Gina Greenlee's Blog
October 1, 2019
The Energy of Completion
Writing books takes time.
It needn’t take years but it will take months.
You are making progress but it will appear subtle.
Until you achieve a readable draft, the multiple iterations required to get there can discourage and frustrate you.
That’s when you need a simpler, more tangible project to complete in a day or even an hour or two. The energy of seeing it come to life, from inspiration to completion, is fuel for drafting you back into your next writing session.
Psychologists call this the “science of small wins.”
Before I discovered that term I came up with one of my own: the “energy of completion.”
The accomplishment you readily experience when completing smaller, tangible projects mirrors what’s occurring as you “build” a book, even though it might be harder to see. The energy of completion fuels momentum and minimizes inertia. That feeling keeps your productivity tank full during the life of long-form writing and becomes reflexive within your neurobiology.
Below are ideas for smaller, tangible projects that will yield the energy of completion:
Design and create a paper toy. I like dolls. Maybe you’re into houses, airplanes, ships, animals or abstract shapes. It could be as simple as 3D paper chains like the ones many of us in the United States made as toddlers. The focus of the energy of completion is not what you create only that you create and finish in a brief time period.
Collect artifacts from your day – receipts, random scraps of paper, found objects; paste them in notebook pages; write a caption for each. Sign and date.
Color one page of a coloring book. Sign and date.
Select a favorite piece of dance music up to 5 minutes long. Choreograph and perform a spontaneous routine. Take a bow.
Walk a predetermined mile-long route.
Send “good mail” to friends and family. That’s guilt-free postal mail that requires no response from the recipient. That’s why it’s “good” mail. The folks you care about already get enough mail they have to act on. What to send? Create tiny “junk mail” art. Your materials? Free supplies that advertisers cram into your postal mailbox daily. Affix fun (commemorative) stamps to the mailing envelope.
Play with sand tray. At your local dollar store, purchase a metal, plastic or ceramic serving platter. Buy two bags of sand. You’ve spent $3.00. Collect objects from your home junk drawer, stuff you’ve been meaning to toss but haven’t. Spend 30 minutes placing the objects in the sand in any way that intuitively speaks. Spend another 5 minutes silently observing the tray.
Research a topic that intrigues you, just because. Spend 30 minutes becoming an expert.
It’s easier to maintain momentum than to ramp up after inertia has set in. The energy of completion creates a consistent wave of success that will ferry you to the finish of any long-form writing.
*************
How have you used the energy of completion to help you sustain momentum for longer-term goals?
It needn’t take years but it will take months.
You are making progress but it will appear subtle.
Until you achieve a readable draft, the multiple iterations required to get there can discourage and frustrate you.
That’s when you need a simpler, more tangible project to complete in a day or even an hour or two. The energy of seeing it come to life, from inspiration to completion, is fuel for drafting you back into your next writing session.
Psychologists call this the “science of small wins.”
Before I discovered that term I came up with one of my own: the “energy of completion.”
The accomplishment you readily experience when completing smaller, tangible projects mirrors what’s occurring as you “build” a book, even though it might be harder to see. The energy of completion fuels momentum and minimizes inertia. That feeling keeps your productivity tank full during the life of long-form writing and becomes reflexive within your neurobiology.
Below are ideas for smaller, tangible projects that will yield the energy of completion:
Design and create a paper toy. I like dolls. Maybe you’re into houses, airplanes, ships, animals or abstract shapes. It could be as simple as 3D paper chains like the ones many of us in the United States made as toddlers. The focus of the energy of completion is not what you create only that you create and finish in a brief time period.
Collect artifacts from your day – receipts, random scraps of paper, found objects; paste them in notebook pages; write a caption for each. Sign and date.
Color one page of a coloring book. Sign and date.
Select a favorite piece of dance music up to 5 minutes long. Choreograph and perform a spontaneous routine. Take a bow.
Walk a predetermined mile-long route.
Send “good mail” to friends and family. That’s guilt-free postal mail that requires no response from the recipient. That’s why it’s “good” mail. The folks you care about already get enough mail they have to act on. What to send? Create tiny “junk mail” art. Your materials? Free supplies that advertisers cram into your postal mailbox daily. Affix fun (commemorative) stamps to the mailing envelope.
Play with sand tray. At your local dollar store, purchase a metal, plastic or ceramic serving platter. Buy two bags of sand. You’ve spent $3.00. Collect objects from your home junk drawer, stuff you’ve been meaning to toss but haven’t. Spend 30 minutes placing the objects in the sand in any way that intuitively speaks. Spend another 5 minutes silently observing the tray.
Research a topic that intrigues you, just because. Spend 30 minutes becoming an expert.
It’s easier to maintain momentum than to ramp up after inertia has set in. The energy of completion creates a consistent wave of success that will ferry you to the finish of any long-form writing.
Perfection is like chasing the horizon. Keep moving. Neil Gaiman
*************
How have you used the energy of completion to help you sustain momentum for longer-term goals?
September 20, 2019
No Blank Pages…Ever!
Staring at a blank page is counterproductive; nothing to ground you. So I developed strategies for never looking at one.
Some new writing ideas are more evolved than others. You might have three files filled with accumulated artifacts for writing projects. Two of them may contain a few paragraphs; the other, just a sentence or two. That’s too much blank page telling the brain, “nothing’s happening here.” Instead, fill that page with:
Greek-Type.Also known as “Greek-text” or “dummy-copy,” this is a widespread layout and prototyping tool for designers around the globe. While a graphic design project is underway and the focus is on color, layout, photos and illustrations, rather than leave blank space in the prototype, designers use “Greek-type” as a placeholder for the visual element of text yet to be written.
It looks like this:
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Integer eu enim et eros posuere consequat id in libero. Aliquam pellentesque pulvinar aliquet. Curabitur sollicitudin sagittis consequat. In lobortis semper lacus et aliquet. Morbi luctus, tellus et imperdiet.
Greek-type is a great toy for drafting yourself into a new writing project or one in progress. As you revisit your manuscript, use whatever actual words make sense to form the skeletal outline on a page or two. Then insert Greek Type as a place holder for anything you don’t yet know or is half-baked. This will provide visual flow and tangible transition for the writing-in-progress. Much more motivating then confronting swaths of empty pages throughout your project.
I use Greek-type to establish the structure for every new piece of long-form writing, principally books. I keep “Lorem ipsum” in place until I’ve filled in the structure with actual content.
Also, I keep Lorem Ipsum in my template files so all if have to do is copy and paste an existing block of Greek-type when needed. Whenever I move onto a new manuscript-in-progress and open up a chapter, writing is there to greet me. The chapter either has actual content requiring revision, or contains Greek-Type.
Never blank.
For more writing toys see:The Writer’s Toy ChestThe Writer's Toy Chest: Don't Work at Writing Play with It!
**********
How do you draft yourself into writing?
Some new writing ideas are more evolved than others. You might have three files filled with accumulated artifacts for writing projects. Two of them may contain a few paragraphs; the other, just a sentence or two. That’s too much blank page telling the brain, “nothing’s happening here.” Instead, fill that page with:
Greek-Type.Also known as “Greek-text” or “dummy-copy,” this is a widespread layout and prototyping tool for designers around the globe. While a graphic design project is underway and the focus is on color, layout, photos and illustrations, rather than leave blank space in the prototype, designers use “Greek-type” as a placeholder for the visual element of text yet to be written.
It looks like this:
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Integer eu enim et eros posuere consequat id in libero. Aliquam pellentesque pulvinar aliquet. Curabitur sollicitudin sagittis consequat. In lobortis semper lacus et aliquet. Morbi luctus, tellus et imperdiet.
Greek-type is a great toy for drafting yourself into a new writing project or one in progress. As you revisit your manuscript, use whatever actual words make sense to form the skeletal outline on a page or two. Then insert Greek Type as a place holder for anything you don’t yet know or is half-baked. This will provide visual flow and tangible transition for the writing-in-progress. Much more motivating then confronting swaths of empty pages throughout your project.
I use Greek-type to establish the structure for every new piece of long-form writing, principally books. I keep “Lorem ipsum” in place until I’ve filled in the structure with actual content.
Also, I keep Lorem Ipsum in my template files so all if have to do is copy and paste an existing block of Greek-type when needed. Whenever I move onto a new manuscript-in-progress and open up a chapter, writing is there to greet me. The chapter either has actual content requiring revision, or contains Greek-Type.
Never blank.
For more writing toys see:The Writer’s Toy ChestThe Writer's Toy Chest: Don't Work at Writing Play with It!
**********
How do you draft yourself into writing?
September 10, 2019
Giving “Messy” New Meaning
As a little girl I loved to play with clay, paints, dyes and markers. My mother had a fit when she saw our bathtub stained after an afternoon tie-dying session. My father, on the other hand, always encouraged my arts and crafts play. War broke out in our family the night of the infamous tie-dye tub stain. The compromise: I could dye my jeans and t-shirts but only in a bucket, newspaper sprawled underneath. And only in the presence of my mother’s hawkish stare. Tie-dying was no longer fun. After all, I could hurt something.
Like a wall.
Thereafter, whenever I attempted to create, oy, the drama! I grew up in a wall-to-wall carpeted New York City apartment. Heaven forbid I should stain it. Carpet was a luxury for my parents, both of whom had grown up poor and with bare floors. Harming the family furniture with my art was less of an issue because my mother encased the living room sofa and chairs in plastic. From the tie-dye incident forward, all of my “messy” art (what art isn’t?) was relegated to the bare kitchen floors swathed in newspaper. My father bought me (dry) modeling clay because regular clay was too messy.
My mother’s nameless anxiety was abated only by scrubbing every inch of our Manhattan apartment, and making me do it, too, after school. I attempted to abate mine by expressing myself through all forms of play: dance, storytelling, Barbie dolls, marbles, painting, drawing and clay. With parental fixation on not making a mess, play was now terror. I was committing some unforgiveable act if I dropped a paintbrush or splattered water. More and more, I played with art less and less until one day I stopped.
A Lovely Chaos
It took me decades to undo that childhood programming. So it was bittersweet for me to discover Anna Ranson’s article,The Central Importance of Playon her Web site, The Imagination Tree.
https://theimaginationtree.com/centra...
She tells of play’s significance in healthy psychological development by sharing pictures of her toddlers doused in soap, water, colored shaving foam, fingerpaints, shredded newspaper and glue. These images triggered much sadness: me at that tender age yearning to explore yet feeling imprisoned; the freedom of childhood expression I missed because it wasn’t convenient for the adults around me.
I’ve spent the past 10 years of adult life re-entering the world of child’s play. Through experimentation, I’ve reframed the oft demonized “mess.” Simply, it is the organic chaos of discovery necessary to creating. It’s okay to make a mess. I don’t live in a museum. Even if I did, nobody dies. Soap and water = everything nice again. And if some household item suffers ruin, 100 years from now no one I know will care.
Today, my apartment looks like the environment in which Ana Ranson’s children are allowed to explore: boxes, cartons, color and experiments everywhere you turn. It’s me being the kind of parent for my “little girl” that I always wanted when I was growing up. As an adult, this has allowed my visual art to mature. Too, epiphanies while making a “mess” helped me recognize that I approached visual art categorically different from language art. From that “aha” came a question: “How can I extend this energy of wild exploration to writing?”
What If?
What if I didn’t start a writing session with a particular project in mind, say a book? What if I wandered toward whatever type of writing jazzed me in that moment? Initially, much of this writing was by hand in ol’ skool black and white composition notebooks. I wrote whatever popped into my head, in what I called a “fleeting moments journal.” My notebook always handy, I noticed more ideas popped: while driving, in the shower, watching a movie, walking, swimming, brushing my teeth, cooking. The notebook was an invitation. I planted one in every corner of my world. My subconscious was serving up griddle hot ideas around the clock and I didn’t want to miss any of it. Like the visual art born from the tornado of crafts supplies around my house, these random, disparate writing snippets began to coalesce into new ideas and fresh projects.
Writer’s Toy Chest
I documented my experiments in a Word document folder called “Writers Toy Chest.” Just as I had collected markers, paints, crayons and canvas, my collection of writing toys grew. I used this analog and digital storehouse of toys as entryways to writing. When focused on a specific piece of writing, I warmed up by playing with my toys. When I needed a break from a project but didn’t want to relocate from the computer: Toys!
My toy chest filled. Whenever I returned to it to I was like the child who, after not having seen a particular toy for three months, was excited all over again upon discovering it anew. This injected novelty into my writing process, which kept me energized, optimistic and moving forward, not slogging through slush but skating on ice. Also, my writing toys served as thresholds to discovery, which led to insights, breakthroughs and new perspectives on old challenges. “Messy” language arts adventures not only changed my writing process but also the writing itself. They continue to strengthen my voice (personality on the page) and advance the execution of my craft in surprising directions.
**********
How have you become more productive in your life by "giving messy new meaning?"
Like a wall.
Thereafter, whenever I attempted to create, oy, the drama! I grew up in a wall-to-wall carpeted New York City apartment. Heaven forbid I should stain it. Carpet was a luxury for my parents, both of whom had grown up poor and with bare floors. Harming the family furniture with my art was less of an issue because my mother encased the living room sofa and chairs in plastic. From the tie-dye incident forward, all of my “messy” art (what art isn’t?) was relegated to the bare kitchen floors swathed in newspaper. My father bought me (dry) modeling clay because regular clay was too messy.
My mother’s nameless anxiety was abated only by scrubbing every inch of our Manhattan apartment, and making me do it, too, after school. I attempted to abate mine by expressing myself through all forms of play: dance, storytelling, Barbie dolls, marbles, painting, drawing and clay. With parental fixation on not making a mess, play was now terror. I was committing some unforgiveable act if I dropped a paintbrush or splattered water. More and more, I played with art less and less until one day I stopped.
A Lovely Chaos
It took me decades to undo that childhood programming. So it was bittersweet for me to discover Anna Ranson’s article,The Central Importance of Playon her Web site, The Imagination Tree.
https://theimaginationtree.com/centra...
She tells of play’s significance in healthy psychological development by sharing pictures of her toddlers doused in soap, water, colored shaving foam, fingerpaints, shredded newspaper and glue. These images triggered much sadness: me at that tender age yearning to explore yet feeling imprisoned; the freedom of childhood expression I missed because it wasn’t convenient for the adults around me.
I’ve spent the past 10 years of adult life re-entering the world of child’s play. Through experimentation, I’ve reframed the oft demonized “mess.” Simply, it is the organic chaos of discovery necessary to creating. It’s okay to make a mess. I don’t live in a museum. Even if I did, nobody dies. Soap and water = everything nice again. And if some household item suffers ruin, 100 years from now no one I know will care.
Today, my apartment looks like the environment in which Ana Ranson’s children are allowed to explore: boxes, cartons, color and experiments everywhere you turn. It’s me being the kind of parent for my “little girl” that I always wanted when I was growing up. As an adult, this has allowed my visual art to mature. Too, epiphanies while making a “mess” helped me recognize that I approached visual art categorically different from language art. From that “aha” came a question: “How can I extend this energy of wild exploration to writing?”
What If?
What if I didn’t start a writing session with a particular project in mind, say a book? What if I wandered toward whatever type of writing jazzed me in that moment? Initially, much of this writing was by hand in ol’ skool black and white composition notebooks. I wrote whatever popped into my head, in what I called a “fleeting moments journal.” My notebook always handy, I noticed more ideas popped: while driving, in the shower, watching a movie, walking, swimming, brushing my teeth, cooking. The notebook was an invitation. I planted one in every corner of my world. My subconscious was serving up griddle hot ideas around the clock and I didn’t want to miss any of it. Like the visual art born from the tornado of crafts supplies around my house, these random, disparate writing snippets began to coalesce into new ideas and fresh projects.
Writer’s Toy Chest
I documented my experiments in a Word document folder called “Writers Toy Chest.” Just as I had collected markers, paints, crayons and canvas, my collection of writing toys grew. I used this analog and digital storehouse of toys as entryways to writing. When focused on a specific piece of writing, I warmed up by playing with my toys. When I needed a break from a project but didn’t want to relocate from the computer: Toys!
My toy chest filled. Whenever I returned to it to I was like the child who, after not having seen a particular toy for three months, was excited all over again upon discovering it anew. This injected novelty into my writing process, which kept me energized, optimistic and moving forward, not slogging through slush but skating on ice. Also, my writing toys served as thresholds to discovery, which led to insights, breakthroughs and new perspectives on old challenges. “Messy” language arts adventures not only changed my writing process but also the writing itself. They continue to strengthen my voice (personality on the page) and advance the execution of my craft in surprising directions.
**********
How have you become more productive in your life by "giving messy new meaning?"
September 6, 2019
All Chaos Is Not Created Equal
In America – my native country and the world culture I know best – we tend to denigrate chaos. American culture is designed to minimize it. Our institutions are built around avoiding it, never mind embracing it. Want to write? You cannot be a writer or artist of any stripe without tangoing with chaos. It is foundational to discovery, the heartbeat of artistic practice. Our work as emergent, ripening creatives is to reframe chaos and paradoxically, develop process that helps us to manage its exploration.
Consciously work with chaos as a key ingredient in the alchemic, artistic brew that cannot be effectively compartmentalized from life itself. How? In addition to ideas I’ve already shared and will continue in this blog, I’ve also written books that provide detailed road maps for such a journey:
The Writer’s Toy Chest
https://www.amazon.com/Writers-Toy-Ch...
Have a Ball Writing Your First Novel
https://www.amazon.com/Have-Ball-Writ...
Formula 5: Brain Science Your Way to Batch System Writing
https://www.amazon.com/Formula-Brain-...
No Tears for Frankie: A Memoir on the Life of an Essay
https://www.amazon.com/No-Tears-Frank...
To create a rich catalogue of art (commercial and not) as well as a textured, dynamic life, we must toggle between the brain’s executive (control) and default (flow) functions; between plan and adventure. When we depress creative chaos we thwart our procreative energies. This leads to a different kind of chaos, a self-inflicted one born from avoidance.
I recently attended a one-woman performance by actor, playwright and novelist Regina Taylor. An audience member asked, “How do you deal with writer’s block?” Ms. Taylor said that on occasions when she has experienced it, she believes it occurs when one is “afraid of one’s own mind.” Chaos accurately suggests you are not in control. Unless you get comfy with and learn to ride that not-so-comfy feeling, vacating your mind – blocking, distracting, dissociating – seems like a good choice. The challenge with such a vacation is that you need your mind to write. What if, instead of vacating, you dabbled with a short-lived staycation? Consider the possibility that whatever you discover will be more adventure than nightmare regardless of its outer packaging.
Bon voyage! On your journey, take with you this additional inspiration:
Until next time,
Gina
Consciously work with chaos as a key ingredient in the alchemic, artistic brew that cannot be effectively compartmentalized from life itself. How? In addition to ideas I’ve already shared and will continue in this blog, I’ve also written books that provide detailed road maps for such a journey:
The Writer’s Toy Chest
https://www.amazon.com/Writers-Toy-Ch...
Have a Ball Writing Your First Novel
https://www.amazon.com/Have-Ball-Writ...
Formula 5: Brain Science Your Way to Batch System Writing
https://www.amazon.com/Formula-Brain-...
No Tears for Frankie: A Memoir on the Life of an Essay
https://www.amazon.com/No-Tears-Frank...
To create a rich catalogue of art (commercial and not) as well as a textured, dynamic life, we must toggle between the brain’s executive (control) and default (flow) functions; between plan and adventure. When we depress creative chaos we thwart our procreative energies. This leads to a different kind of chaos, a self-inflicted one born from avoidance.
I recently attended a one-woman performance by actor, playwright and novelist Regina Taylor. An audience member asked, “How do you deal with writer’s block?” Ms. Taylor said that on occasions when she has experienced it, she believes it occurs when one is “afraid of one’s own mind.” Chaos accurately suggests you are not in control. Unless you get comfy with and learn to ride that not-so-comfy feeling, vacating your mind – blocking, distracting, dissociating – seems like a good choice. The challenge with such a vacation is that you need your mind to write. What if, instead of vacating, you dabbled with a short-lived staycation? Consider the possibility that whatever you discover will be more adventure than nightmare regardless of its outer packaging.
Bon voyage! On your journey, take with you this additional inspiration:
Freedom is just chaos, with better lighting. Alan Dean Foster
Creativity thrives where its roots are crowded. Ozzie Zehner, Green Illusions
The creative mind doesn’t require logical transitions from one thing to another. It skips, jumps, doubles back, circles and dives from one idea to the next. Bonni Goldberg
When the creative impulse sweeps over you, grab it. You grab it and honor it and use it, because momentum is a rare gift. Justina Chen, North of Beautiful
Accept chaos as a temporary state. Lynda Barry
Until next time,
Gina
August 27, 2019
Do You Feel Prolific? Well, Do Ya?
Chillax Into Your Best Writing Ever
Joyful writing doesn’t come from sitting erect at a computer for hours or in a deadline pressure cooker. The conditions and environment you need to write with ease evolves through experimentation. Prolific without Pain: Chillax Into Your Best Writing Ever shows you how.
Anybody who has ever struggled with writing is thinking too much. Thinking leads to anxiety. Though each of us has our own brand of it, what creates anxiety in general is overwhelming ourselves with counterproductive thoughts. In writing we ruminate on the whole journey rather than focus on the moment in front of us: Should I publish? If so, how? Self-publish or find a literary agent? What will my mother, sister, husband, coworkers think? OMG, I can’t move to New York or Los Angeles! Who will design my book cover? We chew on perceived limitations: I didn’t go to college…I can’t spell…can’t type…somebody’s already done that... It will take me forever to finish…I’m not good at marketing. We dread pitfalls ahead: My girlfriend wrote an amazing novel and it was rejected 12 times…
Basically, we scare the crap out of ourselves.
Don’t Think. Relate. Befriend your writing.
Whether you intend to finish a chapter in a traditionally structured book, create a blog series or write a television script, simply visit your creation in the making like you would a neighborhood friend: Let the moment-by-moment interaction guide you.
Stay present with what is happening right in front of you each time you engage your writing. To further the neighborhood friend metaphor, dive into the energy between you and your playmate when you meet; no rumination about what happened at your last play date; no expectation about what will transpire in future ones.
Be a good friend. Listen to your writing vs. telling it what it “should be.”
Don’t Think. Play. Ask, “What if?” Experiment. Explore.
Play is an altered state of consciousness in which we’re relaxed. Receptive. New ideas engulf us.
Begin a writing session with no particular project in mind, say, a book, blog or research paper. Instead, wander toward whatever writing jazzes you in the moment. Planning on writing the final scene of your screenplay yet a poem pops up instead? Follow the poem. That’s how you play with writing.
Immersed in process with no attachment to outcome, we are open to what’s in front of us. We are willing to risk more, to view experiments as conduits for information, not wholesale failures. When we play, we discover because we allow emerging ideas, images and feelings to organically shape themselves.
Don’t Think. Daydream.
Slip into meditative states, the relaxed openings to worlds below consciousness.
You see someone in the supermarket and notice that person is good looking. Or artsy. They may be from a culture different from yours that you find intriguing. You muse, I’d love to have dinner with him or her. You imagine a scene sharing a meal over delightful conversation. All the while you are daydreaming, your hand is checking the tomatoes to see which ones meet your purchase standards. You’ve just transported yourself to another realm.
Writing doesn’t come from nail biting, bloodletting or hunching over a screen. It is not a task to perform but a space to enter. That space is called, “trance.” Also known as a natural high, trance is an altered state of consciousness in which you are relaxed. Through this opening to organic discovery, you let go of control and allow whatever is occurring in the moment. Not only is there pleasure but also spontaneous clarity and insight into problems long grappled with.
Long-distance runners experience this state regularly. The term they use is “the zone.” Any rhythmic, large muscle group activity – swimming, cycling, walking – will induce it. Trance. Zone. Flow. We move in and out of these states all day long: distance driving, showering, listening to music, traveling in and out of sleep. It’s part of being human.
Don’t Think. Invite writing into your world.
It’s as though you are preparing your home for out-of-town guests. You want the guest bedroom and bath to be ready and welcoming. Usually that means tidying up. Buying extra groceries or the visitors’ favorite foods. Freshening the space with open windows, scented candles or air fresheners. Planning an itinerary that creates a sense of occasion.
Like out-of-town visitors, when the Muse (the conduit for writing ideas) feels welcomed, that you’ve anticipated her arrival and planned her comfort, she settles in and makes herself at home.
Let the Muse know that what she says matters: Be ready to take dictation with the tools of your choice. I have an author friend who is a rabid fan of mobile devices; she uses her phone notepad to jot ideas that spontaneously pop throughout the day. J.K. Rowling fills daily with handwritten notes, a giant white board in a hallway of her home. Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame musician/songwriter Don Henley is “always jotting things down on pieces of paper. I’ve got pieces of paper all over my house,” he says. Ultimately, all my writing ends up in the computer. Before I reach that digital phase though, I plant mini notebooks in every corner of my world: bedside, kitchen and bathroom sink counters, scooter trunk, purse and belly pack.
The Muse often shows up at inopportune times: while you are driving, showering, running errands or awakening from sleep. To encourage her is to expect her, as you would out-of-town guests, and embrace her when she arrives.
◊ ◊ ◊
You can’t plan for a revelation but you can do things to make it attractive for one.
Lynda Barry
◊ ◊ ◊
Joyful writing doesn’t come from sitting erect at a computer for hours or in a deadline pressure cooker. The conditions and environment you need to write with ease evolves through experimentation. Prolific without Pain: Chillax Into Your Best Writing Ever shows you how.
Anybody who has ever struggled with writing is thinking too much. Thinking leads to anxiety. Though each of us has our own brand of it, what creates anxiety in general is overwhelming ourselves with counterproductive thoughts. In writing we ruminate on the whole journey rather than focus on the moment in front of us: Should I publish? If so, how? Self-publish or find a literary agent? What will my mother, sister, husband, coworkers think? OMG, I can’t move to New York or Los Angeles! Who will design my book cover? We chew on perceived limitations: I didn’t go to college…I can’t spell…can’t type…somebody’s already done that... It will take me forever to finish…I’m not good at marketing. We dread pitfalls ahead: My girlfriend wrote an amazing novel and it was rejected 12 times…
Basically, we scare the crap out of ourselves.
Don’t Think. Relate. Befriend your writing.
Whether you intend to finish a chapter in a traditionally structured book, create a blog series or write a television script, simply visit your creation in the making like you would a neighborhood friend: Let the moment-by-moment interaction guide you.
Stay present with what is happening right in front of you each time you engage your writing. To further the neighborhood friend metaphor, dive into the energy between you and your playmate when you meet; no rumination about what happened at your last play date; no expectation about what will transpire in future ones.
Be a good friend. Listen to your writing vs. telling it what it “should be.”
Don’t Think. Play. Ask, “What if?” Experiment. Explore.
Play is an altered state of consciousness in which we’re relaxed. Receptive. New ideas engulf us.
Begin a writing session with no particular project in mind, say, a book, blog or research paper. Instead, wander toward whatever writing jazzes you in the moment. Planning on writing the final scene of your screenplay yet a poem pops up instead? Follow the poem. That’s how you play with writing.
Immersed in process with no attachment to outcome, we are open to what’s in front of us. We are willing to risk more, to view experiments as conduits for information, not wholesale failures. When we play, we discover because we allow emerging ideas, images and feelings to organically shape themselves.
Don’t Think. Daydream.
Slip into meditative states, the relaxed openings to worlds below consciousness.
You see someone in the supermarket and notice that person is good looking. Or artsy. They may be from a culture different from yours that you find intriguing. You muse, I’d love to have dinner with him or her. You imagine a scene sharing a meal over delightful conversation. All the while you are daydreaming, your hand is checking the tomatoes to see which ones meet your purchase standards. You’ve just transported yourself to another realm.
Writing doesn’t come from nail biting, bloodletting or hunching over a screen. It is not a task to perform but a space to enter. That space is called, “trance.” Also known as a natural high, trance is an altered state of consciousness in which you are relaxed. Through this opening to organic discovery, you let go of control and allow whatever is occurring in the moment. Not only is there pleasure but also spontaneous clarity and insight into problems long grappled with.
Long-distance runners experience this state regularly. The term they use is “the zone.” Any rhythmic, large muscle group activity – swimming, cycling, walking – will induce it. Trance. Zone. Flow. We move in and out of these states all day long: distance driving, showering, listening to music, traveling in and out of sleep. It’s part of being human.
Don’t Think. Invite writing into your world.
It’s as though you are preparing your home for out-of-town guests. You want the guest bedroom and bath to be ready and welcoming. Usually that means tidying up. Buying extra groceries or the visitors’ favorite foods. Freshening the space with open windows, scented candles or air fresheners. Planning an itinerary that creates a sense of occasion.
Like out-of-town visitors, when the Muse (the conduit for writing ideas) feels welcomed, that you’ve anticipated her arrival and planned her comfort, she settles in and makes herself at home.
Let the Muse know that what she says matters: Be ready to take dictation with the tools of your choice. I have an author friend who is a rabid fan of mobile devices; she uses her phone notepad to jot ideas that spontaneously pop throughout the day. J.K. Rowling fills daily with handwritten notes, a giant white board in a hallway of her home. Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame musician/songwriter Don Henley is “always jotting things down on pieces of paper. I’ve got pieces of paper all over my house,” he says. Ultimately, all my writing ends up in the computer. Before I reach that digital phase though, I plant mini notebooks in every corner of my world: bedside, kitchen and bathroom sink counters, scooter trunk, purse and belly pack.
The Muse often shows up at inopportune times: while you are driving, showering, running errands or awakening from sleep. To encourage her is to expect her, as you would out-of-town guests, and embrace her when she arrives.
◊ ◊ ◊
You can’t plan for a revelation but you can do things to make it attractive for one.
Lynda Barry
◊ ◊ ◊
Do It For Love
Get Excited
Often, when we set out to “WRITE” we stumble because we are removed from the writing itself. We approach it like a 10th grade homework assignment or a project mandated by a work supervisor.
Try this: when you write, focus on the ideas that excited you in the first place. You are in a relationship. Get up close for that much anticipated kiss; exchange warm breath then that soft moist contact that leads to exploration.
Bring Sexy Back
What feels good to you about writing and when? Try different positions; do it in bed, on the desk, in the bathtub and on the kitchen floor.
Steal as Lovers Do
Stolen sentences are like stolen kisses. We “steal” time with a lover on a 15-minute work break because it will be days before we can spend the weekend together. When we do, we hate to leave. Most of us have experienced this kind of passion. Use it as a model for how to fall in love with the act of writing.
In love with writing is an irresistible state of being: hot, passionate, and sweaty. You ache to explore and deepen. Some is not enough. You want it as often as you can get it between naps and eating, at work and while driving. You pulsate with the urge to produce. The “perfect time” to write is whenever the Muse is in the mood, which is often. And if you treat her as you would a besotted lover, you will be, too.
◊ ◊ ◊
I can always be distracted by love, but eventually I get horny for my creativity.
Gilda Radner
◊ ◊ ◊
Often, when we set out to “WRITE” we stumble because we are removed from the writing itself. We approach it like a 10th grade homework assignment or a project mandated by a work supervisor.
Try this: when you write, focus on the ideas that excited you in the first place. You are in a relationship. Get up close for that much anticipated kiss; exchange warm breath then that soft moist contact that leads to exploration.
Bring Sexy Back
What feels good to you about writing and when? Try different positions; do it in bed, on the desk, in the bathtub and on the kitchen floor.
Steal as Lovers Do
Stolen sentences are like stolen kisses. We “steal” time with a lover on a 15-minute work break because it will be days before we can spend the weekend together. When we do, we hate to leave. Most of us have experienced this kind of passion. Use it as a model for how to fall in love with the act of writing.
In love with writing is an irresistible state of being: hot, passionate, and sweaty. You ache to explore and deepen. Some is not enough. You want it as often as you can get it between naps and eating, at work and while driving. You pulsate with the urge to produce. The “perfect time” to write is whenever the Muse is in the mood, which is often. And if you treat her as you would a besotted lover, you will be, too.
◊ ◊ ◊
I can always be distracted by love, but eventually I get horny for my creativity.
Gilda Radner
◊ ◊ ◊
July 18, 2015
Hush Life Excerpt Chapter 6
Hi!
My novel takes place in 1986 North Carolina (Durham and the northern Outer Banks town of Corolla)and 2014 New York city. Here's an excerpt:
Edgar arranged for Sheila to live in a single level condo unit in Durham. Downtown was still undergoing revitalization. Brightleaf Square, a section of renovated, turn-of-the-century tobacco warehouses at its forefront. Opened in 1981, Brightleaf Square was only five years old, with new restaurants and retail attracting more pedestrian traffic than Sheila was used to while summering in the Outer Banks in Corolla. The coastal town, which had only started to see development in the 1970s, was at the northern end of the Currituck banks, a 20-mile stretch of sand on a 50-mile-long peninsula that reached from the state of Virginia down to North Carolina’s Oregon Inlet. Fifteen to 20 miles away from the central Outer Banks regions, Corolla’s seeming remove was an atmosphere tailored for Sheila’s mental drifts in pencil sketches when she had time to herself between tutoring responsibilities.
She would have preferred a townhouse further away from Durham’s burgeoning hubbub but didn’t want to negotiate stairs as she became easily winded these days. It was important to be closer to large-scale medical care. In Durham, there was no shortage of it with Duke University Hospital, the city’s commanding centerpiece. Also, Sheila would not have Edgar think her ungrateful though Powell resources eased a transition she would have undertaken on her own. Apart from relocation, living and medical expenses, stunningly, Edgar had also agreed to give her a professional reference.
Four more days until the ultrasound. To keep from ruminating on worst case scenarios, Sheila absorbed her new surroundings. Brightleaf Square took care of Day one, its architecture most interesting to Sheila. Instead of tearing down the beautiful old tobacco warehouses built at the turn of the 20th century in 1980, private developers purchased the buildings and renovated them. Taking advantage of the unique architecture, the small outdoor shopping and dining center was a step back in time – bricked pedestrian promenade, quaint shops and independent restaurants. Though certainly more man-made than Corolla, it had a quiet charm.
Sheila grew tired while standing opposite the warehouses to sketch. She sat at an outdoor cafe while finishing one from memory. The seating was under trees draped in white lights. Romance filled the air of the pedestrian thoroughfare, a type of theatre for café dwellers lingering over dessert and coffee. The halos of warm light so much like those that hung from every window illuminating that magnificent beach house.
The lights. Not so much a beacon to those at sea as it was the dusting of home enchantment. That was Trudy’s touch. Bright, magical and counter to her husband’s traditional tastes that infused the mansion’s interior. “Overblown” Trudy called it. Despite its lushness and size, Sheila thought the Powell summer getaway a homey embrace of graceful lines and simple elegance: classic shapes, delicate woodwork and finely crafted furniture.
That first night on the beach she tried not to shiver. Sheila berated herself for not bringing a sweater, knowing the winds would feel cooler than from inside the Powell estate. But her body’s involuntary reflex was triggered. He heard her teeth chatter and asked if she was cold. She lied and said no, pursing her lips to still the percussion. In the dark he reached for her hand and caught her forearm instead. Goose bumps gave her away. He would warm her uncharacteristically sleeveless arms in his palms, stroking their length then take her to his body for insulation.
Had she forgotten her sweater on purpose? The carnal heat between them had been building that first month of summer and now its literal exchange ignited the midnight edge of the Atlantic. Shameful and liberated, her rising temperature mocked feeble attempts to free herself from his embrace. She succumbed. His touch drenched in her waters, her back now salted with ocean waves, the porch lights burning in the distance.
“Will there be anything else?”
“What?” A young woman stood by Sheila’s table.
“Dessert? We have some great pie.”
“No,” Sheila said. “Just the bill, thank you.”
When Sheila reached for her purse hanging on the side of the chair, she felt goose bumps on her arm.
In no mood to negotiate new surroundings, the next three days, Sheila contented herself at Sara P. Duke Gardens on Duke University campus. The park’s 55 acres and diverse landscaping were variety aplenty to keep her mind productively occupied until her appointment at the hospital.
Though the gardens map outlined “now showing” plants especially interesting or typically in bloom each month, for Sheila the architecture of the gardens themselves proved more fascinating. She took special interest in Ellen Biddle Shipman, the landscape architect. Within the Terrace Gardens Sheila marveled at the borders, Shipman’s specialty.
Throughout the 40 years Shipman practiced landscape architecture, she only hired graduates from Lowthorpe School of Landscape Architecture, Gardening, and Horticulture for Women. She adopted this hiring practice because of the time, when women were not being given apprenticeships in male offices. As an aspiring architect who got waylaid by the ghost of her father, Sheila said, “Thatta girl,” to the placard recounting this part of Shipman’s history.
A math nerd, Sheila wanted a degree in engineering and architecture. Her father didn’t approve. “Waste of time for girl” – a regrettably popular notion in the early 1970s. Though American society was changing, Sheila’s father would have none of “that women libbers crap.” Sheila’s father stopped paying for tuition during her first year of college when he found her a suitable mate. Sheila was not interested. Her father punished her by not continuing to fund her “folly,” so Sheila began tutoring to earn money. It more than paid for tuition.
*********************
Liked this excerpt? PurchaseHush Lifeon Amazon.com.
My novel takes place in 1986 North Carolina (Durham and the northern Outer Banks town of Corolla)and 2014 New York city. Here's an excerpt:
Edgar arranged for Sheila to live in a single level condo unit in Durham. Downtown was still undergoing revitalization. Brightleaf Square, a section of renovated, turn-of-the-century tobacco warehouses at its forefront. Opened in 1981, Brightleaf Square was only five years old, with new restaurants and retail attracting more pedestrian traffic than Sheila was used to while summering in the Outer Banks in Corolla. The coastal town, which had only started to see development in the 1970s, was at the northern end of the Currituck banks, a 20-mile stretch of sand on a 50-mile-long peninsula that reached from the state of Virginia down to North Carolina’s Oregon Inlet. Fifteen to 20 miles away from the central Outer Banks regions, Corolla’s seeming remove was an atmosphere tailored for Sheila’s mental drifts in pencil sketches when she had time to herself between tutoring responsibilities.She would have preferred a townhouse further away from Durham’s burgeoning hubbub but didn’t want to negotiate stairs as she became easily winded these days. It was important to be closer to large-scale medical care. In Durham, there was no shortage of it with Duke University Hospital, the city’s commanding centerpiece. Also, Sheila would not have Edgar think her ungrateful though Powell resources eased a transition she would have undertaken on her own. Apart from relocation, living and medical expenses, stunningly, Edgar had also agreed to give her a professional reference.
Four more days until the ultrasound. To keep from ruminating on worst case scenarios, Sheila absorbed her new surroundings. Brightleaf Square took care of Day one, its architecture most interesting to Sheila. Instead of tearing down the beautiful old tobacco warehouses built at the turn of the 20th century in 1980, private developers purchased the buildings and renovated them. Taking advantage of the unique architecture, the small outdoor shopping and dining center was a step back in time – bricked pedestrian promenade, quaint shops and independent restaurants. Though certainly more man-made than Corolla, it had a quiet charm.
Sheila grew tired while standing opposite the warehouses to sketch. She sat at an outdoor cafe while finishing one from memory. The seating was under trees draped in white lights. Romance filled the air of the pedestrian thoroughfare, a type of theatre for café dwellers lingering over dessert and coffee. The halos of warm light so much like those that hung from every window illuminating that magnificent beach house.
The lights. Not so much a beacon to those at sea as it was the dusting of home enchantment. That was Trudy’s touch. Bright, magical and counter to her husband’s traditional tastes that infused the mansion’s interior. “Overblown” Trudy called it. Despite its lushness and size, Sheila thought the Powell summer getaway a homey embrace of graceful lines and simple elegance: classic shapes, delicate woodwork and finely crafted furniture.
That first night on the beach she tried not to shiver. Sheila berated herself for not bringing a sweater, knowing the winds would feel cooler than from inside the Powell estate. But her body’s involuntary reflex was triggered. He heard her teeth chatter and asked if she was cold. She lied and said no, pursing her lips to still the percussion. In the dark he reached for her hand and caught her forearm instead. Goose bumps gave her away. He would warm her uncharacteristically sleeveless arms in his palms, stroking their length then take her to his body for insulation.
Had she forgotten her sweater on purpose? The carnal heat between them had been building that first month of summer and now its literal exchange ignited the midnight edge of the Atlantic. Shameful and liberated, her rising temperature mocked feeble attempts to free herself from his embrace. She succumbed. His touch drenched in her waters, her back now salted with ocean waves, the porch lights burning in the distance.
“Will there be anything else?”
“What?” A young woman stood by Sheila’s table.
“Dessert? We have some great pie.”
“No,” Sheila said. “Just the bill, thank you.”
When Sheila reached for her purse hanging on the side of the chair, she felt goose bumps on her arm.
In no mood to negotiate new surroundings, the next three days, Sheila contented herself at Sara P. Duke Gardens on Duke University campus. The park’s 55 acres and diverse landscaping were variety aplenty to keep her mind productively occupied until her appointment at the hospital.
Though the gardens map outlined “now showing” plants especially interesting or typically in bloom each month, for Sheila the architecture of the gardens themselves proved more fascinating. She took special interest in Ellen Biddle Shipman, the landscape architect. Within the Terrace Gardens Sheila marveled at the borders, Shipman’s specialty.
Throughout the 40 years Shipman practiced landscape architecture, she only hired graduates from Lowthorpe School of Landscape Architecture, Gardening, and Horticulture for Women. She adopted this hiring practice because of the time, when women were not being given apprenticeships in male offices. As an aspiring architect who got waylaid by the ghost of her father, Sheila said, “Thatta girl,” to the placard recounting this part of Shipman’s history.
A math nerd, Sheila wanted a degree in engineering and architecture. Her father didn’t approve. “Waste of time for girl” – a regrettably popular notion in the early 1970s. Though American society was changing, Sheila’s father would have none of “that women libbers crap.” Sheila’s father stopped paying for tuition during her first year of college when he found her a suitable mate. Sheila was not interested. Her father punished her by not continuing to fund her “folly,” so Sheila began tutoring to earn money. It more than paid for tuition.
*********************
Liked this excerpt? PurchaseHush Lifeon Amazon.com.
July 17, 2015
Hush Life Excerpt Chapter 39
Hush Life
He rose from the bar. Big one. Fitted jeans though not slut tight. Marlboro Man minus the cigarettes and Stetson. When Senor Handsome arrived at Carolin’s table she half-joked that he taste-test the drink he sent over for that “something extra.”
“Such as?” He said, lifting the glass.
“Mint…bitters…Rohypnol.” Carolin sipped the last of her second Melontini through a Cheshire grin.
“Good lookin’ and paranoid.” Marlboro Man chugged half the concoction from a mason jar. “I admire that in a woman.”
“I said, taste not drain.” Carolin took the glass from him.
“Bossy, too.”
“Thirsty.” Carolin finished the drink.
“Easy, darlin’.”
“With something called Apple Pie Moonshine?”
“A/k/a Sweet Lightenin’.”
“Yummy,” Carolin played with the taste on her tongue. “Any chance it’ll strike twice?”
The man who had introduced himself as Fred waved at the bartender with two fingers.
“You don’t look like a Fred.”
“What does ‘a Fred’ look like?”
“Black rimmed glasses. Pen pocket.” Carolin leaned forward and poked Fred in the chest. “Ow.” She grinned. “Just as I thought, pecs of steel. Freds have manboobs.”
“What if I told you that you look and sound exactly like a stereotypical New Yorker?”
“I’d wonder if you were trying to insult me or get me into bed.”
Fred smiled and tipped the full glass the bartender had brought to his lips. “Miss Carolin, do you know the history of Nascar?”
“I do not,” she said, taking a generous swallow of her third drink and sat back in her chair eager for a good story.
“Having deep roots here in the South, as a child I overheard old timers telling stories of moonshining and the secluded stills that operated deep in the woods. I never understood the history attached to moonshine until I studied it on my own in high school. I was intrigued to learn that NASCAR evolved from bootlegging whiskey. Transporters would modify their cars to increase speed and performance, giving them an advantage to outrun the police. Moonshiners eventually started racing each other to see who had the highest performing stock car and ultimately NASCAR was born.”
“Hear hear.” Carolin raised her moonshine. “Now tell me about ghosts.”
“Ghosts?”
“Yeah, lighthouse folklore, Graveyard of the Atlantic and all that,” Carolin said.
“I’m not much for superstition.”
“How about good old fashioned accidents.”
“We’ve had our share. Any in particular?”
“Trudy Powell.”
“No bells ringing over here.”
“Currituck Lighthouse. A nasty fall down that lovely spiral staircase, mid ’80s. The sheriff’s report says she slipped. The deputy I spoke to blames the North Room Ghost.”
Fred raised his eyebrows.
“Okay, so these days, operations for most lighthouses across the country, including Currituck Beach are completely automated except for the occasional maintenance by the occasional human. Back in the day, though, the people who hand-operated the lighthouses lived on the property.”
Unimpressed, Fred nodded and sipped his drink.
Carolin continued undeterred, her speech slightly soupy. “The keeper’s quarters became home to many families throughout the years, and the story goes that although they’ve died, they haven’t left.” Carolin felt like a camp counselor around a midnight fire attempting to spook a cynical circle of teens. “And it seems they are not fond of company. Especially in the North Room.”
Fred shook his head. “Let me get this straight. You’re a New York City detective and you think this Trudy woman’s accident is related to ghosts?”
“Fred, Fred, Fred, I didn’t say that. In fact, if you ask me—”
“Exactly what I’m doing, darlin’—”
“I’m thinking no ghosts. No accident.”
“That’s more like it.”
“Uh, a woman is dead.”
“Right. And that’s your business, isn’t it?”
“Not exactly.” Carolin offered a crooked smile. Fred lobbed one back. “Trudy knew her way around the lighthouse I’m told. One of her favorite spots.”
“You know that sayin’ ‘shit happens’?”
“Better than I’d like.”
“One example right there.” Fred raised his mason jar. “To Trudy.” He sipped.
*************************
Did you enjoy this excerpt? You can purchase the book here:Hush Life
He rose from the bar. Big one. Fitted jeans though not slut tight. Marlboro Man minus the cigarettes and Stetson. When Senor Handsome arrived at Carolin’s table she half-joked that he taste-test the drink he sent over for that “something extra.”
“Such as?” He said, lifting the glass.
“Mint…bitters…Rohypnol.” Carolin sipped the last of her second Melontini through a Cheshire grin.
“Good lookin’ and paranoid.” Marlboro Man chugged half the concoction from a mason jar. “I admire that in a woman.”
“I said, taste not drain.” Carolin took the glass from him.
“Bossy, too.”
“Thirsty.” Carolin finished the drink.
“Easy, darlin’.”
“With something called Apple Pie Moonshine?”
“A/k/a Sweet Lightenin’.”
“Yummy,” Carolin played with the taste on her tongue. “Any chance it’ll strike twice?”
The man who had introduced himself as Fred waved at the bartender with two fingers.
“You don’t look like a Fred.”
“What does ‘a Fred’ look like?”
“Black rimmed glasses. Pen pocket.” Carolin leaned forward and poked Fred in the chest. “Ow.” She grinned. “Just as I thought, pecs of steel. Freds have manboobs.”
“What if I told you that you look and sound exactly like a stereotypical New Yorker?”
“I’d wonder if you were trying to insult me or get me into bed.”
Fred smiled and tipped the full glass the bartender had brought to his lips. “Miss Carolin, do you know the history of Nascar?”
“I do not,” she said, taking a generous swallow of her third drink and sat back in her chair eager for a good story.
“Having deep roots here in the South, as a child I overheard old timers telling stories of moonshining and the secluded stills that operated deep in the woods. I never understood the history attached to moonshine until I studied it on my own in high school. I was intrigued to learn that NASCAR evolved from bootlegging whiskey. Transporters would modify their cars to increase speed and performance, giving them an advantage to outrun the police. Moonshiners eventually started racing each other to see who had the highest performing stock car and ultimately NASCAR was born.”
“Hear hear.” Carolin raised her moonshine. “Now tell me about ghosts.”
“Ghosts?”
“Yeah, lighthouse folklore, Graveyard of the Atlantic and all that,” Carolin said.
“I’m not much for superstition.”
“How about good old fashioned accidents.”
“We’ve had our share. Any in particular?”
“Trudy Powell.”
“No bells ringing over here.”
“Currituck Lighthouse. A nasty fall down that lovely spiral staircase, mid ’80s. The sheriff’s report says she slipped. The deputy I spoke to blames the North Room Ghost.”
Fred raised his eyebrows.
“Okay, so these days, operations for most lighthouses across the country, including Currituck Beach are completely automated except for the occasional maintenance by the occasional human. Back in the day, though, the people who hand-operated the lighthouses lived on the property.”
Unimpressed, Fred nodded and sipped his drink.
Carolin continued undeterred, her speech slightly soupy. “The keeper’s quarters became home to many families throughout the years, and the story goes that although they’ve died, they haven’t left.” Carolin felt like a camp counselor around a midnight fire attempting to spook a cynical circle of teens. “And it seems they are not fond of company. Especially in the North Room.”
Fred shook his head. “Let me get this straight. You’re a New York City detective and you think this Trudy woman’s accident is related to ghosts?”
“Fred, Fred, Fred, I didn’t say that. In fact, if you ask me—”
“Exactly what I’m doing, darlin’—”
“I’m thinking no ghosts. No accident.”
“That’s more like it.”
“Uh, a woman is dead.”
“Right. And that’s your business, isn’t it?”
“Not exactly.” Carolin offered a crooked smile. Fred lobbed one back. “Trudy knew her way around the lighthouse I’m told. One of her favorite spots.”
“You know that sayin’ ‘shit happens’?”
“Better than I’d like.”
“One example right there.” Fred raised his mason jar. “To Trudy.” He sipped.
*************************
Did you enjoy this excerpt? You can purchase the book here:Hush Life
July 15, 2015
Free 12-week YouTube Novel Writing Course
Have a Ball Writing Your First Novel!
Here's the link to the YouTube video playlist:
https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list...
Have a novel in you? Have you struggled to get it out? Struggle no more and Have a Ball Writing Your First Novel. By going to your novel like a child at play, in this 12-week mentored journey you will use pleasure and trance states as entry ways to your subconscious mind, organically tap its flow and have fun writing.
Gina Greenlee is the author of nine non-fiction books and she developed this Have a Ball process while writing her 10th book, which is also her first novel! "Hush Life."
Gina's first novelHush Lifeis now available on Amazon.com
Join the fun and get started on your journey. For more writing resources visitwww.ginagreenlee.com
Here's the link to the YouTube video playlist:
https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list...
Have a novel in you? Have you struggled to get it out? Struggle no more and Have a Ball Writing Your First Novel. By going to your novel like a child at play, in this 12-week mentored journey you will use pleasure and trance states as entry ways to your subconscious mind, organically tap its flow and have fun writing.
Gina Greenlee is the author of nine non-fiction books and she developed this Have a Ball process while writing her 10th book, which is also her first novel! "Hush Life."
Gina's first novelHush Lifeis now available on Amazon.comJoin the fun and get started on your journey. For more writing resources visitwww.ginagreenlee.com
Hush Life Excerpt Chapter 11
Hush Life
The boy is smitten. Distracted. Aroused by a firm plushness captured with intensity in a grey pencil skirt, a charcoal tank top. Breasts, waist, lips. He’s been aroused since the end of spring semester in May when for him summer began. He was patient. Not like the boys at school always doing it with girls or claiming. Those girls were silly. She was a woman.
Bernard was his middle name. Sheila preferred to call him that because his first name was so seriously bloodline, adult. At boarding school, some of the boys called him “Bernie” because they knew it rankled him. Bernard – she respected the line he drew at “Bernie” – was more playful, relaxed. That’s how she saw him, his light side that he felt safe enough to shine with her.
She referred to herself as a nerd. To him, there was nothing nerdy about her. He preferred effortless beauty and once tutoring was finished she would finally set free the bush of dark wavy hair she was always trying to tame.
Only a math wizard, he laughed, would have ordered glasses so exacting: not square, oval, round or rectangular but a soft trapezoidal shape that made her look artsy, more sculptor or photographer.
Her syllabus covered essential topics he needed for his final year: differentiation, integration, inverse trigonometry, matrices, probability, relations and functions, pre-calculus, calculus and linear programming.
His father preferred the Northern Outer Banks to the Cape strewn with boisterous Manhattanites. It was quiet in Corolla. No distractions for his son who needed to be more serious about his math studies so as not to move through the world intellectually lopsided. He could do math, only it bored him. His father hadn’t understood that. He was drowning in tutors and had resisted them until he heard Sheila being interviewed. Bernard hadn’t intended to hide. He heard voices and thought both of his parents were in his father’s study – a rarity for them to be in the same room at the same time, let alone talking. He wanted to speak to them about living overseas after prep school and before college. That would be a hard sell to his father, one his mother would love, free spirit she had always been.
He stopped, distracted from his agenda. He identified the voice as female though not belonging to his mother. Low slung, almost masculine with inflections downward and certain.
Bernard inched to that spot in the study’s wall with better sound quality. A peek in the slivered space between door hinge and frame and a few minutes of eavesdropping convinced him he would need math tutoring after all.
Sheila tried not to smile whenever Bernard edited word problems. Or even more distracting, crafted stories from them. “So far” she said, trying not to grin, “we’ve looked at simple problems whose solutions required the use of, at most, two variables.”
Bernard leaned in toward Sheila’s neck. The warm flutter of his breath tickled. She struggled to maintain professionalism as Bernard traced the inside of her thigh with his index finger. Sheila felt a rush of heat and frisson in her depths.
“In these equations,” Sheila said, brushing his touch away and crossing her legs, “we’re going to review the solution of problems that require three variables.”
Bernard’s eyes rode atop his index finger, following a trajectory along Sheila’s left elbow, which was bent on his father’s desk. She tapped the eraser of her mechanical pencil on her workbook as she spoke.
Up the slope of bare shoulder – she had abandoned long sleeves since that first night on the beach – Bernard navigated a path only he could see toward the middle of her neck tracing the trellis of vertebrae.
For his relative inexperience, Bernard was adventurous. Risky. Never in the bedroom. He seemed to be daring the world to learn of their lovemaking. On the beach that first night when she feigned cold, her fiction a permit to take her to his body, then further. Next, in his father’s study where they sat now. They had christened that desk adorned with exquisite moldings, antique brass hardware and burl wood inlays.
He had pleased her deep and full without fumble or question. An explorer of new worlds – sights, sounds, touch – previously unknown to him. He drenched himself in the newness of the journey, his pleasure taken in hers.
*****************
Did you enjoy this excerpt?Hush Lifeis available on Amazon.com
The boy is smitten. Distracted. Aroused by a firm plushness captured with intensity in a grey pencil skirt, a charcoal tank top. Breasts, waist, lips. He’s been aroused since the end of spring semester in May when for him summer began. He was patient. Not like the boys at school always doing it with girls or claiming. Those girls were silly. She was a woman.Bernard was his middle name. Sheila preferred to call him that because his first name was so seriously bloodline, adult. At boarding school, some of the boys called him “Bernie” because they knew it rankled him. Bernard – she respected the line he drew at “Bernie” – was more playful, relaxed. That’s how she saw him, his light side that he felt safe enough to shine with her.
She referred to herself as a nerd. To him, there was nothing nerdy about her. He preferred effortless beauty and once tutoring was finished she would finally set free the bush of dark wavy hair she was always trying to tame.
Only a math wizard, he laughed, would have ordered glasses so exacting: not square, oval, round or rectangular but a soft trapezoidal shape that made her look artsy, more sculptor or photographer.
Her syllabus covered essential topics he needed for his final year: differentiation, integration, inverse trigonometry, matrices, probability, relations and functions, pre-calculus, calculus and linear programming.
His father preferred the Northern Outer Banks to the Cape strewn with boisterous Manhattanites. It was quiet in Corolla. No distractions for his son who needed to be more serious about his math studies so as not to move through the world intellectually lopsided. He could do math, only it bored him. His father hadn’t understood that. He was drowning in tutors and had resisted them until he heard Sheila being interviewed. Bernard hadn’t intended to hide. He heard voices and thought both of his parents were in his father’s study – a rarity for them to be in the same room at the same time, let alone talking. He wanted to speak to them about living overseas after prep school and before college. That would be a hard sell to his father, one his mother would love, free spirit she had always been.
He stopped, distracted from his agenda. He identified the voice as female though not belonging to his mother. Low slung, almost masculine with inflections downward and certain.
Bernard inched to that spot in the study’s wall with better sound quality. A peek in the slivered space between door hinge and frame and a few minutes of eavesdropping convinced him he would need math tutoring after all.
Sheila tried not to smile whenever Bernard edited word problems. Or even more distracting, crafted stories from them. “So far” she said, trying not to grin, “we’ve looked at simple problems whose solutions required the use of, at most, two variables.”
Bernard leaned in toward Sheila’s neck. The warm flutter of his breath tickled. She struggled to maintain professionalism as Bernard traced the inside of her thigh with his index finger. Sheila felt a rush of heat and frisson in her depths.
“In these equations,” Sheila said, brushing his touch away and crossing her legs, “we’re going to review the solution of problems that require three variables.”
Bernard’s eyes rode atop his index finger, following a trajectory along Sheila’s left elbow, which was bent on his father’s desk. She tapped the eraser of her mechanical pencil on her workbook as she spoke.
Up the slope of bare shoulder – she had abandoned long sleeves since that first night on the beach – Bernard navigated a path only he could see toward the middle of her neck tracing the trellis of vertebrae.
For his relative inexperience, Bernard was adventurous. Risky. Never in the bedroom. He seemed to be daring the world to learn of their lovemaking. On the beach that first night when she feigned cold, her fiction a permit to take her to his body, then further. Next, in his father’s study where they sat now. They had christened that desk adorned with exquisite moldings, antique brass hardware and burl wood inlays.
He had pleased her deep and full without fumble or question. An explorer of new worlds – sights, sounds, touch – previously unknown to him. He drenched himself in the newness of the journey, his pleasure taken in hers.
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