writing

Go to Church or The Devil Will Get You

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A few years ago, I had an idea about this sign:

DSC_0086-2 (3)

Photography by Amanda Willis

In case you all aren’t familiar with this sign, it sits off the interstate between Montgomery, Alabama and Birmingham, Alabama.  And the story behind the sign is innocuous and not at all like what I wrote in “The Devil Within.”

When I first thought of this book idea, I didn’t want to write it. The suffering seemed intense in the story that swam in my head. Similar to Nabokov when he wrote Lolita, after I wrote “The Devil Within” I thought no one would want to read it.  The story is, well, tragic. Luckily, I have this amazing person in my life named Sheri Williams (she’s a writer too!). Sheri encouraged me to submit “The Devil Within” to Booktrope, and I decided to listen to her advice. Imagine that, me listening to someone else’s advice! What a roller coaster it has been since. The book was accepted and since then I’ve learned the following things:

  • Having your book edited is hard.
  • I’m a major procrastinator, and when something is hard for me to cope with I procrastinate more.
  • I’m whiny and like to complain a lot when I’m just scared of the next step.
  • I still have a bad habit of putting two spaces behind the period (And I still think it looks better, even though the purpose behind that was because of typewriters).
  • I have to have goals and schedules and someone waiting on me to get things done.
  • Sheri Williams is really good at being supportive and also really good at telling me to stop sitting on my butt!

Okay–I’ve learned way more than that too.  Anyway, over the next month or so before the book comes out (Think mid to end of June), I’ll be posting about the process of writing this book, a few teasers, about the South and Alabama, and eventually I’ll be doing a Rafflecopter giveaway for a free copy of the book too.

You can check it out right here or you can follow me on:

Facebook – Lauren Greene Writer

Twitter — @laurenegreene

Now for a cup of coffee and then time to get to work! Feel free to ask me any questions you have regarding the book, my process with Booktrope, or anything else you want in the comments!

Xavier

/ legreene515 / 8 Comments

Today I wrote for “Finish That Thought.” Enjoy Xavier’s little story, which all you writers out there should be able to relate too!

A “Dicken” of a Block
@laurenegreene
491 words

The policeman took off his hat as he said, “You should sit down, sir.”

Xavier stared at the sentence written on the lines in the journal. He crossed it out with his Uni-ball pen, and when that wasn’t enough he kept scratching until there was a black hole in the paper. He sighed, took another sip of his coffee and picked up Hard Times. He’d just immerse himself in a book—easier than writing, that’s for sure.

But that didn’t work. He set Hard Times back on top of his stack of Dickens, covering David Copperfield and A Tale of Two Cities.

Another sip of his coffee, and he held his pen to the paper but no words would come. Why couldn’t he just be like Dickens? His first lines always sounded unique and never spoiled the plot. Xavier knew the “policeman” line would make his readers think something terrible had happened, and wanted it to be mysterious—not give it all away at the very beginning. The only words that could follow a policeman saying, “Sit down,” were tragic. Words like, “I’m sorry sir, your fill-in-the-blank has died.” Not like Dickens’ famous line, “It was the best of time, it was the worst of times.” Oh yeah, well which was it? Good or bad? The line made the reader want to keep reading.

Xavier set down the pen and started cleaning up the living room. It was noon, and he wasn’t out of his pajamas. He’d read the key to success was getting up and getting ready for work every morning.  After Zombie Killers ‘R Us had made him a tidy little profit, he’d gotten rid of all his suits and decided to put himself into writing full time. Although, his near instant success with Zombies had not translated to more words streaming from his now empty noggin.

He had on his flannel pajamas, which made him feel like he was wearing a security blanket, as he shuffled to the mailbox. He was surprised when he saw it. The return address in New York. The logo. It could only mean one thing, the agent had found a home for Killer Fairies.

He tossed the envelope on the kitchen table, without opening it, and paced around the kitchen. News that should have been exhilarating brought anxiety to his racing heart. Because it meant they’d want more, and the truth was Xavier hadn’t written anything in nearly four months.

He went into his closet leafing through clothes. He shed his Flash shirt, which had become a second skin to him, and threw on a button up shirt, leaving the top noose of a button undone. He found some khaki pants and slid into them. He grabbed his laptop and slid it into his briefcase.

If the words wouldn’t come at home, then he’d just go to where the words would come, he thought as he left the house traveling to destination unknown.

Wondrous Writing

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About four years ago, I was in a serious funk. I felt like I had lost my way. I felt like the world had risen on so many days without my true presence. I was going through the motions–taking care of my three kids. But mostly, I was sitting on the couch watching T.V. or playing on my computer for endless hours.

I was absorbed with the kids, and not much else. In essence, I felt like I’d completely lost my identity. I didn’t realize at the time that I wasn’t living my calling. I was too focused on what I was supposed to be doing. I dutifully went through my day, going to work, diapering kids, making dinner, and then plopped into a chair to partake in mind-numbing activities.

I woke up one day and realized the larger than normal alopecia patch had turned to total hair loss–alopecia universalis. It was a wake up call. I felt unhappy. Intensely. I was a balding, fat, thirty year old, with nothing to show in her life except for her children’s accomplishments. At first, I sort of went off the deep end. (Okay–there’s no sort of about it–I really went off the deep end).

I needed to recreate myself. I joined Taekwondo, because I needed to feel alive and refreshed, and exercise can do that.  Through Taekwondo, I found the confidence inside me I didn’t think existed anymore. I made a lot of new friends who encouraged me. And I also realized I had abandoned my innate talent and needed to resurrect it from the dead.

I started writing. Slowly at first. My first goal was to start and finish a book. Before that point, I started lots of works but never finished them, and I hadn’t put pen to paper in ten year years when I decided to write “No Turning Back.” When I started writing, I realized it was cathartic. I could pour my emotions into the characters. I could torture them, and treat them horribly, and play out family dynamics with them. I could make them dance and sing and fall in love. I could give them everything or nothing. I could set them up in all sorts of disgusting situations just to see what would happen.  Writing made me whole again. When I started writing every day, my mood soared. I had regained a part of me that was missing.

I think about the tortured writer, and I know that person exists inside of me. I definitely had a lot of ups and downs. I’ve suffered with depression and anxiety. I used to be the happy person with a sad heart.  But when I write I truly feel happy, as long as words are filling up the paper, I have a sense of fulfillment.  And that’s what life is all about.

Victory

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Four more letters left. I can smell victory on the A to Z Challenge! It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be, but I also know I need to get through the next five days (Sunday is a rest day).

I’m one of those people who tends to celebrate a victory before it happens. I’m happy go lucky, when I’m not depressed. Or maybe, I just wear whatever emotion is gracing my life on my shoulders. But, when I finished writing my first book I celebrated. I told everyone I knew that I was now a writer. When my second book was accepted by Booktrope, I celebrated–again, I told everyone I knew. I had reached success.

I celebrated these little victories, as one should, but without looking at the big picture. Once your book is accepted, the hard work begins. Someone you don’t know begins to pull apart your work. What do you mean by this? What’s the importance of this statement? How many times are you going to use the word “just?”  I wonder just how many writers give up when they reach this stage?

Every writer I know (and I know quite a few now), knows the importance of an editor. But every writer I know also struggles with someone else telling them their work is crap. So many writers say every first draft is crap, and that in order for a novel to be ready it takes a lot of hard work, rewriting, editing, beta readers, etc.  Isn’t this the same for so many other things in life?  TRUE victories require a lot of hard work from us.

Celebrate the small victories: when the book is done, when your beta readers love it, and when your hard work finally is accepted by the publisher. But realize, that the work doesn’t stop there. Gather your steam and push on through your edits, through the formatting process, through the marketing process, and then start your next book.

Writing is like running. You start out learning how to run a mile, then build up to two. Before you know it, you’re running a 5K, then a half marathon, then a marathon. Celebrate each victory, but never give up!

*This post was written, as I continually struggle with the editing process (both self-editing and having an editor work on my piece), and it’s a reminder to myself to keep going.

Underground and Urban Fantasy

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A couple of years ago, I started a Dystopian piece called Underground. I imagined it being a book, but then a short story contest by Almond Press came along. I tried to adapt Underground as a short story. It didn’t work too well, and I didn’t win. And then I abandoned the story all together. The last few days, I’ve been thinking about picking it up again. I tend to do this when I’m having a hard time with one story, jump around and see what else I should work on instead of focusing on what I need to. The problem is the story has a billion moving parts, and I need to plot it out and work out all the details of the society–doing this amount of world building is a bit overwhelming to me. And when I’m overwhelmed I under perform.

I’ve also thought of exploring Urban Fantasy a little bit more. I did a mash up piece, Urban Fantasy and Alternate History, for Chuck Wendig’s Terrible Minds a few months back, titled The Wall. You can read it at Adventures in Lululand, my other website that I’ve been neglecting lately. What’s there not to like about killer fairies? I may expand this story, as I had a lot of people interested in the concept. I did a smaller short story, Berlin, as a follow up for a flash fiction contest too.

Both of these ideas are sitting in my mind, taking up space, as ideas tend to do in writers’ heads. But at least I know I have ideas I can explore if my current work-in-progress doesn’t pan out.

Time

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There’s never enough, is there? Time is like a thief. That’s a quote someone wrote, isn’t it? But time can be a gift too. I look at my first hour of every day as a gift. The kids are sleeping. The house is silent. The dog lies snoozing at my feet. I listen to music, and I type. Or I read. Or I go for a walk while the sun rises. The minutes slip by, and I make the most of each one. I put words on sheets, and I weave a story.

I love when 6:30 rolls around, and the noises of the day begin to fill up the house.
A small child will sneak down the stairs, and tip-toe up to my chair, then throw their arms around my neck, greeting me as I greeted the day earlier.

We can make the most of our time, if we try. Some days, I’m not so productive. I procrastinate. I watch Netflix. But, I always use the time in the morning for myself. And I love that I set away this chunk of precious minutes to spend on myself. It’s hard to come by alone time when you have three children.

I use the time to write novels. To edit. To complain about writing novels and editing. I use the time to pour over Facebook photos and to catch up on commenting on the A to Z Blogs (these days).

Time isn’t like a thief if you use it wisely. Sure, we all will grow old and die, but it’s what we do with our time today that’s the most important. Use it wisely.

Quit

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Q? What am I going to write about for the letter “Q?” Maybe I thought I’d have quit by now. I’m not generally a quitter. I could be described more as wishy washy. I make up a decision, and then sometimes I change my mind. Sometimes it’s too late at that point to actually be changing my mind. But quit–no, not me!

I’ve thought about quitting writing. Several times. I have all the usual author complaints.

But it’s hard

I don’t want to rewrite. 

My first draft is awesome, do I really have to put more work into it? (Said nobody ever!)

I put hours and hours of work into something and only 20 people read and review my books! 

Plus, the doubt. I’ve written about that before. Let me tell you something, writers don’t become successful by quitting. They become successful by coping with lots rejection. They become successful by plowing through the edits, even when looking at their piece one more time makes them want to vomit. They become successful by submitting over and over again, until someone accepts their work and believes in as much as they believe in themselves.

It takes ONE person to make a writer successful. The writer, herself.

Don’t quit!

Oliver

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I was going to post a longer piece I wrote, “Oberon.” It’s about 1,000 words, but I really need to work on it some more. I originally wrote it for Chuck Wendig’s Terrible Minds Flash challenge, but I decided not to post it, because it needed more than 1,000 words.

Instead, I wrote a story about Oliver today for Flash!Friday. The setting had to be in a kitchen. And here is the photo prompt of a Prison Guard from the public domain.

Prison Guard

Tuber Tears
@laurenegreene
209 words

“Oliver, chop up the onions,” Momma said.

She stood near the stove, stirring the soup. Poppa was on duty again, and had been for the last two days. Momma worried about him. The phone was secured to her ear, the cord cutting a trail through the kitchen.

“Oy, weapons made out of pencils. That’s what killed Solomon, I heard. Ian’s job is going to give me a heart attack. I swear, I’ll kill him if gets hurt and leaves me to fend for these eight kids on my own.”

Tears streamed down Oliver’s face. He wiped his eyes with the sleeves of his shirt. His sister toddled in, and Oliver pushed her out of the galley kitchen that seemed crowded with him, Momma, and the voice of Aunt Tessa coming through the phone.

“Is this enough?” Oliver asked, his eyes red-rimmed.

“Why you interrupt me? No—we have to take some up to the prison too, Oliver. Keep cutting and keep your snot out of the food. Tessa—yes, sorry. Why God didn’t grace me with a girl before number six is beyond me.”

The tears burned his eyes now. He thought of Poppa with a pencil stuck in his neck as he scraped the onions into the soup.

No Doubt

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No Doubt is a band formed in 1986. Vocals by Gwen Stefani. They have had several hiatuses, but the band is still producing music.

When I was in high school, I loved the song “Spiderwebs.” The song is actually about someone stalking her, or not giving up on pursuing her.  I had one of those. I ignored his phone calls for two weeks, because I was afraid to confront him and tell him I didn’t want to date him. My poor college roommates had to make up lies and excuses for me, because I simply wouldn’t face the conflict that I was creating.

Instead of no doubt lately, I’ve been having loads of doubt. I’ve been doubting my writing talent. I’ve been doubting whether I’ll be able to make it one day as a successful writer. I started a new novel, about a month ago. I wrote about 7,000 words, and I abandoned it. I thought I’d try my hand at outlining, because I hear it works so well. Well, I couldn’t figure out where the book was going. My books are character-driven not plot-driven, and I think this is why I tend to be a “pantser.” My characters take me where I need to go. I usually have a good idea of beginning, middle and end in my books, but not a full outline. I think outlining made me doubt my abilities, plus medical issues I’ve been having have sucked energy from me, and going over the edits from my editor on “The Devil Within.” I know she’s trying to help, but jeez, it’s hard to have someone pick apart something you’ve worked so hard on.

I had never had such crippling fear when it came to my work before. Okay–I shouldn’t say never. For years, I wouldn’t finish a story. For years, I wouldn’t let anyone read my stories. My fear right now is more related to success or maybe lack thereof. Or maybe, I’m scared of success.  Deadlines, editing, sending it back, proof-reading, formatting. Writing is not an easy job, and it doesn’t just involve writing. It’s a lot of work on top of my day job, my three kids, and life in general. When I’m writing, I feel happy though. I feel like the voices inside my head are quieter. I can write dilemmas into my characters, and stop questioning my existence so much.

I’m going to shut the door on my doubt, and walk away from my stalker, fear.  And I just want to give a quick shout-out to my friends over at Writing Wenches. They listened to me whine and complain yesterday about how blah I was feeling, and gave me tons of support.  What an amazing community I’m part of!

Laurel

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I’ve always been partial to the letter L. My dad’s name starts with “L,” my name, and my son’s. When you’re in pre-k and learning your letters, you get so excited when you see the letter that belongs to you. “L is for Lauren! That’s me!” I’ve seen this over and over again with my kids. The recognition of yourself in something abstract.

Today, I wrote for Finish That Thought about loss. Loss of something you once had is hard to cope with.  We’ve all been there, whether it’s losing a loved one, breaking up with a boyfriend, or something more (as is the case with my protagonist). I feel like I’ve been lucky in my life, but still I’ve experienced a lot of loss.  It’s part of life, learning how to cope with grief, and move on to find what else life has to offer you.

Enjoy the read!

Passing Storm
@laurenegreene
446 words

“It is not uncommon to get melancholy when it rains,” the therapist said, drumming his pencil against his pad.

Yellow, legal pad, Laurel thought to herself. She could almost taste yellow, like a burst of sunshine in her mouth.

“I get so blue. You know, when I walk outside, and I can smell the ozone—that’s what it’s called, right? I can feel the drops on my skin, the tiny hair follicles rising to greet the rain.”

“It’s called SAD,” the therapist said.

“And I used to read. Now I listen to the characters in my favorite books. I hear their voices trickling from my boom box—I still have one of those—but the problem is, they don’t sound like how I’d imagine them.”

The therapist cleared his throat. She heard the tinkle of ice cubes against his glass, and she imagined him picking up the glass, pressing it to his dry lips, and taking a sip. She imagined the glare of the newborn sun, born of the rain, and scattering rainbow spots over his white walls: green, orange, indigo, violet, and red. She was forgetting a few, but couldn’t figure out which ones.

“Are you ready to talk about the accident, yet?”

She heard the thunder, and she knew she was premature in her thoughts of the storm’s end. She settled into the couch, rubbing her fingers along the edge of the leather fabric: smooth and soft.  She always thought about the accident, but had yet to speak about it. Every day, she woke up in a black world and opened her eyes to a sightless world. In her dreams, she could see. Colors were vivid, dripping their peaceful hues, like a childhood book she had once read.

“I know it’s stupid and part of denial, but one day I think I’m going to wake up and be able to see.”

“It’s very common to have these thoughts, even when you know they’re unrealistic.”

“The sun will come out, and I’ll feel it on my skin. I’ll look up into the sky, and I’ll be able to see birds flying. I’ll see all the colors of the rainbow instead of just imagining them. The blue of the sky. The world is full of colors that I can’t see anymore.”

“Talking about it helps, Laurel.”

“Will talking about it help me get my vision back? I don’t think so. I escaped, that’s all that matters. It was just a passing storm,” Laurel said, running her fingers over the couch until she found her purse.

She stood up to leave the room.

“See you next week?” the therapist asked.

“Not likely,” she said, with a laugh.