lily_scarlet's Xanga

Second star on the right, and straight on 'til morning

Sat, 18 May 2013 01:51:42 GMT

It takes more time for me to learn how to relax than it does for me to work. I worked on an editing project today, but after a few hours my brain just wouldn't cooperate anymore. So I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening cleaning my office, my bedroom, and of course . . . watching Star Trek. If you are as geeky as me, you knew that already by the subject line.

When I find the time-- when I can't sleep, in between work shifts, or whenever I have a moment when I should really be "doing something else"-- I've been writing again. I'm alternating between two projects. I don't want to share the title of one, but it's a highly personal piece of fiction. I took my most painful memories and put them into a fictional character, exaggerating some aspects. It's one of those things I'll be nervous about publishing. People already think that every character I write is me, even if I tell them otherwise. I can't imagine what they'll think about this book.

The second project is called Meet Me in the Garden, and it's coming along nicely. Set alternately in present day and Ireland of the sixteen hundreds, it's what I would call a suspenseful . . . Romance? I'm surprising myself by writing something I never thought I could write. Then again, it's a great racket to get into. Now I just have to figure out how Danielle Steel makes her millions . . .

Well, back to The Final Frontier. Goodnight, everyone.

Running like mad

Wed, 24 Apr 2013 12:23:56 GMT

I feel like I've been running a lot lately. Running to and from work, running around the house, running to get things done . . . And of course, actual running. I ran in my fourth 5k on Sunday. I did quite well, 3.1 miles in 35:00. It's not my best, but I couldn't run the whole time because my sciatic was bothering me again. That's my old grocery store war wound. Long story. I felt incredible as I ran up to the finish line. I felt like I was made out of air.

Everything is moving fluidly lately. Everything is working out and working well. I'm writing again and getting plenty of editing work. Every day I am one step closer to making my business a full-time venture. I'm also working on a new book that combines bits of my life with fictional characters. I've done this in the past, but never to such an extreme extent. This book is more non-fiction than anything I've ever written. I think I need to write it, though. It's therapy. I'm getting toxicity out of my system.

I have a lot of my own writing projects that are "up in the air" right now. I'm trying to bring them back to earth, but it's hard to find time. I'm going to commit to writing in this blog more regularly from now on. Perhaps it will help spark some of my creativity and get me writing on a more regular basis. It doesn't really matter what I write, as long as the words come out.

I'm going to take a break from running for a day or so, to get my thoughts back in order. The question is, what kind of running am I referring to? Probably the mental kind. Have a wonderful day, everyone.

KWLS: Highlights of the week

Tue, 22 Jan 2013 18:16:13 GMT

My favorite part of my week in Key West at the Literary Seminar was when a well-known poet came into the house I was staying in, sat down in the living room, and criticized the messy state of the couch, on which someone had slept the previous night. I giggle whenever I think it. I met authors such as Kate Moses, Jennie Fields, Mary Morris, and Colm Toibin. I felt very strange the entire time because I had never done anything like that before. It was my first time in Key West and my first time being around so many writers at once. I was surrounded by literary celebrities.

I visited Hemingway's house, some wonderful museums, and walked everywhere. Thanks to the writing workshop I attended led by Jay Parini, I have regained my ability to write. My writer's block is gone. I also attribute that to an adventure involving my car. I lost my brakes on Roosevelt Boulevard and nearly collided with an SUV. Managing to back up and get into a hotel parking lot, I had AAA tow me to a shop that turned out to be less than satisfactory. The owner of the repair shop seemed to have dementia and insisted that my car was impossible to fix. I knew this wasn't true. A part of my rear brake line had rusted out, requiring a new line and a splice into the rest of the brake line. Not impossible.

When I called him on it, he gave in, with a dreamy look on his weathered face, as though he had no idea that he was standing in a garage. I had to repeat several times that I needed my car key back-- he wouldn't give it to me because he had no idea what I was talking about. When I finally got my key back, I waited for AAA a second time and managed to get to a better shop. Long story short, I had a delightful experience at the second repair shop I visited, ending the evening with a hearty handshake. I told the owner, "Thanks, I had a lot of fun!" which is definitely not what you expect to say when you're getting your car fixed.

If I had been home, I would have fixed it myself.

The workshop as well as the experience with my car made me able to write again. I typed up a different first chapter to At the Turn of a Wrench, the sequel to Check Out Time. And I found the comments that I got in the workshop to be quite enlightening. When it was pointed out that I could in fact change the focus of my novel to make it easier on myself, I was blown away by the simplicity of the suggestion.

"Don't limit yourself."

"You need direction."

"What is the focus of your story?"

They sound like simple statements, but they really struck a chord. I realized that since my father died last year, I've been unable to write anything coherent that doesn't fall apart after a few pages. Everything is about him. Almost every blog entry I wrote over the last year was about Dad. Every word I wrote was for him. Those simple statements grounded me and made me realize that I was going about it all wrong. In my own life, not just my writing, I limit myself. I don't have direction. I lack focus. I learned something about myself this past week, not just about my writing.

And that makes me so happy. I think I just got a lot better at life.

On that note, here's a photo of me with everyone in Jay Parini's advanced fiction workshop:

KWLS: The Key West Lighthouse

Tue, 15 Jan 2013 21:19:49 GMT

My feet are killing me. I brought a pedometer with me and I really should have been wearing it today. I walked a lot, possibly more than I walked yesterday. The Key West Literary Seminar Writer's Workshop that I am attending lasts until one o' clock, so I have had plenty of time to explore.

I wandered around and came across the Key West Lighthouse, which is right across the street from Hemingway's home. I made a decision quite a while back that I would attempt to quell my intense fear of heights by climbing any lighthouse that I come across. I have climbed the Jupiter Lighthouse at least three times. Jupiter Lighthouse is 105 steps--if my memory serves me correctly--but the Key West Lighthouse is only 88 steps. Both are much smaller than the Saint Augustine lighthouse, which I have yet to climb.

It scared me, but I did it anyway. I almost gave up and turned around. It helps to do meditative breathing as I'm climbing the steps. Key West Light has particularly narrow stairs, and there is an awful gap in between the step railing and the wall, making it possible to peek over the edge and look down. So despite the fact that it was shorter than Jupiter Light, I found it more frightening because the space felt both narrow and open.

I still made it. Here's a view from the top.

Quite beautiful, but I do find the view from Jupiter Light to be more spectacular, because you get both a view of the ocean and the inlet.

Tomorrow, the writing workshop continues. So far, it has been enlightening, interesting, and a lot of fun!

Just a pinch of self-loathing, add water, stir.

Wed, 09 Jan 2013 16:52:18 GMT

I never knew the definition of "writer's block" until I moved to Florida. I suppose a lot of things caused it--depression, increased workload, and of course, the increasing certainty that everything I do sucks. That last bit is something that many writers struggle with, especially once you begin getting reviews. At the moment, I can say that my writing is good, and I shouldn't beat myself up so much. But try telling that to the devil on your shoulder. If you're a writer, you probably know what I'm talking about.

No, I haven't written in quite a while, and I suppose that's why this blog has fallen to the wayside. The topic behind this website is writing, and how is one to write about writing when one is struggling with, well, writing? I remember when I used to spend an entire day belting out page after page. I haven't done that in years. The fans of my current published books tend to ask me: "What are you writing now?" and I struggle with what to tell them. I wonder if it is disappointing to a reader when an author replies to that question with, "Well, I wrote a letter to my grandma yesterday."

I am hoping that I will re-discover my passion for writing next week. Midge and I are driving to the Keys for the Key West Literary Seminar. (Midge is my car.) I will be participating in a fiction workshop led by Jay Parini and attending the second session of the seminar. It should be absolutely wonderful, and I'm really looking forward to it. I am hoping that seven days on Key West will spark my creativity somehow, and I'll be able to write again.

If you're a writer and you're feeling down about yourself: don't worry, we all do. Each word that you pen is an accomplishment of some kind, and you need to be proud of that. At moments like this, when I'm feeling especially crappy about my writing, I like to remind myself of my favorite success. My first novel was on the physical shelf at Barnes & Noble. In a world where e-books are becoming the norm, I consider that a pretty neat accomplishment.

There. I feel a bit better now. I'll try to blog when I'm in Key West. And I hope that the words I write will be a tad more interesting than this post, which is really not that good anyway--

Oops. There I go again!

Dad's doing much better

Wed, 12 Sep 2012 11:50:34 GMT

The last few days have been particularly trying for me. A culmination of events made me quite depressed, including the realization that I have been suppressing some grief where my father is concerned. Despite this, I don't ignore him. He's always around. I have sensed his presence on numerous occasions, like when I was alone and I felt him tap me on the shoulder, and another time when I was alone and I smelled garlic. But his presence, until now, was accompanied by sadness, and every time I saw him in the spirit world, he was usually rushing to do something. When he first crossed over, I dreamt of him several times, but he was in a great hurry, rushing by me with a tool belt around his waist. He had to fix things.

He's finally getting a chance to relax. Last night, when I climbed into bed, I felt Dad's presence in my room, along with the presence of my guardian. Dad's energy was very strong, and I was comforted by it. As I relaxed on my pillow, I believe I felt him kiss me on the cheek. He was there all night.

This morning, a loud noise woke me up for a few minutes, and I put a pillow over my other ear so I could go back to sleep. I drifted away rather quickly, and I had a vision. In this vision, I opened my eyes and awoke on the other side. I had been sleeping on hay, in the back of an old Willys. A Willys jeep is smaller, so this one was more like a Willys pick-up truck. But like a jeep, it had a vinyl roof.

For a moment, I was there by myself. The Willys was parked on the side of a narrow dirt road in the middle of the woods. A slight breeze rustled the foliage on the tall, full trees surrounding me. I could hear birds singing. The sun was shining. Everything here was beautiful, a perfect paradise. The forest, the Willys, the hay--everything around me had an ethereal air to it. Slowly, a figure materialized beside me. Dad had been sleeping as well, and there was a peaceful smile on his face. He was wearing a T-shirt, a blue that was almost grey, with his jeans and work boots. He woke up, his hands behind his head, enjoying the feeling of the sun on his face.

"Oh, Daddy!" I shouted, throwing my arms around him. "I love you!" I could smell his hair, the way it always used to smell, with hints of wood chips, garlic, and engine oil.

Dad wrapped his arms around me and hugged me back. "I love you too, sweetheart," he replied.

It was like we were there for a whole afternoon, just talking. I told him I thought the woods were beautiful--what a wonderful place this was. He agreed, and said he loved it there. I told him all the things I loved about Florida.

"There are woods there, too, but they're different," I told him. I mentioned the Everglades. "There's a place I went to the other day, with Mama. . . ."

We talked about the different plants in the forest, and how they were different from the plants in Pennsylvania. I told him about how Mama and I had discovered deer moss, a funny looking thing that grows on the ground in south Florida. I told him there was an abundance of it at Jupiter Ridge, and that it consisted of puffy olive green tufts.

"You can transplant that; you just have to be very careful," Dad advised.

At some point, I heard the faint sound of an engine rumbling, and I saw Jordan drive past, his car bouncing along the uneven dirt road. He looked out the window at us, smiling. When things like this happen in a vision, I think it must be because of spiritual connections, or that Jordan was sleeping and thinking of me, perhaps peeking into the vision that my father and I shared. Dad and Jordan met once on the physical plane, and I know my dad liked him.

We talked about a lot of things, mostly nature and how beautiful the forest was.

When it was time to go, Dad turned to me and said, "I'll always be with you, Rosa, whenever you need me. I am always here for you."

"I love you, Dad."

"I love you, too." We hugged again. He disappeared slowly, his figure sinking into the background.

And then I drifted away from that beautiful world. I woke up sobbing heavily, tears streaming down my face, and I could still feel Dad's presence. I can still feel him now. He's here.

As someone who has always been able to see the dead, I have never been afraid of death. But losing someone you love is always difficult, even if you can feel them, even if you know exactly where they are, as I do. I have visited Dad before, in the In-Between. Even though I know where Dad is, things are different now because he is not in our plane of existence. There are many reasons why this hurts. However, I think it is important to take comfort in the fact that he is at least taking some time to relax. There are a lot of things a spirit has to finish when they cross over, and there are many reasons why they stay behind to look after family members. Dad's taking some time to sit back and rest.

I hope this comforts my family, because I know that's what Dad wants. He wants everyone to know that he's all right. And let me tell you, that forest he's in-- it's gorgeous. And it's all his. There's no one else there to bother him. Unless he wants them to.

To my family: Go to sleep tonight and say your prayers. Tell my dad you'd like to see him. If you intend it as hard as you can, and keep practicing, and keep trying, you may be able to visit him, too.

Grassy Waters and my next novel

Sat, 25 Aug 2012 10:22:48 GMT

While we drove around in Royal Palm Beach-- backwoods, Everglades, Royal Palm --we could not find parking, got very confused by multiple signs that warned us not to trespass, and found the Everglades Youth Concentration Camp-- er, conservation camp. Long dirt roads meandered through the woods. A confusing sign suggested politely that we put three dollars in an envelope and place the envelope in an obscure box. Another sign suggested that we make a right, while yet another sign suggested that we were not permitted to make a right. We made a left on what was supposed to be a "major road" of this supposedly fantastic park, but we were stopped by a garish yellow road block. Nothing made any sense. A sign for public parking led us down a narrow trail fit only for hiking, and we ended up in a small grassy area with run-down picnic tables and a random sign informing us about local wildlife. There was one other human being in the entire place, and we pulled over to ask him if he knew where public parking was. The friendly man proclaimed, "I have no idea!" Chip and I were thoroughly confused. Good thing we didn't pay the three dollars.

Apparently the place was called J.W. Corbett Wildlife Management Area. Who knew? We managed to find our way out, and went instead to Grassy Waters, which is a lovely park off Northlake Boulevard. Grassy Waters is actually the main source of West Palm Beach's water supply. In which case, I think the tap water ought to taste better.

By the time we reached Grassy Waters, the damage had already been done. Yes, I have another novel in my head. Well, two. One of them was already begun some time ago, but the second one is still in its planning stages. I can't tell you about it yet because I'm paranoid about lax copyright laws.

I think about my writing all the time, especially when I'm at the library. Grassy Waters gave me some great ideas. Oh, I want to tell you about them! But I can't. I'm up very early this morning because I was supposed to go fishing with a friend. The rain and winds are continuing to build as Isaac draws closer. And I sit here, hoping that because I woke up at six, I might be able to write something. Might. We'll see. In the meantime, enjoy the photos I snapped yesterday. Nothing of the Youth Concentration Camp. Sorry!

This is one of my favorite places to take photos; the lighting is always perfect.

The author:

Now it's time to write.

Driving around with Warren Haynes

Sat, 04 Aug 2012 21:45:27 GMT

I'm starving. I mean, really starving. There's a lot going on. No need to explain the how's or why's or what's. But I'll say one thing. Lately, I find solace in driving. I listen to the same albums over and over again. I'm not sure why. When I need to get out, I just get in my car and I drive toward Juno Beach.

I've been listening to the same Gov't Mule album.

I always skip the first track for whatever reason. It's a live album. I don't know the song titles. The copy that I have was somehow mixed up with the information from a Shins CD. I still don't know how that happened. Whenever I pop the CD into my player, it reads titles from the Shins. Oh, well.

In the second track, wrongly titled "Australia", the first thing you hear is some wonderful instrumentals.

Then, Warren Haynes says, "It's good to see you!" or something along those lines.

As I drive down the road, I turn up the stereo, and I say, "You too, Warren." I pretend I am at a concert.

Warren follows this with, "How're we doing this evening?"

"Not so good, Warren, not so good," I say aloud.

That's the extent of my weekly--sometimes daily--conversations with the voice recording of Warren Haynes. The man doesn't even know I exist, yet here I am, driving down the road toward Juno, dutifully answering his questions, as though he were sitting in the passenger seat.

I imagine him there; in my mind, he says, "What's wrong, honey?" That voice changes, and suddenly it's not an imaginary version of Warren Haynes, but it's my father, and he has his hand on mine, and he's looking at me with a very concerned expression on his face. I don't think Dad ever called me "Honey," though. He usually called me "girl" or "little girl" or he would just say "my daughter." I think he liked repeating "my daughter" because it made it real: we hadn't seen each other for so many years, it was almost as if he was affirming that I existed.

I'm starving. I mean, really starving. I may have to take a drive through Juno Beach later-- see how Warren's doing.

"Wow, I love your hair!"

Sat, 28 Jul 2012 01:14:45 GMT

Ah, the shoe was on the other foot today.

About twenty-zillion times a week, I get asked the same questions.

"How long have you been growing your hair?"

"How do you wash it?"

"How do you sleep with it?"

"Do you ever get it caught in a door?"

"Do you ever get it caught in the toilet?"

Yes, really. People have asked me that. Really.

This evening, I went to a local pizza place to have dinner alone, and I happened to see a woman exiting the building who had hair as long as mine. It was hanging loose. It looked much thinner than mine, and she was blonde. But her hair was to her knees, just like mine is. I tend to forget how long my hair is. Seeing it on someone else is always a surprise, probably because I usually assume that I'm the only one.

Naturally, as she walked past, I said, "Wow, I love your hair!"

She ignored me at first, and then she reluctantly turned and looked at me.

I knew what was going through her head, because it's the same thing that goes through my head whenever I leave my hair unbraided. I'm always thinking, Please, don't let anyone notice me. I really don't want to answer those dumb questions today.

Her hesitation told me that she was thinking the same thing, that she thought I was "another one of those."

You might say, "If the questions annoy you so much, why do you keep your hair long?" Simple: I like it that way. I'm sure she does, too.

It was amusing being on the other side of the fence for once, and seeing my own reactions in someone else. I quickly added, "My hair is as long as yours; it's nice to see that I'm not the only one!"

She seemed disbelieving--probably because my hair was braided and hidden behind me. My acknowledgement was followed by a very awkward conversation, while her friend hung around, and one of the waiters asked the most common question of all. I could tell by her expression that she'd heard it a million times, just like I have. "How long did it take you to grow it?"

Thirty years, she said. When I thought about it, I realized that mine has only taken ten or fifteen years. I also gain a few pounds when it's wet, and it feels like a heavy rope hanging off the back of my skull.

The woman looked really uncomfortable and then said, "Well, uh, thanks," and she hurried out of there. I don't blame her.

I know how annoying it is to be badgered about how long your hair is. It was an interesting experience, seeing it from the other side. I was thinking of it in terms of having finally found someone else who was as eccentric as me, but she was probably thinking of it in terms of the same old, everyday experience-- some nut interrupting her while she was finishing her evening with her friend.

The shoe was on the other foot. Which kind of makes me wonder--

Do other women with hair as long as mine also have enormous feet? Yes, I'm talking shoes now. Size ten men's, anyone?

Living the dream

Tue, 03 Jul 2012 22:50:50 GMT

Growing up, I used to have fantasies that I would be sitting in Barnes & Noble, and adoring fans would line up for my autograph. Naturally, in my fantasy, I always had an assistant to hand me the books. If I ran out, she was the one digging through the boxes for more, not me! I was thinking about that this morning. Yes, I have two mystery novels published. Do I have adoring fans? Er . . . I have no idea. Maybe a few. I know that quite a few people liked my book, but it certainly wasn't enough to alert the New York Times to my presence. Things have turned out well, certainly, but not as well as I thought they would.

Fantasies never come with hitches. They always work out perfectly. Otherwise, it wouldn't be a fantasy, would it?

In real life, at my first book signing, I was nowhere near as calm and collected as I was in my fantasy. In my fantasy, I smiled widely and confidently. In real life, I shook, trembled, and sweat uncontrollably. (Okay, I'll brag: I may have been incredibly nervous, but I still had thirty-five visitors, and sold two hundred dollars worth of books.)

Hold onto your fantasies. But don't expect things to work out exactly as you imagined. I have encountered people in the past who have this magical view of the publishing industry. These people seem to think that a publisher is going to "pick up" your book and all of a sudden you'll be "big time." I've met people who think that getting into a "big" publisher will guarantee them success. If only they knew how wrong they were. You might be better off with a bigger publisher, but these days, most publishers are leaving the majority of the marketing up to the author.

Don't get discouraged when you pen your first novel and it gets rejected. Don't give up when a publisher signs you, and you only sell a hundred copies. It happens. Most of the time, you need hard work and money. Most of all, you need hard work. I've been brainstorming all day on how I can make Check Out Time more available to a wider audience. In a way, it's a frightening prospect. I imagine it's like sending your kid to school for the first time. You try to make sure they have nice clothes, and that they have all their supplies, but no matter how hard you try, they might take a tumble at recess, and all of a sudden everyone's noticing the stains on their jeans.

The trick is getting the product to the consumers and getting people to notice you. Of course, no matter what you do, not everyone is going to like your final product. Someone's going to notice the stains on little Billy's knees, and mention what a crappy parent you must be.

It's okay. I keep trying to tell myself that everything will be just fine. But it's not easy sending your child out into the world. You worry about them. You worry that people won't like them. But no matter what, keep trying. Don't give up. Because if you don't try, you're not only guaranteeing that you won't fail-- you're also guaranteeing that you won't succeed.

Keep writing. Would any authors out there like to share any marketing tips? Leave a comment!

Photos were taken at Juno Beach, Florida, and are copyright to Rosa Sophia. Do not copy or distribute.