Category: Uncategorized

Soul-searching


I’m doing some soul-searching lately.


One of my dreams has been to get traditionally published. Lately, I feel like I’ve been held hostage by that dream.

The original reason I started writing novels instead of short fiction was because I wanted more recognition (readers) than I would get with short fiction. I wanted to establish myself as a recognized writer.

The reason I wanted to establish myself as a writer was because of what has happened to me for the past several years.

Eight years ago, two things happened at once that turned my life upside-down: my department was disbanded by the university, and I subsequently was diagnosed with Bipolar II after the stress pushed me into a severe mixed (hypomanic/depressed) episode. 

I have moods were too good. The medication I take evens out my moods, so I don’t have depression. But I don’t have my euphoric episodes that I mistook for self-esteem either. So I don’t look at myself as that amazing person anymore, and I realize that I wasn’t, and am not, amazing at my job. (I still have low-level depression, and I’m not as quick at things as I was when hypomanic.)

Back to the writing. I fell into writing because I wanted people to think I was amazing. I wanted to compensate for how I’m doing at work. I wanted to feel I was good at something, and I’m a bit addicted to external validation. 

Where does this leave me? I don’t think it’s likely that I will get traditionally published, given the market. I don’t think I will ever get the recognition I crave. 

What I need to do is learn how to live with it.


Excerpt from Gaia’s Hands Rewrite



There is something about her, Josh wrote, letting words flow onto the page. Lush and bountiful. Cool and deep, like a forest. Like the plants she tends. He remembered the lecture he had crept into, feeling again like a stalker, even though it was open to the public. He had no reason to be there except to see her, but he remembered her speaking about permaculture guilds, plants living in mutual relationships. Jeanne and the plants …

His vision blurred. He saw a green mound where the room had been, lit by a brilliant shaft of pure sunlight. Fruit trees and vines surrounded the hill and climbed up it, glowing in the light. And under the tallest trees, two intertwined apples bearing impossibly large fruit, Jeanne stood offering one of each apple.

Jeanne, he didn’t fail to notice, was naked.

The vision dissipated as quickly as it had come. Josh found himself again in the busy room, surrounded by the murmur of voices, the people in sweaters and snowboots, winter coats hanging off chairs. 
 I’m still not used to seeing things, Josh thought. I’m not sure I’ll ever be.  He steeled himself for the repercussions of his vision, because he never saw visions without consequences. He knew the migraine would come in a few hours, but the vision dared him to press on.

The dreadlocked waitress set down his order — a red-eye — the better to try to forestall the migraine. “I don’t know your name,” she addressed him. “I’m Zoe.”

“Josh Young. I teach at the college. Instructor in English.” He surreptitiously shut his notebook to obscure the subject of the evening’s musings. 

“This is your regular order, right?” Zoe appeared to be doing some mental arithmetic in her head, Josh noticed.

“Yes. I’ll be a regular here. It’s a good place to write.” He felt himself saying the words despite his more fearful self wanting to run out and never see Jeanne Beaumont again. He thought he could feel his fate seal with those words. 

Need ideas for retreat and refresh!



I’m not sure how to arrange some sacred writing space. By this I mean the type of space where I can recenter and recharge and dedicate myself to writing just in time for July’s Camp NaNo. I’ve been sitting in my living room at my laptop since March 9 (not non-stop, although it feels like it) drinking coffee and typing. Even with lots of coffee and classical music, my writing just feels like more online classes and work rather than creativity.

I really could use a spa vacation. Or a writers’ retreat. But this is the age of COVID, and I suspect time in the Grotto at The Elms is not safe, and Mozingo Lake has no cabins for retreat.

Looking for suggestions for how I can get a retreat under COVID restrictions!

Musing on the search for quality.



Sorry I’m late; I had to write a couple pages on my final paper for my disaster mental health class. So here I am:


I’m looking for another developmental editor to look at two of my novels (the two I think are most ready for prime time) to see if I can improve them some more to get an edge toward getting published. 

I love dev editors, but I wonder if this is wasted effort. I read a tweet today that suggested that agents aren’t even taking fantasy at this time. But I don’t know if it’s wasted time and money, because I want my books to be the best they can even if I’m self-publishing. 

I wish I knew whether the issue was the market or my writing (or both?) 

What do I do now?



“I’m just not as compelled by your story as I would like.”


This pretty much summarizes the rejections I have gotten lately, and I wish I could interpret the message so I can improve my books. What does this mean? What would it take to be compelling? 

I’m frustrated and don’t know what to do at this point. I don’t know whether it’s just their taste or the popularity of my current memes or my writing. 

I don’t know where I can send my work for review because my work has already been through a developmental editor and beta readers. Is there a type of editor for “not compelling enough”?

I don’t mind criticism is there’s an idea of how to remedy. I have nothing to go on here. 

Any ideas, readers? 

A Hiatus from Fiction



I’m not going to be writing too much for the next few days — or at least I’m not going to be writing creatively the next few days. I have a big paper due Friday for my Serving Diverse Communities in Disaster paper. I’ll try to knock out three pages a day so I don’t get stuck doing everything at the last minute.


When I’m done with this paper, I’ll be done with the summer class. But then I’ll be working on improving online presence in my class this fall. But that can be paced as well, and I will have time to write. 

Wish me luck on this paper!


A Values Crash



I didn’t write yesterday. I felt too swamped with work, even though the only thing I had going was a class presentation at 8 AM. Yes, 8 AM on a Saturday. I needed the rest of the day to recover.


So today I’m going to rest. And not think about Gaia’s Hands for a bit. I have never struggled so much with a book in my life. I am wondering if I should put it aside again and write something else. Like a short story or two. Or another novel. 

I’m obviously avoiding Gaia’s Hands. I have been suggested to write this as a romance novel. I want this book to live up to its potential, yet I don’t see romance as a way to do that. And I feel bad that I don’t hold romance in a better light, because it’s largely written by women and I treasure women writers. In other words, I’m suffering from a values conflict.

But it IS a romance novel, with Jeanne and Josh’s relationship taking center stage. I have to get over my feelings about romance or write it romance-secondary/subplot to make it happen. If you have any advice, please let me know.

Coffee and Struggle

#nomakeup #nofilter #quarantinehair 
This is me at the local coffeehouse I’ve been talking about. I haven’t been going very fast with my writing — this novel just doesn’t want to be written. 

I think I’ve written 1500 words in the past two days and rearranged another 1500. Usually when I write, it’s 2000-3000 words a day, especially when I have this much free time. 

Despite my outline and my general idea of how the story goes, I’m having trouble writing it. I’m having trouble feeling the story. This shouldn’t surprise me; I’ve been very discouraged lately. Too many rejections. Too many “this story isn’t really grabbing me”. I’ve changed the beginnings of the stories to help people get into them more, but I still fear more rejections.

So, despite that smile, I’m struggling right now. I’m looking for a breakthrough. I’m looking for a chance.

Interrogating Josh



I’m sitting at my favorite coffeeshop with its board games on the walls, its sepia walls and Postmodern Jukebox playing on the speaker. My spot is one of the two comfortable chairs halfway up the length of the shop. My computer is perched on the stand in front of me. I’m not, however, making any headway into my story.


I stop, frustrated, and take a sip of my coffee. I buckle back down to writing, or at least staring at my keyboard.

A voice, a light tenor, spoke close beside me. “May I sit down?” 

I look up to see a slender man with black bangs threatening to fall into his eyes. I know this man; I smile and motion to the seat. “Josh, it’s good to see you.”
“I was in the neighborhood and — ” he shrugged. “I thought I’d come in and talk.” He sat on the other upholstered easy chair.

“You’re just the person I wanted to talk to,” I replied. Josh nodded as if he already knew that. Which, of course, he did, being a figment of my imagination.

Talking to one of my characters always felt eerie, like the veil had lifted between this world and the world I wrote about, which looked remarkably alike except for the presence of Powers. Josh, slight and young as he was, held some of that power, and I could feel it in the economy of his movements, in his direct gaze.

“So, Josh,” I began, a little nervous. “You’ve grown.”

“Not really,” he said wryly, indicating his slight build. “I’ve just gotten older.”

“That’s the point. You know what you want now. You’re not having the puppy crush you had a few years ago.” Josh’s crush on Jeanne Beaumont, the botany professor, was standard knowledge between the two of us. 

“I still want Jeanne. Maybe I can get her to believe me now. But still, I’m …” Josh trailed off, and I finished off the sentence in my mind. Twenty years younger. 

“But this is Jeanne,” I offered. “Jeanne’s not exactly — typical.”

“That’s good. Neither am I,” he smiled ruefully.

That’s an understatement, I thought. I imagined I could feel his ki, his energy bunched up in his solar plexus. True power was always quiet, needing not to introduce itself unless necessary. 

“So, what now?” I asked him out of the companionable silence.

“I introduce myself. Worst that can happen is we end up being friends. Or I make a fool of myself.” He looked at his hands.

“But that’s not going to stop you, is it?”

“No. My gut tells me this is what I need to do.” His gut. His ki. The source of his quiet assuredness.

And this is how the story will start.