Feeds:
Posts
Comments

 

Last night I was consumed with creating a children’s story for my new writing group. It was so much fun, writing about newborn dragons and cherries popping in a bowl, I lost all track of time. My tea grew cold and eventually forgotten. It was only 2 inches away from my hands as I typed the story into word and prepared to mail it off. As soon as I hit send, my stomach went queasy. Perhaps one more polish was needed. The doubts crept back.

I got in my car this morning, turned on the radio, and the Cherry Poppin’ Daddies were singing. No more doubts. How coincidental is that? But is it really coincidental?

Things like this have been happening to me more and more.

I was in a friend’s car last Thursday, driving toward the market, and I noticed she had a post-it-note with the words, Serendipity, Synchronicity, Coincidence, listed right in front of my passenger seat. I thought back to the Kushtaka, Tahoma and my last blog post and smiled.

Then this morning, on Facebook, a friend posted a link to a news article that immediately took me to a story I wrote many years ago. The images in the article were so similar to my story creation I couldn’t ignore it. So many of these events seem to be happening around me.

Today I looked each of these words up in the dictionary.

Synchronicity is the experience of two or more events that are apparently causally unrelated occurring together in a meaningful manner. To count as synchronicity, the events should be unlikely to occur together by chance.

Serendipity is an aptitude for making desirable discoveries by accident. Good fortune; luck: synchronicity, the events should be unlikely to occur together.

Coincidence is something that happens by chance in a surprising or remarkable way. (and all Whovians know you never ignore a coincidence, there is no such thing! Sorry, I’ve been a Doctor Who fan for years.)

As I notice these events more and more occuring in my writing life, the seridipty seems to unfold with greater frequency and in more unusual ways, like the song in the car this morning.

When I pay attention to these moments, it feels like an acknowledgement from my guardian angel or muse or simply from the universe. Thanks for listening. You are moving in the right direction.

So, I’m asking you….are you listening?

Advertisements

Do writers have a ritual practice to prepare their minds for the creative process? Is there a magical ingredient that transitions them from daily life to writing time? Something special that will summon their muse?

 

Ritual defined by Webster’s dictionary means ‘any practice or pattern of behavior regularly performed in a set manner.’ Physicians prescribe a daily nighttime routine if you have trouble sleeping. Many religions use routine and ritual in their practices to symbolize respect and reverence.

What better way to invoke your muse than with respect and reverence.

 In my writing life, I haven’t truly established a ritual for writing. I do prefer to create with a fabulous gel pen; you know the one that just feels ‘right’. But I found for me, each story is different and to invoke my muse, the ritual is also different.

 

I have been writing Tahoma’s story since this blog began. Research at the Duwamish longhouse told me that there was a mystical being at the bottom of Black River named Sky-Taw. I knew I wanted this creature in my story but I hadn’t figured out where this puzzle piece would fit. It was relegated to the back of my mind while I worked on a pencil sketch of Tahoma in human form, and I wrote dozens of scenes moving the plot line forward.

 

Last night, I went to Linda Zeppa’s intuitive writing class I had planned on getting to know my villain with this meditation session. My muse had other plans. Linda began the session talking about the sun. The meditation began with a progressive relaxation, filling yourself with sun, putting your troubles in a box and crossing into a world filled with sunshine. My muse crossed me over the bridge to Black River filled with moonlight. She has a mind of her own! The starlight and moon beams danced on the ripples of the water and then swirled above the water coalescing into an iridescent human form with a face of a heron. Tahoma thought it resembled his mother’s face. And the creature asked “Are you lost little one?”  It was more of an emotional experience than a visual, but I had instant access to Sky- Taw. I wrote as furiously as I could and when I returned home that night I laid out all the emotions in Tahoma’s heart. When he saw this creature, he was calm and at peace. It resembled his mother’s face and communicated with his mother’s voice. The creature wanted to care for the young shape-shifter and appeared in the image that comforted Tahoma in that moment.

 

I awoke today elated with my break through. While doing the laundry, the television was on in the background. Discovery channel had a program about an Alaskan triangle where planes have been lost, similar to the Bermuda Triangle. The last five minutes of the show, as I settled down to pay attention, they spoke of the Native American Tlingit’s belief in a creature called the Kushtaka. This land otter man can be malevolent or comfort a lost soul so they do not freeze to death. Through illusion, this creature can appear as a loved one. My jaw hit the floor. This is what I wrote about in my meditation session.

 

Was it synchronicity or reverence to my muse that led me in this direction? I’m not exactly sure, but it brings me back to my first blog post. Perhaps my writing ritual is to trust and have patience that the puzzle will come together when it is time.

The journey between what you once were and who you are now becoming is where the dance of life really takes place.  Barbara Deangelis 

Black River by Mike Hamilton

  

My dream is for my characters to live and breathe on the page. They should be quirky, like the rest of the world. Setting is also an important character. It lives and breathes and speaks by awakening all the senses. Can it also have quirks?! 

  

I started thinking about quirks after reading a post in Cyndi Briggs blog The Sophia Project. In her post, It’s July: Let Your Freak Flag Fly, Cyndi states, “I bet your odd self has it’s own ways of grabbing your attention, of reminding you that for all your trying, there’s a hint of crazy in you that craves some fresh air and freedom.”  

  

 This is exactly what a reader wants in a character. The hero that is tall, handsome and always says the right thing = boring. If the same hero fumbles and spills ketchup on his shirt every time he gets nervous, the reader feels a connection.  

  

Can this be accomplished through setting as well? Can a setting be quirky and odd? 

I’ve been exploring that concept as I write more of my discovery draft. The above photograph, courtesy of Mike Hamilton, is an aerial view of Black River in Renton. This is the place where Tahoma fell from his nest as a heron fledgling and shifted into human form. This alone does not make the place quirky. It is surrounded by the modern-day expansion of a business park, satellite dishes, and a train off in the distance. Something however, is keeping the spot protected. Is it the quirky magic of Black River?  

  

One scene I was writing today has me considering the magic of this place. Tahoma is now in human form and setting off on his adventure. He looks down at his reflection in the Black River, the image reflected back is a heron fledgling. Could the quirk of this place be that your true essence is reflected in these waters? Could the fresh air and freedom in this magical place be a mirror reflecting your true image, not the mask people wear in our day-to-day life?

 

Magic lives and breathes here, if you slow down and take the time to notice it.  

 

 

I have small notebooks all over. They are in my car, my bag, on my nightstand, and by the phone. There is even one on the bathroom counter. I call them my dreamcatchers.

The dreamcatcher originated with the Ojibwa culture and was quickly adopted by other Native American cultures in the 60’s and 70’s. It is believed that if you hang the dream catcher by your bed, luscious dreams would slip through the web and drip down the feathers to the dreamer. Bad dreams would be trapped in the web and burn away in the morning light.

Notebooks are my dreamcatchers. I like to browse through my dreamcatchers every so often. This evening I read an entry and I immediately thought about Tahoma, my little shapeshifting heron.

This is the entry.

The amulet was here somewhere. I repeatedly checked my calculations before inputting them into the GPS, which led me here to Honey Island, Louisiana. Not much of an island. More like an alligator breeding swamp. The last rays of sunlight were tucking behind the tree line as I got in the boat. There was a flash here and there of lightning bugs in the still air. As the boat started drifting in the water I picked up the scent of honeysuckle, the sweet nectar filling my lungs. I giggled as I finally understood the name of this place, Honey Island.

Starlight smattered the top of the water like a disco ball in the darkness. My eyes searched for the signs of the amulets presence. Its magic was so strong it would ripple through the air and alert its owner. I didn’t see any ripples in the air, and the only ripples in the water were from the drag of my boat. If I didn’t find the amulet soon, the hope of finding the lost city of Chamoura would be just as lost.

I reached for my backpack to check my calculations once again. There was a popping sound off in the distance. The water looked like an over shook soda pop, bubbles rising to the surface in quick bursts. My boat began to rock in the turbulence and soon turned upside down. The water was cold and murky, almost alive as it caressed my skin. My foot found the bottom and attempted to push off. The bottom of the swamp was a sponge. My foot was sucked into the depths. I fought it as hard as I could, but the caress of the water lulled me to stay calm. The last images I remember were of the lightning bugs that swirled around me in the water.

 

 

My first thought when I read this is ‘what the heck is Tahoma doing in Louisiana looking for an amulet?’

I wrote this piece in response to a writing prompt a few weeks ago. It said to use 6 specific words, Flash, Sponge, Alligator, Soda, Nectar, Starlight. Tahoma wasn’t on my mind. He was just steeping in the corners of my imagination waiting for his turn on the page. The fireflies are other magical creatures that appear in my longer fiction with the legendary world of Chamoura. Interesting that my worlds are colliding!

Gail Carson Levine wrote in her book, Writing Magic, “Save everything you write, even if you don’t like it, even if you hate it.” Her book was aimed at younger school age writers, but I follow the rule nonetheless. You never know when those few lines you scribbled a few years ago will inspire something wonderful. I believe ideas need to steep, find other ingredients, and brew a bit before the next bestseller can be written.

I’m not sure if Tahoma will actually make it to the Louisiana swamp or if the amulet is on his own Black River. He will let me know, I’m sure!

A Balancing Act

                                                                                                            

Writing breathes in every corner of my life. Stories steep in my imagination every moment, day and night. So it is a natural conclusion that other parts of my life sneak into my writing. And, when my life is thrown off balance the repercussions are reflected in my writing life.

 

The first signal the scale was teetering off balance was the avoidance to typing up my novels. I excused it away instead of attempting to find a solution. I filled my days networking and socializing. Stir in a major family crisis and my daily life was spread thin like jam over toast. I was overwhelmed as the scales toppled with task lists, emails and a full calendar. My morning pages became stiff and sluggish.

Thankfully, I am surrounded with angels watching out for me in the form of amazing friends. One very special friend advised me to take a deep breath, ground myself, and take one step at a time. My translation was to ‘unplug’ (from the internet, the phones, and the schedule) and take a mini retreat. Writers retreat to the woods all the time to finish a novel and commune with their muse. Conveniently I live next to acres of wilderness. My house is hugged by trees; so it was quite easy to pick up my camera and my dream catcher notebook and go for a hike. Sunshine filled days gently guided me back to my ‘Me-ness’ and quieted the panic and confusion. My life was feeling more in balance, the writing flowed and the joy filled every fiber of my soul with buoyancy. However, my resistance to typing remained.

Time to check in with my ‘Wellness Angel’ of a friend, Diane. She is a certified Holistic Health Coach, http://www.dfskinwellness.com/ and would know how to ease the resistance. We talked for a bit and I explained how typing was cold and sterile for me. She asked if I was aware when my least creative time during the day was and immediately I had the answer, mid-afternoon. (The times I schedule social activities and errands and email.) She advised me to schedule the typing time in that slot so I felt less conflicted about the loss of creative energy. Could it be that simple? I pondered the suggestion as I drove through the mountains toward home. It was another gorgeous sunny day in the Northwest, something I treasure, and it seemed like a waste to spend it in my office typing. Drifting in my window with the sunlight came the simple notion of typing outside. I could feel the corners of my mouth turning up. Laptops are portable; no one said the rule was to type at your desk!  Then there is the bliss of living in the woods where WiFi can’t reach me, even on my deck.

The Borg had it right, ‘Resistance is Futile’. Resistance abated. Balance restored. The past few days I have been HAPPILY typing my novel amongst the birdsong and sunshine and living one page at a time.

Bang Those Keys

I have been lost in the world of TYPING for the past few weeks. It isn’t one of my favorite things to do. In fact, I would lump it with a visit to the dentist and preparing to move; one of those things that have to be done and just can’t be avoided.

I create with pen and paper. It’s a tactile sensation as the creative energy dances throughout my imagination, courses down my body, and scrolls gracefully to the paper. Typing is cold and mechanical. It contains no energy, no excitement, but plenty of typos for my fumble fingers.

The bookshelf is stacked over my head with notebooks full of my stories. My writing group challenged me to put my stories, 9 novels, into the computer. Difficult to argue with the logic, as it will be one step closer to publication than it is now, hidden away on my shelf.  Some people struggle with writer’s block, I struggle with TYPING.

Tahoma is patiently waiting for more time in the spotlight, investigating the supernatural being at the bottom of his river, and learning from Princess Angeline, even while I bang the keys and progress with my typing of other stories.

Does anyone have any suggestions on how to bring the creative energy to typing?

My shapeshifting heron, Tahoma, is enjoying his human transformation. I could (and have) filled notebooks with the joy he finds in each new experience. However, when I try to coax him to move the story line forward, he isn’t ready.

When I write, I usually have the beginning hook and the ending scene in mind. Then I follow the trail of bread crumbs as my characters work through the maze of their storyline to ‘the end’.

Tahoma’s final scene in this story is a choice. Does he want to live his life as a human or return to the feathery adventures of a heron on the Black River?  He will meet mentors and have thrilling adventures to help him make this choice and lead him to his conclusion. At the moment, he still has mangos and smoked salmon to taste (and chew), laughter to experience (have you seen a bird laugh?), and he is a teen boy now so inevitably he will want to drive a car as well.

Amazingly, Tahoma hasn’t looked back. He hasn’t questioned the transformation, or climbed the cottonwood to get back into his nest. He hasn’t blamed or judged anything. He lives in the moment, just as a heron would.

I find it intriguing how an imaginary character that lives so vividly in my imagination has so much to teach me about life.