Six Sentence Sunday: September 30th 2012

         This will be the last SSS post for September. Yikes!

For anyone who doesn't know, Six Sentence Sunday is a bloghop--and one of the friendliest. Participants post six sentences of their writing, then the fun begins. Readers hop from blog to blog, sharing opinions, critiques and encouragement.  We know what a solitary pursuit writing is--and Six Sentence Sunday is a great way to meet other writers, and take a break from our solitude. Complete rules and a sign up form are at the site here.

Returning to my WIP, ATNS, Marissa has been running for her life. The scene began with her playing hide and seek with her toddler.  Then, something strange happened--a blinding light and a disorienting sound. She's not at the State Park anymore, and her son is no longer with her.  Her situation has taken a turn toward the terrifying.  She's just witnessed a large, raging beast bite a person in half.  After fleeing, she found a dark doorway in which she's stepped through. Inside, the dimly lit room, she discovered an injured man. This is what happens next:

"Fear climbing her throat, she approached him. She forced her uneven breaths to slow, and with a voice just barely above a whisper, asked, “Are you Okay?  I won’t hurt you." Her eyes shifted from his face to his chest. "You’re bleeding.” After leaning down, she'd just begun to look at his wound when there was a ferocious bellow unlike anything she’d ever heard."

Next week, it shifts out of the dream, so this will be the end of a chapter. 

How's it look?

All comments, opinions, criticisms, greatly appreciated and graciously acknowledged.  Thanks for visiting, and have a wonderful week, all. :-)

Teaser Trailer for Carlie Cullen's "Heart Search: Lost"

It's nearing book launch time for Carlie Cullen's

 Heart Search: Lost

I invite you to watch the teaser trailer.

Check out Carlie's website:

http://carliemacullen.com

And follow her on Twitter:

http://twitter.com/carlie2011c 

Without further ado...

Six Sentence Sunday: September 23, 2012

We have much cooler weather  now, in the northeastern USA. A nice crisp change for the first day of autumn.  

For anyone who doesn't know, Six Sentence Sunday is a bloghop--and one of the friendliest. Participants post six sentences of their writing, then the fun begins. Readers hop from blog to blog, sharing opinions, critiques and encouragement.  We know what a solitary pursuit writing is--and Six Sentence Sunday is a great way to meet other writers, and take a break from our solitude. Complete rules and a sign up form are at the site here.

Returning to my WIP, ATNS, Marissa has been running for her life. The scene began with her playing hide and seek with her toddler.  Then, something strange happened--a blinding light and a disorienting sound. She's not at the State Park anymore, and her son is not with her. Her situation has taken a turn toward the terrifying.  She's just witnessed a large, raging beast bite a person in half.  After fleeing, she found a dark doorway in which she's stepped through. This is what happens next:

"An eeriness permeated Marissa’s whole being.  Listening…stilling her own gasps for breath, she heard ragged breathing.  Searching the dim area for the source of the sound, her eyes trained on something sitting propped against the wall.  Unsure of who or what she saw, she stepped closer, her eyes straining to focus in the near darkness.  There it was... no…it was a he…there was a man.  His hand pressed against his chest where blood oozed between fingers, and gold eyes searched her, conveying something between caution and pleading."

Well, there it is. She's either met her insanity...or her destiny.

Thanks for visiting and reading. Have a good week, all.

Writing: The Pep-talk

Walking down the trail today, I was absorbed in the world. The creek gurgled next to the trail.  Blue Jays scolded, and squirrels complained at my approach.

 

There's a smell in the air on such days in Western Pennsylvania.  It's sweet and musky, and it makes me think of patchouli, never failing to take me back in time.  I'm made acutely aware of just how many autumns have stacked up behind me.

 

The fine, damp, packed gravel was not so hard packed under my feet.  I left little tracks where it lifted--flung from the soles of my shoes with each step  I took.  The sky was gray--not steel gray, but full of dimensions and features.

 

Beside me, a stream ran very low.  There's been little rainfall for months... and the world is glowing golden yellow.  I stop to watch the stream. 

 

Like so many people, I lose myself in my thoughts, around water.  

 

It was the summer of 1987. We took the boat downriver to a place I'd never been.  Everyone around the docks had, but I was a relative newcomer  at the river.  I was a small stream kind of girl :-) but the river was growing on me--somehow getting into my soul.  And I suspected that, at times, it coursed through my veins.

 

We pulled in close to the shoreline and dropped anchor.  There it was-- the rope swing.

 

I jumped out of the boat and swam for shore, taking in the scene before me. I was hesitant... it looked dangerous. There were huge rocks, limestone, the size of small cars. The railroad had dumped them there to fortify the riverbank.

 

There was a crowd on the bank, climbing up over the rocks...and more waiting to climb the rocks...all in line for that one rope.  

 

I watched a teenage boy stand on top of the tallest rock and then push off.  He yelled as he let go, swinging like a pendulum out over the water. 

 

His body was briefly suspended in mid-air, just before plummeting toward the river. There was a splash, followed by silent seconds hanging in time before he surfaced, mouth wide open with laughter. Hoots and hollers followed.  

 

Just as soon as he'd cleared the ultimate landing zone in the water, there was another person, the pendulum swung... and then plummeting, splashing and laughing.

 

My heart was in my throat. Such a cautious soul, I didn't know if I had it in me...I weighed the risks. Well, if my hands slipped on the rope, I'd fall onto the rocks.  If I got too scared to let go of the rope and tried to swing back, I'd crash into the rocks...

 

I could get really hurt.

 

Or I could just sit out there on the river bank, high and dry, and watch them laughing and having the time of their lives.

 

 

I was drawn from my thoughts back to the trail. It's not crowded today, but I do see two people approaching me.  Bright clothing seems to shine as they draw near on their bikes, a blur of high speed peddling.

 

The two young men smile as they pass me...they are enjoying their day, no-doubt. I think...don't we all want to do more than just exist?  More than just live until we die? Don't we all have something to do that evokes a passion in each of us?

 

I continue south on the trail... my steady footfalls have lulled me back into my thoughts...

 

On the riverbank, I watched, with heart pounding each time I thought I might actually do it.  I took a step, summoning the moxie to move toward the rope, and wordlessly announced my turn in line.  Time was flying.  Before I could even chicken out, I was holding the rope in my hand. :-)

 

I heard hoots coming from the boat now.  I took as many steps backward as I could, trying to gain the most height at the end of my outward swing... and then I jumped, grabbed, and curled up my legs to clear the rocks.  There wasn't time to be afraid.  The rush washed over me as I reached the end.  It was almost instinctive; I let go. I felt that split second when I wasn't going up, nor going down.  The butterflies in my stomach fluttered, and then I headed toward the water.

 

For a split second, I saw it, my reflection on the water's surface.  I shut my eyes.  The shadow of a soul approaching... and then I cannon-balled down into the murky Allegheny River.  I bobbed to the surface, full of laughter and exhilaration, and swam to shore...   Then I climbed back up the rocks to wait in line...

 

Life is a lot like that...letting go of the rope... and just falling... a shadow on the water's surface...

 

Another bicyclist zoomed past me, bright yellow, techie looking clothing.  Other than the three cyclists, I've been alone with my thoughts for this walk. 

 

I glanced at the stream, watching a yellow leaf drift lazily down, a brief moment of reflection, then land on the water. I turned back north; time to head home.

 

Life is short, and the days grow even shorter. The years go by.  And if we aren't careful, they take so many of the best chances with them. 

 

Writing is a lot like that, too.  You can stand on the riverbank your whole life, watching everyone else let go.

 

Best thing I can think is to grab that figurative rope and jump, tuck legs, and swing.  And when the time is right... we'll know...and let go of the rope! :-)

Six Sentence Sunday

Hooray for cooler weather here in the northeastern USA. For anyone who doesn't know, Six Sentence Sunday is a bloghop--and one of the friendliest. Participants post six sentences of their writing, then the fun begins. Readers hop from blog to blog, sharing opinions, critiques and encouragement.  We know what a solitary pursuit writing is--and Six Sentence Sunday is a great way to meet other writers and take a break from our solitude. Complete rules and a sign up form are at the site here.

Returning to my WIP, ATNS, Marissa is running for her life. The scene began with her playing hide and seek with her toddler, and something strange happened--a blinding light and a disorienting sound. She's not at the State Park anymore, and her son is not with her. Her situation has taken a turn toward the terrifying.  She's running through what seems to be a metal building.  At the end of last week's six, she witnessed a large, raging beast bite a person in half.

"At full run, she caught a flashing-by view of wild fury in the beast’s black eyes. Another glimpse—a child and woman, eyes full of terror, huddled against a wall. Jesus, this really, really, can’t be happening!  Her pulse thumped in her ears as she passed the raging predator.

Racing past more bare metal, she turned another corner where a long corridor opened before her. Screams followed by guttural sounds pushed her beyond any kind of reason.  Dashing through a half-lit doorway, she slowed when she reached the darkness beyond."

I confess. It's seven.  But it completes a scene--and there is a mood shift next.

All comments, opinions, criticisms, greatly appreciated and graciously acknowledged.  Thanks for visiting, and have a wonderful week, all. :-)

 

Bittersweet is Autumn

Bittersweet is Autumn

It rained today, falling from pewter-laden skies

Washing color from the world

Leaving sepia-toned throw-rugs lying hither and yon upon dampened earth,

beneath  trees.

I breathed deeply…

The scent of crumbling leaves and new death.

I am struck at how soon summer has waxed and waned.

The ripening land putting away its dancing shoes, trudging heavily now, against a wind full of autumn stories and hints of winter tales.

It treads upon sepia-toned throw rugs, beneath trees, and crumpled and swirling oak leaves.

A framed silhouette of hills and valleys…at the foot of skeleton-bare branches.

Here, in shoe boxes tucked beneath the bed, there are such pictures. Sepia-tones accentuate the bittersweet. I see my mother’s face, smiling, it is…

Like peering into a looking glass upon which an ancient and timeless spell has been cast.

Even through sepia, her hair was dark, like the bark of the wild cherry…

The wild cherry that has dropped throw rugs hither and yon…

And now,

My hair is like the bark of the white oak, dark yet gray, as I stand musing on bittersweet is the autumn.

I bend down to gather a handful of the sepia leaves and stare…

At my mother’s hands as they emerge from the sleeves of my coat.

Copyright ©  2010 Teresa K Cypher 
All rights reserved.

Writing: The Race to Tell.

Many was the day, at least five  children rode home with dad. He worked at the Seminary next to the church, beyond which was the convent, which was just up the hill from the Catholic school we all attended.

I was one of those five--actually one of eight, but my three older sisters were already in high school when I started first grade.

Part of that daily ritual was, after arriving home, flinging open the car doors as soon as it's tires had stopped.  We'd race up the cinder covered path, past the spring-house, and then into the house where we each hoped we'd be the first to spy mom.  And more importantly, be the first to tell her  the news of the day.  It didn't matter what it was. If dad had told us that a priest was leaving the seminary, or one of the nuns was leaving, or if the neighbor's cow got out again, or if he got the best deal ever at the Dollar Stretcher (a fruit market), we each had to be the one to tell.

The first ten minutes home was daily mayhem. And mom got at least five versions of the news before she ever heard dad's.

What does that have to do with writing?

Back story told too early and too much.

My latest writing-related revelation.

The practice of writing in medias res... my good blogging and writing buddy, Jay Squires' at Septuagenarian Journey was the first to explain to me, means plunking the reader down into the action.  Then feed them information, a little at a time.  He was commenting on a blog I'd posted, containing the first few pages of a WIP I'd just begun to write.  Problem was, I was opening with back story. A lot of back story.  I was racing to tell.

After Jay's wonderful advice, I went into search and learn mode. Whew.  Nothing less than media res works in my go-to genres Fantasy/scifi/romance.  I needed to slow down--and stop trying to tell it all in the first chapter.

Do we, as writers, get in too big of a hurry to tell all?  Have you read books where the author did that?

Part of it might be the age we live in. Our attention spans might not be what they were a century ago--or even a couple of decades ago.  We need to grab the readers' attention, such them into the middle of mayhem.

Afterward, doing what I always do, I analyzed, and then analyzed some more.   And...I think I've finally discovered why I did that. ~laughing~  I was a kid again, and wanted to be the first to tell. I couldn't wait to tell.   But, it pays to wait.

When exploring in medias res, Wikipedia is a good place to visit,In medias res for starters.

It does bear mentioning; there are genres where it's not quite as critical. But...not many.

I know--"tell".  Yep. That deserves it's own post, as does how all of this relates to planner/pantser.

Bad Bedfellows

Which of these three does not belong in the group?

1. Author promotion. (Facebook, twitter etc. Developing online contacts, making friends, becoming visible as a writer, author, blogger = Potential seller of books.)

2.Social media. (You know :-) facebook, blogging, twitter, Goodreads, Amazon forums etc.)

3.Politics

****

Unless you're building an audience while claiming your 15 minutes as an armchair pundit--or you have an online presence/ branding associated with politics?  Guess what? Politics is the choice that does not belong.

I've recently noticed that a lot of my publishing industry contacts, followers...people, are getting political.

It's everyone's right, of course. And while I understand the passionate feelings behind.political posts, diatribe, and rants... this is not a good idea.

Use lists. Separate "professional" contacts from others.  And please don't expose the professional contacts to your political ideology. Especially if once you get started, it is scathing, laced with profanity, and  lacks any semblance to the facts. In either case, it really is best left private re: professional associates.

I don't have any data to back this up. It's all conjecture.  But, I think you will alienate potential support people if you mix politics with publishing/writing.blogging/facebooking/tweeting.

These are my facts: I have begun to "unsubscribe" from professional contacts who insist on politicizing their posts and-- via comment,  the posts of others.  I might resubscribe after November--to some of them. Who cares? I know I'm just one person. It might not be a big loss to lose me as a subscriber or follower.  But, I don't think I'm ringing the outer edge of the bell curve on this point.

~sigh~

Friends, dreamers, creative musketeers. I adore you all.  But that doesn't mean I adore your politics

Six Sentence Sunday: September 9, 2012

Hope everyone had a good week.  For anyone who doesn't know, Six Sentence Sunday is a bloghop--and one of the friendliest. Participants post six sentences of their writing, then the fun begins. Readers hop from blog to blog, sharing opinions, critiques and encouragement.  We know what a solitary pursuit writing is--and Six Sentence Sunday is a great way to meet other writers and take a break from our solitude. Complete rules and a sign up form are at the site here.

Returning to my WIP, ATNS, Marissa is running for her life. The scene began with her playing hide and seek with her toddler, and something strange happened--a blinding light and a disorienting sound. She's not at the State Park anymore, and her son is not with her. She's running through what seems to be a metal building.  At the end of last week's six, she witnessed something being bitten in half by a very large beast.

"Was it? It was! A person! God--this can’t be real. Another scream pierced her ears; it was her own."

Wow, lol, that might be the shortest six I've ever posted. :-) 

I'm particularly curious about the word "God", in her  thought.  Is it more or less powerful with it included?   My intent was not a prayer or to summon god. It is just fright. Does it feel that way? 

All comments, opinions, criticisms, greatly appreciated and graciously acknowledged.  Have a wonderful week, all. :-)

Happy Birthday, Dad

Louie was a great guy. I think I can say that nearly everybody loved him.  Jim Reeves sang a song, "A Stranger's Just a Friend you do not Know"  I'm not sure, but I think maybe whoever wrote that song knew my dad and had been inspired by him.

Dad was born in 1920.  He was one of eight children, second to the youngest-- the youngest son.  He grew up on a farm where the fiddle and guitar were played on the front porch on summer evenings, and an organ played in the front room on winter evenings.  

They lived by their hands, surviving on what they grew on the farm. He grew up during the depression, drove a horse and buggy to town, and to church every Sunday.  He wore mended clothes and knew that not a single tree in their orchard grew money.

And dad lived through mechanizing the farm--the great change from horse-drawn to gas powered. It was a change he initiated and saw through after his dad passed away.

He was brilliant; one of his greatest sorrows--perhaps it was more shame, was that he was forced out of school at the end of his eighth grade. His teacher begged my grandma to allow him to remain in school, but grandma refused. She needed him on the farm.  Everyone else was working, in school, or gone.

When WWII started, he went to the enlistment office in Pittsburgh and signed up to go defend his country.  When he told grandma, she found a ride to Pgh and "un-enlisted" him, explaining that her husband was gone, her three older sons were all marrried and gone, and she needed my dad to help her with the farm.

When the railyards in Pgh hired him, and he planned to stay in Pgh through the week, she went to the railyards and got him "un-hired". 

No matter how he tried, he could never slip the yoke of that old farm out in the "hollow" as he called it.

So, he married my mom--a young RN from a tiny company town in a neighboring county, a "city gal with an education" as grandma referred to her, and set out to have eight children of his own. 

Like in all lives, he had good times and bad. Mom and he stood beside each other through all of them--well, except for when she gave birth to each of us, and he dropped her off at the Emergency Room entrance and told her, "Call me when you're ready to come home."


He loved people, loved life, and was grateful for the small things.

He openly adored my mother, and loved his children and grandchildren.

Didn't matter the time of year. He'd step outside and look around, then say, "I love to see the changing seasons."  He'd step outside on the coldest day of winter and with a twinkle in his eye, say, "Brrrrr."  And when it started to snow, he'd come in from outside and tell us "It'll be Christmas by morning."  He yearned for the peepers when winter was making its last gasps, marveled at trilliums and trailing arbutus when they bloomed. And autumn? He was in his glory.  We all knew that Louie Cypher lived in the prettiest place ever--especially when autumn colored the leaves like Joseph's coat.

Hershey's fudge, cinnamon hardtack, molasses taffy, and homemade black walnut ice cream.  Chopping the ice from the "crick" with an axe--to make the icecream.  Rescued baby pigs squealing on the hearth in the middle of a bitterly cold January night.  ~sigh~  A few of the things I'd never have experienced if he hadn't been my dad.

He taught us about love, about appreciation, about seeing the joy.

He was a character.  He was a wounded child and a tough adult at the same time. 

Most of all, he taught an amazing lesson.  For all the things that could have made him a horribly bitter person, he wasn't.  

All of the stonewalls built in front of him during his youth were bygones. He had taken lemons and made beautiful lemonade out of them.  And it wasn't bitter at all.

Remembering you today... Happy  92nd birthday, dad.  <3

The Sock Puppeteers

What are writers to do?  It is tough enough out there, without competing against the sock puppeteers.

You ask, what the heck are sock puppeteers, anyway?

There is an eye opening article here: RJ Ellory, Author, Caught Writing Fake Amazon Reviews For Books

Sock puppeteers are the people who put up fake reviews. It can be done by opening accounts in other names and putting up great reviews of your own work--to bolster ratings. Or, a puppeteer can tear down another author's rating by leaving bad reviews and bad ratings. 

From the article:

"One of the United Kingdom's most successful thriller writers, Stephen Leather, also admitted to sock-puppeting and claimed the practice is commonplace.

“I’ll go on to several forums … and post there, under my own name and under various other names and various other characters," Leather disclosed at the Harrogate Crime Writing Festival, according to the Telelgraph. "You build this whole network of characters who talk about your books and sometimes have conversations with yourself … I have friends who are sockpuppets … One person on their own, difficult to create a buzz. If you’ve got ten friends, and they’ve got friends, and you can get them all as one creating a buzz, then hopefully you’ll be all right."

Uh oh. How many lines are being crossed?  I've seen Twitter accounts that I know are all owned by one person.  At first I didn't catch on. I was amazed that an author could have such devout fans.

In the article, it states that perhaps this is just the tip of the iceberg.

I don't want to sound like the naive idiot who will never sell a book due to a stringent code of ethics..but this does beg the question:  How much are we willing to compromise for the sake of selling books? 

Obviously, trashing another author's work is wrong on all accounts.  And I would not have even thought about the rest had it not been for Stephen Leather's admission.  He's talking forums--not Amazon reviews. And I've seen the Twitter accounts in action.  I actually think that the Twitter accounts are a good marketing approach.  But, even there, perhaps lines are being crossed...

I think the sock puppeteering  on Amazon is wrong.  And "shill reviews" as I call them, are never a good idea. 

On forums...as Leather did, wrong when you are misrepresenting identity as being different individuals. If it is disclosed as a marketing ploy, it's just advertising from then on. 

With the practice so widespread, how do you feel about multiple accounts for the sake of publicity?  Regarding the practice, what are your ideas of right and wrong?

Leave me a comment. I don't bite. Heck...I don't even yell. :-)

Six Sentence Sunday: September 1, 2012

Whew! I started to type August...       September already!

Six sentence Sunday is a great, weekly bloghop.  Talented participants post six sentences (or very close to that number) of a current writing project to share with their readers.  Then the fun begins--visiting blogs on the list and commenting on other six sentence posts.  It's a great way to meet other writers, get feedback, and help others by visiting their posts, lending ideas and support.

You can visit the list of participants by clicking here at Sixsunday.com  

Returning to my WIP, ATNS, something has just happened to Marissa. Following a disorienting noise and a blinding light, she's now unsure of where she is. She's awakened and just formed the thought that her toddler son--who had been with her before her surroundings changed,  might be in danger. That thought was interrupted.

"A loud crash and screams brought her to her feet, running through what had to be some sort of a…a…metal building? God, what is this place!  How the hell did I wind up here, and why?  More screams and crashing thundered as she rounded a corner. Terror squeezed her chest. There was some sort of beast-- a very large beast, biting something in half. "

That's it for this week.

All comments  are received with gratitude, and graciously acknowledged. Thanks for visiting and don't forget to check out the many talented sixers by clicking on the link.  Have a nice week. :-)