Blast from the past

I've been wishing a lot lately that I could go back in time. Not to a different century or anything, just a few years - like maybe twenty or so. I don't regret the decisions that have made me the person I am today, but I'd love to go back and relive some of my youth.

Like when Rikki Rockett was my idol. My best friend Jennifer and I entered a radio contest to win tickets to a Poison concert once. She dressed up like lead singer Brett Michaels, and I acted as Rikki Rockett - I even painted a cardboard drum set to look like the ones he took on tour. We won - front row tickets. But in the end, Rikki pointed his drum stick at the woman next to me who was wearing a lot less clothes and thus deemed the "bigger" fan. She got to go backstage.

Rikki used to adorn my bedroom walls. Jennifer had Def Leppard posters. I had Poison. (My younger sister, as an aside, had Bryan Adams...which tells you a lot about how different we were back then. Love ya, Jess.)

It was back in the days of Rikki Rockett that I began writing. I wrote Carnival Dreams while listening to Poison and dreaming of him. When it was finished, I substituted my hero's name (Rikki, of course) for Joe Elliot, so Jen could have a book about her dream guy as well. I'm confident neither book - starring Rikki or Joe - will ever be published.

Still, those were good times - and I've been thinking about the past a lot lately.

Don't get me wrong, I do see a bright future. I'm married to my high school sweetheart (which is a story for another day) and have a beautiful step daughter. I have awesome friends who support and love me - and who these days appear to be fueling my creativity with Starbucks and Tim Hortons. I love my family, my life, my future.

But this week I'm taking a walk down memory lane, and it seems fitting my original muse should guide me through this week's writing goals. Oh I know I'll likely be alone in my "adoration" - but that's ok. I prefer not to compete anyway.

100 pages and counting

For the past few months, I've been supplying my critique group with pages (gulp) already written. Still first draft, but without the added pressure of coming up with a fresh and fabulous "10" each week.

Hard to believe that was 100 pages ago.

I'm not a plotter - at least not by most people's standards. I subscribe to the belief the character (s) should guide me, and when that doesn't work, I go to the library and do research, which usually lights a spark of creativity or unearths a story thread. I believe Stephen King's theory about writing while on a roll - a surefire way to avoid the dreaded Writer's Block. And I try. Honest.

But his advice seems more geared to people who write one project (two max) at a time.

Which brings me to today. I'm running on empty in the sleep department, and working on some lifestyle changes that will hopefully address the extra weight I've put on this month. My teenage step-daughter is in full-on "drama" mode. I have "real" work due at work and my Starbucks supply has almost all but dried up.

Of course, there's also that other "little" deadline to think about.

And somehow, I need to pull out 10 good pages. Good enough that the character sounds the same. The plot is moving in the right direction. The scene logically fits with the one prior.

I'm about half way there, with about two days left until deadline.

Tonight, I'm rolling up the sleeves and getting to it. Just as soon as I log my NaNo count, finish my other blog entry, read over a chapter from another project and... Sigh. You get the picture.

100 pages and counting... now at an agonizing 10 pages at a time.

A sense of detail

Hours before the earth buckled and triggered one of the most deadly series of tsunamis in history on December 26, 2004, animals along the Indian Ocean's affected coastline seemed to sense danger. Elephants trumpeted. Dolphins dashed for deeper waters. Flamingos flew to higher ground and bats roused from their usual daytime slumber.

When it was over, more than 225,000 people died or went missing. Few animals perished.

Throughout history, there have been countless reports of unusual behaviour by animals - from dogs and cows to jelly fish - in the hours and days before a disaster. 

And in fact, many animals rely on sensory detail for their survival. For instance:

• Cat got your tongue? No problem for Hippos. They build up large amounts of pressure under their nostrils before sending out infrasonic "bubble bursts" which are sounds they use to threaten and intimidate others.
• Blind as a bat? No worries. Bats navigate their surroundings by emitting high-pitched sounds and interpreting the echoes. This radar-like sense is called echolation and it allows them to find food (insects) up to 18 feet away. 
• Food tasting a little bland? A pig's tongue contains 15,000 taste buds. By comparison, the human tongue has just 9,000.
• You thought spiders had it bad with eight eyes? The box jellyfish has 24. And dragonfly eye contains 30,000 lenses - imagine the cost of contacts! 
• Think your sense of smell is pretty good? Turns out humans have some of the dullest noses in the world. Some animals - like dogs - can get a strong whiff of odours most people don't even know are there. 

Writers incorporate the five senses into each scene to create stimulating imagery. It isn't always easy - and typically taste, touch and sight earn the greatest number of words. But what if you could just pick one?

German writer Patrick Suskind met that challenge in 1985 when he penned Perfume: The Story of a Murderer. The novel explores the sense of smell and its relationship with the emotional meaning that scents may carry. It's also a brilliant and twisted thriller. 

Perfume has become my "bible" on sensory detail - I often refer to it when trying to find unique ways of adding non-sight imagery to the page. 

How about you? What are some of the tricks you use to help create sensory detail? 

In Gerard I trust

I admit feeling a tad shameful for my public lashing of last week's muse avatar.

Just a bit though, because let's face it, the tactic worked. What started as a slow week, ended in marathon style. I logged more than 80 pages of fresh - and revised - text, perhaps a personal best.

But Monday is again upon us, and while Brad's last minute shape-up may earn him a repeat appearance, the avatar face must now change.

Why Gerard Butler?

Hmm. Where to begin? Perhaps I'll start with those abs. This is the mark of a fit man. And Gerard is strong - as evidenced in 300 - as Spartan. I'm hopeful his persona of fitness will act twofold - to whip my newest pages into shape, and to (again) inspire my personal fitness regime.

And while I appreciate he is known for more characters than as the mighty (and hunky) Leonidas, I deem it appropriate to select an image from the movie in which, I think, provides us with so much brilliant dialogue. At the start of my career, I found "character conversation" the most difficult, but I'm learning the rules and I've come a long way. In addition to my most current WIP (s), revising and polishing the TV script I've written will be top priority this week - and script writing is largely about dialogue. Perhaps his image will serve as inspiration.

And lastly - though of no less importance - Gerard Butler is one of the several candidates listed on my writer friend's blog (in her generous plea for me) and a personal favourite of Donna's. (Is there no end to what I would do for you, sweetheart? I do love my crit partners...)

Still unconvinced? Allow me to provide another image to prove Gerard's worth:

An open letter to my muse

Dear Muse:

I thought we had an agreement.

I selected you - over a vast number of eligible muse avatars - in hopes you would shepherd my children into adult hood. You promised to guide them, and provide all with equal inspiration. You said you'd infuse each with their own spark of Genius.

And of course, I assumed you'd take on the role of "stay-at-home-muse" - like Tootsie, which I've been feeding you all week - but I came home after critique group Tuesday night and the dishes remained untouched, the vacuum cleaner in the full upright and idle position, and every bed in the house unmade.

Now, I'm not normally the type to air anyone's dirty laundry into the giant blogosphere (and especially not my own) but I'm certain you've not upheld your end of the bargain. I can see by the sheer number of times you've been on the cover of tabloids this week that you've not been focused on my children, but perhaps on reconnecting with your ex?

Are these trysts the reason Jagger is spiraling into depression, and Cait is still wandering aimlessly around Milan looking for her Father? Just yesterday, Karma told me she had to take the bus - the bus! - to school. Aeryn has not yet completed her "shop" project, and I think she's sleeping around. And don't even get me started about Avery, whose shoe fetish has gotten her into trouble this week. BIG trouble.

It's as though you've allowed all of my children to run amuck, and now, as I stare at the butt end of another unproductive week, I am reconsidering my selection criteria.

Oh, did you forget you can be replaced?

Perhaps you'd be interested in checking out the growing list of candidates here.

You'd be wise to not dismiss them so easily, Mr. Muse. My dear friend has impeccable taste - in fact, the loyal (and quite hunky) Daniel "Bond" Craig has been her internal editor avatar for some time. The list compiled by her friends indicates she surrounds herself with like-minded peers.

But I'm feeling generous this morning and have decided to give you another chance. You have two days - 48 hours in which to redeem yourself as father of the year.

I expect great things from you Mr. Muse.

Shhh...I've got a secret

The following is going to come as a shock to my critique partners (and probably Rocky and Kyle...and maybe even Jeff...).

I'm doing NaNoWriMo.

I didn't intend to - Lord knows I've got enough projects on the go. Admittedly, the propaganda sucked me in. 50,000 words in a month? Part of me thought NaNoWriMo might be the catalyst I need to bang off one of those "shorter" books rolling around in my head.

Except, I don't think I'm doing right.

I've added a couple thousand words on a new project (yes, another new project), and as par my usual pattern, I do like the first two chapters. But to be frank, there are about 100 projects in my desk drawer with an amazing two or three chapters.

Still, I enjoy a challenge and considered - in a moment of weakness and likely, procrastination for other half-finished WIPs - that maybe this NaNoWriMo fever would rub off on me and I'd cross the finish line of a full book just as the calendar rolled into December. Merry Christmas to me, right?

I registered myself for the challenge, even provided a snippet of author profile, and gasp, published a small excerpt from what I suspect will be a crappy attempt at a genre I don't even know I want to write. I've selected my "home region" and considered reaching out to fellow NaNoWriMo writers. Considered - but didn't.

As I closed the lid on my aging laptop last night, it occurred to me that I couldn't find one good reason to participate in NaNoWriMo. Why would I look for another community of writers for encouragement and support, when I have the cream of the crop already on my side?

Aside from my crit group - which I could speak about at nauseam with adoration - I am blessed with several writer friends with whom I can exchange pages, call on for support, or lean on for an ego boost.

And, I have an agent who has his own word count demand. As if that shouldn't be enough.

Yet, the call of NaNoWriMo still echoes with clarity. Why is that?

I'm not saying I'm going to abandon it completely - part of me still needs to understand the draw of the event, and whether completing the challenge would provide anything beyond a bit of self satisfaction. But it isn't NaNoWriMo that will keep me up all hours of the night working - it's the more meaningful challenge of meeting the expectations of the amazing community of writers I'm already fortunate enough to have on my side.

The fatherly type

I've got an awful lot of projects on the go.

That's typical of me. My attention span is often short. Creative inspiration sometimes comes in fits and stops. And almost always, my mood indicates which kick-ass protagonist I should focus on.

For the past few weeks, my muse avatar has possessed some - um - necessary criteria for making the grade. But this week's is more than just your average Hollywood Hunk.

My projects (all one million of them) are like my babies, and who better to help me shepherd them into adulthood than Mr. Mom himself, Brad Pitt.

Oh I've watched the way he dotes on little Maddox, how he taught the little tyke how to ride a dirt bike before his tenth birthday. A skill I'm sure Jagger would be interested to learn. 

And who could forget the way he welcomed Pax and Zahara into his family? I'm confident he'll have open arms for my new young adult series and the romance novel playing around in my head.

When Shiloh was born, she became Daddy's girl - and right now, my poor girl Cait is struggling to find her father. Maybe Brad could point her in the right direction?

I recognize he's quite busy these days - what with twins Knox and Vivienne less than a year old - but I've heard him say that he and Angelina would love to have dozens of children. I'm only suggesting that he adopt a couple of mine.