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 |  My life is a roller coaster ride, but there's beauty in the madness. |
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Ink in Faded Hues My aspirations, triumphs, and failures. Life is a beautiful mess! ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ~All men dream: but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dream with open eyes, to make it possible.~ T.E. Lawrence ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** This is me, for those of you who wondered! 
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| Big brothers are good for many things: They will protect you when the chips are down. When your self-esteem grows out of hand, they offer a wise crack that knocks you down a few pegs. They remind you that there is always someone bigger and badder out there than you are. Laughter . . . I still laugh everytime I remember the roman candle shooting out of the fire pit after mine! Presents A shoulder to cry on Exercise . . . sometimes it becomes necessary to run! They make great uncles. Commiserating . . . for those times when you try to understand WHY the rest of your family is the way they are. Rides Clothes . . . nothing beats a huge hoodie when you are cold! Memories . . . bonfires, parties, and movie night on Sundays. Plotting . . . they teach you creative ways to irritate and get revenge. They make you tough. Unconditional love. and many, many more. The list is long. Today is my big brother's birthday, and though he's on the road, he's in my thoughts. I hope you have a wonderful day today, and that somewhere, someone nice does something special for you.  Thanks for always being there and for just being you. And don't worry, though you won't make it home this week, we all have something special planned for you next weekend.  Piney, Smeag, John . . . you go by many names, but to me you will always be big brother. Happy Birthday! |
*does the snoopy dance* I got the notice today. Sons of Anarchy: Season 2 is now available for preorder! *twirls around with glee* This should make the entire family estatic, as all I've heard lately is "When's it coming out? Can you order it yet?" Heh, yeah. I tend to pass my addictions off on everyone else I know too.  They like it though. If I say a show or movie is good, they all run to see it. (you're welcome)Hey, I need something to carry me through until the new season starts in September. On the writing front, I made reverse progress. Did some more editing last night and realized that in order to pick up where I needed to, I had to cut out almost 8,000 words. Eighteen pages. Meh.  The good news is, I did manage to go through, insert Murph where he needed to be, and write some pretty good scenes with him, Kat, and Crux. When all was said and done there, I wrote about 1500 new words. He's actually turned out to be a brilliant addition, showing a different side of the wild Scotsman that we didn't really see before, and also giving both Kat and reader a more intimate glimpse into his past. Good job grasshopper. You've done well.  For today's exceprt I've chosen something a little less comical . . . maybe: “Sorry about that. Women, ya know? They never know when to keep their yaps shut.” The biker nodded, but his gaze remained cold. “Aye, but sometimes their words hold a bit o’ truth. Maybe y’ should pay up and be on your way ’fore you get in too deep.” “I got this.” Determination laced Randy’s voice and he played the next round hard, sinking all but two balls. It wasn’t enough. He stood stunned, staring at the pool table in abject silence, fists curled against his sides. Undaunted, Crux held out his hand, his fingers moving back and forth in impatience. He did not miss the way the man’s eyes darted over himself and Reaper, measuring the pair up, or perhaps, searching for an escape route between them. “I ain’t got all night, pretty boy. Toss me the keys and let’s go see what ya got.” “I can’t. Come on, dude. One more game. Just one more, that’s all I’m asking.” “I ain’t your dude and I’m done playin’ games.” Moving closer, Crux wrapped his fingers around the back of Randy’s neck and sunk them in deep. “Time t’ pay up.” Randal squirmed beneath the demanding press of fingers biting into his neck. Rolling his shoulders in an attempt to break free did nothing to loosen the Scot’s hold. It did, however, provoke his ire. The vise below his skull tightened in warning, drawing a yelp from the frightened man as he found himself yanked to his tiptoes. “Be a man, Randal. Walk out of ‘ere on your own accord.” Though soft, nothing about Crux’s tone was pleasant. Forcing a smile, he released the disgraced pool shark and prodded him forward. Reaper followed in close pursuit, a jaunty tune whistling between his lips as he stepped around the pair to push the back door open. The crisp night air buffeted his body, bringing a welcome reprieve from the stale, cramped confines of the bar. Thaddy’s wasn’t the Lord’s usual hangout, but once in a while, Crux needed a break from the same tired faces. He had stumbled half-drunk into the little Podunk establishment for the first time a little over a year ago, and felt an affinity for it ever since. People there, for the most part, kept to themselves, wanting nothing to do with the likes of a scarred up biker in a Lords of Mayhem cut. He could lose himself in a strong bottle of whiskey and forget the constant strings of rejection he faced at home. Pushing the embittered thoughts aside, Crux scanned the parking lot and confronted Randal with an accusing brow. “Where’s t’ bike?” “Right there.” He looked again, his gaze flickering over the familiar outlines of his rugged Fat Boy and Reaper’s sleek Rocker. The shimmering silver Suzuki barely registered. “Where?” “Right there! The ---” Reaper’s laughter drowned out the rest of his response. Doubled over in the parking lot, the normally astute sergeant-at-arms held his sides and gasped for breath in between deafening woops. Not seeing the humor, Crux’s eyes narrowed into thin slits and fixated on Randal. A lethal light shimmered in the dark depths as he stepped forward and pointed at the object in question. “Are you kiddin‘ me, lad? A feckin’ crotch rocket?” Enraged, his accent grew thicker, and he had to force himself to spit the words out. “You had better be yankin’ my leg boy or else yer lookin’ to get an assful of boot.” Reaper was no help. Dark head of curls lowered, he snorted for air. “Stop. Jesus, man, stop. You’re killing me here. ‘A feckin’ crrrrotcchhh’ . . .” He trailed off, victim to another bout of hysterical laughter fueled by booze and adrenaline. “I ain’t laughin’.” His contemptuous gaze raked over Randal’s Suzuki one last time. “Quit pissin' around, kid. I want to get this done ‘fore anyone sees me.” “No. To hell with you! You don’t even want it!” Instant sobriety struck, killing Reaper’s laughter. Livid, Crux stepped forward. “That Tonka toy ain’t no bike, yuppie, but a deal is a deal. Unless you want to be payin’ that debt in blood, I suggest y' wise up and keep to your word.” “Screw that! I'm outta here!” Randal grabbed his girlfriend’s arm. Keeping his eyes on the bikers, he pulled her toward his rear wheel. “My bike is worth way more than two lousy grand! I don’t even have the title. Like I said, it’s fresh off the lot.” “Yes, you do. Your dad paid ca--” A savage backhand sent the woman reeling. She didn‘t even have time to cry out before another blow struck, this one leaving a glaring crimson streak in its wake. “SHUT UP! You’ve caused enough problems for one night. I swear to God, Katrina, one more word tonight and I’ll cut you!” Crux stiffened. Cold, hard fury settled in and replaced the stunned expression on his face. It was the wrong choice of words on the wrong night. “Lay off the lass. She’s worth more than that plastic matchbox o’ yours.” “Yeah? You think so, asshole? If you think she’s such a great freaking deal, take her instead!” Crux did not miss the way Reaper’s brow shot up in surprise. Motorcycle clubs often bartered pussy like it was cash, but it was an unexpected gesture coming off the streets, one that brought him a pleasant stroke of amusement. He bit back a chortle, lips quirking at the prospect, and shrugged. “Toss ‘er my way then, laddie.” “Randy! No! Please! You can’t do this . . . You’re drunk and--” desperation laced the young woman’s voice. Her wide green brimmed with tears. “If you think I’m about to give up a thirteen thousand dollar bike over a piece of ass, you’re out of your mind. Skirts are a dime a dozen.” Unchecked ire flashed in Katrina’s eyes. “So are assholes like you, Randal Jenkins.” Crux chuckled beneath his breath as the brunette turned on her boyfriend, her balled fists pummeling his chest in a fit of rage. Threats and heated curses rolled off her tongue with fluid ease. Drunk and taken off guard, the playboy flailed his arms in an attempt to fend off the livid hellcat. She landed several blows before he managed to catch her wrists. Face contorted with rage and embarrassment, he flung her across the asphalt and into Crux’s chest. “Here! She’s all yours, buddy. As ugly as your mug is, I’m sure you’re used to paying for a piece. Enjoy your first two-thousand dollar--” Randy’s words died on his tongue as the biker moved Katrina aside. Before he could swallow, Crux snatched the arrogant punk up by the front of his department store leathers. Spinning, he slammed Randal’s back against the unforgiving brick wall of the bar. He slung a heavy forearm across the man’s throat, holding him firmly in place as he drew his knife from its sheath. Eyes narrowed, Crux flipped the blade open and pressed close until the two stood nose-to-nose. “How ‘bout I give you a souvenir to remember this face by?” His forearm pressed deeper against the fragile throat column trapped beneath its bulk. “Take a good hard look, lad. I can do far worse than these here scratches and keep ya awake for every gawd damned second of it, too. Would ya like that?” “P-p-please. No! God!” A faint splatter echoed in the parking lot and Crux grimaced as the telltale stink of urine hit his nostrils. He pushed the blade deep against the shaking man’s cheek, leaving a thin wheal of blood in its wake. His hand trembled with the force of his rage, but he shoved off of Randy with a snarl. Before the man could react, he stalked across the lot, hard-heeled boots clicking against the asphalt, and drove the blade deep into the Suzuki’s rear tire. Laughing, Reaper kicked the tinker toy over with a primitive howl. Gaze still blazing with venom, Crux whirled on the wide-eyed brunette and jerked his head toward his Harley. “Let’s go.” |
as many of you may have thought (hoped  ) I did not fall off the face of the Earth entirely. Much of the last two months was spent taking care of a grandmother recovering from surgery, since no one else sees fit to lift a finger. more time was divided between my brother and future sis-in-law, talking to my twinnie on the phone since she didn't have net, and dealing with my dad losing his job after 30 years. It's been a whirlwind year already, but I really feel things can only get better!The last two weeks were spent getting through another bout of kidney stones and hay-fever. The pollen here was insane until, finally, we got a heavy dose of rain. I love nothing more than a good, strong thunderstorm. Something about the turbulence soothes my soul. BUT... (don't ya love buts? heh) I was also plunging myself headlong into a project. After NaNo, the exhaustion, compiled with the stress of the holidays and family prediciments sapped me of any creative energy I had. Five long months rolled by, a drought in every stretch of the word. Then, something funny happened. Inspiration struck when I least expected it, and the editing bug bit. I've been busy chopping out huge chunks of my NaNo project, eliminating a side story that had incorporated itself into the plot. (Talk about losing word count . . . ) Minor tweaks were made (surprisingly minor considering this was fly by the seat of your pants writing) and a new character added. *grins sheepishly* So, lots of editing, adding, cutting, tweaking, and overall stressing...but I am finally ready to roll forward. In fact, I'm over halfway done with a solid 56,720 words. I really don't want to jinx myself, but this is the most I have ever gotten, and something inside me says we are actually going to make it this time! Sooo...without further ado, here's a wee excerpt from my novel-in-progress. Some of you may recognize the main character, because yes, he is the only muse that refused to abandon me during said drought! Let me know what ya think! Tommy Croston’s heart thundered into overdrive. He could hear his brother’s screams echoing off the dank walls, feel the slick spread of crimson heat growing beneath his own body as he bucked and writhed on the floor. Hands bound behind his back, he could do nothing but watch, helpless, as another solid kick lifted his baby brother’s body off the ground. Tears streaked down his cheeks, cutting a path through the grime. Slamming his eyes shut, he let loose a deafening howl of agony that tore from his throat and shredded his soul. Light spilled through the narrow basement window, glinting off the switchblade in a menacing flash. “You pompous little prick. I’m gonna teach you a lesson you won’t soon forget.” He coiled in on himself, his breath hitching as heavy footsteps sounded against the concrete. Thud. Thud. Thud. He closed his eyes again, biting back a scream as he felt the cold press of steel against his cheek. He’s okay, he told himself. Murphy’s okay now, and that’s all that really ma--- His thoughts were cut short as searing pain beyond anything he had ever known exploded across his face. It felt like fire, a molten hot streak of lightening blazing across his skin in a jagged path. His mind struggled to make sense of what was happening, even as his mouth flooded with a coppery tang. Murphy’s screams grew louder and more frantic. Tommy struggled to find his brother through the pain-filled haze clouding his vision, but the room pitched and grew dark. He struggled to speak, but his lips, his face, wouldn’t move. Numb with terror, he lay paralyzed as his drunken assailant wrenched his face away from his sobbing brother. The knife sank through flesh again, slicing through his cheek like melted butter. It came to a stop against his jawbone, as he screamed . . . screamed for his brother . . . screamed for a mother that never came. Crux sat up with a start, a ragged cry dying on his lips. Sweat drenched his body making the tangled sheets cling to him like a second skin. His chest heaved. He drew a shaky breath and let it go slowly, his eyes scanning the shadows for hidden danger. Finding nothing, he let the tension go with a sigh of relief. His shoulders slumped, and his eyes drifted shut as he dropped back against the pillow. He was alone. Judging from the silence, Murphy slept soundly in the other room. Not everything had been in vain. It shamed a man like him to admit it, but no matter how far from Scotland they were, the memories, much like the scars from that awful night, would always haunt him. Morning came far too early. The shrill ring of the alarm clock sent pain akin to red-hot pokers shooting through his skull. Cupping his head with one hand, Crux fumbled blindly for the shutoff switch with the other, cursing when he knocked half the contents on the nightstand over in his attempts. He kicked free of the covers with a frustrated snarl and yanked the cord from the wall. A pleased smile curved his lips as blessed silence filled the room. It was a daily battle, but he was rather fond of the custom. So was the local Rite-Aid. He was certain the constant need to replace his alarm clocks funded most, if not all, of their new parking lot. Grimacing at how thick and swollen his tongue felt within the dry confines of his mouth, he grabbed some clean clothes and headed to the shower, pausing on his way past to peek in on Murphy. His younger brother lay sprawled on his stomach, still fast asleep despite the insistent wail coming from the clock radio beside him. Shaking his head, Crux strode into the room and jerked the comforter down. One bleary blue eye popped open in response and regarded him in confusion. “Get up, shithead.” He delivered a playful cuff to the back of his brother’s head and jutted a thumb toward the door. “The school will have both our arses if you’re late again.” Murphy’s heated protests followed him into the bathroom, prodding a chuckle from the tired Scotsman. His gaze settled on the mirror for a brief second before flickering away in disgust. The sight of his own reflection was something he didn’t think he’d ever get used to, and the bags beneath his eyes spoke of another long stretch of sleepless nights. He pulled his cheeks tight, feeling the deep groove of scar tissue beneath his fingertips, before he turned the water on and stepped beneath the icy stream. “Don’t use all the hot water!” Murphy’s bellow interrupted his thoughts and prodded another chuckle from Crux as he shook his head. Little brother was in for a rude awakening. He forgot to pay the gas bill; it lay piled among many others in a growing stack, forgotten in the heat of an unseasonably warm spring. The frigid torrent pelting his body was a brutal reminder not to let things slide this far again. “CRUX!” Muttering beneath his breath, he lifted his head and bit back a rising swell of anger. “WHAT?” “We have no food in the house.” Murphy popped his head around the door, his bloodshot gaze both tired and accusing. “Mary Mother of Christ, Murph!” Exasperation laced his tone. “Can ya stop gettin’ yer panties in a knot long enough for me t’ take a gawd damn shower?” Lips pressed together in a grim, hostile line, Murphy regarded him for a long moment of silence before ducking back out of the bathroom and slamming the door shut behind him. Crux shook his head, his heart weighted with sudden guilt. As good as his intentions had been, he often wondered if he hadn’t taken his brother out of the frying pan and dropped him straight into the fire. Hell, he was barely equipped to take care of himself. There were many nights where they had went hungry and cold on the streets before stumbling upon Trinity Falls, before stumbling upon the club. Ohio was a strange place to land, but the small town seemed like a good place to raise his brother, and despite its Norman Rockwell appearance, Trinity felt like home. Still damp, he made his way into the kitchen wearing a pair of faded jeans and a worn tee. Murphy was slumped over the kitchen table, propping his head up in one hand, spooning through a bowl of Lucky Charms with the other. The last remnants of a shiner still clung to his cheek, a faded souvenir from school. Crux chewed his lip in thought for a moment before pulling the orange juice from the fridge. “No fights today,” he warned, lifting the gallon to his lips. “Yeah, sure.” The agreement didn’t sound promising, forcing him to point his finger. “I mean it. I don’t ask much of ya, kid. Jus’ keep your nose clean.” Blue warred with brown. “Like you?” Crux felt his eyes narrow at the barb. He wasn’t in the mood for the boy’s attitude. Not today. “Get your ass to school.” “Yeah, whatever. See ya.” Murphy snagged his hooded sweatshirt off the back of the chair on his way out and slammed the door. The kitchen windows rattled in response. A ragged sigh escaped Crux as he pinched the bridge of his nose in a desperate bid for patience. What the hell had he been thinking? Had he forgotten that sweet-faced kid would eventually grow into the destructive force known as a teen? Shaking his head, he grabbed his keys off the counter, along with the gas bill. The thundering roar of Murphy’s Duster vibrated through the house. Ancient kitchen windows clattered again as the big block revved to the max. Compiled with a hangover, the noise made a space shuttle launch sound like a purring cat. Crux knew what was coming and grimaced a split second before the tires barked and his brother peeled out of the drive, most likely going sideways in the process. Mornings like this made work feel like a blessed reprieve. ~ † ~ † ~ † ~ |
| I don't know why I bother watching the news in the morning. All it ever does is upset me. Today, I'm sitting there, enjoying my morning cup of coffee, when lo . . . it goes flying across the livingroom in a spray of disbelief. Why . . . would someone please tell me why Cleveland would even entertain the thought of taking Big Ben in exchange for our 7th pick in the draft? Ohh hell no. Alleged charges or not, the man has had way too many claims of rape and sexual assault against him. We don't need that kind of stigma attached to a team that already has more issues than they can count. Yeah, the Browns are the worst team in the league and have been there since the era of the "Cardiac Kids" ended. I can accept that. They need to learn that changing quarterbacks every year is NOT going to solve that problem. The entire team (staff too apparently) needs rebuilt from the ground up. One player, no matter how good, cannot carry an entire team. One player doesn't win games. My faith in the Browns and their asministration has dwindled over the years, yet a small shred of me still feels the need to root for the home team no matter how insurmountable the odds may be. If they trade . . . if they take on a man accused of rape and assault numerous times, I will wipe my hands, feet, and ass of them for good. Pittsburgh can have Big Ben. We don't want him . . . and even a team struggling as much as Cleveland doesn't need the likes of him. BAH. Go Bears! |
| I'm not niave. I know these sorts of things happen all the time: everyday in major cities across America. However, you do not hear of them happening in my town. Canal Fulton just reached city status a few years back. Up until that point, we were known as a villiage. A villiage. We're still stuck somewhere in the idealistic Norman Rockwell type era, where everyone knows everybody else by name or face. It's the kind of place where you feel safe letting your kids out to play, where you're comfortable leaving your doors and windows unlocked at night. Up until last night, the last homocide here had been over 16 years ago. We're that quaint. We don't even have a homocide division here. Today, I, along with many other residents here are trying to make sense of last night's senseless acts. Trying to understand how someone could just walk into an establishment and gun someone down in cold blood. From everything I've heard, these weren't even "legal" residents of the country, let alone our town. It's a sad day here . . . a sad day indeed.today, my thoughts and prayers go out to the family and friends of the victim. But, always, my heartfelt thanks go out to our local law enforcement for all they do to make our town a happy and safe place to be . . . http://www.cantonrep.com/topstories/x43860182/Restaurant-employee-dies-after-sho... http://www.fox8.com/news/wjw-news-canal-fulton-ohio-fatal-shooting,0,1621680.sto... |
Okay, so apparently, I'm a little late coming with this, but WOW. This movie and its sequal just hit the all time favorite movie slots on my list. Good bye Gladiator and Dark Knight! How did I miss this gem for the last 11 years?  All I can say is I am so glad I refuse to watch sequals without watching the first movie beforehand.Plot, pacing, action, characters...this movie had it all. When I wasn't laughing, I was sitting on the edge of my seat. There was something so captivating about these two brothers (fraternal IRISH twins at that!) and they way they methodically ridded the world of evil around them. At times, I found myself wondering if they were really men at all, but perhaps archangels fallen from on high. And the prayer they say before executing the wicked in perfect tandem *sighs* Perfect! Really, anyone looking for an awesome action flick should check out these movies. They hold only a hint of religion, and as the scene in the courtroom demonstrates, its not so much religion, but a code of ethics all humans should live by. After all, these bad boys are willing to "send you to whatever God you wish." [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] Boston provides the perfect backdrop for this gritty tale, rife with the good ol' Irish, but also two sets of mafia fractions (Italian and Russian), and plenty of crime to go around. Hoping to rid the world of the rapists, murderers, and outright wicked, these two brothers set forth to sent the corrupt to meet their maker with a vengance; not to mention they are fairly easy on the eyes as well. To me, this movie was a culmination of a few stories I have worked on over the years. The theme and struggle, the odd way these absolutely human men reminded me of something much more held hints of Gabriel and his struggles in a novel some of you may remember, Sins of the Father. Whereas Murphy McManus, well he reminded me so much of my beloved Crux muse inside and out that I found myself doing double takes for much of the movie. Swap out the leather biker cut and the Lords of Mayhem Gang for this forceful trio, shades, and a dark overcoat and boom. Except Crux's hair was much darker...and his face deeply scarred. Anywhoo, I digress. If anyone elese has seen these films, I'd love to hear your thoughts on them. If you haven't, I highly suggest picking them up! Erin Go Bragh!  ~Best wishes and happy writing!~ |
To deserve this? Honestly? I have no clue how I managed to be so blessed, to have the most amazing group of close friends, confidants, and mentors that I do on this site. I've never considered myself very rich, or fortunate, until I joined this site and met the people that I did here. Truth is, I have riches, blessings, and fortune beyond words. Not in cash, not in jewels, (or even Prada stuffs) but in this community and the people I have met here.  I will admit, I was stressed beyond words this year about my membership. Panic is a more fitting word. I'm on a shoestring and hot dog budget right now, and to make things worse, my family has taken some heavy blows and set backs. But deep down, I held on to faith, knowing that somehow, everything would work out okay in the end. Things have a way of paying themselves forward eventually and life somehow always works out. It always does. But, never, ever, in my wildest dreams did I expect what I got tonight. A whole year, gifted to me by the most generous and wonderful of friends. Thank you all so very, very much. I would have gotten by and made due somehow....but you have no idea how much this means to me, what an incredible relief it is to not have this hanging over my head. I promise to try and make the best use of this membership that I can, and to find ways to pay forward what you have given me. Tonight, this blog is dedicated to you . . . my friends, confidants, and mentors. You know who you are and I love you. ~Best wishes and all my love always~ Adriana |
| Some people pursue writing as a career; others do it as a hobby. I’m sure a handful or more are stuck somewhere in the middle of the road, unsure where they fall. Fulltime, part-time, or somewhere in between: if you write, you are bound to hit a snag. You will eventually stall, falter, or stare at a blank page for hours on end, wondering what in the world is wrong with you. It happens on every end of the creative scale: to novelists, poets, bloggers, and short story scribes. It happens to the masters sitting at the top of the bestseller‘s charts, to the unknown author pursuing his guilty pleasure. We call it Writer’s Block. *cue the grim face and creepy music* The mere phrase is enough to strike terror in even the staunchest author’s heart. A vast majority of writers will, at some point or another, bemoan their muses. We scapegoat, shifting the blame elsewhere. I, myself, have done this on numerous occasions. Yes, I have cried to the writing gods in all of my dramatic glory, begging to know why they have forsaken me. I’ve made offerings of solitude, incense, music, and coffee. Then, a well-meaning friend posed a single question that rattled me to the core. ”Why do they call it writer’s block?” The answer seemed so obvious at the time. Uhmmm. Hmm. Because we write? Nod in agreement, if you will, but let’s really think about this. Many of us have not yet broken into the spotlight far enough where can support ourselves by writing alone. Someday, yes, but not yet. Am I right? Say you work on the side as a janitor. Sure there have been days where you didn’t feel like showing up to work. Maybe you were having an off-day or simply felt blah. We all have days where we are not as productive, where we just shuffle through the movements without heart or head in the actions. Yet, we don’t call into work to report we won’t be coming in today because we have a case of janitor’s block. See the reasoning here? Teachers don’t call off with teacher’s block, cops don’t call off with cop block, truckers don‘t call off with trucker‘s block. They show up, perform the best that they can, and hope they make it through to find tomorrow is a better day. I’d like to say that writers are lazy. I really would, but by nature we aren’t. Only one who has sat in our shoes know how hard it really is to churn out line after line, to build upon word after word, constructing characters, plots, and worlds out of thin air, and then breathe that magical life into them. It’s a craft that takes years of sweat, hard work, dedication, and tears to hone. Even then, we sometimes fall flat. That’s okay! Maybe it is not writer’s block after all. Maybe, underneath our creative exteriors, lies a normal person who experiences a very normal thing when you go though the same motions day after day: burn out. It’s easy to fall into this feeling, especially when you pour as much time and energy into your writing as we do. Allow yourself a day or two off once in a while. Take time to read that book you thought sounded so good. Go for a walk. Do the dishes. Clean the house. Play on the floor with the kids or the pets. Socialize with family, neighbors, and friends. Live, laugh, and enjoy life around you. It’s okay! Not only is it okay, it’s healthy. The burn out will eventually ease and you will find yourself facing the screen with a fresher outlook on writing and life in general. The next time you feel yourself stuck, don’t blame your muses or cry to the powers that be. Take the time to listen to what your own body is telling you. It may be a few hours, or it may be a few weeks, but all is not lost. Writers are human. Take time to recharge your body and mind. After all, they are our most valuable tools. ~Best wishes and happy writing!~ Adriana ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
First of all, I’d like to send out a huge thank you to those of you who were brave enough to participate in a little experiment I hosted today! It meant a lot to me! The brief excerpt I shared with you was from none other than the crowned prince of horror himself, Stephen King!  I had several reasons for doing this. The first is, I’ve received numerous reviews quoting advice from some book he had written on how to write. When I first made my debut here on WDC, I would throw in an occasional adverb. Oh, boy did I get countless reviews from well-meaning people that started with “Stephen King says . . .” I can’t tell you how many times I wanted to respond that I didn’t give a flying rat’s behind what he says, but decided the hassle wasn’t worth it. Long story short, I had to reprogram my brain. The masses had spoken. After hearing time and time again how adverbs were the first deadly *gasp…wait can’t use that* first lethal sin in writing, I had to find a way to write around them. At first, it killed me. It damn near crushed my creativity. Now, it’s second nature.You know what, though? They were right. HE was right! They are shortcuts that writers fall back on all too often. Sure, it might take a few more words to describe something . . . But the effort is well worth it in the long run. Those -ly words are bad, bad things. Except on rare, rare occasion. So, a few nights ago, I picked up a book, “Nightmares and Dreamscapes” by the man whose advice changed my life. Okay, maybe not that drastic, but still. His words did leave an impact. Anything does after having it shoved down your throat every time you turn around. But what I didn’t understand is why . . . why would he preach advice to aspiring writers that he, himself, doesn’t follow? In that small passage alone, there were five adverbs. Five adverbs in just as many sentences! Here, we aren’t allowed to use that many in a story, without it being mentioned. Why? Because he says not to use them!Now, some of you will argue that he is God. Therefore, he can do whatever he wants. While I don’t think he’s the best out there (I’m a huge fan of John Saul and his early works) there is no denying King’s talent or success. Or is there? No. Really, there’s not. The books, movies, and number of copies he’s sold, all speak for themselves. Love him or hate him, he’s a force to be reckoned with. Pardon the cliché. My biggest reason for doing this was to prove a simple point. Did he post here on WDC, his average score would be around a three . . . most of this based on his own advice! I really love the irony in that. But, I digress. The true point here is, maybe, sometimes, we are too hard on ourselves. In the end, ratings really don’t matter. According to the small poll I took, King’s work would be lost beneath the shuffle. Honestly, I’ve read a lot of amazing stories here that have put his talent to shame. It becomes so easy to fall into the mindset where if you review or comment, you have to dig really deep until you can offer some suggestion, or find some flaw. As if that is the only way we can make our comments legitimate. It becomes all too easy to slip into editing mode, just as I was the other night. Reading that book, I couldn’t stop cringing at the adverbs, or trying to reword things in my head. Yet, here he is . . . a writing deity to many . . . an author with a list of success ten miles long. I would have edited the piss out of that paragraph alone and sent it back as a glaring red page with a rating of 2 ½. Would it have mattered? Nope. This story was published not once, but twice, and guess what? It sold like firecrackers on the 4th of July. What do I know, huh? His writing hasn’t changed any. My outlook has. Maybe it needs to change again. After all, his writing is far from perfect . . . yet there he is, top of the lists, because of the stories he has to tell. Maybe we should learn to give each other a little leeway and cut ourselves a break from time to time, no? It’s easy to be a critic. It’s much harder to see the beauty in things and appreciate them as they were meant to be. Once I shut that internal editor up, (Aka “Are you a multimillion dollar bestselling author, Adriana?” ”Uhm, no but--” “Then who are you to criticize him! Are you saying his editors were lax?“ Maybe…wait, is that another adverb? “You’re unbelievable! Shut up and read the story!”) I did end up finding an enjoyable story beneath it all with some great elements. By no means does this imply you shouldn’t give people your honest advice. Most writers crave that more than anything. We have our friends and family to lie to us. Truth be told, I can’t measure or count the number of things I have learned from reviewers here on WDC, or the ways I have grown and improved because of them. I consider that the biggest asset of this site! (I won’t even start on the vast number of mistakes reviewers have caught either.) Share those opinions and offer advice where you can! I can't help but wonder how much better of a writer King would be if he had the support system and help in place that we have here! Ultimately it is up to the writer to decide what they find useful. Editors and publishers will have the final say. The truth is, it's okay to ease up a little on yourself. Even Stephen King can't please everybody! I hope you found this interesting. I know the results and input fascinated me. It's nice to know I'm not alone in my assessment. Yet somewhere in the back of my mind, I am left to wonder . . . are ‘publishing’ editors easier on people than we are ourselves? Scary thought, but, when all is said and done, I still think King should follow his own advice! ~Best wishes and happy writing!~ |
Your result for The What Kind of Girl are You Test ... The Liberal Beauty You scored 81 looks, 76 personality, 28 politics, and 73 sex drive! You're beautiful, you have a great personality, and youre highly sexual. You're a liberal with your views and you don't put morals before everything. You're probably a great wife or girlfriend, and you know how to make sure that the ones you love are happy. You're probably fun in a conversation and I'm sure that you are as loveable as you are beautiful. Loveable as a baracuda, I tell ya! Just goes to prove you can't believe a thing people tell you! Flattery will get you everywhere . . . Now excuse me while I go deflate my ego and come back down to reality. |
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