I don’t write to be famous, I don’t write to be known, I write because I am and I want to be read. How sad to fill a room with paintings no one sees or play music no one hears. Writing is talking without sound, singing without score and dancing without movement and yet, it is all of them. It is a solitary art conjured from thought and expressed by the need to communicate.

HEAD SLAPS, SPEED BUMPS and LIGHTBULBS, one woman's WTF, oops and ah-ha moments of life.

They were published once, and as every writer knows, once is not enough.




Friday, January 4, 2019

Your future? Discounted.

Finally an update on this New Year. Not sure why I have been so absent because time has become my friend again. Maybe it’s because my conversation here is read by so few. (My fault.) Maybe it’s because what I want to say doesn’t seem so important regarding our brave new world as it was, as it is, and as it may be.

Well anyway, my novel is complete and has been off to first-readers for quite some time. I have learned that the holidays are a lousy time to expect reader-feedback. Hopefully off to an editor soon. (Hello Jennine.)

I am on to another project that lit a fire which has been smoldering for a long time. I have hesitated on this one because the scope is imposing and counter to every other project I have attempted and completed. But I love the genre and read it all the time. Don’t have a log line yet, and the outline looks like the sparse road map in and out of Death Valley. But, I’m 10-grand in and hoping to hit completion before Christ is resurrected (again).

Within this new story the what-if questions are enormous. Let’s just say, (and I probably shouldn’t at this point but I will anyway), I’m combining an imagined J.K. Rowling kind intricately detailed world with a Suzanne Collins Katniss-like senior character. Dare I say it’s a dystopian novel for senior citizens?

I hate the term “senior citizen,” but if you are one this story will scare granny pants off you.

In our daily cycle of news which is proving by the hour how easily millions can be swayed by falsehoods and shallow promises, “70Y70D” will be your road map to heaven or hell depending on which side of the 10% senior discount you are on.

So there you have it. A futuristic novel for readers with futures far shorter than their pasts.

Happy New Year everyone. Hope all is well, for all of you, and if it’s not, write about it.

Wednesday, October 17, 2018

Ginger Ale in a green bottle


I am nine years old, sitting in the backseat of dad’s Studebaker
Station wagon. We are on our way from Elizabeth, New Jersey to Nana and Pop-Pop’s house in Norwich, Connecticut. The drive seams endless (interstate highways are not yet complete). After half a day on the road we pay a 10 cent toll over the Connecticut River, and the anticipation of being nearer Nana’s, far outweighs the hackneyed “are we there yet” my mom and dad became deaf to 15 minutes after we left.

Being almost there has my brother and me sitting straight, not slumped in our respective corners. Being almost there has him hanging over the back seat blabbering into my father’s ear, and me drumming my hands on my thighs until my mother says playing percussion is not for girls.  The anticipation of visiting my grandparents, my aunts and uncles and cousins begins to effervesce like a green bottle of all-shook-up ginger ale on a summer day. Almost there and the cap is ready to blow, almost there and I can taste the Saturday night beans and hot dogs. Sitting on the front porch after dinner with the family, (there are dozens of us), waiting for the Good Humor truck to stop, is the exclamation point to a perfect day.

I am not nine years old anymore but that bubbly feeling of being almost there feeds my (on a keyboard) drumming hands. Today, years of thought and planning and writing and months of self-editing - done. I will complete a last read-through and later today my novel is off to a first reader (many states away) that is tough, kind and beyond brilliant when it comes to books people want to read, can’t wait to read, and spend money to read.

She wants a hard copy so on my way home from the post office I will buy ginger ale in a green bottle.

Thursday, September 13, 2018

balls...Balls...BALLS



omg…OMG…OH MY GOD !

I’m tooling along finishing my WIP, with only a few thousand words left to go, and in the back of my mind the reason why two characters pretty much can’t stand each other eluded me. That there was an issue kept bumping into my thoughts like a golf ball rolling around in a bowl.

why…Why…WHY?

Then, a few days ago I’m writing a sentence and

boom…Boom…BOOM !!!

There it was spilling out onto the page like water down a slide into the deep end. It's a stunner.

Wow…Wow…WOW !!!

(Okay so enough of the three word fancy reactives.)

Anyway:

The result is that I have had to go back and plant seeds (hints) that are restrained enough, so as not to be obvious, until the reader discovers the surprise.  

This throws a bag of shiny new Titleists into the bowl because now I have to make sure I keep the readers engaged enough to get to the heart breaking and mind blowing surprise. Wait a minute I was supposed to be doing that already wasn't I.

(And I thought I was almost done).

Oh well.

Ain’t writing...fun…Fun…FUN?

Sorry couldn’t resist just one more.