Day Three of Writing Retreat

Normally during a retreat, I survive on two to three hour naps. I’m usually so psyched that I can work long stretches of time. Really, that’s the whole idea of getting away to write. No interruptions. No routine. It’s incredibly awesome. A marathon of writing. Or editing, in this case.

During this retreat, even the word marathon makes my sinuses throb. All things considered, there’s been good progress on my editing. Using the mind over matter technique, I made a valiant effort to deny my cold symptoms the power to slow my work process. And I was successful. For a good three hours of editing. Make that a great three hours. After that, I started to fade. Just a bit. I hung in there for several more hours.

In that time, I edited another four chapters. Not bad, but not enough. I expected to be farther along at this point. After all, the manuscript was perfect. It was just a matter of turning the pages. Good, good, good, and good. How long could it take. I’m kidding, of course. I did a few rewrites. Nothing major but more time-consuming than nodding my head and turning a page.

The important thing is that I’m satisfied—make that pleased—with all the chapters I’ve completed. The question now is, do I have time to finish the book by deadline. My own deadline. The end of the retreat. I could stay an extra day, a definite probability, or wish I’d packed it in when I got sick, and re-scheduled. Well, it’s too late to pack it in.

Along with the other cold symptoms—headache, throbbing sinuses, fatigue, fever—I’ve lost my voice. Some of you may wonder why that is a big deal. After all, I’m by myself. Why would I need to talk? Writers would recognize the setback. Reading my work aloud is one of the most effective methods of editing. But let’s look on the bright side. Sure, I can’t read my work aloud now, but by keeping my mouth shut I won’t cough as much—that croupy throat-tearing cough. That’s a good thing. Right?

Here’s to speedier progress, my friends. Wish me luck. Only a few more chapters to go…

Day Two of Writing Retreat

It wasn’t until I closed my eyes that I saw the problem. I’ll remember in the morning, I told myself. I repeated the solution over and over in my mind. I finally threw back the covers and fumbled for the light. There, I thought, as I put the pen down.

Back in bed, the title of the new chapter came to me. I’ll remember, I thought. Yep, you guessed it. I stumbled from bed, wrote down the title, and crawled back. I wasn’t feeling well and besides I had bigger problems. For one thing, I was out of chocolate and down a half bottle of wine. Not to worry, I have lots of green tea and baby carrots. Okay, I’m not short of food but the good stuff is in short supply. Or gone.

That’s not all. The scratchy throat that I’ve mostly ignored for the past few days has been getting worse. This morning I feel like crap. My throat, my sinuses, my head. Oh no, this can’t be happening. I have a deadline here.

Then I did it. Something I try to avoid at all costs. I took a cold pill. Then I drank two mugs of hot water and lemon. Toasted a bagel and made a strong cup of coffee. I’m going to be fine, I told myself. And promptly curled up on the bed and fell asleep. You see, that’s the way cold pills affect me.

I only slept for an hour but felt a little groggy when I woke. That’s when I leaped to my feet. This cold is not going to slow me down. I turned on the shower as hot as I could stand it. If the smell of sulphur water doesn’t kill me, it just might cure me. A woman on a mission, I scrubbed until my skin was pink and my hair was squeaky. I’m in control, not this nasty cold.

Rather than letting my hair air dry, I reached for the hairdryer. Bloody thing must be on a timer. Every couple of minutes it shut down. That wasn’t going to stop me. I slathered myself in scented body lotion and put on a complete set of new clothes. There’d be no slouching braless in a sweatshirt for me today. Every few minutes I’d grab the hairdryer for another two minutes of fluffing.

That wasn’t enough. I opened up my suitcase again. I know I packed it. There it was. A small green case. Lipstick, mascara, face cream. The works. I preened in front of the mirror. Look good—Feel good. Right? That is what they say.

I flung open two windows on the sunny side and turned up the heat. Still too cold to sit outside but at least it’s sunny and the air is fresh.

I have to admit that I feel pretty good right now. Half the morning is gone and I haven’t been too productive on editing my book, BUT it’s going to get better. I can feel it every time I blow my nose and clear my throat. Hallelujah! I’m feelin’ good.

Day One of Writing Retreat

The accommodations are a little more ‘rustic’ than I anticipated. The musty smell slightly more prevalent. These units were probably closed up for most of the winter. I expected them to smell stale and unused. I unpack my scented candle and put it to work before I unpack anything else.

At the sight of the Out of Order sign on the fridge, I gulp, until I notice the portable unit right across from it. I quickly pull open the door. Good. It’s working. Hauling my soft-sided cooler closer, I unload all my goodies into the little fridge. When I stand up, I crack my head on the corner of the cupboard. Staggering back a couple of steps, I press my fingers on the tender bump and look for blood. No blood.

Anxious to get set up, I reach for the case with my printer. I brought power bars and extension cords but it looks like I’ll be okay without them.

The small square table is the perfect size for my laptop and printer. I’m in business.

I think I should start with a cup of tea. I put water in the kettle and…the cord is too short to reach the low receptacle. I check the bathroom. Yes, a receptacle…but it doesn’t work. I hit the reset button a few times and manage to get the power back. No problem.

Rubbing my arms against the chill in the room. I decide to close the windows, which are all open, presumably to air the place. I turn on the heater. It looks brand new and it works great.

Though it’s late afternoon before I actually start editing my book, I complete two chapters and print hard copies for that final, final edit. I can’t say that the creative juices are flowing. Everything seems strange to me and I’m not fully settled in.

With every sound I hear, I rush to the window. Much like Lex at home. I tell her it’s none of her business when someone pulls into the neighbour’s driveway. Stop barking. Now I know how she feels. One can’t ignore something like that. Only I don’t bark. But I do use it as an excuse to grab something to munch. Work progresses slowly.

Fatigue set in around 9:00. Unfortunately, I’d been up since 4 AM. It was just one of those mornings. It happens. Pulling back the bedspread to do that little black-speck-around-the-edge-of-the-mattress check, I discover that though the room smells musty, the bedding smells freshly laundered. And, oh yeah, there are no black specks.

I can’t sleep. My throat closes up. The stale air is making me feel ill. I am up several times before I open a window. There’s a rush of fresh cold air. I feel guilty that the heater ran all night long, but I had a decent sleep.

So now, it’s morning. My first morning here. I prepare my hot water and lemon and somehow the place looks better than it did yesterday. Quaint even.

Think I’ll toast a blueberry bagel, make a coffee, and do what I came here to do…focus on finishing this book.

Writers Networking Interview

Lambton County author Gloria Pearson-Vasey interviewed me for her blog series 'Writers Networking.'



Writers Networking: Phyllis Humby
Columnist, novelist, blogger, talented penner of prose in many forms, Phyllis Humby is a member of several professional associations including Crime Writers of Canada.
Always welcoming and ever-affirming of other writers, she is the heart of the Lambton Writers’ Association of which she is founder.
I’m delighted that Phyllis has graciously taken time from her busy schedule to be my first Writers Networking interviewee.
G: Phyllis, where do you get ideas for your entertaining column, ‘Up Close and Personal’?
P: From day to day interaction with friends, strangers, animals… Seriously, most of my ideas come out of the blue. This often happens just as I’m about to begin housecleaning and I have to drop everything and start writing… So strange.
G: What motivated you to organize Lambton Writers’ Association?
P: In 2013 I was a Fringe Reader at the Eden Mills Writers’ Festival. During a social gathering, the room was packed with writers engrossed in conversation. Clustered in groups of 2 or 3 or 4, some were sitting cross-legged on the floor, perched on the edge of chairs, crowded onto a sofa, while others communed elbow-to-elbow. Everyone caught up in passionate conversation. It was a huge honour for me to be there and I was ultra aware of everything and everyone around me. The synergy in the room was surreal! It was an extraordinary experience. Peggy Fletcher said it. ‘Family and friends will be bored with dangling participles but you’ll always have the ear of a writer.’
The Lambton Writers’ Association is a venue for passionate writers to mingle and network. An opportunity to talk about dangling participles…
G: When did you first know you were a writer?
P: One definition of a writer is a person who writes books, stories, or articles as a job or regular occupation. I guess since I write a monthly magazine column I can say I’m a writer. The fact that I occupy much of my time writing stories and books qualifies me as a writer. Yet, it’s my reverent respect for writers that makes me feel unworthy to apply that label to myself.
I’ve been an incorrigible daydreamer for as long as I remember. Maybe longer than that. Inner dialogue, circumstance, and characters entertained me from the time I was a child. Even my dreams were feature length! It was years before I began recording my imaginings. And several more years before I confided to anyone that I wrote stories. One may argue that the fact that I can’t stop writing is the final determinant that I am a writer.
G: How do your previous work and/or life experiences influence your writing?
P: Everything I’ve seen, heard, tasted, smelled, or touched influences my writing. My life experiences (I can remember incidents at age 2 )are a resource and stimulus for my writing. I worked with the public for most of my life and that is a writer’s bonanza. I love people and years of people watching have undoubtedly affected my ability to create realistic—sometimes sinister—characters. I’m open-minded and imaginative enabling me to absorb things that I haven’t personally experienced. And ‘fortunately’, (only from a writer’s perspective) I ‘feel’ other people’s pain and joy. The emotions can be overwhelming at times but I’m sure come into play subconsciously when I’m working on a story.
G: What are the genres in which you write? Do you have a preferred one?
P: I made the decision to write genre in the desperate hope that it would be easier to break into a specialized market. Crime is on the rise—popularity-wise—and since it was always a favourite read, I tried writing it. Yes!! It’s exciting and very challenging. And don’t be surprised to see a bit of the paranormal or fantastical in my stories. Why not, it’s fiction. Crime writing still involves a good deal of research, which I enjoy. I’m a stickler when it comes to detail. I also love writing stories set in the 30s and 40s. I’m comfortable in that era. An old soul, perhaps…
G: Do you have a particular setting for your writing?
P: I’ve tried writing in every room of the house. I have a bright cheery office on the main floor but I had to give it up to my husband. Not because he wanted it. Because I was too easily distracted by nature and the adorable wildlife outside my window. A crime story would suddenly become whimsical with mice scampering through the leaves or bunnies munching on burning bush shrubs. Cardinals, with their little toenails—do they have toenails?—clinging to the window screen. I’d find myself daydreaming instead of writing. Now I work in the downstairs storage room. No windows. And a nearly two –inch- thick door. It’s okay. No, really. I have a huge cluttered desk, bookcase, and boxes of files. I share the room with bins of Christmas decorations, three miniature trees, and some dusty workout equipment. And a trunk. Oh, and a crafts table for my granddaughters that is usually filled with my junk. No prob. I like this arrangement.
G: What kinds of books do you read?
P: It would be easier to share which kinds of books I don’t read. I tend to avoid light frivolous reads. Romance isn’t high on my list. Not as a reading preference, that is. I love character-driven books—especially a great series, crime/suspense, historical… I love the books that take me forever to read because the writing is so incredible that I keep re-reading paragraphs as I go along (deep sigh). I like credible stories with grit.
G: Do you wish to share anything about your personal life?
P: For nearly twenty years I was proprietor of a small-town retail lingerie business. I’m finishing up the manuscript of my experiences—sad, hilarious, frightening—and hope to submit it to a publisher within the next short while.
G: Have you participated in writing contests?
P: I have, but I’m very selective. First of all, I prefer writing novels to short stories. But I have experienced some success with my contest submissions. Eden Mills Writers’ Festival selected a humorous story, Delusional Date. Whiskey Nights, a psychological suspense, placed second in the YMM National Short Story contest. A mystery story, Reflections of Miss Sally, took first place at the Bloody Words Mystery Conference in Toronto for Crime Writers of Canada.
G: What works have you published to date?
P: I’ve been fortunate to have numerous short stories, book reviews, and newspaper and magazine articles published in journals and anthologies in Canada, the U.S. and the UK.
G: What are your thoughts on traditional vs indie publishing?
P: Oh boy. First off, I believe that anyone who is serious enough about his or her writing to go the full measure and have it published is a deserving author. Maybe it’s a matter of low confidence but I prefer to be told by a traditional publisher or agent that I’m worthy of ink on a page. The publishing trade is overwhelmed with wannabees and I’m one of those who keep sending queries in the hope that the timing is right. Timing and circumstance are keys to being ‘discovered’. I’m blessed to have some of my short stories on the market and will be ecstatic the day I receive word that one of my novels is being accepted by a traditional publisher.
G: Anything else you wish to elaborate on?
P: When I first began submitting my work, the rejections were hard to handle. Maybe not the first or third or tenth, but eventually I began questioning why I was trying to market my work at all.
Writer friends are a lifeline. A special camaraderie that can’t be duplicated. They taught me that writing and publishing is about the journey. Not just the destination. From that moment, my attitude changed. I’ve made numerous acquaintances of incredibly talented people, attended inspiring events, and rejoiced in the success of colleagues. I’m enjoying every aspect of this wonderful and rewarding journey. And all that is to savour along the way. If I travel no further than I am now, I am not disappointed. I’m in awe of the people I’ve met, thankful of occasions we’ve shared, and gratified by the passion-filled experience. Oh, what a magical journey.
So appreciative of your sharing, Phyllis. Thanks too for your continued nurturing of the Lambton Writers’ Association. Continued happiness and success on your writing journey.

 

You can visit Gloria's web page here http://www.gloriapearsonvasey.com

When A Writer Stops Writing

What happens when a writer decides to stop writing? I found out a few months ago. It was my fault, of course. I’d taken my passion and turned it into something stressful. More like work than play. Joy had left the building – my office at least. My brain rebelled and misery seeped through the tension like blood from an open wound. (Give me a break, I do write crime, you know.)

It was too much. The writing deadlines, the literary events, the number of new books to be read, digested – god forbid reviewed, no time for that. The market flooded as everyone and his brother – or sister, as the case may be – were self-publishing. Excuse me, that’s no longer politically correct – it’s independently publishing. Something I vowed never to do.

Now, before you get your drawers in a knot, I’m not criticizing those who want their books in print and then do everything in their power to make it happen. On the contrary, I have a rather grudging respect for them. But it’s not for me.

I’ll continue to polish my novels, maybe even send a few more queries. I did get an exciting nibble a few months back. It was on what they termed my ‘dark thriller’. Perhaps it was too dark for them. Trends change. If I started writing traditional mysteries, the publishers would be sending out calls for stories about little old ladies dragging blood spattered axes behind them. (Now we’re back to my dark thriller.) There shouldn’t be trends in the publishing industry. What happened to just a damn good story? Don’t get me started.

Anyway, the whole … writing thing … was getting me down. I was running as hard as I could and not getting anywhere fast. So that’s when I took a timeout. No writing. If I can go for a couple of months without sitting at the computer, then I can escape forever.

After a few weeks, several weeks actually which is more than just a few, I had an overwhelming urge to write. I bought a new journal. Something special. I rooted through my desk drawer for my treasured Cross pen, sleek, silver and engraved. It had been a gift. At least thirty years old – older than some of the writers whose books are on the bestseller list. Never mind.

I opened the tooled leather cover and began to write. I wrote like no one would read it. My philosophies on life, my regrets – I know we’re not supposed to have any, but who doesn’t – and something magical happened. It felt good. I felt good. I couldn’t remember the last time I hand wrote anything, aside from a grocery list, which is usually indecipherable.

Journaling had been a life-long habit. One that I’d neglected when I began writing stories. I’d stopped looking inward, never scratching deeper than the surface, thinking I knew what I wanted without reflection.

This brings to mind something a published friend said to me. “Be very careful what you wish for.” These cryptic words echoed repeatedly through my mind. Sage advice. Not that I’ve given up on my aspirations. No, I’ve simply put things back into perspective.

And so here I am. Back at the keyboard. Void of expectation. Void of commitment – relatively speaking. I’ve put the joy back into writing. It’s a passion, not a job.

Yesterday, my husband stopped at the open door to my office. “Haven’t seen me here for awhile, have you?” I said. He didn’t comment but I think he was pleased. As if everything had fallen back into place.