It’s late August. That means a lot of things. For me, my Summer Vacation is over. We just got back two days ago, and I won’t have such a long time away from the day job again until next year. My monsters are going back to school on the 30^th. That means an end to sleeping in for a good long while. (I can’t sleep if they’re awake, I just can’t. And I work on the weekends.)

While all that kind of sucks, I’m also excited for an exquisitely stupid reason.

Back to school supplies are on sale right now.

My excitement for stationery is well known and highly mocked. I really wanted to write a blog post that was basically a wish shopping list of stationary supplies.

But I’m not going to do that. It would be fun for me, and it might even be fun for some of you.

You know who wouldn’t enjoy it? Me, when I was broke. (I’m still kind of broke, but not as bad as I once was. No one who has a yard and occasionally buys Moleskine notebooks is really broke.)

You might be how I was then, scraping together dimes I picked up off the street to buy a cheap notebook. (I said I was broke.) If you’re like that, then a list of elaborate and lovely things will rake on you, and I don’t blame you.

If you’re like I am now, let’s face it. We don’t need all that crap to write.

Yes, I use and love my Le Pens, but I don’t need them to write. If it came down to it, and my family couldn’t comfortably afford this luxury, I’d go back to Bic pens in a second. They’re a buck a bag.

So I thought, instead, I’d talk about what you need to be a writer, bare bones.

• A notebook
• A pen
• A library card
• A flash drive.

With that, you can write the rough draft of your story. You can type it up, even if it’s a little at a time, on a computer at the library. You can write up submission letters, or even self-publish from the library.

Using WordPress, Grammarly and Amazon, you can host a website or blog, edit your work and sell it. It’s just that easy. You can use Buffer and social media to promote your book for free.

I wanted to tell you that for two reasons. One, because I never want anyone to think that this is something you must be wealthy to do. Money helps, don’t get me wrong. I’m able to afford to print my books, and that’s why they’re in local book stores.

But that’s not a requirement. E-books sell fine, and people do order my print books all on their own. Yes, I do pay for my domain name, but that’s again, a want not a need.

The second reason I wanted to tell you all of that is this: we are unstoppable, us writers. There is literally nothing standing in your way right now if you want to be a writer.

So go write. Even with a notebook you rolled dimes for, and a pen you stole off a waitress if you have to.

Today, just for my PBW followers, I’m presenting the prolouge and first chapter of Starting Chains. I hope you enjoy it.

Prologue

You think you know anger, you silly thing. You think you understand fury, betrayal. It’s hilarious when you little nothings think you have an understanding of those emotions.

Your hero failed you, didn’t he? The Great Calvin, who everyone thought would be the champion for the common man. They all fail, after a while. Heroes are just people, after all, and people fail. Certainly, your hero failed me. The greatest fault of the males of your species is always your obsession with the females.

But it is not as though he was important. Not so important that he cannot be replaced by a hundred others. After all, you’re hearing me now.

Your new hero will arrive soon, and he will fail you, too. The difference is, this time you will know my rage. Soon, you will learn the true meaning of anger.

And while you take care of the shining one, the precious little vessel, I can deal with other matters. My Blood waits in the rip of the land. It only needs a drop of blood to awaken, and I’m sure it will get it. There is always blood when two neighbors fight over history.

Chapter

One

Victor paced the floor of the game room, a low growl barely contained in his throat. Everything about the room, from the soft backed chairs, the heavy curtains and the thick wooden tables irritated him right then. Including every single other man in it.

Lord Lewis, Victor’s uncle by marriage, and his son Howard played pool. They were knocking the balls together louder than he thought was really necessary. Every now and then Lewis would look up at Victor and chuckle. He was a broad man, with gray hair and a paunch he hadn’t had in his youth. Howard looked much like him, but with darker hair and no paunch to speak of yet.

“First time jitters,” Lewis said finally, “I was just the same when my twins were born.”

Oliver sat on the couch by the fire with Lord James. “Sit down, Victor,” he said, “The king will be back in a moment to tell us how it’s going.”

Oliver was, in Victor’s opinion, too good looking for a man. His hair got far too much attention, his perfect face was in need of roughening. The only thing that redeemed him was the kindness in his eyes.

Lord James, flipping through the pages of a book, chuckled. He was the only other man besides Victor in the room with light hair, a sign of their shared Montelarian heritage. But where Victor was tall and broad, James was a thin man. “It’s hard for you to be away from her right now, isn’t it?” James asked.

“It is not right,” Victor snapped, “I should be with her, she needs me.”

“That’s just where you shouldn’t be,” Lewis said, pointing his pool cue at him. “You have no more place in a birthing chamber than Lenore would have on a battle field.”

Victor thought of his wife and how she’d looked on the battle field, digging her dagger into the back of the neck of the man who’d killed her brother. He thought she’d done just fine.

“That is the way things are done in Montelair,” Victor said, “My da was with my ma when she had us.”

Howard set a hand on his shoulder. “You know you shouldn’t talk like that,” he said, “The people of Septa are having a hard enough time accepting a Montelarian so close to the throne. If we can’t let you wear your furred boots in public, we can’t let you follow Montelarian birth customs.”

Victor glanced down at his high polished boots. As far as he could tell, their only benefit was to match his black silk pants and Septan blue jacket. “Don’t remind me, they pinch,” he muttered.

“Victor,” Oliver said, “we all know how hard it’s been, getting used to Septa customs. But Montelair has been our enemy for so long. You can see why it’s been necessary, can’t you?”

“You would think killing my brother would be enough to prove my loyalty to the Mestonie family,” Victor said, “maybe even give me enough leeway to actually take care of my wife the way I think she should be taken care of!”

There was a scream from the other wing of the palace. Victor recognized Lenore’s voice. He started towards the door, but it opened before he could reach it.

King Samuel, his father in law, stood there. He was one of the few men in the palace big enough to look Victor in the eye. His hair was thick, with a steady streak of gray coming from both of his temples.

“Where are you going?” he asked with a smile.

“Lenore is screaming,” Victor said.

“She’s in pain,” Samuel replied, “Women suffer to bring our children into the world, and we should never forget that.”

“Did they let you in to see her?” Victor asked.

“No, of course not,” Samuel said with a chuckle, “But Lorna spoke to me in the outer chamber, and told me that all is going as well as can be expected.”

“Lenore’s got two midwives, Lorna and her auntie Heather,” Lewis said, naming his wife. “She is well supported.”

“Ramona and Tabitha are with her, too,” James said. James was common born, too. He knew the presence of Lenore’s own nurse and maid would be more of a comfort to Victor than a noble aunt neither of them were fond of.

Samuel sat down at a table that supported a chess set. “Come and have a game. It will make the time go faster,” he said.

Victor thought this unlikely, but to please Samuel he took a seat. But for the gray in his hair, Samuel looked just like he had the night they met. Victor had been so afraid that night, desperately trying to stop his mad brother from murdering Lenore and her family. He hadn’t expected to survive, let alone be given a job. Nearly three years had passed, and now he was the husband of the princess who would someday be queen.

“I remember when Lenore was born,” Samuel said, setting up the chess pieces. “It was the first time I ever heard Lorna raise her voice.”

“Not much like Lenore then,” Howard said.

The men laughed, but over their laughter Victor could hear Lenore’s voice. It didn’t sound like just a scream this time.

“Is she calling for me?” he asked.

Samuel’s cheeks turned red. “No, you’re hearing things,” he said. But the scream came again, and this time it was clearer. “Victor!”

He was out of his seat and to the door before anyone else in the room had time to react. As he ran through the halls of the palace, no one dared stop him. The other noblemen didn’t even bother to follow.

Lenore’s new body guard, Anthony, was standing in front of the door to the entry chamber. A tall, lanky man with a long tail of hair, he looked as bored as he ever did. He saw Victor coming, and moved aside.

“Thanks,” Victor said.

“Queen Mother is only going to throw you out anyway,” Anthony replied.

Howard’s twin sister Harper sat in the chamber with Lady Hannah. They were Lenore’s ladies of court and closest noble friends. Harper was a tall woman, thinner than her brother. Hannah was shorter, with a broad, soft build.

Lenore’s hound, Shepard, was lying in front of the door to the birthing chamber, looking forlorn. She, like Victor, was unaccustomed to being away from Lenore this long.

Both women jumped when he burst into the room. “What are you doing?” Harper cried, “I nearly put my needle through my finger.”

“Was Lenore calling for me?” he asked.

“She was,” Hannah said with a nod. Unlike the rest of court, she had not yet removed the black mourning cloths for Prince Octavian. “But I don’t think the queen will let you go in.”

“Don’t you tell me what I want!” Lenore screamed, “Victor promised me he would be here, and I want him here now, not later when I’m all fancied up!”

“Are you entirely sure you want to go in there?” Harper asked.

“Of course,” Victor said, “she won’t yell at me like that.” He opened the door to the birth chamber while Harper snorted.

The room was large and circular. In the center of the room was a bed on which Lenore sat, her nightgown pulled up around her waist. Her long, curly hair was pulled back in a messy braid, and her face was covered in sweat. A midwife knelt in front of her, hands between her legs. Queen Lorna stood between two waiting bassinets, looking tired.

“What in The Creator’s name took you so long?” Lenore cried.

“I am sorry,” he said, coming to her side.

“Oh, no,” Lorna said. “You’re not staying, not with her in this state.”

“Mother, shut up!” Lenore cried. “He put the babies in there, he’s seen it. And if anyone makes him leave I’m going to make them as miserable as me!”

Ramona and Tabitha glanced at each other. “No, that’s alright,” Tabitha said.

“He’s not bothering me,” Ramona said, “Make yourself useful, boy.” She handed him a clean cloth and pointed towards a bucket of iced water.

Victor took off his jacket, and dipped the cloth in the water. He sat down behind Lenore on the bed so that she could lean against him and set the cloth to her cheek. “Your uncle said to me that I had no more place in this room than you would have on a battlefield,” he said.

“Then you should do fine,” Lenore said, tensing with pain.

“He must not remember the last time Montelair attacked,” Victor said. He washed her face. “We’re changing all the rules, aren’t we, my girl?”

Lorna sniffed, but brought a fresh towel to the bed. “I suppose the next thing will be that you want me to teach you how to run the bloody palace,” she muttered.

“I’d be honored, if you have the time,” he said. When Lorna gave him a sharp look he shrugged, and said, “My old job is taken. I cannot be idle while my wife works.”

Lenore screamed, and pressed against him. He put his arm around her. “Deep breaths,” the midwife said, “In, hold, out.”

Lenore breathed for a few minutes. When the pain subsided, she said, “I wish Devon could have stayed to meet the girls. And Octavian, they’ll never even get to meet him.”

“Octavian will watch over our girls like a guardian angel,” Ramona said, “And I’m sure Devon and Sultiana will visit soon.”

“We haven’t thought of any names yet,” Victor said, trying to change the subject.

“You pick,” Lenore said.

“You can’t give them Montelarian names,” Lorna said.

“Hush, Lady Mother, you are upsetting my wife,” Victor replied.

Hours passed. Lenore’s pain grew worse. Victor started to get worried. He brushed stray bits of hair from her face. “Tabby, will you come and fix her braid?” he asked, thinking that getting her hair out of her face would be some relief.

Tabitha nodded. She brushed Lenore’s hair and set it in a neat plait while she napped between bouts of pain. “One of the many benefits of being sapphic,” she whispered, “Girls don’t get other girls pregnant.”

“Does it normally take this long?” Victor asked, “The midwife would know if there was something wrong, wouldn’t she?”

Tabitha gave him a smile. “Yes, she would know. She’s the best midwife in the country.”

The midwife in question moved Lenore’s knees apart, and said, “Don’t you fuss about me. The princess has only been in labor for six hours. Many women take days to bring their children into the world. They will come when they’re ready, and be cared for like every other baby born in this palace.”

“My heir,” Lenore said with a smile, “the first girl ever to be born heir to the throne.” Then, she drifted back into a light doze.

Lorna shook her head. “You should talk her out of that, you know. It’s one thing for Lenore to rule, Octavian chose her. But your daughter doesn’t have to.”

Victor raised an eyebrow at her.

“I’m only thinking of the baby,” Lorna said, “Lenore’s life is going to be hard. Don’t you want something better for your daughter?’

“My Lady Mother, how about you suggest to Lenore that her daughter not inherit?” Victor asked.

Lorna sighed. “I only want what’s best for you all,” she said.

Lenore was stirring, moaning in pain again. The midwife looked between her legs, and said, “She’s crowning.”

“Are you ready?” Ramona asked.

“I’d better be,” Lenore said.

“Push!” said the midwife.

Lenore pushed. Victor held her close and whispered, “You are so strong, so brave.” Lenore screamed, and soon her screams were joined by those of her daughter.

The midwife pulled the baby girl out, and held her up. “Look at that blond hair,” she said.

Victor looked at his daughter, aching to hold her. But there was another baby coming, so Ramona took the first born to clean her.

Lenore was screaming again, and another ten minutes of pain followed. Finally, the second daughter, tiny with dark hair, came into the world.

“Our girls,” Lenore said.

The midwives hurried to get Lenore cleaned up and in a second waiting bed.

Ramona and Lorna brought the babies to the bed. They placed the girls into Lenore’s arms, and she set them to her breasts for their first meals.

“I’m so tired I don’t know if I can hold them,” she whispered.

“I’ll help,” Victor said, placing his arms under hers, supporting them all.

“What do you want to name them?” she asked.

Victor smiled. “The one with the golden hair, we’ll call Eleanor, for you my love. And the dark haired one can be Loralie.”

“To match,” Lenore said, “That’s good. Eleanor will need her sister. She’ll need all the help she can get.”

Lenore fell asleep, and Victor held his little family close. There were so many dangers waiting outside of those doors, he thought. The people in Septa who didn’t want a ruling queen, much less one with a Montelarian husband. A bitter Montelair, full of men furious at how the war had ended, hung over their heads as well.

“Other das just have to worry about scraped knees and boys,” he whispered. He looked up at Tabitha, who sat nearby. “These girls have inherited all of our enemies.”

Tabitha gave him a sleepy grin. “Good thing they’ve inherited all of your friends, too,” she said.

Lorna wiped tears from her face. For the first time ever, Victor felt close to the cold woman. “You should take Eleanor out to see her people,” she said.

“Just her?” Victor asked, “Won’t the people want to see both of them?”

“She is the heir. She will always be the people’s first priority,” Lorna said.

“She’s sure to curse us for that one day,” Victor said. Never the less, he took his daughter with care, and carried her to the balcony attached to the birthing chamber to see her people.

If you enjoyed this, please don’t forget to pick up your copy of Starting Chains on September 8th. And, of course, you can get Broken Patterns, Book One, right here.

Once upon a time, I wrote a series called Woven. I wrote the first book, Broken Patterns, and started trying to sell it.

Then, I wrote the second book, Starting Chains, which sat at my desk for a while because I hadn’t sold Broken Patterns yet.

I was really irritated while I was waiting for a publisher to buy Broken Patterns. I am not good at waiting and wanted some (sort of) instant gratification. I had also found that several other writers did serialize stories on their blogs.

So I decided to write one.

What came out of that was Station 86.

It was supposed to be a quick thing. I intended to write each episode by itself, like a short story.

As you might be aware, that’s not how that worked.

Station 86 has blossomed into a whole series. I cannot write anything episodically, even if that’s how I post it. I have to write the whole story at once.

There are very few problems with this. I’ve been blessed with not only one series that I love to write, but two.

The only problem is me.

I want to do too many things at once. For a long time, longer than I want to admit, I was working on both series at the same time. I was, most days, writing ten pages of a rough draft, then turning around and typing out three to five pages on a second draft.

This was freaking crazy!

It was getting to the point where I was more concerned with getting the writing done than doing it. I was always down on myself because I always felt like I was behind.

Worse, the writing wasn’t fun anymore.

So, I’ve slowed down. I’m making myself only work on one project at a time.

It might mean that some projects come out later than I was hoping, but not by much. To be honest, now that I’m just working on one project, I can get more done in a day than I used to.

It also means that I’m not rushing anymore. I’m enjoying the process, and I think the writing’s better because of it.

I hope you think so, too.

I didn’t go to college for writing. I didn’t go to college at all, in fact. I took Journalism in high school, for four years, and of course, I had English classes every year.

But I’ve never taken a single Creative Writing class. Everything I’ve learned about writing, I’ve learned in one simple way.

I picked up a book, and I read it.

This isn’t a poor way to learn. In fact, it’s served me quite well.

Today, I want to share with you the books I feel have best served my writing education, plus a list that I intend to read in the next year. I’ve talked about some of these before, but I’ve never put them all out in a serious list. Many of them you might have read already. But if you haven’t, and you’re looking to grow as a writer, I’d suggest reading them.

And if you’re a writer, you should always be looking to grow.

Danse Macabre, Stephen King

On Writing, Stephen King

Wild Mind, Natalie Goldberg

Thunder and Lighting, Natalie Goldberg

*Writing Down The Bones, Natalie Goldberg

Some Writers Deserve To Starve, Elaura Niles

Big Magic, Elizabeth Gilbert

I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, Mya Angelou

There are other books that I think you should read, but it’s harder to narrow those down. I would advise reading the classics of your genre. I read Bradbury, Tolkien, King, Sanderson, McCaffrey, Pierce. I’ve read Beowulf, of course.

But I also suggest reading bad books in your genre. This isn’t just me, Stephen King suggests the same thing in On Writing.

I won’t name any names here, even though I’d like to, but I have learned a lot about what not to do by reading bad books.

I want to hear what you think, though! What book has taught you the most about writing? Let us know in the comments below!

Hey, guys. my friend, Debbie De Louise, is doing all sorts of cool stuff over the next few weeks! I’ll let her tell you all about it below.

Don’t miss my free offer for my historical paranormal romance, The Seashell and the Stone. Free only on Friday, August 18. myBook.to/Seashell

After breakfast, Virginia changed into a sundress, donned her wide-brimmed straw hat, and chose one of her prettiest parasols for the stroll on the Boardwalk with Mr. Granger. When he met her downstairs, he still wore the same clothes but had added a beige cap that Virginia found quite stylish.

“Miss Vance, that outfit certainly becomes you. I hope you do not mind that I tend to some business matters during our visit to the beach.”
Virginia decided to play the role of a coy young woman as she batted her eyelashes and replied, “Not at all, Mr. Granger, as long as you spend a little time with me.”

He smiled, obviously happy with her comment. “Shall we, then?” He stopped as he reached the inn’s doors. “Does your father allow you to walk down to the beach alone with gentlemen?
”
Virginia’s laugh was not part of her act. She genuinely thought the statement funny. “Of course, Mr. Granger. I’m nineteen, an old maid by some standards.”
“If you’re an old maid, I must be an ancient relic at twenty-three.” He held the door open for her to pass.

On Tuesday, August 22nd, my romance, Saving Snow White, and my mystery, Dying for a Vacation, will be released for only 99 cents each.

When Amy comes home from veterinary school for the summer, she is reunited with her best friend, Tom. When she learns he has a girlfriend who is totally unsuited to him, she wonders if she has let her chance go by.

Detective Donald Jackson is preparing for a long-awaited vacation, but first, he must solve the case of a murdered librarian at the Flower Hill Public Library.

Here’s an excerpt from Dying for a Vacation: The FHPL was one of the last holdouts of the New Hampshire library system to retain an un-automated system of checking library holdings.  I didn’t care much for the OPAC’s of the larger libraries, anyway, with their computer databases that always seemed to freeze when I was looking for the next book in Lilian Jackson Braun’s “Cat Who” series.  Braun is my favorite mystery author.  Like her character, Jim Qwilleran, I have a handlebar mustache that’s pretty sensitive, although it doesn’t help me solve crimes.  I love cats, too, but I only have one and it isn’t Siamese.   Tinky is just a stray Emily brought to my house one day about five years ago.  One of her daughters from her second marriage was allergic to it, so she thought I might like it to keep me company.  She knew I liked cats, although we didn’t have any when we were married.  No kids either.  All the time I spent on cases back in Boston probably made a girl her age pretty lonely.

Last, but not least, please join me and my fellow Solstice authors at Solstice Publishing’s Eclipse Facebook Party for giveaways, prizes, Q & A’s, and a scavenger hunt. This will take place on Friday, August 18 at https://www.facebook.com/events/453215681732436/.

If you are in the Long Island area on that day, please also join me at the Hicksville Library for my author talk at 1:30 p.m.

I don’t like social media.

Let me be clear. I like that it exists because I think it keeps us all connected in a way that I couldn’t have imagined as a kid. I love how it makes me a part of the world’s community, not just my local community. I enjoy meeting new people online and have made some great friends who I’ve never met face to face. I love sharing my work with people worldwide, and I like how easy social media makes sharing.

I’ll go a step further. I love how platforms like Youtube have made celebrities out of everyday people. Matt Santoro, Rob Dyke, Jenna Marbles, I love the work these people are creating. I love how free their lives are.

What I don’t like is scrolling through Facebook and Twitter. It bores me, that’s it. For every picture of a friend’s baby, there are seven passive aggressive tweets. For every announcement that an indie author friend is launching a new book, I’ve got to wade through nine posts from people I went to high school with and have since gotten really concerned about preventing interracial marriage.

So I don’t much like social media. I pretty much stick to my own little corners of the internet, my Facebook writing groups and such. I really have to force myself to do anything else.

I understand that not all of you reading this feel that way. Some of you reading this really like social media.

More power to you.

Some of you reading this, though, may have a problem with social media.

The kind of problem that needs to be addressed.

But it can be hard to tell! How do you know if you have a problem with social media? I hesitate to call it an addiction, but it’s pretty damn similar. If you think you might have a problem, here are some things to consider.

Time doesn’t matter as much as you think.

You can’t measure an addiction by how much time you spend doing it, or how much you do at a time. I drink a lot of nights, but I’m not an alcoholic. I know I’m not, for the reasons we’ll get into below.

So you can’t say, “Oh, I only spend a half an hour on Facebook, it’s not a problem.” You also can’t say, “I spend hours on Facebook, clearly I have a problem!”

All that being said, there’s a good chance you don’t know how much time you’re actually spending on social media.

Lots of time management specialist suggest tracking your time for many different reasons. I’m going to suggest you do the same, but pay special attention to how much time you spend on social media. You should be able to find an app to help you track it.

I suggest you do this for at least a week because one day will probably not give you a fair view of your habits.

Are you neglecting your obligations?

Once you’ve tracked how you spend your time, you can start seeing patterns.

On the day that you didn’t get anything done on your to do list, did you spend a lot of time on Twitter?

When you should have been studying, were you scrolling through Instagram?

When you promised yourself you’d write, did you lose hours to Facebook instead?

Have you ever been late for work, or caught on your smart device at work when you’re supposed to be working?

Don’t forget, an obligation to yourself is still an obligation.

Is it making you do or say things you wouldn’t normally?

Confession time: Once upon a time, before I had PBW, during the roughly eight years I spent not writing, I used to be on Facebook a lot.

And I had a bad habit of getting into fights on Facebook. You see, I have this problem; I can’t shut up when I think someone’s being cruel. I can’t help but start fights. I once got into a serious argument over whether schools should teach cursive writing. Like, viciously insulting another grown ass adult over it. (If you’re wondering, I’m against it. I think that literally everything else we learn in school, including PE, is more important. Cursive’s pretty, teach it as an art form. That’s what it is, anyway.)

It shouldn’t surprise you that I’m a pretty calm, level headed person in real life. I’ve worked my whole adult life in customer service, so I’m pretty good at keeping my temper in check. And I have enough self-respect to argue like an adult, keeping to facts and avoiding vulgar language when I’m trying to make a point. (Not so much if you’ve just cut me off and I feel that my life was in danger. Or, you know, if I drop a coffee filter on the floor.)

The point is, I found that when I was arguing online, I wasn’t the same person I normally am. I wasn’t someone I liked, either.

How do you feel when you’re done?

When I was prone to arguing online, normally on Facebook, it was also wrecking my day offline. I’d get so damn pissed about whatever fight I was having with whatever stranger, and that anger would stay with me.

How do you feel when you’re done on social media. Do you feel good, like you’ve caught up with your friends and family? Do you, like me, feel like you got something good accomplished?

Do you have any good feeling afterward?

If not, maybe you need to ask yourself what the hell you were wasting your time on.

As you know, I’m always looking for new and innovative ways to practice writing. The more and more I focus on marketing my books and selling my books, the more I seem to need this.

I think that it’s good for all of us, no matter what part of the writing path we’re on, to remember that it is a practice. We’re artists, we writers, and our purpose is to create art.

People have a wide span of ideas of what art is, or what it’s supposed to be. For me, art is about clarity. My favorite songs, books, and movies always make something clearer. I do strive to tell a good story in my prose. Not all my work is going to be great art. But if I can help someone achieve a sense of clarity, then I feel that I’ve created a piece of real art.

Sometimes that someone is me.

To that end, I’ve started keeping a poetry journal. If you haven’t heard of this practice, it’s pretty cool. It’s also self-explanatory. You keep a notebook, in which you write out poems. Some people will sketch, draw or paint an image to go along with it.

I don’t do it every day. Some days I just don’t have the time, to be honest. But I’m finding that it’s doing a lot of good things for me.

First off, I’m writing more poetry. Poetry feeds prose, you know I’ve always said that.

It’s also therapeutic, though. While I exorcize my emotions through any work of fiction, it does have to go through a filter. I’m publishing my work most of the time. So, whether I mean to or not, I edit myself. That’s not always bad (You guys don’t need to know everything about my life). But sometimes I need to get out of me what I’m feeling.

In that way, keeping a poetry journal has been helpful. You might rightly ask, why don’t I just write a normal journal? Couldn’t I get my feelings out that way? Well, let me ask you something.

Have you ever been sad, or pissed off, and you weren’t sure why? Or maybe you’re overreacting to little things, things that shouldn’t piss you off. Maybe you’re crying at toilet paper commercials?

There are times when I have done almost all of those things. I don’t know if it’s my people pleaser gene or the fact that I don’t pay great attention. Maybe it’s just that, even though I’ve been practicing listening to my internal voice, I’m not perfect at it yet. Sometimes our subconscious is clued into the fact that something’s wrong long before the rest of the mind is.

Whatever the reason, sometimes concerns come out in my writing that I didn’t even realize were there. You don’t have to be an artist to use this tool, by the way. If you aren’t a writer, or if you know someone who isn’t a writer, keeping a poetry journal can help.

It’s also just fun, writing a poem then drawing a picture to go with it. I’ve always enjoyed drawing and painting in a purely amateurish fashion. I’d never want to be a professional visual artist, but I do enjoy being a better hobbyist. It’s a way for me to fit playing into my day. And, a reason to have paints and colored pencils in the house that are just mine.

I highly suggest keeping a poetry journal. And I’d love to hear about what changes it brings to your life! Let us know in the comments below.

I have a problem, and I’m trying to get over it. It’s taking some time to heal, please bear with me.

My problem is this. I made my word of the year Create. I’m doing really well fulfilling that.

But when it comes to doing anything that’s not directly feeding into my goal of creating, I have a hard time committing to it.

I don’t mean things like loafing around, scrolling through Instagram or watching too much tv. (Though I did finally get caught up on Ray Donovan. Damn, that’s a fine show.)

I mean, it’s been really hard for me to do things like free writing, reading writing manuals and watching instructional videos. I haven’t even been listening to podcasts!

It’s not as bad as it might have been. I haven’t been neglecting my duties at home, and I’ve been taking good care of myself. I have been reading, of course. But I’m not doing anything to learn! And while I absolutely feel that the best way to learn to write is by writing, there are other things I need to learn.

I’m trying to get better.

I imagine that I’m not the only author who struggles with this. It’s hard enough trying to find time to write, edit and sell our books! Not to mention maintaining social media presence. How are we supposed to shove learning new things into our already full to do list? Aren’t I doing enough already?!

Okay, drama aside. Finding time to learn new things is essential. It’s a struggle for me because I’m super Type A psycho sometimes. But it’s all about baby steps, sometimes.

Podcasts.

I’ve started listening to podcasts on my way to and from work. It’s better than what I was doing, reading a paper back book while walking down the damn street. Recently I’ve been catching up with Writing Excuses, and Bad With Money.

Finding good, inspirational books.

While I do love reading fiction, I’ve been making a point of reading informative books. The trick is to find a book that not only teaches you something but is enjoyable to read. Otherwise, you’re going to be a lot more inclined to get back to American Gods.

Sign up for emails that help you.

I recently took an email course that really taught me something about writing short stories. I love short stories, and I want to get better at writing them. Each email took a few minutes to read. I was then able to accomplish the ‘homework’ that came along with it.

Because I told myself that it was only going to take half an hour, I could do it. I also felt held accountable, since it was a class. Now I feel like I’m writing much better short stories.

Understand the importance of what you’re doing.

Recently I spent a whole two hours watching a great instructional Youtube video. I made myself sit down and watch the whole damn thing because I valued the information.

Doing things like free writing every day has been harder, until I started reading my second draft of Missing Stitches, preparing to write the third. That’s when I realized something. My descriptions need work!

So I’ve been making a point of writing descriptions in my free writing notebook. Every day I look up a picture of a house or a street on Google. Or I’ll go sit somewhere public and write a sketch of someone. And you know what? It’s helping. I didn’t think it would, but it is helping.

If there’s something you want to learn, understand the value of it. Don’t think about what you could have accomplished with this time. You’re accomplishing something by growing your education. And the work you do will be richer because of it.

Tell us something that you’ve learned recently that has improved your life or writing.

As you might know, if you follow me on Facebook, Twitter or Goodreads, I’ve been reading books about writing recently. I go through these phases where I’ll read everything I can get from one author, or a whole bunch of biographies, or everything I can get on one topic. Right now, I guess, it’s writing books.

That’s not a bad thing.

In the last few months, I’ve read Thunder and Lightning and Wild Mind by Natalie Goldberg. I followed that up with On Writing by Stephen King. The first two I’d never read before. The third I’ve read roughly 17 times since I was sixteen.

They’re wildly different people, with completely different writing styles and theories of writing. But they have more in common than I realized at first. They’re both teachers. They’ve written books about writing. And they both feel that there is something magic and holy about writing.

I have that in common with both of them

Natalie Goldberg

This is only a review of what I’ve learned from Wild Mind and Thunder and Lighting. I have not yet read Writing Down The Bones, but it’s on my list.

Natalie is, first and foremost, a poet. You can tell that in every word she writes. She’s lived a wild, enviably bohemian life that as a teenager I would have aspired to. She’s been married several times, moved all over America, taught writing to thousands of eager students.

Most of Natalie’s books are about writing or collections of poetry. She’s written one novel, so far as I can find, called Banana Rose.

After reading two of her books, I can tell you that I don’t agree with her feeling that writing must come from somewhere deep within us. Much of our writing will, it’s true. But sometimes I write a story that’s just a story. Just something that came to me, and entertained me for awhile.

What I’ve learned from her has been immeasurable. Natalie’s life is about writing. She doesn’t do anything else. I aspire to that, someday. Right now I’ve still got bills to pay, but she’s embraced poverty if poverty is what’s required for her to write. Maybe someday, if I don’t have kids…

I also learned the importance of freewriting, every day. Not a word we write is wasted, just like no yoga practice or meditation session is wasted. We take that time to stretch, to learn. To discover things we have to say that we didn’t know we wanted to say.

Natalie often equates writing to meditation practice. At first, I found that far-fetched. I write about dragons and space stations, that isn’t very zen like. Then I realized that the subject didn’t matter. The important thing was being present in the moment. When I meditate, I am completely in the room. I feel the floor, feel my body (for better or worse). I feel every vibration in the room, from my cat walking in or a breeze through the window. When I’ve left my practice, I can recall the calm I felt later when I need to center myself for a few minutes. I do this by counting backward from ten, just the same as when I begin my practice. Much in the same way, when I’m writing I am completely present in my story. I am deep inside myself.

Just like when meditating, I’m not thinking of the bills or the dishes, or whether or not I’m getting Carpel Tunnel. I’m focusing on the present, or on the story.

Even if it is about a dragon.

Stephen King

I can’t imagine I need to introduce Stephen King to you. His book, On Writing, is considered a cornerstone of a writer’s education. Everyone who talks about writing talks about this book.

Aside from On Writing, Stephen King writes horror. He’s published a metric ton of fiction. Most of it is fantastic. I’m in the middle of reading Tommyknockers while I write this. I’ve been a fan of his since I was ten when I read Pet Cemetery. Some of my other favorites of his are The Stand, Green Mile, From a Buick 8 and Carrie. I watched all of Kingdome Hospital. I was even named after one of his books. (My middle name is Christine. Yes, that was intentional.)

I’ve mentioned before that there’s one large topic on which Mr. King and I disagree. He is a pantser, and I am a plotter. In fact, he has some rather nasty things to say about plotting a novel in On Writing. To which I can only say this; Lots of people have the same complaint about his books, sometimes the endings blow really hard. Maybe that wouldn’t happen if he had at least an idea of where the damn story was going to end up before he started.

But I’m trying to move past that.

What I learned from the book is exceptional.

Mr. King has an exceptional work ethic. While I, as a teenager felt that writing was something ethereal, that I needed to be inspired to write, he didn’t cop with such bullshit. I kind of needed that talking to, as a budding writer.

There’s this great conversation between George RR Martin and King. I’ll paraphrase it below.

Martin: How do you write so much?

King: Well, I sit down and I try to write eight pages a day. (It used to be ten. Guess he’s slowing down.)

Martin: Don’t you ever sit down to write, and just nothing comes? So you check your email, and play solitaire, and tell yourself you have nothing else to say?

King: No!

Most of what I know about dialog I’ve learned because of On Writing. King suggests writing dialog honestly, writing the way people talk. He also suggests listening to people talk, if you want to learn to write good dialog. I’ve done this, sitting quietly in coffee shops and shitty diners. That’s probably why a lot of my characters talk like Western PA roughnecks. Of course, that could be because I am myself a Western PA roughneck, and it just comes out sometime.

As many of you might know, King was once heavily addicted to drugs and alcohol. These are addictions that he beat, with the help of his wife and family. From this, I learned something important. The wild, bohemian life might be great, but if I want to stay healthy and keep writing, staying clean and staying married are the best ways to go.

Have you read these books? What did you learn from them? Let us know in the comments below.

Happy August!

This year is going by so damn fast! I’m still writing 2016 on documents!

I’ve really been looking forward to August this year. Not a lot of writing’s going to get done, but that’s okay. That’s what winter’s for.

Here’s what’s going on with me in August.

The 30 Days, 30 Authors event is over.

And I learned so much! I’ve made some great new friends and gotten involved in new projects that I am pumped about. I learned new and fun ways to communicate with all of you, and even got to participate in a podcast! At the same time, I was on social media a lot more than normal. It will be kind of nice to slow that down a little. I don’t think I’ll go the whole way back down to my pre-event schedule, but I will be paring down.

I’m working on the third draft of Missing Stitches this month.

I’m not going to lie, I’ve been crying almost every day. This is the last book I’m working on, you guys. The end of the trilogy! Now, I’ve still got a long road ahead of me before this book is published, but once it’s done I’m done with those characters for years! I’m about to cry just writing this.

I’m taking a full-on vacation, for nine whole days.

And I mean full vacation. No day job, no freelance work, no writing! We’re going camping for two days, then to Kennywood for one. Finally, we’re heading to Kentucky/North Carolina to see the solar eclipse. I cannot remember the last time I didn’t write for nine days. It’s going to be interesting.

Oh, and the NFL preseason is starting this month. So, you know, Here we Go, Steelers!

I’m going to be working on some short fiction to submit to some upcoming anthologies.

I was excited to hear about some anthology opportunities recently that I want to jump on. I recently stopped working on two novels at once (for several reasons that I’ll be talking about later this month) so I have some free time.

My kids are going back to school.

This is partially nice because it means I’ll have some time to myself on my days off. At the same time, it has been fun spending time with them this summer. I work on the weekends, so whole days where we have nothing at all to do are few and far between during the school year.

My younger daughter is turning 13

Now they’re both going to be Thirteen. I really am considering just moving out for the next five years. Just saying. When I started this blog they were both ten. What the hell happened?

Speaking of when I started this blog.

PBW is turning three on August 31^st! I can’t believe that it’s been so long since I started this journey. Be prepared for lots of crying and looking back (and probably some giveaways.)

Finally, Starting Chains is coming out next month!

I can’t believe we’re talking about this, but it’s happening! I am unbelievably excited to present Starting Chains to all of you, and I hope you’re all excited to read it.

What are you planning for August? Any major life events, or just getting ready for back to school? Let us know in the comments below.