Safe and Sound

Today is a riding day. Sigh, things interfered and I didn't get my usual fix of sitting on a horse and thinking about life. I had to settle for thinking while I emptied water buckets and mucked stalls. This can lead to some pretty dirty thoughts. :)

Off to have dinner with friends, all horse people. I'll have to live off their adventures for now. I'm sure at least one rode through the woods or across a meadow and has a story to tell.

It's going to be a cold night, so horses are blanketed, hoses have been drained and the barn is shut up tight. There's something about doing that, that makes me feel good. I guess I'm weird, or making things snug, is like nurturing, when you are helping others, animal or human, it warms your heart. You feel safe and sound.

Have a good night, sleep tight, all.

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.

February, Sunshine and a Horse, Gotta be a dream, right?

Today was one of those times I'd like to record and be able to play back when I'm thinking life sucks. Up early, I fed the horses, cleaned the stalls, let the cat out of the tackroom and scolded the little dog for chasing the big dog. Bet you thought I was going to say "cat", didn't you?

By eight, I was in my truck and hauling my thoroughbred to a hunt meet. This is his first year to be a foxhuning horse and he's still trying to figure out where the track is. He used to be a racehorse. I ate my Kashi bar, drank a coke, and played finger tag between country music and NPR on the radio. In twenty minutes, I arrived at the meeting spot, the first one there, and nabbed a prime parking space. When you're driving a F350 extended cab truck and hauling a twenty foot trailer, parking moves way up the priority list.

Eventually, others arrived, the hounds were unloaded, and Rustic(that's my horse)and I were ready to roll. The huntsman cast the hounds, sending them into deep, dense woods. Being a whipper-in(helper to the huntsman)I moved off ahead of the pack, but about fifty yards to one side. One hound spoke and then others joined and we were off.

I asked Rustic to pick up the pace and he said, "You betcha."
There is absolutely no feeling in the world like being on the back of a thoroughbred and asking him to run. It is what they are born to do. We streaked up a road, jumped a coop and tore down a wooded trail. He and I were both in a "yee-haw" moment and I almost forgot that my job was to watch for hounds.

The run lasted about ten minutes and then the hounds lost the scent in the wind. The huntsman picked another route, which left me somewhat out of the game. I pouted for a moment and then looked around.

There I sat, on an animal some people only see on television, in the middle of a meadow, the sun warming my back, with a million dollar view of the mountains in front of me, and it was mid-February. A slow smile erased my pout. Just think about it for a minute; February, sunshine and a horse,the makings for a movie, right? No one was there to record the moment,so no movie, but believe me some dreams can come true.

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?

experiment

this is a test . I have no clue what I am doing. :)

Linking

Okay, I'm over on another blog site, editorunleashed, and trying to figure out how to link. This is as far as I've gotten. Ha.

Meme

Enie, Meme... Here's my answers, then your turn!

1. It is your lucky day what are you going to do?Ride a horse, flirt with my husband, give away money, and take a nap.
2. What was the game you played as a child that you almost always or always did win? Dodge ball. I was very agile and quick. Now if I could just translate that into writing I might do okay.

3. You get to meet anyone from the past or present who will it be? Vincent Van Gogh, I'd love to learn what really went on in that magnificently creative, tortured mind.

4. When you relax what is it that you do? See #1

5. What is your favorite number? kazillion

6. What was the name of your favorite childhood toy? the great outdoors

7. If you could name the next fashion fade/craze what would it be? I'd go retro-no bra, sweats, thick socks, and messy hair.

The Technical Stuff

Okay, here I am, a writer, trying to reach out to other like minded people. Problem is I'm computer-wise about a first grader. I can write a post on here, but I have no idea how to link with other blogs I enjoy, or how to let people know I've added something new. Does this make me a failure in the 21st century of writers? Will I be doomed to never progressing beyond the elementary level? Is anyone out there? Help?
Please, and thank you.

Staying focused

So, now I have two books going and need to decide which one to concentrate on. How do you do it? First one character talks to me and right in the middle of an exciting exchange a character from the other book will butt in. If anyone has suggestions for keeping one's nose to the grindstone and ignoring all the other ideas bouncing around in your head let me know. Until then? Maybe I will write a scene where the character is tied up and gagged. This will free me up to concentrate and focus. Hmm, wonder what kind of rope I should use?

Name A Horse Novel

Bought a horse last week and I need to think of a barn name for him. Perhaps you can help? His registered name is Country Wild. He's a tall, skinny thoroughbred off the track about a year, and totally not what I was looking for. Except for his mind. He has the best attitude and the calmest disposition of any TB I've ever known. He actually stands when I ask him to, goes when I want him to, and whoas when it's my idea. I'd thought I was too old for a ex-race horse, so it's good to know there's at least one more face in the wind, get up and gallop dream chaser in my life.

Maybe I'll quit working on my mystery for awhile and write about an over fifty, bad backed writer finding the one horse on which she can fulfill her dream of riding in the local Hunters Division of the Steeplechase before she turns sixty. She lives in a small town in the country and is experiencing writer's procrastination. Browsing Equine.com instead of working she stumbles upon this horse. The horse's name could be Novel...

The Day After

This is the day after St. Patrick's day, the day after my father-in-law's birthday, he's 91, the day after the anniversary of my Mother-in-law's death, the day after yesterday. I guess we can always say it is the day after something, or the day before something, but do we have a good memory to dredge up when saying this? What we should be focused on is today. Today is the only day we have to actually do new things, attempt doing what we didn't do yesterday and may not live to try tomorrow.

Yesterday, holds many memories, some good, some fun and some sad. I didn't add a new one to my list for March 17th this year. Now, it is too late. So, I think tomorrow I'd like to be able to say--This is the day after I lived for today. How about you? What new thing will be added to your memory list? What will you be able to say to complete this sentence? This is the day after...

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?

MySpace-August on Horseback

August is a month that many people wish would speed by. Minds move on to thoughts of fall, summer is close to its end, and people trudge about like they live in a furnace. Most want to stay inside, while away time on the computer. Not I, to me August is the month that highlights the special parts of a summer day, especially when you include a horse. August is MySpace outdoors and a part of me feels a little sad for those inside tapping away on their keyboards.

For example, on the hottest day last week I went out on my horse, caught the trail behind the barn and slid into the deep woods. The temperature dipped from 90 to 80, or at least it felt like it did. My horse, her name is Summer Games, picked up a brisk trot and we moved along the path until we reached the creek and turned onto the "Waterfall Trail". I listened to the icy stream as it tumbled over a ledge and slid between mountain boulders, and felt the mist on my skin. My mare picked her way through the rocks, stopped in the middle of a quiet pool for a drink and then moved onto the pine needle covered cart path leading to the wildflower meadow. We stopped at the edge and watched a doe and fawn fade into the distant trees. The fine smell of a well-groomed horse, fresh cut grass and moss on wet stones filled the air. I found myself with a smile on my face and joy in my heart.

It doesn't get much better than that; the ride made even more special because of the contrast with the heat in a car, on a sidewalk, or working in the garden, and because I've chosen to be outdoors not in. Without August I would never experience quite this level of pleasure. It might be the hottest of months, but in my mind, August on horseback equals perfect summer days in MySpace and I'll save the computer for midnight rendezvous's.

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.

Trapped By An Angel

here's a story someone requested I post. Hope you enjoy it. DeborahB

Trapped By An Angel

All I can see are stark, dark trees against a wall of gray in the forest dusk. Dim shadows lie like ghosts across the snow. Of course I don’t believe in ghosts. Don’t believe in anything except that the world is a tough place and you have to be tough to survive.
“Hold on Janie. Another hour and we’ll be at the barn,” I say. “Need to finish the trapline, stow the game.” My sister Janie’ll never make it alone in this world. She believes in everything good, and never even sees the bad. So, I have the extra burden of watching over her. Carry it like I’m carrying her, nothing I need, but something I’m tough enough to handle. I try to teach her, but… “Your fault you got hurt.”
“Is not,” she says with a giggle. “My Mickey, Mickey, Michael.” One of her red mittens pats the top of my head, while the other grabs my collar. She's always so damn cheerful.
“Humph.” I shift my shoulders, toss her abruptly upwards, and will myself to keep moving. Janie is six, a real, sweet as carnival cotton candy brat. Can’t do a darn thing by herself. Mom treats her like a baby. Took care of myself by the time I was her age. She should too. Does nothing but cause harm spoiling her like this.
My legs tremble and my arms feel as if someone’s pulling the muscles apart strip by strip. I’m strong for fourteen, but she’s like a pack full of empty traps, nothing but dead weight. The burden numbs me to the sights and sounds of the forest. I trudge on through the cold, wet woods.
Janie’s hands clutch my jacket, her legs twine with my arms and I feel her breath against my neck. The only sound is the crunch my boots make as they break through the ice that borders the stream. I stare at the ground looking for tracks, don’t see the glittering world she chatters about in my ear.
“Michael, my ankle hurts so bad.” Janie’s tone changes as we near my game line. I close my mind, like the steel trap that swings from my belt. Her arms tighten around my neck.
“Loosen up. You’re choking me.”
“It hurts.”
I look down at her ankle. Appears normal, hard to tell through the red boot she wears. Probably another one of her tricks.
“Ain’t gonna keep me from collecting pelts. You should’ve stayed home.” I stop, drop her on the snow.
She scowls. “Didn’t have to dump me!” Her voice changes to a whine. “Please no more traps.”
Then, being cotton candy Janie, she lies back, smiles and flutters her arms and legs.
“What’re you doin’?” My hands clench, my jaw muscles jump. Can’t the kid tell I’m aggravated?
“Making angels.” She rolls back into a sitting position. “It’s almost Christmas.” Her cheeks are bright red and her eyes gleam with excitement.
The ice thickens around my heart. “Ain’t nobody giving you nothing. Quit trying to slow me down. I’m getting my traps.” I kick out, spraying snow in Janie’s face, then start down the trail.
She’s followed me everywhere this year and Mom makes me take her. That’s all right if I’m going fishing, it’s kinda funny watching her squirm when I put a worm on the hook, but not when I’m trapping. She cries over every animal I catch. She doesn’t understand that the pelts mean money. I crash through the underbrush.
“I don’t have time for fairytales and Santa ain’t visited me, ever.” The words come from my mouth on large bursts of steam. I mean for Janie to hear them. Branches shower white flakes on top of my parka and against my neck. My shoulder blades jump toward each other as icy wetness runs down my spine. I wish I had a muffler. Can’t afford one. As I draw my head into my coat, I admit Janie’s arms sheltered me from the icy bath as I carried her.
“Still ain’t worth the trouble you cause!” I holler.
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a piece of gum, hesitate, tear it in two, and put half in my mouth. The brat will want some. It smells like winter and tastes like wild mint. My eyes scan the bushes. Janie’s voice fades into the distance. She can sit there all night for all I care. She knows the way home. She’s no more hurt than I am. I’m filled with the righteous bitterness of a misused soul.
There should be a trap here somewhere. I drop to my knees and dig through the snow. My hand hits against something hard. I grasp it and drag it to the surface. Chain clanks. The trap appears, crusted with whiteness, its jaws pressed together like a demon’s fangs.
“Damn.” I throw it down. Empty, just like the others. Someone’s triggering my traps. “Janie, did you do this?” My voice is loud. “Answer me!” I wait, beating the trap against my leg, thinking of what I’ll do when I see her. No sound comes from up the trail.
Limbs snap against my thrusting arms as I trudge back. I’m out of breath when I reach the spot where I dumped Janie in the snow. She’s gone. The imprint of the angel is clear, makes me uneasy. I look around for tracks. There they are, small waffle boot prints leading off to the deep woods, headed not quite towards the house. I turn to head back to my trap line and then hesitate. Mom will kill me if I leave her little angel out here alone. I sniff the air. It smells like more snow coming. The sky is a somber, ugly gray. I better find her and get home.
“So much for the sprained ankle,” I mumble to myself as I examine the evenly spaced footprints. “God, why’s she always messing up my life?” I glare at the menacing sky and follow her trail.
“Shhh.”
Janie’s crouched in a group of holly bushes, one finger held to her lips. She crooks the finger, luring me to her.
Thirsty, I pull a glove off as I approach and scoop up a handful of snow. It tastes like pine. I spit it out and wipe my hand on my pants. The cold bites at my fingers. When I reach Janie, I squat behind her.
“What is it?” My words no more than a soft breath.
“Santa’s reindeer.” Her voice high, yet a whisper.
I blow against my hand to warm it. It’s red and rough from work. I tuck it under my armpit as I peer over her shoulder. A huge buck stands not fifteen feet away, next to a doe. He paws the ground by her head. With her front feet spread, neck stretched, nose to the ground, the doe quivers, but doesn’t move. Strange, they aren’t running. My fingers twitch. I wish I had my rifle. The buck’s rack of horn must span eight feet.
A metallic clank fills the air. The doe stumbles back as if released from a tether, then lifts her head, her nose red with blood. My trap. She had her nose caught in one of my traps. The buck’s pawing must have released her.
Janie gasps. I try to cover her eyes. She jerks away. The sudden movement startles the deer. In great leaps they disappear into the deep woods. Janie turns to me. I brace and watch for her accusing eyes. Steal myself against the words I expect she’ll say.
“Michael, Michael did you see them?” Her voice bounces off the trees. “The reindeer, even Rudolf, right here in our woods. Did you see his red nose? Santa must be near. He’ll come this year. I know he will. You knew, didn’t you? I love you.” Her eyes shimmer with excitement. She falls back into the snow laughing and begins to make another angel. There’s a hole in the sole of her red rubber boot.
I look at her and wonder when I lost the magic of believing. I feel so old. Seen through her eyes the woods are a fairyland, reindeer are possible and traps are always empty. I pick her up and nestle my nose in her hair. She smells of soap and things I’d buried deep, under a layer of ice.
My baby sister believes. Emotion freezes my throat.
“Santa’ll come,” I mumble. I don’t know how, but he’ll come. Cold seeps through my coat. I ignore it as I set Janie back on her feet.
Then I fall into the snow, trusting. It feels awkward this trusting, as my body pummels toward the earth, still I’m determined. The snow engulfs me like a soft winter comforter. My arms and legs struggle to make an angel. The sky no longer looks gray. I see it through the shining light of Janie’s eyes. I stand up and my feelings burst forth in a great laugh. It sounds strange, but good.
“Let’s go home.” I unfasten the trap attached to my belt and let it drop to the ground. “No more trapping this year. My gift to you.”
She grins broadly and then frowns. “But I don’t have anything for you.”
“You alone is enough. Climb up and keep my back warm.”
She giggles as she climbs on my back and then becomes still, her arms strong as my traps and warm as a muffler around my neck.
“Trapped by an angel,” she whispers.
I nod my head and turn toward the barn and home. My legs swing easily, for I come bearing gifts. I carry a snow angel on my back. The only sound I hear is ice as it cracks around my heart. I swipe at moisture in my eyes. The world sparkles and I watch with care for reindeer in the woods.

my space

Here's my Space info for me:
http://www.myspace.com/deborahtales">Find me on MySpace and be my friend!

Poem on Weather

15th of January 70 degrees
18th of January we all freeze
21st century Iphone communication
does not stop Mother Nature's invasion

Pretty corny, huh? I'm sitting here looking out on a gray, day of icey drizzle. Less than a week ago, I couldn't stay inside because the weather was so wonderful. January in NC promises surprise, if nothing else. Makes it a little easier to get through winter. Think I'll go make a cup of hot tea.

January Sunshine and a Husband

Today it is near 70 degrees here. I've spent the day outside working with my husband on a run-in shed for the horses. That really means I held up boards while he used the nail gun and fetched things as needed. I couldn't complain though since they are my horses. He not only doesn't ride he wouldn't even live on a farm if it weren't for me. Marriage is a crap shoot as far as I'm concerned. If you end up with a person you can live with for a long time, you're just lucky or too stubborn to give up. Not sure where we fall in this category, but for today I feel pretty durn lucky.