What Do You Dream For?

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We dream. The Universe provides us with those dreams, but they don’t always look the way we imagined them. That’s okay. Often times, the dream turns out better.

Somewhere along the way of leaving the Charlie’s Angel’s Hideaway House behind for makeup, I decided I wanted to be an author. Not any author. A famous one. With tons of readers. I wanted a huge publishing deal (not that I totally knew what that was back then) with a publishing house in New York City, the publishing capital of the world. I did know who McMillan was if only because they had a hand in publishing text books.

My dream to be a famous author isn’t looking exactly like I thought when I was 12 then 15 then… never mind the numbers. Publishing is a very different animal than when Stephen King signed his first contract for Carrie. That’s okay.

I indie published my middle-grade fantasy adventure series and coming to that decision wasn’t an easy or quick one. That looks nothing like my first dream.

Recently, I announced on my Facebook page, another new adventure in my publishing dream. (If you’re kind enough to follow me in both places, pardon my redundancy. If you don’t follow me on Facebook and want to, I love seeing friendly faces over there.) I signed a three-book deal with a traditional publisher for my women’s fiction series. Now I’m a hybrid author. No one even knew what that was ten years ago. Times change.

I’m very excited about this opportunity. Every author desires for their work to be wanted and liked. (We know we’re not supposed to read the reviews, but still get bummed when there’s a less than favorable one. It’s like picking on our kids.) I’m glad my new publisher believed in my work the way I do.

Even though I have and will have books in two different genres all my books have a united theme: Family are those who love you when you need them whether you’re born to that family or find them along the way. All my main characters seek to belong, to be loved, want a chance to fit in somewhere.

The first book in the new series, A Second Chance House, about a woman who is given the anonymous gift of dilapidated house in a new town, is in edits. I’ll announce a release date when I have one.

I don’t have the fame of my beloved Stephen King. (yet) The dream to be an author has most certainly come true and for that I’m grateful, humbled, and thrilled. I didn’t have any idea how hard it would be to find my readers, but I am, one at a time. The process might take longer than I thought, but it’s very rewarding when I get an email from a reader who saw me speak four years before, finally read my book and loved it enough to drop a line. Or when an eighth grader draws me a picture of one of my characters and has his teacher mail it to me. Or when a book club turns the woods behind one of their houses into Kata-Tartaroo and goes on a scavenger hunt. (That’s one of my favorite stories.)

I couldn’t make my dream come true without my readers. Thank you for being a part of my journey. I appreciate you reading my books, your continued visits to the blog and the comments you leave behind.

What was your dream back when playgrounds and sidewalk chalk were a daily existence? What does that dream look like now?

What if?

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What if your life was on autopilot? You were raising your children, going to work, watching the days fly past you? Life hadn’t turned out exactly as you hoped, but it could be worse.

A note arrives. An anonymous gift of a house needing fixing is waiting for you. Would you take it? Why or why not?

Sharpen Your Knives

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We had some snow here in NJ. My area got hit with about a foot. Maybe eight inches. I didn’t check and I didn’t bring out my ruler. I will tell you however much it was the shoveling wore me out. I tried to focus on the blessings like I’m healthy enough to shovel and I live in a house as opposed to a cardboard box. It’s the first snow storm in March since 1993. 

All that snow means the school closes. Two teens home. And the Coffee King certainly can’t drive to work and we share an office at home. Let’s not forget the noodgy dog. So, trying to get writing done with many distractions isn’t easy.

I’ve blogged about this before, but after about fifteen interruptions and it wasn’t even lunch time I had to take matters into my hands. I had to carve out some time to write.

First, I texted my good friend and writer buddy K.M Fawcett. (Her books are awesome. Check her out.) K.M. and I go to a local Starbucks at least twice a week for uninterrupted writing time. My text said something like, “I CAN’T GET ANY WRITING DONE.” It’s hard to get your mojo going every time someone sidetracks you. She gave me some good advice. Set a timer. Tell the characters in your house no interruptions while the timer is on.

Then I remembered! My red hat!!!  It had been years since I needed that hat. When the Noodges were little and I would try to write they’d interrupt me constantly. My desk was out in the open so I couldn’t shut a door. I instituted the red hat. When I wore the hat they weren’t allowed to talk to me. Unless blood or vomit was involved. I promised to always give them warning before I wore the hat and they could ask me as many questions as they wanted before the hat went on which was very important to Noodge 1. He can’t wait to have his questions answered. He’s still like that at almost seventeen. (I can’t believe that same little boy is almost 17!)

Yesterday, the hat made a revival. I took a picture of myself wearing the hat, and sent it to my family scattered around the house with instructions. I’d wear the hat with a timer going for 20 minutes. Please don’t interrupt me unless blood is involved. (They’re big enough to throw up in a toilet now.) It works.

Finding time to write isn’t easy. We all have lives that work around our writing. Unless you’re Stephen King whose writing can work around his life. Our families don’t always understand that we’re actually working even if all we’re doing is staring at the computer, but our hands aren’t moving. Every time our train of thought gets broken we have to start over and hope to capture the fizzle we’re trying so hard to get on the page. Writing isn’t like doing accounting or sewing.

I don’t blame them for not understanding. In fact, I’m a culprit in the interruptions. I often stop what I’m doing, no matter what it is, to help my kids or walk the dog or talk to CK. The hat creates a nice visual. (I just got interrupted while writing this. I’m not wearing the hat and Noodge 1 can’t find his sweatpants. See?)

The timer is good because they know how long you won’t be available. And anything can wait twenty minutes, can’t it?

Knives are sharpened. The hat is on now. The timer is next. It’s another snow day and plenty of writing to do.

Any questions?

 

Pooping in PetSmart

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“Who me?”

I have a love-hate relationship with my dog. Most of the time he’s adorable and his goofy personality makes me laugh. I mean, when you watch an eighty pound German shepherd act like a goof ball how can you not laugh, right?

There are other times when I question why we have a dog at all. Case in Point: Last week Noodge 3 (as I lovingly refer to him.  a.k.a. Munson) was in much need of a bath. He’d had an ear infection and after several weeks of shoving antibiotic fluid into his ear the fur on the side of his face had clumped together. (We often tried to clean the fur with baby wipes, but Munson is a long haired shepherd making the process much harder. That and he wanted to eat the wipes right out of our hands.)

Off to PetSmart for a bath! He loves getting a bath, though he doesn’t like the dryer and has to air dry and the wonderful people who work at our local PetSmart love Munson. Come on, how can’t you love a goofy, eighty pound, fluffy dog? It’s impossible.

After the bath, the Coffee King thought it would be fun to walk Munson around the store, check out some of the toys. I guess CK was thinking Munson would bark at the ones he liked best and we’d buy it. Kind of like when we took the kids to the toy store before they could speak.

Munson is easily excited. A little fun fact about German shepherds. They have a sensitive stomach. It was too much excitement for Munson. (Or someone gave him a treat we didn’t approve.) Because right in the middle of the toy aisle with absolutely no warning Munson took a squat!

It might not have been the end of the world except I’ve never seen anything so liquid puddling all over the floor in a store and coming out of the back end of my freshly cleaned dog.

I ran for help.

I found a woman on a ladder stocking shelves. I said, “My dog just had an accident.”

She pointed over my head and said, “the cleaner is over there. Do you see it?”

Uh…NO! You’re standing three feet above my head. Pointing in a general area doesn’t equal good directions. Anyway, because I’m smarter than I look, I found it. And here comes CK with the dog. “I’m taking him outside.”

And leaving me with the eruption is aisle four? You betcha.

What choice did I have? Did I really want to leave Lake Erie for someone to step into? Yes. But I didn’t. I grabbed several tiny, one-ply paper towels (more like cocktail napkins), an equally small garbage bag (think Ziploc sandwich bag) and the cleaner and went to battle.

The paper towels were useless and required fifty trips back and forth to gather enough to do any good. As soon as I put one down it was soaked through and there was no way on this planet I was touching anything that looked or smelled like that paper towel had become. The trick was how to shove the gigantic wad of wet, smelly paper towels into the sandwich bag without touching anything and hold my wallet under my arm without dropping it in the sewer. (Wallet is too large to shove in a pocket and I couldn’t put it down for fear while I was drowning in the polluted lake (not implying Lake Erie is polluted by the way) someone would come along and swipe it up.

No one came to help me. No one asked if I was all right. No one brought me a mop which I desperately needed. On one of my trips back for more paper towels another employee (and no one from the grooming center) said to me, “Make sure you throw that outside.” In the kind of voice that suggested I coerced my dog into defecating in her store. In fact, I make a career of doing just that thing. Haven’t you heard of it? Pooper Plopper. I’m very successful.

I managed to clean it up and break a sweat. You really can burn calories in all amazing ways. I scrubbed my hands and threw out the eruption in the inside garbage can, hee hee. Went outside to find CK and Munson doing laps in the parking lot. Munson no worse for wear. Me, trembling, disgusted, and questioning my sanity when I said hands clapping, “Yes, let’s get a dog! What fun!”

 

 

 

 

Serial Killers Are Everywhere

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I’m sitting in my office, at my desk fretting over what to blog about this week. Coming from behind me, outside my window is either the sounds of a squirrel on crack, the roof coming off, or a drummer on scaffolding because I’m on the second floor. I’m trying to keep my mind away from the possibility of an intruder. Albeit, not a very bright one if he’s making that much noise on a bright, sunny day, at lunch time. However, I trust no one and my first thoughts are always to be careful. Serial killers are everywhere.

You know when you’re watching a scary movie and the character on screen decides to go look outside because they heard a crash or a gun shot and you yell at the screen, “DON’T DO IT. DON’T GO OUT THERE!”? I was compelled to look out my office window just now and thought this might be the stupidest thing I’ve done all day. But, there must be an explanation to the noises outside. We want to reassure ourselves the world as we know it hasn’t changed. We like the status quo, don’t we? And what was I going to do when I saw the rabid squirrel or the crazed drummer suspended in mid-air? Panic, that’s what. Not pretty.

Several years ago, I think before I even had kids, I was home and had somehow forgotten the roofers we hired were going to begin work. There I was home alone, footsteps pounded on my roof. It wasn’t Christmas Eve so that ruled out Santa immediately. I didn’t know what the sound was and then I heard voices! Robbers. Vandals. Serial Killers!!!!!!!! I panicked. Grabbed the phone and debated on calling 911. What was I going to say? I didn’t want to sound ridiculous and I didn’t want to go outside. I did bring myself to look out the window. Saw the roofer’s truck and passed out. No, kidding. I called myself a lot of stupid names for being silly.

I’m going to get a baseball bat. I’ll be right back.

There are disadvantages to having a vivid imagination. One of them is the stories in your head never stop. With baseball bat in hand, I investigated the noise. I opened the window, climbed out onto the ledge below and shimmied up the drain pipe to the roof above. A turkey vulture’s wing had tangled in the weather vane.

Looks like turkey for dinner.

No?

 

We’re Live!

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That’s Dave packing the dance floor!

About a month ago I mentioned my good friend Dave Nase asked me to blog for his company NJs Best DJs. (I also edited most of the content on his new and fantastic website.)

I’m happy to report the blog is now live! I have three posts already up and would love for my faithful readers to stop by and say hi. I love to see familiar faces out in public. I’m not just writing about DJing. There’s plenty of advice on event planning too so if you or someone you know is in the midst of planning a party you might find a nugget of good information. Dave will also be doing great giveaways. And you know I’ll be poking fun a long the way. It should be a good time. Hope to see you there!

Thanks!

Stacey

 

 

Where Does Inspiration Come From?

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I am often asked where I get the ideas for my books. All stories start with an idea, right? The idea is the thing that gets you excited about writing. It’s the thing you need to remember when you’re 30,000 words in and you can’t remember why you started that stupid book in the first place. I know, I’ve been there. In fact, I’m there right now.

When my son was about ten he said to me, “Mom, I had a nightmare. I was trapped in Hell and I had to answer math questions to get out.” And the idea for Welcome To Kata-Tartaroo was born. When I wrote the second book in the series, Welcome To Bibliotheca, I wanted to revolve the adventure around a quirky character trait of my main character. He’s a kid that loves the library. And that story was born.

Inspiration can come from something someone said. In 1967, Smokey Robinson was shopping for a Christmas gift for his wife with Motown producer Al Cleveland. Mr. Cleveland meant to say, “I second that motion.” A very common phrase. Instead he said, “I second that emotion.” The men went home and wrote a song around that misspoken phrase. It was a #1 R& B hit.

Inspiration comes from stories on the news or life experience. But be careful about the life experience thing. I hear a lot, “you should write my life story.” Yeah – No. Not everyone’s story is interesting enough. Sorry. Hard truth. That adage, write what you know, doesn’t mean tell your life story in a book. It means write what you know and if you don’t know something research it. But we all take pieces of things from our lives or from people we know and incorporate that into our books. That’s perfectly fine.

Inspiration can come from anywhere. What’s really important is what you do with that spark. Do you breathe life into it or do you let it burn out?

Any questions?