Floating in a Coffee Cup

Monday, the toughest day of the week for me, is followed by Tuesday.  Though I engage with the world a little easier on Tuesday, I still feel as though I would like to spend the day floating in a coffee cup.  Not just for the extra shot of caffeine, but because floating is a state of pure relaxation.   

If you look at the picture at the top of my blog, you’ll see my favorite aqua colored coffee cup.  It’s a large cup that holds double what a typical coffee cup does.  I can imagine placing an expanded version of it on my patio and climbing in, much like a hot tub.  The coffee cup is much deeper though, and my feet would be unable to touch.  I could slip a pastel colored noodle beneath my legs and float from side to side, or I could use my own buoyancy and lie in the middle of the cup, close my eyes, and enjoy the peaceful bob. 

It probably wouldn’t take very long for the caffeine contaminated water to seep into the pores of my skin and energize me to the point that floating would no longer be relaxing.  So in hindsight, floating in a cup full of coffee would probably not be such a good idea.  It’s a fun exercise though, thinking about silly or impossible things.  It does get the creative juices flowing and helps me to face the day. 

Okay blank page, here I come.    

It's Monday...Again

Back of the Bus

Imagine, if you will, leaving a cruise ship for a day excursion into Progresso, Mexico.  The ship has docked at the end of a three-mile long pier leaving the only transportation into town by way of bus.  Viewing the pier from the deck shortly after breakfast, you note the pool and bar area that lead to a small shopping center.  In front of the shopping center is a line of buses waiting to take those interested parties into town for shopping or sightseeing.  You hurry back to your room to gather the items needed for your excursion, collect the family, and head toward the elevator that will take you to the exit doors in the lower bowels of the ship.

Exiting the ship entails multiple pictures by the cruise line followed by catching up with two twenty-year-old boys who, in Mexico, are of drinking age and have shots waiting for you when you reach the bar area.  Slamming those down on top of eggs and bacon, you drag them away from the alcohol and through the shopping center toward the local transportation that will take you into town.  By the time you make it to the bus stop, it appears all the luxury buses have departed, leaving only a ramshackle shell with wheels.  

Looking at one another with trepidation (yes, if you haven’t figured it out by now, this is not a fictional story but one that our family actually encountered), we climbed the rusty stairs and entered the bus.  Saying it was on its last leg is being kind.  The seats, doubles on each side, had foam and springs escaping from their worn, stained cloth bodies.  They were covered with plastic, we could only assume, actually, let’s not go there.  There was plastic draped over the window openings as well.  Any glass that had once been there was long gone.  We followed the boys to the bench seat at the very back of the bus.

As we gently sat on the plastic covering, we chuckled nervously.  The ride was only three miles, how bad could it be?  Once the bus was full, the driver released the clutch, sending the bus rolling forward while our bodies slammed backward against the plastic bench behind us.  The rickety vehicle slowly moved forward, circled the parking lot, and made a creaky turn onto the pier, heading toward town.  With the boys laughing, my husband and I clasped each other’s hands and said silent prayers that we would make it the three miles in this dilapidated hunk of junk.

Wind blew in through the open windows sending the loose plastic dancing in its wake.  The view of the turquoise water stretching out on either side of the pier should have given us peace, but before we could enjoy the scenery, the front of the bus rolled over a speed bump the size of Mount Vesuvius.  When the back of the bus reached the mountain, all four of our bodies went airborne, butts leaving the seats and everyone’s head but mine (being short comes in handy sometimes) hitting the ceiling before returning with a lame thump onto the permanently indented bench beneath us.  Again, nervous laughter filled the air.  By the time we regained breathing rights, the second speed bump was beneath us and up in the air we traveled again.  There were three speed bumps in all.  At this point, part of me wished we’d stayed at the bar.  Finally, at what seemed an hour later, we arrived at the opposite end of the three-mile pier, unloaded ourselves, and walked away as quickly as possible. 

I’m sure that you have your own “back of the bus” story.  If not, my suggestion to you is that when it does happen, buy another round of shots at the bar and stay close to the boat!     

 

Beep…Leave a Message

I grew up with a rotary dial phone.  Mine was pumpkin orange.  I’m not sharing this to date myself but to share the simplicity of that particular device.  In fact, you only had to dial the last four numbers of the nine-digit number to reach any other phone in town.  It made it easy to remember thirty different phone numbers in your head at one time.  As a teenager, I exhausted many hours on our one family phone line jabbering with my friends.  There were no answering machines at that time.  If no one was home to answer the phone, it would ring on in perpetual anticipation until the caller made the disconnection.  It left us free to detach from the world of technology every time we left our house and to associate with people the old-fashioned way.

The time for such phone number memorization is over.  There are only two or three phone numbers that I can recall at this very moment.  My own cell phone number is not included among those.  I don’t have to remember them.  My cell phone recalls every number with the flick of a fingertip.  Most of my conversations aren’t carried through various towers by voice, they’re accomplished through text.  I feel pressure leaving the house without my phone in my purse or my pocket because I might miss an attempted connection. 

People talk and text constantly.  We answer our phones in restaurants, malls, and movie theaters.  People text in class, in the middle of face-to-face conversations with others, and while driving a two thousand pound car down the highway.  Sadly, the latter takes lives.  How have we become so dependent on digital gadgetry?  We are so intent on connecting with those in our cell phone directory that we tend to ignore those standing or sitting beside us.  We become self-absorbed and hardened to the world around us. 

I have learned through experience that the most important thing in this world is its people.  It doesn’t matter whether we’re young, old, rich, poor, extraverted or introverted.  Neither race nor religion matters.  People matter.  You matter.  The person next to you matters.  Will you put your phone down to look your neighbor in the eye?  A smile or a small touch can change someone’s day or change their outlook.  A kind word can has the power to change someone’s self-worth. 

It only takes a moment to acknowledge someone else.  Today, I am leaving my phone at home.  If you call, you’re hear my request for you to leave a message following the beep.  Please do.  I will get back with you.  Today my attention will be focused on those who God puts in my path.  Maybe tonight, I’ll have a new phone number to add to my directory.  And if not, I’ll be content knowing that today, I put others before myself.

Eyeliner for Crayons

Ladies, for most of us, each day usually starts out the same way.  We shower, shave, apply our makeup, hair products, and blow dryer.  We dress, apply deodorant, and top off the outfit with the appropriate jewelry accompaniments.  We then inhale breakfast and if we scheduled enough time (most likely not) sit down to enjoy a cup of coffee and a brief perusal of the newspaper before climbing in the car and heading off to work.  It’s another day invested in corporate America.

And weekends, what’s considered our time is usually spent catching up on everything that our day job prevents us from achieving during the work week.  It’s an exhausting circle of replication.

This was my life before letting go of the corporate day job with the repetitive schedule for my dream job of full time writing.  I can now set my own hours, which are no doubt more than my corporate hours were, but they are my choice to schedule.  I can work when my creativity level is highest and not just during an allotted time frame. 

I can climb out of bed and have breakfast in my screened Florida room while listening to the birds chatter within the surrounding greenery of our house.  I can read the paper, converse with my husband, give my pups some hands-on loving, and then head to my office – a mere steps away still wearing my pajamas and with my hair sticking straight up (if I want to)!  I don’t have to log personal, sick, or vacation time.  I can talk things through or plan things out with my business partner husband, but we have no annual reviews.  However, we do have a business plan that keeps us on track and allows us to enjoy lunch and cheap movie dates on Tuesday afternoons.

So yes, I have traded in my eyeliner for crayons.  The crayons referred to here are the keys of my computer that allow me to add color and vibrancy to my fictional stories.  They are bright and colorful worlds just waiting for guidance.  The bigger the crayon box, the better!

My wish for you is that you can dream big and trade in your eyeliner for crayons too.

Super Heroes Wear Floaties

Where would we be without our Super Heroes? 

·         Batman & Robin – as soon as the bat phone rings or the bat light shines, Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson don their suits to take on Gotham City with the ever intensifying, yet coolest modes of transportation.

·         Captain America – enhanced to the peak of human perfection by an experimental serum, Steve Rogers is armed with an indestructible, boomerang-like shield.  It’s a weapon that can both destroy and defend as each crisis dictates.

·         The Incredible Hulk - when angered, Dr. Bruce Banner’s congenial persona explodes into a gigantic, green, irradiated, mutated humanoid monster with incredible strength.  Evil doers need beware.

·         Spiderman, after suffering a radioactive spider bite, Peter Parker is quick to find himself swinging off buildings with his web-shooters, using his spider sense, and fighting crime in every way he can (when he’s not in school).

·         Superman, one of the original super heroes, Clark Kent poses as an employee at the Daily Planet newspaper by day.  By night however, he is the mask wearing, cape flapping, Lois Lane courting, steel bodied, speeding bullet of a crime stopper.

·         Thor – this hammer wielding god is the perfect specimen of manliness (for the ladies), with thunder, lightning, storms, oak trees, strength, the protection of mankind, and also hallowing, healing and fertility (for the men).

Though each the above are viable stars and rake in movie money hand over fist (especially when joining forces), my favorite Super Hero is my grandson.  He has all the costumes, which he is unafraid of mixing and matching to create his own brand of super hero capabilities.  It’s unbeknownst to him that this can be a little confusing for those around him to compete against.  Regardless, his partner in crime, Princess Leia (the family pup), wreak havoc upon the neighborhood together as they disperse their own brand of super heroism - tough as nails until snack time.  My little super hero still takes the occasional nap, converses only until what needs to be communicated is complete, loves his Super Hero bedroom, and yes, wears floaties in the pool.  

The Hands of Life

I look down at my hands on the keyboard as my fingers dance over the keys on a mission to spill words onto the page.  Hands are tiny things of wonder when a newborn babe latches onto your finger, as well as wrinkled, age-spotted laborers peacefully crossed over the chest of your 101 year old grandmother as she is laid to rest.  From beginning to end, they are everything in between. 

As small children, they touch toys and books, pets and dirt, walls and doors, mom and dad. 

As adolescence, they touch sports gear and homework, sweepers and lawn mowers, cell phones and IPods, steering wheels and keyboards, and clasp tightly with the hand of someone they’ve become smitten with.

As adults, they caress loved ones, touch their children in love or discipline, work to protect a job of choice, and are used tirelessly throughout the course of each day. 

At any age, our hands mirror in prayer, rest across our hearts in patriotism, clap in our joy, wipe away our tears or those of others, hug those around us, stroke our pets, clasp the faces of loved ones, twist in anguish, express emotion, play musical instruments, build something from scratch, tear it down, paint, draw, write, and the list goes on and on and on.

Through this writing, I’ve realized what my hands represent and how I need to put them to better use.  There are many things my hands can do that they are not.  As I mirror them in prayer, I will ask God for more responsibility where my hands are concerned.  May they be blessed and used as instruments of love in this broken world.

What special things are your hands responsible for?  If you could make them do something, anything, what would it be?   

A Secret Passion for Dancing

“Dance like no one is watching.  Love like you’ve never been hurt.  Sing like no one is listening.  Live like it’s heaven on earth.”

This quote by William Purkey is one of my favorites.  Think about the things you do when no one is around to view your actions or pass judgment upon you.  I love to dance.  Slow music or fast, it doesn’t matter.  My body involuntarily moves to the beat, no matter where I am.  It is joy, it is freedom, it is spontaneous, and it is free.  So, dance, love, sing, and live, as though this is your last day on earth!  You won’t regret it.

If your day needs a little chuckle on the topic of dancing, click the following link for an excerpt from the first chapter in my book The Chicken Club. 

http://glennathompsonauthor.com/book_excerpts/the_chicken_club

 I hope that you enjoy it.    

Page by Page the Story Grows

When an idea for a novel hits me, the first thing I do is WRITE IT DOWN.  If I don’t, the idea disappears, completely, within minutes.  I’ve lost a great many ideas into the vast black hole in my head.  Some of them were quite good too.  Frustration doesn’t begin to describe the loss. 

Once I pick a premise for a story, I work the plot over and around in my head, feeling it out, testing the theory.  Is the idea strong enough to carry an audience through an entire novel?  Who are my characters and what problems am I going to face them with?  Once I start to pull this information together, I begin an outline.  I start with my characters, creating their physical features and working through to their inner cores.  Once I have an intimate understanding of who they are, I plan out my storyline chapter by chapter from beginning to end so that I have some guidance through which to maneuver as I share my story. 

The outline is a rough model at best and most of the time I follow it, adding, changing, or deleting things as the story develops.  Having the outline tends to keep me on track.  I live in my head so it’s easy to get distracted and before I know it, I’ve taken the fork in the road heading in the opposite direction.  If I know where I want the story to end, I can keep my attention focused and not waste days writing scenes that will eventually be deleted in their entirety.  My motto is:  It is better to add than delete!

In my experience of writing, the process of a novel feels a little like following a rainbow.  In the excitement of starting a new project, the beginning chapters pour onto the pages quickly.  However, the middle of the story comes more slowly, as if writing uphill.  Once you crest the top of the rainbow and start down again, the chapters begin to flow more quickly.  By the time you get to the pot of gold at the finish line, your hair is standing on end from the surge of electrical excitement. 

I can’t describe the feeling of infinite joy that fully completing the draft brings.  Forget the editing.  That is a job for another day.  Today, I will head directly toward the wine cabinet and the biggest glass I can find for a little personal celebration.  Why don’t you pull up a chair and join me?  (Oh, and I you don't mind, bring a can of hairspray.  My hair needs a little help.)

Chicks, Drama, and the Lint Trap of Life

This title describes my novel The Chicken Club fairly well.  In its original form, it was titled No Hotter Fire and was double the word count that it now contains.  It was my learning curve as I worked with an editor for the first time.  Editing your work is serious business.  I would have to say, much more difficult than drafting the story itself.  It took several months and I had to dig in with everything I had to give, and then give some more in order to make this novel the best that it could be.    

There are so many elements you have to pay attention to:

·         Is the plot stimulating for your audience? 

·         Are the characters strong and appealing? 

·         Are the scenes filled with enough vivid prose to bring it to life around the characters? 

·         Do the characters converse through strong dialogue instead of living in their heads? 

·         Are you writing in first, second, or third person, and are you following the format correctly ? 

·         Are you following the latest rules applied to the written novel? 

·         Have you checked all spelling, punctuation and grammar? 

·         And the list goes on.

I am positive that during the editing phase, I reviewed and revised my stories a minimum of thirty times each.  Yes, my eyes glossed over and I continued to read what “should” have been on the page versus what “was” on the page.  You come up with tricks to help combat this problem, but it still means reading it over and over to attain a certain level of professionalism, not to mention personal contentment and satisfaction for a job well done. 

Getting back to the story of The Chicken Club, it is indeed a story about chicks (or chickens as they are referred to within the pages of this book).  It was written at the latter part of a ten year phase in my life in which I was divorced and raising two teenage boys on my own.  My friends and I often compared stories of living and dating in a world gone mad so it was befitting that some of those stories were amassed, enhanced, and applied so as to archive those moments for posterity’s sake.  Not all the scenes in this book originated from existing happenstances.  Those used however, were modified not only to protect the innocent but to make them more thoroughly entertaining for my audience.

The Chicken Club was my debut novel.  Renee and Angela are endearing characters that would go to the moon and back to protect their children, safeguard their friendship, and survive the dating world one man at time.  But more importantly, they know who they are and manage to convince a group of women that they are all strong and resilient and beautiful.  This story is full of humor and drama and reflects at times, the lint trap of life, but more than that, it’s a story about friendship at its core.  And what a friendship it is.   

It's a Novel Idea

I love to watch people.  Yes, I’m one of those sitting amongst strangers taking in my surroundings.  I find that people are positively interesting.  I study body language, facial expressions, demeanor, quirks, attitude and more.  Think of the following situations and how the crowd around you would appear:

·         Sporting Events – Football, Baseball, Basketball, Hockey

·         Music Concerts – Rock, Pop, Country, Christian

·         Weddings – Big and formal, Small and quaint

·         Movie Premiers – Drama, Thriller, Romance, Sci-Fi

·         Airports – Large and crazy, Small and less stressful

·         Cruise Ships – Upscale Princess or Royal Caribbean  to easygoing Carnival     

·         Church – Traditional or Contemporary Services

·         Any other place people gather in mass

Each one of those places listed above gives me a new audience to review.  And if by chance I found myself in a more serene mood, I would be happy to sit in a quiet corner at a cozy outdoor café and have the same experience watching those passing by on the street.

Analyzing people from afar helps to shape the spirit my characters are fabricated from.  There is a thrill found in creating characters from scratch.  You take complete control in developing their appearance, continuing through to their deep inner core.  The better you know your characters, the more life you give them.  The more life they have, the bigger they become on the page.  The bigger they are on the page, the faster your readers engage with your story.

Storytelling is the not-so-secret love of my life.  My characters are an important part of that.  The characters make the novel successful.  Even with a weak plot, convincing characters can make it strong.  I’ll continue to search the crowds around me for the characteristics that sprout novel ideas.   I started on this journey with a dream in my heart, pursued it with passion and conviction, and will to continue it with grace and integrity.

Black and White

Ink:  a colored usually liquid material for writing and printing

This definition is found in the Merriam-Webster dictionary.   I envision ink on a page as black on white.  The careful caress of ink in an artist’s stroke beckons our attention.  The beauty of a black on white drawing comes to life beneath his fingertips.  The haunting lines create an image that attracts the human eye.  I’m not excluding colors.  Color adds flair and builds body onto the page in a way black and white do not.  There is however, something simple and antiquated about the contrast between the colors of midnight and snow living on the same page in perfect balance.   I feel that for a writer, the ink is black and the page is white.  (For you music buffs, this is not a reference to the ever familiar Three Dog Night song.)

Long ago, a quill dipped into a bottle of ink was used to concoct letters or notes or journals or maps using quality penmanship.  Writings were truly a work of art.  Today we don’t worry about penmanship when writing in the digital age as our text is mostly produced through the computer keyboard, phone or tablet.  Using any of these as tools of communication, the keystrokes are generally black while the page is white.  With storytelling, you add color through the written word.  Interjecting hue and texture to your prose lifts the scene off the page, giving it dimension and drama, immediately bringing it to life.  Life is what every writer strives for. 

The black and white preference is solely my own.  The definition of ink above clearly states “colored” liquid.  Color may be your preference and that is perfectly okay.  In fact, color makes the natural world beautiful.  And if you’re so inclined to color your hair pink or purple or blue, that’s okay too!  You are your own story in the making.