Rejuvenation Station

I'm parked here in rejuvenation station, waiting for the next train.  I hope you are enjoying your holiday season.  Here's where I've been this week.

I submitted my manuscript, a horrific experience that involved a big padded envelope sealed shut around several years of work nestled in my hopes and dreams.  I can not share specifics, so please don't ask.   The Soulkeepers has fully matured, and I've reached the point where I've accepted it for what it is.  While I hope it sells, it's time to start something new.  I've been using this holiday season to decide what to write next.  I have no shortage of ideas, but I do have an understanding of how a novel swallows you whole, the mood infusing itself into your cells for as long as it takes to write it.  I will choose carefully.

This morning, I was notified that Everyday Fiction will publish my Sci-fi flash fiction, the date of publication to be determined.  The news has renewed my interest in submitting additional flash.  The benefit of flash fiction is that you can connect with a reader within a tiny world of thought, in 1,000 words or less and this becomes a test kitchen for potential novel worthy ideas.  What it also means, is that you won't see as much of my flash published here, because I will be submitting to the market first.  Although, I do plan to workshop some ideas here.

As for this week, I will remain parked, staring up at the stars until steam powered inspiration rolls in.  I hope you get your share when the whistle blows too!

Finding the Right Critique Group

Recently, I decided to pursue a local critique group.  It is not the first time I've been down this road.  Finding the right group can be compared to finding the right partner; a good fit can be priceless but a poor one, destructive and emotionally draining.

For me, the members of my group need to understand my intended market.  A person could have their masters in creative writing and have stories in multiple publications, but if every time they critique me they try to make my work into an abstract literary masterpiece, then they've missed the point.

I write YA which means the vocabulary and sentence structure needs to be accessible to a teen audience.  It means there's a line that can't be crossed when it comes to sex, violence, or language.  And it means that my story has to connect with people at a certain stage in their psychological development.

I believe that this knew group knows what YA is and isn't and will help me write for this market.  I'm so happy to have found them.

As a bonus, the pastries they served at my first meeting convinced me that if I do not become a better writer for meeting with them, I will become a fatter one.  It's the little things in life.

Formatting a YA Manuscript for Submission

In the process of formatting my work for submission, I've come across several resources that claim to be authorities on the subject.  Most of the basic advice is consistent but each source seems to have it's own pearls of wisdom, as well.   If you are a new writer, preparing your first manuscript, I’ll save you the work and summarize what I found most helpful.  If you are an experienced writer, please let me know if anything here doesn’t mesh with your professional opinion!

Do’s

• Check the specific publisher or agent’s guidelines first
• Print on 8 ½" x 11" white (20 lb) paper in black ink (I pity the fool who tried pink, scented, legal size)
• Left justify
• Use 12 point Arial or Times New Roman font (although I found one source that specified Courier)
• Double space
• Indent first paragraphs
• Number pages consecutively 
• Use 1-inch margins all around (although I found a source that said 1.25)
• Print personal info (name, address, city state, zip, etc) in the upper left corner of first page
• Place the title, centered in all caps, halfway down the first page
• Include your by line under the title
• Begin the manuscript on the first page, two returns under the by line.
• Start new chapters halfway down the page

Don’ts

• Include pictures or cover art
• Include a table of contents
• Use three hole punched paper
• Bind the manuscript in any way
• Use colored paper or colored fonts
• Use faded ink (WARNING: I had a draft printed by Kinko’s that had faded ink in the middle.  Always check the quality of the print.)
• Send in a manuscript with crinkled or stained pages
• Put an extra space between paragraphs (unless it is a formal break)
• Put a copyright on every page
• Send the MS in an envelope lined with bubble wrap or a box
• Use “The End” at the end

Other Stuff

• If you want a word italicized in the final version, you should underline it in your manuscript.  
• You can separate breaks within chapters by using extra lines, centering a series of asterisks, or centering a series of pound signs.
• I found two different recommendations about page numbers.  The first was a right justified header containing title/last name/page #.  Other sources simply recommended a page number in the footer.  I decided to go with the first way.  
• A couple of resources recommended having exactly 25 lines per page.  I did not do this because I think this was old advice that had something to do with word count in pre-computer days.  I have a gorgeous Mac who counts my words for me, so I hardly feel this is necessary.

Happy Formatting!

Is Membership in a Writing/Illustrating Organization Right For You?

About a year ago, when I finished the first draft of my YA novel and was enjoying some minor success with freelance non-fiction, a friend suggested I join a writer’s organization such as the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI).  At the time I didn’t join because I thought:

• It’s too early; my novel isn’t finished.
• I’ll have to pay dues and won’t get anything out of it.
• I will embarrass myself because I don’t know what I am doing.

Boy was I wrong.  In November, I attended the SCBWI Regional Conference in Palatine, IL.  For a couple hundred bucks, I received 10 hours of detailed information on writing and publishing for children and young adults.  This information came not from academic types but from actual published writers, agents and editors!  They talked about picture books, middle grade, young adult, and non-fiction markets, what sells and what doesn’t. 

I found myself wishing I had joined earlier.   Changes I had made to my writing based on hard knocks and sheer dumb luck, were laid out for the taking for the smart folks who had joined during revision one.   Fortunately for me, the lectures validated my story and helped to give me the confidence to take the next steps toward submission.

When I came back from the conference, I joined and am now a card-carrying member.  Guess what?   Included in my membership packet was a publication guide filled with targeted advice on writing query letters and formatting manuscripts, and a listing of editors and agents that are looking for YA --just what I needed.

Are you a newbie writer thinking about taking your passion to the next level?  If so, here are some links to organizations that can help you get there.  Don't be afraid!

• http://www.scbwi.org - Society of Children's Book Writer's and Illustrators
• http://www.rwanational.org/ - Romance Writers of America
• http://www.sfwa.org/ -Science Fiction Writers 
• http://www.mysterywriters.org/ - Mystery Writers 
• http://www.thrillerwriters.org/ - Thriller Writers 

Extreme Makeover - Blog Edition

Everything that grows, changes.  I'm still the same height (unfortunately), but adapting to a new perspective on what I want to do with this writing bug of mine.  Recently, I was ranting to a friend about how much I loved to write but didn't know where to focus my energy to get published (now).  She said, "You want to write.  So, write!  Stop worrying so much.  These things take time."  I agreed.

Halloween is over, and so is the Queen of Darkness motif.  This new schema will encompass a broader range of writing topics, one of which is the journey I am about to embark on to get "Dark Angels" published.

I hope you enjoy So, write.  Something new is coming soon!

Would you like some fries with your scythe?

“Welcome to Burger Palace.  Would you like to try our colossal meaty burger?”  I adjusted my glasses on my face and pushed a strand of brown hair out of my line of vision, tucking it under the orange hat that was part of my uniform.  My customer was one of “them”. See I work in the Las Vegas burger palace.   Entertainers are always coming in here after their shows.  So, when I see a seven-foot, black hooded figure with a scythe, I think the Cirque du Soleil just closed curtain at the Bellagio.

“I am the angel of death, “ the black hoodie boomed.

“Okay man, what can I get for ya?”  I hooked my fingers in my belt loops and heaved upward, straightening my shirt over the waistband. 

“Your soul.  I’m here for your soul.”

Maybe I was mistaken but he sounded terse.  I blinked at him several times and rubbed my nose with my knuckle.  “Seriously, dude.  There’s a line.”  I tossed a finger in the direction of the crowd of people behind the counter and only then realized they were catatonic.  They stood like statues, hands floating in odd and uncomfortable positions of mid-movement.  “Damn!”

“Are you prepared to relinquish your soul?” the hood bellowed.

“Seriously? What am I dying of?”

“Heart disease.”

I rubbed my chest.  It did feel a little tight and I wasn’t in the greatest of shape.  I had thought it was gas.  “Wait.   So, are you taking me to heaven or hell?”

“Heaven,” the dark figure said with a sigh.  His voice was quieter now, almost bored.

“WOOHOO!” I yelled.  I jumped up and down punching the air above my head.

“Are you so happy about dying?” the hood asked in that same uninterested tone.

“Look around you, Death.  May I call you Death?”

The hood nodded.

“My life sucks.  I work like a slave here and still can’t pay my bills.  This is awesome! “ A smile crept across my face as a thought blossomed in my mind. “My landlord is going to be so pissed when he finds out I’m dead.  I hope I can see his face when they tell him.” I rubbed my hands together.

The hood was silent.  I caught myself wondering what was back there, behind the great dark void nested in so much black cotton.

“So, what’s the process here?  When do we go?” I asked.

“Now is the usual way,” he said, but he just stood there, hood pointed at the menu.

I should know by now that being nice gets you nowhere.  But there I was, in the pit of that awful silence, with nothing in my head but the reflex to do what I was trained to do.

“Well, gosh, Death.  Is there anything I can get for you before we go?  Do you wanna try a colossal meaty burger?  I mean, I guess I can get it for you for free.  It’s really good.  A full pound of beef with bacon and cheese on top.”

“It has been a long time since I had a burger,” Death said.

“Well, have a seat.  I’ll getchya one, “ I said.  There was one in the warmer, so I grabbed it and exited the counter.  Death leaned his scythe against the garbage bin and slid into a booth by the door.  I tossed the yellow paper wrapped sandwich down on the table and sat down across from him. 

Boney hands emerged from the black robe and unwrapped the paper.  The sandwich disappeared within the hood.  Sloppy smacking and slurping came from the void.

“So, how do you get to be Death anyway?”  I asked.

Death did not answer.  Instead, the boney hands emerged from the hood, the burger gone.  They clawed at the chest of the black robe.  A gagging sound echoed around me.

The world shifted.  I felt myself pulled toward the black cotton robes. From within the void a boy emerged—skinny, with bad skin.  I was sucked into his place and watched helplessly as he filled mine.  The second before he died, he smiled.

“Awww, crap! “ I said.

*****

Turns out being Death is a lot like my last job.  I stand at a counter and wait for an assignment.  Some guy hands the order to me and I beam down to Earth to pick up the soul.  People never appreciate what I do.  Really, it’s not surprising the best Deaths come from Burger Palace employees.  The only thing missing is the burgers. 

Man would I love a good burger.

Prologue: The Side Effect of Sleep (An Excerpt from The Soulkeepers)

“And it came to pass, when men began to multiply on the face of the earth, and daughters were born unto them, that the sons of God saw the daughters of men, that they were beautiful; and they took of them all which they chose.”  Genesis 6:1-2

A single choice can change a life forever.

Jacob Lau had a choice to make.  If he believed a person was only as good as the worst thing they had ever done, than he should go.  After all, no one in their right mind would remain in the apartment without a good reason. Not with the smell of dirty dishes and the sound of gnawing teeth that came from the walls.  Or, the scurry of multi-legged things that hid when the lights came on.  No one should stay alone and hungry.  But, the problem was that Jacob Lau did not believe a person was only as good as the worst thing they had ever done, especially when that person was his mother.

She wasn’t a bad mother.  She tried hard.  But, since his dad died, something about her was broken, something important. Often, he wondered if that place she went to, the dark prison of sadness that left her unresponsive, was permanent, but then, the sun would rise, and the weight of whatever burden had held her would be gone as mysteriously as it had come. But this, this might be too much.  This could be the thing that gave him permission to hate her. Abandoned was such an ugly word.

It was tempting. One phone call and the gnawing pain in his stomach would be history.  They’ll take me away again, he thought. The hard truth was all they had was each other. If he left, there would be no one to take care of her and he would have nowhere to call home.  With a hand on his growling stomach, he filled a glass with water.  It would have to do. Because Jacob had decided that he wouldn’t give up on his mom, no matter what she had done.  He wouldn’t give up, no matter what.

The choice was made.

The sofa that absorbed the impact of Jacob’s bone poking thin body could be described as anything but a proper place to rest, with fabric the shocking orange of a safety cone, and collapsed cushions with loose springs.  At 15 years old, he was capable of taking care of himself, but he didn’t.  Deep down, some part of him believed if he let himself go, she would have to come home, as if some sort of parental radar would alert her to his desperate condition. Not to mention that to lie in a bed would invite sleep and the potential side effect of dreams, those confusing and willful episodes he was so apt to avoid.  It was far better to lay here in relative discomfort, positioned to face the door should she walk through it.

As hard as he tried to stay awake, exhaustion overcame him.  His eyes closed. For a few moments he enjoyed peaceful nothingness. But, all too soon, the darkness parted, the weightless shift in space of dreaming and he fell, helpless, into a rush of green.

It began harmlessly enough.  He landed in a crouch, knee deep in ferns and bromeliads, shoulder to shoulder with bamboo. Wet leaves brushed against his arms and legs and rain mapped cool trails over his skin.  He turned in a circle.  There was no path here. Still, there was a familiarity among these trees.  He was sure he’d been here before.  

Dark clouds rolled in overhead, faster than in real life, and the forest grew dim under their ominous bellies.  An alarm sounded in every cell of his body. Chased or pulled forward, he wasn’t sure, but Jacob launched himself into that forest.  He darted through the trees, casting frantic looks over his shoulder with no idea why the panic swelled in his throat. 

Up ahead, the forest opened and Jacob watched a car climb a gravel roadway. The faded blue of the 1989 Toyota Celica was unmistakable.  It was his mother’s.  Panic threatened to rip through his chest.  No.  Not now, he thought. Not here, in my head. He knew his dreams weren’t real but they weren’t exactly harmless either. There had been others. Terrible others.  For a normal dream about football or girls, he would have given anything. Any dream that didn’t find a twisted way of coming true would be welcome.  But for Jacob, dreams were dangerous and his mother didn’t belong here.

Move, he thought, and pushed his muscles harder. If he could reach her, maybe everything would be normal again, in his head and in real life.  But, it was like running in quicksand, for every three steps forward he was dragged two back.  Or was the road getting farther away?

From the drivers seat, his mother emerged but she was not the woman he remembered.  Jacob had never seen this Lillian Lau, a strong soldier of a woman in a long sleeved black t-shirt and military pants.  Her jet-black hair was swept up into a ponytail and her almond eyes were deadly serious. The blade of a knife glinted from her leg. 

The knife bothered Jacob. His mother had never been violent.  She hated fighting.  The idea that his subconscious would produce the knife was as threatening as her appearance here.  He watched as she reached across her body and drew a gun from under her arm.

 MOM! Jacob tried to scream but nothing came out of his gaping jaw, not even a whoosh of breath.  Dead silence wrapped itself around him like a fog. The call of birds, the crunch of greenery underfoot, the slam of the car door, were unnaturally absent, as quiet as a grave. 

“Over here mom,” he mouthed.  But, somehow Jacob knew this nightmare was not about him.  Today, he was a voyeur in her story, doomed to watch what was about to unfold. The gun pointed toward the trees, his mom scanned the forest with a determined confidence.  Her eyes skipped over Jacob like he was invisible even though his red shirt should have stood out against the foliage. There was something in the forest behind her.  He couldn’t actually see it but Jacob could feel it.  He could smell it.  And, although he didn’t know exactly what it was, he hated it.

Behind you, Jacob pleaded inside his head. He wished he could close his eyes, wished he would not see what he knew was coming, but he was already asleep and there was no avoiding what horrors his mind had planned for him.  All he could do was run to her, warn her, and maybe protect her.

 Closer now, the rain felt funny against his bare arms.  Maroon drops, hot and thick, fell in tacky splotches to his skin.  He paused to dip a finger in the stuff and raised it to his lips. A salty, metallic taste filled his mouth.

It was raining blood. 

Panic fueled a sprint toward his mother, pushed his muscles harder, the leaves and twigs slicing his skin like a thousand paper cuts.  But it was no use. The dream was ending. The light began to flicker and the last images came in disjointed flashes: a grasping set of talons…a spray of blood on the windshield… the gun firing toward yellow eyes and the last image, the one he would never forget, his mother’s silent scream in the shadow of a monstrous leather wing.

“NO!”  Jacob’s voice reverberated through the empty apartment.  He sat bolt upright, launching the glass off his stomach.  Shards of glass skimmed across the linoleum in all directions, making a sound that he imagined like talons on the windshield.  The hair on the back of his neck bristled.  “What the hell was that thing?” he asked the emptiness.

He leaned his head between his knees, his chest cold and wet. Sweat rolled down his temples and air rushed into his lungs in hungry gulps. The yellow eyes, the leather wing, his mother’s blood, he tried to shake the memory from his head. Hugging himself, he rubbed his upper arms, hoping to come back to reality. It was just a dream, he told himself. This time, it was just a dream.   But, his hands came away warm and wet, covered in streaks of blood.  He forced himself to look and saw tiny cuts that ran from shoulder to elbow.
              A knock at the door brought him to his feet in one movement.  “Mom?” he called.  Jacob didn’t wait for an answer. He turned the deadbolt and threw open the door.

Defeating Discouragement

Since my last post, I've been writing. (Hooray)  I've also submitted some pieces to contests and magazines. (Applause)  Now, I am waiting and feel the ominous underbelly of gray clouds moving in overhead.  The loom of rejection makes the air thick. I dwell on "what ifs".

During these times, I am comforted by the joy I find in the journey of writing.  I suppose, published or not, a writer writes. We send our babies out into the world, come what may.

The good news is that becoming more comfortable with rejection means that there have been more submissions to reject, more experiences, more growth.  That's how I choose to think of it, anyway.

Scariest Thing I've Read Today

Louisiana Judge Won't Marry Interracial Couple - Crime & Courts News Summaries | Newser

Shared via AddThis

One of the themes in my book "Dark Angels and Maggot Pie" is the remnants of bigotry, especially in small town America where generations of family have grown up in the same place with the same influences.  The attached article makes the "Dark Things" blog because, as a 10 year partner in a mixed marriage, I feel we are truly in dark times if this behavior is allowed to continue.  Thankfully, it appears that most people are as outraged as I am.

More Vampires and Zombies Per Square Inch

Chronic land shortages in Japan have driven up the price of traditional graves which can now cost $100,000 per plot.

But, thanks to modern technology the Japanese have solved the problem.  New high rise cemeteries will enclose the dead in stacked graves up to five high.  Robots will retrieve the dead (in urns) for relatives to visit in special mourning rooms at the swipe of a card.  Kind of like a dead person vending machine!

Here's the full story...
http://www.newser.com/story/71525/japanese-dying-to-get-into-highrise-cemeteries.html

Award Winning Essay

I am pleased to announce that my submission for the 11th Annual Regional Nursing Conference essay contest was a winner.   The requirements were a 300-500 word essay on nursing informatics.  No zombies, hell hounds or vampires in this one, but if you are interested, it is included here.

Nursing and Informatics: the Future of Healthcare

Nursing and informatics are the future of healthcare because never in the history of medicine has there been more opportunity to leverage information to save costs, save time, and save lives. 

No longer are we controlled by the necessity of duplicate paper charts across multiple departments.  The future will not be about hunting down outdated manuals or drug books, or relying on a patient’s memory for every medical intervention they’ve received.  The future is not limited by separate pharmacy databases or look alike sound alike names.

No longer are we restricted by middlemen that add cost but no value to healthcare.  In the future, imaging and test result can be available to doctors, nurses and even directly to patients at the touch of a button. They can be shared between offices, hospitals, and specialties.  Patient outcomes and quality control data can be analyzed like never before.

No longer are we bound by geographical borders.  A specialist in London can help a patient in Chicago without ever leaving his or her office.    A nurse in San Diego can answer questions for a patient vacationing in New York in real time.   She can customize her materials to her patient and send instructions electronically in a heartbeat.

Nursing and informatics are the future of healthcare because the future will be about having the right information available, at the right time, to the right people so that medical professionals can do what they do best—heal the patient.  I believe that the questions that nurses will face as we move forward into the future of healthcare will not be about what technology can do, as the technology already exists to revolutionize the way we care for patients.  I believe the questions that we will face are about what technology should do and how far we are willing to go, how adaptable we are willing to be, to leverage technology to its full potential.  Nurses, as the hands of patient care, are now more than ever able to carve out the future of health care.  We are surrounded by opportunity.  It is just a matter of deciding what limits we will place on ourselves.

How Spiritual Is The American Reader

How Spiritual Are We | Parade.com

A new poll by Parade magazine sheds light on how Americans think about religion.  I’ve always had an interest in spirituality.  It’s part of the reason I prefer to write about supernatural characters.  But, beyond simple curiosity, I think there is value in these results because they necessarily change the way we assume readers perceive religious themes in literature.

In 1970, a book was published by Judy Blume called Are You There God, It’s Me Margaret?  The book is one of the top 100 requested to be banned from libraries because of its open discussion of interfaith marriage, religion, and choosing ones belief system.  The results of this poll, however, seem to indicate that Blume’s themes were simply ahead of her time.   

What do these results mean for the psyche of the mass market?  I tend to think it means that people, especially young people, will be less familiar with traditional religious symbolism and ceremony and more familiar with the specifics of individual spiritual practices such as meditation.  I also think that spiritual “seeking” will continue to be a popular theme.   The flip side is that traditional themes may become more edgy.

Books On Writing

“You can’t teach someone to write fiction.” 

-- Comment made by an experienced author when asked if they could recommend a good creative writing course for aspiring writers.  

After I poked pins into the doll I made in his likeness, I read these books on writing.  They’ve served me well. 

On Writing by Stephen King

As entertaining as it is educational, contains excellent info on the mechanics of writing as well as encouragement on enjoying the journey.

The First Five Pages by Noah Lukeman

Written by a literary agent in New York, outlines the common mistakes that get manuscripts rejected.

The Plot Thickens by Noah Lukeman

This one is less about what not to do and more about breathing life into your manuscript.

The Romance Writers Handbook by Rebecca Vinyard

Explains what makes a winning romance as well as info on archetypal characters, subgenres, contracts, queries, synopsis writing and more.

Self –Editing for Fiction Writers by Browne & King

After I finished the first draft of my novel, this book gave me some priceless advice on fixing it up.

Eats, Shoots, & Leaves by Lynne Truss

This book is the equivalent of mixing medicine in applesauce.  No one likes grammar but Lynne Truss makes it as palatable as possible.

The Elements of Style by Strunk and White

Everyone should have one.

Do you have a favorite book that has improved your writing?  If so, I would love to hear from you.

The Psychology of Creativity

            In the August 2009 issue of Psychology today, Jonah Lehrer reveals some interesting things about the human mind.  At first glance, his revelations seem to apply only to the visual arts but take his suggestions a step further and it’s easy to see the application to the written word.

            Picasso once said, “Art is the lie that reveals the truth.”  He didn’t know it at the time but the scientific reality is that the part of the brain involved in facial recognition responds more eagerly to caricatures than to real pictures. The phenomenon is called “Peak Shift”.  In fact, John Lehrer lists 10 perceptual principles of great art.  Here are the other nine.

1. Grouping – The brain loves a good pattern.
2. Balance – Good art makes use of the entire canvass.
3. Contrast –The brain likes thick outlines and sharp contrasts.
4. Isolation – The brain likes reality reduced to it’s most basic features.
5. Perceptual Problem Solving –The brain loves to interpret the abstract.
6. Symmetry –Symmetrical things are more appealing than asymmetrical.
7. Repetition, Rhythm, Orderliness – Beauty is inseparable from order.
8. Generic Perspective –The brain prefers things that can be observed from multiple viewpoints.
9. Metaphor – Encourages the brain to view the world In a new way.

Clearly, these revelations are as important for the written word as for visual art.  Take Stephanie Meyer for example.  The character of Edward in Twilight won over millions of readers.  Her writing isn’t superior for it’s grammar or craft.  It is not overly creative.   But, Meyer’s ability to tap into the instinctual desires of the female brain make it impossible for women to put her book down.  Edward is stronger than strong, the ultimate protector, smart, rich, doesn’t need to sleep, lives forever, always smells great, and his whole world revolves around his woman, Bella.  Whether she knew it or not, Stephanie Meyer was tapping into the instinctual part of the woman’s brain, wired to search for the ultimate provider and protector.

What features does your character or story have that will connect with the human psyche? I believe a book doesn’t necessarily need to be "perfect" to sell.  It just has to push the right mental buttons.

Need a New Catalyst for Your Superhero? Try Nanobees!

Radioactive spiders are so passé! Due to the miracle of medical science, writers everywhere now have nanobees. These wicked marvels are nanoparticles,tiny man-made vessels that can carry--well--anything you can think to fit in there. Currently, the nano vessels, which measure just three millionths of an inch across are used by medical researchers to deliver bee toxin, mellitin, to skin tumors. The nanobees literally sting the tumor to death, injecting the poison into the cell and changing the structure. Pump your wimpy protagonist up with these bad boys and the possibilities are endless.

http://www.cnn.com/2009/HEALTH/08/18/nanotech.cancer.nano.tumors/