HAUNTED BY WHISPERS_Friday's Romantic Challenge

Denise Covey has given us another prompt for this challenge:
http://romanticfridaywriters.blogspot.com.au/p/challenges.html

My entry is from the sequel to END OF DAYS:
http://www.amazon.com/END-OF-DAYS-ebook/dp/B0082ZJD08

The sequel is entitled, DAWN OF WOES. My entry is entitled HAUNTED BY WHISPERS and is 425 words long ... just long enough to be out of the running. I do not like to compete with friends.  :-)

 

 

I was haunted by whispers. Did you know memories have voices? They do.

Mostly they whisper.  They whisper when the light of day dies, and all you have to go by is the light of your mind.

In the dark of my loneliness I could only hear the mocking whispers of what once was.

I stood glaring at St. Marrok’s gate glowing in fae light under the harvest moon. “Trish, I hate you for this.”

My skin almost jumped off my skeleton when a sad voice spoke behind me: “You don’t hate her, Becca. You miss her.”

I spun around. Maxine, shaved head, cloven hooves, and the saddest eyes this side of mine.  “If it isn’t the goblin princess.”

Maxine just accepted the barb like that was all she got in life, and I hated myself.

She sniffed back some tears making me feel even lower and said,

“Since you were seven, you and Trish have been a team on the streets. Now, she’s got Toomey Starks.  Alice has Victor somehow back from the dead.  And you’re alone … just like me.”

I arched an eyebrow.  “What about wolf girl?”

“Don’t call her that,” Maxine said.  “Higgins has been accepted back into the pack for saving St. Marrok's.”

Maxine looked forlorn at the moon.  “She’s out in the swamp right now, running with the pack happy ... without me.”

She blinked back tears.  “And I’m alone.  No one wants to be with a freak.”

I tapped her chin with a light touch of my knuckles.  “I’ve been called a 'no one' all my life, Princess.  Let’s be lonely together.”

A deep voice behind us said, “Or how about shelving the self-pity long enough to save the werewolf from the trap her pack has set for her.”

Damn! I turned around. Wolf Howl, the Lakota shaman. Victor had taken his first look at him and muttered, “Jeff Chandler” whoever the hell that was.

“A trap?” hushed Maxine.

Wolf Howl said, “Higgins left the pack to help all of us save the world.  The pack doesn’t forgive desertion.”

Maxine grabbed the shaman’s arm.  “We have to save her!”

Wolf Howl turned to me.  “You want in?”

I snorted, “What’s in it for me?”

He scowled, “Are you the only one you care about?”

“Well, I’m certainly number one on my list.”

Maxine flinched, but I winked at her. “But I make time  … for family.”

Maxine squealed, hugging me as Wolf Howl muttered, “White girls.”

I smiled at Maxine.  “Men. You can’t live with them, and they’re too many to kill.”

{Images courtesy of the talented Leonora Roy}

MESMER'S ... I HAD LUNCH WITH DEATH TODAY

http://www.amazon.com/GHOST-OF-A-CHANCE-ebook/dp/B0097Z99YM

Mesmer's.

It's right down the block from Meilori's.

It's where Samuel McCord goes to have lunch and to chat with the famous, the infamous, and the stray hungry orphan.

The word on the French Quarter streets is that if you're so hungry you don't mind risking your life and sanity, go to Mesmer's.

According to my friends, I don't have that much sanity to lose, and anyway, I was invited by Sam himself. And he owned the place, though he joked that the cat, Mesmer, was the actual owner.

The place was just like I imagined Hicock's bar in Deadwood might have looked. The very modern and willowy Diana Krall was singing "Cry Me a River" to the jazz music of Al Dubbin and Harry Warren.

I sat across from Sam, all in black: from his wide Stetson, jacket, silk shirt, jeans, and boots. His large Spanish spurs were silver ... as was his Texas Ranger star. He smiled like a lazy wolf at me.

"So your friends who've read GHOST OF A CHANCE say they wanted you to ask me some questions about my past in that book?"

"Yes. You have to admit our time together was cut off kinda short."

A sleek tabby the size of a small dog jumped up in the empty seat next to him, causing the screech of wooden legs against wood floor. She leaned forward, looking nothing so much as if she were whispering to him. He smiled wider.

"Mesmer said it saved your sorry hide."

"She talks to you?"

"Yes. Won't talk to anyone else but me. And to her mother, Bast, of course."

"Bast is her m-mother?"

Mesmer whispered to Sam again. He chuckled. "She says you repeat the obvious a lot. But that her daughter, Gypsy, warned her about that."

"She's my cat's mother?"

Mesmer looked disgusted at me, then there was the sound of breaking dishes in the back. She stiffened. She leapt down with the grace of a stalking panther.

Sam shook his head sadly. "I warned the kitchen staff Mesmer hates butterfingers. They thought I was joking."

A few seconds later there were screams, sobs, and slamming back doors. He turned to me. "That sound like a joke to you, partner?"

"Sounds like I better have the price of this ice tea and not have to wash dishes back there."

"The tea's on me, Roland. The ice comes from the melted snow of Eden."

"The Eden?"

"You going to keep on repeating what I say, or ask me a straight-out interview question?"

"Ah, all right, how did you originally pick the spot for Meilori's, Sam?"

"It picked me, son. Back in 1848, Baroness Pontalba built me the place that came to be known as Meilori's. And before you ask -- she built it for me in gratitude for saving her life in Paris."

I opened my mouth, and he held up his right gloved hand. "Long story. Sad one. And she isn't here to give her side of it."

He rubbed his face wearily with that hand. "I didn't ask her. But ... but it meant a lot to me. First home I had since I was fifteen."

To change from what looked like a painful subject, I asked, "What do you think of modern New Orleans? It's grown so much since 1848."

"I don't see much of it, son. When I could still ride a horse down its streets, I ranged far and wide. Now ...."

His eyes looked past me down distant, painful horizons. "Now, I stay in the French Quarter. When I get to itching to see the high, lonely mountains ...."

"You risk your life foolishly by entering Elu's unstable mirrors."

I jerked at the touch of the words in the dark air. They were like icicles given life ... as if the cold moon had been given vocal chords. I looked up. Damn.

I had written of her part in GHOST OF A CHANCE. I had known sooner or later I would meet her again. I had just hoped for later ... much, much later.

Eyes of living winter looked down on me. "So do all mortals, Roland."

I started to rise. A slender hand that felt as if it had been kept in the deep-freeze touched my shoulder lightly. Long hair of winter frost trembled as her head was shaken in a gesture of "no."

"None rise for Death. All fall at her touch."

Sam, in a voice of distant thunder, said, "But not today, Rind. I invited him here."

Her smile flashed like a knife from out of the shadows. "Yes, you did. I am merely here to answer questions ... just like you, Samuel."

She sat. The corners of her full lips rose. Strange shadows masked the rest of her long face. Why haven't I described her clothes?

They kept changing. Like clouds moving over the face of a brooding moon, they continually shifted. Must have been something to do with how she was Allwheres, Everywhere at each moment. Something like that would have given me a headache.

Glittering eyes of ice stabbed into mine. "It does much worse to me than the bestowing of a headache, Little Lakota."

If Sam's customers noticed the constant change in dress, they didn’t show it. Over the years, his restaurant had become notorious for being the in-place for lovers of the occult and haters of humanity.

Made for an interesting mix. Sometimes it took all the skill he had gained from a long life as a Texas Ranger to keep things civil. Sometimes even he failed. A shudder took me, and I looked into the mirror on the wall to my left.

I didn't see my face. No, only the mahogany bear face of Sam's blood-brother, Elu, stared back at me. A chill settled deep within me.

He was wearing war paint. War paint. What was going on? Something was in the wind. And it wasn’t the coming of Summer. And with that thought, Elu disappeared. I frowned. Message delievered, Elu. Whatever the heck it was.

Rind was currently wearing a black leather Roman centurion sort of outfit. Its short kilt of leather slats showed off her long legs to advantage. The smile died from the icy face regarding me.

“End of the journey, dawn of the night,” murmured Rind.

Like most things Rind said, her words would only make sense when my world lay in ruins. Her voice was like icicles dancing across a frozen lake, and her eyes were the glowing fire of winter sunset clouds.

Blackness swirled around her like a living thing. She was of the night and of eternity. In all Sam's time with her he had never caught a complete glimpse of her long face, for to look full upon Rind was to die.

She was like The Thunderbird in that respect. But her power dwarfed even that being's frightening abilities. Good thing she was Sam's friend. Of course, she was a friend that one day would literally be the death of him. But still a friend.

Hopefully, she was my friend, too.

She was no longer dressed in a short-skirted centurion outfit of black leather. Now, she was wrapped in a form fitting toga whose dark fabric seemed to hold whole solar systems glittering within it. As Renfield always said, Rind had flair to spare.

In words of December frost, Rind murmured, "Of everything, a little stays. The line of your mother's chin stayed in your own. The dry silence of your father's desertion stayed in your heart."

Sam said low, "Rind, play nice."

She feather-stroked my cheeks so lightly the frostbite would heal in only weeks. "I will answer whatever question you ask -- except for the one all mortals fear to ask me."

Sam clucked his tongue at Rind, wet his fingers in my tea, and touched my cheek. It tingled odd. And I knew two things : my cheek was healed; and the ice in my tea was truly from the melted snow of Eden.

He turned to her. “Late at night when I drift away, I can hear you calling. And it is always the voice of a friend.”

She sharply turned her head away. “Even in our sleep, pain that cannot forget, falls drop by drop upon the heart. And in our own despair, against our will, comes bitter wisdom.”

Dressed suddenly in a short-skirted version of a Nazi S.S. uniform, Rind sighed, “Our race is so used to disguising ourselves from others that we end up disguising ourselves from ourselves.”

Sam shook his head. “You think I call you friend ‘cause I don’t know you. Maybe I don’t. Then again, maybe I know you better than you think.”

The blackness wrapped tighter around her. But I still saw her outfit had changed to the blood-stained, skull-adorned armor of Kali. She turned to me sharply.

"I am called elsewhere. Ask your question of me. Now."

What would you ask Death? Think of all she has seen, of all with whom she spoke, of all the mysteries she's seen revealed. Two words blundered from my lips.

"Why Sam?"

She stiffened, her nails growing long and sharp. Her eyes deepened in her face. The shadows started to part from that face. Then, they slowly masked her features again.

"The heart knows no reasons. It only feels. And you asked, not for yourself, but out of your friendship for Samuel. That is why you live."

The living shadows wrapped around her like a cloak. "Today."

And she was gone. Sam sighed like an open wound. "Son, you're gonna give me gray hairs you keep on with these questions."

"Your hair's already moon-white."

"See what you've done?"

We both laughed. But it was strained laughter. The empty chair beside Sam didn't seem to be laughing either. And it didn't feel empty at all.
****************************************

5 TRUTHS PEOPLE LEARN TOO LATE

But first ....

Remember my post on how the latest album cover of Diana Krall saddened me?

Her expression showed depression at being exploited.

(It is well known Diana is uncomfortable in selling her albums with sexy imagery.)

Now, a new cover has been chosen.
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B008FSCNTK/ref=pe_180430_25921730_nrn_image

Sigh. All I can say is that it must have been some gruelling photo shoot for Diana.

I'm at odds as to whether to buy her latest album. On one hand, I love her music. On the other hand, I hate to give fuel to those who goaded her into those shots.

Let me know what you think we fans of Diana should do, will you?

Now, about those 5 Truths ...

PSYCHOLOGY TODAY's latest excellent issue talks about the 5 life lessons most people learn too late.

1.) YOU CAN'T FIX THE ONES YOU LOVE, SO FOCUS ON FIXING YOURSELF.

Gandhi wrote: Be the change you want to see in the world. Shouting at the rain never kept anyone dry.

2.) OVERPARENTING HURTS THE CHILD MORE THAN UNDERPARENTING.

Life is a lot like riding a bicycle: no one can take the tumbles for you; you have to learn balance all on your own.

3.) OPPOSITES DON'T FOREVER ATTRACT.

"Opposites Attract" doesn't hold up for the long haul. A person who validates your existing views and habits will nuture a long relationship.

4.) YOUR FRIENDSHIPS ARE AS CRUCIAL TO YOUR HEALTH AS YOUR LIFESTYLE CHOICES.

Low levels of social interactions have the same effect as smoking 15 cigarettes a day and WORSE effects than being obese or not exercising.

5.) LUST HAS A SHORT SHELF LIFE BUT LOVE ENDURES.

Sparks fire up the night. Linked souls and hands last a lifetime.

Don't focus on the storm or the lull in lust. Ask: "What can I do to restore our connection?" Think: "What can I do that would surprise and delight my mate?"

It may be as simple as clearing out that clutter in the basement that bothers your mate so or suggesting the kind of movie you know your mate would love to see but hesitates to ask you to view with him/her.

As in saving accounts, you don't reap dividends unless you invest something of value.

What would be your SIXTH truth that people learn too late?

O.K. THERE ARE VAMPIRES. NOW WHAT?

There's a scene in Stephen King's SALEM'S LOT that I've used as a counseling illustration for years.

At least I hope that scene is there in the book. It's been awhile since I last read it. But if it isn't there, it ought to be.

SALEM'S LOT was King's second published novel, and he wanted it called SECOND COMING. But the publishers thought that sounded too religious.

And even then, publishers didn't want to scare off a major portion of the reading audience by implying there were spiritual themes in the book.

And before we rail against the publishers, think of how many people yawning in church pews you've seen. Being preached at is all too often boring. It is what it is.

The publishers also did a last minute price cut from $8.95 to $7.95 {yes, those were the prices for hardcovers back in 1976},

producing an "unholy grail" for collectors. Only 4 copies of the unchanged dust covers are known to exist. eBay anyone?

Anyway, on to the illustration :

Ben Mears, our author/hero, has persuaded the sheriff to sit in the morgue with him. If at sundown the 3 day old dead do not rise, Ben will happily be led to the looney bin.

The sheriff, plagued with deaths and disappearances, does not need an addled author making his life harder. And so the sheriff agrees, thinking that at sundown, his life will be made just a little easier.

Shows you how plans unravel. Sundown comes. The shelves of the morgue fly open, the newly awakened vampires rise from the cold steel. The sheriff turns horrified to Ben.

"I believe. I believe! Now what?"

But that was just it. Ben had worked so hard to get the sheriff to believe, he had thought no further than this point. He had made no plans at what to do next.

Because King needed him alive for the rest of the book, Ben did indeed come up speedily with a plan.

But we are so often like Ben Mears. We struggle, labor, and work for a goal, only to surprisingly achieve it, not knowing what to do next. We haven't planned for "What now?"

We writers work, polish, edit, revise, then finally mail off our query to agent after agent. Submit. Get rejected. Get nothing. Submit again. And again. And yet again.

Then : the agent asks to see a partial or a full. What?! And then we discover what we should have been doing all along as we queried. Which is, you ask?

Thinking why an agent would say no to a partial or a full and fixing those problems BEFORE we send our dream novel out the door.

And why would an agent say no?

1. The story falls apart after the first 2-3 chapters.

We polish that first chapter, those first 30 pages. But do we go any further? We ought to.

As we're waiting for those replies to our queries, we should slowly go over the first six chapters, trying to see them through the jaded, weary eyes of an agent. Then, the next six. And the six after that. Until the whole novel gleams.

What flaw might a weary agent see?

The monster called BackStory gobbling up the momentum and suspense of your novel. Is your hero in some form of jeopardy each chapter? Do things slowly worsen for him/her?

Go to the middle of your novel. Read with an agent's eye for pacing, suspense, and action. Do snails race past your Hamlet hero? If so, your novel is in trouble.

Go to the the last chapter. Compare it to your first. Are they like those before and after pictures in those diet ads? They better be. There should be growth in the problems and perceptions of your hero that were introduced in the first chapter. If not, your novel is adrift with no sense of direction or destination.

Without that, the agent will not put down your novel with a smile and the words, "Now that was a great read!"

2. The manuscript doesn't pass the "put it down" test.

An agent has a life outside your manuscript. I know that's a shock. But there it is. She has to put your manuscript down to live that life. Look at the adventures, the one-liners, the thrills, the suspense in your novel. If there isn't much of any of those things I've just mentioned -- how eager do you think she'll really be to pick it back up?

And if she isn't, how is she going to convince a jaded editor that there will be lots of readers who won't be able to lay your novel down?

Think of the illusion of victory in history.

I have a scene in FRENCH QUARTER NOCTURNE where Samuel is meeting Colonel Strasser fresh from Casablanca in Sam's club, where all times meet in the year 2005. Strasser asks Sam, "You know how the war ends, don't you?"

"Yes," said Samuel. "Everybody loses."

Use the illusion of victory in your novel. The hero only thinks she's won. It was a hollow victory. She struggles as everything becomes storm around her. The antagonist wins. Laughs and leaves our heroine on her knees. The heroine discovers there is a difference between defeat and losing. Defeat only teaches us what to do better in order to win. And the antagonist discovers her victory was illusion.

Every chapter should end with things doing an about-face or worsening. Each chapter should begin with the hero dodging and evading certain defeat to continue on.

3. The mysterious Nazca Lines For Writers :

I wrote a post that might help you in polishing your entire novel so that it will not be rejected from an agent who has asked to see a partial or a full. Rather than repeat it here, I'll give you the link :
http://rolandyeomans.blogspot.com/2010/04/mysterious-nazca-lines-for-writers.html
*********************
And since we started this post with SALEM'S LOT, here is an excerpt that might give you an idea why it was snapped up by an agent :

In the fall, the sun loses its thin grip on the air first, turning it cold, making it remember that winter is coming and winter will be long.

Thin clouds form, and the shadows lengthen out. They have no breadth, as summer shadows have; there are no leaves on the trees or fat clouds in the sky to make them thick.

They are gaunt, mean shadows that bite the ground like teeth.
********************************
Now, can you see why that agent snatched his book up? I end with one of my favorite movie scenes. Two men of different faiths, one a poet, the other a poisoned Viking, both pray as they face the advance of an overwhelming horde and certain death.

THE MAGIC OF FRIENDSHIP_Genre Favorites Blogfest

Genre Favorites Blogfest, September 17, 2012

One blogfest, four favorites!

List your favorite genre of:

Movie

Music

Books

And a guilty pleasure genre from any of the three categories!

“The truth is, everyone is going to hurt you. You just got to find the ones worth suffering for.”
― Bob Marley

“Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born.”
― Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 1: 1931-1934

“The magic in this world seems
to work in whispers and small kindnesses.”
― Charles de Lint

What do those quotes have to do with Alex Cavanaugh’s Genre Blogfest?

http://alexjcavanaugh.blogspot.com/

Everything.

In mulling over my favorite genres in movies and books, I looked at the autographed movie posters lining my walls and realized

they had something in common although most would say they came from different genres:

FRIENDSHIP/MAGIC.

And that unique genre is reflected in my choice of favorite ...

MOVIE:

THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE RING -

Friendship was a theme of The Lord of the Rings and was something that Tolkien was very influenced by.

The answer to the riddle, 'Speak Friend and Enter' to open the gates of Moria was "Mellon", which is elvish for friend.

MUSIC:

SOUNDTRACKS such as Howard Shore’s work on LOTR: THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE RING or John Williams’ work on the Harry Potter movies (the friendship between the 3 young students made the movies for me.)

Then, there is James Horner’s work on THE WRATH OF KHAN – action and the friendship between Spock and Kirk and Bones.

BOOKS:

DUMA KEY –

Yes, it has horror but what brings me back again and again to King’s book is the friendship and banter between Edgar Freemantle and Jerome Wireman. “When it comes to memory, we always stack the deck – that’s what Wireman says.”

GUILTY PLEASURE:

DOG SOLDIERS -

A routine military exercise turns into a nightmare in the Scotland wilderness.

What began as what they thought was a training mission turns into a battle for their lives against the most unlikely enemies they would have expected - werewolves.

Yes, it is supernatural, but it is the friendship between the outmatched soldiers that brings me back to this movie over and over again.

NOTE FOR DUMA KEY FANS:

Perse: the evil force manifested on Duma Key -

full name, Persephone and her description and place are all generally influenced and taken from the Greek Goddess Persephone, the Queen of the Underworld

(although, like many of King's entities, she is also decidedly Lovecraftian). Perse's ghost ship (The Persephone) resembles the Caleuche, a ghost ship from Chilote legends.

NOTE TO THOSE WONDERING ABOUT BEST OF ENEMIES COVER:

END OF DAYS started out as BEST OF ENEMIES,

a tale of Ragnarok averted by seven young girls –

starting out first as enemies then growing into friends who will give up their lives for one another … and the world.

I received so much hate email over the cover, I changed both the cover and the title.

INTEGRITY IS NOT A CONDITIONAL WORD

{Image courtesy of the genius of Leonora Roy}

A deep rumbling voice awakened me, "Hey, kid. Kid! Roland!"

Gypsy rowled her "Not another ghost" rowl ...

which was rather funny since she is a ghost cat.

I pried open my eyes. And shot right up.

John D. MacDonald.

Sitting in his ghost chair, spectral smoke trailing up from his pipe into the mists of the night.

"You underlined passages in my book you were reading before you fell asleep tonight. It called out to me in the ShadowLands."

"You're a master, sir. I learn so much from your prose even after re-reading it for the tenth time."

His eyes gazed out over my shoulder to realms he looked like he wanted to forget but couldn't.

"I feel pretty much forgotten, son."

"Not to me, sir."

He nodded. "And because of that I wanted to drop by personally and give you a few pointers on how to write. I wanted you to learn the truth behind my words."

"What truth, sir?"

"Integrity. Integrity is not a conditional word. It doesn't blow in the wind or change with the weather. It is your inner image of yourself,

and if you look in there and see a man who won't cheat, then you know you never will. Integrity is not a search for the rewards of integrity.

Maybe all you ever get for it is the largest kick in the ass the world can provide. It is not supposed to be a productive asset.”

I whispered, "That's what you wrote in THE TURQUOISE LAMENT."

He nodded. "But nonetheless true. At times it seems as if arranging to have no commitment of any kind to anyone would be a special freedom.

But in fact the whole idea works in reverse. The most deadly commitment of all is to be committed only to one's self. Some come to realize this only after they are in the nursing home.”

He sighed. "There are people who try to look as if they are doing a good and thorough job, and then there are the people who actually damn well do it, for its own sake. You are a writer of the later sort.”

He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "The only thing in the world worth a damn is the strange, touching, pathetic, awesome nobility of the individual human spirit."

He put them back on and nudged them up his nose. "I know just enough about myself to know I cannot settle for one of those simplifications which indignant people seize upon to make understandable a world too complex for their comprehension.

Astrology, health food, flag waving, bible thumping, Zen, nudism, nihilism --

all of these are grotesque simplifications which small dreary people adopt in the hope of thereby finding The Answer,

because the very concept that maybe there is no answer, never has been, never will be, terrifies them."

I said softly, "I think there is some kind of divine order in the universe. Every leaf on every tree in the world is unique.

As far as we can see, there are other galaxies, all slowly spinning, numerous as the leaves in the forest.

In an infinite number of planets, there has to be an infinite number with life forms on them. Maybe this planet is one of the discarded mistakes. Maybe it's one of the victories. We'll never know."

MacDonald husked, "Not on your side of the grave."

He blew out his cheeks. "But I came here to talk on how to write better not to speak of the damned. Speaking of which, I wrote THE DAMNED because I knew the locale.

I was interested in what would happen if a lot of people got jammed in the crossing. I knew a lot of things would happen."

He smiled crooked, "And that, son, is the definition of a story."

His smile dropped from his lips like the weight of sin. "I found living it in the ShadowLands is the definition of Hell."

He looked back to me. "Now, for writing characters:

We're all children. We invent the adult facade and don it and try to keep the buttons and the medals polished.

We're all trying to give such a good imitation of being an adult that the real adults in the world won't catch on.

Each of us takes up the shticks that compose the adult image we seek."

He brooded a look at me. "Which leads me to what character should drive the actions of your novel. I think that most of us have a greater liking for strong and solid people than we have for the wimps of the world.

With strong people you can tell where you stand. Nobody, of course, is too strong never to be broken.

And that is my protagonist's, Travis McGee, forte, helping the strong broken ones mend."

He put out a forefinger.

"One, people want to spend time reading about someone they would like to be, doing the things they would love to do if they could.

And getting away with it.

No one wants to pay to be depressed and defeated, Roland. That comes for free in life."

He put out a second finger. "Two, writing is an adventure in and of itself:

I remember when I first started out --

I had four months of terminal leave pay at lieutenant colonel rates starting in September of 1945, ending in January 1946.

I wrote eight hundred thousand words of short stories in those four months, tried to keep thirty of them in the mail at all times, slept about six hours a night and lost twenty pounds.

I finally had to break down and take a job, but then the stories began to sell. I was sustained by a kind of stubborn arrogance.

Those bastards out there had bought one story “Interlude in India,”

and I was going to force them to buy more by making every one of them better than the previous one. I had the nerves of a gambler and an understanding wife."

He looked off into the shadows. "Mostly, an understanding wife."

He turned to me. "I can't find her in the ShadowLands, Roland. And it's killing me."

I cleared my closing throat. "I'll ask Samuel McCord ...."

He shook his head. "He's already tried, son. No luck."

He sniffed sharp and drew in a breath. "Where was I? Oh, yes."

He stuck out a third finger. "Three, series and first-person narrative. You're doing that with your Sam McCord and Victor Standish series.

Remember a series is only confining if you let it be so. If your imagination is large scope so will be your series.

As for first person narrative -

First-person fiction is restrictive only in that you can’t cheat. The viewpoint must be maintained with flawless precision.

You can’t get into anyone else’s head. The whole world is colored by the prejudices and ignorances of your hero.

Remember the child in your hero.

Adult pretenses are never a perfect fit for the child underneath,

and when there is the presentiment of death, like a hard black light making panther eyes glow in the back of the cave,

the cry is, "Mommy, mommy, mommy, it's so dark out there, so dark and so forever."

He rose and slapped his upper thighs, "If you forget what I've just said, remember this --

If you want to write, you write.

Unlike with brain surgery, the only way to learn to write is by writing. Take Stephen King --

Stephen King always wanted to write and so he writes --

books and fragments and poems and essays and other unclassifiable things, most of them too wretched to ever be published.

Because that is the way it is done.

Because there is no other way to do it. Not one other way.

Compulsive diligence is almost enough. But not quite.

You have to have a taste for words. Gluttony. You have to want to roll in them. You have to read millions of them written by other people.

You read everything with grinding envy or a weary contempt.

You save the most contempt for the people who conceal ineptitude with long words, Germanic sentence structure, obtrusive symbols, and no sense of story, pace, or character.

Then you have to start knowing yourself so well that you begin to know other people. A piece of us is in every person we can ever meet.

Okay, then. Stupendous diligence, plus word-love, plus empathy, and out of that can come, painfully, some objectivity.

Never total objectivity.

It comes so painfully and so slowly.

You send books out into the world and it is very hard to shuck them out of the spirit.

They are tangled children, trying to make their way in spite of the handicaps you have imposed on them.

I would give a pretty penny to get them all back home and take one last good swing at every one of them. Page by page. Digging and cleaning, brushing and furbishing. Tidying up.

Are you and I all together so far?

Diligence, word-lust, empathy equal growing objectivity and then what?
Story.

Story. Dammit, story!

Story is something happening to someone you have been led to care about.

It can happen in any dimension -physical, mental, spiritual – and in combinations of those dimensions.

Without author intrusion.

Author intrusion is: ‘My God, Mama, look how nice I’m writing!’

Another kind of intrusion is a grotesquerie. Here is one of my favourites, culled from a Big Best Seller of yesteryear: ‘His eyes slid down the front of her dress.’

Author intrusion is a phrase so inept the reader suddenly realizes he is reading, and he backs out of the story. He is shocked back out of the story.

Another author intrusion is the mini-lecture embedded in the story. This is one of my most grievous failings.

An image can be neatly done, be unexpected, and not break the spell. In a Stephen King story called ‘Trucks,’

Stephen King is writing about a tense scene of waiting in a truck shop, describing the people:

‘He was a salesman and he kept his display bag close to him, like a pet dog that had gone to sleep.’

I find that neat.

Nice. It looks so simple. Just like brain surgery. The knife has an edge. You hold it so. And cut.

The main thing is story.

One is led to care.

Note this. Two of the most difficult areas to write in are humour and the occult. In clumsy hands the humour turns to dirge and the occult turns funny.

But once you know how, you can write in any area.

Write to please yourself. I wrote to please myself. When that happens, you will like the work too."

His deep eyes locked onto mine. "Life is a coin, Roland. You can spend it any way you want. But you can only spend it once."

And with those words, he was gone. His wisdom stayed. I thought I'd pass it on.

Gypsy just wants her undisturbed sleep back.
***
Here is a tune that John D. MacDonald likes:

WHEN WINTER MAKES YOU S.A.D.

{Winter courtesy of the lovely Leonora Roy}

Winter casts her sorcerous spell of depression on too many.

Siv Maria:

http://sivmaria.blogspot.com/

talked of how winter casts her gloomy spell upon her each year. She is not alone.

Seasonal affective disorder, or SAD, is a form of depression that affects 25 million Americans, mostly women.

Much research has been done on this mysterious disorder.
In somewhat of a simplification, the lack of light in wintertime can result in lower levels of serotonin, the mood-enhancing chemical that regulates hunger and the feeling of well-being.

Serotonin production increases with light, meaning that gray gloom creeping in the window is not kicking the production of feel-good chemicals into action.

Some symptoms include depression, marathon napping, low self-esteem, obsessiveness over little things, irritability, shyness, and panic attacks.

People with seasonal affective disorder may also sleep poorly (although for many hours), partly because they don't have enough serotonin to convert to the sleep substance melatonin.

Symptoms can range from mild to severe, and people generally recover completely around April or May - once the days become longer.

Treatment includes light therapy and/or medications. However, there are things you can do yourself that can help boost serotonin levels.

3 Ways to Boot up Your Serotonin

Julia Ross, MA, is director of the Recovery Systems Clinic in San Francisco and author of The Mood Cure and The Diet Cure. She tells WebMD there are three ways to jump-start your serotonin:

• Subject yourself to bright indoor light. This is the touchstone of seasonal affective disorder treatment. Many pricey lights are available. Ross says a 300 watt bulb within three feet for 20 minutes three times a day can help, although the boost in serotonin may be temporary.

• Exercise. This is very hard to do when caught up in the seasonal affective disorder cycle. But if you can force yourself to start, 15 to 20 minutes of dancing to the radio or fast walking can reduce a sweet tooth and improve mood.

• Eat wisely. This means, pushing away the leftover cake and eating sensible carbs to stimulate serotonin. Sweets and simple carbs, like white rice and white bread, quickly raise blood sugar, flood you with insulin, and then drop you in a hole.

Eating wisely also means watching the caffeine, which suppresses serotonin. "If you must drink coffee, save it for after the meal," Ross says.

• Protein, she says, should be eaten three times a day. Another good rule is to eat four cups of brightly colored veggies a day. "This is enough to fill a (pardon the expression) 1 quart ice cream container."

Vegetables are carbs, but the kind that feed into your system slowly.

• Samantha Heller, MS, RD, senior clinical nutritionist at the NYU Medical Center, tells WebMD it's best to substitute fruit for cookies and chocolate ice cream. In general, the good carbs of veggies, fruit, and beans help energy levels.

• "If weight gain in the winter months is your concern," Heller says, "you should get a healthy eating plan from a registered dietitian."

• Timing Is Also Everything

• It's fashionable to urge people to eat half a dozen small meals a day, but this is an individual preference, Heller says.

• "If you eat lunch at one o'clock and know you won't have dinner until eight o'clock, you may need a snack. If you eat junk food for lunch, by four o'clock you will be foraging for chocolate."

• She urges people to try eliminating all white, starchy foods for two weeks -- bread, rice, potatoes. "You will be amazed at how good you feel," she says. "But you need to stick to it to see a difference."

• Even as a nutritionist, she admits to having experienced the opposite. "I was going to visit my mother and bought a muffin for her and one for me," she says. "After I ate it, I felt like I had been drugged."

• That's another thing about seasonal affective disorder -- the lows are lower. If you are already serotonin-challenged, what you eat will have a bigger impact than in summer.


• Foods to Have on Hand

• If you suffer from seasonal affective disorder, you may be too snowed-in to run to the store. This can work for you if you keep fairly healthful commodities in the pantry. Some suggestions:

• Popcorn
Oatmeal (original, not desserts)
Nuts
Egg whites for omelets
Peanut butter
Prewashed veggies
Fruit
Whole grain crackers and bread
Deli turkey
Cottage cheese

• Forget the candlelight. In winter, dinner calls for 300 watts, and remove that shade!