Loving My Critique Group

My writing life has been extremely lonesome. I've prayed and prayed and prayed, wondering if my drought would ever end. So many tears have I known.

I started my writing career way back in the early days of my youth. I started my first full blown manuscript in 1991. I started searching for writers who would welcome me warmly into their arms.

I've searched high and low. Far and wide. Near and yonder.

And I prayed some more.

Then, slowly, one by one, the Lord has generously provided me with wonderful friends until so many poured in all at once, my cup is running over. So wonderful that I think to pinch myself and ask, "is this real?"

We have recently formed a critique group, today being our 3rd week anniversary!

I am humbled to be in the company of such artfully talented writers who love me as much as their writing!

Love you, guys!

Poetry?

Sunday was my Dallas's fourth birthday. I have thought about how sweet life is and a gift it is being a mother. The thing I am thinking about now is what heirloom can I leave my children when I leave this world?

My journal. My art. My books and poems?

It's been a very long time (highschool in fact, when I was a love-besotted girl) since I have written a poem. They don't have to be about love. They can be about how crazy a mother goes with each child she has. How her house turns from clean to chaos with one flick of her childrens' lashes. How fast the kids grow. Each of their milestones. How lonely it might be once the kiddies grow up and move out? How promising the future will be with bright hopes of grandchildren? Maybe of all the regrets of things left undone when they were young and demanding?

I will make a goal and try to write a poem at least once a month. I will keep the focus around my children. I will print it up and frame it in each of their bedrooms as it will pertain to them individually.

Let's see how much I have gained with experience of parenting along with writing? I shall publish a poem here in this blog when I am done.

(Hopefully I won't chicken out!)

Writer's Weaving

Yes, it has been a long time since I've visited you. I am suffering writer's block and now I am relenting. No fighting this time.

I will nourish my writer's side by helping others with their wonderful works. They are awesome writers and I feel very privileged to be a part of their processes and successes! Woohoo! Along with that I am also diving into my Deep Editing Course by Margie Lawson deep.

Wow.

She is an awesome instructor teaching how to empower your words. How to weave in internalization with emotion. How to create punch with every paragraph. Heighten emotion with simple techniques! After I am done with her 10 lectures, I am going to register for her other courses.

I can't wait!

Well Run Dry

I have not had the best experience with my writing lately. I have spent so much time doing rewrites, critiques and editing on my last novel that I feel as if I have forgotten how to write! Isn't that a shame?

To make it worse, my laptop's motherboard decided to stop working on me. I am so out of sorts I am not sure what I can do!

I put my mind on vacation by reading a full blown 500 paged novel, thinking that would do the trick. Nothing. Maybe another book and another until I feel my creativity creeping up on me?

What do you do when you encounter the writing blues?

Original Scene from Rock Star

“Mirah!” he howled over his stinging punches. The wood cracked. “Open this door, now!” Her muffled laughter boiled him. When blood itched his arms, he used his elbows. Lightning darts twanged his nerves. He swore. If only he had his boots—the balls of his feet just as useless. Who cared how stupid he looked in his clinging boxers. Or how his hair plastered his neck. Or how fierce he got in his frenzied rage.

“I swear, I’m going to get you,”—he kicked and pummeled the door—“once I bust this open!” He had to get in and didn’t care how. He staggered off, in frantic search of something sharp. The floor whirled. The music rattled his head. He stopped, clutched his ears, and roared.

There! Beside the useless fireplace, was his promising weapon.

He dashed away, rammed into giggling groupies who streaked after Block, and swore. “Outta my way!” A slithery grin then split his face. Two pokers . . . even better. They were heavy and cold and deadly.

Moggie hefted them. How he loved their feel. Invincible. Euphoric. Powerful. A quivering rush flooded his muscles. He hurried to Mirah’s door and wedged a bar into the jamb. And pried. The gold molding ripped with a splintered crack. His laughter boomed—a horrible and wild sound. He strained until the fury gave way with a loud groan.

“Hey!” someone bellowed. He stiffened, sparks of outrage tore up his spine. Who dared stop him now? His jaw locked and he pivoted. It was Lyssa—her face scarlet as she charged. His fists quaked. She better stay out of his way. She flew into a dark corner, the girls in Block’s arms skewered by her fiery stare.

The door creaked open, calling him. The handle sagged like a worthless eyeball from its hole.

Heat coiled up his throat and exploded with a shout, his foot through the door. It bounced off the wall, stopped with his bar, and shattered in half. He twirled the pokers like handguns in the Old West. High on the murky loft perched Mirah. His temples throbbed. He stomped forward, blinded by ripples of anger.

“What the . . . ? I said get out!”

“No, Mirah—you get out. I’m tired of you. You’re outta the band; I don’t want you no more!”