There are some things in my life that have come naturally to me. Storytelling runs in my family, and Appalachia is always part of each tale. It is home, the very blood that runs through my veins. Appalachia is my granny, mama, great aunts, uncles, and my many cousins. Appalachia has always taken up a lot of space on my writing pages. It is a given, my safely constructed box, what I know as a writer. My contentment. Then one day an unruly character forced me outside of my comfortable surroundings and that’s when I finally understood that place, when written with passion, is as alive as any character.

Ada Lee Tine showed up in my second novel, THE STORYCATCHER, well over a year into the writing, a surprise to say the least. The book was set partially in Black Mountain, North Carolina and Darien, Georgia, as was my first novel, GHOST ON BLACK MOUNTAIN. But Ada Lee Tine, who was part of the Darien section of the new novel, actually lived on Sapelo Island. No doubt Sapelo Island–and Darien for that matter–were completely opposite of Black Mountain with its starkly contrasted seasons, hollers, haints, and rich mountain magic.

The Georgia Coast greeted me with marsh grass rippling in the hot, humid breeze like waves on the ocean, an alligator sunning himself on a log, and the dark murky waters of the great Altamaha River. The air was saturated with salt and the water birds were plentiful. For the longest time I stood on the dock in Darien watching the shrimp boats leave for the day. Who was I to write about a place where I had only come to visit?

Yet, that Saturday morning in October 2011 as I stood waiting to board the ferry to Sapelo, a deep longing was being fulfilled. The air was so thick I could have sliced it with a knife. The gray clouds layered the sky in a variety of shades, threatening to rain. As the ferry cut across Doboy Sound, the wind and spray hit me full in the face, where I stood on the bow. In the far distance, I could just make out Marsh Landing. Overhead an eagle caught the current and glided. We scooted across the choppy water and time fell away, pulling me back decades to a place where modern conveniences were rare or nonexistent. Unlike other islands I had visited, Sapelo had no restaurants, gas stations, or strip malls, only a road that cut through a thick stand of pines. Behavior Cemetery, a large clear opening in the woods, was famous for its ghost dog, but most interesting was the grave of the daughter of Bilali, a slave from Sierra Leone who wrote a thirteen page manuscript in Arabic. The sixty Geechees still living on the island were direct descents of Bilali.

At the tidal creek I cast a seining net, experiencing how generations of Geechees put food on the tables. Hog Hammock, the only Geechee community left on the island, sported small homes shaded by ancient oaks with swaying moss. Well worn foot paths led to the white-washed churches. The R.J. Reynolds mansion stood in stark contrast to the simplicity of the quiet community. But when I walked through the dunes onto Nanny Goat Beach, I stopped, attempting to catch my breath. For as far as I could see was a white pristine beach without one single multi-colored umbrella, towel, or cooler. A sideways thought swooped out of the south, blowing in an idea, really only an impression, maybe a longing.

Historical novels come from a much deeper place and bridge past to present, pulling the reader into truths much larger than the facts, dates, and descriptions. That afternoon on Nanny Goat Beach what I call historical memory stirred in my chest. A fragment of essence plucked from the very personality of the place that surrounded me. The island was alive and a character.

When four months later my editor at Gallery Books asked me to write a companion novella to The Storycatcher. I saw Sapelo Island. Emmaline, Celestia, and Liza–three slaves girls–began to tell the story that would become LOWCOUNTRY SPIRIT. But it was Sapelo Island who evolved into a true breathing character, the driving force behind the novella. A place I’m glad I visited.

I want to murder people.

My characters, that is. Being a sissy who likes happy stories, it amazes me that I’ve become so invested in the bloody, take-no-prisoners roller coaster known as “Game of Thrones.” I haven’t read George RR. Martin’s books (ashamed to admit) but the HBO series has hooked me. If you don’t want to hear any spoilers about the plot, STOP READING NOW.

He killed Ned Stark! I first became aware of this stunning offing of a major character a year or so ago, before I started seriously watching the episodes of Season 2. Ned Stark is played by Sean Bean, a wonderful actor who I really like. This is just not done—killing off Sean Bean.  Oh, sure, when he died in Lord of the Rings, but he deserved that. And he was a secondary character. But in Game of Thrones he was front-and-center, the moral heart of the story, at least at the start.

Chop chop. Beheaded. OmG. What kind of horrifyingly unpredictable stories ARE these? Not realizing that worse was to come, I got sucked into the series via the romance between Dany and Khal Drogo. Their’s is the ultimate Taming of the Alpha Male plot.  Watching young Dany grow from a frightened slave-wife to a commanding lover, wife-partner, and advocate for the downtrodden was my cup of tea.

And then there’s Jaime Lannister, the apparently amoral warrior who has sex with his own sister and, when young Bran Stark accidentally sees them in a hot tryst, Jaime shoves the kid out a high window. How could such a foul character ever begin to seem heroic? Thanks to Martin’s superb character development, Jaime has grown into a humble man whose bond with the big female knight, Brienne (one of my favorite secondary characters, big tall woman in armor, yay!) has shown him to be gallant, trustworthy and tortured by a secret act of heroism that he confesses only to her.

I can’t go through the whole list of terrific characters and their engaging story arcs—there are dozens of them: Arya, Jon Snow, Caitlyn, and of course the wonderful Tyrion Lannister, a good man on so many levels and such a great performance by Peter Dinklage.

But I digress. KHAL DROGO died next. I was stunned. I began to suspect that George Double-R was out to break my heart and make me bite my nails. At this point I began complaining loudly to Bell Bridge business partner Deb Dixon. “How could the show kill off Khal Drogo??? Dany loves him! They’re a team now. ”

To which DD basically said. “Get a grip. Read the books. It had to happen. You’ll see.”

I blocked that warning out of my mind, unfortunately, although I did begin to glance furtively at information on the Internet, and occasionally I’d pick up a worrisome tidbit.

Caitlyn. Ned’s widow. Mother of Robb, Arya, Bran, Sansha and step-mom to Jon Snow (I think I’m leaving out a child or two, but it’s easy to lose track.) The wise, kind, dignified matriarch struggling to pull her war-torn family back together and support her eldest’s, Robb’s, claim to the Northern kingdom.

Something bad happened to Caitlyn in the books. Ruh roh.

Okay, I would gird my loins. Calm myself and watch on.

Disaster.

Last week’s episode killed off Caitlyn, Robb, Robb’s beloved and pregnant wife, and Robb’s noble direwolf. The fan reaction was horror, shock, fury and disbelief. Apparently there are lots of viewers who don’t heed Deb Dixon’s advice to “read the books.”

I sat there gaping at the TV screen. That episode has haunted me every day since. But the writer in me is absolutely, totally, in awe of Martin’s ability to make us care so much about those people, and to feel such personal pain at their murders. To pull off the kind of character growth that redeems truly sordid reprobates and to make us cry at the brutally realistic fates of beloved characters is a mark of true craftsmanship. Kudos to you, Mr. Martin.  I’d love to evoke so much passion in readers. I am in awe of you, truly.

However, I’ve now tracked down synopses of all the books and read them. You’re not going to catch me off guard again! I know the TV series does veer from the books here and there, but even after taking that possibility into account, I’m confident that I’m ready for Season 4.

Season 5? That’s a different matter.

It’s summer. Around here that means there are now three wonderfully imaginative, funny, sweet semi-formed humans who have taken over the serenity of my writing space. (When I say writing space I mean any space where I can squeeze my brain and my laptop into a tight spot and type.) I am supposed to be a writer, now. Right? But short people are running, wrestling, whistling, whining, complaining, giggling and generally conducting mayhem in every direction. They are playing video games and watching cartoons and super hero movies. They are blaring Taylor Swift music. It is too noisy.

I’ve finished a very sorry draft for another novel and have put it into the hands of several trusted readers who will help clarify my vision for something better. And now I wait, impatiently. Nervously. Having a mini-breakdown rather than… well, a break. Meanwhile, my people are showering and leaving wet towels hither and yon, along with trails of match box cars, paper airplanes, sidewalk chalk, bubbles, water guns, flip flops and unidentified sticky spots. I vacuumed thirty minutes ago but you couldn’t prove it. The lid on the toilet seat is standing straight up. I know without looking. The twist tie likely didn’t make it back onto the new loaf of bread and its growing stale as I write this. It is highly likely that if I look now, the refrigerator door is standing wide open. Any minute, someone will go out the sliding door in a flurry and forget to close it behind them, releasing the new and directionally challenged puppy into the wide world without a leash. I am uptight. I am not enjoying myself. I am unorganized.

I daydream about jumping in the car and running away, alone, to the beach, with the music for Curious George as inspiration. Instead, I ready my troupes to go to the neighborhood pool. This requires thirty minutes of preparation, sun screen, snacks, towels, toys, and a two minute drive. In less than two hours, we’ll be back home, exhausted and ravenous. And bored. We eat. And eat. And stand staring into the pantry thinking we really ought to eat more. It seems like I spend half my time hauling people to and fro and the other half feeding them, or planning on feeding them, or grocery shopping in order to feed them. They march off with every last crumb in an endless parade. I swear I am raising a pack of army ants. My children are all-consuming.

A beloved family friend lies sick in the hospital with no assurances of recovery and I am distracted from the many writerly obligations I’ve put off until this month when I am supposed to finally catch my breath since the debut novel released last year. But I feel anxious and unproductive. I’m accomplishing exactly  nothing in print. I have nothing to write about. No inspiration. I keep thinking there will be an hour that passes when I am not worried or spraying somebody with one repellant or another, slapping a Band-Aid on one part or another, wiping down the world with Bactine and Neosporin. My daily mantra sounds something like, Don’t you make me have to take you to Urgent Care. Then, when I’m not patching up wounds and bites and rashes, I’m throwing people into the tub with bubbles and rubber duckies and tearless shampoo, then powdering parts down to avoid heat rash and rubbing on Benedryl for the places the repellant failed to do the trick. I am at battle. I am not adjusting well to this seasonal change. I am missing something, unable to unclench. Nurturing others is demanding.

And then, like a gift, this family surrounds and supports me without even knowing it, simply by their ability to embrace these halcyon days I have only been able to resent. I exhale into the thick humidity. I give in, because there is nothing else to do in the south in the summer. I let go. I am no kind of writer. I’m handing out jars for fireflies and buns for grilled hot dogs and sticks for roasted marshmallows. I’m cranking the ice cream churn. I’m watching fireworks. I’m taking afternoon naps in a rare cool breeze. I’m popping a cap on a sweating bottle of beer. I’m letting myself toast a little in the sun. I’m listening to the heat bugs drone midday and the cicadas buzz at dusk. And finally, I’m turning down fresh beds and turning on night lights and kissing foreheads and telling stories. I’m listening to snickers under the covers. It is magical. It is full of promise and struggle and resolution. I am satisfied to take a breath and baste in motherhood, a creative soul living a noisy, unorganized, all-consuming, demanding life. And without warning, there is an inexplicable transformation from writer to human being. To storyteller. And I whisper, Did I ever tell you about the time…   

Our lives are dictated by deadlines – work, school, family, volunteering.

Lately, most of my deadlines have been of a family nature.  Wedding (and associated events) birthdays, holidays, travel, even estate planning.  We all deal with these same deadlines and responsibilities at one time or another.  Until recently, I would count volunteering high on my personal list as well, but in the interest of the point I’d like to make with this post, I’ve taken a sabbatical.  I believe a much earned sabbatical.

My point being; important and affirming as these inherent deadlines may be, even the ones we volunteer to take on, these all point back to a responsibility to others.  To some outside force with built in repercussions.  We are highly motivated to meet these deadlines.

The tricky deadlines are the ones we have to set for ourselves, as any unpublished writer will tell you.  Many writers can, and often do, push aside their own needs and meet those “other” responsibilities (deadlines) first.  It’s too easy to set a deadline for our writing and then if we don’t make it, let ourselves off the hook.  Success in this arena is a mixed bag of discipline, desire and determination.

And sometimes, in the face of all those “other” deadlines, we can struggle to hold onto the 3 D’s.

So I’ve started a list of suggestions to help those unpublished writers (or anyone with a self-imposed goal) to stay motivated to meet your deadlines – your writing deadlines.  I think some of these ideas can cross over to other interests as well.

-          One of the most obvious is to join a critique group and become involved in an organization where you are surrounded by encouragement and have frequent opportunity to state goals and achievements.  (one reason this works is because it does play on the “responsibility to others” so deeply ingrained in us)

-          Have an accountability partner, or group (usually on-line) where you report to each other on a regular basis.  Book in a week challenges and the like are a good example.

-          Pay to enter a contest – the deadline and money invested can be a great motivator to get those opening pages edited.  Just be sure to keep editing and polish the whole book.

-          Make a list of alternate publishing opportunities, like anthology submissions such as the Chicken Soup series,  or literary magazines like Glitter Train that have specific dates for open calls.  Use these deadlines to focus and stretch your creativity.

-          Rewards are nice, but why not PAY yourself every day that you sit down to write, and then use that money to attend a conference or special workshop.  The deadline to register is a perfect motivator – and you’ll have the work ready if you make an editor or agent appointment.

At the end of the day, it’s all about finding whatever works for you to keep the ideas flowing and your fingers moving.  Sometimes it’s as simple as utilizing that one little, but very powerful tool – the doorknob.  Find a quiet room and CLOSE THE DOOR.  Shut out the noise and distractions and just write!

So, I’ve started the list, what suggestions do you have to add?  How do you make sure you meet your own self-imposed deadlines?

One lucky commenter will receive a Starbuck’s gift card.  Because getting away and hunkering down at the local coffee shop, all angsty and writerly, is always a fun idea.  <g>

What you have heard is true. I have four kids and a day job, and I’m writer. I tell people these things about me all the time, because I meet would-be writers all the time who do not write. They are their own worst enemy. But recognizing that you are or could be a writer is easy if you only listen to yourself.

Do you want to write, but don’t know if you should get started?  Do you want to know why you are up at 3 a.m. writing while the rest of the world blissfully sleeps? Here are 5 super-secret writing superpowers you may have.

Writers hear everything.  We see everything. We remember everything. But not quite exactly as it occurred. Perfect. That’s why it’s called fiction.

Writers believe in strange juxtapositions. These aren’t kinky sexual moves. It’s loving football and poetry. Science fiction and romance. It’s the idea that the sunlight might be frightening (to vampires) or seeing beyond the beast’s scars (if you’re a beauty).

Writers get very . . . angry, happy, introspective, explosive. Call it passion if you must. I write letters that I have to burn. I curse people out. I cry. I fall in love. I completely and utterly screw things up. When I reach certain emotional extremes, I channel all that energy into my writing.

Writers forget themselves. We get lost. Writers have no boundaries. My breath becomes your breath and the wind from falling leaves and the sound of laughter and glass shattering become the same sound. Sometimes I forget time and place. Lost in a book? Lost writing? This is happiness.

Writers believe every falling leaf has a story. Was the tree planted a hundred years ago? Did the seeds come from outer space? Was a child born in the shadow of the tree? Did he press her up against the tree for their first kiss? Did an innocent man get hung from the branch above? Did you cut down the tree for kindling on a cold night? Give ten writers a tree, and you get twenty stories.

I am a writing superwoman because I believe you should take your writing seriously, but not yourself. The most hysterical thing we do is write down stories because our mind tells us too.  I wish my mind would tell me to do laundry. Faster results. Less rejection. But admittedly, laundry is a lot less fun. So writing it is.

I do two things regularly: I tell people to read, and I tell people to write. I think every writer is a superhero.  Happy reading and happy writing!

My superpower would be changing the speed of time. What would your superpower be?

 
Twins!

So I’ve been busy. On Thursday, May 30th, G.P. Putnam’s Sons released my novel A Hundred Summers––just in time for the summer reading season––and my stars, doesn’t it look beautiful? It’s set in an old-money Rhode Island beach community during the summer of the great New England hurricane of 1938, a bit like High Society meets A Perfect Storm, and I think I owe the Putnam art department a big box of cookies for that cover. Now I’m off on a book tour through some of my favorite bookstores along the Eastern seaboard, blogging and tweeting and Facebook posting: all those important things we authors do when we have a fresh new book to promote.

Did I mention that I also write historical romance as Juliana Gray, and Berkley just released How to Tame Your Duke on Tuesday, June 4th?

Yes, I’ve been pregnant with twins all spring, and now they’re safely delivered, squalling happily in their bassinets to the admiration of friends and family and––I hope––the public at large. But they’re…twins. Which means twice the blogging, twice the tweeting, twice the Facebook posting. When I sign books, I sometimes have to look at the cover to remind myself which name to scribble. I’m a little worried I’ve goofed already. Please check your title pages, everyone.

Not that I’m complaining, exactly. In the first place, I’m only a year into this authorship gig, and I still feel so wildly fortunate to be published under one name, let alone two. In the second place, while I love the freedom and intricacy of writing mainstream historical fiction, I also love the emotional focus of writing genre romance. Switching between the two voices keeps my ideas fresh and my enthusiasm high, and if all else fails, I can play snarky sock puppets with my two Twitter accounts (Juliana is “that strumpet”, Beatriz is “that soccer mom”.) Those followers who aren’t in on the joke probably think I’m a real bitch. Both of me.

But like any new mom, I find the midnight feeds are getting to me. (Except in this case, it’s the Twitter feeds, not the breast feeds.) I have four actual human children, so I know this infant stage passes quickly, and pretty soon I’ll forget how much work it was and look at the snapshots and sigh, all moony-nostalgic: Remember when they were just cute little newborns and needed me every minute? For now, though, I’m living on caffeine and adrenaline, and the very thought of slipping into something comfortable and making a sibling makes me want to throw a coffee mug at my editor’s head.

Both of them.

Beatriz Williams lives in Connecticut with her long-suffering husband and four children. She is the author of Overseas and the upcoming A Hundred Summers from G.P. Putnam’s Sons, and of three award-winning historical romances under the pen name Juliana Gray. Her coffeemaker is named Rupert. She’d love to hear from you! beatrizwilliamsauthor & @bcwilliamsbooks

Beatriz is generously giving away A Hundred Summers tote bag and cocktail book!  So be sure to leave a comment for a chance to win!

Last month was my baby’s birthday.  I use the term “baby” loosely.  He married the love of his life a couple years ago.  So, now it’s her turn to make his birthday breakfast.  None the less, I found myself pulling out the Happy Birthday sign that we’ve used every year, for each of our birthdays since the kids were born, and hanging in its usual place of honor were the family gathers in the kitchen.  Gone are the days of bedtime stories, forts in the backyard, and pancakes shaped like animals….at least until the next generation.  <g>

Which had me thinking about traditions – and perhaps more specifically, how they evolve as our lives evolve.  Holiday traditions are a given.  When we first were married, Christmas always involved a large family gathering at my husband’s grandmother’s place – a beautiful brick home that her father had built and that reigned supreme for four generations.  Since her passing, the family has taken to celebrating Christmas Day at our house.  The location might have changed, but the spirit remains the same;  a big dinner, a roaring fire, Christmas carols on the stereo, pecan pie, stacks of presents under the tree, our favorite uncle playing Santa, decorations tucked into every nook and cranny.

Then there are those annual family gatherings on the Tennessee River; fishing, swimming, cruising, eating, fishing, playing in the water, eating, fishing…..you get the idea.  <g>

But it’s the “other” traditions I’m thinking of today, like the almost right-of-passage camping trips to the “trout streams” our men take, or the annual target practice Thanksgiving weekend (and you thought Black Friday was a big deal <g>)…. and the Scrabble tournaments.  Don’t forget the Scrabble!  As our family grows and changes I wonder how many of these familiar, family-defining traditions will remain.

Will my future granddaughter wear the opera pearls on her wedding day that her mother, grandmother, and several great-grandmothers wore before her?  Will my future grandson love the wild outdoors with the same passion as his father, grandfather and great-grandfathers did?  I hope so.  But I also look forward to the unique and special traditions those future generations will bring.

And then, of course, there are writing rituals.  I find it helps me get into the spirit of creativity if a read a few minutes from whatever great fiction book I happen to be into a the time.  But more importantly than that, I write out a brief “this is what the next scene is about” description, maybe a page worth, before diving in to the day’s work.  This is a new ritual for me, but one I’m finding very helpful.

I know one author who lights a series of multi-colored candles, in the same order, before she sits down to write.  And I’ve heard of several who have to write, every single day, at the same time and same spot in the house.  No deviations.

So tell me, what are some of your favorite family traditions or rituals.  What about writing?  Anything you find you MUST do in order to get creativity flowing?

I beg your indulgence for one blog. Only one, I promise.

After 16 years of writing, my debut book released, May 28th. God knows, I’ve had lots of time to get ready, but I’m not sure you can truly prepare for an event that momentous. In a few days, I’ll start worrying about sales (or lack thereof,) reviews and track records, but for now, I’m just going to wallow in the feeling.

Like a proud mother, I want to show my baby off to everyone. It’s a compulsion; I can’t help myself.

So here goes:

I wrote this as a Women’s Fiction novel. It sold as romance. I did have edits to make my editor happy, but I was thrilled that the grit and protagonist’s hard road remained intact.

The Sweet Spot:

Charla Rae Denny’s role as a traditional ranch wife and mother fits her like custom-tailored Wranglers. When her only son is killed in a tragic accident, Char retreats to a world of grief and Valium. Her reeling husband takes up with a blonde buckle bunny half his age. Their ranch, which supplies bucking bulls to the Pro Bull Riding circuit, is split up in the divorce. Jimmy gets the bulls, Charla, their valuable semen.

All her county fair ribbons won’t help Charla now. She’s alone, addicted, ill-equipped, and has no one to blame but herself. In spite of her fear of horses and smelly cows, she stands up, takes off her apron, and learns to run a ranch. She and Jimmy have lost their way. But through months of hard work, tears, and some hard knocks, they both learn to forgive — themselves and each other. Together, they find their way back, to life, to love, to the Sweet Spot.

Here are a couple of excerpts from The Sweet Spot:

The grief counselor told the group to be grateful for what they had left. After lots of considering, Charla Rae decided she was thankful for the bull semen.

***

Charla rolled over, pulling the covers up to block the light, but it was no use. Consciousness was as relentless as the dawn that inched across the ceiling, highlighting the crack above her bed. It had been painted over many times, but the lightning-shaped fissure had been a constant of her mornings as far back as her memory reached.

She felt around the edges of her mind. She’d forgotten something. Something important. It barreled from a tunnel and slammed her to reality. The hollowness in her chest made her gasp and she hugged herself, afraid she would implode.

Benje is gone.

She pulled the covers up and curled into a ball. Another day to face, when her reason for facing it was gone. Why bother?

She heard the answer in the shush of slippered feet passing her door. Daddy. The grief counselor pointed out that they still had responsibilities. She had to go on for those. Dashing the tears from her cheeks, she threw back the covers and shouldered the sunrise.

***

She’s no longer your wife. He crossed an ankle over his knee to give some room in his Wranglers. Maybe not, but her pheromones still called to him from across a room, touching him places no other woman’s ever had.

He wanted her. Sexually obviously, but also in ways he’d forgotten until he found himself outside her world, looking in. He missed the way she used to look at him; a corner of her mouth lifted in a girl-next-door-centerfold way. He missed the sight of her dancing in the kitchen, when she thought herself alone. He missed having the home she’d created wrapped around him, giving him strength to go out in the world and do things.

Char glanced at her watch, straightened, and pulled her shoes from under the couch.

He missed all those things. It was the changes in her that kept him awake, staring out of the screened walls to the night. She was stronger now. Stronger than before the accident. Stronger than he’d ever seen her. And he liked it.

***

She stood before the mirror, buttoning blue flannel pajamas with shaking fingers. Fluffy white cartoon sheep bounced across the material on her chest. Oh, nice. You’re a forty-year old woman, taking a man to your bed for the first time in forever, and this is the best you can do? How sad is that? It’s going to put a damper on the mood if he’s laughing his head off.

It would almost be better to walk out naked. She reached for the top button before she remembered. He’s used to a twenty-year old! Her hand dropped. Better flannel sheep than floppy boobs and a poochy belly. He sure hadn’t traded up in the body department.

Her panicked gaze darted the room, searching for an alternative. My robe! She reached for it. Yellow terrycloth, it covered her from neck to ankle. She looked closer. In spite of numerous Shout applications, the sleeves were stained grey, and snagged strings dangled everywhere; it looked like a shedding bison. A yellow shedding bison.

She groaned.

A soft tap at the door made her jump. “Charla? You okay in there?”

She shot a look to the ceiling. You got me into this. I hope you’re amused. She pulled open the door . . . and forgot everything.

My muse left the building. I swear it used to stay and play but the last few years, the struggle with life issues has sent my muse screaming for another place to play. I want it back. Just note the Van Gogh painting, The Scream.  That’s me when I sit down and try to resurrect the pieces of my plot after zillions of mental interruptions.

According to a study  by Carnegie Mellon University’s Human-Computer Interaction Lab. http://finance.yahoo.com/news/brain–interrupted-173621758.html

“…the distraction of an interruption, combined with the brain drain of preparing for that interruption, made our test takers 20 percent dumber.”

As writers, I know we all suffer from interruptions. It’s how we handle interruptions and return to work that keeps us moving forward.  Lately, the addition of the internet with its social media *have-tos*has quadrupled our distraction factor.  Imminent brain-drain.  The key is we know the interruptions are a fact, and we still suffer when interrupted. Apparently, according to the article, the brain can adjust over time.  Really?

“…, they marshaled extra brain power to steel themselves against interruption, or perhaps the potential for interruptions served as a kind of deadline that helped them focus even better.”

My brain is failing in that department. It’s waiting for another interruption to drop by for a visit while my muse slinks off to find someone else to shower imagination upon. While I take precious time to sink back into the character rhythm, I feel like my mind is doing mental back handsprings and the muse acts like my cat—blissfully unaware that I require its attention.  The brain-drain is winning.

I want someone to study the creativity aspects of writing fiction starting with a blank page. I wonder how the case study would come to conclusions.  The final point made in the article means I have work to do.

 ”…What the Carnegie Mellon study shows, however, is that it is possible to train yourself for distractions, even if you don’t know when they’ll hit.”

How do you find your muse again? How do you turn it loose and encourage it to join the page-in-progress?

Just last week one of my dearest dreams came true.  I witnessed the majesty of the giant redwoods AND I experienced the splendor of Yosemite National Park, with a taste of the giant Sequoias thrown in.  It was the trip of a lifetime.  Ever since I was a little girl and saw my first picture of towering 300’ redwoods with trunks the size of a minivan, I was in love.

Childhood dreams are just that. Dreams.  I was at the mercy of my tender years, and then as I grew up and become an adult, choices and circumstances always lead me along a different path.  Someday I would get there.  Someday I would stare in wonder, mouth agape, tears streaming at one of the oldest living organisms in the world.  And last week it finally happened.

How did it feel to experience the culmination of a life-long dream?  Amazing.  In this case, walking through the groves of  Redwoods and Giant Sequoias, experiencing firsthand the majesty of the mountains, well, it was more than magical for me, it was spiritual.

So now my precious dream is an even more precious memory.  But I can’t help feeling a little empty now.  I’ve added many wonderful things to my wish list over the years, and sure, I’ll move on to the next.  But when you hold onto a “someday” for so long, it’s a little melancholy when it becomes a “yesterday”, don’t you think?

I can’t help wondering if the same type of thing applies to writing.  So many writers I know, myself included, have wanted to BE writers since we can remember.  When we first fell in love with the smell of a #2 pencil and a fresh sheet of paper and all the infinite possibilities they represented.  The idea that someone was waiting, wanting, to know what we had to say (usually our elementary school teacher <g>).  Our tender hearts earnestly putting thought to paper, little knowing or understanding how exposed we were, how important the right kind of encouragement was.

When I first published something in the local newspaper I practically thought I’d died and gone to heaven.  Someone, someone in the “know”, liked my work! Another amazing feeling.  But, of course, that was just the beginning.  The goal changed, the dream changed and being in the local paper wasn’t enough.  It’s human nature that with every achievement we push ourselves a little bit harder, expect more from ourselves.  Since that story in the local paper, I’ve published an essay, taken courses and workshops on writing, become a member of a professional writers association, worked on conference teams, managed a high-profile nationwide romance contest, been vice president of my local writing chapter and published two short stories.  And novels.  I’ve written novels I hope to see on the bookshelf one day.  The culmination of another long held dream.  Will it leave me feeling a little melancholy after the euphoria wears off?  Maybe.  Will the dream stop there?  Nope.  I’m in this for the long haul.  I expect that wave of euphoria to push me right into the next book.  Just like I plan to revisit those majestic mountains and trees again someday; as with reading great books, once is never enough.

What about you?  Have you seen the culmination of a lifelong dream come true?  How did it make you feel?  Ever been to Yosemite or seen the Redwoods or great Sequoias?