One does not simply

D: A? A, are you ok?

A: Grumph!

D: I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch that.

A: Harumph garumph!

D: Are you attempting to learn a new language? I know it may or may not be a Pre- Indo-European language, but Pict doesn’t sound like that.

A: Gah!

D: Uh. . . A?

A: Sorry – too much peanut butter.

D: (Starting already?)

A: (Cooking failed today. Cooking failed miserably.)

D: (I see.)

This has no reason to be here, except that Captain Jack is my third favorite immortal, after 10 and River. Oh, wait, I know… walking into Mordor is how I felt about reading my own stuff wholesale. Yeah. That’s it.
This has no reason to be here, except that Captain Jack is my third favorite immortal, after 10 and River. Oh, wait, I know… walking into Mordor is how I felt about reading my own stuff wholesale. Yeah. That’s it.

A: Do you have any idea how difficult it is to read 100 pages (Times New Roman 12pt, double spaced) of your own writing . . . without touching a single word?!?!?!

D: Um, I’m a Pict, remember? We didn’t write down our epic greatness.

A: I’m beginning to see why. I read a great post over at Creative Writing with the Crimson League, and it struck me that I had never read any first, second or even third draft of my work without attacking it with my pen or cursor, or whatever was handy to make edits.

D: Never?

A: Never ever.

D: I’m afraid to ask, but how did you do?

A: okay, ish.

D: Ish? It’s late, A. Could you please spare me from . . . you?

A: Cheers, D. It was tolerable. I didn’t hate what I read, and while there are about ten million pages of edits to attempt, it was worth it. It was excruciating, but it was worth it.

D: What doesn’t kill you, A–

A: Might end up killing you, D.

D: Right, no platitudes. Well then, shall we get to it?

A: Be my guest!

The Druid Tells the Tale

Charles of that fantastic world of Windemere has a cover art update – check out the Prodigy of Rainbow Tower. It looks stunning – my kind of story, as well.

A: You only wish you could shoot flames out of your hands, D.

D: And what makes you think I cannot?

A: You only shoot fire out of your hands if rainbow sparkles also come out your–

D: Moving right along! A, don’t you have a tale to tell?

A: Well, isn’t that tempting. . . I mean, yes!! I do. Head over to Ionia’s Readful Things Blog to catch the last (boo) installment Harry Steinman’s series on Marketing and Publishing. This post covered cracking Amazon’s Top 100 Paid in Kindle store. The entire series has been excellent; I can’t say enough about how helpful it’s been to me as a newbie.

D: (no comment.)

A: (shut up, D.)

A Invites the Audience’s Participation

What is the hardest part about editing for you (aside from the editing itself)? Do you have to sit on your hands and banish pens from your sight in order to read what you’ve written without making any edits the first time around?

Attention My Beautiful Guest Bloggers!

Picture1

Please allow me to put D in a box so this can be short, simple and one hopes, distraction-free (good luck – oi!) . . .

First, thank you to all who volunteered to be guest bloggers while I attempt to cram as much writing in as possible while my dear child is away at his various camps.

Now, to the point: because I want all of you to get the credit for adding your creativity to my site while I’m off-line, I’m going to invite you to be “contributors” for the blog, using the public emails you’ve made available.

In this way, your gravitar/about me information will be at the end of your posts and you’ll know when the gracious public sends gives you the accolades you so deserve.

Of course, there is no requirement that you accept the invitation. If you would rather not, please send your post to ksully1111@gmail.com. If all the posts could be sent/posted on the dashboard by July 6, I will throw ticker-tape parades in your honor and sing your praises to all those who will listen to me screech.

If you would like to guest-blog at the DA Dialogues (and no, you don’t have to converse with D – that’s just how I deal with the chaos that is my brain), drop me a line in the comments or at my email address – I’d love to have you!

~ Katie, also known as A.

 

 

 

 

The House of Carrick Close

old home irish-welshThis old house is broken and sad/weary with years/it sits low on the land.

Kate rolled her eyes and tuned out her mother’s atrocious poetry.  Bare trees reached up to the heavy February sky. It looked as dreary as she felt.

No one cared what she thought; no one ever paid attention to the teenager, the middle child, the girl.

But honestly, why should she be excited about moving half-way across the world to live in some ramshackle sea-side town so her mother could be inspired?!

Her little brother Charlie was practically peeing his pants he was so excited, but what did a six-year-old know about a dilapidated old – what did the estate agent call it? Oh, right, a fixer-upper.

A disaster was more like.

And her older brother Matthew didn’t even have to live with them full time – he was still in the States, at college. What right did he have to give the tumble-down rat motel his stamp of approval?!

A sloppy splat of snow and rain slapped the window.

Oh, that’s just great. Kate slumped lower in her seat and closed her eyes.

“Katy-Batey, we’re here!” Charlie sang out, rocking her back and forth until her forehead hit the window.

“Ow! Don’t call me that, Charlie.”

“Sorry! We’re here, Mom says to wake up! We’re here!”

Kate resisted the urge to snarl and let her little brother drag her from the car. There it was. Her nightmare. She stood in the drive and stared at it.

Something winked at her from the window.

“What’s that? Is there someone in there? Mom!”

“What, Honey? In there? It’s been boarded up for years – no one has been in there except the estate agent.”

Oh, that’s right, because Mother-Dear bought the place sight-unseen. God, so many things . . .

“But I saw someone in there.”

“Just a trick of the light, Kate. Now, come on, help me unload the car. Charlie!”

Kate trailed behind as Charlie raced her mother into the house. She stared at the window, daring whatever was inside to show itself again.

There!

That flutter.

Kate knew she wasn’t imagining things. Maybe this house – this move – wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

***

D: Do you call this editing, A?

A: No, I call it writing, D. I couldn’t help myself. Ionia issued the writing prompt “This Old House” at the Community Storyboard and I had to get involved. I like old houses.

D: Do you have any idea where Carrick Close is?

A: No, but I suspect it may be in Northern Ireland. That wasn’t my intention, but it was a quick write-up.

D: Shoddy shoddy shoddy.

A: Thanks, D. I’ll be sure to do extensive historical research the next time I respond to a writing prompt.

D: As well you should. Meanwhile, I sense a preoccupation with ghosts . . .

A: I grew up with ghosts, D. Couple that with a fertile imagination and you have some fun stories.

D: I’ll not quibble with your use of the word ‘fun,’ but I am wondering about the ‘Kate’ in the story?

A: She’s not autobiographical, D – my mother’s not a poet and I’m the one who did the trans-Atlantic move because I was inspired. Kate is my vision of what my reaction would be if I had me as a parent.

D: That is the most convoluted sentence I’ve had the misfortune to read, A. Also, I weep for TC.

A: You and TC both!

Sunday . . . bloody Sunday

D: Do we have a problem with Sundays?

A: Yes, they’re always followed by a Monday.

D: And are you not ready for Monday?

A: D, no one is ever ready for Monday.

D: Are you getting a little existential on me, A? Do we need to go back and have a little chat with Camus?

A: Loved that book, said that Meursault was Christ in my paper on it, and no.

D: Moving right along. Is this the only reason you’re cursing out Sunday?

A: Um, how about my vicious sunburn?

D: Oh boy . . . you do know that the scientists of this world have a lovely invention called sunscreen.

A: You sound like TC. Stop it.

D: And yet it still stands.

A: I wanted a bit of color.

D: A, you’re Irish. Flesh tone is color for you.

A: Says the Pict.

D: I know from pale, A.

A: Point taken.

D: So, you’re sunburned and you r weekend is nearly over – any more invectives to throw at Sunday’s head?

A: No, not really. It was just a long slog of a day, but it had great rewards. I accomplished three out of four goals I set for myself last week.

D: Do tell, A – I’m breathless with anticipation.

A: Snark will get you anywhere, D! I dusted off the treadmill (and used it!). I filled in and was able to erase all those (Figure out what you’re talking about, lady) tags in part 2, which clocked in at 26,199 words –

D: So we’re already over 50,000?

A: Yes, but Parts 3 and 4 shouldn’t be more than 30k combined. There’s always the editing rounds to get rid of fluff, too D.

D: I know, and forgive me if I feel that you’d need no less than 100,000 words to do justice to my greatness.

A: Really?

D: It’s one hell of a story, A.

A: Uh huh.

D: Honest.

A: I think I just heard my fingers scream in agony.

D: I think that’s your sunburn. Speaking of Part 3 . . .

A: That’s the other goal I managed to accomplish – Part 3 has it’s first outline.

D: Dare I ask?

A: Ah, go on.

D: What does this outline say, A? I peeked over your shoulder and I’m a bit concerned.

A: Why? I was kinda proud of it myself:

  1.  Captured – Dubh gone, Maureen spastic, Sean slaps her
  2. Breakout –Dubh is rescued, Sean and Maureen are SOL
  3. The Interview – Nuada grandstands; remember monologues are cliche.
  4. Revolution
  5. Revelation
  6. Big Boom
  7. Even Bigger Problems

D: That’s it, keywords?

A: And the start of everyone’s emotional state for each section – I found that very helpful in making sure the arguing from Part 2 didn’t get out of hand. Besides I thought you’d be happy – there are at least two opportunities for you to indulge your love of smoke bombs.

D: I did see that. Thank you, A.

A: I do what I can. Oh, and before you ask: editing.

D: Editing?

A: This week’s goal: Editing.

D: That’s it?

A: I think chocolate might find its way on there, too

D: In conjunction with the treadmill?

A: Maybe.

The Druid Tells the Tale
A has yet to make any changes to this site because she is a lazy, no good—

A: Oi, Druid! Knock it off!

D: Killjoy.

Fine; she’s a busy lady and getting her to sit still long enough to complete a thought is a marvel. She hasn’t acknowledged any awards yet, so I’m going to do it for her. John W. Howell at Fiction Favorites has nominated us for the Always Here if you Need Me Award. In addition, Olivia Stocum  and Briana Vested  have nominated us for the Liebster Award. There are others, but A was lax in recording what they were, the horrible wench. There will be a full post presently, in which everyone will be lauded in full. In the meantime, however, thank you most kindly for reading, nominating and sharing the … what is this called (blogosphere) ah, yes, the blogosphere love.

. . . And Introducing: A invites Audience Participation

D: Really A?

A: Do I bug you during your Tale-telling?

D: Yes.

A: . . . Fine. Regardless, I would like to engage people a little and get some feedback. I have been blessed with some very astute, knowledgeable and charming readers and I’d like to know what you think of serializing a novel.

If Part 3 defies my expectations (and everything about my return to the writing world has defied them), I’m looking at a nearly 100,000 word young adult novel. It needs some paring (try a butcher knife – can it, D), but ever since I wrapped up Part 1, I’ve been thinking about serializing the first book. Each part comes in at a fairly respectable 25K words, and are complete stories in of themselves. It was initially written this way – to be published as independent novellas that could form a nice little collection. I abandoned that idea when I realized that it had a second and then third story (you’re welcome).

So, those who know, what do you think of a sterilized novel in today’s market, and today’s technology?

Claude, Part 4: A New Beginning

D: It’s over?

A: Well, my part in Claude’s story is over.

D: Well, I suppose. . .

A: No.

D: What?!

A: I am not getting you a pocket pet.

D: Can I get a baying wolfhound then?

A: No!

D: A, everyone knows a boy needs a dog. If not for me, then do it for TC.

A: He’s a cat man.

D: He looks good in pictures, but that child is weird.

A: No black cats for your Druid grove?

D: That is a vicious lie – cats preferred the lochs to the grove, A.

A: And this from the man who was disturbed that it was 6/6/13 under a dark moon.

D: We all have our foibles. Now are you going to shush and let people read the conclusion to Claude?

A: Me? (Sigh) Yes, go, read! (Bloody Scot).

D: (Pict).

A: (Whatever).

Will beg on demand

begging
(Photo Credit: Flicker Commons)

D: A! We don’t beg!

A: We may have to.

D: Why?

A: I’m offering up an opportunity for guest bloggers.

D: Guest… bloggers…

A: Yes, people who are not me, posting words to this site. Potentially interacting with you.

D: A!! Are you leaving me??

A: Yup.

D: NO—wait, wait, this could be fun.

A: It’s good to feel, well, not loved. . .

D: Needed?

A: That’s not it either. You got on pretty well for 10 years without me paying any attention to you.

D: True. Well, what then?

A: Let’s just say it’s good to know you’ll maybe appreciate the loss of me, even if it is just for two weeks.

D: Why, A? Why?!

A: TC is going to Band Camp (is it wrong that I have bad, inappropriate jokes lined up in my head at the mention of that? Yes. Bad Mother Award. Just for you. Thanks, D.)

D: And?

A: And then he’s going up north with my dear sister.

D: So?

A: So, D, that means for the first time in 12 years, I’ll have 2 whole weeks to myself. First Time. Twelve Years. Two weeks.

D: I sense debauchery.

A: D!!!

D: Well . . .

Without TC, there will be no need to flash this... because the cats take no heed!!
Without TC, there will be no need to flash this… because the cats take no heed!!

A: No, I was more thinking of holding court in my dining room, eating only peanut butter from a spoon and finishing as much of the book as I could manage. That means being MIA from the blogosphere, Facebook and I wish, work.

D: Oh.

A: You and I can still chat, if you want, but it will be to prep posts for when I return . . . well, and that writing thing. I’m really wondering how other people might interact with you. You’re a unique fellow, after all.

D: Yes, I’ve seen some choice words when people comment.

A: I love ‘em: Pretentious, Pill, Loveable Jerk, Task master . . . the list goes on! So, it begs the question: Who would like to have a conversation with D?

D: Don’t all clamor at once, now.

A: Ignore him. He’s feeling insecure—

D: I am not!

A: You shouldn’t; you’re pretty awesome, even if you are a pain in the a—

D: Family establishment, A. Hush.

A: Fine, but it still stands.

D: I thought it was sagging.

A: That’s just low.

D: Exactly.

A: Seriously? You’ve been in my head way too long.

D: I know (Sob). Please, someone, give me a break?! Please!?

If you would like to be a guest blogger – by hosting your own conversation with D, sharing some insights of your own about dealing with ornery, ostentatious characters, riffing on the weird, tortuous world inside a writer’s head, or another topic of your choosing – let me know in comments, or email me at ksully1111 (at) gmail (dot) com.

The Druid Tells the Tale

I’m having a great deal of fun while A peruses Jack Flacco’s site. There are Zombies. There are fabulous women who wow  and super heroes. There are random musings and there are zombies. Did I mention Zombies? (Yes, D, you did. You like vampires, I like zombies. It’s the one fantastical thing I have not yet encountered. Wait, the one? Vampires? Really? That’s another story, A. Oh boy.).

A: I want to give a shout-out to the genre-bending Eye Dancers. I love how Michael blends aspects of his story with his topic of the moment. It is always artfully done and always an interesting read.

D: Just in case you’re NOT like A, and want to do something productive with your time, head on over to the Readful Things Blog, because it is time once again for Marketing/Publishing with Harry Steinman. Today’s topic: Cover Art, because yes, everyone does judge those books by their cover. This is why they haven’t put A away yet – she looks so nice and sweet on the outside.

A: Cheers, D.

D: I do what I can.

Life in the fast lane

“Why didn’t you stop her?”

The words touched the dread clawing at Sean’s throat. He couldn’t stop the tide of angry, panicky words. “I couldn’t! She clubbed Sir Nathan in the head! She’s helping them and she’s refusing to leave – she’s so deeply enmeshed in this that there is no talking to her, no reasoning with her.”

“Because you insist on using reason.” Dubh grabbed him by the shoulders. “This is not a reasonable war. These men and women are full of emotion and passion. They sing about martyrs and blood sacrifice. This is danger and love and Maureen is throwing all that she has at it. Use it; speak to her. You are stronger than this, boy.”

Sean spread his hands out in front of him, wishing they held some answer. Emotion? He had that, but Maureen was past listening. He’d lost his chance.

“No, you haven’t. You haven’t even begun to fight for her. I can’t do this, Sean. None of us belong here.”

Sean felt a finger of foreboding slide down his neck. All the questions he wanted to ask, like where Dubh had been the last two months, dried in his throat. Dubh was scared; even amidst Bingham’s men, Dubh had not shown fear.

D: 2 months? You let 2 months go by?

A: I let? You’re the one calling the shots, D.

D: I know, but 2 months?! No wonder.

A: They’re 15 – well, Sean is 16 now, but still, what did you expect?

D: (Bloody teenagers). Okay, so I may have allowed things to get out of hand, but how do you reckon it was 2 months?

A: Simple math that made my head kind of hurt because I took it too far. Did you know that because you spent a generation away from the hill that you spent 60 days in Tír na nÓg?

D: Wait, A. Slow down. You used math?

A: Yes. It hurt.

D: I can see that. Back to the two months . . . ?

A: Oh, yeah. 24 hours in Tír na nÓg equals about 6 months for us. I’d say you spent about six hours chatting and travelling when you visited Niamh. That puts you at 1.5 months, but then you still had to integrate yourself with the uprising and get your bearings. It’s an approximation.

D: I did not spend that much time chatting.

A: Then what were you up to, D?

D: You’ll find out.

A: I am not going to like this at all, am I?

D: You might. You seem to have an appreciation for the epic. You may even enjoy yourself.

A: That’s pushing it, Druid, and you know it.

D: Yes, but I can always hope, A.

A: You keep hoping and I’ll keep writing, how about that?

D: Can’t argue with you.

A&D: For once.
A’s telling the tale today, baby!

Slow down a little with Kate Shrewsday and vote for her to be a Penguin Wayfarer – then she gets to wander on foot across Britain. I recently discovered Kate’s page, thanks to Andra at the Accidental Cootchie Mama. Kate’s musings on her world make me smile. In order to help her realize her dream, click on the following link and vote for Kate (the only Kate on the page): http://www.ajourneyonfoot.com/  (Can we come, too? Not our journey, D. But I—I’m working on it, D. Between you and TC, if we don’t get over there eventually, I’m toast!).

D: Thunder stealer.

A: Do you have anything better, Druid?

D: No. I’m going to go mope in my corner.

A: You could always lurk back to your corner.

D: I refuse to dignify that with a response.

A: Cheer up, D. There’s always tomorrow.

My Dearest Love

D: A love story, how sweet.

A: It is sweet, D. And one day I may actually get to tell the whole thing.

D: This story has been rambling about up here for a while – Evie and I are good chums. The second story is loosely based on your grandparents, yes?

A: Where are you going with this?

D: I’m just wondering about the third story.

A: It hasn’t happened yet. I’m working on it.

D: Will it have ghosts?

A: No, I think Evelyn and Samuel do that just fine.

D: What about vampires?

A: Nope, you skulk around for that well enough.


D: Then what?!

A: I’m waiting for me, dummy. Now shush; let people read the story!

Blogging Experiment: The Results!

A: The results are in, D!

D: And the doctors have decided that commitment is the best option for you, I presume.

A: Not those kind of results, D. Seán Cooke posted the results of the mystery blogging experiment he conducted.

D: Wonderful. I still think they’re going to commit you.

A: If they do, they’ll probably give me drugs to make you go away.

D: But I never will; you underestimate my resolve.

A: No, I don’t, D; that’s why we’re here. Enjoy the results of the mystery blogging experiment, everyone – and many thanks to Seán for corralling us all together and conducting it!

Celebrate good times

Sean thought he understood. Maureen – proud, fearless and free – had been captive to a crazed, driven man. She’d been unharmed, but alone and afraid in the dark. Now, she was bareheaded in the sun, a pistol at her hip, fighting back. Nothing he could say would ever change her mind, but he couldn’t participate.

“You know if you do this, the army will round you up with the rest of them – if you aren’t killed first.”

“No, I’ll get out before they do.”

“Where will you go? Jenny’s won’t be safe.”

“No, but other places will be, Sean. What about you?”

She was saying goodbye.

“I’m getting out, Maureen. I can’t stay here – I doubt I’d be welcome at Jenny’s anyway. The army is going to lock this city down and I don’t want to be trapped here when they do. I’ll telegraph Gerry when I get to Kildare, see if he can put me up for a bit. I’ll wait for you there.”

Maureen didn’t say anything to that, she just nodded and slipped her arms around him for a quick hug. And then she was gone, her message – her mission – clutched in her hand.

D: What does that have to do with celebrating, or good times?

A: Nothing, I just liked it.

D: I see . . . then what are we celebrating, exactly?

A: 100 follows for the blog, 98 of which are not related to me.

D: And the tweeting twitter bird, how many on there?

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

A: 125, and only 2 of those know me from the outside world. Plus, we’ve been doing this pretty regularly for two months now.

D: And you haven’t stopped writing in six months. That’s a record for you, A.  I might have to do an epic poem in your honor. In the original Pict, of course.

A: And I haven’t killed you yet, which is remarkable, all things considered.

D: I admire your restraint.

A: You should. I started this whole thing as a way to productively procrastinate, and begin learning and developing a platform for the book. I think that goal is doing pretty well – it’s a perpetual goal, of course, but I’m happy with the progress. It’s also Father’s Day – for a whole two hours yet here – so I wan’ted to send out Father’s Day greetings to all the Dads, Step-Dads, Grand-Dads, Moms-who-are-Dads: everyone. Even you get in on that love-fest, D.

D: How so, A? I was more the child’s sire, not the man who reared him. Circumstances.

A: Still, I think eventually you did well by him – or at least his many-times-great grandson.

D: That is a spoiler, A.

A: Indeed it is, but Happy Father’s Day, anyway, D. Now, if you–

D: Not so fast, A – speaking of goals?

A: Outline part 3. Add some pages to the blog and acknowledge some award nominations. Oh, and drag out the treadmill. We declared a truce over my birthday weekend, but it’s time to enter the fray again, I’m afraid.

D: Is there a war against the treadmill of which I am not aware?

A: No, the war is against my sagging–

D: I’m sorry I asked; I don’t want to know this. Go to bed, A – it’s well past time!

A: Cheers, D!

The Druid Tells the Tale

D: Head over to that virtual marketplace (the wonders of this modern world) and buy Charles’ book, Beginnings of a Hero, now for .99 cents.  It is a suitably epic read.

A: In honor of Father’s Day, I present to you a riff on the role of women in Star Wars: The Smurfette of Star Wars.

D: You have odd ideas about tributes, A.

A: I know, but it was funny and thought-provoking. Plus, I love Star Wars.

D: Fair enough.