"Five more years, Suss," my father whispered to me on Christmas Eve. "I just want 5 more years."

I pressed close, wishing I could give them to him without all the pain and terror of surgery, but I couldn't. The tumor had grown too big. The doctors gave him 2 weeks to live without intervention.

So, on a brutally cold Thursday morning, I gave him one last hug and sent him off with a nurse to the OR. And then the wait began. Four of his five children met that wait the only way we knew how-- through laughter and endless stories. When time dragged, we dug out our smartphones and delved into our collective Youtube favs to shed the pall lingering over that dismal gray waiting room.

We faced the unknown together, knowing we were honoring the man who raised us.

The room grew sparser as loved ones collected loves ones, leaving us sitting waiting, wondering and praying for news that our pop would get five more years. 10 hours later, we met with the surgeon who informed us dad had survived the surgery. Time would tell if he would survive the recovery.

I didn't want that news. I didn't want to wait--it was like I was holding my breath. I wanted him to say everything was going to be just fine. I wanted the happy ending now.

Flash forward. Through the weeks of visiting pop at the hospital, I put my life on hold. Not one word written. Not one thought shed to anything but helping my dad navigate the confusing care choices and rough bumps that sent him spiraling downhill.

I know the day he turned the corner. The day his 85 year old girlfriend visited, Henry began fighting back. He walked when the doctor said walked, and ate what they brought him though his appetite was gone.

Flash forward to today. Dad's in rehab. Looks like he'll be home in a few weeks. Looks like Pop will get those five years.

I'm releasing that breath now. I'm writing this post. I began writing on a new draft of Fairless today. And, God willing, I'll have a book to hand to my dad before that five years is up.

I wish you all the best, through life, almost death and writing-

Sue

image credit: pixabay.com

NaNo was flying right along, got 10,000 brand new, infant-like words added to my ya WIP, Drift (Yay, me! I take my victories in whatever form they'll come), then I heard back from an acquisitions editor regarding my ya fantasy, Fairless.

Can you hear the brakes squealing?

The gist of the message was Fairless needed an overhaul. Re-write and resubmit in six months.

Again, yay, me! 

It wasn't an outright rejection! She included salient points that needed revision and why! She told me she loved my vivid description and voice and was looking forward to working with me in the future!

Now that the joy has ebbed, I'm faced with some huge decisions, because  the easy stuff to fix -sentence structure and such aren't what truly need fixing. What needs help is character development and plot structure.

Gack. Not my strong points (obviously).

So, in the upcoming weeks, I'll be hosting some guest bloggers to this site in hopes they will share their sage wisdom. It'll help me. I'm hoping it'll help you, too!

As I challenge my writerly brain over the course of the next few months, I encourage you to join me. Share your thoughts. Leave a comment and a link to your sites. Like I've said before, I believe writing is a journey. Let's travel together!

cheers to us!
Sue

image credit: pixabay.com

Has my imagination taken off this NaNo, sending me spiraling into the unknown? Have I reached my word count each and every day of week 1? Do I at all feel discouraged?

Nope. Nope, and nope.

It's okay, I tell myself. I know it's coming. All the plotting, the tweaking, the cracking of the knuckles has prepared me for this moment. 

As Spongebob says, I'm ready!

Today's the start of  flurring for little ol' Sue. Time to set these fingers walking. Time to let the imagination run free. Time to peruse the outline, then set it aside, because as much as I'm relying on that bad boy to get me through to the end, sometimes I just have to write.

Let me highlight that last phrase.

Sometimes I just have to write.

I have to pull out the stops, stop worrying about using cliches, or stilted metaphors. Sometimes, in order to get the words down, I have to turn off the inner editor. You know, the one that looks like this:

There's a time and a place for editing, and I can tell you without a doubt, for me, it's NOT when I'm drafting. I stumbled on a kindle book called Tell, Don't Show! by James Loquist this summer and instantly fell in love. Imagine, being given permission to make mistakes in the first  draft? Imagine, given the freedom to plop down some weak descriptions, knowing you're going to edit them eventually anyways so why worry about the details now?

Why worry,  I ask you. Why?

So, today's the day for me. I'm going to plug in some good tunes, close my eyes to the world around me and let my imagination go.
​
What about you? What can you do to make it count? Care to share?

Happy writing!
Sue

image credit: pixabay.com

So, I'm Nanoing this year. Yeah, me! And yeah, you if you are too! But unlike the past two years, I'm approaching this new novel from a different angle. 

Let me back up. Allow me to explain, and please forgive me if I can barely form cohesive sentences. My kids know for the next 30 days to expect grunted replies and one word answers. Our conversations sound like this:

Kid: Mom, what's for supper?
Me, replied as I haunch over my computer: In the fridge.
Kid, now disgusted: I asked what not where.
Me, matching the disgusted tone: Fridge! I scream. Fridge!
Kid, grumbling as they go fend for themself: Stupid Nano stuff.

Full sentences and cooking will return in December.

But, I digress.

I've always been a panster kind of gal. Call me crazy, but I love writing and letting the words flow. The trouble lies not in the writing stage, but in the editing. I may finish. It just ends up a fully crafted novel in desperate need of repair (think a tangled ball of yarn...)

But not this year. Nope. This year I'm determined to try that plotting stuff. You know, outlining? Charting? Figuring stuff out before it happens?

I spent the summer, dedicated some down time and studied How to Write a Novel Using the Snowflake Method (Advanced Fiction Writing Book 1) by Randy Ingermanson. If you haven't read this awesome book, I highly recommend it. When you're done, you'll not only have a plot fleshed out, but a query and synopsis written too. 

So far it's working. I have a complete outline with my novel broken down into three acts, each with chapters. I understand my character's emotional arc. I understand the premise of this book. Woohoo!

Now, it's back to writing. I'll keep you updated, although don't expect complete sentences.

Because I'm just not able. You know. To form them right now.

Cheers!
​Sue

Can you feel it?  Somewhere deep inside, you have a novel yet to be written? A plot line refusing to vanish even though you're hip-deep in edits on another story? Or maybe there's a character begging to come to life?

Well then, pull up a chair and flex those typing fingers. Because it's NaNo time.

For the unitiated (that's a word. Look it up in Sue's dictionary), NaNoWrimo stands for "National Novel Writing Month." For thirty days, a writer does what they do best and writes, madly banging out 50,000 words. Maybe they've pre-plotted, created character wheels and scene breakdowns. Maybe they haven't.

Just thinking about it makes me excited!

There's nothing like the flash of inspiration. The joyful free-for-all that lasts for a short thirty days. The willful lack of editing that goes on during a Wrimo session.

Call it madness. I call it sheer inspiration.

So while my fantasy Fairless is in the capable hands of an editor, I think I'll take a break from editing and free up some creative brain cells. I have the next story plotted. It's time to NaNo-up and write that bad boy.

Interested in being a buddy? You can find me under "Letters to Rosa." Hope to see you there!

Sue

image credit: pixabay.com

I was at a writing workshop recently and had submitted the first chapter of my YA contemporary Drift.  This is a story about a young woman, True Spencer, who, with her mother, lives on the run from an abusive father. 

One of the comments sparked an interesting debate: was True an unreliable narrator? I listened, took it all in, and quickly realized I had no idea what they were talking about.

An unreliable what, now?

They felt the mother was the evil one, in part because True was an unreliable narrator, since True only knows what she knows about her father from what her mother told her. Got that?

Whew.

Let's break it apart.

True has been fleeing from her father since infancy, so the only information she has is that which her mother feeds her. She doesn't have memories to base an opinion. Thus, her information has the potential to be faulty.

When I wrote this first chapter, I didn't know about unreliable narrators. It's interesting that each time this chapter has been critiqued, they all say the same thing: not so sure about the mother's motives. 

Here is a snippet from chapter one. I'd love to hear your feedback, thoughts, ideas about this topic!

                                                                     ******

     I hate hating my life.
     I flip open my track phone and read three-thirteen am. Something woke me—maybe it’s just thunder from a storm brewing off the Atlantic. More likely, it’s a well-honed instinct I’m about to relive one of my worst nightmares.
     I shove my soaked blanket aside and stare out the open window at orange trees swaying beneath the onslaught of a warm, stormy breeze. Lightning flickers in the distance. I count to five before the next roll of thunder. And I know, I could find freedom in that grove. I could run from this hell and never stop, and no one will ever find me.
     But I can't. The shadows can hide a man.
     My momentary illusion of freedom disappears. He could be out there. Any one of those hulking forms could be the flesh and bones of a predator who, in an alternate existence, I would call Dad.
        Mom's Cadillac backs into the driveway. The car door slams. Her keys jingle as she unlocks the deadbolt of the front door and thunder drowns out her words. Now I know its instinct that’s kicked me awake. She’s come home early from her night shift at the hospital which can only mean one thing. I roll onto my back, dreading what’s coming.
        “True?” She raps on my door. “True, get up.”
        I press my eyes with the palms of my sweaty hands. How many times have I been awakened by her this way? I’m seventeen. We’ve been on the run since I was an infant, moving every year or two, so that would make fourteen. I wish I could forget that number and all the memories that go along with it.
       Mom charges into my room. Bright splotches dot her cheeks. Her hair's disheveled. She’s been running her hands through it—something she does when on high alert. 
        “What have I told you about open windows?” She slams it closed, locks the bolt and tugs the drapes together. “Do you want him to find you?”
      “It’s too muggy.”
      “Get dressed. Get packed.”
       I sit up and wrap my arms around my knees. I’ve had this argument before and I always lose. Tonight, I’m prepared to win.
      “I don’t want to leave.” I make my voice firm and commanding.
      “You know we have no choice.”
      “We always have a choice.”
      She sits on the edge of my bed like she’s prepared to be reasonable, but her leg is jigging. I know her. I know her mind is racing with all the things she has to do before we can skip town.
       “You go,” I say. “I’m seventeen, I can take care of myself.”
      “True—“
       “No, really. I’m not going. I have my job at McMurdocks and my gymnastics team’s this close to States. Regionals are coming up and I refuse to blow it again.”
       “Where will you live? Apartments are expensive.”
        Her leg shakes the bed. She’s not taking me seriously.
       “You can’t make me leave,” I say the words quietly. Now she knows I’m angry. Some yell when they’re pissed. I go real quiet.
       “Make you? Like I’m the monster?” Her eyes narrow. This is her game—turning it back on me and driving the guilt deep. “You know what I give up to keep us safe. How many opportunities have I abandoned? No friends, no dates in all these years. How could you say that?”
      I blink back tears. They won’t help, but damn it, they start coursing down my cheeks anyway. I swipe them with the heels of my hands.
      “I like this place,” I say. “This cruddy, run-down house and this stupid town. My teammates treat me like an equal. I have a real chance of making all-round this year.”
      Mom understands my dream. Scholarships, college, a future without fear. Gymnastics is my ticket.
      “It can’t be helped, baby.” She dries my cheeks. Her voice has the timbre of sadness, of resolve, and resignation. I have to try one last time.
      “Please, let me stay.”
       “I’m sorry.” She rises from my bed. “Pack and be quick, we head out in five minutes.”
       She leaves the room in a whirl of smelly antiseptic.

                                        *******

Happy writing!
​Sue

It's been a long road for this book. Two years of drafting, another year for editing, and finally, I've sent it off to an editor at a publishing house. I was confident as I hit "send", and then the doubts crept in.

Did I give it enough time? Did I work through enough plot points? Are my characters fleshed out, compelling and dynamic?

Last summer, three dear and wonderful writer friends helped me workshop this book. Over the course of four gatherings, they cut apart, dug in and gave me insights I never would've imagined.

Who knew my protagonist was static? They did. And they gave me specific examples of where she could grow and missed vital opportunities to change.

Who knew my ending fell flat and needed a complete re-write? They did. And they helped brainstorm a stronger finish.

I will be forever grateful to these writers. Because of their feedback, Fairless is  complete. Because of their belief in me as a writer, Fairless is now in the capable hands of an editor. 

Thank you, Meredith, Wendy and Barb.

Hooray for you!

Sue

 

​

There are many roads an author can take. Once upon a time, it was straight and narrow with few forks and fewer quandaries. Seek an agent.  The agent will then find a publisher. The publisher will produce and promote your novel. Like a train traveling on a set of tracks, one didn't need a map--and just look at where you ended up. Publishville! Sucessland!

Being "published' meant something, but it's no longer the same thing. Gone is the promotion--you, alone, are in charge of building a "platform." An author must now wear a myriad of hats: writer, editor, marketer extraordinaire. They must do it all and they must do it well.

Enter e-publishing and now you've tossed in not one, but an endless maze of forks, all offering unimaginable quandaries! Kindle, Nook, e-books all uploaded at the click of a button. And why not? Self-published authors have to wear all the same hats as those who've gone the traditional route, so why wait for that response from an agent that might never come?

I'm a firm believer of stealing the best from both worlds. My approach: study the craft of writing, develop the best story using the traditional publishing model, query agents, wait and see. But I will also prepare for self-publication. It's my plan, my hope and goal to share with you here, my process, and all the struggles, successes and heartache that comes with all those twisting, turning forks.

So, welcome and please join me as I begin the journey.
cheers!
Sue