T.C. and the Muse

Life Changes and Moving On

2011-01-31T10:17:00.002-06:00

Hello everyone.

I see it has been nearly two years since I've posted! Wow. Time has a way of going forward with or without you doesn't it?

I have been moving forward, too, although not always in the path I had envisioned.

Since my last post here I've been struggling with some health issues that have sometimes taken the best part of me. I'm learning to deal with that and am happy to say am better able to cope with it now. My husband is very supportive and I'm grateful for him.

I've been writing some, although not like I had planned in retirement. Don't kid yourself, once you finally get what you've always wanted (in my case moving and not having a regular job taking all my time)sometimes it isn't quite what you expect! Some adjustments to my thinking have been in order!

But - I've discovered a "new" me and writing is still in my future.

I also want to mention that my contract with Tease Publishing has expired, so my two books "Bring Me To Life" and "More Than A Lifetime" are no longer available through them. I have other plans for these two and hopefully some other stories I've been working on.

I do want to thank all the people at Tease for giving me my very first opportunity to be a published author.

So, now - forward with life, and story telling!

Until next time.

T.C.

A Review

2009-02-19T10:54:00.002-06:00

My story "More Than A Lifetime" has been reviewed! To say I'm thrilled is an understatement.

Here's the link to read my review and reviews of other books, too.

www.longandshortreviews.blogspot.com/search/label/Tease%20Publishing

"More Than A Lifetime" will be part of the Tease Publishing Festival Anthology, available in print form soon. I'll let you know when and where you can buy the book.

In the meantime, if you'd like to read "More Than A Lifetime" click on the book cover on this page and you'll be taken directly to the buy link.

Until next time.

T.C>

The Answer is...Yes! Sort of..

2009-02-19T10:45:00.002-06:00

I recently took a trip back to my old home town to visit family members and take care of some last little bits of "moving" business. I was worried about how I'd feel there.

I shouldn't have. I was calm, and I really didn't have but one or two "homesick" twinges. I longed for my own bed, though and once the trip was over, and I had made it far enough West to see the Texas Hill Country, I felt I was "home." I couldn't drive fast enough to get here!

The best thing I did during my few days in my old town was meet with my writer's group, Humble Fiction Cafe. It was so nice to see all my friends and they welcomed me back with big smiles and a few hugs. We had a great meeting, learned a lot and...we recorded a pod cast! I'll keep you posted as to when it will be available.

Moving is traumatic, even if it is something you want to do. But, yes, you can "go home" to good friends and that's what I'm happy about.

Until next time.

T.C.

Can I Go Home Again?

2009-02-06T20:21:00.002-06:00

You know the old saying "You can't go home again." And, I think that's true.

My husband and I recently moved to our place in the Texas Hill Country. We have a new home and some new furniture. A new kitchen that I'm still trying to get used to, as in "where in the heck did I put that pan?"

We've left our other home and all our family members behind in another part of Texas. We like it here, and have some new friends, but after living in my old home for 30 years, this still seems a little strange.

I'll be taking a trip back to the old place in a few days. I'm going to visit my mom and my children, sister and sister-in-law. I want to go, but part of me doesn't. I know it will seem really odd not to leave my mom's house and drive the three miles to my old home.

I'll be seeing my writer's group as well. They have a project going now that they all are very excited about. I'm struggling to try to stay connected to them and it's difficult. Even with internet and reading each other's work that way, it still seems that I'm so far away from them.

Can I go home again? I'll answer that in a later post.

Until next time.

T.C.

Tribute to Edgar Allan Poe

2009-01-14T22:24:00.004-06:00

Who doesn’t love a good story? Maybe a poem so full of excellent words you can actually see the image? And these stories and poems transcend time. Add to that the untimely and tragic death of the author, and one can’t help but wonder what other fantastic tales he might have told.

January 19th will mark another year of the mysterious visitor to Edgar Allan Poe’s grave. The “Poe Toaster” never fails to make an appearance, and although there have been claims that his or her identity has been revealed, no one can say for sure. I, for one, hope it never is. It is fitting that something unknown and just a bit creepy continues to surround Poe even these many years since his death.

I would like to share with you a Poe story. This story would never have been written if it weren’t for the wonderful writer’s group I’m privileged to be part of, Humble Fiction Café. It came about from a group exercise we started to help spark our creativity. A brief explanation is in order.

Each of us wrote a letter. Then we exchanged these letters with other members of the group and the idea was to write a story based on the contents of the letter you received. But, there was a great twist! We received our letters anonymously. This was so we wouldn’t try to write our story hoping to please the letter’s author. I came by my letter in a very unusual way.

At a meeting on a cold and rainy January night in 2008, someone arrived carrying a parcel. Inside was a small box with a domed lid and an interesting latch. This person announced that because timing was of the utmost importance, this letter needed to be delivered immediately. We had a drawing to see who would receive the box and my number was chosen.

I could hardly wait to get my prize home and see what I had. Inside, along with the letter, I found a brandy snifter, a bottle of Hennessey Brandy and three red roses. Yes, real brandy and real roses. Before I finished reading the letter, I knew I had a challenge in front of me to write a story worthy of it.

Over the next several weeks, I researched my subject and thought about how best to approach the story. No doubt, the letter’s author was anxious to see where their idea would take me. At last, I finished my tale and posted my efforts for all to read. Then, and only then, did the letter’s writer reveal himself.

Gary Denton has been an inspiration to me several times, both with this letter and some of his other writings. He also has a real talent for composing music. Music is probably my best muse for writing and I’ve written one story based on one of his songs. There’s another in my head right now, just waiting to be written.

So here is the letter Gary wrote followed by my response to it. I think you will see that we both paid our tribute to Edgar Allan Poe.

January 13, 2008

“Is all that we see or seem, but a dream within a dream?”

Richard,

It is with deep regret that I pass the torch to you. My regret is not in your abilities, mind you, but mine. In my failing health I can no longer execute the requirements of my office and I suppose my prior appointment may be looked upon as a failing of faculties. That is not the case. However, I am afraid that it has fallen to you, my dearest, and you must now bear the cloak, the shroud, and the mystery of our annual vigil

On the evening of January 18th, you will find in the receiving room of Westminster Hall, a long parcel addressed to “John Allan’s Ward.” In it you will find the silver-tipped cane and the cloak that I have kept hidden for nearly sixty years. Please be discrete. I am sure many who would oppose us will be looking for a sign on the eve of the vigil. Be quick in your procurement, and do not open the parcel until you are closed up, in your own house, and far from prying ears and eyes.

I have not revealed this to you previously, but I must now say that I regret the appointment of your brother John. It was to be a grand appointment, and a tradition of passing from father to son, but, alas, his actions have brought disgrace to our order, and his feelings for the French and his distaste for our Ravens, (wrongly predicted I might add) did not produce the effect he intended. Our office is not one for propaganda, or a bully pulpit. We are only here to advance the traditions, and to continue the vigil until the tomb is opened and the secret revealed.

Also, as is tradition, a part of the secret must be revealed to you. I held the largest portion for John, but as I have said, he squandered it in a sad attempt at cryptology, that, although simple, was not understood. That is now for him to reveal to another generation, but I feel you may already know the origin of the clothes that were on our founder’s back on the night of October 3rd. So I must now tell you a tale of lesser scrutiny by our opponents, but of significantly more importance than the identity of “Mr. Reynolds.”

The certificate of death is not “purloined”, but is hidden well in plain sight, as you might understand. It was not stolen to keep the evidence of his death a secret, but it did reveal the necessary information that would lead our modern technologist to understand his suicide. I fear I have actually revealed two secrets to you in this pronouncement, but coming to you so late in the process, I feel it is warranted.

Be careful as you approach the burial grounds and the grave. The morning of January Nineteenth is frequently unfriendly to us, and the possibility that you might loose your footing being so cloaked, would bring further shame upon us.

Execute your office well! The cognac is to be of your choosing, (Hennessy was a favorite of mine) but the three roses must be of the long stem variety and no color other than red is acceptable.

Be patient. Do not rush. Deliver the toast in a sincere manor, and leave whatever gifts you wish. The bottle must be left, and if you are kind, it should be slightly more than half full.

My deepest regards to you, dearest son, and may the truth come before you pass the torch.

Father

AND THE FEVER CALLED LIVING
IS CONQUERED AT LAST

By
Theresa Laws

January 25, 2008

Dear Father,

By now you know my first obligation to the task was accomplished without mishap, and surely you have been wondering about my silence since then.

It is not that I am ungrateful for the honor or that I want to be somehow above it all. I have, quite frankly, been overwhelmed by something I thought best to conceal from you until I was sure of what I had.

I know you were watching last week with the other onlookers and reporters as I paid my first tribute to Poe. I was so nervous, shaking both from that condition and the cold, and utterly certain I would trip and fall or make some other idiot mistake. I was comforted by the fact that concealed in the group of witnesses, you would prevent them from advancing on me if need be.

Upon bending to lay the roses and the cognac, I made a strange discovery. At the base of the stone, hidden nearly from view, I found a brandy snifter. Inside it were the petals of red roses, three I assumed, and beneath it, a leather-bound book. A small card lay atop the rose petals. Written in a feminine hand were the words, “For Mr. Poe.”

I managed to leave my items, as require, and secret the new ones in the folds of my cape before making my exit. I was in such a rush to get these things inside and study them in the light. Once safely locked behind closed doors, I noticed there was a lipstick stain on the rim of the glass, and mixed with the aroma of the rose petals, the faint lingering of cognac.

It appeared someone had played a joke on me and the Society in general, but upon opening the book, I made another discovery. Inside, written in the same hand writing, I found a note.

“Tonight, I pay my last respects to ‘Our Mr. Poe’. This book as been kept in my family for over one hundred years. It is a true account. I give it now to you. Do with it what you will.”

Father, I’m still not sure of its authenticity. I have studied it for days. It appears to be old, the handwriting and ink appear to be real, not a printed reproduction of any kind. I’m at a loss. Nevertheless, here it is. You be the judge. If this is a true and accurate account, then you must decide what you will do with it. No doubt it will cause much controversy.

Your son,

Richard

October 7, 1899

I’m an old woman now, and it may be true that I have forgotten the number of my street address when I was 24, or the name of my favorite cat who visited the garden there, but I have not forgotten one detail of the events which occurred over four day’s time in October of 1849.

My granddaughter is desperate for me to set my memories on paper, lest they be lost, and so I do it now, more to please her than to dredge them up for myself. One consolation is that in this exercise, perhaps I shall rid myself of nightmares once and for all. And so, on the 50th anniversary of our Mr. Poe’s untimely death, I tell you now the events I was eyewitness to.

The hour was late and I was turning my thoughts toward a light meal and a long sleep when there arrived at the hospital front door, two men who appeared to be quite agitated and in a hurry. Between them, they bore another fellow who, at first glance, seemed to be quite drunk. He was unable to support himself and had it not been for his two friends, would have been lying on the front steps. They urged him forward, calling him by name. “Eddy,” one of them said. “Tell me what has happened to you!” But, the drunken fellow could make no response except to peer about as if in a state of confusion. An orderly was summoned to take “Eddy” away, and I was dispatched to attend to the patient. I knew then it would be some time before I would have my supper and find my bed.

As I was helping by gathering the fellow’s coat, hat and walking stick, I overheard his companions discussing the matter of payment for his treatment. “We’d best just leave him here for now. The hospital will tend to him, and they are far better able to absorb the cost than I am at the moment,” one of the gentlemen said. The other only laughed, and as I was following the orderly away, they made their escape. I never saw either of these two gentlemen again, but I am satisfied they both knew full well who they had left in my care: The poet, Edgar Allan Poe.

A man, or a woman for that matter, has a certain look about them when under the influence of alcohol, and being a nurse, it has been my duty to care for a great many poor souls who have been brought through the doors. I was an expert in that look. I had never met the man before, but was a great admirer of his work, and so took that opportunity to study him closely. Mr. Poe was most definitely not intoxicated.

His eyes had a vacant look to them, but there was great pain there was well. One side of his face drooped ever so slightly, and he seemed to be greatly confused about his situation. He did not, or could not speak, could barely walk, and, in fact, had to practically be carried away. Why his two gentlemen friends did not help him has remained a mystery to me to this very day.

It was decided that he belonged in the indigent ward amongst the other drunkards, and so was taken there, and there I followed bringing his coat, hat and walking stick. I remember being struck at the time by the appalling condition of his clothing.

Once taken to the indigent ward, Mr. Poe’s realization of his situation became clear on his face. He became agitated, and would have been combative had he not been in such pain. I could see the confusion and fear on his brow at being in a strange place and being unable to communicate properly. Dr. Moran was summoned, but declined to come to the ward, only sending word that Mr. Poe was to be kept there until morning, and no visitors were to be allowed.

I took charge of his clothing, such as it was, folding it neatly and storing it away along with his cane in the small bedside table. Then, he was made as comfortable as possible, and before I retired for the evening, I noted that he had fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion.

Upon reporting to my appointed duty the next morning, I found Mr. Poe much improved, but not recovered by any means. He appeared more bright eyed and in less pain, although the features on half his face still seemed to be distorted. He spoke slowly, as if pondering every word before letting it escape his lips.

He inquired about his whereabouts and whether or not he had had visitors. And, as is usual with patients, he asked when he might leave. My response to him was the usual as well. “When the doctor says you may leave, I’ll be the first to let you know.” This satisfied him for a while.

We had some conversation, he and I; although I am not completely convinced his mind was present for all of it. Some of it, I am quite sure he was fully aware of, but as the day progressed, so did whatever his affliction was. And I was surprised and saddened to discover that along with the physical pain he was suffering, he had an emotional pain as well.

“Has anyone called for me?” he questioned. If he asked once, he asked many times through out the day if anyone had troubled to call about him, if anyone had come for him, if anyone was willing to take him home. He haltingly spoke of needing to contact his family, of his mother-in-law waiting to hear from him and of a fiancé. I was struck at the vulnerability of such a talented man. He was pitifully small and sad, but even so, he was a gentleman. He asked my name.

“By what name shall I call you?” he wanted to know and so I told him. He made no reply, and I wasn’t certain he would remember or that he had even heard me, for he spent most of that day in and out of pain.

At times he would complain to me that he had a tremendous headache. “Please,” he said. His hand, more like a claw, gripped my arm with astounding strength. “Please, close the shutters. The light hurts my eyes so much!” At other times, he lay back on the pillow with his eyes closed, and I could see he was struggling to endure the pain by breathing slowly, willing it to pass.
“My family…” he pleaded. “Has anyone come to get me?”

My heart was breaking for him and so I made attempts to cheer him up. Smiling, I tried to make light of the situation. “Mr. Poe, I’m sure someone has come to collect you, but you’re not well enough to leave. In a day or two, you will be drinking a toast at Gunner’s Hall as if none of this had happened. Be patient and let me take care of you.”

“That is so kind of you,” he said, “but it is temperance for me. Drink the toast if you please, but drink to your own good health and long life.”
As the day progressed, I began to wonder about his family as well, and so at a rate moment when he was pain free enough to be asleep, I decided I should find Dr. Moran. I found the doctor near the hospital front door talking with a gentleman. Their tone was just on the side of stern with each other.

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Moran was telling the other man. “Mr. Poe cannot receive visitors today. He is much too excitable. We’ve put him in a private room, and I will see you are summoned the moment he is well enough to leave. In the meantime, let me attend to him.”

Attend to him, indeed! Dr. Moran had not seen Mr. Poe all day, and furthermore, Mr. Poe was not in a private room, but still in the indigent ward. Why the doctor would lie about these facts puzzled me, but the answer was soon evident. The good doctor quickly turned, left the gentleman standing just inside the front doors, and proceeded to walk away with a group of people, all the while animatedly describing his dealing with the famous patient. I was embarrassed by this behavior to say the least. The gentleman Dr. Moran so rudely rejected was a cousin of Mr. Poe’s, Neilson Poe. He introduced himself to me, and inquired as to Edgar’s condition. It was not my place to contradict the doctor and so I made no attempt to do so. All I could do was answer this Mr. Poe’s questions about how his cousin had come to be in such a state, who had brought him there, and the like. Unfortunately, I knew very little and could not offer much help.

At length, Mr. Neilson Poe asked me a very strange question. “What has become of the money my cousin was carrying?” I was taken aback and very nervous about it as well. There had been no money at all in the coat or pants pockets. I had made note of that as I folded them. I informed this Mr. Poe of that, all the while sure I may be blamed for theft. He didn’t seem interested in accusing me, but demanded to see his cousin’s clothing. I fetched it right away, and was confronted by another strange reaction.

“These are not Eddy’s clothes!” he told me. “I have never seen this suit or hat before. And these shoes! Look at their condition. Eddy would never wear these.”
I assured him these were indeed the clothes his cousin had arrived in. He poked and prodded about inside the lining of the coat and of course, found no money. He even rejected the walking stick, claiming he had never seen it either and saying Eddy was too gentle of a man to possess a cane containing a sword. He took the bundle of clothing and the cane and stormed out the front door. Once on the sidewalk, he heaved the lot into the gutter, vowing to come back and get to the heart of the mystery. Before he could return, Edgar Allan Poe was dead.

Pain and suffering seem to multiply in the dark and it was no exception for our Mr. Poe. I had hoped he was beginning a recovery of sorts as evidenced by our conversations during the day, but the pain that gripped him came full force during the night.

I retired to my room sometime after midnight, only intending to sleep for a short while and then return to his beside, but I found I could not sleep. The calamity that echoed through the hall penetrated my bedroom door and pulled me awake. I entered the ward with his screams already in my ears. I had thought perhaps he hadn’t heard my name, or would not remember it. I was wrong.

Throughout the last hours of his life, he called out to me often, though not in despair, as you might imagine. He seemed to be more a man in want of assurance that the rational world might still exist and perhaps he might find a handhold on it again. But he could not.

I strongly believe those characters and circumstances he created still dwelt in his mind. Even though those thoughts flowed from his brain through the pen and onto the page, a remnant of each still remained to torment him until death and likely beyond.
At last he was restrained like Fortunato as his own mind built a brick wall between itself and the outside world. And how must I have looked? Like the raven, peering at him through the chinks in that wall with beady, black eyes and so little understanding, helpless and small as his brain devoured his soul.

At length, he stopped his screams, but death was still hours away. The pain never left him, evident by the glazing of his eyes that would darken and grow dim, then cruelly, return lit in his pale face. At the end, he was no longer able to move his face or hands at all and so, in the early morning hours of October 7th, 1849, our Mr. Poe took his last breath and was released from life. I was with him when he died.

The next day was cold and somber, as if the world knew we had lost one of our best. I thought then and still do, that it was so odd. For some reason, there was a delayed reaction and surely by evening all the city would have heard of his death, but not so.

The funeral was attended by only five people. I made the sixth, though I secreted myself at a distance, choosing to wrap in my dark cape both against the cold and recognition.

As his coffin was borne to the grave, an icy chill went through me remembering how they had simply laid his body inside. No lining, no pillow; just the tight confines of the box for all eternity. And I dreaded, but also wanted so badly for him to rise up and punish those who had exploited him in his final days.

Once the box was lowered, the ceremony finished, I thought at last he would be at peace. But his torment was only beginning, and it continues to this day. I have tried to pay tribute to him in my own way, but it has been as pitiful and small as he was in his last day.

The evening of October 9th fell, and I found myself so restless, so agitated. The hospital, the city; in fact, the entire world had seemingly returned to normal and only barely stopped to acknowledge his existence and death.

I was so angry and thought to somehow make it right. The conversation we had had kept returning to me, and I was struck once again by his insecurity and fragile nature. To think that such a talented and articulate poet should be lonely and unsure of himself broke my heart. I resolved then to make good on my promise of the toast, and set about quickly to accomplish that.

I suppose I should be ashamed to admit it, but I became a thief that night. The cognac I purchased with the thought in mind to drink my toast and keep the rest against the chill winter night to come, but the roses – the roses were stolen.
Roses in October were rare, forced blooms from some indoor garden tended for the sole purpose of furnishing flowers for the wealthy. They arrived that morning as part of a beautiful bouquet for a patient in the private sector of the hospital. Their bright red stood out against the cold, grey day and my blacker mood. I saw them and realized that our Mr. Poe had had no flowers of any kind laid on his grave. The injustice of it all prompted me to pull three of the smaller buds from the arrangement. Those three would not be missed; any more and I risked destroying the symmetry of the bouquet.

Once it was dark, I wrapped myself in my cape, and taking the walking stick I had retrieved from the gutter, I set about to visit his grave. There was a slight breeze making the evening air chill and damp. The freshly turned dirt was soft under my feet, making my footing unsure. At one point I stumbled and the tip of the cane sank deep into the earth, but I resolved to drink the toast as I had promised. I was grateful for the silence because I had wanted silence from Edgar in those last desperate, pain-filled hours before his death. His screams and anguished cries still echoed in my ears. But it was his loneliness that cut deep into my heart. I drank the cognac, feeling its warmth travel the length of my throat and wishing Edgar had felt some warmth in his life. I laid the three stolen blooms atop the grave and said a silent prayer for his soul. Then I resolved to be the one that would honor him yearly, even if no one else would.

I was young then, and idealistic I suppose. I admit I was enamored with the melancholy of his writings, and at first the tribute seemed fitting on the day of his death. But as time went forward and I became more mature, I realized that the honor should go to the day of his birth instead. I have visited his grave on January 19th for many years.

In the days and yes, years that have followed, people still want to ride the coattails of his celebrity, but all elevate themselves by bringing Mr. Poe down to their level and below. They have made him a drunk, an addict, a madman, and it is all true. He was each of these in turn in his lifetime, but they want to judge a brief life compared to a long one. A life cut short has many faults crammed into a small time upon Earth. A long life has room for those mistakes with enough space in between for forgetfulness and forgiveness.

From the other end of my life, in my old age, I can see the personality of some of his detractors. Dr. Moran slipped so easily into the glow of Mr. Poe’s celebrity, stealing as much as he could for himself and trying desperately to hold onto it over time. He has become a buffoon with his twisting and turning of the events, most of which he knew nothing about. And Griswold, who used the alias “Ludwig” to defame Mr. Poe before he was even cold in death! Both shameful, pitiful men and part of the reason I have kept quiet about my own involvement for these past fifty years. There are enough people still using Edgar that I would not want the world thinking I am one more.

What happened to Edgar Allan Poe I cannot say. I only know he died a horrible death while in my care and I was helpless to prevent it.

“There are some secrets that do not permit themselves to be revealed.” E. A. Poe.

Signed,

Elizabeth Reynolds

I hope you enjoyed my story and my taking liberties with the facts, such as they are, that suround Poe's death. No one has been able to determine who the "Reynolds" might have been that Poe called out to before he died. I like to imagine that maybe there was someone there with him when he died.

Until next time.

T.C.

Bring Me To Life

2008-12-10T08:29:00.002-06:00

A little over a year ago I learned about a call for submissions from Tease Publishing. They were looking for books to represent cards of the Tarot Deck in a series of books called "Dark Tarot".

I had a modern ghost story that I had written a few months prior and it seemed to fit the Justice Card perfectly. "Righting the wrongs of the past" The people at Tease thought so too, and now my book "Bring Me To Life" is available for sale!

Here's an excerpt from it. I hope it will catch your interest and that you'll want to read the entire story.

BRING ME TO LIFE
By
Theresa Laws
Excerpt

Darren dug deep into the pocket of his jeans. He produced the key to the desk drawer. Even though he was alone in the loft, he still looked around as if someone may be watching him. He unlocked the long desk drawer and lovingly drew out the sketch pad. He carried it carefully over to the windows to get the full light. Slowly, he lifted the cover to expose the drawings he had made of the girl he had seen.
“Draw me,” she had said and so he had. Pages and pages of her face, some more detailed than others. Her curly hair that cascaded to her shoulders, her big, sad eyes, her too thin body.
The voices that weren’t voices seemed to flit around in his head as he looked at them. Finger tips seemed to brush his arms and cheeks as he stood in the full sun of the windows.
“Stop,” Darren said, almost absent mindedly. He had become more accustomed to the voices now. They were always there, just under the surface. Like a song that you get in your head and can’t seem to shake. Today he simply spoke to them to be quiet. He let his concentration on the drawings take over and the voices receded a little.
“I know I saw you,” he said to the drawings, “in the storm that night. I looked for you, you know.” He took the sketch book to the windows that looked onto the patio and held it up. He played the scene back in his mind again. The lightening, the frightened girl, the pounding rain. Then he thought of his futile attempt to find her. Maybe he hadn’t tried hard enough. Then he had seen her in the hallway. So, that must mean that she was alright, but just for the time being. Something was terribly wrong.
“Who are you?” he asked the pictures.
“Hattie,” came a voice – in his head.

Until next time,

T.C.

The Muse Makes It, Finally!

2008-10-28T14:58:00.003-05:00

Today, I'm so excited! The one thing that all writers yearn for has finally happened to me!

My first ever book of my own has been published. More Than A Lifetime is now available in ebook at www.allromanceebooks.com

It's a novellete, which means that it isn't very long. Just about the right length for an afternoon of escape. So, if you're feeling like you'd like to get away from it all and mix in a little romance too, then check it out. The muse and I would be so pleased if you did!

Until next time.

T.C.

The Muse and the Music

2008-10-25T17:00:00.002-05:00

I've posted here before about how much music plays a part in my writing. Well, it has happened again.

A friend of mine does his writing exactly backwards of mine. He writes a story, then composes music to go with it. I wish I could be so talented as to actually create music too, but alas, I'm not. I simply get my inspiration from a tune.

I listen, formulate a story and then go off to write it - in complete silence.

This same friend recently wrote a beautiful piece that has no story of his own attached. I wasn't ready to go off on the tangent of a new story, but once I heard it, there was no stopping the muse, so off I went.

It is a haunting melody that has inspired a fairy tale type story in my head.

The music's title is "Stories in the Glen" The artist is Gary Denton.

Check out his blog "A Fictional Mind" at www.gdenton.blogspot.com

Now, I'm off to finish the first draft of this story. The muse and the music are with me.

Until Next Time

T.C.

The Muse Plays Tag

2008-09-02T11:34:00.004-05:00

I've been tagged by a fellow blogger. The game requires that I list 6 unspectacular things about myself. Where do I begin?

I made my list, so here they are.

1. I'm lazy. I have to force myself to do housework. I absolutely hate it. Love the results though.

2. I play entirely too much computer solitaire. But, I love putting things in order.

3. I don't make friends easily.

4. I LOVE rainy, stormy days.

5. I am woefully lacking in computer skills.

6. I'm stubborn.

Now, my instructions are to tag 6 more people. Since I don't make friends that easily, coming up with 6 bloggers to tag was kind of difficult, and now that I've tagged them, I hope they will remain my friends!

So, here they are:

Gary: www.gdenton.blogspot.com

Victor: www.darkpiranhas.blogspot.com

Sheryl: www.wordproverb.blogspot.com

Sue: www.sueswriteon.blogspot.com

Kelli: www.ramblingsatrandom.blogspot.com

Chrissa: www.pollenandsting.blogspot.com

Consider all of yourselves tagged. Oh, and check out Dorlana's blog, www.dorlana.blogspot.com

You'll find some very interesting Supernatural Fairy Tales there!

Until next time,

T.C.

Falling In Love

2008-08-15T21:41:00.001-05:00

Not too very long ago, I blogged here about getting an idea kind of out the blue and needing to run with it. And, I can never tell when I’ll be intrigued by something that will grow into a story. It’s a little like falling in love. Once you stop looking for it, suddenly it’s there.
I guess that’s my muse talking to me, although sometimes she’s whispering so softly I can barely hear her. When a good idea comes along I can’t wait to write it, and it usually flows out easily. When I’m not particularly loving my subject, then writing is too much like work and I don’t enjoy it nearly as much.
Have you ever been on a blind date? Usually, they don’t turn out to be much fun. Your friend builds up the looks, character, and charm of the date, but once you’re actually at the restaurant or movie, you wonder whether or not that person was much of a friend in the first place. That’s kind of what a writing project can get like when the magic goes out.
I have something that I desperately want to write, but first I have to finish another project that has gotten a little stale. I’m one of those people who needs to finish something before I start something else. If I don’t, I feel all scattered and wind up not accomplishing anything because I feel guilty about starting the new project and I’ve lost interest in the old project and…well. It isn’t pretty.
So, for now I’m stuck with an unfinished thing that I’m not fond of any more. Perhaps I really should set it aside for a little while. Maybe absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Until next time,

T.C.

Talent and Temperament

2008-07-30T10:52:00.001-05:00

I’m a member of several on line communities whose main topic is writing. The on and off line behavior of authors, and other people in the art community, has recently been a topic of discussion. Mainly, if an artist’s behavior has influenced whether or not we purchase their art, books, movies, music, etc.

Morals and behavior of that sort, while important, may not have so much to do with the business end of writing. When I have a relationship with an agent, or a publisher, I want them to know I’m professional enough to respect a deadline, be willing to listen to their ideas, and accept their vision of my work.

On the other side of the coin, I expect them to respect my time and know that my ideas are important to me, and to understand that I, too, have a vision for my work. This is what I would call a good business relationship.

This has nothing to do with being taken advantage of, either. Standing up for a story I believe in is something I would do. But listening to suggestions is a must.

Now, when it comes to readers who hopefully turn into fans, the people who will actually buy my books, it becomes another matter. While this is a business relationship too, it’s a bit more personal.

It has nothing to do with whether or not I walk into a book signing wearing a huge pink hat and a purple dress. That’s a “personality” or a “quirk” or a fashion nightmare. It has everything to do with how I treat people, and just like with agents and publishers that I hope to work smoothly with in the future, it should involve respect, willingness to listen, and vision.

I recently blogged here about having an “artistic snit”. These happen, even to the best artists. It’s a time when we doubt ourselves, or feel underappreciated for the hard work we put into our art. I keep these unflattering episodes to myself and may, on occasions, share them with my husband. (Which is what a spouse is there for, ranting to and receiving moral support from.) And, on very rare occasions, I might snit to my writer friends. But to continually do this, and worse, in the public eye is counter- productive to developing the kind of relationship that we all want with business partners and fans.

On line or off, our behavior tells people who we really are and, like it or not, it makes a difference.

So, I’m saying that artists certainly have a right to be “artistic” but to define bad behavior as “just being an artist” is wrong. It’s a cop out. Courtesy isn’t that difficult, and moreover it’s required in the business world. Art of any kind is a business.

I hope that any agent or publisher, or potential reader reading my blog, or my myspace page, or who may wander through an on line community I participate in, would find my behavior there to be such that they would want to have a business relationship with me.

It seems as though my muse is the only one in the position to be temperamental and moody and get by with it.

Until next time.

T.C.

My Muse and the Origin of a Story

2008-07-13T18:03:00.002-05:00

It's funny where ideas come from. I can't control how my mind will take a seemingly simple thing and run with a story idea.
Back in April, I attended a one day writing seminar. The guest speaker was Ron Rozelle. He was an excellent teacher and I learned a lot about writing that day. But the biggest thing that happened was I got an idea for a story just from one sentence. Before the day was even over, I was jotting down notes about this idea.
Since then, some parts of the story have changed a little and I've thought about it and sort of re-directed it, but it's one of those things that can't seem to leave me alone.
I thought it would be a short tale, a short story, but so far I've written three parts to it, each about three or four thousand words long.
I've let my wonderful writer's group read them and they have given me suggestions that have ultimately made it better.
So, my muse and I would like to share Part One of my story. The working title is "Promise Me" I would appreciate any comments, too, as I'm always looking for ways to make my writing better.

PROMISE ME
By
Theresa Laws

There was too much blood. Maddie’s mind took it in, but that wasn’t what made her stop half way across the kitchen, her hand outstretched toward the screen door. It was the expression on Joe’s face. His eyes were fixed, and they focused on hers in a gaze that seemed to be contentment. If the situation hadn’t been desperate, she might have mistaken that look for love and longing. He stood there, just on the other side of the sagging screen, transfixed and unable to move. Behind him, Maddie could see the yard, with its pale, dry grass, the tumble-down fence, and beyond that, the dusty farm road bordering an empty field; the scene she saw every day from her kitchen door. Now her husband stood there, filling up the foreground of that scene, his shirt dripping with blood. Too much blood.
She covered the distance across the kitchen before she could even call out his name. “Joe! My God! ”
The door hinges screamed a dry, rusty sound as she pushed it open. Joe swayed backwards, and the expression in his eyes flickered between the dazed look and one of exhaustion and pain, but he said nothing. Maddie slipped her arm around his waist and pressed her shoulder into his arm pit. For a sickening moment, she felt his full weight and staggered under him. Then, somehow, he managed to regain his footing, and they moved forward through the door and into the kitchen.
Blood fell in slow, wet droplets, splashing onto the linoleum and making bright, uneven, red blooms where the pattern had long since worn away. The screen door banged shut and bounced once, twice before coming to rest. They stumbled through the kitchen and into the tiny front parlor. Maddie’s eyes had to adjust to the dimness, but she guided her husband to the sofa and tried to carefully sit him there. As she eased him down, he let out the first sounds she had heard from him.
“I’m sorry… Maddie…”
Maddie began fumbling with his shirt, trying to pull it out of his waistband. Sticky, red blood instantly coated her fingers, and, mingled with its coppery scent, was the smell of sweat and dirt. The buttons were impossible to manage with her shaking fingers, so she gripped the shirt and yanked. Every button flew off with a popping sound that was nearly drowned out by Joe’s scream.
“Joe! What is it? Oh, God, Honey! What happened to you?” Joe’s chest was covered with blood, dried and crusted into the hair, and new, seeping from a hole just below his left shoulder. The edges of the wound were jagged and blackened. She pulled away from him and drew in a sharp, involuntary breath.
“Oh, Joe! I’ve got to go get the doctor!” Maddie was already in flight for the door, only to be brought up short by Joe’s bloody hand entwined in her skirt.
“You can’t.” He looked at her with vacant, fading eyes and slowly reached around behind and underneath himself.
Maddie recognized what he had immediately, but it looked somehow strange. He drew out his hunting bag, the one she had made for him out of left over ticking. It was soaked, too. And full of something.
Joe tried to lift the bag, to hand it to her, but his strength was gone. It fell from his hand and landed on the threadbare carpet with hardly a sound. “I’m sorry…” he whispered again, and then he passed out.
***
She had wanted to keep him from going. It wasn’t that she was afraid to be left alone, and it wasn’t that she couldn’t handle the few farm chores that were left to do; she and little Johnny would be fine alone for two or three days. It was the wear and worry on Joe’s face that had frightened her. And his anger. Not directed at her, never at her, but at the situation, the Depression that wore on and on. And at himself.
Four nights ago, he had pushed himself back from the kitchen table, flinging his fork onto his plate. Cornmeal mush flew and landed in gritty, yellow blobs on the table top.
“I can’t eat another bite of this shit.” His chair scraped the floor and nearly tipped over as he stood up, grabbed the plate and marched toward the screen door. He had thrown open the door and sailed the plate out into the yard. Maddie heard it shatter and then heard him stomp off the porch. She would have gone after him if the baby hadn’t started to wail at all the commotion. It was just as well, the tension had been thickening for weeks, their relationship strained to the limit with bills and bad luck, no money and no work. And no end in sight.
When Joe finally came back into the house some thirty minutes later, his mood had changed from desperate anger to one of determination. Maddie had seen the firm set of his jaw, his mouth pulled into a straight, hard line, and she had known that whatever he had decided to do, he would.
“Joe, honey,” she had told him, “It’s not just us. It’s like this all over. We’re not the only ones eating mush. Be grateful we’ve got that. We’re the lucky ones.”
For a moment Joe’s expression had softened. He had taken her hands, and Maddie remembered the tears in his eyes.
“I’m tired of not being able to take care of you and the baby. I’m tired of us not having anything. Maddie, we’ve got nothing left to sell, and even if we did, nobody’s got any money to buy it. I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to the Thomas place to see if he can hire me on to work the hay, or something. He’s about the only one around who might have work, and I’ve got to get my ass over there if I’m gonna have a chance. Trust me.”
The next morning, just three days ago, she had trusted him as she watched him walk away, headed for the main highway to hitchhike his way to the Thomas farm some twenty miles from home. She had trusted that he would come back soon, or send word, and things would be better for a while.

***
The water in the tin dish pan was just a pale crimson now. Maddie had made many trips to the kitchen to pour out the old and refill it with clean, and her arm ached from working the pump over and over. At first it had seemed as though she was literally pouring Joe’s life down the sink, but finally she was making some progress in cleaning him up. The wound in his shoulder was clean through from back to front and still seeping, but she had managed to bind it with one of Johnny’s diapers. After about the fourth or fifth trip for clean water, Joe had roused a little, but not enough to talk. He wasn’t able to tell her anything about being shot, and he wasn’t able to explain the bag of money - still soggy with blood - that now lay at the foot of the sofa.
His jeans and what was left of the shirt had several torn places, and his boots were crusted with mud and leaves. Maddie gently removed her husband’s clothing, slipped a pillow under his head, and carefully covered him with a quilt. Next she brought the bottle of corn whisky from the kitchen and set it close by. Her chest tightened at the thought of actually having to use it for those ‘medicinal purposes’ they kept it for.
The small parlor she and Joe reserved for the occasional guest grew dark quickly. They hardly came into this room, and now Maddie looked around at the shabby furnishings, noticing the worn places on the sofa arms and the scuffed wooden floor broken up by the thinning rug. She went to the window and pulled back the curtains that she usually kept drawn. The sun was setting behind the house and this side was in deep shadow already. The tiny front porch needed paint, and the small yard beyond was just as dry and pale as the rest of the landscape. Out there was a view Maddie had thought she would never tire of: a pasture that rolled gently away from the house and, in the far distance, a grove of trees that extended from the property far enough to be called a forest. Lately she had come to despise that view. It represented a prison she and Joe were locked in with no escape, no other place to go.
Joe stirred, but settled again. Maddie let the curtain fall and turned back to her husband, the person she had trusted, the man who had vowed to do whatever was necessary to take care of his family. She laid a hand on his forehead. It was damp and clammy, but there was no fever. From upstairs, Johnny was beginning to stir. He wasn’t fussing yet, but Maddie could hear him whimpering.
In the kitchen, she poured out the last of the water from the dish pan. It made a pink tinged swirl as it went down the drain. Next, she picked up the oak rocker that had been her mother’s and moved it into the parlor. She tried to remember if it had ever been in that room before, but her memory was fuzzy about that. She liked to sit in it in her sunny kitchen, rocking her baby boy. Now tonight, she would need it in the dark, cramped parlor. Just another sign that all her world had gone wrong. Finally, she lit the oil lamp and set it on the table near the sofa. Joe’s face looked waxy and smooth in the yellow light it cast. When she finally climbed the stairs to the baby’s room, it was nearly dark inside the house, and Johnny was screaming now, demanding her attention. At last she settled into the rocker next to her husband, unbuttoned her dress and offered her breast to the baby. He looked up at her and grinned.

The Muse and The Question

2008-07-09T21:15:00.001-05:00

My muse has posed the age old question – are you good enough?

I have a good friend who is a very talented playwright. He is funny, articulate, moody sometimes and at an impasse. I’ve received several e-mails from him asking my opinion about whether or not he should pull up stakes and head to L.A. and the movie business.
I sympathize with him. I think he should. I think he can make it. I think if he doesn’t at least give it a try, he will always regret it. It doesn’t matter one iota what I think. What matters is what HE thinks.

There is always a little voice in my head asking me “Who do you think you are, a real writer?” “What are you doing wasting your time on this drivel? Don’t you have some housework to do, or something more worthwhile?” Much to my surprise I’ve discovered that sometimes I succumb to that voice and wind up in an “artistic snit.” I never thought I would be one of those artists. Why, even a member of my writer’s group told me that they expected it of some of the others, maybe, but never me. Why not?

When that voice pops up, it’s difficult not to listen. And, when others pick apart something I’ve written, or ignore it, (as has happened lately) then that voice gets louder and louder.

I’ve discovered that every artist I know has that same voice in their head. The trick, I’ve found, is to have a support group to help drown it out. So, I would ask my friend, “Who is your support group? Who can you turn to when you hear that voice asking if you’re good enough?” If he has someone, and he believes in himself strongly enough, then he can make it.

Everyone who knows me very well at all knows I’m a perfectionist. And, that carries over into my writing. There are so many rules. Make your manuscript this way, or that way. Use this font, or that one. Space it just so. Use the right amount of words, not too many, not too few. What? Look, I know there have to be rules, but shouldn’t the content matter as well? And shouldn’t that be the main thing?

We writers struggle with every word, we agonize over what we’ve written. I don’t see any way to get away from that. I don’t have a way to block out that inner voice telling me I’m wasting my time. I can only turn to my support group, my fellow writers who hear that same voice and understand.

Until next time.

T.C.

The Traveling Muse

2008-06-11T20:32:00.002-05:00

Hello!

Well, it has been awhile since I last posted something, and I have to admit it has been a few days since I last put words on paper toward my latest writing project.

It isn't that my Muse has abandonded me, it's just that many other things seem to get in my way. I just recently "retired" and getting used to a new routine is difficult. I still haven't convinced myself that I really don't need to get it all done in one day anymore.

Our place in the Texas Hill Country is green and growing and beautiful and I spent two entire days just sitting on my patio reading a book, and wishing, of course, that I, too, had a book published and in someone's hands.

Recently, I heard a great motivational comment by Oprah. "The Universe is waiting for you." I think that is true. If we just sit and wish, our dreams will never come true, and the Universe will never even know we're there. So...my muse and I must get back to work. The ideas haven't deserted me, just the drive to get them onto paper.

I think I'll see if I can rouse her up this evening and move forward on a project, any project.

And, please check out Humble Fiction Cafe's blog at www.humblefictioncafe.blogspot.com. We are having our first ever contest - giving away a copy of our book Split and a wonderful Split candle. (It smells soooo good!) Check it out, enter and you might be the winner.

Until next time.

T.C.

Don't Stop Now!

2008-05-06T13:47:00.001-05:00

My muse has just taught me a very valuable lesson. Don't stop in the middle!

I have tried to come back to working on a project that I put away a little while back. The exact reason, or reasons, that I stopped are fuzzy now, but I'm sure it made perfect sense at the time.

I'm a big note leaver. I write snippets of plot and dialogue on scraps of paper, then I stick them in a notebook set aside for the particular project they go with. Of course I assume that I will know exactly what I was thinking then at a later date, but of course, I rarely do.

So, I've taken this out, dusted it off and... I have no idea what to do next. It's obvious where to start. Middle of the page on page 12, practically in mid-sentence, but now my train of thought is long gone. Pulled out of the station and I missed it.

Moral of this story. Don't stop! Finish the thing. Oh, wicked Muse. Why do you plague me with so many other ideas?
AHHHHHHH!

Until next time,

T.C.

My Muse and I Would Like to Share

2008-05-04T22:45:00.000-05:00

Well, my muse has been pretty good to me today. That story that I so want to write is inching forward, but I have to admit that several times today I just had to get up and walk away, fill my head with something else and then come back. You know, it's kind of like doing a puzzle. You search and search for that one piece that will connect the easy parts of the puzzle that you already have done, but you can't find it. You get to the point where you're certain that they just failed to include that piece in the box, or maybe the dog ate it, or something and you give up and walk away. Then, later you just walk casually by the table and there it is! In plain view!

That's the way with writing. That perfect word or phrase just isn't there. You know exactly what you want to say, but all the tiny little words your brain can think of just aren't the right ones. So, sometimes leaving it and returning later is the best thing to do.

Our story isn't ready to share, but I do have a poem I wrote a while back that I'd like to put here.

I'm not much of a poet, but I do love a challenge. This one is called a "sestina" and you'll see the very precise pattern it follows. Pay particular attention to the ending word of each sentence.

Until next time.

T.C.

I BELONG

Always and long a part of me, I belong in the night
Warm and cool, close and far, bonfires send their sparks
Into the sky, into the stars, into the skimming clouds
Blown by wind, touched by limbs, tattered by the breeze
To mark our time, to claim our place, to make a fire
That tells a tale, that shows a cause, that helps us dance.

Hours long and seasons short, time to make our dance
Of change and will and family, our voices fill the night
With laughter long and tears but few, we look to fire
Our souls aloft to come back to Earth, to that which sparks
Our desire of place and home. And so we want and will and must breeze
Through the dark, into the stars and over the moon where nothing clouds

Our voices raise, our eyes see far, the evening holds the clouds.
The hills move close, the heavens shift, the Earth begins to dance
When morning comes we go our ways reminded by the breeze
The day is long, the noon sun warm to carry us back to night
My time, our time of blue and veils and sparks
Of warmth and group, of pagan souls we gather by our fire

To expand our world to the stars and back, we want only to fire
Our souls and minds and hearts together in the dark. The air clouds
With smoke and scents and faces, we move together and it sparks
Our wills, our friends, our homes together in our dance
Hidden from day, ever present, unseen, we worship in the night
Creatures small, we know them well, our Earth will breeze

Always I come in dark and cool. The ashes are blown by the breeze
To feel the warmth, the ground, the trees. The fire
Fills me up and makes me whole, the glow lights up the night.
A sparkle on the wind it is and in my eyes and in the clouds
That race across the crescent moon and hang there as I dance.
To hold us close, to light our way, with burning boughs and sparks.

Secret to the waking world, I am absent in the day, what sparks
My soul and makes me real is something that can breeze
By my cheek and not be seen, but felt still in my dance
Of air and stars and pale blue light, of calm that helps me fire
Passion and glow and all myself. This time, my time and nothing clouds
My head, my heart, my soul at all. The soft and blue and cold and dark –night.

So on I go, with flame and sparks, with the hills and stars and fire.
I move with grace and feel the breeze. I celebrate the time, I marvel at the clouds
I must go, I must dance. I belong to the night.

The Best Story I Never Told

2008-04-26T20:30:00.000-05:00

Tonight my muse is flighty. She's here and she has lots of things she would allow me to write, but she can't seem to settle down and tell me just one story at a time.

We're still working on something, and it's coming along, at least my writer friends think so, but my brain is stalled. In my mind, it is written and wonderful. On the page, not so much.

I read somewhere recently that most writers envision their next project as the best thing they have ever written, that is until they actually sit down and begin. Then, the project turns into work and the words don't flow easily and that beautiful great American Novel, or the prize winning short story somehow falls apart.

That's what's happening to me tonight. The concept of my story is wonderful. I imagine that if I could craft it just so, I could transport my readers in time. I could make them anxious for my main character. They would feel her desperation too, if only I could chose the right words.

You see, it's a wonderful story. The best one I've ever imagined. If only I could just get it down on paper. If only...

Until next time.

T.C.

I Wanna Tell You A Story!

2008-04-18T21:27:00.000-05:00

My muse and I are at war. I have a story that I so want to write, but she's teasing me tonight. She's revealed the story to me. I know how it goes, I know the characters and I know just how desperate they are, but that's it!

So far today I've managed to write about three paragraphs. That's it. Now, my muse (the bad girl that she can be sometimes) is laughing at me. If she would only help me write some dialogue, or some description, but for some reason she thinks I should do this all by myself!

But wait! I can hear her in the back of my mind. She's telling me to be patient, slow down and observe what she's about to show me. She wants me to stay in the scene long enough to bring out all the details.

That's what so many writers fail to do - stay with the scene long enough to learn all they can about what they want to say. So often we are in such a rush to get our story out that we wind up with pages and pages of "this happened and then this happened, followed by this and this." which doesn't make for a layered tale.

So, I think I'll go draw up a hot bubble bath, relax and watch the little movie that my muse tells me she has all set up for me. Then, more than likely, I'll pull out some paper and a pen and write something. You know, sometimes getting away from the computer makes the ideas come more naturally.

I know one thing for sure. This story is going to pull at me for a while and maybe that's a good thing.

Until next time.

T.C.

Count Down to Another Life

2008-04-12T10:42:00.000-05:00

Hello again. It has been awhile since I've been here but I have a good excuse. Life got in the way. Not that that's a bad thing, but sometimes the mundane encroaches on what we want to do with ourselves.

I'm looking forward to the end of this month with anticipation and a little dread. I'll be leaving my full time job and taking on the life of a writer. Twice as much time, not nearly as much money.

Notice that I've added another book cover to the art work here. Isn't it beautiful? I'll be working on another book for the Dark Tarot series by Tease Publishing. No release date in sight yet, but I suspect it will be sometime next year.

My first one, Bring Me To Life, is with the editors now, so hopefully, I'll be able to announce the release date soon. First e-book and then print. It's very exciting!

There's only one problem right now with this writing thing... my muse has decided to visit, but she's brought a very strange tale with her and it isn't at all what I'm supposed to be working on. I've decided that I can't deny her, though, so I'll be taking a little side trip. As she reveals the story to me, I'll try to keep you posted.

Oh, and I almost forgot. Please check out http://www.darktarotauthors.blogspot.com/ Beginning on 4-15, there will be daily posts that will let you enter contests to win neat prizes. I'll be posting there first, so please pop over there to see what's up.

Until next time.

T.C.

Beginnings and Endings and the stuff in the middle

2008-03-08T17:59:00.000-06:00

Well, I've done it, again. Created an ending, which always leads to a new beginning.

I've been employed for the past eleven years and just this past week I turned in my resignation. Time to move on to something new.

I'm hoping that this new beginning will lead to much more time spent with family and much more time spent right here in front of my computer writing.

As with most writers, I'm always concerned with the stuff in the middle. I know the beginning and I know the end, but that middle ground sometimes seems like a huge desert that has to be crossed.

I just hope that my muse will be able to stick with me on the journey.

Recently, I learned that a short novel I wrote on a whim for NaNoWriMo will be published sometime later this year. This is very exciting for me and I'll post here as things happen, and I'll be posting a link to all the sites that have to do with that.

You might want to check out some of my other writing that just recently saw print too. There's a little book of short stories on lulu.com called Split that I'm very proud of. This anthology is the culmination of months of hard work by my writer's group - Humble Fiction Cafe.

We pushed and prodded each other along and what we came up with is a wonderful collection of our best work (so far). I'm looking forward to much more collaboration with all my friends there and the creation of more and better writing.

Signing off now and hoping my Muse will show up as I have a project that needs work.

T.C.