Two shadows

After I took this shot of an egret, I noticed it was casting two shadows. What does that mean?

My best guess, since the sun is the light source, is that one of these shadows is reflected light. But it's also fun to think one is a ghost or the spirit of the bird aside from its body. Which is the real bird?

As a writer I like to think what that could mean in creating characters. The most complex characters have layers, which might reflect differently, be perceived in alternate ways by other characters and the reader.

I just read an interview, which tied in to this in a way.

From Shelf Awareness interview with Herman Koch, the Dutch author of THE DINNER, a tale told by an unreliable narrator.

"Instead of a character who reveals himself in the course of a narrative, I was thinking of Paul as a man who has something to hide. In the beginning we think that he is just protecting his privacy, and the privacy of his family, but in the end we find out that he has been hiding his "real self" from the reader--like most of us do, I think."

That's pretty interesting to consider when crafting a novel. Do we all have shadow selves? What do you think?

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P.S. I've got a guest post Monday, Nov. 19, from author Laurel Garver about using poetry techniques in fiction writing. Please drop in!

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Another P.S. This is amazing! Agent Sara Megibow is offering a 50-page critique just for commenting on Natalie Bahm's blog (random winner to be picked). The offer is meant to promote sales of THE SECRET UNDERGROUND, an MG novel whose proceeds benefit the family of a sick little boy. It is such a worthy cause and such an opportunity. Please check it out.

a little contemplation, no more

wind rivers flow,

ripples in shifting sand--

no other trace

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day melts to evening,

the ocean leaves behind some

roots upon the shore

Jellies in the sky and frenzies of a personal sort

Clean.

Scrubbed.

Renewed.

That's how fall/winter skies often are in California. Following winds and rain, the yucky smog and dust vanish. Pure blues, whites, golds splatter like paint on canvas.

I was captivated by the cloud patterns the other day and stopped on my walk to crane my neck and gaze for long minutes. Sometimes I wish I could be sucked into the sky to drift.

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sky-jellyfish drift

on tropospheric winds

I can not feel.

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The need to scrub my abode struck next. I have been on a frenzy for the whole weekend! Even scrubbing floors and vacuuming books!!!

Do you know Hyperbole and a Half? I can't clean now without conjuring the image of Allie's hilarious This is Why I'll Never Be An Adult/clean-all-the-things post here.

She's so creative and funny that she has more than 39,000 followers and gets beaucoup write-ups online. There's even a store on her site to buy her illustrations on shirts, aprons, mugs. And, no, I don't know her or have any connection to her sale stuff. I just think it's awesome.

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So as I was struck with the cleaning frenzy, I realized a few things about writing. My writing to be precise. I have been stuck, in the dumps, churning my wheels uselessly in deep mud. I've felt covered with a layer of dust--very unshiny lately.

When I sorted through the whys, I came up with a new one. I'm driven, pressured by notions that I'm too late. There's at least one solid reason for that--a few months ago I learned that a story similar to mine was already being published. That took the wind from my WIP sails and put the driven-demon on my shoulder trying to keep the boat afloat. You must find another angle. You must get it out there fast before its time is past. But that's a problem in itself, I now realize. Being driven by any fear is not a healthy way to write.

If I want readers to feel joy and wonder, I have to feel it myself. I don't have any solutions to my situation that I know are fool-proof (oh, I'm capable of being the fool) but I have some ideas. I think I need to put aside the novel in question and work on other things. Like cleaning all the things that surround me and dusting off other stories I've let languish.

I'm hopeful at the moment that I'll sort this out, and hope is all anyone needs, really.

What the tide revealed

Tides come. Tides go. In and out. Ebb and flow. On some beaches, low tide means easier walking on flat sand. On others, rocky pools are revealed. And there is the wonder.

I found these starfish--three different colors together--on the far-end of a jetty I've never seen out of water.

I didn't even care that a little girl, as excited as I was, splashed me thoroughly as she raced by. All I cared about was the revelation at my feet and that the camera phone was dry and working.

I've been taking walks along Venice Beach for decades and never seen the tide pull back like it did this last weekend. A huge swath of the pier was out of water, the damp sand displaying patterns while sanderlings scurried back-and-forth, searching for food revealed by the receding water.

I felt like I was peeking behind the Wizard's curtain, glimpsing the secrets of the intertidal zone, spying on its shy inhabitants.

All these years of digging my toes in wet sand, swimming in surf and climbing out on the jetty rocks, and I'd never seen these creatures here although this is where they've always lived.

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Fat starfish cling to barnacle-covered jetty rocks.
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Another gets a ghostly dusting when a rough wave stirred up the sandy bottom.

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Carpets of anemones wave their tiny arms just below the shallow water. Those uncovered by the tide, close up like tight fists and wait for water to return.

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Goose barnacles--don't they deserve that name?

The pier pilings were encrusted with shelled creatures and starfish.

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I found a world of wonder in a place I thought I knew.

Perhaps that would be a good writing or photography exercise--to roam a place we consider mundane because we've seen it so much and look closely for what we may be missing. Turn over a few rocks and see what's there.

I've thought about this when traveling to other countries. What is ordinary to the inhabitants, whether it's their architecture, landscape or animals, is exotic to me and, thus more vibrant, more exciting.

But, really, it is every inch of our planet that holds wonder.

Tangled up

I'm all tangled up. I confess to some serious doubt going on. I've been trying to take those steps forward on my novel that I tell others to take, but my knees got kicked out from under me again.

Hence this tree of scary limbs. Does it not look like it will swirl the unwary up and away?

As some of you know, I was dealt a set-back when another book was released this fall that had some similar story elements to the novel I've been working on all year. So I set to work changing my book to eliminate the common traits and focus on the those that were different. Because there are major differences. But then I read that the other author is working on a sequel and I thought, 'What if that one ventures into territory I'm in now?'

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Maybe it's time to crawl in a hole and hibernate. This tree looks like a place to hide and pout.

You see where I'm going with this? Woe is me. Waaaaaa!

I don't like that. I will try to take my own advice and keep working on my rewrite.

Or perhaps, I need to take the Storyqueen's advice, as well. She advocates spending time with another manuscript, which I've neglected. It's a fun one and would give me giggles and joy if I let it.

One of my crit partners sent me a note from yet a different character I'd stuck on a shelf. "Time to dust me off. I'm ready!' it said.

Hello? Are you still speaking to me, my darlings, my dears, my other loves?

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Then again, I could always try a steampunk for new horizons. Is not this tree wearing steampunky goggles?

Hope you're all less tangled up. Send me a message in a bottle. You can parachute if from an Aerocycle. I'm just sitting here seeing faces in trees.

P.S. Don't call the paramedics. It's not that bad.

P.S.S. I stepped out on my balcony to find a dawn sky of robin's egg blue with golden jet streams and wispy clouds of pink and pure white. Geese winged silently above. And I thought, thank you for the reminder that birds can fly high and clouds can be golden.

That path we're on

I can't decide if I feel like this skateboarder, rolling down a mountain trail, flying on land and not caring what rules he breaks as long as he's finding a new hill to conquer.

Or if I'm the old man who had to stop to catch his breath part-way uphill, willing himself to do this thing even if his body threatens mutiny.

I feel as though I swing between exhilaration and exhaustion on this journey to publishing a novel. (Well, if I get past the writing and revising to the publishing part.)

And, yet...even when I question, even when I'm tired or down, I go on. The mountain is there, and I'm lured to find its summit. I don't know if that's insanity, destiny or true grit, but I gotta do it. Sometimes, it's a helluva fun ride.

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But sometimes, too, I just feel driven, and that's not healthy. I'm searching for balance.

I think I need more of this--gazing up at the sky, spotting the sliver of moon, watching clouds drift.

Like when I was a kid and I seemed to have all the time in the world to soak up the wonder and enchantment and possibility. It reminds me of the words I posted last from Susan Straight: Just be in it.

What about you?

I've been searching

Been reflecting a lot lately, and these three photos kind of illustrate what's going on in an abstract way. Each was taken at the south end of a lake I frequent, but they have differing imagery.



I'm searching for something like that in writing but also in an abstract way. Some of you may know that I was shaken up to discover that another book is out with some similarities to the novel I've been writing all year. I don't want to toss my story, because its core is much different than this other book, but I need to change some things, I need to see beyond the literal to the abstract.



In my last post, I mentioned putting our characters up a tree, making them deal with the unfamiliar, the unexpected. Now, I spend time looking for ways to keep my story from the predictable, the already been there.

I hope I find it.

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By the way, I just finished two must-read books that are completely different one from the other. The uni smiled upon me when I won an ARC of Beth Revis' ACROSS THE UNIVERSE. For those of you who've read the first chapter online, all I can say is the rest of the story is just as riveting, just as breathtaking. Anyone who loves sci-fi, dystopian and mystery should pre-order it now. In fact, everyone should. The other book was E. Lockhart's THE DISREPUTABLE HISTORY OF FRANKIE LANDAU-BANKS. What a fun, smart book. Check it out.

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And if I haven't visited your blog lately, please forgive me. I've been gone on family stuff and fulfilling some obligations. I hope to make the rounds soon. Happy October! I love this month.

Not just any day

Sunrise.

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Sunset.

The passing storm

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Sometimes Southern California gets dramatic, and my favorite times of day are those moments when the sun is rising or setting. There wasn't a lot of rain with this system but there sure was a show.

Tomorrow, my daughter and I are going to see a different spectacular show--All That Skate with Olympic ice skaters including Yuna Kim, Michelle Kwan, Stephane Lambiel, Johnny Weir and Shen Xue and Zhao Hongbo. Excited much? Oh, yeah.

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And, oh my, I notice that almost 300 people pressed the little follow button on this blog. I never dreamed so many wonderful people would drop by. I'm going to have to throw a party. With prizes, of course, when I get there. Thank you all!

Seeing things

serpent of the lake

and sirens' call of secrets

lurking in the deep

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Can't help it. I see dread things.

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They aren't real. Or are they?

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Mwa-ha-ha. What have you seen lately?

Reflect and reflect some more

Went walking. Found this palm island with its doppelganger (but not the evil kind). This one seems wondrous, magical--another world afloat with possibilities. Or, perhaps, something lurks in the depths?

The lake was still. The light was right. The reflection perfect.

This post is mostly reflection, too. As I'm trying to finish my novel, Sea Daughters, I've been inspired reading other books and I've posted about several good reads lately. Most recently, I consumed John Green's Looking for Alaska. The echoes of that story haunt me. and remind me how important theme is. It's one thing to spin a great yarn, it's another to have its emotional resonance reverberate long after the last page. Read it. This is a teen book that explores what it means to be human.

And, so, I go back to noodling where I want my story to end, what reflection I want to leave shimmering behind, what last note may linger.

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On my walks, I stumbled upon two fallen feathers. I don't know who lost them but I loved finding them. I'm sharing two haiku that I wrote about some not-so-frequent hawk behavior I witnessed.

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red-tail hawk skimming
a sea of waving grass--
inland pelican

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red-tail hawk floating,
suspended in mid-air with
no flick of feather

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I hope you're also finding time for reflection. And don't forget that the most awesome free kidlit conference WriteOnCon takes place in just days. See you there!

Dog days? Nah, turtle days

It's so hot you could fry an egg on my head. Eew, gross enough?





Anyway, I struggle on days like this (several in a row of about 105 F). It exhausts me but I can't sleep. I try to write, really I do.





I remembered that on a not-quite-so-hot day I shot these photos of turtles and fish at a pond in a botanic garden.





Wouldn't it be cool to laze and float in the water, dappled with sunlight and reflections of trees?

Yeah. Floating with no particular place to go.

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I may be a bit sporadic in posting this next month. Maybe I'll find somewhere to float, but most likely I'll be finishing the WIP. I see that end in sight, and I'm paddling toward it.

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A big thank you to the Rainy Day Wanderer who gifted me with the Versatile Blogger and One Lovely Blog awards. Since I've received them before, I won't put the badges up again. But check out Wanderer's blog. She's worth visiting.

Couple of contests not to be missed: Janice Hardy writes one of the best advice blogs for writers and is running a contest for ARCs of BLUE FIRE. Besides her own trilogy, The Healing Wars which began with THE SHIFTER, she's nudging readers to check out the anthology EIGHT AGAINST REALITY released by Panverse Publishing, a small press with unusual funding through KickStarter.

Wen Baragrey is taunting me with pineapple lumps again! These New Zealand yummies are part of her giveaway that also includes enticing books. Enter contest before Monday.

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Stay cool. I'll see you when I do.

Part II: How I got waylaid

I had plans and then...my path was crossed by this.

Stopped in my tracks? You betcha.

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I had considered doing a flash fiction of the monkey-puzzle tree for Part II of my offerings to the Festival of the Trees. I've written most of a story and thought I might let you guys write the final graph.

But when nature bedecks your path with buckets of red and lavender blossoms you gotta go with the flow, be in the moment. Right?

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So here is what I offer. The surprise and wonder of trees. I was in a botanic garden's Australian section. I recognized the jacaranda tree but not the other, which took my breath away.

I searched through the leaves and fallen flowers at the base of the tree but no handy identifying sign was there. I've decided this must be a flame tree. What better name could there be?

Whether you are looking up... or down.

Happy tree fest, everyone.

You can see Part I, which has haiku and flash fic or the monkey-puzzle tree, if you please.

And, oh! The huge dry leaf in Part I turns out to be from the Chinese parasol tree. Is that a cool name or what?

Going crazy for the Festival of the Trees

I confess. I'm a wanton lover of trees. So when Yvonne Osborne asked for participants for the Festival of the Trees I waved my hand madly, but I realized I could never pick a favorite tree. I find something wondrous and fascinating about them all.

I sifted through my pictures of trees--ones that made me stop to capture their images, and I share these with no mention of favorites. I'm tossing in a few haiku and a flash fiction, too.

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The desert palo verde does an amazing transformation. While its name springs from the unreal green shade of its bark, the annual profusion of sunny blossoms turn its normally stark, stick-like appearance into a fairy bower. I mean, really. Can't you see the fairies?

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Walking in a botanic garden, I picked up a sap-green leaf that was wider than my head. Since the tree, whose name I no longer recall, had released the leaf, I took it home.

It lived with me for years, curling so slightly inward from its edges, turning a rich golden brown. It reminds me of the work leaves do to convert sunlight into nourishment and carry it to the tree.

And in that process, they release oxygen to our world. Leaves carry life itself.

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a weathered oak

by the dead stream, standing firm

through the dry season

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Trees also provide homes to countless creatures--birds, rodents and mammals.

But I was stopped in my tracks on a foggy walk through a park by this gigantic spiderweb.

While it can freak you out to suddenly be whacked in the face with a web, there is no denying the awesome design, industriousness and fragile strength of this creation.

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lichen-bright trunks

light the way through damp woods,

the path is swallowed

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Some people love palms and some hate them. I'm not sure why that is. They can be stately like these queen palms or give sustenance like date palms.

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in whipping wind

a palm frond squawk-squawks,

new kind of crow

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And now for a flash fiction in honor of the festival. The story grew out of my fascination with Montezuma cypress trees, which can live thousands of years. One in Oaxaca, Mexico is almost 38 feet in diameter. And there are creation myths surrounding the trees, but this story is purely my imagination.

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Bored with listening to sap flow, Zapo exclaimed, "Is this all there is? Standing still for centuries? Nothing more?"

Zapo was young as Montezuma cypress go, but he'd still lost count of how many fishermen he'd watched cast lines in this lake or how many children tossed crumbs at ducks. His roots had long ago stretched so far around his base they looked like a nest of pythons. His crown was haven to weighty herons and bratty crows. In short, he was cranky with being a monument.

Zapo's fingers levered open a crack in his thick bark, and he gloried in the fresh air. He stared wistfully at a leaf drifting by and the clouds reflected in the lake's surface. He reached out a gnarled foot, his long toes dipping in the cool liquid.

He could be a boy and run free. Why not? But his feet shook the ground like thunder. When he turned his head, wind whirled and birds scattered. He looked down and saw people falling to their knees before him.

"Well, shoots and saplings," he muttered. "So much for blending in."

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Sorry if the formatting is weird on this. Blogger kept arguing with me on the placement of photos and text.

There still is time to put up a tree post before June 28 and send the link to Yvonne. On July 1 all the fest links are posted so you can blog hop.
I may even post a Part II with a different flash fiction about the monkey-puzzle tree since my photo of it in the previous post was such a hit. Got trees on my mind, and that's not a bad thing.

(Postscript added after a trip to the botanic garden where the huge dry leaf was found. It's from a Chinese parasol tree, whose leaves are as big and lovely green as I remember.)

Finding the way home

I went to the ocean this weekend. It was Rx, rather than R&R. Sometimes, I need the sea to wash me clean.

Moist, salt wind filled my lungs, infused my blood, my brain. Cold water splashed up my legs, saying: Remember. When you are alive and in love with being alive, doubts and burdens drift away with the breeze.

I became light enough to fly wingtip-to-wingtip with a pelican, to dance on the lip of eternity.

But my feet were grounded, toes digging into wet sand and feeling its shift, constant movement, tide in, tide out, the sea's breath.

So much life is happening right here. On these rocks. In this ebb and flow. These two tidal boulders remind me of mammals, of whale or walrus backs.

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Would they take me on a journey?

Carry me below and teach me how to breathe again?

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Many creatures live here, plant and animal scrunched on rock that gets pounded, submerged, dried out. It's a harsh environment. But it's home.

This chiton is anchored so tight to this rock, I wasn't sure it was alive, at first.

These tiny mollusks, also called sea cradles, have mouths and teeth to eat algae. They have a nervous system resembling a ladder and use a muscular foot, similar to limpets, to hold on. But here's the thing that blows me away. Chitons, although they seem rooted to the rock, can move, and they can find their way home again.

Another lesson from the sea.

Don't piss off the fairies

We learn young that fairies are a flighty lot. Some stories present them as capricious, others depict the malice that lies in some fey. As a reminder to writer-me, I keep on my desk a marble plaque that reads: Don't Piss Off the Fairies. I mean, I have enough work to envision a story, write it well and find someone who wants to publish it, without fairies pulling my hair or worse.

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Why these photos? Because when I shot them, getting down low into grass and flowers and dew, I thought of fairies. They reside in the hidden places, in the mysterious realms of our minds.

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Without imagination people would eat, sleep, procreate and that would be it. No art. No stories. No music.

For me, speculative fiction is the ultimate delight. It's not that I don't love a gorgeous piece of literary fiction or admire a gritty reality story from time-to-time, but my greatest reading pleasure is found in fantasy, science fiction, dystopian and magical realism. Let me step out of this world into another where the dragons or demons or Terminators are terrifying but can be outwitted.

Sometimes the weight of our world with it's financial crashes, corporate crime, man-made ecological disasters, genocides and more can be too depressing to read about yet again in the news, let alone a novel. I think the draw of spec fiction is those same topics can be there but in alien format so we are eager to fight them with the protagonist. I think that's why fairy tales and other fantasy forms of writing, even allegory, have worked for so long. We step outside our own problems, anxiety and fear. And with the characters we find ways to cope, we conquer the unknown. It's a psychological tool presented in a fun package, if you will.

Do you think this is true? Do you read/write spec fiction and why?

Seeing is believing

Once upon a time there was a circlet of islands that rose high and rugged from the great ocean. The islands were greener than the greenest grass and offered sanctuary for sea-faring birds and furred creatures who spent their days fishing.

The Netters came to scale the cliffs and pick sweet buttercups and clover. A Netter never saw a flower that she didn't want to consume, because everyone knew flowers held the secrets of the gods.

Squalls hit the islands, sending waves thundering on the shores and gushing up the underground caves where the Netters huddled until calm returned.

They didn't mind suffering a smidgen for the chance to unlock mysteries too long denied them.

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So have you ever made up stories as you walk, when you encounter something intriguing? I do.

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These are tide pool rocks in San Clemente. Sometimes the water covers them and other times it sucks away to leave them on damp sand. The first time I saw them I thought they looked like a miniature, fairytale Ireland. So I made up a mini-story or two.

Even as these photos are shot from high above the "islands," fairy tales are often told from an omniscient point of view. The author is god-like and knows the past, present and future, as well as the thoughts and desires of all the characters.

This viewpoint was popular in early novels, but today many books stick with limited third person or first person, so that the reader knows only what one character is thinking. The advantage to this is the author can create mystery. It mimics real life where we only know what other people tell us or indicate by body language and deeds. Sometimes, of course, the viewpoint character gets it wrong, and that can add depth to a plot.

Some modern novels alternate POV between a few major characters by chapter or hiatus breaks. This still keeps the viewpoint close to each character, but the reader is clued in to more information.

And some writers mix up many characters' thoughts throughout. The danger of multiple head-hopping within a scene is you can confuse your readers so they come out of the magic of the story to figure out who was just having that observation or opinion.

There is plenty of debate and discussion about this topic. Check out Shelley at the Storyqueen's Castle, and Livia Blackburne. The Literary Lab has several, in-depth essays on the subject.

I've come to the conclusion that the choice of which POV to use is connected to the type of story. If it's a fable-type yarn, omniscient gives that delicious gods-are-watching effect. If it's a particular character's journey, quest, coming-of-age, emotional awakening, whatever, I think it's best told in tight POV because it really is about the evolution of that character. But that's my opinion. What's yours?

Catching notes on the wind

Hiking a boulder-studded hill, I heard lonely, haunting musical notes on the breeze. Where were they coming from?

Then I saw him, a flute player perched on the highest rock of the hard-scrabble hill, playing his echoing sound to the sky and wind and birds. And me.

At this distance I could only imagine his fingers moving over the instrument's holes to alter the pitch, the resonance.
Like a gentle sigh, I could feel his breath in the length and clarity of the notes. I was flying, floating upon them.

Did you know that flutes are the oldest known instruments? One made from a bird's bone about 35,000 years ago was discovered in 2008 in a cave in Germany.

I was still smiling from my close encounter with the wild flute player when I rounded a bend in the trail and came upon a man singing.

The world is alive with music and joy. Sometimes, we're lucky enough to stumble upon it.

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That was about a month ago. When I returned to that same area yesterday, I didn't find a flute player, but I was amazed by the splashy abundance of brittlebush.

The hill--from base to crown--is covered with this desert member of the sunflower family.

Brittlebush is a tough survivor of southwestern deserts. It's light gray leaves reflect sunlight to keep the plant cool during the hottest months, and the hairy surface of the leaves act like a blanket against extremes of heat and cold. In springtime, it is a common sight along roads and canyons, but I have never seen such a widespread carpet of the plants on this hill before.

It is a fine spring. Even the birds say so.

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fantail of orange

across blue sky--red-tailed hawk

kissed by sunlight

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There's been a lot of chat lately on blogs about what writers should blog about, why we blog, what's the point, what's our focus, etc. I like to visit blogs that both inform and entertain, that are extensions of the blogger as a writer. Beth Revis started a fantastic discussion about writing love triangles and what makes them work or not. It's worth your time to read her posts and the comments. That's my favorite kind of blogging--where writers interact, share ideas.

What do you enjoy about blogs you read?