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D. Hart St. Martin

I make female heroes badass AND believable

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Notes from the Hart

In the Beginning

January 25, 2015 by D. Hart St. Martin 1 Comment

What a few weeks it’s been. After avoiding the holidays entirely (except for the incessant ads on the television), I’ve managed to begin my new book in earnest. Even took the first scene into my writing group last week. The verdict? Well, that’s what I’m here to discuss today.

“Beginnings are such delicate times.” Thus did Frank Herbert write in his SciFi classic, Dune (p. 441, Kindle edition). And, oh, how very right he was. Where and how to open the story is one of the most critical decisions a writer must make in any writing endeavor, whether it be a novel, a memoir or an essay. In my case, it’s a novel, and although a great deal of the setting is well established, years and many events have intervened.

So, where did I begin? Did I begin with a moment of movement and the near-immediate introduction of conflict? Did I hand the reader as little back story as possible in order to avoid confusion as I have often cautioned others in the group to do? Hell, no. I wrote a scene with too many names, too many explanations—in short way too much detail—and not a hint of conflict. And boy, did my workshop come down on me. Hard.

They didn’t actually say, “This is not where the story begins,” because they don’t know what the story is. But they knew I’d dropped them into a maelstrom of TMI and not enough story, and they were none too happy about it.

Feeling a little defensive, I dutifully took notes, then started adding a few of my own as the light began to dawn. This was not the beginning. In fact, this particular scene had no place in the story at all. It turns out my tale begins with what was the second scene, with the addition of one character in order to complete the establishment of the moments I will call up for remembrance at the end.

And when I rewrote the new opening and the scene that follows it, everything came together like a piece of Ikea furniture when you finally figure out what that one diagram actually means. All the building blocks of a delicate but powerful story lay before me eagerly awaiting assembly. Now, the story begins. Let’s see what my workshop has to say about this.

Filed Under: Success, Writing Tagged With: beginning a novel, fantasy, writing, writing proces, writing tools

Thristas (long but self-explanatory)

January 8, 2015 by D. Hart St. Martin Leave a Comment

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

Before I wrote Lisen of Solsta, I wrote an earlier version where most everything that happens in Fractured and Tainted occurred but in a different order and under different circumstances. In that telling of the story, Lisen (who was called Ann then) didn’t go to Thristas until after she’d become Empir. Instead, out of curiosity, she sent Korin to Thristas to observe and return with a report.

I never wrote the report down back then. I had a vague understanding of what it contained but never required it in the story telling. However, when confronted with the desire to make Thristas real, I decided to compose that report for my own use in preparation for writing what is now Tainted. Thus, what follows is that report as it might have been had Korin accepted the assignment to study Thristas on his Empir’s behalf.

AN ETHNOGRAPHY OF THRISTAN LIFE
PRESENTED TO EMPIR ARIANNAS ILAZER
IN THE FIFTH YEAR OF HER REIGN

by Captain Korin Rosarel

Located within only a few horizontal miles east of Garla, divided from its parent state by the Rim, a long, mostly impassable range of mountains, Thristas cannot be further from Garla in its atmosphere, its people, and the manner in which those people persist despite what Garlans perceive as ferocious elements. Thristans have, of necessity, adopted a lifestyle which makes it possible for them to live together within the close environment of a mesa, to avoid the heat of the day as much as possible and to survive on the meager supply of sustenance available.

How they got here, how they survive here, what they do here day to day—all of these questions have rarely been asked by anyone in Garla and never by an Empir. Garla’s residents are aware of Thristas, but they close their eyes to the reality of an entire other world in existence just over the mountains. The people of Thristas know they barely exist in the minds of Garlans, and they grow weary of the ignorance of their westward neighbors. Few Garlans know how people ended up in Thristas; even fewer care. Thristas is a little itch on the arm that is the “greatness” of Garla.

It is foolish for Garlans to be so cavalier about a larger-than-they-think population of strong and willful people. One day a charismatic leader will rise up and guide the Thristans to a violent fight for their independence, either by pulling away from Garla entirely or by overcoming an unprepared Garlan Emperi Guard and wresting control of Garla from its Empir. We need to understand our neighbors to the east, to communicate with them and to recognize that differences between us exist but that those differences do not define better or worse. To accomplish the first of these tasks, I spent an extended length of time living in Mesa Terses, one of the six mesas, and now present my findings to my Empir, Ariannas Ilazer.

Your captain and defender,
Korin Rosarel

The Story:

The Thristan Story is entirely verbal. The people use writing sparingly, not all can read, and the written word barely exists in Thristas. If writing is necessary, Garlan is used more often than not. Therefore, as with all oral-only tales, there is some basis in fact, but I question portions of the account. I will, however, note my doubts when applicable.

“The People,” as they call themselves, speak of arriving in the desert an age ago. By my estimation, they most likely made their way over the mountains from Garla. They speak of it as “coming home” although I doubt those first settlers saw it that way. (See Geography, topography, weather below.) They did not come willingly, of that I am certain. “The Destroyer sent us away as punishment for our willfulness and our pride. We left behind our homes, our families, all that had once meant life to us and followed the Maker to a new life,” the oral tale informs us. I believe this refers to a marginally documented moment in the Garlan Story when Empir Osificant exiled a large group of citizens after they had questioned her right to force their young people into service to her, either in the Emperi Guard or as servants to her and/or other nobles. This occurred approximately 750 years ago and correlates well with the refinement, complexity and signs of age in the excavated tunnels within Mesa Terses.

Many of The People died in the first years. They found shelter in the caves on the east side of the Rim, but water and food were scarce. Some ventured out and discovered that the mesas could also provide shelter in caves with connecting tunnels, with the added advantage that many small desert creatures had long ago taken up residency in those caverns, far more than they’d found in the Rim’s caves. They also found water, funneled in from above, preserved in enclosed lakes for “longer than forever.” They made the trek to Mesa Terses, the closest mesa to their original arrival point, and settled there. They learned they could grow some meager crops on the mesa’s crown, and as the population regenerated, they moved on to the other mesas one by one so that today they occupy all six within sight of the Rim.

Geography, topography, weather:

Thristas is a desert. The rain that showers Garla rarely makes it over the Rim, leaving Thristas hot in the daytime, cooler than anyone in Garla would imagine at night, and dry as a bowl of water left out in the sun too long. One would expect that, in such an atmosphere, no plant life could survive at all, but that is anything but the case. One glance from the top of the Rim reveals an expanse of tawny brown with sprinklings of green. What are these hardy plants that survive without water for months on end? They are vegetation that can store deep within what little water is provided to them, protecting the precious resource within a usually tough exterior. Some of these plants also serve as nourishment to the Thristan people; one in particular has become the most important source of income for The People. (See Economy below.)

The mesas, six in all (the above-mentioned Terses, along with Orul, Tebu, Ves, Diri and Eres), are the most outstanding topographical feature of Thristas. Without them, The People would not have survived their exile. They are, in most cases, named after their original leaders, those who guided their small bands of people, soon to be known as tribes, as they broke away from the original Tribe of Terses, which was itself named after the woman who lead The People over the Rim.

Each mesa is riddled with a multitude of labyrinthine tunnels which Thristan children run through when allowed to play, and thus The People learn how to navigate the mesa without getting lost. The children are taught early not to wander the tunnels alone so that if one gets lost, there are always others who can report them missing and guide the searchers to the last place the child was seen.

It might seem to those raised in the bright sun and fresh air of Garla that life in such an enclosed space could prove daunting, but surprisingly, it is not as uncomfortable nor as claustrophobia inducing as one would think. Larger chambers, some natural, some hewn out by The People over time, serve as meeting rooms, dining areas and, in the case of every mesa, a large “Elders’” chamber near the very top of the mesa. In Terses, this chamber, as well as the Pit where emerging children are welcomed, already existed, and the tradition carried forward to the others where such a chamber had to be dug out of solid rock. (For more on the Elders, see Government below.)

Government:

The People are led by the Elders’ Council of each mesa. As the name would imply, these are older individuals who must reach the age of fifty before being invited to join the council. Not an easy task given the rigors and dangers of the desert. And age is not the only criterion for membership. Once the council determines that they will invite a new member, that individual must survive the Elder’s Trial in which she or he must spend a night alone on top of the mesa under the influence of a plant called yafra which heightens awareness. Nearly half of the candidates fail, dying before they can return.

Although the Elders’ Council would appear to be egalitarian, usually a leader emerges, never acknowledged as such but recognized by each and every member of the Tribe. This leader serves as touchstone in all arguments amongst the Council members. Considered the wisest in the Tribe, the leader guides and encourages movement towards compromise in any dispute in or outside Council without thrusting an opinion into the fray.

Economy:

The People do not possess their own coinage. They use Garlan marks when necessary in commerce with their western neighbors, but they barter amongst themselves—trading work for food, necessities for services, skills for training—and rely as little as possible on Garlan trade. The item of greatest value, however, is water. It is revered, preserved and stored in caverns deep inside the mesas (see above in The Story). When it rains in the desert, all the mesas generally benefit, their funnels channeling the gift from Mantar into the pools. Occasionally, though, one mesa may not lie in the path of the storm while another benefits from the slow movement of the clouds laden with the much-needed liquid. At these times, water is transported in wagons hauled from one mesa to the next, and a record is kept by the Elders of the transaction. Water is too valuable to just give away.

However, The People do cultivate one commodity for which Garlans are willing to pay and pay well—malla. Malla only grows on the mesas’ crowns. It survives there somehow, exposed constantly to sun and wind, no water to speak of. It is, in fact, the only vegetation native to the crown. It has thick, heavy stalks (one could hardly call them leaves), and the liquid preserved within these stalks can be dried into a grey paste which is then rubbed on the gums. It produces a euphoric effect, slightly dream like. It can also heighten awareness of sight and sound as well as open up the user’s inner sight. It is for this reason that few Thristans partake of this drug. As a group, they believe that anything that even approaches the sort of powers that the Garlan hermits possess cannot be trusted (see Spirituality below). In addition, malla possesses addictive qualities, and The People abhor the lack of discipline addiction fosters.

“The People” and their culture:

There are Garlans, and then there are The People. The People understand the Garlans only a bit better than the Garlans understand the Thristans, but the truth is that neither knows much about the other. They’ve lived separate from one another for so long that fear of each other seems to be the only commonality they share. The People follow an unwritten creed of honor and commitment. When a Thristan makes a promise, it is an absolute obligation.

The mesas are divided into levels, and each level defines a group of individuals and families of anywhere between 25 and 50 people. They share meals and friendship, and although they identify themselves as members of their mesa, they remain fiercely loyal to the people in their level. Oftentimes, people from different levels have little contact, so little, in fact, that they wouldn’t recognize each other outside the context of the mesa. The citizens of each mesa are considered to be the mesa’s Tribe. The population of each mesa can number into the tens of thousands. The mesas, when originally occupied, contained many small caves suitable for living quarters, and hundreds more in each mesa were hollowed out by the early excavators.

The People are nocturnal due to the difficulty of performing tasks in the heat of the desert day. They rise just before sunset, eat their first meal of chardhoosh (a sweet grain product eaten dry and washed down with the bitter alk), then go about their tasks. Even those who have duties inside the mesa follow this schedule which they have followed for centuries. Each level gathers again just after sunrise to share dinner, which is usually a stew made with the kerl bean which comes from a hardy vine than can survive and produce with little water.

The People see life as a never-ending ribbon of many colors, twisting and turning, filled with many knots. Sometimes the knots can be released; other times there can be no untying, and one must find a way past without falling off the ribbon. They weave ribbons through the long braids they wear. These ribbons are made of the silk produced by the everfly caterpillar, the glow moths that fill the summer nights each year, and then they are dyed a multitude of colors. Each house, or family, has adopted a color as its own, and each color has meaning. When a child’s hair has grown long enough for braiding, one ribbon bearing the color of the house of its pouching is introduced into the braid. If, for some reason, the child chooses not to acknowledge a house of origin, a black ribbon of one-without-family is worn. When the child becomes an adult at 16, they can choose to add a ribbon of their non-pouching parent’s house.

As well as signifying a house, colors also represent strengths and attributes, and new ribbons are constantly being added to a young person’s braid as they mature and reveal their truths. These usually become a permanent part of the braid. Then there are colors as symbols of a current situation. Joined or unjoined, pregnancy, pouching, parent of an emerged child, loss. I will not list every color here, but it should be noted that a house’s color is usually tied to its perception of its attributes. For example, orange, which can mean heat and fire, might be applied to a house whose members are thought to be temperamental.

Spirituality:

The People revere an entity know as Mantar. Mantar is a two-faced deity, both the Maker and the Destroyer. They recognize that their lives are filled with duality, and, therefore, their guiding spiritual force brings both life and death, peace and war, joy and grief, love and hate. Neither aspect is considered better or greater than the other. Mantar represents the equal forces pressing in upon The People every day. They scoff at the one thing all Thristans seem to know about their Garlan neighbors—their belief in multiple Creators and but one Destroyer. The People wonder at the power of the Garlans’ many over the One, at the inherent optimism and apparent naivety of that inequality.

As a group, The People believe that anything that even approaches the sort of powers that the Garlan hermits possess cannot be trusted. They fear the hermits and once attempted to find a way of limiting their powers, but their plan backfired on them.

The people celebrate four high rituals each year. These correspond on the calendar to the four Garlan holy days. What the Garlans call Evennight in the spring, the Thristans celebrate as the Farii. It is the night of fertility when several young couples (newly joined or about to be joined) ascend to the mesa’s crown, and there they wait for the manta (a snake which symbolizes Mantar) to choose one of them for the consummation of the ritual. It is hoped that the couple will conceive and thus guarantee the fertility of the entire Tribe for the next year.

Garla’s Greatday is called Arii in Thristas. The Thristans rise to greet the setting of the sun late in the evening and then spend the night dancing and singing to praise Mantar the Maker in the form of the rising and setting sun and welcome the night back as the days begin to shorten. This, of course, is in opposition to the Garlan farewell to the sun as it leaves them in darkness.

In the fall, when a child conceived in the Farii is likely to emerge, the Thristans gather in a chamber called the Pit. All infants emerge here surrounded by family, but on the day of the Holii, the Garlan autumn Evennight, the best outcome is a Farii child emerging with the entire Tribe in attendance.

Finally, and perhaps most significant, is Kolii, in which the Thristans grieve and remember those they’ve lost that year. Unlike the Garlans, they mourn rather than celebrate the return of the sun.

CONCLUSION:

Life in Thristas is difficult and complicated, and the Thristan people do not trust strangers easily. They do, however, know that life must be lived today, not tomorrow or yesterday. They face too many potentially destructive challenges not to appreciate the value of the moment. They wish for independence but have not yet organized themselves to seek it out. I would recommend extreme caution with these people. They are fierce and could very likely best us in battle.

Respectfully submitted,
Korin Rosarel, Captain, Emperi Guard

Filed Under: Writing Tagged With: adventure, back story, fantasy, writing process

Thanking

November 22, 2014 by D. Hart St. Martin Leave a Comment

Just a few miles away from my destination—the Ovitt Library in Ontario, California—I found myself thinking about what a friend had reminded me to do in approaching the presentation I was about to give. I blogged just a couple of days ago about my fears as I neared this moment. My friend, who knew she’d be out of the country and unable to come, had called me before leaving to wish me luck. I mentioned that I’d given a whole slew of speeches in my teen years in my church and had even competed and won an award. She said, “Find the girl. Remember the girl.” I knew that girl still lived on somewhere inside me, so I wrote my friend’s words down and kept them close.

I drove past Chaffey High School.  It’s a very large campus on Euclid Avenue, the main drag through Ontario and Upland. I never attended school there; my alma mater is in Pomona, a couple of cities away. But Chaffey remains an important part of my personal story. At the age of five, I appeared as one of the kids in Finian’s Rainbow at the Gardiner W. Spring Auditorium on the campus. I have few memories of those moments, but I have been told that one night a piece of scenery either fell on me or knocked me over.  I ran off the stage crying with many commiserating mumblings following from the audience. I recovered quickly and returned for my final scene, and the audience applauded my spunk.

So, as I drove, I remembered the girl—the girl who gave speeches, the girl who played the secondary lead in the high school musical, the girl who walked back out onto a stage at the age of five after an unpleasant encounter with scenery—and I knew I would do well this day when I was about to test that public person.

And I did. There were at least 30 people in the room, a room with bad acoustics, and I connected with many, if not all, of them. They laughed in all the right places. They smiled and I smiled back. I made eye contact. I spoke clearly and relatively succinctly about a 37-year journey making Lisen of Solsta happen. I spoke mostly about self-publishing, something I’ve done through three incarnations and 20 years.

I ate lunch with several of the club members afterwards and enjoyed the company. Being an introvert, it’s hard for me to spend much time out with other people, but I managed to stay for nearly an hour, and that’s pretty damn good for me.

I only sold four books, gave out many bookmarks, lost all four pens I’d brought for people to sign a mail sheet, but three of the pens mysteriously returned before I left. But the fact that I, the zaftig writer, got up in front of people, without a podium, stood for nearly an hour as I talked in clear and ringing tones about a subject both near and dear is where I claim my success. Next time I won’t fret, at least not anywhere near as much as I did this time.

Oh, and did I mention my posse? Several members of my writing workshop who’ve provided valuable critique of everything I write (except for most of what I post here) showed up to cheer me on. My sister came as well. At this time of giving thanks, I give thanks for this day in which I proved to myself I could do it and thanks for the people who helped make it happen.

Filed Under: Self-publishing, Writing Tagged With: courage, marketing, public appearances, writing, writing life

Shaking

November 21, 2014 by D. Hart St. Martin 1 Comment

Tomorrow I greet a bunch of strangers and hopefully regale them with the story of my 37-year journey writing the Lisen of Solsta series. This is hard for me (like it isn’t hard for everybody?). It’s hard because I have an anxiety disorder. It’s hard because I’m a zaftig woman, a very zaftig woman, and people tend to judge me as not terribly bright on first impressions. It’s hard because I’m an introvert who is uncomfortable in groups of unknown people. It’s hard because… Oh, damn, it’s just hard.

I’ve prepped my presentation. I’m planning on speaking off the cuff, but I’ve written out notes to keep me on topic (and not wondering off on some tangent or other and using up valuable time—an hour is a lot but not unlimited). I’m taking a few props. I chose not to use PowerPoint this time as I’m not familiar with it and couldn’t think of more than one slide I’d actually want to put up for this particular “lecture.” So I’ll be passing around the various self-published versions of the story—one of which I actually printed and bound myself with the help of my father—for them to ooh and ah over. (I’m not actually expecting oohs and ahs, but a little appreciation of my commitment would be nice.)

I’m taking a sign-up sheet in case they want to be notified of the publication of book 3 (hopefully near the end of December). I have a hand-out of my web sites and sites that might be helpful if any of them want to self-publish. I have four pens, a sign that says “Please make checks payable to…,” and a butt load of book marks. Oh, and books. Yes, I’m taking plenty of books. Just in case, you know. And a single printed-out manuscript copy of a scene from Fractured.

Do you know how hard it is to pick a sample to read in front of a group? When an agent or publisher requests sample chapters, they mean chapter 1 through whatever number of chapters they ask for. Easy-peasy. But for a reading, I feel that a true taste of the spirit of the book is required. This meant finding a scene where Lisen was at her outspoken best, but one where I wasn’t giving the bank away by reading it. I tried several scenes from both published books and finally settled on the end of Chapter 6 from book 1. Lisen is telling off the sooth who got her into all this trouble in the first place, and it contains a lot of questions that I do eventually answer (but not until the end of book 3).

So that’s where I’ll be tomorrow (Saturday, November 22)—at a library in Ontario, California, shaking inside but smiling and breathing deeply to keep the nerves from sending me running from the room. I plan to bring my MP3 player so I can listen to Taylor Swift’s “Shake it Off” before I begin—you know, just to shake out the cobwebs. I’d like to find someplace private, say, the bathroom, where I can dance like white girls dance. And then I’ll step out and shake the room up. Well, at least I hope so. Wish me luck.

Filed Under: Self-publishing, Success, Writing Tagged With: first steps, marketing writing, public appearance, writing

A Swann for the Dawn and the Sundown

November 12, 2014 by D. Hart St. Martin 4 Comments

I cried as I first watched Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End in the theater. Why, you ask? Let me tell you. Forget Jack Sparrow (a stellar performance from Johnny Depp). Forget Will Turner (Orlando Bloom in all his matinee-idol glory). Because the story, contrary to popular belief, is about neither of them. No, the tale recounted in the first three movies of this franchise begins and ends with Elizabeth Swann (Keira Knightly in dazzling form).

Remember the lilting voice of a child singing the pirate song at the beginning of The Curse of the Black Pearl? That’s Elizabeth Swann singing her heart out as she and her father sail to the Caribbean. Mother gone, father all that’s left, and she dreams of being a pirate.

The plot twists and turns around a myriad of obstacles and self-serving characters, but watch the movies and you’ll see it. We wander off with an often seemingly lost Jack Sparrow. We follow the perils of Will Turner as he attempts to save both Elizabeth and his own father from doom and destruction. But it is Elizabeth who rises above it all, who, as she matures, gains confidence and the ability to save her own self, thank you. And when we get to At World’s End, she has blossomed into the character most instrumental in determining the course of the conclusion of the story.

I mean, think about it. The battle on the Pearl with Will and Elizabeth almost single-handedly taking on the attackers from the Flying Dutchman, while Captain Barbossa marries the two of them? A girl sword fighting? While sparring verbally with the love of her life? And then marrying him while they’re still fighting the villainous hordes? For this fan of strong roles for women in story-telling and female heroes who aren’t afraid to get dirty, it was heaven. But that wasn’t where I cried. That moment came a little earlier in the movie.

The Brethren Court of the pirates had spoken and named Elizabeth the new King of the Pirates. (I value the screenwriters’ choice of keeping it the “King” even though the new King was not male, but I digress.) As King, Elizabeth leads the pirate lords and their ships into the ultimate battle with Davy Jones and the East India Company. As they face their foe and realize they are massively outgunned and out-shipped, spirits drop.

And then…Elizabeth takes a deep breath, jumps up on the railing and rallies the troops in a speech reminiscent of Shakespeare’s Henry V’s “Once more unto the breach, dear friends….” This young woman—whom some might call a “slip of a girl”—stands up there proud and defiant and smacks these big, strong men around verbally and drags them into fighting mode. I cried.

railing

I literally cried in that theater. Whether consciously or not, the story-by and written-by guys had created the first TRUE female hero to rise to the surface in mainstream popular culture. I know there are many strong women holding their own in movies and books these days, but here’s the thing. Elizabeth Swann seized the mantle of leadership like a man while still maintaining her womanhood, and she did it under the near-impossible odds of a major motion picture with Johnny Depp at the helm of the performance vessel and Orlando Bloom as her love interest. At that moment in time, all eyes were on her, including Johnny’s and Orlando’s, and everyone in the audience knew it. She had commandeered a movie of testosterone-driven derring-do and made it her own.

All hail Elizabeth Swann, the King of the Pirates!

Filed Under: Movie Review, Women's Rights Tagged With: Elizabeth Swann, female hero, feminist, Keira Knightley, King of the Pirates, movie review, Pirates of the Caribbean, writing

I’ve Lost my Voice!

July 19, 2014 by D. Hart St. Martin 1 Comment

A writer’s voice is a combination of style, phrasing, and flow. It is potentially the most useful tool in the writer’s little pencil box. Some writers possess a voice so easily identifiable that all an astute reader needs are a few sentences to name the source. And voice does not manifest in fiction alone; with the possible exception of newspaper reporting, it can exist anywhere that words are brought together to tell a story.

Now, enough of defining voice. This is a personal story. This is not a training session on how to find your voice. (The way to find your voice is to keep writing until you find it. That’s it. Moving on.)

Several months ago, my brain began doing a rather odd thing—probably brought on by one or more of a few stressors which I won’t go into here. My brain began applying a sing-song inflection to everything I thought, everything I heard, everything I read, and everything I wrote. All words strung together in any perceivable manner turned into this kind of chant in my head.

At the time, I was working on the first draft of the third and final book of my series, Lisen of Solsta.  In first draft, my brain’s affliction was active but did not harm the text.

(And, so you’ll know, I ran this past my psychiatrist recently, and he deemed it a passing problem, likely stress related. But he’s not a writer; what does he know?)

A week ago, I moved on to second draft, and I found myself fighting the work but not knowing why. Last night, a painful epiphany hit me like a hammer. If I can’t perceive my writing as anything more than a sing-songy mish-mash of words, how am I going to find the flow? I mean, there’s singing and there’s sing-songing. The former allows words to soar; the latter, a pain in the ass. If I can’t tell if a sentence or a paragraph flows, what the hell am I doing writing at all? Needless, to say, a great many things got thrown around my office last night. Sigh.

So if anyone has dealt with something like this or knows someone who has, let me know. For now the plan is for me to let the writing go for a little while and let my poor, aching brain rest and hope to God (hear me, God?) that the little chanting person in my head moves on to some other soul and lets me have my mojo back. I am a writer, damn it! And Lisen’s story needs an ending.

Filed Under: Major life changes, Writing Tagged With: stress, writers block, writing

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