Jack Flacco, Writer

Me? A Published Author?

2012-02-20T07:25:00.002-05:00

Why would anyone want to become a published author? Why do I want to become a published author? Bad enough I have my own life to live in a boarding house in the middle of a field wasting away with the other derelicts surrounding me—why should I add to my troubles by attempting to attain a title so elusive that one would go mad in a brazen effort to achieve it? These are the questions I ask myself when I sit in a dank, cold cellar waiting for the end of the world to arrive as my nine-iron also waits for those zany zombies to rap on the door.

I’ve never liked bling. The thought of extravagant jewelry all over my body, fine clothing and luxury cologne has always repulsed me. So, you will never catch me wearing a Louis Vuitton wardrobe with Emporio Armani cufflinks, Santos De Cartier Galbée watch, Dolce Gabbana undergarments and Dior classic derby shoes. I’m just not that kind of guy.

I’m a jeans and T-shirt kid at heart. I prefer Nike to Yves Saint Laurent. And I enjoy a night at home watching the latest installment of the Transformers series than have a night out partying with the upper one-percent at a movie premier or book signing. It doesn’t mean I won’t do it, it means I’d rather do something else.

But that’s besides the point, it’s all fantasy. Why should I even entertain such thoughts?

I think there comes a time when every author has to come to grips with what they want to accomplish with their writing experience. Is it the fame? The fortune? The prestige of others knowing us, to consider us as demigods? Or simply, are we in it to learn from ourselves what we can’t learn any other way other than by our scribblings? I’d rather think myself as part of the latter group of writers. That’s why I call myself Jack Flacco, Writer on this blog. I may be unpublished, but I see myself as who I am already—a writer.

And no one can take that away from me.

Why do I want to become a published author? For the fame? The fortune? The prestige? No. Because I want to share what I’ve learned with everyone on this planet, so as perhaps I can contribute to the common good of humanity. It sounds far-fetched and noble, I know—even laughable! Yet with all certainty, it’s true! I’m so not a bling guy. But if I can help at least one soul in my lifetime with what I’ve learned—I will have earned my keep as a decent human being.

Now, if you will excuse me, I have to go back into my writing hole to await the zombie apocalypse. I suggest you authors do the same!

[Republished post from October 21st, 2011, courtesy for all my new followers.]

I Don't Love You

2012-02-14T07:17:00.011-05:00

Cassie Mae and Hope Roberson are co-hosting the Is It Getting HOT in Here? Valentine's Day Blog Hop! I thought it would be fun getting involved. Below is my story I scribbled on the train back home last night:

     "I don't love you!" Charlotte screamed.
     "Don't say that! Don't you say that!" Liam matched her scorching temper.
     "I don't." Tears puddled and dropped.
     He grabbed her by the shoulders and drew her in. "Look at me when you say that." He shook her. "Look at me!"
     She threw her eyes to the ground. "No!"
     "It's not true. I don't believe it—I won't believe it! I have to see it in your eyes." He let her go. "Look at me and say you don't love me."
     "No." Came her quiet reply.
     Frustrated, he pushed away and pounded his fists to his head.
     Charlotte shouted. “Stop it. Stop it!”
     He continued, lashing out on himself until her voice bellowed. “STOP!”
     Liam stopped. Silence fell on them as he edged closer to her. His hand trembled while he raised her chin to reveal her eyes. “Now.” He whispered. “Tell me you don’t love me.”
     Their eyes connected. She whispered back. “I don’t love you.”
     He smiled, gently cupping her head in his hands. “I. Know. You.” With his thumb, he wiped away a tear.
     “I-I don’t—”
     “You don’t—?” He shook his head.
     “I—”
     “Go on.”
     “I love you.”
     His eyes widened, letting her go.
     Charlotte threw her arms over his neck.
     Liam pulled her in tight, their lips an inch away. His breath poured over her mouth. “What did you say?”
     “I love you.” She smiled. “I do love you.”
     Liam teased, nibbled and caressed her lips with his. “And I love you.”
     They laughed and then fell into a passionate kiss, enrapturing each other with delight.

Zombie Apocalypse Excerpt

2012-02-13T03:00:00.000-05:00

I’ve wanted to post all weekend but the time frittered away on me and I managed only to compile this excerpt from my current WIP. Go easy on me, folks, it’s a first draft! Yes, all comments welcomed.

With a jolt through his thin, emaciated body, the once-sleeping teen awoke to a scare. His eyes burned as fire as he rubbed them hard to remove the initial shock hitting his brain. He rose, finding his first greeting that of a cold jail cell. A grimy, dingy cell he spied. When he tried to retrieve his balance from himself, he dropped to the dilapidated bed.

Darkness surrounded the teen. The bars spewed a dominance over him as he gathered his bearings. His weary eyes scanned the light-absent cell from top to bottom. With a weak hand, the bewildered boy rubbed the back of his head trying to rub away the headache he had pounding through his tender skull. He grimaced as he attempted to rise again. This time he made it, if with some effort, from holding the bars next to the bed post. As he pulled himself from the nest, his eyes focused on the light emanating from the corridor.

Where was he, he thought. He couldn’t remember ever getting there. The clothes he had on smelled of something awful. He grimaced at pulling his shirtsleeve to his sensitive nostrils. This caused panic to flood his eyes. It reeked bad. This jumpstarted his vomit. He heaved into the corner of the cell. It looked only like yellow bile. The vomiting stopped as quick as it started. Rising from his crouch, he regained his strength as his eyes focused better to these dreary surroundings.

The first reaction is truth. The second is a lie. His first reaction had him calling out to the empty, dank corridor.

“Hello?” He prodded “Is there anyone there?”

No one answered. Frazzled, the boy shivered from the cell’s cold floors. He needed shoes and clothes. Far into the corridor, he could not make out what existed beyond his cell’s bars.

“Hello?” He called out again.

Where is this place he wondered. The stench gripped him as the smell of rotting flesh permeated the air.

He centered his eyes on the barren walls. Not even a history lay in front of him. His next goal hit him in the head when his feet took him to the bars of this cell. With both his hands, he tugged at the bars but they would not move. He strafed to one side and repeated tugging at the bars. This time the door opened without effort. To his astonishment, he eased out into the lonely hall.

A light emanated from one end of the corridor. A green hue painted the light. The teen gripped the side of the cold concrete wall. He made his way toward the light.

“Hello?” He called out a third time. This time his eye focused above his head. The rustling frightened him out of his wits. It sounded far away to him and at the same time close. The boy shook off the sound from his mind, concentrating on the light in front of him. He dragged his feet. The goal felt more real as he got closer to the light.

When he arrived at the end of the corridor, he eased open the double-iron doors. Scanning the room, he found a rusty key on a worn, wooden desk. The key held secrets, he thought.

Meet Matty

2012-02-06T05:45:00.002-05:00

Cassie Mae, over at Reading, Writing, and Lovin' It, has a cool blogfest happening this week. I thought I’d have some fun with it and participate. It’s a great way to getting to know my fellow bloggers, and it’s a wonderful introduction to one of my characters.

Now, here is how the event works: I need to have one of my characters answer interview questions, choosing a character who is hardest for me to write (a 250-word maximum for all the answers combined).

From my current WIP, Ranger Martin and the Zombie Apocalypse, I’ve chosen to interview Matty, a spunky, 15-year-old redhead whose parents died in the zombie apocalypse and was left looking after her 6-year-old brother, Jon.

Q. What is your biggest vulnerability? Do others know this or is it a secret?
A. "No one knows this about me. I’m too compassionate. When Ranger offs a zombie, you can tell he’s hardened. He’ll pull the trigger without a second thought. With me, it’s tough. Even when I know my life depends on it, I still find it hard to off ‘em. I can’t explain why. I guess I’m too soft-hearted."

Q. What do people believe about you that is false?
A. "The guys think just because I’m fifteen and a girl, I don’t know how to use a gun. I can blow away a zombie from thirty feet, easy. All I do is aim at their head. The gun I use is fast action, so no worries about jamming."

Q. What would your best friend say is your fatal flaw? Why?
A. "I’m stubborn. I know this. You can get a mule to do more things than me. I don’t know why I’m this way. I guess, when I get something into my head it’s hard to change my mind about it. Who knows? Maybe I might mellow out with age!"

Q. What would the same friend say is your one redeeming quality? Why?
A. "I’ll do anything for a friend. Even if it means giving up my life for them. I’d do it without even thinking. I just find it stupid to not want to protect those who I think need protecting. For me it’s part of me, like my finger or my toe. I know, it sounds corny, but it’s true. Nothing’s more important to me than making someone else happy."

Q. What do you want most? What will you do to get it?
A. "I want this whole thing to go away. I never liked waking up one moment to find the whole world had changed. I want to know what started it and I want to know how I can fix it. Ranger says we can’t fix it, it’s messed for good. I don’t believe that. I think anything can get fixed. It’s all a matter of finding out how. I’ll do anything to find out how this zombiefest started. It’s destroyed my family. It’s destroyed my life. Anything."

Outstanding Scene Award

2012-02-05T08:56:00.002-05:00

Over the week, I had the opportunity to pop over to Amber’s blog in an attempt to compete in her Outstanding Scene Award. The way it works is she provides the first sentence and the participants would fill in the rest, creating a scene along the way. Well…

I WON!

Yep. The news shocked me ‘cause I whipped up the scene in about ten minutes, and I had no plans on winning—I only wanted to provide Amber, who I learned about on Cassie Mae’s blog, some blogger support (yours was awesome, Jade, as is your blog). So, imagine to my surprise learning I had won! Wowie, wowie, wow, wow, wow!

Okay, okay, okay!!! I know you want to know what the opening line and my opening scene was, so here it is. I’ve bolded the challenge line (naturally, the italicized text is mine):

Don't you just love it when you're running late, so you dash to your car, throw the key in the ignition, and ding, your gas light chimes? It feels like the whole world collapsed on itself. So, I leave my bag in the car, run to the backyard shed, grab the canister of gas I use to fill up the lawnmower and that too had a drop of the petrol elixir. Ugh! I throw the empty canister in the shed, run into the garage, search, poke, and glare, and find nothing. I smack my head and grind my teeth in a cringe. Defeated, I drag my feet to my neighbor's house.

Knock, knock, knock. They look at me as if I've come from the outer reaches of the universe. Yeah, we're the best of friends. I want the gas canister I had lent them from my garage, the one I kept extra for the snowblower. They didn't have it. They snickered. I huffed. But to no avail, peeled my feet from their doorstep back to my car. Tardiness will not prevail. I said a prayer, popped the key into the ignition and turned with hope. IT STARTED! My eyes widened, my smiled beamed, I grew anxious wanting to get to a gas station to fill up before the gas light chimes again. I reversed and...BANG! I didn't see the kids’ bikes behind the car. It is one of those days.

There it is, folks, my winning entry! Now, if you haven’t done it already, scoot on over to Amber’s blog and follow her. She has some awesome posts. When you’re done, do the same for Cassie and Jade! Their blogs are equally something to behold.

How to Avoid Talking to People

2012-02-04T07:21:00.008-05:00

This post has nothing to do with writing. It will not edify, educate or teach anything whatsoever about our craft. We’re definitely not going to carry anything away (just in case anyone thinks there’s a subliminal message imbedded in any of the words I’m about to write).

I just want to know one thing.

Ever have this happen to you: You're at a party and you get stuck in a conversation you never planned on having with someone who just so happen to be the most boring person there?

It's not your fault. When you joined the tête-à-tête, two other people had graced the presence of the dude with the encyclopedic brain. You didn't know! When the other two excused themselves, leaving you all alone with Mr. Open-His-Mouth-And-His-Brains-Fall-Out, you didn't catch the glare of relief on their faces, thanking you for rescuing them.

Then you spend the next twenty minutes wondering how you got sucked into this black hole. The thing is, no matter how much disinterest you show, the more he continues to pull you in, deeper into his world of idle chatter. And your brain attempts to compensate by entertaining you with random thoughts of pleasure, in an effort to combat the annoying invader: "I wonder what's for lunch tomorrow", "It's about time to wash the car", "She looks great in red Stilettos", "I'm pretty sure I locked the door before leaving the house", and "Oh, are they serving beef?"

This has happened to everyone, right? I mean, I'm not the only guy on the planet this happened to, right? Good. Now, that we got that out of the way, we understand each other. So, how do we avoid this situation in the future?

In an effort to find out myself, I drifted toward the most credible source of instruction on the net—YouTube. Yep. A treasure trove of knowledge lays before us when excavating for valuable tidbits of jewels we call wisdom by others. It’s all there for the taking. We just have to know how to find it.

So…I plugged in my search like this: “avoid talking to people.” And that’s how I found her, the absolute authority on How To Avoid Talking To People You Don't Want To Talk To, Jenna Marbles. She presented such a unique way of how to avoid talking with the most insidiously obnoxious of folks at a party that I wanted to share it with everyone. Mind you though, her perspective is not for the faint of heart. Be warned!

Thus, my question: What do you do to avoid talking with those people who don’t know how to shut up?

I told you this post had nothing to do with writing.

It's Groundhog Day!

2012-02-02T06:47:00.007-05:00

Groundhog Day reigns as one of my most favorite movies of all time. Imagine what life would be like if we're all given a Groundhog Day of sorts to relive over and over again until we got things right.

Much like Bill Murray in the film, we'd freak out at first wondering what took place in our lives to bring us back to the same place each morning. And, in the short term, much like the character in the movie, we'd probably have some fun with the whole concept of knowing no matter what we do, everything will stay the same—even if we try—all because we haven't addressed the real problem. But something will eventually click to make us realize all is meaningless until we make ourselves better because of it.

What is my Groundhog Day?

For years, I had convinced myself I'd sell my first novel to a publisher without much effort on my part. Every year would begin the same way, with much anticipation and goal-setting. I'd prepare the manuscript, another version of the ominous query letter and a list of agents. As the year progressed and the rejection letters poured in, my attitude would wane until summer, when—hey, summertime! Who wants to deal with rejections during summertime? Not me! No way! So, I'd stop sending out the queries until, oh, mid-September, if that. Summers drag on in my part of Canada! I would then push out a few half-hearted attempts at querying again in an effort to save face. Then Christmas rolls by, and much like summer, who wants to think of sending out queries during the holiday season? Not me! No way!

And it starts all over the following year disguised as my own personal Groundhog Day Hell.

This is the part of the movie where Bill Murray loses his mind to want to kidnap the groundhog to end the misery of reliving the same day, or in my case, the same year.

I'm going to jump out of context for a second, referencing a quote from another one of my favorite movies, American Beauty: It's never too late to get it back.

Today is the day for change! Whatever may have entered into our lives to make it repetitive, annoying and boring—it's never too late to get it all back! Query rejections come and go. Critiquing partner surprises may throw us a wall to scale, but the joy we receive from writing should never diminish, for We. Are. Writers. We are a breed set apart to impart knowledge to the masses. We are the chosen, given the gifts to overcome any and all travails!

It IS Groundhog Day! It doesn't mean we shouldn't enjoy it. It's the day we can break out of our old habits and try something new. It's a day when we can get it all back.

Happy Groundhog Day folks!

Twitter Dialogue Blog Hop

2012-01-31T19:03:00.002-05:00

My critique partner, Juliana Brandt, had an interesting idea this week for a blog hop. I liked it so much, I wonder how I never thought of it myself! The idea is to write out a snippet of dialogue in Twitter-style format without exceeding 140 characters per line. Once complete, participants can then add the link to Juliana's blog. Well, I'm participating because I thought I would have some fun with it!

So, below is my entry:

@Kirsten: Hi!
@Jesse: Hey
@Kirsten: How's your day?
@Jesse: Alright, my day's good
@Kirsten: What's the matter?
@Jesse: Nothing, what makes you think there's anything the matter?
@Kirsten: I don't know, your answers are different
@Jesse: Different? How?
@Kirsten: I don't know, just different
@Jesse: The word "different" can mean anything.
@Kirsten: Your words are short and you ended that last sentence with a period...
@Jesse: Is this going to be one of those conversations?
@Kirsten: Now, you're mad
@Jesse: I am not mad.
@Kirsten: It sure feels like you're mad
@Jesse: You're making me mad.
@Kirsten: No one makes anyone mad, you make yourself mad
@Jesse: All I said was "hey" and now we're in a full-blown argument!
@Kirsten: You said "hey" without an exclamation mark, big difference from your regular greetings.
@Jesse: Okay, then! Hello! Good Morning! Good Day! Happy?
@Kirsten: Now, you're putting on a front. I don't need you fronting.
@Jesse: So, really, it's all about you.
@Kirsten: What?
@Jesse: You said you didn't NEED me fronting.
@Kirsten: I don't.
@Jesse: You were implying your needs are more important than my sincerity.
@Kirsten: Ugh, I don't want to talk to you anymore.
@Jesse: All of a sudden I’m right, and you want to leave?
@Kirsten: Hey, I was in a good mood before talking with you.
@Jesse: You asked me what was the matter, and I answered.
@Kirsten: I have to go.
@Jesse: Wait.
@Kirsten: *sigh*
@Jesse: Ok, so maybe I shouldn't have said that
@Kirsten: It's ok
@Jesse: You’re having a moment, aren’t you?
@Kirsten: I’ll be fine
@Jesse: Listen, I didn't mean for being insensitive toward your feelings
@Kirsten: You can’t treat me like this.
@Jesse: I know. I, uh...sometimes get lost
@Kirsten: Well, just remember where to find me
@Jesse: Friends?
@Kirsten: Friends :)
@Jesse: How's your day?
@Kirsten: Don’t YOU start now!

Continuity Errors in Writing

2012-01-29T09:30:00.006-05:00

I think movies rank as the best thing invented since…well, since the iPod! I stayed away from wanting to say sliced bread or a toaster—c’mon, give me some credit for attempting to remain non-cliché on my own blog. Those standard one hundred minutes, mystically chosen a long, long time ago as the bona fide perfect running time for movies, make for a wonderful pastime for us story junkies. If a film runs longer than one hundred minutes, then we know the director had something more to say about the story than what the studio had in mind.

I’ve watched an inordinate amount of movies in my lifetime—recent times, even more so than before. My love for film started when my parents and I would watch old spaghetti westerns from the 70s every Sunday at two in the afternoon. We’d gorge on Lupini beans (a delicacy in some parts of Europe, cured in salt and water), and enjoy an afternoon of gun-slinging, with a man with no name as the anti-hero, making towns safe from brutal robber barons. My parents loved talking about the actors in the movies, the latest gossip they’ve heard of them and reading the credits of the film. I still read the credits of the film to see who wrote the music, produced it, starred in it and directed it. Yup, I’m a boring individual who needs to get out more.

Something I take pleasure in spotting in movies are continuity errors. You know the ones—the drinks in the glasses that change in levels as a scene plays, or how the hands on a clock on a wall never, ever change, even though we know for a fact it’s been five minutes the main characters have sat in that diner. I get a kick out of spotting those.

Here are some of the ones I’ve found on my own from past flicks:

The Godfather—Michael talks with Kay about Luca Brasi. Notice how his cigarette magically disappears and reappears in the scene while Kay’s fork changes from left to right hand.
The Wizard of Oz—Dorothy’s bouquet given to her by the Munchkins disappears once she leaves Munchkinland. Also, in the poppy field, Toto falls asleep somewhere else but when Dorothy wakes up, Toto’s in her arms.
Titanic—The size of the safe opened by the treasure hunters is larger than the one from the night of the sinking. Also, pay attention to Cal’s hair when he storms out of the room after claiming of a robbery. First, his bangs hang in his face, and then when he turns around, he has them tucked back.

Having watched so many movies allowed me to keep a close eye at scenes as they played out in the context of the film. Being attentive to continuity errors also conditioned me to spot them in books. Here are a few of the popular ones:

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire—In chapter 22 of the book, it says Harry and Cho Chang are a year apart. But in Prisoner of Azkaban, it states they are two years apart.
Breaking Dawn—On page 39, it said that when Charlie got up, Bella made him pancakes. Later, it says that Charlie scowled into his cereal bowl.
Carrie—On Page 69 (Part One: Blood Sport) the Owner of the Kelly Fruit Company is called Hubert, but on page 217 (Part Three: Wreckage), his name changes to Henry.

As writers, our job consists of avoiding continuity errors that can hamper the credibility of our stories. One thing I’ve learned to do without fail after writing my stories is to note times, people and places I’ve written in to ensure I haven’t made a mess of things by giving contradictory information. Part of this exercise comes from the editing process, but it also exists when I’m in the throes of writing—when writing in the detail.

Here are a few tips in order to avoid continuity errors in our stories:

Jot important facts about a scene. Write out W5H (who, what, when, where, why and how) summaries about the scenes. Sometimes a simple question will reveal an inconsistency somewhere else in the book.
Remember the location of objects in a scene. (ie. If a character brings a cup of coffee into a living room and in the next scene, does the same thing, then you have a continuity error—that is if the character’s not having a second cup.)
Read, read and read. Keep rereading the manuscript until it’s solid. Even today, I surprise myself knowing I still find blatant errors in the manuscript while performing another read-through. Keep reading!
Have someone else read your manuscript. I know, I know…first-time authors hate the idea of other people critiquing their work. I know this. Believe me when I say, it opens your eyes to a world of wonders when you do. My critique partner for The Necklace, Juliana L. Brandt, provided me invaluable suggestions. She read my entire manuscript, noting inconsistencies and gave me a thorough summary at the end of my book. She’s awesome and I would recommend her to anyone looking for that extra polish.

I’m sure I can add a multitude of other suggestions to the list, but I’d rather leave it open for discussion in the Comments area. In the meantime, I’ll keep watching my movies—enjoying the story, plot and narrative while I keep an eye out for those dratted continuity errors. Hey, someone has to go on IMDB to post those blunders on that site!

[By the way, I purposely left an error in the first paragraph of this post. Can you find it? Hint: Anachronism!]

I Love Canada

2012-01-25T00:09:00.000-05:00

I love living in Canada. I do. I’ve traveled to many places throughout the world. Not to sound partial or prideful in my speech, but my Canada ranks as the most beautiful place to live and raise a family in the world. The wonderful thing about living where I do is that lots of woods and farms surround my home. Lots.

Now, the town where I live is an old colonial town. It came to being back in the 1800’s, during the war with the States. Yes, we were the red coats. As a trading post, well-to-do’s spent much of their hard-earned cash here on business between the other towns and the city—the city being Toronto. Much of that philosophy has carried over to today. Although our town is small, it has a huge and dramatic influence throughout York Region, where many of our townships lie.

Living where I live, I enjoy the four seasons. Our summers are hot and our winters are cold. Much of what we go through as citizens in our country we take for granted. For instance, almost every family on my street has their kids in hockey. It’s the Canadian way. Another example of being Canadian is our Hockey Night in Canada program on the CBC on Saturday nights. Most, if not all the guys sit around their TV sets to enjoy the great game of hockey, with lots of beer for the taking, railing on the Toronto Maple Leafs.

I’m not one of those guys. Never been. Never will. I’d rather watch a movie on a Saturday night, with lots of action and plenty of drama to boot than watch a hockey game. Sorry guys. That’s the way I’ve always been. That’s the way it is.

Nevertheless, getting back to my town…lots of woods and farms surround my home. I enjoy the autumn and wintertime because of the joy it brings me when planning activities. I get a thrill when I’m in amongst our townsfolk. I don’t know how to describe it. There’s a camaraderie with each other, knowing that we all know each other simply by a gesture, a smile or a nod. It’s difficult not going to a grocery store, library or gas station without greeting someone I know. DIFFICULT. Equally difficult is NOT stopping for a conversation to find out how the family is doing or how nine-year-old Chester’s doing with his piano lessons or his weekend hockey games.

I enjoy being Canadian. I wouldn’t want anything else in a hundred or a thousand years. It’s who I am. I enjoy our hard, HARD, winters. I love our temperate, mild autumns. And, there’s nothing like having fun on a Saturday night with the neighbors and their kids during hockey season.

Yes, this is not a writing-centric post. But it does give you a glimpse—a bird’s eye view—of where I’m coming from to understand where I fit in the big scheme of things.

Oh, I also enjoy cooking—lots of cooking, living a wholesome life based on the principles laid out in the bible…and I take pride in saying I’m Canadian!

Die, Prograstination, Die!

2012-01-22T09:30:00.008-05:00

Oh, I’m in a serious rant mood this morning. Hide your kids, dish out the popcorn ‘cause this will go down in the history books as a George Carlin special without the cursing.

How many of us have fallen to procrastination? Yeah, we’re talking about twenty-two days after our New Year’s resolutions going up in smoke procrastination. I have. I’m sure a number of my writer friends have too. What does it take?

Does this sound familiar? “After the new year, I’m going to rock it. I’m going to start writing my book, edit it and query it to have a publishing contract by the end of the year.” One little thing there, cowboy. You’ve got to write the thing first before thinking about that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow (yeah, it’s cliché. My blog, my rules). What’s it gonna take to get the wheels in motion so that this time next year we’re all not staring down the same black hole we call a WIP? And I’m not talking about the World Institute of Pain either. Or the Weatherization and Intergovernmental Program. There are websites for those. Go there if you still don’t get it!

What can we do to beat this procrastination bug? Besides smacking each other upside the head—here’s a list. And, guys, this is not a beauty pageant. For Pete’s sake, I could have added writing in my underwear as a point on the list. So take the points I have, add to them and write your own blog post about them. There’s no right or wrong to this stuff.

Defeating Procrastination

For friggin’ sakes, write the bloody thing! Ever use these excuses?
- Oh my, I had a terrible week. I don’t have it in me to write today.
- When I get a chance, I’ll do it tomorrow. Too busy today.
- Too late to do anything, now. I have to get up and go to work tomorrow morning.
- I’m having company over.
- My dog’s having surgery.
- You’re kidding, right? It’s grocery and laundry day.
- I gotta feed the hog.
Sit down and write. You say you’re going to do something. Do it! Don’t use every excuse thinking you can delay the inevitable. You can’t. Time does NOT stand still. If you say it—DO IT! Otherwise, it makes you look like a liar and a fool to everyone around you. Most of all, you’re lying to yourself in a big, big way.
Get off the social networking sites! Yeah, you heard me. Agents don’t care how many followers you have on Twitter. Or if you’re nice to everyone around you ‘cause you respond to every tweet that mentions your name. Or if you have a bazillion Likes on Facebook. Or if you get everyone from your aunt Jennie from Utah (no offense to Utahns) to comment on your blog. Agents. Don’t. Care.

Agents want to see a well-written query and an amazing first three chapters to your book. That’s it. Unless you’re Brad Pitt or Lady Gaga, you’ll have to impress the agents with your writing—not your social standing in this popularity contest we all call “Social Networking” on Twitter, Facebook, Blogger, Tumbler, blah-blah-blah…

They don’t care. Learn it. Know it. Live it.
Still not convinced?

What’s the dearest thing in your life? Imagine it taken away from you. That’s what every day of procrastination does. It bleeds you until the desire you had of wanting to do good is gone. And there’s nothing left recognizable of what used to bring you the most joy in life. Scary, huh? It’s sad, too—to see that first love disappear from neglect.

I’ll bet you the best ideas in the world are those ideas that never made it to drawing board ‘cause of procrastination. I don’t even want to imagine the implications that statement has to science and technology.

Look out the window. Imagine where you want to be in five years and it will be so. You can’t do it without working. You gotta work hard at it. It’s not going to be easy, but no one ever said success is easy, right?

Time to kick butt and chew bubble gum…and I’m fresh outta gum. Rant over.

The Man and the Mermaid

2012-01-19T18:19:00.012-05:00

A long time ago, there lived a man whose only desire in life bordered that of insanity. He had in his mind the idea he would find his true love in the world's oceans. That he would fall in love with a mermaid. For upon the lands on which he lived, he thought, no one could fill his heart brimful and running over as would a mermaid.

One day, the man of meek countenance, secured his boat, net and supplies, and set his mast to the westerly wind. For days, he rode the heavy waves through rain, thunder and lighting. At one point, the bow of his vessel split from the gales, forcing the man to repair the damage with what little supplies he had left for his own survival.

Then one evening, it came to pass, when calm took hold of the waters and the man lay in the throes of defeat, a sweet melody floated above the waters to the man's ears. His curiosity pulled him to the edge of the boat where the sound washed away his sadness. The sound melted the man, for it convinced him into believing it was that of an angel, come to take his soul to heaven. Without hesitation, the man slipped his hand into the water, resolved death had come to sift him away. Trembling, he waited.

Some time later, the man awoke to a wisp against his sunken palm. He thought nothing of it, for the emptiness in his chest freed him of the ambition to investigate. Another wisp grazed through his fingers, caressing them as a gentle fine silk. This prompted the man to raise his head off the port bow to find two eyes like pearls peering at him from below the surface of the water. This frightened the man, propelling him backward into the boat.

Shaking off his fear, he edged over the side, dipping his gaze to meet the eyes. From side-to-side they drifted until, to the amazement of the man, they surfaced. His eyes met hers, dumbfounding them both. A mermaid.

The man could not draw away from the siren. Her hair was of a fiery coat of crimson. Her eyes like emeralds from the most precious mines in the sea. And her smile shone as bright as the moon on a hot summer's night.

Unable to think on account of the mermaid's beauty, he offered her to sit on the boat. With a graceful shake, she decline. He asked of her name, of where she came from and of her life. She whispered her answers as would a leaf falling from a tree in the autumn rain. They spoke for hours not realizing nightfall had approached, darkening the waters to a murky depth.

The next day, the mermaid appeared again to the man, and again they enjoyed each other's company in conversation and talk until nightfall when the mermaid departed from him.

The next day after that, the man awoke to the sound of lapping water in the ocean. A smile drew upon his face with the knowledge his beloved had returned to him. But when the man lifted his head to the sight of another boat abeam to port from his, and seeing the mermaid had swam at full speed to it, jealousy entered the man's heart. The mermaid belonged to him. No one else had the right to experience her company, and she certainly did not have the right to spend her time with no one other than him, he thought. The mermaid returned to him for the day, yet the envy did not stem. The man devised a plan. He would capture the mermaid to keep her all to himself.

In the evening, when the mermaid returned to her home beneath the waters, the man searched amongst his affects for the chains he carried on board to secure the cargo. He secured one end to the sail's mast, hiding the rest under a burlap sack with a lock on the other end.

In the morning, the man awoke from his slumber and scurried to the ship's aft, where he expected his beloved to appear. The other boat stood in the waters as well, eagerly anticipating her arrival. Not long afterwards, the mermaid's voice penetrated the waters and she swam in circles, free-spirited and content. She came to rest at the edge of the bow of the other boat. The man's jealousy consumed his heart as a fire would a dry forest after a month's drought.

Later in the morning, after the mermaid had completed her greetings with the other boat, she returned to the man for the day. The man, whose envy raged within, sought to engage the mermaid to approach closer and to enter his boat. Trusting the man, she nodded her head. Just for a little while, she thought. It then happened, when the man had distracted her with the sight of the other boat, he reached under the sack and locked the end of the chain on her wrist. The mermaid screamed and wailed. She dove into the ocean in an attempt to escape the man's malevolent heart. She splashed hard causing foam to rise from the waters. To no avail, though, she could not escape.

For a time, the man rested satisfied in his boat with the knowledge he had found his true love and would never, ever let her go. He stood proud until he noticed the blood in the water from the shackle on the mermaid's wrist. Repenting of what he had done, the man dropped onto the boat floor, tearing at his clothes and pulling at his hair. Compassion overtook the man and anguish entered therein, pushing out the jealousy that had earlier engulf his very being.

The man pulled from the floor, and with his hands, followed the chain to the surface of the water. In a gentle fashion, the man tugged at the chain, wanting the mermaid to surface. But she did not. Taking a deep breath, the man waited some and tugged again, this time with a more gentle hand. But she did not surface. In deep remorse, the man curled up on the boat floor and fell to a deep sleep.

When the man awoke the next morning, he did not hear the splashes, nor see the waves of circles in the water. The mermaid had remained hidden that day without appearing to him. The man shook in despair for the pain he had caused the mermaid. He thought, instead of bringing happiness to her, he brought misery. Leaning over the edge of the boat, he gazed into the ocean, attempting to seek out his companion. Yet, she remained hidden. With grief overtaking him, a tear ran down from the man’s cheek and dropped into the ocean, travelling to where the mermaid hid. When he could not find her, he crawled into a corner of the boat and cowered in silent pain.

A short time later, the man lifted his head to the movement of the chain and splashing in the water. He wasted no time. The man leapt from his darkness and tore to the boat’s bow from where the sound had emanated. The mermaid had reappeared to him. Blood from her wrist from the shackle filled the water. The man cupped his face in mourning, repentant of what he had done to her. He begged for her forgiveness. With an outstretched hand, he gestured for her to approach him so he could remove the binding from her arm. The mermaid waited, not knowing if he had set another trap. Yet the light in the man’s eyes brought her toward him, forgiving him of his deed. She placed her hand in his, whereby he removed the binding that kept them connected. The mermaid disappeared into the depths of the ocean.

Days thereafter, the man howled and moaned for the loss of his love. Grief overcame him, for she had not returned. Sorrow filled his eyes and quenched his spirit to live. He retreated into the bowels of the boat with death as his only desire left in his bones. As the grave approached him, he heard a gentle rap on the side of his vessel. He paid no mind to the incursion, for he thought ocean debris must have knocked against the side of the boat. When the rapping occurred again, he raised his head and pursued his ears to the starboard. His eyes beheld the beauty of his soul. The mermaid had returned.

Not wanting to frighten her ever again, the man sat still in the middle of the boat with his hands cupped between his legs. The mermaid drew near the boat, swam around once, and to the man’s astonishment, she pulled herself in to sit across from him. Other boats had wafted in the area, yet she did not leave the man for the others.

In the course of the day, they carried on in companionship, laughing and crying as they drew near to each other in word and in spirit. When nightfall approached, instead of leaving, as she had on previous occasions, the mermaid stayed.

In the peace of the morning, the man’s eyes cracked open to the sight of his love laying at rest, facing away next to him. With wonderful thoughts scurrying through his head of how they had spent the previous day together, he smiled. The man rose, yawned and stretched in happiness thinking if every day brought joy to them as the last, he would remain forever grateful for his blessing.

A few minutes of pondering left the man smacking his lips in thirst. Not wanting to wake his love, he slipped the blanket over her shoulder. A chill ran up the man’s spine when his hand made contact with the mermaid’s arm. Ever so quiet, he stroked her hair back to reveal the skin on her shoulder had a blue hue like that of the sky in stormy high season.

At once, the man tossed the mermaid to her back to reveal her gasping. He struggled with the blanket, tearing it away from her frail body. Her fingers had turned to prune and her hair a dull oak. As her eyes faded, the mermaid pointed to the ocean water. Nodding strong, the man scooped the mermaid from where she lay, ran her to the bow, and without hesitating, he jump in the water with her in his arms. Letting go, he allowed her to sink to the depths, disappearing into the darkness of the ocean. Understanding flooded the man's heart, for he learned of his own volition the mermaid could never draw near to him again. If he allowed the mermaid to do so, she would surely die.

When the morning's light burned heavy on the day, the man raised his sail to the East, setting his course to the lands from which he came. Before leaving, the mermaid, who he thought had abandoned him forever, came to him bearing a gift. Understanding had also fallen on the mermaid's heart, bringing knowledge that the man could never return with her to her world, for if he did, he would surely die.

The mermaid, in all her beauty, presented the man a magical conch shell. She explained if he ever drew to loneliness in his lifetime, he could set the shell to his ear and hear her voice singing the hymns of the sea. The gift puffed the man's eyes to inspire him to give of his own gift. He searched through his affects revealing the lock to which he had bound the mermaid. He presented it to her, releasing her in whole from her bond to him.

The mermaid hugged the man and disappeared into the waters beneath, never to appear to another soul ever again.

The man, blinded by the sun and with the wind in his sail, left the ocean, never to return again.

Writers Write

2012-01-06T00:02:00.011-05:00

Ken Rockwell has always ranked high as a great inspiration of mine. For those unfamiliar with his work, Rockwell’s portfolio is my go-to reference for color in photography. Writers, don’t leave yet—I’m going to fill you in on the connection soon enough.

Rockwell’s eye for composition and contrast caught my fancy in the summer of 2007. While shopping around for a new digital camera, I stumbled upon his site. The very first thing that stood out in my mind screamed creativity. Ensnaring me, his bold colors and dramatic placement of elements in the field of his masterpieces, bore resemblance to my childhood memories of the sunsets I used to know when playing soccer out in the country with my dearest friends.

One of the principles I’ve gleaned from Rockwell is that the camera doesn’t matter. A photographer may have the fanciest equipment on the face of the planet but if they don’t know how to shoot, it’ll still come out uninspired. Ansel Adams didn’t have Photoshop to play with, yet his body of work displays genius. That was in the 1940s! Rockwell also goes so far as to say if someone knows how to take great pictures, all they would need is a cheap disposable or toy camera. The picture will show the talent of the photographer, regardless of the equipment.

Okay, so here’s the writery part, as I know you’re all dying to find out where all this is going.

The $1,000 laptop doesn’t make the writer. Nor does the $200 netbook. Not even the coveted iPad. Nope. Not one bit. What makes a writer—a good writer—is not the equipment, but the ideas expressed in the writer’s unique voice. Once the writer finds that voice, it will not matter if the novel escapes out of a box of Alpha-Bits—the writer wrote it that way, and it’s the way it ought to read. Pure and simple.

I will never say I’m a good writer. Never. But I will say I hope to be a better writer. In any event, my writing instruments I pledge my allegiance to reside within my desk drawers and my knapsack. Pen and paper provide me with my creative outlet. I have found no other better form of writing. I’m not saying it makes me a good writer. Not at all. I’m saying it’s my equipment of choice, which allows me to express myself in the best possible way.

Laptops, netbooks, iPads do make writing easier, quicker and more convenient. But they will not make a bad writer better. Regardless of the equipment, a bad writer will remain a bad writer, if they don’t have the gumption within themselves to improve in their craft.

In Ken Rockwell’s inimitable words: “You probably already have all the equipment you need, if you'd just learn to make the best of it. Better gear will not make you any better photos, since the gear can't make you a better photographer. Photographers make photos, not cameras.”

Writers write, not equipment.

[Please note: I took the photo above of the Royal York in Toronto, Canada with a basic 3.2MP camera.]

To 2012 and Beyond

2011-12-31T12:18:00.001-05:00

This is going to be a short post. I suppose because of all the writing I’ve done throughout the year, blogs, WIP, etc., I felt a little burned out a few weeks ago. And having participated in NaNoWriMo (look it up—I’m not posting a link to this again), accelerated my creative output tenfold. That is why I took a breather for a few weeks during this winter vacation to write a list of things I wanted to accomplish in 2012 and a list of what I didn’t want to happen in 2012. I’m, uh, calling these lists The Wanton Lists of Anticipatory Writing Ventures by a Mad Literary Enthusiast with Nothing to Lose but Himself.

Okay, so it’s a long title. But, hey, I think I have the right to call them Rice Pudding if I want. My blog, my title!

Anyway, these lists form the basis of what I expect to have accomplished by the end of next year. They’re simple and straightforward, and I’ve written them already knowing how 2012 will shape up…yup, I’m a seer…I don’t think I’ve ever revealed that!

Do you want to know what’s on the lists?

Alright. On the list of what I want to accomplish in 2012 is this…ready? Here it is:

To support others as I would like others to support me

Yup, nothing more. Just a simple mission statement. I figure I enjoy the accolades once in a while, so, rather than try to impress, I’d go further and raise those who need raising and help those who need helping. Some call it paying if forward. I call it doing the right thing. Am I an idealist? Maybe. But I’ll know I’ll have a good night’s sleep with the knowledge I’ve helped someone else instead of thinking of what I want in 2012.

Okay, with that out of the way, here is the other list—the one about what I don’t want happen in the new year. Ready?

To not be so heavenly minded that I’m no earthly good

Many people talk the talk about what they want to accomplish next year and…they talk about it…and talk…but nothing really gets done. I don’t want to end up like that.

Nice to plan. Better to do.

Nevertheless, that’s my thing. Anyone care to share what will be in their future in 2012?

George Carlin's Legacy of Words

2011-12-16T00:17:00.000-05:00

When George Carlin died, June 22, 2008, I had all I could do to avoid the TV tribute shows in his honor. HBO, one of America’s foremost brazen authorities in daring television programming, dedicated a full 12-hour marathon of Carlin’s TV specials on their HBO Comedy channel. NBC had played a rerun of Saturday Night Live’s premier episode, which Carlin hosted. The JFK Center for the Performing Arts had also named Carlin as the recipient of 2008’s Mark Twain Prize for American Humor. He became the first posthumous honoree to receive the award.

During this time, I had the opportunity to pick up Carlin’s entire catalog of comedy albums from a friend who raved about the man to no end. I wanted to find out for myself what made Carlin so special that the entire media industry stopped for the man who once spent time in jail for uttering obscenities as did Lenny Bruce, another prolific comedian of the day.

The very first routine I indulged in came from his Parental Advisory: Explicit Lyrics album, Offensive Language. Contrary to the title of the bit, which comes in at four-minutes-and-forty-five-seconds, the only offensive language pops up in the last fifteen seconds, with the declaration of one word. Other than that, he speaks of clichés people use as euphemisms to disguise their activities they perform in the course of life. A sample of this follows:

“There will also be no new-age lingo spoken here tonight. No support-group jargon from the human potential movement. For instance, I will not share anything with you. I will not relate to you and you will not identify with me. I will give you no input, and I will expect no feedback. This will not be a learning experience, nor will it be a growth period. There'll be no sharing, no caring, no birthing, no bonding, no parenting, no nurturing. We will not establish a relationship, we will not have any meaningful dialogue and we definitely will not spend any quality time. We will not be supportive of one another, so that we can get in touch with our feelings in order to feel good about ourselves.”

From there, I devoured the album and went on to consume his other albums in an epic-like fashion. It took me a whole week to burn through all his material. At various points throughout, I had to stop. The visuals he painted sunk into my mind as extremes, firing pensive thoughts of society, religion and politics. Although he depicted a brash way about the way he delivered his material, he chose his words with the conviction of a surgeon, cutting through the heart of a matter and leaving it in tatters.

If I have learned anything from George Carlin, I have learned to be open and honest with all that I do. To imbue candidness with my speech so as there is no denying what I mean when I say something. Of course, I do lack the intense, flowery words Carlin would have chosen, but I do get my point across in other ways. If I don’t like something, I’ll say it. If I’m sad, everyone knows it. And if something punches me in the face like a joyous surprise, I’ll express that joy, not holding back.

For as Carlin used to say: “Take a chance! Put a little fun in your life!”

With that, I leave his words:

“I love words. I thank you for hearing my words. I want to tell you something about words that I think is important. They're my work, they're my play, they're my passion. Words are all we have, really. We have thoughts but thoughts are fluid. Then we assign a word to a thought and we're stuck with that word for that thought, so be careful with words. I like to think that the same words that hurt can heal, it is a matter of how you pick them. There are some people that are not into all the words. There are some that would have you not use certain words. There are 400,000 words in the English language and there are 7 of them you can't say on television. What a ratio that is. 399,993 to 7. They must really be bad. They'd have to be outrageous to be separated from a group that large. All of you over here, you 7, BAD WORDS. That's what they told us they were, remember? ‘That's a bad word!’ No bad words, bad thoughts, bad intentions. WORDS!”

Music and Inspiration

2011-12-11T14:48:00.004-05:00

Ever run into a situation where you wake up one morning with the desire of not wanting to write a tittle? I’ll save you some time. A tittle is the little dot on the letter i. Well, I’ve had those days—those dark, gloomy days where things didn’t make much sense. Under normal circumstances I would forge ahead, lending credence to the fact I can bounce back from any traumatic writing experience.

But what if the option to bounce back disappeared? What if the main inspiration to the writing got up and left? Then what? Some writers may consider this the lowest of the low points in their work. On the other hand, I take it as an opportunity to regroup in order to understand how I can improve.

With that in mind, I’ve tended to reflect on what went wrong. I’ll attempt to meditate on how I lost my muse—of how it broke bad from the highest of the high. Anyone who knows me, knows all too well I lean toward an analytical solution to the crisis at hand. The problem with writing though, in particular fiction writing, is that for me, it’s an emotional matter resolved by emotional solutions. In my case, these solutions lay dormant until a crisis takes hold to which these solutions then spring to life.

Sounds vague, doesn’t it?

I know. Believe me when I say how confused I am when I reread my own words. It’s not an easy time for me when things get confounded. Writing makes sense up to a certain point. It’s when everything around me falls apart that writing suffers as well. Then, instead of it being a sanctuary, writing transforms into the very thing I dread and loath—mounting pressure to complete what I had started.

Therefore, and this is my analytical, logical side talking now, with a loss of inspiration and with life in a cacophony, how do I cope?

I’ve written about this before, but if anything’s good, it’s worth repeating: Music lifts me up when I’m down, brings me happiness in times of challenges and allows me to break forth in glad amusement for the joy that lays before me in the future! Music does all that for me and more.

How is it I lose so much time thinking about what I’ve lost in inspiration, when there is so much to gain from the renewal of that inspiration with music? I see my life with that inspiration as ongoing…but, it has to flourish at the right time. Timing is everything in life! I can only imagine my life with inspiration and I would certainly be without life without it. This is as sure as the sun that sets in the West.

I realize this is a confusing post. I’m trying to make sense of it as well. All I know is music and inspiration makes me want to live a life filled with abundance. I hope this makes sense to you reading it!

Lessons in Human Nature

2011-12-02T00:12:00.002-05:00

Final NaNoWriMo word count: 63,445—You know the thing I noticed about zombies, they appear as a plague-ridden species bent on human annihilation, but in reality, they coast on the borders of ultimate resilience in strength and perseverance. Writing about them for a full month for NaNoWriMo taught me a few things about human nature. These are my observations.

The Good

I can’t say how many congratulatory messages I received when I hit my 50,000 word count goal on November 25, 2011. What a feeling to have so many writery folk who have followed my progress to recognize my efforts—I bow in respect to their candor in wanting me to succeed.
I received so many NaNo messages from fellow writers who have encouraged me to keep going, even in the face of adversity (I fell behind my daily word count by almost 1,000 words at one point) that it made me want to press on, no matter what. Without their encouraging words, I wouldn’t have gone as far as I did.
I learned the identity of those true writer friends who stuck by my side after Day 18 when I stopped posting my stats. Thanks for asking how my writing was going when I fell off the face of the earth.

The Bad

Writing quick forced me to pick up some bad habits along the way. Picking up habits like writing in passive voice, throwing out the economy of words rule, and having all my sentences start with the word The. Terrible habits I’ll need months of therapy from which to recover.

The Ugly

Some writers treated NaNo as a big competition. I found a few who attempted to make themselves feel better about their abilities as writers by getting their word counts in before everyone else or minimizing other people’s daily wins by pushing out higher numbers. Shame on them!
NaNo’s supposed to unleash spontaneity, right? It’s supposed to make writers want to throw caution to the wind in order to go beyond their limits, right? Then why in the name of Gotham would any writer come into an event bringing thousands of words they had written beforehand if the whole point of the event is to unleash spontaneity and go beyond their limits? And then, to validate their manuscript in order to claim victory? What an empty win.

Not to end this on a negative note, as I know my regular readers always look for me to make sense of things once I’ve cleared the air of noxious fumes. But I wouldn’t trade the experience I had with NaNoWriMo for anything…well, not anything within reason, that is. In spite of some bad seeds, I enjoyed the time I had. And I met quite a few new people I admired from a distance who turned into my greatest fans.

So, if next year, someone asks you to join NaNo and you say you don’t have time—make time—it’ll be an experience you’ll soon never forget.

NaNoWriMo - Week 4: Mission: Accomplished!

2011-11-25T00:03:00.005-05:00

I did it! I wrote 50,000 words in 25 days—un-believable. I wrote them all 5 days before NaNoWriMo’s November 30 deadline. Unheard of for me to have accomplished such a goal in so short a period. How did I do it?

First, before I get into the details, I have to admit something. This month, I have learned more about myself than any other time writing. I had my eyes opened by one continuous trial after another. Was it torture? Yes. Was it fun? YES! Some days dragged forever as never-ending dark moments with periods of light. Some days, however—when the story worked—sped by as melting butter.

Going back…how did I do it?

I had a rough start with NaNo. In the early days of the month, it began with missing a few word count targets and continued with me attempting to catch up to my Targeted Average Words Per Day, but never getting ahead. I confess I looked at the stats as religious as a bookie watching a horserace. The addictive quality of NaNo’s stats tab made it difficult to concentrate on the story. Therefore, on Day 18 of the event, when I pushed out 2,666 words, having caught up to supersede the targeted words timeline, I quit posting my numbers. This move kept my sanity intact and my stress level in check.

I kept pace with the 2,600+ word count rhythm by shutting everything out and having a horrendous schedule, such as waking up at 3 A.M. to write for four hours before anyone on the east coast had had their morning coffee. Or burning a whole Sunday behind closed doors to pound out another zombie death scene that ends in a pile of green guck splattered all over a concrete wall. Fun times!

And now that I have completed my goal, next comes the editing process…but not before adding another 30,000-40,000 more words to the manuscript. Then I can trim it to a respectable 70,000 words. I’ve always liked writing more than I needed and cutting down the fat.

Nonetheless, I’m done. Has anyone else finished NaNoWriMo? I’d love to hear from you!

NaNoWriMo - Week 3: Word Counts

2011-11-18T00:16:00.011-05:00

Here it is, week three of NaNoWriMo. Are we having fun yet? We passed the halfway mark. Some fun should come of this, right? Well, I have had more than my share of surprises from this November event. For anyone who hasn’t read my previous two posts, they are Week 1 and Week 2.

I mentioned this point in my last post, but I think I’ll mention it again here since it has taken me aback and has led me through some interesting territory. NaNoWriMo gains it notoriety by its edict of literary abandon, 50,000 words in 30 days. This translates to 1,667 target average words per day. When I began this excursion in my mental breakdown, uh, I mean participating in NaNo, my average words per day had always ranged in the 900-1,100 area. My average, as of this writing, hit 1,581!

Now, I know how this all sounds, “Jack, I didn’t think you played the numbers game. I thought quality played more of an importance to your writing than quantity.” This statement encompasses a truth I hold near and dear to my heart. Quality captures who I am as a person.

But in this case—quantity is the goal.

I look at this event as a stepping-stone to quality. My workflow dictates how I write. Words come to me when I travel to and from the city. Words come to me during lunch. And words come to me at night before heading to bed.

So far, I’ve kept up with the 1,581 word pace. However, in the coming weeks as the story picks up, I can see that word count grow exponentially. I do have a problem to conquer though. I write everything in longhand and then transcribe my words to Word when I get home at night. I think to get more words in for the day, I will bring my netbook in to the city during my commutes. This would cut down on my transcribing time and allow me to concentrate all efforts on getting the story out.

Nonetheless, I have learned so much about myself participating in NaNo, I don’t think I could have learned in any other way. This event has tested my limits, patience and resilience to move forward in the face of adversity, no matter how bad it gets when struggling for the words to write.

NaNoWriMo - Week 2: Discoveries

2011-11-11T00:02:00.008-05:00

Here I stand, at the precipice of absolute insanity. With a humble heart, I have to admit one of my failings to the world at large. Ready? I. Am. A pantser.

Running through my word counts this week for NaNoWriMo, I discovered I have a natural ability to plot a story out as I go! Well, to me, this is a HUGE finding of seismic proportions. I’ve also discovered, through the shear pain of writing, my word count surged much higher than what I had thought when first starting the November event!

Notice how I’ve placed exclamation marks after both those sentences in the previous paragraphs. That is no accident.

Let me talk about the first part, about being a pantser. For all who have read my blog in the past, knowing how I function, I’ve always prided myself as a logic plotter. I’ve outlined many stories, burned through notebooks with character and relationship studies, and I’ve written from an outline ever since I could remember. When NaNoWriMo began on November 1st, I jumped in with a silly, little zombie story that I thought would be a great distraction from the romance novels I’ve aspired to have published instead. What a surprise! I’m having fun writing again!

For instance, I never realized just how many shades of green there are in the world until I wrote about emerald giblets, turquoise puss, olive splatter, lime spray and green guck, goo and ooze! It’s quite fascinating, really!

As for my word count, for years I’ve thought I can only push 1,000 words a day. What a shock when another discovery smacked me in the face like copper piping belonging in interior home construction (silly phrase, I know, but it has a nice rhythm to it). I’m pushing around 1,400 after a slow start, and it has steadily increased over the past few days.

So, for all you writing affascinatos, NaNoWriMo may be about writing as many words as one can, but to me, it has revealed facets about my writing I didn’t know about.

If you’re a NaNoWriMo writer, what have you learned?

NaNoWriMo - Week 1: Literary Abandon

2011-11-04T00:11:00.011-04:00

This year, I’ve joined NaNoWriMo for the first time ever. For those unfamiliar with the unknown acronym of vicarious invitation, it means National Novel Writing Month. The subhead on the site states this: Thirty days and nights of literary abandon. Some folk also call it nano for short.

Trust me when I say this—literary abandon doesn’t even come close! I classify the event as hair pulling, nerve-wracking pain. Much of the way I write, for instance, comes to the value of the story, the rhythm of the plot and the way the characters steer through the chapters. NaNoWriMo forces me to keep writing until things make sense. All very good if you live by the seat of your pants, like most pantsers—but I’m a plotter—I live for outlining a story, plot points and characters. I’m writing my story as a pantser for this event.

So, what is my story about? Well, it’s about Ranger Martin, a zombie killer of the highest order. He loves getting his hands dirty with green goo splattering out of maggot-filled skulls from the undead. His motto reigns supreme: A dead zombie is not dead until you blow its brain out with a shotgun. And he brandishes his shotgun like a friend, near and dear to his heart.

Well, I can tell you about the kids he meets on his way in saving the world, but blah, blah, blah…if I tell you about the whole plot, would you still buy the book?

The next question comes to mind: What kind of effort is involved on my part in accomplishing NaNoWriMo goal. Oops, I neglected to mention the goal! During Nov 1-30, participants are required to write a novel of 50,000 words. For us techie, logic guys…that’s 1,666 words a day. How many words does it translate for me? I can produce about 250 words an hour. This is sextuple that amount!

How am I doing it? During my train rides in and out of the city, I write with a frantic vengeance in order to hit the daily word count. I also write the whole thing in longhand so as I can force myself to concentrate on what comes next and not correct what I wrote instead. As long as I hit my daily word count, I’m fine. It’s those days I miss the word count that the following day is double. Well, you might as well wrap me up in a straightjacket and throw me into the deep ocean. No way could I catch up from such a devastating fallback.

But, as of this writing, it’s only Day 2, I'm hitting targets. Some time has yet to determine if I’ll make the word counts to my WIP (work in progress to the non-writers) in the coming weeks.

Wish me luck! I’ll need it!

My Journey From the Abyss

2011-10-28T00:09:00.002-04:00

Giving thought to a future without writing saddens me. Left to my own devices, emptied of my will to live, I can truly foresee a brutal ending to this miserable existence—if the flow of words trickle to a drip. Am I exaggerating when I say my presence on this earth amounts to only in experiencing those inevitable few moments of pleasure every day when I bring my pen to paper? I think not. As dark a picture as I have painted, a life barren of words is, as I have never existed.

Two years ago, I began to write my second book, late at night and on weekends. It started as an idea about two high school kids who deny their love for one another in an effort to devote their lives to opposite goals. As time would dictate, their fate would draw them into each other's arms, married.

The story progressed well for the first few days. I had the plot planned out in my mind of how the story would work and how the characters would relate with the events I threw at them. But unlike my first novel, the words came in sporadic spurts. I have never had this happen to me with any of my stories before. My natural reaction to ignore my first instinct seized hold of the logical part of my brain, confusing me into believing I would snap out of it.

Two days became two months, which then became two years. My self-deception lasted longer than what it took me to write all my short stories and book, combined. Perplexed, a few months ago, I threw the story away—something I should have done the first month I began the project.

Do I regret it? Did I waste those two years of my life on a nonsense idea I couldn't bring to fruition? Had I fallen so hard that I wouldn't know how to start over?

The answer to all these questions is a resounding NO! In fact, if I have learned anything at all, it's that I should always trust my first instinct. Some may call it that still, small voice in the back of the mind, waking up when something appears amiss. Some may call it a conscience. Whatever it is, it acts as a guide, a helper along life's way. I ignored it—and found myself starring up from the bottom of an abyss from which I couldn’t escape. Had I continued with my attempts to rescue the story, my mind would have remained castigated in that dark holding cell for a long, long time.

Now, I’m relieved to say, I’ve put the struggles behind me to concentrate on my newfound project with a deeper understanding of who I am. I’ve gone back to my roots, churning out a tale that even has me surprised as to how well the plot has unfolded. For me, no longer does listlessness dominate my mornings or crowd my evenings. Contentment has once again graced my brow.

Looking back, the decision to scrap my second book led me to better productivity with its replacement. I needn’t worry about a future without writing anymore. For no more sadness will enter into my mind as the words flow like rivers of raging water.

Me? A Published Author?

2011-10-21T00:02:00.001-04:00

Why would anyone want to become a published author? Why do I want to become a published author? Bad enough I have my own life to live in a boarding house in the middle of a field wasting away with the other derelicts surrounding me—why should I add to my troubles by attempting to attain a title so elusive that one would go mad in a brazen effort to achieve it? These are the questions I ask myself when I sit in a dank, cold cellar waiting for the end of the world to arrive as my nine-iron also waits for those zany zombies to rap on the door.

I’ve never liked bling. The thought of extravagant jewelry all over my body, fine clothing and luxury cologne has always repulsed me. So, you will never catch me wearing a Louis Vuitton wardrobe with Emporio Armani cufflinks, Santos De Cartier Galbée watch, Dolce Gabbana undergarments and Dior classic derby shoes. I’m just not that kind of guy.

I’m a jeans and T-shirt kid at heart. I prefer Nike to Yves Saint Laurent. And I enjoy a night at home watching the latest installment of the Transformers series than have a night out partying with the upper one-percent at a movie premier or book signing. It doesn’t mean I won’t do it, it means I’d rather do something else.

But that’s besides the point, it’s all fantasy. Why should I even entertain such thoughts?

I think there comes a time when every author has to come to grips with what they want to accomplish with their writing experience. Is it the fame? The fortune? The prestige of others knowing us, to consider us as demigods? Or simply, are we in it to learn from ourselves what we can’t learn any other way other than by our scribblings? I’d rather think myself as part of the latter group of writers. That’s why I call myself Jack Flacco, Author on this blog. I may be unpublished, but I see myself as who I am already—an author.

And no one can take that away from me.

Why do I want to become a published author? For the fame? The fortune? The prestige? No. Because I want to share what I’ve learned with everyone on this planet, so as perhaps I can contribute to the common good of humanity. It sounds far-fetched and noble, I know—even laughable! Yet with all certainty, it’s true! I’m so not a bling guy. But if I can help at least one soul in my lifetime with what I’ve learned—I will have earned my keep as a decent human being.

Now, if you will excuse me, I have to go back into my writing hole to await the zombie apocalypse. I suggest you authors do the same!

Where I Got My Muse

2011-10-14T00:07:00.004-04:00

Julia King, author of Félicité Found, asked me this week, how I got into writing. More specific, from where did my initial muse originate.

I’ve always found this question easy to answer. I’m not sure why. I’ve never had to find myself or figure out who I am, so I suppose in that context, the answer slips out without much effort. For the same reason, memories flood my mind when I attempt to catalog my life as historical vignettes. Call me a recollections hog.

At an early age, I wrote stories—short stories mostly. I wrote about castles, demons, angels and ghosts. I had amused myself with witches, goblins, cops and robbers.
And I scrawled tales of boy meets girl, boy marries girl, girl leaves boy only to get back together to start all over. In all instances, I had immersed myself in these worlds to find refuge from the daily grind called schoolwork. I even published one of my short stories for a class project—or at least that’s what I called it—taping together the manuscript with cardboard and glue as a cover for seventeen kids!

But after the seventh grade, it stopped. Whatever inspiration I may have had, disappeared. Much of the reason had to do with my attention span. Or should I say, lack thereof. The sudden burst of hormones drew me away to a more fascinating subject—a subject that compelled me to put away childish things in order to enjoy my newfound hobby: Girls.

My short stories collected dust while I skirt-chased my way through high school and college. Thus my muse disappeared for years upon years.

One day though, in the middle of flipping channels, my eye caught a TV show that burned an image of an actress into my retina. All of a sudden, a surge of words captured my imagination, my hand took to paper and pen like it had been old friends. I wrote my first chapter to my first book right on the spot. Over several months, during my train rides in and out of the city, I completed the first draft to what is now The Necklace in long hand. I wrote the whole thing without editing. It excited me.

For the first time in my life, I wrote a book—not a short story—but a book! Pride comforted me. Emotion engulfed me. I had no idea I had it in me. Now, I’m writing my second book with the same fervor. Yes, I’m writing it on the train again, and the words gush onto the page as a river into the ocean.

Writing has always encompassed my life. Like breathing, it shrouds me like second nature. Thank goodness, I’ve passed puberty and the boy meets girl stage...otherwise, who’d know what I’d accomplish these days.

What Do YOU Want?

2011-10-07T00:13:00.000-04:00

As silly as it may sound, I dedicate this post for all those ideas I may have ignored throughout the year. If you, the reader, have something you wish me to cover, say and detail, then this is the perfect opportunity to speak out and let your voice declare it among the mountains and hilltops. You can go on ahead and fill the comments with anything you’d like me to write about in the future and I’ll take those ideas to produce a future post in my own silly style.

My First Love

2011-09-30T00:07:00.009-04:00

The last time I wrote about my passion for writing, likening her to a mistress, I received numerous comments indicating that I may have taken my blog too far, that I may have crossed some lines, that—I may have committed the unpardonable sin. Well, I know the truth, and so do my regular readers. This blog exists for the sole purpose of relating my enthusiasm for free expression. And if it seems I go too far, cross some lines or commit the unpardonable sin, then so be it. I live my life as if every day is my last. I have no regrets. I do not look at the past. The future is the only direction to which I have set my compass. Either I have a crew who climbs aboard to set the sails for discovery or I am alone in my journey. I will not hold back. I will move forward and defend my obsession!

To grow means overcoming obstacles. In the confusion of writing this blog, keeping up with the social media gauntlet, querying my first book and coping with rejections from agents, I had lost something very important to me. Something very special that for a long time, I thought would never come back. I lost my will to write from the heart. As a result, I succeeded in writing pages of utter rubbish in order to fill chapters with words that in the end fell flat and lacked life. My emptiness translated to a second book shrouded in obscurity. To me, it was no different from death itself.

Over the past several months however, I have gone through a transformation of sorts, in both attitude and in understanding. My heart has once again softened to the sweet melody of poetic license. I have fallen for the words, for the excitement of lyrical combinations. Where once existed darkness, now shines a warm light.

My first love has returned to me.

It occurred as unexpectedly as the surprise a child receives during a birthday party. It left me bewildered, shocked and stunned. I recognized the feeling, yet I had for so long lingered in gloom that it confused me. My first instinct rattled me to defend what I had already written. I could not have scrawled empty words, I argued. I could not have scripted my second novel for months in vain, I pleaded.

Yes, I did. It stood as a muted testament to my self-deception. Once love entered my heart again, I could see the mess I had made. The radical solution engulfed my mind. I had to start anew—this time, working the story through the eyes of adoration and truth.

I am writing again.

What a strange statement. But it is true. My writing has meaning again, and the shackles of uninspired bondage no longer castigate me. Light has emerged from the depths to free me to express myself as I once did when I first picked up the pen to dance flourishes across the blank page. I live again. Breathing life-giving oxygen to the craft I call my own—writing.

With my spirit filled, I can now burn the paper with the original passion I felt for her. My first love beckons me always to enrapture her with delight. How can I refuse?

Fighting the Blank Page

2011-09-23T00:05:00.010-04:00

One of the opening scenes from Scream 4 said it best. Gale Weathers, the once famed TV reporter who helped solve the murders in the first three Scream movies, sat irritated in front of her computer typing out the first sentence to her first chapter to her new book, “I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT TO WRITE!” Of course, due to the nature of the vulgarity of the line, I paraphrased it.

The miserable, blank page horrifies every writer. What am I saying? It horrifies me! It leaves me with palpitations after staring at it for an hour—a pure, crisp, white page. It dominates the mind like snow without tire markings. What is an author to do when the ideas cease to flow? What should a writer attempt to accomplish when the only thing on the mind seems to encompass everything else, including last night’s meal, but the project at hand?

Over the course of several years, I have written a book and a number of short stories, of which I have learned a few things that have helped me in my journey toward publication. The Number One problem I have is the blank page.

This is my coping mechanism:

Walk away. Yes, I’m advocating a literal solution to a literary problem. Walking away from the project breeds perspective, allows the mind to wander and imbues the soul with extraordinary visions. I’ve written about this before. Taking a walk through the woods does help me focus. Some writers walk every day before their writing sessions. I know why. It gets the creativity flowing and makes for a wonderful experience to remember.
Just write. Again, I’ve written about this before. Sometimes, the best solution is to eliminate the problem. The problem is the blank page. If I fill the blank page with words, it will not be blank anymore, will it? Yes, but the words have to make sense! At least the argument states the words have to make sense. No. They do not. I found jumpstarting the process means to write whatever comes to mind, even if it beholds nonsense. My experience dictates to me that many of my ideas remain encrypted until I apply the correct order to them. This is how my stories grow. Once I’ve done that, everything works and I begin to fill the pages without much effort.
Read often. How can a person write if they’re reading? Well, reading helps me relax. It also inspires me to write better. Since another author’s writing can trigger an emotion, a thought or a simple action, I harness that understanding in order to get motivated.
Set a deadline. As hard as it may be, having a deadline forces action. I used to write thinking I had lots of time to spare. But reality tends to work at a different pace. Without a deadline, the writing stagnates, lacks flare and wreaks emptiness. Having a hard date gives the author the gumption to succeed with the goal of writing that novel or blog entry, or for that matter, the very first page.

I’m sure I could have come up with more points, but these ones stand out as the ones stirring me to never again say, “I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT TO WRITE!”

My Favorite Seasons

2011-09-16T00:25:00.000-04:00

This has to be one of my most favorite times of year. In fact, the period between the beginning of September all the way through to the end of February provides me with some of the richest moments of inspiration I can ever imagine having when writing. What makes autumn and winter so special to me that I look forward to it every year?

During the course of the year, I notice I go through periods of difficulties with my writing. Summer encapsulates the worst time of year for me for getting words down on paper. I think much of it has to do with how the weather shapes my thoughts. Sunny, hot and humid days sap away any motivation I may have had when waking up, replacing it with lethargy, sluggishness and downright laziness.

Springtime also seems to run me ragged with things to do outside the home, keeping me away from writing. Things like clearing the yard of overgrowth, preparing the flowerbeds for planting, tilling the vegetable garden for growing, mowing the lawn, taking out the deck furniture from out of the shed, and raising the gazebo in the backyard stand out as possible culprits for my lack of enthusiasm to express my thoughts during those sweet love months.

But as soon as fall arrives, I can feel the change in the air. It acts almost like a switch to my being, where the writing bug bites me hard and I find it tough to stop the words from flowing.

Most of the good feelings I glean from fall has to do with the memories I’ve accumulated over the past several years. One of my biggest memories is watching the season premiers of Everybody Loves Raymond. Every year, those first few episodes reflected a little of what was happening in my own family at the time. And the look of the show splashed warmth all over me. Who can deny the show made use of the seasons to promote the show to higher ratings? Those fall and winter episodes have to be the best episodes ever in quality and in atmosphere.

Another of the big memories, which I also relive every year, is remembering the walks through the woods where I live. Something about the leaves crackling under my feet as I pass the time away in meditation makes for a wonderful feeling of adventure. The same thing goes for those amazing memories of the snow-covered hills in the dead of winter. I’m in awe when I remember the smell from those cold nights, seeing the wind blow white streams down the embankments.

Do you see why I love this time of year? Do you understand why my inspiration stays with me during the autumn and winter?

In a few more weeks, I will have the ability to take those walks in the woods and observe the snowy patterns float from the sky. Until then, I can write to my heart’s desires about the sweet smell of the foliage that will permeate the air and inspire my days.

Just Write

2011-09-09T00:12:00.005-04:00

How can I describe the feeling I get when I hear of a writer who has once again picked up a pen to write? Should it surprise me? What if that writer has taken the brunt of rejections from the literary community, set them aside, and moved forward, accepting maybe, the best course of action is to continue writing? Should it amaze me? Should it astound me? Or should I take their example and write about it so as others may learn from it?

You know, one of the hardest things a writer has to overcome is the fear of rejection. I’ve had to overcome it myself. And for those who have read previous posts from me, I struggled in order to come to terms that perhaps, I needed to continue writing, even in the face of rejection.

But how does a writer go from the lowest of the low, treading the rejection pile in an effort to stay afloat, to writing again, without worrying about the results of the querying process?

Word vomit—as disgusting as it may sound, word vomit lends to the positive attempt of emptying the brain of words with the specific intention those words will later make sense during the editing process. It sounds complicated, but it’s not. Pantsers will benefit the most from this technique but plotters can learn from it too. The simple way to explain it is this way: Just Write. You know those Nike commercials with the classy presentations and the final message to the viewers to Just Do It? That about sums up the phrase Just Write. It means putting aside all rejections, hunkering down with some writing implements and letting the words flow, regardless of what may come out.

This technique is not for the faint of heart. It means forgetting what agents have said about the manuscript for the first book and pushing forward with writing a second. The whole concept is to get writing again, and it may not make any sense—technique-wise—but it does propel the writer into a positive mindset again. And that’s what’s important, to set aside all inhibitions, any insecurities about the process and just write.

A rich reward awaits those writers who strive to succeed with writing, whether it means selling the writing or not. The reward is not final publication, but the reward of knowing fulfillment can come from the imaginary places created within our minds and translated onto the paper—although selling it is a good thing too!

Battle against Procrastination

2011-08-26T00:04:00.000-04:00

School is right around the corner. I can hear the sigh of relief from the parents. I can also hear the groan from the kids wanting another week or two to have fun! What is it with human nature and its desire of wanting to put things off to the last minute?

To me, procrastination ranks as the most destructive force a writer has to battle. It sucks the energy out of any project, and rips away any shred of productivity that otherwise could have been achieved.

So what can a writer do to prevent procrastination from rearing its ugly head?

Many of the following suggestions come from my own learning, experience and observation. I’m sure others can supplement to this list, but I find in my case, these to be the most effective.

Break the project down into smaller chunks. Writing a book can be a daunting task. Seeing it as a 350-page tome makes it difficult to comprehend where to start. What I do is I organize the book into scenes then begin with the simplest scenes first. Of course, this will mean I’m writing the book out of its original order. This is okay—the purpose is to kick-start the creativity in order to get the project started. Once started, everything else will fall into place.
Start writing the ending first. What holds me back many occasions is wondering where the story will go. I think about it, play with it and put it away for a while because I want it to be the best possible story I can write. But at times I lack making progress if I let the idea falter due to missing the vision. That’s why I’ll begin with the ending first. The ending can set the tone for the whole project, and give light to where darkness may reside. From there, I can then work backwards to a point where I feel comfortable with continuing the writing. Again, as unconventional as this may sound, it does help get the project off and running.
Remove fear from the equation. Much of my procrastination happens out of fear—fear I might make a mess of the characters, fear I might have an unbalanced plot or fear that I might actually make a success of my writing. Whatever the reason may be, fear happens all the time for me. The best way I’ve conquered this limitation is to tackle the project head on, forgetting about what may happen in order to make it happen. So what the characters get messed up or the plot runs here and there without making much sense, I can fix it in edits! And if I do become successful with my writing, what is wrong with that? The point is, fear either makes a person do something or allows a person to have something done.

As I wrote, I’m sure others have suggestions as well. Any ideas I can glean from my readership are more than welcome in the Comments section. Feel free to share! In the meantime, the kids can enjoy their freedom before heading off to another year of ~~prison~~ school!

Daydreaming IS An Author’s Job

2011-08-19T00:31:00.009-04:00

Over the course of the last two weeks, I had the pleasure to vacation in the moderate climes of Nova Scotia. It took two days to drive to Canada’s Eastern shore with a GPS in car and a well-worn steering wheel in hands. Through much of the journey, time passed slow…there are only so many provinces in Canada with unique license plates to count along the way! And if I hear another rendition of 1 million bottles of beer on the wall, I will ram a two-by-four through the instigator’s darling, little home!

Once there, I enjoyed the scenic vistas of the Atlantic Ocean, full in its glory with fishing trawlers and all. I must say, the salt air put me right to sleep. Every day, I seemed fine until mid-afternoon when a sudden drowsiness crept over me like a cloud of dry ice poured on a rock concert stage. I knew I needed the rest, as I had pressed too hard the days before my vacation to get everything done before leaving. But that salt air hit me hard. I loved it since it forced me to appreciate the much-needed rest I craved prior to leaving.

I think the best part of my vacation though was having the ability to sit and explore my thoughts for further stories I had laid aside for a time such as then. Enriched by the experience, I grew inspired by the day to dream of castles in the sky and fast-approaching vehicles burning NOS.

Daydreaming is an author’s job. I remember how my First Grade teacher wrote on my report card of how I had a problem keeping focused on the subject matter because I seemed to always daydream the hours away. Had I only known what I know now, I would have told my teacher I daydream of a daydreaming job.

This vacation allowed me to hone in my skills as a writer and take advantage of the time with some productive ponderings, letting loose my mind and thinking of characters that have yet to exist.

Now that I’m back, I realize just how much I missed the daydreaming experience. Growing up and taking on the responsibilities of an adult had rendered my imagination obsolete. Somehow, the grownup world removed the childish thoughts from a fledgling author’s mind replacing them with a To-Do list of daily chores.

Well, I say, it’s time for authors to reclaim their lost youth! I say, it’s time to daydream the time away!

Guest Post: Morgan Shamy - True Friend or Not?

2011-08-12T04:17:00.008-04:00

I'm a bit in a solemn mood today. I usually like to add snarky humor to my posts or at least try to be entertaining. But today, in the place I'm in with life right now, this post will be a bit more subdued. When I thought of what I wanted to talk about for Jack's blog, the only thing that came to mind was having true writer friends.

Having been immersed in the writer's world for a couple of years now, I've come across many different types of writer friends. Some that I know I'll be friends with for life, some that I'll have occasional chit chat or banter on twitter with, and some where its obvious I'm only another number to add to their blog or "like" to their Facebook page.

I won't spend much time on the friends that don't matter. It's great to support each other and be that "like" that person needs, or RT a tweet in order to help promote, but it's the friends that stick by and inspire you to keep creating that really matter. That's what I want to focus on today.

When I first started writing, I joined an online critique website, where you would post your work and people from all over the world would either give you a harsh or friendly critique. Some would give you a quick review, hoping in return you'd crit their work with as little work on their part. It was here I met Jason Matthews, author of several novels and various "How to" books. I owe everything I know about writing to Jason. He took me under his wing and taught me the mechanics when I was such a fresh and naive writer. He didn't have to do this. But for some reason, he reached out and helped another writer friend. If he hadn't have done this, I shudder to think how long I would've gone on thinking I could write, when in actuality I had some HUGE things to learn. Jason falls under the category of writer friend for life.

The next stage of my writing was on inkpop. Here, I met a TON of great, enthusiastic writers who also fall under the "friends for life" category. (Leigh Fallon, Sharon M. Johnson, Kelley Vitollo, Wendy Higgins) These ladies are the reason I am still "standing" today... the reason I push onward through the querying battle. And the thing is, it would've been easy for Leigh or Wendy to drop me in the dust after getting their huge book deals with HarperCollins. It's been the opposite. They motivate me frequently to keep at it and they take the time to give me detailed, thoughtful critiques. Everyone should be so lucky. (What's funny is, if they were reading this post they'd be making gagging sounds telling me to stop being so sappy! Heh, I told you I was in a solemn mood!)

And not to embarrass the star of this blog, but Jack Flacco also falls under this category. (Sorry Jack!) He's so selfless with the way he supports all the writers around him. He's the first to uplift and motivate when an opportunity presents itself. I could go on, but heh, he might cut this out!

I've been lucky on my writing journey. I could've gotten caught with writers who only had their self gain in mind. How about you? Do you have a special someone (or someones) that will stick by, uplift, and motivate regardless of their own success? I hope so.

[Morgan Shamy is a YA author, wife of an amazing X-games gold medalist, mommy of 4 under 6, all at the tender age of 30.]

Guest Post: Juliana L. Brandt - 4 Ways To Know Your Critique Is Spot On

2011-08-05T02:21:00.013-04:00

A good critique group is invaluable for writers. Critiquing is a great opportunity to both learn how to edit your own work and see what other writers are producing.

When I critique, I usually keep two important things in mind. First, that all critiques are constructive and honest, and second, that nothing is mean, especially if it won't help the writer. I've expanded these two ideas into a quick four part check list below. If you follow these four ideas, your critique will be spot on every time.

A critique is about helping someone learn, not about 'fixing' their writing. Always explain your thoughts. When I crit, I often use abbreviations, but always make sure to explain what they mean at some point. (As an example, I frequently use 'Implied,' which means: this is something your reader already knows, you don't have to explicitly state it- remember, your reader isn't stupid :)

Check: are you explaining all of your ideas? Make sure the writer will understand your opinion.
50/50- All writers need positive feedback. Don't write a critique that only has edits and suggested changes. It is very important to have a balance between advice and things the writer has done well.

Check: do you have a balance between recommended changes and positive thoughts?
Critiquing is not about you, the critiquer, it is about the writer and helping them grow in their craft. If you absolutely hate something (a character, plot point, disagree with the politics behind the writing) it doesn't matter! The point is not to make someone else’s story your story, but how to help them become a better author to write the story they need to tell.

Check: are you helping the writer grow in their craft?
Touch base with the writer before you critique and make sure you know what they want. Do they need line edits? Are they interested in overall feedback? Are there certain points in their WIP they need help on?

Check: have you asked the writer what they need from you as a critiquer?

And lastly, the most important part to remember for both the critiquer and writer (and how I sign off all of my critiques): Take what you like and throw out the rest.

A critique is merely someone's thoughts on your writing. Keep an open mind when you read through a critique on your own work and try not to get your feelings hurt. If you don't agree with something, that's more than fine! You are the only one who truly knows what's best for your own writing.

[Juliana L. Brandt is a Young Adult and Children's writer hailing from the great state of Minnesota/Mississippi. Her heart is torn between the North and South. When she's not writing she can be found hiking the trails with her dogs and boyfriend.]

Mementos of Inspiration

2011-07-29T00:05:00.009-04:00

Around my home office writing desk, I have surrounding me odd trinkets and mementos I’ve collected throughout the years, which provide me with oodles of inspiration when I run out of ideas. Each one of these fond souvenirs represents something in my life I’ve wanted to hold on to, despite the passing of the person or the event where I received it.

What do I have on my desk allowing me the pleasure to reminisce while I write?

I have Sméagol and Minas Tirith collectibles from the respective The Two Towers and The Return of the King movies. They remind me of the Christmas I bought the 3-movie DVD Extended Edition box sets with the collectibles included. That Christmas encapsulated such an amazing holiday time for me since I had a full two weeks with family to enjoy doing nothing. It ended up as one of the best Christmases ever.

Between those Lord of the Rings keepsakes, a The Last Warrior letter opener rests. Harking back to the King Author days, the shape of the reminder forms a sword in a stone. I do use it as a letter opener but of more importance, it brings me back to the days when I had one of my first office jobs in a video distribution firm. I remember bringing back home a video to watch every weekend. Those were fun days.

Moving on to the center of the desk, I can see my red model 1940 Ford delivery sedan measuring 6 by 2.5 inches. Made of cast metal, it has a sleek design with a working back door and a hood concealing a plastic, silver-colored engine. Now, this little gem is a gift from my late aunt who passed away a year ago. I admired her inasmuch as she had an eye for quality. It is with certainty I say I miss her.

I’m skipping over a few of the other pieces to get to my favorite one, a gray ceramic figurine of an egg with a baby Velociraptor cracking through its shell. As I mentioned, it is my darling because it reminds me of one of my most beloved movies of all time, Jurassic Park. Even more so, someone gave it as a gift to remind me of my trip to Nova Scotia that year. Throughout the years of moving, packing and unpacking, it has remained intact. I look forward to many more years of looking at it for memories and inspiration.

So now comes the question, what’s on your desk to keep you in remembrance of people and events that have inspired you throughout your life?

Writing’s the Spice of Life

2011-07-22T00:22:00.006-04:00

I watch a lot of Food Network Canada. I mean a lot. My obsession with the channel makes me an odd character of sorts on a culinary adventure. In fact, the best part of watching, is building up enough of an appetite to experiment a little when I’m alone in the kitchen. With a watchful eye, I’m always on the lookout for a great recipe to excite my weekend meals!

When I write, I look toward the goal of completing the task. I know where I want to be, and I head there without looking back. In effect, I do write with an outline, but at the same time, I always leave enough room for some creativity.

Much of what goes on in my writing sessions is almost like a marinade recipe, giving flavor to a newfound cuisine. As soon as I sit to write about a topic near and dear to my heart, the other side of the plate graces the pages of my scribbling.

Now, what I’ve learned from the great food shows, I apply to my writing. The programs have shown me I should take my creativity to a whole new level. I should never fear to experiment with a tried formula, flipping it on its head in order to gain the best possible result. Christopher Nolan’s movie Memento does that almost to perfection. When the reader knows what comes next, the story becomes routine and boring. Food’s like that too. Chicken nuggets and French fries are a staple meal, but changing it up a bit to add the nuggets to two slices of toasted bread, served with a salad with a splash of olive oil dressing and adding some onion powder to the fries—now that’s interesting—and it may end up being delicious!

Cooking allows me to try new things and experiment with new ideas. I’ve learned to do the same with my writing. Experimenting gives birth to new ideas, which in turn provides me with new plots, characters and stories to write.

I love cooking. But I love writing more!

Stars of Summer

2011-07-15T00:10:00.001-04:00

Summer saps the energy out of any good-intentioned author. I wrote that first sentence referring to me, of course. But in reality, having spoken with a number of author friends about it…who wants to write when one can bask in the warm glow of the noonday sun deck-grazing, soda-chugging and guacamole-eating the time away?

This is why I thought I’d try something different this week. Instead of the regular post I churn out at the last minute before midnight on a Thursday night, I thought I’d take the opportunity to announce my intention to run for public office. I’m kidding, I’m kidding—it would interfere with my weekend polo games with the prince!

Okay, in all seriousness, one of the things I’ve tried to accomplish with this blog since Day 1 is to acknowledge those who have either helped me with my own writing or inspired me to write better than I could ever imagine possible. Therefore, since it is summer, and everyone has the joy of living on their minds, soaking the sun and endearing themselves to the lapping water of the beaches, I’m going list a few of my favorite authors I’ve gotten to know and would like to recognize (in alphabetical order according to first name):

A. J. Aalto is an unrepentant liar and a writer of blathering nonsense offset by factual gore. When not working on her horror novels, you can find her singing old Monty Python songs in the shower, eavesdropping on perfect strangers, stalking her eye doctor, or failing at one of her many fruitless hobbies.
Carissa Elg is a writer who emerged out of the depths of Minnesotan waters. She’s writing her first novel, Part 1 of The Pendomus Chronicles, a sci-fi, genre bending dystopian series.
Darlene Quinn is a journalist from Long Beach, California. She also is the author of The Web Series: Character-driven, page-turning suspense, based on real events in the world of department stores and fashion.
Jennifer L. Armentrout lives in West Virginia. All the rumors you heard about her state aren’t true. Well, mostly. When she's not hard at work writing, she likes to read, workout, watch zombie movies, and pretend to write.
Julia King is about to start querying for an agent for her first novel and is excited to start working on other books. She loves reading, traveling, music, dogs, and chocolate.
Juliana Brandt aspires to be a published author. She enjoys writing young adult, children's fiction novels and short stories. She’s a GED instructor in Ridgeland, MS and works retail on the side. In her spare time, she writes as much as she can.
Kelsey Ketch lives in North Carolina. Her father’s love of the sea and nature influence her young life, inspiring her sense of adventure in both her hobbies and future careers. When he died of cancer, Death’s Island was her way of escaping the world and coping with the loss.
Leigh Fallon is a South African born, Irish writer, living between the US and Ireland. Her first book, Carrier of the Mark will release October 2011. On its heels, her second book, Carrier of the Mark II will hit bookshelves Winter 2012.
Morgan Shamy is a busy mom of four, working on getting her first novel published.
Sandy Day is a graduate of Glendon College, York University and the author of Chatterbox, her first book. She makes Toronto, a beautiful big city perched on the northern shore of Lake Ontario in Canada, her home.
Tess Hardwick is a novelist and playwright. She has a BFA in Drama from the University of Southern California. Tess is busy working on her second novel, an historical fiction set in 1930’s Alabama, based on a short story of her great-great grandmother’s.
Tiffany King is the author of the Paranormal/Romance YA novel Meant to Be and is practically a native Floridian.
Trisha Wolfe is a YA author, living for reading and writing YA.
Wendy Higgins is the author of Sweet Evil, her debut novel, which HarperTeen will publish in 2012.

The Three Act Structure

2011-07-08T00:09:00.011-04:00

I spoke with an author friend of mine this week about the challenge a writer faces when the writing lacks cohesion due to story flow problems. We agreed we have our own strengths—my friend has a talent for word choices, sentence structure and paragraph arrangement, while I have the ability to plot out a tale with the right amount of conflict to keep the reader’s attention from swaying. So, since my friend helped me with critiquing my novel, I thought I would do the same by explaining the method I use when I write.

I am a general proponent of the Three Act Structure. The way this method works is by pulling the reader into the story with a series of mini-crises, each one building on the other on a plane of mounting tension. All it means is the reader grasps a sense of urgency once the story unfolds before them. This structure allows for a beginning, a middle (or a muddle in bad stories) and an end. Simple, huh? It gets better.

A typical plot tends to have what’s called, an Inciting Incident. It can be anything from a car bomb going off in a crowded city center, to a woman having a baby under a bridge. This is where the plot begins. The time between Page 1 to the Inciting Incident may vary. Some writers like a slow buildup, introducing the characters, the settings and some history before unleashing their plot. But some writers jump right into the Inciting Incident, introducing the characters as the story develops. A good example of this is Scorponok’s attack on the air force base in the opening scenes of the 2007 movie Transformers.

The middle portion of a project is where many writers seem to get lost. The middle is from the time the Inciting Incident occurs all the way to the climax of the story. The best visual representation of a good plot is the steady incline of a mountain with its peaks and valleys along the way to the top—with each peak being a mini-crisis and each valley being a recovery phase. As each peak passes, another one looms on the horizon. These peaks or mini-crises are plot points along the way to the climax. Plot points should have sufficient space between them to allow the reader to absorb the key elements of the story.

Part of the middle is the Absolute Middle of the book. This is where the story shifts from a passive to an active role for the reader. By this time, involvement in the characters should appear secure. It is also when the plot turns to a Point of No Return, when readers have to find out what happens next. The Absolute Middle dictates the last portion of the Three Act Structure.

The third act is where it all should come together. Whatever the writer had written up until then should lead up to the third act. Now this is where I interject my own philosophy on writing—the reader will judge the book based on the merits of the entire third act. If it is good, it will sell the writer’s next book. Besides, readers remember a good ending.

In the third act, or the climax of the book, the writer should clean up all loose ends. More important is if the book is a lead-in to a series of books, then the writer should also provide ample hooks in order for the reader to want to continue reading the series.

For the third act, I work backwards. I picture in my mind’s eye where I want the plot to end and then I think with a logical sense of awareness, where the plot should start. It’s not easy, it takes practice, but the rewards are great!

As for my friend? It’s all here. It’s a matter of understanding what I’ve written. Being in limbo is the worst feeling in the world, yet the day will come when the writing will make sense again.

Jennifer L. Armentrout's Cursed

2011-07-05T03:00:00.000-04:00

Big news for a very good friend of mine! Jennifer L. Armentrout's Cursed will release September 2012 from Spencer Hill Press. Here's the official blurb:

Dying sucks--and high school senior Ember McWilliams knows firsthand. After a fatal car accident, her gifted little sister brought her back. Now anything Ember touches dies. And that, well, really blows.

Ember operates on a no-touch policy with all living things--including boys. When Hayden Cromwell shows up, quoting Oscar Wilde and claiming her curse is a gift, she thinks he’s a crazed cutie. But when he tells her he can help control it, she’s more than interested. There’s just one catch: Ember has to trust Hayden's adopted father, a man she's sure has sinister reasons for collecting children whose abilities even weird her out. However, she’s willing to do anything to hold her sister's hand again. And hell, she'd also like to be able to kiss Hayden. Who wouldn't?

But when Ember learns the accident that turned her into a freak may not've been an accident at all, she’s not sure who to trust. Someone wanted her dead, and the closer she gets to the truth, the closer she is to losing not only her heart, but her life. For real this time.

Party at Jennifer's on release day...just kidding!

Helping Each Other Succeed

2011-07-01T00:02:00.007-04:00

Some time ago, I read a comparative study about superheroes and the origin of their powers. The title of the article escapes me but the main idea piqued my interest: What is the difference between Superman and Batman?

I’ve known for a long time how Superman is faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive and able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. He also possesses the ability to deflect bullets off his chest, burn through steel with his razor-sharp vision and in some cases, turn back the hands of time.

Batman, on the other hand, possesses no natural super abilities within himself. Instead, he relies on tactics, strategy, and the skill to hide in the shadows until the right moment. He also depends on his equipment, the resources at his disposal and taking opportunities when they present themselves.

Now, what does this all have to do with writing?

Well, Superman is a natural superhero. Batman has to work hard at being one. Much like Superman, natural writers have the gift to express themselves without much effort. They build their plots in their heads. They know how they will flood the pages with their words. The editing process comes easy to them, as they know what needs to stay and what needs to go.

For the rest of us—much like Batman—we have to work hard at our craft. Some of us plot our books on paper while others sit and write whatever comes to mind. We rely on techniques developed over time that helps improve the way we write (ie. music, walks, writing exercises, etc.). We also toil during the editing process, slaving over every word, every sentence and every scene. In some cases, as drastic as it sounds, we remove some of our most beloved chapters…all in an effort to ring out the best possible writing we can achieve.

Is one writer better because of natural ability? No. We all have talents and gifts to express ourselves in our own way. It’s a matter of helping each other out regardless of abilities, which sets us apart from the Neanderthals roaming the earth.

Every now and again though, even The Man of Steel needs Batman’s help to repel the effects of Kryptonite. How else would the Justice League survive?

Finding Inspiration Again

2011-06-24T00:21:00.000-04:00

Inspiration can come from anywhere. It can come from a meteor screaming to earth, a clock ticking the time away, or a delicate flower letting go of its last petal. A writer doesn’t know when it will happen. When it does, it comes like most epiphanies—the eyes open up, the smile appears, and the rush to bring the idea to a substantial form, takes hold.

But what if the inspiration gets lost? What if throughout the development process, the breath of the story diminishes to a flutter? What then? How does a writer recapture the first love for the story? How does a writer keep the fire kindled until the end?

Halfway through writing my first book, I lost my vision. I had an outline of where I left off in the story, where I had to allow the tale to bloom, yet deep in my heart I didn’t feel the urgency to continue. I knew if I didn’t snap out of it, procrastination would seep in to jeopardize the project. I needed an action plan!

I resolved to tackle the problem head-on. In order to do that, I needed to understand when the first spark appeared. I went back to the source. I knew if I could save any shred of inspiration, it would come from the very moment when I conceived the idea.

I managed to find the picture that started it all—a photograph of which I based my main character. Only, instead of lighting the fire again, I had all I can do to stay awake. I had my work cut out for me. I next went to my iPod. I sifted through my music to find the one track I thought would bring me back to my muse (no semi-pun intended). Still nothing. Somehow, the music left me empty as well.

It was time to bring out the big guns!

In a last ditch effort, I took a walk in the middle of the woods near my home. The morning drew thunder and rain. My iPod, still attached to my ears, blasted a song mirroring that exact moment. Could it be? My heart raced, my breath left me and wonder clenched my soul. Yes, it could be. A new inspiration captured my attention. Rebirth flooded my mind. I knew then I could finish my book.

Little did I know how much of a lesson that walk would serve me today when I fall neck-deep in lost motivation. I realized then, as I appreciate now, inspiration can happen any time. It’s a matter of keeping a close eye open, and a strong will to recognize when it happens.

Because when it does happen, inspiration comes all at once and rattles everything in its path.

Phrase Antics

2011-06-17T00:20:00.010-04:00

Glorious days are those when words flow like rivers from melted ice. So it is when a writer has the perfect storm of inspiration, motivation and solitude.

I have lull periods of writing. Periods where I’ve completed project milestones, my blog is up-to-date and I’m all caught up with the social sites. Yet, I’ll sit on the train, on the way back from the city, and I’ll want to write something. Anything. Even cereal ads if I have to! What do I do?

A-ha! This is my fun time of creative antic. I don’t dread these lull periods—I crave them. I know they will make me a better writer! What do I do? I attempt to come up with the shortest, yet most interesting way to phrase a common action. I don’t have a name for this exercise, but I do it a lot. All I need is a piece of paper and pencil.

(Well, okay if I have to come up with a name for this workout I’d call it Phrase Antics. It’s my post, I can call it what I want!)

All right, so this is what I do: I take a common action and enrich it in an effort to make it better. For instance:

The boy sneezed becomes hurricane winds ripped from the lad’s head
The girl slept well becomes a coma engulfed the young vixen
The dog barked becomes treacherous roars ruptured from the canine’s muzzle

Okay, so some of the phrases are longer than the original, but I think I’ve accomplished what I set out to do. Rather than think about emphasizing the subject (boy, girl and dog), I’ve taken the liberty to emphasize the action of a sentence. I have found it makes for interesting reading, and the phrases make the scenes more memorable when actions take the brunt of the load. All the same, after an hour of writing, I end up with a list of usable phrases I can inject into my writing without as much as a hint of sweat.

I’ll leave the following for some of you folk to mold into astounding phrases in the comments area of this post:

The sun set
The car blew a tire
Matt loved Vanessa

Have fun!

Combating Writer’s Fatigue

2011-06-10T00:03:00.008-04:00

I had an interesting conversation this week with an author friend of mine, Morgan Shamy. She wondered how I remain motivated in the face of so many challenges we authors face when dealing with criticism, bad writing days, and a loss of inspiration. For a moment, I had a sudden loss for words, as I didn’t know how to respond. I didn’t think I had such an exemplary influence on any writer. So, I did what any creative writer would do—I responded with an “I’m playing it by ear.”

Talk about a missed opportunity! Here was my chance to say something meaningful, perhaps even influence a writer for a lifetime, and all I could muster up was a canned cliché! For shame! For this reason, I’m taking the time with this post to delve deep into my psyche in an effort to understand what keeps me going in the face of writer’s fatigue.

Regular readers of my posts know of my profound love for music. I am always with some song in my head, some tune in my hum, and some rhythm in my pat to keep me buzzing along, amongst the waves of daily duties and reoccurring chores. If I’m in a cycle of not writing a single word on paper, music perks me up. I wouldn’t consider music as my main motivator though, even during those times when I’m pushing out page-after-page of manuscript.

My regular readers also know of the technique I use to jumpstart my writing effort on the occasion I’m suffering writer’s block, or should I say writer’s shock. The technique I label as word association. Again, this too is not my main motivator, even though the technique may yield some interesting results when words begin to flow on paper again in a pattern of senseless gibberish.

What is my motivation?

So much can happen in a week for a writer that motivation becomes self-perpetuating. For instance, this week:

I’m reading a book by an author friend of mine, Julia King
Garnering feedback from beta readers for my first book
Writing out portions of my second book
Submitting queries to agents
Fielding comments for my blog posts
Posting my own comments on fellow writer blogs
Keeping up with posts from my followers on Twitter
Keeping up with the Joneses on Facebook
Writing this post

And let’s not forget my desire to maintain a semblance of a life between the hustle and bustle of family events, professional engagements and acquainted assemblies. In these situations, it’s not difficult to come up with the motivation to carry forward. However, I have yet to answer Morgan’s questions. How do I combat writer’s fatigue (criticism, bad writing days, loss of inspiration, etc.)?

I suppose I can say I have multiple techniques to fall back on whenever I’m in a rut. I can also say I have an incredible support group of writers who help each other along the way to literary accomplishment. In all truth though, the answer I gave Morgan is accurate, in fact—I am playing it by ear.

It’s As Simple As That

2011-06-03T00:21:00.013-04:00

One. Two. Three. It’s as simple as that.

Send query out
Send partial out
Send full out

It’s not rocket science. Neither do I have to learn brain surgery. Although, in some respect, I’m sure brain surgery is easier.

Getting an agent should not be this difficult. I’m still a babe in the woods. I have a ways to go in comparison to some of the up-and-coming stars in the industry like Leigh Fallon, who had exhausted all her available avenues only to find success on inkpop, garnering a publishing contract with HarperTeen.

What do I have to do?

Do I need to already possess the notoriety of fame to fast track my book onto store shelves? Do I have to take a dive off the Brooklyn Bridge with nothing but a pair of spandex gripping my body and a bungee cord strapped to my ankles hoping it will pull me up before I hit the surface of the water? Or...do I have to stand on my head, sport a clown face, and sing On Top of Spaghetti as a Western Lowland gorilla pummels me to a fine powder 'cause my voice sounds off-key to his delicate ears?

Of course, I’m a fiction writer, so that last paragraph is utter fiction!

In all truth though, the literary business is subjective. The matter lies in finding the right agent who will best represent the work. So far, if it has taken me fifty-six rejections to whittle down the list of agents who will not best represent my work—then I’m pleased. I’d rather have an agent imbued by my book’s energy than an agent who shows a mild interest in it—much like a bad marriage destined for emptiness since emotion dictated the bond and not love.

If this seems like I’m complaining, I’m not. In fact, I’m all for how the publishing industry works. It’s efficient. A day has so many hours. An agent has so much time. If the query does not pique the interest of the agent, they move on. If the partial does not do it. Again, they move on. And if the full does not do it—right—off they go.

One. Two. Three.

My job is to ensure I've written the best possible query, partial and full, whereby the right agent has no choice but to offer me representation.

It’s as simple as that.

I Am Rejection

2011-05-27T00:17:00.029-04:00

It’s with fervent desire I write this post knowing one day I will cease to exist. The breath in my lungs, the sweat on my brow, and the spirit in my eyes will depart from me. What will be my legacy?

My progeny will survive me. The memory of my existence will be in their souls and in their minds. Yet, in the stillness of the night, when I ponder life’s mysteries, I fear my writing will not. And it’s with that fear I can never give up on my dream of getting published.

It’s what keeps me going one obstacle at a time.

Every writer has lived through their first rejection letter. It’s the letter every writer dreads to receive, but is necessary for acknowledging the birth of a new wordsmith. It’s a right of passage, a war wound held near and dear to the heart. It’s what makes us writers unique from the other breed of creative geniuses of this world. We have it within our nature to keep going, like fighters brutalized by their opponents yet getting back up for more. Who are we?

We are the dream makers, the unwanted. We are the strong. With every rejection comes improvement. Like a refining fire gilding only the best weapon for show.

I have a shoebox full of rejection letters. They also litter my inbox. What could possibly possess me so much I would want to experience never-ending days of No’s? How do I cope and remain faithful as a battle-hardened warrior?

Well, I’ll relate my experience hoping it may help others with their own circumstance of Unfortunately’s. Perhaps some good may come of it.

Never was there a time in my life I felt so lost as when I received my first rejection letter. The subsequent letters that followed had an even more profound impact on my life and my worthiness to count myself as a real writer. I felt my writing wasn’t good enough. It didn’t matter how many times I received the standard form letter, like a double-edged sword, the hurt cut both ways (one way waiting weeks for a response, the other when it came back as a rejection):

"Unfortunately, the project you describe isn’t right for us."
"Unfortunately, your project is not one that we think would be right for our agency at this time."
"Unfortunately, after careful review, we have decided that ************ might not be the right agent for your work."

And my personal favorite:

"Unfortunately, I feel that in today's market, I cannot take on projects unless I feel strongly about them. I'm sorry to say that it didn't happen with this one."

Now, I’m not blaming the agents here. On the contrary, they have a tough job. They receive hundreds of queries a week, and there is no way all those queries can become books. So yeah, they have to be selective in their choices of what will sell and what will not. Otherwise, publishers will need to start utilizing farm equipment to plow the books onto the shelves—much like farmers do with preparing the soil for seeding with manure.

Nowadays I don’t let the rejections get to me. Every so often, if I feel a deep connection with an agent it does hurt, but not as much as the early days. I suppose I’ve grown some to expect rejections as part of the trade. Moreover, when I look at the amount of rejections I have in my shoebox and compare it to Kelsey Ketch’s odyssey to have her book Death’s Island published—199 rejections—I have a lot of catching up to do!

Will I get published? I will. Will my name have an inheritance for others to utter as a story to tell their grandkids? Perhaps. But I would much rather have their grandkids read my books instead.

That would be a true legacy when I’m long gone.

Outline This!

2011-05-20T00:15:00.013-04:00

What is it about outlines that make some writers fearful of picking up a pen? To my memory, I've been partial to outlines my entire life. I can't scribble down a story without one. But what may work for me, may not work for everyone else.

So, let me tell the tale of what I like about them. They are a tamable beast in fact, and no writer should dread them. Before going on though, let me preface this thought by saying there is no right or wrong way to write. Whatever comes by nature or by technique is what matters.

Now, an apparent label exists for those of us who relinquish the freeform approach for a methodological process. We are the Plotters. We excel in the planning out of our stories, to bring form to the chaos we have swirling about in our minds. The other half of the equation, are those who sit down with a blank page and begin to write, not knowing where it will take them. They are the ones who live off the edge of their seats, delving into the unknown, creating stories as they go along. Those are the brilliant Pantsers.

Why would I ever consider writing with an outline, given Pantsers seem to have more fun doing it?

Well, here is a door-crack peak into my madness of how I write:

A story idea will pop into my head. I don't even write it down. I think about it. I play with it. I visualize the characters, the settings, the time and the relationships. I stare out the window a lot. When I think I may have something to work with, I'll write out a rough one-line sentence to describe the story. It can be as simple as, “See Jane run.” Once I've captured the essence of the idea, I’ll shelve it to do something else…like crochet, play with a splintered plank, or okay, maybe read. A couple of days later, I’ll come back to it to write a one-paragraph summary. Again, I'll expand on the original one-line sentence I had written earlier to fill in the gaps by adding plot points.

The last step of the development is writing out a full-page summary of the story with as much detail as I could muster up. This final summary will serve as the framework to the story. Most of the story's basic elements are already on the page, it's just a matter of drawing out the details. This is where it gets tricky—if I do it right, I’ll have enough to inspire me, but not enough to kill the inspiration. For me, overdoing it will ruin the whole point of the process.

After everything is complete, I should have before me the outline, which will guide me through my writing sessions. Some writers like plotting out every scene as a director would a movie. Nothing wrong with that. For me, I prefer having some mystery in my writing sessions.

I enjoy knowing where I'm going with an outline. Getting there is half the fun.

And The Oscar Goes To...

2011-05-13T00:13:00.005-04:00

I would like to thank the members of the Academy for their… *cue the needle scratching a vinyl record*

Oops, wrong award!

So, here I was last week, minding my own business, writing the sequel to Tolstoy's monolithic tome War and Peace, when out of nowhere, two brilliant writers, Megan Conway and Carissa Elg, had it in their hearts to bestow upon me the much-respected Stylish Blogger Award!

Can I now express my gratitude? Not yet? Oh, okay. A catch, you say? Can I trade in the nomination for the $40,000 swag bag participants of the Academy Awards get for showing up at the event…even if they don't win anything?

No? Uh, looks like I have to follow the rules in accepting this award. Here are the rules:

The first rule of Fight Club is, you do not talk about Fight Club.
The second rule of Fight Club is, you DO NOT talk about Fight Club.
If someone says stop, goes limp, taps out, the fight is over.
Two guys to a fight.
One fight at a time.
No shirts, no shoes.
Fights will go on as long as they have to.
If this is your first night at Fight Club, you have to fight.

Oh, wrong rules! Here are the real rules:

Thank and link to the person who nominated you.
Share seven random facts about yourself.
Pass the award along to 5 new-found blogging buddies.
Contact the winners to congratulate them.

Therefore, in keeping with the rules and regulations of said award, here are 7 things you may not know about me:

I. Am. Canadian.
Cold things excite me.
I’m happiest when it rains.
I almost always root for the underdog.
I have a general love for Shakespearean tragedy—when it happens in real life.
I enjoy watching people. There is much to learn from Black Friday shoppers when they're hauling out big screen TVs from the mall, all in the spirit of Christmas.
If someone tells me it’s impossible, I’ll prove them wrong.

And in accordance with the rules stipulated by the ~~chain letter~~ Stylish Blogger Awards, here are the 5 nominations of the next round:

There. Now can I thank the Academy?

Writer's Shock

2011-05-06T00:09:00.014-04:00

Many times, I get writer's block. Well, I shouldn't label it writer's block. It's more like writer's shock, given my surprise about the whole thing. Writer's shock happens to me when every trick in the book fails to lift me out of a rut, including the use of a good old-fashioned, home-cooked meal!

Now, besides music, something else rips me out of the dark abyss and back into the groove of writing. I call it word association but it may go under another name. Whatever everyone else calls it—in my world it's word association.

This is how it works: I whip out a blank sheet of paper, and I begin writing down words. It doesn't matter what the words are, it's writing. More often than not, the words have some sort of relationship with each other, and they tend to fill up the page fast.

Here's an example of what I mean: goat, tree, ocean, car, sewer, shadow, river, shorts, morning, boat, person, motor, jeans, milk, bush, snowman, leopard, claim, sheep, toxic, Jurassic, mercury, weight...and on it goes.

As I'm writing the words, I'm attempting to notice patterns, chains and ideas, which take shape in the fury of the scribble. The activity may go on for minutes to however long it will take to get this silly brain of mine jumpstarted. Once it does reset itself—look out—things soon start moving ahead at a quick pace and I'm rockin'!

So, what happens when I undergo this interesting exercise in humility?

What I'm doing is allowing the brain to throw up all the guck, waste, and junk clogging up the pipes in my head, in order to get the productive juices flowing again. Through the course of the writing, something clicks and one of the words triggers a memory or an idea, firing up my imagination to bring the thought to fruition.

I’m an infrequent sufferer of word shock. But when it happens, I arm myself with the latest literary weaponry of word association to rid the offending invader and carry on my work as a flag-bearer to the free nation of the writing industry.

[Please note: I wrote this on the hour-long train ride home from work while a woman chatted on her cell about her neighbor’s dog. Apparently, she wasn’t too pleased of the yellow patches all over her green space. Nonetheless, I hope this post proves helpful regardless of my distraction!]

Music and the Writer

2011-05-01T00:04:00.000-04:00

Ever since I could remember, music has always played a big part in my life. If anything, music has kept me inspired to write, even during the days I've never really felt like writing.

After all, everybody has bad days, right?

Like the days I have to get the laundry done, the bills paid, the pet washed, the lawn cut, toilet scrubbed, hog fed, vacuum, iron, eat, drink, sleep, prune, groom, nap, chat, and—oh yes—be merry!

I’ll get everything else done but my writing.

Yet even after a bad day, it’s nice to know I can escape to the refuge of my playlist. Sometimes, one song will do the trick. Sometimes, I need the whole playlist served up with a side order of volume to jumpstart my inspiration. Whichever is the case, the music I choose influences my writing more than I know. I have found myself on many occasions going back to a manuscript the day after a writing marathon to say, I wrote that? Huh, isn’t that something. And it all had to do with the music I was listening to at the time.

Of course, I’m not going to admit if the writing was any good.

Nevertheless, sunsets are incredible, aren’t they? Warm golden colors splashing upon pastures and mountainsides always make for wonderful evenings. Add some music, and the intensity level rises tenfold. The same thing happens to me when I sit down in my room for a first draft writing session. If I have the right tunes firing up my imagination, I’m right there—with the sun on my face staring out at the ocean feeling the breeze pass through my hair.

I read somewhere the mind can’t discern what is real and what is not. In that sense, music inspires me to travel distant places and meet interesting people. It can never replace a real experience, but it does come close.

In fact, I think now is one of those times.

Perhaps I’ll listen to some Tarantella music, take a trip to Italy, and write about the sheep grazing in the open meadows.

It’s the least I can do after a bad day.

My Secret Lover

2011-04-26T01:53:00.013-04:00

It’s a love affair, isn’t it? This thing we call writing.

As a writer, I know all too well what it’s like getting into trouble for pursuing my illicit passion. How many times have I been late for dinner because I needed to write one more sentence, come up with one more quote, or figure out one more plot resolution?

What’s even worse is sneaking out of a kid’s birthday party to jot down an idea that slammed into me like a bus on nitrous oxide during the singing of Happy Birthday to you…

Far too often, I’ve indulged in the secret pleasures of writing, almost to the detriment of everything else—consumed by its sultry ways. And why not? Writing is a tease. It entices. It knows when to slow down desire before the crescendo to the ultimate creative explosion, when words pour out on to the page like waves of rain soaking the English countryside.

In one instance, what should have been a quiet evening of 1,000 words became an all-night binge, with my courtesan tearing at my body until there was nothing left in me to give—2,000 words, 3,000 words, 4,000 words. On and on it went until every ounce of me lay spent. When it was over…pages upon pages of sentences lay strewn before me as a delicate Parisian quilt, tossed about on the matrimonial bed on a wintery morn.

It’s not difficult to comprehend writing’s allure—its mystical, magical, intoxicating allure. Others may spurn my advances, but writing’s always there waiting…waiting until the next bout of yearning sets in, until the next pang for affection grazes my soul, until the next quiver in my step brings me back to her!

I’m in love with her. I’m in love with writing—there’s no way I can let her go. She is my mistress and I’ll keep her in my heart until the end of my days.

It is a love affair.

All In

2011-04-22T00:29:00.027-04:00

Nothing in this world can replace the feeling of selling that first book. I haven’t gotten there yet. But, I have reached a time in my life where I have said, all in. What has brought me to this turning point?

Years ago, when I dared to sit down to write my first novel, I had dreams of stardom, fame and fortune.
I wanted it all—power, wealth, and everything that came with it.

Yet, something strange happened along the way.

I began writing and writing and writing. And as I wrote more and more, a compulsion came over me to admit my own frailties. This has never happened to me before. I stared down at my inadequacies wondering what went wrong. Pages of broken dreams, a heavy heart and an emotional scar that seeped deep into my soul, my mind swam in defeat.

And it all happened before breakfast on the first day!

Sure enough though, after two years and some late night hair pulling, which bordered on my losing my mind on more than one occasion, I completed the project. When I look back on the ~~ordeal~~ experience, I appreciate the great satisfaction I had gained from accomplishing this goal. In fact, I liked it so much...I set it upon myself to do it again, only this time with my second book. Call me the clichéd glutton for punishment.

Writing’s tough. It’s work. It’s hard work. But the rewards are illimitable.

That’s why when I began this journey I knew exactly what I was getting myself into. I had counted the cost. I had an unbound desire to write. What got me through the tough spots was the promise I had made to myself, deep in the throes of my passion—I will never give up, no matter what...

...I’m all in.

Superpowers vs. Writing

2011-04-16T23:59:00.000-04:00

I always wondered what it would be like to be a superhero. It’s not the kind of job you’d find in a newspaper or internet ad. But I’m sure whatever the qualifications are, the powers that be would allow a day off from time to time.

I think if there were an ad, maybe it would go something like this: “Wanted: Being of super powers. Able to tame evil in hostile environments. Must have the ability to travel at light speeds. Invisibility, optional.”

I wonder what holidays would be like, should I ever have the opportunity to apply for such a position? I’d wonder about my medical and dental plan. What if I had a car thrown at me and I suffered a concussion, who’d pay for my rehabilitation? Should I hold my breath the League of Supers would flip for the cost? Or would I have to save up to eventually pay my own tab?

These are some of the questions running through my mind when I’m sitting alone in my room in the middle of the night counting pennies.

Well…since I have no super powers, at least none that I’m aware of, I can only carry on doing what I do best. Write. And since this is my first blog entry, I might as well introduce myself.

My name is Jack Flacco, I’m not a superhero, I do not have any extraordinary powers, and I definitely do not pretend to have the power of light speed, although it would be cool on occasions.

What do I like? I love writing. I’ve written a YA novel entitled The Necklace. And I enjoy not being invisible—sometimes.

Welcome to my site!