#writer, your body does not define your #writing voice: a response to the #YA #cancelculture among #readers and #authors

Purity tests are the tools of fanatics, and the quest for purity ultimately becomes indistinguishable from the quest for power. 

Jennifer Senior, “Teen Fiction and the Perils of Cancel Culture”

There is a darkness creeping along the edges of Twitter. Like the Nothing from Neverending Story, it haunts authors with hushed whispers until it moves in swiftly with a power unmatched by any other.

It is the Cancel Culture.

I had not heard of cancel culture until last month, when debut YA author Kosoko Jackson pulled his book from publication because he was accused of being insensitive to the Muslim community. You can read the account here. Like article writer Jennifer Senior says, there’s a strong sense of irony that this YA author pulls his book after he and others demanded YA author Amélie Wen Zhao pull her book due to evoking “an offensive analogy to American slavery.” Click here for that article. (Oh, and here’s another article I found while editing this post that mentions yet another YA book mobbed by cancel culture.) This issue’s grown to such a point that PENAmerica recently held a panel featuring a diverse array of writers and critics to discuss the matter–click here for that, as it’s a thought-provoking read.

Whether you wade through all the articles or not, I really want you to see the quote from Jackson that speaks to this stormy state of YA Literature:

What Jackson’s case really demonstrates is just how narrow and untenable the rules for writing Y.A. literature are. In a tweet last May, Jackson himself more or less articulated them: “Stories about the civil rights movement should be written by black people. Stories of suffrage should be written by women. Ergo, stories about boys during life-changing times, like the AIDS epidemic, should be written by gay men. Why is this so hard to get?”

On the one hand, I LOVE the idea of bringing all the voices from all the walks of life onto the page. No one’s voice is worth less than another.

But while the cancel culture and purists may say they are fighting for diversity, their words come off more as calls for segregation.

Case in point: American Heart by Laura Moriarity. Initially her book was awarded a starred review from Kirkus…until cancel culture called for otherwise. Not only did Kirkus pull its star, it completely altered the review. Click here for a comparison of the two reviews. The New Yorker even did an editorial on “problematic” book reviews, (click here for that) and I think writer Ian Nolan’s conclusion on criticism is worth noting here:

…criticism exists in different flavors, but its defining feature is an individualism of response. That response can be wise or unwise, popular or unpopular. A reviewer can squander authority by seeming too often at odds with good judgment. But, without critical autonomy, the enterprise falls apart. The only reason to hire a critic, instead of giving a megaphone to the crowd, is that creative work—books most of all—isn’t processed as a collective. People make sense of art as individuals, and their experiences of the work differ individually, too. A reviewer speaks for somebody, even if he or she doesn’t speak for you.

Ian Nolan, “Kirkus Reviews and the Plight of the “Problematic” Book Review

In an age when people are supposedly only making books (and movies, as the bickering over Captain Marvel shows) for certain groups of people and NOT for the general public, I would like to ask this:

Why must my body define my voice?

I am a white woman born of two white parents in the Midwest. My parents both worked for protestant churches, and together barely made enough to make ends meet. Frugality was the name of the game no matter where we lived, be it a small farming town up north, or deep in Milwaukee’s North Side.

My father was born and raised in Milwaukee in a tumultuous time. White flight, housing discrimination, police brutality, and the Civil Rights movement all boiled over to overwhelm the inner city and scald it with the Milwaukee Riots. I can’t imagine how this affected my dad, seeing the death, the pain, the hundreds upon hundreds arrested in a war for equality. Maybe taking that Call to serve his childhood church in Milwaukee is answer enough.

Milwaukee has become infamous for being one of the most segregated cities of America. We saw it then, that first Sunday: even though the church is situated in a densely populated area, only a handful of elderly white people sat in the pews. Not a single resident of the church’s neighborhood attended. No one had tried to connect with the predominantly African American community. They had merely preached to their own.

I think Dad saw this and remembered the prejudice and anger that had poisoned his town so deeply in the 1960s. It would explain what he did next.

Juneteenth Day comes every 19th of June to celebrate the emancipation of slaves in 1865 in the last “holdout” state (Texas) after the Civil War. Dad reorganized the church’s annual outdoor picnic to be held in June as close to the 19th as he could get. He invited a gospel choir directed by a friend of his in a church from Milwaukee’s East Side, another struggling area. Then he reached out to the congregation’s few young members to form groups for canvassing the neighborhood, leaving flyers of invitation to the church’s outdoor service. With a mixture of words from the Bible and Civil Rights activists, Dad preached a message of Love, Equality, Justice, and Hope.

If I am to take this cancel culture to heart, then my father should not have worked to heal the old neighborhood. He was a middle-aged white man; therefore, he cannot possibly connect with those of a different color. He should have kept with his own kind. We should all only keep to our own kinds.

That mindset might help explain how Milwaukee was deemed “America’s Most Segregated City” in 2016.

Have we forgotten what it means to look beyond ourselves?

Have we forgotten what it means to have empathy?

em·pa·thy
[ˈempəTHē]
NOUN
the ability to understand and share the feelings of another.

Oxford Dictionaries

Why must my body define my voice?

Stories have a power completely, utterly unique: they can take a person born in one body, and transplant them into another. That body could be living three hundred years ago on the other side of the world, or three hundred years into the future buried deep beneath the earth, or even three thousand universes away. When we take the age-old writing lesson of “write what you know” and give it the Orwellian twist of “write only what you know,” we limit that power severely, dangerously.

When we limit that power, we limit our ability to empathize with one another. We lose our ability to connect with those beyond ourselves. We begin to turn away from the wealth of a diverse world, and huddle with our own kind.

No.

Do not let others take your power away. There are countless worlds inside of you, filled with people of all cultures and creeds. You have every right to bring those people to the page.

No voice should be fettered by the body it’s born in.

I’m still pretty wound up about this, so if you feel like talking, add your comments below! If you’re new to my site, welcome! You are welcome to sign up for my newsletter, grab a copy of my free short stories, or check out my first novel. Thanks for coming by!

Read on, share on, and write on, my friends!

Lessons Learned from #HollyBlack: #write a #hero with #hopesanddreams for compelling #fiction

A lot can happen in sixteen years.

A boisterous kid becomes a moody teen.

A free-spirited college student becomes a career-obsessed adult.

A writer becomes a…writer? Yes, still a writer. But a stronger writer.

I’m looking at you, Holly Black.

This woman’s got phenomenal talent. Black’s written books that lure you to dive head-first into her world. She’s got a strong following of readers, and one look at books like The Cruel Prince and The Wicked King show why. The relationships are complex, the conflicts compelling. We want to see what these characters do next, especially Jude, the teen protagonist.

Now I’ve talked a bit about Jude before, both in my post on tragic backstories as well as dissecting one of the briefest chapters ever written. Today I want to return to Jude because of another Holly Black title, the first Holly Black title:Tithe.


Sixteen-year-old Kaye is a modern nomad. Fierce and independent, she travels from city to city with her mother’s rock band until an ominous attack forces Kaye back to her childhood home. There, amid the industrial, blue-collar New Jersey backdrop, Kaye soon finds herself an unwilling pawn in an ancient power struggle between two rival faerie kingdoms – a struggle that could very well mean her death.

So over the course of sixteen years, Black wrote two different series about two teen heroines dealing with faeries. Fairies. Fae. However you spell it.

I–and many other readers, I imagine–connected with Jude because of her hopes and dreams. Jude is a girl struggling for identity inside her mostly Fae family as well as the Fae society. She witnessed her human parents’ murder by a Fae general, was then ripped away from the human realm along with her twin sister and half-Fae sister to be raised by that same general, and now attends school with other Fae gentry. She is living, breathing evidence of her mother’s desertion, yet this general fathers Jude like one of his own. In turn, Jude yearns to train and serve the Fae royalty as a knight despite being mortal. She loves her little brother, the Fae “son” of the general and his new wife. This is a girl fighting to make a place for herself in a world not created for her. She’s so desperate to make her mark in the Fae courts that she’s willing to kill in order to achieve her dream.

And then, there’s Kaye from Tithe.

Lots of people like this book, so I assume they must like Kaye as well.

But for me…look, this isn’t a roast of of Tithe. There’s plenty of strong elements here, and when one considers this is Black’s debut novel, those elements should be all the more commended. She blends Faerie and human realms seamlessly. The Fae are quite unique between Seelie and Unseelie. The black knight Roiben provides a wealth of inner conflict: magic compels him to do despicable things under the command of the Unseelie Queen, including killing a friend of Kaye’s. When we read from his point of view, we learn just how much he hates himself because he so often he has no control over his actions. A reader’s sympathy for him grows with every chapter.

And then, there’s Kaye.

Kaye took another drag on her cigarette and dropped it into her mother’s beer bottle. She figured that would be a good test for how drunk Ellen was–see if she would swallow a butt whole.

This is the first paragraph of the Prologue. This is our first impression of Kaye.

Already I’m wincing, but maybe that’s my prudish Midwestern nature. Plenty of kids have shitty parents, drinking parents. Plenty of teenagers pick up smoking. Turns out Kaye’s mother sings in a lousy club band and is dating one of its members, the “asshole Lloyd.” During the wrap up after a gig, Lloyd for no understandable reason tries to stab Kaye’s mom but Kaye stops him. (It is later learned he’d been entranced, for the record.)

We’re only a couple pages in, and Kaye’s witnessed an attempted murder. Normally this sort of thing, especially when family’s involved, would leave some sort of mark on a person, be it physically, emotionally, mentally, or all three. This is something that spawns nightmares, phobias, fixations on danger and/or thrills.

Yet Kaye and her mother Ellen only talk about moving in with Grandma. No confusion or anger over what Lloyd did. No fear over how they’re going to live next. No anxiety over whether or not Grandma will accept them after a six-year absence. Just…

“Honey,” Ellen said finally, “we’re going to have to go to Grandma’s.”

“Did you call her?” Kaye asked. …

“It’ll be a little while. You can visit that friend of yours.”

“Janet,” Kaye said. She hoped that was who Ellen meant. She hoped her mother wasn’t teasing her about that faerie bullshit again. If she had to hear another story about Kaye and her cute imaginary friends…

As you may have surmised, this is when Kaye started to lose me.

Yet I kept reading. Openings are tough. Kaye’s got to get back to her childhood home somehow, soooo okay, this works. Now Kaye’s on the New Jersey shore, walking and talking with her friend Janet on their way to hanging out with boys.

“Kaye, when we get there, you have to be cool. Don’t seem so weird. Guys don’t like weird….don’t you want a boyfriend?”

I had to stop there.

What did Kaye want?

From my impression of Kaye’s memories of her mother falling asleep in toilets and attaching herself to loser after loser, Kaye clearly doesn’t dig the life of a traveling musician. Yet her grandmother’s demands that she attend school are met with the same lack of enthusiasm.

In fact, Kaye doesn’t talk about anything with enthusiasm except Roiben, a lone faerie she helps on the roadside.

“Look, I’m only going to be in town for a couple of months, at most. The only thing that matters is that he is cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die beautiful.” Kaye waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Perhaps Kaye is a girl who’s never allowed herself to dream. We can be like that too, I suppose–too fearful of failure, too weary of life’s obstacles to dare hope for anything beyond what’s in front of us.

So when Kaye is told she herself is a faerie who’s been glamoured to look human since birth, she…well, what do you think?

She was shaking her head, but even as she did it, she knew it was true. It felt true, unbalancing and rebalancing her world so neatly that she wondered how she didn’t think of it before now. After all, why would only she be visited by faeries? Why would only she have magic she couldn’t control?

Such a revelation alters everything: her human family’s not really hers. She’s not human at all. Any hope, any dream she had for her future must now be sacrificed–

Hang on.

She didn’t have any aspirations. This revelation, this life-altering revelation….just what exactly does it change inside Kaye?

I’m going to stop dissecting Tithe here. I’ll still recommend it for the world and for the conflicted Fae knight Roiben, but I cannot recommend Tithe for its heroine. For all her dislike against her grandmother’s “normal” lifestyle and her mother’s alcohol addled life on the road, has she honestly not once hidden a special passion for something to keep herself sane? One would think it’d be her “cute imaginary friends,” but Kaye’s first reference to her Fae visitors from childhood was “faerie bullshit.” So as of the beginning of this novel, faeries were no longer special. She keeps no journal, no art, no collection of little things she’d never dare show her mom. Even Janet, the one friend she’s been emailing from libraries, is completely blown off once Roiben comes onto the scene.

Readers care about characters who care. The character may be a jerk in many ways, but even jerks can have a soft spot. Jude committed murder in The Cruel Prince, yet I still found myself rooting for her. Why? Because she was fighting for her kid brother’s safety. Because she wanted the enemies of the old Faerie king to pay for their treachery. She gets her heart broken by one Fae boy while finding her fate entwined with another. Jude IS passion–hardly the “he’s so dreamy” passion, but the “I want my family to survive a coup” passion. The “I want to LIVE” passion.

That’s passion any reader can feel beating in his/her own heart.

Kaye never seems to feel that. She simply floats along whether she’s human or faerie, accepting whatever situation she’s placed in, fearful only of losing Roiben.

How often are we telling our teenagers not to wrap their entire lives around one other human being? To have their own hopes and dreams, because someone who truly loves them will love those dreams and help find a way to achieve them?

Love can be a powerful force in a fantasy, to be sure.

But so is hope.

So are dreams.

Which fictional hero or heroine inspires you to dream? Let me know in the comments below!

Thanks, too, for your encouragement during my saga over the full-time slot at the university. I didn’t get it, but I’m hopeful for the next time. 🙂

Don’t forget to pick up the March edition of my newsletter!

And if you’re a fan of dreamers (and stories of dreams gone fantastically awry) I hope you’ll check out my novel, Fallen Princeborn: Stolen. It’s free on Kindle Unlimited, and my short story collection Tales of the River Vine are all free to download from Amazon, too.

Read on, share on, and write on, my friends!

#writerproblems: #writing a #cliffhanger vs. a #standalone in a #novelseries

I’m going to pause before I even begin in order to say how amazingly patient you all have been for enduring this 30-day blog-o-thon. I’ve been doing my damndest to catch up on reading your sites, but I have a feeling it’s going to take a month of NOT writing just to see all that you lovely folks have done during this cold, snowy month.

During one pre-dawn hour set aside for morning coffee and blog reading, I came across an old book review by the amazing Chris Lovegrove. His closing nails the very topic I wish to discuss today:


I felt a little cheated by the end. The lack of resolution for one character felt manipulative. Increasingly, fantasies these days are clearly labelled Book One of a spellbinding new series or The first volume of such-and-such saga; it wasn’t till near the end that I realised that this wasn’t a standalone novel but that I would have to invest time and maybe more money in the sequel. 

Chris Lovegrove, “Suspending Disbelief”

Indeed, what has happened to the standalone story? We are an audience of franchises and serieseseses to the point where filmmakers will divvy up a book and spread its material so thinly that a single story is transformed into a film trilogy. (cough cough HOBBIT cough cough)

When I study Diana Wynne Jones’ library (as every good and proper fantasy fan should do), I see 25 stand-alone stories. 2 duologies, 1 trilogy, 1 quartet (quartology?), and the octology of Chrestomanci. (I’m just making up number words at this point.) We won’t even get into the short fiction stuff here, or plays, or whatever else. Strictly novels. (If I missed any, let me know!)

If you go through all these novels, not one ends with a cliffhanger. Correct me if I’m wrong, but DWJ was one to practice what she preached:

My feeling is that the best stories leave the reader trying to imagine what happened after the story stopped.

Diana Wynne Jones, “Some Hints on Writing”

As far as DWJ was concerned, the story she needed to tell began and ended in one volume. Even the DWJ stories considered sequels or parts of a series are only considered such because they’re in the same universe, NOT because they’re picking up where the previous plot left off. Look at the Howl trilogy: Howl and Sophie go from primary characters in the first book to making cameo appearances in the second. In the third book they appear halfway through the novel with some importance, but still, they are not the primary protagonists. One of the primary characters of Deep Secret returns in The Merlin Conspiracy, but again, he is not the main character. DWJ utilized the same universe for multiple stories, not necessarily the same characters. Heck, Chrestomanci’s rarely a main character in his own series! (But I already wrote about that.)

I started paging through other Young Adult Fantasy stories read from my bookshelf or local library to see which stories end on a cliffhanger, and which are capable of standing alone.

Celine Kiernan’s The Poison Throne: She was travelling at a good pace, though, and it was not long before she disappeared up the winding path, to be swallowed into the treacherous depths of the bandit-laden forest and the company of wolves.

Cliffhanger. The protagonist’s clearly beginning another journey. Not only is the primary antagonist of the story is still in power, but we learn our protagonist is entering yet another enemy’s territory.

~*~*~

Suzanne Collins’ The Hunger Games: Out of the corner of my eye, I see Peeta extend his hand. I look at him, unsure. “One more time? For the audience?” he says. His voice isn’t angry. It’s hollow, which is worse. Already the boy with the bread is slipping away from me.

I take his hand, holding on tightly, preparing for the cameras, and dreading the moment when I will finally have to let go.

Both. This one’s a bit grey to me. On the one hand, the protagonist has survived the Hunger Games. The primary conflict of the story has come to a close. However, we read here that the protagonist’s personal journey is not over, so there is, in a sense, a cliffhanger, just not like the life-or-death situation the protagonist’s been in for much of the book.

~*~*~

Stephenie Meyers’ Twilight: I touched his face. “Look,” I said. “I love you more than everything else in the world combined. Isn’t that enough?”

“Yes, it is enough,” he answered, smiling. “Enough for forever.”

And he leaned down to press his cold lips once more to my throat.

Standalone. You read right. Yes, I’ve read the whole series, so yes, I know there are more books after this. But I’ll give Meyers credit for giving this novel an ending that feels like an ending. As far as everyone knows, the last of the bad vampires has left the region and the girl’s got the guy. All’s right with the world.

~*~*~

JK Rowling’s Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone (hush, I’m an American, THAT’S the title here): Harry hung back for a last word with Ron and Hermione.

“See you over summer, then.”

“Hope you have–er–a good holiday,” said Hermione, looking uncertainly after Uncle Vernon, shocked that anyone could be so unpleasant.

“Oh, I will,” said Harry, and they were surprised at the grin that was spreading over his face. “They don’t know we’re not allowed to use magic at home. I’m going to have a lot of fun with Dudley this summer…”

Standalone. When you consider the primary conflict (protecting the Sorcerer’s Stone from Voldemort) that conflict officially ends in this book. Yes, Voldemort gets away, but his plot’s been thwarted. Even the other school-friendly subplots of making friends, succeeding in a wizarding school with a muggle’s childhood, and so on are wrapped up. The Voldemort conflict does not start creating cliffhangers until the third book, Prisoner of Azkaban.

~*~*~

Cassandra Clare’s Clockwork Angel: Magnus reached behind himself and locked the parlor door. “Very well,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me what the problem is?”

Cliffhanger. Any time a story ends with a question, it’s an automatic cliffhanger–especially when that question pertains to a protagonist’s “problem.”

~*~*~

Peadar Ó Guilín’s The Call: Early in the new year, she tells her parents that she has to leave again.

“The Nation must survive,” she says. “I can help with that.”

She sits alone on the bus, her suitcase propped up on the seat beside her so she can pretend it’s Megan sitting there instead. And off she goes through the snowy roads, Agnes and Ferg waving her away, hugging each other, their pride so fierce it burns.

Standalone. The protagonist has survived her three minutes. The fight goes on, and so will she, determined to leave her parents and teach other children how to survive the dark land of the Sidhe. By this story’s rules, she cannot be summoned back into the Sidhe realm for another hunt, so again, by this story’s rules, our protagonist is officially free.
Of course, Peadar totally subverts these expectations in The Invasion, but I appreciate how he made this novel self-contained. Had this remained a standalone, it’d still be awesome.

Off the top of my head…

Other good examples of what I feel could be considered standalone novels whether or not they’re in a series: Court of Thorns and Roses, Uprooted, Neverwhere, Chronicles of Narnia 

Know any others? Let me know!

Other good examples of what I feel are cliffhanger novels: Cruel Prince, Mortal Instruments, Fallen Princeborn: Stolen

Ibid on the knowing and the letting of me knowing

Hey, what’s my own book doing there?

Yes, I must plead guilty. I was in a similar situation as JRR Tolkien; as you know, LOTR is one HUGE tome broken into three books for readability’s sake. The same thing happened with Stolen–my publisher kindly pointed out that people aren’t necessarily going to be drawn to a debut novel 650 pages long. Two novels, though, would split that length into readable installments. The result?

Her head nestles against Liam’s knee. The Voice in her heart sighs, too exhausted to notice a pounding, a drumming rising from deep, deep in the Pits.

A cliffhanger.

So what makes a cliffhanger tolerable and not infuriating?

Closure.

Somewhere along the way, SOMEthing must be resolved.

A series is bound to have many plot threads, and that’s fine. But if a few hundred pages cannot tie off a single thread, readers are going to get pissed.

Rightfully so, too. In a way it comes back to those expectations and payoffs: the patience of a reader lasts for only so long. The more you build, and build, and build, yet never follow through, the more readers will feel lost, disengaged, or both. Why spend time in a world that’s constantly tangled with characters never decently understood?

So sure, maybe the antagonist is still free at the end of Book 1. Maybe the hero’s journey has only just begun. Was a battle fought and one? Was an internal conflict resolved? Did a relationship come to fruition or destruction? So long as SOMEthing has been brought to a close, a cliffhanger ending will still bring some satisfaction to the reader.

Resolve nothing in that first book, and readers will resolve not to invest time in the second.

Tie a thread or two, and hold your world–your series–together.

Today’s the LAST day of my sale! If you haven’t snatched up Stolen yet for just 99 pennies, get it now while the gettin’s good!

Read on, share on, and write on, my friends!

#Whole30 #Writing Log: Day 26

I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to be drinking this much orange juice, but if I can’t over drink the coffee and I’ve already burned my tongue on tea, then I’m having OJ, dammit.

This post is the equivalent of me scribbling a note in the lecture hall in the midst of a talk on world-building. Yup–the literary conference of my university is in full-swing. I’m trying to hit as many talks as possible before I have to get the kids, because taking kids into a lecture hall–even a virtual lecture hall–is a pain in the patoot. So far it’s been a nice day, and reminding me that I better practice what the heck I’m saying for an hour, and then making sure I’ve picked the right nonfiction piece to read later in the afternoon.

Noooo pressure, Jean, no pressure.

A little wish of good luck would be deeply appreciated!

In the meantime, I’m digging this post from 2018 out of my pocket because the Oscars had Queen perform, and I do so love that band. Click here and enjoy!

I had this poster hanging up in my dorm room for years. Yes, I was that much of a nerd.

After you read about Queen helping to inspire my novel Fallen Princeborn: Stolen, don’t forget you can grab the novel for less than a dollar! The short story collection Tales of the River Vine is still free, as is my short story shared exclusively with newsletter subscribers.

Yikes! The workshop ended. Time to find the next e-room. See you tomorrow, folks!

#Whole30 #Writing Log: Day 19

Free Fiction Has Come from the Wilds (3)

Thank you all so very, very much for your encouragement and prayers. I know I left things on a bit of a cliffhanger yesterday, so I’ll just pick up from there.

We got the kids from school and fed them an early supper. I tried laying down to see if that helped, but it only made me so damn dizzy to go to the bathroom that I refused to lay down again. I tried eating a little in case I was just lightheaded from not eating–nope. My chest continued to hurt, and my limbs started to feel weird.

Now that, well, that freaked me out.

One look to Bo is all it takes. Short of shoveling food into the kids’ mouths, he gets their coats and says we’re all going NOW. I keep counting my breaths and holding Bo’s hand while we drive. The kids are quiet. Not scared, I don’t think. Probably a little disappointed, actually, considering when I had my first severe panic attack they got to meet firefighters and climb all over the firetruck while the ambulance took me to the hospital. They still recall that as being “a fun day,” the turds.

This time we’re at a clinic, and I’m going to see a doctor. My kids are in the waiting room with their little video games, and Bo has my hand. I’m going to be okay. I’m going to be okay.

And I think because I was there, and knowing I was there to get answers, the panic began to subside.

Figures I calm down just in time to see the doctor.

But it was still a good visit. A professional who knows how hearts and lungs should work is telling me everything’s working as it should. She recommends investing in a wrist FitBit (Pffft, like I have money for that) so I have a visual realization whenever it feels like my heart’s racing, it really isn’t. She does go through various medications, and that I could start taking antidepressants if I so chose.

I squirm a little. Why am I squirming? Didn’t I want an answer like this, a pill that will make everything better?

What IS wrong, Jean? Seriously, what’s wrong?

This month marks 5 years since Dad died, eight years since Bo’s dad died.

You’re in the running for a full-time faculty position at the university.

You got named keynote speaker, so the pressure’s on to stand out during the lit conference.

Your sons got suspended from school again, and now you need to work out their neuro-evals for the sensory integration disorder.

You’re wondering how the hell you’ll write if you do land that full-time gig.

You’re worried about your daughter. Are you pushing her too hard, or not enough? Are you spending enough time with her, or not enough?

Money. Always money issues.

Some other family issues I promised not to write about but have been weighing damn hard on me.

Bo’s finally caring about his health, but is it too late?

And the bloody cherry on top of aaaaaall of this is that my Aunt Flo came this morning. (sorry male readers)

With all that on you and then the monthly hormonal chaos, is it any wonder a panic attack slammed you in the chest again, Jean?

The doctor’s still talking. Not about meds any more, but sensory distractions: essential oils, for instance, working more with music. Drinking a calming tea. Taking a Vitamin D supplement to counter the severe D-deficiency we all experience in these dark winter months.

I take my notes, thank her for her time. The kids are starting to go nuts in the waiting room, but Bo is there. His hand finds mine.

It’s going to be okay.

Maybe I’ll still need those meds, but I’d like to try the tea and the D and the smelly stuff first. No matter what, I’m gonna keep fighting this. Anxiety doesn’t own me. It won’t break me from my family or what I want to do. If I need Zoloft or something to help me fight back, then that’s what I’ll take.

But I will fight this, God. You put me through so damn much to make me stronger. I will not stop fighting, I will not. Stop. Fighting.

Nor should you stop fighting, readers. Never ever.

Keep reading. Sharing. Writing. Shining. Reach out with your hands to those around you. You never know who needs that hand of love to pull them out of the darkness.

JeanLee-nameLogoBoxed

#Whole30 #Writing Log: Day 11

Free Fiction Has Come from the Wilds (3)

Well, here I sit with my coffee cut by unsweetened almond coconut milk.

Sigh.

But I’m a third way through….okay I’ve already technically failed, but Bo is a third way through, and that’s what counts! He’s been scouring Alton Brown’s Good Eats episodes for different ways to prepare vegetables and meat, and has found a few that can fit under Whole30 with a little tweaking…not that I remember their episode names. But I will recommend Good Eats to anyone who loves good food and is curious about the science that makes food good in the first place. Alton’s popcorn recipe’s a great introduction to his show’s style.

In these days of sugar withdrawal, it’s really damn hard to focus my brain. I can see the scene, but then there’s that need to transcribe the color and emotion and my fingers are tripping on the keyboard. I may as well be Biff going “;ALISHASL;IGBAS’;OFASDJKLFG;’OTY23PORKNG;SALDFBHASDLKFASKULTROU” on the keyboard. “I’m super-typing, Mommy!” Twice now I’ve stuck my coffee in the freezer to warm it up. I’ve tried sticking the milk in the oven, stopped only because the gallon jug’s too tall. Here’s hoping I don’t try to eat the food toys Bash left on the table from the Feast he made for the Transformers the other day.

The dread of yet another snow storm coming in the night’s not helping my mood, either.  Oh, God, you do have a sense of humor aaaaaaaaaaaaaall you’re own.

I did have a sweet moment of solitude outside, though, in that moment between seeing Blondie off on the bus and getting Biff and Bash ready for school.20190211_071202

Birdie tracks!

We have lots around the front of our house, but there was something about seeing this lone bird’s tracks stamped all around the porch, over the sleds to the old tree stand and back. The boys will wreck these tracks when they come out for school. Heck, I’ll probably wreck them when I take out the garbage.

So I snapped a shot, a good reminder that I need to refill the bird feeder before the storm arrives. We’re apparently the only feeder on the street, for anywhere from 6-15 birds will huddle in the bushes by our house and fight over chances to perch on the feeder. A hawk’s worked this out too, and has left the remains of his breakfast on our front yard more than once. He even tried to snatch a bird one afternoon, but they escaped. He sat on our porch railing, then, for a good ten minutes, waiting for the wee ones to return. He flew off, yes, but I have a feeling he’s just hanging out a few yards down, watching and waiting.

Those predators, folks. They cannot be denied.

Speaking of, I’m rather proud of the predators in my novel and free fiction. Care to check them out? You’ve got six free short stories to choose from, the first of my free exclusive stories on the site, aaaaaaaand my novel, which is currently on sale for a wee 99p. Spread the word to your fantasy-lovin’ friends!

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Read on, share on, and write on, my friends!

JeanLee-nameLogoBoxed

#Whole30 #Writing Log: Day 10

Free Fiction Has Come from the Wilds (3)

The good creamer is gone.

I am officially without my sugar.

I guess you could say that this is my REAL day 1 in Whole 30, buuuuut let’s not and say we did.

Don’t ask about the creamer-substitute.

~*~

Doing my best to emphasize laughter over fighting with Biff and Bash. Praying the boys take the laughs with them to school tomorrow and not the fighting.

~*~

Blondie drew me a Valentine of Nancy Drew and her “assistant” catching a ghost. I showed my Nancy Drew books with her, asked her if she wanted to read one, but she said no. It’s hard to sell a mystery to Blondie that has no talking dog as a sidekick.

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~*~

My use of creamer must have delayed the traditional Whole30 timeline, as explained in the first chapters of the book:

Day 1: No big deal/what have I done

Days 2-3: The hangover

Days 4-5: Kill all the things

Days 6-7: I just want to nap

Days 8-9: Nooooo! My pants are tighter!

Days 10-11: The hardest days

Days 12-15: I dream of…junk food?

Days 16-27: Tiger blood!

Day 21: I am so over this.

Days 22-25: The scale and mirror are calling…

Day 28: 28 is as good as 30…right?

Days 29-30: Holyoprahitsalmostoverwhatamigoingtoeatnow? (Yes, this is the actual heading.)

Day 31: Deep breathing, and maybe some wine.

I’m supposedly on “The Hardest Days,” but pretty sure my body’s on the “nap” stage. My brain’s three seconds behind everything. I’ve started this paragraph over four times now. I just want a glass of wine and to call it a night.

This doesn’t bode well for the next week.

Month.

Whatever we’re in.

~*~

Okay, need to leave you on a good note…a musical note!

The blues are the roots and the other musics are the fruits. Without the roots you have no fruits so it’s better keeping the roots alive because it means better fruits from now on.

Willie Dixon

Came across this quote in my research of blues music and loved it. There is a feeling in blues music that just cannot be matched in other genres, at least not precisely. Maybe it’s this simplicity so many songs have, or that the notes and lyrics gut one so. It’s the kind of music that can warm you and make you cry all at once.

Quite a different feel from the fire and rage of The Who’s Quadrophenia, wouldn’t you say?

But it fits one of my WIPs in the best sort of way.

Now if my brain would just catch up to my body…

 

 

Don’t forget that my novel’s on sale all month! Tell your fantasy-lovin’ friends it’s loads of awesome for only 99 cents.

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Read on, share on, and write on, my friends!

JeanLee-nameLogoBoxed

#Whole30 #Writing Log: Day 9

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Well, it happened. Not this morning, when I guzzled four or five cups while catching up with school work. It happened with that last cup, that after-lunch cup I intended to drink as I struggled to make up all that lost novel-writing time this week. Bo was going to keep the kids upstairs so I could huddle with the computer in the basement. He was just coming up after hanging up his autographed picture of Cloris Leachman as I was coming down, coffee in one hand, notes in the other.

“What did you use in your coffee?”

“Oh, nuthin’.”

“Pretty light for nuthin’.”

“Dunno what you’re talking about.”

He halts. “Is that creamer?”

(insert noncommittal verbal utterances here)

He gasps. “You cheated?”

(more verbal utterances)

“HEY!”

I flee into the basement with his laughter and cries of “You poop!” rockin’ and a’rollin’ behind me.

After an afternoon of writing and blues, I did apologize…sort of. Yes, I’m sorry I didn’t stick to the guidelines as hardcore as Bo, but I’m not sorry for using something up before it goes bad. He listened to me, and thankfully believed me when I explained I hadn’t had any other non-Whole30 thing this whole week (which IS true, painful as it’s been when the kids throw away crusts gobbed with peanut butter or crusts of gooey grilled cheese).

So to make it up to him, I took charge of cooking supper tonight: Whole30-compliant turkey meatballs with zucchini spirals for noodles and compliant marinara sauce. The meatballs fell apart without the normal bread crumbs for a binder, but the veg spirals and marinara were actually pretty good. Now if only it wasn’t so damn costly to eat healthy…

No, Jean, no more griping. This is important. Bo NEEDS to lose weight. Your workload keeps you sitting waaaaaaaaaaaaay too much in the day for you to dismiss your health. This is important for you both. Suck it up, buttercup, and make that almond milk-coconut milk-vanilla bean or something-cinnamon stick creamer-substitute.

Go shake a tail feather, girl, and fly!

And while I go shake a few jars of this not-creamer creamer, check out my totally free fiction here and here. If you dig that stuff, you can snatch my novel right now for just 99 cents. Whatcha got to lose?

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Read on, share on, and write on, my friends!

JeanLee-nameLogoBoxed

#Whole30 #Writing Log: Day 6

Free Fiction Has Come from the Wilds (3)

Ugh, I got to apologize in advance. My writing brain is NOT with me right now.

Not because of my kids (for once). No, Biff and Bash’s concert went swimmingly. The boys knew their recitations and songs. Bash got over his stage fright that brought him to tears that morning, and Biff made himself emcee the event by naming every child about to recite and every song about to be sung. He even said, “It’s time for applause!” whenever a song finished. It was both embarrassing and awesome all at once. xxxx

(It figures the one picture I took is blurry. Gah! Still, if you look in the back row, you can see Bash at the end of the row on the right wearing a striped sweater. Biff is four kids after Bash, towards the middle of the back row.)

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I’m hoping Blondie gets her rear in gear on her big Science Fair project (“I know what I’m doing, Mom.” “Why don’t you start, then?” (insert dark stare and curt shrug here)), but that’s not what threw me off my game today, either.

Nope, it was the refrigerator.

Damn thing near broke on us this morning.

Since this August we’ve had the air conditioner die, the basement flood, both cars’ windshields’ get cracked, the furnace almost die aaaaaand the stove almost die, so the fridge almost dying just made me want to scream ARE YOU FRICKIN’ KIDDING ME?!?!

Thankfully the repairman managed to get things situated without costing a car payment. Discovering we’re both parenting twin boys (only his are applying for college), we spent a good half hour after the repair talking about parenthood and college. By the time he left it was afternoon, which is the time I grade stuff.

Hooray for a fixed fridge!

Boo to a morning taken from writing.

As I stare at all our food boxed up on the frozen deck waiting for the fridge to be cold, it’s hitting me that I’m going to have to imbibe more of the Whole30 stuff sooner than later. My good creamer’s going to run out this week. Even if Bo liked the cashew milk, I don’t think he can finish it by himself before the expiration date.

Damn. Damnity damn damn McDamners.

Oh well. At least you can read the stuff I’ve already written while I lock myself away tomorrow to write more new stuff! There’s free stories here and here, and my novel’s on sale. Please be awesome and spread the word!

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Read on, share on, and write on, my friends!

JeanLee-nameLogoBoxed

Some days my #family shares amazing #writing #inspiration. Other days, not so much… #marriage & the #writinglife

In posts past I’ve mentioned I get inspiration from my kids–something they say, for instance, or a struggle they’re facing in school. 

There are other times, however, when inspiration is the last thing I get from my family.

Take this month. Writing’s been a tough racket, what with preparation for a new term, snow days, and teachers cancelling school for “professional development.” But I am a hearty Midwesterner and shall prevail! I continue working on the third Fallen Princeborn novel while prepping the first novel, Fallen Princeborn: Stolen, to go on sale for ALL OF FEBRUARY.

(Oh yeah. Watch out for that price drop. Tell your fantasy-lovin’ friends!)

we have all of us had our bloody days, charlotte. for many it is easier to remain in them than to change. to change requires to face a past stained by screams. (14)

I’m also brainstorming up some fresh’n’FREE Tales of the River Vine and a few other stories to be shared exclusively with newsletter subscribers.

(What? You’re not subscribed to the monthly newsletter yet?

*GAAAAASP* Fix that now!)

Anyway.

So I’m developing another project, one I alluded to a while back: a fantasy adventure story featuring twins who need to learn the strengths of brotherhood. (Can’t imagine where I found the inspiration for that story…)

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There goes Bash of the Yukon on another expedition…

I had an epiphany about what to name the brothers, but realized the names would require permission from a big-time person in order to pull it off. That meant having a title and rough synopsis worked out. Typing up a wee synopsis was one thing, but the title…ugh, the title. This is a title that must reflect fantasy, adventure, and NOT romance. For once, let’s have a story where protagonists don’t find love and/or sex in the plot. The title needs to reflect that absence. Something strong…otherworldly…

I poke the back of Bo’s neck, for surely Blondie’s math homework doesn’t have to be reviewed right this minute.

Hey. You’re a guy.

“Yeeees?”

I need your take on a title.

“Shoot.”

Race the Bronze Breath.

Bo’s face twists. He stifles a laugh…then gives up and lets it out. “Seriously?”

What? It’s racing. It’s fantasy.

Bo’s still laughing. “What’s that even mean?”

I…I dunno. I just thought it sounded cool and steampunky.

“Well racing’s fine. Racing says something’s got a time limit, and it’s, you know, tense. But what’s bronze breath?”

Okay, I get it, it doesn’t work. What kind of fantasy adventure title would work for dudes?

Bo without blinking: “Not Game of Thrones.”

That is not a title.

“Says you.”

I think about my brainstorm of race names, the current YA titles out there that are really long, a touch blunt.

How about Break the Centurion or Die Trying?

Bo throws down the pencil: “Again, what…are you trying to be Sergio Leone?”

Well then YOU think of a cool dude title.

“Racing Adventure with Marathon Quest.”

O-kay. But that doesn’t sound really dangerous.

“Super Killer Race of Deathly Death.”

No.

“Bloody Hearts of Death Kill the Dead.”

NO.

Blondie looks up from her fraction muddle. “Bloody Heart of the Dragon’s Throne!” 

Hush, that doesn’t…well, hmmm. I write it down anyway, even though I wasn’t planning on having any dragons this time round. Time for a squeeze and a kiss for my eldest.

Thanks, Kiddo. Now back to those fractions!

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A picture of Blondie and her bottle snowman, just because. x

Bo follows me as I scribble in my notebook, all the way down the hall where I plop down on our bed. I click the pen in that fast, annoying fashion Biff adores, and say:

The problem is I do want a bit of camp to it, like Death Race 2000. Suppose I can’t call it Lethal Prix or Killer Run.

“Not if you don’t want Roger Corman to sue you…oh hey! Let’s Get Sued! Great title. And then I can get an autograph.”

That would be first on your mind, wouldn’t it?

BloodDeathKillQuest. All one word.”

NoIdon’tthinkso.

A Good Day to Die Hard…oh wait. That’s kind of taken.”

Yyyyeah.

Killing Starfighters of Justice. Keep it vague on purpose so people question if the starfighters are killing people, or if we’re killing the starfighters.”

The grammar humor of Airplane! likely ain’t gonna translate to the teen male audience.

“Well then there’s only one title that’s going to reach those readers.”

What?

Amazonian Thrill-Whores.”

Boob Race.”

Okay, okay. I give up. Forget I asked–

Outpacing the Inevitable….wait for it…Boobs.”

OH WOULD YOU JUST STOP IT

Sooooo I’m still working on that title. It’ll come to me. Hopefully without the aid of Amazonian Thrill-Whores, but who knows…

Read on, share on, and write on, my friends!

JeanLee-nameLogoBoxed