Beauty and the Baby Art

Guest Art Blog:

featuring Joylene Nowell Butler

Author of  Dead Witness

Welcome to our first Art & Creativity Blog featuring author Joylene Butler.  Each week Joylene will share her thoughts on Art, Writing and Living a Creative Life.  Be sure to visit her blog each week!

Please scroll to the bottom of page to find more information on Joylene's work and writing.

Tuesday, October 14, 2009

Sunday, September 20, 2009

Tired, Anyone?

During my three trips to town this week, every woman I ran into complained of being exhausted. One of them was ahead of me in a long lineup and had to be woken by the clerk, who called her twice before she responded. "Tired," the woman confessed after that dazed look vanished.

Another lady put two items in my grocery chart and when I informed her of the mistake, she said, "I can't seem to stay focused. For about a month now, my brain's been on vacation."

I sympathize.

At the gym this morning, three separate women brought up the subject of being tired. One lady, who's been a regular for months, said she'd been to the doctor and his advice was to exercise.

Another lady said her doctor told her to cut out all sugar and alcohol from her diet. After 6 weeks, when she was still dragging her butt (her words) she went back. This time he suggested she get outside and spend more time in the sun.

Can all this fatigue simply be a result of a long summer? Or because winter is just around the corner? Or is the problem even related to the climate?

Yesterday, I drank a large can of Red Bull at 10:30 in the morning, then had a 20-minute nap. After a 30-min-workout in the afternoon, I had one hour's nap. By 3 pm, I tried Tai Chi and then spent the next few hours vegetating on the couch. I watched ... I can't remember.

Over the phone last night, my best-friend said she was given vitamin B shots while she was pregnant (100 years ago) and it made her feel wonderful and very energized. I bought a bottle this morning after I left the gym. When I got home, I looked up tired and vitamins on the internet. Interestingly, vitamins don't yield usable energy. They aid the enzymes that release energy from carbohydrates, proteins and fats, while providing no energy themselves. However, the good news: B75 Complex is known as the "energy vitamin".

Isn't the Net wonderful?

But if vitamins and minerals are the solution, what's the problem?

I get it that fighting depression can be exhausting. And nothing should ever been done without consulting a doctor; even if, like the lady above, you need to return again and again until the diagnosis is determined. A physical examination, blood tests and scans could rule out other causes. Apart from the weather, there's anemia (low red cells, an underactive thyroid gland, or liver and kidney problems. Not to mention Menopause.

Or it could be Chronic Fatigue Syndrome? Something else that would have to be determined by a doctor. Especially if this is a recurring problem over a six-month period or more.

I'm having blood work done next week. Meanwhile, here's some of the symptoms from the CFS website that I found interesting:

In addition to fatigue, other symptoms are also common, although most people do not have all of them. They include:- Muscular pain, joint pain, and severe headaches.

• Poor short-term memory and concentration.
• Difficulty organizing your thoughts and finding the right words.
• Painful lymph nodes this is often felt as tender, glandular swelling around your throat.
• Stomach pain and other problems similar to irritable bowel syndrome for example bloating, constipation, diarrhea and nausea.
• Sore throat.
• Sleeping problems, such as insomnia and disturbed sleep.
• Sensitivity or intolerance to light, loud noise, alcohol and certain foods.
• Additional, less common symptoms, such as dizziness, excess sweating, balance problems and difficulty controlling body temperature.
• Psychological difficulties, such as depression, irritability and panic attacks may also occur.

Depending on your symptoms, CFS is often categorized into four categorizes, mild, moderate, severe or very severe:

• Mild CFS - you are able to care for yourself, but may need to take days off work to rest.
• Moderate CFS - you may have reduced mobility and your symptoms can vary from time to time. You may also have disturbed sleep patterns and commonly sleep in the afternoon.
• Severe CFS - you are able to carry out minimal daily tasks, for example brushing your teeth, but occasionally you may need to use a wheelchair. You may also have difficulty concentrating.
• Very severe CFS - you are unable to carry out any daily tasks for yourself and rely on bed rest for the majority of your day. Often, in severe cases, you may experience intolerance to noise, and become very sensitive to bright lights.

Most cases of CFS are mild or moderate, but up to 1 in 4 people have severe or very severe symptoms.

Tuesday, Sept. 1, 2009

KEITH PYEATT – STRUCK, the novel

My friend Keith Pyeatt and I met online in 1997. He's the reason my suspense novel DEAD WITNESS has been so widely accepted; Keith spent hours critiquing and proofreading my manuscript before it went to press. He caught all those critical errors that would have doomed it otherwise. He'd hate me saying this, but he's one of the sweetest, most generous guys I know, and his contribution to my work cannot be measured. Thank you, good buddy. You deserve the success.

Keith is one of those rare writers who can spin a tale so moving and frightening that you're left wondering if you just read a story about real people in real situations. I'm awed every time I read one of his new manuscripts. In fact, I'm so impressed that I've been striving for the last 12 years to write at the level that Keith does.

Please give a warm welcome to an extraordinary writer...

Keith Pyeatt is a mechanical engineer turned novelist and freelance editor. He was born, raised, and educated in Texas and since has lived in Massachusetts, Vermont, and now New Mexico. Though a fan of many types of novels, he was always especially drawn to paranormal novels and psychological thrillers, so when he began writing in 1996, he combined elements from those genres into his work.

Keith's novels have won awards in major, national writing contests. He is an officer of SouthWest Writers, one of the largest writers' organizations in the country, and he enjoys attending writing conferences and programs as a presenter or panelist. He addresses various subjects including how to participate in and benefit from a critique group, developing the concept for your novel, using paranormal elements, writing effective dialogue, working with small presses, and more. Email Keith to discuss having him participate in an upcoming conference, workshop, or program.

Completed novels include STRUCK, a paranormal thriller in paperback; DARK KNOWLEDGE, a paranormal thriller to be released as an eBook this fall; ABOVE HALDIS NOTCH, an afterlife thriller/magical realism novel; and DAEVA, a psychological, paranormal thriller. Keith refers to his novels collectively as Horror with Heart and plans to write more. In fact, that's probably what he's doing right now.

Here's what a few others thought:

"A skillful melding of Native American mythology and suspense is what you'll find once you start reading Keith Pyeatt's STRUCK. And, once you start reading, you'll also find you can't stop. Masterful storytelling from a new author you're sure to hear from again!"
--Rick R. Reed, author of IM and Deadly Vision:

"Keith Pyeatt is a combination of Tony Hillerman, Anne Rice, and Stephen King who intertwines the legends and mysticism of the Southwest with a jolt of energy and thrills. From the first page, [he] keeps a low rumble of danger on the horizon, but the approaching storm still catches you by surprise."
--Greg Lilly, author of Devil's Bridge and Fingering the Family Jewels

STRUCK Read an excerpt.

A POWER AWAKENS, A DESTINY BEGINS.

When lightning strikes Barry Andrews as he hikes among petroglyphs in Albuquerque, it's more than an accident of nature. It's a calling. The surge of energy awakens abilities he's carried since birth. Earth's fate is now tied to Barry's, and Barry's destiny is linked to the past.

A thousand years ago, the ancestors of the Pueblo Indians built an advanced civilization in Chaco Canyon. Seeking to tame their harsh environment, they used the precise alignment of their pueblos to tap into powers they ultimately couldn't control, and their meddling almost ended life on Earth. The Anasazi abandoned Chaco Canyon to prevent future generations from repeating their mistake.

But the pueblo ruins still hold power, and the desire to control it remains strong. One man, driven by greed, ignores Anasazi warnings and exploits the ancient secrets of Chaco. Now Barry must join forces with a Native American elder, accept his role as warrior, and save the earth.

Sunday, July 5, 2009

Honouring Dad

I've talked about my father before. Obviously, because he was my dad and a big influence on my life. It's because of him that I'm a writer. He passed away 26 years ago today. He was 56. As of last month, I'm also 56. I look at his photographs and I try to see us as equals. Technically, we're the same age now. But it's the dad in the photograph of my sister, dad and I below that I most remember. The big guy who seemed so fearless and strong and invincible. He would have done anything for us kids.

Thanks for giving me life, dad, and for trying your best to do right by me.

--

joylene

Tuesday, June 30, 2009

I can remember picking out my chair at Staples. I tried all of them, after visiting all the other office furniture stores in town. I was convinced this chair was for me. And I'm pretty sure it was for a long time. Actually. I'm not even sure that's changed. Maybe I'm just worn out. Or maybe the chair (8 yrs old) needs to be retired. Chairs are damn expensive. I guess the answer is, does my back deserve better? Or should I be grateful I'm not sitting on my dining room chair?

Saturday, May 30, 2009

Robert Gordon Cummings

February 15, 1947 - May 15, 2009

They say you can tell the measure of a man by how many friends he has. My friend Bob Cummings was a very big fellow.

I met Bob in 1992 at Lakeside Resort in Cluculz Lake. He was waiting for Leah to get off work, and my husband and I were there for dinner; we'd been camping out while we built our house.

At first I saw what I perceived as a stern-looking man, until he spoke to his wife. I immediately recognized the voice of a gentle soul. And as I got to know him, I realized he was a man of quiet introspection. Bob loved his family more than life, he was never one to step into your space, and he was genuinely interested in you as a person.

We became fast friends. He was my mentor, my computer guru and my computer tech. Right up until I purchased my Imac, Bob was only a phone call away when my PC broke down. Didn't matter when I called either, he'd hear the panic in my voice, reassure me that my problems weren't serious, and he'd have my computer up and running in no time. He performed miracles.

When my mum died, he not only attended her memorial service, but he stood up and shared. He said every single time he came over to fix my computer, she was always gracious and had a plate of cookies warm out of the oven for him. She made sure of that because she saw him for the kind man he was. Generous, kind and genuine.

I hadn't seen much of Bob in the last few years; he'd been away working. But when I published my first novel last year, he called to congratulate me. He said it came as no surprise to him because he knew I was a good writer and that I would be successful.

In the 90s, I'd talked him into getting involved with the community association after years of absence. It wasn't always an easy job for him. He volunteer for everything. He drove several of us into Prince George whenever we had our benefits at the casino. I used to talk his ear. If I asked a dozen questions, I probably asked him a hundred. I never told him I modeled FBI Special Agent Sal Vamozzi in Dead Witness after him. I didn't want to embarrass him.

One winter night, when a bunch of us were coming back from the casino at midnight in Bob's stationwagon, we came very very close to hitting a moose. In fact, the car whizzed under the animal's chin. Everyone was shocked into silence. Then Bob said "Hmm, I hope him appreciates that clean shave."

Occasionally, Bob would remind me that it was my fault he was back serving the community. One evening while he was waiting for Leah, I convinced him he should run as President of the Community Association. When things were anything but smooth, he'd smile at me and remind me again that it was my fault.

But the truth was, Bob was born to serve. He would look around and see where he could best be useful, and that's where you'd find him. When we needed a President, he was available. When we needed a Fire Chief, he volunteered. When we were in desperate need of a Fire Marshall, he was there.

People come into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. Bob was the kind of person that you took for granted would always be there, helping. He was looking forward to retirement and spending more time with Leah. His eyes would light up when he talked about their plans; Leah meant everything to him, and he was anxious for her to relax and have fun. So often, Bob would say "Leah works too hard. The kids are grown, now it's her turn."

I don't presume to understand, but I guess God had other plans for Bob.

--

joylene

http://cluculzwriter@yahoo.ca

http://joylene.webs.com

Saturday, April 18, 2009

Total Bliss – Hallelujah!

Three inches of snow fell last night. The scene outside my window this morning was magic. And by that I mean whiteness covered all the muck that always reappears in the spring. All the problem areas on our lawn are covered in a perfect white blanket. You know, that clean whiteness that fills your heart with peace. I know I complain about winter a lot, but it is magical how snow makes the ugliest things look beautiful. Because the lottery wasn't won last Saturday night, Wednesday 649 was 48 million. Can you even imagine having that much money? Few people can. I've met one or two, and wanted so badly to ask them what they thought about in place of worrying over money. I lay awake Tuesday night and imagined the freedom to leave whenever winter had me down. I imagined me and my Mac notebook flying to the warmest places where I could sit at night and watch sunsets that would take my breath away. I imagined all the people I could help, and how fulfilling that would feel. I imagined... well, so much freedom that I slept poorly. Even after all these years, occasionally I still have to remind myself that bedtime is for sleeping not conjuring up scenarios that will keep me awake all night. Chances are, I'm never know what having 48 million feels like. I'm not even sure I want to. I like my simple life. It's just taken a bit longer to realize that than it should have. Yes, I'd like the financial freedom to travel, to visit my family on a moment's notice and buy whatever I want when I want it, but at the risk of what? Is there a risk? I think so. Therefore, I'm publicly thanking God for the blessings I have that money can't buy. Particularly that of a healthy brain with its seemingly endless ability to imagine. I hope your life is calm and stress free. If it isn’t, I’m sorry. I’m doubly sorry that I don’t have any words of wisdom that will sense of the hard times. The only thing I’ve found that works is to fake it. Fake being happy. Because like everything else we have to do that we don’t particularly want to, if you fake long and hard enough, it becomes your new reality. Here’s to faking total bliss. Hallelujah!

Saturday, March 21, 2009

Saturday, March 14, 2009

Global BC's meteorologist, Mark Madryga warns it's going to snow this afternoon. That's a perfect time to sit back and watch the bald eagles fish -- Oops, I mean a perfect time to edit, write, or revise. An eagle just flew by my window and interrupted my thoughts. Which illustrates just how easy it is to distract me.

Cluculz Lake is approximately fourteen kilometres long and a kilometre wide. Our home is situated roughly in the middle on the north side of the lake and about fifty feet above water level. We can see approximately four to five km to the west and two to three to the east, before the lake disappears around the bend. At this time of year, there's a lot of activity with large flocks of birds preparing to migrate. The robins have long gone. Occasionally a lone swan flies past. (Did you know although they mate for life, they will "divorce" if there's a mishap building the nest?) I haven't seen a loon in weeks. There are still plenty of ducks.

Yesterday morning, I spotted two eagles fishing out front. I called to my husband so he could also appreciate them. Eagles are such majestic creatures. It wasn't until I looked closely that I realized they weren't fishing for fish. Fifteen to twenty ducks were swimming past, fighting the waves. The eagles took turns dive-bombing the ducks, then flipping over with talons extended. The ducks turned fast and swam toward the eagles, and literally "ducked" underneath those talons. They don't turn away from eagles, ever. It as if they're saying, "We're scared to death, but bring it on, buddy."

I live in the wilderness and yet it never fails to make my stomach lurch when I see nature at its most ... I want to say savage, but it's really Mother Nature’s way of balancing nature. I had to turn away from the window. My husband stood guard and reported that the eagles were unsuccessful and now sitting in my neighbour's trees. The fifteen or so ducks were hiding under the wharf.

I let out a deep sigh and went back to my desk overlooking the lake. Forty minutes passed before the eagles took off to the east. Seconds later, the ducks popped up from under the wharf and headed in the opposite direction.

Nature has its moments. And this article definitely encapsulates my favouritism. Fishing for fish is fine, but not for ducks.

Back to editing....

--best regards

joylene

http://joylene.webs.com

Thursday, February 26, 2009

The Blessings of Snow

Three inches of snow fell last night. The scene outside my window this morning was magic. And by that I mean whiteness covered all the muck that will reappear in the spring. All the problem areas on our lawn are covered in a perfect white blanket. You know, that clean whiteness that fills your heart with peace. I know I complain about winter a lot, but it is magical how snow makes the ugliest things look beautiful.

Because the lottery wasn't won Wednesday night, Saturday 649 was 48 million. Can you even conceptualize having that much money? Few people can. I've met one or two, and wanted so badly to ask them what they thought about in place of worrying over money. I lay awake Saturday night and imagined the freedom to leave whenever winter had me down. I imagined me and my new Mac notebook flying to the warmest places where I could sit at night and watch sunsets that would take my breath away. Then I imagined all the people I could help and how fulfilling that would feel. I imagined... well, so much freedom that I slept poorly. Even after all these years, occasionally I still have to remind myself that bedtime is for sleeping not conjuring up scenarios that will keep me awake all night.

Chances are, I'm never know what having 48 million feels like. I'm not even sure I want to. I like my simple life. It's just taken a bit longer to realize that than it should have. Yes, I'd like the financial freedom to travel, to visit my family on a moment's notice and buy whatever I want when I want it, but at the risk of what? Is there a risk? I think so. Therefore, I'm publicly thanking God for the blessings I have that money can't buy. Particularly that of a healthy brain with its seemingly endless ability to imagine.

Sunday, February 8, 2009

It Ain't Easy, But I'm Gonna Market

Blogging is creating content that one feels is of interest to the reading public. Those of you who blog know how difficult that can be. Similar questions arise: What in my life would interest you?

There's no easy answer to that. But witnessing the inauguration last month brings to mind  that what draws us together is our humanity. It's the one thing that binds all nations under God. And therefore seems like a good subject for blogging.

As a Canadian, I was moved by the inauguration. While listening to President Obama's speech, I too was filled with hope. As far back at his win in the primaries, I experienced that sensation. Seeing it come to pass on that special Tuesday was like the icing on the cake. There is a chance that the future for Canada, The United States and Mexico, and even the rest of the world will be brighter. That's what I feel and now I'm attempting to focus on that theme in my blogs.

Still not an easy task.

I've been of the mind that my past dictates my future. I'm never going to know what it feels like to be in the inner circle. I'm not going to be filthy rich nor eternally famous. I'm destined to be just one of millions of Canadian mums trying to make her mark in her small world.

And yet, here is a man raised by a single mother whose father was a sheep herder in Nairobi, and he's now the President of the United States. Makes my limited view of my future seem sort of limited, wouldn't you say?

As you may already know, I'm blogging because I'm a published author and apparently blogging is part and parcel of that. I'm still not sure why. I think it may have something to do with how many authors there are. And on how many actually succeed in being best sellers.

I'm blogging because on my own, my reach is short. Though I believe I've written a good story (Dead Witness), I don't have the facilities outside blogging to reach the masses. Therefore, blogging it is. Not to mention book signings, readings, interviews and tours. If I believe in my book, it's up to me to spread the word. Funds allowed.

Yes, here comes the BUT...

President Obama decided somewhere along the way that he was destined to serve. He's obviously lived his life with that goal in mind. Kudos to him. He worked hard and now his dream is a reality.

For as far back as I can remember, I wanted to write stories. I paid relatively close attention in school. I went to graduate school. I did everything I could to hone my craft. I wrote one story, then another and another. Today I'm published. Readers are enjoying my book. In those terms, I'm a success. Kudos to me.

So why do I have to blog, tour, do interviews, signings and readings?

I did a book reading at the Prince George Library on January 27th and had a blast. You should have seen me up there at the front of the room spewing off why I love writing. And even listening to my own gruff voice reading from Dead Witness inspired me to go home and write some more.

Today I feel luckier than most. I'm doing something I love. Okay, the signings aren't that much fun, but oh to sit down at my computer and write 1,000 words in a few hours... wow, what a feeling.

One thing though, I'm a little shocked at how many people still stand in front of a camera and refer to President Obama as Barack Obama instead of President Obama. Doesn't seem right even for these non-American ears.

--

joylene

Author of Dead Witness

"Man's heart away from nature becomes hard." Standing Bear

http://cluculzwriter.blogspot.com

http://everydaybloggers.blogspot.com

http://joylene.webs.com

Monday, February 2, 2009

Unable to type yesterday got me thinking. Could I adapt to one-hand typing? What if my satellite connection quit? What if I had to go back to my IBM typewriter and could no longer connect with my online friends? Oh my Lord, could I survive? Would I?

Human beings can do just about anything needed to adapt to change; they've proving that enough times. I say this on the eve of last night's CBC show: The National News. They did a story on the economic situation in Canada verses what's happening in America, China and Britain. Compared to those countries, we have it easier. Unless you ask someone in Mackenzie or Osawa.

My reading Tuesday night at the Library is partially responsible for my heightened optimism. If you're a published writer feeling a bit discouraged about the book industry, stand in front of a group of writers and readers for 90 minutes. I dare you not to come away feeling inspired. Satellite disconnection, one-hand typing on an old IBM or pen to paper notwithstanding, writing is a God-given gift. Nothing should get in the way of you and that thing you love most: writing.

The snow out my window is one more reason I'm happy. It's a perfect day to snuggle up with my keyboard, despite one-hand typing. Lastly, I watched Charlie Rose's interview with John Grisham last night after The National News (kicking myself for not taping him) and I fell asleep thinking 'If Mr. Grisham can do it, I can too.'

One last thought: Have you subscribed to Copyblogger yet?

--best

joylene

Wednesday, January 8, 2008

If You Could Do It All Over Again, What Would You Change?

Saturday, December 20, 2008

Monday, December 1, 2008

Marketing Stress: Real or Imagined?

Yesterday morning I read chapter one of Dead Witness at CFIS 93.1 FM in Prince George, BC.

I didn't realize just how stressed I'd been. In fact, up to that point, I was pretty impressed with my calm attitude. Ben Meisner is a popular radio personality in BC, and I conversed with him as if he were my neighbour. Then I sat down with Reg Feyer and recorded my first chapter without a hiccup. It airs Monday night at 6 pm as part of The Storytellers on 93.1 FM.

The night before I'd slept badly. I dreamed several different versions of my book signings for December 6th and 7th in Prince George. Either both bookstores were so packed that I ran out of books and everyone stormed out; or nobody showed up and there I sat surrounded by stacks of Dead Witness.

Yesterday morning, instead of breakfast, we left for town early so Ralphie could have some blood tests done at the clinic. Nothing urgent, just his annual checkup. We left the house at 8:20 and reached the clinic at 9:19. I had an appointment with the radio station after 10 am. I left one poster at Books and Company, and one at Save-On Bookstore, announcing the signings. The taping at 93.1 FM took 10 minutes. I have an okay-voice, not too deep, nor too scratchy. My mother was an entertainer during WW2, and she'd instructed us as kids on how to speak into a mike. After 40 some years, all that came back to me.

After the taping was over, I stopped in to see Teresa at the Prince George Free Press. We chatted about writing and all the marketing that entails. As I stood there, an invisible weight literally lifted off my shoulders. I became lighter, (hallelujah) and it occurred to me that the small-town girl from Maple Ridge had come a long way. It's one thing to be interviewed on television; but to sit down and read a chapter from a work that I'd sweated over for 4 years, was in deed a huge accomplishment.

Book signings are difficult. You don't know if you're going to be received well or completely ignored. I know Dead Witness is a good book, but times are tough. Our economy is suffering. Can readers afford to buy books?

That I don't know. But I do know I like people. I'm not afraid of smiling, chit-chatting or even talking about everything else but my work. I know my readers will be transported and able to escape life for a short period of time. If asked why anyone should buy my book, I'd be quick to answer, "Because Valerie McCormick is a fascinating, noble woman who reminds us how important family is."

I owe the Bulkley-Nechako District my deepest gratitude. They've been very supportive. They've gone out of their way to make me feel welcomed. Since publishing Dead Witness July 2, 2008, I've received numerous emails from readers who remarked on how much they enjoyed my book. Some have even stopped me on the street to thank me for the entertainment. One lady said, "Thank you for writing a good book and not wasting my time." That was music to my ears.

If you're near Books and Company, Saturday December 6th between 11 o'clock and 2:30, please stop by. I'll be at Save-On Bookstore at Spruceland the next day: Sunday; same hours.

I look forward to seeing you.

--best

joylene

http://cluculzwriter.blogspot.com

CFIS 93.1 FM : http://www.cfisfm.com/

Books & Company: http://www.booksandcompany.ca/Home.html

Sunday, November 23, 2008

WHY READ A PARTICULAR NOVEL?

I've trimmed Omatiwak: Woman Who Cries down to 78,000 words so far. I'm currently working on its 4th draft. Still unsure whether it has that "special" something (must move me before it moves another reader), I printed out the first 15 chapters last night and read them in one sitting. I made some minor edits, the ending still needs work, but overall, I'm pleased with what I read/wrote.

Sally Warner is a middle aged woman with substance. What's interesting is that her perception of herself is so different than how others see her.

There's a scene early in the book where a memorial service is held at her home. She lives in an opulent Georgian house in College Heights above the city of Prince George. RCMP Crime investigator Corporal Danny Killian has stopped by to pay his respects and to secretly study the mourners. He's hoping his instincts will detect anything out of the ordinary. Nervous tics, suspicious-looking characters, peculiar mannerisms. Sally's husband was murdered four days early in their kitchen while Sally was in her bedroom on the second floor.

The day Mr. Warner's body was discovered, Danny gave Sally a list of her husband's political and professional associates. Danny asked Sally to check the list, tick off anyone who may have had ill feelings toward her husband, and to add any names she felt were worth mentioning.

During the memorial scene, Sally's leading Danny upstairs to the media room so he can take a look at her list. He's following her through the kitchen, hallway, dining room, foyer, up the grand staircase, through a house filled with over three hundred guests. Sally is a broken woman. She's under duress, in shock, and terrified of what the future holds. Yet, as she passes through her home, Danny witnesses these peoples' reactions to her. He's surprised by their concern because by this point, he knows that her husband, the retired minister of defence, wasn't a popular man. He was disliked. In fact he had a lot of enemies.

As Danny follows Sally, it becomes clear that the reason so many important people are present is due, in part, to their fondness for her. They cease conversations to greet her with genuine concern and respect. Many reach out and touch her as she passes. Sally may have little respect left for herself, but neighbours, friends, important members of the establishment obviously care about her.

Does that mean I've written a whopping good tale?

That remains to be seen. But it does mean I'm on the right track.

Compelled to write Sally's story is my motivation. But to write a story where the characters care about the protagonist is a major breakthrough. It's the essence of a potentially worthy story. If I can create an endearing character, my book may be something a reader will be drawn to read. Let's face it, they've got thousands of books to choose from and only so much time to read.

I need to make certain my opening hooks the reader, enticing them to step into this make-believe world. Then I need to supply interesting incidents that increase their curiosity. And finally, I need to make it so they care about my character. I do all this and Omatiwak may stand a chance. Because when all is said and done, that's my goal. That's what I must do. Write a book that you will want to read right to the end.

Ever stop to think why you read a particular novel over one that looks just as appealing? Answering might give you an insight into yourself that you weren't aware of.

Thursday, November 13, 2008

Before I began my blog, I searched for a logline that best described what I had to offer as a blogger. I finally chose The Day in the Life of a Writer because that's who I am and how I see my life. Part of that is being on the outlook for inspiring authors such as my guest today. Jo Linsdell has gone one step further than most bloggers and has created a site that showcases some of the finest authors around. And by addressing many of the concerns we face as writers, Jo has found answers to some difficult questions.

Saturday, November 1, 2008

How Do I Describe Him?

In a few months, our grandson Chastin will turn eighteen. He was eight months old when his dad passed away. Now that Chastin's about to become a man, I want to tell him stories about what a special person his dad was. I want to. But I can't find the words or the voice. When I think of his dad, I see images. Thick bangs, a big smile, and eyes that sparkled. How do I describe that to an eighteen year old?

But that's what I see when I think of Jack. Beautiful eyes hidden under bangs that always seem to need trimming. I hear him laughing, a sound that was gentle and kind and came from his heart. I see him and his twin Jody stuck together on the couch, watching The Hulk or any one of their favourite television shows. Like the tantalizing Much More Music. They'd sit so close you couldn't stick a dime between them. Ten minutes later, they'd be on the floor wrestling because one or the other had said something. It seldom mattered what.

I'd get so flustered when they'd start. It would inevitably ended up with someone getting mad, shoving, which would quickly advance to punching. Once they were into their teens, I'd yell and stomp my feet and demand that they stop before something got broken. They'd ignore me. I'd try prying them apart. Someone was going to get hurt. Damned if it would be on my watch.

After what felt like an eternity, they'd separate, gasping. They were twins, equally matched. But not in the way you'd suspect. Jody had a fierce temper, whereas Jack was stronger but more apt to hold back. When Jody's punches hurt, Jack would laugh. Of course, that made Jody angrier.

Once they separated, I'd remind them that they loved each other. They'd never deny it. Then I'd go off to my room to cry. I grew up with an older brother and sister who weren't allow to hit each other or me. I didn't understand the twins' need to be so physical.

After my tears dried up and my eyes weren't so puffy, I'd collect myself and leave my room. Nine times out of ten, I'd find them stuck together on the couch, so close you couldn't stick a dime between them. I'd stand at the doorway, mesmerized. Eventually, Jack would glance up and smile from beneath those thick bangs that needed trimming. Then just as quickly his attention would return to the TV.

Honestly, how else do I describe him?

--

joylene

http://joylene.webs.com

Saturday, October 4, 2008

No Response?

We've all had this happen: you put the word out that something very exciting has taken place in your life, then sit back and wait.

Only... two hours later, there's nothing. No blinking lights on your telephone keypad. No flooding of emails in your inbox. No text messages. No call from your children, best-friend, or mother.

Nada.

So what do you make of that?

Are you unloved and unappreciated? Unimportant? Or just plain lousy at getting the word out?

It's a fast-paced world. I'm betting you'd be hard-pressed to find anyone who is totally so unimportant that nobody gives a hoot. Especially mum. And really, if all that were true, why would something exciting be happening to you in the first place?

Any chance you thought you clicked SEND, but it turns out that important message is in your DRAFT folder by mistake?

You've checked your DRAFT folder and, sadly, it's not there. The chances of everyone not finding the time to respond is slim. But not completely unlikely.

First of all, it's not personal. They aren't ignoring you. They're caught up in life's dramas, just as you are. They saw your message. They had a reaction. Good, bad, indifference. They just didn't (for reasons that probably have nothing at all to do with you) find the time to respond.

People care. That's why you're on their Facebook, Twitter, Gather, etc etc. That's why you're on the wedding list, maybe even in the wedding party. It's why you're invited to parties, dinners, barn raisings, and all those many other events you sometimes wish you weren't invited to.

However, if that all-important message ended up being sent to colleagues, people who don't necessarily adore you but who respect your contributions, not to mention your God-given talent, then chalk it up to lack of time. Nobody thinks they're the other one who can't respond at that precise moment. They're hoping if you don't see a message from them, you won't notice because you'll be swamped with messages.

Okay, that may not work if you posted you message on a public bulletin board, for everyone to see. If that's the case, maybe you are the most unimportant person you know. Just kidding. There are always reasons for a lack of response. You're new. Your timing is bad. Something momentous is happening at work, or on your list. Your little message was swallowed up by the bigger picture. Or everyone who didn't answer assumed everyone else replied privately.

Again, trust me, it's never personal.

For whatever reasons your message was missed, it doesn't matter. And it shouldn't stop you from ever posting again. Simply lift yourself up, brush yourself off, and next time somebody posts an announcement about something exciting taking place in their lives, take a moment and acknowledge them. Even a simple "Bravo" goes a long way.

And besides, it'll say volumes about you.

Wednesday, Sept. 17, 2008

We May Have Something in Common.

The sun's shining, the lake is smooth like glass, people are fishing, water-skiing... but don't kid yourself, summer is over. Especially for those of us in the north. (We're in central B.C., but for the sake of argument, let's say "north" includes everywhere north of the mid-States) The end of summer means more cloudy days, cold weather, rain and finally five to six months of winter. No more warm, lazy days laying in the sun, sipping cold drinks with fancy names, and hearing children's laughter from the lake. The end of summer means that in short order we'll be shoveling snow, thawing our locks, and bungling up so tightly that bending over to tie up our boots is near to impossible.

A while back, the end of summer was my favourite time of year because it meant no more mosquitoes. And autumn was on its way. Everyone knows how beautiful autumn can be. The only downsize is that autumn is closely followed by winter. Winter, with its icy road conditions and snow that lasts until April. Oh, and let's not forget Christmas. Which reminds me that my second favourite day of the year used to December 26th.

Ba humbug. It's not even Halloween and already I'm dreaming of sun-drenched days when working in the garden means I've really accomplished something for the day. Summer means mornings promising the eerie, spiritual cries of Loons calling to each other. Summer means sun rays shining oblong through the rain. Freshly clipped lawns. Peony bushes so full they bend over and touch the ground. And sparkling clean windows that seem to disappear. And let's not forget that summer doubles my living space by joining the outside with inside.

But the best part of all is that next year summer is preceded by spring, and spring means joining our youngest in the Dominican where he'll say his marriage vows.

I'm back from a visit with our youngest, who has just begun his tour in Afghanistan. His home is in Rusagonis, New Brunswick near Gagetown, where mosquitoes never die, but where summer sometimes lasts until Halloween. New Brunswick, like everywhere in the Maritime is a beautiful, history-filled place. While I am indeed sad to see summer end, I had the pleasure of an extended summer, mosquito bites et al. I spent time with our son and his beautiful fiancee. I was with her when he and his unit boarded their plane. I was there when the miracle of Skype enabled these lovebirds to speak face-to-face over the internet, a prelude to the next seven months.

Now, as I sit at my desk on a beautiful late-summer day, looking out at Cluculz Lake, watching fish jump, seeing fishermen putter past under clear skies ... there are over 33,000 Nato troops in Afghanistan. Among them 2,500 Canadians. I'm sure all those other parents are just as proud as I am that our son serves his country in the most bravest of ways. And I know that I'm not the only mum living now or in the past with this unease. And though I'm sad to see summer end, as each day passes, our son's end of tour draws closer.

Maybe the best thing about summer is its return again next year.

If your son or daughter is serving in Afghanistan or Iraq and you feel the need to share, please email me anytime. God Bless.

When Your Best Is Never Good Enough.

WHEN YOUR BEST NEVER SEEMS TO SATISFY

Copyrighted 2008 by Selene Skye

When your best never seems to satisfy

when your hair isn't blond enough

or pony mane

thick

breeze

beautiful

bouncy in a tail against long neck

as feet pound pavement and dirt roads

because of course

you must run

because you can never be thin enough

slender lean hip curves

a fatty at your back

bouncy boobs high from the last lift

a strong back to ride waves of sound

at the club all night long

windy

serpentine

voluptuous soul

against a pole

a pulse you can't put your finger on

because you'd really much rather be at home

sleeping in a warm bed

then having boys who were in diapers

the year you turned sixteen and wild

gaping at you with MILF dreams within their dilated

ecstasy wide pupils

When your best seems to get you into a heapingful of blues

and troubles

maybe it's time to stop trying so hard

to be the silkiest monster in the day

the woman with the yellow eyes and sharpest of tongues

whipping up a storm of wounds across the palms

that never meant an ounce of harm

and yet were stripped down to the bone

Maybe it's time to stop being your daughter's friend

her hip-hop princessa partner in the sublime crime of misanthropy

and be her mother

get her back beneath the arbor of wings

before the freedom you've unleashed before her

whips her up into a frenzied maelstrom

far from any Wizard of Oz dream

When your best has turned you inside-out

to cannibalize your own dreams and needs and wants;

when your lashes feather spider darkness

coy green eyes beneath

they forget how to see your eyes

when your lips have been stung with such intense wasp kisses

to swell ruby and doll like

they forget to hear the words coming from between those pouty

ruby

porn star delicacies

and you

yourself

forget

that the only reason you'd puffed your lips to begin with

was to erase the scars and the damage

left behind by Eagle's hard fists

And you've fallen so easily to your own glitter

your porcelain

ivory existence

devour without thought and despise without reason each bittersweet slice

of hate

and love

come to flutter through your fingers

God, you are so convoluted

such a contradiction

and I can tell you one thing

my green-eyed monster

when your best is never good enough

maybe

it's too good to be true

copyright:2008victoriaseleneskyedeme

It's impossible to know what goes through another's mind when they create something as tender and haunting as Selene's poem. But I do understand why it moves me so deeply. I've been as guilty of this as the next. I've judged myself and others by appearance. I looked at a woman's attire and render expectations. Or misgivings. During my 30s, I yearned to be perfect. The perfect woman, the perfect wife and mother. Anything short of that meant failure.

My mother was an entertainer; she understood about appearances. Did she teach me to demand perfection? No, in fact she told me I was luckier than most because not only was I smart, I had personality and brains. "Enjoy who you are," she would say.

So, what do you suppose my reaction was? In light of the continual influence of movies, TV and magazines, I thought because she was my mother, she didn't see me as the world did: full of imperfections, unworthy.

I think back now to the look of pain on her face when I described myself in degrading terms. Adjectives like fat, stupid, unworthy, pitiful, and ugly were familiar choices. I was her daughter, the result of the union between her and her husband, my father. "You look like your dad," she'd say. He was attractive, dark like Dean, outgoing like Frank.

All I saw was my thick frame, eyes that were too deep set, and short legs. I heard a masculine voice when I spoke and a throaty noise when I laughed. 

This search for perfection and the fear that your best is never good enough isn't new. My mother felt it, and her mother did. And whether they passed it along to me isn't important. Our society feeds on such lack of confidence. How else would they sell their products?

I revel in the thought that women are living longer. And menopause, despite its ghastly side-affects is proving to be good for something. Now that I'm well into my fifties I no longer care what others think. I'm grateful for my wrinkles and laugh lines and all the other gravity fallouts. The sadness I feel for girls coming of age is probably the same pity my grandmother's generation felt for us. Is this new generation strong enough to change society's attitudes? Sadly, it doesn't look like it.

For more of Selene's work, please check out seleneskye.gather.com

Despite being a child of the 50s, growing up during the woman's movement, I'm still a product of my parents generation. They raised me by the standards of the times, and though I often tried to shake those ideals, they're part of who I am today.

My father was the breadwinner, my mother the homemaker. By the time I came along they had already lived through a world war, stood in line for bread, and bought things without the aid of credit. During my teens I looked upon their philosophy and beliefs as old fashioned. Today, I can't help but wonder who I would have become without them.

My mother sang and entertained during WWII, performing primarily for Canadian troops. She was a quiet, shy woman, and until I saw her at the piano, I couldn't imagine her performing in front of large crowds, particularly lonely soldiers. Give her a piano, a microphone, or a guitar, and she transformed herself. Long into my twenties, friends would crowd around her, angling for the best spot.

Her artist abilities didn't end there. Every five years or so, she'd remodel out farmhouse kitchen into a modern, hip space. Soon afterward, neighbours would have her over for consultations; in those days it was called coffee. She sewed her own clothes and ours, tended to flower and vegetable gardens, and cornfields taller than my 6'3 father. She made quilts, baked her own bread, canned, hooked rugs, and crocheted flowers that ended up looking like carnations. When her youngest turned thirteen, (me) she began work as the night janitor for a private golf and country club.

The day after school was out, mum would load up our old '53 Pontiac and drive us 40 miles to Everglades, outside the city of Mission. While dad worked, visiting us on weekends, mum, along with three other mums, would set up our campsite and four tents, and cover the entire area with tarps roped to the trees. It didn't matter if it rained the entire summer, we were protected from the elements. On weekends, along with the other fathers, dad would arrive with supplies. After dark, when the campfire danced under a sky filled with stars, the guitars and banjos were brought out. The sound of them harmonizing together was wonderful. His voice was a mixture of Ray Price and Dean Martin. She sounded like one-third of the Lennon Sisters.

The idea of keeping house while dad worked was commonplace; I don't remember her ever complaining. We'd watched Father Knows Best and The Donna Reed Show on our 20" black and white television. And as it was with those TV mums, we were my mother's life. Continuing her career after marriage never entered the equation. The janitorial job came later because it didn't interfere with her day job as wife and mother. If asked why she didn't continue her career, she'd frown and say, "Who's going to feed the cattle at midnight, get you kids ready for school, or take care of you when you're sick?" When I was a teenager, I told her that excuse didn't cut it any longer. She smiled and said, "Joylene, I'm too old now."

October 16th, 1999, my mother passed away. Though I know she wanted to see the new millennium, I suspect she was too tired to live longer. Her life had become one long road of debilitating pain. Near the end, she had to give up her independence and move in with us. Her once full life was squeezed into a 14 x 16 space just large enough for her TV, bed, dresser and night tables.

More often than not, she said I was lucky to be born when I was. I had no restrictions on who I could be. I could raise a family, have a career, or do none of the above. I had choices. She didn't get her driver's license until she was fourty-five because no one told her she should. Still, in 1966, she drove from Maple Ridge to Winnipeg. Nobody told her she couldn't.

When my dad died and I started writing what I hoped would be his story, my mum took it in stride. She said I was a born story-teller. When I was two years old and company would drop by for evening visits, I'd entertain everyone by telling tall tales. I'd stand on the hearth and rock sideways from foot to foot. Though my enunciation needed work, she said I had a nice rhythm to my incoherencies.

Today I'm a storyteller lash writer lash wife and mother. I'm the self-published author of the suspense thriller Dead Witness. I'm the author of five yet-to-be published novels. I was raised by a woman who knew her place, but wanted more for her children. I was raised to believe I could do anything; I could be anyone. I was also influenced by her fears and misgivings.

In any given week, I deal with bookstore owners, editors, publishers, agents, reviewers, lawyers, newspaper people, printers, distributors, bookkeepers, accountants, other writers, and readers. I studied at Simon Fraser University where my English professor told me to go home and have babies because I would never make it as a writer. I've worked at jobs where my male counterparts earned more wages for doing the same job. I experienced the growing pains of menstrual cramps, the agony of giving birth, the depression of a hysterectomy, and the onslaught of menopause. There are days when I am overwhelmed by the complexities of life. And marketing my novel has thrown me out of my comfort zone.

But I was raised to believe I could do anything. And even today, when I'm partying alone at my own pity-party, I swear I hear my mother say, "Joylene, you're stronger than this."

I like to publicly thank my mum for preparing me for an often unreasonable and cruel world. She believed in me. Today I see women who are pioneers, leaders in their given professionals. I watch Oprah and rival in the successes of extraordinary women; frightened, beaten women who fought against discrimination and abuse and became trendsetters, innovators, and mentors. Mentors, like my quiet, unimposing mother. I'm in awe of the women of my generation for good reason. They command attention in every facet of life: art, literature, science, and music. They find themselves outside their comfort zone, yet perhaps because they had a mother in the wings who believed in them, they keep their head held high.

I'm hearing the same horror stories that perhaps you are: that this younger generation of women, the 13 to 18 years old, are falling prey to the belief that they're here solely to serve males. I don't know if it's a case of journalists focusing attention on what is actually a minority; but regardless, it's sad note. And while I am the mother of sons, I'm also the grandmother of eight, four of whom are girls. I pray that when all is said and done, we prove that our mothers and grandmothers didn't survive their hardships in vain. They not only passed on the torch, they lit it.

Friday, July 18, 2008

Do You Do What You Love - For Success?

Last month I had the pleasure of reading The Ultimate Reward by Aaron Paul Lazar. It's a lovely piece about the gifts a writer sometimes fails to discover. It made me question my own reasons for writing. Did I too have dreams of being on Oprah and Larry King? Being on the top of the NY Times bestseller's list? Or gracing the cover of The New Yorker?

Not in the beginning; I still had images of Margaret Laurence, author of The Stone Angel being interviewed in her kitchen with a countertop of homemade jams in the background. I was reeling from the seventies, so my dreams consisted of rubbing elbows with the likes of Stephen King, Marilyn French, and Eric Lustbader. I wanted to sip wine and have long existential conversations with Bob Dylan. I wanted to fly to NYC on a moment's notice; something about my agent having to discuss movie rights with Cheryl Ladd's people. I wanted a villa in France where I could lounge on the terrace with Dire Straits and discuss writing their autobiography.

In truth, I began writing because my father had just died. I was thirty, still full of faith and optimism, and thought if I could write his story, he would live forever.

Do we ever really know our parent? Can we even imagine them as kids? Separate from us? Real people? I didn't. And it wasn't long into my quest that I realized that. He was my dad. My knight in shining armour. My protector. My hero. And that's about all I knew of him. Three months of banging away on an old IBM typewriter, struggling over what to write, I stopped. I didn't know him well enough to write his story. And I was forced to grieve. Not just for him, but because I had discovered a secret. I had the capabilities to truly give him life, only I knew nothing about his life.

And then one day I realized something. What I did know was my story.

Always took seven years of pain-staking work. When I finally typed THE END, I knew Always would never see the light of day, but I also knew I was hooked on the process. I'd never felt as alive as when I was struggling over every word in every sentence. It felt so good to be stacking page after page on the table in front of me. 500 sheets of the written word held new meaning.

My family thought I was peculiar. But how could I vocalize what was happening?

I have no idea why there are those of us who need to write and there are those of us who are satisfied simply reading what those of us who need to write, write about. Ooh, if my grammar teacher could only see me now. Whether it's a need or a gift, the jury's still out. One thing for sure, a writer is someone who writes because they cannot NOT write.

You'll never hear a writer say "One of these days I'm going to write a book." Instead you'll hear them saying stuff like, "I'm still working on that dang book I started in '93." Or: "Valerie did something really strange today, and now my outline is screwed." Or: "I don't want to type The End because I don't think I can say goodbye to these people." (She means characters)

If you have a writer in the family, you have my deepest condolences. They're an odd bunch. But strange as they might be, I bet they're not consumed by the need to write because of dreams of fame and fortune. They're probably just doing what needs to be done. And if they're lucky, they might end up like Mr. Lazar, giving peace and a little diversion to another human being.

Please do check out Margaret Laurence 's books. After 44 years, they are as powerful and beautifully written as the day she typed THE END.

* * *

Choosing POV

Over the years, I've seen so many articles on the subject of POV that require a degree in sociology to discern. It doesn't need to be that way. Sometimes grasping complicated issues means thinking in the simplest terms.

The POV of any scene is the narrator, the character telling the story. And there are 4 choices:

Omni -- God/Author/Character,

3rd person -- She/He,

2nd -- You, 

1st -- I/Me.

For the sake of argument, let's agree that nobody wants to read a story in 2nd person, "You verbed".

A good rule of thumb for choosing is:

1st person is the most intimate and Omni is the least; 3rd falls in the middle.

3rd person limited means one protagonist throughout the story, and unlimited means anywhere from 2 to double-digit protagonists exist within one story. In my novel, DEAD WITNESS, I tell the story through the eyes of three characters: Valerie, Canaday, and DeOlmos. I even sneak in a few openings by using Omni to set up the scene. I trust, or hope that the narrator is brief enough that the average reader is unaware of their existence. What I don’t do is switch from Valerie, Canaday or DeOlmos in the SAME scene. If I start off in Omni, using the all-knowing narrator to show the reader the setting, stuff that my protagonist couldn't experience, (see, touch, hear, taste, or smell) or would ever know, then as quickly as possible, I jump into the protagonist's head and stay there the remainder of the scene. Not once do I show the reader anything that my protagonist doesn’t experience firsthand. That's not to say it's an unspeakable crime to do so; it lessens the intimacy.

In my 5th manuscript, OMATIWAK: WOMAN WHO CRIES, I stretch my wings and share the story with 3rd person, Danny Killian, and 1st person, Sally Warner. I choose 1st for Sally for two reasons. I hope an intimate relationship will develop between reader and Sally, and because most of Sally’s conflicts are inside her head. 3rd works for Danny because he is a man of action; plus, it enables me more versatility.

You've no doubt heard the story of Fitzgerald, after writing The Great Gatsby in Gatsby's POV, realizes the story needs to be told through Nick Carraway's POV because of Nick's naivety and fascination for Gatsby. Imagine if Gatsby, Tom Buchanan, or an all-knowing character had told the story? Nick's 1st person narrator works. We bond with Nick. Like a tight focus or camera lens, he shows us everything his senses experience. If he doesn't see it, smell it, hear it, taste or touch it, then neither do we.

While Omni tends to be more formal and less intimate, on the grand scale of things, Omni is your man. One suggestion, if choosing Omni is your only way to go, then make him/her an unique, formidable, and intriguing character. And limit head hopping. Every time a newbie jumps from one protagonist in a scene into the head of another, they risk disrupting the intimate (there’s that word again) relationship forming between reader and character. And in a world of quick access and unlimited volume, the risk is too great.

As the author, choose your POV wisely.  Remember: If your story’s important enough to write about, then the right person should be telling the story.

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