I want to do nothing today. Absolutely nothing. I want to store up the nothingness so that when I go through my busy week, I feel rested and open to whatever the week throws at me.
It’s hard for me to do nothing. I will end up doing something, even if it’s reading Quora all day (a waste of time; I would probably accomplish more by napping). I will check on the plants in the basement and, if I feel bored enough, I will possibly write. That’s the only thing that gets me writing these days — absolute boredom, and my writing is desultory and not flowing.
If it were possible to store up sleep, I would take a nap. But napping will keep me awake at night, and I can’t afford to miss my lifetime sleep.
I will end up emulating the example of my cats, who do nothing for hours a day. Right now, Chloe is laying on the arm of my chair, cuddling up against me. I could certainly do worse.
Yes, I am an author. I have two series, one of which is a seasonal romance series. There is a society of secret Santas who recruit people who show the spirit of giving. Couples get caught in the Christmas spirit and fall in love. When the inevitable tribulations come along, they have to battle circumstances — and mostly themselves — to find their happily ever after.
The second series is called Hidden in Plain Sight, and involves an agricultural collective whose land has been taken over by a demigod and whose history involves preternatural beings and a battle that almost doomed humanity. Its people are a people of secrets, and their concerns are both otherworldly and very, very human.
I can’t imagine why anyone would want to write a biography about me, much less buy one. I live an ordinary life, one where too many things came easily to me, and one in which I found my niche and settled there. All the adversity was in my childhood (and there was enough there for one lifetime). All the interesting times in my life were in my twenties, and they weren’t that interesting. I suppose one could write about how I’ve managed to live with bipolar disorder. Even that has been easy for me; my medications for the most part have been effective. I live a blessed life, one which does not lend itself well to biography. I like it this way; I’m much too old for drama these days.
I haven’t had great, amazingly fantastic news in so long, I have to use my imagination to think about what I would do if I got it. Luckily I have a great imagination. Maybe this is a factor in getting older, but I’ve gotten more bad news (like people dying) than good news these last several years.
Wow paper background with colorful geometric confetti. Vector illustration.
What would be great, amazingly fantastic news? Winning the lottery or snagging an agent, winning an award at work or selling a lot of books. Maybe I expect more from great news than I did when I was younger; I’m not sure.
The first thing I would do if I got great, amazingly fantastic news is let my husband know. Probably by text, because I’m not a big one for phone calls. It’s not a terribly exciting answer, but there it is. His response would be “Yay!” because he’s not an excitable person.
We’d probably celebrate later at a local restaurant, and we would discuss what to do with this great, amazingly fantastic (I love that phrase) thing that befell us, because even great, amazingly fantastic things have consequences.
I’m going to sit here and think of great, amazingly fantastic news. I’ll let you know if anything comes my way. After I tell my husband.
According to some marketing sources, I should be mentioning my books once every three days as a ‘content creator’. I think that’s a bit excessive and that you don’t want to hear about them that often. This is probably part of my Midwestern Female SyndromeTM, where I want to be perfect and to avoid attention at the same time.
I can see where Midwestern Female SyndromeTM can get in the way of selling books. I believe, to some small extent, that our feelings and thoughts and attitudes affect outcomes. Not necessarily in a woo-woo way, but that internal baggage keeps us from doing the things we need to do to succeed. I’m sure this is the case with me. Notice I even put ‘content creator’ in quotation marks.
I’m not sure how to get rid of the internal baggage about writing and selling my books. One piece of advice that I should follow is “fake it until you make it”, but that sounds too much like a grifter’s motto to me. My approach has been to hope that something external brings me to the attention of readers (that is besides the marketing I do here, in my newsletter, on Bluesky and Threads, on Facebook …) It’s not that I don’t market, or that I don’t market often, but that I don’t market with confidence, and maybe that shows.
So, if you want, check out my author’s page right here.
I finally wrote for a bit yesterday. It didn’t really flow, but I got about 400 words in, better than I have done in a while. I’m writing on a novella that is going to tell a different sort of origin story.
How did it feel? It felt good; it felt productive. I am getting a feel for the characters, including InterSpaceNet. All the characters have been regulars in the Hidden in Plain Sight series, but we’re seeing more of Simon, the sysop for the collective. Simon’s hacker tendencies have been tapped with Luke’s goal of finding an answer to a pressing question. By the end of the story, Luke and Simon will know more than they’re comfortable with.
I’m largely pantsing this story (‘Pantsing’ = ‘flying by the seat of my pants’) — I just got the idea to insert the short story that spawned this into the body of the novella, and now I don’t know if the shape of the novella is correct. My gut tells me it’s correct enough. I can fine-tune it later.
I won’t write today because I need some rest this weekend. But maybe I’m moving forward.
The other day, I figured out that the genre I’m writing is magical realism. It had never occurred to me that writing about a theoretically real place (Barn Swallows’ Dance, an ecocollective) with preternatural guests and a resident demi-god would be magical realism. Especially as the stories feature allegories for all-too-human situations.
I thought my works were just some very subdued contemporary fantasy, some bastard children that would never sell because they’re just not … enough. I wrote the books because of something within me that said they had to be written.
I’ve always wanted to write magical realism. Maybe knowing this will entice me to write.
This is the longest I have gone without writing. I am concerned about this, because I’m afraid I’m losing the habit. I can think of some reasons I have had so much trouble writing.
First reason is that I am facing the fact that my books may never get enough readers. It takes a miracle to get attention. Or notoriety, but I’m reluctant to go that far to get readers. I usually combat this by reminding myself that my focus should be on writing for the sake of writing. That doesn’t always work.
4×4 or truck stuck in the mud at sunset on the Applegate Trail, Black Rock Desert, NW Nevada, US
Which brings me to crippling self-doubt. I compare myself to people who get published and selling books, and I feel that there’s something wrong with my writing that readers avoid it. This is contradictory with the first reason — if people aren’t buying my books, how do they know that they’re bad? My mind is not listening to reason, however.
Third, but just as important, is that I am not finding flow in my writing lately. I’m working on a novella based in the Hidden in Plain Sight universe, and it is bogging down before it’s even started because of my nagging feeling that I have not structured it right. The other, the latest Kringle book, is likewise bogging down because of structural issues. I’m using an outline but still struggling with this.
Part of this is that none of my ideas have captured my imagination. They all feel like contractual obligations, like that album the band had to make because the record company wanted them to.
Thus, I have fallen out of the habit of writing except for this blog. I write it every day, at this point for 170 days running. Maybe this is a good thing because I have a challenging spring semester with one of my classes. Maybe this helps me in the seed-starting season (we’re going to have a garden this year if it kills us, and that’s my responsibility).
I could give up writing — I have enough books to edit and release that I’ll be releasing books yearly for the next three years. I have written sufficient books to call myself an author. I would never have to release another book other than the ones I have already written. But I miss the flow of writing, something that helped my well-being and which defined me.
I need some reassurance, some encouragement, some breakthroughs in plotting or an idea that excites me. I need one of those factors to budge so I get motivated to write.
I want to remind my readers that I write books. I don’t mention that much.
I write romantic fantasy and fantasy romance. The difference between those is the emphasis; fantasy romance is mainly romance and romantic fantasy mainly fantasy.
The fantasy romance novels concern the Kringle Society, a secret society of Santas that infiltrate towns with good deeds. Quirky people fall in love and become involved in the community. You will find Santa scholars, Renaissance re-enactors, toymakers, college professors, and the occasional accountant among the people featured. These are sweet romances; ‘closed door’ in romance parlance.
The romantic fantasy novels feature an agricultural collective, what some might call a commune. The residents are hard workers; they are pacifists, back-to-nature sorts, and people who seek community. Add to the mix immortals, the earth-soul Gaia, and the possible demise of humanity, and you have a people with life-changing secrets hidden in plain sight.
I believe we influence the path our lives take by our thoughts. Would I go as far as saying our thoughts cause reality? Realistically, no, but I can be superstitious. At the very least, I believe that my thoughts subconsciously affect my actions.
This comes to play in my writing career (can I call it a career?) I am afraid of people discovering my books. I have a walloping fear of being exposed as a fraud, of being called a bad writer, of people objecting to my sometimes controversial twists. There’s an entire list of lurking fears.
Could this be impeding anyone discovering my writing? As I said, I can be superstitious. It’s not consistent with the rationality of a professor, but I leave room in my life for the less-than-rational. Which means I have to do something about this.
I am envisioning a simple ritual, where I write all the things I’m afraid of on a good piece of paper with my favorite fountain pen, and then I burn it. Probably in the sink, so I don’t catch the house on fire. Do I believe this will work? It fits in the framework of the superstition.
Words Like Me 