My Big Fat Patchwork Novel

We've heard a quilt is a metaphor for life so many times that it's become cliché. And I try to avoid using clichés...so I'll put on it my own twist and use it anyways to explain why I'm struggling so much with my WIP.

This quilt was the first I'd ever attempted, my debut textile project. As you can see, I didn't start out sewing a small, crib-size quilt with a simple four-block pattern. Instead, I chose a complicated nine-patch block, of which five patches were constructed from tiny triangles. I never considered a crib quilt -- I skipped right to queen size. And, I added to the original pattern, creating two additional borders (the skinny yellow border and the border that's a single row of stars were my ideas). As I struggled with my WIP outline this week, I realized that my creative methods are the same, regardless of the medium I'm working with. It's surely a mild form of arrogance, or perhaps an inability to know my own boundaries, but I've never been able to accept myself as a novice.


Short stories are easier for me to write. I'm comfortable dealing with one significant moment in time. Transitioning to the format of a novel is brand new territory for me. But like my big fat first quilt project, I've thrown myself into the deep end of the creative pool.

Rather than construct a linear plot that fits into a basic three act formula, I'm working with two distinct storylines. Two strangers, dealing with the conflicts in their lives, are fated to cross paths after a computer-generated phone call puts them on a collision course. Their lives don't intersect until midway through the book. Until then, chapters go back and forth, sometimes narrated by one character in one part of the country, and other times narrated by the other in a different city, so that the reader understands and sympathizes with both by the time they arrive at their crossroad.

I've struggled with tying their two separate experiences together. I'm worried the book will come across fractual, with odd patchwork pieces that don't fit together. My answer to this quandary is theme. Both characters, as different as their circumstances and as polar opposite as they are on the morality scale, are connected by the theme(s) I'm exploring throughout the book.

A novice novelist? Me? (*chuckles condescendingly, as if to herself*) You must have me confused with someone who doesn't know what she's doing.


Do you ever feel like your creative ideas exceed your skills? Do you think big and then scale down? Or does your confidence grow as you write, so that your end result is more successful than you imagined it'd be?

Cool Contest @ Ramblings of a Wannabe Scribe!

Shannon Messenger at Ramblings of a Wannabe Scribe has surpassed the 400 follower mark! To celebrate, she's running a cool contest that you are going to want in on!!

Listen to the prize...a SIGNED copy of Becca Fitzpatrick's New York Times bestseller Hush, Hush

The drawing will be on March 26th -- SIGN UP TODAY BY CLICKING HERE

And now, because I'm so happy to have made progress on my WIP, after weeks of agonizing writer's block, I want to share this goofy-ass pic with you! Anne at Piedmont Writer was my inspiration, after writing a post yesterday about the tremendous creative gush she enjoyed while working on her new WIP. Something about what she shared struck a chord with me, doors in my head swung open, the fear was dispelled, and IT FELT GREAT!!

[Update: Anne let me know that Sarah over at Falen Formulates Fiction inspired her with the idea to spread out scene cards across her table and plot out some of her novel. I've been reading Sarah's awesome blog for months, and I love her quick wit and creative voice. Especially fun are her Friday posts, when she makes up words and defines them for us. Hilarious! If you don't follow Sarah yet, shoot over there and say hello!]

Award, Award, and Award

Thank you Julie at Silver Lining for the Sunshine Award! Julie's blog is one of my favorite to read. There's something fluid and engaging in her style of writing that is going to take her FAR in the literary world. If you don't follow her, I hope you sign on today. You'll be happy you did!Thanks, Abby Annis and DL Hammon at Cruising Altitude, for this beautiful award! I love Abby's energy, and her blog posts are always awesome. Stop by her blog and say "hi!" And DL is a fantastic writer and a great blogger. His commentaries are insightful and often humorous. Visit him today, too!


Here are the Rules to Accept the Award:

1. Put the logo on your blog or within your post.
2. Pass the award to 5 bloggers.
3. Link the nominees within your post.
4. Let them know they received this award by commenting on their blog.
5. Share the love and link to the person from whom you received this award.
6. Share 5 things about yourself.


Let's see...five things about myself...all right:

1. I have a brand new nephew! Derek James made his appearance late on March 12th -- and by late I don't mean past his due date! I mean, he was born at 11:41 p.m. after sis was in labor for fifteen hours. Ugh!

2. I take a large freezer bag into the grocery store when I do my weekly shopping. I ask the baggers to put my cold stuff in the bag, which is like a big, soft cooler. That way, when I get home I drag all the groceries from the car to the entryway and then check my email/blog...sometimes taking up to an hour before I put my food away. (Does anyone else have crazy, computer-addicted behavior??)

3. My favorite ice cream flavor is Ben and Jerry's New York Super Fudge Chunk.

4. While researching for my WIP, I recently called a local funeral home and asked for a behind-the-scenes tour. I haven't heard back from them. I suspect they didn't take me seriously, or considered me a crack pot.

5. I prefer plain M&Ms over peanut. However, if they are served in the same bowl, I eat two plain and one peanut at the same time. The chocolate to peanut ration is perfect that way. You should try it.




Thank you, E. Elle over at The Writer's Funhouse, for this totally awesome award! Elle's smart and inspiring posts make her blog a must-read, so be sure to visit her today! I love the inscription that comes with this award: "By definition, a Prolific Blogger 'is one who is intellectually productive...keeping up an active blog that is filled with enjoyable content.'" How uplifting is that?




I'd like to pass these awards on to some of my most prolific blogging peeps. Choose the one you'd like! The following are all fantabulous writers, some of whom I've just met and others who I have grown most fond of! I hope you'll visit their blogs today. If you're meeting someone for the first time, sign on as their follower! Spread the joy :))

Annika @ A Swede Abroad
Hilary Wagner
Julie @ Silver Lining
Kristin Rae @ Kristin Creative
Kat O'keefe @ Words, Etc.
Meika @ Waiting on the Muse
Susan Fields
Steph @ Steph in the City
Amy Holder @ Written in Lipstick
Jade @ Chasing Empty Pavements

Tuesday Teaser

Although the book I'm writing falls in the literary fiction genre, some scenes will require the characteristics of other genres. It will include, for example, suspenseful scenes with a lot of action. Over the past two years, I practiced my hand at different genres through short stories, working on the skills I'd need when I wrote my novels. The following excerpt is from one of them, an action/adventure piece entitled "The Way Forward."



They made their way to the head of the trail in high spirits. "White rectangular blazes mark the trail over the entire 2100 miles from Georgia to Maine," Michael read from the trail map. "Turns are marked with double blazes and side trails and approaches use blue." Michael stopped. Kaitlyn was no longer walking beside him. Turning, he spotted her heading off the path into the woods.


"Kait, honey, you're not supposed to leave the trail. Hon?"


Kaitlyn put her finger to her lips and looked back into the woods. A moment later she rejoined him.


"I thought I heard an animal, but it must have gotten scared and scurried off." Her flushed cheeks glowed with excitement.


"You never know what could be hiding in these woods, babe. There are snakes and bears living up here with the bunnies and squirrels." Michael wasn't sure if the look on Kaitlyn's face said his concern endeared him to her or simply amused her.


Kaitlyn's suppressed smile lingered in her eyes. "Tag! You're it!" she suddenly shouted, taking off down the trail.


Kaitlyn's playfulness infected Michael, and they made their way through the quiet woods, talking and joking. By noontime, they had hiked into Sosebee Cove, a remote nook protected by a wall of rock and ablaze with the colors of flourishing springtime bloomers.


"Do you hear water?" Kaitlyn asked.


Michael consulted the map. "It looks like DeSoto Falls is about a quarter mile from here." He looked to the left. "There, see that tree with the blue blaze on it? That trail will take us to it."


Ten minutes later they were heading down the side trail. It was harder to follow than the first one. The woods were thick with forbidding underbrush. The din of rushing water grew louder with each step, until its source came into view.


Melted snow from higher elevations had swelled the river to twice its normal size. Above them, raging water rushed over a promontory and crashed in billows of roiling white foam fifteen feet below. The noise was deafening. Kaitlyn pulled her camera from her pack and began snapping pictures. The air was much cooler here, and after a few minutes they turned to go.


"God! It's beautiful here," Kaitlyn sighed when they could hear each other again. Then, she sucked in her breath.


Following Kaitlyn's gaze, Michael saw the brightly colored butterfly she had spotted. She raised the camera to her eye as it settled on a trillium bush. No sooner had she focused the lens than the butterfly took flight again. Kaitlyn stepped off the path in pursuit of it.


Closer and closer to the river, the insect flitted from one blossom to the next. Finally, it alit on a branch at the water's edge. Looking through the lens of the camera, Kaitlyn edged closer. Michael called out, "That's close enough, Kait," but his voice was lost to the river. As she snapped the picture, her foot slipped on the moist embankment. She let out a high-pitched yelp that never made it to Michael's ears. All he saw was one of Kaitlyn's arms shoot out awkwardly before she disappeared below the bank.


Michael sprang into action even before his mind had time to process what had happened. He sprinted toward the river, ploughing through branches that tore at his face, shouting Kaitlyn's name. She was nowhere to be seen. He searched the white water churning with the vengeance of a stampede of beasts, mirroring the panic coursing through his body. Suddenly, Kaitlyn's head broke the surface of the water several yards away. There was an outcropping of rock visible further downstream, and Michael bolted for it.


"Swim for me!" he shouted as he ran, never taking his eyes off her. He threw himself onto the rock's edge, yelling, "Kaitlyn! Grab my hand!" He was flat on his stomach, reaching as far out over the water as he could manage, as the fast-paced current carried Kaitlyn toward him.


Terror was etched in every furrow of her contorted face. She could see Michael's hand but she was powerless over the current dictating her trajectory. The river slammed her like a rag doll against a rock, pitching her violently under the water. When she resurfaced moments later, she was heading straight for Michael.


Kaitlyn was floating impotently past Michael, but she managed to stretch her hand out. With astonishing timing, Michael heaved his weight forward and caught her firmly around the wrist. She dangled heavily there, her frightened eyes locked with his. The nightmare from years ago was brutally triggered, and fear threatened to rob him of brawn and confidence. He forced the old memory out of his mind and his resolution stoked his strength. "I've got you, baby! I've got you!" he gasped. Fighting the current and the water-logged weight of her pack, he struggled to pull her in. It wasn't until he got his hand around the back of her belt, that he realized he had denied the arrogating river of its quarry.

And the Winner is...

Shelley, I'll contact you via email to get your mailing 411!

To all my blog followers and new friends, thank you so much for your warm welcome into the world of blogging. I look forward each day to reading what you have to say on your blogs and drawing inspiration from your comments on my posts. You guys are the best!

In particular, let me say thank you to those who have reached out to me since Friday. I'm crossing one of life's rough patches and your words of encouragement have eased the heaviness in my heart more than you know. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart!

Here's to a GREAT week, for everyone!

Life (In)Balance

The duality of life is inescapable. There is nothing that's all good or all bad. As a Libra, I appreciate the light and the dark, the joy and the sadness, life and death. I'm earthbound, unable to focus on only one side of the scales. Some days, finding the sacred balances in life prove more challenging.

One sister, bursting with joy, lies in hospital today awaiting the arrival of her first baby. I wish I was there with her.

One sister, her heart in ribbons, checks into hospital this morning, her first baby now nine years old, taken from her. If only I could be there, too.

Angels and demons teeter totter on my scales.

Writing soothes my conflicted soul. Today, I'll remember each character has in her both good and bad, the capacity to succeed and the ability to fail, talents and shortcomings. But above all else, they need love in their lives. No matter what they've done or what they plan to do. All of Life's characters, fictional and real, need love.

Saluting Capote's Descriptive Voice

For me, the characteristic that sets an author's writing above the others is a strong descriptive voice. Descriptions captivate me when they flow like water down the riverbed of a story. I want to be pulled into the characters' world through all five of my senses, until my imagination is alive in their reality.

I aspire to write what I'd want to read.

One of the masters of literary fiction was Truman Capote. His penchant for prolific prose was astounding, and his rich descriptions permeate his short stories, novellas, and novels. I'd looked forward to reading Breakfast at Tiffany's this week (the local library's copy was checked out), but settled on a collection of short stories based on Capote's childhood. Here is an excerpt from A Christmas Memory that illustrates perfectly why I admire Capote's descriptive genuis:

Silently, wallowing in the pleasures of conspiracy, we take the bead purse from its secret place and spill its contents on the scrap quilt. Dollar bills, tightly rolled and green as May buds. Somber fifty-cent pieces, heavy enough to weight a dead man's eyes. Lovely dimes, the liveliest coin, the one that really jingles. Nickels and quarters, worn smooth as creek pebbles. Bost mostly a hateful heap of bitter-odored pennies. Last summer, others in the house contracted us a penny for every twenty-five flies we killed. Oh, the carnage of August: the flies that flew to heaven! Yet it was not work in which we took pride. And, as we sit counting pennies, it is as though we were back tabulating dead flies. (Truman Capote, A Christmas Memory, page 10)

The poetic descriptions for the various pieces of money not only held my attention, but they brought the narrating character into sharper focus. Clearly, the narrator was not a city dweller. Only a country boy would see springtime buds in rolled dollar bills or equate worn coins with the smoothness of water-eroded stones. The narrator was not wealthy in the traditional sense, otherwise he wouldn't have kept coins hidden in a beaded purse, had a scrap quilt on the bed, or accepted a job paying only a penny per twenty-five dead flies. We're shown so much in such a short paragraph.

When I read his work, I glean a lesson in creative writing in every paragraph of a Capote story.


Who are your author champions, the writers who exemplify what you'd like to achieve in your own work?

Tuesday Teaser

It's been a productive week for me. Since deciding on a new profession for my MC, I had to scrap close to half the chapters I wrote during NaNo. This week I researched her new line of work, wrote a new outline, and began writing a new chapter.

So far, I think these changes are good for the project.

It's still to early to begin sharing teasers from the WIP, so today I'll offer a snippet from a short story I wrote in 2009, called Stopgap.


Liza pulled the Studebaker up to the gas station's store front. As Van yanked open the passenger door he saw the cashier watching him through the plate glass window. Van managed a smile as he folded into the car; the clerk didn’t smile back.

“I thought I’d drive. Hope you don’t mind.”

Van grunted, his attention on a black SUV at the pumps, where the man who'd smacked his young son in the cashier line stood shouting into his phone. Van’s father used to say, “Get your ass in the car and wait.” Silent or spoken, the threats had been fierce. Eventually, when he was about that kid’s age, the threats had evolved. He’d known, even at that innocent age, that his father liked knocking him around. It got the tension out; made life easier to deal with. If Van’s mother had lived, things would’ve been different. She’d have protected him. Isn’t that what mothers do? Where was that kid’s mom, he wondered. Liza’s voice broke into his thoughts.

“Alright, we made it, babe! We’re home free: me, you, and all that cash!” She slapped a manicured hand on the steering wheel. “Damn, we make a great team!” She glanced over, her smile faltering. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing,” he grumbled as the filling station disappeared from sight in his side view mirror. “How about some music?”

Van turned on the radio. He cranked the large, grooved knob and the red needle moved across the FM dial with jerky motion. Elvis’ voice issued suddenly from the scratchy speakers. Van noticed Liza’s fleeting grimace, but the nostalgic strains lightened his mood. He turned it up.

“Perfect, right?”

Liza lifted the hair back from her temple and hooked it behind an ear. “Yeah. Perfect.”

Two songs later and Van’s smile had returned. The conversation focused on how they’d spend the money. As they began the climb into higher elevations, the Studebaker’s underpowered engine showed signs of complaint.

Liza’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. Van checked over his shoulder and scowled as if he got a whiff of a rancid odor. The black SUV came up fast behind them. It swerved across double lines and edged alongside the Studebaker.

The driver’s attention was fixed forward. What an asshole, Van thought with a sneer. As the SUV pushed past them, the small face in the backseat window came into view. For a suspended moment Van stared at the boy whose eyes appeared pleading to Van for liberation. A knot of remorse choked him as the truck shot forward and around a bend.

They heard the screeching brakes and sickening metallic crunch before the Studebaker hauled itself around the curve. Liza clapped a hand over her mouth and gasped as the scene came into view. The SUV lay on its side across the highway, its front end rumpled like sheets of an unkempt bed. Smoke hung in the air and angry splatters of blood wet the road between the vehicle and the dismembered deer whose eyes stared into nothingness. Van had the door open before Liza slowed to a stop. He ran around the top-side of the car.

The driver hung out the front, the jagged windshield embedded in his torso as if the car had tried to bite him in half. Van blinked hard and shouted, “Liza, don’t come over here! It’s bad.” The cell phone lay on the pavement. Snatching it up, he moved around the nose of the SUV, peering through the windshield. Seeing nothing, he clambered up onto the passenger side. The window was cracked so he was careful to place his knees on the door frame as he looked down into the back seat. He spotted the boy, lying in a ball on the window now flat against the road. The doors were locked. Van tapped the glass, and the youngster stirred. Van straightened and located Liza pacing in circles next to the Studebaker.

“Liza, the boy’s alive! I’m calling 911!” He placed the call then jumped down and ran to her.

“An ambulance is on the way,” he said.

“Good. Let’s get out of here.” She moved toward the car.

Van grabbed her elbow. “We can’t leave! That little boy may be hurt. He’s trapped in that car and his dad’s dead.”

Liza glanced at the wreck with tear-filled eyes. “Van, are you crazy? The cops will be here any minute. We have stolen money in our car! We need to get away from here!” Her voice rose an octave with each statement.

Van shook his head. “No. I’m not leaving that kid alone. I won’t do it.” His tone was even, determined.

“Well, I’m not staying!”

*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

Thanks for reading!

Last day to enter the 100+ Significant Followers Give-Away is March 15th. Enter HERE!

Spotlight on Literary Fiction

Literary Fiction is often thought of as a catch-all genre for writing that doesn’t fit comfortably into easily designated genres like chic lit, mystery, science fiction, political drama, speculative fiction, etc. Most people’s definitions for works of Literary Fiction include phrases like: “provocative writing with heavier language and lush descriptions”; “complex character-driven plots”; “leaves a deep, powerful impression on the reader”; and “multilayered novels that wrestle with universal dilemmas.”

I consider myself a Literary Fiction writer because of the characteristics that naturally arise in my work. I’m drawn to the complexities of a character’s personality, and my focus is foremost on the inner conflicts pulling the person in opposing directions. My writing style tends to include desciptive language that shows more than tells, and I like to indulge in literary devices. Also, I want my work to say something. Usually, I don’t start a story with a character or plot idea. Instead, a theme forms in my mind and the story becomes a vehicle to deliver that theme.

My greatest challenges within the genre are coming up with interesting plots to support my characters’ journey of self-discovery, and finessing my writing so the tone and language aren’t pretentious or convoluted. Many of my rewrites concentrate on voice and making the writing sound poetic and beautiful instead of grandiose and ostentatious.

Goodreads.com defines literary fiction as: "serious fiction with claims to literary merit, and focuses more on style, psychological depth, and character. (As opposed to genre or popular fiction)." Here are the top ten Literary Fiction novels, as determined by site member votes. Are any of your favorites here?

To Kill a Mockingbird -- Harper Lee
The Catcher in the Rye -- J.D. Salinger
The Power of Persuasion -- Shelagh Watkins
Crime and Punishment -- Fyodor Dostoevsky
Jane Eyre -- Charlotte Brontë
Lord of the Flies -- William Golding
Gone With the Wind -- Margaret Mitchell
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe -- C.S. Lewis
Memoirs of a Geisha -- Arthur Golden
One Hundred Years of Solitude -- Gabriel García Márquez

To read the entire list of the top 100 member picks, click HERE.

I enjoy experimenting outside the genre of Literary Fiction, and have written short stories that include Horror, Speculative Fiction, Erotica, Action/Adventure, and Comedy. Even then, I noticed an aura of Literary Fiction aglow in each story. It's definitely true that an author's voice is as unique as her fingerprint, and its evidence can be found on everything she touches.

Do you experiment outside your genre? Can you still hear your author's voice loud and clear?

F.Y.I.

Here are some fab contests you won't want to miss out on:

Guinevere at This Is Not My Day Job is having a contest to celebrate her 100+ followers. She's giving away two prize packages that include books and a hobo purse, inspired by Shards of Glass.

Noelle Nolan at A Life Unwritten is generating a strong following with her 150 Followers Contest. Once she reaches that magic number, she'll have a drawing for an Amazon gift card. Sign up to follower her today!

Sara at The Babbling Flow of a Fledgling Scribbler is having a major give-away contest, "Saradise Style!" She put the prizes up for grabs in a slide show -- too cool! Enter her March Madness Contest before March 22nd.

Hurry over to Sarah Jayne's blog at Writing in the Wilderness before 6:00 p.m. EST TODAY to get in on her celebration contest for reaching over 50 followers in just two months! Win a $20 gift card of your choice (Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Borders, etc.)

And, Lindsay's Show Me Your Dangerous Contest is so much fun; share your "dangerous" story, scene from your WIP, poem, etc. I had a blast reading everyone else's posts! Zip over there before March 15th to play along!

Remember this....

Check your blogger profile page! When you sign on as my follower, I like to return the favor. I'm always sad when a new follower joins me on my blogging journey, and I click their picture... only to find there's no blog link to lead me chez eux. If you don't edit your profile page to include a link to your blog, I won't be able to find your corner of cyberspace :(

If you follow me and I don't follow you, please leave a comment with your blog's URL. Thanks!!

Have a great weekend, everyone!

The Empty Fish Tank

Almost exactly a year ago to the day my husband brought Mr. Odie home to live with us. He has been one of the best pets ever... considering he's a fish. For one, he hasn't died yet. In terms of our experiences with fish, he's a centenarian. Hell, he's freakin' Yoda.

The kids really wanted a kitten, in fact, Sidney had launched a full-blown campaign to persuade her father that our family was sadly incomplete without a pet. When Christian brought Mr. Odie home the children were enthusiastic (even Sidney, who declared this "was not what she meant by a pet"), especially since Mr. Odie was a Betta Fish. Up until then, we'd only welcomed standard Tetras and Mollies into our tank. They were fun to have around for the week or so they managed to stay alive. Betta fish are apparently much heartier creatures. In addition, Mr. Odie has real personality. He comes right to the glass when you peer into his tank. And they say a Betta Fish is as playful as a dolphin. If you drop a ping pong ball onto the surface of the water, a Betta Fish will push it around the tank with his nose. Although, if Mr. Odie can perform this trick, he's keeping it a secret from us.

In honor of Mr. Odies's annivarsary, I'd like to share a poem I wrote last year prior to his arrival.

You see, the fish tank occupies what I consider valuable real estate in the kitchen. It's located on a stretch of wall between the end of the countertop and the table -- a space where I have always envisioned a bulky, rustic sideboard-like piece of furniture where I could store table linens and the overflow of dinner ware. There was almost a year between the passing of the last fish and Mr. Odie's arrival. During that time, the fish tank was empty. I wanted it dismantled and moved to the garage, but Christian liked the look of an aquarium and enjoyed the percolating sound of water through the filter. So it stayed. Empty.

I'd planned on framing the following poem and hanging it above the vacant tank, as a passive-aggressive jab at my husband's stubbornness. Before I got the chance, he brought the Betta home. Mr. Odie, this one's for you!

The Empty Fish Tank
By Nicole Ducleroir

Giggling water gurgles
from a guppy's ghost town tank
It sits fishless in my kitchen;
Stubborn husband I have to thank.

He'd see the stretch of wall undressed
should the vacant tank disappear;
That the spot would sport a buffet
is ignored by his id austere.

The battle of mismatched iron wills
rages on the silent front line.
I'll bide my time, but once I find
that perfect piece....
The space is MINE.

I'd Like to Thank the Academy...

Whoever came up with the blogger award concept was a genius. Not only does receiving and passing along the award offer the opportunity to link some of your favorite blogs to your post -- thus generating new or return readership to those people, but learning someone passed it on to you gives your heart a little cyber-squeeze. At least that's what it does for me!



Perhaps the best part of all, though, is the fun of sending the award out to other blogging friends. Today, I have the pleasure of doing that four times over! With no further ado, here we go:









I want to thank Anne at Piedmont Writer and Tara at Feel of Something New for this award. Anne speaks from her heart, with a voice that is at the same time strong and humorous, and inviting and free-spirited. Tara is a talented writer whose creativity and kindness comes through every sentence she pens. I enjoy both these blogs on a daily basis. If you don't get your daily dose of these wonderful women, visit them today!



I'd like to pass the Sunshine Award on to these bright, new blogger buddies:



Heather at See Heather Write
G.P. Ching at So, Write
Terresa at The Chocolate Chip Waffle
Elle at The Writer's Funhouse
Tiffany at Tiffany Neal








Thank you to Simon at Constant Revision and Laurel at Laurel's Leaves for this awesome award. I love Simon's hilarious sense of humor! Every post is the perfect blend of serious and snarky. He shouldn't be reading this, because he's on a Blogger Hiatus...(*waves to Simon*)...If you don't already, go sign up to follow him! And sweet Laurel is another blogger buddy I read faithfully every day. She's going places; check her out!



The Creative Writer Award goes to these fab writers:

Rebecca at Diary of a Virgin Novelist
Courtney at Courtney Reese
Shelley at Stories of the Ordinary
DL Hammons at Cruising Altitude
Allison at Borrowing Heaven, Subletting Hell





Thank you, Jemi at Just Jemi, for this adorable award! Jemi's posts brighten my day and if you want a burst of sunshine in yours, click over to her blog today! Apparently, this award comes with the instructions to share with you how I like my eggs. Odd, but fun! My typical breakfast includes a four egg white omlette (which sounds like a lot, but it really isn't), paired with half a cup of oatmeal. I wash it down with at least 8 oz. of water and two cups of coffee. Yep...by the time I get to the gym at 9:00, I've gotta tinkle b a d! TMI, I know. Sorry!!



The Quill Feather Award goes to seven cool chicks:

Abby at Abby Annis
Roni at *Fiction Groupie*
B.J. at B.J. Anderson
Elana at Elana Johnson, Author
Jamie-Kate at Jamie-Kate Writes
Lisa and Laura (BOTH cool chicks!) at Lisa and Laura Write






And to my friend, Shelley at Stories from the Ordinary, thanks for this award!! Shelley's creative talent jumps off the screen as I read through her inspired posts. She's got a wonderful voice; visit her today!



The Sugar Doll Award goes to:

Joanne at Whole Latte Life
Mary at Writer's Butt Does Not Apply to Me
Diana at Writing Roller Coasters
Chasing the Moon at Dancing Down Serendipity Street



*PHEW* That was a lot at once!! I hope you all check out these amazing and crazy talented writers' blogs. I enjoy them, and I know you will too!!

Don't forget to click HERE and enter my contest! Drawing on March 15th :)


Have a fantastic Hump Day!!!

Tuesday Teaser

I'm busy working on my WIP today. In fact, I have challenged myself with lofty writing goals for the month of March, and I'll rely on the next several Tuesdays to keep me accountable. I'll post teasers from my WIP in the next several weeks...but not today :)

Today's teaser is an excerpt I'm pulling from a short story I wrote last year entitled, "Under Dock and Key." The story was prompted by a photograph of a narrow, wooden dock stretching out from the shore of a lake. The still, mirror-like water reflected the sky across its surface. Enjoy!

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

...A minute later, Samantha pointed. “There it is!”

As Samantha steered the car from the dirt road onto a still narrower path, both women gasped. Into view appeared a quaint, white building with large windows overlooking a lake. The shore was lined with a sandy beach, and a narrow, wood-plank dock stretched thirty feet into the water. Gentle mountains rose in the distance, giving the scene a picturesque and protected semblance.

“No way,” Samantha exclaimed. “Do you think….?”

Marla tore the key off the paper. “Let’s see what this unlocks,” she said with a mischievous smile.

Samantha led the way up the steps. Rollercoaster riding had been one of her favorite childhood activities, and the excitement mingled with fear in her stomach now reminded her of the sensation she got standing on the quay about to board the ride. The key quavered in her hand but slid fluidly into the lock. It turned with a loud click and the door swung open a few inches. Samantha looked over her shoulder at Marla, who gave her a reassured nod.

Light flooded the cottage’s main room. Out the lakefront windows, the cloud cover was breaking apart. Dazzling sunlight danced on the gentle waves near the shore; its fiery flecks reflected like diamonds across the ceiling. The space was divided into areas of function: one corner housed a kitchenette outfitted with a sink, gas range, refrigerator, and café style table and chairs; the opposite side sported a seating area with overstuffed armchairs and coffee tables stacked high with glossy books. The center of the room was dominated by a rustic oak table. One end served as a desk, with writing implements and papers. The rest of the table was littered with tubes of paint, jars of gesso, and vases sprouting from their necks paint brushes of every size and shape. A large easel holding a half-covered canvas stood at the table’s edge.

Marla approached the table, while Samantha moved to the paintings hung on the walls. The subject of every one was a female child, though no two were portrayed with the same physical characteristics. She took a few deep breaths to slow her racing heartbeat. She was startled when Marla called her name.

Samantha joined Marla at the table. “Look what I found!” she said, handing Samantha a leather-bound journal. Samantha opened to the first page. In handwriting she now recognized as her mother’s, Samantha read aloud, “June 28th: Dear Baby, I can’t wait to meet you! I’m Donna, your mommy, and your daddy’s name is Seth. We found out today that you are on the way, coming into our lives, and we are so excited! I am going to write in this journal daily so when you read it some day, you’ll know exactly how you came into this world!”

Stunned, Samantha looked up with large, dewy eyes. “I don’t get it?” she whispered. She began scanning the pages covered with descriptions of doctor’s visits, sonograms and morning sickness.

Reading over her shoulder, Marla suggested, “Sam, skip ahead to your birthday.”

“Good idea.” She flipped through the months looking for March 10th, but following the February 17th entry the pages were blank. Shaking her head, Samantha turned questioning eyes on Marla. She thumbed the remaining pages and discovered more writing further into the book. Opening to where it recommenced, Samantha read, “December 5: I haven’t had the courage to write since the fire.”

Samantha gasped, her hand covering her mouth. Marla slipped an arm around her waist, sending waves of comfort up Samantha’s back. Samantha took a deep breath and read on. “I lost everything that night. Seth is gone. The baby is gone. And what’s left of me is hideous and repulsive. All that’s left for me is pain.”

Samantha stopped. Marla said softly, “Why don’t you take your time with this?”

Without a word, Samantha took the journal to an armchair and began to read in silence...

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Thanks for reading!

~ If you haven't entered my 100+ Followers Contest, click HERE! ~

Contest!!!!

Exactly two months ago, on December 29, 2009, I nervously launched my blog. I had no idea how much I would love blogging...no idea how many amazing people I would meet...no idea how rewarding it would be to hear other creative writers talk about their crafts. Here I am, still the giddy novice, reveling in the joy that comes with realizing people are actually reading what I have to say each day, when in the midst of this blissful, whirlwind experience I realize I've almost arrived at THE first major blogging milestone. So, in the grand tradition of celebrating one hundred "Significant" followers, I'm hosting a Give-Away!

In a drawing on March 15th, a lucky winner will receive:

A signed copy of The Writer's Bump Anthology, Volume One, in which my first published short story appears! (*does the goofy Arsenio Hall "woh-woh-woh" fist thing*)

In addition, I'll include a Barnes and Noble gift card worth $25!

You have to follow my blog to be entered in the Give-Away. Here's what to do to maximize your chances to win:

Leave a comment telling me you stopped by = 1 pt.

Sign up as a New Follower = 1 pt.

Current Follower = 2 pts.

Blog about this contest = 1 pt.

Add a link to this post on your sidebar = 1 pt.

In your comment, tell me which you prefer, Milk Chocolate or Dark Chocolate :) = 2 pts.

Bonus: For every 25 new followers that sign up before the Give-Away on March 15th, I'll include another cool prize!

Thank you, Significant Followers, for welcoming me with open arms, for encouraging me to be more diligent writer, and for inspiring me with your creative talent!

Blogger Buddie Award!

Thank you, Kristin Rae for this sweet award! There are so many amazing blogs to read each day, and sometimes I have to pick and choose due to limited time and crazy schedules. But, I check out Kristin's religiously because she has such a fantastic voice and her personality shines through everything she writes. If you don't follow her yet, scoot over there and sign up today!


Usually these awards come with the task of revealing something about yourself, so in honor of a recent event in my life, here are five things about me/my past:



1. Thanks to Google and Blogger, a long-lost friend I haven't been in touch with for twenty years found me and dropped me an email. ~R~ is male and we were great friends -- platonic -- and hung out for two years in our early twenties. So glad to have ~R~ in my life again!!

2. I met ~R~ back in 1990, when we both worked in the Client Accounting department at what was then known as Chiat/Day/Mojo Advertising (today it's TBWA/Chiat/Day.) The agency, located in Venice Beach, CA, was perhaps best known for its Energizer Bunny campaign. While ~R~ and I worked there, we witnessed the building of, and move into, this crazy building by architect Frank Gehry:





Yes, the entryway is fashioned out of two gigantic binoculars. The right side of the building is made with copper that was shiny in the early years, but is now a wonderful greenish-brown patina.

3. The week before my first Christmas at Chiat/Day, a semi-truck showed up and delivered hundreds of large, identical, rectangular boxes. Turned out, agency owner Jay Chiat had purchased a beach cruiser bicycle for every employee, as a Christmas gift. At the time, the agency resided in an old drapery factory. The space was cavernous, with polished cement floors and exposed pipes across the ceilings. Workspaces were dictated by partitions and clusters of cubicles. That day, the guys in the mailroom assembled bike after bike, and for a week everyone opted to ride their cruiser inside the building, to the conference rooms, fax stations, or coffee room, in lieu of walking.

4. Since we were one block from the Pacific Ocean, I often had lunch on the beach. I used to see this guy all the time:





He always sang the same song to me. The lyrics began, "I wonder what a man would do on Mars?" He sang to people up and down The Strand all day, so he must have had other songs in his repertoire, but I never heard any others... He was there the day I got my nose pierced during my lunch hour, in a striped tent on the beach, before going back to work. Crazy times!

5. ~R~ and I used to take off on weekends and catch as many of the Grateful Dead's west coast tour as possible. When we didn't have camping reservations, which was often, we slept wherever we could. Once we woke up on the beach in Santa Cruz to the bark of noisy sea lions. Here's a pic of me one morning when we did have reservations:





~R~ and I lost track of each other after I moved east and later joined the Peace Corps. He went on to realize his dreams of being a copywriter. I'm so happy we've reconnected, and I've learned that he's doing great with his wife and two kids. I miss our crazy days, ~R~'s red VW Bug convertible, and sunny California days.

Thanks Kristin Rae, for the award that sparked this little California dreamin', and thanks to all of you for taking this mini-walk down memory lane with me!

I'm passing this award on to these awesome blogger peeps:

Lindsay Brooks @
Dangerous With a Pen

Dominique @ En Violet (Happy 1 YR Blog Anniversary!!)

Little Miss J

Eva @
Screaming Whispers

Kristin Torres @
Write in the Way

Have a fab weekend!

Show Me! Don't Tell Me.

I was watching last night’s American Idol on TiVo as I drank my first cup of coffee this morning. Cutie sixteen-year-old Aaron Kelly sang a Rascal Flatts song I’d never heard before. (I like country music all right, but I rarely pay much attention to it.) I didn’t catch the title when Ryan Seacrest introduced him, but as Aaron sang the opening verse, my writer’s ears perked up.

It begins, "I can hear the truck tires coming up the gravel road / And it’s not like her to drive so slow, (must be) nothing on the radio / Footsteps on the porch, I hear my doorbell / She usually comes right in…"

These lines demonstrate perfectly the power of Show, Don’t Tell descriptions. There was no doubt in my mind that something was wrong, that “she” was the bearer of bad news. The anticipation I felt and the strong mood those opening words created made the chorus that much more poignant: "Here comes goodbye / Here comes the last time / Here comes the start of every sleepless night / The first of every tear I’m gonna cry."

Showing descriptions pull your readers into the story. By asking your audience to pick up on the important clues sprinkled across each sentence, to connect the dots and reach the correct conclusions, you invite readers to participate in the story. Reader interaction can’t be underestimated. Your readers will become emotionally involved on a deeper level with the characters and plot, which boosts the overall entertainment factor of your work.

When do you concentrate the most on writing showing descriptions? Does it come naturally to you and appear in your first drafts/word vomitting sessions? Or do you comb through your scenes during the revision process and incorporate showing descriptions where you just "told" in the first draft? Or both?

In Suspension of (Dis)belief

I raised an eyebrow when I turned down the hallway at six a.m. this morning and spotted the light spilling out from underneath my daughter’s bedroom door. Usually, waking my kids for school is like rousing a couple cadavers, (corpses who, to my chagrin, effortlessly self-resurrect before sunrise on Saturday and Sunday mornings). Sidney had complained about a tummy ache yesterday, so I half-expected that a campaign to miss school was underway. When I pushed open her door though, I encountered a smiling little girl.

She stood in the middle of her room, her belly button peeking out beneath a too-short pajama top, and her long braided hair bent into a pair of boomerangs flanking her shoulders. In her hand she held her diary.

“You’re up early, sunshine,” I greeted her. “Is everything okay?”

Her eyes sparkled. “Mommy!” she began. “James-y woke me up.”

James was our sweet kitten who passed away from feline-leukemia a few weeks ago. As Sidney's declaration sunk into my pre-caffinated brain, a smile remained fixed on my lips but my eyebrows knitted a little closer together. “What?” I asked.

“James woke me up, but it was still dark. So I peeked out my window and you know what I saw?”

She didn’t wait for me to answer. Drawing in a deep breath that sent her belly button a little further into the room, she said, “Down by the tree, I saw three black cats! They were so cute, Mommy, and they came right up to my window.” She held up her diary. “I’m going to write about it!”

That’s my girl!





Our reality is dictated by our beliefs. Sidney believes James woke her up so she wouldn’t miss seeing those cats. Why not? (I hope it’s true!) One of the goals I embrace as a writer is drawing my readers into my brand of reality, suspending their disbelief. It comes down to the level of authenticity in the writing which can be achieved many ways: through the logical chain of events in the plot, believable dialogue, realistic characterizations, etc.

What’s your favorite device for creating authenticity in your writing, or for suspending your readers’ disbelief? Can you think of a time when you were the reader or viewer, that your disbelief wasn’t suspended? (Think Clark Kent hiding his Super Identity behind a pair of glasses!)

[Artwork at the top of this post by Joied6]

Tuesday Teaser

In 2008 I took part in a creative writing workshop that explored the genre of memoir writing. At that time, I'd only written fiction, so stepping outside my comfort zone was exciting and nerve-wracking. Adding to the challenge was the fact that two of the writers taking part in the workshop were hilarious women well-known for their quick humor and funny storytelling styles. One assignment was to write a short comedic piece based on something that happened in our homes. I'm not a comedic writer! But luckily for me, (but not so much for my son), something had happened the night before and became the subject of my workshop homework:

Laughter Is The Best Medicine

Uncontrollable laughter had broken out, the kind that is almost silent except for the occasional snort that perpetuates the hilarity. Still seated around the table, my husband and I, and our two kids had just come to the end of a meal when it happened.


Mealtimes are reverent moments in my household. My husband is French, so for him partaking in a meal involves careful attention to detail and certain protocol. It is insulting to his palette to eat fruit during the same course as the meat. And there is no going back to the meat course once the fruit has been served. I, thankfully, LOVE to cook, and was a willing student under the tutelage of my mother-in-law in the early years of my marriage when she worried that her son would suffer a life-sentence of American fare. What some consider gourmet dishes are mainstays of my daily menus. I am also an avid advocate of eating healthy and exercising, and many heavy sauces and butter-soaked recipes clash with my idea of sane nourishment. So, careful planning goes into each repast, from leisurely weekend meals to time-pressed weekday meals, to ensure a balance of nutrition and taste.


This particular evening, I had chosen a side dish of sliced zucchini, lightly sautéed in olive oil and garlic. My daughter, who is always in a rush for dessert, complained about the vegetable throughout the entire meal.


"This broccoli doesn't look right," she whined.


"It's zucchini and it's delicious. Just eat it."


"It's BROWN," she said.


"It's a little seared. It has more flavor that way. Just eat it."


She pushed it around her plate with her fork. She sighed. "It's gross and mushy." Oh, for heaven's sake. I tried to ignore her.


My son was drinking from his water glass, when suddenly he started to cough. It was one of those coughs that comes from deep in the throat, and seems to have mixed along the way with a burp. His face turned red and his violent coughs would not allow him time to get a breath. My husband thought he was choking, but my mother instincts quickly ruled that possibility out. Just as I knew intuitively that he wasn't choking, I also knew the boy was going to throw up. I knew it, and I didn't want it to happen on my table.


I sprang from my chair and grabbed Cody by the back of the neck, pulling him to his feet with my other hand. I was racing the vomit's arrival, and in the panic lost track of the next installment of my plan. Where should I allow him to vomit? The trash can!... No, no good. He'll have to angle the vomit's trajectory and it'll wind up all over the place. I turned Cody with the back of his neck. The sink! Perfect! I half dragged the choking mess of a boy, a bit surprised that he hadn't heaved by now. Once he was safely held over the kitchen sink, what turned out to be a vomit-free coughing fit subsided. I kept him bent over for safe measure a few moments more, until he finally said, "God, Mom, let me go!" At this point I checked him out properly, making sure he was indeed ok, and gave him a loving escort back to the table.


Everyone asked him if he was alright, and my husband shared how frightened he had been that Cody might have been choking. Cody wiped his still teary eyes with his sleeve and reassured everyone that he was feeling better. My husband said, "You must have swallowed sideways, or something."


My daughter mumbled, "It was probably the broccoli."


She delivered the comic relief that diffused the whole drama, and we roared!

It's Like Riding a...Rollerblades

I had a fantastic time this weekend with friends from France, who spent Thursday through Sunday at my house. All five of them can speak some English, but we spoke French ninety-nine percent of the time. My husband was born and raised in France, but since he learned to speak English, it has become his preferred language for day-to-day conversation. This is unfortunate for me, who desperately needs to practice my French. More often than not, when I begin a conversation with him in French, he responds in English, even though it's generally considered bad manners among bilingual people to answer in "Language B" when someone initiates a conversation in "Language A" (provided, of course, that both speakers are fluent in both languages). As a result I am perpetually out of practice, and the first two and a half days of our friends' visit were torturous for me and my tongue.

It struck me, as I stumbled over pronunciation and searched for every third word, that there's actually a lot in common between being thrown back into using your second language and picking up rollerblading after a couple years off skates. How, you ask? I believe it comes down to muscle memory.

A few weeks back I took my daughter and her friends to the roller skating rink. In my twenties, I lived on the coast in Los Angeles (Hermosa Beach) and clocked more time on my rollerblades than I did in tennis shoes. However, tying a pair of skates on after all these years proved deceptively challenging. I could keep up with the girls, propel myself forward, glide, and come to a reasonably quick stop, but all my movements were jerky and barely in control.

After a few dozen laps, I felt the muscles in my shins relax. My inner thighs remembered to do most of the work. As I sat back more on softer knees, I noticed my weight transfer from over my toes to over my heels. I got my glide on. It was as if the clock had turned back a decade and the fluid, slolam sashay returned to my movements. With little effort, I sped down the straightaways and crossed my outside skate over the inside one on the curves. It was awesome, like flying.

This kind of muscle memory also comes into play when picking back up a second language. English speakers keep their tongues more or less in the center of their mouths when they speak. When speaking in French though, your tongue must perform crazy acrobatics in order to push the correct sounds out. Also, English is spoken from the front of the mouth, where French is throatier and more nasal. It took several days for my throat to relax and my lips to adopt the proper pouty purse. It wasn't something I could force, because the more I concentrated on how French I sounded, the more I lost track of the words I was trying to say. Either way, I stumbled. It was frustrating, but sure enough after a little time, my fluency came back.

Of course, as soon as that happened, it was time for our friends to leave. (*sigh*) Oh well, at least I won't have as much trouble getting back into the swing of French this summer when we spend three weeks at my husband's family's home...I hope :)

How was your weekend? Did you do something you haven't done in a long time, or did you try anything new?