Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening

(Photo credit: "Solitude" by David Lorenz Winston)

by Felicia Donovan

Here in the Northeast we have been blanketed by lots of snow. It will indeed be a White Christmas.

The other evening in the midst of yet another snowfall, I bundled up into my gear and headed out to shovel. The snow was light and fluffy, the kind that's easy to push along. The outdoor Christmas lights twinkled between snowflakes.

After I finished shoveling and since I was still nice and warm from the physical effort, I brought the dogs outside to romp around. It was fairly late in the evening but I knew there was one place I had to go. I walked towards the woods.

I stood in the middle of the woods and remained still for a long time listening to the sound of the snow as it gently fell through the trees. There is a particular sound it makes almost like a tinkling of bells as it glides down. There is that and silence - an unbelievable silence marked by stillness and solitude.

Our everyday lives are so filled with noise and bustle that we sometimes forget what silence sounds like. Many of us live dual lives as writers who still work "day" jobs. Many of us balance hectic schedules and fight deadlines that suck the life out of us. Some of us juggle all that with the added stress of caring for families. But whenever I'm pushed to my limit, I remember the woods on a snowy evening. I remember that there are places I can go to that are quiet and still.

Things happen out there. In the lack of man's presence, the woods become a playground to animals who explore its pristine paths. The snow brings much needed shelter to animals who hunker down against raging storms. The moonlight shines across open fields and casts shadows between trees. But most of all, there is peace.

My wish to all of you this Holiday season is that you find your own snowy woods to stop by. With much gratitude to you all, I wish you peace...

A Crafty Question

Yes, the holiday wreath in this photo IS made out of cactus. Spineless Prickly Pear Cactus, to be exact. With . . . sort of . . . Red African Pods hanging from a funky raffia bow. Topped with Prickly Pear Fruit Buds, artfully accented with red craft paint. All fastened to a straw frame by florist picks . . . and some leftover wooden shish-kebob skewers from my kitchen junk drawer.
You guessed it: I made the wreath. I CRAFTED it.
Why?
Good question.
The simple answer is that I saw a similar one at the Liberty Bar in San Antonio. A century-old establishment skewed at an alarming Pisa-esque angle. Which means that if you set your purse on the floor it could keep on slidin' til it comes to rest under the spurs of that half snockered cowboy at the end of the bar. The menu, however, is damned-straight fabulous.

Anyway, I saw the wreath (hanging decidedly off-plumb) at the Liberty Bar, and told myself--heck yeah--I could make one. Because:
I had the cactus growing in my back yard.
I had all those wooden shish-kebob thingies gathering dust in my kitchen drawer.
And (most significantly) I had the luxury of TIME.
Because (and here’s the real answer to the question “why”):
I’m between writing contracts.
Mai Tai to Murder has been successfully launched, and my new series proposal (an inspirational romance) is under serious consideration by several publishing houses. Very exciting. But, still, it’s strange for an author to be in a limbo-land without deadlines. Though I love the heady sense of anticipation and new options (cue the West Side Story showtune, "Something's Coming" . . .) I find that my natural creative juices need to be satisfied. I MUST be CRAFTING something. Anything (obviously). I've always been that way. And over the years, this itchy need has spawned a vast number of strange things: felt fabric mice dressed in Camelot costumes, a gingerbread re-creation of my hospital emergency department (complete with Santa OD'd on brownies) , Edward Scissorhand-like topiaries, cookies shaped into smiling armadillos, that great carrot cake for a quarterhorse's 16th birthday party . . . . okay, I’ll stop before I scare the bejeebers out of you.

However, my sense is that most writers have always had the drive to create, and long before their crafting involved words there were likely other venues. Paint, clay, wood, feathers, blowtorches and solder, or . . . ?

So, question: If you couldn’t write, what other CRAFT would call to you? Or, before this writing gig snared you, where have you found creative outlets? Any lamentable "masterpieces"?

And, oh yeah, is it just me, or do my cactus buds look a LOT like pimento-stuffed green olives?

Ack, I thought so.

Well then . . . LoneStar Martinis for everyone! Happy holidays, Inkers!

Is Kindle the one?

By Joe Moore

Amazon recently announced the introduction of their new Kindle e-book reader. If you visit the website and watch the promos including the impressive endorsements from James Patterson, Toni Morrison, Anita Diamant, and others, you’ll see that this is a cool device. Yes, there’ve been other e-book readers in the past, but this one has some special features that are unique. Besides the light weight, large storage capacity, and “electronic paper” display, the thing that really got my attention was its wireless capacity to download from anywhere without the use of a PC, cell phone, or any Wi-Fi hotspot connection. Wireless download from just about anywhere is included in the cost of the device. It’s also got a built-in dictionary, wireless access to Wikipedia, and other nifty features.

So is the Kindle the one? Maybe, maybe not. But it’s a sure sign of things to come. Especially if a giant like Amazon gets behind it. The biggest hurtle that the Kindle and similar devices have to overcome is the technology itself. A book is probably the most ingenious storage device ever invented. Why? Because the basic format has not changed in thousands of years. And a thousand years from now, someone can pick up a book printed today and read it. There’s no guarantee that the technology supporting the Kindle will last a decade. What if batteries are suddenly no longer made to power the Kindle? What if the format is no longer efficient to archive the written word? What if a new device comes along that holds a thousand times more data at a fraction of the cost? What if it simply isn’t manufactured anymore and you still have one that needs servicing.

Remember 8-track audio cassette tapes? Betamax? 78 RPM phonograph records? VHS? Heck, it's even getting hard to find a CD anymore now that MP3 has come along. How about CRT video monitors? Anyone you know still have one now that the cost of LCD flat monitors are approaching the price of a McDonalds Happy Meal? If the device that's needed to play the media is not preserved along with the media, you're out of luck. There's no chance of that happening with books because they are their own storage device.

But before we cast judgement on e-book readers like Kindle and say they're a passing fancy that will quickly go the way of the rotary dial phone, let's revisit a few pieces of innovation from the past that didn't catch on at the beginning.

"This 'telephone' has too many shortcomings to be seriously considered as a means of communication. The device is inherently of no value to us."
-- Western Union internal memo, 1876

"I think there is a world market for maybe five computers."
-- Thomas Watson, chairman of IBM, 1943

"640K ought to be enough for anybody."
-- Bill Gates, 1981

"But what... is it good for?"
-- Engineer at the Advanced Computing Systems Division of IBM, 1968, commenting on the microchip

"There is no reason anyone would want a computer in their home."
-- Ken Olson, president, chairman and founder of Digital Equipment Corp., 1977

"The wireless music box has no imaginable commercial value. Who would pay for a message sent to nobody in particular?"
-- David Sarnoff's associates in response to his urgings for investment in the radio in the 1920s

"The concept is interesting and well-formed, but in order to earn better than a 'C,' the idea must be feasible."
-- A Yale University management professor in response to Fred Smith's paper proposing reliable overnight delivery service. (Smith went on to found Federal Express Corp)

"So we went to Atari and said, 'Hey, we've got this amazing thing, even built with some of your parts, and what do you think about funding us? Or we'll give it to you. We just want to do it. Pay our salary, we'll come work for you.' And they said, 'No.' So then we went to Hewlett-Packard, and they said, 'Hey, we don't need you. You haven't got through college yet.'"
-- Apple Computer Inc. founder Steve Jobs on attempts to get Atari and HP interested in his and Steve Wozniak's personal computer

"Everything that can be invented has been invented."
-- Charles H. Duell, Commissioner, U.S. Office of Patents, 1899

InkSpot News - 15 December 2007

Holiday Book Giveaway

Jess Lourey is giving away both copies of her 2007 Murder-by-Month Mysteries, June Bug and Knee High by the Fourth of July, to the first ten Left Coast Crime registrants who email her at jesslourey@yahoo.com. Email quick! This is your chance to feel like you still have a little Santa in your life.

---

Today is the last day to enter Bill Cameron's Give a Dog a Home Holiday Sweepstakes.

Ending the War With Myself

by Julia Buckley
I'm a bit late posting today; lots of people have been posting here about the stress of holiday obligations, the need to get things just right, to be appropriate for the season. Often it's motivated by a need to not let the family down.

Added to this, if you're a writer, is all of that other stuff that you didn't think that being a writer would involve: the stress of deadlines, the onerous (and expensive) task of promotion, the feeling that if you're not doing something right now you're probably failing in some way--failing to reach a potential audience, failing to make a sale, failing, failing.

Well, I don't believe in that conflict any longer--I think it's an illusion, and I'm backing away from it. Somehow I've kept this holidays relatively serene; last night I watched my son in his final Christmas Concert (they end at third grade). It was sweet, and poignant, and real. It's what I want as my priority. I sat and watched fifty children perform "Stille Nacht" with sign language, accompanied by harmonic strings. Fifty children touching their closed eyes to indicate "sleep" and fifty children sweeping their little hands toward the domed ceiling to represent "heavenly." I realized, in that instant, that it doesn't really matter if I get out all the Christmas cards, or scrub every floor, or even do some sort of picture-perfect holiday thing like caroling door to door. No one, other than me, is going to remember anyway.

The same is true of my writing. If someday I'm writing blockbusters, that will be a lovely accident, but it's not going to happen as a result of me putting all of my energy on promoting and taking it away from my family. Ultimately, the world will go on with or without books by me, sad as my ego might be to admit that.

In the meantime, though, I can make an impact in the present with the people who are with me now, and in a sense I think that focus will make me a better writer in the long run.

Am I existential today? I'm curious to know what other people might say.

In any case, Merry Christmas, Happy Hannukah, Joyous Kwanzaa. :)

Writing the Story You Need to Write

“I’d feel a lot better about working on this book, if I knew someone was going to buy it. I mean, this is a lot of work, especially not knowing if it’ll ever get published,” said a woman I met recently.

Well, duh. (I didn’t say that, but I thought it!)

My husband and son are avid poker players, but I’m the REAL gambler in this house. A poker play is over in minutes. I labor for months—years—and don’t know if I’m holding a winning hand. Even after the book is done, there’s no guarantee the public will fork out good money to own it.

Who, me insecure?

So, yeah, my complaining friend had a point. As my agent says (with a laugh), “All writers are insecure.” But who wouldn’t be? How many people labor without any surety of reward? The creeping doubts run deep in this business. And I’m particularly vulnerable right now because of a new work-in-progress. I’m grinding away thinking, “Maybe I’m just wasting my time.”

When author-friend Sharon Shinn asked me, “How’s your writing coming?” I didn’t hold back.

I said, “See, I’ve written this YA (Young Adult) book that might never see the light of day. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea, but I just HAD to write it.”

Sharon Shinn's Advice

Sharon shrugged. She explained that when she’s written a manuscript on spec, she tells herself: “This is a story I wanted to write, and if it doesn’t sell, I’ve written what I wanted to write. Now I’ve learned something, and I have more experience.”

Then she takes whatever is good from that book and applies it to her next endeavor. Once the story that was nagging her is “out of her head,” and on paper, she can move on. Her course of action must have merit. Check out http://www.sharonshinn.net/ She’s had an extraordinary career, written twelve novels, and manages to work full-time.

She’s right. I wanted to write that story, and by golly, I did! I freed up a whole section of my head to move on to other ideas, such as the marketing plan I’m completing for Paper, Scissors, Death (September 2008). Check out the way-cool cover. (Kevin, you ROCK!)

The Universe Taps Me on the Shoulder

As often happens, the Universe decided to make SURE it had my attention. Right after my talk with Sharon, I happened upon a YouTube video of Paul Potts.

Potts was a salesman at Carphone Warehouse in South Wales. His whole life he dreamed of being an opera singer. But his career wasn’t getting any traction. He dithered about entering Britain’s Got Talent, a televised talent show judged by Simon Cowell. Potts couldn’t decide. He flipped a coin. He “won” the toss and became a contestant.

You have to see this to believe it. Trust me…this might be the lift your heart needs:

http://www.maniacworld.com/Phone-Salesman-Amazes-Crowd.html

Paul Potts sang the song he had to sing. He just kept singing it until someone noticed. (Did you catch the sly looks between judges? Ho Ho Ho, indeed!)

My New Motivational Signage

I’ve put a small sign above my computer. It says: Paul Potts.

How about you? What keeps you motivated? How do you handle the downside of being a writer? What keeps you "singing the song" or writing the story you need to write?

Joanna

PS Have a Merry Holiday and a prosperous, healthy and happy New Year.

So how come a Norwegian-American sleuth anyhow?

So how come a Norwegian-American sleuth anyhow?
Minnesota has long been associated with Scandinavian culture. For those not of this culture, this may seem overblown. It is true that Scandinavians have had a disproportionate influence on the state, as indicated that from the 1880s to the 1990s, Rudy Perpich was the only governor who was not at least partially of Scandinavian descent. In my home town, the percentages were rather like this: Norwegian, 70%, Swedish, 29%, and the Meyers. By 1900, the second largest Swedish urban settlement in the world after Stockholm was Minneapolis/St.Paul, with Chicago a close third. Only Oslo had more Norwegians than the Twin Cities, and Fargo was probably in the top ten Norwegian cities in the world. Because of the transient nature of immigration, these population figures are, of course, estimates. It was said, without too much hyperbole, that by 1910, one could walk from the Red River Valley of Minnesota to eastern Montana stepping only on land owned by Norwegians. The Irish claim the largest percentage of citizens who came to America, but the Norwegians were second and the Swedes were third.
I am a product of Scandinavian Minnesota, although as a Swede I was a pathetic minority in my home community. Of course, as children we were not aware of any difference, but I do remember my mother commenting on some transgression of a neighbor and forgiving him with kind “Oh, well, he’s Norwegian, you know.” My parents spoke Swedish at home only when they didn’t want the kids to know what they were talking about. “Minnesota Svensk” became, at least in some areas, a rather unique hybrid language. I recall my parents arguing: “That’s Norwegian, isn’t it? No, I think that’s Swedish.” Some of the words I thought I had learned from them turned out to be neither. Palmer Knutson, of the Otter Tail mystery series, is of the same age and heritage as I am (what an odd coincidence). He knows a little Norwegian, can speak in a brogue when he wants to, and understands rural life. His home town, Fergus Falls, was part of the “Park Region,” a secondary settlement of Norwegians, made up of sons or younger brothers of the earlier settlement near Decorah, Iowa, who took homestead lands in the 1870s. Scandinavians were among the more assimilable immigrants – white, protestant, not prone to civil disorder – who were generally welcomed and were courted by land agents representing the railroads. In keeping with the Lutheran theology of sola scriptura, they were also almost entirely literate. And this is what Palmer is – better read than most, possessing a good education, Lutheran, and a man who enjoys his lefse. Unlike the dour Scandinavians of Europe, however, he has a sense of humor.
I enjoy reading mystery novels set in different parts of the world. I would guess some of the people who will read this have read the Martin Beck novels of Maj Sjowall and Per Wahloo which were set in Stockholm. A more modern series, the Kurt Wallender books of Henning Mankell, are set in Southern Sweden. Swell books, but not a barrel of laughs. I have also read three or four Norwegian mystery novels. As we say, Uffda! They are well written, but as cheery as a steady diet of Knut Hamsun. They are just the kind of novels that can prepare one for suicide! I didn’t want some ultra introspective sleuth dissecting world conditions, I wanted a cop who could catch a killer. Now, as we all know, only the English can find real humor in homicide (witness the Charles Paris books of Simon Brett), but if I can lighten up a Norwegian character, I will have performed a service for which I should be knighted by the king.

The Shoe Salesman in My Head

If you've ever attended a writing workshop, read a how-to book, or surfed online chats, you're familiar with the Outline versus Rough Draft discussion.
It seems writing like American politics –no, I'm not going THERE folks!--
can be divided into two camps: those of us who outline and follow our roadmap and those of us that follow the words through the maze, trusting the story breadcrumbs to lead us through to The End.
I outline.
I think in mystery it helps immensely to have the puzzle organized before you get two hundred pages in and realize the serial-killing shoe salesman belongs in a different book.
And then you wake up screaming because you have a killer shoe salesman in a book about genetically altered homicidal butterflies.
Not that this has ever happened to me or anything.
Because I outline.
Lately though, I've noticed a disturbing trend:
I get my outline all meticulously planned, and then about forty pages in, I have to ditch it because the breadcrumb trail left by the words takes me elsewhere.
This usually happens right after the opening murder in one of my Kate London Mysteries. I go down the story track, following my outline like it’s I-75 headed right to Florida, and something doesn’t feel right. Being stubborn as all get out, I keep going for several weeks. Or, more honestly, I avoid writing because I am stuck, write a little and get aggravated, whine a lot, and stare at the computer screen. Eventually I get moving and write through it.
Once I do that, I begin to realize I need to back up and try a different path. Then the words unlock and the story takes me. I throw out some scenes, back up and let the words lead for a while until I find the new path. Then I revise my outline, because, well:
I outline.
And because I just can't sleep with that shoe salesman in my head.