Sunday, July 8, 2018

Publication... at Last!

Good things come to those who wait. 

Of course, they don't always come. And bad things come to those who wait, too.

Good things come (eventually) to those who work at it. Yup, that saying functions better for me, and it gives me hope that no effort towards my goals is ever wasted. Now, as I'm working on my fourth novel in the YA fantasy series about a boy who can see inside, well, almost everything, the first book in the series has been picked up for publication.

Honestly, I hadn't tried to send the book out until this year, mainly because every time I read through it, I found a hundred more changes to make. Some writers urged me to self-publish, and I might have done so had I felt it was ready. I finally started sending it out this January, when I could read through it and just enjoy it, without restructuring, rewriting, and shredding.

I've made changes since then -- including changing the main character's name to Joshua (since the Maze Runner series had Thomas center-stage) -- and I've read through four sets of galleys, each one taking me a step closer to the final version. The editing is all over now, though. The book is final.

The thought of that is both daunting and exciting, but I'll explain all that in a future post.

Here's the cover:

Cover art courtesy of Black Rose Publishing
The book comes out August 9, but it's already available for pre-order (10% off) through the publisher at their website:

ORDER THE GHOST PORTAL

If you'd like a signed copy, you can pre-order those, too. Just post me your e-mail, write me at shakespeare824 at hotmail.com, or find me on Facebook (Cheryl Carvajal), and we'll make that happen.

More details to come... including a few excerpts... to stay tuned.


Saturday, October 22, 2016

Not Writing... RUNNING!

In my long-standing quest to avoid wasting my time writing, I've been working steadily on my house, painting rooms, ripping down wallpaper, sanding, buffing, replacing door knobs, etc.

But that wasn't enough for me. I also started back up running. And this morning I ran a 10K. In less than an hour and a half. Okay, so that's not fast. But I'm still doing everything I can to NOT WRITE.


How about you? What are you doing to keep from working on that novel in your second desk drawer? Have you taken up scrapbooking (always a time suck)? Decided to start a family? Decided to re-start a family? Moved three times in a year? Started up a charity dog kennel? Removed the paint from your fence? 

Unfortunately for me, my evil half also signed up for NaNoWriMo, so I'm stuck during the month of November. Damn you, evil half! Now I have to work on my sixth novel. Ugh.


Saturday, April 16, 2016

Practicing Walking

My parents always told me a story about what I did as a baby. While other babies they knew were pulling themselves up on the furniture, taking a few practice steps in front of them, showing off day by day as they improved their skills and learned to walk, I didn't.

They wondered whether I was going to walk. EVER. How could I ever move from crawling to walking if I never tried, they wondered. 

What my mother finally realized one night, though, after she'd put me in my crib for the night, is that I WAS walking. I had probably been practicing for weeks. But, for reasons she could not fathom, my little baby self had waited until she was alone for the night. My mother only discovered this because she heard the springs in the crib creaking after she had put me to bed. She swung the door open, catching me in the act of walking around the crib, practicing.

Thanks to livescience.com for the use of this picture!
The next day, found out, I simply walked in public. No tentative steps. No falls. Just walking. 

I cannot possibly explain why a baby would be self-conscious enough to practice walking before she did so in front of a crowd, and in many ways today I am far less self-conscious than I used to be. 

Except when it comes to writing.

I have several friends who are writers--poets, playwrights, novelists, essayists--and nearly all of them have, at one point or another, urged me to work towards publication. I tell them that I am doing exactly that, only my writing isn't ready for publication yet. 

"That doesn't matter," one poet told me. "It's good enough." 

Good enough. When imagining what I want readers to say about my work, "good enough" is not exactly what I am hoping for. I could self-publish, but I am pretty certain that the weaknesses in my writing would remain in the published work, a glaring reminder that my writing has not fully developed yet. 

Just this week I was reminded of the pitfalls of self-publishing. I bought two books by two different local authors. One, a YA book, was an okay read... but only an okay read. The plot was complete, loose ends tied up at the end, but it was too predictable, too neat, and not well written. I have no problem with simplicity in language, but I detest simplicity in thought, and it suffers from that. 

The other book, also at least partially self-published (I read the publisher's website), is, frankly, brilliant. It's by Paul J. Bennett, and it's called a Fall of Sparrows. Superb book so far, better than many Civil War era books I've read. It's meaningful without being preachy, descriptive without being overbearing... and I could go on gushing. What's sad, frankly, is that it's not a traditionally published book, distributed nationally. It would speak to many readers across the country, not just local readers here in southern Georgia. 

These two books give me a good idea of where I am in this process. My writing has come much farther than the writing in the first book. My characters are more complex, the plot lines and writing far better. However, my writing isn't as good as Bennett's. It just isn't. 

And that means, as much as I hate it, I need to keep practicing. The world is going to just have to wait longer (and I am just going to have to remain patient with myself) until my walking/writing is good enough for public consumption. Other writers might be able to blow readers' socks off, but, even in my mid-forties, I have a slower learning curve. I will just have to keep on keeping on, and hope that I eventually develop into the writer I wish to be. Back to the crib now, for a little practice. Maybe someday you'll see me walk/write for real.
This is me, only I'll be writing. Thanks, wanttobeababy.com!

Monday, December 8, 2014

Too Long

It's been too long since I've seen some friends--Cherilyn, Susan, Paul, and a host of others…

And it's been too long since I've painted anything I'm proud of… I've finally painted something, but it is sort of lopsided. Okay, it sucks. And it's been forever since I've really painted consistently.

It's been too long since I've played piano. Once a week is not enough by far, and once a month is pathetic. So my piano adherence lately has been pathetic…

But it hasn't been too long since I've worked on my novel. Worked on it yesterday, as a matter of fact, and I'll be working on it all afternoon while I sit with my hubby, who will be getting his weekly chemo. I've made time for writing for well over a month now, and I won't stop.

In fact, I hope to find even more time to devote to writing.

So, if you see only a few posts from me, it's because I'm working on my novel, or my play, or my poetry.

Or maybe because I've finally sat at the piano again. *sigh*

Saturday, October 11, 2014

On Chemotherapy and Being Alone

Richard begins chemotherapy Monday.

And he's tense. And that means I'm tense. But as much as I can sympathize with him, and even though I'm driving him to it, sitting with him, and driving him home, he's really alone.

I'm not getting chemotherapy. Just him. Honestly, I feel as if I shouldn't even be writing this, like it's not my story to tell, for I'm not the one living through cancer. I'm just holding his hand, encouraging, and driving around a person who is living through it.

No matter how much we share, and no matter how much I want to help, Richard is alone. Utterly. I saw the horrible room where he'll sit each Monday and be administered his Gemzar through a port under the skin of his right chest area. I saw patients sitting there the day we toured, sitting and waiting, hooked up to machines filling them with their own particular brand of poison.

Now that I think of it, the room is pretty big, though… and those other people are going through what he's doing. Some of them have probably gone through it more than once.

So when we're sitting in that room Monday afternoon, I hope Richard will find others to talk to besides me… people who can help him feel less alone. People who can touch him through their words. People who bring their hope with them to chemotherapy, who bring their smiles, who bring their fears, who share these, so that Richard can hear, can bring his own thoughts, and can even encourage others.

Maybe then he won't be so alone.

Thursday, September 4, 2014

Taking Myself Seriously

I bet millions of people have checked out this blog in the MONTHS since I last wrote on it. And then they left.

Yup, they read the title, realized I was serious about this whole not writing stuff, and left.

I don't blame them.

One could say that I took my own words too seriously. Yup. I seriously decided I wouldn't write anymore (dammit!) and seriously took steps to make sure I didn't.

But one would be wrong.

You see, I didn't write here because I didn't take my writing seriously. I had decided NOT to be serious about my writing. As a result, I didn't write. Day after day, night after night, opportunity after opportunity, I let the voices in my head talk my out of writing.

Not anymore.

I vow, from this day forward, to take my writing seriously. Seriously, I do. I changed my profile. I quit my job. I have been slowly weeding all sorts of distractions out of my life to make sure I have room for writing, to make sure I have time to take writing seriously.

So, if you've checked back here a few times, come again. I'll be here. And if you just happened on this blog by chance, come back.

Or don't. Either way, I'm seriously writing.

Sunday, November 17, 2013

Making Time

You don't have time to write. 

I know you don't. Neither do I. 

That's because time doesn't hand itself to me. It just floats by, and I wander around NOT doing the things I want to be doing because of other have-tos. 

And yet I don't. I make time for exercise. EVERY DAY. Sometimes 2 1/2 hours of it. Sometimes more (I do take off the occasional day, but not very often). 

I do make time to teach my kids. LOTS of time. I make time to play on the computer in the mornings. I make time to read, even if it's just a half hour before bed (but it's usually more). I would make time for writing if I made it a priority. 

Sounds like it's time for a list. I'm brilliant with lists--they are part of my daily life. I keep a book of them around me at all times. But this is not a daily list. This list is an expression of what is most important to me, judging by what I do. IN ORDER. And it shows why I don't write enough.

1. My children and their schooling.
2. My job at the Firehouse (must keep it!).
3. Exercise.
4. Cleaning my house.
5. Reading.
6. Paying bills.
7. The hubby (isn't it horrible that he's so far down the list?).
8. Artistic pursuits (writing, painting, drawing, sewing, cooking, piano, everything).

THIS is why I don't write. I put it last on the list. I am more likely to take out the trash or wash my car than write! Ack!

What the list should be…

1. My children and their schooling.
2. The hubby (sorry I don't keep you here).
3. Exercise (have to keep it here for health reasons).
4. My writing.
5. Other artistic pursuits.
6. My job at the Firehouse.
7. Cleaning house.
8. Paying bills and other necessaries.
9. Reading.

Now I just need to print this out and follow it! 

Can you re-prioritize? If you did, what would you change?