Writing vs. Dust Bunnies

 

Photo by Green Chameleon on Unsplash   

I’m finally on a roll with my writing. I’m drafting an average of 2,000 usable words a week, keeping up with my critique group, plotting a three-book series, and taking online classes to improve my craft. The result? My house is in dire need of cleaning.  I keep waiting for the industrious elves, or Hawaiian menehune, to surprise me with a deep clean while I sleep. So far, no go.

At some point, I figure the dust bunnies will claim title to the house. “Just hand it over," they'll say. "We have squatter’s rights.”

And they’ll be right.

It could be worse.   Dust bunnies might be the easiest house pets around. They don’t carry fleas, need fed, watered, or taken to the vet. They’re quiet and don’t demand attention or wake you up at night. They’re quite happy to be left alone under the couches, beds, and corners of closets.

I did not spring clean this year and was perfectly content thinking I could delay spring cleaning for sometime closer to Christmas—you know, after I have the great American novel drafted—when I read that accumulated dust harbors mites. Mites? 

I know about bird mites, but dust mites? In the springtime, I deal with mites in the chicken coop. As soon as I start noticing itchy skin and crawly things on my face, I do the ultimate test to confirm their presence. A wet paper towel run across my cheeks will collect the little buggers and confirm the bird mites are back. 

Photo by Emiel Maters on Unsplash

So down to the coop I go, with long sleeves, rubber boots, and gloves to clean out all the nesting boxes, scrub the concrete floor with Pine Sol, sprinkle the boxes with mite deterrent, and provide fresh, clean, grass for the chickens who choose to lay eggs in the intended place. 

Satisfied our birds will be bug-free, I wander back to the house. Wait. What am I thinking? The chicken coop gets a thorough cleaning and I’m not doing that for we humans? Both places harbor biting mites. 

I start cleaning from the top down—light fixtures, wainscoting rails, and shelves.  I pick up the throw rugs, toss them into the washing machine, and send my robot vacuum to collect small sized debris while I return to my desk to do my writer thing. 

Photo by Kwon Vn on Unsplash

And all the while, the dust bunnies hunker down under the furniture where the robot can’t fit. I’m sure I can hear their guffaws as the vacuum retreats at the edge of the couch. It’s a game of “You can’t get me.”

Totally distracted at this point by the beeps and flashing colors of the vacuum, I leave my writing to move the couch out so the vacuum can reach all the dirt. 

And there they are. The dust bunnies are huddling. They look like a football team making their plan, and then I realize they’re shaking.  I turn off the suction machine, push the couch back, and let the critters live for a while longer under my couch.

 I’ll think about removing them when I do my next deep clean, sometime next spring. Maybe.

Writing Therapy ~ by Beth Worsdell

At a very young age, I fell in love with words and began to write poetry. It was a great way for me to pour out my emotions, and process everything that I didn’t understand, such as my parents’ divorce and a new life in a different city.

I also fell in love with books, which fueled my imagination and made my poetry more creative. Before long, I was writing poems for family members and special occasions, and I realized that words held power. Power to touch people's hearts, make them realize how special they are, and also give people comfort. As much as my writing was therapy for me, my writing was benefiting others too.

When my kids and I were T-boned by a truck in 2007 and I was left permanently injured, I turned to my poetry writing as a way to cope with the physical pain I was in. It was a wonderful distraction from my pain, a way to express my feelings and frustrations. It was a huge transitional phase for me. I was no longer the person I used to be, and I had to come to terms with the new me, with new physical limitations. What I didn’t expect, was my poetry evolving into songwriting.

As I sat at my kitchen table, trying to write a poem about two little girls, who had recently been murdered by a school janitor, I thought about the loss of these innocent children. I poured my words onto the paper before me. My words began to flow, but also a melody started to form in my mind. I was shocked, as I never even thought of trying to write songs, even though I was just as passionate about music.

I decided to go with it and find out where it would lead. Within a couple of hours, I had written my first song. Not being able to read or write music, I had to rely on my limited singing skills, to share my song with my husband and kids. When they actually loved my song, I was keen to see if I could write another. Before long I had written over ten songs, all about life, love, and the shenanigans in between.

It honestly felt like a natural progression. In my mind, I was still writing poetry, but now my poems were musical. I loved the flow of the songs and the way my words could be sung in so many ways. Some were ballads, while others were upbeat and would make you feel like dancing. While recovering from my accident over many years, my songwriting was not only a comfort to me, but it was a wonderful form of expressing my life changes. Being able to still do some of the things I enjoyed, pulled me out of the grief phase of my recovery.

Then in 2017 my writing took another turn.

I don’t usually remember my dreams, as I sleep like a log. However, one night I had the weirdest dream, that was so vivid, I told those close to me about it. I joked that it would make an epic movie like Avatar. The dream wouldn’t leave my thoughts and would pop into my mind on a regular basis.

After nearly three years, I finally decided I should write it down. Before I knew it, I had written three chapters and the story was continuously forming in my mind. After sharing those first chapters with my mum and sisters, and getting such a positive response, I decided to continue and Earth’s Angels was created.

It never ceases to amaze me, that we have so much creativity within us. Plus, the fact that our writing craft can evolve in ways we never thought possible. As a woman in her forties, who’s a mother of four, with chronic regional pain syndrome, I never thought I could be a published author. I’m thrilled that I can be an example of the expression “it’s never too late”. 

I have now published two highly rated books, and I am working on

the third of my Sci-fi fantasy Trilogy.

While writing and promoting my own books, I have also been interviewing other authors. This has been such an amazing experience. The authors I interview are all at various stages in their careers, and it’s wonderful to share their publishing journeys with other writers. So far, I have interviewed authors young and old, from fantasy to poetry, and they all have wonderful life stories to tell.

I honestly believe that we all have a story to tell, whether it's told in poetry form, a song or a novel. There are no limits for writing and I still love to write poetry, songs and books. You are never too young or too old, and it is never too late.

Beth Worsdell

Beth and her husband Ian have been happily married for over 20 years, spending most of their married life in Portsmouth, England. When Beth and her husband had the opportunity to move to America in 2011, they jumped at the chance. After five wonderful years of living in South Carolina, they now reside in California. You may connect with Beth at the links listed below.

WEBSITE

AMAZON

INSTAGRAM

YOUTUBE CHANNEL

When Best Laid Plans Aren't the Best ~ Jacquolyn McMurray

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how to maximize productivity while scheduling in time for exercise and relaxation.  My goal is to manage my time without multitasking—a skill I have never conquered anyway and one that some brain researchers claim lowers your IQ. And, you know, I don’t really want to lower my IQ!

My first stab at maximizing productivity was to chunk my day into time segments that were assigned one focus: writing, researching, revising/editing, cleaning the kitchen, cooking, social media, or responding to email, etc.

This can really work, I told myself. I no longer have children living in our home and hubby spends most of his waking hours outside on our farm.

Here’s how the first day went:   

6 AM - I grabbed my first cup of coffee and headed for my office where I planned to spend ten minutes reading emails and ten minutes scanning Facebook. Thirty-five minutes and a second cup of coffee later, I recalculated how to make up the fifteen minutes I’d used that should have been part of my get-myself-ready-for-the-day chunk of time. I reasoned I didn’t really need to cook a healthy protein rich breakfast—that would save me fifteen minutes. Back on track, I carried a bowl of potato chips to my desk, rolled up my sleeves, and started my designated writing time.

7:15 AM – My fingers were flying across the keyboard! Rarely had I been in such good form.  Words were flowing when up popped a Facebook notice that my brother had sent a message. I had to check into that, you know, in case it was an emergency. The message contained a link to a video that was so hysterical, I had to stop and send it to several of my contacts and while I was at it, I hopped on kdp.amazon.com to see if I’d sold any books since yesterday morning.

And being on an Amazon site reminded me that I forgot to order the gluten-free flour and yeast I’d need to bake homemade bread, because you know I would be so efficient with my new schedule that I would have time to make all our bread from scratch.

9:00 AM – Back to my work-in-progress and the alarm on my phone went off. It was time to feed the chickens, collect eggs, and take a walk. I couldn’t skip this part of the day. I tugged on my socks and tennis shoes and headed out the door. I’d get really productive right after my walk. I’d be refreshed and focused and ready to write, wouldn’t I?

Well, at the chicken coop I was greeted by a hen with a new batch of chicks. I walked back up to the house to grab my phone. I had to film a little video to send to my grandsons. 

When I passed my little garden, I noticed weeds threatening to take over, so I stopped to pull those out. I finally set off for my walk, my Kindle in hand, and audiobook ready to go. When I returned from my walk, I couldn’t just stop the audiobook in the middle of the chapter, so I listened to that chapter and since I was almost to the end of the book, I decided I would fix my lunch while I listened to the rest of the book.

11:00 AM - After posting a review and filling a bowl with chips, I settled back at my desk. I had to get my brain back in the game, so I reread the last chapter I wrote while I nibbled at my chips, then positioned my fingers back on the keyboard. As part of my new chunking of time method, I would draft fast, but insert an asterisk anywhere in the WIP where I needed to do research to check my facts. I'm told it's terribly important to have your facts straight when you write historical fiction. The page I’d typed was filled with asterisks, so I decided I just had to stop and do research, even though research was not even on the schedule for the week. How could I ignore burning questions like:  How did people in Hawai’i in the 1850s light lanterns? Did they even have lanterns? What kind of lanterns were they? How much light did they give off?

Three hours later, I still did not know how Hawaiians lit their lanterns, but I did get a great deal on an online class and found a recipe for gluten-free pumpkin bread with chocolate chips. And when a pop-up ad beckoned me to read an article called "Skin Doctor Begs Women Over 40 to do This Every Morning," I just had to read it. After all, the article might have disappeared in cyberspace and then I would not have known that wiping avocado on my face could save my skin. I couldn’t let my skin go to pot because I ignored the wise internet doctor.

2 PM - I rubbed my eyes and walked back to my bedroom to treat my eyes to some soothing drops. I decided I should draw the blinds and close my eyes to let the drops do their work. Three hours later, I woke up.  

5 PM - It was time to tidy the kitchen and cook dinner. I deserved a glass of wine, right?  

6:30 PM - I joined hubby in the living room to watch tv and to write out my plan for the next day when I'd try again to up my productivity. 

A week later, I'm still trying to develop a schedule that works for me. And I'll think about that more after I watch this really funny video my brother just sent me.

Finding Inspiration ~ Elle Rush

Like many of us, I spent part of my social distancing time giving the house a really good cleaning. I even reorganized the storage room, except this time instead of moving my box marked “Childhood Treasures” from one place to another, I decided to open it.

Oh, past me, you have me shaking my head.

I remembered the stuffed animals, and who gave them to me, and I’m keeping them all. To let you know how old some of them are, the green pig is named “Green Pig” because he’s been around since before I knew how to name things, and the AM-radio raccoon was named “Racky”. Obviously, I’ve learned how to pick better names since then.

The wee table and chairs still make me smile. I never had any dolls small enough to use it, but how can I not love it! I would move the chairs around for invisible characters, and sip from the cups, and have engrossing conversations with myself. I’ve written for as long as I can remember, and I think this toy set is part of the reason.

I remember pre-teen me thinking folding fans were so terribly elegant. 

And the owl nightlight chased away nightmares for my entire childhood. Now that I’ve dusted off those memories, perhaps they may appear in a character’s room sometime.

I have NO excuses as to why a photocopy of remote-control instructions and line-dancing VHS tape made it into the box. None! 

And if ever I did consider them treasures, the reason has long since faded from my mind. But they were a hilarious find.

Inspiration fades, but when it comes to the things that truly impacted your life, I think it never truly disappears. You can’t hold on to all the mementos from your past, but a handful of ones that truly lighten your heart shouldn’t be hidden away in a box in the attic. Try to find a way to keep them out so you can see and appreciate the things that turned you into the amazing person you’ve become.

Elle Rush is a sweet romance author from Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada. When she’s not travelling, she’s hard at work writing books which are set all over the world. From Hollywood to the house next door, her heroes will make you sigh and her heroines will make you laugh out loud.

Elle has a degree in Spanish and French, barely passed German, and has flunked poetry in every language she ever studied, including English. She also has mild addictions to tea, yarn, her garden, and holiday decorations.

Book Link (Fall A Million Times) - released May 4th

https://www.ellerush.com/books/display,hopewell-millionaires/23/fall-a-million-times 

Website:  http://www.ellerush.com 

Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/Elle.Rush.Romance/ 

Twitter:  https://twitter.com/elle_rush 

Being an Indie Author ~ by Mira Jeffreys

It’s a joy to be able to share a little about myself with you. I am a contemporary women’s fiction genre writer. I describe myself as an easy-going type of individual who always looks to encourage those around me with positive thoughts and actions. I am a mother of six beautiful children, a grandmother of three, and a wife of one. I’m an original Georgia Peach who met and married my dream guy and relocated to Kansas. You can imagine how many Wizard of Oz and Dorothy references my family back home in Georgia has plagued me with, but it’s all in good fun! My family is a source of motivation, encouragement, drive to press forward with my writing career.

Podcast Interview

Recently, I had my first podcast interview with Maxwell Ivey, aka “The Blind Blogger, and he asked me to tell his listeners why I became a writer, I had to pause and think about it for a moment. Hearing someone ask me this question was a sobering experience to say the least. What made me want to write? Without a doubt it was when I came to the understanding that I could not only touch a person’s heart with my words, but I could also make a positive change in someone. It was at that moment when I knew what I wanted to do. 

But getting to this point of being an indie author wasn’t easy. For twenty years, I worked as a freelance ghostwriter and helped other people accomplish their goals and dreams of publication. It paid the bills and I was comfortable doing that. I enjoyed seeing how my skill set and talents helped others. I served many clients from oil industry executives to indie writers. While I was working as a ghostwriter I was struggling in a failing marriage. I was homeschooling my children, running another small business, and dealing with the pressures from all of that. Writing was my escape! I enjoyed opening up my email and seeing another job waiting for me.

Sadly though, my marriage of nearly 20 years ended, and suddenly I was thrust into a position where ghostwriting was the sole means of income for myself and children, so I threw myself into the work. I worked hard and endeared myself to my clients. By the time I looked up, I had a healthy portfolio of professional and loyal clients around the globe.

Eventually myself life’s situation turned around and I found happiness again. After I remarried, I wasn’t expected to be the sole provider anymore. My new husband, who also was my best friend, wanted me to enjoy life for a while. So, I took some time to enjoy the things I really love. Along with baking and gardening, writing works of fiction is one of them. Creating characters and fictional worlds makes me feel a kind of contentment that can’t easily be described with words. Writers can understand what I mean when I say that my characters would not allow me to sleep! Try as I might, once I had a plot idea in my head, I couldn’t keep them quiet.

After the birth of my first grandson I promised myself that I would

My son and I holding my first book

finally write that novel I’d been wanting to write for years. Once I dedicated myself to the idea and with the encouragement from family and friends, I completed my debut novel, entitled Archer. I can’t begin to describe the feelings of accomplishment that I felt having finally published something for me! All the years of writing and publishing for others could not compare to achieving a lifelong goal of publishing a novel for myself. I dedicated my first novel to my parents and another very special person, whom without their love and support, I wouldn’t be the person I am today. It took many years, but one of my most sought after dreams came true.

I encourage all who has the dream of writing their own book to reach after that dream and don’t stop grasping until you hold it in your hands. It’s the greatest feeling of accomplishment, a feeling that cannot be described, it can only be experienced. Never let anyone tell you that you’re not good enough or you’re not skilled enough. You just need to have the desire to tell a good story and never give up!

I’m social! You can find me online at

OFFICIAL WEBSITE

TWITTER

FACEBOOK

INSTAGRAM

Why I Write Books for a Living ~ Armand Rosamilia

Dean Koontz is the answer. There ya go. Glad I could share that with you. My work here is done.

Oh, wait… you want the more elaborate answer? I’m fine with doing that. My wife says I love to talk about myself. The woman is not only smart but she’s kinda into me, too. Go figure.

I was a very bad child growing up. Not so bad I went to jail or the cops had a talk with me, but bad in the sense I was hyper and liked to push the envelope. My brother is only eighteen months younger than me, so we’d get in trouble a lot together. I was sneaky but he was a bull in a China cabinet when it came to trouble, his head down and chaos running rampant.

We also fought a lot. I’m not talking yelling, either. I mean fists and kicks and trying to hurt one another. He has a couple of scars to prove it and so do I. I also have some crooked teeth from when he kicked me in the back of the head. He once pushed me over a barbed wire fence and began pummeling me while I tried not to get my body ripped apart and defend myself.

We had a stay-at-home mother. This was the seventies into the eighties. During the summers it must’ve been pure hell to have us around all day and night, especially when my father sometimes worked long hours. Our days were spent outside playing kickball, football, and baseball with the neighborhood kids. There were a lot of them our age, too. We lived in a small fishing village in New Jersey on a dead-end street.

The summer between fifth and sixth grade I remember well. My brother and I had been brawling for days on and off and my mother had had enough. School was coming to a close and we must’ve really given her the final straw, the last big fight, and she’d had enough.

From the first day of summer break until the first day of school, we were both punished. No outside. No TV. We were allowed out of our rooms for meals and then right back into our cells.

My brother got the best deal… at least I thought so at the time. I was twelve. I wanted to play with my action figures and listen to Top 40 radio or be outside with all the kids who weren’t punished. He got to stay in our bedroom, which we shared. I was only allowed in it at night for bed.

I got stuck in my parent’s room, with their giant canopy bed and walls covered in bookshelves. Books? No thanks. I liked to read but there was nothing in this room for me. This was all old people stuff. The junk my mother read. Hundreds and hundreds of dog-eared paperbacks. All piled on top of one another.

With nothing else to do, I started reading them. For hours. From the time I woke up until I went to bed, I read these books. They had demons and spiders and scary-looking houses on the covers. My mother was (and still is to this day) a huge horror fiction reader. She had a to-be-read pile taller than me on her nightstand. Still does.

Once she saw I was starting to get as obsessed with reading as she was, she began leaving a pile for me. She’d make sure she went through and crossed out the ‘dirty parts’ so my twelve-year old brain wouldn’t be completely corrupted. She left in the profanity, since we grew up in New Jersey and you could use the F word in every sentence as every other word without missing a beat. I mean… not twelve year old me. Unless I was using it as I rained down blows on my brother.

I told a story last year while at the Necon writer’s gathering in

Rhode Island. I was on a panel about Clive Barker, and I mentioned being a bad kid and everything I’ve just written. When I told the part about her crossing out the sex parts and one particular book I still remember, where a couple go into a dark movie theater, stare longingly at one another… and then the next page and a half was blacked out… author Grady Hendrix, who not only writes horror but released a must-have called Paperbacks From Hell with a ton of those old paperbacks I’ve read, was seated in the front row and started to laugh. He asked me a few questions at the end when the panel was wrapping up about it.

Not that I remember what he was asking. I know I answered. Seriously… Grady Hendrix was talking to me. He graciously signed a copy of Paperbacks From Hell to my mother.

But, wait… in the opening line to this amazing post I said it was Dean Koontz who was the reason you became an author.

Even though I was reading so many books each week of my imprisonment, none caught me as off-guard as the Dean Koontz paperbacks. They weren’t just horror stories to devour and move onto the next. They were literally life-changing to twelve year old me.

I know this isn’t hyperbole. I distinctly remember telling my mother I was going to be a writer someday. She remembers this, and reminds me I should’ve said I wanted to be a rich and famous writer.

Hey, I was twelve. My bad.

Anyway, books like The Vision and Whispers blew my mind. I’d also read some of the novels he’d written under pen-names like The Funhouse and The Eyes of Darkness, not knowing it was Mister Koontz but knowing I loved those books as well.

His writing changed everything for me. I began writing awful rip-

off stories of a few pages, using his character names with slight variations. All set in New Jersey, where I lived. I’d give them to my mother, who’d smile and nod. Poor woman. I’d like to think, thirty-eight years later, I’ve improved a bit.

And so began my love of Dean Koontz and writing stories I hoped to someday sell and make millions. While all of my friends would eventually get into King, I was a Koontz loyalist.

When Phantoms was released, my mother let me read it before she did, knowing I was chomping at the bit to get my hands on it. The book blew me away and cemented my life’s dream to do this for a living.

No, I never saw the movie. Stop asking.

Without Dean Koontz I might’ve still been an avid horror book reader but maybe not a writer at all. I’d be seated right now in a retail store, on my lunch break, trying to escape my awful life inside the new Koontz book.

Instead, I’m living the dream. If I someday get to meet Mister Koontz, I will tell him all of this. Or, likely, stutter and be unable to form words around the man that taught me words can be a solid living.

Armand Rosamilia

You can connect with Armand at his WEBSITE or at his PODCAST SITE

 

What Goes on in This Writer's Head ~ by Fiona J. Roberts

The Idea
     At the beginning, everything is extremely vague for me. It starts with a word, a concept, or perhaps just a feeling. Inspiration comes from a newspaper story, something I’ve seen on television, or from the ether. I’m particularly creative whilst on my morning walk. There is something about strolling and letting my mind wander, that allows the creative juices to flow.
     I usually tell my husband my idea. He sits patiently as I describe some bizarre scenario that ends with… and then there’s a murder. He will then smile and say “That’s my girl. A murder.”
     My first book, EBB AND FLOW, came from a story that I had

honed over several years. I thought that I would write one book, but the floodgates had been opened. Since then, the concepts have come thick and fast. After reading a book about a serial killer, I wondered why they were always men in their twenties. From that thought, the lovely ladies Eve, Penny and Dorothea, who became my middle-aged vigilante killers, were born.
     My latest project, which is still in progress, and entitled EDEN'S TALE, began with a crazy thought about vestigial tales. Yes, so far, so random.

The Characters
     Who will populate my story? When you meet someone in real life, you gradually get to know them. A similar thing happens when I write. Choosing a name is important, but difficult, because it begins to develop their persona. Getting the name right allows me to picture what they look like. Once that step is done, I begin to wonder what they are like. What is their major flaw? What are their foibles? It is only when I am writing that they truly become fully formed. I’ve not necessarily planned for them to be, say, stubborn or sly, but these traits become apparent as I write their dialogue.
     In JUST DES(S)ERTS, Eve became a firebrand, Penny was soft,

and often a little confused, and Dorothea was, as far as being a serial killer goes, the voice of reason. Their back stories helped shape them and propel the story in the right direction.
     My latest character, Eden, is a girl with a dark side. I’m really enjoying swinging between sweet Eden and dangerous Eden.

The Story

     When I open a Word Doc., my preferred medium, and type the title, I usually have no idea what will come next. Eden is born with a vestigial tail, I know that much, but where can I go from there? What effect does that have on her? How does that fact launch us into a story?
     Okay, what if the tail, which was removed when she was a baby, begins to grow back when she is a teenager? Now that is interesting! I’ll run with that for a while and see what happens. Next, I’ll need some more people brought into the action. A best friend and a boyfriend, for a start, and they will need names.
     So, now I’m typing furiously. A sort of stream of consciousness thing. New characters are required and a better idea of what will happen is developing with each sentence. When I get to about 20,000 words, I pause. At this stage, some serious thought is required.
     A novel is typically around 70,000 words. Some are shorter, many are longer. What can happen in my story which will keep the reader interested throughout? I like a tale with a bit of a supernatural edge, but it still has to make sense. Sub plots are fine as long as they sit within the main story and aren’t merely distractions. I would rather write a shorter book that is all relevant, than one padded out with superfluous detail.
     The main story is now sketched out in my head. How it will all end is clear and a rough idea of the path to the denouement is there. Excellent, I can pick up where I left off and carry on with the narrative. Except there are many places along the route where the plot can change. An essential new character can demand to be included. One of the protagonists might suddenly do something unexpected. 

     In one of my other novels, a man decided to acquire a dog. Not sure where the thought came from, but it turned out to be a great addition. I type a sentence, the brain picks it up and runs with it, and I’m off in another direction.
     Then there is the great idea conundrum. Just when I think it is all going so smoothly, I come up with a plot twist or a better ending (or a man buys a dog.) The result is that I have to go back and change a lot of the action to accommodate the new story.
     The writing is at an end, but the work isn’t. I approach the task of editing with resignation. Picking up spelling mistakes and obvious punctuation errors as I go along, doesn’t mean that I have caught everything. This is the time to read through and do a multitude of amendments.
     The main things I look for are: what needs to be added, what needs to be clarified, and what can be discarded. I admit, there have been times when I have read back a sentence and can’t imagine what I was trying to say.
     It's never too late to change what doesn’t work or insert a better idea. It’s a lot of work, but if you want the best story, it is a sacrifice well made. The work is done and you sit back with a sense of accomplishment. But…
     I know other writers work in a myriad of ways. I am, what is known in the trade, as a pantser. In other words, I fly by the seat of my pants. Others are plotters. The story and the chapters are all planned out in advance. The characters are all named and have a bio. Only when these things have been done, will they start to write.
     I am more certain that my brain works in the same way as my fellow writers after the project has finished. The sense of accomplishment, that I mentioned before, is only a fleeting visitor. Next comes the doubt. Then I am on a roller coaster ride of, if it’s a good story, I’m a terrible writer. I love it, I hate it, why do I even bother? At some point there is what I can only describe as acceptance. I have done all that I can and it is time to release it on the world. I don’t know if this is an act of bravura, arrogance, or hope.
     When EBB AND FLOW was published, my first thought was,

why am I opening myself up to the public and letting them see my work? What if people hate it? Will I become an object of ridicule? My sister in law was one of the first to read EBB AND FLOW and my question was, is it like a real book? Not exactly neutral, I still needed an opinion. She, I’m relieved to say, loved it and helped calm my nerves.
     Back to EDEN'S TALE. Nothing too surprising has happened thus far. I do, indeed, have an ending which I’m happy with and I have about another 40,000 words to go. Hopefully, you will get to read about Eden and her tail before too long. I can confirm that no one in this book has yet bought a dog, although I can’t be sure that it won’t happen.

Fiona J Roberts lives in Dorset on the south coast of England. After

Fiona J. Roberts

a career in banking, she decided to fill her spare time by writing. The hobby became an obsession and has led to her having two books traditionally published and another which was self-published. Her latest book, Just Des(s)erts, tells the tale of three middle aged ladies who become vigilante serial killers. You can contact Fiona at the links below.

WEBSITE

TWITTER

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Finding a Writing Rhythm ~ by Author/Artist/Photographer Mina Beckett

As my bio says, I’ve been reading romance since I was a teenager.

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While my friends were crowding into football games, I was curled up on the couch, listening to my Walkman, switching between my sketchpad and a romance book.  

My mother remarried and moved to Texas when I was sixteen, but I stayed in Kentucky with my grandparents to attend school. I spent my summers in Midland with her and my sister and never made the long trip without at least a dozen books. Back then, I could gobble up three to four romances a day.

Penny Jordan and Sara Craven were some of my favorite authors, but my first summer in Texas, I discovered Elizabeth Lowell and Diana Palmer. There I was, reading Fire and Rain, Granite Man and Calhoun while living in West Texas surrounded by real-life cowboys. It was the perfect catalyst for my young imagination. I began filling notebooks with ideas, character profiles, and short stories. I’d write a few paragraphs and then do a few sketches of different scenes and characters.

Fast forward ten years. I’m married, have two children, a full-time career and no time to write. My notebooks were shoved to the back of a closet and deemed unimportant. But the characters in my head were stubborn and not easily dismissed. They’d show up at the most inconvenient times, like at board meetings and during presentations, so I tried to appease them by jotting down ideas here and there. But they kept talking, loudly. It wasn’t long until those thoughts were filling notebooks again.

After spending almost two decades earning degrees, working full-time and raising children, I decided it was time to revisit my writing, so I cleaned out my utility room and set up a small writing space. There among baskets of dirty clothes and dryer lint, I began drafting my first story.

I was so excited!

But writing to complete a full-length novel for submission wasn’t anything like writing short stories for fun. I’d write a page or two – usually, things I’d scribbled down while I was at work– but then, my mind would stall. I’d spend the rest of my writing time staring at my keyboard. It was so frustrating! Soon, doubt moved in, pulled up a chair, and began whispering in my ear. Maybe writing for submission was just a childish dream. Maybe I wasn’t a writer at all.

I battled with Impostor Syndrome for months, not knowing it was a common problem among writers or how to deal with it. It took me over a year to finish the first draft and I can honestly say, it was horrible. The book didn’t get any better when a small press publisher contracted it in 2014. My second book was published the following year, but I was still struggling with the words.

My husband and I were financially stable enough that I was able to resign from my job and devote more time to my writing and work part-time in the company we owned. I finally had time to write! I moved out of that dark and dusty utility room and into the guest bedroom. Looking back, I know I resembled Andy Farmer (Chevy Chase) in Funny Farm.

In 2016, I outlined a new series called Coldiron Cowboys, wrote blurbs for the three books, and hammered out a rough draft of the first one (still stalling and struggling). But I didn’t submit it to the small press publisher. My gut told me these books were going to be different and they were.

In 2017, I regained the rights to my first two books, shelved them and enrolled in Gwen Hayes’ Romancing the Beat. That class transformed my writing and I was able to finally find my voice. That’s such a wonderful feeling!

I began working on a series proposal for the Coldiron Cowboys and successfully landed an agent. We submitted The Heartbreak Cowboy (book one) to the big five, went through a grueling four-month rewrite for a top ten publisher, and received wonderful feedback from an acquiring editor at Harlequin. But, in the end, I stepped away from her on good terms without contracting the series.

But it was during that rewrite that I made a giant leap forward. We had a conference call with the acquiring editor who requested the rewrite to discuss the changes she wanted. I did bullet points reflecting those changes in the appropriate chapters and had a firm grasp on what needed to be done. I had written the story, knew it and my characters inside and out, but after an hour of writing, I stalled.

I couldn’t understand why it was happening until I found some of those short stories and sketches I’d done in Texas. Suddenly, it hit me. Walkman. Sketchpad. Book. My brain was wired to multitask not to sit in front of a computer for hours trying to churn out chapters. Those first two books had been written while I was on lunch breaks, in class, and at little league games. I needed to find a rhythm so, I began experimenting by incorporating different hobbies and projects into my writing routine.

I set daily word goals, wrote in short spurts of five to eight hundred words, then switched to working on a watercolor painting, took a walk around the farm to snap a few pictures, baked a cake worked in Photoshop.   

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This has worked wonders for me, and I don’t think I would have been able to write so productively if I hadn’t found this rhythm. I wrote my first Christmas romance in 2019 and I did it in only three months.  

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I re-branded myself, started CurtissLynn Publishing, and self-published The Heartbreak Cowboy. I’ve since published three more books and started a new series. Breaking the Cowboy, the third and final book in my Coldiron Cowboys series will be released in March and there are at least three books planned for the Rough Creek series. Hollywood Cowboy (Morgan’s story) will be hitting Amazon sometime in the late summer or early fall. I’m crossing my fingers that Montana Cold (Colton and Lauren’s story from The Heartbreak Cowboy) will make it into readers' hands by Thanksgiving.

With each book I write, I learn more about myself, my voice and my writing process.

Thank you for having me as a guest today!

To learn more about Mina, click the links under the photographs or those listed below.

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Everyone Should Have a Hobby, I Chose Writing ~ by Doug J. Cooper

While I’ve been told that everyone should have a hobby, my belief is that everyone should pick an art or sport that inspires them and strive to improve at it. It can be gardening, baking, golf—it doesn’t matter. But the journey becomes elevated when you set your sights on lofty ambitions.

I chose writing, and specifically science fiction novels, as my art form. After seven years and six books, I can report that I’m having a blast on my journey, and there’s no end in sight.

Science fiction is a natural fit for me. It’s what I read in my youth. And as a professor of Chemical and Biomolecular Engineering at the University of Connecticut, science is in my blood. My research at UConn focuses on automating manufacturing plants to make them safer, cleaner, and more profitable. I spent years studying how neural networks and other artificial intelligence technologies might serve in that role. Over time, my research shifted away from AI, but my interest in the technology never died. 

Now I use my imagination to explore the subject. My interest is in how human-AI interaction might impact our society. I did this first in The Crystal Series, four novels of action and suspense that center on two great sci-fi themes—artificial intelligence and adventures in space. The overarching personality in the series is Criss, a “good” AI with the cognitive ability of a thousand humans. He is hard-wired to protect and serve his human leadership team, which includes Dr. Juice Tallette, the crystal scientist who created him; Cheryl Wallace, captain of a Fleet space cruiser; and Sid, a covert operative for the Union of Nations.

I am currently writing the Bump Time Trilogy, where the stories center on AI and time travel. In these books, Ciopova is a “bad” AI who manipulates humans to her own ends. We follow David “Diesel” Lagerford, his wife Lilah, and daughter Rose across time as they confront Ciopova and seek to end her dominance.

To illustrate what I mean by exploring human-AI interaction, I’ve chosen a few examples from different books and present them below.

First up is a scene from Crystal Deception, book 1 of The Crystal Series. Here, Criss is a few weeks old and growing in capability. Juice, his creator, is seeing him for the first time as a projected image—a holographic trick of light that makes him seem real—and has a human reaction.

    “Agents are watching you, Juice,” said Criss. “But they’re seeing what I show them. I suspect they’ll become quite bored with what they believe is your daily routine.”
     She examined the features of his face as he spoke. “You look a lot like my dad when he was younger. You did this to make me like you more?”
     “I want you to feel comfortable with me. Is this okay?”
     “You chose well.” Juice leaned to see him from the side. “I may develop a crush on you, though.”

Over the course of the series, Juice and Criss develop a deeply personal relationship. Here is a scene from Crystal Rebellion, book 3 of The Crystal Series. In this scene, Juice learns that her love-interest, Alex, was seen kissing another woman. We join Juice in her bedroom, confiding in Criss, who is sitting with her as a projected image.

     “I’m so sad,” whispered Juice.
     Criss caught her eye. “While Anya loves Alex, he does not feel the same about her.”
     Juice shook her head, but because it rested on a pillow, it was more of a chin shake. “Sorry, Criss. They were kissing. You’ll never understand human matters of the heart.”
     “Igor Dolovich has loved you for more than a year. You sat on his lap six weeks ago. Should Alex be upset?”
     “There were five of us in a car and I was the smallest person by far. What was I supposed to do?”
     “You danced with him four weeks ago. A slow dance. You kissed at the end.”
     “It was a company party and he asked me. And I know you chose a slow song to get me to spend time with him.” She didn’t believe that last part was true, but when he didn’t object, she wondered if it might be. “And we didn’t kiss. He gave me a peck on the cheek.”
     “You love Igor.”
     She rolled back to face the wall. “That’s dumb and this isn’t helping.”
     “Alex doesn’t love Anya, just the way you don’t love Igor.”
     Beginning to understand his logic, she looked back at him. “Are you sure?”
     Criss nodded. “Ask him yourself.”

Criss has a different relationship with Sid, a highly-trained military operative. When no threats are present, Sid treats Criss like a frat-brother. Here is a scene from Crystal Escape, book 4 of The Crystal Series, where Sid goads Criss into making a wager.

     With the launch test completed, Sid pushed Criss to bet on whether the chicken egg inside survived. “Pick either broken or intact.”
     “Which do you want?” Criss replied.
     “You go first,” Sid insisted. “Broken or intact? You have to choose.”
     “I’ll take broken.”
     “You really think the equipment is that bad?”
     “No. I’d say the chance of failure is small. But I know you want to pick intact, so I’ll take broken.”
     Giving him a sidelong glance, Sid stood and made for the exit.  “You are the opposite of fun.”

But when danger lurks and tensions rise, Sid’s hard edge emerges, creating difficulties for Criss. In this scene from Crystal Escape, the AI must negotiate his path carefully.

     As they raced to intercept the stolen craft and rescue Juice, Sid called to her, “Is it just you and Lazura on the ship?”
     “I think so,” Juice replied. After a brief pause, she continued, her voice rising. “And Sid, don’t even think about making a move on her until I’m back and we talk. Criss, you hear me?”
     Cheryl offered her support. “We’ll wait.”
     “Acknowledged,” replied Criss, who used formal language to convey that he would be following strict protocol during this period of leadership disharmony.
     Outnumbered, Sid, who wanted to destroy Lazura at the first opportunity, grunted and folded his arms.

Not all interactions need be dramatic to be interesting. In this scene

from Bump Time Meridian, book 2 of the Trilogy, Lilah’s first time-travel experience is to jump to the future to visit an older version of her daughter, Rose. While there, Rose has her try out a neural link with Luca, the home AI.

     Rose watched Lilah go quiet and begin to sway, and knew that meant Luca was giving her the grand tour. His valley excursion made you feel like you were flying over the hillsides as he glided you past amazing wildlife and dramatic geographic features. His extended tour included virtual visits to notable homes along the mountain ridges, a sampling of the popular winter and summer sports, an overview of the local history, and more.
     “Luca,” Rose called aloud. “Please keep the tour short. We have work to do.”
     She’d committed a major faux pas by speaking to the AI about a linked human. In polite society, one always addressed the person. But she was anxious to move things along and counted on Lilah’s inexperience to miss her gaffe.

But when the bad AI shows her cards, like Ciopova does in this scene from Bump Time Origin, book 1 of the Trilogy, it becomes the kind of interaction we all fear.

     Tap. Tap. The knock on the workshop door caused Rose to turn. Whispering to Ciopova, she asked, “Who is that?”
     “It’s your father," replied the AI.
     “It’s not my dad.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, almost dismissive. Then she thought about it. “Unless you reactivated the T-discs?”
     She’d always felt safe in this house and comfortable with Ciopova. That history tempered her caution, and, in the moment, she made a critical error. She unlocked the door.
     The instant Rose disengaged the door lock, the house bot forced it open from the outside and lunged for her.

Whew! While this is a tiny sample of the human-AI interactions I explore, I hope you’ve gained a sense of what you’ll find inside the pages of my books.

Thank you so much for hosting me. I am grateful for the opportunity to visit your wonderful blog.

When he is not writing science fiction novels, Doug fills his day

working as a professor of Chemical & Biomolecular Engineering at the University of Connecticut, and as founder and director of Control Station, Inc. His passions include telling inventive tales, mentoring driven individuals, and everything sci-tech. He lives in Connecticut with his darling wife and with pictures of his son, who is off somewhere in the world creating adventures of his own.

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