I have a confession to make.
I -- Madelyn Alt, Author -- am not always in the mood to write.
I know. I know! I have been blessed with this crazy, wonderful, chaotic career. A career any working writer would be proud to call their own. It is the least I can do to give it my full attention. The depth and breadth of my energy. The last shreds of mojo I have in me.
And I do. Much of the time.
Sometimes, though, life throws these little temptations my way. You know what I'm talking about. Like a sunny summer day with the bluest of cloudless skies that not-so-subtly sends a sparkling, come-hither invitation through your open windows. Come outside and play, why don't you? You have to admit, it would be almost criminal not to give in to the urge to take the pooches out for a long walk on a day like that. Or how about those moments when I sit down to write and one of my Meezer girls instantly decides that's the perfect opportunity for some quality facetime. It's not an easy thing to resist the unrelenting headbutts of a Siamese cat, let me tell you. And then oftentimes the distractions stem from one of my boys who has something important he wants to share with me and cannot wait another moment to do just that. It's so easy to get lost watching the thought processes play across their young faces, the dance of laughter in their eyes. So easy to lock the computer down safely from mischievous Meezer paws and errant puppy noses and listen to my sons tell their tales with my heart in my throat, wondering how I got to be so lucky. So easy to just exist within the moment.
Life. I have to say, I kind of enjoy living it. Really living it. It keeps me from getting too serious; from taking myself too seriously. It is rather a matter of perspective. That is not to say I don't have worries, doubts, and fears working to drag me back down into the mire, just like everyone else. I do. But the less I let them have their way with me, and the more I pay attention to the good things around me, the more their hold on me seems to lessen, and the more energy and focus I have when I do put my fingers to keyboard. The writing, I have discovered, will be there for me when I need it to be, better than ever for the distractions and temptations that I allow to steal my attention from time to time. Paradoxically so.
What about you? What tempted you today, and did you give in to the moment?
Love to all,
Mad {madly!}
Showing posts with label The Writing Life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Writing Life. Show all posts
Friday, January 23, 2009
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
An Early Mother's Day Gift . . . for Me
This weekend, I betrayed a friend.
I know. I know! Dog. Meat.
Allow me to explain. A couple of months ago, before Nim’s Island was first released to theaters, my friend and I decided we'd see it together, just as soon as we could set a date. Since both of us are sincerely appreciative of Gerard Butler's talent as an actor {not to mention his other attibutes, ahem . . .}, we always make a point to try to get together to enjoy his new releases. Except we didn’t. My fault; my wacky schedule. Now. Leap forward in time to Saturday morning, when my son handed me a piece of paper from school that was advertising a special showing of Nim’s Island {honestly, what are the odds?} at our local family-owned theater, that was intended to be a Relay For Life event.
“Can we go, Mom?” he asks me. And then, giving me his best, most ingratiating, wide-eyed grin, “It has Gerard Butler in it . . .”
The kid knows me far better than he should. "Does it, now?"
Now, I knew GB was in the movie, but I wasn't about to tell him that. I was going for discreet. I mean, it’s not right that your nine-year-old son accuses you of thinking a well-known actor is hot . . . is it?
"Mmhmmm. Aaaaaaaaaannd, it’s only five dollars, and it includes popcorn and candy and everything!”
See? FAR better than he should. Gerard Butler and movie popcorn? Yum, yum, yum. “When is it playing?” I asked him.
“At noon today. We’re going, right?”
Was there ever any question?
It was 10:45 a.m.. There was no time to get my friend out the door on time from her home 45 minutes away, while also rounding my son up to get his teeth brushed and clean clothes on so that we could leave on time, a fair feat in and of itself. Forty-five minutes later, he was still sitting on the sofa with his thumbs twiddling a game controller, his eyes glued to the screen, despite the fact that HE was the one who had come up with the plan. Kids!
Sooooooo . . . as far as the movie goes, think Home Alone mixed with George of the Jungle mixed with Swiss Family Robinson mixed with Romancing the Stone. Kid’s movie, totally.
With perks . . .
Beautiful scenery. Beachy setting. In fact, a veritable tropical island paradise. And Gerard Butler . . . x Two! {I did say, ‘Beautiful scenery’, didn’t I?} Yes, the delectable Gerard Butler delighted us with a dual role performance in Nim’s Island. One, the Cutie-Geek, nerdy but somehow also magnificently studly, marine scientist Jack Rusoe, who spends his time on screen in beachy white cargo shorts and a white, gauzy shirt opened over a casual white tank . . . which only served to highlight, nay, perfectly display the golden tan that gleamed ever-so-tantalizingly over his nicely muscled body . . .
::koff koff:: Sorry about that. Got distracted.
A-n-y-w-a-y! In his second role we have the Uber-Masculine, Uber-Heroic, Uber-Delectable Action Hero Alex Rover, an Indiana Jones type of guy, right down to the pairrrrfectly fitted pants {not that I noticed} and rakishly tilted fedora.
Did I mention that the golden tan he is sporting in this movie really sets off the blue-green of his eyes? Sigh. I mean, it really, really did. Unbearably so. There are times when his eyes almost seem to glow. . .
But this is a kid's movie. I'm not sure if they realize how many of the more, ahem, mature females in the audience were nearly sliding off our chairs every time those eyes twinkled into the camera? What were these people thinking?!
I like to think they were giving the moms of the world a little prezzie for being so good as to cart their kids off to the theater for the afternoon. Think of it as an early Mother’s Day gift. Two Gerard Butlers for the price of one.
Don’t look at me that way. What can I say? I have a syndrome. It might have something to do with this:
Yes, I think it just might.
My thoughts on this adorable little film:
I think I loved goofy, geeky, scientist Gerry in his goofy, geeky and yet somehow incredibly attractive glasses, just as much as I adore hot, sexy Gerry wearing anything. {Or not.} But then they cut to goofy, geeky, scientist Gerry wet on a boat . . . and I completely lost all sense of integrity. ::drool drool::
The movie was . . . imaginative and fun. Meant to be enjoyed, not dissected. I can suspend disbelief in a movie as well as the next person. For instance, Nim’s Island features a very imaginative little girl {the always wonderful Abigail Breslin} who swims with a sea lion and makes a pet of a goofy little lizard that sometimes steals the show from his more human counterparts. Cute. Nim is incredibly resourceful, and shows it by repairing the solar grid that powers her island home so that she can receive email and send radio transmissions. Of course she does. And then there was the pelican Gallileo, who has the ability to reason that stranded Gerry/Daddy Jack is going to need his tool pouch since his boat was nearly capsized, the mast sheared off, in a terrible storm that pushed him hundreds of miles away from his island paradise and daughter Nim. Not a problem. I was there. The guy needed his tools {and can I just say that there is something about a pair of big, broad, very manly hands wielding a screwdriver and a hammer with what certainly looks like expertise that makes my mind . . . wander, hee hee hee}, and so of COURSE the big pelican brought the tools to him. But eventually we came to the part in the movie where Author Alexandra Rover tells us, the viewing audience, that she hadn’t left her apartment for four months, and I found myself raising my brows and thinking, “Well, DUH!!!”
I mean, would YOU ever leave your apartment if you had Gerard Butler, in any role, trapped within those walls along with you? Right-O. Me, either.
Other thoughts:
Despite the fact that GB’s Daddy Jack character spends 90% of the movie lost at sea and appealingly wet, he actually gifts us with quite a lot of screen time. Bless the directors, again and again.
His character is upstaged quite a lot by the precocious and preternaturally talented Abigail Breslin . . . but the great thing is, he doesn’t seem to mind. He just runs with it.
Swashbuckler Alex Rover, alter-ego of the timid, charmingly quirky, and verifiably OCD author Alexandra Rover {Jodie Foster} likes to speak in Zen-like, inspirational platitudes. Things like, “Be the hero of your life story,” and, “Touch the world.” Well. I could think of other, more interesting things . . . but that's just me.
Where was I? Oh, yes.
Favorite Funny Dialogue {one of many}: In response to the “Touch the world,” advice that Alex Rover gives her, Alexandra Rover quavers, “I-I don’t wanna touch the world. It’s not . . . sanitary!”
Realization: Gerry as nerdy scientist speaks with a nondescript, American accent that makes him seem ever so . . . normal. Gerry as action-hero swashbuckler speaks with his native Scottish accent that makes him seem ever so . . . swOOn-worthy. Hmm. I wonder if that was intentional? ;>
Favorite On-Set Animal: Fred the Lizard. Yes, I know that Fred should be called “Favorite On-Set Reptile,” but . . . feh. Whatever. I have never seen a lizard pull so many interesting faces. Of course, I don’t make a habit of looking into the faces of lizards, so that point may in fact be useless. Moot, even.
Interesting Googleism: Do you realize just how many media mentions there are of GB as “the delectable Gerard Butler”? Gobzoodles. And I just added a couple myself. ;>
Not-so-favorite dialogue: “You’ve been writing chapter eight for months. You need to get it out of your head . . . and into your body.” Er . . . oh, great. Remind me, why don’t ya!
Final aside to Gerry as pseudo-geeky scientist: Just a hint. Weather-dot-com, kiddo. Always check it before heading out on a short sea voyage. Didn’t you learn anything from those crazy castaways? I mean, you almost bit it in this film. Again. And to Gerry as Himself, I don’t think I need to tell you that there are thousands upon millions of crazy women out here who grit their teeth every time you take on yet another role where you DIE before the credits run. Have a little mercy.
Post Script: I still don’t know exactly what happened to Nim’s mother, other than she isn’t alive and seems to have, I think, been swallowed by a whale? Which kinda, sorta explains why Nim and her dad are living alone out in the middle of the Asiatic sea on a deserted island, running amok with the animals, reptiles, and sea plankton. Because the mom’s not around to smack some sense into them! Although . . . I have to admit, having GB all to oneself on a desert island wouldn’t be such a bad scenario. Kind of like the apartment, only with hammocks and tropical breezes and no need for a dress code.
Post Post Script: Gerry as Jack? Your American accent slipped a time or two, sweetness. Just a teensy bit. You know, I do a mean American accent myself. I’d be more than happy to give you a few pointers. ;>
Post Post Post Script: Back to the original thrust of this post: Sorry, LorHen!!!!!! HONESTLY!!!! Mea culpa!
**********************************
A little side note: A wonderful reader has set up a Yahoogroups called Magic, Mystery, and Romance as a go-to place for fans of modern, magical, mysterious romances and romantic mysteries. My "Bewitching Mysteries" and Annette Blair's wonderful "Triplet Witch Trilogy" are just some of the romance and mystery series that can be discussed here. If you're interested, send an email to: Magic_Mystery_and_Romance-subscribe@yahoogroups.com.
Once you've joined, you can set the list up for a daily digest or individual emails, or even web-only if you prefer. Annette and I will both be a part of this reader's group, though probably not on a daily basis, especially when we are on deadline. :)
Another place for discussions for the Bewitching Mysteries is on MySpace: http://groups.myspace.com/mad4madelyn
*****************************************
Love to all,
Mad {madly!}
I know. I know! Dog. Meat.
Allow me to explain. A couple of months ago, before Nim’s Island was first released to theaters, my friend and I decided we'd see it together, just as soon as we could set a date. Since both of us are sincerely appreciative of Gerard Butler's talent as an actor {not to mention his other attibutes, ahem . . .}, we always make a point to try to get together to enjoy his new releases. Except we didn’t. My fault; my wacky schedule. Now. Leap forward in time to Saturday morning, when my son handed me a piece of paper from school that was advertising a special showing of Nim’s Island {honestly, what are the odds?} at our local family-owned theater, that was intended to be a Relay For Life event.
“Can we go, Mom?” he asks me. And then, giving me his best, most ingratiating, wide-eyed grin, “It has Gerard Butler in it . . .”
The kid knows me far better than he should. "Does it, now?"
Now, I knew GB was in the movie, but I wasn't about to tell him that. I was going for discreet. I mean, it’s not right that your nine-year-old son accuses you of thinking a well-known actor is hot . . . is it?
"Mmhmmm. Aaaaaaaaaannd, it’s only five dollars, and it includes popcorn and candy and everything!”
See? FAR better than he should. Gerard Butler and movie popcorn? Yum, yum, yum. “When is it playing?” I asked him.
“At noon today. We’re going, right?”
Was there ever any question?
It was 10:45 a.m.. There was no time to get my friend out the door on time from her home 45 minutes away, while also rounding my son up to get his teeth brushed and clean clothes on so that we could leave on time, a fair feat in and of itself. Forty-five minutes later, he was still sitting on the sofa with his thumbs twiddling a game controller, his eyes glued to the screen, despite the fact that HE was the one who had come up with the plan. Kids!
Sooooooo . . . as far as the movie goes, think Home Alone mixed with George of the Jungle mixed with Swiss Family Robinson mixed with Romancing the Stone. Kid’s movie, totally.
With perks . . .
Beautiful scenery. Beachy setting. In fact, a veritable tropical island paradise. And Gerard Butler . . . x Two! {I did say, ‘Beautiful scenery’, didn’t I?} Yes, the delectable Gerard Butler delighted us with a dual role performance in Nim’s Island. One, the Cutie-Geek, nerdy but somehow also magnificently studly, marine scientist Jack Rusoe, who spends his time on screen in beachy white cargo shorts and a white, gauzy shirt opened over a casual white tank . . . which only served to highlight, nay, perfectly display the golden tan that gleamed ever-so-tantalizingly over his nicely muscled body . . .
::koff koff:: Sorry about that. Got distracted.
A-n-y-w-a-y! In his second role we have the Uber-Masculine, Uber-Heroic, Uber-Delectable Action Hero Alex Rover, an Indiana Jones type of guy, right down to the pairrrrfectly fitted pants {not that I noticed} and rakishly tilted fedora.
Did I mention that the golden tan he is sporting in this movie really sets off the blue-green of his eyes? Sigh. I mean, it really, really did. Unbearably so. There are times when his eyes almost seem to glow. . .
But this is a kid's movie. I'm not sure if they realize how many of the more, ahem, mature females in the audience were nearly sliding off our chairs every time those eyes twinkled into the camera? What were these people thinking?!
I like to think they were giving the moms of the world a little prezzie for being so good as to cart their kids off to the theater for the afternoon. Think of it as an early Mother’s Day gift. Two Gerard Butlers for the price of one.
Don’t look at me that way. What can I say? I have a syndrome. It might have something to do with this:
Yes, I think it just might.
My thoughts on this adorable little film:
I think I loved goofy, geeky, scientist Gerry in his goofy, geeky and yet somehow incredibly attractive glasses, just as much as I adore hot, sexy Gerry wearing anything. {Or not.} But then they cut to goofy, geeky, scientist Gerry wet on a boat . . . and I completely lost all sense of integrity. ::drool drool::
The movie was . . . imaginative and fun. Meant to be enjoyed, not dissected. I can suspend disbelief in a movie as well as the next person. For instance, Nim’s Island features a very imaginative little girl {the always wonderful Abigail Breslin} who swims with a sea lion and makes a pet of a goofy little lizard that sometimes steals the show from his more human counterparts. Cute. Nim is incredibly resourceful, and shows it by repairing the solar grid that powers her island home so that she can receive email and send radio transmissions. Of course she does. And then there was the pelican Gallileo, who has the ability to reason that stranded Gerry/Daddy Jack is going to need his tool pouch since his boat was nearly capsized, the mast sheared off, in a terrible storm that pushed him hundreds of miles away from his island paradise and daughter Nim. Not a problem. I was there. The guy needed his tools {and can I just say that there is something about a pair of big, broad, very manly hands wielding a screwdriver and a hammer with what certainly looks like expertise that makes my mind . . . wander, hee hee hee}, and so of COURSE the big pelican brought the tools to him. But eventually we came to the part in the movie where Author Alexandra Rover tells us, the viewing audience, that she hadn’t left her apartment for four months, and I found myself raising my brows and thinking, “Well, DUH!!!”
I mean, would YOU ever leave your apartment if you had Gerard Butler, in any role, trapped within those walls along with you? Right-O. Me, either.
Other thoughts:
Despite the fact that GB’s Daddy Jack character spends 90% of the movie lost at sea and appealingly wet, he actually gifts us with quite a lot of screen time. Bless the directors, again and again.
His character is upstaged quite a lot by the precocious and preternaturally talented Abigail Breslin . . . but the great thing is, he doesn’t seem to mind. He just runs with it.
Swashbuckler Alex Rover, alter-ego of the timid, charmingly quirky, and verifiably OCD author Alexandra Rover {Jodie Foster} likes to speak in Zen-like, inspirational platitudes. Things like, “Be the hero of your life story,” and, “Touch the world.” Well. I could think of other, more interesting things . . . but that's just me.
Where was I? Oh, yes.
Favorite Funny Dialogue {one of many}: In response to the “Touch the world,” advice that Alex Rover gives her, Alexandra Rover quavers, “I-I don’t wanna touch the world. It’s not . . . sanitary!”
Realization: Gerry as nerdy scientist speaks with a nondescript, American accent that makes him seem ever so . . . normal. Gerry as action-hero swashbuckler speaks with his native Scottish accent that makes him seem ever so . . . swOOn-worthy. Hmm. I wonder if that was intentional? ;>
Favorite On-Set Animal: Fred the Lizard. Yes, I know that Fred should be called “Favorite On-Set Reptile,” but . . . feh. Whatever. I have never seen a lizard pull so many interesting faces. Of course, I don’t make a habit of looking into the faces of lizards, so that point may in fact be useless. Moot, even.
Interesting Googleism: Do you realize just how many media mentions there are of GB as “the delectable Gerard Butler”? Gobzoodles. And I just added a couple myself. ;>
Not-so-favorite dialogue: “You’ve been writing chapter eight for months. You need to get it out of your head . . . and into your body.” Er . . . oh, great. Remind me, why don’t ya!
Final aside to Gerry as pseudo-geeky scientist: Just a hint. Weather-dot-com, kiddo. Always check it before heading out on a short sea voyage. Didn’t you learn anything from those crazy castaways? I mean, you almost bit it in this film. Again. And to Gerry as Himself, I don’t think I need to tell you that there are thousands upon millions of crazy women out here who grit their teeth every time you take on yet another role where you DIE before the credits run. Have a little mercy.
Post Script: I still don’t know exactly what happened to Nim’s mother, other than she isn’t alive and seems to have, I think, been swallowed by a whale? Which kinda, sorta explains why Nim and her dad are living alone out in the middle of the Asiatic sea on a deserted island, running amok with the animals, reptiles, and sea plankton. Because the mom’s not around to smack some sense into them! Although . . . I have to admit, having GB all to oneself on a desert island wouldn’t be such a bad scenario. Kind of like the apartment, only with hammocks and tropical breezes and no need for a dress code.
Post Post Script: Gerry as Jack? Your American accent slipped a time or two, sweetness. Just a teensy bit. You know, I do a mean American accent myself. I’d be more than happy to give you a few pointers. ;>
Post Post Post Script: Back to the original thrust of this post: Sorry, LorHen!!!!!! HONESTLY!!!! Mea culpa!
**********************************
A little side note: A wonderful reader has set up a Yahoogroups called Magic, Mystery, and Romance as a go-to place for fans of modern, magical, mysterious romances and romantic mysteries. My "Bewitching Mysteries" and Annette Blair's wonderful "Triplet Witch Trilogy" are just some of the romance and mystery series that can be discussed here. If you're interested, send an email to: Magic_Mystery_and_Romance-subscribe@yahoogroups.com.
Once you've joined, you can set the list up for a daily digest or individual emails, or even web-only if you prefer. Annette and I will both be a part of this reader's group, though probably not on a daily basis, especially when we are on deadline. :)
Another place for discussions for the Bewitching Mysteries is on MySpace: http://groups.myspace.com/mad4madelyn
*****************************************
Love to all,
Mad {madly!}
Thursday, May 01, 2008
Is It May Already? Really?!?
What the f*** have I been doing with my time? Work. That's it. Work. Very, very hard. I've been working. A lot.
All paraphrasing of one of my movie favorites aside, I really have been working. I've been on sabbatical for a little while now, just trying to regroup and re-energize and get back to feeling like myself again. The winter was a hard one, but . . . Spring Is Finally Here With a Vengeance {!}, and I caught the fever. Big time.
What is it about spring that makes you feel like everything has to be as fresh and new and bright and shiny? I've been scrubbing like a mad-woman {heh}, cleaning out closets, dragging loads of unneeded items to Goodwill, and just generally driving my family crazy. I've even been shop-vacc'ing the basement. In my defense, it needed it. The spiders were starting to set up subdivisions and cobwebby shopping malls.
Our yard has also been suffering some neglect, so I've been working on that, too, with a little help from some of the big, strong men I have in abundance around here. My biggest flowerbed is now refreshed, restored, and ready for action. I've added a low fence to keep my beloved pooch Daisy from making a bed out of the perennials, a couple of stepping stones to make access to the rambling Cecile Brunner rose easier, and the entire area is free of weeds. I've got my hopes pinned on a bunch of seeds I have sprouting in little peat pots -- every time I see a cottage garden in a magazine, my eyes glaze over and I drift off into that hazy netherworld of foxgloves and violets, lupines and delphiniums, sweet william and garden phlox, cabbage roses and hollyhocks, daisies and black-eyed susans, veronica, sweet alyssum, and more.
My garden space, on the other hand, still needs work! Lemon balm and oregano have launched a combined attack on all of the other herbs, and it looks like they're winning their bid for garden domination. I think I'm going to have to put my foot down. That, and a sturdy spade. =)
My mom thinks it's particularly funny that I've become a gardener these days. When I was little, she was always trying to get me to help her out with the weeding. The trouble was, I was as pale-skinned and freckled as a redhead can be, and I have a tendency to overheat without advance notice, and this was back in the day when people slathered coconut-scented oil all over their sun-loving bodies. She'd take me out to the big, country-style garden on my grandparents' farm, and we'd all weed for hours. HOURS. Did I mention the bugs? I am a bit {okay, a lot} phobic. I jump if something even remotely buggish comes near me, and I have been known to make amazingly agile leaps backward, upward, and sideways, shuddering and cringing and heeby-jeebying all the while. Most of the time I manage not to scream, though. I'm sure the neighbors appreciate that.
In other news, I am 98% done with a complete remodel of my main website, www.MadelynAlt.com, something that I'm actually pretty proud of. With any luck, I'll be loading it all in the next few days.
Aaaaaand, here's something just for fun. Just click on the link to cast your vote:
Choice #1: Tom, duh! He's honorable, he's sexy, what more could you want?
Choice #2: Marcus is my man! Who can resist a man who wears black leather pants while scrubbing a floor?
Choice #3: Neither is right for my Maggie-girl! We need someone new to slay her dragons and capture her heart.
Cast Your Vote Now . . .
Gosh, I hope that works! Bet you all couldn't guess I'm not the most tech-savvy girl out there. :)
Wishing you all a wonderful spring filled with fairy blessings and sweet scented flowers as you wile away the hours beneath a cloud-kissed sky... and a very blessed Beltane!
Love to all,
Mad {madly!}
All paraphrasing of one of my movie favorites aside, I really have been working. I've been on sabbatical for a little while now, just trying to regroup and re-energize and get back to feeling like myself again. The winter was a hard one, but . . . Spring Is Finally Here With a Vengeance {!}, and I caught the fever. Big time.
What is it about spring that makes you feel like everything has to be as fresh and new and bright and shiny? I've been scrubbing like a mad-woman {heh}, cleaning out closets, dragging loads of unneeded items to Goodwill, and just generally driving my family crazy. I've even been shop-vacc'ing the basement. In my defense, it needed it. The spiders were starting to set up subdivisions and cobwebby shopping malls.
Our yard has also been suffering some neglect, so I've been working on that, too, with a little help from some of the big, strong men I have in abundance around here. My biggest flowerbed is now refreshed, restored, and ready for action. I've added a low fence to keep my beloved pooch Daisy from making a bed out of the perennials, a couple of stepping stones to make access to the rambling Cecile Brunner rose easier, and the entire area is free of weeds. I've got my hopes pinned on a bunch of seeds I have sprouting in little peat pots -- every time I see a cottage garden in a magazine, my eyes glaze over and I drift off into that hazy netherworld of foxgloves and violets, lupines and delphiniums, sweet william and garden phlox, cabbage roses and hollyhocks, daisies and black-eyed susans, veronica, sweet alyssum, and more.
My garden space, on the other hand, still needs work! Lemon balm and oregano have launched a combined attack on all of the other herbs, and it looks like they're winning their bid for garden domination. I think I'm going to have to put my foot down. That, and a sturdy spade. =)
My mom thinks it's particularly funny that I've become a gardener these days. When I was little, she was always trying to get me to help her out with the weeding. The trouble was, I was as pale-skinned and freckled as a redhead can be, and I have a tendency to overheat without advance notice, and this was back in the day when people slathered coconut-scented oil all over their sun-loving bodies. She'd take me out to the big, country-style garden on my grandparents' farm, and we'd all weed for hours. HOURS. Did I mention the bugs? I am a bit {okay, a lot} phobic. I jump if something even remotely buggish comes near me, and I have been known to make amazingly agile leaps backward, upward, and sideways, shuddering and cringing and heeby-jeebying all the while. Most of the time I manage not to scream, though. I'm sure the neighbors appreciate that.
In other news, I am 98% done with a complete remodel of my main website, www.MadelynAlt.com, something that I'm actually pretty proud of. With any luck, I'll be loading it all in the next few days.
Aaaaaand, here's something just for fun. Just click on the link to cast your vote:
Choice #1: Tom, duh! He's honorable, he's sexy, what more could you want?
Choice #2: Marcus is my man! Who can resist a man who wears black leather pants while scrubbing a floor?
Choice #3: Neither is right for my Maggie-girl! We need someone new to slay her dragons and capture her heart.
Cast Your Vote Now . . .
Gosh, I hope that works! Bet you all couldn't guess I'm not the most tech-savvy girl out there. :)
Wishing you all a wonderful spring filled with fairy blessings and sweet scented flowers as you wile away the hours beneath a cloud-kissed sky... and a very blessed Beltane!
Love to all,
Mad {madly!}
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Mad's List of Universal Truths, Halloween/Samhain-Style
I've always enjoyed all those fun Top 10 lists, and as I was sitting here today, nursing a headache caused by too much makeup, not enough sleep, and way too much sugar, I thought, Hey! Perfect Blogging Opportunity!
Or faery wings. Yes, that's my son demonstrating his best Owen Wilson pucker below. And yes, he probably got his goofy sense of humor from his mom. I claim no responsibility for the blood above, though. Ick.
The wings look totally wrong from behind, by the way.
There's a whole lotta cobweb on our old wraparound porch, trust me. :)
Here's what I came up with. Universal Truths for those lovers of Halloween/Samhain. By the way, sorry for the blurry pics. My photographer was a 14 year old who doesn't have the patience to hold still. :)
Ready?
#10) At times like these, a girl can never use too much glitter
#9) Never let a 14-year-old boy loose with a pint of fake blood.
Or faery wings. Yes, that's my son demonstrating his best Owen Wilson pucker below. And yes, he probably got his goofy sense of humor from his mom. I claim no responsibility for the blood above, though. Ick. The wings look totally wrong from behind, by the way. #8) Always buy more candy than you bought last year {10 big bags, and we ran out in an hour and 10 minutes this year!}
#7) Glitter is something that goes with everything, and as such, should maybe even be used every day
#6) False eyelashes and the right makeup can make any woman look H-O-T, which is definitely cool. No wonder the stars like ‘em so much!
#5) Chocolate will always get a rave vote from Trick or Treaters
#5) Chocolate will always get a rave vote from Trick or Treaters
#4) Chocolate always gets a rave vote from those persons passing out the Treats, too. ;>
#3) Kitties pick up glitter like crazy
#2) Glitter in the hair one day means looking like Dreamy McSparkle on days two and three, no matter how much you shampoo and brush. Then again, guys seem to like that. ;>
#1) What goes up, must come down... but that can wait until the weekend. :)
There's a whole lotta cobweb on our old wraparound porch, trust me. :)A few more pics from Castle Alt:
That's about it, so until next year, remember:
Always Practice Safe Hex! And watch out for the zombies!
Love to all,
Mad {madly!}
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Halloween/Samhain Lovin'
Happy Halloween and Blessed Samhain to all! Here at the Alt household, our wraparound porch is absolutely dripping with cobwebs and purple and orange lights. Eyeballs blink away at passersby from the windows, and of course I put up the big moon with the flying witch silhouetted against it on my front door. A protective scarecrow watches o'er the proceedings, surrounded by jack o'lanterns, all sporting jaunty grins or wicked grimaces and patiently awaiting the touch of the match to the candles within. All the veggies and herbs that will be useful to us have been culled from our garden, with the rest remaining for whomever or whatever might need them. :)
I'll be walking around town with my son -- and yes, I dress for the occasion -- while he scavenges for treats from all of our neighbors. A friend is coming over to help hand out treats at Castle Alt, a wide variety of goodies. We generally have between 200-300 hobgoblins out our way. A fun time is generally had by all! I don't even have to worry about leftovers -- my highschooler takes them in for locker goodies. Though I might just snitch a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup and some M&M Darks for myself.
And yes, it's a good thing the candy doesn't last long! ;>
Happy Haunting to all,
Mad {madly!}
I'll be walking around town with my son -- and yes, I dress for the occasion -- while he scavenges for treats from all of our neighbors. A friend is coming over to help hand out treats at Castle Alt, a wide variety of goodies. We generally have between 200-300 hobgoblins out our way. A fun time is generally had by all! I don't even have to worry about leftovers -- my highschooler takes them in for locker goodies. Though I might just snitch a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup and some M&M Darks for myself.
And yes, it's a good thing the candy doesn't last long! ;>
Happy Haunting to all,
Mad {madly!}
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
On Signs, Banishing Rituals, and the Throne of Reckoning...
What led me to write paranormal? Nothing less than a sign. The kind of spiritual sign that is akin to the slap of a frozen salmon upside the head. The kind of sign that says, "Wake up, stupid! You haven't been listening! Go. Do. This. Now."
I need the big signs. I can be a bit dense... though I prefer to blame the constant need for multi-tasking. :)
I had been sticking to writing straight historical romance for so long that I had convinced myself that I couldn't/shouldn't/wouldn't try anything else. In fact, I had accumulated so many rejections that I had slowly, steadily, painfully arrived at the certainty that I would always be two steps behind the market trends in romance; that I was just not a person who could ever consider herself lucky. It just wasn't in the cards for me to be successful in romance.
I'd hit a particularly low point while attending an all-day workshop with a nearby group of writer friends. By that time, I'd already received the "SIGN!!!!!!"--an epic, fun, cool idea for a paranormal themed mystery series set in modern day Indiana--but didn't have the courage to follow the idea to fruition. At this everyday writers workshop, there was an exercise that we were all supposed to take part in, one that smacked of a banishing ritual to me. All writers present were supposed to take a length of toilet paper, and on it we were supposed to write a list of all the things that we saw as obstacles or challenges in the way of our success as writers, any frustrations that were affecting our work, any whining we needed to get off of our chests, and we weren't supposed to be nice, or hold back in any way. If we needed to bitch about anything and everything under the sun, this was our chance.
Well, I try to be a nice person on a day-to-day basis, but that wasn't what this exercise was about, and on that particular day, something inside me just . . . snapped. {I think maybe, just maybe, it was my niceness bone...} I measured out a length of toilet paper, then measured out a little more, broke out my gel pen, and started writing. And writing. And writing. Everyone present was laughing at how long it was getting, and at how fast and furious my pen was moving across the, um, page. I won't go into the details, but suffice it to say, anything that had or was going wrong at that point in my adult life was touched upon. It was negative, and it was petty, and it felt SO GOOD to flush that toilet paper down the throne of reckoning.
And it was a turning point for me. Somehow, in some way, that simple act of symbolically flushing away all of the negativity in my life cleared the way and began to open new doors for me, both spiritually and mentally. I wrote the book that I worried I wasn't a good enough writer to do justice. I started plotting out the series in my airy-wispy-atmosphere-filled-seat-of-the-pants way -- enough to get the bones of it, but not enough to remove the element of synchronicity that keeps me going. I found an agent who loved it, who found a publisher who thought it could work. And from those baby steps, we moved forward with The Bewitching Mysteries.
What do I like best about telling Maggie's story? The freedom. The absolute, utter freedom of creating a world filled with characters I love. Characters who speak to me and whisper their stories. Characters who could be walking the streets of the town I live in {but who, of course, aren't}, who are familiar and down-to-earth and filled with the quirks and idiosyncrasies we all seem to have in abundance. I love being able to bring a taste of Indiana, one of those forgotten states that exist almost nebulously somewhere in the middle of this great nation, into the public eye {and yes, we are aware that most people know nothing about us beyond the Indy 500}. I love being able to show a variety of spiritual and religious beliefs, and I love being able to talk about religious intolerance and hopefully demonstrate that it is never a one-sided issue. I love exploring the spirit world, and the ways that it touches our own. And I love writing Maggie. She is a searcher, and through her journey toward self-discovery I have learned so much about so many lovely spiritual paths. And what's more, I get to do it with a wink and a smile.
Love to all on this lovely autumn day,
Mad {madly!}
I need the big signs. I can be a bit dense... though I prefer to blame the constant need for multi-tasking. :)
I had been sticking to writing straight historical romance for so long that I had convinced myself that I couldn't/shouldn't/wouldn't try anything else. In fact, I had accumulated so many rejections that I had slowly, steadily, painfully arrived at the certainty that I would always be two steps behind the market trends in romance; that I was just not a person who could ever consider herself lucky. It just wasn't in the cards for me to be successful in romance.
I'd hit a particularly low point while attending an all-day workshop with a nearby group of writer friends. By that time, I'd already received the "SIGN!!!!!!"--an epic, fun, cool idea for a paranormal themed mystery series set in modern day Indiana--but didn't have the courage to follow the idea to fruition. At this everyday writers workshop, there was an exercise that we were all supposed to take part in, one that smacked of a banishing ritual to me. All writers present were supposed to take a length of toilet paper, and on it we were supposed to write a list of all the things that we saw as obstacles or challenges in the way of our success as writers, any frustrations that were affecting our work, any whining we needed to get off of our chests, and we weren't supposed to be nice, or hold back in any way. If we needed to bitch about anything and everything under the sun, this was our chance.
Well, I try to be a nice person on a day-to-day basis, but that wasn't what this exercise was about, and on that particular day, something inside me just . . . snapped. {I think maybe, just maybe, it was my niceness bone...} I measured out a length of toilet paper, then measured out a little more, broke out my gel pen, and started writing. And writing. And writing. Everyone present was laughing at how long it was getting, and at how fast and furious my pen was moving across the, um, page. I won't go into the details, but suffice it to say, anything that had or was going wrong at that point in my adult life was touched upon. It was negative, and it was petty, and it felt SO GOOD to flush that toilet paper down the throne of reckoning.
And it was a turning point for me. Somehow, in some way, that simple act of symbolically flushing away all of the negativity in my life cleared the way and began to open new doors for me, both spiritually and mentally. I wrote the book that I worried I wasn't a good enough writer to do justice. I started plotting out the series in my airy-wispy-atmosphere-filled-seat-of-the-pants way -- enough to get the bones of it, but not enough to remove the element of synchronicity that keeps me going. I found an agent who loved it, who found a publisher who thought it could work. And from those baby steps, we moved forward with The Bewitching Mysteries.
What do I like best about telling Maggie's story? The freedom. The absolute, utter freedom of creating a world filled with characters I love. Characters who speak to me and whisper their stories. Characters who could be walking the streets of the town I live in {but who, of course, aren't}, who are familiar and down-to-earth and filled with the quirks and idiosyncrasies we all seem to have in abundance. I love being able to bring a taste of Indiana, one of those forgotten states that exist almost nebulously somewhere in the middle of this great nation, into the public eye {and yes, we are aware that most people know nothing about us beyond the Indy 500}. I love being able to show a variety of spiritual and religious beliefs, and I love being able to talk about religious intolerance and hopefully demonstrate that it is never a one-sided issue. I love exploring the spirit world, and the ways that it touches our own. And I love writing Maggie. She is a searcher, and through her journey toward self-discovery I have learned so much about so many lovely spiritual paths. And what's more, I get to do it with a wink and a smile.
Love to all on this lovely autumn day,
Mad {madly!}
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Here a Muse, There a Muse... Where's Your Muse?
When I first began writing, I never really thought of creativity in terms of muses. Nope, back then, it was just me with the writing pad, the typewriter, the word processor, and eventually, the keyboard, hammering away at an idea that wouldn't leave me alone, and struggling to get down on paper what was in my mind. Just me . . . and the {insert writing instrument of the day here}.
Come to think of it, that does sound kind of lonely, doesn't it? Maybe that's why my muse finally swatted me over the head with her fairy dust wand and opened my eyes to her beneficent presence.
I have but one . . . but she has many faces.
I'm not sure quite how to describe her, but I know she's there. At times she is a fluttering, shimmering, sparkling deva that brings humor and wit to my stories, darting here and there about my shoulders as though wanting to be sure I get it all just right. At other times, she is a terrible taskmaster, her wand turning into a staff of power, heavy and gnarled, lending darkness to my writing where needed, and driving me to press on at even the most difficult moments.
When she's with me, the words flow, the ideas are effortless from brain to fingers, and I "drop into the page" as I'm writing, swallowed up by the story that is as much a part of me as my everyday life. When she's sulking because I'm not listening closely enough, every sentence is a battle, an entire paragraph a major accomplishment. She's feisty, opinionated, at times even snarky, and she knows just what I need at any given moment to turn me on, story-alistically speaking. She even knows when to back off, to give me time to recoup my energies. And when it's time to get back to work, she oft-times comes softly in dreams, whispering snippets of story, of people, of lost hopes and secrets and lies, and musing over what might be.
Her name is Leda, by the way. I don't know why. It just is.
How about you? Do you have a muse, or even gang of them? What gets you going, creatively?
Mad {madly}, not crazy, just muse-ically blessed :)
Come to think of it, that does sound kind of lonely, doesn't it? Maybe that's why my muse finally swatted me over the head with her fairy dust wand and opened my eyes to her beneficent presence.
I have but one . . . but she has many faces.
I'm not sure quite how to describe her, but I know she's there. At times she is a fluttering, shimmering, sparkling deva that brings humor and wit to my stories, darting here and there about my shoulders as though wanting to be sure I get it all just right. At other times, she is a terrible taskmaster, her wand turning into a staff of power, heavy and gnarled, lending darkness to my writing where needed, and driving me to press on at even the most difficult moments.
When she's with me, the words flow, the ideas are effortless from brain to fingers, and I "drop into the page" as I'm writing, swallowed up by the story that is as much a part of me as my everyday life. When she's sulking because I'm not listening closely enough, every sentence is a battle, an entire paragraph a major accomplishment. She's feisty, opinionated, at times even snarky, and she knows just what I need at any given moment to turn me on, story-alistically speaking. She even knows when to back off, to give me time to recoup my energies. And when it's time to get back to work, she oft-times comes softly in dreams, whispering snippets of story, of people, of lost hopes and secrets and lies, and musing over what might be.
Her name is Leda, by the way. I don't know why. It just is.
How about you? Do you have a muse, or even gang of them? What gets you going, creatively?
Mad {madly}, not crazy, just muse-ically blessed :)
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
A long and winding road... or how I came to be an author of paranormal mysteries
When I first started writing, lo, these many years ago {fourteen, to be precise}, I had no idea if I could write an entire book. Oh, I'd always written -- journals, essays, poetry -- because writing about my experiences was my way of dealing with the world. But a whole book, with characters I could relate to and care about, and situations that made sense, and a story that wouldn't let go? Did I really have the creativity? I didn't know, but I knew I wanted to try.
They say to write what you know, so it seemed sensible to try to write what I was most often reading at the time -- straight historical romance. It was harder than it looked. There were so many wonderful authors out there, so many who inspired me but at the same time made me think I could never be as good. But since I was writing just for myself, there was no pressure, no reason not to continue. Each new scene was a challenge, each chapter completed a major accomplishment. By the time I had finished the manuscript eighteen months later I was well and rightly hooked by the process of writing, but I still thought of myself as a dabbler. Sure, I was writing, but it was just for fun. No one else could possibly want to read my stuff...
I did mention my recent hobby to a couple of friends, and they asked to read what I had written. When they professed to actually enjoy it, I thought they were just being kind... as were members of a writing group I had found all the way across the state. But it got me to thinking. Could it be possible? Did I have a talent for this that I had never really expected to find?
The writing group suggested that I try submitting the manuscript to a New York publisher. So, with courage born of naivete, I went to my bookshelves and made a list of all the publishers represented there. A book at the library described the submission process. Armed with this new and foreign knowledge, I made my best attempt at writing a query letter and synopsis and sent off a few letters. Most of these came back with form rejections. I was more surprised than anyone when I received an actual request for the complete manuscript a month or two later from a major publisher. Back then I was writing on an old model home computer {a big step up from the typewriter I had started on, let me tell you} with an inkjet printer that was slow as molasses at printing off a 400 page manuscript, but print it I did. The expense of postage added to the expense of printing made me gulp, but it was far too late to turn back. I closed my eyes, crossed my fingers, and mailed it anyway.
As you might have guessed, that manuscript never did sell. The publisher kept it for eight months before rejecting it with a one and a half page letter telling me why they were returning it to me. Since I never really expected it to sell anyway, it didn't even hurt all that much. {Or is that pain just dulled by the time that has passed? Hmm...} I set the manuscript and the letter aside and just kept writing my stories, slowly, but surely. But my critique group didn't want to let it go. A letter with details wasn't just any old rejection. It was {and still is} rare to receive that kind of feedback. The publishing business worked with a set of unspoken rules and credos. Best that I learned them now and save myself heartache later.
Armed with my writing friends' collective knowledge, so graciously shared, and filled with a new hope, I continued to write and submit. But with each new manuscript submitted and rejected by all, the hope dwindled, and the self-confidence I had fought to attain began to wither. How could anyone continue to receive so-called "good" rejections for so many years but not sell the books she was writing? Maybe it was just not meant to be. Maybe I was kidding myself about this writing business. Maybe I should just quit while I was ahead.
I came to that point several times. Nearly quitting. Wanting to and not understanding why I couldn't seem to do it, why I clung to that last vestige of... well, not quite hope, but perhaps compulsion might describe it best, and all the while, a part of me was dying inside. Finally, even that part of me reached rock bottom. What was I doing? Why was I torturing myself this way?
Around that time I had had a strange experience where a story idea -- a character herself, really -- had come to me out of the blue and insisted I take down what she had to say, word for word. Information flowed from my brain to my fingers and out on the screen. Three pages of monologue in a kind of "brain dump" I had never before experienced. When all was said and done, I saved the file in my IDEAS folder and promptly forgot about it. I really had no clue what I could ever do with it. It wasn't suitable for historical romance. It wasn't even a romance at all, and furthermore, it was in first person. I had never liked first person! And it was paranormal. Now I have been a lifelong reader and researcher of the paranormal, so that part about it I liked, but it had never even occurred to me to include it in my writing. I was a writer of straight historical romance. This idea would never work for me. It was probably silly to even have saved it. Why-oh-why couldn't I get ideas that would sell?
I nearly gave up on writing altogether during that summer of my supreme discontent. But the universe had other ideas. I did actually stop writing for a few months. I read a lot, but I could no longer find things that sang to me. Nothing that resonated. Was it not enough that I was giving up on writing? Did I have to lose my love for reading as well? It hardly seemed fair.
I thought back to the last story I had read that had really gripped me, that had reached down into the very core of me and refused to let go: Outlander, by Diana Gabaldon. I took the book down again and tried to look at it with fresh eyes. What was it about that book in particular that I enjoyed so much? What I found surprised me. It wasn't the Scottish history or the wonderful Scotsman Jamie Fraser, as compelling as both of those things were to my soul. It was the epic nature of the book, the way it blended so many things -- including the paranormal -- and yet not one felt out of place. A cross-genre book that broke all the rules. It just felt... natural. Right. Meant to be.
And then there was the Goddess writer's seminar I attended, given by the wonderful Barbara Samuels and Jennifer Crusie. These two amazing women spoke eloquently about their "Girls in the Basement," their muses whom they likened to tough-and-difficult-to-please teenage girls. It was when they started writing to please their girls that they felt they truly found their niche. The sweet spot of story. Their seminar really got me to thinking. What if I let my inner self go? What if I forgot all about the editors I was trying to please? What if I forgot all about markets and writing rules and requirements and just wrote something for myself? What would that something be?
My mind kept wandering back to the strange idea I'd had months before. Well, it wasn't romance. It wasn't historical. It was completely and utterly different from anything I'd ever done before... but maybe that was what I needed most at that point in time. Somehow I needed to find the joy again. Maybe this was just what the muses ordered.
So I gave myself permission to turn off all the voices, all the editorial, to break whatever rules I wanted to break for the sake of the story, to just write what came to me through my Maggie's voice. If I wanted to throw in a kitchen sink, then I was going to do just that, and if I wanted it to be orange, then that's what it was going to be. The story idea had come to me as a mystery, so that's what I wrote. Maggie was a fresh voice in my head, like a friend I had known forever, and she made me laugh amidst the darker goings-on in the story. Another rule broken, ha ha! And all of spookiness made it that much better. Light and dark, funny and yet unnerving, modern and yet rooted in the Old Ways... Ghosts, and witches, and murder, oh my! And the story that came as a result scrubbed away the sadness and despair of ever publishing and it renewed my faith in my writing. I was a writer. Whether I was a writer who would publish or not, the fact that I wrote was a part of me that could never be taken away unless I allowed it to be.
Why it never occurred to me before to include the paranormal in my writing, I will never know. Maybe I just wasn't ready. Maybe I needed to discover my inner strength as I expanded my writing abilities. Maybe I had to go through everything I did in order to believe in myself in the end. Whatever the reason, by finally letting go and yielding to the wisdom of the universe, I found myself again. It was a long road, a winding one, but in the end one that gave me confidence and satisfaction both. Sometimes I wonder where the road will end, but I don't allow myself to dwell on that thought too long. After all, the joy of any journey should include points of interest along the path taken as much as the end destination itself. Something tells me I would do well not to forget that hard-won lesson again.
Love to all,
Mad {madly!}
www.MadelynAlt.com
They say to write what you know, so it seemed sensible to try to write what I was most often reading at the time -- straight historical romance. It was harder than it looked. There were so many wonderful authors out there, so many who inspired me but at the same time made me think I could never be as good. But since I was writing just for myself, there was no pressure, no reason not to continue. Each new scene was a challenge, each chapter completed a major accomplishment. By the time I had finished the manuscript eighteen months later I was well and rightly hooked by the process of writing, but I still thought of myself as a dabbler. Sure, I was writing, but it was just for fun. No one else could possibly want to read my stuff...
I did mention my recent hobby to a couple of friends, and they asked to read what I had written. When they professed to actually enjoy it, I thought they were just being kind... as were members of a writing group I had found all the way across the state. But it got me to thinking. Could it be possible? Did I have a talent for this that I had never really expected to find?
The writing group suggested that I try submitting the manuscript to a New York publisher. So, with courage born of naivete, I went to my bookshelves and made a list of all the publishers represented there. A book at the library described the submission process. Armed with this new and foreign knowledge, I made my best attempt at writing a query letter and synopsis and sent off a few letters. Most of these came back with form rejections. I was more surprised than anyone when I received an actual request for the complete manuscript a month or two later from a major publisher. Back then I was writing on an old model home computer {a big step up from the typewriter I had started on, let me tell you} with an inkjet printer that was slow as molasses at printing off a 400 page manuscript, but print it I did. The expense of postage added to the expense of printing made me gulp, but it was far too late to turn back. I closed my eyes, crossed my fingers, and mailed it anyway.
As you might have guessed, that manuscript never did sell. The publisher kept it for eight months before rejecting it with a one and a half page letter telling me why they were returning it to me. Since I never really expected it to sell anyway, it didn't even hurt all that much. {Or is that pain just dulled by the time that has passed? Hmm...} I set the manuscript and the letter aside and just kept writing my stories, slowly, but surely. But my critique group didn't want to let it go. A letter with details wasn't just any old rejection. It was {and still is} rare to receive that kind of feedback. The publishing business worked with a set of unspoken rules and credos. Best that I learned them now and save myself heartache later.
Armed with my writing friends' collective knowledge, so graciously shared, and filled with a new hope, I continued to write and submit. But with each new manuscript submitted and rejected by all, the hope dwindled, and the self-confidence I had fought to attain began to wither. How could anyone continue to receive so-called "good" rejections for so many years but not sell the books she was writing? Maybe it was just not meant to be. Maybe I was kidding myself about this writing business. Maybe I should just quit while I was ahead.
I came to that point several times. Nearly quitting. Wanting to and not understanding why I couldn't seem to do it, why I clung to that last vestige of... well, not quite hope, but perhaps compulsion might describe it best, and all the while, a part of me was dying inside. Finally, even that part of me reached rock bottom. What was I doing? Why was I torturing myself this way?
Around that time I had had a strange experience where a story idea -- a character herself, really -- had come to me out of the blue and insisted I take down what she had to say, word for word. Information flowed from my brain to my fingers and out on the screen. Three pages of monologue in a kind of "brain dump" I had never before experienced. When all was said and done, I saved the file in my IDEAS folder and promptly forgot about it. I really had no clue what I could ever do with it. It wasn't suitable for historical romance. It wasn't even a romance at all, and furthermore, it was in first person. I had never liked first person! And it was paranormal. Now I have been a lifelong reader and researcher of the paranormal, so that part about it I liked, but it had never even occurred to me to include it in my writing. I was a writer of straight historical romance. This idea would never work for me. It was probably silly to even have saved it. Why-oh-why couldn't I get ideas that would sell?
I nearly gave up on writing altogether during that summer of my supreme discontent. But the universe had other ideas. I did actually stop writing for a few months. I read a lot, but I could no longer find things that sang to me. Nothing that resonated. Was it not enough that I was giving up on writing? Did I have to lose my love for reading as well? It hardly seemed fair.
I thought back to the last story I had read that had really gripped me, that had reached down into the very core of me and refused to let go: Outlander, by Diana Gabaldon. I took the book down again and tried to look at it with fresh eyes. What was it about that book in particular that I enjoyed so much? What I found surprised me. It wasn't the Scottish history or the wonderful Scotsman Jamie Fraser, as compelling as both of those things were to my soul. It was the epic nature of the book, the way it blended so many things -- including the paranormal -- and yet not one felt out of place. A cross-genre book that broke all the rules. It just felt... natural. Right. Meant to be.
And then there was the Goddess writer's seminar I attended, given by the wonderful Barbara Samuels and Jennifer Crusie. These two amazing women spoke eloquently about their "Girls in the Basement," their muses whom they likened to tough-and-difficult-to-please teenage girls. It was when they started writing to please their girls that they felt they truly found their niche. The sweet spot of story. Their seminar really got me to thinking. What if I let my inner self go? What if I forgot all about the editors I was trying to please? What if I forgot all about markets and writing rules and requirements and just wrote something for myself? What would that something be?
My mind kept wandering back to the strange idea I'd had months before. Well, it wasn't romance. It wasn't historical. It was completely and utterly different from anything I'd ever done before... but maybe that was what I needed most at that point in time. Somehow I needed to find the joy again. Maybe this was just what the muses ordered.
So I gave myself permission to turn off all the voices, all the editorial, to break whatever rules I wanted to break for the sake of the story, to just write what came to me through my Maggie's voice. If I wanted to throw in a kitchen sink, then I was going to do just that, and if I wanted it to be orange, then that's what it was going to be. The story idea had come to me as a mystery, so that's what I wrote. Maggie was a fresh voice in my head, like a friend I had known forever, and she made me laugh amidst the darker goings-on in the story. Another rule broken, ha ha! And all of spookiness made it that much better. Light and dark, funny and yet unnerving, modern and yet rooted in the Old Ways... Ghosts, and witches, and murder, oh my! And the story that came as a result scrubbed away the sadness and despair of ever publishing and it renewed my faith in my writing. I was a writer. Whether I was a writer who would publish or not, the fact that I wrote was a part of me that could never be taken away unless I allowed it to be.
Why it never occurred to me before to include the paranormal in my writing, I will never know. Maybe I just wasn't ready. Maybe I needed to discover my inner strength as I expanded my writing abilities. Maybe I had to go through everything I did in order to believe in myself in the end. Whatever the reason, by finally letting go and yielding to the wisdom of the universe, I found myself again. It was a long road, a winding one, but in the end one that gave me confidence and satisfaction both. Sometimes I wonder where the road will end, but I don't allow myself to dwell on that thought too long. After all, the joy of any journey should include points of interest along the path taken as much as the end destination itself. Something tells me I would do well not to forget that hard-won lesson again.
Love to all,
Mad {madly!}
www.MadelynAlt.com
Sunday, February 25, 2007
The Single Most Important Bit of Writing Advice I Can Give You
The Witchy Chicks have been sharing publishing wisdom for aspiring writers all week. If you have a moment, please go here to benefit from their wonderful words of wisdom. On the same note but from a slightly different angle:
Selling that first book is a dream come true for so many writers. When The Call comes in, the world takes on a rosy glow, fairy sparkles drift down like confetti, and your cheeks hurt from that maniacal grin you can't seem to wipe off your face. Not that you mind. The world is now your oyster, and you are the pearl! Your life is going to change (in a good way!) overnight! You see dollar signs! Fame! Fortune! Someone to clean the bathroom for you!
Ah, the life of the published author. It doesn't get any better than this. Am I right?
Maybe. But then again, maybe not...
Being a new author in the writing biz can be a little bit like being submerged in a shark cage in the Bermuda Triangle -- the sharks are circling, the holes in the cage are bigger than you thought they were, and you're in danger of passing over into the oblivion of the abyss. If you're lucky you might go the easy way, but the hard way is nibbling away at your hard-won self-confidence, and you are horrified to find that the decision might not be yours to make.
The dangers? Oh-so-many things can go wrong. You might find that your editor has so many authors that he/she doesn't really remember your name (it's terribly disconcerting to have to remind the editor that bought your book who you are... again). Your book might have been bought as filler for a spot on the list, but nobody bothers to tell you -- in fact, they are hoping you don't realize it, because it brings up all sorts of uncomfortable questions that no one really has answers to. The agent you struggled so hard and so long to acquire might not be terribly interested in putting out a lot of effort on your behalf until you become a proven commodity -- something that takes excellent writing, an idea that grabs the reading community by its throat, perfect timing, years of building a readership, and a whole lotta luck. Your publisher might not show a lot of support until that same readership provides evidence of itself, which means you have a lot of work ahead of you trying to grab the attention of a lot of people who have no idea who you are or what you have to offer, because no one has ever heard of you or your book, let alone manage to come across it on bookstsore shelves, because the bookstore owners and buyers haven't heard of you, either. You have no say over the cover, little say over the title or back cover copy, little to no publicity unless you do it yourself, and to top off this bitter mouthful, you *will* at some point be asked to make changes to your story that you might or might not be comfortable with.
Still with me?
Take a deep breath, prospective author. I know you might have issues with control (most of us do), but I'm going to let you in on The Secret. You know, the one that you've KNOWN has been out there all along while you were struggling to learn your craft. The Secret that is whispered about on author loops, and shared in quiet corners at conferences.
Ready? Here it comes.
The only true control you will have is what you choose to put into the work. It's all about the work. Your writing, your voice, your characters, your world-building, your story. When your agent drops you because you're not moving up the ladder, when your royalties scarcely cover the groceries, let alone the heating bill on the house you can't afford, when publishers go out of business, or lines are let go, when the cargo train carrying copies of your book from east coast to west derails and bursts into flames, along with a large percentage of the first and only printing of your book (this actually happened, by the way), you will realize that you have absolutely no control over these very influential outside influences on your writing career. This will trouble you greatly. Try to ignore that little voice that insists you Must Retain Control At All Times. It isn't possible. Instead, devote the bulk of your energy to nurturing and learning and maturing at this career that is part craft, part art, and all you.
Protect. The. Work.
Guard it like a jealous dog with a particularly juicy bone. Don't let the negative voices of critics (whose numbers are truly astonishing, by the way) drag you down into the mire that is their world. They don't realize the amount of energy you put into your latest manuscript, how you struggled, how you bled. They only know that something about it did not work for them, but haven't the subjectivity to realize that their voice is only one in thousands. (With luck, hundreds of thousands. :) ) Don't play comparison games with other authors, whose careers are not the same as yours and never will be. (Just as you don't know the intricacies of their lives, you also don't know the intricacies of their careers, and the reality might not be as pretty as you might believe...) Don't waste energy on things that have no impact on your career, but can have a terribly detrimental impact on your ability to WRITE.
Protect. The. Work.
Learn to trust those people who are in your corner (agent, editor, marketing departments, publicity, etc.) to do their jobs. Do everything you can to help them do their jobs, but at the same time, realize that you have to be involved in your career, too. Learn as much as you can about the publishing business in all its glory. Ask questions, but be aware that some questions will not have immediate answers, and sometimes the answers aren't going to be ones that you will feel comfortable with. Plan out the way that you want your career to go, but be flexible. Read all of the wisdom from the W'Chicks as provided on the link above, and study it well... but always remember that the quality of Your Work is the real reason you're here.
Protect. The. Work. It cannot be said enough.
Love to all,
Mad {madly!}
Friday, August 18, 2006
Help... I need somebody, help... not just anybody...
I've come to a decision...
I've decided I'm not cut out for the writing world.
Well, I've decided that same thing several times in the last ten years, and every time I'm absolutely serious when I say it . . . so why doesn't it stick?
I'm a busy woman. Too busy. I have a husband, four active sons {two who will be on their way to college this upcoming week while my dh detours to Thailand, and two who just started their new school year today}, three perfect cats, an adorable dog who nevertheless is the most gleefully disobedient dog on the planet. I have a more than full-time job {necessary if I want to have a house to live in and food on the table}, a hubby who travels, and all of the bills, errands, and chores everyone else has -- although perhaps magnified just a bit, since I do live with five, count them, FIVE males, four of whom are between 6 foot 1 and 6 foot 5, which makes laundry a nightmare. {And did you know that our male counterparts don't see the messes that we do? It's genetic code, I'm told. By them. I don't know that I believe them.} I keep track of daily/weekly/monthly schedules for five other people. I have parents and inlaws who aren't always in the best of health, friends who drop hints about never having the time to get together, relatives whose feelings are hurt if we don't make Every Single Cookout held Every Single Holiday Weekend. Like everyone, I have vehicles that break down, home repairs that never seem to get done, yard work that I might enjoy if it didn't have the chance to get out of hand so darned quickly, doctor and dentist appointments, insurance claims to follow up on, paperwork for college financial aid . . . and on and on, ad nauseum.
Oh, and I write. I think.
So, you can probably see why I would come to this decision every now and again. I think it's probably a pathetic grasp toward regaining sanity in an out-of-control life.
How do you combat this? How do you find the joy in things you love when they become Gottas? And Fasters? The love is there, but it doesn't bubble up to the surface the way it usually does.
Methinks I need my Muse, or at least a fairy with an attitude, to chase the You Need Tos away.
All that being said, I do love the book I'm working on right now. Book 3 in the Bewitching series, with a never-before-used title I thought of all by my little lonesome, which WILL resonate with the Marketing Department, I do believe. But we'll see. No hints as yet, other than the fact that it features an Amish Lothario {yes, you heard that right}, folk magic, and good old-fashioned human failings that drive the plot to the bitter end.
Wishing you all a bit of fairy dust of your very own,
Mad {madly!}
I've decided I'm not cut out for the writing world.
Well, I've decided that same thing several times in the last ten years, and every time I'm absolutely serious when I say it . . . so why doesn't it stick?
I'm a busy woman. Too busy. I have a husband, four active sons {two who will be on their way to college this upcoming week while my dh detours to Thailand, and two who just started their new school year today}, three perfect cats, an adorable dog who nevertheless is the most gleefully disobedient dog on the planet. I have a more than full-time job {necessary if I want to have a house to live in and food on the table}, a hubby who travels, and all of the bills, errands, and chores everyone else has -- although perhaps magnified just a bit, since I do live with five, count them, FIVE males, four of whom are between 6 foot 1 and 6 foot 5, which makes laundry a nightmare. {And did you know that our male counterparts don't see the messes that we do? It's genetic code, I'm told. By them. I don't know that I believe them.} I keep track of daily/weekly/monthly schedules for five other people. I have parents and inlaws who aren't always in the best of health, friends who drop hints about never having the time to get together, relatives whose feelings are hurt if we don't make Every Single Cookout held Every Single Holiday Weekend. Like everyone, I have vehicles that break down, home repairs that never seem to get done, yard work that I might enjoy if it didn't have the chance to get out of hand so darned quickly, doctor and dentist appointments, insurance claims to follow up on, paperwork for college financial aid . . . and on and on, ad nauseum.
Oh, and I write. I think.
So, you can probably see why I would come to this decision every now and again. I think it's probably a pathetic grasp toward regaining sanity in an out-of-control life.
How do you combat this? How do you find the joy in things you love when they become Gottas? And Fasters? The love is there, but it doesn't bubble up to the surface the way it usually does.
Methinks I need my Muse, or at least a fairy with an attitude, to chase the You Need Tos away.
All that being said, I do love the book I'm working on right now. Book 3 in the Bewitching series, with a never-before-used title I thought of all by my little lonesome, which WILL resonate with the Marketing Department, I do believe. But we'll see. No hints as yet, other than the fact that it features an Amish Lothario {yes, you heard that right}, folk magic, and good old-fashioned human failings that drive the plot to the bitter end.
Wishing you all a bit of fairy dust of your very own,
Mad {madly!}
Friday, June 30, 2006
Paranormal Heroines, or why my Maggie jumps when things go bump in the night...
Anyone who has been writing genre fiction for long is bound to encounter The Rules. You know, the ones that other writers toss around with great abandon, like: "Your hero/heroine must be strong. They have to always be active-slash-aggressive, take charge of the situations they find themselves in, and be in command of their lives. You can't write cross-genre -- no one will buy it. Better to stick with one in order to sell. You can't mix humor with darkness -- again, you have to choose to be either funny or dramatic."
My primary goal when I started the Bewitching series was to flush the rules down the toilet and write what felt right.
My Maggie is not a kickass heroine. {Which is not to say I don't love to read them -- I do. I just can't seem to write 'em!} She is a little on the neurotic side, knows enough to question her reactions when the situation warrants it, and is basically feeling her way through life. She isn't drop-dead gorgeous, she isn't model thin, and she doesn't have a smile that drops men to their knees. Her hair frizzes when the humidity is high, she gets sunburned way too easily, and when she doesn't like what she's doing, she tends to procrastinate. She has an acerbic sense of humor that sometimes comes out wrong, but would bite her tongue before purposely hurting anyone's feelings... especially her mother, who drives her crazy. And as she speeds toward her 30th birthday, she has a tendency to wonder if she ever will meet that certain someone.
In other words, she's normal. A person I can relate to.
She's also an intuitive empath. That's another thing I can relate to.
Psychic heroines are a lot of fun, but I wanted to give Maggie something a little bit different. It's always difficult to come up with someone who is fresh and new and yet as familiar to us as our own sisters, but to me that's what Maggie is. She's your average, everyday kind of girl who is still struggling to get somewhere in life when from out of nowhere she finds herself in some paranormally charged circumstances that throw her neat and tidy world view for a loop. But while the discovery of a shadow world hitherto unsuspected knocks her a bit off-balance, it also empowers her. She's always known she was different from everyone around her, but this is the first time she's felt... special. Suddenly things click into place. The kinds of experiences she has always had but used to dismiss as imagination or coincidence have turned out to be real. Otherworldly and a bit magical, yes, but real. And as Maggie is beginning to discover, she's a lot stronger at her core than she ever realized.
This contrast between inner and outer, light and dark, myth and reality, is what keeps me intrigued and keeps me writing. All I can do is hope readers will find it as compelling as I do.
Love to all,
Mad {madly!}
My primary goal when I started the Bewitching series was to flush the rules down the toilet and write what felt right.
My Maggie is not a kickass heroine. {Which is not to say I don't love to read them -- I do. I just can't seem to write 'em!} She is a little on the neurotic side, knows enough to question her reactions when the situation warrants it, and is basically feeling her way through life. She isn't drop-dead gorgeous, she isn't model thin, and she doesn't have a smile that drops men to their knees. Her hair frizzes when the humidity is high, she gets sunburned way too easily, and when she doesn't like what she's doing, she tends to procrastinate. She has an acerbic sense of humor that sometimes comes out wrong, but would bite her tongue before purposely hurting anyone's feelings... especially her mother, who drives her crazy. And as she speeds toward her 30th birthday, she has a tendency to wonder if she ever will meet that certain someone.
In other words, she's normal. A person I can relate to.
She's also an intuitive empath. That's another thing I can relate to.
Psychic heroines are a lot of fun, but I wanted to give Maggie something a little bit different. It's always difficult to come up with someone who is fresh and new and yet as familiar to us as our own sisters, but to me that's what Maggie is. She's your average, everyday kind of girl who is still struggling to get somewhere in life when from out of nowhere she finds herself in some paranormally charged circumstances that throw her neat and tidy world view for a loop. But while the discovery of a shadow world hitherto unsuspected knocks her a bit off-balance, it also empowers her. She's always known she was different from everyone around her, but this is the first time she's felt... special. Suddenly things click into place. The kinds of experiences she has always had but used to dismiss as imagination or coincidence have turned out to be real. Otherworldly and a bit magical, yes, but real. And as Maggie is beginning to discover, she's a lot stronger at her core than she ever realized.
This contrast between inner and outer, light and dark, myth and reality, is what keeps me intrigued and keeps me writing. All I can do is hope readers will find it as compelling as I do.
Love to all,
Mad {madly!}
Friday, March 17, 2006
My Maaaad, Mad Little World
In addition to writing, I also work full-time. Things can get a little crazy in my corner of the world. I'm sure you've all been there. We also just took in a dog in the last month, and while he is the most adorable pup in the world, he has, shall we say, a stubborn streak. Anyway, I thought I might share a little about what goes on from day to day:
6:09 a.m. Wake up. Take dog out.
6:12 a.m. Jiggle doggie at the end of the leash, trying to make him hurry. Shiver uncontrollably.
6:18 a.m. Doggie still has not gone. Sh*t!
6:20 a.m. Give up. Drag doggie inside, as he's now discovered what fun romping in the snow can be.
6:21 a.m. Clean up dog mess. Silly dog will romp in snow, but not GO in snow. Sigh.
6:30 a.m. The morning rush to get ready for work and get everyone else out of the house to get wherever they need to get to on time. Because of all of this, you:
8:05 a.m. Enter building, late. Again.
8:07 a.m. Check email. Grumble to self over CERTAIN STUPID people who shall remain nameless, but it shall not reduce the impact of their INCREDIBLE STUPIDITY.
8:09 a.m. Distract self with thoughts of Scottish Hunks. In Kilts.
9:09 a.m. Force self to get to work.
9:15 a.m. Work is simply too much... work. Drift into daydreams. Again.
12:00 p.m. What was I supposed to be doing? Force self to go into panic mode.
2:22 p.m. Check email. Oh, look, some kind soul has sent me a picture.
2:23 p.m. Drool incessantly into keyboard.
3:33 p.m. Wasn't I supposed to be doing something? Oh, yeah. Work. Hard. Very, very hard.
4:33 p.m. Allow self a moment of respite in a new daydream involving Shirtless Scottish Hunks. In Kilts. On Breezy Days.
4:45 p.m. Wow, my workday is done. So soon!
***Mindless driving, errand-running, more driving, and home again...***
6 p.m. How can one little animal make this much of a mess? I think he may be related to beavers--there is not a single piece of wooden furniture that has not been gnawed. And did I mention his toilet paper fetish? Big Sigh. Start sweeping, making dinner, helping with homework, chasing the boys away from the video games. More doggie messes, more kid messes, more video games, good grief!
Muuuuuuuch later...Go into bathroom. Stare into mirror and groan over new wrinkles caused by the aforementioned CERTAIN STUPID NAMELESS PEOPLE WHO SHALL REMAIN NAMELESS, DESPITE THE FACT THAT THEY ARE MORE STUPID THAN ANYONE ELSE IN THE ENTIRE HISTORY OF THE EARTH AND REALLY SHOULD BE POINTED OUT AS SUCH IN ORDER TO SAVE POSTERITY FROM THEIR VAST AND LIMITLESS STUPIDITY. Not to mention the neverending stream of doggie messes.
Decide a bubble bath would be a very good thing.
Drift down into a mountain of bubbles {I'm sure I need not mention the kilted Scotsmen}, steadfastly ignoring the dog, who is now standing on his hind legs trying to drink the bath water.
Love to all,
Mad {madly!}
P.S. Anyone from work who is reading this post -- I'm not talking about you. Honest. And I really do work a lot harder than this probably suggests, as the pile of papers daily being marked 'DONE' and transferred to my filing cabinet will attest.
P.P.S. For my editor -- I really do insert writing into the schedule, whenever and wherever possible. Heh.
6:09 a.m. Wake up. Take dog out.
6:12 a.m. Jiggle doggie at the end of the leash, trying to make him hurry. Shiver uncontrollably.
6:18 a.m. Doggie still has not gone. Sh*t!
6:20 a.m. Give up. Drag doggie inside, as he's now discovered what fun romping in the snow can be.
6:21 a.m. Clean up dog mess. Silly dog will romp in snow, but not GO in snow. Sigh.
6:30 a.m. The morning rush to get ready for work and get everyone else out of the house to get wherever they need to get to on time. Because of all of this, you:
8:05 a.m. Enter building, late. Again.
8:07 a.m. Check email. Grumble to self over CERTAIN STUPID people who shall remain nameless, but it shall not reduce the impact of their INCREDIBLE STUPIDITY.
8:09 a.m. Distract self with thoughts of Scottish Hunks. In Kilts.
9:09 a.m. Force self to get to work.
9:15 a.m. Work is simply too much... work. Drift into daydreams. Again.
12:00 p.m. What was I supposed to be doing? Force self to go into panic mode.
2:22 p.m. Check email. Oh, look, some kind soul has sent me a picture.
2:23 p.m. Drool incessantly into keyboard.
3:33 p.m. Wasn't I supposed to be doing something? Oh, yeah. Work. Hard. Very, very hard.
4:33 p.m. Allow self a moment of respite in a new daydream involving Shirtless Scottish Hunks. In Kilts. On Breezy Days.
4:45 p.m. Wow, my workday is done. So soon!
***Mindless driving, errand-running, more driving, and home again...***
6 p.m. How can one little animal make this much of a mess? I think he may be related to beavers--there is not a single piece of wooden furniture that has not been gnawed. And did I mention his toilet paper fetish? Big Sigh. Start sweeping, making dinner, helping with homework, chasing the boys away from the video games. More doggie messes, more kid messes, more video games, good grief!
Muuuuuuuch later...Go into bathroom. Stare into mirror and groan over new wrinkles caused by the aforementioned CERTAIN STUPID NAMELESS PEOPLE WHO SHALL REMAIN NAMELESS, DESPITE THE FACT THAT THEY ARE MORE STUPID THAN ANYONE ELSE IN THE ENTIRE HISTORY OF THE EARTH AND REALLY SHOULD BE POINTED OUT AS SUCH IN ORDER TO SAVE POSTERITY FROM THEIR VAST AND LIMITLESS STUPIDITY. Not to mention the neverending stream of doggie messes.
Decide a bubble bath would be a very good thing.
Drift down into a mountain of bubbles {I'm sure I need not mention the kilted Scotsmen}, steadfastly ignoring the dog, who is now standing on his hind legs trying to drink the bath water.
Love to all,
Mad {madly!}
P.S. Anyone from work who is reading this post -- I'm not talking about you. Honest. And I really do work a lot harder than this probably suggests, as the pile of papers daily being marked 'DONE' and transferred to my filing cabinet will attest.
P.P.S. For my editor -- I really do insert writing into the schedule, whenever and wherever possible. Heh.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)