Patience Is A Virtue, Day #4-- Because It's Worth It, and Mad Libs Words Day

Sorry, I don't have a cute animal pic today :( Not even of my kittens!

Oh, wait, I might:



Here you go! This is my bunny, when she was but a mere 8 weeks old, at my office, with a box on her ears. Yeah, weird, I know. It was cute. So I took a picture. Then promptly removed the box. Sorry it's all fuzzy-- cell phone cameras not so good at capturing adorable memories. Bah.

Her name is HopScotch. Her predecessor, my dearly departed bunny, was named Barley Hops. I have a thing for pun names. At least when it comes to bunnies.

Well, now that I've scared all of you away, let me get back to my message for the day:

Have patience with your writing because it's worth it. It really is, no matter the outcome. You'll better yourself as a person just having tried, whether you make the bestseller list and become the Next Big Thing, or if everything you write stays a secret from the world, a little personal treasure box you can open any time but don't want to share. Learning to write, to craft words above and beyond college papers, is a noble aspiration, and one that will stay with you always. It is, like learning a musical instrument, or a new language, or eating hazelnuts (unless you're allergic), or figure-skating (unless you're me), something that will enrich your life for the rest of your days to come. So take a little pressure off yourself and write, no matter how the stars will align for you. Because you are strong enough to withstand critique and rejection. Because you love it. Because you want it. And because it's worth it.

Also, hey, look at that, it's Friday!! Why don't we celebrate with some Mad Libs?

To play along this week you'll need the following:

Adjective
Noun
Noun
Adjective
Noun
Noun
Verb
Year
Plural Noun
Plural Noun
Noun
Noun
Noun
Verb ending in -ing

It's noun-heavy, so make sure you catch them all.

Patience Is A Virtue, Day #3-- Because You Want It

THIS is a wallaby. Wallaby, wallaby, wallaby.

*Sigh*.

As a former zoo keeper, I am insane about most exotic animals. Going to visit a zoo is like pet shopping for me sometimes. That's particularly true about wallabies. And especially particularly true about this one. I just want to take it home and love it and cherish it and (maybe) name it George.

But alas, wallabies require, er, special facilities, and special care. I just don't have the capacity to have a wallaby right now, even though I really REALLY want one. Even more so every time I look at this picture WB and I took at the zoo a few months ago.

So what's a wallaby-wanting girl to do? Wait. Someday, I may have a wallaby. Or not. I can't really say for certain either way (mostly because the reality of keeping an animal like a wallaby far outweighs the fantasy) and so I choose to keep on doing what I'm doing, and hoping that someday I'll get the opportunity to find out if a wallaby is for me or not.

Again, what does this have to do with writing? Well, see, what we all want, what we all strive for-- it's a dream till it happens. This is not me being discouraging. I think each and every single one of us has the capacity to follow that dream, mostly because we all care enough to be here, learning and growing as writers (and artists). But while we work towards that dream, we have to have the patience to keep going with the things we do have in our lives, the tangible things we can grab onto and hold and snuggle till--

Ahem. Excuse me. There are two kittens asleep on my legs right now, their cuteness must be influencing me.

Anyway, my point today is: keep the dream. Keep it real, keep it with you, and when you look at its equivalent of a picture-- your manuscript, or similar-- let the warm fuzzies course through you, taking you away to that special place. But then come back to here, now, and have the patience to build towards the dream.

What tangibles will you hold onto until (and after) the dream comes true?

Patience Is A Virtue, Day #2-- Because You Love It

This is my Tally. I have one of those writer-things to do with her and patience week today-- you know, that thing where you compare two things that aren't alike?

Anyway, Tally tests my patience. I've had her for almost three years, and when I got her she was (prepare yourself for some jargon, here) pretty green (= untrained), spooky (=untrained), and barn sour (=untrained, and didn't like anything beyond the stall she had hardly been out of in five years). But I'd secretly been in love with her for that same five years, and when she came up for sale, I could hardly contain myself to buy her. In the year that followed, she grew before my eyes and patient hands into a calm, sweet, brave horse that I got quite a few compliments on.

Until we moved ranches. Moving Tally out of her only recently-expanded comfort zone was a death sentence to the progress we'd made. It's been over a year and a half, and I'm still struggling to get her back where she was. We just recently started riding again, and even now, last Saturday, I was all by myself out at the ranch with her, and had the bright idea to try and ride. No go. She wouldn't let me on. I've been struggling with this for months, and I feel, at times, like giving up because I don't know what else to do, and I don't feel like it's fair to either of us to be so frustrated.

But I keep trying, and I will keep trying, as long as it takes. With Tally, I have infinite long-term patience, even though my short-term fuse is tempted to blow almost weekly. Why? Because I love her. For those of you who aren't close to animals, or are indifferent, I hope this analogy still makes sense. Tally is like a child to me. You don't give up on your human kids, I'm not giving up on my four-hoofed one. (Besides, I use the term "ho" as my stopping command-- easier to say than "whoa." And it's a lot of fun to say, "Tally, ho!" A hahaha.)

Tally is also the last piece I have of Gypsy (the horse I lost at the beginning of September, for those of you who weren't here for that). She's Gypsy's foal (though not a foal anymore by a long shot-- she's almost nine). Every time I look at her I see a spark of her mother, even down to the little fits of attitude she throws. To me, Tally is worth it because she's family. I don't have any big plans of winning national championships with her, just spending time with her when I can, and keeping us both fit, healthy, and entertained. I'm content just being with her, and riding is the icing on the cake. I have all the time in the world to get her back to where she was, but I'm not going to give either of us a coronary pushing us to get there.

What does this have to do with writing? Well, it has everything to do with writing. If you love it, don't give it up, whether the manuscript will let you on for the ride or not. Keep going, keep spending time with it, even when it feels impossible to continue-- because if it really means enough to you, it's worth it, whether you're taking home ribbons or just spending your nights grooming your words, bonding with your characters and feeding your mind. (Did I just go too far? I may have. Sorry.)

I know this is probably a silly question to ask all of you, but it begs a response, even if you don't share:

Do you have long-term patience with your writing?

Patience Is A Virtue, Day #1

But it's certainly a stinky one.

I know some (okay, okay, a lot of) people have written about this before, but I wanted to touch on and then expand what's already been said. For the next four days, I'll be blogging patience.

This may come as a shock to you, but you need patience if you want to be a writer.

*Gasp*, you say. No, it can't be so!

But it is, my friend, it is. I think we're all aware that publishing is a turtle business in today's very-much-bionic-rabbit world (because even real bunnies, as cute as they are, aren't faster than my internet). So I won't go into that again. You need time, and patience, to pursue publication.

Today's topic is: the patience to deal with critiques. This is important because if you are pursuing publication, whether you like it or not, people are going to critique your work. Even if you never show it to anyone but prospective agents (a very bad idea), they will critique your work, too. A rejection is a critique. This is probably the hardest part for me, to be honest. But it's not even that hard, it's just something that varies day to day depending on my mood. I tend to go a little Misunderstood Artist and be all angsty when I get a critique that misses something completely, something I've been careful to include. But this is rare, and it serves a valuable lesson-- obviously, if I thought it was, er, well, obvious, but that person missed it, perhaps it wasn't obvious enough. So even though my reaction might be to set flames to my MS at first, once I step back and let my patience take over, I generally realize something very valuable came out of the encounter. It's valuable whether I use it or not, in fact, because when I'm writing what I'm working on next, I will keep those tiny (or huge) flaws of mine in mind.

Critique is invaluable to your success as a writer, both how you deal with it and how you use it. But you have to open your eyes to it and LET it help you, otherwise it's useless. My first instinct is debate. Those of you who have been in class with me know this. I am able to see most points, but if I don't, I want to argue, and have to restrain myself from defending my work and let the person say what they are going to say. I am working on this patience in myself. I want to be the best writer that I can, so I drink in every critique, every counter-point that comes my way. I may not like the way it tastes, but boy is it good for my health.

This may be easy or difficult to answer, but how do critiques of your work help (or hinder) you?

THE TYPEWRITER-- PART III

Find Part I here and Part II here.

A bright light and instantaneous crash like the sound of two semis colliding jerks me out of my nightmares. I sit up, gasping. It had seemed so real.

The only light in the room comes from my alarm clock and the still-burning candle. The alarm clock reads 12:47, and the candle is burned about halfway down.

The rumbling thunder and flashing lightning hasn't died down. The wind beats the rain against the sides and windows of my house, and I peer at the backyard, looking for the familiar shadow of my tree to anchor me in the real world during the flashes.

I blink. One instant, the tree is there, and the next, it's not. I rub my eyes. Another lightning flash, and the tree is back.

I throw the covers off me and search for my slippers with my feet. I can't get back to sleep, not when what awaits me is worse than the storm outside. I keep seeing her eyes, iron gray, and her finger, pointing up at me.

"You didn't like that lady anyway," I mutter to myself as I pick up the candle and plod back down the hallway.

My tea is cold, so I heat up a new mug, setting the candle down on the table. I want to be bathed by light, but a quick flick of the switch on the wall tells me the power's gone out in the short time it's taken me to walk down the hallway.

"Great." I throw my spoon into the sink. It clatters off the side and tumbles bowl-first into the jaws of the garbage disposal. I make a mental note to retrieve it before I go back to bed.

I sit back down at the typewriter, my eyes scanning what I've already written. Not bad. I wonder more about what the gypsy lady said, and my anger starts to rise again. There's a story in my head that's starting to form. Forget what she said.

Another thought worms its way in. Am I being the stupid main character in some horror story? Nah, I can't imagine anyone reading about this. My life is so dull, after all. The carnival earlier is probably the most exciting thing that's ever happened to me.

I shake my head and press my fingers to the keys. The story forces its way out.

"The girl was running. In her sleep, she ran, but then she fell, and awoke into a real nightmare. The creature, the creature she had dreamt up, had come for her. It was leaning over her, twisted above her. It reached down with a gnarled branch and gently wiped a tear off her face. Could it be? A compassionate monster?

"But her relief was short-lived. The creature lifted the single tear up into the beams of the moonlight and studied it. She could swear a smile twisted into the bark of its trunk. But there was no mercy there. Only—satisfaction. Satisfaction for what, she wasn't sure, and would never find out.

"In a gesture she found both strange and poetic, the creature wiped the tear off onto a nearby blade of grass, leaving it to sparkle like a jewel beside her. Then it turned its attention back to her, and that was when the horror began.

"The creature reached for her, its long arms scratching across her face. A maw opened in its trunk; a black hole that looked to swallow her. No teeth, but her body wouldn't fit in there whole.

"Her question was answered as the creature picked her up and held her aloft, head and arms in one branch-hand, feet and legs in the other. It was going to rip into pieces, tear limb from limb. If only she'd watered it more—"

Another loud crack jolts me up from the typewriter. This time, I'm sure the tree isn't in the backyard. The wind is howling and the rain is pounding, but I wrap the blanket around my shoulders and get up.

I open the back door, peering out into the storm. There's a giant muddy hole where my tree used to be. I step out, still holding on to the door frame. It can't be, how can a tree—

Something hard seizes me by the waist. The blanket falls away from me as I'm yanked off my back porch and around the corner of the house, then dumped unceremoniously onto the lawn there.

I peer up at the monster above me. It's my tree, but it's . . . sinister, not familiar. It's twisted and wicked, the very epitome of an evil tree. The very nightmare I had just finished writing onto the page. Its roots hold it up like legs, its branches twisted together into arms, just like I imagined.

I feel a tear well up in my eyes as the horror thrums through me. It should mix with the rain and melt away, but it stays there as a branchy hand reaches down and grabs it, studying it and wiping it off onto a blade of grass.

I'm frozen, unable to move, to save myself. Not that I feel like I could outrun the branches of the tree. I just can't believe it's real. The gypsy lady was right.

Oh no. I wrote her death, I—

I look up at the tree. The maw in its trunk is hanging open now, the branches waving as if in a hurricane. I see something glittering in its mouth—a beaded gold necklace.

Something's wrong, though. Instead of picking me up, the tree straightens, and reaches for itself. My mouth drops open as instead of ripping me apart, it starts to rip off its own branches. Its own limbs.

It's moving faster and faster now. Branches and twigs are dropping around me like they fly from a wood chipper. I scuttle backwards, slipping on the wet grass, but making it far enough away that I can watch the rest. It doesn't take long before there's nothing left but two scraggly branches that reach down to rip the roots off and then peel the bark off the trunk. At last, the right limb and the left limb cross to each other and pull each other off at the same time, and the left over mangled trunk falls to the grass, narrowly missing me.

I hear a moaning from inside the trunk of the tree, and a few seconds later, out crawls the gypsy lady, clutching her head.

I sit up and rush over to her. "Are you alright?"

I help her to her feet, waiting for her answer, but she glowers at me and then she slaps me, her hand connecting with a smack and then sliding off my slick wet face. She stalks off towards the front of my house, muttering under her breath. I only catch, "Stupid girl," before she's gone.

What the heck happened? I meander inside, my brain unable to focus until I close the door behind me. Out of habit, I hit the light switch and am relieved when the warm bath of electric light floods over me.

The typewriter. I rush to the typewriter and pull out the page, scanning the section I had written that had just played out in the backyard.


A typo? Seriously?

Happy Halloween, Alliterati! AHAHAHAHAhahahahahahahaha!

*ahem* Mad Libs words coming later today in a separate post.

THE TYPEWRITER-- Part II

Read Part I here.

At home that evening, I'm sufficiently creeped out. There's only one way to write horror, and today is providing it by the boatload. The storm is back, rain pinging against the gutters of my house in the dark night outside. The heebie-jeebies from the gypsy lady are staying strong, and I sit down to my antique typewriter to pound out the first page. I have a hot cup of tea next to me on the table and a blanket wrapped around my legs. A single candle lights my work area, the flame letting off the smell of candied apples, according to the label. What? It was the only candle I could find.

I set the first piece of paper into the typewriter. Forget newfangled word processors; to me there's just something about the typewriter that seems so necessary to the story I have swimming around in my head.

Not that I've always felt this way. The typewriter's a new addition, just picked it up yesterday. Before then, I had a sleek little laptop that I used to put down the words that spew out of my brain. But I got the idea to write an old-fashioned horror story on an old-fashioned typewriter, and so here I am.

Of course, if I was really old fashioned, I would have gotten a quill and an ink pot, but my hands started cramping at the thought of writing a book that way, so I decided to let some technology in. Mary Shelley, watch your back, 'cause here I come.

I do have a tiny notepad next to the typewriter, filled with scribbles from various random inspirations over the past couple weeks. I flip to the first page, and squint, holding the book a few inches and then a few feet from my eyes.

"Tarp soggy muffin. . . what the heck?"

I flip to the next page. "Mookie teddy bear anvils?"

I throw the notebook across the room, watching it flap like a broken bird against the wall and then fall to the floor. It looks like I'm starting from scratch. Oh well, I can do this.

Ten minutes later, I'm still tapping the edge of my tea cup with my fingernails. The paper stares back at me, clean and white.

A crash of thunder startles me out of my trance, shocking me back into my chair. I didn't see the flash, but it's loud, so it must have struck close. I shiver, and pull the blanket closer around me. My mind is racing, my heart pounding.

My thoughts are back on the old gypsy lady. For some reason, I'm angry with her—angry that I can't think because her warning keeps shoving its way through my thoughts. And then, just like that, the light flicks on in my head. I reach for the keys, and the words start spinning out of my fingers, tapping onto the paper. If every word I write will come true, I'll just write something that can't possibly happen.

"The gypsy lady fell, her body dragged backwards by the creature behind her. It snarled, great shining teeth glinting into the moonlight. Before it crushed her, she could swear she heard the crash and splinter of the crystal ball onto the floor of the tent. The foolish girl hadn't listened—"

A white-hot flash of lightning jolts into the sky beyond my curtains. For an instant, I see the skeleton of the tree in my backyard poised like a scarecrow grabbing at the ground with long, spiny fingers. It whips back and forth in the wind, and then is gone, the imprint of it left behind in my vision.

It's like a reverse-polarity image when I look back at the paper, the tree clawing at the words I've just finished writing.

Oooh—that would be good. I rewind the paper and strikeout a few words.

"The gypsy lady fell, her body dragged backwards by the creature behind her. It snarled, great shining teeth glinting twisted boughs clawing into the moonlight. Before it crushed her, she could swear she heard the crash and splinter of the crystal ball onto the floor of the tent. The foolish girl hadn't listened—"

Better.

I tap out a few more words, and then realize I'm wiped out. It's time for bed. I unwrap myself from the blanket and grab the candle to light my way towards my bedroom. I fall into the soft pillows and let myself sink into sleep to the flickering flame.

Sleep isn't peaceful. My dreams are filled with screams and pointed, arthritis-twisted fingers accusing me of their demise. The fingers aren't attached to anything.

THE TYPEWRITER-- Part I

In honor of Halloween, I thought I'd share a little story with you, my dear Alliterati. I'll be posting it in parts over the next three days. Stay tuned to find out what happens... BWA HAHAHAHAHAHAHAhahahahahahahaha!

*PS- for those faint of heart, stay ye course, mateys!

"I've seen this movie before," I say, to the scraggly old gypsy woman. Huh. Never thought I'd actually come across one. Who knew traveling carnivals were so . . . cliché?

I just came here to do some research for the new novel I'm writing—a horror story. What better place for horror than a traveling carnival? Still, knowing it's research doesn't help the creepy feeling trapezing down my spine as the lady glares at me, her eyes filled with conviction, one hand on her hip, the other lowering a withered finger in my direction.

"What I portend isn't a movie, dear girl." She hobbles up to me, and I try to back away, but I'm trapped by her iron gaze. "Come with me, there's something you must know."

Her hand is around my wrist before I can move it, and she's tugging me towards a shabby tent away and behind the carnival's midway.

"Wasn't this an episode of the Simpsons?" I ask no one. She's certainly not listening. But I'm positive all that's missing are visions of a grown-up Lisa in a wedding gown.

We're at the tent now, the sounds of merriment and screams from the rides fading behind us. A wind is starting to blow up, and I roll my eyes as the gypsy lady pulls back the tent flap and gestures me in.

"Seriously? A thunderstorm and a crystal ball?" So far, this isn't the kind of research I had hoped to do. I swear my story will be more original.

She stomps me over by a teetering stool next to the table holding the crystal ball, and lets go of my wrist after I sit down. She sinks into the opulent, purple-velvet chair across from me and leans forward, piercing me with her eyes over the ball.

"What is your deal?" I say, rubbing my wrist.

Her eyes turn from cold steel into lightning and fire. "My deal, girl, is a warning." She pauses, leaning even further forward until the beaded gold around her neck is clinking into the crystal ball. I drop my gaze from hers, my stare falling into the ball as if I'm expecting to see something there.

I'm almost disappointed that there's nothing, not even a mysterious swirling fog.

Her voice is lower and deeper. "You must not finish that which you seek to begin."

Cripes. Not this fortune-cookie vague prediction crap. Where am I, a King novel?

"Could you be more specific? You know, if you tell me exactly what you're talking about, there's an even better chance I won't be stupid and activate whatever curse it is you're warning me off of. This cryptic stuff doesn't help either of us."

She sits back in the chair. I can almost hear her back vertebrae and hips squeaking with the motion. Her fingertips touch before her.

"The spirits do not allow me to tell you of what I speak. You must decipher it yourself, before it's too late!"

I wait. No sudden bank of fog, no evil cackle fading out. She's just looking at me.

"That's it? Don't start what I seek to begin? That's all I get?" I stand up, the stool fainting in fright behind me. "No wonder you people have such a bad rap. Curses this, don't do that."
I pull my jacket tighter around me and stomp for the tent flap. "Thanks for creeping me out for no reason."

I stop at the flap and turn, surprised that she's still just sitting there, staring at the empty space over the ball. "Actually, thank you for real. I can channel this into my book."

I intend that to be a goodbye, and storm back outside, where the wind is whipping through the sparse trees on the little hill back towards the carnival. But a voice echoes down the hill after me.

"You must not write that book! If you cherish your life, and the life of those you love, you will stay your hand! Every word you write will come true!"

I flap my hand behind me, and the voice fades away on the wind as the carnival starts to envelop me again. Odd; as I walk back into the midway where the gypsy lady had caught me, the storm appears to die down and the sterile sun of late autumn is beaming down again. I turn around, half-expecting the shabby tent to be gone, but there it is. The gypsy lady is out front, bent down by the fabric wall near the door, plucking at weeds.

I've had enough, and I'm feeling plenty inspired. It's time to go home and get to work.