A twenty-word poem

I flew away

And you threw stones

Because my song

Made you question

Whether your nest

Could hold more hearts

This is my link to the latest book I've put on Kindle Scout, and the campaign opens tomorrow:

https://kindlescout.amazon.com/p/1KM8I0ZK97R9J

Here's what you'll see when it opens up tomorrow:

Voyageurs

by Lauren Leach-Steffens

The end of the world is a matter of Time.

In this tale of time travel, mystery, and love, two time travelers -- Kat from the present and Ian from the ecological disaster in the future known as the Chaos, get together to explore the attempts on their mentor's life. Prodded by their mentor, Berkeley, they discover evidence -- from the mysterious deaths of Ian's parents to disturbances in the timeline --that a time traveler is plotting the end of the world.

You'll need to not just visit, but vote if you like it!

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I'm not confident that this book will pull enough acceptance to be picked up by Amazon, and here's why: 

1. The process is driven by votes (aka popularity)
2. One source of votes is friends. I'm not one of those people who have a lot of friends on media. For example, I don't have more than 400 Facebook friends. If one-tenth of them voted, I would have 320 votes. If they all nominated me on the same day, I might earn the coveted "hot" stamp for that day. Might.
3. The second source is the readers/nominators on the Kindle Scout site. They are more likely to mark the ones labeled "hot", so some items sink and some remain "hot", and it all has less to do with how good a book is than how popular it is. 

Although I don't have much faith in the process, I want to go through with it again, and I need your help. If there's any way you can boost the signal, I'd appreciate it as well!

So here I am, sitting at my desk with the dregs of the flu, looking at snow showers in the forecast on Sunday, and hope still springs eternal -- I've decided to submit another book to Kindle Scout for voting on/potential publishing.

The name of this book is Voyageurs, and it is still under review, with the hope that this time it will get picked up. If this doesn't work, I will put one of those books (probably Gaia's Hands) on self-publishing, so I can say I accomplished my goal and get on with my life.

Voyageurs is the one about time travel, ecological catastrophe, and the outer edges of megalomania. It also has an edgy relationship and a lot of coffee.

I'll let you know the address tomorrow. Please consider looking at it and voting!

Happy National Bipolar Awareness Day!

Happy National Bipolar Awareness Day!

Being someone with bipolar issues seems like something not to use the word "happy" about. People with bipolar can plunge into deep depression, while for some people, mania becomes psychosis at times. There's always the self doubt -- "Is this feeling real, or is my bipolar talking?" And any medication that works on brain chemistry is likely to have strange side effects, so the medication search for "what are the least annoying side effects" becomes an odyssey of pharmacopeia.

But here are reasons to be happy (and educational opportunities for the rest of you:

1. Bipolar people are not crazy. "Crazy" is a word made up by people who fear difference. It has been used to marginalize people (with or without a mental health condition) for ages.
2. Bipolar people are neurodivergent. Isn't that a cool word? That means our brains work differently than other brains. The Neurodiversity Movement is one that seeks to normalize people with mental health conditions, autism, epilepsy and other mental conditions as being "just the way some people are born." The Neurodiversity Movement does not prohibit treatment of symptoms of a condition, such as antipsychotics for someone with bipolar.
3. Bipolar traits may relate to enhanced creativity. Some doctors still dispute this, but most doctors see a link between bipolar and creativity -- even when the bipolar is being treated. So that stereotype of the artist on the edge is true, but the artist is still an artist when pulled back from the edge with medication.
4. Compliant people with bipolar are following the health advice that everyone should. We get enough sleep at night, establish regular routines, give up alcohol and (of course) illegal drugs, meditate, manage our moods through affirmations and cognitive exercises ...

Neurotypical people are scared of people who are bipolar, but it should compare to other health conditions:

• Being around a manic episode can be scary. So can being around someone who has a fierce temper and a disdain for cops (there's a story here). Neurotypical people can be scary too.
• Your bipolar friend sometimes gets spacy with their medication. Someone with diabetes gets spacy when their blood sugar is too low. Your friend who stays up late gets spacy when she hasn't gotten enough coffee. It sounds like a universal condition to me.
• Bipolar people get depressed. So do people with diagnosed depression. And those with triggered situational depression. One is not scarier than another. 

So bipolar awareness day is happy because I get to share these points which tend to contradict the excessive drama on the Lifetime Channel. Now some people learn about their bipolar by something really dramatic like maxing out the credit cards or having an affair, but so do neurotypical people. And people who get medication fare better than people who don't.  But I'm glad I get to talk about what people with bipolar disorder face in a positive way, where people aren't saying, "SHHHH. You shouldn't talk about it!"

Whether you're neurodivergent or neurotypical, I hope this has helped you see the world a bit differently.

My first bout with the flu

I should never have said "I never get the flu" aloud. I should never have assumed that my yearly employee benefit shot in the arm would fail to work. I should never have said never --

I'm dealing with my first case of bonafide flu in probably thirty years.

While I'm marking my list of "nevers" off with red pen, I also haven't run a fever above 100 degrees since I was three (during an oldie but not goodie flu vaccine of the mid 1960s). Now I'm all bundled up in a 70 degree room with shivers and a 100.9 fever. That's flu, right?'

I stayed home yesterday, hoping that a day of rest would fix that cold of mine. This morning, I woke up with a voice that sounded and felt like I'd chain-smoked and swilled bad whiskey (neither of which I do, to the relief of my students.) I went to work anyhow thinking that my morning temp of 98.9 would hold for the day because I couldn't possibly have the flu. I had (and still have) the chills and my temp (as I mentioned) is 100.9 degrees, My nose sounds like it's harboring a rain frog that makes little grumbling noises every time I exhale. My chest hurts from all the coughing (but I never get chest symptoms), And did I mention that I kept 3 1/2 hours of office hours and taught two classes in this state?

I'm going in tomorrow unless we're looking at 100 degrees or higher just before I go to work. I figure that I'm probably going to be fine, because I never, never, NEVER get the flu.

Why Novels?

Even though I still ponder whether the world needs my novel, I am still prepping for NaNo, which starts this Saturday. My goal is to finish Prodigies at a clip of 1000 words per day, or 30,000 words for the month-long session. That's a lot of words, yet I've written 50,000 words or more during regular NaNo season.

I used to write at a much more relaxed pace, a short story here, a poem there, and occasionally a chunk of song lyrics. I mostly used to write about my feelings without much artistry (although in my defense, without too much cliché.) On rare occasions, I would show someone and they'd say "That's really nice."

I wanted to know how good I was and how good I could be. I read others' poetry, and felt I didn't quite have what contemporarily published poets had in terms of their raw emotion and immediate imagery. At the same time, I had to write my truth, which was that of a woman who lives her life in a clear glass bubble, sequestering her emotions. I felt an affinity with Emily Dickinson, another woman who lived in her own clear glass bubble, and I remembered that she died with most of her poems unread. My own truth has a very limited audience -- 385 hits a week. or about 45 hits a day (Thanks, readers!)

Once I found out from my first NaNo that I can write over 50,000 words with a coherent plot, I realized I could write novels. However, I didn't know that I could write good novels. I wrote those novels about other people, other situations, other plots -- yet we write what we know, so the brittle beauty and the emotional turmoil still show up.

I hoped to prove my talent by getting an agent and, eventually, getting published. That has not happened. I have gotten over 200 rejections, and almost all of these read "This isn't grabbing me" or some variation. I may still write novels. I may burn out and develop a project obsession (although we don't have enough room room in the yard for a 4-season greenhouse with a hot tub. Believe me, I measured).

I'm rethinking a lot of things right now. But I will still finish those 30,000 words.

Writing from the Soul

Writing comes from a personal place.

I would argue that all writing -- poetry and novels, song lyrics and even textbooks come from a need within one's soul. The need may be as mundane as "I really wish someone had written a textbook about case management for the disabled (Me about 10 years ago)" and as lofty as "I want to share this prophetic dream I had last night" (me thirty years ago), or for that matter, "I want to imagine I'm the captain of this starship who gets away with anything short of murder and gets branded a hero" (Whoever write the Star Trek movie reboot).

One also can write for the market, which can be a whole 'nother thing, as they say around here. This is the thing I struggle with, because I have this crazy notion that people need to read emotionally packed narratives about people who don't match the status quo. For example, there's Amarel:

Finally, Janice found herself back at the building site. The bales had been set in place, and workers set a framework inside and out to create the cob walls. Gideon walked the perimeter, pointing out how to develop the frames for the curved sections of the house. Larry and another man watered something in a wide trough, then pounded it with what looked like small tree trunks with handles. 

Most of the men had taken off their shirts, as it had grown hot outside. Janice admitted she enjoyed the view, and then she saw Amarel, shirtless and untouched by sun, at a wheelbarrow where he mixed mud and straw with a shovel and dumped them at the end of the trough. What Janice saw was beautiful, the angelic face focused, the graceful torso with muscles engaged, pectorals both muscular and curved, the intrigue of slight curves that she didn’t understand at his hip. The alabaster sculpture gained detail in her mind.

Amarel is truly genderqueer, engendered that way by the plan of the Maker. He presents as both make and female, and that causes some consternation even among the supposedly liberal people surrounding him. Janice, the artist taking refuge at Barn Swallows' Dance, wavers between thinking him the perfect sculptor's subject and worrying about the implications of falling in love with him. This is what comes from my soul -- imperfect people who defy the status quo and have to resolve some great developing problem.

I'm still considering whether I can write for the market and satisfy my soul. I might have to take solace from the case of Emily Dickinson, who continued to write despite a readership puzzled by her poetry. I'll see how it goes.

So weary.

So, so weary, friends. Too weary to write, too tired to feel. Send hugs.

Hidden stories in a Poem

Sometimes when we write, we reveal our subconscious evaluation of a situation through the imagery we use, and only later do we realize that.

For example, here's a poem I wrote thirteen years ago:

Three Men     9/27/05

i.

A polished marble obelisk

in a rose garden.

A portly tiger cat

rubs against my ankles

and nips my hand in greeting.

ii.

A lake at midnight,

with harvest moon reflected.

A distant poor-will calls,

and my heart aches.

iii.

At the end of an endless road --

a house, cool white, surrounded by trees.

I sit on the porch, waiting.

A huge white dog runs to me,

and puts his head in my lap.

*********
This was about three men who were casually in my life at the time. I was not dating any one of them, but spending time (face to face or online) with all three. When I wrote, it was based on the imagery I had when  I wrote about them, which is one of the reasons I think this poem became a turning point in my poetry skills.

According to the "end of an endless road", you'd think guy #3 was someone I might end up with, right? Not if you were my friend and mentor Les. I read him this poem and he said, "I'm putting my money on the cat."

He was right -- #1 was written about my now-husband. We've been married for 11 years.

What did my friend see in the symbolism? #2 was never in the running, as he was all about darkness and heartbreak. #2 was great for poetry (I wrote a poem abut him which should be set to music.

#3 -- wouldn't he be the one, the one all about settling down and coming home? Not if you're me, although I didn't understand it at the time. The dog here is subservient and tame. I'm a high-spirited person, which my friend knew well.

So that leaves us with #1. What might my friend have found in that verse? The description is more affectionate and playful, with a tiger (orange) cat nipping at me. The polished obelisk represents a sense of mystery. Roses represent romance.  I didn't get this at the time, so it surprised me.

I owe my friend Les a fifth of premium Scotch whiskey.

Grey

Icy rain seeps into my bones

and the mist obscures my sight

as I slowly freeze to grey.

Actions and Consequences

I just wrote what I suspect is the most unromantic kiss scene ever. The trigger of this was Grace being asked to demonstrate her talent for manipulating emotions, which had an effect in a wider radius than she had counted on:

Greg bolted from the table and stepped out the back door into the alley. I ran after him, and found him out in the alley, leaning against a grimy brick wall, eyes closed.

I put my hand on his arm. “Greg,” I asked, “Are you okay?”

Before I knew it, Greg had grabbed me by the shoulders and pushed me against the wall. He said something in Polish, and of course I couldn’t understand it. His lips met mine, and —

“Oh,” I exclaimed shakily after an explosive moment where he tried to devour me. It had been ... strange. Part of me wondered what it meant; the other part of me wondered “Is that all there is?” Not a great feeling for one’s first kiss.

Greg leaned back against the wall beside me, his eyes closed. I noticed the fine lines in his face as I hadn’t before, and I knew he was what my Grandmama would call a lost soul. He took my hand. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, shouldn’t I be?” What I wanted to ask was “Why did you kiss me?” but I knew I shouldn’t because people didn’t dissect something as special as a kiss, even if there was something all wrong about it. I thought about that wrongness and burst out crying.

“Oh, Lord,” Greg muttered, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to — “

“It’s not that,” I sniffled. “I know you don’t — “

“Grace,” Greg sighed, “I wish I could, but I’m too messed up. I don’t even know if I have feelings anymore. And when my memories get too bad, I — I get overwhelmed and grab onto someone or something to remind me I’m still alive.”

We pulled ourselves away from the wall. Greg enfolded me into a hug, and I wanted to sing him a song about contentment and comfort.

***************

So let's look at the actions and their consequences:

• Grace demonstrates her ability to manipulate emotions, which affects Greg (in the next room)*;
• Greg has flashbacks and runs out of the room**;
• Grace chases him to an alley;
• Greg, after flashbacks, gives Grace a rather rough and unromantic first kiss;
• She starts crying;
• Greg apologizes for not having feelings for her;
• Grace comforts him.

There will be future consequences for Greg and Grace here which will leave readers thinking there will be a "ship" (relationship) here. I'm not telling, except that I'm uneasy about relationships that evolve from near-assaults.

Do actions always have consequences in writing? Not all the time; I would argue not nearly enough. In the action movie genre, the protagonist executes many destructive and illegal actions, but in the end, the protagonist suffers no consequences. Or, as in the Avengers franchise, the good guys cause immense damage (and possibly casualties; that's kept off screen.) At the end, an oblique mention of a large bill is made; Iron Man pays it. That is wish fulfillment deserving of a Marty Stu*** award. 

I don't know if this hurts or helps my writing; it is what it is. I like my people to be realistic by their own definitions, even in fantasy. Actions have consequences, even in space or the middle of a pasture or ... 

******************

* Off-stage

** Also off-stage

*** Marty Stu is defined as the male counterpart of the Mary Sue (a character who gets inserted, astonishes everyone, and gets the guy). I will argue that it's hard to find Marty Stus because they have been defined in Mary Sue (traditional female wish-fulfillment) terms. I consider the Marty Stu as the insertion/wish fulfillment where the hero makes dangerous and destructive decisions and actions, faces no consequences, and yes, gets the girls (usually plural) -- in other words, every action movie ever.