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.

Living with the dead and learning something

Some things keep me up at night. And they aren't pleasant--worries about finances, anxiety over whether I'll ever finish and sell a book, demands of helping a relative who suffers from a touch of the crazies.

But sometimes the late-night culprit is actually a pleasure--a story that captivates me, won't let me close the book covers and turn off the light. THE DEAD-TOSSED WAVES grabbed me by the throat from page one and glued itself to my eyeballs. Yep, the experience was that visceral, and it dragged me long into the wee hours.

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I want to know why. So I'm shuffling through the pages looking for clues.

Zombies are not my usual paranormal crush. (Even though I did write zombie haiku here.) I had to nudge myself to read the first book in this series by Carrie Ryan--THE FOREST OF HANDS AND TEETH. And although I enjoyed that one, the protagonist isn't someone you love at first sight. She's a loner, always colliding with other characters and dreaming of getting away. That said, I shed real tears at the end. Water fell from my eyes. Tissues were required. Ms. Ryan twisted the knife. Something she seems quite good at.

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But here's what happened when I cracked open THE DEAD-TOSSED WAVES. First of all, there wasn't a lot of backstory telling us what already occurred in this world--that kind of writing bores me senseless when an author essentially gives pages of synopsis of the last book's storyline. Instead, the few paragraphs that set the scene in this book connected directly to the current world, and there was action and tension by the fifth paragraph. We're talking just a bit over 200 words in. That's tight.

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Opening line: The story goes that even after the Return they tried to keep the roller coasters going.

I can't speak for anyone else, but that grabbed me and told me I was in a dystopian world where amusement rides are no longer possible. That's eerie and sad. Within the next couple of paragraphs we learn people, despite being hunted by flesh-eating Mudo, wanted the rides kept open so they could feel normal. But eventually it became too dangerous to step outside the walls surrounding safe zones.

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Then comes the heart-in-your-throat moment. Our teenage protagonist is being prodded by her friends to sneak into the park. Typical teenage bravado. Do what's forbidden, because nothing can touch you.

Only the sixth paragraph in: Already a few of the older kids have skimmed over the top, their feet a flash against the night sky. I rub my palms against my legs, my heart a thrum in my chest.

Excellent example of showing us her fear. Ms. Ryan doesn't say Gabry's scared or even that her hands are sweating. She shows us Gabry rubbing her hands, and we know. We're right there, heart thrumming, with her.

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Then before we're off page two, Ms. Ryan adds another element guaranteed to hook a fair number of readers. She throws in this: There are a thousand reasons why I don't want to go with them into the ruins, not the least of which is that it's forbidden. But there's one reason I do want to take the risk. I glance past Cira to her brother and his eyes catch mine.

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Now, I don't want to ruin this book for anyone who hasn't read it, so I'm not going to give away the plot. But I think you can figure out that this little foray into the amusement park is not going to end well.

Gabry's life gets jerked around more than any ride for the rest of the book. Every time I thought we might be pulling back into the safety zone, there was another twist. Gabry's world is not safe. Perhaps, never will be. But she grows from a girl afraid of everything beyond the walls to one who's willing to push back and try to lay claim to a new life.

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I learned a thing or two by looking back through this book. I love discovering what makes a story so good you can't turn out the light.

Have you read any such books lately?

Everything coming up roses

I had a great couple of days. Here's my check list:

* Revise short story ("Irene's Calling") and submit to contest.

* Revise opening chapter of Sea Daughters and submit first page for contest.

* Revise mid-point chapter for crit group.

* Email publicist for book for blog interview.

* Blog. Twice.

* Finish reading The Dead-Tossed Waves. Start The Demon's Covenant.

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So that calls for lush bunches of roses for me and you, because now I'm going to post a slew of good news from writers in the blogging world.

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Suzanne Hayze, who captivates readers of her blog with gorgeous, visceral slices of life, has signed with Liz Jote of Objective Entertainment. Woo-hoo! She's also started a new joint blog, Writing Out the Angst with her crit partner Amanda Bonilla. The new blog is a place for writers to talk about the roller coaster ride of getting published. They're kicking things off with a cool contest to win a critique of your query, which is the crucial gateway to finding an agent.

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Frankie Diane Mallis got the Call, too, and signed with Laura Rennert of Andrea Brown. Yay! Frankie's holding a 500 followers contest to give away some sizzling signed books. But even if you are anti-book-contest (is that possible?) you must go read her hilarious post starring Princess Buttercup and Westley. Go. Read.

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Megan Rebekah is celebrating 500 followers with an awesome giveaway contest of books and critique. Megan's blog is always a good read and her crit partners are so awesome I follow them all. You can't go wrong with these bloggers.

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Yvonne Osborne at the Organic Writer tagged me with a meme. I did it before, so I won't repeat. But you must go check her answers. Fierce and breathtaking like her poetry.

Honored dead

I can think of no one more eloquent to speak for those who die in war than Abraham Lincoln. So in honor of Memorial Day, I give you some of the greatest words ever written: the Gettysburg Address. (Image credit: CORBIS)

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* Postscript: These words were spoken 157 years ago and still have the power to transfix me, bringing me close to tears for men I never knew. President Lincoln proves that honest and heartfelt words can, indeed, long endure.

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"Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.
Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate, we can not consecrate, we can not hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth. "

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?

From one thing to another

A cold front blew in today (Sunday) in Southern California. Big-shouldered white clouds sometimes tangled up with soot-black ones. But I had decided last night to go to the beach. I wanted to watch the NSSA (National Scholastic Surfing Association) at Huntington Beach. On my way there, big splats of rain hit the windshield of my little red Miata, but I kept going.

Part of this was research for my WIP, so I had to do it, even if, dang, I had to go to the beach, you know?

When I got to Huntington, it was sunny but blowing like a wind tunnel. All I got to see were the sponsor booths and the judges stand being dismantled. The event was postponed due to dangerous, choppy conditions caused by the wind. I could've been bummed, but my favorite wetlands is just up the highway from this pier. So off I went to Bolsa Chica Ecological Reserve.

The wind howled across these inlets, creating a corrugated surface to the water. Least terns wheeled above. Seagulls took off, stalled and were pushed backwards, landing in defeat. They seemed a bit pissed about it, squawking and jostling.

After an ungraceful landing in the heavy wind, a great egret stalked a marshy area. A brown pelican sat out the blustery conditions. Some tiny bird I didn't recognize spiraled out of sight.

Even tiny woolly caterpillars got blown sideways and tumbled over as they tried to cross the dirt.

More than 300 species of birds have been sighted in the 1,700 acres protected here. About 95% of California's wetlands have been destroyed by development, making this a treasure. And, believe me, it had to be fought for. It had been dammed up, leased for oil drilling and slated for development.

Despite my jacket and hair whipping, my fingers chilled, I had a fabulous time. Sometimes being in wild conditions makes me feel most alive. It was jarring and spectacular.

And then I thought of the Gulf Coast and the oil that is now covering pelicans and eggs, the dead fish washing to shore, the oyster beds destroyed. And I am sad. All the natural beauty and wonder of this planet we hold in our hands. Whatever happens is our responsibility and our legacy.

We do not inherit the earth from our ancestors. We borrow it from our children. --Haida Indian saying.

I am blogger, see me fly

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iridescent flash,

hummingbird whirs and flits to

its spider-silk nest

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A splash of haiku for my blogging friends. This post is all about the wonderful people I meet, like Julie Dao, who writes exquisitely and plays violin, too. Thank you, Julie for this pretty Blogger Buddy Award.
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And thank you to Liza Carens Salerno for the Versatile Blogger. I like that it embraces poems, stories, messages and essays--all of which I enjoy.

Nisa at Wordplay, Swordplay gave me the Silver Lining award, which is all about keeping positive on this writing journey. Since I've snagged that one before, I just say a big thank you to Nisa.

Janet Johnson tagged me with a meme. Now, it's supposed to be all serious and getting-to-know-you and stuff. But I can't help it. I've got to have a bit of fun. So hang your disbelief on the coat rack and grab a cup of coffee.

Where were you five years ago?

I'd been shanghaied off the coast of California and was chained to a work desk in the windowless bowels of a brig. I labored from sunup to sundown forced to write in inverted-pyramid style. It has led to a tendency to spill the beans.

Where would you like to be in five years?

In a tree house in a redwood forest by the sea. I will listen to the woodpeckers drilling and the owls hooting, hear the rustle of breeze through branches, write on a little deck with the horizon shimmering with sun on water.

What's on your to-do list today?

Write the Great American YA Novel. Eat chocolate. Repeat.

What snacks do you enjoy?

See question above.

What five things would you do if you were a billionaire?

Start a publishing house and invite you all to submit. Repeat.

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Lastly, if you haven't checked out the new blog by four debut dystopian authors, you simply must. (News flash just added: Elana Johnson's debut dystopian novel has sold to Simon Pulse!)

And if you've been waylaid in the distant past or far future, here's another news flash: Do the Write Thing for Nashville raised about $74,000! Huge kudos to Myra McEntire, Amanda Morgan and Victoria Schwab.

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On to the linkage! As you all know, awards and memes are meant to be passed along, and I am a very bad rule follower. This time, I decided to show appreciation to five bloggers newly met and let them choose any or all of the awards they please. And they are free to be creative in what they do with them. In fact, they don't have to do anything at all. Consider this string-free.

But please check out these great folks whose blogs are quite diverse:

Lydia Kang

Tessa's Blurb

Phoenix

Jojomama

Larainy Days

Chat it up in Let's Talk Blogfest

Today is the super fabulous Let's Talk Blogfest organized by Roni at Fiction Groupie. More than eighty--yes, 80+ people are signed up to show off dialogue-driven scenes. What a way to get an earful. Come on, let's talk.

I've been working like crazy on revisions of my Sea Daughters novel. For this fest, though, I decided to pull Harper's Stone, a high fantasy, off the shelf and offer up a scene between the protagonist Fiona and her dying great aunt. I'd love to hear if you think it works.

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Lady Celia’s eyes fluttered open and her frail hand, dwarfed by its signature ruby ring, reached up to latch onto Fiona’s wrist. Her fingers tightened like a knot in a rope. “Are we alone?”

With a slight nod of her head, Fiona dismissed the servant hovering nearby.

“There is much I should have told you, but I wished you'd become more mature, more in control of your emotions." Lady Celia's voice, though weak, still carried a sting. "Now, I fear I waited too long.”

“Please, don’t speak so, Aunt. The physician will be here soon, and he will set you right again.” Fiona wanted to believe her own words but feared she was about to lose the only relative she had. Then she'd be at the king's mercy.

“Listen carefully. I must give you something before the physician arrives.” Lady Celia let go of Fiona’s wrist and tried to pull off the ruby ring but seemed to lack strength. “Take the ring off. Do it quickly.”

Fiona eased off the gold band set with the enormous stone. It rested in the palm of her hand--a flawless, sparkling gem the color of richest blood held in place by fasteners shaped to resemble clawed fingers. “Where shall I put it, Aunt?”

“Secrete it in your bodice.”

As Fiona hesitated, her great-aunt’s voice cut the air. “Do it. At once. No one must know you have it, just as the harp is your secret. They are your heirlooms and yours alone.” Stringing together several sentences depleted the old woman. She sank into her feather pillow, breathing raggedly.

Fiona bent close to hear a whisper: “Put the ring on a chain and keep it near your heart always. It will help protect you. I believe that to be so. It must be so.”

A chill swept through Fiona. “Please, Aunt, try to rest. The physician is sure to arrive any moment.” She glanced over her shoulder, wishing help would walk in.

“They are coming for me.” Great Aunt Celia sighed, as though at peace.

“Who?” Fiona turned her head again, but there was no one but the two of them.

“My work is done.” The old woman jerked and half-sat before dropping back against the pillow. “But, no, I didn’t prepare you enough. I leave you helpless as a fawn without a mother.”

At the word ‘mother,’ Fiona felt that old chasm in her open—the longing and hurt. This could be her last chance to find out what had been kept from her. “My mother. Was she your niece? What was her name? What became of her?”

Lady Celia’s eyes, which had been staring at nothing, focused on Fiona again. “There can be no harm in telling you now, but you mustn't share it with anyone. Ever. I'm not your blood relative, at all. I'm a guardian. Your family--their names, their history--all passed from this world.”

An ache blossomed in Fiona’s chest. What little she thought she knew about who she was vanished. She felt like the empty shell of a bird’s egg, lying broken and wiped clean of whatever had been there.

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One sentence game

Every revision is an opportunity.
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*Suzyhayze has started a one-sentence tag game. Write a one-sentence post and link back to her. Mine tells you what I'm doing! And, by the way, I didn't make that up. I read something like it somewhere, sometime, and it's become my mantra. Have fun, and happy weekend, everyone.

Establishing roots

I can't tell you how glorious it is to have two face-to-face critique groups--people who know what it means to write, who are willing to tackle anything and who become invested in your characters and stories. I feel very fortunate.

This is one of the weeks when I've had back-to-back meetings of those groups, so I'm particularly inspired and energized at the moment.

One of the topics that arose was motivation and how it's important for the author to know the motivation of even minor characters. Motivation gives a story roots, kind of like the behind-the-scenes backstory and character sketches you do for your own understanding.

And, yeah, I put up a photo I took of some gnarly roots. Many times we don't get to see the way tree roots twist and intertwine and reach out, how rugged and strong and purposeful they are since they are burrowed into the earth. (This is a Montezuma cypress, which grow to enormous size and old age, perhaps thousands of years old.)

So the reader sees the tree/story and, hopefully, admires its amazingness. But the writer knows all the deep, hidden roots that allow it to be strong and grow. I can hear somebody saying, 'But motivation is a drive. It's movement toward a goal, not a tree.' Yes, it is a propelling force for the characters, but, as a writerly tool, it's part of a story's foundation.

I attended a SCBWI conference that included a round-table discussion with Alyson Noel. One of the things that stuck with me was that she goes back through every scene to be sure that something changes for the character and moves toward the story's end point, at which time the main character should be different than at the start. If this doesn't happen, she alters or cuts the scene. Since I'm deep in revisions, I'm on the lookout for scenes that do not propel the character's development. If we think of our writing as a labor-of-love, I suppose such pruning could be called tough love. I want the strongest story I can write. What about you?

Winners, yay!

My lovely daughter brought me those gorgeous ginger flowers and took me to see Iron Man 2 and dinner and then was my draw-person for the non-high-tech, completely random contest draw yesterday.

I wanted this to be homey, so I typed up each name--some of them thirteen times, but I love you guys! Then I cut the name strips up and mixed them thoroughly in this cottage-box. And the winners are:

Anna Staniszewski

Yat-Yee Chong

Storyqueen (Shelley Moore Thomas)

Anna's name was drawn first so she gets first pick of the gift card, critique or books. Yat-Yee is second and then Shelley. I will email all of you, too. Thanks everyone for entering. I had so much fun reading the haiku and comments.

And now I'm off in a rush to one of my face-to-face critique groups, so I will be back to respond to any comments later. Happy day, all!

Get it write

Most of you have, no doubt, already heard of the amazing auction site Do the Write Thing for Nashville set up by authors Victoria Schwab, Myra McEntire and Amanda Morgan. But if you haven't, please click on the link and check out the signed books, manuscript critiques and agent phoners that are up for bid. The monies raised (more than $9,000 so far) will aid flood victims in and around Nashville.
I will announce winners of my first-year blog anniversary contest Monday. Thank you so much to all who entered. Happy Mother's Day, everyone.

A winner and a new contest!

Can anyone guess--by looking at the seahorse-riding girl I put on this post--who won a copy of THE STOLEN ONE by Suzanne Crowley?

I chose the winner in a random drawing, but when I saw who it was, I just had to do something sea-whimsical. Anyone who follows her blog can probably guess:

KAREN AMANDA HOOPER!

Email me your snail-mail address, Karen, and happy reading!

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Monday's Spreading the Awesome blog event was an incredible way to start this week, which is my anniversary of becoming a blogger and starting Talespinning. What a year it has been!

The best part has been meeting so many wonderful writer/bloggers. From each of you I have learned something or enjoyed a laugh or a celebration. I thank everyone who has become a follower or left a comment. You're all amazing!

But enough of the speeches and on with the celebratory contest. I will choose three winners. First randomly-picked name gets first choice of one prize, second gets second, etc.

Because people have different desires I want to leave it open which type of prize suits you. So here are the choices:

* $20 gift card for Amazon, Borders, Barnes&Noble or Powell's.

* A critique of first 15 pages or opening chapter of your work-in-progress.

* Choose any two of the following books:

DULL BOY (Sarah Cross)

THE FOREST OF HANDS AND TEETH (Carrie Ryan)

EYES LIKE STARS (Lisa Mantchev)

ETERNAL (Cynthia Leitich Smith)

BLUE MOON (Alyson Noel)

THE DEAD & THE GONE (Susan Beth Pfeffer)

Points:

+1 comment

+2 new follower

+3 already following

+4 blog, tweet, sidebar, whatever

+5 write me a haiku and put it in the comments

Add 'em up with your comment, and put your email if I'm not going to find it by clicking your name. I'm going to leave this contest up until midnight Saturday, May 8.

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Those of you who've been visiting me awhile know I love haiku--the three-line, five-seven-five-count Japanese poetry that distills a moment in nature. They go something like this:

dawn tide washes in

angel-wing shells and remnants

of forgotten dreams

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So what's the tide washing in for you lately?

Spreading the awesome for books

I don't remember why I bought THE STOLEN ONE by Suzanne Crowley. It may have been a rec from another blogger, or I might have been drawn to the cover and jacket blurb. It sat in my to-be-read stack for some months, because I add and add to my collection of unread books until they sigh mournfully about my neglect.

When I finally read this YA historical mystery last week, I was glued to the skillfully woven tale of yearning and deceit. I've picked it to showcase in Elana Johnson's Spreading the Awesome event today. More than 60 bloggers are spreading the word about books and authors that rock. So check out this list and get some recs!

Mostly, I read fantasy, paranormal, dystopian kinds of books. THE STOLEN ONE is a bit different for me.

The setting is Elizabethan England. Kat, a girl from a simple village, has always felt she didn't belong there and has an insatiable drive to learn the identity of her real mother. She isn't content with the love of a handsome farmer boy or the loyalty of her sister, and she disregards their feelings in her quest to learn her roots. And while she thinks she's unearthed the secrets about her family, she has actually misconstrued the evidence. She discovers the duplicity of court life, learns the loneliness of monarchs and finds what she truly desires along the way.

Kat's skill at embroidery gets her into Queen Elizabeth's court and gives us eyes into this fashionable world: Lady Ludmore pulled out the fanciest piece, a luscious seawater green velvet, a damask pattern of cowslips and fall leaves gently sewn on the surface, pale gold bugles shaped like flowers set within.

The allure of this book, though, is the artfully-woven mystery. The sense of danger and intrigue begins as early as the opening paragraphs, where Kat says Grace, the woman who's raised her, calls her hair Wolf's bait and says the color is red as Queen Elizabeth's.

Grace reminds me of a Greek chorus with her sharp, cautionary words: Coveting beautiful things is a sin, a sin that attracts greater sins, Grace always warned. "Be humble of what you have. It is enough." Grace needed not know what I wore underneath my dress that night--a lovely red taffeta petticoat, stitched secretly and hidden from Grace. It felt wonderful against my skin, devil's color or no.

This novel is born of a what-if scenario based on a real-life queen's daughter, who disappeared from history, but I don't want to say anymore in hopes you will read THE STOLEN ONE. I was fascinated to learn that Crowley's family lore claims she is a distant relative of Lady Jane Grey--the nine-day queen beheaded by her cousin, Mary. Check out Suzanne Crowley's web site for more about the author, the book and the era.

As part of my celebration this week for my one-year blogversary and reaching more than 200 followers, I'm going to give THE STOLEN ONE to one of you lucky readers. Simply leave me a comment and I will draw a name. Another contest will follow in a couple of days. Happy Monday, happy May, everyone!

Added May 5th: Contest now closed. Randomly chosen winner will be announced in my next post, which includes a new contest.

What a rosy day!

I'm giving myself this little bouquet today because I won two contests, have more than 200 bloggy-friend-followers and will celebrate my one-year blogversary next week.

But I am seriously standing here with my jaw on the floor over this: I won a query critique from an agent in Sarah Wylie's awesome contest celebrating her book deal for ALL THESE LIVES! My head is in the clouds, and I better secure it back in place so I can send off my best pitch, you know?

Next, I won an ARC of Lisa Desrochers' PERSONAL DEMONS, which I'm eager to read. Woo-hoo!

And finally I am so grateful to all the wonderful people who became followers of my blog this year. I plan to hold a contest next week in appreciation. Does anyone have preferences about prizes? My short list is a 15-page critique, gift card or books, but I'm not sure what people most want. Again, thanks to all of you for making this past year and today so awesome.

Whale of a sign

My friend, Donna, has a way with gifts, finding just the right one. She knew I was working on a novel connected to the ocean when she gave me this card with a print by Peggy Oki. I love the power, exuberance and beauty of that painting and had it sitting by my computer as an inspiration for months but didn't realize until I turned it over today and read the back that this was the tail of a sperm whale.

Since I just wrote a scene with a sperm whale, which is the largest toothed whale on the planet, and spent some time considering if I was choosing the right whale for what I wanted from that scene, making this discovery felt serendipitous. Of course, I have proved to you before that I love to find signs from the universe, even if they're a bit of a stretch. So here I go again.

I decided to google Peggy Oki and found more connections. I hadn't realized the artist was the same person as the girl on the Zephyr team in Ocean Park/Venice, California that changed the sport of skateboarding and eventually became one of my favorite documentary films, "Dogtown and Z-Boys." I spent part of my younger years in Venice and still think of that scrappy beachtown as home.

And, hey, Peggy is involved in several campaigns to save whales and other wildlife in peril. Check her out.

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?

The green season

Wearing of the green--California has been doing that a wonderfully long time this year.


There is a lot to celebrate in this. Relief from years of drought. The color itself, which is refreshing and lifts spirits. Blossoming of rare plant life. And such a fine raiment to be wearing for Earth Day tomorrow.




I have fun finding belly flowers--the little ones you have to get down near the earth to see properly, and which sing of joy and wonder if you listen just right.





And I absolutely adore trees for their majesty, mystery and longevity. If I was reincarnated as plant life I would want to be an evergreen tree--to stand for centuries on the edge of the tundra or a wind-whipped sea cliff and watch the shift of seasons and terrain--to sink my roots deep into the earth, finding support and nourishment.


This photo, by the way, I have posted before, but do again because it is so extraordinary the way the tree grows on a little patch of earth in the midst of a lake. Have you ever noticed how plants can find the tiniest sliver of soil and flourish there sometimes? They are efficient survivors.


I am excited to add my blog to the Carbon Neutral initiative, which means a fir, cedar or pine will be planted in Plumas National Forest in Northern California this spring to offset the carbon dioxide emissions created by running my computer.

Plumas suffered a devastating wildfire three years ago. A German organization, Make it Green, created Carbon Neutral as a way to neutralize our blogging emissions by contributing to reforestation programs. One project is the non-profit Arbor Day Foundation working in concert with the U.S. Forest Service to plant more than 790,000 trees in Plumas. Make it Green also contributes to a tree planting effort in the Harz region of Germany. By the way, since I am a former news reporter and wouldn't post without verification, I called the Arbor foundation and confirmed the project.



How does planting a tree make a difference? Trees absorb carbon dioxide emissions which have been adversely affecting our atmosphere and oceans. So while it is necessary to reduce the emissions we make, we can also offset those we do create by planting trees.

Are you doing anything to replenish Mother Earth? I humbly suggest checking out the many environmental groups to find one that has a project that is a match for your belief system and resources. This isn't a one-size-fits-all world, but it is our planet and it needs help.

P.S. Here's a link to Nicole Ducleroir's excellent list of things we can do. Check it out!

Another day on earth

Volcanoes. Earthquakes. Blizzards. Floods. Drought. The earth has a way of getting our attention--even if it doesn't always get our respect.

The 40th anniversary of Earth Day--the granddaddy of Green-- is Thursday, and many communities have celebrations and clean-up campaigns all week. I like to think of Earth Day as every day. This is, after all, the planet that provides our sustenance and shelter within the universe.

It doesn't matter whether or not you "believe" in global warming. What does matter is we are responsible for what you see in these pictures, which come from the Ocean Conservancy and the U.S. National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration's Marine Debris Program.

Not only is this garbage not pretty, it kills.

This photo of an injured pinniped entangled in fishing net is the least disturbing photo I found. There are tons of pictures of birds with beaks tied shut or innards clogged with plastic objects, of dead sea turtles and dolphins caught in debris that starves or drowns them. I couldn't bring myself to post the dead animals here. Did you know that a drifting plastic grocery bag looks a lot like a jelly fish to some hungry sea creatures?

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the tides wash ashore

strange bounty--oil cans, plastic

bottles, strands of ghost nets

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Hawaii is paradise, right? Who doesn't dream of soaking up sunshine and snorkeling there? But there are more than 700 sites in the archipelago where ocean currents deposit marine debris that comes from thousands of miles away. Since 1996, more than 600 metric tons of derelict or "ghost" fishing nets have been removed from the remote northwestern islands of the archipelago.

NOAA, being all scientific and stuff, doesn't verify many of the figures floating around online about the amount of debris that might be in the oceans or number of deaths attributed to it, but the numbers are not really the issue. If one animal or bird dies because of our throw-away culture, that's one too many.

So what can we do? Three words: Reduce. Reuse. Recycle. I purchased reusable shopping bags that crunch up small enough to fit in a pocket or purse so I always have them with me.

Another thing anyone can do is help clean up our global house.
You don't have to join a group effort if it's not your thing. Just carry a small trash bag sometimes when you walk. Clean up your own neighborhood and parks so that the garbage that less-enlightened people drop doesn't wash down the drains, into the rivers and then the ocean.

My friend and I did that while walking around a lake. We got curious stares from some people and gratitude from others. Hey, maybe they'll do it some time, too.

I sure hope this didn't come across as a lecture or rant. I just really think we may be running out of time if we don't get serious--each and every one of us. Is there anything you do to make things better for Mother Earth?

Eleventy-One winner and fairytale fractured!

I'm tickled to be chosen as second runner-up in Laurel Garver's Eleventy-One Celebration. I've won a critique from Laurel, which makes me go squee, but I'm also honored to be part of what she's doing.

Laurel named this contest after Bilbo Baggins' 111 birthday in order to celebrate a milestone of her own. Laurel always comes up with thoughtful and thought-provoking ideas, so for this contest she requested scenes that are dialogue-driven and feature persuasion and negotiation.

I sifted through my manuscripts and came up with a scene in a fractured fairytale I wrote called "Princess Charming."

Laurel and I are running the snippet simultaneously, but please visit Laurel's blog for her insights on craft, which are worth your time. And please return to read her other winners during this week. (Addendum: Oh, my. I just came back from reading what Laurel wrote about this piece, and I'm almost speechless. Thank you, Laurel!)

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Alphonse Mucha's Princess Hyacinth seems to have an appropriate attitude to illustrate my scene. This is meant to be fun, so I hope you enjoy!

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The princess entered the Grand Hall. This being a formal occasion she wore a multi-layered, buttercup-yellow silk gown, which she smoothed nervously.

All heads turned in her direction. She curtsied toward the far end of the hall where her father and mother sat on gilded thrones, wearing their gold-thread brocades and crowns inlaid with rubies and emeralds. In their private quarters, her father called her "Charms" and would pad about in warm slippers. But this was Court.

"Princess Charming, come forward," called King Ormond.

Charming wondered if she would've had to bow instead of curtsy if he'd commanded her to come in knight's armor. Thank goodness she didn't have to clank and clunk across the room.

At the foot of the dais, she curtsied again.

"Princess Charming, you soon turn seventeen and take on your destiny. We wish to give our royal blessings for undertaking the long and difficult journey ahead of you."

Charming's stomach lurched. "If you please, sire, I am not sure that particular destiny is really mine. It's such an ancient legend and probably just a tall tale. And, well, times change."

King Ormond scowled. "We've discussed this before, Princess. It's been reliably foretold that you will leave your home and find an enchanted castle hidden for two hundred years and break the curse upon it."

Charming looked to her mother and saw eyes filled with tears. But they did not fall. The Queen would never let loose a tear in public.

"But I've never gone beyond the local township and know nothing about lands afar. I might get lost."

"You should have paid more attention to your geography lessons. Ever since you could talk you've been told you have a destiny to fulfill. If you don't attend to your training, it's your own fault."

Charming tried a different approach. "Please, Father, don't send me into the wilds alone. What if I'm attacked by a bear? Or fall into any abyss?"

The queen sucked in her breath, barely audible but, still, a crack in the veneer. The king, on the other hand, jabbed his finger in Charming's direction. "I've spent a small fortune on you--trick riding, broadswords, jousting, close-encounter dagger fighting. By now, you should be prepared for anything."

"But it's all academic, isn't it? I've sparred with teachers and boys from court, not dragons or ogres or whatever."

"Enough!" King Ormond slapped a hand on the arm of his chair. "What is it you don't understand about destiny? It can not be argued with, ignored or circumvented. It will happen, no matter what you do to try to avoid it."

Charming's heart beat a rapid tapping in her chest. Her mouth was dry. She swayed, feeling a tad dizzy. He really meant to send her away!

The king's expression softened. "Only you can bring good fortune on us. After all, it was your great-great-great-etcetera-grandmother, on your mother's side, mind you, who was related to the witch-woman that caused this mess, putting a spell on a poor prince. So really, it is up to you to set it straight and remove this shadow from our realm. Go with our blessing."

"Huzzah! Princess Charming!" cheered the courtiers.

When she turned to acknowledge them, she saw through the open doors that servants were dancing in the corridor. It was one thing for it to be her destiny. But now it seemed she was responsible for the future well-being of all her people.

She had no argument for that.

Stepping up and a contest not to miss

Some journeys are daunting. The climb into the unknown can be scary. Where are you going? Do you know what you're doing? Is there an abyss ahead?

I started photographing stairs just because they were there and intrigued me, but I've been thinking there's a metaphor that fits writing.

In The Grapes of Wrath, John Steinbeck wrote: "Man, unlike anything organic or inorganic in the universe, grows beyond the work, walks up the stairs of his concepts, emerges ahead of his accomplishments."

What does that mean? Do our dreams precede us or overtake us? If we didn't dream, we'd have no hopes or goals. Dreams are necessary, and so is the hard work that can make them real.

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A fellow writer and blogger, Sarah Wylie at Sarah With a Chance, made her dream real. Her debut novel, All These Lives, will be published by FSG/Macmillan. To celebrate, she is holding the most awesome contest. If you don't follow her, this is a chance to win a super prize and read one of the funniest, most talented bloggers around.

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Back to musing. Since this is still National Poetry Month, I'm tossing a couple of haiku in this post, too.

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the ancient stone steps

tell no tales, give few clues of

who ventured this way

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Alice in Alice's Adventures in Wonderland said, after she fell down the rabbit hole, that now she would think nothing of falling down the stairs.

Fear of the unknown is often worse than the actuality. If we don't create due to fear of falling, of failing, we never will go anywhere. I want to go, really I do.

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I was out for a walk when I passed a house overgrown with feral grasses and dandelions. The rose bushes could barely be seen. I thought it was a shame the homeowner had neglected the garden. And then I saw him. A very old man, wearing a faded plaid flannel shirt, scraping his walker along the edge of the garden, stooping slowly to grab a weed and pull. I felt like crying then and saw his world with different eyes. With small, painful steps, he was fighting the odds.

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What is stopping you? What is halting me?

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twisting, timbered stairs

keep me climbing just to see

what might wait beyond

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One step at a time.

Into the mystery.

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(Disclaimer: No, I didn't trespass beyond the "private" sign. I'm using my poetic license, which I have around here somewhere.)

Of Lakes and Linky Love

flash of golden koi

gone from the backyard pond--

marauding egret

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My haiku mania continues with National Poetry Month. The photo was edited using something called "oil paint" to, well, make it look painted instead of shot. I took it at a lake I frequent. The haiku is based on a real event when my father's koi all went missing overnight.

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Onward to links. If you have an hour to spare, I highly recommend the video of a webcast for librarians that Scholastic Books made of their 2010 releases. What I found fascinating as a writer was listening to the pitches these editors made for the books. That's the passion we're all hoping for. Here's the Scholastic link.

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I keep getting the blog love, for which I am grateful. I've met so many wonderful writers in the world of Blog. Shannon O'Donnell at Book Dreaming gave me the Creative Writer Award. I'd sure like to believe I deserve it. And I wouldn't mind trying to write with a quill. Wouldn't that be a different way to create? It would be slower and you'd probably sweat to make the handwriting neat. No messy blotches or cross-outs. Um, on second thought, I sing the praises of the world of Tech. Never thought I'd really say that.

I also got two repeat awards but huge thanks for thinking of me to Carolina Valdez Miller and VR Barkowski. If you don't read these three bloggers you are missing out, believe me.

Flying and lying

Since it's National Poetry Month I'm going to continue to haiku you.

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wind-tossed leaves whirl,

dancing golden pirouettes

across the sky

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I'm also passing along an award that specifies I should make up great, big, honkin' stories about my blogmates.

The Soulmates award was bestowed upon me by Liza Carens Salerno, who claims on her blog that I once saved a mermaid. Wouldn't that be tale to tell around the beach bonfire? Almost as tall as the one about the surfer who was lifted up by a whale--and that was verified by onlookers!

You may discover the evolution of this award at Christi Goddard's A Torch in the Tempest .

To pass this on I must weave some new folklore for you.

Yvonne Osborne tracks the Far North for litterbugs. When she catches one, she makes him/her sift the sands of time or write flash fiction, which ever.

Terresa Wellborn moonlights at the British Library. The daily transatlantic commute is part of her Streaking for Books campaign, which includes open-mic poetry jam during flight.

Elana Johnson has cloned herself. It is useful for plot development, as well as juggling teaching, parenting, blogging. She is writing an e-book about her do-it-yourself cloning method.

Wen Prior has built the world's largest door to keep the ocean out. She has a patent pending. But it it doesn't work out, she'll write a song about it.

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As always, do not feel obligated to play--only if it's fun. That's all I've got, folks. Keep smiling.

Confluence

enameled shore

fused by water and sky--

how fleeting the moment

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Back in Venice Beach for the holiday and to spend time with my father-in-law, who is very ill. He gave me my first SLR camera, taught me about composition and film developing. On this visit, I showed him some old photos and told him how much I appreciated what he had done. I was pulled back in time to my teen years at this beach, to my wedding on the sand complete with little girls throwing flower petals and musicians playing flute and violin, to the birth of my daughter and taking her to slide down crumbly hills of sand and to the release of my mother-in-law's ashes into her beloved Pacific. I don't know how one can have roots in a body of water, but I do.

Happy weekend, all

I'm sending wishes on the spring breeze for a fun, sweet, bright and joy-filled weekend to you in whatever way you spend it. See you next week.

Witches and zombies and poems, oh my!

It's April First, which means April Fool's Day and National Poetry Month (you didn't see that coming, did you?).
I'm not playing tricks on you, but I am going to be playful and post some zombie haiku I wrote for a contest Angela Ackerman at The Bookshelf Muse held some time ago. I won a highly coveted critique from her. Still grateful.
Also, I just got picked as a Most Relevant finalist in Andrea Cremer's paranormal haiku contest, although I didn't win the ARC of her upcoming NIGHTSHADE. Her sorting hat picked someone quite deserving, but I soooooo want to read that book! *howls mournfully*
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So here you go--a string of spooky, funny or just-plain-gross haiku.
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heads thrown back, ears flat,
wolves howled the moon loose from its
mooring in the trees
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hovering around
a circle of ancient stones,
wraiths found their anchor
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the witches circled,
gazing on the flightless creatures
impotent below
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my darlings, my dears,
bring me back a nice spoonful
of brains for our tea
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along the old road
not a soul--only echoes
of shuffling footsteps
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wrapping moist innards
in bamboo leaves, she pauses
to lick her fingers