Talking to Mother Nature

Rain, wind, cold, outside my French doors, Mother Earth is shrugging off her winter wear and searching for her spring bonnet. "Next year," I grumble, "I hope you're better organized." I slog my way to the barn, throwing mean thoughts at her. She rumbles back. We have these kind of conversations often, especially this time of year.

The downpour makes me feel persecuted. I push open the stable doors and scurry inside, filled to the brim with bad humors.

Then, as usual the magic happens. Rain on the metal roof, soft nickers, crunching hay, the sounds of being in a good place, settle me. Scents of soft horse necks, fresh, rinsed air, well-drenched ground, reduce my hunger for sunshine.

I stand for a while in this place I love, soaking in the peace of a stable in bad weather. It is where it all comes together for me, where positive obliterates negative. I think of ill friends, those troubled and in need. My needs are so trivial in comparison. In this place, I realize somewhere there is a peaceful place for them, too, and they will find it. It is no longer an "I hope" thought, it is truth. I feel I've been given a gift of knowledge and make a note to self to write it down.

Kash rattles his bucket. Life hums into my quiet wonder. It is okay. All will be okay. A raincoat of satisfaction slides around me, makes my tasks easy. I toss down hay, clean stalls, freshen water.

Chores finished, I see the horses are restless. I understand, open their stalls and watch them head to the pasture. A little water won't hurt them. I do not rush back to the house, but ease from the barn, wander from puddle to puddle. Rain kisses my face. Perhaps, Mother Nature isn't disorganized, perhaps she is wise? Perhaps, I should apologize to her?

I stop outside my French doors and think about that. She did help me see things from a different angle, but was the rotten weather really necessary? Sharp wind and cold water smack the back of my neck. I look up with a glare and say, "If you bring sunshine tomorrow, I might say sorry, but not today."

Painting Murder

This was how it always started. The familiar scent of paint, wet paper, compliments and then a jarring plea for help. Micha Mason lay a wash of blue and gray paint across the top of a sheet of cold-pressed paper, moving the sable bristles in soft curves creating a storm filled sky. Cindy Lowen stood permanent as a fire hydrant, waiting for her answer. Mica frowned, apprehension rounded her shoulders, tightened her grip on the paintbrush. “Hire a real investigator,” she said as she rinsed her brush.

The woman shook her head. “Daddy has an investigator, some creature who comes and goes, or so I hear. I want you to find out why. It’s like Daddy doesn’t want me involved.” She wobbled back and forth, her plump little feet spilling from the sides of her expensive red Italian heels.

“What about your brother?”

“Not talking to him either.”

Mica shrugged and looked down at her work. “I think I’ll stay right here and you need to leave. I can’t concentrate.”

The shapes of leafless trees appeared under her rapidly moving brush in the drying blue color. They faded into the glaze of cerulean giving the illusion of being in the far distance. Then she added a touch of alizarin, and ultramarine generating a hint of mountains. She felt the coolness of the painted sky on her skin, caught a slight whiff of fallen leaves, then realized the coolness was coming from the drafty window, and the smell from rotten garbage wafting up from the alley bins five stories below. She jammed the window closed with a palette knife, and stirred a bowl of potpourri that rested on the sill.

Mica concentrated on her work, steeling herself against the burn of her friend’s worried eyes, and then her heart cracked with compassion. Resolve fell into the crevice created and she carelessly dribbled water, like falling rain, onto the painting in front of her.

“If your Dad really needs help.” Her mind reacted like a cut to turpentine as words emerged from her mouth. She slapped a hand across her lips, too late to stop the unleashed words.

“Please go. I trust you. I wouldn’t ask if Daddy wasn’t acting like a man with a mess of bad moonshine.”

Mica knew when Cindy lapsed into her mountain dialect she was worried. She looked at her artwork searching for an answer. Rivulets of water ran like tears down from the beautiful mist-shrouded mountains she’d created. She frowned, turned the ruined painting over on the table, then looked up and smiled gently at her friend. Someone was going to die.

“Maybe I better go,” she said as her mind switched from the creative right side to the analytical left

Feeding the Addiction-EditorUnleashed contest entry

Start voting February 1st. My piece is on page seven. You have to register to vote. My piece is on page seven. You have to register to vote. Sorry I can't seem to do an automatic link. Someday, I'll take a computer class. Ha.

Time to Vote on EditorsUnleashed

My piece is "Feeding the Addiction" on page seven of the "Why I Write" contest. http://editorunleashed.com/forum/showthread.php?t=2925

GO read and I hope you like it enough to give me some stars. :)
Deborah

Cutting through the Crap

is much harder than one would think when you're the writer. Words that I savored like hot caramel sauce when first placed upon the page, still have a cool appeal on the second go around. It's like editing with a demitasse spoon, when what is needed is a backhoe. I've found it can become very tedious.

One would think I could let go of all the extra verbiage, slim this book down to a sleek, bestseller model, but no. It's as hard as dieting. I can be good for a short while. Then, bam, I have to add a few luscious morsels that have popped in my head. It's like eating junk food. Irresistible and deadly.

Okay, I have to keep visualizing these beautiful words as not good for me. Sigh. When will fat be back in? Getting rid of the crap is harder than it looks.

Time For a Sick Horse to Get Well!

This is supposed to be a writing day, or at least 2 weeks ago it was supposed to be, but, one of my horses caught a cold. If you aren't a horse person, you might think, big deal. If you are a horse person, you think, I'm glad that's not my horse!

When a horse gets a runny nose, cough and fever, alarm bells go off. They don't do well. Most virus' with these symptoms are highly contagious, so the horse has to be kept away from other horses, you have to make sure you don't carry the germs from the sick guy to the others, and his exercise has to be limited. That means he stays in a stall, and you get to clean it, at our house I get to clean it, over and over again for as long as the horse is sick. It is not fun.

A horse can hemorrhage his lungs coughing and exercise makes him cough more often. That's the reason for stall rest. He can be hand-grazed, where the others aren't allowed to graze. More time for his owner, me in this case, to spend with her precious animal. Standing in the cold, holding the end of a lead-line so he won't romp about. You hope he doesn't decide to do pirouettes from being stall crazy. A 1200lb animal on his hind legs, steel shoes flashing over your head, while you try to hold on to a rope attached to his halter, makes you sweat, but doesn't do much to warm your heart when it's 30 degrees outside.

Sometimes, the virus causes a secondary bacterial infection in the sinus, etc. Then you, me again, get to dose the stir crazy, stall-bound animal with antibiotics. In the powder form, the medicine is mixed with his grain, which you've reduced to a minute amount to try and cut his energy level. It does not taste good. The half that gets left in the bottom of the feed bucket can be mixed with molasses to make it palatable. Of course, molasses pours as slow as, well, molasses. So your hope that you might have five minutes to do something besides take care of a sick horse ticks on by.

One thing, I always get asked is: HOW DO YOU TAKE HIS TEMPERATURE?
Just like a baby. Stick it up his butt! And, hope he doesn't decide it's time to get rid of that grain and molasses before the four minute incubation period is over.

After almost three weeks, I decided my horse, his name is Bargaining Chip, and I needed to have a talk.

I said, "Get well. NOW!"

His answer?

Bargaining Chip shook his head no, he does not live up to his name, and then, blew snot all over my coat.

I wonder if I'll find time to wash it, after I clean the stall, graze the beast, mix the molasses, take the temp, clean the stall...

To Plot, or Not to Plot - a Story - Is it a question

That needs an answer?

Okay, riding and writing are my big loves(after family) and yesterday I indulged in riding, so today I'll tackle my book, Painted Black. A post on EditorUnleashed.com made me stop and think this morning. Probably a good thing, because I prefer to wing-it. The poster was asking about planning a story, how do you plot a book. She was full of technical information she'd garnered from web searches, etc. It confused me just reading it, and it also made me worry.

Is my story, Painted Black, plotted correctly? Yikes, I don't know. I did it the simple way. A character popped into my head and began to move through an imaginary world. I asked myself: Who is this person? What is she up to? Where is she? What is her problem? Will she succeed? Who gets in her way?

Then I started to write. The story took over and I simply followed the adventure, one thing leading to another, until the adventure ended. Yes, I had to go back and fill in some blanks, especially when the person I thought would be the murderer turned out not to be the culprit. :) I had fun. Eventually, when editing, I put summaries chapters on index cards and listed key elements to make sure everything connected, but that was after I'd recorded the initial excitement of the story.

I think if I'd tried to plot out the whole story, making sure I had all the elements people say you need, not only for the big picture, but in every chapter, I'd have lost interest before I got started. It would knock my creativity for a loop.

How about you? Do you plot, then write? Or are you like me? Do you follow wherever the wings of an idea takes you, then go back and fix the glitches? Or do you have another approach? I'd be interested in hearing.

Let's uncomplicate writing!

I was just reading "Mad Utopia", another blog. It is filled with great advice, writing contests, etc. Now, if I could figure out how to link Jon's site with mine, I would. But, I digress. Reading his site made me wonder, when did writing become so complicated? Used to be a pen and a piece of paper, a few brilliant thoughts, then in an envelope and off it went to find a home. Now, it seems one must have a blog, a web-site, a following, before an agent or editor will even look at what you have to say. Do you think we will ever get back to writing because you are inspired, and reading because you are curious to see what this unknown author might have to say?

I've been meme-ed, whatever that means

I was reading a friend's blog http://leftbrainwrite.blogspot.com/ and saw Linda had meme-ed me. Or she said she had. I don't know where I find the meme. LOL. I will list my five writing strengths. That's what I think I'm supposed to do.

1. I'm willing to start over, and over and over until I get it right.

2. I'm honest when I critique other people's writing and it excites me and I love letting them know when they've done something magical. I'm humble enough to learn from their brilliance.

3. I'm very creative, a real right brainer. A painter before I became a writer, I live in my imagination a good part of each day. It helps me create the world my characters live in. I actually see them, the town, hear them talk, etc.

4. I'm not afraid to fail. Enough said.

5. I'm willing to take criticism for what it is-an opportunity to make my writing the best it can be.

OK, now I'm supposed to meme two people, but I don't know how. Anyone reading this that knows how to do so, please let me know. :)

A Tiny bit of Painted Black

OK, I've decided to start posting a paragraph from the mystery novel I'm working on once a week. The book is titled Painted Black. Only one paragraph, taken out of context will be posted. Just some samples of my writing. Let me know what you think. Thanks, Deborah
Ok, here goes. This paragraph is from Chapter Two

“I don’t suppose you know who I am?” He drew in his already concave stomach and hitched a thumb in the black studded belt he wore. “I’m in charge around here. Got that baby ready for you.” He nodded toward the jeep. Brown juice oozed from between his teeth when he smiled. His breath had the sour smell of whiskey, and his eyes became silver slits, sharp as knives. “Name’s Peter Lynch.” He cocked his hips. “Big Peter most women call me once they get to know me.” His weak chin rose. “Want anything you come to me. I make the decisions.”

My Novel Painted Black- It's A Mystery

My novel, sigh, has turned into a mystery. That's good and not so good. I've always intended it to be a mystery, just not the mystery its presenting at the moment. I can't seem to put on those final finishing touches. They keep falling off into the delete pile.

Someday it will be good enough to submit to agents, at least I hope so. I've written the whole thing, that was easy. It's the little bitty part called revisions that seems to have turned into a task as gargantuan as King Kong. Especially those pesky first few pages. No matter what brilliant idea I have for a first sentence, when I re-read it the next day, it, well it sucks.

Maybe I'm starting in the wrong place? You see that a lot in agents complaints, this writer started the book before it got interesting. Lop off the first five chapters. I've tried that and my special readers lamented the loss of some juicy tidbit or another. Then I tried a prologue to heighten the tension. Writer's Digest forum readers said I gave too much away.

Hmm, I guess I'll go back to the beginning, where I first found my protagonist Kate Callahan. She's lying on the veranda of a Southern Mansion and tells the man who offers her a hand up she wants to hang him. Do you think that's a good enough hook?

novel- writing

Working on my novel today between bouts of outdoor sunshine. Painted Black is about a Chicago artist in North Carolina. She goes there to put on an exhibit and to paint and ends up solving a murder. Underground tunnels, secret cellars, horses, and handsome men, figure into the adventure. Her paintings reveal the killer, she almost loses her life and with the help of a fiesty terrier traps the villian.
Today I'm helping her explore her first suspect's movements on the day of the crime. She keeps wanting to go outside and ride horses, but I'm making her stay put and work.