So, if you’re a writer, consider if you write every day. If you don’t, try it for two weeks. Write every day and see if it changes your thought process too. I’d love to hear back from you if you try this. You can do it!
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 I'm sure every year, everyone has holiday traditions. Mine started with my children when they were very young and I wanted to take pictures on Christmas morning without them wearing their most comfortable pajamas. Pajamas that consisted of favorite worn T-shirts sometimes with or without pants. So, I started a tradition on Christmas Eve. All my children were allowed to open up one Christmas Eve gift. A “Santa” gift. It was always a new set of pajamas. When the kids were younger, they loved the idea of opening at least one gift early, even though, as they grew older, they knew it what that gift contained. This tradition satisfied two major things for me. The first being my children got to open at least one gift early, and second, my Christmas photos consisted of children dressed in a matching pair of pajamas. As the years have gone by my children have grown, yet we still maintain this tradition. A tradition which now brings a chuckle to everyone as they always ask: “Gee I wonder what Santa will bring us this year?". It has become a challenge now for everyone to have the most surprising reaction when they open the box and see their new pajamas.
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Shiny Things!
Part of my grad degree involves taking courses outside of my concentration of creative writing. One of the classes I’m taking this semester focuses on writing for social media. Which, let’s face it, if you’re an author like me, you need to know this stuff, right? To start, we learn about various social media platforms, then we get the chance to create content based on what we’ve learned to make successful posts. “Rules” to follow, mistakes to avoid, etc. are also covered. I already have a presence on Facebook, Twitter, my own website with a blog, and last, but not least, Instagram.
I’ve read and learned about my social media platforms, except Instagram. I wanted to have a presence there, but I didn’t consider consistency when I started. This class made me think about that. I’ve posted about my dad’s railroad building (because he’s a blast to watch and I wanted to document his progress). I’ve posted about my dogs and my family’s dogs whom I love dearly. I’ve even tossed in a few posts about my books, my writers conferences and food. The latter because I was seeing that on Instagram and thought it’d be cool to share. I’ve learned I need to focus here. This class has really made me think about my brand. Who am I and what do I want to share with my readers? Since all my books (save one co-written book) have ghosts in them and I love to watch paranormal movies/videos, I thought to myself “Hey, I’m not afraid of ghosts and I love these types of investigations, why not try it myself?” OH, shiny idea! I’ve decided to dedicate my Instagram to 3 main subjects: Dad’s train building, dogs and my favorite new shiny thing: Spirit Seeking (aka ghost hunting/paranormal investigations). While doing this, the class studied YouTube videos, so I thought I’d like to do a YouTube channel documenting my experiences being a Novice Spirit Seeker. So, that’s two social media platforms talking about Spirit Seeking. But wait…here comes along another shiny for me to look into. Podcasting! How cool would that be? I could talk an ear off anyone once I’m comfortable. Being “invisible” would be like icing on the cake. An idea popped in my head about what the podcast would be on and how to keep it consistent and entertaining. Oh, the ideas started flowing in like a dam breaking. It’s like when I write my stories, scenes started popping in my head. Now, I’m stuck because after taking a moment to really think about all of this, I’m now wondering if there are too many shiny things catching my eye. Can I do it all? Should I do it all or go back to simply the three originally suggested?
Realistically though. I need to decide here. Let’s break it down.
So, which one would you recommend?
I’d really like to know your answer. Comment below if you have a moment. Thank you & have a great turkey month! |
Tip: Most often when writers are starting out, one key thing that is always mentioned and, in todays society, required by authors is to have a platform you participate in. It’s important because once you publish, your readers are going to want to know about you and your writing. They’re going to want to be able to contact you. Publishing companies expect you to be on social media and help promote yourself and your books. You’re told to pick 1-3 that you’re “good” at and stick to those. Don’t overextend yourself. Remember this last sentence here, I say to myself, repeatedly. 
Bennett: "Say What?"
Ellie: "Did you say "Shiny" or "Snack"?
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 | Ten years ago, last spring, after a lifetime of creating stories in my head and on paper, I decided to seek publication. A friend overheard me talking to a coworker in the next cubicle. She walked over and asked me "Are you serious about wanting to get published?" I answered "Yes!". She then told me I needed to join her local romance writers association. So, I did, and I wrote all summer on a book I thought was great. I didn't get it all finished, but I signed up for a pitch appointment, to an editor only three months away. Those months, I spent (outside of my day job), learning how to create a blurb, and expectations of an editor during these appointments. I even read all about my assigned editor. I saw other books he published and loved them. They were a bit darker than my story, but all the same, they rocked. At the conference, I went to a special session to make my pitch even more perfect than I thought possible. Soon, it was time to meet with the editor! I sat down, said five words and the editor stopped me. He told me, kindly, that he wasn't interested in my type of story. Well, after all the research I'd done, I wasn't going to leave right away. I took the time to thank him for coming, then went on to say how I researched other books he’d published. I mention a few I liked and in a moment of utter surprise, I told him I had an idea for a book that involved dead bodies and dead languages, since I studied linguistics in college. His eyes widened and he pointed to me saying "Now, THAT's a book I'm interested in." |
This was in October 2010. I spent all November (using National Novel Writing Month to help) and wrote that 72,000+ word book. Unbeknownst to me, I was still in the early stages of learning the craft and had a long way to go. January 2011, I sent off my manuscript. The following April, I received my first rejection letter. Again, unbeknownst to me, it was more of a revise/resubmit. But I didn't know that. I only read that it wasn't acceptable. So, for the next nine years, I fiddled with it on and off, while I wrote more books and more stories. In 2016, I submitted a different story to a different publisher and it got accepted. I'd become a published author. Then I wrote another in that series and it got published in 2018. Both of these books had characters I wrote in that first rejected book. So, when it came time to submit a third book of the series, I finally had the chance to bring this book to life! Talk about happy dancing! It's finally getting published!
Dead Bodies, Dead Languages is now available for pre-order! Release date is perfect as it is set for October 28, 2020! Since the book takes place around Halloween, this is the best release date I could hope for. This is, by far, my favorite of the series and I hope it will be yours too. Check it out and know I'm giggling just to see it live!
Dead Bodies, Dead Languages is now available for pre-order! Release date is perfect as it is set for October 28, 2020! Since the book takes place around Halloween, this is the best release date I could hope for. This is, by far, my favorite of the series and I hope it will be yours too. Check it out and know I'm giggling just to see it live!
We're on our fourth installment of my sharing a few essays I've written for a non-fiction project. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed writing each one.
Talking too Much – Age 8
Coming home that fateful day from grade school, my twin sister, Jerrie and I walked with slow steps.
“Mom’s gonna be upset,” Jerrie said.
“I know.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Tell her we won’t talk in class anymore?” I suggested.
“How are we going to do that?” She asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. We have to think of something.”
Silence fell between us as we turned onto the dusty dirt alley which separated the rows of houses of our neighborhood in the small town of Albany, Georgia. The spring sun shone down, warming our faces and we stepped in unison with each other, both staring down at the dust kicking up from our matching canvas shoes.
“At least we have the whole summer to figure it out.”
I sighed. “I’m not spending my whole summer trying to come up with something. We need to know first—”
“It won’t help us now. When mom sees those red letters in our report cards, we’re in trouble, no matter what,” Jerrie interrupted.
“She won’t stay mad. She never does.” I grinned. “As long as we promise never to do it again.”
“Yeah.”
I stopped. “Wait, I got it!”
“What?”
“Remember that book we read last week? The one about Helen Keller?”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
“Sign language. The finger alphabet that’s in it.”
Her mouth dropped open for a second before splitting into a big grin. “Yeah, we could do that!”
“Teacher won’t know because we’ll be quiet.”
“Think we can learn it fast enough?”
I blinked. “Jer.”
“Right,” she smiled. “Easy-peasy.”
“Easy-peasy,” I said and started skipping. Jerrie did the same and we giggled all the way home.
Coming home that fateful day from grade school, my twin sister, Jerrie and I walked with slow steps.
“Mom’s gonna be upset,” Jerrie said.
“I know.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Tell her we won’t talk in class anymore?” I suggested.
“How are we going to do that?” She asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. We have to think of something.”
Silence fell between us as we turned onto the dusty dirt alley which separated the rows of houses of our neighborhood in the small town of Albany, Georgia. The spring sun shone down, warming our faces and we stepped in unison with each other, both staring down at the dust kicking up from our matching canvas shoes.
“At least we have the whole summer to figure it out.”
I sighed. “I’m not spending my whole summer trying to come up with something. We need to know first—”
“It won’t help us now. When mom sees those red letters in our report cards, we’re in trouble, no matter what,” Jerrie interrupted.
“She won’t stay mad. She never does.” I grinned. “As long as we promise never to do it again.”
“Yeah.”
I stopped. “Wait, I got it!”
“What?”
“Remember that book we read last week? The one about Helen Keller?”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
“Sign language. The finger alphabet that’s in it.”
Her mouth dropped open for a second before splitting into a big grin. “Yeah, we could do that!”
“Teacher won’t know because we’ll be quiet.”
“Think we can learn it fast enough?”
I blinked. “Jer.”
“Right,” she smiled. “Easy-peasy.”
“Easy-peasy,” I said and started skipping. Jerrie did the same and we giggled all the way home.
Continuing with my prior posts, I thought I'd share an excerpt from one of my essays titled: The Birthplace.
I don't remember that day, the day of my birth, obviously. However, my mother has often recounted the experience to me and my twin, my sister and I, whenever we ask. It would be another twenty-one years, before my sister and I would, or could, return to that hospital. At over twenty, it occurred to us, after we gained access to the building, which was now closed, we trespassed government property for this experience. But, the call, the urge, the need to stand in the room of my birth, our birth, drove us with such strength, we ignored the "no trespassing" signs, jiggled the locked doors until we found one broken and gained access.
There, on that hot summer day, my twin and I stood alongside my older brother (of thirteen months), within that now abandoned circular room filled with dust and dirt from the nearby desert. Staring up at the large windows, I contemplated the image of the then packed pandemonium platform above us. What thoughts ran around the heads of those who watched this miracle birth? Had breaths been held, or gasps released at the screaming cries of Baby B? Immediately after entering my mind, the image evaporated.
This room, this spot we stood in, marked the beginning of my life as a twin. I would never be alone in life, as long as my twin lived. Sometimes I believe even after her death, I won’t be alone. So, it began on that day, a life of not I, but us. Not me, but we. No mine, but ours. We really began together. Would the day come in which we ended together? That’s a thought I avoid contemplating.
As I mentioned last month, I'm sharing a few essays I've written for a non-fiction project. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed writing each one.
Lip Sync
One afternoon in the middle of October, many years ago, I sat on the front porch of my home with my twin sister and daughter. That day, like the other days before, that year, brought in a crisp winter wind. My twin and I huddled at one end of the wicker bench where the sun shone directly onto our faces. The mild warmth my skin received did not eliminate the nipping of the cold on my face. My thick hoodie, sweatpants and wool gloves completed the job on the rest of my body. However, my face, bare and alone suffered silently. My daughter sat across from us, covered in a small quilt my twin made and smiling as I related a story from that morning. Every so often, her gaze switched from my face to my twins.
As my story progressed, the transferring of her gaze increased until it nearly bounced. I paused and slid a glance toward my twin. Her mouth is frozen partially opened, while her gaze swept from my own mouth to my eyes. Her eyebrows lifted once her gaze met mine as thought to question my pause. I blinked, then continued telling my story to my daughter. Slipping a peek at my twin as I spoke. Her mouth moved as I spoke. In fact, her lips formed my words as I spoke them. No sound emitted from her, yet she followed my speech. My daughter's grin widened and after raising her for twenty-eight years, a bubble of laughter hung on the precipice. Her wide eyes and exposed teeth from her large smile, duplicated the same behavior she'd started when she was just a child. I stopped, faced my sister and tipped my head to the side.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
Her eyes widened, her mouth dropped open farther and she responded. "What?"
"You're mimicking my words."
"I am?" She asked.
My daughter laughter split the otherwise quiet morning and my gaze jerked toward her. "Is that what you were watching?" My daughter nodded, still laughing. "How long?" I ask her. She paused in her giggles and said, "Ever since you started, she's been mouthing your words."
I stared at my twin. "Why?"
"I didn't even realize I was doing it," she said.
"It's okay," my daughter interrupted. "You two do this all the time. It's cute."
I leaned back and frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Both of you lip sync each other’s words. You've been doing it for a long time now."
My twin and I face each other. "I didn't know that." We say simultaneously.
I point to my sister. "Stop." She nods. There is no reason to tell her what to stop. She knows. I turn toward my daughter, continue talking and she continues smiling as she glances between my sister and I. She's doing it again. I slide another glance at my twin. Yep. She's doing it again. "Stop," I say. "You're doing it again." She presses her hand to her mouth and nods.
"I don't know why you bother, mom. You do it to her."
Hmm. I cross my arms, staring down at the small peeling gray paint chips of my porch near my feet. We lip sync. How odd. Or is it odd? How is it possible for her know what words I'm about to say in time to form the letters at the exact same time as I say them? We cannot read each other’s minds. Not really. I mean, after all these years, I can read her face easily enough. I do the same with my family members I'm close to. But, no one ever synchronizes their lip movements with my words.
Only she does. Only my sister. My twin.
Last July I decided to go back to school. I’ve always wanted to get my masters and finally made the move to apply. I got accepted into the Master of Arts in Professional Writing. This wasn’t an easy choice having not been to school in too many years to count. Add into that, I became a hermit in my writing life. Now, not only did I need to face socializing, I mixed in an education. I specifically looked for classes outside my comfort zone to increase my knowledge base. Creative Non-Fiction didn’t sound too difficult for a back to college class. It did challenge me in my writing skill at first, because this class focused on memoirs, biographies, travel writing, food writing, etc.
My first thought was that I did not have anything to write about. However, in one of my other classes (an introductory to genres class), I had to write a poem. My poem was based on my birth as a twin. This got me thinking of how to incorporate my life as a twin into a writing project. So, it began. Through this class, I’ve completed many essays in my book titled A Twin Like Me. I’d like to share some of it with you and see what you think. Here is the introduction and one essay entry:
My first thought was that I did not have anything to write about. However, in one of my other classes (an introductory to genres class), I had to write a poem. My poem was based on my birth as a twin. This got me thinking of how to incorporate my life as a twin into a writing project. So, it began. Through this class, I’ve completed many essays in my book titled A Twin Like Me. I’d like to share some of it with you and see what you think. Here is the introduction and one essay entry:
INTRODUCTION
From the moment I took my first breath, I earned the designation of “twin.” This label is one I can never remove; a label I am proud to have and will have beyond my time on earth. I consider myself lucky in having a close, positive relationship with my twin. This relationship is special to me. Not every twin is happy with their label. I am and I wrote this book to celebrate being a twin like me.
Twin Enlightenment – Age 15
Jerrie and I exited the car dressed exactly alike from our matching shirts to matching shoes.
Our excitement barely contained between us and marked only by small gasps.
Today, the Twin Cities Twin Club gathered at the convention center.
Invitation to twins only…
Encouraged to dress alike…
Our first meeting with another set of twins whose outfits didn’t match made us pause.
Why?
They despised being twins. Only here because their parents made them come.
Why? We’re confused.
“I want to be me, not her. Not her twin. Just me,” one says.
“Yeah,” the other agrees.
“But…but you can’t,” I sputter.
“We can and will,” they say in unison.
We walk away and I lean slightly to the side and bump my arm against Jerrie’s arm.
Comforting in the contact.
She nods.
“How sad,” I whisper.
“I don’t understand,” Jerrie whispers.
“I don’t think we ever will.”
“Good.”
From the moment I took my first breath, I earned the designation of “twin.” This label is one I can never remove; a label I am proud to have and will have beyond my time on earth. I consider myself lucky in having a close, positive relationship with my twin. This relationship is special to me. Not every twin is happy with their label. I am and I wrote this book to celebrate being a twin like me.
Twin Enlightenment – Age 15
Jerrie and I exited the car dressed exactly alike from our matching shirts to matching shoes.
Our excitement barely contained between us and marked only by small gasps.
Today, the Twin Cities Twin Club gathered at the convention center.
Invitation to twins only…
Encouraged to dress alike…
Our first meeting with another set of twins whose outfits didn’t match made us pause.
Why?
They despised being twins. Only here because their parents made them come.
Why? We’re confused.
“I want to be me, not her. Not her twin. Just me,” one says.
“Yeah,” the other agrees.
“But…but you can’t,” I sputter.
“We can and will,” they say in unison.
We walk away and I lean slightly to the side and bump my arm against Jerrie’s arm.
Comforting in the contact.
She nods.
“How sad,” I whisper.
“I don’t understand,” Jerrie whispers.
“I don’t think we ever will.”
“Good.”
June 11-30
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