Writing

A Beautiful Day to Write

A few years back, I hated snow days. I loathed that crack in the sidewalk. The one I hit every time I shoveled. The shovel would come to a sudden stop and the metal handle would slam into my belly with such force I coughed up a few choice swear words. The day was all about extra work and a loss of income; shoveling, plowing, and most of all rescheduling my clients. But my priorities have changed since I published my first novel. A snow day is a perfect day to write. No more excuses after a year of hard knocks.

My second novel is ready. A novel about an over-the-hill hairdresser.  But, I hit a snowstorm. A crack in the sidewalk. The majority of agents I researched today are young and wrinkle free, not to mention calling for teen fiction. Really? What about us second-time-around writers and readers. Dried up?

I don’t think so. Today, I completed two short stories and a novel. As life moves along, so must I. Never give up. It’s only a crack in the walk. It’s a beautiful day!

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Money-oh so sweet!

Money. When it comes to money, I never have enough. For that reason, anger stirs in the pit of my stomach when I think about the sugary green stuff. Like a sweet layer of whip cream on a strawberry torte, it teases at me only to land on my hips, leaving me nothing except an empty bowl and a decreased bank account after I am forced to purchase the latest diet products and exercise DVDs. After reading Demi Stevens’s blog this morning, I believe my disdain is misdirected.

I was born in the middle and unlike my two sisters I have buttery fingers. Enticed by the iced confections in life, I have no patience. The oven takes too long to preheat, all while I am standing in the crumb-infested kitchen with the oozing batter dripping from my spoon and the thick aroma of vanilla and sprinkles dancing in the air. Not to mention, the left over Cool Whip lingering on my lip because I stole a lick. I break, to hell with watching the delicacy rise and swirl. I drive straight to the bakery, tossing my hard work into the yard for the birds.

This recipe for money I have followed for fifty-years. The sweet confections suck me in. I certainly have enjoyed life; vacations, scuba lessons, horses, knitting, spinning, farming, and a host of critters. A lovely house, a nice car and not to mention I am self-employed (a sure way to devour the money.) This desire has left a bad taste. I am back in the kitchen-my bun in the oven taking twice as long to plump up again.

Somehow, God always takes care of me. I am healthy and can work, able to do extra baking and kneading. Unfortunately, this burns me up, I’m over-cooked and my cookie jar always short of that perfect dozen.

Truth is I don’t respect how hard I worked for the ingredients. The sweetness calls me and I have no willpower. I let go before the jar is full. It’s not the money that angers me, but the calories living on my hips – the bills in my basket, the cost of my impatience. I need to be more creative, more patient. Build my cupboards before it’s too late. Because had I been a little less sugar- dependent, I would be living a sweeter life today.

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The Village of Write

The African proverb, “It Takes a Village,” speaks to many aspects of our lives—the writing life included.  I discovered building alone was not easy. We need neighbors. Before I erected my own village, my journals were locked behind doors—suffering from rejection and fear.

I began to see constructive patterns of those who boldly paved roads around me. They had a similar foundation. So, I began the literary journey to build a village I call Write.

My mother laid the first stone. In Write, my mother lives on Main Street, adjacent to the church. Her door is always open to fill me with homemade pie… and red wine to energize my body. But when I must rekindle my soul, she points to the steeple and advises, “Every village needs a church. It’s neighbors and faith that will send you angels to guide you.”

My village of Write has a school with teachers, from the very first professor who red lined my every word to doctors and nurses who rebuild my creations today. The library houses lots of books with advice including, 101 Ways to Get Published, Writer’s Market, and Writing with Soft Hands. The shelves are lined in classics by Atwood and Twain to awaken the soul… and Harlequin romances to stir the bones.

At the village conference center, the best authors and mentors come to speak. I have autographed copies of their books, signed with encouragement like “Never give up,” or “Persist at all cost.” I visit the Write Salon after days of edits. My stylist conditions, massaging my creative brains. At the Writing Gym on Mondays I exercise with my aspiring peeps and ponder all the ways to pen “his chiseled jaw,” or “her beating heart.”The village newspaper employs agents and publishers who read my queries… and if I get lucky send one-word critiques.

My church is growing, with new angels every day, like Demi Stevens; her Year of the Book process was a road map to success that introduced me to an inspirational woman, Debbie Herbert, best-selling author, and 2017 RITA finalist, who shrouded me in incentive.

“It takes a village.” We share a path, and our community builds me up when I am adverb-tired, genre-lost, or POV perplexed. Together we survive.

This is a partial version of my story, The Write Village. I hope it inspires you.

Alicia Stephens Martin author of Spurred to Justice to be released summer, 2018.

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What’s Your Heart Dream?

This week Demi Stevens of Year of the Book posed a question: What is standing in the way of reaching your dream? I didn’t have to over-tax my brain because as I stated before, Demi’s questions miraculously seem to be a message aimed at me each week. This morning (and this may change tomorrow) my answer to what is standing in my way, is Zero. Not the number, the word. Zero in. Zero in on what exactly is my own personal heart dream.

Heart dreams can change over a lifetime, especially if you are shushly. In my family we have our own language called Stephenese, and Shushly is an adverb my parents and grandparents called me repeatedly. And not just in my youth.

Like many artists, my train of thought is more like a spaceship orbiting at light speed. In my youth, I zipped from one project to another leaving a trail of crumbs, paint splatters, and cuttings from my latest creative venture. They tried to follow my space dust armed with a rag or broom hollering, “You are so dang shushly.”

Adulthood has not transformed my habits, just the size and expense of my projects. I have dabbled in everything from farming to football, knitting to scuba diving, college to hairdressing, horses and invention of all kinds. And yes, I have managed a very successful career as a stylist, salon owner, and teacher.  But writing, my heart dream, has been held at bay because of my shushy ways.

After my recent interview with Guy McLean, internationally renowned horseman, I published Follow your Horse’s Heart. I realized I need two guidelines in order to zero in. Determine what is my heart dream? Then let go. Let go of the schlly in my life. Zero in. Because I am running out of time.

I am in my fifties and I have managed to evade writing. For some reason I fight it. Sure, I have published a few articles, received a degree in Creative Writing, have bins and baskets of journals throughout my house, read books, have taken courses and joined organizations… but to follow my heart dream I must zero in.

Letting go is difficult, but I can come back and just maybe all those extra dreams will be even better. My heart searches to be fulfilled. So button down the hatches, Alicia, this spaceship is zeroing in!

What’s your heart dream?

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