• Ordinary people. Extraordinary romance.

    Ordinary people. Extraordinary romance.

creativity killers

It’s #ThrowbackThursday, and we’re looking back to a post from 2009. How do you spark your creative process when you’re stumped?

The creativity killers have invaded

creativity killers

The creativity killers have invaded, and I’m stumped on how to spark my creativity. I’m at an odd place in my writing – too close to the end of one book to be interested in it (no surprises left) and not far enough into another to know what the characters are doing. Plus, it’s summer, and my attention has been pulled toward vacations, sunny days, and a four-day work week.
What to do, then, to spark the creative side of my mind and get back into the swing of writing?
Not plotting. Not goal, motivation and conflict.

We’re going back to old school, folks.

Hand writing. It’s an exercise called Morning Pages, and it’s the brainchild of Julia Cameron, author of The Artist’s Way. The premise is to set aside a specific time every day and free write until three pages of 8-1/2″ x 11″ paper is filled.  No plotting, no stories, just whatever comes into your head and DON’T REREAD.  The thought is deeply buried problems will be revealed as well as the solutions.  After a specific period of time (I was given seven weeks.  I’ve made it through three days so far)  you’re to reread all your writing, circling the items you want changed and underlining action steps.  More often than not, the solutions are tucked away within your gripes.

Now, I haven’t read the book yet, and I’m taking the exercise from someone who participated in a class a decade or more ago, but it sounds like a solid theory.  I’m willing to give it a try.  So far, the writing has swung between griping about not having enough organization in my life and lists of ways I could organize it.  See, it’s working already.

Off now to put in my pages for the day.

Good luck on yours.

***2018 Cheryl returning****

p.s. I’ve since purchased The Artist’s Way.

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Writing advice from famous authors

It’s a new year and you’ve made new writing goals. Will you begin/finish your book this year? What writing goals do you have? To help you reach your goals, I’ve rounded up important writing advice from famous authors. Take what you want, ignore the rest:

Writing advice from famous authors: Ray Bradbury

Writing advice from famous authors

If you want to write, if you want to create, you must be the most sublime fool that God ever turned to and sent rambling.

You must write every single day of your life.

Read dreadful dumb books and glorious books, ad let them wrestle in beautiful fights inside your head, vulgar one moment, brilliant the next.

You must lurk in libraries and climb the stacks like ladders to sniff books like perfumes and wear books like hats upon your crazy heads.

I wish you a wrestling match with your Creative Muse that will last a lifetime.

I wish craziness and foolishness and madness upon you.

May you live with hysteria, and out of it make fine stories—science fiction or otherwise.

Which finally means, may you be in love every day for the next 20,000 days.

And out of that love, remake a world.

Writing advice from famous authors: Elmore Leonard:

Making a publishing decision? The publishing industry is in the midst of turmoil. Those cart tracks have expanded to four-lane super highways. Anyone who wants to be published nowadays can be. Writing advice from famous authors

  1. Begin writing before you put the coffee on.
  2. Never open a book with weather.
  3. Avoid prologues.
  4. Never use a verb other than “said” to carry dialogue.
  5. Don’t use a an adverb to modify the verb “said.”
  6. Keep your exclamation points under control.
  7. Never use the words “suddenly” or “all hell broke loose”.
  8. Use regional dialect, patois, sparingly.
  9. Avoid detailed descriptions of characters.
  10. Don’t go into great detail describing places and things.
  11. Try to leave out the part that readers tend to skip. Readers won’t skip dialogue.
  12. Keep it simple.
  13. You have to have fun at this, or it’ll drive you nuts.
  14. Don’t worry about what your mother thinks about it.
  15. It’s very, very important to have a style or sound to your writing.
  16. Writing is rewriting, constantly rewriting.
  17. If it sounds like writing, rewrite it.

Writing advice from famous authors: Seth Godin

We are always looking for more time to write. How can we do it? I can't say it any more eloquently than the Reader's Digest:Writing advice from famous authors

  1. Lower your expectations.
  2. The best time to start promoting your book is three years before it comes out.
  3. Pay for an editor.
  4. Understand that a non-fiction book is a souvenir.
  5. Don’t try to sell your book to everyone.
  6. Resist the temptation to hire a publicist.
  7. Think hard before you spend a year trying to please one person in New York.
  8. Your book cover matters.
  9. If you have a real publisher, invest in a few things.
  10. In case you skipped it, check #2 again.
  11. Blurbs are overrated.
  12. Blog mentions matter a lot.
  13. Bookstore talks and book club interviews by phone work.
  14. Consider the free PDF option.
  15. Show up in places where people who don’t usually buy books spend time.
  16. Most books that sell by the truckload sell by the caseload.
  17. Publishing a book is not the same as printing a book.
  18. Bookstores are run by absolutely terrific  people.
  19. Writing a book is a tremendous experience.

Writing advice from famous authors: John Steinbeck

Writing advice from famous authors


Now let me give you the benefit of my experience in facing 400 pages of blank stock—the appalling stuff that must be filled. I know that no one really wants the benefit of anyone’s experience which is probably why it is freely offered. But the following are some of the things I have had to do to keep from going nuts.

  1. Abandon the idea that you are ever going to finish. Lose track of the 400 pages and write just one page for each day, it helps. Then when it gets finished, you are always surprised.
  2. Write freely and as rapidly as possible and throw the whole thing on paper. Never correct or rewrite until the whole thing is down. Rewrite in process is usually found to be an excuse for not going on. It also interferes with flow and rhythm which can only come from a kind of unconscious association with the material.
  3. Forget your generalized audience. In the first place, the nameless, faceless audience will scare you to death, and in the second place, unlike the theatre, it doesn’t exist. I have found that sometimes it helps to pick out one person—a real person you know, or an imagined person—and write to that one.
  4. If a scene or a section gets the better of you and you still think you want it—bypass it and go on. When you have finished the whole you can come back to it and then you may find that the reason it give trouble is because it didn’t belong there.
  5. Beware of a scene that becomes too dear to you, dearer than the rest. It will usually be found that it is out of drawing.
  6. If you are using dialogue—say it aloud as you write it. Only then will it have the sound of speech.

Well, actually that’s about all.

I know that no two people have the same methods. However, these mostly work for me.

Writing advice from famous authors: David Ogilvy (Advertising master)

Writing advice from famous authors

How to Write

The better you write, the higher you go in Ogilvy & Mather. People who think well, write well.

Woolly minded people write woolly memos, woolly letters and woolly speeches.

Good writing is not a natural gift. You have to learn to write well. Here are 10 hints:

  1. Read the Roman-Raphaelson book on writing. Read it three times.
  2. Write the way you talk. Naturally.
  3. Use short words, short sentences and short paragraphs.
  4. Never use jargon words like reconceptualize, demassification, attitudinally, judgmentally. They are hallmarks of a pretentious ass.
  5. Never write more than two pages on any subject.
  6. Check your quotations.
  7. Never send a letter or a memo on the day you write it. Read it aloud the next morning — and then edit it.
  8. If it is something important, get a colleague to improve it.
  9. Before you send your letter or your memo, make sure it is crystal clear what you want the recipient to do.
  10. If you want ACTION, don’t write. Go and tell the guy what you want.

Source: The Unpublished David Ogilvy (1986)

Writing advice from famous authors:Pixar

Writing advice from famous authors

The following first appeared in this blog here. I’m re-posting it because of its relevance.

  1. You admire a character for trying more than for their successes.
  2.  You gotta keep in mind what’s interesting to you as an audience, not what’s fun to do as a writer. They can be v. different.
  3.  Trying for theme is important, but you won’t see what the story is actually about til you’re at the end of it. Now rewrite.
  4.  Once upon a time there was ___. Every day, ___. One day ___. Because of that, ___. Because of that, ___. Until finally ___.
  5.  Simplify. Focus. Combine characters. Hop over detours. You’ll feel like you’re losing valuable stuff but it sets you free.
  6.  What is your character good at, comfortable with? Throw the polar opposite at them. Challenge them. How do they deal?
  7.  Come up with your ending before you figure out your middle. Seriously. Endings are hard, get yours working up front.
  8.  Finish your story, let go even if it’s not perfect. In an ideal world you have both, but move on. Do better next time.
  9.  When you’re stuck, make a list of what WOULDN’T happen next. Lots of times the material to get you unstuck will show up.
  10.  Pull apart the stories you like. What you like in them is a part of you; you’ve got to recognize it before you can use it.
  11.  Putting it on paper lets you start fixing it. If it stays in your head, a perfect idea, you’ll never share it with anyone.
  12.  Discount the 1st thing that comes to mind. And the 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th – get the obvious out of the way. Surprise yourself.
  13.  Give your characters opinions. Passive/malleable might seem likable to you as you write, but it’s poison to the audience.
  14.  Why must you tell THIS story? What’s the belief burning within you that your story feeds off of? That’s the heart of it.
  15.  If you were your character, in this situation, how would you feel? Honesty lends credibility to unbelievable situations.
  16.  What are the stakes? Give us reason to root for the character. What happens if they don’t succeed? Stack the odds against.
  17.  No work is ever wasted. If it’s not working, let go and move on – it’ll come back around to be useful later.
  18.  You have to know yourself: the difference between doing your best & fussing. Story is testing, not refining.
  19.  Coincidences to get characters into trouble are great; coincidences to get them out of it are cheating.
  20.  Exercise: take the building blocks of a movie you dislike. How d’you rearrange them into what you DO like?
  21.  You gotta identify with your situation/characters, can’t just write ‘cool’. What would make YOU act that way?
  22.  What’s the essence of your story? Most economical telling of it? If you know that, you can build out from there.

Source: http://www.pixartouchbook.com/blog/2011/5/15/pixar-story-rules-one-version.html

I hope you have enjoyed these tips and that they will make a difference to your writing.

What tips do you have to share?

Mine are B.I.C. and F.O.K. (Butt In Chair, Fingers on Keyboard)




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Happy Anniversary, Naked Elf

Purely by chance (because dates mean nothing to me), I realized today is the 13th anniversary of my very first published book, What Do You Say to a Naked Elf? Happy Anniversary, Naked Elf (Charlie) and my favorite sex toy saleslady, Jane.

Happy Anniversary, Naked ElfBuy the book at:


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Chapter One


Kaboom! The right front tire blew. The car’s headlights illuminated the rabbit sitting in the middle of her lane. Barreling up the highway entrance ramp, Jane Drysdale didn’t have time to react.

“Damn.” The animal disappeared between the front tires and the vehicle swung to the right. She heard a sickening “thunk, thunk” and tightened her grip on the steering wheel to wrestle back control, but it was too late. The car careened down the embankment, still going sixty miles per hour, and she watched in horror as she headed for a stand of trees.

Jane stomped on the brakes. The car fishtailed, straightened and, for a few brief seconds, paralleled the road before a line of trees, smaller than the first, rose up before her. She jerked the steering wheel left and ground her foot into the brakes again.

The vehicle veered up the embankment, shuddered and died. Momentum threw Jane forward. The airbag exploded in her face.

Her last conscious thought was the memory of the rabbit shimmering into a more human-like shape then reforming just before it slid under her wheels.

• • •

An insistent pounding pulled her from the darkness. At first, she thought it came from her right temple where most of the pain in her head centered. It continued, and Jane recognized the sound of someone rapping on glass. With a groan, she twisted and peered from one eye.

Less than a foot away, a man stared at her, mouthing words she couldn’t understand and beating on the car window. He looked deranged. Automatically, she reached to touch the buttons to lock the door and windows only to remember she’d traded in her beloved Mercury last month. The older Neon, with smaller payments, didn’t have the luxury of power options.

Her left arm slow to react, Jane reached across with her right to lock the door. Inexplicably, she noted the button in the down position. Had Detroit changed how things worked? Still disoriented, she pulled up on the tab.

A moment later, the door jerked open from the outside. The man groped her middle with rough hands and fumbled to unsnap her seat belt. The catch gave, and he wrenched her free.

“Hey!” she yelled, not only from the harsh treatment but the new set of aches that made themselves known.

“There is a fire!” an accented male voice said in her ear.

Jane twisted in her rescuer’s hold. From the corner of her eye she saw a flicker of orange. She gasped and struggled against his grip.

“Let me go,” she shouted. She made her body go limp. Dead weight isn’t easy to carry off to murder and rape.

Her rescuer released her, and Jane staggered to her feet. The scene before her echoed that of a nightmare.

She must have swerved the car too sharply because she’d plowed straight into the embankment and crumpled the car’s front end. The hood had popped open, and from under its steel canopy a fire the size of her microwave blazed.

Jane swore. This will be nice explaining to the insurance company. OhmyGod, the toys! At the thought of her merchandise, packed in Rubbermaid containers in her back seat and trunk, Jane lurched forward. She had a lot of money tied up in inventory, and it definitely would be impossible to explain to State Farm.

“Get back!” the man shouted. “Stay away!”

“Try and stop me!” she called over her shoulder and stumbled and slipped across the dew-drenched grass.

His hand closed over hers on the door handle. She yanked herself free, using the momentum to elbow him in the stomach. She had the satisfaction of hearing his “whumf” before she pulled open the door and tugged out one of six containers.

By the time she had two free, he’d recovered and pushed her aside to get the third.

“Idiot mortal,” he exclaimed under his breath.

“Mortal?” She crawled around him in the almost-empty back seat. Smoke filled the interior, and she heard fire crackling. “What does that make you? Witch? Warlock?” She pulled down the split rear back to expose the opening to the trunk. “Help me with this, will you?” Smoke billowed around them and obscured her vision.

“Get out of here!” he yelled.

“Not until I get my stuff!” The seat down, she grabbed the closest box and shoved it in his direction. She heard it slide away, accompanied by a string of what sounded like curses in a language she didn’t recognize.

Smoke stung her eyes and burned her lungs, but it didn’t stop her from crawling into the trunk and reaching for its release handle. Pulling it with her good hand, she kicked the lid open. Fresh air hit her. Someone helped her out.

“The boxes,” she cried.

“We have them,” said a new voice, also accented.

Jane twisted around. A man regarded her, older than the first, but the same build, slight, wiry, an inch or two taller than her five-foot-six. She swiveled her head and saw four others, similar in appearance, all wearing woolen hats or caps, jeans and lightweight jackets. Jockeys? Chimneysweeps? Circus performers?

“Who are you people?” she asked. She searched for the first guy, the one who’d pulled her from her car.

Backlit by the destructive fire in her little Neon, he supervised the stacking of her boxes.

“Darrin,” she cried. “Yoo-hoo, Darrin Stephens. Over here.” Technically it wasn’t accurate, Darrin being the mortal in the old sitcom, “Bewitched,” but how many famous warlocks can one name? Jane nodded a thanks to the old guy, a move that made her head ache more, and tramped to her rescuer’s side.

He caught her arm, his eyes bright with the reflection of the flames. “Get back. It will explode.”

She shook her head. “You watch too many movies. It doesn’t happen like that in real–”

A huge boom cut off her words. Her companion threw her to the ground and hurled himself on top of her. Jane cried out at the impact, her bruised body about to mutiny at the abuse it had taken. They rolled several feet before coming to a stop. Shards of burning debris rained around them.

Pandemonium broke out. Shouts filled the air, again in a dialect she didn’t know. Metal crashed to the ground, some of it very close. The roar of the fire intensified.

Jane lay for several moments under the stranger, adjusting to his weight, listening to the sound of his harsh breathing in her ear. After what seemed a reasonable time for him to move, she nudged him in the ribs with a pointed finger.

“Hey, Darrin, you mind getting off me?”

He muttered something and rolled away, took her hand and rose with her in a fluid movement.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

She had a slight ringing in her ears and the beginning of a headache, plus various bumps and bruises. “From the crash? Yes. From the explosion? Not too much. How about you?”

He shrugged. “Nothing.”

Jane looked around. Only the five other men seemed to have stopped at the accident scene. Of course, it was close to one o’clock in the morning. She verified the time on her Indiglo watch and realized Darrin still held her hand.

“Hey,” she cried, pulling free. “Thanks for saving my life and all that, but I’m not giving out rewards. Not the kind you’re thinking of anyway.” She changed the subject. “Did you guys call 9-1-1?”

“9-1-1?” he repeated.

“Yeah, like maybe a fire truck or two.” She watched in dismay as the husk of her car continued to burn. “Not that it will do me any good, but those hunky firemen like to practice. Keeps their hormones up.”

“They will be here.”

“Great.” Jane shivered, aware that the temperature had dropped since she’d left Kendra’s party. She’d made a lot of money tonight, and Darrin had helped save what she hadn’t sold. Orders, checks and cash lay tucked in one of the boxes.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

“Yes, I am. Also bruised, battered, dirty, smoky and a dozen other things I’m too tired to think about.”

“Come with me. I will give you something to cover you.”

A sweater or a blanket sounded good. It was early April, and she hadn’t thought it might be cool after the party. Jane followed him a few steps then stopped.

“I’m not leaving my boxes. As soon as the fire trucks show up, every gawker within a five-mile radius will rouse himself from in front of his television and hop in his pickup truck. I’m surprised there isn’t anyone here yet, what with police scanners and CB’s.”

“You are worried about the boxes?”

Didn’t he hear what she said? “Yes.”

He put two fingers in his mouth and let out a multi-toned whistle. “My companions will bring them.”

“Your companions? I don’t want to sound ungrateful or anything, but where are you fellows from?”

“Sylthia.” He ducked his head and held a low branch out of her way as they continued their walk.

“Sylthia,” she repeated. “And where is that, exactly?”


“Uh-huh. Is that where you learned English? Because you really need to buy a contraction or two, Vanna.”

“My name,” he said, his voice firm, “is Charlie.”

Charlie. Uh-huh. Just her luck to draw a Charlie for a rescuer. If this were a romance novel, his name would be Chase. He’d be six inches taller, forty pounds heavier, have buns to die for and reek of testosterone. Instead, she’d wound up with a reed of man who looked like he didn’t shave more than once a week. Without a sense of humor, too. Didn’t he own a television? Of course, not everyone watched reruns night after lonely night like she did. Nevertheless, the guy didn’t seem to have a clue.

At least, he’d helped save her merchandise. Jane looked over her shoulder to check on its progress. The leader followed them, one of the boxes in his arms. Good. She couldn’t afford to lose any of her “toys.” “Realm of Pleasures” was the latest in her long string of get-rich-quick schemes. At various times, she’d moonlighted from her ho-hum secretarial job. She’d tried various products with little success. “Realm” seemed to be the niche she’d been seeking. Selling lotions, potions, massage oils and adult playthings to bored, rich women delivered a slow but steady income.

Not that she had much use for anything that involved a partner, her love life being the way it was, but she could testify to the effectiveness of the vibrators. The “Long, Tall Texan” was her current favorite.

A gust of cold wind snapped Jane from her thoughts. She looked from the path they’d been following and realized they weren’t anywhere near the highway. Furthermore, they’d been walking for some time.

“Hey.” She stopped in her tracks. “Where are you fellows parked, anyway? Why aren’t we up by the road so we can direct the firemen?” She turned, trying to make sense of the landscape. “Where are we?” Mist swirled around them, making it impossible to see more than a few feet. It muffled any noise. She felt as if she’d stepped into a white vacuum.

Charlie stopped, a look of impatience on his face. “We are almost there.”

“How far away is it? Why are you guys out this late?”

Her companion touched her arm. “All will be answered.”

Something didn’t sound right about this outfit. Jane tried to pull free from his grip, but he was stronger.

“Let go of me,” she shouted. The mist swallowed her words. Not so much as an echo came back to her. “I don’t like this. Where are your companions? Help!”

“They went ahead.” He tugged on her to follow him. “We are almost there.”

Jane resisted. She hadn’t heard anyone pass them.

“You belong to some kind of cult, don’t you? I can tell by the way you’re dressed. OhmyGod, you’re white slavers. You’re going to sell me into a prostitution ring.” Her heart race faster. She raised her free hand. “Watch out. I know karate.”

“You are wrong.” Charlie looked ready to do the Vulcan neck pinchy thing on her.

You’re wrong. I’m not taking another step with you.”

He sighed. “As you wish.”

Before she knew what he’d done, she felt a sharp pain, like the bite from a ten-pound mosquito, on her bare arm. She looked down to see him withdraw a small thorn from her flesh.

“OhmyGod,” she said again. “You’re into drugs, too.” Then the mist changed to black and swallowed her.


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