Prompts

My mind has been so cluttered lately, I haven’t been able to write. Once upon a time, when I was stuck for inspiration, I tried word prompts.

Prompts are great because you don’t have to concentrate on writing well. You just have to stretch the ol’ brain to get ideas on paper. It’s a great exercise.  Just for fun, I thought I’d share a few of my prompt bits here. (Prompt words are in bold print.)

Dream Come True

Her hair was once a mass of chestnut curls but has gone to white-yellow frizz, her eyes were such a deep brown they were almost black, now they glow blue behind contact lenses, breast implants… once the fresh-faced prettiness of the girl next door, a nose job has carved her face into a cookie cutter beauty… she cries… a lot… but only when no one can see her, and today she is going to do something that no one, not even her therapist will expect. She kicks off her street shoes and undresses hurriedly, anxious to get into her uniform. She won’t have to cry anymore. She has been waiting for this for years.

Barefoot, but otherwise dressed, she stands before the full length mirror and giggles.

“No, mi amiga! This is wrong! You no can laugh now. You must be fierce, la mejur loca, no?”

“Si, Lucia, you are right — Crazy Woman!” Composing her features, Maria Carilla del Sol sneers into the mirror, and the Sargent in the mirror sneers back at her. No one back home, no one on earth would have believed that this is Maria’s dream. What she had prayed for all her life. Her father would beat her mercilessly if he knew what his money had gone for, but she is thankful he had that much money.

Lucia holds out a pair of heavy socks; Maria takes them and sits on the hard bench to pull them on. Then Lucia brings the knee pads and elbow pads, which Maria dons quickly.

Finally, Lucia brings that which turns the former Mexican beauty into Sargent Josephine: the skates.

Sgt. Jo laces the skates over her ankles and stands to test the fit. She rolls rapidly around the locker room and returns to spin in front of the full length mirror. She snickers at the heavy make-up covering the face of cookie cutter beauty, and the outlandishly frizzy hair. She tests her most fierce look, hardening her eyes, curling her upper lip.

Lucia smiles at her: “The roller derby no see anyone like you, mi amiga!”

 

The secret handshake

Casey knew their secret handshake, she had watched from the bushes behind her new home while they were deciding what it would be. She pulled a baseball cap over her short sandy hair and checked the mirror.

“Not bad,” she told her reflection. “That one guy’s hair’s longer than mine. They won’t know I’m a girl.”

She loaded her jeans pockets with her treasures: a horse’s tooth she got from her uncle, the vet; a polished Apache tear stone from Arizona; a shard of green glass smoothed to satin by the ocean; and an old pocket knife with a broken, dull blade.

Mustering up her courage, Casey marched right up to the clubhouse door and knocked on the rickety old thing. She heard the commotion from inside come to a hushed silence before someone opened the door a crack. Somebody peeked out with a nose sunburned enough to rival Rudolph.

“This here’s a private club,” he sneered. “Ain’t no one allowed in here ‘less they know the secret handshake.”

“I know it.”

“Ain’t possible.”

 ”Well, I do,” Casey crossed her arms and glared at the kid with the nose sticking out of the clubhouse door. He shut the door in her face.

“What’ll I do?” she heard him ask.

“We’ll just have to see if he knows the handshake,” came the response amid a chorus of “Ain’t no way” and “That’s impossible!”

Casey stood back as five eight-year-old boys pushed their way out the clubhouse door. One of them, the one who’s hair was longer than Casey’s, announced: “I’m the president of this here club. It was my idea and I don’t ‘member ever seein’ you here.”

“Yeah, but I can join if I know the handshake, and I know the handshake,” Casey challenged him.

Thrusting his right hand out at her, the president said: “Prove it!”

Casey planted her feet wide and gripped his wrist with her right hand. Three pumps, one, two, three – then she slid her hand down his until their fingers were locked at the second knuckle. One, two, three. Then she popped him in the shoulder with her left fist, just as he popped her, and whipped her hand back from his.

The president scratched his head and looked at the other faces of his club. “Guess we’ve got a new member.”

 

Scrubbing Elephants

She washed and scrubbed the elephant feeling sorry for herself the whole time. Ethically speaking, she deserved the punishment, but she still hated the sentence. If the city hadn’t wanted pets at the parade, they should’ve prohibited them. She didn’t know the dumb elephant would’ve spooked so easily at her yapping Yorkie as to run into the crowd of parade enthusiasts.

But she was sorry about the dead Australian Shepherd.

The Aussie’s owner had watched with his old cowboy hat in his hand and a tight grip on his dog’s collar as the flag passed, marking the beginning of the parade. Missie barked at the elephants coming behind the flag, and the next thing she knew Missie ran at an old bull and he charged, trampling the Aussie.

Now she had to wash the elephants and pay for the dog.

The elephant’s trunk swung back and goosed her butt. She spun around to glare into that massive face only to see him smiling, as if to say, “Cheer up. I could’ve run over the cowboy.”

 

Okay, boys and girls, that’s our fun for today. Maybe the next time we meet, my muse will have awakened and I can be my old self again. Til then, keep me in your prayers!

The Dreaded Block

“Doctor, please! There’s gotta be a cure!”

“I’m so sorry, Linda, but no prescription or surgical procedure exists for writer’s block. You’re on your own.” 

AAAARGHHHHH!

There is nothing more diabolical than this malicious curse that strikes the writer without even a rattlesnake’s warning. Everything’s going great: the characters are deep into the abysses we create for them; their fledgling love for each other can self-destruct with one more angry look, one more smart-mouthed response; the plot is thick, the climax is looming, and . . .

Nada.

When I got stuck with a bull riding scene in Give the Lady a Ride, I popped in a PBR tape and played it in slow motion, hitting the pause and rewind until I almost wore the buttons out. I seared the images into my brain, translated them into words, and got them down on paper. When I couldn’t get into my characters, I played my Chris LeDoux CD until my cats could sing along. When my humor left me and romance was lost in a pile of laundry or dirty dishes, I’d watch movies: The Wedding Planner, How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days, It Could Happen to You. Worked every time. And, finally, when my poet muse balked at having to conceive cowboy poetry (the snob),  I turned to Dave Watkins’ CD, Easy on the Ears,  and wrote Talon’s perfect poem.

I combated writer’s block with an impressive arsenal–and won!

Now it’s time for revenge.

The ugly scourge has returned. It lurks in the back of my mind by day, shattering the precious moments of joy when I’m blissfully oblivious to it. It stalks and pounces. It distracts me from conversations; it intrudes my thoughts when I read; it invades my head when I watch TV, causing me to miss entire scenes, leaving me only with commercials. It laughs at me when I sleep–a deep, rumbling, mocking laughter that awakens me at two in the morning. Silly girl! You’re not allowed to sleep! You still don’t know how to write that scene!

Muahahaha!

C’mon, Bristol Meyers! Get moving, Janson Pharmaceuticals! Give me a cure I can apply directly to the forehead!

 

Whew, that was fun.

Truthfully, though, the best weapons against writer’s block are prayer and patience. I’ve got the former down pat, it’s the latter that’s killing me. Especially now, when I have a romantic scene that’s zooming in on me faster than a Doppler can register. One that can’t be too romantic; that has to be saturated with mixed emotions; that must be in place before I can insert the next scene.

Which I’ve already written. . .

. . . during my writer’s block.

Maybe I don’t have writer’s block. Maybe I have romance block.

Maybe I need a date with my husband.

Nah, that won’t work. He’s always too romantic. If there could possibly be such a thing.

But it does sound like fun . . .

Whatever Works

 

How do I write? By the seat of my pants. Really. That’s what they call it. I’m an sotp writer.

I start with some great opening line that entered my head, or a phrase too good to ignore, or a personality I just have to explore, and I sit on down to Mr. Puter and start tapping away at the keyboard. More often than not, I have no clue as to what’s going to happen.

Many writers can plot and plan, outline and scheme. They have biographies on main characters, minor characters, great aunt Lily’s first beau’s second wife. Backstories down to a T. They know their theme, the message they want to present and how they want to present it. They know, before they write page one, what will happen on page one hundred twenty-three-and-a-half. I even heard of one author that strings along butcher paper all across her office with each peak and valley of the plotline diagrammed.

I, on the other hand, am inherently lazy. That’s too much work.

I type what I have in mind at the moment it hits (unless I’m not near my computer; then I grab any ol’ piece of paper I can find). I continue writing until my muse slumps, breathless, exhausted, and unable to continue. Then I reread what I wrote. Sometimes I can see what’s happening and who my characters are, sometimes not. But I clamp onto what’s revealed to me with superglue and build on it when my muse has rested.

As I mentioned in another post, the idea for The Cat Lady of Forest Lawn came from the heavenly blue. I’d put this under the category of “personality I just have to explore.” After writing her opening scene (partially posted under the “WIP” tab), I realized I would need a stabilizer to offset her flamboyant personality. That’s where Evelyn comes in. It took me roughly fifty pages to get to know Evelyn. And that’s where pre-planners have their advantage. They don’t have to go back and spruce up a character they’ve written fifty pages about.

But it never fails. Everything clarifies within the first quarter of the book–characters and their backstories, conflicts and motivations; the plot and theme; and, often, the grand finale.

The peaks and valleys, the ebb and flow of the action, however, come one scene at a time. I throw my characters into hot water, rescue their burning hides, then sit and wonder what else to throw them into.

I’ve got a few rules, though, which I’ve listed here in no particular order:

1. Anything and everything that I write has to propel the story forward, or release valuable information, or foreshadow something. In other words, it has to have a point. And I have to admit, being an sotp writer, not everything I put down on Mr. Puter does that. Which is why I have my other friend, Mr. Ax. If what I’ve written doesn’t do a job for the storyline, no matter how beautiful, clever or compelling, it’s gotta go.  (Sometimes it goes into a separate file to use some other time in some other book, but it’s still gotta go.)

2. Anything and everything I write has to fit into the confines of what I’ve previously presented.  It has to blend in and transition smoothly. Or, if not and there’s a vital reason why not, the shift has to be jarring. That’s what I’ve had to do while shifting from Evelyn’s point of view to Millie’s. Believe me, you always know when you’re in Millie’s point of view.

For example:

She glanced up at him in time to see his eyes shift from her to the meadow. The idea that he’d been watching her created a surprising stir of butterflies in her stomach. She swallowed hard to drown them.

That’s Evelyn.

Think of anything other than elephants. Try not to picture a purple elephant. No pink and purple elephants should cross your mind. Why would you even want to see pink and purple polka-dotted elephants? Just don’t think about them.

But you did, didn’t you?

Same thing happens to me every time I tell myself not to look down.

That’s Millie.

3. My most important rule: pay close attention to God’s input.

I’m serious, here. All references to fictitious muses aside, God does pay attention to what you’re putting on the page.

With Give the Lady a Ride, I dropped Patricia into a maze of mixed emotions and conflicting needs. Got her good and lost in the hedgerows. And didn’t know how to get her out.

That’s when I discovered just how closely God watches what I do. I felt a prompting to get my Bible, so I grabbed it and effortlessly found the exact passage that fit. And it wasn’t one that I would’ve thought of. In fact, I couldn’t think of anything that would do the job. Since then, I’ve made it a point to stop what I’m doing and jot down anything that seems heaven-sent.

But, isn’t it amazing? If God cares so much about what happens to Patricia Talbert in the pages of my novel, how much more does He care for us?

It’s Here!

 

Well, here I am! What do you think? Didn’t Greg do a great job?

Before you ask, no. I don’t dye my hair.

God is so good. He’s been leading me all along, enduring my panic and my complaints, sending into my path people who know just what to say (Greg, Jess, Katie) to calm my nerves–and preventing me from going to the conference this weekend.

Yes, I got the call after I picked up my photo that Mom will probably be released from hospital this weekend. That is a good thing — I hope. Even if I didn’t have a conference to go to, I’d still think it’s too early, considering how weak she is.

But God is in control. He knows what’s best all the way around, and I trust Him in all of it. And thank Him for the messengers He sent my way to remind me He’s in control.

It amazes me that I’d have to be reminded.

When my husband and I moved here, my dad had cancer. He kept beating the time limit the doctors had put on his life, but we knew he didn’t have long. But he worried about me driving back and forth in my old Pontiac, and gave me his maroon Dodge Dynasty.

Now, there’s nothing sexy about a Dodge Dynasty. It’s worse than a mom-mobile: it’s a grandma car — and I wasn’t a grandma yet. But when I got behind the wheel and took to the highway for the two and a half hour drive, I learned to love that baby! The state had just kicked the speed limit up to seventy and I was pushing the limit. Okay, I lied. I zoomed past the limit on long, empty stretches, whipped around curves, flew over hills. Yowzah! That baby could move!

Coming off a hill, I saw two cars on the road ahead of me just close enough to make me tap the brakes back down to seventy. Off to the side, farther ahead, were two vehicles parked in the grassy easement in front of a pasture. The guy in the car pulled ahead and turned into a dirt drive. The driver of the truck watched the two cars ahead of me pass him.

But he didn’t see me.

He pulled a U right in front of me. I slammed my brakes, my hands locked on the wheel, my arms fully extended and shoving my back into the seat.

A calm voice in my head said, “Turn the wheel.”

In a fraction of an instant, I thought, “Sure. It’d be better to negotiate the field than to hit the truck.” So I whipped the wheel hard right. But the car didn’t turn. It just kept burning rubber on the asphalt, propelling me toward the truck.

Then, I saw it. My front left bumper hit his back right fender. Dead on.

But it didn’t.

I drove through the truck like driving through a hologram. That’s as close as I know how to describe it. I just cut right through it. No damage to either vehicle.

My car finally stopped and I eased over to the side of the road, panting with fear, still gripping the wheel, my heart echoing from my chest to my ears. The pickup driver backed up until he was even with the Dodge, and asked if I was okay. He had a patch over his left eye.

Later, after recounting the story to my parents, my dad said: “As hard as you turned that wheel to miss the truck, you would’ve rolled!”

Now, tell me God’s not in control.

But why don’t I remember it? I feel like an Israelite moaning and groaning over my daily ration of mannah, destined to die before I get to see the promised land. Thank God, Jesus has saved me from that fate, but I can’t help but to understand the wandering Jews’ frame of mind.

God Gives Blessings . . .

. . . and challenges.

No sooner had I written last week’s post, I got a call that Mom had to go to the emergency room back in my hometown, two and a half hours away. She had a diverticulitis-related abscess blocking the renal tube of her only remaining kidney to the point that even catheterization was unsuccessful relieving her.

Last week was booked with business plans; this week belongs to doctors. Not just Mom’s — my own, my husband’s. After spending three weeks in May with Mom, I had missed my Remicade treatment (for Crohn’s disease) making me two months late now (my doc had surgery in April, so I missed it then, too). Billy’s appointment, fortunately, is one that can be put off for awhile.  

I didn’t get to choose my picture last week; and I may not get to go to the ETBU writers conference this week, meaning I may miss my meeting with the agent. Writing is out of the question — I can’t concentrate worth a flip. The only thoughts consuming my mind are those of Mom. She’ll be okay, I feel certain. Her wonderful docs opened the renal tube, drained the abscess, and pumped in two units of blood for her seriously low hemoglobin. Right now, she’s generally miserable because of the tubes sticking out of virtually every available inch of her body — the drain for the abscess, a catheter, a dialysis port in her jugular (which won’t be necessary, praise God!) and a mainline port in her femeral artery. So much for her to have to endure!

But she will get better and she’ll be getting out of the hospital within the next couple of weeks. The sweetheart had four children, and I’m the only one left. When she gets out, she’ll need me. And I’ll be there — no question, no complaint — for as long as it takes to get her back on her feet. Which may take awhile.

What gets me is the timing.

As Greg said last week, if I’m going the right direction with my writing, God will clear the path for me. Is this a road block? Is this His way of telling me not to get too excited about writing, getting published? 

Or is this a temporary setback? Or a test?

Or one of God’s challenges?

Ever wish He’d let you in on His gameplan?

On Pictures and Paralysis

 

Today was the day. My first “photo shoot.”

I’d been sweating this day since the head honcho for the romance genre at ACFW’s Genesis Contest told me they’d need a picture of me. Of me!  One purpose of the mug shot is so the publishers, agents and/or editors soon to be judging Give the Lady a Ride in the final round of the competition can know what I look like. That brings me to fear number one: they’ll take one look at me, figure I’m nothing spectacular, and pass that judgment on to my novel.

The second purpose for the photo is for public display (if I understand things correctly) at the ACFW conference in Minneapolis in September. And that’s fear number two.

It’s not like I’ve never had my picture taken; of course I have. Candid shots, wedding pics, high school and college year books, even a professional shot to attach to my résumé  when I finished grad school and began my short-lived career as a paralegal. But the bulk of those shots were roughly thirty years ago, when I was young, when the worry line wasn’t quite so deep between my eyes, when my cheeks hadn’t sagged, and my skin didn’t need as much make-up to cover flaws.

Even so, with all my physical imperfections, that’s not what scares me. After looking through the dustcovers protecting the books on my shelves, I realize that an author’s outward beauty doesn’t represent talent. So what I look like doesn’t matter. No, what worries me is the image  I want to portray to all those eyes who’ll be staring at me — okay, that’s a bit narcissistic. I won’t be the center of attention at the conference. But the picture that was taken of me today is the one that will be on my one-sheet and my business card, and here on my blog, as well as shown to the ACFW membership. I want people to look at me and think . . . what do I want them to think?

First and foremost, I want them to see Christ shining through me. I want people to know to Whom I belong. Secondly, since Ride is a romantic comedy, I want folks to see my sense of humor, to get the idea that I know how to make them laugh. But writing is hard work. There’s an art and a timing to comedy, a sensitivity to romance, and a Christ-focus to Christian fiction. I want to come across as intelligent enough to meet the task. When people look at my picture, I want them to think: Now, there’s a woman who can deliver what she promises!

Perhaps I’m overthinking this. It’s just a picture, after all. The one that will represent me as I launch a new career. At the age of fifty-one.

I think of that, and the fear grips me all over again.

After having too many cups of coffee this morning, and getting my hair and make-up as good as I’m able, I drove to the photographer. Praying fervently all the way. I’m not kidding — I really was scared and nervous. I arrived twenty minutes before the studio opened, and checked my lipstick three times while I waited. And prayed.

Greg came, waved me in, and asked how I was doing. I was honest; I’d heard that the camera tells all, so there was no point feigning confidence. After some chit-chat, he asked about my book. Christian fiction, I told him. Romantic comedy.

That was when he gave me just what I needed to hear: “Trust in God. If you’re moving the direction He wants you to go, He’ll clear the path.”

I haven’t mentioned how I met Greg Patterson.

Last Thursday, after finishing up at the Food Bank, I drove past a photographer’s studio in a charming historical home downtown. The thought of needing this picture had been looming in my mind for weeks, and since I finally had the money to do it, I whipped into the driveway. Summoning up my courage, I locked my car, walked around the veranda to the front door, and entered. The bell chimed as I opened the door, but no one responded right away. Looking around at the portraits hung in the entryway and beyond, I thought to myself that this guy knows his stuff. Very impressive work.

Soon, a tall, sandy-haired man joined me, startling me. I fumbled my words, but managed to tell him what I wanted and why, and made an appointment for today.

And that’s it. Nothing special.

I had no way of knowing this young man was a Christian, or that he would be the one giving me courage. What he said was simple — any child in Christ would say the same thing. But my worry-addled brain needed the reminder.

God puts people in our paths to tell us what He wants us to know. Our special messages from Him, delivered through special messengers. Greg was that messenger today.

The photo shoot went great. Thursday, I pick out which is the best image that portrays exactly what I want it to. And I have no doubt I’ll find that one perfect shot. After all, God picked out my photographer.

What a Great Idea!

I get my book ideas from some of the craziest places. One rainy day in February, I opened the door for Belle, my oldest cat. She rubbed against my legs, purring her thank you to me and getting me wet. Stooping down to rub her ears, I told her, “I have better things to do than to pet wet cats.”

That would make a great title, I thought, and Petting Wet Cats was born. And died soon after. The mystery novel is sitting idle on a disc waiting for me to pick it up again and bring it to life. I will, someday.

But just the thought gave me an idea. As I wrote in the ”Birth of Ride” tab, the idea for Give the Lady a Ride came from television shows. The Cat Lady of Forest Lawn was the result of a prayer after Ride was complete and I was at a loss as to what to do with my free time.

“What do I do now, Lord?”

WRITE ABOUT AN ECCENTRIC CAT LADY.

I swear, I heard Him plain as day.

Ideas can come from anywhere, at any time. That’s why it’s wise to keep pen and paper handy wherever you are. Many writing how-to books I’ve read suggest sitting in a restaurant and eavesdropping on the surrounding tables. Not a bad suggestion. My husband and I make up stories about people in restaurants, or driving down the road, or grocery shopping. We even came up with stories from a recent fishing trip. Worthless, both of them. But you never know!

One of the benefits of having pen and paper handy wherever you go is the practice you can get. Just write. What does the place smell like? look like? feel like? You can write flowing prose on those questions alone, but to really challenge yourself, condense the experience into a few powerful words. Describe the people you see, then challenge yourself again. Is that sweet lady with the blue hair, road-map face and fading green eyes really a kindly grandmother?  Or is she the reigning monarch from distant country with an iron fist and steel will? Is the tattooed biker with the gold tooth really a hoodlum? Or does he ride for the Bikers for Jesus and deliver groceries to the underprivledged? It’s fun to assign different scenerios to different people.

So, let’s play:

The clatter of forks on plates, spoons in coffee mugs, came to an abrupt halt when the biker darkened the diner’s plate glass door. He stood for a moment, mirrored shades sheltering his eyes from scrutiny, and crossed his arms over his massive chest. His black t-shirt stretched over broad shoulders, clung tight to his bulky midsection. Every inch of exposed skin bore a dark tattoo. A gold loop earring glinted at his left lobe. Within a moment, he turned his bandana’d head and nodded at the old woman in the corner.

The woman’s pale green eyes darted around the room from behind her tortoiseshell spectacles. Her entrance, too, had captured attention, bringing murmers of speculation from those enjoying their breakfast. She was a stranger to the regulars of the place. Her gray linen suit, the emerald at her throat – what was a woman like her doing in a place like this? But a bellowed call of “Order up!” from the kitchen had broken the spell and she had melted into the corner, no longer the main attraction.

Tension snapped and sizzled like the bacon frying in the kitchen as the biker strode to her table. She held her coffee cup suspended inches from her mouth as she watched his approach. The cup didn’t tremble in her wrinkled hand, her aged eyes showed no fear; instead, she lifted her head slightly, a smile teasing at her thin lips.

A soft buzz filled the diner as the patrons whispered to each other. “Who is he?” “What will he do?”  “Should we call the police?” But a hush fell from wall to wall as the biker took off his sunglasses and knelt like a knight before the woman.

“My Queen,”  he said, his deep voice full of admiration and humility.

The woman extended a withered hand for him to kiss. “Hello, Joe. Still preaching at the corner church?”

So, what should we name our piece? Harley Queen? Or Hog Preacher? And where do the two go from here?