A New Way to do The New Year

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We’ve all done it.  You know what it I’m going to say, don’t cha?  Yep, I’m talking about resolutions.  How many of you have made resolutions and then promptly forgot ’em?  Or worse, you make a serious attempt, only to lose your mojo around mid-February.  At least, that’s when I notice the parking lots at the gym start to thin down.  Not that my ass is in one mind you.  It’s cold out.

Most of you, by the time you get to be my age stop making resolutions altogether because you just make yourself feel bad when you aren’t able to change the things you want to change.  That would be me.  I started to rethink resolutions a few years ago.

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I didn’t want to give up doing the New Year’s thang altogether.  There is a part of me that loves the idea of a fresh new year.  It’s like a pretty new piece of blank stationary.  Writers love pretty stationary.  And pens.  I have a very nice pen that my husband won for hitting a sales goal.  I promptly stole it while he was celebrating.  He was so drunk, he didn’t notice.  True story.

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Okay, I got sidetracked by pretty paper and perfect ink pens with just the right weight.  Sorry, they’re like catnip for writers.  Where was I?  Oh yes, the new year.  First, I quit making resolutions and set goals for myself instead.  This worked better.  I hit a few goals and felt invigorated, but I still wasn’t quite there yet.  Then, the other day, I was Reading “Awaken the Giant Within” by Tony Robbins.  For those of you that don’t know me, I am an avid reader of self-help books.  And books on writing. And fiction, of course.  Who doesn’t love fiction?   I have about 55 books in my Kindle and I set my new goal on Goodreads for 52 books this year.  If you are ever trying to find a good book to read, you can find plenty of suggestions on my blog or friend me on Goodreads.

Anyway, in this awesome book, Tony mentions a discovery he made about words.  Apparently the words you use in everyday conversation when referring to your life have an effect on how you feel about your life.  If you want to change your life, you just have to change your words.  I don’t know about you, but this idea blew my mind.  Could it really be that simple?  If I start peppering my conversations with the word fabulous, will I feel fabulous?

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I’m feeling fabulous already.  I decided that not only did I need to test out this idea, but I needed to do it on a grand scale.  Why?  That’s just who I am baby.  Amber likes to go overboard.  That’s how I roll.  I decided to choose five words.  I could have chosen like a hundred, but my life coach Brooke Castillo talks about constraining your focus.  That’s a hard one for me obviously.  I have twins for crying out loud.  I couldn’t even have babies one at a time.

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Yep.  Those are really my twins.  Are they cute or what?  Even without the bangs that their big sister cut off like a week before picture day. I tease my son that he is going to be an underwear model one day.

As I was saying, I chose five words that I wanted to epitomize 2018.  Not the year I think I will have based on past experience.  No.  I’m talking about the year I want to have.  The kind of year I dream about in those rare dreams when you wake up smiling because you were so happy.  You know, like I’m a size six and I’m wearing a stunning designer evening gown and Steven Spielberg is hounding me about movie rights while a hot English actor is dragging me onto the dance floor.  That kind of dream.  Don’t tell Chris.  Shhh.  Our secret.

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So what are the words/phrases I have chosen?  Drum roll please.  They are as follows:

Prosperity

Adventure

Legacy

Willingness to Fail

Fun

 

There they are.  That is the year I want to have.  What kind of year do you want?

How to outline a novel or can you teach an old dog new tricks part 2?

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Update on my wiener dog Buddy: He refuses to Shih Tzu in the litter box.  He seems to think it’s quicksand and that I’m some sort of evil villain hell bent on sending him to his doom.  Insert maniacal laughter here…  I’m giving up.  Perhaps the guy I saw on shark tank the other night that invented the automatic pad-roller thingy will have his invention at Wal-Mart soon and I can buy it.  That brings us to our next order of business, outlining a novel.  In my last installment, I covered the first three steps.  Now I’m going to give you the next one and it’s a biggie.  Drum roll please.  Characterization.

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You should have a general idea of what your story is about and who your characters are.  It’s time to refine and add detail.  It’s time to do character sketches on all of your main characters – Who is this person? Think very carefully because this is going to be very important. What your character wants should be the driving force behind the story.  It makes the the difference between writing a page turner people can’t put down and gee I wonder what’s on Netflix. What are their circumstances? What kind of conditions do they live in? What obstacles are they facing?  Don’t just focus on generalizations.  Dig deep.  Based on your macro outline, what kind of person would be the most fun to transplant into these circumstances.  You don’t want them to be a perfect fit to their surroundings.  Give them something to struggle against.  For example: If their parents are difficult then don’t make your character strong and unaffected.  Make him timid and weak or better yet, kill the parents.  Hey, Disney does it in every movie.  In Big Hero 6, they killed the parents and the brother.  I’m amazed the poor aunt survived, but hey, it pulled you in didn’t it.  It worked on me.  Not that I cried or anything.  Okay, okay, maybe just a little.  Animated films get to me.  I admit it.  Back to the point of characterization, though.  There is some very good information on how to accomplish kick ass characters in 90 Days to Your Novel.  No, Sarah Domet doesn’t say kick ass.  That’s just me being colorful.  If you are interested, there should be a link to Amazon at the bottom of this page.  If not, it’s not a requirement.  If you are like me, then you probably have a shelf full of books on writing.  Pull out one on characterization and go to town.  Let me know how you are progressing at thewritedestination@gmail.com.

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If your really stuck, turn on the t.v. and see what jumps out at you.  Borrow bits and pieces from historic figures.  Expedition Unknown is great for that.  Okay, I just really love this show.  When I grow up, I’m totally getting a job on Josh’s crew.  Why?  Because it looks awesome.  But then, I love history.  I’m a nerd that way.  Shhhhh.  Don’t tell anyone.

 

Vote for Reader’s Choice Award

Hello fellow creatives!  My short story Falling In Love is published in short fiction break and I need your help to win the reader’s choice award. There are a lot of stories with similar titles as the contest theme was falling in love so please be sure to choose the one by Amber Meyer. Big thanks and happy writing.

Click to vote

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Excerpt Falling In Love

Thomas looked around at the sage green walls. The soothing color did little to ease his nerves. There was a piece of framed art on the east wall. A piano with a vase full of flowers on top. He’d stared at it a million times, dissecting every inch. No good. His eyes drifted back to Rhonda. Her veins so purple and swollen from over use of an IV that the shock of seeing them never wore off. Two long years she’d been lying there. The doctors rarely came. If they did, it was at night after he’d gone home. Of course, he’d heard of cases where people just woke up. Helpful friends were always sharing the story of someone, who knew someone, who knew someone, who’d heard of a miracle. Some such bullshit. It was clear to him that it was over. Clear to everyone, but Rhonda’s mother Alvera. The woman had hope, and she was washed in the blood of the spirit. She led weekly prayer vigils at church, and each day seemed more certain that her only child would be returned to her. Thomas admired her faith, but his hopes of having Rhonda back had receded as quickly as the tide. He wanted to believe. He envied her hope.
Mostly these days, he came to the hospital out of obligation. Obligation or guilt or a mixture of the two. A sudden chipper voice snapped him out of his somber thoughts. It contradicted his emotions with such intensity, it felt like trying to look at the sun. He turned with the intention of scowling at the new nurse, but thought different when he saw the flowing red hair cascading down her shoulders. He blinked twice to make sure his eyes weren’t deceiving him. She was beautiful. Really beautiful. A stunning kind of sexuality sizzled in every movement she made.
The beautiful nurse walked up to Rhonda’s bedside and took her pulse with a frown. Thomas studied her face. His gaze slid slowly down. She turned to meet his eyes with a pouty-lipped expression. Kind of like a child with a broken toy.
“How long?” She said.
“Two years,” he said.
“Oh dear. You poor thing,” she said as she walked around the bed and gave him a big hug. Her hair smelled like fresh peaches. He didn’t want her to let go. It had been so long. She walked back around and picked up the chart.
“This is my last round of the day,” she said. “No harm in taking a few extra minutes.” Her hair fell gently on the chart in front of her as she studied it with her stunning blue eyes. “Tsk. Tsk. So sad. A car accident.”
“Yeah,” Thomas said with a shrug. “On her way to meet her mother at church.”
“Oh,” she said. “Was she a good Christian?”
“Devout,” said Thomas. “A much better person than I.” He added giving her a hungry look.
“I see,” she said walking to the door and peeking out. “My shift is up. How about I buy you a drink? You’ve been through a tough time.”
“Really?” He said, not believing his luck.
“Sure,” she whispered. “Meet me at Smitty’s, across the street, in twenty minutes.”
“Twenty minutes,” he repeated, still in disbelief. “Wait about ten minutes and then leave,” she said. “Technically I could get in trouble for seeing a patient’s husband after hours.” She smiled and waved as she walked out the door.
His heart pounded and his ears buzzed with excitement as did other parts of him that hadn’t been awakened in a long time. Long before Rhonda’s accident. Rhonda had always had very definite ideas about how their bedroom activities should be conducted. Come to think of it, she’d had definite ideas about how he should do everything. What few things Rhonda didn’t have an opinion on, Alvera did and no qualms about letting them be known. He stared at the clock. Nine more minutes. He got up and walked to the window. He longed to open the window and let in some fresh air, but it was an old hospital and there were bars on the windows. Rumor had it there used to be an asylum on this floor and they did it to keep the patients from jumping. It was probably good in a way. More than once he stared out window and felt like taking the plunge. But today was not one of those days. Six more minutes passed and he could see her cross the street. She’d changed into a little black dress, but he was certain it was her. He started to pace like a panther in a cage. The minutes dragged. Finally, it was time. He walked to the door and flicked out the light.
“Thomas,” said a voice from behind….

Read the rest at Short Fiction Break.

Voting ends on Tuesday, September 12th at midnight pacific time.

Vote now!

 

A Dickensian Tale by Amber Meyer

There was a tiny knock upon the door followed by a larger, heavier knock. Bailywick wrinkled his brow and pushed aside the payroll papers he had been working on. He approached the door with caution. It was rare that another human being ever encroached upon the solitude his personal residence offered. It was for this reason; he so often brought work home with him and labored in the lamplight at the sensible oak table that sat in his study. He peeked through the thick draperies and saw on his front porch, a gentleman and a small boy he judged to be around six years of age.

“Go away,” he roared, without opening the door. “There’ll be no charity found for you here.”

“Please Mr. Bumble. I have urgent personal business to discuss,” came a voice from the other side.

“Why bring a little lad with you to discuss business with me? Clearly, he is a tool you use to draw sympathy from your patrons and encourage them to donate more to your cause. I say again, go away.”

“This lad is your nephew,” said the voice on the other side taking on more than a hint of agitation. Bailywick pondered this new information and all of its potential implications and grudgingly opened the door, upon which action the man rushed in without invitation; the small boy and a great gust of December fast upon his heels.

“Thank you,” said the man turning to face him, “For your gracious invitation.” His voice was laced with sarcasm dipped in venom. Despite the acidity of his manner, the boy clung to him practically hiding beneath the man’s waistcoat. “As I was saying,” he continued, thrusting the boy forth, “This is your nephew Peter Clark. My name is Alexander Lawson. I am tasked with the handling of orphans in the case of an estate.”

Mr. Lawson was dressed as well as he spoke. He was wearing a pair of sleek leather gloves that glistened in the lamplight. Lawson was a man of professionalism and efficiency and had Bailywick ever bothered to ask his superiors; he would have heard testaments to Lawson’s ability at his chosen occupation.

Bailywick lifted his lamp to take a closer look at the boy. He had still not ruled out the possibility of robbers. He made a mental note as to the location of his blunderbuss and his purse. Just two fortnights ago, he had heard of a stagecoach robbery that had been attempted with the use of a young boy as bait. Both undesirables had been shot by the veteran stagecoach driver and had limped off into the night with the boy on their heels.

Even children could not be trusted anymore. He surveyed the boy carefully and drew in a deep inhale of breath. The boy was a much younger reflection of himself. The resemblance was undeniable. He’d never laid eyes on the youth, but he no longer doubted the truth of the man’s statement.

“Whose?” He whispered.

“Your sister Ruth’s I’m afraid,” said Mr. Lawson.

“Ruth died in childbirth,” Bailywick said a twisting pain of old grief for the loss of his twin, wiggling in his chest.

“Yes, but Peter here survived. His father has been raising him alone until he recently passed as I’m sure you are well aware. His other relatives are all unable to manage the care of a child. Three of your siblings are in the poor house as we speak.”

“Balderdash,” Bailywick said with a sneer. “Ruth’s husband has a brother that could…”

“Had a brother,” Lawson retorted. “Both Peter’s father and his brother perished recently under mysterious circumstances.”

“You can’t expect me to raise him?” Bailywick said raising his furry brows with an almost pleading expression.

“It is your duty,” Lawson said.

“That’s what orphanages are for,” Bailywick said, indignant that such a man as this should dare preach to him about duty. He voice exited his throat louder than he intended. At this the boy returned to the safety of Lawson’s coattails, only his eyes visible as they peeked back.

“The orphanages here are currently full,” Lawson returned. “I can send a letter up to London to see about placing him there, but until then, he is your responsibility.”

“I see,” Bailywick said meeting Lawson’s frigid stare with an icy glare of his own design. “Send your letter then. I expect to hear back from you soon.”

With that, Lawson nodded and removed himself from Peter’s grasp and Bailywick’s lodging with nare another word spoken.

Peter blinked, but did not cry and Bailywick considered this fact with quiet gratitude.

“Are you hungry?” Bailywick grumbled. “I have some stew.”

Peter nodded without lifting his eyes from the floor. He was wringing his hat with nervous energy, but was otherwise quiet and polite.

Bailywick led him to the dining room table. He placed some thick volumes on a chair and the boy climbed up with a smile. Bailywick then pushed in his chair and fetched them both a steaming bowl of stew which he laid upon the table with a “Clunk!”. The boy jumped a little, but wasted no time dipping his spoon into the piping hot dish. He gave his laden spoonfull two puffs of his thin, little breath and then shoved the entire spoonful in his mouth. Bailywick opened his mouth to exclaim that it was too hot for the boy to conduct his meal in this fashion, but he shut it again when the boy repeated the process with energetic determination.

Bailywick turned up the lamp so that he could conduct a more proper examination of the boy without notice. Peter was thin and his hair disheveled and overgrown. His clothes were tattered and covered in the general filth associated with the lower class. It was a state that Bailywick remembered well, having been born himself in a workhouse and he shuddered at the uninvited remembrance of what had been shoved to the back of his mind, where it cracked the whip, which drove Bailywick Bumble ever onward and away from his poor early existence.

The boy proceeded to scrape the bottom of the bowl with his spoon. It made a small noise as he did so and he glanced up and braced himself as if about to suffer a blow.

“Would you like some more?” Bailywick said. The boy nodded politely as if he had been offered something of little consequence, but his eyes looked desperate. Bailywick ladled out another bowl and started to sit it in front of the youth and then stopped for a moment. He watched a tear run down the boys cheek as if he thought his prize about to be taken as part of some sick sport.

“Slower this time,” Bailywick said softening, before setting the bowl down. He gave Peter a gentle pat on the back and the boy looked up at him with a glow of admiration.

When he smiled, he looked like any other boy and without the dirt, Bailywick supposed a rather attractive youth at that.

“Have you had any schooling?” Bailywick said, dipping into his own stew.

“A little,” the boy said not looking up from the golden mixture before him.

“You should have finished your first year by now.”

“I don’t go all the time sir,” he said with a sheepish glance. “My father needed my help sometimes.”

“I see,” said Bailywick raising a bushy brow.

“It made you happy to miss your lessons, I suppose.”

“Oh no sir,” Peter said looking up at him and putting down his spoon for the first time. “I really enjoyed school. I rather missed it most of the time and I begged to go, but as father insisted he needed me and all, I just couldn’t. Mrs. Pettigrew really was lovely about it though. She never complained or made me feel bad. I always swore I’d make it up to her and she’d smile and sneak me a piece of candy.”

“A piece of candy?”

“Yes, the most delightful butterscotch. It’s the only candy I’ve ever tasted. Do you think they have teachers like her in London?” Peter said hopeful.

“I highly doubt it,” Bailywick said, not wanting to give the boy unreasonable expectations, but then regretting it the moment he saw Peter’s crestfallen expression.

“That’s alright,” Peter said. “I can at least tell her good-bye before I go. Can’t I? Just once?”

“You will have to attend school until Mr. Lawson finds you a permanent situation. I will send you to Mrs. Pettigrew first thing in the morning,” Bailywick said. Peter smiled again and a happy tear slid down his cheek and Bailywick fought an angry gnawing in his stomach.

Peter was a mirror of himself some twenty-five years ago. Bailywick Bumble was a successful man by anyone’s standard. He owned three mills and they ran with the efficiency of a Swedish timepiece and churned out money, but he oft wondered what he could have accomplished if he’d been born into better circumstances. He could have owned ten mills, twenty even. What could Peter do with the right tutelage? He resigned himself to discuss it with Mrs. Pettigrew. He needed to a clearer picture as to Peter’s aptitude before he did anything further with the idea that was beginning to take shape inside his breast.

The next morning, Bailywick Bumble awoke before daybreak and was surprised to find Peter seated at the table with his hands politely crossed. He was clean, mostly clean and he was wearing what Bailywick surmised to be his best clothing although it was still quite shabby.

“Good morning sir,” Peter said.

“Good morning,” Bumble grumbled, still rubbing his eyes. “I’m glad you’re up early. We have some things to take care of before school.”

“Yes sir,” Peter said. Bailywick then turned his attention to preparing breakfast. Mrs. Juniper was hired to keep the house and cook most of his meals, but today was her day off. Normally he prepared porridge for himself on these days, but just yesterday he had decided to treat himself with the purchase of bacon and eggs and he cooked both now in an iron skillet, still in his bedclothes and slippers. Peter’s face resembled the angels captured in stained glass at the church on Barnaby Street as he sat patiently waiting. Bailywick sat a heaping plate down in front of Peter with three eggs and three slices of bacon and a whole roll. It was much more than a boy his size should be able to eat. Peter looked up at him, his eyes pleading for permission.

“Go on,” Bailywick said. “We have much to do.”

Peter lifted his fork and dug into the eggs with enthusiasm. Bailywick saw a tear of joy run down the boys cheek as he took a careful bite of the bacon and chewed it like it was the last morsel he would ever receive. “This is the best breakfast I have ever had,” the boy said. “Thank you sir. Thank you very much.” Then, without wasting another breath he made the rest of his breakfast disappear without so much as a trace.

“You’re welcome,” Bailywick said. He couldn’t help but smile to himself as his dipped his own fork in the yolk and smeared it around with his bread. As soon as breakfast was concluded, they bustled out in the wicked wintry cold. Peter stomped along behind, following quite literally in Bailywick’s footsteps. They trudged all the way to town. By the time they trumped into the clothing store, Bailywick’s cheeks had a rosy red glow as did the top of Peter’s ears. Bailywick sent Peter back with the shop owner to take his measurements.

“How long will it be before my order is filled,” said Bailywick.

“I’m three weeks out right now due to Christmas,” the tailer replied.

“Get it done before Christmas and I will be sure to reward you,” Bailywick said, patting his purse to make clear his point.

“Yes sir,” said the shop keeper with a glint of surprise. The trudged back out into a blinding wind. Peter led the way now. They were close to the school house and he new the way from here, his youthful enthusiasm making his way.

“Good morning, Peter,” Mrs. Pettigrew greeted them as they entered. “Is this your father?”

“No ma’am,” Peter said. “This is my Uncle Bailywick Bumble. He’s the best Uncle a boy ever had.”

“I don’t doubt it,” replied Mrs. Pettigrew with a radiance that only a woman in her gentle condition could maintain.

Bailywick was slightly taken aback by her swollen abdomen. It was somehow not at all what he had expected. He proceeded cautiously. “May I speak with you privately for just a moment,” he said. “I promise not to take up to much of your time.”

“Certainly,” she said. “Peter, why don’t you go take that empty seat right up front?”

Peter bobbed his head with joy. “Fare thee well Uncle. I will see you when school is out,” he said, rushing to his seat with all of the self-control that a six year old boy could be expected to muster.

“He is a delightful boy,” Mrs. Pettigrew said, closing the classroom door. “I do hope that he will be in school more often.”

“His father recently passed,” Bailywick began, clearing his throat. “And he was brought to my door.”

“How kind of you to take him in,” Mrs. Pettigrew said. “I’m so glad. He is such a good boy. Always a joy to have in class, he is.”

“Is he a very good student?” Bailywick ventured, unsure of how to broach the matter at hand.

“Oh yes,” she said. “He is very bright. Catches on so quickly to all manner of things. I dare say he’s one of the brightest students I have ever had. Such a shame the way his education has been conducted. I’m sure that a man such as yourself will not let that continue,” She said. “You will know how to take care of a bright boy like Peter and give him a decent way in life.”

“Yes,” he said. “About that. I was just wondering as you seem to be so close to Peter, much closer than I, well, I just wondered if there is any way that you could oversee his upbringing? I’d pay for his keep of course.” Bailywick stared at his feet and twisted his hat like a school boy that had misbehaved and was busy figuring out an apology.

“Oh Mr. Bumble,” said Mrs. Pettigrew. “I wish that I was able. I’m about to have number eight and we just haven’t any more room. Besides, a boy like Peter would do better under a wise man of business. You could teach him so much and he would make such a fine heir for a bachelor.” Bailywick glanced up at her. Her eyes were still gentle and kind without the least bit of judgment in them.

“Of course,” Bailywick said, shuffling his feet. “I was just worried about him growing up without the love of a mother, you know. I think he is quite fond of you. My poor sister Ruth would have loved him so, if she had just had the chance.”

“That’s very kind of you Mr. Bumble,” she said. “I’m sure that Peter will grow up to be a fine young man.”

“I’m certain that you are correct,” Bailywick said, tipping his hat and walking away. Being a man of business, Bailywick Bumble was a master of difficult negotiations and he knew when he had been beaten. Mrs. Pettigrew was kind and had a face that hailed all the sweetness of the virgin Mary, but she was as artful a dodger as he’d ever witnessed.

Outside, he found a stagecoach to carry him to the mill. He stepped inside and wrapped his jacket tightly around his ever expanding waistline. He took a small flask out of his pocket and sipped a bit of brandy to warm up his blood and clear his mind. As they approached the mill, he looked at it in the distance. It was a fine mill, as fine a mill as any a man had ever owned and Mrs. Pettigrew’s words about an heir echoed in his mind.

He shoved it out of his mind and busied himself with the work of the day. He was surprised when his office door opened shortly after lunch and Mr. Lawson breezed in with scarcely a knock. Bailywick’s shoulders tightened at the sight of him.

“Your back rather sooner than expected,” Bailywick said not bothering to get up.

“I gave the matter my utmost attention as you requested,” Lawson said with a sniff.

“You found a nice place for the boy?” Bailywick said putting his pen down. He held his breath.

“Most certainly,” he said. “I found him an apprenticeship.”

“An apprenticeship,” Bailywick said feeling himself relax. “That sounds promising. What trade would the lad be learning.”

“He will be training as a chimney-sweep,” Lawson said taking a seat and peeling off his gloves. He pulled some papers out of his pocket and slid them across the large oak desk.

“Chimney-sweep?” Bailywick roared.

“He’s an orphan of lowly stock,” Lawson said. “You can’t afford to be choosy.”

“But a chimney-sweep,” Bailywick said. “He’s a very bright boy. He could learn most any trade. I dare say he could be a doctor or a lawyer. I would be more than happy to help pay for his education.”

“His father died in the commission of a stagecoach robbery. You won’t find any doctors or lawyers who want to take in the son of a known criminal. I was lucky to find this. Just sign the papers and I will be on my way.”

Bailywick picked up the papers and tried to read them, but the words blurred. He got up from the table and walked across the room stopping in front of the hearth to warm himself. He looked down at them again. The words youth and chimney-sweep printed in deep black swirly handwriting stared back at him and he tossed the papers into the fireplace in disgust.

“In God’s name,” Lawson said jumping out of his chair. “Those will have to be rewritten now.”

“No,” Bailywick said. “I have changed my mind. I will be keeping the boy.”

“Are you quite sure,” Lawson said.

“Yes. Quite certain of it. I’m sorry to have caused you trouble,” he said sitting back down behind the desk.

“Well then,” Lawson said. “Here are the papers I was going to have Mr. Lacy sign. If you will sign these naming Peter as your dependent, then I will take my leave of you.”

Bailywick Bumble pulled out his pen and signed the new papers with a smile.

“A Merry Christmas to you,” Lawson said as he collected them an bustled back out into the December snow. A smile alighted upon his face as soon as he exited the mill.

“And a very merry Christmas Peter,” he whispered under his breath. “A very Merry Christmas indeed.” He couldn’t help laugh to himself as there had never been a chimney-sweep. Mr. Lawson, as you have been told, was indeed very good at his job.

The Prison Tide by Sef Churchill

Sef Churchill took up my challenge to “Write like the Dickens.”  Here is her new masterpiece.    I’m so proud to be honoring her hard work on my blog.  Be sure to check out Sef’s own blog at http://sefchurchill.com/.   I am declaring February to be “Poe Your Heart Out Month,” so be sure to sign up for my e-mail list for information on how to create your own Edgar Allan Poe inspired piece and be featured on this blog.  Good luck to all of you creatives out there and happy writing!
The ship on the marsh swayed in the November wind. As it swayed, it groaned, and as it groaned, it echoed the cries of the gulls which swooped down to the silvery mud, hoping for unlucky fish.
A low boat wove among the treacherous channels which meandered across the mudflats. At slack tide the flats appeared benign enough. Enterprising folk plucked a living from mollusks and cargo which had been insufficiently secured. At high water, however, these very streams made a deadly funnel for the incoming sea. No boat ventured out then, and only the wiliest of local watermen  knew the safe route through.
Mercy Grabbett gathered her shawl about her and watched the gulls. To anyone watching, it might seem that her thin figure was another one of the huddled sacks of laundry, heaped against each other in the belly of the little boat. But closer inspection would show a girl of perhaps nineteen, hair of the colour they call chestnut, and hazel eyes dimmed often by long work and short rest. There was a light in her eyes, however, a fresh light, as yet unnoticed by anyone but the person who inspired it, which made her face twice as interesting as that of most washer women.
Mercy’s guardian, Frozzle, steered the craft. She called him simply Frozzle.  He was Mr. Frozzle only when they were in company, which was nearly every night, for as well as supplying the prison ship with fresh linen, Frozzle and Mercy tended the ale barrels at the Silent Tide, the inn on the marsh.
Frozzle took Mercy in when her parents were drowned near the old jetty,  and since nobody else wanted her, kept her as his daughter, or niece, or maid of all work, depending on the circumstances and who might be asking. Frozzle, with his wiry grey hair and cap always askance, ran the Tide, and the laundry service, with a quavering hand, but it might still be raised against Mercy when strong drink was in the question.
“Here she is,” said Frozzle.
Since the hull of the prison ship rose before them like a cliff, Mercy made no reply.
“You run up and fetch the dirties,” continued Frozzle. “I’ll put these aboard.”
Mercy did as she was bade, slithering up the rope ladder as nimbly as any lascar, onto the slimy deck of the prison ship. Meanwhile Frozzle attached a hook and rope to the first of the laundry sacks.
Mercy bobbed a curtsey to Dodge, the prison steward and, by default, ship’s captain. Dodge saluted back, in a way he’d studied from real sea captains. Dodge had earned his present rank at Her Majesty’s pleasure. He ascended to the lofty title of Captain  principally by being the only prisoner who had ever been on board a ship prior to being incarcerated on one.  He did not have many maritime duties, for this, like other prison hulks, would never sail again.
 Mercy hurried to the hatch.  Her thin shoes slipped and slid on the mildewed deck, but she kept her hands stuffed into her apron pocket. Into the hatch she went, and down, down, down a rotting ladder to the prisoner decks,
In spite of the dark, she found the place she wanted. She sought not the room where Dodge piled up the stinking laundry for collection, but a narrow door, one among many, with a number 77 painted on it. She knocked five times.
Immediately a slip of folded paper shot out from under the door. Mercy snatched it up, and unfolding it,  read with eager eyes. She nodded, although there was nobody to see. From her apron she pulled a small bundle, which might have been twigs, or cigars, and a thin coil of ship’s rope. “How can I give them to you?” she whispered.
“Wait,” came a hoarse cry from within. “Wait one moment!”
Mercy waited, praying that nobody, especially Frozzle, would come upon her here, among the makeshift prison cells, where she should not be. 
“Stand back a little,” said the voice behind the door.
She complied.
A sound came like a rat gnawing an empty bone, and then a splinter of wood freed itself from the door, and made a hole, just at the level of Mercy’s eyes. She bent to it.
“I could free myself from this hole anytime,” said the prisoner, “if I was prepared to pay the price on my head. Which I’m not. Pass me what you have brought.”
Mercy hesitated. “If I’m caught, we’ll both hang,” she said. “Even though you are innocent.” He had protested his blamelessness many times.
“They care not for innocence or guilt, only the appearance of justice,” said the prisoner. “Quick now!”
Still Mercy held back with the rope, and the matches.
The prisoner pressed his eye to the new gap, and gazed at Mercy. “You are as kind as I imagined,” he said. “And more beautiful.”
Mercy said nothing. However much she might wish to return the compliment, she could not, for she could see only an eye, and a hank of black hair.  Sighing, she poked the rope through the hole, and the matches.
“You do your country a great service.”
“I do myself the service,” said Mercy, emboldened, “and I care nothing for the country as long as we can run away, and be married.”
He drew back a little.
“Stand back,” she said. “Let me see you.”
He did so.
She saw a tall, thin man, dressed in the fashion of twenty years before. A long coat, and full shirt hung from his shoulders, and the remains of stockings clung to his calves. His shoes were intact,  but for missing the silver buckles , sold, by Mercy, to pay for certain supplies. He was not handsome, but what is handsome when justice is in the question? And he loved her, or said he did. Either one was more than Mercy had ever known.
“It will be tonight,” he said. “I will light the ship, and you will guide me across the marsh.”
“I will be ready,” she said, “with a lantern.” 
She hesitated. “A stranger came to the Tide. Asking about you. I told him nothing, but Frozzle, my, my uncle, may have told him you were here.”
“How would he know that?” cried the prisoner in sudden anger. “Have you betrayed me? You harlot,  who has told you my name  -“
“Your name is on your laundry,” said Mercy.
Silence. Then, in the old gentle tone, “Forgive me, my love. When this is over I will never doubt you.”
“I must go,” she said. “Goodbye. and – I long for when we will be together!”
She turned, and with all the confidence of youth and love, slipped away into the dark
***
The prison hulk flamed against the winter sky. Night was drawing on rapidly, advancing over the marsh like a black fog. The tide followed the night close at heel, like a dog sniffing for scraps, liable to turn vicious if refused.
Mercy stood at the edge of the mudflat, her face lit by the fire raging through the shell of the old ship. She watched for the prisoner to arrive, which at last he did, his boots mud-drenched, his clothes dripping. She gave him her cloak, and said she would lead him to the road.  He strode towards it.
She ran after him. “Wait my love, where shall we meet?”
“We shan’t. I’m free now.”
“But you promised -“
Too late, she realized her folly. Before her hunched a desperate man, convicted of the gravest crimes, and now believed by all to be dead. Why would he choose obligation, when he could choose freedom?
In Mercy’s heart, a hardness formed, a lump of loss and bitterness. “Wait, she said, “the road, you will never find your way. Not at dusk, not even by the light of the flames.”
“I see it there.”
“No! The tide, the water here deceives.”
He stopped and waited for her. “Which way then?” he said, folding her cloak tightly about him to disguise his ragged clothes.
She pointed. “Make for the old jetty. From it, you will see the road. East is Rochester, west is Dartford.”
He grunted.
“No farewell for me,” she said. Here was his chance, his last chance. “No thanks?”
“For a laundry girl who sold my silver buckles and doubtless profited more than the paltry coins I got?” He laughed, a cold laugh, and his face twisted. 
The bitterness in Mercy’s heart set to stone.
“Then go,” she said, “the way I told you.”
She picked her way towards the Silent Tide inn.
Frozzle was waiting, with a glass of porter, and a frown at her muddy clogs. “Evil deeds tonight,” he said. “The prison ship aflame and all the men dead, they say.”
“Is that what they say,” she said, swallowing porter.
“And a big tide coming,” he went on, “twill sweep what’s left of that vessel up to London and back out again to France. There will be nothing to see come morning.”
Mercy bent her head over her drink, and thought of the prisoner, following the line of the jetty into the path of the tide. She swallowed the last dregs, and turned aside thoughts of the past. “The tide takes what it will,” she said, and held out her glass. 

My Middle Build Looks Middle Aged

Have you ever tried dissecting the inner workings of your own brain?  In the past month, I have been examining Sara Gruen’s novel Water for Elephants in an attempt to understand why it worked.  I have looked at each scene and made note of how it turned.  I then took this new knowledge and applied it to the editing process on my own rough draft.  Things were going well until I hit the middle.  The middle of my novel looks kind of like a middle aged man who drinks a lot of beer.  It is kind of sluggish and wondering what happened to its youthful momentum.  It left me with the realization that I still have a lot of work to do and the editing phase may be even harder than the writing phase.  I am so ready for this book to be birthed so that I can move on to my next brain child, but I am not going to start on anything else until this is finished or at least in the hands of an editor.  For me, working on another project is just one way that Resistance rears its ugly head and tries to keep me from getting my work done.  If you haven’t read Shawn Coyne’s book, The Story Grid, I highly recommend it.  I am using it in my editing process.  I’ve also read Steven Pressfield’s book, The War of Art and I am working on his new book, Nobody Wants to Read Your Shit.  They are all enlightening.  Until next time my fellow creatives, happy writing!

Chugging Along!

Hello all. Sorry for the absence. I have been busy chugging along on my manuscript. I am at around 62,000 words now. My goal is to have around 70,000 in my draft. I know that there will be some scenes I need to round out when I revise so I’m allowing about 10,000 words for the rewrite bringing me up to the average novel length of 80,000 words. It has been a long road to get here but it’s coming at a greater pace now. I have some momentum. I finally broke through the wall that I hit a couple of months ago. I’m learning how to deal with my writer’s resistance and I’m developing my own creative process, which is very exciting. I think the worst part about writing your first book is not just the writing, but learning the process of how to go about it. My goal is to be done by the end of April and start shopping for an editor and a cover designer by early May. I want to bring my e-book out in early June. I might be wrong, but I’m guessing that people read more during the summer. I picture people in beach chairs curled up with a good book and the ocean crashing in the background. Sounds heavenly doesn’t it. When I get this beast done, that is just what I’ll be doing. Currently I am not sure how feasible that is. I have no idea how long it takes for an editor to even get to your book or how long the editing process takes. I realize this is probably a lofty goal, but having a deadline really helps me to push myself and that is the important part. I can adjust my deadline later. I have discovered that setting a deadline is an important part of the process. I hope the rest of you are living your writing dreams right now or sitting on a beach with a good book. Either one is pretty sweet. Until next time, happy writing!

Managing Your Time To Increase Your Productivity

The recurring theme in my life the past week has been time.  We all get 24 hours in a day.  I wanted to be sure that I am getting them most out of mine.  I went to the office supply store and purchased a day planner and I started budgeting all of my time.  I scheduled my writing time as well as my fun time.  I noticed an interesting thing happened after I laid it all out in black and white.  I started using my time differently.  If I had a free hour that wasn’t filled in, I started thinking about the best and most efficient way to spend that hour.  Now instead of taking the kids home to grab a quick lunch before heading off on our next excursion, I will take them to a restaurant and have a decent meal and enjoy myself instead of wasting most of it on travel time.  I have been more productive with my writing as well.  If you have it written down that you are going to write at a certain time, then you feel more obligated to sit down and do it.  You are holding yourself accountable to getting it done.  If things get crazy and I don’t end up using my time the way I had planned, I don’t beat myself up about it too much though.  I think of it as a useful guide.  Its a tool to get the most out of my life, not a set in stone ball and chain kind of thing.   You don’t want to drive yourself crazy with it.  It has definitely been enlightening for me.  I would recommend trying it.  See for yourself if you don’t see your life differently when it is all laid out on paper before you.  Until next week, happy writing!

The Writer’s Brain

This week I have been working on my brain.  I felt like I had hit a mental brick wall that I now know is called writer’s resistance.  I have been reading a book called Around The Writer’s Block that is based on neuroscience.  Have you ever sat down to write and had a sudden urge to clean the house, check your e-mail or anything else to avoid actually writing.  Yep, I’m guilty.  Turns out that this is not uncommon.  This very phenomenon keeps a great number of people from fulfilling their dreams of writing success.  I have started coloring in adult coloring books which is not something that I ever saw myself doing.  No.  I am not trying to recapture my childhood.  This is supposed to take the limbic system of your brain, that takes over when you are stressed and put it in the backseat.  You want the cortex in control.  Tasks like coloring are supposed to achieve this.  Plus, it is kind of fun.  I have also started doing morning pages.  This consists of writing three pages when you first wake up of whatever is on your mind.  You don’t worry about spelling, punctuation or even if it makes sense.  It is very calming and liberating.  After all of this experimentation, I have decided to write the last chapter of my book and then fill in the rest.  I think that having a clear vision of where I’m going will help me to fill in the blanks in between.  I have been chipping away at it using timed writing sessions.  I set timer on my phone for 15 minutes and give myself permission to write total crap.  It’s the getting started that is the hard part and this is helpful.  If you tell yourself to sit down for an hour, then you might decide you don’t have time, but who doesn’t have 15 minutes.  We all watch too much television anyway, right?  Once I start though, I usually find that I keep going after the timer has gone off.  You’d be surprised what you can do in fifteen minutes.  That is how long it just took me to write this blog posting.   Until next week, happy writing!

Under The Microscope

Okay, so I have been dissecting my manuscript piece by painful piece.  I have come to the realization that I have put my characters into so much peril and constant action that the inner working of my characters have gotten lost.  There is supposed to be a love story lurking in there and the two that are in love have hardly spoke since he found out that she was still alive.   I have taken a large stack of index cards and I have a brief description of each scene.  I am going through and analyzing each scene.  How important is that scene?  Do I need to keep it?  How can I bring out the relationships between my characters without spelling it out too much?  Are the scenes that I have planned but not written yet interesting and unpredictable enough?  Am I letting my inner critic get the best of me?  I am trying to decide how to proceed with the last third of my novel before plunging ahead.  I don’t want to waste any more time.  Sometimes, I wonder if I am procrastinating out of a fear of failure that lies deep in the recesses of my perfectionist first born brain.  Is it my writing that needs help or my psyche?  I guess my manuscript isn’t the only thing that I tend to put under the microscope.  I guess that I just need to finish it and worry about polishing later.  According to Anne Lamott, it’s okay for your first draft to be total shit.  But what is it going to be like looking at shit under a microscope?  Hopefully by next week, I will have it all resolved and I will be coasting to the ending.  Yes.  I set lofty goals.  Until then, happy writing!