, yet cut too quickly, time on earth.
As far as the rest of the year is concerned, “Well, I say we get drunk because I’m all out of ideas.” – The Metatron, Dogma
I’m sure I’m not the only one who woke up Monday morning to the news of David Bowie’s passing. Like many in the world, I didn’t know he was sick, as he had not made many public appearances over the last several years. Or if he did, it barely made a blip on the entertainment radar which is overrun with Kardashian/Miley Cyrus/no talent nonsense. So when the illness and passing of a true gentleman and artist was announced, it collectively blindsided the world, leaving many confused with a sudden hole in their existence many didn’t anticipate being possible. Many headlines read “Planet Earth is Blue,” a line from Bowie’s first hit, Space Oddity. It perfectly summed up how we felt. There’s nothing we can do but mourn his passing and celebrate his life. And we truly have to celebrate it. Bowie knew he was dying, and he chose to go on his own terms, even releasing a new album and music video for his fans. Looking back now, the signs were there and perhaps we knew. The difference is we, as a society, rarely see the signs anymore unless they’re wrapped up in scandal. It truly is a sad reflection of humans these days.
I come to write this blog this morning after taking a self-imposed hiatus, in a manner of speaking. It’s been nearly 7 months since my last blog. To put it mildly, the last 7 months have not been kind. To quote another Brit, Queen Elizabeth II, in her 1992 speech to mark the 40th anniversary of her Accession, 2015 “has turned out to be ‘Annus Horribilis’”. And it truly has indeed. I had high hopes for 2015. I started last year with a lot of motivation and inspiration. I started the first few months strong with completing about 30,000 words on the Scottish novel, and then working hard in April with another 22k word short story as I tried my hand at erotica. I had a couple of setbacks on a personal front, with my shitty job and our vehicle not only being broken into and all electronics stolen in April, but then the tailgate was stolen a few months later. It’s those little setbacks that steals the concentration from your art and makes you paranoid about everything. But we recovered and our insurance company came through. Items were replaced. After all, in the end that’s all they are. Just items.
Then June came along and the horribilis continued. I started June with a new story idea. Yes, it’s set in Scotland again. And yes, I have ideas all the time. But what made this one special is that it was finally a contemporary romance idea. Truly a first. I don’t like contemporary. My life has always been about history. I rarely read contemporary. Find me a good, well written history or fantasy and I’m entrenched for days. Outside of the erotica short, every time I come up with a contemporary idea (and there aren’t many), my mind goes into screenplay mode. Which is why I’ve only written one screenplay. To me, I can imagine contemporary on a screen, whereas historicals have such an epic depth that they can only be written in novel format and in no less than 150k words (if I manage to contain it in less than 150k – not so much the case.) So needless to say, I was excited on June 1st when this idea hit me and I sat down to write the outline and set myself a goal of 90k and a 3-4 month timeline. It was going to be a nice break from the slump I had found myself in with the historical writing. I was jazzed and ready to go and my muse was having a field day in her new playground. All was set to be a great summer.
I may have said this before, if you ever want to make God laugh, tell him what your plans are.
My father was first diagnosed with cancer a few years ago. First it was throat cancer, then a few misdiagnoses with lung and bone cancer. Finally it was about a year/year and a half ago that he was diagnosed with liver cancer. Just like all the other cancers he had, he fought and won. I kinda thought it would be the case with this one. So at the early part of June when he called all his kids and told us he wanted to see all of us we kind of had the feeling this wasn’t good. He declared he was going to stop treatment and if he was lucky he had 6 months to live. To our surprise, he called us 3 days later and said the doctor was giving him 2 weeks, if he was lucky.
I’ve never been close with my father. Those close to me know I’ve never hidden that fact. The man who raised me was my step dad and he died of bile duct cancer nearly 15 years ago. I considered losing him the loss of a parent, so when my father tells us he has a matter of days left, it left a numbness I wasn’t quite familiar with. A lot of thoughts went through my mind, not all good. But, I did what any dutiful daughter could do and I was there. I stayed in his hospital room the last 3 days of his life and prayed for him and watch him pass from this world, hoping he will find a good existence in his next one. I’m a reincarnationist, I believe that we are born again in new bodies and this is the life eternal that God promised us. So the only gift I could give him in the end was the hope that he finds a good life wherever he goes next.
I wish I could say this is the only death my family and loved ones experienced this year. Every month after my father, it was someone different. A friend in England passed away unexpectantly, again from cancer, the following month. My father’s cousin, who was a pall bearer at his funeral, died of a heart attack in October. My best friend’s grandfather, the next month, and then, the day after Christmas, my sister-in-law’s mother died in a car accident. There are more deaths, but those are the ones that had the most impact. I’ve begun every month since July praying please, don’t let anyone else die. I know we all have to go sometime, that’s a lesson I learned well when my oldest brother died when I was 15, but I feel there needs to be a break in between. And granted, I know life isn’t fair and wanting something on this level is not within my control. But the muse is feeling this all too keenly and so she’s been in hiding for a while.
2015 Calendars Burning
I ended the year on a very quiet note. I stayed home, dared not venture out and held a calendar burning ceremony in my back yard. My husband and I sat around our fire pit, toasted the New Year with White Russians, watched the neighbors set off fireworks, and at midnight burned every calendar we owned for 2015. We wanted to lift the curse, if that’s what it was, and start 2016 a little better. Maybe it’s superstition, maybe fanciful thinking, but all I knew is that it couldn’t hurt. Bad mojo be gone and bring on brighter, better days for the new year. Amen.
However, Monday came and I had to think on all that had happened in 2015. As I said before, Bowie’s death was a shock. He was someone I had grown up with and I didn’t know how to process a world which no longer had Bowie. But as soon as I read cancer, I wanted to cry. More news came out, and then the video which he made as a final gift to fans surfaced and I realized I’m not as nearly ready to deal with death by cancer as I thought I had. I turned the video on for 30 seconds, saw Bowie in a hospital bed, obviously sick with the blindfold over his eyes and I started having flashbacks to those 3 days I stayed by my father’s hospital bed watching him die. Bowie has never been subtle and every action he ever made had a reason. I don’t think the video was meant to be a nice, cheery sendoff. And perhaps one day I’ll bring myself to watch it completely to discover more meaning and symbolism, but I can’t for now.
Much like the unexpected death of Robin Williams a year and a half ago, Bowie’s death actually brought the world together to remember everything he was as a human and his truly remarkable and generous spirit. No one can say anything bad about him. Everyone agrees he was the nicest man you could have met, gentleman to the core, always up for a laugh, an artist who was always willing to take a chance. That’s a good legacy. One that many of us would be lucky to leave behind.
I’m not quite sure how to end it today, other than I hope everyone has a good 2016. Work on your creativity every day. It’s the only connection to sanity we have.
About once or twice a year, I get a real hankering for something called a Scotch Egg. Essentially, it’s a hard-boiled egg encased in sausage, rolled in breadcrumbs and deep fried until done. The Scotch Egg first appeared on the cuisine scene in the early 1700s and over the centuries has evolved into a picnic food. I first discovered this delicacy at the Texas Renaissance Festival several years ago and it’s always on my Sunday morning, post drunken night of revelry, need something in my tummy before I start drinking again faire agenda. For all intents and purposes, it’s a heart attack waiting to happen in a tasty little time bomb, and ties you over until you’re ready for your mid-afternoon turkey leg or bread bowl. They are THE BOMB. And I encourage everyone to try it at least once in their lifetime.
So, what got me to thinking about Scotch Eggs this morning? A couple of things, actually. Earlier this week, some meme was circulating around Facebook about a bacon stuffed scotch egg that looked to have potential. But at the end of the day, what really drew me to make them for my husband and myself this morning was last night’s episode of Outlander.
If you haven’t watched it yet, I won’t give too many spoilers, but I think it’s safe to say that Jamie Fraser has officially changed the meaning of Full Scottish Breakfast. And definitely don’t interrupt him while he’s having his breakfast. Does anyone need any more innuendo than this? I have this feeling that many a woman around the globe needed a cigarette after the first 5 minutes of the episode, and with good reason. It was HOT! I suddenly want to fill up the page with innuendo, but I’ll refrain because it’s possible I’ll break the internet if I try. But watch it. Or watch it 15 times like I have so far.
Speaking of all things naughty, the erotica is coming along quite well. I’m about 2.5 chapters from completing my first official draft and then off to my beta readers. It’s exciting and scary at the same time. I’ve never written pure erotica before, and especially one this dark. The goal of this has developed into a group project with a couple of friends for creating a new erotica series for ePublication. I know what you’re thinking: the world is full of countless erotica ePubs. And truly, you’re right to wonder why mine will be any different. It’s still too early to say if it is. But I like to think I’m doing something a little bit better and I have the writing skills to pull it off. Fingers crossed and pricked thumbs, we shall see in a few months when I release the first one.
I’d also like to give a shout-out to Brazil. I’ve noticed over the last couple of months that outside of the United States, I have the highest number of page views coming from Brazil. So thanks Brazil for reading me/following me and I would love to see some comments. I’m always curious who I’m reaching, why I’m reaching them and why they’re coming back. I like to think this blog is more than a random thought diary. I’m really interested in those who are humbling me with their attention! So please leave me a little note. I’ve met some of my best friends over the internet and we are never too old to make new friends.
In the meantime, enjoy this recipe for Scotch Eggs. I always get asked to share it when I cook them and post the pics on Facebook anyway. Have a great week, enjoy the Scotch Eggs and enjoy a Full Scottish Breakfast every chance you get!
I use a wok to cook my scotch eggs in because I believe in multiculturalism
1 pound bulk country-style or herbed sausage
1 teaspoon crumbled dried sage
1/2 teaspoon dried thyme, crumbled
1/4 teaspoon cayenne
4 hard-boiled small/medium eggs
1/4 cup all-purpose flour
1 raw large egg, beaten lightly
1 cup fresh bread crumbs
vegetable oil for deep-frying the eggs
In a large bowl combine well the sausage, the sage, the thyme, and the cayenne, divide the mixture into 4 equal portions, and flatten each portion into a thin round. Enclose each hard-boiled egg completely in 1 of the sausage rounds, patting the sausage into place. Mix the breadcrumbs and flour in separate bowl. Dip the sausage-coated eggs the raw egg, letting the excess drip off, and roll them gently in the bread crumbs, coating them well. In a deep fryer heat 2 1/2 inches of the oil to 350°F. and in it fry the Scotch eggs. This can usually takes about 15 minutes, but cut open one scotch egg to ensure the sausage has cooked all the way. Transfer them to paper towels to drain with a slotted spoon when they are done.
I’ve been seeing a lot of pictures lately of Sir Ian McKellen and Sir Patrick Stewart touring around New York City as they end the Broadway tour of NO MAN’S LAND and WAITING FOR GODOT. If you haven’t see them, I dare you to Google them and not come away with a smile. The pictures are a testament to true friendship and a “never too old to have fun” philosophy. The pictures show a campy, comical and simply adorable friendship of two gentlemen as they pal around New York City striking silly poses, holding hands, and being typical goofballs, all while wearing bowler hats. Seeing the memories these man are creating makes me wish I was 8 years old and these good Sirs were my grandpas. I would have my hair in pigtails – naturally Grandpa Ian would be in control of my hair. I would be wearing a bright yellow summer dress with strappy, clacky sandals. We would all three hold hands as we stroll the boardwalk, stopping at every ring toss and ball throw, each grandpa promising to win me the biggest stuffed animal. They would buy me ice cream and cotton candy and argue over the fact if it’s safe for me to ride the pony – Grandpa Patrick approves, Grandpa Ian says no. We would ride the elephants on the carousel, get sick on the Ferris wheel and end the day walking into the sunset with my corndog and balloons. Ah, such a beautiful ending to a perfect day.
Then, alas, reality kicks in (or the alcohol wears off, take your pick) and I’m a little sad knowing it will never happen. Despite that, these two men are hopefully inspiring future generations of friends to remember even in old age, cherish your friends and the moments your make together, take time for fun, don’t take yourselves too seriously, always allow time for a silly pose, hold hands and love your friends! You might not get the chance to do it again. Oh, and always make time for a silly hat.
Fantasy is a writer’s sand box. It’s the safest place we play, come up with ideas, think without criticism, let our minds wander free without a care, knowing that what we create can be both scary as well as silly. No one can come into your sandbox without permission. That’s the best part about it. Try as they might, outsiders try to get in and they show horrible jealousy when they are denied. It’s unfathomable for those who are lucky enough to have writers in their life that a place exists of complete imagination and writers are actually HAPPY there. I remember as a child listening to my English teacher explaining the meaning of introvert and extrovert. While the general definition of extrovert was outgoing, happy, popular and fun to be around, the next explanation of introvert was horrible by comparison. Introverts don’t like others. Introverts are loners. Introverts aren’t comfortable around others. Introverts aren’t popular. Introverts are losers. Okay, so perhaps the teacher never said “loser” but she might as well have because my interpretation and the others’ in the class pretty much fell in line with that characterization. Thereafter, I came away with the notion that I didn’t want to be an introvert because I would never be popular, despite the fact I secretly hated to be around others, would rather have stayed in the back of the class unnoticed, would rather have a book than the most popular in school award, was content scribbling in my notebook, and was happier with my 5 closest friends than going to a party of John Hughes proportions. It was the 80’s afterall.
But then, it followed me into the 90’s and beyond. Whenever I took personality quizzes in college I faked my answers. When I took personality assessments for jobs interviews, I knew how to answer so that I would seem like an extrovert. Many companies want employees who are outgoing, team players, work well with others and possess those can-do attitudes. Afterall, why else do they want to know what fraternities and organizations you joined while in college? What do you mean you didn’t join clubs? Do you not like others? I’ve had to hide the answer many times simply because I wanted a job. Despite wanting the most creative workforce imaginable, being comfortable enough to work completely alone was not really what they sought for in an applicant. I became pretty good at lying for 15 years about my true personality. Truth is, I hate working with others. Sure, I’ve had some great coworkers in the past, but it’s the others who I couldn’t stand. Every office has them: the mixers, the gossipers, the backstabbers, the ass-kissers, the nosey-Rosys, the liars, the micromanagers, and the ones I really hate – the cheerleaders. You know those, the ones who will promote every initiative that’s handed down from management as the next greatest business and management tactic while everyone can see the pure illegality and unethicalness of it. There is nothing worse than working for a company you hate for lack of morals and ethics. That’s where pretending to be an extrovert finally got to me.
So, I quit. I don’t lie about it anymore. I like being in my space. I like not having 20 co-workers to greet every day. I like having my safe space to work in and be as creative as I want to be. I like texting with my friends in other states than making friends in the office. I like spending my lunch time with writing than going to team lunches, and analyzing business plans and talking about how I plan to make a difference in the company. I like knowing that if my personality clashes with another that it’s not going to end in writing an action plan about how to be a better team player. I quit the bullshit. And if an introvert can tell an extrovert the true meaning to happiness, it’s that we don’t have time for the bullshit.
And I’ve never been happier in my life.
Down In The Dirt magazine
How does this lead to the bones of my newest update? It doesn’t really other than it ties to the fact that since quitting my job I’ve been steadily publishing short stories. The offices of Wendy C. Williford are happy to announce the release of my 10th publication! This month I have a short story, Atonement featured in Down in The Dirt magazine. Again, I wrote it several years ago but still another one I’m fond of. I’ll be celebrating in the kitchen with cake and wine. Leftover donuts will be in the break room for the remainder of the day. The management would like to remind you to keep the cheers down, as others are still working. If you wish to take an early celebratory lunch, you have my permission, but it’s on your own dime. Before you leave today, be sure to fill out the survey with expertly worded questions that will prove we are the best place to work in the city. After all, your success makes us successful. We appreciate all you do. Be sure to approve your time clocks at the end of the day.
So check it out, or purchase a copy of Down In The Dirt magazine via Createspace. Support the underpaid writers in your life. It takes a lot to fill up the sandbox (and the wine cabinet).
What else can I say other than cheers and Sláinte on this magical day that marries together all things Irish and all things drinking. Here are a few little facts that you might not know. These are random facts I found on either Facebook or some other obscure place on the interwebs, so forgive that I don’t quote a source. They’re just fun, silly “facts”.
Me in Ireland, 2012.
• St. Patrick was not Irish.
• There are more Irish-American’s living in the U.S. than there are Irish currently in Ireland.
• St. Patrick died on this day, so we are celebrating the day he was brutally murdered.
• St. Patrick was originally associated with the color blue.
• The odds of finding a four-leaf clover is about 1:10,000.
• The Irish didn’t freely start drinking to celebrate the day until 1970 because it was a day of religious observance, so the pubs were shut down.
• Wendy needs to get back to writing.
So, until then, Sláinte and Erin Go Bragh to all my fellow Irish-Americans out there and have a great day!
Today I sat in a doctor’s office trying to fight off the newest little bug I’ve caught in the never ending cycle of hot and cold weather that has been known as Winter 2014. While I can certainly feel sympathy for my friends in the north who have had never-ending low record temps, snow, blizzards, more snow and more cold, I’m sure it can be as frustrating as experiencing business closing snow flurries on Monday and by Thursday running the air conditioner again because the heat and humidity inside has raised to a uncomfortable 85 degrees. Along east Texas and the gulf coast region we literally experience all 4 seasons in the same week. It’s a clever joke that been meme’ing all over Facebook and your favorite social media site for the last 8 weeks, but there is a lot of truth behind it. And while in Texas, you can joke that if you don’t like the weather, wait a minute, it will change, the harsh reality is that while you’re waiting, the extreme changes in the weather is playing havoc with your immune system. Thus, we set our scene in my doctor’s office this morning and my receiving a 3rd prescription of antibiotics since the beginning of the new year.
While waiting for my doctor to come in so I can announce my clever self-diagnosis (once you have one upper respiratory infection, you pretty much know every time you get one), I notice a new poster on the wall sponsored by the latest/greatest anti-allergy medication diagraming the parts of the head: the nose, the ears, and the throat. One thing that caught my attention was the diagram of the Larynx. One part of the picture described the larynx as the “Inspiration” and the other as “Phonation”. As I sat there examining the picture regarding the “Inspiration” I couldn’t help but wonder why that word was used in relation to the throat. A google search later, I come to the definition in accordance to this example as inspiration being synonymous with inhalation, or the movement of air into the lungs. To breathe is to inspire. What a truly amazing thought. A few deep thoughts later, I come to thinking about perhaps the best result of moving air into the lungs – and subsequently moving it back out – and that is song. Music. Making music with your mouth. Birds have been doing it since the creation. The first human instrument was the mouth, creating a song with nothing but pursing one’s lips together in order to imitate the songbirds. Next came wind instruments, which inspired the need for more instruments until we created the plethora of percussion, brass, and string instruments and everything in between. What a glorious inspiration music is. And what this world has created simply out of the inspiration of music in itself is to feel nothing short of an overwhelming awe-inspiring shudder that shakes me to the core.
Music has always had a strange effect on me. Sometimes a well-placed song at the right moment when my soul really needs a lift, a song can give me the same exhilarating feeling as being in love. It moves me, affects my soul. It inspires me to create and create the best art my soul is capable of. Sometimes it’s nothing but an instrumental, sometimes it’s a complexity of sound and voice that I often find in Queen, The Beatles, Zeppelin or The Who. And it’s just not the rock gods of the 70’s and 80’s who move me. (Although they are the best). Contemporary artists can do the same. Gaga is one, for all her over the top theatrics and showy-showy camp style, she can sing, and she can write great music. And great music, true talent inspires other true talent.
As I’m fighting off this latest illness, it’s sometimes hard to even get out of bed and place myself in front of a computer with enough wit and motivation to be creative. When I have to take to my bed, and in those moments before Nyquil takes over, I send my thoughts into the deep recesses of my mind to commune with my muse and work out the already plotted ideas that are waiting in the vault. I’m sure every writer has that vault: a place in your head that houses the most creative ideas, patiently waiting, gestating until the moment they are either born on paper, sound or medium. It’s the ideas that you don’t have to write down because they are so powerful that you’ll never forget them. They live simply because your brain created them and they don’t have to exist on the outside just yet to be real. They breathe. They inhale. They inspire.
Despite being sick, I am still using this time to create. I’m back to dictating the chapters I wrote during the late fall. Hopefully I can wrap up the editing in the next month and get on to the next chapters. I have roughly 20+ more to finish the book. Sounds huge, and while it is, I see the end a little more clearly. I just need to keep the inspiration coming. I need to keep my ear open to the music that inspires me and creates that euphoric feeling which wills my hand to pick up the pen and put brain cells on paper.
So, what exactly might that be? What is the key of inspiration? As our fairy godmother might say: C Minor, darling. Put it in C Minor.
First, I’d like to thank Jocie McKade for allowing me this wonderful opportunity to participate in The Writing Process Blog Tour. You can check out other writer’s blogs and follow the tour on Facebook at #mywritingprocess and on Twitter at #mywritingprocess.
I have to admit I was thrilled and nervous when asked to participate in The Writing Process Blog Tour. As I get further into this world as a published writer, I still get overwhelmed at how vast the world is and how small I feel in it. I’ve been writing for what feels like 30 years and have only been able to call myself published for the last 8 months. Comparing myself to other writers with multiple books feels awkward and undeserving. Yet, the further I advance in the publishing world, the more wonderful people I’m meeting, all whom remind me we all have to start somewhere. I still allow negative thoughts to take over in regards to simple things: Am I good enough to participate in a blog tour? Do I have something worthy to add at this point in my career? Do I even have a fan base to make a difference? Will anyone even read this? I suppose there may be a few. But it’s for the few that I write this and it’s for the few that I always express my gratitude for following my little world.
It should come as no surprise that I am currently working on a novel. As of yet, I haven’t settled on a title other than The Heiress. I was told by a writing prof that I should avoid one word titles. However, when no other title will do, you have to stick with what feels right. When I finish it, we’ll see if anything pops out to me. The story is about a young woman who gets caught in a baron’s war in England, only to discover she has important ties to Scotland and her lineage is tied to the Scottish War of Independence. That’s it in a nutshell. A nutshell that currently has 130,000 words behind it, 3 years of writing and a nutshell that is only halfway done. Sometimes I feel there will be no end. And then I remind myself that J.K. Rowling claims it took her 5 years to write the first Harry Potter. Perhaps I am on track after all. But I’d rather take my time than rush through with subpar writing. I want to present the world my best work in the end.
How does my work differ from others of its genre? That’s a really good question and I hope to have a logical answer in the future. I’m not really sure what genre it’s going to fit in right now. The heart of it is historical fiction. I’ve spent months and months (and years when you get down to it) pouring over history books – both scholarly and peer reviewed publications – to set my characters in the right years, situations, and political climate to make the plot as hole-free as possible. I’ve studied 13th century horse breeding, clothing, food, drink, marriage customs, castle maps, land configurations, language and church law to ensure the least amount of anachronisms. The story is history. Yet, at the same time, it is a love story. It’s about human connection, human nature and the psychological implications imprisonment and death has on the mind and shapes a person into who they are. Although the story has sex, it’s not sexually driven. I am using all of the craft I learned as a literary fiction writer to write something that can’t be pigeonholed as genre fiction. So, what do you call something like this? I have no idea. I have a feeling it will be too long for romance, and some scenes too sexy for historical. Where it will land, I’m not sure. I’m sure when I start presenting it to publishers, maybe I’ll have a better idea or be lucky to find someone who will guide me in the right direction.
In regards to why I write what I do? I suppose it has to be my love of history. The first book I ever read was the Little House on the Prairie books. History settings have always been simple. They are more focused on human interactions rather than the distractions we face in modern society. Characters are more in tune with each other than their electronic devices. Campfires and candlelit rooms create a more enticing ambiance than a hectic boardroom or a disco. When characters travel together, it’s for days, rather than a short plane or train trip. When they make promises, they are kept. And romance and love is an act to be savored, rather than rushed. Courtly love and chaperoned dating brings more anticipation and appreciation than a quick hookup at the club. I typically don’t even read contemporary. It bores me very quickly. But give me a book that presents me a world I’m not familiar with and I savor every word and interaction. That’s what I want to bring to readers. Something they haven’t seen before and a world that they can call their own because it’s one they don’t live in everyday.
As to how my writing process works? I want to answer with a loud guffaw! It changes every time. When I was in my teens, I wrote by hand because I didn’t have a computer, just a word processor (yes, I’m that old). In my twenties when I came up with an idea, I committed it to memory and wrote strictly on the computer. If I had an idea, I simply thought about it, what I wanted to accomplish with it and then wrote it. I had a 104,000 word fan fiction piece I did that way. In my late twenties when I decided to write a screenplay, I realized I need to be more organized. For the screenplay, I actually created a scene by scene outline, wrote a lot by hand because that’s the only way I could do it while working, then wrote my scenes with a screenwriter program. When I got into short story writing, I spent a couple days brainstorming the idea, made some notes and typically wrote it on a computer with very little handwriting. That process changed again when I started working on the novel. I’ve said it once, I’ll say it again: the novel is a beast. After 2 months of initial research I wrote an outline that was 98 pages long. In other words, it was 36,000 words. It was extremely detailed. Every scene, every chapter, a lot of dialogue and every plot twist, plot hole and transition was ironed out in painstaking detail. Some think that’s crazy, but that’s how my mind worked it at the time. Now all I have to do is write out my paragraphs, rework the dialogue and fill in on what I wanted the chapter to do. I add my craft to fill in what is needed. It’s still a long process, as I’m 3 years into it and only half way done. I have maybe an hour to write a day. Somedays I get a few pages, some days several. I am often asked by other writers about how to get started. I honestly don’t know what to say. I know what works for me. When I mention a 98 page outline, a shocked, blank expression usually follows. So, I tone it down and simply suggest a notebook to get your thoughts out. My second piece of advice: write every day. Whether it’s a word, a sentence, a paragraph or a chapter, do it every day. It’s the habit that you have to build. If you have the habit, the story will get written. I’m reminded of an interview of Jack White by Conan O’Brien regarding how does Jack write so many songs. His answer was simply: create every day. I took it to heart and printed up a little sign and stuck it to my computer. CREATE EVERY DAY. Some days will be great, some days will be shitty. But you have to do it to know the difference. If you have the patience, an end will come. Expect to take a while. See it through to the end. Every writer will say it’s hard. If the only compliant you have is that it’s too hard to do it, you’re not meant to be a writer.
I hope someone out there finds what I write is interesting and brings to them a little more knowledge about the writing process. It’s never easy, by a long shot. Writing is solitary and lonely. My friends know this. I have missed social gatherings and dates because I have to get something written. My hands and fingers hurt at the end of a particularly productive day of writing. My back and shoulders hurt because I forget proper posture when I’m sitting at my computer. My eyes hurt from staring at one word on my computer screen, pondering for 20 minutes if that’s the right word to make the sentence say what I’m intending. When I walk away from the computer at night, I feel pins and needles in my legs and feet because I’ve been sitting down for hours on end. It’s not easy. But nothing you have a true passion for ever is.
To wrap this up, I want to send another thanks to Jocie McKade for inviting me again. Until next time, cheers and Sláinte!
Ray Dean was born and raised in Hawaii. Working in live theater led her to the delights of living history and from there it was a slippery slope to creating her own worlds. Find her blog at www.raydean.net.