HANG GLIDING or SKYDIVING?

ARE YOU HANG GLIDING OR SKYDIVING?

Are you a risk taker? Push limits? Bend the rules? Have you ever done something borderline (or not) illegal and got away with it? Your deep…dark secret. Or do you step on the cracks in the sidewalk? Walk under ladders? Own black cats just so they cross your path daily?

One is a "hang glider," the other a "skydiver." So what's the difference?

Hang gliding requires the use of tactical skills. If you know how to maneuver correctly and catch the right air currents, you can sail hundreds of miles. You coast silently above the earth, deciding the direction you'll take. The duration of your flight depends on how long you can physically hold the kite. 

For me, that means walk off the edge and plummet to earth. I have zero upper-body strength, so unless I catch the right current, my concentration isn't on flying, but landing.

Sky diving is for the adrenaline junkie. It's the rush of free-falling—completely uninhibited by anything. No strings, no rules, and deafening silence.

To step out of a plane; backwards and witness the sky up close and personal, or "kamikaze" (falling forward) and experience the heart-thundering rush of watching the world below through your own personal zoom lens, surpasses the hesitation of walking off a ledge with a kite already open.

Your safety net is folded and strapped to your back—not unfurled, rigid, and already catching the wind. Your life basically is at the end of a rip cord.

Your flight time, however, is limited and there comes the point of "no-return" where you must decide…open the chute or become a human puddle. Again, the adrenaline rush kicks in. How far can you safely push the envelope—enjoy ultimate freedom? And then the "what if" factor dances in your brain…what if the chute doesn't open? The back-up chute isn't positioned correctly?

Because (a) I am a control freak, and (b) a mega pansy-ass, I could never literally skydive. The same goes for hang gliding, although of the two and given no other option, like a root canal without anesthesia, I would choose this option (slower death and I could spin on the monkey-bar for old-time sake). True, when I was young, impetuous, and believed in such myths as "trust me baby" from the mouths of hunky heartthrobs, I actually considered sky diving (this is also where I must confess to possibly being old enough that hang gliding hadn't yet become a thrill seeking sport and my pet was a real Tyrannosaurus Rex).

So how does this fit you as a person? A writer? Easy.

How do you approach life? Your work? Your writing? Do you jump into things without evaluating everything you're going to need to complete the task and just deal with the speed bumps when they happen? If you're a writer, then you're probably a panster. A skydiver.

If you must have everything organized, arranged, your research complete and notes nearby (perhaps suffering a tidbit of OCD) before you start a project, then you are a hang glider, and if a writer, a plotter.

Both have their pros and cons. If you over analyze a project (edit a story to death), spend countless amounts of time in research, some probably unnecessary, then you've wasted time instead of gaining ground. You are gliding over the world, taking in all the scenery, and in some respect, avoiding the landing. A hang glider.

Writers understand this all too well. We edit, rewrite, re-edit, scrap, cut, pull our hair out, bare our teeth at loved ones, and end up hunched over our desk, our noses buried in chocolate and tears of frustration washing the residue from our cheeks. 

Yes, organization is necessary. We can't focus if too much clutter surrounds us physically or emotionally. But we have to be careful that we don't purposely pirouette for the sake of spinning. Sooner or later, we're going to crash if we don't make the decision to land.

While I've thought of myself as more conservative—a "hang glider," after writing this blog I find myself to be the opposite. I'm skydiving, free-falling, and praying my chute will open before impact. I hate itineraries. I love to explore side roads—take the scenic route (usually inside a car or a vehicle that can outrun wildlife if I'm in the woods). When I go on vacation, I don't want a timetable to follow. I want freedom.

As a writer, I love the thrill of creating in the moment—the rush of having a story unfold with characters playing out the scenes in my head as I vigorously type. That's probably why I hate editing. There are "rules" to follow and deadlines to be met. I've made procrastination an "art." But when I'm done and ready to upload my story to share with the world, I feel unbridled relief when my feet hit the ground (or the publish button) and my chute settles behind me, knowing I've "landed."

That lasts two seconds. I'm back in the plane and feeling the rush again as I climb each level, waiting to jump all over again.

"Riley's Pond" was my first jump and I soon discovered that cords get tangled easily and wind currents (critics and sales) can cause turbulence and make you anticipate a crash landing instead of a soft one, making you fearful of wanting to take the risk again. But I've survived a few rough lessons, learned some new techniques on packing the chute (which is bright yellow – more on that later) and I'm poised on the platform—the deafening roar of air rushing the sides of my plane, my heart in my throat.

My "Designer Genes" trilogy launches soon with Book One "The Boyfriend Cut" (gorgeous cover to the right courtesy of Kelli Ann Morgan, Author of "The Rancher" and owner of Inspire Creative Services) and from now until "jump day" I'll blog something to tie in a part of the story with life, either personal or professional.
 

Under the tab above, you'll find the excerpt from the story where Marli learns to "skydive." Sorry, no spoilers just know it's a very important part of the story. 

So when it comes to "risky business," either personal or professional, are you a hang glider or a skydiver? I've got to say either way, the view is breathtaking.

Yippee! 

As always, thanks for stopping by.

MENTALLY ACCIDENT PRONE

If you follow my WACKY WEDNESDAY blogs, you've got a pretty good idea that I fly by the seat of my pants and usually have to sew a seam or two by the time I've landed. Been that way my whole life. I'm mentally "accident prone." I start out with the greatest of intentions, methodically planning my next move, overthinking every step along the way, and stewing about "this and that" until I finally decide I've made the right decision.

Then, I jump. Something always happens "mid air." The chute doesn't open (that's, of course, I remembered to strap the dang thing on), or if it does, the lines get tangled. Sometimes, it's simpler. My skirt blows up around my face and exposes my underwear. Either way, I'm plummeting toward disaster, and when I arrive, my blush is so hot, I self-combust.

Yesterday, one of my over-thought-cautiously-plotted scenarios misfired. I was left holding the grenade...without the pin. A week ago, I wrote what I believed to be one of my most "dazzling" query letters. I can write 350 pages of creative prose effortlessly, but I suck at the "one page query letter" that is my only tiny flag blowing in a breeze of thousands of other writers' flags, with the words "pick me! pick me!" scribbled across it. The query letter is my one shot...my first impression...my "bluff and dazzle" to getting an agent to actually rub their chin and ponder..."could this be the next mega-bust best seller?

Of course, I think it is, but...this one page, filled with names, addresses, contact information, writing credentials, contest wins, membership stats, not mention my attempt to woo and flatter the agent I'm trying to solicit, leaves me one paragraph that must be crafted with Hollywood style pizazz to sell the story that's plagued my thoughts and caused endless sleepless nights. A story my husband considers "my affair" and my children think I love more than them (and there are those times), and one I'm so anxious for the rest of the world to read. My "dream" has to be described and sold in a paragraph shorter than this, to keep within the required "one page format" submission guidelines. This paragraph...this letter...must outshine my entire story to get it considered, and I have yet to produce one that will get me "the call."

But this time, I really felt confident I'd got it right. I sent it to a couple of discriminating eyes and got the "thumbs up." So I frantically put the finishing touches on DESIGNER GENES this week, officially closing and saving with an elated sigh yesterday afternoon. I sat down to send off my one brilliant page letter to my favorite agent on my "A List."


In my chair, the letter open before me, I sat at the edge of my jump off station, ready to hit the SEND key and "soar" with confidence. First, I corrected the date to reflect the actual date of my submission. Saved. Decided to run one last spell check and "surprise!" Found a sneaky little flaw that could have ruined my perfected masterpiece. Fixed it, grateful I'd discovered it before sending. Did one last read through and saved again.

Then, I packed my "parachute." I made the decision to use my Gmail email address for business, because it contains my full name, instead of my cutesy Yahoo email address. I've never used my Gmail email account, just set it up so I could create my blog. So to be safe, I sent myself a test email. Covering all the bases..."tucking in all the corners of my chute." I opened it, and it looked great. Wanting it to look "fresh," I copied the letter and dumped it into a new email and smiled. It was ready. All my "lifelines" appeared coiled properly. I smoothed my "skirt," mentally taking note I had on my good underwear. Time to jump. I hit SEND.

Feeling the weight immediately lift off my shoulders, I took flight. Of course I wanted to forward a copy to my Yahoo address so I could file it in my query letter folder, along with the past experiments and attempts that had yet to bring me fame and fortune, knowing this one would work. It almost sparkled in my SEND box. I opened it to forward to my other email address, and....


  The lines "tangled," my skirt flew over my head, and my screams could be heard to the planet Jupiter! Did you know that it is impossible to retrieve an email on any format outside of OUTLOOK? Keep this in mind. Place it in "important facts to remember." Once you hit the SEND key, it's like a shell shot out of Howitzer Tank. Your message has a homing device that will take it to the intended, or unintended target with lightning speed, and explode. Irreparable damage. My grenade detonated.

Many times I have mentioned my challenges with technology. Just as I think I've mastered it, I'm "shut down and rebooted." I made the mistake of thinking one format in my cyber-possessed world, Gmail, worked just like Yahoo...the format I've been using for years. A "fatal error" occurred. You see, when I did the simple task of highlighting the last, perfect letter I formatted and placed into the new email, apparently...the other two letters I'd corrected attached underneath! Yes, that's right. I sent ALL three letters in one email, end-to-end, to my sought after agent!

Wow, Joelene, talk about impressive! You go girl! Not only did I hit the ground with a deflated parachute, I walked through the imaginary door to my favorite agent's office with my shirt shredded and my underwear torn. I'm guessing my hair and makeup are in slight disarray, as well. Yep, hell of a first impression!

So here's the thing. I could curl into the fetal position and cry miserably, vowing to burn my writer's pen and never turn my computer on again, or I could laugh. Yes, that's right laugh. Boisterous, "wet-your-pants," laughing. One of two things are going to happen, neither of which I can control. First, she will receive the email. That's a disastrous given. She may gasp in disbelief, stare at my torn underwear, and slam the door in my face without so much as a reply, and life will go on. Or, she could actually be impressed by the first letter, see where I took the initiative to correct the spelling error on the second letter, and notice my professionalism in displaying the correct date in the third letter. But she'll see my magical "paragraph" three times! She may truly be curious enough to want to read more about the story I've described in six short sentences, now burned into her memory! I might be asked to take a seat in her office (covered by a sheet of newspaper first, most likely).

Agents say they want a query letter that will dazzle and impress them above all others. I think I've accomplished that. Yes, this may be just the letter (or letters) to get me noticed. I will be "noticed," of that I'm quite confident. I'm just hoping (praying actually) she, too, will have a good laugh, but in the end, will look past my embarrassing gaffe and ask to see more. Or, she'll check out my blog and understand what really happened!

I hope I've taught you a couple of valuable lessons so you don't repeat my mistake, not that there could possibly be another person as mentally accident prone as me. If I have a twin out there, I hope you'll find solace in knowing if I can survive...so can you! Life is going to fall apart at the most inopportune moments, some by our hand, some by others. Allow yourself a momentary pity-party, then laugh. Find the positive in everything negative, and you'll make it through life sliding into the grave with a smile on your face and your favorite cocktail in hand saying..."Wow! Thanks for the ride!"

Here's to laughing over spilled milk...the cat's going to lick it up anyway! 

Joelene (Harley Brooks is walking around with a brown bag over her head and eyes cut out. You'll recognize her by the smile on her backside where her underwear is torn!).

WACKY WEDNESDAY...Where Anything Goes

Today's twisted topic:  Those little horror fables we call "nursery rhymes" - Brain teasers or easers?

I'm stretched out on a leather couch, my shoes kicked off so my toes can wiggle, hoping my feet don't stink or my stomach doesn't growl. Or worse…(refer to earlier posts). Across from me, a gentleman sits, pad resting on his crossed knee, and his pen tapping ever so slightly and annoying against the paper.

"So, what seems to be the problem?" he asks, as if scripted.

"Life sucks." Mature…to the point.

"And why is that?"

"If I knew the answer, I wouldn't be lying here, picturing you naked to ease my nervousness, and paying you $100 an hour. For that price, the least you could do is work out. Hell, you can afford a gym pass. And splurge on a tan, too, would ya? My fantasy isn't working with you flabby and pasty white. Would it kill you to get hair plugs and contacts? Honestly, the glare from your oversized wire rims is competing with your enormous forehead."

At this point, the counselor hands me the pad of paper and pen. He eases back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's my parents' fault," he starts. "I must have been dropped on my head."

That might explain the premature baldness on his frontal lobe.

It all boils down to the follies of parents.

I believe my parents were brain damaged from riding in the back window of the family car on long road trips. They "baked." My mother is the hyper type, so she probably only hit medium rare, but my dad's pension for "naps" leads me to believe he may have not been turned enough to heat evenly.

If there wasn't room in the back window, they were placed in a pile of blankets on the floorboards in the back seat and their siblings were threatened with corporal punishment if they touched the baby. I believe my uncle held his stinky bare feet over my dad's nose until he cried. He's had a feet fetish his whole life.

Personally, I think issues start in infancy, when the subconscious is damaged by dark twisted nursery rhymes, stories, and lullabies. Think about it. What's the most famous (and I might add, dark) lullaby a baby is cooed to sleep with?

Rock-a-bye baby, in the tree tops

When the wind blows, the cradle will rock.

When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall,

And down will come baby, cradle and all.

Oh hel-lo. I picture a mother suffering from post-partum depression, having given birth to her twenty-eighth child, all under twelve. They're running, screaming, jumping on the furniture and teasing each other relentlessly. The baby can't sleep, probably suffering from colic, and mommy dearest is at her wits end. Of course she's nearing the end of her six-week reprieve and daddy's getting all hot and bothered again. She's rocking the baby to sleep for the hundredth time to avoid amorous dad, and this lovely tune pops in her head.

Bewitched by the melody, the unsuspecting child craves the song night after night, his brain soaking in the lyrics which are embedded in the core of his mind. He grows up thinking mommy fantasized about putting him in a tree, praying for a windstorm, or tornado, blowing him out the branches and crashing him to earth.

Dropping him on his head.

My kids thought "Green Eggs and Ham" would be a fantasy come true, and I'm sure a couple of babysitters re-enacted the book.



And the nursery rhymes? Our infamous ""Jack and Jill?"  Sending two small children to traverse a hill for pails of water? What the hell did they do to deserve that punishment? Talk about child slave labor!

I picture myself using this threat on my cocky teenager:

"Son, if you sluff school one more time to play WarCraft, you will be dragging your sorry ass up that mountain with a bucket to search for water. Got that?" 

Of course Junior has heard the nursery rhyme countless times, and scoffs. His horny teenage brain knows he won't go alone. He'll take "Jill." 

What about "Five Little Monkeys Jumping on a Bed?" Think about it. "One fell off and broke his head?" Apparently, the chimp suffered severe brain trauma as the result of a massive skull fracture. The doctor, who we all told our little ones could heal all "boo-boos" can't do anything to save a poor monkey? How can he fix a broken arm or leg? He just left the semi-ape to die! And what of the other monkeys? It's obvious we have bully no one dares to stop until all his minions are eliminated. Then, it's a suicidal jump to avoid prosecution. (Wait? Is this symbolic of our schools?)





"Three Blind Mice?" Why isn't PETA all over this one? Cruelty to animals rates pretty high here. The wee ones singing this little rhyme have yet to process the words that account for a violent, premeditated murder. Carving knife? What frame of mind was this author in? A broom must have seemed weak and metal traps springing over nibbling rodents didn't seem cruel enough?

Is this where creative mastermind Stephen King goes when he needs to picture a gruesome scene to write? He just closes his eyes and starts singing an old childhood nursery rhyme. (Note: these "horror fables" were defined as "nursery" rhymes).

Next time you cradle a frightened or upset little one in your arms, think about the words you're going to use to soothe him or her. Little minds paint big pictures.

Be careful crossing London Bridge….



Thanks for letting me twist your brain a bit. Now you know why I think with a "limp!"   Joelene

DON'T TELL ME IT CAN'T BE DONE...

Current listen:  Midnight Romeo by Push Play...a perfect soundtrack to this blog.

Tonight, we're settling on the back porch. The weather is warming up and the sky is a spectacular black velvet canvas, covered in a sea of sparkling diamonds. Throw a shall around you shoulders and get comfortable. We're going to talk about "boys."

Who says boys can't have a romance story? Only girls are allowed to think flowery thoughts and lust after hunky jocks with tight butts, or the bad boy whose plaid boxers show six inches above his low riding jeans? Does "Dear Diary, I think I'm in love..." only belong to the female gender? Why can't a romantic tale be told through the eyes of a boy? And I'm not talking "boy on boy." I'm talking normal heterosexual "Boy meets girl. Boy falls in love with girl," with the same fairytale ending.

This was the challenge I took on in writing Riley's Pond, now completed and in the final throes of editing. I wanted a romance told from the boy's perspective. Of course this meant shedding several conservative layers and tossing out the "gasp reflex" when a bad word unexpectedly flew out of my character's mouth. Here's ten things I learned:

1.  Boys don't believe in consequences. They believe most rules are made to be broken. Life is not black and white, but a gazillion shades of gray.
2.  Boys believe its socially acceptable to name certain body parts. They're "one with the penis."
3.  Boys have different scales they rate girls against.
         a.  The "jiggle scale," (both boobs and butts)
         b.  The "hair scale," (long, but not necessarily blond)
         c.   The "swing scale," which is interesting because this is based on their model as she walks away - is it a backyard swing that sways gently, or a porch swing, long and lazy, or a power swing, wide, fast, and capable of throwing you off balance if you bounce off one of the hips.
4.  Boys rate "kisses" on a scale of one to five (five showing promise of more to come). Are her lips full? The kiss soft or firm. Does she kiss with her lips parted, or sealed tight like a brick wall. If teased with your tongue, will she let you have a free pass or do you have to work hard for a game of tongue tagging. Does she let your tongue in her mouth, or is she a control freak and has to put hers inside your mouth? 
5.  Then there's the body language issues. Does she lean into your curves when you kiss her, or remain stiff like a statue. If you nudge your knee between her legs will you get slapped? If not, forget the rest of the scale and head for the first place you can get horizontal.
6.  Things boys hate:  Obsessive giggling, constant gum popping, squealing and jumping like an idiot, joined at the hip with your BFF, and clingy. Girls should be able to stand on their own two feet.
7.  Boys also don't think its necessary to express their "feelings" or "thoughts" constantly. He likes you, or he wouldn't be going out with you. If he says he loves you, he means it. Don't ask every ten seconds. If you say it and he doesn't give you that same reply, don't go all psycho. Deal. Especially if you are stupid enough to ask in the middle of an intense game, action flick, or in front of any other male within hearing distance, and God forbid, in front of your BFF.
8.  Boys are not always thinking about sex. Granted, ninety percent of the time they're with you, they're wondering how far you'll let them get on this date, but the other ten percent is split equally between food and whether he's got enough money in his wallet to afford you. He also spends a nanosecond wondering if he tucked a condom in his wallet or if there's one in the glovebox.
9.  When boys fall in love, it's fast and hard. Their thoughts are consumed with you. They drop their friends, only wear underwear and socks once, and brush their teeth. Sometimes they shower. They keep their bedrooms clean, praying their parents will be out late and you'll be ready, willing and able. Their cars are stocked with a fistful of air fresheners, and there's a blanket in the trunk, just in case.
10. Boys cry. Hard. Their hearts don't break. They shatter.

In writing Designer Genes, I wiggle into Jordan's and Jesse's head and steal their thoughts for a couple of short chapters, to give my readers a "behind the scenes" glimpse to what's happening that my heroine isn't aware of. I liked the strong voices of my male characters and the passionate feelings they kept hidden from everyone. The facade boys put forth is interesting. They follow the stereotype cast through generations of being tough, unfeeling, crass, and selfish. Underneath, they're vulnerable, caring, and giving. And they love their moms.

In Riley's Pond, my male protagonist, Riley Martin, finds being the middle son, stuck between a wayward older brother and a younger brother he affectionately refers to as "the baby archangel," to be challenging. He feels responsible for keeping his parents happy to compensate for his older brother's bad choices, and frustrated at not being able to sow his own wild oats because of his impressionable little brother. The family dynamics in the story are dramatic, comical, and heartwarming. After penning "The End" I felt at home in the Martin house, having my own chair at their kitchen table.

The tagline reads:  Superman meets The Creature from the Black Lagoon - a love story.

The proposed back cover/query letter blurb:  When Riley finds a beautiful creature swimming in his secret pond, he isn't thinking about the drama he walked out on back at the house. He isn't contemplating that this creature in his black lagoon, encased in a revealing wet t-shirt, might be a catalyst in a dangerous chain of events changing his life forever. No. He's just thinking he wants to jump her bones.

Well? Do you think it works? Think back to seventeen. Where would you have rated on "the scale?" Share your thoughts, memories, or suggestions.  Just don't tell me it can't be done.

As always, thanks for stopping by. Come back over the weekend. I hope to have a surprise to share. Harley Brooks

NEW MOON

Current Listen:  Love and Some Verses courtesy of Iron & Wine

The darkest night of the month. The stars spatter against the black velvet backdrop, finally getting a chance to shine on their own. They shimmer, some bright white, others the palest of gold, and every so often, the "rainbow star," changing from red to blue to green. Heaven's tiny strobe lights.

Some claim the new moon phase plays havoc with their moods, being a galactic tease. I believe this to be true. There must be an illogical reason why yesterday I was on top of the world -- happy, energetic with a force field of positive karma surrounding me, and this morning when I woke I felt like Superman lying on a bed of Kryptonite. I waxed melancholy most of the day, letting darts laced with self-doubt prick me. By nightfall, the list was much longer than the number of bullets I owned.

My "well of creativity" echoed when I called down for reinforcements. Even editing sucked, not doing it, but what was coming out into my story. Yesterday I left my beta reader with a cliff hanger. Today she waited for the next chapter. Finally late afternoon she emailed me. You left me hanging in the middle of a wedding between Heaven and Hell with a large rock flying somewhere inside the church. Hel-lo? The rock knocked the author out. I read what I wrote and thought "yeah right. Like that's believable." Tonight, I'm searching for my white flag. Surrender makes the most sense right now.

But as most authors know, there are many voices inside our heads. One voice yells above the others.

"Hey you! Lady moping around feeling sorry for yourself."

I look around for someone matching the description and find my reflection staring back from the black window pane. Surely the voice is wrong.

"No, I'm not wrong. It's you. What's with the attitude all of a sudden?"

"I do not have attitude. I'm having an off day, that's all. It's the new moon screwing with me," I say.

"That's a myth. An excuse. Tell yourself you can't do something and you won't. But remind yourself how awesome you are, list all the good things you do and have, then read your favorite chapter. See? You're a kick-ass writer and letting someone tell you otherwise, especially yourself is NOT tolerated. Got that?"

The "voice" is right. I'm my own worst enemy and indulging in self destructive thinking was blocking me. So what do you do when the scene looks hopeless, whether in your story or your life? You step back and look at the scene through a different point of view. Another character, or voice that sees a different angle.

The new moon hides once a month to allow the stars center stage. Yes, there's a void where the silver orb usually hangs, but you don't see it. The stars of the show are performing, hiding the black hole and letting us see the universe from a different perspective for a couple of nights. Without the moon, Heaven's tiny luminaries get a chance to prove what they can do.

So it is with us. Life happens, leaving voids or holes in our lives and hearts. But if we take a step away from the black holes and see all the little things happening around the edges, soon we no longer see the hole...no longer sense the void. Whatever was there is gone, sometimes only for a moment and sometimes forever, but when we allow the small subtleties we've ignored to take center stage, we adapt and grow to love and appreciate the little blessings we took for granted.

Relish the new moon phase. Look at it as an opportunity to see another view of the universe.

What does the new moon do to you? Inspire your imagination or transform you from beauty to beast?

Thanks for stopping by and filling a "void."  Harley Brooks - Joelene's inspiration

Today's thought:  Life is what happens when we're making other plans.

MUSES & BRUISES

Current musical muse:  Last Train Home by Ryan Star*
(*a favorite listen and used as "muse" in my story)

I TAMED TWINS. They were part of the zoo I was in charge of feeding, housing, and returning to "the wild." The tag-team was also a total surprise. Even to the doctor. At 3:00 in the morning I was advised my son had brought reinforcements (undoubtedly heard his older sister on the outside and made the decision she was too scary to face alone). His brother arrived four minutes later. 


Twins come without a set of instructions and rule the universe they are visiting. They have a bond that can't be broken. They're weird. They're a blast. One is "the instigator" and the other, "the informer." When they took off in opposite directions, I just had to decide which one was in the most danger and let the other roam free. They never face life alone. There's always someone to share everything with from chicken pox to alibis. The last was used constantly throughout their life, and I'm sure, I'm still being duped.


When your seven-year-old calls to establish an alibi for his whereabouts "all day" (the time was specifically mentioned which was my first clue - he'd only been gone an hour) your system goes on alert. My twins were supposedly next door playing while I was on cupcake detail for a church party. I pondered the phone call a full minute before donning my detective hat and running shoes (twins require a lot of chasing. I had the best damn legs during their early years). I stepped out onto the back porch and smelled smoke. At that moment I realized I was about to be the proud parent of a young arsonist.


Quickly, I rounded the fence line and discovered the small group of trees (3 to be exact) behind our subdivision (affectionately referred to as the "magic forest" by our kids) were being devoured by flames licking up their branches. And off to the side of the small inferno was Twin A. "The instigator." Of course I ran to make sure he was okay before I killed him. It should be noted here that twins have "followers." A small gaggle of boys appeared. Apparently, the "club meeting" had taken a turn for the worse when they decided to see if the lighter they discovered on a treasure hunt, could start a stick on fire. When it did and they dropped it they witnessed how fast a fire can spread. Lucky for them, the sidewalk and street halted the fire, and the only casualty was one tree. The Fire Department responded within minutes and the other "proud parent" stepped from the driver's seat of the engine and faced Twin A. Meanwhile, Twin B arrives on the scene wearing the angelic face of innocence...smudged with dirt and soot, his blond locks smelling of smoke. His alibi lost credibility immediately. Because my little darlings' father was on the fire department, they were spared any legal repercussions, but spent the next four Saturdays washing the whitewalls on the engines and pulling weeds in the gardens in front of the fire station during their dad's shift. Community Service.


This is only one of many pictures my twins colored in my life. My reason for sharing? I'm asked where my ideas for stories come from, or what inspires my imagination. Jordan and Jesse, my twins in Designer Genes were created from the two muses who kept my life from becoming dull. That's why they were so fun to write. I'd already been inside their heads, knew how they competed constantly with each other, and how when push comes to shove and life deals one a particularly rough hand, the other is there to support and stand guard. Such is the relationship with my characters.


My stories generally appear in my daydreams, usually while on a motorcycle, taking in the view and alone with my thoughts. They play like mini movies in my head. I see my characters physical features, hear the timbre of their voices, and watch them pull other characters into their world. I play the movie over in my mind, watching different scenarios play out. If they "click" a plot is formed and I put the "movie" on paper.


Some story lines come from a life experience, the words of a song that's touched me, a picture, or even a conversation I happen to overhear or a scene I watch while enjoying a cup of coffee or sitting at the park eating lunch. Some muses are instant stories, while others never materialize beyond a few sentences. I call them my "bruises." I never throw away ideas. Another day, a "bruise" may become a best seller.


What's your favorite muse? What spice flavors your life?

Again, thanks for stopping by.  Joelene, Harley's "twin"

Today's thought:  The easy things in life pass without notice, but when something's difficult, it gets our full attention. We can't rise above the "mushy" stuff. We need something "hard" to help us stand. (special thanks to Clancy Metzger for inspiration)

NIGHTMARES MAKE GREAT STORIES

Currently humming to Heartbeat courtesy of Enrique Iglesias and Nicole Scherzinger
(A delightfully sexy little tune...I picture Jesse whispering this tune in Marli's ear while he has her all to himself for a weekend in Park City, Utah - away from Jordan. Another beckoning glimpse into Designer Genes - "The Boyfriend Cut")

The wind is blowing, the air frosty. A full moon hangs on Heaven's branch and the stars glitter like diamonds against black velvet. A silvery glow illuminates patches of snow tucked between large pines and resting on rough boulders. The barren twisted branches of trees, naked in the winter night are silhouetted by the luminescense of the moonlight. The aroma of dead leaves, rich loamy earth, and pine boughs lace the chilly night air. A trail winds and curls through the forest and in the shadows edging the woods, beads of green, bright blue, and fiery red flash from the watchful eyes moving ghostily with my steps. Misty tendrils crawl along the black forest floor, wrapping my ankles like soft cold feathers. I push a wayward bough away and pause. A meadow of ice painted grass shimmers when a gust blows low and kisses the frozen shards. The air crackles and my skin pebbles when the hair on my neck pricks. Across the glowing field, puffs of mist rise from the nostrils of the black creature facing me. The musky scent carries on the breeze, swamping me with anticipation. The crisp grass crunches beneath the paws pressing in hard, deliberate steps. Magic weaves through the thick fur, transforming the black ruff to silky waves framing a face created into chiseled angles. Haunches turn to legs sculpted of lean muscle, carrying a body primed and ripped tight across a brawny chest and over large shoulders. His skin glimmers with a dewy sheen and his masculine scent wafts through me senses when his arms draw me into their embrace. Dark lashes fan his cheeks and he bends, brushing his full lips over mine, soft as the flutter of butterfly wings. My lips bloom under a second kiss, parting and inviting the delicious taste of his mouth capturing mine. My body leans into his curves, my fingers feeling his muscles ripple beneath their tentative touch. Heat surges through my veins with every pulse of my heart. But the edges of my dream ruffle, slowly tearing apart and fading away with the steady beep of the alarm on the night table. I pinch my eyes, willing myself back to the meadow, racing down the root laden path, only managing a few steps before it all disappears when the real world invades with the aroma of coffee brewing. A slight smile pulls the corner of my mouth. Another story is born. I think I'll call him Damien.

Writers never stop dreaming...

Have a day full of surprises and a night full of dreams.
As always, thanks for stopping by. Harley Brooks - one of many personalities inside Joelene

Looking for a real life happy ending to a horrible tragedy? Grab a tissue and hop over to Pen of the Dreamer at calisa-lewis.blogspot.com, my "cyber" buddy and talented author.

CHANGES

Current Listen:  Broken Dreams and Secrets courtesy of Ohio Avenue

I've been very "flighty" the past week, like a fairy searching for a petal to land on. My soul has been restless, my nights sleepless, my mood sketchy and unpredictable (apologies extended to all innocent victims). My thoughts are scattered, but my energy level is off the charts! I've decided my reaction to the "universe" is due to the new year. I'm standing in a doorway, looking over my shoulder at the Past, known and comfortable, whether good or bad. I'd molded into its shape, adapting to all the curves and angles. My head turns slightly and the view changes. I now face the Future, unknown and full of uncertainty. Changes are coming, and judging by my restless psyche, big changes. Fear and excitement kick the mass of butterflies already fluttering out of control (I may need to adjust my hormone medication) as I anticipate what lies beyond the mystic veil hiding my future. Change is hard but necessary. I'm still growing into what I'll become.


Therefore, I'm polishing my crystal bowl while my tea leaves steep, smelling the scent of sage and juniper from my smoldering smudge stick, and carefully selecting my three "angel cards," all in preparation of chasing away all negativity and welcoming only good karma to ring in the New Year. And just in case none of those work, I'll fall back on good old fashioned crossing fingers, toes, and yes, eyes (some things like chocolate look better in "twos"). 


Meanwhile, I lose myself in my passion and continue writing. I'm working on a re-write to the beginning of the second installment of Designer Genes and having a blast! Marli and Jordan's relationship is sailing stormy seas. My golden boy, Jordan, has got himself into some serious trouble when a ghost from his past manifests, and his blue band status in The Program is called into question. Instead of turning up the heat, Marli's frigid kiss goodbye leaves Jordan's lips suffering frostbite.


Stay tuned fans. Designer Genes - "A Perfect Size 5" (a working subtitle - suggestions?) promises to show you what happens when Marli and Jordan decide to go against The Program. Hint:  "The Program can walk away from you, but you cannot walk away from The Program," as quoted by a new dastardly demon Ryder Kirk.


As always, thanks for lending an "eye" my direction. Joelene, writing as Harley Brooks

Today's thought:  Kiss a frog. You never know when he'll turn into Prince Charming. And if he doesn't, you can cross it off your "bucket list!"


Special plugs to the new release NAUGHTY GODMOTHER by Chloe Cole. Checkout calisa-lewis.blogspot.com for more details and a fun glimpse.  Later friends!!

CONGRATS FELLOW NANOWRIMOS

Tonight's listen:  No More Cloudy Days, courtesy of "The Eagles"

November 30th came to close with the sound of thousands whizzing over the finish line with seconds to go before midnight, all rushing for the "claim to fame" of being able to write a book in a month of 50,000 or more words. Not an easy task!


You barrel out of the starting gates Week 1 with enthusiasm, unbridled energy and able to live on 2 hours sleep.


Then Week 2 hits. It's like the first week of January when the holidays are over and tax season looms. The wind is suddenly gone out of your sails and the edges of the story you've carefully laid the ground work on, start to fray. For some, its the week of "writers block" where hard as you try, nothing creative is coming forth. But you must write. (Taking a day off from writing on NaNoWrimo is hell to catch up on later. Trust me. I know.) So you plug away, maybe writing "aardvark" eighteen hundred times just to fill your daily word count quota, but you write something!


Week 3 knocks at the door and you gasp! One more week! And this particular week for we ladies raising our magic wands, or I should say "spoons" (thank you Loretta), proves even more challenging. There's "fowl play." Thanksgiving sneaks around the corner, along with several companions, most of which you only cook once, maybe twice  year. Not only are you responsible for creating the "memorable holiday," you still have your 1,800 words to type by midnight, as well. Personally, I don't remember tasting the turkey until the day after.


Week 4 just busts through the door, unannounced, and a panic attack ensues. Your word count is not where it should be. When you check your stats online, the diagonal bar is stretching far above your daily word count, visibly shaking you to realize that according to your "production output," reaching your 50,000 word requirement will fall way past November 30th's deadline.
Family ties are severed at this point. People approaching you carry long sticks and linger near exits for quick retreat. You're on the border of shapeshifting into some paranormal beast at this point, crazed and obsessed with meeting your 50,000 word count. You'll respond to your new nickname (hint: starts with a "B") faster than your own name.


Two days before the cut off date, I was looking at 43,000 on my word count. I think the sun rose and set, and I vaguely remember a migraine plaguing me, but I'm not clear if I ate anything besides my weight in chocolate, or drank anything that did not have thousands of milligrams of caffeine. On my lunch hour on "D" day, I took my laptop and memory stick holding my masterpiece, and sequestered myself in the public library where I wouldn't be disturbed, tucking into the 'Periodicals' section.


Let me take a moment to comment here. Old men do not bathe. It's a scientific fact, and they hang out in the 'Periodical' section of the library for entertainment. Holding my breath and typing a very intense scene of my story, I crossed the 50,000 word mark. I continued to sneak a word in here an there until around 6:00 pm. I opened my account, and downloaded what I had finished. I wanted to be safe, not part of the mad rush at 11:59 trying to crash the servers on the NaNoWrimo website by downloading my story.


"Riley's Pond" (formerly known as "Avoiding My Brother's Shadow"), while not quite completed, came in on NaNoWrimo at 52,075 words. When I shut down my computer at precisely midnight, my word count was 54,049, and I was in love with my new story. Still have a couple of chapters before penning "the end," but I patted myself on the back for a job well done. It's raw, full of colorful language, unsavory scenes, but has a happy ending. Kind of like "life."


Congratulations to my fellow "NaNoWrimos." Whether or not you reached the 50,000 word goal, you took on the challenge and trained yourself to be a disciplined writer. What a wonderful experience. What an amazing year so far!


Did I fail to mention that the week I was plucking feathers, I also submitted a partial of my manuscript to two agents, with a query letter and synopsis? A feat worth mentioning.


Goodbye November. You'll go down in my history as one of the "great ones." I'm putting on my new "stretchy pants" (thank you M&M's) and taking on the daunting task of making fixing my leaning Christmas Tree. However, if I tilt my head just a tiny bit, it's straight!


Happy writing my author comrades, and happy reading my friends. Now....let the holidays begin.


Thanks for visiting.  "Harley Brooks" (Joelene's evil twin)

Today's thought:  Never say "I can't," or you won't. Never say "I might," or you won't. Say "I can do anything," and you will.