D’s saving himself for our contribution to the prompt, but believe me when I say this comes from the bottom of my heart and D’s dark soul… Get Well Soon, Ionia – teach those alien chipmunks a lesson!
Old Hand’s Voyage to Ireland, Part 2
While A is away, the blog still gets to play. Please enjoy Part 2 of “Old Hand’s Voyage to Ireland,” from A View from the Wheelhouse. (Missed Part 1? Click here.)
The silence was broken by a cacophony of seabirds as the anchor fell with a rattle of chain into the green waters of Dingle Bay. I threw water jugs into the skiff, rowed to an ancient stone building at the head of a rickety wharf and, on rubbery legs, walked up to the pub.
I pushed open a weathered, oak door. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness I saw men around tables in conversation. A one-eyed galoot was yelling at a tweedy gent who bore an uncanny resemblance to Nigel Bruce.
“I tell ya, his foul betrayal will forever be a curse upon us all!”
Against the other wall, a lanky guy with glasses recited in a clear tenor:
…but maybe some old gaffer mutters a blessing
because it was your prayer
recovered him upon the bed of death.
In the back sat a guy in a hoodie, staring at an empty mug like he just emptied the last beer on God’s green earth.
D: Are you McWhirr?
I felt a dull pain in my chest. The Skipper may have been a pain in the ass, but he was steady and could tie a one handed back splice under water.
C: He was lost at sea.
D: What is mine or anyone’s death? Best to renounce that too.
C: What?
D: Death.
C: Can you help me with this post?
D: Brevity is key.
C: Brevity isn’t the issue. Having something to write is the issue.
…for your soul’s sake
Heaven has put away the stroke of her doom,
D: Let’s get real for a change. Why did you name your engine after your mother?
C: What’s she got to do with this?
Nigel Bruce mumbled something about another pint. The one-eyed guy pounded the table:
“Parnell will return someday as sure as I’m sittin’ here and we’ll all have again our ancient birthright restored in the full light of God’s glory-all except those land grabbin’ traitors, who’ll burn in hell for their greed!”
D: Why did you volunteer to guest blog?
C: I’m starting to regret it. I don’t know anything about time-traveling Pects…
D: Picts.
C: …or Irish history.
So great her portion of that peace you make
By merely walking in a room.
C: So what’s all this about time travel?
D: The portal is always there, 6 inches behind your left scapula.
C: How can you pinpoint it so exactly?
D: You must shut off the inner dialogue and attend to the conversation that sounds like a grand symphony among all creation.
“I tell you, the suppression of our own sweet, native tongue is the greatest weapon wielded by perfidious Albion. The Gaelic League is the advance guard in the struggle to throw off the oppressor’s yoke!” Says the Cyclops.
D: You only need to change the world.
C: How do I do that?
D: Just start with your own world, the rest follows.
From dream to dream and rhyme to rhyme I have ranged
In rambling talk with the image of air…
D: Anyway, get McWhirr to help you with the post.
C: He’s dead.
D: Are you sure?
The door creaked. All turned their heads to see, framed in the brilliant light of the doorway-like Lazuras risen from a watery grave-the gaunt form of Saturnius McWhirr.
“A pint of Guinness, for the love of God.”
Read Part 1 in this series from A View from the Wheelhouse
Poetry Credit: WB Yeats, “Broken Dreams”
Guest Post: D and Billy the Kid
While A is away, the blog still gets to play. Please welcome Briana Vested from When I Became an Author.
D is decked out in all the western finery he could rustle up from his imagination. He’s nearly drowning in fringe and spurs, and he looks a bit like Will Rogers. He looks so pleased with himself however, so it’s hard to be annoyed at the stereotype.
D: Briana! I’m so pleased to see you! A finally let me out of the cage she calls her mind, and I’ve been enjoying the diversity. Please sit and chat with me a while. Tell me of the old west – I wish to see it from your eyes.
Briana: Well hello D! How nice to see you, too! I see you dressed for the occasion, so I’m glad I decided to bring along a friend. D, please meet Billy the Kid from my new western book!
Billy: Howdy D. Glad to meet ya.
D: B-Billy the Kid came to talk to me? Oh this is splendid! I’m honored to make your acquaintance!
Briana: D, would you me to tell you about the longhorn cattle Billy rustled up and down the Pecos River?
D: Oh yes please!
Briana: Okay, well, longhorns are a mighty breed, standing almost five foot tall at the shoulder, with horns as big around as a toddler’s waist and with a spread as wide as seven feet. These animals are wild and don’t really like being around people, but cowboys are ornery critters and they know that longhorns can be sold for large sums of money. Well, Billy and his friends had a plan that they were going to sneak onto this cattle baron’s ranch and steal some of his fine cattle, and then they would drive them to market and sell them.
Billy: Excuse me, but before D gets the wrong idea about me, maybe you should tell him why I was rustling cattle.
Briana: Of course, sorry Billy. Well D, stealing cattle is obviously illegal, but Billy was running away from the law and was out of money. And instead of robbing a bank, Billy figured that taking some cows from a man who had more than enough than he needed would be a better way of putting food on the table for his gang. But, even though he was a skilled cattleman, Billy was no match for this one devilish cow. Billy shook out his lariat and urged his bay horse into a quick gallop after the runaway cow. The cow dodged left and right, around clumps of shaggy oak brush, through stands of mighty pine trees and straight through patches of prickly pear cactus and over mounds of yucca. Billy followed eagerly and once he was close enough, started twirling his lasso. But just as he left the loop sail out of his fingers, a startled bear cub jumped out from behind a rock right in front of Billy’s horse and scared it. The noose had just cinched tight around the cows neck when Billy’s horse screamed with fright and kicked his back legs high into the air. Billy was sent flying out of the saddle, still hanging on to the tail of the rope. The cow, feeling the rope on her neck, threw up her head and started to run even faster. She was running away from Billy, but little did she know that Billy was still right behind her.
D: Oh my! This sound fascinating!
Billy: *chuckled throatily* It wasn’t as fun as it sounds. Briana didn’t mention that my friend had watched the whole thing, and instead of coming to help me, he collapsed with laughter.
Briana: I was getting to that! Don’t get impatient Billy! Remember what happened to Richard! Now, where was I, oh yes, well, Billy let the cow drag him for a while, hoping it would tire her out and he’s have a chance to get back to his feet and wrap the rope around a tree. But that cow was as rambunctious as a new calf, and when Billy saw an oncoming hill covered with barrel cactus, he wisely let go of the rope and rolled to a stop. When he got to his feet, he looked like a dust devil. His hat was gone, his shirtsleeves were shredded to nothingness and one boot was missing. As he limped back to where his horse was standing and waiting for him, he noticed his young friend Tom wiping tears out of his eyes. Billy demanded to know why Tom didn’t come to his aid, and Tom broke down laughing again. Finally when he managed to catch his breath, he told Billy, You should have seen that bear cub, sitting yonder by the tree, watching you get drug along behind that heifer! T’was the funniest thing! He kept on snorting, and I do believe he was laughing at you!
Billy: *smiles* When we finally met back up with the rest of the gang, I made Tom promise not to tell them the story. But that little cuss just couldn’t keep it under his hat. Around the campfire that night, you’d probably been able to hear the laughter all the way to Fort Worth.
D: *laughing* Oh my! What a sight! How I wish I could have been there to see it.
Billy: Well D, since you’re suited up already, why don’t you and I go for a ride? I’ve got an extra horse out back and I know where there’s a spare rope and some free-grazing cows. What do you say? Want to spend the afternoon in the old west with me?
D: Yes, yes, yes! Are you coming Briana?
Briana: I wouldn’t miss this for the world. But hang on a second; I’m going to need my camera. Oh, and Billy, you’d better behave yourself!
Briana Vested
My name is Briana and I’m 20 years old. I’ve been writing for about five years now, and have finally been successful in having one of my stories selected for publication. I mostly write westerns, but I also enjoy adding magic and mystery into my work. Hence the novel I’m writing about modern-day werewolves! I’ve self published two books, of which I’m very proud, and am about to begin editing the third book which is being published through Tate Publishing and Enterprises LLC. I live on a ranch in Colorado, and have been helping with the farming part for the last six or seven years. More recently my family gained a cattle permit in the mountains, and because of that, I’ve only just started riding horses for more than “trail rides”. In February 2013 I started writing for the Fence Post magazine as a monthly columnist.
Other than writing, I enjoy making candles and cosmetics. I also love to cook and bake, read, watch movies, crochet, make jewelry, decorate and paint my house, and go exploring with my family. I’m also an amateur archeologist and museum curator (my sister and I have our very own museum that is open to our family).
Read more about Briana at her blog, When I Became an Author.
Out of My Head Over You
While A is away, the blog continues to play. Please welcome Andra Watkins of The Accidental Cootchie Mama.
A: This is all about Katie, isn’t it?
D: What is?
A: How horrid you’re being. You’re put out because she’s not here, and you have to deal with me, and I’m a pathetic substitute.
D: I morph to suit the characters in your head, Andra. This isn’t about Katie. It’s about you.
A: I don’t have any characters in my head. I am sick of writing. Sick of it. And, I am especially sick of you.
D: I’ve only been in your head for a year. I’m just now letting you get to know me.
A: And, I don’t want to know anymore. I don’t know what to do with your craven wishes. Your faulty desires. Why do you have to be so dark?
D: If you’d just let me have her, I’d go away.
A: YOU CAN’T HAVE HER! She’s not even ten years old. Grown men do not have little girls. This is not Kentucky in the early 1800s.
D: Don’t lecture me about the 1800s. I was there, remember?
A: Sigh. Yes. I know you were there. But now you’re here, and you cannot marry a ten-year-old-girl.
D: She. Is. My. WIFE!
A: Oh, don’t start with the hyper-punctuation and delusional melodrama. I think it’s your silly dramatics that agents keep rejecting. I have yet to nail your character, but I know Em isn’t your dead wife. That’s not how things work.
D: How do you know, Andra? Have you ever died? Like me?
*********************************
Bertie blew me a kiss and left me in Mommy’s office. I crawled into her cushiony chair and made it spin like the merry-go-round at school by pushing off the front of the desk with my hands. If I spun fast enough, maybe I could disappear.
When I started getting dizzy, I sat still and looked at the things spread out on top of her desk. It was a roll top, almost always closed when I came in there. I picked up a black book with “Appointments” on the front and slipped Mommy’s big silver ring with the blue Indian stone on my finger.
And that was when I saw Mommy’s special cards.
My mommy liked to play rounds of cards with some of her men. Two nights a week, she’d set up tables in her parlor, get several of her ladies, and play her games. Aunt Bertie always put me to bed early, those nights. She had to play, too. Mommy’s rules.
Mommy had different rules for me. Sometimes, Mommy or Aunt Bertie played Go Fish with me, or Old Maid. Mommy even let me yell when I told her to go fish. I got so excited when I was winning. Like it was my one-and-only way to beat her. She’d smile and draw her card and tell me to never forget what it felt like to be the underdog. Acting like the underdog would get me far in life.
I didn’t understand, but this was Mommy; she didn’t explain.
One time, I snuck down to her office. Late. I knew she played cards with grown men different from the way she played with me. But, everybody was shut up in the bedrooms by then, playing cards of a different kind, I guess.
Anyway.
That night, I was looking for a deck of cards to play solitaire. I played for hours, sometimes, but Mommy didn’t let me keep cards in my bedroom.
I opened her desk drawer, and I found a deck in a pretty ceramic box with jewels glued on top. When I turned them over, every card had pictures of me on one side with scribblings and notes on the number sides. I was younger in the picture, but I remembered posing for it. Mommy made a big deal out of how I looked that day. I stacked the cards and hid them under my pillow in my room.
The next morning, I found Aunt Bertie in the kitchen. I spread the cards out on the table and asked her why she and Mommy played with cards that had pictures of me.
She scooped them into her hands and stacked them back together, really neat. “Child, don’t be asking me about these cards again. Ever. I mean what I’m saying. Lawsy mercy. I need a cocktail to go.” Her hands shook when she left me to take them back to Mommy’s desk and put them back just like I found them.
I never saw those cards again until the day I tore my dress at the zoo. They were magnets I had to pick up and shuffle, more worn around the edges than last time. One by one, I turned them over and read the numbers and words on the backs. Mr Devereaux $100K. Mr Carnell $475K. The Sugar Daddy $500K. The last one had red stars around my face and the words “the winner” written in cursive. When I tilted the chair closer, I almost fell on the floor.
“Emmaline Cagney. Whatever are you doing, pilfering through my private things?”
****************************************
About Andra Watkins
I am a recovering CPA. A product of thirteen years of parochial school. A former abused spouse. An awesome aunt, but never a mother. I wonder whether I will ever be able to call myself a writer, but I am content as the wife of the lover of my soul.
I am The Accidental Cootchie Mama, because my blog reveals more than I ever intended.
Dark Souls and D, A Guest Post
While A is away, the blog still gets to play. Please welcome Hector, from the Adventures and Misfortunes of Hector the Aimless.
After the crow brought me to Lordran, I had a strange encounter. I was resting at an old shrine when everything around me started to fade away in a hazy vortex of crimson. A man stood in front of me. He approached me, and before he left, we had an insightful conversation. It was this very conversation that made me record my adventures in this journal.
H: Who… Who are you?
D: I have many names, but you may refer to me as D.
H: So, D, how did you come across this accursed land of Lordran?
D: This land is called Lordran, eh? I have no idea what’s going on. While A has locked me out of her mind, I decided that I would do a bit of traveling in time. A distortion in time like I have never seen drove me to this Lordran.
H: I don’t understand. What is a time distortion?
D: The time seems as though it loops back on itself at a certain point. Do you have any experiences of déjà vu?
H: No, I barely remember who I was before I ended up in the asylum.
D: Asylum? You seem sane to me. Believe me, I should know.
H: In our world, there is a curse, called “The Curse of the Undead.” Anyone who is branded by this sign is thrown out of their lands and corralled to the North to rot in the Undead Asylum.
D: That’s awful! How many survive?
H: Apparently, I am the only one from the asylum to make it to Lordran. Something about being chosen to succeed Gwyn, Lord of Sunlight. Details are a bit…
D: Sketchy?
H: Sketchy.
D: I live inside the head of an insane woman from the 21st century. It’s not important now. I feel my connection to this world slip. Do yourself a favor. Record a journal of everything that has happened on your adventure to succeed this Lord Gwyn. Seeing as how the time keeps looping, if you keep a record, you could end up breaking any endless loops that may occur. My appearance alone may have an effect on the time distortion. Stay alive.
H: I won’t have any problem with that.
Before I could say anything else, D disappeared.
A note from A: Hector the Aimless/Commander T’soni is a brand new blogger, telling the tale of his adventures in Lordran (Dark Souls). Visit his journal, drop him a line and most importantly, tell him his mother sent you. He’ll love that. Bloody kid – insane woman, indeed!
Old Hand’s voyage to Ireland Part 1
While A is away, the blog still gets to play. Please welcome a swab on the Old Hand, from A View from the Wheelhouse.
Blinded by spray, I grabbed the weather rail as the north wind collided with the ebb and turned Saint George’s Channel into a churning mass of breaking seas. We beat westward until the conical shapes of the Skelligs rose out of the Irish Sea like the Tall, Shining Ones of ancient Celtic lore.
McWhirr peered through the wheelhouse windows.
“Looks like there’s some dirty weather knocking about.”
A wall of black cloud bore down on us from the northwest.
“Aye Captain, it looks forbidding enough. Should we shorten sail?”
“Shorten nothing lad, this is just the fair wind we need to make our offing. Better get some shut-eye, we wont fetch the Blaskett’s before noon.”
Though hard pressed, Old Hand was holding steady, and for an old salt like McWhirr, it was but a pleasant Sunday sail. The crew had, perhaps too hastily, volunteered to guest blog on D&A Dialogues. So here we were sailing through some of the most treacherous waters in the world; where Atlantic gales hammered the coastline into fantastic stone megaliths, in search of some Druid prince with a name you could hang your oilskins on.
I lay on the pilot berth below as the rush of water along the hull eased me into fitful sleep. I seemed to float in a a gray haze that hung low over the water. A hooded figure in an ox-hide boat came out of the fog and hailed across the waters:
“C’d M’ile Failte.”
C: Are you D?
D: Yeah. Are you McWhirr?
C: No I’m only a swab on Old Hand. Katie said I might find you here.
D: Why have you come?
C: Well, on a rash impulse I signed on for the voyage. What’s all this about time travel anyway?
D: It all comes down to awareness of intent.
C: Come again?
D: A warrior from the Sidh must have respect, awareness of fear, wakefulness at all times and total confidence.
C: Is it true King Arthur is asleep below some hillside waiting to return and right wrongs?
D: More to the point: are you awake?
C: Of course I’m awake.
D: Do you know that all directions-each way-point along the course you sailed to arrive at this particular point on the globe-extend into eternity?
C: What does that have to do with anything? I thought this was about dialogue.
D: You only want answers that conform to your conception of the world-to your mental habits. The Druid warrior must give up all these up as so much flotsam on the sea of infinity. He must give up everything-even his death.
C: We almost sank off the Horn getting here and you go all esoteric on me. Can’t you just give me a straight answer?
D: What do you want to know?
C: Is it true that Parnell never died, but awaits the hour of return?
D: More to the point: who are you? The way your always going about McWhirr. We know he’s a stiff-ya don’t have to go on and on about it. In fact, McWhirr doesn’t even exist outside your mind.
C: Of course he exists. He’s at the helm now.
D: Are you sure?
With a loud smash the ship made a sharp lurch to starboard. I jumped from the pilot berth and, on mounting the deck, beheld a dismal scene-the wind had risen to gale force and the steering station was abandoned! Old Hand was being relentlessly driven by the foul tide toward the jagged rocks to leeward…
To be continued – A View from the Wheelhouse will be back on July 18 to continue his story!
D Meets Yet Another Guest Blogger
While A is away, the blog still gets to play. Please welcome Marie Ann Bailey, from 1WriteWay.
Brittany woke to the sharp odor of damp soil and something else, something familiar, something sweet. She tried to stretch out her legs. Her feet touched a solid barrier before her legs were fully straight. She was lying on her right side, in a fetal position. She tried to lift up but, again, she met with a barrier. She opened her eyes wide but it was dark all around her. Her throat tightened and she felt a rising hot bubble of panic coming up from her stomach. She was in a box of some kind. Soil beneath her, wood on the sides and above her. She stretched out her hands and felt around the small, close space. The smell of the soil and the “something else” was adding to her panic. She clenched her jaw to try and keep the acrid fluid down in her stomach. She wanted to cry out, but was stilled by the thought that he might be there. He might be outside the box, waiting for her to cry out, waiting for her to give him another reason to beat her.
D: Oh, lovely. A goes off with barely a goodbye and now I’m stuck with … well, all these “friends” of hers, mucking around her blog, smelling it up with things familiar and sweet. I need a drink, a pint of mead … where did she put the mead?!
1: Ahem.
D: What? Who are you? What are you? A number, the number “1”? Good lord, A has some strange friends. I never …
1: Ahem. Mind if I speak?
D: Oh, sorry, I’m just a little rattled without A around.
1: Uh huh, your mouth runneth over.
D: Oh, a cheeky little lass, are you?
1: Hmmm, cheeky, yes; little, no; lass, not anymore.
D: Do you always speak in semi-colons?
1: … ; ?
D (silently weeping): …
1: Oh, D, please don’t cry. I can’t stand to see grown … Druids … cry. A will be back before you know it. And I’m really harmless. I write about bad things but I’m not a bad person.
D (sniff): Can I borrow a handkerchief?
1: Ah, yes, but just keep it.
D: Thank you (sniff). I feel better now. So, what’s this little ditty you have up here?
1: It’s the beginning of my first novel in a series that I’m tentatively calling The Widow’s Club.
D (yawn): How fascinating.
1: It has three widows in it. Young, lovely widows.
D: Oh! Lovely young wenches … well, you should have said so at the outset. Do tell me more!
1: You may be old, but you’re not dead, I guess …
D: ?
1: Never mind. These three widows are cousins who were all born on the same day in the same year: Mary, Melissa, and Maggie. They were very close growing up, but they each married and started going their separate ways. Then each of their husbands die, in very different circumstances, but in close temporal proximity. This first novel begins with all three of the cousins living together, trying to survive on the meager finances left to them. Mary is the extrovert and most headstrong of the three, and it’s her idea that they form a private investigation firm. Their first case will involve Brittany. What do you think?
D: ZZZZZZzzzzzzzz
1: D!
D: zzz…What? Oh, sorry, I was just resting my eyes. Continue, please.
1: I’m done.
D: That’s it? That’s all you woke … I mean, that’s all you want to tell me?
1: Well, like I said, that’s one novel. I wrote a second one for the April Camp NaNoWriMo, and I plan to write the third for July …
D: Correction. You are writing the third.
1: I stand corrected. I am in the process of writing the third.
D: Any place for a Druid in your series, perhaps as a love interest. I rather like the sound of Mary …
1: Ah, no, there’s no time traveling. All the action is contemporary.
D: I can do contemporary. I’m here, aren’t I?
1: Good point. Maybe I should consult with A about that …
D: Consult with A?! Whatever for? The silly woman doesn’t own me!
1: D, please calm down.
D: I mean, really, I’ve just about had it with …
1: D, please. This is my first time as a guest. Don’t blow it for me.
D: I think you’re blowing it just fine on your own …
1: @#$%
D: Please stop using punctuation to express yourself. It’s so childish.
1: Sorry …. (not really)
D: I heard that. Really, 1, I don’t mean to be hard on you. Please accept my apologies and don’t tell A that I fell asleep while you …
1: AHA! You admit it!
D: Whatever.
1: Hmmm … I guess you could do contemporary. But Mary already has a love interest.
D: The harlot. Her husband is barely in the grave and she’s already taking up with another man!
1: No, no! She’s been widowed for a while and this new love interest is an old friend. Don’t get your pantaloons in a wad.
D: I don’t wear pantaloons!
1: Whatever.
D: #$%
1: Same to you. Well, I think I’m done here …
D: (in more ways than one)
1: I heard that! D, let’s part as friends. Really, isn’t it better to have some guests while A is away rather than just rattling your bones by your lonesome?
D: Well, when you put it that way …
1: And you are kind of cute for a Druid.
D: You’re too old for me. Just look at all that gray hair!
1: one … two … three … four …
D: What are you doing?
1: Counting to ten in the hope that I won’t still want to murder you when I’m done.
D: Oh, dear. Well, what I meant was, you have lovely silver hair and it’s been a true joy to have you here.
1: That’s better.
D: Please, come again soon.
1: I’m not holding my breath.
D: Don’t let the door hit you on the way out!
1: $%&
OK, so D and I didn’t exactly hit it off. In fairness to him, I just think he misses A, more than he would ever want to admit. And I can see how he might grow on A. There is something appealing about the old sod. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, so watch out, A! I suspect D will be beside himself when you return 😉
Marie Ann Bailey
I am a writer, living with three cats, more yarn than I can knit up in a lifetime, and a dear husband who doubles as my best friend. I started this blog a few years ago when I was toying with the idea of becoming a freelance editor. I wanted 1WriteWay.com to be a serious resource of all things related to writing and editing. But then life happened, I got distracted, and went offline for awhile. Now I’m back but with a different purpose for my blog. I just want to write. I’m old enough to be looking forward to retirement (as opposed to what my next career move should be), and the more writing I can do now, the better shape I’ll be in to make writing my primary focus when I’m no longer at the office 40 hours a week. I enjoy my current job and my coworkers and that actually has made it more difficult to be disciplined with my writing. I do derive intrinsic satisfaction from what I do at the daily grind, but the urge to write hasn’t left. In fact, the more I think about retirement, the more I want to write. . .
Read more about the wonderful Marie and her blog, 1WriteWay.
Goodreads Quiz is Up!
A: I interrupt my blogging silence to bring …
D: A quiz?
A: A quiz.
D: Why do you do this to me, A?
A: Because quizzes are how I spent my adolescence, D. Deal with it. You had your mind massaged by the great Druids of your time, I had quizzes in Seventeen.
D: . . .
A: You picked me, remember?
D: (Sigh). Enjoy the quiz, all and before A is carried away – goodnight!
The Beginning of a Hero quiz is up on Goodreads. 20 questions to see how well you know the book. Enjoy, spread the word, and prepare for the sequel.
Perspective: Who are you when you write?
While A is away the blog still gets to play. Please welcome Ionia Martin from Readful Things Blog!
When you write, whether it is books, articles, etc., do you feel that you write from “you” perspective, or do you alter your personality somewhat to please the audience you are writing for? Do you write from your own perspective when you write fiction, or do you write from that of the character you have created?
For me, the answer is: It depends on what I am writing. When I am blogging, I am myself. The good, the bad and the UGLY all tend to come out (along with furry rodents.) I don’t censor much of what I am thinking and I tend to be very honest about life, the mood I am in and how I feel about things.
It is much different when I write a novel or a short story. The characters may be nothing like me. Sometimes they exude qualities I wish I possessed. Other times they are built of the parts of other people that I find offensive or off-putting. In many instances they do or say things I would not even think of if I was in my normal frame of mind. (Not that I ever really am.)They begin to take on a life of their own.
I feel this disconnect between one’s everyday self and who they become when they pick up the golden pen of writerly wisdom is important, if not absolutely necessary. If you can step outside of yourself and look through the eyes of your characters, I feel the audience can not only sense that, but get to know the characters as if they were real people. I can’t stand it when I read a book and feel like I can’t care about anyone in it because they just fall flat. I need to feel that the characters are real people, with real issues that have a heart, a soul and a mind of their own.
How do draw the line when writing fiction? How much of yourself should you allow to seep into your characters? I believe the answer to this lies with the individual. There are so many different forms of literature and so many different personalities that I don’t think there could ever be an exact science.
So I pose this question, on Katie’s lovely blog and to the woman herself. Do you control your characters or do they control you? How much of your own personality goes into what you write?
Ionia Martin
My name is a Ionia Martin. I am a writer, a reader, a musician, a photographer and a mother. I am also a book reviewer/blogger and love to read books of many genres/styles and varieties. I love discovering new voices in literature and spend almost every minute of my spare time with a book of one sort or another in front of me.
Read more about Ionia, her book reviews and her wonderful thoughts and ideas at Readful Things Blog
Guest Blog – Interview is as Interview Does
Announcer: Today’s guest author is John W. Howell who writes a blog named Fiction Favorites. It can be found at http://johnwhowell.com. John will be interviewed by D. So D you are on.
D: Since A is still out of touch today we have with us as a guest author; Mr. John W. Howell the world-famous scientist and writer of intriguing stories about the early mating habits of the Druid clan─
J: Um excuse me D but that is not correct.
D: What part is not true? Scientist? World famous? Writer?
J: I know nothing of the mating habits of Druids and I am not a scientist nor am I world-famous.
D: These are the notes I have. Oh wait, these are about John Milton. Did A made a mistake in asking you to guest today?
J: Well that remains to be seen, but I am not sure where you got that bio, but it is not me.
D: Your name is John right?
J: That is correct.
D: You are a writer?
J: Yes that is also correct.
D: What have you written?
J: Well my second novel is being edited by the publisher as we speak and the third is about three quarters finished.
D: Your second you say? Where is the first?
J: Well I printed the manuscript on my computer and it is in my laundry room.
D: Laundry room? What’s that and what is your manuscript doing there?
J: A laundry room is where you wash clothes and it is holding the door open.
D: You have a door on your creek? How do you do that?
J: Creek? What do you mean creek? *sigh*
D: We druids wash our clothes at the creek on the rocks.
J: No, no today there are rooms set aside to wash clothes.
D: How do you get a creek to run through a room? Oh never mind.(rolls eyes) Why is the manuscript holding the door open?
J: So the wind won’t slam it shut.
D: I am getting the opinion you are avoiding the question. Why isn’t the manuscript where it can be read?
J: Because it is lousy.
D: Covered in bugs?
J: The story needs work so there it sits. I guess I should look at it again but I have been so darned busy.
D: Yes busy is the curse of creative people I have found. Too busy for this, too busy for that.
J: Is the interview over?
D: I didn’t even get to ask you about your book.
J: That’s okay. When I get a launch date maybe A will let me come back.
D: *mumbles*
J: Sorry, I missed that.
D: Yeah sure she will invite you back to describe a little more your clothes washing habits and your first book. You’ll pardon me if I don’t see you out, but I need to prepare a report for A on this meeting. Goodbye John er…
J: Howell. The last name is Howell. That’s okay I dropped some crumbs and can follow them out. Bye now.
D: Very well.*Mumbles* Damn mice. Good luck
John W. Howell
John’s main interests are reading, writing and sometimes arithmetic. He turned to writing as a full-time occupation after an extensive career in business. John writes thriller fiction novels and short stories. His story Cold Night Out won an honorable mention in Writers Digest Popular Fiction contest this year. He also won first place in the Kurt Vonnegut Kilgore Trout novel contest just announced in April, celebrating Kurt Vonnegut as an author. His short story Never Give Inn was selected to be published in the Miracle E-zine fifth issue published in April.
He spends off time reconditioning a 1978 Toyota FJ40 Land Cruiser and consulting with major companies in the areas of strategic planning and marketing. (The arithmetic part)
John lives on Mustang Island in the Gulf of Mexico off the coast of south Texas with his wife Molly and their spoiled rescue pets.
John has finished his debut novel and has signed a contract with Martin Sisters Publishing.www.martinsisterpublishing.com
Read more at Fiction Favorites – and many thanks to John for joining the D/A Dialogues today!
The D/A Dialogues 