... where I post about my experiences as an aspiring author - from writing and editing, over querying agents and looking for a publisher, to things that really help(ed) me on my way. I'm looking forward to this unpredictable journey.
It's Christmas Eve and everything
is ready for the feast. The apartment is decorated in green-red Christmas
motives, the table is set all around with silver plates and cutlery, and the
turkey is roasting in the oven. Judging by the delicious scent coming out of
the kitchen, it's the best Charlotte has ever made. If only there were someone
here to enjoy and share it with. She is dressed in black
slacks and a red blouse with golden reindeers galloping around the waist. Her
grey hair is perfectly coiffed into a frizzy ball around her head; it took the
hairdresser half an hour to artfully hide all the bald spots. She is sitting on
a chair in the hallway between kitchen, dining room and front entrance. From
here, she has the view of her oven, the flickering candles on the dinner table,
and the glass front-door. If someone were to stand in front of it, she'd be
able to see his shadow through the glass. Not that she's expecting anybody.
She's only hoping, though she's not even sure what for. It's not like she
invited anybody over for dinner. Who would she invite, anyhow? There's nobody
left. Except her estranged son, Danny, whom she hasn’t seen in over ten years,
since The Incident with his father. Danny was never able to forgive her, and
she isn’t sure she deserves his forgiveness. But she sure does miss her son.
Still, she has stopped trying to contact let alone invite him over for
Christmas. He only ignores her and she can’t handle the rejection anymore.
Libby always tells Charlotte that he’ll come back when he’s ready, that he
can’t be rushed. But not even Libby, her young friend and neighbor, is here
this Christmas, because she’s back-packing through Australia. Charlotte hopes Libby's
having fun and has put to rest her guilty conscience about leaving her elderly
friend alone at Christmas. Since Libby has no family, either, they usually
spend a lot of time together during the holidays. "My boss will only let
me take two months off between projects, which means my time frame for the trip
is December through January," Libby said when she broke the news to
Charlotte six months ago. "I'm so excited it's finally working out, but I
hate the thought of leaving you alone over Christmas." Charlotte hated that
thought, too, but she didn't begrudge Libby her experience or her need to see
the world. Charlotte was like that once, always looking for adventure. Not so much anymore.
Arthritis and a crumbling hip don't make travelling easy. These days, she finds
her most exciting adventures in books and on TV. But she made a promise not to
hide herself behind either one tonight. "On Christmas Eve, I
want you to prepare the best turkey dinner ever," Libby said to Charlotte
two days before she left on her trip. "And don't you dare be cheap and get
a small turkey, because you'll pretend to expect lots of guests - at least
enough to crowd your table. You will get dressed up like we always do, you will
eat the dinner, listen to Christmas carols and fill my stocking with something
inappropriate. That’s our ritual, and it will make you remember all the good
times we had together. I'll be there in spirit. Only then may you relax on your
couch with the present that I'm going to send you straight from Down Under.
Promise me you'll do it!" Charlotte promised, unable to disappoint her friend and make
her feel bad for leaving. Now here she is, her only companions a stuffed turkey
and a festive house, whose silence weighs heavily on her heart.
The turkey is ready. If she
leaves it in the oven any longer, it will go dry, and Charlotte is too much of
a perfectionist to let that happen. Plus, she has promised to eat at least some
of it, so it might as well taste good. Charlotte pushes herself up
from the chair in her strategic vantage point and shuffles into the kitchen.
She puts on her oven mitts and pulls the turkey out of the oven. It is
golden-brown and the smell is making her mouth water, triggering her memories
of holidays long past. She can almost hear the sounds of family coming from the
living room; Danny jumping around and trying to guess what Santa will bring him
this year; his father muttering to himself as he's trying to set up the model
train tracks around the glittering Christmas tree; Buster's collar jingling
along with the Christmas carols as he runs excitedly back and forth between
kitchen and living room; Jingle Bells and other carols playing in the back
ground. I could at least put the
music on, she
thinks to herself as the silence of reality drowns out the memory. Anything to
put off eating Christmas dinner alone. But she does take the turkey out to the
dining room on her way to the stereo in the living room, and place it in the
middle of the table. Maybe she'll feel more like carving it when the music is
on. She wonders what Libby will
send her from Australia. Something fabulous, for sure - Libby always knows what
to get - but so far, no package has arrived. Charlotte searches for the
CD in the cupboard on which the stereo stands, purposely taking her time. When
she finds it, she rifles through the jacket several minutes, looking up the
songs and testing if she remembers them all by heart. When she finally admits
to herself that she could sing these songs backwards in her sleep, she closes
the jacket and puts the CD in the player with more force than necessary. Stop procrastinating, she snaps at herself. Just get
it over with. At least she didn't make
dessert. That would just prolong the lonely meal. She considered making
tiramisu, her favorite, but now she's glad she didn't go to the effort. Libby
sometimes brings a batch over, made by a friend of hers, a professional pastry
chef. His tiramisu is to die for, and Charlotte secretly wishes Libby would
marry the man, ensuring a daily supply of The Best Dessert On The Planet. The
recipe is a secret, of course, and Charlotte's own experiments never turn out
as tasty as his, so it definitely wouldn't have been worth it for tonight. She
should have bought a new bottle of her favourite single malt, Glenfiddich, though.
She would have enjoyed a glass this evening, but she's all out. She heads back to the
dining table to carve the turkey. The doorbell rings - or is it the bells in
the opening beats of 'Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer'? Charlotte shuffles to
the hall, but there's no silhouette to be seen through the glass. The light on
her porch has turned on, though, prompted by the motion detector. Somebody was here. Maybe they are leaving
because she was too slow. Maybe it's the postman, bringing Libby's present! It doesn't occur to
Charlotte that it's just as likely for Santa to deliver a package on Christmas
Eve as it is for the postman; all she cares about is not missing out on the
knowledge that somebody, somewhere, is thinking of her tonight. Charlotte hurries
to the door, as much as an old lady with a bad hip can hurry. She opens the
door just as the light winks out again on the porch. There is nobody there. She
hears no footsteps walking down the sidewalk, either, even though she’s wearing
her hearing aid. Her ears are filled only with her own loneliness and Rudolph's
bells playing tricks on her mind. She turns and is about to
close the door when the hallway light from behind her illuminates the mat on
her stoop. On top of the mat, wrapped in red-gold paper, sits a little box with
an envelope attached to it. Charlotte ignores her
protesting hip and bends down to pick up the box. It’s heavy. Her hands tremble
as she grasps it and straightens. She fumbles the envelope open, almost
dropping the snowman-shaped card as she unfolds it.
We wish you a Merry Christmas Eve. We're very sorry we couldn't make it to your
party ourselves, but we have quite a long drive ahead of us to be with our
loved ones. Enclosed, you'll find a little something to get you and your other
guests started on a merry night.
All the Best. Meg and Greg.
Who are Meg and Greg? And
what party? They must have left the present at the wrong door, but nobody else
in this street is named Charlotte. She shakes the box. It makes no sound;
whatever's inside is packed up tight. With one last, half-guilty look at the
neighboring houses, she clutches the box to her chest and closes the door
behind her. She carries the box to the table, already unwrapping it. Her eyes
light up. It's a Glenfiddich gift box. Even if it was meant for another
Charlotte with incriminating taste, this Charlotte is happy for the mistake.
She ran out of her last batch of whisky three nights ago, so this is perfect
timing. She enjoys a glass of it every once in a while, but doesn't often buy a
bottle for herself. Libby is usually the one who notices when her supply is
running low and sneaks in a new bottle without Charlotte ever seeing her do it.
Hm. Libby... maybe this is
her present? Libby knows she likes the stuff, and could guess that she'd be out
of it by now. But why sign the card 'Meg and Greg'? Charlotte pulls the bottle
out of the box and sets it on the table next to the turkey - there's nobody
here to see and criticize, is there? She is about to get herself a glass out of
the kitchen, when the doorbell rings again. This time it's unmistakable;
whoever's outside is keeping his finger on the button to make sure he or she is
heard. This person must know she sometimes forgets to put in her hearing aid. But when she opens the
door, she's looking at a stranger. "Are you Charlotte
Tisdale?" he asks. He has a warm smile that brightens his youthful face.
Charlotte guesses he's in his late twenties. "Yes," she says,
astonished but also hesitant. Maybe he's a serial killer. On TV, the least
suspicious people always turn out to be the murderers. "Nice to meet
you," he says, sticking out his hand. She shakes it, despite her doubts.
"I'm John. I hope I'm not late." "Late?" "For the turkey
dinner. I hope there's still some left." All Charlotte can do is
blink at him.
"Oh, right, I almost
forgot," he says. He rummages through a bag slung over his shoulder and
unearths a Tupperware bowl. "I promised to bring dessert. It's tiramisu.
Made it myself. I'm told it's to die for." He winks at her as he quotes
her own words at her. Impossible. Charlotte takes
the bowl and lifts the lid to peek inside. The scent of coffee, vanilla and
Marsala makes her mouth water. A smooth surface of chocolate powder meets the
eye, sprinkled with white coconut flakes. It's definitely The Best Dessert On
The Planet. "You're--." She
wants to say 'Libby's pastry-chef-friend', but is interrupted by a tiny
fuzzball zooming onto the porch and jumping around the two of them excitedly.
The fuzzball, whose waggingtail
indicates it might be a dog, is closely followed by a woman in her late
forties. She smiles shyly at Charlotte and John and tries to subdue her excited
pooch, who reminds Charlotte of Buster. When Buster was young, he had the same
springs in his hind legs as this little fellow. He'd been her best friend
through those first years after her husband left with Danny. If not for
Buster's unquestionable love and steady presence, she wouldn't have gotten
through the pain. "Rufus, no
jumping!" The woman bends over, and the fuzzball launches itself into her
arms and begins to lick her face. Charlotte expects the woman to leave in an
embarrassed hurry, but she stays. "I'm so sorry, he has no manners. I only
just got him and he's so young and silly. But he's housebroken, so he won't
ruin your floors. I'm Beth, by the way." She sees Charlotte staring at the
fuzzball and suddenly looks worried. "This is the right address, isn't it?
You're Charlotte? I was told you wouldn't mind if I brought my dog." Before Charlotte can ask
who told her this, another person joins them on the porch. Another stranger.
Another man who introduces himself, brings a gift and acts as if he got an
invitation to her lonesome turkey dinner. Which turns out not to be so lonely
The table is crowded. Charlotte
had to lay out two more place settings to accommodate everyone who came. There
are eight people sitting side by side at her table, enjoying the turkey - carved
expertly by John - talking, laughing and generally having a wonderful time.
Charlotte has met none of these people before, and none of them know each
other, but they all came so they wouldn't have to spend Christmas alone. She no
longer asks how this miracle came to be. She knows it's Libby's doing, and that
is enough. The doorbell rings again.
Beth offers to open the door, but Charlotte insists on going herself, even
though her hip hurts. Rufus takes off with a yap and reaches the door long
before Charlotte. When she opens the door and sees her next visitor. Her jaw
drops. It's Danny. Her prodigal
son. He looks so grown-up, she notices. Her little boy is an
adult. Well, of course he is, he’s in his early forties, but she remembers him
from when he was barely on the cusp of adulthood, and that’s how she’s pictured
him for years. Now he’s older, more refined, tall, handsome, perfect. Even his
uncertain smile is perfect. She feasts her eyes on him, fights back the tears.
She's afraid to blink and find him gone, afraid he's a trick that her mind is
playing on her, created by whisky and the miracle of the unexpected
companionship. "Hello mother,"
Danny says. "Merry Christmas." "What are you doing
here?" she whispers, then immediately wishes she could take back her
words. They sound accusatory, unfriendly, instead of conveying that all she
wants to do is take him in her arms and never let go. But she's so afraid of
doing something else wrong where Danny is concerned, that she's always unable to
think straight around him. He doesn't get defensive,
the way she expects. The way he usually does. Instead, he holds up a page of
ads out of a local newspaper. "Your friend sent me this." He taps a
finger on one of the ads. Charlotte leans forward and reads it.
Who wants to celebrate Christmas with me? My name is Charlotte, and I'm
tired of spending Christmas alone. I hereby invite all who feel the same way to
join me at my house on Christmas Eve for my famous turkey dinner. If you're
interested, give my friend Libby a buzz (see her number at the bottom), she's
handling the whole organization. I look forward to meeting you. Happy Holidays
and all the Best. Charlotte.
"I remember those
turkey dinners," Danny says. "I missed them every Christmas we spent
without you." It's a peace offering. The
chance at forgiveness she's always hoped for. Charlotte no longer hesitates.
She steps forward and does what she should have done a long time ago: she lays
her arms around her son and tells him how she feels. "I'm sorry, Danny. So
sorry. And I love you so much." "I'm sorry, too,
ma," he says, hugging her back. Charlotte closes her eyes, breathes in his
scent. He hasn't called her 'ma' since he was a little boy. Oh Libby, Charlotte thinks, letting the tears
flow. You were right. Your spirit is here. And you sent me the perfect gift
The Chamaeleon Chronicles are
coming along at a fair clip, seeing as they're my NaNo-story. Yes, I know, I
started them several months before November 1st, but the overall goal of NaNo
is to write 50,000 words in thirty days, which is what I'm aiming to
accomplish. Even during those years I started at the beginning of the story on
November 1st, I never finished it in 50,000 words by the 30th - or ever. So
this year I'm doing it the other way around: I'm hoping to have an almost
finished first draft of what might be the makings of my second completed novel,
with 50,000 words of it written during NaNoWriMo.
Does that still make me a
Of course, this draft will
need a lot of rewrite-work. A LOT. But at least I'll have something to rewrite,
which is the beauty of NaNo, and I'm learning to appreciate that more and more
each day. It's making me go forward again, not just dither on the precipice of
wanting to write. And even though my workload is full and I have other stuff
going on, I'm managing to carve out an hour each evening for writing.
When November is over, I want
to keep that up. My goal is an hour each day. When I let myself just write
without editing (because that screws up the flow), I manage 1,000 words during
that hour easily. At six days a week, that's approximately 300,000 words per
year, or ca. three novels in my favorite genre. Pretty promising stats, don't
you think? Time will tell if I can keep to this resolution.
I make no secret about being a
TV-series junkie. They are high up on my list of all-time favorite past-times,
because you get to follow your beloved characters for years, not just ninety
minutes like in a movie. At the moment I'm hooked on a new-to-me series called
Castle. Not only does it star Nathan Fillion - Shiny! - as the main character
Richard Castle, but Castle is also a successful writer of mystery novels. Add
in a beautiful and savvy lady homicide detective, delicious, skin-crawling
suspense and just the right amount of humor, and voilá - a mystery series that
has held my interest all the way up to the current fifth season (impressive,
since mystery usually isn't a favorite genre of mine).
But enough with the praise -
promoting Castle isn't the purpose of this post. Rather, it got me thinking
about how many movies, TV-series or books might be out there about writers
(though not necessarily about them actually writing). There's no deeper meaning
or purpose behind this query, just a curiosity to see how many I can think of.
Off the top of my head, I was
able to come up with the following (that I've seen and enjoyed):
Stranger than Fiction (Movie)
The Answer Man (Movie)
Paperback Hero (Movie)
Shakesepeare in Love (Movie)
Music and Lyrics (Movie)
As Good As It Gets (Movie)
Becoming Jane (Movie)
Finding Forrester (Movie)
A Lovesong For Bobby Long
Romancing The Stone (Movie)
I'm sure there are more I've
seen or read, especially books, but I can't think of one. I'm probably missing
something mind-bogglingly obvious... Let me know if you come up with any, so
that I might smack myself on the forehead with a D'oh!, Homer-Simpson style.
I'm slogging through at
approximately 1,300 words per week day, racing to catch up to target word count
on weekends. The writing is terrible, but I'm loving my characters and still
coming up with ideas non-stop for what I might put them through. For the sake
of the story, I hav vays of making you suffer! Mbwahahahah!
The draft is all over the
place and I'm already jotting down ways to fix the somewhat disconnected
chapters. Sometimes I'm so tired after a full day at work that I can't form a
proper sentence. But I put down words on paper, regardless of the
slaughter-house feel, because otherwise I wouldn't write anything, and that
would be worse. To quote Nora Roberts, romance author extraordinaire: You can
fix anything but a blank page.
It's that time of year
again. November. National Novel Writing Month. NaNo is to writers what
Christmas is to kids. Exciting. Long anticipated. Over far too quickly.
At the beginning, thirty days seem like enough time. 1,666 words a day don't
seem so difficult to manage. After all, the writing doesn't have to be at
Shakespearean levels of greatness. Basically, we only need to put words on
paper. Fifty thousand of them, not even the length of a standard novel. It's
the first half of a first draft. In my case, a very rough first draft. No
editing allowed, at least for me, otherwise I won't make it to fifty thousand.
Which is exactly what I need right now. I've gotten into this habit of editing
while writing, which kills the famous Flow. Something to do with left-brain vs.
right-brain activity: one side is active when being creative and actually
writing down your story, the other is active while editing. Try doing both at
the same time, and your brain-halves get deadlocked, creating the infamous
Obviously, I'm no brain-brainiac, but that's the gist of it. So I'm planning on
using this year's NaNo to break this obstructive, perfectionistic habit of mine
and just write. It's a great incentive, because I only have a couple of hours a
day to write, max, and if I start editing during that time I won't manage even
the 1,666 words per day.
So from tomorrow on, that's my mission: A month of all writing, no editing.
All fun, no brakes.
See you on the other side and may the Words be with you.
In Chapter 2 of my current writing fun-project, The Chamaeleon Chronicles, Sam's dreams of a crime-free future are shattered for good. She must let Fang, her inner wolf, handle a precarious situation and finds an unexpected ally. Maybe. Hope you enjoy it. Again, feedback of any kind is welcome.
I'm working on a story which I plan on posting in weekly chapters of approximately 2000 words each on this blog, The Chamaeleon Chronicles. It's about Samira, a space-traveling werewolf who ends up journeying with a crew of lowlives and misfits on a spaceship called Chamaeleon. Sort of Kate Daniels meets Firefly. In chapter 1, Sam's trying to quit her criminal ways and go legit, which of course isn't as easy as it sounds, especially when an old enemy gets in the way. This is just for fun, but I'd love your feedback (here or directly on the blog), if you have any to give. Hope you enjoy it.
Love this list by Rachelle Gardner on how to become a better writer. Creativity doesn't stem from writing itself, but from our experiences, our observation of the world around us, our curiosity in what makes others act and react, our own hopes and fears and dreams - our life.
They say write what you know. We don't know what we don't experience.
ago, I listed four quotes that completely apply to me in terms of writing.
Simply listing them here on the blog apparently wasn't enough for my feverish
little brain, though. I kept thinking about them for days and nights and those
life-preventing times called the working hours. So finally, I wrote my thoughts
down, because that always helps me muddle through things.
Here are my
thoughts on quote number two:
usually precedes writing and the impulse to write is almost always fired by
reading. Reading, the love of reading, is what makes you dream of becoming a
I get inspired to write by reading other people's writing. If I'm really
enjoying a story, the urge to write something of my own itches in my
fingertips. Solutions to problems in a story I'm working on spring to mind as
if they've always been there and only needed to be unlocked. By reading.
all happens on an unconscious level, because I'm completely immersed in the
world and characters I'm reading about. I'm not consciously trying to work out
my own story-problems, or fervently trying to come up with new ideas. They just
suddenly pop into mind, nudged to the forefront by something in the book I'm
reading. Sometimes I get all excited about the idea, but if the book is that
good I keep reading and later have to dig deep in my memory to find that idea
Not all of
them are useful, but even the useless ones often bump me onto the right path.
Some of them are downright crazy, and these are my favorites because they tend
to be different and fresh, even if they aren't always useful, either.
So, the bottom line for me
is: Reading stories opens and unlocks your mind to the infinite possibilities
in storytelling and I believe that's why it inspires people to write something
of their own.