No, all ye 'baby-boomers' like me, I'm not referring to George Reeves in his Superman outfit (with that slightly middle-aged paunch that always made me giggle).
I'm referring to something that would have had the Man from Krypton green, not from Kryptonite, but from envy; something that could have made the atom bomb look like a penny cracker.
Imagination: the most powerful force in existence outside of God, and capable of performing such miracles as turning a single raindrop into a world-engulfing torrent, or creating an army so huge, so fearsome that no creature to ever live would have dared challenge it.
I often think the modern-day creators of those fantastic and unbelievable creatures, machines, worlds, and other bits and pieces found in the lab of a set creator from Hollywood have made a mistake by not leaving more to the imagination of the film-buff. Are we not capable of creating creatures and places in our imaginations that no Hollywood genius could ever hope to put together? Don't believe me? Close your eyes, and conjure up the most hideous, fearsome, terrifying, blood-thirsty and totally unstoppable creature you can...then ask yourself: could Stephen Spielberg create this, if I described it for him?
But where do those scenes and sets found in our imaginations come from? For some writers, they come from gazing out of the window and dreaming; I know of others who keep a box of trinkets - nuts, old nails, pieces of sea-shell, bent pennies, literally anything that is small and can be placed inside a small box along with another hundred or so oddities, then taken out at odd times and gazed at...until whatever it is you hold in your hand triggers some hidden neuron in the brain, and up pops a story, or perhaps just a sentence, or a title, or maybe even a word or name...and from that grows a 50,000 word tale that will entertain a reader for hours, days, weeks, depending on how busy their own lives are.
In my case, I'm afraid I can't tell you where my stories come from...not because I don't want to, or because it's currently listed under the national secrets seal, but simply because I don't know!
Sometimes, all I have to start with is an image...say, a monstrous, fanged, blazing-eyed werewolf clinging to the very pinnacle of a church spire, and searching the streets below for its next victim. Sometimes, it's no more than the title; at other times, it may be no more than a word. Yet I know that if I sit down at my computer and place my fingers on the keys, the words will come...even though, as I place my fingertips down, those words are nowhere in sight!
And here I make a confession: I have never planned a story in my life. I don't know how the story will end; I don't know who will survive; I don't even know what I will write tomorrow in my usual five-hour stint. I only know that when I awake and grab my cup of coffee and sit down, turn on my machine, and place my fingers on the keyboard, the words will come, from where I know not. And I also know that when I finish the story and then set myself, some days later, to read back through it, each little twist, each tiny deviation from the plot, will work and will fit just as if it all came from the most finely detailed blueprint ever drawn.
Of course, there are hours of research involved, because I love writing in the past - the 17th or 18th century usually - and in different countries, which obviously means research. But even that is fun. It's fun to find out when the first match to light a pipe with was created, and what people used before it was invented; it's fun to dig into what people wore in those days. It's even fun to find out what kitchen maids did with the washing-up water (assuming they washed up, of course) after they'd used it...in fact, it's what happened to dirty water that caused us to adopt the good manners to ensure a lady walked on the inside of the footpath whilst ye gents walked on the outside (so that if any poor sod was to wear a face-full of filthy water, it was the male).
But at the end of the day, it all comes right back to imagination, that tool we all possess, and without which there would be no writers...in fact, there'd be not much of anybody, when you think about it.
Imagination...what a gift it was! A gift beyond price. And I thank God He saw fit to give it to us.
It may seem unusual, but I'm just taking the short route to advise all that my email address has changed.
It is now ian64832@optusnet.com.au
Adrian
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Are You a Risk-Taker?
 |
| AUTHOR CELIA YEARY IN A SECRET UNDISCLOSED LOCATION |
Risk-takers, to me, are extreme sportsmen, drug users, or perhaps some Olympians. Take Shaun White, the US snowboarder, for example. During one of the winter Olympics, I became very interested in this sport. I know nothing of it, except the little I've seen on TV. Shaun won the gold medal. How? By inventing a new, complicated, dangerous move, which he performed on his last trial. He pulled it off without a hitch, and while the other contestants played it safe with no errors, he took a chance with something more complicated and also pulled it off with no errors. Gold!
That same year, Evan Lysacek also represented the United States in men's figure-skating. His performance was flawless, perfection on ice, a routine he'd practiced, literally, for years. His Russian counter-point, the medal favorite, took a chance and executed a move than no one else did. But! The judges weren't looking for extraordinary moves—they were looking for those within the guidelines, and a contestant who skated those perfectly. Who won the gold? Not the risk-taker, this time, but the one who played it safe.
Do you take risks in writing and
submitting? Do you try for the agent who will take you to the top? Or do you
play it safe, sticking only with the area you know best and feel somewhat
confident of earning some success?
Which works best? Me? I have taken risks, and not one person I know would believe that I did. I don't look the part, I don't act with bravado, in fact, I look like a Sunday school teacher. In my forties, I signed on to be a sponsor to take forty high school students skiing. I had never skied in my life. There were four other female sponsors, along with four male sponsors. At the mountain resort, all of us donned skis on the bunny slope and tried it out for most of one day. By the second day, all females had quit except me. I went on the second day with two men to an intermediate slope. Down we went, back and forth. On the third and last day, the men enticed me to go to the next harder slope, which I did. I had several mishaps, frightening ones, but each time I stood up and kept going. At the end of the day, I'd stayed with those men, even though I almost scooted down the slope. My poor body ached and hurt all over. I never skied again.
The same thing happened when I
learned to play golf at age forty. I studied and worked, and soon I was winning
money and small trophies at our local course. I couldn't have been happier during
those years. Other women said, "Man, you came out here to win!"
"Yes," I said, "why would I come out here to lose?"
And so, I'm a mix of risk-taker vs.
play- it-safer kind of author. One day, I hope to take a really big chance and
try for the gold. Right now? I'm playing it safe.
What about you? Risk-taker? Play-safer?
~*~*~*~
BLURB from the newest release, Charlotte and the Tenderfoot
~*~ While driving home in her buggy, Charlotte
Dewhurst discovers a man lying by the road. William Montgomery, an attorney,
was passing through the area when accosted by two hoodlums. The resulting court
case keeps Will in town. His attitudes confuse Charlotte as he seeks her
company, yet proclaims he will soon be moving on. But Will may be the most
confused one of all.~*~
A 99Cent Dime Novel from Western Trail Blazer
Available on Amazon, B&N, Monkey Bars
Celia Yeary-Romance...and a little bit 'o Texas
Sweethearts of the West-Blog
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
A Ms. Quote Interview with Miriam Newman
Ms. Quote's WORDS with...
Miriam Newman
MQ: Well, a good gracious greetin’ to you, Miriam! How you doin’ today, sweetie?
MN: Umm…(glancing around with confused expression) Is this what I signed up for?
MQ: ‘Course it is! (bats lashes) You’re goin’ to be famous right along with me! What else did you expect, honey pie?
MN: Certainly not a blonde…(gives Ms. Quote a quick once-over) bimbo.
MQ: (taken aback) Why, that’s not my name. Shame on you, Billy Bob. (presses ear bud closer and speaks into microphone) What kind of producer are you, telling this nice lady my name is Bimbo. You know he’s the hiccuping monkey you’ve lined up for the next act.
MN: Never mind. (hastily takes seat) In half an hour I have a sky diving lesson with a blind pilot and I don’t want to be late. So what say we get started, huh?
MQ: Goody! (plops down in seat across from Miriam, and picks up book off table) This here was written by you, wasn’t it?
MQ: Oh. (chortles) Silly me. Here we go. (holds book correctly) My super silky eyelashes keep getting’ in my way, so can you read this title, please ma’am?
MN: (mutters) I wonder if you can read, period.
MQ: What was that?
MN: Nothing. (clears throat) The title is The King’s Daughter.
MQ: Ooh, an’ it has a nice cover an’ ever’thin’! Who’s this gal right here?
MQ: Now that you mention it, I bet it is! (giggles) And what in the world does a name like that mean?
MN: “Heart of the Earth.” It’s the name Tia is given at birth, in her parents’ native Alcinic language.
MQ: Al --Alsend-- (waves hand in dismissive gesture) Oh, pooh. I believe you. What’s the story about, hon?
MN: Let me read the blurb. (takes book and turns to back cover) Born to a dying queen and an ambitious king, Tarabenthia is heir to the crown of Alcinia. Yet when the idyll of her childhood ends she will defy her father, tipping the balance in a world poisoned on the brink of destruction, leaving history to judge whether she is heroine or harlot. In a time of war, what would you surrender in the name of love?
MQ: (blinks) Wait a minute. How is the world ‘poised on the brink of destruction’? Don’t get me wrong, an’ I don’t wanna argue, but you know that can’t be true!
MN: (stares at MQ) Say what?
MQ. (nods) Why, yeah! It’s Atlas that holds the earth on his big thick muscles. Are you sayin’ he gets drunk or somethin’, an’ he lets Earth fall an’ it smashes his piggies?
MN: Ooh, that’s quite a picture. (fights against grin) No, this fantasy world has been gradually moving from a Neolithic culture to something more “modern,” with alliances between nations and other signs of a flourishing culture. Suddenly, it’s beset by a primitive one which finally acquires the means to break out of its isolation and threatens everything the others have achieved. So they risk being destroyed by barbarians who greatly outnumber them.
MN: It’s a pre-Medieval conflict complete with swords, crossbows and every other nasty thing the warriors of that time can dream up.
MQ: Well, oh my. You look like such a calm lady. What made you write a book like this?
MN: Fantasy poetry driven by myths and legends has been my passion for as long as I can remember.
MQ: Really? Don’t you try your hand at an’thin’ else?
MN: Sure. I was published in poetry before catching the romance writing bug. I bring that background to my writing along with a lifelong addiction to horses, an 18 year career in various areas of psychiatric social services and many trips to Ireland. That’s where I nurture my muse.
MN: (sighs) I do have a “motley crew” of rescue animals, but Muse isn’t one of them.
MQ: Oh, poor Muse. So you don’t read your poetry to him?
MN: There is no…Forget it.
MQ: How good are you at poetry? Can you make up something right now?
MN: How’s this:
Oh, fickle are ladies in pink
Who wonder if poets can think!
So we ply ‘em with candy
And poems quite dandy
And sometimes occasional drink.
MQ: (squeals with delight) That’s just darlin’ is what that is! An’ what else are you published in, Ms. New-woman?
MQ: Did you say science fiction? What’s that one called?
MN: Scion – Book I – House of Bardin is my best-selling (for me!) futuristic romance.
MQ: An’ the name of that history one?
MN: The Comet - my favorite historical romance, set against the Battle of Hastings in 1066 A.D.
MQ: Uh huh. Well, that’s real interestin’ an’ all, but gettin’ back to poor Muse…
MN: (groans)
MQ: You said you found him in Ireland? What were you doin’ over there? Don’t you live ‘round these parts somewhere?
MN: Nowhere close to you! Currently, I reside in rural Pennsylvania.
MQ: So why are we talkin’ about Ireland? You hopin’ to find that pot o’ gold all them little men in green hunt for?
MQ: For real? What about your ‘romance writing bug’? Won’t you need to stay here and tend to that?
MN: Excuse me, but look at the time. (stands up) It’s been fun —sorta— but I need to…
MQ: Wait! You gotta tell me how you ‘caught’ that bug. Where was it flying around? In the Forest of Love?
MN: Actually, it was in Ireland. I think it was in the Guinness Stout.
MQ: Oh, an’ just one more thin’…(grabs Miriam’s arm) My hero, I.B. Nosey, as you know he’s won the Pukelitzer Award. Did I hear rightly that you were sittin’ in the audience at the ceremony?
MN: No, but I wish I had seen that!
MN: Hey, look. He’s holding my book. (gasps) He’s reading!
MQ: Billy Bob, did you hear me? (flings down microphone and stalks to doorway) That Bimbo is ruinin’ my interroga — I mean, my interview! Billy Bob! Billy Bob? Where are you?
* * * * *
Please leave a comment to have a chance to win an ebook copy of
The King's Daughter
Please leave a comment to have a chance to win an ebook copy of
The King's Daughter
Visit Miriam at her website.
Buy links (all digital formats and print) for The King's Daughter
Be sure to come back next month on Wednesday, July 4th,
to see who Ms. Quotes' next victi... uhm... interviewee will be.
Be sure to come back next month on Wednesday, July 4th,
to see who Ms. Quotes' next victi... uhm... interviewee will be.
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