It has dawned on me that thus far, I’ve been painting myself as a ‘generic author.’ Part of that is my compulsive need to stay secretive, especially since I have a book in progress and I don’t want to reveal much about it until its ready. But that doesn’t mean I have to be generic!
My favorite genres are:
Gothic romance
Dark fantasy
Horror
My stories are usually combinations of all three.
I am an eclectic pagan; I read oracle cards, burn incense, and talk to trees. I include a number of elements of spirituality in what I write.
When I was a kid, I used to pin my bright yellow blanket around my shoulders (the perfect universal costume, in my humble opinion) and play act having conversations with the characters from my favorite novels. I loved those hours I spent in my room, exploring worlds and “interacting” with Martin the Warrior and Prince Caspian.
One day when I turned ten, I got hold of some lined paper, picked up my favorite maroon marker, and started writing those conversations down. Truthfully I didn’t understand paragraphs back then, or quotation marks for that matter, but that solid block of text was the beginning of my dream.
As I grew, I joined Elfwood and Fictionpress, swapped stories with other teenagers online, took creative writing classes all through high school, and majored in creative writing in college. For me, there were no other career options — I was a writer.
Then life happened.
Somehow, the agonizing moments seamlessly blended into becoming a wife and mother of three, and before I knew it the better part of a decade had passed.
But you know what? Writing is the only thing that gives my life a deeper sense of meaning outside of the ordinary. What would be the point of all the pain and joy if those emotions stayed secretly locked up inside my own head? Sometimes it seems like it’s the only way I can peacefully live with the past.
I have my days of dark depression, when demons loom over me and whisper bleak things in my ear, leaving me too paralyzed to think. Then the sun shines again, I find a quiet moment nestled between games and chores, and I write.
I’m not going to teach you how to write. Basic grammar is taught in school, and everything else comes with practice and experience. Use your brain and your talent, don’t be afraid to write a few crappy novels before you get the knack of it, and you’ll be fine. Besides, those crappy novels just might become best sellers — you never know these days.
I used to read blogs written by some of my favorite authors. I never cared about their technique, and didn’t visit their blog because I wanted to know how they did it. I wanted to know about them, as a person. Who were they? What were they like? What hobbies and interests did they have? Were they total weirdos like me?
I use my time differently now, so I don’t follow very many blogs anymore. I still have the same interest as before: I want to know about the author behind the stories.
The purpose of my blog is to answer that question for you. This is what I’m like.
I’m working on my second draft for my current novel-in-progress, but I’ve been letting lots of “real life” activities distract me — that’s what happens when Spring rolls around.
Instead of writing, I’ve sandblasted an antique bathtub, hand sewed a cloth doll, and adopted a sun conure (who likes my husband better, ha ha). With all of these other activities going on, I haven’t felt much like curling up with my laptop.
Even now, my seven-month-old kitten is buttering me up for attention. What a busy person I have become!
But eventually the absence from writing starts to wear thin, like an unmet drive that becomes more and more distracting with each passing moment. I confess to feeling cranky for the last couple of days. Too much time has slipped by. I crave my words and characters again.
