About Me

Doreen Virtue

Autumn

Spring, 2008.

I was in the habit of bumming around Barnes and Noble, and took to exploring parts of the store that I had never ventured before. One day, the title Archangels & Ascended Masters caught my eye, and I wound up purchasing the book.

It was the archangels part that piqued my interest, and despite reading the whole book, I could never muster any appreciation for ascended masters. I was a thorough angel junkie by that point.

The book was my first exposure to non-Christian spirituality.

There were several things that happened in 2008 that sealed my fate in paganism, and after about a year of research I knew that I wasn’t remotely the New Age sort at all. I could never accept the idea that humanity was supposed to transcend basic emotions (aka lower vibrations) like fear and sadness, in order to live in the rather emotionless state of peace forever more. How boring. How stagnant. How pointless.

I quickly outgrew Doreen Virtue, viewing her as the equivalent of cotton candy who says a lot of feel-good fluff, but lacks any substance. She made for a good introduction, but the sort of stuff that I ultimately craved wasn’t going to be found in Barnes and Noble.

I suppose this illustrates how out-of-the-loop I am, but I finally learned that Doreen Virtue denounced New Age spirituality in 2017 and is now a born-again Christian.

Wow, isn’t it a funny world?

I wish that I could believe it was an honest-to-God conversion, because I don’t care about the particulars as much as I care about sincerity, and I don’t know many people who are actually sincere about their religion any more. Unfortunately, the heavy censorship that Doreen Virtue is continuing to enforce around herself triggers my cynicism, and I’m inclined to think not.

Of course, I’m coming to the party late and I don’t know much of the story, so don’t take my word for it — I just don’t get a particularly good feeling from her.

The question is, does this invalidate all of Doreen Virtue’s products? She was prolific,  and published an enormous number of books and card decks, which she now actively discourages people from reading/using. Am I left with tripe that I might as well burn?

No.

It was never Doreen Virtue who mattered in the first place. She shared her thoughts, but the important part was me. It was the way I felt and interpreted what I read, the parts that I liked and the parts that I dismissed, that made up the foundation of my spirituality. No matter who Doreen Virtue is or what she believes, I  am still me. She doesn’t have the power to change my story, and her books will always be part of my spiritual journey.

Like it or not, all of Doreen Virtue’s New Age products still have value, even if it’s just sentimental. There’s magic in honoring where you’ve been.

20190806_1005423866264371632065675.jpg
Hawt contraband

 

Stories

Writing prompt – Rebirth

Autumn

You just died. You go toward the light, but when you reach it, you emerge into a delivery room as a brand new, screaming baby. You have no more control over this new body than any other baby, and no one looking at you has any idea that you possess the consciousness and memories of your old life

 

At 53, my life hadn’t been long enough. After all the stumbles and faux pas of youth, I had finally begun to figure things out, and I had finally begun to look forward to each morning. My children had grown and moved out, leaving me with enough time to think, and perhaps more importantly to sleep, and I had realized with startling clarity what was Important, and what wasn’t. My deepest regret was that most of my life had been spent missing out on the good things in favor of the superficial.

My death was abrupt, and perhaps a little glorious. While I was driving home from work, a sudden yet powerful gust of wind knocked a semi-truck off of an overpass and into the path of my car down below. My last image was of apples scattered around the freeway.

I was surprised that there really was a tunnel with a light at the end of it – having never experienced death before, I didn’t know what to expect. As I sped along, I thought about everything I had done, everything I had loved or regretted, and I felt sad that it was over when so many things were about to begin. I closed my eyes in preparation of entering the blinding light in front of me.

Suddenly air filled my lungs, and I let out a scream in shock. My body was heavy, my legs and arms were completely limp and unresponsive; I couldn’t even lift my head. Some giant held me, snuggling me against itself, so I slowly opened my eyes and stared in dumbfounded amazement up at my daughter’s face. She was huge.

Or rather, I was tiny.

She was laughing and crying, with sweat on her brow and bags under her eyes. It dawned on me that she had just given birth … to me.

Freaky.

“I don’t know why, but she reminds me so much of my mom,” my daughter said, beaming down at me. “I wish she could have been here … I miss her so much!” Her happiness quickly changed to sobbing, and inwardly I nodded understandingly at the mood swings that happen so fast during those first few moments after giving birth. I wished that I could have reached out to comfort her, but all I could manage was to stare, and that felt ineffectual as well. Everything beyond her face was so blurry, I couldn’t tell who she was talking to. Her husband, I hoped, because otherwise I’d have to have a word with him.

She began to stroke my face and hair, and it was so soothing that I felt myself drift off to sleep despite my best efforts to stay awake. The last words I heard before a slipped into a deep slumber were, “Let’s name her Rebecca, after my mother.”

I had been given a second chance, with the people that I had held most dear in my previous life, and this time I wasn’t going to waste it.

On Reddit

Stories

Lyra and Malachi chapter 1

Autumn

I started this novel about a month before baby #4 had me hurling my guts out in the toilet, and by the time I was up for writing again, the thread of inspiration was gone.

The characters in this novel are amongst my oldest and dearest, so one day it will be written and published, come hell or high water. For now, it will continue to grow and mature in that secret place where stories reside before they’re ready for the world.

When I re-read this chapter, I thought that the end seemed forced and unnatural, and lacked the strength of the opening. It’s probably a good thing that I’m not tackling this particular story for the time being.

 

News of the Father’s arrival spread like a wildfire through the town’s grapevine, and after only two days everyone had heard the name: Evan Malachi, the traveling priest. He was staying with their own pastor, would be delivering the sermon on Sunday, and was already completely booked up for lunches and dinners for the entirety of his stay.

Lyra was at the early morning market when she first heard the name. As she studied through her lists of groceries, two middle-aged women passed by chittering about how attractive the traveling priest was. By the time she was juggling three baskets full of vegetables, she had heard all about Father Malachi. No one was able to agree on his age, but they all reported that he had vibrant gold hair and a handsome face. Those who had already spoken to him said that he was engaging and articulate, with charisma to spare.

It was no surprise to Lyra when the first thing out of Mrs. Grady’s mouth was, “Have you heard about Father Malachi?”

Setting one of the baskets down on Mrs. Grady’s table, Lyra replied, “I’ve heard of nothing else.”

“I have yet to meet him, but everyone who has is absolutely smitten with him. Oh, if only there was a way to get him over to our house for dinner!”

“I’m sure that you’ll think of a way to ask him,” Lyra answered, distracted. She was staring at her list, frowning at the realization that she had forgotten to write down the price of the carrots. No matter what everyone else said, that darned Father Malachi was already making her life more difficult than she cared for. She was going to have to estimate low, and suffer the difference in her pay.

“Here’s the price for the groceries, Mrs. Grady. I’ll be back to clean after I finish making the rest of my deliveries.”

“Do a thorough job this time. We’ll never know if a certain visitor is going to be coming over.” Mrs. Grady took the receipt from Lyra and disappeared towards her husband’s study, while Lyra let herself out through the back door.

After her father’s death four months ago, Lyra had taken up employment between three different households, managing the basic upkeep and errands. None of them were rich enough to afford a full-time servant, but they could pay her for a couple hours of work every day. Lyra was barely managing to keep her father’s house, and after only four months she was already beginning to feel worn down.

Her father had been a carpenter, and the two of them had lived comfortably. Her mother died when she was very young, but her father often shared with her the locket he wore that contained her mother’s picture, and told wonderful stories about his deceased wife. Whenever Lyra snuggled against her father’s chest and listened to him talk about her mother, it was easy to imagine that she had stepped out to pick wildflowers, and would come back home soon to pop delicious, puffy bread dough into the oven to bake. When her father died, she lost her mother a second time as well.

Lyra worked hard, and despite Mrs. Grady’s implication, she was one of the best maids around. Her three houses were better kept than Mr. Neils, the only man in town with both cooks and servants. She refused to work for someone who was always holding the subject of rent and threat of eviction over her head, and Mr. Niels already had the rest of the town in the palm of his hand. Lyra didn’t want to give him more power over her than he already had.

Like everyone else, Lyra attended church every Sunday, but not because she believed in it. She wanted her employers to see her there and rest assured in the idea that she was too pious to ever steal from them, but the truth was that Lyra hated God. She would sit in her pew every week and curse Him for taking away good people like her father and mother, while money-grubbing landlords like Mr. Niels continued on in perfect health. Lyra couldn’t love a God who ran the world in such a fashion. She still cried every night over the death of her father, but she was never going to let her sorrow show in public.

As far as she was concerned, Father Malachi was a pawn for a vengeful and petty God, and the sooner he left, the sooner her life would continue on the same as before, though she didn’t particularly like where it was going – or, rather, wasn’t.

Even still, after leaving the third household to return home, having spent the entire day endlessly hearing others talk about him yet again, her curiosity was piqued. Despite herself, Lyra was beginning to look forward to Sunday.

Lyra started her work early in the morning, so she would always have the afternoons and evenings free to herself. She liked to spend them in the meadow just outside of town when she wasn’t busy with her own survival, and had beaten a little path through the woods with her journeying, though she was careful to make sure that it looked like it was only used by deer – the meadow was her secret, and she didn’t want it to become a popular spot for picnics. Her own chores were simple and easy to complete now that she was living alone, and once she was done she set to work making a little basket of food. Then Lyra was off.

It had turned into a hot summer day, but the shade of the trees was cool and pleasant. The worries that usually plagued her began to fade away as she walked through the forest, remaining behind as she moved towards her sanctuary. The birds were singing energetically in the tree tops, and Lyra closed her eyes as she took in a deep breath, taking a moment to feel the forest around her with her spirit.

A loud thump and breaking twigs made her jump and gasp, and Lyra’s eyes snapped open to see a startled looking man standing in front of her. He had vibrant gold hair that hung freely around his shoulders, and his face was smooth, young, and handsome. His eyes held Lyra’s gaze, a vivid shade of turquoise that held more wisdom than she had seen before, even amongst the eldest members of her community. He was wearing a simple black cassock with buttons down the front, but his figure looked strong and fit underneath, and around his neck he wore a gold cross on a long chain. Lyra didn’t have to guess at his identity.

Father Malachi.

“Good evening!” he exclaimed, somehow seeming more off-balance than Lyra felt. “I believe we haven’t met before; I’m–”

“I know.” Lyra tore her eyes away from his, then pushed past him to keep going to the meadow. She felt indignant, that he would invade her private sanctuary then look as if she had stumbled across his secret. He followed after her.

“Forgive me if I startled you.” His voice was like velvet, soft yet masculine, with a cadence that penetrated her heart and set it at ease. Lyra liked it, and could easily imagine herself sitting and listening to him preach every day if she didn’t have anything else to do; she now understood why no one could talk of anything else. He continued speaking, “I was doing a touch of exploring, and I hadn’t realized that any people knew about this path. I wouldn’t have bumbled so much if I had expected to find you.”

Lyra stopped and turned to face him. “Look, Father, as far as I know I’m the only person who knows about this place, and I’d like to keep it that way. I come here to be alone.” She hoped that her emphasis would help him understand the hint, though she was conflicted about whether or not she actually wanted him to leave. Somehow, she had ended up with Father Malachi all to herself, to talk about whatever she desired with no one around to interrupt. Lyra found that she had a lot on her mind that she wanted to say to the traveling priest, or perhaps more to God through him.

“I am sworn to secrecy, my daughter.” He smiled as he drew his fingers across his lips.

Lyra quickly walked across the meadow to sit down on her favorite spot of soft grass, biting the inside of her cheek to keep herself from crying. Father Malachi had made her think of her deceased father, and her soul stung with the absence of her parents. She had every intention of letting go and sobbing, but he was still following her and she didn’t want him to see her weaknesses. Lyra didn’t say anything as she straightened her skirt over her legs, then pulled an apple out of her basket and began shining it to give herself something to do.

“May I ask your name?” Father Malachi sat down next to her.

“Lyra,” she snapped.

“It’s a beautiful name, and it suits you well.” Without asking permission, he reached over and took the apple out of Lyra’s hands, then took a big bite through it’s shiny red skin and crisp fruit. “Mm, it’s very delicious. Thank you.”

Lyra was stunned. “That’s . . . mine!”

He grinned and held it out to her. “Would you like it back?”

“No!” Lyra couldn’t make heads or tails out of his behavior, and she wondered if he wasn’t entirely of sound mind, but that didn’t stop her outrage. “That was supposed to be part of my dinner!”

“What else did you bring?” He reached for her basket, but she snatched it up and held it against her chest.

“Go away!”

“Got you.” Father Malachi took another bite of the apple and winked. “Are you feeling better now?”

Something new and indescribable filled Lyra’s center, a sort of epiphany mixed with even more confusion. “What?” All of the fire was gone from her now.

“You were on the verge of tears, but you didn’t want it to show. Unfortunately, my dearest daughter, you’re not as skilled at hiding your feelings as you think you are.”

Lyra felt insulted yet relieved. “I was under the impression that everyone else in town was feeding you. There’s no reason for you to take my food as well.”

“Yes, I have been promised an assortment of exquisite meals from the finest cooks that your town has to offer, but that doesn’t change the pleasure of an apple. So, my dearest daughter, is this really the entirety of your dinner?”

Lyra felt herself blushing, partly in shame over her meager meal, and partly because he kept referring to her as his ‘dearest daughter.’ She was already becoming attached to the traveling priest, and she knew that it would break her heart to watch him move on. “Yes . . .”

“But you can cook, with talent as well.”

“How did . . .?” Lyra stared at him, numbly handing over the basket when Father Malachi gestured for it.

“Smoked gouda,” he said as he pulled out her cheese. “It combines wonderfully with fresh apple, yet is a little more costly. From the state of your dress, you are carefully managing your finances, yet you still decided to indulge in this particular treat.”

Lyra clenched her jaw and said tightly, “I stopped cooking after my father died four months ago.”

“Ah, the reason for my dearest daughter’s pain.” Father Malachi set the basket down and wrapped an arm around Lyra, pulling her against him. “It’s perfectly acceptable to hurt. You don’t have to hide from me.”

“I miss my daddy.” Lyra felt like she was reverting to childish behavior, that she wasn’t carrying herself in a manner than was appropriate for a grown woman. Tears slipped out of her eyes, and she wrapped her arms around Father Malachi’s neck as she began to cry. “I miss my daddy so much!”

How did this end up happening?

Somehow, Father Malachi had pierced her mind and stolen the thoughts that she kept hidden there.

Lyra was a small child, crying in the arms of a stranger over the loss of her father, and now that she had grasped him she didn’t want to let him go. She wanted to stay with Father Malachi, to always be his dearest daughter, to depend on him for the safety and protection that she had been living without.

What was it about Father Malachi that made her feel that way?

About Writing

Endings

Autumn

I’ve reached the point where I had planned on ending the story in my current WIP, only to discover that I even kind of hate myself with how inconclusive in feels.

I realized that there needed to be a sequel about a month or so ago, which was heartbreaking because I always figured my attention span was too short to write serials (naturally, I’m saying this after I spent close to a year on a single rough draft), but the story demands more, and thus I have no choice. There will be a book two.

I figured that I could go ahead with the ending of book number one as originally planned, since it was open enough to seamlessly slide into a sequel without any problems. Now that I have it written down, I’ve realized that it’s actually a giant cliffhanger with too many incomplete threads left dangling. Wow. After all this time, how could I not realize that the ending needed to be more complete?

I need to wrap something up, even if I leave the big picture unfinished for the sequel. I just don’t know what can be conveniently closed for good.

So instead of declaring the draft finished, I’m back to the drawing board.

Ah, writing. You tricky demon.

Muse

Plumb – Me

Autumn

This is my, “Motherhood is hard and sometimes I need to sit and cry” song.

About Writing

Book Covers

Autumn

2523067

My husband found The Regiment (published 1987) in a used bookstore back in 2010, and a few days later handed it over to me with the instruction that I *had* to read it. The Regiment is a scifi novel that is deeply philosophical, with a subtle element of spirituality woven in, and it influenced the way I think of every day life. It’s definitely one of my favorites.

It was never unpacked after our last move, and now currently resides in a box in the basement, so it’s been awhile since I’ve read it. One of these days I’ll get around to unpacking those boxes, but that day is not today.

The thing is, my husband and I got a very good laugh about the cover, and we still occasionally reference how bad it is. The picture is only vaguely related to the novel at best, and the tagline is so badly wrong that I suspect whoever wrote it hadn’t even read a summary. Excellent book, terrible cover.

51kXXut3NfL._SX330_BO1,204,203,200_

I purchased Wicked Lovely when it was a new release in 2008, back when I was young and trusting. I consider it to be a guilty pleasure, since while I adore the idea of faerie courts in the book, I think that it is put together in a way that is shallow and a touch crude.

Mind you, I’d still rate the book 3.5/5, and I even followed the author’s blog for awhile clear back then, so I mean it when I describe this as a guilty pleasure. I read the sequel, Ink Exchange, and every now and then ponder whether or not I should get more books by Melissa Marr, just to see how her writing has been coming along. Unfortunately, the premise of the novels never unfolded in a satisfying fashion, so I continue to hold back. There’s just too much of a modern twist in her writing.

Wanna guess why I bought this book back then?

The cover.

It was pretty.

The contents therein did not match expectations. If the cover had actually reflected the story, I wouldn’t have spent my hard-earned pennies on it, because I’m not a modern sort of person by any stretch of the imagination. Now that it’s 11 years later, I might cut the cover off, frame it, and hang it on the wall where I can look at it, but I’m not all that inclined toward reading the novel again. It’s probably a good thing that this book is also squirreled away in the basement.

I might, at some point in the future, write my own version of faerie courts to tell the story that I had wanted to read back then, though my cover won’t be anywhere near as pretty if I do. I’ll have to rely on the strength of words alone to generate appeal, and we all know how well that will work, le sigh.

At least I’ll have the satisfaction of a good story.

I don’t judge books by their covers anymore; beauty is only skin deep.

 

About Writing

Sentence Length

Autumn

I’ve done some groaning on this topic recently, so I figured that it wouldn’t be a bad idea to expound a little more. So, how long should sentences be?

Despite the ubiquity of Twitter-friendly writing in contemporary literature, even Pinterest advises against putting too many short sentences in a row. Why? Because they are monotonous and difficult to read.

However, the counter advice of using varying lengths also has the potential of being misused. If you think to yourself, “I have too many long sentences in this paragraph; I’m going to throw in a short one to spice things up!” STOP AND THINK AGAIN. Longer sentences can provide plenty of variety on their own, especially if you are skilled at using less common punctuation like semicolons or dashes. Learn the intricacies of grammar instead.

Unless you are a poetry master (or giving yourself a writing challenge for the fun of it), don’t try to default to any sort of formulas for sentence length (such as, long, long, short, medium). Don’t use short sentences for the sake of having short sentences. The human brain is smart enough to naturally pick up patterns across paragraphs, and using the same one over and over will become monotonous. Unfortunately, that monotony is also the reason why it’s easy to slip into following patterns in the first place — brains are lazy.

Instead, follow this rule of thumb: The more important the idea is, the more concise the sentence should be.

For example:

He was fucked.

Versus:

He was in the unfortunate position — and he had to admit that it was entirely his fault — of finding himself in a dire situation.

The former conveys a sense of urgency and finality that the latter doesn’t possess, because the effect is softened by the use of more words. In the second sentence, we naturally expect the character to find a way out, despite his dire situation, because the urgency just isn’t there. However, there’s no arguing with the simplicity of the three words that compose the first sentence. He’s fucked, and that’s that.

Let’s do another example:

His eyes were blue, surrounded by aging skin that was creased with smile lines, which made them seem soft and friendly.

Versus:

His eyes were blue. They were surrounded by aging skin that was creased with smile lines, making them seem soft and friendly.

In the first sentence, the fact that this character’s eyes are blue matter less than the fact that they are soft and friendly, and the color might never be mentioned again. The point of this sentence is to give the reader a general idea of how this character looks.

In the second sentence, the character’s eyes are *blue*, and the reader subconsciously expects this emphasis to be important later on. Maybe they’re blue because he’s secretly an angel, or maybe someone will recognize him by his eyes after he’s been inflicted with amnesia, or something. This sort of emphasis is a subtle and effective form of foreshadowing. Cool, huh?

For the most part, read your writing out loud to hear how it sounds; you can even record yourself then play it back to get a better idea the flow. If you don’t like what you hear, fix it. Most of us read with an internal voice narrating to ourselves, and writers need to be mindful of that fact when they are plying their craft. That’s how you create something enjoyable.