More Spring!

I’ve already purchased it – and read it like five times. I think it’s a great read, and I’ve had fun reading it each time!

A Novel Approach

All of us who wrote stories for The Bowman’s Inn are first time or nearly first time authors. We are all excited to be published. And we just wish there was a manual on how to get news out about the book. Let’s face it, people have a lot of choices in the book market these days. Some want a physical book to hold, and we really aren’t ready to publish in that manner yet. Some want a book from an author with a dozen or more titles already out. We’re working on it!

So to help you make a decision, if you haven’t purchased Book One yet, here are some sneak peeks at the stories.

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Knight

Pompous and arrogant,
I come to you at night,
in those longest hours,
when time stands silently by.
I’m ominous and sinister,
but softer than I appear.
I come to you cloaked in darkness,
but fear me not,
for I am here to cradle you
safely in my arms,
and guide you quietly
into another realm.

I’ll take your hand and walk with you,
I’ll wrap you in my warmth.
I will protect you,
for I am knight.
I wield my glinting sword
against the dragons of your dreams,
wearing silver armor
on my great white steed
as I race against time
to the edge of reality.
I am the ghost
of every memory you’ve ever had,
shimmering down from
the midnight skies above.

For I am…

As Prompted

A friend of mine was watching the first Harry Potter for the first time in a while, and commented that she loved how Hagrid kept saying “I shouldn’t have told you that.” I’ve always loved that line myself, and wished they’d kept with his little catch-phrase through the series better than they did.

Anyway, she prompted all of her writerly friends to write something with that line, then post it in a group thread. So I did. And seriously? I got, what is to me, a massive compliment. If it were raining right now, I’d be out there doing my happy dance in it. The compliment, by none other than windr0se over at A Novel Approach, had this to say:

“great timing and backstory in one of the best ways I have ever seen.”

But anyways, now it’s got me thinking… A writing prompt. Weekly or bi-weekly, I haven’t yet figured it out, but I will, and I’ll let you know what I decide on. For now, it’ll be as inspired, until I figure out the details. Which will probably be before the next prompt.

My Challenge To You: Come up with a short piece of fiction with the line, “I shouldn’t have told you that.” You can post it to your own page and put the link in the comments below if you choose, or if it’s 200 words or under, you can just post it right into the comments! Happy writing everyone!

So without further ado, the following is my contribution to the prompt. (It could probably use a little more editing, but as is, this was a rough draft)

The clacking of metal on metal as the cart clicked up the incline had Mary gnawing on her bottom lip. The line of carts was about to crest the top of the first big drop.

Her scream caught in the back of her throat, making it impossible to breathe. Her nails dug into Luke’s arm, on the verge of drawing blood. Wind howled past her ears, blending with the rushing sound inside her head. The rollercoaster corkscrewed upside down a couple of times before launching them into a loop-de-loop.

The scream tore free. Just a few more hills to slow them down, and the carts came to a stop. Luke climbed out, helping her up onto the exit platform. Her knees trembled, and with an arm around her shoulders to keep her steady, he walked down the steps with her.

Together, they walked out beyond the rest of the carnival goers, toward the parking area.

“Okay, when you said you didn’t like rollercoasters, I didn’t realize it meant you were terrified of them,” Luke commented as they walked.

“Pride had me refusing to admit that.” Mary refused to look at him, embarrassed by her reaction to a simple ride.

“Look, I’m sorry for making you hold up your end of the deal. But,” he stopped, just next to his truck, turning her to face him. “You did say if we went out dancing, you’d go on a rollercoaster with me.”

Mary held a finger up, swallowed, then bent over, expelling the contents of her formerly happy stomach. When she straightened, she was surprised when he lifted the bottom of his shirt up and wiped her mouth with it.

“I shouldn’t have said that. And I totally get it if you never want to see me again.” Mary looked down at the dirt, kicking at it with the toe of her boot to cover the puddle between them.

“A fear of rollercoasters isn’t enough for me.”

“I puked on your boots.”

“No worse than anything I’ve stepped in at the ranch.” Luke smiled, then brought his lips down on hers.

Mary backed away in surprise, slapping a hand over her mouth. There was no way it could be a pleasant kiss now. Not with the taste of vomit still fresh in her mouth.

“Tell you what. Next time we go dancing, we’ll do something less terrifying. Like skydiving.”

Luke’s teasing smile wasn’t enough to keep her stomach from lurching, and she backed up a few paces, just to be safe.

“No. No extreme sports.”

Luke laughed. “Says the girl who does trick riding at horse shows across the country.”

“I shouldn’t have told you that either. Can you please take me home now?”

Fear of Finishing…

Is it real? I think maybe it might be. It’s sort of like being a parent. Everything we write, they’re all our babies.

The longer pieces are like teen-aged children. They take much longer to finish growing up, and even then we still have to send them off to college to polish them up a little bit. There is that fear of letting them out into the world on their own, because from that moment on, it’s pretty much all on them. Sink or swim, we’ll finally know for sure what our children are made of.

Will they soar to the heavens like we know they have the potential to do? Will they become stars? Or will they just sink into oblivion like millions, billions, of others because they’re just not as original as we like to think they are? We worry about our written babies in the same way.

Will it be a best seller?

Will it launch my career?

Is it really good enough, perfect enough?

Will anyone buy it at all?

Will it really be typo free?

Will anyone like it?

Is the cover a design that portrays the feel and theme of the book?

Is the text legible enough in a thumbnail size to be easily read by browsing customers?

The questions go on, most of the questions coming up several times in the span of that first minute.

I know this because it’s how I feel any time I get close to finishing. And then I don’t finish because my best friend, Self Doubt, sits down next to me and gives me a really good talking too. Is there any chance my real best friend, Encouragement, could sit down with me and have a conversation?

Maybe the two of us could get together some day and change the locks so Self Doubt (what a bitch she is!) can’t even get into my house anymore.

I guess the point is, I’m what you might call… afraid to finish my stories. Why? Because of all those questions and so many more. Because when it’s done, it’s out of my hands. Kind of like in September when my son will plunk his little but down on the school bus for the first time. As soon as he’s on that bus, he’ll be out of my hands too.

So. No more fear. Just pride and a sense of accomplishment that I’ve done what I set out to do: finished writing a book. Or a story. Or a poem. Or whatever it was that I chose to write. No more mostly-finished works. No more questioning my abilities. I know I can do it, and I know that when I finish my works, they’ll be the best they possibly can be at that time.

I’m Not A Man: The Woes of Writing First Person From the POV of a Man

Still putting in an effort to finish off (pun may or may not have been intended; I’ll let you decide) the sex scene for my short story, Employee Benefits, Sierra commented that I should try writing it from Nate’s (my MMC) POV, even though it’s first person Lacie’s POV. Well now. That was a thought. Albeit a passing thought as I drifted off to sleep one night, only to be forgotten by the time I woke again. (Thanks for the reminder!)

Another friend threw out a number of ideas for me when I told her I was trying to write the scene from Nate’s POV. But she got me thinking about silly things that could happen. But… this scene is too hot for the silliness of real sex. (You know, the awkward positions that just don’t work because you’re not flexible enough, the slappy/squishy/sucky noises, the wet spots… that stuff.) I started writing it from his POV.

But it’s really tough.

I have no idea what it feels like when a ding-a-ling starts perking up. I have no idea what it feels like to have a fully erect lolly-pop. And I certainly have no idea what it’s like when the time comes to blow a wad. I also don’t know what it feels like to be sliding around in there (front or back) or what it feels like finally sliding into home base. And I don’t know what it feels like to have a pair of lips wrapped around my quivering member while someone smokes my hog either. I’M NOT A MAN. I mean, I know what it feels like on my end of the deal, but I sure as shootin’ don’t know what it’s like for him.

I simply don’t know what it’s like to have a penis. A cock. A dick. A rod, shaft, rocket, one-eyed wonder worm, serpent, member, manhood, lolly-pop, popsicle, schlong, willy, prick, johnson, pecker, wood, peter, or whatever else you might want to call it. (Yes. I could throw in some more, but right now, this is all I can come up with.)

But still, I’m not a man. I don’t have a pole to dance on. I’m the one that does the dancing on the pole. I don’t know what that thing is like on a regular basis. I just know it’s fun to play with it.

So I guess we’ll see how this goes. And what comes of it. (That one actually wasn’t intended.) For now, it’s back to Scrivener to crank out a few more words. And with any luck, I’ll get all my words to fit together in a way that is right for Nate and Lacie. Maybe I need to get them drunk and see what happens…?

Blockages… And an Ode?

Not the medical kind, thankfully. But of the writerly kind… (this, as usual, is a little NSFW…) Since I’m stuck on my damn story and can’t quite get the words out to finish the sex scene, and in honor of National Poetry month… (Be warned: I might have  Andrew Dice Clay stuck in my head right now…) So, here’s to you, Writers’ Block. *flips the bird and giggles that evil laugh of up-to-no-good*

I pick on myself

From time to time,

And oh, the agony

Of making this rhyme.

***

I gotta finish

the smutty bits

full of cocks

and twats and tits.

Big blue eyes here,

long slender legs there,

soft, creamy skin

and smooth flaxen hair.

Hard angles and edges,

and eyes sea-foam green,

shaggy black hair,

he’s lanky and lean.

A collision of bodies

hell-bent on two things;

the quick heat of pleasure

and happy endings.

She spreads her legs,

he gives her his bone,

crimson lips can’t hold back

a whimper, a moan.

A few more quick thrusts

with his big rod,

he gets her to cum,

and then blows his wad.

*The End*

Lent Backfired on Me This Year…

So… most people give stuff up for Lent. Chocolate: Don’t really eat it much, so that’s pointless. Candy: It’s Peeps and Reese’s Peanut Butter Eggs season, so… no. Junk food: Pie? cookies? Cake? Chips? Whatever. Couldn’t care much less. Swearing: Fuck that. Popcorn: I would rather die. I usually just jokingly say I’m giving up giving things up for Lent. As in I love my vices far too much to give them up, and since they don’t actually hurt anyone, why bother?

But this year, I took that teasing phrase to a whole new level of crazy. Because I wasn’t crazy enough already. So what I gave up for Lent this year was: not giving up before I’ve even started. Don’t let the draft win. It thinks its pretty and perfect as is. I know better, but don’t even know where to start most of the time. Don’t let the draft win. Quit giving up.

(Remember I said that. Because I wrote an epic rant on Thursday (3/26) morning at about 4am. It’s got me so heated up that focusing on making it an intelligent statement of my opinions has been hard to do, and I’ve only been able to work on it bits at a time. So we’ll see when it actually gets posted.)

Back to Lent and giving things up… Lent is supposed to be about giving things up. *see list above* Here’s part two to that equation: Not pick up a new bad habit. Which is precisely what I did this year. I don’t drink a lot of caffeine in general, don’t like hot cocoa/chocolate much, and don’t like coffee. Except apparently, if I add enough sugar and just the right amount of milk to coffee, I can guzzle that shit like water. Wait, what? I drink coffee now? Well damn. What a brilliant idea I had, huh? It’s not like a friend offered me some one day and not really thinking, I accepted. Oh, no, no. If only it were that simple.

Instead, I actively sought out some sample-sized packets of different flavors. And bought them. On purpose. What. The. Holy Hannah. Was. I. Thinking? I’ve blasted through those and am now on to the next flavor. This particular flavor is called Snickeroo. Why? Because damn you, dyslexia, I thought it said Snickerdo. (Snickerdoodles are my favorite cookie, and though I don’t freak out when we don’t have them available, I will eat every last one of them when we do have them.) Or maybe it was wishful thinking. I mean seriously? Cookie-flavored coffee?  Hell yes, I’m in on that one! Coffee has always smelled good – why didn’t it ever taste good? Well now I know. Sugar. A shit-load of it. And now I’m hooked.

Just When You Think You’ve Got Everything Under Control…

(Originally written 1/28/2015)

It’s gone. All gone. And… there are tears. Before you begin to worry about my mental stability, it’s just a Mama Moment. You see, tomorrow marks a new beginning in my son’s life. Tomorrow, we take him to the elementary school and register him for Kindergarten. So…

Yes. There are tears of joy. Because starting the day after Labor Day this year, my little boy is gone. All. Day. Long. No more day-long fights with his little sister, no more bickering over what he wants to eat for lunch, no more screaming and yelling on a continuous loop. No more MythBusters on repeat.

There are also tears of pride. Soon, he won’t be a little boy anymore. He’ll be a “big” boy, even though he’s pretty under-average for a five-year-old. He’ll be off to school to learn new things, do new things, meet new people, and make new friends. Because my little boy is growing up – wait… did I just say he’s growing up?

Oh dear. There they are. Tears not of sadness, but yes, sadness. I’ll be hanging out at home, with my little girl, playing games, reading, goofing off, and cuddling all day. I’ll be eating lunch with her. I’ll watch a movie with her. I’ll read her stories. I’ll fight with her over what we’re having for lunch (please, God, no more mac & cheese!)

The quiet will overwhelm me. My daughter, on her own, is relatively quiet. My son on his own, on the other hand, is quite the opposite. So while it may finally be quiet in my house for the day, my son will not be in the picture. He, who is already quite independent, will want to be spending time with his friends instead of Mama. He will have homework to do (really, people? Homework in Kindergarten?) He will want to be left alone. More than he already does.

I know there are wonderfully fantastic things that will come out of this – like everything I’ve already listed, even those listed as negatives – but at the moment, I’m too busy mourning those things, and want to wallow in the loss of the “little” in my little boy.

Friends…

I have a few. They’re all pretty great. We’ve all got warped minds, and have fantastic conversations about how things are “always better with power tools,” and how to improvise weapons with things like welders. (Purely in the name of research, I promise.)

Tuesday nights are reserved for my NaNoWriMo pals. We meet year-round, and write. Or, you know. Try to. But we also talk, especially that last hour of the night, when we’re all a little punchy. Tonight was no exception.

Tonight, they set aside a little time to help me come up with taglines for a novel I’m working on. One of my fabulous friends, suggested I go home and sit down with a bottle of beer – or my equivalent anyway, which would be some fruity concoction involving vodka and crushed ice – and just free-write. She told me I’d start coughing up one-liners, and one of them would be genius.

In other words, take a page from all the famous writers from a bygone era – minus the syphilis, of course – get drunk and start coughing up hairballs of genius. So here’s my first hairball of genius. A blog. Now it’s up to me to maintain it, and actually post to it. On a weekly basis. With any luck, I’ll stick to that goal, and actually say something that means something to someone.

(PS: This was actually written yesterday, however, for some reason, it was posted as a page instead of a blog post. A couple times. Hopefully, it will work this time. *Crossing fingers*)