Update on Sandra Tuttle

Well I haven't been here in quite awhile have I?

I got a new job that requires quite a bit of my time, I was in my sister's wedding in another state, I was the copy writer/web designer for a local political candidate and I moved (which required painting 5 rooms of the house after a full day of work) Yeah, I've been busy.

I'm hoping that things have settled down enough in my life to allow me to get back to blogging and more importantly writing.

About writing: I've made an executive decision about Book 1 of the Just Sam series. I've decided to scrap it and completely rewrite the thing from scratch. Why? I write differently than I did two years ago. My voice has changed and editing the piece is making it worse not better. So, when life settles down and I get back to writing... I'll be looking at a blank page. Wish me luck!

Inspiration: the elusive mistress *snort*

Inspiration:

Where can it come from?

To be honest, just about anywhere, it really depends upon your frame of mind at the time.

For instance, right now, I’m feeling pretty crappy. I’ve got a lot of decisions I need to make, none of which are fun, and am feeling a bit stuck in a place I don’t want to be stuck in. I know I have to make hard decisions that will make me feel crappy, but ultimately, will be better for me in the long run. I’ve got a headache, a tummy ache and I’m generally moody… and yet, here I am blogging about inspiration of all things!!!

Basically, inspiration can come from your hardships. That’s where I’m at right now. I’m feeling a little out of control of my life, and a little too in control of my life at the same time, if you know what I mean. I’m out of control because I can’t help but feel what I’m feeling (and I don’t like it), but I know I’m too in control because I have a decision to make that will change things… and when it’s all said and done, I will only have myself to blame if it doesn’t work out well. So here, I am, feeling like a chewed up piece of gum on a homeless guy’s shoe and yet, I’m talking about how other people can find ideas. I’m turning my bad time into, hopefully, someone else’s good time… or even an okay time would be fine with me ;)

Anyway, back to the topic at hand, because I really didn’t want to blog about how crappy of a night I’m having.

How did I decide to write this blog? That’d be inspiration right? Well, first of all, I was bound and determined to get out of my bad mood. So I thought about all the things I like to do and where I’ve found a sense of peace before. I read a book and took a bath, but the book ended—too soon for my tastes—and not necessarily on a good note. So bad mood—still there. And the book really ruined my bath, although normally they calm me down. However, the bath was probably not a good option because our house was pretty hot and no one wants to take a hot bath when they are already hot. So basically, the bath idea and book idea… yeah not good for me tonight.

However, that doesn’t mean that they will forever not work for me—it just means that tonight I’ll have to work a little bit harder to get my mind off my problems.

Next I thought about giving my mom a big hug and just letting her hold me and tell me everything will be fine, and how strong of a woman I am. (Although, yeah, inside every strong woman is a daughter who sometimes just needs a hug from her mom) But when I got out of the bath, she was asleep. No big surprise really, it was after midnight. I tried to talk to my dad, but he’d fallen asleep in the chair and wasn’t much help in his groggy state.

Okay then, what next? Well I tried to journal my feelings. Normally this brings up a whole bunch of emotional shit I don’t want to deal with, but hey, I was feeling kinda desperate and maybe I needed a little emotional kick in the pants, right? So I journaled about how I was feeling, and I totally expected shit to come out sideways, or to come upon some revelation that would make me feel better. It didn’t work. I did however, journal about how being outside helps me clear my head and how normally being near water helps as well. But the bath didn’t work and it was after midnight. So where was I supposed to go? I had no idea. I figured I needed to clear my head though, so I turned off the fan in my room and listened to the crickets outside. It was real nice at first, until an insane humming noise filled my ear. Somewhere, in my room was a mosquito. Shit, it was warm enough for them to be outside as well.

I tried swatting the mosquito but it, being a cunning fellow, clearly high evolved, stayed near the ceiling where I couldn’t easily reach it.

Giving up on the mosquito, I bundled up (even though it was warm outside, I didn’t want to be eaten alive by mosquitoes) and went outside. I looked up at the sky, but the trees here are pretty big and in order to see the sky you have to look straight up. I was getting a stiff neck (to go along with my head ache, sore tummy and tired eyes) so I laid down on the cement of the driveway and just stared at the sky. It didn’t seem to help at first, but eventually the coldness of the cement seeped through my ass, which then turned numb and in turn helped to numb the upset tummy.

I took this opportunity to think about things I could do that would help me feel better. What I needed ladies and gentleman, was inspiration.

Aha! YES! Her ranting blog does have a purpose!

And the fact that I needed inspiration led me to my own inspiration. Perhaps I would write a blog about inspiration and where to find it. I quickly pushed that idea aside and figured it’d be dumb. Then I thought that I should really look at the job section in the newspaper today since I am unhappy with my current employment situation. I figured after that, I could write my goals down and perhaps have a working outline of what I need to do to achieve my goals. Yes, that sounded much more like what I needed to do. So I went inside, grabbed the job section and opened it up. Five minutes later I closed it in frustration. I was clearly over qualified and under qualified for everything. Such is the life of a person with a Bachelor’s degree in something as unpractical as Film Production.

Job seeking made me so frustrated that writing the whole goals thing flew out the window, which left me with one more idea… get my laptop back out and see if anyone is online to chat with.

Alas, there was no one and that left me with blogging about inspiration. In reality, this blog was the best thing I could’ve done for myself right now. Sure my tummy still isn’t feeling the greatest, but I’m blogging, that is something productive. It involves writing… something I need to do more of. It is in a round about way letting me sort out some of my troubles—which is always helpful. It also could help other people.

Inspiration comes from anywhere—you simply have to know where to look, look many places, don’t dismiss anything and let life take you where it may.

You can be inspired in places like me—alone and quiet. Some people like busy places or like to people watch. Some people need to meditate and take from their dreams. Some people smoke pot or take other hallucinogenic drugs. HA! (I do not recommend that)

Basically, anyone can be inspired in any place, but inspiration isn’t enough. Even if you are really inspired it takes a little work. Also, if you are just a little inspired, it takes a lot of work, but that doesn’t make the product any less than the highly inspired one. Anything worth having takes work.

Look at me, I searched high and low for a solution today and nothing worked. What finally worked, was a solution I wasn’t too happy about… blogging about something as cliché as inspiration and how to get it. But alas, it worked out for me and if you read this far, perhaps it’ll work out for you too… because getting this far in my rant shows that you are willing to put in the little extra effort to finish something. Either that or you are really bored, but I prefer to think the former.

This is me seeking inspiration today...

Conquering Self Doubt

Sometimes I just have to trust myself.

There are times when I'm feeling down on myself and that nothing I write is worth the scrap paper it's printed on.

As you can imagine, that mood doesn't help me write one bit. Those are the negative creeping thoughts that are detrimental to my writing.

When those thoughts pop up, I've realized that I need to to take a break and do something completely unrelated to writing. Then, I need to come back at a time when my thoughts are clear and reread something I've written that I haven't touched in awhile.

I did this today. I reread the last bit I wrote of book 2 of my Just Sam series. I am completely immersed in my world and have a big grin on my face. Oh how I adore Samantha and her world. I am quite amazed with myself and my writing.

I pray this doesn't come off as conceited, because it isn't meant to--part of me feels like I didn't even write the parts I read, but I love them even more than I did in the first place. I know I wrote it so maybe I'm not supposed to say how much I like it, but I truly do. I am proud of my accomplishment. I love Sam's world. I hope that I can continue to do the world justice. If my immersion into the world says anything, it says I'm on the right track.

I need to trust that I write for a reason. That all of those countless hours are not for nothing. I am a decent writer--at least of the sort of story I like to read. When doubts creep in, I need to remember days like today--days where I am in love with my characters all over again.

Re Enchant Yourself

7:35 pm Saturday evening. I'm stuck at work, but no one is currently bothering me and I hear thunder--I'm content for now. Except I as soon as I typed that, I developed a case of the hiccups. Contentment doesn't last long does it? At least not as one ages.

Now, I know 27 isn't exactly ancient, but it'd old enough to remember being young and longing for it.

Normally I am not the type of person who comes back from an inspirational training seminar all geeked up to take over the world. I listen, I say my piece, I glean what information I need and I implement it where I deem necessary. However, during this customer service training session the other day, the gentleman on the video said something that struck a chord within me. He said that we need to re enchant ourselves with life. We need to become enchanted like we were as children, when everything was new and different and wonderful.

A lot of the time I feel enchanted with life. I imagine this is what makes me a writer--to see the enchantment in the ordinary. However, sometimes I feel it makes me seem naive or immature. In the long run, seeming that way to a few people isn't a big deal, but what does that say about our society? We can't be excited by life or we come off like we have a mental illness? Only "simple" people smile all the time because they don't know any better? Or on the same hand, only disillusioned people like very religious people smile like that or have manners like that because something is wrong with them.

Why can't an ordinary person be happy, polite, see wonder in the world and still be considered intelligent? Sure there are problems in the world, but there is a lot that is right as well... sometimes you may have to look a little bit harder, but it's there.

Or this even.. to believe in something that is a little extraordinary, like ghosts or aliens--or in perpetual motion, or time travel. Don't we want people to believe in things a little out there? Isn't that how we ended up with all of current technology? Sending pictures or voices through the air and having them arrive mere seconds later thousands of miles away? Sounds like magic to me. Don't we want people to think outside of the box?

If so, then why does our society and our schools encourage disenchantment with life? Why do we encourage the status-quo? Why do we limit the creativity of our youth in order for them to fit in? Is what other people think about us so important that we limit what our futures could hold?

Brand New Chapter One

Okie dokie, here's the scoop. Something is wrong with my computer and I am not able to upate my main website www.sandratuttle.com Luckily, my blogger is web based and works beautifully. So instead of putting my book excerpt on my website as per normal, I am blogging it.

Now, we know why as far as location is concerned, but not why the blasted thing was written in the first place. I have been rewriting book 1, Inevitable of the Just Sam series. The process is extremely slow going but any progress is good right?

So, was the first version of chapter 1 bad? No, not at all, but upon completeing the rough draft and a few edits of the books, I decided my book needed a little more focus on certain issues. I also decided that Samantha needed a little more maturity than what I had written before. Also, the initial first scene of the book, while funny to me, had little to do with the rest of the book. A rewrite ensued and here is the result.

Let me know what you think...

Chapter 1:

Talking Heads
“Burning Down the House”


Friday, January 13th

Crime doesn’t pay. Everyone knows that. It’s a good thing I wasn’t doing this for the money.
Eyes squeezed shut, I turned the knob to the back door, the only thing between me and phase one of my criminal career, when I was interrupted by a young happy voice.

“Hey Samantha, kick some ass… uh… butt for me tonight.” Summer’s voice rang clear and bubbly until her swearing snafu, then her cheeks turned pink and her downcast face muffled the rest of my ten year old step daughter’s statement.

I released the doorknob and turned around with a forced smile on my face. The swearing was probably my fault; lord knows I can never keep it under control. It took Summer and I a long time to be at ease with one another. I didn’t want to ruin our relationship by making a big deal out of her swearing just because of my conscience. I forced my smile even bigger and winked at her like the conspirator she knew me to be.

Summer’s mouth opened in a little “O” shape of surprise before her stick straight blonde hair flew around her head in a perfect arc as she sliced her hand in the air with a “Hiii-ya!” She proceeded to jump kick our mustard yellow fridge, a relic from the seventies. The floor of our trailer bounced despite her slight weight. Too many kung fu movies for that girl.

Normally I felt guilty going to the martial arts dojo every Friday. I mean, what kind of step mother needs to beat people up once a week to stay sane? For as long as I can remember, I’ve had an itch to do battle and sparring in a controlled environment was preferable to my teenage street fighting. First swearing and then beating people up… how many more items could I check on the list of bad things mothers do? Even still, I would’ve preferred a normal level of guilt to the crushing weight I felt now. At least sparring was legal. My plan tonight was illegal in every way I could think of—and yet it needed to be done.

I had to break into my boss’s office.

I forced the thought from my mind and faced the door again. The door represented the threshold of my black and white world and the grayish one on the other side. Surely doing something technically “illegal” wasn’t always bad. I grabbed the doorknob and turned, but chickened out at the last moment. I stopped turning the knob and tilted my head over my shoulder. “Okay, I’m really leaving now. Luke, make sure you keep an eye on Summer.”

All I got in return was a “Yeah, yeah” and a muffled, “Leave already.”

Luke, my husband, played drums as a hobby, one he would’ve liked to turn into a career until his ex died and he got “saddled” with Summer. The loud noise of concerts affected his hearing and caused him to talk louder than most people. He knew this of course, and didn’t seem to care that I could hear his rude remarks.

Before I could let his behavior affect my confidence any more than it had over the years, I wrenched the knob and stepped over the threshold. Some things, even illegal things, are easier than facing the mistakes we’ve already made in our own life. I slammed the door behind me. It rebounded back open and hit my ass. I grabbed the outside handle and bumped the door with my hip until I heard the click.

The outside light popped on and I checked the air for a swarm of mosquitoes or love bugs. I relaxed when I remembered it was January and that even though Florida was warm in January, it wasn’t warm enough for the common pests to be out in force.

Summer’s smiling face appeared in the panes of glass in the window next to the door. Her sporadically toothed grin and floppy wave made me smile. She tapped her fingers in the familiar bum buda bum bum pattern. I bumped the heel of my hand on the door twice in answer, my final goodbye for the night.

The light winked out and I stood on the few wooden steps in darkness. I took a deep breath and tiptoed down the steps. I had secret dealings tonight. I may as well get used to being sneaky.

I fisted my hands and gritted my teeth. Before self doubt could trickle in, I jumped into my ’88 red Chevy Nova, started it with a roar—it needed a new muffler—and pulled out onto Green Swamp Way in the direction of my work—an archaeological dig site. Green Swamp Way was Lakeland, Florida’s answer to Rodeo drive, only for swamp buggy enthusiasts, hog hunters and bullfrog shiners instead of high end shoppers.

Dilapidated trailer after dilapidated trailer zoomed by my window as I sped down the straight road. Nice thing about Florida being flat—you could speed on almost any road. I let my lead foot off the gas pedal as I recalled where I was going and what I’d be doing once I got there.

Fortunately this archaeology job was only a few miles from my house. That would limit the amount of time I had to chicken out.

Unfortunately this archaeology job was only a few miles from my house. That would limit the amount of time I needed to mentally prepare myself for this. I’d never pulled a B&E before.

Pulled a B&E? When have I ever talked like that? Sure I dabbled on the wild side a bit in high school, but I hadn’t done anything illegal except get into physical fights with people who already wanted to scrap. Now I was referring to breaking and entering by some cool slang term, like it was perfectly acceptable?

Yeah, some great role model for Summer, I am.

Despite lifting my foot off the gas pedal, the dirt turnoff to the dig site came into view sooner than I would’ve liked. I slid onto the access road and flicked off my lights. I coasted past the first strand of cypress trees and stopped the car.

I took a deep breath, focused on my skewed reflection in the windshield and pretended that talking to oneself was normal.

“I have to do this, right?” the tentative part of me whispered.

The moral part of me answered, “There is no other way.” That part of my brain raged at the idea of breaking into anywhere, but agreed that Orson Naston, my former boss, the one who fired me earlier this morning, should not be able to get away with what he was doing.

I stared at the reflection of my white knuckled hands gripping the steering wheel. “He’s the scum of the earth Sam, you have to do this! You have to break in. There’s no other option. There’s no telling what kind of horrors Orson has already performed on your artifact.”

My knuckles grew even whiter. He’d probably already taken the skull out of the protective case and breathed on it. All kinds of carbonized material would be on the skull by now. That’d fuck up my Radio Carbon 14 dating for sure. Not that it was my dating anymore.

Orson shouldn’t be able to sweep the archaeological finds under the carpet just so he can build yet another subdivision. As the contractor, he hired me as an archaeologist to do a cursory inspection and clear his site of being of any historical importance, except his site couldn’t be cleared. I’d found something, a big something in fact, something that no one else has ever found. The skull of an ancient breed of wolf that never before existed in the historical record, and certainly wouldn’t be found in a strata, or dirt layer, from when Florida was underwater.

That sounds a lot cooler than it is. I’ve found several somethings in my short career that no one else has ever found, and those somethings are exactly the reason my career is so short and I’d been forced to take Orson’s stupid job. Clearing a site for a slimy construction contractor is not what most archaeologists dream of doing, but no respectable archaeologist would include me on a dig. Apparently I’m a “loose cannon and a shoddy archaeologist prone to fantastical ideas.” In reality I’m an excellent archaeologist who is not afraid of the truth. It’s just that my finds didn’t fit into the accepted theories of archaeology and that challenged other archaeologists. That’s when I learned that threatened academics are some of the scariest mother fuckers out there.

Yesterday I reported my find to my boss, Orson, via his preferred method, a sticky note, and today, my day off, he fired me, before I’d been able to secure my artifact and send it off to the lab to be dated. My artifact was in the hands of a morally corrupt buffoon who had no training in archaeology whatsoever. What did he, a construction contractor, think to do with my artifact?

He doesn’t want any artifacts to be found on his land or he won’t be able to develop it. He would destroy the skull and any evidence of historical importance. I had to recover it before he did any permanent damage. If that involved B&E then so be it. Orson was practically putting a gun to my head and making me perform criminal acts, right? Any sane person would surely understand that. Well, any archaeologist would at least.

What kind of ass backward dickweed would fire an archaeologist before she could find out the age of her newest find? Not a very smart one, I’ll tell you that much. It took me weeks of careful extraction to relieve my artifact from the swamp soil. If Orson so much as looked at my artifact askance, I couldn’t be held responsible for what I’d do. I had to save my artifact, my skull, from him.

Finally resolved in my decision, I drove down the twisting driveway with my headlights off. I don’t know why I did this, my barely hanging in there muffler still sounded like a rhino on the rampage, but the lights, well surely someone would see the lights. About a quarter of a mile away from the archaeological dig, I put the car in neutral and coasted. Although, considering the site was close to being in the middle of a Florida swamp, the car didn’t make it very far down the muddy driveway on its own. One hundred feet later and not nearly close enough to my destination as I would’ve liked, I hopped out of my car.

“Mother fucker,” I mumbled through gritted teeth.

Why hadn’t I thought to change my clothes? My aqua baby girl tee, pale skin and light blue jeans glowed in the light of the almost full moon. My long red hair no doubt flared like a homing beacon. Lord knows I have plenty of black clothes in my wardrobe. Why the hell hadn’t I thought to put some on?

Because, my little inner voice told me, you weren’t thinking clearly at all. You were simply enraged about being fired and you acted rashly. Imagine that. You, of all people doing something dangerous. Isn’t that how you landed in this situation in the first place? Whisking off into parts unknown to relieve the earth of strange things that would’ve been better off left there? Eagerly reporting your findings without thought to how they would be received? Being shunned from the world of academia and instead of tucking your tail and sucking it up, what did you do? You donned your silly super hero cape of truth and pontificated to well known experts on how they should do their jobs.

I squeezed my fist tight and the jolt of pain from my fingernails piercing my skin helped me tune out the facetious voice in my head and forge ahead. Trudging through the mud became difficult.

I knew this well, I’d trudged through the muck every day, save one day a week off, for the past six months.

I ground my teeth to prevent the string of expletives from escaping my mouth. It stormed earlier today and the muddy ground was wet and littered with twigs, making for uneven footing. I lifted my shoed foot from the muck with a sucking noise and headed toward the small work trailer on the other side of the bend. Peeking through the gaps in the cypress trees I saw lights shining from inside the windows of the aged metal trailer. I jumped into a strand of trees between me and remaining thirty feet to the trailer.

Shit. Orson had no reason to work late. Hell, the asswipe hardly worked at all. Why would he be here? In front of the decrepit temporary structure sat Orson’s shiny black BMW and despite the mud splatters around the wheel wells the car looked amazing. Amazing and ill fitting with the surroundings. Really, who drove a BMW into a swamp?

I tried to tiptoe through the muck to avoid the sucking noise and alerting my presence to whomever occupied the building, but putting all of the weight on a small portion of my body turned out to be a mistake. My foot sunk into the mud to my ankle. I tugged slightly and tried to release the suction but no amount of slight pressure would remove my foot. I braced my hands against a live oak tree, and tugged hard. The thwup of my foot releasing from the suctioned mud rang loud and clear, silencing any and all noise made in the swamp. No buzz of large scary insects. No bellowing or hissing of alligators. No croaking of bullfrogs. Just silence.

All I could hear was my heart pumping and my lungs breathing in the moist swamp smell, both rich and disgusting in scent. Rain in the north smelled like worms to me. Rain in the south, in the swampy south, smelled like unmentionable things even the worst of landfills couldn’t hope to duplicate.

As soon as I thought it was safe to move again, the door to the trailer opened. I peeked around the huge live oak tree. Luckily, most of the trees had Spanish moss dangling around, making it much easier for me to see the person in the doorway than for them to see me, but that didn’t stop my heart from beating a mile a minute like a cornered rabbit.

My lungs took in enough air to get me through an explanation if caught by Orson, but the air rushed out as I viewed the silhouette in the doorway. Orson’s frame towered over everyone in the way that church spires tower over cities—all tall and spindly, but the male frame in the doorway stood at a normal height and filled out his clothes nicely.

Shit. Someone else occupied the office? I hadn’t planned on anyone being there, but an unknown entity was exactly that, unknown. Should I walk up and pretend like I’m supposed to be there? After all, I was the presiding archaeologist on this dig, I had more of a right to be there than this schmuck. I stepped around the tree with my shoulders back and resolve cemented, only to see a second man with a familiar willowy stature step into the doorway.

Fuck. Maybe I won’t be playing it cool. I stepped back behind the tree, but kept my eyes peering over the edge.

“It’s probably just a rabbit.” Orson’s low dulcet tone, contrary to his personality, flowed over the heavy air.

His voice, his damned voice, was the reason I took the job in the first place. Surely someone with a voice that nice over the phone would be delightful to work for? Oh, how wrong I was.

“Naston, you’ve never really embraced your senses. It doesn’t smell like a rabbit. Why I bothered to turn you, I’ll never know.”

Smell? Are they talking about me? They can smell me? Over the swamp must? What the fuck!

“You shouldn’t be here,” said a new voice from directly behind me.

I flung my body around and flattened it against the tree. In front of me stood a man dressed head to foot in black. His button down shirt had the first few buttons open and his dress pants drew a long straight line to his shiny shoes. Shiny shoes? In the swamp? I glanced around for foot prints but didn’t see any. The tall Nordic looking man with long blond hair, chilly blue green eyes and perfect features looked like something off the cover of a bodice ripper. His good looks were intimidating and had an air of danger to them, that, damn him, I responded to in an unusual way—speechlessness.

“You need to leave.”

His polished voice made it even more difficult to speak, but I swallowed my awe and replaced it with anger. Where the hell had this guy come from?

“Maybe you should leave,” I tossed back.

I’m not afraid of a one on one confrontation. I’ve been trained to not only defend myself, but to go on the offensive when needed. No hot pampered model was going to frighten me with his good looks. Not doubt the muscles were all for show and the 6’4 behemoth didn’t know what to do with them. I may be a curvy 5’4 but what muscles I had, I knew how to use. I stepped away from the tree and squared my shoulders. The branches above swayed, letting moonlight breech their defenses.

Some sort of recognition flashed in his eyes.

Ahh good, he identified me as a threat.

“It can’t be. It’s too early yet.” His soft voice seemed more for himself than for me.

A creak directly behind me caused me to whirl around. The well built man descended the few rickety stairs of the trailer. Surely the noise sounded a lot closer than that? I shook off the eerie feeling. Fight or flight mode always made my senses more aware.

I watched with a keen eye, flicking back and forth between the well built man stalking closer to me, Orson hovering in the doorway and keeping an ear out of the Nordic model behind me.

When my eyes flicked to the doorway yet another dude stepped in the doorway. What the fuck, are we tailgating at the local archaeological dig or what? This guy had shoulder length hair and was nearly as tall as Orson, but slightly more muscular. I ceased noticing his body when he turned sideways and I could discern what he was holding from his silhouette.

“Oh no, he didn’t.” I stepped out from the tree and headed straight for the guy. He held my skull, my lovely new artifact in his hands. No protective case shielded it from rogue carbon particles that may affect the Radio Carbon 14 dating that still needed to be done. He was corrupting my artifact. I charged at him with more vigor.

I hadn’t made it out of the strand of trees when a large steely hand clamped my shoulder and held me in place, causing me to focus on a more pressing matter than my livelihood. On instinct, I grabbed the Nordic dude’s hand, twisted my body around to face him and made to toss him over my shoulder but he didn’t budge, not one single centimeter. He stood standing perfectly still in the mud without so much as a speck of dirt anywhere, not even on his shiny black dress shoes. That’s when I knew I was in trouble with this guy. He had muscle, knew how to use it and despite this being my domain for the last six months, somehow he knew the terrain better than I. A lot of determining how to fight is the terrain. One would fight different in rocky terrain than one would on a sandy beach. I worked on this muddy earth almost every day for the past half a year and never managed to come home clean, even on dry days. This wet day proved to be difficult for me, but this guy somehow mastered the art of walking in muck. I’d been outsmarted and out gunned. It pissed me off to no end. I should’ve read the situation better.

I stared into his eyes and didn’t blink. I sized him up as I would any opponent. He didn’t look away or even flinch at my unyielding stare. He just stood there as if he’d been waiting his whole life for me to inspect him.

A smile tugged the corner of my mouth. This guy knew how to be a worthy opponent. He had all the advantages, mass, terrain, hell even disorienting good looks.

A twig snapped behind me. I tried to turn but the hand of iron on my shoulder stopped me. A breeze suddenly whipped past me and swept around the tree in an unnatural way that had chills running up my spine.

I craned my neck as much as I could, but I still couldn’t see anything of worth. Twigs snapped behind me again, but now they were traveling away from me.

The hand on my shoulder pushed me up against a tree, forcing my head to snap back around to face him. The Nordic model leaned over me and whispered, “You need to leave here.” His hand on my shoulder flexed. “Now.”

He gripped my other shoulder as well and leaned closer. “You aren’t safe here.”

His pupils, wide open in the dark widened even further to encompass the majority of his irises.

The effect startled me, making me feel like I wasn’t safe here. I’d never felt so small and insignificant, being between this tall man and the live oak tree had little to do with it. What I saw in his eyes made me feel small. This man knew things I’d never know. He looked wise and like he wanted to protect me. For the first time in my life that I could remember, I wanted to be the protected instead of the protector.

That alone clued me in that something was seriously wrong. If I felt like I needed protecting, then I did. I’d never felt that before. I wasn’t safe here. Time to go. I wiggled against the tree and shrugged my shoulders but his hands wouldn’t release me. I fought down the urge to use physical force and opened my mouth instead. “How can I go if you won’t let me?”

He let go as if my body were molten and looked away from me. “Go.”

I stumbled over my muddy feet but caught myself in time to run around the side of the tree. I turned my head each way to check that the way was clear. My eyes latched onto the figure in the doorway of the trailer. The sight of the long haired man holding my skull up to the light to examine it with Orson heated my blood. I paused for just a minute for one last look at the skull.

A breeze blew by, chilling me to the bone again. Time to get going. I took a step like normal, but the mud took advantage of the moment I stood still and started eating up my feet. Tripping, I fell to my knees with a loud squish. All noise in the swamp stopped.

The Nordic model suddenly stood in front of me and grabbed me by the elbow. He lifted me up.

The silence of the night shattered when a rustling noise came from a few yards away. The firm hand on my elbow held me still. He surveyed the area like something being hunted, or perhaps like the hunter himself.

Straight in front of us, about twenty feet away, a bush parted and the largest animal I’d ever seen in the wild stalked out. A mother fucking wolf, larger than a Great Dane, stood still, eyes focused on us and hackles raised.

“Go now, Samantha.” The model set me to his side and pushed a little to help my inertia. I put one foot in front of the other as fast as I could, but not nearly as fast as he did. In a blur of motion he ran straight at the wolf and they disappeared into the brush.

My stomach clenched at the mournful sound of the howl echoing through the night, but I pushed it aside and kept running. I had to keep running. This shit was too weird for words.

“There are no wolves in Florida.” I kept repeating the line, as if somehow that would make what I saw less real.

One leg after another, I ran, ignoring the loud sucking noises of the mud. Globs of mud flew behind me. I tripped on a live oak root and feel knee deep into the muck.

A menacing growl flowed out of the bushes behind me. I hauled my ass up and covered the ground with a quickness. My lungs burned and my muscles threatened to give out, but I ignored them. Whatever the hell happened at this place tonight, I would not be a part of it. I just wanted to go home and forget about all of it. Hell, forget about the last six months.

I finally reached my car and fumbled with my keys as I opened the door. I jumped in, jabbed the key into the ignition and started my baby up with a roar. Slamming the car into drive, I spun the tires out and sped along the muddy drive. I flicked my lights on, no sense in hiding anymore. Now the name of the game was to get out alive.

I swerved around bends and floored the Nova as fast as she would go. About a hundred yards from the main road something big, black and gray darted out in front of the headlights.

A wolf faced me, throwing out any notion I had of my earlier vision being incorrect. In a second of suspended time my eyes zoomed into the wolf’s frosty blue ones. My stomach tried forcing its way out of my bellybutton to get at the wolf. My core wanted to be there, inside the animal. I blinked and felt like I got kicked in the gut.

Thrown back into real time I grappled with the steering wheel. I slammed on the brakes but the mud wouldn’t let my tires find purchase. The car flew forward and I swerved to miss the wolf that was no longer there. A live oak materialized in front of me. The front end of my little car folded in on itself as it connected with the stubborn wood. Thrown forward, my nose connected with the steeling wheel. My head exploded in pain with a lightning flash. Stunned momentarily from the pain, all I saw was the steering column getting closer and closer until I saw nothing…

and heard nothing…

and finally felt nothing.

Schmuckdom

Of course, as soon as I say that I won’t be blogging for awhile because life is getting in the way, I want to blog. I told my writers group that I’d be on hiatus for awhile, and what happens? I have a renewed interest in getting back into the swing of things.

Life is a bitch… and the rest of the saying goes… and then you die. But the saying should go, Life is a bitch, so you try to adjust to its bitchiness, but then it goes and acts all nice, and then you come off looking like a schmuck.

Well Sandra Tuttle, welcome to schmuckdom.

I am not going to say that I will be an awesome blogger and write amazing things immediately, but I will do what I can… which I guess it what I’ve been doing all along.

I feel the need to make goals for myself, but then again, I never feel the need to reevaluate those goals. Reevaluating feels like quitting to me, and I’m not a quitter. I think I just need to have a better mindset about goals. Because really… what good is setting a goal if you can’t reach it at the moment… or if it isn’t realistic based on your life at the moment? Isn’t it better to make small steps toward the bigger goal? Isn’t better to take manageable bites so you can chew and swallow properly without choking on your own self important lofty goals? I mean really people…who… besides porn stars… likes to choke?

Not me.

But this guy might…

This blog will seem lame and past due...

...because it is.

This blog is here to tell you that I'll be taking a break from blogging.

Life has done what is does best--whatever the hell it wants to and what it wants is to interfere with my writing.

I am not sad--well I am a little sad--I love to write, and I love to read, but life is not letting me make enough time for either. Mostly I am not sad though. Life is making me live it--and without living life, I would have nothing to write about. So prepare yourselves. When I come back, hopefully it will be with force and a renewed sense of self and purpose.

Til then... adieu!

-ST

A seed of an idea wormed its way into my rotten apple of a brain.

This may be a passing phase, or just a bit of impractical whimsy on my part, but I am considering going back to school to get an MFA in Creative Writing.

I don't know whether this training would actually help me get published, hone my craft or just be a waste of money but the prospect is quite exciting to me at the moment.

I loved being in school. I love learning period. If I had the time and money I'd probably get a Bachelors Degree in every subject. I suppose this trait is good for a writer. If you are supposed to write what you know, then the more you know, the more you can write. On the flipside, school doesn't give you real world experience, and life experience makes for a good writer as well. Damn, have I just talked myself out of going back to school? Naw... not really.

I'm looking into a distance learning program, which essentially means you do most of the writing from your house on your own time. You have a mentor who gives you assignments, deadlines and critiques your work--much like that of an editor. This prepares us budding writers for what it will be like when we are stellar professionals--having to be self motivated and yet still make deadlines while life throws curveballs at us.

I'm also adopting a mantra from my aunt, who, coincidentally, is also a writer. When faced with a decision regarding time management, she simply says to herself "What would a writer do?" Would a writer take a break to refuel the creative juices? Would a writer plow through the hardship and conquer the foe of self doubt? Would a writer go run errands instead of writing?

I need more focus with my writing. My habits are a little willy nilly at the moment. I do what i can when I want to, but I haven't had the focus I'd like. Perhaps asking What would a writer do? will help me put things into perspective.

So that's what's new with me today. I'm thinking about my future as a writer and what I can do to improve myself. I'm sure you all have ideas on how to improve myself, but hold off on the criticism. Praise is welcome 24-7 however. :)

Finally a new blog from Sandra!

Okay, it's been about a month and a half since I last posted. Shame on me.

Y'all probably want an update huh?

You don't?

You completely forgot who I am?

Oh, you know who I am and don't care?

Well, shit, that's a blow to the ego.

Ya, know what? Screw you, I'm going to blog an update regardless of you and your poor taste. I rock. I know I do, my mom tells me so all the time. ;)

Seriously though, life is progressing. Not as fast as I'd like it to, but I have the impatience gene, so I can't possibly be to blame.

I have two part time jobs and a few prospects on the horizon. Wish me luck with those. I am trying to get out a bit more. I've rekindled a few friendships, but not as many as I would like.

I'd love to meet new people, but I find that my friend making skills peaked in college then fell by the wayside? Anyone else feel that way? It felt relatively easy to make friends in college. For the most part we were all in the same boat--in the land of uncertainty, about our selves, our futures, our lots in life.

I'm 27 and still feel like I dwell in that unsure place. I know I'm coming off of a divorce and a major life change and I should probably be patient and wait for things to work out... and eventually that will happen, but until then I'm going to bitch about you, and you lovely reader get to read about it. Damn, no wonder you didn't miss my blogs, I'm quite the dictator aren't I?

All right, avid readers, in the span of time it took me to write this I remembered a preview for a new show I saw on TV. I found a clip online, watched it and fell in love. It deals with life as a quarter lifer (aged 25, yes I know I'm 27, but I'm a later bloomer, k?) So far it stars a writer and two budding film makers. This is totally my life right? YES! I love it. It is made by the same people who did My So Called Life, which was absolutely what my so called like was like as a teenager as well. I haven't been this excited by anything in a long time.

Here's the clip. Watch it. Love it. Let me know about it.

Quarterlife:

Characterization

Step one of characterization should really be done before revision, hell before writing the damn thing, but a few simple questions can help you decide if you successfully portrayed your character.

Step one is: Know your characters. Pretty straight forward, yes?

Yes, but how WELL you know your characters is the kicker.

You know their name (how about last name?) You know generally what they look like. You may even know their background. But what about the rest?

What do they want in life? I find this the hardest of all the questions, because frankly, it’s the hardest for me personally to answer. Essentially all character driven plots come down to this question: What do they want? They want to get a degree—or get the girl. They want to win the science fair, solve the crime, get a nose job, lose weight, make someone’s life miserable, seek vengeance, learn to sew a quilt, save a life, invent something, win the lottery, get a job, find the perfect pair of shoes, end war, or they just want to be happy.

What or whom is stopping them from getting it? Therein lays your conflict.

Another tricky question: What is the character’s motivation? In real life this isn’t always obvious, but in fiction it should be fairly clear. What they want can motivate them, or a tragic death in their past can motivate them, perhaps something from their childhood? They never had anything growing up, and the desire to own stuff motivates them—perhaps your character is an OCD collector. Or maybe they are just greedy. Or they need to support their family. What makes them do what they do?

If these questions are hard to answer, you may not know your character well enough, or perhaps they haven’t traveled far enough on their journey for you to recognize these answers. That’s okay. Take a look at your plot. What do your characters have to do with the plot? What is their role in it? You may find some answers there. If not, well then you found a big hole in your story and need to fix it. Don’t fret. Finding problems is good, it’s wonderful, great. Problems should be celebrated. They make us better writers. If we can identify what is wrong with the story, then we can make it better, and avoid these same problems in the future. I’ve also found that identifying these problems in writing and fixing them can relate back to real life. Perhaps you as the writer are having the same difficulties as your character. Then your writing is doubling as therapy. Woohoo! Embrace the emotions and the ride the wave, it’ll only make you,you’re your writing stronger.

If you find that you can answer these questions right away, you are on the right track. But do you still feel a little something still missing from your character? It could be their personality.

Answer these questions to help flesh out your characters:
What kind of clothes do they wear?
What is their job?
Level of education?
How is their home decorated?
What kind of music do they like?
What are their pet peeves?
Any idiosyncrasies? Facial tick? Nervous habit? Bite their nails?
Favorite word or phrase? Dy-No Mite!
As a child, what did they want to be when they “grow up?”
What are their friends like?
Political stance?
How do they respond to stressful situations?
How do they argue with someone?
Are the logical?
Over emotional?
Do they get defensive?

Knowing all of these things about your characters makes writing your story that much easier.

YA Fantasy Thoughts and Recommendations

I've been a bad girl.

I haven't written much since I met my goal for NaNo. How bad am I!

And since I haven't been writing, I've been reading. My new fascination, which isn't really new at all but whatever, is YA or Young Adult Fantasy, more specifically, Urban Fantasy. I've been reading Richelle Mead's Vampire Academy, Liza Conrad's High School Bites, Ellen Schreiber's Vampire Kisses and Amelia Atwater Rhodes.

I tend to read YA fantasy during this time of year. YA has an innocence and a sense of wonder to it that really comes to life for me in the Christmas season.

I love Christmas. The snow, the twinkling lights, the songs, the really good cookies... I love it all. Of course nothing I listed specifically has to do with Christmas being the birth of Christ, but I guess I am shallow and a victim of commercialism that way.

Regardless, I find myself at this time of year yearning for a sense of wonder, of awe... I need to find the magic in life. Perhaps Christmas movies inundate me that this is the most wonderful time of the year and that a special kind of magic is needed, but no matter how I ended up this way it doesn't matter. The fact remains that I simply am this way. I love Christmas and I seek stories full of wonder and magic.

I've found the innocence of YA fantasy awes me the most. I've been a teenager. So I can relate to the characters (hell I still feel like I'm 15 half the time, but when I really think about it, I realize I am nothing like I was when I was 15. Oh to know back then what I do now... *wistful sigh*)

There is a special kind of sense of immortality and pure emotion to a teenager. This lends itself very well to fantasy. Teens aren't held back by their experiences in life. They, for the most part, don't shove their emotions under a shell to deal with the real world. Their world is full of relationships and learning how to operate in life. These are the core issues of a good fantasy novel--figuring it all out and the interpersonal relationships along the way.

The teenage years are magical, because so much seems possible. We dare to dream, to reach for the stars, to wonder about what exists in the world. We form our ideals and cement who will we be in the future. For us older folks (I'm only 27 but it applies none the less) a lot of our ideals and outlooks on life have been cemented. And only with a jack hammer and serious destruction can those outlooks be changed... But a teenager's mind... it's like wonderfully colorful sparkly playdough in every shape and size and capable of making anything you could possibly dream up.

So this is why I love YA fantasy.

Some YA Fantasy I love...

Best Young Adult Fantasy Books and Authors:

Richelle Mead's The Vampire Academy: Mead doesn't talk down to teenager about sex and drugs--It's refreshingly real for a vampiric world.

Ellen Schreiber's Vampire Kisses series: Raven, the heroine, is brave and true to herself. What more could a reader ask for? Oh hot guys? Well there's them too.

Melanie Gideon's The Map That Breathed: A brilliant world so colorful I want to wallow in it and never leave. I hope, I pray, I cry to the heavens that there will be more books in this world.

JK Rowling's Harry Potter series: This is probably a no brainer for most people, but I love these books. I love the personal growth Rowling forces her characters to undergo. Kudos to you JK!

Terry Pratchett's Bromeliad Trilogy: These books are on par with Animal Farm in my book. A great wayto show the nature of human beings on a "small" scale.

Eoin Colfer's Artemis Fowl series: A clever young irish man who is as wicked as he is smart. Fun read with a fresh twist on legendary fantasy creatures.

Bruce Coville's Unicorn Chronicles: A prolific author of all things YA, Bruce Coville excelled with the majesty of the Unicorn Chronicles.

Diane Duane's Young Wizards series: Pre Harry Potter, these wizards are strongest at a young age and have to save not only their own world on a regular basis, but others as well. Deep Wizardy is my favorite.

Stephenie Meyer's Bella series: Bella is in love with a vampire and befriends a newly turned werewolf. Sounds blase based on that, but the emotionality in which these are written is incredible. I find myself in Bella's place and torn between worlds as much as she is. I love both of them so much, how could I ever choose between vampires and werewolves?

Have I forgotten any really good ones? Want to tell me about a series I possibly haven't read yet? Comment here or email me at sandra@sandratuttle.com

The end of NaNoWriMo

November has ended and as much as I'd liked to say Deja Vu, book 2 of the Just Sam series, has as well, that'd be a lie. While I did make my goal of 50k words for the month of November, I am still not finished with book 2. So far my total word count is up to 123k words and I know I have a TON of editing to do on this book, and as I look back on Inevitable, book 1, as well. December will be a busy month for me.

The writing frenzy I had in November was a good thing for me as a writer. The mania that my main character, Samantha, forced me into in order to write so much so fast caused me some emotional turmoil, as I went through everything she did and as any good writer knows, you have to put your characters through the paces. But it really helped me through the writing process, both in seeing my strengths and realizing what areas I need to boost in order to make my writing that much better. My characters and my story wouldn't let me go.

I loved the NaNo experience and look forward to participating next year. I don't think I will be finishing a whole novel in a month but the energy and mass goal really helped to spur me on in my own endeavors.

Personally November and the past few months have been difficult. I'm finding myself to be frustrated by the economy and my lack of employment. I focused on my writing and that definitely helped with my confidence level, but I also fear I will find myself very disappointed when I do get hired on and can't write as much as I do now. We all have to stumble along the uneven path before publication and pay our dues I suppose, but that doesn't make it any less frustrating. I just want to write for a living. That is my goal. I want to be able to live on what I make from writing. I haven't always had a goal in life, so setting this one is good.

I have something to work toward now. Anything that happens on my path to my goal will simply be a stepping stone. If I have to take a job I don't want, big deal, it isn't the end of the world. I won't be stuck in a dead end job forever. I have my writing. All of these pitfalls will simply be the next stone on the way to my goal. Every stone I step on, every stair to get to the top, will simply strengthen my muscles, both physically and mentally. In the end I will be stronger and more prepared for what lies ahead.

NaNoWriMo

I know I said I'd go through my revision checklist, and I will--have no fear. Characterization is up next and I've already started it, but I decided to do something else for the month of November.

I started book 2 of my series last September and between editing book 1, going through the separation/divorce process and moving the book has been pushed to the back burner.

Well no more! I joined NaNoWriMo www.nanowrimo.org or National Novel Writers Month, in order to help me finish book 2. The premise is to write a novel in a month. I've already started mine so I'm not following the rules exactly but I'm only counting words that I've written in November. As of day twelve I am over half way to my goal of 50,000 words and doing great. (I have only 100k words total) So since I'm averaging 2k words a day, I haven't had time to blog. My apologies there but I will be back in December, hopefully with two books under my belt.

Check out my profile: drop me a line, add me as a friend--do whatever. http://www.nanowrimo.org/user/235270

Theme

Themes in fiction are something that tend to happen all by themselves. Theme in fiction isn’t the moral of the story; it is more like an outlook on life, or on the interaction of people, of culture.

The author may not be aware they are constructing a theme. The author’s preconceived ideas with how characters interact with each other and their environment add to theme. The choice of the hero’s background and outlook on life, of the challenges s/he faces, all add to theme. Usually, theme is something best identified after a story has already been written.

The theme of Inevitable is: No man is an island.

To me, theme is the lasting impression you want your book to have on the reader. My main character Samantha, is quite stubborn and determined to do things on her own, but no man is an island. We all need people from time to time.

Personally, I love strong heroines and read paranormal books fanatically, but the overly strong heroines refusing any help, and successfully defeating the bad guys on her own strikes me as a bit unrealistic. Granted, we're dealing with paranormal books, but the best fantasy incorporates reality to make it believable. I wanted to tell a story where the heroine is strong, but still needs others to help her on her path, whether she wants them to or not, she needs them. Part of her journey is learning to trust people. We all need people and some of the strongest people in the world know that. A true leader surrounds him or herself with people who are strong where they are weak. I wanted to show this in my book--that a hero can be strong and still have help. That is where the theme of Inevitable came from.

A few links to help you identify the theme in your work.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Theme_%28literature%29

http://homeworktips.about.com/od/writingabookreport/a/theme.htm?once=true

http://www.learner.org/interactives/literature/read/theme1.html

Revision Check List

Revising a manuscript can be a painful process. The writer puts their heart and soul into this piece and then has to tear down its walls and see what parts of their soul don't fit with the others. Revising is like the worst SAT test problem known to man.

The revision process is a necessary evil. It is the cooking down process that boils away the water and leaves a full bodied flavor behind--one that lingers on the palette.

But I'm not here to argue the benefits of revision. I'm here to break down the process into manageable bits by making a list.

WARNING: Do not start revision until you are done writing the piece. Revising while still writing will only lead to heartache and loss of quality time. Get your story out. Don't worry about rules, just write your story. You can always go back and fix it later, but you can't fix what you don't have. Write it, put it away and a few days/weeks/months later take it out and see what you can do to make it the best it can be.

There are a few ways of starting the revision process. For me, a person more creatively bent than structural, I start with theme and characterization. Others may start with plot, or even grammar, but I suggest editing grammar last.

Things to think about while revising:
1. Theme
2. Characterization
3. Plot/Structure/Pacing
4. Setting
5. Voice/Tone
6. Tricks of the trade: What to avoid
7. Writing Craft/Grammar

For the next few days/weeks I will touch upon each of these elements, so keep checking back for updates!

The Cheerleader of Doom has her own blog!

My Bff and personal cheerleader, the Cheerleader of Doom has taken Team Doom to the next level.

She's started a wonderful blog here on blogger, The Deadly Doom Digest. I recently interviewed my favorite SF Romance author Linnea Sinclair for the CoD's blog.

To check it out click here:



Make sure you drop her a line and tell her what an awesome job she's doing!

Synopsis writing...

I wish I could tell my readers, many of whom are writers, that synopsis writing is easy, but frankly it isn't. It could possibly be one of the most frustrating endeavors you undertake. There is an emotional element to writing a synopsis. And here I'm talking about a synopsis that is written after the book is complete, not a play by play to help you remember where you are in the plot.

Writing a synopsis is emotional because you have to deem some parts/characters of your book more important than others--it's on par with choosing which one of your children you love more. Not an easy feat.

For me, synopsis writing started out of desperation. I was a new writer with an unfinished manuscript eager to enter a contest with my first chapter, as contest winners get published. But, I had to have a 5 page synopsis to go along with my entry. I puked out the synopsis after a few tries and ended up writing it first person (just like my book) I found it easier to write the synopsis the same way I wrote the book. The manuscript wasn't finished, so the end of my synopsis was very general.

A few months later as I finished the book and was ready to undertake the editing process. I sat down and tried to write the synopsis. I found I just couldn't do it. Nothing felt right, nothing was fresh--I just flat out wasn't into it. In a moment of divine inspiration, I went to my old computer and fished out the old synopsis. The energy level was good, it still felt fresh. I had to tweak a few more things but then I had a working synopsis.

Except of course that it should be written in third person present tense. I went through and changed all of the tenses and all the I's and my's to her, she or Sam. Done right?

Not quite. I had to cut characters and scenes to tighten up the flow of the story. Not good. Not Easy and a damned near annoying process.

Hints? Tips? Suggestions?

First let me say that the synopsis process could be a bit more difficult for us fantasy, paranormal, sci fi writers. Why? Because we write about things that not everyone will understand. But there is a benefit in all that--it's easy to find readers who aren't familiar with your genre. This is key, find readers who know nothing about your book, your genre and aren't afraid to tell you what they think. Show them the synopsis and ask if it makes sense. Have them point out parts that don't seem to go, or that they don't understand.

Then please please please take these considerations to heart. Really Really Really think about them. Get into an emotional place where you care about your book, but where you care about its end result. This is tough love people. Get into the ruthless militarian state of mind where the greater good of the many overrules the good of the individual. It is just a synopsis after all, merely a marketing tool. It isn't the end all, be all of your book.

Answer one question and then focus on that.

The question?

What is your book about? One sentence, that's it. Mine is: My book is about a woman, going through a major life changing event, seeks to find who she is.

Doesn't sound like fantasy, scifi, paranormal much does it? No, but despite the vampires, werewolves, witches, special powers, murders... that is the purpose of my book. Samantha is trying to find out who she is, where she fits in, what her purpose is. In fact, that is the purpose of my whole series.

Answer your question. The answer is the direction of your synopsis. What parts of the story are most important to show your question and answer?

Then edit the shit out of your synopsis. Cut characters, cut special powers, cut secondary character's motivations and get down to brass tacks. Your synopsis should have a logical train of though containing a beginning, a middle, a climax and a falling action. It should read as a complete story. Emotional lines and plot lines should be tied off nicely. Your best resource is to have people unassociated with the book, read the synopsis.

For more resources...

http://www.writing-world.com/publish/synopsis.shtml
http://www.charlottedillon.com/synopsis.html - a lot of links there.
http://www.fictionwriters.com/tips-synopsis.html
http://www.vivianbeck.com/writing/5_steps_to_writing_a_synopsis.htm - an agent talks about how to write a synopsis

The Writer's Journey.

My new writing group

I've perused the local resources and have come upon a great writers group. It is for fiction writers and we actually do more than back patting. We offer construct criticism and so far the group helped me tighten and clean up my synopsis. I may actually be confident enough to send my manuscript out sometime soon. Imagine that!

Let me say here that not all writing groups are created equal. Some are genre oriented, some are for poets, some are mixed media... some are for back patters.

You know what I mean here... Several people come, dressed to the nines, holding a professional looking leather folder under their arm with their poetry inside. Handing copies to everyone in the room, they clear their throat and read aloud. Their voice is calm and resonates through out the room. They don't stutter or read too fast. They are in complete control. They are performing.

The poem ends and everyone takes a minute to take it in

Meanwhile: I'm thinking, what the hell was it supposed to mean? Am I supposed to keep thinking about it? Does anyone understand the juxtaposition of a bomb and a ceiling fan, the Pink Panther and Paris Hilton? I sure don't. Am I supposed to clap? Perhaps snap my fingers and say it's far out man while resisting the urge to iron my hair? I have no idea so I just sit back and watch what others do.

They praise the poet. Beautiful wording! Great imagery!.

I pipe up then. I thought the line about the exploding manure chemical compound was redundant. They already had a line about a shit bomb going off. A hush falls over the crowd and the crickets even seem to disarm their chirps. All eyes fall to me and I smile vaguely.

Commit. You started this, now finish it Sandra.

I shuffle the papers of the 5 page long single spaced, one stanza poem and clear my throat. It's time for my performance now. I explain that while different words are used, the concept is redundant.

Tighten it up! Make it punch! Omit needless words!

At this point a few mouths gape open and one cricket tentatively chirps. The poet glares toward the window and the cricket promptly shuts up.

The poet comments, "I appreciate your thoughts,fiction writer" Fiction writer went unsaid, but the tone was there. All spittle and contempt as the title flew and stuck to me with his snobby phlegm. I was not a poet. I took things literally. I didn't understand.

Hell they were right. I didn't understand. I do read poetry from time to time and can enjoy it. I've even been known to write a poem from time to time, but hell people, mine make sense. I swear they do!

But my lack of understanding was not my crime here. My crime was to infer that the poem wasn't perfect. Well excuuuuuse me people, I didn't know this was a circle jerk. I thought I was at a writer's meeting.

There in lies the problem with some writer's groups. We all want feedback, sure, and praise is great, but constructive criticism is better.

Writers are artists, and as artists we don't tend to see the whole picture sometimes. Writing is like pointilism, you have to take a step back to see what you've really created, but when your heart is written into every line, every point that went into your picture, sometimes it's impossible to detach. Therefore you need a guide, someone who stands a few feet behind you and points your red pen in the right direction.

Back patters place their hand on your shoulder and push you even further into the blurred mass.

I need no back patters in my world, for I want to make it better.

Lucky for me, I found the right group.

*** Warning the following is a PC message meant to leave everyone with warm fuzzies, but since I wrote it, it probably won't but here is is anyway--the cover my ass clause.

Let me say that there is nothing wrong with poetry or even with back patters, but if you want to be a better writer, learn to take criticism. As I said, I write poetry and have nothing against poets, using a poet just worked better for my example. I know fiction writers who do the same thing, surround themselves with people who inflate their egos. This behavior spans genres, fields, races, genders, classes... if one wants to become better at anything at all, they must face reality and the reality is that nothing is perfect. Find the faults--then fix them.

Thomas Wolfe says You Can't Go Home Again

I concur. You can go to the physical place, but being human, being changeable, skews the perception we have of our old hometowns. I should know, I just came back to mine.

The difference dwindles down to the house I grew up in even. My parents recently remodeled it, trading a bedroom for a walk-in closet and an additional bathroom. They removed walls, closets, shrunk bathrubs...all in effort to make the house more livable to them. They'd already lived in it for 30 years, one would think that with their three daughters gone, they'd have enough room. I suppose that sounds catty, and it is, but it isn't meant to be so. I see that as the truth, but I don't begrudge my parents the remodel In fact I think it was a good thing for them to do. They moved laundry facilities up stairs, added a comfort height toliet and a large shower. It is now a house they can grow old in. The problem is, I didn't really figure into the remodel and now I'm here, tucked in the corner bedroom away from the world with my room darkening shades. I used to like caves growing up, but hell, I just moved back up here from Florida. I'm going to need my sunlight.

The third person in the living room invariably gets a neck ache from watching tv. If they have the tv on while we're eating dinner, my spot is the one with my back to the TV. My bathroom has the narrow tub and pedestle sink with no surface space for my things. This is a temporary life for me, and I know that, but how can I get started on changing my life, on finding the permanence of myself when my environment is so temporary? I don't know yet. (I'd like to add that my mom always offers to switch spots with me, is willing to buy me organizers and things to make my life easier. I am not being overlooked, I just don't know if I want this sort of money invested in something that is temporary.)

Last weekend I went out with a friend to some of the old haunts in my old stomping ground. What did I discover? I discovered I'm no fun anymore. I had two beers, at least as much water, and went to three bars. I didn't feel confident enough to walk the mile through downtown to the bars from my friend's house so I drove. Since I drove, I didn't drink much. How responsible of me. How mature of me. How unlike my old self of me. My friend even commented on my restraint. Granted when we'd hung out in this town I'd still been in highschool, but regardless... I'm a different person now. I just don't know who that person is yet.

Part of me feared coming back to my hometown. Part of me feared I'd become the person I was. Hell, it'd be nice to be that person again. I feel selfish now, but then I WAS selfish, for sure... or rather self centered, but most teens are. I was wrapped up in my own little world with my own little cares about my own little drama. Now I have bigger cares, bigger drama and the same amount of space to hold it all. If I couldn't manage it then, what am I to do now?

I have a lot of questions, but very few answers, another difference between the two mes of my hometown. The know-it-all teen and the know nothing divorcee.

There are good things about coming home though. I'm learning things again. I learned things before, but... well I'll just come out and say it, I think my Dad is the smartest guy on the planet and that he knows just about everything, at least when it comes to science. So we have dicussions and I ask questions, kind of like when I was younger. I finally understand how barometric pressure works in predicting weather. I REALLY get it, not just a memorized answer to a test question. I get how tornadoes are formed. We discuss things and crack jokes with each other, most inappropriate ones my mother doesn't approve of, which is why we probably do it. This makes me happy you see. I haven't lost all of the person I was. I still have some things I recognize in myself.

On the writing front, things are progressing at a snails pace, but that it just fine with me. I'd love to be done with book 2, but for what? Just to start book 3? The writing process for me is never really over, especially for Sam's series... there's always more of the story told, and with the finish of one book, the urge to tell more becomes stronger, so any pace is a good one, the stories will be told regardless.

I found a great writing group. One that actually has novelists a part of it. I have no problems with poetry, but I'm not looking for a group of poets to revise my work. I'm seeking novelists who I can lay my work bare to and get honest feedback. I think I've found the group and am quite excited about it.

I also went to an SCA meeting, a medieval reenactment group. The people there were quite welcoming and I look forward to going back, unfortunately the next SCA meeting is the same as the writers meeting. I'm picking the writers group. The SCA meet every monday and the writers group meets twice a month, once on a monday, once on a wednesday. I want to nuture the connections I made at the SCA group, but writing is important to me and I'll have three other mondays a month to get to know the SCA people better.

There's a little update on me and my life. I know I don't blog often, and I'm sorry for that. I don't know what the future holds so I will make no promises in this regard, but know that I am not giving up on blogging. And drop some comments once in awhile will ya people?

This video... well... LOL cheesy but fitting. (I don't blame you if you don't watch it, hell I couldn't make it through most of it and I was multitasking.)

Spent the weekend in Chicago

On Thursday, rain pelted the roof and wind rocked the casbah, resulting in mass power failure for many of the local states. 2/3, possibly 3/4 of Kalamazoo County was without power, including yours truly.

Luckily, my parents have a generator and while I bravely perservered through no A/C, sweat on my brow and determination in my stance, I opted out of suffering and hitched a ride to Chicago with one of my college friends.

Much conversation and traffic later, we arrived at our other friend's condo, a super cute, hi-tech place in Boystown. While there, we jazzed around town, spending too much money and eating great food.

Portillo's http://www.portillos.com/ - A Chicago favorite, I recommend their burgers and the onion rings weren't half bad either.

Pasta Bowl http://www.pastabowl.com/ - Truly a must for Fettucini Alfredo lovers. Mmm Mmm Good.

Lincoln Square is a quaint area for shopping, including a fun little bookstore called the Book Cellar. http://www.bookcellarinc.com/ I love book super stores where I can find almost anything, but this little place made me wonder what it would be like to own a small store, consciously hemming and hawing over every little book you picked to stock. What fun!

A great little store with a little of everything is Eclecticity http://www.eclec.com/ - Where I bought a writing game to help with those trouble spots. I look forward to cracking it open and letting the juices flow.

My girls and I played a game called Moods, where it isn't what you say, but how you say it. Anyone who is a fan of improv or acting, or just likes a case of the sillies, try this game. Truly a Zany experience.

My hitched ride stayed an extra day and then continued their trip cross country, so I bopped onto and train and with the help of a mellow massage therapist from San Diego, enjoyed the slightly prolonged 2.5 hours back to Kalamazoo.