summer goals

People can debate back and forth forever  on writer’s block and if it is real, or how to cure it. One group of writers insists that if writing is approached like a job, and one writes every day, even if what they produce is garbage, that that “Shitty first draft” is infinitely better than having produced nothing. At least a bad draft can be improved on and polished. But even polished and fossilized shit is still just shit at the core is the counter argument.

I’m not sure it matters when after months of not writing, I have nothing but a lot of Facebook posts, and if I could have pushed through and written three books in that time is no longer relevant. I didn’t.

What might matter is the future. A school year is ending and the greater freedom of summer beckons with possibility. This year my husband is retiring as a music teacher after 29 years, and transferring to a year round, General ed. teacher at a huge penitentiary. So no family summer vacation plans. If I do as I hope to, I will discover if I am capable still of the drive needed to finish a novel. Yes, I’ve done it four times before, but this one is its own beast. Im not sure yet that I can tame it into submission while spending time digging out twenty years of clutter from the unused rooms of my house to accommodate play space for grandkids, and also playing with those grand grandkids. 

I just hope that when August comes, and a new granddaughter along with it, that I have figured out the many aches and pains of my rheumatoid arthritis and found a happy medium where I can be productive as a writer, and involved as a grandmother. 

WISH ME LUCK

Author Presentations, Speaking Instead of Writing

As soon as I began following my dream of being a writer, I realized that it had many parts I loved, but also many parts that were scary, and unrewarding, and completely out of synch with my personality.
I am an introvert.  I hate talking on the phone, and being social in a big group may be fun for awhile but it doesn't energize me, it leaves me exhausted.  My favorite activities involve small groups of people, my family or a couple of close friends, and even then, I prefer to linger at the edges, listening and taking pictures and writing in my notebooks instead of diving in to the center of the board games or sledding or other pursuits my favorite people indulge in when together.

enjoying spring and the Rhododendron at home

And I don't just LOVE being alone, I need it more than sleep or food, so that on extremely hectic days I may be exhausted but I'll choose locking myself in the bathroom in a hot bath with only bubbles and a book over dropping in between the sheets.  On my own, I write letters and stories and poetry, I take pictures and play with editing them, I cuddle my cat or my sons dog while I watch NCIS or I put on my old Record albums from the 70's and sing along at the top of my voice while painting or drawing or even mopping the floor and doing laundry.

I traded a copy of my book for Clint Brill's Sci Fi thriller and loved it

But writing in a vacuum is not effective. Without interaction I would never sell a book, or share an idea, or even write convincingly abut how humans relate to each other.  So I have to do more than exchange facebook and twitter posts with other authors and read their books.  I have to get out and talk to the people I think might love my stories as much as I do but I am not comfortable with only marketing my books, I don't want to join all the other voices with nothing to say except, "Buy MY Book NOW.  It is a Must Read!!!!"

So I have begun reading and talking with classes and working on what I want to share with the young people of today.  I want to combat the constant negative news and violence that they are surrounded by, I want to let them know that constant connection to an electronic device is not a substitute for hugging and LOL doesn't hold a candle to really laughing out loud, rolling on the grass and giggling until your belly hurts with a best friend.

I want to tell them that my dream of writing didn't happen until I was willing to put time into it several times a week, and that it may never make a living and allow me to quit my day job, but it is still worth it, because it allows me to be the best me, I can be.  it allows me to have something to share with the world that might make a few other people smile for a moment, and realize that if I can be a writer, they can also ignore the people telling them their dreams are impossible, and realize that yes, you have to be able to support yourself with rent and groceries, but you also have to support your emotional needs with fun and with something that lets you be happy, even while dragging to work every day.

So I went to Pine Grove School, and presented as an author, to kids I know as a substitute teacher, and they were attentive and curious, and most of all they were willing to share that they were dreamers on the verge of being doers too.

And then I came home, visited my beautiful new granddaughter

Celebrated my 30th anniversary

Hugged the toddler who is like a granddaughter to me and looked at my broken down furniture and my ancient Dodge caravan, and laughed out loud.

because my life is full, and my dreams have come true mostly, though not always like I envisioned,

Then I got on facebook and found a post tagging me, from a teacher who had been at my presentation. She said an incredibly well-written article reminded her of the talk I had given.  I read her link, and only wish I had said it so well

part of that post is below


“Listen to your heart when you hold that basketball. Listen to your heart when you take that pencil in your hand and can’t stop writing. Think about what it feels like to sing at the top of your lungs. Think about what it feels like to do something you love to do. But don’t stop there. Share that incredible feeling with someone else. Because if we share OUR remarkable thing, someone else might notice his or her remarkable thing.

So maybe you don’t make it to The Voice. Maybe you don’t make the pros or land a book deal. That doesn’t mean you didn’t succeed. Maybe sharing your journey, your dream, or what excites your heart IS the achievement. Maybe inspiring someone else to see his or her life differently IS the success.”

As I walked out of the school holding my daughter's hand, I decided now, more than ever, we must speak of remarkable things … now, when undivided attention is a rare and priceless commodity … now, when we too often choose glowing screens over shining sunlight … now, when digital notifications take precedence over soul-to-soul connection. Now more than ever, we must speak of the remarkable things that make our heart sing … that fill our eyes with tears … that bring beauty, comfort, and joy to our ordinary, mundane lives. 

Why? 

Because you never know who might be listening … and using your dream to envision her own.

© Rachel Macy Stafford 2014

Friends of The Hands Free Revolution perhaps you have had a lifelong dream, a passion, or some activity that makes your heart sing. And maybe you’ve never told anyone about it fearing you could never be “successful.” Well, today I hope you will rethink that secrecy, as well as your definition of success. 

New Year's Resolved

 I don't have a lot of complicated resolutions this year, just a desire to prioritize my health and my family, an urge to make a wish, hope for it and then believe it might really come true. And of course to write more books (and sell more too!)

Last year my goals were those shown above and I'd have to say I did pretty well with them the first half of the year, then some family issues slowed me down and bogged me in a lot of worry and the whole balance and health kind of flew out the window.  But Time to get back on track.

Happy 2014

Rays of Sunshine

     February is a month that always seems to slow me down and wear me out and leave me back in the bog of depression which I usually manage to avoid most of the year.  The cold that seeps into my bones and never leaves has settled in quite deeply by February, meaning that is I have any free time, I use it sitting by the wood stove, under blankets, or in a bath tub of very hot water.

 Even when the sun is up, there is often an all day fog or cloud cover that keeps it from feeling like there is any light.

 And I tend to make very bad choices about what to eat.  I might as well have an IV line from the coffee pot to my brain, with a plate of sugar always at my side.  I hibernate and give in to depression and the little things like the normal ebb and flow of income versus bills suddenly feels overwhelming.

 So this year I have made it through January with a bit more energy and a few more smiles than a lot of years.  i have taken my camera outside and played with the different modes, and walked my son's dog and worked a lot for the school district.

 I have no written much, or at all really, the blog sits there taunting me with the fact that the daily readers are reading posts I put up years ago, but not finding anything new.

 I need to work on the book I started in November and on the research for the next Double Time novel, because they will never be as familiar to me again, as the Oregon trail one was.

 I think we have been living with "Dementor Weather."  It has been cold and foggy and sucks the warmth and hope right out of me, but then along comes a beam of sunlight and I find that there is still some promises left to raise my hopes and eyes to the future again.

I need the equivalent of an Elizabethan Collar to keep me from digging at those thoughts that keep me feeling listless and sad.  I need to remember that the hibernation urge is a real part of the annual cycle and will be forgotten again in the spring sunshine.  I need to remember that there is purpose and growth in the dark, sleepy days and a conserving of energy to allow us to keep going another year.

I have goals that I set at the beginning of the year, and I've made progress on them.  I've paid the bills for one month after another, somehow.  I've been surrounded by wonders and people who love me.  Life is Good actually pretty great, and sometimes you just have to focus on what you have before you miss it and it becomes what you had instead.

Here We Go NaNoWriMoing

 November is very quickly coming on, and with it, one of my favorite activities in the world, because after all, November is Novel Writing Month and NaNoWriMo has helped make my daydreams and doodles turn into books and a bit of spare cash.

My first "Proof" copy

 The first time I heard of the idea of writing a quick and dirty rough draft in a month. I thought pledging myself to writ 50,000 words in November sounded just like what I needed.  After all, I had been telling people i wanted to write, and taking writing classes for 30 years.  But I had only filled a few notebooks with poems and short stories and sent a few out but stopped when the rejection letters came.  Now I know, DUH!  Of course they come.  They are good things.  Only writers get rejection letters from editors, so while I was getting them, I was being a writer.

The "real book"

first painting

 So I wrote the 50,000 words and realized that it was a lot of work, but it wasn't close to a finished book, and it took me a year to write the next 38,000 words and more time to edit and doodle and make covers that looked like my main character could have drawn them.

painting for 2nd book

 But createspace had offered to make a free copy of a proof of the finished book if we finished NaNoWriMo, so I was motivated to do this just to have one copy of my book in my hand.  I finally hit "publish" at createspace and my book came here, and obviously needed edited a lot, and a new cover but I was hooked.  I made the corrections and did the work and soon had a box of books to sell to people at schools and fairs and links on Amazon and other bookstores.

Book 3 went in a time travel journey to the Oregon Trail

 And now, years later I still love the rush of writing without worrying about cleaning it up as I go, and the social support of 300,000 other dreaming writers around the world.  I don't always manage a book, and sometimes I do CampNaNoWriMo in the summer instead.  I have managed three books this way, and by going to schools and to writer's Conferences and using social Networking sites I have managed to have fun and sell enough copies, in paperback and kindle, that I can really say, "I am a writer" and no, you may not have heard of my books, but that's ok - some kids have and I have.

and in the end, there are a lot of books out there, but only I can tell my stories.  I think everyone has a story they should tell, one that is only theirs.  If you are ready.  Check out NaNoWriMo at http://www.nanowrimo.org

and my books at http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B004458ES2

Bogging Down in My Writing about Oregon Trail.

Trick or Treat Blog Adventure to be Posting  on Halloween with giveaway and links to Author Blogs

Logo Design by Tammie Gibbs

On August 3 I gave you the prologue to my Oregon Trail, work in progress, and on Sept. 12 I shared the first chapter.  I guess I am ready to revisit that trail again, and try to figure out why something that was flowing smoothly has become bogged down.

 I keep avoiding opening the document, finding that blogging, or facebook, or planning an entirely new novel have a lot more appeal at the moment.  I suspect that it was so easy to write at first, and I have the whole thing outlined and finished in my head, and somehow that has translated as "finished" in my motivation too.  Why was it easier to write two Duffy Barkley novels, when the actual writing was harder, than to force myself to finish Della and Kenyon's story?

I find myself re-reading what I have, with pleasure, but when I get to the final chapters, where all I have is a paragraph, planning where the chapter will go, I suddenly find that even sitting down to write out bills has more appeal.

Chapter 2  Kenyon (From 1990s) 

  “Dear Diary,

     Dad is trying to get me to smile like he can just trick me out of a “bad mood.”  Why can’t he see that this isn’t just a mood – it is my life ruined forever!  My Whole Life!  Just now he slowed way down and leaned forward like he was trying to crawl up on the dashboard and I yelled at him, “What are you doing?  Keep you eyes on the road!”  but he was staring up in the sky like he didn’t care if we ended up dead in a ditch.  I should want to end up dead but that convinced me.  I’m not ready to die yet. But I am ready to drive!

     “Girls – Look!  It’s a bald eagle!”  He looked back with this hopeful smile on his lips like some dumb bird could make me forget that my friends were getting farther behind us at every mile.

     Melissa started to twist around to see but I pulled her back down and snapped at Dad, “The only Eagles I care about are in Philadelphia – and that is only if Pittsburgh isn’t playing.  Stay on your side of the road!”

       He looked sad, and angry – I thought maybe I’d gone too far and held my breath but he shut-up and started driving again.  Doesn’t he get that my whole life can go by and I won’t forgive this?  There is no justice in the world when you’re 15.”

     Kenyon snapped her book closed and clipped the pen to the front cover.  Her mind drifted back to the late night Deli where her Grandfather had given her the desk.  They had just come from a Pirate Game and it had been a long standing habit to go to the small, corner deli after a game.

     Kenyon had felt bittersweet.  Happy that her beloved Pirates had won but anxious because she didn’t know if she would ever sit in their stadium beside her Grandpa again.  She bit into her sandwich.  Nothing had as much flavor as a hot pastrami, on rye, with mustard, onions, and sauerkraut.  Did they have sandwich shops in Oregon?  She swallowed the suddenly flavorless mouthful and blinked against the burning in her eyes.

     Grandpa reached out gently, and dabbed a bit of mustard from the corner of her lips with a rough, paper napkin.  “Penny for your thoughts?”  Kenyon shook her head abruptly and forced a small smile.

     Grandpa picked up his own hoagie and made exaggerated signs of enjoyment as he chewed, rubbing his tummy and smacking his lips, eyes rolling and tongue flicking out to lick his lips.  He snatched the dill pickle spear off her plate and dangled it between his thumb and pointer finger, “Ah, Heaven.  The Pirates win and I share Manna with the world’s most beautiful sport fan.”

    Kenyon laughed and found that she could eat again.  He patted her back approvingly and waited until the sandwich disappeared before pulling a large box out from behind his chair.  She had seen him take it from the car, of course, but wasn’t sure she could accept his gift without melting down into puddles of tears.

     She turned sideways on her chair and allowed him to place the package on her lap.  “What is it?”  Smiling right then might have been one of the bravest things she had ever done.

     “Just a little something I found at a garbage sale and thought it would be perfect for keeping you from forgetting your tired, old Grandfather.”

     Garbage sale was his only name for the garage sales he loved to frequent, more for the chance to snoop into peoples lives, and exchange gossip and chatter, than for any real interest in the items being offered.  Pittsburgh had a tradition of visiting with neighbors, family and passers-by on the swings and gliders on the wide front porches.  For Grandpa the yard sales were a happy extension of that tradition.

     At first, Kenyon hadn’t figured out how to open the seemingly, seamless box, but as she explored the stationary and exclaimed over the malachite pen, she found a cellphone with pre-paid minutes and she had been comforted by the evidence that her Grandfather intended to hold tight to the ties that bound them together as both family and friends.

     Now, she reached into the desk and extracted a sheet of writing paper and an envelope.  Instead of her diary, she needed to write a thank you note and up-date to let him know that she felt his love with her every time she set her hand on the silky smooth wood of the desk.  She glared out the window at the landscape, which was so not Pittsburgh.

     She set the tip of her pen to the paper as her Dad swerved to avoid a plastic bag filled with garbage in the center of his lane.  The van swerving made her draw an angry line across the clean paper.  In frustration she balled the paper up and flung it on the floor of the van.  She started to put her pen away, but drew a calming breath, sighed, looked out the window and took out another piece of paper.  Grandpa would still love to hear that she was using his gift.  Melissa looked up from her electronic game and smiled but didn’t try to make any demands for the moment.

 ____________________________________

I do realize that I am not being much more co-operative than my protagonist here.  Kenyon is stubborn but, in refusing to finish her story, so am I.  I told myself, I have to finish this first draft before I can start a new NaNoWriMo novel in November.  I hope to keep that promise.  At lest, I have opened the file and am rereading the words I wrote, and trying to hear the voices of the two girls as they travel the Oregon Trail, 150 years apart.  I just never realized when I first conceived of this book, that even the 1990s girl might be history when I finally put her in front of an audience.