Where’s that fairy godmother?

Carolyn J. Rose

If you were raised on Disney movies like I was, maybe you know the feeling. You’re cleaning up the kitchen or doing the laundry and you find yourself wishing you could get a little help—not from your husband or kids or roommates, but from some adorable animated mice and birds. You pause, sponge in hand, imagining their cheerful songs or chirps, marveling that they’d know exactly how you want things folded and which dishes go on which shelves.

Then the sponge grows cold, water drips down your arm, and you’re back to reality. Back to scrubbing and sweeping and mopping. Back to washing and drying and putting away. Back to the round of chores necessary to keep things up to standards—whatever those standards may be and whoever may have established them.

If you asked me when I was a child whether I believed forest creatures would help around the house, I would have scoffed at the idea. I knew what make-believe was. I knew those cute little birds and animals were the product of imagination and art and film.

If you asked me that question now, I’d still scoff. But the scoffing would have a dollop of wishing it could be so, and another dollop of wishing I’d never seen those tiny helpers. Knowing they aren’t real makes drudgery more tedious and burdensome.

I think a glass slipper would be uncomfortable. I don’t want to go to a ball. I don’t care if I never meet a prince. But I wouldn’t mind making the acquaintance of a fairy godmother and a few helpful forest creatures.

Longing For Love With The Perfect Pen

Carolyn J. Rose: Years ago, when I was in high school, my grandmother gave me a fountain pen for my birthday. It was dark blue, as fat as a cigar, and fit my fingers perfectly. I wrote reams of journal pages with that pen, pouring out my teenage angst, making thick strokes and thin, creating letters that slanted right or left or stood at attention, letters that flowed into each other or claimed their own spaces.
I loved that pen. I replaced the nib twice. When I lost it at college, I searched and sulked for days. I’ve never had another like it, never again fell as hard for a writing implement or loved one so deeply.
Yes, I’ve had fountain pens since then, but none had the same feel. They were too skinny, too top-heavy, too prone to clog up or leave blotches on the page. I tried to like them, tried to make myself care. I bought them ink in bright and exotic colors, I carried them along to work and on vacations. But the thrill just wasn’t there. After failing to replicate my first love with a slim blue one—a gift from my husband that I’m sure he paid too much for—I abandoned my quest and went for variety over fidelity, experimentation over commitment.
For a time, I flirted with ballpoint stick pens, the ones that have an eraser on top and at first glance look like pencils. Then I went for pens with caps. I liked the feel of that bit of extra weight on the top. But too soon I was seduced by felt-tips in a host of colors and then lured by fat and rubbery pens with points that clicked in and out. Lately, pencils have caught my eye—number two yellow ones with sharp points.
Granted, I spend most of my time tapping my fingers on a keyboard instead of wrapping them around a pen or pencil, but when I’m plotting or making notes for revision, I work with a yellow pad and a writing implement.
Writing with a pencil lets me erase as I reconsider. Using every other line, gives me space to insert other additional ideas. Beyond that, there’s the feel of a page crisscrossed with pencil marks, and the rumpling riffle pages make when I turn them. I think I’m as infatuated with that sound and feel as I once was with my fat fountain pen.
But I still long to caress its sleek sides, to polish its nib, to revel in its strong strokes.
If it comes back, I promise I’ll never ask where it’s been or with whom.

If you’ve ever had a romance with a writing implement, leave a comment and tell me about it. Just remember, this blog is rated PG, no kinky stuff, please.

Writing as a team (Without a divorce lawyer entering the picture)

My wife and I have been writing together--and seperately for the better part of fifteen years. Our joint efforts have included The Hard Karma Shuffle and it's sequel The Crushed Velvet Miasma, and young adult fantasy novel The Hermit of Humbug Mountain. All are available though Amazon dot com or Barnes and Noble dot com. They're published by Synerge.com which also has them available as ebooks. Most recently, we've landed with Krill Press, a startup publisher out of Southern Oregon, which has agreed to publish two books we completed seven or eight years back. The first has been retitled The Big Grabowski and is out now. The follow-up Sometimes a Great Commotion is due out in the summer, as is Carolyn's Hemlock Lake through Five Star press.

Learning the right process that will work for two writer's with very different work ethics (me lazy, her disciplined) and writing styles (me scattershot, her disciplined) took a lot of trial and big E error. We finally reconciled it, with a lot of comprimises and it seems to work. Here's something I wrote about learning that structure was not my enemy

DR. STRUCTURE-LOVE

OR

HOW I LEARNED TO STOP DEAD-ENDING AND LOVE THOSE INDEX CARDS

There used to be a banner in my cube at work that read “A Clean Desk is the Sign of a Sick Mind.” If that was true, I was a walking billboard for perfect mental health.
Deep down, I believe chaos is good. I wrote in frenetic bursts, random flurries, fueled by adrenaline, fear, and divine inspiration, unable and unwilling to fit my creativity into structural context, lest I interrupt the stream. There are several million words. I’d snatch some out of the ozone, splatter them against the paper, and sort them out later.
This presented major issues when my wife and I decided to co-author a novel. Carolyn Rose was like my evil writing twin (or I was hers, depending on who you ask), precise, focused, and enamored of using index cards to keep track of characters, scenes, settings and the like. For crying out loud she even created story calendars.
Did I fight it? You bet your (bleep) I did. Then she reminded me of my writing history.
In our Eugene critique groups I was infamous for amazing first chapters—energetic, creative, and sprinkled with unusual twists. But I wrote myself into corners and rarely, if ever, produced a second. Perhaps someday I’ll release a book called Beginnings Without End.
So, in the name of keeping the project moving and not trading my side of the bed for the living room couch, I followed the rules Carolyn established. We talked through the basics and she started churning pages. I added my feedback in the margins and between lines. Occasionally, using the cards and following the calendar, I generated longer sequences and submitted them for integration. Six months up the road we’d found a New York agent for our first book The Hard Karma Shuffle.
I became a convert. I now preach to the congregation. “Can I hear an Amen?”
Organization doesn’t stifle creativity. The stream is not dammed; structure creates a direction for flow. And character development can change that direction.
Wordsplatter is still my modus operandi. I’ll never write as precisely as my mate. But each time I start a project, you’ll hear the crinkle of the wrapper peeling off a fresh set of index cards.