Do You Want to Build a Snowman?

Feeling a bit whimsical this week. 

We haven't had a lot of snow here this winter, and in a "usual" year, we would have had several noteworthy storms by now. I've been watching people posting pictures of snow people - my sister, my granddaughters, The Big Guy's nephew and his family. And let's not forget the ones I've seen out and about the neighborhood.

Around Christmas time, when I was feeling melancholy, I'd suggested to the Big Guy that if we get one of those gentle snowfalls at night, one that is going to dump more than an inch, we should go out walking in it. Something peaceful and romantic, because let's face it, there are fewer things in life as peaceful as a snowfall. Granted, it was a tall order, and we haven't had any snowfalls this winter that have fallen into that category. 

To give reference to my request, way back when I was in high school, I remember taking a walk to clear my head in just such a snowfall. I walked over by the tennis courts where I spent my summers (my happy place), just a few blocks from home. No wind, just me and the snow, big fat, furry flakes falling all around me, deadening the sounds of the world. Considering I still remember that evening, that walk, I think it's safe to say the experience had a profoundly calming effect on me. Hence my desire to recreate it.

As I write this, we are expecting just such a snow, and I'm inspired by the pictures I've seen. I can't remember the last time I built a snowman, but this seems like the right time to go out and take advantage of the opportunity. Addendum: The snow came the following morning, so no night time strolls.

And here's my snowman.

When was the last time you built a snowman?

When you get the urge to quit

You know those days when you want to pack it all in and call it a day? 

Every time I finish writing a book, I ask myself why I do this. Sometimes, I'm ready to call it quits. Sometimes I can't wait to dive into the next project. 

We're living in a time when it's difficult to get motivated. Life is exhausting all by itself. I've found moments of respite in my writing time, moments of joy. I write because I love to write. It gives my imagination free rein, but make no mistake. It's hard work.

I've just finish writing the fourth installment in the Hillendale series (Yay! Whoop-whoop), which means I need to decide "what comes next." I have room to continue this series if I so choose, or I can move on to the next project/series. There are always ideas at the ready, and yet in the moments after the story is born, I need to rest and recover. A period of post-partum, if you will. I need to move on to cleaning up mistakes, checking for continuity, fine-tuning grammatical construction. Chipping away at overused words and words that flat out don't belong there. It's a discouraging time during which many authors have to "kill their darlings" -- words or phrases that were so fun to write, so cool to invent, words that have no place in the story. By the time that process is finished, I fall back into the "why do I bother?" phase. And then I read the finished product one last time. Most times, I fall in love with the story all over again, and that's motivation enough to continue.

And then there are the times when I doubt my ability to write "like that" again. Where to start? That can be a daunting task. Starting a writing project rarely begins in the proper place. It can take several chapters before you realize you've gotten it all wrong and have to start over, or you've spent those three chapters spouting information that doesn't belong, but which is necessary to the story in dribs and drabs sprinkled throughout.

Post partum depression.

Many times I'll delay writing a new book, caught in a web of writers' angst. These are some of the things that spur me on.

1. I get impatient. My dreams become more vivid without the outlet for my imagination. Writing is a part of who I am, to the core. At the end of the day, I have to be who I was meant to be.
   
   
2. "Practice makes perfect." In the beginning, when I was still learning the craft, I also had a day job that dominated my life--especially during peak business times. My first three books were years apart. People always tell you to write something every day, and I learned during the course of those three books how important that is. As with anything else, if you don't practice your art, you get rusty. Filler words creep back into my manuscript, I miss those places where I repeat words, and my sentence structure starts to look shaky. Run-on sentences. Comma splices. I keep going so I don't "forget" how to write, even if what I write is nonsensical.
   
   
3. I read a book. I'm often inspired by other authors, either the quality of their writing or their storytelling ability. Even if the book is "bad" (reading is subjective), I find things to avoid in my own writing.

What do you do to "Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and start all over again?"

On Trying New Things

Life changes during the pandemic for a variety of reasons. Disruptions to routine. Different ways of thinking. During these moments, it's good to try new things, or fall back on old standards. 

For an author (and I've heard this from a large number of my colleagues), we're living in a world where making stuff up isn't keeping pace with the unreal happenings of everyday life. Truly, you can't make this stuff up. No one would believe it, or suspend disbelief were we to write it down. Current events are extremely disruptive to the creative process.

When I was young, lo those many years ago, the holidays meant putting together a jigsaw puzzle. Sitting at a table with my dad and/or my sisters. It was a time of peace and togetherness. Sitting still. Together. I got two puzzles for Christmas this year. What a great reminder of quieting my mind and concentrating on one thing for a period of time. Best thing I did this winter so far.

Being "inside" also meant trying new and different things. While I had been trying to write my next book, all the outside distractions made it extremely difficult to focus. So I returned to an old manuscript that I had tucked away because 1) it was different than what I usually write and 2) sometimes its easier to edit than to make up stuff in a world that defies logic. Lessons I've learned: Editing isn't much easier than writing when the world is taking a dump. In fact, I got more comments from my editor on the "old" story than I've had on any of the other sixteen books we've worked together on. Never one to back away from a challenge, I soldiered on.

Which brings me to RELEASE DAY! Please welcome into the world, COYOTE LEGACY, A Canyon Legends Fantasy. Yes, it's a diversion from my normal fare, but I hope you'll find it interesting. Inspired by the beautiful scenery of Utah and Arizona, I gave my imagination free rein, tapping into the legends of the Canyonlands.

If you're of the opinion I should stick to my usual storytelling, never fear. The fourth installment in the Hillendale novels, INTERRUPTED MAGIC,  is coming in March! 

In the meantime, I'd like to invite you along on my flight of imagination. Want a recommendation? One of my beta readers had this to say:

"I am completely blown away!  That is one of the best books I’ve ever read!  Your writing is exceptional…your imagination is magical…you’re a great storyteller…I don’t know how this book could get any better than what I’ve just read.  I was completely captivated!"

You can get your copy here.

Maybe a little over the top, but it sure made me feel good! And maybe you’ll like it, too!

Available in ebook and paperback.

Happy New Year - a sneak peek at the new release

Happy New Year! 🎉🥳

I have a new release coming out on Tuesday. Make sure you're signed up for my newsletter for a special offer!

Here's a snippet.

You can buy it here!

Devin slouched in the deck chair behind his ranch house, listening to crickets sing in the still night air. He’d traded in his pilot’s uniform for a pair of shorts. The cool night raised gooseflesh on his skin. A pounding, like a second heartbeat, pulsed in his chest. His grandmother never talked of the old ways, but she did say one day his heritage would speak to him, a comment that never made sense.

Maybe Nascha had unlocked an ancient form of Morse code. 

Where had Nascha come from? People didn’t just show up at the airport with no luggage and no money. Devin thought about Mrs. Mendenhall’s comment that there’d been someone sitting on his wing. He’d never seen a gremlin, but if they existed, he doubted they had lovely russet colored hair or skin the color of the Arizona desert. 

He took another sip of his tea—the same tea he’d offered Nascha—and stared at the bottle. He tapped his leg, still wondering if he should have called security, but Marty hadn’t seen her. Had he imagined the conversation? It had been a tough trip over the mountains. Devin wasn’t sure if his mind was playing tricks on him. The whole episode defied logic. 

Eyes closed, he exhaled a sigh and let his iced tea drop the last three inches from his hand to the wooden deck floor with a clunk where it landed upright. The night was perfect, warm and clear beneath a vast, limitless sky. Devin knew he should go inside, but he was comfortable. He credited the Native American in his soul for his preference to sleep under the stars—or Grandma Coco’s tales. His spirit guide was more likely to find him outside. 

He laughed. His imagination was getting the best of him. There’d been no gremlin on the wing. He couldn’t explain the Indian princess, but he’d go to the airport tomorrow to make sure she wasn’t a security risk—if she really existed. But that didn’t explain the frightened look in her eyes when he’d tried to calm her, when he’d held her hand—the static electricity in her touch. 

That’s when the pounding in his chest had started. He sat up straight in the chair and gazed to the North, the direction of the airport. The pulse had started when he’d touched Nascha, like an ancient tribal tattoo. 

“I need sleep,” he said out loud. He picked up his iced tea and headed into the house. The turbulence obviously shook something loose in his brain. Nothing a good night’s rest wouldn’t cure.

He walked through the living room and down the hallway to his bedroom. The moon provided the only light. Devin passed the bed and stood before the window, the pulsing in his chest relentless. It didn’t hurt, so there was no point in going the pain reliever route. He threw open the window and sat cross-legged in a nest of blankets on the floor, wrapping himself in the comfort of coarse wool.

The fabric made him think of Nascha again, the feel of her skin. She wasn’t slippery smooth, like most women. Her skin had texture—the kind you wanted to touch again and again to explore all the different sensations. More proof he must have imagined her.
Devin squeezed his eyes shut and took several deep breaths to clear his head. In a matter of minutes, he fell asleep.

He’d had the same dream since he was a child. He body-surfed across the sky, dipping in and out of the jet stream, arms extended, his feet—like rudders—controlling his direction. But this time the dream was different. He wasn’t flying alone. 

What do you think?