NaBloPoMo

Yes, folks, your eyes aren’t deceiving you. There is yet another challenge for the writers who just can’t stand going without one.

I found this particular one when I joined the BlogHer Network a couple of days ago. The challenge is to write a themed blog post each day for the given month, in this case, February.

BTW, this should in no way intimidate or discourage any writer from picking up the gauntlet of that have beaten back many a writer. After all, there are many writers and other bloggers who already post each day. I know, because I used to be one of them.

According to the BlogHer challenge, February’s theme is “Relative,” meaning that each post must have something to do with family in one form or another.

Now, having redefined what constitutes “family” many times across the span of my life, I don’t seriously feel challenged as to topic. I have entire state’s worth of pseudo-family to draw from.

What might concern me, if I allow myself to think about it for more than a nanosecond, is the fact that I have three blogs—not counting an inactive one in the UK—which might, technically, fall under the auspices of this challenge.

Should I be held accountable for only one of my blogs each day, or, do I have to include all of them in the challenge?

That’s a big question and one I have only a few days to answer before beginning the keyboard shuffle.

I’m counting on all of you to help me with this decision. Am I supposed to do all three—that includes Trailing Inspirations on Wordpress—or can I muddle through doing only one of them? And if only one, which one—Claudsy’s Calliope on Blogspot, or Claudsy’s Blog on Wordpress?

Comments are encouraged, indeed, required on this one, peeps. HELP ME DECIDE!

Claudsy

Can This Be Love

Can this be love which causes my fingers to twitch? Is it that quivery, nerve-tingling emotion that narrows my eyes, wrinkles my brow in concentration, or causes my eyes to lose outer focus in order to see only the movie playing within?

Just because words fascinate me, and the thought of constructing the perfect sentence drives me onward, doesn’t mean that I’ve fallen in love, does it?

If so, I’m horribly lost in this entanglement of feelings with no hope of escape. I have so few moments in my word-cluttered day in which pure thought of something other takes hold long enough to distract me from this suffocating passion.

Poems flit about my head as so many hummingbirds, stabbing toward possible feeding stations with pointed beaks, hovering over gardens of flowery prose in search of the quintessential expression of such vibrant blossoms of thought. Chittering communications between these winged messengers of joy fill my hearing with tantalizing snippets for the taking, if only I could understand the language.

I no longer need outer images to fuel my flights of fancy any more than my hummingbirds need solid fuel to power their wings. I’ve passed that stage of this thing called a “Love of Words,” a “Passion for Prose,” or a “Love Affair with Ideas.”

Yes, I admit it! I have fallen madly, deeply, irrevocably in love with language and its expressions across the face of literature and the world. I admit it! I cannot live without it nestled in my heart. And never will I allow anyone to pry it from my mind or fingers. Without it, I cannot see the world, nor would I want to.

Thank you for listening. I feel better now for having gotten that out. I know there are others who feel similarly. Please, take the time to express your own feelings on the subject. Tell the world how you feel about this philandering lover who keeps you waiting at the altar of creation, then begs to be taken back into your arms for another dance around the floor.

Until later,

Claudsy

Thrift Shopping for Gems Overlooked

Yep, that’s one of the things I did last week while waiting for my computer connection to be repaired.

We went to the new Goodwill that opened here not long ago. We spent over an hour in there and BJ, our friend Jody, and I all came away with something new to us, something that filled current needs. We left because we had no spare cash to get more.

I found something—an electric fuzz shaver—that I’d been looking for in stores and catalogs for at least six months. Btw, it works great. I also got a set of new flannel sheets for $5. I couldn’t beat that with a stick.

Later, while in the same frame of mind, I looked on my desktop’s hard drive when I got home. My poor documents directory was full of stuff that I had yet to do something with. There were articles for children and adults, literary essays that only needed a finishing polish before sending them out, as well as stories for all ages and in all genres.

Among the poetry files were two books that needed those finishing touches. Both could go to competitions. I knew that. So, why hadn’t I already put together a poetry chapbook to enter, or polished the full-length poetry book so that it could begin the rounds of agents/publishers? What about our travel book and the women’s novel?

I had no real excuse. There were some good pieces within my personal slush pile, and I was ignoring them in favor of new ideas or flights of fancy. I’d delegated these potential gems to a littered cache on my desktop to languish unappreciated until some undefined whim moved me to rescue them. How could I have so little faith in myself and my abilities?

That’s when the truth raised its arms and brought the 2x4 down, hard, on my head.

It wasn’t a lack of faith that had intervened and prevented me from completing the writing cycle on any of those wee gems. It wasn’t fear, either.

It was because I had more interests and less discipline than I needed. I saw potential in everything. “Ooo… That would make a great little filler piece for the travel mag that we enjoy so much.” “Hey, I could do a piece on that dog sled race from last weekend. We have pics available, and it could go for kids.”

My problem was that I’d lost control of my ideas, again. (I really have to carry more ropes with me so that I can keep them corralled better.)

I’d diagnosed the disease. I looked for a treatment, one that I could begin immediately. I realized the only way to do the job justice was to take the time to do them all now and be done with it.

“Travel slowly and grasp the details.” became my new work motto.

I chose to take one piece every other day and revise, edit, rewrite, redirect, or whatever it took. Before I could begin work on another, I had to submit the first one somewhere. A paying market wasn’t as important as simply beginning the submission process and having the thing out of my drive. I could easily live with it sitting in a submission’s tracking program.

Now that I’ve begun slowly, it will be easier to move forward. Before I lost my connection with the Internet, I’d already placed three poems and this week I plan to send out at least two articles/stories. I’ve finished a revision on one article and begun the marketing process. I can submit the one article tomorrow since I’m back online.

I spent today doing marketing research that I’d never heard of before, but which seemed to be a good fit for some of what I have to send out.

There you have it, peeps. I’m doing a bit of thrift shopping in my own computer for future published pieces. The cool thing is that a few of the ones I glanced at gave me ideas for at least two or more articles/stories out of that same subject that I can peddle to other venues.

I think I’ll shop closer to home more frequently. How about you? Oh, I also found several pieces that will make great children’s books for a couple of publishers I’ve been investigating.

A couple of weeks away from the net and I’m energized again for these projects. My new scheduling program will work well with this newly intended writing activity.

Dive into your personal slush file and see what you can drag out into the light. Distance lends perspective, they say. Have a great week, all.

Until later,

Claudsy

Off the Horse and Out of the Saddle

Ever wondered what you'd do with your time without sitting in front of a monitor all day, gathering info, visiting on Facebook, submitting your writing to those editors waiting with nervous anticipation for your word gems?

I've found out for myself. My computer--the laptop--decided a few days ago to no longer tolerate the probing fingers of the Internet. It stolidly refuses to consider the situation from my POV. Instead, it's become silent, unrepentant, and does the neener-neener when I so much as look in its direction.

My desktop computer, which I prefer using, has not allowed itself to make an attachment to our Internet provider since we moved back into this complex. So, here I sit without my own access. Yes, I can use Jo's computer for an hour a day while she's busy elsewhere, but that's barely enough time to deal with emails and notify those who need to know that I won't be around for a while.

As for what I'm doing with my time, I'm working on other projects, studying, and taking the time to read. It's like a vacation. My stress level dropped to acceptable levels after the second day of computer access withdrawal. This morning I sat doing cross-stitch on a table cloth that I'd put away last year--or was that two years ago? It doesn't matter.

I sat stitching, feeling as if I belonged in the past, in a different era. I took note of the fact that my entire thinking process had slowed down. I perceived myself differently, too. There seemed to be a gentleness to the scene that wouldn't have been there if I was doing something else. It was truly an odd sensation.

At that point I had to ask myself if we all become different people, complete with a shift in personality and attitude, by being forced to find something less 21st Century to do with some of our time. What do you think? Are we different people when we occupy ourselves with a different set of activities unrelated to those we normally pursue?

I must close this for the present. I've almost used up my allotted borrowed computer time. Hopefully, I'll be up and running normally by the end of this next week. Wish me luck and money remaining in the wallet when this sojourn into the past is finished.

Take care, all, and God bless. Until I return, remember old

Claudsy

Smoothies Anyone?

The eerie, yet compelling, music of Kitaro fills my ears from headphones purchased at Wal-Mart, music played on a computer bought at Best Buy, while I sit in a rocking chair procured from who-knows-where years ago. My eight-foot counter came from Home Depot and acts as my desk and work space.

Why do I talk about these things? I suppose it comes from the reality that I don’t particularly care where something comes from, how little I paid for it, or how strange it looks so long as it functions in the job I’ve assigned it.

A straight counter top, held up by six long table legs screwed into its underside, is as viable as a desk as it would be to top base cabinets in a kitchen. It cleans up easily and gives ample work room. Uniform file boxes, filled with items not in use, stacked to a convenient height and covered with a tablecloth, functions very well as a table. If I’m going to stack them up anyway, I might as well be able to use them for something.

Right?

I think most of us think along these lines at one time or another. I simply prefer thinking like this all the time. And being a writer only encourages the practice.

Why do I say that? Well, examine our daily work for the answer.

We create stories. In other words, we’re cooks disguised as builders. As writers we stake our reputations on our ability to utilize disparate ideas, words, etc. for the purpose of telling stories or relating information. That’s our job in a proverbial nutshell.

Except for the verification of information used within said stories and articles, we don’t care where we got our ideas. We don’t care where they’d been used before for something else. I’m not referring to plagiarism here. I’m talking about taking a bit of information or sparked idea gotten from reading a newspaper, magazine, or another book and putting together our own idea using that information.

An example here is Matthew Bennett’s break-out bestseller for expectant mothers, “The Maternal Journal.” He certainly couldn’t use personal experience for his book since he was male. He could take information found elsewhere, add opinions and insights from obstetric specialists as well as experienced mothers, and tie it all together into an easy-to-follow pregnancy guide. Of course, smart marketing helped sell the book, but the idea was built on a personal question and information gathered from elsewhere.

Writing is hard work within the murky, ever-shifting tides of the publishing industry. There are no clear-cut answers since many of the deciding factors about who’s published and who’s not stems from an editor’s gut reaction upon reading the manuscript.

Yet, above all else, writing is taking tiny particles of dream(s), putting them in a blender half-full with words, adding dashes of character-driven action, a nebulous theme that peaks out at the reader at unexpected points in the story, teasingly rambunctious characters who play with the reader’s mind, and pressing the pulse button until all ingredients are smooth and ready for the palate.

The end result depends on the cook, not on the origins of each ingredient. Like the workability of my office with its countertop, computer, headphones, and workspace, the story has arrived on the reading table because of how I use the makings I can find and how I combine them for that purpose.

How do you cook your stories and serve them up? Care to share? Feel free to tell me how you find your ideas, combine your ingredients, or market your wares. I’m always interested in learning another’s techniques.

Until later,

Claudsy

Promotions Rethink

Every writer inevitably must turn her mind to promoting her work. That’s something many of us don’t want to think about early in our writing experience. It’s scary, intimidating, and tends to smack of the ego.

Writers talk about publishing and marketing on a regular basis as a rule. Seminars, workshops, and articles instruct writers, regardless of experience level, on the best and easiest ways to pursue this course of necessary work. The stumbling block for some, like me, is when we must take a more intimate role in the process.

For instance, right now I have three poems in an anthology just released this past weekend. “Prompted: An International Collection of Poems” contains 120 poems grouped around ten poetry writing prompts. Forty poets contributed three poems each for this anthology, plus created two strand poems to specific prompts for the book. Our publisher is in England, our poets live around the world, and the Foreword is penned by none other than Robert Brewer of WD’s Poetic Asides fame.

We’ve taken the step to sign over proceeds to the LitWorld charity to promote and develop literacy globally, and we must promote the book. We are proud of our efforts and should be. We have award-winning poets here who are sharing their work.

Something we’re doing must be right. “Prompted…” sits at the top of the New Released Anthologies list on Amazon, and managed to make it there within its first days after release.

You’re probably wondering why I’m concerned about promoting this book. I’m not really concerned about this book’s advertising per se. I don’t mind telling everyone I know about the fascinating choices of poems and the diversity of voices and perspectives on each subject.

The book is a joy to promote, not because my work is in it, but because mine is such a small percentage of the work showcased. For someone in a business rampant with those who seek recognition and fame, I’m one of those who want to have anonymous recognition.

I want my work recognized without having to stand on the corner, hawking my wares. It smacks of insincerity, political arenas, and a snake-oil mentality. Now you see why I didn’t continue to write commercials years ago.

Though I want everyone to buy one of the anthologies to enjoy the work and words of such fine poets as grace its pages, I feel inadequate to the task of promoting it. The worry of whether friends, colleagues, and family will think less of me circle above my head, weighty and menacing.

Is there any real chance that I will lose respect of others? Probably not. Does that answer sooth me. No, it doesn’t, especially right now at the holidays.

However, I will take up the gauntlet, stand on that podium, and say in a loudly ringing voice, “Please show your support for the spread of literacy across the globe, to towns and villages otherwise without a chance, and zip over to Amazon.com/ and select one copy or more of “Prompted: An International Collection of Poems.”

There! I’ve done it. Now to other networks, other readers, writers, and delvers into the esoteric pages of poetry. Thank you all for listening to one introvert stumble through her first personal book promotion. I’ve met the challenge and come away without any visible wounds. You’ve been most kind to me.

Until later,

Claudsy

Speed-dating, Christmas Style

The other day while we were doing Christmas decorating, Jo and I were talking about stockings and ones we remembered  from years gone by, whether those we’d received or those we’d stuffed for someone else.

At the time it crossed my mind that Christmas stockings are much like speed dating. You invest a lot of thought, time, and effort into them and come away either feeling good about what you’d done or not, and not having a lot else to show for all your time. It comes down to satisfaction in the end, so to speak.

When I prepare items as stocking stuffers, I wrap them. I know. Call me anal about wrapping presents. I want the receiver to anticipate what the stocking holds for as long as she/he anticipates what’s under the tree.

I also feel that lots of small packages are better than one big package. The only things I don’t wrap are pieces of fruit. Candies are wrapped, too.

Here’s an example. Many years ago my wallet was flatter than Scrooge’s Christmas spirit. Not an unusual occurrence, you understand.

I lived a thousand miles away from my family—also not unusual. That year I really felt the need to send them all something for Christmas. I took what money I could scrape together and went to a discount store, bought a huge three foot stocking and commenced to buying small toys and sample toiletry items that cost anywhere from a dime to a quarter each.

I had three bags full when I finished shopping. I wrapped each one in Christmas wrap I’d saved from previous years. Yes, I was one of those. When I was done, I had that huge stocking bulging at the seams.

I labeled the gifts as either HIS or HERS and wrote a Christmas card to all of the family saying that they could have a free for all with the stocking. I’d put in an equal number of gifts each and for them to choose from the gender appropriate tags.

Shipping that box with its goodies cost almost as much as the contents, but it was worth the sense of satisfaction I’d gained from the exercise.

When Christmas rolled around, I heard from the family and about their appreciation of my stocking. They loved it and still remember it all these years later.

My satisfaction came from giving to them what I could and doing it in a way that was unique. I’d thought hard, worked hard, and invested time and effort in the project because I loved them and wanted to share with them. They were worth my effort.

Now you ask how this was like speed dating. Think about it.

I’d wanted to share myself with someone else for a little while. I’d planned how I would present myself to them on this occasion. I’d spent one afternoon shopping at a discount store, choosing among items on sale, so that I could give all that I could to those whom I’d chosen to receive my gifts, and I’d done it quickly. Getting my gifts to those receivers had cost as much as my gifts in the same way paying for a speed dating event would cost plus the transportation costs to get there.

At the end of the event, I walked away alone, yet satisfied that I had made it through another Christmas, given gifts of my time, thought and self for the appreciation of others.

Isn’t that like speed dating?

Until later,

Claudsy