The beauty of research

I invested in a library card last weekend. Yeah, I know. It's been a while. For the past couple of years I've been borrowing a friend's, or - gasp - relying on the Internet.

But over the past few weeks, I've been attending author chats at school libraries and remembering how much I love learning. Add to that a bit of writer's block and presto - I've got a new library card.

I went home with a stack of great books. Mostly to help my characters delve into new adventures - I honestly don't know how anything about the Bermuda Triangle - or to better describe the landscapes I'm not yet able to explore on my own.

Last night at my writers' group meeting (Uh ladies, I think it's time we come up with a name for ourselves) , one of my beloved critique partners complimented my location authenticity. I'm still smiling over that.

It was actually James Rollins who taught me you don't need to fly to India (darn it) to adequately describe the Taj Mahal. He recommends picking a couple of key books - deemed your "text book" for the current WIP - and scrolling through images on Google or another photo resource tool for the finer details.

I tested that theory with ABSOLUTION. Most of what I'd read about Milan's monstrous gothic Duomo came from the Internet. I scrolled the cathedral's website, then checked out video footage on YouTube, and finally found a book that wasn't in Italian to reference. A year after I finished the first draft of the novel, I had the opportunity to visit Milan. I took more than 500 pictures of the Duomo, and even sat in the confessional where most of the book's "action" takes place. To my surprise, I barely changed any of the description in the book in subsequent drafts.

As I flush out the details of HEARTLESS, I'm learning much about the Taj Mahal. But I'd forgotten how much more in depth books can be for research - Wikipedia only gets you so far. At the library, I discovered historical information about not only the mausoleum, but also the people, the culture, and the beliefs of the people who built it. Those are the kind of details I'm looking for.

And if I'm lucky, I'll have an opportunity to travel to India and see how authentic my description is this time around. 

Until then, I'm more than pleased with the awesome resources I scored this weekend.

P.S. - Oh yeah...I also picked up the latest Greg Isles book there. I <3 Greg Isles!  (Yes, Jan, I WILL remember to bring you one of his other books next week.)

Wanted: bum glue

I need a massive supply of Bum Glue.

Like, enough to keep my arse stuck to a chair (or couch, or bench) until I complete all of my "first three chapter" works in progress. Enough, even, to allow me the opportunity to try new things - the ideas churned out by my ever-processing imagination factory. 

Bryce Courtney believes Bum Glue is the fundamental key to a successful writing career. More important than craft. More integral, even, than plot and characterization.

He's right. I have a million awesome ideas making rounds through the imagination factory tunnels, but none of them will see the light of day until I can find a way to keep myself planted in front of the computer. For more than just checking status updates.

Got some extra Bum Glue? I'm willing to pay top dollar...

Kick ass muse

Vin Diesel has never been on my list of top 10 Hollywood hunks, though I appreciated him fully in the Fast and Furious.

But this week I needed a tough-guy muse avatar. Someone I felt confident would shit kick insecurity and help detox the obstacles standing in the way of my week's writing goals. 

Vin is an apt choice.

He's already promised to muscle his way into my heart and rip out the ache someone seems to have planted there. He isn't strong enough to take care of the memories, but his arms will embrace the pain and try to ease the hurt. I can only ask so much of an avatar.

I'm counting on him to act as a roadblock for what promises to be a difficult week. He'll need to stand up against insecurity, arm-wrestle with confusion, and kick away self doubt. But even more than that, he'll need to stop me from impulse, and help me deal with a loss so tremendous I don't even know where to begin rebuilding. He'll need to help me through denial, acceptance, anger, and eventually forgiveness.

Oh yeah, and he'll need to help me focus on writing.

I know, I've asked a lot of - but I think this muse is up for the task. 

What's your "Eye of the Tiger" moment?

I had the recent opportunity to watch Sigmund Bower in action. He had me at hello.

Every October, Sigmund and about 58 other storytellers, writers and illustrators take part in Taleblazers - a literary festival designed to make reading and writing stimulating, exciting and fun for Alberta students.

Sigmund absolutely fulfilled the festival's mandate. He lured the kids with music (the students danced into the gym), grossed them out with stories about snot and toilets, and impressed them with tales of cockroaches and giant slingshots. 

The students weren't the only ones in awe.

Sigmund Bower made writing as exciting as being a rockstar. Like Bryce Courtney's "Bum Glue" speech at the Maui Writer's Conference, where nearly every one of us stood up and wanted to shout "I AM A WRITER," Sigmund had each of those students scrambling to the classrooms to "push buttons" and free their imaginations.

His stories entertained them for sure, but inspiration began to germinate from the first few beats of the song he used to draw the kids in. 

Eye of the Tiger 

You know the one. Dun... dun, dun, dun...DUN, DUN, DUN, DUN DUN DUNNN (You get the picture...) 

When the 500 or so students finally stopped singing and clapping, Sigmund told a short story about his friend who played for the Edmonton Oilers in the days of Gretzky. After years of practice, grueling schedules and endless sacrifices, Eye of the Tiger was the song he listened to before taking that first step on the rink.

Sigmund invited us all to think about our own "Eye of the Tiger" moments. There can be more than one. Fulfillment of a dream. Standing up for yourself. Being there for a friend, a companion. Finally writing "the end."

Got your moments ready? Ok, cue the music... Oh, and click here. (You won't be sorry.)

Gasping for air

Once upon a time, I romanticized writing. In my fairy tale world, the muse was best inspired by candlelight and an oak roll-top desk. 

Partially, that was my excuse not to write. I've learned over the years that pretty good prose can happen at a coffee shop, or in my dungeon. In the summer at the cabin, or in the winter at my rented duplex. With or without Diet Coke, though the addition of whiskey sometimes helps. I can even squeeze in a few paragraphs while waiting for my stepdaughter after school. Or I can spend an entire weekend locked in a small trailer and still produce quality work.

I understand this takes some of the romanticism out of the craft, and am certain my husband will immediately begin disassembling the office he built for me in the basement so he can house his sports memorabilia. 

But let's be honest. My muse doesn't really care if its hanging out in my kitchen or the trendiest coffee shop in Edmonton (but if anyone knows what this is, let me know - I do enjoy good coffee.)

What my muse does care about - whether he looks like Dean Winchester or Jeffrey Dean Dalton - is that I take care of me. Physically, mentally and emotionally. When one of those factors isn't in peak form, my writing suffers.

The physical one is easy to figure out. I don't need the scale to remind me I've gained some weight since the wedding almost two months ago. And in some ways, it's an easy fix. Today (hurrah) I began working out again and have revisited the program that helped me lose 30 pounds in the first place. Baby steps, I know.

Mental and emotional health, however, are a bit harder to assess. First you have to figure out what's wrong.

And then - slowly - take care of the problems.

It's that part I sometimes struggle with. 

I'm not great at knowing when to let go. But why fight for something that doesn't want to be fought for? Why make an effort when it isn't returned? As my friend Rocky would say: make a list of what needs to be fixed. And then breathe.

I realize I've been holding my breath for the last two months. Tip-toeing around the issues that have been bugging me. Forgiving when it hasn't been earned. Feeling guilt for things beyond my control. The naysayers have made me think I shouldn't follow my heart, when truly, it's never steered me wrong.

I'm breathing now - and as I take deep gulps of fresh air, I'm starting to see what I've been missing. I covet toxins, because change is just too scary to face. I accept being walked on, because it's easier that way. I've held on to relationships too long, for all of the wrong reasons. Cared too much about what people think - when really, the only person I need to please is me.

My muse hasn't been impressed. 

Now, he's pushing me to shed those toxins and take deeper breaths. 

My reward is a greater sense of focus, better writing, more personal satisfaction. And ultimately, a healthier and happier me.

My personal a"muse"ment (gag)

I'm not sucking up.

I thought long and hard before choosing my handsome husband as this week's muse.

Truth be told, he's been more than my muse this past week. He's been my rock. 

Jeff isn't a reader, and God knows I've hassled him enough about not reading everything I write. But in the end, I know I wouldn't want him to. While many of my male characters have some of his characteristics, not every scene with a man in it is "all about Jeff." 

Instead of reading, Jeff does a lot of talking. And gentle encouraging. 

This past weekend, he gave me the freedom to write. Two whole days of literary bliss. And while I wrote, he worked his butt off. His goal is to make enough money so that I can (sigh) write full time. But not only did he take on a side job to start that process, he also took on the responsibility for his daughter and the dogs.

So this weekend, it was just me and my characters. Hanging out. Talking trash and creating mayhem. 

What absolute bliss.

P.S. - Thanks for the friends who checked in to make sure I wasn't drowning in Absolution. While the opportunity to immerse myself in writing is heavenly, knowing the great support I have makes it all that much sweeter.

Irritated by spelling, bad grammar

I admit it. I'm a bit of a grammar snob.

I don't profess to be an expert on the dictionary, the thesaurus, or even punctuation. And I definitely wouldn't make Suzanne's Grammar Police force. 

But I do understand the difference between you're and your, it's and its, too, two and to, and effect and affect. 

Today's youth (and yes, I am stereotyping a little) care little about spelling and grammar. I blame technology to some extent. Even with a full cell phone keyboard, who wants to spell out "Hey, what are you doing?" when "hey, wot doin" takes far less time and energy (and fewer characters.)

Sadly, youth aren't the only ones plagued with bad prose.

The decline of good writing began when the writer stopped wielding the pen and found the keyboard instead. Spellcheck replaced the dictionary, and the green squiggly lines under the sentence alerted you when your grammar was wrong. But spell check doesn't catch the difference between your and you're - and we've become so accustomed to the green squiggly lines, they are mostly ignored.

Further decline occurred - yes, even with adults - when the world discovered Facebook and Twitter. How many status updates do you read where the spelling is atrocious and the grammar is laughable? Far too many, in my world. And I'm not talking about the kids, either.

Life itself is partially to blame. In today's fast paced society, we've been forced to show emotion through status updates and emoticons, rather than compose a real letter to talk about how we feel, or even thanks in an email. Handwriting is a lost art and email isn't far behind.

None of this is news, of course. Maybe I'm just trying to figure out why "sexii boii" is now annoying, but not nearly as annoying when written by a teenager versus his or her parent.