Get a Life, Chloe Brown

Get a Life, Chloe Brown by Talia Hibbert is a romance novel that opened my eyes up in regards to writing in the characters viewpoint.

We all know about POV and perspective. At least I assume we do (if not, as with my last post, ask your question! Well get it answered! No fuss, no miss, no hate).

The male lead in the HEA is Red. Red has long, red hair, tattoos and relationship baggage. He also has an artistic talent that permeates his character. We know he’s an artist not just by the paint under his nails, but how he thinks of Chloe. He thinks of her in color and texture and warmth and light. It’s not just Chloe, either. Somehow Hibbert just slips us into an artists mind and it feels great.

But it also reminds us writers that there is more to writing in a charters perspective than just the nuts and bolts. We need to take the time to think through what a character’s passions will do to the way they think of the world. It’s both terrifying and liberating as a writer.

As one who isn’t that great as fleshing out details it’s scary. As one who loves a puzzle, it’s kind of intriguing and exciting.

Ta, my lovelies. I have a villainous hero who I need to flesh out.

It’s going to be so fun!

Quarter 1 Writing Goals

For 2023 I had some goals. Mostly related to writing. So far, I am failing at every single one of them.

1. Write and finish a novel

2. Submit short stories (these are already spot polished and ready to go)

3. Blog every other week

4. Read 150 books

Well, as you can tell from my blogging history this year (up till recently) I have failed on that one. I have written exactly 1 paragraph in the novel I started. This past week. As for books I’ve read… I am at 29 so far.

So I have a few options here. I can hang my head in shame and give up because I’ve already sucked at it and I’m going to keep sucking obviously. But that’s not ME talking, nor is it anyone I love. It’s that tiny, tinny voice in my ear that tells me I’m never going to do anything. I’m not a good writer I’m not pretty enough talented enough… I’m not enough of anything.

Or I could remember that I wrote my stories, published and otherwise, for me. That I enjoy writing them. That it helps me work through ish, even if I’m never a writer making money at writing. Art isn’t about money, or shouldn’t be.

And that might be my problem. Coupled with having been sick off and on (mostly on) since Thanksgiving, I haven’t been able to even think about actually writing. But lately, I’ve been thinking about my story. About where it needs to go and what the story actually is.

Because originally it was going to be a spicy romance. Because that sells. But it doesn’t sell a book to me. Even tho I’ve read romances since forever, I have never written one explicitly. Or am explicit scene. The closest I’ve come is a sweet romance. Although I have written at least one spicy scene, it’s not in a story that’s going anywhere right now.

And that’s ok. The last thing on my mind right now should be writing for cash. Although with prices going the way they are it’d be nice. It’d be helpful. But I need to get in a different mindset because apparently that one strangles me creatively.

So. I wrote a paragraph this week. And for me that’s a big deal. And that’s ok. I’m not in this right now for anything other than me. Of I find homes for my stories that’s wonderful. But I need to get back to writing for that first reader.

Me.

Happy New Year-ish

So i have made lots of goals for 2021. Not resolutions, just a nod to things I want to do differently. I started most of them in December, at the very end. I just couldn’t wait.

One thing I’m trying to do is submit my work, my writing more. I enjoy writing, and I have several stories that need homes. I wrote 4 or 5 last year and while not a huge amount– it is still an accomplishment I am proud of. I’ve sent 2 stories out, hopefully to find a home.

I’ve started journalling creatively for 10 minutes before going to bed. It helps with story generation, and also working things out. A fire kitten may be making an appearance in a story soon.

One of my dear friends, my sister from another mother, challenged me to a poem a day writing challenge for the year. I don’t consider myself a poet, but it doesnt say anything about GOOD poetry LOL.

I bought an undated planner and am using it to tey and work out a story I am working on. The story has a lot going on and will probably be longer than most of my writing. I tend to do short and sweet, this needs room to breathe.

So that’s what I’m getting into for 2021. How about you? Any wild crazy plans? Or slow and steady wins the race?

Widow’s Walk

(I wrote this in response to a class assignment. It is inspired by a picture by Rob Gonsalves and the journey of a dear friend. )

Widows walk. They walk along the balcony, pacing out the nights. One step after another, chained to a mast that never comes into view. No skips, no hops for the balcony is dangerous. Weeping into the ocean doesn’t count if you are alone.

Widows walk alone, friends and family woefully out of step. They bear the isolation alone, watching the clouds skittle across the night sky, longing, wistfully, for a glimpse of the one who left them behind. They walk, they pace, they shiver and moan. Even among the crows, they are alone.

Widows walk alone into… . They carve out a path made of stone yet soft as sand. Night becomes day becomes night and still they walk their lonely halls of grief. Typhoons, monsoons, tsunamis break over them. The trick, the widows say, is to let them break. Let them rain down on you, absorb the fury and power of nature into yourself because otherwise it will burn you alive. The clouds on the horizon are puffy and white… or are they a sail in the wind… or will they change as they start to come in. Widows walk alone into…

The unknown. Once you are half of a hole (it’s wrong but it fits and oh how that hurts!) how do you become whole while only half of you is there? Once, you were whole all on your own. You didn’t choose to walk this walk, you didn’t ask for this you didn’t want this–never this– game of life that tossed the rules out on you– why did the rook take the queen– you didn’t know you didn’t want you didn’t mean in when you said you only wanted a minute alone youdidntyoudidntyoudidntyoudidnt

But still. Here we are.

Somber as a post.

Knowing.

Widows
Walk
Alone

Copyright 2020 Wynelda Deaver

Typing with my eyes wide shut

Soon I may have mentioned that I’m taking writing classes. I started taking classes at Writers Village again mainly to get writing again. Which I Am! Score! I’m pushing myself, writing new things and coming up with writings.

In one of my current classes, the goal was to write a flash story without looking at the screen. If you have a monitor, you turn it off. On a laptop, you change the font to white. I have a laptop. White on white did not work for me.

I tried, oh how I tried. But those darn red squiggles were driving me batty! What’s a girl to DO? The story was going nowhere.

So I tried an old standby: turned on my iTunes and started writing with my eyes closed.

And it was marvelous.

I’m not sure what it is, the symbiotic relationship between the arts. Music, writing, dance, painting and so many others. It’s as if we all have the ability to help spark that next person… no matter what our preferred form of art is.

Till next time

The Princeling’s Dream

So my son, like many a 10 year old has multiple things he wants to do. One of them is being a video game designer. When I saw the library having a class about coding and making video games, well… He’s all signed up. I found someone to drop him off, and I’ll go meet him at the library.

He also wants, very desperately, to be a YouTube star. I don’t understand a lot of what he’s asking for technologically speaking, but I do understand desire. Creativity. Putting yourself out there.

Yes, he puts himself out there, talking about video games. Sometimes, the video is of us, or of a field trip to Mission San Jose. He regularly creates these videos, and they are important to him.

He’s my kid, and he’s pursuing his dream.

Mommy is following suit.

See, right here? This post? Written earlier, and scheduled. I know I’m going to be gone over then next week, but I also know that I want to be more regular on my posting. So.I am doing as the Princeling does, and working towards it.

If you feel like giving the boy a hand, you can go see his videos on YouTube, under Weare We

He’s being brave, and creative…. and I’m proud.

Shifting Sideways: When work becomes play

I may have mentioned my dirty little secret: I love stationary. I adore it. I like cards, specifically, that have no printing on the inside. I write in them in portrait mode, whether the picture is portrait or landscape. Don’t know why I write in them like that, I just do. At least I don’t just sit there and look at them in all their glory, spread across my bed.. At least not all the time.

I do write letters. Copious amounts of letters.

I had started playing with pictures and words when it came to my stories:

And then I had the post with Mel. The one with the visual poetry? Breaking Rythm can be found here if the link doesn’t work: https://wynwords.wordpress.com/2015/07/22/breaking-rhythm-tribe-tuesday/

And my brain has exploded within the past two weeks.

What if… What if…. I could combine two of my favorite things? AWESOME! Even if I only ever make the cards for me, this is something that I love love love!

Here’s the one I’m working on right now:

The title has changed, as has the font and color of the font. Still couldn’t get it quite right, so have sent it off to Leyla, my niece (who also sometimes admins my facebook page for me – Hi Leyla!). I’ve also done one for a friend, and will do another one for her.

This is play. This is fun.

This is joy.

And we should all have something in our lives that brings us joy.

What are you doing in  your writing life, or life in general, that brings you joy?

© 2015 Wynelda Ann Deaver All Rights Reserved

Shifting Sideways: Daydream Believer

Hello, my lovelies. This post took a surprising turn for me at the end. Let me know what you think.

As writers, we spend a lot of time in our own heads. Daydreaming, star gazing, muse courting in a thousand different ways. Some have rituals that have to be precisely followed in order to start writing. But even before we as writers, as artists, as creators, begin to start actively start our project…we are daydreaming our creations into existence.

But what happens when the daydreams stop? How do you get it back? Still writing letters, still sketching things out… until you aren’t. Until it’s you and blank paper and brain.

At first, I told myself I needed a rest. I’d been writing this and that, poems and micro essays, cranking them out, filling up the spiral notebook. And then I wasn’t.

A week. Then two.

Then I got bored with the talk radio I had started listening to. I’d been listening to it because it centered me, made it easier to get through the day at the real job. With all that was going on in my personal life, I needed it. My writing was all over the place, emotions rocking through me. I had to have something to get me through the day without loosing it.

But then I didn’t.

It wasn’t until I switched back to music, music that I love, that I realized the mistake I had made.

Often, while driving to work and rocking out, I get lost in a daydream. The music tickles a spot of creativity and I’ll go off on a tangent. Sometimes singing along, pretending it’s my song. Sometimes letting the story of the song move through me, morph, become a totally different story.

Bon Jovi is my favorite, but there are more coming up strong. Hoozier. Fun.  Ozzy Osbourne. P!ink. Sam Smith. If I start hitting the same daydream notes during a song, I’ll put it on repeat (all of the above are on my hated iphone) until I shake it loose.

And I’ve started shaking it loose again. Playing with the poetry in my last post, tuning it to say what I meant –even though the subject matter is heart breaking—filled my heart with joy. Joy, tenderness, grief, love and despair all rolled into three little poems and a blog post.

I don’t know where I’m going as a writer anymore. That daydream is loose. Even though I know what I want to do, I don’t know how to get there. I am off the map that I carefully drafted all those years ago while daydreaming my life as a writer. Since I didn’t get a bestseller and a mansion at the age of eighteen (without having written a novel), I was already off course.

So.

Hello,

My name is Wynelda Ann Deaver.

I am a poet who didn’t know it.

I like micro, macro, flash writing.

I am still finding out who I am as a writer, and trying to become.

I may be lost, but I can enjoy the journey all the same.

But I am always, always a believer in daydreams. You never know what stories they’ll whisper to you.

Have you taken a turn off your carefully planned route? Enjoying the new ride, or scared? Let me know how you’re doing!

©2015 Wynelda Ann Deaver, All Rights Reserved.

Shifting Sideways: 13 Nekkid Ladies

First off, mind out of the gutter. This is fine art, folks!

Nymphaum by William-Adolph Bouguereau

Shifting Sideways: 13 Nekkid Ladies

“One naked lady, two naked ladies, three naked ladies, more. Four Naked ladies, five naked ladies….” My son cooed in his sleep, snuggling into his stroller. Sunday afternoon, and it was time for The Haggin Museum, where we were sitting, and sleeping (respectively), in front of the Nymphaeum by William-Adolphoe Bouguereau. (For the record, there are 13 of them, along with a boy peeping at them and a satyr. Yes, I’ve seen this picture. A lot. If you follow the link, the boy and satyr are on the far right, but are not really visible. Hidden.)

Back then, the Haggin was my refuge. Me time away from my crazy life, moving from place to place. No worries about roommates, a crazy husband or what to do with my life. Instead, it was my infant son, me and the quiet of the museum.

Being surrounded by art allowed me to breathe again. My weird, shift to the side mentality started kicking back in. Some mothers count blocks, some sheep. We counted (almost) naked ladies.

I probably should not have been doing it out loud.

The Princeling and I came to the museum so often that the security guard knew us. At the time, the elevator was operated by Ray, the security guard. I ended up buying a year pass, because we were in there so often.

Now, not so much. Instead of cooing softly from his stroller, my boy has grown into a rambunctious nine year old boy. He’ll tolerate the large machinery, the jeep, the boat… But his heart was captured by the hall of swords. That’s what he calls it now. He thinks the life sized dioramas are creepy, the paintings are boring.

My meandering days are over.

I miss them.

Once again, my life is in turmoil. My mind is scattered, thoughts being tossed like litter in the wind. Art calms the windstorm, settles the thoughts. Whether it’s the Nymphaeum, a storm tossed sea, a piece of porcelain… it reminds me of the beauty in life. Even the potato farmer painting hanging in the same room as my nymphs. They are care worn, they are trying hard… but there is beauty in that struggle.

Walking through the halls, my heart start to slow. My breaths deepen. The soul relearns that it can fly.

##The End##

Breaking Rhythm: Tribe Tuesday

I thought I’d introduce you to one of the tribe members, Melanie Rogers. I’m only a little late…..

I love how she is able to mix photography/art and poetry, coming up with a visual poem with a huge impact.

Enjoy, my lovelies!

Just in case it doesn’t show up right, below is the text of the poem:

Breaking Rhythm

A teasing bit of iamb sets the style,

enticing in simplistic words. Your pure

and unadulterated page endures

no verbiage on the cotton.  To defile

such innocence with mediocre words is vile,

yet whispers come to sway the insecure.

Sophisticated confidence allures,

premeditated flattery beguiles…

You listen and obey…chaos ensues.

Attempts to tame the cadenced lines fall short,

until a valiant battle with your muse

allows you victoriously thwart

the silent struggle with an inky bruise:

Pentameter parameters abort.

Melanie J. Rogers