fa la la

After ten grueling months I have finally finished the manuscript. Incredible. It only took my social life, huge chunks of my day and the best bits of my personality. My friends have had to keep me accountable in order to not turn into an insufferable grump.

Why is the process of writing such a love/hate relationship? You'd think playing god would be a little more fun. But it isn't. Half the time, I'm plagued with thoughts of what my characters are going to do next (you'd think I know this, but alas, I rarely don't) and the other half I'm wrestling with getting the story down.

Of course I've had help from many directions, in the unlikeliest of places, mind you. The first came from my mother. If I've never written about her, I'm sorry. She could fill up every page of the next book I write. She is a dutiful wife, with all the charm of old Spanish ideals and traditions. My mother is supportive of her daughter wanting to be a writer and has racked her brain of ways she can help. This has included asking me when I'm going to law school, when I will get married and will I please just go to grad school? Or go abroad? (her wanting me out of the continental United States is a mystery in of itself).

Then, one day she tells me she knows a professor at Cornell (or Yale? or Princeton?) and I should write him. He is Bolivian, too! And he writes in English! And he has a cute nephew (probably!). Being a dutiful daughter, I will of course write the professor and go on a date with his probably attractive nephew.

Other help has come from the online writing workshop (this could also explain my infrequent blog postings) called Scribophile. If you're writing a novel and need some objective feedback, gather what courage you have and post your work on Scrib. I have received tons on top of tons of helpful input and advice.

I also have to thank all of my "test readers" (please read: friends) to go through the MS and point out any glaringly obvious mistakes that thwart grammatical success.

And, I confess I am a repeat offender on Amazon.com. I have ordered more books on editing, revising, and query letters than any person really should. I'll pick my top five (one day) and share the wealth.

Now, I have to write the QUERY LETTER which is synonymous (in my crazy mind) with DOOOOOOM.

We'll see how that goes.

Thanks for reading. Whoever you are. :)

small world, big words

How amazing that we live in a time where a phone call can be placed to someone on another land mass, across a big blue ocean and in a different time zone. I can be eating a bowl of cinnamon toast crunch (is there anything better, really?) while a friend on another line is enjoying skirt steak with chimichurri sauce.

That being said, I can't believe how posting a few lines about a cause I love can spark someone to reach out to me, no matter where they are in life, no matter what continent they are on. Responding to me. Isn't much of life reacting and responding to people? I've been thinking of people's reactions and how any one person can react vastly different than the next one. I've noticed this particularly when it comes to men and my girl friends. One friend can have severe heart flutterings while in the company of said man, while I can comfortably pick my nose in front of the fellow and not think a thing of it. (For the record, I avoid my nose and it's pickings as a rule while out in public.) What is it when our hearts react to something? Why does it skip over one person and captivate another?

By now, I have a good picture of what captivates my heart. Pretty days. Quills. Paper. Ink. Loud volume. My chucks. Human slavery (that arises such a strong sense of disgust in me). Black Pianos. Big dogs. Ugly dogs. Faith. Learning. French Revolution....The list goes on.

What does it take for someone to respond to me? To respond to what I write, the story I will tell. The pictures I draw, the photos I take? What makes anything memorable? Is it simply because we remember our response?

Food for thought as I attempt to write a tale that can captivate people.

I received the nicest email from a young lady in Ireland who read about Storyville and wanted to know if there was a way to host a concert in Ireland. I honestly didn't know I could reach that far out. How encouraging.

Thanks for reading.

storyville live

With the end of the Vive chapter, a new one started, appropriately named Storyville Live. I need a full time job like you wouldn't believe, and through divine workings, I landed a job with a coffee company called Storyville. This coffee company admires and respects International Justice Mission (IJM.org) and wanted to help them liberate the 27 million people who are currently slaves on our planet.

Enter mission. Enter my job. Enter live music and cups of coffee.

The new division is called Storyville Live, where I work as a concert producer (funnily enough). My job is to produce a series of private, at-home concerts that help spread awareness about human trafficking through our partnership with IJM. If you ask me what I do for a living, I can think of various ways to say what I do, "I drink more cups of coffee than any person really should", or "I cold call realtors all over the Continental United States", or it can be my favorite: "I free slaves."

No one, not even through my words, can know the degree of my outgoing personality through my written word. The truth is, I have no shame. Zero. I can talk to anyone, "break into" the well constructed walls surrounding a person's heart. Somehow I can always convey the same message, "I'm asking because I care. If I were you, I'd want someone to listen to me, too."

And now I talk for a living. With a pretty rad headset provided by the folks at Storyville. I love what I do. I love that a phone call can lead me to Urban Meyer (true story, had no idea who he was) or to members of Sister Hazel. Or to some sweet realtor in Vermont who just adopted a little girl from China who spent time in a brothel. She signed up to host a concert. Amazing.

Onward to my recent thoughts/moments about THE NOVEL. Incredibly, it is starting to frighten me. Is that not the most bizarre thing? As I near the end, and yes I mean just the first draft, the periods in which I'm not writing lengthen. When I get back to the screen, I freeze. Not unlike a deer would before a cement truck. I have to walk away and then come back, but only after I've given myself a pep talk. A rather long pep talk.

I have decided to try and find a writing workshop in my area. I have gone through many a workshop process, but since I've graduated I'm wanting some feedback for what I have written. I've managed to cut, rearrange, dress up and dress down some of my earlier chapters.

Looks like I have some research to do. Speaking of, researching medieval Spain has been fun. I could bore anyone at dinner parties now with my trivia.

Thanks for reading, whoever and wherever you are :)