Writing Out Loud

(I wrote this with Dragon Speak and didn't take the time to edit or change the mistakes. I just want to get it up to remember. So proceed, realizing there will be funny gibberish between.)

She sat next to him, searching his face, reflecting the same mingling of fear and curiosity.

Comments and screamed orders for him to leave, to look away, and to remember his place. His thoughts obeyed, envisioning leaving the cavern, returning to the main caverns. There was water to be hauled, fuel to be gathered — a hundred mundane tasks left for his hands.

His body rebelled, frozen in place as his thoughts turned taking a very different route. Unsure of who moved forward, he felt the forbidden lips touch his; a single brush severing his resolve.

As usually happens during a kiss scene, the scene completely stops in my head as though someone pushed pause on the movie I'm watching. I sit back, making large circles with both arms as though that will set the film rolling again.

"And…"

Nothing comes. I sigh. "I really suck at romance."

Maybe it's because I've never actually kissed. I don't remember ever kissing. I don't remember anyone ever kissing me. Maybe on the cheek when I was three.

My first inclination is to interrupt the kissing, but common sense tells me that would be bad for Decharo. A friend. Interrupting, would just make it awkward. Anybody else would get him into a whole slew of trouble. He's already going to be in trouble in the next scene. My thoughts returned to characters in them scene.

"All right guys. So now what you do?"

Decharo breaks the third wall, entering from his world into mine and getting that rather sort of a cocky attitude that all my characters get want to venture into dialogue with me.

"Well, we could just keep kissing."

"For the rest of the book?" A laugh works its way into my skepticism.

He grins. "Sure. Why not? It's bound to be better than whatever you have planned."

I wince. It probably is. I'm already working to make Decharo's future better than the original story implied it would be, but I am as uncertain of his future as I am of my own.

"I don't know." I avoid his remark. "Romance just still silly to me. I have no idea what it's like to kiss."

His eyebrows arch. "You mean I've done something that the author hasn't?"

"Yeah, yeah." I try not to let bitterness seep in. "Rub it in, all you want. Just shows me how what happens after you kiss."

I can see in Decharo’s face that he's thinking there's a vast difference between what happens in the story after he kisses, and what he would like to happen after he kisses.

I mentally forced him away from my world and back into the story, then pause to answer a text from Rob. Decharo Shannondant go right back to kissing, which makes me frustrated thinking about how in the world. I'm going to describe it, and then makes me grin because Decharo's nearly as good as guarded as myself, and they are pretty dang cute doing it. I chew the inside of my lip, wondering if I can manipulate events to give them a happy ending.

Okay. So what do I see in this scene? There sitting on a rock, conveniently shaped. Sort of like the bench. Shannondant is in the cranberry dress, but as they zero in on the sleeves. They start changing shape I can clearly see the picture anymore. Then I get distracted because my vocal program is doing funky things with the grammar, and it's throwing me off.

Back to the picture.

Bits of white are poking out of Shannondant steps scalloped sleeves kind of like Italian Renaissance. If that even a fashion in Erilerre? Now she suddenly looks like she stepped out of “Ever After."

Whatever. She's clean and neat which must've taken efforts the she lives in the caves with the rest of them. His close are tan, probably made out of some animal hide. And they are not dressed for winter.

I mentally manipulate the image. This is why I hate description. It constantly changes on me from seeing the story, to just filling in blanks when ever I'm trying to zero in on what I'm actually seeing. This is not what they look like when the actual scene was happening.

So they're still on the rock. Her hand is still on his cheek, which seems inappropriate, but then again, she is Shannondant and she's been awfully pushy in this scene. She should be wearing a cloak. The caves are cold and wet, and she is a princess, so it should be a fairly nice cloak. However, she lives with a bunch of men who are not fashion conscious nor have an overly high opinion of her, because she is a woman. So I give her a plane cranberry, woolen cloak. Perhaps to make it pretty, she's in bordered tiny designs on the front of it. Yes, I like that. Little Celtic knot the trail around the hood and down the front of the opening. They are yellow-ish gold. Her sleeves are tight now, tight and layered under hair hangs down in a long, thick braid down her back. It's rolled around the top and yes Decharo, she is beautiful. Now that I can see more clearly what she's wearing, I replaced her into the picture, balancing on a leather Brown shoe and leaning forward to kiss him. I'm pretty sure was her who initiated the kissing.

Decharo is still not dressed for winter. But then again, he probably really isn't. His clothing is ragged. Nobody cares much what he looks like, so long as he has something to wear. But I'm working on description, so I'll look him over. His sleeves are baggy as are most Erish shirts, so there's plenty of room for work. There's a few slight tears, and smudges from the dirt and probably cinders from the fire. His hands are still cracked, laced with black dirt and ashes. Even if he scrubs them, they still won't ever look quite clean. Like your hands look will look after you worked on the engine of the car. Oh, there is his cloak. Sitting beside him. It's gray and woolen and rough and looked scratchy. They must've set it aside whenever they decided to cut his hair.

His pants are made out of some sort of animal skin. I guess waterproof helps keep the cold out. His boots go to his knees, and looks to be the newest thing about him.

I suddenly wondered Shannondant will keep any of that here. That's on the ground, and half of me thinks it's cute, but most of me thinks that’s just kind of creepy.

He needs something to keep them from looking like a pirate, so I give him a vest also made from a soft tan leather. There. Now I have a definite picture that looks like he belongs in Eirlerre. There's not much also around. Rocks, walls, and a torch for light. He’ll have to bring her back to the main part or someone else will. Even flustered, he would not leave her there alone.

Which reminds me that I actually need to get back to the story plot. I turn on Pandora, and the slowly dreamy piano music accompanies the scene which just makes me think of camera shots drifting around the couple as they kiss. Her hand goes to his face. One of his hands inches to her waist, though he is more hesitant. I go ahead and let the scene play out in my head, even though it's not forming words that I can actually write down.

His hand creeps from her waists up to brush his thumb through her hair. He's always wanted to touch her hair. Now creeps around the back of her head, pulling her closer. 300 more words, and I could be at a word count for an entire day. If I can just learn how to do this using quality words that are actually part of the story.

Dreamy piano music is coming to an end. I hope a new musical bring insight.

Scenario number one begins.

He pulls back, looking into her eyes, his own eyebrows drawing down as panic seeps in. Realizing what he's done. "I'm sorry."

She watches him calmly. "I'm not. You shouldn't be either."

He gets up and leaves and she sits a bit frustrated. I don't think that was it. I change the dreamy piano music.

Pandora has a sense of humor. A Jamaica beat accompanies the lyrics, "Today, I don't feel like doing anything. I just want to lay in my bed."

It completely evade the caves. It cracks me up and ruins the images as my characters start dancing around. Good by Bruno Marrs. Hello Loreena MeKennit. Beneath a Phyrigian Sky begins with a haunting song of pipes and a violin that sounds like it’s coming from the middle east somewhere. Close, but not quite.

“The old ways” begins, sounding much better.

Unfortunately, the song makes me think more of Andrew and Clara. Though on reflection it works for Decharo and Shannondant as well.

And here I am, beautiful violin music, nearly had a nano word count, and still without a good scene. Oh well. At least I know what they're wearing. I think about the bay, my black book and pencil, and decide that was might be a better way to write after all. So here I go, off to write the way I normally do. It's usually more streamlined and effective.

I procrastinate, realizing that when all is said and done, I still don't know how to write a kissing scene. Perhaps someone will interrupt them. After all. For the story to work, they don't need enough time to reflect on their feelings for each other. That part comes later.

So. Now to find who or how they are interrupted with, or by. I wonder vaguely if I’ll ever actually be able will to write out loud like this without completely rambling like I've just done.

Diamonds

I've always been a pearl girl.

But today I've been thinking about diamonds.

Setting aside the ideas of engagement rings (and the slave-labor often used to create them) I've been thinking about the diamond itself.

I think a diamond is the perfect picture of an Christian woman.

It's strength, beauty and transparency all wrapped up together.

When you consider that every diamond was once coal that underwent immense pressure and heat to turn into a clear substance. Miners must removed 250 tones of earth to find one 1-carat stone. Then the stone is cut in precise ways by a master stonecutter so that light can shine through and reflect off of the transparent surface. A thing formed from undesirable circumstances, cleansed, cut and used to sparkle and reflect light onto others. At the same time, it is the strongest substance on earth.

That sounds like what God does with a woman.

Sounds like what he's doing with me.

You Should Have Seen it in Color

I should be in bed.

Who know color could be so exciting. I seriously feel like I'm bringing my family back to life with this. Unfortuantly, my computer got rid of the other picture I did (twice) so I'm posting this before I loose it too. And I should really go to bed after this. I'm getting up in about six hours...

But seriously... isn't she a cutie?

Especially compared to this?

If I could paint a picture...

I feel like a child, eagerly dancing before God’s throne, with my arms fully extended, lifting my heart toward him saying, “Here! Here! Take it! Make it something pretty. I wanna see! I wanna see!”
You laugh maybe, but that’s the image I got today after I finished a prayer that I realized was entirely full of eagerness and anticipation and a longing to fulfill every purpose that God made me for. The words came easily, releasing my mind, body and heart to Him and His purposes, without fear or hesistation. I have things I hope is part of His will for me life – but more than anything I want to easily hear God. To be able to eagerly obey out of love and excitement. To know without any doubts that what I’m doing is someething He decreed and therefore will succeed exactly the way he wants. To be allowed to serve Him and live out my God-created identity no matter what it is or what other people think. To be in love with my God.
So far, when I pray for direction, He’s just said ‘wait.’ It’s hard but I’m learning. Yesterday I felt He was saying I would have to give up my idea of a sucessful timeline and actions according to where the world thinks I should be at for my age. It’s hard for me to wait. I feel like a racehorse, prancing in the gate, waiting for it to open. But I know there’s a reason and He knows what is best for me.
I’m so excited and eager to see what God is going to make me into and use me for. When I get to Heaven, I don’t want to feel like there was a role in the history of this world that I was meant to play –and didn’t. I am understanding God now in ways I never did before and I wish everyone in the world could realize how good God really is.
I wish I was an artist. How drastically different this picture is than the little girl hiding in the bogs I described a year or so ago.

Sunday, April 18, 2010
If I could paint a picture....
If I could paint a picture, I would paint the image that came to me in church today.

I saw a man seated. I could not see his face but the jagged scars in his wrists identified him at once. He was in a garden of soft green with flowers peeping from between the blades of grace. A tree is at his back, lowering branches of a weeping willow around the group gathered around him. His hand strokes the face of a little girl with golden curls and a light blue dress. She is laughing through sparkling blue eyes. Her sash is white, clean and unwrinkled. On his other side is another girl with dark hair and a headband, wearing a dress of forest green. She kneels in front of him, her hands touching his knee. She, too, is unafraid. Between the two girls stands another, holding up a string of beads. A work of art that she has labored over and eagerly shows for his approval. It is granted by the look on her face.
But in the far corner, there is something which at first glance mars the peaceful scene. One more girl in a tattered, drab gown somewhere between the color of green and grey. Her sash trails the ground, hanging at one side where it has come loose. Brown hair hangs half hiding her face, whips flying up, lacking the touch of a comb. She is not part of the group. Not even close to the group. She kneels by the edge of a bog, one knee sinking into it's soft ground, the other foot planted on more firm ground. One hand grasps the long stem of a cattail, the other disappears into the mud as she tries to push herself up. The apron she wears holds the marks of long smears left by her hands, marring the white surface.
Though she is busy struggling to get up and most of her thoughts are directed toward that, her face is turned toward the man in a pleading, longing but very fearful look. Something we cannot see reaches out toward her, drawing her back down the road that lays just on the far side of the picture. The road is made of dirt, though well kept, going off into a place that promises better than the bog. But what, we don't know. But the man is ahead, though barricaded by the creatures of perfection, light and happiness.
Creatures she feel would only shove her back toward the bog, kicking her chest and pushing her lower than she already is. And the man that she feels unworthy to approach, confused about who he really is, yet relentlessly drawn toward him. Longing for him, despite her overwhelming hesitation. If one of the girls were to go and offer a hand to take her to the man, the girl would draw back, becoming entrapped in the bog. Her trust has been long shattered and disillusioned.
Is it possible that the man could take her hand and they could walk down that road together? Or must she choose between the road and the man? Is she brave enough to do anything besides peek from the bulrushes?
I know not how the story ends. Nor will it be as a real painting, forever frozen in one second of a life. I feel sure that the man will leave the flock of butterflies to go after the black sheep. She may not be like the other girls. She may never learn to trust anyone but the man.
But I cannot see her as the awful creature that she perceives herself to be. I feel her hopelessness but know she is not beyond hope. I do not see a blackened, defective misfit. I see a little child who has been shoved into the bog one too many times by someone she trusted.
I cannot hate her and I know the man does not either.
She is her biggest critic. But when she sees herself, hatred melts, compassion is stirred. The girl in the picture doesn't know she is being watched. But when I see her, I cannot hate myself.
Posted by Lindsey at 5:06 PM 0 comments

Freedom

Tonight we ring in a new year.
I'm not making a resolution. A resolution makes me think of a contract that once broken, can never be restored. I'm making instead a New Year's challenge.
My theme for this coming year of 2012 centers around "Freedom." Recently I've become more and more attuned to efforts that work toward abolishing modern-day slavery. Between 12 and 27 million people today are slaves and many of these are forced to work in brothels. Many of the things we buy in stores were made by slaves.
My goal for this year is to further educate myself on which aspects of my life might help contribute to keeping people into slavery - and what I can do to not only stop this practice, but to help free and support the captives themselves.
"Chainless" is a project that I want to start working on. It involves many aspects such as researching which brands and companies make an effort to ensure that their merchandise comes from fair-trading practices. I'm also developing an idea for cutting a CD called "Chainless" that revolve around freedom and raising awareness for the plight of others.
God is making a lot of changes in my personal life as well and I want this year to be about freedom in my own life from sins I struggle with, fears that plague me and anything that is holding me back from living out what I was created to do. So my challenge to myself this year is to explore areas of freedom in all aspects of life.

In Flight

“Gah, she can’t even get a bag of peanuts open,” Darshon remarks.
“She can’t spell either,” Karl grins and jumps onto the bashing author boat of which Darshon is currently captain.
“Oh, hush,” I grin and resist telling the characters in my head out loud to shut their mouths for the sake of the man next to me who can’t see them.
“Who cares about peanuts…” Andrew is glancing out of the plane window, somewhat disturbed. “I can’t even see the ground anymore.”
“Andrew if you won’t get on a boat and Clara won’t get on a plane, and neither of you will touch an airplane, it’s little wonder you end up living on a farm,” I moan.
“Just shut the window,” Tehveor suggests.
“Yeah.” I turn toward Darshon who’s messing with the light buttons ahead. “Andrew’s freaking out and he’s got electricity. Why aren’t you? You’re from Eirlerre.”
One bushy eyebrow rises. “Because I’m from Eirlerre. Eating peanuts in a seat I’m not allowed up from seems a pretty tame past time.”
I smirk. “Unless I decide to make you allergic to peanuts.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” Darshon sounds rather dramatic.
“She might,” Karl remarks dryly. “She made me allergic to water.”
“Only in the spoof,” I say.
“Which is currently most of what you write.”
“Now, now. We’re revamping the original story and making you not quite as much of a sobber.”
“Small favors,” Karl mutters.
I turn to Tehveor. “Guess what? I’ve decided to work on the sequel and put “Swing” on the backburner.
“What???” Lila calls.
“Finally,” Darshon raises his hands to beseech Heaven with long-overdue thanks. Then he lowers them to cross. “Actually, I’ll believe that when I see it.”
I hum.
Trey pouts.
“Sorry, kid. Weekend project,” I offer.
“Yeah, well, that’s not fair.” Lila protests. “Tehveor already has a book out. We don’t.”
“Which is why I’m working on the sequel while people still remember who he is.”
“I’ll bet Swing is still produced first,” someone whispers, but when I look back they all look toward the ceiling.
Sometimes authorhood is a lonely place to be. Especially when the characters start ganging up on you.
“Why is the plane rumbling,” Tehveor asks and I finally understand where his mind has been this entire time.
“It’s the wind,” I explain. “Air pockets.”
I don’t say “turbulence” around Andrew but he’s already looking at me like he thinks I think he’s dumb and knows full well that he isn’t. “So the floatation devices are in case the plane falls out of the sky over water?”
“Yeah, pretty much.” I smile at him. “Don’t worry. We’re not going over water.”
“What are you singing?” Erik asks exasperated as I hum the same line over and over.
“Till I Hear you Sing Once More” I answer.
“Would you please sing the rest of the words, instead of those three lines?”
I think I’m offending Erik’s musical taste.
“Can’t. I don’t remember them.” I answer lightly.
“Perhaps you could make some up,” Andrew suggests.
“Or I could just keep humming it,” I answer.
“It is a rather catchy melody,” Andrew admits, looking toward Erik.
Erik folds his arms and readjusts his legs in the small space.
“Did you take your medicine?” I ask.
“Yes, Father…”
Lizzy purses her lips. “Me thinks he’s skipped...”
I grin and glance toward Danny’s family, new to popping into my world and also to being teenagers – at least the young ones.
Danny and Rosie are busy bent over paper on the table in front, packaged peanuts long forgotten.
Danny’s running his thumb over the nose of some passenger they saw in the airport.
“No, it was smoother.”
“It was beaked,” Rosie argues.
Danny grins. “It was not beaked.”
His daughter shoves his hand away and takes the pencil back from his hand. “It was! It was like this!”
She starts drawing a rather realistic beaked nose and Danny chuckles. “No, it was rounder.”
“It was beaked…” Rosie’s grin takes on a mischievous glint and she begins drawing a triangle into the poor man’s profile. “It was just like this…”
“No, it… stop it. Now you’re just being cruel,” Danny wrestles the pencil back. I’m not sure if he’s arguing on the behalf of the man in the picture or his own delicate memory for facial shapes.
I turn away as the plane shifts again. “I’m getting dizzy.”
“That’s because your brain’s too small.” Darshon says in an accent that doesn’t belong to him. “It just kind of bangs around up there.”
“Oh – hush…”
“The retort’s getting really old,” Andrew chuckles lightly. “You should find a new one…”
“So who’s going to be more nervous at landing,” Tehveor asks. “You or Val?”
“Val,” I answer, shifting in the seat, secretly wondering if I’ll be able to walk by the time we get there. It’s halfway through the flight and so far we haven’t been allowed to get up.
“And then we’re going to see Danae,” Lyndsi says behind me. Up until now, I haven’t known she was there but she is and looking quite excited. I wonder if she’s really more interested to see if Landon lives with Danae.
And just so my other characters aren’t left out, I bring in my Roman’s. Malcomb is fascinated with the plane, commenting how many Christians could be transported very fast.
Felix is already discovering that projectiles can be dropped quite effectively from a plane. Suddenly Darshon is there, plotting with him and I regret bringing one of Jess’s characters into this scene.
I wonder how much time has passed and how much longer it will be. I think I’ve dressed warmly enough. It’s been a hot journey.
This morning when I put on my leggings over jeans, I grew a new appreciation for Super Man. Tights under regular clothing just doesn’t seem cool, though it’s not as bad as I thought.
My departing wisdom from my father was, “Remember up there, Yankees tend to be somewhat – abrupt, so don’t take offense.”
I just grinned all over that statement. So far I haven’t found a state quite as friendly as Texas, nor have I ever in my life addressed someone as a Yankee unless it was for the express purpose of teasing both the north and the south.
I’m with Val on that one.
War’s over. None of us were there.
I look out the patch of window and see just a bit of land. I wonder what state we’re flying over. It’s weird to think we’re not in Texas anymore. Weirder to think that when I land, I won’t be in the South.
“And weeks pass. And months pass. Time goes by. Still you don’t walk through the dooooooorrrrr…. Da dee, dee, dee, dee dee dee dee do da….. till I hear you sing once more…”
The sparsely-worded refrain goes through my head again and Erik moans, looking to Erik the Phantom. “This is your fault…”
Phantom Erik shakes his head. “Not mine. It’s not my fault copy write fell out of fashion and some imposter decided to rewrite my story. New York,” He shakes his head in disgust. “As if I would go there.”
“Watch it,” Scarlet growls. “New York is the best place on earth. Help me out, Andrew.”
“Mmmm…” Andrew hesitates. “Remember, Scarlet. We don’t live there at the same time. In mine time, the factory workers are…”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah…” Scarlet waves off his patient explanation of why New York failed his family’s dreams. “See, Erik? If you don’t like something, you can just change it.”
“Did you learn nothing from that first bag of peanuts??” Darshon asks incredulously.
I move from trying to tear the bag to trying to pry it open, then back to tearing. Come one. Stupid little thing.
This time it tears, as averse to the last time of prying. Tehveor laughs, “She learns a little. I think she cut down her time about a third.”
“She can be taught!” Someone exclaims but again as I try to identify the speaker, they ban together with various innocent looks.
I ignore them and eat my peanuts.

One More Daaay...

Today I woke in Grandma's closet.
Tomorrow I'll wake in Grandma's closet.
The next day, I'll wake in Val's closet.
I have become a closet sleeper. Not to worry. I've discovered I sleep even better in a closet than I do in a bedroom. Too bad my closet isn't big enough for sleeping.
But yeah. Tomorrow morning I'm leaving my beloved Texas and it's 64 degree weather and going to Wisconsin to it's 41 degree weather.
Don't worry. I'm armed with new scarfs from Christmas and some new outfits my parents got for me.
Today I spent packing, teaching my Colorado cousins to swing dance and trying to come up with my writing priorities for the new year. I've decided to put Swing on the back burner as my "weekend project" and turn my focus to "The Captive" which is the sequel to "The Secret of Sentarra" series.
It'll be fun to have a fresh manuscript to figure out the steps to editing and producing - this time hopefully in the proper order. Before I do that though, "Across the Distance" still needs the final read-through and then I'll be learning InDesign and proper page layout.
Then it's off to the proof-readers and plunging into revising "The Captive." It'll be good to write Eirlerre again. Tonight... it's late. And I need to go to bed.
Tomorrow is a traveling day.

Dec. 15

Remember me?
I know, I've fallen behind of blogging.
If it's any consolation, I've fallen behind on nearly everything else too.
Right now, I'm trying for the fourth time to get the unedited clips in no particular order onto a DVD to take Sunday for the footage party.
I have them in order. But in true Lindsey fashion, the program did something and won't let me hear the voices. When I produce the movie - there's still no voices. So I can't edit it at all.
Yet.
I'll figure it out. It'll go on my list of other stuff I could have had finished already if they didn't have to be redone a billion times.
So right now it's the same old story. I'm trying to copy-edit "Across the Distance" (again) before formatting it for kindle (again) and learning the proper way to lay out a page. Swing is right behind that, ready for the final proof read and all the steps above. Then "The Captive" is waiting for a more extensive revamp, making sure all the story gaps are inserted and everything is tied up.
New projects include this book trailer for "Across the Distance," getting a chaotic house ready for Christmas company (where I get to move downstairs into the gutted interior of what the flood destroyed (yay, me!) and then after Christmas I'm going to Valerie's house. God's put Flames on hold for now but that still needs to be done. When I get back from Val's in February, I'm going to have to bite the bullet and find a "real" job. One with a paycheck.
So then I'll have even less time for this whole publishing thing. Quite honestly, I'm getting discouraged. I feel like I've been in a loop for the last year, doing the same thing over and over and over and over and not making any progress. I wonder what my productivity level would be like without the snags, computer crashes, malfunctioning software, and ignorance that just when you thought that book was formatted correctly, you discover there are three different types of dashes in a properly copy-edited book...

I, Margaret

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

So... This is what I do when I'm bored.
I may as well put the story with it. Some got erased but here you are people.

The wooden shingles of the Maclocken estate crunched under Margaret’s boots as she inched along the wall of the second story. Above her, the condensation from the fog dripped from the second story roof. Beside her the wall offered a comforting sense of support. And below her, a steep slope invited fool-hearty travelers to take the fourteen foot drop to the lush grass of the Erish countryside.
It was, however, what lay before her that kept common sense from overriding determination. The shutters on her brother’s window stood open like arms waiting to enfold her. Inside, her father’s conversation with the doctor was obstructed by only the thick tapestry drawn to keep out the light. It was much easier to access than the two inches of sturdy oak that created the door that her mother currently guarded, most likely listening and weeping at the keyhole.
Women were not to be present while men were examined, even if they were siblings and sons. But at the age of fifteen, Margaret was hardly old enough to take any advantages that came with womanhood, so naturally she could not be expected to reside under the consequences of her kind. And even if she was, she had shared a womb with Kethann. She could hardly be expected to stay out of his bedroom while the likelihood of his future was discussed.
Her heart pounded, legs trembling from the messages sent by her mind of their peril if they collapsed and took a plunge from the heights. She pressed her back against the wall, turning one ear toward the opening where low voices murmured.
She could not understand her father’s words, but his tone only increased the drive to discover what no one would confirm. She pressed a finger to the tapestry, inching it slowly forward so there was a small gap for the sound to travel around.
“… cannot handle excitement…. keep things quiet….”
Her teeth grit as she twisted to press her face as close to the cloth as possible, hoping to distinguish shapes between the tight weave.
“It is essential that he does not strain the heart in any way.”
This sentence came clearly but more pressing was the swift steps that carried in her direction. Margaret jerked back, nearly loosing her balance on the roof when the curtain folded in on itself as her father removed the remnant of secrecy and safety.
“Margaret!”
Toryn Maclocken’s grip was accustomed to the steel hilt of the sword and was hardly any less gentle when it wrapped around her arm. She stumbled over the window sill as he hauled her into the safety of her brother’s room.
“When I shut and lock a door, there is a very precise reason for it,” Toryn’s voice stayed low, the way it always did when he was displeased.
Margaret’s eyes traveled from his face, to the doctor packing his bad, to the boy sleeping in the bed.
“If you would simply share with the family about Kethann, there would be no need for locking doors in the first place,” she said. “Is he dying?”
“That depends entirely upon how well he is cared for,” Toryn replied. “If he’s frightened at someone clambering through his window, his heart might very well stop right this moment. You know better.”
He nudged her toward the door, turning the key in the lock. He would shove her out and lock it behind her and then she’d have her mother to face. “You’re late for lessons.”

“Lessons don’t matter!” Margaret pleaded. She was a failure at social graces and had no interest in learning them. She pointed to the boy on the bed. “This matters!”
“There’s nothing you can do about this.” The door opened with her father’s dismissal. “Obey me and go. We’ll talk when you return.”
“Lessons don’t matter!” Margaret pleaded. She was a failure at social graces and had no interest in learning them. She pointed to the boy on the bed. “This matters!”
“There’s nothing you can do about this.” The door opened with her father’s dismissal. “Obey me and go. We’ll talk when you return.
Margaret’s throat worked as she passed her mother to gather her lunch from a servant. The basket banged against her skirt as she stepped into the yard.
It was a short walk from the main house to the training grounds. There a squadron of soldiers parried in the rings. There was something comforting in the noise of iron striking nails into a horse’s hoof, the taunting of the group watching the fighters. The smell of leather and cooking fires.
A few men nodded toward her as she passed, one calling out, “You’re late, lady Margaret. You’d better run!”
“Yes, I am late, Rothonal.” Margaret turned her steps toward the man with a smile.”Which I am sure is why you will forgive me for taking your horse.”
“My horse?” The man’s eyebrows rose. “My horse?”
“Yes,” Margaret reached for the animal’s reins. “You’ve gotten it ready for me, I see. It was very kind. I’m sure you can get another should you require use of a mount.”
“I can, my dear.” The man held the animal steady while she swung astride. “You just make sure you and horse get safely back. I have no desire to be whipped for loosing an animal.”
“I’ll treat him like my own child!” Margaret answered, prying the straps loose from the man’s hand.
She pushed the horse into a trot while Rothanal made a show of quoting a prayer of protection, clasping a fist to his head,
The curls bounced around her shoulders as she kept the horse at a brisk pace that simultaneously energized her and threatened to spill the contents of her basket.
Every last girl had disappeared inside the doorway of Mistress Lavith’s room before she entrusted her steed to a servant’s care. Brushing the creases from her dress, she sucked in a breath as the darkness of the interior swallowed her.
There was an usual amount of movement in the hallway as servants rearranged portraits and scrubbed the boards that lined the bottom of the walls,
Veshath hopped on her cousin, patting the extra seat beside her as Margaret located the room where all eight girls of consequence took their lessons.
“Did you hear?” the girl whispered even before Margaret got close enough to hear anything. “King Dougherah is coming to visit Master Drageth.”
“He’s coming to see my father,” Margaret replied.
Though the king’s interests lay closer to poetry than plotting warfare, his duties often brought him to their estate which served as a basic training ground before the soldiers were moved to the more experienced levels.
“Weeding them out’ her father called it. Deciding which boys to keep and which to send to entertain the king’s court.
Undaunted by her lack of awe, Veshath leaned closer while defeating the purpose by raising her whisper. “He’s bringing his sons!”
Margaret’s heart picked up. She had never formally met Prince Galaphy. Their relationship remained as a peasant who only saw the boy from a distance. But it was the plurality of the words that caught her attention.
She glanced sideways. “Prince Terrant?”
Veshath’s voice squeaked as she nodded. “He’s turning twenty and he’s going to reveal himself as the prince.”
Margaret’s stomach fluttered as the girl grabbed her hand. “Oh, isn’t it exciting? After all these years of guessing which soldier he is. I’ll bet he’s Mathorn.”
Margaret shook her head. “Mathorn is too old.”
“He could have been lying about his age,” Veshath argued. “Just to think we could have been talking to him all these years and never known it. What sport!”
Margaret had often thought of it, trying to guess herself or bribe soldiers to tell her. She’d gotten a few different answers and even had several claim to be the prince.
His age was really all that could give him away, for a man who had lived within the ranks since he was a child, was well able to fit in. Many of the soldiers did not know who he was.
Perhaps her father did, but he was suck a stickler for the secrets kept within the ranks.
Even if Terrant was an ugly, dull toad, it would be a relief to have the mystery cleared up. He couldn’t remain anonymous forever, for even though he wished to be treated as a common soldier, the fact remained that he was a prince.
“When?” she whispered as Lady Lavith entered, armed with a basket of embroidery to torture Margaret.
The woman rose her eyebrows until the room developed the silence required by the teacher. When everyone was all but holding their breathes, the woman said, “Girls. I need your undevided attention. I have a most important introduction for all of you.
Veshath squirmed, feet pressing under the couch as her body went ridged with excitement.
But it was not the prince everyone dreamed of meeting.
It was a girl. She could not be called plain for she was quite pleasant complexion. But if one were called to define which feature lent her beauty, they would be hard pressed for an answer.
Her mouth was small and straight, her eyes brown but not particularity large or any color that made them stand out. Her hair matched her eyes - not light or dark or mixed in with any interesting highlights.
Her clothing, however, immediately drew the eye, for her dress was created a shade of blue that could not be found on any Erish market place. It’s looked as though the sky itself had fallen around her shoulders. Her bodice was tailored tightly around a petite waist that disappeared into a skirt that flared in full folds to the floor. Her hair hung in a dozen braids, that cascaded down her back before they looped again, their tips disappearing back into the gathering at her nape.
It was clear that she was not Erish even before she opened her mouth to butcher their accent and language.
“Girls this is Setta Makiver. She is the daughter of Gharon an ambassador from Kathonia.”
The girl curtsied and said in the simplest and most formal phrase possible. “I am pleased to be here.”
At least, that was what Margaret thought the girl meant to say. What had actually come through the narrow lips was, “I am pleased to be a horse.”
Chuckles and a few smirks rippled through the Erish.
Setta flushed though she didn’t seem to understand her mistake. Her voice was heavily accented, pronouncing her vowels as though they had all been pushed to the front of her mouth and her R’s sounded as though she was spitting instead of being properly rolled. It was a sound that Margaret could not duplicate even when the soldiers who spoke the language of Kathonia had taught her their tongue.
But she ventured to give the girl an answer in the Setta’s native language, butchering the accent and rolling the R’s when she said, “And we are pleased to have you here.”
Relief and interest poured into the girl’s eyes as they flickered to meet Margaret’s.
Several girls scooted forward on their chairs, surveying the two. “What did you tell her?”
Margaret only raised her chin as the teacher motioned the girl to sit and Setta chose the empty spot next to her.
After that, Margaret spent an hour poking her fingers with stitches that Mistress Lavith claimed were entirely too long and the only interesting thing that happened was when the servants dropped a painting in the hallway.

It's all in how you view it.

Once upon a time, I strove to be the perfect Christian. I wore long skirts and modest shirts. I grew my hair out. I regularly became guilty of my music choices and threw out my Broadway soundtracks, my burned CDs and my Irish music that contained a drum. I memorized large portions of scripture. I read pamphlets on the evils of dancing to remind myself why I had to stifle my longing to move to music. I bit back arguments when people called me "sheltered" and "nieve."
I went to the nursing home with my family once a week. I sang hymns at church and anywhere I was asked. I helped with children's programs. I knocked on doors, invited people to VBS, handed out Jesus videos and cookie tins. I left tracks places where people would find them, scolding myself for being too afraid to hand it to someone outright.
Once upon a time, I knew how my life would be. I would graduate high school, perhaps go on to study at a good college so I could teach my own children while they were growing up. When I was about twenty, I would meet a wonderful, Godly man who would marry me and be a strong Spiritual leader. I wouldn't be afraid to have children - and that secret worry that I physically can't have children would be gone. I'd lose my desires for anything besides raising them, cleaning the house and making meals.
That was what good Christian girls did, right?
Once upon a time, I beat myself up for not being this good Christian girl. I didn't really like babies. I was terrified to think of having my own children. I wanted to dance - I wanted to dance so badly, I would cry while watching someone else do what I wanted to. I listened when people told me I couldn't be an actress. In my imagination, I filmed movies. Some I wrote - some other people wrote. I was confidence and pretty and dressed modestly but modernly. I could travel away from my family without feeling homesick. Everyone liked me.
Once upon a time, I lived in my imagination, doing what I wanted to do, while I continued stifling my dreams to fit into the Christian mold.
As it seemed right on schedule, my twentieth birthday came and I began courting a wonderful, Godly boy from my church. He was smart. He was mature. He was responsible. He even wanted to learn to Swing dance and we planned on filming a movie together.
Once upon a time, I sat sobbing in a Church pew as adults yelled at each other. Our church family that had done so much together was splitting. Once upon a time, I stood with my hand on the door of that church, finding the locks changed overnight.
"You locked me out. You can't criticize me for living in the world, when you locked me into it."
I never did get back into that church building.
Nine months after I began courting, I gave up waiting for God to show the boy what he had shown me - that we would never be good as a couple. I called off the courtship - and spent the next few months explaining to the kids at my new church that I didn't tell their friends to leave. I lost my boyfriend. I lost my best friends.
I had my first argument over the break up with some of my other friends.
My perfect Christian life collapsed around me. I had done everything I knew to do. I'd taken up my cross. I'd denied myself.
I didn't understand.
Once upon a time, I locked my heart away. I threw up walls of bitterness. I'd never court again. I'd act in whatever I dang-well pleased. I'd wear pants and dresses that made me feel pretty. I only went to church to please my parents. I'd dance. I'd pursue film. I'd finally stop listening to what people thought I should be doing to serve God.
He was capable of telling me what he DID want me to be doing.
I quit telling people I was a preacher's daughter. I stopped looking at old pictures of people who hurt me beyond what I'd ever been hurt before. I cut my hair. I let my neckline drop and my hemline rise. When people told me I needed to loosen up and live, I'd laugh and think they should have seen me five years ago. But I didn't want them to. I was embarrassed to look back at that girl in the frumpy clothing who lived in a bubble world.
Once upon a time, I began looking on the inside as well as the outside. I dropped any preconceived ideas of what I was supposed to be. I forgave myself for not rushing across the room screaming "baby!" when a bundle of joy was carried in.
God told me if I was willing to wait for a man, he would bring me a deeper love than I ever imagined. I said 'yes' and released the image that the only way a Christian girl can serve God is by marrying and raising her family.
I stopped beating myself up for wanting to show my emotions and my true self. I let myself dance - even in the kitchen when no one was watching and let myself become as a child before God who doesn't suppress her joy.
God commanded me: "Write "Flames" as a screenplay and I will produce it." I said 'yes' and realized I can serve God through the media.
I've learned everything that was shattered was what was holding my back from becoming who God truly wanted me to be. Now he's bringing people back into my life - those who formally shunned me - those whom I began to avoid - and I feel no bitterness, no sorrow, no hatred.
I'm finding that that little girl who lived inside of me and cried for release wasn't a sinful version that must be sacrificed to God's will - but who He made me so that I could fulfill God's will in my life.
Today, I'm free to ask God who He wants me to be. I'm not held back by preconceived ideas of what the Bible says I should be doing. I'm no longer that 'perfect Christian girl.' I'm a girl who doesn't have the answers. I'm a girl who's been hurt and can help others who are hurting. I'm not so worried about offending other Christians by what I say, do, or wear, that I can't focus on what God wants me to say, do, or wear.
When God speaks to me, I don't have to worry about whether or not it is my place to share it in the church. When I turn another year older and there's no boyfriend or family in sight, I don't have to fret that I'm doing something wrong with my life. When I finish my screenplay, when I step onto stage, when I sit in front of a camera, I don't have to wonder if I'm compromising myself.
I'm not.
I am finally being the person I always wanted to be. The person God wants me to be.
The girl I was meant to be.

More on "Flames"

How can something feel so wrong when I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that it's right?
Writing "Flames" feels like such a betrayal to my Christian community. There are more controversial issues in this manuscript. It's brimming with the issues that are normally suppressed or frowned upon in the Christian books and literature.
It doesn't sugar-coat the Christian families. It's not the story about a wretched sinner who makes all the wrong decisions until he meets a Christian person who has it all together and points him to God where he says the sinner's prayer and his entire life is turned around to continue forever on the right path.
This is the story about a stressed out pastor, whose family is breaking under the strain from the church.
It's the story of a girl trying to understand the Christian standards of her new step-family - and why her father loves children so much when she knows that he tried to talk her mother into aborting her.
It's the story of a church who is more worried about the low neckline on a newcomer's dress than the state of her soul.
It's the story of a girl who appears to be a perfect Christian on the outside - but is terrified to tell her own Christian family about what she has done.
It's the story of a boy who pushes drugs right across the street from the church, who's told they're all hypocrites.
It's about a boy on fire for a God-given ministry but who can't find enough faith from people to help back him on the project.
It's about a preacher who vomits every night from stress-induced stomach ulcers.
It's about the lies and deceit and hatred that sprouts from between the church pews.
It's about the casual comment that fuels a destructive rumor. It's about the criticism that drives people away from the church, instead of showing them the truth in a way that would draw them.
It's about a church split.
It's about the truth that so many Christians are dealing with today. It's not until we can trust each other to be transparent about our issues that we can give them to God to work through. It's not until we can come to church with no pretenses or pretending that God can make us united.
It's not until we stop fighting over the proper way to live in the world, that we can reach the world.

It's the hardest thing I've ever written and I honestly wouldn't touch it if God hadn't shown me very clearly that he wants me to. I expect that some people will not believe that I've prayed every time I write that I will not write anything that's not from God. I fully expect to be "flamed" when it is presented to the world.

But God has spoken. For whatever reason, He has chosen me to write it.
So I will write it and let him work through the hearts that He means to touch it. Hopefully, if one person can stand and admit the truth, others will be able to follow. Perhaps - just perhaps, we can turn our approach to others and make the church a place of love and acceptance where Christ can be found.

Book Tours, Broken Cars and the Missing JoP

This week was my first official book tour. I suppose on my Journey of the Author blog, I really should write when the author goes on a journey. My journey started last weekend when we went to the "Austin Town" reenactment. Jami had never been camping so I decided to take her along this year and sleep in one of the canvess tents. We had two offered us but we took the large one with the big rope bed. It was cold that night and we roughed it Erish army style (with a few more blankets). In fact, I had my purple half blanket, my fuzzy white blanket, a woolen blanket on top of that and an imitation down blanket. As I said, it was cold.
I worried that Jami would be miserable, but the next morning she popped up and said, "Can we stay another night??"
So we did.
I love the Jinkins. They've let me come and crash their couch for an entire week. I've even gotten used to having three dogs in the house.
The first book signing in Angleton started off - frazzled.
It started when I discovered my computer clock was two hours ahead - I'd just been commenting on how it felt much later. So I scrambled to get ready, changing my outfit a few times to fix this or that or the other. Jami and I left in good spirits in time to get there half an hour early.
Or so I thought. I was ten minutes into the trip when I recieved a phonecall from a friend asking where I was. Apparently, the signing I was sure started at 7:00 - commenting how easy it was to remember it was on the 7th at 7:00 - it was at 6:00. So instead I got there thirty minutes late to a poor group who had been waiting for a bit. It was the quietest signing I've ever done.
Another group came in at 7:00, so it was the first double signing I've ever done. All in all there were 29 people and I sold 8 books.
The next signing clashed with the home game of the home town. The West Columbia librarian was very kind and gracious. When it became 7:00 (Yes, this time, it truely was at 7:00), she went and made an announcement. I had a very informal signing with her and a woman who came in from browsing the shelf. I sold 1 book.
The night at Brazoria, the Jinkins came along with me so I knew ahead of time there would be at least three people there. We hit Subway on the way and I two-stepped with Jami while waiting for the sandwiches, much to the amusement of those waiting in line.
This signing had seven people and three librarians. We had a grand old time and they were surprised to find the character descriptions that matched the quiz they took, fit them uncannily well. It was fun to see them get excited and I made a good friend named Tanner. All in all I sold 4 books.
Tomorrow I'm going to Hastings. I also discovered today that the Harry Potter book is coming out at midnight tonight. I'm hoping that will help up the traffic tomorrow. I'm going straight from being an author to being an actress.
Which means I'll be changing out of my book signing clothing into a grey, ghostly victorian dress.
There's only one little problem.
I met Pete and friends in town today to go to the movies. We had a grand time but on the way home - my car stopped. The steering wheel grew stiff. The break grew hard. The accelerator quit responding. I steered for a driveway and ended up in the ditch.
I waited a few moments and turned the key again. The car roared to life and I turned around to go back to that street I'd driven past.
I got about half a mile and it did the same thing - only this time it was all I could do to get it past the bridge before I had to pull off again. This time into a very steep ditch. So steep, in fact, that when it stopped, I couldn't get it to the smooth ground. The world was slanted. I feared if I shifted any more to the right, the car would tumble over.
I called Daddy Jinkins and he came out like a knight in shining armor. When he drove up I was laughing - and stuck. Because I couldn't push the door open. I wasn't strong enough to hold it ajar to climb out.
He towed me to his driveway where - the car started again.
I have no clue what's wrong with it but if you happen to see a grey, ghostly girl walking around tomorrow on the side of the road, it's probably me.
I need to sell lots of books.
Making me feel slightly better about my blunder on the book signing time, I attended a wedding with the Jinkins today. Thirty minutes into it, they were still stalling and I realized they were waiting on the J.P. A phone call revealed that he had forgotten about the wedding and was out of town. A.J. made a phone call to the preacher who belonged to the church next door - to find him willing to perform the marriage, but currently in Houston.
An hour and a half later, they were married.
And we'll all live happily ever after.

November 3

The 3rd of November, in the second year of Obama.
Lindsey informs me that’s an odd way to record a date, but that is how I know to do it. In Erilerre, we would say it’s the winter of the first year of the reign of King Kael. Thus, I rarely date my letters.
Tehveor has passed off the recording of this nano-nonsense to me, though I don’t understand because so far she’s only written a tiny bit of Tehveor – nothing at all about me – and she’s obsesses with this book called “Flames.”
But I have nothing better to do until she remembers Eirlerre exists so I shall amuse you, dear reader, by letting you know what an odd creature Lindsey is. She started today huddled under the covers moaning about the cold – it was somewhere in the forties, I think – quite a high temperature for Erilerre. It was 5:00 in the morning, before it was light. Lindsey had intended to get up – but she did exactly what I would have done in the circumstances. She complained of a headache, accounted it to lack of sleep and fell back asleep until 9:00.
Then she spent 45 minutes trying to coax herself out of bed. Remarr would not approve. She wrote some of “Flames” with a few friends – I do wish they’d coax her into writing “The King”… we’ve been waiting so long but she’s talking about having orders from her king – who is not Obama though he rules her land – it’s quite confusing. But orders from a king are a good reason to put off a project I suppose. I still hope she’ll manage to do both.
When she grew tired of the cold, Lindsey loaded up the typing thing she has and decided to go sit in the sunshine at the bay. First though she wanted a hot chocolate so she headed down to the bookstore. There she talked with the bookstore owner and a man on the Palacios city council about books, bookstores, the need to fix up Palacios, people who littered from cars, the Alamo and all sorts of things that held little interest for me.
But she had felt like she should carry a book with her – then decided against it or talking to the owner about her boom. The owner found out she was an author and looked up her name but said Ingram was out of stock. Lindsey arranged to put three books there on consignment.
Then she tried to call the bookstore called Hastings back about some problem they were having ordering the books. (Anyone want to guess maybe it’s that Ingrim was out of stock?) but the woman wasn’t there. Then, dear readers, Lindsey called Val.
All my hopes that she would work on “The King” were dashed. Lindsey and Val have been talking a lot lately about what their God is doing and the exciting plans He has. Which is all well and good but they’re so excited about his plans that they can’t actually work on them.
Lindsey gave up on getting the stove to work and heated rice in the microwave Now it’s getting cold in the house again. I’m trying to nudge her toward writing.
She’s thinking about a hot bath.
Why? Tell me, why do we have THIS girl to record our country’s history?
Well, I’ve done my duty so I’m off to Eirlerre to see what amusement I can find there and what character I can blackmail into do this.
Farewell, dear reader,
Prince Darshon

November 2 - God Speaks

This quite possibly might be the Nano that changed my life. My plans to come down here were simple. Go to Palacios. Write. Do the Austin Town reenactment. Write. Stay with the Jinkins during some book signings. Jinkins. Yay! Book signings *gulp*. Go back to Palacios. Write. Play the lady in the grey taffitta dress. Return to Palacios. Write. Do two last signings. Write, write, write… free and clear.
Whoo-hoo.
But there’s something about that three hour drive between here and Seguin. I’m usually sad about leaving whichever place I’m at and not looking forward to the drive. I spend the first few minutes trying to remember what I forgot – this time it was my cellphone.
Then I usually end up scrolling through the radio and listening to the Christian station.
Then about the time I hit the long country roads… bam. God starts talking and the radio goes off.
I’m never planning on it turning into a prayer/sobbing/praising session but the more I think about it, it happens quite often.
God spoke to me on the way here. I was driving, thinking about Flames. Someone on the radio talked about a blog that was pointing out the way that believers criticize each other and commenting on how brave they were to face that truth. That is essentially the message of “Flames.” I felt sure that God will turn Flames into a film. Then – I can’t explain it but I was amazed that he would choose me for that task and asked why.
It felt like he was literally pressing his words into my heart. But not in writing. Not even in words. It’s hard to describe. A vibration, frequency, feeling, touch… almost another language or symbol or something that he pressed in without words or letters – and then I would know what it meant.
He told me he loved me. He told me Flames would be a film. He told me he was going to use me. He repeated everything. He reminded me of when I was a child and had the dream I went to heaven. I couldn’t see him, but I saw myself standing there with a bright light shining on me as we talked. Later I couldn’t remember what he told me, except that I was to witness to my uncle’s family – and later I led Lauren and Kayla to the Lord and I’ve had the chance to talk to Tyler about Salvation, though he hasn’t made a decision yet. But the one thing I remember clearly is asking him if I was dead.
He said “No. I’m sending you back to tell the world.”
But waking I could never remember what I was supposed to tell the world.
But maybe I wasn’t supposed to remember. Maybe the point was that I would be telling whatever He wanted – to the world. How can one person reach the world at one time? Through the media. Through the written word and through film.
Maybe that was the point of the story.
After that it got a bit tricky. Satan kept trying to interfere. It was hard to understand everything.
I prayed about sin in my life – the addictive kind that you want to get rid of, but you feel as though if you were to tell God you wouldn’t do it anymore – you would break your word because you can’t stop. But I prayed about it. I released it to Him.
He told me some things I think I’m supposed to convey to a friend – not because He can’t tell him/her Himself – but to show me that he can speak to other’s through me. (This was Val.) I have no idea why He picked me for any of this. I’m not good at complete obedience. Satan started taunting with all the normal things. What if God won’t let me write Eirlerre? What if God won’t let me watch my favorite TV show?
But the fact is – I’ve fought those battles before. I wouldn’t like to stop writing Eirlerre – but I’ve surrendered it to Him multiple times in the past. So – technically, there is no decision to be made. If He wants it surrendered, it’s surrendered. It’s not mine to take back.
But I don’t think He’s saying that. I think that’s Satan trying to hold me back with fear. Later she texted and I said, “If you want me to tell her now, have her asking to call me.”
But she was saying it would be light when I got to WI.
Later I called but got her voicemail. I don’t know if that means I shouldn’t tell her – or that he didn’t want me telling her then. We’ll see.
I tried calling Val but I was in the dead zone. Then I got her voicemail. I reached Palacios in the dark, finding an unusual sense of urgency and fear falling on me.
I unloaded the car as quickly as I could thinking the entire time, “Get inside. It’s not safe out. Get inside.”
I finally ran with a load, tripping in the back door and locked it leaving the rest for later.
I’m in Palacios now, excited about Flames but feeling an underlying – creepy feeling. I don’t know if it’s just because it was dark when I got here and the house is quiet and someone was playing that creepy kind of music or what but – I’m a lot more nervous than usual.
I also felt like God was telling me something may happen to me soon – something bad. But that He’s going to use it the way he used the church split to convey Flames. I don’t know what it is but at the moment – I feel okay with that. But I’m not sure I really feel like that was from Him anyway.
The house was so, so, so quiet. I turned on the radio. Fired up the laptop. The internet wasn’t working well. But Val texted. So I asked her if I could call and the call didn’t drop as usual.
I wasn’t sure if I should tell her what God told me but I ventured the first part. She was quite shocked and quite excited and she told me that she had (less than 24 hours before) asked God to speak to me about her.
With this knowledge helping my disclaimer that I could have misunderstood God, I kept going, telling her some things he had spoken to me about her life – that she hadn’t spoken to me about – which ended up being what she was praying about.
Needless to say, we were quite excited.
So excited that I’ve been calling her more than writing. Writing Flames is such a unique experience for me. It’s not full of exciting scenes, the way I’m used to writing. But when I sit down, I can write. When I stop writing, the story stops with it. Every time I go to write, I pray that God will not let me write anything he doesn’t want in there. Looking at it, I’m thinking, “Lord, how are you going to use this? Most of the main characters are young adults and teenagers. And the quality is crappy. It’s not a good novel at all – even though I’m doing it as backstory to be converted into a screenplay.”
But I know that He is going to use it because He told me. “The Captive” has been put on the backburner. I’m excited. I’m scared. I’m lapsing into doubt. I’m enthusiastic about the story. I’m bored with the story. I’m so many thing I don’t even know what to make of all of it.

November 1 - Nano begins

Takasto Comel,
My name is Tehveor. Lindsey informs me you already know who I am – assuming you’ve read the first Secret of Sentarra. Because of something called Nanowrimo, Lindsey will not be writing her blog (I think it’s a journal but thus she calls it) this month. Instead she has driven a bargain. She’s writing my story – so I must write hers or assign another character to do so. It’s not entirely fair since she’s writing two books this month and so far has not started my story, but I’m keeping my end in good faith that she soon will. I fear I will not be as entertaining of a writer as she is, but I shall try.
Today is not a normal day for Lindsey. She woke late – her alarm was set for 5:00 before the sun is up, but she said she forgot to turn it off of silent mode from the show last night. Darshon wants to know if we can give the town crier a silent mode to. Anyhow, instead of waking at five, she woke at 7:15 when the light out the window informed her that it was too late to be at five. It’s just as well because the internet didn’t work anyway – she’s yet to get the nano site to go through and even her email is not working.
I must listen carefully to her random snatches of chatter because her world is rather new to me and I do not always understand what she is speaking of. But I have a good memory so I assume that you from her world, will understand what I can only relay.
She is going back to the home of Clara Castle – which is also her home today so the computers are packed and shut down. We loaded her car with boxes of books for the signing, various costumes for reenactments and filming, the sewing machiene and surger that she brought here and has not used and her bedding.
She laughed and said it looked like she was a hobo. I asked what that was and she said it was comparable to our gypsies. We don’t really have gypsies – they’re travelers but they don’t have an English word so we compromise and call them gypsies when I speak to Lindsey.
Her Grandfather took her car to prepare it for the journey and help her do some errands before she goes. He takes very good care of her.
Right now she has gathered her “odds and ends” for what she’ll need for the entire month. When her grandfather returns, we will load the rest of the car and spend hours on the roads, arriving at the house after dark. She doesn’t look forward to that but I am in hopes she’ll get settled in and begin to write my story. Tomorrow she shall have the entire day to dedicate to writing.
So she says anyhow. It’s hard to tell with Lindsey. Sometimes she works hard and steadily like Master Remarr. Other days she flits frantically from one to the other like Kael.
She is excited by the trip, I think. But also apprehensive. It should be interesting to watch her. She is nervous about all the travel involved in selling my book – I’m not sure why anyone would want to read my story, but she insists that people like to know about my life.
That makes me nervous and sometimes I don’t tell her what I’m thinking. Because of this – I think she’s going to open the first chapter from the viewpoint of my wife.
Yes, I have a wife now, though I’m not allowed to tell you who she is. I have not had her long. IN fact, it’s only been a few hours if we’re going by what she has written.
Can you wonder why I am anxious for her to start? I’d much rather be with my wife, enjoying our few hours of peace before like gets frantic again, than recording Lindsey’s day of packing. (Shh, don’t tell her that. It’s our secret.)
After today, I must work hard to find another character to record the events. If you have any suggestions, please do share. She has lots of charecters to choose from.
Yours faithfully,
Tehveor Castallion – Korvier of Erilerre, Prince of Sentarra, Husband of… well, never mind.

Lions and Tigers and McBeth - Oh my!

Someone said "McBeth." I'm pretty sure of it.
Chance said it was because someone told him "Good Luck' instead of "break a leg" - but what happened tonight was beyond the "good luck" curse. It was undoubtedly a Hamlet night.
I should have seen it coming when my curlers came out - and my hair fell limply into stringy, weak spirals. By the time the show started, those were just about gone too. Auntie Em fell backstage when her knee gave out, banging her head on the way down. It was before the show, but it shook her up pretty badly and her knee was hurt.
One person was late because their driver didn't get them there, and tension rose between her and one in charge. I passed them, to find the witch rubbing her head, shaking out pills to fight a migraine. The audience (all thirty of them) were happily waiting in the rows for the show to start, oblivious to the chaos backstage.
But it didn't take long to creep onto the stage. The costume changes went much faster tonight on all sides. But the backdrop began to fall backstage. I caught it with James and Annette, only to find the curtain was falling as well. Even on the steps, I couldn't reach the curtain to put it back in place so I had to trade with James.
The show went on.
All went well until the Tinman scene where Dorothy dancing with a tree (don't ask) collided with another tree and the scarecrow. The basket caught between them, gave a great "crunch" and shattered. It practically exploded. The handle snapped. The sides gave way. Apples and my picture of Auntie Em - that's actually a house in the snow- scattered underfoot.
I got most of them snatched up though it messed up the choreography. Then I slipped the basket off-stage when I got near the curtain where it was retired - well, forever, I suppose.
Which meant I had no doggy treats.
Toto decided to jump off the stage in protest.
A singing line or two was forgotten or flubbed.
Costumes unraveled.
My ruby slippers caught the curtain three times, trying to trip me and tore a section of tooling off an unsuspecting munchkin's skirt.
Despite the choas and constant fear that someone was going to end up in the hospital before the end of the show, we got through it, all recovering quite nicely. The audience seemed to enjoy the show. Some children didn't want to leave.
One boy who read "The Secret of Sentarra" wanted to know when the sequel was coming out...
La la la.
November. November I'm editing "The Captive" while writing "The King" and probably formatting (again) "The Calling". That's a lot of Erilerre so I'm suplimenting by also tackling writing "Flames."
Anyone interested in helping me proofread "Swing" speak now!
*Cricket's chirp*
Well... it was worth a try. I'm nearly finished with yet another editing round. I think I'm going to have to let that one sit for November and do the proofing in December.
Who would believe it's November again?
In four days - I'll be going home.
To my real home.

A Year Ago

One year ago, I was getting ready for my sister's wedding. Valerie was down. We had just moved to Palacios. I didn't know how long I'd be living in Palacios. I was editing the final proof of "The Calling."
So much has happened in a year.
I still miss Palacios, but I love being here with my grandparents. I love working in the theater again. And my books.
A year ago I was writing Swing and editing "Across the Distance." Now "Across the Distance" is published on Kindle and Swing is in the final editing stages. A year ago, I didn't know much about professional editing. I had no idea what HTML meant. I was just learning to format books on Word.
Now. I can look and say, "It's been a year. "The Captive" is still not edited. "Swing" and "Across the Distance" should have been published long ago. I haven't made much money on the books - in fact, I've put in more money than I've made.
A lot more.
Or I can say. Look how far I've come.
A year ago, I was depending on a publishing company to do what I didn't know how. I had no way of telling if their work was good or correct. In one year, I've learned that if I don't know something, I can learn it. I've learned that it's not as hard to get into the film industry as I thought. I've learned that if I write down that painful experiance of my past, it suddenly stops pleaguing me. I've learned to give people a chance to be themselves without prejudging them.
I've performed in plays. I've taught acting classes. I've learned to set goals and work toward them. I've learned that I can be anything I want, so long as I have the courage and grit to keep after it.
Every step of publishing my own work has had a steep learning curve with it - and I'm by no means an expert in editing, formatting for kindle, or laying out a physical page with InDesign. I've held a few book signings and set up my first book tour.
I'm no longer just the author. I'm the editor, the typesetter, the producer, the sales managers, the accountant, the secretary, the proof-reader and the cover designer all rolled into one. Some of these steps, I've had outside help with and want to get more - especially in the editing department.
But I've learned so much since a year ago. I've even learned enough to realize there's more I don't know.
So I keep plugging away, knowing that after I learn this stuff, things will go faster, smoother and I won't have to redo things over and over again. If I can get these books out - I can get any books out. My goal is to make every book better than the last.

Oct. 10 - Persistance

This weekend I went to a ranch for our family reunion. It was so much fun and I felt content and relaxed in a way I haven't in a long time. Except for a headache and some dizzy spells, I had no complaints the entire weekend.
Today, however, I'm home and it was supposed to be a jump back into routine day. My routine's been faltering the last few days. I was struck by this excerpt from "Goals!" from Brian Tracy and remembered it last night and this morning:
"Your greatest successes almost invariably come one step beyond the point where everything inside of you says to quit. Men and women throughout history have been amazed to find that their great breakthroughs came about as a result of persisting in the face of all disappointment and all evidence to the contrary. This final act of persistence, which is often called the "persistence text," seems to preceded great achievements of all kinds."
I think I'm there. My computer screen is going out on my laptop - so even with the rebooting required to fix it, was hard. Ryan said last night it wouldn't work - so not only have I lost whatever I did not back up on the hard drive before it was wiped clean - but now there's no system at all on it, even if the screen does decide to stop flickering and shaking.
So we tried plan B: Downloading "InDesign" to Pop's computer which is the one I am using right now. I found it for &75.00's and was happy about that. But Ryan said last night, there wasn't enough space on the computer to run the program. So now I have a program waiting to be downloaded and no where to download it to. My bank is lower than it's been since I was a teenager and first beginning to teach lessons. My job at the theater school is going to be a lot of work for a little pay.
I don't know what to do now and everything hinges on getting those books done. I've been reading about sentence styling and editing and now I'm wondering when in the world you should let the manuscript go and declare it "good enough".
The dizziness has become a rather constant companion and I'm not sure what's going on with it. I want to get motivated and I want to start working but at this point, I'm not even sure where to start or what to do next. I suppose I could start editing "Swing" again but... quite honestly, I'm sick of rereading manuscripts.

Oct. 5, 2011

This morning came too quickly. I woke at 6:30 - unlike yesterday, I didn't allow myself to go back to sleep - though I wanted to. I got up and spent longer than usual on my Bible, reading verses on obedience. It struck me that in the Old Testament when God's telling the Isrealites to take over the countries, drive out the inhabitance and destroy all signs of their idol-worship, it might be serving as a picture for us internally. When we confess our sins, it's not enough just to point them out to God. We have to remain alert and actively tear down or stop doing all traces of them if we want to live with an undevided heart and serve God.
Yesterday I listened to several sermons, one of which was on breaking the family curse. Looking at the traites in my life and my family, I concluded that a good majority of my problems stem from a spirit of fear.
I'm afraid to obey God because I don't know what he'll make me give up or do.
I'm afraid of what other people will think or say about me.
I'm afraid to try new things or embark on my own.
I got no writing or editing done yesterday but I got the kitchen cleaned really well and I spent a lot of time listening to sermons and praying and generally doing some internal cleaning as well.
Today, I woke and decided I could act on what I did feel God had told me to do - even if I was unclear in other areas. So I pulled up "Flames" - finding that when I erased the index cards, I erased the script that went with them. A few minutes of searching and prayers later, I found it. So now I have the characters and plot in one program and the script in the other. Since I'm writing out of order, I decided to move to a word document and just format the completed script into the program later so I don't mess stuff up.
But by the time I got all that done, I kind of forgot what I'd been planning to write. I wrote a bit. Now I'm sleepy again. Really sleepy.
I'm not sure what today will hold. I need to go over the music for class tomorrow with the kiddos. I would like to edit more of "Swing"... I need to see about installing the formatting software.
I'll probably have to go on a walk next just to wake up.

A Late Post

I woke at 6:30 from a rather disturbing dream about a drunk co-actor. I almost went back to sleep since comapany was here last night and I didn't fall asleep until after 1:00. But I pushed through it and found Pop making omlettes. I can't focus well enough to say everything I did. I'll have to put it later.
This is something I jotted on my 45 minute lunch break.

Lunch break with the Characters
I’ve got water boiling for tea that Jonathan would approve of and I’m heating beans to put on the salad. Yeah, I eat beans on my salad. Lance can stop looking horrified.
Kent is still teasing me over my battle not to give in to curiosity and waste $20.00’s and hour of time to see how in the world someone wrote a “Phantom of the Opera” video game. Somehow, he misses the glower of Erik who’s sitting silently in the corner. Erik hasn’t been around as much the last few years. Now he just blends in with the Sentarrian masters who are also fond of black cloaks and manipulation. Poor Tehvoer’s looking ill.
I’m contemplating the chances of getting up at 5:00 to have the maximum hours of uninterupted quiet. I’m not sure I can do it.
Andrew shrugs, muttering, “I do it. And I work in a factory all day.”
“Only for a while,” I defend.
“I do it too,” Karl, of course, jumps at a chance for arguing.
“Well, that’s…”
I glance around the room. Come to think of it, Kael’s usually up before dawn. Darshon gets up just before sunrise – which here is closer to 7:00 – and Erik has such weird hours, he doesn’t know when it’s night or day – and probably doesn’t care.
Tehveor, however, probably gets up and sleeps less than all of us put together – though he doesn’t say anything about it. Tehveor is very protective of his secrets – unlike some of my characters who can’t help but sob their stories.
Jonathan ducks and Karl just glares and tells me that’s my fault for writing him at 2:00 AM when I’m over-emotional.
It’s probably true so I don’t argue.
Jonathan makes no defense and Darshon smirks.
“Oh come on. I have to have SOME character that’s not up till the crack of dawn…”
I glance around the room. “Don’t I?” I have very industrious characters….
But from the back, Erik’s hand goes lazily up. I breathe a sigh of relief.
I feel better.
Kent has my Oz script and is making a mockery of the charecters, while Karl teases he’d make a great cowardly lion. Darshon’s smirking again. He is continually intrigued that when I stop writing and return to “real life” – I spend my evenings racing across a stage, talking to green yarn that’s serving as a fill-in for “Toto”, surrounded by painted scenes and other people who are pretending to be lions and monkeys and tin-men and talking scarecrows. Though yesterday half the cast was missing, so I was left talking to imaginary people for nearly the entire first act.
Afterwards, they said I was really good at it and I looked like I could really see them.
I can’t imagine why anyone would thinkI was good at talking to imaginary people…
Yesterday I left Jonathan so distressed meeting his future father-in-law, I thought I might try to draw on those emotions for the scene in the witch’s castle. After all, Jonathan is the character with the most luck that he would be the one to get dragged off by flying monkey’s and end up in a witch’s castle, even if he does live in modern-day America. Last night though, it didn’t work and I was closer to summing tears by staying Dorothy – even if the real Andrew says she’s a brat.
She’s not really a brat. She’s just bored.
Darshon and Karl understand.
In the meantime, Charles and Gabby are encouraging me to finish that salad. Charles says I’m restless and looking like Lance.
He no sooner says his son’s name, than Lance pop’s into the room, glancing around a mile a minute. I ask how Val’s doing and he says she’s studying all the time. He shudders, thinking of the books, while Andrew looks wistful like he’s really wishing he could go back to school.
Erik starts figiting, now that his brother is here. He’s glancing around the room, checking for all breakable objects and buttons that shouldn’t be pushed. You know, like fire alarms and emergincy exits.
Kael thinks both of those ideas are really good ones and should be implimented at once into the castle. Galaphy just glares. He’d probably figure out a way to trap people in the exits and make fire come from the spriklers.
Oh. I shouldn’t have said that. Erik’s perking up in the corner, glancing with intrigue at the man.
I’ll have to send someone over to remind Erik that he really doesn’t want to be bad…
Nobody volunteers so I summon Stephen and assign the poor man to the task – and set Karl as a bodyguard, temperarly relieving him of a bad heart – though I’m not even sure that combonation is a good one. Perhaps I should inquire about barrowing Felix from Jess, but Diana sends me a rather feirce glare.
Now I’m nearly finished with my salad. Charles is gently reminding me that I need to stay focused on my work. Darshon’s complaining about the line of books that I’ve put before the second “Secret of Sentarra” – though I think he really just doesn’t like being ignored.