Maya Angelou (born Marguerite Ann Johnson in 1928, died in 2014)Β was an American author, poet, memoirist, and civil rights activist. She published seven autobiographies, three books of essays, several books of poetry, and was credited with a list of plays, movies, and television shows spanning over 50 years. Image from Amazon.
“Any book that helps a child to form a habit of reading, to make reading one of his deep and continuing needs, is good for him.” β Maya Angelou
Image from Pixabay
All you wanted to do was write a book.
You had a great startβsix-thousand five hundred and seventeen words. But now youβre stuck. You havenβt written a wordβ¦ in three years.
You venture online for a bit of help and inspiration and in no time at all youβre sorry you ever heard of the Internet.
Sifting through a thin layer of the gazillion returns on βhow to write a bookβ, you become confused.
Tropes? Outlines? MS? Taglines?
What?
All you want to do is write a book. That story has been stuck in your head since the week before high school graduation decades ago, and it wonβt go away.
You just want to get it down on paper.
But all the search returnsβwhere do you start?
You find THE link that says, βJoin a groupβ and things are starting to make sense. You can join a group. Youβre a born joiner!
Discouragement sets in a few days later when you still havenβt found a group to join, and itβs not that you didnβt look.
The first group was for published authors only. LA-DE-DA!
The second group didnβt require members to be published, but a completed manuscript WAS required.
How are these groups even in the βhow to write a bookβ search returns if you must already have written something to join???
The next group wasnβt so badβ¦ they were just weird.
They kept calling themselves plotters and pantsers, and talking about conflict resolution, and a satisfactory HEA to satisfy Betas.
Whatβs a beta?
The last group⦠wow. That was some next-level-new-age-bullshit!
Moments after joining the group chat, introducing yourself, and sharing your dream of writing a book the interrogation begins.
How big is your mailing list? Whatβs the link to your author website? Have you installed Google Analytics? How often do you blog? Whatβs your target audience? Do you have a professional editor lined up? What program are you typing your book in? Whatβs your plan for marketing and promotion? Have you written proposal letters for publishers and agents? How do you expect to get noticed and sell books?
You break out in a cold sweat! What the hell is SEO and ROI??? And thereβs that βBetaβ word again!
How are you supposed to HAVE these things when you JUST DECIDED TO WRITE THE FREAKIN’ BOOK???
The Group has been throwing out links which youβve clicked on and you now have thirteen browsers open. Youβve also kept a running total of costs in your head – $4500.
And you havenβt even hit ten-thousand words in your story.
The group moves on to new topics and you sit quietlyβ¦ even though you want to scream and vent like you invented the term “going postal”.
The meeting ends⦠thankfully⦠and you toss your thanks and goodbyes into the chorus. You leave the chat, unjoin the group, and close the browser.
In hindsight, you should have followed your spouse to Art and Wine Night, or surprised your parents by showing up at St. Paulβs for bingo night.
Sighing heavily, you head for the coffeemaker, suddenly veering off towards the wine⦠minus the art.
Returning to your desk, your mind is crammed full of things you know nothing about, but just about everyone is the free world is willing to teach you⦠for a price.
All you wanted to do was write a book. When did writing become so complicated? The Internet did not invent books. Millions were written before βhttps://www.β became a thing.
Collecting your thoughts⦠with a nod to the wine⦠you make a short list of the things you saw and heard repeatedly. Website, mailing list, social networks. Those will do to start⦠eventually.
You push the list aside, close the remaining thirteen browsers⦠and work on your book.
And breathe.
Jack Kerouac (March 12, 1922-October 21, 1969) was an American novelist and poet. He is considered a literary iconoclast and, alongside William S. Burroughs and Allen Ginsberg, a pioneer of the Beat Generation. Kerouac is recognized for his method of spontaneous prose. Image from Poets.org.
Image from NCO Journal
She didnβt need a shrink to tell her she had PTSD.
Virgie Hudson well knew of the price sheβd paid for thirty-two years of military service – twenty-two of those yearsβ¦ on the front lines.
The day after passage and ratification of SB 1200 allowing women into combat, Virgie left behind ten years of desk and training duties. Like her father and brothers, she would now get to serve on the front lines.
As one of only four women who would lead combat forces, Virginiaβs service was legendary. She had numerous medals and awards. She also had numerous scarsβ¦ on her body and her mind. Virgie remembered all too well how and when sheβd received each scar – physical and mental.
For every inch of ground taken, every hill won, every town liberated, there was a memory attached.
The good memories made Virginia smile.
The day her unit entered the town of Ras al-Ayn, the grateful Kurdish womenβs militia cheered. After fighting ISIS forces for days, the exhausted women thanked the Americansβ for their helpβ¦ and for some relief. With American support, ISIS guerrillas made a hasty retreat.
The memories of losing team members played on repeat in her mind often. Pfc. Jeff Ollenbeck – lost to a land mine. Pfc. David Jencks and LCpl. Donald Morgan – killed in an ambush attack. 2ndLt. Shelley Cooper – taken down by a sniper. There were more. So many more.
Why did she survive?
Virgie squeezed her eyes shut and yanked at her thick, black curls attempting to block out the faces of those who made the ultimate sacrifice.
She grabbed the tumbler of bourbon from the table in front of her, gulping it down in one breath. Even in those brief periods when fallen Marines didnβt cloud her thoughts, there was always the children.
The children Virgie couldnβt save.
It took several days to get into the small isolated town east of Mosul. When a ten-thousand member Iraqi counter-terrorism force arrived, militants soon scattered over the borders into the mountains of Turkey and Iran.
Villagers wept as Col. Virginia Holman Hudsonβs team set up aid stations. It was obvious many of the townβs residents survived severe beatings and torture. Virgie knew one young woman wrapped in a thread-bare blanket and shielded by an older woman was a rape victim.
A silent signal to her senior officers was acknowledged only by their scattering to inspect the village. One of her team interpreters called out to Virgie.
βCol. Hudson, the children!β
βWhat about them, Lance Corporal?β
Accompanied by two female villagers, LCpl. Dirks approached her. βA man took the children yesterday morning.β
In rapid speech and dialect Virgie didnβt understand, she did recognize the word for βhillβ. The woman gestured and pointed at something behind Virgie.
Virgie looked over her shoulder and saw a small, flat, mud-brick building sitting on a low hill about four hundred meters away. With one movement of her hand, the strike team fell into formation, heading for the building. Virgie led them until her second-in-command, 1st Lieutenant Reynolds pulled her back.
βExcuse me, Colonel, but you know I canβt let you do that.β
She nodded once. βDammit, Reyβ¦ find those children!β
Led by Reynolds, the strike team moved forward up the small incline to the building. Virgie fell into step behind them.
They had traveled half the distance to the building when a man threw open the buildingβs only door. His maniacal laughter was rife with anger and madness.
βHold fire!β Virgie held up her hand while glaring at the insurgent.
Stepping forward, Virgie questioned the man in flawless Arabic. βΨ§ΩΩ Ψ§ΩΨ§Ψ·ΩΨ§Ω?β Where are the children?
Not getting any response other than wild-eyed mania, Virgie switched to Kurdish. Ψ¨ΪΩΪΊ Ϊ©Ϋ Ϊ©ΫΨ§ΪΊ ΫΫΪΊ?
Recognition dawned in the mad manβs eyes. He lifted his arms and yelled, βΪ©Ψ§Ω Ϊ©Ϋ Ψ¨ΪΫ ΫΫΪΊ!β The children are mine!
Virgie recognized the small detonator in his hand, attached to a wire feeding into his sleeve. Before she could give the order to fall back, the crazed terrorist yelled out again, βAllah is great!β, and detonated the bomb.
What happened in the next few seconds was an eternity to Virginia Hudson.
The expression on the bomberβs face never changed as the impact of the explosion behind him ripped his body in half, each section set ablaze. Virgie lost sight of him when someone threw her to the ground, covering her body with their own. Except for the monstrous roar of the burning building, silence bathed the area.
Then sounds flooded the area.
Like a chorus, the wails of the villagers pierced the silence. Virgie pushed against the body holding her down, but stopped struggling and listened. She heard a different noise⦠coming from the burning building.
With one final shove, Virgie pushed the body off her enough to roll from under and to her feet. Reynolds lay a few feet away rubbing his chest from the impact of her blow. Virgie headed for the building but another team member grabbed her.
βLet go or youβre losing a stripe! I donβt care who it is!β
Anger rose inside of Virginia as she spun around and looked up into the face of Cpl. Lawrence.
βCol.β¦ thereβs nothing we can do for them.β
Her body sagged, already knowing the truth. The tears streaming down the big Marineβs face caused Virgie to look at the rest of her strike team. They all weptβmale and female alike.
Donnelly watched out for Dirks, now on his knees, giving up the contents of his stomach.
Sanchez clutched the cross around his neck.
Though his face was wet with tears, Gilmoreβs eyes flared with rage.
βDirks? How many?β
Without raising his head, Dirks responded, the words causing him physical pain. βT-Thirty four, maβam.β
Anger and grief warred inside Virgie. Anguish strangled her heart as bile rose in her throat. Closing her eyes, Virgie called upon the false sense of calm needed to do her job. Opening her eyes, Virgie spoke, knowing Reynolds was back at her side.
βSecure the perimeter, Lieutenant.β
Virgie gave the order almost as an afterthought, not moving from where she stood. Only after the cries for help stopped did she turn to look at the building crumbling in the fiery blaze.
Col. Virginia Holman Hudson knew her military career was over.
Sheβd had enough.
It’s NaNoWriMo time!
No, you haven’t pulled a Rip Van Winkle and slept through most of 2017! It’s CAMPNaNoWriMo, held during the month of April.
What? You’re not ready to tackle another fifty thousand word project? Good! Because that’s not what CampNaNoWriMo is for…unless you want it to be.
At Camp, you can:
I won’t say it’s necessarily ‘easy’, but it is that simple.
I’ve signed up and will be working on my November 2016 project, For Worse. My protagonist, Quinn Landon, seems to have developed a personality disorder. I need her to quit with the Sybil-theatrics, pick an identity and stick to it. Geeze…
Calm down! This is NOT the cover! I repeat this is NOT the cover!
Since this is camp, there are CABINS! You can choose to be assigned to one, start your own, or just fly free.
I have yet to choose a cabin. I elected to be assigned to a cabin last year, clearly specifying my preferences.
That didn’t work out so well. The only thing I had in common with my cabin-mates was the fact most of us were breathing. I say most because a few never uttered a word during the entire month.
Not going there again.
While we do stress out at times, battle muses and deal with writers’ block, I believe writers sometimes forget that writing is supposed to be something we love to do; something we’re driven to do; something we enjoy!
If you’re not having fun with it, and don’t find yourself smiling your way through scenes and situations – why are you doing it?
If you want to have some fun writing during April, look me up. I’ll be the one arguing with myself and trolling cabins!
A peaceful mind can make a wonderful quote.
Bez poΕpiechu, prosto z serca β po prostu Antonina pisze.
bliskoΕΔ, ktΓ³ra ma znaczenie
Showcasing swoon-worthy African Romance reads
Inheritance. Narcissism. Turf. Welcome to the family.
If music be the food of love, play onβ¨
daily foods
The Truth for Kyle
ππ ππ’πππ
Because everyone has a story. Let's talk about it.
stories, poems and more
The Power of Story
I am more than breath & bones. I am nectar in waiting.
Life is just down the road lesser traveled....
"I saw the Angel in the marble, and carved until I set him free"
Felicia Denise, Author 