Second Sight, by Debbie Mumford

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I missed my scheduled post this week due to finals overload, but, better late than never, right? I am proud to say that this amazing Wild Child/Freya’s bower rising star is my mentor through Romance Divas and has imparted plenty of valuable wisdom since we’ve been working together. But that has absolutely no bearing on this review. *grin*

This story was a quick read. I started it once, but got peeled away from it and didn’t come back until recently. The beginning pulled me right in with an intriguing ‘occult’ type murder and a psychic investigator Angie’s peculiar reaction to it, which befuddles her fiance and (sensitive but not psychic) partner, Zach Douglass. The mystery compounds when the psychic, Angie, dies suddenly – but not before handing over a book and a message to Zach. She tells him to find Jenny Murdoch, who turns out to be a translator. Zach takes the book Angie left him to Jenny, hoping she can help him unravel the mystery.

When they meet, there’s an indescribable attraction between Jenny and Zach. Her inner psychic ability takes the form of a tiger in her mind, and for the first time in her young, troubled life, the big cat is calm and content – thanks to Zach’s presence. Zach feels an uncanny draw to Jenny as well, and his fiances voice echoes in his mind, urging him to find out more about the mysterious translator who so carefully suppresses her obvious psychic talent.

I don’t want to ruin any more, so I’ll stop my summary there. I was drawn in first by the mystery, but didn’t mind when it took backdrop status as the developing and conflicting feelings between Jenny and Zach took center-stage. Ms. Mumford did an exquisite job taking a very risky situation (having a man who’d just lost a fiance fall in love with someone else weeks later) and making it convincing. I was definitely rooting for the couple, and the love scenes were tender and heartfelt. The characters and their reactions felt very real, the pacing very comfortable, and the writing clear and vivid. Overall, a very enjoyable read.

You can get this book through Freya’s Bower, or browse Debbie’s other works on her website.

Life in L.A., two years ago

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When you’re a writer and go through misery, and later write it down because you’re so awful effen mad and sick about it all, it becomes something more. Something kind of funny that you can look back on and say, thank God I don’t have to live through that again. It also becomes story fodder.

This is one my personal favorites. Seventy-five minutes of my life, over two years ago when I used to depend on public transportation to get to work and back home again. My days were twelve hours long. This day was almost fourteen hours long.

Why did the Hoosier girl cross the busy Los Angelian road?

Because she had to pee. (No, wait. Because Keanu Reeves was on the other side of it, waiting for her in a soft gray stretch limo.)

So okay, her bus was half an hour late. And she’d decided to call a cab, but she wanted to do it back inside the building where she worked because the road was loud with traffic, making cell phone conversation about as much fun as getting an uncoated aspirin stuck in your throat. Why not re-enter the building, place the call for a cab, then pee?

Only the door was locked. So she made the call on a full bladder, with one finger in her ear to try and block out raging traffic sounds. Just as she’s doing this, the bus–her bus–comes roaring up to the intersection. The bus is on the other side of a six-lane road and the light is green. It barely slows down. And then poof, it’s gone.

She laughs, but she still has to pee so it’s not really that funny.

She spies Frenchy inside the building and knocks on the side door. He knows her. He’ll let her in, even if it is after hours and dark outside. Theoretically he could smirk, shake his head at her, and she’d have to live with so sad, your dad, but she’s wearing the black Captain and Tennille hat and black leather coat, a look that ensures entrance.

Four minutes later, she’s standing back in front of the building, awaiting her knight in yellow metal. Meanwhile, she yaks on her cell phone. Ten minutes go by. She wonders where her cab is and as the minutes pass, the thought becomes all-consuming, overriding thoughts of wine, the cold and food. She tries not to think about her friend’s friend who was recently been mugged.

Fifteen minutes after that, Hoosier girl calls the cab company again and learns that they canceled her cab because the cab driver didn’t see her standing where she said she would be and because he couldn’t reach her by phone. For whatever reason, there was no beep of interruption to let her know someone else was trying to get through. If the cabbie even tried to call her. She has her doubts. Actually, in a world gone awry, she’s aswarm with them.

Hoosier girl begins walking back to the bus stop because it’s almost time for the next bus and she figures she might as well take that bus since Fate’s decided kicking back in a cab isn’t going to happen. She’s halfway back to the bus stop when the next bus roars up to the intersection, five minutes early.

Run? Scream? Laugh? Cry? Pee?

These thoughts go through her brain as the bus squeals to a stop. For three heartbeats it stays there and the anticipation is heavy, like just before you climax. Then the light turns green, the bus rounds the corner and that’s that.

This is not fiction. This is her life.

Falling

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I recently cashed in my book voucher at Drollerie Press, and got Falling by Imogen Howson. Here’s the blurb;

Safety is an illusion.

When the world crumbles into chaos, only a chosen few can afford the luxury of life in towers built to soar far above the pollution and destruction on the ground. Life up in the air is full of beautiful things and beautiful people. What happens when you’re not one of them? What happens when everything you believed about the world turns out to be a lie?

You fall. Or you learn how to fly…

This short story retells the fairytale Rapunzel. Set in the future, Imogen weaves a split society – those who can afford to live in the towers above the poisonous smog, and those who can’t. Linnet is the only child of a rich couple, the mother obsessed with normalcy. Linnet struggles to be what her mother wants, to fit in, but Linnet has one ‘flaw’ that doesn’t fit the ideal. It takes more than a Prince Charming to get Linnet to see she is only different and far from ugly.

I enjoyed this story, the narrative refreshing and smooth. I loved how Linnet wasn’t the cliché she so easily could have been. There was some amazing character development as Gecko and Linnet interacted. The twist towards the end was lovely, making the well-known story delightfully fresh. I would recommend this story to anyone seeking a light but intriguing and pleasurable read.

Thursday Thirteen

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Most of the contributors of the Writer’s Retreat Blog participate in the weekly meme, Thursday Thirteen, so every Thursday we link to the individual sites of each writer’s TT. Hopefully, this helps you get to know each of us a little better. This week we’ve got:

Dawn-It’s an army thing 😛

Gwen Mitchell-Sniff or Snort

A. Catherine Noon-13 Ways to Waste Time

Eaton Bennett- You guessed?

Motivation + Reinforcement = Dedication

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A while back, I posted an entry on Balance Point and promised I would follow up with a post on goals. I thought it would work good for a Wiley Wednesday, so here it is. I apologize in advance for its length. I’ve split it up, but it keeps getting longer. Apparently, I have a lot to say on this . . . lol.

Just a quick review on Balance Point – the main idea of that post was: know your limits. This is crucial to goal-setting, as you’ll see.

Usual disclaimer: I have no sorts of letters after my name to assure you this is right. I’m just a goal-oriented person, sharing a little about what works for me in a way I hope you can custom-tailor to help you.

When I started thinking about this more in-depth, it morphed and became larger than I expected. So, it will actually be broken up into two parts and I’ll post the second the next time I’m up for Wiley Wednesday.

I made up a neat little formula to help me keep things straight, and it goes like this:

Goals x Dedication = Positive Action,

I further define:

Dedication = (Motivation + Reinforcement)

For those of you who don’t like math, here it is restated:

Goals multiplied by dedication (motivation plus reinforcement) leads to positive action.

So, what does that mean: positive action? It’s relative; it means taking steps in the direction of your ultimate dream/aspiration. That leaves us lots of comfortable wiggle room.

A quick note on the difference between dreams and goals. Hopefully, as a writer, dreaming comes pretty naturally to you. Dreams are the stuff that fiction is made of. And if you’re a dreamer, aspiration surely follows. We all aspire to be better writers, better friends, better people. How about this one: “I want to be a NYT best-selling author.”

Sound familiar? But this is a dream, an aspiration, not a goal. Dreams are insubstantial – usually so far off in the distance that they’re misted over, the actual path to reaching them is obscured. They are literally up in the clouds.

That doesn’t mean you can’t make them a reality. Your dreams are the pinnacle of your ‘pyramid-o-happiness’, which you are hopefully always building. Your goals are the bricks that, when stacked with care, will get you to the top. Sometimes they’re gritty and heavy, sometimes they’re fun and ornate. Positive action is the act of stacking your bricks.

We’ll talk about goals more next time and I’ll show you a ‘goal pyramid’ method that I like to use, complete with exercises. But this time, I want to talk about the other part of the formula: dedication (motivation + reinforcement).

As I said in my Balance Point post, writing can be a lonely pursuit. Sometimes it feels like everything in the world is working against you becoming the writer you want to be. At times like these, only your own dedication keeps you writing. It might be continually put to the test, but if your dedication is strong enough, nothing can hold you back from stacking those bricks.

Let’s face it – writing can make us feel vulnerable, elated or extremely frustrated; fill us with hope, or with doubt. At any of those times, it is only dedication to the craft, to the muse, or to our own dreams that makes us pick up that How To book, open that document, or write those pages despite the uncertainty we may be feeling.

To me, dedication is made out of (at least) two different components: motivation and reinforcement.

Motivation can be internal or external. It can come from us, or from other sources. It can also be positive (desire), or negative (fear). I will focus on the positive kind (just cuz) but I do want to make it clear that negative in this case doesn’t necessarily mean bad. A lot of people might disagree with me, but if fear is your strongest motivator, if you’re just wired that way, don’t feel like you shouldn’t be. You don’t have to fight to re-wire yourself, just learn to use it as a tool.

Think about this:
What initially motivated you to start writing? What kept you motivated after you got your first taste? Was it internal or external, positive or negative? Which of these really works for you? Everyone is different. When you have to motivate yourself to do something – how do you do it? Through rewarding yourself? Or is it the threat of bad consequences that gets your butt in gear?

The reason it’s important to ask yourself these questions is to figure out how your internal motivator works, and if it’s not working, how to change it so that it does. Even the most powerful engine still needs a spark to ignite it. No matter what you’re packing under the hood in terms of capability, talent, or determination, you need motivation to get things running.

Try this:
Draw a square with a cross in the middle, making four stacked squares. Along the top, write positive and negative. Along one side, write internal and external. In each box, try to think of an example (real or hypothetical) of a type of motivation you’ve used or encountered for each. Now, be honest with yourself – which one works for you?

Once you’ve identified your best type of motivation, make a list of different ways you could use it. For example, if you’re internal/positive, positive self-talk and rewards might work. If you’re external/negative, then maybe you need to design consequences that would keep you motivated, or find someone to hold you accountable. It’s all very personal, and there is no right answer.

So, now that we’re motivated, we’ve started our engine and we’re rolling. But dedication is more than just that initial burst. Dedication has to keep us going even when we encounter a three-foot deep pothole. Or a cliff.

What we need is reinforcement. And I will venture to say that whether negative or positive motivators work for you, we all need positive reinforcement, so let’s focus on that.

Just like motivation, reinforcement can be internal or external, or hopefully both.

First things first: Eliminate outside influences that drain your energy or have the opposite effect – quashing your motivation and dwindling your dedication down to nothing.

These can be abstract things (fear, doubt, exhaustion) or very specific (a person who brings you down, or something on your to-do list that won’t leave you alone). I could write a whole post on how to recognize and purge these negative influences. I’m only touching on the idea here, but still want to underscore its importance.

Surrounding yourself with people, things and circumstances that reinforce your dedication will yield the best results. The internal component of that positive reinforcement cannot be over-emphasized.

If motivation is the spark that starts our engine, positive affirmation is the fuel that keeps it running.

Our sub-conscious is a tricky little bugger. Sometimes it can set us up for failure before we’ve ever begun. It can stall our engine in multiple ways and for multiple reasons. Using positive affirmation, you’re telling your sub-conscious that you are in charge, you know what you want, and you are not going to get in your own way.

We all have dreams and aspirations (which we will translate into concrete goal-bricks next time) that we want accomplish. We have the motivation to go after them, and we’ve eliminated the obvious road blocks. Now we just need steady fuel – affirmation. For me, it’s probably the largest thing that keeps me on track, and I’ve developed a few different habits and tools to keep the fuel pumping.

To an extent, this sort of thing is very personal, but here are several ideas:

1. Find a positive environment, surrounded by people who feed into your dedication.
2. Keep a file, written or computer, that holds all of your favorite positive feedback from others. When you’re feeling down, re-read them.
3. Learn to hone in on your own doubts and fears. Don’t ignore them. Listen to them, and then reason them out. Face them, and then disengage them. Once they’re not a threat any more, you can move on to the positive.
4. Find someone inspirational to follow – a blog to read, a person to study, someone you know – anything. Emulate what you like about how they operate, or make a note of the traits you admire and those you have in common – they are probably very similar.
5. Write a review of your WIP, or a story you haven’t yet written. Type it up, print it out, and paste it somewhere visible.
6. Surround yourself with inspirational quotes, pictures, etc.
7. Interview yourself – either alone in your car, in the tub, or on paper. Tell the story of how you became a writer, what writing is to you, how you got that amazing idea and what your plans are for the future. (Yes, I really do this. Unorthodox, but hey – my dedication hasn’t faltered yet!)

One more quick thing – going back to the subconscious. There is power in every thought you have, and every word you speak. When you think about your dream, or when you mention it. Don’t say “If I ever get published . . .” In the words of Yoda – “Do, or do not. There is no try.” There is no IF. It’s a WHEN. “When I sell my first novel . . .” You have to believe that to be true. And you have to get your subconscious on board.

Never underestimate the power of constant positive affirmation – written, spoken and thought. Maybe you want to repeat the same set of affirmations before you go to bed each night, or first thing when you wake up, or several times a day. Say them in your head like a mantra, like a prayer. Each time you do, you are reinforcing your own dedication. Once you have your goals in order, you’ll be on the road to positive action.

Courtesy of author Robyn Amos, here are some great affirmations for writers:

I am a talented writer.

Creativity flows through me easily and effortlessly.

I am my own expert, and I am not affected by the negative attitudes and opinions of others.

I easily balance the needs of my family with my own need to write.

I have a positive expectancy of big success, and I take temporary setbacks easily.

I am a creative person and develop my plots with confidence and imagination.

Images and words come easily when I sit down to write.

I write daily with excitement, enthusiasm, and confidence.

I don’t wait for inspiration. Work inspires inspiration.

If I succeed, I keep working. If I fail, I keep working. Whether I feel interested or bored, energized or tired, encouraged or discouraged, I keep working.

Everyday, in every way, I’m getting better and better.

I have the craftsmanship and creativity to successfully finish this book.

Remember, GOALS + DEDICATION = POSITIVE ACTION.

We’ve got half of the formula covered! Next time I’m up for Wiley Wednesday, I’ll talk about turning those faraway dreams into solid, stackable goals using a ‘pyramid’ method. Hope you take something worthwhile away from this, and I’ll be happy to answer questions, via email, or in the comments.

~Gwen

The Night Is A Harsh Mistress, Chapter 6, by A. Catherine Noon

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Rachel hung up the phone with the client she’d successfully served. The man sounded angry but vindicated. He agreed to her final payment with no argument and said he’d mail it right away.

She glanced at the Greene file yet again but reached passed it to “Lawson, Carter and Marie.” Carter Lawson owned an accounting firm downtown and believed Marie cheated on him with his partner, Peter Henkle. Henkle was both a lawyer and an accountant and slippery as hell. She’d so far failed to find him do anything in public that wasn’t above-board. Rachel was almost willing to believe his innocence if it weren’t for Mrs. Lawson.

Marie Lawson made Rachel cringe. A statuesque blonde, her outfits were always perfect and the jewelry just-so. She spent Mr. Lawson’s money like water, shopping in all the best boutiques and lunching at restaurants Rachel couldn’t afford to walk into, much less order from. Just being rich didn’t make her a bad person, but Rachel admitted privately that she would be happy to find something wrong with Marie Lawson.

Rachel locked her office, set the plastic “Will Return” sign for three o’clock, and went down to her car. Today was the day Mrs. Lawson went to the Spa for her weekly appointment. Rachel intended to catch up with her before she left but as she turned onto Main near Fourth the traffic stopped dead.

She craned her neck out of the window and could just barely see the side of a taxi jackknifed against a parked car.

“Can you see anything?” a voice hollered from next to her.

She looked over to the Porsche next to her. The man seemed to be in his late twenties, early thirties, dressed in a long-sleeved navy t-shirt and dark sunglasses. “Looks like a cab got in an accident,” Rachel told him. “I don’t think we’re going anywhere.”

He swore softly, words Rachel couldn’t quite catch, and opened the door to the Porsche. It seemed to Rachel he stood about six feet tall. His jeans were clean and fresh-looking. He stepped away from his car a foot or so and then threw his hands up. “Dammit!” He looked over and saw her looking at him and his expression softened. “I think traffic is completely blocked.”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

He studied her a moment and then leaned against his car. “Will you be late?”

“Late for what?” she asked suspiciously.

“Any appointments,” he answered like that should have been obvious.

‘No, I just like to sit in traffic for fun,’ she thought, but didn’t say. “Yes, I was hoping to get somewhere. But I don’t think it’s going to happen.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “I’m Steve,” he announced.

Rachel blinked. “I’m Sara,” she responded.

He cocked an eyebrow. “Nice to meet you, Sara.”

They made small talk for a few more minutes until sirens sounded from behind them. Steve had to get back into the Porsche and move it up onto the sidewalk to let the ambulance through and by the time all the hubbub concluded he had gone.

Rachel suppressed a spurt of disappointment and continued on to the Spa. Steve was attractive and hadn’t been wearing a wedding band. Too bad she hadn’t even had a chance to exchange business cards, especially since she hadn’t given him her real name. Oh well, never could be too careful.

Maybe she could catch Mrs. Dawson on the way out. She pulled up behind the Valet line to wait.

Family Albums and Histories

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I must confess this blog was inspired by Eaton’s previous one about family albums. She wished that she knew more about those relatives, and I can understand her feelings. The photos are wonderful, but a written history of each of those faces would be priceless.

My family has kept family photos as well as personal journals and written family histories for a long time, it’s something that Mormons are encouraged to do from the time they can write. I remember being encouraged to keep one myself, and to read those of my ancestors, and I must confess, I found it BORING! Those dusty and faded photos failed to capture my imagination.

My father on the other hand was always fascinated with those long dead relatives, going on and on about Great-great-grand Aunt Ethel Booshardt and how she had come to America from Denmark over a hundred years ago. He never misses a chance to talk about her still.

I have realized that the older I get, the larger mortality looms before me, and exactly how those long dead people handled their lives means so much more to me now. Like my great-great-grand mother Rhoda DeLange; how did she handle the death of her two year old son when he drowned in the river just in front of their home? I cannot imagine opening the front door each day and being confronted with the death place of my boy, how did she survive the constant reminder of her loss?

That log cabin still stands, directly behind the general store that she and her husband ran. It is in business to this day, my uncle has refurbished it but was careful to preserve an original wall that bears bullet holes from a gun fight with Indians. The settlers did not always get along well with the original inhabitants of Grass Valley. I have touched those holes in the soft and dusty wood, and they still awe me. My children have touched them too; they are a part of our family history.

Having read Rhoda’s personal journal I learned a lot about her, and myself. She was made of sterner stuff than I ever will be. Standing outside her home and business, the very site where little Joseph drowned; I realize that she dealt with a lot of the same things I do today. She raised a family, six children that survived into adulthood, just like me. She ran a home and had a job as well. And she kept a diary. Where did she find the time? She did more, with fewer resources, than I will ever be able to manage. I stand in awe of her and her life, she is an inspiration.

Now, her pages are precious to me, the very things that I once thought so tedious are now valuable. In the light of these thoughts, keeping a journal is an important thing, not just for yourself, but for your grand and great grand children. They may read your entries and gain from how you handled challenges in your life. Odds are they will be inspired by the incredible things you’ve done but don’t recognize for what they are– amazing.

I keep my family history in a unique way. I don’t keep a journal; I tell myself that my morning pages for the Artist’s Way will suffice, they are full of my comings and goings and personal insights. (I am still debating on whether to include my stories in our history, few are child friendly and let’s face it, not the kind of stuff you want to know your grandmother EVER thought about.)

My scrapbooking is fun and I try to have my children help, their scrawling handwriting is going to be more precious than my adult and legible penmanship in the future. The colored photos and designs are more exciting than the black and white ones our parents had and I pray that none of my grand kids will roll their eyes and wish they were somewhere else when they are dragged out and shared at family reunions. It’s amazing how your perspective changes as you get older, isn’t it?

The Historical Society

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Sara stood, leaning over Bryce’s shoulder to take in the sketch he’d found. “Do you really think I can pull this off?” she questioned, feeling unsure.

“We don’t have a choice. Besides, it has to be a woman, and you’re the only one around here with brains and balls,” he grinned at her, “You can do it, Sara, I know you can. Just stay focused on the mission. Get in, find the papers, and get back out. The less people you talk to, the better off you’ll be. If you get into any trouble, hit the panic button and I’ll be there in less than a minute.”

She sighed. This was the first mission she’d ever gone on by herself. Up till now, it’d always been her and Bryce, the Dynamic Duo they called them. They had been childhood friends, college roommates, and partners for the past seven years for the Historical Society. Time and again they went back in history, filling in the blanks. They’d seen the Great Sphinx during construction and brought pictures of the missing colors and facial features, so that it could be restored to its original splendor. They had cried together as they watched helplessly in the Nazi concentration camps, and had stood in awe as they watched Moses part the Red Sea and walk through on dry sand. They’d seen the world through the ages together, and it had been wonderful and terrifying.

There was a knock on the door and Cloe stuck her head in. “Your costume is ready and I can do your hair when you like.”

“Thanks, Cloe, I’ll be there in a moment.”

The door shut and she closed her eyes, trying to steady herself. She would be going back in history to 1892 to gather information about the depression and the newly re-elected president, Grover Cleveland. It was not a particularly dangerous mission; in fact, it would probably be dull in comparison to their usual journeys. The only thing troubling her was the fact that she’d be alone. Alone in a way she’d never been alone before. The only person in the world not from that time.

She shook herself a bit and plastered on a fake smile. “Need to get dressed, see you at the time pit!” she said and ruffled Bryce’s hair a bit.

An hour later she stood on the platform ready for transport. He stood next to the control desk and they locked eyes. They held eye contact till the room started to loose focus. When she opened her eyes again she was looking at the White House, one hundred and seventy four years in the past.

Old Photographs and Possibilities…

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Do you ever wonder what the people in your old family photos were like? The people you never met, but they grace your family tree somewhere way back early in the 20th century or late 19th century.

I do! I am interested in what made my grandparents, great grandparents and their siblings tick. What were their personalities like? Who did they love? What talents did they have? What kind of furniture did they like? What were their favorite foods? What clothes did they like to wear?

Who were these people tucked away in my family album? I guess I will never know who they really were. Some I know by name, others not, some I met when I was a very little girl. There is no one left to tell me their stories. Even if I could find out all the technical things about them, I will never know their personal stories.

As much as I think it sad that I will never know who they were as individuals, it is intriguing to wonder about them. To look into their eyes pondering their hidden personalities and quirks, brings me closer to them and keeps me from them at the same time. Touching the photographs, knowing that they would have held them is a link from now to the past but a very weak link at best. I wonder what they thought when they admired their photos? Did they like the way they looked, did they even think about that sort of thing? I believe they would have had thoughts on that subject, being human we all either love or hate what we look like in our captured images.

I enjoy looking at their clothing, the styles they chose to wear for the photographs are indicative of the era the images were taken in. The photographs I have included are of both sides of my family. The large wedding photo is of my Uncle and Aunt’s wedding with their respective families. The room the photo is taken in was the study in my paternal grandparent’s home. I spent time in that room when I was very young and that makes this picture all the more special. I never met my grandfather but have fond,vague memories of my grandmother. I love my Aunt’s wedding dress, this would have to be my favorite photo of all the old ones I have.

The second wedding photo is of my Mother’s parents, neither of which I’ve met.
They were an interesting couple, my mum told me a little about them and their wedding finery did not match their station in life. By that I mean they were share farmers and poor. Looking at their apparel would not give any indication to the viewer about that fact of their life.

That brings me right back to my first thoughts, who are these people really? My imagination takes flight when I look at them and I think of the many stories that could be written, just by imagining what their personalities and lives were like. These people have become the faces of characters playing on the stage of life. They loved, fought, raised children, watched them live their lives, died and their stories are gone forever. The perpetual cycle of Life! This could be morbid. I hope not, I hope it adds inspiration for another way of weaving stories about love and life.

Wiley Wednesday: By Hand vs. The Keyboard

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By Hand vs. The Keyboard
by A. Catherine Noon

There’s an old debate in writers’ circles between those who compose with a keyboard and those who compose with a pen. I suppose in today’s internet era it might seem like a moot point, but I figured I’d speak up for those of us Luddites out here. (Yes, well, Neo-Neo-Luddites. But I digress.) Despite the ascendancy of blogging and texting and all the mobile foufera of today’s computer-literate society (say, for example, the Gentle Reader who is reading this on our blog), the pen has not given up its place in the sun just yet.

Who composes with a pen? Some writers admit to writing entire manuscripts by hand in their first draft. Some even use that most ancient implement, the typewriter, to create their masterpieces – the sound of the clickety-clack soothing to their inner artist, the keys like candy to their Muse. Some insist they must only use the computer and a word processing program, “because of automatic spell-check, you see.”

Interesting. All worthy ideas, all from writers not just sharing private thoughts with an intimate audience, but august personages for whose work the public will pay good money. So who’s right? Is the pen mightier than the sword? Or is ink and paper destined to go the way of the horse and cart, used only by zealots and those who haven’t yet heard technology’s siren-call?

My honest answer as a writer is that I use both. Perhaps how I use them will be enlightening to other writers so I share them here, in the hopes that others might be inspired, as I have been, to try different methods of coaxing words onto paper, the ultimate bent of any writer (at least until eBooks changes the whole industry and books go the way of the horse and cart, used only by… or did I say that already?).

The Pen

I use my pen and paper for many tasks. First and foremost are my Morning Pages. Written about by Julia Cameron in her books, most notably The Artist’s Way, Morning Pages are three pages of longhand writing, written in the morning (perhaps, some wag might wonder, giving rise to the name “Morning” Pages?). Since the pen and size of the paper (standard letter size) are specified, it might be of note to share what form my pages take. I’ve used all sorts of things – cheap, spiral-bound notebooks from the dollar store; bound journals blank and unlined (which I liked because I could add sketches); regular college-ruled notebooks like what I used in, well, college. What I have learned surprised me: first, use something UNfancy. Fancy journals lead us to want to write fancy thoughts. Morning pages aren’t meant to be fancy, they’re meant to be three pages of longhand writing, written in the morning. Nope, don’t see fancy in those instructions, do you? Second, I learned that I liked UNlined books. Sure, I’ll use lined notebooks because they’re cheap and easy to find. But when I was forced for economy to use something I found in the giveaway box, the resultant blank journal without lines lead me to realize I like to sketch. I also realized that the very size and direction of my writing changed based on my mood. Some days, my letters were neat and orderly. Others, they were large and untidy. One day, I wrote in a spiral from the outside corner to the center. It gave me freedom to explore.

You might want to try it yourself, one day.

Another thing I use my handwritten journal for is, well, what I call “Journal Work.” By this, I mean answering questions and tasks for the Artist’s Way, Walking In This World, (both books by Julia Cameron), and other like-minded material. I’ll use it to talk to myself on the train to and from work, to catch hold of ideas. I’ll write down poems and fragments of thoughts, knitting design ideas and dinner plans.

A third thing I use it for is to tell myself stories. Many first drafts of stories I’ve written are to be found in my journals. I’ve written a continuous journal since 1995 and before that I have many journals, split up by time, back to the age of nine. I have story fragments and poetry all through them. I find it enjoyable to sit on a train, or at lunch, and tell myself stories – almost as enjoyable as reading a book, in fact. I just do it for the fun of it, because I enjoy the worlds I see in my mind’s eye, the theater of the imagination. Some of these stories I’ve later published, some just stay in my journal waiting. Waiting for what? Not sure yet. But at least they’re written.

You might want to try it yourself, one day.

The Keyboard

I use my keyboard for many tasks. In fact, I recently purchased a used AlphaSmart, a portable keyboard. It doesn’t have automatic spell-check the way my MS Word does, but it allows me to type on the train. I discovered two things by this method – one, I write a helluva lot in the hour I’m forced to sit there; and two, carpal tunnel syndrome isn’t just for secretaries. So if you get one, make sure you do your hand exercises, or you’ll be hurtin’.

I use my computer for a number of tasks. First, a word as to platform – I am a dual-platform user, and have been since I learned to use the computer. I own both a Mac and a PC and have equal facility on both. I make my living by the computer, and in my industry the computer of choice is and always has been the PC. I like the Mac better, which is why I own one. But honestly, there’s not a whole lot of difference in the interface in terms of the word processing program of MS Word. I am an MS Office power user, so I don’t fiddle with the other programs available, but if you use or want to check out the other ones available to you, go for it. The creation is in the writer, not the software, no matter what ads in writing magazines say.

I love to write stories on the computer. Once I have a specific story in mind, I find it easy to use the computer to compose. I like being able to have headings for my chapters that will build an automatic table of contents. I like being able to use that table of contents to bounce around my story by hyperlink. Since I’m a novelist, my stories are long. Being able to move through them quickly is very helpful.

Synthesis

I suppose that is a good distinction, for me anyway – I use the computer for specific ideas (i.e. left brain approach). I use my journal for noodling, fiddling with story ideas, and directionless dreaming (i.e. right brain approach). While I can force a computer to think like me, it’s still much easier to do it by hand. I can just write a stream of consciousness in a continuous line, making catch-notes in the margin if necessary (like, “Work in Progress,” or “To-Do List”) for things I need to be sure to come back to. Writing by hand lets me just get what’s in my head out where I can look at it. Composing by computer lets me go from point A to point B, J, and Z fairly quickly and efficiently. If I want to skip to Chapter Ten and write that, then come back to Chapters Five through Eight, I can do that easily. I can keep track of what chapters I’ve done by updating the table of contents. That sort of functions like an outline as I’m writing, so I know where I’ve been and where I’m trying to go.

You might want to try it yourself, one day. Or come up with a method that works for you. I suppose that’s the most important moral of the story – not what I do, but what you as a writer might do.

And that, boys and girls, is a project worth working on.