Making Space

Have you ever wanted something badly enough to change your habits to get or achieve it? Did you say to yourself that you needed to make space in your life for the effort required to achieve your goal? Maybe it was making the baseball team and what you needed was to make space for dedicated practice every day. Only that way could you develop the skill needed to make a team.

Have you paid any attention to some of the New Age-y philosophies about 'making room' for something in your life? There's the story about the woman who decided she was ready for a committed relationship, but no prospects appeared. She finally realizes she hasn't made room for a partner. Therefore, she cleans out her closet so half is empty. She clears the second bay of the garage. Presto. Because she'd made physical space, she'd made psychic space, and put herself into the frame of mind to see possibilities she hadn't before. The natural cynic in me nods and says, 'how neat, tidy and accommodating.'

Regardless, both stories point out a single fact: Space is predicated on loss.

If you need space, you have to lose something you currently have or do or are in order to have what you believe you want. In the case of the wannabe baseball player, the loss is after school TV and games with friends. In the case of the relationship, it's the loss of physical space, yes, but it's a larger psychological shift - it's a case of reframing one's identity as an individual to someone who is part of a pair.

If you require further proof, think back to a time you'd lost someone. Tell me you didn't exit a funeral home or leave the gravesite with a sense of vast emptiness. There's that space we were looking for. Granted. It doesn't always require a human or animal sacrifice. Sometimes a job loss, or getting dumped, or losing a place to live suffices. Once the panic subsides, a kind of numbness sets in that somehow stretches time and you're staring over the rim of the Grand Time (and Space) Canyon.

This is where I am. I always want more space for writing - and for dedicated mental/emotional energy to apply thereto, but that's another blog rant. I've had a specific vision for how that would work. Turquoise water, a beach, and a writing desk that looks over it all. While that pretty vision isn't assured, we are moving across the continent. From Seattle to Tampa, Florida. It's time to sail warm water.  To make the space for all of this to happen, we had to lose our home and our eldest feline. We had to lose a ton of assumptions about ourselves, too. Like a friend said, we defined Pacific Northwest. But you know, the moss has grown thick enough, I think. Time to redefine ourselves. I have no idea what the definition will be - but it will involve writing, another boat, cats, and the ocean. Always the cats and the ocean.

So what do I need to make space for? Nothing. The space is made. I'm wallowing in it. Now it's time to execute.

Need More Space For...

What do I need more space for?

This is a trick question, right?

We all know I don't have a dedicated work space.  I'm a writing vagabond, going wherever I can with my rolling case carrying my laptop and writing notes.  Today I'm at the kitchen table, tomorrow I might be on the couch, next week: we'll see.   Maybe using the kitchen counter as a standing desk.

I would love a dedicated office, desk, etc.  Right now it's not an option, but when I do have that space, it'll be lovely.

I've mentioned this online before, and someone unhelpfully pointed me toward this cartoon of a Charles Bukowski quote.  As if to say, Hey, man, if you were really serious about your art, you wouldn't need a special office space.  You'd do just fine without it, because you'd be DRIVEN, man.

Screw that.  I mean, yes, I don't need it.  I think I've actively demonstrated that point plenty.  I can continue to work and do fine with nothing but my rolling-bag-vagabond-office and whatever flat surface I find.  I can.

That doesn't mean I don't want more.  That doesn't mean I shouldn't strive for having it, like it would make me soft.

Though, on some level, it's a nice metaphor for my writing career.  I mean, I'm doing pretty good.  But there's still plenty to achieve, and I kind of like that I still have to be hungry and fight for it.  That it hasn't gotten too easy.

If you've been following me for a while you're probably aware of my feelings of how this business is supposed to be. 

Happy 4th!

From all of us at the SFF Seven,

Happy Independence Day!

To our international readers: We invite you to share in the revelry.  Yes, we know about our drunk uncle. We tried to uninvite him, but he's enamored with the big screen.

Remember folks, you're starting off with 10 fingers and 10 toes, try not to lose any today.
Stay hydrated.
Pets don't like fireworks. They like cheeseburgers.

The One Thing I Need

Really lovely how RWA sends the RITA and Golden Heart Finalists this invitation to the reception, along with our shiny finalist pin! Both are mementos to treasure.

Our topic this week at the SFF Seven is "I need to make more space in my life for…"

I find it interesting that whoever submitted this topic phrased it as "I need," rather than "I want." I'm a believer in separating "needs" from "wants." We can want all sorts of things - from the immediate impulse of that yummy chocolate whispering from the pantry in the kitchen to that Italian villa overlooking the Mediterranean. As opposed to the actual needs for adequate nutrition and shelter from the elements. See my point? The latter is about basic survival and keeping ourselves alive, whereas the former are about treats and luxuries. In the case of some treats - too much chocolate, for example - those can actually work against survival by being not good for long-term health.

Not that I am against treats and luxuries! In fact, I believe treating ourselves to things we DON'T need is an important reward for hard work. Just yesterday I bought these Steve Madden blingy shoes to wear to the RITA Awards ceremony. (Only $64 at DSW, though!) I don't need them. I had other shoes I could wear. But all that hard work I put into the books that led to finaling for this award deserves a little fun treat for myself. Plus, zero calories!

So, when I consider the question of what I NEED to make more space in my life for... I'm coming up empty. These days I'm doing pretty well. I've worked out a reasonable writing schedule that's maximally productive without draining the well. I'm adding back in fun things like gardening and seeing friends. I'm even (reasonably) on track for my reading goal of 150 books for this year!

There have been times in my life that I would have had a long list for this question, but right now I can think of only one thing: zero-calorie Prosecco.

Now, that I truly NEED! ;-)

At Least No One Asks Me to Travel with a Crocodile

From DepositPhoto

This week’s topic is writing while travelling and how we accomplish the feat.

I don’t.

For various reasons, travel takes a lot out of me and if I’m required to travel, I’m going to be concentrating on the mechanics of the trip and the accomplishment of whatever I went for. I take a pad of paper with me in case I get a really killer plot idea or want to take note of something, but only once have I ever actually written a few words of prose. It was less than a page, about a character known as The Renegade, and I’ve never done anything else with that particular snippet. I did use the character in a small but pivotal role in Star Survivor. He’s an intriguing guy so he may still get his own book in the future.

So that’s a short and not especially illuminating or useful discussion. I thought about not even posting today, rather than waste your time, but then I thought I could at least give you a passage about travel from one of my books.

Here’s an excerpt from Magic of the Nile where the heroine, High Priestess Tyema, is sent on a journey by the Crocodile God she serves. Tyema and I share a reluctance to travel but at least no one asks me to take along a live crocodile!

Magic was a ‘Hearts Through History Romancing the Novel’ Contest Winner….

The Excerpt:

The journey from her temple to the small port that was Ibis Nome’s only formal access to the Nile took three days by donkey cart. Tyema grew increasingly nauseous and short of breath the longer the journey went on, even though she was surrounded by her kinsmen, her temple workers and her niece Renebti and scribe Jemkhufu. All of them did their utmost to make her comfortable, especially Renebti, who was a gentle soul and obviously distressed to see her aunt in such turmoil. Usually Tyema did a good job of hiding her symptoms but in the close quarters of the cart, and the tent the two women shared at night, she feared her problems were all too obvious.

                Infant Seknehure was well behaved, watching the world go by from the safety of a sling Tyema wore. He was her solace. Taking care of his simple needs, snuggling him, breathing in his sweet baby scent all calmed her and enabled her to shut out the world. Even when he was fussy and she had to walk beside the cart, trying to soothe him, the activity relieved her symptoms as well.

                But her dread of the river voyage ahead came rushing back in a dizzying wave as her small caravan wound its way through the crowded, smelly harbor town. People stared at her since the High Priestess of Sobek was legendary in the province, rarely seen. Tyema held her head high, feeling her blushes staining her cheeks, and tried to smile. It didn’t help that she was wearing a simple traveling dress and cloak, not her ceremonial robes and crown. Nothing to hide behind.

                The nomarch’s private ship, the Swift, was much larger than any other vessel in the choked harbor. Comparing the tiny inlet to the sweeping peninsula she and Sahure had surveyed, Tyema could certainly see why Pharaoh had sent him to investigate the possibility of building a new port for the increased trade he was contemplating.

                Captain Djedefhor was waiting to greet her on the pier, dressed in a simple white shirt, dyed blue kilt and matching nemes. Around his neck he wore two amulets, one of Sobek and the other of Ra, the sun god who sailed the sky and the Underworld. Djedefhor bowed as she dismounted from the cart and shook out her skirts. “It’s my honor and pleasure to convey you to Thebes, Lady Tyema. I hope my poor ship will meet with your approval.”

                “I’m not used to traveling on ships at all, captain,” she answered honestly. “It’s very kind of the nomarch to lend me his vessel for the journey.”

                Djedefhor smiled broadly. “We’ll set a high standard for you to compare all other ships to in the future. The nomarch’s orders were to ensure your every comfort while conveying you to Thebes as fast as possible.” His easy manner toward Tyema bordered on flirtation, his glances at her appreciative. “Are you ready to board?”

                “I must see to the comfort of my crocodile before I can worry about myself,” Tyema answered. “This is my crocodile keeper, Hotepre.”

                As the grizzled older man came forward, the ship’s captain frowned. “Ah yes, the crocodile. I must confess I prefer taking you on as a passenger over inviting one of the Nile beasts onto my deck,” Djedefhor said with disarming honesty. Tyema liked him all the more for his candor. “I don’t suppose we can put it in the hold?”

                “Not before I’ve died and gone to the Afterlife,” Hotepre said, hands on his hips. His two underkeepers crowded behind him, ready to defend their crocodile.

                Djedefhor surveyed the crate on the last donkey cart. It was rocking side to side and much clawing and noise could be heard. The harnessed donkey was wide eyed, sidling nervously while the driver held the bridle tight.

                “I can order the animal to walk onto the ship,” Tyema said. “Our idea was to chain him by the hind leg to the mast, or perhaps the rail at the stern? One of my men will watch the crocodile at all times. We’ll have to catch fish to feed it periodically during the voyage.”

                Djedefhor had apparently not heard anything she said after the part about walking the crocodile onto his vessel. He swallowed hard. “For the sake of my crew, can you bring it aboard in the crate? I’ll agree to let it travel on deck, as long as I’m satisfied with the restraints, but I’d rather not risk having such a dangerous animal walk freely.” He glanced at the massive crate again. “I expected to treat the beast as cargo, not a passenger.”

                “This animal was personally selected by Sobek, to honor Pharaoh. I assure you Sobek has given me the power to command his creatures,” Tyema said. Deciding she didn’t want to push the point and incur the captain’s hostility before the voyage had even begun, she went on in a more positive tone, “But we can certainly load him onto the ship inside the crate and then allow him to have the fresh air. The box is constructed to come apart easily. Hotepre, can you take care of this for me?”

                “Well, then it’s settled,” Seeming pleased, Djedefhor offered her his hand to ascend the wooden gangplank. “It’s a bit tricky for nonsailors. And of course you have the baby to balance as well. “

                Trying to decide if the captain actually was trying to flirt with her, Tyema allowed him to escort her onto the Swift.  Renebti and Jemkhufu brought up the rear. The deck was reassuringly wide but flashes of the day she’d been carried aboard a Hyksos vessel as a terrified prisoner came and went in her mind. Tyema froze, clutching the baby so tightly he cried. Her vision was narrowing and she knew she was going to faint. From a distance she heard Renebti’s voice asking if she was all right and the captain’s deeper tones as he said something, but she couldn’t stop the escalation of her terror. Someone tried to take Seknehure away from her and as she was resisting the attempt, backing away, she tripped.

                There was a flash of pain in the back of her skull and the world went black.

The Story:  She’s a priestess, he’s a proud warrior … is love enough to bridge their differences?

When the high priestess of an Egyptian temple falls in love with a captain of the royal guard, their bond is tested by the intrigue and peril of their duties to the gods and Pharaoh.

Tyema serves Sobek the Crocodile God as High Priestess of his Nile river temple. But despite her beauty, grace, and the power she wields, the shy priestess lives as a recluse in the remote temple grounds. For though Sobek rescued her from a childhood of abuse and neglect, and healed her crippled foot, her dark past haunts her still.

When Sahure, a dashing captain of Pharaoh’s guard, arrives to ask her help for Pharaoh, Tyema’s wounded heart blossoms. The captain is captivated as by her well … until Pharaoh orders him to the dangerous frontier, far from Tyema. He rides away, bound by duty and honor, leaving Tyema with even more secrets to bear.

Heart-broken, Tyema returns to her lonely life … until the Crocodile God reveals other plans for his priestess. For Pharaoh’s life is threatened with black magic, and only one who wields the power of a god can unmask the sorcerer. Tyema must brave court life, and somehow withstand the pressures of swirling gossip, intrigue and danger. And she must hurry, before ancient evils overcome all her efforts.

But when Sahure returns, is he there to help or to hinder? Will love lead them to common ground, and a future together … or will their differences tear them apart forever?

Buy Links:

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Writing on the Go

Word counts while traveling depend entirely upon your ability to arrange for vast wastelands of time and boredom. Sort of like being a kid in the backseat of a car driving from one end of the continent to the other before cars had anything fancier than wheels, engines, and seatbelts. The external scenery, historical markers, triumphs, and tragedies rolling past the car window lull you into boredom. And that boredom encourages you to explore your internal landscape. Yes. I grew up on road trips. Expeditions, maybe. All those hours and all of that country passing - it wrote itself into stories. I doubt I'd be a writer were it not for my family trekking from one Air Force base to the next via a rust bucket of a car pulling a travel trailer. To this day, when I block, I get in the car and start driving. Story problems unravel to the tune of tires on pavement.

Airplanes are also prime word count time for me, because what could be more worthy of psychic escape than being held captive in a tin can at 30,000 feet? If writing means butt in chair, airplanes have your number. Might as well do something to take your mind off being smushed between the fuselage and whoever has the middle seat, right? The only issue with planes is that getting to use a laptop isn't guaranteed. If someone in front of you want to recline, you risk your screen. I make sure I have old school tools. What pen and paper lack in flash, they make up with flexibility. I also find them easier on my head. Flying inevitably gives me a migraine and looking at a backlit computer screen is excruciating. Pen and paper are less likely to make me wish I'd died.

If you want word count while traveling, pick your traveling companions well. Most writers have a list of 'safe' people, as well as a list of people they love, but who will never allow them to write. It helps to be really clear and honest with yourself. If your beloved, chatty mother is traveling with you, your choices are to get up an hour before she does to write, or you acknowledge it's not happening this trip. Conferences are the same - because those involve some intense commitments, you either take a break on writing or you commit to a time to write that won't end up subsumed by conference crazy. 

The whole point of travel is to remove you from the ordinary. It's the reason I advocate so strongly for solo writing retreats. It's invaluable for a writer to walk away from responsibility for a few days - delegate the care and feeding of the family so the writer can be responsible for and to nothing but herself and the page for a few days. Modern life is full of noise to the point that most of us start having trouble hearing the voices of our stories. Solo travel clears that racket away. Besides. When you're by yourself there's no one to tell you to stop writing that nonsense and get some sleep. There's no one to tell you not to have another glass of wine while you sit scribbling or typing madly away.

Traveling in any capacity flips a switch on my imagination. I get kicked into Beginner Mind, I think. In that space, I see everything as new. Including my stories. Stories and characters I've never seen before rise up in the middle of the night to wake me and demand I write them down when I'm traveling, especially if I'm traveling alone and don't have to worry about waking anyone else when I flip on the bedside lamp at 2am. So yes. Traveling means writing.

BTW. The results after last week's maudlin post. A feeding tube and a cat who's feeling much better.

Perils of the Writer: Writing on the Road

Let me put this out there: I kind of love writing while on trips or on vacation.  Mostly because "vacation", for me, means I don't have to do household-y things, so I can relax, and relaxing for me is actually being able to get my work done.

Now, I've been blessed that my "regular" job ("day job" would be inaccurate) has given me the ability to go to Mexico several times in the past few years, and those vacations were also incredibly productive, writingwise.

Also, for road trips, now my son is driving (and he loves driving), so I don't have to drive.  A few weeks ago we went out to Big Bend, and I could sit in the back with a laptop and write as the long miles of Texas passed by.

BLISS.

For me, a "vacation" is a writing retreat, plan and simple.  It's a way to recharge and activate that creative energy.

Now, writing while at cons?  Nope.  Almost never happens.  Sometimes I get a bit done (especially if I end up staying at a different hotel from the con proper), but most of the time: that weekend is a wash.  Well, maybe not on the flights (if there are flights involved).   I can write on planes pretty well, also.  I'm pretty sure I finished the rough draft of The Holver Alley Crew (way back when) on a plane.

On that note: next weekend is kind of writing-retreat-staycation.  I'm hoping to get a lot done.  Fingers crossed.

On the Road Writing

I won't pretend for a moment that I'm getting any work done while traveling. Whether the trip is for pleasure or for business, there is zero word count happening. There may be a bit of note taking, if inspiration strikes, but I do not take a trip with the intention of accomplishing writing goals.

In fact, quite the opposite.

Being away from home is an opportunity.

I used to be the woman who'd hide in the hotel room at conventions, terrified at the thought of being surrounded by strangers. Some minimal word count was accomplished in those days. My laptop, however, is not travelling with me anymore. It proved to be a waste of space. A paper notebook goes with me instead because I decided: 

a.) I will stop lying to myself about 'how much I'm going to write'

b.) I will remove the 'run away to the room to write a while' excuse 

c.) I will be open to meeting new people and exploring this new place

d.) I will allow myself the freedom to learn/see/do something new

Granted, I might return to the room for a while if anxiety is getting the best of me, but mostly my efforts are put into meeting new people, developing those friendships already sprouting with my peers, and catching up with old friends.

Writing is a solitary activity. 

Travelling is an opportunity to explore and absorb, 

to experience new settings, dialogue, characters, 

new moods, tone, and sounds, 

essentially to delve into new ideas 

so that when I am once again 

in front of that blank page, 

I have more to offer than ever before.