How writing is like snowshoeing

It's a great day to snowshoe.The most recent storm left a foot and a half of snow on the ground, and the trails have been untouched for eight days, according to the log at the trail-head. The snow sparkles in the brilliant sun, the sky is a high clear blue, and the air is still. Temps are a little below freezing, but that's a good thing; snowshoeing is physical, and we'll warm up soon.

The virgin powder entices me like a blank page, waiting for me to make my mark on it. What will I find out there? Where will the story take me? But I feel intimidated, too. Will I mess it up? Get lost? Destroy something pure? 

Well, sure I will. There is no creation without destruction, even if it's only the destruction of a different story I might have told. Getting lost on snowy trails is ridiculously easy, especially in open woods like these. Where the porcupine tracks cross my route, I'm tempted to turn and see where he lives, deep in the hemlock grove. Happily, getting unlost on snowy trails is incredibly easy--just turn around and backtrack until you get your bearings. My snowshoes will leave tracks for others to follow, but no one else will have the joy of breaking trail.

On the other hand, no one ever follows exactly the same path. Whether I'm writing a classic genre like cozy mystery or attempting the Appalachian Trail, I will move at a different pace and see things differently from anyone else. I may follow someone else's footsteps, but mine will alter hers. Those who come after me will obliterate mine, or widen the trail, or make detours, just as I do as I follow my hiking partner. 

Making new tracks and making new stories are hard work. Snowshoes widen and lengthen your foot, so your outer thighs and quads take on more of the effort, and your core and back muscles need to compensate. Every new story requires a stretching of the mental muscles, makes you reach deep for new characters and insights, and you will develop new skills to support the tale as it grows. I am often as weary after a day's writing as I am after a day's 'shoeing. 

And just as exhilarated, too. All endeavors, mental or physical, have their rewards. Half this essay ran through my head as I walked, and writing anchors the trail in my memory. Either one is precious, but both together are miraculous. 

Snowy weekend, small town New England

Still catching up after the storm earlier this week...Here's how we spent last weekend.

Saturday 
Planned to join a group hike in a neighboring town, but due to "trails glazed with ice, requiring spikes" the outing is canceled. With snow in the forecast, we stay home, do household chores, make cookies. Outside, cardinals, goldfinches, juncos and perky little chickadees swarm the bird feeders until a hawk sails overhead. After supper, when my husband takes the compost out to the bin, he surprises an opossum snacking on the ant-infested cat kibble we'd tossed out. Fresh deer, bobcat, and fox tracks in the falling snow. We spend a quiet evening listening to music while I knit and he reads.

Sunday
After we snow-blowed, plowed and shoveled the meager three inches of snow from yesterday, we venture out to the dump--er, the recycling center--a bi-weekly pilgrimage that usually results in greeting neighbors and dropping off/picking up some treasures at the Still Good table. I score a Nevada Barr novel I haven't read, just in time for the major nor'easter heading our way Monday or Tuesday. Looks like a big 'un.

After lunch we head to a conservation property in town, owned by the Forest Society (the Society for the Protection of New Hampshire Forests, or SPNHF, pronounced Spin-iff), where the trails wind around the ponds, up hills, into old orchards and past a heron rookery. We strap on our snowshoes and followed the Look-See Trail to the pond edge, where we walk out onto the ice to circle an active beaver lodge. Signs of life everywhere--the four-footed pattern of leaping squirrels; jays and nuthatches calling; stripped bark giving evidence of this year's new antler rubs; the curious triangular tracks of porcupines. We have the trails to ourselves for over an hour and a half, except for brief encounters with three dogs and four humans. The air is clean and refreshing.

As the day winds down, we meet younger son and his lady at the Town Hall Theater. A bit of background here: it really is in the town hall, above what used to be the police department. Think about that--fingerprinting a suspect while LOTR thunders overhead. It happened. Seating is comfortable, and spaced so you don't have to stand to let somebody pass down the row. For nearly fifty years, the owner has shown big-name movies and limited-run small films, special interest documentaries, film festivals, foreign language films, fund raisers, classics and art shows. If you know nothing else about my town, you know the Town Hall Theater. People come on Friday nights without even caring what's on the bill; they just know it will be good. And the popcorn is made fresh, with real butter. A lost classic was discovered a couple years ago, stored in the projection room; it's undergoing restoration. The theater is threatened by progress, however; the cost of a digital makeover may be out of reach.

On this Sunday, the late matinee is a silent film, Fritz Lang's Woman in the Moon (1929), with live music provided by a local keyboardist. He's fantastic. Five minutes into the film, I've forgotten he's there--the music is that well matched to the action. The movie is dated, melodramatic, predictable in places, flat wrong in others (there is no air on the moon). But it's from 1929, and you can't separate it from its time. As an editor, I want to trim some scenes, delete others entirely. Yet I'm also stunned at how well the story is told with nearly non-existent dialogue, at the extensive and persuasive set designs, far ahead of their time. I am invested in the characters; I cheer when the good guys win, fume about the heroine's poor taste in men, boo when the villain makes his move, and my heart rate rises with the tension. The keyboardist plays for two and a half hours straight, and bounces out of his seat, streaming sweat, to a standing ovation from the full house. This is the way movies began--as performances before a live audience. Netflix can't begin to compete.

We go home to a late spaghetti dinner and good talk. The kids leave around nine, and we check the weather report. Big bad storm on the way, and husband decides he'll stay home on Tuesday. All in all, a really nice weekend, rich and fulfilling. There is always something to do.

Monday Update
A historic snowfall on the way. Emergency declared in at least three states, with travel bans in many areas. And in the area where we'd planned to hike, a woman fell down a frozen waterfall on Sunday, and died of injury and hypothermia. Small town New England is fascinating, beautiful, gorgeous--but we are close to nature, and She is not always kind.

Reflections on the solstice

Today is December 21st, the solstice, the shortest day of the year. Snow falls gently, sporadically, in large puffy flakes like milkweed down. My husband indulges in his new hobby, baking breads and nut rolls. The house smells like temptation. Tonight I will leave a candle burning to welcome the return of the light.

We've been wrapping presents, and as always we play our favorite music. A couple contemplative Winterludes; John Denver and the Muppets; The Nutcracker;  the now hard-to-find Three Ships. On Christmas Eve we'll dig out the two-decades-old tapes of our kids singing in their high school concert choir.

As I grow older, I find the bustle of the holidays less endearing. My children are grown, and I won't see my grandchildren until New Year's Eve. The early darkness and long nights weigh on my spirit. Many years have passed since I last accepted the beliefs I learned as a child. Perhaps I simply no longer have the energy to celebrate the way I once did.

Even with all that, I would not give up Christmas. Even though the solstice has come to have more meaning for me than the Nativity story, I still enjoy the traditions. The foods, the gift-giving, the sappy TV shows. I even enjoy the perennial debate over seasonal greetings--I'll gladly accept any good wishes anyone wishes to bestow upon me.

These days, it's the music that gets to me. I still laugh when Beaker sings his lines in "The Twelve Days of Christmas," and I'm touched by the simple sincerity of the songs. I get nostalgic listening to fifty teenagers sing "Adeste Fideles" in perfect a capella harmony. Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky, whose ballet so perfectly captures the longing to hold onto ephemeral beauty, makes me weep. And when Jon Anderson blends his glorious soprano voice with a gospel choir in "O Holy Night"...

Well, with music like that, sometimes I wish I still believed.

The Shucker's Booktique, the latest from J.C. McKenzie

Please welcome author J.C. McKenzie and her brand new release The Shucker's Booktique, a Lobster Cove book from The Wild Rose Press. To celebrate, she's giving away five ecopies of The Shucker's Booktique, three copies of Shift Happens, and a $25 Amazon gift card. a Rafflecopter giveaway 

What led you to write this book?

My publisher announced a special project for a new series. They created a fictional town called Lobster Cove in Maine on the East Coast. For some reason, the idea called to me and I immediately got an idea that wouldn't leave me alone. So I jumped on it and joined the project. I loved being a part of the creation process for developing a fictional town and brainstorming with a group of amazing authors. 

I'd just moved from the West Coast of Canada, where I was born and raised, so writing a story predominately about the coast (albeit a different one) and the element of water helped me work through a lot of my homesickness. 

What do you hope readers will take away from it?
I hope readers will look at the ocean again with a sense of awe, wonder and love, if they don't already. The ocean is one of our most neglected and forgotten ecosystems when it comes to conservation and protection, even though it accounts for the majority of Earth's oxygen production, and if you believe in the theory of evolution, it's where life all began.

Share one surprising fact about yourself and/or the writing of the book.
I used to work as a fisheries observer for a marine research company and went out on commercial fishing vessels to monitor compliance to DFO (Department of Fisheries & Oceans) regulations, do biological sampling and estimate the proportional catch of species. Sadly, very little of this experience was used in writing this story! 

Sounds delicious, J.C. How about a sample?

Excerpt:
Thump! Thump! Thump!

No! She gasped. It couldn’t be. The banging on the front door of the booktique had to be a figment of her imagination. She couldn’t will Lon into existence. Why would he come back? Especially if he was involved. Unless…cold ice prickled up her spine…unless he needed to eliminate her to take care of loose ends.

No. Crazy thoughts, Willa. He could’ve taken care of her the night before. No, her heart hammered against her chest for a different reason. But it didn’t matter. The knocking on the door wouldn’t, couldn’t be him.

Thump! Thump! Thump!

Could it? She clutched her hot mug in both hands and turned toward the doorway leading to the bookstore. From the kitchen in the back room, she had a clear view through the store to the front door, but not who stood on the other side.

“Willa!” Lon growled. “Wake up and let me in!”

Willa gasped and almost dropped her cup. The tea sloshed around and some spilled over her hands. It burned, but she didn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. Somehow the air got trapped inside her throat. Why was he here? What did he want?

Oh God, let it be me!

Blurb:
After her fiancé dumps her and her beloved Aunt Jenny goes missing, Willa Eklund travels to Lobster Cove with a broken heart to search for Jenny while running her bookstore. When a mysterious man visits the Shucker's Booktique on a stormy night drenched in rain and covered in mud, Willa's heart melts under his stormy gaze. She wants Lon and the answers he may have, but he also has a secret. Can Willa trust him?


Lon Devlin is a Tempest, a water sprite who can only take a human form during stormy nights. He rides the waves, lives by the tides, and nothing can hold him down, not even a beautiful woman. When he visits his mortal friend, he discovers she's missing and her intriguing niece has taken her place. He wants Willa, but he also wants answers. What happened to Jenny?


Buy Links:

Amazon: http://www.amzn.com/B00NU7H6YI

WildRosePress: http://www.wildrosepublishing.com/maincatalog_v151/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=195&products_id=5883

J.C.'s Contact info:

J.C. McKenzie’s Website | Blog | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads | The Wild Rose Press | Amazon

Friday fun

I caught up on NPR's "Studio 360" files this week, including an interview with James Lipton.  Lipton, in case you didn't know, is a linguist and playwright who wrote the book on collective nouns--An Exaltation of Larks. It turns out a bunch of people in the late 1400s enjoyed  creating new collectives. They were the ones who came up with  pride of lions, leap of leopards, and murder of crows. (What do you call a pair of crows? Attempted murder.)

It was a delightful conversation, complete with Lipton's judgments on listeners' submissions--a salutation of yoga instructors. A deck of Trekkies. A rave of deejays. And my favorite, a hedge of investment bankers.

The game sounded like so much fun, I came up with a few of my own about the kinds of people I know. A pen of writers. A staff of musicians. A palette of artists. A skein of knitters. A bed of gardeners. A hush of librarians.

Now it's your turn. Got any collective nouns to share with the world?

Andy Cormier

Back in June the Rodgers Memorial Library in Hudson, NH, hosted a bunch of local authors as part of their anniversary celebration. Among them was Andy Cormier, author of The Great Deceiver, Shamblers: the zombie apocalypse, and The Winds of Change.  With only a little prodding, he agreed be interviewed on this blog. Andy is an avid reader, an author and songwriter, and graphic designer.  Welcome, Andy!





Tell us about your latest book, Shamblers. How did it come about? Did it change as you wrote and researched?


My latest novel is a zombie apocalypse book. It mixes horror and action. It came about due to the popularity of such titles. I decided it was a great idea to do a spin on the typical zombie plot, and I mixed it with a lot of treachery and betrayal amongst the main characters. It was just released on July 16th number of stellar reviews already.

The Great Deceiver is kind of a cross-genre blend. It started in 2002 as a short story. 
People liked it so much I decided to expand. The idea was very original and I planned to do a few things I have never seen in literature or movies before, so I knew I had to write it. I originally had a totally different ending, which wouldn’t have worked, and I added an alternate as an afterthought. It turns out many people prefer the alternate.


Do you have a favorite character? Why?

In The Great Deceiver I loved the main character (he is unnamed due to his heavy symbolism). He’s the focus of the entire book: it is kind of his memoir. I love how 
dynamic he is as the book moves on.

Who/what influences or inspires your writing?

I don’t know anymore. I think I inspire myself, I am driven to succeed and I enjoy doing it.

What authors do you return to again and again, if any? Where do you find new authors to read?

I haven’t been reading as much lately, but in the past I found myself grabbing as many of R.A. Salvatore’s books as I could. I usually find new authors by word of mouth or on the writing groups I belong to.

Do you have a writing routine/ritual? What distracts you when you’re writing?

Yes: I wake up, write as much as I can, and break once my head starts to hurt. I then repeat. Lately the HBO series Boardwalk Empire has been distracting me. I started it a few weeks ago and am compelled to see what happens next.

What do you like best/least about writing?

The best is when you finish putting an awesome quote in a book, or write a scene that is just mind-blowing. The least favorite part is the editing.

Advice for newbies?

Keep writing. Your first few stories are going to probably be really bad. Or at least need a lot of editing. Even with natural talent you will grow a ton the more you write.

Where has writing taken you that you never expected to go? Funniest/most exciting/most memorable?

I found out I am a “real sick person,” according to friends and family. I guess I have a macabre sense of humor, and some of the women in my stories get a bit mistreated. The funniest thing I did was a scene near the end of The Great Deceiver …I won’t ruin it, but I laughed for two days when I put it in.

Pantser/plotter?

Plotter, definitely: though I believe characters ultimately drive a plot. Memorable characters are more important than the plot. I wrote a fantasy series from the POV of 13 characters as it shifted, and 3 interweaving plots. The outline alone was 19 pages.

How do you deal with dry spells?

I find other things to do.

Do you have critique partners or beta readers? How do they help?

Yes, I have a few people whose opinions I rely upon and trust. They tell me where the dog died, so to speak. I learn more about my books from them than I do myself, and their input is critical.

Do you remember the first book you ever read or had read to you? First story you wrote?

It was so long ago I can’t. I was probably in the 2nd or 3rd grade. I remember a book about a teacher who was replaced by an alien/monster. I also remember a book about a magic ring that turned a kid into a dragon or something. I wish I could recall the titles, they’d be interesting to revisit. The first story I wrote was about a serial killer, though I spelled it “cereal” because I didn’t know any better. Lol. It also was more a guy running around committing random violence, so made no sense at all. I think I was in the 4th grade.

Thanks for answering all my questions, Andy. Readers, find Andrew Cormier’s novels at Amazon. Learn more about Andy Cormier and follow his blog at http://author.andrewcormiergraphics.com/.    

Summer Reading

“I cannot live without books.”

~Thomas Jefferson

Like most of you, I suspect, I read constantly. My parents used to tell me I’d ruin my eyes if I kept reading so much. I’d say they were right, except that my brother, who doesn’t read much, has the same vision problems I do.

Anyway, my days are framed in books, morning to night, 24/7/365. I’ll read anytime, anyplace, but there is something special about summer reading. Those long, golden evenings call to me. Even more, I especially love the clear cool mornings, when I can sneak out of bed and spend an hour in my current alternative world before I have to face the demands of the day.

Which brings to mind an adventure. When I was a kid, I not only snuck out of bed, I snuck out of the house. I had a private little nook just out of sight from the house, and I’d wake at first light, tiptoe outside, and read until the neighbor let his dog out. That was my signal to slip back into bed before my household roused. To this day, I don’t believe anyone ever suspected. The memory is very sweet.

A couple years later, in a new home, I tried the same trick. It was a bit harder, because my dad had installed heavier locks after a rash of burglaries in the neighborhood. Still, the call of the early summer morning couldn’t be denied, and I hid in the dense shrubs at the back of the yard, engrossed in a book. Was it still The Black Stallion, or had I graduated to Ray Bradbury? I don’t remember.

I do, however, remember the uproar when my dad got up early and discovered the unlocked door. Alarums and excursions! Roust my siblings, scream and shout, call the cops! I stuck my finger in my book and ambled inside. Sheesh, I was right outside the door. Can’t a gal get some privacy?

Dad grounded me for a week. At thirteen, I welcomed the extra time to read, even if I had to do it in my bedroom instead of out on the grass. Oh, and I had to wash the dishes every night. Fortunately, I’d grown tall enough to prop a book on the windowsill above the sink. As I said, I’ll read anytime, anyplace. Especially in the summer.