Computer Problems

Did I mention my darling geriatric kitty, Me-Me, peed on my computer the other day^*? I didn’t know until it started ticking. And zapping. And smoking. And sizzling. Then I watched its battery meter plummet to zero, and that was the end of my computer.

I would do very poorly living in the future I’m imagining for my friends at Barn Swallows’ Dance right now, one in which they wait for the technological world as they know it to collapse. I have discovered that my computer is an extension of me — at least an extension of my creativity.

I know I could write on paper, but the convenience is gone. With the current technology, I can write and edit in Scrivener (a composition software), proofread in ProWritingAid, and format in Atticus. I can download the ePub file or pdf file which will go straight into KDP for publication. I can create covers for the book in Photoshop. If that sounded like a bunch of babble to you, I just described the steps of writing a novel from writing to publication.

I now have a new — well, used — Surface Book 2, hopefully temporary. Once I got rid of the glitch that caused mouse clicks to fail and me to consider yeeting it through a window, it’s working pretty well. It’s a pretty muscular machine with a separate video card and an i7 processor (That’s technobabble for “good for graphics but not top of the line video professional specs”).

My goal for our tax return is to get a similarly-situated machine with updated specs, maybe a faster i7 chip. The biggest thing about a new machine over this one is that this one is not only technologically obsolete, but is probably at the end of its service life, or how long it will live before it breaks. And I don’t want to be without a computer again anytime soon.

^*You may wonder what would possess a 14-year-old cat to crawl on top of a table and maneuver herself to pee on a computer. I myself wonder. My best guess is jealousy, as I pay a lot of attention to my computer.

Author Fair

My local library is going to have an Author Fair this weekend, and I will be there. In fact, I will read an excerpt from one of the Kringle romances; I still haven’t figured out which. I’m tempted to read from It Takes Two to Kringle. In this scene, a beleaguered junior faculty member discovers that the attractive man who treated her to coffee is a Christmas fanatic who will create extra tasks for her. I’m going to have to figure this out by Saturday morning.

Author fairs are unnerving. I have never sold over three books at an author fair, because I’m an indie writer and my novels are quirky. My male leads are college professors, professional Santas, and pacifist warriors. My female leads are college professors, accountants, and former labor organizers. The immortals are not elves or angels, although they’ve been mistaken for both.

So I sit there and watch people walk by, and sometimes they stop and peruse. Sometimes I get to answer questions, and I feel like anyone could answer these questions better than me. But despite my impostor syndrome, I enjoy getting questions. I just wish I was more articulate on the “summarize the plot” questions.

So I’ll be setting up Saturday morning for a two-hour session with my books and my table trappings. Wish me luck!

A Few Minutes to Think

I’ve had a few minutes to think between final project grading and final exams, so I’ll share my thoughts:

I don’t believe in “manifesting”. God is not an ATM. But just in case I’m wrong, you’ve heard it here first: I want my niche to discover my writing. I want an engaged group of readers who can identify with the small magics of Barn Swallows’ Dance and the power of InterSpace.
On being 60: I have to accept that I’m now reminding my students of their grandmas rather than their mothers. It’s a shock to the system; I don’t feel that old. Moreover, I think it’s affecting my ability to write romance, because I’m not getting those looks anymore. You know, THOSE looks. (Not lustful, but playful. That’s just how I roll.) It’s not bothering me; it’s just weird, like I’ve lost a color in my vision (say magenta) and I barely remember having it.
If I didn’t have a third item in this list, you would feel vaguely dissatisfied. That’s because three is a magic number. It’s not universally magic, but in a list, we feel satisfied when there’s a third item. Two becomes magic because of its connection to ‘either … or’. And couples, of course.

That’s enough. It’s time for me to write for a while. But first, a cat:

In the Middle of Writing

Sorry I haven’t written! I am still caught up (and barely caught up) on NaNoWriMo, with 14,000 words left to write.

I finished editing Avatar of the Maker and, having nothing better to do, started a new novel in the Archetype series, Carrying Light.

Sage Bertinelli has been summoned by her Aunt Jeanne back to Barn Swallows’ Dance. When Sage arrives, she finds the collective, Tree-gifted and weary, debating how they will answer the twilight of the life they have known.

Forrest Gray, half-immortal, wants Sage to shelter in the safety of the collective. She, on the other hand, wants to go out into the changed world — and away from her turmoil. The two must look within and without to find the answers.

I didn’t think I would write another book so quickly after Avatar of the Maker, but NaNo calls.

Motivators

Sometimes motivators help us through dark creative doldrums.

I made some graphics for advertising Gaia’s Hands and Apocalypse, which I advertise on Twitter and Instagram and Facebook Pages. The graphics are based on the book covers and feature the impressive art of my niece Rachel.

I took the graphics and enlarged them to poster size and had them printed through Canva. They are now framed and ready to hang in my office over my desk.

The posters look professional and will save me through many moments of impostor syndrome.

Busy doing NaNo

I’m sorry I haven’t written lately. I have been busy doing NaNoWriMo, and it’s been a wild time. I’ve finished editing Avatar of the Maker, although I will revisit it later when it’s fresh. But I have 23,000 words left to write (or the editing equivalent) to win NaNo. So what am I going to do?

I’m going to lay out another novel in the Archetype universe, tentative title “Carrying Light“. This one takes place ten years after Avatar of the Maker, when the social and economic structures of the US are crumbling. The end of the novel In fact, the first battle in the collapse of the US and the beginning of Whose Hearts are Mountains. So think of it as the prequel to that.

Writing it will be interesting, because one of the main characters is Richard’s. He has a sequel to Gaia’s Hands called Gaia’s Future that needs some editing, and Sage Bertinelli is his main character.

I have a lot of work to do, but it’s fun work. Whee!

Two Days Till NaNo

Two days till NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) and I think I’m ready. Mostly ready. Not ready at all.

I’m not writing a new Christmas romance this year because I don’t really feel moved to. I don’t have a plot. I still love Christmas but don’t know what I can say about Christmas romances lately. Maybe I’m getting away from romance?

I’m in renegade mode this year, which means I’m working on something non-novel-writing. In my case, I will be editing the book I just finished, Avatar of the Maker. It needs a lot of help, even before the “put it in a drawer and let it sit for a while” stage. Baird is not developed enough and his disagreements with Leah aren’t developed enough and … trust me on this. I need to revise right now.

Sometimes I win NaNo (50k words or the equivalent), sometimes I don’t. But I always try.

I’m Done!

Ok, that was random. I’m done writing Avatar of the Maker, at least the first draft.

It needs a lot of work, enough that I don’t know where to start. At the beginning, I suppose. I think I need to make lots of notes on it and I don’t know whether to make these on paper or on electronic sticky notes. Or both; some of these notes are on the overall body of the book and others are specific. Writing a novel is hard; editing is harder.

I think I can describe the novel in one sentence: One death in this battle could kill millions.

In a paragraph: Leah Inhofer sees visions of a battle held in a dim place. Her best friend, Baird, draws her from her sheltered upbringing by his very existence as a Nephilim. They meet with Luke, a near-immortal Archetype who reels from the loss of the human patterns he carried. The battle Leah sees will happen, a battle of Archetypes. One death in this battle could kill millions of humans. Leah knows that she must act to stop the battle, at the risk of her life. She carries the responsibility as the Avatar of the Maker, who has the power to change the flow of reality.

My mind is already working on the book cover. That’s a long way from now.

Two Personal Goals

What was the hardest personal goal you’ve set for yourself?

The prompt above leads me to two different answers. What was the hardest personal goal I’ve set to myself?

The first: In 2000, I participated in the Susan G. Komen 3-Day Walk. To do this, I first had to raise $1000 for the organization. For the walk itself, I had to walk 20 miles a day for three days. This meant I had to train for the event by walking further every day. I started at two hours a day to a two day 13/14 mile event.

I survived the walk with a few blisters and a lifetime experience. The fundraising was the hard part, with a chunk of the money provided by Walter Cronkite. Yes, the most trusted man in America Walter Cronkite. (Anyone younger than boomers should look him up). No, I didn’t know him. But a friend of a relative of his called in a favor. Sometimes, I guess, the stars align.

The second: I wrote my first novel. I’ve been writing since third grade, when a teacher (who didn’t realize she was teaching 3rd-graders a high school curriculum) taught poetry. I remember doing well in haiku, struggling a bit with diamanté, and being totally overwhelmed with sonnets. I wrote my first published poem that year, if the classroom’s front door was a publication. I went on to write descriptions, short stories, a short play, more short stories … But never a novel. I thought I had irredeemable problems with plotting a long story.

Many many years after that, my husband is responsible for my writing my first novel. I was writing several stories around the same characters. I was almost obsessed with them. Richard said to me, “If you’re going to keep writing short stories, you might as well write a novel.” My instant response was “I can’t write a novel. I have irredeemable problems with plotting a long story (or something like that).

I started writing, and admittedly I did have problems with plotting at first. My novel read like a bunch of short stories at first, and I rewrote it three times until I came up with a result I liked. My other novels didn’t have the same fault as I learned the narrative shape of a novel. The first novel (not the first published) was Gaia’s Hands, which has been published on Kindle.

For honorable mention, I should mention learning how to drive. I didn’t learn to drive till I was 32. The first time I took drivers’ ed in high school I failed for stopping the car in the middle of the railroad tracks to check for trains. (It’s not incomprehensible if you take into account I have a learning problem with spatial and sequential relationships.) The second time, I barely passed but didn’t feel comfortable enough to drive. I learned for real at 32 with the most talented drivers’ ed teacher there ever was. There is talent involved in teaching people to drive. There’s patience, there’s talking someone out of quitting, and there’s the ability to explain things in a way that someone who processes things differently will understand.

I appreciate the goals I’ve struggled with more deeply than the ones that came easy to me. They built more of my character. They became the accomplishments I judged myself by. It’s strange, because I have a PhD and I don’t weigh that among my greatest accomplishments. My greatest accomplishments have been the hardest.

Interrogating Forrest Gray

When I have a new character for a future writing (in this case a short story), I feel compelled to have a conversation with them. To interrogate them, as it were.

I walk into the cafe, looking around for the young man I’ll meet for coffee. One of the great things about being a writer at age 60 is that you can have imaginary coffee with good looking young men.

My coffee date sits in the back corner. Not tall, and not big, he leans back in the chair reading a book. His black hair falls just past his shoulders.

He looks up and smiles as if it’s a habit of his. I know his father and his mother; it tracks. Deep brown eyes and a short nose, an oval face, the face of the Siberian aboriginals, the face of the Bering Strait Archetype’s Nephilim son.

“I was wondering when you would catch up with me.” Forrest put down the book, which I noted was on natural dyeing techniques. I had heard Forrest had apprenticed himself to Elaine and her fiber arts at the collective.

“Elaine has just forgiven me for how much fermenting Chinese indigo smells.” Forrest raises his eyebrows; he has his father’s charm and his mother’s gift with words. “Luckily, I’m not dyeing at her space; Janice found a spare corner of her barn space she’s letting me use.”

“Aasha hasn’t needed you at the infirmary lately, has she?” Forrest’s talent was the knitting of bones, of skin, and oddly the knitting of wool.

“No, but Baird had a kid — a baby goat — who had broken his toe. We fixed that up for him. Cute little kid. I’ll be honest, I don’t like using my gift, but it’s better that we have it for emergencies.”

“I’m curious,” I said. “Are you planning on staying at Barn Swallows’ Dance?”

He brushed back his hair. “I think so. I couldn’t use my talents outside, you know. I don’t know what an ordinary doctor would make of me, although I’m told we are within tolerances of human. And my mother’s here, still trying to figure out how I grew up so quickly.”

“You were born grown-up!” I grimaced at him.

“She knows that, of course. She knows she didn’t sign up for an ordinary family.”

“Does your dad still visit?” I asked cautiously.

“All the time. He’s become fascinated with Barn Swallows’ Dance, particularly in the dinner menu. And he still courts my mother, who considers him ‘not bad for a man’.” Forrest laughed. “I think they’re quite the couple despite that.”

“What do you do at the collective when you’re not fixing bones?”

“A little of everything. I’m on sheep-shearing duty, and I’m trying to figure out the alpacas. I work with Jeanne, particularly in grafting trees; we’re working on better apricots in the food forest right now. I’m trying to take over the coffee roasting from Jeanne, but she caught onto that pretty quick.”

I ask my last question, wondering how Forrest will answer. “What are you looking for?”

“I don’t know. I am looking for something, or maybe something is looking for me. My father was never a mystic; an Archetype’s relationship with the Maker is rather prosaic. My mother, on the other hand, believes in things. Probably because she’s from Barn Swallows’ Dance. I’m just waiting, though, for it to show its face.”