Delightful Writer – Page 48 – Modern Creative Life

April 17, 2016

Sunday Salon: A Love Affair With Keyboards

My love affair with keyboards began in 1959. I was three years old when my dad brought home an old Remington manual typewriter that had been discarded from his office, and put it on a desk in our attic. Sitting atop a mound of pillows for height, I tapped away for hours – at first putting only gobbledygook on the page, but then beginning to craft words that led to sentences that led to stories. The writer in me was born at that keyboard.

But that same year, another keyboard entered my life, one that would turn out to be just as important in my creative future. A tinny little toy piano, with only 24 keys, every one of them I’m sure was painful to the ears of the adults in my family, but equally glorious sounding to mine. When my short stubby fingers weren’t busy on the smooth black keys of the Remington, they were pounding the “ivories” on that miniature upright.

As important as writing is to my creative well-being, music is the outlet for my emotions. I have always turned to the piano when I’m excited or in a celebratory mood, when I need a physical and mental challenge, when I want to lose myself in beautiful melodies and harmonies.

When I was a teenager, I spent many hours relieving typical teen girl angst by playing everything from Chopin Nocturnes to Simon and Garfunkle. Even now, when I’m troubled or sad, playing the piano is the ultimate healer.

Never have I been more aware of this than in the past month. On March 24, my mother died. Her loss has left such a deep void in my life it sometimes threatens to swallow me whole. A few days after her death, my son, daughter-in-law, and grandson Connor came to attend her funeral and spend a week with us. Connor, who has just started preschool, has recently fallen in love with his weekly music class. Called Music Together, it is a curriculum designed to foster children’s love of music as it brings together elements of song, story, and physical activities. Connor brought with him the CD of songs, and a music book complete with piano parts. He couldn’t wait for us to have “Music Time” together. We headed off to the piano, where he snuggled beside me on the bench, and we played and sang through all 25 songs in the book. This process became a daily ritual, sometimes even multiple times during the day. Whenever I asked Connor what he’d like to do for fun, “Music Time!” was always his enthusiastic answer.

In the ensuing hard days following my mother’s death, this little boy seemed to ken the way music could ease and soothe an aching heart. Some of the songs provoked laughter, while others brought tears. “Are you thinking about Mamoo ?” Connor asked once, when I couldn’t hide tears running down my cheek . The music touched places in both our hearts, lifted our spirits, and helped us forget our loss for a little while.

The act of making music engages the mind and the senses in a magical way. “Melody is an almost unconscious expression of the senses,” wrote composer Edward McDowell in his 1912 essay. “It translates feeling into sound. It is the natural outlet for sensation.”

Since my grandson went back home, my days seem long and lonely. I find myself wandering aimlessly through the house, lethargic, unable to focus. But then I remember the power of “music time” and wander over the piano. Through the fast-running scale passages of a Mozart Sonata, the precision of a Bach fugue, the gentle flow and intricate harmony of Debussy, I access the mystical union of sensation and intellect required to make music happen. My despair is lifted, and I walk away feeling easier in my soul.

“Music was my refuge,” Maya Angelou wrote. “I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness.”

Here at my keyboard, I curl my back to loneliness and am comforted by melody, rhythm, and all the spaces between the notes where harmony and peace reside. It’s why my love affair with this keyboard will last my whole life long.

About Sunday Salon:

The Sunday Salon is a monthly column that explores the intersection of art and real life, looking at ways the creative arts inform, enhance, and invigorate our emotions, our intellect, and our experience of daily living.

About the Author: Becca Rowan

Becca Rowan lives in Northville, Michigan with her husband and their two dogs. She is the author of Life in General, a book of personal and inspirational essays about the ways women navigate the passage into midlife. She is also a musician, and performs as a pianist and as a member of Classical Bells, a professional handbell ensemble. If she’s not writing or playing music you’ll likely find her out walking with the dogs or curled up on the couch reading with a cup of coffee (or glass of wine) close at hand. She loves to connect with readers at her blog, or on Facebook, Twitter, or Goodreads.

April 15, 2016

100 Days Project: What Would YOU Do With 100 Days of Making?

It began with a question: What would you do with 100 days of making?

I’d seen the posts on Twitter and Facebook, but hadn’t really paid attention to them because they seemed aimed at people who painted or sculpted or took pictures of something other than dogs and morning coffee.

But then my friend Deb said she was thinking about participating in this project – The 100 Day Project, in order to stretch long dis-used fiction-writing muscles, and would I consider doing it, too? (This is usual for us. Partly, I think, it’s because we often respond to similar things, but also it’s because committing to a project is a little less daunting if you’re doing it with a friend.)

I told her I’d think about it, and then ignored the invitation for a week, after which I went to the web page where the project founder, Elle Luna, was interviewed, and I read more about the whole thing, and finally I committed to the project.

I’m going to tell you a secret: I’m a little bit phobic about commitments. I mean, I was the girl who never wanted to get married when I was younger, and when Deb and Becca and I were in the pre-launch stages of this very ezine, I wasn’t sure I even wanted to be part of it. My brain just gets weird like that sometimes.

I’m going to tell you another secret: I think we creative types need a little bit of external accountability. At least, I know I do. I started blogging over a decade ago, because I am incapable of keeping a journal. I mean, what’s the point of writing things no one will ever read? But my secondary motivation was that if I had to put my writing somewhere public, I’d have to stick with it.

That’s why I love The 100 Day Project.

It provides accountability, but not a lot of it. It’s finite – slightly longer than three months. It’s also flexible. You can draw, paint, sculpt, collage, write, shoot photos, knit, sew, embroider, sing or play music, or cook. Basically anything that can be repeated daily fits into this project.

When I signed up to do The 10 Day Project last year, it was just before the start date, and I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do. A few of the people I follow on Instagram, where this project lives, were posting snippets of prose or poetry, apparently typed on paper, and I loved that concept, but didn’t know how to execute it. (Now I do know, but it’s too much work.)

I also have a great love of micro-fiction, flash-fiction, and American Sentences (17-word sentences that are emotionally truthful.)

I chose, then, to commit to writing one really good sentence, scene, or story, whatever would fit completely onto a typical 3×5 notecard, which I would photograph and post on Instagram, per the project rules. To make it more interesting for me, I bought a multi-pack of note-cards in five bright colors. Even better? They were Post-It ™ notecards, so once a photo had been uploaded, I began sticking them on the front (and eventually the side) of my fridge.

It got to the point where friends who were visiting would go directly to my kitchen to see what had been added since they were last in my house, and I can’t deny that watching the columns of colored cards expand to fill so much space was kind of cool.

That each of them was covered with my words, was even cooler.

But that was last year. The 100 Day Project begins again on Tuesday, April 19^th, and while I’m definitely participating again, I haven’t quite decided how. I’m already writing so much that adding another writing project, especially one I’ve already completed seems counter-intuitive. I’ve been doing a lot of kitchen experimentation lately, so I might try a food-based project. Not a whole new meal, every day, but definitely a featured daily recipe.

I guess my Instagram feed will be filling up with food-porn this spring and summer.

As for you… dear reader… wouldn’t you like to participate in The 100 Day Project with me?

What would you do with 100 days of making?

About the author: Melissa A. Bartell

Melissa is a writer, voice actor, podcaster, itinerant musician, voracious reader, and collector of hats and rescue dogs. She is the author of The Bathtub Mermaid: Tales from the Holiday Tub. You can learn more about her on her blog, or connect with her on on Facebook, Instagram, or Twitter.

April 12, 2016

The Dance by Kolleen Harrison

Nearly every morning my alarm sounds off around 6:38 a.m. I intentionally set it for this time so I can hit the snooze button at least once! During this time, between snooze and the sounding of the next alarm bell, I pray. I say several prayers I learned from my childhood, being raised in a Catholic household, and then I begin with a list of gratitudes. I do this with intention and necessity before my feet even touch the ground and I am faced with “God only knows what” when I hit the kitchen and see my kiddos!

I have found this daily spiritual practice helps, (even if only for a short time), my day to go a bit smoother. By smoother, I mean, I feel it helps me to have more patience and tolerance. Once I am up and out of bed, slowly making my way towards some coffee with phone in hand, I go to a specific spot in my home where I can snap some photos of the sunrise. Often times these photos will coincide with a prayer for the day on my Instagram feed. This is not only a part of my spiritual practice but also a part of my creative practice as well.

My creativity has become a dance with the spiritual. They are both highly intricate parts of who I am and what I want my life to embody both inside and outside of my creative realm. One does not exist without the other. Whether I am taking photos, flinging paint for my next abstract piece, or journaling, Spirit plays a part. I have found approaching my creativity in this manner is a way in which I am able to express my truest self, where I am creating from my Soul Space. It has become the only way I know how to authentically create anymore and I do not see myself getting off this dance floor anytime soon!

About the Author: Kolleen Harrison

Kolleen Harrison is a creative living in the beautiful Central Coast of California. She is the Founder of LOVEwild and Founder/Maker of Mahabba Beads. Her passions lie in nurturing her relationship with God, loving on her happily dysfunctional family, flinging paint in her studio, dancing barefoot, making jewelry (that is so much more than “just jewelry”), and spreading love and kindness wherever and whenever she can. You can find her popping in and out at LOVEwild.org or MahabbaBeads.com

April 11, 2016

On Loss and Rejoicing by Patricia Wellingham-Jones

I grieve the loss
of the riverine forest,
the alders Nature bestowed
after the great flood.

Yesterday they were cut down,
turned into firewood,
victims of the canker disease
sweeping the globe’s northern tier.

This morning I mourn their passing,
slowly survey my changed domain
and discover that in this loss
I have cause to rejoice.

Now I see the creek stretch
from above the bridge
to more than a mile downstream,
trimmed by young sycamores left standing.

On a snag high on the far bank
a bald eagle overlooks his kingdom
and air swishes freely through the new space
to cool my flushed face.

About the Author: Patricia Wellingham-Jones

Patricia Wellingham-Jones is a widely published former psychology researcher and writer/editor. She has a special interest in healing writing, with poems recently in The Widow’s Handbook (Kent State University Press). Chapbooks include Don’t Turn Away: poems about breast cancer, End-Cycle: poems about caregiving, Apple Blossoms at Eye Level, Voices on the Land and Hormone Stew.

April 10, 2016

Sunday Brunch: Kite and String

“What is it like,” I asked my husband earlier this weekend, “being married to someone with a creative personality?”

“Well,” he answered slowly (but then, he does most things both slowly and methodically), “it’s never boring.”

“That was very diplomatic,” I told him. “But not terribly helpful.”

He pointed out that since he was in the process of hanging all the clean laundry that doesn’t get folded, he was being helpful enough for one day. “Anyway,” he added, “you keep telling me I suck at multitasking.”

“Well,” I responded. “You do.” Then I turned on my heel and left the room, fighting not to laugh.

Last month, Fuzzy (that’s my nickname for him, though his real identity isn’t a secret) and I celebrated our twenty-first wedding anniversary. Our celebration was tame – we went out for breakfast – which may seem like nothing, but a lot of our first dates involved breakfast food, so it was appropriate for us.

Besides, we bought each other our big gifts – VIP tickets to Dallas Comic Con in June – back in February. Going to cons is something we both enjoy, and we’re comfortable enough in our mutual geekiness that we’re not embarrassed about it.

If you’d asked me, when I was seven, if I was ever going to get married I would have giggled and blushed and admitted that I had a crush on Shaun Cassidy, who was known to me, then, as Joe Hardy on the Hardy Boys television show.

If you’d asked me the same question when I was twelve, I would have glowered at you, and insisted I was never, ever getting married, but on the off-chance that I did we would have separate apartments. (Sometimes, I’m not sure that was a bad idea.)

I was never the girl who dreamed about getting married, had her wedding planned before she could construct complete sentences, or gushed over brides and babies.

At nineteen, I had this romantic notion of being a contemporary version of a foreign correspondent, traveling all over the world, sending thick, vivid letters back home, and having a succession of brooding, artsy lovers.

That didn’t happen, but I did date a musician for a while when I was twenty-one. He was older. And he was a mess. But every relationship teaches you something, and I came away from that experience with a great appreciation for jazz and blues and The Great American Songbook.

From the beginning, our relationship – Fuzzy’s and mine – was uniquely ours. We met online in a time when nobody was doing that, and the world wide web… wasn’t. We started planning a proper wedding only to realize we didn’t want to deal with the fuss, or our family’s differing religious and political views, or the fact that I’d just moved from California to South Dakota to be with him, and didn’t have a job (or health insurance) yet.

We eloped on a chilly Friday in March, in the courthouse where Laura and Almanzo Wilder’s marriage was registered (I was a life-long Laura fan, and became more of one when, on my first visit to South Dakota, the drive to the family farm took us, not only down the Laura Ingalls Wilder Historical Highway, but past DeSmet – the actual “Little Town” on the prairie.)

My mother refused to talk to me for a month after I told her, but then she sent us a box with some great gifts, and a check… and months after that, she threw us a fantastic party where we had a re-commitment ceremony in her front yard, and a pot-luck reception featuring a smoked turkey and the traditional wedding foods from several of her friends’ cultures of origin, in the back yard.

Over the years, our marriage has gone through several changes. For a while I made more money than Fuzzy, but he was proud of me for that, even though he often worried about the number of hours I spent at work. For the last decade, he’s been the primary wage-earner, and while he won’t admit it, I think there’s a part of him that secretly likes being able to be the provider.

Sometimes, I’ve worked at an office while he got to spend a couple days a week at home, and sometimes he’s worked over an hour away while I could walk to work. Today, we both work from home (which is why there are only two of us plus four dogs living in our five-bedroom house – we each need our own office), but he travels for work, and every so often I travel without him for one reason or another.

There are also things that have never changed: we’re both nocturnal, more likely to see dawn because we haven’t been to bed than because we just woke up; we still make each other laugh at least once a day; we both sleep better when we’re curled up together in the center of our bed (dogs permitting) than on separate sides.

I drink coffee, and he drinks warm orange soda. He wears shoes to the beach, and I’m barefoot as much as possible. I double the amount of walnuts in anything I bake because he loves them, and he brings me flowers every time he goes grocery shopping. I’m a Star Trek fan to the depths of my soul, while he prefers Star Wars, and he’s a Marvel guy while I’m a DC girl, but, at the end of the day, whatever we have works.

He still flirts with me, at home, in public, everywhere.

I still can’t get enough of his kisses, or his singing voice.

If there are times when his somewhat introverted, often pedantic, stoic, engineer self makes me feel like I’m actually married to the android Data from Star Trek: The Next Generation, I’m certain that my tendency to bounce from topic to topic, change my accent on a whim, and wander around the house talking to myself as I work out lines of dialogue for an audio drama I’m in, or a story I’m writing, makes him feel like he’s married to Sibyl.

So, what is it like for my sweet, loyal, list-following, spreadsheet-loving husband to be married to someone who has a creative personality? Here’s how I described our relationship to my friend Caroline (in Sweden) a few days ago – and how I describe us to most people:

I’m kind of like a kite – flying around doing all sorts of things – writing, improv, music, voice acting, podcasting – letting the wind take me where it will, and he’s the string, giving me enough room to fly, but still keeping me anchored to the earth.

Kite and String.

Me and Fuzzy.

Twenty-one years.

It isn’t always perfect, but at the same time, it totally is.

Kite and String Copyright: altomedia / 123RF Stock Photo
Holding Hands Copyright: worapong / 123RF Stock Photo

About the author: Melissa A. Bartell

April 8, 2016

Chasing the Charade by A.R. Hadley

“Are you ready yet?” He walked into the hotel bathroom, never looking better in his monkey suit, and stood near the sink.

tuxedoone “Tell me again why we had to share this room?” She held the curling iron to her head. “Couldn’t you have booked a suite with a separate bedroom?”

“We’ve been over this.”

“I know.” She sighed. “I just don’t understand your family sometimes.”

“We have separate beds.”

“Thank God.”

“You know my mother would die if she knew the truth, Casey.”

Lies. Of course. What does he know about truth?

“You have to tell her sometime.”

“Not today.”

“I should’ve … you should’ve said I was ill. There’s no reason for this … this charade.”

“My mother loves you.”

He had to go there.

Silently, she stared into the glass. Into his eyes. Her lips a hard pressed line, but her eyes soft and full of the love she tried to deny. She was unable to hide it though. She loved his mother. He knew that. And she loved him. Casey had wanted to keep the latter veiled, but it was too late. He saw her love — all of it, shining off the brown of her irises. The months long separation hadn’t changed the love she felt for him. It had not even cooled. Her love for him was hotter than the iron. The iron.

Shit!

A mist ascended her scalp like incense. His attention diverted to it. He grinned.

She unraveled the contraption. “Funny. Right. I’ll fry my hair. Just what I need tonight.” The steamed hair coiled and bounced.

His smile turned into a lure at the end of a line. “I remember this dress.” He touched her sangria colored gown.

With both of his palms on her hips, she couldn’t help but glance down. She stared at his fingers, her eyes like crazy glue, unable to shift, but her mind still sharp as a tack; aware that if they had stayed together he probably would have never remembered the dress he fondled, and maybe he would have never coveted her again — in the dress or ever. Now the old dress, the decoration in her closet, their closet, the closet they shared for years, was a symbol, gathering a static dust like their relationship.

“Yeah?” she replied, voice cracking.

“Yeah,” he said, holding her hips secure while peering into her eyes in the mirror.

She tilted her head down. He waited for her attention, but her gaze would not return, and so he released her and turned to walk away.

“Where, Mark?” She looked up with a start and caught the back of his head in the glass. “Where did I wear the dress?”

“At the anniversary party … their fiftieth.” He drew near and stood at her profile. “God, you know you haven’t womanatvanity_istockphoto changed? You’re still the—”

“I’ve changed.”

“You don’t love me anymore?” His voice was tender in all the right ways, his touch impossible to resist. She leaned into it as he stroked her chestnut curls.

“Mark,” she said, shaking her head. “Love isn’t always enough.”

“What is?” he whispered.

“We will be late.” She pulled away.

“They can wait.” He gripped her waist again.

“You are part of the wedding—”

“I’m part of you,” he said. “You can’t take the me out of you.”

“You took it.” Her thighs began to tremble. “You … you took it.”

“Tonight,” he said, his voice a balm, “tonight … I don’t want this to be a charade.”

Casey tilted her face away and pressed her palms onto the counter. Her eyes filled with tears.

“Don’t pretend you love me, C.J.” He searched her shimmering eyes. “Love me … be with me.”

“I am with you,” she said, twisting her head toward him in a flash, eyes wide, avoiding his implication. “I’m staying here, aren’t I? I agreed.”

Mark reached up and touched his wife’s cheek, stroking it. His fingers were behind her neck and tangled in her hair.

“Be … with … me.” He continued to gaze into her eyes. “I want you.”

Casey momentarily couldn’t speak. No man had touched her since Mark had moved out, and he hadn’t even touched her in the months leading up to the departure. Now his hands and breath were on her skin, and she was melting. Melting. Damn him. He could be so charming when he wanted to. Manipulative even. Everything was always about the chase though, the charm and the chase, and now he was chasing her.

Am I the other woman now?

It was nauseatingly fun for a moment, and then the moment would be gone, and yet there was still something.

There was something to his proposition of sex.

It would be just sex, wouldn’t it?

They weren’t divorced, but they clearly weren’t together. In name only. For the sake of the family. Mark’s pursuit was interfering with whatever life he had begun without her, and he was coming between the contentment she found in being alone, discovering herself again — herself apart from him. But … she was alone, she did have needs, and he could meet them comfortably. She had been unable to bring herself to be with a stranger, and she didn’t want to date. God. Date. It was too soon. And maybe it was too soon for this absent minded sexual reconciliation. It would be a one night stand.

Yes, a one night stand … unless … unless he could somehow manage to screw that up too.

There was still the ceremony and the reception to attend. He had hours to screw up, and then they might have hours to screw — each other, and their lives into a twisted bunch of irrecoverable knots. Nevertheless, the arrangement was sealed when she agreed to the whole cockamamie scheme, attending the wedding of his sister, sharing a hotel room — sealed when she said her own I do. She knew now that Mark would never truly be gone or over.

He is Mark.

He was her Marky-Mark-Mark. Somehow he would forever hold a little piece of her heart the way he held her now against the counter — hands demanding her attention, green eyes admiring her the way no one else did, making her forget every lie, fight and malice in their marriage that brought them to the moment they existed in now. No. For once in her life she wanted the moment to be the moment. No past. No future. No next minute, day or hour. No consequence. Fuck consequence. She tilted her head toward him, speaking all of the lonely and necessity without saying a thing. She stared into his eyes and parted her lips.

About the Author: A.R. Hadley

ARHadleyBio A.R. Hadley has been a creative writer since elementary school, however, she all but gave it up after her children were born, devoting herself to the lovely little creatures, forgetting the pleasure and happiness derived from being imaginative.

No more.

She rediscovered her passion in 2014, and has not stopped since — writing essays, poetry, and fiction. A.R is currently working on a set of novels as part of a romantic trilogy, and also dabbles in penning short stories.

Day or night, words float around inside her brain. She hears dialogue when awakening from sleep. She is the one who has been awakened. Writing is her oxygen.

Connect on Twitter and Facebook.

April 7, 2016

New Moon Creative: Moon in Aries

What would happen if you were to commit to your own creative life each month? How would you feel if you nourished your own need to create? How excited would you be if you didn’t just create something, but also shared your creation with other people who were also stepping into their creative lives?

While all of us at Modern Creative Life hope that each of our readers is indulging their creativity (even if it’s in small ways) fairly frequently, we are also dedicated to the idea that we get to choose our own paths to creative living each and every day of the year, by writing, painting, cooking, or even making and artful arrangement of the books on our shelves.

As well, we believe it’s important to honor the cycles of life that form currents through all our lives. As part of our ongoing celebration of those cycles and currents, we will be releasing a collection of prompts to inspire you on your creative journey.

Since the New Moon is traditionally been a time of new beginnings, we’ll be sharing those prompts on the date of each month’s New Moon.

Here is our April (New Moon in Aries) group of prompts:

Write a poem, essay, or short story. Take a photograph and leave us with the image alone. Create a photo essay.

Post your creation in your blog and/or share your work on Social Media, be it Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, or all of those spaces. Use the tag #NewMoonCreative so we can find you. Leave a comment here (with a link) so we can read your words and lovingly witness what and how you are creating.

On the Full Moon (April 22nd), we’ll post a collection of the work that was inspired by these prompts and post them here, with links back to the full work (and you).

April 5, 2016

What’s Next? by Daryl Wood Gerber

What’s next? What came first? Let’s see. I wrote as a girl. I wrote as a teen. I had teachers that told me not to and that I wasn’t any good, and sadly, I listened. I put aside my writing and became an actress. Luckily, I was pretty good and I worked a lot. I made a decent living. However, along the way, I realized in order to become a star, I needed projects, and the best way to do that was to write one for myself.

Typical me, I got right on it. I took classes. We read each other’s screenplays out loud. I learned. I studied. I wrote romantic comedies as well as thrillers. I was lucky enough to sell a show for which I created the format on television. But I couldn’t entice an agent to love my work and put me on the fast track.

Soon after, I moved out of state for my husband’s career. I couldn’t very well take a meeting (Hollywood speak for have lunch and chat about a project) from 3,000 miles away, so what did I do? I gave up screenwriting and decided I could still write…novels. But which genre? I loved mysteries. I loved thrillers. I wasn’t into rom-com. I decided upon suspense as well as mystery, and I started taking more classes. I joined Sisters in Crime and joined critique groups. I learned a ton!!! Then I submitted to agents. Over and over!! I was the rejection queen in my Sisters in Crime online group, the Guppies.

Finally I landed a contract to write the Cheese Shop Mysteries and that sealed my fate. I became known as a cozy mystery author. I followed that series with the Cookbook Nook Mysteries and narrowed my fate even more. I am currently known as a culinary cozy mystery author. I know cheese; I know cookbooks; I happen to be a cook. Presto!

Now don’t get me wrong, I love what I do. I love my fans. I have a great career.

So why self-publish a suspense novel like GIRL ON THE RUN? Because I want to see if I can.

You see, I still love writing suspense. Love it! And I wondered if my stories would resonate with my fans. I have a pretty darned good fan base! Not to mention, I still have eight suspense/thriller manuscripts on my shelves (or in my computer), and I’m wondering whether there is a future for them.

So far, thanks to my early-reader fans (beta readers) I’m finding that Girl on the Run is resonating. They are delighted with the story. The reviews they have posted on Goodreads (they can’t post on Amazon until the book releases) have been enthusiastic to the max and extremely heartwarming for me.

Does this mean I’ll throw over traditional publishing? No! I really like being published by a reputable publisher. I love working with Berkley Prime Crime. They have been very good to me.

However, when I asked my agent to market Girl on the Run, which had a different title at the time, my publisher and a few other publishers weren’t interested for a couple of reasons.

One: It wasn’t as tightly written as it is now. I rewrote it after the publishers rejected it. I took their notes to heart, and I was brutal to my baby. I cut out 40 pages and a few unnecessary points of view. The result is a tighter read with a faster pace.

Two: I wasn’t a known suspense author. Publishers really don’t like to switch an author’s brand midstream. They want to buy the known commodity. So do fans. I am a cozy mystery author. Period. There will be plenty of my fans that won’t want to read Girl on the Run based on that alone. Sigh.

Caveat to my devoted cozy mystery readers: Girl on the Run does not have any bad language, there is no explicit sex, and most of the crime happens off the page. The story is about Chessa, on the run, in search of the truth. It’s not a cozy but it’s not spooky, scary, or gross, and no children or animals were harmed during the making of this book! There are no recipes included.

So, therefore, as a suspense author, I am starting over.

I’m looking for a new audience or trying to expand my current audience. What is my brand? I’m not sure. Maybe it’s: I’m a California girl! I will set all of my thrillers somewhere in California. And I’m a thrill-seeker. I have jumped out of a perfectly good airplane and hitchhiked around Ireland by myself. Definitely not cozy.

But let’s address the initial question: what’s next?

I have a few cozy mystery proposals with publishers right now. We’ll see if they want to sign new contracts. I have to admit I have enjoyed the process of self-publishing. It has been a blast!

And, as I mentioned, I do have more suspense novels written, but I will need to rewrite them, and I will have to be even more brutal than I was with GIRL ON THE RUN. So there is possibly another one to eight self-published suspense novels on the horizon. One a year? We’ll see.

FYI, my virtual assistant has been invaluable in this project! I could not have done it without her. I would have been pulling my hair out. She has taught me the ins and outs of social media and self-publishing. Everyone deserves her as a mentor!

Also coming up: GRILLING THE SUBJECT, the 5^th in my Cookbook Nook Mystery series debuts August. I’m writing the 6^th in the series, although I don’t have a contract for that yet. If I don’t get one, because who knows what will happen in this volatile publishing world, I’ll self-publish it.

My motto has become “One day at a time, one step at a time.”

Life has changed drastically for me over this past year. I intend to pay attention to what life has to offer, whether in my writing or in my personal life and family life, and I intend to to drink it in: One sip at a time.

Savor the mystery.

About the Author: Daryl Wood Gerber

Agatha Award-winning and bestselling author DARYL WOOD GERBER ventures into the world of suspense with her debut novel, GIRL ON THE RUN. Daryl also writes the Cookbook Nook Mysteries, and as Avery Aames, she pens the Cheese Shop Mysteries.

Fun tidbit: as an actress, Daryl appeared in “Murder, She Wrote”. She has also jumped out of a perfectly good airplane and hitchhiked around Ireland by herself. She loves to read and has a frisky Goldendoodle named Sparky. Visit Daryl at www.darylwoodgerber.com.

April 4, 2016

I have written so often, by Æverett

I have written so often about your voice, but the feeling

remains, ever present, like a ringing in my bones. The taste of

your words as they leave your lips, like honey on my

fingertips… I wish to hear your whispering words, close

enough to feel your Tongue. The music from your mouth

amoung the sighings there in silken sheets. The sighing of my

dying Lungs, you steal my breath, with only a sound, a

whisper, a word. Your verses only make it worse.

About the Author: Æverett

Æverett lives in the northern hemisphere and enjoys Rammstein and Star Trek. He writes both poetry and fiction and dabbles in gardening and soap making. She has two wonderfully old cats, and a dearly beloved dog. He also plays in linguistics, studying German, Norwegian, Russian, Arabic, a bit of Elvish, and developing Cardassian. Language is fascinating, enlightening, and inspirational. She’s happily married to her work with which she shares delusions of demon hunters, detectives, starships, androids, and a home on the outskirts of a small northern town. He’s enjoyed writing since childhood and the process can be downright therapeutic when it’s not making him pull his hair out. It’s really about the work and words and seeing without preconceptions.

April 1, 2016

Studio Tour: Bernie Brown

My stories are born in my head, hands, and heart; but some practical tools are necessary to bring those inner visions to life. I have a pleasantly cluttered desk where I sit and write and think and procrastinate. Favorite reference books rest close by: a thesaurus, a dictionary, and an emotional thesaurus – the best book ever!

Each main character in my novel has a file, and I track when and where scenes take place by making notes on a calendar. Pictures of my family and friends sit close by to make me smile even when my writing makes me frown. And when I really feel discouraged, I look at my brag shelf to remind myself of past successes.

And every writer needs a widow to gaze at while they are dreaming up plots and dialogue, good guys and bad guys.

Welcome to my writing desk. You’ll find me here almost every morning.

At my desk with my trusty Acer.

I can’t write a paragraph without these three books.

Other essential resources: character files, calendar timelines, and pictures of writer friends.

My brag shelf holds all my published stories and essays.

I look out these windows when I’m stuck.

About the Author: Bernie Brown

I live in Raleigh, NC where I write, read, and watch birds. My stories have appeared in several magazines, most recently Every Writer’s Resource, Still Crazy and the Raleigh News and Observer. I am a Writer in Residence at the Weymouth Center. Get to know me better my website and connect with me on Facebook.

About Sunday Salon:

About the Author: Becca Rowan

About the author: Melissa A. Bartell

About the Author: Kolleen Harrison

About the Author: Patricia Wellingham-Jones

Kite and String Copyright: altomedia / 123RF Stock Photo Holding Hands Copyright: worapong / 123RF Stock Photo

About the author: Melissa A. Bartell

About the Author: A.R. Hadley

So why self-publish a suspense novel like GIRL ON THE RUN? Because I want to see if I can.

About the Author: Daryl Wood Gerber

About the Author: Æverett

About the Author: Bernie Brown

Kite and String Copyright: altomedia / 123RF Stock Photo
Holding Hands Copyright: worapong / 123RF Stock Photo