Guest post: “Translating the Essence” by Anna Scott Graham

Sometime ago, I wrote about why I chose to walk this often-times difficult path as a writer.  Those were my reasons, but, like every human endeavor, one person’s reasons for doing something isn’t necessarily another’s—we are, after all, individuals. I thought it would be interesting to invite other writers to talk about why they chose to become scribblers and Anna Scott Graham was kind (or foolish) enough to answer my call. Thank you, Anna, for agreeing to be my guinea pig in this—with luck, yours will be only the first of many.

I’ve read some of Anna’s work. She’s very good and I am proud to invite her to this blog.

She describes herself as “[a] California native, [who] lived in Yorkshire, England for eleven years, where a love of writing took root, as well as an appreciation for hot tea. After her first novel was published by a small press in 2009, she independently published The War On Emily Dickinson in 2011. A poet, music lover, gardener, baseball fan, and chocolate connoisseur, she is married and a mother to several.”

Translating the Essence

by Anna Scott Graham

Since I started writing with more than half an idea of what I was doing, I was fully aware of being led to the story and subsequent words by a muse; sometimes it’s music, sometimes it’s a current event. Sometimes it’s no more than a glance from a beloved, poking at something within my heart that comes alive, via a writer’s mind. I can’t help that, I was born with it. It’s like a musician or painter driven to sketch a sky or play a melody. It’s the way I breathe, through language, expressing emotion and plot via paragraphs and scenes and chapters.

Now, anyone can write words in correct order to make some sort of sense. Writing fiction is feeling a story within my veins, as a sculptor might ache to display a body or item through clay. It’s explaining what stirs my heart and soul, and takes up a considerable amount of gray matter; translating the essence, I coin it. But it’s not just revealing that story, it’s accepting that for as perfect as I want the tale to be told, I’m just a human being, imperfect, flawed. If I waited to release what is pounding within my arteries, I wouldn’t spin a single yarn.

Several drafts exist between crafting an initial idea and publishing a finished piece, be it an epic novel or short story. Yet with each round of revisions, the truer product emerges, as if being chiseled from stone. But a fine line wafts through the creative process, as if too much simmering spoils the broth. I am not a writer who labors intensely over every single word; I trust the muse, regardless of its form, to guide me correctly, and to protect me during every stage of the process.

 

Artists are special folk; we are susceptible to lags in spark, to criticism, to misunderstanding. The true artist longs to speak their mind, hoping to catch a few appreciative ears, but acknowledging not all will be open to our vision. And that vision has to remain fluid, for it changes, sometimes within the first draft, sometimes later on.

 

Sometimes that initial speck of story mutates into a completely altered tale, and that’s all right; it was meant to be something other than what was initially envisioned. The essence might be hidden under many layers of time, experiences, and skill. Stories I wrote years ago might have no other purpose except to enhance further tales, which could be simply to bolster my talent so X amount of years later I’m sitting once again, typing moods and settings and dialogue.

I’ve been at this long enough, with several drafts under my belt, to know not every story is meant for public consumption. But that doesn’t undermine its purpose; a writer’s essence is explored with every sentence completed. That takes bravery, to write for perhaps no discernible reason other than to write. An authentic writer knows that sense of needing to spill words onto paper, virtual or made from trees. Something aches to be said, a topic requires attention, or just a fleeting sense of this is who I am, right now.

 

Translating the essence can be as personal as a haiku. Or it can be as lengthy as a five-novel series. But it can be done in either, what should never be forgotten. Ideas should never be discounted, for upon one blooms another, spreading to further notions, which bleed into a plethora of thoughts, feelings, truths.

Even if they are rooted in fiction.

 

My biggest writing truth is that I am but the hands of a greater goal. What pours from my sometimes weary fingers isn’t to be silenced. It should be read over, scrutinized, altered. But to halt writing for fear of ridicule would be criminal, for I have something to say, explore, understand.

What I write today might only lie as the foundation of some other plot. But the human condition requires compassion, which in this somewhat civilized world carries a greater need than ever before. Art tempers the bubbling rage, explains the tragedies.

The essence asks only for my compliance. The results are far beyond my talents. I write, then trust. Then move on to the next fascinating topic that captures my attention.

Why I *don't* read your ebooks

I love to read. I’ve been doing so, to paraphrase my Drill Sergeant from Basic Training, “since Custer was a corporal.” Well, maybe not that long, but ever since I was a small boy. I consider myself an expert in the field and have read most genres.

Most of the ebooks I download are so poorly written that I can survive only a few pages before my eyes start bleeding and my brain threatens to severely hurt me if I don’t stop. In short, I just wind up tossing the thing into the recycle bin unread.

And that’s really too bad because some of them have a great deal of promise. Their failing is that they are too convoluted or the grammar and spelling and punctuation are simply repulsive. Either way, I toss ‘em.

With that said, understand that I can, and do, tolerate minor gaffes (we all suffer the plague of the occasional typo, even the masters). Minor mistakes escape even the most eagle-eyed proofreader. The problem is when those minor errors become too numerous or too egregious.

Life is just far too short to waste any of it trying to figure out what some uncaring or ignorant semiliterate is trying to say. There are just too many well-written books to be discovered and reveled in.

This leads me to ask a question: why do you write? What do you want to achieve with all that arduous and sometimes agonizing work? I’m not looking for the common reasons such as “to make money” (yeah, as if indie authors are all rich snobs) or “to become famous” (same rationale), but why, at the core of it, do you write?

I do so for a number of reasons. I write because putting words on paper fulfills something within me. I write to explore emotions or human existence or simply to entertain. Most of us do. But even that’s not the underlying purpose. We write to communicate something to others. That’s the crux, the foundation for putting all that ink onto paper. Minus that, we wouldn't bother.

And readers read because they want to see our message, whatever it is. That’s the way of it. Whether that something is an exposé of the latest political shenanigans or how to succeed in whatever or simply to be entertained by the antics of the latest crop of zombies, vampires, and other beasties that go bump in the night, people read our work to “hear” our message.

We have an obligation, then, to our readers to present our case to them in such a way that they can understand us. That means we must—we absolutely must—adhere to the established norms of grammar, punctuation, and spelling (actual or contextual). If we don’t do that rigorously, if we simply rely on spell-check (that and grammar-check are surely the work of the devil and the very worst things ever foisted off on us), if we don’t bother re-reading and checking our writing for ourselves (or at least hiring a competent editor to do it for us), then we have failed in our goal to communicate. Just that.

We have failed ourselves as communicators and we have failed our readers who really do want to see what we have to say—they did just buy our book, after all. Readers will remember that and will simply not bother spending their money on us. Gods know there are plenty other authors out there to sample.

If we write fiction, poorly written books also fail our characters. They have stories to tell and if people won’t read those stories, then those characters might as well have never bothered telling them in the first place.

Now, if you’re writing in dialect (such as my recent book Tales of the Painted Door II: Wallace), that’s different, but even dialect has rules and if those rules are violated, then we have again failed miserably.

If you don’t know the proper use of a word or when to put a comma, that’s what competent editors are for. Even more important, you can learn these things. There are any number of texts and resource materials covering all aspects of spelling, grammar, and punctuation, some of them even online. All you need to do is take the time and find the gumption to get them, read them, and learn them. It’s not that difficult.

I’m sure there are those who will call me a grammar-nazi. First, that is a silly term, coined by those who have absolutely no idea what a real Nazi was. Second, if my demanding that writers follow simple rules so as to make their message clear (regardless of the message they deliver), then I will gladly ‘fess up to being one. It saddens me to see so many who apparently don’t care enough about their readers—some of these people even brag about never using punctuation because “it’s boring”—and they foist their illiterate garbage off onto us and expect us to actually pay money for the privilege.

So, if you are thinking I am angry, you're right. I am angry…and disappointed that so many otherwise compelling and worthy stories wind up in the trash just because the writer didn't take the time to learn the how of writing before publishing.

Slainte.

A Muse By Any Other Name

Let’s talk about writer’s block and muses. First, writer’s block, as a phenomenon afflicting writers of all types, has been done pretty much to death, but I don’t think anyone has examined it from the muse viewpoint. Maybe it should be in light of the close relationship between writers and muses.

Writers and other artistic folk—well, a goodly number of them, at any rate—firmly believe in muses. Now, they may pay homage to one of the classical muses (who is, more or less, associated with the particular artist’s medium) or they may have a muse of their own devising. I don’t think that matters, really. I think the muses, like the gods, understand human individuality and plain orneriness. So, whichever muse has been ascribed classically to one's art doesn’t really care whether we call her Terpsichore, Calliope, Erato, Melpomene, or any of their sisters, or not. We could just as easily call them Fred or Wilma or Catfish if we wished and they’d understand…and still treat us as tools they could haul out at their whim.

The particular name doesn’t matter. It’s the attending them when they whisper to us that is the crux of the matter. In an email to a writer friend, I said my own muse is a butterfly, and so she seems to be. She flits around from writer to writer, settling down for an eyeblink and whispering lightly into the writer’s ear, seducing himer with her song.

If that hapless writer fails to hear or doesn’t write her song down, she just flutters off to the next ear. If, however, the writer’s ears perk up and hesh stumbles half-blindedly to the nearest computer, notebook, or piece of scrap paper and begins to put the muse’s words to paper (electronic or wood-pulp being completely irrelevant), that muse may decide to tarry awhile and tell more, sometimes the whole story.

I fear that, usually, that mischievous lady will tell just enough to cause the writer to fully involve himerself in the story, then to drop himer like a no-longer-wanted lover and flit off to a new set of ears and hands.

This leaves our jilted writer in mid-stroke, as it were. The words just stop coming; sometimes the entire thrust of the story is lost. The writer can, of course, try to soldier on and bang something out, to salvage what hesh can of it, or can simply put it aside until—and if—that fickle lady muse visits himer again.

The writer finds himerself effectively blocked and utterly unable to proceed until inspiration in the form of hiser muse visits again. Sure, some writers can—or say they can—stimulate their thoughts and crank out the story in any number of ways, but I think all the writer in those instances are doing is finding ways to entice hiser muse to come back and whisper a bit more. Too many of us, though, can’t summon our muse (or inspiration, if that’s what you choose to call it) on demand. It’s all but impossible to herd butterflies, y’see.

So it is with me. Even now, with this blog entry. I had a rush of words and ideas, but was unable to capture nearly enough of them to make any sort of sense with this. True, I have an excuse: it’s extremely difficult to retain the focus needed to write when alarms are going off almost constantly and my job is to investigate each one and take appropriate action (which is, usually, to just turn the bloody things off). Maybe having to do this annoyed my muse enough that she took off to find a more attentive host. I feel the loss.

So, that butterfly nature of the muses may very well explain why we writers sometimes stumble and lose the thread of what we’re trying to say and we either push something through (because of publisher’s deadlines, perhaps, or pride or ego) or we set the piece aside with some excuse such as we need to do more research or the light’s wrong or it’s too cold or hot or there are too many distractions.

Oh, we solemnly promise ourselves we’ll get back to it just as soon as inspiration slams us upside the head again, and some of us actually do. Sometimes the muse will strike in a dream that fully explains what we are trying to say and then we feverishly attack our word processors to get those precious words down. Sometimes, lady muse will visit us again whilst we’re doing some mindless activity such as watching television or simply meditating.

And sometimes that won’t happen until months or years later. For instance, I began my story Alysse several years ago. The opening scenes presented themselves almost orgasmically, so powerful, complete, and seemingly unending. Then they just stopped. No more, not even a glimmer.

I tried over the years to revisit the story, but my mind was a total blank…until one day that ol’ muse sat herself down on my left shoulder and began to whisper to me, or maybe it was Alysse herself. It doesn’t matter, the lady’s identity. And the story that came out was absolutely nothing like I’d envisioned it all those years ago. This new Alysse revealed her utter and total humanity, and she made sure I heard her real story.

That happened again just recently, with my new addition to my Tales from the Painted Door series. This one, Wallace, began just like Alysse did: with an outburst of words and a smattering of ideas, but with no visible conclusion. There was—or would be—conflict aplenty, although I had no idea at the time just what that would be, but the resolution of that conflict was completely hidden.

The Muse flitted off.

I set Wallace aside for another day…and that day arrived less than a week ago in the form of a dream, or at least those almost subconscious thoughts that come to us as we are drifting off to sleep or just departing into wakefulness. Wallace’s story finished itself.

All I did was write the words. That’s all we writers do, really: just write down the words our muse whispers to us.

Wallace is now available for you to read. You’ll find him on our website, www.novemberfirstpublications.weebly.com. The book’s complete title is Tales from The Painted Door II: Wallace.

And I think the muse stuck with me with this blog post, too. I am grateful to her for that.

Slainte.

Price Reduction

We all know that a good book is often just the perfect gift for someone. We also like to save money when we can. Retailers know this, which is why they have big sales after major holidays. The problem is that those sales happen after the holiday, which means we're able to buy gifts for next year, but we're stuck this year.

Once we buy these sale items, we must then store them away until the holiday rolls around again, which risks the gift's getting damaged or lost in the meantime. Nice for the seller as hesh can get rid of excess stock easily and still realize a profit. Not so nice for us, the buyer, when you consider the risks.

How about a sale before the holiday? How about helping customers save a bit of money this year as a token of your appreciation for their business? Well, that's what I've done with my books: put 'em on sale now, before the holiday. To show my appreciation to those who have purchased my books, I've reduced the prices on most of those books by as much as 50%. Not all of them, but some.

I'm sure business experts are shaking their heads at my ignorance of common business practices. That's okay. They are free to shake their heads as much as they like. This isn't for them or "accepted business wisdom." This is for you, my readers. This is my way of thanking you.

This isn't just another time- or quantity-limited gimmick, either, nor do you need some coupon to realize the savings. The prices won't automatically go up after some arbitrarily decided date. You can realize these savings now or anytime in the future, and they apply to everyone.

Please visit November First Publications, where you can easily link to either Smashwords or Amazon for the Kindle.

Thank you for your purchases this year and may all of you have a wonderful and joyous winter holiday.

Saorsa,
Dave Keith

Three more from November First Publications

In my last post, I introduced Elizabeth Rowan Keith's Blood Moon, which was sort of a halloween story, as well as the first in a series of planned short stories based upon the wheel of her spiritual year. In time for winter's cruelty, cold, and isolation, Dr. Keith has written a follow-up, again featuring the point of view of the protagonist in Moon. Titled Yule at My Feet, her new book continues the story of the Woman Tree (the title's mine, by the way) as the forest deepens into winter.

I don't want to spoil her story, but the reader will find it every bit as poignant and compelling, and enlightening, as Blood Moon. Dr. Keith didn't stop with just one story for the season, though. Nope. Never one to rest on her laurels, she and her muse went on to craft a fascinating remake of a cherished tale from childhood.

Fools Rush Inn is absolutely a must read for those who are astute and appreciate subtlety. It's a fascinating tale in its own right, but Dr. Keith also leaves tantalizing clues as to the story's antique progenitor. Somewhere along the trail, the discerning reader will experience that delicious "Aha!" moment as the lights come on and they realize just exactly what they've been reading. When I read it the first time, I was captivated utterly and knew here was a tale for the ages. I think you will agree.

Finally, in this season of solitude, I offer my own tiny yarn. Mine is one of sadness and loss - as so many of my stories are, it seems - but also of hope reborn and purpose rediscovered. It's called The Road to Tucson. I hope you come away from it with the realization that, despite the "slings and arrows of bitter fortune," the Universe does sometimes give us a second chance.

To purchase any of these books, click the links at the November First Publications website, then select either the "Books" page or one of our personal pages. As always, we both ask you to then take a few minutes after reading the books to write a short review of them. We really do appreciate knowing what our readers think of our work. If you're a writer, you know all too well how helpful to our future works that can be.

Finally, I wish to remind you that you can sign up for email notification of new posts to this blog. Just type your email address into the box and click the "Submit" button. It's really quite painless. I should remind you that I will never share your email address with anyone without your express consent. That's just not the way I operate and I find the practice of selling email addresses to marketers repugnant. And, of course, it costs you nothing but a tiny bit of time.

Saorsa,
David H. Keith

A Wee Tale of the Season

NEW BOOK ALERT!

Samhain-tide is a time of great majik. The ancients knew it but we modern folk have forgotten and downplayed it, but we have not changed it. Oh, Christianity has changed the name, to Halloween, and merchandisers have turned it into yet another lucrative venture for themselves, but they have not changed its essence. It is still Samhain (pronounced SOW-in). It is the time of the year when the veils between this world and the next thin almost to nothingness and those who live in one freely interact with those in the other.

Elizabeth Rowan Keith has written a delightful and intriguing tale of what can happen at this special time of year. This wee tale - only some 1200 words long - will involve you and make you shudder, just as any good Halloween story should. Just keep in mind, though, that this could happen.

You can judge for yourselves by going to www.smashwords.com/books/view/248247. It will soon also be available on Amazon.com for the Kindle. Links to both are on the November First Publications website.

Saorsa.

Su Kane and the Revolting Animals

When we think of bikers (the ones riding big, roaring motorcycles), we usually envision large, coarse, hairy, tattooed, barely literate brutes who care only about booze, bikes, and broads. Usually. There are exceptions, but Hollywood has done a remarkable job of embedding the Hells Angels image into our psyches.

The trouble is that, like most things Hollywood puts out, it’s not universally true. Case in point: the Revolting Animals Motorcycle Club in the UK (yes, even the civilized Brits have their biker gangs, and some of those are outlaws). Imagine a large, bearish, hirsute man who is leader of one of these packs of bikers. Easy to do, yes? Now, imagine this man crying as he tenderly holds a newborn kitten who has just been brutalized and left for dead by one of the “civilized” members of society. There’s a bit of a cognitive dissonance there, isn’t there? I mean, in Hollywood, it would be the biker doing the brutalizing and the upright citizen saving the kitten.

Only this isn’t Hollywood. This is real life, the kind most of us live. And the story is true. The biker is named Cerbarus and he is the leader of the Revolting Animals Motorcycle Club. He and his fellow Revolting Animals travel the west midlands of England rescuing animals, domestic or wild, that have been victimized by humanity’s inhumanities.

Independent author Gary Weston grew up in the Black Country in the west midlands of England, home territory of the Revolting Animals. He knows the members and their activities on behalf of animals and has written two books about the club that are entertaining, real life, and compelling reading. Weston has a narrative flow such as one would find sitting around a campfire listening to a tribal elder weave hiser tales of Spirits and men and gods. Both are easy reads told in the words of the characters. These are real people and Weston portrays them as they are, language and all.

Starlight Army, the first in the series, tells how Su Kane, then a 15-year-old girl who had a life-long love of animals, met and became part of the Revolting Animals and befriends the remarkable Abbey Jones and the irrepressible Uncle Garf.

Although Kane is one of the central characters and the book begins with her risking her own life at age 11 to rescue a drowning kitten, the book isn’t about her. It’s about the Revolting Animals and why they do the things they do. It’s really about a group of humans banding together to help the helpless and speak for those who cannot. It’s about more than power or money or prestige—much more.

"There is a dark and hidden war going on all around the world. It is a war of cruelty against animals and it is happening right here and right now. Su Kane and the Starlight Army ride out with the Revolting Animals Motorcycle Club to fight for those who share our planet but have no voice. Join Su Kane on her journey from a girl into womanhood as she realizes people who care CAN make a difference. Royalties go to the PDSA (Peoples Dispensary for Sick Animals) towards their new animal hospital," Weston said.

Then we meet The Amazing Abbey Jones. I'll let you decide for yourselves what makes this young Englishwoman truly amazing, besides also being one of the Revolting Animals and perhaps Su Kane's best friend. All I'll reveal here is what Weston said about her: "Fifteen-year-old Abbey Jones is a pencil thickness shy of six feet tall with a body a pro wrestler would be proud of. Never knowing a single day of love or kindness, Abbey escapes her tragic life and embarks on a journey of action-packed adventure and self-discovery. This is NOT a kids' book. Okay FOR ADULTS and YOUNG ADULTS."

If you care about animals, or just like a good real-life story, check these two out. You can find Starlight Army on Smashwords or Amazon for the Kindle. The Amazing Abbey Jones is also available on either Smashwords or Amazon.

Saorsa.