TrinkaBean

Reborn writer, recovering Pharisee~

As the pups refuse to pay attention and I can't vent elsewhere, I'll just blow up here for a moment.
  • The Story Matters.
  • The Rules Serve the Story.
The best writing is transparent. The reader flows in and out of your universe. You tickle their ears a time or two with lovely alliteration, set the scene with a place to call home, dazzle them with brain stomping dialogue, then blow them out of the water with your stinkin' storyline.
We learn the rules so our writing gets out of the way of telling a compelling, grab-you-by-the-hair tale of woe or passion or triumph. If you can't weave the elements of story together, all the rules in this or any other universe will not save your sorry backside from a life of self pleasuring your own laptop.

Who's cranky?

Those of you who read The Other Blog already know about the accident. A wayward upgrade to Wordpress scoured away two years of blog posts.
The semi-miraculous element here is that I didn't get upset. I sat staring at the emptiness that once held thousands of semi-interesting bits and pieces of nonessential trivia and said-
"Huh."
No emotion, no gnashing of teeth, no reaction whatsoever.
I started ConnieBrz two years ago as a real estate investment blog. It quickly morphed into a slice of life, part real estate, part family journey, part writing blog. (Read that, schizophrenic.) It lacked focus. I wrote about sewing and cooking and home rehab and snakes in the house. Can't tell you how many times I almost started over but couldn't let go of the over-bloated mess. And now it's gone and it wasn't so painful after all.
In God's economy, nothing's wasted.
Everything learned about marketing, blog promotion, and design made the restart easy. And now, ta-da! Focus aplenty. But isn't that the way it works? We make it look easy to outsiders because we sweat blood the first time around.
When I read the work of other writers, some days I sense the blood behind the words. And when that happens, it's a beautiful thing. You, my friends, make it look easy.
We know better, don't we?

If someone says I’m a good writer, I say thanks much. Because I know I am.
If someone says I stink, I say thanks much. Because I know I do. And If you’ll point out exactly where I stink (and communicate same in an understandable fashion) I’ll be a better writer tomorrow.
One person focuses on strength and another on weakness, depending on what pops into focus. There’s room for improvement always. I’d rather you focus on my strengths but truthfully, I learn more from the other.

Just no teeth please :)

My first draft is finished. As I sat pondering this most momentous moment, the above phrase leapt to mind—something the mister said on a regular basis before the little Brz’s made their appearance and purged his language for underage consumption. I’m told this means something along the lines of, ‘That brilliant orb shineth all the more brightly in contrast with the ugliness thereabout.’ Only in the case of this first draft, I’m thinking more, ‘Your first draft reeks like a goat’s backside but dig around long enough, you might find something worth salvaging.’ The problem came at 46,000 words. As everyone knows, 46K does not a first draft make. For days, I tried to lengthen the silly thing to a suitable, novel-ish size. After printing out, reading, rereading, whining and reading (and vice versa), I plucked another 1000 extraneous words from space and sprinkled them around at random. They were icky and now they’re banished for all eternity. And then I realized the whole thing needed replotting and rewriting anyway, so let’s call it good and move on. The Fiction Police will not show up and throw me in writer’s prison for giving birth to an underweight first draft. (And if they will, just let me wallow awhile in my delusional state.) So it’s ugly, it’s beautiful and it’s done. The glimmers of a great read are in there just begging to move forward and be released from the bondage of crummy grammar and overused M-dashes. It’s not the story I want to tell—not yet. But there’s a glimmer in there somewhere.

Someone's eyes are open. Meet unnamed male puppy Brz.

Charlie Lafferty over at Fellership posted this pic of our new little guy on Facebook last night. Isn't he something? Part Aussie, part Great Pyrenees and part unknown male genetic donor. He'll be joining our pack of Toy Poodle, Boxer and Australian Shepherd.
Time to whip out the thesaurus and find an adequate synonym for adorable.

Today, Google reader provided this little gem: Notes from a Cottage Industry
I’ve followed Tracy Buxton’s blog for almost a year for no particular reason.

I don’t do garage sales. I don’t decorate enough to count. I don’t paint anything (hubby hid my brushes decades ago.)

Still, I read Ms. Buxton’s every post and hang over the pictures thinking vapid thoughts such as—‘good gravy can you imagine dusting that thing’ or ‘she gave up Saturday morning to sift through refuse? ‘
Her transformations are always amazing, her picture taking skillz beyond compare but really—this is so not me.
Then today, she posted this:
‘“I'd have to say that my most favorite part of my glorified junk business is right at the very beginning. Yes, the very moment I first spot an item that for whatever reason, seems especially interesting or vintage. Looking at old castaways in a thrift shop, flea market, or yard sale, seeing it with fresh eyes, and then, having an idea suddenly spark in my mind of how I can envision the treasure recreated. My eyes glaze over and my head very nearly spins as I my brain goes in a million different directions. I am filled with a burst of sudden and complete energy and inspiration. I cannot wait to get the new-to-me item home and begin making a large mess creating a masterpiece. The next thing I know, three hours have passed (although it feels like twenty minutes) the item is completed and priced and I am so excited I could stay up all night doing project after project, and I find myself repeatedly sneaking back to the item I reinvented, just to gaze at it and smile with a huge sense of satisfaction. Seriously.”
Eureka! Replace a few key words (junk business=write fiction) and you have the reason I type, and most likely the reason I love her blog so much—deep calling to deep—something inside this jaded Pharisee recognized the spark of creativity lighting up her world and wanted same for self.
Once upon a time I wrote constantly until life majorly interfered. I was getting the nicest rejection letters you ever did see (kept them all—probably the only person on the planet to read these for inspiration) and had a rotten little romance published in Woman’s World Magazine. Then on Memorial Day weekend, our home took a direct hit via oak tree and all the Brz’s scampered away for several years to lick our tiny wounds (and rebuild the house). My Dana died in the process. My aggravating little one-track-mind switched to crisis mode. My fingers forgot how to dance. Two years building the new house, nursing my father in law through his final months, moving my mother (twice), keeping up with homeschooling the kiddies and, for some strange reason, all the writing went to the back burner.
Okay, more descriptive, less cliche'—got hopelessly buried under the rubble of our old house and couldn’t unearth the silly thing for the life of me.
Another two years and I’m busy growing the real estate business, writing constantly on the blog, graduating some, educating others, drinking tons of coffee and playing dominos in the new house with friends. And not writing.
Enter pushy husband:
“Connie, don’t you think it’s time to get back to your writing?”
“Honey, you’ve had a nice long break, howsabout getting back to the stories?”
(and finally, pulling out the big guns)
“Hold it, I’m getting something—wait, wait—The vision is clear—you, oh wife of mine, are Called to Write.” (gotta love it when they play the God card…)
Now why is hubby dear so intent on pushing little me back to the keyboard? Does he have visions of dollar signs dancing through his head? Does he think I have the talent of Stephen King or the storytelling ability of Miss Austen? Considering he’s a big ‘blow everything up then save the world’ kinda reader, I’d say that’s a no.
Actually, the reason is very simple: When I write, I’m euphoric. Bird’s sing, flowers sprout from various locations and husbands get extra snuggles.
The man is spoiled.
This last year, perusing Ms. Buxton’s blog, something kept calling me back—a tiny voice, niggling at my insides like the mice in my stories. Watch me, Connie Mae-I’m finding my voice, loving my work, sacrificing for what I love. Get your behind off that couch and grab your laptop.
And I did.
So, thanks Tracey. I heard you~

Spent way too long trying to shoot my hero. I shot him in the warehouse. I shot him on the little league field. I shot him behind the school. Just not happening. So the villain's been cut (and saved just in case) and I'm working on fleshing out a secondary character who's all flat and stuff. No one wants to behave today~

Way too many choices. Let's leave this for tomorrow, shall we?